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Arren shook his head. ‘Prisoners have uses other than meat for shrines,’ he added.

‘Like what?’ said Methsme crossly.

He glared at her, and she glared back. He was starting to think he had made a mistake in elevating this cleric. She had been useful during the first weeks of the war, but her deference had given way to confidence. She spoke her mind of lords, of tactics, of him, as if she knew it all and more.

‘Like information,’ he replied. Tired of being questioned, he looked up at Kyaum who already stood ready.

‘Have them prepared, Commander Yesef,’ he told her. ‘We need to know their next move now they have the Daes.’

‘They want Lesscia,’ interrupted Yether as Kyaum bowed.

‘If that is so, then we will confirm it,’ said Arren.

Kyaum did not even glance at her lord for his permission. ‘Yes, Sunbringer,’ she said. She had a shine about her too, a steady bronze-gold. More like sunlight than the metal, but it had the same qualities of what Hestra called faith.

‘And bring the commander general as well,’ Arren added. If Hestra couldn’t tell a lie easily, he would need Elo’s insight, and cynicism. Kyaum paused, and Arren heard Methsme mutter something under her breath.

‘He is well,’ Arren asked tentatively, ‘is he not?’ Surely someone would have told him if Elo had taken ill.

Kyaum bowed lower. ‘He is well in body, Sunbringer,’ she said. ‘I will find him.’

Arren tried not to show how tired he felt as she left. Instead, he stood and brushed down his light blue shirt with recent flames added to its open heart. For Hestra. Showing another kind of fire.

‘My lords,’ he said, ‘my cleric, you are welcome to join me.’

He wished they wouldn’t, but he couldn’t tell them that. Instead, he got up and went out through the door. The guard there stood to attention, then fell in step as Methsme, Yesef, and Yether quietly jostled to be closest on his heels.

Arren sighed. The summer heat was stifling. In the winter every stone wall here was thick with tapestries to keep the warmth in, but now they had been bared to allow for the free movement of air. During the day the castle became an oven, sweaty and close.

‘Yether, your trading ships,’ said Arren, feeling calmer as they walked, ‘I was told six were salvaged and made it to Weild.’

They passed two servants, who bowed as low as possible. They were carrying bandages. On their way to treat the surviving wounded.

‘Yes, my king,’ said Yether, sidling closer as Arren turned down the corridor towards the main stairwell.

This was carpeted, and the king’s banner hung with the Yesef coat of arms above them.

The Yesef banner was a long red stripe, its blazon a cockerel.

They and the Yethers had once been one House, centuries before, but had long been rivals on the south coast. ‘Three were already out for trade.’

‘Well done. They will be needed,’ said Arren. ‘Yours too, Yesef.’

‘Yes, my king,’ said Yesef quietly, but Yether stayed silent.

‘Beloris?’ said Arren, and Lord Yether cleared his throat.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You may take whatever you wish.’

Arren looked at the floor they were passing over, a tessellating pattern of fine wood.

It looked like a sunburst, or a flower, with dots of brass shining between the petals.

Arren wondered if it was Talician brass.

How much had he overlooked the nation’s power?

How foolish had he been to believe their god had any need of him other than a face and a throne? He had got them into this mess.

‘Are you certain you have been sent no messages of treaty?’ Yether asked.

‘Which of our invaders would you like to speak to, my lord?’ Methsme cut in. ‘Or is it their god you would like to send you letters?’

Arren bit back a smirk. When not at the receiving end of it, the effect of Methsme’s cutting tone was amusing, and the gall she had at speaking back to a noble. Perhaps the two would entertain themselves and give him some peace.

A pity he could not let them eat each other. ‘There has been no proclamation of war, Yether,’ he said. ‘The Restish have not even claimed any part in it. Unless you know something I do not?’

‘N-no,’ he said, his colours glimmering again.

I think … that is a lie, said Hestra.

Useless.

They reached the open doors of the keep, where it gave out onto what had been a garden, and was now a trampled mess of mud and water.

Some of the horses were being walked here by their ostlers, giving them gentle preparation for more marching days ahead.

There, the commander general was waiting on his own, gazing at a brown steed with a white stripe on his nose.

Elo was wearing a dark russet shirt of finely woven cloth, cut close to his body, with wide sleeves tied back. It was clean, but his hands were not, for they were covered in flour. He had a sheen of heat on his skin, and a scruff of beard.

‘What? What are you doing here?’ said Beloris, as he recognised who they were meeting under the hot sun.

Elo looked across at Lord Yether, his gaze direct, hard, empty. ‘I was called,’ he said.

His voice was hoarse, seared by shouting commands and breathing in smoke, then roughened from lack of use. Arren did not want to tell him about Daesmouth, did not want to cause him any more pain.

‘Commander General Elogast,’ Arren greeted him. ‘Thank you for coming so swiftly. Beloris, you must have heard of the commander’s promotion, and his work on the field of battle.’

Beloris had gone pale. It seemed neither his sister nor Peta had deemed it fitting to share Elo’s new position with him.

He gawped at Arren, then back to Elo, his eyes darted around, seeking help, but none came.

‘He k-killed my father,’ he said, pointing an accusing finger in Elo’s face. ‘I need protection. I want my guard.’

‘Then by all means, go and find them,’ said Arren smoothly. ‘I require the commander’s advice.’

Beloris stepped back, then towards Elo, then finally turned on his heel and wheeled towards the keep, muttering in fury. Presumably to find the favoured guard he had come with, Hafil.

Arren and the others watched him go.

‘Well …’ said Methsme at last. ‘I did not like him, Sunbringer.’ Yesef covered a scoff of laughter with a feigned cough.

‘You don’t like anyone, cleric,’ said Arren, turning back to Elogast, who was watching impassively.

‘Commander Yesef told me Daesmouth has fallen,’ he said.

No use hiding it if he already knew. ‘Yes,’ said Arren. ‘Two nights ago. Yether retreated.’

Elo nodded slowly to himself. He did not look devastated, only weary, and Arren feared he had gone so far inside himself that no feeling could make it through. He still gave commands when needed, advice when asked, but what was one more blow to a stone already crushed into dust?

‘I will begin gathering the army,’ he said at last.

‘Wait,’ said Arren, painfully aware that Methsme, Yesef and his guard were still with him. ‘Not yet.’

Elo took a breath, and visibly straightened his shoulders, but stayed still.

‘Yes, my king,’ he said.

You ask too much of me, he had said. Ask someone else.

But he was still here.

They walked through the courtyard, Methsme staring daggers at their backs. Perhaps she wanted the god, like Hestra said, but Elo needed a friend.

‘Do you know that horse?’ said Arren, nodding at the chestnut gelding Elo had been gazing at. Elo did not look.

‘No.’

He waited a little longer, then tried, ‘I thought I called a commander, not a baker.’ He smiled at Elo’s floury hands, telling Elo it was a joke. Arren loved Elo’s smile: it was like a burst of rain on a hot day. Refreshing, bright, softening his face and tracing furrows around his eyes.

But Elo didn’t smile, he simply looked down at his palms as if just now seeing them.

‘They needed help in the kitchens,’ he said at last.

‘Yes, I received some complaints from the cooks,’ said Lord Yesef, and Arren frowned at him. The kitchen staff had been afraid of the Lion of Lesscia coming into their midst. But, despite hearing this, Arren had not wanted to take away the one thing from Elo that brought him any peace.

‘They got used to me,’ said Elo.

‘When they realised you were better than the lot of them at baking?’

The slightest smile, a crook of the mouth.

Elo had loved breads since he was a boy; pastries, buns, rounds, nameen, crispels, pies and tarts.

He’d said it was because his fondest times with his mothers had been when they had cooked together.

Irisians, even wealthy ones, took pride in self-reliance, while before knowing Elo, Arren had only ever set foot in the kitchens to steal food when his mother tried to starve him.

If it involved flour and water and heat, Elo either wanted to eat it or make it, and Arren had adored watching him, eating what he made, teasing him for it.

The easiest way to touch Elo’s heart was to compliment his skill.

The smile quickly faded, but it was there. There was a hope of more.

Arren turned them right, past the horses as the ostlers bowed to them, and towards the stables he had seen earlier.

Here, it was abuzz with activity. People carrying food, vats, brushes, barrels, shovelling shit, filling fresh bails with straw.

Dogs ran from person to person, loudly begging for scraps, while a cat sat on top of one of the overfull stables, tail swishing as they watched for rats.

No one wore armour: these lands were not yet under threat.

By the stable-prison, Kyaum had lined up several Yesef knights, who bowed to both Arren and the lord and then stood back.

Inside, were the prisoners.