Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  After a moment he nodded. As Wardin and Arun came to join him, he blew downward and waved his hand at the ground behind them. The blades of grass they’d bent and trampled along the way stood straight again, covering their tracks. Then the contriver jumped nimbly to the sill, and climbed through the window. Arun followed, then Wardin.

  The single room inside was empty—entirely so. There wasn’t a stick of furniture, scrap of cloth, or crumb of food to be found. When they’d finished searching every dark corner, Wardin stood in the center, arms crossed, barely resisting the impulse to run heedlessly out and tear Avadare apart.

  “Ned’s a traitor,” he said. “This confirms it. They wouldn’t have bothered to empty his house if they’d taken him, too. And anyway they can’t all have been taken, without anybody at The Dark Dragon seeing or hearing anything. There would have been a fight. Erietta would have been an opponent to be reckoned with. Jasper, too, I imagine. They had to have been incapacitated in some way, and that would have been easier with someone on the inside to set the trap.”

  “Of course Ned is a traitor. Wouldn’t make much of a contriver, would you?” Bartley was bent before the hearth. “This has been swept out. He wouldn’t have taken the time unless he wanted to destroy something so completely, he didn’t even want to risk the ashes being found.”

  “Like letters from the Harths, perhaps?” Arun pushed past them both, opening the pouch on his belt at the same time. He crouched down, breathed into his cupped hands, then opened them to toss several delicate bones into the fireplace. He stared at them for several moments, brow furrowed, before picking them up and repeating the process three more times.

  Finally he stood, eyes dark with rage. “Ned swept this out, all right, but not today. This house has been empty for days. He planned this. With care.” He looked out the window and shook his head. “But I don’t know where he’s gone.”

  Bartley rubbed his weak chin. “I’ve had a clandestine meeting or two at the Dragon myself. I prefer the south side of the inn, near the mountain, for such things. Perhaps Ned asked for the same, and Erietta and Jasper would have thought not being overheard was to their advantage. Why wouldn’t they? We’ve always known Ned to be entirely harmless.”

  “It seems you’ve always known wrong.” Wardin had been clenching his teeth so hard, it hurt to loosen his jaw and speak.

  “Yes. I suppose he had us all fooled.” Bartley sounded almost admiring of Ned’s cunning. “If they were in a room on that side, its window would have looked out on land that’s of no use. Nobody goes back there. They could have rendered Erietta and Jasper helpless, and taken them out that way. The Harths don’t have magic, we’re told, but rope and gags work fine for such things. As do blows to the head, and poisons.”

  “Then we’ll go to that side of the inn and try to pick up their trail. We’ve still got a few hours of daylight.” Wardin looked at Arun. “Are they taking her to Narinore, do you think?”

  “Most likely. Tobin would have the leisure to question her there.” Arun squeezed his eyes shut before turning away. “And the means. They say he employs a torturer.”

  Ignoring his seething stomach, Wardin started toward the door. “Let’s not waste any time, then. We’re only a few hours behind them. And you know this land better than they could.”

  Arun was close at his heels. “We’ve also got a contriver to cover our tracks, and to follow theirs. And I’ve got connections in Narinore who will help us.”

  “I spent a great deal of my childhood at that castle,” Wardin said. “I can—”

  “Have you two gone unbalanced?” Bartley still stood by the fireplace, looking aghast. “We have to go back! If Erietta and Jasper are both prisoners, it’s only a matter of time before the Harths find out how to get into Pendralyn. They may know already. We need to prepare for an attack.”

  Arun wheeled around to glare at him. “You assume they’ll break?”

  “You just said they’ll be tortured!”

  “And you’re using that as an argument against going after them?” Wardin didn’t bother to conceal his curling lip.

  Bartley squared his shoulders. “Our duty is to the magistery.”

  “Fine,” said Arun. “All the more reason to get them out of Tobin’s hands, before they can tell him anything.”

  “We don’t know what they’ve said already. We don’t know how long we have before Pendralyn is attacked.” Bartley stepped toward them. “Erietta herself would say it’s foolish to waste precious time trying to rescue her.”

  “I’m afraid I would have to disagree with her on that point. And you’re the one wasting time.” Arun turned back to the door.

  “She may already be dead!”

  Wardin lunged at Bartley and grasped the front of his tunic with both hands, nearly lifting the smaller man off the floor. “Go back, Bartley,” he said softly. “Warn the other magisters. Prepare as best you can.”

  “Wait.” Bartley’s forehead was beaded with sweat, but his eyes remained obstinate. “If you really intend to desert the magistery, let it be to bring us help. Go and find your commander. Forthwind. Raise your troops, like you wanted.”

  Wardin released him, wiping his hands on his own tunic as if he’d touched something filthy. “And like you didn’t want, as I recall. You were very much against it.”

  “That was before.”

  “Before what?” Arun barked. “Before your own miserable life was at stake? Now that it’s come to it, you’re afraid. You want him to go and get someone to fight for you.”

  “To fight for Pendralyn. And for Eyrdon.” Bartley looked back at Wardin and spread his hands. “This was your own idea.”

  Wardin raised a brow. “That was before.”

  “Before you forgot your duty, you mean?” Bartley pointed at him, stopping just short of poking his chest. “You’re the rightful heir of Eyrdon. Protecting Pendralyn falls to you as much as to anyone. A true Rath would not set that aside to follow his own personal desires.”

  “Really?” Arun crossed his arms. “It’s selfish, then, to refuse to leave two of our own to be tortured and killed?”

  Bartley scoffed. “Don’t. You know as well as I do that if this were anyone but Erietta, neither of you would be so eager to run from where you’re needed, to chase the Harths to their own stronghold, outnumbered and outmatched, on a fool’s errand that will most likely result in your own pointless deaths.”

  Arun started to argue, and it wasn’t long before the two of them were talking over one another, probably louder than was wise. But Wardin knew that Bartley’s words were true. All of it was true. If he were the sort to think pragmatically, to plan coldly, he would make a different choice.

  But he was not that sort. His hesitation was over nearly before it began.

  Whatever the cost, he would not abandon Erietta to die.

  19

  Erietta

  She was so thirsty, she could hardly think. But she must think. She must do … something. There was something urgent, she knew that much. Had she fallen? Had someone hit her in the head? Judging by the magnitude of her headache, either was a possibility.

  It was dark, but there was a light somewhere off to her left. A fire. She could just see the flicker of it beyond the side. The side of what? A cart. She was in a cart, lying on her side.

  And she was tied far too tightly to do anything about it. Her arms were behind her back, her legs bent at the knees. She was not gagged, but she knew that would be no help. If there were anyone around who would help if she screamed, her captors would not have left her in a position to do so. She couldn’t focus her thoughts nearly well enough to do any magic.

  A low moan rose up behind her. Jasper. He’d been there. With Ned.

  Ned. His laughter echoed through Erietta’s pounding skull, and brought with it the memory of what had happened.

  The mead. He’d poisoned it. Why? If he was working for Tobin’s men, why bother taking captives? He knew where the magistery was.

>   Because simply knowing the location did them no good, of course. As she’d told the others in the old hall, the Harths could tear apart The Dark Dragon board by board, and still never find the tunnel. They needed someone to tell them how to get in.

  And why settle for a prisoner who knew only one of the magistery’s many secrets? Better to get someone who could tell them more, every detail of who lived there, what resources Pendralyn had. Everything they needed to know to defeat all the magic of the magisters and the blackhounds and the enchantments on the place.

  Someone like her.

  And so they’d drawn her out, and put her in an isolated room—one specifically chosen to keep others from overhearing. They’d used someone she would never suspect of harming or betraying her.

  The window. He did it while we were at the window. The image of Ned pushing Jasper away, insisting they go look for the phantom outside, flitted through Erietta’s mind. That was when he’d slipped the poison in. And once it was done, how had they gotten her and Jasper out of the inn without being seen?

  The window again. Eyrdri’s teeth, she’d even opened it for them herself.

  Such a rudimentary, inelegant trap. Yet she and Jasper had fallen right into it. Erietta squeezed her eyes shut, sickened by what she’d done, what she’d allowed to be done.

  When she opened them again, a torch was bobbing toward her, its blinding spot of light masking the face of the one who held it. Whoever they were, she hoped they were bringing water.

  There were three of them. The one holding the torch hopped up onto the cart and stepped over her, then sat on the planked floor beside her. From that angle, she could see little more than his knee, but he smelled strongly of ale. A Harth.

  He raised his torch to illuminate his companions, and Erietta stretched her neck as best she could to see them. One was broad and well-muscled, the other tall, with full lips that gave the impression of a perpetual pout. Or perhaps he really was pouting, though she didn’t see what he had to be glum about, given their respective positions. His cloak pin flashed in the torchlight—a stag’s antlers.

  “Well,” the tall one said. “About time you woke up.” He glanced at the man beside her. “Is her friend up, Ben?”

  The light moved. When it returned, Ben’s free hand came into her line of sight, tilting back and forth. “Sort of. Don’t think you’ll have much luck talking to him. He drank more of his mead than she did. And Ned might have been a bit overenthusiastic with the dose.”

  The tall man looked back at Erietta. “Do you know who I am?”

  “One of Tobin’s brutes, I imagine.” Her throat was dry, so dry. But she would not beg for water. Or anything else.

  Without warning, the man darted forward and delivered a hard punch to her gut. Erietta coughed and gagged as pain spread through her like fire.

  Ben leaned over to whisper in her ear as she wheezed. “I’m afraid this particular brute is Tobin.”

  “Tobin, Prince of Harth and Baron of Eyrdon.” Tobin inclined his head in a mocking salute. “You may call me Highness.”

  I only call one man Highness. And I’ll wager he’s looking for me.

  “And you,” Tobin went on, “Are Erietta, Archmagister of … Pendralyn, is it?”

  She said nothing. Truth be told, she wasn’t even sure she could speak. Her limbs shook. She preferred to think it was with fury rather than fear.

  Tobin didn’t seem bothered by her lack of response. “Ned tells us the man behind you is a gatekeeper of sorts. So here’s how we’re going to do this.” He leaned down, hands on the cart floor, and thrust his head forward until their noses were nearly touching. His breath was foul, and his eyes had the flat, belligerent look of a man who thinks he’s intelligent but isn’t.

  “Whichever one of you tells us how to get into your little magistery first, is the one who gets to live.”

  Thirsty. She was still so thirsty. They’d allowed her only a few mouthfuls of ale each day, and then, just to taunt her she supposed, all the bread she liked. She despised ale.

  Erietta could no longer count the days. All hours looked the same since they’d arrived at Narinore, where she was promptly locked in a tiny, foul-smelling room in the castle dungeon. Odd, she’d heard the Lancets preferred towers for their prisoners. But then, this was a stolen palace.

  Now that she was here, she was required to drink the ale out of a bowl, like a hound, and take bites of the bread the same way. This was owed to the fact that she was bound to a chair, wrapped from chest to knee in both ropes and chains. Tobin seemed to fear her magic, and apparently did not understand that use of one’s limbs was not especially necessary for casting spells.

  What was required, however, was an ability to focus, and Erietta was sorely lacking there. Guards came at what felt like hourly intervals, yelling or waving lanterns in her face, making sure she did not sleep. They’d done the same on the journey here. So perhaps Tobin understood something about magic, after all, or perhaps he’d been instructed by his father to keep the prisoners exhausted and thirsty.

  When the door creaked open, she assumed they’d come to rouse her again. But this time, one guard held a sword to her throat while another untied her. They did not speak. Her various bindings were replaced only with manacles on her hands.

  One of them yanked her to her feet, and she couldn’t suppress a cry as her joints ignited in protest. The guard caught her by the shoulders, preventing what would have been a nasty fall. Erietta did not thank him.

  “Where are we going?” Her voice was dry and crackling, like paper in a fire.

  “Guess you’ll know when we get there,” one of them said. Neither met her eye.

  Fortunately for her stinging, prickling limbs, there turned out to be only a short walk. She noted the number of strides, the two right turns that brought them to the door of another cell. One of the guards unlocked it, then tossed her in ahead of him. She tripped and fell to the sodden, moldy straw on the floor.

  Perhaps she couldn’t do magic at the moment, but she still had a contriver’s powers of observation, a mundane skill practitioners of her affinity nonetheless honed well. While she got to her feet, Erietta listened carefully to the breathing of the cell’s occupants, the subtle shuffling of feet. Three men, she guessed, besides the guards behind her. One of them hurt.

  By the time she was standing and able to look around, she wasn’t surprised to see Jasper, shirtless and on his knees, chained to a short cross on a wooden stand. His head hung low, and his matted hair—wet with something, most likely blood—cloaked his face. But the burns and gashes on his chest were clear enough, and they turned Erietta’s stomach. He seemed to struggle for every hitching breath he took.

  She recognized the two other men, as well. One was Tobin, his red hair turned a garish orange by the torchlight. The trip to Narinore had done nothing to improve Erietta’s opinion of either his intelligence or his character. Each day he’d come to ride alongside the cart for an hour or two, sneering and asking questions. With his Lancet height, he looked utterly ridiculous on his mountain pony; particularly since riding was saving him no time, most of his men being on foot. Occasionally she and Jasper toyed with him, just to distract themselves from their misery. He was quite easy to mock, as he rarely realized when he was being made the butt of a joke.

  The other man in the room was Ben, who’d also made the journey with them. He did realize when his prince was being ridiculed—and laughed behind Tobin’s back rather than call attention to it. He also talked and joked with the prisoners, and when his companions weren’t looking, even slipped them an extra mouthful of water on occasion.

  Erietta hadn’t yet ascertained his motives, though it was clear that whatever he wanted, he was accustomed to getting it with charm more than force. He’d have made a good contriver. But his normally cheerful face was impassive now.

  Tobin’s lips were thrust out in his ceaseless pout, and his small eyes were lit with malice. “You told us nothing, all the way here. Should
’ve saved yourselves while you had the chance.”

  She made no reply. She knew that last bit was meant to frighten her, make her beg for the privilege of betraying Pendralyn. But they’d gone through the trouble of dragging her this far, and they wouldn’t kill her now. She was no good to them dead. Kept alive, there was always the chance she would tell them something valuable, or at least make a useful hostage.

  “You see, I received a communication from my father last night,” the prince went on. “He was gratified, of course, that we found the village that harbors your magistery, and that we captured both its gatekeeper and its archmagister. But do you know, he was not quite as gratified as I expected.”

  Tobin grabbed Jasper’s hair and yanked his head back. The innkeeper’s eyes were clouded, insensible, exhausted. Whatever they were doing to him, it seemed he was beyond being pained by it, at least for the moment.

  But Erietta was not. A furious heat coursed through her at the sight of his battered face, the dried blood. There was a tooth stuck in his hair. The Harths had not hurt her, apart from a few rope burns. She’d had no idea Jasper was being so abused.

  She set her jaw and breathed slowly through her nose, fighting to hide her rage. Judging by Tobin’s satisfied smirk, enraging her was precisely his aim. And she would not give that beast a single thing he wanted, if she could possibly deny him. She concentrated on her shaking limbs, her pulse, her senses, willing each part of her to become still. Stillness was the first step to readiness.

  He was changing tactics. At first Tobin had tried to pit her and Jasper against one another, rivals in a race to capitulation, their lives the prize. Now it seemed he’d finally accepted that they would not betray each other. But there were other ways of using one against the other. Erietta waited for the prince to tell her she had but moments to give him the information he sought, or he’d hurt Jasper again.