“Yes, Father. I would have, but for Elyon. We thought it prudent to set the Eye in place as soon as possible. So it might settle.”
Sevrin gave a small grumble. “I did want to share that moment with you, Devrin, but so be it. It’s done now.” He removed his gloves and flexed his thin, bony fingers, trying to get some life back into them. Both were white from the cold. “Is the small hall warm?”
“Pleasantly so, Father.”
“Then let us retire there.” He turned to the man who was likely his steward, fussing with some bags. “Bertrand, take my things to the royal apartments. And make sure a fire is lit. I want the room warm for when I take to my bed.”
The steward nodded acknowledgement, and off they went up the stairs.
The small hall was aptly named, a small hall with only a few long tables and benches lined up down its length. There was no king’s table, no stage at the top where a monarch might sit and cast his judgements. That was not the way of the humble Rasal people. Instead a monarch would go among his men and subjects, of which there were only ever few here, sitting with them as they ate at whatever table he so chose.
On the eastern and western walls of the hall were built great chimneyed hearths. Both were firing splendidly as they entered. Two men were going around, wiping the tables and benches of dust, setting out plates and cutlery. One stepped away as he saw them enter, and returned as they sat with a tray topped with a large jug of wine and cups. Their chosen table was near the western hearth, and Sevrin sat closest to the blaze, reaching out to warm his hands against the flames. He flexed his fingers again, feeling the blood return. “I’ve never felt a cold like it, truly. A beastly thing. Be thankful you flew, Elyon. How long did it take you to get here?”
“We left Ilithor not long past dawn.”
“Oh. You came that far in one day?”
Elyon nodded as Devrin served the wine. Steam rose from the top of the jug. “We stopped for a short time in Thalan, to confirm you’d left. That added some length to the journey.”
“And tomorrow? You’re to leave come the dawn, I suppose?”
“That is the plan.” Elyon did not say where, because even he did not know. He needed to sleep first, and already he could feel the pull of it in his head. He had a long drink of wine to warm his insides. The fire crackled relaxingly, and he felt a deep thick pang of weariness fill his blood.
King Sevrin smiled at him. “You look even more tired than I feel, Elyon. Can you hold on to eat? You must be hungry after your flight.”
Famished, Elyon thought. He had barely enough strength to say it all of a sudden, the last of his energy leeching out of him like the final spurts of blood from a severed throat.
“Well, let’s get you fed, then.” Sevrin waved a man over and asked for them to bring out whatever the cook Hemmet had already prepared.
The stew was delicious, rabbit cooked slow with carrot and onion, a simple broth brought alive by the seasoning. Elyon began by eating with accustomed grace, before Sevrin disavowed him of the notion and after that he ate like a man starved, slurping, gulping, tearing at chunks of bread with his teeth, munching on thick moist cheese and cuts of beef so tender they fell apart in his mouth. By the time he was done he jested he might have to have the Forgemasters at the Steelforge let out his armour a little, when next he visited Varinar, and that led into a discussion on the state of the city and other such affairs.
Elyon found a second wind, but it lasted only so long before the warmth and the wine and the food in his belly demanded he take his leave. By then the other men were sitting about the tables as well, and there was talking, laughter, hearty voices to be heard. It reminded Elyon of a simpler time. Here in this remote old tower, four hundred miles from the nearest city and hidden away from the rest of the world, he felt safe. It was an odd feeling. Even in Ilithor, far from the fighting, he knew a thunder of dragons could come at any time. He knew the Dread might descend upon them. But here…no. It was a haven in the frozen wastes, looking out over the frozen seas, enrobed and enclosed in a thick white mist. No one would find them here.
Prince Devrin accompanied him to his room. It was grander than Walter’s, with a larger bed and richer furnishings, but Elyon did not care for them. The bed was all that mattered. “Will your father spend time with the Eye tonight?” he asked, as Devrin was leaving.
The prince paused at the door. “He will pay a visit, I’m sure, before taking to his bed. Who knows, perhaps you will awaken to good news and the birth of a brand new vision?”
“Good news would depend on the vision,” Elyon said to that. Just as likely a vision would spell doom.
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.
