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INARA DIDN ’ T WANT TO LET ELO GO.

‘Careful, little one, you’ll crack my ribs,’ he said softly. Still, she didn’t release him. ‘I’m coming back,’ he assured her.

After a few more moments, she stepped back, tripping on her formal skirts as she did so.

They had returned to Sakre’s harbour, and the Silverswift awaited its new guest. The ship had taken a beating in the battle of the southern waters, but the sudden appearance of Osidisen, god of the north sea, and Yusef, god of safe haven, had tipped the fight against the fire god’s allies.

Osidisen, too far from home, weakened as he was, had disappeared, his shrines shattered.

Kissen never said what she felt about her second father’s death.

It was nothing against the loss of Skedi.

‘Do you promise?’ said Inara.

‘He’d better,’ grumbled Kissen. ‘He’s bringing my sisters with him.’

She stood beside them both on the stone wall of the harbour.

Dark cormorants wheeled in the bright spring sky, excited by the new ships that were docking in Sakre’s port and looking for mates to nest with.

Irisian vessels, mainly, some Usican, Pinetish, Curlish.

Even one from Restish, which annoyed Inara no end.

‘You sure you don’t want to come with me?’ said Elo to Kissen. ‘My mother says she wants twelve more tales from you.’

‘Bah, tell her yourself,’ said Kissen, then grinned, and ran her hand through her curls. ‘Make me sound good, though, will you? I’ve work enough to do here.’

She put her hand out towards Inara, who took it, squeezing tightly. She wasn’t sure whether Kissen had stayed for her or for, as she professed, making sure ‘those cleric bastards’ didn’t start some king-cult and ‘those shrineless fuckers’ in Blenraden didn’t hamper efforts to rebuild.

Elo wore a gold and green cloak sewn with lions and birds along the hem, with a tree sprouting up its back. An ambassador’s cloak, complete with a sigil ring on his fourth finger. He looked proud and calm. Ready to go home.

Inara still found herself listening for Skediceth’s voice. She mourned the tug on her heart she had always felt when he went too far away from her, his snide little asides, the way he cocked his head when he didn’t understand people’s strange whims.

And now she was losing Elo too. To finally visit his mothers’ home, to mourn, and heal.

‘Goodbye, godkiller,’ said Elo to Kissen, who smiled crookedly, then put her hand on his chin and kissed him full on the mouth.

‘For luck,’ she said, and he laughed.

I wish you could see this, Skedi.

Inara received no answer, of course. Perhaps she never would.

After the Silverswift left the harbour, she and Kissen climbed on a carriage to take them back to the Reach.

The old Regna stronghold had been shored up and was slowly being rebuilt, its walls hung with the colours of all the noble Houses, united.

Even Yether. Lord Beloris had been forced to hand his power to his sister, and was banished for ordering his troops to defect to their enemy.

Many had fled before the final fight when they saw the yellow-clad guard retreating, but Faroch, Alianne and Movenna had managed to keep the rest together.

They had survived on sheer luck, it felt. And sacrifice.

Lady Craier was in the first courtyard as they entered, assessing an array of scrolls with a trade ambassador while being assailed with petitions by several greater and lesser nobles.

‘Regent, the wine and olive yields were too low last year …’

‘We have no one to till and plant the crops. We lost too many to the war, and then the winter was so hard …’

‘How are we going to pay for the building work—’

Kissen paused, and Inara looked up. The veiga was watching Lady Craier, a strange expression on her face. Not for the first time, Inara wished she could see her colours, know what she was thinking. She did not know what had passed between Kissen and her mother, but she could hazard a guess.

‘Kissen?’ said Inara.

Kissen blinked and smiled. ‘Bloody typical,’ she said. ‘Pirate, noble, rebel and regent. We just got rid of one god-king and now we have a half-god princess.’

Inara shoved her playfully. ‘I’m not a princess.’

‘Not yet.’

Lessa found them with her eyes, and the hard line of her mouth softened slightly, warmth coming into her face. She wore a silver circlet across her brow. No antlers to be seen.

‘If it’s my blessing you want,’ said Inara, looking from Kissen to her mother, ‘I’ll give it to you.’ She could think of worse things than two people loving each other.

Kissen smiled and ruffled her hair. ‘Come now, liln ,’ she said. ‘I’m no fool, and kingdoms are not in my future. All I need is a warm fire, good ale, crisp bread, and people who love me.’

Ina sighed. ‘ I love you.’

‘I love you too. Now, how about we practise some swordwork?’

Inara bit her lip. Tempting. But she shook her head. ‘There’s something I want to do first.’

Kissen nodded, glanced once more at Lessa, then headed towards the garden paths. Strong and proud, with a staff for her balance. She still wore her cloak full of pockets, and her blade of briddite. Her new scars had blended in with her old.

Inara didn’t follow her, instead going past the courtyard council with bows and polite greetings, then heading towards the receiving hall.

The king’s hall had been all but ripped apart inside, the blackfire damage shorn up with wooden beams and buttresses of stone.

There were shrines again, the first welcoming of gods under the new regency, showing its aims and desires: a god of learning from Curliu, discovery brought over from Lakaii, and healing, from Middren itself.

There was a shrine, of course, to Yusef, measured palm for palm to be larger than his Wsirin-based temple, and not a hair more.

It had a locked gate before it, directing people to offer no tokens.

Some still did. But Inara’s boon was fulfilled, and he had no right to challenge it.

But there was another shrine at the back of the room, where the throne had once been.

There, the dais had been lowered, and there was no throne, no deer, no rays of sun.

There were still some who worshipped Arren the Sunbringer, Fireheart, but Lessa was determined he be remembered as only a king, sacker of Lesscia and Blenraden, burner of his people, not the winner of their war.

For he had not won it.

In the space where his throne had been, a small but grand shrine had been raised. Its walls were panelled in etched brass, showing green leaves, patterns and feathers, and its totem was white marble, beautifully carved: a hare with a stag’s horns and a bird’s wings.

His eyes had been set with amber, his fur detailed so meticulously it looked as if he might spring up and move at any moment. Offerings had already been draped on his antlers, pooled in the bowls before him. Libations, incense, sweets and wine.

Inara’s offerings were different. They were written notes on long thick pages. Inked stories of what he had been, what they had done together. She had one tucked in her pocket, ready to read aloud. His history, and hers.

It was a greater shrine than he had ever dreamed, etched at its base with his name:

Skediceth. God of hope and telling tales.