“Lord Rendborne,” the leader said, bowing. “We heard a disturbance.”
“Yes, these prisoners were attempting to escape. Why don’t you round them all back into their cages.” He paused, gaze fixed on Raith. “Except this one, he’s outlived his usefulness. Well, almost, that is.”
Helplessly, Kate watched as Rendborne reached into his pockets, withdrawing a silver knife from the right one and a crystal vial from the left. A moment later, he slashed the knife across Raith’s throat. Raith’s eyes went wide, and a sound like a wet exhale escaped him, and then he slumped over, blood pooling from the wound in his neck.
Kate screamed, only to have Rendborne wave a hand at her, silencing the sound with his magic. Rendborne knelt beside Raith, positioning the vial beneath the wound, letting the flow of blood spill into it. Tears slid silently down Kate’s cheeks as she watched it fill up, the life of her mentor, her friend, draining away.
Once it was full, Rendborne stood and stoppered the vial. Then he turned to Kate, smiling down at her. This close, she could see that his right hand—the one that still bore the uror mark—was black and twisted as if from a wasting disease. She knew the truth—he’d been damaged when the magic in his uror mark had reverberated against Corwin’s own. That sight gave her hope, helping her keep her head above the despair threatening to drown her. Despite his godlike powers, Rendborne could be harmed, could be killed, defeated. Somehow.
“Don’t worry, Kate,” Rendborne said, his voice a chilly caress. “You won’t be joining Master Raith just yet. I still have a use for you, too.”
Part Two
The Paragon and the King
17
Corwin
CORWIN HAD EXPERIENCED TWO HOMECOMINGS in his life before. The first when he returned to Norgard after having disappeared for three years to parts and adventures unknown to the kingdom. His arrival then had been heralded by bright sunshine, followed by an almost frenetic energy from the people who longed to know where he’d been, what he’d been doing. His second homecoming had followed his presumed death at the jaws of daydrakes. It had been heralded by a terrible storm the night before, and his appearance in the city was a cause for celebration among the people, eager for the start of the uror trial and the competition of the princes who might become king.
His third homecoming was heralded by blood.
Seva’s armies of mind-controlled wilders attacked Norgard at dawn, not long after the city gates were opened. Before they came in view of the city, the wilders conjured a storm at Magnar’s command—the rain and thunder and heat producing a thick mist that hid the army’s approach from the city watchmen atop the wall. It worked all too well, and Corwin could only observe it all from afar, in awe at the wilders’ power. He’d seen their magic in action before, but never this many. Now, watching them all working in conjunction, he understood their awesome power, and he had to give credit to Magnar for recognizing the potential—and exploiting it to its fullest.
But he also saw the irony—that by trying to eradicate such power through the Inquisition, Rime had only left itself vulnerable to it.
Still, the awe didn’t lessen the horror he felt once the killing started. He was kept a safe distance from the fighting, under a protection of guards, but it wasn’t far enough to stop him from feeling the ground tremble with the terrible might of the earthists as they rained down rocks on Norgard’s soldiers, riding out to fight them. It didn’t insulate him from the screams of dying men and beasts, the splintering of wood and shattering of stone, the crack of gunfire, and the screech of steel meeting steel.
These are my people. Corwin felt their suffering, hands fisted around his horse’s reins, his body rigid with the war raging inside him. He desperately longed to help, to fight back in defense of his city, but Gavril’s Tenets held him firmly in place, as strongly as ever. He couldn’t even utter a word of protest. All he could do was sit there, a toy prince and nothing more.
I should’ve let Bonner kill me. The thought reverberated inside his brain, regret bubbling up like acid inside him. Corwin hadn’t been the same since the day of Gavril’s loyalty testing. Henry’s death, as well as the others’, haunted him. Nightmares plagued his sleep, the memory of Henry’s screams playing over and over in his dreams, his head, everywhere. Corwin had killed before, but never like that. The lives he’d taken had been in battle, his opponents given the chance to kill him first if they could. But Henry’s death had been murder, and his part in it had left Corwin feeling soiled inside, damaged in a way that could never be made right.
Surprisingly, his sole comfort had been Eravis, his nights with her beside him easier than if he’d been alone. When he couldn’t sleep, she stayed awake with him, telling him stories and asking him questions to help keep his mind off the terrors plaguing him. Although they remained as before, only pretending to be husband and wife, their relationship had become intimate in other ways, an undeniable emotional bond forming between them. He almost wished she were here now with him on the battlefield instead of back at camp.
And bad as it was for him though, it was far worse for Bonner and Nadira and the other freed wilders. Corwin had been compelled in that act of evil, a weapon in Gavril’s hands. They’d had to pretend, to see the thing through despite having the option to act otherwise. Watching the battle now, Corwin wasn’t sure they’d been right not to rebel then. The situation seemed even more hopeless than before. At least it certainly was for him.
When Bonner and Corwin met one last time, the night before their departure to Rime, they’d agreed that Bonner would wait until they reached Norgard before making his escape, taking as many Rimish citizens with him as he could. But it was clear to Corwin now that he wouldn’t be escaping with them. Magnar had kept Corwin by his side the entire time with Gavril hovering nearby as well, ensuring the Godking’s prize was kept on his leash.
But the rest of Rime might stand a chance, Corwin thought, trying to comfort himself. Magnar’s army had taken Norgard by surprise, but the other cities would have warning, and there were many of them in this vast land. Yet as the battle wore on, he had no choice but to accept that they would all fall eventually—the power of the wilders and magists combined with the sheer number of Sevan soldiers was a force too powerful for any one city to be able to stop.
With the truth weighing him down, Corwin closed his eyes, retreating into himself as far as he could go, only to be drawn out again by the sound of a horse approaching.
“Your majesty!” The page rode up to the Godking, who sat astride his own horse.
Magnar’s brow furrowed beneath the ornate helmet he wore, one bearing the horns of a bull. “What is it?”
The page’s eyes flicked to Gavril, whose horse stood as still as if it had been carved from stone, not so much as turning an ear or flicking its tail to shoo a fly—the beast a prisoner beneath his sway the same as the rest of them.
The page glanced back at Magnar. “Some of the wilders have . . . disappeared inside the city. The Godspear was leading them.”
Corwin tensed, his heart fluttering inside his rib cage. Sweet Noralah, guard their steps, allow them to flee.
“What do you mean?” Magnar addressed the page, but his gaze shifted to Gavril.
“Just that, your worship. General Ramir saw it himself. The Godspear was supposed to secure the east garrison, but instead he and some of the other wilders turned on our soldiers and killed them where they stood. Then they fled into the city.”
“That’s impossible.” Although Gavril spoke calmly, the color leached from his cheeks. He had kept the knowledge of the disobedient wilder in Seva a secret from the Godking. Corwin resisted a smile at the man’s squirming.
“Explain this, Lord Gavril,” Magnar commanded, but Gavril only shook his head in dismay and claimed ignorance. As he did, Corwin felt something like hope.
A small, useless hope. But hope nonetheless. It seemed no matter the circumstances he faced, his capacity for the feeling would never die.
For the first week, Corwin was confined to his quarters, more of a prisoner than ever. The isolation drove him half mad, especially with the need to know what was happening. Where was Edwin? What of the high council? How many were dead? Although Eravis was allowed to come and go, she couldn’t ask the questions for him, not without arousing suspicions about her loyalty, and she wasn’t permitted near any of the important meetings taking place. In the end, the only news she brought was that the Godking had dispatched half his forces to take the port city of Penlocke, a strategic move that would allow him to more easily move his troops in and out of the country. Corwin didn’t doubt the city would fall quickly.
But finally, just as Corwin thought he could bear it no more, the Godking summoned him and Eravis together. With an escort of guards, they were taken to the barbican situated over the main gate of Mirror Castle. The structure had been transformed, no doubt by wilder magic. The roof and walls of the barbican had been removed, leaving an open platform with a low safety wall surrounding it, one that gave the people assembled on the platform a clear view into the city outside, allowing them to both see—and be seen. A crowd packed the streets below, Norgard citizens among throngs of Sevan soldiers in their red armor.
Magnar stood center of the platform, pressed against the wall and looking down at the people below. Just behind him on the left stood Gavril, his small, prim hands folded in front of him, a hint of a smug smile on his lips. Corwin looked away, hatred heating his blood. Then he half stumbled as his gaze alighted on another familiar face to the right of the Godking.
Rendborne. The Nameless One was here, parading about for all to see, this man who had once been a Tormane, Corwin’s great-great-granduncle, alive despite the years that should’ve claimed him long ago. Rendborne stared at Corwin with his sharp eyes, golden-hued like the eagle uror sign he’d once slain, claiming the magical being’s powers for his own.
Resisting a shudder, Corwin turned away from Rendborne, aware of Gavril watching them both, eyes bright with interest. Corwin wondered how much the magist knew. Rendborne was protected from the power of sway by the vial around his neck, the blood inside it that fueled the spell drained from Kate’s father before he died.
You will not harm Lord Rendborne, Gavril spoke into Corwin’s mind.
Recoiling in disgust at the intrusion, Corwin surveyed the rest of the people on the platform. They all appeared to be Sevan, but then he spotted his brother standing near the back, flanked on each side by heavily armed guards. He looked thin, pale, but unharmed. He wore Norgard colors, the ornate cut of his clothes fit for a king. A hand seemed to squeeze Corwin’s heart at the sight of him, gripping even harder when Edwin saw him, too. His brother’s expression darkened, jaw clenched tight enough that rigid muscles stood out on his neck. Corwin flinched at the hate he sensed in his brother. Shame prickled over his skin. He could practically read Edwin’s thoughts—he believed Corwin was complicit in the ransacking of their city, a traitor to his very core. He longed to tell him the truth of what happened, but there was no point with Gavril nearby. And with Eravis clinging demurely to his arm.
Magnar began to speak, drawing Corwin’s attention. “Good people of Norgard and of Rime. Although it may seem that we are a foreign invader come to rule over you, I swear on the name of your goddess that it is not so. I am here to save Rime, and to deliver her to her rightful heir. Your very own Prince Corwin, who, as you’ve no doubt heard by now, was recently wed to my daughter Eravis.” Magnar motioned behind him toward Corwin and Eravis.
Go to him now, Gavril said inside Corwin’s mind. Powerless to resist, Corwin trailed beside Eravis as they approached the Godking, who first embraced him like a beloved son, then nudged him toward the ledge so that all below could see his face. Murmurs echoed through the crowd—though no one dared to shout insults, he could feel their sense of betrayal, just as he could Edwin’s.
Magnar continued. “To that end, our only aim is to permit our beloved son-in-law a chance to claim his birthright through the completion of the uror trials, which his brother has, to this point, denied him.” Magnar nodded solemnly at the doubtful murmurs. “Oh yes, it is true. The corruption in Rime has been widespread. Your high priestess was part of the deception as well. She allowed Edwin to be named king even as she knew Corwin to still be alive.”
Magnar motioned to his left, and Gavril stepped aside as two guards dragged forward a woman bound in chains. Corwin barely recognized the high priestess, her face bruised and swollen, ceremonial robes ripped to shreds. The guards pushed her toward the wall, holding her bent over the edge so that everyone could see.
Magnar allowed her to stay there a moment, then said, “Place her in the dungeons to await her trial.” Once she was gone from view, he pressed his hands together before him and addressed the crowd once more. “The order of Noralah priestesses have replaced their old leader with her first acolyte, who vows to root out the corruption.” Magnar motioned toward Gavril a second time. Another woman came forward, her face unfamiliar to Corwin. Her outfit, though, he recognized at once—the diaphanous robes worn only by the high priestess.
The new high priestess approached the edge, where her predecessor had previously stood. She raised her hands toward the crowd and said in an emphatic voice, “The final uror trial will be administered following all the solemn and holy rituals of the generations of trials before. I will bear witness to the event, and its outcome, and we will at last crown the true goddess-chosen regent of Norgard, king of Rime.”
Although the voice was hers, the words were Gavril’s—and Magnar’s. Corwin didn’t need magic to know that the woman was under Gavril’s sway. Even still, the crowd below applauded, convinced by this ruse, that a true Rimish king might still be crowned—not an empty husk enslaved by magic to this Sevan usurper.
With the speech at an end, Magnar turned away from the wall and left the platform, an entourage of guards preceding him. The rest followed, heading back inside Mirror Castle. Once there, the new high priestess led the way to the throne room, where the passage to the Vault of Souls waited a few feet behind the Mirror Throne itself. Dozens of servants were in the throne room to give witness to their procession as the high priestess unlocked the door to the vault and swung it wide open before heading down first.
Magnar stopped long enough to order Eravis to remain behind, then stepped in after the high priestess. Dread thudded in Corwin’s ears at the command, wondering what the Godking planned that he didn’t want his daughter to see. The rest followed after Magnar. Corwin walked just behind Edwin, with Gavril behind him. Cold air filled the passage, dry as a cellar, but it warmed the farther down they went—hundreds of feet below the surface to the vault itself. Like the wide mouth of some primordial beast, the massive cave was filled with the stone teeth of stalactites. In the center of the floor rested the hole of the Well of the World. Fathomless and black as pitch, it felt to Corwin like a giant eye watching him, judging him—and finding him wanting.
His skin prickled, and the palm of his right hand began to ache, like it had in the days after he’d received the uror brand. This wasn’t supposed to be how this happened. He wasn’t ready for the third and final trial. Often he’d thought about this very moment, standing on the edge of the Well of the World. The trial was simple—he was to step willingly off the edge into the abyss to face whatever judgments the gods
might give him. To emerge either as victor—and king—or not.
Corwin felt the weight of his unworthiness pressing down on him as memories of all his betrayals flashed through his mind. Unwilling though he might’ve been in some of those actions, he was still guilty of them. Once again, he regretted not taking the way out Bonner had offered him. For standing here, facing his fate, he knew that Edwin would be chosen over him, that any thought he had of saving Rime from itself was nothing more than pride. He glanced at his brother and was surprised to see his fear reflected in Edwin’s face.
Magnar cleared his throat, the sound echoing against the stone ceiling until it became a dull roar. Ignoring it, he motioned to one of the soldiers. “Prince Edwin is no longer needed. Kill him.”
Kill him, kill him, kill him. The words reverberated in a chorus, their meaning first distorted, then amplified. The soldier drew his sword as two others grabbed Edwin by the arms, holding him in place.
“No!” Corwin lunged toward the first soldier, only to freeze as Gavril’s command ripped through his mind. With his arms pinned to his sides, Corwin could only watch as the soldier approached Edwin—and thrust the tip of the blade against his chest.
There was a loud crack, and the sword broke as if the soldier had rammed it against solid stone instead of human flesh.
“What is this?” Magnar demanded, nostrils flared. “Kill him, I say.”
Another soldier came forward to try again with a fresh sword, only to fail in the same way, another broken blade clattering to the floor.
Corwin watched, openmouthed in disbelief. The uror brand on his palm burned as if lit from within, pulsing with magic.
“If I may, your majesty,” Rendborne said, stepping into view. “I feared this could be the case. It is the uror, you see. Both princes are under the protection of the gods until after the uror trial has completed. They can only die as part of the trial itself.”
Shadow & Flame Page 22