Lythian nodded, pondering. It was a half-baked notion that would likely bear no fruit at all, but still…he was trying to think outside of the box. If we could somehow command some dragonriders of our own…

He continued walking, quickening his pace. The sun had risen more quickly than he’d realised and no doubt Amron was already awaiting them in his command pavilion, to resume the council meeting cut short the night before. There was much they still needed to discuss and decide. And more now, Lythian thought. He still needed to get Amron’s official blessing for his plans.

He marched through the River Gate, to commune with his king.

6

The cold was still in her bones, reaching in with freezing fingers to close tight about the marrow. The cold of the refuge. The cold of the mountains. The cold of the long dark journey through the tunnels.

And the cold in her heart as well.

A cloak of fine sable draped her shoulders, rich brown for Tukor, belted and tightened at the waist. Her hair was washed, skin scrubbed clean, the dirt dug out from her fingernails. She was polished, prettified, pampered, shimmering like a jewel. Amilia Lukar had hoped it might help, to restore her former beauty after long months on the road. It hadn’t. Not a bit. She still felt filthy as a sty, dirty inside and out.

The wind ruffled through her long brown hair, stirring strands, as she looked out over the city. Beneath her it sprawled, tucked up in the embrace of the mountains, the White City of Ilithor in all its gleaming glory. She reached out to take up her cup of wine from the balustrade, a fine chalice of gold, inlaid with coloured gems. The wine was rich and strong and red, and she gulped it down in a single draught.

“More,” she said.

Annabette scurried forward to obey.

She drank again, casting her eyes down the levels of the city. To the bridges and walkways and steep stone stairs of the Marble Steps. To the Sentinels below, bustling with barracks and training yards. To Many Markets, a further level down, where traders teemed, and peddlers hawked their wares. Last of all was White Shadow, largest of the levels, spreading and sprawling toward the boundary walls far below. From up here it was hardly more than a blur, though Amilia could see well enough the blackened square, the scorched streets, the burned-out husks of homes and hovels, taverns and pillow houses, that had been destroyed during the rioting months before.

The day my grandfather disappeared, she thought. I hope the bastard never returns.

A misty wind blew past her, sweeping from over the peaks of the mountains to the north, obscuring her view. She waited, sipping her wine. When the clouds had passed, she set her gaze beyond the outer walls of the city, to the great open valley beyond, with its roads and rivers and woods, opening, widening into the vastness of Southern Tukor.

My home, she thought, trying to raise a smile. For months she had longed to return, to stand on this very balcony, drink in the view and the air and the wine. But now that she was here, she felt almost nothing at all. Empty, like one of those blackened husks. I am dead inside, she thought. Hadrin…my grandfather…the mages…they have killed me.

She drank her wine down, down and down until she tasted the bitter sediment at the bottom. “More,” she said, and her cup was refilled. “Just leave the jug, Annabette. And send them in. I’m ready.”

The girl curtseyed, withdrew, and Amilia heard the shuffle of feet behind her. Her eyes stayed steadfast on the sweeping vista as the door to her chamber groaned open, and in walked the old men of the city, the dregs of what remained to rule. Perhaps that wasn’t fair of Morwood, but Gershan, certainly, and Benton as well were a pair of old fossils who she would soon dismiss from her service.

It was Emmit Gershan, the Master of the Moorlands, who spoke first. “Your Highness,” he said, in that ugly, snivelling voice of his. “So the reports are true. You’re back from Rasalan. What a pleasure. A pleasure indeed.”

She could almost see him rubbing his bony old hands together and licking his lips as he stared at her arse, the loathsome lecherous creature. She hated him, always had. How my family have tolerated him for so long is baffling. He had sat on her grandfather’s council, and that of her brother too. He won’t sit on mine. I’ll make sure of that.

“We feared you were dead, Your…Your Majesty,” said the old scholar and crowmaster, Archibald Benton. “Thalan. We heard of…of…of what happened. The…the dragons and…and…and…”

She closed her eyes, already irritated. That stuttering voice. The unpleasant phlegmy sound that took root at the back of his throat. I’ll dismiss him just for that. Someone save me from these fools.

A stronger voice spoke. “My lady.” It was Trillion Morwood, Lord Commander of the Watch, cutting off Archibald Benton and his dithering as a thousand others had before. “There are no reports of you arriving through the city gates. Not a single word of you passing any of the lower levels. How is it that you came to be here?”

“Magic,” she said, staring out.

The man hardly heard her. “My lady?”

“Magic,” she repeated, though no louder than the first time. She did not care if they heard or not, nor did she care to explain. At last she turned to face them, looking upon the three old men. Morwood, sturdy and thick-necked with a block of jaw so wide it outmatched the rest of his head. Heavy jowls drooped off his cheeks and his wispy yellow hair, with strands of grey, had gone wispier still since the last time she’d seen him. He styled it slick across a balding scalp. The man had seen about fifty winters.

The other two were much older. Rheumy-eyed, phlegmy-throated Archibald Benton, with that wine-coloured birthmark on his forehead, shaped like the foot of the crow. He had a crooked back and long white beard that had once been much more impressive. It looked rather pathetic now, as did he.

Emmit Gershan was an insult to her eyes. Part vulture, part rat, with a mean little mouth made for scowling and a nose like the prow of a longship, long and hooked. There was some spider about him too, in those juts of shoulder-bones and scrawny limbs and horrid little beady eyes. I hate you, she thought. Then she looked away from him and would not look back.

“I had hoped my brother would be here, Lord Morwood,” she said, addressing the only one of them she had the slightest respect for. It was perhaps the last little shred of joy she had clung to, that Raynald would be here, to watch the world end with her. But no, I don’t even get that. “Annabette told me that he’s gone to war.”

Morwood nodded solemnly. “Your brother is gallant, my lady. When he learned that Vandar was under threat, he mustered an army to aid them. He left several weeks ago.”

“Where, exactly?”

“The Riverlands. His intention was to make for Rustbridge, to help defend the crossing. The Agarathi have been decimating the Marshlands and there is a fear they will not stop there. Young Raynald took it upon himself to strengthen their defence, and rush to the aid of our allies. The whole city is very proud of him.”

The city is full of fools. He shouldn’t have gone. No doubt he had done it because of Robbert. Amilia knew her brothers well, and with Robb at war in the south, there was no way Ray was going to sit here idle if he could march out and win his own glory.

Archibald Benton fumbled into the pockets of his oversized robes. A pair of trembling, liver-spotted hands emerged with a bundle of scrolls, tied in string. “My queen. These…these are the latest correspondences. A couple from your brother. Few letters come these days, but…but…”

“I’m not a queen,” she cut in. She gestured for him to put the scrolls on a table. “The Rasalanians did not want me, and I did not want them. My marriage to Hadrin was a farce.” An abusive, traumatising nightmare. She steeled her eyes, drew a breath. “What is the latest news of my grandfather? Has he been found?”

“Not officially, my lady,” said Trillion Morwood, “but there are rumours. An innkeep and his wife claim that the king visited their riverside tavern some weeks ago, in the woodlands north of Tukor’s Pass. They claim he has become a dragonslayer.”

“He already was,” Amilia said. “He killed a dragon in his youth.”

“More since,” rattled Gershan. “A few have been found butchered for parts. On a meadow…that was a bloody old mess, we hear. In a wood as well, near this inn. The king’s been getting his hands dirty, Princess. But better the blood of dragons than children, I suppose.” A smirk creased his crusty lips. She wanted to slap it off him. “You heard about that, I trust? All that slaughtering down in Galin’s Post?”

“I heard.”

“A dark day,” Morwood intoned, jowls wobbling as he shook his heavy head. “I took a wound to the arm myself, though have healed now, thank Tukor. Many others were not so fortunate. But it’s believed that your grandfather has turned to a brighter path, my lady.” He smiled pleasantly. “We must hope.”

She gave that a snort, turned, picked up her cup of wine, and drank. “Hope,” she muttered. “I hope he’s dead.” She turned back to them. “Tell me true, Lord Morwood. What happened that day in the throne room? When my father died. Were you there?”

“No, my lady.”

“I was told my father tried to steal the crown.” Her eyes surveyed the men before her. Not for one moment had she believed that. “My grandfather is to blame, isn’t he? He gave the order to have my father killed.”

Lord Morwood raised a hand and coughed into his fist. Archibald Benton turned his eyes away. Gershan sneered.

“Speak,” Amilia said.

The vulture did. “You want to know whose fault it was?”

She looked at him, lip pulled back.

“Your auntie’s,” Gershan spat. “That bastard bitch. She was always whispering away at him, pouring poison in his ear. There’s plenty been said about her, my lady. Ugly stuff. None of it good. You sure you want to know?”

Her eyes were bright with disdain. “No,” she said at once. She is down in the crypts as we speak, she thought. Whatever she might have done in the past, she gave her life for mine. We’re even. And she was just a tool, like me, and her son.

“Oh?” Gershan chuckled. “Not even a little bit. She’s dead now, so what’s the bother?”

Amilia frowned. There was no way they could know that. Jonik had carried his dead mother through the tunnels and caverns himself, along that twisting, daunting route, through narrow shafts and past plunging chasms, and laid her to rest in the crypts. Were we seen? She couldn’t think how. That side of the palace had been completely deserted when they arrived, and the rest of it was hardly much busier. And she was wrapped up like a mummy anyway. There’s no way they could have known…