Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  Tell her you can’t stay.

  In a moment.

  Wardin cleared his throat and nodded at the hounds. “And Rowena, is she to teach me too?”

  “Oh, right, I suppose you wouldn’t remember your hound lore, would you? Blackhounds are quite magical. It’s said they’re favored by the deities, and once acted as their messengers to mortals, even going so far as to bestow gifts on the most favored. It’s also said that they still carry some of that divine power.” Erietta shrugged. “How much of that is fact and how much is legend, I cannot say, but their value is undeniable. Rowena will help you focus your power, and channel it properly.”

  “Hm. I suppose that’s why Arun wouldn’t let me kill them.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You tried to kill blackhounds?”

  Wardin held up his hands. “Well, not any like this. And only to defend us. We came across a small pack of them in the moorlands. Feral. They attacked us, but Arun wouldn’t let me take my blade to them.”

  “I should think not! You would have been cursed!”

  He ducked his head with a wry smile. “More so than I already am?”

  Erietta pressed her lips together. “Don’t be so dramatic. You aren’t cursed.”

  “I suppose that depends on your definition of the word.” Wardin sighed, forcing the next words out despite the burning in his throat. “I thank you for keeping your word, but I cannot accept either Rowena’s assistance or yours. I can’t stay.”

  “Ah, yes. Back to repeating history.” She shook her head. “I meant what I said earlier. Your solution has already been tried. It failed.”

  “It failed under very specific circumstances that I will not find myself in again.”

  “You don’t know that. If you’re caught—and you’re very likely to be, out there alone with a price on your head—Bramwell will force you to tell him where you’ve been. Pendralyn is in much more danger with you out there than in here.”

  Wardin narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m so weak that I’ll break under questioning? Or perhaps you’re still afraid I’m a traitor?”

  “Really, must we do this?” Erietta rubbed her dark brows, a gesture that reminded him achingly of … something. Her, he supposed.

  “Oh, I think we must,” he said.

  “Fine. You know perfectly well that questioning isn’t the concern. You’ve been compelled by them before.”

  He stepped toward her a with a huff. Both blackhounds flattened their ears as the tension rose. “I’ve been tricked by them before, but you’ll notice I never told them about this place. And it’s not as though they can use magic to read my mind or tell if I’m lying. If either of those were possible, you’d have done it the first time I walked into your chambers.”

  Erietta stood her ground, chin high. “Perhaps, but it seems the king has magic at his disposal that I’ve never heard of. And you just told me yourself, you have no idea what happened back then. It’s too great a risk, when we already know you’re susceptible.”

  “Susceptible?” Wardin inhaled through clenched teeth, then let the breath out slowly. “This argument is pointless. I honestly can’t say why Bramwell tricked me instead of simply killing me, but it’s not a mistake he’ll repeat.”

  She scoffed. “That hardly helps your argument. You think it’s better for us to release our last prince, our last hope for Eyrdon to regain its freedom, to be executed?”

  “Now we’re talking about rebellion?” He raised a brow. “At the expense of Pendralyn?”

  Erietta tossed her head. “After seven years of Tobin’s rule, it’s not surprising that I’d be talking about rebellion! Not at the expense of Pendralyn. In service of it. Whether you’re here or not, we’re not safe while Eyrdon remains a barony of Harth. What your father did all those years ago—and what you did after him—those things gave us time. But we need a permanent solution.”

  “Such as?”

  All at once, the tension drained from her face, and she laughed, a light, clear sound that Wardin couldn’t help but answer with a smile.

  “Truthfully?” She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “And here I thought you were supposed to be the strategist.”

  “Yes, well, even if I haven’t worked out the particulars, I can tell you for certain that my strategy requires you to be fully trained and at your best.” She nodded at Rowena, who sat panting under the open window. “So would you please just take the dog, and thank me for her?”

  Wardin rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the blackhound. Why was he hesitating, when Erietta was offering him his heart’s desire?

  Yes, it was his duty to protect Pendralyn. But leaving wasn’t the only way to do that. Perhaps it wasn’t even the best way.

  A true Rath, after all, did not run from danger. Staying, learning, growing strong—and then standing ready to defend his home. Those were things a Rath would do.

  They were the only things he wanted to do.

  Or was he more interested in winning an argument?

  Wardin chuckled and shook his head as a sudden warmth radiated through him. When he looked back at Erietta, it was with a grin. “Why thank you, ma’am. I’m sure Rowena will be a great help to me.”

  14

  Bramwell

  Bramwell tightened his fist around his goblet, tempted to throw it through his solar windows. It had been weeks since Wardin’s disappearance, and they were still no closer to finding him.

  At first they’d gone about the search subtly, drawing minimal attention to the last Rath. When those efforts proved fruitless, Bramwell had the sketch drawn up, made mention of vague crimes against the crown, and conveniently left Wardin’s name out of it. But even the promise of a substantial reward got them nowhere.

  Now half the summer was gone. And the boy was gone with it.

  It shouldn’t have been possible. Oh, it might have been easy enough to get lost in the city for a short while, then slip away unnoticed when the opportunity presented itself. Wardin had had little occasion to be either sly or resourceful over the past several years, but he was Draven Rath’s son. Perhaps those traits had merely been dormant until needed.

  But Bramwell had scoured every bit of Witmare; he was satisfied that the boy was no longer there. And what hope could Wardin have in the wider world, with no silver and a price on his head? A boy who, within his memory, had never hunted, trapped, or fished, had never slept on hard ground or crossed rough terrain? How could he survive on his own?

  The answer was simple: he could not. Someone was helping him. Someone was hiding him.

  It was unlikely that anyone would be willing to aid a nameless outlaw who hadn’t the means to either threaten or bribe. Not even in Tarnarven, despite it being, ostensibly at least, a sovereign kingdom outside Bramwell’s control. No Tar would dare flout the King of Harth for something so trivial as the life of one inconsequential man.

  Whoever was helping Wardin must have decided that he was not, in fact, inconsequential. Perhaps the boy had remembered who he was, once and for all. Perhaps he’d convinced someone else of that fact.

  Bramwell had a headache from grinding his teeth. Once again he considered how satisfying it might be to send his heavy goblet smashing through one of the windows. To hear the glass shattering. To perhaps watch the shards shower down on some unfortunate soul below. To cleanse his fury with a bit of blood.

  But before he had the chance to yield to the impulse, Guy knocked on the solar door. “Majesty, I have the man you requested.”

  “Took you long enough to bring him.” Bramwell crossed to his desk and sat. Another inkwell had been set there, to replace Baden Rath’s. It made Bramwell want to feel the delicate bones of someone’s neck—preferably the boy’s—cracking beneath his hands every time he looked at it.

  “Apologies, Majesty,” Guy said with a bow. “It took quite a while to locate him.”

  “Well, bring him in. And I’d like you to stay. I may have need of some of your finer skills.”
<
br />   Guy went back into the corridor and returned with a grizzled man, weathered and gray before his time. The newcomer bowed properly, but he didn’t look afraid. Those foolish Eyrds so rarely did, despite the many reasons Bramwell had given them to fear Harthian rule and the house of Lancet. Starting with his own son.

  “Your name?” he asked.

  “Yates, Majesty.” The man kept his eyes downcast. At least he was showing proper respect. Which meant he was smart enough to want to avoid the king’s ire. That would be useful.

  “And where did my scouts find you, Yates?”

  “In Traybire, Majesty. I work as a cobbler now.”

  “Really?” Bramwell gave Guy a pointed look. “All the while, less than two days’ walk from here.” He returned his gaze to Yates. “And what of the others? Where might we find them?”

  “I couldn’t say, Majesty. I haven’t seen any of them since you gave us our pardons.”

  Our pardons. Six men had brought Draven Rath to Bramwell, all those years ago, along with proof of the magistery they’d destroyed. Draven had apparently meant to hide there; it was secret, after all.

  But he was betrayed by those six of his own men, who seeing the inevitable end of the war and their kingdom, elected to throw their lot in with Harth instead. A wise move, but their treachery didn’t win them any respect from Bramwell.

  Still, they’d served their new king, and he knew that their lives, and those of their families, would almost certainly be forfeit in Eyrdon. Perhaps the Eyrds wouldn’t mourn Draven Rath, but they’d be unlikely to forgive the destruction of their last magistery, however small and shabby it had been. And they most definitely wouldn’t forgive these men ushering in the end of the war.

  So Bramwell gave them pardons and a modest amount of silver to start their lives over in Harth. But he refused to allow them to serve as soldiers or guards, and made them swear to never again take up arms for anyone. They moved on to train for new professions and make new homes, and Bramwell’s scouts—evidently—didn’t bother to track them after that.

  They were his subjects now. But before they were Draven’s betrayers, these men had been close to the last King of Eyrdon. Close enough to know the inner workings of his household. Close enough, perhaps, to know the boy.

  They owed Bramwell allegiance, and it was time for them to show it.

  “Well, Yates.” Bramwell sat back with his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepling his fingers. “You have an advantage over the other five. As you’re the first to be questioned, you may be the first to succeed in offering me the assistance I require. And there will be a reward for the first of you to do that.”

  Yates licked his lips. “That would be much appreciated, Majesty. Truth be told, I’m not quite as successful a cobbler as I was a king’s guard.”

  Bramwell arched a brow. “I’m not entirely certain you can be called a success as a king’s guard, either. Was it not your duty to protect your king’s life?”

  “Yes, well.” Yates cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I served Cairdarin’s truest king, Majesty, as I’m sure you’ll agree. It’s the best thing for all of us to unite—”

  “Yes, yes.” Bramwell waved the flattery away. “Where might I find Draven Rath’s son?”

  He allowed himself a small smile at Yates’s gaping mouth; it was Bram’s experience that people caught off guard rarely lied. Unless they took too long to answer, but Yates didn’t hesitate.

  “I couldn’t say, Majesty. I thought you had him.”

  “I did.” Bramwell pressed his lips together. “It would seem he has been misplaced.”

  “Majesty, your last master scout asked me the same question, seven or eight years ago. And I—”

  “At the time, you and your companions suggested he might be hiding somewhere in Narinore, or perhaps among sympathizers in Tarnarven. Neither of those answers helped us find him. I’d like you to be more creative.”

  “But Majesty, I barely knew the boy. And I haven’t set foot in Eyrdon for eight years.”

  “Precisely,” Bramwell said. “You haven’t set foot in Eyrdon. You’re not an Eyrd anymore, you’re a Harth. You took a Harthian wife, did you not?”

  Yates scratched at his wrist. “I did, Majesty.”

  “And you have children?”

  “I do. Two, Majesty.”

  Bramwell nodded, slowly, as if considering all of this. He kept his gaze fixed on Yates for a few moments, during which the other man swallowed no less than four times. “Well. I’d like you to be my guest for a few days, Yates. To see if you think of anything.”

  Yates blanched, but he was hardly in a position to argue. Guy arranged for him to be escorted to his new accommodations, then came back into the room with a bow. “Shame he didn’t know anything, after all the trouble it took to find him. But we’ll keep looking for the others.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Guy. He knows something.”

  Guy raised his eyebrows. “With respect, Majesty, I’ve been a scout for a long time. I don’t believe that man was lying.”

  Bramwell drummed his fingers against the top of his desk and regarded his master scout through narrowed eyes. Guy was always too impudent. But he had skills that made up for that inconvenience; skills that were shortly to be required. “And I have been a king for a long time. I know he wasn’t lying. But there is a difference between lying and withholding information.”

  “What sort of information would he be withholding, Majesty, if he was telling the truth about not knowing where the boy is?”

  Bramwell scratched his beard, frowning down at the inkwell. “I don’t know. But he was afraid.”

  “Perhaps he was intimidated. You can be a forceful presence, Majesty.”

  “No. I saw it in his eyes. He has a secret.” He returned his glare to Guy. “You are to discover that secret. And don’t be long about it.”

  Bramwell laughed at Mairid’s antics as the girl flitted around the room, acting out a short drama of her own devising with three of his barons’ daughters. There were few children at the palace, since Hamlin had gone to Tobin at Narinore. Bramwell had summoned these girls’ parents for the summer as much for his niece’s sake as for any business he had with the adults.

  His amusement was interrupted by Guy, clearing his throat with vigor. Bramwell glared at him. The master scout knew that his king was not to be disturbed in his private dining hall when he was with his family.

  He rose to meet Guy just inside the doorway, head bent forward so they could speak without being heard. The queen was prone to hysterics, and Bramwell would prefer she not hear any distressing news in front of the children. “What is it? Dordrin?”

  “No, Majesty. Only Yates. He’s broken at last.”

  Bramwell crossed his arms and leaned forward slightly, the better to take advantage of his height. “Eager as I am to discover Wardin’s whereabouts, you’ve been questioning Yates for ten days. Surely whatever the man has to say could have waited one more hour. The queen will think we’re at war, with you coming in here during our dinner.”

  “Apologies, Majesty.” Guy bobbed his head. “I would have waited, if it were only about Wardin. But I’m afraid there’s more to the man’s story. I think you’ll want to hear it directly from him, and immediately.”

  With a sigh, Bramwell looked back at the table. Elinor was indeed watching him with wide, wet eyes. He crossed back to her and whispered a few words of reassurance before returning to Guy. “Lead the way, then.”

  Yates was being kept on the lowest floor of one of the towers, in an older part of the palace that was icy cold in winter, but sweltering hot during the summer. He was coated in sweat, and smelled more like an animal than a man. He’d been divested of his tunic, and his now-gaunt torso was scattered with shallow, crimson cavities where bits of flesh had been removed. His haunted eyes darted back and forth between the king and the exit.

  Bramwell scanned the room, the dirty bedpans, the straw mats on the
stone floor. Three mats, to be precise. A woman and two children were huddled in the corner.

  Guy had had to resort to threatening the man’s family, then. Or worse. The little boy was holding his arm oddly. Stubborn Eyrds and their cursed pride. It didn’t sit well with Bramwell to bring women and children into such things.

  Still, whatever Guy had been obliged to do had apparently served its purpose. Yates bowed—stiffly, and not very far—and spoke in a ragged voice before he was asked a single question. “Majesty, I am prepared to confess.”

  “Oh?” Bramwell clasped his hands behind his back. “To what, exactly?”

  “Draven Rath’s capture was … not as it seemed.” Yates inhaled a quivering breath. “There was no magistery.”

  Bramwell remained still, even as his pulse sped up. What was this? He glanced at Guy, who stood expressionless beside his prisoner, then back at Yates. “No magistery? Why would you say there was, then?”

  “Because we knew you were looking for one,” Yates said. “It was Draven’s idea. He said it was the only way to get you to stop searching.”

  Hands still behind his back, Bramwell dug his nails into his palms. “And he considered a continued search to be dangerous. Too dangerous to risk.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  “Meaning there was, in fact, a magistery. One he did not wish me to find.”

  “Yes, Majesty.” Yates’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “One you did not, in fact, burn.”

  “No, Majesty.” Yates’s attempt to clear his throat ended in a coughing fit. When he straightened up again, blood dribbled down his chin. His wife began to weep. Bramwell merely watched, head cocked to one side, and waited for the man to continue.

  “You have the right of it,” Yates said when he could speak again. “We burned an abandoned village, along with a few books and things. Made it look real, so that when you checked on our story, there would be evidence, witnesses.”

  “And you say this was Draven’s plan?” Bramwell’s vision was clouding with fury. He stiffened, locking his knees to keep himself from springing forward and crushing this deceitful Eyrd’s throat.