spoke for a moment, Tarfel slow to meet his brother’s beaming gaze. A heartbeat later his pallid face became entirely bloodless.
‘Brother! What the fuck?’
‘Tarfel, language. You must be our avatar, little brother. You must bear witness to the splendour of the festival’s events, first-hand.’
Tarfel’s voice was very small. ‘But they have witchfire …’
‘Let them … Let them …’ Mendel wasn’t listening, ‘Let them bob and rot in the harbour-mouth. Our people are resourceful, resilient. We will find ways to cope without sea trade. We can lump supplies over the hills from Sebemir’s river docks, that should prevent total starvation.’
Tarfel looked to be gagging, unable to speak. Eventually he said, ‘But you’ll send reinforcements? The army, the League, some will be coming too? We’re at war …’
Da Loran answered this time. ‘The forces of the League are needed in the east. Omundi must fall.’
Tarfel had visibly slumped, his head slung from the sloping mound of his shoulders. Chel watched with a sort of vicarious horror. This plan seemed ludicrous, and he could not wait to be as far away from these people as possible. ‘For how long?’
‘While the campaigning season lasts, although I suppose at that point the League will be breaking up for winter.’
‘But then you’ll come? To the winter palace? You’re expected …’
‘It wouldn’t be fair to leave Father on his own down south, would it? We’ll send a couple of regiments, maybe a free company or two, but this is a battle the Norts cannot win, and they know it. They’ve spent what threat they have, and now they must sit and wait. They cannot break our resolve, our unity. Take heart, dear brother, they will be slinking back over the sea sooner or later – storm season in the north is but a couple of months away.’
‘A couple of months?’
‘Fear not, you won’t be defenceless. Master Chel, I understand my brother made a promise to you?’
Chel swallowed. This was it.
‘He did, your highness.’
‘Good, very good. And who is your current liege?’
‘Hanush Revazi, Lord Sokol.’
‘Do I know him?’ A quick look toward Balise. ‘Not to worry.’ A warm feeling began to creep over Chel. ‘Would you mind kneeling?’
Chel knelt, almost unsteady, his hands trembling with anticipation. Mendel summoned a flunky with a clap of his hands.
‘Right, you, vizier, get this down. Vedren Chel of Barva, by decree of the crown of Vistirlar, your oath is dissolved. All restitutions and so on through the usual whatsit and so forth – Balise knows this bit.’ Chel bowed his head, a fluttering feeling in his chest. ‘Ready with the next one? Splendid. Master Chel, your hand, please.’
The warm feeling vanished, replaced by a sudden tingling cold.
‘I can’t think of anyone better suited, dear Tarf. Now, Master Chel, if you wouldn’t mind repeating the following …’
A short time later, and with very little fanfare, Chel found himself sworn into the service of Prince Tarfel Merimonsun of Vistirlar, under oath to serve, honour and protect. Especially protect. The whole thing felt oddly close to marriage. As he stood, he exchanged a glance with his new liege. Tarfel looked just as miserable as he felt. Back to Denirnas. Back to the Norts. Back to the Rose. Back to the muscular embrace of Brother Hurkel. Chel was reasonably certain he was going to vomit on the crown prince’s gleaming boots.
Mendel clapped his hands again. ‘There. You two will do wonderful things for the kingdom, I just know it.’ He turned to the vizier, who had done little to mask his disdain during the proceedings. ‘Now, please escort Prince Tarfel to the riders. At least, dear brother, you will have a proper escort for your return to Denirnas.’
Chel found himself marching out beside Tarfel. He swallowed down the rising bile, managing to hiss, ‘You have to do something, highness! I was supposed to be released, not sent back to die!’
Tarfel returned his imploring stare with wet and haunted eyes. ‘You heard my brother. This is the crown’s will, and we will obey.’
Chel almost put a hand on his sleeve but thought better of it. ‘This is the will of the Church! You saw what happened in there, that prelate was—’
‘Enough, sworn man. I know what people say about my brother since his injury, but he is the crown’s representative, and his commands are a royal decree. Now be silent!’ The young prince looked to be on the verge of tears. Chel’s own eyes were wild and giddy.
Outside the pavilion, a phalanx stood at the circle’s edge, their robes shimmering in the light of the freshly lit torches. Tufted hair, rust-red robes, gleaming maces at their belts. The lead figure, of course, wore white and vermilion, if a little dusty from the trail, and was already in conversation with the hooded Balise. Vashenda had come to collect them. Chel felt like laughing, manic and loud. How could things be otherwise?
‘Welcome home, Master Chel! Back in time for the feast!’ Heali fell in step alongside Chel, fleshy face all smiles. It was, Chel supposed, nice to encounter someone pleased to see him for a change.
A dozen Brothers of the Thorn, their robes the colour of blood in the evening sun, had flanked the crude carriage that passed for royal conveyance. Chel had been stationed on its back plate, bounced by every rut and divot, exhausted by the first hour on the road. He’d exchanged little more than a shocked sentence with his sister before they’d swept him away, but her confused and reproachful stare had stayed with him long after Omundi’s broken valley dropped from view, along with her parting words.
‘Duty isn’t swearing to obey a person, Bear. It’s about service to the kingdom, its people. It’s about trying to make things better. Serve the people, Brother Bear. Make Father proud.’
He’d had no response for her.
Vashenda had ignored him on the road – which just served to make his anxiety worse – with the exception of a pointed remark to the prince that he was at least properly guarded for his return voyage. ‘Do you know what would happen if any harm came to you, highness?’ she’d said. ‘Do you know the trouble it would cause?’
With the sun sinking over the bay at their journey’s end, the column was dispersing at the city gates, the body of their escort departing for the croft and taking the carriage with them. Vashenda remained, a harbinger, to supervise the prince’s slow climb to the winter palace in person. Chel wondered if Hurkel lay up there in wait. The population of the refugees’ shack-village at the foot of the outer walls had trickled back after the screaming exodus of the days before, but the port’s fringes still looked strange and empty to Chel’s eyes. Odd shapes dangled from the walls, indistinct in the gloom of the structures’ shade, but his gut told him they were bodies. Bone-weary and ill-at-ease, part of him was glad when Heali appeared, unbidden, at his elbow, as what remained of the royal procession approached the gates.
‘You
