TWO

“My lady?” Arnot poked his head in, a little warily. He’d grown accustomed to Alix’s mood on days like this, and learned to tread lightly.

She nodded distractedly, her gaze raking the oratorium one last time. Though she had no reason to expect trouble, she knew better than to take anything for granted. She’d taken plenty of precautions last summer, on that fateful day when Erik and his brother had met in parley to decide the future of the crown, and it hadn’t helped. Roswald Grey had still managed to smuggle his men inside. Erik had nearly been killed. Alix would never make a mistake like that again, not ever.

Having secured her leave, Arnot led a small army of servants into the room. Under his capable command, hearths and braziers were lit, flowers arranged, refreshments placed close at hand. The wood had been waxed, the floors polished. A new rib of lead had been added to the window bearing Ardin’s flame. Silk cushions of green and black, brown and gold and grey were carefully positioned so that each banner lord might know where to sit, in a position commensurate with his prestige. Everything was ready.

Albern Highmount was the first to arrive, as always, to do his customary inspection of the preparations. “Your Highness,” he said, acknowledging her with a grave nod. The first counsel was the only person at court who referred to her that way—possibly because he knew how much it annoyed her. She had been born Lady Alix, appointed captain of the royal guardsmen. These titles were her own, one a birthright, the other something earned. Your Highness, on the other hand, was something she’d acquired through association. The honorific belonged to Liam, not her. It didn’t speak to who she was. Not really.

“I am pleased your brother was able to join us,” Highmount said. I am pleased your brother saw fit to do his duty, was what he meant.

“It’s fortunate he found a window to do so, what with the war and all.”

“Wars are not fought with swords alone, Your Highness. Indeed, in many cases, they are not decided by swords at all.”

Alix treated herself to a brief, diverting vision of Highmount slipping on the freshly polished floor.

The first counsel concluded his inspection and departed, heading for his post at the main doors of the palace. Protocol demanded that he greet the banner lords personally. Alix was not sorry to see him go.

Godwin appeared at her side. “All clear, Captain?”

She nodded. “Let’s do this.”

A moment later, the herald announced the first arrival. “Lord Raibert Green.”

A familiar figure appeared in the doorway. As bearer of the kingdom’s oldest and most venerable banner, Green was first among his peers, and thus preceded them into any official gathering. One might expect such an august person to carry himself haughtily—but only if one had never met Raibert Green. He looked solemn as always, his thin face wise and world-weary, but when he spied Alix, a smile burst over him and set his gentle eyes sparkling. “My lady. It’s good to see you.”

She embraced him as if he were a favourite uncle. “You’re looking well.”

“As are you,” he said. “Married life agrees with you, I see.”

Alix started to reply, but the herald’s voice cut her off. “Lady Rona Brown.”

The newest of the banner holders entered tentatively, glancing around as though not quite sure what to do with herself. This was only her second council since inheriting the banner. At nineteen years old, a knight for barely a year, she had yet to fully grow into her office. Alix had no doubt that she would, though, judging by her attire. Rona had elected to wear ceremonial armour, a daring choice that would no doubt set Albern Highmount’s teeth on edge. A rampant white wolf, smaller but otherwise identical to Liam’s, adorned her breastplate, marking her an officer of that elite unit. Her only concession to her birthright was a brown satin cape over her left shoulder. To flout tradition barely six months after inheriting the Brown banner spoke volumes about her sense of independence.

It spoke of something else too, Alix judged. Wearing her White Wolf armour was a mark of Rona’s loyalty to her commander. Loyalty, and perhaps something a little more. It wasn’t the first time Alix had noticed this . . . devotion. Well, that was all right. After all, who could blame her? Liam was handsome, witty, and as talented a sword as any in the realm. Also, he was a prince. Banner lady or no, Rona Brown had every right to be smitten. So long as she kept her hands to herself.

“Lord Riggard Black.”

Rig wore armour too, but in his case, not even Highmount would have expected anything else. Like his predecessor, Arran Green, Rig was every inch a soldier. That meant he had a soldier’s sense of solidarity, so when he spied Rona Brown hovering awkwardly near the door, he went over and clapped her shoulder. Rona smiled, relaxing a little.

Norvin Gold was next to arrive, looking even more ancient than the last time Alix had seen him. Thin hair drifted in wisps over his spotted scalp; angular cheekbones threw shadows down over gaunt cheeks. Even his doublet looked worn. They have fallen on hard times, Alix thought. They all had, and none more so than the final arrival.

“Lady Sirin Grey,” said the herald.

Alix and Raibert Green exchanged a look. Sirin was not the holder of the Grey banner; that honour belonged to her mother, Alithia. To send a lower-ranking member of the family to a council of this importance could be taken as a slight. The Greys were already disgraced, thanks to the treachery of Sirin’s brother. It surprised Alix that Lady Grey would risk offending the crown barely six months after her son had plotted to wrest control of it.

“Perhaps Lady Grey is ill?” Alix ventured in an undertone.

Raibert Green shook his head. “I saw her only yesterday. She looked hale enough to me.”

Alix regarded him in surprise. It was none of her business, but as usual, she found it difficult to hold her tongue. “You had business with the Greys?”

The barest hint of a sigh passed Green’s lips. “Lady Grey was so gracious as to offer me the hand of her daughter.”

Alix looked down at her boots for the handful of moments it took to master herself. “That’s . . . unexpected.”

Green shrugged. “Lady Sirin is the daughter of a Banner House. All things being equal, she should have been married long ago.”

All things being equal, she should have married Erik. Alix couldn’t bring herself to be sorry that hadn’t happened, though she did pity Sirin her circumstances. Being in love with her fiancé’s brother was bad enough; seeing her lover beheaded for treason was a misfortune she surely did not deserve. Still, to suppose that she could still be worthy of a Green, the most illustrious of the Banner Houses . . . It was wildly ambitious. Politically, it would have made far more sense to offer her to Rig. Not that Alix would have welcomed that; having Sirin Grey as a sister-in-law would have been more than a little awkward.

“Lady Sirin is still young, and very beautiful,” Green said. “And I do not think it fair to hold her responsible for her brother’s sins, or the Raven’s. The fortunes of her house are not her doing, and their standing will recover in time.”

“But . . .”

He shrugged again. “But she doesn’t love me. We barely know each other. We both need heirs, it’s true, but I am not so desperate as to enter a marriage with someone in mourning. It’s been barely six months since Prince Tomald was executed. I know what it’s like to lose the one you love. Six months is not nearly enough time, Alix.”

Sirin Grey acknowledged the others with a nod and moved to find her seat. She carried herself with grave dignity, gaze straight ahead, acutely aware that every pair of eyes followed her across the hall. Silent steps moved her pale silk dress in dreamlike wisps, as if she were a ghost. In a way, Alix supposed, she was; a ghost of the influential figure she’d once been.

“That’s everyone,” Alix said as a few minor lords and ladies made their way in. Now that all the Banner Houses were represented, the rest of the council members were permitted to enter. That left only His Majesty the king and His Highness the prince.

She found them in the king’s study. Liam perched on the edge of Erik’s desk, looking casually beautiful in his dress armour. Erik sat with his head bowed, absently stroking Rudi’s fur, his gaze a million miles away. The wolfhound, for his part, had his eyes closed in bliss. Erik was his favourite—to Liam’s vast annoyance.

The sound of Alix’s footfalls drew the king’s head up. “Are we ready?” He looked nearly as tense as he had the day of the parley with the Raven, the day the stone walls of the oratorium had acquired an upward-slanting scar.

“Ready,” she said. “The last of the lords and ladies are just filing in now.”

Erik rose, revealing a white doublet with sky-blue embroidery that brought out the bright, clear topaz of his eyes. “To work, then,” he said, and headed for the door.

Liam strode at his side, Alix trailing just behind. Even after all these months, it felt strange to follow in Liam’s footsteps. For so long, he’d been the one to follow her, tracking her footfalls through the brush as she led them on a scouting mission. Figuratively, too, he’d always taken Alix’s lead—like a puppy, Arran Green had once said. But that was when he’d been merely Liam, a no-name commoner, a scout like any other. Things were different now. So different, Alix thought.

The high lords and ladies of the realm stood arrayed behind their designated seats, waiting. Erik acknowledged them all with a crisp nod, gestured for them to sit. Alix alone remained on her feet, hovering just over Erik’s right shoulder, close enough to rest a hand on it if she’d wanted to. No doubt many in the room would consider that overkill. Insulting, even, implying as it did that the king’s bodyguard didn’t really trust them. Alix didn’t give a flaming flea what they thought. This was war.

Erik’s solemn gaze took them in one by one. “My lords. Thank you for gathering on such short notice. Some of you have travelled great distances to be here, and the roads are difficult. The crown salutes your loyalty and service. Be assured that I do not presume upon them lightly. The matters we discuss today are of vital strategic importance to the realm.” He turned to Rig, who sat second from his left, with only Lord Green between them. Barely a year ago, such a position of honour would have been unthinkable, but the Blacks had come a long way since then. “Lord Black, perhaps we might begin with an update from the front.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Rig raised his voice a little above his customary rumble. “The winter has been difficult, as predicted. Things have been relatively quiet on the battlefield, but our supply lines have grown stretched. Aside from the usual difficulties of the season, our stores are at an all-time low following last year’s lost harvests. On top of which, banditry is rife on the Imperial Road, and worsening every day. We’ve been obliged to double the escort on our supply wagons, diverting men who are sorely needed at the front.”

“With your permission, General,” said Rona Brown. When Rig nodded, she continued. “The problem is even worse in the Brownlands. Highwaymen roam the farmsteads and villages, looting and preying on the people. It’s been especially hard on the womenfolk. They sometimes . . . That is, there have been several cases . . .” She swallowed, dropping her gaze.

“Yes,” Rig said, his eyes hard with fury. “That too.”

“Every sword we can muster goes straight to the front,” Rona said. “I have none to spare on law and order.”

“In the Greenlands too,” Raibert Green added. “Nearly a dozen untimely deaths reported this winter, and half as many disappearances. And those are just the incidents that have reached my ears. The real numbers are almost certainly higher.”

Rig’s hands balled into fists on the table, forearms twitching into cords of stiff muscle. He would consider all this a personal failure, Alix knew. She wanted to say something, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but now was not the time.

“Please continue, Lord Black,” Erik said.

With a visible effort, Rig relaxed his hands. “The winter has been hard on the enemy too. Their supply lines are secure, thanks to their foothold in Andithyri, but disease has torn through their ranks. Some sort of cough, I’m told. Probably the same one our men had last winter. Meanwhile, their reinforcements have slowed.”

“Perhaps I might interject here,” said Albern Highmount. Unlike Rona Brown, he didn’t wait for Rig’s leave. “My spies report that the Oridian populace grows weary of war. They have been at it for much longer, of course, and with the Priest slain, their religious fervour has dimmed. They begin to question the purpose of unending expansion.”

“Even if the people are weary,” Rig said, “their soldiers are not. And neither is the Warlord. He’ll not stand down, not unless Varad forces him to.”

“That he is unlikely to do,” Raibert Green said. “Varad may be King, but with the Priest gone, his position is weakened. And it would not do for the two remaining Trions to appear divided. The King will support the Warlord for the time being, if I am any judge.”

“Agreed,” Erik said, “but even so, the news is welcome. The people are the backbone of any war effort. It may take time, but if the Oridian public opposes the war, it will sap their strength.”

“In the meantime,” Rig said, “we have thirty thousand soldiers on our doorstep, and only half that number to defend it. We’ve been plodding through the winter, but spring will set things galloping again.”

“How long do you estimate you can hold the enemy at the border?” Highmount asked.

“The raiding will begin straightaway, I expect. As for a full-scale invasion, it’s impossible to say, but I’d measure it in weeks rather than months. For the moment, the river is doing most of the work; otherwise, the Warlord would be halfway to Erroman by now. We’ve managed to destroy most of the bridges, but there are still a couple of fords the enemy could cross. Needless to say, my men are piled up at those points.”

“The spring thaw will help you out there,” Alix said. She remembered how dangerous the Black River became in spring, swollen with snowmelt.

“For a while,” Rig said. “The water levels have already risen enough to close off a few crossing points, but it won’t last. By midyear, two fords will become five, and I don’t have the men to plug that many holes.” Though his voice remained level, Alix knew her brother well enough to detect the hint of desperation creeping in. “I don’t know any other way to say this, Your Majesty: If we don’t find a way to strengthen our ranks, we won’t last the summer. We need solutions.”

“Yes,” Erik sighed, “we do. And that is why we are here.” He turned to his first counsel. “Lord Highmount, if you will.”

Highmount inclined his head ponderously. “Certainly, Your Majesty. First, a bit of good news. My spies have assured me that the enemy continues recruiting the old-fashioned way. That is to say, the Trionate has not resumed making thralls.”

Rig sat forward a little in his seat. “You’re absolutely sure? How do we know they aren’t busily bewitching peasants behind enemy lines?”

“My spies have assured me,” Highmount repeated coolly.

“We’ve problems enough without an army of mindless drones throwing themselves against our walls. We’d never survive another attack like that.”

“True,” said Highmount, “but fortunately, it would appear that the Priest kept his secrets close. The Trionate’s bloodbinders continue to forge bloodweapons at an alarming rate, but there is no sign they have learned how to warp their art into controlling men. Madan seems to have taken that knowledge to his grave. However, though the Priest’s secrets are not yet known, Nevyn tells me that a number of his fellow bloodbinders in Harram and Onnan are busily trying to discover it. It is only a matter of time before someone succeeds. It might be days or it might be years, but it will happen eventually.”

“And what about Nevyn himself?” asked Norvin Gold. “I presume he is also trying to work it out?”

Erik shifted in his chair. Alix knew he was deeply uncomfortable with the idea of Alden wielding such a dark power, no matter how desperate the cause. Controlling another man’s mind is an abomination, he’d told her once. I want no part of it, ever. Erik had lost much of his principled idealism over the course of the war, but there were still some lines he was not prepared to cross, and enslaving men’s wills through dark magic was foremost on the list.

Not everyone shared his scruples, however. “If he managed it,” Lady Stonegate mused, “it could turn the tide of the war, especially if we were alone in mastering the technique.”

Raibert Green frowned. “You would win this war by bewitching thousands of innocents?”

“If that is what it takes to bring an end to it . . .”

Green started to object, but Highmount raised a hand. “Let us not descend into debate, my lords. The point is moot; Nevyn does not know the secret.” Alix noticed that he hadn’t answered Lord Gold’s question. Not for the first time, she wondered if Highmount might be pursuing the matter without Erik’s knowledge.

“Good to hear we won’t be facing thralls anytime soon,” Rig said, “but that doesn’t change the fact that we’re outnumbered two to one. We need our allies to move.”

“Indeed,” Highmount said. “On that front, I fear the news is less positive. Ambassador Corse has informed us that in spite of previous promises, the Onnani fleet will not be ready for launch by spring. Instead, they are predicting midsummer at the earliest.”

A ripple of despair went round the table.

“How can that be?” cried Osmond Swiftcurrent. His outrage was understandable; his family had done more to finance the expansion of the Onnani fleet than any house save the Whites themselves. “It’s been nearly six months! How long does it take to build a bloody ship?”

Highmount gave him a reproving look. “There is no cause for coarse language, Lord Swiftcurrent.”

“I disagree,” Rig growled. “There’s plenty of cause. If that fleet doesn’t start pressing the enemy soon, we’re finished. I can’t hold them at the border unless a new front opens up, and they’ve conquered everything to the south. With Harram still dithering away, that fleet is everything.”

“Onnani bloodbinders are working day and night to help supply bloodweapons,” Highmount said, “and they have promised to send a battalion to join you at the front.”

“A whole battalion? Lucky me.”

Highmount opened his mouth to reply, but Lady Stonegate beat him to it. “Have the Onnani given any explanation for the delay?”

“They have offered an explanation,” Erik said, “but I think it’s fair to say that Lord Highmount and I did not find it especially satisfying.”

That was an understatement. Alix had been present for that meeting, and the Onnani ambassador had been slippery as a fish. Something was up in Onnan City—that was clear. Something the ambassador wasn’t keen to admit.

“Ambassador Corse suggested that their early efforts were not satisfactory,” Highmount said, “and they were obliged to start from scratch.”

Liam gave an incredulous little laugh. “What, like they’ve never built a ship before? They don’t call them fishmen for nothing.”

“They do not call themselves fishmen at all, Your Highness,” Highmount said, “a fact you must remember at all costs.” An odd remark, Alix thought; she and Liam exchanged a bemused glance.

“From scratch indeed,” Swiftcurrent said disgustedly. “Well, what does Woodvale have to say about it?”

“Rather too much, unfortunately,” Highmount said. “Lord Woodvale has quit Onnan City following a somewhat . . . effervescent appearance before the Republicana.”

“They’ve expelled our ambassador?” Norvin Gold’s moustaches quivered in outrage. “How dare they?”

Erik sighed. “Not quite expelled, but they made it clear that he would no longer be an effective envoy. I was obliged to recall him. He should be back in Erroman within the week.”

“But who will replace him?” Green asked. “We cannot leave his position vacant at a time like this. We need someone looking into the situation with the fleet.”

“Quite so, my lord,” said Highmount. “That is among the issues we must resolve today.”

“In due course,” Erik said. “But first, the rest of the news, thankfully of a more positive nature. The Harrami have indicated that they are willing to discuss entering the war.”

“Willing to discuss it?” Rig smiled thinly. “They really shouldn’t overcommit themselves.”

“It’s been a frustrating dialogue, I admit, but Lord Highmount and I agree that King Omaïd is showing more openness to the possibility than ever before. After months of exchanging letters, he has agreed to receive a diplomatic mission to confer over the matter.”

“That is a good sign,” said Green. “A more committed isolationist has never been. I cannot recall a single diplomatic mission to Ost since Omaïd assumed the throne. He would never invite a delegation if he were not prepared to seriously consider what it had to say.”

“Agreed,” said Highmount. “It is the opening we have been waiting for, and we absolutely must capitalise on it.”

“Easier said than done,” Green said. “How will we get there, with things as they are? The usual route is in enemy hands.”

“It will not be easy,” Erik admitted, “but we cannot afford to let this chance pass us by. If the Harrami do declare war, it could change everything.”

Norvin Gold hummed a sceptical note. “No one can doubt that the Harrami are skilled fighters, Your Majesty. I have seen their horse archers with my own eyes, and their fearsome reputation is well deserved. But they have known only a single war in their entire history. Their failure to subdue their own mountain tribes stands testament to their ineffectiveness as a coherent fighting force. What makes you think their role would be so decisive?”

Rig answered for him. “They don’t have to be particularly effective. It’s enough for them to open another front, put just enough pressure on it that the Oridians have no choice but to deploy. It will stretch their forces even more thinly.”

“If we can get the Harrami to declare,” Erik said, “it could dramatically change the complexion of the war.”

“So how do we do that?” Liam asked.

Erik cleared his throat.

Here it comes, Alix thought.

You’re not going to like it, Erik had said. And from the way he was looking at his brother, it was obvious Liam wasn’t going to like it, either.

“I want us all to be absolutely clear about what is at stake here,” Erik said. “It may be nothing less than our survival as a nation. Which means that this mission to Ost, however difficult, may be the most important diplomatic undertaking in our history.”

A moment more was all it took for Alix to realise where he was going with this. Her eyes rounded in horror, and she seized the back of Erik’s chair in a white-knuckled grip. Oh, please, Erik, no. Stay your tongue. Let me talk to you first . . . But she knew him better than that. He’d made up his mind to table this, and so he would. What followed would be in the hands of the gods, but Alix knew one thing for certain: Her job was about to get much, much harder.