She made a sound like a stifled laugh. “Honestly, I’m not going to bite, you know.”
“Are you sure?” Corwin arched an eyebrow her direction, still not looking at her. “I seem to recall the first time we met that you threatened to kill me.”
“Well, you did have a knife to my throat. But please, would you fetch me a robe?”
Corwin sighed and looked about until he spotted one. Grabbing it off the hanger on the wall, he set it beside the pool. Then he retreated back to the living quarters, closing the door behind him.
With nothing else to do, he sat down on the divan, trying to will himself to grow sleepy. Eravis strode into the room moments later, her hair still piled atop her head and the thin robe clinging to her damp body, leaving little to the imagination. The possibility of sleep scampered away, his muscles growing taut as he beheld her.
She regarded him with a cool, tense look. Then slowly, she started to lower the robe from her shoulders.
Corwin stood up, fists clenched. “Don’t,” he said, his voice harsh, commanding. “What you’re attempting isn’t going to work.” He glared at her, wishing he could sear this truth to her soul with his eyes. “We may be married in the eyes of your father, but we will never be as man and wife.”
She paled by a fraction, and a cord flexed in her slender throat. “You’re being a fool, Corwin Tormane. I can only hope you realize it before it’s too late.”
Corwin frowned at the cryptic warning, but said nothing as she returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind her this time.
He’d fallen asleep on the divan sometime later, only to wake as he was now, certain he was alone in the chambers. He double-checked both rooms to be sure. The bed was rumpled, but the sheets long since cooled. Eravis had clearly left for the day. That was good. One night done—the gods knew how many to go.
With nothing else to do and still tired from the restless night, Corwin was about to avail himself of the bed when a knock on the door sounded. With a mumbled curse, he went to answer it. An elderly woman in a stately gray dress that matched her hair offered him a polite smile before bowing.
“Good morning, your highness. We’ve come to take the record.” The stewardess motioned to the little man in a clerk’s uniform standing to her right.
“Record?” Corwin cocked his head, puzzled. “Of what?”
“The consummation, of course.”
“The consu—” He broke off, fire rising in his cheeks as he understood their intent. He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” He started to push the door closed, but the woman blocked him with a raised hand.
“Apologies, your highness, but it must be done. The Godking demands it.”
Corwin stepped toward the intruders, meaning to shut the door on their faces if he had to, but he froze at the sound of a familiar voice beyond.
“Is there some trouble here?” Lord Gavril strode into the room, Zan following behind him carrying a tray with a dark bottle and a single empty glass balanced atop it. Even without seeing it or smelling it, Corwin sensed the nenath inside, his throat suddenly parched and aching.
“We are here for the record, Lord Gavril,” the woman said, “but Prince Corwin doesn’t wish to let us in.”
“I see.” Gavril peered at Corwin, his eyes seeming to see right through him. “Sadly, you’re wasting your time checking the sheets this morning.”
The woman appeared aghast at the thought, and she eyed Corwin with a sideways look, as if she’d never seen the like of his particular species before. “But my lord, the Godking will insist on seeing proof.”
“Very well, then. Go in and do what needs to be done.” Gavril waved at the woman and the clerk, and helpless to stop it, Corwin stepped aside, giving them entry. Eravis had been right to call him foolish—he should’ve known this would happen. The marriage wouldn’t be considered official until it had been consummated. Which meant he still had time to escape it altogether—if he could just find a way free.
Lord Gavril and Zan stepped into the room, the page crossing the floor to the trestle table by the divan, where he set down the nenath bottle and glass. Corwin pulled his eyes away, desperate for something to distract him from the need to drink.
Patient as ever, Gavril waited, hands clasped in front of him. The seconds felt like hours as Corwin held his ground, arms fixed at his sides, a defiant glare on his face. The woman and clerk returned from the bedchamber a moment later, the former carrying the sheets balled up in her arms.
“You were right, my lord,” she said, addressing Gavril. “The Godking won’t be pleased.” She turned a quick, scathing look on Corwin. She’d recognized his species after all and found him wanting.
“No, but he won’t be surprised either.” Gavril offered the woman an encouraging smile. “There is no need to worry. He will not vent his wrath on you.”
The woman bowed, then she and the clerk exited the room.
Gavril turned to Zan. “Please see to his highness’s clothes. The Godking requests his presence in the war council.”
War council? Corwin opened his mouth to demand an explanation, then closed it again as the thirst for nenath intensified. Already he felt a quake in his belly. If he didn’t drink it soon, he would be sick. You must resist, he told himself.
With excruciating effort, he followed Zan into the bedchambers and allowed the boy to assist in dressing him. By the end, he needed the help as violent trembles coursed through his body.
“Just drink the nenath already, your highness,” Zan whispered, casting a worried look toward the living quarters where Gavril waited. “There’s no point fighting it. There’s magic in the nenath, and you can’t beat that.”
Corwin looked at the boy, hating him, hating everything. “You’re wrong,” he said through clenched teeth. He knew more about magic than this boy ever could. It could be fought. It could be stopped. Somehow, someway. Like how he’d stopped the Nameless One, a man with more magic than all the magists and wilders combined. He just needed to find a way, to find some help.
He needed to find Bonner.
But first he would need a clear head and some marginal control over his own body. He grasped Zan’s shoulder. “Fetch me a glass.”
With a quick nod, the boy turned and rushed off to retrieve the nenath. As always, the shame burned through Corwin when he drank it, mixed with the sweet release the poison gave him from his suffering. It had only been a scant few minutes, yet it felt like eternity. At least he no longer had to listen to Gavril’s Tenets. They were embedded so deeply in his conscious there was no need to repeat them, it seemed.
All too soon though, Corwin was fit again, and returned to find Gavril wearing a smug smile.
“Don’t look so gloomy, your highness. It’s not every day one arises from the dead,” Gavril said.
Corwin arched an eyebrow, tensing. “What do you mean?”
“Now that your marriage ceremony has taken place, the Godking saw no reason not to announce it to the rest of the world. If I’m not mistaken, the newspapers in Rime will have the story soon. And your brother as well.”
Inhaling slowly, Corwin strove to keep his temper in check. He’d known it was coming, of course, that there was no way Magnar would keep it secret, but still, he dreaded what the people of Rime would think. What Kate would think. I love you, Kate, he thought. I will never betray you. How he wished she could hear him now.
“Well, congrats to me then,” Corwin replied at last, teeth gritted to hold back his tumultuous emotions.
Gavril’s smile widened, then he turned and headed through the door, beckoning to Corwin like he was a dog needing to be brought to heel. Corwin followed Gavril down to an antechamber off the throne room where the so-called war council waited.
Magnar was there, of course, standing at the head of a sand table with Mazen and Eryx to his right and left. At a quick glance, Corwin recognized the map that had been constructed across the sand table’s pliable surface—he’d know the cities and structures of Rime
anywhere. The image on the table depicted everything from the eastern cliffs of Thornewall on the shore of the Penlaurel River to the Ash Mountains that flanked Farhold in the west. The borders of Seva were shown as well, the area currently filled with models representing warships and the troops they would carry. A chill shot through Corwin at the sight of it. He swept his gaze over the others present, recognizing many of them as various councilors to the king, although he didn’t know any of their names. He was just glad to see that the woman and clerk from this morning weren’t present. They must’ve delivered the record—or lack thereof—and been dismissed.
But then all thoughts of his unwanted marriage fled his mind as he spotted the man standing in the far corner of the room, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes fixed straight ahead. As before, Bonner was barely recognizable, his body changed by the rigors he’d faced in the Spectacles and as a prisoner in the Mistfold. Gone was the gentle roundness of his face, replaced with hard planes and angles. Although he’d always been big, thanks in part to hours spent wielding a blacksmith’s hammer, he’d never been so lean, the veins and striations of those muscles rigidly pronounced. Unlike during the Spectacle, he wore the garb of a Sevan soldier, a boiled-leather breastplate bearing the red bull across its front.
Corwin stared at his old friend, willing him to turn and look, to acknowledge him in some way. Bonner did not. He might as well have been a statue for all the attention he paid. Doubt began to beat a steady tattoo in Corwin’s head. Perhaps his mind had been bent by the same magic Gavril had been working on Corwin, and the ally he’d hoped for was nothing more than a dream. Why else would Magnar have him here? At this war council?
That question was soon answered as the meeting began. One of the councilors at the table, a man wearing the uniform and insignia of a military general, continued to outline a strategy for the invasion of Rime.
“Once the warships have breached the harbor of Penlocke,” the man said, “the Godspear will lead the wilders in the assault against the city itself, supported by our own infantrymen. With the wilders’ powers and our army’s numbers, it should be easy to take Penlocke and to hold it. Lord Gavril’s magists will ensure we are safe from the nightdrakes this time and any other tricks the Mage League attempts.”
This time. Corwin couldn’t forget that Seva had invaded once before, back when Magnar had been a young man. That assault had failed quickly, with the Sevan forces having no way to defend against the nightdrakes. A problem that Gavril had resolved, it seemed.
“Once we have Penlocke,” the general continued, “we will march to Norgard, High Prince Corwin riding with us, of course.” He indicated Corwin with a casual wave. “But I’m afraid taking the capital won’t be as simple. They will no doubt have received warning and will be prepared to meet us.”
Magnar nodded, his gaze fixed on the sand table where someone had taken the care to paint the wall representing Norgard white. He raised his eyes slowly and fixed them on Corwin. “What can you tell us, my son, about how your brother will respond to our attack?”
Corwin gaped. “You don’t truly expect me to answer that?”
A slow, snakelike smile spread across the Godking’s face. “Why, yes, I do.” He motioned to his left where Gavril stood, apart from the others, as if he were somehow less important than the rest.
Hatred boiled up in Corwin’s gut as he felt Gavril invade his mind, the touch of his magic like an unwelcome caress, an assault on his very being. Tell him, Gavril insisted. Tell him all.
Corwin tried to resist. Sweat beaded his forehead, nausea cramped his belly, and his head pounded from the effort. He thought about Signe and how, once, she’d been able to lie to Kate when Kate had been forced to use her sway on her at Rendborne’s bidding. He tried to do the same, to focus on Kate and Signe and everyone else he knew and loved who would be caught in the crossfire when Seva attacked Rime.
But he failed. With a deep and shuddering breath, the truth came spilling out of him. He told them everything, and more. How large the cavalry would likely be, how many swords and guns and spears. He even made guesses based on what he’d heard about the Wilder War and its effect on Rime. He told them where Edwin would be stationed during the battle and the best way to get to him. To kill him. So many of the secrets the city architects had built into its defenses in case of invasion, he betrayed. By the end of it, he felt hollowed out, the very marrow in his bones drained by Gavril’s sway, by his part in this betrayal. At last, Corwin fell silent, eyes downcast and burning as he held back tears.
“Is that the last of it?” Magnar asked.
“Yes, your majesty,” Gavril replied.
“Very well. Is this enough to move forward with the invasion, General Ramir?” At the man’s nod, the Godking returned his gaze to Gavril. “How soon until the wilders are ready?”
Gavril seemed to consider the question before answering. “Five weeks should be enough to ensure the final group is fully compliant. The shortage in nenir has slowed things down considerably. Six would be better.”
“Very well.” Magnar’s gaze flicked to Corwin. “That should give us plenty of time to settle matters here.”
A smug smile rose across Gavril’s face. “Indeed it will.”
At the sound of amusement in the man’s voice—his spoken voice, so much like that which Corwin felt in his head every day—rage exploded inside of Corwin, driving out all thought and reason. With a guttural cry, he leaped toward Gavril, intent on ripping his throat out. Before Gavril could react, Corwin raked his nails down one side of the magist’s face, leaving behind two bleeding gashes before his fingers closed around his throat and started to squeeze.
“I will kill you, you poisonous, evil—”
Heavy hands grabbed Corwin by the shoulders and jerked him back. He stumbled, feet catching on each other, and crashed to the floor. Blinking back the starbursts crossing his vision, Corwin saw Bonner standing over him, eyes hooded in a glare. He put a rough boot on Corwin’s chest.
“Lord Gavril is not to be harmed,” Bonner said in a voice Corwin recognized and yet didn’t. It was so cold, so hard, like steel, as if someone else was wearing Bonner’s skin.
“Bonner, what are you—”
“You may release him,” Lord Gavril said from somewhere Corwin couldn’t see, not with this giant of a man above of him. “He won’t try that again.” As Gavril spoke, Corwin felt the command in his mind, the order to do no further harm.
“Are you sure, Lord Gavril?” Bonner said, not moving his gaze off Corwin.
“Quite sure.”
Bonner nodded once, then stepped back, but he kept his gaze fixed on Corwin, his muscles flexed as if braced for another attack. Corwin slowly climbed to his feet, any satisfaction he felt at seeing the wounds of Gavril’s face smothered by the despair pressing down on him. Bonner was Gavril’s man through and through.
Soon I will be as well. He’d known men like Gavril before. He was the kind never satisfied by mere obedience in a dog or horse or some other pet, but who demanded a frenzied sort of loyalty and admiration. Such men would give their dogs a bone only to yank it away and beat them with it, taking as much pleasure in the cruelty of it as in the success of utter domination.
Corwin walked back to his place at the table, and the meeting resumed, the general and other councilors digesting all the information Corwin had given them. He listened so that he might know their plans in the event he could escape, but he found it difficult to concentrate, his heart heavy in his chest. All the while, he felt Bonner’s eyes on him. But he refused to look at the man, refused to torture himself with the pain of dashed hopes.
When the meeting ended, Bonner strode over to Corwin and grabbed his chin, forcibly lifting his head. “Best not forget your order to leave Lord Gavril alone,” he said, his voice a low, guttural growl.
Corwin tried to pull away but couldn’t. Bonner was too strong. Still, he refused to respond to the threat. Bonner was not Gavril; he couldn’t command Corwin
’s obedience so easily. Bonner didn’t care though, and a moment later, he let go of Corwin’s chin. But just as he did his expression changed—it softened, eyes wide with recognition and intent. Then Bonner’s lips formed two soundless words.
Stay strong.
A small smile crossed Bonner’s face and vanished so quickly Corwin might’ve imagined it. But it didn’t matter. The message had been received. Hope rekindled inside Corwin, a brightly glowing flame that even a monster like Gavril couldn’t put out.
9
Kate
CORWIN IS ALIVE.
But no, he couldn’t be. Kate had seen him fall, seen him buried beneath rubble so heavy no one could’ve survived it. And yet . . .
She pulled the paper out of the woman’s hands, her gaze drawn to the sketch occupying the center of the page. It showed Corwin standing next to a young woman, one with hair hanging loose nearly to the ground, a thin crown upon her head. Corwin wore a crown too, and he was richly dressed in clothes of a foreign cut, same as the woman next to him. Kate didn’t recognize her, and it took her shock-drenched brain several terrible seconds to make sense of the words typed just below the sketch.
Prince Corwin and his new bride, Princess Eravis of Seva.
Kate would’ve laughed at the absurdity of it all, if the news that Corwin may still be alive hadn’t already slashed her to the heart and left her bleeding.
“Excuse me,” the woman said, tapping her foot. “I paid for that paper, so you best give it back now.”
“Let me see it.” Signe came up next to Kate, both of them ignoring the woman.
“I said give it back.”
“And I said go away,” Kate snapped, and without thinking, she invoked her sway. A blank expression rose to the woman’s face. Then she turned and walked off without a word.
Signe glared at Kate. “That wasn’t necessary. We aren’t thieves.”
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