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ARREN HEARD THE HORNS FROM WHERE HE SLEPT IN THE western gatehouse.

He knew the signals that Elogast used, and this one told him that the Talicians had attacked.

No, that they had broken through the first barricade …

‘Rouse yourselves!’ he yelled, throwing himself out of bed. ‘Prepare for battle!’ He had requisitioned Geralfi’s ancestral house and slept with open windows to the square below, where his main guard had set up barracks. Anyone who did not know what the horns meant would have to hear him.

No time to think, or wait for a dresser. Elo was on the front lines. Elo, whom he had put there once more. Whom he had dragged out of his peaceful bakery and into his own battles.

Arren had tried to call him back to the west gate, to stay with Crolle and Elemni and just send orders to the front. But, of course, Elo would not leave the fight behind.

That was why Arren hated him.

That was why he loved him.

His padded gambeson was by the bed, and he dragged it on over his shirt, tying it with fumbling hands, pausing as he reached the chasm where his ribs parted, where his heart should be.

There, the flesh seemed to have changed, becoming softer-edged where it turned into branches and twigs. Within, Hestra’s flame still flickered.

Hestra? He tried reaching for her.

They are coming, came Hestra’s mournful whisper. She is coming. It is time for this to end.

Arren scowled. She had finally answered and had nothing good to say.

‘Not tonight,’ he muttered putting his hand to his chest. Her flame felt softer, quieter, it licked around his fingers, but didn’t hurt. Like a goodbye. ‘Hestra, you want to be loved, but who will believe in you if you do not believe in yourself?’

Who will mourn for a fire god, she returned, when flame has brought them only destruction?

‘Then bring them something else,’ said Arren. His chest flickered, brightening. ‘Bring them hope.’

Silence. Then, I don’t know how.

The door to his room slammed open and Arren leapt to draw his sword, but it was Commander Movenna, and Methsme quick on their heels.

‘Attack,’ Iuri said, breathless. ‘They’ve broken through.’

‘I know,’ said Arren. ‘Help me arm.’

The commander paused, and Arren saw a faint glow around them and the cleric as well. It could not have come from the lamplight, there was some colour in the shades, spiking and fearful.

Arren blinked, and they were gone. Iuri started forward, grasping Arren’s mail from its stand as Arren pulled on his padded hose. Methsme looked as if she was working on something to say, though her gaze was fixed on the chasm in Arren’s chest with something like hunger.

Iuri found the mail, and Arren knelt so it could be lowered over his head. This was too slow. With each moment, each breath, he could imagine Elo fighting. Could see him falling, on spear, sword or arrow.

Why had he tried to kill him? To close the book on the fantasy that Elo might one day come back to the palace and stand by him, love him, hold him? Because he wanted power more than he wanted to pine?

Movenna was fixing Arren’s chestplates when two squires arrived.

These plates Arren had stylised in a burning circle with rays of flaming sun leafed in gold to his shoulders and chest in a twist of antlers.

The squires stared, stilled with awe, but then more horns sounded, and one of them flinched at their cry.

‘The horns are messages,’ said Arren, to soothe him. ‘It is our commander telling our force to unite.’

Elo must be forming a battalion, which meant that a large force was coming in. This was no test of their defences: the Talicians intended to claim the bridge that night.

‘It’s not the enemy?’ said the squire.

‘The enemy use bells.’ He turned to Movenna. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Go shore up the second defensive line with Tiamh, we may need it.’

‘Aye, Sunbringer.’

Arren nodded to the squires. ‘Come, help me with the greaves.’

‘No, stop,’ said Methsme, and the squires paused. ‘Sunbringer, Fireheart, are you planning on going to the front?’

Arren frowned. ‘I have never backed down from a fight,’ he said. Though that wasn’t entirely true; he had tricked his way out of several.

‘You are king. You are our leader. Send a body of flame instead, as you described your feats in Lesscia.’

As if Hestra would have the power these days. Or the will.

Arren pulled on his gloves. ‘Who are you to command a king?’ he snapped. Then realised as her expression closed that he had used the same phrase as Elo.

The squires hadn’t moved. They were hanging back, staring between him and Methsme.

‘Do you intend to disobey me, squire?’ Arren asked softly. He had noted that shouting and bellowing moved fewer hearts than a cutting word. As long as the world could go silent for him, he would command it. The two younglings leapt into action. ‘What are your names?’

‘Marion,’ said one. ‘Of Weild.’

The other swallowed. ‘Nattino,’ he said. ‘Barkson.’

‘You’re Gefyri?’ said Arren, and the boy nodded.

‘Y-yes. I joined the guard three weeks ago.’ He went for the greaves, and he and the other squire bound them with quick, sure hands.

‘Do not be afraid, Nattino. The fire god will not take Gefyrton while my own heart still burns, and while my subjects remain loyal.’ He looked up at Methsme, who drew in her breath through her teeth.

‘Gods do not go running into battle for their lovers,’ she hissed, her voice low, as if that would stop the squires hearing. He saw the light again: a golden glow shone and rippled around her. ‘Men do. Fools do.’

‘Call me a fool again, cleric, and I shall have your feet whipped,’ said Arren. ‘Ser Elogast is no lover of mine, he is a commander.’

‘My king …’ she said, desperately. ‘He will ruin you. That lion of yours is a heart-thief, and he will bring you only pain.’

Arren paused. Was she right? Was he being a lovelorn fool?

‘You must cut away the pity that dims your heart, Sunbringer,’ Methsme pressed. ‘Act as a god. Not a man. A god’s death must be sacred, important, for it to have power. Do not risk yourself for nothing.’ The faint halo around her brightened and she put a hand to her heart, her fingers splayed.

Hestra brightened in his chest. Arren felt his blood warm, and the colours around her brightened.

Faith, this shining must be faith.

What light would Elo have? If he saw him again?

‘If I have your faith, Methsme, go sing of it,’ said Arren. ‘Let the Talicians hear that we are not afraid. I am not afraid to face their god.

‘If I have your love, Sunbringer,’ said Methsme, ‘you will keep safe your holy fire. Not waste it on false betrayers.’

Arren stared at her. He had seen such devotion before, in people who had killed for it. Powerful, all-consuming. Vicious. It wasn’t love of his flesh that she desired. It was shining, divine love. Big enough to lift her, to add wind to her lungs, purpose to her days.

‘You have my love, cleric,’ lied Arren, shaking the fears of his past away. ‘But I will not leave my other loves to burn.’

His armour was bound. He had waited long enough.

He grabbed his helmet from young Nattino and strode out of his chambers.

Down the spiral stairs of the Geralfi household, he passed the daughter of the House who spent all her time with the ostlers and layhorses by the gate.

She had taken a shine to Elo, refusing to leave, and she carried a hunting knife and a crossbow.

With her were two servants, who whispered prayers as he passed.

He burst out into the gatehouse square, already hot and sweating in the sultry night.

There, he found to his relief a flurry of activity.

Knights, guards, conscripts wakened from sleep, armoured and ready to fight, their squires or apprentices following them with arrows, or blades, or shields.

There was also a steady stream of working folk leaving the city, great baskets on their back.

Those who could lift a blade, Elo had already instructed to gather on the bank. A last defence.

A defence Arren did not plan to use.

‘I want ten horses with me,’ he said, striding into the fearful shadows and shifting bodies.

General Elemni turned, about to give him a telling off, then blanched as she realised who it was. ‘Sunbringer,’ she said. ‘We can’t use cavalry in Gefyrton.’

‘The front is half a city away,’ said Arren, ‘and ten will not topple the bridge.’

‘You’re going to the …’ The general caught herself, then saluted. ‘Yes, Sunbringer,’ she said. ‘I will ride with you.’

That took him by surprise. Lord Elemni had held back many of his forces, professing that he intended to protect Sakre should the army make it that far. Arren suspected that ‘protection’ would turn into a land grab should they lose hope in him.

But Elemni was willing to ride into battle with him? Perhaps trust in him was growing.

Watch closely, my fireheart, Arren thought to Hestra. We will keep their faith.

You have not felt Hseth in fury yet, little king. I have seen what she wreaks.

Elemni left and returned with the horses quickly, as well as willing riders.

They were in mixed colours: Regna, Elemni, Tiamh and Geralfi.

As they mounted, folk stopped to stare. Though they were little more than shades in the night, when Arren squinted he could see the shine around them, blue and gold. His colours.

He patted the horse he mounted, urging her into a proud, quick step. ‘For Gefyrton!’ He roared, and the other riders followed, even Elemni. ‘For Middren!’

‘For Sunbringer!’ someone else took up the cry, and then the whole square was cheering. It was not unlike the chaotic parade through Sakre, but warmer, surer.

‘Fireheart!’

‘Sunbringer!’

He turned the horse around and directed her east as the west of the city took up shouting the names Methsme painted for him.

The people parted, and Arren set off at a trot till the way was clear enough to gallop.