Onyx & Ivory Page 3

  “What’s the commotion here?” It was the familiar voice of Governor Prewitt, the most powerful person in Farhold. “You there, step forward and explain.”

  Kate braced as her captor pushed her out of the shadows of the intersection and onto the cobbled street once more.

  “Apologies, lord governor.” The guard bowed low, forcing Kate to do the same with another harsh tug on her braid. “This Relay rider tried to break through our line.”

  “Ah, yes, the riders are always in such a hurry,” a new voice said. This one familiar, too. It was deeper, more mature than the last time she’d heard it, but still unmistakable.

  Prince Corwin. The sound stirred emotions long buried inside her—anger aged to bitterness, and something else she refused to name.

  “But surely,” the prince continued, “no harm has been do—”

  Looking up was a mistake, but Kate couldn’t help it.

  Corwin stared down at her, his mouth falling open and his eyes widening in shock.

  Kate stared back. Her heart had become a separate living creature inside her body. It thrashed and quaked. There were so many things she wanted to say. You let my father die. You ruined my life.

  You broke my heart.

  She shoved the last away. That thought didn’t belong to her. Not anymore.

  “Do you know this girl, your highness?” Governor Prewitt asked.

  The prince didn’t answer. His pale-blue eyes, like winter sky, remained fixed on her, and his jaw worked back and forth as he took in her appearance. Kate’s stomach roiled at what he must see—dirty tunic, mud-caked skirt, hair in disarray. She’d imagined this scene a hundred times before, the day her path crossed his again, but she always pictured herself with an impeccable appearance, the undeniable air that she was fine, that she had triumphed over the hardships he’d helped bring down on her. Instead she looked one step above a beggar wallowing in the gutter.

  Belatedly she realized there was blood on her lips, and she wiped it off. With her confidence shattered, Kate looked away, her eyes refusing to be still in her growing nervousness. She swept her gaze over the crowd, which was pressing in for a better look, voices murmuring as someone recognized her.

  Traitor Kate . . . Traitor Kate . . .

  “Your highness?” Governor Prewitt prodded. “Do you know this young woman?”

  Kate glanced back, her gaze on Corwin. He was as handsome as ever, with his dusky blond hair and a tanned face chiseled by the gods—each angle and plane designed to complement the other, from the high cheekbones to the angular jaw. All except for his nose, which was more crooked than she remembered, and the thin, white scar across his chin. The source of these injuries was a mystery no one had solved. The newspapers out of Norgard had nicknamed him the Errant Prince, thanks to the way he had vanished for nearly two years. He’d returned some few months ago, to wild speculation as to where he’d been and what he’d done. To Kate’s dismay, the scars only added to his attractiveness. Damn him.

  “No,” Corwin finally said. “I don’t know her.”

  The words were a slap, and Kate lowered her gaze to his horse. Temptation called out to her. One little push with her magic and she could fill the horse with an inescapable desire to dump its rider. A poor vindication, but better than none.

  “But neither would I begrudge her a livelihood,” Corwin added. “Let her go.”

  “As you wish.” The Governor cocked his head toward Kate’s guard, and he released her braid at last.

  She dropped into a quick bow, then started to turn, ready to run.

  “Wait a moment, rider,” a new voice called. “You’ve dropped something.”

  Against her better judgment, Kate stopped and glanced behind her. The speaker rode beside Corwin, atop another of her father’s horses. A hunting falcon perched on the man’s shoulder, its head covered in a black hood. Kate didn’t recognize the nobleman, with his black hair and bronzed complexion. His tunic of soft, slick wool dyed red and trimmed in gold piping bore no insignia. He was pointing at the ground in front of the horses with an amused expression.

  Kate’s gaze shifted to the glow rising up from the cobblestones. The moonbelt. She touched her skirt pocket, hoping she was mistaken, but only fabric met her hand. A blush heated her neck, inching upward.

  “Is that yours?” the nobleman asked.

  Kate stooped to retrieve the moonbelt, returning it to her pocket with fingers gone clumsy. Whispers from the crowd reached her ears, coaxing her blush to spread. Trying to ignore them, she stood up straight and raised her head.

  She had nothing to be ashamed of. She was no longer the kind of girl who needed to worry about reputation. So what if she might have a “plaything,” as Signe put it. So what if she might seek physical comfort and pleasure. This was who she was. Kate Brighton. Rider for the Relay.

  I am Traitor Kate, she thought, drawing strength from the name for once.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Relieved at how steady she sounded, Kate bowed again.

  The man’s grin widened. To her annoyance, he was every bit as handsome as the prince. A magestone glistened in his left ear, and she wondered what the magic in it was concealing.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “And best of luck to you on all your endeavors—both work and leisure.”

  Several in the crowd laughed at the innuendo, and the falcon on the man’s shoulder shifted nervously at the noise. Kate risked a glance at Corwin. His expression was inscrutable, but cold fire seemed to burn in his eyes.

  Once again Kate considered using her magic. She could spook all the horses, reducing this band of noblemen to a gaggle of fools trying to stay astride. No one would know. Horses spooked all the time, for all sorts of reasons.

  Then she spotted the master magist riding at the back of the procession, his face obscured behind the full white mask. His blue robes marked him a member of the defensive order, one of the most powerful and dangerous. Like all the magists in every order—blue, green, brown, red, white, and gold—he carried a mace, its head embedded with magestones, including one that would flare into life in the presence of wilder magic.

  Fear doused her anger as quickly as cold water on hot steel. Never use your gift where someone can see, Katie girl, she heard her father saying as clearly as if he were standing beside her now. She couldn’t believe how close she’d come to doing it. If she had, this disaster of a day would’ve turned into something much worse.

  As if to emphasize this truth, the loud clang of the bells sounded, chiming the arrival of the eighth hour. She was officially late. Kate allowed herself one last dark look at the prince, then turned and walked away, feeling as if something inside her had broken.

  Yes, this morning had indeed come too early. She wished it had never come at all.

  3

  Corwin

  PRINCE CORWIN SIGHED IN RELIEF when he and his escort arrived at Farhold’s southern gates without further incident. Two massive owl statues, the symbol of Farrah, patron goddess of Farhold, perched atop either side of the gates, their wings raised toward one another to form an archway through which visitors would exit. The wall of this remote city was among the most impressive in all of Rime. Fifty feet tall and ten feet thick, it boasted iron reinforcements at every measure.

  Even more impressive than the size of the wall was the number of wardstone embrasures built into it. Hardly more than four feet existed between each one and its neighbor. Farhold’s forefathers had taken the defense of the city against nightdrakes very seriously. If a bit optimistically, Corwin thought. There might be an abundance of embrasures, but only one in three currently bore active wardstones. The enchanted rocks glowed with varying levels of intensity, some bright as the full moon and others hardly visible in the morning sun. He wondered if the city had ever possessed enough wealth to keep an active wardstone in every embrasure. The sight would be something to behold, the entire place luminescent with magic.

  He wished for that distraction now—anything to block the
memories intruding into his mind. Kate Brighton was here, in Farhold. The knowledge made him tense. He’d never dreamed he would see her again, no matter how many times his thoughts had turned to her over the past three years—questions of where she was, how she was faring.

  Does she ever think of me?

  It seemed he finally had his answers, to at least some of those questions.

  Traitor Kate, they call her. A terrible mix of regret and guilt squeezed his chest. She was as beautiful as he remembered—raven-black hair, skin sun-kissed to a golden hue, and large, large eyes, the color of amber. But older. Aged. She’d been sixteen the last time he’d seen her, himself just a year ahead. She is nineteen now, he realized, a woman. He remembered the vivacious girl she’d been before, quick to laugh and to speak her mind, with the swift temper of a sudden summer storm. Now she seemed thin and worn—hard. Like leather boiled until all the soft suppleness was leached from it.

  Doubtless the years had not been kind to her. Once, her prospects had been guaranteed. She’d been born into the gentry: those of the lesser nobility who possessed no title, only land. With her father being master of horse to the high king, her family had both wealth and respect. Until the day Hale Brighton tried to murder Corwin’s father. Now Kate’s prospects went no further than her next ride. Being a Relay rider was a respectable profession, at least, if a dangerous one.

  Or maybe the years have not been that hard, he considered, remembering the moonbelt. It was an expensive piece, one bestowed on her from some wealthy lover, perhaps, maybe even a husband. Jealousy prickled inside him, and he shoved everything out of his mind once and for all. Kate Brighton is not my concern.

  Corwin turned his attention to the fine, bright morning. Now that they were outside the city, a faint breeze kept the heat at bay. And it was blessedly quiet, the noisome trumpeters left behind at the gate. Of all the annoyances he had to endure during this peacekeeping tour his elder brother had forced him on, the trumpets were the worst. They were so piercingly loud and pretentious, he could barely stomach even the idea of them. And yet he had to endure it. Everywhere he went, there they were, ready to give proclamation of his presence. I’m lucky they don’t announce my trips to the privy.

  It was all so absurd. These people looked on him like he was someone who mattered, who could change their lives. He wasn’t. His brother, Edwin, was the prince who could do that, a fact they would come to accept in time, as he finally had.

  Farmland lined both sides of the main road leading away from Farhold. To the left, rough, sturdy fences marked individual fields, penning in cattle, sheep, or goats. The animals would graze through the day, until the shepherds herded them back into their pens and stables inside the city shortly before dusk. The next morning they would return to graze again. To the right of the road, neatly partitioned plots held crops of every kind—soybeans, corn, wheat, even cotton.

  Corwin had seen similar fields when he arrived at Farhold, but it had been nearly twilight, and he was too concerned with trying to make it into the city before full dark to be impressed by the diversity of this area, one he’d never visited until now. Most of the city-states of Rime relied on one primary export. For Andreas it was coal; for Aldervale, lumber. His own city, the capital, Norgard, produced livestock—mostly horses to support its military strength.

  Corwin turned toward Governor Prewitt. “I’ve always heard rumors that Farhold is completely self-sustaining. I see now that might be true.”

  Prewitt smiled, broadening his already broad face. His wide, flat nose huddled between ruddy cheeks. “Indeed it is, your highness. We have meat, crops, clothing. There’s even an open iron pit a few miles west, right at the foothills of the Ash Mountains.”

  “Impressive.” For a second Corwin almost added that he would like to see it, but he changed his mind. If he said it, the governor would make it happen, and that would mean another day in Farhold. As interesting as the city might be, he’d been here long enough already, and he was due to visit three more cities of the western province before making the long journey home. He tired of the slow pace and the constant decorum. Even now he felt the urge to loosen his grip on Stormdancer’s reins and touch his heels to the warhorse’s sides.

  As if Corwin had spoken the desire out loud, his friend, Dallin Thorne, leaned over in his saddle toward him and whispered, “Shall we ask the good governor to let us ride ahead? Such a wide-open road begs for a race.”

  Corwin grinned. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to indulge in the diversion. But then he remembered that his brother’s spies were among the guards, eagerly waiting to inform Edwin of Corwin’s every misstep on this tour. There’d been several already, such as in Eetmark when he overindulged in wine during the farewell banquet and ended up calling the high chancellor a worthless ass. Never mind that it was true—what else could you call a man who decided that rather than rebuild the orphanage that burned down, he would erect a new temple to Eetolyn in its place? Surely, any goddess worthy of worship would value caring for children more than some new shrine, but then again, the sex rites practiced by the Eetolyn priestesses no doubt swayed him. He’s still a worthless ass, Corwin thought, but nevertheless, he didn’t want to give his brother any more material with which to berate him upon his return.

  “Or,” Dal said, his voice dropping to the level of conspiracy, “would you prefer to wait and race with the pretty rider we met in the city? The one you claimed not to know?”

  Corwin’s fingers tightened around the reins as Kate’s face appeared in his mind once again.

  Dal clucked his tongue at Corwin’s silence. “No one believed you, you know. They were just too mindful of your station to contradict such an obvious lie.” He spoke more freely now, as their Norgard warhorses had already outpaced the others on their shorter-legged, lesser-breed mounts. Dal winked. “But no mind. I will get the truth out of you sooner or later, I promise.”

  Corwin rolled his eyes. “I don’t doubt it.” Dal had become his closest friend in the years since Kate was exiled, but he’d known Kate much longer. His relationship with her began as a childhood friendship, one built on rivalries over who could ride faster, fight better. Later, that friendship grew intimate, stolen kisses and secret touches. Then her father had nearly slain his and changed things between them forever.

  Ended things.

  “And I think I will enjoy the telling,” Dal added as he raised his gloved right arm to his shoulder, encouraging Lir to step onto it. He removed the falcon’s hood, then stretched out his arm, releasing Lir’s jesses as the falcon launched into the air. Dal watched Lir’s progress for a moment before returning his gaze to Corwin. “She might’ve been a dirty little thing, but still pleasant to gaze upon, and with a mouth made for kissing.”

  Corwin hid his prickling nerves behind a dry cough. “You would do best not to think about that one’s mouth. Seems to me the girl didn’t appreciate our presence much. Or did you not notice?”

  “Me? Of course not. Unlike you, I don’t know her.” Dal paused, running a hand over the stubble on his chin, its presence a poor attempt to disguise the too-perfect hue of his skin on the left side of his face where the magestone in his ear hid his scars. “So you do have an acquaintance with her mouth then. This is good news. It seems to me the girl is willing for such a diversion as kissing, given the moon—”

  “No.” Corwin cut his friend a hard look. “I have no acquaintance, and I don’t care about her diversions.”

  “Oh yes. Clearly.” Dal winked again, no doubt delighted that he’d finally gotten a rise out of Corwin. Such reactions were not easy to provoke in him. But Dal would not be Dal if he didn’t try. Corwin both loved and hated him for it. Without him, Corwin feared he would spend far too many days brooding inside his own mind. Dal had a way of smoothing Corwin’s rough edges.

  “Why did I bring you along on this again?” Corwin said, cocking his head.

  “Self-preservation.” Dal placed a hand over his heart. “You would die of
boredom without me.”

  “If I recall, you were the one who begged me to come. Something about adventure and amusements.”

  Dal gave a mock bow. “Whatever version of the truth your highness prefers.”

  Shaking his head, Corwin slowed Stormdancer until he once again rode side by side with Prewitt. “How long before we reach the Gregors’ manor, lord governor?”

  “Quarter of an hour, I would guess.” Prewitt frowned. “Is your highness sure you don’t wish to send a rider ahead to announce your arrival? Showing up like this is a great discourtesy.”

  “Yes, I daresay it is,” Corwin replied. He would’ve loved not to be doing it at all, but attempting to discover why Marcus Gregor, former governor of Farhold and one of his father’s greatest supporters, suddenly chose to withdraw from public life was part of what had prompted Edwin to include a stop in Farhold as part of this peacekeeping tour. The tour was to be Corwin’s recompense for the trouble he’d caused by disappearing these last few years. His punishment came in the form of endlessly facing all the duties he’d avoided in his long absence. Duties like trying to smooth the ruffled feathers of some pompous old man too proud to voice his complaints directly to the high king.

  Then again, he didn’t like to think what his punishment would’ve been if the truth of where he’d been was ever made known. Instinctively, his gaze dropped to the vambrace he wore around his right wrist, hiding the tattoo beneath.

  Corwin forced his eyes up again and sighed. “However, as Lord Gregor has refused to commit to seeing me, I’m afraid springing on him unannounced is the only way forward.”

  Prewitt cleared his throat. “Yes, of course, but as Gregor no doubt has his reasons for staying away, I wouldn’t expect a warm welcome.”

  Corwin didn’t. Faith in the high king was low throughout all of Rime. Orwin Tormane had never fully recovered from the assassination attempt. The wound he’d suffered at Hale’s hand lingered, a festering corruption that had robbed him of his health, both in body and mind.