Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  Jasper snorted. Erietta took another swallow of mead, keeping her face relaxed despite the aching tension in her muscles. It was exceedingly unlikely that Ned’s grandmother had solved a dilemma generations of magisters had failed to; the chances of that book having anything useful in it were slim. She certainly didn’t relish being exposed and vulnerable outside Pendralyn to acquire it. But it was best to humor him. An agitated—and noisy—Ned did her no good.

  “All right, I understand,” she said at last. “You’re only trying to be careful. Perhaps we can just postpone this until another time, then.”

  “No!” Ned’s hold on the book loosened ever so slightly. “No, it was risk enough for me to come here once.” After another moment’s hesitation, he set it down and pushed it toward her. “You can take it. Bring it back to Jasper tomorrow.”

  Erietta gave him the same reassuring smile she gave to new students when they were homesick and afraid. “Thank you. That’s most kind of you. Pendralyn is grateful for your help.”

  “As is Avadare.” Jasper raised his mug in a salute, then drained what was left of his mead. “The better the magistery’s secret is kept, the safer it is for all of us.”

  “Very true,” Erietta said as she rewrapped the book in its cloth. “We must stand together, and help each other.”

  Jasper cleared his throat. “Standing together is all well and good, but perhaps we’d best leave the room one at a time.”

  “Good idea. You first, Ned?” Erietta asked, thinking the poor man would like to get away as soon as possible.

  “I’ll cloak you again,” said Jasper. “Just stay as quiet as you can, and for Eyrdri’s sake, don’t run.”

  But Ned shook his head. “It’s too late.”

  “No, of course it isn’t. I can go first if you’d like, to make sure it’s safe. We’ll be all right.” Erietta’s reassurance rang hollow in her own ears. Her whole body was chilled. Her warning spell was screaming, throbbing in her ears. She prepared another spell, a trick that would create several images of her, to confuse any enemy they should meet in the hall.

  “I’ll be all right,” Ned said. “But you were wrong, when you said we must help each other.”

  Erietta went still, staring at the timid, anxious, harmless man she’d known since she was a girl. He looked a great deal less timid, all of a sudden.

  “Ned, what did you do?” Jasper breathed.

  Ned raised his chin, eyes smoldering with anger. “What I did was go to war. What I did was bleed for my kingdom, only to watch Draven Rath lose it. And while my brother and I were off fighting, my mother was left alone. Do you know what Avadare did for her? Nothing, that’s what! Nobody cared about a hungry old woman. Wasn’t their responsibility, you see? And hunger makes you weak, doesn’t it? Caught a fever. Don’t know how long she suffered—she was dead for days before any of them found her.”

  Erietta knew he was stalling, but she let him go on. She needed the time to build the energy her trick required.

  Ned jabbed a finger at her. “So don’t you tell me another word about standing together. This village never stood with me or mine. I see no reason to stand with it. Or with your magistery.”

  She was ready. Heart racing, Erietta released her spell and moved toward the door, thinking she could set a trap, something that might trip anyone coming in, perhaps. Jasper, too, was moving, stepping past half a dozen illusory Eriettas with his dagger drawn.

  But Ned remained in his chair, laughing. “Your spell won’t do you any good. When I said it was too late, I meant it.”

  Erietta’s stomach lurched. Her vision clouded. It was unlike her to be so physically affected by the promise of a fight.

  Too unlike her.

  This is more than anticipation and dread.

  She just had time to turn and stare in horror at her mug of mead—half gone—before she fell to the floor.

  18

  Wardin

  The cramped corridor came to a dead end at a tapestry depicting Eyrdri atop a mountain, wreathed in moonlight, a dragon on one side and a blackhound on the other.

  “The entrance is behind this tapestry,” Magister Felton said. “But of course, I can’t simply let you in.”

  Wardin fidgeted with the hem of his tunic. “Perhaps this once, Magister, we could do away with—”

  “No, we cannot.” Felton was a full head shorter than Wardin, yet somehow managed to give the impression of looking down his slender nose at him. As the battlemagic librarian, it was one of his duties to oversee the hall’s hidden chamber, where particularly advanced and treasured volumes were kept. “If you are not battlemage enough to get into that room, you are not battlemage enough to understand its contents.”

  The magister pulled a book from one of the bookcases lining the passageway, then stepped aside for Wardin to look at the space it left behind. The shelf had no back, but rather than the stone wall Wardin expected, he saw wooden tiles in a pattern of rectangles and squares.

  Felton pushed a square that was darker than the rest. It sank into the wall to his first knuckle. “One of these squares is behind each book in this case, and the case opposite. Three of them will give you access to the chamber.”

  Wardin gaped at the man, then at the bookcases in question. “And I’m to find the correct three? There must be three hundred books on these shelves!”

  “Two hundred and ninety-four, actually,” Felton said. “And the squares must be pressed in the proper order.” He pulled two more books out and pushed the squares behind them. The last one stayed depressed for only a moment before all three snapped back out with a resounding click. “Get it wrong, and the squares will reset, giving you the opportunity to try again.”

  Wardin wanted to argue, but he had the sense it would only waste more of his time. Felton took his responsibility seriously, as he should. But Wardin was too restless, dreaming every night of the approaching Harths, spending his days trying to think of ways they might be stopped, to be patient.

  Once he’d decided—then and there, at the meeting in the old hall—that he wanted to rouse Eyrdon and retake it, he was eager nearly to the point of twitching to get started. Never mind that he hadn’t thought it through.

  And never mind that he’d gotten completely ahead of himself. His father had died to protect Pendralyn, and now it was under threat again. Wardin’s duty was here. One nearly impossible dream at a time.

  So in the end, much as he resented taking orders from them, he’d decided to obey the magisters’ wishes, and remain where he was. He’d only just gotten his home back. He wasn’t about to lose it again.

  Instead he spent his nervous energy soaking up as much training as he could, no longer following his studies in an orderly fashion, but grasping at any skills or spells he thought might be useful in the conflict to come.

  He sighed and looked back at the bookcases. “I suppose I can eliminate the top two shelves on either side. Alaide isn’t tall enough to reach them, and I’m sure that as headmagister, she has access to the hidden chamber.” Wardin rubbed his beard and considered Felton’s exact words. If you aren’t battlemage enough. “And the three books will represent battlemagic particularly.”

  Felton regarded him with scrupulous neutrality, and said nothing.

  The case on the left was crowded with old battle journals. Wardin ran a finger along the spines, considering. “Starting with The Times and Deeds of George of Heathbire, Volume the First.”

  According to legend, George was the earliest architect of battlemagic as they knew it. But he’d had a long career as a battle commander; no less than four journals had been filled by him. Wardin chose the oldest. It was stiff and smelled of mold, as if it had once been soaked and then dried again. He pulled it out carefully, then pressed the square behind it.

  He studied the shelves again. “Algar’s grimoire,” he said at last. He plucked a wood-bound book from the right case, and pressed a second square.

  This time, Felton spoke up, his voice authoritat
ive and clipped, as though testing a student. Which, Wardin supposed, he was. “You were quite decisive there. Take me through your logic. Why Algar?”

  “He was the first known to enchant a weapon.”

  “Enchanting is a sage’s art.”

  “Yes, but enchanting weapons requires a battlemage. That’s why weapons are the rarest enchanted objects. Only a handful of magicians throughout history have been masters of both affinities, and enchanting a weapon is one of the pinnacles of battlemagic.”

  Felton inclined his head, his lips pressed into a tight smile. “Very good.”

  Wardin hoped that meant he’d gotten the first two right. He took his time choosing the last. He did not want to start over.

  So far he had the work of one of the earliest battlemages, and of one of the best. Who was left? Someone who defined the affinity in a way the others did not.

  Finally, he made his choice and pulled another journal from the shelf, this one soft and supple with age.

  Felton’s brows shot up. “Torr of Witmare?”

  Wardin hesitated at the magister’s surprise. But perhaps Felton was testing him. “Torr was a devoted priest of Hart, as well as a battlemage.”

  “And you suppose an Eyrdish magistery would honor a priest of Hart?”

  “Hart is the patron deity of battlemagic.” Of course, there might be a dozen other journals here written by battlemages who were also priests; Wardin didn’t think it was especially unheard of. But Torr was the only one he could name for certain.

  He pressed the square behind Torr’s journal. There was a groan, then a series of clicks, followed by a heavy scraping sound.

  With a smile and a nod, Felton stepped forward and pulled the tapestry aside to reveal a stone door, without handle or notch but slightly ajar. It was identical in color and texture to the wall around it. When closed, it would be all but invisible.

  Wardin wrapped his fingers around the edge and pulled it open. The chamber beyond was chilly, and smelled musty. At Felton’s soft mutter, several wall sconces flared into life, one after another.

  It was bigger than Wardin expected. Reading stands and stuffed chairs were arranged at intervals among bookcases, along with an odd chest here and there. “What’s in the chests?”

  “A few supplies, some weapons. Mostly rusty, on the latter. Left over from a magister who was determined to learn to enchant them. Fifty years ago or more, this was.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Lost his balance, then his mind,” Felton said with a shrug. “Now, what is it you’re looking for?”

  “A fear spell. I couldn’t find anything in the offensive combat section in the right wing common room, or the battle presence section in the second floor corridor. I asked a few of the students, and they all suggested the topic was too advanced.

  “Right they were. When you attempt to touch another’s mind, that borders on sage magic, even contrivance. It’s a difficult skill for most battlemages to master.”

  “I’d like to try.”

  “Very well. Let’s see what we can find.”

  They spent an hour, searching through grimoires and guides and journals. Magic, Wardin had discovered, wasn’t as simple as the sorts of skills he’d learned and taught at Witmare. There were no straightforward instructions, no exact recipes or lists of steps to follow.

  Instead, those who had come before offered advice on images to concentrate on, words to say, gestures that could help focus energy in a specific way. They talked about how the magic should feel as it was gathering, and as the spell was being released. They suggested adjustments that might be made when things went wrong.

  But ultimately, each magician’s spell was his own. All battlemages could cast a shield, but how they went about it, and what form it took, varied greatly. Some visualized fire, some ice. Others might use thorns or rock. One fifth year student used bees. Wardin had his blades.

  Finally, he found a tiny battle journal, no bigger than the palm of his hand (the better to be carried in the field, he surmised), that told of a battlemage who had ridden at the front of his army, striking fear into the heart of every enemy he passed. Wardin’s pulse sped up as he skimmed it. “This is it. I need to study it.”

  Felton took it and glanced through it, then regarded Wardin for several moments with an appraising stare. Finally, he handed the journal back. “You may borrow it, but you know the consequences if harm should come to it.”

  Those consequences might include any number of things, submitting to a beating among them. But the book was small and lightweight, and shouldn’t be much of a burden to protect. Wardin fit it easily into the pouch on his belt, and drew the strings to fasten it in.

  “There might be another that will interest you, although this one can’t leave the chamber.” Felton guided Wardin to the reading stand where he’d been studying an enormous volume for the past several minutes. “You can—”

  “There you are!” Bartley strode into the room, a disgusted look on his face. “I’ve been searching for you for an hour!”

  Felton stepped forward, arms outstretched as if he might push Bartley from the room. “Really, Headmagister, you know you can’t—”

  “Oh enough, Felton.” Bartley flicked at the old man as if he were a fly. “I’m not interested in stealing your battlemage secrets. I’ve only come for Wardin. Erietta is missing.”

  Wardin’s heart dropped like a stone. “What do you mean, missing?”

  “She went to The Dark Dragon to meet Ned.” Seeing Wardin’s blank look, Bartley added, “One of the villagers. He said he had information for her ears alone. Jasper was to stay with her, and she was supposed to return within two hours. It’s been more than four.”

  “And what did they say at the Dragon?” Wardin asked.

  “Nothing, as nobody has gone there yet. If she walked into a trap, I’m not about to walk in right behind her, alone. Alaide suggested I bring you with me. I suppose because you’re the most easily spared.”

  Coward. Wardin tried not to let his contempt show. He glanced back at Felton, who gave him a quick nod. “I’ll close up here.”

  Wardin nodded in return, then turned on his heel and left the room, forcing himself to concentrate only on the immediate and the practical. “We’ll get Arun on the way.”

  “Eldon doesn’t want him disturbed.” Bartley hurried alongside, clearly struggling to keep up with Wardin’s much longer strides.

  “I’m not much interested in what Eldon wants. We can’t keep this from Arun. He wouldn’t stand for it, and if you think he would hesitate to spell you into vomiting up your food for a week over it, you’re much mistaken.”

  As they neared the front door, Rowena trotted, tail wagging, out of the common room where she’d been napping. But Wardin gestured for her to stay. It was a shame; he would have trusted her to track Erietta better than the snide contriver beside him. But if there were Harths around—and who else’s doing could this be?—nothing would announce the presence of a magistery like a blackhound.

  It would be likewise foolish to stop at the armory, though Wardin was tempted. Daggers and hunting knives were common enough sights in a small village, but not swords, and certainly not of the quality used by battlemages. He would have to rely mainly on his magic, if it came to a fight.

  The sage hall was hotter than the others, especially in the attic, and smelled strongly of herbs and smoke. Wardin pounded on Arun’s door until the latter yanked it open with a snarl, surrounded by the three blackhounds who’d been assisting him. His eyes were ringed in dark smudges of exhaustion, his hair hung lank about his shoulders, and his tunic was stained with the sweat Wardin could smell from where he stood.

  But his lips quirked into a smile at the sight of Wardin, and when he spoke, his voice was clear and balanced enough. “A couple of girls from the village might have been a more welcome respite, but I suppose you’ll do. What is it?”

  Wardin cleared his aching throat, and only when he met his friend’s e
ye and spoke the words aloud, did he allow himself to feel the full weight of the alarm that had been pinching his chest since Bartley had delivered his news.

  “It’s your sister. She’s gone.”

  Five hours. She’s already been gone nearly five hours.

  As he walked along the narrow street, Wardin studied the faces of the villagers, listened for any discordant sounds, even sniffed the air. But he saw only children playing and people going about everyday business. He heard only their chatter and the occasional bleat of a sheep, smelled only sweet mountain air and a hint of honey cakes. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

  Arun’s face was equally tense and suspicious, Bartley’s carefully blank as the contriver cast what tracking spells and detection spells he could to help them.

  They hadn’t been able to find Jasper at The Dark Dragon, and nobody could say where he’d gone. Either he’d suffered the same fate as Erietta, or he’d been a party to it.

  Wardin clenched his fists. “Do you think Jasper would betray us?”

  “No,” Arun said without hesitation. “Not Pendralyn, and definitely not Erietta. He would die for her.”

  “If he hasn’t already,” Bartley added.

  Wardin’s stomach turned. In his mind, he could no longer see the cool, contrary woman who had accused him, by turns, of being dishonest, weak, and foolish. He saw only the girl, the friend who had come to his side at his darkest boyhood moment. He couldn’t bear the thought of that girl being punished at the hands of the Harths.

  But she was the archmagister. She could tell them everything they wanted to know about Pendralyn. Surely the hope of obtaining that information would be incentive enough to keep her alive.

  Jasper, too, had knowledge of the magistery, enough to make him a valuable prisoner. Did Ned? Wardin knew nothing about the man.

  They left the road when they neared Ned’s modest cottage, circling around to approach it from the back. Bartley stopped and closed his eyes for a moment, humming almost inaudibly, then gestured for them to wait while he crept beneath an open window.