The Prince chuckled, gentle and unforced. If he had studied a book devoted to the art of infuriating me he could have done no better job. Pride has ever been my weakness, and occasionally my strength.
‘My apologies then, young man.’ I could see his champion frown at that, even behind his visor. ‘I travel to see the lands that I will rule as emperor, to know the people and the cities. And to speak with the nobles, the barons, counts … and even kings, who will serve me when I sit upon the empire throne. I would win their service with wisdom, words and favour, rather than with sword and fire.’
A pompous enough speech perhaps, but he had a way with words this one. Oh my brothers, the way he spoke them. A magic of a new kind, this. More subtle than Sageous’s gentle traps – even that heathen witch with his dream-weaving would envy this kind of persuasion. I could see why the Prince had taken off his helm. The enchantment didn’t lie in the words alone but in the look, in the honesty and trust of it all, as if every man who heard them was worthy of his friendship. A talent to be wary of, maybe more potent even than the power Corion used to set me scurrying across empire and to steer my uncle from behind his throne.
The hound sat and licked the slobber from its chops. It looked big enough to swallow a small lamb.
‘And why would they listen to you, Prince of Arrow?’ I asked. I heard a petulance in my voice and hated it.
‘This Hundred War must end,’ he said. ‘It will end. But how many need drown in blood before the peace? Let the throne be claimed. The nobles can keep their castles, rule their lands, collect their gold. Nothing will be lost; nothing will end but the war.’
And there it was again. The magic. I believed him. Even without him saying so I knew that he truly sought peace, that he would rule with a fair and even hand, that he cared about the people. He would let the farmers farm, the merchants trade, the scholars seek their secrets.
‘If you were offered the empire throne,’ he said, looking only at me, ‘would you take it?’
‘Yes.’ Though I would rather take it without it being offered.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why do you want it?’
He shone a light into my dark corners, this storybook prince with his calm eyes. I wanted to win. The throne was just the token to demonstrate that victory. And I wanted to win because other men had said that I may not. I wanted to fight because fighting ran through me. I gave less for the people than for the dung heap we rolled Makin in.
‘It’s mine.’ All the answer I could find.
‘Is it?’ he asked. ‘Is it yours, Steward?’
And in one flourish he showed his hand. And showed my shame. You should know that the men who fight the Hundred War, and they are all men, save for the Queen of Red, fall from two sides of a great tree. The line of the Stewards, as our enemies call us, trace the clearest path to the throne, but it is to the Great Steward, Honorous, who served for fifty years when the seed of empire failed. And Honorous sat before the throne rather than on it. Still a strong claim to be heir to the man who served as emperor in all but name is a better case for taking that throne than a weak claim to be heir to the last emperor. At least that’s how we Stewards see it. In any case I would cut myself a path to the throne even if some bastard-born herder had fathered me on a gutter-whore – genealogy can work for me or I can cut down the family tree and make a battering ram. Either way is good.
Many of the line of Stewards are cast in my mould: lean, tall, dark of hair and eye, quick of mind. Even our foes call us cunning. The line of the emperor is muddied, lost in burning libraries, tainted by madness and excess. And many of the line, or who claim it, are built like Prince Orrin: fair, thick of arm, sometimes giants big as Rike, though pleasing on the eye.
‘Steward is it now?’ I rolled my wrist and my sword danced. His hound stood up, sharp, without a growl.
‘Put it away, Jorg,’ he said. ‘I know you. You have the look of the Ancraths about you. As dark a branch of the Steward tree as ever grew. You’re all still killing each other so I hear?’
‘That’s King Jorg to you,’ I said, knowing I sounded like a spoiled child and unable to help it. Something in Orrin’s calm humour, in the light of him, cast a shadow over me.
‘King? Ah, yes, because of Ancrath, and Gelleth,’ he said. ‘But I’m told your father has named young Prince Degran his heir. So perhaps …’ He spread his hands and smiled.
The smile felt like a slap in the face. So Father had named the new son he’d made with his Scorron whore. And gifted him my birthright. ‘And you’re thinking to give him the Highlands too?’ I asked. Keeping the savage grin on my face however much it wanted to slide away. ‘You should know that there are a hundred of my Watch hidden in the rocks ready to slot arrows through the gaps in that fancy armour, Prince.’ It might even be true. I knew that at least some of the Watch would be tracking the knights.
‘I’d say it was closer to twenty,’ Prince Orrin said. ‘I don’t think they’re mountain men, are they? Did you bring them out of Ancrath, Jorg, when you ran? They’re skilled enough, but proper mountain men would be harder to spot.’
He knew too much, this prince. It was seriously starting to annoy. And as you know, being angry makes me angry.
‘In any case,’ he carried on as if I weren’t about to explode, as if I weren’t about to ram my sword entirely through his body, ‘I won’t kill you for the same reason you won’t kill me. It would replace two weak kingdoms with a stronger one. When the road to the empire throne, to my throne, leads me here, I would rather find you and your colourful friends terrorizing the peasants and getting drunk, than find your father or Baron Kennick keeping order. And I hope that by the time I arrive you will have grown wiser as well as taller, and open your lands to me as emperor.’
I jumped from my rock and the hound stood in my path quicker than quick, still no growl but way too many teeth on display, all gleaming with slobber. I fixed its eyes, which is a good way to get your face bitten off, but I meant to threaten the beast. Holding my sword by hilt and blade, flat side forward, I took another step, a snarl rising in me. I had a hound once, a good one that I loved, before such soft words were taken from me, and I had no wish to kill this one. But I would. ‘Back.’ More growl than word. My eyes on his.
And with ears flat to its head the beast whimpered and skulked back between the horses’ legs. I think it sensed the death in me. A bitter meal, that necromancer’s heart. Another step away from the world. It sometimes seems I stand three steps outside the lives of other men. One for the heart. One for the thorn bush. And perhaps the first for that dog I remember in dreams.
I call him mine but the hound belonged to my brother William and me. A wolf-hound of some kind, huger than the two of us, a charger fit for two young knights. He could take William on his back, Will being just four, but if I leapt on too he would shake us both off and nip my leg. We called him Justice.
‘Impressive,’ said Prince Orrin, looking anything but impressed. ‘If you’re finished with my dog then we’ll be on our way. I plan to cross through to Orlanth via High Pass, or Blue Moon Pass if it’s clear, and pay a call on Earl Samsar.’
‘You’ll be on your way when I say so,’ I told him, still aching for … something. Fear maybe? Perhaps just a measure of respect would do it. ‘And by whatever route I allow.’ I didn’t like the way he seemed to know the lie of my land better than I did.
He raised an eyebrow at that, keeping a smile at bay and irking me more than smiling would have. ‘And what then is your judgment in this matter, King Jorg?’
Every fibre of me ached to hurt him. In any other man his words would sound smug, arrogant, but here on this cold mountain slope they sounded honest and sincere. I hated him for being so openly the better man. I caught his eye and in that instant I knew. He pitied