Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

“Come to my solar when you’ve seen to it.” Bramwell nodded his dismissal.

  Without further word, the boy rose—stiffly, after kneeling for so long—and gave his new king the slightest of bows before turning to follow Falk from the garden.

  At least he hadn’t begged for his life. Bramwell cocked his head as he watched their retreating forms, and wondered, idly, whether Wardin knew how his father had died.

  “If you’d rather avoid the scandal of executing a boy,” Falk said as he poured out the wine, “I can always arrange for a more discreet death.” He handed a goblet to Bramwell with a dip of his head before taking an unhurried sip from his own. “Or we might make a devil of him. The people do love to watch a heretic burn.” He drank again, his brow furrowed in thought and nothing more.

  Just that morning, Bramwell had regarded the boy’s fate with equal detachment. And he’d been of much the same mind as his master scout. A live Rath was a vulnerability, and vulnerabilities should be eliminated. After what he’d ordered—and watched—done to Draven, he could hardly be squeamish about giving the man’s son a cleaner and quicker death.

  Nor should it matter that Draven’s wasn’t the only blood running through Wardin’s veins. Bramwell had killed far better-loved bearers of that same blood.

  Of course, this was not the heat of battle. It was a cold day, in a cold room, where decisions must be made in cold blood. That should present no difficulty, either; cold had been the usual state of Bramwell’s blood for many years now.

  Nevertheless, he found himself unwilling to give the same order he almost certainly would have given hours before. This boy, this specter of Toby, wasn’t only the last Rath. He was the last Ladimore.

  Bramwell’s last chance.

  He took a swallow of wine that burned his throat and soured in his belly. I won’t kill him. Not again. Not this time.

  That was the simple truth of it, and there was no point in denying it. He was far too astute a man to be fooled, even by himself.

  Concealing that truth from Falk, however, was a simpler matter. “No,” he answered at last. He set his goblet on the chest beside the wine jug, and ambled toward the fireplace, hands held loosely behind his back. “I won’t give the Eyrds a martyr to stir their unrest just as we’ve cooled it. Killing his whoreson of a father was one thing. Draven’s people didn’t love him any more than I did. But a Rath child is a different matter.”

  “But, er, Majesty, is keeping him a prisoner not just as likely to inflame the Eyrds? Boys grow into men, and heirs grow into claimants.”

  Bramwell looked over his shoulder at Falk, brow raised. “I am well aware of what boys grow into. Do you think me simple?”

  Falk’s eyes slid away from his king’s glare. “Of course not, Majesty. I was simply hoping you would enlighten me as to your strategy. So I might learn from it.”

  Bramwell turned back to the fire with a snort. “I don’t need a sycophant at present, Falk. I need a contriver.”

  Indeed he did, for the plan taking shape in his mind. And in a kingdom where magic was treason, good contrivers were nearly impossible to come by—which was precisely why Bramwell had employed the best as his master scout. His father would have considered it an irresponsible risk, akin to trying to domesticate a dragon. But Bramwell saw more value in using the few remaining magicians than in killing them.

  And the obsequious Falk was hardly difficult to control, as his downward gaze showed. “Majesty?”

  “My coffers have suffered enough from this foolish war.” Bramwell returned to his goblet. “I can’t afford either a martyr or an heir.”

  Falk looked utterly bewildered, no doubt because he saw martyr and heir as the only two options. “Then what will you do?”

  “Turn him into something else, of course.”

  “What?”

  “A servant. Or a traitor to the Eyrds. Perhaps both. I’ll need a masterful trick. A new life, new memories that he will never question.” Bramwell drank, swirling the wine around his mouth before he swallowed. It should be someone he could keep close, someone who would live at the palace, but have no influence or power. “Make him an adept. Jervis can raise him and train him.”

  Yes, that would do nicely. A docile scholar to tutor the palace children, research matters for the king, provide the council with geographical facts and trade sums. Ever present, yet insignificant.

  “He should believe he’s of humble origins,” he went on. “Someone who would be honored and grateful to have been brought to the palace, and to train under an adept of Jervis’s caliber. I’ll leave it to you to fill in some credible details.”

  The blood had drained from Falk’s face. “Majesty, this is … train him? Raise him? How long do you mean for this trick to last?”

  “Indefinitely.” Bramwell refilled his goblet, and nodded at Falk’s to indicate he had permission to do the same. The man looked like he could use it. “I’d prefer it outlive you, in fact, since the boy is likely to.”

  Falk made no move toward the jug; his goblet hung limp and seemingly forgotten in his hand. Bramwell arched a brow at him. “I trust this is possible, for a contriver of your considerable skill?”

  “I … I’ve never heard of a trick quite this complex, Majesty. Nor of a permanent one.” Falk chewed at his thumbnail for a moment. “I do have a potion of my own invention, derived from callumsbane and fox bone, that makes the mind less guarded, more susceptible to contrivance and trickery. It’s helpful for getting information, but it might be applied to this task. Perhaps if I used it in conjunction with the spell—”

  “The details of your business don’t interest me,” Bramwell interrupted. “Can you do it or not?”

  “I believe I can, Majesty. But a trick of that magnitude won’t be something I can cast once, or even many times. It’ll need to be cultivated and reinforced. Daily. Perhaps more.” Falk swallowed, his lips nearly white now. “And it will require tremendous power and effort every time. ”

  “All right, I’ll release you from some of your other responsibilities. Perhaps it’s time someone else took over as master scout. We haven’t got another contriver, but then officially we’ve been functioning without magic for years; we ought to be able to do partly without it in reality. I’m sure we can find someone who can manage the day-to-day duties, at least.”

  “It’s not the burden on my time, Majesty, it’s my balance!”

  “Yes, you’ll have to be careful with that.” Bramwell began to pace, his thoughts already past Falk’s concerns. How to keep his new adept pliable and unwitting, while still using him to best advantage?

  “Might he keep the name Wardin, Majesty?” Falk still sounded a bit like he’d been knocked windless.

  Bramwell glanced at him. “What?”

  “It will be easier to get him to accept a new identity if he retains the same name,” Falk explained. “To bridge the two, you see. In his mind he’s still the same person.”

  “A bridge.” Bramwell gestured at the smaller man with his goblet. “Precisely what we need. Let him be the adept, while appearing to be the prince, when it suits us.”

  “I’m not sure I follow, Majesty.”

  “I’ll want him seen, especially by any soldiers or craftsmen or bards we’re sending to Tobin at Narinore. From afar, so as not to be spoken to, but always looking cheerful and well fed. We may even want to let one of the Eyrd prisoners escape, so they can bring home the news that their erstwhile prince has left his people behind for an easy life at the Harthian court.”

  Falk’s spirits had apparently recovered enough to allow for a laugh at the cruelty of his king’s scheme. “They’ll soon hate the son as much as they hated the father.”

  “Ideally, yes. But there will always be those who love and respect the name of Rath.” Bramwell rubbed his red-gold beard. “We’ll also issue a proclamation in the boy’s name, announcing our reconciliation, and his content submission to the guidance and rule of his elder cousin. The Eyrds might benefit from a reminder that t
he last Rath and I are loving kin. Let them feel we haven’t destroyed his house so much as absorbed it.”

  “On the whole, a splendid strategy, Majesty,” Falk said with a deep bow.

  Bramwell flapped his hand in dismissal. “Go and execute it, then.” He was already turning away, but he stopped Falk at the door. “One other thing. I’d like you to apply your talent for interrogation, before you cast the trick.”

  “Do you want him questioned about something in particular, Majesty?”

  “Dragon’s Edge. His grandfather’s sword. See if he knows anything of its whereabouts.”

  “I thought that sword was destroyed.”

  “It almost certainly was. But we’ve never found any remains of it, and the boy is the last Rath. You might as well see if he knows anything useful, before you scrub it all away.”

  “Of course, Majesty.” Falk bowed his way from the room.

  When he’d gone, and Bramwell had stoked the fire until the air was full of sparks and the smell of applewood, he leaned against the mantle, eyes closed, and took a long drink of wine. The cracking and popping of the wood transformed into his uncle’s barked commands, his aunt’s sharp accusations, Toby’s snapping laugh. The thunder over Faldram Field, and his own hoarse cries afterward.

  He slipped a heavy ring from his pocket and held it to the firelight, rubbing his thumb slowly over the silver lion’s head of the Ladimores. “I’ll call it a blessing, Toby, that I saw you in your nephew today. This plan may just serve me better than killing him ever could.”

  Bramwell toasted the ghost of the cousin who had once been a brother to him, and pretended it was the smoke that made his eyes burn.

  4

  Wardin

  Seven Years Later

  Mairid sat with her chin in her hands, eyes unfocused, paper wrinkling forgotten beneath her elbows. “Is it true that there used to be people who could do magic? Real magic?”

  “And what does that have to do with your sums?” Wardin crossed his arms and assumed an outraged scowl that made the little girl giggle. “Don’t tell me you’re finding my lesson less than enthralling!”

  Hamlin’s scowl, on the other hand, was genuine. “What a stupid question. You should know the great things your own grandfather did.” He gave Wardin an aggrieved look. “I don’t know why I have to keep studying with this ignorant girl.”

  A lie. The prince knew perfectly well why he was still there at the advanced age of ten: because Wardin had not yet deemed him ready to move on to the next phase of his royal education. Hamlin would go to his brother’s household in Eyrdon to learn the arts of politics and war, but not until he could prove his mastery of more foundational subjects first. Hence his unwavering sullenness.

  Wardin stepped closer to the table the children shared, and pointed a finger at the boy. “Mind your manners. And don’t say girl as if it were shameful.”

  Not that Mairid had much need of a defender. As usual, she was too devoted to her latest flight of fancy to be bothered by Hamlin’s insults. “But how is it great to make magic a crime against the crown? Of course I’ve heard that was our grandfather’s doing, but I was hoping it was a whatdoyoucallit. A ledger.”

  “Legend,” Wardin corrected.

  Hamlin tilted his head back and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Because it’s a crime against the deities, so it should also be a crime against the crown. Magic isn’t for mortals to play at.”

  Mairid looked to Wardin for confirmation, and he nodded. “Magic is the province of the deities and the One God above them. When humans practice it, it means we’re trying to set ourselves equal to them, and that is a sin.” The words came with the ease of long practice; it was what he himself had been taught, and what he knew he must teach the children.

  But Mairid’s furrowed brow made it clear that this answer did not satisfy her any more than it did him. “But the deities ordered Cairdarin to their liking. So they must have been the ones to give us magic. Why would they do that, if they didn’t want us to use it?”

  “That is excellent logic,” said Wardin with a smile. “But how do you know men didn’t steal that knowledge from them? Perhaps they never meant for us to have it at all.”

  Mairid’s face went dreamy again. “Well, I don’t care. I think a world with magic would be wonderful. And much more interesting than this one, don’t you think?”

  Wardin did think it—privately. But he would never say so, and neither should she. “Careful. That’s a royal decree you’re arguing with.” He chucked her under the chin and grinned. “I don’t think your uncle would hang you for treason, but you’d best not risk it.”

  “He wouldn’t hang her, if he wanted to kill her.” Hamlin’s eyes lit with enthusiasm for this violent turn in the conversation, making Wardin regret his joke. “She’s part of the royal family. He’d behead her. And with a sword, too. They say that cuts cleaner than an axe.”

  Mairid bit her lip. “He’s already angry with me. I got caught sneaking into his chambers again.”

  “Now, why would you do that?” The question was ostensibly for Mairid, but it was Hamlin Wardin glared at before turning back to the girl. “You know that a king has secrets to protect. Not to mention himself to protect. He has to watch out for spies and assassins.”

  “I’m too young to be a spy or an assassin!” she said. “He’s keeping Nara in there, and the puppies will be here any second. If he kept her in the great hall, I wouldn’t have to sneak anywhere.”

  Wardin hid his smile with a bowed head as he gathered their papers from the table. “Well, you’d best stay where you belong, until the puppies are here. Otherwise the king might change his mind about giving you one.”

  “Or perhaps he really will have to chop off your head.” Hamlin smirked. “I’ll be sure to tell him you were asking about magic. Rebellious questions, sneaking around. I don’t know, it looks awfully suspicious. He’s going to be very put out.”

  Mairid was twisting one of her braids, but before Wardin could reassure her that her cousin was only teasing, they were interrupted by a rolling shadow as something large fell past the open window. A dull thud and a crack sounded from the courtyard below.

  Hamlin sprang up to investigate. “That sounded like a bag of grain. They could hurt somebody. I’ll ask my father to punish—” He broke off with a cry, quickly covered by a cough.

  Wardin strode over, Mairid only an instant behind him. Thankfully, there wasn’t enough space at the room’s lone window to accommodate her. It took a moment for his eyes to make sense of the grisly scene. Then he rubbed the back of his neck as the skin there began to crawl.

  The body of a man lay on the flagstone. Or what had once been a man. He’d leaped—or been thrown—from the tower above them, and was split open like Hamlin’s imagined bag of grain.

  A small crowd was already gathering. Wardin could spare no time to call down to them, and no thought for his own writhing stomach. Hamlin was whispering to his cousin, undoubtedly delivering a detailed description of what he saw below, and Mairid’s eyes grew wider by the second.

  Wardin pushed them back and closed the window, then the shutters, throwing the room into near darkness with only the candles to light it. That seemed to frighten Mairid all the more. Her chin trembled.

  He put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but kept his tone commanding. “Go and find Nanny Gale. She is to take you to the kitchen for a teacake, and keep you there until someone calls for you.”

  Mairid nodded, but Wardin didn’t like the sly—and repulsively eager—look in Hamlin’s eye. “Never mind, I’ll take you myself.”

  By the time he’d left the children safely ensconced in the kitchen and made his way to the courtyard, the crowd of whispering and weeping onlookers had tripled in size. The worst of the gore had been covered with a cloak, and someone was bringing a cart to take the remains away. Blood was splattered everywhere.

  Wardin swallowed a sudden excess of saliva and leaned toward the woman beside him, one
of the queen’s ladies. “Who was it?”

  “Falk.” She drew in a shaking breath. “They’re saying there was nobody else up there, that he … on purpose.”

  Falk. His sunrise neighbor. For as long as Wardin could remember, the king had insisted that every resident of the palace have breakfast together in the great hall. They all took the same seats, day in and day out, and Wardin’s was beside Falk’s. He’d endured years of the small, rodent-like scout’s stares, his incessant whispering and muttering, his hand landing on Wardin’s shoulder without warning, heavy as lead, cold as lead.

  Wardin bowed his head and crossed his arms over a chest that ached with pity, but he couldn’t say he was surprised to see the old man come to such an end.

  A madman might do anything.

  The solar’s south-facing windows—no less than seven of them, an extravagant luxury even for a king—made it the brightest room in the palace, and one of the warmest. Neither condition suited Wardin at the moment. In the four days since Falk’s death, he’d been plagued by headaches, and the sun beating against the side of his face as he stood before his king did him no favors.

  “I believe he will be ready by autumn, Majesty, at the latest.”

  Bramwell drummed his long fingers on his desk. “See to it that he is. He should have been a year into his training by now, at the least. I was only eight when I was sent to my uncle.”

  “He is not fond of studying, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, well, restlessness can be a useful trait in a prince, when it’s channeled correctly.” Bramwell arched a brow. “And it’s your responsibility to channel it. I expect my adept to be able to tutor my children properly without constant oversight.”

  “Yes, Maj—” Wardin’s breath caught as the room took a sudden lurch, but he recovered quickly. “Majesty.”

  The source of his distraction was a small, unassuming silver inkwell at Bramwell’s elbow, beside a roll of parchment and a pen. Perfectly ordinary objects, to be found on a desk. So why had the sight of that inkwell made him stutter his words around a throat that felt like it was turning to stone?