The place was newly built but seemed a thousand years old already. The Kindred builders had used the old scattered stones from centuries past, but it wasn’t just that. He guessed that one could not erase ages of history, all those ghostly memories, with a decade of rebuilding. Rabing Castle had finally become what he’d dreamed it could be all along. Since he’d first laid eyes on the ruins in the swampy lands North of North End, he’d wanted to restore the glory of the castle. Now that he’d managed it, on most days he felt content. He’d drained the swamp by diverting the river to a new course around his lands. It ran clear and clean, and no longer flooded the flatlands in spring. Thousands of acres of fertile fields had been left behind. Irrigation was a simple matter, and ditches ran in networks everywhere. Soon, the very necessary next element to his plan had gathered almost by magic: the people. Seeing that he offered protection and land to any capable farmer, taking only a lord’s payment each season and a vow to man the walls when trouble came, the people migrated to his banner steadily.
