THE ASHEN HEIR AND THE HOLLOW CROWN

THE INSPECTOR IN BLACK

The Inspector arrived on the third day, in a storm.

He came on a grey horse, flanked by twelve riders in black coats with silver clasps, their faces hidden behind plain iron masks. Snow whipped sideways across the gate. The portcullis rose with a shriek of chains, and the column rode into the courtyard without slowing, as though the whole fortress were a road laid down for their convenience.

Warden Hask stood waiting in the mud, hook-hand clasped behind his back. He did not look afraid. He looked like a man who had decided long ago exactly how much fear he could afford.

“Inspector Corvin,” he said.

“Warden.”

The man swung down from the saddle with unhurried grace. He was perhaps forty, slim, with pale eyes, close-cropped dark hair and a face so smooth it might have been carved from soap. He wore no mask. His coat was black wool, finely cut, and on his left breast a silver seal gleamed with the twelve-pointed star of the Council of Ash.

He glanced around the courtyard, at the bodies stacked for the corpse-cutters, the soldiers staring at the ground, the dim red glow beyond the wall. His expression did not change.

“Such a charming place,” he said. “I do hope you have kept the records up to date.”

From the barracks window, Kael watched the whole scene with his shoulders pressed against the cold stone.

“That is him,” Dax breathed beside him. “The one who eats ears.”

“He does not eat ears.”

“He looks like he wants to.”

Old Tobb, from his bunk, said without opening his good eye: “He is a Corvin. They are an old Council family. That one is the younger son. Clever, ambitious, and bored. A dangerous mixture.”

“You know him?” asked Kael.

“I know his father. His grandfather. Same smile. It never reaches the eyes.” Tobb finally looked at him. “Whatever he asks you, lad, say as little as possible. Say it politely. And do not, under any circumstance, lie.”

“Why not?”

“Because he will already know the answer.”

The summons came at noon.

A pair of masked riders escorted him across the courtyard to the warden’s office, where the fire had been built too high and the air was stifling. Corvin sat behind Hask’s desk as though he owned it. Hask himself stood against the wall, jaw clenched, saying nothing.

“Kael Varyn,” said the Inspector, smiling. “Please. Sit.”

Kael sat.

“Your brother sends his regards.”

The words were so soft that for a moment Kael did not understand them. Then his blood turned to ice.

“The Crown Prince is kind,” he said carefully.

“He is very fond of you. He asked me particularly to see how you were settling in.” Corvin steepled his fingers. “And I am pleased to report that you seem to be settling in remarkably well. Nine nightmarish in a week. A spearmaster’s forms, learned in an afternoon. A bully’s arm broken in a training bout, by a boy with a sealed core.” His pale eyes glittered. “Quite the talented prince.”

“I was lucky.”

“So I have heard. Three times now.” Corvin leaned back. “Do you know, in forty years of Council service, I have seen exactly one other prisoner who had such luck? He was also a Varyn.”

Kael did not move. Did not blink. Did not breathe.

“Show me your hands, Highness.”

Highness. He had been stripped of the title. The word was a hook, and Corvin knew exactly where it would catch.

Kael held out both hands, palms up. The cheap grey ring sat on his left finger, dull and unremarkable.

Corvin’s eyes dropped to it. For a fraction of a second, something flickered across that smooth face. Recognition, perhaps. Hunger. Then it was gone.

“What a plain little thing,” he said lightly. “Did the Empress give it to you?”

“A friend,” said Kael.

“Then you have friends. How unusual.” Corvin rose, and the room seemed to shrink around him. “I will be at the Ashfront for three days, Highness. I would like very much to watch you work. Tomorrow, I believe, the Eighth Cohort will be assigned to the north rampart. The most active stretch of the Wall. I have arranged it myself.”

Hask’s head snapped up. “Inspector, the Eighth is not fit for the north rampart. They are green. Half of them have not seen a second-tier…”

“Then they will learn,” Corvin said pleasantly.

The silence that followed was a hard, ringing thing.

Kael met the Inspector’s eyes, and he understood. The Inspector was not here to count hides. He was here to test the Crown, to push it, to see how far it would bend before it broke. And somewhere in the south, a man in white court robes was waiting for his report.

“Of course, Inspector,” said Kael. “We would be honoured.”

Corvin smiled. It was a very real smile this time, and that was worse.

“I am so glad,” he said.

That night, in the cellar, Orin listened to the whole story with his hands steepled against his mouth.

“Corvin,” he said at last. “I should have guessed. His family has been feeding the Council’s secrets for four generations.”

“What does he want?”

“To see if the Crown is real. And if it is, to find out whether it can be controlled.” Orin’s face was grim. “Or destroyed.”

“Destroyed.”

“A Crown-bearer who dies on the Wall dies quietly. No scandal. No investigation. A third prince, a sealed core, a failed exile.” Orin shook his head. “It would be the cleanest solution in the world.”

Kael stared at the lantern flame.

“Then I will not die on the Wall,” he said.

Orin smiled faintly.

“Sleep, boy,” he said. “Tomorrow is going to be very long.”