A Dark Reckoning

by J. R. Rasmussen

  She swallowed, then curtsied deeply. “It is, Majesty. We’re most grateful to be received.”

  Iver waved the words away. “You may address me as Iver. I despise formality. Only Restan stands on it, which is why we seldom invite him to eat with us.”

  Restan snorted and, without waiting to be dismissed, took a seat near the head of the table and gestured to a nearby servant for some wine. True to Iver’s promise of informality, none of the others seemed the least bit scandalized by the seneschal sitting while his king and queen remained standing. Instead they followed his lead, and moved toward the table.

  Iver took his own seat at the head, and gestured at two chairs to his right. Erietta took the one closest to him. Across from her, Lira spoke for the first time. “Tell me, did you travel from Tridmere, or Rivenmist?”

  “Rivenmist,” said Erietta.

  The queen sighed. “I miss it so.”

  “Lira is a Tar,” Iver provided. “The second daughter of the late king, sister to the current one. Hence my entire court being fluent in Caird. She can’t speak a word of Dordrine.”

  “That is a ridiculous claim and you know it.” Lira’s clear laugh brightened her rather plain face considerably. “Although it was true when I arrived here.”

  Iver’s strange golden eyes sparked with amusement. “You’ve learned what, then? A dozen words in the twenty years you’ve been my wife?”

  “More than anyone thinks, which is very convenient when I want to spy on your nobles.” Lira smiled at Erietta. “It is an exceedingly difficult language to learn, however, which makes my presence here most convenient for you.”

  “We appreciate that, Majesty.”

  “Lira,” the queen corrected. “Now, what is it you’ve come all this way to speak with us about?”

  Erietta waited for a servant to finish filling her bowl with a creamy, fragrant soup, then said, “A mutually beneficial alliance, I hope.”

  “This soup is delicious!” The surprise in Desmond’s voice bordered on insulting. Beside the queen, Restan suppressed a laugh.

  Hoping she wasn’t too obviously cringing with embarrassment, Erietta went on as though Desmond hadn’t spoken. “From our earlier conversation with Restan, it seems you’re aware that we are at war with Harth. King Bramwell intends to march into Eyrdon in the spring, to assert his dominance and put down my king’s claim to the throne.” She raised her spoon to her lips and took a mannered sip of her own soup—it was indeed delicious, tangy and slightly sweet—then added, “And burn us all, I’m told.”

  She picked up her goblet and waited for Iver or Lira to express polite sympathy, but assert that this was not Dordrin’s problem. Erietta had rehearsed the entire conversation with that objection in mind, preparing her list of reasons for them to get involved, starting with Aldarine.

  But instead Iver leaned forward, looking at her as though she were the only other person in the room. Perhaps the world. “And by us all, you mean magisters like yourself? I’m told that’s the primary reason for Usher’s alliance with Bramwell. To stamp out your magic. The burning part certainly sounds like him.”

  “You already know about Aldarine, then.” Erietta drank, then sputtered and coughed in a most unladylike manner, unable to help herself. The amber liquid she’d taken for wine was something else entirely, although she couldn’t say what. Her throat burned and her eyes watered.

  Restan raised his brows, composed but clearly amused, while Lira made no attempt to hide her own mirth. “I did the same thing, the first time I had whiskey,” the queen said. “You’ll like it, when you get used to it.”

  Erietta nodded as she wiped tears from her eyes, not quite ready to speak.

  The king ignored the interruption. “I’m told you’ve been running a magistery this whole time, as if Cadric had never outlawed magic at all.”

  “You’ve heard correctly.”

  Iver’s intense gaze became openly hungry, putting her in mind of a wolf again. “Let’s see it, then.”

  “Er.” Erietta looked from the king to his wife and back again. “The magistery?”

  “The magic. What are you? Sage?”

  “Contriver. Desmond is a sage.” She glanced at her companion, but he was intent on his soup, and only nodded his agreement.

  “A contriver!” Iver clapped his hands together. “An illusion, then! Show us one.”

  The other diners quieted as word moved down the table that the visitor was going to cast a spell. Erietta shifted in her seat. She was not accustomed to being treated as entertainment, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

  But she supposed her feelings didn’t enter into it. It was her host’s she needed to consider. She could hardly insult the King of Dordrin by refusing his request in front of what she assumed were his family and closest courtiers. “What would you like to see?”

  To her surprise, it was Restan who rushed to answer. “A dragon. Can you do that?”

  Erietta cocked her head. Tricking two dozen people confined to one reasonably small space should present little challenge, even with something as fanciful as a dragon. She hadn’t been taxing her balance, and their eagerness would make them susceptible. “Perhaps. Give me a moment.”

  She closed her eyes and began forming a mental image, pieced together from illustrations and children’s stories. Not the black dragon of Eyrdon. He wouldn’t be showy enough for their tastes. Something more extravagant.

  The magic swelled within her. For practical reasons—mainly the somewhat low ceiling—it would have to be small. But colorful. A spiked tail. Luminous scales. A long, lithe body and great, papery wings.

  When the beast was as real to her as if it reared before her, Erietta opened her eyes and released the spell.

  A shining green and blue dragon the size of an eagle soared over the table. Several of the guests ducked as it passed, the beat of its wings rippling their soup and shaking their goblets. He flew around the room three times, then disappeared with a pop and an eruption of multicolored sparks, a rather gaudy touch Erietta felt sure they would appreciate.

  And appreciate it they did. As the room broke out into cheers and laughter, Iver beamed at her. “Well, if that doesn’t earn you a favor, I don’t know what does. What is it that you ask of me?”

  “Not a favor,” Erietta assured him. “A bargain, of sorts.”

  “A bargain,” he said slowly, as if relishing the word. “I do love a bargain. What is my end to be, then?”

  She couldn’t imagine why he was asking; surely he must know why they’d come. But perhaps this was how diplomacy was conducted. “Troops, to begin with. We will be sorely outnumbered, when the Aldars sail in to join the Harths.”

  “And so you’d like us to sail in to join you,” Iver said.

  “No.” Lira leaned back in her chair to give a servant space to clear away her soup, and Erietta waited several tense moments while the next course—roast venison in a thick brown sauce—was served before the queen continued. “My brother will never allow a Dordrine army to put into one of his ports. Privately, he has no love of the Lancet kings, but if you’re counting on Tarnarven’s support, you will be disappointed.”

  Erietta shook her head and tried not to grimace as she swallowed her bite of meat. The sauce was heavily seasoned with some pungent, incongruent spice she could not identify. “We will leave Tarnarven in peace. Your army would sail directly to Eyrdon. To Corghest.”

  Lira narrowed her eyes, considering this. “But isn’t Corghest under Harthian control, along with the rest of Eyrdon?”

  “Hence the need for your army,” Desmond said. “Taking it can be your first order of business.”

  Erietta shot him a glare that she hoped said stop talking, and cleared her throat, looking for a more delicate way to phrase what he’d just said.

  Restan spoke before she had the chance. “Forgive me, my knowledge of Eyrdon is somewhat incomplete. Where is Corghest?”

  “Along the southern coast,” Erietta said. “It�
�s not much of a harbor, truth be told, nothing compared to the great ports of Tarnarven. But it’s been used for landings in the past. What little farmland we have in Eyrdon is in the same region. Securing it would give us control over much of the food supply, as well as travel to and from the coast, and along the river north to Narinore. Our capital city.”

  Iver rubbed his pointed chin—like most of his countrymen, he was clean-shaven—and nodded. “Bramwell would have to bring food down from Harth. Enough of it to feed not only his army, but all his people in Narinore and around the kingdom. That would put a great deal of pressure on him. Many a war has been lost to hunger and thirst and the want of a dry blanket, as the saying goes.”

  “Exactly,” Erietta agreed.

  “A clever plan,” Iver said. “Your king thought of this? Wardin?”

  “He did.” Or he would have, if she hadn’t brought it up first. Despite Iver’s claims of cleverness, it was an obvious strategy.

  Iver chewed his meat slowly, then washed it down with a long drink of whiskey before speaking again. “And so you are not only asking for men, but for ships.”

  “Of course ships would be required to transport the men,” Desmond said. “Unless your people can fly.”

  Erietta suppressed a sigh and kicked him under the table. “Men and ships,” she agreed. “And in exchange, you will have a powerful, sovereign ally in Cairdarin. We’re well aware of your strained relations with Bramwell. You would do well to have a friend at his borders. Particularly a friend who’s just defeated and weakened him.”

  The king tilted his head toward his wife. “I already have an ally in Cairdarin. One that controls the trade, which makes it a bit more valuable than Eyrdon, I’m afraid.”

  “Tarnarven may control the ports, but the queen has just admitted that her brother won’t risk a war against Harth,” Erietta pointed out. “Such an alliance is hardly reliable.”

  Lira cleared her throat, looking irritated, but she didn’t deny it.

  Parched and with nothing else at hand, Erietta took another sip of whiskey. It was more tolerable this time. “And then, of course, there’s Aldarine. An alliance between your two greatest enemies puts you in an uncomfortable position. When they’re done with Eyrdon, where do you think they’ll turn next?”

  Iver waved his hand. “We fear no invasion here.”

  “No,” Restan agreed. “But even so, the two of them joining their strength does present other difficulties.”

  “And then, of course,” Lira said in echo of Erietta, “there’s silver. Eyrdon is full of it.”

  “Indeed, the king is willing to pay quite handsomely for your help,” said Desmond.

  “Is he, now?” Iver smiled. “The last Rath to sit on the throne of Eyrdon did not hire mercenaries.”

  In actuality, he referred to the second-to-last Rath to sit on the throne, but Erietta saw no need to instruct him on Draven’s short-lived and ill-fated time as king. “Neither does War— King Wardin. But I’m not speaking of mercenaries, I’m speaking of allies. United for a common cause.”

  “Perhaps.” Iver gestured for a servant to refill Erietta’s goblet. Had she drunk all that whiskey already? “But to the soldiers I send to fight on foreign soil, it may feel more like dying for your cause.”

  Erietta gave him a sweet smile. “I’m quite certain you possess the eloquence to explain to your people how this benefits us all.”

  Restan chuckled. “She holds her whiskey well, this one.”

  “So she does,” Iver agreed. “I’d thought to have a less skilled negotiator to deal with, by the time the tarts were served.” Even as he spoke, plates of small tarts and cheese were placed before them. “But no matter. You’ve given me much to think about. And what of the final piece? What have you brought me?”

  Erietta blinked at him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “It is customary for emissaries to bring gifts, you know. You can’t ask a man to sacrifice the lives of his own without offering some treasure in return. It’s simple courtesy.”

  “Oh … I …” Erietta glanced at Desmond, mortified, but of course there was no help to be found there. Ought she to offer them some silver, at least?

  “Very well, I’ll choose a gift for myself. I’ve just the thing in mind.” Iver popped a tart into his mouth with an enthusiasm he hadn’t shown for the rest of the food. For a moment, he looked so boyish that Erietta had to suppress a giggle. She didn’t suppose the king’s insistence on informality extended to laughing at him.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Iver said as he swallowed. “I’ll grant you all that you ask. But this gift I’ve chosen, it must be part of the bargain.”

  “And what gift is that?” Erietta couldn’t imagine she would refuse him anything, in exchange for the might of Dordrin behind them.

  “I want fifty percent of the books in your magistery.”

  Except that.

  * * *

  “What do you mean they haven’t got any magic?” Desmond waved an arm in the direction of the window before plopping down in a chair by their sitting room fire. “This entire city is rife with it!”

  “That’s exactly it.” Erietta paced back and forth, too agitated to sit. Or to think properly, for that matter. Although the latter may have been owed just as much to the whiskey. The king and queen had invited her to speak with them privately after dinner, but the meeting had only left her more distressed. She was certain there would be no winning Iver’s support without paying his absurd price. “The magic is in the city. It’s not theirs. It’s the land’s.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of such a thing, but then we’ve never left Cairdarin, have we? Their deities—or their one deity, actually, Dordan—ordered things differently here. Honor the place, and it rewards you. Anger it, and there are consequences.”

  Desmond tossed up his hands. “How does one anger a city, precisely?”

  “He didn’t go into the particulars of Virgardin’s emotional state, and I was too busy wishing him ill and raging at his demands to ask.” Erietta rubbed the back of her neck. “At any rate, he won’t budge. He wants to set up a magistery here, so they can learn magic for themselves and stop depending on the land.”

  “I can’t imagine the city will view this desire for independence as honoring it. Insofar as a city can view anything. Personally, I think these people are completely mad, and the sooner we get away from them, the better.”

  “An argument I made, I assure you. About the city’s ire, I mean, not about the madness. Iver already has a place picked out for this magistery, well away from here. Some remote area without crops or resources that they won’t mind angering, I suppose.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “We may very well see it for ourselves. Staying here long enough to assist with planning the place is part of the bargain. And once it’s built, we’re to send magisters to visit and help train his.”

  Desmond scoffed. “He can demand a dozen singing bears and twice as many eagles, for all the difference it makes. Obviously we won’t agree to his terms in any case. A shame, though, that we have to embark on another sea voyage so soon. I barely—”

  “Obvious to whom?” Erietta threw herself into the chair opposite him. “Certainly not to me. I see no good answer here.”

  He blinked at her. “There may be no good answer, but good or bad, there is only one. Still, perhaps our mission might be salvaged if you offer him something else. Tell him he can send as many people as he likes to Pendralyn, to train as magisters. They can copy the books that aren’t enchanted against it, if they’ve got a century to spare. They just can’t take them.”

  “You don’t think I’ve tried all of that? The man is immovable.” Erietta clenched a fist against her skirt, recalling how arrogantly she’d insisted to Wardin and Arun that contrivers made the most suitable diplomats. She’d been a fool to think she was any match for Iver. “I even tried a charming spell, underhanded
as that may be, to make him more kindly disposed toward me. It seems he was immune to it. He is determined to use this opportunity to get what he wants, and nothing less.”

  “Well then, he’ll be disappointed. The magisters will never agree, and neither will the prince. Wardin started this rebellion in the first place to protect Pendralyn. When he hears this proposal—”

  “He won’t hear it. You are not to tell Arun. Not yet.”

  “No difficulty there.” Desmond snickered. “It’s not as though he’d understand it.”

  She scowled at him. Their early attempts to communicate with Arun had ended in nothing but frustration, until Desmond concluded that reaching another sage was simply impossible while they were at sea. Erietta had never quite believed the tales about salt water dampening magic; no experiment she’d ever tried had supported them. But it seemed that was because the effects were only noticeable with a vast sea of it.

  Things were changing now that they were on dry land, though. Even with the distance and the sea between them, Desmond was improving with practice. Especially since it was the much more proficient Eldon he was communing with now; Wardin and Arun had returned to Pendralyn some days ago. Safely. Desmond had been able to ascertain that much.

  And that they had not come back alone. Pate was with them. How much, Erietta wondered, did that change things? Was Iver’s support less necessary, now that they had Pate’s? Did she have the luxury of refusing this bargain?

  “You are not to tell Eldon, then,” she said. “You are not to tell anyone.”

  “But of course we have to tell them. Wardin has to know what—”

  “I am still the archmagister,” Erietta snapped. “I will decide what is best for my magistery.”

  Desmond gave her an incredulous look. “If we were at home, you would call a meeting. You would tell them everything and put it to a vote. And they would laugh the very idea into oblivion, I might add.”