Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  Wardin crouched beside her, tilting his head as he studied the sleeping creatures. “How will you get enough venom from them, even if it does work? I thought the sages couldn’t replicate anything that came from an animal.”

  “They can’t replicate flesh,” Arun corrected. “Animals are tricky to work with, it’s true, but milk can be replicated. I don’t know that anyone’s tried venom. We’ll just have to see.”

  “Let’s worry about that when we know it works.” Erietta stretched her neck and back, then smiled at the two men. “Shall we come out through the keep and steal some mead, for old times’ sake?”

  But Wardin shook his head, face glum as he got to his feet. “We’re rationing the mead, along with everything else.”

  Arun winked. “All the better reason to steal it.”

  “No, War’s right.” Erietta sighed with genuine regret. “We’re supposed to be setting a good example now, remember?”

  “You know,” Arun said as he picked up his cage and turned away, “growing up wasn’t the best idea we’ve ever had.”

  Erietta wrapped the sleeping vividrake in linen, swaddling it so it couldn’t move, then held it over the jar. It was a cumbersome process; the thick leather gloves she wore interfered with her dexterity. When she was satisfied with the creature’s position, she released a spell that made the jar appear to be a human hand. Then she squeezed the drake, gently at first, applying more pressure by degrees until it woke.

  She had no way of knowing the inner workings of a vividrake’s mind, if they were fooled by her illusion, if they even had thoughts at all, in the usual sense of the word. But whether because they really did see a waving hand in front of them, or simply because they were enraged by their captivity and the rude awakening, it was rarely difficult to inspire a bite.

  This one proved no different. It sank its fangs through the thin strip of waxed cloth covering the jar. Several drops of venom trickled to the bottom, joining the small amount she’d collected from the last one.

  With luck, this would be the last time she had to milk the creatures. Pendralyn had been under siege for seventeen days now. They’d tried to keep life for the students as normal as possible, apart from the rationing, but the tension was affecting them. The villagers were more restless than ever, and the magisters, who stood to lose the most, were tied in a constant, fractious knot of fear.

  They could hear the enemy now. In the southeast corner of the valley, not far from the gate: muffled, far-off strikes and rumbles that they knew would not stay so far off. Every day was spent in breathless terror that this would be the day the soldiers swarmed out of the mountain, ready to murder them all and destroy everything they’d worked so hard to protect.

  And it’s up to me to make sure that doesn’t happen. It’s not enough to merely solve this riddle. I must solve it now. This next guess must be the right one.

  Erietta’s stomach churned as she fed the now writhing vividrake a dried beetle laced with sleeping powder. “Don’t worry, I hope to have you home soon.” She returned it to the covered trough she’d fashioned into a temporary home for the creatures. “I hope to have everyone home soon.”

  Please let it be the right one.

  Holding her breath, praying to any deity who cared to listen, she poured a few drops of the harvested venom into a waiting bowl. Hawthorn, meanwhile, sniffed at the trough, wagging his tail.

  “I know we’re short on meat, friend, but I assure you, you don’t want to eat them.” Erietta snapped her fingers twice. “Come on. One more time.”

  She put her hand on Hawthorn’s head and focused with all her might on infusing her mixture, not only with magical energy, but with fragments of the particular vision she hoped it would help deliver. Her mind filled with shadows, cold whispers, the rotten smell of things that should not walk the earth.

  Hawthorn whined, clearly not liking the direction this magic was taking. Erietta stroked his ear, but did not speak as she channeled the darkness downward, outward, into the bowl.

  “All right, we’re done,” she whispered at last. Hawthorn whimpered again, and licked nervously at her hand. “I know, boy. I don’t much care for dark magic either. But sometimes we have to fight horror with horror.”

  The cost of doing so would be high, if she weren’t careful. This kind of magic would affect her balance even more than usual, and in darker ways. Particularly when her mind was already steeped in fear, prone to grim emotions.

  Under normal circumstances, the archmagister’s duties included sufficient mundane tasks for a contriver to maintain her balance with ease. But Erietta had been working without respite, leaving most of the day-to-day administration to Alaide and Eldon, and stopping to attend to her balance just often enough to fend off serious trouble.

  There would be no rest for her that night, whether this worked or not. She would have to spend several hours doing tedious, preferably repetitive, work. Perhaps the floor of the keep could use a good scrubbing.

  The mere thought made her limbs feel heavy. But one daunting task at a time. She mixed a single drop of the potion with cold water—the same way it would be delivered to the Harths—and took a tiny sip.

  It was slightly bitter. At a higher concentration, a few of the more observant soldiers might notice it in the water. Erietta could only hope they would think it was some sort of moss or mold that had gotten into the stream.

  Within moments, a vague but strong sense of unease settled over her. Nothing specific, no hallucinations of any kind, but she hadn’t expected that. At best, the potion would contain only a suggestion, an echo of the intended trick. The spell itself would still have to be cast, and in any case, she couldn’t trick herself. That she was momentarily worried, anticipating something dreadful, was enough. She could sense the magic flowing through her.

  It was gone an instant later, but then, she’d taken the smallest amount she possibly could. If the sages could replicate all the ingredients she needed, they’d be able to pour barrels and barrels of the concoction into the stream, and let the water deliver it to their victims.

  “All right, Hawthorn. Go and get Wardin. He’ll know who to round up.”

  At the mention of Wardin’s name, Hawthorn barked once and headed for the door. Erietta watched him go, her hands shaking, her breaths shallow with anxiety.

  It was time for another test.

  24

  Wardin

  You’re safer here than you are at Narinore.

  How can this be safer than a castle?

  Well, it’s got a castle of its own, doesn’t it? Look at that keep. Nothing could knock that down. They say it’s been standing for hundreds of years. And its doors fasten by magic.

  Don’t our doors fasten by magic?

  Draven laughed at that. No, he said. You don’t find many magical things outside Pendralyn. But inside Pendralyn … well, you’ve never seen such things.

  What sorts of things?

  His father held out his hand then, and his palm filled with flames, though he did not flinch or cry out.

  Doesn’t that burn you?

  Shh … watch.

  Wardin stared, eyes wide with wonder, as the flames shifted, curled, and finally formed a bird—a crow of orange and yellow and red rather than black. It flapped its wings, then rose up and circled Wardin’s head once, twice, three times, before it flew toward the keep.

  As it soared into the distance it split into two, then three, then a whole flock of fiery crows. They began to sing—not the caw of real crows, but a true song. It was haunting and beautiful, and a bit sad, as if the birds were remembering something wonderful they’d lost. As if they yearned for a place their wings could not take them.

  Such were not the thoughts of a nine-year-old boy. How could he know what conjured crows yearned for? How could they yearn for anything? And yet he did know. And so, Wardin assumed, it must be true. The song must have told him.

  The music was at once distant, fading with the birds, and in his ear, like a w
hisper, and in his head, like his own imagination. And long after the crows disappeared from his view, he could still hear their song.

  That was the day his father had brought him to Pendralyn. Wardin had never seen magic like that before. Hadn’t even known magic like that existed. He’d come to learn to vanquish his enemies and defend his people and make his kingdom strong.

  But the flock of crows wasn’t for any of that. It wasn’t for anything. Except perhaps just the wonder of it all.

  Until that day, Wardin had thought of his duty to learn magic as little more than a chore that would take him away from his castle and his family. But watching the conjured birds, listening to their song, his boy’s heart wanted nothing more than to become a magician. The desire was all-consuming, pulsing through his body with every heartbeat. It became his sole ambition, even ahead of becoming a great king like his grandfather and his Uncle Lional.

  He knew that Draven was fighting with Lional again, and that both of them were fighting with King Bramwell, as they always were. There hadn’t been any battles though, not for a long time. It didn’t matter. Wardin knew that peace never lasted, and that violence might break out at any moment, from any direction. He’d known these things all his life.

  Pendralyn would be a safe haven from all of that, but that wasn’t why his father had brought him here. Wardin was nine years old. He must enter a magistery, as all the Raths before him had done. It was simply time.

  And now, eleven years later, it was simply time again. Time to defend the home Wardin had begun to love from the moment he’d seen that flock of fiery crows soaring across the valley.

  He looked out across that same valley now, at all the moving bodies gathering, calling, converging and separating and reforming. Making ready. They weren’t magical, illusory birds this time, but real flesh-and-blood people, dependent upon his plan—a plan that seemed madder to him with each moment that brought its execution closer—for their survival.

  Some were ushering the children and the elderly into the keep, where they would remain until, one way or another, this little battle was over. Magister Eldon would preside over them there. Wardin knew that if it got that far, in all likelihood the old magister would do the sensible thing and surrender. There was no reason for the children to die. Bramwell would show them mercy.

  But then, Wardin had some experience with the sort of mercy Bramwell Lancet showed to children. It was up to him to make sure these ones were never subjected to it. That their parents were never called traitors and executed, that they were never torn from their homes, that everything they had—everything they were—was never stolen from them.

  Those not weathering the coming storm in the keep were coming to Wardin, some one hundred and fifty magisters, villagers, and students. They would assemble here, and then they would look to him to give the command. To send them out to face more than four hundred formidable enemies.

  It was too late to rethink his plan, or to second guess himself. It had been too late for days. Erietta’s last test had gone exactly as hoped. For two days afterward, they poured barrel upon barrel of potion into the stream morning, noon, and night. The sages gave up on replicating food stores, and instead worked constantly, nearly to the point of imbalance, to replicate the ingredients so Erietta could make more and more again.

  They’d poured in the last of it at dawn. And now, two hours later, it was time.

  Or nearly so. For a few last, quickly dwindling moments, there was nobody at Wardin’s side save Rowena. He was uneasy about bringing the blackhounds into battle. He’d be as sorry to lose Rowena as nearly any human he knew. But there was no reason to leave the dogs behind, now that being conspicuous was no longer a concern. This was as much their home to defend as anyone’s, and they would fight as staunchly as any soldier.

  “Wardin.” Helena’s voice broke through the oppressive haze of his thoughts. She wore a leather jerkin over her tunic, and was surrounded by another dozen blackhounds, several of whom trotted over to greet Rowena. “Highness.”

  “Helena.” Wardin squared his shoulders, doing his best to look and sound confident. He wondered if she could possibly be fooled. He nodded down at the dogs. “Are you sure they can get up through the tunnel?”

  She smiled gently, but did not reply. Perhaps she understood that he’d asked the question only to have something to say. She’d already assured him (several times) that the hounds were more surefooted than most men, and could scramble up the ladder as easily as anyone, if someone below held it to keep it stable.

  “All right. Good,” Wardin said, as though she’d answered him. “You know where to put them. I want—”

  He was interrupted by the arrival of Arun, with four other sagacity magisters and Odger in tow. “Helena!” Arun spoke cheerfully, as though he’d run into her while out on a quiet morning stroll, and was pleased to see her. “I believe you have some hounds for me?”

  At a murmured command from the kennel mistress, four of the blackhounds split off and joined Arun’s group. They stood quietly to Wardin’s right, north of the gate, and waited.

  They were joined shortly by Erietta and Bartley, leading five contrivance magisters and two students. Theirs was the largest crew, despite contrivance being the least represented affinity at Pendralyn. Challenging though it was, they’d taken to the chosen trick more readily than the battlemages or sages had to the spells they’d been assigned. With the help of the potion, Wardin hoped that they could all succeed.

  He had to hope; he could hardly do otherwise. The alternative was the slaughter of them all.

  Four of Helena’s hounds likewise went to join the contrivers, while the rest of Wardin’s makeshift soldiers began to converge on the field. Magister Conrad and Baelar would lead the bulk of them, men who could pass for Tobin’s soldiers (Harthian commanders did not enlist women), wearing cloaks made to look like Baelar’s. Magic could have produced better disguises, but a trick like that would cost more energy than they could spare. They would have to count on the enemy being sufficiently distracted—and addled—to accept this more rudimentary ruse instead.

  Finally, everyone was there. All eyes were on Wardin, as their murmuring voices slowly quieted. Their faces were ashen, their shoulders tight. He ought to give a speech. To inspire them.

  Wardin cleared his throat and started to speak, but it immediately became clear that so many people, despite their polite silence, would never hear him over the harsh wind whistling through the valley. Arun stepped up to his side and placed his fingers against Wardin’s throat, muttering something under his breath. When Wardin spoke again, his voice carried across the field.

  “By now, I’m sure everyone knows their part. Those of you in cloaks, you’ll wait in the tunnel until Magister Conrad and Baelar lead you out. Those charged with defending the tunnel and the inn will take up their posts at the same time. Contrivers and sages casting the spells, you’ll be ahead of the rest. You’re to come to the front and wait for your signal.”

  He scanned the crowd until he found Magisters Alaide and Felton, and a sixteen-year-old student by the name of Ian, the only three battlemages who had managed to master the required spell in time. They stood together beside Erietta and the contrivers. “You three are with me.”

  There was much nodding and fidgeting and shuffling of feet. This was not what they needed. It was important to make sure they were prepared in practical terms, but there was no fire in their faces. Only fear. Wardin cleared his throat again.

  He ought to convince them that if they died that day, it was for a good reason. He ought to remind them that what they were doing, what they were fighting for, was the most important cause of all.

  His eyes rested on Odger, standing beside Arun, watching Wardin with an intense—or perhaps just tense—stare. The boy was a talented sage, despite the occasional difficulty with his balance. Yet his father was a stable master in Narinore, a man with little education and no power at all. If magic weren’t outlawed, if Odger were free to p
ractice his art openly, he might become a healer, an arbiter, a diplomat, an adept. He might find work in a palace, or a great city, or travel the seas to exotic lands.

  Even now, practicing only in secret and subtle ways, he might do any of those things. Or he might do none of them, and join his father in the stable. All choices were open to him; he could walk any path he liked. Because of magic.

  And it was because of magic that tyrants like the Lancet kings could be challenged, by the likes of Odger, by the likes of anyone. Because magic meant power. It meant freedom.

  And it meant wonder. It meant a flock of fiery crows, soaring across the sky, singing their haunting song, for no other reason than that they were beautiful, and they soothed the fears of an anxious boy on his first day in a new place.

  Wardin knew he should tell them all of those things. He should tell them that magic must not be lost. It must not be forgotten. Once it was, they would never be able to get it back.

  He ought to tell them. They needed to hear it. They needed to be roused.

  His Uncle Lional had once told him that the deciding factor of many a battle was which side cared more for their cause. That was why Lional would never hire mercenaries to fight. Those with the most to lose were often the ones to win.

  They had the most to lose. They had to be reminded of that. They had to care more than their enemy.

  He ought to tell them.

  But the trouble was, some of them would die that day. They knew it as well as he did. They would die, carrying out his orders, his plan. And it would be his responsibility.

  He had led Bramwell here. And now, he was leading these people out to meet the enemy king. Some of these faces—some just fifteen years old—would be lost forever today. For magic, for Pendralyn, more than for their prince. But even if they did not die for Wardin, they for certain would die because of him.

  And that knowledge closed his throat, until he could scarcely draw breath, much less say what he ought. It slammed into his chest, flattening his lungs, weighing down his heart.