“Some of the lakeside towns were burned,” Elyon told him. “Those closest to Varinar. There may be some debris on the road, but elsewise the route should be passable.”
Lord Amadar looked back at Sir Giffard. “Clear whatever obstacles might impede the wagons. I want at least a dozen ballista carts to go as well. If any dragon should pass, they will offer some protection.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Go, Sir Giffard.”
Sir Giffard gave a stiff bow to both men, and marched away. Once before, Brydon Amadar had been a fierce warrior and decisive battle commander, winning victories by the edge of his blade and the tip of his pen both, without ever having to join the fighting. Elyon had only ever seen the old greatlord hiding behind his walls, but he’d heard the stories. He was getting a glimpse of the man he used to be right now.
“Perhaps you should go as well, Grandfather,” he suggested, poking at those coals. “Varinar is desperate for leadership. Your presence would be a boon.”
“I am needed here. Varinar is the seat of the king.”
“That seat is gone. The palace is destroyed, and the Steel Throne buried beneath it.” It occurred to him that the crown would be down there somewhere too, buried beneath all that rubble, with all its little misting points. Well, we can forge a new one. “Father may yet remain at King’s Point. There is a fear that the Agarathi will rally and return, and he is loath to leave the coast undefended.”
“A fair concern. For all the damage that dragons can do, they cannot invade or conquer. That takes men. The coast must be defended at all costs. It is our wall, Elyon. If the enemy should breach it, they will swarm.” He glared south, thinking. Something seemed to be coming alive in him, the shadow of his former self, when he cared for more than his precious silver city.
“You should join us,” Elyon said, once more attempting to stir him into action. “Muster your army and march south. We could use you.”
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.”
