Marchan grew cold. The wind from atop the carriage bit into his flesh. His clothing did not slow it down at all. He shivered. Darkness had conquered the land almost as soon as they had started out. The coachman largely ignored Marchan as he sat shivering. Marchan tried to think warm thoughts and rubbed his arms and legs, trying to keep them warm, but eventually grew tired of that. He watched the four white horses pulling the carriage. Two pairs of two, each pair's markings mirroring each other. The rear right horse had a dark splotch near its left back leg. The rear left horse: a similar dark splotch on its right back leg. As Marchan slowly grew colder and colder he noticed more and more mirror similarities. He wondered who their patron was that he could afford to buy horses based on their markings. Such a man must have enormous wealth, even among the wealthy.

A light in the distance caught his eye, pulling him out of his thoughts. It was on or near the road a distance ahead, and they were travelling toward it very fast. Marchan sat up and felt again how cold he was. He beat his arms to get the blood flowing. The carriage swept on and soon houses appeared on either side of the road. The coachman clucked to the horses and pulled on the reins. The carriage slowed and soon came to a stop. A large gate in a stone stood before them blocking the way. The coachman yelled out, 'Hoy!' and a guard with a lantern appeared atop the wall.

'Who goes there?' the guard asked.

'His Grace, the Emminent Duke of Quirnotol,' the coachman called.

'The Lord of this humble estate bids him welcome,' another voice from the wall spoke from the darkness several metres from the guard. This voice sounded like one used to being obeyed, even when it was not giving a direct command. In this case it was, and the gates opened and the carriage rode through. Marchan noticed that there was a second gate that did not open for them. Guards approached the carriage from either side, spears in hand. A second row of guards followed them with lanterns held to allow the first row easy sight of what was in front of them.

'Coachman, down off your carriage. You beside him as well,' a guard called up to them.

His Grace opened the door of the carriage and asked in a loud voice, 'What is the meaning of this? I was just told the Lord of this estate bid me welcome.'

'Yes, Your Grace,' said a guard. 'But not necessarily those with you. We have seen evidence of bandits out hunting with their dogs in the direction from which you come.'

Marchan raised his hood and lowered the front of it to hide his face. He hoped he would be mistaken for a young boy. The men of this town seemed to be very unfriendly to strangers. He climbed down off the carriage and stood between the coachman and the footman.

His Grace spoke again as he saw them line up. 'I say, those two are my trusted servants who have been with me these many years. If they are not welcome, then I must assume that neither am I. And you need hardly worry about that boy, or the woman with me. That accounts for everyone who came in with me.'

The guards stepped back a bit as the lord walked up, 'Your Grace, I apologise for this check.' His voice was that of the second man on the wall. 'As my man said, my men with spyglasses saw bandits on the road not long after your last stop. They thought perhaps they had stopped you, and having taken everything of value let you continue, with some of their own men, in order to get within my walls. They have tried similar tricks before, and I would rather be careful than dead. Allow me to introduce myself; I am Count Ghen of Glown. I and mine are at your service this night.'

As the count approached more closely, the duke replied, 'And I and mine are at yours. This woman and her boy were being chased by those bandits your men saw. She tells me her husband was a great warrior in the last war against Chloris, even received the King's Medal for bravery and compassion.'

'Indeed,' said the count, now standing right beside Marchan, where the footman had been until he went to set a stool for his master. The count turned to Marchan. 'Then you are his boy?' he said to Marchan. 'Let me see your face boy to see if I can see the resemblance to any of the men I remember.' He grasped Marchan's chin before Marchan could step away and raised it, brushing aside the hood. The count released Marchan and stepped back. 'No,' he said quietly, 'you look like none of the men that I remember.'

'I do declare!' said the duke. 'A dwarf! I thought you said he was your son.' he continued turning to Dana.

'He is,' she said. 'We adopted him when he was a babe. My firstborn had not long before been stillborn at the time of the war. My husband had been killed in the war and Jonathan, having found Marchan as a babe, found me and asked me to nurse him. We searched for a way to return him to his people, but could not. So we kept him as our own son. Jonathan died a year ago.'

'Jonathan?' the count queried. 'I remember a Jonathan. Tall, red hair, brave man, and generous. I seem to remember him receiving the King's Medal. I also recall his search for the dwarves, though I never found out until today why he had searched. I thought he was just interested in the Sons of the Rock. If you acknowledge him as your husband, you are most certainly welcome, in his name. As is the dwarf child he adopted. Come all of you. We will feast to celebrate such a life.'

The count really knew how to put on a feast. He had three minstrels under his roof and insisted on hearing a long ballad from each of them. He called all his men who could remember Jonathan to join him while he feasted. Many showed up who did not remember him, but that only added to the enjoyment of the feast as those who did recalled things he had done and things he had said. By the time Marchan was finally led off to the room prepared for him, he wondered if he had ever really known father.

The young maid who led him to his room did not leave right away. He sat up on a chair and looked at her expectantly. She stood in the doorway somewhat shyly.

'What is it?' he finally asked.

I've never seen a dwarf before,' she said. 'I was wondering if the stories are true.'

'What stories?' Marchan asked, wondering what strange adventure this was.

'They say that dwarves can lift four times their own weight. And eat only rock for weeks on end.'

Marchan paused for a second, 'I do not know if I can lift that much. I don't think I've ever tried. I know twice my own weight is plenty heavy. I've never tried eating rock, so I can't tell you anything abou that.'

She seemed to want to ask him something else, but her face just got red, and then she clasped her hands, said goodnight and left.

Marchan thought her strange, but was tired enough that he just climbed into bed and went straight to sleep.