Zaefer Steere was going to be a duke, but didn’t know it yet. He was the second son of the Duke of Lye-St-Eere and, as far as he knew, he was going to be a knight, or a poet, or perhaps a layabout. Second sons are granted that luxury. What he would never be, he was certain, was a husband. That’s not to say he was not a romantic, or that he lacked prospects. Three years past, he had known the love of a Tarillan woman who scorned him. It was her rejection that cemented for him the knowledge he would never pin his happiness to one woman. One at a time, surely, for he was no rake, but he never intended to wed. And, for a second son, that was perfectly acceptable.
One day, Zaefer was walking by the river that runs outside of Lye-St-Eere. His custom each week’s end was to visit the local tavern
