Sir Penrose bowed and stepped away, selecting three men for the charge, calling for the rest to finish their breakfast and gather their things. In short order all of them were gobbling up whatever food remained in their bowls and plates and heading out to saddle their horses. As soon as the first man opened the door, a wintry wind came blowing in, stirring the flames of the fire. Several curses were loudly uttered as they shouldered out into the cold.

Sir Talmer Hedgeside marched over. “My lady. Sir Montague and Brazen Ben went out a little earlier, to scout the road. Thought you should know.”

“Thank you, Talmer. Any disturbances overnight?”

“Nothing, my lady. I’ve taken report from all the men who had the watch, and they tell me nothing unusual happened. Except the snow.”

“Ah, the snow. A curious business, wouldn’t you say?”

“Most curious, my lady. What do you make of it, Master Artibus?”

Artibus set down his quill pen and set about clearing his throat. Amara knew what that meant. A lecture was imminent and she had no time for that right now. “You can discuss it on the road,” she said. “Artibus will have plenty of time to expound upon his latest theories then, I’m sure. Just try not to fall asleep….we wouldn’t want you taking a tumble from the saddle, Sir Talmer.” She smiled at the old scholar and then looked at the door. “Is my horse being saddled?”

“Jovyn is seeing to it, my lady,” Hedgeside told her. “That boy never stops. Seems awful eager to get moving every day, don’t you find?”

There was no mystery there, not to Amara and Artibus, though Sir Talmer was not yet aware of it. “He is in love with my niece Lillia,” she said. “I daresay he wants to find her as much as I do. Perhaps even more.”

The stocky old knight gave a rugged smile. “Young love. Nothing sweeter. I hope we find her, truly I do. For all your sakes.”

Amara Daecar hoped for nothing more. She spooned a final measure of soup into her mouth, wiped her lips with a cloth, and stood, walking briskly outside into the bitter cold air. It hit her like a brick wall. “Gods be good. It’s even colder than I’d thought.”

“Will be worse to the north,” Sir Talmer said, following her out. He gestured northwest up the road as it wended off between the hills, dappled with their woods of spruce and pine. The elevation of the lands rose a little from here, and the snow looked thicker out there as well. “Might not be the worst thing, my lady. Dragons aren’t so fond of the cold, they say. This sort of weather…might just be enough to ward them off.”

“We must hope.”

Amara Daecar pulled her cloak tighter, teeth chattering. Some of the men were already ahorse, waiting beside the road in their heavy cloaks over suits of armour, swords hanging at their hips, axes at their backs, shields fixed to the flanks of their mounts. The rest were still at the stables, fixing saddles and bridles and arms.

It had become a much stronger host than Amara could have hoped for. She had counted on Connor and Penrose and Jovyn and Carly for long months now, and she had her men from the coup as well; the knights Sir Talmer and Sir Ryger, Sir Montague and Sir Hockney, still nursing his injured leg, and the sellsword Brazen Ben Barrett, who Carly had come to call Rabbit for his goofy teeth and big ears. But there were more now too. Some of those had joined them either during, or after, the island coup, all swearing their oaths and fealties. One was a burly Tukoran from the verdant valleys east of Ilithor, a knight called Sir Gobert Fuller who said he had met Amara once when they were both young.

“I even danced with you at a banquet in the palace, you may recall,” he’d said when he knelt before her on the beach, laying his blade before her, bloody from the battle. She didn’t recall, of course; it was far too long ago, his was hardly a storied house, and she’d had a hundred suitors back then before her cousin Janilah gave her hand to Vesryn Daecar. But she only smiled and said, “Of course, Sir Gobert. I remember every dance,” winning a shy smile from the big Tukoran.

There was another knight from Pentar lands, a Sir Hugo Dain who claimed to be a distant relative to the late Lord Porus, through one of his many wives. Sir Hugo was sad to hear that Lord Porus had perished. And angry when he found out that his eldest son Alrus had lived long enough to succeed him. “Never liked Alrus,” he had told her, with a bite of bitter memory. “Petty man. And weak. I served under him once, before he dismissed me from his service, and disgraced me.” That was why he ended up on the islands, he went on to explain. “All I did was talk with his lady wife, show her some kindness,” he said. “That’s all it was, just some talking, laughing, but spineless Alrus saw more in it than there was and sent me away. Jealous man, my lady. Gods help us if he’s Warden of the South.”

Three other Bladeborn had joined during the coup, a trio of mercenaries called Baxter, Ballard, and Brandon, who tended to stay together. Baxter was tall and thin, Ballard short and fat, and Brandon somewhere in between, a handsome man with flowing auburn hair and a cocksure smile. Carly called them the Three Bees and made a buzzing sound when they passed.

They had all joined her on the island, but the rest had been added in Varinar; common fighting men from Daecar lands under the banners of Houses Crawfield and Rothwell, Blunt and Brightwood and Gully who had asked to join her on their journey west, so they might aid in the return of the little Lady of House Daecar. Whether that was their true motivation or not Amara couldn’t say. All of them hailed from the lands to which they were headed and no doubt wished to learn what had become of their kinsmen out there, but they were all good stout men, mixed in age, and loyal to the Daecars without question. So she happily invited them aboard.

But alas not everyone had joined her. Captain, regrettably, had gone east instead of west, taking off some of the other sailor-soldiers and oarsmen he had recruited from the island. Amara did not begrudge him that. She had shared in Captain’s tale, after all, and knew he wanted to return to Rasalan, to his daughter, and beg forgiveness for abandoning her long years before. When they had parted in Varinar, Amara had wished him all the luck in the world and said, “Now perhaps you’ll finally tell me your name, Captain?”

To which the old Searborn had said, “Next time, my lady,” with a grin touched with sadness. “Let’s leave something to look forward to, should we ever see each other again.”

Amara had smiled and agreed and embraced him, thanking him for leading them safely across the lake. Then she wished him luck in finding his daughter. She knew she would never see him again.

But her host was a strong one, well armed and well armoured. The Great One’s armoury had helped with that - the gluttonous oaf had plenty of good godsteel stashed away in there, it turned out - as had the plate they had scavenged from the ruin of Keep Daecar. They had an armoury of their own there, down in the storerooms below the keep, and Amara had permitted the men to take what they wished. She did not think Amron would mind. Most of it was not his, or Aleron’s, or Elyon’s, or Vesryn’s - no, the Knights of Varin tended to keep their spare armour in the Steelforge - but old plate worn by the household knights that was only sitting there gathering dust.

And ash, Amara thought, with a pang of grief. Walking through the ruin of the keep had been distressing, reflecting on the many memories they had shared there as a family, seeing ghosts in every blackened, burnt-out room. She had wandered through with Artibus, and the pair had spoken softly of happier times. And she had spent an hour alone in her bedchamber as well, weeping over the loss of her husband, emptying her eyes of tears. She had laid upon the half-burned bed, curling up in the ashes, and it was as though she could hear his voice calling to her from the Eternal Halls. Take care of her, Vesryn’s ghost had said, as he had in the dream, the one she’d had before awaking on the longboat, before she saw Varinar burn. Promise me you will.

“I will,” she had whispered back, sniffing and wiping her eyes. It was Lillia her late husband was whispering of, she knew; it could only have been Lillia. “I’ll find her, and I’ll protect her. I won’t stop until I do.”

And that had brought them here, far now west of the city. Amara and her company of Knights Assorted, hailing from this land and that, all vowing to serve.

Before long the host was mounted and ready to leave, and the snow was falling a little thicker. Jovyn led Amara’s mare over to her and helped her up into the saddle, where she settled uncomfortably, her thighs sore from the previous days’ riding, rump all battered and bruised. They had gone hard up the High Way since leaving Varinar, staying most nights in holdfasts, eating with this lesser lord or that landed knight in his little keep or castle. Most had been generous enough to let them share their table, though oft as not the food was meagre and bland. Were these old knights and lords serving up their worst and saving their best for their own? Amara did not doubt it. Thus far, the war had not touched this part of Vandar, and the gentry were seeking to batten down the hatches if they could.

That vexed Sir Connor Crawfield, of course. “They should be joining the fight,” the dour knight had complained. “I understand an old lord hiding behind his walls, but to keep men there with him, men of fighting age?” That had been the case wherever they had stopped. Each small lord had kept his retainers about him for protection, and to preserve the little food they had from roving bands of brigands.

When Amara explained that, Sir Connor only shook his head and said, “Hiding is not a strategy, my lady. An old man may care to live for another half year, but what of his sons and nephews and liegemen? They have their lives ahead of them, and he’s holding them back to die slow. Every single one of them ought to be adding his blade to the war.”

And of course, he had made that request each night, once the company had taken themselves off to sleep. “I would talk with your men before we go,” Sir Connor would say, to whatever liver-spotted lord or knight was hosting them. “If any man should wish to join us, that is his choice. You do not have the authority to keep him against his will.”

He got the usual rebuttals. Lord Mandrake, who was so ancient Amara assumed he had perished at least a decade ago, but was still clinging to life like a limpet, told the younger man that no greatlord had called the muster of these lands, and he was under no such obligation. Lord Gaston, who was much younger than Mandrake, though still at least sixty and almost as fat as the Great One had been, said much the same, and added that his sons and knights were not Bladeborn, and would likely perish before they even reached any functioning army, far away as they all were. One-armed Sir Barloff Terring was more irritable and truculent still, and told them that they’d had their walls assaulted by at least three parties of Taynar men trying to win the keep, and he had no intention of giving up his men to leave him vulnerable. “Had to fight them off with bolt and arrow,” the miserable old knight said. “Why should those men be free to wander, pillaging and stealing, while my own men are sent off to die?”

“Because the king demands it,” Sir Connor had said, bristling.

Sir Barloff looked around his draughty old hall. “What king? I don’t see him. Now he comes and stands before me, mayhaps I’ll yield, but until then…” He’d shaken his small bald head and sent them on their way.

There was nothing to be done about it, Amara knew. To her mind, a few men here and there weren’t going to make a blind bit of difference, but Connor Crawfield saw it differently. “Every little helps, my lady,” he had said. “These old fools are only burying their heads in the sand. That sort of thinking weakens us all.”

The Captain of the Guard rode up to her now, his stallion snorting mist, hooves kicking up clods of mud and snow. “My lady. The men are all prepared to leave and the innkeep has been paid,” he said. “He and his family will be leaving shortly.” He gestured to the wagon, packed high with possessions. A pair of dray horses had been hitched to it, but the going would be slow in this weather. So far as Amara saw it, they should be travelling lighter, but that was no longer her concern.

“Let us go,” she said.

They set off north by west along the High Way, riding into the teeth of the wind that came sweeping in from the hills. Thus far the sight of keep and castle had been plentiful, and there were many settlements and towns here in the hinterlands within a week’s ride of Varinar, but beyond this point the world grew wilder and less populous as they entered the great vastness of northwest Vandar. From here they could expect long rides between safe harbours, and there was no guarantee that they would be able to make it from one to another within a day.

That was clearly on the mind of Sir Ryger Joyce, as he came riding up to join her. “My lady,” he said, in that low growl of a voice. “What is the destination today?”

Sir Connor answered for her. “We hope to make it to Lord Gully’s keep,” he told the Green Harbour knight. “It is a full day’s ride from here, a half dozen miles north of the road. A stout castle on a windswept plain.”

“Or snow-swept,” Joyce said. “Will we make it in this weather?”

Sir Connor’s delay was telling. “We will arrive late, if we make it at all,” he admitted. “If the snow slows us too much, there is a small hilltop fort called Raymun’s Watch that may be able to host us instead. But our preference would be Gully’s keep.”

“His son was a knight of our household,” Amara added in. “Sir Gilmore. He perished when Varinar was attacked, and I would like to be the one to tell Lord Gully myself. If he is there.”

There was no guarantee of that. Any keep or castle could conceivably have been attacked and burned by dragons, though that seemed less likely out here than in the south or east of the kingdom, where the fighting had been fierce.

“And your niece,” Sir Ryger said. He was an attractive enough man, stern and unsmiling, and wore a green cloak over silver armour. Carly liked to call him Ryger the Tiger, or just Tiger Ryger, for his growly voice and striped hair, which was a reddish brown with streaks of grey at the temples. “You think she might have gone there?”

“It is possible, yes. Lillia was fond of Sir Gilmore, as the rest of us were. Sir Daryl may have taken her there.”

“Or a dozen other places, so I’ve heard,” said Sir Ryger. “Meaning no offence, my lady, but how long are we going to search for her? It could take months to scour every keep and castle in the northeast.”

He was not wrong. And it could all come to nothing in the end. “I would hope to learn more of her whereabouts soon,” she only said. She doubted that Sir Daryl would have settled permanently in Gully’s keep, small and poorly provisioned as it was, but if he had passed this way with Lillia he might well have stayed the night. If so, Gully would know where they had gone. And the lands of Daryl’s lord grandfather were only a half week away besides, and he surely would have stopped in there. If old Lord Blunt had not heard from his grandson, then Amara would begin to fear the worst. Until such a time as she spoke with him in his hall, she would hold to hope, however.

Eventually, she said, “I will not keep you to your oaths that long, Sir Ryger.” Those oaths had been to serve her, though she knew these men wanted more. The knights she had taken from the lake in particular were all keen to restore their honour. Spending months in search of a teenage girl would not grant them that. “I know it is battle you want, and you’ll have your chance to seek it, I’m sure. That is not something I would ever deny a knight.”

The Green Harbour man bowed from the saddle of his horse. “My thanks, Lady Daecar. That is all I ask.”

Her words were proven to be strangely prescient. Several hours later, as they stopped at an icy stream to water the horses, Sir Talmer called out that Sir Montague and Brazen Ben were returning. They were easy enough to differentiate even at a distance. Ben with those big ears, flapping in the wind like sails; handsome Sir Montague in his golden cloak, a relic of his time among the Suncoats half a lifetime ago. Their horses even matched them. Montague’s was an athletic courser, racing along proudly; Ben’s a rather more ungainly young stallion, with a slightly clumsy-looking stride.