A Dark Reckoning

by J. R. Rasmussen

  Perhaps it was the mania of all that life teeming within that distracted him so. Perhaps pride made him careless. Or perhaps he was simply a fool. Wardin thought any of these equally likely, as he came to the sudden realization that he was falling off the wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw Erietta’s hand reaching for him and grasping only air.

  Had he merely lost his balance, or been jostled in the tumult? Or had some Harth managed to push him? A clever move, if it was the latter. Perhaps he would be difficult to kill, in his present state, but putting him out of action would do almost as well. Without flesh to rend, Dragon’s Edge ceased doing its job. And if the fall knocked Wardin unconscious, he wouldn’t be able to channel its energy into the Eyrds any longer.

  Unconscious. How optimistic of him. He couldn’t survive this fall.

  Or could he? Surely he had enough energy for a dozen lives coursing through his blood.

  All of these thoughts—detached, mildly curious—ran through his head in a single instant. A second, perhaps more, that stretched to an eternity.

  Then he was on the ground, bones rattling. Blood flowed through his mouth and down his throat, choking him back to his senses. He’d bitten his tongue.

  But he was alive. He’d broken his fall on the unfortunate backs and necks of a group of men fighting below. At least one, sprawled on the ground beside Wardin, was dead. Thankfully, he was a Harth.

  Wardin had no air in his lungs, no strength with which to stand yet. Before he could raise his own weapon to parry the blow, a sword was plunging down toward his face.

  Then another sword darted out of nowhere. A foot kicked the descending blade.

  Pate ran his sword through the attacking Harth’s neck before kicking him again, and Wardin’s would-be killer fell sideways, dead.

  They’d taken the main gate, then. Pate’s men were inside.

  Wardin wheezed his thanks. Pate, grinning, reached down to help him to his feet. “I do believe I just saved your life. If that doesn’t prove my loyalty, I don’t know what does. They’d make me king if you were dead, you know.”

  Wardin snorted. “Perhaps. Or perhaps they’d exile you for the madman you are.”

  “Don’t suppose we’ll ever find out.” Pate stepped back as Wardin slashed into an approaching enemy, and Dragon’s Edge began its work once more. “Seeing as you are alive, and Narinore is ours.”

  29

  Erietta

  The antimagic found its way past Erietta’s defenses eventually, but it didn’t matter. The fight through the streets of the city proved shockingly easy. Like the conductors at Bering Pass, Dragon’s Edge incited a panic that was almost as effective as the magic itself. The nearly invincible army marching behind it certainly didn’t hurt, but the spirits the sword crushed, and those it raised, eased their path considerably.

  It wasn’t only their soldiers who were stirred by the sight of a Rath carrying Dragon’s Edge into Narinore. It was the citizens as well. There were far more of them now than there had been at the north gate. Those who’d fled the streets at the first sign of fighting came back out with any weapons they could find—in some cases no more than a kitchen knife or a sharpened broomstick—until it seemed all of Narinore had turned out to rid their city of Harths.

  By the time the Eyrds reached the castle gate, Lira and the Dords—who had long since breached the river gate and swarmed into the city—already had it down. The war would be over in a matter of minutes.

  And Erietta would be out of sight in a matter of seconds.

  She would have to rely on mundane skills, but the outer bailey was in sufficient chaos, and a contriver knew how to move in shadow when she must. With her recently acquired knowledge of the castle, she could access any part of it she liked, once she got inside.

  Quickly assuring herself that Wardin was still unhurt and too occupied to notice her, she crept around the wall to the edge of the inner courtyard.

  If it were Bramwell leading his people, he would have been out there fighting, crossing swords with Wardin at that very moment. But Tobin was a coward. He would no doubt be locked up tightly with his Aldar friend, hoping to escape this battle with his life intact, if not his barony.

  And he would do just that, if Erietta didn’t stop him.

  Wardin, Iver, Lira, they were all bound by the rules of war. When the Harths inevitably surrendered, they would come to terms. There would be a treaty. That was how things were done. It wasn’t as though Wardin was laying claim to Harth; he couldn’t call Bramwell or Tobin traitors to their true king as an excuse to execute them, the way Bramwell had with Draven Rath. There would be no charges, no punishment. Not for them.

  The Lancets would be allowed to go home.

  Erietta thought of her father’s big hands gripping her shins as she rode on his shoulders, of the curtain of blood flowing down Jasper’s chest from his opened throat. Then she thought of Tobin sitting safe and warm and comfortable at Witmare, recovering from his Eyrdish adventures with a smirk, the memory of the lives he’d taken a balm for his wounded pride.

  It was not to be endured.

  Wardin would be furious. And with good cause. Erietta had already committed this crime once. She’d apologized—and meant it.

  Going after Bramwell had been a mistake. She did see that. But this was entirely different. She had no intention of allowing Tobin’s death to be seen as an assassination.

  They were in the middle of a battle. People died in battle.

  Bit by bit, Erietta sneaked inside, though it wasn’t terribly difficult with all the confusion. Down one corridor, then another—this one deserted—and she was around the corner from the great hall.

  She paused, breathing slowly, then when she was sure she could do it with a contriver’s stillness, inched forward to peer around the corner.

  Half a dozen guards stood outside the great hall, apparently too loyal to leave their posts despite how close the sounds of fighting were coming. There would be far more inside, behind the locked doors.

  No matter. The staunch presence of those guards announced that the princes were in there, and for the moment, that information was Erietta’s only purpose.

  Now that she knew exactly where they were, she could find a more subtle approach. Creeping backward, she made her way down yet another empty corridor. It was eerie, how deserted it was, with so much commotion just outside.

  She knew of an alcove where an entrance to the hidden passages was covered by a tapestry. But when she got there, the door would not open. Something heavy was in the way.

  “I’m afraid we’ve blocked most of them off, or filled them in, or sealed the doors,” a feminine voice said from behind her. A familiar feminine voice.

  Erietta drew her sword and dagger and turned to face this new enemy, swearing under her breath as she reached for her magic and found it still dead. Apparently, she was not nearly as skilled without it as she’d thought.

  How did I not hear her? How did a contriver just miss someone sneaking up on her?

  The speaker had no weapon of her own. She leaned back against the wall, one bare foot propped up and pressed against the stone. Her dainty shoes were slung over her fingers, which at least helped explain her quiet approach.

  “Poor Ben told Tobin all about the passageways. Eventually. It did take some harsh convincing.” She was young, perhaps of an age with Erietta. And beautiful, though her nearly perfect features were marred by the arrogant twist to her smile.

  “You’re the girl,” Erietta said. “The king’s mistress.”

  “Friend, hostage, mistress.” She shrugged. “It all gets a bit muddled. I’m most definitely not a girl though, even if it’s sometimes useful to be thought of that way. Now, do me a favor, would you?”

  Erietta snorted. “A favor. What would that be, and whyever would I help you?”

  “Because I can tell you things. I have intimate knowledge of the king that might come useful to you and your prince. Soon to be a king himself, I suppose. All I need y
ou to do is take me prisoner.” The girl—woman—stepped forward, arms outstretched as though she expected Erietta to tie her up on the spot. “Make it look real, like I resisted and you’re worried I’ll escape. Probably you should put that dagger to my throat.”

  “What in Eyrdri’s name are you talking about?”

  “Nothing in Eyrdri’s name, or that of any other deity. At the moment, my concern is for myself, mostly.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the great hall. “I don’t want them to know I came to you of my own accord. My family still has lands in Heathbire, for now, and I’d rather see if we can’t hold on to them, one way or another. Best to make myself agreeable to both sides until I see how the treaty comes out.”

  Erietta scoffed. She’d have recognized that philosophy, even if the woman hadn’t mentioned Heathbire. “You’re Dain’s daughter.”

  For the briefest of moments, the woman’s saucy expression dropped, and something like sadness flashed across her face. “Yes. Rora. Now, I hope y—”

  Rora’s lips continued to move, but her words were lost to a sudden clamor of shouts and boots. Louder than the sounds outside had been. Closer.

  Eyrdri’s teeth, they’re inside.

  Erietta had allowed herself to be distracted, and now it was too late. The Eyrds and Dords were no doubt storming the great hall at that very moment.

  She’d lost her chance.

  With a scowl, she sheathed her sword, then grabbed Rora’s elbow, jerked her around, and raised her dagger to the other woman’s throat. “Let’s go, then.”

  “Very nice.” Rora shuffled along awkwardly, with Erietta holding her so tightly. “Very realistic. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Erietta snapped. “As far as I’m concerned, you are my prisoner.” She headed for the great hall, not bothering to be quiet. That her people were the victors could not be in doubt. She was no longer in danger here.

  All was calm already. No fighting in the corridors, no corpses littering the floors. No blood even, that Erietta could see. Voices came through the open doors to the great hall, but they were not overly loud.

  Soldiers began to emerge from within—Eyrds. Some took up positions outside the doors, while others moved toward other parts of the castle, whether to search the place or guard it.

  One of them greeted Erietta with a smile as she approached. “Ma’am.” He glanced at her prisoner, but didn’t seem either concerned or especially interested. “His Highness—er, His Majesty, I mean—is inside the hall with Commander Forthwind and your brother.” He bowed slightly and moved aside to let her pass.

  Erietta dragged Rora in with her and quickly assessed the scene. More soldiers, of course. Arun and Varin, who had apparently left the north gate. Pate. And there was Tobin.

  He and a young man she assumed was the Prince of Aldarine were flanked by guards in front of Wardin, Iver, and Lira. But the prisoners hadn’t been pushed to their knees. They weren’t even being touched. A formal surrender, then.

  Arun caught her eye and grinned. “There’s Etta.”

  Wardin turned to beam at her, then raised his brows. “Who’s your friend?”

  They were awfully cheerful, but then she supposed they had reason to be now.

  As do I.

  All at once, the reality of the situation struck Erietta like a slap. They’d won. Eyrdon was free. After all these years of Harthian control, they would drive the tyrants away at last. Narinore was theirs, and the people were safe.

  Pendralyn was safe. Magic was safe.

  Her brother and Wardin were alive. So was she. They’d come through it. As the victors.

  It was everything they’d wanted. Everything they’d hoped for. Everything that had, just a short while ago, seemed nearly impossible.

  We actually did it. We won.

  And she’d come into this room with a scowl on her face, and bitterness in her heart.

  What had happened to her? Vengeful, hateful, bloodthirsty. How had those words come to apply to her, and when?

  Because surely this couldn’t be who she’d been all along. Perhaps this was the bloodlust Wardin spoke of, that overtook people in battle.

  If so, the battle was over. It was time to let it go.

  No matter how painful the hatred swelling in her chest when she looked at Tobin might be.

  Erietta returned Wardin’s smile and gestured for two soldiers to relieve her of her prisoner. Rora made a show of resisting them and looking defiant. Erietta wondered whether the others could tell it was feigned. The performance seemed half-hearted. Perhaps because Bramwell wasn’t there to witness it.

  Free of her burden, Erietta sheathed her dagger and curtsied deeply before her new king.

  He’s the king now.

  All the joy she’d been numb to swelled in her chest. “Majesty,” she said with a grin. “May I present Rora, daughter of Dain of Heathbire.”

  “Ah! Well, I suppose we’ll deal with her later.” Wardin glanced at Tobin. “You’ll want to negotiate for her release as well, I imagine.”

  “Yes, given that she and her father served the Lancets so loyally.” Pate snarled at Rora. “If you’d asked Corbin, he’d have said he would die for you, you know. Somehow I don’t think this is what he had in mind. Did you even try to speak for him? To save him?”

  “Of course I did. There was nothing I could do.” Rora’s voice was unrepentant, her shoulders relaxed. But she didn’t look directly at her uncle, and from where Erietta stood, she could see that the other woman’s hands were shaking.

  “I have no intention of negotiating for her.” Tobin’s face was even more sullen than usual, his protruding lips giving him the look of a small boy who’d been denied a honey cake. “Let her rot, for all I care. Her father’s a filthy traitor. Bribed Ben and ran off, and he’d best stay gone. My father will punish him.”

  Rora snorted and said something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like if your father lives. Perhaps Erietta’s poison had been more effective than they’d heard. Some permanent damage must have been done, if he was still ill weeks later.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t do the same.” Wardin cocked his head as he considered Tobin. “No doubt you underestimated the Eyrds, but even you must have realized you had no chance against the Dordrine fleet. Tell me, why didn’t you flee?”

  “Frankly, I’m wondering the same thing.”

  Everyone turned in the direction of the voice. It was weak, as was the man it belonged to. He leaned on a stick, looking haggard and far smaller than the last time Erietta had seen him.

  But he stood on his own feet, without the aid of the soldiers who’d brought him. And as he looked around the hall, Bramwell Lancet’s eyes were as imperious and arrogant as ever.

  30

  Bramwell

  Bramwell’s eyes were drawn first not to the boy—he wasn’t ready to look at the boy yet—or to Tobin. They hesitated briefly at Iver and Lira, then passed over Rora with indifference, before landing on the woman who’d poisoned him.

  “Archmagister,” he said dryly. “A pleasure to welcome you formally.”

  She gave him a brittle look. “This is my third visit to the castle. I don’t believe I’ve been precisely welcome any of those times.”

  “It’s not his castle to welcome you to.” The boy sounded livid, though what cause he had to be angry was a mystery. It was Bramwell who needed to keep his famously violent temper in check.

  Although truth be told, it wasn’t as difficult as it had been in years past. Not that he wasn’t angry. He was incensed. Outraged. Disappointed and a bit stunned.

  But more than any of those things, he was tired. Down to the bone. Perhaps down to the soul.

  Bram still didn’t look at Wardin, but he finally turned to his son. “And why is it that you didn’t run back to Witmare?”

  “I’m no coward! And I would never abandon you!” Tobin arranged his face in his best attempt at sincerity, though it came across more costive than anything.

>   Bramwell scoffed. “Afraid I would cast you out if you did, more like. Better to take your chances in battle than become a fugitive from your own father.” He gestured at Radley. “Though perhaps he would have welcomed you in Aldarine.”

  Radley blinked back from bleary, red-rimmed eyes. Was he merely suffering from the stress of their defeat, or was the useless fool actually drunk?

  “Majesty.” The Aldar prince’s clumsy bow threw him off balance, and he nearly tipped over sideways. Drunk, then. “I believe these Eyrds are going to ask us to leave.”

  “Indeed.” Finally, unable to avoid it any longer, Bramwell dragged his eyes to the boy.

  He still looks so much like Toby.

  Bram clenched his fist, even as his heart did the same. “Which brings me to you, I suppose.”

  Wardin crossed his arms and shook his head, his face thunderous. “Still imagining you control the conversation. As though I were brought here for an audience with you, and not the other way around.”

  Was that what had him so upset? That Bramwell simply had more natural authority? Was the boy so petty and envious as that? Bram almost laughed. Small comforts, he supposed. “I’m simply trying to get on with it. I’m rather tired.”

  Wardin huffed in what might have been a chuckle. “Far be it from me to deny an old man his bed. We will get on with it. Starting with your silence. I’ll be dictating the terms from now on.”

  “And what will the consequences be, if I speak out of turn?” Bramwell arched a brow. “Will you have me killed in cold blood? It seems you’re not above it.”

  The boy tried to ignore the comment, but when mutters and whispers from the Eyrds began to fill the hall, the archmagister made an impatient noise and spoke up.

  “Of course he’s above it, and I will not hear the king spoken of that way.” She put her hands on her hips, as if Bramwell were an unruly student who needed to be put in his place. “He had nothing to do with the attempt on your life. I simply thought it an expedient way to bring the conflict to an end and save lives on both sides.”