‘How significant are they, these skirmishes?’

‘Too early to tell, my lady.’

So much for her to take in. She could have done with Brynd staying with her for a while longer, because although alarming on first sight, he radiated confidence, a quiet compassion – as much as any military man could. ‘Commander, can I trust you?’ she said. ‘I feel… quite vulnerable here. As if people might take advantage of my naivety.’

‘Empress. I was sworn in as one of your father’s favoured guard, to be sent on any mission in his name, to uphold his honour. As his chosen successor, you inherit my service also, and that of my soldiers. Of all the Jamur armies, in fact. And as soldiers we’re not paid to think about our orders, and we serve only your word. Though I can fully appreciate how great that responsibility must seem right now.’

She sat back further into the carriage. ‘Thank you, commander. Your skill with words and encouragement are a great help to one so new and unversed as myself.’

She then heard the commander order the escort of Dragoons to move on, and the carriage was in motion.

Next stop: Villjamur.

Lines of troops kept back the refugees by sword and bow, making sure none dared closely approach the roadway. They formed two distinct lines on either side of the route stretching all the way from the city gates, and she could hear the helpless moans, the cries of fear as metal was brandished in their direction, and the cursing of soldiers as they shouted for them to keep back, stay off the road. The stench of their encampment was awful, intense.

She was the Empress, or would very shortly be, so surely she must do something to stop this ill-treatment of her own people? Or perhaps this was the first lesson she would learn: her own powerlessness to achieve everything she might wish.

Brynd was riding to one side, and turned to nod at her briefly before again scanning the troubled scene. She saw the gaunt, muddied faces of her people staring at her carriage between the lines of Dragoons and horses. Shouts of commands. Then the gates of the city were opening, whereupon more soldiers streamed forward in a clatter of armour and weaponry. Garudas circled above her, ever watchful, as screams from the refugees reached a crescendo.

Her eyes widened at the alarming spectacle. All this fuss just for her – she refused to believe it. The carriage rocked its way onto the cobbled streets of the city, and within a few moments she was inside Villjamur, safe, the noise of the refugees muffled as the doors closed behind.

Then they stopped. Was this where she must get out? Again that uncertainty.

The commander leaned into the carriage. ‘We’ll now progress through the main streets of the city. People may stare in at you. They don’t really know you from sight. You may remind some of the older citizens of your mother, perhaps…’ He stopped at that sensitive point, and changed tack. ‘Many of them probably don’t know the current state of rulership despite the announcements that should have been made.’

‘Very kind of you to warn me, commander. But I’m sure I’m capable of looking after myself.’

Brynd retreated, ordered the entourage to ride on.

Rika stared up at the city, her city, its landscape furnished with a sense of possession, so nothing would be the same as before.

Everything was as she remembered, and bittersweet memories lapped over her. The dream-like spires that disappeared up into damp mist. The hanging baskets everywhere encaging the beautiful flowers of the tundra. The soaring bridges, the grey-red stone, the ever-busy people. And Balmacara in the centre. Her own history came back in flashes: a childhood spent staring out of windows at these same sights, not being permitted to have much contact outside Balmacara. Days of boredom. The trauma of her father beating her mother, of beating Rika herself. And little Eir brightening random moments with her naivety, a child’s voice echoing down the corridors. It was amazing what mere clusters of assembled rock could do to the mind.

Forget about all that. It’s the past. Think of the future.

Her sister already stood waiting for her inside, her face erupting in emotions. After the initial formality, Eir and Rika embraced for what, to Brynd, seemed like a season. The fond memories were returning, the gradual remembrance of their idiosyncrasies, all reflected in the softness of their glances and the way they would touch each other’s arms.

After a long interlude of whispering, they seemed to remember that other people were gathered around them, listening, waiting.

The young page showed them into a formal chamber where several members of the Council were seated, all immediately rising to their feet.

Brynd and the rest of his Night Guard followed silently.

There he was, Chancellor Urtica, walking over to the new Empress. He took her hand, pressed it to his lips, after he briefly went down on one knee. ‘Jamur Rika, a great honour. As your chancellor, may I welcome you to Villjamur, on behalf of the Council. Your presence here in this difficult time is most reassuring.’

‘Hey,’ Apium muttered to Brynd, ‘he’s not wasting his time in greasing up to her, is he?’

Brynd grunted a quiet laugh. He looked across to Nelum and Lupus, who stood silently, watching the Empress’s every move – as they had been trained to do for her father.

‘Who’s that swarthy-looking stick of a fellow over there?’ Apium whispered.

Brynd followed his gaze to a thin, handsome man standing in one corner of the chamber. With glossy black hair that cascaded down in curls, he wore smart clothes of the kind usually seen on the outer islands, but updated to make a splash in the city. He seemed a bit of a clichéd dandy – even to Brynd. The man stood tall, his chin raised, his head angled in calculated postures. Several ladies of the court were huddled close to him, and every now and then he’d flash them a rehearsed grin.

Brynd raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve never seen him before. Why not ask one of the servants.’

Apium stepped away and returned moments later.

‘His name is Randur Estevu, and apparently he’s Lady Eir’s tutor for sword and dance. I think I remember Johynn talking about getting someone in. I don’t know, holding a bloody dancing event because the Archipelago’s about to be plunged into an ice age. Ridiculous, if you ask me, these bloody nobles.’

‘Aren’t we ourselves technically nobles?’ Brynd said.

‘Aye, but, uh, at least we do something useful, not just prance about to music.’

‘Last time you danced you cleared the floor – and not in a good way.’

‘I had a bit to drink, I’ll admit. Anyway, why should a soldier need rhythm?’

‘Good sword skills,’ Brynd explained. ‘I’ll bet that waif of a man can look after himself.’

Brynd regarded the curious-looking newcomer, this Randur. He certainly had good dress sense. The man suddenly looked back at him. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, then Randur glanced away.

Brynd turned his attention to Urtica, who was still fawning upon the new Empress, with forced laughter, fake smiles, overstated gestures – it was enough to make Brynd feel sick.

Later that afternoon, the sisters were allowed time in private, once it had been decided that Emperor Johynn’s state funeral would take place in the morning. He was to be buried in the crypt under Balmacara, inside the caves, just like every ruler before him. For all other citizens, their bodies were burned on a pyre, much in line with the ancient tribal religions. It was thought that cremation sped their spirits towards one of the otherworlds, depending on how your life had been lived. Emperors alone were destined to stay in Villjamur forever, their bodies in the caves, decaying till they became part of the city, part of legend itself.