THEY LEFT FARHOLD A WEEK later, heading for Andreas. Half a dozen people met them at the gate to bid farewell to Bonner and Signe. For Kate, only the Relay foreman came out. Corwin was grateful to the man, but also sad to see it. He wondered what kind of life she must’ve been living here.
Riding at the head of the caravan, Corwin couldn’t keep himself from looking back at his new companions with a sense of wonderment and dismay. They made for a strange party—the Eshian, the blacksmith, and the traitor. It sounded like the start of some mythic journey. Or a bad tavern joke. To make things even more unusual, Master Raith was riding at the back of the pack, having volunteered for the travel duty.
“My order has a deep interest in rooting out the source of these daydrakes,” Raith confessed. “I have volunteered to take lead.”
Corwin had been pleased by the appointment even though he wasn’t sure he entirely trusted the man. Still, the magist’s resourcefulness when it came to defending against the daydrakes dispelled any reservations he had. Raith provided the entire party with his flash stones in the event of another attack. Corwin also commissioned some hundred enchanted arrows, a fortune that would have Edwin pulling out his hair when the bill came due. Corwin didn’t envy the page who delivered it. But ensuring Bonner and his revolver arrived safely in Norgard would be worth the expense. Even Edwin, with his excessive concern about maintaining the wealth of the crown, would have to agree.
At least the caravan was smaller this time, a single wagon and just a dozen riders. The group followed the main road leading east from Farhold toward Marared until they were out of sight of the city watchtowers. Then while the wagon and the remaining Norgard soldiers continued on, Corwin and the rest turned south toward Andreas.
The ruse was an attempt to allow Corwin to enter the city without being recognized. They would rejoin the wagon and soldiers in Thace, the central city equidistant from the others. Keeping his identity secret was the best chance he had of learning anything about the Andrean miner involved in the attack on the Gregors. People would talk more openly with a group of common travelers than they would with the prince of Rime. Corwin also wished to avoid meeting with the Andrean ruler, Lord Nevan, as he would surely be expected to do if his presence were known.
They made the journey in three days, spending both nights on the road, beneath wardstone barriers. They didn’t see any nightdrakes or daydrakes this time, and the absence of the former, like a lull in a deadly storm, made Corwin uneasy. Of the latter, he didn’t want to speculate.
Corwin had never been to Andreas before, and the sight of it in the distance filled him with a kind of nervous awe. The city resided in a narrow, rocky valley at the base of three mountains. Unlike most of the freestanding walls in the other Rimish cities, the wall here rose out of the sides of the mountains like stone arms on a giant—the kind that would like nothing more than to gobble up unsuspecting humans. Barren scrubland filled the valley. The only sign of life aside from the always-present everweeps was the smoke rising up from the chimney of the gold-order house, a freeholding to the east of the main gates. The golds were formed only recently, and with space inside the cities so limited, they’d built their houses outside the walls in all the cities. Corwin once heard his brother claim the isolation was a good thing, for it kept the public from overhearing the unpleasantness of the Purgings. Corwin didn’t know if that was true or not, but he didn’t plan on going near enough to ever find out.
The royal castle of Andreas, a forbidding fortress carved into the central mountain itself, kept watch over the town below. The city looked impregnable even without wardstone magic. It was impregnable, as proved during the War of the Three when the northern forces broke their army against Andreas’ wall after the western forces had retreated behind it.
Or maybe it’s inescapable, Corwin thought as they entered the city. He’d never seen a place so filled with people in the middle of the day. They swarmed down the streets like bees over a hive. Then again, the congestion made sense. There were no fields to tend and even fewer herds to flock here. Andreas relied on the coal and precious metals it produced for its livelihood—and the people who labored inside its walls and mountain caves day after day.
“We will need to stable the horses,” Kate said once they’d made it through the gates. “They’re not allowed on the streets here.”
Corwin glanced at her, making sure he’d heard her right. The cowl she wore over her head, mouth, and nose muffled her words. They were all wearing them—Signe’s idea to help them remain anonymous. The small, shoulder-length hoods were common in this city, where the dust and grime from the mining hung in the air, coating the streets, buildings, and people in a gray film. The peasants passing by them were dressed in gray and brown, adding to the overall dingy feel. Their stark garb surprised Corwin. When the Andreas nobility visited Norgard, they wore bright, garish costumes bedecked with the precious gems harvested by the cartload here.
They stabled the horses in the livery next to the Relay house, then gathered outside on the street. Raith excused himself with plans to check in with his order’s house.
Once he was gone, Dal turned to Corwin and said eagerly, “Where should we go first?”
Corwin motioned to Kate. “What do you think? You and Signe know this city better than the rest of us. Where is the best place for information?”
Kate’s brow furrowed. “No idea. Women riders aren’t welcome here, no matter what the Relay’s rules are. We hardly left the Relay house.”
“You hardly left the house,” Signe said, scowling. “I wouldn’t let these men make me unwelcome. I go where I wish.”
Dal grinned. “I’ll bet not a one of them complained.”
“Where do you suggest then, Signe?” said Corwin.
“The Boarbelly Inn,” she answered without hesitation. “It’s the biggest gaming house in town. The innkeeper is a friend, and he knows everything there is to know about his city.”
Corwin supposed it made sense. Gaming houses were often hubs of gossip. “All right, we’ll try there.”
“If you don’t mind, your highness,” Kate said, “I would rather not venture any farther than this. May I get the rooms rented instead? I recommend that inn over there.” She pointed to a faded sign that read “The Guided Torch.” A single curved-handled torch framed the sign, the symbol of Andre, patron god of Andreas.
“I can go with her to help,” Bonner offered. He looked road weary, with dark circles under his eyes and a telltale stiffness when he moved.
Corwin took in Kate’s expression, trying to read her thoughts as always. Their journey here had been uneventful, aside from the Redrush ferrymen charging them double for the crossing, but tension hung thick in the air every night they stopped for camp. Kate never seemed to stray far from Bonner’s side. At first Corwin mistook it as a sign of intimacy between them, only their interactions spoke more of friendship than of love. Even if Bonner did have an annoying habit of touching her every chance he got—tickling her sides, patting her head, hugging her. Corwin was forced to conclude then that Kate simply didn’t want to be caught alone with him. The feeling was mutual. Having her around made him restless. Try as he did to ignore her, he kept obsessing over her every move and gesture. It was like having an itch that couldn’t be reached for scratching.
Corwin gave his blessing to the plan, and once Kate and Bonner had departed, Signe led the way. The congestion in the city grew the farther in they went. Twisting, narrow roads drew them deeper and higher, the constant incline soon making Corwin’s legs ache. He supposed the return journey would be a relief, but for now it daunted. At least it wasn’t terribly hot, with the buildings casting long shadows as they rose up several stories high on both sides of the street.
The Boarbelly Inn occupied the farthest corner of the town square, the highest point of the city aside from the nobles’ houses and the castle itself. Above the entrance perched a carved wooden boar, reared up on its stubby hind legs. Signe hopped up and patted the boar’s foot on her way through the door. Corwin could see from the worn wood it was a common act, probably done for good luck.
The interior of the inn was dim and smoky, but considerably quieter than it had been outside. More than a dozen round tables filled the place, half of them occupied. Some of the patrons were eating and drinking, but most were absorbed in games, everything from cards and dice to elaborate board games played with stone pieces, like Kings in the Castle and Five Fates.
Signe’s boast of being welcome here proved true, as several of the patrons and even more of the workers called out to her in greeting as she removed her cowl. She waved back to each in turn before approaching a table occupied by the fattest man Corwin had ever seen. Yards of belly spilled down from his triple chin to a nonexistent waistline. When the man raised his goblet in greeting, the fingers holding it resembled bent sausages.
“Signe Leth!” he said in a voice as big as his stomach. “My eyes haven’t looked on your pretty face in weeks. Come give the fat man a kiss.”
Grinning, Signe stooped and brushed her lips against one plump cheek. “I have not missed your fat face nearly so much as your belly.” She gave his gut a hard pat, and the man howled with laughter.
Corwin and Dal exchanged bemused looks. It seemed no one was a stranger to Signe.
“Sit down, you beautiful girl, and introduce me to your friends,” the fat man said.
Signe pulled out the chair next to him and sat down while Corwin and Dal took seats opposite.
“This is Gordon Bombasi, innkeeper here,” she said. She motioned to Dal, then Corwin. “And this is Ronan Dorn and Clash Farley.”
They’d both chosen their false names before entering the city. Corwin had worn his before, during his years spent away from Rime. He hoped the name, along with the cowl and the beard he’d been letting grow, would keep him from being recognized.
“Welcome to the Boarbelly, the crown gem of Andreas,” Gordon said, his voice still booming loud enough to make Corwin wince. Of all the people to seek information from, surely this man should be the last choice. Everyone in the city would soon know their business.
“Thank you,” Dal said. “But that welcome would go a lot farther with something wet to cool our tongues.”
“Of course.” Gordon brought his meaty hands together in a clap. A serving girl soon appeared, carrying a wine tankard and goblets. Another followed behind her, bearing bread and bowls of broth for dipping. “Eat and drink as much as you want, but be aware that we have no vacancies tonight.” The man shook his head in emphasis, and Corwin noticed he wore magestones in both ears, each emblazoned with the symbol of the spell it contained. The left one held a truth spell for detecting deceptions. Fortunately for Corwin—or Clash Farley—it wasn’t active. The one on the right was the same as Dal wore, a concealment spell to hide scars or blemishes. His business must do well to afford such trinkets.
Dal leaned forward, eager. “Is there some special entertainment planned?”
Gordon smiled, revealing teeth white as porcelain. “There is always special entertainment at the Boarbelly. But tonight we play the Death Bones.”
“Ah, yes. That will draw a crowd.” Dal placed a palm against his chest. “Not a game for the faint of heart.”
Corwin silently agreed. Death Bone cards were imbued with far more powerful mage magic than a normal deck, each one bearing a spell that players might incur during game play. Decks came with different intensity levels, some so dangerous players risked pain and even death. The worst Corwin had seen was a man who drew the poverty card only to discover he had been pickpocketed, but he’d heard tales of far greater tragedies. Then again, he supposed the rewards of winning—wealth, luck, good health—could be worth it to some.
“It is not any game though, young man.” Gordon wagged a sausage-like finger at him. “For tonight we host royalty.”
“Royalty?” said Signe with a birdlike cock of her head. “From where?”
Corwin frowned, surprised by this news and interested in the answer, if only to have some tidbit of gossip to pacify his brother with when he returned to Norgard.
Gordon picked up his goblet and took his time drinking it down before answering, purposely drawing out the suspense. “Why, the royal is none other than Eryx Fane, prince of Seva. Although sadly he is only the last-born of some six brothers. The heir would’ve drawn an even bigger crowd. More than my poor inn could hold.”
Corwin nearly choked on the piece of bread he’d just placed in his mouth. The timing proved fortunate, preventing him from saying something rash. Seva, the massive kingdom to the southeast, had been the most hated and feared enemy of Rime even before the invasion.
Next to him, an uncharacteristically dark look crossed Dal’s face. He and Corwin both had personal reasons to hate Seva and its Godking, Magnar Fane. The kingdom was like a plague of locusts, ever spreading, ever consuming. Only four of its neighboring nations had yet to fall to its conquests—Endra, Rhoswen, Esh, and Rime. Rime shall never fall, Corwin silently vowed, fingers curled around his goblet. It almost had during the invasion, some fifty years ago when Seva sacked the port city of Penlocke. Instead, Corwin’s grandfather had united the cities and driven the Godking’s forces back across the sea.
“Why is a prince of Seva being welcomed here?” Dal asked, running an idle finger over the rim of his cup. “Especially given his father’s crimes.”
Gordon dismissed the comment with a wave. “He has been granted amnesty by Lord Nevan. In Andreas, we do not hold grudges.”
Corwin bit back a humorless laugh. Lord Nevan could give lessons in grudge keeping, as his continued opposition to the Tormane family proved. When the Rimish forces finally defeated Seva, Lord Nevan had wanted to become the first high king, but the cities chose Norgard’s might over Andreas’s riches in selecting their leader. The presence of this Prince Eryx was troubling news, and Corwin filed it away to examine later.
“Would you care to make a wager on the game?” Gordon extended his hand palm up.
Signe gave the man’s belly another pat. “We did not come for beds or gaming, fat man.”
Gordon craned his head to look at her. “What else is there in life worth having?”
“We are looking for a man.” Signe cut her eyes to Corwin.
“Actually, we’re looking for information about a man. This one.” Corwin reached into his pocket and passed Gordon the portrait bearing the miner’s likeness.
The moment Gordon unfolded it, his eyes widened. “You could not have seen this man.”
“Why not?” Corwin glanced at the picture. It looked exactly the same as the man he remembered that day at the Gregors’ house.
“Because that is Ralph Marcel,” Gordon said on an exhaled breath, “and he was taken by the gold robes nearly a year ago.”
Corwin frowned. “Are you saying he was caught by the Inquisition?”
Gordon inclined his head, his expression sober. “Yes, and no wilder has ever escaped the golds.”
It was true, at least none had ever been heard of before—until now. But it fitted the puzzle all too well. If this wilder had somehow managed to escape from the Inquisition, what else would he do but join the Rising?
Taking back the picture, Corwin asked, “What was his magic?”
Gordon raised his hand palm up, fingers splayed. “I don’t know. Marcel didn’t make a fuss when he was captured, and it was never said afterward. Although—” Gordon paused and scratched his cheek, several deep strokes sure to leave red welts. Only when he dropped his hand away a moment later, the skin remained unmarked. “There were rumors that he had a strange affinity with animals. Some fifty cats and dogs living in his house.”
“An affinity with animals,” Corwin repeated. The stories claimed that was a spirit gift, too. Are these daydrakes animals? Corwin wondered. He supposed so, though, like their nighttime kin, they felt more like monsters, something too dark and dangerous to share the same nature as a cat or dog. But if a wilder could control them, that would strengthen Dal’s suspicion about the connection between the two attacks.
Seeming to grow bored with the conversation, Signe pulled out the throwing knife she kept tucked on her belt and began to toss it overhead, juggling it with mindless ease. “I don’t understand this Inquisition. Why do your people fear each other so? In Esh, we fear no one. Not even our enemies.”
“That’s because there is no magic in the islands, pretty one, nor anywhere else besides Rime for that matter,” Gordon said, his eyes moving up and down as he followed the knife’s movement. “No one not of Rime has been born with the ability to manipulate the unseen world, not for centuries. And our magists are forbidden to ever leave our shores.”
Corwin tapped a thumb against the table. “That’s true enough. And wilders are something to be feared. No man should have the power to level cities at will.”
Signe caught the knife and held it, point up. Her gaze fixed on Corwin. “What cities have they ever leveled? The only magic I’ve seen is used for good. Like the wardstones that protect us. Or your truth stones, fat man. Oh, and the moonbelts.”
A devilish grin danced across Dal’s face, and he wagged his eyebrows. “Yes, those are definitely for the good.”
“But wilder magic is often used for great harm,” Corwin said. Like the kind that killed my mother.
Gordon smacked a fist on the table. “Good or evil, the only thing certain is that magic causes strife. Take our high king, for example. The Tormane family is bound by a most terrible magic. One that often pits brother against brother.”
“You mean the uror,” Corwin said before he could stop himself.
Gordon bobbed his head, setting his chins to wiggling. “It creates chaos when there is more than one possible heir. No one knows who will rule. No one knows where to place their loyalty.”
“How do you know that?” Dal said, speaking the exact question Corwin wanted to ask but didn’t dare for fear of revealing too much. “You’re not from Norgard.”
“I’ve heard the stories. High King Borwin Tormane only claimed the right to the Mirror Throne after he slew his two brothers in the name of uror.”
My grandfather did not kill his brothers, Corwin longed to reply. One died during the uror trials, yes, but it wasn’t murder. The very idea of kin slaying was unthinkable. The other brother lived to old age.
“What is this uror?” Signe tapped the edge of her blade against the table.
“It means fate,” Gordon replied.
“Not quite,” Corwin said, unable to stay quiet on this point, at least. “It means a calling of fate or sometimes a call for trial. In Norgard, the right to rule doesn’t always pass from father to firstborn son. If there is more than one heir, the sign of uror will come and the brothers must prove to the people their worthiness of succession through trials and deeds.”
Signe nodded as if this made perfect sense to her. “In Esh, if a king or queen is weak, others will challenge their rule. Only the strongest and wisest should lead.”
“Yes, gorgeous girl.” Gordon put a hand on Signe’s shoulder, dwarfing it completely. “But in your country, the challenge isn’t foretold in signs and portents.”
“What signs?”
“The first is always the appearance of a uniquely colored animal,” Dal said. “The last uror sign was a wolf, I believe.”
Murr, Corwin thought, nodding. He remembered the animal clearly even though she had died when he was just a boy. “And the coloring is always the same—half white and half black.”
Signe frowned, as if she were trying to picture a creature like that but failing. Corwin didn’t blame her. Such coloring didn’t exist in nature. Only the gods could make it so.
She started to ask another question but broke off, her head cocked to the side as if she was listening to something. A moment later, the rest of them heard it too—the sound of a commotion outside.
“What is that?” Gordon demanded, searching the room for someone to provide an answer, but his employees were already heading for the door. Corwin, Dal, and Signe followed.
Outside, the town square had become an ocean of bodies, the source of the disturbance impossible to see. Not to be delayed, Signe climbed onto the porch railing in front of the Boarbelly, grabbed hold of the roof’s edge, then hauled herself up onto the low-sloping shingles with remarkable ease, unhindered in the breeches she always wore.
Dal and Corwin quickly followed suit. Once up, Corwin spotted the trouble—a group of magists, including a white robe, a blue, and two golds, were gathered out front of a flower shop across the way. A skinny boy stood in the center of them. Gangly limbed and with ears still too large for his face, he looked ten or eleven at most. An Inquisition collar encircled his throat, marking him a known wilder. So young, Corwin thought, a sick feeling rising in his stomach. The glowing stones set into it served a single purpose—to keep a wilder from using their magic.
It wasn’t the boy causing the stir though, but his mother. She was screaming at the magists, begging them to release her son. Corwin couldn’t make out her exact words over the noise of the crowd, but there was no mistaking her desperation. Her arms and hands shook, and tears glistened on her cheeks.
Signe made a strangled noise. “Why are they arresting that little boy?”
“He must be a wilder,” Dal said, sounding dubious.
Corwin bit his lip, distraught by the woman’s cries. He’d heard of the Inquisition taking children, but this was the first time he’d borne witness to it; the golds did not generally hunt among the nobility. He wanted to step in, to question why they were taking the boy. He seemed harmless, and far too young to be put to death. But there was nothing he could do. High prince or not, he had no authority over the League. That was the price of the League’s service to the kingdom—they did not interfere or make policy, but they were not under the crown’s command either.
The magists began to haul the boy away. For a second, Corwin thought the woman would collapse. Andrean guardsmen in orange and black had stepped in to hold her back, but instead they seemed to be holding her up. Then without warning, she wrenched free of them and raised her hand at the nearest one, a look of rage transforming her features. Corwin’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the guardsman stiffen as if some force held him in its grip. A red haze appeared around his body. No, it was coming out of his body. Blood. The woman was a wilder, too—a hydrist, with command over water.
The skin on the guard’s face began to draw in on itself, like an apple left to dry in the sun. Then his whole body began to do the same until there was nothing left of him but skin dried to leather and the bones beneath nothing but dust. It was over in the space of a breath, stunning in speed and destruction. Utterly terrifying.
A second later, the crowd began to scream and scatter in panic. Even the guards were retreating. The magists turned toward the woman, maces raised with the magestones in them aglow. Water burst forth from the hydrist’s hands, but it vanished before reaching the magists. Refusing to give up, the woman tried again, the water flowing harder this time, as if she meant to drown them beneath it. But again it was beaten back by the wardstones.
She screamed her outrage, oblivious of the danger coming at her from behind. One of the guards had conquered his fear, drawing his sword. He plunged it into the woman’s back, ramming her all the way through to the other side. The water magic vanished as the woman’s face slackened into shock. Then the guard yanked the sword free, and the woman fell. Her son, so silent and still before, began to shriek and struggle. But whatever his power, the collar rendered him harmless.
The magists hauled the boy away, bound for the gold house and the Purging. They picked up his dead mother—for burial. A terrible mixture of pity and fear swirled inside Corwin as he watched them depart, knowing that soon the child would be laid in the ground beside her.