Onyx & Ivory Page 6

  “So will you test it?” Bonner asked, brows raised in an eager expression.

  “I suppose I must,” Kate said with a resigned air.

  Beaming, Bonner slid his arms around her waist and spun her around. “Thank you. It’s going to work this time, and I’ll finally be able to stop worrying about you.”

  “I hope not,” she said as he set her on her feet again. “A little worry feels nice.” Her voice broke over the words, memories of Corwin ambushing her again.

  “What’s wrong?” Concern creased Bonner’s brow.

  “It’s nothing. Just an unpleasant morning.”

  “What happened?” he insisted, hands on hips.

  Biting her lip, Kate debated whether or not to tell him. But then the story came spilling out of her. That was how it always was around Bonner—openness like an impulse. It helped that he already knew about her past with Corwin. For some reason, it was a story she’d shared only with him and not Signe. Kate managed to tell the story without crying, but only barely. Not that she could fool Bonner.

  He pulled her into another bear hug. “Forget about him. He doesn’t matter.”

  “I know. I’m just being silly.”

  “No, you’re not. It has to be hard to be confronted with your old life like that.” He took the revolver from her hands and slid it into a holster. “But you’ve got a new life now. And I swear to take care of you forever.” He held out the holster to her like a promise.

  An ache squeezed Kate’s chest at his words. He’d said such things before, but he didn’t mean it. Oh, he loved her, for certain, but not in the way that would last forever. Not in the way she wanted to be loved. Their love was like that between a brother and sister. But someday he would find someone who stirred the deeper parts of his heart, the way Corwin had once stirred hers. For a second, she wished it were different—that Bonner felt that way about her, and she him. But no amount of wishing could change their hearts, and desire could not be mined, only ignited.

  Swallowing regret, Kate accepted the holster and stowed it in her saddlebag along with a case of bullets. “I’ve got to go or I’m going to be late.”

  “Safe ride, quick return.” He planted a chaste kiss on the top of her head and pushed her toward the door.

  She hurried outside, trying to force her mind anywhere except on Bonner and the future that she knew waited for him. A wife and children to claim his devotion. Any woman would be lucky to have him. There was no such future for her. Who would want a traitor’s daughter?

  Trying to escape her own head and the image of Corwin’s face, Kate hurried faster, soon arriving at the Relay house. Deacon was waiting for her, holding the reins of a bay gelding called Darby. Kate quickly fastened her saddlebag to the back of the saddle, then mounted.

  “The wardstones are in the pouch,” Deacon said, checking Darby’s girth. “And I added some extra valens for you to help sway the ferrymen to let you cross—if you need to.”

  “Thanks.” Kate adjusted her grip on the reins. Darby was eager for the ride, his hooves shifting beneath her. She was eager, too, if only to escape Farhold and the troubles it had brought her today. No matter how much time she spent here, this city never felt like home. It was a place to stay, not belong.

  Deacon patted the gelding twice on the neck. “May the luck of Farrah be with you.”

  Kate headed out of the stable yard and into the street. Passing through the city gates a short while later, she gave Darby his head, allowing him to run off some steam. The wind shrieked in her ears, tugging at her braid as they picked up speed. As Kate fell into the rhythm of Darby’s stride—horse and rider becoming one—she felt her spirits soar. For a little while, with the scenery blurring by, she was no longer Traitor Kate. No longer the girl despised by a kingdom. No longer the girl cast aside by the friend and prince she had once loved.

  In moments like these, atop a horse and flying over the ground, she glimpsed her old life. She became Kate Brighton again. Daughter of Hale Brighton, master of horse to the high king. She was free. A girl with a future. Someone who mattered.

  5

  Corwin

  LETTING DAL STAY BEHIND WAS a mistake, one Corwin regretted less than an hour after he departed Farhold the next day, ahead of a long ponderous train of wagons and mounted men. A ponderous slow train. The journey to Andreas from Farhold was a little less than fifty miles, a distance a Relay rider could cover in two days. It would take this caravan, comprised of five wagons, fifteen armed guards, six servants, three magists, and one cook, easily twice that.

  The journey would’ve been bearable with Dal around to distract him, but as it was, there was no one to talk to. He could exchange a few polite words with Captain Morris or even Master Barrett, his royal adviser, but neither was willing to talk loosely with him or tell jokes—the type of conversation Corwin needed to distract him from the tempest of his thoughts.

  Even though he tried to keep his mind focused on the intrigue at the Gregors’ house and the dead miner, it kept returning to Kate. He replayed their chance meeting in his head, imagining all the better ways it could’ve gone, if only he’d had time to plan and if there’d been no one around to overhear. But their relationship was cursed. It always had been, it seemed. He’d said as much to Dal when he finally told him about her last night.

  Kicking his feet free of the stirrups, Corwin let out a groan at the ache in his knees. That was the worst of riding slow—joints frozen from so many hours stuck in the same position. He could’ve ridden in one of the wagons, spending the time in relative comfort, but his mind couldn’t take it. At least outside, the view offered occasional distractions. He dismounted slowly, letting the blood flow back into his legs.

  They’d managed to reach one of the caravan campsites along the road to Andreas—a wide circular clearing that offered several permanent fire pits with nearby racks loaded with wood for burning, a gift from the high king to the travelers of Rime. While the servants and guards began to make camp, Corwin took his time unsaddling Stormdancer. He refused to let a servant do it for him, although four of them tried. It was the one chore he was permitted to perform himself, prince or no. Even Edwin couldn’t complain. For the people of Norgard, the care of a warhorse was considered a noble endeavor.

  Thank the gods, Corwin thought, wishing that Stormdancer were twice as dirty as he ran the hard-bristled brush over the warhorse’s sleek, muscled back. Although night crept toward them over the horizon, it would be hours before he was ready for sleep. While he worked, he caught himself watching the three blue-robe mages—a master, journeyman, and apprentice—as they set the wardstone barrier. The apprentice wore a black mask, just a few shades darker than her skin, which covered only the right side of her face. The journeyman’s was black as well, but it covered the top half of his, the contrast striking against his paleness. The master’s was full faced and bone white.

  The three of them gathered in the center of the campsite, facing one another in a circle. Cupped in the palms of their hands, each held a wardstone the size of a human head. In unison, they spoke the word of invocation, the magic in the wardstones alighting. Then they turned around and began to walk away in a straight line, following the three points of an invisible triangle. The apprentice passed nearest Corwin, and he watched her reach the edge of the campsite, where she stopped and set the wardstone on the ground. The magical barrier went up a moment later, the only hint of its presence a faint shimmer around the campsite like sunlight catching on a smudge in a piece of glass.

  Corwin returned his attention to Storm, finishing a short time later. He considered retreating to his tent, but his restlessness remained. Ordering his meal to be served outside, he sat down at a small table near one of the fire pits, which offered an unobstructed view of the land beyond. He ate slowly, with his gaze wandering over the surrounding hills cloaked in everweeps and witchgrass and a million insects chattering in the night.

  Not long after Corwin finished eating, the master magist approached h
im. “Do you mind if I make use of your table, highness?”

  Corwin blinked up at him, caught off guard by the request. The fire cast a troupe of dancing shadows across the man’s bone-colored mask, his eyes glistening black points inside it.

  Recovering quickly, Corwin motioned to the empty chair across from him. “By all means. I would welcome the distraction.” He supposed of everyone present, the magist might make for the most interesting conversation, if not the most comfortable. There was something disquieting about talking to a masked person.

  But to Corwin’s relief and further surprise, the master magist took off his mask as he sat down and placed it on the table beside him. The skin of his face was nearly as white as the mask, except for a dark-red birthmark that spread over the top of his nose and beneath both eyes. He’s Shade Born, Corwin thought, recalling the old superstition. There were some who believed people born with such marks were claimed for service to the Shades, those hellish minions of the gods whose sole purpose was to thwart and torment mankind for the entertainment of their exalted masters. All nonsense, of course, and yet Corwin found himself uneasy. He couldn’t quite place the magist’s age; older than himself, certainly, but younger than his father.

  “I’m doubtful what distraction I can provide,” the magist said, pulling out a deck of cards from a hidden pocket in his robe, “but I will do my best. My name is Raith.”

  Corwin arched his eyebrows. It was odd enough to have a magist remove his mask, but to give a name as well? That went against the usual front of faceless unity the League preferred to maintain. There were some magists high enough in their orders to be publicly named, but not many. The only ones he knew of were Grand Master Storr, head of the League, and Maestra Vikas, head of the gold order. Both of them served as advisers to the royal council in Norgard, although neither held a seat. By ancient laws set forth in the League Accords, no magist could hold political position. They couldn’t even own land aside from their freeholding in the north, site of the League Academy.

  “So tell me, Master Raith,” Corwin said, watching as the magist began to lay down the cards in a game of solo, “did you hear about the attack on the Gregors?” He noticed the man’s fingertips were tinged black as if from some disease or trauma, the nails thick and grayish.

  “Indeed, your highness. I was there.”

  “You were?” Corwin cocked his head, mouth open in surprise. He’d asked the question merely to make conversation, and really, what else was there to discuss with a magist? But learning Raith was there opened up new avenues to explore. “In that case, what do you make of the magic that killed the man?”

  Raith flipped over the first card in line, a six of flutes. “You mean the magic he used to kill himself?”

  Corwin slowly nodded. Yes, that did seem true, and he gave a shudder as to what desire could drive a man to that extreme. It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed such, though. The wilder responsible for his mother’s death had been determined to die as well—and to take as many innocent lives with him as he could. “Was it wilder magic then?” Corwin asked. “A spirit gift, like Governor Prewitt claimed?”

  Raith looked up from the cards, where he’d overturned a ten of stones, a bad draw so early in the game. “That is a difficult question. I’m afraid I can’t answer, not even to speculate.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s not enough information. The man might not have had any magical ability at all.”

  “But that’s absurd. I saw him use magic.” Corwin leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his waist.

  Raith shrugged. “All the people who buy the charms and spells the League sells use magic, your highness. Like these cards, for instance.” Raith picked up the queen of candles he’d just overturned and muttered the word of invocation. Orange light spread through the card, starting with the candle the woman held in her right hand and ending in a halo around her crowned head. A faint smell of burning incense drifted up from the table.

  Corwin stared at the magic, a simple trick, really, whose main purpose was to seal the card in play so that a player couldn’t cheat and replace it. But he saw Raith’s point well enough. Ordinary people did do magic, of this type. But the spells the League sold in their order houses across Rime were mundane, preset tasks imbedded within various stones and other trinkets. In addition to cards, there were necklaces that would enhance the wearer’s allure, rings that gave courage or strength, parchment that would hide ink until someone spoke the words to make it visible.

  He gestured to the still-glowing queen. “Spells like these are harmless, frivolous indulgences. Not death traps.”

  “True enough.” Raith removed the spell with another word and returned the queen of candles to the deck. “But they still contain magic, same as any other magist spell.”

  “Are you suggesting it was mage magic that tore that man apart from the inside?” Corwin asked, remembering the way he’d reached into his pocket for something.

  “No,” Raith answered at once with a quick shake of his head. “At least, it was no spell approved by the League.”

  Corwin’s eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean?”

  Raith turned over another card. “Surely your highness knows that all the orders work to invent new spells, improvements on our trade, as it were. And those spells are submitted for review and acceptance.”

  “For sanctioning.” Corwin nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  “Well then, that means there are spells that do not receive League approval, but that still exist, nonetheless.”

  “Hmmm.” Corwin pressed his lips together. Again, he saw the man’s point, an unsettling one. He knew from his history lessons that the League did sometimes sanction spells that could harm and kill. They’d created dozens of such during the Sevan Invasion fifty years ago, but the use of them was outlawed once the Sevan forces had been defeated. Corwin’s grandfather, King Borwin, the first high king of Rime, did not want his people to live in fear of their own magists.

  “But surely no magist would have reason to invent such a spell now,” Corwin added. “We are at peace.” Not counting the Rising, he reminded himself, but the threat of wilders wasn’t new, just the notion of them banding together. Even still, he couldn’t see their threat being the reason a magist would invent a spell that could kill so quickly. Wilders weren’t to be executed on the spot but taken prisoner for the Purging, a ritual designed to rid the world of their magic once and for all.

  “The League never assumes peace will last,” replied Raith. “Seva remains a threat. The Godking will attack again. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “True enough,” Corwin said. He knew better than most the bloodthirsty nature of Seva’s monarch.

  With a loud exhale, no doubt at the sad state of his hand of solo, Raith gathered the cards on the table and looked up. “Would your highness like to play a game of peril?”

  Corwin supposed he ought to say no, but after the long, boring day, he couldn’t refuse such a diversion. With a sly smile, he reached for his coin purse at his side. “Only if we make it a true game.”

  Raith retrieved his own coin purse in answer. They flipped a valen to determine the deal. Corwin won, and Raith activated the magic on the whole deck before handing it over.

  The cards seemed to vibrate against Corwin’s palm as he dealt. For a few moments, neither man spoke, their attention focused on building their hands. Raith played a three of jars first. Matching him in the low-power gamble, Corwin played a four of flutes. They made their wagers, then moved to the second round. Corwin won the hand with a last-minute draw of the shade card, trumping Raith’s full court.

  Moving on to the next hand, Corwin said, “Given what you said earlier, do you believe the spell could’ve been unsanctioned then? One made by a . . .” He searched for the word. “A rogue magist?” It seemed incredible anyone would dare. The League was the most powerful force in all of Rime, quick to find the guilty and swift to punish them.

  Ra
ith glanced up. “We are all human, your highness, whether we’re possessed of magic or not. And any human is capable of treachery.”

  Yes, they are, Corwin thought, remembering Kate’s father. Once again, the memory of that terrible incident and its aftermath rose up in his mind. Kate had come to him that morning, bursting through the door into his bedchambers with the castle guards quick on her heels. She screamed his name and fell at his feet, begging for him to intercede for her, to convince the high council to stay the execution. Exile, she had begged. Let us go into exile! He’d told her no. That he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Hale Brighton was guilty—he’d seen it with his own eyes. The law was the law.

  Shaking his head to chase off the memory, Corwin glanced at his cards and played a jester of flutes. “Even if it was mage magic, wilders must still have been behind the attack.” During the search they’d found what looked to be a hastily drawn sun lion etched in ash on a piece of the fallen wall.

  “Yes, the Rising. It certainly seems that way.” Raith picked up his bag of coins and upended it onto the pot.

  Corwin stared in surprise at the bold wager. He resisted glancing down at his hand, where another shade card waited next to four kings and a pair of sevens, the hand as good as any he recalled having recently. The shade card lay on top, revealing the figure in a black cloak with a horned crown wrapped around its hooded head.