“Ah yes. I did hear a rumour that you had stopped in Calmwater. You returned the long lost Lady Kathryn, did you not?”

“She was in the same pits as Sir Torvyn. Jonik was adamant that we return everyone back to their own lands.”

“Jonik,” repeated Sir Rikkard, mulling on the name. “The more I hear about him, the more I am convinced of his virtue. He sounds a good man.”

“He is. I can attest to that personally. So will Borrus, I’m sure.”

“Yet he isn’t with you. When we received word from Lord Ghent that you were coming here, I had assumed Jonik would be part of your host. I wanted it to be so, in fact. I have an interest in meeting the man who killed my nephew.”

Emeric detected no venom in the way he said it. “He is haunted by that, I assure you. It drives him every day to be better.”

Rikkard contemplated that for a moment. “Sometimes a man has to pass through the darkness in order to walk in the light. Such it is with this war, would you not say? We are all enshrouded by it, and striving to reach the light beyond…to see the glow of that far-off dawn.”

Emeric raised a brow. “You speak well, sir. Yes, this is how I feel as well.”

Rikkard gave a smile, dipped his chin, and stepped over to a small possessions trunk set beside the pallet bed. He opened it and drew out three pewter cups and a stoppered clay bottle. “I took the liberty of provisioning you with a drop of wine, Emeric. I hope you don’t mind if I partake?”

“By all means.”

Rikkard returned to the table, placed down the cups, and poured out three portions.

“Are we expecting company?” Emeric asked.

Rikkard handed him his goblet. “She’ll be along any moment.”

“She?”

“Yes, the female of the species, though with Lady Marian there is perhaps some scope for debate.” He smiled. “She is as fearsome as any man I have ever met. An extraordinary woman. I think you’ll like her.”

Emeric frowned, wondering where this was going. He had heard the name of course. Marian Payne had developed a network of spies and sneaks, always women, though it was said she was an outstanding swordswoman too, one of the finest Bladeborn in all of Rasalan, utterly redoubtable of spirit. Quite what they wanted with him, though, he could not say.

Rikkard was looking at him with a half smile on his face. “I remember getting drunk with you at a feast tourney once,” he said, reminiscing. “After the war. At Eastwatch, I think it was.”

Emeric recalled that as well. He recalled every tourney, every feast, every joust and melee. It was a life he’d lived for a few years only, so remembering such occasions was easy enough. “You were drunk, Sir Rikkard,” he corrected. “I would not say the same about myself.”

“Well…I was often drunk back then. The afterglow of the end of the war, and all that. Mostly I was drinking my grief, though. I lost two brothers to Vallath.”

Emeric remembered that too. It was said that Rikkard Amadar would never hear a bad word said against Amron Daecar, for avenging the deaths of his older brothers when he slew Vallath at the Burning Rock.

“You know that grief, of course,” Sir Rikkard went on. “You lost your father too, during the war.”

“To an arrow,” Emeric said. There was no great glory in that death. Just a lucky arrow that had come out of nowhere to plunge down into his eye. He had his faceplate upturned at the time, to better shout his orders to his knights. A mistake that cost him his life. Most deaths in war were luck, Emeric knew.

“And you were raised to lord thereafter,” Rikkard said.

“For a time,” Emeric murmured. “Before my exile. I have no lands and titles anymore, Sir Rikkard.” He sipped his wine, keen to change the topic of conversation. “Ought you not be accompanying Borrus to his pavilion? He will want to convene a war council at once, I know. He has been speaking about it for days.”

“I can quite imagine. Having known Borrus Kanabar for many long years, I am fully aware of his proclivities and habits. Like his father, he is bellicose, belligerent, and will no doubt be keen to march out and smash Ven’s horde to pieces.” He sighed, taking a sip of wine. “I tell you, Emeric, Lord Rammas was more delighted than I could say to hear that you were coming. And when I say you, I mean Borrus. Never have I seen him so restless as we awaited you, nor so courteous as when he presented Borrus with his brooch just now. Do you know what it denotes?”

“It is the brooch worn by the Warden of the East,” Emeric said.

“Just that. A rank Rammas held for a short time, though only as a surrogate. He never wore that mantle comfortably, because he knows he is not worthy of it. Lord Rammas is the Lord of the Marshes, a lesser title. Borrus far outranks him, and now that he is here…”

“He will command the army to war.”

“I worry so, yes. Our orders have been to stand down and wait, but those orders are growing stale. Elyon Daecar brought them, direct from the mouth of his father, but Elyon has been gone long days now and the men are growing restive. Rammas wants his vengeance for the rape and ruin of the Marshlands, and Raynald wants his glory. And what Borrus said out there, about Vargo Ven…” He paused, checking Emeric’s eyes. “How did he take the death of his father?”

“Not well. He has spoken of retribution for months.”

“Vengeance is never a good pretext for battle,” Rikkard said, wearily. “Should tens of thousands die because of one man’s fall?” He shook his head. “The king’s orders are to wait, and so that is what we have been doing.”

“And you fear Borrus will overrule them?” Emeric rubbed at his beard, uncertain. “I’ve heard Borrus talk of Amron Daecar a hundred times. There’s no one he respects or admires more. If these orders truly come from the king, then…”

He did not get to finish that thought. Outside, voices rose and a moment later the door flaps swayed and the freckled face of Jack o’ the Marsh peeped in. “Sorry to interrupt, my lords, but there’s a lady out here who wishes to see you.”

Rikkard nodded. “That will be her. You may send her in, Jack.”

Jack smiled to have his name remembered. Rikkard Amadar had made a point of meeting them all when they arrived at the tents. “Yes, my lord. Of course. At once.”

He disappeared, to be replaced a second later by Lady Marian Payne. She was tall, taller than Emeric was, and almost as broad at the shoulder as well. Beneath a fine silver cape she wore grey armour the colour of dark smoke, a seamless suit, sleek and slim. Her hair was dark and slicked back over her scalp, her eyes a hard icy blue. She very much met the descriptions Emeric had heard of her.

“My lady,” he said, bowing his head. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

Sir Rikkard went to hand her a cup of wine, but she shook her head.

“Thank you, but I intend to train once we are done. Save the wine, Rikkard. With the Blackshaws here, we are going to need every drop.”

Emeric smiled at the remark. “You know them, my lady?”

“I was in camp at Dragon’s Bane with them, before they left to join your quest. Sir Mooton would join Lord Wallis’s councils, on occasion. He would drink a lot, I recall.”

“A common affliction of the men of the Riverlands,” said Rikkard, with a smile.

“Quite,” agreed Marian. She had a long look at Emeric. “You bear a resemblance to your famed forebear. Sir Oswald was said to have a black beard and golden eyes, as you do.”

“That is where the similarities end, my lady.”

She cocked a brow. “A modest man. I suppose you think that is a virtue?”

“I have heard it said humility is a noble trait, yes.”

“To a point. But a man can be over-humble.” She continued to study him for a moment, and then said, “I am told that the Shadowknight Jonik is not with you. Pray tell, where is he?”

She had something of an interrogatory style of questioning, hardly a soft touch, but he saw no reason to lie to her. “He remained at the Shadowfort. But that was long months ago, my lady. I could not speak to his whereabouts at this time.”

She nodded. “You went there to destroy the order, is that correct?”