The light of the morning sun cuts through the crack in K?spar’s heavy red velvet curtains, quickly waking him. Groaning, he rubs his eyes and languidly reaches for his pocket watch on the bedside table—07:06—he reluctantly hauls himself from under the covers and out of bed—whoever made beds more comfortable in the morning than they are at night, had the wrong idea. Walking around the bed, he does his best to avoid stepping on the cold hardwood flooring, sure to keep his feet within the light-brown floral edges of the rug. He pulls open the door to his wardrobe, chooses a top from his expansive collection of black wool turtleneck sweaters—each only varying from one another by its pattern—and a pair of dark-grey tweed trousers; he gets dressed, securing the pants around his shoulders with black suspenders. Hanging from the back of the door to his private quarters are a leather under-jacket sheath and his black tweed overcoat. He feels the weight of his rondel dagger on his left side as he slides his arms through the loops; in a way he has always found strange, the blade comforts him. Taking his coat from the hook, he throws it on, ties his boots, and makes a final check of the contents of his travel bag; he digs through the bag, looking specifically for a small gold signet ring; the visage of a goldfinch is embossed on the face, the symbol of a master in the merchant guild: he doubts it will help with the bakers, but it carries needed influence. He slides it onto his finger; for an ephemeral moment, he is again Werner Rolan—but just for a moment. He removes the ring and drops it back into the bag and closes it, then he leaves his quarters, locking the door on the way out. Cool autumn air floods the hallways of the male domestic quarters from the open balcony above the atrium behind the great hall. He pulls his coat in closer, heading for the stairs. He hopes Ladex has something warm in the kitchen as he descends the stairs and makes his way into the hall, taking a spot in the food line and enjoys the warmth and sound of the hearth's fire. A large hand finds a place on his shoulder, pulling him away from the warmth of the large, crackling fire of the great hall.

  “She’s sending you to Styd?n, isn’t she?” asks Dyder.

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  “Yes, so I can find people to make your wedding cake.” K?spar responds curtly.

  “Didn’t get enough sleep?” Dyder pauses, chuckling. While he likes K?spar, he is well accustomed to the man’s disdain for him; he, and his brothers, served as a proxy of the mutual hate between K?spar and his father. “I was wondering why you were up so early; it doesn’t seem like you to be awake in time for porridge. I’m used to seeing you lurking around so you can mooch from Gekaryna’s breakfast.”

  “I’m shocked you don’t do the same.” K?spar keeps his tone short.

  The two make their way over to the pass-through window, each taking a wooden bowl of porridge and a matching spoon.

  “I’m sure you are aware that she is up to something with this.” Dyder says as he sits down.

  "Of course," K?spar sits down across from the Dornytter, "she’s just like her father. Has she told you what she’s planning?"

  “No—though I have some ideas, but she didn’t seem to have any intent on doing so either; I also can’t say I’m too concerned; she’s paying the rest of the dowry on Ilsenyla for me, so I’m quite content with anything.”

  K?spar nods—the ?thalrykk never did either; K?spar only ever found out what the King had planned when the outcome and consequences were before him. He eats a spoonful of the tasteless oat slop. If Gekaryna did not tell Dyder anything, he is certainly on no grounds to say she said she would tell him when he gets back. "Yes, yes, lucky you; two weddings."

  “Will you be attending? I will be happy to invite you once we get the dates.”

  “No; the last time I was in a room with Romyll, he broke my nose and three of my ribs,” K?spar pauses, looking up from the bowl. “Has she not told you the dates?”

  “Did she pick them? I wouldn’t know; I was in the Artisan's District yesterday.”

  “She told me she has them scheduled on the 17th and the 20th of the next Maiden.”

  Dyder groans. “I’m glad I saw you then; I was planning on leaving for Sk?dstan shortly, but I will have to speak with her first.”

  “That would be for the best. The days have been lovely recently; I assume—and I hope—it will continue. Travel should be swift.” K?spar places his spoon in the empty bowl and dismisses himself, placing the dishes on the counter of the pass-through window.

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