Elyon nodded. The winds stirred, thickened, strengthened, and into the skies they shot, fired like a bolt from a ballista, straight and true. A hundred metres, two, three, and the city was beneath them. The White City, he thought, as they soared toward the mountain peaks that enclosed it, making for the northeast. It was named that for the colour of the stone. Today it might have been for the snow.
He wondered how far south they’d go. Already half the north was covered in a white shroud, and the rest of it was still battling the rains, drowning beneath the deluge that seemed never to cease. In King’s Point the whole coast had turned into a soggy mire, and the broken river was fat and swollen, rushing wildly into the Red Sea. The city had become a grim place. A dark place. And more so than before. Ever since my father left, he thought. Since Lythian took charge and the vultures began to circle.
He had not stayed long in the city. But it took him only moments to see that Lythian was not himself. He had grown as grim as that ruin, and paranoid, with eyes that saw a shadow around every corner, and ears that heard the sound of knives sharpening in the dark. Lythian had not been the same since he went to Agarath, in truth, but now he’d grown truly dour. It was the blade, Elyon knew. It was the rain and the ruin and the ragged army that his father had left him, starved and bored and resentful. Lythian was a dragonlover, they said, and a traitor. Word of what he’d done in the south had spread and men were deserting by the day, abandoning his command. Sir Ralf had confided that many of the men still stood in support of the First Blade, but Lythian seemed unable to see it. Day by day, a dark shroud enveloped that ruin, as though the Dread had cursed it with his coming, and Lythian was stuck at the heart of it.
Elyon feared for his friend. He feared for what would become of him the longer he lingered there.
Below them, the lands had turned white from horizon to horizon. Only here and there were places that the snowfall had not reached. Towns rose up from the white wilderness and roads had been covered over and lost. The rivers had started to freeze, as the Izzun had further east. The cold was reaching down into Elyon’s bones, but he flew on, and on, driving himself as fast as he could bear. So fast and so loud that even Walter could not speak, his words lost to the roar of the winds.
After several hours, Elyon sighted the great city of Ethior below, sitting on the southern banks of the Clearwater Run where it curved in a great snaking bend, frozen stiff as a corpse. There, upon its own hill as though mimicking the greathouse keeps in Varinar, stood Keep Kastor, soaring above the river and the city spread beneath it. Elyon had never visited. He had never seen the keep up close, or walked through the streets of the city. No doubt Ethior was beautiful; he had heard it was so. An ancient city, founded by Ilith’s great-grandson Ethin, it had once been a great light in the north of Tukor. But all the same Elyon scowled to see it, thinking only of the Kastors and their perversions, thinking of Saska, who had suffered there, thinking of those lash scars on her back inflicted by Lord Modrik and his cruel son Cedrik. He had his own scars now to match her, ten deep cuts that had almost killed him. For killing Sir Griffin, but in truth that was her. She got me these scars, he thought. She turned my back to a twin of her own, and I’d have done it again for her, a thousand times again…
He wondered where she was now. He wondered what had come of her. How many times had he wondered that? How many times had he told himself he would fly south to find her? Always once more, he thought.
Soon Ethior was fading into the distance behind them, and so too all thoughts of Saska. Elyon set his mind forward, to his quarry. Ahead, the great open sea of Vandar’s Mercy spread forth toward the Rasalanian coast. It was frozen over, Elyon saw. The last time he was here with Amilia, he had seen some floes and bergs jostling in the restless water, but now they had grouped and gathered and formed a great plain of unbroken blue ice that bridged the two northern kingdoms. Gods, he thought, astonished. Even in the depths of the cruelest winter the cold did not grip like this.
He slowed a little, the winds quietening, so he could speak. “How are you, Walter?” he called. “Not dead yet, I hope?” The man had been rather too quiet for his liking.
Walter twisted his neck with some effort. There was frost forming in his patchy beard, and tiny icicles dangling from his eyelashes. “I should have put on another layer,” he said, with a wry smile. His lips were going blue. “Perhaps we ought to land and build a fire to warm up?”
Elyon would sooner push through if they could. At least cross the Mercy first, and find a fire already burning. Gathering firewood and trying to start one in this weather would be no easy task. “Can you hold on a little longer? If we make it to Thalan, we can stop there for a short while. It would be sensible to hear tidings before we continue north.”
Walter gave no complaint to that, and seemed in no state for a lengthy discussion. That served Elyon just fine. He had left Thalan with a promise from King Sevrin that he would make haste for the Tower of Rasalan at once, but he would sooner find out for sure before braving those frozen skies. “Hold on, then. The winds are with us, Walter. They should speed us hence.”
It was an hour and a half later before Thalan unveiled itself, appearing from that wintry white shroud much as it had the last time. It had that same cursed sense about it as King’s Point, touched by darkness, befouled the day Eldur came. About the squares and streets the snow had continued to climb, and now much of the city was lost beneath it. Ship masts and spires and towers alike poked out from the great high drifts, and deep trenches had been cut and shovelled to permit passage down certain streets. Others were snowed under, the houses lining them too, and Elyon wondered how many dead lay within. When first the Fire Father came thousands were lost beneath the rubble. Now it is snow that entombs them.
He landed outside the palace, just as he had before. A half dozen men sat shivering around their fire, breath misting, rubbing their hands. “We need fire, food, and to speak with the man in charge,” Elyon called, as he unstrapped Walter from his chest with stiff and clumsy fingers. “Quickly. Who commands now King Sevrin has left?”
One of the guards stood, a big bearded Buckland with the stag and bear sigil. “Princess Cristin has that honour.”
“Take us to her,” Elyon commanded.
The princess was to be found in her own private solar, a bush-haired old rodent of a woman knitting by the warmth of the fire. She wore heaps of robes in many colours, her spindly fingers poking from extravagantly dagged sleeves, working the needle skilfully, click click click.
“My lady, you have a visitor,” the Buckland man said.
“Two of them, it looks like.” She peered at them through small dark eyes. “Who are you?”
Elyon opened his mouth.
“No, don’t tell me, I know who you are.” She gave a cackle and waved them over. “Come, share my fire. You must be cold. You look cold. And handsome as they say, that too, oh yes. The spit of your father. Devrin must be wary of you.” She laughed again.
Elyon stepped over to join her. “Your Highness.” He bowed his head.
She bowed hers, though didn’t stand. “Your Highness. There, courtesies done.” Her eyes flitted to Walter. “And you must be the lucky one. Did it keep the dragons away, that luck of yours?” She waved a hand to dismiss the Buckland man and went right on. “Well you must have. You’re here, aren’t you? And dragons don’t like the cold. Even that big one…he’s not going to want to come up here, else his fires will go out, and when a dragon’s fire goes out, it dies, no matter how big.” She reached to a side table and took up a cup of spiced wine. “Will you have a cup? I know you’re flying, but one won’t hurt. Or two or three. Have you ever flown drunk, Elyon Daecar? Probably not. You’re very sensible, I hear. Now, anyway. You used to be a hoot, but no longer. But times are different, isn’t that so? We change to match the times, yes we do.”
This woman was clearly mad. Amilia had not been lying. “I will have a cup, thank you.”
She clipped a finger, and a servant appeared from nowhere. The wine was served. It was warm and nicely spiced, just what Elyon needed to thaw. The room was much the same, warm and spiced with quirky furniture from all across the world; rich rugs from Pisek, tapestries from Vandar, a large bed of Agarathi ashwood, celestial crafts from the Islands of the Moon. The shelves were cluttered with ornaments and stacks of old books, and above the fireplace was painted a great golden tree, filling all the wall, branching with hundreds, even thousands of names.
Cristin saw Elyon admiring it. “You like my tree, do you? Well, not mine really. I didn’t commission it, but it’s mine now that I’m living here. Finally. Ah, it’s been a long wait, but I’m here now, aren’t I? And so are you.”
Elyon frowned at her. She was truly an oddity and this room matched her well. He turned his eyes to regard the mural. “The line of Thala,” he said.
“What else? Yes, that’s our house. My name is up there somewhere at the top. Right next to my brother’s.” She twisted in her chair and pointed. “That’s him, with the golden wreath painted around his name. They came and added that only days ago; had to climb a ladder to get up there. Marks him as king, that wreath. There above him, that’s Devrin and Milessa. They’re first and second in line. I’m third, and how about that? Me. Third in line to the throne.” She laughed manically.
“That is…quite something, my lady.”
“You think so? Quite something. Something more would be if I became queen of this ruin, and who knows…maybe I will. Or already am.”
Elyon furrowed his brow.
“You’re confused. Let me explain. I’m third in line. My brother is king and he’s gone off up into those frozen wastes with his son and heir, the fools. Well you’ve seen the city, Elyon. You’ve seen how bad it’s become. How frightful must it be up there? It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? I love them both, and gods forbid anything has happened, but let us not be naive. Both of them might already be dead.”
“I do hope not, my lady.”
“That would make Milessa queen,” the woman babbled on. “She’s a pretty enough girl, like her brother, but a bit of a lackwit I’m afraid. She wouldn’t want it, the crown. Oh no. And no one would want to see her wearing it either. So it would go to me. Me. Queen.” She cackled again and her eyes glittered madly. “Do you think they’d want that? Me being queen?”
No, Elyon thought. “I could not say, my lady,” he said.
“Or will not say. You’re too polite for that. Of course they wouldn’t. A mad old shrew like me! Oh no. Oh no.”
Elyon stared at her. He could not tell if she was being serious or not. “My lady, how long ago did the king and the prince depart? They told me they would do so the day I left.”
“And they did. Right away. Devrin’s a positive chap, isn’t he? I’m sure you saw that. He had his old man mustered to go in a jiffy, and off they went into that frozen wasteland to die.” She drank her wine. A bit dribbled down her long pointed chin, but she did not wipe it off or seem to care. “Gods forbid. No, they’ll be fine, I’m sure. Sparky as Devrin is, Sevrin’s much more staid. He’ll have them turned back if he thinks they’re in trouble. How do you expect to find them? In this weather?”
“It’s the Tower of Rasalan we need to find,” Elyon said.
She cawed like a crow. “You think they’ll be there already? Good gods no. It’s four hundred miles. Not much for you, I’m sure, but on horseback that can take a while, and in this cold…even the thoroughbreds are going to struggle. They may be light and graceful beasts, but they can’t walk on snow so far as I’m aware.”
