“What is it?” she asked as she sank into one of the cushioned chairs that they had been given.

“The word is that the Bloodheir’s blockading Kolkyre.”

“What?”

Coinach shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s true or not. That’s what the cook says. A test of wills between Aewult and Roaric. The Bloodheir wants the men who killed his warriors while he was away, and Roaric won’t hand them over. And now, apparently, he’s saying he won’t make any payment to the families of the dead men until Aewult’s paid for all the horses and cattle the army’s taken.”

Anyara groaned.

“Aewult wants the Kilkry army that Roaric’s gathered in there disbanded all over again, too, I think,” Coinach added glumly. “The Thane refuses, of course. And… well, it sounds as though Roaric’s demanding that you be returned to the Tower of Thrones.”

“Oh, so now I’m to be some little token for these… idiots to fight over?”

“He’s only trying to stand by you, to get you out of Aewult’s grasp.”

“No, he’s not,” Anyara snapped. “He’s trying to undo every insult he thinks his Blood has suffered at the hands of Haig. He’s trying to prove he’s strong enough and big enough to be Thane, and to face up to Aewult.” Her shoulders sagged, and she stared down into the grey porridge in her bowl. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure he thinks he’s helping. Aewult’s the wrong man to try to prove himself against, though, and this is the wrong time. Can’t he see that? Has everyone lost their mind?”

“He’s got a dead brother and a dead father burdening him,” Coinach murmured.

“We’ve all got the dead to deal with. All of us.”

“Yes. Of course.”

On Anyara’s third day in Aewult’s camp, Ishbel came to see her. Anyara was surprised at her own indifference to the intrusion. The woman, standing smug and sneering in the great tent’s entrance, clearly had no purpose there except to gloat, yet Anyara found herself unmoved.

“Not as comfortable for you as the Tower of Thrones, I imagine,” Ishbel said. She had a little flock of maids fluttering about behind her. They laughed.

Anyara and Coinach were sitting cross-legged on the planked floor. He was showing her how to sharpen the knife he had given her. She glanced up, then turned her attention back to the blade.

“I’ve seen much worse,” she said.

Ishbel said nothing for a moment or two, but Anyara could feel her presence, and her self-satisfied smile. She concentrated on the weight of the whetstone in her hand, and the movement of the knife across it.

“Should I lend you some of my maids?” Ishbel asked. “Or some clothes, perhaps? I know how the subject of rain capes interests you. I have some I could spare you, to keep the cold and the wet off.”

“I’m sure,” Anyara muttered. “Your master has provided what servants I need, though, and I’ve cloaks enough.”

“He’s not my master.”

“No?” Anyara looked up and smiled thinly. “My mistake.”

Ishbel left with a frown on her face, stamping her feet as she went.

“Needs to learn some manners,” Coinach observed.

“I don’t suppose she needs them, so long as she’s got the Bloodheir’s favour to wrap herself up in.”

Boredom, and the excess of thinking time that came with it, was Anyara’s greatest discomfort. She asked more than once to meet with Aewult, hoping against hope that she might be able to soften him, but the message always came back that he was too busy. She practised knifework with Coinach. He was a patient teacher, hiding well whatever reservations he felt about the exercise. The nights were the worst. The camp was never quiet, and all through the hours of darkness she could hear voices and the creaking of wagon wheels and the movement of canvas on the breeze. She dreamed – when she slept at all – in indistinct patterns of shadow and fear.

No one could, or would, tell her what was to happen. Every morning she woke half-expecting that there would be a battle, or that she would be sent off to Vaymouth. Each day those expectations went unfulfilled, until Anyara began to feel as if there was nothing to the world save this great encampment with the city silent and sealed beyond it, and that it could continue like this indefinitely.

Then they brought Taim Narran to see her. The Captain of Anduran was grimy and battered. There were rents in his tunic, bruises on his face. He was clearly exhausted. Two of Aewult’s Palace Shield escorted him and stood there, all armour and pride, as he greeted Anyara.

“Leave us,” she said to them. Both of them looked at her, but neither moved. For the first time in days her anger surged. “Get out. I am sister to a Thane, and I will talk to this man in private. Get out!”

The two huge shieldmen glanced at one another, and after a moment’s silent consideration they retired from the tent.

“What’s happening?” asked Taim as soon as they were out of earshot. “Has Aewult gone mad?”

“Who can say? I’m safe enough, I think. But where’s Orisian, Taim? That’s what matters.”

“I don’t know,” he said, anguished. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. He never reached Kolglas. I hoped… I hoped he might be here. Or still at Highfast, perhaps?”

Anyara shook her head. The thought came to her, as it often did now, that the last time she had seen her brother she had been angry with him, frustrated at being left behind in Kolkyre. She dreaded the possibility of that being their last parting, and of anger being its tone. Somehow, it left her feeling that she owed him all the courage and discipline she could muster to face Aewult, and his father, and the whole Haig Blood if needed.

“Gods, everything’s coming apart,” Taim muttered. “What does Roaric think he’s doing, picking fights with the Bloodheir? The Black Road’s stopped, for some reason, between here and Hommen, but when they come south, every man – every sword – will be needed if there’s to be any chance of turning them back.”

“Perhaps they’ve come as far as they can,” Anyara said, her mind still tangled up in thoughts of Orisian.

“No,” Taim said firmly. “They’ve overrun every obstacle put in their path. We stood for a day or two at Hommen, but we had to retire as soon as they brought up their full numbers. If Aewult hadn’t fallen all the way back here, his whole army’d have been destroyed by now. No, they’ve some reason of their own for pausing. But it’s only a pause. They’ll be here before long, and Aewult will be lucky if he’s not outnumbered when they do reach him. There’s more of them than we ever imagined was possible.”

Anyara nodded, hardly listening. Her eyes drifted down. Where was Orisian? If the Black Road reached Kolkyre before… something pierced the veil of her preoccupation. She blinked.

“Where’s you sword, Taim?” she asked.

He looked down at the empty scabbard on his hip. When he lifted his head again, Anyara was not sure what she was seeing in his expression. It might almost have been shame.

“I am a prisoner, my lady. It has been taken from me.”

At that Coinach, who had been a silent observer thus far, stepped forwards.

“Aewult would not dare-” he began, but Taim Narran cut him short with a sharp look.

“The Bloodheir dares to issue commands to our Thane’s sister. Why should he hesitate to make a mere warrior his prisoner?”

“On what grounds?” Anyara asked.

“That I failed him at Glasbridge; brought too few men, and too late, to his aid in battle.” Taim spoke the words without inflection, as if reporting the dry details of some dull conversation. “After we retreated from Hommen, I meant to stand again, but Aewult summoned me. And took my sword from me when I arrived.”

One of the shieldmen outside pushed aside the flap at the tent’s entrance. He bent and stared in.

“Enough,” he said. “Come away. The Bloodheir said a brief visit only.”

Taim Narran did not hesitate. He gave Anyara a shallow bow, and turned to submit himself to the custody of the Palace Shield. Coinach growled in pure anger.