Thrand was Ringast’s brother. A fire mountain to Ringast’s sun. He was also a king of sorts. His seat lay at the hall of Leithra in Danmark far to the south. Thrand had sworn an oath of fealty to his older brother, although Lilla often doubted whether Thrand remembered this.

‘I have need of him here.’

‘If he’s true to his blood, he’ll come.’

Ringast sighed and sank deeper into his pillow, his eyes rolling back into his skull. For a grim moment, Lilla thought he had breathed his last. But then, by some vast effort of will, his eyes peeled open and focused on her again.

‘I’m still here.’ She reached up to stroke his cheek. But she found her gaze drawn down again, to his half-hand resting on the coverlet, the fetid wound swollen black under its useless bandage, suppurating pus. With your death, your realm will be cloven, clean and bloody as your hand. Those had been Saldas’s words, spoken before her execution. Was that lump of rotting flesh to be the fate of the Twin Kingdoms? Lilla shuddered at the thought.

‘I needed Thrand here,’ croaked Ringast, recollecting his thought. ‘I wanted him to hear it from my lips.’

‘Hear what?’

‘This.’ With his good hand, he reached out and clutched the amber necklace around her neck and pulled her closer. It took all her will not to gag at the smell seeping from his throat. ‘When I’m gone, you must rule in my place.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You are your father’s true heir. Your people trust you.’

‘No woman has ever ruled alone—’

‘Please,’ he rasped. ‘Don’t argue. There’s no time.’ His arm failed and fell to his chest. ‘No time. . . Just listen.’

She clasped his withered fist.

‘You have the heart to rule your folk kindly, and the mind to rule them well. Like your father.’

‘What about Thrand? He will be the last male heir of Ívar Wide-Realm. His claim is stronger—’

‘No!’ The word escaped his grey lips in a brutish snarl. ‘Not Thrand. Not him. He must never rule here, you understand? He hates the Sveärs. And he is cruel. It would only lead to more bloodshed. . . An ocean of blood,’ he murmured softly, like some refrain in a skaldman’s song. ‘Promise me, you will keep him from the Sveär throne.’ The black rims of his eyelids sank lower and lower. ‘Promise me. My wife. . .’

‘I promise,’ she said, squeezing his hand in her passion. ‘You have my word.’

‘Good.’ He seemed to recede then, his soul making ready to withdraw, leaving his shrivelled body to its ruin. Lilla’s heart grew heavy, filled with a terrible pity for this man whom she had at first thought hard and cold, but who had proved himself wise. And good.

‘Kiss me,’ he murmured, softer than breathing.