LETTING DAL STAY BEHIND WAS a mistake, one Corwin regretted less than an hour after he departed Farhold the next day, ahead of a long ponderous train of wagons and mounted men. A ponderous slow train. The journey to Andreas from Farhold was a little less than fifty miles, a distance a Relay rider could cover in two days. It would take this caravan, comprised of five wagons, fifteen armed guards, six servants, three magists, and one cook, easily twice that.
The journey would’ve been bearable with Dal around to distract him, but as it was, there was no one to talk to. He could exchange a few polite words with Captain Morris or even Master Barrett, his royal adviser, but neither was willing to talk loosely with him or tell jokes—the type of conversation Corwin needed to distract him from the tempest of his thoughts.
Even though he tried to keep his mind focused on the intrigue at the Gregors’ house and the dead miner, it kept returning to Kate. He replayed their chance meeting in his head, imagining all the better ways it could’ve gone, if only he’d had time to plan and if there’d been no one around to overhear. But their relationship was cursed. It always had been, it seemed. He’d said as much to Dal when he finally told him about her last night.
Kicking his feet free of the stirrups, Corwin let out a groan at the ache in his knees. That was the worst of riding slow—joints frozen from so many hours stuck in the same position. He could’ve ridden in one of the wagons, spending the time in relative comfort, but his mind couldn’t take it. At least outside, the view offered occasional distractions. He dismounted slowly, letting the blood flow back into his legs.
They’d managed to reach one of the caravan campsites along the road to Andreas—a wide circular clearing that offered several permanent fire pits with nearby racks loaded with wood for burning, a gift from the high king to the travelers of Rime. While the servants and guards began to make camp, Corwin took his time unsaddling Stormdancer. He refused to let a servant do it for him, although four of them tried. It was the one chore he was permitted to perform himself, prince or no. Even Edwin couldn’t complain. For the people of Norgard, the care of a warhorse was considered a noble endeavor.
Thank the gods, Corwin thought, wishing that Stormdancer were twice as dirty as he ran the hard-bristled brush over the warhorse’s sleek, muscled back. Although night crept toward them over the horizon, it would be hours before he was ready for sleep. While he worked, he caught himself watching the three blue-robe mages—a master, journeyman, and apprentice—as they set the wardstone barrier. The apprentice wore a black mask, just a few shades darker than her skin, which covered only the right side of her face. The journeyman’s was black as well, but it covered the top half of his, the contrast striking against his paleness. The master’s was full faced and bone white.
The three of them gathered in the center of the campsite, facing one another in a circle. Cupped in the palms of their hands, each held a wardstone the size of a human head. In unison, they spoke the word of invocation, the magic in the wardstones alighting. Then they turned around and began to walk away in a straight line, following the three points of an invisible triangle. The apprentice passed nearest Corwin, and he watched her reach the edge of the campsite, where she stopped and set the wardstone on the ground. The magical barrier went up a moment later, the only hint of its presence a faint shimmer around the campsite like sunlight catching on a smudge in a piece of glass.
Corwin returned his attention to Storm, finishing a short time later. He considered retreating to his tent, but his restlessness remained. Ordering his meal to be served outside, he sat down at a small table near one of the fire pits, which offered an unobstructed view of the land beyond. He ate slowly, with his gaze wandering over the surrounding hills cloaked in everweeps and witchgrass and a million insects chattering in the night.
Not long after Corwin finished eating, the master magist approached him. “Do you mind if I make use of your table, highness?”
Corwin blinked up at him, caught off guard by the request. The fire cast a troupe of dancing shadows across the man’s bone-colored mask, his eyes glistening black points inside it.
Recovering quickly, Corwin motioned to the empty chair across from him. “By all means. I would welcome the distraction.” He supposed of everyone present, the magist might make for the most interesting conversation, if not the most comfortable. There was something disquieting about talking to a masked person.
But to Corwin’s relief and further surprise, the master magist took off his mask as he sat down and placed it on the table beside him. The skin of his face was nearly as white as the mask, except for a dark-red birthmark that spread over the top of his nose and beneath both eyes. He’s Shade Born, Corwin thought, recalling the old superstition. There were some who believed people born with such marks were claimed for service to the Shades, those hellish minions of the gods whose sole purpose was to thwart and torment mankind for the entertainment of their exalted masters. All nonsense, of course, and yet Corwin found himself uneasy. He couldn’t quite place the magist’s age; older than himself, certainly, but younger than his father.
“I’m doubtful what distraction I can provide,” the magist said, pulling out a deck of cards from a hidden pocket in his robe, “but I will do my best. My name is Raith.”
Corwin arched his eyebrows. It was odd enough to have a magist remove his mask, but to give a name as well? That went against the usual front of faceless unity the League preferred to maintain. There were some magists high enough in their orders to be publicly named, but not many. The only ones he knew of were Grand Master Storr, head of the League, and Maestra Vikas, head of the gold order. Both of them served as advisers to the royal council in Norgard, although neither held a seat. By ancient laws set forth in the League Accords, no magist could hold political position. They couldn’t even own land aside from their freeholding in the north, site of the League Academy.
“So tell me, Master Raith,” Corwin said, watching as the magist began to lay down the cards in a game of solo, “did you hear about the attack on the Gregors?” He noticed the man’s fingertips were tinged black as if from some disease or trauma, the nails thick and grayish.
“Indeed, your highness. I was there.”
“You were?” Corwin cocked his head, mouth open in surprise. He’d asked the question merely to make conversation, and really, what else was there to discuss with a magist? But learning Raith was there opened up new avenues to explore. “In that case, what do you make of the magic that killed the man?”
Raith flipped over the first card in line, a six of flutes. “You mean the magic he used to kill himself?”
Corwin slowly nodded. Yes, that did seem true, and he gave a shudder as to what desire could drive a man to that extreme. It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed such, though. The wilder responsible for his mother’s death had been determined to die as well—and to take as many innocent lives with him as he could. “Was it wilder magic then?” Corwin asked. “A spirit gift, like Governor Prewitt claimed?”
Raith looked up from the cards, where he’d overturned a ten of stones, a bad draw so early in the game. “That is a difficult question. I’m afraid I can’t answer, not even to speculate.”
“Why not?”
“There’s not enough information. The man might not have had any magical ability at all.”
“But that’s absurd. I saw him use magic.” Corwin leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his waist.
Raith shrugged. “All the people who buy the charms and spells the League sells use magic, your highness. Like these cards, for instance.” Raith picked up the queen of candles he’d just overturned and muttered the word of invocation. Orange light spread through the card, starting with the candle the woman held in her right hand and ending in a halo around her crowned head. A faint smell of burning incense drifted up from the table.
Corwin stared at the magic, a simple trick, really, whose main purpose was to seal the card in play so that a player couldn’t cheat and replace it. But he saw Raith’s point well enough. Ordinary people did do magic, of this type. But the spells the League sold in their order houses across Rime were mundane, preset tasks imbedded within various stones and other trinkets. In addition to cards, there were necklaces that would enhance the wearer’s allure, rings that gave courage or strength, parchment that would hide ink until someone spoke the words to make it visible.
He gestured to the still-glowing queen. “Spells like these are harmless, frivolous indulgences. Not death traps.”
“True enough.” Raith removed the spell with another word and returned the queen of candles to the deck. “But they still contain magic, same as any other magist spell.”
“Are you suggesting it was mage magic that tore that man apart from the inside?” Corwin asked, remembering the way he’d reached into his pocket for something.
“No,” Raith answered at once with a quick shake of his head. “At least, it was no spell approved by the League.”
Corwin’s eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean?”
Raith turned over another card. “Surely your highness knows that all the orders work to invent new spells, improvements on our trade, as it were. And those spells are submitted for review and acceptance.”
“For sanctioning.” Corwin nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“Well then, that means there are spells that do not receive League approval, but that still exist, nonetheless.”
“Hmmm.” Corwin pressed his lips together. Again, he saw the man’s point, an unsettling one. He knew from his history lessons that the League did sometimes sanction spells that could harm and kill. They’d created dozens of such during the Sevan Invasion fifty years ago, but the use of them was outlawed once the Sevan forces had been defeated. Corwin’s grandfather, King Borwin, the first high king of Rime, did not want his people to live in fear of their own magists.
“But surely no magist would have reason to invent such a spell now,” Corwin added. “We are at peace.” Not counting the Rising, he reminded himself, but the threat of wilders wasn’t new, just the notion of them banding together. Even still, he couldn’t see their threat being the reason a magist would invent a spell that could kill so quickly. Wilders weren’t to be executed on the spot but taken prisoner for the Purging, a ritual designed to rid the world of their magic once and for all.
“The League never assumes peace will last,” replied Raith. “Seva remains a threat. The Godking will attack again. It’s only a matter of time.”
“True enough,” Corwin said. He knew better than most the bloodthirsty nature of Seva’s monarch.
With a loud exhale, no doubt at the sad state of his hand of solo, Raith gathered the cards on the table and looked up. “Would your highness like to play a game of peril?”
Corwin supposed he ought to say no, but after the long, boring day, he couldn’t refuse such a diversion. With a sly smile, he reached for his coin purse at his side. “Only if we make it a true game.”
Raith retrieved his own coin purse in answer. They flipped a valen to determine the deal. Corwin won, and Raith activated the magic on the whole deck before handing it over.
The cards seemed to vibrate against Corwin’s palm as he dealt. For a few moments, neither man spoke, their attention focused on building their hands. Raith played a three of jars first. Matching him in the low-power gamble, Corwin played a four of flutes. They made their wagers, then moved to the second round. Corwin won the hand with a last-minute draw of the shade card, trumping Raith’s full court.
Moving on to the next hand, Corwin said, “Given what you said earlier, do you believe the spell could’ve been unsanctioned then? One made by a . . .” He searched for the word. “A rogue magist?” It seemed incredible anyone would dare. The League was the most powerful force in all of Rime, quick to find the guilty and swift to punish them.
Raith glanced up. “We are all human, your highness, whether we’re possessed of magic or not. And any human is capable of treachery.”
Yes, they are, Corwin thought, remembering Kate’s father. Once again, the memory of that terrible incident and its aftermath rose up in his mind. Kate had come to him that morning, bursting through the door into his bedchambers with the castle guards quick on her heels. She screamed his name and fell at his feet, begging for him to intercede for her, to convince the high council to stay the execution. Exile, she had begged. Let us go into exile! He’d told her no. That he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Hale Brighton was guilty—he’d seen it with his own eyes. The law was the law.
Shaking his head to chase off the memory, Corwin glanced at his cards and played a jester of flutes. “Even if it was mage magic, wilders must still have been behind the attack.” During the search they’d found what looked to be a hastily drawn sun lion etched in ash on a piece of the fallen wall.
“Yes, the Rising. It certainly seems that way.” Raith picked up his bag of coins and upended it onto the pot.
Corwin stared in surprise at the bold wager. He resisted glancing down at his hand, where another shade card waited next to four kings and a pair of sevens, the hand as good as any he recalled having recently. The shade card lay on top, revealing the figure in a black cloak with a horned crown wrapped around its hooded head.
“Then again,” Raith continued, seemingly unconcerned about how much money he stood to lose, “in these uneasy times it’s difficult to be certain of anything. Nothing has been the same since your lord father was wounded. It’s your wager, highness, shall you call or fold?”
“I never fold.” Upending his own purse, Corwin kept his eyes fixed on the magist. “How have things changed?”
Giving the bid a passing glance, Raith replied, “Well, the Inquisition, for one thing. Some blame its inception for the Rising. And there was also the year of the drought, followed by two years of flooding. Disease in the north felling livestock in record numbers. And of course the increasing number of nightdrakes.”
“Increase?” Corwin frowned. He’d heard the other rumors before, superstitions among the people that the king’s ailment affected the very land itself, but the drakes were news to him.
“Why yes. Surely you’re aware the League keeps count.” Raith shifted the cards in his hand, and Corwin caught the faint smell of rain in the air—it seemed the magist held a fair amount of jars. “Grand Master Storr presents the numbers to the high council regularly, I believe.”
Corwin sat back in his chair, sensing the rebuke in the man’s words clearly. It wasn’t that he wasn’t aware of his own ignorance; it was that normally he could avoid situations where it was pointed out to him.
“That’s very interesting,” Corwin said drily. “I wonder how you magists can tell them apart well enough to keep an accurate count. Who’s to say you aren’t just counting the same packs over and over again?”
“We have our ways.” Raith raised his hand, palm up and fingers splayed in the universal sign of magic.
Corwin smirked—magic was a magist’s answer to everything. “Well, have no fear, Master Raith. I’m sure my brother is already concocting new and clever ways to deal with all these troubles.”
“Ah, so it’s true then,” Raith said, nodding to himself.
Corwin narrowed his eyes. “What’s true?”
“That you’ve decided not to challenge your brother for the throne.”
The words hit Corwin like a slap. The impertinence of it, the presumption. “There’s been no sign of uror,” he said, knowing full well that this magist must be aware of it already. Hardly a week went by when some newspaper didn’t speculate on its absence. In Norgard, the right to rule did not pass from father to eldest son, but from father to the son most worthy to succeed. Determining that worthiness was done through the trials of uror, but only once the sign appeared. It should’ve appeared the year Corwin came of age at sixteen. Only it hadn’t. And here he was, four years later, and still not worthy enough for the gods to initiate uror.
“Oh, my apologies then.” Raith touched a hand to his left breast. “I am not from Norgard. I can’t say I fully understand how this uror works.”
That’s because it doesn’t work at all unless both heirs are judged to be equal, Corwin thought. He forced his jaw to relax, feeling an ache in his teeth.
“Yes, that’s a common enough difficulty. Few outsiders truly understand it.” Uror was a belief peculiar to his people, although some born of Norgard struggled with the concept as well, those too young to have lived through the last uror, when Corwin’s father, Orwin, earned the right to sit on the Mirror Throne over his twin brother, Owen. The word itself meant both “fate” and “self-determination,” two forces that seemed fundamentally opposed.
Corwin cleared his throat. “It’s your play, Master Raith.” He was ready for the game—and this conversation—to end.
“Yes, of course.” Raith laid down his remaining cards. “But what happens once your father moves onto the next life if there never is an uror sign?”
Corwin stared at the play before him, his lips pressed in disbelief at the five jar cards and two shades—a nearly unbeatable hand. Sighing, he conceded the game. “Nicely played, Master Raith. But—” He broke off as a strange sound echoed in the distance, raising the hairs on his arms and neck.
Wordlessly, he and the magist stood and approached the wardstone barrier as the loud keening sounded once more, closer now. Just beyond, a pack of nightdrakes swept down the side of the hill toward them like a gray tide. Moonlight glinted off bared fangs and set dozens of beaded eyes ablaze. Drawn by the smell of live meat, the drakes raced toward the camp, their clawed feet tearing up the earth with each stride.
Corwin laid one palm against his sword hilt and the other against his pistol, instinct urging him to pull them free.
“Do not fear, your highness,” Raith said from beside Corwin. “The barrier will hold.”
Corwin didn’t respond. The truth of that claim would be determined soon enough.
Seconds later, the leader of the pack reached them. The size of a bear, the nightdrake was covered in corpse-gray scales from its reptilian head to its long, spiked tail. It leaped toward Corwin and Raith, spreading out its stunted wings to soar the short distance. Corwin held his breath, knuckles flexed over his weapons. If the barrier failed, the beast would be on him in a second.
The nightdrake struck the invisible wall with a sound like a thunderclap, and the magic flung it backward into the rest of the arriving pack. Several more hurled themselves at the barrier only to be repelled as well. Soon catching on, the pack began to swarm around the perimeter in a frenzy of snapping jaws, beating wings, and writhing bodies. Over and over again, they tested the barrier, as if probing for a weakness. It was always the largest that attacked, the ones as big as horses and oxen, while the scouts and other small ones kept making that awful keening sound.
The other people in camp had arrived by now, drawn by the noise. “Look!” one of the guards shouted. “There’re more.”
Corwin glanced where the man had pointed, lifting his gaze from the pack out into the distance, where a second pack was moving in, easily another dozen drakes. Then came a third, charging down at them from the opposite direction.
“What would you have us do, your highness?” Captain Morris asked.
“Kill them,” Corwin replied. That should help thin the numbers.
“We’ll run through all our enchanted arrows doing that.” Captain Morris glanced at Raith. “Will your blue robes be able to provide more on this trip?”
“To be sure,” Raith replied. “I doubt Prince Corwin’s purse will cover it, but we can settle with the crown when we arrive back in Norgard.”
Corwin sighed. Edwin would not be pleased at the added expense. Then again, this tour had been his idea from the start. Let him deal with the consequences.
“Make it so,” he said, and moments later the twang of bowstrings filled the air, followed by the cries of wounded drakes.
With his stomach twisting at the sound and the gore, Corwin turned to Raith, who still stood beside him. “To answer your question, Master Raith: when my father dies, Edwin will rule after him.”
Raith arched a single eyebrow, the mark of the Shade Born on his face a striking contrast to his white skin. “You mean only if there is no sign of uror before the high king’s death?”
There won’t be, Corwin thought. The last few years he’d spent away from Rime had shown him that beyond doubt.
Turning away from the magist, he spoke the assertion again, one he reminded himself of daily: “Edwin will rule.”
The next day dawned bright and bloody, the stench of burning drake corpses on the air. Corwin had passed the night in fitful sleep, spending most of it in that halfway place between waking and dreaming. His resulting fatigue made the slow pace even more unbearable. Before long he began to formulate a speech about why he and a few of the men would be striking out ahead of the caravan. We must get to Andreas soon, Corwin reasoned. These troubling events cannot wait. The speech sounded good in his mind—believable and, most importantly, inarguable. But just as he was about to approach Master Barrett, doubt set in. As usual, it came in Edwin’s voice. So irresponsible, Corwin. Always thinking of yourself first and never of your duty.
Corwin groaned inwardly, hating the debate and the way it paralyzed him. Trying to appease the divided parts of his nature, he decided to wait until after they’d crossed the Redrush.
Again, the hours slowly ticked by. But today, unlike yesterday, Corwin managed to hold a tighter rein on his thoughts, keeping them away from Kate and focused on more important matters. That was, until he spotted a Relay tower standing on top of a hill in the distance, far from the main road. It was a small one, narrow but still two stories high. He wondered if Kate ever stayed there. He doubted it, given the weathered, ill-used look of the tower. The stone blocks that formed the walls had been windswept smooth, except for the places where they were beginning to crumble.
Still, the idea of it—of her alone, locked inside that forlorn place with prowling nightdrakes just outside—consumed his thoughts. The danger she placed herself in, and the reasons for doing so. If only Hale hadn’t been responsible. He and his family had led a good life in Norgard. They didn’t want for anything.
Then why did he try to kill my father?
The question haunted Corwin. Hale’s actions made no sense—both during the attack and afterward, when he refused to offer any explanation for it. But neither did he deny it. Maybe if he had explained, Corwin could’ve done something about Kate’s pleas for the mercy of exile.
Damn the man, Corwin thought, teeth clenched. He—
The thought died in his head as a strange movement caught his eye. He turned toward it, back twisting in the saddle. Although his eyes saw clearly, his mind couldn’t make sense of the black-bodied creatures spilling over the hill that lay in between the road and the larger hill occupied by the Relay tower.
“What is that?” someone shouted from behind Corwin.
“Nightdrakes!” someone else answered.
No, it can’t be—it’s daylight. And yet they most certainly were drakes, Corwin realized with a jolt of shock. They didn’t look exactly like the nightdrakes he was familiar with; instead of pale gray, these were black as tar. But they bore the same dragonish heads, the same fangs and claws, and sinuous bodies with flightless wings fanned out behind them. And that same awful keening.
Stormdancer snorted and started to shy, tossing his head in the instinct to flee, but he stood no chance outrunning them at this distance. Reining the warhorse under control, all further thought fled Corwin’s mind, and his own instinct took over. He yanked the pistol from its holster and fired. The shot struck one of the scouts, and it went down. With the pistol’s usefulness expended, Corwin stowed it and reached for his sword.
A moment later the pack was upon them. Storm jumped sideways as one of the black creatures leaped. Bringing his sword arm in range, Corwin reined the horse hard to the left. He swung, but the blow glanced off the nightdrake’s toughened hide. Still, the hit was strong enough to deflect the beast momentarily. It fell to the ground but circled and came again. Moving impossibly fast, it became a dark blur before Corwin’s eyes. Before he could raise his sword, the beast struck him full force, knocking him from the saddle.
Corwin landed hard on his back, starbursts arcing across his vision. He’d managed to keep hold of his sword, but it didn’t matter. The nightdrake was on top of him, jaws spreading wide. It closed its fangs around his left shoulder, and Corwin cried out, the sound lost in the commotion around him. Chaos had erupted over the caravan, men and horses screaming.
The pain paralyzed Corwin, stealing from him the will to fight, to survive. But only for a moment. Then he lifted his right hand, sword still clutched in his fingers, and brought the hilt down on the creature’s head, smashing its eye like a grape. The drake’s jaws loosened, and it let out a howl of pain.
Summoning his strength, even as he felt its poison burning through his veins, Corwin raised the sword again and thrust it into the beast’s opened mouth and out through the back of its head.
Corwin lay there, panting for several long seconds. Then he pushed the heavy weight of the drake corpse off him and struggled to his feet. A few feet away, he saw Storm sprawled on the blood-soaked ground, the stillness of death already lying like a shroud over the warhorse. A wrench went through his chest at the sight. He and the horse had been through so much together, survived so many trials and threats. This is the end for both of us, my friend, Corwin thought, his vision blurred from poison and the fire burning inside his wounded shoulder.
For a second, the will to fight almost went out of him again. No. He pulled his eyes away from the dead horse. There were others still alive. He would do what he could to protect them for as long as breath remained in his body. Raising his sword once more, he charged the nearest drake. If I’m to die today, I will die fighting.