Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  The flush in Jervis’s cheeks drained away, leaving him pale and slack-jawed. “My concern is, of course, first and foremost for your interests, Majesty. I’ve never given you cause to doubt my loyalty.”

  “Haven’t you? Not even today?”

  Ignoring Jervis’s continued—and increasingly desperate—apologies, Bramwell glanced at Guy as he stepped past the two men. His master scout gave him the slightest of nods, awaiting his signal.

  Bramwell walked to the row of windows, hands clasped behind his back. It was raining again, and judging by the thrashing and creaking of the oaks that lined one side of his garden, the wind had grown fierce. It would be an unpleasant walk through the city. Just how unpleasant, and for whom, depended on what he said next.

  You’re dismissed, Jervis, and the old man would be settled by his fire with a mug of tea within the hour.

  You’re dismissed, Jervis. Guy will see you home, and Guy would, in fact, see to it that Jervis never made it home. His body would be found in the river in a day or two, robbed. Beaten.

  It was only a moment, the space of a single raindrop running down the glass, before Bramwell spoke. “You’re dismissed, Jervis. Guy will see you home.”

  He paid no attention to the men’s words as they took their leave; he didn’t turn from the windows for a last look at his former adept. He offered only an idle wave over his shoulder, and listened for the door to close behind them.

  Bramwell was fairly certain that Jervis had given him an honest account of the matter. The old man had remained dutiful and obedient, and told Wardin none of the truth, about either the inkwell or Falk’s trick.

  But it didn’t matter. It was plain that Jervis had been motivated more by his desire to protect Wardin than by loyalty to, or even fear of, his king. He was too fond of the boy.

  That fondness would not do, not for someone who knew the truth. Jervis’s allegiance might shift, if he thought the boy was in mortal danger. He might warn him; he might try to protect him again. And that made Jervis a threat. Perhaps not a dire one, but seemingly sturdy structures had been toppled by less. Weak spots must be mended.

  And not only where Jervis was concerned. There was no longer any question that the whole arrangement had become too unstable. It was time to quietly end it.

  The boy had outlived his usefulness. It had been years since the Eyrds had troubled them. If anyone remembered Wardin Rath at all, they didn’t ask for him.

  And what of the other reason for keeping him alive? The true one?

  Bramwell clenched his jaw and cursed his own weakness. He couldn’t deny that he still saw a ghost every time he looked at the boy. If anything, Wardin had only grown more like Toby through the years.

  But the boy was a boy no longer—he was older now than Toby had been at Faldram. Bile rose in Bramwell’s throat. Did Wardin deserve the long life his uncle had never enjoyed, just because they had the same eyes, the same laugh?

  No. If there had been a debt, it was paid now.

  It would have to be handled carefully. Nobody who knew Wardin as the Eyrdish prince would stop to mourn him. But those who knew him as the palace adept might be a different matter. Mairid in particular was fond of him, and Bramwell had no desire to hurt the girl. Not to mention, she had a tendency to express herself extravagantly, and at length.

  Best that Wardin come to the sort of end that would not arouse questions or suspicion—the less gossip, the better. That eliminated charging him with a crime and executing him, or even a simple disappearance, especially since the last palace adept was about to disappear as well. Guy had mentioned Jervis’s niece; perhaps rumors of an elopement could be spread. Or a death by some undeniably natural cause.

  Bramwell would have to consider the proper moment, the proper way. But one thing was certain: it was time for the houses of Rath and Ladimore to become extinct at last.

  The boy would have to die.

  7

  Wardin

  Wardin knelt beside the dragon and touched its cold skin as the beast breathed its last. He pulled the sword that had delivered the killing blow from its heart.

  Dragon’s Edge. That was the sword’s name.

  He looked down at the blade in his hands, and the carcass in the blood-soaked grass. And he wondered if this was his doing. Had he killed it? Or had he been trying to defend it?

  Was this sword his?

  I can’t remember. I can never remember.

  A dense fog closed him in. He stood, sword raised, to face the unseen enemies he knew were gathering on the hillside.

  “Worrying Wardin.”

  A young boy’s laugh, clear and lyrical.

  “Really, must you always get yourself so knotted up? Just come home.”

  Knotted up was indeed how Wardin felt when he woke: like his guts had been twisted into a hard, heavy noose. He was drenched in sweat, yet shivering with cold. His heart galloped.

  These weren’t the symptoms of a natural illness—not with a swollen tongue and a taste like iron and ashes in his mouth. Wardin dropped from his bed and crawled across the room to the table. A spasm of pain wrenched his belly as he grabbed the half-full pitcher of ale, and he nearly dropped it before he could put it to any use.

  Forcing himself to breathe slowly, to move deliberately, he tucked the pitcher under his arm and shuffled on one hand and two knees to the hearth, where he emptied the ale into the dying fire.

  The flames flared bright blue.

  Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but Wardin couldn’t afford to give in to it. Not least because his heart couldn’t take any more strain than it was already under. He needed to stay steady, and think clearly. And he needed to be fast.

  If this was ashthorn poisoning, he would be dead within the hour.

  He was lucky to have any time at all. He wouldn’t have, if that odd dream hadn’t happened to wake him before it was too late. Most people slept soundly under the influence of ashthorn root. It was one of the advantages that made it a favored poison among those few with the means to obtain the rare and expensive herb.

  That, and the fact that its outward effects were virtually identical to those of tainted mutton or cheese from sheep with a particular disease. If the victim was too ill to speak—or dead—by the time he was found, nobody knew about that metallic, ashen taste. The burden of failing to notice the contamination fell upon the shepherd and the butcher, a few sheep were slaughtered, and an unfortunate accident was mourned.

  Wardin had had a thick slice of lamb for his evening meal—an unusual treat, for a humble adept. The girl who’d brought it said it was left over from the royal family’s dinner.

  After several minutes of forcing himself to vomit into the pitcher, Wardin nearly knocked over the small apothecary cabinet in the corner, trying to get to the stash of herbs he kept for research and the occasional tonic or remedy. With trembling hands, he pulled out a handful of dried leaves from one of the drawers.

  He crawled back to the fireplace and used a poker to drag a small chunk of charred hawthorn from the farthest edge of the ashes, away from the meager flames of the midnight fire. Even so, it burned his hands as he tossed it back and forth between them. The moment he judged it cool enough not to kill him, Wardin mashed it together with the herbs, then swallowed it. He did the same with two more chunks after it.

  By the time he was finished, tears streamed from his eyes, and he felt sure he was going to pass out from the pain searing his insides. It didn’t matter; it couldn’t. All that mattered was whether he’d remembered the cure correctly. And whether he’d taken it in time.

  It was an agonizing night, physically and otherwise, before he found out. But although he was considerably worse for the ordeal, Wardin survived until morning.

  The part of him that was weak, feverish, and still suffering wanted nothing more than to plead illness and stay in bed. But the other part, the bold and stubborn part that seemed to have taken over since he’d seen that inkwell, insisted on going to breakfast in the hall
. That part wanted to see the king’s face when his adept strolled in alive.

  Besides, his blistered throat was parched, and he had nothing more to drink in his chambers. Muscles aching, he dressed slowly, and decided to forgo washing. He’d barely stepped into the corridor before he came across one of the king’s scouts—headed for the adept’s chambers. The man’s jaw went slack at the sight of Wardin.

  Wardin stood straighter and raised a brow. “Looking for something?” His seared voice made him sound like one of the creatures from the scary stories Mairid so loved, but he refused to let the pain of speaking show in his face. “Or do you need some tutoring, perhaps?”

  The scout cleared his throat. “You’re late for breakfast. The king sent me to inquire after your health.”

  “Bit of bad lamb. But I’ll live.” Wardin held the scout’s gaze until the other man looked away, then followed him to the great hall.

  Wardin didn’t think he’d ever seen the king in a state of anything other than complete control, but when their eyes met, Bramwell’s head snapped back as if he’d been dealt a blow. The moment passed quickly. By the time Wardin stopped to bow before the high table, Bramwell’s face was as cold and composed as ever.

  “Pardon the intrusion, Majesties,” Wardin said. “I wanted to assure myself that you and your family are well?”

  It was the queen who answered, a crease between her thin brows. “You certainly don’t sound well, Wardin, your voice is ghastly. What’s happened?”

  “Thank you for your kind concern, Majesty. It seems the lamb I had for dinner last night was tainted. I’d understood it was left from your own dinner, and I was worried.”

  “No, we’re all quite well.” She turned to her husband. “Perhaps Wardin’s came from a different animal? We should speak to the butcher.”

  Bramwell patted her hand. “Don’t trouble yourself, Elinor. I’ll see the steward about it.” A vein throbbed above his eye as he stared at Wardin. “You are well enough for your duties?”

  “Oh, Bram, surely he can take a day to rest!” the queen said.

  But rest was the last thing Wardin could afford. This day would have to be a fruitful one, if he was to survive it. He bowed again. “My thanks once again, Majesty, but I am recovered. It sounds much worse than it is. I look forward to seeing the children this morning.”

  “Best get some sustenance then, hadn’t you?” With that, Bramwell gestured for his steward’s attention. The queen gave Wardin a gracious nod of dismissal and turned back to her conversation with the lady beside her.

  Wardin took his usual seat near the back of the hall. His throat was too sore to converse much with his tablemates, and there was no question of eating the sausages and hard rolls before him.

  That was no hardship; the usually enticing smell of the sausage turned his stomach. He sipped his cold tea—overly sweet, but poured from a common jug on the table—in silence, while the king cast occasional looks in his direction that were their own sort of poison.

  It was tempting to lose himself in the many mysteries before him. Why did the king want him dead? Bramwell must have discovered that Wardin had sneaked into his solar, but how?

  It was obvious that the king was hiding something about that inkwell, some secret even Jervis had lied to Wardin to protect. What could possibly be so dangerous about so small and trivial an object?

  But these questions would have to await his continued survival before he could attend to them. He had no doubt that Bramwell would strike again. And soon, judging by the bald hatred in the king’s face. Every moment was precious, and Wardin must spend both his time and his thoughts on one thing only: how he was to flee Witmare.

  It was to his great benefit that the king had not invented some charge against him, some excuse for an execution. Or even simply sent a scout with a dagger in the thick of night. For whatever reason, Bramwell wanted his adept’s death to appear accidental. And one obvious and simple means of achieving that had already failed.

  Perhaps that failure would cause the king to change tactics. But perhaps not. If Bramwell still hoped to handle the situation without any sort of spectacle, the next attempt might take some time to organize.

  Nor was that the only boon the king’s desire for discretion might provide. Wardin refilled his mug and spent several minutes looking around the hall, until he concluded that nobody—apart from the king and the master scout—was looking back at him. None of the guards so much as glanced in his direction.

  He knew that the scouts kept track of his movements, although he couldn’t always tell how. But one or two of them might be manageable. As long as every soldier in the palace didn’t regard him as an enemy, a humble, mild adept would be as inconsequential—and therefore invisible—as ever.

  There, Wardin thought, was his final advantage: he would be underestimated. The master scout hadn’t even bothered to give the task of following him around the city to a skilled man. Bramwell might see him as dangerous, but nobody outside the king’s confidence would feel the same way.

  If Wardin was both smart and quick, he had some hope of escape.

  But perhaps he would be capable of neither sense nor speed, because as soon as he began to think through possible strategies, he realized he was not even considering leaving without the inkwell.

  He knew it was foolish. It would be difficult enough to get away. Adding getting the inkwell to the task made it impossible, or close enough to it to make no difference. But still he was determined to take it.

  Because it’s mine. Pain tore through Wardin’s lungs, as both pride and rage swelled in his chest. He did not understand the man he’d become over the past few days. But he was learning that arguing with that man was fruitless.

  He looked once again at the king, now deep in conversation with his sister. Mairid’s parents were at the palace on one of their occasional visits, ostensibly to visit their daughter, though her mother in particular spent little enough time with the girl.

  Mairid. Wardin had no doubt that she would help him get into the solar, or even steal the inkwell for him, if he asked. But he had no intention of doing so. Even if a little girl could be burdened with such a secret, he wouldn’t put her in a position to draw the wrath of her uncle.

  No, he would have to use Hamlin. And make the boy think it was his idea.

  The hall was emptying now. Wardin took his own leave as fast as his aching muscles would allow. Timing was important, for what he had in mind next, and there wasn’t a minute to spare.

  He had a certain guard to meet, before he taught the children their morning lessons.

  Everything was in place now. All that remained was for Wardin to find the strength—physical and otherwise—to execute his plan. He stepped away from the gap in the hedge, and slipped back between the oaks that were thick enough with summer leaves to hide his movements from the scout he suspected was watching from one of the second story windows.

  He walked back to where Mairid knelt on a thick wool blanket, fussing over Nara. The girl had had a part to play, after all, but it was a simple and harmless one. Wardin had asked her to visit the king’s garden, where the long-suffering Nara, still awaiting the very late arrival of her puppies, was resting in the first sunshine Witmare had seen in days.

  He’d brought the blanket and some dried venison for the dog in the now nearly empty pack he carried, along with the items he’d really wished to sneak outside.

  “I’m so glad you thought of the blanket,” Mairid said as Wardin crouched beside her. “The ground is still wet from all the storms. I’m sure Nara is glad to have it.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Wardin stroked Nara’s velvety gray fur, and told himself the burning in the back of his throat was due to nothing more than his ordeal with the ashthorn.

  He hated deceiving Mairid. She would feel so betrayed, when she found out he was gone. But there was no way to say goodbye to her, no way to give her even the tiniest shred of the truth, without putting her in danger.

  �
�There you are.” Hamlin approached with his usual petulant scowl. Here, at least, was a child Wardin would regret neither leaving nor deceiving. “I was told you wanted to see me, and then I couldn’t find you. If you’re going to ask for me, you ought to be in your chambers.”

  Wardin stood and crossed his arms. “I’m to wait there all day, until you decide to spare me a moment, is that it?”

  “Why not? I’m a prince, and you’re only my tutor.” Hamlin stood straighter and squared his shoulders, as if hoping to somehow match Wardin’s height. “And anyway you saw me an hour ago at lessons. Why didn’t you just talk to me then?”

  “Because I had to look over your sums before I was prepared to talk to you. Come back to my chambers, and I’ll show you why.” Wardin bent to give one of Mairid’s braids a gentle tug. “We’d best let Nara have a nap. I believe your music master is expecting you shortly.”

  They walked inside, through the great hall, then out to the courtyard to cross to the other side of the palace. Wardin’s steps grew heavier as they approached the far door, where they would separate, he and Hamlin to Wardin’s chambers, Mairid to her music lesson. The chances of his ever seeing Mairid again were slim. Less than slim.

  Wardin was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice Cedany until she called his name. Jervis’s niece rushed toward him from the direction of the main gate, flushed and breathing heavily. She hadn’t bothered with a hat, and was still wearing her apron.

  “I’ve been looking for you.” She came close and grasped his shoulders. “Jervis is missing. He came to the palace two days ago, to visit the king, and he never came home.”

  Wardin blinked at her, his eyes suddenly burning. Surely Bramwell hadn’t gone after Jervis, too. What reason could the king have for that? Jervis had lied about the inkwell, Wardin was certain of it. Whatever Bramwell’s secrets, Jervis had kept them. “Have you told the king’s soldiers this?”