“Where do you go?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said irritably.

“Have you a desire to leave us so quickly?” he demanded of her.

“No,” she admitted, “but that is not the point, my lord Vartan.”

“You have a destiny,” he said taking her small hand in his large one. “I know that, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword, and I will not stand in the way of that destiny. But until destiny calls to you again why not remain here where you are safe?”

“You are confusing me,” Lara cried low.

“Then go and change from this clinging gown that reveals the sweet swell of your breasts and hips. Put on your leather garments and strap Andraste to your back, so we may ride out together. I have told Noss we will be gone two nights, and she is not to fear. She is safe with my mother.”

“Why will we be gone two nights?” Lara asked him a bit breathlessly. His eyes had all but devoured her when he had spoken to her of her gown.

“I have six villages to visit. I ride out once each moon cycle to make certain all is well, to hold court if necessary, to mediate any disputes,” Vartan explained. “I am lord of the Fiacre, and it is my duty to care for and watch over my people.”

“I will change,” Lara told him, and rising from the table she left the hall.

“I will await you in the stable yard,” he called after her.

Lara returned to the small hall where she and Noss had slept the night before. The house, seen from afar, had not appeared to be more than a single story, but on closer inspection Lara realized part of its main level was underground, and the roof over the Great Hall peaked. One side of the building had a second story. Entering her chamber she stripped the gown off, dressing herself again in her riding garments and pulling on her boots. She bound her head in the green cloth, and returned downstairs, hurrying out into the stable yard where Vartan awaited her with Dasras.

“Good morning,” Lara said, rubbing his velvety muzzle.

Dasras snorted, and his dark eyes twinkled at her.

“I have explained to Sakari that we will be away for a few days, but that Noss is here,” Vartan said. “I didn’t want her frightened again.” He boosted Lara into the saddle.

Dasras turned his head slightly. “Most thoughtful, my lord,” he said.

Vartan nodded his acknowledgement to the great stallion, and mounted his own horse. They rode from the stable yard together, and out into the morning sunlight. Villagers greeted them as they passed by, and again Lara noted Camdene’s neat prosperity. “We go first to Orlege,” he said. “If there are no difficulties there, we can move on to Leax and Scur today.”

“Are all your villages so comfortable?” Lara asked him. “How do you live?”

“The Fiacre’s prosperity comes from the land,” Vartan explained. “We have vast herds of cattle. Each of our clan families has its own way of earning a livelihood.”

“How many clan families are there?” Lara asked him.

“Eight, including the Fiacre. The Tormod and the Piaras live in the north. They mine deep within the earth for gems, and precious metals, but they also husband their lands carefully so it is not destroyed. The Aghy possess great herds of horses. The Felan’s wealth comes from sheep. The Gitta are known for their especial strength, but they also farm. The Blathma are growers of grains and flowers. The Devyn are the smallest of our clan families. They are the poets, the bards, the musicians of the Outlands. The minstrel in the hall last night was a Devyn.”

“Where is your governing body located?” she asked him.

“Each clan governs itself,” he told her.

“What if there is a dispute between clan families?” she persisted. “That is what our High Council is for, my lord. Have you no High Council?”

“Disputes between the clans are rare, Lara. Why would there be? The boundaries separating our lands have been set for eons. The clans intermarry if they wish. We are all prosperous. The Tormod and Piaras supply us with the metals and gems from which we fashion our ornaments. We supply them with what they need in return. Ours is an uncomplicated way of life, and we are happy.”

“But there must be a system of governance, my lord,” Lara insisted. “How are your clan families ruled? Who decides upon the rulers?”

“Each clan has a chieftain,” he began. “Each village has a headman who is responsible to the chieftain. When a chieftain dies, or chooses no longer to rule, his successor is chosen by the elders of the clan family, both men and women. Generally they pick a chieftain from the same family grouping, but their choice is based upon the man who is best suited to take the responsibility of the clan upon his shoulders. My uncle was the previous chieftain, Liam’s father.”

“Why did they not choose Liam?” she asked.

“He was younger in years than I was, and he did not want to be chieftain. My grandfather was the chieftain before Liam’s sire. The elders, knowing this, then chose me. I have ruled the Fiacre for five years now.”

They had left the village of Camdene well behind, and now rode at a leisurely pace over the rolling green plain. In the sky above them a hawk soared and, seeing it, Lara could not help but wonder if it was Kaliq. But then she put the thought from her head. She was a very long way from the Desert of the Shadow Princes. Kaliq was her past. She cast a surreptitious look at Vartan from beneath her lashes as they rode. He was a handsome man in a rough-hewn sort of way. She considered what it might be like to share her body with him, and her cheeks grew hot.

Finally, ahead of them they saw another grouping of cottages. It was not as big a village as Camdene, but it appeared every bit as prosperous.

“This is Orlege,” he told her. “I have a dispute to settle here today. One of the village men lost his wife, and wishes to have another, but his neighbors will not match any of their daughters with him. I must learn why, and then settle the problem.”

Vartan was greeted warmly by the villagers of Orlege. He was led into the headman’s house, and seated at the small high board in the little hall. Lara stood quietly at the side of the room, observing all. The headman, Scully, brought forth the complainant to state his case. Pol was a man in his sixth decade. He had been widowed for a year and wished to take a new wife, but, he complained to his lord, the villagers of Orlege would not offer him their marriageable daughters that he might choose. He begged his lord to help him find a wife to take care of him in his old age.

Next, the headman spoke for the villagers. Pol was an old man. No young girl wanted to be shackled to an old man. She wanted a vigorous husband who would give her children, that she not be ashamed at the well when she went to draw water. And no father in Orlege would force his daughter to be Pol’s wife. He was an ordinary man with only a small holding he could barely work any longer.

“I must think on this,” Vartan said. “Bring me something to drink.” He looked to Lara, and beckoned her to him. When she stood by his side he said, “What would you do in a case like this, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword?”

“Ask the headman if there is a widow who would be willing to have Pol for a husband,” she replied. “If he has no children to care for him it is unlikely he will have them at his age. He does not need a young wife. He needs a housekeeper, a cook and a companion. What could he possibly give a young wife but unhappiness?”

“A clever solution, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword,” Vartan said. He drank from the cup placed by his left hand, and then shared the draught with Lara.

How easy she felt with this man, Lara thought to herself. Their acquaintance was hardly a lengthy one, and yet she felt completely comfortable with Vartan of the Fiacre.

When he had finished his drink, Lara moved discreetly away again to the side of the hall and watched while Vartan settled the issue between Pol and his fellow villagers. First he drew Scully, the headman aside, and spoke with him for several minutes in low tones. Scully listened, nodded and finally smiled. The headman signaled another man, murmured to him. The second man went off into the crowd of villagers, speaking with several women. Finally he led three of them forward. Both Scully and Vartan spoke with them, and then Vartan called for silence.

“Pol of Orlege, you seek a wife to care for you in your old age. Is this correct?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then choose from among these three fine widows. Women of good reputation with experience in keeping a husband happy,” Vartan said. “No father will give you his young daughter. No young girl wants a graybeard for a mate. In this I concur. You seek a companion who will keep you comfortable and well-fed. Here stand three, all eminently suited to your needs, and all willing to have you. You must choose from among them if you would remarry.”

Pol looked the three women over, and finally said, “I choose Corliss.”

“Corliss, you are willing?” Vartan asked.

“I am, my lord,” the plump widow said.

“Then come forward, and be joined,” Vartan said, and when the two stood before him he said, “Marriage between a man and a woman is sacred in the eyes of the Celestial Actuary. It is the husband’s duty to provide for his mate. It is the wife’s duty to care for her mate. Are you, Pol, willing to provide for Corliss, and treat her with dignity and kindness?”

“I am, my lord,” Pol said.

“And you, Corliss, will you care for Pol, treating him with respect and kindness?”

“I will, my lord,” the widow replied.

“Then it is done, and you are considered husband and wife in the eyes of the Celestial Actuary,” Vartan concluded. He drew a coin from his vest pocket, and gave it to the bride. “For luck,” he told her, and kissed her cheek. Then he shook Pol’s hand.