Tamas Varga is a broad, weathered man with the heavy shoulders of someone who spent half his life carrying shields, wounded soldiers, and sacks of grain. He moves with deliberate economy, never wasting a step, yet his hands are unexpectedly gentle when he handles a cup, a child, or a frightened horse. His face is square and sun-browned, with deep creases at the corners of his mouth from years of squinting into wind and laughing at bad camp jokes. A faded blue wool cord is always tied around his left wrist. It was once a soldier's unit marker, and the section nearest his pulse has been polished smooth by constant touching. He checks it whenever he hears bad news. The unexpected thing about him is his softness: a king who looks carved from old oak keeps tiny sugar cakes in his coat for stray dogs and nervous children.