CORWIN STARED INTO THE DARK pit before him, and a tremor of fear passed over him from head to toes. The high priestess expects me to jump into this?
Last night, he’d finally finished reading his grandfather’s account of his uror trials, and although much of it remained vague and pointless, the section concerning the third trial had been specific enough to give Corwin worry.
I jumped into the Well of the World and passed out of this life entirely. At least for a time, Borwin Tormane had written.
The Well of the World. Corwin leaned nearer the pit, one so deep it was said to have no end. It seemed to snarl at him like a black mouth. Although the pit was called the Well of the World, the underground cave that housed it was called the Vault of Souls—in part, Corwin suspected, because of the way it echoed. A single voice speaking a single word easily became a thousand hushed whispers against the uneven rock walls and stalactite-strewn ceiling. Located beneath Mirror Castle, this was a holy place, one he’d rarely been allowed to visit before. Even today, he’d had to ask the high priestess for permission. She’d granted it without comment, although she’d sent two of her priestesses to escort him. They stood watch by the single narrow door behind him.
Corwin stretched out the torch he held as far over the pit as he dared. Nothing. There was nothing inside it to give reflection. Just a dark hole in the ground. He tried to imagine jumping into it. He couldn’t. Even though he still had the second trial to get through first, he felt ready to quit right now just to avoid thinking about taking that leap even for a moment. It made him dizzy and sick to his stomach.
“Please tell me you’re not going to jump,” a voice called behind him, and Corwin gave a start. He spun around, the torch hissing at the motion.
“Dal, you idiot,” Corwin said, spying his friend standing across the way. “You nearly scared me to death.”
“Not my normal effect on people, I’ll admit,” Dal replied, glib as usual. “But do you mind coming out of there? These beautiful ladies won’t let me go any farther, and you know how shouting gives me a headache.”
Resisting a grin, Corwin strode across the vault toward the entryway. Silently the priestesses let him pass, and he and Dal headed up the long, narrow stairs single file, arriving in the throne room a few minutes later.
The vast hall, columned along both sides, stood empty this time of day. With rain battering the long, arched windows, it was as dark and somber as a tomb. The door to the Vault of Souls rested a mere six feet from the back of the Mirror Throne, close enough that the light from Corwin’s torch was refracted a thousand times over in the reflective surface. As its name suggested, the throne was made entirely of mirrors, symbolizing the need for the king to both see and be seen at all times, honest and true. Corwin saw his face shining in it and looked away.
He turned and clapped Dal on the shoulder. “I expected you back days ago.” More than a week had passed since Dal and Signe left for Tyvald.
Dal wrinkled his nose, stepping aside to make room for the priestesses, who had stopped to seal the vault and lock it with a large key. “The morning we were set to leave, the city went on lockdown. More daydrakes sighted in the area. Took three hells’ worth of convincing the magists to leave as soon as we did.”
Corwin ran a thumb over the scar on his chin, feeling a knot clench in his stomach. The situation was worsening every day, and yet he was no closer to an answer. Depositing his torch in the empty cradle beside the vault door, he turned and headed for the nearest exit, motioning for Dal to follow. He was due in a council meeting in the next few minutes.
“What did you discover?” Corwin asked as they stepped into the corridor.
“Very little we don’t already know, about the daydrakes at least. The packs kept coming in waves, their behavior the same as nightdrakes. But Signe and I did meet a woman who claimed she saw another escaped wilder in the city the day before the first attack.”
“Another one escaped from the golds?”
Shrugging, Dal brushed the arms of his tunic, sending up a cloud of road dust. It seemed he’d made it inside before the rain started. “She wasn’t certain. The wilder had been just a boy when the golds took him nearly two years ago, and by her own account he looked much changed from when she’d known him.”
“I see,” Corwin said, doing his best to keep the disappointment from his voice. He’d hoped for more, although he should have been used to disappointment by now. He’d felt the same after hearing Master Raith’s report. The attacks were random, difficult to trace, and with few signs of human involvement, wilder or otherwise. Raith had even gone so far as to speculate that perhaps the Rising wasn’t behind the attacks at all, but Corwin remained skeptical. If not they, then who? There seemed no answer. He’d finally received a reply from the gold order in Andreas. They didn’t deny or confirm anything about Ralph Marcel. Instead, the letter stated that such records were private, protected by the rules set down in the League Accords. There was nothing Corwin could do about it, high prince or no.
“What were you doing down at the Well of the World, anyway?” Dal asked, drawing Corwin out of his reverie. “That place gives me a chill that has nothing to do with how cold it is down there.”
“Actually, the hole itself seemed quite warm,” Corwin said. “But I was merely contemplating the third trial.” This wasn’t entirely the truth. He’d come down today in particular to avoid seeing Kate. His rooms where he’d been reading overlooked the cavalry fields, and he’d spotted her through the window. Before he knew it, he’d wasted a full ten minutes watching her take Firedancer through her paces and was soon fighting the urge to go down and speak to her. He’d been fighting that urge all week, actually, ever since their disastrous interlude. He wished it had never happened, that he’d never allowed himself to taste what he couldn’t possess. The memory of it was bound to drive him mad.
“The third trial?” Dal asked as they turned left, down another, narrower corridor. “Don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself? We haven’t even gotten to the second trial yet.”
“True, but the second is only four weeks away and the third soon to follow,” Corwin replied. Then, trying to change the subject, he added, “The high priestess has determined the second will take place during the War Games. She says that all of Rime should have a chance to witness the uror.” He had been looking forward to the War Games, an annual festival celebrating the unification of Rime, but now he dreaded its approach.
“All hail the high king,” Dal said, rolling his eyes.
Hearing an unusual noise ahead, they both slowed down as they approached an alcove. “Is someone there?” Corwin called.
There was the sound of rustling fabric, then Minister Rendborne appeared at the base of the alcove, his golden eyes overly bright. He rubbed his hands together nervously, the glow of his magestone ring winking.
“Your highness, forgive me. But yes. We were just, uh . . .”
Corwin covered his mouth to keep from laughing as he spotted Maestra Vikas standing just behind the minister of trade. He didn’t need to see the red flush around her lips to understand the two had been enjoying a secret tryst.
“No need to explain,” Corwin said. “I’ll, uh, see you at the meeting.”
Rendborne bowed his head, and Corwin and Dal moved on, neither speaking until they rounded another corner.
“Well, that was strange.” Dal made a face. “I didn’t think magists enjoyed that sort of thing.”
Corwin snorted. “They’re still human, you know.” Although the match did surprise him. He pictured the charismatic Rendborne with someone more interesting, and certainly more fun, than Vikas. Then again, perhaps opposites did attract.
“Yes, but making love to that cold lady would be like sleeping on a bed of ice,” Dal said, giving a shiver.
Laughing, Corwin clapped Dal on the shoulder again. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me too, although what in the three hells have you done to Kate in my absence?”
Corwin tried to hide his wince but failed. “Nothing . . . why do you say that?”
“I saw her on the way in just now, and she barely spoke to me. If her eyes were daggers, I believe she would’ve speared me through the heart.”
Corwin huffed, wishing he could deflect the question, but this was Dal. He wouldn’t give up until he got the full story.
“Corwin, what did you do?”
“I might’ve asked her to be my paramour,” he began, and quickly filled Dal in on the rest, leaving out the more intimate details of the encounter.
When Corwin finished, Dal shook his head, puffing out his cheeks. “That’s a tough blow, my friend, although not too surprising she would react that way. Paramours usually come after the marriage, not before. And if you ask me, why bother tying yourself down like that already? It seems you’ve been tied down enough with all this uror business. We haven’t had a bit of fun in weeks.” Dal paused; then a sly smile slid across his face. “Well, you haven’t, anyway.”
“The kitchens are that way, if you want to drop in and grab some salt to pour on my wounds while you’re at it.” Corwin pointed behind him.
“I’ll pass just now.” Dal’s expression turned serious. “I’m truly sorry, my friend. I don’t envy you, and I wish things could go back to the way they were before we left on that damn tour.”
Me too, Corwin thought. In the six months he’d been home from Endra and his sojourn with the Shieldhawks, he’d had no responsibilities and even fewer cares, aside from avoiding memories. But it was a little boy’s wish, a little boy’s dream—one that could never come true. And if I hadn’t gone, I never would’ve found Kate again. Even now, with the pain of her rejection still smarting inside him, he couldn’t regret that.
Corwin shook his head. “The tour wasn’t all bad. You seem to be enjoying Signe’s presence.”
“How could I not?” Dal grinned. “It’s a shame Kate isn’t more like her friend. But give her time. Maybe she’ll come round eventually. If not, some other girl will catch your fancy sooner or later. They always do.”
Corwin nodded faintly. Only it wasn’t true. No other girl had ever held his attention like Kate. Those others had been distractions, ways to pass the time. Kate made time stand still. It had been that way ever since they were children.
Coming to a stop, Corwin faced Dal. “What if . . . I’m in love with her?”
A stunned look crossed Dal’s face, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. Corwin couldn’t blame him for the reaction—they never discussed matters of the heart.
Dal cleared his throat. “If that’s the case, then I’ve no advice to give. As for myself, I don’t believe there is such a thing as love. At least not the kind the poets write about. Two people devoted to each other without fail, for all their lives? It doesn’t exist. People wander in their hearts even if they don’t with their bodies.”
“That’s a little cynical, don’t you think?” Corwin turned and resumed walking, although he kept the pace slow, not eager to arrive at the council chambers.
“I have only my parents to test the theory against, but believe me, their marriage confirms it many times over.”
Corwin held back a reply, sensing the underlying bitterness in Dal’s tone. Although they’d never discussed it outright, Corwin knew his friend’s parents were the reason he’d joined the Shieldhawks. Their marriage was rife with such scandal that Thornewall’s lord and lady were often the center of gossip in the highest circles, despite their lower-rung status among Rime’s nobility. The version Corwin heard was that both the baron and baroness played a regular game of trying to best each other over who could claim the youngest, most attractive lover. It was said that of the six Thornewall children, only the eldest two brothers could claim certain legitimacy. The rest were all supposed offspring of Lady Thornewall’s various lovers. Including Dal. If the rumors are true. Corwin didn’t know, and he didn’t plan on asking.
Still, despite how difficult it must have been for Dal, Corwin couldn’t accept his conclusion that love didn’t exist. His own parents had loved each other deeply. Even now he felt certain his father would still mourn his mother, if he had wits enough to do so. Then again, Corwin thought, such a love could exist only when it was felt by both involved, like a flower needing both sunlight and water to thrive. He didn’t know if Kate ever truly loved him. He’d seen her kiss Edwin that day, with an enthusiasm he thought only for him. The memory soured his stomach.
“I’m not sure if I hope you’re right or wrong,” Corwin said. “All I do know is that Kate won’t come around to Signe’s way of thinking. Kate Brighton changes her mind about as well as I can ride a horse standing on my head.”
“I’d like to see that,” Dal said, grinning. “But for now, I need to wash off the dirt from the road.”
“Enjoy yourself. I’ll be stuck in another thrilling high council meeting.”
Dal clapped him on the back. “Stay resolute, my friend. I’ll come visit you this evening. Let’s have a night out, see if we can’t get you past your heartache with some overdue diversions.”
Corwin gave a halfhearted nod, then watched Dal retreat down the corridor, his mind reeling with an unreasonable jealousy. What he wouldn’t give to trade places with Dallin Thorne, sixth-born son of a minor house. If only for a day. Or ten.
Or maybe the rest of my life.
Corwin supposed his biggest problem with the high council meetings was the way they discussed the same agenda items over and over again while rarely making any true decisions. It felt like being a ribbon tied to a wagon wheel, both dizzying and wearisome.
Today they were discussing the limited availability of moonbelts to the peasantry for at least the third time. Corwin would’ve given anything to skip this one, as his mind kept replaying the events with Kate over and over again—the way it had felt to kiss her, to touch her. He hadn’t been truly aware of how many assumptions he’d made about her wearing a moonbelt until she reacted the way she did. That he was wrong in assuming, he understood, but he hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to apologize. It didn’t help that she was avoiding him as much as he was her. Every day for the past week she’d been heading out into the city and staying away for hours at a time. He’d asked the guard-tower captain to make note of her comings and goings—for her safety as well as his peace of mind—but he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly she was doing out there, without him.
Tomorrow, he told himself. I will go to her in the morning and beg forgiveness. But even as he thought it, doubt pressed in. What could he say to make things right between them? What could he do?
“You’re the high prince and might be the high king,” he heard Kate saying once more. “The world will answer to you. . . .” How he wanted to believe it.
“It’s a population issue, ultimately,” Minister Fletcher was saying as Corwin forced his attention back on the discussion. The master of the hearth was easily the youngest of the high councilmembers, a thin man with skin the dark brown of driftwood and curly black hair. Corwin knew him least well of the councilmembers, as he’d been appointed to the position less than a year ago. “The peasantry have three times the number of babies as the gentry each year.”
“Of course they do,” Minister Porter replied. The master of coin seemed Fletcher’s opposite in every way—old and rotund, his skin a ruddy pink and hair a pasty yellow, a color achieved with help from a magist tonic, Corwin suspected. “Each child who lives past infancy is another valuable worker. That’s quite the incentive for the common people. Whereas for the highborn, more children mean more dowries and inheritance concerns.”
Fletcher tapped an impatient finger on the table, not intimidated by the older man in the slightest. “Yes, but many peasant women, especially those who are aging or have suffered difficult pregnancies, would stop having babies altogether if only they had access to a moonbelt.”
“But they do have access.” Porter’s tone was heating already, as it often did in these meetings. “They’re for sale in every green-robe shop in Rime.”
Fletcher barked a laugh. “Oh, to be sure. They can visit those shops and stare longingly at the merchandise, but most of these families either can’t afford to purchase one or choose to spend that much-needed money elsewhere. Like feeding their other children.”
“What are you suggesting then, Minister Fletcher?” Porter sneered, jowls quivering. “That the high king buy the moonbelts for them out of the royal coffers? For I can assure you the League is not going to start handing them out for free.”
“That’s exactly what I’m proposing,” Fletcher replied, puffing out his chest as far as it would go, which unfortunately wasn’t far enough to impress anyone. “If we don’t curtail the population, we will soon outgrow our housing capabilities, not to mention the food stocks for the winter. People will be living on the streets, begging at our doors, starving to death.”
Porter huffed. “Overpopulation is nothing new, and we should deal with it the way we always have. Encourage the elderly and infirm to give themselves over to the gods in sacrifice. We could even lower the age of sacrifice if need be, or allow families to submit entreaties on behalf of the crippled and those unwell in mind, regardless of age.” He paused and raised his hands skyward in a gesture of honor to the gods. “Life is a wheel and so it must turn.”
Corwin shifted in his seat, remembering all too clearly the ash and blood stains atop the Asterion. It was a cold, frightening way to die.
“You act as if it is an easy thing for someone to volunteer for death, Minister Porter,” Corwin said, unable to stop himself. “Peasant or no, these people love and value their family members as much as the gentry do theirs.”
Porter snorted through his broad, flat nose. “Not to offend, your highness, but such a sentimental attitude has no place at this table. We must make decisions based on reason and facts, not feelings.”
Corwin leaned forward, wanting to pummel the man. I will show him a world governed by feelings. . . .
But as always, Edwin was there, ready to step in and smooth things over. “My lords, this is a much simpler issue than you would have us make it. Either we find a way to stop the peasants from having so many children or we build more homes.” Edwin motioned to Nell, the master builder, who was seated directly across from him. “What do you say, Minister Nell—which would impact the royal coffers more favorably, moonbelts or new buildings?”
Nell hid a laugh behind a cough. “The moonbelts, your highness. No question. Short of moving the walls of Norgard, there will be no more houses built in this city. The buildings in the poorer districts are already as tall as possible. Any higher and they will start to topple.”
“And there you have it,” Edwin said.
Why not build a new city? Corwin thought. But as always the same old problem to this solution reared its head—the matter of who would pay for it. No one wanted to. At least, none of those who actually could.
“But Prince Edwin, how will we afford such an expense?” Porter said, wringing his hands. “We simply cannot raise taxes. Not if you hope to avoid the starving-children scenario Minister Fletcher so eloquently warned us about. Not to mention the increasing cost of these damnable Rising attacks.”
Edwin turned to Grand Master Storr. “Do you have a solution to offer, Master Storr? Is there a way for the crown to purchase these moonbelts at a reduced cost?”
Storr ran a hand over his short, perfectly trimmed beard, as if considering the question carefully. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement, your highness. The League is always open to trade, of course, and we ask for so little in return.”
The hells you do, Corwin thought. That was one of the lessons he’d learned these last few weeks—the impartial, noninterfering League he’d been brought up to believe in was a myth. In every high council meeting Corwin had attended, Grand Master Storr exerted the League’s power whenever the opportunity presented itself. And to Corwin’s disgruntlement, those opportunities were on the rise as more and more reports of daydrake attacks came in. Despite Master Raith’s speculation that the Rising might not be involved, given the absence of the sun lion, the people were blaming wilders just the same. Their demand for more golds to seek them out must be filling the League’s coffers, while the cities were feeling the strain all across Rime. The cost of grain and coal had nearly doubled as the shipments were either slowed or didn’t arrive at all.
“This trade you speak of,” said Minister Rendborne, his golden, eagle eyes fixed on the grand master. “Do you mean your proposal that the high king require all the governing bodies in Rime to include a master magist as part of their ruling councils in exchange for a reduced price on wardstones and other defensive magics?”
Storr inclined his head. “The very same, although the high council must choose which is more important, a reduced cost in moonbelts or a reduced rate in defensive services. The League will accept either, but we cannot afford both.”
Of course not. Corwin folded his hands in his lap, fingers clenched. Gods forbid the League, already wealthy beyond measure, cut into its profit for the good of Rime. Next the League will offer the crown a loan to pay for their very same services. It was ludicrous, incestuous. The wheel spinning on indeed.
“It seems to me that both might come at a higher price than the kingdom ought to pay,” Rendborne replied, and Corwin felt his affection for the master of trade increase tenfold. Not only had he tried to help Corwin with the gift of his grandfather’s journal, but now Corwin saw him as a possible ally, a reasonable voice in a chorus of madness. Nothing could be worse, in Corwin’s mind, than giving the League more power than it already held.
“Regardless, there is no question which is more important,” Minister Porter said, ignoring Rendborne’s comment completely. “We need to protect the caravans from the drakes.”
“Yes, I would agree,” Master Storr said. “Defense is more critical than ever before. But if I recall, the high council decided that the revolvers were to be the solution to the drake problem—and not more magic.” Storr turned an innocuous gaze on Corwin. “Is that not still the case, your highness? Has Master Bonner finally succeeded in his task?”
Corwin didn’t miss the slight in Storr’s words, and for at least the hundredth time that day, he wished he’d skipped this stupid meeting. He had no answer to give. Despite the time Bonner had been here, overseeing the blacksmiths day in and day out, they’d produced a meager handful of revolvers so far, most of them plagued with problems like misfiring or jamming. The only ones that did work were the ones Bonner assembled personally. Corwin couldn’t understand it, but he knew it was time to start pressing for an answer. No matter how much he liked Bonner, the man had to hold up his end of the bargain.
Edwin cleared his throat, somehow commanding the floor with the simple sound. “The discussion of the revolvers and the ineptitude of my brother’s gunsmith is beyond the scope of this meeting. The council will take the League’s offer into consideration before deciding which trade is in our best interest.”
And just like that the argument was over. Corwin caught himself glaring at Edwin from across the table. My brother’s gunsmith. The words dug at Corwin. Edwin’s slights were so common these days, he should be used to them by now. At every turn Edwin took the opportunity to point out how much more fit he was to rule. Corwin didn’t know why it bothered him. He agreed—Edwin was the better choice. Corwin was too rash, too easily led by emotions rather than reason and too likely to misjudge the wicked, giving people more credit than they deserved. And as much as Corwin questioned some of the decisions Edwin made, at least his brother had been here to make the decisions. Unlike him, the Errant Prince.
If he’d been with Mother that day, she might still be alive.
Pushing these troubling thoughts to the back of his mind, Corwin forced his attention to the meeting once more. The subject of moonbelts and overpopulation had given way to marriage alliances— Sweet goddess smite me now and end my misery.
“Lord Jedrek of Kilbarrow,” Minister Rendborne was saying, “has requested the marriage contract between his daughter, Princess Sabine Esborne, and High Prince Edwin be modified. It seems that with the arrival of the uror, he wants the agreement of marriage to be between his daughter and whichever prince is chosen as the heir.”
Corwin’s stomach tied itself into a knot at this news. A marriage contract. Between the princess and whichever brother won. Edwin or me. At once images of Kate from that night flooded Corwin’s mind, and it was all he could do to stay still in his seat. Your wife, she had said, objecting to the idea of sharing Corwin with some stranger. She was right to object. He didn’t like it any more than she did.
“Jedrek’s request is not surprising,” Edwin said, making a note on the parchment in front of him. His knuckles shone white around the pen, the only sign of his annoyance with the subject. “Proceed with modifying the contract. The Esbornes will not be satisfied until they have a daughter as high queen, and their bloodline as part of—”
The door to the council chamber burst open and a man stumbled in with two royal guards half carrying him.
“Pardon the interruption, my lords,” one of the guards said, “but this man insisted on seeing you.”
Corwin got to his feet along with the rest of the council. Murmurs of alarm echoed around the room. The stranger’s face and arms were bleeding, his tunic dyed crimson in patches. He looked dazed and feverish, barely able to hold his head up. Corwin didn’t recognize the man, and he wore no insignia, although the expensive cut of his clothes marked him a highborn.
“You’re addressing the high princes of Rime, sir. Speak your piece,” the guard said, giving the man a shake.
“Stop that,” Corwin said, stepping forward. “Can’t you see he’s half dead?” Corwin glared at the guard a moment, then turned to the injured stranger. “What happened?” A foul, familiar stench was coming off him. “Were you attacked by daydrakes?”
The man nodded, and he sagged against the arms holding him up. “Our freeholding. It’s surrounded by them. We haven’t been able to go in or out for days. I only just made it through.”
“Where?” Corwin said. “Which freeholding?”
But the man sank to his knees in a faint.
“Get the healers,” Edwin shouted, and one of the guards hurried out the door.
“Did he say where he came from?” Corwin asked the remaining guard, but the man shook his head.
“He might’ve told when he first got here,” the guard replied. “I’ll go check. The magist who rode with him is dead, but someone must know.”
“I know,” a new voice said from the doorway.
Corwin glanced up to see a freshly washed and dressed Dal standing there, a bewildered look on his face. “You do? Where? Who is he?”
“Thornewall Castle,” Dal replied, sounding strangely far-off. “I saw him through my window. Couldn’t quite believe it.”
“Dal,” Corwin said, his alarm building by the second, “who is this man?”
Dal looked up, his eyes not quite focusing. “He’s my brother.”