Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  If Cedany noticed his croaking voice, she showed no sign of it. Her hands trembled on Wardin’s arms. “Yes, they’ve said they’re looking for him. But I wanted to see you. I thought you must have seen him, while he was here.”

  Wardin shook his head, to both her question and all the other questions rolling through is head. What had happened? Was Jervis really hurt? Was there any way to help him?

  Almost certainly not, to the latter. If this wasn’t the king’s doing, his men would find Jervis sooner than Wardin could. And if it was, Bramwell wouldn’t have left the old man hurt. Nor would he have thrown him into a dungeon in secret. There was no practicality in that, and the king was nothing if not ruthlessly practical.

  Jervis was either fine, and the soldiers would collect him and bring him home, or he was already dead.

  The thought of the latter made Wardin’s heart lurch, but he couldn’t afford to indulge in panic. He must be ruthlessly practical himself. One way or another, Jervis was beyond his help. But Cedany wasn’t. If Bramwell was really willing to kill over whatever he was hiding, Wardin couldn’t allow Jervis’s niece to ask enough questions and raise enough alarms to become a nuisance.

  He shook his head again, and forced himself to some semblance of steadiness. “I didn’t see him, but I’ve been busy, and then I was ill. He probably just couldn’t find me. There must be some explanation.”

  “We thought so too, at first. The storms were so bad that day, and with his joints and all, Father said he’d probably just spent the night here, or somewhere nearby. But he would have come home by now.”

  Her eyes were welling up. Wardin didn’t meet them as he took her hands and gently removed them from his shoulders. “Cedany, there’s nothing you can do here. You should leave it to the soldiers and go home.”

  She stared at him, mouth agape, as her tears began to fall. Wardin dropped his eyes again. He knew his words were a betrayal, of both Jervis and her. But there was a very real possibility that Cedany needed protecting, and this was the only way he could think of to do it.

  It took a great deal more arguing before she finally let him go. And even then, it was only at Hamlin’s insistence that this tradeswoman stop delaying the prince’s business with his adept.

  When she’d finally taken her leave, the boy smirked at Wardin. “She got flour all over your tunic, you know.”

  Wardin ground his teeth and said nothing. He would have liked to whip Hamlin for his rudeness, but for once, it was probably for the best.

  At least the encounter left Wardin distracted enough to make his goodbye to Mairid less painful. Late for her lesson, the girl gave him only a hasty wave before running off down the corridor that would take her there.

  Wardin’s thoughts seemed to chase one another as he and Hamlin walked in the opposite direction. He was an educated man, and he liked to think he had a fair imagination, but no powers or faculties he possessed could provide any explanation for what was happening. Jervis. Falk. The inkwell. A dragon, and the letters BR. Poison. An inkwell. Of all things. None of it made the least bit of sense.

  “All right then, what do you want to show me?” Hamlin asked in a bored voice as they entered Wardin’s chambers. “If you’re going to scold me about my sums, be quick about it. I have other things to do this afternoon.”

  Wardin reminded himself once more that making sense of it all would have to wait until he was safe enough to try. He had a job to do, or more accurately, Hamlin had a job to do. And the boy must be led to it.

  “I’m not going to scold you at all. Quite the opposite. At your father’s request, I’ve been taking stock of your work. Your sums in particular have improved.” Wardin rifled through the pile of papers on his desk and handed one to Hamlin. “And today, you got every one of them correct.”

  If Hamlin was surprised by this news—and he should have been, as it was entirely false—he didn’t show it. “Then you must think I’m ready to go to Tobin.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. As soon as the travel can be arranged.” Wardin pretended to smile at the boy’s obvious delight. “I’ll tell your father so later today, if he can make time for me when he’s finished with his other business. Oh.” He scratched at his whiskers. “Right. I have a delivery of books coming that will take some time. I’ll have to check them all, and I’m exchanging some of our duplicate volumes for them. This may have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “It won’t even have to wait an hour! I’ll tell him myself.”

  Wardin chuckled. “Oh? Will you go to the throne room and petition him with the rest of the supplicants?”

  “Of course not.” Hamlin gave him the expected haughty scowl. “I’ll ask to see him privately. My father will always make time for me.”

  “And you don’t think he would find this announcement more trustworthy if it came from me?”

  “You think you’re more trustworthy than his own son?” Hamlin scoffed, sounding very like his father. “You have an exaggerated idea of your own value. You always have, and now that I won’t be your student anymore, I don’t mind saying so. If my father wants to question you, he’ll send for you.”

  Focusing on his goal, Wardin succeeded in keeping a straight face as he bowed. “Very well. I’ll get a letter from Master Adney too, shall I, in case your father wants confirmation from him as well? It might be difficult to send for him, depending on the time. I believe he’s doing a training exercise with the soldiers this evening.”

  Hamlin waved a hand, already moving toward the door. “Yes, do that.”

  Wardin did not, of course, get a letter from Hamlin’s swordmaster. But he did get a piece of paper, write enough on it to resemble a letter, and then sprinkle it with a fine dust of powdered risalt. If ingested, just a few tiny grains could kill a man. If inhaled, however, it would merely put him to sleep.

  It wouldn’t take much; only a fraction of what Wardin used would need to find its mark. He’d only recently read about this novel means of delivering poison. He was depending on it being new to the king, as well.

  It was late afternoon when he was summoned—longer than Hamlin’s boasted hour, but well within Wardin’s preferred range. There was still enough daylight for Nara to be in the garden, and the great hall and the corridors around it would start bustling with servants preparing for dinner.

  He told the guard who brought the message that he would be up to the solar directly. But when the man nodded and left, Wardin didn’t move right away. Instead he stood still in his chambers, taking one last look around and breathing as deeply as his aching chest would allow.

  Then he picked up his letter, tucked a dagger into his tunic, and went to meet his king and his fate.

  What if he’s moved the inkwell? What if it isn’t in there?

  The thought struck Wardin for the first time as he approached the solar door. Far too late to change any of his plans. If the inkwell was gone, he would simply have to accept that he’d done his best, and go without it.

  Or so he told himself. Whether he’d really be able to leave it behind was a question he hoped he would not have to answer.

  The solar door was open. Wardin hoped he looked nonchalant as he closed it behind him and sank into a bow. The king stood in front of his desk, Hamlin nearer to the windows. They would need to come closer to one another.

  “You told my son his training is complete?” Bramwell demanded. “Without consulting with me first?”

  Wardin cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the king. He didn’t dare look at the desk behind him. “Apologies, Majesty. He was quite eager to know whether he’d passed my examination today, and as he did so well, I saw no harm in telling him so.”

  “It is not your business to see the harm in things. You teach the lessons. Leave their implications to me.”

  “Yes, Majesty.” Wardin bowed his head and curled his shoulders forward. Let Bramwell think him cowed by the combination of ashthorn and his king’s ire. “Of course.”

  Bramwell crossed his a
rms and regarded his adept through narrowed eyes. “Last we spoke, you thought Hamlin was weeks away. What’s changed?”

  With an effort, Wardin restrained himself from meeting the challenge in that gaze, and dropped his eyes to the floor once more. “He has changed, Majesty. He’s applied himself much more vigorously lately.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Hamlin fidgeting, no doubt because the boy had done no such thing. But there was no danger of him admitting that to his father. “I assumed you’d had a talk with him and, er, inspired him,” Wardin finished.

  “And am I to believe,” Bramwell asked softly, “that this is all that’s inspired you to come to my solar today?”

  Wardin did look up then, widening his eyes and swallowing as conspicuously as he could. “Why else would I come, Majesty, other than to serve you when I’m called?”

  The king scoffed. “Why, indeed.”

  Wardin nodded, as if Bramwell had just agreed with him, and brought the conversation back to safer—and more useful—ground. “If it helps, Majesty, I’m not alone in feeling that Hamlin is ready. The hunting master, his swordmaster, and Bishop Kelton all agree. I’ve spoken to each of them, and—”

  “Show him the letter,” Hamlin interjected. “You have the letter from Master Adney, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, I nearly forgot.” By sheer force of will, Wardin kept his hand steady as he pulled the letter from his pocket, and handed it to the king.

  He held his breath. This was the moment where his plan would either save him, or kill him.

  Wardin was counting on Hamlin being eager to read his own praises, and the boy did not disappoint. He hurried over and leaned in to look at the letter as Bramwell unfolded it.

  “Was there flour in your pocket?” Hamlin’s laugh blew some of the powder into the air. “Did you have a tryst with that baker girl you like so much?” He brushed more of it from the paper.

  Wardin stepped back, hand over his mouth. Bramwell’s eyes snapped to his.

  The king tried to order Hamlin to stop, but it was too late. The risalt was in the air, in their faces. In their lungs. Before Bramwell could call for his guards, he and his son were both struggling for breath, unable to shout or even speak.

  “Don’t worry,” Wardin assured them. “It’s not potent enough to do any permanent damage. You’ll be fine when you wake up.” He couldn’t help but grin. “I just won’t be here.”

  By the time he stopped talking, they were unconscious on the rush mat. With Bramwell so obligingly out of his line of sight, Wardin finally had a clear view of the desk—and the inkwell in its place on top of it. He grabbed it and tucked it under his tunic.

  Wardin kept both his gait and his voice easy as he stepped out of the solar and closed the door behind him. “The king has asked that he and the prince not be disturbed,” he told the pair of guards at the end of the corridor.

  They nodded, as he’d expected them to. His connection among the palace guards had confirmed that, while they’d been told to be alert for any unusual activity that day, they’d received no warnings or instructions about Wardin specifically. They would never dream that a meek, powerless adept would attack the king—one of the most renowned battle commanders of his age, no less—in his own solar.

  There would be scouts somewhere. Wardin never could be sure where they were watching him from. But they hadn’t been in the solar, and that was all that mattered. They couldn’t know what he’d done to the king. They couldn’t know anything was amiss unless Wardin himself gave it away. He didn’t hurry as he walked downstairs. Through the great hall, then one short corridor, and he would be in the king’s garden.

  He nodded at a guard near the garden door, and said with a chuckle, “I promised Mairid I’d check on the dog one more time tonight.”

  The guard returned his laugh, and let Wardin pass.

  He went to Nara’s blanket and crouched to pet her, murmuring his thanks to both her and the deities that she was still there, and not yet giving birth.

  Doing his best to ignore his writhing stomach, Wardin went to the hedge and picked a handful of hard, unripe berries. When he brought them back to her, Nara took one sniff and looked at him like he was a madman. But Wardin kept his hand outstretched, his back blocking the view of anyone who might be watching from the windows behind him, and pretended she was eating.

  After a minute he rose, and went to collect more berries. He worked his way sideways, trying to look intent on his picking, until he was behind the oak trees.

  Here was his moment.

  Moving quickly, not looking back, Wardin dropped to his belly and crawled under the gap in the hedge, tearing his tunic on the thorns. The small pack he’d smuggled out inside the larger one that morning sat in the grass on the other side.

  Along with a little food and the few coins he had, the pack was just big enough to hold all he hoped would be necessary to become invisible in the city: a patched and filthy cloak to cover his clothes and make him look the part of a beggar, and a ragged hat to pull down low and hide his face. Battered as he felt by his illness, the finishing touches of a limp and a stoop would present no challenge.

  All that remained was to cross a narrow stretch of lawn—and go through the outer wall. This final barrier was the first one Wardin had arranged to safely cross that morning.

  A palace guard had come to him for help, some weeks ago. The man needed a remedy, but his ailment was of a sensitive and private nature, stemming from a dalliance with a married woman of noble birth. Ladies of her standing were considered unimpeachable; no matter how enthusiastic her participation, such an affair would be called rape in the eyes of the law. If the guard’s secret got out, he would find himself with a noose around his neck. He couldn’t go to the palace healers. But neither could he let his condition fester.

  Wardin had been able to resolve the matter discreetly. He’d even made a short regimen of tonics and ointments for the lady, to assure that none of her paramours found themselves in a similar position again. And he learned well enough, over the course of their brief alliance, how to time a “chance” meeting with his soldier friend in the courtyard.

  He’d done so that morning, directly after breakfast, to collect on the debt. The man wasn’t willing to spirit Wardin away himself; it was no good avoiding being hung for one crime, only to be hung for another. But he’d agreed to ensure that a small back gate was left unlocked, to look the other way himself, and to distract his fellows, if need be. Wardin’s escape route—the garden, the hedge, Nara and Mairid’s unwitting help—had formed from there.

  There was no time to hesitate, and Wardin didn’t. Before two minutes had passed, he was outside the palace. A few more after that, and a limping beggar, moving slowly, wandering without apparent purpose, had melted into the streets of the city beyond.

  8

  Erietta

  Erietta paused to inhale the scents of cherry and nutmeg before filling two mugs with spiced mead. “Just arrived today, a gift from Robin’s father. He doesn’t make more than a few barrels a year. Seems the nobles in Narinore prefer ale and wine now. Even the Eyrds.”

  “In that case, fill mine to the top.” Arun jabbed at the fire, stoking it into bright, crackling submission. Summer’s arrival had been masked by a series of storms sweeping through the mountains, leaving the manor chilly and dim. “Fill yours to the top, too. You might find you need it. Wardin is traveling.”

  Erietta’s hand jerked, and she nearly spilled the treasured mead all over her skirt. Seven years, and the sound of Wardin’s name still hit her like a slap. “What do you mean, traveling?”

  “Traveling, as in journeying, coming, moving in a certain direction.” Arun accepted his mug with a grin. “Really, Archmagister, I would think a brilliant scholar like yourself would know the word.”

  She snorted as she sank into her favorite armchair. “If only you were anywhere near as funny as you think you are, the world would be such an entertaining place.” Hawthorn padded over t
o rest his heavy head on her knee, and she scratched the blackhound’s ears. “How do you know this?”

  Arun cleared his throat and made a big production of finishing with the fire, until the room was rife with the overpowering smell of cedar. Finally he turned toward her, but he took a long drink before he spoke. “I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

  “Oh Arun, really? The bones?” Sages. Always pushing the boundaries—or crossing them. Her brother’s latest fixation was reading crow’s bones, of all things.

  “They’re a lot more reliable than you think.” Arun took the chair across from her, prompting Hawthorn to change allegiance and go to him instead. “You have to admit, they’ve been right before.”

  “And also wrong.”

  “Only when I’ve read them wrong. I didn’t this time.” He leaned back and took another drink. “I’m getting quite good, actually.”

  Erietta rolled her eyes, but she knew as well as he did that his information wasn’t as dubious as she was making it out to be. When they were students, everyone had called Erietta the most talented magician Pendralyn had seen for generations. And so she was—but for one.

  Arun had been a late bloomer, but in recent years he’d not only caught up to her in skill, he’d handily surpassed her. If anyone could get results from the ridiculous, it was her twin.

  “Let’s suppose, for argument’s sake, that the bones are right,” she said. “Why should we care what Wardin’s doing?”

  “Because in this case, the direction he’s moving in is our direction. He’s taking the Old South Road. He was at an inn. And he’s already crossed half of Harth. I don’t know whether he has a horse or not, so I can’t tell you how soon he’ll be in Eyrdon. But I do know he’s coming.”

  Perhaps we’ll see each other again.

  Perhaps I’ll be at the head of an army when we do.

  Their last exchange, that last night. And Erietta had told him they would be waiting for him. Because she assumed, of course, that the army he spoke of would be a friendly one.