‘Hungry?’ he asked.
‘As if starved for a year.’
Imladrik sent for food. In the time it took the servants to prepare it, the two of them rose and dressed. They broke their fast in an east-facing chamber of the old tower. The rain lashed against the glass of the windows and the wind sighed around the walls as they ate, making the fire in the grate gutter and spit.
Imladrik leaned back in his chair. The kitchens at Tor Vael cooked food the way he liked it: plain. He swallowed the last of a round oatcake and reached for a goblet of watered-down wine.
Yethanial had been as good as her word; she ate ravenously, like a scrawny mountain wolf at the end of winter.
‘It troubles me,’ said Imladrik.
‘What troubles you?’
‘That you do not look after yourself when I am away.’
Yethanial shrugged. ‘Too much to do.’
‘You have servants here.’
‘Yes, and I have been cooped up with them for too long. Tell me of the real world.’
Imladrik took a cautious sip of wine. ‘What do you wish to know?’
‘Everything.’ Yethanial crossed her arms, waiting.
‘Well, then. My brother heads back to Ulthuan and Lothern runs with rumour. They tell me he has won his war in the colonies, that the stunted folk are defeated, and that we can at last turn our attentions to ridding the world of druchii.’
‘The stunted folk are defeated? Should I believe that?’
Imladrik leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Have you ever met a dwarf?’
‘I have read accounts.’
‘Scrolls do not tell the truth of it.’ Imladrik felt his mind roving back over the past, the years he had spent in the wilds. ‘Imagine, somehow, if rock were to come to life, growing limbs and a heart. Imagine that every virtue of rock – durability, endurance, hardness – were somehow condensed into a living thing.’
Yethanial smiled affectionately. ‘Language is not your gift, my lord.’
‘It is not. But think of it: a race of stone, as resolute as granite, as unyielding as bedrock. That is the dawi.’
‘Dawi?’
‘What they call themselves.’ Imladrik shook his head. ‘And they are not defeated. Menlaeth has killed one of their princes, but dozens more remain under the mountains. I have seen those places. I have seen halls of stone larger than our greatest palaces. I have seen their warriors gathered around the light of ritual fires, each one wearing a mask of iron and carrying an axe of steel.’
Imladrik looked down at his hands. Speaking of such things took him back. ‘They can never be defeated,’ he said. ‘Not there, not in their own realm. I tried to tell my brother that.’
Yethanial listened carefully. ‘I am sure he took account of that.’
Imladrik’s lip twitched in a wry smile. ‘I met the dwarf prince he is said to have killed. Halfhand, they called him. A brave warrior, though headstrong. The dawi will hold a thousand grudges against us now, and they will never stop.’
‘But they will have to relent soon, no? They cannot fight us forever.’
Imladrik’s smile remained on his lips. ‘Relent? No, I do not think they have a word for that.’ He took another swig of wine. ‘I read the tidings from Elthin Arvan. They tell me that Tor Alessi will soon be attacked again. There are dozens of dawi thanes, all with their own armies. Athel Maraya is exposed too. It is only arrogance that makes us believe these places are invulnerable.’
‘But here we are told–’
‘Here you are told that the war will be over in a year, the colonies will expand and the dawi will soon be suing for peace on their knees.’ Imladrik looked into his goblet sourly. ‘It is lunacy. At Athel Numiel even the infants were butchered, so they say. Menlaeth has set the fire running; I hope he understands the inferno that will come of it.’
Imladrik put the goblet down. ‘I love my brother,’ he said, his jaw tight. ‘Or I try to. He is the mightiest of all of us, the crown is his by right, but…’
Yethanial rose from her chair and hastened to his side. She knelt beside him, catching his hands in hers and pulling them to her lap. ‘You do not have to pretend, not with me.’
‘I never pretend.’ Imladrik shot her a bitter smile. ‘The dragons see through it, so I lost the knack. Believe me, I do not envy him. He has our glorious father to live up to, and I would not wish that on anyone.’
‘You both have that to bear.’
‘My name will not be in the annals. When I remember to, I pity him. I wish to help him, but he takes no counsel.’
Yethanial’s mouth twitched into a smile. ‘Remind you of anyone?’
Imladrik gave a hollow laugh. ‘I am surrounded by the stubborn. Why is that? Do I attract them?’
‘Some of them.’ Yethanial stroked his hands. The touch was soothing. ‘I have made you melancholy. I did not mean to.’
Imladrik slipped his hands free and reached for her, pulling her towards him. ‘No, it is me – I have let the past intrude. I was over there for a long time.’
Yethanial nodded, looking up at him with sad knowledge written in her features. ‘It has been over twenty years. How much longer will you need before you let it go?’
Imladrik didn’t reply. He knew that his face would give away his answer if he spoke.
I will never let it go.
Yethanial reached up to press her hand against his heart. ‘I am not a fool, my lord. I know enough, but it is over now. You came back, and the gods know we have enemies enough in Ulthuan to keep you busy.’
Imladrik nodded. They were the words he needed to hear.
‘Whatever you left behind,’ she said, ‘whatever part of you that remains there, think of it no more. Think of me. Think of the realm you are charged with
