The Promised Lie

The Unwritten Words I

Christopher G. Nuttall

Dedication

To my second son, John, who made his appearance as this book was being drafted.
Prologue

The valley was dark and cold and as silent as the grave.

Lord Havant of Hereford glanced from side to side, warily, as his guide led him further down the rocky path.  He’d been warned, time and time again, that the forbidden lands were forbidden for a reason ... that they were dangerous, rather than places the Grand Sorcerers preferred to keep to themselves.  Walking into the valley bothered him on a very primal level, even though his rudimentary magic sensed no threat.  There was something about the cold seeping into his bones that urged him to flee.

He banished the feeling with an effort, drawing his cloak tighter around his body.  He’d expended a great deal of effort on crossing the Wild Mountains – far too close to the Goldenrod Lands for comfort – to back out now, despite the sensation of danger that pervaded the dark air.  Hark had told him, time and time again, that the ancient temple was the only place they could perform the rite and Havant believed him.  The monk knew better than to lie to the heir to an earldom.

The shadows seemed to shimmer as they reached the bottom, revealing a strange building hidden within the darkness.  He couldn’t quite see it, as if there were a spell concealing its precise dimensions.  All he could make out were impressions: strange towers, dark runes on the walls, stone statues positioned by the entrance ... and a faint light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.  His guide didn’t hesitate.  He walked past the statues and through the entrance as if he didn’t have a care in the world.  Havant knew himself to be a brave man – he’d led his brother’s forces in war – but it took all of his courage to follow the guide into the building.  The urge to flee was growing stronger and stronger all the time.

Inside, the building was empty, save for a single stone altar.  The light grew stronger, radiating out of the stone walls.  Hark was standing on the other side of the chamber, his hood pulled back to reveal his long beard and stern features.  His dark eyes flashed with a fanatical determination that made him seem a different man.  Havant had to force himself to look back, evenly.  He was the master outside the building.  He could be the master inside, too.

“You have come,” Hark said.  His voice boomed in the shadows.  “Did you bring the blood?”

“I did,” Havant said.  

He reached into his pocket and produced the tiny vial.  It had been his sister, Queen Emetine, who’d obtained the blood.  Her husband’s guard had slipped, just once.  Perhaps Emetine felt guilty for what she’d done, or for what she’d set in motion.  But it didn’t matter.  Emetine had failed in the first duty of a queen and it was only a matter of time before her husband put her aside for someone younger, prettier and fertile.  A childless royal marriage simply couldn’t be allowed to last.

And then it will be just a matter of time until the civil war resumes, Havant thought.  His family couldn’t afford another round of strife.  They’d worked hard to secure their position and he had no intention of losing it.  We have to strike first.

Hark walked forward and took the vial, then snapped his fingers.  Monks started to walk into the chamber, the shadows moving around them like living things ... as if the monks were themselves shadows.  Their faces were hidden completely behind their cowls, lost in the darkness.  They made no noise as they moved.  Havant couldn’t even hear them breathing.  It was easy to believe, just for a moment, that they weren’t truly human.  Suddenly, all of the strange tales about the forbidden zone seemed terrifyingly believable.

“Ours is the gift of death,” Hark said.  His voice echoed in the chamber.  “We offer it freely to those who wish it.”

Another hooded figure stepped out of the shadows and walked towards the altar, then stopped and removed her robe.  Havant stared, despite himself, as the robe pooled around her bare ankles.  She was naked, old enough to wed yet untouched by life; her face both enchantingly sweet and strangely alien.  There were no blisters on her body, no hints of a hard life on the farms.  She showed no sign of feeling ashamed or vulnerable, even though most girls on the Summer Isle were raised to keep their clothes on at all times.  The sense of wrongness grew stronger as the girl climbed onto the stone altar and lay on her back.  Havant could feel ... something ... drifting in the air, a presence waiting to be born.  The entire world seemed to be holding its breath.

“Death is our gift,” Hark said.

He unstopped the vial and poured the blood onto the girl’s chest.  She didn’t move, even when he dipped his crooked finger in the blood and used it to draw lines and runes on her body.  Havant wondered, suddenly, if she’d been drugged or enchanted.  There were plenty of spells and potions that would account for the girl’s calm.  And yet ...

“Mighty Dusk,” Hark said.  “We ask for Your blessing.  We ask for Your gift.  We ask for Your guidance as we work for Your day.”

“Death is our gift,” the monks said.

The sense of presence grew stronger.  Havant watched, feeling almost as if he was floating outside his own body, as Hark withdraw a silver knife from his robes.  Something told Havant that he should be alarmed, but ... he felt calm, utterly unmoved.  And then Hark raised the knife up and held it above the girl’s chest.

“Death is our gift,” he said, once again.

He stabbed down, hard.  The girl cried out, once.  Blood splashed in all directions.  The presence grew even stronger, pressing against the boundaries of reality ...

... And, four hundred miles away, King Edwin of the Summer Isle screamed and died.

Chapter One

“Well?”

Isabella ignored Big Richard’s rather snappy demand as she concentrated on the village in the distance, reaching out with her senses.  It was a small village, forty miles from the nearest town: fifteen hovels, a blacksmith’s forge, a hedge-witch’s home and very little else, all surrounded by patchwork fields.  It should have been teeming with life – men working in the fields, women and children tending the animals – but it was deserted.  She couldn’t pick up a hint of life.

Big Richard snorted, rudely.  “Performance issues?”

“No,” Isabella said, tartly.  She concentrated.  There was something, right at the edge of her awareness.  A sense of ... something.  She couldn’t put it into words.  “There doesn’t seem to be anyone in the village.”

“Magicians,” Big Richard sneered.  “Always coming up with excuses for failure.”

“There’s no one within eyeshot, either,” Little Jim pointed out.  “Or can you see something the rest of us can’t?”

Big Richard made a rude sound.  Isabella looked at him, then his brother.  It was hard to believe they were related, even though they had the same eyes.  Big Richard was a short, but beefy man, so muscular that Isabella rather suspected he had some orc blood in him somewhere, carrying a massive axe slung over one shoulder.  His brother, by contrast, was tall and slim.  The only thing they had in common was red hair ... and a prejudice against magic-users.  Big Richard hadn’t made any bones about distrusting anyone who used magic, Isabella included.  If Lord Robin hadn’t insisted on Isabella joining the company, Big Richard would have tried to drive her away.

Which wouldn’t have been easy, Isabella thought.  The protective amulets Big Richard wore were effective, against hedge-witches.  She’d been taught ways to get spells through basic protections, ways to curse someone who thought he was safe.  And yet, that would have probably cost me my job too.

She rolled her eyes as the two men turned back towards the deserted village.  She’d been with the company for six months and she knew, despite everything, that she’d been lucky.  Female mercenaries were rare, even in troubled times.  And while she had proven herself to Lord Robin, she was aware that too many of the other mercenaries distrusted her.  They knew very little about her past.

And if they did know about my past, she reminded herself, they’d distrust me even more.

Very few people would have recognised her, even if they’d heard her name.  Isabella was hardly a common name, but it wasn’t that uncommon.  Her close-cropped black hair, scarred face and form-fitting brown leathers – complete with a sword, a knife and a wand – were very different from the clothes she’d worn years ago, in another life.  No one would draw a connection between her and the Isabella who’d left the Golden City, seven years ago.  And that was how she wanted it to be.

Lord Robin cantered up and smiled at them.  He was a handsome man, Isabella admitted privately, with short blond hair and shining armour.  And he was a good leader, one strong enough to rule a band of mercenaries and yet smart enough to listen to their concerns.  She had no idea if he truly was an aristocratic bastard or not – he was the only person who called himself a lord – but it hardly mattered.  There were countless noblemen seeking real power now the Empire was gone.

“I can’t sense anything,” Isabella said.  There was no point in telling him about the feeling at the back of her mind.  If she couldn’t pinpoint it, no one would take it seriously.  “I think the village is deserted.”

“Probably hiding from the taxman,” Robin said.  “King Romulus has been squeezing his peasants pretty hard over the last few months, hasn’t he?”

He raised his voice.  “Mount up!”

Isabella nodded as she scrambled up into her horse’s saddle and followed the others down the dusty road towards the village.  The heat grew stronger, a grim reminder that everything – even the weather – was in flux these days, as if the final days had come.  Her eyes narrowed as she glanced from side to side.  Too many streams intended to water the fields had run dry, leaving the crops spoiled.  Even the millpond looked painfully shallow.  She wondered, sourly, if Robin was right.  The villagers had plenty of reason to know that drought was not an acceptable excuse for not paying their taxes.  Perhaps they’d decided to hide somewhere in the countryside rather than pay.  

And a tax collector vanished out here, she reminded herself.  That’s why Lord August hired us to investigate.

She looked up as they approached the gate.  The palisade wasn’t anything more than a boundary marker – it wouldn’t have stood up to a battering ram, let alone a spell – but there should have been someone on guard.  Villagers tended to be suspicious of strangers, particularly ones who might be taxmen or recruiting sergeants.  And yet ... they cantered though the open gate and into the village, heading straight for the headman’s hut.  The village was deserted, utterly deserted.  Isabella felt her sense of unease growing stronger.  Something was very definitely wrong.

“He should have come out to grovel by now,” Mandan said.  The archer was looking from side to side, his eyes worried.  He had good instincts, for someone who didn’t have any spark of magic.  “Where is he?”

“Probably hiding all the comely lasses,” Big Richard said.  “Wouldn’t it be a shame if one of them took a liking to us?”

Isabella silently contemplated the virtue of stealthily hexing his horse as she swung her legs over and dropped to the ground.  Dust rose around her boots as she landed.  Mandan was right, damn him.  Someone should have come running by now, if only to plead for mercy or swear blind they didn’t know what had happened to the taxman.  Maybe the villagers had gone into hiding.  Lord August wasn’t known for his mercy.  The village would be destroyed if they dared to lift a hand against him and his servants.

“Isabella, with me,” Lord Robin ordered.  “The rest of you, guard the horses and wait.”

“Aye, sir,” Little Jim said.

Isabella felt Big Richard’s eyes on her as she followed Lord Robin up to the headman’s hovel.  It was a large hut, compared to the others, but tiny by her standards.  She pushed her senses forward as Lord Robin opened the door and peered inside, yet she sensed nothing ... save for the strange something.  It was there, right at the back of her mind ...

“Deserted,” Lord Robin said.

Isabella entered the hovel and looked around, feeling old training and instincts coming to the fore.  The headman’s chair – a rickety construction that allowed him to look down on his fellows – sat in the centre of the otherwise barren room.  She felt her eyes narrow as she pushed aside the curtain to peer into the kitchen, where the headman’s wife would have cooked for her husband.  It was large enough to suggest that the woman had probably also held court, inviting the other women to chat with her in the evenings.  Shaking her head, Isabella scrambled up the ladder into the loft.  There was enough bedding to suggest that the headman and his wife had had at least two children.

Perhaps more, she thought.  They would have shared bedding as soon as they were old enough to sleep away from their parents.

She shuddered, despite herself.  She’d slept in all sorts of places, since she’d left home, but she hated the thought of having no privacy, day in and day out.  A slave pen would be kinder, she thought.  And yet, none of the villagers would have known any better.  The children would grow up, marry the girl or boy next door, then have children of their own.  The headman’s kids wouldn’t be considered any better than anyone else’s children.  Her lips twitched in cold amusement.  The village simply wasn’t big enough to support an aristocracy.

And they’d probably hate the thought of marrying someone from the next village, she considered.  Villages could be remarkably insular.  Even somewhere five miles away might be too far for them.

Pushing the thought aside, she searched the upper floor.  It was uncomfortably warm and stuffy, worse than anything in the Golden City.  She hoped it got cooler at night.  A handful of clothes – shirts and trousers, long dresses that had been patched so extensively that she doubted there was anything left of the original garment – were piled in one corner.  No underwear, of course; underwear was a luxury.  A set of smaller clothes – she guessed the children were somewhere between five and seven, judging by the sizes – and a handful of padded cloths.  There wouldn’t be anything saved for later, she knew.  The villagers would pass clothes around when the original owner didn’t need them.

But there was nothing to suggest what might have happened to the villagers.  She took one last look around, feeling a flicker of sympathy for the headman’s family, then walked back to the ladder and clambered down.

Lord Robin met her at the bottom.  “Anything?”

“Deserted,” Isabella said, curtly.  “And nothing useful at all.”

“It looks as though they left some time ago,” Lord Robin said.  “The food on the table wasn’t abandoned today.”

Isabella nodded as they walked back outside into the bright sunlight.  It was hard to be sure, but Lord Robin was right.  It didn’t look as though the villagers had seen the mercenaries coming and fled in all directions.  Come to think of it, it didn’t look as though the villagers had planned their exodus either.  They hadn’t taken their clothes or tools, particularly the tools that would be hard to replace.  It wasn’t the Golden City.  A decent axe might cost a villager more money than he earned in a decade.

“Richard, Jim, check out the north side of the village,” Lord Robin ordered.  “Isabella, go with them.  If you find anything, call me at once.”

Big Richard opened his mouth.  “Sir ...”

“That’s an order,” Lord Robin said, sharply.  “Do as you’re told.”

Isabella shrugged as the two men headed towards the north side of the village.  She’d worked with people she hadn’t liked – or hadn’t like her – before, although there was something deeply personal about Big Richard’s dislike that bothered her.  She was fairly sure she’d never seen him before.  And she was certain he didn’t know anything about her past.  He would have told the entire company if he’d known the truth.  Unless he thought he could blackmail her ...

Nah, she thought.  He’s too dumb for blackmail.

The hovels were empty, completely empty.  They made their way from hut to hut, finding nothing but faint signs suggesting that the occupants had left in a hurry.  Isabella kept a silent tally of everything they’d left behind, puzzling over just how much had been abandoned to the elements.  Even if the villagers were hiding somewhere within the countryside, they should have come back to recover their tools.  If worse came to worst, they could sell them to raise funds.

Big Richard spun around, drawing his axe.  “I saw something move,” he said.  “I saw it!”

Isabella frowned.  There was nothing ... nothing, save for the odd background sensation.  And yet, Big Richard looked spooked.  He was holding his axe at the ready, his eyes moving from side to side as if he expected an attack at any moment.  Little Jim looked concerned too, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.  Isabella wasn’t sure if he was worried about a mystery attacker, or his brother waving the axe around in a confined space.

“I can’t sense anything,” she said, slowly.  And yet, she knew that might be completely meaningless.  There were ways to hide from a magician’s senses.  “What did you see?”

“I saw ... I don’t know what I saw,” Big Richard said.  “It was ... just there.”

His piggy eyes narrowed.  “And you can’t sense anything?”

“Not really,” Isabella said.  And yet, something was nagging at the back of her mind.  “Shall we go outside?”

The sunlight seemed brighter, somehow, as they stepped out of the hut.  She looked around, noting the abandoned pigpen and chicken run.  The villagers wouldn’t have abandoned their animals, not when they needed the beasts for their own survival.  And ... her eyes narrowed as something clicked in her mind.  There was no life at all within the village.  No birds sang in the trees, no insects buzzed through the air ... the village was dead.

“There’s one more building to check,” she said, nodding to the hedge-witch’s hut.  “And then we’ll go back to the others.”

The two men didn’t make any rude remarks as they followed her to the hut.  They were spooked.  Isabella paused as she reached the wooden door, reaching out – once again – with her senses.  There should have been a locking spell or two on the door, perhaps a sneaky transfiguration spell on the knob.  Hedge-witches lacked the formal training of sorcerers who went to the Peerless School, but that didn’t stop them studying magic.  Or sharing knowledge, despite the law.  And yet ... there was no magic protecting the hut.  If the door hadn’t been covered in carved runes, she would have wondered if it really belonged to a hedge-witch or merely someone trying to compete with the headman.

“No protections,” she mused.  “I wonder ...”

She pushed the door open, gingerly.  The interior was dark, too dark.  She cast a light-spell, revealing a wooden table, a cauldron perched over a burnt-out fire and a shelf of potion ingredients.  There didn’t seem to be anything too exotic, let alone forbidden, within eyeshot, but that meant nothing.  She knew from grim experience that anything forbidden, anything that would bring the Inquisitors down on the hedge-witch like Richard’s axe, would be carefully hidden.  And yet ...

Richard poked her, roughly.  “What is that?”

Isabella bit down a sharp remark – she knew he expected her to show some reaction – and followed his pointing finger.  A tree – a small tree – was growing in a wooden pot, its branches reaching up towards the ceiling.  Her eyes narrowed as the background sensation grew stronger.  The tree, whatever it was, wasn’t just out of place.  It was ... wrong.

“I don’t know,” she said.  The back of her neck started to prickle.  Every instinct she had told her to back away from the tree as quickly as possible.  “I think ...”

“There’s another one,” Little John said, sharply.  He jabbed a finger towards the rear of the building.  “I ...

Isabella forced herself to keep looking at the tree.  It seemed to loom larger and larger, as if it was somehow more real than any of them.  And then ... she thought, just for a second, that it had moved.  Something was very wrong ...

She yelped as something snapped onto her right wrist.  For a moment, she thought Richard had grabbed her ... and then she looked down.  A tree branch had wrapped itself around her wrist, a tree branch that had grown out of the wooden walls.  She reached for her magic, trying to cast a spell, only to have the magic flicker and snap out of existence.  The branch tugged a second later, pulling her towards the wall.  Both trees were growing now, turning into a nightmarish vision of tentacles reaching for the human intruders.  A defensive spell?  She’d never seen – or heard – of anything like it.

Another branch grabbed her left wrist, an instant before she could draw her sword.  She tried to cast another spell, but the magic simply refused to form ... no, it faded almost as soon as she drew on it.  The branches yanked her forward ...

Little Jim lashed out with his sword, cutting through both of the branches.  The wood around Isabella’s wrists went limp, falling to the ground.  Isabella drew her sword as she looked desperately from side to side, trying to find a way out of the chamber.  The door was gone, replaced by a writhing mass of tree branches that were growing at terrifying speed.  She looked up, just in time to see more branches reaching down towards them.

Richard grabbed her shoulder.  “Use magic,” he shouted, as he swung his awe at the nearest branches.  Pieces of wood flew in all directions, but the mass came on.  “Get us out of here!”

“I can’t,” Isabella snapped back.  Her magic seemed to have completely deserted her.  She couldn’t muster the power to cast even a simple spell.  The light was already failing.  “It isn’t working.”

“Fucking useless,” Richard snarled at her.  “I ...”

Little Jim pulled a bottle out of his back and splashed the contents on the nearest piece of wood.  Isabella barely had a second to realise what he intended to do before he snapped a firelighter at it, setting the liquid on fire.  Flames spread rapidly, burning through the wood at a terrifying speed.  She heard something scream in her head, an instant before a pathway started to open to the outside world.  Richard ran forward, swinging his axe with immense power.  The branches parted, allowing him to flee.

“Go,” Little Jim shouted.  “I ...”

A branch stabbed him from behind.  Isabella watched in horror as the branches melded with him, turning him into ... into a monster.  And then they reached for her.  She turned and ran, waving her sword frantically as she evaded the swinging branches and threw herself into the open air.  Behind her, something was roaring in anger ...

“Jim,” Richard shouted.  “Where is he?”

“Gone,” Isabella shouted back.  “Run!”

The entire village was coming to life, the wooden buildings turning into ... things.  She ran towards the horses, hoping they could get out in time.  Lord Robin and the others joined them a second later, swinging themselves into the saddles and running for the gate.  The palisade was coming to life, creepers slowly reaching out towards the fleeing mercenaries.  Isabella heard something laughing, in the back of her mind, as she dug in her spurs.  They made it out with only seconds to spare.

“Well,” Lord Robin said, once they had put some distance between themselves and the village.  “We now know what happened to the villagers, don’t we?”

Isabella nodded, slowly.  Something ... something had moved into the village.  And it had killed the villagers and their animals and the taxman ... she cursed under her breath.  Seven years at the Peerless School and three more in the hardest training course known to mankind – and seven years of experience as a mercenary – and she still didn’t have the faintest idea what that creature was.  She’d never heard of anything like it ...

... And yet, there were stories.  Whispers of things ... she hadn’t believed what little she’d heard, but ...

“I’m not going back,” Alexis said.  The swordsman was trying to hide it, but it was clear that he was terrified.  “Whatever that was, sir, I don’t want to face it again.”

“That’s for Lord August to decide,” Lord Robin said.  “We carried out our mission.  We’ll go back to the inn and collect our wages.”

And mourn our dead, Isabella thought, grimly.  She’d have to write a report, although the gods alone knew who might be alive to read it.  What was that thing?

Chapter Two

“This is an insult, father,” Crown Prince Reginald of Andalusia said.  He threw the parchments to the floor, contemptuously.  “This is an insult to you, to me, to our entire lineage!”

He slammed his palms onto the table, hard.  “He has the nerve, the insufferable nerve, to write to you and ask for your congratulations, even as he steals a kingdom from you!”

“A kingdom that was never part of my patrimony,” King Romulus said.  Unlike his son, he was calm and composed.  “We have no historical claim to the Summer Isle.”

“King Edwin swore a mighty oath that you would inherit his kingdom, if he failed to produce an heir,” Reginald said.  “And we paid in full for his oath.”

He scowled at the map.  King Edwin had needed help to regain his throne, after his enemies had driven him out of his capital and forced him to flee.  King Romulus had provided it, at a price.  Edwin had no heir, no one he wanted to inherit his kingdom.  It had been easy for the weak king to offer his kingdom in pawn, in exchange for money and military supplies.  And now Edwin was dead.  Murdered, perhaps.  The only thing that any of the reports actually agreed on was that King Edwin was dead.

“He made an agreement, Father,” Reginald said.  He leaned back in his chair, trying to copy his father’s calm.  “And we have to enforce it.”

He felt a hot flush of impatience, mingled with annoyance that someone – anyone – had dared to challenge his father.  King Romulus hadn’t been expecting to actually have to fight for his kingdom – the Grand Sorcerers had frozen all conflict – but he’d held Andalusia together after the Golden City had fallen and the Empire had vanished.  Reginald himself had led troops in combat, crushing rebels and intimidating foreigners.  Andalusia was relatively stable these days, unlike some of the other kingdoms.  The Summer Isle had been on the brink of civil war for as long as he could remember ...

King Edwin had given his word, damn it!  The document was very clear.  In the absence of a suitable heir, King Romulus would inherit the Summer Isle.  It would be good for the Isle, no doubt.  Andalusia’s ruler – and his firstborn son – were hardly dependent on the snake pit of vipers King Edwin had called his nobility.  Romulus could crush King Edwin’s former vassals like bugs, if they displeased him.  Reginald had led troops against two overmighty noblemen himself, over the last five years.  Neither one had lived to regret defying their king.

His father tapped the map.  “We do not need the Summer Isle.”

“No, but we cannot afford to let people think that we are weak,” Reginald pressed.  “If we don’t collect what we’re owed, others will think they can cheat us too.”

He took a breath.  “Edwin was a king, Father,” he added.  “It would weaken us if we decided his word wasn’t his bond.”

King Romulus looked as though he had bitten into a lemon.  Kings wielded absolute authority these days, now the Grand Sorcerers were gone.  The Summer Isle had been Edwin’s personal fiefdom, his lords drawing their power from their monarch.  And yet, Edwin’s corpse hadn’t managed to cool before Earl Rufus Hereford had declared himself King Rufus I.  Reginald had no idea how the earl had managed to convince the other two earls to go along with it – or at least stay out of his way – but it hardly mattered.  The only thing that mattered was that Hereford had cheated King Romulus – and, by extension, Reginald himself – out of his due.

And if people start thinking that a king’s word is worthless, he thought grimly, our word will also be called into question.

He studied his father for a long moment.  King Romulus had aged over the last five years, as he’d fought to hold his kingdom together.  His brown hair had started to turn grey, even though he was fitter and stronger than many of the young men in his court.  Reginald knew it would be a long time before his father died, something that left him relieved and fearful in equal measure.  What was the point of becoming king if one was crowned too late to have an impact on the kingdom?  His father was a cautious man, but Reginald ... there were entire kingdoms to seize, if one had the power and inclination.  He wanted to test himself against the other monarchs before it was too late.

Raising his eyes, he looked around the room.  Lord William – his father’s personal toady – refused to meet his eyes.  Reginald scowled at him anyway, on general principles, then turned his attention to his own oldest sister.  Sofia looked back at him, her dark eyes silently daring him to make a snide remark about how women shouldn’t be involved in government.  Reginald pitied the poor bastard who got married to her.  Sofia’s combination of iron-willed determination and religious fanaticism would make her a stubborn wife.  If she’d been born a man ...

We would probably tear the kingdom apart after father died, Reginald thought.  Even as a woman, she’s formidable.  And she might be able to rule if I died.

The thought made him scowl again.  He knew his father was worried about having only one son – he had three daughters, but only one son – yet Reginald couldn’t share the sentiment.  Having too many sons was unsafe, particularly now.  But then, as King Edwin had found out, having no sons was even worse.  The man had been infertile.  He hadn’t even managed to sire a single bastard.  Queen Emetine had been forced on Edwin – she was the sister of Earl Hereford, who’d now seized the throne – and she’d probably been her brother’s spy in the king’s bedchamber, but kings had mistresses.  Even a bastard son could have been given the throne, if there was no legitimate child.

“You are correct to argue that we are owed the island,” King Romulus said, calling his son’s attention back to him.  “But taking it will mean an extensive military operation ...”

“No, Father,” Reginald said.  “The other two earls will support our claim when we land troops.”

“You think they’ll support our claim,” King Romulus said, flatly.  “You will discover that noblemen have a habit of turning their coats, as long as a blade isn’t kept pointed at their throat.”

“Our troops will be the blade, Father,” Reginald said.  He’d wiped out one aristocratic family – pour encourager les autres – and he had no compunction about doing it again.  “I will cut their throats if they disobey.”

“And they will fear a decline in their power,” King Romulus added, as if Reginald hadn’t spoken.  “They are big fish in a small pond, Son.  But what will they be if the Summer Isle is added to our kingdom?”

Reginald shrugged.  “Those who join us will be rewarded,” he said.  “And those who don’t will be exterminated.”

His father studied him for a long moment.  “You are determined, then?”

“The Isle is part of my patrimony,” Reginald said.  “We cannot just let it ... slip away.”

“True,” his father agreed.

Reginald grinned.  He couldn’t help himself.  He’d done it!  He’d talked his father into authorising the campaign.  The Summer Isle would be his!  He would rule as a noble lord, shaping the island as he pleased.  And when his father died, Reginald’s son would inherit the island as his personal demesne.  It would be a good training ground to learn the skills one needed to be king.

“We cannot spare too many soldiers, though,” his father said.  “You will have to hire and pay mercenaries.”

“I command the regiments,” Reginald said, stiffly.  

“Yes, but they are needed along the borders,” his father countered.  “How quickly could we recall them, if our ... friends ... decided it was time to adjust the boundary lines in their favour?”

Reginald nodded, crossly.  The crystal ball network was gone.  It would take days, perhaps weeks, to get a message from Andalusia to the Summer Isle, then longer to move the regiments to the ships and sail back to Havelock.  By then, a mobile force could have crossed Andalusia’s borders and made its way to the capital city.  He might occupy the Summer Isle, only to lose Andalusia itself.  His father was right.  Only a handful of regiments could be spared for the invasion.

“I will hire mercenaries to make up the numbers,” he said.  There was no shortage of mercenaries in Andalusia.  His father had often fretted over what to do with them, now that the kingdom was stable again.  The mercenaries could easily cause trouble ... or go to work for a discontented nobleman.  “And many of them can be given land on the Summer Isle.”

“Assuming you win, Son,” King Romulus said.

“I will win,” Reginald promised.  “I thank you, Father.”

He rose, then bowed.  He’d go straight to his rooms, then send out heralds.  The call to war would echo across the land, summoning mercenaries and adventurers who wanted to fight under his banner.  He’d have to send a formal demand for submission to Hereford, of course – protocol demanded that he gave the usurper a chance to think twice – but he’d make sure it was worded to discourage surrender.  Beating the living daylights out of the former earl – he was damned if he was calling Hereford a king – would go a long way towards convincing the rest of the snake pit to bend the knee.  Besides, Reginald wanted the war.  It would be a new and exciting challenge.

“Be careful, Son,” King Romulus said.  “You will be a long way from help.”

“I know, Father,” Reginald said.  “But I will survive.”

***

Lord William had not grown up in the court – in the days before the Golden City had fallen – for nothing.  He was adept at concealing his thoughts and feelings from his superiors, particularly his monarch.  King Romulus was a hard man to love, at times, but he was an easy man to follow.  His son had all of his father’s determination and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness – William admitted that, in the privacy of his own head – yet he lacked the maturity King Romulus had developed over the years.

Reginald was charismatic, William conceded.  The prince’s blond good looks had set more than a few hearts aflutter around the court, including those of William’s own daughters.  It was a shame, in many ways, that Reginald was unlikely to be married off to anyone less than a princess.  Becoming the young prince’s father-in-law would have solidified William’s position beyond challenge, as well as allowing him to act as a moderating influence on the future king.  But it wasn’t going to happen.  William couldn’t help worrying over what would happen when King Romulus died.  Reginald was hardly likely to listen to his advice.

And sending him off on an adventure will either turn him into a challenger or disgrace him beyond salvation, he thought.  What is his father thinking?

King Romulus looked up.  “William,” he said.  “You will accompany my son.”

William blinked.  “Sire?”

“You are a colonel in one of the regiments,” King Romulus reminded him.  His voice was absent, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.  “You will serve as its commanding officer, which will give you a seat on Reginald’s council of war.  I expect you to keep an eye on him.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” William said.  There was no other answer he could give.  “I ... may I ask a question.”

King Romulus inclined his head, graciously.  “You may.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” William said.  “I ... why are you allowing him to go?”

He took a breath.  “The Summer Isle is a desolate wasteland, populated by barbarians,” he reminded the king.  “Their nobility is noble in blood only.  The endless skirmishes with the Northern Realm cost their monarchy in blood and treasure.  There is nothing to be gained from taking and holding the island.”

“The Summer Isle does have potential,” King Romulus countered.  “And a powerful ruler might accomplish much, if he had the force to back up his words.  And Earl Hereford could become a threat, particularly if we do go to war with our neighbours.”

“They swore before the gods that they would respect the borders,” Sofia said.

William felt a hot flash of irritation.  What a ... what a womanish thing to say.  No one who knew how the world actually worked would expect sworn oaths to keep Andalusia’s neighbours from falling on her borders like ravening wolves if they scented weakness.  It was proof, as if he’d needed any, that women should stay in their chambers and leave the hard work to the men.  No wonder there were so few ruling queens.  Men understood that weakness invited attack.  

And if Reginald dies, he thought coldly, whoever marries Sofia will rule through her.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought.  There was no shortage of suitors for Sofia’s hand – and those of her sisters – but her father would have to choose very carefully.  Whoever won her hand might just win the kingdom too.  And the wrong choice could prove disastrous.

King Romulus smiled.  “There is a secondary concern,” he added.  “And I expect you – both of you – not to discuss it further.”

William bowed his head, concealing his annoyance.  He knew how to keep a secret – one didn’t become a king’s trusted confidant if one had loose lips – but women gossiped all the time.  Sofia would probably share her father’s secrets, the minute she was secluded with the other ladies of the court.  And then they’d be all over the kingdom.  He didn’t understand why the king allowed Sofia to attend the meeting.  She didn’t have to worry her pretty little head with the hard realities of life.

“Reginald is twenty-four,” King Romulus said, reflectively.  “I was twenty-seven when my father died.  It will not be long before Reginald starts agitating for more power for himself.  His courtiers will nag him into pressuring me, even if he doesn’t want to do it.  And I am running out of tasks to keep him busy.”

William nodded, slowly.  The Crown Prince wanted – needed – to distribute patronage of his own if he wanted to bind his household to him.  Land, titles, castles, even heiresses ... Reginald needed to grant them, yet he had little to grant.  His father couldn’t give Reginald too much without weakening his own position.  And even if he gave Reginald the entire kingdom, it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the prince’s courtiers.  They were a demanding crowd.

“You think he can turn the Summer Isle into his own personal kingdom,” he said, slowly.

“There are other concerns,” King Romulus said.  “Yes, my son can take and hold the island and parcel out the land to his supporters.  But it will not be long before he starts wanting power – real power – for himself.  Wielding it over the Summer Isle will keep him from trying to take it from me.”

“He would not,” Sofia said.

William felt cold.  The Crown Prince would be King, when his father died, but until then ... all his power came from his father.  Reginald outranked everyone else, yet he had less power than a duke, a lord or even a baron.  His father could overrule him at any moment.  King Romulus was right.  Sooner or later, Prince Reginald would want real power.  And the only way to get that was to overthrow his father.  And that meant ...

“You want to keep him distracted, Sire,” he said.

“I want him to succeed,” King Romulus said.  He looked down at the map, one finger tracing out the Summer Isle’s borders.  “I never really expected to inherit the Summer Isle.  I gave Edwin help because I wanted a stable kingdom on the other side of the channel, not a realm constantly blighted with civil war.  But now ...”

He stroked his beard.  “Reginald is right to say we have to claim what we are due,” he added, slowly.  “We cannot allow such a precedent to stand.  But I also want Reginald to be occupied for a while, ruling a land that will allow him to satisfy his supporters without turning him into a threat to the throne.  And I don’t want him to get into trouble.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” William said.

“Go with him,” King Romulus ordered, curtly.  “Be the voice of caution on his council.  And inform me as quickly as possible if he is likely to overstep himself.  The Summer Isle is not small.  Hereford has plenty of space to trade for time, if he wishes.  My son’s natural impatience will urge him to make mistakes.”

“He is a good soldier, Father,” Sofia said.

“Yes,” King Romulus agreed.  “But he is also too young to be a good strategist.  He will seek battles for the sake of seeking battles, rather than choosing his fights with one eye firmly fixed on his goal.  And there are times when declining battle may be the smarter choice.”

At the risk of being called a coward, William thought.  And that is one word that could never be attached to the Crown Prince.

“Watch my son,” King Romulus said.  “And be there for him.”

William rose and bowed, first to the king and then to his daughter.  He didn’t want to go – he certainly didn’t want to walk away from the centre of power, let alone go to the Summer Isle – but he knew he had no choice.  King Romulus wouldn’t thank him for refusing to go.  He just hoped he’d be able to get back before the king found a new advisor.  Prince Reginald had never bothered to conceal his dislike of William and the other old men on the king’s council.  William had no illusions about his ability to moderate the prince’s behaviour.  It was non-existent.  The prince would probably banish William from the council as soon as they landed on the Summer Isle.

I have no choice, he reminded himself.  I have to go.

Chapter Three

“My brother is dead,” Big Richard thundered.  He sat at the front of the bar, swilling a tankard of beer.  A barmaid sat on his lap, looking thoroughly uncomfortable as his fingers played with her shirt.  “Let us drink to his honour!”

Isabella rolled her eyes as she nursed her beer.  It had been two days since Little Jim’s death, two days since they’d made their way to the town and reported to Lord August ... two days since Big Richard had started a wake for his dead brother.  He was going to regret it soon, she was sure.  The hangover was going to be a nightmare.  And the discovery that he’d spent all of his money on the wake would be worse.

She leaned back in her chair and surveyed the inn.  Dozens of people were crammed into the room: drinking, talking and vomiting on the earthen floor.  The barmaids moved from table to table, pouring out cheap beer and cheaper wine while doing their best to evade pinches, gropes and worse.  A handful of whores were doing a roaring trade at the rear, taking their customers upstairs for a quickie before leading them back down again and finding the next customer.  She’d been in worse places, she knew, but there was something about the bar that offended her.  And yet ...

It is more honest than the Golden City, she told herself, as the band started to play a mournful tune.  A number of couples stood up to dance, moving in a manner that suggested they were well on their way to outright drunkenness.  The beer was flowing freely, thanks to Richard.  It was astonishing just how many people were prepared to mourn Little Jim, in exchange for free beer.  No one here tries to hide what they are.

She took a sip of her beer, grimacing at the taste.  The gods alone knew what the brewer had put in his vats, apart from hops.  Perhaps the beer was so cheap just to make sure the drinkers didn’t complain about the flavour.  Or to get them drunk so quickly that they didn’t notice.  The nasty part of her mind insisted that the pallid liquid should have been poured back into the horse.  Her spells had told her that it wasn’t poisonous, but drinking more than a pint or two would probably pickle her liver anyway.

A crash echoed through the room as a fight broke out, a dozen drinkers throwing punches at each other with staggering force.  The barmaids hurried to the rear, trying to get out of the way, as more and more drinkers joined in the brawl.  Isabella hurriedly readied a spell, just in case she needed to defend herself.  The melee was already getting out of hand.  She couldn’t help thinking, as a chair flew across the room and smashed against the far wall, that brawls broke out every hour or so.  There were too many lowlifes crammed into too small a space.

And more mercenaries than normal, she thought.  Lord August had always kept a stable of mercenaries, but now ... now there seemed to be hundreds of mercenaries in the town.  Lord Robin had insisted that he smelt opportunity, just waiting for them to find it.  Isabella wasn’t so sure.  Lord August could be plotting a strike against the throne.

She sighed at the thought.  Andalusia was hardly the most developed country in the world, but it had weathered the collapse of the civilised world far better than some of the other nations.  King Romulus had done a good job, somehow.  It was an impressive feat for someone who’d been little more than a puppet king five years ago, with the court wizard pulling the strings.  Perhaps he’d had contingency plans all along.  Or perhaps he’d been planning a rebellion.

And if Lord August wants to rise up against his king, she thought, we might find ourselves caught in the middle.

She took another sip of her beer, feeling down.  Mercenaries were not popular.  Even spellbound slaves – or soldiers – were more popular than men who fought for money, men who’d change sides as soon as someone offered a better deal.  Noblemen despised them, priests denounced them, commoners hated and feared them.  It was hard to escape the feeling that, as King Romulus tightened his control over the kingdom, the company would soon have no work at all.  Mercenaries were dangerous in peacetime, after all.  King Romulus might intend to dispose of them as soon as possible.  Perhaps it was time to go elsewhere.

And if Lord Robin doesn’t want to leave, I can go myself, she considered.  It wasn’t as if she didn’t have marketable skills.  She knew enough magic to make herself useful.  Or even go travelling ...

It was a pleasant thought.  It was rare for a woman to travel alone, particularly in such troubled times, but she’d never had any problems disguising herself as a man.  Or finding a male companion, for that matter.  She could join a merchant’s team or even wander from place to place like a travelling preacher.  There were plenty of places she’d never visited, even after she’d left the Golden City.  She could even go home ...

She clamped down on that thought, hard.  There was no way she wanted to go home, not after everything she’d done.  And even if she did ... no two rumours from the far-distant Golden City agreed, but it was clear there had been some form of catastrophe.  The Grand Sorcerers were dead, the Empire was gone, the puppet kingdoms were asserting themselves ... she didn’t think she really wanted to know what had happened.  All that mattered was that she was alone in the world.

The brawl came to an end, as quickly as it had started.  A handful of men carried the wounded or unconscious bodies outside, dumping them by the drunkard’s trough and leaving them for the City Guard.  They’d spend a day and a night in the stocks, if they didn’t recover by curfew.  Or if they didn’t have the cash to bribe the guardsmen.  It wouldn’t take much, not in her experience.  Guardsmen were underpaid and underappreciated.  A handful of silver would be more than enough to convince them to look the other way.

Isabella rolled her eyes as Big Richard called for more booze.  He’d already drunk enough to float a ship ... she wasn’t even sure he’d managed to sleep over the last two days.  She’d known he was strong, but this ... she winced in sympathy as Big Richard’s hands slipped under the barmaid’s shirt.  The barmaids knew that unwanted male attention was part of the job – Isabella wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the barmaids were also whores – but she doubted any of them were happy with it.  Whores tended to live short and unpleasant lives, no matter how hard they worked.  The pimps would take their earnings and send them straight back to work.  There was no shortage of replacements for when they finally died.  The pimps had no trouble finding women who had to whore or starve.  

Big Richard belched.  The crowd laughed, even as the barmaid recoiled from the stench.  Big Richard had obviously never been taught to brush his teeth.  Isabella knew her personal hygiene had suffered since she’d left the Golden City, but at least she didn’t smell like a cesspit.  And then Big Richard’s fingers reached the barmaid’s breast and pinched, hard.  She screamed in pain and tried to get away.

Isabella tensed as Big Richard howled in rage, one hand shoving the barmaid into the counter.  She yelped in pain, trying to get away an instant before he caught and twisted her arm behind her back.  He was going to kill her ... Isabella rose before she quite realised what she was going to do.  Lord Robin would be furious if Big Richard killed someone, even a whore.  It might get the company kicked out of the town ...

“Let go of her,” she snapped, as she walked towards the counter.  “Now.”

Big Richard glared at her through unsteady piggish eyes.  He was sodden with booze, she realised, swaying backwards and forwards as if he wasn’t in complete control of himself.  She hoped he’d have the sense to listen to her, to remember what Lord Robin had said.  The rest of the company wouldn’t thank him – or her – if they were kicked out of the town.  A bad reputation would make it harder to find work elsewhere.  

The barmaid tried to pull away.  Big Richard yanked her arm, hard.  Isabella heard it break, an instant before the barmaid screamed in pain.  A break like that wouldn’t be easy to heal, not without magic.  Big Richard had just crippled her.  He let go, allowing the barmaid to scurry off into the backroom.  Her arm was twisted at an unnatural angle.  

“You killed my brother,” Big Richard growled.  He lifted one of his protective amulets, as if he believed its mere presence would send her reeling back.  “You killed ...”

Isabella winced.  Little Jim had died saving her life.  She owed it to Little Jim not to kill his brother.  But she had her limits.  She had no idea why Big Richard hated magic-users so much, but that didn’t give him the right to speak to her like that.  He was so drunk he probably didn’t have the slightest idea what he was actually doing.  No matter how much he detested her, he was normally careful not to annoy his boss.

“My brother is dead because of you,” Big Richard said. He bunched his fists.  “You should have died instead ...”

He threw a punch.  Isabella darted backwards, allowing training to take over.  He missed her, but kept coming anyway.  She heard the crowd shouting and cheering – and placing bets – as she threw a jab at his eyes.  Magic crackled along her fingertips, demanding that she unleash it, but she held it back.  No one would respect her if she froze him in his tracks or turned him into a toad.  She had to win through force.

“Detestable whore,” Big Richard swore at her.  He moved with surprising speed for such a drunk man.  “You ...”

Isabella grunted in pain as he caught her wrist, pulling her towards him.  She pressed her fingers together, then thrust them into his eye.  He howled, snapping her arm back with terrifying strength.  Isabella gritted her teeth – he’d nearly pulled her arm out of the socket – and brought up her knee as hard as she could.  He laughed as her knee struck an armoured codpiece, hidden below his trousers.  He’d protected his groin against attacks.

He yanked her forward, again.  Isabella twisted, bringing her hand down hard on his wrist and striking his pressure points.  His hand snapped free as he cursed out loud; she darted backwards, hoping the pain would be enough to convince him to think twice.  Her shoulder was hurting, badly enough to slow her down.  She muttered a healing cantrip under her breath as she looked up at him.  The raw hatred in his eyes startled her.  It was deeply personal.  

“Get the bitch,” someone shouted.  Others took up the cry, cheering one or both of them as they placed newer bets.  “Kill her!”

Isabella braced herself as Big Richard gathered himself.  She knew a dozen spells that would probably break through his protections, but using them ... she cursed under her breath.  Even if she beat him physically, he’d never forgive her.  Everyone would mock him for being thrashed by a woman.  And using spells would ...

He lunged forward.  Isabella dodged to the side, trying to get a punch through his wavering fists.  But he was practically made of solid muscle.  She slammed a fist into his jaw, only to see him shrug the blow off and keep coming.  His arm swung at her wildly, nearly striking her head.  She ducked back, trying to think of a way to end the fight without killing him or smashing his reputation.  A single blow from him would probably be enough to knock her out and end the fight.  She didn’t want to think about what he’d do to her unconscious body.

She evaded a second blow, then tried to drive a stab at his other eye.  This time, he lunged forward and crashed into her with breathtaking force.  She fell backwards, her head striking the floor hard enough to make her see stars.  Big Richard shoved her down, pushing one hand into her chest while drawing back the other to put her lights out.  Isabella reached for her magic, hastily.  She wasn’t going to let him beat her into unconsciousness.  She’d be lying there, completely at his mercy.  And it was all too clear that he’d probably have his fun, then slit her throat ...

“Hold,” a sharp voice said.

Isabella twisted her head as Big Richard froze.  Lord Robin was standing there, looking furious.  She wondered who’d gone to fetch him, dragging him out of his meeting with a potential client ... she silently thanked the tattletale, even though she knew she’d never be able to say it in person.  He’d probably saved a life.  She just wasn’t sure which of them had been saved.

“Get up,” Lord Robin snapped.

Big Richard rolled off Isabella and stood, carefully not looking at her as he lumbered to his feet.  Isabella followed, silently grateful that no one had tried to help her up.  It wasn’t easy commanding respect as a female mercenary, even though the fight had – technically – been a draw.  She wanted – she needed – to be treated as one of the boys.  If they started thinking of her as a weak and feeble woman ...

“I told you not to start any fights,” Lord Robin said.  “Do you have an excuse for this behaviour?”

“No, sir,” Big Richard said.  Drunk or not, he was still smart enough not to annoy Lord Robin.  “None.”

Lord Robin’s eyes moved to Isabella.  “None, sir,” she said.  Telling the truth wouldn’t help, not when they had been ordered to behave.  Besides, she couldn’t afford to sound like a tattletale either.  “We have no excuse.”

“I see,” Lord Robin said.

He raised his hand.  Isabella winced, inwardly, as he slapped Big Richard across the face, the sound echoing in the silent chamber.  The crowd was silent.  Isabella gritted her teeth, then forced herself to stand still as he slapped her too.  Her cheekbones exploded in pain, stars flittering across her eyes.  She’d never experienced such discipline in the Golden City.  But then, Lord Robin didn’t have an entire society backing him up either.  He had to be the alpha dog if he wanted to stay in command.  And that meant showing them that he was the strongest person in the room.

“Richard, go lie down until you’ve slept it off,” Lord Robin ordered.  His tone made it very clear that he knew he wouldn’t be disobeyed.  “Isabella, with me.”

He turned and walked out of the room.  Isabella walked after him, feeling countless eyes following her until she closed the door.  She’d given a good account of herself, she knew, but she’d come very close to losing.  And she’d reached for her magic ... her fingers reached up to stroke her cheek, silently casting another cantrip.  If Lord Robin noticed her using magic, he gave no sign.

I’ll have to find the barmaid, she told herself.  She wasn’t a druid, but she knew enough about healing magic to save the poor girl’s arm.  And then warn her to stay well away from Big Richard until we’re on our way out of here.

“We have a new job,” Lord Robin said, as they walked up the stairs.  “And you have a visitor.”

Isabella blinked.  “I have a visitor?”

“Yes,” Lord Robin said.  “He asked for you personally.  By name.”

“Oh,” Isabella said.  “And who is he?”

“He said his name was Smyth,” Lord Robin said.  “I suspect it isn’t his real name.”

Isabella had to fight down a giggle.  Smyth was a joke ... a Golden City joke.  The name was assumed by someone who wanted to remain anonymous, even though it was often blindingly obvious that the disguise wasn’t fooling anyone.  Anyone who used the name wanted privacy and was prepared to pay for it.  And that meant ... what?  Someone from the Golden City?  Or someone who was familiar with the city?  It wasn’t as if the city had been that exclusive before the fall.  Countless magicians, noblemen and merchants had spent time in the Golden City.  

She forced herself to think.  One of her old clients?  It was possible, she supposed, although they were a long way from the last place she’d worked.  Or someone else ... she shook her head.  None of her former lovers had any way to track her down.  Besides, she’d made it clear to them that the relationship wouldn’t last.  Did someone know who she was?  She doubted it, but ... it was possible.

Lord Robin stopped outside an unmarked wooden door.  “I’ll be holding a formal meeting tomorrow, in the bar,” he said.  “Be there.”

“Yes, sir,” Isabella said.  

“And see if you can find a hangover cure,” Lord Robin added.  “I want everyone to be ready to listen.”

“As you wish,” Isabella said.  She didn’t really want to find something to help Big Richard get over his headache – if he had enough brain cells to have headaches – but she wasn’t being given a choice.  “I’ll go looking after I meet with ... Smyth.”

She knocked, then pushed open the door.  The room was larger than she’d expected, illuminated by a single ball of glowing magic.  And sitting in a rough chair was the last face she’d expected to see ...

“Alden?”

Her brother looked up.  “Come on in,” he said.  “We have much to discuss.”

Chapter Four

Isabella had to fight to keep her legs from buckling.

Alden hadn’t changed much, as far as she could tell.  He’d been fifteen years old when she’d been born and they’d never really been close.  Alden had been the kind of person who’d never truly been young, parroting their father instead of developing a mind of his own.  He hadn’t been a bad elder brother – not compared to some of the assholes she’d met since leaving the Golden City – but he hadn’t been a very good one either.  He’d acted more like a parent than an older brother, bossing her around practically since she’d learnt to walk.  The only point she could see in his favour was that he’d supported her, once, when their father had threatened her with a fate worse than death.

She sat down and studied him, using the pause to get her thoughts under control.  Alden looked more like their father than ever, his greying hair tied back in a long ponytail that made him look ready to cast spells at a moment’s notice.  He wore a black shirt and trousers rather than magician’s robes, but the wand at his belt spoilt the illusion that he was a wealthy merchant rather than heir to a magical family.  And his face ... Isabella shivered as she met his eyes.  They were the eyes of a man who had seen terrible things.

Her heart was beating in her chest, thumping so loudly that she was surprised he couldn’t hear the sound.  She calmed herself as best as she could.  Alden ... Alden shouldn’t have been able to find her, not after she’d been disowned.  She should have been cut right out of the family magic, her blood wiped from the family tree.  How the hell had he found her?  Even if he’d heard of an Isabella in Andalusia, he shouldn’t have connected her to the youngest daughter of House Majuro.  Her name wasn’t that uncommon.

“Isabella,” Alden said.  He sounded just like their father too.  “I ...”

He stopped, just for a moment.  A shiver ran down Isabella’s spine.  She’d never seen Alden be anything less than completely certain of himself, even when he knew he was on unsteady ground.  No, he’d often acted more confident when he wasn’t completely sure of himself.  A show of complete confidence, their father had often said, could make up for problems, if done properly.  Isabella hated to admit it, but the old bastard had been right.

“Isabella,” Alden repeated.  “Right now, you and I are the last of House Majuro.”

Isabella stared at him.  Her mouth dropped open as she struggled to comprehend what she’d been told.  They were the last ...?  They couldn’t be the last.  She’d had six siblings, counting Alden.  House Majuro had more than enough children – and cousins – to keep going, even after the patriarch died.  Her thoughts caught up with her a second later.  Their father was dead?

She found her voice.  “Our father ... our father is dead?”

“Yes,” Alden said.  “And so are our siblings.”

Isabella barely heard him.  Alay Majuro was dead?  The old man had been a nightmare, ruthlessly pushing his children into careers and occupations he felt would benefit the family ... and to hell with whatever they wanted for themselves.  He’d told Isabella that she was going to be an Inquisitor, ordering her to study advanced magic and beating her whenever her marks slipped too low.  She’d fought back as best she could, but it hadn’t been until she’d managed to get herself kicked out of the training course that she’d been formally disowned and told to leave.  It had been something of a relief.  And yet ...

She felt her heart twist.  The old man had meant well, hadn’t he?  The family was their heart and soul.  Except he’d broken all of them ...

And now he’s dead, she thought.  She didn’t know how she felt.  She’d loved it when he’d praised her achievements, even as she’d hated the punishments for not living up to his expectations.  Aldan hadn’t been helpful, either.  Her oldest brother should have spoken up for her, but instead ... he’d said nothing.  Father is dead and I ...

She looked up.  “What happened?”

“What happened?”  Aldan stared down at the empty table.  “What happened was a nightmare.”

Isabella listened, torn between disbelief and horror, as Alden stumbled through an explanation.  The death of the Grand Sorcerer was no surprise – the old man had been ailing for years, even before she’d left the Golden City – but everything else?  An Emperor?  An Empress?  A godlike entity from the depths of history ... she wouldn’t have believed it, if the Empire hadn’t fallen.  The gods alone knew how many magicians had died in the Golden City.  It was clear that none of the court wizards had returned to their puppet kingdoms.

“There aren’t many survivors,” Alden finished.  “Most of the Great Houses are gone, Isabella, or badly weakened.  The Inquisition no longer exists, to all intents and purposes.  There are only five or six Inquisitors left ... you might be one of the handful of outsiders with the training.  And the Empire is gone too.”

He shook his head.  “Didn’t you hear any of this?”

“Just rumours,” Isabella said.  She hadn’t wanted to know, not really.  She’d been disowned and that was the end of the matter.  “Did father ... I thought father disowned me.”

“I talked him into not disowning you completely,” Alden said.  “But he was very clear that you would not be allowed to reclaim your place until after his death.  I just ... I just don’t think he expected the rest of his children to die.”

“No,” Isabella said.  She put a hard block on her emotions.  She’d loved her siblings, even though they’d fought like cats and dogs when they were younger.  She would have to mourn them properly, later.  “So what’s happening now?  And why are you here?”

Alden sighed.  “We don’t have the influence we had five years ago,” he said.  “The Golden City is effectively gone.  We still have the Peerless School and we’re taking students from all over the world, but ... it’s only a matter of time before rival schools get underway.  And then ... frankly, the only thing that keeps the Golden City from being overrun is the threat of defences buried within the mountains.  We are trying to keep ourselves neutral, Isabella, but that isn’t going to last.”

“I imagine not,” Isabella said.  Sooner or later, a king would see advantage in keeping the Peerless School and Great Library to himself.  There were secrets buried within the vaults, secrets that should never be allowed to see the light of day.  But if Alden was telling the truth, there was no way the school’s former defenders could keep those secrets to themselves indefinitely.  “So ... why are you here?”

“Your friend, Lord Robin, has been hired by the Crown Prince,” Alden said.  He looked pained for a moment.  “Please tell me you’re not sleeping with him.”

Isabella felt a flicker of annoyance.  “The Crown Prince?  I’m not sleeping with the Crown Prince.”

Alden gave her a long-suffering look at her deliberate misunderstanding.  “Lord Robin,” he said, tartly.  “Are you sleeping with him?”

“No,” Isabella said.  She was tempted to wind him up, as she’d done when she’d been a little girl, but ... she was old enough to know better.  Besides, she didn’t think he had time to waste being overprotective.  “He’s my boss.  I don’t sleep with my boss.”

“Good,” Alden said.  “Is he really a lord?”

“He claims to be,” Isabella said, curtly.  “Are you going to get to the point sometime in this century?”

Alden’s eyes narrowed in a manner she remembered all too well from her childhood.  She forced herself to look back evenly.  She was no longer a little girl and he was no longer her know-it-all older brother.  If he wanted something from her, he could damn well do her the courtesy of treating her like an adult.  Besides, if she hadn’t been disowned permanently, he had certain obligations towards her.

“The Crown Prince believes that Andalusia has a right to the Summer Isle,” Alden said, finally.  He gave her a tight little smile.  “Unfortunately, the denizens of the Summer Isle disagree.  One of their noblemen has declared himself a king and dared Andalusia to do something about it.  The Crown Prince intends to pick up the gauntlet and do something about it.”

“I see,” Isabella said.  A war ... there would be plenty of work for mercenaries in a full-scale war.  “And what does this have to do with us?”

“There have been odd ... rumours coming out of the Summer Isle,” Alden said.  “It was never considered very important, Isabella, and most of the old intelligence networks rarely paid it any real attention.  Quite a few of the agents we had in place are gone now, it seems.  But the stories are worrying.”

Isabella met his eyes.  “What stories?”

“Impossible magics,” Alden said.  “Strange creatures.  Weird ... encounters.  People vanishing.  Magic ... behaving oddly.”

“We saw something weird two days ago,” Isabella said.  She briefly explained what they’d seen in the village.  “I still don’t know what it was.”

“Me neither,” Alden said.  “And you say it sucked out your magic?”

“None of my spells responded properly,” Isabella confirmed.  “I couldn’t shape the magic before it faded and vanished.”

Alden considered it for a long moment.  “There have always been odd stories on the fringes of civilisation, as you know, but these stories ... Isabella, we have to know what’s going on.”

Isabella nodded, slowly.  She rarely paid any attention to rumours.  The more outrageous a rumour, the more likely that the truth was buried beneath a mountain of nonsense.  If, of course, there was any truth to the rumour.  There were hundreds of old biddies in the Golden City who’d produced more bullshit than a herd of bulls.  No ... there had been hundreds of old biddies.  The Golden City was no longer the centre of the known world.  If Alden was correct, it was nothing more than a backwater – or a prize to be won.

She sighed.  She wouldn’t have believed the rumours, if she hadn’t seen the ... whatever she’d seen.  She’d read about all kinds of magics that might have produced some of the effects, but ... none of them would have produced the whole.  And most of them couldn’t have hidden from her senses either.  Whatever they’d encountered had been something new.  Once upon a time, that would have fascinated her.  Now ... now, she was scared.

“All right,” she said.  “You have to know what’s going on.  What do you want me to do about it?”

She met his eyes.  “Even if I wasn’t disowned, even if my blood is still connected to the family, coming this far from the Golden City must have taken weeks,” she added.  “I assume you haven’t come just to give me the news.”

“No,” Alden said.  “Lord Robin has been hired by the Crown Prince.  I want you to go with them when they cross the channel.  And ... once you’re there, I want you to investigate the stories.  If there’s any truth to them, we need to know.”

“I see,” Isabella said.  “And how much are you going to pay?”

Alden blinked.  “Pay?”

“I’m a mercenary,” Isabella said.  She took a certain savage glee in being able to shock him, even now.  He hadn’t looked so flabbergasted when Isabella had been caught in bed with one of her fellow trainees.  “I need to be paid.”

“You’re my sister,” Alden said.  “You ...”

Isabella fought down a rising tide of red anger.  “Don’t even think of going there,” she snarled.  “You ... father kicked me out, remember?  You were there when he disowned me.”

She cut him off before he could say a word.  “You didn’t stop him from giving me the boot, did you?  You never got in touch with me, did you?  Not until you needed me.  What do I care about the family?  It’s ...”

“It’s not about the family,” Alden said.  There was a hint of guilt in his voice.  “It’s about finding out what’s going on.”

“And why,” Isabella demanded, “should I care about what’s going on?”

“Whatever is happening,” Alden said, “needs to be investigated.  The Golden City ...”

“The Golden City is a ruin,” Isabella said.  “And the Grand Sorcerers are dead!”

Alden took a long breath.  “What do you want?”

Isabella hesitated.  She’d often told herself that she’d demand a high price, when her father finally realised his mistake and called her back home.  But ... she’d never expected the old bastard to die.  He’d been a powerful sorcerer, one of the strongest magicians in the Golden City.  He should have lived longer.  The magic in his bloodline should have kept him alive for over a century.  But now he was gone.

She felt a sob catch in her throat.  Her other brothers were gone.  They’d been closer to her than her sisters, but ... they were gone.  And her sisters were gone too.  She’d never imagined losing everyone but Alden.  She’d never imagined that the whole family – and civilised society – could die.  The Empire had seemed utterly indestructible.  It was terrifying to realise just how quickly it had fallen apart.  Andalusia was one of the most powerful kingdoms in the region, but it was tiny compared to the immensity the Grand Sorcerers had ruled.

“I don’t know,” she said.  “I just ... don’t know.”

Alden reached out and touched her hand, gently.  Isabella nearly jerked away before relaxing into the contact.  It wasn’t one he’d offered her very often, not when he’d spent far too long pretending to be their father.  And yet ...

“You can come home, if you like,” Alden said.  “Or ... there are places for you, if you want.”

Isabella snorted, rudely.  It wasn’t as if she’d be welcome in the Golden City, even now.  Or ... the city was ruined, after all.  Maybe she would be welcome.  Or ...

“My share of the inheritance,” she said, finally.  “And ... and enough money to keep me going for a while.”

“That can be arranged,” Alden said.  His lips quirked.  “You do realise that most of the inheritance is gone?”

“You give me half of what’s left, save for what’s entailed,” Isabella said.  Alden was the eldest son.  The entailed property would go straight to him, now their father was dead.  It was a point of law.  “And you send the money out here.”

Alden took a long breath.  “And afterwards, will you come home?”

“You told me that home no longer exists,” Isabella said, sharply.  She felt another odd pang of grief.  The family mansion in the Golden City had been a hard place to grow up, but the estates in the countryside had been fun.  She’d loved running in the fields and playing in the gardens more than she cared to admit.  “What is there to come home to?”

“We are trying to rebuild magic,” Alden said.  “You have training we can use.”

“I know,” Isabella said, softly.  Oddly, she felt better about knowing he did have an ulterior motive.  She would have been suspicious if he’d professed brotherly love for her.  “I’ll consider it, after we return from the Summer Isle.”

Alden rose.  “I thank you,” he said, formally.  He produced a sheet of parchment from his trouser pocket and held it out to her.  “I have established a number of contacts at King Romulus’s court.  You can send a message to me through them.”

“Which will still take weeks to reach you,” Isabella said.  She’d grown far too used to the crystal ball network.  “Is there any way to speed letters up?”

“Not any longer,” Alden said.  “And even if we could, the kings wouldn’t let us.”

Isabella looked down.  How the mighty fall ...

She rose.  “I ... thank you for coming,” she said.  She wasn’t sure how she felt, but ... she knew she should say something.  “And ... I hope we’ll see each other again, soon.”

“I have rooms at the bank,” Alden said.  “You are welcome to join me.”

He paused.  “And you probably should get married,” he added.  “Right now, I’m unmarried too.”

Isabella’s eyebrows shot up.  She’d always assumed their father would have found Alden a bride, eventually.  There would come a time when Alden would shuffle off the marriage market anyway, unless he wanted a vast age difference between him and his wife.  And their father would have wanted grandchildren ...

“I haven’t had the time,” Alden said.  “And even if I wanted to, I don’t have a bride.”

Because the family is no longer what it was, Isabella thought.  Once, Alden would have been sure of a girl from the very highest levels of magical society.  She’d known parents who would cheerfully rid themselves of an unwanted son-in-law just so their daughter could marry into House Majuro.  But now ... Alden was nowhere near so important.  And who’d want to marry him without a vast dowry?

“I’m sorry,” she said.  She didn’t think any of the friends she’d known at school would have wanted him, not without the promise of powerful children.  “I ...”

She closed her eyes in pain.  Too many of the friends she’d known – and the enemies who’d hexed her and been hexed in return – would be dead.  She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what had happened to them.  The boring girls who’d only talked of marriage, the boys who’d bragged of adventure ... where were they?  Dead now, perhaps.  So few had left the Golden City ...

“It’s not a problem,” Alden said.  “Just ... think about it, please.”

Isabella snorted.  “No one would want to marry me,” she said.  “And to hell with anyone who says differently.”

Chapter Five

It had been years – literally – since Isabella had spoken a prayer for the dead.

She sat in the centre of her room – dark, cramped, smelly and thoroughly disgusting – and placed a candle on the floor, lighting it with a single spell.  It wasn’t a traditional candle, but she doubted her family were in any state to care.  They were one with the household gods now, if tradition was to be believed ... unless they’d earned eternal damnation instead.  She found it hard to decide where her father would have gone, after his death.  He’d been a hard man, but he hadn’t been evil.

The flame flickered as air blew through the room.  Isabella sucked in her breath, then began the prayer.  It was five years too late, but it hardly mattered.  She hadn’t known about their deaths until Alden had told her.  She’d always assumed that her father and his children had survived whatever had destroyed the Golden City.  She certainly hadn’t felt their deaths ... although, as she’d been disowned, that was probably meaningless.  Or had been probably meaningless.  Alden had told her she could go home, if she wished.

Home doesn’t exist anymore, she thought, as she concentrated on the flickering light.  The flame seemed to grow brighter as she muttered the prayer, repeating it for each of the dead.  I am still alone.

She shook her head, mournfully.  She’d never dared put down roots, not since she’d left the Golden City.  It had seemed easier to keep herself to herself, joining mercenary bands or private guardsmen for a few months and then moving on when she started feeling too comfortable.  It just hadn’t been safe to relax, she’d thought.  There’d been no reason to believe that anyone was after her, but ... she sighed, shaking her head again.  She’d always been given to wanderlust.

Father’s influence, she told herself.  He always wanted me to stick to one thing.

She finished the prayer, then reached out and snuffed out the candlelight.  The room went dark, completely dark.  There were no chinks of light from the outside world ... she smiled, wryly, as she realised the room genuinely was sealed.  She hadn’t expected so much, when she’d requested a private room.  But then, there was no need to bed down with the rest of the company.  It wasn’t as if they were marching to war.

Some people claimed to see visions of the dead, shortly after speaking the prayer.  Isabella waited, but saw nothing.  Her father and siblings were already gone to the next world, she guessed.  Alden would have cremated their bodies, if they’d ever been found.  There was too great a chance of a powerful magician rising again – as a soulless lich – or their blood and bones being used for dark rituals.  Their bodies had to be destroyed and the ashes scattered over the estate.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, recalling her father.  He’d shaped her more than he’d wished, she thought.  She had all of his stubbornness and magical talent ... too much stubbornness to accept his plans for her, too much talent to be simply ignored or married off at the first opportunity.  Their fights ... by all the gods, their fights!  She’d loved him, in her way, but she’d also wanted to strike out on her own.  Her disownment had seemed a blessing in disguise.  It wasn’t as if she’d had any trouble earning money after she’d been kicked out with nothing but the clothes on her back.

Father probably considered that a huge concession, she thought, sourly.  Technically, a disowned daughter can’t take anything from the family ... even clothes.

She concentrated, reaching out in hopes of feeling her father’s presence.  But there was nothing ... nothing but the faint sense of background magic.  She took a long breath, then opened her eyes.  The darkness ebbed and flowed around her as she picked up the candle and lit it again, then removed her boots and walked to the bed.  Lord Robin wanted an early morning meeting, after all.  He was probably going to regret it.  Big Richard was definitely going to regret it.

He’ll have one hell of a hangover, she thought, vindictively.  Thankfully, she’d managed to find and heal the barmaid before her father took the poor girl to the nearest sawbones.  A magic-less healer couldn’t have done anything for her, save perhaps for amputating the broken arm.  Big Richard deserved to suffer.  And it serves the bastard right.

She lay down on the bed, muttering a couple of spells to keep bugs away.  Sleeping in her clothes was uncomfortable, but she was damned if she was sleeping naked on the bed.  The gods alone knew how many people had slept on it, over the last few years.  She rather doubted it had been cleaned, either.  Spells or no spells, she was probably going to be itchy tomorrow.  It was a shame there were no washtubs in the inn ...

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on meditating.  Her father was dead ... her family was dead, save for her least-liked brother.  The irony irked her more than she cared to admit.  If any of the others had asked her home, she might have agreed.  But Alden ... she sighed as a wave of tiredness threatened to overcome her.  They’d always got along better when there was some distance between them.  And ...

She opened her eyes.  She’d slept and now ... she sat upright, casting a light-spell as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.  It was early morning, but she could hear people moving in the streets outside.  Commoners never got to sleep into the later hours, not when there was too much to do.  She stepped into the washroom, splashed a little water on her face and then headed through the door.  A handful of guests were already making their way down to the dining room.  Breakfast would be waiting for them.

Lord Robin greeted her with a wave as she stepped into the room.  He looked disgustingly fresh and cheerful as she shuffled over to sit at his table, even though she was sure he’d gone to bed later than her.  But then, he’d always put more effort into his appearance than she’d ever done.  If she hadn’t known he’d had a string of mistresses, she would have wondered if he was more interested in men than woman.  But then, Big Richard and quite a few others had accused her of being strikingly masculine.

The barmaid bustled over.  “What can I get you?”

Isabella made a face.  The inn’s food wasn’t very good, although there was plenty of it.  She didn’t really want to eat, but ... she knew she had to keep up her strength.  She ordered food and drink, then sat back to wait.  The barmaid returned with surprising speed, carrying a platter of eggs, sausages and a single goblet of wine.  She wanted coffee, but there was none to be had.  These days, with trade routes lying in ruins, no one – not even the rich – could find coffee for love or money.

“Very suspicious looking sausages,” Lord Robin said.  “What do you think they are?”

Isabella shrugged as she cast a spell, making sure the food was safe to eat.  She didn’t want to know what sort of meat had gone into the sausages.  Pork or lamb or ... something far less savoury.  Commoners would eat anything, even rat.  Whoever had minced the meat to create sausages had flavoured it heavily, probably to disguise the original taste.  Perhaps it was horse.  There was a knackery just down the street.

She met his eyes.  “What did Alden say to you?”

“Alden?  Smyth?”

Isabella mentally kicked herself.  “His name is Alden,” she said, crossly.  Perhaps, just perhaps, Lord Robin would draw a line between Alden Majuro and Isabella Majuro.  Or perhaps not.  The Golden City was a long way away.  And House Majuro was no longer the power it had been.  “What did he say to you?”

“Very little,” Lord Robin said.  “He just said he wanted to talk to you.”

He cocked his head.  “Was it something I should know about?”

“I don’t know,” Isabella said.  “But I’ll tell you when I find out.”

They finished the meal in silence, then headed down to the private meeting room.  Robin nodded to one of the chairs, inviting her to sit, then hurried to find the others.  Isabella felt a flicker of sympathy for the men, even though some of them had been more than a little unwelcoming.  Robin expected them to attend, hangovers or no hangovers.  She concentrated on casting privacy spells as the door opened, admitting the remainder of the company.  Big Richard didn’t look at her as he slunk into the room, one hand half-covering his eyes.  The drink had finally caught up with him.

And I was supposed to find him a hangover cure, Isabella remembered.  Oops.

Lord Robin returned, locking and bolting the door as soon as he’d counted heads.  “Isabella, please make this room secure,” he said.  “Everyone else, sit down and take a glass of water.”

Big Richard didn’t make any snide remarks as Isabella finished casting the privacy spells.  He must be really hungover, she decided.  Or perhaps he was ill.  She checked the wards carefully, layering them in place to deter any spying magicians.  It was hard to imagine any of the remaining magic-users bothering to spy on Lord Robin and his mercenary company, but it never hurt to take precautions.  Besides, Alden had visited them.  If someone knew who he was, they might pay more attention to the company.

“Done,” she said.  “The room is as private as I can make it.”

“Very good,” Lord Robin said.  He strode to the end of the table and sat down.  “We have a new contract.  Crown Prince Reginald is building an army – and we’re invited.”

A rustle of excitement ran around the table.  Isabella looked from face to face, noting who seemed pleased and who seemed concerned.  A contract from the Crown Prince would be sure to pay well – aristocrats knew better than to try to cheat their mercenaries – but being part of a larger force would cause problems.  Sharing out the loot would be harder if there were more grasping hands.  And the Crown Prince would probably count his mercenaries as expendable…

Lord Robin ran through the same explanation she’d heard from Alden, although with a few new details.  The Crown Prince, it seemed, was building a vast army.  There was at least a vague possibility that the prince intended to wage war on his father, rather than the Summer Isle.  But he’d also put out a call for shipping as well as mercenaries, inviting sailors to join his invasion force.  It certainly looked as though he intended to cross the channel as soon as possible.  The longer he delayed, the harder it would be to unseat King Rufus and claim his kingdom.

“We will be serving as scouts and special operatives,” Lord Robin finished.  “On one hand, we’ll be paid very well; on the other, we’ll be carrying out some very dangerous missions.”

He smiled, rather thinly.  “If any of you want to back out now, say so.”

Isabella shrugged to herself.  Alden had made it clear that something was happening on the Summer Isle.  She had to go there.  The others ... she smiled, inwardly, at the flurry of chatter.  Lord Robin’s core group – seven mercenaries, including herself – would probably follow wherever he led.  It was a small band, but they’d worked together for months.  A larger force would be harder to control.

“I want to go,” Big Richard said.  He rubbed his forehead, roughly.  “Anyone want to back out?”

Isabella ignored his challenging stare.  The mercenary code demanded that each mercenary be offered a chance to back out, before the formal contract was signed.  No one would hold it against someone who left now, but later ... a mercenary who fled would be regarded as a deserter.  And it would be harder to flee on the Summer Isle.  She’d never been there, but she suspected a stranger would stick out like a sore thumb.  Mercenaries who were cut off from the rest of the group were often brutally murdered by the locals, when they were caught.  It wasn’t as if they were protected by the honour code.

Nor are soldiers, not really, she reminded herself.  The locals have plenty of reason to fear and detest soldiers too.

She pushed the thought aside as Lord Robin issued orders.  They’d be departing within the hour, riding straight for Humber.  The port city wasn’t too far from Havelock, if Isabella recalled the map correctly, but it was closer to the Summer Isle.  And far enough from Havelock that King Romulus couldn’t supervise his son.  She wondered if that should bother her, then decided it probably didn’t matter.  The world had changed, five years ago.  If a prince wanted to overthrow his father ... who cared?

Everyone who gets caught up in the civil war, she thought, crossly.  And the victor, who will have to make some hard choices after the fighting is over.

“I’ll have the innkeeper pack us some lunch,” Lord Robin said, rising.  “We should be able to make it to Humber before dark.”

“If we ride hard,” Dolman said.  The swordsman didn’t look convinced.  “We don’t want to get to the town gates after dark.”

“We should be fine,” Lord Robin said.  “And if we have to sleep in the open air ... well, it won’t be the first time.”

“We could just climb the walls,” Big Richard suggested.  “It might be fun.”

“It might also get us beheaded,” Isabella countered.  Townsfolk took a dim view of people climbing their walls at the best of times.  Now, with an army and fleet assembling in the town, she suspected that any intruders would be taken for spies.  “Better to sleep outside than risk death.”

“Coward,” Big Richard said.  “We’ve sneaked into towns before.”

“There’s no need to sneak into Humber,” Isabella snapped.  “I ...”

Lord Robin slapped the table, hard.  “If we get there after the gates close, we will wait,” he said.  “I do want to get there quickly, but there’s no point in breaking into the city.”

He nodded to the door.  “Isabella, stay here.  Everyone else, grab your stuff and meet me at the stables, twenty minutes from now.”

Isabella silently dismantled the privacy spells as the rest of the company headed out of the door.  It wasn’t as if they had much to grab, in any case.  Their bags should already be packed.  Her bag was sitting on her bed, just waiting for her.  She hoped a maid hadn’t tried to move it.  The protective spells she used to keep her bag safe would give a maid a thoroughly unpleasant surprise, if she touched the bag without permission.

“The Crown Prince has also put out a call for magicians,” Lord Robin told her.  “I was planning to make it clear that you were attached to my company.”

“I see,” Isabella said.  Two of the pieces fell into place.  “But you’re also planning to use me as a way to gain influence.”

Robin didn’t bother to deny it.  “A chance to enter the prince’s personal household is not to be denied,” he said, seriously.  “And it could be good for you too.”

Isabella nodded, slowly.  There was a shortage of magicians in Andalusia – and the Summer Isle as well, she assumed.  It was quite possible that she was the most powerful sorcerer in the kingdom.  Hedge-witches had their uses, but they lacked the training she’d been given at the Peerless School.  She couldn’t blame the Crown Prince for wanting magicians to join his invasion force.  He might face significant problems if his enemy had more magic-users than he did.

And Robin would have a chance to build up a power base for himself, she thought.  Not a bad opportunity for a landless bastard son.

“Tell him, then,” she said.  “But don’t tell him too much about me.”

“As you wish,” Robin said.  He winked at her.  “You do realise the Crown Prince is unmarried.”

Isabella barked a harsh laugh.  “I don’t think he’d be interested in me,” she said.  The hell of it was that wasn’t true.  If the Crown Prince knew her bloodline, he’d have excellent reason to court her.  “And you know that, don’t you?”

She walked through the door and back up the stairs to her room, where she collected her bag and headed down to the stables.  Big Richard was standing in the bar, kissing and fondling a very enthusiastic whore.  Isabella wondered, cynically, just how much he’d paid her as she made her way out to the stables.  Big Richard would be in real trouble if he was late.  Lord Robin did have a good reason to want to reach Humber quickly.  How else could he make himself useful to the Crown Prince?

And he’s going to use me to do it, Isabella thought.  She felt a flicker of annoyance.  Being close to the Crown Prince might be useful, particularly if the rumours were more than just lies, but ... at least she wasn’t posing as a kept woman.  That would be worse.  Pretending to be stupid had always got on her nerves.  It’s worse than making love to some fat oaf.

Somewhat to her surprise, Big Richard joined the group an instant before Lord Robin arrived, carrying a bag of food.  Isabella took her share and stowed it in her saddlebags, then clambered up and into the saddle as the stable doors opened.  Her horse whinnied in delight – being confined to the stable couldn’t have been fun, even if there were mares in the nearby chambers – and started to move forward.  Isabella let Lord Robin take the lead as they cantered out onto the road and headed west.

We’ll be riding all day, she thought, sourly.  But as long as we get there on time, it will be worth it.

Chapter Six

Humber was not, in Crown Prince Reginald’s frank estimation, a particularly important city.  It was too close to Havelock to have its own identity, yet too far from the capital to be absorbed into its teeming masses.  The port facilities were good, but successive monarchs had worked hard to ensure that Havelock – not Humber – handled the vast majority of the shipping trade.  Only fishing – and trading missions to the Summer Isles – had kept Humber afloat.  It wasn’t something that had seemed likely to change.

But it had changed, Reginald told himself, as he stood on the tower and peered west.  The Summer Isle was visible, barely.  The Summer Channel was relatively narrow, as seas went, but it was treacherous as a demon from the darkest hells.  Storms blew up out of nowhere, the sailors had warned; the tides and currents were dangerously unpredictable, changing seemingly at random.  The body of water between Andalusia and the Summer Isle was hard to navigate, even for experienced sailors.  Crossing the waters was not going to be pleasant.

He lowered his gaze, looking towards the port.  It thrummed with activity as sailors struggled to prepare the fleet for departure.  Reginald had hired nearly every ship in Humber that could make the crossing, along with a number of merchant ships whose captains had been looking for a sure thing.  There were fifty-seven ships in the fleet, each one capable of carrying hundreds of soldiers.  Disembarking the men – and their equipment – was going to be a hassle, but it was one he could surmount.  And ... he turned his head, spotting the army and mercenary camps.  Thousands of men had been coming in over the last two days, either as individuals or mercenary bands ... his sergeants were organising them now, preparing the men for departure.  It was a logistics headache, but they could handle it.  They knew that a mistake now might cost everything on the other side of the channel.

And the mercenaries also know to behave themselves, Reginald thought.  I taught them that lesson already.

He gritted his teeth.  He’d already had two men hanged for rape and a third for theft.  It was hard to blame the mercenaries for wanting to entertain themselves while they waited to board the ships, but there were limits.  There was no shortage of whores, after all.  And besides, the last thing he needed was the city fathers finding excuses to slow down work.  The fleet had to depart before summer slowly turned into winter or it would never depart at all.  Reginald wasn’t deterred by the thought of launching the invasion the following year, but ... it would give the usurper too much time to establish himself.  A delayed invasion would be very costly indeed.

The door opened behind him.  Reginald turned, just in time to see Equerry Caen step onto the battlements.  He was a handsome youth, a year or so younger than Reginald himself.  They’d grown up together, sharing their lessons as they inched towards adulthood.  And yet ... Reginald felt a flicker of shame as he remembered how Caen had always been punished for Reginald’s misdeeds.  The tutors knew better than to strike the prince.  It had been his father, eventually, who’d taken him to task for allowing his friend to get into trouble.

“Your Highness,” Caen said.  “The council of war is waiting for you.”

Reginald felt a hot flush of excitement.  It was hardly the first time he’d called a council of war – he’d also attended his father’s councils as a growing youth – but this one was special.  This was no border skirmish or campaign against rebellious noblemen.  This was a war ...

“Then let us go greet them,” he said, turning to the door.  “We have much to discuss.”

Humber Castle was old.  It had been in poor condition until recently, when King Romulus had ordered the seneschal to prepare the building for a possible war.  The castle was dark and draughty – and it stank like a privy – but at least it was defendable.  Reginald wasn’t sure who his father envisaged attacking Humber, although he understood the older man’s paranoia.  A foe who took Humber would be within striking distance of Havelock itself.  He smiled to himself as he led his friend down the stairs to the council chamber.  The Summer Isle was in the best place to mount an invasion, but it would never have the chance.  He’d see to that.

He stepped into the chamber and watched as the council of war rose to meet him.  They were a diverse crowd, including – his lips twitched in disapproval – his father’s watchdog.  Lord William looked as if he wanted to be somewhere – anywhere – else.  Reginald heartily agreed that the wretched man should be somewhere else, but he knew his father would be annoyed if Reginald banished Lord William.  It would have to wait until they crossed the channel, whereupon a role could be found for the older man that would keep him out of the way.

“Be seated,” he ordered, as he sat down at the head of the table.  He had no time for the pomp and ceremony that surrounded his father.  “We have much to discuss.”

He allowed his eyes to roam the chamber.  His three Captain-Generals – Captain-General Gars, Captain-General Stuart, Captain-General Jones – looked eager to depart, even though they knew there was still much work to do.  They’d been his constant companions since he’d first lifted a sword, alternately serving him and pressing for promotions for themselves.  He didn’t really blame them – they needed to establish themselves before it got too late – but it was frustrating at times.  His father had given Reginald much, yet he hadn’t given Reginald anything he could use to bind the men to him permanently.  Gars, in particular, wanted to marry well.  But Reginald didn’t have the power to offer him the heiress he needed to make a mark on the court.

Behind them, Sergeant Ruthven was a short man with a fierce temper.  He was the man who’d taught Reginald how to command, years ago.  Reginald had admired him, right from the moment they’d first met; he had nothing but boundless admiration for the older man and ensured that he stayed with his prince.  Common-born or not, Ruthven deserved to rise high.  Reginald had every intention of making sure the man got an heiress of his own, when the time came.  Ruthven deserved nothing less than the best.  And, behind him, was Academic Milhous.  He was out of place – he was a scholar, not a nobleman or soldier – but he was the greatest living expert on the Summer Isle.  Reginald had insisted on bringing him when he’d discovered just how little was actually known about the island.

“Well,” Reginald said, calmly.  “Gars, where do we stand?”

Captain-General Gars leaned forward.  Reginald had appointed him the Master of Foot, knowing that Gars had the experience to handle so many troops in battle.  It was annoying to realise that Gars had more experience than Reginald himself, but it was just something that had to be tolerated.  Reginald’s father had been leery of letting Reginald too close to the front lines.  The death of his only son would be an utter disaster.

“We have roughly five thousand men – soldiers and mercenaries – assembled now,” Gars said, without bothering to consult his papers.  “Assuming others continue to flow into Humber as predicted, Your Highness, we will be looking at around twelve thousand men – infantry, archers, horsemen – by the time we depart.  I’ve started intensive training already in the fields outside the walls.  So far, save for a few minor disciplinary problems, we haven’t had any real issues.”

“That will change, Your Highness,” Captain-General Jones said, in his raspy voice.  He hadn’t been a healthy child and, even now, he was weaker than his peers.  He’d gone into logistics because he could barely ride a horse, let alone swing a blade.  “Feeding five thousand men is a nightmare.  I dread to imagine what feeding twelve thousand will be like.”

“I’m sure you will rise to the challenge,” Reginald said.  He liked Jones, even though most of their peers considered Jones a weakling.  No one could fight a war without a solid understanding of logistics.  “Where do we stand on supplies?”

“We are buying up everything in the area,” Jones informed him.  “But we have also driven prices up ...”

“Then set the prices,” Gars snapped.

“Then shopkeepers will hoard food rather than sell it,” Jones pointed out, tartly.  “We cannot induce them to sell by setting prices.”

Reginald held up a hand.  “Can you feed the army?”

“Barely,” Jones said.  “We should be able to get enough supplies for the first month over with the army, but ... it isn’t going to be easy.”

“The Summer Isle is rich,” Milhous said.  “Can we not live off the land?”

“They may burn the fields to keep us from taking the grain,” Jones said.  “It has been done before.”

Reginald nodded.  He’d led the campaign against Baron Gaunt, a campaign that had come far too close to failure.  The man had withdrawn most of his men into his castle, then burnt the lands for miles around.  Reginald had been forced to storm the castle – a very costly endeavour – rather than swallow his pride and withdraw.  Even now, two years later, the lands hadn’t fully recovered.  Far too many of the peasants had fled.

“We can solve all these problems,” he said.  “Shipping?”

“We should have enough ships to transport most of the army,” Jones said.  “But not every sailor wants to serve under your banner.”

“Traitors,” Gars muttered.

“Then offer them higher rewards,” Reginald said.  “Now ... our plan.”

He nodded to Milhous.  “Tell us about the Summer Isle.”

Milhous cleared his throat.  “Very little is known about the Summer Isle’s past,” he said.  “However, it is clear that the island was settled from Andalusia two thousand years ago and so we have a valid claim...”

Reginald laughed.  “I’m not interested in claims rooted so far in the past,” he said, bluntly.  If nothing else, treating that claim as valid would open up a thousand other claims that couldn’t possibly be verified.  “Tell us about it now.”

Milhous reddened.  “Politically, the Summer Isle is divided into three states,” he said.  “The Summer Isle proper is flanked by the Wildlands – untamed mountainous lands dominated by savages – and the Northern Realm, a marginally more civilised country inhabited by barbaric brutes.  Both countries pledge homage to the Summer Isle, but practically speaking they’re both independent.”

“That will have to change,” Reginald said.

“King Edwin’s noblemen are a powerful lot,” Milhous added.  “He couldn’t keep them under control and so ...”

Reginald tapped the map.  “And your thoughts?”

Milhous looked as if he wanted to say something cutting, but didn’t quite dare.  “There are only three cities of real importance,” he said, carefully.  “Racal’s Bay, Allenstown and Georgetown.  I believe we will have to claim all three of them to secure the island.”

“As well as miles upon miles of towns, villages, farms and untamed countryside,” Gars said.

“Quite,” Reginald agreed.  He pointed to the map.  “We need a port.  Accordingly, we will land near Racal’s Bay and move at once to take the city.  Once secured, we will bring in the rest of the army and then march on Allenstown, the capital.  The usurper will have to challenge us at some point, if only to keep us from taking the capital and forcing him to flee back to his own lands.”

“Which are quite some distance from Allenstown,” Jones pointed out.

“He will have to challenge us,” Reginald said.  “He wants to be a king.  If he looks weak, his supporters will start to see us as the real power in the land and slip away.  And if he leaves Racal’s Bay in our hands, we can just keep bringing in men and supplies until we can overwhelm him.”

He smiled, rather coolly.  There had been no point in trying to disguise the invasion preparations, not when they could have only one conceivable goal.  Reginald would be astonished if the usurper didn’t already know what was coming.  Instead, he’d sent the usurper a message, ordering him to submit and pay homage ... or die.  And he’d worded the message very carefully.  No nobleman would submit to it, not unless a sword was held to his throat.  There would be no peace.  And no peace meant that Reginald could take the Summer Isle at will.

“We will accept surrenders and homage, of course,” he added.  “But we will make it clear that we will not tolerate backsliding.  I am not King Edwin and I have no intention of allowing my sworn liegemen to change their minds.”

He allowed himself a moment of sympathy for King Edwin.  The poor man had never had the force to impose his will on his subjects.  He’d been bullied into accepting a queen who couldn’t or wouldn’t give him children, something that had ensured his line would end with him.  Reginald couldn’t imagine being so weak.  His father had always been strong enough to keep the barons in line, even in the chaos that had spread across the land after the Golden City had fallen.  Reginald had banged heads together for his father himself.  

“Those who submit will be watched carefully,” he told them.  “And those who refuse to submit will be crushed.”

Milhous took a breath.  “There were – there are – three earls,” he said.  “The usurper, formerly Earl Hereford.  His family were, perhaps, the most powerful people on the Summer Isle, powerful enough to make the king their servant.  They were certainly able to prevent him from putting his queen, Emetine Hereford, aside.  Then we have Earl Goldenrod, who is probably fairly close to Hereford in power, and Earl Oxley.  Oxley is the weakest of the three, which may make him amiable to diplomacy.”

Reginald shrugged.  Oxley might bargain or he might not.  Either way, Reginald would make sure he held the whip hand.  Weakest of the three or not, Oxley would still be powerful within his own lands.  It would be best to ensure that all negotiations were conducted from a position of strength.

Gars leaned forward.  “What will the other two earls do, when we land?”

“I think they’ll wait and see who comes out on top,” Milhous said.  “Neither of them will welcome our arrival, but I can’t imagine that either of them are pleased with Hereford declaring himself king.  From their point of view, the ideal outcome would be a battle that leaves Hereford grossly weakened, allowing them a chance to strike to re-establish the balance of power.  Or even a stalemate that gives them a chance to come to favourable terms with us.”

“Which isn’t going to happen,” Reginald said.  His father had had problems with overmighty nobles, even though he’d been far stronger than King Edwin.  Reginald had no intention of allowing that problem to persist into his reign.  “And they have to know it.”

“They may not,” Milhous pointed out.

Reginald rather doubted it.  Andalusia was the Summer Isle’s closest neighbour – and the country that had provided men and materials to King Edwin, when he’d sought to retake his throne.  Anyone with half a brain – and he assumed the usurper had a working brain – would keep an eye on his neighbour, just to determine which way the neighbouring monarch was likely to jump.  The Summer Isle’s nobility would have seen what Reginald and his father had done to their rebellious aristocrats, and trembled.  It was unlikely that any of them would bare their throats for the blade.

Good, he thought.  I can take their lands and distribute them at will.

“We may have to improvise, at times, once we arrive on the Summer Isle,” he said.  “But for the moment ... I want to be ready to leave in two weeks.”

Jones frowned.  “It may be doable,” he said.  “However, supplies may run short.”

“We don’t have much time,” Reginald reminded him.  “How long until the autumn winds start howling down the channel?”

Gars made a face.  “I hate sailing.”

Reginald nodded in wry agreement.  He understood soldiering, from marching in formation to advancing to attack the enemy.  He’d done all of it and more.  But sailing ... he disliked sailing.  He hated feeling helpless on a wooden ship as the wind started to blow, threatening to tip them over or drive them onto the shore.  And he’d have to take orders from sailors.  He knew, all too well, that he didn’t understand sailing.

Lord William didn’t look any happier.  Reginald allowed himself a tight smile.  Perhaps Lord William would remain below decks for the voyage.  It wasn’t as if it would take that long to cross the channel.  He’d already rounded up sailors who knew the route into the Summer Bay and made them pick out possible landing sites near Racal’s Bay.  Who knew?  Maybe Lord William would be so ill he’d have to be sent straight back home.

“Now,” he said.  “About the ...”

There was a tap on the door.  Reginald looked up and barked a command.  His staff knew not to interrupt him, unless it was truly urgent.  Whoever had disturbed them must have a very good reason.

One of his staffers entered the room and bowed.  “Your Highness,” he said.  “You asked to be notified when a sorcerer entered the city.  One has just arrived.”

“Very good,” Reginald said.  His call for magicians hadn’t attracted many magic-users.  It was a serious concern, if only because he had no idea how many magicians were waiting for him on the Summer Isle.  “Was he invited to the castle?”

“She, Your Highness,” the staffer said.  “And yes ... she’s currently travelling with a group of mercenaries.”

“Then ask them to wait for me,” Reginald said.  He nodded to his council as he rose.  “We’ll meet again tomorrow evening.  Dismissed.”

Chapter Seven

Isabella could smell Humber hours before the city came into view, a stench of rotting fish mingled with the sour taste of far too many humans living in close proximity.  Her stomach churned as they cantered down the road, racing the sun as it slowly dipped below the distant horizon.  Sleeping outside was hardly a problem, particularly as the city’s walls seemed to be surrounded by tents and makeshift barracks, but it wouldn’t please Lord Robin.  He’d want to get inside the walls before night fell and the gates were closed.

Her body ached as they finally rode up to the gates.  She’d been sitting in the saddle too long; far too long.  She hadn’t ached so badly since she’d entered her training program, when her instructors – sadistic bastards to a man – had routinely beaten the crap out of her just to prove she didn’t know as much as she thought she knew.  But she had to admit that their beatings had served a purpose, unlike the long-distance ride.  She rather doubted that being a day late would cause too many problems for Lord Robin.

The guards on the gate were alert, holding their swords and spears at the ready as the company came to a halt.  Isabella thought she could see archers, half-hidden behind the arrow slits on the guardhouse.  She didn’t really blame the Crown Prince for being paranoid, not with so many strangers surrounding the city.  Mercenaries weren’t the most disciplined troops in the world – even regular soldiers could run riot from time to time – and the Crown Prince would want to nip any problems in the bud.

She watched Lord Robin speaking to the guard, turning her head from side to side to check out her fellow mercenaries.  Big Richard looked disgustingly alert, for someone who’d had a hangover only eleven hours ago; he eyed her with his piggy eyes, then made a show of looking away.  The others didn’t look any better than she felt.  They all needed hot baths and a long rest, but she doubted they’d get either.  The mercenary camp probably didn’t have anything beyond the basics.  

Which means we’ll be crapping into a pit, she thought, sourly.  

She made a face.  It wasn’t going to be pleasant, not even slightly.  There would be no shortage of camp women and inexpensive whores, but someone would try it on, as sure as eggs were eggs.  She readied a handful of really nasty spells, ones that would teach any would-be rapist a permanent lesson.  No one would complain if she castrated a rapist and then dumped him in the cesspit.

Lord Robin raised his voice.  “We’re being invited to the castle,” he said.  “Isabella, you’re with me.  Dolman, take the others to the camp and find a spot to set up our tents.  I’ll find you when we’re finished.”

Isabella frowned.  “What did you tell them?”

“The truth,” Robin said.  “You’re a sorceress and I’m an experienced war leader.”

He pushed his horse forward, through the gate.  Isabella followed, feeling a trickle of fear as they passed under the liquid channels.  The guards would have boiling oil up there, waiting for someone to try to force their way into the city.  She’d never liked walking under the channels, even though she knew it was safe.  Her imagination kept suggesting that someone was about to pour the oil onto her head.   

The smell grew stronger inside the city.  Isabella muttered a spell under her breath, trying to dampen the stench a little.  Humber was small and large at the same time, a complex network of stone houses leading down the hillside to the docks.  Hundreds of guardsmen patrolled the streets, eying the mercenaries warily.  There were only a few civilians – all of them male – in sight.  Isabella guessed, as Robin led her up the road to the castle, that there had already been a string of incidents.  The three men hanging from scaffolds, clearly visible as they approached the castle gate, were silent proof that the Crown Prince was determined to keep a firm grip on his men.  Isabella nodded in approval.  One had to be firm when dealing with mercenaries.  Given an inch, they’d take a mile.

Someone must have sent a runner to the castle, as a fresh-faced young man was waiting for them just outside the massive stone building.  He bowed politely to Lord Robin, then motioned a pair of stable boys to take the horses while he escorted their riders inside.  Isabella clambered down, cursing her aching body under her breath.  For once, Lord Robin looked just as worn.  They’d been in the saddle for far too long.

“Thank you for coming,” the man said.  He looked from Lord Robin to Isabella and then back again.  “Do you want to freshen up before you meet the Crown Prince?”

“Yes, please,” Lord Robin said.  “We are not particularly clean.”

“Please follow me,” the young man said.  “I’ll show you to the washroom.”

Isabella followed him through the castle, looking around with interest.  It had clearly been allowed to fall into disrepair over the years, although teams of workmen were hastily patching holes in the defences.  She had no way to be sure, but she rather suspected that whoever held the castle had a mansion in town.  The interior was cold and smelly, the mud-stained floors charred and pitted ... it was hardly suitable for a lord and lady.  It didn’t strike her as particularly defendable, either.  The townsfolk had built their homes far too close to the castle’s walls.

It must have been different, back in the day, she thought.  But the absence of any real threat made the owners lazy.

The washroom was communal, unsurprisingly.  Isabella made use of the facilities, then took a basin of water and washed her face and hands.  There was no point in trying to change.  She didn’t have a spare set of clothes with her – she’d left them in her saddlebags – and anything the castle could provide would probably be unsuitable.  She wasn’t wearing a dress and she doubted the castle’s seamstresses had bothered to sew leathers designed for wearers with breasts.  The gods knew she’d had to have hers specially sewn years ago.

Lord Robin coughed.  “You look a mess.”

Isabella scowled.  “So do you.”

She rubbed her legs as Lord Robin headed for the door, then followed him.  She was going to be stiff tomorrow, no matter what spells she used.  And she couldn’t show weakness in front of the men, any more than she could wear a dress.  If they started to think of her as a weak and foolish female, it would only be a matter of time before one of them did something stupid, even though she’d fought and bled beside them.  She didn’t want to have to kill one of the mercenaries to make a point.  

The man led them up a narrow flight of stairs – narrow enough to make it hard for someone like Big Richard to get up without trapping himself – and into a small sitting room.  A fire roared in the fireplace, but it still felt cold.  Isabella looked around with interest, noting the empty bookshelves and places on the stone wall that had clearly been designed to take a painting or two.  She’d been right, she decided.  Whoever owned the castle had moved out long ago.

A door opened, revealing the Crown Prince, followed by a middle-aged man who had a sour expression on his face.  Isabella didn’t know the Crown Prince by sight, of course – all the paintings she’d seen were insanely muscular, to the point she doubted the poor man could walk – but no one else would wear a golden breastplate, marked with the double-eagle insignia of his family.  Personally, she thought the golden armour was a little too striking, but it did distract attention from his face.

Lord Robin bowed, politely.  “Your Highness.”

Isabella followed suit, ignoring the sniff of disapproval from the sour-faced man.  She was a sorceress, not some brainless beauty from a lineage so pure that there was more than a hint of incest hidden somewhere in the family tree.  It was important that the Crown Prince saw her as a person, rather than a tool.  Or someone to be married off, for that matter.  She’d had too much of that from her family already.

She studied the Crown Prince with interest, aware that he was studying her back.  He was tall and handsome, his face unmarred by scars ... his reputation as a soldier was either exaggerated, then, or understated.  His frame wasn’t anything like as muscular as his portraits, unsurprisingly, but it was clear that he was a very strong man.  He didn’t move like an untried one, either.  Someone had given him some decent training, which had then been refined by experience.  His blond hair was a little too long for her liking – she’d been brought up to expect men to cut their hair short – but otherwise ... he was a handsome man.  And not too handsome to be true ...

“Your Highness,” she said.

“Lady Sorceress,” the Crown Prince said.  He studied her with frank interest.  “How powerful are you?”

“I studied at the Peerless School,” Isabella said, flatly.  “And I graduated with high marks.”

The sour-faced man sniffed.  “They all say that.”

Isabella didn’t hesitate.  She lifted her hand and cast a spell.  There was a brilliant flash of green light, followed by utter silence.  The sour-faced man was gone.  In his place, a large warty toad was sitting on the ground, blinking in confusion.  The Crown Prince let out a peal of laughter.  Isabella couldn’t help feeling a flicker of admiration.  There was no fear in his eyes, even after seeing her use magic.  Most men were terrified when they came face-to-face with a witch.

“Impressive,” the Crown Prince said.  “And how long will he stay a ... a frog?”

It was a toad, not a frog, but Isabella kept that thought to herself.  “How long would you like him to stay a frog?”

The toad let out a croaking sound.  No one handled their first transformation particularly well, even if they were transformed into an animal instead of an inanimate object.  The sour-faced man had to be panicking, wondering if he was stuck that way for the rest of his life.  It wouldn’t last long, if she left the curse alone, but with a few minor changes she could prolong the transformation indefinitely.

“Unfortunately, Lord William is meant to be helping me,” the Crown Prince said.  “Turn him back, please.”

Isabella hesitated, just for a second.  There was an edge in the Crown Prince’s voice that annoyed her, even though she understood.  He wanted – he needed – to test her willingness to obey orders as well as cast spells.  And yet ... she wasn’t working for him just yet, was she?

She released the spell.  The man – Lord William – appeared in a flash of green light.  He was trembling, shaking from head to toe.  No doubt it was his first transformation.  Outside the Peerless School and other magical communities, it wasn’t that uncommon.  The shock alone must have terrified him.  He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to shout and scream, then closed it again.  He was too scared to say a word.

“A vast improvement, no doubt,” the Crown Prince said, dryly.  “Are you willing to work for me?”

“I work for Lord Robin,” Isabella said.  The title sounded empty in her voice.  Whoever had fathered Lord Robin hadn’t left him anything he could use to establish himself.  “But I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”

***
Reginald was torn, if he were forced to be honest with himself, between an urge to giggle inanely and a desperate desire to run.  He was a soldier, but he knew – all too well – that he couldn’t fight magic.  The girl in front of him – the young woman, really – could turn him into a frog with a snap of her fingers ... or worse, if she wished.  There was no shortage of stories about kings and princes who’d been turned into slaves by magic, all spread – he was sure – to ensure that no monarch defied his court wizard.  

He studied the sorceress, trying to see ... he wasn’t sure what he was trying to see.  She didn’t look like any sorceress he’d ever seen.  She wore a set of mercenary leathers over a dark green shirt and pair of trousers.  Her clothes were designed to hide the shape of her body, he realised slowly.  The swell of her breasts were almost completely concealed behind the leathers.  He would have taken her for a man if he hadn’t known she was a woman.

Her face was feminine, he noted, although her close-cropped dark hair made her look like a slightly effeminate man.  No Adam’s apple, of course.  She carried a nasty scar on her right cheek, as well as a bruise that looked to be fading slowly.  And she was tall.  The taller the magician, the stronger the magic.  Or so he’d been told.  Too many of his lessons in magic had been mindless generalities rather than anything useful.  She was nothing like a woman of the court, yet ... she was attractive ...

He pushed that thought down, hard.  His father had given him a handful of magical protections, amulets that had been passed down the generations, but they weren’t perfect.  The court wizards – damn them – had made that clear.  And if he pressed her, he might end up a frog too.  No one would follow him after they’d seen him turned into a frog.  It would be the end of his authority.

“I need someone to provide magical support,” he said.  “And I also need someone to serve as liaison between the mercenaries and me.  Lord Robin and his men will be welcome to serve in that role.”

The woman glanced at her companion.  That was interesting.  It was hard to be sure, of course, but Reginald was fairly sure that Lord Robin – Lord Robin – was no magician.  And that meant that she respected him enough to follow his lead.  They didn’t orientate on each other like lovers, which suggested they probably weren’t sleeping together, but ... Reginald shrugged.  It wasn’t as though Lord Robin ran a troop of regular soldiers.  A mercenary captain could hire whoever he wanted.

“That would be suitable, for the moment,” Lord Robin said.  “However, we were hired to serve as scouts.”

“Rest assured, you’ll have your chance,” Reginald told him.  He looked at the woman.  “I have a handful of magic-users in camp and some more on the way.  Will you supervise them?”

“If that is what you want,” the sorceress said.  “Although we do have to discuss payment.”

“Of course,” Reginald said.  He smiled, thinly.  “If we win, lands on the Summer Isle.”

They haggled backwards and forwards for a long moment.  Reginald found himself enjoying it, even though Lord Robin was clearly an experienced negotiator.  He’d be loyal too, Reginald thought, as long as he was being paid.  The promise of lands of his own – even lands on the Summer Isle – would be enough, at least for the moment.  A natural-born son – and Reginald made a mental note to look up who’d fathered Lord Robin – would be set up for life.

And being part of my household would put him at the top, when I take the throne, Reginald thought.  He had no particular objection to working with a bastard.  No doubt Lord William would complain, when he got over the shock of being a frog.  But Reginald found it hard to care.  As long as Robin remains loyal, I’ll support him.

He cocked his head when the haggling finally came to an end.  “Do you know anything about magic on the Summer Isle?”

The woman’s face went blank, just for a moment.  “Very little,” she said, finally.  “I know of no magicians who came from the island.  If there are magic-users over there, they’re keeping themselves well-hidden.”

Reginald frowned.  She knew something.  Or at least she thought she knew something.  But what?

“We’ll find out soon,” he said.  “My equerry will arrange rooms for you in the castle.  You’ll both be invited to my councils, starting tomorrow.”

“I have to see to my men,” Lord Robin said.  “But afterwards, I will be at your disposal.”

“Very good,” Reginald said.  “I thank you.”

He watched the odd couple leave, then turned to Lord William.  “I trust that wasn’t too terrifying?”

Lord William was still shaking.  “That ... that ...”

Reginald hid a smile.  Giving Lord Robin – and his sorceress – a job had many advantages, not least that it would annoy the older man.  It wasn’t the one he’d tell his father, if King Romulus asked, but it was definitely the one he’d keep foremost in his own mind.  And besides, he’d be able to hold the whole frog episode over Lord William’s head for the rest of his life.

“I’m sure she’ll work out fine,” he said.  “Just think of how quickly meetings will go if she does that to everyone.”

“She’ll feed you love potion,” Lord William managed.  “Or something worse.”

“I don’t think she’d need to bother,” Reginald said.  “And besides, we need her.”

“We don’t need him, Your Highness,” Lord William said.  He sounded steadier now.  “Why did you give him the liaison job?”

A dozen answers ran through Reginald’s mind.  “Because we need someone who can speak to mercenaries as one of their own,” he said, simply.  It was a good reason.  It just wasn’t the only one.  “And because Gars has too much work to do.”

And because I don’t want Gars getting too chummy with the mercenaries, he added, silently.  He trusted Gars.  But, at the same time, he didn’t want to put temptation in his way.  Too many princes and kings had died because they’d trusted the wrong man.  And the more my clients depend upon me, the harder it will be for them to betray me.

Download The Complete Book NOW

http://elsewhen.co.uk/index.php/catalogue/title/the-promised-lie/