“Are you OK, my lady?” he asked. “Not too cold, I hope?”

“I’ve never been colder,” she replied. “Just happy to have landed.” And dreading the return journey already, she decided not to say.

The guards were stepping over, brandishing their blades. They sheathed them at once as soon as they saw who it was. “Elyon Daecar?” one of them said, realising. He turned to the others. “It’s Elyon Daecar.”

The rest of the guards approached through the cold white mists, moving from the heat of the fire. There were whispers and murmurs among them as Elyon began undoing the straps, unfastening Amilia from her harness. It was only then that one of the guards recognised her, looking almost like a small bear in that enormous fur cloak of hers, and all the other layers beneath. “Your Majesty? Queen…Queen Amilia?”

She looked at the man who had uttered those words. He was one of the guards who had served here during her time, one she recognised. His name slipped her mind, though. “I am not your queen,” she said. “We have come for another reason.”

Another of the men moved forward, brushing past the rest. He had a black beard sprinkled white with frost, black hair, and fierce eyes of the same colour. “My lady, I am the captain here. How might I be of service to you?”

“My companion here wishes to speak with Prince Sevrin. He is still alive, we have heard. And king, if so.”

The men exchanged looks. The captain spoke. “Prince Sevrin refuses to name himself king until he has knowledge of his cousin’s fate. Until Hadrin is proven as deceased, he…”

“Here is your proof,” Amilia cut in. She opened her arms out to present Elyon Daecar. “He has a story to tell, but not to you. Bring word of our arrival to the king. We shall wait within the hall.”

The captain commanded for the doors of the palace to be unbarred and opened. Inside it was much warmer. The main hall had a large and elegant hearth, beside which a great pile of firewood had been stacked, and the flames were crackling pleasantly. There was a stale scent of smoke in the air, from the fires that had torn through the palace long ago, and ash still sat in little heaps and drifts here and there.

“My lady, please wait here,” the captain of the guard said, voice echoing softly. He called for two seats to be set by the fire. “Is there anything I can get you while you wait?”

“Nothing. Thank you.’

She lowered herself down onto the seat, enjoying the licking warmth of the flames as they thawed the cold from her bones. The chair was sturdily built, capable of bearing the weight of godsteel, so Elyon decided to sit as well, stiff and grand in his armour and overcloak, resting the Windblade beside him, along with the pack he had brought with him, containing the book. He removed his helm to let his black hair tumble down over his forehead, and his beard was growing longer. Amilia regarded him for a long moment. With the hair and beard, and the new scar across his right eye, he was starting to look the spit of his father. Even more than Aleron did, she realised. Maybe this is always how it was meant to be. Elyon was always the true heir.

“I hope the book didn’t get too wet,” she said, looking at the bag beside his chair.

He checked to make sure, but did not seem too concerned. The bag had a waterproof lining, he told her, should they encounter rain. “I didn’t expect snow, though,” he said, with half a laugh. “It’s almost like the seasons are reversing.”

“Or changing forever,” she said, feeling a pang of tiredness. Flying was weary business, even as a passenger. She yawned, lifting a dainty hand to cover her mouth, as her mother taught her. “This fire is far too soothing. I could sleep right here, couldn’t you?”

He nodded wearily. “I wonder…would you mind if we stayed here, for the night? Pending what happens. I just…with the snow and the cold and how long it’s taken to get here…”

“We’re not going to make it back for dusk, are we Elyon?” She smiled at him, to show him it was fine. “I’m happy to stay if you are. These halls…” She looked around. “They don’t seem so bad now that Hadrin’s gone. It’s like the evil has been removed, scoured away by fire. There’s something peaceful about it, something almost pretty.” She frowned at her own words. “Is that bad to say? To find beauty in all this death and ruin?”

“It’s important to find light even in the dark,” he told her. “That doesn’t mean you don’t care.”

“Really?” As far as she was aware, Elyon understood her to only care about herself. “You think I care?”

He laughed softly. “You’re not a monster, Amilia. So you think the world is going to end, that’s your right. It doesn’t mean you want it to. I’m sure you’d sooner live into your dotage as a crazed old drunk, still bedding handsome spearmen and stableboys.”

She chuckled, removing her gloves, and reached her hands closer to the flames to warm them. “I guess that wouldn’t be so bad.” Little clumps of snow and frost were melting off her cloak and hair, trailing down her neck. She shivered as a drop snaked down her spine, and then reached up to touch her cheek. It felt sore, windburnt, bitten by the chill. “I need a mirror,” she said. “I must look awful after that.”

“You look beautiful. You don’t have the capacity to look awful.”

She smiled at him. “It’s nicer when we’re kind to one another, don’t you think? In another life, it might have been me and you who were betrothed. Do you think we would have been happy?”

He met her eyes, wondering on the question for a moment. “Maybe,” he said at last. “I’d have to put a curb on your drinking, but…” His lips twisted into a smile. He had done more of that of late - smiling - since his visit to the refuge, and seemed in better spirits. “We’d have had pretty children, at least.”

“Not with all the drinking. That isn’t good for an unborn child, I’ve heard.” She grinned and withdrew her wineskin. “Fancy a taste?”

He seemed to have lost his strength to fight her on it. “Hand it here,” he said.

They shared the wine as they waited, passing it back and forth, whispering into the quiet of the hall, laughing and smiling. After a while they heard the tread of footsteps outside. The door swung open, stirring ash from the tiled floor, and a small troop of guardsmen entered in yellow cloaks, with a young man at their head. He had a neat, confident step, a pleasant, narrow face, and keen golden eyes. He was not large, nor small, very much of average height and build, though trim, lean in a good way, and had a fine head of wavy chestnut hair that bounced winsomely as he walked toward them.

“Your Highness, Your Highness,” he said to them as he approached. “What an honour to host you in our humble home.” He smiled a courteous smile and performed an elegant bow, the links and scales of his whaleskin armour catching the light of the fire. It was a beautiful suit, in shades of gold and royal blue, and over it he wore a fine cloak of lambswool at his back, split blue and yellow for his kingdom. “I am so sorry to keep you waiting. I hope you will forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven,” Amilia said, standing to face him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t, my lady. My father had planned to introduce us after the coup, though when it failed we never had that chance.” He smiled at her. “I am Devrin, Prince Sevrin’s son and heir. It is an honour to finally meet you.”

She let him kiss the back of her hand. “And you,” she murmured, remembering how Sevrin had spoken of his son, that time they met down in the cellar. He had said he was not near as ugly as the rest of them - in a tone of jest, of course - and he wasn’t far wrong. Despite the narrow facial features, Devrin looked almost nothing like his father or his uncle or his crazed, wiry-haired aunt. Nor Hadrin, that was for certain. The family tended to be rather weaselly of feature, but there was little of the rodent about this man. He might even be called handsome, she thought. Not an Aleron or an Elyon or a Mallister Monsort, no, but perfectly acceptable in his way. “I’m happy to hear you survived, Prince Devrin. Tell me. Did your uncle Garyn live through the attack? Your auntie Cristin?” She had met them both that day in the cellar as well.

The young prince dipped his eyes. He was older than her and Elyon, though not by much. Perhaps five and twenty, she thought to look at him. “I regret to say that Uncle Garyn perished in a blaze, my lady. Auntie Cristin, however, still lives, and we are all most grateful for that.” His eyes lifted. “You did not meet the others, did you?”

“No. Just those three.”

“Ah. Well I’ll not trouble you with their fates, then.” He kept his eyes on her for a long moment, smiling, then seemed to remember himself, snapping out of his trance. “Well, um, let’s not keep my father waiting. Princess Amilia, Prince Elyon, this way please.” He glanced at Amilia again, smiled, and set off through the palace.

She followed behind with Elyon, moving through the hall and into the adjoining chamber beyond. She knew the palace well, though mostly the apartments at the back, and the fine high terraces she liked to sit on, watching the city below. It was about the only pleasure she had here. Well, besides Sir Jeremy Gullimer.

Elyon gave her a nudge. “I think he likes you, Amilia,” he whispered under his breath. He had a little smile on his face. “Devrin could hardly stop staring.”

“I’m used to it,” she said. That was just the plain truth; Amilia had been stared at by people all her life. “And let’s not pretend you didn’t stare at me when we first met as well, Elyon. I remember how you undressed me with your eyes that night at the feast.”

He laughed aloud. “And since. Many times.” That was in jest, she supposed. Though…

Their path led them through the public parts of the palace, across an inner courtyard, past the stately rooms where balls and functions were held, and finally to the king’s private audience chamber, or one of them. He had several, Amilia knew, though this one had not been touched by the fires, or so it seemed as they entered.

The rugs within were warm and fresh, the walls clean and hanging with rich tapestries, the furniture unspoilt. A fire was crackling in the hearth, attended by a pair of armchairs and a table between them. Another table was busy with flagons and jugs and cups, and there were some plates of food there too. A set of doors led to a large covered balcony, with fine views of the city. The view had somewhat worsened of late, though the balcony itself remained intact. It was out there that they found King Sevrin, standing at the balustrade, looking over the ruin of Thalan. His son performed the introductions.

“Father. I have brought Princess Amilia to you, and Elyon Daecar, the Prince of Vandar, and Master of Winds.”

“Thank you, Devrin.” King Sevrin turned. He was cloaked in a rich mantle of dyed sable. Beneath it he wore a fitted leather doublet, embroidered at the chest with the speared leviathan and golden sunrise of his kingdom. He was a small man, weak-chinned and growing gaunt, with wispy strands of grey hair blowing from his scalp. There was perhaps a mild resemblance to his son, in the narrow shape of his face, and the keen nature of their eyes, but one had to look hard to see it. No doubt Devrin’s mother had been something of a beauty to make up the difference. The king’s lips swelled into a smile. “Amilia…how happy it makes me to see that you are well. We had men looking for you for weeks after the city fell. I began to fear that you were buried somewhere in the rubble, or taken off by some foul beast.” He stepped forward. “To see you here before me…oh, it warms my heart, child, on this cold and drear day.”

She smiled back at him and gave a bow. “As it does mine to see you in this palace, my lord. I feared that all of you would have perished. But now the city and the kingdom are yours, as they should have been.”

“Ah, but what is left? I rule a ruin, child, and the world is only growing darker.” He paused to look at Elyon. “An honour to meet you, Prince Elyon. I know your father. A great man.”

“Thank you, my lord. He is.”

“And so are you, I am hearing. You are performing miracles with this wondrous blade of yours.” He looked at it, though there was no desire in his eyes. Amilia had seen how Bladeborn men looked upon the Windblade, with that gleam that Elyon didn’t like, but Sevrin was Seaborn and had no such interest.

“I am only doing what many others would, in my position,” Elyon said, humbly.

“I think that rather unlikely, Elyon,” Sevrin told him, with a smile. He turned to look at his son.“Devrin, be so good as to see our royal guests refreshed. What would you like?” he asked them. “Wine? Port? Ale? You look like a man who might drink ale, Elyon.”

“An ale would be nice, thank you.”