“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.”
“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?”
