“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 him. “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?”