Shield of the Summer Prince, page 1
SHIELD OF THE SUMMER PRINCE
Book Two of the World of Ruin
Erik Scott de Bie
“The World of Ruin:
A dying world—an inevitable end.
Much and many have been lost,
All must pass to Ruin.”
Dedication
For you, my readers—for believing in this story as much as I do.
Acknowledgments
The hard work of many hands has gone into the World of Ruin series. None of this would have come to pass without my parents, Lynne and Scott. Some years ago, they read a draft of what eventually evolved into the World of Ruin. They gave an honest account, and the result is centuries better. Many thanks also to Gwen Gades and Gabrielle Harbowy, for trusting me and putting together such a beautiful product. Thanks always to my friends and writing colleagues, for inspiration, camaraderie, and the occasional kick in the pants when I needed it. And thanks to my wife, for talking it all through, putting up with my excited rambling, and pushing me to write the best book I could.
PROLOGUE
Present Day—Tar Vangr, City of Steel—Winter, 982 Sorcerus Annis
The Crown Prince of the Summer City walked through the swirling white at the top of the world, and all eyes followed his path.
As he stepped off the lift, snow crunched like fingerbones beneath his footfalls, and his breath steamed up into the frigid morning air. At this height, the vicious winds tore at his clothes, fraying the scarf that extended out of his hood. He wiped his mouth to clear away the frost that had collected in his red beard. Burn and rot, it was cold. Until just a few days ago, he had never even seen snow, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Garin Ravalis, the Fox of Luether and heir-apparent of a lost city, hated this, but he knew it had to be done. What choice did he have?
“Carriage, Syr?” the lift operator asked. “I can call you one.”
“Call me what you like, but no, thanks.” Garin ran his fingers through his hair, making the rings on three fingers of his right hand twinkle in the thin sunlight. “I’ll walk.”
“What? In this snow?” The woman looked at him like his head had just fallen off.
Garin gave her a helpless smile and set off toward the castle.
Stone buildings with spiraling glass buttresses rose around him, their tiled roofs dripping with snow melt to form icicles longer than any man’s sword. He made sure to give them a wide berth, though neither did he want to risk through the middle of the roads, where the snow mingled with the greasy leavings of mage-powered wagons. He walked a narrow balance through the snow piled on the lanes, trying not to slip with every step. He could feel the tingling burn even through the thick leather.
High-City was packed today with citizens who wanted to see the king’s grand unveiling. Other than Ravalis functionaries, no one had been able to get in or out since the incident on Ruin’s Night, and no one had seen the Summer King. But today, Lan held court, and he had invited any who wished to see him to come. This was remarkable, as some insisted the king was dead or gravely injured and could not appear. Garin had also heard the base rumors about the nature of his wounds. Perhaps this was Lan’s attempt to lay all that to rest.
A flurry had descended upon Tar Vangr’s High-City at the start of the new year, and not one of snow. The streets of the silver-white city ran red and blue with the cloaks of Ravalis soldiers patrolling at all hours. By order of the Summer King, the armed men enforced a curfew that began before the sun set and ended only after it was nearly at its peak. Citizens on the street had to deal with their harassment. As he walked, Garin saw six occasions where soldiers demanded bribes from vendors to keep their stands open, twice in quick succession with the same merchant. Down in Low-City, it was worse, he knew: blood ran in the streets and battered citizens were often left exposed in the burning snow. This succession had been anything but peaceful, and to have a pale face under the rule of the new King Ravalis was a mistake many in the city had tragically made.
Garin had assessed the risks of his current course of action: that Lan knew of his role in aiding Regel and Ovelia, and would have him executed for treason immediately. He wondered if he would even be able to approach the palace without being detained. He’d considered pretending to be dead and fleeing the city—Alcarin had certainly supported that idea—but ultimately, confronting his cousin was his only course. He had no loyalty to the Winter Throne, only to his greater mission, and for that, he’d need Lan’s aid. By the laws of justice, he should be marching into the palace to slay his cousin. Face darkening, he remembered Ovelia’s bloody face as she limped out of Lan’s room. But justice would have to wait.
Soon enough, Garin came to Serra Way, the main road of Tar Vangr’s High-City, and he saw to his dismay that Ravalis machinery had cleared all but a light dusting of snow from the wide boulevard.
Looking down, Garin saw the void through the cloudy mage-glass beneath his feet, and it loosened his grasp on his balance. He’d never much liked Luether’s High-City either, preferring to spend his time down with the common people, but at least there the distance was not so great—only a hundred paces or so. In Tar Vangr, one false step would send him on a thousand foot journey to the polluted slums below.
“No choice, remember?” He smiled up at the ancient monument that named the avenue: a scarred, winged warrior, her hair streaming wild behind her. “I wish you were here, too, Angel Serris.”
He set out, cutting his way through the sea of bundled people.
Walking through High-City was only the first hurdle. Another day, Garin would have powdered his distinctive dark cheeks and worn a plain cloak to hide his red hair, but today’s purpose required that he approach the palace openly. The thick snow filled his boots, and his feet were wet within half a block, but he trudged on. Almost every native winterborn in the street glared at him, though plenty of soldiers took note of his rich cloak and cast him curious glances. Though this was not his city, he was a Prince of the Blood of Ravalis, and that still carried weight.
He sympathized with the Vangryur: he didn’t want his Blood in this city either. Not that he could leave, with the ports closed while dusters searched every ship. Reports said all the conspirators involved in the coup were dead, but Garin knew for a fact the reports were more wishful than accurate. The very fact that the search continued gave the lie to the palace’s claims, and Garin knew Regel—at least—was still alive. When the old assassin had left, his eyes had gleamed with such resolve that not a thousand fully armed ornithopters could stay him.
“Ruin’s eye slip past you, Regel,” Garin murmured. “May it slip past us all.”
He paused at the steps of the palace of Tar Vangr and looked up at the great iron doors that had welcomed hundreds to a celebration on Ruin’s Night just a few days ago. To see them now, dark and hulking and laced with frost, Garin could hardly imagine they had opened in centuries. Mist swirled into the morning air, tracing the ancient stone and dancing through the deep carvings. The building was undeniably beautiful in its eternal solidity—like the palace of Luether. In the City of Pyres, however, those wisps of mist would be flame and smoke. His city burned, and no one else could save it.
The masses of people huddled outside the great doors, Garin realized, without exception, shared a common theme. Snow-streaked white faces. Worn coats and shoes. Emaciated bodies. These were Tar Vangr’s disenfranchised: the poor and powerless had gathered here to hope for a word from their king. And considering that it had been a band of loyalists to the old regime who had so grievously wounded Lan and nearly toppled his kingdom, Garin did not expect these folk would get what they wanted. It was so like looking out upon his own people—the brutalized lowborn of Luether—that his heart swelled and his blood warmed in sympathetic anger.
As he stood there, the massive doors ground slowly open, and a dozen Dustblades trooped out, their armor and weapons crackling with ensorcelled dust magic. Called “dusters” for their traditional gray cloaks, they symbolized the strength of the Ravalis, and the message was not lost on Garin. Swift retribution would meet any unrest fomented in this place. They gazed at the prince without pity, and Garin knew they would kill him in a heartbeat if so commanded. This was not promising.
Between them emerged a comparatively tiny figure, one Garin recognized at a distance as Roderk, an orderly in service to his cousin Lan. Garin had always had a keen memory for names and facts—it came in handy on his particular path. The fat little man, cheeks rosy from the warmth inside the castle, immediately shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. He had apparently forgotten a coat. Garin couldn’t help but shake his head.
“Y-Y-Your Highness,” he said, teeth chattering. “Your visit is un-un-unexpected, but welcome. Won’t you—?”
Cries of alarm drifted on the wind from above. Garin looked up in time to see a huge black rock crashing toward him. He wanted to stagger aside, but his body was too slow. The hunk of stone shattered into the snow not a dozen steps away, and a storm of glass shards stabbed down around it like thrown blades. One came close enough to nail the fringe of his cloak into the snow. The glass studded the space between him and Roderk, who staggered back with a wail.
Garin looked up, the wind catching his hood and billowing it wide. Far above, at the apex of the great palace at the height of the mountain, crews and even an ornithopter worked to clear the rubble and glass of the
Garin became aware of many eyes watching him—winterborn locals and summersworn soldiers alike. They stood in silence, judging him and wondering. He gave them all a smile and a wave, picked his way between the fragments of rock and mage-glass, and leisurely made his way up the steps as though he hadn’t almost died horribly only a breath before. He strode right past Roderk, who could only sputter and look confused. Murmurs rose among the gathered throng, and he hoped they were in praise of his courage, rather than astonishment at his madness.
Garin slipped through the great doors—still ajar from when the servant had come out—and instantly felt the mighty warmth on his face. The great palace of Tar Vangr was sweltering inside, as though someone had transported them to the wild jungles of Echvar. His nose clogged and sweat beaded all along his noble brow and the strong contours of his face. He could not show discomfort, however, and the primary reason sat at the end of the vast open Revelry Hall, past a sea of people in red and blue.
“Cousin,” a voice intoned, bouncing off the clever acoustic architecture. Garin could not see the speaker through the packed hall. “This surprise is so very…pleasant.”
Every face turned to look at him: Ravalis soldiers, local power brokers, powdered servants, rich advisors, summerblooded folk laying their entreaties before the king. Most of the faces had the dark complexion of the southern lands, and those who bore the paler coloration of the north wore Ravalis colors of crimson and azure. Courtiers and supports of the Summer King. They all looked tired and dirty, and Garin saw no friendly faces here. A few curious stares, but most held open contempt.
“Leave us,” the king said to the gathered assemblage. “My cousin and I have words to share.”
The horde of folk shivered like a living beast and started to stretch in various directions. People broke away, heading toward various exits from the vast hall. They shuffled and muttered, obviously just as weary and broken down at the masses huddled outside the great doors. Unlike them, however, these folk had warm homes to go to, plenty to eat, and pleasurable company awaiting them. They cleared the path between Garin and the dais, upon which the Ravalis had announced their unquestioned dominance of Tar Vangr on Ruin’s Night, only hours before Demetrus’s death. With an unsettled shiver, Garin noted the massive reddish stain on the stone from where Lan had personally executed Kiereth Yaela, a prominent nobleman in the city and leader of his opposition on the council. The act had terrified them into obedience, and Garin admitted it was doing a fair job on him as well.
In short order, he and the king were alone in the hall, save for a few gray-cloaked dusters who remained at a discreet distance from the dais. That, and the bent figure of Vhaerynn the Necromancer, who hovered behind the throne. Alas, Demetrus’s old advisor had survived Ruin’s Night, and Lan retained his services. Garin had watched Vhaerynn take a shattering course through a window, torn apart in a storm of deadly scything shards, but the sorcerer didn’t bear so much as a scratch. Blood magic, no doubt. Garin knew enough about the foul stuff to stay as far away as possible.
“Come closer,” the king said.
Garin swallowed his uncertainty. The king hadn’t had him killed before he even stepped through the doors, but that did not mean he would not lash out later. If Garin would get what he needed from his cousin, he would have to play along.
Lan Ravalis, the Bear of Luether, King of Tar Vangr the last mage-city of Calatan, sat in the massive basalt throne his father Demetrus—his father and Garin’s uncle—had sat only days before. The cousins had not seen one another since that fateful night, and Lan did not look well at all. As Garin approached, he could see clearly that Lan’s hair had grown long and haggard and his face wan. He wore plentiful rouge, but Garin could see the facial bruises beneath it. Sweat beaded Lan’s forehead, and his slouch showed that he clearly favored his midsection. He wore a thickly lined golden robe, open at the chest to reveal the massive bear’s head tattooed there. His impressive stature seemed to have sucked in upon itself, making him lean and vicious, and his kingly robes hung loosely around his wiry frame. A scabbarded sword with a crimson-banded handle leaned against the side of the throne, its hilt fashioned after the semblance of a dragon. Garin could tell the presence of the sword was meant to intimidate him, but the knowledge failed to negate the effect.
“Cousin,” Lan said. “You’ve not called on me for days, nor has there been any word. We are relieved to see you alive and—” He trailed off, wincing at some inner pain.
Vhaerynn filled in: “Intact.”
“And you, cousin.” Garin bowed. Words farther from the truth, he could not have spoken. “You had the throne brought down. I can’t imagine how many ornithopters that took.”
“Is this what you brought me?” Lan asked. “Pleasantries? Idle converse, while great events transpire around us? While the realm prepares for war?”
Lan had begun that way, then blamed Garin for responding in kind. Typical of him.
“While the realm prepares for war.” Garin nodded to the sword. “I see you are prepared, though I might recommend that special power armor I built for you.” He nodded to Lan’s shrinking body. “The people I saw outside your gates seemed more interested in food. How has the crop been?”
“Ah yes.” Lan leaned forward suddenly, such that Garin flinched. “I am aware of your little show for the smallborn: walking the streets on foot, like a beleaguered hero for a lost cause. Tell me, did it unfold to your liking? This inspiring demonstration of your resolve?”
“I wouldn’t have minded some applause,” Garin said.
When Lan didn’t laugh, however, Garin’s ease withered into anxiety. The king’s stern demeanor and hard face barely sealed a nigh-boiling cauldron of rage. It would not do to upset him. Indeed, his eyes even now were starting to gleam with anger, and Garin worried he’d gone too far.
“Apologies, cousin,” Garin said. “A poor jest. These are difficult times.”
Lan opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment Vhaerynn leaned in to whisper to him. There was a pause as the old man’s lips rustled against Lan’s ear. Unless his eyes deceived him, he thought he saw a pale pink mist float through the air between the men—a trace of Vhaerynn’s blood magic. Finally, Lan nodded and waved in a dismissive fashion, clearing the air.
“Difficult times in need of a hero,” Vhaerynn said, his voice quaking with age.
“And so you present yourself, cousin,” Lan said. “Do not think you are so subtle.”
“Was I aiming for subtlety?” Garin shrugged. “My mistake.”
The king leaned back in the throne, which looked too big for his lanky body. Having seen his massive cousin march off to war alongside Dustblades and Ironclads and look comfortable doing so, Garin would never have thought anything would dwarf him. Sitting there, face drawn and eyes stormy, Lan seemed to have aged a dozen summers in the last ten days. Considering how much blood Garin had seen in his chambers on Ruin’s Night, perhaps he should be impressed Lan could speak to him at all.
“I know why you’ve come now,” Lan said. “But why not before? This is a time when all the Blood of Ravalis should flow together. Tar Vangr grows dangerous, despite my best efforts.
“So welcoming,” Garin said. “As I recall, when your father summoned me, you had a few choice words for the occasion. Did you want me within a thousand leagues of your city then?”
“Answer my question.” Lan glowered. “Why wait until now? Why not send word?”
Garin had expected this query. “I might ask the same,” he said. “There was no word from the palace—no reason to suspect any of our Blood yet flowed. I could not rely upon our spy network, as the king—your father, I mean—had not yet invested me with the powers of the Shroud. Coming to the palace or sending word might have been a death sentence for me if someone else ruled, and so I made subtle inquiries but did not show myself. Not until you announced your unveiling today.”
