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.
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.”
