A Dark Reckoning

by J. R. Rasmussen

  “And yet, removing it can ensure the survival of the rest.”

  And that, of course, was the entire, impossible conundrum. Could Erietta give up a full third of her magistery in a play to save the rest? Or should she hold on to all of it, to rise and fall as one? Which was the greater risk? Which would be the greater loss?

  The answer to the second question was easy. They couldn’t lose Pendralyn. It must be saved. At any cost.

  And Lira was right: the books would, at least, be safe here. Some were enchanted to prevent it, but most of them could be copied, onerous task though it might be. It would take decades, even generations—a third of Pendralyn’s books would number in the tens of thousands—but it was possible. They could send magisters to visit, in a rotation on a fixed schedule, to do nothing but transcribe them. Iver would allow that, surely. Erietta would insist on it. There would be crucial illustrations that could never be reproduced exactly, but having something was better than nothing.

  They could make do, as long as they survived.

  Beside her, Lira sighed, apparently lost in thoughts of her own. “You know, he was very glad you wanted something he could give you, so he could ask for this in return. When we first heard you were here, we thought you’d come to ask for Dragon’s Edge. It would be just like a Rath, to think he needed that sword.”

  Erietta suppressed a gasp, although Lira no doubt noticed her involuntary start. “Dragon’s Edge disappeared when Lional Rath was killed,” she said carefully. “Surely you aren’t saying it’s here?”

  “I’m saying it’s not here. Believe me, if the tales were true, Iver would have found it by now. But it seems you’ve never heard this story.”

  “It seems not. Enlighten me, please.”

  “My husband is hardly the only one of his people obsessed with obtaining magic. As the tale has it, there was a company of Dordrine mercenaries fighting with the Harthian army, and it was one of them who delivered the killing blow to Lional Rath. They say that man stole Dragon’s Edge, and brought it back to Dordrin with him.” Lira shrugged. “An old rumor. I wouldn’t put much stock in it, myself.”

  “No,” Erietta agreed, but she knew she would have Desmond pass it along nonetheless. Wardin was indeed obsessed with finding that sword. Here, at least, was something of interest she could tell him.

  As for the rest, she intended to keep it from both him and Arun for as long as she could. The other magisters, too. If that was cowardly, well, she would happily sacrifice the virtue of courage, to postpone the fury and censure she knew were in store for her.

  Suppressing a grimace, she turned to the queen. “Thank you for your advice.”

  “For my badgering, you mean,” Lira said with a laugh.

  Erietta snorted. “I was being polite.”

  “No need. You’ve made a decision, then?”

  “I have.” Of course she had. She suspected she’d made it days ago, and had only needed this time to come to terms with it. “You can tell your husband he’s won.”

  * * *

  “I have conditions,” Erietta said crisply, as soon as the guard who’d ushered her into Iver’s solar left and closed the door behind him.

  Iver chuckled as he came out from behind his desk, those unsettling gold eyes alight. “Yes, I imagined you might.”

  Erietta wasn’t sure she liked the king, but she liked his kingdom, and she liked his wife (if not his wife’s spies). And she would be very glad of his help. Nonetheless, the thought of slapping the merriment off his face was greatly appealing. So much so that her fingers actually twitched. “First, the third of the books you take must be chosen by us. You are, of course, welcome to come to Pendralyn and take an inventory to be sure you’ve received the proper number.”

  “Perhaps we’d best do this sitting down.” He gestured at a pair of armchairs by one of the great windows. “The sky is lovely today.”

  “The sky is lovely every day.” Erietta sat, and Iver did the same.

  “So it is. You may choose half of what’s due to me, and I, or my representative, will choose the rest. However, I will agree not to take anything you consider especially priceless.”

  “It’s all priceless,” she snapped, then cleared her throat, hoping to clear the irritation from her voice at the same time.

  “Hence the word especially. Surely you have restricted areas, books so valuable you keep them even from your students?”

  “Something like that,” Erietta said.

  “Then I will agree that they may be kept from us, as well. Next point?”

  “You asked for magisters to help you get established. I will honor that, but I make no promises as to how many, or how long they’ll stay. I won’t force any of my people to come against their will.”

  Iver laughed. “I may be a strong negotiator, but I assure you, I don’t traffic in slaves. If you can’t find magisters willing to come, you may simply come yourself.” He winked at her. “I’m sure you’re worth any five of them.”

  Erietta’s heart lurched. Arun would never forgive her promising to leave home indefinitely. To say nothing of Wardin. But she could hardly sell Pendralyn to this man, and then hesitate only when it came to herself. “Very well.”

  Iver fixed her with his intense stare, earnest and devoid of amusement now, and as always Erietta had to make an effort not to blush and look away. “I know this doesn’t make you happy,” he said gently. “But you’re doing the right thing.”

  “Win this war for me, and I’ll agree with you.”

  He inclined his head. “Are those all your terms?”

  “Nearly. I want to send magisters regularly—separate from any who come to assist you—to copy as much of what we’ve lost as they can. That will take long enough that you must agree to it on behalf of your heirs.”

  “Certainly. We’ll always welcome an extra magister or two.”

  “They won’t be working for you,” she warned. “They’ll be working for me. You can’t assign them to any other purpose.”

  “Fair enough. As we discussed, you will stay in Dordrin long enough to offer your expertise and help us draw up the plans. I’d like to break ground in the spring or early summer.”

  Erietta shook her head, her face set. “We discussed my assistance, and you will have it. But we did not discuss my staying here until spring. I cannot, and I will not.”

  “Oh?” Iver narrowed his eyes. “Why the urgency? Something wrong?”

  She arched a brow. “Yes. There’s a war. I’m needed at home.”

  In point of fact, Desmond’s news had disturbed her enough that she wanted to get back—and set Wardin straight, if need be—as soon as possible. But she didn’t know how much Hulda had heard. On the chance that the king and queen were unaware that their new ally was practicing dangerous magic to the point of imbalance, Erietta hardly wanted to be the one to tell them.

  The king pursed his lips. “Eight weeks.”

  “Three.”

  “Five.”

  She refused to be discomfited by that wolf’s stare again. He’d taken enough. “Four, and not a day more.”

  He glowered at her. “Four, if you will leave Desmond here in your stead for another four after you go.”

  “I intended to. I want him to remain until your troops set sail for Eyrdon. To communicate.”

  Iver nodded. “Then it’s all settled.”

  “May I ask you something, then? Of a less formal nature?”

  He looked taken aback. Perhaps because they hadn’t engaged in any idle or personal talk since he’d made his proposal. “Certainly.”

  “Why is this so important to you? Dordrin seems like a very fortunate kingdom as it is.” Erietta gestured out at the spectacular view of the park, the grove of pear trees, the rolling hills in the distance. “Don’t you worry about upsetting the order of things? Surely you must have considered that there will be consequences.”

  The king followed her gaze, and was quiet for a long moment before he answered. “Suppose Bram
well and Tobin were better rulers. Benevolent, even. Your people were well fed and thriving, your lovely mountains peaceful. But still, it all belonged to the Lancets. Even magic. Especially magic. Suppose you were surrounded by tantalizing, splendid magic every moment of every day—and only the Harths could practice it. Never you.”

  He looked away from the window at last, sharp eyes meeting hers. “Would you not want your independence, despite your good fortune? Would you not want some of that magic for yourself?”

  Erietta sighed, defeated. Of course she would.

  “I see we understand each other. Perhaps for the first time.” Iver stood and gestured for her to precede him to the door. “Shall we go on to dinner? Call it a feast, to celebrate the army you’ve just won for your prince.”

  Won? You mean bought.

  She nodded and returned his smile, and hoped the price she’d just paid wouldn’t be her undoing.

  9

  Bramwell

  “The Aldars will sail within the week.” Bramwell regarded his assembled nobles with a rare benevolent smile. “Send word to your retainers that the time has come.”

  “So soon?” Athel of Hader’s voice was laced with panic. No doubt the baron had hoped to put off this war—and his own obligations—for as long as possible. “It’s still winter!”

  Bram smirked at the old coward. “Not for long, and as you are no doubt aware, armies take time to mobilize. I’ve already sent several of my own companies south to Narinore and Corghest. If we’re to burn this magistery as soon as the snow melts, we must move the rest of our troops now.”

  “But surely the crossing would be less risky for the Aldars if they waited?” Hader pressed.

  “The sea does not freeze over, Athel, and as for the storms, both my adepts and Usher’s have studied their charts and made their calculations. They’re predicting nothing the fleet won’t be able to handle.”

  In point of fact, it had been Bramwell’s sage, not his adepts, who’d made this forecast. But he couldn’t openly admit to having a magician in his kingdom, much less in his employ. Particularly not if he wanted to continue to enjoy Usher of Aldarine’s support.

  “Now, then.” Bramwell raised his brows and looked around the table. “If nobody else would like to question my judgment?”

  Hader blanched. The rest shook their heads and remained silent.

  “Good.” Bramwell gestured at the map that covered most of the table and began pointing out the locations where the various barons’ troops should unite with his own.

  “You’ll cross into Eyrdon at Mindoral, I assume?” Dain of Heathbire asked.

  “Naturally.” Bramwell narrowed his eyes at the big baron. “Why do you ask?”

  “As I’m so near the border, I wondered whether you would like me to send my men directly there as soon as can be, rather than await your arrival in the south. To be sure the town is properly defended.”

  The Baron of Trayne scoffed. “That coward of a Rath won’t be attacking Mindoral, or anyplace else. He’ll be hiding away in his mountains, avoiding a fight for as long as he possibly can.”

  “Likely you’re right. But still.” Bramwell scratched his beard. “He has been doing some petty raiding, and he may get bolder as the snow begins to melt. Mindoral is an appealing target. There’s no harm in a bit of extra fortification.” He nodded at Heathbire. “Yes, do that.”

  “Wonderful!” Dain beamed as though they were planning a festival instead of a war, and Bramwell once again studied the man with a wary eye.

  On the surface, his suggestion was a perfectly sensible one. Mindoral stood at the crossroads between the three kingdoms of Cairdarin, and at the junction of two rivers. It presided over a major supply route, both by land and by sea. In fact, had Dain not come up with the idea of sending extra troops to defend it, Bramwell might have done so himself.

  Yet he couldn’t help but feel he’d just been steered. Or at least, that this fool of a baron thought he was steering. Grinding his teeth, Bramwell set aside the question of how Heathbire dared. The more important question was, to what end?

  Perhaps it was nothing more than the desire to avoid a fight. Like every Rath before him, Wardin would likely take up a defensive position in the mountains and try to wear his enemy down before he took any offensive measures. Dain’s men might well wait out much of the war quite comfortably at Mindoral, without ever seeing combat.

  But perhaps there was more to Heathbire’s game than that. If so, Bramwell meant to find out what it was. When they’d concluded their business, he stopped the baron on his way out the door. “Give me an hour, and then come to my solar. I’d like a word.”

  “Of course, Majesty.” Dain looked neither surprised nor worried. But then, the man was an excellent dissembler, as Bramwell well knew.

  After all, he’d spent the winter doing just that at his king’s command.

  * * *

  Bramwell straightened in his chair, stretched, then stood and stretched again. He hoped the coming spring would bring some relief. It would be torture, riding to war with the relentless ache in his limbs, the twinges if he moved too quickly, or after being still for too long. His men would notice. His barons would notice. A weak king was as good as a dead one. One of the many lessons his hapless father had unwittingly taught him.

  A knock at the solar door interrupted his gloom. He called out his permission to enter, and Heathbire came bursting into the room—Dain always seemed to burst into everything—arms wide, for all the world as though he thought to hug his king.

  Bramwell wasn’t sure he’d put it past the man to try. Unwilling to test it, he resumed his seat behind his desk, and the baron was forced to settle for a bow.

  “Will you be requiring anything, Majesty?” the guard who’d admitted Dain asked.

  “Send for wine and cheese,” Bram answered.

  “And cakes, if you have any!” Dain bowed again. “With your permission, of course, Majesty. Your baker always has the most wonderful cakes.”

  Bramwell waved a hand in consent, then waited until the guard left them alone. “You may sit.”

  Dain’s eyes widened as he took a chair, no doubt because Bramwell was notorious for keeping people standing in his presence. But Dain was too big, too boisterous, and Bramwell was in no mood to watch the man’s dramatics. Perhaps sitting would keep the baron more still.

  “Have you anything new for me?” Bramwell asked. “I haven’t heard from you since midwinter, and your information then proved faulty.”

  Dain spread his hands. “I was assured the archmagister meant to flee Cairdarin to escape your wrath. Perhaps we simply missed her. She isn’t with our young Rath, I can tell you that much.”

  “And they don’t speak of where she is?”

  “I can only tell you what my man tells me. It seems he’s not quite proved himself worthy of all Wardin’s secrets as yet.”

  Bram grunted. Wardin had indeed proved most inconveniently cautious. His ranks had been nearly impossible to infiltrate. Only Heathbire had managed it, sending a man who claimed some distant kinship to the Ladimore line to swear himself into the boy’s service. Or kinship to one of Ladimore’s household, was it? A steward? A commander? Bramwell couldn’t remember. Normally he would have made it his business to know all the details, but at present his mind was managing too many details as it was.

  “What I can tell you now, Majesty, is that the boy thinks he has time yet. He doesn’t think you’ll march south so soon.”

  “And yet you seemed to think it urgent that you go and bolster Mindoral’s defenses immediately.” Bramwell raised a brow. “Now, why would that be?”

  Dain shrugged, his cheerful face unchanging. “I’m told he has advisers with whom he is at odds. He thinks he has time to continue bolstering his own defenses at Pendralyn. They would prefer he surprise you with an offensive strike. If he were to yield to their counsel, Mindoral would be a natural choice for that, would it not?”

  “It would.” Bramwell leaned b
ack in his chair. “What has your man told you of these advisers?”

  “Very little, Majesty, but he has attended a meeting or two, and expects that soon Wardin will trust him enough to invite him to more. He’s valued for his knowledge of the Harthian army, me, and through me, you and your court.”

  A servant arrived with the requested refreshments. Bramwell took advantage of the interruption to study the baron who yearly renewed his vow of loyalty to his king. He looked frankly ridiculous, laughing at the cakes as though they’d told him some joke. It would be easy to underestimate such an affable, sometimes silly man. Which, perhaps, was the point.

  The archmagister had not been caught in Tarnarven, but other bits of information delivered by Heathbire had borne out. That Wardin was procuring horses, for example, though the baron still couldn’t say from where. Not ten days past, one of Tobin’s spies had confirmed it, having bribed the tale from a cottager who’d seen a small group of them traveling in the mountains, toward Avadare.

  Nevertheless, Bram did not trust Dain. What he did trust were his own instincts, and those told him that the baron would not be at all opposed to ingratiating himself to both parties in a conflict, for his own gain.

  Certainly the man loved games. Even highly dangerous ones? Bramwell thought it likely.

  He tossed back the last of his wine with a grimace. Lately he drank it only out of habit, and took no pleasure from it. He found it all bitter, although taster after taster had detected no taint. Bramwell had finally surmised that the shockingly foul tonic his healer gave him for his pain had thrown off his taste.

  “Tell me,” he said to Dain when the man had finished gorging himself, “where is Rora these days? I’ve been expecting you to petition me about a match for her.”

  He’d meant to throw the baron off, but Dain only answered with his usual laugh. “Plenty of time to talk about marriages when the grimmer work is done. She’ll keep until after the war.”

  “Still, I’d like to have her at court. We so enjoyed her stay the last time, and it’s been too long. She can serve as one of the queen’s ladies, give them an opportunity to get reacquainted.” Bram chuckled. “I’ve long since learned that keeping the peace in my own marital bed requires me to strongly consider Elinor’s advice when it comes to our children. If you’ve got your sights set on Tobin, you’ll need her good opinion.”