For Pate’s part, he blamed Wardin for their devastating defeat just as much as Wardin blamed him, though his reasons were somewhat less clear. The outraged shouting match between them, as soon as Wardin could shout, had been enough to set every blackhound in the manor to howling. Wardin struggled to draw breath for a day afterward.
He started to drift into sleep on the tide of these unhappy memories, until he was brought back to reality by Arun’s arrival and Erietta’s return.
“Are you sure you want to do this now?” Arun frowned and crossed his arms, like he was considering an experiment that hadn’t come out quite right.
Behind her brother, Erietta bit her lip. “I couldn’t find Quinn. Perhaps we should wait for a better time.”
“All right, I know I look awful, there’s no need to look so glum about it,” Wardin said. “I’m alive, and that means I have responsibilities. They can’t wait any longer. Our army has been all but destroyed.”
“Don’t underestimate the people’s anger over Heathbire’s betrayal,” Arun said. “They want vengeance. They’ll still fight for you.”
“We can try to pull together the remains,” Wardin agreed. “But even so, we’ll never have enough, and we can’t hold out hope for help from across the sea. I’m sorry Etta, but whatever’s happened to the Dords, we can hardly keep looking for them.”
She tossed her head, her eyes hard and unreadable. “I happen to agree with you on that.”
“Our numbers being what they are, we have no chance at all without magic,” Wardin went on. “Our first task needs to be finding out what Bramwell did to the magicians, and how. I want both of your help searching for any of our supplies that might have come back. A waterskin, a pack, anything. Check any food and drink you can find. Particularly anything Hyde isn’t fond of, since he recovered so far ahead of everyone else.”
“We’ve already been working on that,” said Erietta. “So far we’ve only got a couple of empty waterskins, a rotten apple from a saddlebag, and a pouch of dried meat, all of which seemed ordinary. But we’re still looking. Knowing what we now know about Heathbire, his men tainting something seems likeliest.”
Wardin nodded, then swore under his breath. “They were eating and drinking the same things we were. I never considered they might poison us. But I’ve had plenty of time to consider it since, lying here reliving my many failures for days on end. Bramwell knew we put that potion in the water last autumn. I still don’t know how, but when he sent that cask of wine with his letter, remember? He said not to dump it into the stream I’m so fond of polluting. He’d have liked to turn that back against us.”
“We also need to consider that he may not need to deliver it the same way twice,” Erietta said. “If he knows we won’t trust food or drink, perhaps next time he’ll send a shower or a cloud of it, a powder to cover our skin or get into our mouths or eyes. There are lots of ways to poison people.”
“I’ve used powder on him before too, as it happens,” Wardin said.
“Well, there you are.” Arun scratched his beard. “There’s not much we can do to defend against it, without knowing how it works. Or anything about it, really.”
“Which is exactly why I need you to figure all that out.” Wardin smiled at his friends. “And once you’ve finished that little task, I also need you to confirm that it only works on living magicians.”
Arun blinked at him. “You intend to get around it by raising an army of dead magicians?”
Wardin snorted. “For someone who claims to hate necromancy, your mind leaps to it awfully quickly.”
“Only because I’m afraid yours has.”
“Well, it hasn’t. But it’s true that if this antimagic has to enter the throat or stomach or lungs to work, then we need magicians who don’t drink, eat, or breathe.”
“Right,” said Arun. “So, dead men, then.”
“Not men at all. Things. Objects. If you find whatever Bramwell contaminated, see if it affects an enchanted object. Not my inkwell, mind, you are not to touch that. A pen or a book or something.”
Arun nodded at Wardin’s head. “You don’t by chance have another of those headaches, do you? Even if the antimagic doesn’t work on them, what good is an enchanted pen or book in battle?”
“None. But I imagine an enchanted sword would have its uses.”
“And just where will you get an enchanted sword?” Arun raised a brow. “You do recall how our last search for one went?”
“I’ll get it from you, of course. You’re going to enchant Dragon’s Edge for me. Everyone already thinks the Raths built their power on the edge of an enchanted sword. Let’s give them one.”
Arun laughed. “I see several flaws in that plan. Starting with the fact that I can’t enchant things. Still. As well as the fact that enchanting a weapon requires both battlemagic and sage magic.”
“How fortunate, then, that you’ve got a battlemage who can help you. Me.” Wardin waved a hand at Arun’s skeptical look. “I realize I’m not a magister, or even a particularly accomplished magician. But over the past few months I’ve learned some things that neither of you know, haven’t I?”
Arun’s eyes widened. “You intend to enchant your grandfather’s sword with dark magic?”
Wardin rolled his own eyes in return. “First off, stop treating it like it’s some sort of sacred object. That tale may work on people who don’t know any better, but you aren’t one of them. It’s just a sword with a clever story attached to it. Secondly, I’m not talking about dark magic. I’m talking about magic.”
He leaned forward, wincing slightly as his chest and back protested the movement. “Magic that can breathe life into a thing. Sounds like exactly what you need, doesn’t it? Isn’t that what enchanting is? You’re turning an object into a sort of magician.”
Arun rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose you’ve got a point there.”
“If we could turn Dragon’s Edge into our conductor, we’d have our most powerful weapon back,” Wardin said.
“Stealing life from whoever it cuts might be obvious enough,” said Erietta. “But how would you direct where that life goes? Just into the person wielding it? That’s nice and all, but it won’t do your army much good if Bramwell’s prevented you from doing the magic necessary to spread it around.”
“No,” Wardin agreed. “It needs to steal from many, and give to many. Quickly, at once. It needs to affect everyone within sight of it, preferably.”
“Then how will you direct it to choose?” Erietta asked. “Suppose it robs your own life and strengthens your enemy?”
Wardin looked at Arun. “Remember the lantern at Heathbire?”
Arun’s face cleared, and he smiled. “Corbin said it was visible to anyone who meant no harm to the one who lit it,” he told Erietta. “Meaning it was enchanted to tell friend from foe.”
Erietta bit her lip. “So it’s not enough for you to learn to enchant a weapon, the most difficult object to enchant. Both of you, together, and soon. Despite the fact that Arun’s been trying since he was thirteen and hasn’t been able to do it yet. On top of all that, you also have to learn an extraordinarily complicated enchantment.”
“Even I don’t think it’s a terrible idea,” Arun said. “And you might have spotted that I normally consider anything having to do with conduction a terrible idea. Perhaps War’s newfound skills are the missing bit I need. And it takes the human element out of conduction, doesn’t it? No more danger of imbalance. No more worries about War going dark on us. Instead the conductor is an object that will only ever be used in a fight, which I can hardly argue with when you consider that stealing life is the entire point of a battle.”
“Try it, by all means, of course,” Erietta said. “But there are a number of barriers there. As with every other idea we’ve had, we can’t depend on it.”
She cleared her throat. “Which brings us to my suggestion. I’d like to kill Bramwell Lancet.”
* * *
“You do reali
ze that Tobin is an idiot, don’t you?” Erietta pulled out the chair opposite Wardin, sat, and spent a few moments selecting sausages and spring berries from the platters in front of her before calmly meeting his glare. “No need to look at me like that when I’m only stating facts.”
“There’s every need to look at you like that, when you’ve been stating the same facts hourly for five days.” Wardin squinted out the window. “Judging by the sun, you’re starting your nagging a bit late this morning. Oversleep, did you?”
“Actually, yes. I was up late, studying maps of Narinore.”
“Would you at least lower your voice?” He glanced sideways. Though they sat alone at the end of a table, the keep was crowded enough.
Erietta gestured at the chattering magisters and soldiers around them. “Let them overhear. Perhaps they might talk some sense into you.”
“More likely they’ll start to question whether you’re morally fit to be their archmagister. I assure you, your brother’s opinion on this subject is the popular one.”
She’d long since given up on Arun. He said he’d seen enough strange magic over the past year to half believe the old tales about what happened to people who murdered monarchs, and the risk was far too great. No sister of his was going to live out her days cursed by the deities, twisted, in pain, and bringing nothing but bad luck and darkness to those she loved. Particularly as he fell into the latter group.
As an afterthought, he added the rumors that the curse included the eradication of the assassin’s bloodline, which meant she’d be dooming not only herself but her brother to a childless future.
No amount of mocking an old superstition that was, Erietta said, obviously fabricated by royals to protect themselves would make Arun budge. She soon saw convincing him for the lost cause it was.
But she remained determined to win Wardin over. Perhaps because his reasons for refusing her were more practical, and therefore easier to argue with.
Or perhaps because his view of the supposed curse had been tainted by his own father’s death. Bramwell, of course, had been careful to couch it as the just execution of a treasonous baron, rather than an attack on another sovereign. But it was difficult to view the way he’d killed Draven as anything but murder.
“Well, I’m still open to hearing your much better solution.” Erietta gave him a pointed look. “How is recruiting going, by the way?”
Wardin bristled. “Pate and Quinn have both gone out, one to the south and the other to the west. Arun was right, I think. A lot of people will want vengeance for those lost at Corghest.”
“A lot won’t be enough to defeat Bramwell.” She crossed her arms. “But it will be enough to defeat Tobin.”
“Yes, because he’s an idiot. So I’ve heard.”
“He couldn’t come up with a battle plan to save his miserable skin. But it’s not just that he’s an idiot. Think how it would demoralize the Harths to lose their king. The entire country would be thrown into chaos. Tobin would have to go home to Witmare and be crowned king himself. It would be easy to convince them that fighting with their neighbors isn’t worth it anymore, in that situation.”
“I don’t know about easy.”
Erietta leaned forward, palms on the table. “Bramwell is this war. Without him, Tobin, the Aldars, all of them would be lost.”
Wardin suspected she was right, and that Bramwell’s death might indeed change the landscape entirely. But it didn’t matter. Assassination went against every rule of warfare. It was no better than killing a man come to negotiate under a white flag. Worse, even, given the whole legend of the curse.
He might be content to sacrifice his honor, if that were all he stood to lose. But such an act would damn the very kingdom he meant to save. It wouldn’t just be the Harths who couldn’t forgive it. No monarch anywhere would have dealings with Eyrdon if they took their independence in such a way.
What good was winning their freedom, if in doing so he isolated them so thoroughly that nobody would trade with them? Eyrdon was rich in silver and wool, but poor in many other resources. The scant farmland around Corghest could not sustain the whole kingdom. They relied on the rest of Cairdarin—the rest of the known world, really—to trade for what they needed.
But there was no point in saying all of that to Erietta, not when she’d ignored it the first several dozen times. Instead he sighed and took another sausage. “We can’t kill him, Etta. Not unless it’s on a battlefield. That is my decision, no matter how many times you ambush me before I’m even properly awake.”
“You’re right,” she said, then smiled when Wardin blinked at her. “I have been listening to you, you know, even if you haven’t been listening to me. You most definitely can’t kill him.”
He groaned. “Neither can you, Etta!”
“Why not? If you have nothing to do with it—and of course you’ll denounce such an unforgivable crime—no other monarch can hold you accountable, can they?”
“Do you really suppose they’ll believe I didn’t order it?”
“Why shouldn’t they? Plenty of people would like to see Bramwell Lancet dead. Plenty of common Eyrds right there in Narinore, who’ve been oppressed for years. There won’t be any shortage of suspects. It could be anyone.”
“I assure you, I would be blamed, but it doesn’t matter. I’d cut off my own leg before I let you do something so dangerous.” Wardin chuckled, hoping she’d resent his protectiveness less if she thought he was half joking. “And I’ve only just gotten up and about again.”
That ploy failed. Erietta narrowed her eyes. “We’re not talking about marching an army into Narinore, War. I’m one contriver. One very good contriver. I can get into the castle. And out again. I will not be caught.”
“Even so.”
“Why are you being so stubborn?”
“Why are you?”
“Because this is my fault!” she hissed, hand jerking into a fist on the table. “The Dords should have been here ages ago. This war should have been won by now. That was my job, and although I still can’t work out how, it seems I failed. This is the only way I have to atone for it. I can’t take down an army, but I can take down one man.”
He stared at her tight jaw, her miserable eyes, unable to believe she’d just spoken such preposterous words. “Your fault! Is that a joke?”
Her eyes slid away. “You’re the one who’s always telling me I’m not funny.”
“Can you honestly not hear how mad you sound? If you’re looking to cast blame, I’m right in front of you.”
Erietta didn’t look at him, only shrugged down at her plate.
Wardin ran his hand through his hair—a bit too violently, as his fingers came away with several strands attached. “All right, you want to know why I’m really so set against this? Here’s your answer: I’ve crossed some lines in this war. Done things I never thought I would. Conduction comes to mind. It seems the Raths who came before me thought it unworthy of honorable men.”
“And?” Her eyes flicked up to his, challenging. “You’ve only decided now, when we’re the most desperate we’ve been yet, that you ought to be upright and honorable?”
“No! I’ve decided you ought to be upright and honorable! I won’t have you …” He waved a helpless hand. “Sullying yourself the way I have.”
“Sullying myself?” Erietta snorted. “By putting a dagger in a man who’s earned that blade tenfold? I’ve done worse, War. You aren’t the only one who’s pushed past boundaries you never thought you’d cross, you know.”
Wardin scowled. “What’s that mean?”
She looked around and bit her lip. Now, it seemed, she was finally concerned about being overheard. What could be more damning than a plot to assassinate the King of Harth?
“Come and take a walk with me,” she said. “The healers say you’re ready for a bit of fresh air.”
Erietta stood, then gestured for Hawthorn and Rowena to stay when they came from under the table. “You two can take a nap.” She glanced
at Wardin, cheeks reddening. “Rowena hates it when you yell.”
He got up as well, though the sausage rolling in his stomach told him he would regret it. “Why do I think I’m not going to like this?”
“Because you’re not.”
Erietta’s definition of a bit of fresh air clearly differed from Wardin’s. As it was a bleak, unseasonably chilly day and the sleeves of both their tunics stopped at the elbow, he would have preferred to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible. But she seemed to be in no hurry to even start it. She rubbed at the gooseflesh rising on her arms and walked in silence, head down, past the affinity halls. He thought she’d stop at the rock by the waterfall, but she only gave it a mournful glance and kept going to the edge of the valley.
When they got to the old hall, Wardin took her arm and drew her to a stop in front of it. He leaned one shoulder against the scarred wooden door and spread his hands. “Corbin used to come here to tell his secrets to Joan. Seems as good a spot as any for you to confess whatever’s on your mind.”
“Fine.” Erietta looked at Wardin’s neck, up at the wall of rock behind him, at his chest, at his forehead, then down at the ground. Everywhere but his eyes. “Fine,” she repeated. “If your objection is truly that this would sully me in some way, then I can relieve you of that concern.”
She took a deep breath and pushed the hair the wind had tugged from her braid behind one ear. “You’ve asked me before how I convinced Iver to support us.”
Wardin stiffened, though he tried not to show the tension in his face. “Yes?”
“I gave him something.” Erietta waved her arm. “I gave him this.”
“You gave him the old hall?”
Her chuckle was forced and held a slightly hysterical note. When she spoke again, the whole thing came out in a rush. “In exchange for his army, I agreed to give him one third of the books at Pendralyn. Permanently, though we can send people to Dordrin to copy them. And to lend him magisters as well—myself if necessary, for months if need be. He’s setting up his own magistery, you see, and … are you going to say anything? I expected you to be shouting by now.”
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