Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  Not that it would require much skill to get caught. The challenge would be getting caught at the right time, when he was far enough away from Pendralyn that there would be no guessing where he’d come from. Erietta was the strategic one. She could have told him where to go, what route to take, when to show himself.

  And when he was taken, what then? Like his father, he would fool the king into thinking he’d been captured against his will. But just how far would he have to follow in those footsteps?

  Please, Eyrdri, deities, if you’re listening, please don’t let me face the same death. I don’t think I can be brave enough for that.

  As if summoned by his thoughts of her—or perhaps by his prayer for help—Erietta plopped down beside him. Wardin wasn’t startled. He didn’t even look sideways to make sure it was her. He would have recognized her by the smell of the sweetnettle soap she favored anyway; Erietta did insist on frequent baths. But he’d also half expected her. Perhaps that was the real reason he was lingering here.

  She leaned toward his ear to be heard above the rushing water. “So. Tell me. Are you only going to run away, or are you actually planning to turn yourself over to the King of Harth?”

  “The second one.”

  Her inky hair slid over his shoulder as she bowed her head. “I thought as much. You Raths have developed quite a love for grand acts of self-sacrifice lately, haven’t you?”

  “Does Arun know?”

  “No. He wouldn’t understand.”

  Wardin turned to look at her, although he could discern little of her expression in the thin moonlight. “Do you?”

  “Oh, I suppose I understand. That doesn’t mean I think it’s a good idea. Boldness isn’t always a virtue, Wardin. Not if you’re just rushing headlong into the first idea that comes to you.”

  “Sounds like one of those things your mother says when you and Arun get into trouble.”

  “So what if it is? If you’d slow down and give us some time to think it through, we could find another way.”

  He started to argue that they didn’t have time to slow down, that he’d already thought it through (a bit, anyway). But Erietta shook her head, eyes closed. “Don’t. I know you’re going to do it no matter what I say. That’s why I didn’t tell my brother. He’d spend half the night telling you what an idiot you are, and then when you wouldn’t listen, he’d try to stop you by force.”

  Wardin smiled despite the sudden prickling at the backs of his eyes. “Well then, it’s good you left him behind. I’d hate to get into another fight so soon after the last one. I’ll get a reputation as a ruffian.”

  “Don’t assume you’d get the same result. Arun’s got something Ransen doesn’t.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Me. And everyone knows you’re useless against contrivers.”

  “True enough,” he said with a soft laugh. “Are you going to fight me, then?”

  Erietta rubbed her brows and sighed. “No. I’m going to help you. You’ll never get out of here unseen, otherwise.”

  “I don’t think I need to sneak out, to be honest. The archmagister is probably praying to the deities every night that I’ll do exactly this. Think of the position he’s in. I’m a danger to us all for as long as I’m here, but if he sends me away, he knows it’ll be to my death.”

  “That’s not true.” Her voice was fierce, although whether with confidence or merely hope, Wardin couldn’t tell. “You’re not of age. Bramwell wouldn’t execute a boy. Not for crimes that aren’t even your own.” When he said nothing she added, “Besides, he’s your uncle. Don’t look at me like that, just because you never talk about it doesn’t mean we don’t know the history of our own royal house. He wouldn’t kill his own blood.”

  Wardin looked back at the waterfall and tightened his arms around his knees. “You don’t know as much as you think you do. He’s not my uncle, quite. My mother was his first cousin.”

  “Well, they say he loved her like a sister, anyway. And you must be like her. You certainly don’t look like your father.” She tousled his honey-colored hair, a great rarity among the ordinarily dark-haired, dark-eyed Eyrds. “They also say he named Prince Tobin after her brother. Is that true?”

  “Yes, and it was him, my Uncle Tobald, who Bramwell loved like a brother. But that didn’t stop Bramwell from slaughtering both Tobald and my mother’s father at Faldram Field. Blood doesn’t keep my family from killing one another. We’ve got a long history of it.”

  “He wouldn’t execute a boy,” Erietta repeated, apparently so low on arguments that she was reduced to using some of them twice.

  But Wardin’s shoulder was touching hers, and he could feel her trembling. When he agreed, it was to reassure her more than himself.

  “You’ll go east, toward Narinore?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’d like to get as close to the city as I can, before I’m caught.”

  “You’ll want to avoid the main road out of the mountains, but there are smaller tracks the shepherds use. Those should be safe as long as you travel by night.”

  Wardin rubbed the back of his neck, and took a steadying breath before he spoke. “Well, this night is wasting away. I’d best get started.”

  The smell of greymoss faded and mingled with pine as they walked along the rocky edge of the grounds. Erietta continued to give him instructions and advice. “Once you get to lower ground, you can cut south, toward Sarn Eyrdri. When you get there, that’ll be the time to start using the road. Getting caught anywhere between the shrine and Narinore should do. It’s believable for you to have been surviving on your own in the south, near the sea.”

  “The south? I thought to tell them I came from the west. If I say I was at the magistery they burned, it would support my father’s ruse.”

  “Best not. You don’t know what excuse your father’s men gave for Draven being their only prisoner. They might have said they found the place already abandoned. Or that they killed all the magisters and burned their bodies along with their magistery. Either way, if you’d been there, they’d have brought you to the king with your father.”

  Wardin tugged at his ear. “You’re right. All right then, I’ll say I was at Narinore, but I ran away when my uncle was killed. Everyone else lost hope then, I might as well say I did, too.”

  “Good. Oh, and I almost forgot. Here.” She handed him a honey cake, wrapped in a scrap of cloth. “I filched it from the kitchen for you. You don’t know when you’ll get another.”

  “I’ve got four in my pack.”

  Erietta snorted. “Of course you do. Stop here.” They’d come close enough to the gate to see the half dozen blackhounds in front of it, some lying in the grass, some pacing. Pendralyn was built to keep people out rather than in, and canine guards were better at sensing intruders and disturbances than human ones.

  While Wardin tucked the honey cake away with the others, Erietta clutched her elbows and stared across the field toward the gate. “I suppose I should wish you Eyrdri’s favor, but Tarn’s would be better, for a journey.”

  Walking with her, speaking of practical matters, had eased the tightness in Wardin’s chest. Now his ribs closed around his lungs again. “I’ll gladly take the favor of any deity willing to give it.”

  “All three of them be with you, then.”

  He nodded, though she still wasn’t looking at him, and gestured at the blackhounds. “What are you going to do? I don’t think you can trick them.”

  The dogs wouldn’t challenge Wardin leaving, but at this hour they might warn the magisters that he’d gone. He assumed that was what Erietta had come to help him avoid, but he doubted even contrivance would allow him to pass such powerful scent hounds undetected.

  “I can distract them,” she said. “When you see your chance, hurry into the tunnel. I can’t absolutely promise they won’t notice you, but they’ll at least be preoccupied for a while, and the longer you have before the archmagister sends someone to fetch you back, the better.”

&nbs
p; “I meant it, I don’t think he’ll want me back.”

  Her eyes snapped to his, and had he not known that Erietta never cried, Wardin might have thought those were tears the moonlight was catching. “Of course he will. You’re the only one who thinks you should leave.”

  His breath caught, and he shook his head, though he wasn’t sure what he was denying. He wanted to say something brave, or clever, or funny. He wanted to comfort them both.

  But there was no comfort to offer. Unable to assure her of his safety, of hers, of anything that really mattered, he settled for assuring her that she was right. “Distracting them is a good idea, anyway. I don’t want anyone to be able to report which way I’ve gone.”

  Erietta looked down at her feet, her hair a dark curtain between them. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

  “Perhaps I’ll be at the head of an army when we do.” Wardin dug his nails into his palms. Here, at least, was something he could promise. “If I live through this, I will come back to Eyrdon one day.”

  “We’ll be waiting, then.” With that, Erietta walked toward the gate.

  Like that day in the practice yard, for a moment there seemed to be two of her. Then three, then more. The Eriettas spread out, some running, some walking. Voices murmured and whispered. Low whistles, calling to the blackhounds, came from several directions at once.

  Wardin watched as the dogs were thrown into confusion, and marveled at how quickly his friend was mastering contrivance. He’d never heard of someone their age being able to cast such tricks.

  Then he saw his opportunity, a clear path to the gate. Though he moved fast, he kept his gait smooth, so as not to draw the blackhounds’ attention. His hand closed around the cold iron latch. He released it, and slipped into the tunnel beyond.

  Without pause, Wardin turned and ran from the one place he wanted most to be, toward the worst fate he could think of.

  3

  Bramwell

  Bramwell paused, bow drawn, and concentrated on both arrow and target. A deep breath, two, three. Straight and true. Infallible. Inexorable. A breath, two, three. Finally he felt it, a tug both pleasant and painful, like a phrase of music he loved but could not quite recall.

  He released. The arrow missed the red circle at the target’s center by the width of a finger.

  Hart’s teeth. He ground his own teeth and nocked another arrow.

  “Majesty?”

  He glanced over his shoulder to see Falk standing at the hedgerow that marked the boundary of the king’s private garden. Bramwell pressed his lips together and returned his attention to the target.

  “They’ve arrived with the boy, Majesty,” Falk said.

  Without hurrying—and without any attempt at battlemagic, this time—Bramwell drew and released. His arrow found its mark. He regarded it without satisfaction before looking back at his master scout. “Then why am I looking at you instead of the boy?”

  Falk fidgeted with his sleeve. “I wasn’t sure where you would want to see him.”

  “Here will do.” Bramwell landed another arrow in the middle of the target. “I don’t want a spectacle made. At least not until I’ve decided what to do with him.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  Just to be sure there was no question of his skill, Bramwell took one final, flawless shot. Then he raised a brow at Falk. “You say yes as if you understood me, yet you’re still standing there.”

  More fidgeting. And the man’s brow was beaded with sweat. Something was wrong. This was an excess of nerves, even for Falk.

  “Is there some problem with the boy?” Bramwell asked. “He is alive, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s nothing like that. It’s just … I thought I should …” Falk cleared his throat, then let the words out in a rush. “He’s very like his mother, Majesty.”

  Bramwell’s belly turned to lead. He kept his face meticulously still, his voice meticulously calm. “Falk. Bring me the boy. Now.”

  Falk knew better than to linger over apologies and bows. Bramwell let his breath out slowly as he watched the slight man scurry from the garden like the rodent he so resembled.

  He’s very like his mother. Funny, Bram hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps because the boy was an Eyrd. Or perhaps simply because Draven Rath had been just the kind of unendurable nuisance that would haunt his old friend in the form of his son. Bramwell had been picturing Draven, when they were boys themselves.

  But neither he nor Falk had the right of it. When the master scout returned with a lanky, none-too-clean boy and pushed him to kneel before his new king, Bramwell saw immediately that apart from the golden hair and ice blue eyes of all Ladimores, Wardin Rath was not so very like his mother.

  No, it was Tobald he was the ghost of.

  The garden seemed to reel around them as Bramwell stared down into that dirty face, fully expecting it to break into a never-forgotten grin. Toby would rise and jab Bram in the shoulder, and they would laugh over what a grand joke it had been, all of it, every deed, every day of the twenty-five years since Faldram.

  But the boy remained where he was, chin raised so he could meet the eye of the man who’d taken his kingdom. Only a boy. Draven’s boy. Nothing—and nobody—more. Bramwell clenched his fists and his jaw, and through sheer force of will made the world right itself.

  He cleared the thickness in his throat with a snicker. “So, this is the last of the great and mighty Rath line. He doesn’t look so very great, or so very mighty, does he?”

  Falk laughed. The boy visibly swallowed, but did not avert his eyes. Bramwell crossed his arms. “I’m told your name is Wardin.”

  “It is,” Wardin answered, in an even voice that had not yet deepened into a man’s.

  He got a swift, hard kick from Falk for his trouble. “You will address your king as Majesty.”

  The boy did not cry out, or fall under the force of the blow. He didn’t even turn to look at Falk. There was none of Draven’s insolence about him, but there was a boldness in his stare that overruled the almost imperceptible tremor in his chin. Bramwell had the urge to kick him himself—and to lift him to his feet and clap him on the back, in equal measure. This Wardin was like Toby in more than just looks.

  Only a boy. Draven’s boy. A boy whose fate had to be decided—and considering what Bramwell knew his most likely conclusion to be, there was no room for sentiment in that decision. It had been a shock, seeing him, but it was one he must rein in. “And where have you been, Wardin, while your uncle and father were at war? Were you at the same illegal magistery where your father was taken? Pendralyn, was it?”

  The boy shifted, still on his knees in the damp grass. Bramwell had no intention of allowing him to rise. “No, Majesty. I’ve never seen Pendralyn. My father didn’t think it safe for me to study at a magistery.”

  Nor did mine. And although Bramwell had honored his father’s wish, deep in a part of his mind he rarely shined a light on, he’d never forgiven it. Was this boy equally bitter? Was he thinking, as he knelt here defeated, that magic might have saved him? Perhaps not; it hadn’t saved his father or his uncle. It hadn’t saved his kingdom. “Well, then?”

  Falk kicked Wardin again. “The king asked you a question. Where have you been hiding?”

  “I was at Narinore for most of the war,” the boy said. “But when my uncle was killed, everyone said we had no hope of winning. And my tutors said you would execute every Rath you could get your hands on. So I ran away and hid in the south, near the sea. The hunting and fishing are easy there.”

  “As is raiding the farms and orchards, I’ll wager,” Bramwell said. “Those are my lands now, that you were poaching and stealing from. Did you consider that?”

  “Apologies, Majesty, but with respect, it didn’t concern me.” The boy’s tone was impassive, neither resentful nor contrite. “I assumed that if you caught me, those would be the least of the crimes I would be charged with.”

  Bramwell snorted, once again torn between amusement and rancor. �
��I’m told you were found near Sarn Eyrdri. Were you seeking protection at the shrine?”

  “I was trying to get north, to Tarnarven. With winter coming, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to survive in hiding much longer. I thought to stow away on a ship and get across the sea. Find work, live a common life, far away from here.”

  “Until?”

  “Majesty?”

  “Until when, would you have lived this common life? Until you grew old enough to lead an army? Until you could come back and reclaim your kingdom, perhaps?”

  The boy’s hand twisted in the hem of his tunic. “I accept that Harth has won the war, Majesty. I only want Eyrdon to heal, and for the people to be at peace. They’ve suffered enough.”

  A judicious attitude, for a Rath who wasn’t even a man yet. Too judicious, too rehearsed, like everything else he’d said. As if the boy had spent the journey north—or some time before that—preparing answers to these questions that he must have known would come. This fantasy of running, hiding, cowering overseas, was entirely at odds with everything Bramwell could see in his young cousin’s face.

  It was as good as certain that if given the chance, this boy would rise up one day. As a mere nuisance, or worse?

  It didn’t matter. That chance must never come. Bramwell had wasted enough time—and coin—on Eyrdon as it was.

  Without taking his eyes off Wardin, he gestured at Falk. “See the steward and arrange quarters for him.”

  Falk cleared his throat. “In … which part of the palace, Majesty?”

  “Guest quarters. He is of noble blood, and he is my kin. He is to be treated as such.” Bramwell stepped closer to the boy, taking full advantage of his uncommon height to tower over him. “For the time being.”

  Wardin made no answer, but for the first time since he’d been brought into the garden, his eyes dropped.

  “Yes, Majesty,” Falk said.