Arondine had burned for days. Its proud castle had crumbled into a midden, a tragic mockery of itself.
Hyll Sanctuary had suffered, but Fýredel had left some of it standing. The people gathered in the ashes outside it. They parted for Glorian Berethnet as she rode through the city.
Her mare whickered. Draped over its hindquarters, her cloak was the red of the Inyscan rose. Against the snow of ashes, it was a defiant reminder of the Nameless One – not of his coming, but his defeat. Inys might yet fall to his servants, but there would be no red wings in the sky. There was only the red of the blood royal, the blood that kept him chained.
The horse wore steel barding over its face. The silver keys of the House of Hraustr dotted its heavy black caparison, and the sword from her father hung at her hip. She spurred the mare up the steps to the sanctuary and dismounted. Part of the wall had fallen here, so they could all see inside, to where an ancient throne remained, blackened but intact.
As she walked to it, Glorian slowed, the coldness blooming. Only one of us will live that long.
She could not possibly be dreaming now. The voice was so distant, she could barely hear it – but hear it she did, in her waking mind. But the Arch Sanctarian was nodding to her, and she continued towards him, tamping the echoes until they fell silent.
Somehow, she made it to the throne. Before her people, Glorian took her rightful place, and the Arch Sanctarian lowered a crown on to her head – spiked like golden teeth, a war crown.
‘Glorian, third of that name, daughter of the House of Berethnet, Princess of Hróth, true descendant of the Saint,’ the Arch Sanctarian shouted for all to hear, ‘I crown thee now the Queen of Inys, twentieth to sit her throne, head of Virtudom – Glorian Shieldheart.’
Glorian grasped its arms, and they knelt to her.
She walked back into the dark light of the sun, and mounted her horse again. The people looked up at her – drained and grieving, but alive.
‘I come before you,’ Glorian said, ‘among you, a woman of Inys. My mother was of royal blood, but my father was a bastard son, born in poverty in Bringard, nothing to his name. When war called, he answered – for freedom, for justice. He taught me to do the same.’
A wind rushed through the ruins, carrying the scent of smoke.
‘Good people of Inys,’ Glorian called, ‘this is not a war like that which my father won in the North. We cannot raise our shields against the sickness ravaging our lands, nor fight with iron swords an enemy whose hide is iron. Though we are all warriors for the Saint, he will not smile to see us die for him in vain, trying to slay an army he cannot mean for us to vanquish. Though we are brave, we Inysh are also temperate. Without caution, without fear, courage is but folly by another name. A warrior who means to win knows when to save their strength.’
Her father, smiling at her, his face dappled by the light from the water.
‘My friends, this is a test.’ Glorian raised her voice: ‘A new world will come from this fire, but for now, we must wait – wait for the Saint to scour our sins clean, and to judge the virtue in our souls.
‘For now. And yet, should a time come when we do need to fight, when steel is the only way to survive, I will ask you to join me on the battlefield – and in return, I vow to you, I will give you a Princess of Inys, fruit of the unending vine, to shield you from the Nameless One. I carry her now; she grows in my womb – Sabran, seventh of that name!’
This time, they roared in triumph. Behind her, Glorian could feel Prince Guma gazing at the back of her head.
‘Will you come when I call?’ she shouted, raising her sword. ‘Will you fight for Inys, for the Saint, for me?’
‘Shieldheart,’ someone bellowed, and they all took up the cry, the guards beating their shields. ‘Shieldheart!’
Shieldheart.
Shieldheart.
Shieldheart.
