“Oh, it is. Even if I didn’t recognize it, you can see the runes engraved in the hilt. And anyway I doubt I’d have had to go through all that, whatever it was, to claim a fake. There’s no question. This is Dragon’s Edge.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Wardin made a strangled sound, torn between rage and amusement and possibly some sort of fit, and handed the sword to Arun. “See for yourself.”
Arun examined it, frowned, then bent closer. While he closed his eyes and sent a cloud of breath crawling over the surface of the blade, Wardin held his own breath. Perhaps he was mistaken. The exertion. The stress, the excitement. Perhaps he was simply too tired. He might be wrong. Arun would know.
But Arun threw back his head, and roared with laughter.
“Care to tell me what’s going on?” Erietta asked.
As this brought only a fresh howl from Arun, Wardin answered her. “It’s just a sword. The blasted thing isn’t enchanted.”
20
Wardin
“You knew?” Wardin bared his teeth at Pate like a hound, while the actual hound went to seek shelter under the table. His temper always scared Rowena, despite the fact that it was never directed at her.
Pate, on the other hand, was entirely unmoved. “Of course I knew. I spent years at your uncle’s side. You don’t think I ever got near enough to that sword to tell? Not that he allowed many people to get that close, mind you. He preferred to embrace the rumors. As should you.”
“You said we needed it!”
“We do need it.” Pate calmly chose a coppernut from the bowl on the table and popped it into his mouth. “I never said it was enchanted. I said it was a powerful weapon. And so it is. If you want to be a king, you’re going to have to learn the art of leadership as well as war.”
“What does lying about a sword have to do with leadership?”
“Everything. Ruling is as much about cultivating your legend as anything else. It was your grandfather, you know, who seeded that sword’s story. A wise man, Baden Rath. His people were convinced that the army that marched behind Dragon’s Edge was invincible, and the army before it would fall. And so that was how it was. Men’s hearts win battles, not their weapons.”
“Men’s hearts win battles.” Wardin scoffed. “And food, and blankets, and everything except the actual battling, according to you. We don’t need a bracing story, Pate, we need something with real power.” He made a disgusted noise and gestured at the table where Dragon’s Edge lay between them. “That is just a sword.”
Pate shrugged and took another nut. “It is what you make it. The magic isn’t in the sword, it’s in the tale, and it’s no less powerful for that. You believed in that bracing story.”
“Yes, because it was told to me by people I trusted.” Wardin crossed his arms. “And you were awfully eager to send me chasing after it, weren’t you? I’ve been wondering why that might be.” That question had, in fact, preyed on his mind the entire long, disappointed walk home from the Well of Songs. Why had Pate been so determined to get rid of him?
“For all the reasons I told you before you left, reasons that still stand,” Pate said. “We need this—your soldiers need it—now more than ever. I could hardly tell you the truth, when you were already hesitating to go.”
Wardin snorted. “No, then I might have made my own decision, and what a disaster that might be.”
Pate gave him a snide smile. “Your words, not mine. Let me ask you this: if the sword is as useless as you think, why all that pomp and ritual from the well?”
Another question that Wardin had been asking himself. “I don’t know, to be honest. I have no idea what the magic protecting that sword was, or who put it there, or why.”
“It was the well’s magic, obviously. It seemed to know that Dragon’s Edge is your birthright, and that you had to claim it in some glorious fashion. If it weren’t important for Eyrdon, the Well of Songs would hardly concern itself with it.”
Wardin rose from the table and clapped his thigh for Rowena, who crept out from beneath it. He sat down on the carpet to rub her belly. He was still fuming, but there was no reason for the poor blackhound to suffer. Whether or not Pate should suffer—and how—was a question Wardin was still considering.
He had no doubts at all about Pate’s loyalty to Eyrdon. But his loyalty to Wardin might well be another matter. They’d often been at odds. And then Pate had hated Wardin’s father. Old grudges could run deep, and last lifetimes. Generations, even.
It was certainly possible that Pate was telling the truth about his motives. He was protective of Lional Rath’s legend. He might genuinely believe that brandishing Lional’s sword would help them win, somehow. There might be value in an heirloom, even if it wasn’t enchanted.
Or perhaps Pate was scheming, although what that scheme might be was a mystery.
“I still can’t believe that all this time Dragon’s Edge was a lie.” With a swallow, Wardin ran his fingers over Rowena’s soft ear and finally gave voice to a gnawing doubt he hadn’t yet mentioned to anyone, not even Erietta or Arun. “It makes me wonder whether anything they say about the Raths is true. Perhaps we’re not even the rightful guardians of Eyrdon. Perhaps we were only in power because we were the ones who made up the best story.”
“That’s what power is, son.” Pate leaned back in his chair and pointed at Wardin. “But you know, since you’re so determined that your house’s worth be proved with magic, your grandfather did have an enchanted horn that he used in battle. Perhaps you can find that somewhere.”
“My grandfather’s horn was enchanted?” Wardin gave Rowena’s belly a final scratch and went back to the table, his pulse quickening. “How? What did it do?”
“No idea. Your uncle was never allowed to touch it, nor your father. They never found it after your grandfather died. The only enchanted object of Baden’s that was passed on to his children was the inkwell, which went to his eldest son.” Pate snickered, never missing an opportunity to show his contempt for Draven. “Perhaps as a consolation for denying him the kingdom.”
Wardin rubbed the back of his neck, barely listening. If they were talking about any other enigmatic object that, conveniently, nobody had touched and nobody had found, he would have dismissed it as just another story. Another embellishment to feed the Rath legend and convince everyone—even their own sons—that they were something greater than they were.
But he’d heard that horn. Or at least, a horn. At a moment that ought to have ended with Bramwell Lancet driving his sword through Wardin’s neck and extinguishing the house of Rath forever.
Pate cocked his head. “Why are you looking so contemplative? You haven’t seen this horn, have you? Perhaps it’s been at Pendralyn all this time?”
“No, I haven’t seen it. But …” Wardin shook his head, as much to clear it as to dismiss Pate’s question. “Never mind. All this business about the horn is entirely beside the point.”
“Yes, it is. The point is, you’re acting like a child.”
Wardin’s brows shot up. “Am I, now? I wonder if that might be because you’re treating me like one. Lying to me, sending me off in search of fantasies.”
“Your people need that fantasy.” Pate jabbed a finger at him. “You need to be that fantasy for them. That is your duty to them and to this kingdom. It comes with the name and the castle and the crown. So perhaps you ought to stop whining about it and accept your responsibilities.”
“You’re asking me to lie.”
“I’m asking you to lead.”
Wardin snorted. “Is that how it’s done?” He looked away, feeling not only disillusioned but like he barely knew himself. What was he doing, if his family wasn’t as special as they’d all made it out to be? He certainly wasn’t special on his own.
He cleared his throat, hating exposing his fears to Pate. But the older man was one of the few left alive who could answer his questions. “Did my other grandfather do it, too? Pretend to be extraordinary when he wasn’t?”
>
“Hawkin?” Pate laughed, though it was a mirthless sound. “The opposite. Hawkin spent most of his time pretending not to be extraordinary when he was. An exceptional baron standing next to an entirely unexceptional king is in a dangerous position.”
“Wardin!” Erietta’s voice came through the door amid a series of sharp knocks.
Wardin frowned as he rose to let her in, wondering what could have brought her to see him less than two hours after their return from the well. She’d gone in search of a bath just as quickly as Wardin had gone in search of Pate, and he knew there were several magisters waiting to see her about one thing or another. But perhaps she hoped to witness some of Pate’s reckoning.
“Good, you’re here.” Erietta hurried into his chambers, glanced toward the table, and gave Pate the barest of nods before holding a folded page out to Wardin. “This was waiting for me on my desk. The guards in the village took it yesterday from a messenger they say was an Eyrd. It was passed to him in the south by another Eyrd who picked it up in the east, near Mindoral, from a Tar. The one who left it here didn’t seem to mind mentioning that they were all paid quite well. Justifying why he would risk delivering something to Avadare, I suppose.”
Wardin unfolded the letter, scanned it quickly, then read it a second time. All within the space of a second, as there were only two words: Keeping faith. He blinked at Erietta, who gave him a triumphant smile in return.
“The Dords are coming. Desmond must be ill, and that’s why Iver sent the letter.” She twisted her braid around one hand. Her suggested explanations for Desmond’s silence never included the word dead. “I told you he wouldn’t have changed his mind, didn’t I? Something happened to delay them, but they’re coming. And soon. A letter that had to go through such convoluted channels to get here probably took almost as long as it will take them. They might even be here already, for all we know, and we just haven’t gotten the news yet.”
Wardin suppressed a laugh, knowing that neither Erietta nor Pate would find the same humor in his friend’s excitement. “You got all of that from two words?”
Her brow furrowed. “Of course, what else could it mean? He could hardly write out a full explanation, or even send a verbal message from man to man, could he? Letters can be intercepted, messengers tortured. It’s not as if we worked out a cipher in advance, because we had Desmond.”
While she was talking, Pate limped around the table to look over Wardin’s shoulder. He made a disgusted noise, as though it hadn’t been worth the effort of getting up. “There is no reason to believe this is from Iver.”
Erietta crossed her arms. “Who else? I haven’t made pacts with any other foreign kings lately.”
“And if it is from Iver,” Pate went on, as though she hadn’t spoken, “there’s no reason to believe it means he’s still coming. That could be an apology.”
She laughed. “There is no interpretation of those words that qualifies as an apology.”
“Perhaps he means in his heart. He meant to keep faith, or he wishes he could keep faith.” Pate nodded when Erietta snorted. “But you’re right. More likely, it’s a stalling tactic. He’s just trying to keep you dangling.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “He gains nothing from making us think they’re coming if they’re not.”
“Here is what we know.” Pate held up a hand and ticked off on his fingers. “It’s been a full month since Iver was to set sail. The ambassador you left with him is missing. If this is from him, he was able to send you a letter, something he could not do while himself at sea. Which means he’s on dry land.” He finished with his thumb, emphasizing his simplest and most damning point. “And it is not our land.”
Arguing none of this, Erietta dismissed Pate with a sigh and turned to Wardin. “War, he will be here. The Dords are coming. We should march for Corghest now, while morale is still high from the victory at Bering Pass.”
“But that’s …” He stared at her, jaw open, unable to believe that practical, cautious Erietta was suggesting such a thing. Wardin was supposed to be the reckless one. She was supposed to moderate his impulses, not the other way around. “Even if you’re right that they’re coming, we cannot possibly guess when they’ll arrive. We can’t just march down there and wait, hoping nobody at Corghest notices the army camped outside their gates.”
“Let them notice, then,” she said with a shrug. “We couldn’t manage a prolonged siege, especially not with Bramwell and his army within reach. But we can hold them for a short while, anyway.”
Perhaps everyone’s character had been turned inside out. If Erietta could be depended upon to be prudent, Pate could be equally expected to suggest a radical offensive maneuver. Instead he met Wardin’s eye and shook his head. “If they do come, it’ll be a lovely surprise, but we can’t count on it. I’ve been in full favor of attacking Corghest, as you well know, but we need a better plan first. I couldn’t take it with our army alone the last time.”
Wardin looked from one to the other, unsure which was the better—or worse—wager. The man he didn’t entirely trust, talking sense. Or the woman he trusted with his life, being completely irrational.
* * *
As it turned out, Wardin was saved from deciding whether to take action on the strength of Iver’s—or Erietta’s—word alone by a timely request from another ally. Less than a week after they returned from the Well of Songs and discovered the cryptic letter, they got a much lengthier, if almost equally mysterious, message from the Baron of Heathbire.
“The king has taken the baron’s daughter.” Corbin’s mouth turned down as he looked around the somewhat crowded table in Wardin’s chambers. He’d asked for a meeting with Wardin and Pate alone; Wardin had invited Erietta, Arun, and Quinn to join them. Thankfully, Corbin was prepared to pass along the baron’s message himself, sparing them the additional irritation of Joan.
“How did he find her?” Pate asked.
Corbin shook his head. “I don’t know. Betrayed, perhaps. Or simply tracked down. I’m told the king’s scouts are very good. But there is no doubt he has her.”
Wardin swore and ran a hand through his hair. “So much for our brief partnership with Heathbire.”
“On the contrary,” Corbin said. “The baron wishes to move against Bramwell. Openly. This is proof that he’s well past the point of regaining the king’s trust. Dissembling is useless now.”
Wardin scowled. “He wants to stand openly against the king who’s holding his daughter hostage?”
“If that’s what he said, it’s a lie,” said Erietta. “Bramwell is forcing him to set a trap for us.”
“I don’t believe so.” Corbin sniffed. “And I know the baron a great deal better than the rest of you do. Even you, Father. Dain adores Rora, though she doesn’t always know it. She’s rather mistrustful of him. I’ve tried to speak with her about it, but—”
“Corbin,” Pate snapped. “The message, if you please.”
Corbin gave his father a sullen look. “I was merely trying to give the prince a bit of context, but very well, here is the meat of it: Dain doesn’t believe Rora herself will be harmed. Not yet. But she’s clearly bait in a trap meant to bring him in. He’ll be executed for a traitor.”
“So he’s going to let her suffer in his place, on the guess that the king won’t hurt her?” Wardin made no effort to check his incredulous laugh. “I certainly hope he’s lying, because it’s either that or he’s the worst father I’ve ever heard of.”
“Is he?” Pate scratched his chin. “She might be safer where she is, for the short term. While we put our plans together, anyway. Bramwell is merciless with his enemies, and he’s certainly been known to use their families against them. But he doesn’t like hurting women and children unless his hand is forced.”
“I believe he kept you alive for years, when you were a child, though you were the last heir of a rival house,” Corbin pointed out.
“A decision he’s no doubt regretted,” Arun said. “And isn
’t likely to make again.”
“A hostage is only useful alive,” said Pate. “Bramwell will at least give Dain a chance or two to comply first. And if the baron does comply, as Corbin says, he will be executed. But it won’t end there. His title and lands will be stripped. Rora will be destitute, with no protectors, and at the king’s mercy permanently.” He gave Wardin a pointed look. “Sound familiar? It should. Your mother was in that situation once. I doubt she’d want you to let another suffer the same fate.”
Wardin pressed his lips together. “It ended well enough for her. She loved my father.”
“Not at first, I can promise you,” Pate said with a laugh. “And Bramwell punished her plenty, before she was married. Her and her last remaining brother.”
Arun cleared his throat. “Perhaps we ought to concern ourselves with the present. What exactly is the baron proposing?”
“That you—both of you, the Eyrds and the men of Heathbire—attack Corghest,” Corbin said. “The king will either bring his army to meet yours, or perhaps make another move on Pendralyn. Either way, he won’t leave his army sitting at Narinore when yours is on the move. Dain will use the distraction to rescue Rora.”
“He would like us to send thousands of men into battle as a distraction.” Wardin stared at Corbin. On the one hand, the audacity of such a suggestion was staggering. It defied belief. On the other, staggering audacity seemed entirely in character for Dain.
Corbin offered Wardin a tight, patronizing smile. “One action may serve more than a single purpose, you know. As we’ve discussed—several times, if you recall—taking Corghest also offers the advantage of helping you win your war. Something that aligns with the baron’s interests more than ever now.”
“Why not march on Narinore, then, and use the army to rescue Rora directly?” Pate asked.
“As far as I know, that idea didn’t enter into the communication between Hodge and Joan,” said Corbin. “But I would guess Dain doesn’t want Rora where the fighting is, or the king to be there during the rescue attempt. She may be safe for the moment, but once Dain actually moves against Bramwell, matters will be different. It’s best if both the king and his army are elsewhere.”
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