Annabette swallowed, legs crossed demurely. “My brother, my lady?”

“Yes, your brother. The other little human that your mother pushed out from between her legs. Does he still work in the royal stables?”

She shook her head timidly. “No, my lady. He was mustered, for your brother’s army. He marched with him to the south.”

“A shame.” Annabette was a pretty little thing, and her brother was similarly pleasing on the eye. A little feminine for her usual tastes, but perfectly comely all the same. She sat back, sipping her wine, thinking. “There’s a bard,” she said. “Sweetest voice I ever heard. Likes to croon for the ladies of the court. Gifford Gold-Tongue they call him. Have you heard of him, Anna?”

The girl nodded. “I remember him, my lady. He serenaded you privately, once before.”

He did more than serenade me. “Does he still warble down in White Shadow?”

“I would have to ask, my lady. Most bards like to travel around.”

Yes, I’m quite aware. “Do ask, then. I feel like being serenaded tonight.”

Annabette stared at her with big round eyes. “Right…right now? Should I go myself, my lady?”

“That would be best, Anna.”

The girl stood at once, moving over to the wall to slip on her hooded cloak. She was not unfamiliar with carrying out these private dispatches. “I’ll be as quick as I can, my lady,” she said, opening the door. “And I’ll make sure that a guard is set at the door. Are you…sure you’ll be OK?”

This cloying over-attention was starting to annoy her. “I’ll be fine. Go.”

Annabette slipped away.

Silence followed her departure, broken only by the crackle of the flame, the whispering of the winds outside. Calm though it was, tranquil even, Amilia Lukar stewed in her absence, reflecting on Jonik’s words, wondering, perhaps even knowing, that he was right and hating that it was so.

You haven’t seen his eyes, cousin, she thought. Those red, pupil-less eyes. You haven’t felt his power. She had known, ever since Thalan fell, that the whole of the world would follow. So why bother hiding in that lifeless mountain refuge? The devil will only find it eventually.

Her wine cup was soon empty, so she stood and went to refill it, watering it down just a little so she didn’t get too drunk. If the sweet-singing bard was indeed to be found, she wanted to make use of his finest asset, and sweet as his singing voice was, she had a better use for that gilded tongue of his. For that she wanted her wits about her.

So she drank with more reserve, adding ample measures of water, snacking on sweetbreads and cheese in anticipation of a night of pleasure. If Gold-Tongue was not here she would have to find someone else. A handsome soldier, perhaps, or serving man would serve. Someone beautiful, and strong. Someone to make me scream. She had an image of her doing so, fists squeezing the coverlets, body convulsing, just as the old snake Gershan gave out his final breath. It was a horrid thought, but she laughed out loud all the same. That creature has had it coming for years. It was a miracle to Amilia that someone hadn’t slashed his throat open already.

She was still chuckling at that when she heard a knock at the door. Anna? Could she be back already? It seemed unlikely. No, it’ll be him, my brooding cousin. He’s come to apologise, or bend my ear more like. She was tempted to ignore it, pretend to be sleeping, but put that aside and stood.

Another knock, a little more insistent.

My killer cousin for a certainty. “Yes, yes, just a moment. Don’t get your breeches in a twist.”

She strode to the door, turned the handle, pulled it open and stared. It was not her cousin Jonik.

Sir Mallister Monsort smiled. “Were you expecting someone else, Your Highness?”

“I…yes, I…someone else, yes.” She was momentarily lost for words, lost in those beguiling blue eyes of his, pretty as sapphires. “I thought…I thought you’d have marched to war with my brother, Mallister. He left you behind?”

“To protect your mother, yes. And now you, I suppose.” His smile was the work of a master craftsman, his cheekbones high and flat. Golden hair fell in waves from his head. “How is it that you’re here, my lady? When I heard…I couldn’t quite believe it. I feared you had perished in Thalan.”

Feared. “You feared for me, Sir Mallister?”

“Of course, yes. I think about you…all the time.” A sudden blush rose up his neck and he turned his eyes away. It only made him all the more charming.

She let him linger in that state for a moment. There was hotness in her as well, spreading. Yes, she thought. Yes, he will do. She had always known Sir Mallister Monsort was an exceptionally handsome man, very much her type, and very much taken by her too. But with his sister Melany being her lady-in-waiting, she had decided it best not to muddy those waters. Mel was protective of her brother, and her brother was protective of her, but Mel was gone now, and those waters were muddy enough. Let’s swim in them together.

“Will you come inside, Mallister?”

He swallowed. “I was told….Annabette, she caught me as she left for the city and said you were in need of protecting. I was raised to your grandfather’s Six, my lady. Did you know?”

I did not know. I do not care. You can protect me from my bed. She said all of that with her eyes, as she stepped backward into her chamber, undressing him with her gaze. He followed like a moth to a flame, unable to resist her light. She looked past him, down the corridor, wondering if Anna would come back with the bard. If she does, he can sing for us. That’s all I’ll need of him now.

“Bolt the door, Mallister,” she said, undressing.

7

His grandfather stepped up onto the battlements, bedecked in pristine godsteel armour that still fit him after all this time. On his back flowed a cloak in stripes of pink and pale blue, decorated with a field of flowers in golden thread, the modest sigil of House Amadar. The soldiers deferred to their lord’s coming, bowing and lowering their eyes. Elyon stood firm, awaiting him. “Grandfather,” he said, inclining his head. “I’m glad to see your city is still standing.”

“We have been lucky here.” Lord Brydon Amadar replied. His voice was strong, detached.

He waved a hand for the nearby soldiers to give them space. At once every archer and crossbowmen withdrew at least a dozen steps, moving left and right along the battlements. They teemed in great numbers, hundreds of them lined up along the wall walks and up against the crenels, looking out over the lands below, constantly surveying the skies. Their cloaks were clean, their armour unblemished; Ilivar had not yet come under attack.

That hope had bloomed in Elyon Daecar as soon as he sighted the city from afar. There were no plumes of smoke, scratching at the sky, no tumbled towers, no blackened walls. The trail of blight he’d followed from Varinar had suggested that as well. Though it had grown harder to detect the further from the city he flew, it had become clear enough that the titan’s path had taken him more south than east, and not in this direction. Elyon would return to that trail soon enough. For now, he had other matters to see to.

His grandfather was surveying his garb. “Would you like to bathe, Elyon?” he asked. “I could have your armour cleaned. And one of Rikkard’s old cloaks brought out for you as well.” He raised a hand to hail a man.

Elyon shook his head. “I have no time to wait for a polish. Or to wash, for that matter.” He wondered if the cloak his grandfather referred to was a Varin cloak, or one of House Amadar. Oh, how he’d love to dress me up in his own colours. Either way, the answer was no. “I came to check on the city,” he said. “And to ask of my sister and auntie.” He looked into the man’s hard hazel-green eyes. “Are they here?”

The Lord of Ilivar did not delay in answering. It was not the answer Elyon wanted. “No, they are not. I was hoping you might know.”

Elyon frowned. “Why would I know? Perhaps you are not aware, my lord, but I have been rather busy of late.” He’d not seen his grandfather since the day of Aleron’s funeral, a lifetime ago, or so it felt. No hug, he thought. Not even a ‘how are you?’ He says I need to bathe, and yet makes no mention of the fighting I must have seen to look this way. Perhaps if they had met in private, the Lord of Ilivar would show more tenderness to his grandson, but not here upon the walls, before the eyes of his men.

“I have heard of your exploits, yes,” Brydon Amadar said, stiffly. “This is the Windy City, founded by Iliva, who first bore the blade that now rests at your hip. We are all proud of you here.”

Are you? Elyon doubted it. It would take more than killing a few dragons to make the intractable Lord of Ilivar proud. “I heard about your quarrel with Amara, Grandfather. You wanted me to give the Windblade back, I’m told. Now you say you’re proud of what I’ve done with it. Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

Lord Brydon’s jaw stiffened. It was a chiselled jaw, dressed in a trim grey beard, sharply cut. His build was similarly lean, yet strong. He had the bearing of a man much younger than his sixty seven years. “You’re angry with me, Elyon. That is plain.”

“I’m tired. Perhaps that’s plain as well. And keen to hear that my sister is safe. Now you tell me she isn’t here. Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Her current whereabouts are not known to me.”

Elyon breathed out. “Not known to you?” he repeated, struggling to contain his frustration. “How can that be? She was in your care.”

“Was, yes. Until she ran away, with the help of that boorish knight of hers, Sir Daryl Blunt. The gods know I attempted to find her, Elyon, but much as it pains me to say it, I failed. I had assumed she had made it back to Varinar. That is why I wondered if you might know. You came from there, I am told. Just now. You flew from the city.”

“I flew from the ruin,” Elyon said. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. You must have had word by now.”

“A rider came yesterday, yes, to report the tragedy. But we knew long before that. We saw the smoke.”