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.
Dal slowed his horse to join them. “I don’t see how anyone would dare such disrespect toward the royal family.”
“That is because you were born in the time of high kings, my lord Thorne, and you come from the east.” Prewitt laughed, the sound guileless and surprisingly pleasant, the kind of laughter one felt inclined to join in. “Things are different in Farhold. Before the Sevan Invasion, we were not a people used to bowing to kings.”
Dal’s brow furrowed. “But the invasion was fifty years ago, and we’ve had a high king ever since.”
Prewitt laughed again. “I’m sure it seems an awful long time to someone so young, but remember that before the cities united under the high king, we ruled ourselves for more than a thousand years. That’s a long time to forget.”