That brought silence to the room.

Elyon went on. “You wonder why I have been delayed in my return? My flight across the Red Sea is one such reason. I scouted south to check on the Dread, but the way was blocked by fume. The Ashmount smokes, my lords, my lady. From its summit, great plumes of black smoke fill the air, and I could not get near the Nest. Drulgar may yet be there, resting, but I cannot say for certain.”

Killian was running his fingers down his sharp chin, deep in thought. “There is a relationship between the dragon and the mountain,” he whispered. “Legend says that Drulgar was born from it, that Agarath forged him from its fires, building his body from the rock. These events may be linked. The smoking mountain may signal that the dragon is indeed recovering, a sign of his healing.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed Rammas, dismissing it with an irritated wave of the hand. “It’s just a volcano, Killian. Volcanos smoke, that’s what they do.”

That was a possibility also, Elyon had to admit, though Killian Oloran was not a man to speak a theory unless it had been well thought out. To take it to its natural conclusion, that would mean that the volcano would stop smoking once the Dread was fully healed. Elyon put that to the group, and got a few nods of agreement, though Rammas continued to mutter that they were overthinking everything, and had gone ‘myth-mad’, as he called it. It was not an expression Elyon had heard before, though he got its meaning.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But there is no harm in taking precautions. This is unprecedented ground we are treading, Lord Rammas. All eventualities must be considered.”

“All. Yes. And that’s my complaint. We spend all our time in council when we should be taking action. I lament more than ever the death of Lord Kanabar. He’d not be indulging all this prattle.”

“If you are weary of listening to it, my lord, by all means go.” Elyon opened an arm out to the flaps. “We will call upon you when it is time to act, if action is all you care for.”

Rammas bristled at that. “You’re dismissing me?”

“No. I am offering you the opportunity to leave. There is a difference.” He turned back to the command table, letting Rammas do as he wished. His warmongering is exhausting. Elyon understood, of course. The Marshlands had been raped, pillaged, brutalised and besieged by Vargo Ven and his armies, and Rammas only wanted his chance to seek vengeance. I want that myself, for Lancel, for Wallis, for Barnibus maybe too. Yet that did not mean he would be drawn to rash action, spending countless lives without due thought. “I want you to try to get a message to Moonrider Ballantris,” he said. “Is there a way of infiltrating Ven’s army with a spy?” The question was directed at Lady Marian. “You have special ointments and potions, I know, that can be used to change a person’s features, darken their skin and hair. Might you have an agent, my lady, who could pose as a Lumaran, and get close to Ballantris?”

Her face gave nothing away, as ever. “I will do what I can,” she merely said.

Elyon thanked her with a nod. There was little more he wanted to say right now. “Prince Raynald, would you join me for a private word?” He looked around. “Unless there’s anything else we need to discuss?”

No one came forward with anything pressing, so at that the council dispersed. Sir Karter strode quickly out, perhaps to update his lord father on proceedings, while Marian set off to her task. Rikkard and Killian remained, moving to the command table, discussing strategy. Rammas stamped out of the pavilion in a rage, seeking to purge his pent-up frustrations by engaging someone in a duel. “I need a challenger,” he bellowed as he left. “Two or three good knights. And no holding back.”

Raynald was smiling as Elyon joined him. That handsome smile of his father’s. “Lord Rammas is a character, isn’t he?” the young prince said. “I enjoy these councils for him alone. It was so dull back in Ilithor.”

“It must have been frustrating, with Robb away at war?”

“More than frustrating, Elyon. What’s that they say? An heir and a spare. You were the spare for Aleron, but with me it was even harder, being twins. To be left behind with the women and the old men while Robb went off to win glory?” He shook his head. “No. I wasn’t going to live with that.”

“So you came here,” Elyon said, smiling easily. “To win glory of your own.”

“I suppose that was a part of it. Personal glory. But it’s about defending Tukor as well, and the north. That is my primary motivation, as I’m sure it is yours.”

Elyon nodded. He’d won enough personal glory by now to fill ten lifetimes, but even so it all felt empty. If the north should perish, the world fall to ruin, what good would all that do him? “I wanted to ask you about something that may be considered sensitive, Ray. Do I have your permission to speak plainly?”

The boy looked at him curiously. “Yes. Of course. Go right ahead.”

Stop looking at the Windblade, stop staring at it with those eyes. You want it, I know you do. You want it for your own…Elyon’s mouth twisted into a rictus smile as those thoughts ran through his mind, unwelcome and uncontrolled, though they did not pass his lips. There was something about those looks Raynald gave the blade, those covetous little looks and glances, that made the whispers hiss and holler somewhere in the back of his mind. Once more he drowned them out by repeating his father’s mantra. And all the while, that smile. That strange, fixed smile that made Raynald ill at ease.

“It, er…it must be something hard to express, Elyon. You look…very serious.” He glanced to the side, where a table was set up with jugs of ale and wine and water. “A cup of ale, perhaps, to make it easier? Watered ale, of course. I know you’re flying.” He stepped away and poured, giving Elyon time to drag that smile from his lips and drown out the whispers in his head.

“My thanks, Ray,” Elyon said, thick-voiced, when the prince returned. He took a sip, whispers fading, anger too, then decided it was simply best to tell the truth. “It’s the Windblade,” he explained. He understands. He knows. He saw what happened to his grandfather. “I feel it becoming more…more protective of me.” It wants to stay with me. With me and me alone. “Sometimes the way you look at it…”

“You think…you think I would try to steal it from you?” Raynald looked aghast, even angered by the notion. “Gods no, Elyon. Is that why you look at me like that?”

Elyon wasn’t sure what he meant. “Like what?”

“With that glare. As if you want to kill me. Perhaps you don’t even know you’re doing it?”

Elyon shook his head, frowning.

“Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a little. It’s not so bad as all that. Just the occasional narrow-eyed glare, you know. Like I’ve kissed your sister or something.” Raynald took a long draught of his drink.“So. This sensitive matter? Was it the Wind…” He dare not even say it. “Sorry. Your blade you wanted to talk about?”

Well, don’t I feel the fool. “No. It’s the Book of Thala. I wondered if you knew where it was?”

The young prince clearly thought that Elyon had gone mad. He gave a loud scoff. “No. Why should I know where the Book of Thala is?”

It was an honest enough answer. “No reason.”

Because we’re of the belief that your grandfather has it stored somewhere in his private quarters in Ilithor, he might have said instead. Lythian and Walter and Ralf had the bright idea that the Book of Thala might contain some clue they could use, about mastering the Eye of Rasalan, or combining the Blades of Vandar. Elyon had told them he would make enquiries. Another task to add to my list.

But clearly Raynald didn’t know.

“Was that all?” the prince asked.

Elyon was inclined to say ‘yes’ and leave this awkwardness behind, but he had a little more to say first. “I’m planning to fly to Thalan, see what I can find out about your sister, and will stop off at Ilithor on the way. It isn’t so much of a detour and I feel beholden to update them on our news. Is there anything you would like me to report, from you directly? Any word you would like me to share with your mother?”

It was the last thing in the world Elyon wanted to do, meet with that crazed old shrew who had spat in his face once before, but Raynald had earned that much.

The young prince pondered, then shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Just make sure she knows that I’m safe. She’ll like that. You don’t have to visit her yourself.”

“I don’t mind, truly…”

“Truly?” Raynald said. “Truly I think you’re a liar, Elyon. She’s a bitch and we all know it. I’d not want to subject all her spiteful ramblings onto you. And I know about the spitting.”

“Oh. You do?”

“An unseemly business, but sadly not unusual for her either. No, just have one of the maidservants or guardsmen bring her the news. That should serve.”

“As you say.”

Raynald sipped his ale. “So…Thalan. You’re flying there all for the sake of my sister, are you? I didn’t know you cared about her.”

“She was to wed my brother.”

“As my brother was to wed your sister. These things don’t seem to turn out too well, do they?” His mouth hardened, as he looked at the Windblade, more pointedly this time. “That was the same night you stole it from Dalton Taynar. The night of my sister’s wedding to Hadrin. That was when your auntie Amara got up and announced Robb was betrothed to Lillia.”

Elyon had mixed memories of that night. The horrid spectacle of the wedding ceremony. The feast during which he pretended to get drunk. The tension of the heist, and jubilation at their triumph. The horror of what happened after, with Mel, when she confessed her part in Aleron’s death and sawed open her very own throat.

“That was part of it, wasn’t it?” Raynald went on. Elyon raised his eyes. “Your auntie making that great spectacle, with Wallis Kanabar? That was part of the distraction so that you could steal the blade?”

“We didn’t steal it,” Elyon said, defensive. He could feel his face growing hot. “We were only righting wrongs.”

“Righting wrongs? What about Lady Melany? They say you killed her.”

“I didn’t.”