Wardin sought out Arun as soon as he had a quiet moment. His friend sat at the edge of the group, wedged between two trees, staring up at the stars as they began to show, one by one, in the sky.
“I need help,” Wardin said. “And it seems you’re the only sage.”
Arun nodded once, but did not turn to look at him.
Wardin cleared his throat. “There’s no question of going to Narinore right now. Even if I brought contrivers to cloak me. I might not mind the danger for myself, but …” He trailed off helplessly, trying to find a way to say that he was too important to risk his life for the matter he had in mind.
Practically speaking, he knew this to be true, in its way. He was no more qualified to lead this rebellion than any other man, and a great deal less qualified than some. This battle, his first true one, had proved that. But he’d been born to it nonetheless, and he was needed.
Still, he didn’t feel very important at the moment. “The war,” he finished lamely, as though that explained it all.
Arun looked at him at last, his eyes flat and unreadable. He had a gash down one side of his face, acquired during the battle, that would no doubt leave a nasty scar. Wardin hadn’t paid much attention to it before. He would have to ask about it later. He would even promise to tell Helena some heroic story about how Arun had gotten it. Women loved battle scars, or so Wardin’s father had always said. That was the only reason Draven could imagine for any of them preferring his brother Lional to himself.
But now was not the time for teasing, not even in the name of distraction, not even with someone who dealt with nearly all his pain that way. Their losses were still too raw.
“What exactly are you on about?” Arun asked.
“More communication, I’m afraid.” Wardin offered a halting smile that was not returned. Arun had already been in contact with Eldon back at Pendralyn, to be sure that both the magistery and the village were prepared for the return of their war-torn soldiers, as well as any less pleasant visitors who might come their way. They all agreed that the Harths would not venture that far in any significant numbers, but it was still best to be safe.
“It’s Odger.” Wardin swallowed; his voice had nearly cracked as he spoke the boy’s name. “His parents are in Narinore. I want to tell them myself, I hate to leave it up to anyone else, but …”
“But you can’t be spared.” Arun turned his face away again. “I’ll get a message to Varin. Better they hear it from him than not know at all, and worry about their son every day.”
“Thank you,” Wardin said on a sigh of relief. “I’ll visit them personally as soon as I can.”
With a snort Wardin couldn’t interpret, Arun got up and walked away.
Or perhaps it wasn’t so hard to interpret. Perhaps Arun simply despised him as much as Wardin despised himself at that moment. It was as much Arun’s fault as anyone’s that Odger had come to war. But Arun hadn’t been there when Odger died. The responsibility was Wardin’s. They both knew it.
Wardin stood alone for some time, before Quinn came up beside him. “If you don’t mind my saying, Highness, the day was not entirely lost. They pushed us out rather than the other way around, it’s true, but our main objective was always disruption, and we achieved that.”
“We have no idea how many of our own people survived.” Wardin tried to keep his voice even; he knew the old veteran was only trying to help. But to claim that they hadn’t been soundly beaten and humiliated was absurd, no matter how kindly meant, and Wardin was in no mood to be coddled.
“No, but we do know that we took out quite a few of their horsemen, in that first cavalry charge. We reduced their numbers. The king may even have been wounded. We showed them that Eyrdon won’t give up easily.” Quinn snickered. “And you saw the way they reacted to the conductors. Only three of you—two at first—caused a right panic. When word spreads about that, it’ll do no small amount of damage to their morale. And once we have more who’ve learned it—”
“I appreciate the attempt to turn the tale into a happy one, Quinn,” Wardin said finally, unable to hear any more. “But I doubt Odger’s parents will see it the same way. Nor the families of the other dead. Nor the citizens of Mindoral.” He turned away. “I’ve failed them all.”
* * *
It was a drizzling night of middling temperature and no moon, some three hours before dawn ten days after the battle at Mindoral, when they arrived back at Pendralyn. Many of them, Wardin included, were obliged to go directly to the sage hall for healing. Wardin had taken a stab wound to the shoulder at Mindoral, too minor to pay much attention to then, but it was red and swollen by the time he got home. It did not pain him nearly as much as his feet—the only boots he’d been able to acquire for the journey were far too small.
They were greeted with several pieces of good news, mostly in the form of people who had already arrived safely back, thanks in part to contrivance and a host of other—often improvised—spells. It seemed one sage could now become effectively invisible by confusing everyone who saw her into thinking they hadn’t. She’d already started teaching others to do it.
Pate had led a large group himself, after dismissing many of the survivors to return in secret to their homes and families. Apart from cuts and bruises, he was unharmed. Corbin had escaped being wounded only to take a fever on the return journey, but by all accounts he was recovering well.
Much of the cavalry had been scattered during the battle, which was unfortunate at the time, but did mean they were among the first to escape the field. More of his precious horses had survived than Wardin had any right to expect. Even Ciril was safe in the stable, having been found and ridden home by one of the battlemages.
All in all, though their losses were great, they could have been worse. And there were still pockets of rebels in the far west and south, and in Narinore, who had not gone to Mindoral. Plus the many who’d stayed behind to defend Avadare and the surrounding mountains. Men and women who had not yet seen combat, not yet been wounded, who remained sworn to the cause and ready to fight.
There were pieces to pick up and put back together. There was still an army, still a war. Still a chance.
But Wardin was too exhausted, too numb from cold and shock and the weight of defeat, to appreciate these mercies. He spoke to as few people as possible. The only greeting he was able to return with any enthusiasm was that of the nearly hysterical Rowena. As soon as his wound was tended to, he returned to his chambers with the blackhound at his side and went to bed.
He wished he could sleep for days. He wished he could hide forever.
But even sleeping for an hour proved difficult. It had been easy on the journey to attribute his restlessness to the heightened awareness of pursuit, the danger, the war, the discomfort of trudging through melting snow and sleeping on ground that was still cold.
Now, alone in his own bed, there was no hiding from the truth: every time he closed his eyes, Wardin saw Odger burn.
Odger was not the first person he’d lost. People had died for him before. Hundreds upon hundreds of them in this most recent battle alone. And people would die for him again. Wardin had thought himself reconciled to it.
But still, he saw the boy burn.
It wasn’t only Odger’s age. It wasn’t even how horribly he’d died, although Wardin had to admit, for someone who should have been the hardened warrior his people needed, he had very little stomach for something so gruesome. It made him sick to think about it.
But what made him more sick still was the continued, inescapable certainty that it was his fault.
Arun blamed him, too. And why shouldn’t he? Odger had been with Wardin. Wardin should have looked out for him. Protected him. Led him home alive.
As he should have done with all his people.
Curling up against Rowena, he closed his eyes, and though he was ashamed of many things in that moment, the tears leaking from beneath his lids were not among them.
* * *
The followi
ng days passed slowly at Pendralyn, while they tended their wounded, recovered as best they could, and tried to form a plan for what came next. Word reached them of a few skirmishes, mainly hostilities boiling over in villages and towns in the east, with losses on both sides. Tobin appeared to have taken the battle at Mindoral as a personal affront, despite not having been present for it, and vented his outrage in the form of ever-increasing tyranny and the promise of more burdensome taxes to come.
Narinore was more heavily fortified and defended than ever. Their old and loyal friend Varin agreed to deliver their message to Odger’s parents, but cut off all communication after that. The citizens were under constant suspicion, subject to curfews and random searches. Nobody wanted to risk any action in support of Wardin, even in secret.
Things in the west were better. Though the Aldars had landed at Corghest and all the Harthian forces were now united, they did not trouble the mining towns or mountain villages, where the snow was still melting.
And although the rebel loss at Mindoral had been a terrible blow, Quinn was right: they’d caused Bramwell some trouble as well. The enemy had their own resting and recovering to do. Rumors persisted that the king himself had been wounded, though nobody seemed to know the nature or extent of his injury.
If Pate had his way, they would rally the Eyrds and march on Narinore itself, while passions were still running high and the Harths least expected an attack. He insisted that despite the citizens’ hesitation and fear, they would rise up if given the right opportunity. That they would in fact throw the city gates open to the rebels, oppressed as they were by Tobin’s petulant wrath.
Wardin flatly refused to consider such a plan with his current numbers. It had been too risky before, and it was an even worse idea now that they’d been weakened. Despite Pate’s constant implications that the young prince’s poor decisions had gotten them into their current situation, and that only taking the seasoned commander’s advice would get them out of it again, Wardin stood his ground.
He would at least wait until he had some news from Erietta before venturing out of the mountains again. Now more than ever, he needed a Dordrine alliance to turn the tide.
But it had been weeks since they’d heard anything from their ambassadors to Dordrin, and then it was only to offer vague assurances that negotiations were ongoing, and they would send another message soon.
After a particularly irritating argument with Pate one afternoon, Wardin stalked off to the sage tower to find Eldon and ask him to once again attempt to contact Desmond. He found the headmagister in one of the common rooms on the third floor, thumbing through a book and looking like he was in every bit as foul a mood as Wardin was.
“That hound of yours is tracking mud all over the floor,” Eldon said with a scowl. “Do you never bathe her?”
“It would have been difficult to bathe her between walking through the mud directly outside the front door, and coming inside. Perhaps you ought to leave a tub in the entryway.”
“Yes, well. It would be nice to have a day without a mess in it, for once. If you’re looking for your enchanter, I assume he’s gone to The Dark Dragon to celebrate. Or perhaps to the kennels, or the stables. He’s quite enamored with Helena, isn’t he? You would know better than I would. I rather thought you would end up with her, frankly, but then I suppose she hasn’t got the proper pedigree for a queen.”
Wardin dug his nails into his palms and begged Eyrdri for patience. How the old man could focus on gossip in the middle of a war was beyond comprehension. But then, a good many people at Pendralyn seemed to be the same way, consumed with the trivial. Perhaps because the larger matters were too overwhelming and frightening to think about, and they needed the distraction.
And whose fault was that? Wardin could hardly blame them for seeking some relief from the circumstances he himself had put them in. He took a slow breath. “What do you mean, my enchanter?”
“Arun.” Eldon wrinkled his nose, as though the name belonged to some particularly disgusting insect. “All right, yes, I know he’s not there yet, but—” He stopped and returned Wardin’s confused frown. “Don’t say he didn’t tell you?”
Wardin cleared his throat. “We’ve both been busy. I haven’t seen him in a day or two.”
“I find it hard to believe you weren’t the first one he ran to.” Eldon snorted. “Never one to mind showing off, that one. But he and his sister have both been a bit close with the news lately, haven’t they?” He waved a hand. “In any case, it seems he’s had some sort of breakthrough.”
“Has he fixed my inkwell?” Wardin asked hopefully.
“Not that I’m aware of. He spelled a little wooden box so it wouldn’t lose its contents, even when tipped upside down. It’s not enchanted, mind—it only worked for an hour. But I suppose even an hour is more than anyone’s been able to do in quite some time. I imagine he’ll be harder to live with than ever, now.”
Wardin had already turned away by the time Eldon finished speaking, and thanked him with a perfunctory goodbye over his shoulder before heading back out of the sage hall and across the grounds.
Rowena sped up and whined when they neared the kennels. A thread of smoke trailed out of the chimney of the kennel mistress’s cottage.
“All right,” Wardin said. “Let’s try that first. If he’s not there, you can stay with Helena while I go look at the Dragon.”
Tail wagging—she was never one to enjoy a walk in damp weather—Rowena ran ahead to the cottage and scratched at the door.
Helena had already opened it by the time Wardin got there. She was laughing as she greeted Rowena, but her eyes shuttered when they lifted to his. “Did you need help with something?”
“I was looking for Arun, actually.” Wardin cleared his throat. It was unusual, if not downright unheard of, for Helena to be in her house in the middle of the day when there was work to be done. If Arun was there, neither of them would appreciate the interruption. “But perhaps I should look elsewhere. Or come back later. Or …”
“Come in.” Helena chuckled. “You’re not interrupting anything scandalous, you know. At least, not the sort of scandal you’re thinking of, though I wouldn’t call his behavior strictly proper.”
Wardin coughed again and sidled past her through the door. He found Arun sitting at a rough wooden table drinking a very large mug of what was most likely mead. Rowena immediately trotted over to lie with Hawthorn beside the fire.
When his friend didn’t rise to greet him, Wardin nodded at the mug. “I hear from Eldon you’re celebrating. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Arun’s eyes were slightly unfocused, and Wardin began to understand just what sort of improper behavior Helena had been referring to. “Perhaps I didn’t like the idea of you using my magic for …” He broke off and waved one hand in a sloppy circle, as if that explained it.
“For what?” Wardin pulled out a chair and sat down, while Helena, unbidden, went to get him some mead of his own. There was no mug at her place at the table, Wardin noticed.
“For questionable purposes.” Arun took a long drink, dribbled a fair amount of it down the front of his tunic, and became very occupied with wiping at it with his sleeve.
Wardin laughed. “Now my purposes are questionable? Which ones? Freeing Eyrdon from Harthian rule?”
“I guess that depends on who we’re giving it to afterward. If it’s just you, I don’t mind. I suppose.”
“You suppose.”
“But if it’s your society of necromancers, well.” Another long drink, then Arun burped loudly.
Wardin sighed. He should have known that was what was bothering his friend. Two days before, four former students had arrived, three battlemages and a sage. They’d been at the battle at Mindoral, and wanted to learn conduction. “It’s four people, Arun. I don’t think you need to worry about building conduction its own hall.”
“I don’t know that I want the necromancers to have even more power than they already do.” Arun gestured at Wa
rdin with his mug. “Come to think of it, I don’t know that I want you to have even more power than you already do. You have little enough control over what you do have.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Wardin looked to Helena, but she was no help. Without meeting his eye, she got up and went to sit on the rug with the dogs, busying herself with rubbing their bellies and ignoring her human guests entirely.
“Well, I certainly hope you lost control! I can’t believe you’d do it on purpose, no matter how desperate you thought you were.” Arun shook his head a little too hard, and nearly tilted over in his chair. “Of course you didn’t do it on purpose. It was a mistake. A horrible accident. Which is why I should forgive you. And I almost can.” He held up his thumb and first finger, a bit apart. “But then I see you again, and I must admit, War, I want to stab you just the tiniest bit.”
Wardin’s stomach dropped as realization struck at last, but he hoped he was wrong. He clenched his fists. “Exactly which horrible accident are we talking about?”
Arun slammed down his mug. “Have you killed more than one boy lately?”
“You think I killed Odger.” Wardin’s mind raced along with his pulse as he struggled to control his temper. “Not just that I was irresponsible, but that I actually killed him with conduction. That I was doing a spell and I used him for fodder?”
“Same as you did with Rowena,” Arun mumbled. “Not your fault, really. I’m sure you just ran out of bushes.”
“Arun,” Helena said sharply. “Perhaps this should wait until you’ve had less mead.”
“Perhaps I ought to wait until he’s had more,” Wardin said through clenched teeth. “It seems to make him more honest.”
He gave Arun a glare that would have withered the drunken fool on the spot, had Wardin really had no control over his magic. “I guess you were lying, then, when you said you believed me about Rowena.”
“No, I believed you.” Arun shrugged. “Fool that I am. Until this happened.”
“And that’s what you’ve thought.” Wardin ran a shaking hand through his hair. “This whole time. The whole way back. All these days. You thought I just needed some power, and Odger happened to be handy.”
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