“Thank you,” Dal said. “But that welcome would go a lot farther with something wet to cool our tongues.”
“Of course.” Gordon brought his meaty hands together in a clap. A serving girl soon appeared, carrying a wine tankard and goblets. Another followed behind her, bearing bread and bowls of broth for dipping. “Eat and drink as much as you want, but be aware that we have no vacancies tonight.” The man shook his head in emphasis, and Corwin noticed he wore magestones in both ears, each emblazoned with the symbol of the spell it contained. The left one held a truth spell for detecting deceptions. Fortunately for Corwin—or Clash Farley—it wasn’t active. The one on the right was the same as Dal wore, a concealment spell to hide scars or blemishes. His business must do well to afford such trinkets.
Dal leaned forward, eager. “Is there some special entertainment planned?”
Gordon smiled, revealing teeth white as porcelain. “There is always special entertainment at the Boarbelly. But tonight we play the Death Bones.”
“Ah, yes. That will draw a crowd.” Dal placed a palm against his chest. “Not a game for the faint of heart.”
Corwin silently agreed. Death Bone cards were imbued with far more powerful mage magic than a normal deck, each one bearing a spell that players might incur during game play. Decks came with different intensity levels, some so dangerous players risked pain and even death. The worst Corwin had seen was a man who drew the poverty card only to discover he had been pickpocketed, but he’d heard tales of far greater tragedies. Then again, he supposed the rewards of winning—wealth, luck, good health—could be worth it to some.
“It is not any game though, young man.” Gordon wagged a sausage-like finger at him. “For tonight we host royalty.”
“Royalty?” said Signe with a birdlike cock of her head. “From where?”
Corwin frowned, surprised by this news and interested in the answer, if only to have some tidbit of gossip to pacify his brother with when he returned to Norgard.
Gordon picked up his goblet and took his time drinking it down before answering, purposely drawing out the suspense. “Why, the royal is none other than Eryx Fane, prince of Seva. Although sadly he is only the last-born of some six brothers. The heir would’ve drawn an even bigger crowd. More than my poor inn could hold.”
Corwin nearly choked on the piece of bread he’d just placed in his mouth. The timing proved fortunate, preventing him from saying something rash. Seva, the massive kingdom to the southeast, had been the most hated and feared enemy of Rime even before the invasion.
Next to him, an uncharacteristically dark look crossed Dal’s face. He and Corwin both had personal reasons to hate Seva and its Godking, Magnar Fane. The kingdom was like a plague of locusts, ever spreading, ever consuming. Only four of its neighboring nations had yet to fall to its conquests—Endra, Rhoswen, Esh, and Rime. Rime shall never fall, Corwin silently vowed, fingers curled around his goblet. It almost had during the invasion, some fifty years ago when Seva sacked the port city of Penlocke. Instead, Corwin’s grandfather had united the cities and driven the Godking’s forces back across the sea.
“Why is a prince of Seva being welcomed here?” Dal asked, running an idle finger over the rim of his cup. “Especially given his father’s crimes.”
Gordon dismissed the comment with a wave. “He has been granted amnesty by Lord Nevan. In Andreas, we do not hold grudges.”
Corwin bit back a humorless laugh. Lord Nevan could give lessons in grudge keeping, as his continued opposition to the Tormane family proved. When the Rimish forces finally defeated Seva, Lord Nevan had wanted to become the first high king, but the cities chose Norgard’s might over Andreas’s riches in selecting their leader. The presence of this Prince Eryx was troubling news, and Corwin filed it away to examine later.
“Would you care to make a wager on the game?” Gordon extended his hand palm up.
Signe gave the man’s belly another pat. “We did not come for beds or gaming, fat man.”
Gordon craned his head to look at her. “What else is there in life worth having?”
“We are looking for a man.” Signe cut her eyes to Corwin.
“Actually, we’re looking for information about a man. This one.” Corwin reached into his pocket and passed Gordon the portrait bearing the miner’s likeness.
The moment Gordon unfolded it, his eyes widened. “You could not have seen this man.”
“Why not?” Corwin glanced at the picture. It looked exactly the same as the man he remembered that day at the Gregors’ house.
“Because that is Ralph Marcel,” Gordon said on an exhaled breath, “and he was taken by the gold robes nearly a year ago.”
Corwin frowned. “Are you saying he was caught by the Inquisition?”
Gordon inclined his head, his expression sober. “Yes, and no wilder has ever escaped the golds.”
It was true, at least none had ever been heard of before—until now. But it fitted the puzzle all too well. If this wilder had somehow managed to escape from the Inquisition, what else would he do but join the Rising?
Taking back the picture, Corwin asked, “What was his magic?”
Gordon raised his hand palm up, fingers splayed. “I don’t know. Marcel didn’t make a fuss when he was captured, and it was never said afterward. Although—” Gordon paused and scratched his cheek, several deep strokes sure to leave red welts. Only when he dropped his hand away a moment later, the skin remained unmarked. “There were rumors that he had a strange affinity with animals. Some fifty cats and dogs living in his house.”
“An affinity with animals,” Corwin repeated. The stories claimed that was a spirit gift, too. Are these daydrakes animals? Corwin wondered. He supposed so, though, like their nighttime kin, they felt more like monsters, something too dark and dangerous to share the same nature as a cat or dog. But if a wilder could control them, that would strengthen Dal’s suspicion about the connection between the two attacks.
Seeming to grow bored with the conversation, Signe pulled out the throwing knife she kept tucked on her belt and began to toss it overhead, juggling it with mindless ease. “I don’t understand this Inquisition. Why do your people fear each other so? In Esh, we fear no one. Not even our enemies.”
“That’s because there is no magic in the islands, pretty one, nor anywhere else besides Rime for that matter,” Gordon said, his eyes moving up and down as he followed the knife’s movement. “No one not of Rime has been born with the ability to manipulate the unseen world, not for centuries. And our magists are forbidden to ever leave our shores.”
Corwin tapped a thumb against the table. “That’s true enough. And wilders are something to be feared. No man should have the power to level cities at will.”
Signe caught the knife and held it, point up. Her gaze fixed on Corwin. “What cities have they ever leveled? The only magic I’ve seen is used for good. Like the wardstones that protect us. Or your truth stones, fat man. Oh, and the moonbelts.”
A devilish grin danced across Dal’s face, and he wagged his eyebrows. “Yes, those are definitely for the good.”
“But wilder magic is often used for great harm,” Corwin said. Like the kind that killed my mother.
Gordon smacked a fist on the table. “Good or evil, the only thing certain is that magic causes strife. Take our high king, for example. The Tormane family is bound by a most terrible magic. One that often pits brother against brother.”
“You mean the uror,” Corwin said before he could stop himself.
Gordon bobbed his head, setting his chins to wiggling. “It creates chaos when there is more than one possible heir. No one knows who will rule. No one knows where to place their loyalty.”
“How do you know that?” Dal said, speaking the exact question Corwin wanted to ask but didn’t dare for fear of revealing too much. “You’re not from Norgard.”