Corwin sat forward again. “What does Edwin say about the Gregors?”
“Very little.” Dal pulled a dagger from his belt and began to clean beneath his fingernails with the tip. “Officially, it’s been declared a terrible tragedy, and that was that. No mention of the Rising.”
“Of course not. Edwin wouldn’t want to alarm the public by blaming wilders.” Corwin paused, thinking it over. “He’s probably glad of it. With Marcus Gregor dead, there’s one less dissenter among the nobles.” Several choice curse words rose up in Corwin’s mind, but before he could voice them his stomach gave a loud growl.
Snickering, Dal said, “Think I’d better call for some food.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s wise.” Except Corwin didn’t feel hungry in the slightest, despite his protesting stomach—it was anger at his brother’s presumption with ordering him home that pulsed inside him. While he’d vowed to obey, to finally submit to Edwin as the next high king and heir, he struggled against his own independent nature at every turn. Especially now, with this puzzle set before him.
Dal disappeared, leaving Corwin alone with his thoughts. Forcing his mind off Edwin, he soon found himself thinking about Kate, remembering fragments of their time together in the Relay tower. They’d spoken about her father and why he never delivered Hale’s message to her—his childish anger at the kiss she’d shared with Edwin, one his brother claimed later had been an accident, Kate mistaking him for Corwin.
The truth shamed him now, but back then her actions had seemed almost worse than Hale’s attack on the high king. He’d never had a chance to confront her about it, but he couldn’t quite believe it had been accidental. It had looked so willing. Seeing her in the arms of someone else had driven home the terrible truth he’d been trying to deny—that she could never be his. He was the high prince, destined to marry a princess or someone from a noble house. Not the daughter of the master of horse.
Sighing, Corwin forced his thoughts elsewhere. He struggled to recall all he could about the daydrake attack. He’d managed to slay several of them, but it hadn’t been enough. There were too many, the creatures too powerful and relentless in their attack. The luck of Redama, goddess of fortune, must’ve been with him when he took down that last drake. It landed on top of him, hiding him from the view and scent of the others. But it forced him to lie there while he listened to the shrieks of dying horses and men, helpless to stop it. He must’ve passed out for a time, but then Kate arrived. She’d been attacked herself, by three—no, four—drakes, he remembered with sudden, certain clarity. The panic of seeing them bearing down on her was enough to drive off what remained of his delirium. The first she took down with enchanted arrows. But the remaining three . . .
“Food will be here shortly,” Dal said, returning. He flopped down on an armchair and swung one leg over the side, as if the effort of calling for food had been taxing.
“Did you talk to Kate yourself?” Corwin asked, a part of him dreading the topic.
A grin split Dal’s face. “Why, yes, I did. She was far too cordial with me though. I only got a glimpse of the feisty thing you described. I believe she reserves most of that for you.”
Corwin shifted in his seat, unsure if he was annoyed or pleased. “Did she tell you about the attack?”
“A little. She claimed to have killed two drakes.” Dal winked. “Like I said. She is your damsel in shining Relay tunic. Although personally, I’m keen to see her in a dress and with her hair combed and face washed.”
Corwin ignored the comment, tame by Dal’s standards. “She didn’t kill just two. She killed four. I saw it. She took down the first with enchanted arrows, but the other three she slew with a single pistol.”
Dal jerked upright, eyes widening. “The revolver!”
Corwin winced at his shouting. “The what?”
“The revolver, she called it.” Excitement strained Dal’s voice. “It can hold six bullets at once. She said her friend made it, a blacksmith here in Farhold. But you say she killed three drakes with it?”
With the memory growing sharper in his mind, Corwin nodded.
“Holy mother of horses,” Dal said, his mouth hanging open. “I think I might need one for myself.”
“You and me both, especially if there are more of these daydrakes out there. Did she mention the name of this blacksmith?”
“Afraid not. She didn’t seem keen on talking about it much.” Dal scratched at his cheek. “One might even say she was cagey about it.”
Corwin sat forward in his chair, his excitement over a gun that could fell so many drakes tempered only by his nervousness at seeking out Kate to learn more. It was one thing to have talked to her in the state of delirium he’d been under; it would be quite another to face her now that he wasn’t under duress.
Still, it must be done. A weapon like that was the kind of invention that could change the world—the way the steam engine was slowly transforming countries like Endra and Rhoswen that didn’t have magic to rely on as they did in Rime. With enough of those weapons in enough hands, they might even be able to slay all the drakes and free Rime from a life behind walls and wardstones.
“You say she’s been grounded?” Corwin asked.
Dal slowly nodded. “She’s spending every day at the Relay house though. You can find here there right now, I’m sure.”
Corwin shook his head. “Not today. I can barely stand, let alone sit a horse.”
“I see. But this means you will go see her then?”
“Yes, eventually.”
Dal pressed his lips together, stifling a smile, while his eyes sparkled with amusement. “I’m coming with you. I’m dying to meet the feisty Kate you spoke of.”
Corwin sighed “Let’s just hope she doesn’t decide to bite me.”
“On the contrary,” Dal said. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”
10
Corwin
EVENTUALLY PROVED TO BE NEARLY a week. That was how long it took for Corwin to regain some measure of strength—and to deal with all the other business pressing for his attention. Governor Prewitt had been in to see him at least twice each day, always with an air of sincere concern over his welfare. Corwin knew better; the governor was just eager for him to depart. Corwin was, too.
There’d been no news on the Gregors. In the weeks since the attack on the freeholding, no one had seen or heard a word about the entire family. Officially, they’d been declared dead. Corwin didn’t doubt it, given the utter destruction of their home. It had also been confirmed that wilder magic was responsible for the fire and other damage. The two magists who’d examined the body of the dead Andrean miner finally identified the magic that killed him as a form of spirit magic. Their authority on such matters was absolute. One was a white robe, whose order dealt in the high arts, those spells too complex for everyday application. The other a gold robe, the order in charge of detecting wilder magic and the running of the Inquisition. The confirmation made Corwin uneasy, especially given Dal’s speculation that the two attacks were connected. At a minimum the Rising was gaining in power.
“Do you think wilders could have created these daydrakes somehow?” Corwin had asked the magists. “Like how they were supposed to have unleashed the nightdrakes upon us?”
The gold robe made an exaggerated motion with his hand. “Anything is possible with wild magic, your highness. All the more reason it must be eradicated.”
Such was the mantra of every magist. Corwin didn’t know what to make of it, except to feel certain that if there were answers, they lay in Andreas. Despite his brother’s command, he planned to head there before returning to Norgard. Dal had already commissioned an artist to draw the miner’s face so they might learn his identity.
But first Corwin had to talk to Kate. It felt a little like preparing for battle. He forced food down his gullet as often as he could and took to walking up and down every flight of stairs in the governor’s mansion. When he was finally able to make it all the way to th
e top floor without feeling faint, he declared himself ready—despite his lingering certainty that he would never be ready.
The next morning, Corwin and Dal headed for the Relay house. Although he wanted to go without escort, Governor Prewitt insisted on sending four guards with them. Corwin reluctantly agreed but ordered them not to carry the royal banner—and no trumpeters either. The royal tour was over, after all.
Not that it made a difference. Everyone still recognized him. Even though he’d dressed in a plain tunic, forgoing the royal sigil anywhere, his likeness had been posted in every newspaper across Rime far too often of late for anonymity. What with his disappearance and sudden return, he was a mystery that kept the press in print. Doubtless, some of the servants in the governor’s household had been paid handsomely to provide notice of the high prince’s movements as well. The moment Corwin appeared on the street, the crowds converged.
It made for slow going, the four guards a weak force to part the crowd. Halfway there a woman dressed in rags and smelling like a tavern privy managed to get past the guards and race up to Corwin’s borrowed horse. The mare shied away, snorting, but the woman grabbed onto the reins.
“Mercy, your highness!” she shrieked, unmindful of getting trampled. “Mercy!” The guards seized her at once and started to haul her away. “Mercy for my husband! He’s been banished!”
Corwin gritted his teeth, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Banishment was the cruelest of sentences handed down by local judges. Execution was arguably kinder than the uncertainty of being sent outside the city walls without protection. By nightfall, the condemned would become drake fodder. Corwin wished he could just ignore the woman, but there were too many eyes on him, including Dal, who watched with a mouth half opened in dismay.
“Stop,” Corwin commanded the guards. “Let her speak. What is your husband’s crime?”
The woman dropped her head in some semblance of a bow. “They say he killed a man, your highness, but my Joe couldn’t have done. He’s a good man, your highness. A kind man. Mercy!”
Corwin took in her tear-streaked face and the brittle, hopeful look in her eyes. Pity swelled inside him, and he wished for the power to end her suffering.
“Her husband was a drunk, your highness,” one of the Farhold guards said. “He killed a man in a tavern brawl.”
Corwin sighed. It was a common enough story, and he knew without asking that banishment was always the sentence for such a crime in Farhold, same as it was in many of the cities of Rime. Violence could not be tolerated. Life behind these cities’ walls was too confining to allow the possibility for panic or mayhem. Punishment must be swift. But it should also be absolute, Corwin’s father insisted, which was why banishment was not employed in Norgard. Loved ones of the condemned needed the closure of a certain death so that they would not spend the rest of their lives in futile hope that their relative had survived and might one day return.
If only Norgard laws were Rimish laws.
“When was the man’s punishment carried out?” Corwin asked the guard who’d spoken.
“Nigh on a week ago, your highness.”
And there it was, although Corwin knew there would be no convincing this distraught woman of the truth. Instead he relied on the advice Edwin had drilled into him before he’d come on this tour: to avoid any political entanglements. “I’m truly sorry, but the high king is not above the law. What the judges of Farhold have decreed must stand.”
The woman’s mournful tears turned to anger, and she spat at him. “Coward. Coward! What good’s a high king who won’t rule and do right? What good? What—” The guards covered her mouth, silencing her as they hauled her away.
Relief swept over Corwin once it was over, but the woman’s words continued to echo inside his head. What good, indeed. A prince without power. That’s who I am. If only the rest of the world would finally come to accept it. Although he would never wish his father dead, he wanted it to be over, for Edwin to be named heir and for him to be free of the expectation at last.
When they arrived at the Relay house, the Relay master welcomed them in with palpable enthusiasm, an expression exaggerated by the way his eyes seemed to protrude from his head. “Please come in. The grooms will see to your horses.”
“Thank you,” Corwin replied, handing over his horse’s reins to one of the stable boys who approached them. “We are here to see Miss Kate Brighton.”
The Relay master seemed to deflate a little. “Miss Brighton? Oh, yes, she is here, but I’m afraid she’s due to run a trial any moment. We’re holding qualifications today, you see. Our current riders have to requalify, and the new hopefuls will be tested this afternoon.”
“A trial?” Dal arched his head, sounding delighted. “I’m sure his highness would like to see that, if we may.”
Corwin nodded, and again the Relay master looked disappointed. Rubbing his hands together, he gave an awkward little bow, his foppish white curls bouncing. “As you wish.”
The man led them through the stable yard to the training fields situated in the back of the complex. A grandstand resided at the side of the field, more than half the seats occupied. “The trials always draw spectators,” the Relay master explained over his shoulder.
For a moment, Corwin hoped the crowd would allow him to blend in and go unnoticed, but as always, the gods were working against him where Kate was concerned. Astride a stocky chestnut with a white blaze running down his nose, she was facing the fence that ran in front of the stands when he arrived. As if by some magnetic force, her gaze caught his at once. The color blanched from her face, and she jerked her head to the side, steering the horse away from the stands. Corwin winced, hoping that his presence wouldn’t interfere with her trial.
She seemed unaffected, however, as she asked the horse for a trot, then a loping canter. Keeping his attention centered on Kate, Corwin climbed into the stands and sat in the second row, a place opening up for him at once as the people realized who he was. Excited murmurs echoed all around him.
Dal let out a low whistle. “The girl can ride.”
“Did you expect something less?” Corwin shot him an amused look. “Her father was master of horse at Norgard. Not a position easily won.”
“Maybe so,” replied Dal, “but he might’ve required his daughter to study more womanly pursuits.”
Corwin laughed. “Not Hale.” The sudden affection he felt for the man took him by surprise. It had been years since he’d thought of Hale Brighton with something other than hatred. But once, he’d loved him like a second father. “He always encouraged her where horses were concerned,” Corwin added. “If she’d been a boy, you would’ve thought Hale was training Kate to take over as master of horse.”
“Didn’t her mother object?” Dal glanced at Corwin, frowning.
Picturing the small, wispy woman, Corwin grimaced. “Lynette Brighton never went against her husband’s wishes. At least not directly. You’ve never met a more passive person. She’s the opposite of Kate in every way, meek and decorous.”
“You mean boring.” Dal wrinkled his nose. “I would say you’re lying, but I know better.” Craning back his head, he peered up at the bright sky. “Thank you, sweet gods and goddesses, for not dooming us all to become our parents.” Lowering his head once more, he added, “I’ll bet the woman isn’t happy her daughter is now a Relay rider.”
“I doubt she knows,” Corwin replied. “After Hale’s death she returned to her father’s house in Kilbarrow. Lady Brighton is the fourth-born daughter of Baron Reece.”
Dal scratched at his unshaven face. “It’s hard to believe Kate was once part of the gentry.” The magestone in his ear looked dull this morning, a sure sign it was beginning to fade, and Corwin made a mental note to have it replaced before they left Farhold. It was his fault Dal had to wear it, after all.
“I know what you mean,” Corwin said, thinking about the Relay master’s reaction when they’d asked for her. “When Hale was condemned, Kate refused to renounce h
im and lost any such claims to land or station. Her lady mother, however, did not. She returned to Kilbarrow, leaving her daughter to her own means.”
“She sounds like a peach.” Dal leaned over the edge of the grandstands to spit in emphasis.
They fell silent as Kate’s trial began. She lined up her mount in front of the starting pole on the far side of the field, her gaze fixed on the flag bearer at center. Two judges stood next to the flag bearer, one holding a pocket watch to record Kate’s time and the other carrying parchment and pen to record errors. The field was divided into three lanes, each designed to test a particular skill—arrow, lance, and sword.
When the flag bearer lowered the standard, Kate sent her horse forward and drew her bow, heading down the farthest lane. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and let it fly in one quick, seamless movement. It slammed into the first archery target only an inch outside the bull’s-eye. Before it had even landed, Kate twisted her body to the left, aiming at the next target, one set lower than the first. This time the arrow hit dead center, and in moments her quiver was empty and all her targets were marked.
Arriving at the end of the lane, Kate slid the bow onto her back and grabbed the lance protruding up from the ground just ahead, yanking it free. She wheeled the horse around and headed down the middle row; this one was comprised of jousting rings and ground targets. She raised the lance to shoulder height while the horse ran steady and straight beneath her. Aiming for the first ring, Kate missed it by a hair’s breadth, but she snagged the second one and the next, making the difficult task look easy.
Dal whistled low again. “She’s good. I think she’s better than you are. Hells, she might even be better than me.”
“She always was better.” Old memories tumbled through Corwin’s mind. So many nights they’d snuck their ponies out of the stables and ridden them onto the cavalry yards, where they challenged one another to races or mounted duels with wooden swords. Their childhood competitions had been fun but fierce, each trying to best the other. Kate usually lost the duels but never the races. When it came to riding, she was untouchable. She is as good as her father ever was.
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