“Indeed they do.” Dal stood and held the glass out to him. “And I feel ready to slay giants and shame gods. Care for some?”
Temptation called to Corwin, but he ignored it. If the priestesses smelled wine on him, they would be forced to stop the ritual. Neither prince was permitted anything to help dull his senses. They’d also been required to fast all day. The sacrifice, in both the hunger now and the pain that would come later, would be a measure of their worthiness.
On second thought, maybe I should drink the whole bottle.
But the servant was finished, and it was time to leave.
As they stepped out into the corridor, Corwin said to Dal, “Is she coming?”
“I think so,” Dal replied, knowing exactly which “she” he meant. “Signe plans to drag her along regardless of her wishes.”
Corwin suppressed a sigh. He’d barely glimpsed Kate these last few days, but every time he did, he could sense her unhappiness like a cold breeze seeping through an icy window. He’d sent her several messages asking if she would like new quarters, but she’d ignored them. Once this is over, I will seek her out in person, he swore to himself for at least the tenth time.
The two princes were to ride at the head of a procession from Castle Norgard to the Temple of Noralah. The high councilmembers, Grand Master Storr, along with the head of each order, and a squadron of soldiers led by Captain Jaol were to act as escort. Their horses were already saddled and ready when the brothers arrived in the courtyard. Corwin climbed aboard his new mount, wishing it were Stormdancer. He liked Nightbringer well enough so far, but they’d had little chance to bond. It will be trial by fire for us both tonight, he thought as he guided the horse through the gates and out into the streets, where every citizen in Norgard had assembled to watch the princes meet their fate.
Nightbringer pranced and crow-hopped, tossing his head at the noise. It took years to train a warhorse, and Nightbringer had been in training less than two. Corwin steadied the animal with his legs and kept his eyes fixed ahead, trying to ignore the crowd.
Astride his own horse, Edwin eyed Corwin and gave him an approving nod. “I was half worried you would disappear again.”
“Worried or hopeful?” Corwin replied, returning his brother’s jab more out of habit than true defensiveness. It was an old conflict between them. Although Edwin was older, Corwin had always been the favored son. Their father valued Corwin’s bold and fearless nature over Edwin’s caution and cunning. Once King Orwin had all but declared outright that given the choice, he would pick Corwin to succeed him.
I doubt he would say the same now.
The Temple of Noralah stood in the middle of the main square in the Valeo district. Surrounding the temple were five of the six order houses, each painted its respective color, with only the gold absent. Same as in the other cities, the gold house resided outside Norgard’s walls. The temple itself was long and rectangular, made of massive stone blocks with pillars set across the raised front entrance. The crowd had surrounded the building but left a clear path to the steps. No one save the priestesses, the princes, and the high king were permitted inside for the ritual.
With Nightbringer finally settling, Corwin allowed himself to gaze at the people. Almost at once, his eyes fell on Kate, standing off to the side with Signe and Bonner. Her presence gave him a brief moment of comfort. When they were younger, the two of them had often discussed what the uror would be like, what it would mean. Kate always knew what to say to make him feel better. The memory of the last time they’d discussed it came to him now.
“Just think how exciting it’ll be, Cor. It will make our races and duels seem like child’s play,” Kate had said while the two of them lay sprawled on a blanket, letting the food from their picnic settle in their stomachs. “You’re sure to win.”
Corwin reached out and brushed a strand of black hair back behind her ear, his hand lingering to cup her face. “What if I don’t want to win?”
“Whyever not?” She smiled that sideways smile, her large eyes veiled in dark lashes.
“It’ll mean . . . giving you up.” He tried to kiss her, but she pressed a finger to his mouth.
“Don’t think about that. When you’re king, you can set your own rules. You must win and enjoy every moment of it. We’ll find a way to make it fun and exciting together.”
“If it ever does come,” he had said. “If ever.”
How wrong she’d been. It wasn’t excitement he felt now but dread, heavy and pressing.
I don’t want this. Maybe once, when he was young enough to still believe he was worthy, before he’d proved without doubt that he wasn’t. He glanced at his vambrace, making sure the tattoo was hidden from view. It would’ve been easier to keep it hidden with a magestone, but he didn’t want the speculation such would draw.
The darkened entrance into the temple seemed to leer at him like the snarling mouth of a predator. But there was no backing out. To deny the uror was anathema, a sacrilege so great that he would be accursed by the gods. Only one of the Tormane line had ever done it before—the brother of Corwin’s great-great-grandfather, Morwen. The name of that brother was unknown, stricken from all record and memory. The accounts referred to him only as the Nameless One.
Edwin and Corwin dismounted and left their horses with their escorts. The sound of drumming greeted them as they entered the temple. Priestesses in shimmering, iridescent robes stood along both sides of the dimly lit sanctuary, playing the drums in a hypnotic harmony, the sound like galloping horses. They wore blindfolds and played with their faces tilted up toward the mural-covered ceiling. At the front of the sanctuary, the high priestess stood in a similar pose before the altar. Her headdress was made to look like a horse head, its coat a fiery chestnut with black diamonds for eyes. They sparkled in the light of the torches on the walls and the glowing coals scattered across the top of the altar. Three statues reared up behind the high priestess—Niran and Nelek on the right and left, with the carved likeness of the goddess Noralah between them.
Sitting in a chair adjacent to the altar, High King Orwin watched his sons approaching. Only there was no recognition in his gaze or pride in his expression. There was nothing but the same emptiness that had been there for the last three years. A magestone glowed at the base of his throat, held there by a leather cord. Corwin didn’t recognize the spell on it, but he could guess it was something to keep the king calm and as close to lucid as possible. Gray, wrinkled skin hung loose over Orwin’s gaunt cheeks. He was leaned back in the chair, slumped to one side. His tunic drooped about his stooped shoulders and sunken chest. Seeing him like that, unable to forget the strong, robust man he’d been before, Corwin wondered if death would’ve been better than this half life.
Pulling his gaze away from his father, he focused on the high priestess as she began to speak. She told the story of Noralah, who had tamed the first horses, then about the first uror and the early kings of Norgard. They were stories Corwin had heard before, and he found his mind wandering, as the never-ending beat of the drums thrummed inside his skull. He thought about Hale and the attack on his father. He thought about Kate and his brother and mother, Dal, and every way in which he had failed and all the ways he would fail again.
When the high priestess came to the end of the stories, she leaned toward the altar and picked up the branding iron. Its tip glowed bright orange from where it had sat nestled among the coals.