“And abandon the coast?” asked Sir Adam, aghast. “If we leave King’s Point, the Agarathi will be able to land on our shores unhindered. If they return…”

“They ran,” thundered Sir Taegon Cargill. “They saw the dragon and ran. They won’t be coming back.”

“They expected him no more than we did,” Sir Adam retorted. “They fled to their ships by instinct, in terror, but when their commanders get a grip of them, they’ll be back. They will swarm us, take this city, and continue upriver to finish the job the dragons have started. The Fire Father will make sure of it. He’ll destroy us all.”

Chaos and calamity and the ending of the world, Amron thought.

“The Agarathi are slaves, in thrall to Eldur’s rule,” said Lythian. “We must work to break those chains, free them, and work with them. Our very survival depends on it.”

“Work…work with them?” baulked Sir Gerald Strand, in a disbelieving huff. “These men came here to kill us. And now what? We’re to just kiss and make up? No. I say we hang them, open their necks, throw them in the Red Sea and make it redder. Tie them to the masts of whatever ships they left behind and sink them. Send every last one of those bastards down to Daarl’s Domain.”

“No,” Lythian said at once. “That is not how we treat prisoners of war here, Sir Gerald.”

“Ignore him, Captain Lythian,” Rodmond Taynar said darkly, staring into Sir Gerald’s piggish little eyes. “We all know how Gerald treats his friends. It’s no wonder he’d advocate such cruelty toward his enemies.”

The doughy knight fronted up to that, swinging his soft bulk in Rodmond’s direction. “And just what do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean.”

It didn’t take long for Sir Gerald to puzzle it out. “King Ellis? Is that it? One little mistake, and I’m tarred forever?”

“One mistake? You stood by and let your own king be thrown from a balcony. If I had it my way, you’d be thrown back into your cell, Strand. How many men died here two days ago? How many thousands of good honest men. And you survive. At least Sir Alyn did us the courtesy of dying. But you, no. You just had to live on.”

“Na..Nathaniel did too.” Sir Gerald’s flabby chins were wobbling. “If you’re to direct your odium somewhere, Sir Rodmond, why not at…”

“Him?” Rodmond looked over to where Sir Nathaniel Oloran stood, quietly observing. “Because he knows his place. He knows not to speak unless he’s got something useful to contribute. And he acquitted himself with honour during the battle. I saw. I was there. Nathaniel tried to save my uncle. But you? Where were you, Sir Gerald? When we all rushed out to meet the Dread, when we fought the dragons across the field, where were you?”

“I…I…”

“Nowhere. You were nowhere. Hiding, most likely. Curled up in some pit, bawling like a child and pissing yourself.” He barred his teeth. Amron had never seen the young man like this before. “My uncle - your own cousin - was awoken in his sickbed, with a stab wound in his gut, and that didn’t stop him donning his armour and marching out to fight at the head of his men. He fought hard, so hard his stitches ripped open, and the wound in his gut tore even wider. He fought on, even as he bled to death. He died a hero, Sir Gerald. And you live on, a worm…”

“Rodmond.” Elyon stepped over, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’ll do now. That’s enough.”

“Is it? You hate him as much as I do, Elyon. We all hate him. His very presence here insults me.”

Sir Gerald’s pockmarked cheeks had gone bright red. He made a harrumphing sound, as though to try to maintain some dignity. “I don’t need to hear this. I’m the heir to House Strand, not some common serving man. Your great aunt Margery was my mother, Rodmond. We’re family. You have no right to speak to me like this.”

“I have every right. I’m your lord now.”

“Lord of a dying house.”

“A dying house?” Rodmond’s fist gripped steel. “Say that again.”

Sir Gerald drew back. “I only mean…how many Taynar men died here? And how many in Varinar? Your grandfather is dead, your uncle. After you…”

“Enough,” Amron boomed, lest this devolve even further. “We are all under threat of extinction, every house in the north, great, middling and small. Every knightly house, new and renowned. Every family. Every man, woman, and child. That’s the truth. When we come out on the other side of this, who knows what will be left. All we can do now is fight to retain what we have. Together. Enough of this bickering.”

Silence followed his words, though the tension was thick enough to cut. This isn’t the time for this, Amron realised. They needed rest, all of them. Nothing useful would be accomplished until they’d cleared their heads. “We can resume on the morrow,” he decided. “Get some sleep, all of you, that’s an order. Sir Adam, make sure that our borders are well watched.”

“As well as they can be, my lord. I have men at every breach and broken tower, and sentries on the intact sections of wall. We’ll have warning if anyone comes.”

Amron nodded. Or anything. “Until tomorrow, then.” He made to step around the table.

Elyon moved in his way. “We haven’t finished, Father. I don’t want to go without your permission. But I will, if I must.”

Amron let out a breath. There’ll be no fighting him on this one. And he’s right, we need to know. “Fine. If you’re sure you’re strong enough…”

“I am.”

“Then go. Rest at Crosswater if you feel you need to. See what you can learn, and return at once. I want you back here as soon as possible, Elyon.”

“Yes, my lord.” Elyon gave a bow, turned, took a pace, then stopped. “King,” he said, looking at the exit flaps. He let the word hang for a moment, then turned back again to address the council. “My king.” He met Amron’s eyes. “It’s time we started saying it, Father. We’ve never needed one more. A king, to unite us. Inspire us.”

The men in the room shifted stance at once, sensing a moment of import, backs straightening, chins rising. Heads went up and down, nodding. Eyes steeled. Lord Gavron Grave pushed up from his stone seat; Lord Warton rose, suppressing a cough. “King,” said Lythian, tasting the title on his tongue. “It’s always suited you, Amron. About time we made it official.”

Sir Taegon dropped to a knee, godsteel cracking on stone. He pulled the great warhammer of House Cargill from his back and laid it down before him. “King Daecar,” he boomed. “My hammer is yours.”

“And my blade,” said Sir Quinn, kneeling at Cargill’s side, and at once the others went to follow, Sir Nathaniel and Sir Gerald, Sir Ralf of Rotting Bridge, Sir Torus Stoutman and Sir Storos Pentar, the Ironfoot and Lord Warton, Lord Barrow, Lord Kindrick, and Lord Rodmond Taynar, Rogen Whitebeard, his faithful guard, and Walter Selleck, his faithful scribe, and Lythian, his closest friend, and Elyon, his last living son….every one of them went to one knee.

Amron watched them all go down, and accepted that it was time.

“I meant to share the rule with your uncle, Lord Taynar,” he said to young Rodmond. “By rights that honour should go to you now. If you want it…”

“I never wanted it, Your Majesty. Not to be a lord, much less a king.” Rodmond glanced across at Elyon. “Your son will tell you. I’m meant to follow, not to lead. This is your kingdom to rule.”

“Yours, as it should always have been,” said Lythian, looking up at him.

And from the booming lungs of Sir Taegon came the roar, “Long live the king! King Amron Daecar! Long live the king!” Without prompting, he rose to his feet, threw open the flaps, and let his bellow ring out through the ruin of the city. “Long live the king! Long live the king!” And with his great warhammer raised aloft, he marched in the smoggy night air, bellowing for all to hear.

The others took up the chant, standing and going with him, drawing their misting blades, thrusting them to the skies. Elyon and Lythian moved to Amron’s sides, taking his arms, leading him forth. They marched him out into the open square, to the tents and pavilions, the captains and commanders, the banners whipping in the wind. Men emerged from inside, and appeared from broken alleys. Upon the shattered walls, the watchmen and bowmen looked down. And across the square, across the city, the chant began to echo and grow.

“Long live the king! Long live the king! Long live the king!”

2

He found her standing alone, gazing up at the statue of Thala.

“Your Highness. It is time.”

Amilia Lukar did not stir or turn to face him. Nor did she answer at once. A moment passed, and then another, before she cocked her head a little to one side and said, “The eyes,” as she continued to stare upward, shifting her weight to the left and right. “They seem to follow you as you move. It’s like she’s watching us still, even after all this time.”

It was where the Book of Contracts had been placed, this chamber, set upon a podium accessed up a short stone stair. The statue extended out from the wall toward it, looming over all the death and darkness that the Far-Seeing Queen had foreseen. And written into that book, Jonik thought. For us mere mortals to carry out.

“There is strange magic here, my lady,” he told her. “Hamlyn carved this statue himself, some time after Thala’s death. Perhaps he wrought the eyes with that particular intent, to watch those who pass below.”

“Hamlyn,” Amilia repeated. “Hamlyn the Humble.” She took a moment to muse on the epithet. “Is that how he seemed to you, Jonik? Humble? This mage who presided over so much suffering?”