A Dark Reckoning

by J. R. Rasmussen

  “So you’re saying conduction is fine, as long as he uses it the right way, for the right reasons?”

  “I don’t know about fine. Magic that can’t be balanced should not be used lightly. I’m not sure it should be used at all. But dangerous and evil aren’t the same thing.”

  “Those birds …” Wardin shook his head, unable to describe the weight in his stomach when he’d seen the crossbills falling like stones.

  Erietta gave it a word. “It was unnatural. And I didn’t like watching it either. But is killing them to heal a wound any worse than killing them to eat? Corbin was right: we take lives all the time.”

  “I suppose.”

  “There is one thing, though.” She set her mouth in a grim line and pulled her cloak more tightly about her. “You know I don’t believe what Odger saw in the bones. I don’t believe you could ever be a traitor.”

  Wardin stepped back as though she’d struck him. The word but was practically hanging in the air, sure as the coming snow and twice as thick. “You thought me a traitor once before.”

  Erietta stared down at her feet again. “I told you the last time you said that, I was wrong to doubt you. It’s not a mistake I’ll repeat.”

  “But?”

  “But that doesn’t mean Odger is wrong about everything. He saw treachery and blood. Do you know what some of the lore calls Graddoc’s magic?”

  “Necromancy.”

  “Blood magic.”

  He blinked at her. He’d never heard the term before. “So you think Corbin being a conductor has something to do with Odger’s prediction.”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps it does.”

  “Even if it does, I don’t see what I should do differently. We’ve already agreed that I will take every precaution.”

  She gave him a keen look. “Will you, though? Every precaution?”

  Wardin’s brow knitted in confusion. “I think you’d best get to your point. In short words, if you don’t mind. I’m too cold for riddles, and too tired.”

  “There’re all kinds of betrayals, War. You would never be a traitor to your kingdom, or your people, or us. But the balance of nature? The balance of everything?” Erietta shrugged. “You might betray that, if you thought it would save us. And this magic, it may not be dark, but it’s powerful. And easily abused.”

  “So you want me to promise not to use this conductor, or conduction, for evil purposes?”

  There was no trace of a smile on her face. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  Wardin crossed his arms and scowled at her. Not two minutes ago she was professing her faith in him, and now this? “What do you take me for?”

  “I take you for a king, desperate to save his kingdom. And a magician, desperate to save magic.”

  Well. He supposed he couldn’t argue with either of those descriptions. But Wardin still scoffed and looked away. He didn’t look back when he felt Erietta’s forehead touch his shoulder.

  “I’m imagining what I would do, to save Pendralyn,” she murmured. “And I think I might be tempted to do anything. But perhaps you’re stronger than that.”

  No, I don’t believe I am.

  Wardin swallowed, and still not meeting her eyes, put an arm around her and pulled her against his side. Even so far removed from a warm, proper bath, he could still smell her sweetnettle soap. “I’ll miss you, Archmagister.”

  He imagined he could feel the warm puff of her laughter, even through his coat. “I’ll miss you too. Highness.”

  3

  Wardin

  The Barony of Heathbire ran most of the length of the border between Harth and Eyrdon, from the city near the western coast that gave the region its name, across the southern moorlands, and on to the Old South Road in the east. Although its baron swore fealty to the King of Harth, its people were fiercely independent—not to mention frequently contrary for its own sake—and the relationship was often a troubled one.

  It certainly had been for Wardin’s grandfather. Or so history told them. Wardin had never heard any tales of Hawkin’s rebellion firsthand. He barely remembered his mother, and had never met any of her blood relations.

  Nor had he ever seen Heathbire, apart from traveling through the moorlands the spring before, when he’d had no memory of his heritage and only Arun’s word for it to tell him who he was. The land here in the west was just as wild, but less bleak. In any other season, Wardin suspected the rolling hills would be splendidly green. It reminded him of the most beautiful parts of Eyrdon.

  My mother grew up here.

  Had she made the same association, he wondered? Had her great affection for Eyrdon been partly because it reminded her of home?

  Bramwell grew up here, too.

  Wardin had nearly forgotten. In the tradition of noble children, who were often educated away from their parents, Bramwell had spent most of his youth as part of Hawkin’s household. He attended the magistery at Heathbire until his father dissolved it.

  Hawkin had rejected that same tradition, and kept his own sons at home. And so the boys were raised together, as brothers.

  Much good it did them.

  “Wardin!”

  At a shove from Arun, Wardin blinked away his thoughts and returned to the present. They’d arrived at the promised horse farm at last. The breeder, a barrel-chested old man with a mass of wiry white hair and a stern face, met them at the gate. He returned Corbin’s nod with one of this own.

  “May I introduce—” Corbin began.

  “You may not,” the breeder interrupted. He jerked a thumb at Wardin. “I know who he is—there’s no mistaking those Ladimore eyes—and if he never hears my name, he won’t be able to repeat it after our business is concluded.”

  “Very well.” Corbin turned to Wardin. “I’m going to see to our accommodations for the evening. I’ll come back for you in three hours. That ought to give you enough time.”

  Wardin understood this to mean that he was going to arrange the meeting with the baron, and waved him away.

  “You’re just going to let him go?” Arun hissed, glaring at Corbin’s retreating back. “He might be summoning soldiers, for all you know. Or summoning the dead.”

  “He passed the inkwell’s test, remember?” Wardin whispered back.

  “Erietta didn’t think to ask about the dead when she was administering that test.”

  Wardin rolled his eyes. “He is not summoning the dead.”

  “All right, enough buzzing, and let’s be getting on with it.” The breeder swung the gate wide and gestured for them to follow. “There’s nothing to be gained from standing in the road all day.”

  Wardin fell into step beside the old man as they crossed a field made bland by the blanket of snow. Several large buildings ahead told him that this operation was not a small one. Nor a poor one; as they neared the first of no less than seven stables, he could see that it was well maintained. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

  “You should thank me. The Lancet king would have me executed for selling horses to you, if he had any idea what was going on down here. And don’t think it won’t be reflected in the price.”

  “Why are you willing to do it, if it’s so risky?” Arun asked.

  The breeder shrugged. “Your silver spends as good as any. And I suppose you’ve got plenty of it. Least I hope you do, or you’ll be wasting my time.”

  Wardin wasn’t especially encouraged by the tone the man was setting for negotiations, but when he saw the horses, he had to admit they were magnificent. After an hour spent in the stables and another spent riding, the breeder brought them to a small back room in one of the barns rather than into his house. They were still discussing how many horses they could get, when and how they might take possession of them, and, of course, price when Corbin found them there, just as the afternoon was waning into evening.

  “Back, are you?” Arun, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, straightened. “Bring anyone with you?”

  Corbin raised a brow. �
��Like a company of soldiers, you mean? Or the dead?” He smirked. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone whisper quite so loud.”

  “Perhaps I meant for you to hear.”

  “All right, you two.” Wardin rubbed his temples. “I believe we’ve had enough squabbling for one day.”

  They hadn’t, quite—it took another half hour to reach an agreement with the breeder. When they finally finished, the old man walked them back to the gate. “I’ll be seeing you again soon, I suppose,” he said to Wardin.

  Wardin nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” The breeder winked, a trace of a smile softening his face. “And now that we’re finished, and it’s too late for you to trade on your name, I don’t mind telling you that I saw your grandfather once. I was only a boy, and Hawkin only newly made baron. I don’t believe he was even married to your grandmother yet. He did some business with my father. He was a great man. Your grandfather, I mean. Less so my father.”

  “I see.” Wardin swallowed, a curious lump forming in his throat. He didn’t know what to say. “That’s one more time than I ever saw him.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would be.” The old man leaned against the gate, arms crossed on top of it, and fixed Wardin with a hard stare. “We remember Baron Hawkin, here in Heathbire. And we remember how he died. And at whose hand.” He glanced at Arun, then spat on the ground. “I don’t mind a bit of risk.”

  “Thank you,” Wardin said again, more sincerely this time.

  “Only a bit, mind you.” The breeder cackled. “I still don’t want you to know my name, and once you have your horses and I have my silver, I never want to see you again. Not while Bramwell Lancet sits on the throne, at least.”

  “Understood.”

  The breeder nodded. “Good luck to you. You’ll need it.” He started to turn away, then paused. “I suppose you think of yourself as Draven Rath’s son.”

  Wardin blinked at him. “I am Draven Rath’s son.”

  “So you are. But don’t forget. You’re a son of Heathbire, too.”

  * * *

  It was well into evening by the time Corbin led Wardin and Arun to a ramshackle cottage that stood alone at the edge of a pond, miles from the nearest village. The half-timbered sides were thick with mold, and the roof sagged. But a thin strand of smoke rose from the chimney.

  “Who would build a cottage out here?” Arun tugged his hood down against a gust of wind and scowled at the cottage as though it had caused it.

  “Someone who wanted to keep it for clandestine meetings, I suppose.” Corbin opened the door with a heavy scraping sound, and stood aside for his guests.

  Despite the appearance of the outside, the cottage was warm, and smelled tantalizingly of fresh bread and gravy. A large table laden with food took up nearly the entire single room. Glancing up, Wardin saw what appeared to be fine feather mattresses in the loft above, rather than the expected piles of straw.

  “There are hooks over here.” Corbin removed his wet cloak and hung it on the wall beside the fire.

  Wardin and Arun were doing the same when the door banged back against the wall, admitting another blast of icy wind and a giant of a man, as wide as he was tall. With surprisingly fluid grace for his size, he took off his cloak and tossed it to Corbin as he kicked the door closed behind him.

  “There you are at last!” he boomed. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up, and this whole thing would be a waste. I don’t love this place so much that I’d come here just for a holiday, you know.”

  “Odd, since you arrived behind us,” Arun said.

  Wardin glared at his friend. The baron—as this must clearly be—should be treated with respect, whatever the conditions of their meeting. He had no desire to give Corbin or his master cause to lament his unkingly manners yet again.

  But the baron barked out a laugh and clapped Arun on the shoulder. “True enough! I only went out for a piss, though.” He elbowed Corbin and leaned in to whisper loudly, “Is this the grumpy one?”

  “It is.” Without bothering to make any introductions, Corbin took one of the seats at the table and began filling a bowl with stew.

  Arun snorted. “I suppose you’d be the judge of grumpiness.”

  “Lordship,” Wardin said loudly, hoping to quiet the other two. “I’m Wardin Rath. Glad to meet you.”

  “Are you?” the baron asked with a chuckle. “Glad, I mean. I’d think you’d want to withhold judgment on that until we’ve talked.” He offered a slight bow. “Dain of Heathbire, Highness, and well met. Please, sit and eat. We won’t stand on formalities here. Couldn’t even if we wanted to, with no servants. But I brought some mead, just for you. The setting may be rustic, but let it never be said that my hospitality falls short.”

  Arun cheered considerably at the mention of mead, and before long they were all seated and settling down to the meal, which was delicious.

  “No kitchen here, of course,” Dain said through a mouthful of bread. “We bring it all from Heath Castle in a cart, and then heat it over the fire. My man will be back in the morning to collect it again, and me as well. And perhaps we’ll lend you some horses for a journey of your own, depending on how this goes.”

  He leaned forward and saluted Wardin with his mug, which he’d filled with mead as well, though Harths usually preferred wine or ale. “That’s my roundabout way of telling you it’s just us four here. We can speak freely. Corbin has my confidence. I assume your man has yours as well.”

  “He’s a magister at Pendralyn,” Wardin said. “As our present situation concerns the magistery, he’s here to represent its interests.”

  “And protect you, should it come to that, am I right?” Dain winked at Arun. “Battlemage, are you?”

  “Sage,” Arun corrected.

  Dain snorted. “Well, I imagine my conductor beats your sage, but there’s no harm in even numbers. Shall we get to our business? Did you like the horses?”

  “Very much.” Wardin raised his own mug, acknowledging the favor. “But that’s not really our business, is it?”

  “Right you are!” Dain tossed his head back and laughed as though Wardin had said something terribly funny. “To ours, then.”

  But he seemed to be in no hurry. He buttered another slice of bread and ladled himself some more stew before glancing up again. “Should I ever be asked, I will deny to my dying breath that this conversation ever took place.”

  “Then why have it at all?” asked Wardin. “If Corbin has your confidence, why not have him deliver your message, rather than asking me to journey all the way here?”

  Dain waved a hand at him. “Because I want to have a look at you, of course. And not only me. You’re to be tested.”

  Wardin stiffened. “By Pate, you mean?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps. And if I am satisfied you are worthy of it, I’m prepared to offer you some assistance in freeing your kingdom from Harthian control. Information. Support. Perhaps, eventually, even men. Though they’d be outfitted as mercenaries and bear no sigil of mine, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “In exchange for what?” Wardin asked.

  “Straight to the point!” Dain snapped his fingers. “My brother-in-law will like you, I think. He’ll appreciate your directness. My request is simple, and nothing more than you intend to do anyway. I would like you to kill Bramwell Lancet.”

  Wardin gaped at the man. Arun choked on his mead.

  Dain sat back in his chair, smiling, and laced his fingers over his sizable belly. When it became apparent he wasn’t going to say more until he got some response, Wardin said, “There are easier ways to assassinate a king, if that’s what you want.”

  “But it’s not what I want at all. Assassination is messy. And dishonorable,” Dain added with a shrug. “There is that whole business of being cursed, if you murder a sovereign in cold blood. The ruling families are the deities’ own chosen, are they not?”

  “That didn’t stop Bramwell from murdering a Rath king.” W
ardin clenched the arm of his chair. All these years, and the manner of his father’s death still made him ill, when he thought of it. “And he doesn’t seem to have been cursed for it.”

  “Ah,” Dain held up a finger. “But he got around that with the excuse that Draven Rath was not a king, but merely a rebel baron. Treason, you know, must be punished.” He waved a hand when Wardin opened his mouth to argue. “Varying interpretations aside, I’d much prefer Bramwell simply not survive your war. Saves me trouble, questions, that sort of thing.”

  “Why?” Arun asked. “Why do you want your own king dead?”

  “Two reasons. First, because Tobin will be much easier to manage with Bramwell gone.” Dain took a swig of mead. “He’s put his wife aside, did you know that? Tobin, I mean. Seems she failed to produce any heirs for him. Sent her across the sea, dissolved his union entirely.”

  Wardin narrowed his eyes at the big man, putting easier to manage and dissolved his union together. “And let me guess: you’ve got a daughter of marriageable age. Now that Tobin is in need of a new wife, you’d like to put her on the throne, and rule from the shadows.”

  “Eh.” Dain tilted his hand back and forth. “Something like that. Tobin is an idiot, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “We have,” Wardin agreed. “And the second reason?”

  Dain’s face sobered. It had an odd, almost collapsed look about it, when he wasn’t smiling. As if the whole thing were held up by the force of good cheer. “I want the magisteries back. Or at least, my magistery back. But all of them would be better. Saving yours, having a sovereign kingdom in Cairdarin that openly uses magic, and most importantly, removing Bramwell Lancet from the throne of Harth. All of that seems like a good start, no?”

  “I suppose it does.” Wardin rubbed his chin, trying to decide whether or not he believed the man. It wouldn’t be the first time Heathbire rose up in protest of the ban against magic. But then, this wasn’t exactly rising. Manipulation from dark corners, rather than facing a fight head on, was out of character for the people here.