THE HELLGATE WAS BOTH LESS frightening than Corwin had imagined it would be and yet far more impressive. Or maybe the reality of finding it, of learning that the mythical place existed, just hadn’t yet sunk in. They’d found it so easily this time. With Raith’s magestones he and Dal had spotted a well-worn path shortly after entering. They followed it as it snaked between the skeletal white trees until they reached the crumbling battlements of an ancient fortress.
At first they thought the fortress was abandoned, but after tethering the horses a safe distance away, they approached one of the gaping holes in the wall and spotted movement beyond, the distinctive flash of a gold robe in the fading sun. Kate must be here, Corwin thought, watching the activity near the keep. For a moment the urge to rush in headlong nearly overwhelmed him, but he pushed it back down again. Deciding to remain outside had nothing to do with Raith’s warning and everything to do with instinct. He’d spent too long studying military strategy, both with his tutors at Norgard and with the Shieldhawks, to do something so reckless as to charge a fortress like this, one with a single door and no windows. He and Dal had made certain of it, doing a sweep of the perimeter to make sure.
Now, with night fast approaching, they’d returned to the spot nearest the path that had brought them here, taking cover close to the wall to observe the comings and goings. They watched as golds came in and out of the fortress, often carrying crates, of the sort they used to transport their magestones from city to city, which they loaded onto wagons. When a group of them later carried out a cage, Corwin’s chest gave a lurch at the sight of the daydrake inside it. It seemed his hunch was true—the golds were behind the vile creatures.
“How many golds do you think are in there?” Dal said.
“I’ve counted thirty, maybe more,” Corwin replied, keeping his voice at a whisper. “But we can’t be certain.”
“They don’t seem concerned with intruders.”
Corwin nodded. They hadn’t spotted a single sentry. He supposed these magists didn’t fear discovery, not with the magical shield hiding them.
A rustling noise drew Corwin’s attention, and he peered behind him to see Raith approaching on foot with his mace drawn. Corwin waved to him, a finger pressed against his lips.
“What have you found?” Raith whispered, reaching them. He peered through the gap where two golds loitered in the bailey out front of the opened door into the fortress. Corwin quickly told him everything they’d seen so far, and Raith listened without comment, nodding at turns.
“What do we do now?” Dal said, addressing the question to Raith.
The magist traced a finger over the birthmark on his face. “We need to capture one of the golds for questioning.”
“Yes, but how, without alerting the others?”
Raith thought for a moment. Then he motioned to the wardstone embrasure just visible from where they crouched in the underbrush. “In a few minutes they will need to set the shield. The embrasures toward the back might allow us to capture one out of sight of the others.”
Dal frowned. “What about the barrier? If it doesn’t go up . . .”
“I’ll complete the spell,” Raith said. “They’ll never know. But we should get into place now. We’ll need to get behind our own wardstone barrier soon after. My people are waiting not far from here.”
“How many did you bring?” Corwin asked as they slowly retreated from the wall, moving toward the rear.
“Twenty-six,” Raith answered.
“So few?” Corwin glanced at the man.
Raith’s expression was impassive. “There would’ve been more, if not for the raid. But they’re all wilder or magist, and they are all willing to fight, which will have to be enough.”
Yes, it would. Corwin’s mind whirled with plans and possibilities, working out scenarios of how they could get inside, get to Kate and the others, and get back out again. It wasn’t going to be easy. First make sure she is indeed inside, he told himself.
Reaching an isolated wardstone, they had to take up position well away from the wall, the only place with enough cover to shield them.
“I will take the gold down the moment he reaches the embrasures,” Raith said. “But be ready to move him as soon as I finish the spell.”
Dal raised his hand. “One problem. Won’t they notice when one of them doesn’t come back?”
Raith shook his head. “Not at first. By the time they do notice, it’ll be too dark to venture out.”
With that settled, they hunched down to wait. It didn’t take long before a gold appeared, carrying a glowing wardstone between his palms. Corwin sank down even lower, breathing shallowly. The sweet smell of the everweeps covering the ground filled his nose, a strange, pleasant comfort in this tense moment. He needn’t have worried; the gold was oblivious to his surroundings. Clearly he’d performed this task so often, he’d become indifferent to danger.
Just before the gold reached the embrasure, Raith rose from his hiding place, uttered a spell, then raced forward as the gold collapsed. Picking up the stone, he whispered a few words, invoking the warding once more, and slid the wardstone into its place. Corwin and Dal rushed toward the gold and picked him up by the arms, dragging him away as quickly and quietly as they could manage.
In moments, they were well away from the Hellgate. They stopped to get the horses, all three of them. When Corwin and Dal left Norgard, Corwin had brought Firedancer with them, saddled and ready for Kate. Dal had brought Lir as well. The falcon remained perched on the front of his saddle, a hood over her head. They tossed the unconscious gold over Nightbringer’s back, then headed for the encampment.
Raith led the way. Unlike the golds at the Hellgate, sentries guarded the perimeter of the wilder encampment, three blues standing watch near the wardstones. The camp inside the magic shield was still and quiet, the people huddled in groups on the ground or standing watch. They stirred at the sight of Corwin and the others, hushed whispers breaking out like a wind gust.
Corwin eyed the people, his heart sinking at the sight of so many women and children among the men. Some of the youngest were barely old enough to be left unattended, let alone go into battle. Several of the women had infants with them. Another looked ready to give birth at any moment, her belly swollen and heavy with child. How will we ever take the fortress with such a small group? For surely the pregnant women and the children couldn’t be put in such danger as they would soon face. Then again, Corwin reminded himself, this was Raith’s army to command, not his.
That became clear within minutes of their joining the camp. Raith issued orders, selecting several of the men to help interrogate the prisoner while sending the rest as far away as the barrier would allow. Corwin understood. There was nothing pleasant about forcing a person to divulge secrets. They laid the gold on the ground inside a cluster of trees, the best buffer to muffle his screams.
Retreating as far as he dared, Corwin leaned against a tree to watch and listen. Raith did most of the work, using the spells in his magestones to inflict pain, while a wilder named Francis held the gold up, arms pinned behind his back. To Corwin’s relief it didn’t take long, such was the power of Raith’s magic. Corwin closed his eyes during the worst of it, the man’s screams like the crack of a whip. But finally, at last, the gold began to talk, and Corwin moved in closer to hear.
“Yes, the wilders are inside,” the man said, panting. “Some of them.”
Behind him, Francis slowly lowered the gold to the ground, then retreated a step, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of one meaty arm. Even still his face glistened in the light of the torches nearby.
“Who?” Raith said, squatting in front of the gold, who seemed barely able to remain upright by his own strength.
“Kate Brighton, the gunsmith Bonner. That’s all.”
Standing opposite Corwin, Dal took a step forward, fist clenched. “What about Signe?”
The gold glanced up at him and nodded once. “The Eshian’s there, too.”
Francis stooped toward the gold, and the man cowered away from him. “And the others taken during the raid on the Sacred Sword?”
The gold covered his face, his words muffled behind his hands. “They were here but they’re gone.”
“Where?” Francis wrapped a large hand around the man’s shoulder, right at the base of the neck, and squeezed.
“They’re on a ship from Penlocke, on the way to Seva.”
Corwin’s spine stiffened at the news. He stepped nearer the gold. “Why Seva?”
The gold raised his gaze to Corwin, the whites of his eyes smeared with blood from whatever Raith had done to him. “Weapons for the Godking’s army.”
“An army of wilders,” Raith said, rising to his feet. He glanced at Corwin, fear etched across his face.
Corwin felt the same fear echo through him. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but surely never this. The golds were serving Magnar Fane? Despite his incredulity, it wasn’t impossible to believe that Seva was involved. The Godking had been a young man when he sent his army to invade Rime all those years ago. It was his first taste of failure, a defeat he’d never gotten over. It was only a matter of time before he tried again. And now thanks to the golds, he would have magic to help him.
“The daydrake attacks,” Corwin said, his mind making a new connection. He turned to Raith. “Most of them were near rivers and waterways, allowing easy transport to Seva.” He’d missed the pattern all along, but now it seemed obvious.
“That explains why they would attack Thornewall, as well,” Dal said. “The smuggling caves lead right to the river. With wilder magic it would be easy to open them again.”
“And he has Signe and Bonner, too,” Corwin said. “All he needs to give Seva the revolvers.” Again, he felt as if the pieces of the puzzle were sliding into place. All except for the most important one. Corwin knelt before the gold as Raith had done a moment before. “Who leads you? Is it Grand Master Storr?”
The man laughed, his lips parting to reveal bloody teeth. “Storr is just a pawn in the game of a god.”
Francis grabbed the man around the neck again. “Leave the riddles out of this.”
“Who then?” Corwin stared into the gold’s eyes, desperate for the answer.
“I serve the Lord Ascender. He is god made flesh.”
Worried the pain might’ve driven the man mad, Corwin said, “Even gods have names. What is his?”
“He was once the Nameless One,” the gold replied. Then he laughed again. “But he’s had many names. Too many to count.”
Fear pulsed inside Corwin, electrifying his nerves. The Nameless One. “The only man with that title is long dead. He would’ve died years ago.”
The gold shook his head, his expression emphatic now. “He lives. He lives forever. God made flesh.”
With a grunt of disgust, Francis grabbed the gold by the shoulders and hoisted him into the air. “What’s his name now?” Francis began to squeeze, as if he meant to crush the man with his bare hands.
The gold cried out, head thrown backward, the cords in his neck popping out. “Rendborne,” he said, gasping. “Minister Rendborne.”
Francis dropped the man, letting him hit the ground hard. Francis turned to Raith and Corwin, eying them both. “Do you think he says the truth?”
Neither spoke. Corwin couldn’t make the idea fit inside his head, incapable of reconciling the Rendborne he knew as the minister of trade—charming, forthright, a man of the people—as the traitor responsible for the daydrake attacks and sending wilders to Seva. That was until he remembered Rendborne telling him that the Nameless One had killed his own uror sign. He claimed he’d read about it, but what if . . . ?
A shiver clawed down Corwin’s spine. The uror sign is pure magic, Rendborne had said. What happened to the person who killed one? Did the magic release? Could it be captured somehow like the way the magists embedded spells on stones? Corwin wanted to ask Raith but didn’t dare in front of so many people. Not when there was a living, breathing uror in the castle stables right this moment.
Instead he said, “I’ve reason to believe it might be true.” He gestured at Dal. “We know Rendborne’s also close with Maestra Vikas. Dal and I saw them having a secret tryst.”
“Very well,” said Raith, shocked resignation in his voice. “We now have a name for our enemy. But we need more.”
Corwin stepped back, letting Raith resume the interroga-tion. His thoughts remained on Rendborne. The truth brought no satisfaction—not when he couldn’t understand the why. If Rendborne was the Nameless One, brother of Morwen, son of Rowan, then he was a Tormane, Corwin’s ancestor. Why would he betray Rime to Seva? How could he still be alive? Unless he truly is a god. But no, Corwin refused to believe it.
Knowing there would be no answers to his questions tonight, Corwin returned his attention to the interrogation. Raith was pressing the gold for details about the fortress itself, ways in and out, where they were keeping Kate and the others, and where Rendborne was likely to be.
“What do we do with him now?” Dal asked once they’d wrung the last bit of information from the gold.
“We take him back to Norgard as our prisoner,” Raith said. “He’s proof of the golds’ treachery, and of Rendborne’s.”
Ready to voice his agreement, Corwin stopped short as across from him, Francis drew the sword at his hip and thrust it straight through the gold’s heart. The man let out a liquid gasp, then fell to the ground. Corwin stared at Francis, shock thrumming through him at such cold violence.
“We aren’t going back to Norgard.” Francis fixed a defiant gaze on Raith. “The Rising is done waiting and hiding. We don’t need proof—we’re here to fight, to end this threat.”
“This is the high prince.” Raith motioned to Corwin with a vigorous shake of his hand. “He can end the threat of the Inquisition diplomatically, without the need for fighting and more death. There’s been enough already.”
“The Errant Prince will never be king now, not when he’s joined with us.” Francis jammed his hands down on his hips. “We must bring about our own change. It’s time to fight.”
I haven’t joined with you, Corwin thought. Not yet. But the man’s fury stirred something inside him. This was different from Edwin’s hate. This was the result of suffering and subjugation.
Raith gave a resigned sigh. “First we must succeed in rescuing Kate, Bonner, and Signe before Rendborne can use them to arm himself and Seva. That’s the immediate threat. Once they’re all safe, we will decide what to do next.”
Corwin held his breath, expecting Francis to argue, but the big man remained silent. Even still, tension seemed to hum in the air around him and Raith. Feeling it, Corwin guessed that this wasn’t the first time the two had clashed like this.
A moment later, Raith asked Corwin for a private word. They retreated to where the horses were tethered, the only place with no one near enough to overhear.
“Will you help me in this, your highness?” Raith said.
“With what? If you mean the Rising, I—”
“No, not that.” Raith cut him off with an upraised hand. “I’ve no idea how we get into the fortress tomorrow and out again. And as you can see, there are many lives to protect.” He gestured to the camp, which was louder now than before, the people whispering about what had happened as they spread out bedrolls or passed around bread and salted meat or flasks of wine.
Corwin traced the scar on his chin, feeling a quake in his belly. “You want me to lead?”
Raith nodded. “You’re better suited than I. You know strategy, and my strength is to defend, not attack.”
“But you heard Francis. All they see in me is the Errant Prince.”
Raith fixed a fierce gaze on him. “Then you must show them you are something more.”
“How?” Corwin said, frustration and doubt making him want to pace. He turned to Nightbringer instead, finding comfort in the horse’s presence, something steadfast in this upheaving world around him.
“By showing that you hear them, your highness. That’s the only way to lead.” Raith sighed, and when Corwin turned toward the sound, he found the magist examining his blackened fingertips.
Raith looked up, his expression dark with some unknown emotion. “You can’t let others define who you should be. That’s a lesson I’ve been learning since birth.” Raith gestured to the mark of the Shade Born on his face. “When people see this, they see something they should fear. My parents believed in the superstition so much that they took me outside the city wall when I was just a babe and left me in the snow to die. I almost did.” Raith waggled his fingers, and Corwin realized frostbite must have turned them that color.
Swallowing the hard knot of pity in his throat, he said, “What happened?”
“A magist found me. A master healer, one skilled enough that I managed not to lose all my fingers and toes.” Raith smiled, a wet sheen in his eyes. “Master Janus brought me to an orphanage. They took me in, but only because he was a magist and insisted. Every year afterward, he checked in on me to make sure I was being treated fairly. I wasn’t, of course. But Janus told me repeatedly that the only way for me to be more than what the gods had marked me for was to stay true to who I was. To make my own fate by making my own decisions. And here I am.” Raith motioned to the camp. “A magist helping wilders. That lesson is why I’ve risked all that I have to make a better life for these people. Wilders can be more than the power they are born with, if we are willing to hear their words, see them for who they are—what they do, not what they can do. And you, Prince Corwin, can be more than your title. You just have to rise up and become it. Lead us.”
All the reasons he should say no flooded Corwin’s mind. He saw the faces of his Shieldhawk brothers, heard their names whispered in his ear. He saw the Sevan soldier boy, for once remembering him clearly, without the fog of his feelings. Maybe Dal had been right—maybe the boy hadn’t betrayed them. Maybe there’d been no way to avoid what happened that night. It was a lesson he’d been taught often by his tutors and even his father: battles can only be fought and won or fought and lost. It was a risk you took every time you went in.
“Do you really believe they will follow me?” Corwin asked.
“If you show them that you understand them, and take the first step, they will take the second,” Raith said. “Tomorrow they will watch you risk your life to save wilders. You will become more than the Errant Prince in their eyes. You will become our prince. And one day you will be our king. Rime will never be whole when we stand so divided, wilder against magist. But you have the power to unite us.”
Corwin heard his unspoken words—be the king who sets the wilders free, who ends their suffering. Who makes Rime whole again.
He glanced at his tingling palm, the uror brand clear and striking. He lowered his hand, resting it on the revolver belted at his waist.
“We’ll need to work fast,” Corwin said. “We attack at dawn.”