JONMARC VAHANIAN REINED in his horse. The autumn day was chill and his breath misted in the air as brilliantly colored leaves swirled around the courtyard. His gaze scanned the hulking, dark stone building. The manor house of Dark Haven was finally habitable.
Jonmarc's horse snuffled restlessly. Teams of workers bustled around the courtyard, trying to get the manor house fully livable by winter and, more to Jonmarc's concern, suitable for visitors. He slipped down from his horse and absently handed the reins to a squire as Neirin, his grounds manager, bustled up. Neirin was born to Dark Haven's lands, kin to many of the ghosts and vayash moru who served the manor. A cloud of wild red hair framed his freckled face, and when he spoke it was with the heavy accent of the Principality
highlands.
"You're out early, m'lord," Neirin greeted him cheerfully. "They'll be thinking you're vayash moru with the hours you've been keep-ing."
Jonmarc smiled. "I've always been a night person, but Dark Haven gives that a whole new meaning." He stretched, and grimaced as his right arm twinged. A little more than three months had elapsed since the battle with Arontala. The badly" broken arm, leg, and wrist had required most of the summer to mend, even with Carina's help. ' "Taking a chill in the bones?" "Not quite good as new, but getting there." Neirin gave him a knowing look. "I doubt your lady healer had the schedule you keep in mind when you came north. Reaping grain with the farmers in the morning, down in the forge for the afternoon, swords practice with your guard at night."
Jonmarc chuckled. "She expects me to ignore orders. That means I'm doing just what she thought I would."
"That's the most twisted logic I've heard in a long time."
Jonmarc looked up at the dark stone of the manor house. "Yeah, well even by my standards, this is the strangest place I've been in a long time, so we're even." He stared down the road toward the village and the fields beyond.
Last year's heavy rains made for a poor harvest. Dark Haven could not afford another poor yield, and here in the northlands, winter would be coming on soon. "You're worried about the harvest." Jonmarc shrugged. "Shouldn't I be? The manor house wasn't the only thing left to rot for ten years. No one looked after the fields much, that's certain. And with the mess Jared made of Margolan, there won't be grain to spare this year. We've got to take in everything we grow and make sure it winters. I've no desire to win a title and still go hungry!"
