“No,” Gullimer admitted. “At least not from the horse’s mouth. I have heard second-hand reports, Captain Burton. Your adventures on the high seas are well known. My own captain speaks very highly of you.”

“Oh? Truly? Well doesn’t that make me mighty proud to hear. If you’ll indulge me, I’ll be happy to share a tale or ten. We got a bit of time before we reach the fleet, so…”

These were not tales that Robbert needed to hear again. “Sir Kester, keep watching the skies. Report to me if that dragon is seen again.”

Robbert returned to the smaller cabin he shared with Lothar, his tall friend striding at his heel. The space was much smaller than his own royal cabin, but he didn’t mind that. It was worse for Lothar; the bunk could not fit him properly and Robbert could only imagine how bad it must be for the Whaleheart squeezing himself into a bed. Wherever he sleeps, Robbert thought. Or…does he sleep? He wasn’t sure on that account. Mostly the giant just prowled about the decks by day and night, never resting in his vigilance.

“A week, Robb,” Lank said, as they entered the cabin. “A week or even less if we’re lucky and we’ll be back home. Gods, I can’t wait to feel northern soil beneath my feet again.”

Bloody soil, Robbert thought, thick with the dead. The way they’d heard it, the Marshlands had been bled dry. If they landed there, it would be a wasteland they’d enter, of burned cities and scorched forts and armies of scavenging crows. “We have to get there first, Lothar,” he said. “We’ve hundreds of miles of open sea to cross, and there are some beasts about who might object to our passing. I’ll get excited when we’re a few hundred metres from shore, not miles.”

“And the princess?” Lothar asked. “Has she said where she wants to go yet? Except north.”

“No. I was about to ask just now before the King’s Wall interrupted.”

“Queen’s Wall,” Lank corrected. “Or…no, Princess’s Wall? Doesn’t sound so good, does it.”

“She’ll be the Grand Duchess when her grandmother dies,” Robbert said. “Not sure Grand Duchess’s Wall sounds any better to be honest.”

“She might be Grand Duchess already.” Lank went to his chest of armour; it was time to dress, now that they were nearing the coast. And especially so if there was a dragon to fight. “Odd that she’s going north at all. Do you think they’ll accept her as their leader, the Aramatians? I mean, she has the skin tone and the starcat, but all that godsteel and the Tukoran accent….personally I see her more as one of us than one of them, don’t you?”

Robb nodded. “The eyes as well.” That bright blue was much more common in the north. He crossed to his own chest and opened it up. A fog of mist poured out of it, his armour packed neatly inside. “Bloodhound said the dagger she wears reminded him of one King Lorin used to have. I thought it was familiar as well, the night we met her in Aram. I don’t know, Lank…all of this. The Whaleheart being sent to protect her. All this with her grandmother and Godrin, and that rumour that she’s Seaborn too. I think she’s important, and not just as her grandmother’s heir. I don’t want to drag her into danger if that’s where we’re going.”

Lothar gave him a long look. “Robb, you can’t let her change our course, just because you’re smitten.”

“I’m not smitten.”

“Besotted, then. Infatuated. Maybe you prefer one of those words.”

“Use whatever word you like, that’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? She joined us, remember, and heir of Aramatia or not, you’re the Crown Prince of Tukor and maybe even our king. You have a responsibility to sail home and help defend the north. We can’t change course on her account, no matter who she is.” Lothar bent down to pick up a shoulder pauldron. “And all this cloak-and-dagger stuff isn’t helping. You need to sit her down and get the truth from her, Robb. You’re a king. Our king. You can’t be letting a woman dictate to you.”

She isn’t dictating to me, Robbert wanted to protest, but he had no taste for that fight right now. “There’s time,” is all he said. “Stop rushing me, Lank. Not everyone walks as quickly as you.”

Robbert finished dressing in silence, then returned to the decks to watch the cliffs grow high above him. Before long Bloodhound was barking his orders from the helm, and the crew were reefing and relaxing the sails, driving the prow of Hammer safely toward its stone jetty. Robbert was most relieved to see that the other three ships of his fleet were still intact and, blessedly, not burning.

He joined Lord Gullimer on the forecastle deck, the apple lord standing at the very front of the ship next to Hammer’s powerful ram forged in the likeness of her namesake. “A sad sight,” the lord intoned, looking across the paltry armada. His cloak flapped listlessly, as though to match his mood. “To think we set out from Tukor with almost twenty times the number.” He sighed. “Such is war, alas. One campaign can begin with great promise, and end in sour defeat. Oft as not luck and leadership are the deciding factors, and I fear we’ve been miserly provisioned in both.”

Robbert hoped he was referring to his uncle’s leadership, and not his own. “We still have strength enough to make a difference, Wilson. It only takes one blade, my father used to say. History has taught us that.”

It was said in the north that the War of the Continents ended by the edge of Amron Daecar’s sword. One man. One duel. One good strike to slay the dragon Vallath and cripple the prince Dulian, and then the mercy to spare his life. It was not as simple as that, of course. There were a hundred events that needed to occur for that war to end, as with any war, but history did have the habit of distilling things down into important moments, and that one at the Burning Rock was the pivot that people pointed to when they spoke of the end of the war, for right or wrong.

And this one? Robbert wondered. How will this one end? Not by the edge of his own blade, he knew that much. All his life he’d fancied himself a great warrior in the making, a dragonslayer-to-be like his father and grandfather before him, but those dreams had been dashed the day Sir Wenfry Gershan stabbed out his eye. I’ll never be a great hero, he thought, dourly. He would be capable, yes, but capable was not enough anymore. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to know he would never rise to such heights.

The ship was fast approaching the wharf, where men stood waiting to catch the ropes and tie them to the iron posts hammered into the stone. Others were preparing to slide across the gangplanks so that they could disembark from Hammer’s decks. Beyond, the stony beach bustled with shelters and tents, and a small field hospital had been set up as well. Most of the sick had come from Wild Raven after their long days becalmed at sea. Lord Gullimer’s host would add some more, Robbert knew, though he was not intending to wait upon their convalescence.

That appeared to be on Gullimer’s mind as well. “How long do you expect to stay?”

“A day, two at most.” The war was calling him, and he must join it as soon as he could. “If we can sail on the morning tide, we will.”

There was a lot of shouting going on around them, as soldiers left the beach and the decks of their moored ships to gather about at the prince’s return. Men were pouring up from the bowels of Hammer as well, more than Robbert would have let himself believe once upon a time. Before this campaign, he’d had scant experience of ships, and it was always a wonder to him how many men could fit belowdecks. Any time he went down to visit them, he would see how tightly packed they were, down in their cramped quarters with their bunks piled one atop another. And when they poured up the steps, they were like ants crawling from their hill, boiling out in a great long stream of stinking, ragged men.

My army, he thought.

The ship was bumping up against the jetty, and the gangplanks were being slid into place. Robbert remained at the forecastle deck for a moment, scanning for his captains below. He could not see Bernie down there, but he did sight Sir Colyn Rowley, who had charge of Wild Raven, and Sir Gregory Jarvis as well, the knight in command of Blackthorn. Both were pushing forward through the men on the docks, as Sir Lothar strode down to greet them. Robbert still did not move. They would come to him, he knew.

They bustled forth almost at once, Lank waving men aside to let them pass. Across the decks, Lord Gullimer’s men were streaming off, eager to feel firm ground beneath their feet. The sellswords had all gathered around Saska and the Whaleheart, who was giving an address, while Captain Burton remained at the wheel, bellowing out this order and that. Through all that noise and ruckus, the three knights arrived. Sir Colyn and Sir Gregory both inclined themselves into bows. “Your Highness, we praise Tukor for your safe return,” Rowley said.

“Praise Bloodhound,” Robbert replied. He wasn’t sure what Tukor had to do with it. “What news, Sir Colyn? Is Wild Raven ready to sail?”

“She will be, my prince. Give her one more night and she’ll be ready to spread her wings.”

Black wings, Robb thought. Wild Raven was made from the timber of the Darkwood like all the Swallow ships.

Sir Gregory looked over Gullimer’s men. “Lots of apples, but no Orchard,” he noted.

“We had to leave her behind.” The damage had been too severe, and it would have taken long days to set her right. It had been a great sadness to Lord Gullimer to abandon his ship, but their need for haste had not given them a choice. “And Harvest,” Robbert added. “She foundered near the shore.” He had a pressing question on his lips. His eyes moved to the top of the cliffs and he asked it. “We saw a dragon. Has there been word of it?”

“Sir Bernard is up there now, with some others,” Gregory said. “I came down to report to you when we saw the ship approach.”

“And? Is this beast not hostile?”

“No. It is a smaller dragon, my lord. And bearing three souls. Two women and a man. They landed some distance from us, and appear to be waiting. Westermont is keeping watch.”

Robbert was confused. “Waiting? For who? Me?” He looked over. Saska appeared to be learning the same news, and a smile was rising on her lips. She knows who they are, he realised. If that were so, she’d made no mention of having a dragonrider in her party. Gods. This girl and all her secrets. “Pray excuse me.” He stepped across the decks to join her. “My lady, a word.” He took her arm and ushered her away from the others, Lank’s words ringing in his head. “Saska, no more secrets. It’s time you told me the truth. The full truth, and…”

And she kissed him. The connection lasted but a short moment, but it was electric. Robbert felt a giddy wave of excitement spread through his body as his lips met hers, soft and warm. Then Saska drew back, just as quick. “Sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t my doing.”

Robbert frowned. His mind was all ablur. “Not your doing? I don’t…”

“Leshie. I lost the game, after you left. So…”

Oh. The truth came down on him like a sack of rotten spuds. “That was a…” He glimpsed Leshie watching from across the decks, a broad grin on her freckly little face. “That was your forfeit?”

“But a good one,” Saska said, quickly. “Much better than quacking like a duck.”

“Yes.” Robbert Lukar felt like the biggest fool in the world all of a sudden. His elation had shrivelled to bitter disappointment, and a shade of red was climbing his neck. Saska saw and her eyes turned pitying and that only made it all the worse.

“Robbert, I…”

“It’s fine.” He raised a hand. Others were looking, he just knew it. He needed to push right past this and forget it ever happened. I’m a king, Lank’s right. A king does not blush. “This dragon…I’m told it’s bearing three passengers.” He spoke in a voice as rigid as an old tree stump. “Do you know them, or…”

“It was nice, you know,” Saska said.

Robbert met her eyes. He had been looking away all the while.

“It was, Robbert. “Forfeit or no, I…”