“It will be secure here?” Elyon asked. He needed to be absolutely certain. “No one but you and I will know where it is?”

“It will remain between you and I, Prince Elyon. You have my word.”

“Swear it by godsteel, my lord. I will have your oath.” A part of him hated these oaths now, after that one Amilia had forced him to make, but men of honour tended to stand by them, and Lord Morwood had proven himself such a man.

“As you wish,” the jowly watch commander said. He gripped the leather handle of his godsteel blade and spoke words that Elyon deemed appropriate. Then he looked at him. “Will that serve?”

“It will have to.” Elyon sighed, hating this. He hated much and more these days, his damnable injury foremost among them. “Lock it up, then. But if you breathe a word of this to anyone…”

“I will curse myself to a wretched afterlife. I know the punishments for breaking a godsteel oath, good prince.” He opened the chest in his chambers, an unspectacular trunk of hard ironwood, banded in lengths of old dull steel and hidden in the depths of a cupboard. “Please. Lay it here.”

Elyon grimaced as he drew the Windblade from its sheath, the mists swirling and twisting uncomfortably, as though knowing it was going to be abandoned. He could hear the harsh whispers in the back of his mind, hissing their cautions and concerns. He hesitated a moment, his shoulder throbbing. After a while Morwood gave a cough.

“My lord. I think it would behove me to remind you that you did warn me you might equivocate. And that I should be firm on you when you did, and urge you to leave it here, rather than take it with you. It will be safe, you have my word. It will be waiting for you when you return.”

Elyon nodded reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll…I’ll leave it here.” He took a deep breath and placed the Windblade in the trunk before he could second-guess himself. He took a step away, wrenching against some hidden force. “Shut the chest, my lord. And do it quickly.”

Morwood saw to it, shutting it, locking it. Then he stepped back and closed the cupboard door, locking that as well. Elyon was staring at the door like an addict, his obsession locked beyond two inches of solid wood. This is good, he tried to tell himself. Some time away from it can only be a good thing, even if it’s only hours. He knew that was the case but it didn’t make it any easier. With a great effort, he spun on his heels and marched away out of the room, Lord Morwood trailing behind him.

The corridor outside was empty. At Elyon’s request, no guards had accompanied them, to better preserve his secret. He didn’t trust the soldiers here. Not after all that boorish booing in the arena. He looked left and right all the same, squinting and doubtful. A hand clutched his godsteel dagger, listening for footsteps, for the sound of breathing, for spies hidden in the walls.

Morwood stepped out behind him. “Breath easy, good prince. No one knows it’s here.” He smiled an avuncular smile. “Now come. They’ll be waiting.”

It took them ten minutes to cross the palace and reach the entrance to the tunnels. The route took them along long dusty corridors and down old creaking stairs and through hidden doors in the stone walls that Elyon would never have known were there. The rest of the journey would be more taxing, he knew. A large part of him was dreading it.

The princess and her pretty blond bedwarmer were awaiting them at the gate. Elyon gave Amilia a stiff bow and Mallister Monsort a narrow glare. That only made the princess chuckle. “Oh, you two…you are funny.” She gave a titter and planted a kiss on Mallister’s cheek, much to Morwood’s disapproval, Elyon didn’t fail to note. “Now play nice, both of you. If I find that one of you has thrown the other down some chasm, I will not be best pleased, do you hear me? You’re two of my favourite people and I demand you get along.”

She had a chalice in her grasp, a fine golden thing with emeralds clasped in tiny brackets. “Isn’t it a little early to be drinking, Amilia?” Elyon said.

“Bah.” She waved a hand at him. “When the doom approaches, one must make the most of the time they have left.” She had a long sip and smacked her lips, looking a little drunk already. “How do you like my chalice, Elyon? It is my favourite one. My lucky cup. I killed Lord Gershan with it, did you know?”

A line creased his brow. He had heard of the passing of the Master of the Moorlands, but assumed it to have been due to some other cause, old as he was. “I wasn’t aware that was your doing.”

She shrugged. “I threw this in his ugly old face and he fell and cracked his head on the floor. My grandfather died in a similar way, you know.”

“I remember.” Lord Modrik Kastor had cracked his head open on the hearth after slipping in a puddle of his own piss. “Careful you don’t go the same way, Amilia. The way you’re headed…”

“Guard your tongue, Elyon. You can’t speak to her like that.”

“I can speak to her however I damn well wish, Monsort.”

“Oh boys, boys…” Amilia chuckled and moved between them. “I thought we were past all this?”

“We are,” Elyon said, stiffly. They had spoken a couple of times since their bout, to try to clear the air, but ever the shadow of animosity lingered. Mallister still harboured resentment for Melany’s death, and Elyon’s taunting words about Gold-Tongue and Aleron and Amilia’s promiscuity, just as Elyon felt a good deal of chagrin over his injured shoulder, which would never have happened if Monsort hadn’t demanded a duel in the first place. Because of his injury, he hadn’t been able to fly for over a week, and he had a fearsome bruise where Mallister had struck him in the jaw. By now he might have flown to Thalan, found Prince Sevrin, told him of the Eye, tracked down Jonik and Janilah Lukar, returned to King’s Point to update his father and slain Vargo Ven to boot. Instead he had lurked about the palace, brooding, filling his time with drunks and old men. And it’s all his bloody fault.

Amilia was still snickering, looking between the two men as they glared at one another. “Well, this little trip will be good for you, I think. You’ll have plenty of time to talk.” She smiled. “Now off you go, no time to waste. I want the both of you back home for supper.”

Elyon was in no mood for her japing. “You should be coming with us. You’re known there. We’re not.”

Amilia’s joy curdled, just like that. “I’m not going back. Not to that place. Never.” She sneered at the iron gate, at the dark tunnel beyond. “I told you what they did to me, Elyon. Don’t ever ask me to go back there again.”

“You may say different one day, Amilia. If Drulgar comes…”

“Then I’ll die on my balcony with a smile on my face. I’m not going back. You’re starting to sound like your brother.”

“My brother’s dead,” Elyon’s voice was like the crack of a whip. “Jonik’s no kin of mine.”

She drank her wine right down to the dregs and made a bored face at him, like Lillia used to. Then she turned to Sir Mallister, smiled and squeezed his hand. “Take care of him, Mally. He thinks himself so terribly important. The great dragonslayer, Elyon Daecar.” A titter crawled out of her throat, and with a swish of skirts, she was gone.

Elyon glowered after her. I am important, he thought. There was no one else who could do what he did, and her words were more than galling. “You need to rein her in, Lord Morwood. Her drinking is starting to get out of control.”

The watch commander gave a dour nod of the head. “She is…incorrigible. I have spoken to her about it, but…”

“But she doesn’t listen,” Mallister finished, nodding to say he had challenged her with the same issue. “She’s…been through a lot. Perhaps we should cut her some slack?”

“Says the man who warms her bed by night and doesn’t want those slender legs to close.” Elyon regretted those words as soon as he’d said them. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No. You’re right.” Mallister looked away, in the direction the princess had gone. Her scent was still wafting in the air, of pine and lemon, and her beauty seemed to leave behind an afterglow. He had a hopeless look on his face. “I love her. Damn it, I wish I didn’t, but I do.” His eyes flicked to Elyon. “And I know I’m not good enough for her, before you say anything. I know I’m not Aleron…”

“Mallister…”

“No. What you said to me that morning. You were right. About her and the rest of it. Lingering here…there’s no honour in that. I should be out there with you, fighting. Not hiding here with the women and the old men…” He looked at Lord Morwood, suddenly contrite. “Meaning no offence, my lord. You hold a high office, and…”

The commander had a flat look in his eyes. “You do not need to explain, Sir Mallister.” His voice was tight. He looked toward the tunnel door. “Do you remember the way?”

“I think so, my lord.”

“If you get lost, use the markers. I will be sending men through later to continue building out the route, but right now it’s empty. They’ll be there when you come back.” He looked at Elyon. “Good luck to you. I will be waiting for your return.” He gave his keys a knowing rattle, and strode away the way Amilia had left.

The silence that settled was awkward. It seemed to last a lifetime. “So…you ready?” Elyon asked at last.

“No. Let me just go and pamper my cheeks and freshen my breath like a good bedwarmer.” Sir Mallister’s expression was like stone, then a small fracture appeared, and that broke into a crack, and suddenly he was laughing.

Elyon laughed along with him. “You would look good in make up, Mallister. It would go so well with your pretty blond hair.” He laughed again and slapped him on the shoulder. “Now come on, let’s go see about this demigod, shall we?”

“Oh, why not?” And together, off they went.

The route was dark, long, and at times utterly baffling, and no wonder it had taken Lord Morwood’s men time to find their way. Now that they had, many sections were being stabilised and secured. The shafts were being covered over, the deep pits cordoned off, and in three separate places plank bridges had been raised over chasms to make the crossings easier. They stopped at one such place, where a bottomless rift cut clear through the heart of a great open cavern, plunging to blackness, at least seven or eight metres wide. There was a bridge there now, spanning the gap, but it had only been recently erected. Mallister pointed to the side of the cave, where a thin ridge of stone ran along the glistening wall. “We had to shimmy along that ridge to cross before,” he said. “It’s barely a foot wide. Not pleasant, I’ll tell you.”

“You came through before the bridge was built?”

He nodded. “I’ve been through twice now, just to learn the way. Each time I do, the men have made it safer.” He looked over the edge of the precipice. “Dangerous work, though. I’ve heard a few have fallen. I just hope it’s all worth it.”

“It will be,” Elyon said. “This refuge…it could house tens of thousands, hundreds even. That’s worth a few men, Mallister.”

The Emerald Guard nodded; they were of the same mind on this, the same as Morwood and his men, the same as any sane person would be. Through these tunnels, a portal door gave direct access to a sprawling refuge, hidden in the mountains, protected by magical seals, and watched over by a demigod resurrected in the body of his heir, some three and a half thousand years removed. That Amilia didn’t want to go back was understandable, given what she’d been through, but that did not mean anyone else should share her bitterness.

They continued toward the bridge, crossing over to the other side. “I notice you’re not wearing the Windblade,” Mallister said.