Brynd considered just how exactly he could take one of the Ancient race on a scouting mission, travelling through towns where he’d undoubtedly be mobbed by villagers who would see him as some kind of oracle, some saviour to them in the ice age. That was the exact reason he’d been hidden for so long.

‘What of the firegrain?’ Brynd said. ‘Have the remaining stocks of grain and oil been calculated?’

‘Of course,’ Urtica said. ‘Anyway, there’s wood remaining on Jokull, and plenty on the other islands. That’s what the military will use for their warmth. That’s what other cities are relying on. Emperor Johynn was just mad sending you out there in the first place. Now, shall we thrash out some details about the current crises facing the Empire? I believe our two fine minds should deliver some decent logistical analysis, what d’you say?’

‘Yes.’ Times were awkward all right. He would prefer to be in control of the raids on Varltung, or else remain here to stand by the new Empress, but this threat, on one of the fringes of the Empire, appeared urgent, and what the hell could be causing it anyway?

‘Why all this effort to subdue Varltung now? This Freeze could last thirty-odd years, and much of the Empire will be changed as we know it. Hell, there may be no Empire left when we come out of hibernation.’

As Urtica met his gaze, it seemed a gust of wind came in from somewhere, flickering shadows adopting new postures across the old walls. ‘Commander Lathraea, I don’t think you fully understand the purpose of the Jamur Empire?’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

‘I didn’t think so. What does an empire do We extend ourselves, we acquire new territories. We take control there. We grow. We make progress. We seize the world for our people, and we give them additional wealth as a reward. You’re a military man, commander. I expect better of you than to doubt our purpose.’

‘Bohr, we’ve not had a skirmish in years – except for that incident on Dalúk Point, of course. And the lack of military action has been a positive thing. We’ve found more diplomatic ways to establish relationships with tribes locally. You think I’ve risen to the top of my career by rearing to fight everything I come across?’

‘Did it never occur to you that you’ve risen so far so quickly because you were adopted by a wealthy family? That’s how things work in Villjamur. I’d hoped for more from you, Commander Lathraea. There’s a population of some millions out there that it’s our responsibility to feed and nurture. We need to raise them from the squalor of their mud huts, and give them a better quality of existence. Your role isn’t that of politician, but as a guardian of the Empire. That now means going to Tineag’l, to prevent a bigger threat than even the Varltungs may prove.’

The chancellor had a valid point, even if Brynd didn’t trust him, wondering how much of what slipped off his tongue was sincere. There were far too many bizarre happenings recently to trust the politicians, and perhaps the recent cycles of the moons were affecting more than just the weather. Maybe they were creating some kind of insanity across the Boreal Archipelago, generating a subtle tension you couldn’t perceive exactly. And in the years to come, things would only get worse.

TWENTY-FOUR

Jamur Rika perched on the windowsill staring out across the early morning snowflakes sifting through the air in thick flurries, collecting on the rooftops, on stationary carts, upturned barrels, walls. People were shuffling in and out of bleak streets and alleyways, avoiding the worst of it, miserable faces sheltering from the sky, only children looking up with glee, maybe not understanding what it meant.

She could breathe the tension even from up here.

All a necessary distraction, but she had to turn around and face her bed chamber eventually. It was so unfamiliarly full of luxuries that weren’t her own – not that she’d possessed many before anyway. Leading a life studying Astrid had meant little need for such accoutrements. Purple furnishings, numerous gold and silver objects that she had no idea how to use, that perhaps had no real use anyway. Over there was the white silk gown she must wear for her father’s burial in the crypts. Its layered silk was so much richer than the simple, black cotton she wore to sleep in.

And why should those refugees have to suffer when she enjoyed all this? She wanted to help them somehow, had already drawn up an idea to present to Chancellor Urtica at the earliest opportunity. To feed them, send aid, a food package from the city, from the new Empress. A positive move that would say she was trying her best. Even after only a brief moment back in Villjamur, it seemed as if the Council made all the decisions. But if she was going to insist on one thing it would be that.

Sleep hadn’t come easily. Innumerable criers had stalked the evening until late, announcing her father’s funeral to the echoing walls, their clear voices filtering through to her dreams, filling her slumber with visions of death and rebirth.

Rika felt trapped in a place that wasn’t home, with such great responsibility. Jorsalir training had at least given her the luxury of accepting her fate. Now she felt such a longing, but for some time she didn’t know what for. Perhaps she missed the remoteness of Southfjords, where there was little to occupy her mind except the daily texts, interrupted with a few thoughts of her sister. That those days could never be repeated made them all the more desirable. She must seek out a priestess in this alien city, so that she could have the benefit of Astrid’s aspects to guide her through this difficult period.

She couldn’t let her past go. She had tried for so long to avoid it, had perhaps even fled the city to escape thinking about it. Always, when abroad, her life came back to her in images:

Shafts of sunlight bleaching stone floors. Eir crying after being covered in flour in the kitchens. Pock-faced tutors issuing grammar instructions whilst it rained. The first time she ever saw a garuda. The day the tapestries caught fire in the dining hall. Two servants kissing with intensity against the wall of one of the studies. On a balcony eating an apple in the fading autumn heat. A city cat licking the sole of her bare foot – its tongue strangely rough.

Rika and Eir had played frequently about Balmacara from a young age. There were so many corridors to explore, so many rooms that meant nothing but the challenge of exploration, tall windows offering vistas of Villjamur’s great bridges and spires, and they were curious young minds with endless days ahead. Time was not a concept with which to be concerned.

Many of the city guard were charged with their protection, soldiers humbled by nursery duty. She often wondered what these towering, muscular men, swords at their waists, must have thought of these two tiny girls in ridiculously expensive dresses. Their training left them somehow inadequate for this new duty. She remembered the glances when two new guards were asked to watch them as they played. The men would look at each other, shrug, then merely stand there. By the end of the day they would inevitably be on their hands and knees, Eir and Rika riding their backs, brandishing wooden swords, and their mother would burst into the room laughing. The guards would retreat later, blushing.

Rika laughed. I bet they enjoyed it really.

They would try to lose them, Eir and Rika, try to vanish and cause panic. Once Eir managed to hide for an entire afternoon on top of a bookcase in one of the libraries whilst soldiers trotted along the corridors, checking every room, and their mother would vacillate between annoyance and worry. Knowing where she was, Rika would slip in every hour with some sweets for her.