For me. She sold magic for an army. Because of me. Because I got us into a war we couldn’t win.
Wardin kept his voice soft, so soft he could barely hear it above the ringing in his ears. “Why should I shout?”
Her eyes darted down to his hands. “I can tell you’re angry. You’re making fists.”
He had, in fact, dug his fingernails so far into his palms he wouldn’t be surprised to find them bleeding. Angry did not adequately describe how he felt. Though he wasn’t sure he had a better word.
Guilty, perhaps. She was driven to this. I drove her to it.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Iver never came.”
“But if he had—”
“He didn’t.”
“Or if he does, by some remote chance. The bargain’s already been struck. I agreed to his price. And I will pay it.”
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Wardin turned and delivered a hard punch to the door, sending a wrenching jolt of pain through his ribs and making Erietta jump. “How could you? How dare you?”
She raised her chin. “I did what needed to be done.”
For me. Because of me. She gave away the very thing we’ve gone through all of this to protect.
Wardin thought he might be sick. “All your concern about conduction. All your warnings. Don’t go too far, don’t be the traitor. As if you were the wise one.”
Her eyes flashed, and she jabbed a finger at him. “I did nothing but support you. I told you over and over again that you aren’t a traitor.”
“No, because you’re the traitor! You … you’re lucky the Dords didn’t come!” He smacked the door again and turned away from her. “You’re a fool, Etta. And you thought telling me this would make me more likely to send you to Narinore?” Wardin barely recognized his own laugh. It was a hollow, nasty sound. “I’ll be hard pressed to let you out of my sight, for fear of what idiotic thing you’ll do next!”
He didn’t look back at her, but he knew by the brittleness of her voice exactly how cold her face had become, how pinched her mouth would be. “It was my decision to make. As are any choices I might make about Bramwell. I don’t need your permission.”
“Yes you do, blast you!” Wardin wheeled around and stepped toward her, sorely tempted to take her by the shoulders and shake her. Or possibly chain her up somewhere. But she didn’t step back. She didn’t even flinch.
“I am your king. You will do as I say. And I forbid you, absolutely forbid you, to leave this magistery for any reason.”
He should have known better, of course. Before another breakfast was served in the keep, Erietta was gone.
24
Erietta
She hadn’t told Varin she was coming. She hadn’t told anyone, either those in Narinore who might have helped her, or those at Pendralyn who would worry while she was gone. Instead she’d stolen away in the dead of night, much as she’d once chastised Wardin for doing. At least he had an excuse; they were children then.
Wardin and Arun might never forgive her. They would certainly never let her forget it.
Let them be angry. It was easy for Arun to judge, from his comfortable position as an unimpeachable sage, leaving others to make the decisions that left the real scars. He couldn’t know the burdens she carried.
Whereas Wardin knew those burdens all too well. Better. How dare he lecture her, when he’d gone down such dark paths himself?
Of course, he had said the same thing to her. They should have understood one another. They should have parted friends. Instead she didn’t even say goodbye.
And what would happen when she returned home? Would Wardin have told the others? Would they perhaps have taken up a vote?
Would she still be the archmagister?
Erietta slowed her breathing and stilled her mind. It didn’t matter, as long as there was a magistery to go home to. They were well past the point of choosing the safer paths now.
With that grim thought to bring her wandering mind back to its task, she judged it time to crawl forward again. Just a short way through rough, itchy grass that would have reached her shins, had she been standing, and then another pause.
It had taken her an hour to get to the ditch this way, but she was nearly there now. The castle at Narinore sat on the highest ground for miles, and it was a clear day. Even outside the city walls as she was, she could not afford to be too cautious of the eyes on the battlements.
For the moment, her magic was helping her stay hidden. But she didn’t know how Bramwell’s antimagic worked, or through what means, or how much of it he had. The city guards might be using it on anyone who came through the gates, to prevent contrivers from sneaking by under disguises or cloaks. It might be anywhere. Or everywhere.
Hence the need to enter the city this way. She had to be able to rely on nonmagical means of passing undetected, if need be.
Nonmagical, and unfortunately disgusting. When she finally reached the ditch, Erietta nearly gagged at the smell of the water. And no wonder. It wasn’t just runoff from rain. It would be full of the unwanted remains from tubs and pots and bowls, water used for cooking, washing. Worse.
Eventually, the ditch would find its way to the Nairas, the very river Iver should have used to sail from Corghest and attack Narinore, sparing Erietta from even having to conceive of her present mission. But he hadn’t, and this was not the time to wonder, yet again, what had become of her Dordrine allies. Or Desmond.
More important than where the ditch went was where it came from. Last year, Wardin had led her out of the castle using first hidden passages, then a drainage tunnel. That same system of drains ran beneath a section of the city—and its walls—eventually leading to the very spot where Erietta now lay flat on her belly, trying not to think about what was in that foul water.
From what she’d been able to ascertain from her maps and books, this route would be not only unpleasant, but tight in places. Almost certainly too small for a man of average size to sneak into the castle by. But for one slim contriver who happened to have a gift for holding her breath for long periods, it might just do.
Pulling her dull green cloak closer about her—she would swap it for a black one, once she was in the tunnels and had the space to change—Erietta lowered herself slowly, with minimum disturbance to the water, into the ditch. It had been a dry few days, but even so it was deep enough that she was obliged to swim rather than crawl.
The ditch burrowed into the hillside before it reached the city walls, then widened into an underground tunnel. Here, at least, it was spacious enough for her to continue on her hands and knees, with the filthy water coming only to her chest.
But the farther she went, the smaller and narrower the tunnel became, until she had to take off her pack and hold it at various angles to get both it and herself through. Apparently whoever had built Narinore was familiar with the tale of an Aldar town that lost a battle when the enemy came in through an underground river, and had taken no chances.
By the time she’d gone far enough that she judged she must be beneath the city and well on her way toward the castle, Erietta could scarcely squeeze through the space. She had to slide along on her back and tilt her head to keep her nose (finally, an advantage to its length) above the water, pack clutched between arms stretched over her head. Even so she barely passed. Had she been only a bit plumper, she’d have been stuck until, she supposed, her bloated corpse blocked the drain, and they had to send someone to find out what the trouble was.
But she managed to push through, always working her way west when the tunnel branched off and offered her an option. These choices were few; for the most part, new water flowing in came through holes no bigger than her fist.
It was hours of slow, exhausting, and often nauseating creeping before she heard what she’d been listening for with both hope and dread. The castle’s drainage tunnels were below ground, but above the tunnel Erietta was now in. The result was a waterfall of muck flowing between the two. She’d seen that water
fall from the top, a memory that had sparked her entire plan for today.
If she was careful, and she held her breath long enough, and she was able to cast a spell through this awful water, she could propel herself upward and into the drain above, the very tunnel through which she’d escaped the castle last time. (Even on that occasion, unwashed and having been stuck in a filthy cell for days, she wagered she’d smelled better than she did now.)
Though she’d been practicing leaping spells since her early years at Pendralyn, it would be challenging to cast one from her current position. Erietta started to prepare it, and was relieved to feel the familiar power gathering. She still had magic. For the moment.
She took in a deep breath, maneuvered herself under the waterfall, and then reached up, arms and pack above her head, and attempted to stand into the confined space the water flowed through. In the dark, with so little room to move, getting her head and torso through the hole was like trying to fit together a puzzle.
When she finally succeeded, she decided she’d never been so uncomfortable. Her shoulders barely fit. Even with her arms stretched up above her, she could not feel the floor of the tunnel above, and it was impossible to grope around with her pack still in her hands. And then, of course, there was the matter of not being able to breathe.
With a fast and silent prayer to Eyrdri that Bramwell hadn’t wasted any of his antimagic on his waste water, Erietta released her spell and jumped as best she could.
A moment later, she was rolling onto the floor of the drainage tunnel.
If anyone had been there, her involuntary gasp for air would have been her end. She must be more careful. She knew from experience that guards could get in here, if they had a reason to.
The tunnel was wide enough for two of her to fit across, and almost tall enough to stand in. After the strangling hole she’d just come through, it felt like freedom. Erietta moved to the wall, where thanks to the rounded floor the water lapping at the edges was only ankle deep, and opened her pack. It was lined with wax, and she’d wrapped the contents in oiled and waxed canvas to keep everything as dry as possible.
She changed her drenched cloak for the black one, though the green was so filthy now that perhaps it wasn’t necessary. Then she risked a candle for long enough to get her bearings and memorize the details of her surroundings. (Nothing but stone, water, and slime.) She would have to feel her way along the walls after that. Though her eyes had long since adjusted to the dark, they were still human eyes, and she knew of no spell that would turn them into an owl’s or a cat’s.
Erietta took her time folding and rearranging the contents of the pack, hoping the chore would steady her balance a bit. When she was ready, she pulled up her hood and prepared another cloaking spell, this time mainly to dampen sound in the echoing space.
She moved slowly, all her senses on alert. If anyone approached she would use the sealing spell she’d perfected when trying to free Pendralyn from its siege, so she could deal with them without fear of drawing more attention. But that would take more energy than a simple cloak, and she would rather conserve her power if she could. The day’s magic had already left her lightheaded.
Erietta had only been there the one time, and she was weak and hurt then. Navigating the tunnels now would have been far easier if Wardin had been more cooperative. He could have drawn her a map, or at least given her basic directions. As it was, it took her quite a while to find the door that led to the hidden passage beneath the castle.
It was set against the smooth wall so well that it was no wonder she’d passed it three times without feeling the seam. She reached into the water and ran her hands over the clammy stone until she found the tiniest of notches at the bottom. The door opened just enough for her to work her stiff, cold fingers around it, and pull it wider.
When the door was closed again and the drainage tunnel behind her at last, Erietta allowed herself a sigh of relief and a few minutes of rest. At least she could dry off now. And she had hope of being relatively safe while she explored, gathered information, and adjusted her plans. As of last year, at least, Tobin had been unaware that these hidden passages existed.
If only she could manage to sneak a bit of clean water to wash herself, she might be rid of this rancid smell as well. Surely a bit of assassination would be a minor challenge in comparison to living with such a stench.
* * *
Erietta leaned against the stone wall, pushed her rolled cloak behind her head to cushion it, and bit into a hunk of bread. She was likely in for a wait, but that was all right. Waiting had become her primary activity.
She had learned many things in the six days she’d been haunting the passageways and even, occasionally and well disguised, venturing outside them. Which doors led where, and which walls would yield the most interesting information, when she pressed her ears to them and cast a little spell to enhance her hearing. The servants’ routines, the guards’ names. Even some of their faces. When it would be safe to sneak into the kitchen and pilfer some food, where to get water to wash with.
And when Bramwell Lancet would be alone.
She also learned, much to her chagrin, that she was no longer the only one there who knew about these hidden corridors. Three times she had near encounters with the same man creeping around, before she got a look at his face in the glow of the lantern he freely used—apparently he had no fear of discovery—and found that it was Ben, the same guard who’d helped her escape Tobin. Or was he a scout? He was certainly spying, though for himself or someone else, she couldn’t have said.
Erietta briefly considered making herself known to him, perhaps offering him a bribe of some sort. He had taken her part once before, after all, and he might prove useful. But she quickly dismissed the idea. He’d only helped her because, by his own admission, he preferred to have friends on both sides of the war. Now that one side’s victory appeared certain, in the wake of Corghest, that might no longer be the case.
Fortunately, she could still use her magic. It was easy enough to hide from Ben, from all of them, in these dark and secret places. The daily chores of seeing to her own survival were adequate for balancing any necessary cloaking or sealing spells, and she had long—and frankly boring—hours to rest and recover.
Those long hours were necessary for making sure, and sure again, that she thoroughly understood the king’s habits and routines, and those of the people he surrounded himself with. She would not get more than one chance. She must be absolutely certain she got it right.
A pity that one chance had to be spent on Bramwell. She would much rather have killed Tobin.
The hatred the prince had aroused in Erietta the day he killed Jasper did not ease with time. If anything that malice concentrated, crystalized until that one act became a great burning emblem of everything that enraged her about the Lancets, the Harths, the loss of her kingdom and her loved ones.
Jasper had been a loyal Eyrd, and a good friend to her. Her first kiss, now that she thought of it, though that part hadn’t lasted long. He wasn’t the first person she lost to the Harths, nor the last, and he wasn’t nearly the dearest. Her own father had been killed in the war when she and Arun were children. Her grandmother before that. Cousins, friends, magisters. Students.
Yet it was the innkeeper’s death Erietta could not stop seeing. Because she had seen it, had been helpless to do anything but see it. The look on Tobin’s face. The smug smile on his plump toad’s lips as he slid his blade across Jasper’s throat. The blood.
She had hoped to kill Tobin at Pendralyn, during the battle there last autumn. She’d imagined it many times since. Perhaps slitting his throat herself. Perhaps hearing him beg first.
But Erietta’s desire to watch Tobin die had reared up and grown a thousandfold since she’d come to Narinore. Almost to the point of obsession. She heard his vile voice, sometimes, through the walls. And worse, his laugh.
Tobin Lancet should not be permitted to laugh.
He was so close. She’d infilt
rated the castle so perfectly. And she’d already come with murderous intent. Transferring it to him would be all too easy. All too satisfying.
But she wasn’t here for revenge. She was here to rid her kingdom—rid magic—of a dire threat. It was no less than she’d promised to do, no less than Iver had promised her. His failure was her failure, his betrayal hers. If his army would not keep that promise for her, she would have to keep it herself.
Erietta’s stomach dropped as her thoughts were interrupted by the muffled sound of a feminine laugh through the wall. Bramwell was with the girl.
It would be tonight.
Though none of it was necessary, given how many times she’d done it already, Erietta took out her dagger, tested the edge, then checked the bottle of perfectly mundane poison with which she would coat the blade, when the time came. Even if he kept it on his person, the king’s antimagic could not save him now.
Heat flared through her tightening chest. Tonight. An hour, perhaps two, and then the girl would be gone.
Bramwell was alone more often than Erietta had expected him to be, but the pleasant surprise of that discovery had dissipated when she realized it didn’t matter whether he entered or exited or sat in a room by himself, when he was so frequently interrupted. She didn’t just need him alone; she needed a guarantee that he would be alone long enough for her to finish her task and get away undetected. And that was nearly impossible.
Nearly, but not quite. The girl—her voice and especially her laugh would not let Erietta think of her as a woman—was apparently the king’s mistress. Erietta had not yet heard her name, preferring to keep her eavesdropping to a minimum when Bramwell was thus occupied.
He was never interrupted when he was with the girl. But she never stayed the whole night, either.
A Dark Reckoning Page 26