Heathbire laughed again—more raucously than ever—and declared that he would be honored to send Rora to serve the queen. He neither confirmed nor denied any thought of a royal marriage for his daughter. It would be aiming high, though that had never stopped Dain before. Bramwell would naturally prefer to marry his heir to a foreign princess, if one could be found.
But that didn’t mean the girl had no prospects at all. There were other ways she could serve kingdom and king. She was, after all, Dain’s only child. The only family he had, in fact.
Yes, Bramwell would very much like to welcome her at court.
10
Wardin
“There you are.” Arun stopped in the narrow, winding staircase of the sage hall tower, then backed up a step to give Hawthorn and Rowena space to greet one another. “I was just coming to see you.”
“Same,” said Wardin. “You first.”
“I have some news. From the bones.”
“About the sword?” Wardin stepped up, and was smacked by Hawthorn’s tail for his trouble. Ever since Desmond had passed along the odd rumor that Dragon’s Edge was in Dordrin, of all places, Arun and Odger had been focusing on the sword when they practiced with the bones.
“Yes. It’s under water.”
“Under water? As in the sea?” Wardin’s heart dropped. If Dragon’s Edge really had been taken out of Cairdarin, and there had been a shipwreck, it was almost certainly lost forever.
“I don’t think so. Under some water, but not necessarily under the water, if you take my meaning.”
“How could I, when what you’ve just said doesn’t mean anything?”
“And also over stone.”
Wardin blinked, wondering if this was some new punishment for their ongoing (and seemingly never-ending) argument over conduction.
Arun shrugged. “Not terribly specific, I know. But that’s the first sense of it I’ve gotten. Why were you looking for me?”
“I was looking for Corbin, but while I was here I thought I’d come up and ask if you’d seen him.”
“Oh? Late for your necromancy lesson?”
Wardin heaved an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh. “Are we back to that again?”
Unable to win Wardin over with such tactics as logic or reason, Arun seemed to have decided to tease him into submission. Or perhaps he was determined to keep things light in an attempt to fend off the darkness he feared would take over his friend’s heart. Whatever the reason, his favorite jokes always centered around equating conduction with necromancy.
“What do you mean, again?” Arun asked. “I wasn’t aware we’d ever left it.”
“Well, you’ll be happy to know this has nothing to do with conduction. Corbin’s been expecting a pigeon from Dain at any moment. Perhaps he’s hiding because he’s tired of me asking him for news.”
“In that case, I’ll go with you. I’d love some news.” Arun clapped his thigh to get the dogs’ attention. “I assume you’ve looked for him in all the places we keep food? And mead? And the dead?”
Wardin turned and started back down the stairs. “I only wish you were actually funny. Yes, I’ve checked all the obvious places.”
“Let’s hope this bird tells him that Bramwell is finally marching south. I thought this infernal spring would never come.”
“It’s not here yet. It’s blasted cold out there, and the snow is still past my shins.”
“It can just hurry up and melt, then. I’ve had all the winter reprieve I want, thank you. I’m ready to kill a few Harths.” Arun poked Wardin in the back. “You can raise them for me.”
“Odd, I thought you were against taking life these days. Apart from murdering perfectly innocent inkwells, that is.”
“The inkwell is not dead, and I’m not likely to weep over Harthian corpses. All’s fair on a battlefield.”
“Even conduction?”
“Except that. Surely you know it’s not the Harths I’m concerned for.”
Wardin snorted as he stepped out onto the first floor landing. “No, you think I’ll be consumed by evil and become a despot.”
“You’re already a bit of a despot, if I’m honest.”
“Will there be no end to these jokes?” Wardin ran a hand through his hair. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure whether he really wanted an end to them. At least Arun’s reproach was cheerful when it was delivered as mockery.
Arun snickered. “No, I don’t believe there will.”
“Would you lower your voices, please?” Magister Eldon came out of a study room, lips pursed. “Just because there are no longer students here doesn’t mean we’ve done away with decorum entirely. On the contrary, one would think adults would be less unruly. But then you always were a mischievous pair.”
Wardin didn’t bother to admonish Eldon for speaking to him like a child. He’d more or less accepted that the magisters—particularly those who’d known him as a boy—were never going to treat him like esteemed royalty. In his heart, he even preferred it that way. It allowed him to forget for a moment that their fates, along with that of the entire kingdom, rested on his untested and quite probably unworthy shoulders.
Still, he wouldn’t go so far as to be cowed and apologize like the schoolboy he no longer was. Instead he crossed his arms and ignored the old man’s scolding entirely. “Have you seen Corbin? I need to speak with him.”
“Do you? I wish you luck, then. Wouldn’t speak to me when I asked where they were going. Only waved and walked out the door.”
“They?” Wardin asked.
“Corbin and Joan. Magister Joan, but she seems to forget I’m her boss. They’ve been awfully thick with one another, and not a word to anyone else about what they’re up to. I hope there’s nothing illicit going on.”
“Oh, come now, that might be a good match.” Arun smirked. “Joan’s about the only person I’ve ever met who’s as glum as he is.”
Wardin laughed, though it only made Eldon look that much more disapproving. They bid the headmagister farewell and headed outside, hounds at their heels.
Arun gripped the collar of his cloak. “Weren’t joking about the cold, were you? Have you checked the old hall? Always a favorite for a clandestine conversation. Or whatever it is they’re doing.”
“No,” Wardin called over the wind that rose up to cut across the valley. “Good idea.”
The grounds and the practice yard were bustling with the usual archers, soldiers, and magicians, practicing formations and drills, training for a battle that was no longer part of some theoretical, distant future, but nearly upon them at last. Magisters hurried to and fro, along with Quinn, Baelar, and a handful of other trusted officers, instructing, evaluating, organizing, planning. A few stopped Wardin with questions or ideas, but most were too miserable with the cold to do anything but go about their business as quickly as possible.
The crowd was a bit thinned by the number of soldiers who’d gone to Avadare to train as part of their small cavalry. Wardin had claimed a mount of his own, a fine chestnut stallion he named Ciril, and devoted as much time to learning proper horsemanship as to learning conduction. His enemy was a celebrated commander, and it would not do to focus so much on magic that he left the basics of warfare unattended to.
As soon as the hounds realized their destination, they scampered ahead to the old hall and huddled in the relative shelter of the mountain until Arun opened the ancient door in the rock. They all clambered inside, the dogs shaking off the snow while the men stamped it from their boots.
Corbin was indeed there, sitting with Joan on a bench near the front of the hall. Their conversation stopped abruptly as Wardin and Arun came striding up the aisle.
“Well, that sudden silence isn’t suspicious at all,” Arun said. “What are you two up to?”
Corbin’s sigh was that of a man grudgingly resigned to some deeply unpleasant but necessary task. “Joan’s received a message from Hodge.”
Wardin crossed his arms. “And Hodge would be …?”
“The baron’s sage.” Corbin made an impatient noise and waved away Wardin’s glare. “Don’t look at me like that, of course he didn’t want you to know he had the man unless it proved necessary. You know the baron likes to keep his tricks to himself.”
“And so you’ve been lying this whole time, telling me you’ve been receiving pigeons, when really you’ve been communicating with this sage?” Wardin turned to Joan, his jaw clenched. “I’d expect more loyalty of a Pendralyn magister. We are, after all, going to war to save you.”
He expected no apologies from the harsh and unfriendly woman, and was offered none. “More for your throne and your friends than for me, I’d say,” she said with a sniff. “But as it happens, this is the first time I’ve been in contact with Hodge.”
“I have been receiving pigeons,” Corbin added. “But the baron feels he’s in a bit of a delicate position, and didn’t want to risk being discovered sending birds. He thinks the king is suspicious of his motives. Luckily, he brought Hodge with him to Witmare as his manservant, in case the extra layer of secrecy proved necessary.”
“But you were going to lie,” Arun said. “You would have said it was a pigeon, if we hadn’t found you here.”
“I hadn’t decided yet.” Corbin looked back and forth between Arun’s mute, outraged face and Wardin’s, and finally raised a brow. “You’re welcome to chain me in a cell someplace if you’d like, but I imagine you’d prefer to hear my news.”
Wardin sighed. A large part of him did want to throw Corbin in a cell, and he feared the man was hiding more than he’d admitted to. It was a most inconvenient time for the inkwell to be unavailable. But perhaps it would be better to question Joan later, alone. Unpleasant though she was, she was still a magister, and an Eyrd. She must have some loyalty to Pendralyn, if not to Wardin himself.
And Corbin was right: Wardin did want to hear his news first. “Bramwell is marching south?”
“He is,” Corbin said. “And the Aldars have already set sail. Your war has come, Highness.”
* * *
The keep felt drafty and cold, with only the handful of them there. Wardin was too accustomed to people and hounds, steam and smoke, hot food and laughter. Now he stood with Arun, headmagisters Eldon and Alaide, his officers Quinn and Baelar, and Pate and Corbin. Each more grim-faced than the last.
He leaned over the dining table to draw a route across the map spread out there. “Bramwell intends to cross into Eyrdon at Mindoral, then move southward. He’s already amassed sizable forces at Narinore, of course, and Corghest, where the Aldars will land. I propose to stop him from joining those forces, by taking Mindoral and cutting him off there. The Baron of Heathbire has helpfully arranged to have his own men defending the town.”
Alaide made no attempt to hide her suspicion as she looked Corbin up and down, though he was no more discomfited by it than he had been by Wardin and Arun earlier. “And your friend the baron will do what?” she asked. “Simply tell his men to stand down?”
“More or less,” Corbin said with a shrug. “We’ll keep a few prisoners for show. The rest can retreat back to the moors. Wardin’s new horsemen might even make a point of pursuing them as they flee the field. The baron will send word to the king that there was a battle, and Mindoral was lost.”
“He cannot possibly hope to fake a battle!” Eldon stared at Corbin, his mouth twitching as though he couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh. “You gravely underestimate the king!”
“We have no intention of faking a battle.” Corbin scoffed. “Of course there will be a battle. And the Eyrds will take Mindoral. With plenty of blood spilled; we will have to be very sure that none of Tobin’s men live to carry tales back to the prince or the king. The only thing the baron’s report will leave out is how much—or how little—effort his own men put into their duties.”
“A defeat suggests losses,” said Alaide. “Mightn’t someone notice the lack of widows and orphans in Heathbire?”
Corbin waved a hand. “Those who are supposed to be dead can hide well enough, if any of Bramwell’s officers should ride through Heathbire to verify the story. The king himself spends as little time there as he possibly can, which is to say practically none.”
Alaide raised a brow at Wardin, her unspoken question clear. Wardin nodded. “We will be ready for any eventuality, as we always should be, but I believe the baron will do what he says he will.”
He knew that Dain was giving Bramwell information. Corbin had admitted as much with very little resistance, and it came as no surprise. But it seemed Dain had reported only half-truths, just enough to keep the king’s trust. Bramwell knew how many soldiers defended Pendralyn, and that they’d taken up the longbow again. But his information was outdated, the numbers low. He knew Wardin was getting horses, but he didn’t know where from. He knew Corbin was kin to someone Wardin trusted, but he didn’t know it was Pate.
Wardin had no doubt that Dain’s allegiance was a constantly shifting thing that would ultimately rest with whoever he thought could do him the most good. But on the whole, and for the moment, the baron seemed to be more on their side than not. And the men of Heathbire would have no desire to bleed and die for a Lancet. Deceiving the king was as much in their interest as Wardin’s.
“I believe Dain as well,” Pate said. “And I know him a great deal better than Wardin does.” He looked at Wardin and shook his head. “But I still say we reject his kind suggestion in favor of taking Corghest, or even Narinore. Use this opportunity, while Bramwell’s force is still divided, to take something better than Mindoral.”
“Mindoral gives us control of the easiest border crossing,” Wardin pointed out. “Access to both Harth and Tarnarven, as well as the Old South Road. What is that old saying you keep spouting, that wars are won by full bellies and warm blankets as often as they are by blades and arrows? Cutting them off from supplies seems a worthy enough goal.”
Pate shrugged. “Taking the capital seems a worthier one.”
“Both Corghest and Narinore are fortified by strongholds and towers as well as men,” said Wardin. “We haven’t the resources for a siege. And when the Aldars come sailing along to double the size of Bramwell’s forces, what then?” He held up a hand when Pate started to answer. “I’ve made my decision. Mindoral will be our first target.”
“And so another Rath will fall there,” Pate muttered.
Wardin slammed his fist against the table, making both Eldon and Alaide jump, though Pate remained unperturbed. Lional Rath had died at Mindoral, and his kingdom’s hopes along with him. Throwing Eyrdon’s darkest hour in his nephew’s face now, on the eve of another war, was well past the line of acceptable dissent. “I’ve made my decision.”
Pate’s scowl gave his scarred face a monstrous look. “Why’d you bring me here, if not to listen to my advice? Arrogant young—”
Quinn swore, looking ready to jump across the table and strangle Pate. Arun’s fierce expression suggested that he too might be plotting the old commander’s death. Wardin wasn’t sure he’d stop either of them.
But he would not let his temper show again. “I have listened to it,” he said with calm authority, though his pulse thundered in his ears. “And I thank you for it. And now I’m done discussing it.”
Alaide cleared her throat, and Wardin offered her a smile to show he wouldn’t mind her offering an opinion. As ever, he appreciated the easy familiarity of his inner circle. To a point.
He and Pate had already had this conversation more than once. Every time the latter suggested an ambitious scheme for winning the war in one bold play for Narinore, Wardin refused.
Pate knew full well he’d be refused again now. Perhaps a part of him even wanted to be; surely as a seasoned veteran, he could see as well as Wardin that such a strike was bound to fail. Yet he still insisted on challenging his prince in front of the others. Wardin suspected it was more about power and dominance than strategy. And he would give no ground there.
“You’re set on an offen
sive strike, then?” Alaide asked. “I assume you’ve considered simply waiting here for the Harths to come. Pendralyn is highly defensible, and the mountains have won our wars for us before.”
“It is highly defensible,” Wardin agreed. “And I will, in fact, be leaving a sizable number behind to defend it. Should some portion of the Harths look to the mountains while my attention is elsewhere, they’ll find no easy target here. In the meanwhile, I can gather those who have sworn themselves to our cause as I cross Eyrdon, and still arrive at Mindoral ahead of Bramwell.”
“He might have three, four thousand men,” Quinn said. “Can you expect to arrive with so many?”
“Probably not,” Wardin admitted. “But I’ve a better chance of troubling four thousand than I do thrice that many. Once all the Harthian and Aldar forces are united, they can easily send a horde to our gates that not even Pendralyn will be able to withstand. We must splinter those forces now.” He looked back at Alaide. “And the farther from the magistery—and all that we hold here—I can keep this war, the better.”
She nodded. When nobody else questioned the essential approach, they began to discuss specifics, evaluating tactics, forming units, calculating numbers. Wardin was just rolling up the map, satisfied that their plan was a good one, when they were interrupted by a loud cough from the dark corner near the kitchen door.
Wardin drew the sword he kept on his back at all times now, even within the safety of the valley. “Who’s there?”
Odger came forward, hands twitching against the fabric of his coat. “I meant for you to hear me. I wasn’t hiding. Well, I was hiding.” He gestured over his shoulder, cheeks burning scarlet. “There, in the kitchen. But then I wanted to speak with you, and I wasn’t quite sure how, and I ended up coughing over my words. I figured I’d better ask you while Magister Arun was still here with you. You’d be less likely to beat me that way. Or take my head for being where I don’t belong.”
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