“I see.” The man took the letter, stashing it away in his cloak. “Of course. I will set out at once.”

“Good. You will find Sir Ralf outside. He will see you provisioned with swift horses and men to ride them. I want you to make all haste, Sir Gerald. Is that understood?”

The man nodded. “All haste, yes. I understand, my lord.”

“Then go.”

Sir Gerald Strand lumbered away, looking more springy in his step than Amron had seen for a while.

Rogen glared after him. “You may have just given him an excuse to desert.”

“It was your idea, sending him away,” Amron told the ranger.

“Doesn’t mean I trust him.”

I do, Amron thought. The last thing Sir Gerald would want would be to look like a craven in front of his lord father. And old Ralf would no doubt select some dependable men to make sure they completed their charge. “If he happens to betray my faith, Rogen, I give you leave to hunt him down and bring him to me by the collar. But I don’t think it will come to that.”

Amron looked through the flaps. He could see that some of the others were appearing outside, arriving from their duties, emerging from their own tents and pavilions as Sir Ralf sent word for them to gather. Some would be only too happy to march to battle, Amron knew, others less so. But how many to take? He was loathe to leave less than ten thousand men here to defend the coast, but would two or three thousand make a difference in the west? If some of our best are among them, yes, he told himself. Every sword and spear makes a difference.

He looked at Rogen Strand, still standing at the flaps. “Send them in,” he said.

21

“To the death,” said Sir Mallister Monsort, glaring at him. “Do you agree?”

“No.”

The Emerald Guard gave a snort. He hasn’t calmed since last night, then. “I call you craven, Elyon Daecar. To the death or be called a craven.”

Elyon looked around the tiered seating set about the duelling yard in the Sentinels, one commonly used by the Emerald Guards, he knew, when they competed in their intra-order tournaments. Only a few had come to watch thus far, given the early hour and impromptu nature of the duel, though more were filing in as the sun rose up in the east, touching the tops of the buildings with its warm, golden light. In the royal box, Princess Amilia was sitting comfortably on her cushioned bench, a cup of watered wine in her hand, giving Elyon a stern shake of the head. He had promised her last night that he would not kill Sir Mallister Monsort; a promise easily made. Because I don’t want to kill him, he thought. I just want him to see sense…

“Call me what you wish,” Elyon said, looking back into Sir Mallister’s hard blue eyes. “Everywhere else they call me the Master of the Winds, the Prince of the Skies, the Lord of Storms, serial killer of Agarath’s spawn. I did not get a chance to speak with you last night, Mallister, after you marched away in a huff. Had you stayed you might have learned that I am now Crown Prince of Vandar as well. And that I have ridden the back of Drulgar the Dread, where I fought Eldur the Eternal between his scales.”

Mallister Monsort did not seem impressed. “Honour yourself all you like, Elyon,” he said. “There are a hundred others who’d have done the same if only they’d had that blade.”

That insult bristled a little. “Like you, Monsort? Do you want it for your own?”

“The Windblade?” The Emerald Guard looked down at it, showing scant interest. Nothing like those covetous eyes of Prince Raynald. “Do you take me for a Vandarian, Daecar? No, I do not want it. And I need no Blade of Vandar to best you. Simple steel will suffice.” He drew his sword from right to left, cutting a line across the sand between them. “First blood, then? Does the craven agree to that?”

“That won’t take long,” Elyon returned. “Give me ten strikes and I’ll have you cut. Don’t you want to give your audience a show?”

“This show is not for them. It’s for me. For Melany.”

“I didn’t kill her, Mallister.”

“You did. Whether by your blade or not, she died because of you.”

Elyon was much too tired to fight him with words on this. I’ll get it over quickly, cut him somewhere non-fatal. He did not hate Mallister Monsort, far from it - the man had once been a close friend of his and he had no intention of causing him any more harm than he must. For that they would need to fight with simple steel, as he’d said.

“First blood, then,” Elyon agreed. “Castle-forged steel, honed to cut and not kill. Armour for the vitals only. Limbs exposed.”

Mallister Monsort nodded curtly, turned, and marched away to his corner. Elyon went to his, removing his swordbelt, placing the Windblade aside against a wall. He was still wearing the full plate armour he had flown here in last night, so took a few moments to undress, leaving himself in only breastplate, plackart, gorget, gauntlets and helm, so that any vital organs were protected, and his wrists and hands as well. His upper arms, thighs, lower legs and shoulders would be left open, though the blades used in these sorts of contests were intentionally blunted so nothing worse than flesh wounds could be rendered. It would take a man like Sir Ralston Whaleheart to hack a man’s limb off with one of these blades, everyone knew.

By the time both of them were ready, the skies had brightened sufficiently for the fighting to begin. A few more spectators were trickling in, as word spread, taking seats here and there, yawning. It was not a large arena, nothing like the great amphitheatre in Varinar, though all the same Elyon could not help but think of his brother. Those days in Varinar when he had watched from the stands as Aleron destroyed all comers during the Song of the First Blade. No one could stand against him, Elyon thought. Even Brontus Oloran, well-fancied to prove his trickiest opponent, had been brutally swept aside by Aleron in their semi-final bout. Jonik too. He would not have stood a chance if Mel hadn’t poisoned Al’s water. And now here we are, fighting for her honour. Hers. It should be me raging mad for my brother’s death, not Mallister bleating about his sister’s…

Elyon marched across the sand in a hard step, to meet the man in the middle. “You need to wake up,” he said sharply, as those memories rushed through his mind. “Your sister…I don’t hate her for what she did. I’ve got every right to, but I don’t. She was only a tool of the king, and given no choice, but still…you need to wake up to who she was, Mallister.”

“I’ll not hear of it. Never.”

Fool. He’s a faithful bloody fool. “Haven’t you ever wondered how your father won those mining contracts? Your house was on the brink of financial ruin before then. That was Melany’s doing. Janilah raised House Monsort on the back of her service.”

“No.” The fool shook his head, loyal like a dog. “Lies.”

“For Vandar’s sake, man, open your eyes.”

“I’d sooner open your throat, Daecar. Let someone more worthy bear that blade of yours.”

Elyon flexed his sword hand. “So be it, then. When the blood comes rushing from your flesh, perhaps you’ll see the light. Let the gods decide.”

Sir Mallister nodded - “the gods” - and reached up to pull down his visor. Elyon did the same, then both men took a step back, and another, until the required ten paces separated them, as per the conditions of the duel. There was no announcer, no one to call the bout to a start, no judges to award points. First blood contests were often fierce and uncomplicated and rarely lasted very long. That suited Elyon Daecar. He had much and more to do with his day, and duelling Sir Mallister Monsort over the honour of his two-faced sister was not something he wanted to waste precious time over.

“Ready, then?” he said.

“Ready.” Sir Mallister put himself into Blockform, a hum buzzing through the crowds. Elyon switched his feet into his favoured Strikeform stance. His opponent inched forward, quarter pace by quarter pace, more watchful and wary than Elyon would have supposed. Anger typically made an opponent reckless, but Mallsiter was not of that sort.

He is a careful fighter, Elyon reminded himself. And a skilled one as well. During his days here in Ilithor before the wedding, the pair had sparred often enough, with Lancel and Barnibus and sometimes Rodmond Taynar as well, and Mallister had proven himself the equal of the others, if not quite so accomplished as Elyon. Yet he may have improved. He is an Emerald Guard, young and strong and quick, and takes his training seriously. Elyon’s last months had been spent duelling dragons in the skies, not knights afoot. It felt strange, he had to admit, fighting without the Windblade in his grasp. Strange…and yet strangely comforting. There was nothing quite like engaging another knight in single, chivalric combat. I’ve missed this, he thought. It brought him back to a simpler time.

Sir Mallister was the first to break the impasse, pressing forward off his rear foot to lunge at Elyon’s thigh. Elyon pulled his leg back, sidestepping in Strikeform, swinging in a sidecut. Mallister’s blade met his in a clang of steel, and at that the fight began in earnest, the pair trading blows. Several swings and slashes connected, steel ringing out across the yard, the knights moving well on their feet to the sound of scuffing sand.

After a short, furious flurry, the pair drew apart again, circling, feeling one another out. Elyon panted a breath, smiling behind his visor. He could not tell if Mallister was doing the same, though suspected not. I’ll have him smiling by the end, Elyon told himself. We’ll share words and wine and put all this behind us.

He went again, moving into Glideform, assaulting the Emerald Guard with a sequence of flowing strikes. Mallister parried, fended, sidestepping away. The final strike connected with his breastplate, drawing a long thin line across the metal. An ‘oooo’ went out through the swelling crowd, and a man shouted out, “For Tukor! You win this for Tukor!”

That seemed to spur Mallister on, as he spun around Elyon’s back and unleashed a frenzied attack, mixing Strikeform with Rushform. Impressive, Elyon thought, fending furiously. When he saw a chance, he blocked with his left hand gauntlet, swiping Mallister’s broadsword away, and hacked low with his own blade, trying to cut his leg. Monsort pulled back in time, Elyon’s sword swiping at nothing but air, as his opponent pirouetted out of range with a charismatic flourish. There was an appreciative applause from the crowd.

“You’ve been training,” Elyon noted, pulling a breath into his lungs.

“Not of late,” Mallister returned, taking a heavy breath of his own. “My…duties have kept me busy.” He glanced up into the stands, where Amilia was lounging contentedly on her bench, supping on her wine and nibbling on honeycakes, not a care in the world despite the fact that it was ending. Or because of it, Elyon thought. Amilia seemed resigned to the fact that they had scant time left before the whole world came crumbling down, and would enjoy that time doing as she pleased. The bard Gifford Gold-Tongue was there as well, plucking at his lute and humming a sweet melody for her, dressed in a ridiculous frilly white blouse and coloured robes that gave him the look of a preening peacock.

“I don’t like that bard,” Mallister growled. Elyon could see the narrow cast to his eyes through the holes in his faceplate. “He’s always sniffing around.”

More than sniffing. Gifford Gold-Tongue had a certain reputation, and not one limited to Ilithor either. “He used to play in Varinar,” Elyon said. “I’ve seen him a dozen times at balls and banquets. You’ll want to watch out for him, Mally. That tongue of his isn’t just for singing.”

He could all but hear the bones grinding in Sir Mallister’s jaw. “I’ve heard…rumours, of that sort.”

“They’re more than rumours. Half the highborn ladies in Varinar could attest to that.”