The whispers intensified, and a few shocked looks were cast in the archmagister’s direction. It seemed the assassination attempt hadn’t been widely known.
Well, now they saw what sort of king they’d supported. The girl was likely lying to protect him, but even if Wardin hadn’t sanctioned her mission, by all accounts she was close to him. Contrivers and conductors. That was the sort of company he kept. The people of Eyrdon would regret him, soon enough.
Wardin cleared his throat—not loudly, but just loudly enough—and the hall quieted once more. The boy was learning already. “Expedient or not, the conflict has come to an end. Your men and your commanders have surrendered. As have the princes.” He gestured at Bramwell. “I don’t think it can be disputed that I have control over your person, and your heir. You are in no position to negotiate.”
Blasted walking stick. Bramwell could only draw himself up so much. “I am the King of Harth,” he said coldly. “I won’t cower before you.”
Wardin returned his glare with equal animosity. “I have no wish to see you cower. I simply wish to see you gone.” He signaled to one of his soldiers. “Escort the king to a chair, if you please. And perhaps arrange for some mead for him. I assume there are plenty of servants hiding somewhere.”
“Wine,” Bramwell called after the retreating soldier, while another led him to the long table at one end of the hall. Wardin, the Dords, Forthwind, the archmagister and another man who might have been her brother, and Tobin and Radley all followed. Chairs were arranged so all the victors could face the three vanquished, and both wine and mead were brought.
“Now then,” Wardin said, when all that had been settled. “If you’re well enough, Majesty, let’s discuss the terms of your surrender, shall we?”
“I’m perfectly well, I assure you.” Bramwell was not, in fact, well at all. The pain in his head was such that he was becoming quite concerned he would not be able to keep from vomiting. But he clamped his teeth together and sat up straighter. He would not appear weak before a Rath. A Ladimore.
Wardin rapped his knuckles against the table. “I expect your full and immediate withdrawal from Eyrdon. No Harth is welcome to enter my kingdom armed again. You will recognize Eyrdon as the sovereign kingdom it is, and me as its king. You will make no attempts to interfere with our trade. And you will vow never to take up arms against us again.”
“Or against Dordrin,” Iver added, smiling first at Bramwell, then at Wardin. “I believe we’ve earned our share of this peace.”
Wardin’s return smile made him look boyish rather than kingly. “Indeed you have.”
“I’d like Tarnarven included in that peace as well,” Lira added. “On behalf of my brother the king.”
Tobin tossed up his hands. “We’ve made no move against Tarnarven!”
The piercing stare the Dordrine queen fixed him with would have been worthy of her husband, whose stares were famous. “Perhaps not yet.”
“No aggression of any sort from either Harth or Aldarine will be tolerated.” Wardin waved a hand, encompassing the wide range of his demand. “If you wish to be treated with respect as monarchs—and not as war criminals who might be justly executed—I suggest you vow to live peacefully with all your neighbors.”
“You say we are not to interfere with your trade.” Bramwell rubbed his chin. “But what of trade with Harth? You depend on us for a great many things.”
“And you depend on us for silver and wool,” Wardin said. “We will discuss a trade agreement when the treaty is signed.”
Bramwell shook his head, then immediately regretted it. It only made him feel more dizzy. “We will discuss a trade agreement as part of the treaty. I really must insist on that, and you ought to trust me, you know. I’ve been a king for many years. You’ve been one for what? Ten minutes? Perhaps fifteen?”
“A bit longer than that.” A vein throbbed at Wardin’s throat. “By the laws of succession, I’ve been a king from the moment you murdered the last king.”
Bramwell held the boy’s stare, unblinking. Wardin’s resemblance to Toby might once have saved his life, but Toby was a singular case, where Bram’s heart was concerned. He had never, not once, felt the slightest bit of regret for what he’d done to Draven Rath. On the contrary, he remembered that day fondly. The whoreson’s screams in particular.
“Well, you won’t be a king much longer, is the main thing.” Tobin sloshed wine over the rim of his cup as he refilled his goblet. He wasn’t as far along as Radley, but Bram suspected he’d whiled away the battle drinking as well. “In all those years my father’s ruled, he’s taken what he goes after! He’s won his battles. This will be no different, you’ll see. See how long your reign lasts.”
It took every scrap of discipline Bramwell possessed not to cringe. “Tobin, it is in extremely poor taste to discuss breaking a treaty at the same table at which we’re creating it.”
“Oh, come now.” Iver’s voice was gentle, but his eyes were decidedly not. “We all know you’ll break it.” He turned to Wardin. “Which perhaps brings us to what the consequences for breaking the terms will be?”
Food was brought to go with the wine and mead, and for another three hours they remained at the table, discussing terms. At some point, Rora and the other prisoners were removed from the room. Occasionally one of the boy’s companions stepped away to deal with some matter or other. Putting a city to rights after a battle was no small thing. Bramwell could at least be glad he was relieved of that burden.
They were excruciating hours. Wardin and his people were still in their bloody clothes, spotted with flecks of Bramwell’s own men, and the smell drifting across the table was most unpleasant. Tobin and Radley’s clothes, of course, were in perfect order apart from the wine stains, but they smelled little better. Bramwell found himself breathing through a napkin.
The food helped bolster his flagging strength, but only just enough to keep him upright in his chair. By the time the sun began to set, he thought he would prefer cracking open his own skull—or even letting the boy do it—to suffering the pressure within it any longer.
“Are there any prisoners whose release you would like to negotiate for?” Wardin asked at last.
“None but those who sit at this table,” Bramwell said.
“Heathbire’s daughter?”
“Do with her as you wish.”
“And Dain? His life is forfeit in Eyrdon, if we should catch him.”
“As it will be in Harth. I do not suffer traitors to live.”
Wardin raised a brow. “He was devoted enough to kill his own nephew for you.”
“That devotion had to be forced with a knife at his daughter’s throat. He is not to be trusted. However, since he did serve us in the end, I will allow Rora to inherit his barony if she should return to Harth.” Bramwell waved a hand at Wardin’s look of surprise. “As your own family history will tell you, I’ve been dealing with treachery from the moorlands my entire reign. Whoever I make lord there will be much the same. They’re nearly as recalcitrant a people as the Eyrds.”
Wardin snorted and shrugged, as if the fate of Heathbire and his family meant little to him, though Bramwell suspected the boy would very much like to get his hands on his onetime ally. “I’ll have the documents drawn up. For now perhaps you’d like to return to your chambers. You’re looking rather pale.”
“Does that go for all of us?” Tobin crossed his arms, his face mulish. “I won’t be put in a dungeon, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Nor I,” said Radley.
“Let it never be said the King of Eyrdon treats his fellow monarchs dishonorably. I can guard you in a bedchamber as easily as a cell.” Wardin gestured at one of his men. “Make arrangements to keep the diplomatic party from Harth and Aldarine comfortable as my guests, if you please.”
Bramwell stood, leaning on his stick, and prepared himself to say the word he would rather have choked on, if given the choice. It was more poisonous to him than the dagger the wenc
h had put in his side.
Still, propriety dictated that it must be said, and Bramwell Lancet would not lose his dignity to this boy. “Good night, then.” He cleared his throat, and forced himself to go on. “Majesty.”
31
Wardin
Wardin resisted the temptation to run to the castle gate. It was undignified for a king, he supposed, to act like an eager boy. But he could hardly help it. It had been a lonely two months alone in the castle, since his friends had gone back to Pendralyn.
Not that he was really alone. He saw Varin when he could. Pate and Quinn were there. Rora of Heathbire, too, whether anyone wanted her or not. Wardin had long since declared he would not punish the daughter for her father’s crimes, and released the newly made Baroness of Heathbire with his blessing to return home to the moorlands. Despite this, she seemed to have no intention of leaving.
Perhaps it had something to do with her constant hints that Wardin ought to think about marriage soon. She’d wanted all along to be a queen. It seemed she wasn’t particular about the king.
She also continued to maintain her innocence in the matter of Corbin’s death, and had embarked on a relentless campaign to regain her uncle’s affection. Or barring that, his tolerance. Thus far, she’d had no success with either.
Pate, meanwhile, had his own campaign. His wife and two daughters had been living quietly in Tarnarven all the time he’d been in hiding. Their lives were there now; the eldest daughter was even married. But since his prospects had so drastically changed for the better, he was hoping to convince his wife and younger daughter to join him at Wardin’s court.
Erietta, Arun, and the other magisters had gone home a few weeks after their victory at Narinore, shortly after the withdrawal of the last of the Harths, to prepare to reopen Pendralyn to students. Iver went with them, while Lira and Restan led the Dordrine fleet home. He wanted to inspect the magistery, of course, and choose the fruits of his victory.
Nobody argued with Erietta on that point again, as far as Wardin knew. Whatever they might think of her bargain, there was no denying that it had sealed Pendralyn’s safety. Without the Dords, all of their circumstances might be quite different.
But now they were all back, to celebrate Wardin’s coronation. Erietta and Arun, of course. Iver too, along with Alaide, Eldon, and Helena. The arrival of their party was heralded, much to Wardin’s delight, by much baying and barking. Rowena, Hawthorn, and Bracken had all made the journey, the first blackhounds seen in Narinore since Baden Rath’s time.
Wardin hugged them all—twice—before they were even properly through the gate.
“I have a gift for you, Majesty,” Helena said with a broad smile.
“Oh?” Wardin was kneeling now, squeezing Rowena and scratching her neck while she slobbered all over his face.
“Well, it’s from all of us at Pendralyn, really,” Helena said. “But as the kennel mistress, it’s my pleasure to be the one to present it to you. Or present her to you, I should say. We’ve agreed that Rowena should stay with you. Here in Narinore, or wherever you are.”
Wardin grinned up at her, then at Erietta. The latter nodded. “She can help you continue your studies. You never did finish your schooling.”
“She’s useless at home anyway, if you want the truth,” Arun said. “She won’t work with anyone else. Just mopes around, watching the tunnel gate for you to come back.”
“Yes, about that.” Wardin stood and scratched the back of his head. “Coming back, I mean. And continuing my studies. Kings don’t stay in one place, do they? They travel a lot around their kingdoms, to different castles and manors.”
“Many do,” agreed Iver, who among them was the only one truly qualified to speak to the habits of kings. “In the warmer months, at least.”
“Well, I intend to spend a great deal of time at Pendralyn,” Wardin said. “If you don’t mind.”
Arun snorted. “I should hope so. You’ll be hopeless at magic otherwise, and we can’t have an incompetent magician on the throne. Not when Eyrdon is the last bastion of magic.”
Iver cleared his throat. “Not quite the last.”
“Speaking of students, War.” Erietta turned and gestured at the knot of magisters and guards who’d accompanied them on their journey. A dark-haired, bronze-skinned, wide-eyed boy who could not have been more than ten emerged from between them.
“I’d like you to meet Nott,” Erietta said. “He’s recently come to the magistery from Rivenmist. If not for him, the bounty hunters might have caught me and Desmond last winter.”
The boy offered Wardin a clumsy bow, and Wardin crouched down to meet his eyes. They were an unusual, pale shade of green. And very solemn. “Well then, Nott, that makes you a hero, doesn’t it? Things would have gone very differently, if the archmagister had been caught and kept from her journey. You’ll have a place of honor at tonight’s feast.”
Nott tilted his head to one side and considered this for several moments. “Does that mean I can eat as much as I’d like?”
“It does.”
“In that case, I accept. Thank you, Majesty.”
Wardin coughed to hide his laugh. “You’re most welcome.”
Eldon cleared his throat and seemed about to say something, but it was Rora, who’d somehow joined their party while nobody was paying attention, who spoke.
“I have a gift for you as well, Majesty. I’ve been saving it, waiting for the archmagister to return, since she’s the one I originally promised it to.”
“All right.” Wardin hoped his trepidation didn’t show in his face. He couldn’t imagine that Rora would settle for a simple, standard gift like a ring or a golden goblet or something. Nor could he guess what she might have promised Erietta.
“It’s the king,” Rora said. “Not you, of course, the other one. Bramwell. I was in a position to learn a few things about him, as you may have heard.”
Wardin rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any intimate details about Bramwell Lancet. “And?”
“And …” Erietta tapped her chin as she studied Rora. “She promised me useful information, in exchange for taking her hostage.”
“And,” Rora said, “I hope you aren’t under the impression that it was your poison that had him looking so awful.”
Erietta’s brows shot up. “No?”
“It made him ill, of course, but it wasn’t his only problem. More likely, it just made his real problem worse. I saw a letter one day. Before you stabbed him, this was.” Rora waved a hand. “Well, I didn’t just happen to see it, of course. Found it might be a better way to put it. You’re very smart to keep both the solar and your desk so well secured now, by the way, Majesty. I’m excellent at picking locks.”
“I don’t doubt it. You’d make an excellent contriver.” Wardin glanced hopefully at Erietta, wondering whether he might ship Rora off to Pendralyn to take her off his hands, but Erietta gave him a firm shake of her head. Wardin sighed inwardly. “And what did this letter say?”
“It was from his personal healer at Witmare. Advising him to drink certain tonics, and to take care with what he ate.”
Wardin frowned. “He’s getting older, and—”
“These were very particular tonics,” Rora interrupted. “I recognized them because of my mother. She was ill for a long time, and the tonics changed during the course of it. At first the healer was trying to cure her, of course. Then he gave up on that, and just tried to extend her life as much as he could. Then he gave up on that as well, and began giving her tonics that had considerable temporary benefits, but that over time would be perhaps worse for her than the illness itself. Because he didn’t have to worry about what would happen over time, you see. They would ease her pain, and that was all he could hope for. These tonics were of that last sort.”
Eldon, who was the least likely to laugh of any of them as a general rule, roared with laughter.
Wardin blinked at him, then back at Rora. “Are you telling me tha
t Bramwell Lancet is dying?”
Her smile was slow, smug. “Told you it was a gift.”
* * *
Wardin knelt on the cool stone of the courtyard, before the Bishop of Narinore and the Archmagister of Pendralyn. Behind him, the crowd that stretched back to the outer bailey was silent, apart from Arun’s muffled laughter, and what sounded suspiciously like a blackhound snoring. Apparently Arun found the solemnity with which his new king repeated his vows amusing. (Whereas Rowena found the entire ceremony thoroughly boring.)
For his part, Wardin’s main concern was that he not vomit on the bishop’s finely made shoes.
He’d spent the better part of his formative years as an adept in Bramwell’s service. Nothing he’d done up to this point had prepared him in the least for what was to come next. What did he know of levying taxes, judging disputes, building roads or strongholds? What did he know of diplomacy, of trade, of law?
Never mind being sick; he doubted he could draw enough breath to heave. His racing pulse was so loud in his ears, he could barely hear himself speak.
Freeing the Eyrds was likely the easy part, when put next to governing them.
But as he nodded gravely at the bishop, Wardin caught Erietta’s eye, and saw the quirk of her mouth. She, like her brother, was struggling not to laugh. Not mocking laughter, but joyful.
She would help him. They both would. It would be all right.
The bishop placed a simple crown of Eyrdish silver atop Wardin’s head. Erietta handed him a silver scepter. When they finished, Wardin stood and turned to face his subjects, and the bishop completed his final task, placing a robe embroidered with the dragon of Eyrdon around Wardin’s shoulders.
“Eyrdon, I give you your king!” the bishop cried.
The crowd erupted in cheers. Wardin grinned at Arun, then turned to do the same at Erietta. But he found she wasn’t laughing anymore. Instead, her eyes were shining with tears.
A Dark Reckoning Page 32
