The Seven Realms- The Complete Series

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “What about the Gray Wolves?” Raisa said. “Did they have a choice?” She thought of her friends among Amon’s cadets: Hallie, whose two-year-old daughter waited for her in Fellsmarch. Talia, who would have left her beloved Pearlie behind in Oden’s Ford. And poor Mick, who had offered Raisa his clan-made saddlebag as consolation for losing Amon Byrne.

  Tamron Court is standing in for me, she thought. It was arrogant, she knew—the notion that the invasion of Tamron was all about her. Gerard Montaigne wanted Tamron’s wealth, a bigger army, and a throne to sit upon. She was just the filling in the nougat—a chance to claim the Fells as well.

  “We have to go after them,” Raisa said. “There has to be a way to get them out of there. What if—if I showed myself and drew Montaigne off. Or if I offered to negotiate. Or maybe there’s a way to slip between their lines, and…”

  Raisa didn’t really believe any of these things would work as she spoke them. And Byrne knew it, because he just looked at her impassively until she trailed off.

  “We don’t even know if he’s still in the city, or if he’s still alive, Your Highness,” Byrne said softly.

  “He’s still alive,” Raisa said. “The linkage goes both ways. I would know if he were dead.”

  “The city may have fallen by now,” Byrne continued. “How do you think he would feel if you went to the capital and were captured by Montaigne, and all of his efforts were wasted?”

  Unable to contain herself, Raisa kicked the door of the tack room, hard enough to splinter it. Ghost tossed his head, yanking at his tether. Furious tears burned in Raisa’s eyes, then spilled down her cheeks as she turned back to Byrne.

  “Amon Byrne is better than you, better than me; too valuable to throw away, and you know it,” she said, her voice trembling. “He is—and always has been—my very best friend.”

  “Then trust him,” Byrne said. “If anyone can get out of the city, he will.”

  Raisa rubbed away her tears with the heels of her hands. “Captain Byrne, if anything happens to Amon, I will never, ever forgive you.”

  Byrne took hold of her shoulders, gripping them hard, the light from the lanterns gilding his face. “What you can do for Amon now is survive,” he said, his voice husky and strange. “Don’t let them win, Your Highness.”

  Raisa strode back across the stable yard toward the inn, her mind churning with worry about Amon and the Gray Wolves, still trying to devise some kind of rescue plan.

  It was after closing time, and with any luck, the taproom would have cleared. She’d pack her few belongings and they’d be on their way.

  When she looked ahead, she saw Esmerell and Tatina hustling toward her through the rain, lifting their skirts above the mucky ground.

  Great, she thought, rolling her eyes. Just what I need.

  Then two of the card players Raisa had noticed earlier burst out the back door, charging after the ladies at a dead run.

  Raisa’s mind grappled with what she was seeing, and came to a quick conclusion. The men were thieves after all, and likely had seen the purse the wealthy Ardenine ladies had been waving around.

  “Look out behind you!” Raisa yelled, sprinting forward.

  The women didn’t look back, but increased their speed, running faster than Raisa would have expected. The card players were yelling something as they ran. Something Raisa couldn’t make out. She heard the stable door bang open, then shouts and pounding feet behind her.

  “Get behind me!” she shouted as the ladies closed the distance between them. But then something slammed into her, throwing her sideways to the ground. She rolled to her feet in time to see the Ardenine ladies go down under the card players.

  Edon Byrne seized Raisa’s shoulders in a viselike grip and held her fast.

  It took a moment for Raisa to gather breath enough to speak.

  “What are you doing?” she spluttered, struggling to free herself. She was soaked through, muddy and shivering, her teeth chattering.

  Slowly, the guards disentangled themselves and stood. The ladies lay flat on their backs, unmoving, blood and rain soaking their fancy dresses.

  Run through by the card players.

  “Good work,” Edon Byrne said gruffly, nodding at them. “But next time don’t let them get so close to the princess heir.”

  The card players yanked their blades free, wiping them on the ladies’ voluminous skirts. One of them knelt and efficiently searched the women. He came up with three knives and a small framed picture. He scanned the picture, then mutely extended it toward Raisa.

  It was a portrait of Raisa, done for her name day.

  Byrne kicked something away from the two bodies, stooped and picked it up with two fingers.

  It was a dagger, delicate and feminine and deadly sharp.

  C H A P T E R T W O

  PICKING OVER

  OLD BONES

  Han Alister encountered more traffic than he had anticipated on the road to Fetters Ford. Hollow-eyed refugees streamed north as Gerard Montaigne’s army scorched the countryside to the south. They looked witch-fixed, some of them, stunned by calamity, still dressed in the ruined finery that said they were bluebloods.

  It seemed to Han that all of Tamron was on the move—country folk seeking refuge in the cities, and city dwellers fleeing to the countryside. How likely was it that he could find one girlie amid this chaos—traveling alone or with two wizards?

  The road traced the Tamron River north from Oden’s Ford. To the east lay Arden and the dense broadleaf trees of Tamron Forest. To the west lay the fertile fields of Tamron, now overrun by fighting. Smoke spiraled up from charred farm buildings and manor houses.

  Sword-danglers seemed to like to burn things up.

  Tamron might be the breadbasket of the Seven Realms, but these days food was hard to come by even for those with money to spend. Small villages lined the road, a day’s ride apart, like knots on a frayed string. Each was guarded by a motley local militia armed with pitchforks, staffs, and longbows, ready to drive off the ravenous hordes—soldiers or citizens—that threatened to overrun them.

  Fortunately, Han was used to going hungry.

  In every village there was at least one inn. And in every inn, Han would ask the same questions. “Have you seen a girlie, a mixed-blood with green eyes and dark hair? She’s small, she’d be this tall.” Here he’d hold out his hand below shoulder height. “Her name is Rebecca Morley, and she might be traveling with two charmcasters, a brother and sister. You’d remember them—both tall, and the sister has white-blond hair and blue eyes, the brother has dark hair and eyes.”

  Some of those he asked tried to make a joke of it. “What’s the matter, your girlie run off?” But most seemed to take a cue from Han’s expression, or the amulet that hung around his neck, or his travel-weary appearance in these desperate times.

  Missing girlies in wartime were no laughing matter.

  The dead were everywhere. Bodies hung from trees like grisly fruit, spinning slowly in the southern breezes. Here were battlegrounds littered with the bodies of dead soldiers, lorded over by carrion birds. Clouds of flies rose from the carcasses of animals along the roadside, and bodies fouled many of the waterways.

  Han traveled most days with the stench of decay in his nose. It reminded him of Arden, when he and Dancer had traveled through on their way to Oden’s Ford. Had it really been nearly a year ago?

  This was the poison that had spread into Tamron and threatened to sicken the Fells.

  Stay out of it, Alister, Han said to himself. You have enough battles to fight as it is.

  One innkeeper thought he remembered a girlie matching Rebecca’s description traveling alone, riding a gray flatland stallion far too big for her. It seemed a thin lead at best.

  Han could hope that Rebecca’s party had passed through unmolested; that the reports that put Rebecca in the way of Gerard’s invading army were wrong.

  It was possible she’d turned aside and taken refuge in the capital of Tamron Court,
now under siege by Gerard Montaigne’s army. Han considered detouring west, toward the capital, but there was no way to tell if she was there or not. And nothing to be done if she were.

  Han took a deep breath, released it, forcing himself to relax his neck and shoulders, to unclench his fists.

  Anyway, Corporal Byrne and his Gray Wolves were headed that way. Han had his own path to follow.

  If not for his worries about Rebecca, Han would have been in no hurry to reach the Fells. Why should he be eager to take his place as the magical sell-sword of the upland clans who’d misled and betrayed him? Why should he rush to confront the Wizard Council? Did he really want to play champion to Marianna—the queen responsible for so many of his losses? The queen who likely still had a price on his head.

  Even when he reached the Fells, Han couldn’t trust the clans to have his back. The Demonai warriors despised him because he was gifted. He was their throwaway piece, intended to buy them a little time.

  If not for Rebecca, he could have run the other way. As long as he stayed out of the mountains, he might avoid those he’d pledged to for months or years. He could always find a flatland hidey-hole and lose himself.

  He snorted. As if that would ever happen. Han had loved Oden’s Ford, but he didn’t like the flatlands. Though a city boy, he’d been raised in a mountain town, and it made him uneasy to have vacancy all around him. He wanted to wrap himself in the mountains again.

  Anyway, he’d never had much luck lying low. Sooner or later, he’d have a crew, a gang to support, and people depending on him. People who’d pay the price for his failures.

  So he hadn’t seriously considered breaking his agreement with the clans. Not by running, anyway. It wasn’t enough to be on the winning side. He would do whatever was necessary to make sure he, Han Alister, came out on top.

  Han and the clans had a common enemy. Lord Gavan Bayar, the High Wizard of the Fells, had engineered the deaths of Han’s mother and sister. He’d tortured and killed Han’s friends in an effort to find Han and retrieve the amulet he’d taken from the Bayars. The serpent flashpiece had once belonged to Han’s ancestor, Alger Waterlow, the notorious Demon King. Han now wore it against his skin.

  Then Rebecca Morley had disappeared from Oden’s Ford, and Lord Bayar’s son Micah with her. If Han found no trace of Rebecca along the way, he would hunt down Micah Bayar and wring the truth from him. If Rebecca were still alive, it was an urgent mission. If she were dead, he would make the Bayars pay.

  Han had been overconfident at Oden’s Ford. His own words mocked him.

  You Bayars need to learn that you can’t have everything you want. I’m going to teach you.

  He’d spoken truer words to Rebecca, the last time he’d seen her.

  When I put things aside for the future, they disappear on me.

  He was returning home, like a Ragger streetlord walking into Southbridge, with enemies on every side. Only, this time, if blood spilled, it would be on the other side.

  Which meant he needed better weapons. He’d have to risk a return to Aediion and make up with his former tutor, Crow.

  Crow had lied to Han, too—had played him for a fool, had ruthlessly used him to try to kill their mutual enemies, the Bayars. But Crow had taught Han more about magic during their late-night tutoring sessions than he’d learned from all of the faculty at Oden’s Ford put together.

  Han wanted to get a commitment from Crow before he crossed the border into the Fells. He needed to enter Aediion from a secure place, since his abandoned body would be vulnerable during the time he was absent. About a day’s ride south of Fetters Ford, Han found a camping place in a small canyon where a creek ran into the larger river.

  He spread his blankets on the slope above the stream. Scraping a rude pit in the rocky earth, he built a small, smokeless fire at the bottom, which wouldn’t be visible except from directly above.

  Han ate his standard supper of waybread, cheese, smoked fish, and dried fruit, washing it down with tea made from water from the stream. Then he paged through his book of charms, leaning close to the fire so he could see.

  Crow could create illusion but did not seem to be able to do magic on his own. He lacked flash, the wizard-generated energy that interacted with amulets to make things happen. So if magic was the only tool that could do damage in Aediion, Han should be safe in returning. If.

  Han still wore the rowan talisman Fire Dancer had made for him, the one that had prevented Crow from possessing him during his last visit to Aediion. He had to trust that it would protect him again. It was a calculated risk, but Crow shared his hatred for the Bayars, and Han needed an ally. Crow was likely the only one able and possibly willing to teach Han what he needed to win.

  Taking a deep breath, Han focused on the Mystwerk Tower room, their meeting place over his months at Oden’s Ford. He guessed it didn’t matter where he chose, but it was as good a place as any. He visualized the battered floorboards, the huge bells hanging overhead, the pattern of moonlight on the wall. Closing his hand on his amulet, he spoke the traveling charm.

  Han opened his eyes to find himself standing in the belfry in Mystwerk Tower, dressed in finely tailored blueblood clothes. Quickly, he scanned his surroundings, keeping his hand on his amulet. He was alone.

  He breathed in warm, moist air—southern air. Outside, a cart rattled over cobblestone streets. If he ran to the window, would he see it? If he walked outside and made his way to Hampton Hall, would he find Dancer there? He couldn’t quite get his mind around that.

  Han waited. A minute passed. Another minute. Maybe he’d been wrong, and Crow wouldn’t come. Disappointment swelled within him. Patience, Alister, he thought. It’s been a month, and likely Crow doesn’t expect you back.

  Finally, the air quivered in front of his eyes, brightened, then seemed to compress.

  It was Crow, but different from the Crow Han remembered. The image was frail, insubstantial, his clothes rippling around him like angel wings. Han’s former tutor stood at a little distance, feet spread, arms raised as if for defense. And his hair, which had been soot black, was now a pale blond, nearly translucent, though his eyes remained the brilliant blue Han remembered.

  “Hello, Crow,” Han said.

  Crow tilted his head, watching Han like he might be jumped at any moment. “Why are you here?” he asked. “I did not think I would see you again.”

  “This may be the last time,” Han said, as if he didn’t care either way. “But I thought I’d give you a chance to explain.”

  “Why should I explain anything to you?” Crow said, eyes narrowed. “You’ve gained considerably more from our relationship than I have. I handed you the chance to be rid of two of the Bayars and you fumbled it.”

  “Fine,” Han said. “Guess this is a waste of time. Good-bye, then.” He took hold of his amulet and opened his mouth as if to say the closing charm.

  “Wait.” Crow put up his hands, then slowly dropped them to his sides. For once, he’d left off the baubles and the fancy rigging. “Please stay.”

  Han stood, his hand on his amulet, waiting.

  “Was there something specific you wanted me to explain?” Crow said, with a sigh. “In the interest of efficiency?”

  “I want to know who you are, why you don’t want me to know who you are, why you have a grudge against the Bayars, and why you wanted to partner up with me,” Han said. “That’s for starters.”

  Crow rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, looking done in. “Wouldn’t it be sufficient if I promise not to treat you like a fool in the future?”

  Han shook his head. “That’s not enough.”

  “Even if I tell you the truth, you won’t believe me,” Crow said. “That’s always the way. People unnecessarily limit themselves, and then they try to limit you.”

  “I’m not learning what I need to know here,” Han said. “I’m not the most patient person.”

  “Nor am I,” Crow said. “But I have had to be incredibly patient
for longer than you can even imagine.” He thought a moment. “Who am I? I was once the Bayars’ enemy. Their greatest rival.”

  By now it was clear that the only way Han was going to hear this story was in small bits and riddles. “And now you’re not?” Han said.

  Crow smiled faintly. “I suppose you would say I am a shade. A ghost of my former self. A remnant of who I used to be, made up of memory and emotion. The Bayars no longer perceive me as a threat. And yet”—he tapped his temple—“I have something they want very badly.”

  “Knowledge,” Han guessed. “You know something they need to know.”

  “I know something they need to know, and I intend to use it to destroy them,” Crow said matter-of-factly. “That is the reason for my existence.”

  Han was lost. “When you say you are a ghost of your former self, what does that mean, exactly?”

  Crow’s image shimmered, dissolved, and then reassembled itself. “This is all that remains of me,” he said. “I am an illusion. I exist in your head, Alister. And in Aediion, the meeting place of wizards. Not in the world you consider real.”

  “You’re saying you’re…dead?” Han stared at Crow. “That doesn’t make sense.” At least, it didn’t fit in very well with what he’d been taught at temple. But then he’d never claimed to be a theologian.

  Crow shrugged. “What is death? The loss of a body? The loss of the animating spark? If that’s the case, I am dead.

  “Or is life the persistence of memory and emotion, volition and desire?” Crow went on, as if in a debate with himself. “If that’s the case, I am very much alive.”

  “But you have no body,” Han said.

  Crow smiled. “Precisely. I have no corporeal body, nothing beyond what I conjure up in Aediion. And a body is required in order to get things done in the real world. A body is necessary in order to take revenge on the Bayars. Specifically, a wizard’s body, since that would allow me to use my considerable knowledge of magic.”

  “And that’s where I came in,” Han said. “I could provide the flash you needed.”

  “That’s where you came in.” Crow eyed Han critically, head cocked. “You seemed perfect. You are extremely powerful—surprisingly so. You’d had little to no training, which made you vulnerable to my influence and eager to spend time with me. You hated the Bayars, and, given your tawdry background, I assumed that you were ruthless and unprincipled. All good.”