Chapter 25

Shavala crested the ridge to find a wide blackberry bramble spread out before her, stretching for acres and growing across the Hightower branch of the Old Road. She’d found the right place.

In anticipation of an oncoming army, Sarette had asked Kevik what he remembered of the route between Hightower and the keep, then scouted it out from the air herself, looking for spots where she or Shavala could make the road conditions even worse than they already were.

Shavala had completed her first task that morning, hiding a dangerous, rocky downslope under a thin layer of vegetation in the hopes that the mercenary army’s scouts would report the route was clear without testing it first.

Now, after five hours of hiking, she’d reached her second target. She sat cross-legged in the dirt and balanced the staff over her legs, concentrating on the changes she wanted. The staff didn’t raise any objections. It liked growing things, and it didn’t have enough intelligence to question why she was asking for so many more blackberry bushes.

While the existing growth had already covered the road, the mercenary army would be able to bypass it by going around on the south side, a small detour that wouldn’t cost them much time.

Shavala’s job was to eliminate that detour.

Blackberry grew rapidly under the right conditions, choking out other plants in the area. It would be easy to take advantage of its natural inclinations. As she concentrated, barbed vines sprouted upward out of the ground, more and more of them extending the bramble south until it reached a natural ridge line that was too steep for wagons to climb.

With the way blocked, the enemy commander would have to decide whether to cross the river here or send scouts out to look for alternate routes. The banks weren’t steep, but the water was deep enough that fording the river would be difficult for heavy wagons. The safest shallow-water crossing was twenty miles back west.

There was an easy way up the ridge just seven miles back—Shavala had passed it during her hike—but going that way would take them longer to scout. They’d have to make sure they could get back down again.

Corec hoped that rather than backtracking, or taking the time to build ramps and winches to pull the wagons up the slope, the commander would attempt to cross the river here, likely losing a few supply wagons in the process, and then losing more when they had to cross back again to rejoin the road. Whatever option they chose, even if it was to try to burn out the blackberry bushes, they’d lose at least half a day of travel.

To Shavala, it didn’t seem like the effort would have much of an impact, but Corec insisted that every little bit would help swing the odds in their favor. He had no desire to kill his own countrymen, and instead wanted to make their invasion more trouble than it was worth, hoping they’d be willing to talk by the time they arrived at the keep.

Done for the day, Shavala found a comfortable spot near the river to wait. Leena would return for her late in the evening, taking her to her next target.

Ten miles west of Hilltop Village, the southern bank of the ravine gradually sloped down to lower land before swelling back up to form one last hill, overlooking a spot where a wide creek flowed into the river.

The location offered a lot of possibility. If they dug out the creek bed to make it wider and deeper, then continued digging around the rest of the hill, it would allow water from the river to surround the whole thing with a free-flowing moat. By adding a small dam just downriver to raise the water level, the moat—the lake—would be wide enough to only be traversable by boat or bridge, preventing any attacks by siege towers and tunneling.

The hill offered a good view of the Hightower branch of the Old Road, and was large enough for a town five times the size of Hilltop. With enough time, perhaps they could even encircle it with a stone wall.

“Corec?” Sarette asked. “Did you hear me?”

Corec pushed the fantasy from his mind. Even with Ellerie’s help, a project like that would take years to complete. He needed to focus on the tools currently at his disposal.

“Hmm?” he said. “Oh, the watchtower. You’re sure we’ll be able to see it from the keep?”

“This close, I’m not sure we’d even need to be up on the lookout towers to see a signal. It would be better if it was farther away so we’d have a longer range, but the ground is lower after this and there just aren’t any good spots—not unless we’re ready to set up a chain of towers.”

Corec nodded. A single watchtower wouldn’t provide much extra warning, but they couldn’t afford to crew a whole series of them.

The real scouting would come from Sarette and Leena, but Corec had learned from the battle at Tir Yadar not to design a plan that depended too much on any one person. If Leena was unavailable for some reason, a watchtower here would provide an extra half-day’s warning. A full day, if the watchers kept their spyglasses trained to the west.

In some ways, it was an experiment for the future. Larso made use of fire beacons from time to time, but a beacon could only relay a limited number of messages. The stormborn had an entire language for their signal codes. Weather permitting, Sarette’s people could pass messages quickly across their entire territory—faster even than Larso’s royal messengers, who switched horses every four hours.

But, like a new town and fortress, that idea would have to wait.

“I hate to station a group so far away on their own,” Corec said. “I suppose they can just evacuate when they see Rusol’s troops coming. Can we put the tower back in those trees so the mercenaries won’t see it and tear it down?”

Sarette eyed the spot. “Maybe,” she said. “It needs a clear view of the road to the west and the keep to the east, but we can try.”

Corec nodded. “All right. Have Boktar hire the woodcutters and some of the builders and send them out this way. The ones who aren’t working on the weapon platforms.”

“I’ll let him know as soon as we’re back.”

They returned to their horses.

“How’s the training coming along?” Corec asked.

“We managed to find a few decent archers, but most of the new men are green. We’re up to five full squads now. Georg’s starting everyone on crossbows first, since that’s the easiest thing to teach and it’ll do the most good from up on the walls.”

“I don’t understand why we’ve got more men signing up. I was expecting to lose the few we had.”

“Ezra and the others have been telling everyone about the fight in the tavern. You were unarmed, unarmored, and outnumbered, and you still managed to win the day.”

Corec frowned. “The red eyes were almost as unprepared as we were. It was hardly a fair fight once we added magic to it.”

“I don’t think that would change anyone’s mind. In their eyes, we’ve already defeated a dragon. They don’t think a human army will be any harder than that.”

Corec shook his head. “We might be able to handle the army, but how are we supposed to fight mages if we don’t know who they are or what they can do?”

She gave him a serious look. “You’re thinking of agreeing to Razai’s plan, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure we have any other choice.”

“Here. Read this.”

Bobo looked up from his desk, startled. Ariadne had barged into his study without warning, thrusting out a sheet of paper. He took the page.

But no empire lasts forever. The demons could not defeat us, but in time, the Chosar split apart and went their separate ways. They became the stoneborn of Cordaea, Stone Home, and Sanvar. They became the stormborn of northern Aravor. They became the seaborn of the western oceans, and the sunborn of Vestath.

At the beginning of this story I referred to myself as The Last Chosar, but that is not true, for my people live on in our children.

Bobo had to reread it three times to make sure it said what he thought it said. The passage was written phonetically, as if from someone who’d never seen the words spelled out before. Finally he looked up, not sure how to respond.

“It’s for the end of the book,” Ariadne stated unnecessarily.

“This is ... is it real?” Bobo asked. “I’ve never heard anything like this.”

“The Lady told me herself.”

“Which lady? Wait—The Lady? When did you talk to her? How?”

“A vision, like priests get,” Ariadne said. “And that’s all I’m going to say about it. Will you add this to the book or not?”

Bobo looked back down at the passage. “Are you sure? What are the stormborn going to do when they hear about it? And the others?” The scholars he’d spoken to in Snow Crown had seemed certain that they weren’t descended from the first peoples.

“Sarette wants to send a copy to her people before we print the book. Boktar’s not sure how the dwarves will react, but they deserve to know the truth.”

“I’m not sure including it in a fable is the right approach.”

“You said that was the best way to get the word out. And now I know where to send the books once they’ve been printed.”

The intensity of Ariadne’s gaze was unsettling.

“I’ll do it,” he said, and she relaxed her stance just a bit.

Bobo was already rewriting the passage in his mind. Yet no empire can stand forever...

“Toman Tarwen, Your Majesty,” Captain Tark announced, showing the young man into Rusol’s study.

Rusol looked up but remained silent until both men began to fidget. “I was expecting your father,” he finally said. Couldn’t Tark handle the simplest of tasks?

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Toman replied. “Father’s busy this time of year, but when you requested our presence, we thought it best to respond without delay.”

Rusol had intended to learn whatever Lord Ansel could tell him, then cast a minor compulsion spell. If the hunters failed in their task, the father could lure the son back to the kingdom, separating him from his bondmates. With any luck, Corec would be dead—one way or another—before the mercenary army even arrived at his stronghold.

Could Toman take his father’s place in that plan? Why had he really come? Was he working for his brother? Rusol’s warden senses indicated Toman wasn’t a mage.

Rusol stood abruptly. “Let’s visit the trophy room,” he said. His study was where Corec’s assassin had tried to kill him. Talking to his brother in the same place seemed like a bad omen.

Rusol’s two bodyguards took position at the front of the procession, while Captain Tark and his two guardsmen brought up the rear. Five guards seemed excessive inside the palace, but mage or not, Rusol didn’t trust Toman Tarwen. There was something about him that seemed off.

“Is your father well?” Rusol said to fill the silence. He hated small talk. What was there to discuss other than the obvious?

Toman must have felt the same way. “Your Majesty, to tell the truth, I had another reason for coming,” he said, his voice just a little too loud. “I felt I would be a better choice to answer any questions you had about my brother.”

“Is that so?”

“My father is ... overly sentimental about Corec.”

“I take it you are not?”

“I see him for what he is.”

“And what is that?”

“Someone who’s spent his whole life always getting his way. After his mother died, my father never wanted to discipline him. He let him join the knights, and when they kicked him out for being a wizard, Father acted like it didn’t matter. Oh, sure, they had words, but in the end, Corec got his way again. We follow Pallisur, but we let a wizard back into the house!” Toman’s voice had grown even louder as he spoke.

Had the man come all the way to Telfort just to go on a jealous rant, or did he actually know something useful?

They reached the trophy room, and two of the guards went in first to check for threats. Rusol gestured for Toman to follow them, but stopped Tark at the door.

“Has he been drinking?” Rusol hissed.

“I apologize, Your Majesty. I found the bottle on him just before we arrived. He must have bought it last night when the guards weren’t watching.”

There had to be a longer story there, but this wasn’t the time for it.

Rusol rejoined Toman and tried again. “I’m more interested in what he’s like now. Have you spoken to your brother recently? Has he mentioned why he would set himself against the throne?”

“What did he do?”

“You said it yourself—he’s a mage, an enemy of the Church.” Rusol figured he might as well take advantage of the man’s own biases.

But it drew a sharp look from Toman. What did he know?

“The Church...” Toman started. “He hates the Church. I thought he was going to kill our old priest once.”

When he didn’t continue, Rusol had to prompt him again. “Why was that?”

Toman shrugged. “Because he’s a mage? Because his mother was a whore? I don’t know. I didn’t catch it all.” He met Rusol’s gaze as he spoke. Was he trying to goad him? He had to know Rusol’s mother had been a concubine too.

Rusol struggled to keep from losing his temper. “Let’s talk about something more useful,” he said. “What sort of magics does he use? What are the defenses like at the keep he’s claimed in the free lands? How many men does he have?”

“What does any of that matter? He’s gone. He never comes back except to brag.”

“It matters because he tried to kill me!” Rusol snapped.

Toman stared at him. “You ... you think Corec wants to kill you?” He sounded truly puzzled.

“He sent an assassin! He knows I’m a—” Rusol cut off what he was about to say.

“I ... I apologize, Your Majesty. I don’t think Corec would...”

“He did!”

“The ... the punishment for treason. It’s...”

“Just tell me what you know, damn it!” Rusol shouted. A red haze settled over his vision.

Toman’s expression hardened. “What I know is that at least he had the decency to leave the kingdom when he found out he was a mage! Unlike you, you son of a demon whore!”

At the sudden change in tone, one of the bodyguards grabbed Toman’s shoulder. Toman twisted out of his grasp, but before he could do anything else, Rusol thrust his hands forward, lighting cackling outward in an arc and striking both men. Their burned bodies collapsed to the floor.

Breathing heavily, Rusol forced the rage down. Captain Tark, who’d been standing out of the way, stepped forward to join him.

“Another assassin,” Tark said. He and the other guards were under such heavy compulsion that they didn’t seem disturbed by the death of their comrade. “He must have been. I’ll take two squads to arrest the father.”

“What?”

“Two of his sons have tried to kill you now, Sire.”

Except Toman’s attempt—if that’s what it was—had hardly seemed premeditated, and if Rusol was being honest, he was the one who’d struck the first blow against Corec.

Did that justify arresting Ansel Tarwen? The baron was one of the few nobles who’d treated him with genuine respect. Others had spoken fancier words, but Ansel had meant his. Had it all been a ruse?

“Wait, we need to think! What if there’s an army waiting to ambush you in the mountains? If Lord Ansel is behind it all, two squads won’t be enough. We need to kill Corec first—he’s the real threat. The border barons don’t have any power.”

Tark frowned. “Let me send scouts, at least.”

“Yes, fine, send scouts. Once we’re sure there aren’t any hidden surprises, then ... then we can figure out what to do next.”

The problem with invading the Black Crows was that the mercenary army was preparing to head into the free lands. Rusol could deploy the regular army, but if he did, word would get out that there’d been another attempt on his life. Everyone knew there’d been two already. The first because Rusol had insisted that Samir be heralded as a hero for saving his life, and the second because too many people knew of the incident with Razai to hide the truth.

How would the lords react if they believed there’d been a third assassination attempt, and that Rusol was sending soldiers after one of their peers? He barely trusted the peerage even at the best of times. If they sensed weakness, they might move against him. Before he could act freely, he would need time to put each and every one of them under compulsion.