A Dark Reckoning
The Last Prince — Book II
J.R. Rasmussen
Copyright © 2018 by J.R. Rasmussen
Cover Design © 2018 by Wicked Good Book Covers
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Contents
Map of Cairdarin
Map of Surrounding Kingdoms
Family Tree
1. Wardin
2. Wardin
3. Wardin
4. Erietta
5. Wardin
6. Erietta
7. Wardin
8. Erietta
9. Bramwell
10. Wardin
11. Wardin
12. Wardin
13. Erietta
14. Bramwell
15. Wardin
16. Wardin
17. Wardin
18. Bramwell
19. Wardin
20. Wardin
21. Wardin
22. Bramwell
23. Wardin
24. Erietta
25. Bramwell
26. Wardin
27. Wardin
28. Wardin
29. Erietta
30. Bramwell
31. Wardin
Dear Reader
Maps also available at http://cairdarin.com/maps/
Maps also available at http://cairdarin.com/maps/
Chart also available at http://cairdarin.com/relationships/
1
Wardin
Wardin smelled home before he saw it, the wind carrying a hint of the cedar smoke of Avadare’s fires along with the sleet that pelted his face. He quickened his pace despite the heaviness in his legs. Beside him, Quinn did the same as they came over the final rise.
They were challenged before they reached the village by a pair of soldiers at the end of the road, but the sentries quickly bowed when Wardin pulled back his hood.
“Highness, we were hoping you’d be back tonight.” Katelin’s voice was as slight as she was, and her words were nearly carried away by the wind. “We had a newcomer a few hours ago. They’re holding him at the Dragon. The archmagister has requested that you join her there as soon as you’re able.”
Wardin nearly groaned aloud. He’d been counting on a warm meal and an even warmer fire. And afterward, some honey cakes, and a book, and Rowena snoring at his feet.
Quinn felt much the same, judging by the dejected look he gave the flask of warm spiced mead Katelin was offering. “You’ll want me to come with you, I suppose?”
Wardin took pity on the old soldier, and waved him back. “Have a drink, then go and see that widow you’re so fond of. This will be someone else come to join us, or someone else come to sabotage us. I don’t see why either should delay your dinner.”
That had been the way of it, since they’d driven Prince Tobin and his father the king away from the magistery. In these mountains, a military campaign in the winter was imprudent, to say the least. But that didn’t stop either side from engaging in espionage and petty raids. Nearly five hundred men and women, many of them former students, had come to Pendralyn to join Wardin. Once in a while, one of the new arrivals would prove to be a Harthian agent.
Despite that nuisance, this state of affairs suited Wardin fine, for the moment. In generations past, Eyrdish kings had discouraged aggression mainly by irritating their enemies away, although the songs and tales of the glories of his house never put it in such terms. Knowing he would be outmatched in a pitched battle by the superior numbers and experience of the Harths, Wardin had taken up that tradition.
Most of his Eyrdish rebels were faceless and nameless. They were scattered around the country, going about their daily lives, mining, weaving, tending their sheep, practicing their trades. They bided their time, until Wardin came and called upon them. Then they would wreak havoc, killing enemy soldiers, destroying food stores and supplies, stealing their own silver back from the Harths.
When it was over, the raiders shed their dark cloaks and disguises and resumed their lives. Wardin and whoever he’d brought with him—usually Quinn, sometimes others—faded away, back to Pendralyn, where Tobin had already learned quite painfully he could not follow. Not without the army his father would bring when the snow melted.
As he walked through Avadare, Wardin was greeted by several more soldiers patrolling the streets. He kept the village well defended, and its boundaries watched at all times. Though Tobin couldn’t get to the magistery itself, on occasion he attempted a raid of his own at its doorstep. Villagers were attacked, fires set, livestock poisoned.
And then, of course, there were the spies. Wardin couldn’t imagine why the prince bothered. It wasn’t as though they ever returned.
Perhaps Tobin didn’t realize that Wardin had a foolproof way of getting the truth from a man. Funny, King Bramwell had spent years with Draven Rath’s inkwell on his desk. But perhaps he’d never understood what it could do. Had he even realized it was enchanted?
The common room at the Dragon was full of the tempting smells and sights of food and mead, but Wardin was given no time to linger. Polly immediately gestured at him from behind the bar. “About time you got here. Get yourself to the back of the north wing.”
Wardin grinned at the frizzy-haired, willowy innkeeper. “Why, thank you for the kind welcome. And really, you need to stop being so formal with me. There’s no reason to be intimidated, you know, just because I’m your prince.”
She snorted. “I’m only thinking of you. I think you’ll find this new visitor an interesting one.”
“Oh?”
“Well, Erietta didn’t take him into the magistery, so she can’t have admitted him into your service. But she ordered a meal, so he’s a guest, not a prisoner.” Polly leaned forward, elbows on the bar. “And you know it must take someone special for the archmagister to give up a dinner at Pendralyn in favor of my food.”
Wardin laughed. “Erietta loves your food. Everyone does.”
She waved the compliment away. “But I haven’t got that touch of magic to season it with, have I? There’s enough back there for you too, though, and Quinn if he’s coming. Mutton pies and rosemary fritters.”
There, finally, was some good news. Wardin thanked Polly and followed her directions to the room where Erietta sat with a hook-nosed stranger whose lank brown hair fell over deep-set eyes. He didn’t look much older than Erietta or Wardin himself.
The man wasn’t bound, and she’d ordered a good cask of mead—spiced and laced with cherries, her favorite—as well as dinner. Not an enemy, then. But his sullen expression was not that of a friendly guest enjoying the archmagister’s company. Polly was right: this was an interesting case.
Both Erietta and the stranger stood, and the latter bowed. “Highness. My name is Corbin. I bring you greetings from Dain, Baron of Heathbire.”
Wardin’s brows shot up as he looked to Erietta, who nodded wordlessly at the table. The inkwell sat beside a mountain of fritters that momentarily distracted Wardin from the more pressing matters at hand. He could just see the corner of a sheet of paper peeking out from beneath the platter.
“He’s come to deliver a message,” Erietta said. “He wouldn’t say what, but he was willing to answer questions on intent. Whatever this message is, he has no plans to lie, mislead, manipulate, or harm.”
“Greetings, is it?” Wardin gestured for them to sit while he moved about the table, filling his plate. “Seems an odd message for a Harthian baron to send you into enemy ter
ritory for. He might have sent a letter, if he only wanted to say hello.”
The admittedly lackluster joke appeared to be lost on Corbin, who curled his lip as though examining something vaguely disgusting. “I bring greetings to begin with, Highness. As is customary and proper. Manners, you know. Perhaps you didn’t realize, having been raised … outside your station.”
Erietta hid a laugh behind her hand. Wardin didn’t meet her eye, and kept his own expression mild as he took a seat across from Corbin. “Is that so? Well, I appreciate the lesson.” He raised his mug of mead in a mock salute. “If it’s greetings to start, you’d better tell me how it ends. You can speak freely in front of the archmagister. I’ve had a long walk through bad weather, and I’d rather not linger any longer than it takes me to finish this meal.”
Corbin raised his own mug, sniffed its contents, and set it back down again. “I may be able to help you with that, as it happens.”
“With the meal?” Wardin chuckled. “I think I can manage it on my own. Or did you perhaps wish to instruct me on table manners? I’ll admit they may not be very good tonight. I’m starving, and Polly’s mutton pie is very good.”
Once again, Corbin did not smile. “With the walking. His lordship would like to meet with you. In the foothills, not far from Heath Castle.”
“That sounds like more walking to me.” Wardin knew he ought to stop teasing, but the man was so humorless, so haughty, it was difficult to resist.
“There is a certain breeder near the border,” Corbin said. “The baron would like to introduce you. He understands you’ve been making inquiries about horses. These are very special mounts. Suitable for cavalry, but also bred with challenging terrain in mind.”
Wardin put down his fork; his mouth was gaping far too wide for eating. “The Baron of Heathbire would like me to travel into Harth—where the price on my head has risen quite high, I understand—to meet a horse breeder. So that he might supply me with chargers I can use in battle against his own king. Against his own retainers and foot soldiers, assuming they’re called into service. His own people.”
Corbin pressed his lips together. “He has his reasons.”
“Yes, I’m sure he does,” Wardin said with a laugh. “To find out if I’m fool enough to walk directly into an obvious trap, perhaps.”
Erietta leaned toward Corbin, hand to one side of her mouth, and spoke in an exaggerated whisper. “I think you’ll find he’s not.” But she turned to Wardin and gestured at the inkwell. “You should know, though, that if it is a trap, the baron didn’t tell Corbin about it. I asked every variation on ill intent I could think of, and he passed every question. He isn’t aware of anything like that.”
“Perhaps,” Wardin said. “But his being unaware of a thing doesn’t make it impossible. Or even unlikely.”
“In this case, it does. I’m his kin, and I have his confidence.” Corbin took an apparently reluctant sip of mead. No doubt he was longing for Harthian wine. “Is it so hard to believe his lordship might have taken an interest in you? Your family does have ties to Heathbire.”
Wardin crossed his arms. “My family did have ties to Heathbire. That’s in the past. As your lord well knows.”
It was audacious of this emissary, and the baron he served, to even bring up the connection. Wardin’s grandfather—King Bramwell’s uncle—had once been the Baron of Heathbire himself. The current baron’s family had come into the title and lands as a direct result of the Ladimores being stripped of both, after Hawkin’s ill-fated rebellion against the prohibition of magic ended in his death.
“I don’t only speak of Baron Hawkin,” Corbin said. “Though he is, of course, remembered in Heathbire and throughout the moorlands. Songs are still sung of his courage and honor.”
“Songs are of little use to him now,” Wardin said flatly. “Or to his family. What is this other tie you speak of, then?”
“Are you aware that my lord’s late wife was an Eyrd?”
“I was not.”
“She was the sister of someone you once knew. Someone who had a particular allegiance to your family.”
Wardin waved his hand. “Out with it, then, if you don’t mind. I’m tired, and I haven’t the patience—or the manners—for riddles.”
Corbin cleared his throat and pushed a limp lock of hair behind one ear. “The late baroness’s brother is Pate Forthwind. As we understand it, you’ve been making inquiries about him, too.”
Wardin took a long swallow of mead to hide his face. He wouldn’t give the man another slack-jawed look. He’d been searching for news of the former high commander of the Eyrdish army for weeks.
Pate Forthwind was still considered a hero among his countrymen, many of whom had once been more eager to follow him than Wardin’s father, their rightful king. If Pate was still alive, and could be convinced to join them, he would no doubt be invaluable in recruiting support for the rebellion.
But Wardin’s search had gone nowhere. He knew nothing of Pate’s sister. He didn’t remember ever meeting her.
“Assuming that’s true, it doesn’t necessarily follow that your baron knows where Pate is now,” Erietta said. “Or that they were ever even on friendly terms. Many a Harth-Eyrd marriage was made in those days, to try to keep the peace. Most were not love matches.”
One side of Corbin’s mouth twitched in what Wardin supposed was meant to be a smile. “But some were, as he well knows.” He jerked his head at Wardin. “I’m told your parents were in love.”
“I fail to see the relevance of that.”
Corbin inclined his head. “You’re right. That was merely personal curiosity. I’ve heard a great deal about your mother. It seems the whole lot of them were in love with her.”
“The whole lot of who?”
“Your father, your uncle … and my father. I’m Pate’s son, as it happens.”
Wardin shook his head, ignoring the comments about his mother. This Harth was likely motivated more by a desire to provoke him than so-called curiosity. “I don’t remember Pate all that well, but he and his family lived in Narinore when I was a boy. I remember his children. Two daughters.”
Corbin shrugged, his face impassive. “I’m his bastard. So when I tell you that we know where Pate is—and that he might be amenable to taking up your cause—you can trust that I’m telling the truth.”
Wardin looked at Erietta. “Did any of this come out when you were questioning him?”
She shook her head, eyes narrowed at Corbin. “No, but I’m sure he’d be happy to write it all down now.”
Happy was perhaps not the right word, but it was difficult for Wardin to imagine this sullen man happy under any circumstances. Corbin was willing, at least. They stacked some of the empty dishes to give him room, and after dipping the pen in the inkwell, he wrote:
I am Pate Forthwind’s son. Being a bastard and unwelcome in his home, I was raised in Heathbire by my aunt. But I have been in constant contact with my father. As has my uncle the baron, even after his wife died. If you will come to Heathbire and hear the baron out, we may be willing to arrange a meeting.
“Hear him out about what?” Wardin asked. “I thought he wanted to show me some horses.”
His lordship is aware that you want both horses and Pate’s support. He may be able to assist you with those matters. Naturally, he expects something in return.
“And what is that?” Wardin asked.
Corbin set down the pen and crossed his arms. “The baron’s business is for him to discuss with you.”
Wardin clenched a fist. No lie could be written with ink drawn from the inkwell, but that didn’t mean it could compel a man to write. Those they found occasion to interrogate rarely refused, knowing that would be taken as an admission of guilt. But this was a foreign emissary on a diplomatic mission, at least on the surface. He wasn’t bound to answer any question.
“It’s a rather simple proposal, Highness,” Corbin said, though judging by his tone, he had little faith in Wardin’s abil
ity to grasp even simple things. “I can bring you to see the horses. You can judge them for yourself. And while you’re there, you can have a conversation with the baron, and decide whether you might have mutual interests.”
Erietta cleared her throat. “I’m taking other measures back at the magistery, Highness, to see if there’s anything else we might learn about Corbin’s visit.”
Corbin’s eyes snapped to her, lively for the first time since Wardin came into the room. “Really? I assume you mean some sort of forecasting or divination. What do you use? Crystals?”
“I’m sorry, we don’t share magistery secrets with outsiders. Especially those representing the nobility of a country we are at war with, even if that noble does claim to want to help us.” Erietta gave the man a bright, fake smile. “I’m sure you understand.”
Wardin rubbed the back of his neck. Other measures almost certainly meant Arun and his crow’s bones, which he often used for the purposes Corbin suggested. They teased him about it often—mainly because they knew it annoyed him—but Wardin had come to respect it. He would wait to give his answer until he heard his friend’s opinion on the matter.
“You took his weapons, I assume?” he asked Erietta.
“Axe and dagger,” she said with a nod.
“Very well.” He looked back at Corbin. “You will be our guest at the inn this evening.”
Corbin pressed his lips into a thin line, nostrils flaring. “I’d hoped to be your guest at the magistery.”
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