Lord Aethan lingered but a short while in the Brew-house.
After putting a few plain questions to Máric and the other two, he departed with Ulfang at his side.
Silence fell once more upon the place. Gilmir and Jarnor exchanged a swift glance, then both turned their eyes toward Máric; they lowered their voices and spoke in hushed tones.
"Might that Lord Aethan be some great one out of the Heart-ward? See how Ulfang bent himself before him, as though he had become another man altogether."
"He is surely no son of Greyleaf. The weave of that cloak he wore was fair beyond the skill of our tailors; no loom in these streets could fashion such a pattern."
Máric swallowed hard. He lifted a hand to rub the corners of his eyes, reddened by the biting cold, yet he held his peace and did not join their words.
His thoughts were wholly filled with the strange panel of light that had appeared unlooked-for; his heart rose and fell in tumult, hard to still.
"Máric, think you Lord Aethan might hail from the South, even as you do?"
Jarnor leaned nearer, his gaze resting upon Máric's pale gold hair.
"Both of you bear that mark, the bright hair that is the token of the fair folk of the South."
"Perhaps," said Máric.
He quelled the stirring within him and answered in a flat voice.
He cared little whether Aethan were a southern lord or what lineage he claimed; Máric had no wish to probe the matter deeply.
All his mind was bent now upon the 'gift' that had come at last, ten days after his strange awakening in this world.
If the power worked as it promised, then not only would he endure here, but to rise and thrive would lie within his reach.
"Enough of idle wondering," said Máric.
He was the first to take up his axe again, shattering the lingering stillness.
"Aye, to work," Gilmir shrugged. "I never thought to see the day when Ulfang's face would bloom like a flower in spring."
The three bent once more to their labour.
Yet where before Máric had laboured with single mind, now his thoughts wandered.
The words of the strange panel circled in his head without cease, refusing to fade.
Time wore on quietly. When the last of the firewood lay split and stacked, the noon bell tolled from the church tower.
The great door of the Brew-house swung open anew.
Ulfang entered, wrapped in a thick cloak lined with rabbit-fur; his cheeks were ruddy from the cold without, and his bearing was high.
Unlike the sour countenance he was wont to show the apprentices, though he did not laugh aloud, the faint upward curve of his mouth betrayed a rare good humour.
"Enough, lay by your tools and eat"
He set the wooden box he carried upon the stone table and called in a voice that filled the room.
At his word the three let fall their axes and gathered swiftly about the table.
Máric opened his own box; a flicker of surprise crossed his eyes, for the meal was beyond all he had known since coming hither.
Within lay three thick slices of white bread, soft and well-risen, laid one upon another.
Beside them stood a bowl of salted meat soup, its surface gleaming with fat, and two pieces of dried cod.
Since his awakening he had eaten only rye loaves mixed with bran; a few crumbs of white bread had been rare bounty.
Whole thick slices of white bread he had never seen, nor meat soup, nor cod, only thin turnip broth in days past.
"Master Ulfang, this is fare too rich for us!" cried Jarnor, opening his own box; his eyes shone, and his voice could not hide its wonder.
Though his kin stood well enough in Greyleaf, they were many mouths to feed: three elder brothers and a sister above him, two younger brothers and a sister below. Such a meal came seldom to his table.
Ulfang spoke cheerily: "Count yourselves fortunate. The Brew-house has closed a weighty bargain this day; take this as your share of the good fortune."
Máric said nothing. He ate in silence.
He bit into a great piece of the white bread; its softness yielded beneath his teeth. When he had swallowed, he drank of the warm soup, and the heat flowed down his throat into his belly, driving back somewhat of the chill that had settled in his very bones.
All the while Ulfang's eyes turned often toward Máric.
His face shifted as though he weighed some matter in his mind.
"Ahem!"
After a space he coughed twice, breaking the quiet of the meal.
"Máric, you have wrought well these past days."
He paused, then turned the matter aside. "Yet from tomorrow you need come no more to the Brew-house. I have found other work for you."
"That Lord Aethan is a noble come out of the South. He means to dwell in Greyleaf and raise a new stead in the North-wood beyond the town.
Go there tomorrow and report yourself."
In his heart Ulfang was loath.
Máric had won his favour: a diligent apprentice, soft of speech, free of trouble.
But Aethan had asked for him by name, and Ulfang dared not refuse.
At those words Máric's heart sank like lead.
As he had feared: when fortune seemed too fair, a snare lay hidden.
This rich meal had not come without price.
To gain the apprentice's place he had given Ulfang the two silver pennies that the former owner had hoarded through a lifetime of toil, his whole wealth, kept secret and guarded.
Had he not known the worth of the post, he would never have parted with them so readily.
As for this southern noble, Máric believed no word of it.
If he were truly a lord of high blood, why choose so remote a corner of the world to dwell in?
To hew a stead from the forest was the labour of bondsmen, far removed from the honourable craft of brewing.
And winter lay heavy upon the land; with his lean frame, such toil in frost and snow would be little short of death.
"Master Ulfang," said Máric, dipping the last crust of white bread into the soup, "I deem the work of the Brew-house better suited to me."
He chewed slowly, swallowed, and breathed out a plume of white mist as he spoke, calm, yet firm.
Ulfang made no immediate answer.
Instead he turned to Gilmir and Jarnor. "You two, go kindle the fire, then haul the malt-sacks to the sweetening-vat."
Gilmir opened his mouth to speak, but Jarnor caught his arm and answered swiftly:
"Yes, Master Ulfang, we'll go now."
When the two had departed, only Máric and Ulfang remained in the Brew-house.
"Máric," said Ulfang, "I will return those two silver pennies to you. Come with me to the Notary's hall, and we shall end the apprenticeship bond."
A note of helplessness sounded in his voice.
"Lord Aethan requires hands to clear his new stead. If you will not go, there are many outlanders in the Outer Ward eager to take the place. You are the one he named. Whether you go or stay is beyond my say."
At these words Máric's face remained still, yet he understood all.
In all likelihood he must depart.
Under common chance Ulfang would never have offered to refund the coin, not with a sealed bond.
Máric was a stranger from the South, rootless in Greyleaf; if Ulfang wished to cast him out, ways enough lay open.
Yet now he not only returned the silver but pressed to sever the bond at once.
This haste to be rid of him must surely spring from Aethan's will.
Máric looked upon the troubled lines of Ulfang's face, drew a slow breath, and said:
"I understand."
He had hoped to stand firm for a season upon the humble rung of brewer's apprentice.
He had not thought that in mere days he would be thrust back toward the pit.
Yet he was no longer the lone and helpless soul he had been at first awakening.
He possessed a gift beyond the common lot.
To go as a bondsman hewing land in winter?
Máric had no mind for it.
With the two silver pennies restored, he could take a lodging in the town for a time.
He would not set foot in Aethan's domain.
The man's true name and purpose were veiled; his interest in Máric was darker still.
To enter there unknowing would be as to walk into the lair of a dragon.
What he must do now was summon the Death Warriors without delay, then grow in shadow and silence.
Two loyal souls each day, near eight hundred in the turning of a year.
The whole of Greyleaf held scarce more than ten thousand souls.
The town guard and militia together mustered no more than three hundred spears.
In this world, Máric knew well, power flowed to those who commanded men.
With hundreds bound to his will, to master Greyleaf would be no hard thing.
Build high walls, gather grain, bide the time.
As one who had crossed worlds, he knew the ancient counsel well.