A Dark Reckoning

by J. R. Rasmussen

  “Actually, I really did come to ask for a word with you.” Arun shifted in his chair, a flush creeping up his neck. “A minor problem, but you should know.”

  “Minor, is it?” Wardin couldn’t help but laugh. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you blush.”

  “I am not blushing. I had a setback. With my enchanting experiments. I was working with a lot of the objects we already have, you know, studying them. Analyzing them. I cast a spell or two, for research purposes.”

  “And?”

  “And two of the objects were … altered.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, one of them was a cloak that was impervious to water. It’s now impervious to fire instead.”

  Wardin coughed over another laugh. “So by altered, you mean broken.”

  “I’m certain it’s temporary, that’s the main thing. I’ll set it all right again. The second object was your inkwell. Truth or lie doesn’t matter anymore, but it will only allow you to write in verse.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking!” Wardin gaped at him, no longer seeing the humor in the situation. “You came in here to lecture me after you destroyed a priceless treasure?”

  Arun huffed. “I did not destroy it! Like I said, it’s a temporary setback. You could even argue that the cloak was improved. And viewed a certain way, you could call this progress for me.”

  “No. I couldn’t.”

  Arun dropped his gaze and nodded. At least he had the decency to look guilty. But not for long. “You can scold me all you like, if it makes you feel better, but we both know it’s nothing compared to what you’ve been doing.”

  “What I’ve been doing is trying to save the magic you seem so intent on breaking!”

  “No, what you’ve been doing is risking madness. Or worse.” Arun took a swallow of mead, then wiped his chin with his sleeve. “It can’t be balanced, War. It would be quite a thing, if we all bled to put you on the throne, only to find you’d become unworthy of it along the way.”

  Wardin clenched a fist. How could his dearest friends have so little faith in his character? “All right, if I turn into an evil madman, by all means, depose me once I’m king. I’ll hand you the crown myself. But I have to win it first. I won’t deny us this weapon. And not only for myself, either. I intend to have Corbin start teaching conduction to any magician who wants to learn it.”

  “No!” Arun rapped his knuckles against the table. “I may not be able to keep you from this folly, but you are not a magister here, and I am. I have some say in what is taught on our grounds, and I will not have you polluting—cursing—Pendralyn with a dark art.”

  “Honestly, you sound like a little girl who’s been told too many scary stories by her nursery maid. The headmagisters have no objections, why should you?”

  Thankfully, not every magician in Eyrdon was governed by the same irrational superstition as Arun. Wardin had informed Alaide and Eldon of his plans as soon as he’d returned. They both reacted more like Erietta: with caution, but with curiosity as well. They didn’t ask Wardin to break his promise to Pate. Only his best friend seemed to think his word was worth so little.

  “Alaide has only kept her peace out of loyalty to you,” Arun said. “And Eldon would probably worship Graddoc himself if he thought it would save his skin. But I think you’ll find that not all the magisters agree.”

  “No, but every last one of you seems to agree that I must keep Bramwell from burning your home and yanking out your innards, so here we are!” Wardin stood too quickly, nearly knocking over his chair, and began to pace.

  “War—”

  “Don’t.” There was pity in his friend’s voice now, and that was far more difficult to bear than anger. Wardin ran a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to say? That this is unstable magic? That I’m worried I’m not strong enough for it? Fine. You win. It is, and I am. But we need this. You know our situation as well as I do. I hardly have to tell you it’s dire. Desperate would be a better word, and desperate people can’t afford to be choosy. Eyrdon can’t afford my weakness right now.”

  “It’s not weakness to refuse to use something so—”

  Wardin jabbed a finger at him. “If you say dark again, so help me I will punch you senseless.”

  Arun snorted. “Avoid the face, if you don’t mind. Now that I’ve got a clear path to Helena’s affections, and all. Something so dark.”

  “Listen. My grandfather was a conductor, and there isn’t a single story about Hawkin Ladimore, even told by his enemies, that shows him as anything but a noble, principled man. It isn’t dark. Or at least, it doesn’t have to be.” Wardin stopped moving and met Arun’s eye with a steady gaze of his own. “And I didn’t hurt Rowena,” he said quietly.

  It suddenly seemed imperative that Arun believe him about the hound. Perhaps because it was the only point on which Wardin was certain he could defend himself. He swallowed. “I can feel it. When I steal. It would have been impossible to take from Rowena without knowing it.”

  Arun studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “All right. I believe you didn’t draw from her, if you say so.”

  “I do.”

  “But you can’t deny that you were unbalanced. I saw it in your face.”

  No. He couldn’t deny it. And worse, this was unlike other times, with other magic, when he’d pushed himself too far and felt that little twinge of madness, as all beginners inevitably did while they were learning their limits. This was something darker.

  Wardin resumed his seat at the table and picked up a honey cake he didn’t want. “I’ll have to learn to control it better, that’s all. We know it can be done. We have examples. My grandfather was fine. Better than fine. Pate might seem a bit off at times, I’ll give you that, but he’s more curmudgeon than madman. And Corbin, for all his unpleasantness, is perfectly in control of his faculties.”

  “At least two of those three examples aren’t what you’d call shining endorsements, are they?” Arun sighed. “Fine. It can be done. By some. What makes you so sure you’re one of them?”

  Wardin stared down at the cake he’d shredded to crumbs in his unexpectedly clammy hands. “Because I have to be.”

  8

  Erietta

  “He what?” Erietta turned away from the window to stare at Desmond as his droning words sank in.

  “He’s been practicing conduction with Pate.” Desmond’s face couldn’t seem to decide what color it wanted to be. Angry red splotches bloomed over his otherwise pale skin. “That is our prince! I have that much from Eldon, so I know I got it right. And do you know Eldon was not even outraged? Conduction! Being practiced at Pendralyn! I never thought I’d see such a thing. We need to get back. Right away. You need to set this—”

  “Yes, yes, I know how you feel about conduction,” Erietta snapped. Why must he be so incapable of staying with a point? “You made your position clear weeks ago when you implied you’d rather have died than be healed by it. It’s the other part that concerns me. Eldon told you Wardin’s been unbalanced?”

  Desmond sniffed. “Well, that part came from Arun, so I can’t be sure of it. As you know—”

  “Arun is not the best at communication. I do know. It’s not as though you ever miss an opportunity to remind me.”

  “But it seems he wanted you informed that Wardin is having some difficulty with his balance, yes.”

  Erietta bit her lip. “He must be awfully worried, if he went through the effort of contacting you himself.” She narrowed her eyes. “You are not to pass that bit along to Eldon, needless to say.”

  He scoffed. “Perhaps you ought to provide a list of things I can pass along to Eldon. It might be simpler. It would certainly be shorter.”

  They hadn’t yet had breakfast, and Erietta had to fight off a wave of nausea as her empty stomach churned. “This changes things. You have to see that. If this is the advantage Pate has brought us, then we have nowhere left to turn but to Dordrin. We cannot pin our hopes on somethin
g so …” She gestured helplessly with one hand.

  “Evil?”

  “Unstable,” she said firmly. “Wild. Volatile. Magic that cannot be balanced cannot be relied on.”

  “An unbalanced prince certainly can’t be.”

  “Then you agree.” Erietta raised a brow. “This makes our mission to win Iver’s support that much more urgent. We need him.”

  “Then you’ll simply have to change his mind.” Desmond crossed his arms. “Because what he wants is out of the question.”

  “How lovely it must be, to expect me and Wardin and everyone else to win Pendralyn’s safety for you, while so righteously judging what we may have to do to get it!”

  He returned her scowl with a petulant one of his own, but a knock at their chamber door interrupted what would no doubt have been a lengthy rebuttal. Hulda came in, carrying a tray heaped with fruit, cheese, and rolls.

  Had she been listening at the door? For how long? Erietta chided herself for forgetting to magically seal the room and cloak their voices, as she often did when they spoke of affairs at home. The royal stewardess often attended to them personally, and Erietta could think of no reason for it, apart from spying on them.

  “The king bids you dine with him tonight,” Hulda said after a terse greeting. “He wishes to see you, Archmagister Erietta, in his solar beforehand. Alone.”

  When she’d gone, Erietta poured a mug of the strange, smoky tea the Dords favored—she’d become quite fond of it—and walked back to the window, so Desmond wouldn’t see the fear in her face. “Well, at least we won’t have to argue about it anymore. It seems my time is up.”

  * * *

  Erietta leaned over the side of the small wooden bridge to stare down into the chattering stream below. They’d been confined to the palace and its grounds since their arrival. To his credit, Iver hadn’t concocted any excuses for it; he’d openly acknowledged that he wanted to keep them where he could watch them until he had his answer. Desmond, of course, had interpreted this as a threat. Perhaps it was.

  But it wasn’t particularly inconvenient. The park, like everything else here, was spacious and extravagant. There was plenty of room to wander and explore. Or if they preferred, plenty of (non-magical) books to read, art to enjoy, food to eat. She might have loved it here, under less strenuous circumstances.

  The stream had quickly become Erietta’s favorite spot. It was the only place she found relief from the relentless headaches and nausea brought on by her anxiety. Perhaps because it reminded her of the stream that crossed Pendralyn’s grounds. As at home, the smell of greymoss hung in the air around it.

  Or perhaps it was the stream itself that eased her pains and quieted her mind. After a week as Iver’s guest, she still hadn’t grasped the depth of the natural magic’s influence. The weather was perfect, certainly. The air itself was bracing, too, and seemed to help keep the citizens of Virgardin strong and healthy. (Though that power did not appear to extend to visitors—Desmond was still sneezing as much as ever.) It was possible, in such a place, that the water could sense her troubled soul and offer a bit of comfort.

  But it could not offer answers. She would have to find those for herself.

  On the surface, Desmond was right: it should be a simple decision. She was the archmagister of the last magistery, the sworn guardian of the last magical knowledge in her land. It was her unequivocal duty to protect that knowledge. Not to defend it against the Harths only to give it away to the Dords. The very idea, when put that way, was as preposterous as Desmond thought it was.

  But then, protecting the magistery was precisely why she was here. It all came back to that. Pendralyn was vulnerable. Perilously so.

  And Wardin was vulnerable, if her brother’s garbled message to Desmond was to be believed.

  “I always come here to think, too.” Lira stepped onto the bridge, her delicate slippers making no noise as she approached. As usual, no guards walked with their queen. Both she and Iver seemed quite confident of their personal safety. Were they so beloved among their people? Or did the land protect them? If the latter, if the magic here was so strong and benevolent, why would they seek to upset the balance by defying it?

  “Come to make sure I make the right decision?” Erietta asked.

  Lira laughed lightly. “To help you make it, perhaps. I thought you might like to talk things through with someone more … well.” She gestured at her thick brown hair, elaborately styled with an abundance of gold ribbon. “Someone without silver hair and a foreign accent. Someone who perhaps understands your kingdom and your concerns a bit better.”

  “I have Desmond.”

  “And someone who isn’t Desmond.”

  Erietta swallowed back a laugh, and gave the queen a challenging look instead. “Because you find him irritating, or because Iver’s spies told you I’ve been arguing with him, and he’s vehemently against this bargain?”

  If Lira was insulted, the twinkle in her eye certainly didn’t show it. “Iver’s spies? Certainly not. Hulda is my spy. I’m afraid she and Iver don’t like each other much.”

  “Oh?” Now Erietta did laugh. It was difficult not to, in the presence of such lively candor. Not that she was fool enough to believe the queen was being entirely open with her. “You need a personal spy, in your own palace?”

  “Why not? A queen can never have too many people serving her particular interests. I was introduced to Hulda as my lady’s maid on my wedding night. She’s been with me ever since, in one capacity or another. Not the warmest woman, I’ll give you that, but her loyalty is unshakeable.”

  “Well, if we’re cataloging her character, you can add cunning to the things she is not. I suspected her of watching and listening to us from the first.”

  “Surely you aren’t surprised that I might want to catalog your character,” Lira said with a shrug. “You are asking for Dords to die for you, after all. Bramwell Lancet isn’t an enemy to be taken lightly, and I won’t have us pledge ourselves to a lost cause. You can’t fault me for wanting to judge whether you’ve got the fortitude to see it through.”

  “Whether I have?” Erietta cocked her head to one side. “I would think it would be War—my king’s fortitude you need to worry about.”

  Lira chuckled. “You might as well leave off with that my king business, don’t you think? You have to stop yourself from using his given name every time you refer to him, even though I’m told you’ve warned Desmond against that very thing more than once. And your eyes go all soft when you think of him.”

  “They most certainly do not.” Erietta crossed her arms and looked down into the water, equal parts offended and disconcerted. “I think you misunderstand. I am not some mooning girl, I’m—”

  “A person of some power and influence. I understand perfectly, and that is exactly my point. You’re obviously close with War-Your-King. I suspect you represent him quite well. And you’re the archmagister, besides. I think your fortitude is an excellent thing for me to measure by.”

  “And what have you concluded, from all this spying and measuring?”

  “That you’re strong, but you need us. Desperately, I think. This pact is in everyone’s best interest.”

  “It certainly isn’t in Pendralyn’s.”

  Lira rested her elbows on the wooden railing, joining Erietta in watching the stream. “Is that what you think? Is that why you’re hesitating?”

  “Of course it is.” Erietta scowled. “What do you think, that I begrudge you this knowledge? That I’m so ungenerous as that? Giving it away is contrary to my sworn duty. It’s the same as breaking a vow.”

  “Even if it might be safer here?” Lira raised her brows. “Have you thought of that? Magic isn’t safe in Cairdarin, as long as there are Lancets there.”

  “I’ve thought of the safety of magic and little else my entire life, I assure you.” Erietta rubbed the back of her neck. “Safety from the Lancets is my entire reason for being here.”

  “And we can offer it. Aldarine
has changed the landscape of your war. Dordrin could do the same. Iver’s even spoken of raiding the Aldar coastline, troubling them a bit. Perhaps until they decide their troops might be of more service at home. Bramwell might think better of continuing the conflict, if his allies were to abandon him.”

  Erietta shook her head. “Bramwell will never give up. He’ll never allow another kingdom in Cairdarin to have magic, if he hasn’t got it himself. And he hates Wardin with a fury. He won’t rest until he’s eradicated the house of Rath entirely.”

  “Bramwell is a vindictive man, I’ll grant you that.” Lira’s voice had a hard edge to it, making Erietta wonder just what her experience with the King of Harth might be. “But he’s also a practical one, and a smart ruler, for all his other flaws. He can only tax his people so much. He wouldn’t be the first Harthian king to decide Eyrdon simply isn’t worth it, and go home.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You don’t need to convince me that your support can mean victory. I already know that.”

  “Ah, but what if it doesn’t? That’s an important question, too.”

  Erietta blinked at her. “I don’t believe I follow.”

  “What if you lose? If not now, then eventually. What if Bramwell, or his vile son, or his doubtlessly vile son after that, should burn your magistery to the ground one day? As I said, you will know no safety while a Lancet sits on the Harthian throne. But if a third of your books should reside here …” Lira spread her hands. “Perhaps you can consider this simply putting them away for safekeeping.”

  Erietta scoffed. “I don’t think I can, actually.”

  “We have a common goal. We all want magic to flourish. Iver is only asking for a cutting, from which he will grow more. It will make us all stronger, in the end.”

  “Perhaps it will. But this cutting he proposes to take is quite large, and quite precious.”