Devrin smiled. “Quite so.” He reached for the door handle. “Goodnight, then. Sleep well.”

Elyon crawled into his bed a few minutes later, unarmed, unarmored, naked but for a pair of cotton breeks that had seen some better days. The fire had warmed the room nicely and beneath the furs sleep took him quickly. He entered a dreamless space, a void beyond thought and time, and woke to the pale light of an icy sunrise, slanting through the frosted window.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, yawning like a lion. He had slept all through the night and felt all the better for it. The fire had long since burned itself out, his breath misting in the chill. He took a moment to stretch and limber up, working his shoulder around the socket, then put on his padded underclothes, armour and furs and cinched the Windblade around his waist.

If Elyon had hoped the night might have given the king a chance to glimpse something in the Eye, he was mistaken. “I had a brief look,” King Sevrin informed him, when Elyon found him down in the entrance hall, brushing his fine Rasalanian thoroughbred. “But nothing, as yet. It will take time. When next you return, I will have something for you, Elyon.” He put his hand on Elyon’s arm and smiled. “So, where next? It is clear out there, nice and crisp…good air for flying I would think. Where will the wind take you, young prince?”

Elyon had a few options in mind, and today, shorn of Walter’s not inconsiderable weight, he would be able to fly swift and true. He was about to answer when they heard a shrill cry outside, the high-pitched call of a bird of prey piercing the morning air. The horsemaster stepped interestedly to the open door and peered out. “An eagle,” he said. “It’s circling above us.”

“So far north?” Sevrin was intrigued. “What sort of eagle is it, Rodney?”

The horsemaster held a gloved hand to his eyes and squinted. “Huh.”

“Huh? Is that a new species of eagle I’m not aware of?”

“Sorry, m’lord. It’s…well, it’s not northern, is what I mean. Not by that size and colouring. Looks southern to me. Aramatian I’d guess.”

“Aramatian?” Elyon repeated. A line furrowed his brow. “I didn’t know eagles migrated so far.”

“Well…they don’t. Mayhaps a short ways to find better hunting grounds, but this sort…known to live at Eagle Lake, if memory serves. Plenty of good hunting to be had there. All them birds and fish and such.”

Sevrin drifted toward the door, Elyon following. The air was still, biting cold but not blowing like it had the day before. In the skies above the tower the eagle was circling in a high wide arc, but what prey it might be hunting Elyon couldn’t say. It looked majestic up there against the frozen white skies, gliding on its glorious plumage, strong wings in gold and bronze and a gilded black-tipped beak.

As the prince stepped out through the door, the bird gave another whistling cry, tail feathers fluttering as it furled itself into a sudden plunge.

“It’s seen something,” the horsemaster Rodney announced. “Mouse or vole, most like.”

The eagle had seen no mouse or vole. Halfway through its dive it opened its wings once more, slowed abruptly, and came gliding right toward them to land on the lip of one of the great iron braziers.

“Well I never,” Rodney said, nonplussed. “Friendliest eagle I ever saw.” He took a step forward, smiling, reaching out a gloved arm.

“What’s that in its talon?” King Sevrin asked.

“Huh,” Rodney said. “Looks like a scroll, m’lord.”

Elyon frowned. Since when did eagles become carrier crows?

The eagle flapped its wings, leaping from the rim onto Rodney’s arm. The man gave out a huff of delight. “You’re an inquisitive one, aren’t you.” The eagle was large, a strong bird. Rodney was a solidly built man, but the weight of it had his arm tensing to bear it, powerful talons clutching at the old leather of the horsemaster’s elbow-length glove. “Now what’s this about a scroll, then? Mind if we take a look?” He reached forward with his spare hand, speaking softly as he did so. The man was clearly versed in conversing with animals. Ever-so-deftly, he plucked the scroll from the eagle’s ankle. No sooner had he done so than the bird beat its wings and took flight, giving out another piercing call as it rose into the frigid skies and bore itself back to the south.

All three men watched it go in amazement. Then Rodney handed the scroll to King Sevrin. “For you, m’lord. The seal is unmarked.”

The small king took it, broke the plain wax seal, unrolled it and read the words. “It’s not for me,” he said.

He handed it to Elyon Daecar.

51

The fire priest fell to the mud with a splash, his legs giving way beneath him.

“To your feet,” Ulrik Marak commanded roughly. “Stand. Or you will be dragged.”

The priest scrambled up clumsily, wiping the mud from his face. His wrists were bound in rope, mouth gagged with a filthy cloth, eyes staring out in boundless hate as the dragonlord stared back impassively. Mud and rainwater coated the priest’s once red and orange robes, the fine thread spoiled and ruined. He had fallen many times that day, and bore the marks to show it. His hands showed cuts and bruises, he had a deep gash on his left cheek where a branch had whipped back at Marak’s passing, slicing the flesh open, and he had started to walk with a limp having landed awkwardly on his hip when stumbling over a root.

The dragonlord seemed to take pleasure in the man’s pain. “I don’t think he likes me,” he said, staring into those cloudy red eyes. “Perhaps it’s the gag, Pagaloth, what do you think? Should we take it off him?”

“No,” the dragonknight said at once. “My lord, if we do that…”

Marak snorted and waved it away. “Nothing will happen,” he dismissed. “Not to me, anyway.”

“You? My lord, I’m not sure I understand.”

“You will. We’ll be there soon enough, Pagaloth. And you will.” He turned forward and kicked his spurs, urging his horse onward. The rope that tethered the priest to the mount grew taut, then tugged him forward at the wrists, and on they went through the wood.

The day was as grim and wet as those that had come before, but for once Pagaloth felt rested and full, his hunger satiated at last. The rabbit stew had seen to that, cooked in a pot above the hearth fire in the common room of the inn, where they had camped for the night following the slaughter. Lord Marak had taken the watch, to allow Pagaloth to get some sleep. “Save your protests,” he had said. “I’ve had rest enough of late, and you look about ready for the pyre. Find a bed upstairs and sleep soundly. I want you back to full strength, Pagaloth. You’ll be perfectly safe with me.”

Sir Pagaloth did not doubt it. He had seen what the man had done. The Fireblade was as lethal as the finest godsteel and granted Ulrik Marak the same set of powers. Whirling through the woods like a flaming cyclone, he had made short work of the fire priest’s company, sparing only the man himself.

“We should kill him,” Pagaloth had insisted, once the bloodshed was complete. “He is too dangerous to be left alive.” He had thought of the damage Ten’kin had done. Thought of Sa’har, taken back under Eldur’s spell. If the same happened to Lord Marak…

But the dragonlord shook his head. “I have another use for him. Bind him and gag him, Sir Pagaloth. We will leave at first light.”

They had, though where, Marak still hadn’t told him. The dragonlord had been miserly with his tale thus far, though had demanded Pagaloth tell his. When the dragonknight spoke of Lythian, and his plan for unity, Lord Marak only grunted and gave a sour shake of the head. When he told the dragonlord of what had happened to their party, about Ten’kin and the ambush and the self-sacrifice of Sa’har Nakaan, his eyes had darkened with grief and he had turned his head away. Sa’har had been his dearest friend, his wingrider, the closest thing he had to a brother, and for a fleeting moment Pagaloth had wondered if he might rip the Fireblade from its sheath and give the priest a grisly death in retribution. But he had only closed his eyes, as though remembering fonder times, and then ridden on in solemn silence, never speaking a word.

Later, as they forded a swollen stream, Pagaloth had mustered the courage to ask of Garlath. “No one knows what happened to you after the battle, my lord,” he had said. “Some say Garlath took a wound…a wound bad enough to kill him.” He had paused, checking the dragonlord’s eyes. “Is he…”

“Garlath is very much alive.”

“But…you did not come on him, when you found me. You rode a horse.”

“A horse served my needs.”

They continued on through the rustling waters, the priest splashing and slipping on the stony bed behind them. Pagaloth glanced back at him. “And…how did you find me, my lord? Or was it him you were hunting?”

“Him,” Marak said at once. “Finding you was mere happenstance.” The dragonlord looked over at him, granite-jawed and grim. “Some would call that fortune, even fate. Others a second chance.” His eyes bored into him. “Do you still curse yourself for your betrayal, Sir Pagaloth?

The dragonknight lowered his eyes. “Every day, my lord.”

“Good. Guilt can drive a man to make amends, whether that guilt is valid or not.” He’d looked him up and down, appraising. “There’s fire in your blood.” It wasn’t a question.

Pagaloth answered anyway. “Yes, Lord Marak. On my mother’s side.”

“And rich enough, so I remember.” He’d given a smile, hard and knowing. “Well, we’ll see about that later. Now come, we have a way to go yet. I want to get there by dusk.”

They had spoken little since, leaving the dragonknight to ride in mystery, trying to puzzle out Lord Marak’s meaning. The rain had waxed and waned, reliable only in its presence, coming down in black sheets sometimes, and sometimes falling gently, but never once deigning to cease. The lands, too, were much as they’d been. Eerie woods and waterlogged valleys, rushing rivers and haunting fogs. Pagaloth heard howling, as he did most days, and once the low rumbling of something much bigger as well, echoing through some dark thicket. The fire priest’s eyes widened in fear at that, his bleats of alarm muffled by his gag.

“The will of Eldur,” Marak mocked. “Terrified of some mortal beast.” He reached back, tugging on the rope, and the priest went stumbling forward. “Quiet now, priest. You wouldn’t want to draw it near.”