“The smoke? You saw it from here?” Elyon hadn’t imagined that was possible. Ilivar was a hundred miles from Varinar. For them to have seen the smoke from so far…
“Yes, we saw it. I understood at once that the entire city must be burning for the plumes to be visible from here.”
“Understood and did nothing,” Elyon said sharply. “Why have you not sent soldiers? I saw no columns on the road, no riders in pink and blue. Varinar is in chaos. They need help. Now.”
The Lord of Ilivar set his jaw. “Elyon,” he said, in a hard, tense voice. “You are exhausted. No doubt you have flown a lot, and seen a lot, but…”
“I’ve seen more than you would believe. I’ve looked the Fire Father in the eye. I’ve ridden the back of Drulgar the Dread. Do not speak down to me. Why have you not sent soldiers to aid in the capital’s relief?”
Lord Brydon’s eyes were sharp enough to cut steel. He gave no reaction to what his grandson had said. Facing the Fire Father. Confronting the Dread. These were tales of a time gone by, the stuff of myth and legend, yet the old man cared more for his own authority and pride than acknowledging what his grandson had been through. “Elyon, have a care over how you speak to me. You are my grandson, yes, but my leniency has limits. Remember who you’re talking to.”
“The man who lost my sister,” Elyon said at once. “Who plotted to have my auntie thrown into a dungeon.” He had hoped to hold his tongue on all this, but no, out it came. “Have you seen Amara since then? Have you seen what they did to her?”
“She lost a finger, I’m told. Godrik Taynar lost more.”
“Deservedly,” Elyon seethed. “It was justice that he died.”
“Justice? A finger for a life. Is that your kind of justice, boy?”
“Prince,” Elyon said, loudly. “I am your prince, my lord.”
“No, you are not,” his grandfather told him. “The line of succession…”
“My father was pronounced king several hours ago,” Elyon called out, turning to the men listening about the walls. “He had shared the rule with Lord Dalton Taynar, but Dalton Taynar is dead. His nephew Rodmond is now lord of his house. I watched with my own two eyes as Rodmond knelt down before my father and paid him fealty with the rest of us. He is king, now, without question. Amron Daecar is king. Long live the king!”
A few voices echoed him, a smattering among the throng, but they were muted and subdued, unsure of themselves at first. So Elyon bellowed it out, even louder than before - “Long live the king! King Amron Daecar! Long live the king! Long live the king!” - as more and more men took up the chant with each repetition. Before long it was spreading along the walls and into the towers, a roaring chorus, ringing out through the streets.
The look of displeasure on Lord Brydon’s face was plain. Elyon stepped closer to him. “You should heed your men, Grandfather,” he said. “Do not try to stand in the way of this. You’ll only find yourself alone.”
The lord’s expression did not change. Brydon Amadar had always ruled Ilivar as if it were an island in the ocean, his authority absolute. Being isolated and alone was his preference. “Will he return to Varinar?” was all he asked, stiffly. “Nothing is official until he is crowned. There must be a coronation.”
“There will be. When time allows. Right now we have other priorities.” The chanting was growing yet louder. Some men were drawing blades, thrusting them to the skies. It made Elyon smile. He had not expected to spread the inferno like this, though the reaction was welcome all the same. Let it be heard all across Vandar, and the north, he thought. Amron Daecar is king. Let it give us hope.
But he could not stay much longer to listen. Already his mind was moving to more pressing concerns. “You didn’t tell me whether you’d seen her,” he said to his grandfather. “Amara.”
“No. I did not. Though I was told she came two weeks ago.”
Elyon frowned at that. “You were away?”
“Searching for your sister, yes. Amara spoke with Sir Gorton at the gate. He divulged to her that Lillia had gone missing, and your auntie left. That’s all I know.”
“In which direction?”
“That’s all I know. You will have to speak to Sir Gorton.”
“And where is he?” It was like getting blood from a stone. “Might you point me in his direction, at least?”
“He commands the Storm Gate. You will find him there.” Lord Brydon looked west, pondering. “How bad is Varinar?”
“Bad. Not the western side so much, but from the South Gate to the harbour, the city is ash and rubble. The Ten Hills suffered sorely. You should know, Grandfather. Keep Amadar is a ruin.”
The man showed scant reaction to that. “I never liked it,” he said. “Rikkard used to say he would go and live there when he became lord. To taunt me, perhaps, or tease me. I don’t know.” He paused for thought. “You know my feelings about Varinar, Elyon.”
Too busy. Too many noises and smells and people. Ilivar was much quieter, much cleaner, a city in the image of its lord. And brutally defended. One only had to glance along the walls to see that, with the bulky ballistas and chunky catapults and tall trebuchets packed behind the parapets. A part of Elyon wished Drulgar had flown here. It might have been enough to finish him.
“I want you to send men,” Elyon said. “Not as your prince, or as my father’s proxy. Not even as your grandson, or Iliva’s heir as champion of her blade. No, let me appeal to your good nature, Grandfather. Your capital needs you. And you have it in your power to help. Please, send it.”
The old lord considered that. “I have a duty to my people here as well. I cannot leave Ilivar undefended.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to send a portion of your strength only, those who can be spared. A thousand men will help. Five thousand would be better. Do you want me to get down on my knees and beg?”
“That would be unbecoming of a knight and greathouse heir, more so a prince and champion. Spare your knees, Elyon. I will send what men I can.”
“Thank you.” It was something, at least. “Today.”
Lord Amadar nodded, looked to his right, and a man marched over. “Sir Geofrey. I want you to arrange relief efforts for Varinar. Food, bandages, medicine, supplies. Load the wagons at once and have them accompanied by a strong escort. And send a mounted host ahead with all haste. Have them liaise with…” He looked at Elyon. “Who is currently in charge?”
“Sir Hank Rothwell.”
“Have them liaise with Sir Hank. Help him to restore order.”
Sir Geofrey Bannard was a man of stiff posture, tight movements, and military precision. Just the sort of captain Brydon Amadar liked to keep around. He gave a sharp nod. “Yes, my lord. Who is to lead the advance host?”
“You are. Choose a suitable man to lead the baggage train. Sir Michael Tunston is reliable.”
“He would be my choice as well, my lord.”
“I want you ready to leave by late afternoon.” He turned. “Elyon, is the road unblocked?”
