“Oh, I remember my history lessons,” Dal said drily. “A thousand years of war and bloodshed. No wonder the cities are so reluctant to serve the high king.”
Corwin shot Dal a look, sick of the subject already. For weeks now, all he’d heard was how there was unrest in the west, protests in the cities over the high king’s rule, tax strikes among the merchants, and the growing threat of the Rising. He wanted to cover his ears and hum a tune just for a moment’s peace.
Prewitt shrugged, his expression placating. “Not that we aren’t learning to appreciate the new way of things. High King Orwin is a worthy ruler, and every day we reap the benefits of our united cities. Such as the bridge he’s commissioned for the Redrush.”
Corwin made a mental note of how easily Prewitt changed the subject, a mark of a skilled politician. Edwin would hold him in high esteem. Especially as it was Edwin and not their father who had commissioned the bridge. Orwin ruled in name only these days.
“Yes, the bridge is a marvel of engineering and an industrious decision as well,” Prewitt continued, nodding. Despite the breeze, beads of sweat dotted the top of his bald head. “It will make the journey to Andreas easier for the entire realm and free us all from reliance on unreliable ferrymen.”
And it will bring in a hefty sum to the royal coffers, Corwin silently added, once Edwin levies the toll. He wondered what Prewitt would make of that when he found out.
“The Relay riders will appreciate it most of all, I believe,” Dal said. He waggled his eyebrows at Corwin. “Wouldn’t you agree, highness?”
“For certain,” Corwin said, ignoring the implication.
They turned off the main road, following a narrower path through a copse of trees dense enough to be called a wood. A strange smell on the air teased Corwin’s memory. He tried to determine the source but couldn’t with the sweet scent of everweeps so strong here, dozens of the colorful flowers growing wherever sunlight reached the ground. Nevertheless, something about that underlying smell made him uneasy.
When they emerged from the trees a few minutes later, Corwin’s unease turned to alarm. Ahead, the Gregor manor house sat in the middle of a wide clearing. Three stories high and half again as wide, the house was nothing but a charred husk. Smoke still billowed up from several of the gables.
Fire, Corwin thought, his mind finally connecting the memory to the smell—and burned flesh. His stomach threatened to rebel, and he turned his breathing shallow. For a second he was sixteen again, surrounded by terrified shouts as fire raged through the central marketplace of Norgard. He heard his mother screaming, ordering him to climb the roof, to save—
No, don’t go there now, he told himself and, with an effort, pushed the memory away.
Governor Prewitt’s mouth fell open, his jowls quivering. “What happened here?”
“Death and destruction,” Dal said on a puff of air.
“But who? And how?” Corwin moved his eyes off the house to examine the wall surrounding it. The fine hairs on his neck stood up as he saw that every wardstone set in the wall had been smashed to pieces. This wasn’t an accidental fire—the place had been attacked. Although the wall here stood easily fifteen feet high, that wasn’t nearly tall enough to keep out nightdrakes. Only the wardstones could do that, and someone had deliberately destroyed them. Corwin swept his gaze over the destruction to see that the gate had been blasted apart.
Several of the men riding with them exchanged looks and whispers. “Was it nightdrakes that done this?”
“No, couldn’t’ve been. They don’t really breathe fire, you know.”
“They used to.”
“That’s just superstition.”
“Wilders must’ve done it.”
The Rising, Corwin thought, tension spreading through him.
Governor Prewitt silenced the chatter with a wave of his hand. “You four, sweep the perimeter. The rest of you head in to investigate. We need to see if anyone is yet alive in there.”
Corwin doubted it. The house looked gutted, every visible surface charred and every window shattered. Wilders. It seemed the only explanation. These last few months, the high council had received dozens of reports about so-called Rising attacks from all across Rime. But they were mostly small skirmishes, raids on caravans or personal assaults on members of the Mage League. He’d never heard of them striking so big and neutral a target as this freeholding. On the contrary, from what he’d gleaned, the Rising was little more than a disjointed idea, one picked up here and there by wilders living in fear of discovery by the Inquisition, not a true underground movement. Even their symbol—a lion haloed by a rising sun, left painted on walls or carved into trees—varied widely in its depiction from city to city.
Spying a hole in the ground a few feet ahead, Corwin guided Stormdancer toward it. The horse crow-hopped nervously as Corwin tried to steer him near enough to see into the hole. In seconds he understood the horse’s reluctance—the hole went so deep he couldn’t make out the bottom.
“It must be the Rising,” Dal said, bringing his mount to a halt next to Corwin. His voice held a note of awe. It was like the ancient stories come to life—wilders who could rain down fire, summon winds and lightning, even rip the earth asunder. Some of the stories claimed that during the War of Three, a conflict that preceded the Sevan Invasion by more than two hundred years, the wilders cut holes so deep that the first nightdrakes were able to rise up from the three hells themselves.
“Why would the Rising attack the Gregors?” Corwin said.
“As an affront to the high king,” Prewitt said, almost matter-of-fact. “Lord Marcus is your father’s greatest supporter in the west.”
Was, Corwin thought, not is. He turned Stormdancer toward the opened entrance into the manor, scanning the charred wood for the sign of the sun lion in any of its variations but finding nothing.
“Um, your highness,” Governor Prewitt said. “Would it not be best for you to stay out here until we determine all is safe?”
Corwin pulled his sword free of the scabbard belted at his waist. He held it up, steel glinting in the sunlight. He wore a pistol too, but he could carry only one weapon and still steer a horse. The pistol held a single shot—the sword could be used many times. His buckler he left hanging from the side of his saddle, at the ready should he need it.
“Maybe,” Corwin said, “but I’m not going to.”
“But your highness. You’ve no armor, no—”
Corwin rode forward, ignoring the governor’s protests. If wilders were responsible for this, it was his duty, both personal and public, to bring them to justice. He saw his mother’s face again, the fear etched across her brow just as the crowd swept over her, trampling her in their mad need to flee the fire—one set by a wilder determined to harm as many people as he could. And that was before the wilders began to organize into this Rising. No, Corwin would not stand idly by now.
Dal joined him at once. “Thank the gods. Thought I might expire from curiosity.” He pulled free his sword as well. Although he wore an eager, boyish expression, he carried his weapon with the surety of a man who knew how to use it. Which he did, all too well. Both of them did. It was a skill that had bonded them together during their adventures away from Rime.