Page 18

ELO STOOD BEFORE THE KING’S TENT.

For two days, he had eaten with Benjen and his fellows, who had, with varying levels of enthusiasm, accepted Elo as one of their own.

Benjen and Lotta had braided his hair into thick rows, and Elo’s scalp and heart still ached from it.

He realised how much he had missed his people.

How he wanted to do right by them. By himself.

It was time to stop wallowing in his losses and seething in his anger. If he wanted to protect Middren, he had to do it with his whole heart, or he would be leaving it to assassins posing as clerics, and kings posing as gods.

‘What do you want, general?’ said one of the guards who stood at the side of the door to Arren’s holding.

Elo recognised her as one of the runners he had turned away.

The war tent was huge, erected with the flags of all Middren’s Houses, and the king’s silk banner ribboning out on the warm evening breeze. ‘The war council is in session.’

They were not the only guards. Two more stood by a cart that was drawn up at the side of the encampment, presumably one of the many that carried the king’s necessaries. There were barrels packed among the standards and colours. Oddly, they bore the Craier sigil: three trees and a bird.

They had passed the gutted Craier manor that day, where the army might have chosen to bed had it not been a ruin.

The steadings they passed were struggling to maintain the fields, and many were overgrown since the house had been burned.

It hurt Elo’s heart to see Inara’s home, which once must have been so beautiful, but was now a broken shell of blackened walls and pulped earth.

The dead had been buried, it seemed, in a line along what might once have been an orchard, their mounds brightening with green grass.

All save one, fresh with turned earth and a wreath of ivy: Tarin’s.

‘I am here to apologise to the king for my absence,’ Elo said. ‘And to provide my counsel.’

He had dressed in a new shirt, a fine dark blue with green cording down the chest. This, he had tucked into leather breeches and covered with an ochre wool cloak. He would wear his armour later, but for now … he was a courtier.

‘Send him in,’ someone said.

It was not Arren who had spoken, but the guard relented, holding open the tent door.

First, was only smoke. A brazier of woven metals stood inside the doorway, filled with pine-scented charcoal that held off the sweat-stink from the masses outside. As the tent door closed, it muffled the army’s noise beyond the cloth, and trapped the heat within.

The tent had three rooms. To the left, a space for the king’s armour, weapons, cloaks.

Different pieces, all grandly etched. To the right, half lit, Arren’s bed, heavily draped, a washstand and chamber pot, for no king would shit in the latrine pits with the other folk.

Behind the brazier was the largest room.

It boasted a table built from barrels and wood panels that must have broken the back of the ponies that dragged them.

Elo had to remember, this wasn’t the Arren he grew up with, the squire and the soldier. This was a king’s war room. His king, for better or worse.

The man himself stood over sections of his great map, adjusting some details while a woman in the red of House Yesef read the enemy’s movements to the east from a piece of parchment.

Kyaum Yesef, sister of Lord Yesef, her curling black hair plaited in a long tail.

Elo remembered her from the last weeks of the God War.

Arren did not look up, but she and the others did, their expressions ranging from curiosity to blatant aggression.

Elo recognised many others: Iuri of Movenna, whose hair had gone full silver since Elo had seen them last, and they had glasses clipped to their nose.

Beside them was Elemni, who had been on the Silverswift when it had been mobbed.

Lord Siridean Tiamh, husband to the current Lady Tiamh, was muttering something to her, standing with his legs apart and chest out, a show of self-importance; Elo was certain that it was he who had called him in.

Siridean’s wife had been aunt to the previous Commander General Antoc, killed by Arren in Lesscia.

Elo wondered whether they knew the nature of his death.

But he knew by experience, Siridean saw himself as closest in kin to the king, himself the late Queen Aleda’s cousin.

But Tiamh was not the only House that bore connection to the Regna line.

Blood did not claim as much power in Middren as choice: adoption could make monarchs, and banishment could break a noble’s claim for generations.

Even Arren had to be confirmed by a gathering of his Houses.

The others Elo knew only by the colours they wore: a general from House Crolle, and Commander Tulenne, representing the western nobles and raised to command through noble connection rather than any particular skill.

None of these people were military leaders; they came to represent the interests of their own land and keep Arren onside.

Gannets, vultures, and opportunists who would flee at first trouble, covering their own arses.

And behind them was the worst of the lot: the woman.

The so-called cleric. Still in her musty white, her golden brooch pinned above her breastbone, and her hair neatly beribboned.

The antlers were gone, but her harp was in her hands so she could strum and murmur lyrics while pretending not to listen in on the tactics of war.

She glared at Elo as he came in. He ignored her.

Iuri of Movenna cleared their throat, drawing attention to whatever they had been discussing before Elo disturbed them. ‘However the Talicians arrange their forces,’ they said, ‘Gefyrton should still be our goal.’

‘Come now,’ said Yesef. ‘They’ll be bottlenecked there by the Geralfis. South is where we can counter the raids along the coastline. Daesmouth will not hold much longer, and Lord Yether has already begged for aid.’

‘They’re a raiding people,’ agreed Crolle. ‘They’re not experienced at land warfare, more effective on sea. That is where we should meet them. Send some supportive troops to Geralfi and take the rest to the coast.’

‘I have no intention of splitting our force further,’ said Arren. The others fell silent, and after a moment Crolle bowed his head.

‘I quite agree, Sunbringer,’ he said with an obsequiousness that made Elo’s skin itch.

Elo cleared his throat. ‘Should the invasion come west of the Daes,’ he put in, ‘splitting our force may be the wiser move. We have the defensive fortresses as bases from which we can harry their troops and wear them thin. It is a proven strategy from the Curlish wars.’

Crolle and Tiamh gave Elo a look so cutting that he almost checked himself for blood.

‘What are you doing here, “Lion of Lesscia”?’ said Tiamh. ‘Or is it “Elogast of Sakre”? Or the “King’s Lion”?’

‘I was invited,’ said Elogast. ‘As commander general.’ He looked to Arren, who finally met his eyes.

The air in the room pulled tight, like dough breaking apart in the centre, cracking at the edges.

He had put him on the spot, to deny him, or accept.

Commander general was the second highest rank in the army, in control of the land army, or in Knight Commander Peta’s absence, everyone under Arren’s command.

Crolle began muttering fiercely to Tulenne, while Movenna chuckled. The cleric, however, went pale with anger, stilling her harp strings.

‘Fireheart,’ she said. ‘You cannot have a non-believer at your side.’

‘Who are you to command a king, and tell him who believes?’ said Elogast, not breaking eye contact with Arren. That silenced her, and she bit her lip. ‘Not all belief is shouting, singing and wounding. My belief is my life, my blood, and my heart.’

Arren pressed his lips together. He knew the phrases Elo had used to gain hearts to his cause in Blenraden, he understood what Elo was telling him: that he would do what was needed. It was all a white lie, a hope made from hopes, but if Arren still wanted his help, he was here.

And after the bickering and grovelling Elo had walked into, Arren did still need him.

If the king was surprised, he didn’t show it. He gave a tiny, barely visible nod.

‘My thanks for joining us, Commander General Elogast,’ he said, tilting his voice to the room at large.

‘Distraction has driven rumours of your disloyalty beyond the realms of truth. Our differences of politics are long settled, and your leadership is invaluable.’ The cleric bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood, but bowed her head. A small victory.

‘Then you agree with General Crolle?’ said Tulenne, who wore the sash of a commander and looked faintly disappointed. ‘We guard the south? I must say, I was hoping to see some ground action.’

‘Not at all,’ said Elogast, rather than tell him that he didn’t give two figs for what he wanted. ‘The king is right: a loss at Gefyrton will decide this war. We must continue hard till we reach the highlands. I only wanted to clarify that in war we must be prepared to adapt to survive.’

‘Gefyrton was built by the gods to be a fortress,’ said Crolle, pointing at the map. ‘We need to focus on the areas that are vulnerable.’

Marked in ink were the points of Talician and Restish incursion.

Daesmouth was black as a bruise, only the west side remaining in Middren’s hands.

Blenraden was fallen, the Vittosk lands to the north and most of the southeast coast. From here, Hseth’s forces looked unstoppable.

If Craier did not return from Irisia with a fleet of warships, no matter what they did, they might have already lost eastern Middren.