Fear pulsed inside Corwin, electrifying his nerves. The Nameless One. “The only man with that title is long dead. He would’ve died years ago.”
The gold shook his head, his expression emphatic now. “He lives. He lives forever. God made flesh.”
With a grunt of disgust, Francis grabbed the gold by the shoulders and hoisted him into the air. “What’s his name now?” Francis began to squeeze, as if he meant to crush the man with his bare hands.
The gold cried out, head thrown backward, the cords in his neck popping out. “Rendborne,” he said, gasping. “Minister Rendborne.”
Francis dropped the man, letting him hit the ground hard. Francis turned to Raith and Corwin, eying them both. “Do you think he says the truth?”
Neither spoke. Corwin couldn’t make the idea fit inside his head, incapable of reconciling the Rendborne he knew as the minister of trade—charming, forthright, a man of the people—as the traitor responsible for the daydrake attacks and sending wilders to Seva. That was until he remembered Rendborne telling him that the Nameless One had killed his own uror sign. He claimed he’d read about it, but what if . . . ?
A shiver clawed down Corwin’s spine. The uror sign is pure magic, Rendborne had said. What happened to the person who killed one? Did the magic release? Could it be captured somehow like the way the magists embedded spells on stones? Corwin wanted to ask Raith but didn’t dare in front of so many people. Not when there was a living, breathing uror in the castle stables right this moment.
Instead he said, “I’ve reason to believe it might be true.” He gestured at Dal. “We know Rendborne’s also close with Maestra Vikas. Dal and I saw them having a secret tryst.”
“Very well,” said Raith, shocked resignation in his voice. “We now have a name for our enemy. But we need more.”
Corwin stepped back, letting Raith resume the interrogation. His thoughts remained on Rendborne. The truth brought no satisfaction—not when he couldn’t understand the why. If Rendborne was the Nameless One, brother of Morwen, son of Rowan, then he was a Tormane, Corwin’s ancestor. Why would he betray Rime to Seva? How could he still be alive? Unless he truly is a god. But no, Corwin refused to believe it.
Knowing there would be no answers to his questions tonight, Corwin returned his attention to the interrogation. Raith was pressing the gold for details about the fortress itself, ways in and out, where they were keeping Kate and the others, and where Rendborne was likely to be.
“What do we do with him now?” Dal asked once they’d wrung the last bit of information from the gold.
“We take him back to Norgard as our prisoner,” Raith said. “He’s proof of the golds’ treachery, and of Rendborne’s.”
Ready to voice his agreement, Corwin stopped short as across from him, Francis drew the sword at his hip and thrust it straight through the gold’s heart. The man let out a liquid gasp, then fell to the ground. Corwin stared at Francis, shock thrumming through him at such cold violence.
“We aren’t going back to Norgard.” Francis fixed a defiant gaze on Raith. “The Rising is done waiting and hiding. We don’t need proof—we’re here to fight, to end this threat.”
“This is the high prince.” Raith motioned to Corwin with a vigorous shake of his hand. “He can end the threat of the Inquisition diplomatically, without the need for fighting and more death. There’s been enough already.”
“The Errant Prince will never be king now, not when he’s joined with us.” Francis jammed his hands down on his hips. “We must bring about our own change. It’s time to fight.”
I haven’t joined with you, Corwin thought. Not yet. But the man’s fury stirred something inside him. This was different from Edwin’s hate. This was the result of suffering and subjugation.
Raith gave a resigned sigh. “First we must succeed in rescuing Kate, Bonner, and Signe before Rendborne can use them to arm himself and Seva. That’s the immediate threat. Once they’re all safe, we will decide what to do next.”
Corwin held his breath, expecting Francis to argue, but the big man remained silent. Even still, tension seemed to hum in the air around him and Raith. Feeling it, Corwin guessed that this wasn’t the first time the two had clashed like this.
A moment later, Raith asked Corwin for a private word. They retreated to where the horses were tethered, the only place with no one near enough to overhear.
“Will you help me in this, your highness?” Raith said.
“With what? If you mean the Rising, I—”
“No, not that.” Raith cut him off with an upraised hand. “I’ve no idea how we get into the fortress tomorrow and out again. And as you can see, there are many lives to protect.” He gestured to the camp, which was louder now than before, the people whispering about what had happened as they spread out bedrolls or passed around bread and salted meat or flasks of wine.
Corwin traced the scar on his chin, feeling a quake in his belly. “You want me to lead?”
Raith nodded. “You’re better suited than I. You know strategy, and my strength is to defend, not attack.”
“But you heard Francis. All they see in me is the Errant Prince.”
Raith fixed a fierce gaze on him. “Then you must show them you are something more.”
“How?” Corwin said, frustration and doubt making him want to pace. He turned to Nightbringer instead, finding comfort in the horse’s presence, something steadfast in this upheaving world around him.
“By showing that you hear them, your highness. That’s the only way to lead.” Raith sighed, and when Corwin turned toward the sound, he found the magist examining his blackened fingertips.
Raith looked up, his expression dark with some unknown emotion. “You can’t let others define who you should be. That’s a lesson I’ve been learning since birth.” Raith gestured to the mark of the Shade Born on his face. “When people see this, they see something they should fear. My parents believed in the superstition so much that they took me outside the city wall when I was just a babe and left me in the snow to die. I almost did.” Raith waggled his fingers, and Corwin realized frostbite must have turned them that color.
Swallowing the hard knot of pity in his throat, he said, “What happened?”
“A magist found me. A master healer, one skilled enough that I managed not to lose all my fingers and toes.” Raith smiled, a wet sheen in his eyes. “Master Janus brought me to an orphanage. They took me in, but only because he was a magist and insisted. Every year afterward, he checked in on me to make sure I was being treated fairly. I wasn’t, of course. But Janus told me repeatedly that the only way for me to be more than what the gods had marked me for was to stay true to who I was. To make my own fate by making my own decisions. And here I am.” Raith motioned to the camp. “A magist helping wilders. That lesson is why I’ve risked all that I have to make a better life for these people. Wilders can be more than the power they are born with, if we are willing to hear their words, see them for who they are—what they do, not what they can do. And you, Prince Corwin, can be more than your title. You just have to rise up and become it. Lead us.”
All the reasons he should say no flooded Corwin’s mind. He saw the faces of his Shieldhawk brothers, heard their names whispered in his ear. He saw the Sevan soldier boy, for once remembering him clearly, without the fog of his feelings. Maybe Dal had been right—maybe the boy hadn’t betrayed them. Maybe there’d been no way to avoid what happened that night. It was a lesson he’d been taught often by his tutors and even his father: battles can only be fought and won or fought and lost. It was a risk you took every time you went in.