Lord Amadar shook his head, but it took him a moment. It was enough to show his doubt. “My army is not what you think. I have perhaps ten thousand trained soldiers left in the city. Some will go to Varinar. Thousands of others are dispersed among the forts to the south and east of here, preparing to defend us. And there’s Rikkard. I gave him five thousand of my very best when he marched to Dragon’s Bane. For all I know, they might all be dead. We have had no word.”

“He was well when I last saw him.”

“And when was that?” His eyes were eager, though he tried to hide it.

Elyon had to think. “A week, perhaps a little more. It’s hard to keep count of the days right now. We were marching the Mudway toward Rustbridge. He will be there by now, unless…”

“Unless?” his grandfather prompted.

“It’s possible they came under attack, before King’s Point did, and Varinar. Drulgar came from the east. Bearing wounds. I don’t yet know how they were inflicted.”

“And you plan to find out?”

Even the notion of it was exhausting, but what could he do but nod? “I’m going to fly there now.” He might have spoken of Drulgar’s blood, and the trail he’d been following, and how he had a mind to fly to the ruin of Thalan too, so he might unearth someone who might be able to peek through the pupil of the Eye of Rasalan, and give them something, anything, to work with…some glimpse of what was to come. That had been the entire reason for his heist, and yet for now the Eye was sitting idle, kept in his father’s care. Perhaps I’ll fly there after I find Rikkard? Rustbridge to Thalan…how far is that. Oh, only a thousand miles…

He grimaced at the thought. And he’d have to make it back to King’s Point too. And now this with Lillia going missing, and Amara only the gods knew where. If given a choice, he would put everything else aside and spend all his efforts in finding them. A choice every other soldier is facing, he thought. Artibus had said as much, and it was exactly what his father feared. Every man for himself. Protect you wife, your children, your family, forget the rest. Just as the Fire God wants. A culture-less and kingdom-less world, without nations or borders or boundaries, the strong rising, the weak falling, every one of us fighting for scraps in the mud. Elyon could not submit to that impulse. He had to do his duty, and close his heart to his sister’s fate. As Father is.

The chant was dying down now, leaving behind a buzzing murmur as the men discussed what they’d heard, excited by the crowning of a new king. It felt like Elyon’s cue to leave, though he would check in with Sir Gorton first, down at the Storm Gate. “Is there anything you would like me to tell Rikkard, Grandfather?” he asked. “It is possible you will not see each other again.”

“If that is so, then I will see him at Varin’s Table.” As with Rikkard, Lord Brydon had been a Knight of Varin before succeeding his father as lord of House Amadar, decades ago. “We will share words then. But I hope that isn’t the case.”

Elyon smiled. “I’ll just tell him you miss him, how about that?” He could see that he did, even if he wouldn’t say it. “Be well, Grandfather. And tell my lady grandmother I love her. I will visit her in Keep Quiet next time, I promise.”

The old man shook his head. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Elyon. Lucetia is not among your list of priorities.”

Cold and clear as ever. “Tell her anyway. It may give her comfort, after Lillia…”

The day was yet young, still an hour or so before noon, and where the early morning had been bright and clear, now the skies had curdled with cloud. Elyon gave his grandfather a parting nod and rose up over the battlements, soaring the short distance to the Storm Gate, facing out toward the Heartlands in a southwesterly direction. He could smell the promise of rain in the air; further south the skies looked darker. In the same direction, and wending through the open prairies from the east, thin lines of carts and wagons were making for the city, with riders among them, and men afoot, trundling along dirt roads and farm tracks, seeking sanctuary behind Ilivar’s high walls.

Some had arrived already, lined up outside the gate. Some hundreds, Elyon saw; farmers, herdsmen, labourers mostly, along with their wives and children, and the occasional chicken or dog or goat, barking and bleating.

He found a soldier at the gate, inspecting the incoming carts. The smallfolk were being permitted entry, though only after careful consideration. Elyon had heard that his grandfather had kept his gates shut these last months, turning most of the smallfolk away to seek sanctuary in Varinar instead. It appeared his policy had changed. Probably about the same time he saw all that smoke in the sky, Elyon thought. Brydon Amadar has a heart after all.

The soldier stepped up to him, waving the latest cart through. The line shifted forward. “You might want to speed this along,” Elyon suggested. Everything seemed very organised, very thorough, very slow. Very Brydon. All boxes must be ticked, gods forbid. “More are coming from the Heartlands and the prairies. It would be wise to allow them through more quickly.”

“Lord Amadar wants us to check every cart carefully, for weapons and stowaways. And spies, my lord.”

Spies. Gods. This wasn’t a fight Elyon wanted to have. “I understand Sir Gorton commands the gate.” He looked around. “I don’t see him.” And Sir Gorton’s is not a face one would miss.

“Yes, my lord. He is in the gatehouse.”

“Summon him, please.”

“At once, my lord. Anything for the Master of Winds.” The soldier sketched a graceful bow and spun away.

I am well-liked here, Elyon Daecar reflected. His status as the Lord of Ilivar’s grandson might grant him that. Being the man who had mastered the Windblade, so very revered in this city, was a much greater honour, however.

Sir Gorton arrived a minute or so later. His surname was Gulberry, a comical name to go with his comical appearance. Bandy-legged, wide-bellied, with close-set eyes, a piggy little nose, and unfortunately large ears, the man cut an amusing figure. Elyon recalled that his father was Sir Lorton, one of his grandfather’s favoured old knights, though long since spent of his use in battle. And never so homely as his son. I dread to think what his lady wife must have looked like…

The knight shuffled up to him, a confused look on his face. Or perhaps that was just his face. Elyon didn’t know the man well enough to say. “Sir Elyon, what a pleasure.” He had been taking an early lunch, to judge by the crumbs about his lips. He brushed them away. “Have you come to see your grandparents?”

“I have just seen them. My grandfather, anyway. Did you not hear the chanting, Sir Gorton?”

“The chanting? Oh yes, yes I did.” He rubbed at his chin, a non-existent thing, hardly more than a fleshy little nub poking out from his jaw. The man was beardless, and cruelly so. His face could really use one, to give it some shape. “Oh, of course. Your father…he has been declared king. And that makes you a prince. Apologies for the oversight, Your Highness.”

“Accepted. I’m here to ask of my auntie. I’m told she came here two weeks ago.”

“She did, yes. Asking of your sister.”

“Which way did she go when she left, Sir Gorton?”

He strained to think, as though working out some complex mystery. “Back along the road to Varinar, my lord,” he said, after a time. “She and her host took the Lakeland Pass, though…now, you’ll have to forgive for me this, but…well…”

“What is it? I have no time for stammering, sir.”

“I had a man follow them, just to be sure,” Gorton Gulberry confessed. “He reported that they stabled their horses at one of the riverside inns a few miles from here and took a boat out onto the lake. I took that to mean they believed your sister had done the same. From the harbour here at Ilivar, that is. The night she ran away.”

Curious that my grandfather did not elucidate that detail. Elyon had half a mind to return and confront him on it, though it was possible it had slipped his mind. Or perhaps Awkward Gorton did not tell him? “Was Lord Amadar aware of this?” he asked, wishing to clarify. He raised an eyebrow, expectant. “He never said.”

“Well, I do not think he considered it important, my lord. Unless your lady aunt possesses some staggering power of clairvoyance, she was merely guessing as to where your sister went, just the same as the rest of us. She chose to search the lake, though whether she had any success…” His sloping shoulders went up and down. “We must hope, of course. Perhaps your sister sailed for Elinar? I always thought that likely myself.”

“And why is that? Did she express a particular desire to go there to you?”

“By no means. I do not recall ever speaking with your sister.”

“Then why would you make that claim?” The man was starting to vex him.

“Oh, because I overheard Sir Daryl Blunt speaking of it. He was expressing his joy for a time spent in Elinar, when he was a younger man, I recall. At one of the captain’s taverns here. It is a good place to meet up with others of my station, I find. I have no great fondness for drinking, you understand.”

I don’t care. “I am aware of Sir Daryl’s liking for Elinar, Sir Gorton. He speaks of it often. There are many fine inns in the harbour and pleasant walks into the Ironmoors, and along the lake. That does not mean he would have taken my sister there. If they indeed took a boat onto the lake, they would almost certainly have made for Varinar.”

And returned, if so. Two weeks was plenty enough to sail between Varinar and Ilivar a half dozen times, depending on the waves and the weather. It was a dismal thought, though far from certain. Perhaps they did make for Elinar instead, or another town along the lake. Perhaps Lillia had decided to sail straight across it and find horses on the western bank, so they could ride to Blackfrost, the old seat of House Daecar, nestled among the southern hills of the North Downs. Until Elyon knew for sure, he would hold to the hope that his sister was alive. And his auntie too, wherever she might be.

“Do you have anything else to report to me, Sir Gorton?”

The man thought for a moment, then shook his head. “That is all I know, I’m afraid. I wish I had more, but…”

You’ve given me more than my grandfather did, Elyon thought. “Then farewell, sir. If you hear of anything in the meantime, tell me when I return.” He did not say when that might be, because he did not know himself. His next stop now would be to return to the dragon’s trail, and veer east, for Redhelm and Rustbridge and Rikkard, and hope he did not find them in ruin. And after…well, he needn’t think of that just yet.

For what felt like the tenth time that day, Elyon Daecar rode the winds. A champion, a prince, a carrier crow, he thought. I am the eyes of the north.

Into the darkening skies, he flew.

8

“It has caused a great deal of discord, hasn’t it?” old Ralf of Rotting Bridge said, looking at the blade on the wall. “A man given to superstition might say that it is cursed, my lord. First Dalton Taynar. Then your brother, only minutes later. Are you certain this is the right course? It seems every man who takes up the sword ends up dead.”