“Well goodness. Goodness me.” Lord Morwood staggered to the drink’s table, pouring himself a cup of wine, drinking it down at once. Then he breathed out, staring down at the lacquered wood, frowning, shaking his head. Amilia gave him a moment. “And all this…” He looked over at her, horrified. “All this by the order of your grandfather?”

She nodded. “Auntie Cecilia deceived Lord Daecar into stealing his seed, back during the last war. I am told he was not aware of it. Some drug, that addled his mind into thinking it all some half-remembered dream. She acted by my grandfather’s order, so she might birth a child of powerful blood, to be used as a weapon. In all this, Jonik is innocent, no more than a tool, as I have been. So you wonder why I say I hope my grandfather is dead? Well, wonder no more, Trillion. Everything he touches turns to ruin.”

She filled her lungs, right up to the top, and breathed out long and slow. Somehow it felt good to get that off her chest, to share with this stout old lord the true depth of her grandfather’s treachery. His devious machinations had been going on for decades. Even King Horris Reynar’s death was by his hand, Amilia thought. The Vandarian king had died during a visit to Agarath, of heart failure the Agarathi claimed, though Janilah Lukar said otherwise. He proclaimed to all the north that King Horris had been slain by order of Tellion, the Agarathi king, just as his own brother Prince Jaylor had been murdered on Agarathi lands decades before. He used it as a pretext to go to war, Amilia knew. But really, it was his own man, his own tool, who poisoned King Horris in his sleep.

It was Jonik who told her all that, having heard it first from the exiled lord, Emeric Manfrey. “He told me of his cousin,” Jonik had explained to her. “A man called Sir Gerlan Stonewood. He was Vandarian, Emeric said, the son of Lord Stonewood and his own auntie, Lady Lucilla Manfrey. Sir Gerald joined the Greycloaks and was there, as part of King Horris’s protective guard, when his delegation went to Eldurath. Apparently Sir Gerlan got drunk one night when he got back and confessed to Emeric that King Horris had been poisoned by his own men. He died shortly after. Hanged himself in a barn. Though not according to Emeric.”

“He was murdered,” Amilia said.

Jonik gave a nod. “Same as many others back then, to hide the truth. But our grandfather got what he wanted all the same. He got his war. Just the same as this one.”

She turned back to Lord Morwood, putting all that from her mind. The man was still deep in thought himself, struggling to reconcile what he’d heard, but Amilia needed his attention. She had told Jonik she would help in his quest, folly that it all was, and she would. I’ll do my bit and be done with it. Then find a handsome man, to wash the taste of Hadrin away…

“My cousin will be returning here soon,” she said, drawing Morwood’s kind eyes toward her. “Along with his two companions. They will have questions for you, my lord, about the state of affairs beyond our walls and borders. Are you willing to share counsel with these men?”

“If you ask it of me, it will be done, my lady.”

She touched his arm. “I knew I could count on you.”

That drew a smile from the jowly Watch Commander. She had known him all her life and he had a daughter of a similar age to her. In her youth they had played together. That had always made Morwood proud.

“I would like you to take them to my grandfather’s council chambers when they arrive.” There were maps there, she knew, and other materials that would be of use. “I will accompany you, my lord, but will not stay long. I feel I need some time alone.”

His face went very serious. “I quite understand, my lady.”

The wait was not so long. No more than ten minutes later, the door knocked with a forceful tap tap tap. Annabette, who was Amilia’s most faithful handmaiden, rushed to open it, already apprised of their coming.

Lord Morwood intercepted her, however. “Let me.” He ushered the girl aside, straightened out his commander’s cloak, stood as tall as his height would allow, and opened out his shoulders. Then he reached out and drew open the door. “Welcome,” he said, upon seeing the three men outside, in his most resounding voice. “My name is Lord Trillion Morwood, Lord Commander of the City Watch. Please, come in.”

The men filed past, Jonik in the lead, wearing that new, colour-changing armour of his under his cloak. The plate seemed to brighten a touch as he entered, though that might merely have been the firelight in the room. There was a hearth, burning bright, and several handsome sconces too with torches in their grasp. Jonik looked at Morwood, wordless, then came Harden and finally Gerrin, who stopped. “Trillion, good to see you again.”

“Sir Gerrin,” Morwood said.

There was a pause. “You look a tad pale,” Gerrin noted. He looked over at Amilia. “I take it you’ve been talking about us.”

“You. And a great deal more.” Morwood glanced at Jonik, assessing, though the young man had already stepped out toward the balcony, to take in the ranging view.

He returned a moment later, and looked at Amilia. “He wasn’t there,” he said to her. “No sign of him or the blade.” The disappointment was thick in his voice. “But the dragon we did find. It did not die well.”

Morwood was clearly not understanding. He moved over from the door. “What dragon are you speaking of?” he demanded.

“Some purply blue beasty,” said Harden, pouring himself a cup of wine. “Big one too. Found it sprawled up those steep stone stairs of yours, all cut to bits. Almost made me feel sorry for it.”

“Stone stairs? What stone stairs?”

“The ones that lead up to Ilith’s ancient forge,” said Gerrin. “We just went up there to check if the king was dead. We are interested in retrieving the Mistblade from him, Trillion. I’m sure the princess told you?”

“No. She hasn’t.” Morwood looked at her.

“We didn’t get that far,” she said, though now that the cat was out of the bag, she might as well get into it. “They’re looking for the blades, Trillion. And before you ask, no, this is not the same as my grandfather. Their cause is righteous.” Folly, she thought, but righteous. “But I’ll let Jonik explain the rest.” She looked to the door. “And not here.”

Morwood took her meaning. “The princess asked that I escort you to more appropriate chambers, for this…discussion. Please, follow me.”

“What’s wrong with here?” Harden asked, sipping his wine. He looked around. “Perfectly nice.”

“These are the princess’s private quarters,” Lord Morwood told him. “A formal council chamber would be better for our needs.” He marched back to the door, holding it open for them. “Please, come this way.”

Harden shrugged and moved over, keeping his goblet to hand, and stepped outside with Gerrin. Jonik followed, glancing at the bloodstains on the floor, the chips of teeth. “What happened there?”

“I threw a chalice at Lord Gershan.”

He raised his eyes, but said nothing. They stepped through the door, Morwood leading them on, passing through the grand palace corridors of its high, upper levels. Sir Gerrin engaged the Watch Commander in casual conversation as they went, though Amilia sensed he was trying to get a better read on him, making utterly sure he could be trusted with what they were to say.

“He’s protective of you,” the princess noted, walking behind with her cousin. “You’re lucky to have him, Jonik. Harden too.”

“I know.”

They walked on a few more paces. “And your other friends? Lord Manfrey. Those sailors you travelled with? Are you to try to find them?”

“I must find the blades. I cannot give priority to personal feelings.” He took another pace, another. “And nor should you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you can help,” he said, turning his eyes forward at Morwood. “This man of yours, he seems trustworthy. Have you told him of the portal? The refuge?”

“Not yet.”

“But you will?” His eyes bored into her. “He must be wondering how we all got here. You can’t hide that from him forever, and Ilith does not want you to. He wants to help his people, Amilia, all people. You can be a part of that.”

Or I can ignore it all and sit on my balcony and drink myself to oblivion, watching while the world comes crashing down around me. That had been her plan. To return here and watch the world end with her brother, but Ray was gone and Robb too, and her father was dead and mother a shrew, and what else did she have? Nothing, she thought. I have nothing, and I am nothing.

“Amilia…”

“I’ll tell him,” she said, sharply. “I’ll tell him of this portal and refuge and Ilith and all of it. He’s the Commander of the Watch and does more to run this city than anyone. He’s much better placed than me to lead the people to safety.”

“No. He’s a lord, you’re a princess. And you need to be doing more.”

Need? She turned, marching away from him, unable to bear his sanctimonious preaching any longer. Maybe I should have him hanged, after all, she thought. Perhaps that would shut him up.

She turned a corner, quickening her pace, only glancing around when she’d stretched away and saw that no one was following. Jonik did not seem like a man who had the capacity for that. That one has no idea how to handle women. A soft touch is not his strength.

She made her way back to her chambers, walking alone and undisturbed. When she stepped inside she found Annabette on her knees, scrubbing at the blood and picking out bits of teeth from the rushes. The girl looked up, apple-faced and red from the effort, then surged to her feet. “My lady, do you need anything?”

“Wine.”

Amilia found a comfortable armchair and sank into the upholstery, kicking off her slippered shoes and shaking out her hair. The hearth-fire crackled beside her, puffing up skinny little fingers of smoke. Annabette stepped over to hand her a fresh chalice, then stoked at the coals, stirring ash, and threw on another small log. She made to return to her scrubbing, but Amilia told her to sit. The girl did so, awkwardly, dropping into an armchair opposite her.

“How is your brother?” Amilia asked her.