The Foilunder sat on the bench watching the little black bird alight from her branch and come to land in front of him. He had a bund seed between his teeth, which he cracked open, peeling away the shell and spitting out the remnants that stuck to his tongue. He then pulled the pale yellow seed from between his teeth and tossed it to the bird, who hopped over and quickly picked it up in her narrow beak before returning to her branch.

It was a fair day, bright and warm, like all days in the south seemed to be. The Foilunder leaned back on the bench, resting an arm over the back of it, and admired the view. The side of the town opened freely into the gently sloping land before rising into hills. The earth was dry beneath the sun, enough to crack in some places, but not so much so that green things could not grow. Olive trees were as common as weeds, and grape vines, as well, abounded.

The Foilunder could not remember the name of the town they were in now, but he remembered that it was some place south of Puente Qalina. Puente Qalina, now there was a beautiful place. The keep had been built upon a tall hill with sheer, cliff-like sides, an imposing presence upon the landscape. It was not painted like many of the castles on the continent; rather, it maintained the warm earthen cast of the sandstone from which it was built. Along the east, a ridge rose up, and all day long it was walked by men and horses, taking their carts and their business to the lord of the castle. The Foilunder had liked to sit some distance at the bottom and watch, especially at daybreak and in the evening, as the figures, black against the glow of the sun, marched their way up and down the ridge.

But this place where he sat now, reclining on his bench and enjoying the sun, had no keep, only a tower. Even the tower, though, was a fascination to the Foilunder; they had no such things in the north, these sentinel towers that rose some hundred yards tall. They had no use for them. He was told that they had been built at a time when it was important to keep watch, that when the Empire took Ahnderland for its own, they had been told to take down the towers and use the stone to make forts and castles and the like as they had in the west, but the people had not listened. And so, the towers stayed.

The Foilunder craned his neck to look up at the tower, squinting into the sun. It was good to see something of the world, he thought, good to behold the wonders of the south. He placed another seed between his teeth, just in time for the little black bird to come back, and smiled.

"I cannot tell which it is you enjoy more," he said as he watched the bird hop across the cobbled ground to retrieve the seed he tossed her, "the free food or my company."

The sound of boots that had been in his ear some moments now turned to the sound of a man's voice.

"It is the seeds she wants," said the man, coming around the side of the bench. "Either that or the fact that opening them keeps you quiet."

The Foilunder laughed, and the bird quickly snatched up her seed before taking wing, just as the Dietric came and planted himself on the stone bench next to the Foilunder's own. He put another seed into his mouth.

"You've frightened away my friend," he said. "That is six bund seeds you owe."

The Dietric shook his head.

"I am happy to pay," he said, "but she was going to leave anyway once you began singing."

The Foilunder laughed again.

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"You know, I am beginning to think that you are jealous of the beautiful voice the gods have given me."

The Dietric shook his head, taking off his swordbelt and laying it on the bench beside him.

"I am jealous of nothing and no man," he said.

The Foilunder sat up now, drawing his elbow off the back of the bench and emptying his palmful of seeds out before brushing the dust from his hands. He met the Dietric's eyes.

"I've a job for you," the Dietric said.

The Foilunder bowed his head.

"I am your man," he said. "Tell me how I can serve you."

The Dietric's chest swelled with breath.

"I need you to gather the men," he said. "Not now," he stopped the Foilunder with a hand. "Tomorrow. We will be riding west."

The Foilunder nodded.

"How far west?" he asked.

"Two days' ride, maybe three."

The Foilunder nodded again.

"And to where do we ride?" he asked.

"To a place called Pothes Mar," said the Dietric. "Some castle where we will meet a man and hire his army."

The Foilunder raised his eyebrows. He was surprised to hear this; Foilunders did not hire armies, they raised them, like many of the southerners did.

"Am I to know the purpose of this army?" he ventured.

The Dietric looked away, turning his face toward the vineyards that could be seen stretching out into the distant landscape.

"That is for me to know," he said.

The Foilunder watched him. There was some agitation there, he thought, as though maybe the Dietric did not wish to ride west, as though maybe he did not wish to hire this man's army. The Foilunder sat quietly to see what else the man would say.

"This man we will be meeting," he said at last, digging a cloth from his pocket and rubbing it over the pommel of his sword, "he is a southern lord, a lord of sticks and stones." He examined his hilt and put the cloth away. "He will not like to see us on his land, but he will like to see us when he knows that we have gold."

"Gold is a language any man likes the sound of," agreed the Foilunder.

"You should know this," said the Dietric, "because it is not I who will go to him, it is you."

The Foilunder again raised his eyebrows. Why should he go to the man? he wondered.

"I will stay back," said the Dietric, "I and a few of the men. You and the rest will go to the hall of this lord and bring him his gold. You will make his price and have his men marching the next day. And if they cannot go the next day, they can go the day after."

The Foilunder nodded. It was a stranger thing to hear than the first, and he sat quietly to see what else the man would say.

"I will tell you what to say, and I will tell you what not to say." He waited for the Foilunder to bow his understanding, his chest swelling with breath. "We do this as a favor," he said.

A favor? The thought creased the Foilunder's brow. The Dietric made no habit of doing favors. Unless, of course, it was for someone very dear to him. The Foilunder looked at the man.

"Take that look out of your eye, Torben," said the Dietric.

The Foilunder obliged him by looking away. But he already knew. He knew the woman who had the Dietric's heart, the one to whom the man had made his promises.

The Dietric pushed himself to his feet.

"Have the men ready tomorrow," he said. And with that, he left.

The Foilunder waited for the Dietric to go before leaning back on his bench, putting his arm over the back and collecting up his handful of seeds. No sooner had he put one between his teeth to crack it open than the little black bird came flying back. Cherith, she was called, or at least that was what he had been told.

The sun had now disappeared behind the tower, and he no longer had to squint to look up at it. He did not blame the Dietric for going to this lord of sticks and stones, for hiring an army he did not want, paying gold with which he did not wish to part for a purpose about which he could not care. He knew that a man could not choose the direction his heart would take him, he could only decide whether or not to follow it.

He thought of the one he had met at Silver Lake, the Lady of the Left Hand, the Huntress of Men's Hearts. He would pay any gold to see her face again, hire any number of armies. But someday, he knew, she would tire of the warm southern weather and north she would ride. Across the fields and the narrow sound, she would come to him. He knew it with every part of himself.

He pulled the seed from his teeth and tossed it to the little black bird.

"I have paid you well enough," he said to the bird. "Will you not do me a favor?" The bird hopped closer, looking at him as though she could understand. "Go find my woman and tell her I will be waiting."

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