IN THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED, there were no signs or rumors of any daydrakes near Norgard, but a steady string of reports came in of sightings and attacks in the west and north. Some half dozen caravans had been attacked on the southwestern roads, and in Thace, many of the farmers were too frightened to venture out, leaving crops and herds untended. The city leaders feared the coming winter and what would happen if this new menace wasn’t stopped soon.
Corwin read each report desperately wishing he could do something to help—if only they’d captured the culprits in the woods. Even worse was that the reports themselves only served to deepen the mystery. Every time word of a new attack or sighting came in, Corwin marked the place on a map he kept in his chambers. He hoped to uncover a pattern, but so far there seemed to be none. If he hadn’t seen those drakes in that pit, it would be impossible to believe there was someone controlling them, considering the vast scope and randomness of the sightings. Either that or our foes are both widespread and powerful. A disturbing thought.
But it wasn’t one he had much time to dwell on, with the first uror trial looming. The morning it was due to start, Corwin sat alone at the desk in his room, reading his grandfather’s journal, which Minister Rendborne had given him. He wasn’t sure why he bothered given how maddeningly vague it was on the details. Borwin Tormane seemed far more interested in capturing his thoughts and feelings than offering advice for posterity. If anything, Borwin’s account only served to rattle Corwin’s already uncertain confidence.
When the first trial began, my brothers and I mounted the steps of Goddess Tor, all the way to the altar itself. Although we arrived together, I was separated from them the moment I stepped onto the stone. What happened next I cannot describe. I must not. But the test was greater than any I had ever faced before or even dared imagine. And yet the aftermath of it proved hardest of all, when they brought my brother Jorwen’s body down from the altar, broken from the inside.
The broken bit, Corwin knew, was his great-uncle’s heart, which had given out during the trial. Whatever it involved had exposed this fundamental weakness inside him. Corwin placed his palm against his chest, feeling each steady beat beneath, strong and sure. There is no such weakness in me, he told himself. Then again, perhaps Jorwen had felt the same before going into the trial. But no, Corwin suspected his own weaknesses lay elsewhere.
Fatigued by so much reading, he idly turned the pages until he reached the end, where his grandfather had put down his thoughts on winning the trial. Interested despite himself, Corwin read:
I felt it before I knew it. A sense of power and completeness I had never known before or since. The mark on my palm grew warm and began to glow. Like fire. Like the sun. Then all of Norgard knew as I did—that I was to be the next king.
Corwin glanced at his own uror mark, the raised red flesh still tender and sore despite the work the green robes had done on it the day before to accelerate the healing process. The high priestess told him he should be grateful, that normally the uror mark was left to heal on its own, but with the need to start the trials quickly, they had decided to allow magists to assist. I am to be whole in body when I enter the trial today. Corwin closed his fingers, hiding the mark.
Returning his gaze to the chronicle, he read the next paragraph.
But the greatest surprise, even more than winning and the lighting of the mark, is the uror sign itself. The bear has changed toward me and I toward it. Toward her. Jahara is her name. And I can hear her thoughts as she can hear mine. We are bonded now, as surely as Noralah with Niran and Nelek.
Corwin read the last sentence several times, trying to make sense of it. Was his grandfather being poetical? He did have that tendency, and yet there was nothing flowery about this prose. Just these simple sentences presented as fact.
Leaning back in his chair, Corwin traced his thumb over the scar on his chin. In the other accounts he’d read, and indeed in every lesson he’d attended about the uror trials, there’d been no mention of this . . . goddess gift? He didn’t know what to call it. It sounded like magic, like the wilder Ralph Marcel and his influence over animals.
With doubt churning in his mind, Corwin pictured his father’s uror sign. The wolf called Murr had died when Corwin was just a boy. Still, he remembered his father’s sadness over it, the way he mourned for weeks on end. Come to think of it, the relationship between them did have mystical properties. How else could you explain a tame wolf? Murr had followed his father everywhere, always at his side, like a shadow with teeth.
If only I could ask him about it now, Corwin thought. But there wasn’t any point dwelling on what would never be. Even if he’d been allowed to ask, his father couldn’t have answered.
A knock sounded on the door, and Corwin closed the journal before answering it. The priestess waiting beyond bowed her head, then motioned for him to follow. It was time for the trial to begin.
With his back rigid, Corwin stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind him. He’d been instructed to bring nothing with him, no armor, no weapons, only himself. Feeling surprisingly calm now that he was moving, he followed the priestess down to the courtyard, where a carriage waited. Edwin already sat inside it when Corwin entered. His brother acknowledged him with a single nod, then turned his gaze out the window.
Sitting down beside him, Corwin did the same, watching as the carriage left the courtyard for the city. People lined the streets, cheering as they passed. Before long they headed through the southern gates and out onto the open countryside beyond. Corwin caught a glimpse in the distance of Goddess Tor rising up from the fields, the craggy hill a massive green tower.
When the carriage pulled to a stop some time later, Corwin climbed out first, followed by Edwin. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they both looked up at the steep, ragged stone steps carved into the hill before them. The Steps of Sorrows, they were called. The priestess who’d fetched Corwin from the castle headed up first, motioning for the princes to follow.
The climb proved long and arduous, a trial itself. The bright sun, unfettered by any clouds, bore down on them with relentless heat. Halfway through the climb, Corwin paused to wipe sweat from his brow and ease the ache in his legs. He glanced beneath him, taking in the sight of all the people assembled at the base of Goddess Tor, hundreds of peasants present for the trial. They wouldn’t be able to see anything of what happened from so far away, but they would hear about it quickly.
Reaching the top at last, Corwin drew a deep breath and willed his heartbeat to slow. Easily a hundred more people had gathered up here on the wide plateau, noblemen and courtiers all. Dead center on the plateau sat the Asterion, the altar of the goddess. The massive stone table rested atop a dozen pillars, each one engraved with ancient symbols.
A canopy tent had been pitched not far from the altar stairs, with two smaller walled tents just outside of it. The high priestess, the grand master, and all the high council stood beneath the canopy, watching the princes as they approached. Corwin ran his gaze over the crowd, searching for Dal. To his surprise, he spotted him nearly at once. Even more surprising was that Signe, Bonner, and Kate were with him. I wonder who he had to bribe to make that happen. But however it was done, Corwin was glad to have familiar faces here. Kate smiled at him, and the gesture seemed to push air into his lungs. He wished he could talk to her, but instead he was ushered inside one of the walled tents, where two more priestesses waited.
They converged on him at once, removing his clothes. He bit down a protest, forcing himself to be still and supplicant. Once he was completely naked, even his socks removed, they wrapped a loincloth around his waist, securing it with a crude rope belt. Somehow he felt even more exposed with it on. Finally, one of the priestesses fastened the vambrace around his right arm once more, hiding the Shieldhawk tattoo. It seemed he would be able to keep that secret from the public, at least.
A moment later, Corwin found himself standing beneath the canopy in front of a ceremonial table set before the high priestess. Two chalices, golden and encrusted with precious gems, waited side by side on the table, both full of some dark-red liquid. Wine, Corwin hoped. He’d seen blood look that same color.
Beside him, Edwin also wore a flimsy loincloth around his waist, although there’d been no need to hide any tattoos on his body. The councilmembers, along with Grand Master Storr and Maestra Vikas, hovered to either side of the high priestess, watching silently. Corwin caught Minister Rendborne’s gaze—so impossible to miss with the striking color of his eyes—and the man gave him a conspiratorial wink and flashed an encouraging smile.
Raising her hands, the high priestess said, “Today, you, the princes of Norgard, sons of Tormane, will be tested for your worthiness as heir.” As in the opening ritual, she wore a headdress made of a horse’s head and diaphanous ceremonial robes. “But first, you must drink of the blood of the goddess. It will give you both vision and sight.”
There’s a difference? Corwin wanted to say, but wisely he kept his mouth shut.
The high priestess picked up the cup on the right, the gold-coined bracelets around her wrists jangling with the movement, and raised it to Edwin’s mouth, bidding him to drink. He did so, closing his eyes as the cup’s golden edge touched his lips.
Corwin closed his eyes as well when the high priestess offered the second cup to him. For a moment, as the liquid touched his tongue, he tasted blood before it transformed into the familiar, rich flavor of gothberry wine. Even still, it left a strange, bitter aftertaste, and he felt the heat of it pool in his stomach.
When he emerged from beneath the canopy a few moments later, the sunshine stung his eyes. The high priestess herself led him and Edwin up the stone steps to the top of the Asterion. It was so high, it felt like the top of the world, the landscape below a distant blur. Corwin shivered as the wind nipped at his naked flesh and ran rough fingers through his hair. He had never been on top of the Asterion before, but he’d seen others make the ascent, the old and the infirm, giving themselves over to sacrifice. The evidence of that act remained in the dark stains covering the stone, scars of both blood and ash.
The high priestess stopped just before the threshold of the Asterion and turned to face them. “Once you cross, there is no returning until it’s done,” she said. Then she stepped aside and bade them enter.
As always, Edwin went first, although Corwin could see his trepidation in the rigid line of his spine. Corwin followed after, walking boldly at first, only to lose his nerve the moment he passed over the threshold. The sun, blinding a moment before, faded to gray as an unnatural mist rose up all around him. He blinked, his head swimming at the sudden change, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see anything. It was as if he’d stepped off the earth and into the clouds. The crowd below, the fields and distant hills and woods, all was gone.
Corwin walked forward a few steps, searching for some sign of what to do. He didn’t dare go too far, not with how little he could see. Although the altar was large enough to hold a hundred men standing in a circle with arms widespread, Corwin didn’t want to be the first heir to plummet to his death by accident.
Seconds passed slowly, agonizingly, the mists swirling about him. He could still feel the wind from before, but despite its strength, it couldn’t dispel the unnatural haze. What now? Corwin thought, turning in a slow circle. Then, as if in answer, he spotted a glint of something just ahead. But it disappeared just as quickly, and he waited for it to happen again.
When it did so a moment later, he moved toward it cautiously. The mists parted at his approach, revealing a large, old tree that he knew beyond doubt did not exist atop the Asterion. It will give you both vision and sight, the high priestess had said. Visions. He wondered if there’d been more than gothberry wine in that cup.
Three swords stuck out from the center of the tree’s broad trunk, their blades halfway buried in the wood. The one on the right was his father’s, the golden hilt carved into the likeness of Niran and Nelek. The one on the left was his own sword, the hilt wrapped in leather with a straight, unadorned cross guard above. A large sapphire imbedded in the pommel provided the only ornamentation. The sword in the middle he didn’t know, but it was so striking he couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from it. Its blade was made of black steel and the hilt of ivory. Five gemstones of different colors adorned the pommel—blue, white, green, red, and brown.
Summoner, Corwin realized. The mythical lost sword once carried by Norgard’s first king. He longed to touch it, but something inside him stayed his hand. He was in the midst of a trial, and this was surely a test, a choice. Did he take his father’s sword, the sword of a king? Did he take Summoner, sword of myth and legend?
I am none of those things. With his decision made, Corwin wrapped both hands around the hilt of his own sword and yanked it free of the trunk. The moment he did so, the tree and the other two swords dissolved into mist. But the sword in his hand remained solid and real. He tightened his grip on it just as a loud keening sound reached him.
He spun in time to see the nightdrake charge him, leaping out of the mist like some kind of white wraith. The size of a bull, its thick-muscled body moved with powerful grace, quick and deadly. This isn’t real, Corwin thought, just a vision. But his mind couldn’t tell the difference and the instinct to protect himself took over.
Gripping the sword in both hands, he lunged toward it, stabbing at its neck. The drake dodged to the left, avoiding the blow by inches. It spun, twisting its body in midair, and charged him again, jaws snapping. Corwin leaned backward, just avoiding the teeth as he made another stab at it. This time he hooked the inside of the drake’s jaw. The creature gave a scream and yanked its head back, opening the tear begun by Corwin’s sword even farther. Blood seeped out between its fangs, and it snapped at Corwin again as it backed away. It disappeared into the mist, but Corwin could still sense it nearby. Circling, watching.
Hunting.
“Come on,” he said. “Come at me one more time.” He slowly pivoted, eyes searching the mists.
The nightdrake charged him from far to his left, its movement foretold in the smoky swirl. It leaped, wings fanned out behind, the whole force of its body in the motion. Corwin spun toward it, the instinct to strike strong inside him. He resisted, waiting for the right moment. Just before the drake reached him, he pivoted, letting the drake’s head and neck get past him. Then he drove the sword down, spearing it in the soft place between the neck and shoulder. The creature screamed as it fell, sword buried half a foot into its body. Its claws raked against Corwin’s bare leg as it convulsed, and Corwin yelped from the sudden pain. Definitely no mere vision. Leaning on the sword, he drove it further in, but the next moment, the creature dissolved into nothing.
Stumbling forward, Corwin just managed to catch himself before falling. He peered around, waiting for another drake to appear. A tremble slid through his body and down his legs, the right one already starting to burn from the drake’s poison. He leaned to the left, keeping the weight off it as best he could. At least it wasn’t deep, the bleeding slow and sluggish. But it was only going to worsen.
A glint in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned toward it as the mists parted once more, this time to reveal a second tree, smaller and younger than the first, not much more than a sapling. Hanging from its branches were a morning star, a dirk, and a buckler. Another test, this one easier than the last. Corwin had never been one for two-handed fighting, and so he picked up the buckler and slid it on his left hand.
The moment he did so, a figure appeared from around the tree. The man wore peasant’s garb, dirtied and patched, and he had ash smeared across his forehead and cheeks. Wary, Corwin retreated a step, resisting the urge to raise his sword.
“Who are—?”
The man flung out his hands, and a ball of fire appeared in his palms. Corwin had only a second to think wilder before the flames reached him. He raised the buckler just in time to deflect the fire. With a loud curse, the pyrist sidestepped and tried again. Corwin spun, following the movement and keeping the buckler in front of him. The pyrist let loose with his magic once more, this time a steady stream of fire. Corwin blocked for a few seconds, but the small shield wouldn’t be able to stand such a blast for long.
With a shout of desperation, he spun away from the pyrist and pivoted around the young tree, his wounded leg throbbing with every step. A second later the tree burst into flames, the heat of it forcing Corwin back. The pyrist followed, lobbying volley after volley. Corwin blocked when he needed to and dodged whenever he could. Before long he was doing wild leaps and flips through the air, whatever he could to stay away from the flames. His right leg went blessedly numb, but he wouldn’t be able to keep this up for long.
I’ve got to stop him. More than that, he wanted to stop him. To slay this pyrist, so like the one who had killed his mother.
There was only one way. Despite the danger—the risk of fire and the oppressive heat—Corwin circled closer to the man. Several flames caught him on the shoulder and one lashed across his cheek. He hissed in pain but didn’t retreat. Instead he moved faster, leaping and spinning like an acrobat. He whispered a silent prayer of thanks for his Shieldhawk training, where he’d learned the art of the dodge and survival. Spin and leap, dodge and duck, spin again. All the while he kept his eyes on the pyrist, waiting for an opening. When it came, he took it without hesitation, burying his sword in the man’s side. The pyrist cried out once before vanishing.
Panting, Corwin bent over and dropped the buckler to grip his wounded shoulder, already covered in blisters from the flames. He wouldn’t be able to raise his arm, the pain strong enough to leave him dizzy. He needed this to end soon, but another figure appeared, this one bearing a sword and shield. He wore the traditional brigandine armor of Norgard, a lightweight piece that covered the torso but left the arms free for full movement. A helmet hid his face. No sooner had Corwin spotted him than the man attacked. The prince barely had time to grab the buckler from the ground and use it to block a downward, hacking swing. His opponent’s sword screeched as it met the steel on the front of his buckler.
Wrenching free of the clash, Corwin retreated. He kept his sword out in front of him, but it shook in his sweaty hand, his arms weak from fighting and from the drake poison working its way through his body. He didn’t want to fight this man, but the stranger gave him no choice. Wherever Corwin went, he followed, relentless. He swung and Corwin blocked. He thrust and Corwin parried. Each hit landed like a hammer, and Corwin knew either he must kill this foe or he would die himself.
It wasn’t easy to kill a man in armor, especially not when you were wearing just a loincloth. Corwin pressed close, blocking more attacks than dodging them as he searched for openings to land his blade. For a while, he didn’t think it would happen—the other fighter was too good, too careful. But then he made a mistake. Thrusting his sword at Corwin, he overextended, leaving an opening big enough for the most inexperienced of swordsmen to exploit. Corwin lunged toward it, sinking his sword through the man’s shoulder and into his chest. A killing blow.
The man shrieked and fell to his knees. Sickened by the sound and the sight of the death he’d wrought, Corwin pulled his sword free. But the man didn’t vanish as the others had done. Instead he raised a blood-soaked hand to his helmet, using the last of his strength to pull it free.
Corwin stared down into the face of his father. As he once had been, young and strong, not the wasted shell he was now.
“You are not worthy to wear my crown,” Orwin said. “Not . . . worthy.”
The words landed harder than any blow. Oh goddess, let this end, Corwin thought. A tremor struck his body, this one hard enough that he dropped his sword and shield both. He fell to his knees, succumbing to the pain and poison while across from him, the vision of his father vanished at last.
Another figure appeared a moment later, this one far smaller than the others but no less a threat. Corwin gaped at the boy, his gut twisting at the sight of him. He wore a flimsy breastplate of boiled leather, much too big for him, and he carried a rusted iron sword. The Sevan crest, a red bull in charge painted on the breastplate, seemed to mock Corwin. Everything about the boy was a mockery, a reminder of his greatest failure and biggest regret.
Unbidden, a memory rose up in his mind of riding with the Shieldhawks toward the Sevan supply line they’d been sent to destroy. He’d taken a shortcut, going against his commander’s orders. Ahead, he saw a boy dressed like a soldier. Only he couldn’t be a soldier. He was too young and frail, eyes too wide and frightened.
“Kill him,” Otto had said. “You’ve got to, Captain. He’ll give us away, soon as he can.”
But Corwin hadn’t. In the end, he couldn’t. The boy was just a child, someone’s son. A slave given in tribute to the Godking who had conquered his lands. “Go home,” Corwin told the boy. “Find your parents.” And then he set the boy free—to betray him and his men to the Sevan forces.
Outrage and anguish ignited inside Corwin, the strength of it driving him to his feet just as the soldier boy attacked. Corwin dodged the blow, pivoting to the right. Then he turned and grabbed the boy by the wrist. With one hard squeeze, he forced the boy’s hand open, making him drop the sword. With his other hand, Corwin grasped the boy by the back of his breastplate and hauled him off his feet. Even in his weakened state, overpowering him was easy. Still the boy fought him, kicking and snarling like a wild beast.
Corwin held him aloft as he bent to pick up his own fallen sword. One stab was all it would take, hardly more effort than swatting a fly. He raised the sword and the boy cried out, the sound as pathetic as a mewling kitten.
Kill him, a voice whispered from amid the mist. Finish this. Prove yourself. Kill him.
Corwin raised the sword again. His body trembled; sweat stung his eyes, blurred his vision.
Kill him! The voice seemed to strike him like a fist, demanding his compliance. Kill him and this will end. Your suffering will be over. Kill him!
“No,” Corwin said. “I won’t kill him. I won’t do what you want.” He would do what was right and just—mercy for a foe too weak to fight. Letting go of the boy’s breastplate, he shoved him toward the mist. “Get out of here.”
The boy vanished, and the next moment the mists parted, bright sunlight pouring over Corwin. He blinked against it, aware of a strange tingle spreading over his skin. Looking down, he saw his injuries had vanished. So had the sword. None of it had been real. And yet it had been. From far below, the cheers of the crowd reached him. He glanced at Edwin, standing on the other side of the altar. It seemed they’d both made it—one trial over and two more yet to come.
You’re not worthy, Corwin heard his father say once more.
And no matter the cheers, he couldn’t hear anything but those words.