Bartley cleared his throat and placed a hand on his chest, fairly dripping with self-importance. Wardin braced himself, tightening his middle, as if expecting a physical blow. He was surprised the contriver had waited this long to voice his own low opinion of the last Rath.
But it seemed Bartley’s sense of self-preservation was stronger than his spite. “I’m a practical man, and I’ve no wish to die,” he said simply. “This situation is at least partly Wardin’s doing. He can call himself anything he likes, for all I care, so long as he undoes it.”
At the nods and murmurs of agreement from the crowd, Desmond resumed his seat, though he looked anything but happy about it. Nobody else rose to speak.
All eyes turned back to Wardin.
And all the weight of their expectation, their trust, hit him squarely in the chest. His heart twisted. His lungs went rigid, refusing to inhale or exhale.
He’d gotten what he wanted, what he came for. He was now their undisputed leader. Their prince.
Eyrdri’s teeth, what did I just do?
Wardin stood with Rowena at the edge of the practice yard, watching Arun try to teach Odger to create a windstorm. It wasn’t going well. Odger wasn’t nearly advanced enough for such a spell. He was too young.
He was also too young to fight. But Erietta had been forced to give her grudging consent for the older students to join their ranks, if they chose. Between those students, the magisters, and the villagers who were able (and willing) to fight, they still had scarcely more than a hundred and fifty makeshift soldiers.
And not long to train them. Although there was still neither sign nor sound of it within the valley, Arun’s bones had told him that the Harths were attempting to tunnel through the mountain. Whether or not they could succeed was a subject of heated debate among the magisters, but Wardin knew he must be prepared.
He tilted his head and bit his lip as a tiny cloud of dirt rose up around Odger’s feet. Perhaps the boy would actually get it this time.
Except just then, one of the villagers Baelar was training in more ordinary, non-magical combat jumped backward without looking, and slammed into Odger. Both of them tumbled to the ground.
Odger was the first to his feet, cursing and fuming as he brushed away a few pieces of gravel. “Why can’t you watch where you’re going? You broke my concentration!”
The villager stood and wiped blood from his face. “And you nearly broke my nose with that bony little elbow of yours!”
“Perhaps I wouldn’t be so bony, if there were enough to eat! We wouldn’t have to ration if—”
“Enough!” Wardin roared. Rowena barked her support.
Arun and Baelar had already gotten between the two combatants, each yanking back his respective charge. The villager shook Baelar off and stalked away without so much as a backward glance.
Baelar showed more respect, bowing to Wardin. “Apologies, sir. I mean, Highness.”
“No need,” said Wardin with a wave. “The yard is crowded. I’m surprised I haven’t tripped over someone myself.”
“So am I, now that you mention it,” said Arun.
Baelar coughed to hide his laugh. “I’ll just get back to it then, shall I?”
“Please. And thank you.” Wardin smiled as he watched Baelar head back to his small group of pupils. Although an hour of questioning-by-inkwell had shown the man to be honest, Tobin’s former scout was still a prisoner of sorts, and they’d entrusted him with no secrets, no sensitive tasks. He hadn’t taken offense. On the contrary, he’d been nothing but helpful, offering up what information he could, and putting his soldier’s training to use on the practice yard.
Not to mention that his blue cloak, the one that identified him as a Harthian soldier, was currently in the manor with Marwin the tailor and several villagers who were either too old or too young to train in combat. They were doing their best with makeshift dye and any extra cloth they could find, to create as many copies of the cloak as they could.
If only everyone were so well-behaved and eager to do their part. Wardin turned to glare at Odger.
The boy lowered his eyes. “He was the clumsy one,” he mumbled. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Wardin arched a brow. “No, you were the very picture of graciousness.”
“Apologies, Highness. I didn’t mean to disappoint you.” Odger shifted from one foot to the other, fairly squirming under the weight of Wardin’s disapproval. He had taken it as a point of great pride, when he found out that the so-called foreign visitor he’d been partnering with in the yard all summer was really his rightful prince. As if he were the indispensable lieutenant of a great man, despite the fact that neither of them fit that description.
Wardin grasped the boy’s shoulder, and softened his tone. “The honorable thing would be to apologize to him, not me. The enemies are outside the valley, Odger.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“Go and see to your balance.”
When Odger had gone, Arun grinned at Wardin. “I’ll see to it that the after-dinner songs are lively tonight. They could all use some dancing, I think, to release a bit of tension.”
“Only you would think of dancing at a time like this.”
“Well, there are some lovely village girls staying with us.” Arun spread his hands. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t make them comfortable?”
Wardin rolled his eyes, but his friend wasn’t wrong about the general mood. The terrain that made Pendralyn a fortress now made it a prison as well, and for eight long days they’d been trapped with no possibility of escape. They were surrounded by crags and pits, towering walls of rock, deceptively manageable slopes that gave way without warning to sheer cliffs.
The tunnel to Avadare was the only passable exit for a group of average men and women, portly magisters, children, the elderly—even those who’d lived in these mountains all their lives. The scant handful who might have possessed both the physical prowess and the experience to take another route would not leave the others behind. The only way out was through their enemy.
In the meanwhile, the magistery was filled to capacity, and tempers were beginning to flare. Although Erietta had confessed to writing to the students’ families some time ago, letters traveled slowly, and none of the children had been fetched home before the Harths came.
Wardin had been furious, upon first hearing what she’d done. How dare she order him to stay, while secretly giving others leave to go? (For her part, Erietta seemed to feel there was a marked difference in risk between an Eyrdish child traveling with his family, and a grown man with the coloring of a Harth, who stood a head taller than those around him, and who happened to be the king’s most wanted fugitive.) Now he only wished she’d done it sooner; perhaps the younger ones would be out of harm’s way, and there would be more to go around for those who remained.
Still, enrollment had been low since the last war, and Pendralyn had been built to hold a great many more than its current flock of students. They’d managed to find beds for all the villagers—barely. Space was tight, and being elbow to elbow, day and night, did not sit well with people who were accustomed to a larger population of sheep than humans.
Between the close quarters and the general anxiety over how long their supplies would last, Bramwell’s tunnel wasn’t the only reason time was short.
Which, Wardin reminded himself, was all the more reason he had to stay focused on his duties. “I’m about to check the borders,” he said to Arun. “Care to come along? Perhaps you’ll recognize something from your vision, or whatever it is those bird bones show you.”
Arun sighed. “Nobody understands the bones.”
“You’re right about that much.” They moved away from the noise of the practice yard, toward the outer edge of the valley.
Not that there was really any escape from noise, anymore. Everything was different now. There was barely a hint of greymoss in the air, what with all the smells of livestock and cooking and experimental potions and sweat
. But Wardin noticed the noise most of all. Screaming children, scolding parents. Shouts from the practice yard, voices spilling from the halls and the keep. Sheep and geese and chickens. He could hardly find anyplace to think.
“How’s Etta?” he asked. “I haven’t seen her today.”
“Not a thing wrong with her anymore. She’s in the manor with Alaide and Bartley, trying to think up potions they might coat the weapons in.”
Wardin nodded as he stepped around half a dozen roaming geese. One of them hissed at him. He resisted the temptation to hiss back, feeling it might make him look petty. His blackhound showed no such compunction. “No, Rowena, don’t chase them. Rowena!” He slapped his thigh, and Rowena returned to his side with one last snarl at the offending fowl. “Two contrivers and a battlemage, that’s a good mix.”
He’d encouraged magisters of different affinities to work together, combining spells and tactics wherever possible, in hopes of coming up with magic that Bramwell hadn’t already seen in the wars. They would need every advantage they could get.
Particularly given that Wardin’s preparations were, thus far, aimless.
Of course, he’d set people to work as though he had a clear purpose in mind. It kept them busy, and the illusion that he knew what he was doing was good for morale. But the truth was, he hadn’t the slightest idea how to expel four hundred soldiers from their doors. More than four hundred, no doubt; the King of Harth would not have ridden to Eyrdon alone. How Wardin was to stand against such a number with a small band of scholars, servants, shepherds, and children was beyond him.
He’d volunteered for this. No, insisted on it. He’d walked into that hall and demanded to be acknowledged as their rightful leader. Why? He could no longer recall what had made him so bold. Pride? Wishful thinking? A burst of courage and optimism—of arrogance, perhaps—that he was painfully reminded of every time someone called him Highness now.
No doubt his grandfather would have had the situation well in hand. Baden would have found some brilliant way to turn the tables, and had Bramwell surrendering to him before long. Lional would have done much the same.
Or perhaps not. They had, after all, both lost wars to the Harths in the end. Baden had at least come out of it with his kingdom intact, but Lional had lost both his throne and his life, and Eyrdon had lost its freedom.
If those great men hadn’t been able to defeat this enemy, what made Wardin think he could? He was Draven Rath’s son. Feckless. Rash. He hadn’t thought it through well enough, when he’d so brazenly marched to the front of that hall. He never did.
At least he hid his inadequacy well, behind a confident smile and an easy walk. Perhaps he’d inherited that talent from his father, as well. Only Erietta and Arun knew how out of his depth Wardin was.
Erietta had immediately deferred to Wardin’s command, when she’d heard about the meeting in the old hall. At least on the surface. But they both knew she was the superior strategist. A part of Wardin was holding out hope that she would come to his rescue, by thinking of some way forward that he hadn’t seen.
“Wardin!” Helena trotted toward them from the direction of the kennels. She’d been a new keeper there when Wardin was a boy, just a handful of years older than he was. She was the kennel mistress now. Quick-witted and always ready with a smile, she was one of the few people at Pendralyn whose good cheer remained intact.
She laughed as she knelt to embrace Rowena, while the latter fiercely wagged her tail. “Sorry, I suppose I should have called you Highness. We’re all getting used to it.”
“As am I,” said Wardin with a chuckle. “But perhaps we should save it until I’ve won the kingdom back.”
“You’ll be Majesty then.” Helena stood and wiped her slobbery hands on her trousers. “I wanted to speak with you about how I should split up the dogs. Everyone is demanding help with their magic, of course, especially the sages working with the food stores. But the archmagister has also asked me to double the patrols near the gate, and I’m assuming you’ll also want some to guard the keep and the halls— Eyrdri’s sake, Arun, my eyes are up here.”
Arun pulled his gaze away from Helena’s substantial bosom, but did not look the least bit abashed by her chastisement. “You’re not even talking to me! Why should I have to look you in the eye if we’re not even talking?”
“Because I can see you, you oaf.”
Wardin cleared his throat, though he nearly choked on a laugh as he did. “Right. The blackhounds.” He spent several minutes discussing the matter with Helena, until they arrived at an arrangement she was satisfied with, and she took her leave.
“You need to work on your charm,” Wardin said as they watched her go.
“Nonsense.” Arun winked before turning away. “She loves me.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Wardin snapped his fingers at Rowena, who looked back at Helena one more time and whined before coming to walk beside him.
“She appreciates my honesty.”
Wardin snickered. “If you say so.”
They made their way—slowly, thanks to several more people stopping Wardin to speak with him—to the southeast end of the valley, where the stream ended abruptly, as if dammed by the wall of rock it ran into. Wardin knew that in actuality it dipped underground here, to reemerge lower down, just south of Avadare. This suggested to him a system of caves that might be vulnerable to digging, and this area more than any other made him anxious.
But it was quiet today, as it had been every day. If Bramwell’s men were mining here, they hadn’t yet progressed far enough to be heard on this side.
“The bones haven’t said anything about this?” Wardin gestured at the water and rocks.
“I don’t have long chats with them over mugs of mead, you know. All I know is that some of the Harths are below the earth, or inside it.”
“Well then, perhaps they aren’t digging at all. Perhaps they’ve done us a favor and died.”
Arun nodded at the stream. “Speaking of death, are you sure you don’t want to poison it?”
Wardin laughed, though he knew his friend was only half joking. They’d already had this conversation more than once. This was the same water supply Bramwell would be using. Sending a bit—or more than a bit—of poison downstream might well be an expedient way to rid them of the enemy.
But Wardin would not consider it. Baelar had told them that the majority of Tobin’s men were Eyrds. Many had been forced into service under an assortment of threats. Others had simply been well compensated.
Whatever their reasons, Wardin refused to kill hundreds of his own people in cold blood. Not like that. He knew perfectly well that some fighting was inevitable, and that lives would be lost. But an honorable death in battle was a far cry from being murdered by something as nefarious as poison. Who would follow such a prince? He would be no better than Tobin.
No, whatever solution they employed to drive the enemy off, it would involve the absolute minimum of Eyrd casualties.
Drive them off.
Wardin’s breath stopped short. He stared at the water, his thoughts suddenly churning along with it. After a few moments he said, almost breathlessly, “We’re magicians.”
“So?” Arun asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve only just noticed. We’re all counting on you being a bit sharper than that.”
“So, why are we talking about the sort of ordinary tactics any battle commander would use?” Wardin grinned at his friend. “Poison, Arun. Really. How unimaginative of you.”
Arun lifted his brows. “I take it you’ve just had some sort of revelation?”
Had he? Could what he was thinking possibly work?
He didn’t see why it couldn’t, although it would require a lot of complicated magic. Three spells, he thought. And they would be difficult ones.
Not on their own, perhaps. They would need something else, something more. He would have to speak with Erietta.
Still …
Wardin looked back at the stream and scratched his
beard. “You know, I do believe I have.”
At least there was no bother of a test to get into this hidden chamber. Erietta led Wardin through the contriver hall to an unremarkable cloak room, and there flipped a particular number of cloak pegs down in a particular order to reveal a trap door.
When she lit the basement below, he found himself surrounded by chests, apothecary cabinets, and long tables, amid scattered bookshelves. It smelled of mildew and damp and secrets. “Good, Bartley said I’d find a lot more than books in here.” Wardin chuckled as he began scanning the shelves. “Amazing how helpful and supportive he’s become, now that he’s desperate for someone to save his skin.”
Erietta snorted. “Indeed. As for the room, contrivance is based in imagination. It’s as much about creativity as knowledge, so this is as much laboratory as library. And there are several rare supplies here that aren’t available anywhere else in the hall. Anywhere else in the magistery.”
Wardin looked over his shoulder at her, brow raised. “Perhaps I can guess why some of these supplies you speak of are kept locked up.” He nodded back at one of the books in front of him. “The Darkest Days of Rodgar Winter. Sounds awfully sinister. Should I be afraid I’ll be corrupted in here?”
She glanced at the various journals of cunning magicians and treatises on shadow magic, and smiled. “Contrivance, as you might recall, does have a certain reputation for darkness. The other affinities don’t trust us much. I’m the first contriver archmagister in almost a hundred years, you know. So we keep our less … popular resources away from judging eyes.”
“Strange, I wouldn’t have taken you for the darker sort.” He turned away, so she wouldn’t see the amusement in his face. “You don’t seem … flexible enough to be bad.”
Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1) Page 25
