THERE WAS MUCH TO DO. A dozen decisions to make and words to be spoken, but in the hours that followed his arrival at Norgard, only one thing occupied Corwin’s thoughts.
The uror.
He’d been convinced it would never come. The first year after his sixteen birthday, he’d woken every morning expecting it to be the day the sign would appear. He’d been told since birth that it would come, that he and his brother would have to prove their worth to follow in their father’s footsteps.
But day after day came and went with no sign of it. And as one year became two, he would go to sleep each night with the weight of his unworthiness pressing on his chest. By the time the third year came, he began to accept in his heart that it was never going to happen. That acceptance was half the reason he left Rime. There seemed no point in staying. Not with all his failures.
I failed as a son.
When the panic started that day in the marketplace, the wilder burning everything in reach, Corwin’s mother had ordered him to climb the rail outside the seamstress shop, but he’d argued with her. He wanted to help, not flee. She’d insisted, and he’d finally obeyed, climbing all the way to the roof. But when he turned to help her up after him, it was too late. All he could do was perch there on the edge and watch while the frenzied crowd crushed her beneath their feet.
I failed as a brother.
“Why did you let her die?” Edwin said that night. “Corwin, why didn’t you save her?” They were questions he couldn’t bring himself to answer. He didn’t need to. All of Norgard bore witness to his shame. He heard them whispering about it when they laid the queen’s body on the pyre and anointed her skin with holy fire.
I failed as a friend.
“Dal!” he had screamed, searching for him among the blackened, smoking debris. “Dal!” When he finally found him there’d been so much blood, so much damage. “I’m sorry, Dal. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t know.”
I failed . . . Kate.
“Please let him go, Corwin,” she had said, falling to her knees before him. Shudders wracked her body, her voice hoarse from screaming. “Mercy, please. Send us into exile. If you ever loved me, please do this. Don’t let him die today. Don’t let him die.”
With sheer force of will, Corwin stopped the flood of memories. He couldn’t handle them right now.
While the soldiers loaded the dead daydrake onto a cart to send to the League Academy for dissection and study, Corwin led his companions into the central wing. He needed to get them settled into their new quarters. Or old ones, he reminded himself, taking a quick glance at Kate. A stoic expression sat across her features and her spine formed a rigid line, but he could see the fragility beneath that hard exterior.
Doubt rose up in him. When he’d sent word to the castle of their impending arrival two days ago, he’d made an impromptu decision to request the old Brighton quarters be prepared for Signe and Kate. The three-bedroom suite had been unoccupied since Hale’s arrest and execution, no other courtier willing to reside in the home of a traitor. Although the Brighton family had owned a house in Norgard’s Glentrove district north of the castle, Hale and his wife and daughter had resided primarily in the castle. Hale’s duties as master of horse required him to spend so much time in the royal stables, and the quarters had been Kate’s home. But now Corwin wasn’t sure that his decision had been wise. Suppose it was too painful for her?
Damn, he inwardly cursed. He’d failed again. Why didn’t I ask her? It was too late to take it back it now, though. The castle housekeeper, Mrs. Paden, approached them the moment they stepped through the door.
Bowing stiffly to Corwin, she said, “I have both the Brighton quarters and the bachelor suite adjacent ready for your guests, your highness. I will escort them there myself, if you wish.”
Corwin heard Kate’s sharp intake of breath from behind him and winced. “Yes, that would be fine. Thank you, Mrs. Paden.”
The woman made an abrupt turn and motioned for them to follow.
Corwin spoke a quick good-bye to Signe and Bonner, promising to check in on them later. Then, he touched Kate’s arm and said in a low voice, “If you don’t wish to stay here, I can make other arrangements.”
She stared back at him for several seconds while a tempest of emotions churned in her eyes. Finally she offered him a timid smile. “I’ll be fine.”
He nodded and dropped his hand from her arm. He wished he could go with her, to help combat the demons she would face returning to her childhood home three years after her father’s death.
But Corwin had his own demons to battle.
For the next three days, Corwin did nothing but provide accounts of his travels and prepare for the uror ritual that would officially mark the beginning of the trials. He spoke openly about what he had learned of Ralph Marcel in Andreas—much to Edwin’s annoyance at his disobedience—and his speculations that the Rising was behind the daydrakes, but whenever the subject of the uror came up, he found himself tongue-tied.
In the two-hour session covering the history of the uror that he had with Master Weston, his old tutor, Corwin failed to ask so much as a single question. The realization that there was an uror sign in the city, some animal bearing the black and white marking of the gods, had left him paralyzed. There must be some mistake. He hadn’t even asked what kind of animal it was—and so far no one had volunteered the detail, as if speaking about it were taboo.
Fortunately, he had a few pressing matters to distract him. He spent several hours discussing the presence of Prince Eryx Fane of Seva with Minister Knox. The old master of arms was an expert strategist, able to anticipate enemy moves with uncanny skill, but after a long debate, they both decided the prince’s visit was little threat. Knox couldn’t see any advantage Seva might press in Andreas. Lord Nevan might envy House Tormane’s rule, but his city was strong only in physical defense, not offering the Godking anything he would need to conquer Rime where he’d failed before. To do that, he would need magist magic and nothing less. No army could survive here long without the magists to protect them from the drakes.
There was also the follow-up business with Ralph Marcel. Before leaving Andreas, Master Raith had inquired after the wilder with the gold robes, but they said that no such person had ever been claimed by the Inquisition. Although Master Raith didn’t state it outright, Corwin had gotten the impression that Raith wasn’t surprised they would deny it. Losing a captured wilder would reflect poorly on them and might even give other wilders ideas. But Corwin wasn’t ready to give up so easily. Too many people had seen Marcel taken. Although he doubted it would lead anywhere, he spent an entire afternoon drafting a letter to the head of the gold order house in Andreas, asking for them to send the official record of all the people taken by the Inquisition in their city in the last year by order of the high prince. He delivered the signed and sealed missive to the Relay house in Norgard himself.
On the night of the ritual, Corwin stood in his quarters with his back rigid, waiting impatiently for a servant to finish buttoning the black tunic down his front. Fine silk piping of sky blue trimmed the front of the tunic and the edges as well as his black breeches. In the quarters adjacent to his, Edwin was donning the same somber outfit. The two of them would enter the Temple of Noralah side by side, mirror images of one another in solemn solidarity of the quest they were embarking on together.
And against each other.
“You look nervous,” Dal said from where he sat lounging in a nearby armchair. He held a glass of wine in one hand, his third by Corwin’s count.
Corwin rolled his eyes. “Sure you’re talking about me? They say wine is courage in liquid form.”
“Indeed they do.” Dal stood and held the glass out to him. “And I feel ready to slay giants and shame gods. Care for some?”
Temptation called to Corwin, but he ignored it. If the priestesses smelled wine on him, they would be forced to stop the ritual. Neither prince was permitted anything to help dull his senses. They’d also been required to fast all day. The sacrifice, in both the hunger now and the pain that would come later, would be a measure of their worthiness.
On second thought, maybe I should drink the whole bottle.
But the servant was finished, and it was time to leave.
As they stepped out into the corridor, Corwin said to Dal, “Is she coming?”
“I think so,” Dal replied, knowing exactly which “she” he meant. “Signe plans to drag her along regardless of her wishes.”
Corwin suppressed a sigh. He’d barely glimpsed Kate these last few days, but every time he did, he could sense her unhappiness like a cold breeze seeping through an icy window. He’d sent her several messages asking if she would like new quarters, but she’d ignored them. Once this is over, I will seek her out in person, he swore to himself for at least the tenth time.
The two princes were to ride at the head of a procession from Castle Norgard to the Temple of Noralah. The high councilmembers, Grand Master Storr, along with the head of each order, and a squadron of soldiers led by Captain Jaol were to act as escort. Their horses were already saddled and ready when the brothers arrived in the courtyard. Corwin climbed aboard his new mount, wishing it were Stormdancer. He liked Nightbringer well enough so far, but they’d had little chance to bond. It will be trial by fire for us both tonight, he thought as he guided the horse through the gates and out into the streets, where every citizen in Norgard had assembled to watch the princes meet their fate.
Nightbringer pranced and crow-hopped, tossing his head at the noise. It took years to train a warhorse, and Nightbringer had been in training less than two. Corwin steadied the animal with his legs and kept his eyes fixed ahead, trying to ignore the crowd.
Astride his own horse, Edwin eyed Corwin and gave him an approving nod. “I was half worried you would disappear again.”
“Worried or hopeful?” Corwin replied, returning his brother’s jab more out of habit than true defensiveness. It was an old conflict between them. Although Edwin was older, Corwin had always been the favored son. Their father valued Corwin’s bold and fearless nature over Edwin’s caution and cunning. Once King Orwin had all but declared outright that given the choice, he would pick Corwin to succeed him.
I doubt he would say the same now.
The Temple of Noralah stood in the middle of the main square in the Valeo district. Surrounding the temple were five of the six order houses, each painted its respective color, with only the gold absent. Same as in the other cities, the gold house resided outside Norgard’s walls. The temple itself was long and rectangular, made of massive stone blocks with pillars set across the raised front entrance. The crowd had surrounded the building but left a clear path to the steps. No one save the priestesses, the princes, and the high king were permitted inside for the ritual.
With Nightbringer finally settling, Corwin allowed himself to gaze at the people. Almost at once, his eyes fell on Kate, standing off to the side with Signe and Bonner. Her presence gave him a brief moment of comfort. When they were younger, the two of them had often discussed what the uror would be like, what it would mean. Kate always knew what to say to make him feel better. The memory of the last time they’d discussed it came to him now.
“Just think how exciting it’ll be, Cor. It will make our races and duels seem like child’s play,” Kate had said while the two of them lay sprawled on a blanket, letting the food from their picnic settle in their stomachs. “You’re sure to win.”
Corwin reached out and brushed a strand of black hair back behind her ear, his hand lingering to cup her face. “What if I don’t want to win?”
“Whyever not?” She smiled that sideways smile, her large eyes veiled in dark lashes.
“It’ll mean . . . giving you up.” He tried to kiss her, but she pressed a finger to his mouth.
“Don’t think about that. When you’re king, you can set your own rules. You must win and enjoy every moment of it. We’ll find a way to make it fun and exciting together.”
“If it ever does come,” he had said. “If ever.”
How wrong she’d been. It wasn’t excitement he felt now but dread, heavy and pressing.
I don’t want this. Maybe once, when he was young enough to still believe he was worthy, before he’d proved without doubt that he wasn’t. He glanced at his vambrace, making sure the tattoo was hidden from view. It would’ve been easier to keep it hidden with a magestone, but he didn’t want the speculation such would draw.
The darkened entrance into the temple seemed to leer at him like the snarling mouth of a predator. But there was no backing out. To deny the uror was anathema, a sacrilege so great that he would be accursed by the gods. Only one of the Tormane line had ever done it before—the brother of Corwin’s great-great-grandfather, Morwen. The name of that brother was unknown, stricken from all record and memory. The accounts referred to him only as the Nameless One.
Edwin and Corwin dismounted and left their horses with their escorts. The sound of drumming greeted them as they entered the temple. Priestesses in shimmering, iridescent robes stood along both sides of the dimly lit sanctuary, playing the drums in a hypnotic harmony, the sound like galloping horses. They wore blindfolds and played with their faces tilted up toward the mural-covered ceiling. At the front of the sanctuary, the high priestess stood in a similar pose before the altar. Her headdress was made to look like a horse head, its coat a fiery chestnut with black diamonds for eyes. They sparkled in the light of the torches on the walls and the glowing coals scattered across the top of the altar. Three statues reared up behind the high priestess—Niran and Nelek on the right and left, with the carved likeness of the goddess Noralah between them.
Sitting in a chair adjacent to the altar, High King Orwin watched his sons approaching. Only there was no recognition in his gaze or pride in his expression. There was nothing but the same emptiness that had been there for the last three years. A magestone glowed at the base of his throat, held there by a leather cord. Corwin didn’t recognize the spell on it, but he could guess it was something to keep the king calm and as close to lucid as possible. Gray, wrinkled skin hung loose over Orwin’s gaunt cheeks. He was leaned back in the chair, slumped to one side. His tunic drooped about his stooped shoulders and sunken chest. Seeing him like that, unable to forget the strong, robust man he’d been before, Corwin wondered if death would’ve been better than this half life.
Pulling his gaze away from his father, he focused on the high priestess as she began to speak. She told the story of Noralah, who had tamed the first horses, then about the first uror and the early kings of Norgard. They were stories Corwin had heard before, and he found his mind wandering, as the never-ending beat of the drums thrummed inside his skull. He thought about Hale and the attack on his father. He thought about Kate and his brother and mother, Dal, and every way in which he had failed and all the ways he would fail again.
When the high priestess came to the end of the stories, she leaned toward the altar and picked up the branding iron. Its tip glowed bright orange from where it had sat nestled among the coals.
She approached Edwin first. “Hold out your right hand, firstborn son of Tormane.” Edwin did as she bade, and the high priestess pressed the brand to his palm, searing it with a dreadful sizzling sound. Edwin flinched but he didn’t scream, not even when the smell of his own burning flesh filled the temple. Watching and waiting his turn, Corwin felt the sweat break out on his body. He thought he might vomit if he opened his mouth.
When she finished with Edwin, the high priestess returned the brand to the fire, heating it once more. Corwin counted all the breaths he took, forcing them to be deep and slow. I will not flinch. I will not scream. He widened his stance and held out his hand when the high priestess approached him. She jammed the glowing tip against his palm, and he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. The pain tore through him like something alive and ravenous. His legs went weak, heart hammering against his breastbone. Nausea clenched his stomach and climbed his throat, and he swallowed back bile.
It was over in a moment, but the pain seemed like it would never end. He wrapped the fingers of his left hand around his right wrist, trying to squeeze the sensation off like a tourniquet. He couldn’t open the palm on his injured hand, but he knew the skin beneath was blistered in the shape of the brand—a wheel with eight spokes set inside the holy triangle. The symbol of choice and of fate.
The uror mark.
Praying it was almost over, Corwin forced himself to count his breaths again, his mind focused on something other than the pain. He felt Edwin’s gaze on him, judging his every reaction.
The priestess raised both her hands and said in a loud, ringing voice, “Bring forth the uror sign.”
For a moment nothing happened, but then Corwin heard it—the sound of hooves striking stone behind him. Was it a stag? A boar? But then the animal made a noise of the kind that Corwin had heard a thousand times before. A sound so familiar it wouldn’t have even registered to him if he were any other place besides the Temple of Noralah. But no. It couldn’t be.
Corwin turned and let his eyes behold the impossible.
The uror sign was a horse.
It was young, but not a foal, two years at least. Later he would learn that the colt simply appeared in a pasture a few weeks after he left on his peacekeeping tour. One half of his body was inky black, the other white as ivory. The shaded line dividing the two followed the length of his spine in a gray-colored dorsal stripe. A priestess held the colt by a halter and lead, the muscles in her arms taut from trying to keep control of the animal. The colt arched his neck and pranced sideways, snorting and tossing his head. His eyes rolled with skittish excitement, one pale blue and one black.
Corwin had never before beheld something so beautiful or terrifying. Tears burned his eyes at the sight of it, and fear rippled through his chest. He both loved and hated it. A horse. The uror sign is a horse!
He tried to force his mind to accept the truth but failed. There had been only one horse as an uror sign before, more than two hundred years ago during the War of Three, when the nightdrakes first appeared in Rime. It was a dark time, one of great turmoil and upheaval, and the goddess sent the most powerful and sacred of signs to hail the new king, a man strong enough to rally Norgard against the nightdrakes long enough for the wall to be built around the city.
And now the daydrakes have appeared, and the Rising is gaining strength, Corwin thought. Dark times had come again.
He bowed his head, unable to look upon the horse a moment longer. A voice whispered in his mind that he should just concede now and let the worthy brother win.
If only he could.