More laughter.
‘So much for this War of the Beards!’ Caledor said, flinging the severed hand back at Hulviar. ‘The stunted ones dared to challenge their betters, and thus have been bloodied. They will think twice before assaulting our colonies again. Should they now sue for peace and come before me on their knees, we shall be magnanimous. But if they dare, if they dare, to rise up against us again, we shall visit vengeance on them a thousandfold.’
Laughter was replaced by roars of approval.
‘We shall root them out of their holes and drag them into the sunlight,’ Caledor promised, warming to his theme. ‘We shall burn their mines and flood their holds. We shall seize their goods and make prisoners of their wives – though what use one might have for such creatures, I have little idea.’
More laughter, crude this time.
‘So I tell you: rejoice! Rejoice in the valour of our legions, in the strength of our fleets, in the matchless spellcraft of our mages. No force of the world can stand against us. First will the dawi fall, then the druchii, just as any power must fall that sets itself against the chosen ones, the children of Aenarion!’
The cheering was thunderous.
‘From henceforth, this day shall be known as the Day of the Severing. It shall mark our crushing of the dawi in their own domains. Until the sun sets, do no work. Drink wine, feast well, revel in your leisure: you have laboured hard in the years since my father’s death, now take your ease and bask in the glory of his son’s accomplishments.’
He leaned forward, stretching out his fists.
‘I told you that a new dawn has broken over Ulthuan,’ he cried. ‘It shines on the reign of Caledor the Second.’
That brought the loudest cheers of all. Soldiers resumed their shield-clanging salute; whole bunches of flowers were hurled up at the tower’s stonework. Caledor basked in it all, smiling benignly, waving regally, before finally, just as the prepared casks of strong wine were opened along the waterfront, withdrawing from the balcony’s edge.
He passed into a gilt-and-mirror chamber to the rear, followed by Hulviar. The cheers from the quayside went on and on, persisting even after glass-paned doors were closed against the noise.
‘That went well,’ said Caledor, taking the crown from his brow and handing it to a waiting attendant.
Hulviar drew the strings tight on the bag containing Snorri’s hand and dangled it with distaste. ‘What do you wish me to do with this, my liege?’
Caledor pulled his gauntlets free and discarded them. ‘Whatever you will. Feed it to your swine, throw it into the sea, I care not.’
Hulviar gave him an uncertain look. ‘You know, of course, that his father still lives? And his cousin? They’re sure to seek vengeance.’
‘Of course. They shall meet the same fate.’
‘Our lords in Elthin Arvan are not so sure. They make requests for more arms. They are worried.’
‘What would they have me do? Go back again? Nursemaid them?’
Hulviar leaned closer. Aside from a couple of attendants who knew how to keep their eyes and ears to themselves, the chamber was empty; even so, he kept his voice low. ‘Far from it. You have already been away six years, and that is a long time for the throne to be empty. You know how these things work, my liege: the court grows restive without a strong hand to guide it.’
‘Is this a lecture coming?’ asked Caledor, irritably. The address had been a triumph; he had no desire to be dragged back into intrigue, something of which there seemed to be an infinite supply in Lothern. ‘If so, make it short.’
‘Your homecoming has been a success, my liege,’ said Hulviar. ‘Your position is strengthened, but you are not the only popular name in Ulthuan. Before you returned there was another on the lips of the rabble.’
‘Imladrik.’
‘Your brother has won renown against the druchii – they have no answer to his dragons. Some whisper that he would wear the crown well, too.’
‘Who whispers this?’
‘No names, my liege, just rumours. But they persist.’
Caledor shot Hulviar a flinty look. ‘My brother has no ambition for the throne. Anyone who knows him would tell you that.’
‘Just so, but that – if you will forgive my saying so – is neither here nor there. Others can use Imladrik whether he wishes them to or no.’ Hulviar’s face was almost apologetic. ‘Your brother is the greatest dragon rider of our age, but no statesman. He can be made into a figurehead.’
The beginnings of a scowl formed on Caledor’s smooth brow. The joy of his homecoming felt soured, and that darkened his mood. Even now, just at the moment of triumph, the tangled skeins of his family history were ripe to pollute it all. ‘Then he must be sent away again,’ he muttered. ‘He professed to love the colonies; he can mire himself in war there.’
Hulviar nodded, looking satisfied. ‘A judicious course, but he will not go willingly. He has taken up residence in Tor Vael.’
‘Tor Vael,’ said Caledor, scornfully. ‘His dreary wife’s tower. So unalike, those two.’
Hulviar shrugged, as if to say, what can one do? ‘He seems to find it amenable.’
‘He has had the run of it for too long. I shall send messages there. He will not refuse an order.’
‘Indeed he will not, but I understand he is not there: he goes to commune with the drakes. Perhaps it would be best to meet him in person, in Kor Evril.’
Caledor shook his head with irritation. ‘I love my brother, Hulviar, but the age of the dragons was drawing to a close even before our great-grandsire walked the mountains. He would do better to devote himself to his own kind.’
Hulviar smiled. ‘As you have done, my liege.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Caledor, already preoccupied by the arrangements he would have to make to secure his position. ‘See that all this is put in motion, Hulviar. Your advice spoils my mood, but I see the sense of it.’
‘It
