“There must be good fishing under those falls. Look at the birds.”

“We’re going to have to work on aesthetic appreciation this summer. You’re all gastronomy, my child.

“I’ve ancestors in this ring of trees,” he continued. “One day I’ll come up here and never return, and learn stories older than any book from my fellow trees.”

Wistala didn’t understand much of elvish mysticism. Whether they actually became trees or simply lay down at the foot of one and waited to die depended on whose story you listened to.

“Who’ll take care of the bridge?”

“There’s more to it than just the bridge,” Rainfall said. “The whole Hypatian Order is breaking up. Of course, Starfall, the poet-philosopher, tells us all things must pass, even the mountains and oceans, in time. But I love the Hypatian Civilization: the laws I once upheld, the high and low priestdoms, the ceremonies and the titles that brought out the best in us and held the worst at bay.

“Take the thane. Hammar keeps the Hypatian Law, but twists its intent so that he can live in the manner of a Varvar Despot or an Overking of the Ghioz Golden Circle. Half the people of this land are indentured to him, thanks to civil debts—slaves in all but title, myself included.”

Wistala was pretty sure a badger had made a home at the hilltop somewhere. And there were birds’ nests to raid in the cliff side—

“Can’t you petition elsewhere about him?” she asked, realizing Rainfall was waiting for a question or comment.

“That’s been tried.”

“You can’t be the only dissatisfied one. Go burn his house down.”

“I’m no firebrand. A new, worse thane would rise from the ashes, perhaps one who wouldn’t even make a pretense of adhering to Hypatian Justice. Besides, my Lada is in that very hall.”

“Your granddaughter?”

“Yes. He took her as a ward when she was a child. I’ve been in default on my taxes for some years, you understand, and that gives the thane certain powers. He was able to seize her as thanedroit, thanks to his corruption of the high judge and high priest. Thanedroit! Again, a polite name for a terrible usurpation. She’s a hostage to my debts. If I die or quit the estate she inherits, and as she’s untitled and of questionable parentage besides, Mossbell would revert to Hypatia—meaning Hammar would get Mossbell.”

Wistala’s head hurt from trying to see through the hedge of words, but she could see the pain in Rainfall’s eyes.

“You should have quit it while the troll still lived,” Wistala said. “Let the thane inherit troll-blighted lands.”

“Oh, he would have rid himself of the troll quick enough if—” Rainfall stopped, looked anew at Wistala. “You don’t think—Oh, the infamy! Black infamy!”

Rainfall was silent and bitter all the ride back to Mossbell. She stretched out in the back of the wain. Jessup kept looking at Wistala in a sidelong manner.

Wistala, more to break Rainfall from his mood than because the human annoyed her, asked her host to inquire after the purpose of Jessup’s stares.

After some words, Rainfall handed the horse reins to Jessup and turned around. “He didn’t know it bothered you. He said you’re beautiful, and he was trying to memorize your proportions.”

“Beautiful?” She was her same thick-bodied self, with nothing like Jizara’s elegant neck and tail.

“Interested in aesthetics now?” Rainfall asked.

“Has he been in your awful bramble-wines?”

“I agree. I told him he should wait some years, when you have wings. Then he’d behold one of the most perfect creatures in creation. The running horse, the flying frigate bird, the peacock, the fabled Tigers of Ghioz—none of them compare to a dragon with wings held high.”

A messenger waited under the somber figures of the silent fountain turnaround of Mossbell, a down-cheeked boy with a sweated mount. At Rainfall’s order, Jessup kept the wain at a discreet distance so as not to alarm the horse.

Rainfall jumped lightly down from his seat and welcomed the messenger. After inspecting the seal, he read the contents. He stared at the boy, then hurried into the house, where he remained for only a few moments before he returned the paper to the messenger, resealed, along with a silver coin.

Wistala suspected some sort of crisis; Rainfall had very little coin in his hall, unless he kept a secret noseproofed supply.

Rainfall invited Jessup to stay for dinner, but the timberman had to get back to his family and his brother’s widow and children.

As soon as they sat alone, waiting for his bread to cook and drop off the clay-sided oven as a joint sputtered inside, she asked about the message.

“Another of the thane’s humiliations, under a masquerade of civility,” Rainfall said. “He summons me, ta-hum ta-hally to his hall, so that I might fully tell the story of the death of the troll and claim my reward. Of course, it’ll go toward back taxes. The accounting will be announced to all present.”

Wistala turned the handle of the spit, rotating the joint. The turn brought a fresh fall of juices into the gravy pan and mouthwatering smells. “Refuse him.”

“I cannot. There’ll be many a jape about elves not being able to keep two pennies proximate.”

“Let them talk. No one ever lost an eye to a joke.”

“I’ll have to beg some part of the reward that should rightfully go to my crew. Imagine: pleading so that the widows and orphans might see some monies, and the men be rewarded for their courage, when the thane should be bowing to each and opening his purse wide to the survivors!”

“I thought being rid of the troll would solve your problems.”

“It will take time to assemble decent tenants for the land, and they’ll need roof and stock. I shall have to go beg of the dwarves.

The Wheel of Fire will give me more upfront, but at ruinous rates. The Dwarves of the Diadem are fairer, but only lend a small sum at a time.”

“Wheel of Fire?” Wistala asked.

“Your eyes have gone all hot and tight, Wistala. Have you had dealings with them? Oh—the joint burns! Quick, get it out.”

They extracted the haunch of mutton and took the baking tubers from their metal case. When dinner was laid out—Wistala had learned to eat neatly from the table, but she still had to lift her head to let the food slide down her throat, a gesture that always made Rainfall shake his head—they continued the conversation in what had been the food-servers’ nook, a smaller room off the big, dark, and drafty dining hall, warmed by the heat of the oven.

Rainfall moved on to happier subjects, mostly the chance of seeing his granddaughter at Hammar’s hall, and Wistala put the dwarves out of her mind. The mention awoke dark thoughts and set her griff twitching. She’d promised her father to forget the past and live for another generation of dragons.

Wistala kept herself deep inside Mossbell House all while Rainfall visited the thane. Visitors were traipsing across the grounds to see where the troll had fallen.

Rainfall returned in the company of a small ill-favored horse. Its shaggy coat and hooves were thick with layers of dirt. He put it in the stall opposite what had been Avalanche’s, and when Wistala made sure there was no one around, she approached Rainfall.

“How passed the audience?”

“As predicted. I bowed and begged. He gave me half the reward to distribute to the men, then sent a low priest along to see the money distributed. As though my word wasn’t enough.”

Rainfall brightened. “However, he is keeping his pledge as to taxation. I shall have five years breathing space to turn Mossbell around, thanks to you.”

Wistala bowed; elves took great pleasure in the giving and receiving of bows.

“The only cloud was that he refused me a visit with my granddaughter. She’s living in a room in the fast tower. I should have gone out and shouted for her, but he pulls up the bridge at night.”

Wistala saw an opportunity, and questioned him about this curious feature. She learned much about the thane’s hall, from its almost windowless first level to the small herb garden on the roof. The thane’s hall sounded impressive and extensive.

“Galahall should be fine, for the excises and land tax,” Rainfall said.

That night she made friends with the horse—or mule rather, as the beast was quick to correct her—as Rainfall saw to its hooves. The mule was either too stupid or too sick to mind her smell, and seemed ill-disposed to talk.

“There’s a spot of hoof-sprout in the cracks,” Rainfall grumbled as the mule stamped and swore. “I’ll have to make a paste and bag his feet. What kind of stablemen is the thane keeping?”

“How did you come by this unfortunate?” she asked.

“Yet another of the thane’s jokes. He frowned when I told him of the death of Avalanche, my last source of steady income, thanks to stud-price, and offered a replacement. Stog here was the most wretched specimen in his stables, so the hostler presented me with him.”

The black ears of the mule perked up at the mention of the name.