“In the interest of sharing, yes, I will tell you.” Timor Ballantris spoke the names, then, one and then another and then another. As feared, both Sir Soloman and Sir Barnibus had been taken hostage by the Agarathi host, kept in a cage, chained and beaten.

But there were others who predated them, men who had been fettered here for some time, taken during the Battle of the Bane after the northern host fled in retreat. And one name, above all, set Emeric’s heart to thumping.

Lord Wallis Kanabar was still alive.

38

“It’s snowing,” Sir Connor Crawfield said, stepping into her room. He went to the window and threw open the curtains. A cold light spilled in, and about the edges of the panes a thin crust of frost had formed. Beyond, flakes fell serenely from a pure white sky, a soft coat settling upon the grassy fields. “It started a little before dawn, my lady. I suggest you wrap up warm today.”

Amara rubbed her eyes and sat up from her bed, swaddled in her blankets. Her bones were stiff, and she felt old as sin, her rump sore from the saddle. She stared out of the window, disbelieving. “Snow? In summer? Has that ever happened before?”

“I’m not the person to ask, my lady. Will you take your breakfast in here?”

“No. I’ll join the men on the benches.” She sniffed the air. The scent of bacon was rising from the common room below. It made her stomach churn hungrily. “I won’t be long.”

Sir Connor nodded and left her to dress on her own. By rights she should be wearing some colourful summer dress, light and breezy in linen or silk. Instead she pulled on winter wear; a thick grey gown over dark woollen stockings, leather riding boots for her feet, a warm fur overcoat with a scarlet scarf tied about her neck. Her gloves were supple leather, soft as a babe’s backside, lined inside with vair. Those she kept in the pockets of her cloak to wear when they set out riding.

The common room was busy with men, packed shoulder to shoulder along the benches. By now Amara had some dozens in her company, all sworn to her service, and a good many of them were Bladeborn. They were all chattering with one another as she entered, talking about the snow, the war, dragon sightings, and other such tidings; most of them grim Amara did not doubt. A fire burned warmly in the hearth, driving away the unseasonal chill, and the innkeep and his wife and three daughters were bringing out the food; plates of crispy bacon, fresh-baked buttery bread, bowls of soup floating with chunks of onion and turnip, great pots of porridge with jars of honey on the side. It was quite the morning feast, and the men were munching eagerly. They hadn’t eaten half so well since their last night on the island, when they’d plundered the Seal King’s larders and set up a banquet on the beach.

The innkeep bustled right over as soon as he saw her. He was a small, unattractive man with lank greying hair and a long, misshapen nose. Old, yellowing bruises marked his eyes and upper cheeks. “M’lady. Mornin’ to you. I hope the food is to your liking? And the bed. You slept well, I pray?”

“As well as can be expected at such a time.”

She hadn’t slept well, in truth, though that was not on account of the bed. Ever since she’d returned to Varinar…ever since she’d learned the truth of her husband’s fate…her sleep had been plagued by dreams of his passing. A heroic end, she thought, stiffening against the grief. He restored his honour before the end. He died on the field of battle, bearing a Blade of Vandar, fighting the Dread himself. For long weeks she had feared him crushed beneath the palace, locked down in his cell, alone and helpless as the city fell to ruin above. That he had perished with such gallantry was a blessing, she knew. He so feared the Long Abyss, she thought, part proud and part sad and a whole lot heartbroken. But he earned his absolution. My dear sweet Vesryn…he will be welcomed to Varin’s Table with cheers and open arms.

The innkeep stuttered uncomfortably. “M’lady, if I may, I’d like to ask you about…”

“Payment,” Amara said, cutting him off. She drove all thoughts of her husband aside; there would be time to grieve him later. Right now it was Lillia who drove her on, Lillia whose fate remained uncertain, Lillia who had seen her and her company marching out of the western gates of Varinar no more than a day after they had arrived in the thin desperate hope of finding her. “You will be fairly reimbursed for your trouble, fear not.” She gestured across the room. “Speak with my man Sir Connor. He will see you paid.”

The innkeep held his hands together and bowed. “My thanks, Lady Daecar. Oh, you are kind. These are trying times and your generosity means the world, it surely does.”

“It is not generous to pay fairly for board and lodging. That is your due.”

“A due unpaid by others, m’lady. We’ve had all sorts passing us these last weeks, those escapin’ the city and the war and whatnot, and not all have been so kind as you. They take what they will and leave without payment, and if ever I should try to protest, they threaten me with bare steel, even beat me. I have been struck many times, m’lady, as my face will attest. And my daughters…” He wiped at his long, runny nose, looking pained. “I will not even speak of it. I only thank the gods that they are alive, and untaken from me.”

Alive but not unspoiled, Amara thought grimly, to judge the girls’ red and weepy eyes, the marks on their smooth young skin that could only have been made by the rough touch of base men. At any other time such crimes would be reported to the local magistrate or lord, and the culprits hunted and hanged, but there was no recourse for that now. It irked her more than she could say.

“I am sorry for your troubles,” she said, giving him what succour she could. “If you want to better protect your family, I suggest you pack a wagon and make for Varinar. You may have heard unsettling tales of its fate from passersby, but there is a measure of order being restored now that the forces of Lord Amadar have reached the city. You will be safer there.”

The man’s eyes showed doubt. “They say the Dread will return, m’lady. Here…well, he won’t touch us here. We’re too small a morsel, but Varinar…”

That was a shadow under which they all lived now. “It is your choice, of course. If you decide to leave, come to me and I will write you a letter of patronage. It will ensure that you and your family are housed and situated somewhere safe upon your arrival. But be quick about it. I expect to depart as soon as I’ve filled my stomach with your fine-smelling soup and bacon.” She smiled. “And I will have a cup of watered wine as well.”

The man’s face went terribly apologetic. “Begging your pardons, m’lady, but we have no more wine. You drank the last of our reserves last night.”

“Some honeyed ale, then, if you will.”

She continued through the common room, smiling at the men as she passed, sharing gestures of greeting. At the far end, Master Artibus - whom she had found tending the wounded in Varinar - was sitting alone at an alcove table, quietly breaking his fast. It was Artibus who had told her of Vesryn, Artibus who had spoken of Elyon’s visits, and Artibus who had asserted with confidence that Lillia and Sir Daryl had not returned to the city before she fell. Amara remained unsure of that - after all, how many thousands were still trapped under rubble, or too badly burned to be identifiable - though she had to cling to the slim possibility that he was right. The old scholar was currently hunched over a bowl of steaming soup, idly spooning measures into his mouth as he scribbled notes in an old book. Artibus was always scribbling something, his mind never at rest. He looked up as she sat down.

“How’s the soup?” she asked.

“Very pleasant. If a touch too salty for my tastes.” He smiled his kindly old smile and glanced to the nearest window. “Have you seen the snow?”

“From my room, yes. It’s whiter than your beard, Artibus. Awfully strange, don’t you think?”

“Very strange,” the man agreed thoughtfully. “Though far from the only queer climatic event we have heard of. Elyon spoke of heavy rains in the south, much stronger than normal for this time of year, and there have been rumours of superstorms and earthquakes as well. One herdsman told me of a rift that had opened in the Heartlands, miles long and a hundred metres wide. He said that there was a great rumbling down there, made by a creature of immense size. And when he peered over the edge to look, he saw a great shadow, moving in the depths. He claims it to be Brannatar.”

Amara cocked a brow. “Brannatar? The giant boar?”

“So he said. And why not, with Drulgar risen? They were all bitter enemies once, you know, these titans.”

“Better than you do,” she said. Amara had always been more interested in myth and mystery than Artibus and was more fully versed in it as well. The old scholar was driven by logic and learning and misliked things he couldn’t understand or decipher through some theory, but that was not true of Amara Daecar. She liked the ancient and arcane. “Accounts differ as to what happened to him,” she said, taking on the role of scholar in this field. “Some say the Dread slew him in a fierce battle, as he did Fronn in their fourth fight. Others that it was the wolf himself who killed the boar; they clashed often, legend says, as wolves and boar will do. Those of a sweeter sensibility prefer to think that Brannatar never died at all, and instead entered into a long hibernation, where he has rested for thousands of years.” There was even a place called Brannatar’s Burrow, some hundred miles west of Ayrin’s Cross where it was said the great boar had delved his den. “Let us hope the last of those is true, and he has indeed returned. Perhaps one of those great tusks of his will do for the Dread, Artibus? They are said to be as tall as sentinel trees; plenty long enough to skewer him, don’t you think?”

Artibus had a spoonful of soup. “More likely the dragon will feast on roasted boar, Amara. But I take your point.”

The innkeep came bustling over with her cup of honeyed ale, smiling obsequiously as he set it down on the table before her. One of his daughters followed. The youngest, she was, a waif of a girl no older than ten - and blessedly without any bruises that Amara could see. She had a pot of soup under her arm and set about serving it with a ladle, filling Amara’s bowl with the steaming broth. Last of all came the wife, a short and stumpy woman with a great sagging bosom poorly contained by her stained apron, who put a plate of crispy bacon before her.

“Hope you like it, m’lady,” she said, performing a clumsy curtsey. “Saved the best rashers for you, I did.”

“That was very thoughtful of you.” Amara had a bite and could confirm that the bacon tasted as good as it smelled. “Delicious,” she said, licking her lips. The soup, too, was thick and filling and not so salty as Artibus made out. “I hope we have not emptied out your larders with this feast?”

“No, those monsters did that,” said the wife, with a snap to her voice. She wrapped a protective arm around her little daughter. “They took it all, m’lady, the bastards, excusin’ my tongue. This is from our personal stores. Got a secret pantry dug down beneath the boards here.” She tapped a heavy foot on the wooden floor. “Those whoresons never found it, thank the gods. Excusin’ my filthy tongue, m’lady.”

“That is quite all right. Do you have much food left down there?” She tapped a riding boot on the floor.

“Not much, I’ll confess it, not much at all.” She looked at her earnestly. “So we’ll be having that letter…if you’re still willing? My husband just told me, m’lady. Very kind of you to help. Very kind indeed.”

“It is no trouble at all.” Amara had sensed that this woman was the decision-maker around here. “Artibus, a sheet of parchment, if you will. And melt some wax for my seal.” She set about writing her letter, scribbling a few words to the effect of ‘help this family with food and lodging’, then folded the note, added a drop of sealing wax, and pressed down with her personal seal. She handed the letter to the wife who took it greedily. “See this into the hands of Sir Hank Rothwell or one of his men when you arrive at the western gate. He will see that you are provided for.”

“Oh m’lady, thank you, thank you.” The frumpy woman took her hand and kissed it wetly. “We’ll be leavin’ right away.” She looked at her husband, who still seemed less sure. “Right away,” she repeated to him. “You can’t protect our girls, so we’d best find someone who can.”

“I…what was I to do? They’d have killed me dead, woman. Dead. Is that what you want?”

“I’d sooner see you dead than my little darlings violated. Now get upstairs and start packing our things. Go on, get.” She kicked at him. “Get. Get…”

The husband moved off, glowering.

“Sorry for the show,” the dowdy woman finished. “Not meanin’ to be unseemly in front of you, m’lady.”

“It’s quite all right.” Amara had a sip of sweetened ale. “Would you like any help packing your wagon? I have plenty of men here who would be willing to lend a hand.”

The woman was obviously going to protest to that, so Amara took matters in hand herself. She waved over Sir Penrose Brightwood. “Pen, choose three men to help this family gather their belongings and pack their wagon.” To the woman she said, “I would be happier knowing you are on the road when we leave.”

The innkeeper’s wife seemed at a loss for words. “Your kindness, Lady Daecar. It is…it is such a rare thing these days.”

“One kind act begets another,” Amara responded. And I have much to make up for, she knew, reflecting on Rylian, and the Flame Manes, and the innocents who had perished in her island-within-an-island coup. “Pen, see to it. And tell the rest of the men to get moving. I want to be on the road as soon as possible.”