mounting the steps to the dais. Behind the long wooden table, the sigil of the House of Belmis hung, a shield emblazoned with three golden suns and three silver moons on a blood-red background. With a snort of disgust he tore it down and walked over it, to the high carved seat at the centre of the table. Slumping into it, he ran a finger over the carving, his lip curling once more. Cheap, peasant craftsmanship. He deserved better.
And now that Lormere was his, he would have it.
I keep my eyes fixed on the door ahead as I approach it, not looking at the soldiers on either side, doing my very best to seem bored, even a little vacant. Nothing special here, nothing worth paying any mind to. Just another villager, attending the assembly. To my immense relief they don’t even spare me a glance as I step out of the drizzle and into the run-down House of Justice, and I exhale slowly as I pass them, some of my tension easing.
It’s no warmer inside, and I pull my cloak tighter around me as I walk to the chamber where Chanse Unwin, self-appointed Justice of Almwyk, will brief us on the latest word from the Council of Tregellan. Rainwater drips from my hair, down my nose, as I look at the rows of wooden benches and chairs lined up to face the podium at the front of the room; far too many seats for the remaining villagers to fill. Despite how few of us there are, the room stinks and I wrinkle my nose at it: unwashed bodies, wet wool, leather, metal and fear, all creating a soupy, musty perfume. This is what despair smells like.
Those of us who are still clinging to life here are wet and shivering. Bitter air and autumn rain have seeped through our thin, threadbare clothes, and into our skin, where it feels as though they’ll remain for the whole of winter. The soldiers lined up neatly against the walls, on the other hand, are bone dry, and look warm enough in thick green woollen tunics and tough leather breeches, their watchful eyes roving throughout the room.
There is a scuffling behind me and I turn in time to see them stop the man behind me and force him against the wall, patting him down and examining his cloak and hood before releasing him. Heat rushes to my face as I look away, pretending not to have seen.
Ducking my head again, I slink along the back row, taking a seat on a bench a good six feet away from my nearest neighbour. She grunts, possibly a greeting, though more likely a warning, and her hand rises to touch a charm hanging on a leather cord around her neck. I peek at it from the corner of my eye, watching the gold disc gleam between her gnarled fingers before she tucks it away inside her cloak. I know what it is, though I doubt it’s real gold. If it were real gold someone would have had it off her neck by now – Gods, if it were real gold, I might have had it off her neck. At least if it were gold it would be worth something.
My friend Silas laughed when I told him the villagers were wearing charms to protect themselves from the Sleeping Prince, and I laughed with him, though I secretly thought it wasn’t all that strange to put faith in eldritch magic, under the circumstances. Crescent moons made of salt and bread are hung on almost every door and window in the village; medallions etched with three gold stars are tucked inside collars. The Sleeping Prince is a thing of magic, and myth, and superstition. If I’m generous, I can see why it seems natural to try to fight back with magic, myth and superstition. But I know, deep down, that no amount of cheap tin pendants will keep him from coming if he wants to. No salt-strewn thresholds, or holly berries and oak twigs hung over windows and doors, will stop him if he decides to take Tregellan. If a castle full of guards couldn’t stop him, a metal disc and some shrubbery isn’t likely to.
Before he came back, hardly anyone in Tregellan would have put their faith in something so irrational; it’s not the Tregellian way. There might be the occasional crackpot who still believes in the Oak and the Holly and paints their face and their arse red with