The Prydonis chapterhouse – that had been the dream. The gilt-edged armour and the blood-red plume. Fighting as one blade alongside an entire chapter of knights. Or leading common soldiery from beneath fluttering regimental colours as a captain. Then had come Zanya, when the blood-red plumes of Prydonis had been foremost among the Southshires’ betrayers. That killed the dream, sure as stone.

“That can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t, but I thought I’d do more good there. Arrogance of a different sort, I guess.” She paused. “Broke my heart when your mother raised that phoenix banner. Felt like personal betrayal. I couldn’t square it with the woman who’d worked so hard to bring people together.”

And there it was. The arrogance so typical of the northwealders. Admiration offered, so long as you laboured towards their chosen ends.

“It’s easy to preach unity when your hardest decision concerns the heraldry you wear.” Josiri took a deep breath to ward off rising temper. “If you’d learned anything from my mother, you’d have stood beside her.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“And that is?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“I spent half my adult life admiring Katya Trelan. And now? Now it takes effort not to see her as a traitor. I have to think – really think – to reconcile the woman I knew with the one who passed into history.” Yanda’s shoulder twitched in a lopsided shrug. “When I do, I can see she strove for something she felt necessary. Maybe I can even respect it. But it doesn’t matter what sets you moving. It’s how you end up that counts. You might want to think about that.”

Away beyond the balcony, a lone rider galloped up the long approach from Eskavord. The overdue Kasamor Kiradin? Josiri hoped so. He was tired of the game his life had become. The sooner Calenne was safely married off, the better for them both. For everyone.

“Are you finished?” he asked. “Because I’ve a busy day. You can tell the archimandrite that you’ve delivered your warnings.”

Yanda offered a card player’s smile. The kind that served equally to conceal a bluff called, and the readying of a winning hand. For the life of him, Josiri couldn’t tell which was in the offing.

“This isn’t Makrov’s message. It’s mine. One last favour to your mother, I guess.” She leaned close. Close enough that he could see the pale, hairline scar that ran from her brow to her greying chestnut fringe. “I can’t imagine the pressures you’re under. But the next time you want to tweak the beast’s tail, have a thought for the people down in the mud.”

A little tension eased from Josiri’s spine. So Yanda didn’t know his secrets. She just thought that he was an arrogant scion of an entitled bloodline. It hurt, but it was better than the alternative.