‘Liandra?’
Alieth nodded. ‘We came because we had nowhere else to go. When we arrived here we heard rumours.’ She frowned. ‘Foul rumours. They are saying the Lady broke her commands, that she caused the dwarfs to attack. It is lies.’
Caradryel crossed his legs and leaned forwards, listening carefully. ‘Tell me everything. From the beginning. Can you do that?’
‘We were attacked. A black dragon ridden by a sorcerer. She destroyed the city. The Lady came to our aid, and they fought above us. I saw it. I saw the red dragon take on the black, driving it out over the mountains.
‘A black dragon?’ asked Caradryel. He’d never heard of such a thing.
Alieth nodded vigorously. ‘A monster, covered in chains. The Lady pursued it. That was the last we saw. Some tried to follow, but they moved too fast.’ She started to rub her hands together again. ‘Imladrik must know. The Lady is in danger. There were no dwarfs at Kor Vanaeth.’
‘Please calm yourself. If what you say is true–’
‘It is true.’
‘–then I will pass it on to Lord Imladrik. Are you prepared to vouch under oaths to Asuryan?’
Alieth nodded firmly.
Caradryel reached out and rested his hand on hers. It was a tender, reassuring gesture, one he had always been proud of.
‘Then I want you to keep remembering,’ he said soothingly. ‘Think carefully, hold nothing back. Lord Imladrik will be made aware, but first you must tell me what happened next.’
Alieth began to speak again then, a little more fluently as she gathered confidence, explaining how she and her companions had survived the onslaught and subsequently made their way through the forest towards the coast.
Caradryel listened, making mental notes of the portions he would pass on to Imladrik. Even as he did so, though, another, more encouraging thought made its presence felt.
This will make me useful again.
So it was that as he listened, despite the impropriety of it, despite his attempts to quell it, Caradryel could not help a furtive smile creeping along the corners of his elegant mouth.
Night fell, though the skies above Tor Alessi remained blood-red from the fires. Labourers worked tirelessly, building as fast as their exhausted limbs would allow. Detachments of soldiers still prowled the streets, though their numbers had been thinned following losses and reassignments.
The world’s moons rode high in a cloud-patchworked sky. A lone dragon flew lazily to the north, its black outline stark against the silvery feathering of the heavens.
Thoriol did not spend time watching it. His whole body throbbed. It felt as if his wound had opened up again; a hot, damp sensation had broken out just under his ribs.
He didn’t stop walking. He limped through the dusk, ignoring those around him just as they ignored him. He passed fire-scarred walls and piles of rubble. Somewhere in the distance he heard weeping. There had been weeping every night since the siege and the passing of time did little to lessen it.
Thoriol kept going, averting his face from the glow of the torches.
It had been easy to deceive the Master Healer, who was more adept at creating poultices than he was at reading intentions. With all else that had transpired, the few guards there had been preoccupied with other matters and were not looking for a lone charge seeking to evade their attention.
In any case, there was little they could have done to stop him leaving. He was a prince of a noble house, the Dragontamer’s House no less, and they would have been bound to accept his orders if he’d been forced to give them.
For all that, Thoriol had been glad no confrontation had taken place. Giving orders was not, and had never been, his strength.
He limped down a long, crooked street in the south quarter of the lower city. It looked different to the last time he’d been there. Then again, much of the city looked different. The buildings seemed to crowd a little closer, their pointed roofs angling like furled batwings into the night.
He found the door he was looking for, and paused. Two narrow windows shone with hearth-rich light from within. He could hear voices from the other side, voices he recognised. Someone was laughing; a tankard clinked.
Thoriol smiled. His father was wrong. He did not understand such things. Comradeship, companionship – Imladrik had never known such closeness. He’d probably never fought alongside another living soul in his life, save for the great beasts that carried him into war.
Thoriol reached for the door and rapped hard. He heard more laughter, the sound of something being knocked over, then it opened.
‘Greetings!’ said Thoriol, trying to look carefree against the pain of his wound.
Taemon stood in the doorway. His mouth opened. It took him just a little too long to close it. He stood there, stupidly, a tankard in one hand, the door-latch in the other.
‘Well?’ asked Thoriol good-naturedly. ‘Are you going to let me in?’
Taemon stammered an apology and stood aside. Thoriol limped into a crowded chamber. Loeth sat in a chair by the fire, his leg bandaged and raised on a stool. Rovil stood over the mantelpiece, looking as if he’d just been speaking. Florean sat across a rough table. He’d been carving the skin from an apple, knife still in hand.
All of them stared at Thoriol as he entered. Their laughter stilled.
‘Silent?’ asked Loeth, squinting up at him as if unsure it was really him.
Thoriol nodded, grinning. Already he felt better; the marble chambers of the old city now seemed like some kind of fleeting aberration. ‘They would not tell me where you were, but I hoped nothing had changed. What happened to your leg?’
Loeth looked down at the bandages, as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Dawi quarrel,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Thigh. But it’s healing.’
Thoriol gazed around the room. He smelled the familiar aromas of rough wine, straw, cooked meat.
None of them spoke. The fire spat. Rovil stared at the floor; Florean kept his knife
