In time, all of those things would happen. For now, though, he felt empty, like a clawed-out mineshaft.
‘I did not know how victory tasted until today,’ Morgrim said, remembering how Imladrik’s blood had coursed over his gauntlets. ‘It will take some getting used to.’
The three of them sat together in Imladrik’s high chamber: Yethanial, Thoriol and Caradryel. The windows were unshuttered and let in the evening light in warm bands of gold.
Caradryel felt awkward. He wasn’t sure why he had been summoned. It felt like he was intruding on some private family affair.
‘Was he angry?’ Yethanial asked, speaking to Thoriol.
The youth shook his head. ‘A little. More surprised, I think.’
‘He should have been angry.’ Yethanial’s voice was soft but harsh. ‘You have had every advantage. You could have died.’
Thoriol looked resigned. ‘So he told me. Look, I see the truth of it, so you do not need to tell me again.’
Caradryel shifted in his seat. Clearly this was something that would be best thrashed out between the two of them.
‘My lady, I–’ he started.
‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Yethanial, before turning her severe face back to Thoriol. ‘This is not some game we are playing at. None of us gets to choose, not when we are at war. There is duty, Thoriol, and that is all.’
She sounded so much like her husband. Thoriol looked chastened, and did not argue.
‘I will try again,’ he said, lifting his head to return her gaze. ‘I can return to the Dragonspine.’
Yethanial looked at him carefully, as if assessing whether he meant it.
‘It is not easy,’ she said at last. ‘Imladrik tells me they wake slowly now, but we need all the riders we can get.’
Thoriol’s expression didn’t change. Caradryel thought he looked very little like his father; much more akin to the mother.
‘And you?’ Thoriol asked, his eyes glittering with challenge.
Yethanial bowed her head. ‘I should have been here from the start. It was only pride that kept me away.’
Caradryel cleared his throat. ‘But a good time to return, if you’ll pardon me for saying. Salendor and Aelis are consumed with their own business, and Caledor’s gaze remains fixed on Naggaroth. There are opportunities here, lady.’
Yethanial looked at him coolly. ‘Opportunities? For what?’
‘Power.’ Caradryel had never quite got the hang of meeting Yethanial’s steely gaze, but worked hard at it. ‘Influence. Imladrik destroyed the dwarf host; his prestige has never been higher. We can use it.’
Yethanial looked uncertain. ‘I do not follow.’
‘The gods’ favour is fleeting: one moment all is golden, the next it lies in ruins. You and I both know this war is a disaster, and sooner or later others will realise it. We have armies here, whole legions whose loyalty is now to Imladrik alone. They would do anything he ordered. Anything.’
Thoriol stirred uneasily. ‘You mean–’
‘Caledor is a fool.’ Caradryel said. ‘Why apologise for saying it? We need to think to the future. We have what we need here. All that remains is picking the moment.’
A tense silence fell over the chamber.
‘This is not why I employed you, Caradryel,’ said Yethanial.
‘Was it not? I serve the House of Tor Caled, and its destiny is to rule, one way or another. So let me at least point out the possibilities.’
Thoriol shook his head. ‘Imladrik will not allow it.’
‘Not now, no,’ said Caradryel. ‘But he knows that no end to this can come while his brother rules. The bloodshed sickens him – he told me so. I think we can persuade him if we need to.’
Yethanial, somewhat to his surprise, did not immediately demur. She thought hard, teasing through the possibilities. Caradryel began to wonder if, of the two of them, she might be the better player of such games.
‘The time is not ripe,’ she said at last.
‘No,’ agreed Caradryel.
Yethanial gave him a distasteful look. ‘You will need gold?’
‘Some. More important is your patronage. Tor Caled is a powerful name; it opens doors.’
Yethanial nodded slowly. ‘So you told me before.’
Thoriol looked at both of them uncomprehendingly. ‘What are you saying? You talk of duty, and then… this?’
Yethanial shot him a withering glance. ‘Have you understood nothing? Your duty is to Ulthuan, to your bloodline.’
Caradryel found himself nodding. ‘So she says.’
Thoriol looked like he wished to protest, but his words were cut off by a sudden call of trumpets from the walls. All of them turned to the east-facing window. Caradryel got to his feet, but not as quickly as Yethanial. She hurried over to the sill, leaning out into the dusk air.
A dragon was riding towards the city, its flanks glowing dull blue in the failing light.
‘He returns!’ cried Yethanial.
Caradryel saw the sudden hope in her face. The soft greyness lifted from her features and her eyes sparkled. For a moment, a fleeting moment, he saw unalloyed joy there, a profound delight that banished her severity. It was transformative, and quite unexpected.
‘Why does he fly so low?’ murmured Thoriol.
Caradryel looked back out of the window. He had seen Imladrik tear through the air many times and this flight looked nothing like that. The dragon seemed to limp along, dipping frequently. Its wings were ragged. As it neared the walls its tail hung low, trailing feebly.
Caradryel stared harder. An awful feeling crept over him.
‘My lady, I think–’ he began, but she was already moving, running out of the chamber and towards the spiral stairway leading up to the roof.
Thoriol followed her. Cursing, Caradryel did likewise, taking the steps two at a time to keep up. The three of them broke out into the open, on to the same wide platform where Caradryel had last bid farewell to Imladrik.
The dragon swooped down on them, its flight erratic. Droplets of black blood splattered on the stone.
‘Isha, not this…’ breathed Yethanial, horror written on her
