At last, when it was over, Marith limped back to his camp. Exhausted. He could lie down and sleep for about a million years. His horse had taken a wound to the leg, he’d ended up dismounted, fighting on foot. On foot, soaked in blood like all of them, he was hardly recognizable. The men hardly gave him a second glance. A woman was handing out mugs of beer and bread crusts. And kisses. Marith sat down on a tuffet and drank thirstily. A troop of foot came in, laughing, singing the song about their beloved king and his big big sword and his cloak as red as widows’ eyes. Marith beamed into his mug.

Oh, and there was his horse. Limping also, with blood on its right ear, but otherwise unharmed. A young cavalry captain had it, had obviously kindly thought to look after it. He was leading it looking delighted. Marith wandered over to him.

“I think you’ll find that’s my horse.”

The captain said, “Your horse? I think you’ll find it’s my—” Eyes opened in terror. Went down on both knees with his face in the dirt. “My Lord King. My Lord. My Lord King. Forgive me.”

Pause. Marith eyed him, thinking, warm and cheerful and holding a pint.

“Oh gods, man, get up. Of course, you were merely looking after it. ‘It’s my Lord King’s horse,’ I’m sure you were about to say. It’s a lovely horse; I wouldn’t want to lose it and you have my thanks. A purse of gold and a place in my personal guard a fitting reward?”

The man rose, gibbering, mud over the blood on his face. “Thank you. Thank you. My Lord King. My Lord.”

“Take it to the horse lines, will you?” Marith smiled at him. The captain led the horse off, shaking with overawed delight.

So now, of course, everybody recognized him, he was surrounded by people kneeling, cheering, milling about shouting his name. Orders to be given, the camp to be secured; he sent Lord Bemann marching ahead to Tyrenae with a picked force of horse and half the sarriss. A squad of Ithish horse had got away south over the river, would need mopping up. A few hundred foot soldiers had broken through the baggage train and got up into the forest behind the camp: he sent Lord Parale after them with a troop of swordsmen and the surviving archers to secure a perimeter and set up watch posts in case they tried to creep back. A few Ithish nobles had surrendered: one or two he invited to join him, one or two he killed immediately with his own hand. Finally in his tent he sat down and began stripping off his armour. Osen himself knelt to help him with his sword belt and boots. Stiff and sticky, hardened with blood.

“You’ve done it.”

“I have, haven’t I? The beginning, at least.”

“Well done.”

Thalia would be safe, back in the hills, watching the battle. It felt right, briefly, that it was an old companion of his youth who was here with him in his moment of triumph. Carin’s ghost hung between them faint and fading. Osen, surely, had always been his friend. There is no bond closer than the bond of shared killing. Even with Carin there had never been that. Never would have been. The old battle hymns sang of the friendship forged in war, the trust of men knowing they held each other’s lives like a gift, that what they did together was like nothing else in the world.

“I’ll throw these away?” Osen asked of Marith’s boots. They were astonishingly bloodstained.

“Please do. And the armour. It’s a vile mess. Get that buckle cleaned up, though. It’s a nice one.” His cloak hung from a peg in his sleeping area, burned and tattered at the hem, even more sodden with blood and gore. Almost like lacework. Marith stood up naked, stretched. Osen helped him into his bath.

“When shall I tell the other lords you’ll see them?” Osen asked.

“Oh, gods … Yes, yes, I’ll need to. And the Ithish one. Say two hours? Get wine and meat set out for them. And see if Leos’ baggage has cups or anything we can use.” Gods, this had all been easier as a foot soldier with Skie and Tobias. Kill people, stop killing people when you’d run out of people to kill, get rat-arsed to celebrate/forget afterwards. Hot water sluiced deliciously over his head. He opened his eyes to Osen offering him a large cup of firewine.

“Gods, where did you spring that from? You’re a mind reader. Thank you.”

“You sometimes have a very eminently readable mind, Marith. To the King of Ith, then.”

“The—?”

He almost looked round, looking for his uncle, then realized who Osen meant.

The lords filed in at the appointed time, some still bloody and armoured, having come straight from securing the field or preparing the next day’s march. Beside the lords of the White Isles there were now two Ithish nobles, Lord Alleen Durith of Emralleen and Lady Kiana Sabryya. This last being a young woman with vivid dark eyes and wild brown curls who excited some attention among the men of the Whites. Everyone knew the Ithish and the Illyians had women warriors. They’d been fighting and killing Ithish women warriors a bare few hours ago. But gods, the way they stared at her you’d have thought they’d never seen a woman before. She looked at Osen with a smile: they’d fought hand to hand, apparently, she’d pushed him back before she had to break to help her comrades. Fought valiantly. For a while. Then surrendered with all her surviving troops, turned on the nearest Ithish and routed them.

He should distrust her as a turncoat. But …

“Leos escaped uninjured,” she said shortly. “Do you wish any pursuit?”

“Bit late for that, I’d have thought,” Yanis Stansel muttered.

“He’ll be making for Tyrenae,” said Nasis Jaeartes. “We hardly need pursue. Just walk in after him.”

“That may be something of an over-assumption,” said Yanis. “With all respect to My Lord King, of course.”

“Their army is utterly crushed. Annihilated. They have no way of resisting.”

“They could try closing the city gates.”

Lord Durith of Emralleen stirred himself. A Calboride, some distant kin of Leos and Selerie and Marith. “Lord Leos is not loved in Tyrenae. Especially not now …” He tailed off smoothly, looked at them.

“Not now what?” asked Osen.

“You have not heard? I had assumed you knew … Leos not only took the title of king. As soon as news came that Selerie was taken, he had the little prince and princess Selerie’s children killed. He hardly made a show of it, of course, but enough people know or suspect. I very much doubt the people of Tyrenae will rejoice when he returns in shame.”

Osen said, “Very thoughtful of him. That makes the king next heir to the Ithish throne.”

Lord Durith smiled at Marith. “It does. Some might think it was a foolish move.”

“Some might think he had encouragement,” said Kiana. Her eyes narrowed. “If the Ithish are wise, they will open their gates to you tomorrow without bloodshed and hand him over in chains.”

“If the Ithish were wise, we wouldn’t be sitting here,” Yanis Stansel muttered. Gods, what was biting Yanis this evening? He’d led the heavy horse charge and laid waste to the Ithish spears. He couldn’t still be pissed off because his left hand was buggered up a bit?

It was time for their king to bring them to order. Marith said crisply, “We march on Tyrenae at dawn. We assume it will come to battle: gods know, they may still try to hold out. But they’d be fools. If they want a siege, I’ll break their walls by dusk. Then let the men loose on them.”

One night’s rest and then they marched. Long taut hours going, through sprouting fields slowly rising towards Tyrenae. The city stood on a long ridge overlooking the plain. At its heart the citadel of Malth Tyrenae on its rearing outcrop of stone. So high clouds sometimes shrouded its towers, hiding the flash of its copper roofs, the pools of quicksilver set there. Thus some said came the name the Fortress of Shadows. An ancient city and an ancient keep. Older than Amrath. Older than the Godkings. Older, some said, than men themselves. Before the world rose from the waters Malth Tyrenae stood, crowned in quicksilver, alone above the endless unbreaking waves of the first sea. Its stones were honeycombed by wind and weather, pitted a thousand thousand years. Its halls had seen men rise from the mud to crawl before its lords. Here Amrath had boiled alive Eltheia’s parents. Here Eltheri her brother had watched and laughed. Here Marith Altrersyr the Ansikanderakesis Amrakane would truly be king.

The army crossed the river Ushen at midday, unopposed. A troop of horsemen rode out of the hills but drew back and scattered towards the city. Lord Bemann had sent word Tyrenae was preparing to surrender, so Marith let them go. No one else was visible, the peasantry huddling in their cottages or fled. The cherry orchards for which Geremela was famous were coming into blossom, pink flowers emerging in clots like thick heavy cream. Marith made a garland of them for Thalia, pink against her black hair. Osen in turn made one for Marith: he removed his helmet, rode crowned breathing in the faint scent. Several of the lords copied, laughing: Kiana Sabryya looked like a fresh young wood sprite and Osen made eyes at her. More a carnival than a battle march.

As the sun began sinking rich gold behind the city, they came to its walls and its eastern gate. The Tower of Shadows stood against the sky like a knife.

The gates were open. In the road before them, two wooden stakes had been set up. Leos Calboride’s head topped one of them, staring out at the conquering army as they halted before it. On the other, Leos’ body, impaled. A dark red banner flapped in the wind. Lord Bemann’s troops lined the gateway. The powers and potentates of Ith knelt at their feet.

Lord Bemann nudged his horse forward. “My Lord Marith Altrersyr, King of Ith and the White Isles and Illyr and Immier and the Wastes and the Bitter Sea. Ansikanderakesis Amrakane. The men of Tyrenae beg leave to speak with you. Will you hear them speak?”

Marith looked across at Selerie, looking back at his brother’s dead face. Yes. That’s how it feels, he thought. That’s how it feels, Uncle, you callous, cruel, merciless, stubborn old man. Shall I tell you he killed your children? Shall I? What must he have felt for you, to do that? “I will hear them speak. I might even think about listening to them.” He was still wearing the wreath of cherry blossom, he realized, as were most of the lords around him. Thalia beside him looked like a statue of a goddess, the afternoon sun glittering on her garland and her gown of silver thread.

One of the Ithish nobles stumbled to his feet. An old man, grey haired, his back bent. Blue and silver trim on his clothing: more royal kin. A great uncle, perhaps, the pretty princess’s grandfather. Marith smiled encouragingly at him.

“My Lord King. My Lord King of Ith. Be welcome. Your city opens its gates to you. We rejoice that you have come.” He knelt very low before Marith’s horse, his head so close to the gilded hooves. “Tyrenae surrenders unconditionally, My Lord King. Malth Tyrenae itself also. We are yours to dispose of. We beg your mercy, My Lord King.”

Marith raised his eyes to the towers of the fortress. Things that might be clouds circling its heights. He raised his voice. “I accept your surrender.” The man’s breath came as a long juddering sigh.

A troop of boys came forward, scattering flowers. Two girls in crimson silk brought cups of wine for Marith and Thalia as king and queen. Two more girls in crimson presented them both with gifts, a first taste of the treasure stores of Malth Tyrenae that he had won. A jewelled sword, scabbard and sword belt for Marith, gold filigree and emerald, quicksilver encased in clear crystal on the hilt of the sword. A necklace of white diamonds for Thalia, tight like a collar around her throat. Ah, gods. He reached out and touched her hand. More flowers as they rode through the gateway, voices shouting a ragged attempt at joy. From windows and doorways the people of Ith stared out sullen and terrified. They had hung carpets and tapestries from the shutters, threw flowers, trembled with fear as he passed. “The King of Ith!” a voice was shouting. “The King of Ith!” Selerie beside him was slumped in the saddle, eaten up with flies.

“The King of Ith,” Selerie lisped through his maimed mouth.

Down the long processional roadway, through squares and marketplaces, the voices ringing on and on. “The King of Ith! The King of Ith!” Blossom falling: they must have stripped the city’s trees bare. It caught in Marith’s hair, his horse’s mane, his clothes. Thalia shimmered in it. In every square a troop of musicians sang the great songs of Amrath. At the windows of a brothel the women leaned out half naked, blowing kisses, shaking their long hair. A cloth merchant had spread his wares in the roadway, silks and fine linens, coloured wools, velvets sewn with copper thread. The horses pranced over them, trampling petals into their weave. From the alleyways, beggars shrieked and flapped their arms and cheered.

Up the slope to the gates of Malth Tyrenae. Here again the gates stood open, more young girls in crimson showering down petals from the walkway at its top, a fanfare of trumpets, a clash of bells. The king’s steward came forward to receive them, kneeling with the crown of Ith on a platter in his hands. Servants prostrate, foreheads pressed to the ground. Another girl with the cup of welcome, robed in crimson and gold. Hippocras, this time. Someone had checked and remembered his taste. The tower’s guards clashed their swords against their shields. Sang a hymn of praise.

At the doorway of the keep the queen herself knelt in surrender, bruised where she had fought off Leos’ assassins, still in the bloody clothes she was wearing when Leos had locked her away. She did not look at Selerie, but clung to Marith’s knees as a suppliant. Begged him to let her bury her children in peace. Marith nodded absently. She grasped his hands. Kissed them. Horror gripped him. Tears. I maimed your husband, he thought. With these hands. Her lips were dry and hot. Thalia looked sickened, he saw her touch her own scarred arm. “Great Tanis. Great Tanis. Have mercy. Have pity.” Osen gestured something; two men in armour dragged the queen away, her voice still babbling out thanks.

Marith rubbed his eyes. Hatha. A strong drink. His hands felt dirty, like he’d touched dog shit and not been able to wash it off.

Lord Bemann came up to him. “The gates are closed, My Lord King. All the men are inside. Everything is secured. The fortress. The Ithish troops. All is at your command.”

He turned and looked at the waiting faces. Could feel tears in his eyes. Petals. Trumpets. Cheering. Joy. “King Marith! King Marith! Hail!” At the tower’s height the shadows danced and writhed.