“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.”
“And you, Amilia? More wine?”
More, she thought. He could probably see the stains on her lips and teeth, perhaps even smell it on her breath. “Please,” she said.
“And the same for me,” Sevrin told his son. “Nice and warm, Devrin, as I like it.”
The prince bowed and stepped away. As he did so, Elyon swung the bag from his shoulder and placed it on a fine stone table, circular in shape, with chairs set around it for lazing here during warmer days. The snow was falling prettily beyond the high awning, some flakes drifting in, capering on the breeze. There was a certain purity to snow that Amilia liked, hiding all the horror beneath. A body lying dead in an alley was grim and woeful to look upon. Cover it in snow, and it became nothing but a pretty pile, soft and white and pristine.
“How long has this snow been falling?” Amilia asked.
“A few weeks,” the old king answered, tiredly. “It has come on very quickly, and unexpectedly. When we saw the first flakes falling, we were all quite bemused. When those flakes swelled and thickened and the ice started forming on the river, we began to grow worried.” He sighed, looking out. “We are finding people dead in their homes. Families frozen even as they huddle together for warmth. Mothers with babes in arm. Fathers clutching at their daughters. The old, lying in their beds, locked in eternal embrace. We have been working hard to bring firewood to the people, to gather them in safe spaces and halls, but many fear the crowds. They stay in their homes and sometimes we don’t know they’re there until we find them frozen and dead. And all so quickly. It has happened so very quickly.”
Amilia sympathised with the poor man. It was a foul inauguration of his time as king. To rule the frozen ruin, as he called it. She reached out a put a hand on his arm. “We have things we must tell you, my lord,” she said. “Elyon has brought you a gift.”
The king frowned, turning, as Elyon opened his bag and withdrew the Book of Thala, large and leather-bound and ancient. “It was in Ilithor,” Elyon said. “Janilah Lukar was the one who stole it.”
Sevrin did not show much surprise. “We suspected so.” He moved forward, running a hand across the old cover of the book. “Have either of you looked inside?”
Amilia hadn’t, not herself, though Elyon had spent time with Archibald Benton scouring through its pages. Her grandfather had recruited the scholar and his underlings to search for passages that might reveal the location of the Frostblade, the old man had confessed to them, though that was a long while ago now. In the end they’d found nothing, and there were many passages they did not have the skill to translate. And the mystery of the missing page, Amilia thought. But that was not for her to worry about.
“I have looked,” Elyon said, in answer. “Though the words mean nothing to me. Others have translated certain passages, my lord. I have them all here as well.” He pulled a heap of notes and scrolls from the bag, tied up in string. “I hope there is something here that will help you, King Sevrin. To master the Eye of Rasalan.”
Sevrin gave a soft laugh. “The Eye is not here, young prince. It was stolen the night my cousin was taken. And I am not king, not yet. Until I have confirmation of Hadrin’s death…”
“I saw him die,” Elyon said. “And I took back the Eye.” He looked at him intensely. “Could you master it, if I should bring it here?”
That was a lot for the king to take in, though Sevrin was a man of stout character, if not appearance. He took a moment to digest it. “I would try, certainly. But you must know…”
“I know,” Elyon said. “I have spoken about this with Lady Marian Payne, and she has made it quite clear that your sight through the pupil may be limited. You may not be the direct blood of Queen Thala, but you are as close as can be, and it is said that you are the son Godrin should have had. Until we try, we will not know. And perhaps…” He looked at the book. “Perhaps you will find something inside that will help.”
Sevrin nodded to that, pulling at a small length of beard trailing from his chin. His eyes flitted to the bag. “Unless the Eye of Rasalan is smaller than I remember, you do not have it with you. Pray tell, where is it?”
“King’s Point,” Elyon said. “I wanted to come and find you first before I flew it here.”
“I see. Then you have a lot more flying to do, Elyon Daecar. I do hope this is worth your time.”
Elyon smiled. “I hope the same.”
“A hope we all share,” said Prince Devrin, stepping back out onto the balcony with a tray of drinks in his grasp. He frowned at the book as he set the tray down on the table, plucking up the cups and chalices to hand them out. “A handsome tome,” he noted. “It looks familiar.”
