A Dark Reckoning

by J. R. Rasmussen

  “You want to stay here?” Wardin looked incredulous. Even at odds as they were, it seemed he expected Arun would never leave his side.

  As well he should. They were his best friends, and he needed support now more than ever. Erietta gave her brother a disapproving look—one she knew he saw, though his eyes slid away from hers.

  “My place is at Pendralyn,” said Arun. “And now that Etta’s home, she can command your magicians for you.”

  “Are you asking to stay behind because of this enchanting business?” Pate asked. “I hear you’re close.”

  Arun nodded, though Erietta suspected he was grasping at an excuse rather than truly agreeing. “I believe I am close, yes.”

  Pate shrugged at Wardin. “Then it’s probably best to let him continue. It could help a great deal, more than one man is likely to help in the field.”

  “Not necessarily, when the man in question is a sage,” Wardin said.

  Pate dismissed this with a wave. “Not much of a healer though, is he? Apart from that, sages are generally the least useful in battle.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Arun said, his voice edged with violence. “I hear Odger did his bit, before he died.”

  Erietta cleared her throat and gave Pate her haughtiest archmagister’s stare. “Arun excels at confusion. It was more useful against Bramwell’s men last autumn than a hundred swords.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Wardin broke in. “I won’t force any man to fight at my side who does not wish to.” He gave Arun a bland, indifferent look. But Erietta, who knew quite well that Wardin’s mood was better measured by his hands than his face, saw how he fidgeted with the hem of his tunic.

  * * *

  Erietta stretched out on what she’d always thought of as Wardin’s rock, relishing the early spring sun on her face. There was much to do. And plenty of people doing it, judging by the noise from the practice yard that rose above the rushing of the waterfall. She should be busy herself, but she’d paused for this rare break nonetheless.

  She would have to tell them. Wardin, Arun. Alaide and Eldon. All of the magisters. For four days since her return, she’d put off speaking of the pact she’d made. The things she’d sold, that were not hers to sell.

  Wardin and Arun were far too caught up in their own anger and misery to notice that she’d told them next to nothing about Dordrin, its king, or his court. And because of that misery, she hadn’t had the heart to add to either of their troubles.

  But she could not keep her silence forever. Soon enough now, Iver would come to collect.

  “I thought it was your job to find me here when I was feeling glum.” Wardin sat down beside her. “I suppose it’s refreshing, to have it the other way around for once. What are you thinking about?”

  “The King of Dordrin,” she said truthfully.

  He gave her a curious look. “I can’t read your voice, when you say his name. There’s some feeling there, a strong one I think, but I can’t tell whether it’s admiration or anger.”

  “Perhaps it’s both,” Erietta said with a soft laugh. “I’ve never met anyone like Iver before. Probably because there is no one else like him.”

  “Is that so?” Wardin pressed his lips together as he studied her face. “You never did tell me, how did you convince him to help us?”

  Tell him.

  She cleared her throat, opened her mouth, closed it again.

  I can’t.

  “He didn’t take all that much convincing. He saw the value in it.” Not a lie, at least. It was, after all, Iver and Lira who had convinced her, not the other way around.

  “Something tells me there’s more to it than that.” Wardin cocked his head. “You have that impatient look you get when I’m asking questions you don’t want to answer.”

  Erietta pushed away her guilt. She was the archmagister. This was her decision, and she’d made it. If she had to justify it to anyone, it was the other magisters, not the prince. It wasn’t his place to judge. After all, it was him she’d made the sacrifice for.

  Which was, of course, what would make him so angry.

  “And is that why you came out here?” she asked. “To ask me questions?”

  Wardin snorted. “A poor attempt at deflection, Etta, but I’ll allow it in this instance, since the actual reason I came to find you is an important one. Also to do with Iver.”

  Erietta’s heart thudded against her ribs. “He’s sailed?”

  “He’s about to. Eldon just received a message from Desmond. The Dords and their army depart with the morning tide.” He elbowed her, grinning. “Which means you, Archmagister, have in all likelihood just won our war for us. So perhaps you should look a bit more cheerful.”

  Should I?

  14

  Bramwell

  “He’s arrived, Majesty.”

  Bramwell looked up from the letter he’d been writing and raised an eyebrow at the steward. “He’s arrived,” he repeated. “Not his emissary, not a scout, not his commander or his sheriff or anyone else?”

  “Well, he has people with him …” The steward trailed off, clearly confused.

  Bramwell waved the man away. “Bring him.”

  “Do you want us to stay for this, father?” Tobin asked when the man had gone. He sat by the fire with Radley, ostensibly studying a map, though they were more likely to be discussing dice or whores than war. Those seemed to be the chief interests of the Aldar prince, despite the supposed piety of his people. He’d formed an immediate and fast friendship with Tobin, though Radley was a decade younger.

  And a decade older than Bramwell’s niece. Bram wasn’t entirely certain he could stomach her promised union to this dolt, profitable or not. He was quite fond of Mairid. Perhaps Radley’s noble death in battle would be the best thing for all concerned.

  “No,” Bramwell said. “I would prefer to have my reckoning with the Baron of Heathbire in private. You two can go talk to Guy, and see if his interrogations have yielded any useful details about the boy’s plans.”

  “I doubt it.” As always, Radley’s languid, arrogant Aldar accent set Bramwell’s teeth on edge. “I wouldn’t be surprised if all this Corghest business turns out to be a lie, or a trick.”

  “Nor would I,” said Tobin, though he rose to do as he was told. “Surely Wardin’s too much of a coward to do anything but hide in his mountains, now that you’ve shamed him so.”

  “Wardin is not the least bit cowardly,” Bramwell said grudgingly. “He differs from his father in that respect.” And despite the boy’s decisive loss at Mindoral, perhaps he’d been emboldened by the effectiveness of his wretched magic in the battle.

  Even more wretched than Bramwell had realized, as it happened. A topic he would shortly be taking up with Dain of Heathbire.

  The baron arrived moments later, looking quite haggard. He was no fool; he knew his situation was tenuous. Which made it all the braver that he’d come. Bramwell had half expected him to plead some infirmity or other, and send someone else in his stead.

  “Majesty,” Dain said with a stiff bow, and none of his usual buoyancy. There was no danger of a hug this time. “You look well. There were rumors of a wound. I’m pleased to see that they were false, or at least exaggerated?”

  In actuality, Bramwell’s episode at Mindoral had had nothing to do with the battle. Not unless his healer was to be believed about stress and excitement, and the king was inclined to dismiss that as nonsense. He didn’t answer, only leaned back in his chair and nodded at Tobin and Radley, who made their exit. Even when they were alone, Bramwell remained silent for some time. He enjoyed watching Dain sweat—and sweating he was.

  When Bram finally spoke, it was with a terrible gentleness that lit the fear in the baron’s eyes anew. “Tell me, Dain, how is it that Wardin Rath knows conduction? We did not see it used last autumn. He must have learned it in the time since.” He raised his brows. “Yet for several generations, there was only one magistery that taught that art.”

  Dain spread h
is hands. “You know who was with him, Majesty. My own commander, who barely escaped the battle with his life, personally saw Pate Forthwind riding with the pr— the boy. Stealing life as they went. They say it was terrible to behold.”

  “Yes, it was,” Bramwell said tightly. “And not least of all because Pate Forthwind has been known to be dead for many years.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your dear late wife’s brother, if I recall correctly. Funny, that.”

  Bramwell had never had any reason to give a thought to Dain’s Eyrdish marriage. Matchmaking was hardly an uncommon strategy for easing tension and bringing the rebellious to heel. Bram himself had given a much-beloved cousin to Draven Rath. He’d long ago forgotten that the Baroness of Heathbire was sister to Lional’s commander—a man who had also been Bramwell’s classmate at Heathbire. Connections between the kingdoms were everywhere, especially in the borderlands. But now he was forced to consider whether family ties had perhaps affected Dain’s loyalties.

  “A connection I used in service of Harth, and my king,” Dain said. “As I told you when I gave him this task, I’ve been as a father to Pate’s bastard his whole life—”

  “I’m quite certain it was a Ladimore connection you told me you were exploiting.”

  “No, Majesty. Perhaps you misheard.” Dain’s eyes flicked to Bramwell’s flaring nostrils. “More likely I was unclear. My apologies. It was the connection to Pate that sealed Wardin’s trust.”

  “And yet you had no notion of Pate being alive?”

  “Of course not! We all knew him to be dead. There were witnesses.”

  That was true enough. Many had seen Forthwind fall in battle. Too many for it not to be true.

  Apparently the whoreson had gotten back up again.

  “Do you think, Majesty …” Dain swallowed. “Do you suppose he was brought back with necromancy?”

  Bramwell snorted. “Do you think me as old a fool as that? Necromancy is a child’s tale.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Dain’s nod was emphatic, as if he were trying to convince himself. “I just thought … with the conduction … forgive me, I’ve clearly let my imagination get away from me.”

  “Clearly.”

  “In any case, Majesty, I loved Corbin as my own. I cannot believe he was disloyal when he entered into this arrangement. My best guess is that Pate was alive and hiding in Eyrdon all these years. Perhaps at Pendralyn. Corbin must have been reunited with his father after his arrival, and persuaded to turn his back on me. And Harth.”

  Dain hung his head, his substantial jowls quivering. “He has betrayed me, Majesty. It is the only possible explanation for both the misinformation and our initial loss at Mindoral. Corbin knew my men were defending the town. Men he himself knew! Some he grew up with! He knew their numbers, their strategies, their strengths and weaknesses. That is how Wardin got the better of us.”

  Bramwell kept his face impassive despite the heat blooming in his chest, rising up into his head. It was not yet time to show his temper. Not when the appearance of calm, if disappointed, acceptance of Heathbire’s story could prove more advantageous. “And have you had any contact with your errant kin?”

  “No. He has ignored the pigeons I’ve sent since Mindoral. He must realize that he cannot fool us any longer.” Dain’s voice cracked, and he took a deep breath before continuing. “I, of course take full responsibility. I am entirely at your mercy.”

  “I see.”

  In truth, what Bramwell saw was a man who fancied himself an expert manipulator. One whose boisterous, jolly demeanor was often employed for cold-blooded reasons. Today’s subdued contrition could just as easily be calculated.

  It was certainly possible that this Corbin was the traitor. It was equally likely, if not more so, that Dain was.

  Though why the Baron of Heathbire would do such a thing was beyond knowing. He stood to gain nothing from an independent Eyrdon, a fragmented Cairdarin, and a weakened Harth. A fact he would see if he had any sense.

  But nobles were an invariably petty, grasping, short-sighted lot. They cared only for their own power.

  Perhaps Dain thought to weaken Bramwell. Perhaps that was why he wasn’t openly pursuing a match between Tobin and Rora, why he continued to make excuse after excuse for not yet sending his daughter to join the queen at Witmare. Perhaps he thought to end Lancet rule.

  Whatever his reasons, if he was indeed playing his king false, he would suffer for it. Horribly, and at length.

  But not before Bramwell turned the betrayal to his own advantage.

  Both thoughts—that of benefitting from Heathbire’s scheming, and that of torturing him for it—were calming in their way. Bram offered Dain a small smile. “Very well. You may attempt to atone for your failures, and we will see whether you disappoint me again.”

  Indeed we will.

  The realization that he was not to be summarily killed seemed to greatly lift Dain’s spirits. “I won’t, I swear it!”

  “See to it that you don’t. You can begin by mustering those of your men who survived Mindoral. They, too, will have another chance to prove themselves. I’ll need reinforcements here in Narinore, as a sizable number of my own men will be marching soon.”

  “Oh?”

  “Happily, my scouts captured several Eyrds traveling east along the southern coast, and Guy managed to extract the truth from one of them yesterday. It seems Wardin has put out another call. He intends to attack Corghest.”

  Dain’s brows shot up, either in genuine surprise, or an excellent approximation of it. “A foolish thing to do, given his recent humiliation and depleted numbers. How can he hope to succeed?”

  Bramwell shrugged. “Perhaps he thinks to surprise me. Perhaps he thinks he’s trained enough conductors to win this time. Or perhaps he is simply twenty years old, inexperienced, and arrogant. I’ll be sure to ask him before I have him executed like his father before him.”

  “You intend to march south to meet him, then?”

  “West at first, and then south. There is a sizable force already at Corghest. The bulk of the Aldars are still there. My men will circle around and approach from the rear, trapping the boy and his rabble between us.”

  Dain beamed at him. “An excellent strategy, Majesty!”

  Excellent was too strong a word, to Bramwell’s mind. A serviceable strategy, perhaps. Even a good one. But not the best one. And not the one Bramwell truly meant to use.

  In point of fact, he had no intention of attacking Wardin’s army at all. His forces in the south could handle them well enough on their own. Bramwell would lead his own men to attack Pendralyn, while it was vulnerable and Wardin’s attention elsewhere.

  Inconveniently, the blasted boy had skilled sages at his disposal. He could receive news far more quickly than pigeons or couriers could deliver it. The moment he discovered that a Harthian force of any size had begun marching west—a fact that would be impossible to hide, when the rebels no doubt had contrivers and scouts watching Narinore—Wardin would know Bramwell’s target. He would abort his attack on Corghest and turn his men back to defend the magistery.

  Unless he were convinced that the king had another purpose in mind. If he believed that Bramwell was marching west only to turn south, for example.

  Here, then, was an excellent opportunity to serve two purposes at once. If Dain passed on what he’d just heard, Wardin wouldn’t realize Pendralyn was in danger until it was too late to save it.

  And Bramwell would know Heathbire for the loathsome traitor he was.

  15

  Wardin

  Wardin caught Erietta’s eye across the campfire and gave her a grateful smile. Much as he’d been giving her grateful smiles and grateful nods for days now. He was sure that when he had occasion to be irritated with her, even his frowns had a bit of gratitude about them. It was all her doing, the joking, the laughter, the confidence. Someone was even singing at one of the other fires.

  Everything had changed with the promise of thousands of Iver’s t
roops on their way. Gone were the grief and dwindling hope, the trembling stares and quiet prayers that had followed Mindoral. Everyone seemed to train harder and march longer. And when they found any opportunity to rest and relax, they took full advantage of it.

  They had started their journey with less than three hundred from the magistery. Their ranks swelled along the way as they were joined by people from the west, answering the call. The Pendralyn group was forbidden to speak of the Dordrine alliance, but their optimism seemed to be catching, even if the newcomers didn’t know the reason for it. They crossed through the mountains and into the southern lowlands without fear, almost eager for battle.

  Now more were coming from the coastal villages, and they were nearly three thousand strong, all told—far more than Wardin had expected.

  High spirits tended to be louder than low ones, and at first Wardin had been worried by the sheer noise of it all. But when he’d expressed this concern to Pate one night, the commander only laughed. “Laughing or brooding in silence, a thousand men shake the ground when they pass. You can’t move an army in secret for very long. If Bramwell should ride out to confront us, you may as well let these men meet him with a song.”

  Wardin let go of his objections after that. The good cheer had certainly been welcome the past several nights, as a light but relentless rain made for a sodden march and a cold camp.

  But tonight was dry and clear, and though the ground was still muddy, the improvement was cause enough for gaiety, it seemed.

  At least for most of them. Wardin suppressed a sigh as Corbin and Joan approached, their faces as morose as ever, and asked for a quiet word. He followed them to the edge of a pine copse, Erietta and Pate close behind.