The Ranger's Sorrow: The King's Ranger Book 4 Read online

  In the belly of the palace, locked in a room of stone and steel, he tried vainly to extend his senses, but he found nothing. His power, low magic, was rooted in his connection to the wild world, and they were about as far as one could be from the untamed places. He could not replenish himself, could not gather the ancient magic that flowed through the world. All he could do was wait.

  But while far from the wild, they weren’t as far from death. In whispered conversations with Cinda, Rew asked her to feel for what power she could draw. He’d told Calb who she was and why she was wanted, but the prince knew none of the details. Calb might overestimate or underestimate what Cinda was capable of, and they could use that.

  Anne spent her time trickling empathy into Cinda. She was careful not to surge too much power toward the girl, but with a full day and nothing else to do, Anne was able to meter the flow until Cinda was up and walking around with hesitant, slow steps.

  Raif and Zaine loitered, too tired and frightened for their normal banter.

  The empath offered healing to them, but Rew suggested she save her strength. He imagined the rest of them might need more than a little bit of Anne’s care soon enough. She shrugged but did as he asked.

  Rew’s own cuts and abrasions were more annoyances than anything, but his shoulder was a problem. Without his pack, he had no herbs to reduce the swelling or mask the pain, and he wouldn’t have let Anne tend to it even if he wasn’t trying to conserve her energy.

  She did assess his shoulder. She found nothing was permanently damaged, and advised, “You need to rest it. Two weeks.”

  He rubbed his head, and she gave him an apologetic, tight-lipped look.

  “If I have to fight…”

  “If you have to fight, we don’t really have much choice, do we? Everything you do, you risk further injury, but even I have to admit, that’s the least of our concerns right now. Hearing you complain about your shoulder a week from today is a luxury I hope we have.”

  When Calb’s people finally came for them and brought the party before the prince, Rew was stunned to find the nameless woman and Ambrose present. The nameless woman stood with her head held high, portraying bold bravado, but Rew had gotten to know her well enough to see through the facade. She was nervous. He wondered what she’d told Prince Calb.

  He really wondered how she’d gotten there.

  Ambrose, compared to the woman, looked quite a bit worse for wear. Rew didn’t know if it had happened in Valchon’s or Calb’s care, but someone had thoroughly beaten the necromancer. The forlorn-looking man barely spared Rew a glance when they were brought in, and Rew guessed that whoever had questioned Ambrose had learned everything the man had ever known and probably some things Ambrose didn’t know but said just to make the violence stop. Luckily, Ambrose had few details to share which Rew hadn’t already blurted out in front of the prince’s familiar.

  His arm recently freed from the sling, Rew scratched his beard and eyed the woman and the hairless necromancer. They hadn’t gotten to Jabaan on their own, had they?

  Prince Calb cleared his throat and stopped the procession bringing Rew and the others while they were still thirty paces away from his throne. A pair of soldiers scuttled forward, laying out the weapons and gear they’d stripped from the prisoners before they’d left the arcanist’s tower. Rew regretted not hiding any of his daggers, but the guards had been thorough in their search, and Prince Calb wasn’t going to fall to a dagger thrown from thirty paces away, anyway.

  His longsword, knife, and daggers were laid beside Raif’s greatsword, Zaine’s bow and daggers, her single remaining arrow, a variety of utilitarian belt knives, the nameless woman’s bronze scimitar, and Vyar Grund’s gleaming, silver falchions.

  Surprised, Rew glanced at the nameless woman. The falchions had been in Carff, left in the party’s sitting room when they’d accompanied Valchon to Stanton. The nameless woman must have slipped them out when the prince was distracted from the aftermath of the battle. It gave Rew hope as he knew Valchon wouldn’t have volunteered to give the swords up. The nameless woman wasn’t working for Valchon, and it didn’t make much sense she would be working for Calb, either. The nameless woman gave Rew a pained smirk, as if to say she’d tried.

  “You travel with odd companions, Rew,” said Calb, looking at the weapons from several paces away.

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” agreed the ranger, studying Prince Calb, wondering what the man’s intentions were. The prince hadn’t killed them yet, but that wasn’t necessarily a good sign. Rew held up his arms. “A hug for old times’ sake?”

  “I don’t think so, Rew,” responded Calb dryly. “I wonder, is there a collection of enchanted weapons this extensive outside of Mordenhold or our brother’s court in Iyre? Pfah. Our brother. You never thought of us that way, did you? All of those years in Mordenhold, growing up in the creche together, and you never thought of us as family, as your blood.”

  “Do you think of us that way?”

  Calb laughed. “I do, but I suppose that means something very different for us than it does the rest of Vaeldon. No, family is not a calm harbor for us, a place of safety and succor. Family is competition. Family is the enemy. We were raised to kill our family. So yes, Rew, I do think of you that way.”

  “Best get on with it, then,” drawled Rew.

  Calb raised an eyebrow, as if he’d expected Rew to beg for his life.

  Rew waited.

  “M’lord?” asked one of the spellcasters standing to Calb’s side. In his hands, he was building a small blue ball of intense flame. Rew wondered if the spellcaster thought he would be able to strike down a king’s ranger with such a paltry effort.

  Calb scowled at his spellcaster then began to pace, shooting looks at Rew then at Ambrose and the nameless woman. Rew’s lips curled into a grin.

  “What?” demanded Calb. “Something funny? Are you that eager to die?”

  Rew gestured around the room. “Kill me if you want. I’m unarmed and surrounded by your people, so you certainly could, but what then? What did you learn in the creche, Calb? One does not win the Investiture through strength of arms alone. One wins through strategy and cunning. You’re falling behind, Brother. You failed against Valchon and allowed him to prove his resilience. I imagine allies are flocking to him as we speak. And through it all, Heindaw went untouched. You sacrificed your resources and gained nothing for it. I’d bet my longsword you’ll be the first to fall.”

  “Shut your mouth!” snapped the prince.

  “And you don’t even know what the other two are plotting, do you?” asked Rew, shaking his head and smiling. “Alsayer must have told you something, hinted at what Kallie Fedgley would share with you, but I don’t need to tell you how little you can trust our cousin. Kill me, and you’ll die not knowing the truth.”

  Calb licked his lips. “Tell me the truth, then.”

  Rew returned his brother’s look and did not respond.

  “I could have you tortured, but I won’t waste my time. I bet you’d hold out longer than I have patience for,” admitted Calb. “You always were stubborn, but what of your friends? How long will you wait while I work through them one by one? I’ve been experimenting, Rew, and I think you’ll be surprised at what my conjurings are capable of. Hmm, where should we start? Not the Fedgley lass, we may need her, but what about the empath? She’ll be used to pain. As difficult to break as you would be, but perhaps a challenge is what I need. She’ll stomach the pain, but can you stomach the mutilation and disfigurement of one of your friends?”

  Rew stared at his brother, stone-faced.

  “The other lass?” asked Calb, twiddling his thumbs and smiling. “She looks terrified, already on the verge of breaking.”

  “Don’t give into him, Rew,” cried Zaine, her voice tight with fear.

  The tall arcanist, the one who’d quizzed them below, sauntered closer. Now that he was out of the dungeon and had a dozen spellcasters behind him and the prince himself in t
he room, the man was a lot more confident than he’d been below. His eyes were harder now, but he seemed to have dismissed the horror he’d seen when the prince’s imps turned on his companions. He stopped in front of each of them, studying their faces. Rew winked at the man, but the arcanist ignored it and moved to stand in front of Cinda. A smile grew on his lips as he assessed the necromancer.

  “M’lord, I’ve been thinking about this plot,” he called to Prince Calb, “and I believe it has something to do with my brother, Salwart. You recall he works for Heindaw? My brother was researching the boundaries of necromancy for the prince, and he traveled east in recent years and attached himself to Duke Eeron’s court. He believed the secret at the heart of his theories was in the east. What if it’s this lass? The spellcaster Alsayer hinted something similar about Kallie Fedgley, did he not?”

  “You’re Arcanist Salwart’s brother?” demanded Rew, surprised.

  “Half-brother,” answered the man, brushing a bit of imaginary dust from his shoulder. “We share little other than a mother and a devotion to the arcane.”

  “Nothing but lies comes from Alsayer’s mouth,” snapped the prince. He paused, then questioned, “Can we trust what your brother told you?”

  “Of course not,” said the tall arcanist, “but we don’t need to. Before he joined Heindaw’s cause, Salwart shared his theories with me. I thought them outlandish. I suppose he believed if he could convince me, he could convince anyone. I… I borrowed some of his research material, and I read it think I may use... Pfah. At the time it was like reading a fever dream, but it matches the story the ranger told us yesterday. My brother believed he learned a way to defeat King Vaisius Morden, but he didn’t have the resources to do it. I think the girl is the key.”

  “What use would Heindaw have for a method to face my father?” barked Calb. “As soon as the Investiture ends, one of us will be crowned king. Why fight the old man when he’s prepared to step aside? Valchon and I are Heindaw’s real enemies.”

  “Information has power, m’lord. Or perhaps, your brothers aren’t content to wait for the end of the Investiture?”

  “If you become king, then this information is just as great a risk to you as it is to Father,” Rew pointed out helpfully. “Methods that could topple one king might topple any king.”

  Calb blinked at him in confusion.

  Rew asked the arcanist, “Do you have your brother’s materials, still?”

  The arcanist smirked. “Do I carry around documents purporting to be the secret of overthrowing the king? I’m not a fool. But,” the arcanist tapped his head, “my memory is sharper than ever. I believe with a little time, I can put together what my brother and Prince Heindaw were going to attempt. Now that I’ve seen the picture, it makes sense in a way it did not before. With the girl in my custody, I just need to—”

  “Come close, and I’ll tell you what you need to know,” offered Rew. “I’ll tell you exactly how Heindaw plans to use the lass.”

  “You’ll tell me, will you?” snickered the tall arcanist. “Why do I need to come close?”

  Rew turned his head slowly, looking over everyone in the room. “Don’t you think this is a secret that you should keep… secret?”

  The soldiers in the room and the other spellcasters shuffled, as if it suddenly occurred to them just how dangerous it might be overhearing the discussion Rew and the arcanist were having.

  “Hear what he has to say,” barked Calb. “I want to get this over with.”

  The arcanist stepped toward the ranger.

  Rew thrust out a hand, his shoulder protesting at the motion, and he called to one of Vyar Grund’s falchions. The blade twitched, and then it flew in the air, streaking across the throne room. Rew caught it and spun, bringing the blade against the side of the arcanist’s neck and decapitating the man cleanly with one blow.

  Bands of crackling energy snapped around Rew from half a dozen spellcasters. Several of Calb’s imps lurched closer, putting themselves between the ranger and the prince, but Rew’s work was done. The arcanist was dead. The moment Rew had seen the falchions lying there, he’d planned to pull the stunt on Calb himself, but his brother wasn’t a fool. If he wasn’t going to step close to hear that secret, he wasn’t going to come close for anything. Besides, if the arcanist knew what he’d claimed to know, then he couldn’t be allowed to live.

  The spells around him tightened, and Rew dropped the falchion. Even with the enchanted blade, he couldn’t face the full force of Calb and his men when they were ready for it. Best to stay alive and hope he got another chance.

  He cleared his throat and asked, “Shall we start over?”

  Their second round of confinement was significantly less pleasant than the first. Instead of the dungeon at the base of the tower, they were chained outside, their arms stretched above their heads, clapped in thick manacles. The chains were raised, so they were forced to stand upright against a stone wall, but there was enough slack they could move about a little, which meant the heavy links hung uncomfortably on top of them. It was a position meant to allow little chance of mischief and impose a great deal of discomfort.

  Rew looked up, thinking perhaps he could climb the chain if there was a time no one was looking, but the sturdy steel links disappeared into a hole above his head in the bottom of an overhang. There was room there for the chain and nothing else. He wouldn’t even be able to fit a hand into the hole. He wasn’t sure it’d do him any good if he could.

  Besides, the chances of no one watching were nil. Calb had stationed fifty armed soldiers in the courtyard, a dozen of them clutching crossbows, and half the prince’s spellcasters were on duty as well. It was almost laughable, as chained to the wall and weaponless, they really weren’t much of a threat.

  But it wasn’t for Rew, he didn’t think, despite what he’d done in the throne room to the arcanist. Calb knew that Cinda was the key to Heindaw’s plot against the king, but he didn’t know what that plot was or what she was capable of. The prince must have considered whether Cinda could cast powerful magic but simply hadn’t yet because she’d been injured or for some other reason. That was why the crossbowmen and spellcasters were there. They were spread out in a fan, so if she did release an attack, she wouldn’t be able to get them all, and Calb’s people could retaliate before she managed to escape.

  Evidently, Calb didn’t have any of the magic-dampening devices that they’d seen in Falvar and Spinesend, which meant there was only one way for him to keep a spellcaster prisoner—with a veritable army of guards on duty at all times. Did Duke Eeron not tell the prince about the devices, or had Calb simply not thought he would need them? Either way, the lack of preparation didn’t bode well for Calb’s chances in the Investiture.

  Not that it did them any good.

  Rew figured they had as much time as it would take for Calb to try and locate Alsayer. The prince wouldn’t want to execute them until he heard from the spellcaster or realized he couldn’t find the man and thought it was too much a risk to keep Rew and Cinda alive. Information had power, but keeping an enemy necromancer nearby and alive was a dangerous way to try and get it. Even if Calb believed Cinda was the key to defeating his brothers or had value he could extract from the king, he would be nervous every moment she was imprisoned within his palace. They had a day, thought Rew. Calb would have been suspicious of Alsayer from the beginning, so given reason to distrust the man, he would. Calb wasn’t that big of a fool.

  Rew shook his chains. He wondered if Cinda could summon enough energy for her funeral fire to snap the links? The fire she called did not have the heat of natural fire, but it did have force. If the metal was cold enough, it would be brittle and prone to breaks. He’d never actually tried breaking frozen steel. He was pretty sure it was possible, but he wasn’t completely sure. There was also the problem of what would they do if she freed them. She couldn’t face so many spellcasters at once, or even one on one, given her condition and recent brush with death. His own odds, empty-h
anded against fifty armed men and the spellcasters, weren’t worth considering.

  But they had to get loose. That’d be the first step in any plan. The second step would be getting his longsword. With it, they might have a chance.

  Zaine was hanging beside him. Once they’d been there for hours and their captors had gotten comfortable, Rew turned to the thief. “Can you, ah, pick these locks or something?”

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  “You’re a thief, it’s what you do. You got us into the arcanist tower easily enough,” he hissed. “Don’t you practice for this sort of thing?”

  “I got us in and almost killed Raif,” she responded. “And yes, in a sense we do practice this sort of thing. When a thief is taken in, we practice abandoning our guildhall and fleeing to a more secure location. We practice hiding all those who might know the thief and presenting distractions to guards coming our way. We don’t even bother trying to rescue the person taken captive, and to my knowledge, no one ever escapes if they’re given the sort of attention we’re getting now. If anything, the thieves would try to assassinate compromised members instead of freeing them. It’s safer that way.”

  “Well, that’s a pessimistic way to look at the world,” complained Rew. “What about the locks? Can you do something with them?”

  “They took my lock picks, but even if I did have them, do you think I’d have a chance to use them with half the palace watching us? Face it, Ranger, we’re stuck here.”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I plan to escape.”

  “How?”

  “I’m working on that,” muttered Rew. “It would have helped if you could pick the locks.”