“Neither,” said Restag with such immediacy it surprised the young thane. Without looking up from the map, the Thanesman continued, “As to your judgment, it is solid. The dark-haired are powerful among the humans, and of great wealth, eager to trade us weapons and food and many useful things for trinkets. To form a bond with them could bring our people much wealth in addition to the presence of a powerful sword-brother, which could then make the other tribes hesitate before drawing their swords against us and could perhaps be used to leverage a peace-bond with them. No. I do not doubt your judgment, nor your sanity, Dar’s-Mouth. I doubt the assumptions on which your judgment is based.”

Witheric stared in admiration at his friend. He had never spoken his full thoughts to Restag. Bits and pieces, yes, but never the full sequence, the ideas and possibilities still too uncertain and fluid for him to speak them. Yet here they were, so simply said. Here was the future he so greatly desired. But there was more to his thoughts, which Restag’s pause showed he suspected and which Witheric provided, saying, “You always get straight to the true matter in hand, don’t you, Thanesman? Yes. That is the issue. I said before that Aleukus’s words are a spear and a chain, but there are two edges to any blade. Yes, they are a spear, but will they be the spear with which to defend our walls or the stake on which we are impaled? They are a chain, but will they be the bond of brotherhood or the bond of thralls? Even if he proves true and the bond is made, will that be enough? The blood of our kin and our enemies have mingled and soaked this land and fed the grass and the trees and the beasts on which we feed for so many cycles of the seasons, can such a blood-debt be forgotten? Put before us like the corpse it is and allowed a proper funeral, to burn away with the bier? Can such a thing be? Yes, these are true questions to which I do not have answers, only hopes and assumptions.”

Following another thoughtful pause, the young thane scoffed bitterly, his eyes hard and cold as he stared at the Band in his hands. No longer trying to contain his emotions, he said, “And what of their assumer? Not the thane his father was, nor his father’s father, nor his father’s father’s father. Not the man who can stand strong, with bones of iron, against his enemies and their swords or who commands silence and respect by his mere presence. But a small, weak man who should have been left to die as an infant but for false hopes–a portent perhaps?– and who would not have been made thane but by the accident of his blood and the death of those more worthy. ‘Heir to the Eisenband’? ‘Iron-Brow’? Ha! Only if iron is as fragile as clay.”

The anger passed, and the young thane smiled mockingly at himself and said, “I am not the thane they want, Restag, nor probably the thane they need.”

At last, Restag lowered the reed pen and moved around the table with the unfinished map to stand before his friend. Without bothering to ask, he took the band from Witheric’s hands and placed it back on the thane’s head. Looking into the ice-blue eyes that now stared at him in confusion, the Thanesman said, his voice gentle but firm, “Your bones may not be iron as your father’s were, but your will is, and your blood is fire. An alliance with a human king? A peace-bond with our fellow tribes? The burial of blood-debts? Who even among your forefathers has burned with such ambition? Ambition not even your first father held when Dar sent down the star-iron to forge the Band and gave birth to the blood of High Thanes. Ambition worthy of the old songs. Those who say otherwise are fools.”

Despite himself, Witheric grinned. “You, a mere spear-man, presume to call the Council of High Elders fools?”

“I presume to speak the truth,” he replied.

“As Thanesman? Or as friend?,” asked Witheric.

“Are they mismatched?” said Restag.

No. Not with you, thought the thane, picking the letter back up and smiling to himself. He perused the contents again, making sure he understood them correctly, and then pulled out from a stack on the table a clean piece of parchment. By the time he had laid it out on the table, Restag had brought over the pen and ink well from the unfinished map and placed them before the thane as he unrolled his notes and considered his reply. Before he began setting the words in place, however, he said to his friend, “I want this taken to the Ithaenians at daybreak tomorrow, before they leave.”

“Yes, Thane Dar’s-Mouth.”

Trying to glare at Restag, Witheric said, “And stop that nonsense. You know as well as I do that it is not the gods speaking through me that has won us battles, but simply a bit of knowledge, much planning, your own quick thinking, and perhaps the favor of Valaka and his Valaki. If I could hear the gods’ voices, all would be so much easier.”

He fell silent for a moment, then said, “I will do it, Restag. I still cannot be sure I’m what our people need, but I will try. And I will try how I see best.”

“Yes, my thane,” said Restag, removing some of the unused items and stacking papers and books out of the way. Once he was done, he prepared to leave his master to his work while he returned to his own, but he took a moment to say, “Even if it is the wrong choice, even if it is not what we need, you have my blade, Witheric.”

Glancing up from his letter, the young thane smiled broadly and said, “Thank you, Restag Thanesman. That is all I need.”