The Royal City
The Kingdom of Rithmar
He couldn’t get rid of that bird. Every morning it was there, perched on his window—watching him with those beady, dark eyes as if it expected answers.
Asher had none to give.
Yet Grim, for that was the hawk’s name, wouldn’t let him be.
“Thrindul’s dead,” he told the bird, as he shrugged on his short, grey tunic and fastened a heavy leather belt around his waist. “Don’t glare at me … I can’t bring him back.”
The High Enchanter had been one of the few of the Order of Light and Darkness with a familiar; he and Grim had been close. Thrindul had even been able to interpret the screeches the hawk made. However, those ear-splitting calls, some of them resembling a hiss of outrage, meant nothing to Asher.
Grim glared at him now, hunched upon the stone window ledge, his gaze tracking Asher across the room. As always, Asher found the sensation unnerving.
The bird put him on edge.
He’d been tempted to try and chase Grim off, but the hawk’s razor-sharp beak and curved talons had dissuaded him. Grim wasn’t to be shooed away like an annoying blackbird. And he was clearly here for a reason—although Asher couldn’t guess what it was.
Thrindul had fallen during the Battle of the Shadefells five months earlier, when a horde of men and shadow creatures had faced the Rithmar army and the Enchanters of Light and Darkness. Grim had traveled north on that campaign with his master, and no one had seen him for a while afterward.
Until the day he’d landed at Asher’s window.
Asher pulled on his boots, fastened his long pale hair back with a thong at the base of his neck, and cast an irritated look in the bird’s direction.
“Go hunt some rodents,” he muttered. “I won’t be back till dusk.”
With that he strode from his chamber. It was still early, too early for breakfast, and so Asher made his way down to the ground floor, and then outside to the Hall of Healing. A hard frost lay over the city this morning. It was now a moon after Winter Blood—Serran’s mid-winter solstice—yet the bitter season still held Rithmar fast within its grip. Asher’s breath steamed in the dry, gelid air as he crossed the few yards to the door of the Hall of Healing.
Inside, two huge hearths burned low, keeping the chill off the air. There were a handful of patients in the Hall at present, far fewer than months earlier in the aftermath of the reign of terror caused by Valgarth’s shadow creatures. Even though the servants of the Shadow King no longer hunted the people of the kingdom after dark, it had taken a while for folk to believe the threat was actually gone.
Sometimes, Asher had trouble believing it himself.
“Enchanter,” an old man croaked. “Some water.”
Asher gave a curt nod and went to the corner of the room, where he filled a large cup of water from a barrel. Then he took it to the patient, handing it to him wordlessly. The man grasped the clay vessel and gulped its contents down before thrusting it out to Asher once more. “Another … please.”
Asher’s gaze narrowed, before he glanced at the empty jug beside the pallet. “Didn’t someone fill that up last night?”
The patient shook his head, his expression pained.
Asher huffed out a breath, took the jug, and crossed once more to the water barrel to fill it. He didn’t know which of the enchanters had been on the late shift last night, but he’d find out—and have words with them.
He refilled the jug and brought it back to the patient. However, the man gave him a pleading look. “My leg,” he muttered. “It itches wickedly.”
“That’s to be expected,” Asher replied. “It’s the healing.”
“But don’t you have anything for it? It’s driving me mad.”
Asher inhaled deeply and fought irritation. This fellow, Haldor—if Asher’s memory served him—was the sort of patient that got on his nerves: an attention-seeker.
“Some salve perhaps?” Haldor asked, his tone turning querulous as if he sensed the enchanter’s impatience.
“I’m sure he has something that’ll help.”
A woman’s voice, tinged with amusement, reached them. Asher glanced up to see a tall, statuesque woman with a mane of golden hair step inside the hall. Dressed in a short charcoal robe, leather leggings, and high-boots, Ryana strode toward them, her mouth quirking as she fought a smile. “Still working on your bedside manner I see,” she teased.
Asher tensed, casting Haldor a quelling look when he saw the old man favor Ryana with a toothless grin. “One word and you’re not getting any salve,” he warned.
Haldor’s grin faded. Asher turned on his heel and stalked down the hall, to the annex at the back where he kept his medicines, bandages, and surgical instruments. Ryana followed him.
Asher crossed to a high bench piled with clay bottles, vials, and boxes of herbs. He reached for a pestle and mortar, ignoring his friend.
Unconcerned, she leaned against the bench and watched him work. “Good morning to you too.”
Asher snorted. “You’re up early.”
“And you’re even grumpier than usual.”
Asher cast her a sidelong look, meeting her steady gaze. “That bird woke me hours before dawn again with its screeching.”
Ryana raised an eyebrow. “Grim really seems to have gotten attached to you.”
“I don’t think that’s it. He just sits there and glares at me.” Asher poured some dried herbs from a leather pouch into the mortar and added a few drops of Eld Oil; the pungent scent filled the annex, tickling his nose. “He’s wasting his time … unlike Thrindul I can’t decipher his screeching.”
“You might be able to eventually,” Ryana replied. “Enchanters often need time before bonding with a familiar.”
Asher stiffened. “That hawk isn’t my familiar.”
Ryana shrugged. “You might not end up with any say in the matter.”
Asher pounded the mix of herbs and Eld Oil with a pestle, the scraping of stone the only sound in the annex for a few moments. “I take it you’re not here just to annoy me,” he said finally, casting Ryana a frown. “Some of us are busy.”
She smiled, not remotely offended by his rudeness. The two of them knew each other well-enough these days to see beyond such things. “A goshawk arrived from Port Needle this morning,” she replied. “I thought you might want to hear what Lilia and Dain are up to?”
Asher’s mood lightened at the mention of the young couple he’d last seen five months earlier. Along with Ryana, they were the reason the Shadow King was no longer a threat to The Four Kingdoms of Serran. Lilia—who’d blossomed from a timid girl into a purposeful young woman—had saved them all.
He stopped bashing the pestle and mortar and turned to Ryana. “How are they?”
“Both well, but it appears that since Dain has enlisted in the Port Guard, he’ll soon be marching to war. King Nathan thinks Anthor will launch an attack within the year. He’s called for reinforcements.”
Asher went still at this news. It was a reminder that despite their victory in the north, war still threatened The Four Kingdoms. Anthor had invaded the neighboring kingdom of Thûn last year, but it appeared their ruler—Reoul—was not content to stop there. Rithmar was now in his sights.
After the Battle of the Shadefells, Lilia and Dain had returned home to the sleepy Isle of Orin. If Anthor invaded Rithmar they wouldn’t be safe, even there. They’d only been home a few months; after what his friends had been through it didn’t seem fair that they should be parted so soon.
“How’s Lilia taking the news?” he asked.
Ryana gave a rueful smile. “She’s coming with him … refuses to be left behind.”
Asher shook his head, fighting a smile of his own. “Of course she is.”
He turned back to his work bench and picked up the mortar, passing it to Ryana.
She took it, frowning. “What’s this for?”
Asher smiled. “Since you seem so concerned about Haldor’s wellbeing, you can apply this ointment to his boil.”
Her mouth thinned. “It’s not like you to be petty.”
His smile widened. “It’s on his upper thigh. Watch him though … he likes the ladies.”
Her eyes flashed a warning, but Asher merely laughed. He wiped his hands off on a linen towel, turning for the door.
“I’ll see you upstairs at breakfast.”
“You’re a bastard.”
Asher poured cream over his porridge and glanced up at Ryana. It was rare to see her flustered, for the female enchanter intimidated most men in the order. Her high cheekbones were flushed, her gaze murderous.
“That old man’s a foul letch.”
Asher fought a smile. “I did warn you.”
Ryana sat down opposite, still glaring. “Don’t worry, I’ll have my revenge on you.”
Asher laughed. “Who’s petty now?”
A cough to Asher’s right interrupted his mirth, and he inclined his head to find Irana frowning at him. The High Enchanter of the Order of Light and Darkness wore an irritated expression. She was an elegant, finely-boned woman with greying red hair and jade eyes. “Quiet,” she snapped. “You’re members of the High Council—try to set an example for the others.”
Asher nodded, his levity fading. Irana had a knack for casting a shadow over your day. After Thrindul’s death, the woman had taken his place as High Enchanter—and she had rarely smiled since. Asher suspected the pair of them had been lovers, and she had taken Thrindul’s death hard.
Like Ryana, the High Enchanter was of the Dark. She could call shadow and darkness to her aid, and use them to weave charms. Asher was of the Light—an enchanter who wielded control over sun, star, moon, and firelight, and who could use their powers to heal the sick and injured.
Asher glanced up from his breakfast and poured himself a cup of milk. As he did so he took in a sea of pale grey and charcoal robes stretching before him. The enchanters of this order wore a uniform that made them easily identifiable: those of the Dark wore charcoal, and those of the Light smoke grey. As heads the Light and Dark respectively, he and Ryana joined Irana for meals upon the dais at one end the huge rectangular space dominated by rows of long tables. A large hearth burned at each end of the vast chamber, but as always the air was chill.
Picking up his spoon once more, Asher listened to the rumble of voices echoing in the vast feasting hall. There were a number of youthful notes among them; he and Ryana had spent the past few months recruiting apprentices for the order. They’d lost many enchanters during the Battle of the Shadefells, and it would take a while for the order to regain its former strength.
“So do you agree with the king … that Anthor will attack within the year?” Ryana asked, drawing him out of his introspection.
Asher nodded. “Aye … Reoul will need to gather his strength first though. He will have lost a lot of men in the campaign to take Thûn.”
“He might not attack at all,” Irana interjected coolly. “News of King Nathan’s victory in the north will have reached him by now.”
Ryana gave Irana an incredulous look as she buttered a piece of bread. “That won’t put him off.”
Irana frowned. “King Aron was weak. Thûn was ripe for the taking. Rithmar won’t fall so easily. Reoul of Anthor is wary of our king.”
Asher watched Irana, looking for a trace of doubt on her proud features, yet he saw none. She was in denial—conflict was coming, whether or not Irana wanted to admit it. He pushed away his half-finished bowl of porridge.
War—he’d had enough of it.
“Did the cooks over-salt the porridge again?” Ryana asked.
Asher shook his head. “I need to get back to the Hall.”
He rose to his feet, and feeling Irana’s gaze upon him, glanced over at her. The High Enchanter was watching him intently.
“Your patients can wait,” she said, favoring him with a tight smile. “I need a word with you.”
The High Enchanter’s study was a large chamber with great arched windows looking west over the Rith Vale. A wintry breeze filtered in, causing the fire burning in the hearth to gutter.
Asher shivered, glancing out at the bright sunshine. “It’s freezing in here … why don’t you close the shutters?”
Irana pulled on a fur mantle and arched her delicate auburn brows at him. “The air is bracing.” The High Enchanter took a seat in a high backed chair near the fire and motioned to the stool opposite. “Sit down.”
Asher did as bid, although not without bristling slightly. Irana never made requests.
The High Enchanter reached into the left sleeve of her robe and pulled out a thin scroll of parchment. “I received this yesterday,” she said, holding it aloft but not passing it to him.
Asher’s gaze narrowed as he studied the scroll. “Delivered by goshawk?”
“Aye … months ago though. It was found in the messenger tower. The scroll arrived late last summer, just after we all departed for the Shadefells. The servant who took delivery—the dull-wit—put it to one side for Thrindul and then lost it down the back of a cupboard. He discovered it yesterday, and came straight to me.”
“Who’s it from?”
“Queen Rena of Thûn.”
“She’ll be dead now.”
“Obviously … but she wasn’t when she wrote this message. It’s dated two days before the fall of Veldoras.” Irana paused a moment before continuing. “It appears likely not all members of the royal household died that day. The queen sent her daughter to safety through a secret tunnel that lies under The Swallow Keep.”
That was good news. Asher didn’t understand why Irana was suddenly looking so grave. “That would have been around six months ago,” he replied. “Where’s the princess now?”
Irana’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. The queen was sending the girl here, to Thrindul. One of The Swallow Guard was traveling with her … but they never arrived.”
The High Enchanter rose to her feet and started to pace the chamber. Tension rolled off Irana in waves. Asher folded his arms across his chest, watching her circle the floor. “What’s wrong?”
Irana swung round to face him. “Someone needs to find Princess Ninia.”
“Is there any point? Thûn is occupied territory now … she and her protector probably never got across the border.”
“They must still be in Thûn,” Irana replied, her tone clipped. “Otherwise they would have turned up here.”
Asher shrugged. “Or they could be dead. A lot can happen in six months. They could be anywhere.” He wished she’d just spit out whatever was so clearly gnawing at her.
“Someone must cross into Thûn and find them,” Irana replied, ignoring his comment. “I want you to go.”
Asher went still. “Why?”
“Because you’re the only one I trust enough to do this.”
He nearly laughed. Irana couldn’t stand him. Did she really think him so easily flattered?
“You really think they’re still alive?” he asked after a pause, deciding it was best to ignore the false compliment.
“The princess has a Swallow protecting her … yes, I do.”
“And that they’re still in Thûn?”
“It’s highly likely.”
Asher loosed a breath, raking a hand through his hair. “I can’t do this on my own. I’ll need Ryana’s help, and some of the others.”
The High Enchanter shook her head. “You must go alone … and in secret. No one in the order must know.”
Asher tensed. “Why?”
“This mission is best kept between us.” Irana shifted closer still, and when she spoke her voice was low and urgent. “You must find the princess and kill her.”
Asher stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over his stool. He was much taller than Irana and towered over her, however, the woman was not intimidated in the slightest. She merely stared up at him, unblinking.
He glared down at her. “Have you lost your mind?”
Irana gave him a cold look. “I’m the High Enchanter of this order, address me as such.”
He ignored her. “Since when did we become assassins?”
She lifted her chin, mouth thinning. “Since I received this.” She held up the scroll and offered it to him. “Here … read it for yourself.”