Signe shot her a hard look. “He might not have earned your honesty, that’s true. But sharing the secret of our true selves with another is always a risk, wilder or no. He might reject you, yes. But if he doesn’t, then you will get to be yourself with him at last. You can’t tell me that wouldn’t be worth it.” She paused long enough to shrug. “Besides, Kiran deserves a better life, and it’s in Corwin’s power to make it happen. That alone makes the risk worth taking. Take it for your brother, if not yourself.”
“Bonner deserves better, too,” Kate said. An ache went through her chest, a mixture of fear and hope. Could she do it? Did she dare?
“You deserve better, as well, Kate,” Signe said, her expression now fierce. “You must be brave enough to take it.”
29
Corwin
ON THE MORNING OF THE second uror trial, Corwin woke early and made his way down to the stables. He’d barely slept all week, not since the start of the War Games. Dozens of dignitaries from all twelve Rimish cities were in the castle, keeping his presence in constant demand. He spent his days observing the games—mock battles, tournaments at arms, horse races, and so many other events, all done to celebrate the unification of Rime fifty years ago. It used to be his favorite time of year, and he wished more than ever that the high priestess had chosen to keep the games and the uror trial separate, if only so he could participate in the activities like he used to. By the end of each day, his mind was so overwrought that it took him hours to settle his thoughts enough to sleep, his body not tired enough to force the issue. Last night, however, had been the worst by far. What sleep he did get had been restless, full of strange dreams. Most of them involving an impossible black and white horse.
The uror colt nickered when Corwin arrived outside his stall door the following morning. He peered in at him, and he peered back, neck arched and ears pricked forward. Corwin stepped inside, and the colt retreated to the back of the stall, tossing his head and prancing in place. He’d had little handling, most of the grooms too afraid to do much more than lead him outside to graze.
Corwin cooed at the colt, slowly holding out his hand. “Easy, good fellow. What are you so nervous about this morning?”
The colt tossed his head again before reaching his long neck toward Corwin. His nostrils flared, and he snorted once. Corwin held still, letting the horse inspect him. A moment later, the soft, velvety muzzle brushed against his fingertips. Tingles slid up Corwin’s arm at the touch. It might’ve been his imagination, but he didn’t think so. Although the animal acted like an ordinary horse, he was anything but ordinary. Corwin stepped closer to the colt, running his hands down the sleek, muscled neck—the black side of him, although some of the white of his mane spilled over the top in striking contrast.
For a moment, Corwin remembered his dream. In it, he’d been riding the uror horse into battle, the two of them in perfect unity and focus as they faced a shadowy, unknown foe—thousands of faceless soldiers spilling onto the Rimish shore from red-sailed boats. Astride the uror stallion, though, he hadn’t been afraid. Just determined, exhilarated at the fight and the victory waiting within his grasp.
Nothing at all like he felt right now, with the second trial looming. Yesterday, he’d been given a glimpse of what it would entail—a maze. A maze in the sky.
It didn’t resemble the second trial his grandfather had gone through in the slightest. That seemed easy by contrast—a hunt through Jade Forest after some mythical creature Borwin never quite got around to describing. Even if it had been invisible, it would’ve been easier than this, Corwin thought when he first saw those raised stone platforms. His eyes hadn’t been able to make sense of it. It shouldn’t be possible. More than a hundred boulders hung suspended over the training field, some close together and others far apart. There were stones with stairs leading up, some with stairs leading down, some spiraled and some straight. There were stones with holes in their centers, ones that slowly revolved. At the very top, on a narrow platform, rested a jeweled crown on a mirrored pedestal. The goal was simple: reach the top and seize the crown.
Getting there, however, would be anything but simple.
Sighing, Corwin ran his hand down the uror colt’s nose. “If I only knew how to fly, it would be easy,” he said.
“Is his highness worried about the trial?”
The voice gave both Corwin and the colt a start. The horse stamped all four feet on the ground, just missing Corwin’s toes before he wheeled around, retreating to the far corner of the enclosure again.
Taking a breath to calm his racing heart, Corwin stepped out of the stall and gave the newcomer a stiff smile, surprised but not disappointed to see it was Minister Rendborne. Corwin cleared his throat. “That depends. Are you bearing another helpful journal, one with a map to the top perhaps?”
The master of trade let out a theatrical sigh. “I’m afraid not. I did see a drawing for a flying contraption inside one of my books, but it was written by a man called Melchor the Mad. I didn’t think you would find such a person worthy of trust.”
“You’re probably right. I don’t believe mortal man was ever meant to ascend such heights, mad or otherwise.”
Rendborne laughed, and the sound immediately set Corwin at ease. “Too right you are, but that is why there are gods involved.”
“Gods or magic?” Corwin asked, arching an eyebrow. Dal had planted the idea in his mind when the two of them first saw the hanging stones. “Looks like something a wilder could do, doesn’t it?” Dal had said. “An earthist or an aerist. Maybe both.”
Although Corwin had meant the question to be rhetorical, Rendborne replied, “Is there any difference?” He gestured with his right hand, palm up so that the glow from his magestone ring shone against the floor.
Corwin blinked, taken aback. It sounded like blasphemy, except the man had a point. Of all the things he’d seen since the uror began, nearly all of it could’ve been accomplished by magic, both wilder and magist. The mist atop the Asterion could’ve been a water gift. The illusions, nothing more than magist spells. He supposed even the visions of his father and the Sevan soldier could’ve been summoned with some form of spirit magic. He glanced back at the stall. All known magic except for the uror sign.
Rendborne seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for he said, “Did you know that my predecessor once received an offer to buy your father’s uror sign?”
Corwin swung his gaze back to the man. “You’re joking.”
“Indeed not.” A look of disgust crossed Rendborne’s face. “It was a wealthy merchant from Endra. He offered a king’s ransom in gold and jewels.”
“But why?” Corwin pictured Murr, trying to fathom what someone would do with a live wolf, one who obeyed only his father.
“I expect it was for the same reason my clerks receive ten missives a day from foreign merchants requesting permission to trade with the League for their spells and trinkets. There’s an entire world out there, and yet all the magic resides in Rime.” Rendborne motioned to the horse. “And that animal there is pure magic. There are people who would kill for it.”
The thought chilled Corwin. He didn’t see what possessing an uror would do for anyone, but he could see a dozen reasons why the enemies of Rime would want it dead, the Godking of Seva most of all. It was a sign, a symbol of Norgard’s power and might. The thought brought a new and troubling possibility to mind. “I wonder what would happen if an uror sign died before the trial ended.”
“It’s happened once before,” Rendborne replied, matter-of-fact. “But in that case, it was an heir who killed it, making the outcome obvious. The innocent brother was named king and the killer became the Nameless One.”