Page 57

A WEEK SINCE GEFYRTON. IT HAD BEEN A LONG, PAINFUL ride back down from the Bennites, leaving the city a wreckage of broken planks, the waterfall still bleeding through them.

Much of the lands below it had flooded, and so Arren had been forced to take the army back west and south before turning towards Lesscia, leaving Tiamh to guard the Daes and prevent further attempts at crossing.

They had now paused in Yesef lands. Lord Farnhall Yesef had given over the use of his own family holdings and now the kitchens steamed all day and night to feed the king’s army and a city’s-worth of refugees. As soon as the final bowl of broth was consumed, the people were hungry again.

Arren had been given the lord’s study, and emptied it of almost all furniture.

Apart from the bed they had moved in from his travelling things, there was one lounger and a high-backed seat by the fire, both too heavy to move, and the three rickety pieces left by the desk and window.

All the other furniture was for those encamped in the halls or corridors, the haylofts and the cellars, or under the tables with the hounds.

Each evening every window brightened the night, and the smoke rising from each chimney darkened it.

And that was just the holding. Beyond the keep’s walls, Arren’s people were spreading out across the hills.

Homeless, clinging to one hope, singing of it with Methsme’s words.

He heard them at night, the music of prayers and praises, the pleas for victory.

Each lyric fluttered the flame in his heart.

Fireheart.

Methsme had taken one of the fire seats.

She liked to be close to him, watching him with hawkish eyes.

He let her as he read his letters: cagey offers of grain from the north, more arms from the south, coin from the west. Some were begging letters, asking him to split his army, and send them all a slice.

Others were pledging undying loyalty, to their one and true king after his tainted triumph in Gefyrton.

Offers of marriage, offers of children to adopt, offers of animals, sacrifices, prayers.

Absently, he put his hand to his chest. Hestra burned brighter than she had ever before. His bones and her twigs were one now, threads of sinew and branch, moss and little fires, all growing together.

He picked up the next missive. It was surprisingly short, sparse, and in Knight Commander Peta’s writing.

Arren put it to his nose. Citrus. He thought of Elo.

It was his mother Ellac who had taught them as boys the practice of invisible writing, and they had made much use of it during the war.

The scent of lemons told him that beneath Peta’s terse account of losses and gains, there was a secret.

Perhaps he would invite Elo to help him read it. Perhaps it would get him to speak again. He had barely done so since he had watched the city fall.

A clatter outside the window disturbed Arren before he could hold the paper to the flame to reveal its message. He glanced out. A retinue in yellow had entered the courtyard of the fortress, their bright cloaks clean and shining in the daylight.

Bad news, said Hestra.

Arren couldn’t help but agree as he saw the new Lord Yether dismount and run through a list of orders. Commander Yesef came out to greet him, her arm in a sling and her lord with her.

‘Take me to the king, traitors!’ Yether demanded.

Arren stepped back and briefly contemplated barring the door.

Then his gaze was snagged by the stables beyond the first courtyard, which had guards at the door and mud and dung splattering the walls.

The Talicians they had captured were in there, chained, and every Middrenite who passed took their turn to spit at them.

Arren had stationed knights outside, well-disciplined and ready to keep them in, and the rest of the army out.

He may yet have use for them.

‘Your nobles should learn respect,’ murmured Methsme.

‘Hmm,’ said Arren, sitting down as feet hammered up the stairs.

Beloris Yether burst into the room, his blood already up and his face furious. ‘My king!’ he cried. ‘Daesmouth is fallen!’

Arren felt Hestra burn hot in his chest. His own emotions ran wild, but he controlled his face, kept his tone serene. ‘Lord Yether,’ he said as Commander Yesef and Lord Farnhall also came to the door. ‘Please, be calm.’

‘The Talicians had already made headway on the southeastern bank,’ said Yether. ‘They were marching upriver, building ships! No matter what my sister said, we had to pull back to defend Lesscia.’

‘You called … a retreat,’ said Arren. He glanced up to Kyaum, who looked aghast.

‘You must put a stop to this, Sunbringer,’ said Yether. ‘My city cannot take another battle. I beg you make some deal with them. Treat with them. Just stop this war.’

Arren looked at the man who had killed his own father at a king’s suggestion. His suggestion, but he barely heard the words he spoke. Yether’s hands were soft and unbroken. He had never touched a bow or sword in his own land’s defence and had called a retreat against the will of his own sister.

He felt sick.

After everything they had done, everything they had lost, the Talicians would have crossed the Daes. There was a breach in their dam, and the fire was flooding through. They did not even know if their sacrifice of Gefyrton had worked, whether Hseth’s strength was even slightly diminished.

‘Has Lesscia run out of birds?’ Arren asked icily.

Yether looked at him in surprise. ‘No.’

‘Then why have you come riding away from the city you say you are intent to defend? Where you were ordered to be.’

It was too much like Tulenne. Undisciplined nobles, too rich on trade to understand anything about war. Sending emissaries like Kyaum, Crolle and Elemni rather than take the fight on themselves.

‘My sisters made an able command,’ said Yether, a little bitterly. ‘The elder was killed, but Captain Alianne—’

‘Then what, I ask,’ interrupted Arren, ‘is the point of you, my lord?’

Lord Yether stared up at him, cut to the quick. ‘My king,’ he said. ‘All my love for you … all the things I have done for you .’

It had made sense at the time, killing the irascible Lord Yether using the only one who could get close to him. It had worked. It had helped him win the game he had been playing, the game of hearts.

But the game had changed

Do not cut him away now, Arren, said Hestra straight into his mind, her fire flaring in his chest, as if she were about to break out of it. We need him still.

Arren focussed. He could see the shine around Lord Beloris Yether, the similar, steady, brightly coloured zeal that Methsme held. It burned about the cleric now, her face brightening at the flames in his chest. For her, he and Hestra must seem like one and the same.

And the god was right. He could not lose this faith, this glow. He saw it in his armies, his knights, even in the people whose city he had destroyed. Fireheart. Sunbringer. Saviour.

He could not lose the hearts he had won.

‘My apologies,’ said Arren, tempering his tone. ‘Craier has gone to treat with Irisia and Restish, but I have received no emissaries from them directly, or I would have put them to bargain long ago.’

Yether stared at him, his mouth working, a ripple of a strange green across his colours, quickly dimming.

What does that mean, Hestra? Arren asked.

He is surprised, she answered. Perhaps is hiding something. Though I am not so skilled in telling lies from truth. Fire hides few lies.

Arren sighed. So even the colours he could see could not be trusted.

‘I heard you made a pax with Craier,’ Yether said at last, scowling. ‘And others who supported her bid for power.’ He looked over at Lord Yesef, whose cheeks heightened with colour. ‘Who’s to say she will not join the Restish and try again?’

Arren had been wondering the same thing.

She is too proud, said Hestra. Her daughter’s pride I have seen too, a candle to her mother’s torch. Their ship is moving northwards now.

Arren caught his breath. You have a shrine there?

Barely a thread, a symbol, a link.

Do they have any others with them?

I do not know, I can only sense their vessel.

Would she return if she had no aid? Would Craier of all people come to fight for him, when his supposed allies would not? He did not dare to hope.

‘My lord Yether,’ said Arren, rubbing the top of his head. It was hurting, and he could feel two lumps on his crown, as if he had struck it on something. ‘Have you been to the front line? Have you seen what the Talicians do to our prisoners?’

Yether flattened his mouth in disgust. ‘I have heard reports they are used as sacrifices.’

‘Sacrifices to summon their destructive god. Commonfolk, some of them. Nobles, others. When they could be used as hostages, to negotiate, for reprieve or exchange. Is this an act of a nation that has any desire for peace?’

Lord Yether swallowed. ‘No my lord.’

‘We have prisoners too.’

This was Methsme, who had, while Arren cooled Yether’s temper, moved closer to him, watching their exchange with avid eyes. ‘Some of the clerics believe you should have them punished,’ she added. ‘Used, as they use our people.’

It took Arren a few moments to understand what she was suggesting, all bright-eyed in her white dress, clutching her lyre like a shield. ‘You want me to burn them,’ he said.

‘It would give you power, as it gives their god power. Fireheart .’ She glanced down at Arren’s chest. ‘It could release your potential, give punishment for Gef—’

‘I am not burning prisoners,’ said Arren, and Hestra twisted in his ribs.

She wants the god more than the man, said Hestra. There is danger in too much faith.

And he had already burned people. Children. A manor of innocents. Back when he thought his victory would come with swift brutality. When he thought he would have a god’s power over Talicia and Middren. When he had been willing to commit atrocities to ensure stability.