Raith flipped over the first card in line, a six of flutes. “You mean the magic he used to kill himself?”
Corwin slowly nodded. Yes, that did seem true, and he gave a shudder as to what desire could drive a man to that extreme. It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed such, though. The wilder responsible for his mother’s death had been determined to die as well—and to take as many innocent lives with him as he could. “Was it wilder magic then?” Corwin asked. “A spirit gift, like Governor Prewitt claimed?”
Raith looked up from the cards, where he’d overturned a ten of stones, a bad draw so early in the game. “That is a difficult question. I’m afraid I can’t answer, not even to speculate.”
“Why not?”
“There’s not enough information. The man might not have had any magical ability at all.”
“But that’s absurd. I saw him use magic.” Corwin leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his waist.
Raith shrugged. “All the people who buy the charms and spells the League sells use magic, your highness. Like these cards, for instance.” Raith picked up the queen of candles he’d just overturned and muttered the word of invocation. Orange light spread through the card, starting with the candle the woman held in her right hand and ending in a halo around her crowned head. A faint smell of burning incense drifted up from the table.
Corwin stared at the magic, a simple trick, really, whose main purpose was to seal the card in play so that a player couldn’t cheat and replace it. But he saw Raith’s point well enough. Ordinary people did do magic, of this type. But the spells the League sold in their order houses across Rime were mundane, preset tasks imbedded within various stones and other trinkets. In addition to cards, there were necklaces that would enhance the wearer’s allure, rings that gave courage or strength, parchment that would hide ink until someone spoke the words to make it visible.
He gestured to the still-glowing queen. “Spells like these are harmless, frivolous indulgences. Not death traps.”
“True enough.” Raith removed the spell with another word and returned the queen of candles to the deck. “But they still contain magic, same as any other magist spell.”
“Are you suggesting it was mage magic that tore that man apart from the inside?” Corwin asked, remembering the way he’d reached into his pocket for something.
“No,” Raith answered at once with a quick shake of his head. “At least, it was no spell approved by the League.”
Corwin’s eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean?”
Raith turned over another card. “Surely your highness knows that all the orders work to invent new spells, improvements on our trade, as it were. And those spells are submitted for review and acceptance.”
“For sanctioning.” Corwin nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“Well then, that means there are spells that do not receive League approval, but that still exist, nonetheless.”
“Hmmm.” Corwin pressed his lips together. Again, he saw the man’s point, an unsettling one. He knew from his history lessons that the League did sometimes sanction spells that could harm and kill. They’d created dozens of such during the Sevan Invasion fifty years ago, but the use of them was outlawed once the Sevan forces had been defeated. Corwin’s grandfather, King Borwin, the first high king of Rime, did not want his people to live in fear of their own magists.
“But surely no magist would have reason to invent such a spell now,” Corwin added. “We are at peace.” Not counting the Rising, he reminded himself, but the threat of wilders wasn’t new, just the notion of them banding together. Even still, he couldn’t see their threat being the reason a magist would invent a spell that could kill so quickly. Wilders weren’t to be executed on the spot but taken prisoner for the Purging, a ritual designed to rid the world of their magic once and for all.
“The League never assumes peace will last,” replied Raith. “Seva remains a threat. The Godking will attack again. It’s only a matter of time.”
“True enough,” Corwin said. He knew better than most the bloodthirsty nature of Seva’s monarch.
With a loud exhale, no doubt at the sad state of his hand of solo, Raith gathered the cards on the table and looked up. “Would your highness like to play a game of peril?”
Corwin supposed he ought to say no, but after the long, boring day, he couldn’t refuse such a diversion. With a sly smile, he reached for his coin purse at his side. “Only if we make it a true game.”
Raith retrieved his own coin purse in answer. They flipped a valen to determine the deal. Corwin won, and Raith activated the magic on the whole deck before handing it over.
The cards seemed to vibrate against Corwin’s palm as he dealt. For a few moments, neither man spoke, their attention focused on building their hands. Raith played a three of jars first. Matching him in the low-power gamble, Corwin played a four of flutes. They made their wagers, then moved to the second round. Corwin won the hand with a last-minute draw of the shade card, trumping Raith’s full court.
Moving on to the next hand, Corwin said, “Given what you said earlier, do you believe the spell could’ve been unsanctioned then? One made by a . . .” He searched for the word. “A rogue magist?” It seemed incredible anyone would dare. The League was the most powerful force in all of Rime, quick to find the guilty and swift to punish them.
Raith glanced up. “We are all human, your highness, whether we’re possessed of magic or not. And any human is capable of treachery.”
Yes, they are, Corwin thought, remembering Kate’s father. Once again, the memory of that terrible incident and its aftermath rose up in his mind. Kate had come to him that morning, bursting through the door into his bedchambers with the castle guards quick on her heels. She screamed his name and fell at his feet, begging for him to intercede for her, to convince the high council to stay the execution. Exile, she had begged. Let us go into exile! He’d told her no. That he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Hale Brighton was guilty—he’d seen it with his own eyes. The law was the law.
Shaking his head to chase off the memory, Corwin glanced at his cards and played a jester of flutes. “Even if it was mage magic, wilders must still have been behind the attack.” During the search they’d found what looked to be a hastily drawn sun lion etched in ash on a piece of the fallen wall.
“Yes, the Rising. It certainly seems that way.” Raith picked up his bag of coins and upended it onto the pot.
Corwin stared in surprise at the bold wager. He resisted glancing down at his hand, where another shade card waited next to four kings and a pair of sevens, the hand as good as any he recalled having recently. The shade card lay on top, revealing the figure in a black cloak with a horned crown wrapped around its hooded head.
“Then again,” Raith continued, seemingly unconcerned about how much money he stood to lose, “in these uneasy times it’s difficult to be certain of anything. Nothing has been the same since your lord father was wounded. It’s your wager, highness, shall you call or fold?”
“I never fold.” Upending his own purse, Corwin kept his eyes fixed on the magist. “How have things changed?”
Giving the bid a passing glance, Raith replied, “Well, the Inquisition, for one thing. Some blame its inception for the Rising. And there was also the year of the drought, followed by two years of flooding. Disease in the north felling livestock in record numbers. And of course the increasing number of nightdrakes.”
“Increase?” Corwin frowned. He’d heard the other rumors before, superstitions among the people that the king’s ailment affected the very land itself, but the drakes were news to him.