Caledor filled the throne out pretty well. His fur-lined robes spilled over the arms. His longsword, Lathrain, rested against the obsidian, still sheathed in its ancient wound-metal scabbard. Hulviar, the king’s seneschal, crouched on the steps to one side, wearing a high-collared jerkin of worsted wool and a thick cloak.
Imladrik smiled to himself. Hulviar had always felt the cold.
‘Brother,’ said Caledor warmly, rising from the throne and coming to greet him.
Imladrik met the embrace, kissing his brother on both cheeks.
‘You look terrible,’ Caledor said. ‘You smell terrible. Have you been rolling in charcoal?’
‘I have been in the mountains,’ replied Imladrik, thinking much the same about his brother’s primped and perfumed attire. ‘It takes its toll.’
‘Your people told me you were up there,’ said Caledor, returning to the throne and brushing his robes down. ‘I asked when you would return and I was told that no one knew. It could be tomorrow, it could be in a month, they said.’
Imladrik stood upright before the dais. He could feel his muscles ache from the long hike down but did not send for a chair. ‘What do you want, Menlaeth? I am tired, I have much to do. If you’d wanted me I could have come to Lothern.’
‘I know, brother, but are you not grateful? I have come to see you. Not every King would have made such an effort. Can you imagine our father doing it?’ Caledor’s face clouded. ‘Can you imagine him ever pulling himself away from his wars long enough to speak to either of us?’
‘No, I cannot.’
‘Now I am back from wars of my own, and it has been too long since we spoke. So I am here, and I am glad to see you, though I am not sure I would have waited a month for the privilege.’
Imladrik glanced at Hulviar, who studiously ignored his gaze. ‘I heard your reception in Lothern was worth seeing.’
Caledor inclined his head modestly. ‘It was. And our passage across the seas was equally splendid, thanks to the escorts you arranged. I am grateful.’
Imladrik paused. Was he being sarcastic? He couldn’t read his brother’s expressions any more. For that matter, he couldn’t read anyone’s expressions any more. ‘Please, Menlaeth,’ he said. ‘Tell me why you are here.’
‘Very well,’ said Caledor. ‘I am sending you back to Elthin Arvan.’
Imladrik stood stock still. The words hit him hard. For a moment, he thought he might have misheard. Then he thought that Caledor might have misspoken. Then he realised that no error had been committed – that was what he was being told.
‘This is an honour for you,’ Caledor went on. ‘The dawi are easy prey: we will have victory after victory. I have seen for myself the glory it brings. You too will earn a reception in Lothern, and they will greet you as they did me – like a god.’
‘Madness.’ The words seemed to spill out of their own accord. ‘You were barely there a year. You have seen only a tithe of their strength.’
Caledor shot him an indulgent look. ‘No doubt! No doubt there are thousands more, and you can root them out, one after the next. You can take the dragons, too, as many of them as will cross the ocean. Imagine when the dwarfs see them. I don’t think they truly realise what a weapon they are.’
‘They are not weapons,’ said Imladrik, his voice low.
‘Of course, no, they are not: they are ancient and wonderful beings. I forget that sometimes, so it is good to have you here to remind me.’
Imladrik struggled to keep his anger down, mindful of where he was and whom he spoke with. ‘I cannot go back,’ he said. ‘Not now. We are taking the war to the druchii. A thousand plans are in motion. My troops–’
‘–will serve just as ably under another commander,’ said Caledor coolly. ‘And what is this “I cannot”? Is that how you were schooled to talk to Kings?’
‘I am used to Kings making wiser choices,’ said Imladrik.
Hulviar pursed his lips. Caledor’s face went a shade paler.
‘This is not a request, brother,’ he said, his tone frostier. ‘I am still the regent of Asuryan in this realm. Unless, that is, you can think of a better candidate.’
Imladrik laughed, suddenly understanding. ‘Is that what this is about? You should find yourself abler counsellors.’ He took a stride towards Caledor, and his metal-shod boots clinked on the stone. ‘I have no desire to sit on your throne, nor to wear your crown. By the gods, I have no desire to lead armies at all – if duty did not demand it I would happily spend my days in the Dragonspine. Forget those who whisper in your ear; we are winning the war against the druchii, and I will not leave it.’
Caledor’s face flashed briefly with anger. ‘Will not? Let me remind you, brother, of how things stand. I have the mandate of the Flame. I built the fleets that spread our power over the world. I broke the grip of the corsairs. I slew the prince of the stunted folk and sent his armies reeling.’
Imladrik listened to the litany wearily. Perhaps it sounded impressive to his brother; to his own ears, it sounded painfully insecure. Both of them knew that their father had been gifted the title ‘Conqueror’ by the people. Caledor II was desperate to make a similar mark in the annals and so threw himself into one battle after the other, neglecting all else but war. That might fool the rabbles of Lothern and Tor Alessi, though it fooled no one who had actually known Imrik.
‘And you,’ said Caledor, almost scornfully. ‘The Master of Dragons. What is that, even? An old title from a dusty lineage. They are dying, Imladrik. They have been dying for centuries and nothing will halt it. You have wasted your life with them, trying to coax out a little more ore from a mined-out
