Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  This was where he belonged. This was home.

  But the journey had become grueling at the same time. He might have felt at home in the mountains, but he was not accustomed to climbing them. “How far do we walk this afternoon?” he asked, eying the same slope Arun had with somewhat less enthusiasm.

  “Until nightfall, I’d say. We don’t have to worry so much about traveling by daylight here, despite my new friend the bounty hunter. I know this land better than any outsider ever could, and I can take paths they’ll never find.”

  Indeed, Wardin could barely find those well-hidden or long-forgotten paths himself, despite being led along them. Sometimes he was certain that Arun must be lost in the wild and often hazardous landscape, but his guide never faltered—or even slowed down. Wardin struggled to keep up, and relied on the smells of pine and cedar and clear mountain air to energize him.

  They walked for three hours or more, until finally Arun glanced over his shoulder and burst out laughing at Wardin’s red, sweaty face. “You look like you’re about to collapse. You’re no better than you were at twelve, never knowing when to stop, never admitting any weakness. You should have told me you needed to rest.”

  Wardin shrugged. “I’m fine.” The words might have been more convincing if they hadn’t come with a wheeze.

  “So you say. Take a drink. And eat that while you walk.” Arun tossed him one of the plums they’d found in a secluded grove the day before. “Just a little farther up, and I know a place where we can rest for the night.”

  As promised, they stopped at a small cave, more of an indentation in the rock than anything else, but it was dry and sheltered from the eyes of man and beast.

  “We must be getting close to the magistery now,” Wardin said. “You weren’t joking, when you said you know the land well.”

  “I go ranging a lot, looking for things for my research. Plants, herbs, insects. Many are unique to these mountains.”

  “And you use these things to do magic?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly to make potions. But you’re right, it won’t be long now, even going the long way around to avoid Sarn Graddoc.”

  “Sarn what?” Wardin frowned, trying to remember where he’d heard the name Graddoc before. It came to him after a moment: it was a child’s tale. A deity, a dark one from a realm of the dead. Or perhaps it was that he raised the dead. According to the myth, he’d once tried to abduct Eyrdri. “Graddoc has a shrine here?”

  Arun’s mouth dropped open. “You really have forgotten everything,” he said with a laugh. “Well, he hasn’t got a shrine anymore. And we didn’t build it. If we had, we’d hardly have to avoid it, would we?”

  Now it was Wardin’s turn to laugh. “Who did build it, then? Ghosts? Or perhaps it was nursery maids, since they’re the only ones I’ve ever heard mention Graddoc before.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The point is, three nights from now, maybe less, and you’ll be sleeping in a bed with no rocks poking into your sides.”

  Three days. Wardin sat up, back against the stone wall, long after Arun went to sleep that night. Just three days until they reached their destination. A part of him was eager to get to Pendralyn, and not just because of the promised bed. Something about the word made his heart yearn for the place.

  But another part of him feared the welcome he might find there, whatever Arun said. This was a conquered land, in the hands of a cruel prince who possessed all of his father’s ruthlessness but none of the king’s sense. Wardin had met Tobin only once, but once was enough to learn that Hamlin had been built in his older brother’s image.

  And while the Eyrds—his people—had been living under Tobin’s rule, Wardin had been living with Tobin’s father. It didn’t require a great leap in logic to believe that he would be resented for it. What was he to do, in the face of that resentment? Apologize?

  Try to take his kingdom back?

  The thought both horrified and, in much smaller but still insistent measure, thrilled him. A Rath. Him. The last remnant of a bygone house that he’d only read about in books. How could that be him?

  For the first time since he’d met Arun, Wardin took the inkwell out of his pack. He couldn’t see the dragon by the ghostly moonlight seeping into their shelter, but he ran his finger over the lid to feel it. The dragon of Eyrdon. The dragon of Rath, too, he supposed. It made sense now.

  BR must be for Baden Rath—known to the Eyrds as Baden the Great. A myth, a legend. But also Wardin’s grandfather. Not only flesh and blood, but his flesh and blood. Wardin’s mouth went dry at the thought. That wasn’t a legacy he was prepared to take up.

  This inkwell had belonged to his family; Jervis had been telling the truth about that much. It really was his.

  “Is that an inkwell?”

  Arun’s voice interrupted Wardin’s reverie, and his first instinct was to put his hand behind his back so the other man couldn’t see what he held.

  But that was silly. He already had seen it. And he’d been traveling with Wardin for days, protecting him, leading him to safety. During that time, they’d fallen into an easy familiarity that could not have been new. Arun was who he said he was. He was a friend. There was no reason not to trust him.

  After one last moment of hesitation, Wardin handed the inkwell over, and told Arun the part of the story that he’d thus far left out.

  “An inkwell.” Arun shook his head. “An inkwell.”

  “I know,” Wardin said. “Of all the things to cause all this trouble. I must have remembered it somehow. You probably can’t see it, but there’s a dragon on the lid. It’s not the usual Eyrdish dragon.”

  Arun pulled his candle out of his cloak and whispered to it until a slender flame rose up. Wardin had seen him do this often enough now, whenever they didn’t want to risk the light of a fire or torch, that it no longer held any wonder for him.

  “That’s your family’s emblem,” Arun said.

  “I thought as much.”

  “This must have been your father’s. Bramwell wouldn’t have had an easy time getting close to your uncle’s possessions, but he and your father were friends, once. And then, your father did end his life as Bramwell’s prisoner.”

  Wardin winced as his head began to pound, and he was grateful Arun was too engrossed in the inkwell to notice. He didn’t want him to stop talking, the way he always did when he saw that Wardin was in pain.

  “But why would he keep your father’s inkwell on his desk, right in the open like that?” Arun went on.

  “I imagine to test me. And it worked. The instant I recognized it, he knew.”

  “But why keep it at all? I mean, of all the odd souvenirs to keep. Unless …”

  Arun bent over the inkwell until his long nose was nearly touching it. Then he closed his eyes and let out a puff of breath, clouding the silver surface.

  It was several seconds before he reopened his eyes, wide and round in the candlelight. “Wardin, this is enchanted. Did you know your father had an enchanted inkwell?” He glanced up and shook his head before Wardin could answer. “Silly question, you don’t know what you knew.”

  The skin across Wardin’s neck and shoulders seemed to hum. “Enchanted to do what?”

  Arun shook his head again. “I can’t tell. But I may be able to learn some things back home. I’ve got instruments and potions that may help.”

  “Are they common, enchanted inkwells?”

  “We have three or four of them. They’re trifles, more or less. Keep your handwriting neat, keep the ink from blotting or fading, that kind of thing. One of them protects the paper from tearing, once the ink has been used on it. But to answer your question, no. Nothing enchanted is common. We have a lot of enchanted objects at Pendralyn, things that were smuggled out of the other magisteries during the dissolution.”

  Wardin raised his brows. “They aren’t common, but you have a lot of them. Which is it?”

  “Both. They’re rare, it’s just that we have nearly all of them. I’m not surprised that
a great family like yours had something squirreled away, though. They always said your grandfather’s sword was enchanted. I’m sorry to say you never told me whether that was true or not.”

  He handed the inkwell back. “And speaking of never telling me something, you waited an awfully long time to tell me about this.”

  Wardin cleared his throat. “I didn’t know why it was important enough that Bramwell would want to kill people for it.”

  Arun snickered. “So you wanted to wait until you could be sure I wouldn’t try to kill you for it, is that it?”

  “Something like that. I know now that all of this is about me, not the inkwell. But I didn’t know what to think at first. I thought it best to keep it to myself until I had more answers.”

  If Arun was offended, he didn’t show it. His laugh was easy enough. “Well, glad you came around to trusting me. Since I’m the only friend you have.”

  He was joking, Wardin knew. But the words fell heavy in the suddenly close air of the cave. Heavy—and true.

  “Tell me again why we had to hide until dark, when we’ve spent the last three days traveling by daylight?”

  Wardin leaned around the small outcropping of rock that sheltered them, watching the twilight settle over a village in the distance. Despite his use of the word again, thus far Arun hadn’t explained himself beyond saying they had to wait.

  “We can’t take any risks when it comes to the gate of Pendralyn. Jasper will be here shortly.”

  “And he is?”

  “The guardian of that gate. I wouldn’t call on him if I were coming in alone, but you’re a special case, and he has a particular gift for cloaking spells.”

  Guardian of the gate. The phrase seemed to imply a challenge, or a test. Wardin did his best to ignore the prickling in his palms as they started to sweat. “How does he know to meet us here?”

  “He’s another sage. We can communicate with one another, in a sort of trance. It’s one of the few things I don’t excel at—”

  “Along with humility.”

  “—but I got the message across that we were coming. Didn’t you see me this morning?”

  “Yes, but I assumed the blank look on your face was just your natural state.”

  Arun elbowed him in the ribs. “You’re getting funnier, War. Not much funnier, but still. I’ll take it as a good sign.” He nodded toward the village. “Avadare isn’t what it used to be. New people have come in. Others might like to have something to trade to the Harths for their own gain. We can’t depend on them all anymore. So we guard the entrance more closely than ever, and we don’t let anyone but those we trust see us use it.”

  “That must make it hard to get supplies in and out. How long could you hold out in there, if you weren’t able to use your gate?”

  Arun chuckled. “Always thinking like a warrior.”

  “I don’t recall ever thinking like a warrior.”

  “Well, you did. Complex strategy wasn’t your greatest strength, perhaps, but you were always taking stock, always cataloging your advantages and disadvantages, knowing your routes in and out. Made you an asset on the practice yard. Mostly.”

  “Mostly, is it?”

  “You had your weak points.”

  “Such as?”

  “You were too trusting. Easily fooled by a contriver.”

  Wardin snorted. “So it would seem.”

  Arun laughed and started to say something, but cut himself off and held up a hand for silence. Before long Wardin heard what had alerted him: crunching footsteps on the rocky ground. A moment later, their approaching guest whistled low. Arun returned the signal, and a cloaked and hooded man came around the jagged wall of rock.

  “Jasper.” Arun grasped the other man’s forearm, then gestured at Wardin. “Here’s our wayward prince.”

  Wardin nodded in greeting. “Pleased to meet you. I thank you for your assistance tonight.”

  Jasper lowered his hood to reveal a square, chiseled face, weathered by a few more years than Wardin’s, although perhaps not many. His mouth was set, his expression hard and unfriendly—the picture of the fears that had been haunting Wardin.

  “You don’t remember me.” Jasper regarded him through narrowed eyes.

  “No. But if it’s any consolation, it seems I don’t even remember myself.”

  Jasper looked to Arun, who nodded. “I’m afraid so. A contriver’s trick. Since Bramwell took him. Didn’t know who he was, had no memories of Eyrdon or the war at all. He was living as an adept, if you can believe that, of common origins.”

  Jasper’s brows flew up. “A contriver’s trick that lasted seven years?”

  “It seems to have been reinforced daily,” Arun said.

  “Even so.” Jasper looked Wardin up and down, arms crossed.

  “The contriver died recently,” Arun went on. “Suicide. Apparently he couldn’t balance such a complicated spell, and went mad.”

  Jasper made a noncommittal noise.

  Wardin crossed his own arms, not prepared to cower before this stranger, no matter what grudge the man thought himself entitled to hold. “You don’t believe it.”

  “I’m not the one you need to convince,” Jasper said with a shrug. He turned to Arun. “Come on then, we’d best take him to the executioner.”

  “Who, now?” Wardin whispered to Arun as they fell into step behind the other man.

  Arun chuckled. “He doesn’t mean that, don’t worry. She won’t kill you. At least, I don’t think she will.”

  “She who?”

  “Our boss,” Jasper said over his shoulder. “She’ll be your boss too, within the hour, whether you realize it or not.”

  Wardin told himself it was eagerness that made his pulse race, not anxiety. He was a grown man, after all. And if Arun was to be believed, he was the prince of this land. Perhaps now would be a good time to start embracing the idea.

  They made their way in silence to the rugged, narrow road that would lead them into the village. Jasper stopped them there and muttered a few words, putting a hand first on Arun’s shoulder, then Wardin’s.

  Wardin felt a rush of warmth at the touch, quickly turning to bitter cold. He wondered whether shivering would make him look weak, but it didn’t matter; he couldn’t help it anyway.

  A shadow of a smirk crossed Jasper’s face. “You’ll get used to the cold.”

  “What did you do?” Wardin asked.

  “Like I said before, cloaks are his specialty,” Arun said. “Unusual for a sage, but Jasper’s been working on that spell since he took over The Dark Dragon. He’s quite accomplished at it.”

  “As long as you don’t do anything stupid or make any noise, it’ll work well enough,” Jasper said.

  Wardin raised a brow. “The Dark Dragon? An ominous name.”

  “There are a hundred inns across Eyrdon called The Black Dragon,” Jasper said with a shrug. “I suppose the man who built the Dark wanted to be different.”

  “I’ve always thought Dancing Dragon would have been better,” Arun mused.

  Jasper laughed, a low, throaty sound that went as quickly as it came. “I’m not sure the sort of dancing you do there would be a respectable thing to name the place after.” He turned and gestured for them to follow him.

  They passed quite a few lit windows in the village, but nobody was outside. All was quiet as they walked to the far edge of town, where an inn was almost tucked into the mountain. An odd place for it, Wardin reflected. A passing traveler would look for an inn at the front of the village, where the road met it, not the back. But then, perhaps unlike most inns, they didn’t want to encourage visits from strangers.

  The building was clearly old, but as far as he could tell by the light of the hanging lanterns that flanked its entrance, it was well maintained. The silver-gray door looked freshly painted, as did the sign of the same color above it. The latter showed a black dragon, its mouth open in a roar, and the words The Dark Dragon. Jasper opened the door and stood aside for Arun and Wardin, then
followed them in.

  The common room was small, but warm and well furnished, with a long, polished bar at one end. There were a dozen or so patrons sipping from mugs or chatting by the fire. A man and a woman sat at a table before plates of fragrant lamb chops and turnips that made Wardin’s stomach grumble.

  Several people greeted Jasper, but their eyes slid past Arun and Wardin as if the other men weren’t even there. Remembering Jasper’s warning not to make any noise, Wardin said nothing and kept his own eyes forward.

  Jasper led them behind the bar, then through the kitchen. The two women and one boy working there paid no more attention to the innkeeper’s companions than the patrons had. A little swinging door—Wardin had to duck to pass through it—brought them to a storage room.

  Arun crossed the cramped space in three strides and heaved a barrel aside, then kicked away a pile of sacks behind it. He stood over the patch of floor he’d cleared, staring at the planks as though expecting them to speak. Finally he crouched down and placed his palm over one of the boards. An instant later, there was a trap door beneath his hand.

  With a quick word of farewell to Jasper, Arun tugged the door open, revealing a rope ladder, and began descending.

  “Thank you,” Wardin said to Jasper before he turned to follow.

  Jasper gave him a terse nod. “Good luck.”

  Wardin swallowed hard as he grabbed hold of the rough rope; it put him inconveniently in mind of a noose. As soon as he was clear of the door, it closed above them with a decisive clack. Wardin heard Jasper dragging barrels back into place.

  For a moment they were in complete darkness, and Wardin stilled on the ladder, unsure of his footing. But then Arun reached the bottom and lit his candle, which he used to light a lantern in turn. The circle of light around him revealed a cluster of identical lanterns on the packed dirt floor.

  “Ready?” Arun grinned at him, apparently enjoying the trepidation his old friend couldn’t quite hide. Wardin kept his face and hands steady, but he knew his eyes must look wild. They felt dry, and he couldn’t seem to rest them in one place for very long.