Amara smiled. “You always were more wilful, child,” she said, cupping her cheek. “Brydon will say that is my fault. I never did raise you right.”

The girl frowned angrily. “You did so. You raised me brilliantly. I like who I am.”

“So do I, child. Though your grandfather thinks you are too wild and reckless, qualities that I have imparted upon you. Your mother would have brought you up to be more demure…”

“More dull,” Lillia said to that. “That’s what Grandfather was trying to do. Make me dull and stamp the life out of me. I feel sorry for my mother growing up in that place. And I’m glad you raised me. You’ve been an amazing mother.”

Amara could have wept all over again to hear her say those words. “Sweet child. You are kind.”

“I’m just telling the truth. I don’t even remember my real mother anymore. You’re the only mother I’ve known, and...”

And the door knocked, interrupting her. Amara sniffed, wiped her eyes, and cleared her throat. “Come in.”

Sir Connor Crawfield stepped inside. Lillia gave him a hard frown. “You interrupted me,” she said. “I was saying something nice, and you interrupted me.”

The household knight gave an apologetic bow. “My lady. I am sorry for the intrusion.”

“Oh shut up and come here.” Lillia skipped right over to hug him, grinning as she buried her head into his chest and wrapped her skinny arms around his back. “I’m just teasing you, Con. You were always easy to tease.”

“As it please you, Lady Lillia.” Sir Connor curled a single arm around her, smiling. “It is good to see you again. We have all been very worried.”

“It’s OK. Sir Daryl kept me safe. We came right here when we heard about Varinar.” Lillia pulled back and looked up at him. “Were you with Auntie Amara as well? When she searched for me?”

“Yes, my lady. You gave us a good runaround.”

Lillia grinned fiendishly, as though it was all a game. Amara could have throttled her dead. “So you went to that island as well? On the lake?” She looked over at Amara. “Did you meet that fat pirate? The Great One, they called him.” She made a disgusted face. “I’ve never seen anyone so grotesque. He took my necklace, to pay for passage. The one Mother gave me before she died. And Daryl’s sword. That slimy one took them.”

The seneschal. Amara stood from the bed and opened her wolfskin cloak, reaching into her pocket to retrieve the necklace in question. She had demanded the obsequious little seneschal give it back, along with Daryl Blunt’s blade, and duly he had. She stepped over and reached around Lillia’s neck, setting the necklace back into its proper place. “There. Much better.” It was gold, a chain of fine links, with a pendant showing the Daecar family crest; a knight on horseback, thrusting aloft his misting blade. Small wonder Lillia grew up wanting to swing a sword, Amara reflected. It was one of the few pieces of jewellery she liked.

Lillia held the pendant in her hand, smiling at it. “How did you get it back for me?”

“I asked nicely.”

Lillia smirked. “You demanded, more like. I know you, Auntie.” She clasped the pendant tight in her grasp, squeezing, then let it fall to the soft pale skin of her throat. “It means a lot. Thank you. I thought I’d never see it again.” She smiled again. The reaction was pleasing to Amara, and as she’d hoped. “Did you get Daryl’s sword back as well?”

Sir Connor gave answer. “I have just returned it to him now, Lady Lillia.” He gave Amara an urging look. “My lady, the lords and captains are gathering downstairs in the audience chamber. There is…news.”

Amara heard the tone. It was not good news, that was plain. “Thank you, Connor. I’ll go and join them now.”

“Who?” Lillia asked. “Who else is here with you?”

Oh, just an army twenty thousand strong, Amara might have answered. And my own new order of Knights Assorted. She did not have the time to explain that now. “I’ll let Jovyn tell you all about it,” she said. “He’s right outside. Is that correct, Connor?”

The knight nodded. “That is correct, my lady. And most eager to see the little lady, I do believe.”

Lillia grinned enormously. “Why didn’t you say so?” She rushed straight for the door, her cotton nightgown fluttering. It was late, long past midnight, and Lillia had been sleeping when they arrived, tucked up in her bed in her private chamber in the castle. Her long brown hair bounced at the back of her neck as she ran, barefoot, across the rugs and cold bare stone. Through the door she went, and out into the hall beyond. “Jovy!” Amara heard her cry, elated. “Jovy, Jovy, Jovy!” The rest was screams and laughter.

Amara Daecar smiled. “Well. Let’s leave them alone, shall we? These two young love birds can do without us watching, Connor.”

The word ‘watching’ made the knight raise his eyes.

“No, I don’t mean that. Goodness, Connor Crawfield, you do have an unsavoury mind.” She prodded the knight in the arm. “Come, we’ll take the back way out.”

They left through the adjoining solar and down a long corridor until they reached the central stairway. Blackfrost Castle was not large as castles went, a stronghold moderate in its majesty, but strong all the same, rich in rugs and tapestries and decorative beams of darkened pine. It was one of the few stone structures in the city, a list that included the walls, gatehouse, defensive towers, and several other minor keeps and storehouses raised by the small lords and city elites. Elsewise Blackfrost was primarily a timber city, a city of pine and pure air and snow, pretty in its winter blanket and handsome through spring and summer. Though summer now, it wore its winter coat, and that was of constant bemusement to everyone. A particularly thick winter coat, Amara thought. And growing thicker still.

The castle was as familiar to her as an old friend, and the audience chamber made no exception. Hearths burned brightly in large alcoves to each side, and dark timber beams warmed the walls and ceilings, blessing Blackfrost Castle with a rustic feel to match the city below. At the heart of the room, a great carved pinewood table stood grandly, the chamber’s fabled centrepiece. First commissioned by Lord Bayron Daecar four centuries ago, it showed a map of the world as it was known, with islands and mountains, cities and woods and landmarks all carved out in intricate, three-dimensional detail.

Vesryn had loved coming here with Amron when they were boys, Amara knew. They used to play at war, her husband had told her, storming castles and devising battle strategies as they acted out the next great Renewal. Their grandfather Balion had paid a wood carver to sculpt hundreds of little figures for them to use in their games. Knights with their miniature blades, warriors on barded horses, archers and spearmen, kings and commanders, dragons and dragonriders and riders of sun and star and moon, paladin knights and dragonknights and sea monsters and siege weapons. It was her husband’s favourite room in the castle, Amron’s as well. And mine, she thought. It became mine too. We would sit in here and drink wine and talk all through the night. Sometimes it would just be her and Vesryn. Sometimes Amron would be there too, with Kessia, and when Aleron first came along, and then Elyon, the boys would run around the table playing catch the dragon as the adults watched and laughed.

That was another time, though. Kessia was gone, dead long years now, and Aleron as well. Elyon was only the gods knew where, Amron away defending the borders. And Vesryn…my sweet Vesryn…

She put old memories aside and strode into the room. At the table at which her family once gathered were assembled men strange to this city, standing around in strained debate as servants moved among them bearing trays of spiced beer and mulled wine well earned after their long cold march through the snow.

Lord Styron Strand stood at the heart of it, his son and heir Sir Gerald at his side, pockmarked and lumpy where his father was broad and strong. Amara was impressed by how powerfully built Lord Styron remained at his age. The man was into his mid-sixties but still looked like he could rip a man’s head off with one good grab and twist of those muscular hands. Gerald cut a pathetic figure beside him.

The rest of the lord’s captains and commanders stood attendance about him, lesser lords and knights all. Amara knew most of them from one feast or tourney or another, and even those she had never met had been introduced to her during the preceding days, as they marched with Lord Styron’s host along the High Way.

Senior among them was hook-nosed Lord Abel Darring, called Daring Darring or Darring the Daring by those who liked to overstate his courage and fearlessness. Young Lord Victor Manson had come in for the same treatment. They called him Victor the Valiant, Amara had heard, or sometimes Manly Manson. That last one was particularly eye-roll-inducing, though the man was stout and had a deep bass voice, so perhaps there was some truth to it. Sir Gervis Manson, Lord Victor’s younger brother by a year, was commonly referred to as Gervis the Unshrinking, and handsome Sir Robin Fallow had been granted the name Robin the Resilient for reasons Amara could only guess at. Either the lords of Lord Styron’s bleak hard lands were staunch and gallant to a man, or else they were all rather fond of over-inflating their precious egos. Amara Daecar thought a mix of the two was likely.

In Lord Styron Strand, however, the name ‘Strong’ was more than appropriate and had been won and proven during a lifetime of triumph and achievement. Physically imposing, with a build to match Amron, and the dominant, unyielding personality of a man like Brydon Amadar, Styron Strand was a formidable man. He wore a short, triangular beard on his wide chin, grey and peppered with the occasional coil of wiry brown, and kept his hair cut trim at the sides and back. The natural course of time had done that duty for him on the top, where he’d gone bald long ago. His eyes were deepset, greyish green in colour. From them a great web of deep wrinkles spread, cutting ruts in his leathery skin, and his forehead was a lattice of lines and old scars. His cloak had been removed and hung on a hook near the door, leaving him in his godsteel armour from head to heel. The steel showed old scars from battles gone by, enamelled at the breastplate in umber brown with pauldrons and vambraces in a dark yellow-gold, the colours of his house. Across his breast, a bare-chested man wrestled with a giant. The Strand house crest looked good on Lord Styron the Strong. Less so on Gerald, one had to admit.

The lord looked up as he saw her coming, waving the men around him to silence. They had been talking loudly as she entered, and included some of her own knights. Sir Penrose, Sir Talmer, Sir Ryger and Sir Montague were all present, as was Sir Gereth Daecar, Amron’s cousin and Warden of the North Downs. The remainder of Amara’s men would be down with the rest of Styron’s host, camping within the city walls.

“My lady,” Lord Styron said. “Be welcome.” His voice matched him, a strong clear tone.

This is my home, Amara thought. I welcome you, not the other way around. She only smiled as she approached.

“Get the lady a cup of wine,” Strand went on, as though it was his own castle. “Quickly. And for Sir Connor as well.”

The wine was warm, pleasantly spiced, just the tonic on a cold bitter night like this.

“How is your niece, my lady? Was the reunion all you’d hoped?”

Amara had another drink of wine before answering. “It was too short,” she said. “But elsewise, yes, a happy moment for me.”

“And her as well, I’m sure.”

Amara nodded. She would have time for a proper reunion later. Right now the concerned faces and strained eyes consumed her interest. “There is news, I’m told.”

“Yes.” Lord Styron walked along the top end of the table and around to Vandar, his men moving aside for him. He reached and tapped a steel finger at Blackfrost. “We’re here.”

“Yes. I am aware.”

The man smiled. Unlike Lord Bryon Amadar, Styron the Strong did smile occasionally. His finger slid just a little bit south, moving beyond the southern edge of the North Downs. “They’re here.”

“They?”

“The Agarathi. A great host. Some seventy, eighty thousand strong we are told. They’ll be here by dawn.”