There was an opportunity, for at least an hour after she left. An opportunity Erietta had satisfied herself was consistent.
An opportunity she was ready to take.
She finished the last of her bread and brushed the crumbs from her sleeve. And then Erietta, who had never thought of herself as dishonorable or underhanded, settled in to wait for her chance to murder the King of Harth.
25
Bramwell
“Are you going to kill my father?” Rora sounded not only curious, but genuinely concerned. This was new.
Bramwell gave the question due consideration as he sipped his wine. That it was the worst he’d had in recent memory—and that was saying something, as he’d had no good wine in months—did not help Heathbire’s cause. “Almost certainly. How would it make me look, if I allowed him to live after playing me false for so long? A weak king is a dead king.”
“It will make you look practical, seeing as he’s been so useful. His ruse to draw the Eyrds to Corghest worked exactly as you hoped.”
“Exactly as I knew, and it was not his ruse, it was mine.”
“His men are useful, as well.” Rora twisted one of her thick curls around her finger. She never wore her hair braided, or anything but loose. A bit wanton for Bram’s taste, really. “But they could just as easily be a burr in your blanket. Why risk rousing Heathbire, when you’ve already got Eyrdon in rebellion? A diplomatic king is a strong king, surely.”
Bramwell turned to set his goblet on the table by the window, then looked back over his shoulder to fix her with a cold stare. “Surely you don’t mean to advise me on how to rule my kingdom.”
Guy or Darren, or even Tobin, would have taken a step back from that stare. Rora only laughed. “Certainly not, Majesty. But if I may be so bold, I would point out that you’ve already punished him quite adequately, making him kill my cousin.”
“Your cousin was a spy and a traitor.”
Evidently taking his now empty arms as an invitation, she crossed the room and put her own arms around him. “My father was quite fond of Corbin. And he only ever meant to take care of me.”
“Oh? Thought you were better off with me dead or deposed, did he?”
Her smile was sly. “Well, perhaps he had a point. You have ruined me.” She rose up onto her toes to kiss his neck. “It’s a bit difficult to believe you intend to match me with your son when we’re—”
“Be that as it may.” Bramwell pulled out of her grip and turned back to the window. The small, narrow, rather dirty window. And the only one in the entire dismal chamber. Blast, but he hated Eyrdon. The sooner this whole business was over with, the better.
Including this affair with Rora. She’d been amusing—her candor, her brazenness, her physical assets—at first. He liked her, and he admired her wit. Not to mention how entertaining it was to watch Dain rage inwardly over the liberties his king was taking with his daughter, while powerless to speak a word about it.
But she’d grown demanding, as mistresses inevitably did. It never took Bram long to remember why he so seldom bothered with them. And the truth was, despite Elinor’s flaws, he loved his wife.
Rora didn’t seem to realize that this particular dalliance was reaching its natural conclusion. But the girl was young. He supposed allowances might be made for that. Perhaps he would appease her by marrying her off to Tobin, after all. The people of the moorlands had always been of an intractable nature. Sealing their good behavior with an alliance wasn’t the worst idea.
After Bramwell made a proper example of her father, of course. She was Dain’s only heir. Matching her with Tobin would be essentially annexing the barony for himself, much as he had Eyrdon. These southerners were best kept in check with a close eye and a firm hand.
He glanced sideways to see her staring expectantly, and realized he’d left his thought unfinished. He picked his goblet back up—even bad wine was better than no wine at all—and sighed. “One traitor at a time. I will make my decision with regards to your father when the Eyrds have been dealt with.”
Rora matched his sigh with one of her own. “Well, you can’t blame me for speaking on his behalf. He is my father. It would be a sin to let him die and not try to stop it, not if I have any influence over you.”
Bramwell snorted. “You don’t.”
She looked hurt, but she had the sense to hide it. She was as political a creature as her father. Another mark in her favor—Tobin could use a savvy wife, being so lacking in savvy himself. “As you say, Majesty.”
“Indeed. Now be a good girl and leave me to get some rest.”
She licked her lips. “Tired already? I thought we—”
“Repeating myself grows tedious, Rora. You might learn that I mean what I say the first time.” He turned away again, dismissing her without another glance. Though he couldn’t miss her departure, given how hard she slammed the door.
Bramwell leaned forward to rest his forehead on the cool glass of the window. In truth, he had a blistering headache. The worst in some weeks, and with no relief to be had. He’d left his personal healer back in Witmare. It wouldn’t do to travel with the man like an invalid.
The healers here were neither so skilled nor so trustworthy. He’d preferred suffering in silence to letting them into his confidence. Perhaps he would have to reconsider, just this once. A single tonic wouldn’t inspire whispers among the servants, surely.
Lost in his thoughts, Bramwell was still staring down at the moonlit courtyard outside when a sound behind him caught his ear.
A furtive sound.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, but he gave no outward sign of awareness. In his experience, when a person was trying to sneak up on him, it was best to let them think they were succeeding.
He’d never been much of a magician, but when it came to fighting, his instincts were almost magical. When he was a student at Heathbire—all those years ago, before his father had burned the place—not even the contrivers could catch Bram unawares.
And a contriver was just what he was dealing with, judging by how nearly perfect the would-be sneak’s movements were. What was this, then? Surely Wardin Rath hadn’t sent one of his minions to attempt an assassination. The boy would never be so dishonorable. His absence of ruthlessness was one of Bramwell’s great advantages over him.
As soon as he sensed the person was near, Bramwell spun and swung his heavy silver goblet, drawing his dagger at the same time.
The goblet connected with a cheekbone, resulting in a cry. A feminine cry. It was a woman attacking him, light and slender. She might be fast—it was too soon to tell—but she would be easy enough to overpower. If the boy was going to send an assassin, he might at least have chosen a worthy foe.
Shouting for his guards, Bramwell lunged with his dagger. But the girl was fast, and dodged his thrust. He added agile to his assessment; she rolled to the other side of the room before he could grab her. No doubt to give herself time to prepare a spell.
Within moments, dozens of her were spinning around the room. Mirror images—where had he heard about one of them doing that lately? Was this the archmagister, the same wench who’d escaped Tobin’s clutches?
No matter. Bramwell changed tactics immediately, backing toward the wall and lowering his dagger. Instead, he reached for a pouch at his belt.
Among other preparations in the weeks since Corghest, he’d had the adepts at Narinore come up with a way to produce the antimagic in a powdered form as well as liquid. Experiments on the unfortunate sage Heathbire had finally confessed to having revealed that the powder worked every bit as well, perhaps even better.
Bramwell had enough on hand to disable his assailant. After that, she would be easy enough to take down.
He bellowed again for his guards. Where were they? How had they ignored all this commotion for so long?
The girl—all of the girls, and there were at least twenty by now, crowding the room—laughed. She made no effort to hide it. Come to think of it, she’d made no e
ffort to be quiet when Bramwell struck her, either. The only time she’d been the least bit stealthy was when she was trying to keep him from hearing.
And he hadn’t heard anything outside since Rora’s dramatic exit. This contriver was blocking sound, somehow. Not just cloaking and dampening, but isolating them completely.
Clever. But it wouldn’t save her. Bramwell flung a handful of powder into the air, then readied his dagger once more.
The latter was only a precaution. He hoped no stabbing would prove necessary. As soon as the real her got near enough to him, the powder would settle over her skin, she would breathe it in, and her magic would cease. The illusions would fade, the guards would hear them, and they could come and seize her.
There was no need for Bramwell himself to get messy, not without either sword or armor. He valued efficiency. He also valued the very expensive carpet. There were few enough nice things in this blasted castle. Besides, taking her alive would almost certainly prove useful.
But then everything changed at once. All two dozen assassins came hurtling toward him, so quickly they were a blur. He flung more powder, again and again, slashing at the closest images all the while.
A moment later the girl—the real one—coughed, and all the illusions disappeared.
Which would have been a victory, if not for the fact that the cough came from just behind Bram’s left shoulder.
She must have used the last of her power, before the antimagic took effect, on a leap. Clever, indeed.
He became aware of all of this in an instant. Before she even finished coughing, he was turning. But instantly was not fast enough.
“Too late,” she whispered, her breath cold rather than hot on his shoulder, and Bramwell felt her dagger sink into his side.
26
Wardin
Despite the fact that breakfast had been over for more than two hours, Wardin arrived at the cramped room in the sage hall to find it empty. For the past several days they’d spent all the time they could spare here, working on enchanting. Or on failing to enchant, as it happened. This morning’s mess would suggest that Arun had stayed up alone well into the night.
Wardin grimaced as he took in the open books, the stray leaves and powders on the floor, the overturned vial that had spilled something sticky on the windowsill, where a long line of ants marched into it, seemingly eager to poison themselves.
At least it smelled good, thanks to the greymoss strewn about everywhere. As the lore had it, it was a conduit for enchantments. Not that it had done them any good so far.
The week before, one of the surviving magisters had found a bit of mead left in his flask, enough to determine that it was tainted. A brief investigation revealed that the fortunate Hyde, who’d recovered from the antimagic so long before the rest of them, had had an attack of nerves the night before the battle, and set his mead aside after only a few sips.
The culprit found, their next step was to test the antimagic on an enchanted pen, which proved impervious. It wasn’t a certain test; it was possible there was too small an amount left in the flask to have an effect. But it was enough for Wardin to think a sword with the power of conduction, in place of a live magician, would be a critical asset.
His grandfather and uncle would no doubt have been outraged, if they could know that he intended to pollute their famous sword with magic they despised. But the Well of Songs had given up Dragon’s Edge to Wardin—and only after he’d used that very magic, or something like it. He would take the approval of Eyrdri and the great bard over that of two men who’d deceived their people into thinking the sword was something it wasn’t. Perhaps into thinking the Raths were something more than they were, as well.
In any case, every hour occupied by enchanting was one less hour occupied by going mad with worry and fear for Erietta. Not to mention fury. Their failures in this workroom, the endless hours of bolstering Pendralyn’s defenses, even the war itself were almost welcome distractions.
There had been no news from Narinore. She’d been gone for more than two weeks.
With a sigh, Wardin snapped his fingers at Rowena and stepped farther into the room. There were some things he could do on his own, until Arun joined him. Or at the very least, he could start getting things organized.
He was still sweeping bits of greymoss off the floor when the excited scrabbling of Hawthorn’s nails preceded both the blackhound and a breathless Arun into the room. They must have run all the way down from his tower chamber.
“She did it,” Arun heaved. “I can’t believe it. I kept thinking she would come to her senses and turn back, but she did it. She actually tried to kill the King of Harth.”
Wardin swallowed, though it was with some difficulty. His throat felt like it had been filled with sand. “Tried?”
“He’s not dead. But they say it was close, and that he’s very ill.”
Wardin’s heart caught. The sand was in his chest now, heavy and stifling. He stared wordlessly at his friend.
“No,” Arun said, as though Wardin had voiced his question aloud. He fell into a chair and gripped its arms with colorless knuckles. “She wasn’t caught.”
Wardin huffed and crossed his arms, still unable to speak.
“Seems they blamed the king’s mistress at first. By the time they decided she had nothing to do with it, I imagine Erietta was long gone. She’ll probably come strolling through the gate any moment.”
Arun was right, surely. The Harths would no doubt be scouring the routes into the mountains, and it would take a great contriver to get past them. But she was a great contriver. She’d made it this far, this long. She would get home safely now.
She’d better.
The sand ebbed away, and Wardin found his voice at last. “How do you know all of this?”
“I’ve just been in contact with Varin. It took hours—you know how I am—but he was very patient. I’m surprised he was willing to get a message to me at all, but the king’s dire condition seems to have put the Narinore Eyrds in a more relaxed and cheerful mood. Anyway, Bramwell was stabbed with a poisoned dagger. Guess she didn’t use enough of whatever the poison was.”
“When was this?”
“A few days ago. I’m not sure. Seems Tobin and the Aldar prince have been trying to keep it quiet, but eventually gossip spread, as gossip does.”
“What?” Wardin frowned. “Why would they do that? Why not raise an outcry? An assassination attempt would win them sympathy and turn people against us.”
Arun shook his head. “I’d have thought the same, but this seems to have been viewed as good news by most. I was sure to tell Varin that you didn’t send the assassin, but I didn’t get the sense he’d have been disappointed if you had. I suppose the common folk are a bit less concerned with the sin of killing a king than the nobility would be, and they would hardly weep to see Bramwell struck down.”
“So much for superstitions about old curses.” Wardin rubbed the back of his neck, unsure whether he was relieved that Bramwell wasn’t dead, or disappointed. “I suppose Tobin didn’t want anyone to know because he doesn’t want to make his father—or their defenses—look weak.”
“When she gets home …” Arun set his jaw, but he tossed his hands in a helpless gesture.
Wardin offered him a small, grim smile. He understood. He didn’t know what he would do when Erietta got back, either. Hug and kiss her, perhaps, right before he had her beheaded. “Do you think she—”
“Wardin, Arun!” Eldon rushed into the room nearly as fast as Arun had a few minutes before, and his face was even more red. “Someone’s arrived—”
“Is it Erietta?” Arun leaped from his chair.
“No.” Eldon frowned. “Where is the archmagister?” He waved his own question away. “It doesn’t matter. This is a foreigner, with half a dozen guards with him, and he’s demanding to see Wardin. He says … he claims to be the King of Dordrin.”
* * *
“Majesty.” Wardin stammered over his greeting, mom
entarily discomfited by Iver’s sharp golden stare. It was like looking into the eyes of an eagle. An appraising, possibly disapproving eagle. As was appropriate when two monarchs met, neither bowed.
Polly had assured them that Iver—or the man claiming to be Iver, Wardin reminded himself—wasn’t the least bit offended by being asked to wait in a back room at The Dark Dragon. And indeed, apart from the scrutinizing looks he continued to give Wardin, he seemed perfectly comfortable. Most of the Dordrine guards were outside in the corridor, although one man remained at Iver’s side, taller and much brawnier than his king. Their silver hair made it difficult to guess either of their ages.
“Highness.” Iver offered an easy nod. “Or Majesty, I should say, as it’s only a matter of time before you take your rightful place. I’m pleased to meet you at last. I’ve been eager to see for myself whether you measure up to Erietta’s admiration. This is Restan.”
He gestured at his companion without offering any title or explanation for the man’s presence, before turning to Arun with a much friendlier smile than he’d given Wardin. Come to think of it, he hadn’t smiled at Wardin at all. “And this is quite clearly Erietta’s twin. Arun, as I recall?”
Arun bowed stiffly, his expression not nearly so warm. Wardin had told him about Erietta’s bargain with the King of Dordrin. If this was indeed Iver, he’d find no friend in Arun. “Majesty. I assume.”
“You assume?” Iver’s brows shot up, then he chuckled. “I expected to face suspicion, late as I am, but I must admit, I didn’t anticipate you doubting my identity.” He looked back at Wardin, still half smiling. “How shall we resolve that, then?”
“It would have been best if you’d brought Desmond with you.” Wardin crossed his arms. He’d never been especially fond of Desmond, but if the man was dead—as was likely—Wardin didn’t appreciate that this seemingly relaxed and confident king had not even thought to mention him. “May I inquire as to my emissary’s health?”
A Dark Reckoning Page 27
