Forsaken Kingdom: The Last Prince, #1

By J.R. Rasmussen

At his kingdom's darkest hour, the lost heir returns. A pity he can't remember who he is ...

To save his people and the forbidden magic they're sworn to defend, Wardin Rath surrenders his birthright and his past. For seven years he's held at the court of his deadliest enemy, oblivious to all he's lost. Until one day, the spell that stole his memories begins to crack.

On the heels of a harrowing escape, Wardin's quest for answers leads him to the last magistery, where he studied magic as a boy. But he'll find no safe haven there—or anywhere. Plagued by threats and suspicion, hunted relentlessly by the king who will stop at nothing to crush him, Wardin is soon battling for his life, his home, and the survival of magic itself.

And this time, the enemy will take no prisoners.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.R. Rasmussen
• Release date: Oct 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9798201913045

J.R. Rasmussen

Writer, reader, tireless champion of the Oxford comma. Casual gamer and hardcore donut enthusiast. A lifetime fantasy fan, I've been knocking on the backs of closets in hopes of getting to Narnia since the age of six. I can quote 80's movies with startling accuracy, and name all the Plantagenet monarchs in order. I'm for dogs. I have no feelings either way about scones. I am still terrified of ringwraiths. I write traditional fantasy under the name J.R. Rasmussen, and lighthearted cozy mysteries under the name Cordelia Rook. I live in Charlotte, North Carolina, where my household is run by a galumphing fool of a bulldog. Visit me online at jrrasmussen.com.

Book preview

Family Relationships

Chart also available at cairdarin.com/relationships

1

WARDIN

Wardin spit out his third mouthful of dirt and gravel. Or was it the fourth? He rolled over and got to his feet, ignoring a new pain, this one in his left knee.

Arun shook his head, his shoulders quaking with laughter. You seem to be having a bit of trouble. Sure you don’t want to go two on one? The rest of us ought to stand together against these cheating contrivers.

Oh, really? Erietta hid her own laugh only slightly better than her brother. What about standing together with your family?

Should have thought of that before you chose your affinity, Arun said. Besides, you don’t need the help. War does.

Need help carrying your wounded sister back to her hall, perhaps. Wardin winked at Erietta.

She snorted as she got back into position, facing him from half a dozen strides away. Do your worst.

On my mark, Arun said. And … begin.

Once again, Wardin focused on his assignment, a shield to counter Erietta’s trick. He’d expected his studies to become a bit more exciting once he chose his affinity, but so far battlemage training involved a whole lot of standing still, waiting for his opponent to strike.

He concentrated on his body and the space around it, imagining an impenetrable wall of dancing, whirling blades. The sounds they would make as they cut through the air. The way they would glint in the sunlight.

It was hard to resist the temptation to release the swell of energy as soon as he felt it, but that was how he’d ended up on the ground the first three (four?) times. He waited. Then forced himself to wait a bit more. Only when he was sure the power was at its peak did he finally put it to use.

Erietta released her own spell at the same time. For a moment there seemed to be two of her, one standing where she’d started, another rushing forward in a blur. Then both were gone.

An instant later, she hit him from behind—with all the force of a gnat. Finally, his shield had held.

She jumped back, shaking her arm as if it had been stung, though she was smiling. I swear I almost felt your knives this time.

Swords, more like.

Well, if you’re going to keep getting better, I’d appreciate you switching to something gentler. You couldn’t think of ice? Or— Oh.

Erietta bit her lip. Arun swore. Both were staring at something over Wardin’s shoulder. Quiet descended over the yard, as the other groups around them stopped what they were doing.

Wardin turned and saw the reason for the sudden unease. A blackhound, waist high and with a massive square head bigger than Wardin’s own, padded across the practice yard. Straight toward him.

Time seemed to slow as he waited. The autumn breeze chilled the sweat on his face and neck, until he felt clammy and a little feverish.

When the blackhound stopped in front of him, she did not sit. She did not growl or bark or wag her tail. She merely stared.

Poplar. Erietta’s whisper was unnecessary. Poplar was instantly recognizable to anyone at Pendralyn by the silver collar she wore.

Wardin tried to swallow, found he couldn’t, and gave up on the idea of saying anything to his friends. What would he say, in any case?

Nor did he meet their eyes—seeing his own fear mirrored there would only make it harder to put one foot in front of the other. He only nodded, and followed the archmagister’s dog as she turned and led him back toward the manor.

The soft ringing in his ears did not keep Wardin from catching snatches of murmured speculation as he walked by.

… must be over … dead … Draven’s lost the war … more likely betrayed us again … doomed … going to find us …

He kept his eyes forward, but it seemed to him that the yard had tripled in size. When he finally reached the relative solitude of the lawn, the voices didn’t stop; they were just as loud inside his head. Dead. My father must be dead.

But perhaps it wasn’t so. There was always hope. Perhaps the archmagister had sent for him because there was good news. It was possible, wasn’t it?

Except he knew it wasn’t. If it were good news, the archmagister would have no reason to deliver it to Wardin in private.

The bookcases that lined the manor’s corridors, and even its stairways, made them confined, narrow spaces where footsteps did not echo across the stone floors. This usually made Wardin feel safe and cozy, as if all those hundreds of books served as both armor and blanket. Now it only made him feel trapped, especially as he passed other students, too closely to turn away from their stares.

He weaved his way up to the archmagister’s third floor chambers and found the door open. Poplar entered ahead of him, and immediately settled down beside her master’s fireside chair, head on her paws.

The small sitting room smelled of woodsmoke and paper and ink. Wardin stood straight—uncomfortably so, with an aching knee and hip—on the thick velvet rug, hands clasped behind his back, and waited.

Thank you, Poplar. The archmagister gestured at the armchair across from him. Sit down, Wardin, please.

He was a stern and formal man—none of them even knew his given name—and never invited a student to sit in his presence except at meals. Much less with a kindly expression on his face. That as much as anything told Wardin that the news he was about to receive was indeed of the worst possible kind. He pressed his teeth together as he sank into the soft chair.

I’ll show you the respect of speaking forthrightly, the archmagister said. Word has just reached me that King Draven was captured three days ago. He is to be executed. I don’t know when.

Wardin clenched his teeth harder still. His chin was trying to tremble, and he must keep it steady. At twelve, he was well practiced at hiding his most shameful secret: that he loved the father who was always glad to ride and hunt with his son, who always had a grin and a joke at the ready.

Captured. Executed. Wardin took a strange, cold comfort in that. At least his father would die an enemy of Harth’s king, not selling his soul—or his kingdom’s—in some treacherous deal with his old friend. Draven Rath would die an Eyrd.

The archmagister finished with one last, superfluous addendum. The war is over.

With respect, sir, the war has been over since midsummer. My uncle was the last true King of Eyrdon. Our cause was lost with him. It was a reflexive response, one Wardin knew was expected of him. A test of his loyalty, perhaps.

But the archmagister gave him a shrewd look that suggested he was not fooled by this stoic reaction. Be that as it may. Eyrdon is no longer a sovereign kingdom. It is now a barony of Harth, and King Bramwell has named his eldest son our new lord. I will make the announcement at dinner, but I didn’t want you to hear all of this in front of the whole magistery.

The old man leaned forward, his hawkish nose looking even larger in the flickering firelight. I also wanted to tell you about the circumstances of Draven’s capture. It happened in a short skirmish near the western mines.

I appreciate— Wardin’s polite thanks died on his lips, as the archmagister’s last words sank in. "Apologies, sir, did you say the western mines?"

None of the fighting had happened in that part of Eyrdon. Those were the most impenetrable mountains in a land made mostly of mountains. Eyrdri’s teeth, had his father been trying to flee, to hide? Was he going to a dishonorable death after all, not a traitor this time, perhaps, but a coward?

The archmagister spared him a small, cheerless smile. I did. And that is exactly why I wanted to speak with you about it. The story you will hear—the story all the world will hear—is that he intended to disappear into the mountains and abandon Eyrdon to its fate, but was betrayed by his own men.

Wardin rubbed his palm over the tufted silk arm of his chair, while hope battled with grief for the rule of his hammering heart. Nothing about that story would be difficult for anyone to believe. He’d just been thinking it himself. Yet the archmagister spoke as if it were false. But you don’t think that’s the truth of it, sir?

I do not. I’ve been anxious for quite some time now, knowing the Harths suspected we had a magistery somewhere in Eyrdon. People were using magic in battle, rumors were spreading. Your father would have known this, too. And he would have known that if Eyrdon were conquered, Bramwell Lancet would tear this kingdom apart, mountain by mountain, stone by stone, until he found that magistery and destroyed it.

Wardin shook his head. I don’t understand, sir.

Draven was taken near an abandoned mining village. I’m told it was very recently razed and burned. There were a great many charred books found in the wreckage—and one enchanted inkwell.

This only left Wardin more bewildered. One of his father’s most cherished possessions was an enchanted inkwell. It had to be the same one; enchanted objects of any kind were extremely rare, outside of Pendralyn. If anything, the fact that Draven had this treasure with him when he was captured supported the theory that he was running away. He wouldn’t have left it behind. Not even for his son.

The men who betrayed your father brought these things to the Harths along with their prisoner, the archmagister went on. As evidence.

Evidence of what? But as soon as Wardin spoke the question, he found he knew the answer. Or at least, he could guess. You think my father burned the village himself, and created this evidence to make it look like magic was being practiced there. Then told his men to take him to King Bramwell, and claim they’d captured him and destroyed the magistery.

The archmagister sat back, resting interlaced fingers across his belly. That is precisely what I think. Whatever happens to Eyrdon, the Harths think the magistery is gone now. I think Draven saw that the war was lost, that there was no hope left for either his kingdom or for him. And so he sacrificed what remained of his life, to protect what mattered most.

Wardin’s breath caught. Do you think … because I’m here? That he was trying to keep Pendralyn hidden to protect me?

Naturally, he wanted to protect you. But the archmagister’s eyes slid away. Wardin’s face warmed; it had been a child’s question.

He rushed to speak before the archmagister could, as if completing his thought, saying what he’d meant to all along. But most of all, he had to protect Pendralyn itself. Because it’s the only one left.

Of course. That should have been obvious from the first. Once there had been a dozen or more magisteries, where magic was preserved, nurtured, expanded, and taught. Until the dissolution. Now practicing magic was treason in each of Cairdarin’s three kingdoms. (Two, Wardin reminded himself. Just two kingdoms now.)

Only Pendralyn’s secret location had protected it. It was no longer a magistery, but the magistery. The last guardian of the only magical knowledge left in all of Cairdarin. If Pendralyn fell, magic itself would become extinct.

That was what Draven Rath had just sacrificed himself for. Not to protect one insignificant boy.

Your father’s last act as King of Eyrdon was to safeguard the last magistery, the archmagister said. Because he understood that magic isn’t just a useful skill. It’s power. That’s why old King Cadric tried to eradicate it in the first place: to keep people ignorant and submissive. To make sure he could never be challenged by anyone more powerful than he was. Do you understand?

I think so, Wardin said. You mean that by preserving magic, my father made sure that the king’s power could be challenged again, one day.

The archmagister raised his chin, a gleam in his eye. "Perhaps. Perhaps that will be your destiny. But we’ll have some dark days ahead of us first, and I want you to know this: the people of Eyrdon are already calling Lional Rath Our Last King. Much as you did a few minutes ago. It’s your uncle’s name they’ll remember, his memory they’ll cherish. They will forget that Draven Rath was also their king, however briefly. If they speak of him at all, they will say he was a traitor, a man who changed cloaks the way other men change tunics, who gave his allegiance to whoever had the most to offer him."

In one fluid movement, the archmagister left his own chair and dropped to one knee beside Wardin’s. Wardin nearly recoiled in surprise and embarrassment. He’d never seen the man so close, nor at eye level.

But Pendralyn will remember, the archmagister said. We will never forget that your father died a true son of Eyrdon. As far as this magistery is concerned, he was our last king. You are our prince, and always will be.

Wardin didn’t know what to say to that. To any of it. His throat was dry. The fire was too hot. He was sweating. The sound of Poplar’s panting grated against his ears. He wanted nothing more than to escape this room, flee to his dormitory in the battlemage hall, and lose himself, his father, the war, all of it to the dark void of sleep.

Thank you, Archmagister, he managed.

The archmagister squeezed Wardin’s shoulder, then stood. As was proper, even for a prince, Wardin got to his feet as well.

I can’t give you much comfort in your grief, but I can give you some privacy, at least, the archmagister said. You’ll find one of the guest rooms prepared for you. Second corridor to your left as you leave this room, then the fourth door down. I’ll have your dinner sent in.

Thank you, sir, Wardin said again, with much more warmth this time. It would have been torture to be penned in the keep at dinner, while the archmagister told everyone else this news. He turned to go, but hesitated at the door. Sir, if my father had his inkwell … did whoever told you about all of this say anything about Dragon’s Edge?

The archmagister looked momentarily confused. Then his face cleared, and he fixed Wardin with another shrewd stare. Your uncle’s sword?

My grandfather’s, actually. But I believe it disappeared when my uncle was killed.

I’m afraid I’ve heard nothing of it. A pity for the Raths to lose it. I’ve heard rumors it’s enchanted. I believe it would be the last enchanted weapon in Cairdarin, if that’s true.

Wardin made no comment, only thanked him again, and bid him goodnight.

The archmagister inclined his head. Goodnight, Highness.

The guest room was so cramped that even with the chair pushed back against the bed, Wardin was pressed against the edge of the small desk. But he was grateful for the space, and for the quiet as he sat solving equations and puzzling over star charts.

It was the last thing he wanted to be doing, trying to concentrate or even think at all, under the circumstances. But there was no help for it. He’d been in the yard doing battlemagic for two hours that day, and he couldn’t afford to jeopardize his balance. He knew that the archmagister was right: there were dark days ahead. Wardin would need his wits about him.

Still, he was glad to take a break when an insistent knock announced the arrival of Erietta and Arun. They had to sit on the bed, while Wardin sat backwards in the chair, the three of them crowded into the little room like conspirators in a secret chamber.

The archmagister pulled us aside after dinner and told us where to find you, Arun said. Said he thought you could use your friends.

He was right about that. Wardin made a game attempt at his usual grin. Although I’m not sure what that has to do with you two.

The teasing fell flat, and Wardin looked down, scraping his thumbnail against the back of his chair.

Erietta cleared her throat. "It’s incredible, what your father did. And we agree with the archmagister. Everyone does. We won’t forget that he was—is—a hero."

Wardin kept his eyes on the thin light line he was scratching into the wood. "I don’t know whether it’s was or is. I know he’s to die, if he hasn’t already. But the archmagister didn’t know when. Or how."

No matter what happened between them personally, Bramwell wouldn’t hang a fellow monarch, Arun said. He’ll give him the dignity of a beheading.

That’s a fast death, Erietta added. He won’t feel it.

Wardin knew he was meant to find that comforting. Draven Rath was finally and for the first time a worthy man. He was being spoken of with respect and admiration. That his son would be anxious over the pain of his father’s final moments was assumed.

It was finally safe to love the man. Just in time to grieve for him.

Erietta leaned sideways, looking around Wardin at the books and papers on the desk. It’s just horrible, what you’re going through, and I’m very sorry for it, but I hope that book means you’ve been studying. You were doing quite a lot of battlemagic today, and I know it must be hard to concentrate, but⁠—

Eyrdri’s teeth, Erietta, this is not the time to turn into a nursery maid, Arun said.

No, she’s right. Don’t worry, I’m taking care of it. Wardin tried again to smile, although it felt stiff and dry on his face, like it had been drawn on with mud. And I hope you’ve been doing plenty of meditating on your sins, or whatever it is you contrivers do to keep balance.

Erietta rolled her eyes. "Sins. Really. Only ignorant people think contrivance is dark magic. It’s based in imagination. Balanced by mundane work. I stayed behind to help wash up after dinner, that’s why it took us so long to come. We can’t any of us afford to get out of balance now. We need to be at our best. Better than our best."

Why do you say that? Arun asked.

How can you be my twin, yet be so simple? Erietta pushed Arun’s shoulder. "All of Eyrdon is under Harthian control now. Prince Tobin’s control."

Arun waved this away as if she’d warned him about nothing more serious than a little coming rain. Which is awful, for the rest of Eyrdon. But we’ll just go on as normal. Tobin can’t find us. He won’t even try, because he doesn’t know to look for us. Our king saw to that.

"He’ll try to find me, though. Wardin swallowed, trying to ease a sudden ache in his throat. He hadn’t considered that until he said it aloud. I’m the last of my house. Bramwell won’t be content to leave the last Rath on the ground, waiting to take root and grow again. I could be the center of another rebellion one day. I could have sons and daughters."

His friends had no response to that. Probably because they knew he was right, and didn’t want to follow his logic to its natural conclusion: Bramwell would want him dead.

Wardin was glad when they left, and wasted no time getting into bed. He buried his face in the pillow and shamelessly pulled the blanket over his head, hiding from the Harthian king the same way he’d hidden from the monsters of his childhood nightmares.

When his mother was alive, she would light candles and sing him back to sleep after those terrible dreams. But his father would close the bed curtains tightly enough to blot out even the light of the fire’s embers, and tug the blanket firmly back from Wardin’s face.

You can’t hide from darkness, he would say. Pretending you can will only make it worse.

What am I to do, then? Wardin had asked him once. If I can’t light it away, and I can’t hide from it, how do I fight it?

On that, Draven had no advice to offer. He only smiled and said, Can’t say I’ve ever really tried to fight it.

But perhaps his father was wrong, and Arun was right. Perhaps Wardin could hide from the dark. Pendralyn felt safe, with its protective circle of mountains, its great magicians, its formidable keep. All through the war, he’d believed that no matter what dangers lurked outside, they could not enter this secret valley.

Now he had to hope that was true. He had to bet his life on it.

2

WARDIN

See? Erietta said. They aren’t staring at you.

Wardin looked around at the long tables, some occupied by magisters conversing sedately between sips of mead, others by animated, chattering students. Servants passed with their usual pleasant efficiency, refilling pitchers and platters, while blackhounds lay in wait for falling scraps. Erietta was right; few paid him any attention.

Just five days after the news of the war’s end, Pendralyn had settled back into the comfort of routine. Many were afraid for their families outside, but they also shared Arun’s view that the magistery was the safest place they could be. So they carried on studying and practicing, working and balancing. They kept to their traditions, including the customary hour of music and poetry after dinner. Several new songs were sung in Draven’s honor.

Or so Wardin was told. He’d taken most of his own meals outside or in his dormitory until tonight, when Arun and Erietta had finally coaxed him back to the keep. And he had to admit, he was glad. Eating a cold sausage pie while wandering the grounds in the damp gloom of autumn didn’t compare to the smell of slow-roasted meat and honey cakes, or the taste of warm spiced cider.

There were still some eyes on him, though, and not all of them friendly. He turned his attention back to his lamb, topping it generously with horseradish and rosemary jam. Ransen’s staring.

Arun snorted. Ransen’s from Tarnarven. He doesn’t care about the war. He’s still smarting from the beating you gave him in the yard yesterday, that’s all.

Wardin supposed it was ill-mannered to take joy in his decisive victory over the cocky, sarcastic Ransen, but he didn’t bother to suppress his grin. Smiles came rarely enough to him these days. He’s an easier opponent than your sister.

Is he? Erietta gave the boy in question an appraising look. I’d say he’s at least a stone heavier than you. And he’s a year ahead of us.

That doesn’t matter, the big and strong ones aren’t a problem. Wardin pointed at Erietta with his fork. It’s you crafty ones I can never beat. When I die, it’ll be at the hands of a contriver.

Or at the hands of the Harthian king. Like my father. He lifted his mug to his lips to hide his falling smile. Jokes weren’t safe anymore, not when real death felt so close.

Well, I’m glad you don’t think he’s a problem, Arun said, since he’s coming over here.

Wardin assumed Ransen was coming to confront them because he’d seen their smirking and guessed he was being talked about in a less than flattering way. But it seemed the older boy had something else on his mind. His narrow face, out of place on his much larger body, was lit with spite. "I hear King Bramwell is looking for you, Highness."

Before Wardin could answer, Arun flapped a hand in dismissal. Get gone, Ransen, what would you know about it? Been intercepting the archmagister’s couriers?

Don’t need to, Ransen said. My sister’s a sage.

So what? said Arun. So am I.

"She’s been here six years. And our uncle’s a sage, too. He’s in Narinore to discuss some business with the new Baron of Eyrdon."

Wardin still didn’t speak, but his chest tightened. They said some advanced sages could project their images to communicate with their fellows instantly. If that was true of Ransen’s sister and uncle, the oaf might actually know something.

Ransen stepped closer to Wardin’s chair. Prince Tobin’s already taken up residence in your family’s castle, and his soldiers are all over the city, asking people when you were there last, and where you might be found. I’ll wager King Bramwell wants to do to you what he did to your father.

Wardin kept his face still, but Arun and Erietta weren’t so practiced at appearing indifferent to Draven’s fate. Ransen took one look at their wide dark eyes and open mouths, and his sneer widened to a grin.

You don’t know, do you? He turned back to Wardin. Perhaps nobody told you because they thought you couldn’t bear it. Perhaps you’ll collapse, when you hear.

Wardin stood. Perhaps I’ll take you down with me.

Yes, you’re terrifying. Ransen sighed and brushed a few cake crumbs from his tunic. They did it at Narinore, in the public square, so all the Eyrds could see. King Bramwell was there. It seems a simple beheading wouldn’t satisfy him. He was more interested in vengeance than justice.

He had him hanged? A vein twitched in Arun’s tight jaw. How dare he?

Heat flared in Wardin’s chest and spread outward toward his limbs. Hanging was a death reserved for lowborn thieves, rapists, and murderers. To execute his father that way would have been an unforgivable insult, a denial of Draven’s royal blood.

Oh yes, they hung him, Ransen said. "For a start. Then they cut him down while he was still wriggling. Then the executioner stuck a hook up into his backside, and pulled out his innards. He burned those straightaway, so that the last thing Draven Rath would ever know was the smell of his own guts burning."

There was no point in accusing him of lying. Who could imagine the unimaginable? Certainly not Ransen.

Erietta made a choked sound. Wardin watched as if from a great distance, as one of the blackhounds came out from under the table to lick her hand. There was something wrong with his vision. It was going dark at the edges.

My uncle was there. He saw the whole thing. Ransen cocked his head. "Perhaps you should be honored, Highness. King Bramwell invented a whole new manner of execution, just for your dear father."

The dark edges went red. Wardin’s ears pounded. His whole body pounded. He lunged for Ransen, thinking nothing, feeling only yielding flesh and crunching bone and the black satisfaction of blow after wonderful blow.

Magister Alaide, the headmagister of battlemagic, did not discipline Wardin for attacking Ransen. She claimed that since Wardin hadn’t used any magic in the assault, it was technically not against magistery rules. The archmagister disagreed—officially. He declared that it would be a severe lapse of his duty to allow such a thing to go unpunished, and assigned Wardin a week of kennel duty.

Ransen seemed more insulted by this minor penalty than if there were none at all. He spent the day after the fight proclaiming (in a thick, peevish voice that was difficult to take seriously, thanks to his broken nose) that the magisters had taken pity on Wardin because he was a pathetic orphan, the prince of nothing, and the son of an executed traitor.

If the magisters had been motivated by pity, they weren’t the only ones. All that day, as word of Draven’s grisly execution spread, Wardin was bestowed with sympathetic smiles, deferent nods, oranges, honey cakes. When he went back to his dormitory, he found an extra candle on his bedside table, and a second blanket on his bed.

His father was not directly mentioned to him again. Not even by his friends. They made a game attempt at their usual good humor, and distracted him as best they could.

None of these kindnesses could ease his horror. Reminders of Draven’s fate were relentless and inescapable. Every drop of rain was a splatter of hot blood, every fork or knife a cruel hook. Every fire he passed smelled like it had been stoked with human flesh. Every voice heard across the practice yard sounded like his father’s screams.

Wardin didn’t sleep, for fear of what the darkness and his dreams would show him.

But at breakfast the next morning, Arun brought him a fresh source of dread: one of the sagacity students had been fetched home by his father in the dead of night. Nobody seemed to know why.

Why are you looking like that? Arun asked, after he finished delivering this news. You don’t think Thomas leaving has anything to do with you?

Why shouldn’t it? Wardin rubbed his suddenly sweaty hands against his trousers. You heard what Ransen said. The Harths are looking for me. Anyone might turn me in, hoping for some favor, even a pardon for a prisoner. Bramwell is probably offering a reward. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting the king’s men to burst into the keep.

Arun, on the other hand, peered intently at the platter of sausages, seemingly more concerned with choosing the best one than with the threat of king’s men. Thomas’s family owns a mine out west, hundreds of miles from Narinore. His father probably doesn’t even know the king wants you.

Even if he did know, it wouldn’t matter, Erietta added. Nobody would betray you as long as you’re here. Not even someone like Ransen, let alone a loyal Eyrd. They can’t say where you are without exposing themselves, their families, the magisters, everyone they know as complicit in the existence of a magistery. And we’re in a barony of Harth now. That’s treason, punishable by death.

Despite their attempts to reassure him, that day was even worse for Wardin than the one before. Now he had more than just his father’s screams to contend with. He listened constantly for them to be joined by those of his friends and fellow students, the magisters, the blackhounds. Anyone who might get in the way of the soldiers he felt sure would come for him.

Pendralyn was hidden—better than ever, thanks to his father—and strategically located so as to be highly defensible. It was the home of skilled magicians. He knew it was possible that he could be kept safe there.

But at what cost?

These worries proved unfounded—for the moment. Arun whistled his way into dinner that evening, and clapped Wardin’s back as he took