They walked along in silence, through grand golden halls with high fluted pillars and tapestries hanging on the walls, past little private alcoves in which the ladies of the court used to sit and gossip, through long white colonnades with open views through the city and valley beyond. Amilia stopped when they reached the central hall, with its great stair, curved and branched, that linked the palace’s many levels. Amilia’s private rooms were higher, up another two levels, among the royal quarters right at the top of the palace. But the training yards were down in the city.
“Will you make for the Sentinels, then?” she asked Sir Mallister, finally breaking the long silence between them. “How long do you intend to be?”
He seemed torn on how to answer. “I would expect to train for some hours, my lady. If you are still awake at midnight…”
“Then you can come and guard my door. From outside, sir. I will be fast asleep.” She twisted a grin, playing her games, extracting her joys where she could. “If you should still be there in the morning, and with energy enough after your long and lonely vigil…” She turned her smile coquettish and left the rest unsaid. Below, she could hear men down in the main atrium, where the great doors to the palace opened out onto a large, walled courtyard, giving access to the city. There seemed to be some commotion, voices speaking loudly.
Sir Mallister looked that way. “It sounds like someone has entered unwelcome,” he said. “I ought to find out what is happening.” He turned, moving to the stairway.
And made it three paces.
A sudden uprush of air burst from beneath them, stopping Mallister Monsort in his tracks. The voices below became shouts, hollering loudly, though over that wind, Amilia could not make them out. From the main landing several levels below, a figure came rising, silver-armoured and blue-cloaked with a swirling blade in his grasp, glowing a radiant silver. Air embraced him in a spinning vortex, causing everything light and loose - skirts, cloaks, drapes and banners - to billow and stir and snap. Amilia raised her hand, shielding her eyes from that wind, hair whipping wildly. Through the gaps between her fingers she saw the figure come in to land. Then the air settled, the winds calming…
…and Elyon Daecar stepped forward.
Amilia lowered her arm, meeting his silver-blue gaze. A hush fell. His face was more bearded than the princess recalled, all windburnt cheeks and weary eyes with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Yet all the same, a tired smile tugged at his lips as he saw her, and she remembered a simpler time, in Varinar, with Elyon and Aleron and Mel and others; Lancel, Barnibus, sweet young Lillia and the squire Jovyn, cousin Amara and her husband Vesryn and Lord Amron, of course, who could ever forget him.
A better time. A happy time. “Elyon,” she whispered, smiling.
“Amilia.” He stepped forward. “They told me you were here. I’ve been wondering…we’ve all been wondering…with Thalan. I thought you were dead.”
Only inside, she thought. “Not yet,” she said. “It’s good to see you again, Elyon. You look…”
“A mess,” he said. “I know. I have seen much battle, my lady.”
“I can tell.” That was clear enough by the battle scars on his armour, the scratches and dents and marks. He had a deep gash on his right eyebrow too, sewn up and healing. On his breastplate was a large mottled burn mark that could only have been rendered by fire.
There were shouts ringing from below, the sound of guardsmen rushing up the stairs. “Some issue with the guards, Elyon?”
“Yes, they were rather reluctant to let me pass.” He paused, and for the first time he seemed to notice the presence of Mallister Monsort. A tension thickened at once. “Mallister,” Elyon said, awkwardly. “It’s…been a while.”
Sir Mallister’s mouth hardened. “That’s all you’ve got to say to me? It’s been a while?” His eyes were more dark and murderous than Amilia had ever seen them. “You killed my sister, Elyon. It’s been a while, yes. Been a while since you murdered her.”
Elyon shook his head. “No…”
“You killed her,” Mallister Monsort repeated. “You cut her throat right down to the bone.”
“She cut her own throat,” Elyon came back. “I loved her, Mallister. Do you think I’d have taken her life?”
“You never loved her. You just bedded her, used her, like you have a hundred others.” Amilia could see the muscles straining in Sir Mallister’s neck, limbs tensing, coiling as though ready to spring. “That girl, at the wedding. That redhead. You went off with her to have your fun, right there in front of my sister. That’s love to you, is it? Taking off some random wanton while the woman you love watches on?”
“Nothing happened,” Elyon said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know. I know the guards burst in to find Mel’s blood all over your hands. I know her screams were heard from halfway across the palace. Lady Cecilia told me that herself.”
Elyon gave a scoff. “And you believed her? That scheming bitch?”
“You’ll answer for what you did, Daecar,” Sir Mallister growled, refusing to listen. He took a step forward, reaching to the hilt of his blade. Six inches of steel came slicing out. “My sister would never have killed herself. Never. She was strong, stronger than you. She…”
“I don’t have time for this,” Elyon cut in, waving him away, dismissive. “Take your grievances elsewhere, Monsort. I’ve things I need to discuss with the princess.”
“My grievances? Grievances! You murdered my sister, you godsdamned bastard! I’ll see you pay in blood!” The rest of his blade came ringing from its sheath, catching the light of a torch, gleaming.
“Stop,” Amilia said. “Mally…just stop…”
“Mally?” Elyon looked between the two of them. “So it’s Mally, is it? You two…?”
“That’s none of your business,” Sir Mallister snapped. He brandished the blade forward, all but ready to swing. “Come, draw your sword. Steel to steel to settle it.”
Elyon looked at the blade in Sir Mallister’s grasp, a flat disdainful look on his face. “I have no interest in killing you, Mallister. I have no time for you at all.” He looked away, putting his eyes on the princess. “Amilia, tell your dog to stand down and return to heel before he does something he’ll regret.”
That didn’t much help matters. “Dog?” bellowed the Emerald Guard. “You call me a dog for defending my sister’s honour? For seeking vengeance for her death?”
“You want vengeance, find your king. Melany was working for Janilah Lukar, Monsort. For years, she told me. That’s why she stole into my bed in the first place. To get close to me and my family. Close to Aleron. So she could…” He paused, breathing out.
“Could what?” Amilia asked. “What did she do?”
Elyon gave a shake of the head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. It does matter. What, Elyon? Tell me…”
“It was her,” he blurted. “Melany. She was the one who poisoned Aleron before the final of Song of the First Blade. She confessed it to me that night. In the room. She hoped it would make me kill her, but I didn’t. I didn’t, Mallister,” he repeated. “So put that bloody blade away.”
Sir Mallister Monsort hesitated. A hundred things seemed to be running through his head. He loved his sister too much, Amilia thought. To believe all that would be to dishonour her. At last he shook his head. Then he reached down and ripped off a glove, throwing it to the floor. “I’ll have my vengeance, Elyon Daecar,” he said. “Tomorrow. Dawn. The Sentinels. Let the gods decide.”
“Fine.”
Sir Mallister rammed his blade back into its sheath. “Done, then. I’ll see you at first light.” He stormed straight past him, all but knocking into Elyon’s shoulder as he marched on down the steps.
