Book Description
Edoran's task is far from easy. Life-threatening challenges greet him at every step as he searches for Weasel, forced to hide his true identity from all he meets along the way. The journey is full of surprises and revelations, as Edoran learns for the fi rst time the real meaning of hard labor and the cost of a meal. The story builds to a stunning climax, where the true nature of the magical objects of Deorthas is at last revealed.
Fans of acclaimed fantasy author Hilari Bell will not be disappointed with this action-packed conclusion to the mesmerizing Shield, Sword, and Crown trilogy.
About the Author
Drew Willis is an art director and illustrator working in New York City. Visit him at DrewWillis.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
They had Weasel.
"I've already sent out troops," said General Diccon. "If they haven't left the city, we'll stop them. If they have, we'll be right on their heels. We'll catch them. We'll probably have them back by morning."
He sounded as if he believed it, but one look at the girl's white face told Edoran that she didn't -- and she knew her mother better than any of them.
The crowded office stank of burning lamp oil, sweat, and betrayal. Holis was talking to the stupid peasant boy the Falcon had used as her messenger, trying to persuade him to reveal where the Falcon had taken the kidnapped prince. Or rather, the boy she thought was the kidnapped prince.
They hadn't intended the kidnapping to go so far. Arisa had been certain that hiding the sword and shield would stop her mother's plot. But it had all gone wrong and the Falcon's men had taken Weasel, who was neither their leader's daughter nor the prince. If Diccon's troops didn't catch them...
"What do we do if they aren't back by morning?" Edoran demanded. "What if she escapes, with Weasel as a hostage?"
Justice Holis was controlling his expression in front of the Falcon's messenger, but Edoran could see the grimness beneath the mask. "As a hostage...I'm afraid Weasel only matters to me. If he's returned alive, unharmed, I might be able to commute her sentence to life imprisonment."
He didn't seem to notice that Arisa flinched, but Edoran did. And judging by his sudden frown, General Diccon saw it too.
"But I can't even promise that," Holis went on, "since I'm not the only one who'll be involved in that decision."
Edoran's heart contracted. He was talking about the horde of shareholders and courtiers who'd swarmed through the palace ever since his father's death. Before his father's death too, but then it hadn't mattered because his father could control them. After the king died, Regent Pettibone had controlled them, and it had mattered a great deal. But there was nothing a five-year-old prince could do about that.
Holis had taken over the regency when the Falcon killed Pettibone, but he didn't yet have the kind of political power Pettibone had wielded. He might never have it, because he didn't want it, and Edoran had almost loved him for that alone. Now he saw the downside to that lack of cutthroat ambition, because the nobles who'd have to approve Holis' judgment on the Falcon wouldn't give a tinker's curse if Weasel lived or died. They'd set terms of surrender that the Falcon would refuse -- she'd always struck Edoran as the fight-to-the-death type, and her daughter was the same. She would refuse, and Diccon's troops would attack, and the worthless clerk who'd allowed himself to be kidnapped in Edoran's stead would be the first to die.
"No." It came out sounding remarkably firm, considering that his hands were clammy and his heart was pounding. "I'm involved in that decision. In fact, I'm going to make it."
"Your Highness." Holis looked pained. "The shareholders -- "
"Can rot!" Edoran rose to his feet. "General Diccon, you have till tomorrow's dawn to capture the Falcon and return her and her hostage to the palace. If they aren't here by sunrise, you will meet me in the courtyard with a troop of sufficient strength to guarantee my safety. Then we'll go after the Falcon, and when we find her I will personally oversee the negotiations for her surrender. Is that clear?"
The general looked appalled at the mere prospect. "Yes, Your Highness, but -- "
"I command this." If he stayed, if he let them argue, they would win. Edoran turned and walked out. Maybe the deliberate stride that was all his wobbling knees could manage would be mistaken for confidence, or authority, or something. But he had to get out. He had to get out of that hot little room where his best friend was being condemned to death out of political necessity.
Political necessity resulting in death was nothing new to Edoran -- though before Weasel came, when he'd had no friends, it hadn't seemed as important as it did now.
Edoran stalked away, ignoring the guard who stood outside the office door -- who must have failed to close that door after his prince, for General Diccon's voice echoed into the corridor. "Well, I'll be hanged. The little runt sounded like a king!"
Heat flooded Edoran's face, but he kept walking. Pretending that he didn't hear the whispers, didn't know what people thought of him, was even more familiar than the fear that his own murder might suddenly become politically necessary.
Only four months ago the speech he'd just made would have signed his death warrant.
As long as you're of use to me, the old regent's voice murmured in his memory.
But after Holis had taken the regency from Pettibone, that fear had slowly subsided. Holis' political power was weak enough that he couldn't rule Deorthas unless he did so in Edoran's name. And...he really didn't seem like the murdering type. He kept telling Edoran that he was a prince -- maybe he meant it. But whether he meant it or not, he had to keep up the pretense of Edoran's authority or his own would fail.
If I stand firm, if I insist, they have to do it.
If they didn't, if he caved in, then Weasel might die.
Edoran quickened his pace through the maze of hallways, ignoring both the courtiers' startled looks and the quaking in his guts.
His new valet must have heard something; he'd opened the gilded doors of the prince's suite and was peering out, waiting for him.
"I need you to go to the stable," Edoran told him curtly. "Inform the grooms that I'll need Ginger, saddled and ready, in the courtyard at dawn tomorrow. And Rudolphus, too. I may need a remount if I'm going to keep up."
The valet gawked at him. Edoran hadn't yet figured out who he was spying for, and at this moment he didn't care.
"Now!"
"Ah, of course, Your Highness. Might I inquire -- "
"No," said Edoran. "I gave you an order. Obey it."
The valet departed, and Edoran just made it to the privy before vomiting up the remains of his early dinner. Stress had always affected his stomach, but there wasn't much to come up. It was almost midnight now. Swapping costumes, helping Arisa hide the sword and shield from her mother's men, interrogating that worthless boy -- it had all taken far too long. He and Arisa had spent more than an hour locked in a closet!
He winced at the memory of her weeping. She was the craziest person he'd ever known, but she loved her mother, and Weasel was as much her friend as he was Edoran's. More.
Some part of Edoran had wanted to hate her for taking that extra share of Weasel's attention, but even he could see that wouldn't be fair. And in her strange, half-wild way, she'd tried to help him. Was there any way he could get the Falcon out of this when he saved Weasel?
He'd be willing to try, for Arisa's sake. The Falcon had wanted to take over Deorthas, but it sometimes seemed to Edoran that everyone he knew was trying to take over Deorthas, and she hadn't threatened to kill him or anyone else...so far.
If she killed Weasel, all bets were off. But that wouldn't happen. Edoran wouldn't let it happen, even if he had to throw screaming fits to force them to listen.
By the time his valet returned, he'd stripped off Weasel's costume, donned his riding clothes, retrieved the smallest bag he could find from the little room where his clothes were stored, and started packing. He'd been in that room only a couple of times in his life, though its door opened off his own bedroom; it took him almost five minutes to locate the cupboard that held the luggage.
"I have conveyed your orders to the grooms," his valet announced. "Ah, might I assist you with that?"
"Please," said Edoran, gratefully abandoning his attempt to fold a shirt. "I'll be traveling rough. I don't know for how long. Just riding clothes. Nothing fancy."
"Packing for at least a week? Indeed." The valet nodded, went into Edoran's closet, and came out with one of the large trunks he'd already rejected.
"Not that," said Edoran. "I'll be traveling on horseback, with an army troop."
He wasn't about to allow General Diccon to refuse to take him because he had too much luggage.
"Very good, Your Highness," said his valet. "Your luggage can go in the carriage."
"We'll be traveling fast," Edoran repeated, trying not to snap at the man. "There won't be any carriage."
"But there must be, if Your Highness is with them," said his valet serenely. "How else could I, and your cook, and the groom accompany you? How else could your foodstuffs be carried?" He smiled indulgently at Edoran's foolishness.
"I won't be taking any servants," said Edoran, through gritted teeth. "I'll eat whatever the soldiers eat. We have to travel fast!"
"Of course, Your Highness." The valet folded an embroidered vest neatly into the trunk. "Do you know if you'll be stopping at inns? Or will you stay at the shareholders' manors?"
Edoran finally dismissed the man, coming close to the screaming fit he'd planned to use only as a last resort. He managed to cram one pair of clean britches and several shirts into a small bag, along with his underclothes and the toiletries he'd need to keep himself clean. He could find someone to wash and press them after he'd caught up with Weasel.
Perhaps he should have worn the burglar costume Weasel had given him -- it was both comfortable and practical -- but his own riding clothes felt more...familiar. It had been Arisa's idea to disguise herself in Edoran's costume, to be kidnapped in his place, since her mother's men would never dare harm her -- but she'd been too big for Edoran's clothes. They'd fit Weasel perfectly, even though both he and Arisa were only a year younger than Edoran's fifteen.
Soon he was ready to leave, but dawn was still hours off and his eyelids were beginning to droop. For some reason he always woke up at sunrise, but he needed to be down in the court...
