A Dark Reckoning

by J. R. Rasmussen

  “So you want Wardin to agree to use conduction now.” Arun’s nostrils flared as he slammed his mug down on the table. “That’s the price you speak of.”

  Pate inclined his head. “He’ll learn it, and those of his magicians as are able will learn it. I won’t go into another war I can’t hope to win. I loved Lional more than any brother could—or did—but too many good men were lost to his lofty standards. Misguided standards, at that.”

  “No,” Arun said. “There is no question. We won’t—”

  “Arun.” Wardin held up a hand. His heart was pounding as though trying to fight its way out of his chest, but he wasn’t quite sure what was driving it. Fear? Excitement? Anticipation? Distress? He looked from Pate to Corbin and back again, scrutinizing their faces as though he would find answers there.

  Was this price really so high?

  Arun’s face went slack. His lips parted, but for a moment, only a puff of air came out. Finally he said, “War, it’s dark magic. What good is winning the throne if you’re going to be as blackhearted as the man you took it from?”

  “Nobody’s heart is turning black.” Wardin stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “The ale’s run low. I’ll get some more.” He turned on his heel and left the room. Behind him, he heard Pate murmur something, then the click of canine nails on the stone floor as Bracken trotted over to join him.

  He wandered the corridors aimlessly for a minute or two, before he stopped and leaned against the wall, staring at the paneled ceiling above. He had no idea where the ale was kept, nor did he think the cask they had was anywhere near empty. But Erietta always said he was too rash. He needed a moment to think this through—away from Arun’s horror-struck face.

  And a moment, perhaps, to revisit some unpleasant truths. Alone, where he didn’t have to put on a show of confidence.

  They were all counting on him. His friends, the magisters, people all over Eyrdon. And because they were counting on him, they had little choice but to have faith in him. At least outwardly.

  But the fact was, even with Pate’s help rousing the Eyrds, if Erietta didn’t get Iver’s support, they were going to lose this war. It was as good as certain.

  Unless they had something more. Something to fall back on, if diplomacy with Dordrin should fail. A weapon that even the esteemed Bramwell Lancet would find difficult to counter.

  Odger had spoken of a boon coming from this journey. Could this be it? Not the horses, not Pate, but this magic. Pate’s opinion of its value notwithstanding, it was easy enough for Wardin to see for himself. A person—several persons—with the ability to transfer life from one soldier to another could change the course of a battle.

  They could win a war.

  Erietta had warned him about conduction. That warning was practically the last thing she’d said to him before they parted ways. It was that important to her. And with good reason. Magic that couldn’t be balanced was not a thing to be used lightly.

  She even went so far as to make him promise not to use it for evil purposes. That she considered his turning to darkness a real possibility still rankled.

  But she didn’t ask him to promise not to use it at all.

  “Magic isn’t dark or light,” Wardin said, repeating her words. “Magicians are.” He was not dark. Nor were his intentions.

  Bracken nosed at his hand, but whether in agreement or warning, or simply from a desire to get back to the warm dining room, Wardin couldn’t say.

  “Evil and dangerous aren’t the same thing,” he said to the dog. “She said that, too. And it might not even be that dangerous, for a careful person who’s learned it properly. Corbin was fine after he healed Desmond. It can be controlled.”

  So tell me. Are you a Rath, or are you a Ladimore?

  Dain’s words nudged Erietta’s aside, ringing in Wardin’s ears as though he’d just heard them. The baron enjoyed his games. He’d no doubt intended his cryptic question to become clear in time. And so it had.

  The Raths had scorned conduction. And according to Pate, it had cost them dearly. But Baden Rath wasn’t Wardin’s only grandfather. There was another’s blood in his veins, another legacy he was heir to.

  Hawkin Ladimore had been a conductor. And a great hero.

  You’re the traitor.

  Odger’s voice again, returning to speak over the others.

  How many times had Wardin turned those words over in his mind? But any decision he made now would feel like a betrayal. The only question was which sin was the greatest.

  Practicing a brand of magic that Arun, his most trusted friend, despised?

  Refusing the advice of a proven battle commander?

  Dismissing Erietta’s warnings?

  Rejecting a weapon that could save them all, simply because he was afraid he hadn’t the strength to wield it?

  Surely the greatest betrayal was that of his duty. Could he forgive himself—could any of them forgive him—if he lost Eyrdon, and Pendralyn, and magic itself, knowing that he’d not done all he could to protect them? That he’d lost everything to hesitation and doubt?

  Hesitation. Another betrayal, this time of his own character. Whatever his flaws, timidity was not among them.

  Wardin made up his mind. He was aware of the dangers. He would be mindful of them.

  But he would not shrink from this boon.

  He returned to the dining room and, avoiding Arun’s eye, leaned against the wall by the fireplace and crossed his arms at Pate. “Any other demands I should be aware of?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.” Pate whistled low, and Bracken came to his side. He scratched the blackhound’s ears. “Brack must come back to Eyrdon with us. And Corbin, of course.”

  6

  Erietta

  “I hope his message was properly translated.” Desmond sniffed, then sneezed. The air in Virgardin did not seem to agree with him, and his voice was more nasal and discontented than ever. “Offer you accommodations at the palace might well mean toss you in a prison cell.”

  “He’s recognized us as diplomats. He won’t throw us in prison.” Erietta sat stiffly, braced against the wall of the conveyance the king had sent to fetch them. She’d seen a few of these so-called coaches in Tarnarven, and she supposed they had such things in Harth as well, in Witmare at least. But she’d never been inside one, and she couldn’t say she cared for the ride. It felt bumpier than a cart, if that were possible. Perhaps because every jolt sent her head or back knocking against something else.

  Her discomfort was not aided by the gown she’d bought three days before, when they’d arrived in Dordrin’s strange capital. It was a great deal more confining than the dresses she was used to, especially around the ribs, and a contriver did not like to have her movement restricted. But she could hardly meet the King of Dordrin in her traveling clothes.

  Outfitting themselves as respectable emissaries and seeing to their other needs had presented a bit of a challenge. She and Desmond only knew a smattering of Dordrine words and phrases, learned in stolen moments huddled over a book she’d brought with her from Pendralyn. Thankfully, silver was a universal tongue.

  But it wouldn’t serve her in Iver’s throne room. Erietta plucked again at her bodice, trying to give herself a bit more room to breathe, and distracted herself with the scenery outside the small window. The city really was a wonder, and she wished she’d had a chance to explore it under less anxious circumstances.

  On the surface, it had all the things one expected: shops, crowds, horses, garbage, noise, odd and sometimes violently unpleasant mixtures of smells. But the place was steeped in magic.

  For one thing, all the disagreeable aspects of winter abruptly ceased at the river that marked Virgardin’s boundary. The air was cool, but not uncomfortable, and the wind never rose to more than a light, refreshing breeze. A pretty, sparkling veil of snow graced the occasional tree’s leafless branches, but there was no ice or dirty slush in the streets. Birds sang as though it were spring.

  Pendralyn had
no enchanted objects that controlled weather, but Erietta had read of such things. Tairn, patron deity of Tarnarven and contrivance, was often depicted with the magical torch that gave him light, warmth, and dry ground to make camp on, wherever he went.

  But to enchant an entire city? It was unheard of. It was impossible. At least, with magic as she knew it, the Cairdarin magic she’d come here to save. This was something entirely different.

  Curiosity had been gnawing at her like a physical itch. There were whispers in Eyrdon of Dordrin’s peculiar sorcery and esoteric rituals, but they’d always been most unsatisfyingly vague. Perhaps she would have a chance to ask Iver about it, if the man himself proved as friendly as the message he’d sent that morning.

  She would find out what the king was like soon enough. They passed through a pair of filigreed bronze gates that apparently comprised the full extent of the palace’s defenses. There were no forbidding walls, no towers, no battlements. Evidently Iver didn’t fear invasion, or his own people.

  The coach rolled to a stop. “Remember,” Erietta said, interrupting whatever Desmond had been saying, “do not refer to Wardin as prince, or worse yet, Wardin. He is the rightful King of Eyrdon. We need to speak of him as though he’s already on the throne.”

  With that, she opened the door and climbed out, before the driver could come and try to help her. The Dords seemed to have that much in common with the Harths: they thought women too delicate to take a step down without assistance. (Although, given how binding their clothing was, perhaps they had a point.) They probably didn’t let them fight in their wars, either. Erietta could only hope she wouldn’t be seen as too helpless to negotiate on her king’s behalf. She would hate to have to leave the talking to Desmond.

  They were on a hill above the city, giving the palace before her the impression of looking down on its domain like a misshapen dragon. Roof and walls alike were tiled with some sort of material that actually resembled scales, gleaming in the sunlight. There was nothing symmetrical about it. It was squat in some areas, tall in others, with sections jutting from the sides like hunched legs.

  One of the line of stern-faced guards had already stepped forward. “A moment.” He spoke to the driver rather than Erietta or Desmond, but in the Caird language. “He’s been informed of your approach.” With that, he turned stiffly on his heel and resumed his position among the others.

  “A moment,” the driver repeated to his charges. He stood rigid as a statue, hands clasped behind his back, watching the palace’s great double doors. Erietta glanced at Desmond, shrugged slightly, then did the same.

  In the silent seconds that followed, there was little to do but study the ornate doors. They were made of bronze, like the gates. A highly unusual choice. Had both of them been open, the resulting gap would have been large enough to drive the coach through.

  Finally, the door on the left was flung open. The sole man who came striding out was so broad-shouldered that his silver cloak brought to mind a tent. Though he didn’t look old, his hair was silver, and cropped short.

  He approached quickly and nodded to Erietta, though he did not bow. Instead he held out his hand. When she extended her own in return, he grasped her wrist and squeezed.

  She awkwardly returned the gesture, acutely aware—not for the first time since their arrival—of how unprepared her books had left her. She could name the major cities and rivers of Dordrin, list the kingdom’s chief exports, but details like this greeting were alien to her.

  It made her feel like a boorish stranger, but also a bit thrilled. She was usually the one receiving guests, confident in her formalities—and bored by them.

  “Archmagister Erietta.” The man’s Caird was accented with a throaty, almost gruff inflection. He turned to clasp Desmond’s wrist as well. “And Magister Desmond. Welcome. I’m Restan, the king’s … seneschal, you might call it. We are honored to receive you. Though we’re a bit perplexed that you came with so little notice.”

  “Apologies for our rudeness.” Erietta curtsied, then elbowed Desmond, who offered a clumsy bow. “I’m afraid there simply wasn’t time to send a letter and await your king’s reply. Winter voyages are troublesome as it is, and we could not afford delays.”

  “No, I imagine you couldn’t.” The barest shadow of a smile crossed Restan’s face. “But you must realize it puts the king in a difficult position. Recognizing you at all, much less welcoming you, means recognizing your king’s claim to the Eyrdish throne. It will be a grave insult to King Bramwell.”

  “Yes, I assumed the delay in granting our request for an audience was due to King Iver considering that very matter.” Erietta quirked a brow. “But I rather thought he would view insulting Bramwell as one of the benefits.”

  Restan’s formal manner disappeared in an instant, as he burst into raucous laughter. “I wasn’t aware you’d met my king before. You seem to know him well.” He gestured for them to accompany him inside, and walked beside Erietta, while Desmond lagged a step behind. At least he had no difficulty dealing with a woman. “You brought your things with you?”

  “Such as they are,” Desmond said.

  “We were obliged to travel lightly,” Erietta added. “Though we’ve purchased some things here.”

  He glanced at her, his eyes flicking over her gown. “Yes, I can see that. The Dordrine style suits you. Your belongings will be brought to the rooms we’ve prepared for you. You can rest there for a bit, if you’d like. As you have no doubt noticed, we eat our dinner at midafternoon. I believe that differs from your custom. The king bids you to dine with him, and speak with him there.”

  As he spoke, he led them through a corridor that was dizzying in its splendor; the pattern on the walls clashed with the pattern on the ceiling and again with the pattern on the floor. There were glass tiles, stone tiles, bits of wood, bright paints. The sconces along the walls were so abundant it was like being outside on a sunny morning.

  “We are most grateful for your hospitality,” Desmond said. Erietta murmured her agreement, though inwardly she noted the use of the word bids rather than invites.

  They took so many turns, she was soon quite lost. The place was even more of a maze than the manor at Pendralyn. Eventually they arrived in a short corridor with only one door. A thin, white-haired woman stood rigidly in front of it. Her nostrils flared as they approached, but she inclined her head in a show of respect.

  “Commander.” She spoke the single Caird word perfectly, with no trace of an accent.

  “Stewardess.” Restan nodded. “Our guests from Eyrdon. Erietta and Desmond, both magisters as well as emissaries. And this is Hulda, the royal stewardess.”

  Erietta considered this strange use of titles—particularly commander—as she greeted the grim Hulda. She would have considered a seneschal and a steward to be roughly the same thing. Why did Iver have one of each? Perhaps one of the words was mistranslated.

  “Your rooms.” Hulda opened the door with another bow of her head.

  Beyond was a small but luxuriously appointed sitting room that connected two adjoining bedchambers. Erietta looked longingly at the massive, velvet-curtained beds. Here was something to be happy about, whatever the results of their mission. It had been weeks since she’d slept on anything that had more than a passing acquaintance with the concept of comfort, and she missed her bed at Pendralyn almost as much as she missed having Hawthorn snoring at its foot.

  “I trust they’re satisfactory?” Hulda asked. “Is there anything else you require?”

  Erietta smiled and forced her fidgeting hands to be still, feeling uncomfortable beneath the woman’s stare as she never did being waited on by servants at home. “Nothing at all, thank you.”

  “We’ll leave you then,” said Restan. “I’ll be back in an hour to escort you to dinner.”

  After they left, Erietta pressed her palms and forehead against the closed door and cast a spell to make her more aware of ambient sounds, that handy trick she’d learned for tuning Desmond out. But
as she’d expected, the seneschal and the stewardess knew better than to speak while they were still within a magician’s range. Or perhaps they simply had nothing to say to one another.

  “Something wrong?” Desmond asked. “I hope this dinner will be edible. I can’t say I’m impressed with Dordrine food thus far. Do you know—”

  “What do you suppose Iver is so suspicious of?” Erietta turned and crossed her arms, leaning back against the door.

  Desmond blinked at her. “How should I know whether he’s suspicious of anything, when we haven’t met him yet?”

  “Any servant could have met us. All Restan did was lead us down a few corridors to a door. Why send a high-ranking officer to do that? Why have your stewardess stand here waiting for us, just to ask if we like the rooms?”

  “Manners,” Desmond said with a shrug. “Recognizing us as honored guests.”

  “Perhaps.” Erietta tilted her head to one side. “Or perhaps we’re not quite as honored as they’d have us believe.”

  * * *

  Erietta was expecting a great hall, a full court, all the crowd and clamor that she’d imagined followed kings everywhere. Instead Restan led them into a dining room with only one long table, at which perhaps two dozen places were set. Nobody sat there yet; instead the diners ambled around the room, sipping from goblets and chatting. Half of them were children, including small ones who would never have been permitted to dine with adults in an Eyrdish or Harthian castle.

  A bony man with silver hair like Restan’s and the sharpest cheekbones Erietta had ever seen stepped forward to greet them. The easy confidence with which he moved suggested he might be the king, although he wore nothing to distinguish him as such. He was barely taller than the chestnut-haired woman who approached a step behind him.

  “His Majesty, Iver, King of Dordrin,” Restan said, with a degree of pomp that didn’t seem to suit his unassuming master. “And his wife, the Queen Lira.”

  “Erietta and Desmond, is it?” The king spoke the Caird tongue as effortlessly as everyone else they’d met in the palace, but Erietta barely registered the question as a chill spread across her neck and down her back. A moment ago she’d thought this man bland. Now she met the gaze of a wolf, tawny gold and sharp. Though his face remained friendly, his scrutiny was intense.