“I know. I never thought you did. But others…” There was something dark happening, some anger in Raynald Lukar. “It was my father who broke you out of your cell, wasn’t it? He was the one who set you free?”

Elyon’s answer was silence.

“He defended you back then. I remember. When you were in your cell he would argue with my grandfather all the time, saying you had nothing to do with Melany’s death, how he needed to let you go free. Well, we all know how that turned out. You go fleeing away into the mountains and my father goes to confess to the king. That’s how it happened. He was never trying to steal the throne. He was only there for you, Elyon. You.” He looked at the Windblade again. “If you hadn’t stolen it, my father would still be alive. So maybe…” He nodded to himself, once and twice and thrice. “Maybe I’ll look at it all I please, how about that? I think I’ve earned that much, don’t you?”

Elyon did not know what to say to him. For a moment he could only stare, the words caught in his throat, memories flooding. Then he managed to mumble, “What happened with your father…”

“Save it,” Raynald broke right in. “I don’t want to hear your excuses.”

“They’re not excuses. I’m just explaining.”

“Explanations, then. I don’t want to hear them.” He drank his ale down in one long draught. “Look. I know you cared for my father, and he you. I know you didn’t want that to happen. But it did. He died and you played your part in that. Let’s just leave it there.” The prince turned away, setting his cup down on the table with a loud clunk, and strode sharply through the flaps.

Elyon could only stare after him as he went, half in shock at how quickly that had escalated. There was a sound at his side and Rikkard was there. “What was that about?”

Nothing, Elyon wanted to say. “Rylian,” he told his uncle.

Rikkard understood. “He needed to let it out. He’s just a boy, really, still grieving. Don’t hold it against him, Elyon.”

“I won’t. I just…”

“It brings up memories of your own.”

He nodded.

Rikkard put a hand on his shoulder. “You need to rest.”

Elyon shook him free. “I need to go.”

“Where?”

“Northeast. Toward the Hooded Hills first, then to Ilithor. Then Thalan.”

“Then you definitely need to rest. You’ve only just arrived.”

“I can make it to Ilithor tonight. I’ll rest there.”

“And the Hooded Hills? What’s out there?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” Elyon finally drew his eyes from the tent flaps and turned to face his uncle. “Those wounds on Drulgar’s face and neck. The ones he already bore when he arrived at King’s Point. Father believes they were inflicted by gruloks. All this with them being drawn toward the Blades of Vandar…”

“Janilah,” Rikkard Amadar said, seeing it at once.

Elyon nodded. “Father thinks Janilah and some gruloks fought Drulgar, somewhere to the east of here, out near those mountains. You said the Dread was spotted, flying west. Where, exactly?”

“Some fifty miles or so to the north, I think. He flew almost straight over Redhelm.”

“Good,” Elyon said. It would give him something to work with.

Killian stepped over, having heard them from the command table. “Amron hopes to find the Mistblade?” he asked.

Elyon turned to him. He had not spoken to Killian about all this directly, though evidently Rikkard had apprised him of everything that needed telling. “We all do, Kill. That’s one of the reasons Father said to hold off on Ven for now. He’s of the belief that finding the blades is a higher priority, and I’m uniquely positioned to do that.” He gave the Windblade a tap, heart still racing from the confrontation with Raynald. He did not like how that had gone. I’ll smooth things over with him later. “I can move around quickly, and know what it is to bear these blades. If I find the Mistblade I might be able to carry it.”

Rikkard did not seem sure of that. “Will it not take time to bond?”

“If I want to use it, yes. Mastering its properties will take time. But carrying it at my hip might be possible.” The second is always easier, he thought.

“And you don’t mean to? Use it, I mean?” Rikkard bore that doubtful look in his eyes, a look he wore often these days.”

“That will be for my father to decide. He will choose who the blade goes to.” He had not yet spoken of Lythian, he realised. He did so now, telling them of the man’s ascension to the seat of First Blade. “Father chose Lythian to guard the Sword of Varinar, first and foremost. He will do the same with the Mistblade, if and when it’s found.”

“If and when,” repeated Sir Killian. “It may be that Janilah still bears it.”

It may. “That is what I intend to find out. If the Dread fought a group of gruloks there are sure to be signs of destruction. I may be able to spot them from the air.” He paused, then asked, “Has no one come here reporting anything like that?” He thought of the lands outside of King’s Point, terraformed by the Dread’s wild fury. The river, forever altered. The lands, pitted and scarred. If the same had happened to the northeast of here, someone might have seen and reported it.

But the two knights shook their heads. “Not that I’m aware,” said Rikkard.

“No matter. I’ll see for myself.” Elyon stepped over to the table, put down his cup - he’d taken barely more than a sip of his watered ale - and turned back to the others. “I’ll be back in a day or three. If I happen to spot any gruloks, I’ll send them down here to help.” He smiled and stepped away.

The sky was dreary outside, the winds brisk, a few spots of rain in the air. Elyon paced through the ward, taking the main thoroughfare between tents, making for Marian Payne’s pavilion. Her forces numbered only two or three thousand now, the only Rasal representatives here. Roark was sitting outside on a camp stool, knocking a dint out of his breastplate with a hammer. He looked up as Elyon appeared, standing. “You again. We’ve got to stop meeting like this, good prince.”

“Is Lady Marian inside?” Elyon asked.

“Aye. Just got back from council. I’ll announce you.” He moved through the flaps, stepped out again a moment, and nodded Elyon through.

He entered to find Marian crouched over a table of ointments and oils and balms. She looked over as he stepped within, straightening her back. “Elyon.”

“My lady.”

“You have some new task for me?”

“No task, my lady. Only a question.” He took a further step inside, though this would only be a short meeting. “The cousins. Have you heard any news of them?”

“I have.”

“Oh?” He hadn’t expected that. “And?”

“It appears that Prince Sevrin is still alive, Elyon, or so I have been informed. He is the eldest of the cousins, and after Hadrin’s death, the rightful King of Rasalan. Under his authority, the city survivors are rallying. Both Lord Buckland and the Oakenlord have sent men north to help, my sources say. It is favourable news. Sevrin is a noble man, well-liked, and there could be no one better to restore order.”

“Or master the Eye,” Elyon said.

“Yes. That as well. Though I still have my doubts on that account.” She looked through the flaps. Beyond the great ward, with its enormous mast-like poles, the sight of the city proper could be seen across the river, faint against the bleak grey skies. “I took some time to search through the Rustbridge libraries during your absence, and Lord Lester graciously gave me access to his private shelves as well. There were some old tomes that dealt with matters mythical and arcane, though I found nothing inside any of them to help light our way. You spoke during council of unprecedented ground, and that is what we are treading here. Until such a time as Sevrin sits before the Eye of Rasalan, we cannot know for sure what will happen.”

“That time is coming up shortly, my lady. I plan to fly to Thalan tomorrow.”

“And the Eye? When will you deliver it back to its rightful place?”

“As soon as I can. Though all this must be done in secrecy. I have little doubt that Eldur will be hunting me, Marian. For what I did.”