At least Dain had lent them horses. When they were obliged to leave the roads and established tracks, their mounts proved expert at picking their way through the terrain, and they made good time. Corbin assured them they would be sleeping in beds both warm and dry that night.
Wardin supposed he should be grateful they were making the trip at all. Despite his ominous talk of testing and judging, Dain had asked only a handful of questions the night before. He wanted to know how well Wardin remembered his mother, and what he knew of the Ladimore side of his family and Baron Hawkin’s legacy.
Wardin couldn’t imagine how his answers had satisfied the man, as he’d told the truth: he knew little more of his grandfather’s story than was common knowledge. Perhaps less than the people of Heathbire seemed to know. His memories of his mother were pleasant but vague, and his father had not spoken often of his late wife’s relations.
The facts were simple, if spare: Hawkin Ladimore had gone to war in defense of magic and the magisteries, when King Cadric ordered the dissolution. The conflict came to a bloody end at Faldram Field, where Bramwell—then the prince and heir to the Harthian throne—slaughtered both Hawkin and Tobald Ladimore.
“In defense of magic,” Dain had repeated with an emphatic nod. “And now here you are, doing the same. But I wonder, just what are you willing to give to that cause? What are you willing to become?”
A chill ran through Wardin at the question. It danced too close to the thoughts and fears that had plagued him since Odger’s prediction. The look in Dain’s eye as he waited for his answer was shrewd, almost hungry, and for one wild moment Wardin feared the baron could read his thoughts somehow. Or perhaps he had a sage of his own, and knew something of the dark future that loomed ahead.
When he answered at last, Wardin’s voice was steady and hard. “If all these questions about Rath and Ladimore are to test how like my father I am, you needn’t worry. I won’t abandon the cause for my own gain, or for any other reason. I’ll see it through until it’s won. Whatever the cost.”
Once again, Dain’s laughter filled the little cottage, and the moment passed. So, apparently, did Wardin. The baron waved them off to bed, like children being dismissed, and asked no more questions.
In the morning, Dain’s men arrived with horses and supplies for Wardin, Arun, and Corbin. Corbin was vague, as usual, about just where they were going. He said only that they would be there for dinner.
But it was obvious enough now, as they rode through the driving sleet toward a single light in the distance, made nebulous and unearthly by the fog. That light was their only possible destination; there was nothing else around for miles.
Corbin grunted. “He’s lit the lantern. He’s expecting us.”
“How could he be expecting us?” Arun asked. “I thought you didn’t even decide to bring us to see him until last night.”
Wardin frowned at the light, shaking his head. “That has to be a fire. We would never be able to see a lantern at this distance, through this weather.”
“Dain must have sent a pigeon,” Corbin said with a shrug. “And the lantern is enchanted.”
Wardin raised his brows, though his forehead was so cold he could barely feel them moving. “I don’t remember anything about Pate owning an enchanted lantern. I’ve never heard of one at all, come to think of it.”
“It’s not his,” Corbin said. “It belonged to the—”
Whatever he said next was drowned out by a long, low howl echoing across the moor.
Wardin’s skin pricked and crawled. He’d heard that ghostly sound before. And not far from here.
“Magistery.” Arun leaned forward in his saddle and squinted into the distance. “It belonged to the magistery. That’s where we are, isn’t it?”
“More feral blackhounds. Lovely.” Wardin sighed, wondering how they were to fight them off without hurting them. They’d managed it last time, but it had been tricky. And he certainly didn’t want Corbin doing conduction on blackhounds. Or even near them.
But no, that couldn’t be right. The horses would be skittish, if there were predators nearby. They only plodded on, seemingly indifferent to the hound’s call.
“Blackhound, yes,” said Corbin. “Feral, no. That’s Pate’s hound. Brack will meet us at the gate, I imagine.”
“Pate lives at the old magistery?” Wardin stared at Corbin as that bit of information finally sank in, but the other man didn’t look back at him. “How is it still standing? Shouldn’t it have been burnt to the ground?”
“Most of it was,” Corbin said. “It’s nothing but a shell now, at least from the outside, and well-tended rumors that it’s haunted keep people away. But it has its secret and habitable places. My father’s been living there since your father was crowned King of Eyrdon.”
“Why?” Arun asked. “Why choose to hide in an old ruin, when he could easily have gotten a ship overseas? Or just settled somewhere under a new name. In Tarnarven, perhaps. His face wasn’t especially well known.”
“He was wounded in the war. Gravely. It took him nearly a year to recover, and the magistery was as good a place as any to hide and care for him. There are useful things there still, that aided in his healing. And once he was well again, he said he felt too much at home to go anywhere else. He loves the place, you know. Spent the best years of his life there, before the dissolution.”
Wardin wiped the sleet from his eyes and urged his mount to walk a bit faster. Whatever waited ahead, it would at least be dry. “He went to school here? I always assumed he was at Pendralyn with my father and uncle.”
Corbin snorted. “However high he rose later, my father didn’t come from the sort of stock welcome at Pendralyn. Back then, it wasn’t quite the benevolent institution it is now. Or that you claim it to be. The magisters there were snobs, to put it simply.”
“And thank the deities they were,” Arun said. “Being selective kept Pendralyn unknown, being unknown kept it hidden, and being hidden kept it from falling with all the rest.”
“Why not another Eyrdish magistery, then?” Wardin spoke over both of them, trying to quash yet another argument before it could take hold. Arun and Corbin had been bickering all day, and it had long since grown tiresome. “Why come to Harth?”
“Heathbire’s magistery may have been smaller, and lesser known,” Corbin said, “but it had certain advantages that other magisteries did not.”
“Like instruction in conduction, you mean?” There was a challenge in Arun’s voice, but Corbin remained unperturbed.
“Among other things, yes.”
They were approaching the source of the light now, and it was indeed a lantern. It hung from the post of an iron gate that sat askew in a shoulder-high, crumbling stone wall. In the waning daylight and encroaching fog, Wardin could see no hint of what lay beyond.
“A bit of guiding light is always welcome, in the moorlands.” Corbin dismounted to take the lantern and open the gate. The latter’s creak, like their voices, seemed to be swallowed by the thick, wet air. “This one won’t go out until it’s purposely extinguished, and it can be seen for miles—except by anyone with malicious intent toward the one who lights it.”
“That’s an awfully clever enchantment.” All the irritation and weariness left Arun’s voice as he looked, fascinated, at the lantern in Corbin’s hand. “Whoever did it must have been quite a sage.”
“I’ve never seen any record of the one who enchanted it.” Corbin swung back into his saddle and gestured for them to follow once more. “I believe it’s been around for more than a century.”
“May I study it?” Arun asked.
“Perhaps. You’ll have to ask my father. In the absence of magisters, he is the only authority over the rubble and ashes, now. And all that they hide.”
A series of bays preceded the largest blackhound Wardin had ever seen, rushing at them from out of the fog. Once again, the horses remained unflappable, while the hound pranced around them and barked at Corbin.
“Hush, Bracken,” Corbin said. “We’ll be on the ground soon enough.” This seemed to satisfy the dog, who settled down and trotted alongside until they arrived at the half-charred remains of a stable. Just enough of it was still useable to provide the horses with a passable amount of shelter, and someone had left ample supplies of hay, straw, and blankets.
As soon as they dismounted, Bracken hurried over to inspect Wardin and Arun. Both crouched down to greet him, and he sniffed and slobbered over them a bit before returning to Corbin’s side, tail wagging. It was strange to see the dog so happy to see Corbin. Wardin had difficulty imagining anyone having such enthusiasm for the dour man.
Judging by his face, Corbin found Bracken’s acceptance of the guests equally surprising. “He isn’t fond of strangers, generally.”
Wardin shrugged. “We’re used to blackhounds, and we’re both good with them.”
“Hmph.” Corbin pressed his lips together. “Well, since he’s taken to you, he can lead you inside. I’ll see to the horses.” He said a few soft words to Bracken, who trotted out of the stable before turning to wait for his new charges.
“I’d rather follow a blackhound than a conductor, anyway,” Arun muttered to Wardin.
They walked with their heads bent and shoulders hunched, through another gate and then a narrow alleyway between two stone buildings—affinity halls, Wardin supposed. They were crumbling and roofless now. In better light, he imagined they would be blackened with fire.
They emerged into a square courtyard lined with statues, though between the snow and ice and darkness, Wardin couldn’t tell what any of them were of. Ahead, taking up an entire side of the square, was what must have been the main manor.
Like the halls, its roof was gone. Most of the left side had collapsed entirely. A gaping hole in the front, wide enough for half a dozen men to walk through abreast, served as its entrance.
Bracken padded lightly over a pile of debris that might once have been the front doors, then waited while Wardin and Arun did the same, although perhaps more clumsily.
The maze of former corridors the hound led them through was empty and cold, the stone floor cracked and scraped. Finally they came to what at first appeared to be a dead end, but when Bracken whined and scratched at the wall, a door appeared. Wardin opened it to reveal a long, twisting staircase leading down.
Descending it was like entering another world. Or perhaps going back in time, to an age when the place had flourished. Here, far below ground at the magistery’s core, it still had a beating heart.
Sconces lined the corridor walls, illuminating portraits and polished floors. A few turns, a door, and they came to a dining room with a pair of large fireplaces at each end of the long table.
Wardin was grateful for the roaring fires within, though he couldn’t imagine how they remained lit without smoke rising through chimneys somewhere and giving away that the magistery was occupied. The room was warm enough to make his fingers ache as they thawed.
A man stooped in front of one of the fireplaces, most of his back to the newcomers, turning a spit. “No servants here,” he said, without looking at them. “Hope getting your own dinner isn’t beneath you, Highness.”
Wardin cleared his throat, unsure how to respond to this strange greeting—or to the hostility in the man’s voice. “Not at all. Pate?”
The man straightened, facing the fire, and pressed his hands into the small of his back. “Yes. You don’t sound like Draven.”
“I don’t look like him, either.” Wardin didn’t know what had prompted him to say so, but evidently they were the right words. Pate turned around at last.
His face was weathered and scarred, including a patch of knotted flesh at one side of his mouth, and a burn mark that began below his ear and blossomed downward, disappearing into the high collar of his tunic. Beneath the signs of battle and age, his hooked nose and grim expression were suddenly familiar. If there had been any doubt that Corbin was his son, there wasn’t anymore.
“No. You look like your mother. Always did.” Pate limped closer—favoring his right leg, the same side as the worst of his scars—as he studied Wardin. “Draven had a deep voice. Do you remember him?”
“Well enough.”
“Do you remember me?”
“A little.” Enough to be sure this was indeed Pate, anyway. It was his voice, Wardin thought, more than his face that brought back the memories. Pate and Uncle Lional, always together. Always shouting at Draven. Draven always shouting back. He cleared his throat again. “I’m not sure I would have recognized you.”
Pate scoffed, the right side of his mouth stiff and unmoving. “Doubt my own daughters would recognize me. Your voice is higher, like your uncle’s. Too high for your size, if I’m honest. Can make people think you aren’t much of a man.” Despite his words, his tone was less hostile now. Perhaps he’d feared some specter of Draven.
Arun smothered a laugh and stepped forward to bow, but Pate’s disapproving glare returned.
“No use being courteous to me, after you’ve been rude to my boy the whole way here. Yes, I know all about that. I get my news, here and there, in bits. Go and get that bread, will you?” Pate gestured at the other fireplace, where the long handle of a baker’s paddle protruded from a small stone oven at one side.
Arun went to see to the bread, while Pate moved back to the spit. “Help me with this meat,” he said to Wardin. “We ought to have some food on the table when Corbin gets in here. Been a cold journey, I expect.”
For a while they worked in silence, setting the table with roasted boar, bread, and a thin broth that was fragrant with dried herbs. At Pate’s command, Bracken led Wardin through another knot of corridors, to a cold and less-than-pleasant-smelling room where he found cheese and butter along with the goats who’d provided it.
By the time they returned to the dining room, Corbin was there, filling mugs from a cask of ale. Bracken trotted back to him—despite being Pate’s hound, the dog seemed to prefer Corbin—and danced around his legs until they all sat to eat.
“Now then,” Pate said as he spread cheese across a thick slice of bread. “You’ve come to beg for my help.”
Wardin stiffened. “I wouldn’t say beg. I thought you might want to serve Eyrdon again, after so long in exile.”
Pate’s laugh was more of a rasp, like a rusty old hinge that was seldom used. “Is that what you thought?”
“My uncle always said he couldn’t win a battle without you at his side, and—”
“Couldn’t win one with me at his side either, as it happened,” Pate grumbled. “Not the last one, and no battle ever matters but the last one.”
“Nevertheless. You were one of the best battle commanders Eyrdon ever knew, and we’ve suffered from your loss. If I’m to win against Harth now, I need someone with your wisdom and experience.”
Pate crossed his arms. “Wisdom and experience, is it?”
“That, and you’re still remembered as a hero. Your support of my claim would mean a lot to the people.”
“Would convince them, you mean. You need someone to lend legitimacy to the efforts of Draven Rath’s son, and you think I’m the one to do it.”
Wardin clenched his hand around his mug, but he nodded. There was no point in denying it. Still, flattery and humility would only get him so far. He wouldn’t win this old warrior’s respect that way. “Be that as it may, I will not beg. Nor will I compromise my authority. Make no mistake, any man who joins my cause is in my service. No good ever comes of having more than one king.”
“No, you’ll have learned that well enough as a boy, with all the squabbling between your father and your uncle. And your father’s endless grudges.” Pate glared at Wardin, waiting for some reaction, but Wardin kept his face impassive. The man seemed intent on goading him. Another mysterious test, perhaps. Whatever his game, Wardin wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of winning it.
Finally, Pate looked away, gesturing with his mug at Arun. “And you trust him
, do you? Willing to follow him as your king? Die for him, or with him, if it comes to that?”
“I do, and I am,” Arun said. “And you’ll get the same answer from most anyone who’s met him.”
“Bah! If that were true, he wouldn’t need me.” Pate looked back at Wardin. “You were right to come here. I can make you a king. At a cost.”
Wardin took a slow sip of ale before answering. Everyone was always so eager to speak to him of costs. Perhaps that was what it meant to be king. “And what is your price?”
“It’s not my price you’ve got to worry about, boy.” Pate nodded at his son. “You’ve seen Corbin’s magic?”
“We know he’s a conductor, if that’s what you mean.”
“As am I. As was your grandfather Hawkin. Did you know that?”
Wardin pressed his teeth together to keep his mouth from falling open, but it seemed he lost his struggle to keep his face blank, because Pate snickered. “It was a constant argument between your two grandfathers, when they went to war against Cadric. Baden Rath did not approve of the art. An argument your uncle and I took up, when our own war came along. Lional felt much the same way.”
“And my father?” The boar seemed to squirm in Wardin’s stomach. It would have been like Draven to practice magic that most Eyrds considered dark, if it got him what he wanted. Or perhaps just to spite those determined to think the worst of him.
“Didn’t like it any better than his brother did. Seemed to think shunning it meant he had honor despite all his treachery and deceit and selfishness. As if not crossing that one line made the rest of it all right.” Pate snorted. “He was an idiot.”
Wardin clenched his jaw again, and said nothing.
It was Corbin who broke the silence. “Perhaps I can be of assistance in getting to the point. My father believes that, had the Raths agreed to use conduction in battle, they’d have won the last war.” He shrugged. “And perhaps the one before that, for that matter.”
A Dark Reckoning Page 6