“Who?”
“Prince Elyon Daecar. It was his desire to speak with you. His eyes that have seen the Dread, his blade that has cut him. He hoped to meet you in secret, and somewhere neutral.”
“And yet you are here in his stead. Where is he?”
No one in Rustbridge knew the current whereabouts of Elyon Daecar. They had expected him back a long while ago, and his lack of return had given them cause to worry. “Missing,” Emeric answered. “For some weeks now.”
“A shame,” Timor Ballantris said. “I would have liked to have spoken with him, hear all this from his own lips. Though perhaps it is for the best, Emeric. Lord Vargo is not fond of the boy. He has vowed to kill him many times in my hearing. A petulant man, is Vargo Ven. His company has grown insufferable to me. It will give me great pleasure to rid myself of it, for good and all.”
Emeric remained wary of how that might unfold. “And if he does seek blood?”
“Then he will have it. I will challenge him myself for our right to leave, and take pleasure in that as well.” There was a glint in his eye, of the sort common among peerless warriors. “Tathranor will shred the scales off Malathar’s back. He will flay the dragon living, Emeric, and when he’s done he will feast on his flesh.”
Emeric should like to see that battle. “I do not doubt it, my lord.”
Ballantris snorted, as though not believing him. “So you came in the prince’s stead. You came to spread this news of the Dread. But not to kill Sunlord Avam, you claim.” He looked at him, judging. “Perhaps you are telling the truth in that. Without godsteel, you would stand no chance.”
I have godsteel, Emeric thought. It was not a blade, no weapon at all, but a tiny disc, sewn into his armour, to grant him the power of his blood-bond should he need it. Lady Marian Payne had given it to him as a gift. Paired with the fine scimitar sword he carried at his hip, he would be lethal, godsteel sword or no.
He said none of that, however. Instead he peered at Timor Ballantris and said, “If you want Avam dead, say it plainly, my lord.”
“I want him dead,” the moonlord said, at once, in a voice as blunt as an un-honed blade. “Is that plain enough? I want them all dead. Zon, Palek, Avam, Krator, and all the rest. The Patriots are a blight on our empire, a plague I have long fought, but I cannot knowingly harbour an assassin in my host. My honour compels that I cast you out.” He looked at him, wrestling against his own sense of morality. “I think it is time for you to go, lest I weaken. I thank you for bringing me these tidings, grim as they are. You have given me much to ponder.”
Emeric gave a bow. He only hoped it would be enough. “Thank you for the audience, my lord. Will it be safe for us to depart the way we came?”
“I will see you led to the camp border. Beyond that, I cannot vouch for your safety.”
It was the best he could hope for. “Thank you.” He turned to Sansullio. “Let us go.”
“No,” said Timor Ballantris. “Only you. Sansullio and his men will remain here.”
Emeric frowned. “My lord? They came here under my protection, as free and independent men.”
“They are Lumaran. They are skilled soldiers. They will join my company, and march with me when I leave. All men of the empire must answer the call to defend her.” The man looked at Sansullio. “Is that not so?”
The sellsword captain nodded. “It is, Moonlord.”
“And…it’s what you want, Sansullio?” Emeric asked. He would be sad to see them go, but perhaps it was for the best. He had feared for their safety in Rustbridge, after all, and the Sunshine Swords had already spoken to Borrus, telling him they would not raise their blades against their own. They will only be sitting idle in the city, he reflected. Better they return to their own lands now, and help defend them if they can.
Sansullio smiled handsomely and said, “It has been an adventure, Lord Emeric. And an honour to know and serve you, and Lord Jonik, and the others as well. But Mother Lumara calls us home. And we must answer.” He gave a bow.
Gracefully spoken as always, Emeric thought. He would miss the man very much. “Then I will take my leave alone.”
“No,” Timor Ballantris said again. Emeric looked at him, vexed. Was he having some sudden change of heart? “It would be better for you to leave under cover of night if you are to go alone. I am denying you the guard you came with and cannot in good conscience send you into the wild in broad daylight. And the rain is waning.”
It was. Emeric could hear its patter fading on the walls of the pavilion. Sunlight could be seen cutting slits through the flaps, and the walls were brightening as the light kissed the canvas. As ever, the weather had changed abruptly. “It is still morning,” the exile said. “Dusk is not for long hours.”
“Good. That will give me time to confer with Risho and the rest as to what you have told me. You will stay here, in the meantime. Make no attempt to leave the pavilion, or you will end up with the others.”
Emeric did not know what he meant by that. “Others, my lord?”
“Yes. The captives.” Ballantris frowned. “Were you not aware?”
Emeric had heard that some men of prominence were missing, principally from the squadrons that had ranged through the Marshlands, terrorising the Agarathi outriders and supply lines. “There are some knights,” he said. “Men who have not been seen for some time.” He was thinking of Sir Soloman Elmtree, an Oloran man, and Sir Barnibus Warryn, who was a close friend to Elyon Daecar, Sir Rikkard had told him. Apparently bags of blood and body parts had been dropped over the fortress by dragons, and some of the parts had been identified as belonging to men whom Elmtree and Warryn were travelling with. He wondered if Timor Ballantris had any knowledge of that.
“No,” was the man’s answer, when Emeric asked him. His face curled in disgust. “Another notion of the noble dragonlord, I would think. I would have spoken against it, Emeric.”
Emeric nodded. “Are you willing to give me the captives’ names, Timor? It would give the men some succour to know of their fates, good and bad.”
“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.
