“We all end up dead eventually, Ralf.”

Amron closed his steel fist around the golden hilt, lifting the blade from its fixings; a full half dozen of them, strong thick iron hooks able to bear its weight. Amron had ordered it put here after the battle, safe and secure beneath the ruin of the Spear, under guard at all times, day and night.

Not that anyone could steal it. It had taken Sir Taegon Cargill and Sir Quinn Sharp a great deal of effort to haul the sword to these vaults, so vastly heavy as it was to those unbonded to the metal. Yet to Amron Daecar it was weightless; a lethal feather in his grip. He turned it, admiring its shape, the play of golden light along its face. The Sword of Varinar had an edge that could cut anything - its central power, men said - but in reality that wasn’t true. It’s power was in the name, and the fame, and the men who bore it. From the moment Varin had named it for his city, and chosen to take it into battle, it had become inextricably linked with strength, fortitude, and the greatness of the Kingdom of Vandar.

And now a great man will bear it. Amron put the Sword of Varinar back onto its hooks. He turned to Whitebeard. “Let him in.”

The ranger nodded, unbolting the heavy wood door. The rusted hinges screamed, and from the darkness outside, lit faintly by torches burning on the turnpike stair, Lythian Lindar stepped in.

“Amron. You called for me?”

“Come in, Lythian.” Amron gestured him forward, as Rogen pushed the door shut. He turned to the blade on the wall. “I’ve spoken with the others. We all agree that you’re best placed to succeed Dalton Taynar as First Blade. It was a short list, Lythian. Yours was the only name on it.”

The Knight of the Vale wore his armour, his cloak, all sooty and stained and scorched. He went into a bow. “I’m humbled, my lord, but…”

“But nothing, Lythian. You’ve walked at my side all my life, and will walk at it still, as my First Blade. I’ve been raised to king. You deserve a promotion of your own.”

“Sir Brontus might think otherwise.”

“Sir Brontus might be dead, for all we know. But if not, he has no claim. When a First Blade is killed, the honour does not pass to the man he defeated in the final of the Song. The process begins again. Brontus Oloran has no more right to that blade than any other man.”

“And there is the nature of Dalton Taynar’s death to consider,” added Sir Ralf. “We must not forget this cloaked assailant who stabbed him in his bedchamber. It was that very wound that killed him, more than any foe on the field. If this was indeed by the order of Brontus Oloran, he should be executed, not honoured.”

“Well spoken, Sir Ralf,” said Amron, agreeing with a hard nod. “Whether he played a part in Dalton’s death or not, Brontus sullied himself with his behaviour here. You were not present, Lythian. You did not bear witness to his unseemly accusations and petty complaints. No, Sir Brontus is not a man we can rely on. But you, Lythian…there is no man more faithful, no knight more noble. So say yes, my friend. And take up the bloody blade.”

But still, Lythian did not make a move. “You say you spoke with the others?” he asked.

“Every man here with a voice, yes,” Amron said at once. “The response was unanimous. You’re well loved, Lythian.”

“That is the old me they favour. The captain and quartermaster. You know the things I’ve done, Amron. They don’t.”

Amron might have struck the man to try to knock some sense into him. “We’ve been through that. Stop wallowing, Lythian, and put it behind you. I thought you had?”

“I have. Yet it remains unknown to the men. If they find out…”

“Let them. It made no difference to me, and it’ll make no difference to them. Anyone with half a brain could understand the choices you made.” He wasn’t going to listen to his old friend whine any longer about his part in Eldur’s rise. “Just pick up the bloody blade, Lythian. By your king’s command, take it.”

“Fine.” Lythian stepped toward the wall, where the Sword of Varinar rested at chest height. He stared at it a moment, shaking his head, still tormented by doubts. A moment passed. Then another. Then he turned to Amron with a critical look in his eye. “You might have taken it down for me,” he groused. “Or is this some sort of test?”

“I have faith in you. Just take it off the damn wall. I’m sure you’ll be able to wrestle it to the ground.”

Lythian’s posture tightened. He steadied himself, studying the blade as though it was some complex mystery to be riddled out. “Is there any particular trick to it?” he asked. “Anything in particular I should know?” He looked over at Sir Ralf. “You helped Dalton, I hear, when he was struggling to master the blade. What did you tell him?”

“It doesn’t matter what he told him,” Amron bulled in. “You are not Dalton Taynar. Now stop delaying and pick up the blade. If you drop it, so be it. We’ll go again. Pick it up.”

“Damn you, then.” Lythian thrust forward with his hand, gripped the handle, lifted, and pulled the Sword of Varinar from its brackets. The blade fell at once, drawn down by its enormous weight, though he managed to arrest its momentum as it swung, holding it off the ground. He turned, straining to raise it, up and up, so that the tip was pointed right at the chest of his king. There was a look of defiance painted upon the face of Lythian Lindar, the Knight of Mists. “There,” he grunted. “Satisfied?”

Amron smiled. He raised a hand, sensing Lythian was about to let the blade fall back down. “No, wait. Hold on. Let me see.”

The seconds passed. One, two, three, four…only then did the strain grow too much for the man, and he let the blade fall. Even so, he held it off the ground. Another eight or nine seconds passed in that state before he puffed out a breath, stepped to the wall, and leaned it up against the stone with a dull heavy clunk.

Sir Ralf was looking on in admiration. “You take to it like a duck to water, my lord. A rare thing indeed. You will take no time to master it, I feel.”

“Let’s hope so.” Amron and the old knight of Rotting Bridge had discussed the option of Lythian being given the Sword of Varinar before the battle, as a stand-in for Dalton, though at that time Amron had been confident Dalton would carry it forth himself, no matter his physical state. In truth, he had used the man, a fact that had nibbled at his conscience ever since. At any other time Dalton Taynar should have remained abed, convalescing, but Amron had needed his First Blade to inspire the men. He had, and he had died for it. Perhaps I never should have sent him out at all…

It made no matter now. Whichever way he wanted to cut it, the result was the same; Dalton, dead, Vesryn, gone, the Sword of Varinar sitting vacant. While Amron would typically prefer for official procedures to be observed, there was no time for that now.

I need a man I trust to carry it, he thought. I need someone to protect it with his life, someone who will not submit to its lure. Someone who will give it up when the time comes. I need a soldier, and I need a steward. Lythian was one of the few who truly understood how important the Blades of Vandar were. Uniting them might be their only chance, if the prophesies were true. He had one, his son another, Lythian would take a third. That left only Jonik and Janilah. And the gods only know where they are…

“I want you to make mastering it your first priority, Lythian,” Amron went on. “It won’t take long, if your first touch is any judge. Train with it down here for now, until you’re able to carry it at your hip. Then take it everywhere. The bond will soon grow strong.”

“That’s what concerns me. A strong bond is hard to break.” Lythian looked at the blade, grand and gold and misting, wreathed in light and history and expectation. “I did not tell you what happened with Dalton during the battle, Amron. There was a point where the blade was dislodged from his grasp, and the look in his eye…the sound of his voice as he demanded I not touch it. There was a wildness to it. A frenzy. That obsession…”

“Will not dominate you, as it has done others,” Amron was quick to assure him. “You are not Dalton Taynar. You understand that your guardianship of the blade will only be temporary.”

“Then why bother at all? Why not keep it here, under guard, or in Varinar should we return there?”

“Because the future is uncertain, Lythian, and our goals may yet be disrupted. In the meantime, we may well be called upon to fight, and I cannot in good conscience allow the Sword of Varinar to sit down here, idle and unused. Now, do you have any other concerns? By all means speak them, so we can move on.” He waited. No further complaint was proffered. “Good. Then come. I would like to speak with Skymaster Nakaan before he leaves.”

Amron made for the door, shuffling a little on his right leg as Rogen opened it back up with a scream of hinges and let him pass through. He limped his way up the stairs, heaving his weight around the spiralling stone, ignoring the jolts of pain and darting spasms in his muscles as he went. They were not so acute today; manageable, even without his tonics. Still, as soon as he stepped out into the open, he gave the pommel of the Frostblade a little touch to dismiss his ails entirely. From then on he walked upright and strong and straight-backed, through the ruin of the city and past the men. The shambling creature was a private show, only witnessed by those deep in his trust. At all other times he maintained his image - regal, powerful, dominant. A lie.

Sir Oswin, leal man of Sir Storos Pentar, had the charge of the River Gate today. “Has my son returned?” Amron asked him.

“No, sire, no sighting of the prince just yet.”

Amron nodded, displeased.

“It’s only been twelve hours,” Lythian said. “Give him time, Amron.”

“We don’t have time.” Amron had asked Elyon to assess Varinar from the skies only, to perform a fly-by, and return as soon as possible. But he knew his son. He would want to land and hear reports from on the ground. He would want to find out about Lillia and Amara and Jovyn. He would want to know where the Dread had gone, and whether other cities had been attacked and destroyed. He will be pulled in a hundred directions, Amron thought. Who knows when he’ll be back.

It was a source of great frustration to him, having to rely upon his own son to convey messages across the north. At any normal time, a thousand crows would be flying from coast to coast, city to city, kingdom to kingdom, relaying news. As a king and commander he needed to know what was happening, and yet he didn’t. He was blind. And only his son had eyes.

Amron closed a fist, squeezing. His eyes moved south. Upon the broken battlements, he had positioned many watchmen, and in the southeastern corner of the city, where the massive drumtower of Bowman’s Bluff had stood, a tall wooden scaffold had been erected to act as a watchtower. Their task was to look for dragons in the skies and ships on the seas, with horn-blowers ever in attendance to raise the alarm if the Agarathi armada was spotted sailing their way. Some boats had been sent out that morning as well, their purpose to watch the waters. That duty had been given to a commodore by name of Eustace Fairside, one of Lady Brockenhurst’s trusted naval commanders. The only one still alive, Amron thought. The rest had been killed during the battle.

The king spotted the man in question upon the battlements, surveying the rough waters of the Red Sea from beside the scaffold watchtower. He strode to join him, up the broken steps and past the pitted parapets. One of the watchmen saw the king coming and hailed Commodore Fairside’s attention. The man turned as Amron arrived before him, removing a monocular from his eye.

“Report, Eustace,” Amron said.

The commodore was short, well upholstered, with thinning brown hair atop his head and a great, stylish moustache deeply rooted above his upper lip. It was the sort of facial hair that a man took years to cultivate to give him a particular air, and without which he would look rather plain. Three-day stubble had spouted around it, though usually the commodore was clean-shaven. He wore once-white breeches - now badly stained in soot - a dark blue frock coat with golden lapels - torn and frayed - and epaulettes to signal his rank.

“Five ships have sailed, my lord,” he said, gesturing out to sea. His voice had a good strong quality to it, common among naval commanders. “Two galleys, a carrack, and two large skiffs, all swift on the water. We lost sight of them an hour ago, all except Kite.” He presented the monocular. “If you look west, you should be able to see her. She’s a few miles out from the coast.”

Amron looked west, clutching at the godsteel dagger attached to his swordbelt. Faintly, he could see the shape of a vessel in the far distance, though of what type he couldn’t say. “I see her, Commodore.”

“Of course, yes. You have no need of my instruments to improve your sight.” Eustace Fairside smiled and tucked the monocular into a pocket. “My augurs inform me that the weather is set to curdle and grow gloomy over the coming days. Propitious conditions for a hunt, my lord. It should provide ample cover.”

Amron nodded. “Kite is making for Green Harbour, I presume?”