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DARK HAVEN
Book Three of the CHRONICLES OF THE NECROMANCER
GAIL Z. MARTIN
Chronicles of the Necromancer
THE SUMMONER
THE BLOOD KING
First published 2009 Ly Solaris
an imprint of BL Publishing
Games Workshop Ltd
NG7 2WS
ISBN-13: 978 1 84416 708 1 ISBN-10: 1
84416 708 9
Copyright © Gail Z. Martin 2009
Map by Kirk
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For
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
IT takes
A village—or at least a tribe—to get a book into print. I am grateful to
everyone who helped and encouraged this book along its way. So my gratitude
goes out to my husband, Larry, who tirelessly edits and comments on the book as
it comes to life, and to my children, Kyrie,
CHRONICLES OF THE NECROMANCER
An excerpt from the writings of Royster of Westmarch,
keeper of the Library of the Sisterhood.
The dark times began in the thirty-third year of King Bricen I of Margolan. Jared
Drayke, King Bricen's eldest son, seized the throne, killing everyone in the
royal family except for his younger half-brother, Martris.
Tris, as the younger prince was known to
his friends, barely escaped his brother's treachery, and fled with the help of
a few courageous friends. Outlawed and hunted, Tris and his friends ran for
their lives. On their journey to reach sanctuary outside of Margolan, Tris
crossed paths with Jonmarc Vahanian, a notorious smuggler and former mercenary. The small
group of friends endured much hardship and danger to stay one step ahead of
Jared's troops. Along the way, Tris came to realize that he had inherited the
rare spirit magic of his sorcerer grandmother, Bava K'aa. That magic made him a
Summoner, able to intercede among the living, dead and undead. He realized
that his magic might help him win back the throne—if
he could gain enough control to keep it from killing him first.
Tris found support in neighboring
Principality, and together with his loyal friends, made plans to free Margolan
from fared the Usurper's heavy hand. King Staden rewarded Jonmarc Vahanian
with a ptle and the holding of Dark Haven for his valor.
But the road back to claim the throne was
a dangerous one. Tris, a half-trained mage, had no choice but to confront both
his elder brother and Foor Arontala, a dark sorcerer. On the night of the
Hawthorn Moon, fared and Arontala planned to free the bound spirit of the
Obsidian King, whose, atrocities led to the great Mage Wars fifty years before.
Risking everything to win back the crown,
Tris nearly died in his fight to defeat fared and Arontala and to destroy the
reborn spirit of the Obsidian King. In a struggle that pushed his magic to the
limits, Tris prevailed, at great cost. The kingdom rejoiced to be free of fared
the Tyrant. Tris was crowned King Martris of Margolan and proposed marriage to
Princess
Kiara of Isencroft, a move that would seal
a long-ago covenant and would join the two kingdoms, jonmarc Vahanian became
the Lord of Dark Haven, a mortal in the age-old place of refuge for the vayash
moru.
They did not know then that the dark times
were far from over. For in the short span of Jared's reign, events had been set
into motion that could not be turned back. The Truce between mortals and the
vayash moru that had kept the peace for hundreds of years was beginning to
fail. The Sisterhood could no longer control the magic of the Flow. Old rivals
and new enemies awaited a chance to strike.
What lay ahead of them was far more dangerous
than anything they had faced so far. Tris, Jonmarc and the others were about to
step into a future in which all of their certainties would be overturned and
their closest bonds would be torn asunder. In the bleak days to come, Tris and
Jonmarc would realize that dreams very quickly become nightmares, and
nightmares, reality.
CHAPTER ONE
Jonmarc Vahanian
reined in his horse. The autumn day was chill and his breath
misted in the air as brilliantly colored leaves swirled around the courtyard.
His gaze scanned the hulking, dark stone building. The manor house of Dark
Haven was finally habitable.
Jonmarc's horse snuffled restlessly. Teams
of workers bustled around the courtyard, trying to get the manor house fully
livable by winter and, more to Jonmarc's concern, suitable for visitors. He
slipped down from his horse and absently handed the reins to a squire as
Neirin, his grounds manager, bustled up. Neirin was born to Dark Haven's lands,
kin to many of the ghosts and vayash moru who served the manor. A cloud
of wild red hair framed his freckled face, and when he spoke it was with the
heavy accent of the Principality
highlands.
"You're out early, m'lord,"
Neirin greeted him cheerfully. "They'll be thinking you're vayash moru with
the hours you've been keep-ing."
Jonmarc smiled. "I've always been a
night person, but Dark Haven gives that a whole new meaning." He
stretched, and grimaced as his right arm twinged. A little more than three
months had elapsed
since the battle
with Arontala. The badly" broken arm, leg, and wrist had required
most of the summer to mend, even with Carina's help. ' "Taking a chill in the bones?"
"Not quite good as new, but getting there." Neirin gave him a knowing
look. "I doubt your lady healer had the schedule you keep in mind when you
came north. Reaping grain with the
farmers in the morning, down in the forge for the afternoon, swords practice
with your guard at night."
Jonmarc chuckled. "She expects me to
ignore orders. That means I'm doing just what she thought I would."
"That's the most twisted logic I've
heard in a long time."
Jonmarc looked up at the dark stone of the
manor house. "Yeah, well even by my standards, this is the strangest
place I've been in a long time, so we're even." He stared down the road
toward the village and the fields beyond.
Last year's heavy rains made for a poor
harvest. Dark Haven could not afford
another poor yield, and here in the northlands, winter would be coming on soon.
"You're worried about the harvest." Jonmarc shrugged.
"Shouldn't I be?
The manor house wasn't the only thing left to rot for ten years. No one
looked after the fields
much, that's certain. And with the mess Jared made
of Margolan, there won't be grain to spare this year. We've got to take in
everything we grow and make sure it winters. I've no desire to win a title and
still go hungry!"
"You've already done more than the
last two lords."
"As I've been told repeatedly, they
died young. Maybe I'm not counting on a long tenure."
"I wish you wouldn't joke like
that."
"Who's joking?"
Neirin looked out over the fields.
"I'm not a mage, but even I know that things were better here
before Arontala disturbed the currents of magic beneath the manor house. I've
heard my father and my grandfather talk about how it was before. Ever since
Arontala ripped out that damned orb, things have gotten worse."
"Last year, when I heard Tris and the
Sisterhood talk about the Flow, I didn't actually believe them," Jonmarc
mused. "Now, I'm living on top of the damn thing. I've got no magic, but
even to me, something feels
wrong whenever I'm in the vaults below the
manor."
A powerful current of magic flowed beneath
the manor house and through its foundation. It was in this Flow that the great
mage Bava K'aa imprisoned the' orb containing the soul of the Obsidian King
more than fifty years ago. The manor's foundation had shattered and one wing of
the building had collapsed when Foor Aronta-la wrested the orb of the Obsidian
King free eleven years ago. Mages swore that it created a disruption in the
Flow, a dislocation that could be felt the breadth of the Winter Kingdoms.
A chill wind blasted past him, and leaves
swirled around his feet. Once more, the manor house bustled with life and the
activity of those who, if not alive, were not entirely dead. Dark Haven was the
ancestral home of the vayash moru, and Jonmarc, who earned its lordship
as a gift from the king of Principality, was its newest lord. "Are you
ready for tonight?" Jonmarc gave Neirin a hard stare. "Sure. I'm as
ready as I'm going to be. I'm being introduced to the Blood Council. Only
mortal in the place. The last time Gabriel arranged a Council meeting I almost
died—and I wasn't even officially invited. I'm not at' all sure they're happy
about a new lord, and a mortal one at that."
Neirin walked alongside Jonmarc as they
surveyed the progress of the building crews.
"You'll be on Lord Gabriel's lands.
That gives you sanctuary. He'll have his brood there to watch over you. No one
will dare move against you. Even if they wanted to."
"Thanks. That makes me feel much
better."
Jonmarc pulled his cloak around him, watching
the workers. By daylight, the laborers were mortal. By night, vayash moru craftsmen
worked to restore the manor to its previous glory. Gabriel had begun the
process of rebuilding before Jonmarc was able to travel from Margolan. Within a
few weeks of Jon-marc's arrival, the pantries were provisioned, the sheds
filled with firewood and necessities, and the stables full with horses and
their tack. Dark Haven was livable for mortals once more.
Dark Haven's manor was four centuries old,
a three-storey rectangle with a large wing on either side. The main entrance
had a sweeping set of steps cascading from a columned entranceway and above it
a large balcony. Made of dark granite, Dark Haven seemed brooding.
Even the building's construction revealed
its role as home to both mortals and vayash moru. Its rooms were built
concentrically. An outer ring of rooms with large windows was designed for its
mortal inhabitants. A second ring of rooms at the core of the building was
windowless, so vayash moru could move in safety regardless of the sun
outside. At the far
left end of the western wing was a small
temple to the Goddess. But where Margolan worshipped Her as Mother and Childe
and Isencroft venerated the avenger Chenne, only Dark Haven worshipped Her as
Istra, the Dark Lady. The tefnple had been faithfully kept throughout the years
of disuse. Even Jonmarc, whose views were at best agnostic except under fire,
could feel a ghostly sense of presence there.
"How can it be this bloody cold so
early in the season?" Jonmarc grumbled.
"This is Principality! It's only by
the Lady's luck it hasn't snowed." The green-gray tinge of the clouds
looked as if that luck might be ready to run out.
"If the snows are bad, Linton won't
be able to get his caravan provisioned by Winterstide. That trade agreement we
worked out with him and Jolie is only good for bringing in money if they can
move goods. We're going to need gold to get the manor fully repaired and more
to get the seed for next year's crops. That reward from Staden is only going to
go so far."
Neirin smiled. "I've seen you drive a
bargain. If anyone can stretch a coin, it's you. It's been a long time since
Dark Haven was self-sustaining. Trade like that could get the village back on
its feet."
"Trade routes aside, the trip back
for Tris's wedding will be the demon's own if we've got snow to deal with. It
should take about three
weeks with good weather, although I've
never done it without guards chasing me, so we'll see."
"An early snow'll play havoc with the
remaining harvest, and the manor repairs. But you've got a fortnight before you
and Lord Gabriel head for Margolan. Weather up here can change completely by
then." Neirin pulled his own cloak tighter around him. "Word's out
that you'll be bringing a healer back with you, and a fine one at that. There
hasn't been a decent healer in Dark Haven for years. If your Lady is willing to
be bothered, I dare say she'll have patients aplenty."
Jonmarc smiled. "Try to stop her. I
suspect she'll come quite well prepared. Just don't bring her any bar fight
injuries. She's touchy about those."
"Sounds like you have that on good
authority"
"On more than one occasion."
Jonmarc entered through the iron-bound
doors. He could smell roasting lamb, baking bread, and the aroma of simmering
spiced wine. Dark Haven had a feast-day air about it. Although the vayash
moru had no need of mortal food, the staff prepared for the Feast of the
Departed—or Haunts as most called it— with gusto.
"It's going to be different
celebrating Haunts here, that's for sure."
Neirin grinned. "There's nowhere else
in the Winter Kingdoms you'll find the residents to be so friendly with the
departed—except maybe in Margolan with a Summoner-king."
"As long as I'm still among
the living, I'll count it a win," Jonmarc said, taking his leave of Neirin
as he headed for his rooms.
Jonmarc had just closed the door behind
him when the temperature in the room plummeted. He felt a prickle on the back
of his neck, and knew that one of the manor's ghosts was close at hand.
Turning, he caught just a glimpse of a spectral girl as the apparition glided
across the far side of his room and disappeared, into the dark gray stone of the
wall. He stared after her in silence. "Don't let our bonnie lass trouble
you." Jonmarc turned to
find Eifan, his
valet, standing behind him. Eifan had the dark eyes and dusky looks of a
Trevath native, although his mortal days were some two hundred years past. A
quick, wiry man, he moved with the speed of a small bird of prey.
"I expect our lass is up and about
early for Haunts," the vayash moru said, setting out the last
of the bath items next to a steaming tub of water.
"I've seen her before. Did you know
her? I mean, alive?"
Eifan shook his head. "Many of Dark
Haven's ghosts are older even than I, m'lord. The lass is said to be the
daughter of one of the Lords of Dark Haven, taken by a plague. They say she's
looking for a healer who promised to
come to the manor and never arrived."
He held out a towel. "You have a big evening ahead of you, m'lord. Your
bath is ready and your clothes are laid out."
"Have you seen Gabriel?"
"No, m'lord. Lord Gabriel had
business to attend with the Great Houses
in preparation for tonight. I am sure he'll return shortly."
"Too soon, I'm sure."
Though the vayasb moru were
generally taciturn by mortal standards, several months of solid vayash moru
companionship had given him more insight than he could have ever imagined."Something
on your mind, Eifan?"
"It's not my place, m'lord."
"I've never held much for
'place.'"
Eifan was silent for a moment. "I
have served three masters of Dark Haven. None made so good a beginning
as you. I would like to see you succeed. There are some, m'lord, who may not
share that view. You'll be the only mortal at the Blood Council tonight. Some
among my kind don't agree that a mortal should be our Lord."
"I've had mortals trying to kill me
for most of my life. I'm used to rough company."
"Watch out for Uri and his brood,
m'lord. He wants the title for himself. I don't think any would be so bold as
to move against you with Gabriel nearby, but I would not walk alone tonight,
m'lord, were I you."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"It's said that the Lady chooses a
mortal to rule Dark Haven to protect Those Who Walk the Night," Eifan said
quietly. "Many believe that were Dark Haven to have a vayash mora lord,
one who never ages and never dies, that we might grow too arrogant among our
mortal neighbors."
"And I'm here to make sure that
doesn't happen?"
"A mortal lord might better balance
the needs of both vayash mom and mortal subjects."
"So why the concern? You need a
mortal, I'm here, and Gabriel keeps telling me I'm the Lady's choice, although
how he claims to know, I haven't a clue."
"It's the will of the Dark Lady.
Mortals say that Istra is a demon, but we believe Istra is a she-wolf,
protecting her pups. As Lord of Dark Haven, you are her champion."
"Thank you."
Eifan made a small bow and left Jonmarc to
his thoughts as he undressed and slipped into the waiting tub. Eifan's comment
made Jonmarc think of a carving in Dark Haven's chapel. It showed Istra, a
sad-eyed beauty with a regal presence turning back a torch-wielding mob and
standing between them and a cringing group of vayash moru. Although he
had no occasion to frequent shrines, he was as familiar as any in the Winter
Kingdoms with the faces of the Lady. Chenne, the warrior. Athira, the lover/whore
and goddess of luck, the Aspect to whom he was most likely to pray, if he
prayed at all. The serene Mother and the preternatu-rally wise Childe. Sinha,
the crone. The Formless One, who lacked even a name.
Until he came to Dark Haven, Jonmarc had
never seen a depiction of Istra, though he had heard Her name. "Istra's
Bargain" was a term common among soldiers and mercenaries, fighter's slang
for a suicide pact that promised one's soul to the Lady in return for the life
of one's enemy. He had seen soldiers make that pact, marking themselves with
the sign of the Lady and making their vow. None had come back alive, but all
achieved victory.
So it had been with curiosity that he
explored Dark Haven's chapel. Though small, it was filled with carvings and
artwork of supreme craftsmanship, illuminated by banks of candles. The chapel
was tended around the clock by a vayash moru recluse who never spoke and
seemed to exist only to serve the chapel. A large stained-glass image of the
Lady, back-lit by torches, dominated the rear wall of the chapel.
Eifan was correct. Istra was no demon. One
elaborate bas relief showed her, head bowed, lifting up the broken body of a
fallen vayash moru. But it was the Lady of the stained glass that held
Jonmarc's attention. Amber-eyed and darkly beautiful, her
intricately-decorated cloak
was wrapped around
her huddled children and her lips
parted to reveal the long eye teeth of the vayash moru. Istra was the
goddess of the outcast, of Those Who Walked Alone in the Hour of the Wolf. And
mortal though he was, something in those eyes connected with Jonmarc Vahanian's
own outcast soul.
A candlemark later, he adjusted the collar
of the black velvet doublet and tugged at his cuffs. He ran a hand back along
his thick, brown hair, done up in a neat queue that fell shoulder length, and
took a passing glance in the mirror to make sure all was well. He met his own
dark eyes and paused.
By rights, I should be face down dead in a
ditch somewhere with a shiv between my shoulders. Probably would be if Harrtuck
hadn't conned me into smuggling Tris out of Margolan.
That adventure, which had begun for
Jonmarc a few weeks after last year's Haunts, moved him from outlaw smuggler to
a friend of kings and a landed noble. The bounty hunters and debts were paid
off, the smuggling put aside permanently. Even so, he did not feel at ease.
Jonmarc picked up a small rigging of
leather straps and green wood. Carefully, he buckled it onto his right forearm.
The contraption held a single arrow and a tightly coiled spring. It was just
slim enough to fit into the sleeve of his doublet. Jonmarc raised his arm level
with his chest and flexed his wrist, tripping the release.
The arrow shot out, embedding itself into
the wall. Where they were going tonight, Jonmarc had no illusions about being
safe. His daily sparring with vayash moru partners made it clear that,
should tonight go badly, his sword would be poor protection. The arrow was a
weapon of last resort. He retrieved the arrow, refitted it, and slipped his
coat on.
There was a knock at the door. "Come
in."
Gabriel stood in the doorway. The slim,
flaxen-haired vayash moru noble was dressed for court. His coat was
midnight blue, elegantly tailored from fine brocade. If nothing else, Jonmarc
thought, immortality was good for acquiring wealth.
"Good evening, Jonmarc."
"I hope it will be." He turned.
"So, was it ready?"
A faint smile played at the corners of
Gabriel's thin lips. "Would you like to see it?"
No one would mistake Gabriel for anything
but an aristocrat, Jonmarc thought. His bearing, his fine features, everything
about him bespoke privilege and breeding. And yet, since before the battle for
Margolan's throne, Gabriel had sought him out, sometimes as protector,
sometimes as unlikely partner. Since Jonmarc had come to Dark Haven, Gabriel
had been content to function as the manor's seneschal, although Jonmarc knew
Gabriel owned lands of greater worth. He was also one of the Blood Council.
Jonmarc knew that he could not have accomplished
so much nor navigated the politics of becoming the manor's lord without
Gabriel's help, and he had grown comfortable with Gabriel's companionship. If
they were not quite friends, they were very compatible business partners, and
Jonmarc was grateful for a guide in a strange and forbidding land.
"Let's see how good this goldsmith of
yours really is."
Gabriel held out a velvet pouch. Jonmarc
emptied it into hispalm, and caught his breath. The bracelet in his hand was
feather-light. Wrought of silver and gold, the betrothal token incorporated two
intricate designs. Five vertical lines with a "V", reminiscent, of
the marks of a wolf's claws, was Jonmarc's old river mark, the symbol by which
he was known as a fighter and a smuggler. The other, a' full moon rising from a
valley, was the crest of the Lord of Dark Haven. Incorporated into a bracelet—
called a shevir in the borderlands of Jonmarc's birth—the symbols warned
any who could read them that the wearer was under the protection of a known
fighter, a lord, and perhaps the vayash moru themselves.
"It's beautiful." He turned it so that it gleamed in the
firelight. "You were right. A few hundred years of practice pays off. Now
comes the hard part."
"And that is?"
"Getting Carina to accept it."
Gabriel chuckled. "Did I see our
courier return from Isencroft last evening? Has Carina agreed to winter with
us?"
Jonmarc replaced the shevir in its
pouch and placed it on the mantle. He turned away and walked toward the
windows, which were frosted from the chill outside. "Donelan's adjusted
her duties. She's planning to be here for the winter." He smiled. "I
wouldn't doubt that Kiara's had a hand in it—she and Berry considered it a personal
challenge to get the two of us together."
"Those are all good signs."
Jonmarc shrugged. "Carina'll have had
three months to remember what it's like living in the Isencroft palace. Healer
to the king, cousin to the next queen of Margolan, and a reputation that will
open any door in the Winter Kingdoms. Why should she give up any of
that?"
"Because she loves you."
"Maybe she's had time to come to her
senses. I mean, even with Dark Haven, I'm not exactly a step up."
"I don't think Carina cares much
about such things."
"We'll see."
Gabriel inclined his head. "Ready to
ride?"
Jonmarc nodded. "Let's hope the
Council's in a good mood."
CHAPTER TWO
Gabriel's manor
was only a candlemark's ride from Dark Haven. A blade
carriage arrived for Gabriel and Jonmarc at Dark Haven's entrance, and the two
rode in silence for a while. The carriage was not opulent, but jonmarc knew
from its solid build that it was one of the finest of its sort. Four sleek
black horses drew the carriage, fitted in handworked leather tack trimmed with
silver. The carriage and horses alone were worth a small fortune.
"Neirin says that we're meeting the
Council on your land because I'm safer there—something about
'sanctuary.'"
Gabriel did not turn. He watched the
forest slip by from the carriage window. Taking in the view or scanning for
threat? Jonmarc wondered.
"Wolvenskorn is a very old
manor," Gabriel replied. Jonmarc followed his gaze and saw large, dark
shapes keeping pace with the carriage, running silently in the shadows of the
deep forest along the road. He repressed a shudder. The wolves of the northern
forests were known for size and ferocity, and he had met more than one on smuggling
runs. Things other than vayash moru hunted the deep forests. Even the,
bravest mortals did not venture deep into the woods at night.
"The name is ancient. It means 'place
of the wolf god' in the language of the old tribes. There's a stone circle that
rings the great house. Those stones were carved almost a thousand years ago.
They show the Dark Lady taking the Wolf God as her consort."
"The Flow under Dark Haven didn't
keep the last couple of lords alive. Arontala still managed to make a mess of things.
So why should a couple of stones make me feel safe?" "Old magic works
in unusual ways. Neither my brood nor the wolves will allow harm to come to
you."
Torchlit under the blue light of a full
moon, Wolvenskorn's tall, sharply sloping peaks stood out against the sky,
topped by narrow gables. Three levels of wooden and stone wings, one behind the
next, rose from the snow. Each level had a deeply slanted roofline. The
building was capped by a tall cupola
ringed by carved monsters. The oldest wing
was daub and wattle, with a sod roof that sloped back into the forest soil.
Grotesques and gargoyles looked down from
the roof onto the front courtyard. Between them, intricately carved runes were
both decoration and protection. The wooden sections of Wolvenskorn were set
with carved panels and the lower halves were covered with overlapping
shingles. Wolvenskorn looked nothing like Dark Haven, and Jonmarc was certain
that it was much older.
To his chagrin, wolves circled their
carriage as they drew up to the front steps of Wolvenskorn. Large, dark, and
powerfully muscled, they were the size of a person crouching on all fours. One
gray-flecked she-wolf circled Jonmarc slowly. He stopped, hoping he showed
neither fear nor aggression. The wolf eyed him with uncanny intelligence, and
Jonmarc realized that the wolf's eyes were deep violet. For a moment, he
thought he saw a trace of humor. The wolves suddenly turned and padded off,
melting into the shadows.
Other fine carriages were parked along the
grand circle of the entrance drive. Inside Wolvenskorn, Jonmarc could see the
flicker of candlelight and the shadows of partygoers. "I believe we're the
last to arrive," Gabriel said, indicating with a nod that they should
approach the steep stone stairs that led toward Wolvenskorn's arched entrance.
Inside Wolvenskorn, a huge open room greeted
guests. Three massive fireplaces, carved from the same dark rock, stood along
the far side of the room. Only one of the hearths boasted a fire; the others
lay dark. Jonmarc guessed that the fire was a concession to him as the
evening's only mortal guest. The vayash moru would not mind the chill.
Overhead, arched wooden beams soared to
the rooftop. The beams were painted with intricate geometric designs that
matched the runes on the outside of the building, From the steepest of the
three roofs hung a chandelier the like of which Jonmarc had never seen. The
massive iron chandelier hung in twelve circular tiers, one atop the other. Each
tier was made of panels cut with intricate patterns and more candles burned
within, so that the entire structure glowed. Figures were cut into the
patterns, each tier telling its own story. "Good to see you again,
Jonmarc." Jonmarc looked up to see Riqua standing in front of him. With
her was Kolin, her second. Jonmarc remembered both from the night they had
taken refuge in Riqua's crypt. Kolin gave a nod of recognition, which Jonmarc
returned. Turning to Riqua, Jonmarc made a perfunctory bow and took Riqua's
hand, pressing the back against his lips in greeting. Her flesh was icy.
"Greetings, Lady Riqua." "Better accommodations than my tomb
tonight?"
"I'm grateful for shelter, whatever
its form."
Riqua took his meaning clearly. "A
tomb can be a haven, and a haven can be a tomb. Fate has as much as the Lady to
do with it."
Jonmarc sensed no threat from Riqua, but
he struggled to keep his expression impassive at her words. A warning?
Just then, a man and a woman joined them,
and Gabriel made room for them within the circle of conversation. Both were
dressed in black without ornamentation. The man looked to be near Jonmarc's
age. He had dark, shoulder-length hair and a neatly cropped beard. The woman
was of similar age, but her dark hair was flecked with gray. Both the man and
the woman were trim and lean-muscled. When Jonmarc looked up, he met the
woman's violet eyes.
"May I present Yestin and
Eiria," Gabriel said, and the man and woman nodded in turn. "Not
members of the Blood Council, but, shall we say, visiting nobles who have an
interest in seeing Dark Haven restored."
"A pleasure to meet you,"
Jonmarc said. Eiria smiled, and Jonmarc noticed that she lacked the long eye
teeth of the vayash moru. Her violet eyes seemed to see right through
him, and he shuddered, remembering the wolf.
"Our families have watched over the
Lords of Dark Haven for generations," Yestin said, taking Eiria's arm.
"Many of our kin died in the service of Dark Haven. We offer our
welcome, and our deepest wishes for a long
and prosperous tenure."
Jonmarc did not mention the fact that the
last lords of Dark Haven had not lived long enough to enjoy their holding. But
before he could think of a reply, Yestin and Eiria slipped away in the crowd,
moving with dancers' grace.
"And this is Lord Rafe, with his
second, Tamaq," Gabriel said, shifting Jonmarc's attention. Rafe carried
himself with military bearing. He had short-cropped, sandy-colored hair and a
perfectly trimmed beard. With him was a pale young man with the look of a scholar
or a priest. "Your reputation precedes you, Lord Vahanian."
"Which reputation is that?"
Rafe smiled, showing the tips of his eye
teeth above his lips. "Many. I have kin in Eastmark. They were witness to
Chauvrenne. And the ways of the Nargi are well known to our kind. You've
survived the kind of trials many vayash moru have not. Perhaps the
Lady's hand is on
you." "If so, She has an odd way
of showing it." Rafe's expression was unreadable. "Always."
"I understand you were in the presence of the Obsidian King himself,"
Tamaq said.
Jonmarc nodded. "I saw the battle when
Tris destroyed him."
Tamaq's eyes glittered with a thirst for
information. "Then at some other time, we must talk.
In my mortal life, I fought against the Obsidian King at his last rising. But I
never personally saw him."
"Count yourself lucky."
Rafe made a parting bow. "We have
much to talk about, Lord Vahanian. Be well." At that, Rafe and Tamaq moved
back into the press of the crowd. Jonmarc felt more than heard a presence
behind him.
"You must be Jonmarc Vahanian."
Jonmarc turned to face the speaker. She
was a beautiful woman with chestnut-colored hair. Her face and form looked to
be that of a girl in her twenties, but the woman's eyes spoke of centuries. She
was on the arm of a young vayash moru who looked to be barely out of his
teens, pale even by vayasb moru standards, his pallor heightened by his
curly red hair. "I'm Astasia, and this is Cailan."
Jonmarc bowed and kissed Astasia's hand.
Cailan watched with a look of distaste bordering on jealousy. Astasia giggled,
seeming to enjoy Cailan's discomfort, and let her fingers tighten around
Jonmarc's hand. Her thumb stroked his palm provocatively.
"So you're the new Lord of Dark
Haven." She made no secret of looking him up and down. Cailan's eyes
darkened, but he said nothing. "You must visit my home. I give the best
parties," she said with a glance toward Gabriel and Riqua which clearly
said they were not among her guests. "You're more than
welcome to spend the night." Both
Astasia's manner and her eyes made the double meaning of her words expressly
clear.
"Your invitation is gracious,"
Jonmarc replied, hoping he could be half as diplomatic as he'd seen Tris be in
similar situations. He guessed that spurning Astasia's proposition outright
might not bode well, although her offer did not appeal to him in the least.
"There's a great deal of work to be done at Dark Haven before winter. It
doesn't leave much time for parties."
Astasia's eyes narrowed. "I heard
you'll be bringing a guest back from the royal wedding in Margolan. Even among
our kind, Lady Carina's reputation is well known. Will she be staying
long?"
Jonmarc disliked the undercurrent to her
voice. He kept the same neutral expression that had let him win many a hand of
cards. "That's up to Lady Carina."
Astasia smiled and laid a hand on his arm.
"My offer still stands. Bring her, too, if you like. I'm flexible."
She let her hand slip over his in parting. Cailan's eyes made it clear that he
did not second Astasia's welcome. Jonmarc's throat was dry as Astasia moved
away through the crowd, and he was grateful for the glass of brandy that
Gabriel offered.
"That's all of the Blood Council
except one," Gabriel said. Jonmarc made a mental note to ask him later
what the role was of the
Council's seconds. Bodyguards? Consorts? A little
of both?
In one corner of the huge room, a string
quartet played courtly music. In addition to the Blood Council and their
seconds, many other vayasb moru mingled, carrying goblets of what looked
to be red wine. Jonmarc was quite sure it was not. Although the candles sparkled
and the fire danced in the fireplace, the reception was notable for its lack of
food. Except for me, Jonmarc thought darkly. Maybe I'm the guest of
honor and the main course. Cailan looked like he'd have happily gone for my
throat.
All of the Blood Council had seconds,
except for Gabriel. Jonmarc knew that Mikhail, Gabriel's second, was in
Margolan, helping Tris rebuild his army. Tonight, Yestin functioned as
Gabriel's attache. Eiria was never far away. Jonmarc watched the pair with
interest. The vayash moru treated the young couple with deference. If
I'm right, and those violet eyes are the same as the she-wolf.
"Yestin and Eiria are
shapeshifters," Riqua said. She had come up beside him so quietly that he
startled. "There are small clans of them in the Black Mountains, not far
from here."
"Then the wolves—"
"Yes. They're vyrkin. The
wolf-clan's alliance with the Lord of Dark Haven goes back many generations.
That's not true of all the clans."
"There are more?"
"Each clan has a totem animal whose
spirit they honor and from whom they seek wisdom. Most shifters can only take
one shape. Some, the unlucky ones, can shift into many shapes."
"Unlucky?"
Riqua watched Yestin and Eiria. "Over
time, the shifting becomes involuntary. Eventually, the shift becomes permanent.
Most shifters die young or go mad. It's worst for those who can take many
shapes."
"I thought that sort of thing only
happened on a full moon." ' .
Riqua's eyes darkened. "For many
generations, shifters were hunted by superstitious
fools who believed so. Those who were hunted and tormented by the light of the
full moon— if they survived—found the sight of that moon triggered their
pain, forcing them to shift. When that happens, they lose their
memory of time and know only that they must defend themselves, even when no
threat is near. They become a danger to all. Eventually, their pack has no
choice but to destroy them."
"Being mortal doesn't seem so bad,
compared to the alternatives."
"While it lasts."
Behind them, the doors to Wolvenskorn slammed
open. "Where is he? Where's the Lord of Dark Haven?"
The questioner was a dark-haired man with
the coloring of a Nargi native. His voice was rough and his features lacked the
same fine breeding of the rest of the Blood Council. The man's clothing made an
extravagant show of wealth compared to the relatively subdued elegance of the
other guests. Gold necklaces adorned his throat, and heavy rings covered his
fingers. With him were a half dozen young men who moved with predatory grace.
The crowd made room for the group to enter, parting with a palpable distaste.
Jonmarc did not doubt that this was Uri,
the last of the Blood Council. Although Gabriel's description beforehand had
been carefully neutral, Jonmarc had no difficulty detecting Gabriel's dislike
for the fifth member of the Council.
Jonmarc stepped forward. Gabriel moved
closer, as did Riqua. "I'm Jonmarc Vahanian."
"Mighty fine company for a fight
slave."
"I've heard you know something of
betting yourself." It took a moment for Jonmarc to realize that Uri's
taunt had been spoken in Nargi, and that he had reflexively answered in the
same language.
Uri's black eyes glinted. His young men
moved around him like feral dogs, and Jonmarc drew on his battle skills to
avoid showing the fear he felt. These vayash moru were unrepentant
predators, and it was clear Uri was in the mood for a fight. One of Uri's brood
looked intently at Jonmarc. The young man hair that fell to his shoulders. He
was dressed completely in black with the exception of a foppishly frilled white
shirt; the sleeves flounced beneath his cuffs, nearly obscuring his hands. The
young man's smile was cold, and Jonmarc was sure it was no coincidence that the
man's eye teeth showed plainly.
"So you were General Kathrian's
champion." , Uri shook his head. "Guess you're not so tough any more.
I heard Darrath nearly sent you to the Lady."
It took all of Jonmarc's control not to
let his hand fall to the pommel of his sword. "State your business," he said in the Common tongue.
Uri stepped closer. Had the man been
mortal, Jonmarc would have sworn him drunk, or besotted on dreamweed. His face
was flushed, evidence that he had recently fed well. Jonmarc guessed that Uri
had once been in fighting shape, although his love of fine living rounded his
jowls and softened his profile. "My business? I have no business with a
mortal Lord of Dark Haven. And you have no business here at all!"
"That's enough, Uri." Gabriel
moved forward, but Uri brushed past him.
"Let the pup speak for himself,
Gabriel.If he's going to be Lord of Dark Haven, then he needs to be worthy of
the title." Uri turned his attention back to Jonmarc, who stood his ground
although Uri was now nearly toe to toe. "What gives you the right to
rule over your betters?" Uri's breath smelled of stale blood.
Jonmarc consciously willed himself not to
clench his fists. This is a fight you can't win. Surprise Carina and show
that you can think your way out of a brawl. "The title was a gift from
King Staden. The lands were his to bestow. Maybe you're better off asking
him."
Uri snorted. "What do I care for
mortal kings? They come and go like dust. We are the rightful lords—of Dark
Haven and the Winter Kingdoms. That day is coming, sooner than you think."
He gave an ugly smile that made his yellowed teeth plain. "Now if you'd
like to be brought across, that changes things."
"No, thank you."
"I offer you immortality, and you
decline!" Uri roared.
By now, the guests around them were
plainly uncomfortable. Most of the partygoers had stepped back to give Uri
plenty of room. Although Jonmarc kept his gaze focused on Uri, out of the
corner of his eye he saw motion. Riqua's brood moved toward the front of the
spectators. So did others, whom he knew to be among Gabriel's family.
"Answer me, Lord of Dark Haven. Who
are you to decline the power of the Dark Gift?"
Jonmarc knew he was on very dangerous
ground. While many of the vayash moru around him might have long ago
been brought
across against their will, those who had
survived for lifetimes had made their peace with it, and came to see their
deathless state as both gift and curse. "Death and I are old
friends," Jonmarc answered carefully. "We've shaken hands many times.
I don't covet eternal life. Once around is enough for me."
"You presume to rule over us as an
inferior being. How dare you! Perhaps you need to learn who your real masters
are!"
There was a rush of air, a blur of motion,
and Jonmarc felt strong hands pull him backward just as a flash of teeth grazed
his throat. Instinctively, he reached for his sword. He twisted and realized
Kolin had a casually unbreakable hold on his right arm. He was too far back
from the action to use either his sword or his arrow, even if he could have
broken free. Riqua was now between him and Uri, although Jonmarc had not seen
her move. Yestin was nowhere to be seen, but with a growl, a large male wolf
barreled toward Uri, even as Gabriel caught the vayash moru-by the
wrists and flung him backward.
All but one of Uri's guards circled
Gabriel. The beautiful dark-haired young man in black stayed back, studying the
fight. Two of Riqua's brood, a man and a young woman, blocked the advance on
the left, while three of Gabriel's vayash moru engaged the assault on
the right. Although Jonmarc had gained a healthy respect for the fighting
skills of the vayash
moru from his sparring
partners, he had never seen the undead go against each other.
Jonmarc knew he would have bruises as he
struggled to free himself and join the fight. "Leave this to us,"
Kolin rasped near Jon-marc's ear. "This is our matter." Jonmarc could
sense Kolin's tension.
Gabriel hurjed one of Uri's men against
the wall hard enough to have killed a mortal. The exchange of blows was faster
than sight could follow. The wolf connected with Uri's chest, knocking the vayash
moru to the ground. Uri cuffed the wolf and sent it flying.
Once before, Jonmarc had seen Gabriel
fight, although it had been against drunken mortals in a back alley. Now,
though both Gabriel and Uri were vayash morru, Gabriel out-maneuvered
his opponent with ease, sidestepping Uri's strikes.
As suddenly as it began, the fight was
over. Three of Uri's guards struggled to their feet, staggered but unhurt. The
wolf was gone. Gabriel reached down and grabbed Uri by the collar.
"You will never enter my houses
again," Gabriel said. He shook Uri with distaste. "Jonmarc Vahanian
rules Dark Haven at the favor of the Dark Lady. As Her servant, I am oath-bound
to protect him."
Uri brushed himself off. "You see a
pathetic shadow of the Lady. She made us like gods to rule with her as gods.
The days of the mortals
are ending. The days of the truce—and the
Council—are over." He gave a curt signal and his guards joined him, even
the darkly beautiful young man who had watched the fight from the sidelines.
Something about those deathless blue eyes made Jonmarc shiver.
"You're bleeding." Gabriel's
voice broke the silence after the doors of Wolvenskorh slammed shut behind Uri
and his brood. Only then did Jonmarc feel the warmth at his throat. He raised
his hand to his neck; his fingers came away covered with blood.
Gabriel withdrew a kerchief and pressed it
against the wound. "It's not deep. He was hoping to frighten you."
He chuckled dryly. "I don't think he expected the fight he got."
Jonmarc hoped that his hands were steadier
than his knees. I'm the only mortal in a roomful of vayash moru. I'm
bleeding. And they all saw that I can't even fight them. Great. Just great.
Rafe and Tamaq stepped up beside Gabriel.
Gabriel rounded on them with a suddenness that took Rafe aback. "Uri
violated sanctuary, broke Council law, and moved against the Lord of Dark
Haven. Yet you and Astasia did
nothing."
Rafe raised an eyebrow. "You and
Riqua had things under control. Were you expecting an open brawl?"
"I expected a show of support."
"Uri will calm down."
Riqua pushed forward. "Will he? Uri
just declared both the truce and the Council to be dissolute. He's gone
rogue."
Rafe shook his head. "Uri has the
same temper that got him killed as a mortal. He'll come around. I think he
wanted to make a grand display and get everybody's attention."
"I hope you're right," Gabriel
said. Jonmarc kept the kerchief pressed against his neck, unwilling to bare his
blood in this company. Yestin stepped up beside Gabriel. The young man's cheek
bore a purpling bruise, and he was limping. Eiria moved toward him with concern,
but Yestin waved her away.
"Thank you," Jonmarc said to the
small group that clustered around him. The rest of the vayash moru slipped
out in twos and threes, clearly no longer in the mood for a social occasion.
"It would hardly do to hold a party
in your honor and take you home dead," Yestin said with a cheeriness
Jonmarc found difficult to emulate.
"Under the circumstances, I can't let
you leave tonight," Gabriel said. "There are rooms upstairs where
you'll be comfortable. Once it's light, I'll have a mortal escort for you.
Uri's not strong enough to attack in daylight without destroying himself, and
none of his brood is old enough to even think of moving about when the sun is
up. You'll be safe come daybreak."
"It's going to get dark again
tomorrow, you know."
Jonmarc thought Gabriel looked troubled.
"I've put the oldest and strongest of my family at Dark Haven for that
very reason. I don't think you'll have any problems—at least, not on the manor
grounds."
"Arontala got in."
Gabriel looked away. "That was before
my oath to the Lady."
Rafe, Astasia and the other guests were
gone. The members of Riqua's and Gabriel's families drifted out of earshot.
Jonmarc sat on the edge of a table, wondering if he looked as pale as he felt.
"If he'd been mortal, I'd have said Uri was drunk."
Riqua grimaced with distaste. "In
life, Uri had a taste for absinthe and dreamweed. As vayash moru, neither
affect him. But if he drinks the blood of someone intoxicated with either, it
creates a similar effect." "One of Uri's bodyguards didn't join the fight."
Riqua turned away. "Malesh. He's the
worst of the lot—and for Uri's brood, that's saying something."
"Malesh is old enough in the Dark
Gift to be dangerous, and young enough that he doesn't truly understand the
power, or the limitations." Gabriel moved to a cabinet on the far side of
the room and returned with a goblet of brandy, which Jonmarc accepted
gratefully. The strong liquor steadied him.
"What's in it for him?"
Gabriel shook his head. "No one
knows. Rafe hopes that Uri is all bluster. Uri may be— but I'm not so confident
about Malesh. Uri is vain and arrogant. Malesh is hungry and clever. It's a bad
combination."
"Astasia's question, about Carina. Do
you think Carina will be in danger if she comes to Dark Haven?"
Riqua and Gabriel exchanged glances.
"I •don't think that either you or Carina should leave the grounds of Dark
Haven without a guard," Gabriel said. "Astasia's goal isn't overthrowing
you. Bedding you, perhaps."
"Not interested."
"Don't worry—Astasia's hardly the
type to pine. She enjoys the chase. Astasia may try to bait Carina—she'd enjoy
giving the impression that there was something between the two of you. But I don't
think she has any reason to do harm. She tends to pick the men who offer the
least resistance."
"I'll talk with Rafe," Riqua
said. "He can be damnably hard-headed, but he's got to recognize that
Uri's pushing this too far. We didn't get rid of Arontala just to raise a new
threat inside the Council itself." She signaled to her brood that it was
time to leave.
The great hall was empty now, except for
Jonmarc, Yestin, Eiria, and Gabriel. "There may be some dried herbs in the
cook house that could make a poultice for that," Gabriel said with a nod
toward Yestin's bruised
check.
Yestin shrugged. "It'll heal. There's something else
that concerns me more. The Winter Kingdoms haven't recovered from the fight to
bring down Jared the Usurper. Had Martris Drayke not succeeded, it wouldn't
have been long before every
kingdom was at
war— against Margolan, or on. its side. Now, the Council and
the Truce are
wavering. And there'll be more
questions to come. I've heard that King Martris will have to
go to war against Lord Curane before too long. There are vayash moru .in
Margolan who intend to go with him. That will strain the truce or break it
completely."
"Even
the Sisterhood isn't
what it once was," Eiria added. "The Flow's
unstable, and getting worse. My people can feel it. It makes our shifting all
the more difficult. When it's out of balance, the Flow's power favors blood
magic, and light magic becomes
harder to control. That bodes-badly for King Martris. Lord Curane
is known to employ
dark mages." She paused. "There are some among the Sisterhood
who aren't ready to return to their citadels. When King Martris goes to fight Lord Curane, Sisterhood mages
will go with him, whether the Sisterhood approves or not."
"I'm not following your point,"
Jonmarc said, sipping his brandy.
Yestin turned his violet eyes on Jonmarc.
"The point is that the old ways are in flux. Old bonds are being broken.
The alliances that kept an imperfect peace for hundreds of years are
fracturing. These are dangerous times. My people know something about shifting.
One is never more vulnerable than when one is between what was and what will
be. The war isn't over yet. It's just changed form."
"Then the Lady help us all,"
Jonmarc said, feeling a sudden chill despite the brandy. "Because we'll
need it."
CHAPTER THREE
Deep in the forest, the hunter stalked his prey. The trail was clear. The smell of
fear and sweat was heavy in the cold night air. Broken branches and fresh
footprints left a path easy to follow. This night's quarry had given him a good
run. The prey had been resourceful, at first. Now, panic overtook reason. The
hunter smiled. His kill was near.
Malesh did not need to signal the other
two uayash moru who hunted with him. This was their sport, and they were
masters of the craft. Gradually, the circle would tighten. The prey would
realize he was being herded. Malesh smiled. Soon, very soon, it would be over.
He could hear their prey stumbling ahead
of him. The man sounded like a wounded bull. Malesh had watched this one for
some time. Big and overconfident, stupid and cruel, no
one would miss the man. There were already
rumors in his village that he had something to do with the children that had
disappeared, that he'd been responsible for his wife's bruises and black eyes.
Malesh ran his tongue across his lips in anticipation.
Malesh spotted his fellow hunters in the
forest shadows. The end was near. Even from a distance, Malesh could sense the
big man's disorientation. The fear would make his blood all the sweeter. The
truce with mortals had always given vayash moru free reign to kill human
criminals of the
worst sort. Some
villages staked their murderers and their child-stealers beyond the
outskirts as an
offering to the vayash moru. But the Blood
'Council's truce mandated that the kill be quick, painless. Tasteless.
Malesh's tongue flicked over his sharp eye teeth. Terror brought an edge to the
blood that was lacking in a quick kill. Exertion gave the blood a headiness
like champagne. Bullies and sadists were the sweetest. Perhaps they knew that
they deserved no mercy, having granted none to their victims. Or perhaps their
true fear was of the Crone or the Formless One, to whom their sullied souls
would certainly go for judgment. Whatever the reason, by the time Malesh was
done with' them, their
victims would have been
avenged a hundredfold. Though vengeance was hardly
Malesh's goal.
The three vayash moru closed their
circle, and their prey caught sight of them. At first, he brandished
his weapon, but the vayash moru to Malesh's right disarmed the man,
breaking his wrist in the process.
"Whatever you want, take it!"
the man cried, falling to his knees.
"We will," Malesh replied. Even
in the cold air, the man's hair was wet with sweat. None of the vayash moru showed
any sign of exertion.
"Mercy, please!" the man begged.
Berenn, one of Malesh's fledglings,
reached down and lifted the pudgy man by his doughy throat. "What would
you know of mercy?" the young man asked coldly. Held in his unbreakable
grip, the man gasped for air, his feet dangling inches off the ground.
"Did you show mercy to any of the children you've buried in the woods? Any
mercy to that wretch of a wife you beat?"
"I'll change, I swear it. I can do better."
Berenn's smile was remorseless. "You
don't seem to understand. There are no second chances." He threw the man
across the clearing, and Malesh heard bones snap with the force of the man's
fall. The man tried to scramble to his feet, but his shoes slipped on the wet
leaves and he fell flat on his face. He gasped and mewled, and the scent of
urine made it clear he had soiled himself.
Senan, the other vayash moru, lifted
the man by the scruff of his neck, laughing as their victim once again clawed
at the air and struggled to get free. "I have gold hidden under the stone
hearth. Take it—take all of it!"
Senan let the man fall into the wet loam
and kicked him hard, turning him over. "We don't need your gold. There's
only one thing of yours we want. Your blood." Senan drew his lips back and
the pudgy man let out a whimper, shrinking back against the ground.
By agreement, the three let Senan draw
first i blood. Senan reached down, moving slowly to heighten the terror
in the. doomed man's eyes. "The Crone is waiting for you," Senan whispered
as he drew the big man close to him. "Please, no: No, no—" Senan's
teeth pierced the man's fleshy neck just to the left of his throat. The man
stiffened but made no noise. After a moment, Senan drew back and threw the still
living man to Berenn, who made a fresh puncture to the right of the man's
throat and drank deeply.
The
last draughts, the sweetest, the ones filled with mortal dread, were
reserved for Malesh. The doughy man was quite pale when Berenn handed his limp body
to Malesh, but Malesh could still sense the pounding heartbeat and the shallow
breath. Malesh seized the man
roughly, who groaned
as his spine snapped, sending a last jolt of
sweetness into the blood. Malesh went for the spot just below the man's ear,
where the blood would run its final course before breath stopped, snapping the
man's neck in the process. The broken body twitched in Malesh's grip as he
gulped down the blood, letting the man's final terror fill
him with intoxicating headiness. When there was nothing left but a bloodless
husk, Malesh dropped the body. Not one speck of blood marred his frilled white
shirt.
"Good hunt." Senan reached down
and picked up the corpse by its collar and dragged it over to a large tree.
"How shall we leave him?"
"He's had a hard run," said
Berenn. "Let him catch a few winks."
Senan posed the corpse beneath the tree,
its head down on its breast, while Berenn retrieved the dead man's hat from the
clearing and put it on his head, pushing down the brim to shade his eyes. Senan
clasped the man's hands over his ample belly and put one foot sole down, knee
raised, while the other leg extended straight. They stood back to examine their
handiwork. Unless someone looked closely under the dead man's collar, he might
appear to be sleeping, taking a nap in the forest shade.
"One of your better pieces, if I do
say so!" Malesh complimented Senan. He slapped him on the back, and the
three began their trek back to Uri's manor.
Scothnaran Manor was big, rambling, and
vulgar. Just like its owner, Malesh thought, feeling his mood sour. Scothnaran
lacked both pedigree and history, two more things it had in common with Uri. No
one who saw the huge, garish structure would doubt that it was built to impress
any who saw it with the owner's wealth and position. Pity that Uri never did
figure out real wealth had no need for show. Malesh had lost his life, his
blood, and his freedom to Uri a hundred years before in a duel over a card
game that had gone badly. And Malesh, whose bloodlines could be traced to
Principality's ruling nobility, had been made courtier to a fool and bumbler, a
two-skrivven card sharp whose greatest break came when he was brought
across as punishment for a bad debt.
Scothnaran was filled with guests when Malesh
and his fledglings entered. Uri enjoyed the company of mortals, as if his
status in the Dark Gift together with his new wealth actually accorded him the
position he had long desired. But tonight, Malesh saw no mortals in the
room—none of the rapacious young men hoping to win at cards, and none of the
slatterns Uri called 'ladies.'
The great hall of Scothnaran was as pretentious
as its owner. Chandeliers dripped with crystals and pearls. Noorish inlay
decorated so many of the furnishings that the pieces seemed to vie with each
other for attention, warring with the profusion of color in the tufted carpets
that covered the highly polished marble floor. Portraits covered the walls,
oils done of Uri and of others whom Uri claimed to be his ancestors. Malesh
knew the portraits were fabrications, the social climbing of a gutter snipe.
The room was filled with Uri's fledges.
Uri held court in the middle, a goblet of goat's blood in his hand. The stale
smell was noxious to Malesh after- the sweetness of the recent feast, and from
the looks on their faces, Senan and Berenn felt the same.
"Did you really call him a 'fight
slave' to his face?" Tanai leaned forward, hanging on Uri's every word.
"I did," Uri boasted. His face
was flush with new blood, and the candlelight sparkled in his rings. "I
remain connected with...business associates...in Nargi. They maintain my relationship
with the Nargi army—through the necessary intermediaries. General Kathrian's
troops held the Nu River border ten years ago, during the golden days of the
betting slaves. There was none better than Jonmarc Vahanian. Never lost a fight
in two years. Made a bit of gold on him, I did. To see him dressed up like a
noble and having Gabriel passing him off as the new Lord of Dark Haven was more
than I could stand. Nothing but common trash!"
"Not like there's anyone else who
fits that description here," Malesh said in a barely audible aside to
Senan, who smiled. Senan and Berenn were of families as noble as his own.
Malesh had chosen them, and the others in his inner circle, to help make Uri's
casual vulgarity bearable.
"And is it true that you drew
blood?"
Uri smiled, showing his yellowed eye
teeth. "Do you think I'd let Gabriel keep me from
making my point? If that's all Vahanian
has to show for fighting skill, he's lucky to have slipped Darrath's grip. I
had my teeth on his neck before he even knew I was coming. But then, I heard
Darrath got the best of him the last time Vahanian was fool enough to go to
Nargi. Needed a mage to rescue him—that's rich. All over a woman." Uri
drained his glass and snapped his fingers. A servant appeared at his side and
refilled the goblet.
"Still, I heard he held his own for a
good fight—and took the lash without crying out. By the Whore! It might be
amusing to go a round with him—for old times' sake."
"So the truce, is it ended?" It
was Tresa who spoke, one of Uri's most senior fledges. While Malesh and his
friends stayed near the back, watching from afar, Tresa sat at Uri's right hand.
Sit at his feet like the lapdog you are, Malesh thought with annoyance. It was an open secret that Tresa coveted
Malesh's position at the Council as Uri's second, a position it had taken no
end of calculated obsequiousness to obtain.
"Ah, Malesh. There you are. They've
been asking about the Council meeting. You were there."
Malesh stepped forward, more to spite
Tresa than out of any real interest in retelling the story. "It's as Uri
says. A room full of vayash moru, fawning over a mortal. Gabriel's the
worst of the lot, although Riqua isn't much
better. I noticed Rafe and Astasia stayed
out of it. If Vahanian is to be Lord of Dark Haven, let him prove himself
strong enough to take it."
There were murmured assents all around,
and Uri's eyes glinted with approval. Malesh could tell from the way Uri's lids
drooped that the blood he drank was laced with absinthe and dreamweed.
"I've heard my share of stories about the great fighter Vahanian, hero of
Chauvrenne," Malesh said with unconcealed contempt. "But when Uri
went for his throat, I saw fear in Vahanian's eyes. Lord of Dark Haven
indeed!"
"My thoughts exactly," Uri said
in a voice that, if not exactly slurred, lacked the clarity it sometimes had on
the rare occasions when Uri was free of the absinthe. "Mark my words: the
Council's days are numbered. It's going to be a brand new game soon, our game.
The truce is on its deathbed."
With a slight gesture, Malesh signaled to
Senan and Berenn to follow him. They slipped from the back of the room without
Uri noticing as he launched into another tale that kept his hangers-on
enthralled. Malesh wound his way down to the rooms on the lowest level of
Scothnaran where he knew his own coterie would be waiting.
Compared to the opulence of the great
hall, Malesh's salon was stark. The pieces, while fewer in number than those in
the entrance-way, had been in Malesh's family for
generations, commissioned by ancestors who
were even more well known than the craftsmen who made their treasures. The
miniature oil paintings were of Malesh's real ancestors, men and women who had
served the kings of Principality long before Uri was brought across. A half
dozen of his fledges were already waiting for him. More would come, Malesh
knew, when Uri was sated with drink and less likely to notice their absence
from his circle of admirers.
"Can you believe the utter garbage
Uri is spewing?" Senan dropped into his seat.
"That's Uri.". Sioma, a
beautiful red-haired vayasb moru replied, her ennui evident in her
voice. Sioma was Malesh's current companion of choice, and she caught his eye,
promising him with her half-smile that there would be pleasures for him before
dawn sent them to
their rest.
"As usual, he says much and tells
little," Malesh added. He waved away a goblet of blood, not wishing to
taint the sweet aftertaste of the hunt that still lingered in his throat.
Between Sioma and the hunt, Malesh remembered the best of what it was to be
mortal— unfettered passion and the thrill of power. The Dark Gift
enhanced all of those
feelings, adding to them the headiness
of unending
youth and true immortality. "So what
of the truce and the Council?"
Berenn asked, finding a seat.Malesh rested
his boot on the edge of the table. His slim, tightly muscled frame coiled like
a stawar about to lunge. "Uri wants the attention he gets by
walking out. He loves to be coaxed back. What do you think? He's upstairs,
drinking polluted blood and lapping up the attention of his pets. What does he
gain from leaving the Council? They'll just appoint another to take his place
and he knows it."
"And the truce?"
Malesh pushed away and began to pace.
"Uri's been content to feed off the blood of drunks and dreamweed whores
for three hundred years. What does he benefit from breaking the truce? He has
all the tainted blood he can drink from the sots in the gutter."
"What of Vahanian?"
Malesh leaned back against the wall, crossing
his arms. The exquisite lace at his cuffs spilled down over his fine-boned
hands with more contrast now that he had recently fed. "Vahanian is
neither as soft as Uri wants to believe, nor as undefeatable as Gabriel hopes.
I did see fear in his eyes for a moment, but in the next he was struggling with
Kolin to join the fight. Fear alone won't stop him. And as for Darrath nearly
killing Vahanian—that much is true. But it was after he'd bested three of
Dar-rath's prize soldiers and taken both a beating and a full scourging. The
mage that came for him was none other than Martris Drayke. Vahanian is every
bit as good a fighter as the stories say—maybe even
able to hold his own against one of us."
"One." Senan smirked. "We
are more than one."
"You're missing the point."
Malesh began to pace once more. "Killing the Lord of Dark Haven doesn't
accomplish the goal. The truce and the Council must die with him. We have an
opening. Gabriel won permission from the Council to allow the vciyash moru of
Margolan to fight against Jared the Usurper. Uri, the fool, voted against it,
but I knew immediately that this was our chance.
"Martris Drayke has won the throne
but not the peace. Lord Curane is in full rebellion, and King Martris will have
no choice but to take an army south. There are smaller pockets of resistance
and groups of Jared's loyalists scattered throughout Margolan. The vayash
moru of Margolan are so taken by their Summoner-king that they haven't
stopped fighting for him. The longer the fight, the weaker the truce becomes."
"So?" Sioma stretched, showing
off her sinewy body. The form-fitting sheath of copper-colored silk set off
her sleek curves and auburn hair. Malesh smiled. Immortality heightened both
thirst arid passion. Having drunk deeply to quench the first, he fully intended
to sate the second. Later.
"So...there is no need for a mortal
Lord of Dark Haven without the truce."
Senan looked skeptical. "The
Sisterhood won't permit that."
Malesh laughed. "The Sisterhood
doesn't have the power to do anything about it. They didn't take on Arontala
because they knew they weren't strong enough to win. They're a shadow of what
they once were. Their mages are defying them, remaining as battle wizards with
Martris Drayke's troops just as they defied the Sisterhood to train him.
Arontala gave us a gift when he stole the orb from beneath Dark Haven. The Flow
has never mended, and as it fractures, the Sisterhood weakens."
"You think the mortal kings will just
sit back and let the truce be broken?" Berenn asked.
"The mortal kings will be at
war," Malesh replied, smiling. "Curane knows what King Martris
doesn't—that the Flow favors blood magic at the expense of the light. With the
Flow out of balance and the Margolan army barely on its feet, Curane merely has
to draw them into a siege and then pound away at them while the shattering of
the Flow drains their Summoner-king dry. Kill Martris Drayke, and Jared's
bastard takes the throne. Nargi and Trevath will ally against the other
kingdoms, and there'll be more blood than we can drink for years to come."
"Who wins?" Senan asked
skeptically.
Malesh's smile broadened. "We do.
When the mortal kings have beggared their treasuries and spent their armies and
the Sisterhood is dissolved, it'll be time for us to seize what's always been
rightfully ours."
"So you're just going to leave
Vahanian in Dark Haven?"
Malesh shook his head. "No. We must
break Dark Haven the way we'll break the Council and shatter the truce.
Vahanian's too well protected to strike. He won't be. moved by threats. He
cares little for his own safety. But about the peasants on his lands, he's come
to care a great deal. They're one weakness." Malesh's eyes glittered.
"I understand he plans to return from Margolan with a bride. That will be
our opening. We'll strike at the heart of Dark Haven and bleed it dry."
"You're not
pushiinG me hard enough." Jon-marc Vahanian
wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Laisren, his vayasb moru trainer,
looked annoyed. "You're mortal. What do you expect?" "I expect
to be able to defend myself, the way I've always been able to fight."
"You're one of the finest fighters in
the Winter Kingdoms—perhaps the best in a generation. Against mortals."
Jonmarc shook his head. His long dark hair
was matted with sweat, and he was breathing hard. "Not good enough. You
saw what happened at the Council. I'll never win the respect of the vayash
moru if I have to have
bodyguards trailing me. I have to be able
to hold my own in a fight—I need to have a chance of winning."
Laisren frowned. "I trained Martris
Drayke at the citadel in Principality because he was going to fight Foor
Arontala. Tell me exactly why I'm training the Lord of Dark Haven— protector of
Those Who Walk the Night—to kill vayasb moru?"
"Because the truce isn't worth the
price of the paper it was written on," Jonmarc shot back, "and you
know it. A storm's coming—I can feel it. Too many things are changing. Bargaining
from a position of weakness is a lousy way to deal with someone like Uri. Even
if he's bluffing, I have the feeling that his second—"
"Malesh."
"—isn't. I can't protect Carina or
the mortals who are also part of Dark Haven if I'm dead."
Laisren shook his head. "We've been
sparring for two candlemarks. You've held your own."
Jonmarc glared. "You've been pulling
your punches. You're not moving at full speed. You're taking it easy on me,
dammit."
"Carina won't be happy if I break
anything she's just healed. You'll be sore enough—and bruised—from the last
couple of throws, even if I didn't go as hard on you as I could have."
"Yeah, but I barely touched
you." Jonmarc was bleeding from a score of cuts and scrapes, some from
Laisren's blade and some from the
rough rock of the walls and floor. But
only a handful of his own strikes had connected, slicing through Laisren's
tunic and opening a gash on his arm that had already healed. "Most mortals
couldn't get close." "I can do better." Laisren looked
skeptical. "How?" Jonmarc
shook his head.
"When I fight, when I'm in the middle of. a battle, it's like
everything slows down. Time changes. I just know where the other guy is
going before he moves. That's what's always kept_ me alive— even in the betting
games in Nargi. In my head, time works differently for me. If I can just nudge
that a
little, I think I can handle a vayash
moru in a real fight." "You're taking Uri seriously."
Jonmarc shook his head and dipped himself a drink of cool water from a nearby
bucket. "Not Uri. Malesh. Yestin's right. The old ways are coming apart.
The war in Margolan, when it comes, could draw in all of the Winter Kingdoms.
If that happens—and I hope for Tris's sake it doesn't—every petty thief and
cutthroat is going to try to knock off his boss and take his place. I'll lay my
bets that's what Malesh is waiting for. He doesn't want Uri's seat on the
Council and he doesn't want Dark Haven. He wants vayash moru to rule the
Winter Kingdoms."
Laisren frowned. "It can't last.
Every time a vayash moru has tried to rule over mortals it's nearly
been our destruction. We can't make fledglings as fast as mortals breed. We
can't move about by day. By day, all but the very oldest of our kind are
vulnerable. Eventually, the burnings start."
Jonmarc nodded. "How many mortals and
vayash moru have to die before we end up right back where we started?
And while the Winter Kingdoms are consuming themselves, what's to keep the
Southlands from driving their armies north and taking it all? Or the war lords
of the Western lands from burning their way across Isencroft?" He shook
his head. "My kind, your kind—we all lose if Malesh tips the balance. In
every barroom brawl, the best way to avoid a fight is to look like the nastiest
son of the Bitch fighter in the room." He met Laisren's eyes. "So
what about it?"
Laisren smiled. "I heal a lot faster
than you do."
"I'll deal with it. Let's get
started."
"Fine by me. Just don't complain if
you're limping at the royal wedding."
CHAPTER FOUR
"You're a
wizard. A Summoner. Restore to me what was stolen!" the ghost
demanded.
King Martris Drayke of Margolan drew his
power around him and focused on the angry wraith. Despite the torches that
burned in sconces around the chamber, the air was cold enough that his breath
clouded and his fingers tingled.
Tris went deeper into his mage sense, reinforcing
the wardings he had placed around what was once Foor Arontala's interrogation
room. The girl's ghost had begun to manifest a month ago, on the anniversary of
her death. The ghost, a young woman named Esbet, wore the brown robes of a
Sisterhood mage. She appeared as she had died. Her robe was mere
shreds, and her body was covered with
bruises and deep gashes. Seeping burns marked her arms. Two fingers were
missing, and one of her eyes was swollen shut. Her death wound was a slash
across the throat.
In the weeks since Tris had won the throne
he had begun the grisly work of cleansing the palace Shekerishet. It seemed as
if new bodies—and ghosts—turned up. daily.
Between Jared's lust, his pillaging soldiers, and Aronta-la's blood
magic, an unknown
number of victims had perished in
the dungeons of Shekerishet. "I can't return you to life. It's
forbidden." Esbet's ghost did not require his power to become visible. On
her own she had gained the notice of
the palace by
breaking crockery, smashing windows,
putting out cooking fires, and souring milk.
Esbet scowled. "Forbidden by whom?
The Goddess? Where was She when soldiers dragged me to the king? Where was She
when I needed her?"
Images flooded Tris's mind, sent by the
ghost. Tris saw the young woman, a land mage, ambushed by Jared's men along a
forest road. Wormroot clouded her senses and disabled her magic, pushing her
power out of reach as she fought to defend herself. Tris felt Esbet's fear as
her memories of Arontala's dungeon washed over him. Through Esbet's memories,
Tris watched as Arontala assaulted her with magic
and drugs, ripping from her mind what he
could not force from her with the torturer's tools. As if the walls around them
retained a memory of the bloodshed, the images grew stronger as the ghost mage
forced him to see her last moments. Broken by Arontala, ravaged by the guards,
Esbet took her last refuge in madness. Linked in memory, Tris felt the pain of
the blade that took Esbet's life, sharing the growing coldness as her blood ran
across the stone table and into the cup for Arontala's feeding.
Tris fought his way free of the sending.
The ghost's pain and anger enveloped him. "They took everything!"
Esbet cried. "Avenge me!"
Tris struggled to keep a clear head as the
ghost's emotions washed over him. "I've seen the Lady myself," Tris
replied. "But I can't pretend to know why She sometimes turns her face in
silence. Jared killed my family. I didn't try to bring them back, though I
wanted to. But I gave them peace, and eased their passage to the Lady."
"That's not good enough!" The
ghost screamed, launching herself at him in fury. Tris snapped a warding into
place as the revenant keened and shrieked. Esbet's anger transformed her spirit
into a twisted visage with a gaping maw and dark, eyeless sockets. The energy
of her attack bounced against the whisper-thin, coruscating barrier of the
warding, and she wailed louder in frustration.
Tris knew that, possessed by grief and terror,
Esbet would willingly tear him apart. Now, contained within the chamber by the
outer warding and restrained from her vengeance by his inner shielding, the
ghost hurled herself against the magic barrier, filling the air with curses.
Finally, after nearly a candlemark, the attacks subsided. The ghost stretched
herself out against the inner warding, growing thinner and thinner until she
covered the protective shield. Like layers of a wasp's nest, she shattered
into pieces and disappeared.
"Esbet," Tris called gently.
"We aren't finished yet." His voice was soft, yet behind it was the
power of a Summoner and the command of a king. "You don't need to remain
here in pain. I can't let you torment the living. Your family has buried you
and completed the days of mourning. There's nothing holding you here except
your anger. I can't undo what Jared did. But I can give you rest."
Slowly, as if caught by a gentle wind, the
shattered ghost began to swirl and reform. Finally, Esbet stood before him. Her
face was tear-streaked, no longer defiant, and the look in her eyes wrenched
Tris's heart. "Please, sir. I want to go home."
Tris nodded. It was a risk,' he knew, to
lower his inner warding, but he sensed no malevolence, only deep grief. He
dispelled his warding, and stretched out his hand to the ghost. She reached out
to him, and passed through him.
"Are you ready?"
Esbet nodded. Tris closed his eyes and
gathered his power. This was the greatest gift of a Summoner: to make peace
among the restless spirits and ease their passage to the next realm. Tris felt
himself cross the threshold between the living and the dead onto the Plains of
Spirit. He sensed, more than saw, the presence of the Lady. It was Her Aspect
as the Childe that manifested, a young girl with the piercing, amber eyes of
the Goddess.
The Childe beckoned. Tris began to murmur
the passing over ritual, ancient and powerful words that would blur the line
between the realms of the living and the dead. Esbet reached out. She took a
halting step forward, looking back uncertainly at Tris, who nodded in
encouragement. Esbet released Tris's hand and took another step, then another,
until the light enfolded her like a great, warm cloak. Tris felt the ghost's
presence fade. As suddenly as the vision came it disappeared, leaving Tris
alone.
Before he could turn to release the outer
wardings, shadows seized him.
Darkness rushed toward him through the
channels of magic Tris opened to the Plains of Spirit. Drawn to the light of
his power, dark beings swarmed toward the residue of Aronta-Ia's powerful blood
magic that still tainted Shekerishet's dungeons. A legion of voices shrieked in
his mind; shadows circled him like
hungry wolves. These were not ghosts. Tris
was certain of that. Not all of the beings on the Plains of Spirits had once
been alive. Other spirits dwelled there in the barren places, hungry for the
chance to steal power.
Blue fire streaked from Tris's fingers,
forcing back the shadows. He could feel them licking at his life force, drawing
away his breath and his power. The cacophony of voices made it difficult to
think clearly, and Tris struggled to retain his focus. Though he'd had more
practice than he'd have liked, the encounters were draining and difficult.
Soulless, these dimonns wandered
the Plains of Spirit, seeking power. Tris knew they hoped to overtake him, to
bleed him dry or possess him. And while his magic was strong enough to prevent
that, Tris was well aware that any mistake would be deadly.
Tris spoke a word of power, and a curtain
of fire roared around him. No flames lit the dungeon—the fire bathed the
Plains of Spirit, scorching hot. The dimonns screeched in fury, pushed
back by the flames. At the edges of perception, Tris sensed other, equally
dangerous spirits watching, waiting to feast on him should he fail.
Drawing hard from his remaining energy,
Tris sent another blast of white-hot power across the spirit plains. A clap
like thunder echoed in his mind, nearly blacking him out. Quickly, while he
could still follow the fragile
thread back to his mortal body, Tris fled
the Plains of Spirit. A tendril of darkness streaked after him, and sharp teeth
opened a gash on his ankle. Tris sent a final salvo, burning along the passage
between realms with a cloud of fire. He slammed his wardings into place as his
spirit rushed fully back to the mortal world, staggering to keep his feet. He
waited, magic at the ready. Silence.
Head pounding, Tris took a step toward the
door and stumbled, falling hard against a work table. He caught himself and
mumbled the words to lower his wardings. He grabbed for the door and opened it,
holding on to the door post for support.
The guards reached out to steady him. Tris
found the strength to wave them away. "Get me back to my rooms," he
rasped. One guard led the way while the other followed. The midnight bells
tolled in the tower outside as Tris reached his rooms. When the door was shut
behind him, he leaned back against it, closed his eyes, and tried to remember
if he had ever felt quite so weary in his life. Sure, he told himself,
pushing a sweat-soaked strand of white-blond hair back from his eyes. Last
week, when you cleansed the other cell. Then there was the time you got
captured by slavers. And those weeks of tent rigging for the caravan when you
were trying to stay out of sight. And don't forget the training at the citadel
in Principality. It might be easier, he thought, to recall a time when he didn't
feel exhausted. Before Jared's coup. Those days seemed like another life,
although the anniversary of his family's deaths had not yet passed.
The servants had set a pot of water on the
hearth to boil. Gratefully, Tris made himself a cup of tea, mixing in the last
of the headache potion his healer left for him. By now, the guards and the
healers expected that every cleansing in the tainted areas of the castle would
come at great cost to their king. Neither he nor they were surprised when he
returned barely able to climb the stairs. But even when expected, the
consequences of working strong magic were painful.
As he stirred the tea, Tris found himself
staring at the painting of his father, King Bricen. Jared had destroyed all of
the paintings of the royal family in Shekerishet. One -of the first things Tris
did when he regained the throne was to gather any paintings that were hidden in
noble houses of his father, his mother Queen Serae, and his sister Kait. The
paintings helped, just a little, ease how much he missed his murdered family.
Tris studied the portrait of Bricen as if
his father might speak. There was no denying the family resemblance. From
Bricen, Tris received the king's high cheekbones, angular features, and tall
build. From Serae, Tris took his white-blond hair and green eyes. His
shoulder-length hair was a wild cloud around his face, still tangled
from his encounter with the ghost. The last time he'd looked at his own
reflection he had barely recognized himself, thinking that in just the few
months since he had taken the crown, he had grown gaunt and strained. It's
why they say a crown is the heaviest load to bear, he thought. There are
too many things to worry about—things that even a king, or a sorcerer,
can't fully control.
At Tris's feet, basking in the warmth of
the fire, three dogs looked up. The two wolfhounds, like rangy long-tufted
carpets, stretched languorously and wagged tiredly. The third, a bull mastiff,
shuffled to his feet and padded over to nuzzle Tris's hand. Absently, Tris
patted the big dog's head. During his exile, Tris had feared for the dogs'
safety, knowing that Jared's cruelty extended to the palace animals. Tris had
gone to the hunting lodge where he'd kept the dogs, expecting the worst. To his
surprise and relief, the dogs had survived, having been turned out into the
woods for their own protection by the lodge keeper. Dirty and underfed, ribs
jutting, the dogs had come to him. Tris saw to it that they received plenty of
food and a healer's care. Just a few months later, the dogs were nearly back to
their former weights, happy to be home and with him.
Tris put his empty cup aside and fell
across the bed fully dressed. One of the wolfhounds licked his hand while the
mastiff nudged at his ear. The other wolfhound padded up and sat down at the
end of the bed protectively, as if on vigil. Safe at last, Tris gave in to
exhaustion and let sleep take him, sure his dreams would be restless.
A knock
at the door startled Tris. The sun was already shining through the
windows; he had slept through the night. His dogs woofed warily. Cautiously,
Tris went to the door. Master Bard Carroway stood in the doorway carrying a
tray with a pot of tea, cups, and a heaped plate of cakes.
"Isn't this early for you?" Tris
waved his friend inside.
Carroway, resplendent in the jewel-toned
silks he favored, chuckled and took a seat near the fire. The dogs wagged
sleepily and returned to their places. "I could ask the same of you.
Begging your royal pardon, but you look like hell."
Tris chuckled. He offered the tea to Carroway,
who accepted, then sank into another chair beside the fire and cradled his cup
in his hands. "More ghosts."
"The poltergeist?" Carroway
asked.
"Another one of Arontala's
victims."
"By the Lady! How many people did he
have time to kill? There wouldn't have been a kingdom left if Jared had had
the crown a full year."
"There almost isn't anyhow,"
Tris said wearily. "Now that Zachar's come out of hiding,
we've gone over the accounts. Father ran the kingdom well. Before he died, the
treasury was more than ample. There were stockpiles of food and equipment.
Now.... Whether Jared squandered it, Arontala used it to buy troops, or it just
got looted, there's not nearly as much as there should be," Tris said.
"This year's harvest isn't going to replace it, either. All the farmers
ran for the border once Jared took over. The soldiers burned so many crops and
villages trying to extort taxes that there'd be a famine before springtime if I
hadn't managed to buy and barter grain from Dhasson and Principality. There
still might be. And now, with war coming—"
"Is that certain?"
Tris sighed and nodded. "There's no
getting around it, I'm afraid. Sweet Chenne, I wish there were. Father never
trusted Lord Curane. He always thought Curane was too friendly with
Trevath." Trevath, Margolan's neighbor to the south, had a long and bitter
history of border disputes and attempts to meddle in Margolan's affairs. That
it shared the kingdom of Nargi's affection for the Crone, one of the Lady's
dark Aspects, made Trevath even more suspect.
"You think he's getting support from
Trevath? Would Trevath be that bold?"
"Don't forget—Jared was father's son
with Eldra, and Eldra was from Trevath. Arranged marriage to keep the
peace." Tris made a face.
"You can see how well that worked. So
while we don't have any evidence that Trevath supported Jared's coup, he might
have been able to create an alliance that benefited Trevath through Eldra's
family.
"The generals are suspicious,"
Tris said. "That's their job. We already know Jared tried to ally with
Nargi. The only thing Nargi and Trevath hate more than each other is Mar-golan.
We can't afford to have them team up against us. And it would be like Trevath
to take advantage by backing Curane." He looked into the fire. "What
we know for sure is that some of Jared's top generals—the ones who ordered the
village massacres—are being harbored by Curane. The. Sisterhood believes he's
giving shelter to dark mages. And then there's Jared's bastard to worry
about." "Damn."
Jared had been notorious for his
promiscuity. Many of the nobles' daughters had been among his willing
paramours. But Lord Curane had seen a way to profit from Jared's lusts, and had
willingly supplied his own granddaughter, a girl barely of marriageable age,
for Jared's pleasures. Even before Tris had battled Jared for the throne, rumor
had it that Curane had whisked his granddaughter—pregnant with Jared's
child—into hiding. The girl and her newborn son were said to be in Curane's
holdings. That alone was reason enough for war.
"Although I don't mind being
confessor to the king," Carroway said with a sly grin, "it really
isn't why I came. You're hard to catch, and your royal wedding planner has a
few questions." Now that he was back in his role as court minstrel,
Carroway had lost no opportunity to dress in the sumptuous style that had
always been his signature. With Carroway's blue-black long hair and long lashes
over light blue eyes, the minstrel was handsome almost to the point of beauty.
Since Tris was now betrothed, Carroway remained one of the court's most
eligible bachelors.
Tris finished his cup of tea, wishing fervently
that he had had another dose of the headache potion.
"Before Soterius comes to get me for
the trials, tell me about plans for the wedding. I could use some good
news."
"I found a minstrel troupe that just
spent a year in Isencroft, so I've got them busy teaching our bards and
musicians everything they can about the latest music and the most fashionable
dances there. One of them can cook, too, so I've gotten him to teach the
kitchen staff to make some dishes Kiara might like. Found a merchant with the
last caravan who knows what the styles have been there, and promised to design
costumes for the entertainers in the Isencroft tradition. As for the
food—"
"We can't justify feasting in the
palace when the villagers are hungry. The last thing we need
is a revolt. Please, keep the wedding as
simple as you can."
Carroway looked at him in mock exasperation.
"I finally get to plan a royal wedding, and I've got to watch the
budget," he sighed. "But you're right: On the other hand, you're
going to have a house full of royalty—we don't dare look like we're struggling
to pay the musicians."
"I have no doubt that with you in
charge, the musicians will get their pay, and all they can eat besides. Make
our guests comfortable. Honor Kiara. But err on the side of dignified austerity
instead of fabulous excess, all
right?"
"Point taken. Zachar went out of his
way to tell me the same thing only yesterday afternoon, but I still want to go
over some of the plans with you. I happen to have them right here," he
said, patting a scroll in the pocket of his
tunic.
Carroway had no sooner laid out his plans
than another knock sounded at the door. The dogs rushed to answer, barking a
greeting. "Come in," Tris called.
Ban Soterius stepped inside. He was
dressed in his formal uniform, a general in the Mar-golan army. Soterius smiled
as the dogs rushed at him, tails wagging. He patted them in greeting.
"You stay out so bloody late tending to spirits that the living have to
wake up at dawn to find you."
"No way around it," Tris said,
finishing one of the small cakes and pouring another cup of tea. He hoped the
food would rid him of the last vestiges of headache. "The ghosts that
won't come to the Court of Spirits still need to be sent to rest. I don't mind
being haunted by friendly ghosts, but I've got to rid the palace of the angry
ones before Kiara gets here."
Soterius declined Carroway's offer of tea.
"The guards told me that you barely got up the stairs last night."
"It's not just the ghosts. I can
still feel traces of Arontala's blood magic in the dungeons. Power like that
leaves a residue—as if the walls remember. There are...bad things...lurking out
there. We'll need to keep that area sealed off until I can set it right."
"Can the Sisterhood help?"
Tris shook his head and winced.
"Landis clamped down on the Sisterhood after she saw how many of her mages
came to help us defeat Jared. If it were up to her, the Sisterhood would stay
hidden in their citadels."
"Would she prefer that we'd left
Jared on the throne?"
"In her mind, if the Sisterhood pulls
back from outside life, the world will leave them alone."
"Not likely."
Tris shrugged. "Judging from the
number of nobles who did nothing to help us take back the crown, I'd say Landis
isn't alone."
Outside, the bells rang the eighth hour.
"It's time," Soterius said.
"Have I mentioned how much I hate
this part?"
Soterius ran a hand back through his light
brown hair, close-cropped to fit a soldier's helm. "Several times."
Tris's valet, Coalan, knocked at the door,
and Carroway exited as Tris dressed. Neither Tris nor
Soterius spoke as
they walked through the
corridors with guards ahead and behind them. Tris's pulse quickened. Another
round of trials for Jared's generals, followed by the executions of those found
guilty by the court. Tris could
feel the press
of spirits around him
as the bailiff
announced the arrival of the
king. Trumpets blared. Many of those ghosts would soon be witnesses. Two dozen
guards created a living barrier between the onlookers and the king. Tris took
his throne at the front of the room. This was the fourth day of trials, and the
crowd had grown each day. "Bring the first defendant." Two guards
escorted General Kalay into the courtroom. Shackled at the wrists and ankles,
Kalay held himself stiffly and shook off the guards. Even in civilian clothing,
his military bearing was unmistakable. He was a balding man, just past his
thirtieth season, and his defiant blue eyes showed intelligence. Behind Kalay
were ten soldiers, similarly shackled.
Tris did not need to glance at the
paperwork. He had seen Kalay's work first-hand.
"General Asis Kalay. You and your men
are charged with the murder of Margolan citizens under the orders of Jared the
Usurper, a massacre that killed every villager in Rohndle's Ferry on the banks
of the Nu River. How do you plead?"
Kalay met Tris's eyes. And although Tris
could not read minds, everything about the glint in the man's eyes, his
posture, and the slight turn of his lip made it easy to guess his thoughts. Prove
it.
"Not guilty, Your Majesty."
Tris nodded. The bailiff produced a sheaf
of parchment, and laid it in front of Kalay. "We have copies of your
orders. We have documentation of your route. Do you wish to change your
plea?"
"No."
Tris met Kalay's eyes. "Then we will
call the witnesses."
The gallery grew still. The temperature in
the courtroom fell. As the spectators and jurists watched, a mist began to
coalesce in the space between the throne and the defendant's seat. The mist
began to glow. Gradually, men, women, children, and elders gathered until the
ghosts of an entire fishing village stood before the court.
Tris channeled power to the ghosts, and
they became more solid. A gasp arose from the gallery, and sobs could be heard
from among the Scirranish. The ghosts appeared with their death wounds.
Men with skulls split open by battle axes, women and children run through by
swords. Young girls dishonored and beaten. Blind old men and bent old women
with the mark of a noose around their necks.
"Villagers of Rohndle's Ferry,"
Tris said. "Tell us how you died."
Even knowing what would come next, Tris
struggled to retain his composure. He had already seen the villagers' memories
of their deaths. Months ago, when he and his companions had made landfall after
their journey down the Nu, they had chanced upon this desolate village and
found what remained of the corpses. It did not make it easier to hear each
person in turn come forward to tell the story.
"Soldiers came to our village in the
uniform of the king of Margolan," said a village elder. Half of his skull
was torn away. "They demanded money. We had already paid both first and
second taxes—we had no more coin to give. First, they burned our homes. Then
they chased down our livestock and our children for sport. They took our
daughters into the forest. We heard them screaming." He looked at Kalay.
"This man was their leader. He was angry. He gave the order, and his men
set about with their axes and swords. Those who did not die immediately they
hanged in the barn. This is the man."
Kalay's face was pale. His eyes were wide.
Several of Kalay's soldiers were weeping with their heads in their hands,
shaking in fear of judgment.
"Do I need to have the others tell
their tale?" Tris struggled to keep his tone civil.
"I did as my king commanded. I
followed my orders. I have done nothing wrong." His lip curled. "My
allegiance is to King Jared."
So many of the onlookers in the gallery
rose to their feet and surged forward that the guards were hard pressed to
restore order. In the gallery, the Scirranish muffled their sobbing.
Tris met Kalay's eyes.
"The crown finds you and your men
guilty of murder as charged. You'll be hanged this afternoon."
"I did nothing wrong," Kalay
snarled. The guards grabbed him by the arms and pushed him toward the door.
"Nothing. All who opposed King Jared deserved to die. I have served my
king."
Kalay was still shouting when the door
swung shut behind him. Guards dragged Kalay's condemned soldiers to their feet.
Despite their tears, none begged the crown for forgiveness. When they were
gone, Tris looked to the ghosts that still remained in the front of the
courtroom. The same village elder who had testified and who had first appeared
to Tris in the village approached the throne.
"Thank you, my king. If you would,
we're ready to make the passage. We have seen justice."
Tris closed his eyes, murmuring the
passing over ritual. As he let the images of the wraiths dissipate, he met them
in the Plains of Spirit. In the distance, he could hear the soulsong of the
Lady. As the spirits passed and bowed in gratitude, Tris could feel their
burden lift. The moment passed, and they were gone. Tris returned his attention
to the courtroom, where the crowd watched in awestruck silence.
Four days of testimony, Tris thought
wearily. Few of the defendants remained as defiant as Kalay once their victims
stood in front of them. None of the men presented for trial had been
exonerated. The testimony of their victims provided overwhelming evidence.
Tris was emotionally and physically exhausted; serving as the conduit of power
that made the dead visible and audible to the jury and onlookers. Few realized
that while the rest of the assemblage heard the ghosts' tales, Tris saw the
images of their memories, felt their terror and pain, fresh and horrifying. He
had found no way to blunt the impact of those images, nor did he fully desire
to do so. It would be so easy not to feel. But if I stop feeling, if the
decision of life or death loses its pain, then I'm no better than they are.
Then it's nothing but a bureaucratic process, and it demeans the price these
people paid.
The executions would come later. Tris
dreaded them. As in combat, he could not help but see the spirits of the
condemned men twist free of their bodies, to hear their final anguished
pleas for the mercy that they did not
grant to others. That would be the final judgment— whether to ease their
passage to whichever Aspect came to choose them.
Ten more defendants were brought for trial
as the day wore on. In a few cases, living wit- nesses provided the damning
evidence. More often, ghosts were the only ones left to tell the tale, and the
stories were so horrific that some in the gallery fled the room sobbing or
retching. Two of the accused men threw themselves on the king's mercy, and
Tris sentenced them to hard labor repairing what was destroyed. Most were like
Kalay, still certain that their actions were justified.
As the afternoon shadows stretched long
across the courtroom, soldiers brought the last two defendants for judgment.
Tris recognized the men from Bricen's guard, although he could not have put a
name to their faces without the warrants handed to him by the bailiff. Tris
glanced down through the charges and felt his blood run cold. The two men, Cerys
and Meurig, were charged with the murders of Queen Serae and Tris's sister
Kait.
The crowd murmured as the charges were
read, and Tris knew that all eyes were on him. He hoped his face was impassive.
In a few nights, it would be a year since his family was murdered on Jared's
orders, and while he had made their passage to the Lady, the loss was still
fresh.
"Cerys of Alredon and Meurig of
King's City. How do you plead?"
The two men stood to face the king.
"Your Majesty," Cerys stammered. "You've got the wrong men. We
weren't near the castle that night, we swear. You've got to believe us."
He was a short, wiry man just a few years older than Tris. Meurig, who stood
beside him, was a large man, ox-like with massive arms and a thick neck.
Soterius and Harrtuck had told Tris privately that both men were among the
troops who favored Jared's aggressive talk.
"I've made the passage for Queen
Serae and Princess Kait," Tris said, wishing that the formal language
could distance him from the loss that still ached inside. It didn't. "They
can't testify. But two guards also died that night defending my mother and my
sister. Their spirits accuse you."
Tris was exhausted, both from the emotion
of the day's trial and from the energy it took to call ghostly witnesses. His
head throbbed, and his neck and shoulders ached. He stretched out his power
once more, and two ghosts became visible. These men Tris knew well. Ifan and
Nye had been his mother's personal guards for many years. The guards were men
of unimpeachable integrity and
unquestionable devotion to Serae and Kait. For that, they had been among
the first to die in Jared's coup.
Ifan's ghost clearly showed the slit
across his throat that had taken his life. Nye's wraith still showed
the gash on his temple from where his head had been slammed against the rock
wall of the castle. The guards bowed low in greeting to Tris.
"My prince...your majesty," Ifan
corrected himself. "It's good to see you again."
"I'm sorry to disturb you," Tris
said. "But at long last, it's time for justice to be served. Are the men
who killed you and who killed Queen Serae and Kait in this room?"
Each of the ghosts in turn scanned the
crowd, which had grown silent. The ghosts pointed to Cerys and Meurig.
"These are the men," Ifan said. "They betrayed us and used our
trust in them to get close enough to kill us. When we were gone and too freshly
dead to intervene as spirits, they entered the Queen's chambers."
"That man," Nye said, pointing
to Cerys, "drew his sword on the queen. We heard her scream, and she fell.
Princess Kait ran into the room when she heard the queen cry out. She fought
like a wild thing, but Cerys grabbed the princess and pinned her while Meurig
stabbed her. We saw, my king, but we could do noththing"
Tris swallowed hard. The ghosts' testimony matched
the scene he, Carroway, and Soterius found on the night of the coup. Hearing it described
brought him back to that moment, and the grief he thought had been set
aside washed over him once more, fresh and raw.
"There was a third man with you that
night,"
Tris said. "Kait managed to kill him
with her dagger. He also would testify."
Tris's head pounded as he called for the
last ghost. Sister Taru had warned him that even with a lifetime of training,
strong magic carried a physical price. It was, she said, what kept mages from
believing themselves to be gods. His head hurt so much that he could barely
see. Another spirit in the uniform of the king's guard materialized. This
spirit's death wound showed the dagger in his chest Kait had thrown. "We
found your body on the night of the coup in the room with mother and
Kait," Tris said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded exhausted.
"That night, Kait's ghost told me that she had killed you in self defense.
Identify for the court the men who were with you that night."
The ghost looked at Tris in fear, and
quickly turned toward Cerys and Meurig. "Those are the men," he said,
pointing at the two disgraced guards. "Cerys received his orders from
Prince Jared to go to the family quarters. We were to kill everyone—even
you," he said with a nervous glance in Tris's direction. "Their
guards fell before they knew what hit them. We entered the room, and it's just
like the ghosts told you, only the princess had a knife in her skirts, and she
pegged me in the chest when she heard the queen scream."
"We was just following orders,"
Cerys said sullenly. "Not for us to judge what to follow
and what not to follow. Hang us if we did
that, and hang us if we don't."
Tris felt all of the raw emotions of the
day wash over him. Exhaustion, grief, and anger swept through him. On the
Plains of Spirit, he could see the thin blue life threads of the two defiant
guards. Sweet Mother and Childe, I want revenge! Tris thought. It would
be so easy to focus his power on those life threads, to snuff out their glow.
Even now, neither man showed remorse. Goddess help me. It would be so easy.
Mother and Kait would be avenged. It's what I wanted more than life itself that
night, to kill the men responsible with my own hands.
In his memory, he saw a tall green-eyed
man. Lemuel, his grandfather, the Summoner whose body was taken hostage by the
Obsidian King. I foolishly thought I could control power that I should never
have sought, Tris remembered Lemuel saying. Taking that power opened
Lemuel's soul to be possessed by the Obsidian King.
No one would fault me for killing them, Tris argued with himself. I have the right. But what of the
Scirranish? What of their vengeance? Sweet Chenne, how much blood will there be
if everyone who lost family to Jared's men takes their own revenge? Mother and
Kait will be avenged if these men hang. I know better than any what awaits
their souls—the judgment of the Crone or the wrath of the Formless One.
Lady Bright! How can it still hurt so much?
Another memory came. Jared, drunk with
whiskey but no less dangerous, on the night Tris took back Shekerishet. Jared's
face was less than a hand's breadth away, reeking of sweat and drink. As
Jared's hand had tightened on Tris's throat, Tris had seen his brother smile. I
want to watch you die, Jared had said, and remember fust how you looked
when the last breath slipped beyond your grasp.
Tris recoiled from the memory. I can't.
I won't be like Jared. I won't make Lemuel's mistake. And it's all the worse,
because of how easy it would be.
"The Crown sentences you to hang.
It's more than you deserve." Tris stood and left the chamber. Behind him,
he could hear the guards leading the condemned men toward the courtyard and
the noise of the crowd rushing to see the hanging. Four guards moved with him
into the small antechamber, and Soterius followed.
"Are you all right?" Soterius
asked.
Tris knew his friend could easily read the
pain in his eyes. "When you went to Hunt-wood, when Danne told you what
Jared's men did to your family, did you want revenge?"
"More than I can tell you,"
'Soterius admitted. "Ask Mikhail. I fought like a madman. I gave no
quarter. We ambushed a group of Jared's soldiers and one of them recognized me.
He told me it had been as easy to kill my
family as slaughtering sheep."
Soterius's voice broke. "Goddess help me, Tris. I ran him through. And I
didn't stop. I hacked him to pieces, crying so hard that I couldn't see. And
when it was over and I was covered in his blood, I realized that it didn't
matter. It couldn't bring them back.
Killing him didn't change anything for him or for them, but it changed me. I
threw up and burned my clothes and scrubbed the blood off my hands, but I knew
what I'd done. I don't know if the Lady can ever forgive me. Mikhail stayed
with me all that night. He thought I might try to kill myself. He was
right."
Soterius looked at Tris and laid a hand on
his shoulder. "Whatever it was you didn't do in there—you were right not
to do it."
"Then why does it feel like I let
mother and Kait down?"
"You didn't. You would have failed
them if you'd used your magic to kill those men, instead of letting justice be
served. Those men will still be dead, but the blood won't be on your
hands."
They walked
together from the Hall of Petitions out onto the
loggia and through the walled garden. The garden, one of Kait's favorite
places, was now cluttered with the dry stalks of weeds. Even there, soldiers
with crossbows kept vigil. Two dozen soldiers joined them as they walked to
the main courtyard,
where the crowd waited. It was a cold,
late autumn afternoon. The sky threatened an early snow. Tris had banned any
sale of food or ale, not wishing the executions to become the event they had
been under Jared. Still, a crowd gathered. Some of the onlookers had brought
their own baskets and blankets, setting up a picnic where they could best see
the gallows. Children ran through the crowd, laughing. Tris knew that
afterward, some would try to scavenge bits of the rope or a shoe or button from
the condemned men's bodies.
In the center of the courtyard, the
gallows waited.
Tris signaled for the prisoners to be
brought out. He lifted his face to the wind. It was not the first such hanging
and would not be the last, especially if the campaign against Curane and his
rebels succeeded. But it would be the- final one for a long time here at
Shekerishet. After months of trials, the tower was empty of prisoners.
The condemned officers walked with a defiant
stride. Kalay raised his head to meet Tris's eyes.
"Hail, King Jared, the rightful king
of Mar-golan!" Kalay shouted as the executioner fitted the noose around
his neck. The crowd murmured, but Tris made no response other than to raise
his hand and let it fall in signal to the officers below.
Beneath the prisoners' feet, trap doors
sprung open. The men plummeted and jerked once,
dying instantly as the noose snapped their necks. Tris could feel their spirits
lurch free of their dangling bodies. Their fear and disorientation washed over
him, and he could feel the taint that clung to their souls. The hangman's craft
failed the last two men, who twisted and writhed, feet scrabbling in midair to
gain a toehold, bucking and gasping for air. The hood slipped off of one of the
men, and Tris saw that it was Cerys. Coincidence? Or was there someone in
the executioner's party who wanted vengeance as much as I did? Minutes
passed. Finally, the two men's struggles slowed. Cerys's eyes bulged and his
face blackened as his swollen tongue lolled from his mouth.
Cerys and Meurig's souls wrenched free
from their bodies. Tris felt the pain of the severing. They joined the others
on the Plains of Spirit. Tris heard a sound like distant thunder, and the rush
of wind. Darkness swept over the spirit realm. The Formless One was present,
and, even as a Summoner, Tris's own soul shuddered. In the darkness, he heard
the screams of the souls She harvested as a vortex opened and pulled them into
its maw. As quickly as it had come, the darkness was gone, and with it, the
souls.
When the last of the executions were finished,
Tris signaled an end to the spectacle. A phalanx of guards protected him as he
crossed the courtyard. Once they reached the safety of
the walled garden, all but Harrtuck and
two soldiers returned to their duties. Two guards with crossbows kept sentry at
the entrance to the garden, and two more patrolled the portico. Still trying
to clear his thoughts from the hanging, Tris - looked at the ruined garden
sadly. Come spring, I'll make sure it's planted with Kait's favorite
flowers, he promised himself. While the garden had been left to wither
under Jared's rule, it had never been abandoned by the palace's ghostly
servants, who favored the cool, shadowed corners and the fountain that now lay
broken in the' middle. Tris could sense the spirits' presence, and wondered if
they, too, missed his mother and sister as much as he did.
"Danger, my Lord!"
Tris heard the whisper of a ghost. The
ghost shoved him hard to the right. His mage sense flickered a warning, and Tris
glimpsed something streaking toward him a fraction of a second before it
slashed deep into his left shoulder. Blood started down his chest, and he
staggered.
"Get down!" Soterius dived for
him, taking them both to the ground and shielding Tris with his body.
"Call Esme!" Soterius shouted. "The king's been hit!"
Harrtuck ran in the direction of the
bowman while the other guards formed a wall around them. Tris heard running
feet and the sound of clashing steel. Footfalls came closer, and the guards
parted as Esme, the king's healer, pushed her way between them.
Tris gasped at the pain. Blood ran down
his arm and chest. He steadied himself, and looked at the quarrel embedded in
his shoulder. He leaned heavily on Soterius and Esme as they returned to the
protection of Shekerishet.
Esme commandeered a small sitting room and
motioned for Soterius to help Tris to the floor.
"Ouch," the red-haired healer
said, looking at the quarrel. Esme had been one of Serae's healers, before
fleeing into exile after the coup. Soterius had found her among the Margolan
refugees living in the Principality camps, and she had become a valuable aid to
the resistance movement. Now, Esme returned to Shekerishet to become King's
Healer.
She ripped open Tris' bloodstained tunic
from neck to hem to see the damage. One of the guards was sent to fetch a pot
of simmering water for herbs and poultices, and Esme laid out what she needed
on a clean cloth beside her.
"I'll need Ban and a few others to
keep you still while I pull it out. Have they your permission?"
Tris nodded. Soterius and three soldiers
came and knelt beside him, each immobilizing an arm or leg while Esme sat
beside the wounded shoulder. She poured a cup from a flask, and motioned for
Tris to drink. The smell told him it was river rum, potent and rough.
"Here," she added, wadding up a bit of clean cloth. "Bite on
this. I can't wait for the rum to take full effect. You're losing blood."
His body arched as Esme withdrew the bolt
with slow, steady pressure. The soldiers released him, and he opened his
eyes.
"Nasty wound," Esme said.
"This'll sting."
Tris spat out the wad of cloth.
"Probably not as much as that did."
"I need to make sure it wasn't
poisoned. You're lucky. It might have taken you full in the chest."
"There's no wormroot," Tris
managed. "I'd feel it if there were."
Esme nodded. "That's one thing in our
favor."
Esme pressed a pad of soft cloth against
the wound and leaned on it with her full weight, stanching the flow of blood.
She ground herbs with a mortar and pestle and mixed them with steaming water to
make a wrarm paste. Gently, she daubed the mixture into the wound.
"This should neutralize the most common poisons." The pressure and
the warmth made Tris wince. "And it should prevent infection." Esme
laid a hand on his forehead. "If you let me through your shielding, I can
ease the pain."
Tris concentrated on bringing down his
mental shielding enough to permit Esme's touch. Her hand passed over his brow,
and he felt her power lessen the throbbing in his shoulder and arm.
A sharp rap came at the door. Soterius and
the soldiers sprang from their places, and five soldiers stood to form a
protective ring around Tris and Esme, swords drawn. Har-rtuck stood in the
doorway, a grim expression on his face.
"Do you have the bowman?"
Soterius asked Harrtuck.
"He attacked us. One of my men ran
him through. He's dead."
Soterius swore. "Makes it hard to
interrogate him."
"Not necessarily." Tris managed
to pull himself up on his good arm. "Bring me some pillows."
"If you sit up you could start
bleeding again," Esme protested. "I haven't had time to finish the
healing."
"It won't be for long."
"This can wait..." Soterius
began
Tris shook his head. "There may be
others. He might have had help. If traitors remain in the ranks, we need to know."
A trickle of blood started from the wound, and Esme looked at him sternly. Tris
extended his right arm toward the middle of the room and murmured the words of
summoning.
The temperature in the room fell, and
beyond Tris's outstretched hand a fine mist began to coalesce. Soterius moved
forward so that he was positioned to step between the ghost and Tris if
necessary. The spirit of a young, dark-haired man crouched before them, clad in
the uniform of a palace guard.
"Who sent you to attack the
king?" Soterius demanded. "Tell us, and maybe your journey to the
Lady will be short."
"Don't rightly know, to tell the
truth."
"You drew a crossbow on the king and
you don't know why?"
The man tugged his forelock in deference.
"Aye, 'tis the truth. Two moons ago, the wasting disease began to take
me. I have five children and a wife to feed. They'll have nothing with me
dead, no way to earn their keep. A man came to my house one night. Well
dressed, with a nice horse. He spoke like one of the betters, although given
his business, he didn't say his name. He offered to see to it that my wife had
all the money she needed and that my little ones wouldn't go hungry if I would
do a job for him. What's a man to do? Didn't matter to me who sits on the
throne, so long as the taxes don't rise. I was going to die anyhow, and leave
them with nothing. I took his offer, and he laid down gold on the table, right
then."
"Whose gold?" Tris asked, teeth
clenched against the pain.
"It was Trevath gold, but it spends
the same," the ghost said with sly smile.
Tris and Soterius exchanged glances.
"Can you tell us anything else?" Soterius asked.
The ghost shook his head. "Wore his
cloak and kept his hood up the whole time. Wasn't
surprised, given what he asked." The
ghost fell to his knees. "Please don't hurt my family. They knew nothing.
Please, they had no part in this."
"We won't harm your family."
Tris was sure that once the guard left the visitor had returned, reclaiming his
gold and silencing any who might have identified him.
Tris felt the threshold open, although he
did not open it himself. The guard turned toward the power with wide, staring
eyes. Shadows enveloped the assassin. In the midst of the shadows was the
Crone.
The ghost gave one piercing shriek and the
soldiers scrambled to get as far away as possible. Only Esme and Soterius held
their ground. The Crone paid them no attention, claiming Her quarry. With the
rustle of dry leaves, She disappeared as quickly as She came.
Esme was the first to collect herself in
the hush that followed. "Now can we please get down to business healing
that shoulder?"
Tris nodded. Carefully, Esme removed the
pillows from behind him, laying him gently on the floor. She motioned for the
soldiers to give her space to work. Then, closing her eyes, she laid her right
hand over the wound.
Healing energy flowed to the gash. Esme's
lips moved, but she made no sound. Her body swayed with the concentration.
Finally, her eyes opened, and she removed her hands from his shoulder. When she
took away the compress, only a thin pink scar remained.
"It's going to be very sore for a
while."
Tris could see the effort the healing had
cost Esme. He'd spent enough time with Carina— both as her helper and as her
patient—to understand the toll a major healing took on a healer. He had no
doubt that Esme felt nearly as spent as he did, perhaps more.
"Thank you."
Esme smiled self-consciously. "I'm
happy to serve," she replied. "Don't be surprised if your shoulder
and arm feel like you've broken them. That arrow tore through a lot of muscle
and tendon. I'll give you something for the pain."
"Leave it for later," Tris said,
struggling to sit. Esme placed a hand on his shoulder, lightly cautioning him
that she did not thi'nk it was a good idea. With a weak smile, he lay back down.
"I've got a meeting with the
generals."
"It can wait until later,"
Soterius countered. "No one will question that you need time to rest. I'll
see to that. Let's get you to your room. I'll have the kitchen send up your
supper. Listen to Esme and let her dull the pain."
"You may have a point there,"
Tris admitted. The shoulder was beginning to throb with an ache that shot down
his arm into his fingers.
Esme dissolved some herbs in a cup of hot
water. "Here." She held the cup for him to drink. "This will take
the pain away."
"I'd like to rest. But I'd prefer to
do it in my own bed, not here on the floor."
Esme fashioned a sling to take the weight
off of his shoulder, and they made their way through the palace corridors to
the king's chambers. Soterius motioned for the guards to move aside at the
doors to Tris's chambers. "Leave the other generals to me."
"I have no doubt you'll keep them at
bay."
"You know me."
Soterius posted two additional guards at
the door. Then he and Esme helped Tris inside. The wolfhounds' greeting was
subdued as the dogs flanked Tris, watching his every move, and the mastiff
padded closer protectively. Esme and Soterius helped Tris lie comfortably in
his bed. The pain potion was beginning to do its work, dulling the throbbing in
his arm. It was all Tris could do to keep his eyes open.
"Sleep will help," Esme
instructed. "Eat when you feel like it. And if you're worried about the
medicine, it will wear off after sup-pertime. You can wait to take more after
your meeting, if you like."
After this, the generals will be more set
on war than ever, Tris thought as the medicine took effect.
He drifted off, barely hearing the click of the door as Soterius and Esme let
themselves out.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Tris awoke, a clay pot with his dinner in it warmed on the hearth. On a small table
next to his bed lay a trencher with cheese and a pitcher of watered wine. A
fresh tunic, belted with a sash so that Tris did not need to pull it over his
head, was at the foot of his bed. Just as he was about to remove the ruined
remnant of his shirt, a young, dark-haired boy stuck his head into the room.
"May I help you get dressed, Your Majesty?" Tris tried to move his
injured arm, winced, and nodded. Coalan rushed to help, gently removing the
tatters of Tris's shirt and fetching a rag and a bowl of water to wash away the
blood.
Coalan's dark hair bounced in a mop of
ringlets as he moved. Jared had driven off or killed most of the palace's
servants. A luxury like a valet came second in Tris's mind to the necessity of
restaffing the kitchen and the stables, and he was loathe to allow someone so
close to him unless he was completely sure of their loyalty. He would have done
without, but Soterius saw the opportunity to help both Tris and his own nephew,
and proposed a plan.
When Jared's troops had destroyed the
Soterius family manor, only Soterius's brother-in-law, his nephew, and a loyal
servant had survived. Coalan, barely in his fifteenth year, had volunteered to
fight beside his uncle in the resistance, and fought with valor. But Soterius
was desperate to get his nephew out of danger. And so, seeing Tris's need for a
valet of unquestioned loyalty, Soterius had proposed that Coalan serve the
king, getting him out of the line of fire. Tris had not expected his service to
become invaluable quite so soon.
"I picked a shirt that you don't have
to pull over your head," Coalan said with a grin. Tris had known Coalan
all his life. Bricen and the late Lord Soterius had been fast friends, and Tris
had spent many weeks at Huntwood with the whole Soterius family when it was the
season for hunting stag. Losing Soterius's family hurt nearly as much as
losing 'his own, Tris thought, and he was happy to give Coalan a role where he
could remain safe. Lady knows, we've all lost too many to fate as it is. And
while at fifteen, Coalan was almost grown,
Tris found it hard to think of Ban's
nephew as old enough to bear a sword.
"Thank you," Tris said, gritting
his teeth against the pain. Just jostling the shoulder made his vision swim. Coalan
hurried to fetch Tris's dinner from the hearth, but Tris waved him away with
his good hand and insisted on sitting at the table.
"I'm glad you're all right."
"The bad part is, I'm starting to
think feeling like this is actually 'all right,'" Tris replied with a
sigh. Even moving his good arm brought a fresh wave of pain. How can I bring
Kiara here, when I can't guarantee my own safety? Even worse, how I can leave
her alone here so soon after the wedding and go to war? We obviously haven't
found all of jared's loyalists yet.
"Uncle Ban said to tell you that he's
put the generals off until eighth bells. He said some other things, too, but I
probably shouldn't repeat them."
Tris was in no hurry to see the generals,
although he knew they could not be pushed off for long. The thought set his
teeth on edge.
"It's a lot better, now that Ban's a
general himself."
Coalan laughed. "Knowing Uncle Ban,
he shook them up a little!"
Having Soterius among the generals was a
decided advantage, although Tris knew that not all of the seasoned military men
saw it that way. While they might accept the youthfulness of their new king,
some of the older men chafed at Soterius's age and rapid rise in rank. But
after Soterius's success in rallying deserters and refugees and creating an
effective fighting force that helped Tris win the throne, the generals could
say nothing openly against Soterius's new commission. More to the point, the
newly rebuilt Margolan army owed its existence in large part to the personal
allegiance many of the recruits felt toward Soterius, and Tris knew that the
soldiers, embittered by Jared's misuse of the army, would likely desert if
Soterius. stepped down.
Sweet Chenne, I don't think Margolan can
survive an outright war just now, Tris thought darkly as
he picked at his stew and sipped the weak wine. We don't have the extra men
to fight. We don't dare go after Trevath right now, even if they did send the
assassin.
"So it's true—Trevath sent the
bowman?" Coalan ventured. Tris wondered if he was trying to distract him
from the pain.
Tris grimaced. "Trevath gold doesn't
mean the Trevath king had anything to do with it. Down near the border, both
Margolan and Trevath coin spends equally well."
"Could throw off the scent, using
Trevath gold. Get people looking in the wrong direction."
Coalan may not know politics, but he understands
a hunt. He's got as good a head on his
shoulders as Ban does. Maybe with luck, we
can keep him in one piece.
"I wish everyone used as much common
sense as you do," Tris replied. Curane might like the idea of a war. If
Margolan could not sustain a fight, or if Tris were to be killed in battle, the
instability could create an opportunity for Jared's loyalists to declare a
regency and put Jared's bastard on the throne.
"I'll let Uncle Ban know you're
up." Coalan said.
"Tell him I'm in no hurry."
He opened the door that connected to what
would soon be Kiara's chambers. They, like his own rooms, had been newly
refinished. Tris refused to stay in Jared's chambers, even after he'd had all
his half-brother's personal possessions destroyed. Serae's chambers and the
old family suite next to them had been the site of the murders, and the
memories were too strong for Tris to even think of bringing Kiara to those
rooms.
The dogs stirred at a knock at the door,
then whimpered and retreated, heads down and hackles up. It was enough to tell
Tris that his visitor was vayash moru, and to guess the identity before
he opened the door. Mikhail stood in the doorway, and smiled as Tris waved him
in. He was, in face and form, just in his early twenties, although a glance at
his eyes gave a clue to his real age, of lifetimes, not decades, one of Those
Who Walk the Night. In the firelight, his pallor was not notable, and the smile
that touched his lips did not reveal the over-long eye teeth.
"I was on my way up," he said.
He peered over Tris's shoulder. "So those rooms are for Kiara?"
Tris nodded. "After what happened, I
couldn't bring her to the old quarters."
"I can understand that."
"While you and Ban were out rounding
up Jared's men, we moved everything over to the old guest suite," Tris
said. "I'd rather have a smaller space than be in either the old quarters
or Jared's rooms." He shook his head. "It's hard to explain... but
things like what happened here leave an impression in the energy long after
they're gone. Almost like the walls remember." He repressed a shiver.
"Most people just say they get a 'bad feeling' in a place like that. But
for me, even when the ghosts are set to rest, I can still sense the energy—at
the worst, I can get images in my mind, even from long ago."
Mikhail raised an eyebrow. "Have I
ever told you how glad I am not to have your power?"
"I can't imagine why anyone would
covet it." Tris called a bright ball of mage fire to his hand to
illuminate the room, which blended some of Isencroft's traditional furnishings
with artwork and fabrics from Margolan. Rich Noorish carpets covered the
floors, and heavy tapestries covered the walls, scenes of love stories from the
old ballads.
"Considering what Carroway says you
let him spend, he did a nice job. Just don't let the Oracle at the Mother's
temple know about those shrines!" Mikhail teased. In a corner, a small
shrine to Chenne, the warrior aspect of the Goddess, shared space with a shrine
to Athira, the Lover/Whore, with a row of candles and statues to each aspect
of the Lady.
Tris shrugged. "It's all one Goddess.
I've never quite figured out what the fuss was about. Father wasn't exactly
observant, if you recall."
"Ah, but the 'faithful' don't see it
that way," Mikhail said. He grew serious. "Out in the countryside,
all people care about is getting enough rain for the crops and keeping the
plague away. They'll pray to whichever Aspect seems most likely to make that
happen. But here in the city—well, you know how some of the folks can be. They
don't care what you actually do as long as you put on the right show when
people are looking. And they don't like 'foreign' Aspects."
"Kiara knows all about being
careful," Tris replied, extinguishing the handfire and closing the door to
the queen's suite. "She's already juggled public profession to Chenne and
private devotion to Athira with her mother. And she was raised from birth to
be the bride of the Margolan heir," he said with a hint of irony, "so
she was well-schooled in observance to the Mother and Childe." That
long-ago betrothal
contract originally paired Kiara with
Jared, the eldest and the heir to the throne. Kiara loathed Jared as much as
Tris did, and her attempt to escape that betrothal contract had put her on the
road to the Library at Westmarch, where she and Tris had met and their fates
had intertwined.
Mikhail cleared his throat. "I
wouldn't bring that up in public if I were you. From what Carroway says, the
court wags are already having a field day with you stealing Jared's bride-to-be."
Tris shrugged. "Father married the
daughter of a sorceress. Eventually, mother won over the nobles who counted.
Some of the court would gossip even if I married the Goddess Herself!"
Tris fingered the silver amulet at his
throat, a birthday gift from Kiara. He longed for her company more than ever.
Mikhail sensed the shift in his mood.
"You're worried about bringing her here, aren't you?"
Tris sighed. "Back when we first met
him, Jonmarc made the comment that 'friends and lovers are just hostages to
fate, waiting to be
taken.'"
Mikhail laughed. "And you can see how
well he followed his own advice, falling head over heels for Carina!"
"He's still right. People who want to
get to me will try to hurt her—or our children—to do it. And right now, there
seem to be an awful lot of people who have it in for me. Jared didn't give
a damn about anyone. He wasn't vulnerable. "
"Don't underestimate Kiara. I've seen
her fight—she's almost as good as Jonmarc. She's not one of those helpless
noble maidens. You said yourself that she ran Isencroft from behind the throne
when her father was ill. She couldn't be better prepared."
"You know the pressure to produce an
heir. She's hardly going to be swinging into an East-mark kick when she's big
with a baby. The politics at court can be as vicious as a battlefield. We
haven't sniffed out all of the nobles loyal to Jared. She's going to be
vulnerable and I'll be down on the southern plains tied up in a siege."
Mikhail laid a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm staying behind to help out with that, remember? Kiara won't be
alone. She'll have Harrtuck and Zachar. Carroway and his bards know all the
gossip. They'll help where they can. And you know the castle ghosts and your
dogs will keep an eye on her."
"It will be good for Shekerishet to
have a queen once more." The voice came from behind him. He turned. The
ghost of Comar Hassad, one of his father's men-at-arms slain in the coup, was
just visible at the shadow's edge. "We're sworn to her protection, as we
are to yours. Although," the spirit said with chagrin, "our ability
to intervene is limited. I am sorry about your injury, my Lord."
"If it hadn't been for a ghost's
warning, I might be one of you now. It was enough."
Hassad's ghost nodded. "Perhaps we
serve best by being the eyes and ears of the palace. Not all those within
Shekerishet are loyal. They serve only themselves."
"You'll look after Kiara, when I go
to war?" Tris asked.
"She'll bear the heir to the throne.
We're oath-bound to protect both of them." Hassad paused. "Some of us
can make ourselves seen to her. Seanna has been a handmaid to Mar-golan's
queens for two hundred years. She can't wait to meet your bride. And Ula has
watched over the babes in the royal nursery for just as long, so she's quite
excited—it's been a long time since there's been a little one for her to fuss
over."
Tris chuckled. "I remember Ula-.
Father didn't believe I could see her, but I think Mother understood. Ula
would stand at the foot of my bed, and sometimes, if I listened very hard, I
could hear her humming. When I was very little, I wasn't afraid when Ula was
there. And when I was older, Ula would wake me by jerking back the covers if
Jared was coming so Kait and I could hide."
Hassad smiled. "Ula died in the Great
Plague. She was a nursemaid to King Hotten's children. When his youngest took
sick, Ula wouldn't leave him. She caught the plague from him. They died
together, and the king
buried Ula next to his son so they would always be
together. Ever since then, she has watched over the heirs."
Coalan stuck his head into the room.
"The generals are ready."
"Ban asked me to.. .accompany.. .you
to your meeting," Mikhail said.
"Not taking any chances, are
you?"
"None of us are," Mikhail
replied.
De spite Mikhail's company, two human
guards joined them as they made their way down to the chamber where the
generals waited. As they walked, Tris readied himself for the encounter. The
pain medicine had begun to wear off, and his shoulder throbbed.
Meeting with the council of generals was
one of the duties of kingship Tris liked least. Of all his counselors, the
generals were consistently the most negative and the least cooperative. As Tris
and his escort reached the war room, Mikhail stepped forward and opened the
door. The vayasb moru bowed as Tris passed by.
"I'll wait for you," Mikhail
said, closing the door behind Tris.
"Your Majesty!" General Senne
greeted him, and the others rose and bowed. Tris had the strong feeling his
arrival had interrupted an argument, and the set to Soterius's jaw supported
his intuition. Senne pulled back the chair at the head of the table for Tris,
who hoped he didn't look as much in need of a seat as he felt. The six men were
solicitous with expressions of concern. Tris noted that only one man remained
on the fringe, less talkative than usual. Tov Harrtuck, Captain of the Guard,
looked both conflicted and crestfallen.
"By your leave, Sire." Harrtuck
moved around the table toward Tris. The stocky man always looked like he had just
come from a hard workout in the salle. Today, his dark hair was askew and even
his usually well-trimmed beard seemed disheveled-. Harrtuck sank to one knee
and offered his sheathed sword on his outstretched hands. "I failed to
protect you," Harrtuck said in a gravelly voice. "I offer you my
sword and my commission."
Ban Soterius looked ready to burst with
anger. General Senne and General Palinn appeared uncomfortable. Tris glanced
toward Tarq and Rallan. Both sat comfortably, and while their faces were impassive,
the confidence of their posture told Tris all he needed to know.
Tris turned his attention to Harrtuck, who
knelt before him, his head down, eyes averted. "On the night my father was
murdered, you ran for the castle, hoping to save the rest of my family. Without
your service, I wouldn't have escaped, or survived to take back the
throne." Tris reached down and folded his hands over Harrtuck's hands
around his proffered sword. "Your men acted quickly and bravely. They
stopped the assassin."
"It would have been nice to find out
who sent him," Tarq muttered.
Tris looked at the general with narrowed
eyes. "I summoned the assassin's spirit. Surely Soterius told you."
"My mistake."
Tris returned his attention to Harrtuck.
"I won't accept your offer. There's no one I trust more or who's better
suited to the task." He managed a thin smile. "Now please, take back
your sword and let's get down to business."
Harrtuck met his eyes. "Thank
you," he murmured as he belted on his sword and returned to his seat. Soterius
had calmed, although his eyes flashed. Tris imagined they would discuss the
issue at length in private. Senne and Palinn looked relieved. Tarq and Rallan
revealed nothing. Tris guessed that the conversation immediately prior to his
entry had involved finger-pointing and blame around the assassination attempt.
Tris made little attempt to hide his annoyance.
"It's impossible to keep a king completely safe without locking him up in
his own tower," he said. "If there's anyone at this table who's
better acquainted with every weak point of this castle than Ban, Tov, and
myself, I'd like to know it. To my knowledge, we're the only ones here who have
ever tried to infiltrate Shekerishet and kill the king." Putting their
efforts to overthrow Jared and reclaim the throne in those terms brought a
glimmer of amusement to Soterius's eyes, and even lightened Harrtuck's mood.
"Point taken, Sire," said
Rallan. "But the fact remains that this assassin was hired by someone with
Trevath gold."
"Curane is less than a day's ride to
the Trevath border," added Tarq.
"If you were going to hire an
assassin, wouldn't it be nice to throw off the scent by casting blame on the
player everyone wants to suspect?" Senne countered. Senne was the age of
Tris's father, and had been a close friend of the late king. Bricen had spoken
well of Senne. He had deserted with his troops when Jared seized the throne,
eluding the manhunts and using a small band of deserters to harry Jared's
troops throughout the mountain passes of central Margolan, eventually joining'
his efforts with the insurrection Soterius and Mikhail had raised.
Palinn, too, had paid a price for
his-loyalty to King Bricen. He and his troops had also deserted. But their
hiding place had been betrayed, and Palinn lived to see his troops, his lands,
and his family destroyed by Jared's decree. He survived six months in Jared's
dungeons. A thin red scar around his throat and a gravelly voice were reminders
of a garroting and hinted at what he had endured. His hair, previously a sable
black, had turned white as snow. His eyes, in unguarded moments, revealed
glimpses of what he would not discuss.
"Trevath has meddled in Margolan's
affairs before," responded Tarq.
Tarq, Tris thought with distaste, had fled
into south Isencroft, where he had waited out the remainder of the war. Rallan
had sought refuge with a noble family in northern Margolan. Neither had played
any role in overthrowing Jared. Only a lack of other qualified candidates for
the roles had convinced Tris to keep the two men in their positions.
"We can't win a war against Trevath
right now, not with the army in its present condition," replied Palinn.
"We can't fight both Trevath and Curane's men. Maybe Curane did receive
assistance from Trevath. And maybe Curane wants to lead us into a war he knows
we can't win, so he can sit back and claim the spoils."
"The fact remains—" Rallan
began.
"We have no facts, except one.
Someone tried to kill Tris," snapped Soterius. "And in a fortnight,
we're going to have a palace full of visiting royalty. We'd damn well better
figure how to assure their safety. An incident like this at the wedding, and we
could find ourselves at war with one of our allies."
"Ban's right," Harrtuck said.
"We need to make sure that the wedding goes smoothly. In my opinion,"
he said with a flinty look at both Tarq and Rallan, "that means soldiers
as well as guardsman on patrol throughout the castle grounds, the villages
below, and the main routes into the city."
"I agree," said Soterius.
"If we fail to secure the wedding, we'll be so busy cleaning up the
mess that we
won't get free
to march on Curane before the snows."
"Agreed," replied Senne,
although it was clear from the expressions on Tarq and Italian's faces that
they did not share the opinion. "When's the first possibility for marching
on Curane?"
"Once the feast is done, we should
move quickly," grumbled Rallan. "We'll be late into the fall. The
north will already have snow by then."
"We're headed south. Snow doesn't
worry me," replied Palinn. "Best time of year for a siege." His
voice, a painful rasp, immediately commanded attention. Tris listened in
silence as the generals debated the possible routes and options for attack for
nearly a candle-mark.
Palinn turned to face Tris. "It would
be advisable to secure the secession before we leave for Curane's lands."
"Preferable, but we have no way to
know whether the... timing... will be fortuitous," replied Tarq,
attempting to be delicate.
"I understand that handling such
things is part of the responsibility of those who arrange the dates,"
responded Rallan.
The comments hit Tris like- a dousing of
cold water. A first flush of embarrassment gave way to anger. Secure the
secession! They're discussing Kiara and me as if we were a pair of horses to be
put out for stud, he thought
indignantly. And in a way we are. Isn't
that part of it? Noble bloodlines, champion heritage—
"That's enough," Tris broke in.
"I realize this is a sensitive topic,
Sire," Senne said smoothly, with a glare to silence Tarq and Rallan. "We
mean no disrespect, to you or the princess. But the safety of Margolan is our
concern, and a smooth succession bodes well for the kingdom. As matters stand,
if you were to fall in battle—may the Lady protect you always—Jared's bastard
would be the legitimate heir. Until you produce an heir of your own, we live
with that peril. Capable as she may be, the future Queen cannot rule Margolan
save as regent for a child."
Tris forced back his anger. Senne was
right. The coming of winter provided for a short honeymoon—perhaps at most a
month— before the army would have to march south or wait until spring. He had
heard that healers could tamper with nature's cycles to improve the odds of
conception, just as a skilled healer or hedge witch could prevent pregnancy.
Such things were the most common matters for which both healers and hedge
witches were consulted.
Damn! Tris
thought. If there was one thing I wanted to be free of Margolan intrigue, it
was a private space for Kiara and me. He knew better. A
royal wedding was
by definition betrothed by
arrangement to Jared made the buzz of court gossip that much higher. Spending
a year on the road with her beforehand and proposing without even a 'by your
leave' to the Council raised even more eyebrows. Add to that talk that it was a
marriage of necessity given Isencroft's poor fortunes of late and a hint of
scandal about a bride-to-be who was an apt swordswoman; Tris knew he had
already given the Margolan court more to talk about than in many a year. "My
Liege, you're pale," Soterius said. I'm not quite ready to swoon, but
it would be a good excuse to.get out of this damnable conversation, Tris
thought ill-temperedly. "I would
prefer to leave the details for another time," he replied.
"We've taxed your strength
today," Senne responded. "I'll work with the others to secure the
wedding, and set a timetable to march on Curane. We can meet again to discuss
the details."
Soterius opened the door to the corridor,
and motioned for Mikhail and the guards. Amid profuse expressions of concern
for his health, Tris took his leave, grateful to escape. There were no more
interruptions until they reached his chamber. Zachar the seneschal was waiting
for them. Coalan hurried to turn down the bedclothes and fetch Tris a cup of
tea. With Zachar was Sister Taru.
"Esme was by earlier," Zachar
said. "She wasn't pleased that you were out of bed," he
added dryly. "And she left some more
pain medicine. She said if you were going to push yourself, you would probably
need a stronger dose. I've taken the liberty of canceling your commitments
tomorrow before noon."
Tris could feel Taru's magic as the
healer- mage
checked the spot where the arrow struck.
Her familiar mental presence slipped
warmly against his mind, easing the pain and draining off tension. When she
finished, Coalan stood ready with a cup of tea. Taru mixed a powder into the
tea that smelled of berries and anise and handed the cup to Tris.
Tris breathed in the steam. The warmth
felt good on his face, and the herbs' scent began to relax him before he even
had a chance to sip the liquid. "Don't tell me you're just hanging around
for the wedding," he said with a glance at Taru. "What's keeping you
this far from your citadel?"
Taru smiled and adjusted the sash on the
brown robe that marked her as one of the Sisterhood, the elite and secretive
group of mages once led by Tris's famed sorceress grandmother, Bava K'aa.
"You catch on quickly." She
gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Mikhail and moved to warm herself by the
fire. "I am the Sisterhood's delegate for the royal wedding,"
she said with a mischievous grin. "But I'm also here to confer with some
of the mages from citadels in the south. All along the Flow, magic is becoming
unstable."
"And it's getting worse," Tris
agreed. "I can sense it, when I hold the Court of Spirits or dispel the
ghosts of Jared's victims. It's like a dark shadow around the edges of power.
It's a drain—it makes it harder to control the power."
"It will also affect your battle
magic," Taru warned. "The Flow runs from above the Northern Sea down
through Dark Haven; it cuts across Margolan, down through Trevath, and into the
Southern Kingdoms. Curane's keep is almost directly on top of the course of the
Flow. That means the problems will get worse the closer you are to the source
of power." She grimaced. "And the same splintering that makes it
harder for you aids Curane's blood mages."
"Damn."
"Sister Landis is pressuring all of
the Sisters to rise above mortal politics and tend to arcane matters. She wasn't
happy that we trained you. She wants to keep the Sisterhood neutral." Taru
gave a harsh chuckle. "That's not happening."
"Do tell," Mikhail leaned
against the hearth.
"Arontala's blood magic not only
tainted the Flow, it scarred the land. It's especially bad near the Dhasson
border, where he called down the magick beasts. Our Sisters could easily stay
busy just cleansing the land and blessing the ground where the ashtenerath were
buried.
"This is personal," Taru went
on. "We're Margolan born. Before it's over, you'll need battle mages in
the Southern plains. Landis is likely to have a revolt. There are many of us
who would go rogue before we'd turn our back on you or our kinsmen."
"Interesting," Mikhail observed.
"The Blood Council faces much the same challenge. Lord Gabriel won a
concession in letting vayasb moru fight against Arontala. But most of
the vayash mora who helped us win back the throne have already said
they'll fight to keep Tris there. Some have even joined the army."
"It's a damn good thing, too."
Tris yawned. The medicine was doing its work. "We're short on
soldiers."
Mikhail nodded. "You'll need us to go
up against Curane."
"What will the Blood Council
do?" Tris asked.
"Like the Sisterhood, they face a
revolt. Enough of the older vayasb moru wish to support you and they
won't influence their fledglings to withdraw. Even the Blood Council can't put
down a full rebellion."
Tris passed a hand over his eyes. Crucial
as the information was, he was fading rapidly.
"This can wait for another day,"
Taru said with a glance at Mikhail. "We'll let you rest." Coalan saw
them to the door.
Zachar shook his head. "You really
haven't changed at all. Always demanding too much =
from yourself. You were the most
stubbornly persistent child I ever saw," the white-haired seneschal said,
chuckling. "I remember watching you learn to ride. It didn't matter how
many times you fell off or how badly you were bruised. Even when you broke your
arm, nothing mattered until you could stay in the saddle."
Zachar had been around for as long as Tris
could remember. Carroway's music might be the heart of Shekerishet, but Zachar
was the brain—an able administrator who oversaw the complexities and finances with honesty and rigor. It was
Zachar who had presided over the workings of the castle and its lands when the
king went to war. Zachar knew every servant's name, and could locate any piece
of silver for the table or sacred item for ritual. The wiry man had looked old
to Tris since Tris had been a child. In other ways, he never seemed to age.
Zachar was as constant as the rising of the sun. During his exile, Tris had
often wondered about the seneschal's fate. He'd assumed the worst. Within a
month of Tris regaining the throne, a robed man had arrived on foot— dirty,
unshaven, dressed as a tradesman too poor to even own a donkey. The man had
been rebuffed twice by
the watchmen when
he requested to see the king, until he refused to leave without an
audience with the captain of the guard. Harrtuck recognized Zachar immediately,
and had personally escorted him to Tris. There, amid tears and embraces,
Zachar recounted how he had escaped Jared by slithering down a garderobe the
night of the coup, pushing a cart of offal out of the city gates, and taking
refuge with a rug merchant in a distant town. For Tris, the sight of the
familiar retainer was almost as comforting as seeing Bricen himself. Having
Zachar back at his post made their chance of succeeding all the better.
"How are the preparations for the
feast day coming?" Tris's pain dulled, but so did awareness of his feet
and legs, making him think it might be safer to just spend the night in the
chair.
"The kitchen is laying in supplies,
sire," Zachar reported. If pressed, Zachar could recount precisely which
supplies and in what amounts. "Carroway has the entertainment planned. The
minstrels are already rehearsing. He has a new ballad about your father that is
quite moving."
"Haunts is going to be hard this
year." Tris's voice was just above a whisper. He knew he wouldn't be the
only one for whom the memory of Bricen and Serae—and of his sister Kait—would
be as real as if their spirits were present.
"The kingdom mourns with you, my
liege," Zachar said. "We all loved them."
"I miss them, Zachar," Tris said
quietly. "I miss them all so much. Especially Kait."
"Shekerishet has indeed been a
shadowed place since Kait left it."
"She would've loved Kiara," Tris
said with a sigh. "The wedding is the only thing that keeps me going right
now. Knowing that Kiara will be here with me, soon."
Tris tried to stand, realized that the
medicine had taken full effect, and gratefully accepted assistance from Zachar
and Coalan to cross the room. Coalan hurried to help Tris remove his boots.
Tris stretched out, pulling the blankets over him.
"Sleep well, my king," Zachar
said softly, leaving a lantern burning by the bedside. Tris heard the door
latch behind him, and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
Two days
later, Tris gathered his heavy cloak against the bitter late autumn
chill. Assembled in the courtyard was a delegation of the Scirranish, the
families of those who had vanished under Jared's reign. More than two dozen
family members gathered, on horseback, in wagons, and on foot, waiting silently
for the march to begin.
"The guards are ready," Soterius
said, riding close to where Tris waited while his horse was saddled. Tris was
just as glad that protocol meant someone else saddled and readied his horse for
him. With healing from Esme and Taru, his arm was mending quickly, but he had
no desire to test it with a heavy saddle.
Tris glanced at the guardsmen outside the
stable. "You can vouch for them?"
Soterius nodded. "I only took guards
who lost family to Jared. Believe me, there was no shortage of
possibilities."
Tris swung up into his saddle. He
fidgeted, knowing that the ring mail he wore beneath his cloak was going' to
make his shoulder sore by the end of the day.
"Lovely weather," Soterius said,
riding beside him. After the assassination attempt, the generals insisted that
Tris take a troop of twenty armed men with him whenever he left Shekerishet.
"What do you expect? It's only a week before
Haunts."
The Scirranish waited respectfully,
bowing as Tris's entourage passed. Tris promised the group of survivors that he
would go out to yet another of the killing fields, to a clearing a day's ride
from the palace in the farmland around Huntwood. There, half-buried bones and
quickly-dug mass graves were grisly evidence of a massacre.
Soterius gave the signal to move out, and
the soldiers fell into place. Tris and Soterius rode in the middle, with Coalan
behind them. They rode in silence until they were outside the palace
gates and on
the road headed north.
"Do I need to mention that Zachar
didn't think this was a good idea?"
"Should I be surprised?"
"Twenty guards isn't a lot."
"It seems ridiculous to march a
regiment out here just to turn around and go back home again."
Soterius shrugged. "Army training is
full of pointless maneuvers. Dig a hole and fill it in. Build a wall and knock
it down. Marching out and back is one of the saner things we do."
Tris watched his friend. "Are you
sure you're ready for this?"
Soterius did not answer immediately.
"I don't think I'll ever be ready," he said finally. "But I have
to give them their rest." His voice caught. "Danne said that father
died thinking me a traitor. I would give anything to set that straight."
Coalan's expression was stony, but his eyes were painfully unguarded.
"Danne and Anyon will meet us there. They've been trying to get some crops
in. I sent them all of my share in the reward money from King Staden to
rebuild, but it's been hard. Barely any men left around there to help with the
farming, let alone to rebuild the house. Some of Mikhail's brood have been
doing what they can—Jared slaughtered their kin as well."
With an early start, they would reach the
killing fields by twilight, when the line between the realms of living and dead
stretched thin. The soldiers carried provisions for a night in the field, and
the Scirranish had brought their own supplies.
"I actually feel safer now than in
Shekerishet."
"Oh?"
Tris inclined his head toward the rag-tag
band that followed the soldiers. "The Scirran-ish are as close as
kin. They found each other while they searched through fields looking for bodies.
They support each other—food, clothing, looking after orphans. By losing a
family member to Jared they gained a new family— the family of the disappeared
ones. A stranger among them would be noticed as quickly as an outsider in a
hill country village."
"Which would be when they were a
day's ride away."
"Exactly. No one in the kingdom has
more reason to keep me alive and keep Jared's supporters off the throne."
"I've heard rumors that some of the
kitchen staff actually tried to poison Jared, he took so many of their
daughters."
Tris nodded. "Carroway told me that,
too. You know he always has the below-stairs news, and the kitchen staff love
him like a son."
"So do the dowagers. Now that you're
almost married, I think more than a few of the court matrons have an eye on
Carroway as a prize for their daughters."
Tris grinned. "And what about you?
I'd think being a general would make you all the more marriageable."
Soterius rolled his eyes. "I'll pick
for myself, thank you. You know," he said, "I did finally
find a girl who caught my eye, while
Mikhail and I were out rounding up rebels. She was a bar maid up in the high
country, but she could throw a knife as well as Carroway. She and the bar owner
were helping bards get out of Mar-golan before Jared could arrest them."
"And?"
"I sent someone to find her, but she
disappeared. Maybe it's for the best," he sighed. "I don't imagine
the court would be kind to her."
The roads were nearly deserted, and the
weather turned cold as they made their way north. Their horses picked their way
through the wagon ruts and mud, while bare trees on either side of the roadway
shivered in the wind. Tris saw the soldiers flinch with every click of
branches, scanning for danger.
We can't stay on knife-edge forever.
They rode without incident, reaching the
killing fields as the sun was low in the sky. Although the soldiers rode much
better mounts than the Scirranish who followed them, the Scirranish managed
to keep up. The delegation had grown as they traveled, and now numbered well
over one hundred people. Tris admired their determination. On the outskirts of
the fields, Soterius gave the signal and the procession stopped. Tris and
Soterius dismounted. Sahila, the Scirranisb leader, slipped down from
his plough horse and ambled toward them.
Sahila bowed awkwardly. "Your
Majesty," he said. "When you're ready, we'll show you where the
graves are."
"Let me prepare."
Looking out over the land, Tris- could see
where the muddy ground had been trampled. Mounds and sunken places marred the
field. In the distance he could make out the ruined shadow of Huntwood. There
will be time to feel later, he told himself. But not now.
If the families of the dead seemed
unperturbed to have a Summoner as king, the men of Margolan's army were still
coming to terms with the idea. Tris had. no doubt that Soterius had chosen
soldiers as much for their openness toward magic as for their unquestioned
loyalty. It wasn't that military men doubted the existence of magic—any fool
who'd been to war and faced an enemy mage knew that magic was real. Healing
magic and charms for luck or love were common enough. But few had seen high
magic worked up close, and fewer still had been in the presence of a true
sorcerer-caliber mage.
Tris had done his best to prepare himself during
the long ride. Candles would be difficult with the autumn wind, so Tris decided
upon a token element instead to set the wardings, with handfire as a focus.
The soldiers drew back to permit Tris to
pass among them. He directed the guards to make a small pile of rocks. On this
rough altar, Tris set
out honey cakes and a flask of ale to honor the
Goddess. When Tris reached the edge of the field, he drew his sword as an
athame and made the sign of the Lady.
Tris felt power gathering around him as
the wardings rose. He set a warding over the soldiers and the audience, and
called a second warding around himself. When the wardings were in place, Tris
called hand fire and focused on the pure, cold, blue flame that rested in his
palm. He closed his eyes. As his concentration grew deeper, he extended his
mage sense, inviting the spirits of the dead to come from their exile and join
him. Tris could feel their energy all around him. As they began to manifest,
the intensity of their feelings grew.
Tris opened his eyes. At least two hundred
ghosts stood before him. He had expected a village, perhaps thirty or forty.
But this! The dead were of every age—elders, young children, men, and women.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching him, waiting. It was clear that while
some had been hanged, most had perished by the sword.
"I can't restore to you the life that
was taken," Tris said to the spirits. "The usurper is dead. On my
soul, no one will harm the villagers of Margolan while I live. You have the
word of the king."
"We would make our peace with those
who live," said the spirit of an old man.
"Have
I your word that you'll harm no one?" Tris asked. The spirits
nodded.
Tris expended more magic, enough to assure
that the families of the Scirranish who huddled together on the
outskirts of the field could see the revenants. A collective gasp told Tris he
had been successful. He watched as the spirits moved among the living. The
families cried out in recognition, sagging to the ground in grief or clinging
to each other sobbing. Some of the soldiers stepped forward to greet loved
ones, unashamed of the tears they shed. "Would you go to your rest
now?" Many of these spirits had. rallied to Tris's summons during the
rebellion. Drawing on Tris's magic, they made themselves visible to Jared's
soldiers, attacking the marauding troops. Now, their vengeance complete, the
ghosts' anger was spent.
When he had the spirits' agreement, Tris
stretched out his hands toward the ghosts and spoke the words of power. The
image of the Lover impressed itself in his mind, arms stretched forth in
welcome, offering healing and succor. As the spirits began to wane, Tris felt
them make the passage over. When the last had passed, he closed the energy
behind them. Soterius had a cup ready for him and pressed it into his hands.
Tris's hands shook as he accepted the brandy and downed it in one swallow. The Scirranish
gathered around them.
"Your Majesty," Sahila said,
bowing low. Behind him, the others did the same until Tris motioned for them to
rise. "We offer our thanks and our loyalty. Your gift is beyond
price."
"What was stolen from you can't be
replaced," Tris replied. "But your loved ones rest with the Lady.
They're at peace."
Sahila made a sign of blessing. "You
and your soldiers may sleep without fear tonight, my king."
Tris inclined his head. "Thank
you." When the families of the Scirranish withdrew to their
encampment, the soldiers returned to their evening chores, and Soterius
appeared at Tris's side.
"Are you sure you're up to going to
Hunt-wood?" Soterius asked, refilling Tris's cup and guiding him to a
seat. "You look like you're going to fall over."
"Really? Then I'm doing better than I
thought." The night was chill. He startled as a soft footfall came on the
other side, and looked up to see Mikhail.
The vayash moru bowed. "We've
secured the forest's edge. The wolves won't disturb you." He glanced over
at Soterius. "I promised Ban that I would come to Huntwood with him. A
dozen of my family' are already waiting there. They, too, lost loved ones.
You'll be safe there."
Tris looked into the dark amber liquid in
his the struggle to retake the throne, he had not acquired a taste for brandy.
Now, it was the surest way to a peaceful sleep. "I wonder how many more
there are."
"Of what?" Soterius replied.
Tris motioned toward the field.
"Places like this. Massacres."
"A lot, I'd bet."
Coalan and another young man came forward
with their horses. Tr-is exchanged glances with Soterius. "Are you
ready?"
"It's time. Let's go."
Half a dozen soldiers and as many vayash
moru fell in behind Tris and Soterius as they rode for the manor. Coalan
looked pale and nervous. Tris gasped as Huntwood Came into sight. The manor
house was a ruined shell. In the moonlight, Tris could see where fire had
burned the casements around the shattered windows. The sky was visible through
holes in the roof. A burly man stepped through the manor's doorway.
"Thank you for coming, your
majesty," he said with a bow. Tris swung down from his horse and greeted
Danne, Soterius's brother-in-law, with an embrace.
"I'm sorry that I couldn't come
sooner," Tris said. All around him, he could feel the press of familiar
spirits. Bricen had been fond of the hunt, as had Soterius's father. Bricen and
Tris had spent many weeks at Huntwood. The manor was as familiar to Tris as
Shekerishet.
"Where would you like to do the
working?" Tris asked.
"In the garden," Danne replied.
"We haven't made as much progress on the house as we'd like, but Anyon and
I got the worst of the mess in the garden cleaned up. It's quiet there."
Anyon, Lord Soterius's groundskeeper and the
only living witness to the massacre, waited for them in the garden. Tris looked
across the once-manicured garden and past it to fields that should have been
high with grain. Even with Danne's care, the garden showed where the soldiers
had trampled the plantings and uprooted the beds. Below on the hillside was the
stone fence, only partly rebuilt. The fields were empty. Beneath the trees were
the barrows where Danne, Anyon, and Coalan had buried their dead.
Tris moved down the steps toward the rear
lawn of the manor house, motioning the others to remain where they were. Coalan
moved closer to his father, and Danne laid a hand on his shoulder. Tris opened
himself to the magic. The spirits obeyed his summons. Lord Soterius, a round,
stout man, bore a deep wound where a sword had run him through. Lady Soterius
had a knife gash in her chest. Tae, Soterius's sister and Coalan's mother,
stood with her murdered children, all of whom looked to have been trampled.
Servants came, bearing the scars of fire. Soterius's three older brothers, Caedmon,
Innes, and Murin
appeared, each stabbed multiple times,
their necks still red with the mark of the noose.
Tris
felt the spirits'
anger and sorrow. Blinding flashes
of their memories
seared through him. Soldiers in the livery of the king, breaking down
the door, running Lord Soterius through.
Lady Soterius, fleeing
toward the gardens, only
to face more
soldiers coming from the back.
Terror, as Tae and the children fled toward
the woods with
the sound of pounding
hoof beats growing
ever closer behind them.
All-consuming fire as the manor burned, trapping servants between the flames
and the soldiers' swords. Tris sent his power to the revenants to appear
without their death wounds. Lord Soterius's ghost approached him. "I am so
sorry," Tris said. Lord Soterius's ghost took Tris's hand in his own and
knelt in fealty.
"I know you are, m'boy," Lord
Soterius said. "There was nothing you could have done."
"Father—" Ban Soterius's voice
was a strangled cry. Lord Soterius rose. "Welcome home," Lord
Soterius said. "I never meant
to bring this
on you," Soterius said.
"Anyon told me what the soldiers said—"
Lord Soterius shook his head. "I
never believed the soldiers. I want you to know that. I know my son. Reckless,
yes," he said with a sad smile. "A traitor? Never."
Lady Soterius joined them and placed a
spectral arm around Ban's shoulders.
"The night you came back to the
manor, we saw and heard everything," Lady Soterius said. "And
although our spirits can't move beyond our lands, we watched over you as best
we could." Lady Soterius brushed her hand across Ban's face. "We're
proud of what you did, helping Tris escape and take back the throne."
"But I cost.all of you your
lives!"
Lord Soterius shook his head. "Our
lot was cast as soon as Jared took the crown. He'd have come for us one way or
t'other. Bricen and I were too close for him to dare let me live."
Tae, Ban's sister, was as beautiful in
death as she had been in life, with long, chestnut hair and wide brown eyes.
Coalan had her curly hair and her smile. Danne's broad shoulders shook with
tears. Coalan looked too grief-stricken to cry as his sisters and brothers
crowded around him. To the side, Anyon spoke in low tones with the dozens of
servants whose ghosts rose from the fields and the wreckage of the manor house.
Tris glanced at Mikhail. The vayash moru stood apart, out of respect for
the family's grief. And while Mikhail shed no tears, Tris thought that the vayash
moru looked more troubled than Tris had ever seen him. He wondered about
Mikhail's own long-lost ghosts.
After a while, the voices grew silent.
Lord Soterius's ghost left the knot of family gathered around Ban and
approached Tris.
"Would you go to your rest now?"
Tris asked.
Lord Soterius looked back at his wife, who
nodded, and to Tae, who stood between Danne and Coalan with a ghostly arm
around each. "We've had some time to think about this. Anyon and Danne
told us about your being a Summoner and all. We talked it over and we're
agreed. We'd like to stay on, watch over the place. If that's all right with
the new lord of the manor," he said with a wink toward Ban.
Ban Soterius exchanged glances with Danne
and Coalan, and then took a step toward his father.
"This will always be your home,"
Ban promised. "I didn't dare ask, but yes, I want you to stay."
Tris fought a pang of remembered pain,
recalling his own sorrow as his mother and sister parted from him forever,
choosing their rest with the Lady. In Coalan's eyes, Tris could see a measure
of peace, and the boy managed a sad smile. "Please stay," Coalan said
quietly.
"Then be at peace here," Tris
said. "I can't give you back your lives, but I can grant you the ability
to be seen." He gestured, and fiery letters wrote themselves on the manor
house wall, glowing without smoke, and fading to become unmarked stone once
more. "I'll leave a sigil so that you can make yourselves seen when you wish."
Lord Soterius knelt, as did his sons and
the ghosts of his servants. "As I was to your father, so also to you, my
king," the spirit said, reaching out as if to take Tris's hand and kiss
his signet ring in fealty.
"Thank you," Tris said.
"And thank you for your loyalty to Bricen. He was never happier than here
at Huntwood, in pursuit of a great stag!"
Lord Soterius's ghost rose, and a twinkle
came into his eye. "Since we're both dead now, I guess that means my
record stands. I was one stag to the better at the end of last season, though
Bricen had a boar to his credit. Pity when I can't even enjoy the bottle of
port we wagered!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
A WEEK later,
Tris listened to the evening bells and tugged at the collar of his
tunic. A fine cape of gray velvet lined with midnight blue satin lay across a
chair where he had tossed it. A crown awaited him downstairs. He was dressed
for court in a velvet and brocade outfit in deepest gray, with his long,
white-blond hair pulled back in a queue. It was just after dusk on the evening
of Haunts.
The image of his father and mother leading
last year's procession burned bright in Tris's memory. It had been the last
time he had seen them alive. Taking his father's place in the rituals and
feast days made Tris feel their absence all the more sharply. Right on time,
Soterius, Carroway, and Harrtuck arrived at his door to accompany him to the
great room. From the looks on their faces, Tris knew their thoughts
were similar. One year ago this night,
they had fled for their lives together. Now, as they headed for the great room
and the ceremonies of the evening, Tris took comfort in having his friends
around him.
Zachar was waiting for them just around
the corner from the top of the main
stairs to the common room.
"My liege!" the white-haired
official called. "I was beginning to worry."
Tris laid a hand on Zachar's arm.
"These three didn't let anything happen to me a year ago. Surely we're
safer tonight."
"Let's hope so." Zachar opened a
wooden box that lay on a nearby table, and withdrew one of the formal crowns of
Margolan. It was not the crown Bricen had been wearing when he was murdered.
The more opulent crown Jared had fashioned, Tris had melted down for coinage.
This was a new crown, forged for Tris's coronation to his own specifications.
It was austere, relying on a finely worked design in silver and gold rather
than a heavy crust of jewels.
The real weight comes from the
responsibility, not the crown itself, Tris
thought as Zachar fussed to get the crown just right.
"You look every inch your father's
son," Zachar praised.
"Thank you. I keep thinking that I
catch glimpses of Mother and Father out of the corner of my eye," Tris
confessed. "And Kait.
She was so happy to dress as a falconer last
year."
"Your sister was happy to dress as a
falconer at any opportunity," Zachar said fondly. "And I don't think
your mother ever looked more beautiful. Perhaps tonight, a Summoner can lay his
own ghosts to rest?"
"That's one of the reasons I wanted
to wait for the wedding. I wanted to get through this anniversary. I thought it
would make a new beginning easier."
"My liege!" Tris and Zachar
looked up at Crevan, Zachar's assistant. The thin, balding man was as nervous
as a sparrow as he rushed toward them.
"I'm glad I'm not too late. I didn't
want to miss your entrance into the banquet hall." Crevan was one of the
few at court who was originally born in Isencroft, although as Tris understood
it, the man had lived most of his life in Margolan. Crevan had been extraordinarily
helpful to Carroway in researching Isencroft foods, fashions, and art. He
seemed more likely to burn the candles low in the exchequer's office examining
ledger books than indulge in theatre and music, and Tris had never seen Crevan
in the company of anyone outside his role.
"I can only imagine how important
this celebration is to you, your majesty. It's my honor to make sure every
detail is as it should be."
"It's time," Zachar said. He
went to the top of the stairs. "All hail, all hail. Your king, Mar-tris of
Margolan, is among you now. Let the feast begin!"
I still wish Jonmarc were here, Tris thought. He's usually well-armed enough to stop a coup
single-handedly.
The crowd murmured, parting as Tris and
his friends made their way toward the platform with the throne and head table.
Carroway veered off to take his place with the musicians and entertainers. As
Tris and the others sat down at the banquet table and the rest of the guests
took their seats, the serving staff brought out heaping platters of steaming food.
The aroma of roasted venison, meat pies, pheasants, and baked lamb filled the
common room. Freshly-baked bread, candied fruits, and heavy rum puddings waited
on sideboards as servants poured the wine and passed the pitchers of ale. The
castle ghosts, never more in evidence than on this night of Haunts, flitted
among the guests.
Tris sipped at his wine and looked out
over the crowd. How different from a year ago! The older, more established
lords who owed Bricen decades of fealty had once been notable by their absence,
replaced by younger, hot-headed new nobles who liked Jared's talk of a glorious
empire. Now, those newly minted nobles were gone—fled when Jared's reign
collapsed, in hiding or exile, captured and tried for their
support of the traitor, or dead in battle.
The older lords had returned.
But not all of them. Lord Alton had died
with his family for his loyalty to Bricen. Lord Mont-bane's ill-fated attempt
to rebel against Jared had earned him the gallows. Lord and Lady Theiroth had
been hanged for plotting to poison Jared.
"Hail, King Martris, son of
Bricen!" came a cry from among the tables. "Hail, to the King of
Margolan!"
The cry began to echo through the common
room until it became a chant that reverberated from the rafters. Tris raised a
hand to still the cheers, and stood.
"Thank you," he said.
"Tonight we celebrate the Feast of the Departed. I dedicate this evening
to the memory of King Bricen and Queen Serae, my sister, Kait, and to all the
loved ones we have lost." He raised his goblet; all around him, others did
the same. "To their memories, that their spirits may live on in
peace."
"Aye."
The first course was already on the
tables, and its aroma tempted Tris from his gloomy mood. Balladeers performed
their opening song, a haunting tale in memory of the late royal family. Its
effect was not lost on the audience, though Tris found himself dry-eyed. Perhaps,
he thought, I can't cry for them any more. Next
came one of
Serae's favourite ballads, then
a ribald tavern tune known to be one of Bricen's favorites, and finally the
"Falconer's Lament" in memory of Kait. It was this final song that
made Tris avert his face until he regained his composure. The skirling notes
told of a wandering falconer, forsaking home and comfort to search for a
wounded prize bird. The castle ghosts, known to be partial to good
entertainment, clustered silently to listen. When Carroway strummed the final
notes on his lyre and bowed his head, the room exploded into applause.
The next number also bore Carroway's mark,
though it was a different set of minstrels who performed it. A suite of songs
from Isen-croft, in honor of the king's betrothed, with dancers in the soft
silk tunic and pants common in southern Isencroft. The entertainment was
well-received, and Tris knew that Carroway had begun seeding Isencroft-themed
songs and diversions into the entertainment of the palace months ago to ease
the acceptance of a foreign queen.
After each course, as the kitchen prepared
for the next indulgence, Zachar presented a dozen of the guests to the king.
Soterius stood to Tris's left as the receiving line formed, close enough to
draw his sword if trouble arose.
Tris looked out over the next group
awaiting their moment of audience. Lord Acton was the first of many. There were
rumors that he had turned away a legion of Jared's soldiers by his steady
gaze and a curt word of dismissal. Acton bowed low as he approached the throne,
slowed by his age.
"Rise, old friend."
"It's good to see you wear the crown,
King Martris," Acton said in a voice as clear and strong as a young man's.
"Some among us believe it was always the Lady's will that it be so."
"My father spoke often of his trust
in you. I shall count on the same."
"The days are past when I can ride in
battle, as I did with Bricen. But if I may yet serve, you need only give the
word."
"Thank you."
"Good feast to you, my king,"
greeted the next noble in line. Tris steeled himself to show nothing on his
face. Duke Guarov was as suspicious as Acton was trustworthy. Tris knew that
Soterius had spies in Guarov's manor house. No links to Curane had been found—
yet. Still, Guarov had managed to weather Jared's reign remarkably unscathed.
While he had not openly collaborated, it was widely suspected that had had
found less direct ways to keep the usurper king content. Rumor had it that Guarov
had profited handsomely under Jared, aligning his blacksmiths, his farmers, and
his craftsmen to turn out whatever the king demanded for a premium price. Tris
accepted Guarov's professions of tribute with a stony face.
He brightened, however, when Lady Eadoin
was presented. The elderly lady held the arm of a striking young woman. Eadoin
and her companion curtsied low. Lady Eadoin's bloodlines were royal for as
long as anyone with memory could count, far older even than Bricen's line-age.
Eadoin was the last of a great noble family. Childless, she was Margolan's
premier supporter of the bards.
"My king and lord," Eadoin said
in a voice thick with the accent of Margolan's old nobility-
"My gracious lady," Tris
replied, smiling.
"It will be good for Margolan to have
a young queen once more. The royal nursery needs to be full once again."
"All things in due course, my
lady."
A smile played at the corners of Eadoin's
lips. "Of course, my king. My seer predicts that in the year to come, the
year of your marriage, there will be ample harvest and fine wine. Such predictions
are good for child bearing, you know."
"Your wish is gracious."
"Our kingdom prospers most when a
good king has a healthy heir—or two," Eadoin said with a twinkle in her
eye.
"We'll keep that in mind." Tris
barely kept the laughter out of his voice.' He glanced back at Soterius to see
him staring at the young woman who gently held Eadoin's arm.
"I don't know if you recall my niece,
Alyssandra," Eadoin said
with a hint
of
mischief in her voice. "Perhaps she
and your friend have already met."
"Alle?" Soterius managed to
stammer, looking completely at a loss.
Alyssandra tossed back her long blonde
hair. "I told you no one was where they belonged or who they seemed, Ban
Soterius!"
"I believe my niece may have met
General Soterius during the insurrection," Eadoin said. "Alle helped
some of the bards escape after the Usurper killed my brother's family. I thought
Alle might make a good companion for the new queen. Help her navigate the
court. Introduce her to the nobility." Eadoin leaned forward so that only
Tris could hear her next words. "And watch her back. Alle slit two of the
soldiers' throats the night she saved the minstrels."
"I think it would be lovely for Alle
to meet Kiara. Her skills sound... perfect."
Eadoin patted him on the arm. "We'll
talk later. Carroway can make arrangements." Eadoin allowed Alle to lead
her back toward the tables, where a new course awaited.
The evening wore on, with course after
course of food and a dizzying array of performers. Acrobats, magicians and a
trained dog (whose abilities Tris sensed to be enhanced by magic) kept the
crowd cheered. Finally, the bells tolled midnight, and Tris stood. He raised
his glass in tribute.
"Good gentles," Tris said
loudly. "Tonight, let both the living and the dead make merry!
As we are now, so once were they. And, by
the Goddess, as they are now, so we shall someday be, so best we eat and drink
while we may!" They were the same words his father had given a year
before. Tris's mouth tasted of ash as he pronounced the blessing, knowing how
ironic it had proven for his father.
The outer doors to the great room swung
open and a black robed figure, its face shrouded by a deep cowl, stood in the
doorway bearing a glittering chalice. The figure bowed in deference to
Tris,.who bowed in return.
"Greetings, Grandmother Spirit. We
are ready for the march." From behind the robed figure of the Crone emerged
three costumed actors, each in one of the other three faces of the quartern
Goddess: Mother, Childe, and Lover. Tris glanced at both Soterius and Har-rtuck
who stood with him, and together they led the group assembled at the king's
table down the aisle toward the waiting players, with the tables emptying as
the other guests filed in behind them.
Carroway and the other musicians piped a
haunting tune as the procession moved out of the dining hall, through the main
corridor of the palace, and out of the main entrance. Tris's senses and his
magic were on high alert in the throng, and he noted the number of guards. The
night was cold enough that his breath misted as they headed toward the large
bonfire at the far end of the bailey.
Some of the procession passed them by and
continued into the town, costumed revelers in the guise of the four aspects of
the Lady, drunk and ready to find entertainment this night. A smaller group
carried single candles in a slow procession of dark, hooded figures. Those who sought
special favors from the Lady often chose to spend the night of Haunts in silent
reflection. Tris opened the king's private chapel to these penitents.
All around them, the smell and noise of
the feast pressed close in the cold air. For those not invited to dine with the
king, vendors sold roasted meat pies from carts and hawked watered ale. Others
sold trinkets for lovers, good luck charms, divinations of dubious veracity,
and shiny baubles.
"This year, no one gets his fortune
told," Carroway said as he slipped up behind Tris. A parade of mourners
carrying mannequins and puppets to resemble the dead wound their way through
the crowd with song and the jangle of bells.
"You made a better-looking corpse
than that," Soterius said, nodding at the figures held by several of the
robed celebrants, "but damn you were heavy!"
Even now, Tris's memories of the escape
were blurry, save for the piercing amber eyes of the Childe goddess whom he had
glimpsed in the crowd, and whose murmured incantation had healed him.
The fire in the bailey burned high and
bright, and revelers danced around it. The fire crackled with aromatic herbs to
scent the smoke. Well-wishers threw bits of colored rags into the blaze,
symbols of their hopes for the new year, counting on their petitions to be
heard when the glowing cinders rose on the wind and swirled into the night sky.
The castle ghosts, as prominent this night as the soldiers, seemed determined
to make up for their absence last year. Tris's dogs ambled about the
celebration, snatching up fallen sausages and accepting treats from indulgent
party-goers. The mastiff and the wolfhounds trotted up to greet Tris and waited
for a pat on the head and a treat.
"Here, you greedy things!"
Carroway laughed, tossing each a cracker from his pockets. Both dogs snapped
up the treats in mid-air, then looked at their master for more.
Tris smiled. "Go beg," he said,
patting the dogs affectionately. "When you're too full to move and your
bellies hurt, don't look for sympathy!" The dogs wagged their tails and
bounded off through the crowd.
Across the crowded courtyard was a young
girl dressed in white. Tris met the girl's amber eyes and knew that she was the
Childe.
Even with my blessing, your path is not
certain. Sorrow and hardship lie on your journey. Guard well your soul.
Tris blinked and the girl was gone.
"Tris? Tris!" Carroway shook
Tris by the arm. "Don't tell me. I'll sleep better if I don't know. But
you saw Her again, didn't you. The Lady. Like the night of the coup."
"I don't think this time, good luck
alone is going to be enough."
CHAPTER EIGHT
During most days at Sheketishet, the common room was empty. Between it and the kitchen
was a smaller butler's pantry where Carroway and his musicians rehearsed. The
room stayed warm due to the large kitchen fireplaces, and it was easy for the
musicians to grab a pot of tea or a few hunks of bread and cheese during long
rehearsals.
The smells of a rich venison stew and
freshly baked bread wafted in from the kitchen as Carroway struggled to tune
an obstinate string on his lute.
"Need a fresh ear for that?"
Macaria tossed her dark fringe out of her eyes as she slipped the lyre from
over her shoulder and threw her cloak onto a chair.
"I'd love it."
Macaria took the lute. She hummed and
plucked at the strings, concentrating. The tuning knobs began to turn,
ever-so-slightly, on their own, until the pitch of the vibrating string matched
Macaria's voice. With a grin, she handed it back.
"No matter how many times I see you
do that, I never get over being jealous."
"Well, it's not much to be jealous
of," Macaria cheeks reddened.'"It's the only magic I have."
Carroway smiled and met her eyes. "I
wouldn't say that."
"As usual, apologies for being
late," said Helki. His blond hair, mussed by the Fall winds, fell in a
tangle around his face. He dropped his burdens in a pile: a heavy cloak, a
pouch of music, a wineskin, and the cases for his flute and dulcimer. With a
grin, he reached into the kitchen and availed himself of a biscuit from the
nearby counter, deftly missing a good-natured swat by the cook. His mouth
stuffed with biscuit, he plunked down in a chair and unwrapped his dulcimer
from the layers of cloth that protected it from the cold.
Macaria rolled her eyes and reached over
to take the dulcimer. "Give me that. You'll break a string." The
instrument glowed a bright blue for a moment, and then she handed the instrument
back to Helki.
"Thanks. I never tune well when I'm
in a hurry."
"What's the rush?" Carroway set
his lute aside as he rummaged through his pack.
"Couldn't help it. I was making
fairly good time, actually, until I stopped to pick up a meat pie on the way
here. I caught a snatch of a conversation, and it's got me worried."
Helki had an excellent sense for intrigue,
as good perhaps.even as Carroway's own. "So... what did you hear?"
"I didn't know either of the two by
name, although I've seen them at court. One of the men was dark-featured, like
he might be from the border near Nargi. Had an outlands accent, too. The other
one had red hair and looked like a Borderlander. Anyhow, the dark man wasn't
comfortable at all with the vayash moru who've been at court
lately."
Carroway frowned. "There've always
been vayash moru in Margolan's court. That's not new."
"But there are more now. They come
often. And they don't just stay toward the back anymore. Used some pretty ugly
language. Blood-suckers, child-eaters, that kind of thing."
"We get the picture," Carroway
said with distaste.
"Well, his companion, the redhead,
said that it was just more of the other strange goings on since we got a mage
for a king. The redhead seemed even more steamed up about getting a queen from
Isencroft. Said we didn't need the burden of taking on Isencroft's troubles
when we were hard-pressed to feed our own people."
"And whose fault is that?"
Macaria chimed in. "No one but Jared's."
Helki raised his hands in truce.
"Don't shoot the messenger! I'm just reporting, not taking sides."
"Go on," Carroway said. Macaria
scowled and folded her arms.
"The redhead went on to say that if we
weren't careful, next we'd be getting Isencroft's Oracles and the. rest of
their Chenne-worshippers. He was going on about the Sisterhood, how with a
Summoner on the throne they'd have their 'shadowy claws' on Margolan. The dark
man said it was almost enough to make him think about heading for Principality.
But the redhead said, 'It isn't settled yet. Don't count us out.'"
Carroway frowned. "I don't like the
way that sounds."
"Neither did I. But just then, they
got up and left."
"What do you think it means?"
Macaria asked.
Carroway hesitated. "I doubt that
we've caught up with everyone who benefited when Jared was in power. Jared
couldn't have done as much damage as he did without help."
"What about something as simple as
jealousy?" Helki ventured. "I mean, ambitious fathers like to marry
their daughters as high as
they can. Maybe a couple of them have
their noses out of joint because a foreign queen means no royal in-law for
them, and no clout."
"What worries me the most is the idea
that 'it' isn't settled yet," Carroway said. "What do they mean by
'it'? Do they mean Tris being king, or the marriage to Kiara, or accepting
Kiara as queen?"
"And do they mean that it just hasn't
happened yet and sometimes life changes plans, or did they have something more
hands-on in mind?" Macaria added.
"You're playing for Eadoin tonight,
Carroway," said Helki. "You're clever enough to find out what she
knows."
Carroway brushed back an errant lock of
jet-black hair. "Don't underestimate her. No one ever gets free information
out of Lady Eadoin."
Macaria gave him a wicked smile. "We
expect you to come back with the story—even if you have to sacrifice your body
to her advances."
It was Carroway's turn to roll his eyes.
"Really, Lady Eadoin has always been the soul of propriety. You're going
to start talk."
"There's been talk about you and the
court ladies for years, my dear." Macaria dismissed his protest with a
wave of her hand. "If even half of it is true, you've been a busy
boy."
"I make it a rule never to talk about
my patrons," said Carroway, "much, anyhow."
Helki laughed. "You don't have to.
They talk. And while you're the most gifted musician in Margolan, those good
looks of yours have gotten you some patronesses who weren't just interested in
your music."
"And to think, I've been spurning
advances like that for years." Macaria clearly enjoyed Carroway's
discomfort. "Then again, you had no way of knowing you'd end up court
bard. Some of those widowed noblewomen could have provided quite a comfortable
home," she teased, placing exaggerated emphasis on the word
"comfortable." ' .
"Enough," Carroway said. He did
have a reputation. Older women appreciated the presence of a handsome
young man, and without family or fortune to rely upon, he had played to the
vanity of prospective wealthy patronesses. He'd meant to keep it as harmless
flirtation. But he had underestimated one of them. It was an old scandal.
Macaria and Helki were too new to court to know the whole story, and Carroway
was not inclined to bring it up.
"More to the point," Carroway
said, "we've got to keep an eye out for trouble. Tris and Harrtuck have
enough to worry about—we might just hear something important."
"Maybe it is just
jealousy." Macaria said. "We've seen Kiara. She's beautiful, she's
foreign, and she handles a sword better than most men." She spread her
palms up to the sky. "What's not to hate?"
"You forgot—she has a small amount of
magic in her own right," Carroway said.
"Which means that the next heir to
the throne is certain to be a mage as well," Helki finished.
Carroway shrugged. "Kiara doesn't
have the kind of power Tris does—it's mostly scrying and such. Her magic is
very specific, and it was directly related to protecting the crown of
Isencroft."
"Does it transfer to the crown of Margolan?"
"Who knows?"
"So anyone who is uncomfortable with
a mage-king has a long time to wait." Helki leaned back in his chair.
"Unless they decide to do something
about it," Macaria said.
Carroway met their eyes. "We need to
get the Troupe together. Find Bandele, Paiva, and Tad-hge. We need their ears.
Tris has his hands full with Curane and cleaning up the rest of the mess Jared
left."
"How about the Goddess
purists?" Helki asked. "The
ones who are afraid that the Oracles and the Sisterhood are going to swoop
down and take over?" Carroway grimaced. "Yet another reason to worry."
The door to the kitchen opened. Bian, the
head of the kitchen staff, entered bearing a tray with a pot of hot tea, a
generous length of sausage, a hearty wedge of cheese, and a bowl of fruit.
"Thank you." Macaria slapped
back Helki's hand playfully as he reached for an apple. "That's very kind
of you."
Bian's hands were gnarled from work and
marked with the burns of stray cinders. Her face bore witness to the trials she
had survived— marks from the pox, a not-quite-straight nose from a drunken
husband, the lines of age and worry. But her back was straight, her eyes
sparkled, and she grinned.
"I've been feeding this one
here," she said with a wave toward Carroway, "since he was just a
slip of a boy. Can't stop now. Besides, we like your music—when you play."
She gave a side-long look at Carroway. "Sorry. Just catching up on court
gossip," Bian nodded, setting out the food on a small table. "You
mean, like the talk about the new queen." She gathered up the serving tray
and limped toward the door.
"Bian, what have yo.u heard?"
asked Macaria.
The old woman turned. "Well, first
off, you'd be surprised what people say around me and the girls. Like we're doorposts
with no ears. 'Just the serving wenches' they think. Some
of the ladies at court are most put out not to be considered to wed the
king."
Bian had worked in Shekerishet's kitchen
all of her life. Carroway remembered stealing down
to the kitchen at night with Tris, sometimes to avail themselves of a snack,
but more often to find the ingredients for a poultice to bind up a wound that
Jared had inflicted. Jared's temper had been well known among the serving
staff. Worse were the elder prince's lusts. No young woman who came to serve in
the palace remained a virgin long when Jared was around. His taste for rape ran
to brutality, which had only gotten worse when he had the crown. Bian's
daughter had been one of his victims, a pretty young girl who had disappeared
after being summoned to bring a flask of wine for Jared.
"What are they saying, Bian?"
Bian leaned against one of the heavy
serving tables. " What they're saying about the queen is what any
young girl says when a man doesn't ask for her hand. It won't be what they say,
but what they don't say. They'll be sweet as pie to her face, and then
set her up to embarrass herself at social occasions." Bian wiped her hand
on her apron. "Such things aren't so important when it's just the village
girls at the tavern. Seems like it might be a bit more important for the
queen."
Carroway looked from Macaria to Helki.
"Eadoin," they said. Bian chuckled.
"Aye, if you be getting Lady Eadoin
on the queen's side, then you improve your chances." Bian looked at
Carroway. "Couldn't help overhearing what Helki said about those two men.
If they're the ones I'm thinking of, the
dark-haired one is Lord Guarov's son. I've seen him with the redhead, outside
by the sheds late at night. Can't think of a good reason for a highborn to be
out there, can you? The redhead works for him. I'd watch those two, if I were you."
"Thank you, Bian." Macaria said. "Can you please keep an ear out for
us?" .
"Aye, that I can. Been watching over
Prince Martris since he was a lad. No reason to stop looking out for him now,
though kings don't usually need help from the likes of me."
Carroway kissed one of Bian's gnarled
hands. "You've mothered both Tris and me for as long as I can remember.
Don't stop now. I think our king is going to need all the friends he has to
keep Margolan together."
"By the Childe, you may be right. But
take my advice. Don't be trustin' everyone in the palace. There's some that
take their pay from elsewhere."
"What do you mean?" Helki asked.
Bian shook her head.
"That's all I can say about that. Now
I've got meat pies to bake for supper." She grinned. "I make them
better when I've got music to bake by."
Carroway laughed. "All right, you've
made your point. We need to get down to business. Thank you, Bian."
"Mind what I've told you, but don't
say I said so." Bian bustled toward the kitchen.
"What do you think she meant by that
last comment, about 'taking their pay from elsewhere?'"
Macaria gave Carroway a good-natured swat
on the arm. "Spies, m'friend. Every palace has 'em, like rats."
"I thought we'd already figured out
who the spies were," Helki said, setting up his music. "We know Lord
Dravan reports back to the King Bricen's brother-in-law, King Harrol in
Dhasson. And by the time we figure out who the Nargi spies are, they turn up
dead—guess they don't bring back enough good information."
"Lady Casset is from King Staden's
family in Principality," Carroway mused. "She's always been the
conduit for information there. And Count Suphie has so many business dealings
with Eastmark that he might as well be their court herald."
"And we figured Dame Nuray and her
coterie as the ears for Trevath ages ago," Helki said. "Anyone who
wants to feed Trevath information goes straight to her."
"So who's left?" Macaria
wondered aloud.
Carroway tipped back in his chair against
the fireplace. "Curane, for one," he said. "He's got to have
someone feeding him information. It could be Guarov."
"And Isencroft," Helki said.
"There's got to be an Isencroft spy somewhere."
Macaria raised an eyebrow. "Do they
need one? I mean, after the wedding, King Donelan will be father-in-law to King
Martris."
Helki jabbed her in the shoulder.
"King or no king, did you ever see a mother who didn't set spies on her
daughter?"
"Kiara's mother's been dead for
years," Car-roway mused. "But every kingdom has spies. Just part of
doing business."
"Maybe Jared eliminated Isencroft's
spy and Donelan hasn't put someone else back in."
"Or maybe," Helki said quietly,
"the person is so good that he's under our nose and we don't know."
"You're a ray of sunshine, aren't
you?"
"Why are we worried about an
Isencroft spy anyhow?" Helki asked. "I mean, they've got a stake in
making this all work out."
"I didn't say we needed to be worried
about it," Carroway said thoughtfully, "but on the other hand, it's
nice to know where all the players are when the stakes are high."
"So how do we find this-spy?"
Macaria asked, plucking absently at her lute. "We can hardly go asking
door to door."
"We watch," Carroway said. He
picked up his lyre. "Now let's play some music before Bian takes back our
food."
That evening,
Carroway reclined in the carriage as he watched
the countryside slip past. The horses were keeping a good pace; it would
take less than a candlemark for him to
reach Brightmoor, Lady Eadoin's manor house. He straightened the ruby silk
collar of his tunic and picked at the fine sleeves that billowed to his cuffs.
His mood was off. His thoughts still strayed to spies and conspiracies.
Keep this up and you won't be on the
favored guest list.
The carriage crunched over dry leaves and
fallen twigs. Despite his mood, he looked forward to seeing Lady Eadoin. As a
girl, Eadoin had been the prettiest at court. When her beloved husband died
young, Eadoin had contracted for her lands to provide produce for the palace,
which settled her husband's debts and permitted her to maintain a gracious
lifestyle. Sidestepping marriage proposals, Eadoin opened Brightmoor to
Margolan's bards and artists, poets, and scholars. She hosted fabulous parties
and held frequent salons for the young nobility not yet come of age. Balls and
hunting parties, holiday feasts and lavish galas—Eadoin's festivities always
featured the newest music, the latest fashions, the most beautiful young
ladies, and the most handsome eligible young men.
As the years passed and the young nobility
grew to love her as a mother, mentor, and icon, her genius became clear. When
the young nobles came into their inheritances and their own grand estates, it
would be their patronage upon which Eadoin would rely in her old age.
Eadoin remained a regular at court,
maintaining her ties to the ruling nobility with the charms and grace that
once made her the belle of all Margolan. Lady Eadoin was a force of nature.
She was waiting for him as the coach
pulled up. Her golden white hair and her figure remained alluring. The cut of
her fine brocade gown was flattering, and the jewels at her throat might have
ransomed a prince.
"Riordan, it is so good to see you,"
Eadoin said as Carroway bounded from the carriage and up the steps. Eadoin
embraced Carroway and gave him a peck on each cheek, then took his arm and
patted his hand.
"So I have finally managed to get you
to keep an old lady company for the evening."
"Of late, the royal wedding
preparations take up more of my time than my lute."
"Well, I shall be a rapt audience for
anything you would like to preview," Eadoin laughed. "Only please,
play them first for me!"
Carroway could imagine the effect Eadoin
must have had on the young men of her age. Eadoin laughed. "Were I forty
years younger, I would be among the girls who clamor for your attention!"
"And were I worthy of your attention,
I would duel for your hand," Carroway returned with a wink. I could
probably bed-any lass in the castle I chose, he thought, except for the
one I truly want.
A steward
pressed a goblet of brandy into Carroway's hand. Tonight, he played for an
audience of one. "What shall I play for m'lady, and how is it that
Brightmoor is quiet tonight?"
"Please play 'I Shall Dance With Thee
at the Ball,'" Eadoin requested. "As for Brightmoor being quiet...
Tonight is the anniversary of my husband's death. I've always filled it with
activity, so that I wouldn't feel the emptiness." She sighed. "Perhaps
I can no longer outrun my ghosts.
"Every musician is a Summoner of
sorts, did you know that, Riordan? Music brings the past to life." She
plumped the pillows. "So play for me, please. If I close my eyes, I'm only
in another time and place."
He began the ballad she requested, a
well-known favorite of her generation. Eadoin clapped enthusiastically when he
finished. "Now please, some of the older dances, if you would."
Carroway reeled from one sprightly dance
tune into another, stopped only by the steward's announcement of dinner and
his own aching fingers. "Bravo, Bravo!" Eadoin cried. "You have
been just the tonic I needed. I hope that dinner will repay you for your
kindness."
Candles burned brightly and the torches
lit the room as if for a ball. The meal put out for them would have been
suitable for the king himself. "My lady, you are too generous."
"Not at all," she said.
"You've played the healer for me tonight, and I am in your debt." She
looked at him for a moment, her head to one side as if remembering. "I see
your mother's eyes when I look at you, Riordan," she said. "And your
father's build. They would have been so proud. Margolan's master bard, king's
confidant—an adventurer and a hero."
"I've had more than enough adventure
for a lifetime," Carroway confessed. "But there are times when I do
wish -they could have seen what I've made of myself."
"T'was the will of the Lady herself
that chose the timing of your fostering, else you'd have been claimed by the
plague as well." 'A sad smile played at the corners of Eadoin's lips.
"Your memories crowd around you closely for one so young. I wonder, has
the king's confidant ever asked a favor of his friend? Every day the king
holds his court of spirits for all the realm. Wouldn't he do so for you?"
"I haven't asked, m'lady."
Eadoin reached across the table and patted
his hand. The paper thin skin wrinkled across bones finer than those of a bird,
lined with the veins of age. "Don't wait until you're my age to lay your
ghosts to rest. Now, eat. For such fine music you should be well fed."
Eadoin's servants plied him with food
until he waved them away, groaning. Her steward brought out fine sherry and
aged port, an offer
Carroway could not refuse. In the
fireplace at the end of the great dining hall, logs blazed and crackled.
"Tell me, Riordan," Eadoin said,
leaning back in her chair, a goblet of port balanced in her thin fingers,
"how go the preparations for our royal wedding?"
"That depends, m'lady."
"Kiara has been raised from birth to
become Margolan's queen," Eadoin observed. "It's one thing to study a
kingdom's ways—and another to navigate its court."
The old fox! All this time, I was
conspiring to enlist her aid, and she set me up!
"Viata was from Eastmark,"
Eadoin said. "Some in Isencroft didn't like that Donelan took a foreign
queen. Donelan was gone for long stretches on hunts or clearing out raiders.
Viata surrounded herself with Eastmark courtiers. The Isencroft court never
forgave her." She leaned forward and patted Car-roway's hand. "It would
help Kiara greatly to have a guide."
"What would you have me do,
m'lady?"
"First of all, you can stop
pretending that you didn't have this in mind when you came here."
Carroway grinned sheepishly. "Done,
m'lady," he confessed. "I came to ask your advice. We've heard that
some in Isencroft don't want to blend the kingdoms together at Donelan's death.
There's also some jealousy among the girls at court who thought they might wed
a king"
"Were there any Jared left
unbedded?" Eadoin asked.
"That alone is a good reason for Tris
to avoid the 'ladies' of Margolan. There's no
question of paternity with Kiara. One royal bastard
is enough."
"What have you heard?"
Eadoin stared into the fire for a moment.
"My sources within Isencroft are fewer than they once were. The Isencroft
separatists are getting desperate. If they can't stop the wedding, they may
try to make sure no heir will be born."
"What can we do? Once the wedding's
over, Tris'll take the army against Curane in the South. Kiara will be alone at
Shekerishet."
"We must be conspirators, you and
I," she said with a smile that told Carroway she relished the action.
"I'll come back to court for a while, and bring Alyssandra, my
niece."
"Soterius told me that Alyssandra
took up arms for the resistance."
"Jared attacked the bards, trying to
keep news from being spread. I hid as many as I dared here. My
brother—Alyssandra's father— tried to help. But the bards he hid were
discovered, and Jared's troops burned their home and killed his family, all but
Alyssandra, who was with me at the time. Alle knew we didn't dare keep the
bards here any longer, and so she volunteered
to get them
across
Margolan to the Principality border. After
she succeeded, she was afraid to come back. That's how she met your friend. I
have no doubt that Alle can hold her own."
"Have you heard anything else?"
"I've heard rumors Lord Guarov is
Curane's spy at court. No one can prove anything, or I'm sure the king would
have removed him. But if that's true, Kiara will be in danger. Guarov has the
principles of a gutter rat."
"It may require more than the guards
to keep Kiara safe when Tris leaves for war," Carroway said.
"I agree. You may yet have a second
chance to save your kingdom."
CHAPTER NINE
The Isencroft
night was cold and moonless. Snow covered the ground, deep
as a man's knees. Ice crystals hung in the air, and every breath ached. Nearby,
one guard lay in a heap. Blood seeped from the gash that slit his throat ear to
ear, staining the snow beneath him. Another guard lay dead a few paces away, a
crossbow quarrel fletchings-deep in his chest. Beyond the low stone fence lay a
small cluster of thatched-roofed buildings inside a log stockade. Two more
guards stood watch at the gate, warming themselves over a fire.
"Well?" Kiara Sharsequin's voice
was muffled beneath her helm.
Cam of Cairnrach, Champion of King
Donelan, nodded. "No worse than I'd expect from bandits. Not much of a
scarp, and our mage can create enough confusion to get us up the slope. Land's
too wet in these parts to have caves beneath it. From what the scouts could see
from the treetop, there's not enough room to house more than a hundred men at
arms." A wisp of Cam's curly dark hair protruded beneath his helm. He was
a big man, and in his armor seemed like a moving mountain. His hand closed
around the pommel of his war axe.
"Give the word," Kiara murmured.
Cam raised his arm, a signal to the line
of mounted soldiers still hidden in the shadows of the forest. Devon, one- of
the king's battle mages, leaned forward on his mount and raised both hands,
pushing outwards as if against an invisible wall. A blast of fire streaked from
Devon's palms, blasting aside the guards at the gate and setting the wooden
stockade afire.
"Now!" Cam bellowed. Soldiers
burst from concealment, their way made plain by the bright light of the burning
stockade.
Kiara dropped her reins and gripped her
sword, riding forward with the others. Her battle steed galloped over the heavy
snow. The soldiers' battle cry echoed through the moonless night, momentarily
drowning out the alarm raised by the divisionist outpost. Kiara was well aware
that the crest on her shield made her a
target, even as it also sent the unmistakable message that Isencroft's heir
took this rebellion personally. Goddess! It feels good to do more than train
for once. One of
the raiders ran at her and she blocked him with her
boot, slashing down with her sword and severing his arm cleanly at the
shoulder. She reared her war horse, and its iron-shod hooves discouraged the
raiders' two companions from making a similar assault. Jae, her gyregon,
swooped and dived at the raiders with his powerful talons, raking across one
man's face and clawing deeply into another's back.
All around her, the king's men were making
short work of the outpost. Though the heavy war horses were hardly race steeds,
they moved fast enough to pursue the fleeing raiders. Cam was fighting a huge
man, and on foot, the two might have been equally matched. The raider lunged
forward, slicing into Cam's thigh, but Cam's sword thrust downward, penetrating
the raider's cuirass and running him through.
"Behind you!"
Kiara turned her horse. The buildings of
the outpost were all burning, painting the snow in red and orange. Behind the
stone watering trough, she caught a glimpse of leather helmets an instant
before the twang of crossbow's firing sent a rain of quarrels through the
night air. One of them embedded itself in her shield with a force that made her
hand go numb. Kiara gave a cry and rode straight for the bowmen, knowing it
would take them a moment to reload. Behind her, she could hear her own bowmen
returning fire.
Two raiders ran at her horse, one wielding
a war axe and the other a scythe. Before they could reach striking range, the
axe man stopped, taken in the throat by an arrow. His eyes widened, blood
frothed at his lips, and he fell, face-forward, into the trampled snow. The
remaining raider advanced with madness in his eyes. Kiara's war horse
sidestepped, broadening the gap. The scythe made up in.reach what it lacked in
power; Kiara knew that if it was brought against her horse's legs she would
have no chance, jae dived for the attacker, but his scythe kept even the
gyregon at bay.
"Death to traitors!" the
scythe-man shouted, swinging the long-handled blade in a deadly arc. Kiara
jerked her horse back, but in the tight quarters of the burning stockade there
was little room to maneuver. The horse kicked its heavy hooves at the raider's
head, but the wiry man dodged the strike, intent on ripping out the belly of the
horse with his sharp blade. Kiara slashed with her sword, but the scythe's long
handle kept her assailant out of range.
A low whirr and the glint of firelight on
metal were the only warning as Cam's battle axe spun through the air, catching
the raider full in the back of the head. One side of his skull exploded as the
body fell twitching to the ground. Kiara brought her horse down onto the
raider's back, grimacing at the sound of cracking bones and pulping flesh.
"Surrender and face trial," Cam
shouted above the din to the raiders. "Fight and you'll die."
"No surrender!" shouted a raider
as arrows flew. Dozens of raiders burst from their cover, wildly swinging
whatever weapons they possessed, counting on their furious attack to make up
for their shrinking numbers.
"Take the leaders alive!" Kiara
yelled, hearing Cam relay the order down the line. Within a few more moments
of fierce fighting, the stockade had been subdued, its buildings leveled by
fire and its raider garrison dead or captured.
Cam dragged a bound raider toward her and
shoved the man to his knees, snatching away his helm so that Kiara could look
at his face. Soot-streaked and bloodied, the raider glared up at her.
"Came to do the dirty work yourself, your highness?"
"You're charged with high treason,
with the crimes of waylaying the king's supply wagons, ambushing his
messengers, and planning to overthrow King Donelan. You'll be taken to the
palace for your trial."
"I don't need a trial," the
raider said. "Guilty as charged, Your Highness. I'd put my knife through
your chest in a heartbeat if it would keep you from betraying your people with
the Margolan alliance."
"Take him away."
Cam pulled the raider to his feet.
"Isencroft won't recognize a foreign king or a traitor
queen," the raider shouted as Cam
dragged him toward the wagons. "No peace until Isen-croft's throne remains
free!"
Around her, the king's guards were making
short work of securing what was left of the outpost. Kiara watched, hoping that
if the others saw her shiver, they'd assume it was with cold. How many
times have we argued this? No one wants an independent Isencroft more than
father and me. The' betrothal contract wasn't originally supposed to create a
joint throne. But there aren't any other heirs, and Isencroft is impoverished.
We'll need Mar-golan's help just to feed our people, let alone keep away the
brigands from the Western border or the raiders from across the sea. Perhaps
we can split the crown again when my children are grown, a generation from now.
But it's fools' pride to turn aside Margolan's help only to fall to invaders.
The ride back to the Isencroft palace was
quiet. One wagon carried a dozen prisoners who shouted curses and baited the
soldiers until Cam threatened to gag them. The other wagon carried back the
dead, five men out of seventy-five. Three riderless horses followed the wagon;
the other two remained where they had died.
Cam rode beside her in silence, a'comfort
just by his presence. Jae rode on Kiara's lap. Kiara's shield arm was throbbing
and the fingers on her left hand moved stiffly. Cam said nothing about his own
injuries, but the gash in his leg
still bled. Kiara glanced at the soldiers
around her. Although few appeared to be badly wounded, most had taken some
injuries from the raiders' frenzied defense.
"Hope the wolves are elsewhere."
Cam grimaced as he shifted in his saddle.
"Carina's going to have a few words
about that leg," Kiara replied, trying to lift herself from a dark mood.
The night's business bothered her more than she cared to show, and while to be
of Isencroft meant to know the sword, she had no illusions about the dangers of
adventuring.
Cam managed a strained grin. "Let
her. After all, she'll be off to Dark Haven soon and I'll miss
the scoldings that come with the healing."
Kiara smiled. "I'm sure you'd be
welcome to visit."
Cam chuckled. "Jonmarc's had his eye
on Carina since we were in Linton's caravan. I'll wait until after the wedding
to visit." "Whose wedding? Mine or theirs?" Cam looked at her
sideways. "Both." They fell silent again until the forest was behind
them and the wagon path merged into the main road. Kiara's breath misted in the
cold air, and the warmth of her war horse was all that kept her from being
chilled through. Ahead, the lights of Aberponte, the Isencroft palace, and the
city that surrounded it glistened against the snow. "Do you think we've
gotten the last of them?" she asked.
"That's the third nest of raiders
we've taken out in as many weeks. I don't think the divi-sionists are a large
group—just vocal and fanatic, which is always a bad combination. I doubt we've
gotten them all, but we've probably set them back somewhat—enough to get through your wedding
and make it all a moot point."
Kiara watched the city. "I never
thought I'd come home from Margolan and have my own people trying to kill me,
after dodging Jared for most of last year."
"Your people aren't trying to kill
you, Kiara. They understand what's at stake and just how bad the last three
harvests have been. They know you risked everything to keep Isencroft out of
jared's hands. And most of them remember the tales from the old days, when the
raiders would sweep down every spring and loot everything they could get their
hands on. The divisionists don't care how many of our people starve, and they
won't be on the front line to drive back the raiders. It's all just words to
them." He shook his head. "Father's lands were close enough to the
sea for me to remember what it's like when raiders come. Once was enough. Never
again."
"Everything's changing, Cam."'
The road beneath their horses' hooves had become packed snow, hard as stone
from the busy daytime travel into Aberponte. "When I went on my journey,
I thought I could put everything back the way it used to be, before father
got sick. But it's not working out that way." "It never does."
Kiara and Cam barely had time to strip off their armor and turn their horses over to
the grooms before a page came with a summons from the king. Cam was limping,
but he waved off assistance. Kiara kept her left arm close to her body,
painfully aware that it had begun to swell. Sooty, sweat-streaked, and blood
spattered, they made their way toward the throne room. Jae perched on Kiara's
uninjured shoulder.
"Good thing Donelan isn't expecting
us dressed for court."
"Father rarely stands on
ceremony."
They were not surprised to see both Cam's
sister Carina Jesthrata and Allestyr, the seneschal, waiting with King Donelan.
Carina hurried toward them as Cam steadied himself against the wall and Donelan
bade them sit. Jae flapped down to the floor and made his way over to the warm
hearth.
"Well?"
"The intelligence was correct,"
said Kiara. "The stockade was armed—and they were divisionists. We brought
the survivors back for trial."
Carina was already at work on the gash on
Cam's leg. Kiara glanced at the kettle of water that warmed
by the sitting
room hearth; Carina had prepared
for them to arrive worse for the wear.
Carina poured a violet liquid into Cam's
wound. "Watch what you're doing!" Cam yelped. "It hurt less than
that when he stabbed me."
"You're starting to sound like
Jonmarc."
"Don't you have anything in that bag
of yours that isn't vile-tasting or painful?"
"No. Now sit still."
Allestyr took one look at Kiara's arm and
brought her a glass of brandy. "I'm not sure it was a wise thing for you
to ride out with the troops this close to our departure for Mar-golan,"
the seneschal said. "Aside from placing yourself in danger, it will hardly
do to present you to your groom looking as if you'd fallen out of a carriage."
"I got my share of bruises when we
were on the road last year—and none of us had the luxury of getting frequent
baths once we started the trip back. I dare say Tris has seen me look
worse."
Donelan sighed. "Tris will certainly
overlook any scrapes, but it's the Margolan court you need to worry
about."
"Mother prepared me for this from the
day I was born. Goes with the whole idea of being 'betrothed at birth.' I'm
more worried about what happens to Isencroft once I leave—and whether or not
you dare come with me to the wedding."
"The day hasn't arrived when I'll let
a bunch of bandits keep me from my daughter's wedding. Besides, the best way
to counter their rumors is to prove them wrong. After all, there's no joint
throne until after I die. If I live to be a very old man, you and Tris will
have a suitable heir for the Isencroft throne. The only power the divisionists
have is fear. Once their followers see that your wedding changes nothing—at
least in the short term—perhaps they'll slink away."
Kiara reached out her right hand and
clasped Donelan's. "Have I mentioned how much I love the way you look at
things?"
Carina finished bandaging up Cam's leg and
turned her attention to Kiara's arm. "Typical shield break. Not as bad as
some. I can get it well on its way toward healing and decrease the swelling and
the bruising before the wedding— but no more raids. There's a limit to what I
can patch up, and we can't have you limping down the aisle like some border
ruffian!"
"Dammit, Carina, this was personal!
Those divisionists are out there saying I'm a traitor to the crown—a traitor to
Isencroft. We got Jared off the Margolan throne and crowned a king who won't
plunder Isencroft for his own benefit. I would have betrayed Isencroft
if I'd gone meekly to wed Jared and let him rape the country the way he did
his own servants."
Donelan laid a hand on Kiara's shoulder.
"There will always be
ignorant, dangerous people who
twist the truth for their own ends. No amount of arguing will change their
minds because their argument isn't based on facts, it's based on their own
petty point of view. It goes with the crown, Kiara. Always has—always will.
It's a king's dilemma. Explain to the people just how bad it is, and they
panic. Tell them less than the whole truth, and they riot over the one course
of action left to us. At least after tonight, the divisionists will need time
to regroup, maybe long enough that we can get you to Margolan safely. Once the
wedding is over this will die down."
Kiara grimaced as Carina bound up her arm.
"And if it doesn't?"
Donelan gave a tired smile. "Then Cam
and I will deal with it." He exchanged glances with Allestyr.
"There's something you're not telling
me."
Donelan moved away and began to pace.
"I have a new man in Margolan. He's very well-placed. There's been an
attempt on Tris's life, Kiara. A nearly successful attempt."
"What happened?"
"A lone archer was able to get off
one clear shot. Your young man is exceptionally lucky. The arrow was only a
handbreadth shy of his heart."
"But Tris is all right?"
Donelan nodded. "Well enough to
summon the spirit of the assassin, whom his guards had already killed."
"What else did you hear?"
"Apparently, the archer was recruited
by someone of means, perhaps someone from outside the kingdom."
"Why?"
"Who knows? Though by all reports
Tris has made a good start, some will blame him for the hunger that's sure to
follow ruined farms and exiled farmers. And there are those in Margolan who
also dislike the idea of joined kingdoms.
"Jared's supporters may want the
chaos that would follow an assassination. If there's truth to the rumor of a
royal bastard, then some might seek a regency to further their own fortunes.
Others might not want a mage on the throne. Some might wish rid of the House of
Margolan altogether." He sighed. "Once you set foot in Margolan, you
become a hostage to fate, Kiara. The most powerful kings know this, and permit
themselves no such weakness. I was never able to make that trade-off
myself."
"We've been hunted by the Margolan
army and Jared's bounty hunters. We've been in danger before."
"That's true. But until all of
Jared's traitors are destroyed, you and Tris won't be able to tell friend from
foe. I never wanted you to see such troubled times, my dear," he said
regretfully. "I only hope that Bricen and I leave a better legacy than
the collapse of both our kingdoms."
He took Kiara's hand. "You and Cam
need to get some rest. Haunts begins at midnight, and our own people will
expect to see their princess at the festival. Try to put all of this out of
your mind."
Kiara kissed him on the cheek. "Are
you taking your own advice?"
"Of course not. I'm the king. Get
some sleep. If we hear more from Margolan, I'll let you know."
Kiara twisted the gold ring that Tris had
given her as a betrothal token, the ring set with his crest. "Haunts is my
last festival before I go to Margolan. This is the first time I've been sad to
see it come."
Donelan squeezed her hand. "Don't be
so busy looking back that you forget to look at the good things coming your
way. You'll get through this, and so will Isencroft. Now off with you."
Cam walked to the door unaided. Carina
insisted on accompanying Kiara to her rooms, although two guards followed them
and the palace corridors were almost empty. Kiara sank into one of the chairs
near the fire. Carina helped her remove her boots and bustled to fix them both
cups of tea. She added some powder to a cup and handed it to Kiara.
"Drink this. It'll take the pain
away."
"You know what I hate most about
getting ready to go to Margolan?"
"What?"
"All the damned dress fittings."
"Had you planned to just take your
riding trews and a nice dress for the wedding?"
"I would if it were up to me."
Carina barely stifled a laugh. "Admit
it, Kiara. It had to catch up with you someday. Even Jonmarc finally learned to
dress for court.. Maybe he could give you some tips on where to hide weapons
when they won't let you wear a sword."
"There's something to be said for
armor," Kiara muttered. "Find a set that fits and stick with it. Wear
it day in and day out. Why can't Tris and I just be the way we were on the
road—two nobodies from nowhere?"
"You mean the 'good old days' on the
road—being chased by Jared's guards, sleeping in tombs and burnt-out cellars,
cold and hungry and always looking over our shoulders—?"
"At least we were dressed
comfortably!" Kiara knew she was being unreasonable, but it was satisfying
enough to remain so. Jae roused himself and waddled over, hoping for a treat.
Kiara stroked his scaly neck, and he made a clicking sound in contentment.
"Riding in all kinds of weather,
making cold camp in the forest," Carina went on. "Oh, and did I
forget nearly drowning in the Nu River and that lovely little side trip to the
Nargi camp? You missed the slavers. Face it, Kiara. You and Tris
had higher bounties on your heads
than Jonmarc—not exactly 'two nobodies from nowhere.'"
"You're right. But nobody drilled me
on etiquette, no one fussed over my clothes..."
"And you still managed to land the
most eligible bachelor in the Seven Kingdoms."
"You know very well that just sort of
happened." She gave a wicked smile. "And given the number of people
chasing us, maybe 'most sought after' is a better description."
"Maybe once you get the wedding out
of the way it won't be so bad," Carina said, pulling up a chair. "All
the nobles will go back to their manors for the winter. Maybe.you can go back
to riding and practicing in the salle all you like."
"They'll hardly take to their queen
walking around the palace in sensible, comfortable tunic and trews like a hired
hand."
"It never bothered Tris."
"I'm worried about him, Carina. I
know father isn't telling me everything he hears," Kiara said.
"Did you find out who his.new spy
is?"
Kiara shook her head. "Jared killed
Mostyn, who had been there long enough that everyone at court probably knew he
was Isencroft's man. Father installed this one after he was well enough to take
back his duties: I even asked father directly—he said he had no intention of
withdrawing the person once I was married and didn't want to put me at
cross-loyalties between my husband
and my father." She
snorted. "More likely he wants to
keep an eye on me."
"I've also been thinking about
mother," Kiara said. "She was only sixteen when she married father.
Goddess! I don't know how she got the courage! She was almost five years
younger than I am now, and she didn't know father nearly as well as I know
Tris."
"Spending a year on the road with
someone does that for you."
"As you well know yourself. You can't
tell me that you aren't looking forward to seeing Jonmarc again at the
wedding." She grinned. "Didn't I see a vayash moru messenger
just a few days ago with a letter from Dark Haven?" Carina fingered the
silver pendant at her throat, her gift from Jonmarc. "Kiara, how can I
leave Donelan—and you—for such a long time?" "Father's well
again."
"Royal births follow royal
weddings," Carina retorted.
"Aren't we getting a little ahead of
ourselves here?"
"Kiara, I think Jonmarc means to ask
me to marry him."
"Did you just figure that out? Of
course he does. Go to Dark Haven. And when he asks you to marry him, say yes. I
have Cerise and Malae. They're both moving to Margolan to look after me. Cerise
was mother's healer. Malae's looked after me since I was born. It's time for you
to have your own life." Jae nuzzled her shoulder; Kiara dug into a pouch
at her belt to withdraw a bit of dried meat, which the gyregon tossed up into
the air, then snapped in mid fall.
Carina stood and walked over to the
window. "The other hard part is leaving Cam," she said. "The
only time we've ever been apart was last year. I missed him terribly. Why do I
feel as if I'm letting him down by leaving again?"
"Have you talked to Cam about
it?"
"I know I should have. But I keep
putting it off."
"I doubt Jonmarc was intending to
have a chaperone." Kiara grinned. "I've noticed Cam's spending quite
a bit of time with the brewer's daughter. Maybe it's time for both of you to
settle down."
On the way back from healing Kiara, Carina slowed as she passed Cam's door. She
drew a deep breath and knocked. "Cam? It's me." She swung the door
open. As usual, Cam's room was a complete mess.
"How's Kiara?"
"Kiara's fine. I was checking in on
you."
Carina declined his offer of cakes
"Suit yourself," he said, and
wolfed down several. "What's on your mind?"
"Things are just moving so quickly.
Tris's coronation. Now the wedding. All the troubles here. And me, heading for
Dark Haven."
Cam took Carina's hand. "I'm happy
for you and Jonmarc, Carina. Really. He's a good man. He loves you. I'm choosy
about who marries my sister. He'll do."
"He hasn't asked yet."
"Care to place bets? He's had his eye
on you for a long time."
Carina fingered the sleeve of her robe.
"It was hard, being away from you last year. Not knowing where you were or
whether you were alive. I tried not to let on to the others—there was so much
at stake and we were in so much danger. But I missed you so much."
"I missed you, too." Cam
squeezed her hand. "But maybe it was a good thing. We needed to learn to
stand by ourselves. We can still visit. And besides," he said with a grin,
"while you were adventuring, I just may have found the girl of my dreams.
A pretty redhead whose father is a brewer. Now that would be a match made by
the Goddess!"
Carina kissed him on the cheek.
"Thank you."
"Go on. Get packed. And make sure
you're ready for this evening—I've been past the kitchen and cook's making a
dinner that should have the ghosts drooling!"
Haunts began at midnight. Bonfires burned in a long line toward the horizon, commemorating
Isencroft's war dead. Inside the palace, the smell of roasting game filled the
air. Venison, rabbit, and wild boar would be on the night's menu, along with
roasted vegetables, hot wassail, and a stunning variety of cakes and pastries.
Isencroft's army, renowned for its ferocity despite its small size, marched in
the courtyard to the beat of drummers and the skirl of pipes. Bonfires dotted
the hillsides. Every family that had lost someone to battle lit their own fires
to invite the souls of the departed closer, or to honor the memory of the dead.
In the castle bailey a huge bonfire roared in memory of those lost in battle
whose bodies had not returned to Isencroft. People from all parts of the
kingdom made the journey to the palace to place a bit of wood or pottery into
the fire in memory of a lost loved one, inviting the ghosts to return home and
take their rest.
The night began with a display of
acrobatics and feats of strength. The highlight of the feast would take place
the next afternoon at the royal joust, an event that spanned from noon to
supper with matches between the kingdom's best fighters. Now, as Kiara and
Donelan sat in the royal carriage amid the procession to the river, Kiara
looked out at the blazing bonfires with sadness.
"Your thoughts are elsewhere,"
Donelan said.
Kiara smiled. "Just wondering when
I'll celebrate again in Isencroft."
The carriage jostled over cobblestones,
moving slowly as the crowd pressed against it. The streets
were filled with revelers, men and women outlandishly costumed in the eight
faces of the Lady. Some stumbled drunkenly through the streets, pushing and
bumping past the soldiers who escorted the king's carriage in the
shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. Cam walked along the right side of the carriage,
and another guard kept pace on the left.
Kiara pulled her heavy cloak around her,
but she was still cold. She buried her hands in her fur muff and shivered.
"How long until we reach the river?"
Donelan glanced out of the window.
"I'd tell you if I could see anything but the crowd. Not long."
They could hear the distant sound of the
palace bells. Gradually, the road widened as the procession left the city and
headed down toward the Koltan River. The Koltan flowed from Isencroft's
highlands into the Nu. Legend told that the souls of fallen warriors followed
the river into the sea, where Chenne awaited them.
On the banks of the river lay a funeral
boat. An effigy lay inside, representing Isencroft's battle fallen. The
carriage stopped; Donelan stepped out and turned to give Kiara a hand down. A
light snow was falling, and an icy crust on the ground crunched beneath their
boots. A military drummer beat a somber rhythm as pipers played. Despite the
cold, a huge crowd waited along the river banks. Two soldiers stepped forward,
handing lit torches to both Kiara and Donelan. Side by side, they walked toward
the effigy in the boat. Not far beyond, the Koltan flowed, dark and swift,
toward the sea.
Donelan lifted his torch and turned to
face the crowd. "Tonight we honor our fallen. When the raiders came, when
the kingdoms invaded, the soldiers of Isencroft never wavered. We remember
those who died in battle, and we wish their souls rest in the Lady."
The crowd murmured their assent. Kiara
could see how tired her father was. The torchlight did not hide the strain in
his face. Isencroft fought back armies twice her size. But even the army
can't combat years' of poor harvests. We've been so proud of our independence.
I understand why the idea of a joint kingdom isn't well received, but Goddess!
The alternative's starvation.
Donelan laid his torch against the effigy.
The boat, filled with straw, began to burn. Kiara added her torch to the
flames..-
"May the spirits of our fallen remain
with us, to watch over the kingdom to which they pledged their lives and
honor," Kiara said. Four soldiers used long poles to push the burning
boat into the dark waters of the Koltan River.
One of the musicians lifted his voice in a
traditional song for the dead. The crowd moved toward the shore to watch as
the boat slipped
into the darkness. Kiara began the walk
back toward the carriage.
"Isencroft independent!" a man's
voice shouted. Kiara caught just a glimpse of a figure leaping toward her.
Torchlight glinted on a knife blade. Before the guards could react, the man had
tackled Kiara, stabbing his blade into her chest.
Kiara kicked hard. The man staggered backward.
Cam tackled the assailant, crushing the wiry man to the ground as guards
crowded around them. More guards circled Kiara as Donelan ran to her, dropping
to his knees beside her.
"Kiara!"
Kiara groaned. "It's all right."
Donelan reached for the tear in her cloak
where the knife had penetrated. He looked down at his hands, baffled, when they
came away bloodless. "I don't understand—"
Around them, guards shouted for the crowd
to disperse; revelers shouted and cried out at the attack. Kiara managed a
smile and pulled her cloak open to reveal a leather breastplate over her gown.
"It doesn't match the bodice, but I thought it might be wise."
Donelan shook his head. "Have I told
you how proud I am of you?" She held out a hand and he helped her up. The
knife had made a deep cut into the leather, but had not gone through. Even so,
Kiara would be bruised both from the attack and from the fall.
The guards were already wrestling the
attacker away. Soldiers herded the crowd back up the hill. Drummers and pipers
seemed determined to drown out conversation with their music. "Did you
hear what he said? 'Isen-croft independent.'" Kiara shuddered.
"I imagine we'll find that he has
ties to the divisionists. The sooner you leave for Mar-golan, the better."
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, save that the royal bodyguard was
doubled. Principality arrested us with fewer guards, Kiara thought
grimly. It's hard to tell the difference between being protected and being
held prisoner.
Donelan and Kiara agreed privately that it
would be best, considering the circumstances, for both of them to keep their
traditional roles in the feast. Kiara made the requisite toasts and clapped at
the entertainers, but her thoughts were elsewhere. The feast ended at dawn;
Kiara had never felt so relieved to see the guests depart. Maybe I'll be
able to get into the spirit tomorrow for the joust, she thought. Tonight,
I want nothing more than a warm brandy and a hot poultice.
Donelan and Tice waited in Kiara's private
sitting room while Carina attended to Kiara's injuries. Make bustled about,
offering tea or cakes, and finally sitting nervously by the fire.
In the privacy of Kiara's bedroom, Carina
helped Kiara out of her gown. Kiara winced as she lifted her arms. "You
didn't tell me you were going to wear armor," Carina chided gen-tly.
"You didn't ask. After what happened
to Jonmarc at Winterstide, I thought it might be a good idea." She managed
a grin. "And it felt good knowing how much I'd vex the dressmaker,
covering up his creation with a cuirass!"
Carina turned the cuirass over in her
hands. "From the strength of the blow, you'd be dead if you hadn't worn
this." She let her hands slip over Kiara's shoulders and chest. "No
wonder you're sore. He might not have cut you, but he's broken a rib."
"That explains why it hurts so much
to breathe."
Kiara tried not to fidget as Carina
worked, knitting the broken bones and healing the deep bruise. Cerise mixed a
powder into a hot cup of water and gave it to Kiara. "Here. Drink this.
Even with the healing, you'll be sore for a while. The bruise should be gone by
the wedding, and the rib should be nearly healed."
"I'd been looking forward to
tonight," Kiara said, holding the warm cup close to smell the fragrant
herbs. "I expect everything to be different once I go to Margolan. I
didn't realize that now, Isencroft is different, too."
Cerise sat on the side of her bed.
"Times change. Nothing stays the same."
"I never expected my wedding to
create problems like this. It's hardly new—I've been betrothed to the heir to
Margolan's throne since I was born."
"But when the pact was made, we
didn't know you'd be the only heir to Isencroft's throne. Originally, the
marriage didn't create a joint kingdom. Years of drought and poor harvests did
that. Isencroft's a proud country. We've fought Margolan in the past to remain
independent. Some people see the marriage as handing over what many soldiers
died to protect."
Kiara sipped at the tea. "Can't they
see how bad things have gotten? We can't go on like this."
"People see what they want to
see," Donelan said from the doorway. "Personally, I'm glad to see you
worrying about policy. That means you're feeling better."
Kiara held out a hand. Donelan leaned down
and kissed her forehead. "Have they learned anything from the
attacker?" Kiara asked.
"Not as much as they hoped. Looks
like he acted on his own—although he's hardly the only one to hold those
ideas."
"I should have reacted faster. I
should have blocked him."
"Even the guards didn't see it
coming. Don't blame yourself. You're a fine fighter, Kiara.
But you're not going to be able to rely on your skill alone. Once you and Tris
are married, there'll be more than the usual pressure for an heir—especially
if Tris plans to fight the rebel lord in the Southern plains. If there's truth
to the rumors that Jared sired a bastard, the need for a legitimate heir will
be even stronger. Excellent fighter though you are, my dear, you cannot—dare
not—engage in single combat when you bear the child of the king." Donelan
looked away. "Tris will be more vulnerable until the child is born. Some
people would profit if he were to die in battle without an heir, or without an
heir of legal age. In Margolan, you won't be able to rule from behind the
throne as you did in Isencroft."
Kiara felt her stomach twist into a knot. We
may have been safer in hiding among the vayash moru than we'll be in the
open inside Shekerishet!
"What of Trevath and Nargi?"
"Both lands have challenged
Margolan's borders. Both have formidable armies. Curane's holdings are near
the Trevath border. While I doubt Trevath will be so bold as to send troops to
his aid, it'll be near enough that Trevath can see the strength of Margolan's
troops and decide whether the time is right to strike. I doubt Tris could be
victorious in a full war with Trevath just now."
"And Nargi?"
"Nargi and Trevath agree only on
their hatred of Margolan. If Trevath decides that Margolan's army is weak, an
alliance between Nargi and Trevath to strike and divide the spoils would almost
certainly be successful."
"And if Margolan fell? What of
Isencroft?"
Donelan gave a short, bitter laugh.
"Isen-croft's fate is now tied to Margolan. Our allies are on the far side
of Margolan. If Margolan falls to Nargi and Trevath, Principality, East-mark,
and Dhasson would have their own share of problems. They won't rescue us. The
raiders from the West or from across the Northern Sea would almost certainly
return within a season."
"So all our fates may turn on a
single decision," Kiara said.
Donelan met her eyes. "Or a single
arrow."
CHAPTER TEN
"ARE WE ready?" Lord Curane looked up at
the small group that surrounded his table.
In the center of the table was a large map
showing the manor house of Lochlanimar and the southern plains of Margolan.
Wooden markers stood where the Margolan army would soon camp. The five men
looked at each other and then back and him and nodded.
"As ready as we'll ever be."
Cathal, Lord Curane's seneschal, answered him.
"Except?"
"Sieges are unpredictable things,
m'lord. Many things can go wrong."
"That's what we have the mages
for."
Cathal pursed his lips, carefully
considering his words. "True enough. But it's easier to be the
siege-bringer than the besieged. Once an army is encamped, our options will be
limited."
Curane's voice made his annoyance clear.
"We have provisions enough for months. The springs beneath the manor give
us ample fresh water. The issue isn't our readiness—it's theirs. An army's
vulnerable while it sets up camp. We can strike early and take them off.guard.
The Margolan army is in tatters; its king is barely more than a boy. "
"He's a Summoner." General
Drostan's gravelly voice commanded attention. "Martris Drayke did, after
all, defeat King Jared's armies and Foor Arontala. He overcame the Obsidian
King and laid the spirits of the Ruune Videya forest to rest. It would be
dangerous to underestimate him."
Curane frowned. "Mage or not, he can die.
All the better if he falls before his own army, so that they can see his
defeat. Once Margolan's here, we can chip away at them at our leisure."
"This is business, gentlemen. Defeat
the boy-king of Margolan, and Jared's son takes the throne. While he's a child,
Margolan will need regents. We'll rule Margolan until he comes to the
throne—and afterward, through a puppet of our own making."
Drostan leaned back. "Your man in Margolan
failed."
Curane dismissed the comment. "We've
shown Drayke's vulnerability. And we've neatly
planted the seed that Trevath may be behind the attempt. So we may yet nudge
our reluctant King Nikolaj into action."
Drostan frowned. "Play the Trevath
card with care, Curane. King Nikolaj and Lord Monteith might strike a side bargain
that you don't like."
"Let me worry about Lord
Monteith."
"Neither Isencroft nor Dhasson would
allow Trevath to take Margolan unchallenged—for reasons of trade and alliance
as well as blood ties. Principality is likely to enter any war on the side of Margolan,
and the king of Eastmark is kin to King Martris's betrothed. A full war beggars
us all and invites attack from the Southlands or the Western raiders."
"Not everyone considers blood ties as
lightly as you do." Cadoc's voice made the others turn. The air mage was
dressed in gray robes the color of dark fog. His dark red hair looked like a
bloody skullcap, giving his skin less color than a fresh corpse.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Curane snapped.
"You had no second thoughts about
providing your granddaughter for Jared Drayke's pleasure when she was barely
of marriageable age."
"I secured a dynasty."
Cadoc raised one eyebrow. "In the
farmlands, men can be stoned for such arrangements. Kings and armies are not
so bloodless as you suppose. Isencroft and Dhas-son may choose war over gold
for those blood ties you find so useless. Gold won't buy everyone."
"It bought your service, didn't
it?" Curane growled. "And you shed plenty of blood serving Jared
Drayke. We'll see how much blood ties count. Martris Drayke can't possibly hold
out against our mages."
"What of the Margolan wedding?"
Drostan asked.
"I've got a man in position at
Shekerishet. Not only will there be no heir in Margolan, but more than a few of
the king's guests will go home in pieces. We'll see how much love the other
kingdoms have for Drayke then."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
King Martris
Drayke stood on the steps to Shekerishet. The heavy cloak
that protected him from the early Fall snows also hid his nervousness. Kiara's
carriages had just arrived from Isencroft, bearing King Donelan, the princess,
and her retinue. A lone figure stood on one of the castle balconies. Jonmarc.
He and Gabriel had arrived from Dark Haven two nights before, on the eve of the
heavy snows that now blanketed the Margolan landscape. Tris had stayed up late
with them, talking over a bottle of brandy.
Soterius pushed the crowd back from the
reception, keeping the well-wishers beyond bow range. The pomp Tris hated about
kingship swirled around him. Zachar had worn himself ill making certain
everything was perfectly according to protocol. Crevan, Zachar's assistant,
had to take over to give Zachar a needed rest before the wedding. Carroway was
beside himself with the sudden change, and his nervousness added to Tris's
apprehension.
Heralds blew their trumpets as King
Donelan's carriage approached. Every element was like an elaborately staged
play, including formal greetings that satisfied protocol but felt stilted and
awkward. As if I didn't have enough to be nervous about, meeting Kiara's
father for the first time!
King Donelan was tall and gaunt, but his
walk was purposeful. "Greetings, King Donelan," Tris said.
"Welcome."
"Hail, King Martris. Your welcome is
accepted."
Their eyes met. Tris felt his stomach
knot.
"I trust your journey was
uneventful?"
"Fortunately so." He gestured
toward the waiting carriages. "May I present my daughter, Princess
Kiara."
Trumpets blared. The crowd moved forward
for a look at the princess. Despite his best attempts to maintain a regal
indifference, Tris could not keep from smiling. Two footmen helped Kiara from
the carriage, through Tris knew she could swing down from the saddle of a
battle steed unassisted. Gone were the tunic and trews Kiara had favored on
their journey, as well as her sword. A gown of pale blue showed beneath the
white furs of her traveling cloak,
brushing the snowy ground as she walked.
Her auburn hair was elaborately coiffed, glistening with gems and pearls. She
met his eyes, and Tris could tell she also chafed at the formalities.
Donelan took Kiara's arm. Gathering her
skirts, Kiara slowly ascended the stairs, making a low bow as she came two
steps below where Tris was standing. "Greetings, your majesty," she
said, head bowed and eyes averted.
So much for being allowed to remain two
nobodies from nowhere.
"We are graced by the honor of your
presence, your highness," Tris replied, extending his hand for Kiara to
clasp as she rose to stand. If she startled at the note that he passed to her
in his palm, her face gave away nothing, although he thought he saw a glitter
of amusement in her eyes.
"Come in, warm yourselves, and be
comfortable," Tris welcomed them. The other carriages were now unloading
their passengers, and Tris glimpsed Cam and Carina among the entourage. He was
certain he saw Carina glance toward where Jonmarc stood, but by then, Crevan
was leading the way into Sheker-ishet. Compared to all this nonsense, I
almost prefer rappelling in from the top, the way we did when we fought fared.
Storming the castle was easier than satisfying the diplomats!
"It's been many years since I visited
Sheker-ishet," Donelan said as they entered. "Your father was an excellent hunter.
I've missed him this autumn, when there are stag aplenty in the forest."
Tris smiled, taking Kiara's arm. "I
don't think I ever saw father happier than on a hunt. And I know that he
enjoyed your hunts together, although I suspect the stag got bigger with each
retelling!"
There was no time for private
conversation. Crevan led them to a dining room where a table lay glittering
with all the formal settings that Jared had not pillaged. Servants bustled
around them, seating each person in the order court protocol demanded. Tris
hoped that his desire to be done with formalities was not plain in his face.
"Your shoulder is feeling better, I
hope?" Donelan asked casually.
Of course Donelan bad heard about the
assassin. He's got spies in Shekerishet, just as Margolan has spies in each of
the other kingdoms, friendly or not. It's just good business—never mind that he's sending his daughter into a kingdom that's
barely stable.
"Mending well, thank you," Tris
replied.
"Most unfortunate. Such things happen
in difficult times," Donelan replied.
Tris lifted his goblet, and the others
followed his lead. "To peace and prosperity."
"To peace and prosperity."
When the meal finally ended, Tris felt relieved. Cam grinned at him and surreptitiously
tapped a flask at his belt, an invitation for Tris to stop by for a drink when
time permitted.
King Harrol of Dhasson made a less formal
entrance, as boisterous as Tris recalled from his fostering. Seeing his aunt,
Queen Jinelle, Bricen's sister, made Tris feel a sudden pang of loss. Jinelle
had Bricen's eyes and her laugh reminded Tris so much of Bricen that it brought
a tear to his eye.
"There you are! Look at you. A king.
I shudder to think." Jair Rothlandorn of Dhasson slapped Tris on the
back.
"Glad you made it. You look very
official," Tris said, taking in Jair's well-tailored clothing and the
circlet that marked him as the Dhasson heir to the throne. "Don't tell me
you've become a responsible member of the royal family."
Jair was just as tall as Tris but
stockier, and although Jair's features showed his Dhassonian heritage, there
was no mistaking the family resemblance. "Spent the last year fighting
those bloody magicked beasts out on the border." Tris saw a fresh scar
across Jair's right cheek. "Heard tell they were meant for you."
"We met up with a few of them
ourselves."
"So where's your bride-to-be? I came
prepared with plenty
of stories from
your fostering. Father says he can add a few of his own. Although,"
he said with a conspiratorial glance toward King Harrol, "truth be told,
father never really knew the best ones."
Tris laughed. Jair, just two years older,
had shared Tris's love for adventure, much to King Harrol's chagrin. "I'll
introduce you to Kiara at the reception. By then it'll be too late."
Jair clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"I've heard some of what you had to go through to free Margolan. I'm sure
the news that reached Dhasson is only half the story. I'm sorry about Uncle
Bricen, Aunt Serae, and Kait."
"Thanks." Tris managed a sad
smile. "Now, get going before you miss the entertainment. Carroway will
never forgive me if I hold up the guests."
King Staden and Princess Berwyn arrived
from Principality before nightfall. "The least a mage of your power could
do is magic-up some better weather!" Staden joked, embracing Tris like a
son. "Won't be too long before the mountain passes close altogether. Of
course, I guess it assures you that your northern company won't stay too
long."
"Is Jonmarc here?" Berry asked.
She was dressed for court in a gown of dark green Mussa silk accented with
pearls. A fine headpiece of gold mesh covered her auburn hair. It was difficult
to look at the young lady on Staden's arm and remember the tomboy
captive Tris and his companions had freed
from the slavers less than a year ago.
Tris laughed. "Yes, he's here. And I
imagine Carina won't mind too awfully much if you claim a dance or two with
him. Just between us, I think Jonmarc's going to propose to her any day
now."
Berry beamed and clapped, forgetting
herself enough to give a little hop of glee. "I hope you're right!"
She returned the conspiratorial whisper. "You know, Kiara and I have been
working on that project for a while now."
"I never doubted it for a
moment," Tris replied.
"Your majesty," Crevan
interrupted as Tris greeted a long line of well-wishers. Tris caught Carroway's
eye, signaling for the musicians to begin early. "We have unexpected
guests."
"Who?"
"King Kalcen of Eastmark—and his
entire retinue," Crevan replied.
"That's a first, isn't it?"
"King Radomar, Kalcen's father, never
forgave Bricen for the marriage pact between Margolan and Isencroft. We've had
ambassadors in Eastmark, but there's been no meeting between the crowns of
Margolan and East-mark in over twenty years. We issued the invitation out of
politeness, but I never expected them to come."
Tris drew a deep breath and squared his
shoulders. He wanted nothing so much as the chance to slip off somewhere far
removed from the politics of court to talk privately with Kiara. That was
unlikely to happen for many hours. "Well, they're here. Let's make sure we
don't start another war."
Tris waited outside of the great hall
until Crevan and the heralds properly announced his arrival. He was nervous at
the prospect of meeting Kalcen. Eastmark was, if not exactly secretive,
intensely private. It was well known for its military expertise and did a brisk
trade, but its people kept their own counsel. Few outsiders fully understood
Eastmark's ways.
The doors swung open.
"Greetings, King Kalcen," Tris
said with a perfunctory bow.
"Greetings, King Martris,"
Kalcen returned. "We would have liked to have arrived sooner, but snow is
already deep in Eastmark; The passes were treacherous."
"Thanks to the Lady in all Her Faces
for your safe travel," Tris replied.
King Kalcen of Eastmark w.as an imposing
figure. He stood slightly taller than Tris, among the tallest of the guests in
attendance, and he was at least fifteen seasons older. His dark skin, the color
of brewed kerif, made it clear that Eastmark's ruling nobility and
unbroken line of kings were descended from the fearsome nomadic warriors of the
far Southeastern plains. Long, raven-black hair framed an
angular face. Around
Kalcen's
broad shoulders was a cape of black stawar
fur. Beneath the cape, Kalcen wore flowing robes of deep ochre, and a
clavicle of gold set with large precious gems lay below his throat. Gold
glittered on each finger, and wide gold cuffs finely wrought with runes stacked
up each arm. Kalcen's crown showed a roaring stawar crafted of gold.
The left side of Kalcen's face was marked
with a complicated design tattooed into his skin: a sigil, Tris knew, that told
both rank and ancestry. Between the gold cuffs and the ochre sleeves, Tris
glimpsed more complicated markings. To prove his worthiness for the crown,
Kalcen would have had to endure a series of mystic visions and quests, each more
brutal and dangerous than the last. Completing a quest earned him the right to
have part of his family's history tattooed into his skin, a living tapestry and
a testament to his endurance, bravery, and strength. Tris thought of all the
new scars he had gained in his own quest for the throne. He did not envy Kalcen
his journey.
Kalcen's eyes were so black that it was
difficult to see their center. Tris felt the faint tingle of magic. "I
would meet the man who weds my niece."
He's truthsensing, Tris realized, recognizing the prickle of magic. He sensed no threat,
and permitted Kalcen his light mental touch. Kalcen seemed uninterested in the
pleasantries of protocol. Rather than take offense, Tris felt relieved. "I
love Kiara with all my heart," Tris said. "I would give my life to
keep her from harm." Tris hoped the other was satisfied with what he
sensed.
"Even in Eastmark, I've heard much
about you, Bricen's son. For the sake of my late sister, Queen Viata of
Isencroft, I come to pay my respects."
Tris gave a formal bow. "You are most
welcome. We're honored by your presence."
Kalcen had a direct gaze that held nothing
back, and Tris found himself liking this unexpected visitor. "Old ways
are changing in the Winter Kingdoms. Our world is not the world our fathers
knew. Our ways cannot be their ways. This marriage creates a blood bond among
Margolan, Eastmark, and Isencroft. Such bonds are not made lightly."
"I agree. It's time to make a new
bond from what our fathers put aside. These are dangerous times."
"My seer dreamt of a great storm
looming on the horizon, breaking over the Margolan mountains to the South. Even
he was not sure of the dream's meaning, but it bodes darkly. Your power as a
Summoner is known even in Eastmark. But the living are sometimes more to be
feared than the dead."
"Then let's enjoy today," Tris
replied.
"Well said, King Martris. Now, my
companions and I would take our rest. We've had a long journey."
Crevan came immediately from where he
stood near the doors. Tris made his farewell and took his leave. Kalcen's
warning kept him preoccupied for many hours, while he received the banal
greetings of the nobles who still waited for their moment with the king.
Alone in his guest room, Jonmarc Vahanian paced. He listened to the courtyard bells
chime the eighth hour. It would be three more until Carina would be free of
official duties. Time passed far too slowly. He felt for the velvet pouch in
his pocket that held the shevir. He'd know soon enough when he saw
Carina whether he had any chance of getting her to accept the betrothal token. Gabriel's
right. There's no reason to think she's changed her mind. She's wintering at
Dark Haven—now I just have to get her to make that a permanent
arrangement.
The knock at his door made Jonmarc glance
up sharply, and his hand fell to the pommel of his sword. Cautiously, he opened
the door.
"May I come in?" King Donelan of
Isencroft stood framed in the doorway.
Caught completely off guard, Jonmarc managed
to step aside. "Sure. Come in. Your majesty."
Up close, Donelan was even more impressive
than he had seemed at a distance. His hair was a darker auburn than Kiara's and
his complexion was more fair. Donelan's recent illness showed in his eyes.
"So you're Jonmarc Vahanian,"
Donelan said, planting his hands on his hips. "Kiara and Cam have told me
quite a bit about you."
"I hope that's a good thing."
Donelan's dark eyes were shrewd, and Jonmarc
felt like an item for sale at a bazaar. "I understand you're the new Lord
of Dark Haven."
"Very new."
"And you wear your sword, even in
your friend's palace."
Jonmarc shrugged. . "'King's Sword.'
Tris made the title up just so I had an excuse to wear my sword whenever I'm
around him. Makes him feel safer that way." He shook his head. "I'll
admit—after storming the battlements to get in here just last summer, it's a
bit strange to walk in through the front door. And I spent six weeks healing my
bones in' these rooms. I feel as if I never left."
"Kiara's told me some of what
happened during that battle—although I suspect that she's minimized the more
dangerous parts that involved her." Donelan cleared his throat. "I'll
come straight to the point. Carina's like a daughter to me. I'm concerned for
her happiness. I've given Carina leave to winter in Dark Haven. But before she
goes, I would know— what are your intentions toward her?"
Any flippant remark that might have
crossed Jonmarc's mind died in his throat at the look in Donelan's eyes. His
mouth went dry. "I love
her," he said, finding his heart
beating as quickly as if he were riding into battle. "I want to marry
her."
Donelan regarded him in silence for a
moment. "Your reputation is not unknown— even in Isencroft. I've heard
about Chauvrenne, and about later...escapades. What of the bounty
hunters?"
Jonmarc drew a deep breath. "I've
paid off the hunters. Tris lifted the bounty Jared set. Everything's
settled—except for Eastmark."
"Kiara told me about that, too. I've
asked King Kalcen to remove the bounty." The king took a step closer to
Jonmarc, and his dark eyes blazed. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear.
I'm entrusting Carina to your protection. If she's in any way dishonored, I'll
personally set a bounty that will bring every hunter in the Winter Kingdoms to
your doorstep. Am I understood?"
"Completely, your majesty."
Just as quickly as he had grown serious,
Donelan brightened. "Very well then, that's done. Now—I understand you're
partial to river rum. How about a drink?"
Kiara waited in her room, looking out the mullioned window at the bonfires that blazed
in the courtyard below. Jae perched on her shoulder. She stroked the little
gyregon absently, deep in thought. So much had changed since the night she and
the others had battled Jared and Arontala within these same walls. Kiara
listened to the bells chime the ninth hour, waiting for Donelan to escort her
to yet another party in her honor. Carroway had done himself proud with the
festivities; the ball would go on well into the night.
A knock at the door roused her from her
thoughts. Jae fluttered, instantly alert. Kiara opened the door carefully,
keeping a hand near the dagger she concealed in a sheath beneath her sleeve.
King Kalcen of Eastmark stood in the hallway
outside the open door. "You're every bit your mother's daughter."
"Your majesty!" Kiara managed, remembering
to curtsey. "Please, come into the sitting room. I was waiting for
Father."
Kiara looked at the man whom she knew only
through letters. She could see Viata in Kalcen's features. He had the same dark
-eyes that Kiara had inherited from her mother, the same beautiful brown skin,
and the same scent of musky incense that had often clung to his letters, a
scent Kiara identified with Viata. Everything about Kalcen seemed at once exotic
and heartbreakingly familiar. Kiara did not know whether to laugh or cry.
"My dear, it is so good to finally
see you with my own eyes. The portrait you sent doesn't do you justice."
Kiara blushed and looked down, accepting
Kalcen's hand as they moved to sit by the fire.
Jae hopped down from her shoulder and
sniffed at Kalcen, who reached down to gently touch the gyregon. Satisfied, Jae
curled up by the fireside. "I can't believe you're really here."
Kalcen grinned. "I nearly didn't
accept the invitation from Margolan. But I couldn't pass up the invitation from
you." He looked at her for a moment in silence.
"There's a lifetime of things to tell
you, and our time is short. But I came for Viata's sake as much as yours. Our
father was a great warrior and a good king in many ways. But he was also a man
of his times, fixed in some ideas that have outlived their usefulness. I think
at the end he may have regretted the way he treated Viata, but he was too proud
to ask forgiveness. I've tried, while striving to follow in his footsteps, to
also learn from his mistakes."
Kiara bit her lip. "Mother missed you
terribly," she said finally, her voice catching. She spoke Markian, and
Kalcen looked up, surprised. "She rarely spoke of her father. But for all
the years she lived in Isencroft, she never stopped being of Eastmark. It was in
her blood. And while she did everything she could to adjust to her new home, I
think she would have been happier knowing that Eastmark was still open to
her."
"That you speak our tongue like a
native is all the witness I need to know you speak truly. I was just a boy when
Viata and Donelan eloped. I was heartbroken—I loved her so dearly. And I
watched Father's anger with horror, terrified that something awful would
happen. I didn't really understand that we nearly went to war. I only knew that
Vi might be hurt."
"All those years,' you wrote to
her."
"Not an easy thing—I had to have the
letters smuggled into and out of Eastmark. Father would have had a fit if he'd
known. He was not a forgiving person," he said with a thin smile.
"When I learned of her death, I grieved alone. Father had held her funeral
years before—when she married an outlander."
Old anger flared up inside Kiara.
"Why was that such a crime? Mother wouldn't speak of it, but how could
that bring the Winter Kingdoms to the brink of war?"
Kalcen looked at the fire for so long that
Kiara was afraid he might not speak. "East-mark is an old kingdom and a
proud people," he said finally. "The Kings of Eastmark can trace our
lineage back to the ancient days, to the warlords of the Southern Plains. The
old tales say that when our people found the lands that would become Eastmark,
they brought with them the Stawar God, one of the Old Gods who are lost now.
The Lady wouldn't grant us peace until the Stawar God consented to be her
consort. That's why we worship the Lover. The memory of the Stawar God has
faded. But he gave us His skin as a token to remember who we are.
"The old legends say that you can
tell the honor and the strength of a man by the darkness of his skin—that
those who are most like the fierce, wise, brave Stawar God are given His mark.
And for generations, although East-mark allowed others to serve and live and
trade in its kingdom, intermarriage with an outlander was punishable by death.
We were jealous guards of the Stawar God's mark."
Kiara was acutely aware of how pale she
seemed in comparison to Kalcen, although in Isencroft she was as tawny as those
who made their living out of doors. "It was unthinkable when Viata ran
away with an outlander, even one whose reputation was as fine as Donelan's.
Father couldn't believe that someone not of our blood could be as brave, as
wise, or as strong as the sons of Eastmark." He met her eyes
apologetically. "There's a word in our language I won't repeat. But it
summed up what Father believed of outlanders."
"Sathirinim" Kiara murmured, and Kalcen flinched as she said it. "Corpse flesh.
I heard the Eastmark ambassador say it once to Mother, before she banished him
from the palace."
"Old ways die hard, Kiara,"
Kalcen's dark eyes searched hers for understanding. "I make no excuses for
Father. He held his beliefs sincerely. But he was sincerely wrong."
Kalcen took her hand in both of his. "It was the threat of war with
Margolan that made Father back down. Even in his last years, he dreamed that he
might somehow spirit you away from Isen-croft and marry you to one of the
Eastmark nobles, reinstating the blood." Kalcen looked down and shook his
head. "I knew my sister. I knew that Vi would choose a good man, a man who
would be as fine a king as our ancestors. Later, when I was grown and went to
battle, I saw that our hired outland troops bled the same color as our own, and
fought with the same valor. And 1 knew that the measure of a man couldn't be
taken by the darkness of his skin.
"Still, it's one thing to know
something in your head. It's another to know it in your heart. And so I came
for Viata's sake to see you and to meet King Martris. I had to know for myself
whether he was a man of honor. My seers talk of storms and darkness. I believe
it's time for Eastmark to forge the alliances Father would not consider.
Donelan and I have become allies. Staden and I are just beginning to talk. I
hope that Margolan and Eastmark can sign an accord." He looked earnestly
into her eyes. "For your sake, as well as Vi's. It's time to let go of the
old ways."
"Mother never spoke clearly of the
real reasons for the rift—now I see why. I don't know what to think—but I'm
glad you're here."
"I wish Viata could know that I've
never forgotten her—and that she's done more to shape Eastmark's future than
she could have ever-realized."
"I know someone who can arrange for
you to tell her."
Kalcen caught his breath. "Then it's
really true—your young man is a Summoner?"
Despite herself, Kiara laughed. "You
know, that's exactly what Mother said when Tris met her—'is this your young
man?'" She dried her tears on her sleeve. "Let me ask Tris to call
her." Kiara stood and walked to the door. A whispered word to one of the
guards sent a servant running to bring the king.
Tris came more quickly than Kiara
expected. There was disappointment in his eyes when he realized she wasn't
alone.
"I know you've met formally,"
Kiara said, taking Tris's hand and bringing him into the room. "But I'd
like you to meet as family." Kalcen and Tris both made a nod of acknowledgement
toward the other. "And I was hoping that you would call for Mother,"
Kiara said. "It would mean a lot to me."
Tris glanced from Kiara to Kalcen and back
again, and then nodded. Kiara let go of his hand and Tris closed his eyes,
stretching out his mage sense on the Plains of Spirit. He reached out with one
hand, extending the invitation. The air in the room grew cold, as if someone
had flung open a window to the snowy night. A fine mist gradually solidified
into a shape, and then into an image of Viata. Kiara smiled. Behind her, she
heard Kalcen gasp.
"I was with Donelan when you called
me," the spirit said. "It's good that we're all together once
more."
"Viata!" Kalcen gave a strangled
cry and stepped forward. Viata moved to embrace her brother, gliding toward him
and wrapping her insubstantial arms around him. "I never thought I'd see
you again. I've missed you more than you can imagine."
Viata looked at Kalcen with great
fondness. Now that they stood together, the resemblance between the two was
unmistakable. "My little brother is now the King of East-mark," Viata
said, reaching out as if to clasp Kalcen's hand.
"The day I took the throne I struck
down the law that kept you from coming home," Kalcen said, seeking
forgiveness in the ghost's eyes. "It was too late for you. But it will
never'tear another family apart. And now, because of you, because of Kiara,
Eastmark is looking outward, taking a role among equals in the Winter Kingdoms.
I believe it was the Lady's hand that brought you to Isencroft," Kalcen
said. "I only wish She.had allowed you to see what good became of
it."
"I'm only dead—not truly
absent," Viata said, reaching out to touch Kalcen's face. "I've
watched you grow to be a man—and a king. I am very proud of what you've done. I
wish I were among the living. But you'll always have my love."
The ghost faded from view and Tris
relaxed, letting out a deep breath as he lowered his arm and opened his eyes.
Kalcen stared at him. "So it is true. The mage heir of Bava K'aa. Even
in Eastmark, we knew of her power. I'd heard the stories about your magic, but
I didn't dare believe—until now."
Tris smiled.. Kiara moved next to him and
slipped an arm around his waist. "Nothing I conjure up surprises Kiara
anymore," Tris said. "She's gotten used to it by now."
"Thank you." Kiara gave him a
squeeze. "I didn't mean to pull you away from more important things."
"You got me out of that interminable
receiving line—that was good enough for me."
"If you're not anxious to go back
immediately, I have another favor to ask," said Kalcen.
"Glad to do it—we still have half a
candle-mark before the ball, and I think I've shaken every hand in the
kingdom."
"Donelan has asked me to forgive an
old death warrant, one my father wrote during the Troubled Times. I'm willing
to do so, but first, I would look on the man before I pardon him."
Kiara and Tris exchanged glances.
"How can I help?"
"I would appreciate your introduction
to Jonmarc Vahanian."
"I'll be glad to take you to him.
Probably best that way—Jonmarc's reflexes are pretty
fast, and I'd hate for him to guess wrong
about your intentions." Tris kissed Kiara's hand in parting, wishing for a
more private goodbye, then he led the way to the corridor. Guards fell into
step behind them—both his own bodyguards and Kalcen's. The hallway was crowded
as servants bustled with last minute preparations and guests hurried to their
destinations. Tris hoped that Jonmarc hadn't already gone to the ballroom, and
was pleased to hear a response to his knock at the door. Tris positioned
himself so that he would be the first thing Jonmarc saw as the door opened.
"Every time I open my door tonight,
there's a king outside," Jonmarc grumbled good-naturedly. "Hello,
Tris." Jonmarc was dressed for the evening's ball in the black doublet and
pants he preferred for court occasions, and a claret waistcoat that Tris bet
matched Carina's gown. His sword hung at his belt. Tris was sure that it was
not the only weapon hidden under Jonmarc's coat.
"I have a visitor for you," Tris
said. He stepped aside, and saw Jonmarc's eyes widen as he recognized
Eastmark's king.
"Your majesty," Jonmarc said
tightly, with a quick glance toward Tris. "Is this a friendly visit, or am
I under arrest?"
"May we step inside?" Tris
asked.
"Sure. Why not."
Jonmarc stepped aside warily, and Tris saw
that while he did not reach for his sword, his hand
never strayed far from its pommel. Probably best if I stay for this, Tris
thought. I'd bate to see Jonmarc lose bis pardon by running Kalcen through.
Kalcen gave Jonmarc a look of appraisal.
"So you're the hero of Chauvrenne," he said in Markian.
"I was there," Jonmarc replied
in the same language, with a heavy Margolense accent.
"Foor Arontala tried to destroy you
at Chauvrenne. You knew him for what he was—and you knew his power. Yet you
returned with Martris Drayke to face him again. Why?"
Jonmarc was silent for a moment, his gaze
locked with Kalcen's. Once more, Tris felt the tingle of magic that told him
Kalcen was truth-sensing. For a mortal, Jonmarc was exceptionally resistant to
mind magic, but he hoped Jonmarc had the good sense to permit Kalcen's touch.
"Arontala killed my wife. He hanged my men. I had a score to settle."
Kalcen's gaze fell to the scar that ran
from below Jonmarc's ear down under the collar of his shirt, and lingered on
the two faint parallel scars that were the mark of a Nargi fighting slave
collar. "In Eastmark, we have great regard for warriors," Kalcen
said. "And although we have no love for the Nargi, your skill in combat
against their champions is legendary. Istra has chosen you as Lord of Dark
Haven, and you have become an ally of kings.
"My father was slow to recognize
General Alcion's treachery. He didn't know that Arontala was behind the
General's rise, nor did he realize Alcion had set his sights on the throne of
Eastmark—until the revolt at Chau-vrenne. When the army learned what Alcion had
done, there was an uprising. It was the beginning of Alcion's fall—and it may
have prevented a civil war."
Jonmarc's eyes were hard. "My men
were hanged for refusing to murder civilians. Alcion burned the village anyhow.
If you're so bloody grateful, why keep my death warrant on the books for ten
years?"
"Nothing can change their
sacrifice—that's true. As for the death warrant—Father believed you dead at the
hands of the Nargi. I only recently learned otherwise. The warrant has been
struck from the books. You're pardoned."
Tris saw a mixture of anger and old pain
in Jonmarc's dark eyes. No one spoke. Finally, Jonmarc drew a deep breath and
nodded. "Thank you."
Kalcen grinned with unexpected humor, his
white teeth a contrast against his dark skin. "Donelan tells me that you
plan to marry his ward. That would make you kin to both him and to Martris
Drayke. You're already liegeman to Staden. I suspect there would be protest if
I tried to clap you in irons. Although I would relish a go in the salle—they
say your skill is the best in a generation."
"If you're as good as Kiara, you
might give me a run for my money. But I still won most of my matches with
her."
Kalcen laughed. "Eastmark is open to
you now. When you return North, come to visit. We'll see about that time in the
salle."
Outside, the bells tolled the tenth hour.
"We're all due in the ballroom," Tris said, moving for the door.
"And as the host, I'm late. We'll see you—and Carina—later?"
Jonmarc nodded. "We'll be
there."
Shekerishet's
great room sparkled with mirrors and candlelight.
Carroway's musicians played tunes that kept the guests on their feet, twirling
in finely-clothed pairs to more sedate numbers, or dancing in boisterous groups
to more lively songs. Although Carina was seated between Cam and Jonmarc at the
table, the press of people and the obligations of court prevented any real
conversation. Jonmarc chafed at the delay. Everyone assumed that Carina would
accept his proposal, but he had yet to have the opportunity to have any kind of
private discussion.
Remembering the assassin in the
Winterstide crowd, Jonmarc wore a shirt of fine gauge mail beneath his court
clothes. It had been Gabriel's suggestion. The shirt, made by vayash moru craftsmen,
was lighter and stronger than anything he had ever worn in combat. If Carina
guessed, she said nothing, although her choice of gown harked back to her
observation that red would be less likely to show blood.
Near the front of the great room, Tris and
Kiara greeted well-wishers. "When they took to the dance floor, Jonmarc
noted that Soterius's guards made sure that a circle of floor was clear around
them. Ban's not taking any chances on a repeat of Winterstide. Can't say I
blame him.
Gabriel and Mikhail stood near the back,
talking with Riqua and Rafe. Astasia and Uri were notably absent. Jonmarc let
the conversation buzz around him as he scanned the room for danger. As the
time wore on without incident, he relaxed, just a little. After meeting
Donelan and Kalcen, he felt as if he'd already run a dangerous gauntlet. But
the nervousness he felt in the pit of his stomach had nothing to do with kings.
Until he'd had the chance to talk privately with Carina, he doubted he could
truly relax.
That opportunity finally came after the
eleventh bells. Carina excused herself claiming exhaustion from the long trip,
and asked Jonmarc to accompany her back to her rooms. Two guards fell into
step behind them, but kept back a respectful distance. They said little until
they reached Carina's door, and she-invited him into the sitting room. The door
closed behind them, and Carina breathed a sigh of relief.
"Finally! I didn't think we would
ever be free of the crowd."
Jonmarc drew her into his arms. She
stretched up on tiptoe to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck. For a
moment, he was lost in the scent of her dark hair, the press of her body
against his. "I missed you."
She took his hand in both of hers and held
it close to her chest, bending down to kiss his fingers. "I missed you,
too."
"You've brought what you need to
winter at Dark Haven?"
"Enough that Kiara joked that I
hadn't left anything in the palace," Carina laughed, her green eyes
bright. "You said there hadn't been a real healer in Dark Haven for years.
I packed everything I could, assuming I'd be busy."
Jonmarc pulled her close once more.
"Oh, you'll be busy," he murmured, bending to kiss her again. She
leaned into him and he tangled his fingers in her short, dark hair. This time,
her kiss brought a warmth that carried with it a tingle of magic. When she
stepped back, her eyes searched his.
"You're worried. What's wrong?"
"You never told me healers could read
minds," he joked, trying to change the subject.
"We can't read minds—we read bodies.
Bodies don't lie. What's the matter?"
Long ago, when he was a soldier, he'd
heard rumors about what it meant to fall in love with a healer. The men he'd
camped with were as much in fear of healers' supposed abilities to read minds
as they were desirous of the ways a healer could turn his or her gift to other,
more seductive uses. He'd dismissed it, especially the men who swore that
taking a healer as a lover could ensnare a man's soul. Since none of the
healers who traveled with the army made personal attachments, he'd assumed
they weren't free to do so. Now he wondered whether the rumors had a grain of
truth to them, and whether the healers who had remained alone did so out of
choice.
"Afraid you'd changed your mind, I
guess. About coming to Dark Haven."
Carina reached up to touch the back of his
neck, letting the warmth of her magic loosen his knotted muscles. "I love
you, Jonmarc. That hasn't changed."
"I have something for you." He
reached inside his vest and withdrew the small velvet pouch. "Go on. Open
it."
When the delicate silver bracelet fell
into her palm, she gasped, her green eyes wide. "It's beautiful."
He took the bracelet from her hand and
slipped it onto her left wrist. ."It's a shevir, a blood oath that
I'll always come for you. I love you, Carina. Marry me. Dark Haven needs a lady
and so does its lord." Riding into pitched battle didn't seem to require
as much courage as the next few seconds.
"Yes." Her green eyes glistened
with tears. "Yes."
He kissed her again, finding that her
answer did more than any magic to release the worry
that had gnawed at him these past few
months. Nothing else mattered, not the royal wedding celebrations or the long
journey back to Dark Haven, or even the feuding of the Blood Council. Nothing
mattered at all right now, except her answer. A knock startled them both. Reluctantly,
Carina stepped back and opened the door. A page stood outside. "Lady
Carina, sorry to bother you, but one of the ladies has taken sick and Healer
Cerise is with King Donelan."
She glanced back at Jonmarc with a look of
resignation. "Go ahead," he said. "It's late. Just make sure
those guards go wherever you go." He kissed her on the forehead.
"Where are your guards?" she
teased.
Jonmarc patted the pommel of his sword.
"King's Sword, remember? Be careful, Carina. Even here. Don't take any
chances."
She gave him a kiss on the cheek and the
guards moved forward to escort her and the page down the corridor. "I
promise. Stay out of trouble."
He grinned. "That's one promise I
can't make."
When the bells tolled three, the castle was quiet. Even the hardiest of the party-goers
had retired to their rooms, and the corridors were empty of servants. Kiara
slipped through the outer door of Cerise's chamber, managing to elude the
guards who dutifully watched her door. She had changed from her elaborate gown
into a shift, and her hair was back in a simple braid. She padded down the back
corridor usually reserved for servants. Tightly held in her palm was the slip
of paper Tris had passed to her. Meet me after the third bells by the hearth
in the kitchen.
In the stairwell, she listened for a
moment to make sure the kitchen was empty. The large cooking fires had been
banked, and the kitchen was warm from the glowing embers. Pots, pans, and
serving trays all awaited a resumption of festivities the following morning.
Pies and cakes stood ready on a side table, and a fresh batch of apples,
cabbages, and potatoes sat in bins awaiting the arrival of the morning servants.
"Hungry, dearie?"
Kiara wheeled to see a stooped old woman
whose grin showed her mottled teeth. "Looking for a bite of bread or some
cheese and sausage?"
"No thank you," Kiara said.
"I'm supposed to meet someone—"
"King Martris will be coming down
those back stairs any minute now, I wager. Been doing it since he was a
boy—sneaking down to get some food, or to patch up what damage that demon Jared
would do. I'm Bian. Looked after the king since he was born. Do the same for
your young'uns too, when they come." She laughed. "Oh
yes, dearie, I recognize you
without your pretty gown. S'bout time our
boy found a bride for himself. Can't tell you how glad I am that he's picked a
girl with some spunk. But you'd best be careful wandering alone at night.
Always some rats afoot in a castle this size, if you take my meaning."
Bian limped toward the other side of the kitchen. The old woman turned a corner
and disappeared from sight.
Just then, Kiara heard footsteps on the
stairs. Tris stepped into the dim light of the kitchen. He was dressed in a
tunic and trews, looking much more like the outlaw tent rigger she had met on
the road to Westmarch. "I see you read my note."
"I shudder to think what Zachar would
have thought," Kiara said as Tris stepped nearer and wrapped his arms
around her.
"I couldn't wait to see you
alone." He smoothed her hair back from her face. She reached up to touch
the white blond hair that fell loose to his shoulders, playfully twisting it
around her fingers. "Do you think it's too late to elope?"
Kiara sighed. "Goddess True! I wish
we could. I can't breathe or move in those gowns. I'd rather wear armor! What I
wouldn't give to slip out the back, steal a couple of horses and ride off to
some little hamlet where we could get a hedge witch to marry us."
"I've been thinking the same thing
myself all day. You haven't had to shake hands with every noble in the Winter
Kingdoms. I've talked myself hoarse and said absolutely nothing." He took
her hands in his. "As for eloping, I've come as close as we can. It's tradition
for us to spend tomorrow night here in Shekerishet. But after that, since the
guests will all be leaving, I've arranged for us to slip out of the castle to
father's lodge. Just us and a few dozen guards."
"At least the guards are on our side
this time. And for once, we'll have a room to ourselves!"
He kissed her again, and Kiara let herself
enjoy the moment. It seemed like it had been forever since she'd felt his
touch. They drew apart after a long while, and she turned, leaning back
against him as he wrapped his arms around her. They watched the fire, content
to be together.
"Is it true, that you'll have to go
to war?"
"Lord Curane's holed up in his castle
on the Southern Plains. He's got men with him who backed Jared—nobles, mages
and generals. I can't afford to let them stay there."
"So—more pressure than usual for an
heir."
Tris turned her to face him. "I'm
sorry Kiara. I never wanted the crown to intrude like this."
Kiara reached up to touch his cheek. She
could see how the weight of kingship wore on Tris. He looked worn, and there
was worry in his green eyes. "You don't have to carry the burdens of the
crown yourself. Whatever comes, I want to share it with you. As for the
heir... Carina used her gift to make sure
things are as... favorable... as possible. Said that's something healers are
good at—and that out in the villages, half of their work is helping people
have babies, and the other half is keeping them from having too many!"
Tris tipped her chin up. "All that matters
is that .you're here now. We're together. Let's take things one day at a time.
Today's all we've really got anyway, isn't it?" He kissed her then, and
whatever she might have responded went unsaid.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A candle mark
before dawn, Tris was dressed once more in full formal
regalia. A gold circlet glistened in the candlelight against his white hair,
and his high starched collar scratched his neck. As much as he had argued with
Crevan and Carroway for more practical attire, in the end, he gave in to
tradition. The wide lace cuffs of the formal shirt brushed the back of his
hands. Beneath the heavy cloak, he wore a satin waistcoat beneath a matching
long coat in midnight blue, Margolan's traditional color for weddings. At his
throat was a golden pendant, one of the crown jewels Jared hadn't sold off. His
sword hung at his belt. A heavy fur cloak protected him against the bitter
cold as he waited outside Shekerishet's main doors; he credited the sweat that
ran down his back more to nerves than to his clothing.
Presenting gifts at the shrine of the
Mother and Childe was the first formal act of the royal wedding day, and as
happy as Tris was for the day to have finally arrived, he was nearly as nervous
as when he'd prepared to take the castle by storm. Just as the royal coach drew
up to the front steps, Kiara walked through the castle doors. She wore a golden
tiara with the crest of the House of Isencroft, and a sweeping fur. cloak that
almost reached the ground. Her long hair was swept back in an elaborate knot,
and the dark blue gown that peeked from beneath the cloak was one of many she
would wear this day. She gave him a nervous smile and took his hand as they
descended the steps, surrounded by guards.
"Once you're in the coach, stay
there," Soterius said under his breath as he came up beside Tris. "I
don't like moving the two of you together in the dark like this. I know you can
both hold your own in a fight. But today, if anything goes wrong, let the
professionals handle it for you."
So many torches flared that it was nearly
as bright as daylight; Tris guessed that Soterius was making sure no one could
hide in the shadows. "How fast are your horses?"
"The fastest in the stables. One
sniff that anything is wrong and your driver has orders to ride like the
Formless One Herself is after you."
"Let's hope we don't need to worry
about it," Tris said as the guards formed a corridor
for them to enter the carriage. A dozen
mounted guards waited on powerful war steeds. There's a fine line between
caution and paranoia. If Ban keeps this up, he'll have our guests jittery
before we ever get to the ceremony.
"I've taken my own precautions."
Mikhail's voice startled Tris. "Some of Lord Gabriel's household will be
near the road in the forest and around the perimeter of the shrine until dawn.
The vyrkin will also be protecting your carriage, so don't be alarmed if
they call to each other."
Kiara glanced from Mikhail to Tris. "Vyrkin?"
Mikhail grinned, showing his long eye
teeth. "Shapeshifters, from the wolf clan. Friends of Lord Gabriel's.
Don't worry—the real wolves keep their distance when the vyrkin are
around."
A warmed metal box with embers took the
chill off the inside of the carriage. In the darkness, Tris snuggled close to
Kiara as the horseman cracked his whip and the carriage started out across the
snow. Beside them and around them they could hear the hoof beats of the guard's
horses crunching through ice.
"So much for eloping," Tris
joked nervously.
Kiara looked out the window as the moonlit
road slipped by them. "Hard to imagine we took back the castle with fewer
soldiers."
Tris could hear the same nervousness he
felt in her voice and he squeezed her hand. "Just a little longer, and
we'll have the ceremonies out of the way. I promise."
She smiled back at him and laid her head
on his shoulder. Tris wished he could reassure himself. He watched from the
carriage window with a sense of foreboding, tense although he knew how heavily
guarded they were. Ban's got me seeing shadows now.
The carriage came to a stop at the
entrance to the Lady's grotto. Margolan was unique among the Winter Kingdoms in
its veneration for two of the Lady's Aspects: the Mother and the Childe. And
while Tris's journeys of the past year and his role as Summoner made it clear
to him that all of the Aspects were facets of one Goddess, in his heart, the
Mother and Childe drew him most deeply to them.
Even in winter, the grotto was beautiful.
As the first light dispelled the shadows," Tris looked out over the
unbroken snow. He had seen the grotto in its full glory, when the blossoms of
summer tumbled in profusion and the huge trees were dark green with leaves.
Now, there was a stark beauty in the tall bare trees that lined the approach,
their gray branches arching overhead. In the summer, the gardens that were
sacred to the Childe were filled with colorful flowers and bushes, and flocks
of white doves perched in the branches of the trees.
The approach ended in a deep ravine cut
between two hills, lined
with slate. In the spring,
the bushes that covered the hills would be ablaze with color, but now, ice
traced the tips of the tangled branches, glistening in the morning light. To
the left, four white carved columns made a semicircle around an intricately
decorated fountain, while to the right, cold water flowed beneath a skin of ice
down a waterfall into one of the many brooks and ponds that decorated the
gardens. Water was as sacred to the Mother as flowers were to the Childe. In
the spring, worshippers would come to cast petals into the flowing water as
petitions to the Goddess and to fly brightly decorated kites with tails made
of shredded ribbon that stood for prayers for the departed. Now, the grotto was
silent.
Tris took Kiara's hand as they stepped out
of the carriage. His boots crunched on the snow as they made their way toward
the temple of the Lady. Every betrothed couple in Margolan made an offering
before taking their vows, although few made the pilgrimage to the Lady's
temple. They were more likely to bring their offerings to the small shrines
that dotted the roadsides or to a household altar. The king's options weren't
so simple.
Deceptively thin white marble arches
soared skyward, their peaks creating a jagged silhouette against the pale pink
sunrise. On either side of the entrance stood two larger-than-life alabaster
statues: one to the Mother and one to the Childe. Underneath the arches, water
cascaded down shoulder-high marble walls; in the bitter cold, Tris could detect
the hint of magic that kept the water flowing smoothly. Through the double
archway was an outer chamber where the guards would wait. As they stepped
through the archway the temperature warmed, and again Tris sensed the magic
that served the temple, though the Lady's acolytes were out of sight. They set
aside their heavy cloaks. Banks of candles lit the inner room. The soft sound
of flowing water filled the room, from a large central fountain that sent its
waters down eight sloping marble levels and into a clear main pool.
For this ceremony, Kiara was dressed in
the Margolan fashion, with a shimmering dark blue gown that accentuated her
waist. The bodice was modest by court standards, and at her throat was a golden
pendant in the shape of the Lady's symbol. Full satin sleeves billowed at the
shoulder, pinched back in at the elbow then flared out in wide cuffs. A jeweled
belt made a Y at her hip line and the entire gown sparkled with pearls and
gold. In Kiara's dark hair, strands of gold and small gems glittered in the
candlelight. A shy smile touched the corners of her lips, and Tris knew that
his appreciation was apparent in his face.
Soterius held out a basket woven of gold
and silver and covered with a cloth of rich brocade to Tris, and gave a similar
basket to Kiara. The
baskets held the symbolic gifts they would
present to the Lady for Her blessing. Tris could feel his heart thudding as
they stepped forward toward the doors that separated the inner temple from the
outer court.
Guards opened the heavy wooden doors. As
she crossed the threshold, Kiara made a deep curtsey. Tris paused at the
doorway and sank to one knee, bowing his head. He stretched out his mage sense
and felt the nearness of the Lady's presence. In the front of the inner temple
were two large statues of the Mother and Childe. Four banks of candles
flickered and glowed around the walls, and torches flared in elaborate sconces
on each pillar. Above them soared a high ceiling that rose to the tallest peaks
of the arches. The morning sun streamed in brilliant colors through panes of
multicolored glass, making a garden on the stone floor of the sacred space.
Winter-blooming flowers filled large vases around the sides of the round room,
mixed with branches from evergreen trees. The scent of floral incense hung in
the air, rising in smoke from ornate burners in front of each statue. A large
crystal basin filled with water stood in the center between the statues on a
golden pedestal.
In front of the crystal basin was a stone
altar covered with complex Noorish inlay. Even from a distance, Tris could feel
magic that beckoned for him to follow it to the quiet spaces of power.
Kiara made a low curtsey to each statue.
She bowed her head in silent prayer. At last she raised both hands, palms up.
"Mother and Childe, most gracious of the Aspects, accept my gifts and hear
my wedding prayers."
Kiara withdrew a loaf of uncut bread from
the basket. Her hands shook. "For my household and for this land, bread
enough for all." Next, she withdrew a cruet of wine and a flagon of goat's
blood and set them beside the bread. "For all in Margolan, living and
undead, drink sufficient for their needs." She withdrew a gold coin and a
small sheaf of wheat. "May our trade be prosperous and our harvest
plentiful." Kiara reached into the basket and took out an egg and a small
caged rabbit. Tris saw a blush come to her cheeks. "May the Lady bless our
household, our people, and our herds with new life."
Tris squared his shoulders and moved to
the right side of the altar. He sank to one knee, head bowed. "Mother and
Childe, accept my offering on the day of my wedding vows."
His mouth was dry, and his stomach was
tight. I've fought dark wizards and faced down murdering ghosts. How can my
own wedding have me in such a state? Carefully, he withdrew his sword,
laying the flat of the blade on his open palms. "I pledge my sword, in
defense of my kingdom, my bride, and my family." As he laid the sword on
the altar, the intricate runes etched along its blade burst into fiery letters.
Tris lifted his circlet crown from his
head and placed it on the altar next to his sword. "A blessing, m'Lady, on
the House of Margolan. May my reign be long and peaceful, and may no harm come
to my house or to my people." Next from the basket he pulled a polished
ram's horn. "May Margolan prosper, and may our herds multiply and our
children be many." He could feel spirits gathering around them as he spoke
the ancient litany, ghosts that lingered just outside his mage sight, drawn to
the strength of his magic like moths to flame. He formed a ball of mage fire
between his hands and offered it on the altar. "May my gift forever serve
Margolan. May it protect my people and all those I hold dear." Drawing a
deep breath, he withdrew a candle from the basket and set it on the altar.
"If it please the Lady, Mother and Childe,
accept our gifts and show favor on your servants."
Tris could feel the press of spirits. A
sudden wind stirred. The wind became stronger, whipping his white blond hair
into his eyes and pulling at the full sleeves of his shirt. The candle on the
altar burst into flame—not the wick itself, but the entire candle, so bright
that Tris had to avert his eyes. In the crystal basin, droplets of water rose
into the air and danced above the surface.
As suddenly as they began, the winds
stopped. The candle on the altar was dark, and the waters in the basin were
still.
"I think our gifts were
accepted," Kiara said in a voice that edged between fear and awe.
Tris made a last bow to each of the
statues. He retrieved his sword and took back his circlet from the altar. Then
he took Kiara's arm and they walked together toward the antechamber, where
Soterius and the others waited.
"Did you get a sign from the
Lady?" Soterius asked.
"You could say that."
The bitter cold jolted- them as they
stepped out of the grotto's magical warmth. Snow glistened and a flock of
birds roused from a nearby tree, filling the sky. Tris was glad to get back to
the carriage. "One ceremony down— one more to go."
Kiara wrapped her hands around his.
"Like Jonmarc says, you do know how to put on a show."
"I really had nothing to do with what
happened in there."
"I know. But if you were looking for
a sign, that was pretty clear."
Tris shook his head and looked out the window.
"The sign was clear, but the meaning never is. Grandmother was wary of
taking signs as divine messages. It's dangerous to count on them."
The carriage and its guards left the
temple grounds, heading back to Shekerishet. The road ran through an old
section of the forest,
where ancient trees towered and the underbrush
had long died back in the heavy shade. Pounding hoof beats behind them roused
Tris and Kiara in alarm.
"Keep the carriage moving!"
Soterius shouted. From behind them stormed black-clad riders, their faces
covered by cloth. Tris and Kiara were thrown back against the seat as the
driver snapped the reins and set the horses into a gallop. On the hills around
them, Tris could hear the clang of steel and the cries of battle. Vyrkin howled.
He drew his sword.
"Are they crazy? It's broad
daylight!" Kiara protested, hanging on as the carriage jostled and bumped.
"They know what they're doing,"
Tris replied, bracing himself as the carriage careened onto two wheels.
"The vayash moru aren't out by day. We're less protected than we
were on our way to the temple."
The driver veered, sending them reeling
into the side of the carriage. Riders on horseback closed in around the
carriage, and Tris saw the driver tumble from his seat. One of the riders
leaped from his horse to take the reins, but the horses, trained to respond only
to the driver's code words, kept up their frenzied pace.
A black-clad rider grabbed for the door
handle of the carriage, and Tris's magic threw the attacker clear. Kiara
grasped the handles of the metal warming box with her cloak and slid back the
cover, throwing burning embers on the rider who tried to reach for her through
her window.
"Shoot the horses!" A rider
cried, and Tris heard the twang of bows. The carriage lurched and banged as the
horse team staggered. Kiara cried out as arrows struck the side of the carriage,
embedding in the wood deeply enough to show the point through the fabric that
covered the interior. Outside of the carriage window, the scenery flew by;
Tris wondered if the brigands hoped that a wreck would be fatal. The carriage
careened forward, its horses panicked.
"If we don't get this thing stopped,
we'll be dead with or. without the bandits," Kiara shouted over the din of
the speeding carriage.
Tris pulled off his heavy cloak. He wore a
mail vest beneath his doublet and shirt. It was better than bare skin, but
hardly protection from a full onslaught and he had no desire to test it against
a hail of arrows. Behind them, Tris heard the thunder of hoof beats and the
shouts of soldiers, but decided against chancing a look out the carriage
window as an arrow sailed through, sinking into the seat cushion where he had
been a moment before.
"I'm going to slow the carriage
enough to jump. Once I'm out, get on the floor. I'll send the horses back to
Shekerishet."
"I'm staying with you."
"You don't have a sword and you're
not dressed for battle. We don't even know who
the brigands belong to. Besides, someone
has to send out the guards."
He could tell by the look on her face that
she hated the idea, but she nodded. Tris stretched out his magic toward the
panicked horses, touching their minds. He was not as adept with animals as
Carina, but he fixed an image of the carriage moving slowly enough for him to
survive a jump and then heading at full speed for the castle. For a moment,
nothing changed. Tris wondered if his message had been successful. Then he
felt the carriage slow. He crouched, holding on to the door handle, waiting.
When the carriage slowed enough for him to have a reasonable chance of
surviving the fall, Tris kicked open the door and jumped into the snow,
throwing his shields up to blunt the impact. Immediately the carriage sped
away.
The shields took the worst of the fall,
but the force still knocked the breath from him, and he wrenched his left ankle
as he tumbled. He staggered to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain.
Two riders charged. Behind them were three Margolan soldiers, riding hard. Two
large vyrkin closed from the other side, nearly catching up with the
attackers. Tris was at a distinct disadvantage on the ground against mounted
attackers. He stepped backward and nearly fell as his ankle buckled under him.
Tris sent a bolt of blue mage fire sizzling toward one rider, who fell gasping
to the ground as his panicked horse reared and bucked. The other rider scythed his
sword and Tris parried, driven back a step by the force of the mounted rider's
strike.
Tris blocked the blows with his sword. His
attacker reared his war steed, and its huge iron-shod hooves lifted into the
air. They were in a clearing with no ready cover. Soterius and another guard
were nearly within bow range, but Tris knew they couldn't shoot without
endangering him. The brigand's horse reared again, and one massive hoof barely
missed Tris's head. One of the vyrkin leaped for the horse and opened deep
gashes on the horse's hind quarters.
Tris dived, rolling through the deep snow.
Before the mounted brigand could find him, Tris called the winds together into
a swirling storm that enveloped the attacker, a blinding snowstorm that forced
him to ground his mount. Tris dispelled the winds as Soterius rode up behind
the attacker and swung his sword, cleaving the man through the waist. The brigand
fell lifeless from his mount. The two vrykin approached Tris and lowered
their heads deferentially, making it clear they were present to protect. Out
on the hillside, Tris spotted at least a half a dozen more of the huge wolves.
Soterius reached Tris as he climbed to his
feet. "Are you all right?"
Tris nodded. "You?"
Soterius's cloak was torn and a cut
through his tunic revealed his mail shirt beneath. He
was breathing hard, but nodded. "We
lost a couple of men. By the Whore! That was a full assault. We took all of
them down." He looked down the road at the fresh marks of carriage wheels.
"What about Kiara?"
Tris sheathed his sword. He wasn't sure
whether he was shaking from the cold or from the fight. The soldier with
Soterius offered Tris his own cloak and would not be refused. "I sent the
horses back to Shekerishet," he said, gazing in the direction the carriage
had disappeared. "They won't stop until they get there—and the geas I
placed on them should hold for their spirits as well, if there was someone up
ahead waiting to shoot them down. Kiara was chafing to join the fight."
Soterius chuckled. "That's
Kiara." Another soldier walked toward them leading several horses. "I
know you weren't planning on riding," he said. "But here's a horse
for you if you'd like to arrive in time for your own wedding."
Tris grinned ruefully and looked down at
his own ruined finery. "Showing up like this isn't likely to make the
right impression on the guests." A soldier ran to retrieve Tris's circlet
crown from where it had fallen. His doublet was torn and wet with snow, and his
breeches were ruined.
Soterius grimaced. "Not much chance
of hiding it, I imagine. Not after Kiara's shown up in a driverless carriage,
and no chance at all if it's drawn by ghost steeds!"
"Let's hope it didn't get quite that
far." Tris limped over toward where the last dead attacker lay in a heap
of bloodied snow. "But first, I want to see if we can figure out who's
behind this."
Soterius and the guards stepped back,
giving him room to work. Tris closed his eyes and stretched out his power,
calling for the dead man's ghost. The spirit of a blond, thick set man appeared
and threw itself at Tris's feet.
"Your highness!" the ghost
cried, crouching in fear. "Forgive me! I couldn't help what I was doing. I
bear you no ill will."
Tris could sense the truthfulness of the
spirit's words. He frowned, puzzled. "How can that be?"
The ghost remained prostrate. "We
were bewitched. You're a Summoner. Read my thoughts—I'll keep nothing
back."
"Tell me what happened. Sit up, so
that I can see your face. Who bewitched you?"
The spirit of the terrified brigand rose
to its knees. "My mates and I were hanging about a pub in a town not far
from here. Tafton-on-Kalis—it's on the main road to Ghorbal. We were for
hire—usually escorting a merchant to market or getting paid good skrivven to
make sure some noble lady gets where she's going without a problem. We'd done
our soldiering in the war and we fought with your rebels," the ghost said
with a glance toward Soterius. "Other than a brawl or two in the bar when we'd
had too much ale, we mostly stayed on the right side of the law."
"Say on."
"Last night, a strange gent came into
the pub. Never saw the likes of him around. Kept his cloak on and his hood
up."
"Did he have an accent?"
The ghost shook its head. "Spoke like
a Mar-golan man. Didn't have the look of a foreigner, or the smell of one, if
you know what I mean. Said he was looking for escorts for a pay wagon, and we
took him into the back room to talk. Can't talk business in the common
room—don't know who's about.
"The deal he offered us was straight.
Ride with a pay wagon for a merchant who was doing business with rug traders in
Ghorbal. Said we'd need to arm heavy, as we'd be guarding gold. Offered to pay
us half up front—that's the kind of deal we like to get, so we all agreed right
then, even though we didn't know how he found us." The spirit's gaze
darkened. "Must have been a curse on the gold. As soon as we accepted it
and put it in our pockets, it started to glow. We couldn't get rid of it. By
the Crone! I've never felt like that. Like someone else had pushed into my mind
and taken over my body. I couldn't think, couldn't run, couldn't move from the
spot.
"Then the stranger told us what we'd
really been hired to do, to ride down your party when you left the temple and
kill everyone. It didn't matter what I thought—my body obeyed him. I knew what
my body was doing, but I couldn't help myself. We knew whether we failed or succeeded
we'd be dead men, that we'd never live to spend that accursed gold. But no
matter how I fought it, I couldn't help but do the stranger's bidding. So I'm
free of one curse, and sure to go to the Crone for trying to murder the king.
Please, Your Majesty. Have mercy!"
"Can you read anything from his
memory?" Soterius asked. Tris stretched out his power, and found nothing.
"Not a thing. It's been wiped clean.
I'm betting we'd find the same with the rest of them. Someone wasn't taking
any chances."
"Whoever sent them has some dark
mages on his side."
"But is it Curane, or someone
else?" Tris returned his attention to the ghost at his feet.
"Rise," he said, taking pity on the panicked spirit. "I can tell
that you've told me the truth. The Lady has heard your story. You've no reason
to fear."
On the Plains of Spirit, Tris could sense
the approach of the Lady, but it was Athira the Whore, not the Crone, that came
for the bewitched fighters. He sensed the spirits as they recognized her call
and murmured the passing over ritual as the spirits fled toward rest. He
stepped toward the horse and nearly fell as his ankle gave out under him. Even
so, he refused help swinging up to the saddle.
"Let's get back to Shekerishet. I've
got to figure out how we're going to explain this."
His hands burned with the cold and his
feet were numb. Despite his confidence in the spell he'd set on the horses, he
was worried about Kiara. How Kalcen and Donelan might view the incident worried
him more than the talk of gossips at court. I wouldn't blame Donelan for
rethinking bis blessing. A king who can't control his own lands is no use to
anyone. Curane knows that. And he's not waiting for us to bring the war to him.
Before Tris and the guards had ridden half a candlemark, the sound of horses on the road
ahead reached them. "Shields up!" Soterius commanded. "Surround
the king."
The soldiers fell into a defensive mounted
formation, and Tris drew his sword, though he was in the center, surrounded by
armed men and their raised shields. The oncoming riders slowed their pace just
before they reached the rise in the road.
"Don't shoot!" It was Harrtuck's
voice. Three riders cleared the rise. Even from a distance, Tris recognized
Cam, Harrtuck, and Jonmarc. .
Soterius's guards lowered their weapons at
their commander's signal, and moved their mounts so Tris could ride forward.
Tris saw a contingent of at least fifty armed soldiers on horseback behind his
three friends.
"Where's the party?" Jonmarc
wore no visible armor, but Tris was sure that after Winterstide, his friend
was unlikely to venture far without a chainmail vest beneath his cloak.
"Kiara's carriage reached
Shekerishet? Is she safe?" Tris rode up to meet them with Soterius close
behind.
Harrtuck nodded. "Aye. The horses
were galloping as if the Formless One was chasing them. Kiara's fine—just a
bit bruised from the rough ride."
Tris glanced at Vahanian and Cam.
"You're supposed to be guests. What are you doing out here?"
Jonmarc shrugged. "We were with
Carina when the page sent for her to look after Kiara. Figured we'd make
ourselves useful."
"We're glad to see you, but the
fight's over," Soterius said. "Left the bodies back in the clearing.
I can fill you in on the details once we get Tris back for his wedding."
"What about the guests? How much of
an uproar is there?" Tris asked.
Jonmarc grinned. "Carroway caught
news of it at about the same time we did—don't know how, but he beat us down to
the courtyard. He and Crevan engineered an impromptu concert in the great room
and sent pages round to gather the guests with news of music and plenty of
food. Kept gawkers out of the courtyard and away from the windows. It's early
enough that I'm betting most of them
aren't out of bed yet, after how much ale
they drank last night!"
Tris grimaced. "The last thing we
need is a major incident with a house full of royalty. As it is, I've got my
hands full explaining this to Donelan—and Kalcen, too, I'll wager."
"You'll have more to explain if
you're late for your own wedding," Jonmarc observed. "How about if we
get you back there, and worry later."
Tris, Jonmarc,
Cam, Soterius, and twenty of the soldiers rode back at full
gallop, while Harrtuck and the remaining guards stayed behind to clean up the
battlefield. To Tris's great relief, the bailey was quiet when they arrived.
Tris dismounted, and fell.
"I can recommend a good healer,"
Jonmarc remarked dryly as he helped Tris up.
"If we bind up the ankle, maybe I can
get through this without everyone knowing," Tris grumbled, accepting
Jonmarc's help to get across the courtyard. "I'm not bleeding, and the
bruises won't show."
"You have an odd way of getting ready
for a wedding."
Tris shot him a sidelong glance. "Oh
really? What about you? Are congratulations in order yet?"
"Nah. We didn't want to steal your
big day."
"I hope your day is less eventful
than ours is shaping up to be." With Cam and Jonmarc's help, Tris made it
up the back stairs, out of sight of the partygoers. He was not surprised to
find Carina with Kiara, nor to see that Donelan and Kalcen were in the sitting
room. Tris's dogs padded to the door, following him into the room, nuzzling
close as if they sensed that something was wrong.
"Tris! Thank the Lady you're
safe!" Kiara rushed over, then stopped and took in his torn clothes and
his injured leg. Carina bustled closer with her healer's bag. Jonmarc helped
ease Tris into a chair as Carina reached for his boot and gentled it off, revealing
a badly swollen ankle.
"It's broken," Carina
pronounced. "I can do some healing and wrap if for you to get you through
the ceremony, but try to avoid dancing—and long receiving lines."
"Any idea who was behind it?"
Donelan did not move from where he and Kalcen sat by the fire.
"The men were bewitched," Tris
replied, gritting his teeth as Carina worked on his ankle. "Memories wiped
clean. No idea who sent them. Even the ghosts couldn't say."
"Our guards are instructed to be of
whatever help they can in securing the festivities," added Kalcen.
"If your enemies were bold enough to strike in Staden's court at
Winter-stide, a gathering such as this one may be irresistible."
"We thought we'd taken every
precaution," Tris said, feeling
the warmth of Carina's healing
magic ease the pain in his ankle. Kiara took his hand. "Are you all
right?"
"just a little shaken up. So much for
wedding day jitters!"
He kissed the back of her hand.
"Still game to go through with it?"
"Absolutely," she said, bending
to kiss his cheek.
"We're guessing that whoever sent the
soldiers hoped for an incident to cause Isencroft to force its princess to
return home," remarked Kalcen.
"At least if the attackers were
Margolense, we know they're not those damned Isencroft divisionists,"
Donelan replied. "Kalcen and I are agreed: the best thing is to show our
solidarity with Margolan."
"Thank you," Tris said raggedly
as Carina completed her healing.
"See if you can put weight on it
without help," Carina prompted. Tris stood and shifted his weight,
finding that he could stand without wincing. "I'm afraid that's all
there's time for—we're due for the ceremony in a candlemark. If there's time
later, I can do more."
"This should get me through,"
Tris said. He looked down at his ruined clothes. "The wags at court will
talk more if I show up looking like this than if I had an arrow in my back. I'd
better go get ready, and leave Kiara to her preparations."
Jonmarc stood as Tris headed for the door.
"I was headed that direction anyhow. I'll make sure you get where you're
going."
"You know, you're supposed to be a
guest."
"Old habits are hard to break."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"THERE'S AN easier way to do this," Jon- marc said to Carina as they
waited for the royal wedding to begin.
"What, elope?" Carina shot back.
Beside her, Cam snickered.
Trumpets blared as the guests in
Shekerishet's great room jostled for a good look at the bride and groom. Tris
and Kiara entered together. Kiara's wedding gown was in the Isencroft tradition;
red silk, slim cut, slit almost to the hip, and below that, billowing silk
trousers in vibrant orange, the colors of flame, sacred to the Aspect Chenne.
The colors made her dusky skin glow. A wide, ornately embroidered sash
accentuated Kiara's waist, and flowing sleeves almost covered her hands. Her
auburn hair was loose and long, and a lace-like headdress of golden mail,
finely crafted and embellished with small gems, fitted closely over her hair,
framing her face. Around her neck glittered an opulent necklace in the Eastmark
style with matching earrings of gold that cascaded nearly to her shoulders. On
her right hand was the signet ring of the heir to the Isencroft throne.
"I'm just saying it doesn't have to
be this complicated," Jonmarc replied. "Out in the borderlands, it's
a lot simpler. Make and accept the proposal, give a gift and make a vow, 'act'
on the commitment—and that's it. You're married."
"You wouldn't expect anything at
court to be that simple, would you?" Cam whispered with a grin. "It
would put people out of work."
Tris tugged at his waistcoat. Jonmarc knew
it had taken Crevan and Coalan nearly the full candlemark to put together a
suitable replacement for his ruined wedding finery, and despite his dislike
for court politics, he was well aware that the gossips would be alert for any
impropriety.
Coalan and Crevan had made a suitable
replacement. Tris wore a long coat of black brocade with wide cuffed sleeves
ornamented with golden buttons and trim. The coat reached below his knees over
high black boots and black breeches. A waistcoat of midnight blue gave a nod to
Margolan's traditional wedding colors. His sword hung beneath the long coat,
less noticeable but easily within reach,
and the waistcoat and high, ruffled silk
shirt hid a layer of thin mail beneath it. A more formal crown replaced the
circlet he preferred. On his right hand, Tris wore a gold ring with the seal of
the crown of Margolan. At his throat, Jonmarc knew Tris wore the metal chit on
a leather strap that they had found on their journey, the talisman that
dispelled magicked beasts. Tris confided that he had not removed it since
discovering its meaning at the Library in Westmarch, and saw no reason to set
it aside now. From the way Tris walked, Jonmarc could guess that his ankle was
throbbing.
"So tell me, Jonmarc. How are
weddings done in Dark Haven?" Cam asked in a casual tone. Jonmarc
swallowed wrong on his wine and began to cough. Carina glared at Cam and
slapped Jonmarc on the back.
"Cam," Carina said warningly.
Jae, who was curled up on Carina's lap until Kiara and Tris were finished with
the ceremony, raised his head questioningly, and then lay down again.
Cam grinned. "Just checking. If the
guests are supposed to bring armor or drink blood, I just want to be
prepared."
Jonmarc cleared his throat and took a sip
of water. "I leave that kind of stuff up to Gabriel. But I don't think
we'd get this many people if we invited everyone in Dark Haven."
The great room was crowded with the kings
and their retinues and with the invited nobility and special guests. Hundreds
more filled the bailey, anxious for a glimpse of the royal couple. Carroway
and his band of minstrels performed from a stage in one corner of the room.
Candles and mirrors glittered, filling the room with light. Velvet banners and
colorful ribbon streamers hung from the ceiling.
Tris and Kiara moved down the center aisle
on a wide blue carpet that marked the way to the dais at the front. The dais
was banked in candles over reflecting basins of water. Large vases filled with
fresh flowers made a semi circle within the banks of candles. Out-of-season
blooms were the handiwork of a land mage. Their sweet smell filled the room.
"I've been to a lot of Isencroft
weddings, and they didn't look like this," Cam said to Carina.
"It's a ritual wedding. Most of the
weddings you've seen are closer to what Jonmarc talked about. They're a
handfasting. It's all most people bother with. A ritual wedding joins soul as
well as heart," Carina replied. Jonmarc took her hand and met her eyes so
intently that she blushed and looked down, giving his hand a squeeze.
Tris and Kiara reached the dais. They knelt facing each other. Tris heard it rumored
that a ritual wedding bound the soul. Now, as a Sum-moner, he was sure of it,
just as he was equally sure it was the commitment he wanted to make.
Sister Landis spread her hands in blessing
as they knelt, and made the sign of the Lady above their heads. She began to
chant and walked a protective circle around the wedding couple. Tris could
feel the warding she set in place. Within the circle of power, Landis took a
heavy chalice from a small altar. Landis raised the chalice four times, one to
each corner of the room. Then from a flagon on the altar, Landis poured red
wine into the chalice.
"Blessed be the elements. Wine from
the soil. Fire from the sun." A tongue of flame flickered briefly over the
chalice. "Waters of the oceans," she said, magicking a stream of
water from her cupped palm into the chalice, "and the winds of the sky."
She made a swirling motion with her free hand, palm down, over the cup, so that
its contents made a vortex.
"Do you consent to be bound in life
and in death, in body and soul?"
Tris and Kiara answered as one. "We
do."
Landis took Tris's left hand and turned it
palm up. From a sheath at her belt, she withdrew a ceremonial dagger. Landis
drew the tip of the blade across his palm, opening a thin red cut in one half
of the Lady's symbol. She flicked droplets of the blood into the chalice,
repeating the same action with Kiara. Then Landis took the mantle from around
her shoulders. She pressed Tris and Kiara's hands together so that their palms
touched, wrapped her mantle around their wrists, and folded it over their
hands. "Drink."
Landis held the cup first for Tris and
then for Kiara. All around him, Tris could feel the aura of old, strong magic.
His palm burned where the fresh cut mingled their blood. He remembered what it
had felt like during the final battle with the Obsidian King, when he had
entwined Kiara's soul with his own. And while he spoke no words of power
himself, he felt something shift in his own soul, a sense of her presence.
Landis held the cup for Kiara, and on the Plains of Spirit, Tris could feel the
nearness of Kiara's spirit as the wine made its bond. Landis lifted the chalice
toward the sky," and a wave of fire swept across the banks of candles.
"Rejoice," Landis proclaimed.
"You are joined in the law of the kingdoms and in the presence of the
Lady, in life and in death—and beyond."
Tris leaned forward and kissed Kiara, and
the crowd cheered. Landis removed the stole from around their wrists, and when
they unclasped their hands, the cuts were healed on their palms except for a
thin pink scar.
As Tris and Kiara descended from the dais,
the minstrels' music shifted into one of Mar-golan's traditional wedding
dances. There was no way to avoid having to join in the dances. Tris found
himself swept into a fast-moving circle dance between Cam and Donelan, while
Kiara was whisked away by Berry into a
circle with Carina, Alle, and Lady Eadoin. Tris gritted his teeth and used a
flicker of magic to reinforce the binding Carina had used on his ankle, hoping
to make it through the dance before his ankle gave out on him. Servants moved
through the crowd with goblets of wine and. pitchers of ale, and Tris could
smell roasting venison. One dance tune followed another, each more quick of
step and complicated than the last. Dancers moved from circles to lines and
back once more as the music dictated. The music and dancing continued until
Crevan came to the great room door. With a flourish of trumpets, the seneschal
announced that the banquet was served.
It took all of Tris's will not to limp as
he clasped Kiara's hand and led the procession into the banquet hall. Once
again, Carroway and Crevan had outdone themselves. Long tables glistened with
candles on mirrored trays. A profusion of colorful flowers were strewn down the
tables. Out of season fresh flowers, impossible to get without magic, festooned
the large chandeliers, and floral garlands made a canopy overhead. It was, Tris
thought appreciatively, an extremely showy display requiring a bit of magic
and very little gold.
Carroway performed with the musicians and
directed the procession of jugglers, acrobats, dancers, and entertainers that
kept the guests amused through the many courses of the long, formal meal. The
feasting would continue into the night, when vayash moru and vyrkin in
their human form would join the festivities. Tris sipped his wine, wishing for
something stronger as his ankle throbbed.
"Carroway's really outdone
himself," Kiara murmured to Tris. "Can you knight him in
appreciation?"
Tris chuckled. "He's already 'Lord
High Bard' and 'Margolan's Master Minstrel'. I'm running out of titles."
When the servants cleared away the eighth
course of the formal dinner, a large table laden with gifts was wheeled in.
Tris escorted Kiara down from the head table to richly upholstered chairs where
they would receive the gifts of their guests. Try as Tris might to avoid the show
of competitive generosity, Crevan would not forego this portion of the event,
fearing that to do so would be to give offense to the guests.
Donelan's gift could not be boxed. He had
given two mares and two stallions of the horses for which Isencroft was famed.
Unmatched for speed, without equal for beauty, the bloodlines of the Isencroft
horses were regarded to be as precious as the crown jewels of the kingdom.
Fitted with the incomparable tack for which Isencroft was also known, the
horses were indeed worthy of a king, and the gift of breeding stock was
symbolic of the union between the two kingdoms that would occur upon Donelan's
death.
Kalcen leaned forward as Tris and Kiara
unwrapped his gift. It was a triptych with beautifully painted illuminations,
drawn by a skilled artist. The frame was covered with gold. "I've had my
astrologers consult the stars to create this. We set much stock by the stars in
East-mark. One panel is for you," he said with a nod toward Tris,
"and one for you," he said with a smile for Kiara. "It foretells
lucky and inauspicious dates for 80 years from the day of your births. In the
center, my seers have read the stars for this day, and predict that signs are
favorable for a male child to be born within a year."
For nearly a candlemark, Tris and Kiara
received the gifts of the nobility: beautiful silver, finely etched crystal,
and gem-studded jewelry. Tris felt himself begin to relax as the pile of gifts
diminished without incident. He and Kiara were effusive in their thanks, but he
knew that Kiara also was mentally wincing at the competitive opulence of the
presents from nobility eager to gain favor with the new king and queen.
At last, one gift remained. It was draped
in cloth, a rectangle the size of a doorway.
"Think it's a portrait?" Kiara
whispered to Tris with a laugh, knowing how much he hated Jared's life-sized
paintings of himself.
"Goddess, I hope not! We've only just
finished burning all the ones Jared made." He sobered and his eyes
widened. "There's something wrong."
"What is it?"
"Blood magic. I can feel it."
The servants swept back the cloth with a
flourish, revealing an ornately framed mirror. The frame was gold, engraved
with an intricate design of runes.
"Don't touch that!"
Tris's warning came an instant too late.
The mirror wavered in the servants' grip and one of them reached out a hand to
steady it, touching the glass.
The mirror misted and the glass
disappeared. An ear-piercing shriek sounded, and before the servants holding
the mirror could scatter, a huge beast bounded through the frame. The beast was
corpse gray, with slick, hairless skin stretched across a nightmare body. Its
misshapen head held bulbous eyes and sharp, protruding teeth. It walked
upright like a man, on solidly-muscled hind legs that ended in massive claws.
With its clawed forearms, the beast swept aside the men holding the frame,
casually ripping the head from the nearest of the servants.
"Not on my watch!" Harrtuck ran
at the beast with his sword drawn, slashing with a blow that should have felled
a bear or a wolf. The beast lashed out with its forearm, raking four deep
tracks across Harrtuck's shoulder and flinging him across the room. Harrtuck
landed hard against the wall and lay still. Shrieks and cries erupted from the
terrified
wedding guests as they scrambled to get
out of the beast's way. Jair grabbed a torch from the wall behind him and ran
at the beast with a cry, swinging the torch wildly to break the thing's advance
on the partygoers.
"Get everybody out of here!"
Tris shouted to Soterius, who was already on his feet. Tris vaulted the table,
drawing his sword as the beast advanced and frightened guests scattered. The
beast focused on him, as he hoped. Tris stepped closer.
Tris lifted his hand to raise a warding
but before it snapped into place, he felt another person enter the space.
"You sure know how to throw a
party." Vahanian was behind him, sword drawn.
Outside the warding, Tris was dimly aware
of Carroway and Soterius shouting for order. He heard Donelan and Kalcen call
for their guards. A solid row of soldiers, his own plus the guards from
Isencroft and Eastmark, formed a perimeter, their weapons ready.
The beast lunged for Tris, and Tris
ducked, but not quickly enough. He felt the beast's claws rake across his back,
sending him sprawling. His wounded ankle buckled underneath him, sending sharp
pains up his leg. Jonmarc charged, sword raised, and scored a deep gash on the
thing's shoulder, only to be swept aside by its powerful forearm. Tris
stretched out his power, hoping to snuff out the life force of the beast, but
the stench of blood magic made his senses reel. He could feel no glimmer of
soul in the magicked creature.
Tris tore the charm from around his neck.
"Take this—I've got a plan."
Jonmarc grabbed the chit before he
realized what it was. "Not that same damn talisman!"
"You're safe with it—keep him
busy."
"Be quick about it!"
Armed with the talisman, Jonmarc gave a
battle cry and threw himself toward the beast, hacking in great two-handed
blows that would have felled any.natural creature. His vayash moru training
served him well; his quick reflexes kept him a hair's breadth away from the
thing's talons. The creature's skin barely registered the blows, but it turned
away from Tris, with its baleful yellow eyes fixing on Jonmarc as it advanced a
step toward him. Jonmarc dodged and ducked, missing the worst of the creature's
blows. Its claws raked down his left arm, shredding his silk shirt and digging
against the mail beneath.
"Now!"
Jonmarc leapt out of the way as a wave of
fire burst from Tris's outstretched hands. Within the warded dome, the beast
shrieked as flames enveloped it. Jonmarc threw up an arm to shield himself, as
far back against the warding as he could get. When the flames stopped, the
beast lay on the floor, its charred skin in tatters. Carefully, Tris rose to
his feet, gasping
at the pain in his ankle. Jonmarc lowered
his arm and took a cautious step forward.
"Is it dead?"
Before Tris could answer, the thing sprang
up, launching itself at his throat, its sharp-toothed mouth wide. Tris stumbled
backward as his ankle gave out on him. The beast's claws screeched across the
chainmail shirt, digging into the mail and drawing Tris closer to its jaws.
With a cry, Jonmarc dived for the thing's
back. Jumping astride it, Jonmarc turned his sword point down, driving it into
the beast's back with both hands. The beast roared and twisted, but it did not
loose its grasp on Tris, who was close enough to smell the stink of its breath.
"Get clear!" he shouted to
Jonmarc, who pulled his sword free and threw himself off the beast's back. Dark
ichor ran from the gash. The beast staggered but did not fall.
Tris focused his magic on the depths of
the thing's body. He sent a wave of flame, not around the beast but within,
flame that began in its belly and burned through its torso. The beast screamed,
writhing as the flames consumed it from inside. Tris struggled free of its
claws just as the fire streaked from its mouth, flames engulfing its huge,
misshapen head, its bulbous eyes wide.
Tris's ankle folded under him. He
scrambled to get out of the thing's way as it made one last lunge for him,
flames tonguing from its maw, its breath heavy with the stench of charred
flesh. The teeth snapped just shy of Tris's throat as Jonmarc brought his sword
down on the beast's neck. Weakened by the flames that consumed it, the beast's
hide yielded to the sharp blade. As Jonmarc bore down with his full strength,
the blade tore through, severing the head from the body. Charred, inside and
out, the massive body staggered and fell, oozing a vile black ichor that
smelled of rotted meat.
Jonmarc took no chances, stabbing the
beast repeatedly until he was sure that it would not move again.
When the creature did not stir, Tris let
the wardings fall. Soldiers circled the beast, alert for trouble.
"Get that damned thing out of
here," Tris ordered, gritting his teeth against the pain. Cam wrapped the
body in a tablecloth, hefting it over his shoulder. Another guard followed,
holding the beast's head in a makeshift sack. Together, they hurried out of the
room.
Jonmarc helped Tris to a chair and
Soterius sprinted to join them. Kiara pushed her way through row of guards, her
eyes wide, a borrowed sword ready in her grasp.' Jair joined them, still
holding the torch. Esme ran to where Tris was sprawled in his chair. Across the
room, Carina knelt next to Harrtuck.
"How badly are you hurt?" Esme
asked.
"Nothing except that damned ankle. I
don't think I'm bleeding."
As Esme began to remove Tris's boot from
his injured leg, Jonmarc went to join Carina. Harrtuck lay in a pool of blood,
with four deep slashes that went through his shoulder and upper back. Beneath
the bloody gashes, Jonmarc glimpsed the white of bone.
"I can't do this alone," Carina
said. "I'm losing him. I need your help." Her hands were covered
with Harrtuck's blood; he was pale and his breathing ragged.
"I've always been the patient—I don't
know how to help."
"Do you trust me?" Carina met
Jonmarc's gaze.
"With my life."
"Drop your guard and let me draw
strength from you."
Jonmarc hesitated, completely at a loss. If
she can read my thoughts as she draws from me, what will she see? So many
things in the past I'm not proud of, so much blood on my hands. If she can see
where I've been, what I've done, will it change her mind? He looked at
Harrtuck. "Take what you need," he said, closing his eyes. Tris and
Gabriel told him he had better natural shielding against magic than most
mortals. That had come in handy against mages or vayash moru who had
tried to sway his thoughts. Now, he struggled to disarm those defenses.
He focused on
the familiar warmth of Carina's
power, the touch he knew well from so many healings.
He gasped and swayed as she began to draw
from him, trying to shut out the buzz of the conversation around him, the
shouts of the guards and his own heightened senses that still hummed with the
energy of battle. Harrtuck must be worse off than I thought. He remembered
how Tris and Cam and Carroway had let Carina draw from them when she had done
battle healings in the caravan. Carina had told him how many hours Tris and
Sakwi had sustained her when he'd been brought back from the Nargi camp more
dead than alive. Feeling the steady drain for the first time, he marveled at
their resilience, humbled at the cost it had taken to heal him so many times.
He watched as Carina's touch knit together
the sinews and skin of Harrtuck's back "more quickly than the most skilled
surgeon, closing the gaping wounds until only scars remained. Joined in thought
with Carina, he could feel the warmth of her healing. power as she strengthened
Harrtuck's life force, bringing back the flickering thread until its glow was
solid. Harrtuck was no longer in danger, although he was sure to feel the pain
of bruises for days to come.
Jonmarc was unprepared as Carina turned to
him, clasping his hand between her own, slick with blood. Thank you. Her
voice sounded in his mind, closer
than thought. He
felt her
presence deeper than words, slipping
against him more intimately than skin to skin, as if for an instant, their
souls were intertwined. Just as quickly, it was gone, and Carina looked away
from his questioning gaze. The sensation left him reeling. By the time he
gathered himself to speak, Carina had slipped away, wiping her hands on her
ruined ball gown, moving toward where the guards and servants clustered to see
if anyone needed her skill.
Harrtuck rolled over and groaned.
"Careful there," Jonmarc said, making his tone as light as he could.
"You came near as a whisper to seeing the Lady."
"Aye," Harrtuck rasped,
grimacing as he eased onto his newly healed back. "I thought I heard Her,
singing for me in the distance."
"Thank Carina."
"Tris—is he all right?"
"A little banged up, but not bad.
Next time you decide to charge one of those things, take an army with
you."
"Yeah. An army." Harrtuck's
voice drifted off. Jonmarc moved aside as two soldiers came up with a stretcher
and slid Harrtuck onto it. He walked back to where Esme was just finishing up
with Tris's ankle. Carina was nowhere to be found.
In the distance, Jonmarc heard music, and
guessed that Carroway had been successful in cajoling the frightened guests
into enjoying an impromptu concert. "By the Whore!" Donelan roared.
"I'd heard tell that the two of you could fight like that, but I'd never
expected to see it myself—and certainly not up close."
"If I had any doubt of your power as
a mage," Kalcen said to Tris, "or yours as a swordsman," he said
with a nod toward Jon-marc, "I have none now." "Glad to
oblige," Tris said dryly. "Keep your weight off it for a few
days," Esme instructed as Tris gingerly tried to stand. "If I thought
you'd listen, I'd send you to bed and tell you to stay there."
"He's supposed to be on his
honeymoon," Jonmarc noted. "That shouldn't be a problem."
Carroway shouldered his way through the
soldiers. "Finally got away from the guests," he said. He glanced
from Tris to Jonmarc. "You two all right?" ~ -
"Considering the choices, not
bad," Jonmarc replied.
"I'd say you've fought those things
before." Jair's gaze lingered on the scar that ran from Jonmarc's ear down
below his collar. "More times than I'd like to remember." "We
told the guests that you were both fine and that the beast was destroyed,"
Carroway said. "Crevan's pouring the brandy fast to get it off their
minds. If you'd like, I'll make the announcement that the newlyweds have
retired to the royal chamber. You'll be spared another appearance and the crowd
can keep on drinking."
Tris glanced at Kiara. "Wonderful
idea— especially if it keeps me off the dance floor."
Half a dozen soldiers escorted Tris and
Kiara to their rooms. As Tris closed the door and locked it behind them, he
wished that they might have the kind of total privacy a king could never enjoy.
"You go hard on your wardrobe,"
Kiara observed. Tris looked down at the shredded long coat with the glimmer of
chainmail that showed through the ruined sleeves and sighed.
"Just one more reason I liked what we
wore on the road. Cheaper to replace—and a lot more comfortable."
He laid aside the tattered coat. His
shoulder was beginning to throb from the force of the magicked beast's strikes.
Tris winced as Kiara helped him remove the torn shirt and the chainmail that
clearly showed deep claw marks. His chest and arm were already darkening with
bruises.
"Keeping you in one piece is going to
be harder than I thought." Kiara's humor didn't reach her eyes.
Tris drew her toward him. "Second
thoughts?" His fingers toyed with her long hair, and the scent of her
perfume quickened his heartbeat.
"Not at all."
"Something's bothering you."
Kiara reddened. "It's nothing.
Just—it seems so... public. The whole kingdom knows we're locked in here,
trying to produce an heir!"
"Do you think it would be any
different, if we were off in a village somewhere? It's the same for farmers or
kings—except that farmers aren't surrounded by guards."
Her silk dress slipped across the bare
skin of his chest and she wrapped her arms around his neck, laying her head on
his shoulder. "Maybe so."
"Be grateful to my grandmother that
she ended the whole custom of hanging a bed sheet out the window the next day
to show that the bride was a virgin."
"Really?"
He shot her a wicked grin. "Carroway
says that in the old days, many a couple brought along a rabbit.to sacrifice in
order to bloody the sheet and save the bride's reputation. Grandmother said it
was a barbaric custom and not suited to a modern kingdom. So we're spared that,
at least." The laughter subsided. "Something else is on your mind."
"I don't want to disappoint
you," she murmured. "The whole business of being betrothed from
birth...I haven't, I mean, I don't—"
Tris drew back far enough to meet her
eyes. "You couldn't possibly disappoint me—in any way," he said.
"We're here. Together. Married. It's what I've wanted since Westmarch,
even though it seemed too much to hope for." He paused. "I have an
idea."
He stepped toward the large four-poster
bed and let down the bed curtains, so that they
completely hid the bed within. "Close
your eyes," he said, drawing her with him toward the darkened bed.
"Now imagine that we're back on the road—two nobodies from nowhere. We're
at an inn—one of the nicer ones, with a good fire and a nice dinner. We're
totally safe. Everyone else has gone out for the evening."
Kiara gave a sharp laugh. "Like that
ever happened!"
"You don't know how often I wished it
would. So here we are, just two outlaws on the road, nobody important, with an
evening all to ourselves. Any ideas on how to pass the time?"
The passion of her kiss surprised him and
he pulled her into his arms, letting himself fall backward into the darkness of
the bed curtains. His question required no spoken reply.
Late that night, Carina sat by the fire in the empty great room, watching the flickering
coals. She looked up as footsteps approached. "There you are," Cam
said. "I got your note. What's wrong?"
Carina held out a hand, and Cam settled
his bulk next to her on the bench Carina had pulled close to the hearth. The
coals had been banked, but the fireplace was so large that even so, it was
almost too warm to sit close. "You're going back to Isencroft
tomorrow."
"That's not new."
Carina sighed. "No. But until now, it
was just an idea. Last year, when we thought you'd died in the slavers' attack,
I didn't know how to function. We were in so much danger—the slavers, then the
ghosts in the Ruune Vidaya— there wasn't time to think. Everyone had bigger
things to worry about. I didn't burden them. But I couldn't sleep. I didn't
eat. I missed you terribly."
"I didn't know where you were,"
Cam said quietly, reaching out to push back a strand of dark hair from her
eyes. "Soterius and Har-rtuck pulled me out of the caravan wreckage. I
would have died if they hadn't dragged me to a healer. She was one of the Sisterhood,
and she took me to a small citadel Jared hadn't found yet. They had the elixir
we needed to keep Donelan alive." He took Carina's hand in his. "That
was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life—choose between going after
you and saving the king. The only reason I found the strength to go back to
Isencroft was that Soterius and Harrtuck promised me they'd find you."
"One night, when we were at
Westmarch, I had Tris search for you," Carina whispered. "I was so
relieved when he said you weren't among the dead. But I didn't know if I'd ever
see you again. And now, I'm going away again."
"I didn't like being away from you.
You know what we always said—you
were the
brains and I was the brawn. Without you, I
had to figure things out for myself." Cam smiled. "And from the
stories Jonmarc tells, you learned to fight."
"It's time, Carina. We need to
go our own ways. You've got a life waiting for you in Dark Haven. I've got a
job to do guarding Donelan—it's more important than ever with the unrest back
home. There's no one I'd trust more than Jonmarc to take care of you." He
grinned. "And I'll admit, the daughter of the brewer's guild master is my
type of girl." He tipped her chin up to meet his eyes. "In time,
you'll get Jonmarc to Isencroft. And I'll come visit—after you've gotten
settled in."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ON the
morning after the royal wedding, Shekerishet's courtyard was busy as wedding
guests made ready to depart. King Kalcen and his entourage left first, with
Donelan and the Isencroft retinue leaving just before the supper bells. All day
long, nobles took advantage of the unseasonably mild weather to head for home.
Jonmarc watched them from his balcony. From the hurry apparent in some of the
nobles' packing, he guessed that the attack had done more than an empty pantry
might to hurry guests on their way.
Carina had been busy making her goodbyes
to Cam and Donelan, taking up most of the day. Jonmarc chafed at the delay to
see her privately. It was after the seventh bells when the door opened into
the sitting room where he waited.
"I was starting to get worried,"
Jonmarc said, rising to meet her. She looked tired.
"After I said goodbye to Cam, I
stopped by to check on Harrtuck. He's going to be all right—but it may be a
while before he's ready for any real fighting."
Jonmarc took her hand. "There isn't
any fighting to be done. He's supposed to have a comfortable palace job
now."
Carina's eyes darkened. "It's not
long before Tris will have to leave for war," she said. "I hope for
Kiara's sake that you're right."
Jonmarc folded her into his arms, holding
her close against him. Even dressed for court, the scent of her herbs and
potions clung to her, a spicy, earthy scent. Her hand slipped up over his
shoulder. He'd left the mail shirt back in his room, and her touch against the
bruises from the fight made him wince.
"In all the excitement yesterday, I
never took care of your shoulder."
"It's nothing."
Carina slipped her hand inside the
neckline of his shirt. Her magic eased the pain of the deep bruises and pulled
muscles from the battle. Jonmarc realized how much he'd hungered for her
touch.
"Last night, when you were healing
Harrtuck, I felt something—the way you touched my mind."
Carina looked away and stepped out of his
arms, as if his words had struck a nerve. "I'm
sorry, I shouldn't have done that without
permission."
"When you healed with Tris and
Car-roway—was it like that, too?" The words tumbled out before Jonmarc
could stop himself and he felt instantly chagrinned, knowing how petty and
jealous he sounded, yet desperate to know.
"No," she said, and Jonmarc was
surprised at how deeply he felt relieved. "I just thought it only fair
that you know."
"Know what?"
"Know what it really means to be
close to a healer." Jonmarc heard sadness and fear in her voice.
"Some men are afraid to take a healer as a lover. They say we steal
souls."
Jonmarc stepped up behind Carina and gently
turned her to face him. "I'm not afraid," he said. "You can't
steal something that's already been given to you." He kissed her hard, surprised
at the fervor with which she returned it. He let his hand slip down from her
shoulder to cup her breast, and she did not pull away. Emboldened, he moved to
the lacing of her bodice, and was surprised and pleased to feel her fingers
working at the lacing of his trews.
The thick Noorish carpet was soft and warm
in front of the fire as he drew her down with him. He had thought to move
slowly, that she might be inexperienced, but he found that her hunger, her need,
matched his own. Jonmarc knew her touch well as
a healer. Now her hands moved
across his skin as a lover, and he discovered how her gift could be used in
much more pleasant ways. She met his eyes, and in that instant he felt the
brush of her mind against his in an embrace as intimate as the twining of their
bodies. If this is soul-stealing, then let it last forever.
Later, when they lay together by the
warmth of the fire, Carina giggled and lifted her head from his shoulder.
"I guess now you'll have to keep your word to Donelan and make an honest
woman of me!"
"Don't you remember what I told you
about what it's like out in the villages, away from court? An offer of marriage
made and publicly accepted—"
"Can't get much more public than at
the wedding of a king."
"—a token gift and an oath," he
said, touching the shevir that glistened on her wrist. "And then,
to act on the commitment..."
"So you're telling me that we're
married?"
"Handfasted. As married as most folks
get out in the real world. We can make a ritual wedding when we get to Dark
Haven. I suspect Gabriel's got it all planned." He let his finger trace
the silver strands of the shevir. "Lady Vahanian."
Carina smiled. "I like that."
He gave a wicked grin and let his hand
slide down to her belly. "Perhaps we shouldn't wait long for that wedding.
You might be racing Kiara for a baby."
Carina blushed and looked down.
"Healers can control those things," she murmured. "I wasn't sure
if you'd want—"
"A family?" he finished for her.
"I'm thirty years old, Carina. Time to settle down. I want a family. Our
family. More than I've ever wanted anything in my life."
Carina's grin was mischievous.
"There's no hurry."
Jonmarc pulled her close, losing himself
in the warmth of her embrace, the dusky scent of her hair, and the magical
nearness that slipped inside his thoughts, making everything whole.
Jonmarc, Carina,
and Gabriel left Shekerishet for Dark Haven the next
evening. Gabriel's carriage took them as far as Ghorbal, where the snows grew
deep and the best roads ended. From Ghorbal, they made the mountain crossing
on horseback. On the far side of the mountains, an elaborate sleigh awaited
them, and vayash moru stood ready to take the horses to shelter. Carina
was grateful for the relative comfort of the sleigh. She huddled in the heavy
furs, pulling her thick cloak tightly around herself. Even sitting close to
Jonmarc, she could not get warm despite the box of hot rocks at their feet.
Only Gabriel and their vayash moru driver seemed unconcerned by the bitter
cold.
"I swear it's colder than it was this
time last year, when we made the crossing to Principality," Carina said,
shivering.
"We were lucky. The snows held off
until we were at Westmarch. They're early this year." Jonmarc shifted in
his seat to draw her closer.
Carina watched the forest slip by around
them. "Between Gabriel and the ghosts, I feel safer than the last time we
passed this way." Since Tris had regained the throne, the bandits and
highwaymen were gone, halted as much by the restless guardian spirits as by the
king's troops.
"Tris said that once Jared was gone,
some of the ghosts still wanted to stay on and guard the roads," Carina
added. "I swear they're watching us." She shivered. "Have you
seen those wolves? They've been keeping pace with us, just inside the trees.
I'm surprised the horses haven't spooked!"
"The horses are used to vayasb
morn and ghosts," Gabriel replied. "As for the 'wolves' they're
friends of ours. Vyrkin."
Carina wasn't convinced, but she didn't
argue. "Once we get to Dark Haven, you'll warm up fast," Jonmarc
promised. "The vayasb mom might not have much use for the big
fireplaces, but once we got them repaired, they definitely heat up a
room!"
Gabriel smiled dryly. "That's one of
the few things I still miss about being mortal—how pleasant the warmth from the
hearth felt on my hands. The cold doesn't chill us, but neither does the fire
warm us. One of the trade-offs of immortality."
They found the inns along the way more
crowded and prosperous than during their journey to take back Margolan's
throne. If the innkeepers wondered at their two guests who slept during the day
and left at sundown, they said nothing, happy for the coin. Gabriel chose their
accommodations, and Carina guessed from his manner with the innkeepers that
their companion was well-known along this route. Where Gabriel spent the days
she did not know, but she was sure that the vayash morru had his own
secret places.
"It's hard to shake the feeling that
we're running from someone." Carina's voice was nearly lost under the
scarf that kept the chill from her face. "Don't get me wrong—I'm glad
we're not sleeping in cellars and crypts! But compared to the last time we came
this way, it seems odd to travel so openly."
"Personally, I'm enjoying the chance
for a warm fire and a real bed, and a room we don't have to share with half a
dozen other people." Jonmarc chuckled. "Nice to be able to pay for
it, too, instead of having Carroway barter for food or having to muck out
stables."
They reached Dark Haven twenty-one days
after leaving Shekerishet. Given the deep snows, they had made excellent time.
The forest was long behind them though the vyrkin remained, loping at
the same speed as the sleigh along the edge of the road. In the moonlight, it
was difficult to tell whether the same pair of Vyrkin always accompanied
them or whether many shared the duty, but each night when Carina and the others
reached a stopping point, the vyrkin howled, as if searching for their
fellows.
"There it is. Dark Haven."
Jonmarc pointed to the manor as they reached the top of the hill. Carina leaned
forward to get a better look at her new home. In the bright moonlight, she
could make out the main rectangular shape of the great house, surrounded by
smaller dependencies. Two square towers rose a storey higher on each of the
front corners. Light shone from the windows in the front of the manor house.
Even in the moonlight, the dark stone building seemed commanding and ominous.
A cheer went up as their sleigh glided
into the main courtyard, and Carina was surprised to see dozens of people
waiting by torchlight for their arrival. Jonmarc grinned and stepped from the
sleigh, reaching up to give Carina a hand down. The small crowd clustered
around them.
"May I present Lady Carina
Vahanian," Jonmarc said with pride, and Carina felt her cheeks color at
the round of cheers. There was nothing scripted or staged about their welcome,
and from the casual banter between Jonmarc and the well-wishers, Carina was
sure the gathering was as spontaneous as it was authentic. The crowd pressed
forward to get a
better look at their lord's new bride.
Those closest to Carina shook her hand in greeting and murmured blessings.
While Jonmarc was completely at ease, Carina struggled with her healer's magic
that wavered between recognizing the mortals that glowed warm in her senses
and the curious emptiness that marked the presence of the vayash moru. Carina
had never been around so many vayash moru at one time, not even in
Riqua's crypt, and the empty feeling was strange to the point of discomfort.
Jonmarc looked happier and more at ease
than Carina ever recalled seeing him. He took her hand and ascended the broad
outer staircase to Dark Haven's main entrance. "Welcome home,
Carina," he said, and turned to kiss her. Silhouetted in the doorway, the
kiss was a public declaration, and the crowd cheered even more loudly.
Gabriel followed them up the stairs, along
with a man and a woman Carina did not recognize. The man caught up with
Gabriel as they reached the entrance hall, and Carina got a better look at both
him and his companion. Both were clad in black, with dark hair, although the
woman's hair was streaked with gray. They lacked the pallor of the vayash
moru, and her healer's senses told her they were mortal—though not entirely
human. The man was close to Jonmarc's age, with shoulder-length dark hair and a
neatly trimmed beard. The woman's angular features were attractive, with a
beauty that spoke of a blend of the local bloodlines. Carina met the woman's
violet eyes, and for a moment, the image of a large wolf came to her mind.
"This is Yestin and his partner,
Eiria," Gabriel said as both the newcomers made perfunctory bows.
"You've seen them before on our journey."
Carina gasped. "The vyrkin. Of
course."
Yestin grinned. "You kept quite a
pace to follow. I think I ate twice my weight in deer meat trying to keep
up!"
"Since Mikhail is with Tris at
Shekerishet, Yestin is Gabriel's second," Jonmarc explained.
Eiria smiled at Carina, and Carina noted
that she lacked the vayash moru's long eye teeth. "You're most
welcome, Lady Vahanian. News of your abilities has preceded you. It's been a
very long time since Dark Haven has had a healer of your skill. The villagers
are anxious for you to settle in."
"I'll be glad to do what I can once I
get unpacked," Carina murmured, surprised at the unexpected fame.
"Of course. And we need to recover
from the journey as well." Eiria rubbed her hands together, and Carina saw
that they were badly chapped. "Snow is hard on the paws."
"May I?" Carina reached out to
take Eiria's hands. In a moment, the red, raw skin healed beneath her touch.
Yestin was unabashed about seeking the same favor.
"Thank you, m'lady," Eiria said.
"You do us a great honor. Many healers won't touch our kind."
"I would show disrespect to the Lady
to withhold my gift," Carina replied. Yet there had been something
different in that touch, something Carina meant to ask Jonmarc about privately.
But before she could think on it further, Laisren joined them.
"Good to see you again, m'lady,"
Laisren greeted Carina, remembering her from Tris's training in Principality.
"Lord Gabriel asked me to arrange a real party for you tomorrow night, but
there's something of an impromptu gathering in the great room. Warm food and
mulled wine for you mortals, and fresh goat's blood for the rest of us. Come
on!"
They followed the distant sound of music.
She could easily spot the original sections of walls from those that had been
recently repaired, and she marveled that so much had been done in just a few
months. Many of the furnishings were old, and Carina guessed they were original
to the manor. The newer pieces were functional, although their form spoke of
the work of local craftsmen, and Carina was sure Gabriel had a hand in their
selection. Tapestries lined some of the walls to keep down the chill, ornately
patterned but without the common scenes of courtly tales or long-ago battles.
Notably absent were the paintings of ancestors that decorated most manors. Dark
Haven's decor was well-made and functional, but as without ostentation as its
lord.
While the entrance hall and the rooms at
the front of the manor had large windows, the great room was windowless. It
took Carina a moment to realize that the manor house had been built to accommodate
its mix of mortal and undead residents.
Carina was overwhelmed by the crowd of
people, and noticed immediately that, unlike at most functions in a noble
house, the guests at this impromptu party did not appear to be visiting
nobility. They were trades people and prosperous farmers from the nearby
village, as well as vayash moru, vyrkin, and the manor house staff. In
the corner, three musicians who looked as if they'd been called on short notice
from the village tavern struck up a lively round of pub tunes. True to
Laisren's word, a spread of hearty food was set out on the long table: meat
pies, mincemeat, rum-heavy fruit cakes, sausages, cheese, and fresh baked
bread. The room smelled of spiced wine and mulled cider. For the vayash
moru, a generous number of flagons filled with goat's blood clustered on
one end of the table, along with platters of raw meat for the vyrkin.
"Let me introduce you to
Cathel,-" Jonmarc said "The finest silversmith in all of Dark Haven.
He made your shevir."
Cathel was a blond vayash moru who
wore his long hair back in a neat queue. He gave a low
bow and kissed the back of Carina's hand. "It was a privilege,
m'lady."
"It's the most beautiful thing I've
ever seen," Carina said.
"Over the course of several
lifetimes, one hopes to refine one's skills." Cathel drifted away into the
crowd, and Jonmarc introduced Carina to a short man. His waistcoat was made of
good cloth, but it nearly burst its buttons at his belly.
"This is Nidar. Nidar's head of the
winery guild," Jonmarc said. "Before the last lord died, Dark Haven's
lands were well-known for their wines. Without a lord, trade fell off and the
vineyards didn't get the attention they needed. Nidar is getting the vineyards
back up to production levels. We may not have much of a crop next spring, but
he's promised me we'll be back in the winemaking business by the following
year."
Carina smiled, welcoming the solidly built
wine maker. She took Jonmarc's arm and chuckled. "I don't think I could
have imagined this if you hadn't told me. You, a business man, rebuilding the
town trade!"
Carina could sense his pride and energy.
"Wait until we ride out over the lands tomorrow. I'll show you the
prettiest holding in all of Principality. The vayash moru are just as
interested in getting the property earning its keep as the mortals, and just
as ready to hear a good business deal."
Carina stretched up to kiss him. "You
never stop surprising me." "I never plan to stop."
When the last of the guests left around the eleventh hour, Jorimarc escorted Carina to
their suite. "These were the first rooms we rebuilt," Jonmarc said,
swinging open the door. A small sitting room separated bedrooms for the lord
and lady of the manor. Jonmarc's room was comfortable and simple, with a large
four-poster bed, a writing desk, and . an armoire, all in the ornately carved
style of the local craftsmen. Two comfortable chairs sat near the wide hearth.
In one corner, Jonmarc's leather and scale armor stood ready on a form, while
the wall above the mantle held a variety of interesting, and very useful,
swords, knives, and crossbows. An odd contraption lay on the desk, a fitting of
leather straps and a single arrow.
"What's that?" Carina asked with
a nod toward the item on the desk.
"Insurance."
The sitting room had its own fireplace,
making it comfortably warm despite the bitter chill outside. Large chairs,
side tables, and a settee furnished the room, along with a table for card games
or dice. Only one painting hung on its walls, a seascape.
"Gabriel gave me the painting as a
gift when we moved back
into the manor. It's the Northern
Sea, near where I grew up" Jonmarc took Carina's hand and led her to the
next door. "And this is your room. I hope you like it."
Carina gasped. The bedroom was a soothing
mix of green and yellow, and it smelled of fresh herbs and dried flowers. Its
curtained bed was smaller than the massive one in Jonmarc's room. Near the
window, where the light would be best, a work table was set up with a mortar
and pestle. Along one wall, a small library of books hugged built-in shelves,
and a wide variety of dried plants hung near the fireplace. Plenty of candles
and a large chair by the fire completed the room. Her bags and trunks were
stored near the far wall.
"It's wonderful," Carina said, her
eyes brimming with tears.
"It's got everything you need,"
Jonmarc's eyes glinted wickedly. "Although there's room enough for two in
my quarters."
"M'lady. May I be of service?"
The voice startled Carina and she turned.
"This is Lisette." Tall and red
haired, Lisette looked like a young woman in her early twenties, but the
vayash morn's eyes told of lifetimes. "Lisette is your lady's maid,
guide, and general companion to keep you out of trouble when I'm out on the
lands."
"I'll be very glad for your help."
"We're so pleased to have a Lady of
the manor once again," Lisette said. "It's been far
too long. If you need me, ring the bell.
I'll hear. Just remember—not in daylight!"
Lisette left them alone, and Jonmarc
folded Carina into his arms. "So what do you think?"
Carina smiled and laid her head against
his chest. "I think it's beautiful. And I think Dark Haven is amazing.
Especially its lord."
Jonmarc kissed her, and Carina returned it
with equal fervor. "It's good to be home."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Early the next morning, Jonmarc and Carina rode out from the manor house. The rolling
hills were covered with snow under an overcast sky. Wind rustled through the
bare trees. "Over there," Jonmarc said, pointing to the far left,
"you can see the vineyards. Not too long ago, their wines were the pride
of Principality. Nidar and I want to make that true again. Down there's the
town of Dark Haven. Mortals and vayash morn live and work together
here—and they intermarry. More than a few ghosts around, too. If Tris ever makes
it back this way, he'll have a crowd waiting."
Carina's horse snuffled in the cold. She
tucked her cloak closer around herself, shielding her face from the wind.
"That's going to take some getting
used to," she
confessed.
"Vayash moru feel different to a healer. They're not alive and they're not dead.
They're—empty."
"I've had a few months to get used to
it myself. Most of the time I don't think about being food."
"There was something odd last night,
when I healed Eiria's hands. Even being vyrkin, her life force didn't
feel right."
"Eiria doesn't have much time left.
Riqua told me that Shifters eventually get stuck in their other form. When that
happens, they die or go mad. Eiria's starting to lose control" over when
she shifts. Yestin doesn't say anything, but you can see it in his eyes when he
looks at her. They've been together a long time. The problem with the Flow
makes it worse."
Carina turned to him. "I'm surprised
to hear you talk about the Flow. I thought that was just the Sisterhood."
"Yeah, well I was ready to leave it
to the witch biddies until I started living on top of it. I can't feel it—at
least, not like you or Tris can—but from what everyone says, even the non-magic
users get affected after a while. It runs right beneath Dark Haven—that's how
the last lord was killed, when Arontala stole that damned Soulcatcher orb. He
warped the Flow, and since then, nothing's been quite the same, not the land,
nor the livestock, nor the crops."
"I felt something odd last night, but
I was so tired, I figured it was the long ride."
"That's one reason why our rooms are
on the top floor, in the far wing. Gabriel and I thought it was a good idea to
keep both of us as far away from it as possible."
Jonmarc smiled. "Maynard Linton
stopped by just before Gabriel and I headed for Mar-golan. I told him about
what we're trying to do, and I took him down to the village to see the crafts
people. Potters, glass blowers, and some of the best weavers outside of Noor.
Not to mention the vayash moru goldsmiths and sword smiths. I haven't
seen Linton that excited in a long time. Seems he's been itching to get back
on the caravan trail now that Jared's gone. Plans to keep his ties to the river
as well. So he put in a big order and he'll be back at the thaw to pick it up.
Wants to trade it on the main caravan route plus down the Nu to Jolie's Place.
That alone will go a long way toward putting some gold in the townspeople's
pockets. Enough for them to rebuild their herds and make some
improvements." "I knew you weren't the average mercenary."
"I used to watch my father do his accounts every month. He ran a very
successful forge, and mother's weaving brought customers from all over the
Borderlands. If accounts were good at month's end, we roasted a goat or a lamb.
If things were tight, all we got was chicken. We had four boys in the family—we
did everything we could to make it a goat month." He looked out over the
windswept hills. Snow glistened in the air; the winds dusted it up until it
shone in the cold winter sun.
"I think they'd approve, if they
could see Dark Haven," he said wistfully. "My mother and father. Been
a lot of years that I hoped the dead couldn't see me. After being around Tris,
I know they could. But now, maybe I've started to make up for all that."
Carina reached out to take his gloved
hand. "You're the one who told me that the dead forgive us."
"I know. But it's harder to believe
when there's more to be forgiven. Let's get back before we freeze. I still
haven't shown you everything in the dependencies."
Jonmarc took her through the stables and
the forge, the granary and the wine cellar. While Dark Haven was not as large
as many of the noble houses Carina had visited, it was solid and compact, and
she had no doubt that it would quickly be as self-sustaining as Jonmarc hoped.
"Here's where Arontala destroyed the
old foundation," Jonmarc said, pointing to a jumble of rocks behind the
west wing of the building. "Gabriel says that underneath there's a
vault—the chamber is still standing—and the Flow runs through the chamber. No
one goes down there—it's dangerous since the Flow was damaged. Gabriel says it
surges and wanes for no reason. Goddess knows I've got no magic, but when I
stand here, I could swear I feel
something—like the crackle in the air when
lightning's near."
"You do." Carina closed her eyes
and extended her healer's senses. While she had power of a different sort than
Tris, she had long ago become attuned to the working of magic. The vast river
of power that flowed beneath their feet was the most powerful energy she'd
ever sensed. "I agree—I wouldn't want to go any closer. I can almost hear
a buzzing, like a big nest of bees. Let's go back to the great room—surely it's
time to eat by now."
When Carina and Jonmarc entered the courtyard,
there was a large group lined up outside the manor. "What's going
on?" Jonmarc asked a stable hand.
"Beggin' your pardon, m'lord, but
it's the line to see Lady Carina. Word's gotten out to the village that there's
a healer here—and a fine one, too. They've started lining up since this
morning."
"She's only just arrived,"
Jonmarc protested, but Carina touched his hand.
"It's all right. If they're willing
to come out in this weather, they must need a healer pretty badly. I'll get my
things. Is there somewhere— maybe in the granary—where I can treat them?
Somewhere we can get them out of the wind?"
Jonmarc leaned down to kiss her.
"I'll have the kitchen send down your lunch. I've got some work to do
before this evening myself.
Only finish up by sixth bells—you're the
guest of honor tonight, and the Blood Council is coming."
By the time the tower tolled fifth bells, Carina had seen dozens of villagers with
complaints from ague to badly-healed bones, and the usual bouts of flux and
worms. Carina did not doubt that the vyrkin would come soon. She climbed
the stairs, to her new rooms wearily, dusting off her hands on her robe. Carina
was surprised, and pleased to find Lisette waiting for her, with a hot kettle
o'f tea and a small plate of cakes.
"I think I'm frozen through
completely." Carina moved near the fire. Lisette took Carina's cloak and
returned with a warm wrap.
Lisette's smile was genuine. "I hope
m'lady finds Dark Haven to be her home for a very long time. We'd heard so much
about you as we readied your room, I feel as if you and I had already
met."
"Really?"
Lisette nodded. Her red hair was wrapped
around her head in a long braid, and she was dressed to accompany Carina to the
party in a slim-fitting dress of dark blue. "Lord Gabriel's told us quite
a bit about your healing skills, and if I'm not overstepping my place to say
so, Lord Jonmarc certainly looked happier the nearer the day came for him to go
to Margolan to get you."
Carina lifted the hot cup of tea and
cradled it in her hands. "Lady bless! I never expected there to be so many
people who needed a healer on my first day." She sipped her tea. "I
think I understand what Jonmarc was trying to tell me about the Flow. As soon
as I started to heal, it felt like there was something draining my energy.
Everything took twice as much effort as it should have—like walking against the
wind."
"They're lucky to have you,"
Lisette said, fluffing out the skirt to Carina's party dress.
"Are there no vayash morn healers?
I know that vayash moru can be mages."
Lisette shook her head. "Healing
magic wars with the Dark Gift. A healer can't be brought across." She
paused. "Tell me, m'lady, are you also a mind healer?"
"Not yet, although perhaps some day.
Why?"
"My kind have no need for the usual
gifts of a healer. But over many lifetimes, it would be a kindness to be able
to forget. I sense that you're not yet comfortable among so many vayash
moru."
"It will take some getting used
to," Carina admitted. "I don't know how to explain it. To my healer's
senses, you 'feel' different. I've never been around so many at once, and it
has me a bit off balance."
"T'will be no different tonight. The
Blood Council will be here, and their 'families.'" She
grew serious. "M'lady, please don't
wander off alone tonight. Not with Uri in the manor."
Carina frowned. "Why not?"
"I'm talking out of turn to say this,
m'lady, but Uri's bad seed. He doesn't think there should be a mortal as Lord
of Dark Haven, and his brood's worse than he is. Please make sure that you're
with someone you trust tonight at all times."
"Thank you." Carina set the tea
aside. "I guess I'd best be getting dressed. Wouldn't do to be late." -
The great room glittered with candles and mirrors. Carina took Jonmarc's arm and
entered to a round of applause and cheers. Tonight's guests were dressed for
court, in sumptuous velvets and the rich, muted brocades of winter. Above the
smell of wassail and warmed wine, Carina could detect the tang of fresh blood.
And while the previous night's guests were a nearly equal mix of mortals and vayash
moru, Carina was sure from a glance around the room that few mortals were
among this evening's crowd.
"You look quite beautiful,
m'lady." Yestin bowed low in greeting. Eiria made a courtesy. "Mind
if we join you?"
"That's his very polite way of saying
they're our bodyguards for this evening," Jonmarc said.
"That sounds so harsh. Lord Gabriel
just asked that we
help make introductions."
Yestin held a glass of port. Eiria left
and returned with glasses of warm wassail for both Carina and Jonmarc.
"Is everyone here?" Jonmarc
asked quietly.
"Of the Council, everyone except Uri.
Typical."
Jonmarc drained his cup of wassail.
"If we're lucky,.he's got an alehouse gutter to raid."
"We should be so fortunate."
Riqua spoke from behind them. "Welcome to Dark Haven, Lady Carina. And
congratulations on your handfasting."
"You're very kind," Carina
replied. "You had no difficulty making the trip back from
Shekerishet?"
"I'm sure we made better time than
you did. Gabriel slowed his speed for your comfort."
Gabriel and Laisren were talking on the
other side of the room, and Carina noticed that Lisette stayed close to Laisren.
There's a story there, I bet, she thought. Jonmarc guided her through
the crowd, accepting the greetings and congratulations of well-wishers. Rafe
and Astasia arrived together, and although Cailan was noticeably pouting, they
did not seem to care.
Uri arrived late, accompanied by a dozen
of his brood. Malesh, the dark-haired young man Jonmarc had spotted at their
last meeting, hung back a pace from the others. They laughed loudly enough to
draw annoyed looks from the other
partygoers as they
poured themselves goblets of goat's blood, carrying on as if they had
just come from a night on the town. Jonmarc drew Carina closer to him; Yestin
and Eiria stayed near. It took Uri a full candlemark to make his greeting, a
show of calculated disdain Jonmarc doubted was accidental.
After a long while, Uri ambled toward
them. He smelled of absinthe, and the scent of pipe smoke clung to his satin
coat.
"So this is the new Lady of Dark
Haven." Uri's voice was as smooth as brandy. "What an honor to meet
you." He made an unnecessarily low bow, pressing his lips to the back of
Carina's hand. "King Donelan's court healer, am I right? How interesting
that you've chosen to come to Dark Haven. Bit of a step down, isn't it? Surely
someone of your standing could have done much better." "That's
enough, Uri." Jonmarc said. "Then again, if blood is the qualification
for becoming Lord of Dark Haven, you're certainly fully qualified," Uri
said to Jonmarc, his dark eyes glinting a challenge. "Have you told her
how many men you had to kill to be the general's great champion, back when you
were a fight slave? Some of them may have given you a challenge, but surely
most of them were no match for a fighter like yourself— the captives nor the
prisoners. Did you kill them quickly, I wonder, or did you make it last for the
entertainment of your keepers?" Uri clicked
his tongue in mock horror. "Hard to see why the Lady would choose a mortal
like you. You've probably killed more of your own kind than I have." Uri
leaned close enough that Jonmarc could smell the rancid blood on his breath.
"At least I eat what I kill."
"I said, that's enough."
Uri smiled unpleasantly, glancing toward
Jonmarc's sword and his balled, white-knuckled fist. "Think you're good
enough to challenge me? Go ahead. You want to. Let's see how the general's
great champion holds up in a fight with a real opponent."
"Get out."
Uri laughed. "You must be learning
from Gabriel. I seem to get thrown out of the best places these days." Uri
leaned toward Jonmarc. "Bride or no bride, don't count just yet on
passing the title to an heir. None of the last four lords have lived that long.
You might find that the Lady's will is more elusive than you think."
Uri motioned to his brood to follow him
and they moved to the door at human speed, intentionally crowding through the
partygoers. Malesh lingered for a moment longer, and his eyes met Jonmarc's
with a gaze that sent a chill down Jonmarc's back. Jonmarc watched him go,
consciously forcing himself to unclench his fists.
"We'll make sure they're gone,"
Yestin volunteered, and he and Eiria hurried out.
Gabriel and Laisren joined them, with
Lisette close behind them. "You handled that about as well as it could be
done," Gabriel remarked dryly.
"Given that Uri's spoiling for a.
brawl, I agree. Although the odds are against him with the crowd tonight."
Laisren looked around at the other guests who had ignored Uri's outburst and
gone back to their conversation.
Jonmarc took Carina's hand, but he avoided
her gaze. "I don't think even Uri would be fool enough to strike here,,
but just in case, let's keep vayash moru guards around the manor
tonight. I don't want to take any chances."
"It would be a pity to let a boor
like Uri ruin this evening," Gabriel said. "This is a celebration.
You've suffered through enough introductions. Come and enjoy."
Jonmarc allowed himself to be steered to
where Gabriel's family and Riqua's brood mingled near one of the tall banks of
candles. He found the questions in Carina's eyes unsettling.
Just before dawn, the party ended.
Gabriel, Laisren and the vayash moru close to Jonmarc left for the day
crypts within Dark Haven. The others took shelter in their secret places before
light broke through the winter night. Carina grew quiet as they climbed the
stairs toward their quarters. As tired as Jonmarc was, a sense of dread filled
him.
"Here we are," he said, opening
the door to their rooms. The corridors
of Dark Haven
were nearly empty. It was too close to
sunrise for the vayash moru, and still too early for most mortals.
Jonmarc noticed that someone had laid out their night clothes and a small plate
of sweet cakes, along with a kettle of hot tea near the fire. He unbuttoned his
doublet and laid it aside, too restless to relax.
"Aside from Uri, that was a very nice
reception," Carina said. "Although if these are the hours you
normally keep, it's going to take some getting used to."
Jonmarc forced a smile and took the cup
Carina offered. "Except for Uri and his brood, Dark Haven is a decent
group of folks."
"What's Uri got against you?"
Carina asked
"Uri never believed it was right for
Dark Haven to have a mortal lord," Jonmarc said. "That's part of it,
but I don't think Uri actually wants to be lord. I think he likes the
attention complaining about it gets him." Through the frost on the glass,
he could see the first light of dawn above the mountains in the distance.
"Uri's spent a lot of time along the river. He was a gambler and a
cutpurse before he was brought across by someone he cheated. He's gotten rich
being vayash moru, but he's never earned anyone's respect. He can't
figure out why I've gotten what he hasn't."
Carina set down her cup of tea and moved
toward him. "I don't need to be a healer to know that something's
bothering you. What Uri said back there—that's it, isn't it?"
"I've been things I'm not proud of,
Carina. Done things I wish I could forget. I never wanted any of that to taint
what we have. I thought it was dead and buried."
"Things don't seem to stay buried
around here." She moved back towards the fire. "When you helped me
heal Harrtuck, that's what you were afraid of, wasn't it? What I might see if I
could read your mind."
"For so many years, I tried to forget
what happened in Nargi. Being back at Jolie's this spring, back in Nargi, made
it all real again. Uri's right about me."
"This would make a little more sense
if you started from the beginning," Carina said.
"Kiara told you what happened at
Chau-vrenne. I was trying to get out of Eastmark, back to Margolan. There was a
king's warrant on me. I ran. I made it across Dhasson, but I lost my bearings
and accidentally crossed into Nargi. Big mistake. I realized it when I was
attacked by one of their scout teams. I was desperate, and I fought like a wild
thing—took down three of them before they got me. I was twenty.
"Their general was impressed. Life is
cheap in Nargi. He gave me the choice between being burned alive or getting to
earn my life week by week in their games. So I fought.'' He grew silent for a
moment, looking out over the shadowed hills.
"At first, he emptied their jail.
Sent me up against the ruffians and the cutthroats and the brawlers.
They could earn their freedom by beating me, while I'd still be the general's
slave, win or lose. They fought like dimonns. But I still won.
Sometimes, the general sent the bad seed that he wanted to cull out of his
ranks.
"I hated being his executioner. I
hated the way the audience bet on the fights, how they cheered every time we
bled. They bet on me to win, and they bet bigger against me to die. But I
fought, and I hated myself for fighting.
"Nargi fought border skirmishes with
Dhasson, trying to push out their holdings. And when the general took
captives, he sent them up against me. If he didn't think they'd fight or he
thought I might refuse, he had his priests dose them with drugs—like the asbteneratb—
so they were out of their minds with rage. I could see it in their eyes. It was
a kindness to end it for them."
Jonmarc's voice grew quieter as the
memories returned. "I won big for the general, and he rewarded me with
enough brandy and absinthe to get me through the week. When I'd sober up for
the games, I promised myself every time that I'd throw the bet, end it. It
would have been so easy," he said, his voice thick with self-reproach.
"Just react a little slower. Let them take me. But then the fight would
start, and something would take over, and then next thing I knew, I won again.
"The night the general let me escape,
the guards chased me into the Nu. It was winter. I
didn't care. I figured at least I'd die
free. Washed up on the shore near Jolie's Place. Found out later that she almost
had Astir slit my throat because I was wearing a Nargi uniform. But Harrtuck
was there, and a friend of mine named Thaine. Harrtuck got Jolie to let me
stay. I took fever—too much water in my lungs. Almost died anyhow. Harrtuck and
Thaine stayed with me." His voice was bitter. "I was so angry at
Harrtuck when I woke up and found out I was still alive.
"My soul belongs to the Crone for
what I've done. Every night in my dreams I see the faces of the men I killed in
the games. From the time my family died, fifteen years, I've been cursed. I
don't know why. But things started to turn around when I met Tris—and you. I
should have told you before. You deserved to know before you made the decision
to come here. If you want to break the handfasting, I understand."
He thought the silence would last forever.
She's probably too disgusted to reply. Can't blame her.
Carina stepped up behind him. Her hands
slid across his back, over the smooth satin of his shirt and the scarred skin
beneath. Her touch moved with the care of a lover, and the healing warmth of
her gift reached into the knotted muscles, releasing their tension. "I
used to wonder, when you'd startle awake in your sleep,
what you were
seeing in your
dreams," she said quietly. "I
wondered why I saw terror in your eyes. I couldn't read your mind, but I could
read your body. Now I understand."
She slipped her arms around his waist and
laid her cheek against his back. "I'd heard about the Nargi games when Cam
and I were with the mercs in Eastmark. Some of the mercs were Nargi deserters
who'd made it across the border. Their stories were almost too horrible to
believe. Some of those stories were about the games."
Jonmarc turned toward her, wrapping his
arms around her. "So you knew—and you came anyhow?"
"How many times have I healed you?
Even mercs don't have the scars you've got. I'd guessed that you'd been used as
the quintain— I've heard of commanders who'll do that as a punishment. I
couldn't figure out how you could still be alive and be so beat up. Then you
mentioned the games, and I knew what it would have taken to survive." She
looked down. "Sometimes, when you're sleeping and I know that you're
dreaming, I'll trance with you. I can't see what you're dreaming, but I can
feel your reaction. I can blunt the effect." She shivered. "It's as
close to the abyss as I ever want to come.
"I love you, Jonmarc Vahanian. Scars
and all. And I agree with Gabriel. It's Istra's hand on you that's brought you
this far, not the Crone. You'll see. Things will be better."
"It's already better," he
murmured, bending down to kiss her, knowing she could sense the relief that
flooded through him, no longer caring that she could read him so well. Nothing
at all mattered, nothing except that she knew everything and wanted to stay.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“THIS HAS TO stop." Gabriel looked at
the small group assembled in the
Wolven-skorn parlor. "Jonmarc Vahanian is the Lady's chosen. We are
oath-bound as the Blood Council to support the Lord of Dark Haven." The
Blood Council and their seconds had come at his insistence the night after the
reception at Dark Haven. Malesh leaned against the wall near the door. All of
the other seconds except Yestin lingered in the shadows.
Uri sprawled in a chair, studiously
avoiding Gabriel. Malesh felt the old revulsion sweep over him. Uri so
obviously lacked the breeding, the inborn nobility that Gabriel exuded effortlessly.
Wealth or not, Malesh wondered again how the Blood Council tolerated his maker.
"The idea of 'support' can mean so
many things," Uri said, toying with the heavy gold chain of his bracelet.
"I hardly consider coddling to be support. If he's strong enough, let him
take the title. He survived the games. He can't hide behind your skirts
forever."
"If you intend to challenge him for
the title, then you challenge all of us," Riqua stepped forward. "Is
that your intent?"
"Ah, Riqua. Still so much the
merchant, balancing the scales." He withdrew a coin from his vest pocket
and began to turn it through his fingers. "Why shouldn't he be challenged?
You have a tradesman's love of efficiency," he said derisively.
"Isn't it more efficient for one of "us to rule Dark Haven?
How long will Vahanian live—assuming he doesn't meet an unfortunate accident?
Most mortals are dead before they've lived fifty years. A strong man, a lucky
man, might see seventy. What's that to us? Barely a day. Then everything
declines while a new lord is chosen. We convince ourselves that it's the Lady
who chooses, but how do we know? I believe it's luck, all of it. Nothing but
luck."
"If it's efficiency you love, then
where were you all those years that Dark Haven sat empty?" Rafe's voice
had a hard edge to it. "What did you do for the holdings? You were content
to let the vineyards waste away. We all were. We cared nothing about whether
the villagers made a living, so long as they didn't come after us. Yes,
Vahanian has accomplished so much so quickly because of Gabriel's backing. But
now that I've seen what they've done,
I'm ashamed that we let the holdings
deteriorate. We wouldn't have done that for our own lands. I'm intrigued to
see what this lord makes of the title. You should love that, Uri. A wild
card."
"What do we care what happens to the
vineyards?"
Astasia had strategically positioned
herself between Rafe and Cailan, and she was enjoying the tension that
produced. Malesh suppressed a smile. Astasia considered herself too good for
him. Malesh would surprise her. Once his plan worked, Astasia's finely honed
sense for opportunity would bring her to him, and to his bed.
"How do we prosper if the villagers
grow fat?" Astasia challenged. "Will it fatten the goats they offer
us, or the criminals they stake out for us to kill? Perhaps if they're wealthy
there will be more cutpurses, and more for us to eat. Who among us needs the
gold the traders bring? Outlanders bring their fear of our kind. They judge our
mortal relationships, as if it's perversion for us to dwell among the living
and take our lovers where we choose. When the last lord died, Dark Haven turned
in on itself, and the outlanders stopped coming. No one to burn us, no one to
spread lies about us to the mortals. We've been safe. Change can only bring
grief."
"The fact remains that the Lady
Herself chose Jonmarc Vahanian as the new Lord of Dark Haven, and we are
oath-bound to the Lady." Gabriel's irritation was clear in his voice.
"Did she?" Uri asked, staring at
the ceiling. "You were the one who claimed to. have the dream that
foretold a new lord's coming. You're the one who said the Lady sent you to find
Jonmarc Vahanian. And you're the one who claimed the Lady made you Martris
Drayke's protector, even though it broke your vow to honor the truce. What do
we have except your word that any of that's true?"
"How can you doubt the will of the
Lady?" Yestin stepped forward. "Martris Drayke won back the throne of
Margolan, against the Obsidian King as well as Foor Arontala. Jonmarc Vahanian
has survived against all odds. Surely the hand of the Lady is clear!"
"I find that the will of the Lady is
always clearest to those who wanted to go in that direction anyhow," Uri
replied with ennui. "So perhaps it's the will of the Lady that the truce
is broken. I understand that many vayash moru in Margolan have
volunteered for the Margolan army, to hunt down Jared's loyalists. And Vahanian
trains with Laisren to fight vayash moru. Is that, also, the will of the
Lady?"
"Considering your threats, he'd be a
fool not to." Riqua snapped. "The Lord of Dark Haven — and his Lady -
must be as safe among our kind as we wish to be among mortals. Prosperous
mortals have no need to fear us. The mobs
turn against us when they're hungry,
driven by superstition and fear. Vahanian offers us a way of doing business
we've not seen before, a full partnership where we've only ever lurked in the
shadows. Why shouldn't we support that?"
Uri looked from Riqua to Gabriel and the
others. Malesh saw the hard glint that came to his maker's eyes, a look that
meant Uri had reached his limit. "We're not meant to partner with mortals.
We're meant to rule. Like the wolf rules the forest," he said with a
glance toward Yestin. "We are the top predator. It's the way of nature.
The strongest wins. And that is the will of the Lady." He glared at
Gabriel. "I'll stop baiting your precious mortal lord when he proves to me
that he can win his prize in fair combat. And if you can choose to break the
truce as you see fit, then so can I. My patience with the Council is
over."
Malesh followed Uri from the room, studiously
keeping his expression neutral. That couldn't have gone better if I'd been
Uri's puppet master. The truce is dead. Uri's cut off from the rest of the
Council. He's declared Vahanian fair game. Uri's soft and slow. He's about to
find out just what the top predator looks like. They're worried about the Lady's
will. But it's my will that is going to remake Dark Haven— and there's
not a thing their precious Council can do about it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cam stood outside
the inn for half a candlemark, watching patrons come
and go from the shadow of an alley across the street. Overhead, the winter wind
snapped at the pieces of laundry forgotten by their owners for the night, left
to freeze on the lines. Behind him, a cat yowled. The alley smelled of urine
and rotted food, and only the night's chill prevented it from smelling even
worse.
The Stray Dog Inn lived up to its name.
Aberponte was Isencroft's palace city, but the streets where its wealthiest
residents lived were far from these twisted alleys. This was home to the city's
poorest residents, the people whose luck had let them down. The Stray Dog Inn
made no pretense of long-faded glory. It was clear that the Stray Dog's
building had been many things over the years, none of them very successful. Its
thatched roof was bare in places, and the plaster beside the door was stained
and cracked. A drunk slept off his wine near the front steps, unlikely to ever
wake up again in this cold.
It was the kind of place Cam might have
brought a dozen soldiers to shut down, either for cheating on taxes or rigging
the card games. Tonight, Cam wore an old set of tunic and trews he had
borrowed, from one of the palace's gardeners. The clothes were stained, worn,
and appropriately smelling of dirt; he hoped to fit right in. Two weeks had
pas'sed since Cam's return from the wedding in Mar-golan. For most of that
time, he had been watching the patrons come and go at the Stray Dog Inn.
Checking first in both directions, Cam entered the inn.
"What'll you have?"
The barkeeper looked up as Cam entered,
and he looked down again just as quickly when he saw that Cam's sword was
sheathed. Cam put two copper pieces on the bar.
"Give me an ale." The barkeeper
slid the tankard across the bar and Cam settled himself where he could watch
the door. Near the fire, a pox-faced bard warbled through an old ballad. The
inn's patrons were too drunk or too engrossed in their chatter to care how
often the bard's voice cracked or how flat his lyre was.
There'd been rumors that the divisionists
met here, although as Cam looked around
the
room, none of the small groups of patrons
seemed likely conspirators. If most looked up from their dice or their ale, it
was to leer at the serving girls, who were as shopworn as the inn. A candlemark
passed, then two. Cam kept an ear open to the conversations around him.
"Heard that grain's going to cost
double by summer," a trader mused at the next table.
"What do you expect, after the
trouble in Margolan? Lucky if we've got bread on the table by spring," his
companion said.
"Don't mind going without bread, but
I'd hate to see us run out of mead," the trader replied.
"From the taste of this rubbish, the
bar here ran out of mead a while ago. And the bread is stale enough to use for
a brick. Fah. A couple of coppers used to buy more."
Cam rose and let himself out the back door,
heading for the privy. It was a sorry looking shack that stank even in the
frigid air. Its rickety door was barely solid enough to screen its user from
view and did nothing to stop the wind. Finished with his business, Cam was
about to open the privy door when he heard voices nearby.
"What have you heard?"
"It's all been arranged. The Lord's
got his man in place in Margolan—couldn't pay me enough in Trevath gold to live
in that damned haunted castle."
"What do you want us to do?"
"Keep the guards hopping. Enough
fires and street fights and Donelan will be too busy to bother about what's
happening in Margolan."
"How do we know Margolan won't just
march an army over to keep peace if Donelan can't handle it?" .
"The Margolan army is busy. The Lord
saw to that. Once King Martris is out of the way, you can have your princess
back—and whatever brat she's carrying as a bonus. You get yours, we get
ours—nice and tidy."
Cam waited until the .men had gone. He was
chilled through, but his mind raced at the "conversation. One of the men
had the hint of a Trevath accent. What does does a Trev care about
Isencroft's crown? He's got no cause with the divisionists—unless it's
to keep us busy while Tris goes to war. Cam went back to the inn long
enough to warm up once more, and was about to head home when someone bumped
against him.
Just as quickly, Cam knew the bag of coins
at his belt was gone. A skinny boy leaped over a bench and bolted out of the
door. Cam shouldered his way through the crowd in pursuit, catching sight of
the boy half a block down the street. For a man his size, Cam moved with
surprising speed, and he tackled the boy before the pickpocket could disappear
into one of the side streets.
"Take your poxy coins!" the boy
said, squirming in Cam's grip. "Just don't turn me in to the guards. I've
had enough trouble lately."
"Answer a couple of questions, and I
might not hand you over. Seen anyone around the Stray Dog with a Trevath
accent?"
The boy wiped at some blood at the corner
of his lip and glared at Cam. "Maybe."
"Seen any Trevath gold around?"
"Maybe."
Cam shook his head and started to hoist
the pickpocket to his feet. "With a memory like that, there's no reason
not to turn you in—"
"All right. Yes. Name is Ruggs. Looks
like the kind who has a different name in every tavern, if you get my meaning.
Shows up every fortnight. I seen him talking with Leather John. He's a bad
seed. On busy days, the innkeeper gives me a few coppers to feed the horses out
back. Once I overheard a bit of what Leather John and Ruggs was saying. Leather
John said his boys needed more money for weapons. Said they had to move about
to keep from getting caught. From the way he talked, I figured he doesn't fancy
our princess marrying up a foreigner. Ruggs gave Leather John a pouch. Told
him to step it up, burn more. Said his boss wanted to make sure Isencroft kept
out of other people's business. Didn't rightly know what he meant, but then the
old grocer's place went up in flames the next night."
Cam's fingers were growing numb from the
cold and his grip on the pickpocket's shirt. "Did you hear anything else?
A name? A place?"
"Just one. Lord somebody. Don't
recall the name."
Cam relieved the pickpocket of the stolen
pouch and then took out a silver coin and held it up. "When do you go back
to work at the stable again?"
The pickpocket eyed the coin. "Next
week. Why?"
"What's your name?"
"Which one?"
"The one they know you bv at the
Stray Dog."
"Kev."
"All right, Kev. The next time you
work at the inn, keep an eye out for Leather John and Ruggs. Go feed the
horses, take a leak, bring them an ale—whatever you have to do to get close to
them. I'll pay you a silver for the information. Mind that it's not something
you made up, or I'll know and you'll be out in the stocks at the guard house.
It gets mighty cold at night."
"I understand," Kev snapped. He
shook free of Cam's grip.
"Find out where Ruggs goes when he
leaves the Dog, and there's another silver in it for you. Don't get caught.
Can't imagine a guy like that would take it well."
"How will I find you?"
"I'll find you."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
" I wish
things could be different." Kiara said, watching Tris
fasten his heavy cloak. Below their window, in the courtyard, she could already
hear the clamor of the army readying to leave for war.
Tris wrapped his arms around her and
kissed her, lingering in the moment. She didn't need a healer's gift to
recognize the tension in his shoulders. The campaign was unlikely to move
smoothly. "So do I. But we both know there's no choice."
A month had passed since their wedding,
just long enough for the healers to be certain that she carried the child of
the king. Just a few days before, the same courtyard had been filled with
cheering people as Zachar, weak and barely able to return to his duties,
announced that the king and queen were expecting. All the hope and happiness
that announcement should have brought were dimmed by the knowledge that it
meant Tris was now free to wage war.
"You have Cerise and Malae to look
after you," Tris said, stroking Kiara's hair. "Zachar's not well, but
Crevan's handled things so far. Mikhail will be here to help, Carroway and
Harrtuck will watch out for you. And the dogs will keep you company." He
absently reached down to touch the wolfhound's head as the big dog nosed in
between them, jealous for attention. "I've asked Comar Hassad to have'the
ghosts watch over you as well. You'll be safe here." He forced a smile.
"You both will."
"It's you I'm worried about,"
Kiara said, reluctantly stepping back from their embrace. "You're a king
now. And a father. Don't take any foolish chances."
"Did Soterius tell you to say that?
He and Mikhail have been lecturing me for days now. Ban wants to keep me so far
behind the lines that I won't even be able to see Curane's manor. With luck,
we'll break them quickly and it won't come to outright war."
They both knew that was unlikely.
"You have a reason to come back in one piece," she said quietly.
"More than one. But I can't leave
Curane in place. He's not just a threat to me, and to Margolan, but he's also a
threat to the next king—or queen—as well."
"I know. But I don't have to like
it."
"Neither do I." A knock at the
door made him hurry to gather his cloak. He was dressed for the outside cold,
with a winter-weight tunic and trews beneath his mail shirt. A breastplate with
the king's coat of arms blazoned across his chest. The rest of his armor—and
that of the army—waited in the long train of wagons outside the courtyard. The
knock came again, more insistent this time.
"Be careful," he whispered,
giving her a last kiss good bye. "I'm looking forward to a warm welcome
when I get home."
Despite herself, Kiara smiled as he drew
away. "Count on it. But you'd better go before Soterius breaks down the
door."
Coalan, not Soterius, waited in the
hallway. "The men are ready to ride." Coalan was dressed for the
journey as the king's valet, and Tris noticed the new sword that hung beneath
Coalan's cloak, a gift from Soterius.
Tris followed Coalan, pausing for one backward
glance. Kiara waved and smiled bravely. Down in the courtyard, the army and all
its retainers spilled out of the bailey and down onto the road. Four thousand
men at arms and their horses, plus squires, cooks, drivers, and armorers.
Wagons were filled with food for men and horses, weapons, armor, tack, clothing,
bedding, and tents. Pack mules and extra horses added to the procession, plus
two wagons for the half-dozen mages who had defied the Sisterhood and
volunteered for the battle. Come nightfall, Tris knew, dozens of vayash moru
would join them. Vyrkin, too. Pennants flew overhead and the crowd
that gathered had a festival air to it.
"Everything's ready," Soterius
said, coming alongside Tris. "Awaiting your signal."
Tris nodded. Coalan brought his horse and
held it while Tris swung up to the saddle. "Let's ride." He glanced
behind him. Kiara stood on the balcony. It's the role she's schooled for all
her life. Queen of Margolan. And Goddess knows, it will take everything she's
got to hold the court together while I'm gone.
Kiara watched the
army stream from the palace courtyard. The long
procession wound its way through the gates and down the road from the palace
city until the road rose and the figures disappeared from sight. She finally
turned back toward her rooms, surprised to see Cerise waiting with a woolen
wrap. Tris's dogs followed her. The two wolfhounds were first to claim a spot
near the fire in the sitting room. The mastiff ambled his way toward the
hearth, circling before he lay down.
"It'll hardly do for you to catch a
chill," Cerise said, holding the wrap for her. "It's a bit warmer
here than in Isencroft, but hardly warm enough to stand outside. Make has tea
for us. You look a bit peaked, dear."
Malae was waiting with tea and cakes set
out on the table for the three of them. "Not much that a good cup of tea
can't help, I always say."
Kiara sank down into a chair, snuggling
the wrap around herself. "Was it like this for mother, when father had to
go out on campaign?"
"Every time, my dear," Cerise
replied.
"Except that your mother favored port
over tea on such an occasion," Malae added.
"I remember father being gone for
months at a time when I was a child. But mother never let on that anything was
wrong. For all I knew, he was out on a hunt."
Malae reached over to pat her hand.
"Viata didn't want you to worry. After you were asleep, we would often sit
up the whole night with her when your father was at war. Whenever he was able
to send a letter, she would read it over and over, looking for hidden clues
about how things were really going. It was worse when you were old enough to go
with him. She worried about you both. But she kept up a brave front. As you
must, my dear."
"I know. I tried not to let Tris know
how afraid I am for him."
Cerise placed her hands on Kiara's
shoulders. Kiara could feel Cerise's healing magic flow through her, into the
stiff muscles of her back and neck. It warmed her even more than the tea, and
she shrugged off the wrap
as the warmth of the nearby
fireplace took the last of the chill.
"You have your own battles
here," Malae said. "Your first job is to stay safe."
"That's not something mother did very
well, was it," Kiara said wistfully, sipping her tea. She knew that
Viata's ghost was nearby.
"She did everything in her power to
make it easier for you," Cerise said, settling down beside Kiara.
"And you have friends here. Tonight, Bard Carroway is giving a concert in
your honor."
"Speaking of which—who changed the
necklace I set out?" Malae said, picking up a piece of jewelry from where
it lay on the bed next to Kiara's gown for the evening. There was a cool wind,
and out of the corner of her eye, Kiara caught a glimpse of a young woman in a
servant's dress.
"Seanna, is that you?" Kiara
asked. Unseen hands smoothed the gown's skirt. "Tris told me you'd look
after me," Kiara said although she could not see the ghost. "Did you
choose the necklace?" The fire suddenly grew brighter, as if a gust of air
had blown on it. "I'll take that as a yes. Thank you."
Kiara turned to the others. "Tris
told me that Seanna has been lady in waiting to several generations of
Margolan's queens. So I guess we'd better get used to her having an
opinion."
There was a knock at the door. The
wolfhounds jumped to their
feet as Malae
answered the door to find Crevan waiting.
"May I come in?" Crevan regarded the dog watchfully. The mastiff made
no noise, but he padded toward Crevan, head down.
"Of course," Kiara replied,
laying aside her tea. "I was expecting Zachar."
"Unfortunately, the pace of these
last few days has been too much for Zachar. He's had a setback. Almost had to
carry him back to bed." Crevan shook his head. "I'm afraid he's not
well at all, but we'll carry on. You have guests for dinner tonight—Bard
Carroway, Lady Eadoin, and her niece, Lady Alysandra. Mikhail will join us at
some point. Captain Harrtuck asked me to let you know he's hand-picked your
guards, and that he'll be among them at every opportunity." Crevan smiled.
"I'm afraid your duties as queen are just beginning, Your Majesty."
Every night,
Carroway's band of musicians played through dinner.
In the two weeks since Tris left with the army, they had not repeated a set,
and Kiara was as impressed at the musicians' ability as she was intrigued at
the obvious camaraderie among them. Kiara watched, entranced, as Macaria played
her flute. She remembered Carroway's high praise for the girl, and thought it
was colored by his obvious and unrequited interest in her. But as Macaria
played a lilting folk tune, Kiara felt the stirrings of magic in the air. The
room's temperature dropped; Macaria's music was drawing the ghosts of
Shekerishet. Those spirits who could made themselves visible. Among them,
Kiara glimpsed Seanna, smiling and swaying to the music.
"It's wonderful how music lifts the
mood, don't you think?" Make said.
"It certainly is." Kiara had
just enough magic of her own to sense the power in Macaria's music. As
beautiful as it was, more than just the song was affecting the crowd's
emotions. Macaria's playing seemed to lift her mood. At first, she had thought
it due to the girl's expert playing. Now, she was sure it was magic. Car-roway
knows the power of her playing. Bless him. It's no accident he's been sending
her to play for me in the evenings. When Macaria finished, Carroway
motioned for her to join them.
"Your playing is beautiful,"
Kiara said as Macaria took her seat.
"Thank you, m'lady."
"There's magic in it, isn't there?
Mood magic."
"The magic's always been there. My
grandmother gave me a pennywhistle when I was a little girl. I was the
youngest of ten, so no one noticed if I strayed off into the- woods for hours
at a time, playing. I don't remember when I realized that the music brought the
ghosts near. It charms the animals too, although to a lesser degree. I
discovered that
the day I saw a wolf! I didn't know what
to do and I was scared, so I kept on playing. I played a quiet song and he just
sat down and looked at me until I was finished."
"So the magic influences the mood of
your listeners?"
"I can't actually control someone's
mood— and it wouldn't be right to do it even if I could. But I can enhance a
good mood, and encourage a better mood if someone's in a bad one." She
grinned. "It works best if the listeners don't think about it. Once you know,
you can choose not to be affected. Most people never realize it. They just know
they really liked the music, and they're more generous with the coins in my hat
to show it!"
Carroway laughed. "Can you believe
someone with her gift was playing in the street? I brought her to the queen as
soon as I found her."
"Carroway was my patron. I'll always
be grateful for that." Kiara noticed that Carroway looked away at
Macaria's words, and a shadow seemed to cross his expression. Something
else is going on there. Something keeping them apart. But what?
"You're not eating, my dear."
Lady Eadoin looked pointedly at the food Kiara had pushed from one side of her
plate to another.
Kiara sighed. "I haven't been feeling
well."
"That's to be expected. It will
pass." She reached into the small, elaborately beaded bag at her belt and
withdrew a velvet pouch. "A gift, if it pleases my queen."
Kiara opened the pouch. A polished agate
disk was bound in a shield knot to a thin leather strap.
"An amulet, my lady, for safe
childbirth," Eadoin said. "The child you bear will draw notice in
this realm and the next. A king's heir—and the heir of power to a Summoner. You
must be careful. The agate is a warding against a difficult birth. Knotted so,
it's a charm against the attention of dark spirits." Cerise gently took
the necklace from her' and tied the charm around her neck.
"Your mother told me that she
believed it was the amulet she wore that made it possible for her to deliver
you safely," Eadoin said. "I would be a poor friend to her memory not
to look after you."
"Thank you. From both of us."
"I've heard it said that a bowl of
salted water, laid at the foot and head of the bed, will protect the babe from
spirits," Alle said.
"I've already put that in
place."
"Poor Carroway!" Alle laughed. "He'll
think he's dining with a gaggle of midwives!"
Carroway grinned. "You've no idea how
many times I've been called to play for one of the court ladies in labor. But
I've always been glad for the curtain between us when I hear their cries!"
Make yawned and glanced at Kiara. "If
it please the queen, I'd like to head back to the
room and lay out clothing for tomorrow.
This late feasting is not for an old lady like me."
Kiara herself was in no hurry to return.
Carroway, Macaria, Eadoin and Alle were lively company, and it helped to take
her mind off Tris's absence. Her sleep had been fitful the night before, her
dreams disquieting. She was content to let the others banter. Although dinner
had been one of Bian's specialties, Kiara found that she was nauseous all of
the time, despite Cerise's best attempts.
"Carroway's not the only one to get
called when a lady's birthing," Alle said. "Had more than a few
travelers give birth at the inn while I was working there. The food they'd call
for! Tea and cakes, pickles and sausage, candied fruit and rum—all at once.
Never could figure out whether they actually ate it or whether calling for me
to fetch it gave them something to take their mind off their labor."
Dressed as she was for court, it was
difficult to imagine Alle as Soterius first met her, spying for the Margolan
rebels as a serving wench in a tavern near the Principality border. Alle was as
vivacious as her Aunt Eadoin, with the same blonde hair and infectious laugh.
Kiara was not surprised to glimpse a locket on a chain around Alle's neck
engraved with the crest from Soterius's shield.
Carroway glimpsed the locket as well and
gave Alle a
wicked grin. "Perhaps all that
experience will come in handy once Ban
returns from the war and that locket becomes a ring."
"Perhaps. Or maybe some other tavern
wench will put a knife to his throat and steal his heart like I did!"
Kiara laughed. It felt good, a welcome
change. The days leading up to the army's departure had felt leaden. Tris had
been consumed with the planning for war. The generals considered the pregnancy
to be one more item completed from their checklist. Now Tris and the army were
gone, and might not return until after the birth. "Many a king's gone to
put down a rebellion and returned no worse for the wear," Eadoin said with
an encouraging smile. "Don't borrow grief."
"I've heard it said that sweet music
is heard even before birth," Carroway said. "So we're sworn, Halik,
Macaria, and I, to perform for you every day while Tris is gone." He
grinned. "With your permission, I've assigned Macaria as your personal
bard. And I took care of the scheduling matter you mentioned earlier."
"Oh?" Cerise asked.
Kiara sighed. "I asked Carroway to
see if I could have private time in the salle before dawn. Mikhail is the only
one here who knows the Eastmark fighting style. He's offered to train with
me—as long as I'm able. In Isencroft, women train in the salle until they go
into labor, and they swear their labor is shorter
for it. I thought it might take my mind
off things."
"Will the good ladies of the Margolan
court be scandalized?"
"Not one of them gets up before dawn,
I promise you." Alle laughed. "And if it pleases you, I'll also stay
at court. I would be happy to make introductions. It would be an honor."
Kiara glanced at Carroway, who was suspiciously
interested in the reflection of candlelight on his goblet. "And you didn't
have a hand in it at all," she said, raising an eyebrow.
Carroway sighed theatrically. "Guilty
as charged, m'lady."
Kiara laughed. "I would be very
pleased. Thank you."
Carroway beamed, and Kiara intercepted a
triumphant look between Eadoin and the bard. Just then, there was a knock at
the door to the small salon where they were dining. A servant went to answer.
Kiara and the others turned to see Mikhail framed in the doorway, a grim
expression on his face. He bowed to Kiara and gave a nod in recognition to the
others.
"What's the matter, Mikhail?"
Kiara asked, rising.
Mikhail looked from Kiara to Carroway.
"Zachar is dead."
Carroway's eyes grew wide. "But he
was well enough just two days ago!" he exclaimed. "I saw him."
"We all did. Yesterday he complained
of a headache, and when Crevan went to look in on him tonight, Zachar was dead,
still in his nightclothes. It's possible at Zachar's age there could have been
bleeding in his head."
"So Crevan becomes the
seneschal?"
"And at least for now, I'll take
Crevan's place. Between us, we'll keep the palace functioning. Zachar will be
missed. He was an important link for the court to Bricen's memory, and he
would have been a great help to Kiara."
Mikhail's announcement brought the evening
to an end. Kiara bid farewell to Carroway and Eadoin, heading back to her rooms
with Cerise, Macaria, and Alle. She was surprised when Mikhail joined them.
"Something more you haven't
said?" Kiara asked as Mikhail walked beside her.
"Only that I dislike the timing of
Zachar's death. With Tris gone, there's no Summoner to call Zachar's
ghost."
"Do you doubt Crevan's account?"
Mikhail didn't answer immediately. "I
think Crevan's recount is true to what he found. That doesn't make it the whole
truth."
Cerise knocked at the locked door to the
Queen's suite, but Malae did not answer. Cerise knocked louder, and put her
face near the door. "Malae—wake up. You've got the door locked. Let us
in!" On the other side of the door, they could hear the shuffling of
Tris's dogs.
When no answer came, Kiara withdrew the
key from a pouch on her belt. Mikhail and the others stepped aside to let her
through. The door swung open. Cerise gasped and ran ahead. Malae lay slumped in
a chair beside the fire. Seanna's ghost was beside Malae, and the faint sound
of her sobs broke the silence.
Mikhail gave the guards orders to secure
the hallway. Kiara knelt beside Malae. Cerise's face was wet with tears.
"She's dead," the healer said. Kiara reached out for Malae, but
Cerise grabbed her wrist. "Don't touch her."
"Why?" Kiara asked, feeling her
throat tighten. Losing Malae was like losing her mother all over again, and
she longed for one last contact.
"She's been poisoned."
"Look here." Alle stood beside
the table in the center of the room. A plate of tea cakes on a silver plate lay
next to the teapot. Several of the cakes were gone.
"Those are kesthrie cakes,"
Kiara said, her eyes widening. "They're an Isencroft special-
"Malae asked the kitchen for them
just yesterday," Cerise replied, standing. "She always had a
weakness for them. Although I think she may have made the request sound as if
it came from the queen, if I know Malae."
Kiara met Mikhail's eyes. "So if the
cakes were to be for me..."
"So was the poison," Mikhail
finished. "Were the cakes here when you left the room?"
Both Kiara and Cerise shook their heads.
"So someone brought them while you were at dinner." Alle said.
"What about the guards? Did they see anyone enter the room?"
Mikhail frowned. "The guards were
with Kiara. Even the ghosts were with us when Macaria played." Kiara could
see anger in his blue eyes. "I'm sorry."
Kiara wiped away tears with her sleeve.
"Zachar—now this. Malae's so far from home. I don't dare send her body
back. It'll cause an incident. But Isencroft burns its dead, instead of burying
them as Margolan does. Mikhail, how can I send her properly to the Lady without
getting the court in an uproar?"
"Make was old enough that it won't be
remarkable for her heart to stop. As for the burial, you're correct. A funeral
pyre won't be well received, given how fond Jared was of burning his enemies.
But in a way, Zachar may have done us one last service."
"How?"
"Crevan's already making plans for a
funeral befitting Zachar's long service to King Bricen and now to Tris. The
court's attention will be on those events. Tell me, how does Isencroft bid
farewell to those who die in battle far from home?"
"We make a bonfire with some of their
personal belongings, so that the sparks will fly to the Lady."
Mikhail exchanged glances with Macaria.
"Go fetch Carroway. We'll need his help." He
returned his attention to Kiara.
"We'll attract less attention if we bury Malae, as the Mar-golense do.
I'll see to it that she rests with honor befitting her station. Part of the
farewell for Zachar will include a public procession to the crypts. There'll be
bonfires to light the way." He laid a hand on Kiara's arm. "You'll be
required to attend the ceremony, but only at the beginning. Once the procession
leaves, we'll light another bonfire for Malae. No one will notice."
"That's more than I hoped for."
She paused. "It just doesn't seem right, sending her off so quietly. She's
been with me since I was born."
Cerise placed her arm around Kiara's shoulder.
"Malae would approve of a quiet good bye. This was her last gift to you,
saving your life."
Macaria returned with Carroway, both of
them out of breath from running up the stairs. Carroway's eyes widened as he
took in the scene, glancing from Malae's body to the plate of cakes and then to
Kiara. "Sweet Mother and Childe," Carroway whispered. "Kiara,
I'm so sorry.
Alle stepped closer. "We don't dare
let the court know. This must be our secret."
Mikhail took Kiara's hands in his. He met
her eyes solemnly. "Until we know who did this, you must be very careful.
Whoever did this knows the palace, and the king's dogs, well enough to slip in
without a scene. We don't know if the poisoner worked alone. But when he or she
discovers that the attempt failed, there's sure to be another."
Carroway was already moving around the
room with Alle's help, gathering up any food and drink, even the flagons of
wine and the kettle near the fire. "Just in case," he said, "I think
we'd best get rid of everything. Alle and I can bring up fresh supplies from
the kitchen. The staff knows me well enough that having me raid the pantry
won't cause a stir." He made a pile of the discarded items near the door.
"For tonight, let's put Malae in her
bed," Cerise said in a practical voice that shored up Kiara's wavering
control. "Tomorrow morning, we'll pretend we've only just found her.
Everyone saw her come up early, so they won't think anything of it if Malae was
sleeping when we returned."
Kiara watched through her tears as Mikhail
gently lifted Malae's frail body, carrying her to the next room. Cerise sang an
Isencroft mourning song as she tucked Malae beneath the covers, and Kiara wept
against Carroway's shoulder. The wolfhounds howled and the mastiff stirred from
its usual place near the fire and trotted over beside Kiara, nuzzling her
hand." Alle, Macaria, and I will stay in the room with Kiara," Cerise
announced. "We have the dogs and the guards. There's nothing more to be
done tonight."
Mikhail and Carroway bid them good night
and left, taking the suspect food and drink with them. Cerise wrapped her arms
around Kiara and let her sob wordlessly. Alle, at a loss for what to say, laid
a hand on Kiara's shoulder. When Kiara's tears subsided, Cerise smiled sadly
and dabbed at Kiara's eyes with a kerchief. "So here we are again,"
the healer said, giving Kiara a motherly kiss on her forehead. "Just like
when Viata went to the Lady."
Kiara felt as if her heart might burst.
"You and Malae have always been my second mothers. I don't know what I'll
do without her."
Alle brought Kiara a nightshirt and a
shawl. "Perhaps sleep will help," she said kindly. "I'll sit up
near the door." She tugged back a fold of her full skirt, revealing a
cleverly hidden dagger. "It was best at the tavern to keep a blade handy
in case the drunks didn't take no for an answer. I never got out of the
habit."
Exhausted, Kiara didn't complain when
Cerise pulled back her covers and tucked the blankets in around her, hungering
for the old comforts she had known since childhood. At the foot and head of the
bed, as promised, were two shallow bowls of water. Cerise pushed back the hair
from Kiara's forehead as if for a small child. "I can help you sleep, if
you'd like."
"Please. My body's too tired to move,
but with everything that's happened, my mind is racing."
Cerise placed a hand over Kiara's
forehead, and Kiara felt the healer's magic relax her body, making it possible
for her to fall asleep faster than she ever imagined.
Kiara's dreams
were dark. She was alone on a bleak plain, a shadowed place
lit by a waning moon. The night was unnaturally silent. No wind rustled the
bare trees, and no creatures scurried in the darkness.
Kiara flattened herself behind a rock
ledge. Something was searching for her, for the warm presence she carried
within. Kiara could sense a darkness, invisible yet almost near enough to
touch. It was.not searching for her. It searched for the child she carried, a
Summoner's child.
There was nowhere to run, no safe place to
hide. Instinctively, Kiara curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her
knees, shielding the child in her belly as the danger moved closer. In the
distance, she heard the baying of dogs. Darkness enveloped her. It hurled itself
against her mind, as the Obsidian King had once tried to break through her
shielding. The amulet at her throat burst into light, and Kiara felt the shadow
pull back.
In the distance, Kiara heard the sound of
a distant flute playing wild notes that sounded like the coming of a storm. Fog
began to swirl around her on the Plains of Spirit, and in the fog, she saw
faces and forms. The ghosts swirled around her, drawing on the energy of
the amulet's glow, driven by the music.
The ghosts became more solid, and although Kiara had none of Tris's summoning
magic, she could feel the energy that crackled like lightning around her. The
ghosts' mood matched the ferocity of the music, but Kiara sensed no threat from
them. Instead, they formed a protective barrier between Kiara and the shadow,
even as the darkness threatened to overwhelm them.
She threw all of her energy into her
shield-ings, knowing that they could not hold out forever, and on the barren
plain she could hear the echo of her own screams—
"Kiara!"
Kiara thrashed awake, her heart pounding,
wet with sweat. It took a moment to realize that Cerise and Alle stood over
her. The three dogs stood at the foot of her bed, their hackles raised, teeth
bared. Across the room, near the fireplace, Macaria lowered her flute,
wide-eyed and frightened.
"What happened?"
"Seanna woke us," Alle said.
"She kept ripping the covers off me until I woke up. She did the same to
Cerise. She knew something was wrong." Seanna's ghost was faintly visible
at the foot of Kiara's bed, next to the water bowl. Suddenly, the bowl began to
rock, sloshing its contents. Alle looked at the ghost, puzzled.
"What?"
Alle's eyes narrowed, and she dipped a
finger into the bowl
and sniffed it
cautiously.
"'Whoever brought the cakes for Malae
left another surprise. Someone's replaced the salt water with plain water.
Useless." She looked to Kiara. "What happened?"
Kiara recounted the attack, and looked up
at Macaria. "It was your playing I heard, wasn't it? To draw the
ghosts."
Macaria nodded. "I didn't know what
was happening, but I could feel bad magic. Car-roway told me that the ghosts of
Shekerishet would protect you. I thought if I called them, they'd know what to
do."
Kiara smiled gratefully. "They did.
Thank you."
Cerise dropped to her knees and stretched
her hand under Kiara's bed. She sat up, holding a folded parchment in her
hands.
"Give me your dagger," Cerise
said to Alle, who handed over her weapon. Cerise laid the parchment on the
floor. It was folded in a complex pattern and tied with red twine, sealed with
a wax sigil that shifted as they looked at it. Murmuring under her breath,
Cerise took the dagger in both hands and stabbed through the center of the
parchment with her full strength. The point of the dagger sliced through the packet
and a scream tore from the parchment itself, which curled up as if licked by
unseen flames. The door to the corridor burst open and the guards entered.
"My Lady, are you all right?"
Kiara drew a deep breath and nodded.
Cerise and Alle moved to hide the dagger and parchment from the guards' view.
"Just bad dreams," Kiara said. "Thank you."
No one spoke until the door closed behind
the guards.
"What the hells was that?" Alle
asked. Cerise gingerly hooked what remained of the parchment with the dagger's
tip and carefully carried it to the fireplace. As it curled and burned in the
flames, they could hear the sound of distant voices in an unknown language.
"Blood magic." Cerise cleansed
the blade of the dagger in the flames before returning it to Alle. "Someone
broke the warding of the bowls, and placed that charm beneath your bed. Tell me
again what you saw."
Kiara repressed a shiver. "I was on a
dark plain, like a moor or a bog. There was something searching for me—for
us," she said, her hand going to her belly. "It didn't want me. It
was looking for the baby, for its spirit."
"The old women of the mountain
villages tell tales about dimonns. When a child dies in its crib they
say the dimonns have taken its soul. Has Tris ever told you what he sees
on the Plains of Spirit?"
"Most of the time, he sees the souls
of the dead. Sometimes, he's glimpsed the Lady. But a few times, he's seen
something else that left him shaken, things he wouldn't talk about."
"Healers tread close to the Plains of
Spirit, although we don't see it as a Summoner does. But we can sense the life
force, and we know when it wanes. I woke just before the dogs began to bark.
Dogs can see spirits and sense evil. You were quivering all over, your eyes
were wide open but not seeing, and then your whole body stiffened. I could feel
something draining your life force, like a damper on a candle. I said a charm
against darkness, and you woke up."
"What now? I'm no safer asleep than I
am awake. How long can I fight something I can't even see?"
Cerise took Kiara's hand. "Tomorrow,
we'll call for one of the Sisters to cleanse your rooms. The blood magic charm
opened a gateway to the Plains of Spirit. We need to close it. Then, we'll set
new charms and wardings. One of us will stay in the room at all times to make
sure nothing is disturbed."
Now that the terror had drained away,
Kiara felt completely spent. Cerise drew up a chair beside Kiara's bed and took
a blanket from the chest. Alle returned to her post by the door, and the dogs
left the fire to lie near Kiara's bed. Macaria refused to leave, and took up
another chair near the fire. Still numb with grief over Malae's death and
exhausted from her struggle with the dimonn, Kiara slept.
"Why have
they taken Bian?" In the minstrels' practice room,
Macaria paced compulsively, running her hands through her short, dark hair.
"How could anyone suspect Bian?"
Carroway shook his head. The guards had
taken Bian from the kitchen on Crevan's orders. Rumors about bad food causing
Malae's death quickly turned to dark suspicions, and Carroway barely hid his
annoyance at Crevan's botched response.
"Bad food comes from the kitchen, and
Bian runs the kitchen," Halik replied, his tone making it clear that he,
too, considered Bian innocent.
Paiva, a third-year fosterling and the
newest addition to Carroway's inner circle burst through the door.
"They've shut her up in the guard house. It's too cold in there for an old
woman. She'll freeze before she gets the chance to plead her case."
Carroway turned toward the fire, rubbing
his hand across his forehead.
"Zachar. Malae. Bian. What if it's
not a coincidence? The king leaves the palace—the only Summoner who could
question the spirits and know for certain how they died—and within a few weeks,
three of the most trusted retainers either die or are sent away."
"You said Zachar had a brain
bleed," Macaria said.
"Maybe he did. But we weren't looking
for poison before Malae died. We assumed the poisoned cakes were for Kiara, but
anyone who's watched knows Kiara hasn't eaten much at all this last
month."
"She's spent most of the time
throwing up in the garderobe, that's the truth," Paiva declared.
"It was Malae who asked for the
cakes. What if Malae was the target?" Carroway said, his eyes wide.
"How better to get rid of Bian, who's been our eyes and ears? Crevan's on
the edge of losing his mind with the preparations for Zachar's funeral. The
king is gone to war, the new queen is vulnerable, we've got a half-competent
vice seneschal in charge, and three of our inner circle are either dead or
under suspicion. If they can peel away the queen's friends, then the queen will
be exposed. We'd better find out quickly who's behind this. Kiara's not the
only one in danger. So are we."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LORD CURANE SHOULDERED through the crowded
corridors of Lochlanimar. Since the siege began, the tension within the keep
had grown daily. Some of it was due to the plague now raging in parts of the
village, a plague created by his own blood mages as a weapon against the
invaders. Some of the tension could be attributed to the feel of the
locked-down keep. And some was certainly due to the army outside that was
visibly engaged in building siege engines to bombard Lochlanimar.
He climbed the stairs to the tower and
withdrew a key from where it hung on a chain around his neck. Locked within
the tower was the war's greatest prize—his granddaughter and her infant son.
Curane squinted as he entered the room.
The only light came from the fireplace and from the five slitted windows high
on the wall. Lanterns sat unlit on a reading desk along the far wall, and
candles were dark in their sconces. The room had been made as comfortable as
possible under the circumstances, outfitted as a noble's bedroom, complete
with a small crib. On the bed, he saw a huddled shape.
Annoyed, he took a candle from its sconce
and lit it in the fire, then lit the rest of the candles and a lantern.
"Is there a reason you sit in the dark?"
"Why do you care what I do?"
"Your son is the next king of
Margola'n. I won't have him brought up like a cave dweller."
"Cave dwellers are free to come and
go as they please."
Curane bit back his first response.
"We're at war. You're safe in here."
"A locked door is a locked
door." Canice's dark hair was uncombed, and she still wore a night gown,
although it was midday. She cradled the baby against her, gently jiggling him
when he stirred. "We're exactly where you left us. What did you
expect?"
"What's wrong with you, girl? I've
seen tavern slatterns who took better care of themselves. You're still abed,
and you haven't dressed. I've had all I'll take of your self-pity. If you don't
shape up, we can find a wet nurse for that baby. I've worked too hard to have
this sabotaged by a spiteful child."
"You thought I was woman enough for a
king when you sent me to Jared. And between his 'attentions' and the birth,
I'll never be suited for another man. You've gotten what you wanted from me.
What do you care what I'm wearing? No one but the guards see me. Morgan is fed
and clean, and he's finally stopped his colic."
"You'd probably prefer to have the
baby taken, wouldn't you? Think you'll
go back to the Trevath court and waste your time with that noble trash you call
friends. You've got a king to raise. Grow up."
"Why did you come?"
"I'm going to move you to Trevath,
back to your aunt's people. Lord Monteith's castle is far enough inside
Trevath's boundaries that Margolan doesn't dare move against him."
"Losing so soon? The siege hasn't
even started."
Curane's voice shook with anger.
"Being cautious. This keep and everyone in it is expendable—except for
that baby."
"Do your mages know they're 'expendable?'"
"This is war. The only thing that
matters is achieving the objective. There are always necessary losses."
"Maybe Martris Drayke isn't as soft
as you thought he was. After all, he killed Jared. That's a plus right
there."
Curane snatched a dress from the wardrobe
and threw it at the bed. "Get dressed. Clean yourself up."
"Stop shouting. You'll wake the
baby."
"I don't give a damn—"
The baby let out an ear-splitting scream,
arching and grasping. Canice fixed Curane with a deadly stare and lifted the
baby against her shoulder.
"Don't let him scare you. Mother's
here. Mother will keep you safe. It's all right. It'll be all right." .
"Did you hear me? I want you up and
dressed and presentable. Pack your things. I've made up my mind. You're going
to Trevath. I'll let Lady Monteith deal with you."
Canice did not look up. "Hush,"
she cooed. "Hush now. Mother's here. It'll be all right."
"I'll send guards for you at sundown.
You'd better be ready." Curane slammed the door behind him.
His foul
mood carried into his briefing. "Well?" he demanded when
General Drostan and the fire mage Cadoc entered the room. "Are we
ready?"
Drostan nodded. "Nearly so."
"Nearly so isn't enough. Our best
chance to strike at the Margolan army will be when it first arrives, before
they've had a chance to dig in. If we take the offensive, we might turn
them."
Cadoc shrugged. "I doubt they'll be
broken quite so easily, even with magic."
"We must terrify them. Teach them
that we have the will to endure. Let them understand that we'll hold out."
"Is that why you're smuggling the
girl out of the keep?" Drostan's voice was icy. "Hardly proof that
you believe this siege to be winnable."
"I learned long ago to hedge my bets.
With Canice gone, there will be one less distraction, and it puts one prize out
of Drayke's reach before the first salvo is fired." Curane smiled icily.
"I'll send you one of the serving girls and her baby. Use your magic to
put an illusion on them. We'll lock them up in Canice's place. No one will
suspect."
"Even our best strike can't defeat
thousands of soldiers," Drostan replied.
"We don't have to defeat them. We
need to make them lose heart. Every day the army camps here, my man at
Shekerishet moves closer to success. Our people in Isencroft already have
Donelan occupied with the divisionists. We have the resources to keep the army
tied up here for months. By stripping the land bare, they'll have to travel
further for supplies—and we have fighters in place to harry their supply
line." He rose and looked out one of the thin windows, toward the plain
where the army would camp.
"We'll teach them to be terrified of
what comes by night. Sicken them once the harshest days of winter come. Make
them hungry. Drayke and his mages will weaken the longer they stay here, while
you and your blood mages," he said with a nod toward Cadoc, "grow
stronger off the rift in the Flow. They're not a real army, not professionals.
Just a ragtag band of volunteers out for an adventure. How long until those
volunteers decide to go home?" Curane smiled. "No. We don't have to
defeat his army. We have to break their will. Then Trevath will see the
opportunity and come to our aid. We'll he rid of Drayke, rid of his heir, and
both Margolan and Isencroft "will be ours."
"Everything will be in place, m'lord," Drostan said.
"Our scouts expect the' army within two days. We'll strike them hard their
first night, before they're ready to respond. We'll see how long Drayke's army
can stand its ground."
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Margolan army
moved with greater speed than Tris had imagined. It
would take a week to reach the Southern Plains where Curane's holdings were
located. His horse nickered and snuffled. Surrounded by bodyguards and
soldiers, Tris was better sheltered from the wind than the men who rode on the
outer edge of the formation. They took turns, moving from the outer edge to the
inner ranks as the cold wind buffeted them.
Tris could see the mixture of excitement
and apprehension in the Coalan's face. Going to war had not been part of
Soterius's plan to keep his nephew safe.
Tris sighed. Going to war hadn't been part
of his own plans, either. Soterius gave him a sideways glance.
"Skrivven for your thoughts."
Tris managed a smile. "I was thinking
that at least now we can make a fire when we camp."
"And this time, we know where the
Mar-golan army is."
Most of the soldiers now under colors were
the deserters, stragglers, and rebels Soterius had gathered to remove Jared
from the throne. Pell, Tabb, and Andras, three of Soterius's first converts to
the rebellion, were now captains with their own commands. Tris's generals,
Senne, Palinn, Tarq, and Rallan, rode with their troops.
All day, the troops had marched across
snow-covered hills and deep valleys, criss-crossed by half-frozen streams. At
the edge of the forest, they made camp for the night. The' further south they
traveled, the more Tris's gut told him something was not quite right. Since he
had come into his power, he had grown accustomed to the continual presence of
his magic, deep in a corner of his mind. The closer they got to Curane's
holdings, the more his magic felt brittle and fragile or pushed nearly out of
reach. It's the Flow, Tris thought. It's getting worse. Now, only
a day's march from their target, the sense of discomfort had become physical,
giving him a headache and draining his energy.
Setting up camp for the night made Tris's
caravan experience pale in comparison. The sheer number of tents and wagons
necessary to move a small city of soldiers seemed almost beyond
reckoning. Barely a year ago, he,
Carroway, and Soterius had been the ones rigging the tents. Now, soldiers
scurried to set camp, and Coalan watched over Tris's tent personally. Supper
fires were lit, and Tris found that the prospect of a hot meal, even if it were
to be beans and salt pork, was the highlight of the day.
"The supplies we've brought with us
will only last a little over a month once we reach Curane's holdings,"
Soterius said as they stood near a fire, watching the preparations around them.
"I've organized foraging parties, but I'm expecting that Curane's stripped
the land, knowing that we'd come. Goddess knows, there aren't many villages in
this area, and the scouts I sent to see what the villagers could spare came
back with little. It's a lean year."
"That'll make the supply line back to
Shek-erishet all the more important."
"Fielding this army is going to be a
strain. Sparing the troops to keep the supply line open will cost us men who
won't be available to fight. Keeping the army afield will just make the
spring's harvest worse unless we can get them home to their farms by planting
time. Thank heavens the winter crops are still in the fields." He chuckled.
"We may have our fill of turnips and potatoes, but it's better than
noth-ing."
Tris looked out over the barely organized
chaos of the camp. In Bricen's day, Margolan's army had been one of the
strongest in the Winter Kingdoms. Now, there were fewer than ten thousand men
under colors, and some of those had to be left behind to keep the peace
throughout the kingdom and secure the castle. Most of the troops were mortal:
only three score at best were vayash moru. The majority were volunteers
from the ruined farms and villages Jared's troops left in their wake, men and
women who had welcomed the opportunity to even the score. While Curane's forces
were likely to be even fewer, they were seasoned fighters, drawn from the old
army ranks, secure within strong fortifications. It would not be an easy fight.
"Father always said that going to war
took such a toll on your own people you barely needed an enemy," Tris
said, watching the glow of the camp fires. "I'm beginning to understand
what he meant."
"Wake up
sire! We're being attacked!"
Tris scrambled to buckle his breastplate
before he ducked from the tent. Sister Fallon, one of the mages, was running
toward him. "Good. You're up. We need you."
The camp was already in motion. Soldiers
grabbed their bows and pikes and ran for the camp's perimeter. Tris could hear
Soterius and the generals shouting to gain order. Tris and Fallon ran for the
wagons in the center of the camp and climbed to where they had a clear
view of the action. In the open ground
between the camp and the dark forest rim, a hazy green light glowed, like
low-hanging smoke. From within the shadows of the trees, the sound of groans
carried on the night air.
A shadow grew at the edge of the forest,
spreading rapidly across the plain toward the camp. Fallon raised her hands,
and a burst of fire streamed from her fingertips, illuminating the night. It
dispelled all but the growing darkness racing at them from the forest's edge.
Tris stretched out his power toward the
darkness. Magic that normally came quickly to his command now seemed a
struggle, as if the power were being pulled away. Tris doubled his effort, and
felt the magic yield to his command. On the Plains of Spirit, he sensed the
energy of the land around him. Darkness clustered in some places just as
clearly as good fortune was drawn to others. Within the forest lay a bog,
thinly covered with snow. Bogs were filled with decay, where dark energies fed
darker creatures that shrank from the light. Still further beneath the parts
of the bog, Tris could feel the Flow, damaged and tainted, its shattered
energy feeding the malevolence.
Bogwaithe. Neither
ghost nor vayash moru, a bogwaithe was old, tainted power.
"Show yourself!" The image that
formed in his mind was of a washer woman hunched over her tub. She turned and
straightened. A cadaverous face was pale beneath her ragged cowl, eyeless and
evil. Without warning, the hag stretched to twice the height of a tall man, a
dark, cold presence with arms much longer than any living being. The bog lights
began to coalesce, gathering around them until the crossroads was bathed in an
eerie green glow. Tris felt the shadow lengthen toward him as the long arms
stretched out.
On the front line, archers sent a wave of
flaming arrows toward the fast-moving shadow. The arrows flew toward their
target, then winked out suddenly, swallowed whole by blackness. A line of men
bearing torches advanced shoulder to shoulder. The darkness consumed them.
Their screams filled the cold night.
"Fall back!" Tris heard General
Tarq order. "Leave this to the mages!"
Around them, men broke ranks and ran from
the darkness. Mages sent balls of flame lobbing into the shadows. The darkness
drew back, but did not yield.
Tris stretched out on the Plains of
Spirit, gathering his power. He extended his senses, feeling for the bogwaithe's
soul. The bogwait-he was a creature of the Plains of Spirits, a
sentient being neither dead nor alive, but soulless. Some of the things on the
Plains of Spirit had never been mortal. They were dark beings that envied the
warmth of human life and the spark of human souls. Tris felt the brush of its
long, shadowed arms seeking his life force. On
the Plains of Spirit, he saw the being
behind the shadows; a pallid thing, partially decomposed, surrounded by the
green glow of the bog lights.
Tris raised his hands and magic streamed
from his fingers, sending a force toward the bogwaithe that hurled
boulders through the air. The bogwaitbe was undeterred. It was near
enough now that Tris could feel its hunger and sense the danger in the shadows
that searched for the spark of his soul.
"Cover me!" Tris shouted to
Fallon.
Tris willed himself fully into the Plains
of Spirit, feeling the ties to his mortal form sunder as his body fell to the
ground. Pure spirit, Tris moved fluidly on the nether plain. Tris glided toward
the darkness that was the bogwaitbe. And in the bogwaithe's realm,
Tris knew its weakness.
Before the bogwaithe could withdraw
from the mortal world, Tris summoned his magic. Drawing on his own life force,
Tris called both flame and power, drowning the bogwaitbe in a brilliant,
fiery flare. The bogwaitbe screamed. The ear-splitting wail seared
through Tris as he concentrated all of his power to keep the bogwaitbe pinned
in light and fire. His life force was flickering. If he did not return quickly
to his body, he would die. The damaged Flow made it difficult for him to focus
his power, as if the magic itself were splintering.
Just as his control began to buckle, the bog-waithe's
wail reached a crescendo and then fell
silent. On the Plains of Spirit, the bogwaithe
disappeared; in the mortal world, Tris saw the darkness vanish. With the
last of his power, Tris willed himself back to his body just as Fallon dropped
to her knees beside him, a look of panic on her face.
"He's not breathing!" she
shouted.
Tris's spirit returned abruptly to his
body, and he lurched. His back arched and he gasped, desperate for breath. His
heart pounded as blood surged through a body that had been freshly dead. Shock
and recoil of powerful magic overwhelmed Tris, and unconsciousness took him.
"He's coming
around."
Tris heard Esme's voice, faint arid
distant. Blood pounded in his ears, and his head felt as if it might split open
from the pain. His body felt leaden, and he doubted he could find the strength
to move. It took an effort of will just to open his eyes.
Tris was lying in the back of the healer's
wagon. Esme knelt next to him, Soterius opposite. "What the hell did you
do?"
"I couldn't fight the bogwaithe in
the mortal world. I had to fight it on the Plains of Spirit."
"You almost didn't make it back in
time." Esme's voice was stern. "Another minute and your body might
not have responded."
"Where are we?"
"We've pitched camp for the
night," Soterius answered.
"How did you kill it?" Esme
leaned over Tris, putting a warm cloth on his head to dull the throbbing ache.
"I had to destroy it where it came
from, on the Plains of Spirit. Magic didn't work against it here, but it was
vulnerable there." Esme held him up so that he could sip water from a cup.
"Most of the time, I can be in both realms at once. But not this
time."
"The siege is pointless if you die.
Try to keep that in mind next time." Soterius looked both angry and
relieved.
"I promise." Tris could feel
Esme's medicines begin to work, dulling the headache and drawing him toward
sleep. "Where's Fallon?"
Esme felt for the pulse in his neck,
counted silently, and seemed satisfied. "She's out with the mages, on
watch in case something else comes out of the forest."
"Speaking of which, I'd better let
the troops know you're all right before they panic," Soterius said.
"You looked pretty bad when we carried you in here."
"Rest," Esme commanded as
Soterius slipped out of the wagon. Tris heard cheering outside as Soterius shared
the news of his recovery with the soldiers.
"When Fallon returns, send her to
me," Tris murmured. "There's something wrong with the magic here...
something that called the bogwaitbe. Those woods have never been
haunted before."
"I'll tell her—after you get some
sleep."
Tris meant to say something in return, but
the potions did their work and sleep took him.
Tris's dreams were restless. Old dreams
returned, of Kait trapped in the Soulcatcher orb. The battle with Arontala, the
final confrontation with the Obsidian King, when Kiara lay dying in his arms
and all seemed lost. Then, new images, just as terrifying. Tris sensed Kiara's
presence on the Plains of Spirit and felt a terror intent on consuming both her
life force and the spark that was the child she carried. As if he watched from
behind a pane of glass, Tris could see everything but was powerless to help. In
his dream, the darkness overtook Kiara, and he heard her cry out as it leeched
away her soul and the soul of their child.
Tris awoke, shaking and sweating. Esme was
next to him.
"Dreams again?"
"Old ones—and something new. Kiara
was in danger. Something from the nether plain wanted her—and the baby. It
overtook her—"
Esme laid a hand on his arm. "It's
just a dream, Tris," she said. Her blue eyes were worried. "Most
fathers-to-be get bad dreams. Even the ones who aren't Summoners."
Tris used the techniques Taru had taught
him to distance himself from the dream, but it remained on the edge of his
thoughts. "I'm afraid for her, Esme."
"Kiara's the most resourceful woman
I've ever met. She has Mikhail and Harrtuck and
all the others watching over her. You're
going to have to trust them to take care of her."
Soterius poked his head into the wagon.
"I don't know what you're doing in there, but you've called every ghost
within a league. Half of them want to come with us to fight, and the other half
are annoyed that you disturbed them."
Tris sighed. "We're going to need all
the help we can get. Accept the ghosts who want to fight, and send the others
back with my apologies."
Esme looked at him sternly. "It'll be
daylight in just a few hours. You have to ride. And you're going to have to look
ready to fight, even if you aren't. Enough talk. Back to sleep with
you."
Tris had no desire to argue. He lay down on
the cot and pulled his cloak around him, praying that this time, his sleep
would be dreamless.
After six days' ride through snow and wind
and sleet, the Margolan army reached the Southern Plains. Lochlanimar loomed
against the foothills of the Tabinar Mountains, high on a hill. The oldest
parts of the fortress were more than a thousand years old. Its foundation was
even older, built atop ruins. A thick wall encircled the main house and
dependencies, as well as the oldest part of the town. Made of the same gray
stone as the exposed cliffside of the mountains, it had withstood raids from
the wild fighters of the Southlands and the nomadic tribes from the West.
Lochlanimar would not be easy to defeat. All their planning would be sorely
tested.
Tris looked out over the encampment. Thousands
of tents, lean-tos and campfires filled the flat plain. Come nightfall, the
ghosts and vayash moru soldiers would also join them. He sat warily on
horseback, in full armor beneath the flag of Margolan as Soterius and General
Palinn rode out to make the first contact with Curane.
"Lord Curane!" Soterius shouted.
Palinn rode beside, him, and behind them were several hundred men at arms,
just a fraction of the full encamped force. "In the name of Martris
Drayke, king of Margolan, open your gates. Surrender now, and you'll receive a
fair trial."
For a few moments, there was silence. Then
a hail of flaming arrows streamed from the crenelations. Rowdy cheers and cries
rose from Curane's soldiers. Soterius, Palinn, and their escort fell back,
unsurprised by the attack.
"Well, the die is cast," Palinn
said.
"I don't think anyone is surprised.
And now we wait. Are your men ready? Everything we know about Curane says he'll
strike hard before we can get the siege engines in place. He's had time to
prepare. He won't wait for us to make the first move," Tris said. Palinn
nodded. "Senne agrees. As usual, Tarq
and Rallan think otherwise. We three have
overruled them—again."
Tris muttered a curse. "Neither of
them were father's favorites, but we have so few professional military men, I
don't have much of a choice. Tarq grew up near here. He knows the lay of the
land. And Rallan—well, I'd rather have both of them here where I can keep an
eye on them."
"Agreed."
Soterius spoke to two of the soldiers, and
they ran off toward the encampment. "We should have the catapults,
trebuchets and battering rams ready soon. We'll begin felling trees this
afternoon to make more," Soterius said. He looked out over the plain.
"We'll build them out there, where Curane's folks can watch and worry, but
far enough back that there's nothing they can do about it."
An unpleasant smile crossed Palinn's features.
"A siege is as much a mental war as a show of power. Building the machines
will give our men something to take their minds off the boredom. We'll drill
the soldiers every day, make a real show of it. We've positioned the encampment
so that it will be difficult for Curane's men to get a good count of our number.
And we've pitched double the number of tents—one man per tent instead of two—so
that we look even more formidable." Palinn chuckled mirthlessly.
"That's not counting the ghosts and the vayash moru. Curane may
have the will for a long siege, but we'll see how quickly the will of his
people breaks."
Tris looked sideways at Palinn. "I'm
glad you're on our side."
At nightfall,
Tris welcomed six mages led by Sister Fallon. Three mortal
guards and three vayash moru stood sentry around the tent. Inside,
Coalan had hot tea and sausages ready for them.
"Let me introduce my
companions," Fallon said. "I'm a healer, hut I also have some skill
with land magic. Latt," she said, indicating a thin woman in her middle
years with sharp features and brown hair cut short and tucked beneath a
knitted cap, "is a full land mage. You'll find her talents useful. Vira is
a water mage." Vira was a plump woman with a broad, plain face. Graying
hair made a curly fringe around her features. Sharp intelligence gleamed from
Vira's wide-set, light blue eyes.
"Ana is an air mage. She can't speak
with spirits like a Summoner, but the winds obey her—quite a weapon when the
temperatures are like this." Ana was younger than Fallon, perhaps in her
third decade. A long braid of yellow hair was tucked beneath the cowl of her
heavy woolen robe. "And Beyral is a water mage, but her real power is in
sigils and runes. She's a seer. And she's very skilled in casting spells to
work at a distance." Beyral had the features of an Eastmark native, with
dark skin
and eyes that were almost black, flecked
with gold. Raven hair in a complex braid wound around her head. Tris knew that
the braiding was its own kind of magic, amplifying her power.
"What happened last night—the rift in
the Flow called the bogwaithe here, didn't it?"
Fallon nodded. "We land mages are
especially attuned to the patterns of the Flow, but the disruption has gotten
bad enough that even hedge witches know something is wrong. For years, the Flow
changed slowly. Things would stay the same and then, one day, there would be a
shift. The magic would be a little harder to reach, a little wilder. Since you
destroyed the Soulcatcher orb, those changes come faster.
"Shekerishet doesn't lie on the
direct line of the Flow. Lochlanimar is older. It was a place of power before
it was a fortress. Like Dark Haven, Lochlanimar grew from shrines built to a
power people could sense but couldn't see. Curane's blood mages taint the Flow,
making the damage even worse."
"It seemed like the magic was
splintering... as if the Flow itself was coming apart, wounded."
Sister Fallon looked up at him sharply.
"Wounded? Yes, a Summoner might see it that way. We Sisters have debated
for years as to whether the Flow is mere energy or whether it has some kind of
sentience. I've often felt a... presence...
in the energies
when I do a
working. And while I'm nowhere near powerful enough to touch the Flow itself,
I've always believed that it is sentient."
"If it's capable of some kind of
feeling... and it's wounded, growing sicker—"
"Our ability to work magic is at
risk," Fallon finished for him. "The blood mages draw power from
chaos. As the Flow splinters, their power grows. If you expect to beat Curane,
we must move quickly."
"What of Sister Taru? And
Landis?" Tris asked. "What have you heard from Principaliyy?”
Fallon exchanged glances among her fellow
mages. "We hear nothing from the Sisterhood. To join your strike against
Curane, we broke our vows. Landis cares nothing about kings and kingdoms—she
thinks only of preserving the libraries and keeping the secrets of our power.
And so we came. We're no longer Sisters. We are rogue."
Tris's eyes widened as he understood the
import of her words. "Fallon, I—"
Fallon shook her head. "Beyral cast
runes to divine the future. The Winter Kingdoms are at a tipping point. What
Jared put in motion has not yet run its course. Before all is ended, old ways
will be swept away, and old certainties will be broken. We can't see the future
clearly. But Beyral is convinced that your kingship— and perhaps that of your
son—must be preserved for disaster to be averted."
"Son?"
Fallon smiled. "You didn't
know?"
Tris shook his head, struggling through
the rush of feelings. "It was too soon. Cerise couldn't tell. She said the
energies hadn't sorted themselves out yet to choose a self." Just as
quickly, the memory of his dream returned, and of the darkness that hunted
Kiara and the child within. A son. And if the energies on the Plains of
Spirit know of him, then it's likely he'll be a Summoner. Something knows. And
something wants him.
Tris realized that Beyral's eyes had a
far-away look, and the gold flecks flickered. "Your son's power will be
without equal. But he will dwell on the Plains of Spirit, and his way will be
through shadow." Abruptly, Beyral fell silent.
"I've never been able to decide
whether my Sight is a blessing or a curse." Beyral's smile was sad.
"The visions are never clear. Try to outwit the future, and you can bring
it about. Run from it, and you can stumble into it. You can't know. "
More was at stake than securing the succession
against Jared's bastard, Tris knew. Is the true danger to the kingdom here,
with Curane, or is it back at Shekerishet, something unseen, looking for Kiara?
Will I bring about the future Beyral saw by staying here and fighting, or do I
cause it to change by leaving Kiara alone at Shekerishet? There's no way to
know. But Margolan's future, maybe even the future of the Winter Kingdoms,
depends on my guessing right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
What do
you hear from
your spy, Cam?" Donelan stretched and set his
empty brandy glass aside.
It was late, and at this hour, Aberponte
was quiet. Outside the mullioned windows, snow was falling hard. The chill
permeated the room, despite the thick walls and tapestries. Donelan slouched in
a chair near the fire. Tice, Donelan's seneschal, paced quietly.
"Bits and pieces. We've been at this
for a month now, and I still don't have a full picture. It's going to take a
while to stitch it together. What worries me most is the idea that we're not
just up against one group. The more my spy tells me, the more I'm convinced
that there's another power in this. Someone—this 'lord'—is putting money behind
the division-ists," Cam said.
"This complicates things."
Donelan swirled the dark brandy in the bottle and poured another glass.
"And it makes no sense."
"Kev's story is consistent. Someone
spending Trevath gold—not exactly common in these parts—is feeding ideas to the
divisionists. This Ruggs is bad news. And it doesn't sound like he's working
alone—he's telling them that he speaks for a powerful group—led by this
'lord'—who wants Kiara out of Margolan for his own reasons."
Donelan's eyes were worried. "And the
obvious suspect is Lord Curane."
"That's the only answer I come up
with."
"I had a long talk with Tris about
Curane before the wedding. Curane—and Trevath— stand to benefit from unseating
Tris. They have no common cause with the divisionists. This whole idea that
Kiara would come running home to Isencroft is nonsense. Even if she did, the
child is rightful king of both kingdoms. That suits neither Curane nor the
divisionists."
Tice stopped pacing and looked up.
"Unless Curane's man is playing the rebels for fools. These divisionists
are provincial. They want things to stay as they've always been. Curane was a
savvy enough politician to keep his head under Jared's rule and come away with
a prize, a royal bastard. He's got his eye on taking the throne of Margolan.
Jared wanted Isencroft by force or by marriage. Curane's likely to want it,
too."
"What if Curane's using the
divisionists to keep Isencroft busy while he gets rid of Tris and the Margolan
army? The divisionists don't think like that. They won't realize that Curane
means to betray them until it's done. If Curane can put Jared's bastard on the
Margolan throne with himself as regent, there's only one thing standing between
him and Isencroft," Tice looked from Cam to Donelan.
"Kiara and the baby," Cam said.
Donelan nodded soberly. "And Curane
has a man inside Shekerishet."
Cam looked at Donelan. "So what's the
news from your spy? Surely Crevan's sent you something recently. Has he told
you anything that might tie back to either Curane or the divisionists?"
"Crevan's a faithful correspondent.
But his letters have been fairly boring, as spying goes. Tris has taken the
army south. There's no word on how the siege goes. Since then, Shekerishet has
been quiet. Oh, and Kiara's had very little appetite and she seems to be
getting by on toast and scalded milk to keep her stomach settled, but that's
the extent of the excitement. She's well guarded." He shrugged. "I
learned a long time ago that most of what you hear from your spies is
completely useless. Crevan's well placed, but if there's nothing to report,
there's nothing to report."
Tice stopped pacing. "Have you told
Crevan that we know
Curane has someone
inside Shekerishet? Is he watching for a traitor? Even though Crevan's
fairly new to the Margolan court, surely there are others who can help him
identify suspects."
"I sent word in my last letter. But
with the snows, it could take a month to reach him, even riding in relay."
Donelan tossed back the second brandy. "I had hoped that Kiara would be
safe from the divisionists once she went to Margolan. It made the idea of
having her so far away easier to handle. I'm feeling my years. There are days I
admit I almost wouldn't mind handing over the crown and going on a long, long
hunt. I'd hoped never to see war again."
Tice laid a hand on Donelan's shoulder.
"You've led Isencroft well through difficult years. These divisionists
hardly resemble an army. If Tris routs Curane, any Trevath support for the
divisionists will disappear, and they'll probably disband. Take heart that
Kiara's safe for now. Shekerishet is secure. And hard as it may be, try not to
brood on it. Surely there's some positive news."
Cam grinned. "Care to take bets on
how soon we hear from Dark Haven that Carina and Jonmarc are expecting? Now
that the snows are deep, even the vayasb moru aren't traveling. I don't
know when my letter will reach her, or when she'll be able to get a letter
through." He shook his head. "It's a scary thought—Jonmarc as
someone's father."
Donelan chuckled. "I dare say that
there were many who said the same about me. After a few decades on the throne,
the memories of one's 'youthful indiscretions' fade. Perhaps when the history
books are written, Jonmarc will emerge with a very different reputation."
Cam walked to the windows and looked out.
"Hard to believe it's almost Winterstide. Last year, Tris and the others
were in Principality, in exile. Now—everything's changed. Maybe by next
Winterstide, all of this will be behind us, and things can go back to
normal."
Tice set his glass aside. "I hope
things are more settled by next Winterstide, but I fear they will never be
normal. Too much has happened. I just pray that whatever comes, the new
balance will bring peace."
Cam turned from the window. "I guess
we'll know when we get there, won't we?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
M'lady, you're
tired. Please, rest now." Lisette pulled at Carina's
sleeve. Carina looked out over the long line of villagers who still waited for
treatment.
"I've been here since sixth bells
this morning, and the line isn't any shorter now than it was then," Carina
gratefully accepted a cup of kerif. From sunup to sundown, mortal
servants assisted Carina. Come evening, she and Lisette worked late into the
night. Word had spread of Carina's talent. Her patients came from within the
manor house, the village, and from several days' ride away. That the sick and
injured people-braved Principality's harsh winter storms to come was testimony
to how much they needed a healer of true power.
"You sound like Lord Jonmarc, always
pushing for more."
"Stubborn, willful, driven, and damn
good at what we do. Nothing in common," she chuckled.
"Hmm?"
"Something Jonmarc once told me.
You're right. But they've come so far, and the need is so great."
"If I see to it that those you don't
treat tonight have a warm place to sleep in the stables, will you stop after
another candlemark? Lord Jonmarc was quite clear that I'm to watch over
you." She-grinned. "But perhaps between the two of us, we can keep
some small secrets, no?"
Carina laughed. "All right. Let's see
if there's anyone who is in real danger out there. I'll see them tonight. We'll
make the rest as comfortable as we can. Sweet Mother and Childe! I won't be
surprised if their number doubles by morning."
Lisette made Carina eat a bit of cheese
and meat and finish the rest of her kerif before going to triage the
waiting villagers. While she waited, Carina stretched, trying to relieve the
knotted muscles in her neck and shoulders. She couldn't shake the feeling of
being watched. Probably just exhaustion, she told herself. She'd been
working long hours, expending a lot of energy. But it wasn't just fatigue.
Something was changing in the magic itself, something that made healing more
difficult. The longer she stayed at Dark Haven, the more she could feel the
imbalance in
the Flow. And while she was not conscious
of drawing on the great river of energy, she could feel ripples in the power, a
swift undercurrent, like water flowing over shards of rock. The disturbance was
growing stronger, as if she were trying to walk against the wind.
Carina felt a presence touch her mind. As
quickly as it came it was gone.
"M'lady?"
Carina blinked. The vision was gone.
"I must be working too hard. I could swear I felt someone reach out for
me. Whoever it was wanted to tell me something."
"I don't understand."
Carina shook her head. "Neither do
I.I don't think it—whoever it was—was dangerous. Curious. Like it was looking
for something."
"You really should rest."
"Have you seen the line of people out
there? I'll rest later. Have I told you how glad I am to have your help?"
Lisette returned her smile. "Thank
you, m'lady."
They cared for two more patients before
Carina signaled for a few minutes' rest. "You know, before I came here, I
couldn't have imagined something like that last patient, the old woman with the
sore back. That young man with her—the vayasb moru. That was her
husband, wasn't it?"
Lisette nodded. "He was brought
across forty years ago."
"They've stayed together all that
time," Carina said admiringly. "Openly. I used to think Isencroft
was a welcoming place for the vayash moru because no one's gone hunting
for them in generations. But I've never seen the living, the dead, and the
undead go on together like this. I realize now how low my expectations
were."
"In the farmlands of the other
kingdoms, many families provide sanctuary for loved ones who've been brought
across. It works so long as their neighbors don't notice, or don't care. That
doesn't usually last."
"Then why don't all the vayash
moru come to Dark Haven, if it's safe for them here to exist openly?"
"They stay for all the reasons mortals
stay. Because those places have always been their home. Because their family is
there, and they don't wish to leave them, even if they can only watch over them
from a distance. Because it's familiar. After a lifetime or two, 'home' changes
so much that it's no longer what you remember. That makes the leaving
easier."
"I think I understand, a
little," Carina said, washing blood from her hands. "My brother and I
were forced to leave our home, our family, when we were young. We were twins,
but I had magic. Being twins was a scandal; having magic was
unforgivable."
"Not too different," Lisette
said. "To be driven out for what you are, what you had no choice about
being. And in places like Nargi, mages and vayash moru often suffer a
common fate."
"The further I stay from Nargi, the
happier I'll be." Carina dried her hands. "How many more patients
must be seen tonight? I nearly fell asleep during that last healing!"
"I have half a dozen for you
m'lady," Lisette said. "A woman in labor—she thinks the baby did not
turn—and a girl who struck her head and hasn't awakened. There's a man with an
arrow through his hand, a boy with a bleeding eye, and a vyrkin with its
foot in a trap. And a young woman delirious with fever."
Carina set aside her empty cup.
"Let's get started. Let me check the woman in labor. If I can get babe
turned, perhaps you can sit with her while I treat the others."
"As you wish, m'lady." Lisette
smiled. "Babies haven't changed since I was mortal. That's something I
understand."
It took more than a candlemark to tend to
the last of the patients. Lisette and Eiria gently herded the remaining
villagers out of the room, guiding them to the place Neirin had cleared for
them in the granary. Carina washed her hands in a basin. She felt a sudden
chill behind her, and straightened. Months of working closely with Tris made
her highly aware when spirits were near, and she was quite sure that a ghost
was right behind her.
Carina turned slowly. The room was empty,
except for a green haze that floated like wood smoke about waist-high near the
fireplace. "Don't be afraid," Carina said, taking a step toward the
haze. "Can you show yourself?"
The haze grew brighter and changed to gray
as it swirled and coalesced. The figure of a sad-eyed young girl stood before
her. Carina guessed her to be a few years younger than herself. "Are you
looking for me?"
The apparition nodded.
"Did you come for healing?"
Carina guessed. As the girl's form became more solid, she could see a fevered
look in the ghost's eyes. Again, the ghost nodded.
"Show me." Carina had no idea
how she was going to help. The girl's gown was a fashion that was long out of
favor. What if she doesn't know she's dead? Carina wondered. What if
she's still waiting for a healer to come? I wish Tris were here!
Now the girl's ghost was fully formed, as
if someone stood before Carina covered in gray gauze. The girl's neck looked
badly swollen on either side of her jaw, and from the way she stood and held
her arms, Carina guessed other places were painfully swollen also. Darker
patches appeared on the girl's arms and face, and Carina guessed that in life,
they had been lesions. The longing in the ghost's eyes brought Carina to tears.
"I have no idea whether this will
work," she said, more to herself than to the ghost. "Do you know that
you're dead?" she asked gently.
The ghost slowly nodded. "Something
is keeping you here. I'm not a Summoner. But I'll do what I can." Carina
drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. She stretched out her hands until she
felt the chill of the mist fold around them. The hairs on the back of her neck
prickled. Keeping the image of the ghostly girl in her mind, Carina drew on
her healing power. And in the back of her mind, she felt a tingle of magic, old
and deep. Someone is watching, she thought. She shook her head, unsure
which was more irrational—the idea that she could heal a ghost or the thought
that she was being watched.
Carina felt healing magic warm her hands.
Keeping the mental image of the girl firmly in mind, Carina let her hands move
from the ghost's forehead down to her swollen neck, imagining how her power
would heal a living person. Slowly, she let her palms glide over the ghost
girl's body. She imagined the painful swelling decreasing, the fever abating,
the lesions closing over with new skin. Gently working her way down the girl's
form, Carina mentally pictured joints aching with fever gaining relief beneath
her touch. Nothing but air met her touch. Without Tris's ability to move on the
Plains of Spirit, Carina relied on her intuition, hoping that if the girl's
spirit could manifest within the space between her hands, enough of the girl's
essence remained to absorb the healing energy Carina's magic projected.
When she finished her mental
"treatment," Carina opened her eyes.
The ghost girl stood before her, and
Carina saw the shadow of tears streak down the specter's cheeks. "I don't
know whether I've done anything at all," Carina said, embarrassed.
The ghost knelt before her and reached for
and through Carina's hand in gratitude. Through her tears, the girl smiled,
standing. She gave a deep curtsey, and then her image began to fade. Carina
found herself staring at an empty room as the last hint of the ghost's' presence
disappeared.
"Lady be! Never have I seen someone
heal the dead!"
Carina turned, blushing as she saw Lisette
standing by the door. "I don't really know that I did anything at
all," Carina murmured. "She was in so much pain. I figured that since
she was already dead, it couldn't hurt to try."
Lisette looked overcome with emotion. She
closed her eyes tightly, a mortal gesture against tears that the undead could
not shed. "M'lady, that girl has wandered these corridors for two hundred
years, seeking a healer who never came. She was the daughter of the first Lord
of Dark Haven. It was the last time a great plague swept over this land. The
girl took sick, but the healer they sent for never arrived. Some healers died
tending their patients, and others fled, afraid to catch the disease. The girl
died, and took with her many of the servants. In his grief, the Lord hanged
himself. It's said that she's bound by her guilt over those deaths. No one ever
thought to try to set her spirit at rest. She was only a ghost. But you tried.
That changed something, m'lady. She looked to be at peace."
"I'm not a Summoner," Carina
stammered. "I spent a year with Tris Drayke. I don't have anything like
his power."
"The girl wasn't asking to pass
across to the Lady. She wanted someone to end her pain. You were willing to
try." Lisette took Carina's hands in her own icy grasp. "You're so
overburdened now, I shouldn't ask. But if such a thing is possible, might it
not be possible for you to become a mind healer? It's not just the power—it's
the willingness to touch those of us others dismiss. Please, m'lady, won't you
think on it?"
"Sister Taru in Principality City is
the only mind healer I know. I'll write her a letter. Perhaps when the snows
melt, she'll be willing to come if there's a chance I might be ready to learn
from her."
Lisette smiled broadly and embraced her.
"Truly the Lady sent you! Hope dies long before life ends. But after what
I saw today, I have hope once more. Thank you, m'lady."
Eighth bells had chimed before Carina wearily climbed the steps to her quarters, looking
forward to a chance to clean up and change clothes before dinner. Lisette spoke
with two servants briefly before joining Carina on the stairs.
"Lord Jonmarc is expected back
shortly," she reported as they reached Carina's room. "There are
preparations to be made. It's the first night of Winterstide, and as lord of
the manor, he has many responsibilities. I believe he and Lord Gabriel went to
fell a tree for the Dresill log. The cooks have been busy all day. I no longer
require your food, but Winterstide is the one season when I can't resist a few
tastes of my old favorites."
Carina stripped off her stained healer's
robes and welcomed the warmed basin of water Lisette brought for her. "I
think we'll both be grateful if Winterstide passes quietly this year."
Lisette listened wide-eyed as Carina recounted the previous year's celebration
in King Staden's court, ending with the assassination attempt on Tris's life
that had nearly cost Jonmarc his own.
"Lady bless! I should hope Lord
Jonmarc is safer here. I don't think even Uri would be bold enough to strike,
with Gabriel and Yestin so close." She handed Carina a fresh shift.
"You may find Dark Haven's celebrations much different from either
Isencroft's or King Staden's court. We keep the old ways here."
Lisette laid out a black dress that
shimmered with strands of silver and small crystals beaded into
the elaborate bodice. "Each nightbelongs to one of
the Aspects of the Lady. Tonight, we pay homage to the Formless One."
Carina slipped into the dress. "Tris
saw the Formless One take Jared's soul. He said She was a fearsome
presence."
"Fearsome, yes. But not evil. Chaos
is necessary for creation. Those who know the old stories understand that
Nameless is the Aspect of ending and beginning. She takes the souls of those who
must be re-formed in the great cauldron, those who are not ready yet for rest.
During Winterstide, Nameless leads a wild host through the skies. She rides a
pale steed, and the wights and spirits ride with Her. Those whose hearts are
secretly evil fear Her, because She knows their thoughts. Sometimes, she
catches an evil-hearted person up with Her to ride across the night sky, and
leaves him like one dead many leagues away. But Nameless also blesses the
fields and the trees and the livestock." Lisette grinned at Carina.
"And it's said that the wild winds favor new brides who wish to
conceive."
Carina blushed and busied herself with the
lacing of her bodice. "Healers are able to control such things, as the
hedge witches do."
"Bearing children is one thing my
kind can't do, and I was brought across before I became a mother. I would dote
on your children as if they were my own."
"How were you brought across?"
"My story isn't very important."
"It is to me," Carina sat down
near the fire and welcomed Lisette to sit with her.
"I was the youngest daughter of a
minor noble on the outskirts of Palace City. My father made an arranged
marriage for me to the son of a wealthy merchant. But my husband cared more
about my dowry." Her eyes grew dark with the memories. "He didn't
need to be drunk to beat me, and his attentions were rough. One night I came
back late from the market. He was in a rage, and accused me of taking a lover,
though I'd never been with any man but him. He raped me, beat me senseless, and
then he threw me out in the snow to die." Lisette was silent again for a
few moments.
"Laisren found me. Later he confessed
that he'd been watching me from a distance for a long time. He brought me
across and he took me to his home and helped me make the passage. Then, when I
slept, Laisren returned and killed my husband for what he had done to me. No
one ever found the body, and no one missed him." Lisette looked down, and
her long hair fell around her face. "That was almost two hundred years
ago. Laisren and I have been together since then, soulbound in the Dark Gift.
Now do you see why I asked if you were a mind healer? It would be a great gift
if you could ease the pain of old memories. Not take them completely, because
they make us who we are. But make them distant, heal the wounds.
Even after centuries, some memories
are as fresh and raw as if it were yesterday."
"Sister Taru told me that mindhealing
comes with time for many healers. Even though my gift is strong, I'm not yet a
mind healer. But if I become one, I promise that I'll serve both vayash moru
and mortals. You have my word."
"Thank you, m'lady."
There was a knock at the door from the
shared parlor just before it opened, and Jon-marc peered into the room.
"Ready for dinner?" He was also dressed in black.
"Lisette was just telling me about
Winter-stide in Dark Haven."
"Good. Then you can help me remember
what I'm supposed to do." He held out an arm for Carina. They descended
the great main stairs into the throng of celebrants below. In the candlelight,
Carina glimpsed a glint of light mail beneath his shirt, a precaution after the
previous season.
"Wait until you see the ballroom.
Even without Tris, there are enough ghosts here to put Haunts to shame. Seems
most of our guests— living and undead—brought along an ancestor or two for
company."
"So where were you?"
"Gabriel's been talking me through
what I'm supposed to do. On the first night of Winterstide, it's customary for
the Lord of the manor to exchange a gift of gold coins with the merchant guild,
and a sheaf of wheat with the farmers. Good luck for the new year. Earlier
today, I took five men and a team of horses to chop down a large oak and drag
it out of the woods. You'll see it in the courtyard. They've started a bonfire
at one end of it. Each night we'll push more of the log in until it's all
burned—that's supposed to be a good sign. At sundown, Gabriel took me out to
the barrow where they bury the lords of the manor. I guess sometimes the
spirits feel inclined to give advice, but they didn't seem to have anything to
say tonight."
Outside, a fierce wind blew. In response,
the crowd raised their tankards of ale and wassail and gave a cheer, saluting
Nameless and the wild host. The cheer became a toast as Jon-marc and Carina
entered the room arm in arm. A feast of roasted goat and goose was spread on
the largest table, along with rum pudding and brandied fruits, yams and leeks
and pies with baked apples and raisins. The smell of mulled cider and spiced
wine joined the scent of burning evergreen as pine boughs crackled on top of
the logs in the hearth, sending sparks into the air.
In a place of honor at the head of the
table was the goat's head, an offering to the Lady. The children at the feast
brought small figures made of straw, people and animals and star shapes, and
placed them in homage around the goat's head.
An elderly woman, one of the
matrons of the village, made her way to
place an offering bowl of porridge, thick with nuts and berries, in tribute to
the spirits. Around the great room, wreaths of yew and holly were adorned with
winter berries. A large evergreen branch in one corner was hung with straw talismans
in the shape of the Lady's mark. Eight glass globes with small candles, one for
each of the Lady's eight faces, were suspended from its twigs.
"I've never seen such a feast!"
Carina exclaimed, as Gabriel and Laisren joined them. In the center of the room
a spot had been cleared for dancing, and the musicians played a lively reel.
Carina recognized Yestin and Eiria among the dancers who wheeled and twirled to
the music.
"You might have, had you been in
Margolan or Principality a few hundred years ago," Gabriel said, bowing
low in greeting and kissing the back of Carina's hand. "Those of us
who've outlived our times can take comfort in remembering the old ways at least
once a year. Though it's vexing that the mead has lost its taste for me."
"That's why there's fresh goat's
blood and plenty of it. I hope you're in a party mood," Laisren said to
Carina. Lisette stood beside him, and it was clear that they were a couple.
"In Dark Haven, Winterstide is eight days, not a fortnight as they
celebrate at the palace. Each night is for one of the Aspects. By the end, the
mortals are drunk and the rest of us are sated enough to need a week to sleep
it off!"
Yestin and Eiria joined them, flushed with
the dancing. "Ah, but in Eastmark, the vyrkin aren't
forgotten," Yestin said, slipping his arm around Eiria. Eiria seemed to
lean heavily on Yestin, as if she did not feel well. "On the fourth night,
the night of the Dark Lady, the spirits of the vyrkin come to pay
tribute to the king of Eastmark. All vyrkin, living and dead, meet with
the king around a great fire, and the seers of our kind give the king a
prophecy for the coming year. One of the Dark Lady's prophetesses and one of
our seers in human form dance together, a ritual that tells how the Dark Lady
and the Stawar God we're joined. I've heard tell that the king brings with him
two head of cattle, so there's meat enough for all!"
Carina laughed. "Isencroft isn't
nearly so colorful. With Chenne as its patron, Winterstide is all jousts and
bonfires, and a special pyre for the heroes and honored dead. There are all
kinds of contests and sporting events, and the winners are honored at a great
banquet with the king. I never did figure out why we feast for twelve nights
instead of eight."
Gabriel answered her. "A very old
tradition. Eight for the faces of the Lady and four more for Her consorts: the
gods of the stawar, the wolf, the bear and the eagle."
Despite the roaring fire a draft moved
through the room, and Carina knew that the
kindred dead were near. Some were able to
make themselves seen without the aid of a Summoner, but the others who lacked
such power moved unseen through the room, joining in the dance or clustering
by the fire.
Another gust of wind rattled the manor windows
and shrieked across the rooftop, met with a hearty cheer by the celebrants
within. Carina shivered and Jonmarc drew her against him, wrapping his arms
around her. Across the room, the musicians struck up a lively tune.
"A dance, m'lady?" Jonmarc asked
with a smile, making an exaggerated bow and clicking the heels of his boots
together. Carina let him lead her to the dance floor. Yestin and Eiria joined
them, as did Laisren and Lisette, while Gabriel withdrew to the corner of the
room to confer with Riqua. They danced until the bells tolled the eleventh hour
and Carina dropped gratefully into a chair gasping for breath.
"Enough! It's warm as summer in here
with that fire."
Jonmarc handed Carina a cup of wassail,
and looked up as Gabriel began to move from the far side of the room with a nod
in his direction. "Catch your breath while I take care of some official
business. Then we'll see about another dance."
He made his way to the hearth and clapped
his hands for attention. Gradually the rowdy group grew quiet and the musicians
ended their tune.
"Good Winterstide!" Jonmarc was
greeted with a roar of cheers and raised mugs. "Before we feast, Lord
Gabriel tells me that we have some courtesies to see to. First, to our spirit
guests, welcome!" In reply, a gust of wind flickered the candles and
danced in the fire at the hearth. Gabriel poured a cup of cream and handed it
to Jonmarc, who set it next to the porridge by the fire in tribute.
"And to the spirits of Dark Haven,
good feast." The fire suddenly roared in the fireplace, sending sparks,
dancing up through the chimney. "A toast to the Lady in all Her faces, for
the bounty we enjoy," Jonmarc said, lifting his goblet high. The rich,
strong mead was brewed especially for the feast. Even in Isen-croft, Carina
knew that oaths made over a cup of the mead at Winterstide were considered
binding, in this life and the next.
There was a stir at the far end of the
room, near the outer doors. Two of the village men led in large boar. Harnessed
securely, the boar followed the promise of a large turnip held out before it.
The boar and its keepers passed through the partygoers, and they made way as if
the large animal were an honored guest.
"What's going on?" Carina
whispered to Lisette.
"By tradition, the Lord of the manor
blesses the boar and makes a sacred oath. Then it's slaughtered. The blood is
given to the vayash moru, a portion of the raw meat to the vyrkin,
and the rest is cooked on a slow fire for
the feast tomorrow, Sinhame, the Crone's Night."
The boar was led to the front of the
common room, and Gabriel gave Jonmarc a goblet of mead. Carina had no idea how
much coaching Gabriel must have given Jonmarc, but he moved through the ritual
as if he had been doing it all his life. "The blessing of the Lady on you,
and on us," Jonmarc said, pouring a few drops of the mead on the boar's
head. Then Jonmarc raised the goblet, and met Carina's gaze.
"An oath, to my lady," Jonmarc
said. "First, that I will always come for you. And second, that we'll have
a proper ritual wedding, before the next moon is full." He dashed the
goblet and its mead into the fire. The boar reared and squealed. Another turnip
was produced from the pocket of one of the animal's tenders and the boar was
led from the room. Amid the cheers of the guests, Jonmarc moved to meet Carina
in the center of the great room. The musicians struck up another tune, and
Carina smiled as Jonmarc took her in his arms and they began to dance. She
leaned her head against his shoulder.
"You did well up there," she
murmured.
"Gabriel's a good teacher. We didn't
exactly celebrate like this in the Borderlands." He touched the shevir at
her wrist and it sparkled in the firelight. "I wanted to get through all
the Winterstide celebrating before the wedding. I hope you don't mind."
Carina stretched up on tip toe and kissed
his cheek. "As long as we're together, I don't mind at all."
The next day, Carina found that her misgivings about the number of patients awaiting
her care was correct. Twice as many people waited for her. Jonmarc stopped in
at lunch time to bring her a slab of fresh bread with cheese from the kitchen
and a small crock of hot soup. "Thought you might like to eat, since
dinner's late again tonight," he said. She tore off a chunk of bread and
offered it to him, but he shook his head.
"Already ate. I've got more business
to take care of in the village before the festival tonight. You've got a role
in tonight's festivities, according to Gabriel."
"Oh?"
"As the Lady of the manor, you get to
make an offering to the spirit of the big oak tree just outside the manor. And
there's a procession from the village to the barrows tonight. Personally, I'm
hoping that the whole festival remains calm and boring. I had enough excitement
last year!" He kissed her and left her to finish her meal.
"Lord
Vahanian!" Jonmarc had barely reached the stable when Rann,
one of bis mortal guardsmen, came running up. Two more guardsmen were behind
him.
"You're out early."
Rann shook his head. "I was just
headed to the manor to find you. One oi the men from Haven village came
in a panic this morning. There's been an attack."
"What kind of attack?"
"We were headed out to see. You'd
best come with us, m'lord."
Jonmarc headed into the stables with the
guardsmen. Four more of their fellows were already saddling up. "What
warrants so many guards?"
"He said it was bad, m'lord. He
called it a massacre."
On the road outside the village, they
found a group of townsmen waiting for them. Their expressions extinguished the
last hope Jonmarc had that the runner's story had been an exaggeration. In the
distance, he could hear the wailing of mourners and the keening of the village
women. "Where did it happen?" he asked the town's elder, a bearded
man in the forefront of the group.
"Out of the far hills, sometime in
the night, m'lord," the elder replied. "We've just been out, but I'll
ride with you. Though I wish I never had to see such a thing again in my
life." They rode half a candlemark. The wind whipped around them, making
the snow rise from the ground in whirlwinds and driving it in gusts from where
it lay heavily in the trees. When
they reached the
far hills, the
elder reined in his horse, and Jonmarc looked out over the hillside,
Scattered across the hillside were the
remains of sheep, torn limb from limb. The snow was dark with blood. Among the
carcasses were the bodies of half a, dozen herders. "By the Whore!"
Rann exclaimed as they neared the bodies. Other soldiers cursed in fear.
The men's throats showed two clear punctures;
their bodies were pale as the snow. The corpses had been gutted, and then
stuffed with hay and pebbles. Their entrails lay in a frozen mass beside them.
Jonmarc fought the urg'e to retch. The tracks in the snow showed the herders'
panic, running in vain as their attackers chased them. No tracks led to or
from the site into the nearby woods. There were no tracks at all leading away,
except by the trail they had followed.
"The herders that came out to relieve
them found the bodies," the elder said. "They said that there were no
tracks except their own. Only one boy survived, and he won't speak of what he
saw. Whatever did this wasn't mortal, m'lord. They flew here and flew away. It
didn't snow last night, and the wind hasn't been strong enough to cover the
tracks completely. Crone take my soul! There are tales of the Wild Host doing
such things, but that was long ago. What does it mean?"
"Someone's trying to start a
war." Jonmarc paused. "Can you take me to the survivor?"
"He's with the hedge witch.
Half-frozen and terrified near out of his wits."
The group rode in silence back to the
village. As they neared the small grouping of houses and shops, the sound of
bells and mourners grew louder.
The elder led them to a small house at the
edge of town. The smell of herbs and poultices permeated the thatched-roof
cottage. The hedge witch was a plump, stooped woman with short-cropped gray
hair. Jonmarc could feel the accusation in her glare as he passed, and the
unspoken charge that the Lord of the manor had failed in his vows.
Near the fireplace sat a boy about fifteen
seasons old, huddled in a threadbare blanket. He did not look up when they
entered.
"I've warmed him up, but he won't
eat," the hedge witch said. "Not a mark on him. Don't know whether
the Host did him a kindness or not, leaving him alive to tell the tale."
She looked at Jonmarc. "His name is Kendry. His father and older brother
were also with the herds."
Jonmarc remembered when he shared a similar
fate. How long was it before I would tell Shanna's mother what happened to
my family, my village, when the raiders came? Weeks? It was years before I
stopped dreaming about it.
"Kendry," the elder said gently.
"Lord Vahanian has come to talk with you. He wants to know what you
saw."
Jonmarc took a step toward Kendry, and
when the boy did not start in fear, he hunkered down to be on eye level.
"I'm sorry about your family."
Kendry nodded, never taking his eyes off
the fire.
Jonmarc drew a deep breath. "When I
was fifteen summers old, raiders came to my village. They killed my family.
Everyone but me. No one ever went after them, ever caught the men who burned my
village. I want to find the people who killed your family, Kendry. Find them
and make them pay. But I need to know what you saw."
Kendry was silent for so long Jonmarc did
not think the boy would speak.
"It was the middle of the
night," Kendry said. "The moon was high and full. We were sleeping.
Gastell saw them first. A score of dark figures, flying through the sky. They
circled us, wailing and moaning. And then—" The boy's voice broke and he
squeezed his eyes shut tightly as tears started down his cheeks.
"They were dressed all in black, with
masks over their faces. They dived at us. They started to chase us and scatter
the sheep. There was nowhere to run. They picked up Gastell and I saw them, saw
them—" Kendry buried his face in his hands. Jonmarc laid a hand on the
boy's shoulder as the hedge witch pushed forward to talk softly with Kendry and
lead him into a back room.
Jonmarc stood and looked to the village
elder. "I'm sorry about your men, and your herd. When he's ready to
travel, bring the boy to the manor. Perhaps Carina can help him." He
looked back to where the hedge witch tended the boy in the back room, and
wondered how he could expect the villagers to heed his next request. "I
need your word that you'll let us handle this," Jonmarc said to the elder.
"I'll go to the Blood Council. There are a small number of rogue vayash
moru trying to end the truce. You know that if that happens, we all
suffer."
"Aye. We'll do our best to keep the
peace. But those were our lads out there. The families are going to want
justice. And if it happens again—"
"I'll do everything in my power to
make sure it doesn't. I need you to buy me some time to handle this. Let me
bring it to the Blood Council. I promise you, your dead will be avenged."
"I'll do as you ask, Lord Vahanian,
to the best of my power. But they will be avenged— one way or another."
"I'm sorry,
m'lady, but they keep coming." Neirin,
Jonmarc's day manager, apologized. After news spread far and wide about
Carina's healing, Neirin had appointed himself gatekeeper to assure that the
crowds that sought her attention remained orderly.
"It's not your fault. Any more word
about what happened in Haven?"
"Lord Jonmarc went from there out to
the south holdings. The story from the guards is all I know."
"Send after the boy tomorrow, please.
I don't dare leave tonight with so many waiting. If he'll come to the manor,
I'll see what I can do for him." Carina listened as the bells tolled the
fourth hour. "I just wish Jonmarc would get back before dark."
"Understandable, m'lady," Neirin
said. "And I'll do as you ask." He looked out over the long line of
people waiting to be healed. How far news had traveled of the attack was
uncertain, but waiting patients were edgier than usual. "I've brought a
couple of the serving girls, and a midwife from the village. If you give them
direction, they can help with simple things like binding up wounds. Lisette
will come at nightfall. Eiria volunteered as well."
"I'll be glad for their help,"
Carina confessed. "Goddess! At least when I treated battle wounded I
wasn't the only healer!"
Carina put the two mortal servants to work
separating out the sickest patients from those with minor injuries. She set to
work, not noticing that the sun had set until Lisette came to take over as her
assistant.
"Your fame is spreading,"
Lisette observed, helping Carina calm a small girl with a bad burn on her arm.
"Jonmarc warned me that it had been a
long time since Dark Haven had a full healer, but I didn't
realize just what that meant," Carina tried to distract the girl long
enough to heal the burn. "When Arontala stole the orb from under the
manor, Dark Haven seemed to go to sleep," Lisette observed. "Now,
with the new lord, things are awakening, both good and bad."
"What do you mean?" Carina
slipped into a light trance as she sped the healing of the girl's arm, willing
the pain to decrease as the new skin covered the angry burn. The girl's mother
bowed low, repeating her thanks and trying to offer Carina the sparse contents
of her satchel in gratitude.
"Last night, the Wild Host seemed
closer than I've ever felt them. Today, I heard the servants talking about the
killings in Haven. None of the mortals can remember when that happened before.
Even those of us who have lived centuries have only heard of such a thing on
occasion. The Flow beneath the manor seems to be stirring. I can't explain it,
but I've been here long enough to know that its energy is different, darker.
I'll be glad as anyone when the Dark Aspects' nights are over."
Carina sat back on her haunches. She still
had about a dozen patients waiting for her attention. She wiped her hands on
her robe and sipped at a cup of kerif, now gone cold.
"Tonight is for the Crone?" she
asked, beckoning her next patient, a young man with a badly-broken leg.
"I thought Principality frowned on Crone worship."
"They do. But what the Nargi call the
Crone has no likeness to the ancient tales. I've heard the elder vayash moru
tell stories. In the old days, Sinha was a weaver, not a hag with a
cauldron. She spun the threads of life and wove out destiny, determining how
long each thread should be. That's why woven gifts are given tonight, shawls
and blankets. Like Nameless, Sinha comes
for unrepentant souls because their threads must be ripped out and
woven again. She can be harsh, like the winter wind. She was also a tanner,
taking the hides of evil men and rekindling the spark to send their souls back
until their lessons were learned.
"But the Nargi took Sinha's name and
put it onto other stories. Sinha wasn't a destroyer or a monster. The Nargi's
priests have made Her so, because it suited them. Tonight in the procession,
you'll see a very old custom, where Sinha battles Peyhta, the soul-eater. In
Nargi, Sinha and Peyhta became one."
"Why would anyone want to worship a
monster?" Carina removed the soiled strips of cloth that bandaged a
festering leg wound. She gritted her teeth against the smell and focused her
healing power. At the edges of her power, she could feel a drain—more
noticeable now that Lisette had drawn her attention to it. Deep below Dark
Haven, the Flow was tainted. Carina could sense its energies, tugging at her.
"Laisren says we make our gods in our own image," Lisette said.
"The Nargi priests rule by
fear, and Peyhta rides in nightmares to feed on souls.
The Nargi give those images power by choosing to worship Her. Sometimes, it's best
to let the old gods die."
Jonmarc swung
down from his saddle, tired and sore. The morning's events
still weighed heavily on his mind. Gabriel would have risen for the night by
the time Jonmarc reached the manor, and the briefing would not be pleasant.
Jonmarc stretched. After he'd done what he
could to calm the villagers in Haven, he'd spent the rest of the day out with
the farmers in the southern holdings, mending fences. This night, sacred to the
weaver-Crone, was considered a lucky day to patch fences, make rope, and tie
new nets. Despite the cold and a constant flurry of snow, the village men and
boys had turned out to walk the fence lines, mending the stacked stone and
zigzagged wood in preparation for the new herds of the spring. As darkness fell,
Jonmarc's face and hands were red and cold, and he could barely feel his toes.
"You'd think after last year, I'd remember what winter in Principality is
like," he muttered to himself. His breath steamed in the bitterly cold
air.
An old memory came back to him as he patted
his horse's neck and led the animal toward the stables. He could hear the
snick-snick of the weaver's shuttle, as constant a sound in his boyhood home as
the clang of blacksmiths'
hammers. An image of his mother came to
mind, weaving a shawl of the finest yarns. Soft, light, and delicate, it showed
the best of her craft. He remembered watching as his mother carefully wrapped
the shawl in another piece of cloth, tying it closed with yarn. Then she placed
the package on the doorstep in the snow, along with cakes and a cup of ale.
"For the elder-Goddess," she had said when he questioned. He'd never
connected that patron of weavers to the fearsome dark Crone of the Nargi. Now,
on the Crone's Eve, the two images warred in his memory. Which' was right?
And could even Tris know for certain?
He led his horse into its stall and took
off the saddle. None of the grooms was in sight, so he hung up the tack himself
and looked for a blanket to cover his horse. Only one of the lamps burned in
the stable, casting the rest of the barn in deep shadow. Without warning, the
shadows struck. The figure tackled him from behind. Jonmarc reacted on
instinct, driving his elbow back hard. His elbow connected, but the attacker
showed no pain. Arms clenched around his chest like iron bands, and for a few
seconds, Jonmarc could not breathe. Then the attacker threw him
forward and Jonmarc stumbled, gasping for breath and reaching for
his sword. In the half light of the lantern, he glimpsed his opponent, dressed
in black, with a black hood and mask. Only eyes showed, and in them,
Jonmarc read a challenge. Behind him in
its stall, Jonmarc's horse shied in fear and banged against its gate.
Jonmarc drew his sword, but the attacker
shot upward, out of reach. Jonmarc heard boot steps behind him as a powerful
blow struck his hand, knocking his sword from his grip. He swung into an
Eastmark kick, connecting with the shadowed attacker's chest and knocking his
opponent backward, but it came at him again with impossible speed. The shadow
fighter rushed at Jonmarc, pushing him backward so that he skidded half the
length of the barn. He hit one of the support posts and it knocked the breath
from him.
The attacker disappeared into the shadows,
and Jonmarc climbed to his feet warily, every sense on alert. A rush of air was
his only warning. The black-clad stranger struck from the side, knocking them
into the middle of the empty barn. Jonmarc held on, landing blow after blow
with his boots and knee. A human fighter would have been howling in rage and
pain. The dark opponent remained eerily silent. Triumph glinting in his eyes,
the attacker lifted Jonmarc by the throat with one hand, holding him high
enough that Jonmarc's boots dangled a hand's-breadth above the floor. Jonmarc
struggled, knowing that the hand that held him could easily crush his neck. The
stranger stood no taller than himself, more slightly built; no human could heft him so casually.
Pinpricks of light danced in front of him as he tore at the attacker's hand,
trying to free himself. Just as he thought he might black out, the attacker
threw him to the floor.
It was the opening Jonmarc needed. His
sword lay beyond the lantern light, at the edge of the shadows. Jonmarc dived
for his sword, wheeling on his opponent and sinking the blade deep into the
attacker's belly. For an instant, the dark eyes behind the mask met his, and
Jonmarc saw a hint of amusement. Run through, the attacker hegan to laugh, and
flew backward, freeing itself from Jonmarc's blade and disappearing into the
shadows.
Jonmarc heard a deep growl and a huge wolf
sprang from the shadows, leaping past him and landing where his attacker had
been just an instant before. Jonmarc recognized the gray-streaked fur of
Yestin, and struggled for breath. "You're too late. I think it's
gone." He looked at his sword. The blade was dark with an ichor that was
not blood. His sword-stroke should have been a mortal wound, but the sawdust on
the floor showed no blood at all.
The wolf-Yestin slowly circled the barn,
growling as it peered into the shadows. The horses now sensed no threat, and
watched the wolf curiously or went back to their feed. At the edge of the
shadows, the wolf's outline blurred. The space where the wolf stood rippled
and folded on itself, growing larger. Yestin straightened and stood. "It's a bit cold out
here," he said. "Don't have any
clothes hidden about. And I don't fancy frostbite!" Jonmarc tossed a horse
blanket to him.
"Thanks for coming. But your timing's
off."
"What happened?"
Yestin's frown grew deeper as Jonmarc
recounted the attack. "I'm certain he was vayash moru," Jonmarc
finished. "What I can't figure out is, why? He had the opportunity to
kill me if that's what he wanted. But I had the sense that he was testing me.
As if he wanted to know how I'd react, what I'd do in a fight."
"And how did you do?"
"The practice with Laisren is paying
off. I'm faster than I've ever been. Couldn't get a clean shot to put my blade
through his heart, but I ran him through."
"So there was a possibility that whoever
attacked you might have been destroyed," Yestin mused. "Everyone
knows you're good with a sword. Whether skill or luck, you might have taken off
his head or run him through the heart. So your attacker is a gambler.
Uri?"
Jonmarc shook his head, sheathing his
blade. He threw a blanket over his horse and checked its feed and water.
"Wrong build. Too tall. Too thin. The mask and hood covered both face and
hair. I don't have any idea who it could have been."
Outside, the bells chimed the seventh
hour. "Come on," Yestin said. "You've got official duties
tonight. "We'll figure out what was behind this. I'll walk you in, and
then we'll find Gabriel. He'll want to know what happened."
"Odd that all the grooms were gone.
The stable's never empty."
Yestin raised an eyebrow. "It's early
enough that the grooms would have been humans, not vayash moru. Want to
bet they all felt some urgent 'need' to go somewhere right before you were
attacked?"
They headed out of the stable together.
Outside, the courtyard bustled with humans and vayash moru hurrying
toward the night's festivities. "Whoever did this isn't worried about
breaking the truce," Jonmarc said.
"Or he considers it already broken. A
very bad sign indeed."
Jonmarc and Yestin headed for Gabriel's
rooms in the lower level of the manor. They found Gabriel already awake,
dressed for the evening's events. Jonmarc recounted for both men what he had
seen in the village that morning, and what had transpired in the stable. From
the set of Gabriel's jaw, Jonmarc knew that he was furious.
"Whoever did this—and I have to
believe it's tied to Uri—intends to provoke.a war. If this were anywhere but
Dark Haven, war would be upon us."
"Convene the Blood Council. They've
got to rein in Uri," Jonmarc urged.
"They'll be here within two
candlemarks. It's customary for them to attend this feast day. Whether Uri will
come or not remains to be seen." Gabriel frowned. "This is aggressive
for Uri, out of character. It may be that his brood has gone farther than he
intended."
"Even Uri has to see the
danger," Yestin said.
"For years, Uri has argued for our
kind to take the upper hand. Nothing like this happened. Either something has
changed within his brood, or someone else has a stake in beginning this war.
Either way, if war comes, we all lose."
Carina opened the
door from the sitting room almost immediately after
Jonmarc entered his rooms.
"I thought I heard you in the
hallway." She stopped and took in his dirt-streaked great coat, and the
bruise from the fight beginning to darken on his cheek. "What
happened?"
"Someone ambushed me in the stable.
No idea who it was—but he wasn't mortal."
Carina moved to stand beside him, reaching
up to heal the bruise on his cheek. Her touch was warm and her healing magic
sent a calmness through him. When the bruise was gone, she let her hand stroke
down his cheek and rest on his chest. "Anything else I should know
about?"
"My back is probably already black
and blue after how hard I hit the post in the stable," Jonmarc confessed,
wincing as she helped him slip his shirt off. He sat on a couch with his back
to her so that she could ease the stiffness and mend the scraped skin. As
Carina worked, Jonmarc told her about the attack on the herders, only to
discover word had reached the manor by midday. .
"Lisette is
beside herself she's
so angry," Carina said.
"I could feel the difference in the mood today—the people who came for
healing were afraid. Lisette told me that the vayash moru servants are
afraid, too." "Something else is bothering you." Carina withdrew
a letter from one of the pouches at her belt. "It's a letter from
Cam." "Rough life guarding Donelan?" Carina handed
him the letter.
Jonmarc scanned the paper, making out Cam's cramped handwriting as best
he could. "I don't get it. He
sounds like Isencroft's
on the brink
of uprising."
"It's because of Kiara—and Tris.
Kiara's the only direct heir to the Isencroft throne, remember? When Donelan
dies, the thrones of Isencroft and Margolan will be joined until heirs can be
born for both. That's not going over well in Isencroft." She shook her
head. "There was an incident in Isencroft before Kiara left for the
wedding—some crazy divi-sionist tried to kill her. I'm afraid, Jonmarc—for Cam
and Donelan and Kiara."
"I figured whoever sent that magicked
beast at the wedding was after Tris."
"So did I. Maybe we were wrong."
"Cam's pretty good at taking care of
himself. Donelan's got an army to protect him. Kiara has Mikhail and Harrtuck,
as if she needed any help in a fight."
"She's pregnant, Jonmarc. She won't
be able to fight like she did on the road for long. Tris is gone to war. If
something happens to Kiara, the kingdoms won't be joined. Jared's loyalists
have their own reasons to want the heir out of the way. She's so far away, and
I can't help her."
"You're the one who's always telling
me to trust the Lady."
Carina leaned against him, letting him
hold her close. "No other choices, are there? For any of us."
A candlemark
later, the Blood Council met in Gabriel's rooms. Tonight, Jonmarc found
that his anger burned hot enough to overcome any fear at being the only mortal
in the room. All of the Council was present, even Uri. Jonmarc watched their
faces as Gabriel recounted the attack.
"You say you control your own. Prove
it." Jonmarc met Rafe's eyes.
"This is none of our doing. Surely
you know that?" Rafe countered.
"There were a dozen men gutted like
deer out on that hillside, and a boy who saw masked creatures hunt the men for
sport before tearing them and their herd apart."
"The hill country is dangerous at
this time of year," Uri said. "Perhaps a wolf—"
Yestin started forward from where he stood
behind Gabriel. "It wasn't wolves."
Jonmarc rounded on Uri, standing close
enough to smell his rancid breath. "It wasn't a wolf that ambushed me in
the stables. It was vayash moru. Whatever game you're playing ends
tonight, Uri. The villagers aren't going to take any more of this." He
leaned closer. "If this is about Dark Haven, then stop sending your
underlings to do your work. You want the title? Then challenge me. Now."
No one moved. Jonmarc refused to look
away, meeting Uri's eyes defiantly. Uri's face puffed in indignation, and his
hands balled at his side. Just as quickly as his bluster came, it faded.
"I knew nothing of the murders before
tonight," Uri said, taking a step back. "I spent last night until
almost dawn at the Drunk Rooster Inn, playing contre dice. Ask the
bar-keep—I never left the common room."
"What about your brood?" Jonmarc
was too angry to care about the danger. The single arrow trigger was beneath
his sleeve. He was close enough to score a fatal shot before Uri could stop
him. Give me an excuse.
Uri glanced at Malesh. "I can't
account for them every minute. But my link to them is strong—I'm sure I would
have known."
"This solves nothing." Riqua
said. "Either one of us has lost control over our family, or there are
others of our kind outside our circle who've done this. Brawling among
ourselves won't fix it."
Jonmarc turned away grudgingly. His heart
was pounding and it took effort to unclench his fists. "The villagers
aren't going to make distinctions if they start burning crypts," Jonmarc
said, taking satisfaction at seeing Astasia startle. "There aren't enough vayash
moru to kill them all—and if you did, how long do you think it would be
until Staden brought his army down to keep the peace?" He glared at Uri
again. "Or did you forget? The title wasn't granted by the Blood Council.
I'm liegeman to King Staden. Attack me, and the king is oath-bound to
retaliate. Don't start a war you can't finish."
Gabriel moved between Jonmarc and Uri.
"There will be no war. We all have too much to lose." He glanced
sharply at his fellows on the Council. "Jonmarc's right—if the mortals
strike back, none of us is safe. See to your own houses. We need to bring the
murderers to justice—-swiftly and publicly—if we expect the forbearance of the
mortals."
The festival
night had a subdued feeling about it. Dark mead and rum
cakes, the traditional foods this night, were in ample supply, along with
blood pudding. The
musicians
played a lively tune. Carina noticed that
their songs became bawdier as the night went on, as if they were trying too
hard to rouse the crowd to higher spirits. This evening, the guests ranged from
vyrkin and vayash moru to merchants and farmers. Carina even
glimpsed the ghost girl among the night's revelers in the shadows along the
wall. Despite the ale and the minstrels, the gathering felt different. Carina
was certain the happenings in the village had dampened the mood.
In honor of the weaver-Crone, the
evening's dances were circle dances where men and women clasped arms and wove
in and out to the music. Taking a break from the dancing, Carina wrapped her
shawl around her shoulders. It was a gift from Lisette and Eiria, a beautiful
piece from one of the village's best weavers. Alerted by Neirin, Carina had
returned a similar gift to each of her friends. The dress Carina wore was
Jonmarc's gift this night—finely woven linen with an intricate border done in
the style of the local artisans. The match between the shawl and the dress was
so perfect, Carina suspected that Lisette and Eiria had known of the gift in
advance. Jonmarc's cloak, set aside for the moment in the warm room, was
Carina's gift, a heavy coat of woven wool that was sturdy enough even for a
Principality winter.
As the bells tolled the eleventh hour,
Gabriel touched Carina on the shoulder. "It's time to
make your gift to the Lady," he said,
and held out her cloak. Lisette appeared, holding a deep crockery bowl filled
with cream and honey. Jonmarc fell into step beside her as they left the great
room, with the rest of the merry-makers behind them.
Outside the main doors of Dark Haven, bonfires
lit up the courtyard. In the center was an ancient oak. It towered above the
manor house, and its branches spread above much of the courtyard. Neirin had
schooled her on the proper way to present the gift of cream and honey to the
Weaver-Crone, but Carina still felt nervous as she approached the ancient tree.
The snow had been cleared from its base, and its roots buckled up beneath the
cobblestones of the courtyard.
At its base, Carina knelt, carefully
holding the bowl in front of her. "Lady of the loom, we offer our
gifts," Carina said. "Grant us favor." She gradually tipped the
bowl, watching steam rise from the warm cream as it poured onto the roots of
the old tree.
As the cream spilled out onto the tree
trunk and the cobblestones beneath, Carina felt energy crackle around her.
Welling up from beneath the ground, traveling like lightning along the deepest
roots, old power rose to envelop her. An image burned into her mind, of fire
and rending and a red orb torn free, leaving a gash like a bleeding wound.
There was an instant of agony, as if
a clawed
hand had reached into her body
and torn loose her heart. In her mind, Carina saw a vision of the ground
shaking, the west wing of Dark Haven collapsing in rubble, and panicked
mortals running in fear. The Flow reached out to her, and the image of healing
the ghost girl filled her mind. Pain, fear and desperation washed over her.
Then, darkness.
"What
happened?" Carina was still wearing her dress from the
night's festival and lying on her own bed. Jonmarc sat beside her, holding her
hand. Lisette pressed a cool cloth to her forehead. Gabriel stood in the corner
opposite the fire, watching with concern.
Jonmarc shook his head, and Carina saw
worry in his dark eyes. "You tell us. One minute you were presenting the
offering to the tree. Then all of a sudden, you stiffened up and fell backward.
Your eyes were open, but they sure weren't seeing anything. We brought you up
here. It's been almost half a candle-mark."
Carina shut her eyes and swallowed,
groping for words. "When I poured the cream on the tree roots, I saw a vision."
"The Crone?" Jonmarc asked with
concern.
Carina shook her head. "I don't know.
She recounted the vision at the foot of the tree. When she finished, Gabriel
and Jonmarc exchanged glances. "And you've felt something like that
before?" Gabriel asked.
Carina looked from Jonmarc to Gabriel.
"Yes. Earlier today. When the ghost came."
Lisette stepped forward. "She healed
the ghost girl, the one who died in the plague. I saw her."
Feeling foolish, Carina recounted what happened.
But this time, she added her impression that something had been watching her.
Gabriel's frown deepened.
"We assumed that healers saw no
reason to come to Dark Haven because vayash moru had no need of them. We
thought they were afraid. Perhaps there was another reason. Maybe they felt
something here they couldn't explain, something that made them uncomfortable."
Jonmarc looked down. "This is all my
fault. I never should have brought Carina here. It's too dangerous."
Gabriel shrugged. "There's no
changing it. There've been storms in the Dhasson Pass. Snow as deep as a man's
waist. No one's going to be traveling anywhere."
Carina took Jonmarc's hand. "I
wouldn't go if I could. This is my home now. Here. With you."
"I'm not going to let anything happen
to you."
Carina smiled. "Nothing's going to.
Whoever, whatever it is had the power to hurt me if it wanted to. It's more
like it wants me to know something, do something."
"Promise me you won't try anything
foolish," Jonmarc said.
"I promise."
Gabriel laid a hand on Jonmarc's shoulder.
"We'd best return to the feast and let the guests know Carina is resting.
Mention how bard she's been working with all of the patients who have come to
see her. Perhaps that will keep too many stories from spreading."
Jonmarc leaned down to kiss Carina on the
forehead. "I'll be back to check in on you later. Now as you're so fond of
telling me, get some rest."
Carina smiled and leaned back against the
pillows. "You have the makings of a great healer."
The door closed behind Jonmarc and Gabriel
before Lisette spoke. "Here's something odd, m'lady." Lisette held a
book in her hands. The leather binding was cracked and broken and the pages
yellowed. "This book was open on the table when we came in, but it wasn't
there when we left. It's a record of the families of the Lords of Dark Haven.
Births, feast days, marriages, deaths. Look here," she said. Carina
followed Lisette's finger. The cramped handwriting was faded with time, but
she could make out the inscription.
"Raen, daughter of Lord Brentig, died
in the great plague on the twenty-first day of the Crone Moon," Carina
read. "Raen, is that the name of the ghost?"
"She was watching from the shadows
when Lord Jonmarc carried you up here. She didn't leave until you came around.
That name seems familiar." Lisette frowned and went to the bookshelves.
She returned with a thin leather-bound journal. "I picked this up a few
days ago—it had fallen on the floor. I thought it an accident at the time, but
now, I'm not so sure."
The journal was filled with neat, feminine
handwriting. The name "Raen Brentig" was centered on the page, and a
date.
"That's about a year before the last
great plague struck."
Carina gently touched the page. "It's
almost as if she wants us to know her," she said. Lisette removed the
pillows from behind her so she could lie flat. "I seem to have made a
friend."
Carina pulled the covers up around
herself, handling the book carefully. "Has it always been the custom for
the noble daughters in Principality to read and write?"
"It was fairly common when I was
mortal," Lisette said. "I didn't know Raen, but she would have been
alive close to the time I was brought across. A large manor is as complicated
to run as any trade. A smart man wanted an educated wife to help keep the
accounts."
Carina found herself drawn into the
entries in the journal. Most were notes about the ups and downs of a young
woman's life, with comments about parties and invitations and young men who
caught Raen's eye. The lavender is blooming in the garden now. I'll have to
take some for a fresh sachet. The ball is only a fortnight away. Carina
turned the page. Another entry, dated just a few days after the first. Not
feeling well. Hope, this passes by the ball. The rest of the pages were
blank. Carina set the journal aside, lost in thought.
"Lord Jonmarc was right, m'lady. You
must rest. Fear nothing. I'll watch until dawn."
Carina let herself sink into the mattress,
warmed by the down comforter, her mind still on the journal and its sudden end.
In the distance as she dreamed, she could hear Raen singing to her.
When Carina
awoke, the first light of dawn was streaming through her
windows. She lingered for a moment beneath the warm covers. Jonmarc had
already left for the day's tasks, and Lisette had gone to rest. Few of the mortal
servants were stirring. Dark Haven was quiet.
As Carina belted her healer's robe over
her dress, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Raen stood in the
shadows.
"Hello," Carina greeted the
ghost girl. "Thank you for your song last night."
Raen moved toward the windows. The fire
had warmed the room enough to fog the glass. As Carina watched, letters traced
themselves in the fog. "Come."
Carina looked at Raen, perplexed.
"Come where? Why?"
Another word formed as an invisible finger
traced the letters. "Heal."
"You want me to heal someone? One of
the ghosts?" Carina shook her head. "I don't know if it will work—I'm
still not sure how I did what I did for you."
More letters appeared. "Hurt."
"All right. Let me gather my things—
although if it's a ghost who needs my help, they won't be of much use."
Carina collected her pouches and opened
the door. The corridor was empty. Raen glided out of the room and into the
darkened hallway, visible as a green glow. Torches lit their way. Carina
followed Raen down the back staircase to the second landing. The ghost halted
at a door. "Those rooms haven't been restored," Carina said. "No
one lives there now."
Raen glided through the closed wooden
door. Carina reached for the nearest torch and took it down from the sconce on
the wall. No footprints except for the scrabbling of mice marked the
dust-covered floor. It was cold, and Carina shivered. "How far?"
Raen beckoned for her to follow. They
passed a row of long-abandoned bedrooms. The corridor smelled musty, as if water
had gotten in. At the end of the hallway a stairway descended into darkness.
"This is the East wing, isn't
it?" Carina said, looking from the ghost to the dark stairs. "It's
dangerous down there—Jonmarc said that's where the walls collapsed when the orb
was stolen."
Raen reached out an insubstantial hand to
lead the way. Carina pulled back. "We should wait. I don't think this is a
good idea."
Raen moved back into the hallway, where a
thin shaft of light struggled through a dirty window. The dust on the floor
began to move. This time, the ghost drew a bare-limbed tree, and beneath it,
one word. "Understand."
Carina looked at Raen. "The power
that touched me last night, the presence that's making it hard for me to
heal—that's what you want me to understand?"
Raen nodded.
Carina weighed her fear against the
frustration of her gradually waning power. "Can I reach the bottom
safely? You can go through solid rock, but I can't."
Raen moved toward the door. As they started
down the stairs, Raen's form began to glow, adding to the torchlight in the
lightless stairway. From the cramped turns and narrow tread, Carina guessed
that it was a servant's passageway. She grimaced as cobwebs brushed her face.
No one but the spirits had passed this way in many years. Carina counted the
steps as they descended, making note of the landings. They kept going, as the
stairway grew colder
and the air damp. Carina was quite sure they were
beneath the ground. Finally, they stopped in an antechamber. By the torchlight,
Carina could see that deep cracks ran through the stone walls. Through the next
archway, the darkness was broken by a silver glow. Carefully picking her way
through bits of fallen rock, Carina realized that the archway was the opening
to a natural cave.
Raen walked beside her as Carina crossed
through the archway. Inside the cave, large pieces of rock littered the
pathway. The walls glistened with crystals, and in the distance, Carina could
hear falling water. A doorway on the opposite side of the chamber had collapsed.
Coruscating light filled the cave, surrounding them with an evanescent glow.
Once before, during an Eastmark winter,
Carina had glimpsed the Spirit Lights in the cold night sky. The ribbon of
colored light glistened yellow and green, painted in bold strokes across the
darkness. Like the Spirit Lights, the glow that filled the cave changed colors,
as if the air were filled with diamond dust. The walls shone as the light hit
crystals, reflecting in millions of tiny facets.
Carina could sense the power around her
like a thunderstorm overhead. This is the Flow.
The glow became brighter, its colors began
to shift. Gone were the tranquil shades of yellow and green. Deep pink and
fiery red came over the glow as if reflecting a vivid sunset. At the reined in
his horse, and Jonmarc looked out over the hillside.
Scattered across the hillside were the
remains of sheep, torn limb from limb. The snow was dark with blood. Among the
carcasses were the bodies of half' a dozen herders. "By the Whore!"
Rann exclaimed as they neared the bodies. Other soldiers cursed in fear.
The men's throats showed two clear punctures;
their bodies were pale as the snow. The corpses had been gutted, and then
stuffed with hay and pebbles. Their entrails lay in a frozen mass beside them.
Jonmarc fought the urge to retch. The tracks in the snow showed the herders'
panic, running in vain as their attackers chased them. No tracks led to of
from the site into the nearby woods. There were no tracks at all leading away,
except by the trail they had followed.
"The herders that came out to relieve
them found the bodies," the elder said. "They said that there were no
tracks except their own. Only one boy survived, and he won't speak of what he
saw. Whatever did this wasn't mortal, m'lord. They flew here and flew away. It
didn't snow last night, and the wind hasn't been strong enough to cover the
tracks completely. Crone take my soul! There are tales of the Wild Host doing
such things, but that was long ago. What does it mean?"
"Someone's trying to start a
war." Jonmarc paused. "Can you take me to the survivor?"
"He's with the hedge witch.
Half-frozen and terrified near out of his wits."
The group rode in silence back to the
village. As they neared the small grouping of houses and shops, the sound of bells
and mourners grew louder.
The elder led them to a small house at the
edge of town. The smell of herbs and poultices permeated the thatched-roof
cottage. The hedge witch was a plump, stooped woman with short-cropped gray
hair. Jonmarc could feel the accusation in her glare as he passed, and the
unspoken charge that the Lord of the manor had failed in his vows.
Near the fireplace sat a boy about fifteen
seasons old, huddled in a threadbare blanket. He did not look up when they
entered.
"I've warmed him up, but he won't
eat," the hedge witch said. "Not a mark on him. Don't know whether
the Host did him a kindness or not, leaving him alive to tell the tale."
She looked at Jonmarc. "His name is Kendry. His father and older brother
were also with the herds."
Jonmarc remembered when he shared a similar
fate. How long was it before I would tell Shanna's mother what happened to
my family, my village, when the raiders came? Weeks? It was years before I
stopped dreaming about it.
"Kendry," the elder said gently.
"Lord Vahanian has come to talk with you. He wants to know what you
saw."
Jonmarc took a step toward Kendry, and
when the boy did not start in fear, he hunkered down to be on eye level.
"I'm sorry about your family."
Kendry nodded, never taking his eyes off
the fire.
Jonmarc drew a deep breath. "When I
was fifteen summers old, raiders came to my village. They killed my family.
Everyone but me. No one ever went after them, ever caught the men who burned my
village. I want to find the people who killed your family, Kendry. Find them
and make them pay. But I need to know what you saw."
Kendry was silent for so long Jonmarc did
not think the boy would speak.
"It was the middle of the
night," Kendry said. "The moon was high and full. We were sleeping.
Gastell saw them first. A score of dark figures, flying through the sky. They
circled us, wailing and moaning. And then—" The boy's voice broke and he
squeezed his eyes shut tightly as tears started down his cheeks.
"They were dressed all in black, with
masks over their faces. They dived at us. They started to chase us and scatter
the sheep. There was nowhere to run. They picked up Gastell and I saw them, saw
them—" Kendry buried his face in his hands. Jonmarc laid a hand on the
boy's shoulder as the hedge witch pushed forward to talk softly with Kendry and
lead him into a back room.
Jonmarc stood and looked to the village
elder. "I'm sorry about your men, and your herd. When he's ready to
travel, bring the boy to the manor. Perhaps Carina can help him." He
looked back to where the hedge witch tended the boy in the back room, and
wondered how he could expect the villagers to heed his next request. "I
need your word that you'll let us handle this," Jonmarc said to the elder.
"I'll go to the Blood Council. There are a small number of rogue vayash
moru trying to end the truce. You know that if that happens, we all
suffer."
"Aye. We'll do our best to keep the
peace. But those were our lads out there. The families are going to want
justice. And if it happens again—"
"I'll do everything in my power to
make sure it doesn't. I need you to buy me some time to handle this. Let me
bring it to the Blood Council. I promise you, your dead will be avenged."
"I'll do as you ask, Lord Vahanian,
to the best of my power. But they will be avenged— one way or another."
“Tm sorry,
m'lady, but they keep coming." Neirin,
Jonmarc's day manager, apologized. After news spread far and wide about
Carina's healing, Neirin had appointed himself gatekeeper to assure that the
crowds that sought her attention remained orderly.
"It's not your fault. Any more word
about what happened in Haven?"
"Lord Jonmarc went from there out to
the south holdings. The story from the guards is all I know."
"Send after the boy tomorrow, please.
I don't dare leave tonight with so many waiting. If he'll come to the manor,
I'll see what I can do for him." Carina listened as the bells tolled the
fourth hour. "I just wish Jonmarc would get back before dark."
"Understandable, m'lady," Neirin
said. "And I'll do as you ask." He looked out over the long line of
people waiting to be healed. How far news had traveled of the attack was
uncertain, but waiting patients were edgier than usual. "I've brought a
couple of the serving girls, and a midwife from the village. If you give them
direction, they can help with simple things like binding up wounds. Lisette
will come at nightfall. Eiria volunteered as well."
"I'll be glad for their help,"
Carina confessed. "Goddess! At least when I treated battle wounded I
wasn't the only healer!"
Carina put the two mortal servants to work
separating out the sickest patients from those with minor injuries. She set to
work, not noticing that the sun had set until Lisette came to take over as her
assistant.
"Your fame is spreading,"
Lisette observed, helping Carina calm a small girl with a bad burn on her arm.
"Jonmarc warned me that it had been a
long time since Dark Haven had a full healer, but I
didn't realize just what that meant,"
Carina tried to distract the girl long enough to heal the burn.
"When Arontala stole the orb from
under the manor, Dark Haven seemed to go to sleep," Lisette observed.
"Now, with the new lord, things are awakening, both good and bad."
"What do you mean?" Carina
slipped into a light trance as she sped the healing of the girl's arm, willing
the pain to decrease as the new skin covered the angry burn. The girl's mother
bowed low, repeating her thanks and trying to offer Carina the sparse contents
of her satchel in gratitude.
"Last night, the Wild Host seemed
closer than I've ever felt them. Today, I heard the servants talking about the
killings in Haven. None of the mortals can remember when that happened before.
Even those of us who have lived centuries have only heard of such a thing on
occasion. The Flow beneath the manor seems to be stirring. I can't explain it,
but I've been here long enough to know that its energy is different, darker.
I'll be glad as anyone when the Dark Aspects' nights are over."
Carina sat back on her haunches. She still
had about a dozen patients waiting for her attention. She wiped her hands on
her robe and sipped at a cup of kerif, now gone cold.
"Tonight is for the Crone?" she
asked, beckoning her next patient, a young man with a badly-broken leg.
"I thought Principality "They do. But what the
Nargi call the Crone has no likeness to the ancient tales. I've heard the elder
vayash moru tell stories. In the old days, Sinha was a weaver, not a hag
with a cauldron. She spun the threads of life and wove out destiny, determining
how long each thread should be. That's why woven gifts are given tonight,
shawls and blankets. Like Nameless, Sinha comes for unrepentant souls because
their threads must be ripped out and woven again. She can be harsh, like the
winter wind. She was also a tanner,, taking the hides of evil men and
rekindling the spark to send "their souls back until their lessons were
learned.
"But the Nargi took Sinha's name and
put it onto other stories. Sinha wasn't a destroyer or a monster. The Nargi's
priests have made Her so, because it suited them. Tonight in the procession,
you'll see a very old custom, where Sinha battles Peyhta, the soul-eater. In
Nargi, Sinha and Peyhta became one."
"Why would anyone want to worship a
monster?" Carina removed the soiled strips of cloth that bandaged a
festering leg wound. She gritted her teeth against the smell and focused her
healing power. At the edges of her power, she could feel a drain—more
noticeable now that Lisette had drawn her attention to it. Deep
Carina could sense its energies, tugging
at her. "Laisren says we make our gods in our own image," Lisette
said. "The Nargi priests rule by
fear, and Peyhta rides in nightmares to
feed on souls. The Nargi give those images power by choosing to worship Her.
Sometimes, it's best to let the old gods die."
JONMARC SWUNG down from his saddle, tired and
sore. The morning's events still weighed heavily on his mind. Gabriel would
have risen for the night by the time Jonmarc reached the manor, and the
briefing would not be pleasant.
Jonmarc stretched. After he'd done what he
could to calm the villagers in Haven, he'd spent the rest of the day out with
the farmers in the southern holdings, mending fences. This night, sacred to the
weaver-Crone, was considered a lucky day to patch fences, make rope, and tie
new nets. Despite the cold and a constant flurry of snow, the village men and
boys had turned out to walk the fence lines, mending the stacked stone and
zigzagged wood in preparation for the new herds of the spring. As darkness
fell, Jonmarc's face and hands were red and cold, and he could barely feel his
toes. "You'd think after last year, I'd remember what winter in
Principality is like," he muttered to himself. His breath steamed in the
bitterly cold air.
An old memory came back to him as he patted
his horse's neck and led the animal toward the stables. He could hear the
snick-snick of the weaver's shuttle, as constant a sound in his boyhood home as
the clang of blacksmiths' hammers. An image of his mother came to mind, weaving
a shawl of the finest yarns. Soft, light, and delicate, it showed the best of
her craft. He remembered watching as his mother carefully wrapped the shawl in
another piece of cloth, tying it. closed with yarn. Then she placed the package
on the doorstep in the snow, along with cakes and a cup of ale. "For the
elder-Goddess," she had said when he questioned. He'd never connected that
patron of weavers to the fearsome dark Crone of the Nargi. Now, on the. Crone's
Eve, the two images warred in his memory. Which was right? And could even
Tris know for certain?
He led his horse into its stall and took
off the saddle. None of the grooms was in sight, so he hung up the tack himself
and looked for a blanket to cover his horse. Only one of the lamps burned in
the stable, casting the rest of the barn in deep shadow.
Without warning, the shadows struck.
The figure tackled him from behind.
Jonmarc reacted on instinct, driving his elbow back hard. His elbow connected,
but the attacker showed no pain. Arms clenched around his chest like iron bands,
and for a few seconds, Jonmarc could not breathe. Then the attacker threw him
forward and Jonmarc stumbled, gasping for breath and reaching for his sword. In
the half light of the lantern, he glimpsed his opponent, dressed in black, with
a black hood and mask. Only eyes showed,
and in them, Jonmarc read a challenge. Behind him in its stall, Jonmarc's
horse shied in fear and banged against its gate.
Jonmarc drew his sword, but the attacker
shot upward, out of reach. Jonmarc heard boot steps behind him as a powerful
blow struck his hand, knocking his sword from his grip. He swung into an
Eastmark kick, connecting with the shadowed attacker's chest and knocking his
opponent backward, but it came at him again with impossible speed. The shadow
fighter rushed at Jonmarc, pushing him backward so that he skidded half the
length of the barn. He hit one of the support posts and it knocked the breath
from him.
The attacker disappeared into the shadows,
and Jonmarc climbed to his feet warily, every sense on alert. A rush of air was
his only warning. The black-clad stranger struck from the side, knocking them
into the middle of the empty barn. Jonmarc held on, landing blow after
blow with his boots and knee. A human fighter would have been howling in rage
and pain. The dark opponent remained eerily silent. Triumph glinting in his
eyes, the attacker lifted Jonmarc by the throat with one hand, holding him
high enough that Jonmarc's boots dangled a hand's-breadth above the floor. Jonmarc
struggled, knowing that the hand that held him could easily crush his neck. The
stranger stood no taller than himself, more slightly built; no human could heft him so casually.
Pinpricks of light danced in front of him as he tore at the attacker's hand,
trying to free himself. Just as he thought he might black out, the attacker
threw him to the floor.
It was the opening Jonmarc needed. His
sword lay beyond the lantern light, at the edge of the shadows. Jonmarc dived
for his sword, wheeling on his opponent and sinking the blade deep into the
attacker's belly. For an instant, the dark eyes behind the mask met his, and
Jonmarc saw a hint of amusement. Run through, the attacker began to laugh, and
flew backward, freeing itself from Jonmarc's blade and disappearing into the
shadows.
Jonmarc heard a deep growl and a huge wolf
sprang from the shadows, leaping past him and landing where his attacker had
been just an instant before. Jonmarc recognized the gray-streaked fur of
Yestin, and struggled for breath. "You're too late. I think it's gone."
He looked at his sword. The blade was dark with an ichor that was not blood.
His sword-stroke should have been a mortal wound, but the sawdust on the floor
showed no blood at all.
The wolf-Yestin slowly circled the barn,
growling as it peered into the shadows. The horses now sensed no threat, and
watched the wolf curiously or went back to their feed. At the edge of the
shadows, the wolf's outline blurred. The space where the wolf stood rippled
and folded on itself, growing larger. Yestin straightened and stood. "It's a bit cold out
here," he said. "Don't have any
clothes hidden about. And I don't fancy frostbite!" Jonmarc tossed a horse
blanket to him.
"Thanks for coming. But your timing's
off."
"What happened?"
Yestin's frown grew deeper as Jonmarc
recounted the attack. "I'm certain he was vayash moru," Jonmarc
finished. "What I can't figure out is, why? He had the opportunity to
kill me if that's what he wanted. But I had the sense that he was testing me.
As if he wanted to know how I'd react, what I'd do in a fight."
"And how did you do?"
"The practice with Laisren is paying
off. I'm faster than I've ever been. Couldn't get a clean shot to put my blade
through his heart, but I ran him through."
"So there was a possibility that
whoever attacked you might have been destroyed," Yestin mused.
"Everyone knows you're good with a sword. Whether skill or luck, you might
have taken off his head or run him through the heart. So your attacker is a
gambler. Uri?"
Jonmarc shook his head, sheathing his
blade. He threw a blanket over his horse and checked its feed and water.
"Wrong build. Too tall. Too thin. The mask and hood covered both face and
hair. I don't have any idea who it could have been."
Outside, the bells chimed the seventh
hour. "Come on," Yestin said. "You've got official duties
tonight. "We'll figure out what was behind this. I'll walk you in, and
then we'll find Gabriel. He'll want to know what happened."
"Odd that all the grooms were gone.
The stable's never empty."
Yestin raised an eyebrow. "It's early
enough that the grooms would have been humans, not vayash moru. Want to
bet they all felt some urgent 'need' to go somewhere right before you were
attacked?"
They headed out of the stable together.
Outside, the courtyard bustled with humans and vayash moru hurrying
toward the night's festivities. "Whoever did this isn't worried about
breaking the truce," Jonmarc said.
"Or he considers it already broken. A
very bad sign indeed."
Jonmarc and Yestin headed for Gabriel's
rooms in the lower level of the manor. They found Gabriel already awake,
dressed for the evening's events. Jonmarc recounted for both men what he had
seen in the village that morning, and what had transpired in the stable. From
the set of Gabriel's jaw, Jonmarc knew that he was furious.
"Whoever did this—and I have to
believe it's tied to Uri—intends to provoke a war. If this were anywhere but
Dark Haven, war would be upon us."
"Convene the Blood Council. They've
got to rein in Uri," Jonmarc urged.
"They'll be here within two
candlemarks. It's customary for them to attend this feast day. Whether Uri will
come or not remains to be seen." Gabriel frowned. "This is aggressive
for Uri, out of character. It may be that his brood has gone farther than he
intended."
"Even Uri has to see the
danger," Yestin said.
"For years, Uri has argued for our
kind to take the upper hand. Nothing like this happened. Either something has
changed within his brood, or someone else has a stake in beginning this war.
Either way, if war comes, we all lose."
Carina opened the
door from the sitting room almost immediately after
Jonmarc entered his rooms.
"I thought I heard you in the
hallway." She stopped and took in his dirt-streaked great coat, and the
bruise from the fight beginning to darken on his cheek. "What happened?"
"Someone ambushed me in the stable.
No idea who it was—but he wasn't mortal."
Carina moved to stand beside him, reaching
up to heal the bruise on his cheek. Her touch was warm and her healing magic
sent a calmness through him. When the bruise was gone, she let her hand stroke
down his cheek and rest on his chest. "Anything else I should know
about?"
"My back is probably already black
and blue after how hard I hit the post in the stable," Jonmarc confessed,
wincing as she helped him slip his shirt off. He sat on a couch with his back
to her so that she could ease the stiffness and mend the scraped skin. As
Carina worked, Jonmarc told her about the attack on the herders, only to
discover word had reached the manor by midday.,
"Lisette is beside herself she's so
angry," Carina said. "I could feel the difference in the mood
today—the people who came for healing were afraid. Lisette told me that the vayash
moru servants are afraid, too."
"Something else is bothering
you."
Carina withdrew a letter from one of the
pouches at her belt. "It's a letter from Cam."
"Rough life guarding Donelan?"
Carina handed him the letter. Jonmarc
scanned the paper, making out Cam's cramped handwriting as best he could.
"I don't get it. He sounds like Isencroft's on the brink of uprising."
"It's because of Kiara—and Tris.
Kiara's the only direct heir to the Isencroft throne, remember? When Donelan
dies, the thrones of Isencroft and Margolan will be joined until heirs can be
born for both. That's not going over well in Isencroft." She shook her
head. "There was an incident in Isencroft before Kiara left for the
wedding—some crazy divi-sionist tried to kill her. I'm afraid, Jonmarc—for Cam
and Donelan and Kiara."
"I figured whoever sent that magicked
beast at the wedding was after Tris."
"So did I. Maybe we were wrong."
"Cam's pretty good at taking care of
himself. Donelan's got an army to protect him. Kiara has Mikhail and Harrtuck,
as if she needed any help in a fight."
"She's pregnant, Jonmarc. She won't
be able to fight like she did on the road for long. Tris is gone to war. If
something happens to Kiara, the kingdoms won't be joined. Jared's loyalists
have their own reasons to want the heir out of the way. She's so far away, and
I can't help her."
"You're the one who's always telling
me to trust the Lady."
Carina leaned against him, letting him
hold her close. "No other choices, are there? For any of us."
A candlemark
later, the Blood Council met in Gabriel's rooms. Tonight, Jonmarc found
that his anger burned hot enough to overcome any fear at being the only mortal
in the room. All of the Council was present, even Uri. Jonmarc watched their
faces as Gabriel recounted the attack.
"You say you control your own. Prove
it." Jonmarc met Rafe's eyes.
"This is none of our doing. Surely you
know that?" Rafe countered.
"There were a dozen men gutted like
deer out on that hillside, and a boy who saw masked creatures hunt the men for
sport before tearing them and their herd apart."
"The hill country is dangerous at
this time of year," Uri said. "Perhaps a wolf—"
Yestin started forward from where he stood
behind Gabriel. "It wasn't wolves."
Jonmarc rounded on Uri, standing close
enough to smell his rancid breath. "It wasn't a wolf that ambushed me in
the stables. It was vayash moru. Whatever game you're playing ends
tonight, Uri. The villagers aren't going to take any more of this." He
leaned closer. "If this is about Dark Haven, then stop sending your
underlings to do your work. You want the title? Then challenge me. Now."
No one moved. Jonmarc refused to look
away, meeting Uri's eyes defiantly. Uri's face puffed in indignation, and his
hands balled at his side. Just as quickly as his bluster came, it faded.
"I knew nothing of the murders before
tonight," Uri said, taking a step back. "I spent last night until
almost dawn at the Drunk Rooster Inn, playing contre dice. Ask the
bar-keep—I never left the common room."
"What about your brood?" Jonmarc
was too angry to care about the danger. The single arrow trigger was beneath
his sleeve. He was close enough to score a fatal shot before Uri could stop
him. Give me an excuse.
Uri glanced at Malesh. "I can't
account for them every minute. But my link to them is strong—I'm sure I would
have known."
"This solves nothing." Riqua
said. "Either one of us has lost control over our family, or there are
others of our kind outside our circle who've done this. Brawling among
ourselves won't fix it."
Jonmarc turned away grudgingly. His heart
was pounding and it took effort to unclench his fists. "The villagers aren't
going to make distinctions if they start burning crypts," Jonmarc said,
taking satisfaction at seeing Astasia startle. "There aren't enough vayash
moru to kill them all—and if you did, how long do you think it would be
until Staden brought his army down to keep the peace?" He glared at Uri
again. "Or did you forget? The title wasn't granted by the Blood Council.
I'm liegeman to King Staden. Attack me, and the king is oath-bound to
retaliate. Don't start a war you can't finish."
Gabriel moved between Jonmarc and Uri.
"There will be no war. We all have too much to lose." He glanced
sharply at his fellows on the Council. "Jonmarc's right—if the mortals
strike back, none of us is safe. See to your own houses. We need to bring the
murderers to justice—swiftly and publicly—if we expect the forbearance of the
mortals."
The festival
night had a subdued feeling about it. Dark mead and rum
cakes, the traditional foods this night, were in ample supply, along with
blood pudding. The
musicians played a lively tune. Carina noticed that their songs became
bawdier as the night went on, as if they were trying too hard to rouse the
crowd to higher spirits. This evening, the guests ranged from vyrkin and
vayash moru to merchants and farmers. Carina even glimpsed the ghost
girl among the night's revelers in the shadows along the wall. Despite the ale
and the minstrels, the gathering felt different. Carina was certain the
happenings in the village had dampened the mood.
In honor of the weaver-Crone, the
evening's dances were circle dances where men and women clasped arms and wove
in and out to the music. Taking a break from the dancing, Carina wrapped her
shawl around her shoulders. It was a gift from Lisette and Eiria, a beautiful
piece from one of the village's best weavers. Alerted by Neirin, Carina had
returned a similar gift to each of her friends. The dress Carina wore was
Jonmarc's gift this night—finely woven linen with an intricate border done in
the style of the local artisans. The match between the shawl and the dress was
so perfect, Carina suspected that Lisette and Eiria had known of the gift in
advance. Jonmarc's cloak, set aside for the moment in the warm room, was
Carina's gift, a heavy coat of woven wool that was sturdy enough even for a
Principality winter.
As the bells tolled the eleventh hour,
Gabriel touched Carina on the shoulder. "It's time to make
your gift to the Lady," he said, and held out her cloak. Lisette appeared,
holding a deep crockery bowl filled with cream and honey. Jonmarc fell into
step beside her as they left the great room, with the rest of the merry-makers
behind them.
Outside the main doors of Dark Haven, bonfires
lit up the courtyard. In the center was an ancient oak. It towered above the
manor house, and its branches spread above much of the courtyard. Neirin had
schooled her on the proper way to present the gift of cream and honey to the
Weaver-Crone, but Carina still felt nervous as she approached the ancient tree.
The snow had been cleared from its base, and its roots buckled up beneath the
cobblestones of the courtyard.
At its base, Carina knelt, carefully
holding the bowl in front of her. "Lady of the loom, we offer our
gifts," Carina said. "Grant us favor." She gradually tipped the
bowl, watching steam rise from the warm cream as it poured onto the roots of
the old tree.
As the cream spilled out onto the tree
trunk and the cobblestones beneath, Carina felt energy crackle around her.
Welling up from beneath the ground, traveling like lightning along the deepest
roots, old power rose to envelop her. An image burned into her mind, of fire
and rending and a red orb torn free, leaving a gash like a bleeding wound.
There was an instant of agony, as if
a clawed
hand had reached into her body
and torn loose her heart. In her mind, Carina saw a vision of the ground
shaking, the west wing of Dark Haven collapsing in rubble, and panicked
mortals running in fear. The Flow reached out to her, and the image of healing
the ghost girl filled her mind. Pain, fear and desperation washed over her.
Then, darkness.
"What
happened?" Carina was still wearing her dress from the
night's festival and lying on her own bed. Jonmarc. sat beside her, holding her
hand. Lisette pressed a cool cloth to her forehead. Gabriel stood in the corner
opposite the fire, watching with concern.
Jonmarc shook his head, and Carina saw
worry in his dark eyes. "You tell us. One minute you were presenting the
offering to the tree. Then all of a sudden, you stiffened up and fell backward.
Your eyes were open, but they sure weren't seeing anything. We brought you up
here. It's been almost half a candle-mark."
Carina shut her eyes and swallowed,
groping for words. "When I poured the cream on the tree roots, I saw a
vision."
"The Crone?" Jonmarc asked with
concern.
Carina shook her head. "I don't know.
She recounted the vision at the foot of the tree. When she finished, Gabriel
and Jonmarc exchanged glances. "And you've felt something like that
before?" Gabriel asked.
Carina looked from Jonmarc to Gabriel.
"Yes. Earlier today. When the ghost came."
Lisette stepped forward. "She healed
the ghost girl, the one who died in the plague. I saw her."
Feeling foolish, Carina recounted what happened.
But this time, she added her impression that something had been watching her. Gabriel's
frown deepened.
"We assumed that healers saw no
reason to come to Dark Haven because vayash morn had no need of them. We
thought they were afraid. Perhaps there was another reason. Maybe they felt
something here they couldn't explain, something that made them uncomfortable."
Jonmarc looked down. "This is all my
fault. I never should have brought Carina here. It's too dangerous."
Gabriel shrugged. "There's no
changing it. There've been storms in the Dhasson Pass. Snow as deep as a man's
waist. No one's going to be traveling anywhere."
Carina took Jonmarc's hand. "I
wouldn't go if I could. This is my home now. Here. With you."
"I'm not going to let anything happen
to you."
Carina smiled. "Nothing's going to.
Whoever, whatever it is had the power to hurt me if it wanted to. It's more
like it wants me to know something, do something."
"Promise me you won't try anything
foolish," Jonmarc said. "I promise."
Gabriel laid a hand on Jonmarc's shoulder.
"We'd best return to the feast and let the guests know Carina is resting.
Mention how hard she's been working with all of the patients who have come to
see her. Perhaps that will keep too many stories from spreading."
Jonmarc leaned down to kiss Carina on the
forehead. "I'll be back to check in on you later. Now as you're so fond of
telling me, get some rest."
Carina smiled and leaned back against the
pillows. "You have the makings of a great healer."
The door closed behind Jonmarc and Gabriel
before Lisette spoke. "Here's something odd, m'lady." Lisette held a
book in her hands. The leather binding was cracked and broken and the pages
yellowed. "This book was open on the table when we came in, but it wasn't
there when we left. It's a record of the families of the Lords of Dark Haven.
Births, feast days, marriages, deaths. Look here," she said. Carina
followed Lisette's finger. The cramped handwriting was faded with time, but
she could make out the inscription.
"Raen, daughter of Lord Brentig, died
in the great plague on the twenty-first day of the Crone Moon," Carina
read. "Raen, is that the name of the ghost?"
"She was watching from the shadows
when Lord Jonmarc carried you up here. She didn't leave until you came around.
That name seems familiar." Lisette frowned and went to the bookshelves.
She returned with a thin leather-bound journal. "I picked this up a few
days ago—it had fallen on the floor. I thought it an accident at the time, but
now, I'm not so sure." The journal was filled with neat, feminine
handwriting. The name "Raen Brentig" was centered on the page, and a
date.
"That's about a year before the last
great plague struck."
Carina gently touched the page. "It's
almost as if she wants us to know her," she said. Lisette removed the
pillows from behind her so she could lie flat. "I seem to have made a
friend."
Carina pulled the covers up around
herself, handling the book carefully. "Has it always been the custom for
the noble daughters in Principality to read and write?"
"It was fairly common when I was
mortal," Lisette said. "I didn't know Raen, but she would have been
alive close to the time I was brought across. A large manor is as complicated
to run as any trade. A smart man wanted an educated wife to help keep the
accounts."
Carina found herself drawn into the
entries in the journal. Most were notes about the ups and downs of a young
woman's life, with comments about parties and invitations and young men who
caught Raen's eye. The lavender is blooming in the garden now. I'll have to
take some for a fresh sachet. The ball is only a fortnight away. Carina
turned the page. Another entry, dated just a few days after the first. Not
feeling well. Hope this passes by the ball. The rest of the pages were
blank. Carina set the journal aside, lost in thought.
"Lord Jonmarc was right, m'lady. You
must rest. Fear nothing. I'll watch until dawn."
Carina let herself sink into the mattress,
warmed by the down comforter, her mind still on the journal and its sudden end.
In the distance as she dreamed, she could hear Raen singing to her.
When Carina
awoke, the first light of dawn was streaming through her
windows. She lingered for a moment beneath the warm covers. Jonmarc had
already left for the day's tasks, and Lisette had gone to rest. Few of the mortal
servants were stirring. Dark Haven was quiet.
As Carina belted her healer's robe over
her dress, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Raen stood in the
shadows.
"Hello," Carina greeted the
ghost girl. "Thank you for your song last night."
Raen moved toward the windows. The fire
had warmed the room enough to fog the glass. As Carina watched, letters traced
themselves in the fog. "Come."
Carina looked at Raen, perplexed. "Come where? Why?"
Another word formed as an invisible finger
traced the letters. "Heal."
"You want me to heal someone? One of
the ghosts?" Carina shook her head. "I don't know if it will work—I'm
still not sure how I did what I did for you." More letters appeared.
"Hurt." "All right. Let me gather my things— although if it's a
ghost who needs my help, they won't be of much use."
Carina collected her pouches and opened
the door. The corridor was empty. Raen glided out of the room and into the
darkened hallway, visible as a green glow. Torches lit their way. Carina
followed Raen down the back staircase to the second landing. The ghost halted
at a door. "Those rooms haven't been restored," Carina said. "No
one lives there now."
Raen glided through the closed wooden
door. Carina reached for the nearest torch and took it down from the sconce on
the wall. No footprints except for the scrabbling of mice marked the
dust-covered floor. It was cold, and Carina shivered. "How far?"
Raen beckoned for her to follow. They
passed a row of long-abandoned bedrooms. The corridor smelled musty, as if
water had gotten in. At the end of the hallway a stairway descended into
darkness.
"This is the East wing, isn't
it?" Carina said, looking from the ghost to the dark stairs. "It's
dangerous down there—Jonmarc said that's where the walls collapsed when the orb
was stolen."
Raen reached out an insubstantial hand to
lead the way. Carina pulled back. "We should wait. I don't think this is a
good idea."
Raen moved back into the hallway, where a
thin shaft of light struggled through a dirty window. The dust on the floor
began to move. This time, the ghost drew a bare-limbed tree, and beneath it,
one word. "Understand."
Carina looked at Raen. "The power that touched me last night,
the presence that's making it hard for me to heal—that's what you want me to
understand?" Raen nodded.
Carina weighed her fear against the
frustration of her gradually waning power. "Can I reach the bottom
safely? You can go through solid rock, but I can't."
Raen moved toward the door. As they started
down the stairs, Raen's form began to glow, adding to the torchlight in the
lightless stairway. From the cramped turns and narrow tread, Carina guessed
that it was a servant's passageway. She grimaced as cobwebs brushed her face.
No one but the spirits had passed this way in many years. Carina counted the
steps as they descended, making note of the landings. They kept going, as the
stairway grew colder
and the air damp. Carina was quite sure they were
beneath the ground. Finally, they stopped in an antechamber. By the torchlight,
Carina could see that deep cracks ran through the stone walls. Through the next
archway, the darkness was broken by a silver glow. Carefully picking her way
through bits of fallen rock, Carina realized that the archway was the opening
to a natural cave.
Raen walked beside her as Carina crossed
through the archway. Inside the cave, large pieces of rock littered the
pathway. The walls glistened with crystals, and in the distance, Carina could
hear falling water. A doorway on the opposite side of the chamber had
collapsed. Coruscating light filled the cave, surrounding them with an
evanescent glow.
Once before, during an Eastmark winter,
Carina had glimpsed the Spirit Lights in the cold night sky. The ribbon of
colored light glistened yellow and green, painted in bold strokes across the
darkness. Like the Spirit Lights, the glow that filled the cave changed colors,
as if the air were filled with diamond dust. The walls shone as the light hit
crystals, reflecting in millions of tiny facets.
Carina could sense the power around her
like a thunderstorm overhead. This is the Flow.
The glow became brighter, its colors began
to shift. Gone were the tranquil shades of yellow and green. Deep pink and
fiery red came over the glow as if reflecting a vivid sunset. At the same time,
Carina felt power reaching out for her. New images filled her mind. She felt
the rending of the Flow as a shock to the heart, gasping for breath as pain
seared through her, seeing in her mind Arontala wresting the Orb from its
pedestal in a glare of blue mage fire. Images of dark magic pressed into her mind
as she saw Arontala and his mages bind the damaged Flow to work their blood
spells. Distantly, Carina could hear her own screams echoing from the rock
walls as she witnessed the abominations of blood magic that Arontala had
worked in the dungeons beneath Shekerishet.
The Flow shifted, and Carina glimpsed new
images. A walled keep set on a snow-covered plain, surrounded by an army. The
Flow swirled closer around her, and Carina could smell the stench of decaying
flesh and the fetid odor of plague. She fell to her knees, retching. The Flow
came no closer to her, but the images it sent burned brightly in her mind. She
could feel the tug of light and darkness pulling at the Flow, war magic,
powerful and dangerous. For an instant, she glimpsed Tris's face, and then the
image vanished.
The room glowed a deep blood red. Over her
head, the Flow lashed back and forth. Carina fell flat against the stone floor,
knowing instinctively to stay out of the way of the Flow's power. A hum like an
angry swarm of bees grew louder. The images in her mind were coming
in a jumble, too fast to recognize. Fear. Death. Vengeance. Whether the power
was sentient or not, Carina had no doubt that it was in great pain, weakened by
the taint of blood magic and stretched to the breaking point. It wants to be
whole. Goddess help me! I can feel its power. I won't survive if I touch that.
What can I do?
The Flow convulsed, and the cave
shuddered. Bits of rock clattered down around her. One final image, a vision of
what might be, filled her mind and Carina saw the Flow ripped asunder. She saw
raw power burn across the valleys of Dark Haven as the Flow shattered into wild
tendrils of magic. The magic leveled everything in its path in a blast brighter
than the sun. Caught up in the vision, Carina felt the light as searing pain.
She collapsed to the cave floor, too drained to move.
"Help me, Raen." There was no
reply.
Carina's head
throbbed. She felt completely drained, both of her
healing magic and the energy to move. The taste in her mouth reminded her that
she had been sick. Unbidden, the images she had seen in the Flow returned to
her, and she squeezed her eyes shut to make them go away.
"You're safe. It's all right."
She opened her eyes slowly. Jonmarc sat beside her, with her hand clasped in
his. Lisette and Gabriel came closer to where she lay. She glimpsed Raen
standing in the shadows with a frightened look on her face. Gradually, Carina
realized she was lying on a couch in Dark Haven's parlor. Her skin looked as if
she had spent the day outdoors in the heat of summer. Breathing almost seemed
too much effort.
"Whatever she encountered down there
may not have drawn blood, but it definitely drained her." Gabriel knelt
beside her and let his fingertips brush against her temples. "Vayash
moru can sense the barest spark of life. Normally, it glows
brightly." He looked up. "It's as if something fed from her, knowing
just when to pull back."
"What possessed you to go to the East
wing?" Jonmarc asked. "You know it's dangerous. If the ghost hadn't
come for us, we might not have found you."
"The Flow is coming apart,"
Carina murmured. "Raen thought she was helping. She knew the Flow was in
pain. It wants a healer."
"Mages have tried to heal the
Flow," Gabriel said, standing. "None of those who tried survived."
Carina looked up at Gabriel. "You
remember the Mage Wars?"
Gabriel nodded.
"What happened to the Blasted
Lands?"
Gabriel frowned. "The Obsidian King's
allies had a stronghold in the far north, on the rim of the Northern Sea above
Eastmark. They were powerful blood mages. During the final battle, as
the Sisterhood and Bava K'aa made their last strike against the Obsidian King,
we knew that his allies were preparing a counterstrike." He turned away
and began to pace. "I'm not a mage, but I've known powerful magic users.
They say that power flows like the underground rivers, deep beneath us. All
magic draws on that power. Blood magic weakens the energy.
"During the final battle of the Mage
War, the river of power that flowed through that place broke loose. I can't
tell you how it happened, only what I saw. There was a bright flare, and
a clap louder than thunder. The ground shook like it was going to open up and
swallow us. The building collapsed around me and I was buried in the rubble.
Some of the mages died instantly. Others went mad. Only the most powerful were
able to keep their wits to finish the battle.
"Later, we went to see what became of
the blood mages who were the allies of the Obsidian King. For a league around
their stronghold, everything was scorched and flattened. No plants, no trees,
only the burned carcasses of animals. There was a crater where the keep had
been. Wild magic still fills that place. It dried up the milk, made the crops
die, killed the children. People fled. It's been a wasteland ever since."
"So if the Flow comes apart, we don't
have a chance," Jonmarc finished.
"Raen's right. The Flow's very badly
damaged," Carina said. "I don't know how to fix it, but if we don't
come up with something, soon, it's not going to matter. Dark Haven won't be
here—and neither will we."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"You're
looking out of that window as if you're expecting to
see something," Cerise said gently.
"I keep thinking that if I look
southward, I'll be able to see Tris and his troops. The month Tris and I were
together was so beautiful, but now he's gone and I'm homesick, Cerise."
Kiara's hand fell to her belly. "And I'm tired of throwing up."
"Some things work the same for queens
and commoners alike, my dear. Babies are one of them. Wars are another. The
powders I gave you didn't help your stomach?"
"Not really. At least I won't be
tempted by all the foods at Winterstide. Nothing sounds good at the
moment."
"If it's any consolation, your mother
was worse. She was sick for such a long time, we feared she might starve. But
it passed."
"She nearly died when I was born. I
hope I have an easier time."
"The women on your father's side are
heartier in that respect. You'll be fine." Cerise took Kiara's hand and
led her to a seat by the fire.
"Winterstide begins tonight,"
Kiara said, swirling a bit of sugar into her tea. "I miss father terribly.
It's going to be so strange, celebrating without him."
"You were in Principality for
Winterstide last year. Things have improved a bit since then, haven't
they?"
"You mean that we're not in exile,
being hunted by assassins? Yes to the first part, but after what happened to
Malae, I'm not sure about the second." She shook her head and watched the
flames dance in the fireplace. "I've been schooled all my life to become
Mar-golan's queen, Cerise. I know how Winterstide's celebrated here. It's not
carrying out the rituals or navigating the court that scares me. It's just that
I had hoped, up until Tris left with the army, that there might have been a way
to avoid the war."
"You're not alone here, Kiara,
although we're far from Isencroft. Remember that. You've got Crevan and Mikhail
to handle the castle. Harrtuck's sworn to keep you safe. Alle and Lady Eadoin
are powerful friends. And the minstrels are your eyes and ears in the
court." Tris's brown wolfhound roused from its spot by the fire and came
to nuzzle Cerise's hand.
The mastiff and the gray wolfhound looked
up from where they were dozing near Jae on the warm hearth. "Oh, how could
I forget? You've also got Jae and the dogs!"
Kiara chuckled. "You're not about to
let me feel sorry for myself, are you?"
Cerise hugged her. "There's nothing
wrong with missing Isencroft. It's to be expected. But I've always heard that
the Margolan court kept the Winterstide feast in fine form, and I'm looking
forward to a front row seat!" She stood. "Speaking of which... Alle
went to get the seamstress to fit your dress for tonight, and Macaria should be
here any minute with your breakfast. There's a lot to do before the festival
gets underway."
By noon, the courtyard of Shekerishet had been transformed. Strips of brightly
colored cloth fluttered on the wind, tied securely in the bare branches of the
trees. More strips adorned the tails of kites that flew high against the gray
sky. The bits of colored cloth, each a prayer to the Lady or a request for
favor, were considered to be heard when they were lifted by the wind.
"Very auspicious, Your Majesty, this wind today," Crevan said. He
stood behind Kiara's chair on the balcony overlooking the early festivities in
the courtyard below. Just then, a cloud of white doves fluttered skyward,
released from their cotes by servants below.
"Please tell me that you've locked
the falcons up in the mews," Kiara said, watching the doves rise. On her
lap, Jae stirred with a look of hungry interest. Kiara gently tapped the
gyregon on his back and he settled into her skirt, accepting a small treat from
a bag near her chair.
Crevan smiled. "Of course, Your
Majesty. It wouldn't do for the Childe's doves to become dinner." Crevan
looked harried, Kiara thought. It was the first major holiday Crevan had
handled without Zachar's help. The abrupt transition had .gone hard on the nervous
little man.
The sound of bells mixed with laughter as
a crowd of children ran across the courtyard, some with kites and others with
bright streamers that waved as they danced. Belled anklets and wristlets
filled the cold air with music. The bells, sacred to the Childe, echoed in the
songs of the minstrels who played near a large bonfire in the center of the
courtyard. Chimes and bells of all sizes blended with the sound of flutes and
the lilt of a piper, instruments favored by the Mother aspect.
Alle leaned over beside Kiara. She was nestled
in a heavy fur cloak that nearly hid her long blonde hair. "I saw what the
bakers and the candy cook have done for the festival. Mounds of sweets shaped
like rose petals, and baskets of cookies in the shape of doves. If the children
eat half of what's been baked, they won't eat any of tonight's supper!"
"That would be a pity," Macaria
said. "While you were watching the baker, I
saw what's being readied for dinner. Roasted venison and a full boar, with
leeks and onions aplenty. And I'll warrant there'll be bread pudding with
currants and sweet cream with dates before it's all done."
Kiara smiled. "Keep it up and you may
even make me hungry. Carroway let it slip that there are some special
entertainers tonight. What do you know about that?"
Macaria grinned. "Me? Not a thing.
Unless, of course, the queen were to command me to tell..."
"Consider yourself commanded."
"Carroway brought dancers from
Isencroft before the snows fell. With the army gone, there's no jousting this
year, but he's got falconers to give an exhibition in Kait's honor. And of
course, after supper everyone exchanges presents."
"I watched Crevan and the servants
carrying in presents for you," Alle added. "There's quite a
stack."
"After what happened at the
wedding—do you think it's wise to open all those presents in public?"
Alle smiled. "Han-tuck assigned
guards to unwrap and open all of the presents. He even managed to get one of
the Sisters to be on hand, to make sure there was nothing magical. If there are
any traps, they'll spring them. Once you've seen the gifts, we'll put them out
for everyone else to look at. It's expected."
"I'm not used to quite such a
display—we did that a little more privately in Isencroft."
Macaria gave an unladylike snort.
"Are you joking? That's part of the holiday sport. Everyone wants to see
what everyone else gave the king and queen. Since you're with child, and it's
the festival of the Mother and Childe here in Margolan, you're sure to receive
all kinds of things for the baby—it's the heir, after all. Gift-giving is a
kind of competition for the nobility. And since the favored gifts for
Winterstide are amulets and talismans, the jewelers and silversmiths can be
assured that their shops will be busy when everyone crowds in asking for 'what
the queen got from Lord So-and-So.'"
"Carroway may have something to say
about it if we don't go inside soon," Macaria said with a glance toward
the courtyard. "Looks as if the minstrels have moved indoors. Which means
I'm probably due to perform. I'll see you at supper."
By evening, the ballroom at Shekerishet glittered. Prismed candleholders sent rays of
colored light across the dance floor. Banks of candles filled the air with the
scent of the gardens that were sacred to the Childe. Dancers clad in brilliant
silk costumes waved streamers high into the air, their belled wrists and ankles
adding to the music. Out in the
courtyard, candles in ornately decorated pierced-tin
lanterns traced out complicated glyphs and sigils in the snow, magical markings
that shifted and glowed. Prisms and chimes hung from every tree and doorway,
and bonfires lit up the night. Those who were not a part of the night's high
feast could eat their fill from the vendors in the courtyard who sold bread,
sausages, candied fruit and ale.
"Skrivven for your thoughts,"
Alle said, leaning toward Kiara.
Inside the castle's ballroom, musicians
kept the partygoers cheering with lively tunes. Macaria was playing, and Kiara
knew that the sudden chill in the air was not due to the cold outside. As
Macaria played her lute, the ghosts of Shekerishet drew closer, listening as
the girl's magic soothed them, swaying their mood and the emotions of the
partygoers. Across the room, Kiara could see Carroway watching Macaria with
unabashed admiration.
"He's completely smitten with her—and
she never seems to notice."
Alle chuckled. "She notices. And
she'd probably never let it show, since you're the queen and she knows how
close you are to Carroway. She's convinced herself she doesn't stand a chance
with him."
"But he's in love with her."
"Macaria isn't from a titled family.
She's earned her court position on the magic of her music. Carroway found her
playing in taverns
for her living and brought her to the
palace. So even though he's just a year or so older, he was her patron.
Carroway's the king's best friend, Margolan's master bard, and a hero of the
revolution."
"On the road last year, Carroway must
have written a dozen songs for her when we were at Westmarch."
"And you've decided to play
matchmaker?"
"How do you think Jonmarc and Carina
got together? Berry and I put a lot of nudging into that one." She gave
Alle a sideways glance. "Not that you and Soterius need any help;"
Alle laughed. "We'll see."
Macaria finished her song to thunderous
applause, and she bowed. She gave a curtsey in Kiara's direction, and then went
backstage with the rest of the minstrels. Kiara looked up to see Lady Eadoin
headed her way.
"Aunt Eadoin—I was beginning to think
you weren't coming," Alle said, rising.
Eadoin gave Alle a peck on the cheek and
curtsied to Kiara. "Your Majesty," she said. "You look well
tonight."
Kiara smiled as the elderly matron took a
seat. "Thank Cerise. She's gotten my stomach settled enough to keep down a
few bites, for show."
"Your gyregon will be grateful for
the remainder, I'm sure," Eadoin said, looking indulgently at Jae. Though
the others at court might regard the
small gyregon as a pet, tonight,
Jae played the role for which his breed had long been regarded by the kings of
East-mark. The guests might think that Kiara was indulging the creature by
giving him the first bites of her food, but Jae was her taste tester, able with
the gyregon's keen sense of smell to detect poison. So far, Jae had been
content to wolf down all the tidbits provided to him.
Around them, the tables were heaped with
the bounty of the feast. Platters of roasted venison, a whole boar, and spiced
meat pies offered food enough for all. Servants were at the ready to refill
goblets of dark mead and mulled wine, while others brought out the egg custards
and rich puddings that were customary on this night.
Kiara laid a hand on Alle's arm.
"Where are the vayash moru? I don't even see Mikhail."
"I'd heard that when the king left
for battle, many of the vayash moru felt it best to stay away. After all
that the Usurper did against their kind, they weren't sure of their welcome in
public without King Martris's presence."
"That's ridiculous. Mikhail knows
he's welcome here."
Eadoin leaned forward. "I'm sure he
knows, m'lady. Perhaps he and the other vayash moru don't wish to place
you in an awkward situation when you're so new to Margolan. Jared didn't
invent fear of the vayash moru—he just gave people permission to act on
what was already in their hearts. And, sad to say, for those who fear the
undead, King Martris's support for the vayash moru hasn't banished
those fears—it's just made it unpopular to voice them aloud."
"Then I'm doubly grateful to Mikhail
for staying on."
A blare of trumpets silenced all
conversation. "That's your cue," Eadoin said, with a glance toward
Kiara. Kiara smoothed her skirts, ready for her formal part in the program.
"Gracious guests, welcome to the
feast," Kiara said in a clear, strong voice. This was her first formal
role since the wedding,' and many in the audience strained for a better look at
their new queen. "This night, we praise the Mother and Childe for the
reign of King Martris, and we ask the Lady's blessing on the king in battle and
on Margolan's heir," she said, laying a hand on her belly for emphasis.
A murmur rippled through the crowd that grew
to rousing cheers in support of the king. Kiara waited until the clamor
subsided before she went on. "It's time to make an offering to the Mother
and Childe, so Margolan may prosper in the year to come."
Crevan appeared beside her bearing a
silver platter. On it was a ramekin of egg custard for an offering to the Lady,
along with a flask of port and a freshly baked loaf of bread. He walked beside
her as Kiara descended from the dais. The bells at her ankles and wrists chimed
as she moved. As they approached the two
large statues of Margolan's patron aspects, Kiara took the ramekin from the
platter and offered it to the statue of the Childe. "Honored Childe, bless
the people and the herds of Margolan. May our children and our flocks
increase."
She took the loaf of bread and the flask
of port and bowed to the statue of the Mother. "Wise Mother. Accept our
gift. Bring water enough for our fields and our people, and healthy
crops."
Formalities completed, the musicians
struck up a lively tune, and couples on the dance floor wove through round
after round of the most popular dances at court. Kiara was grateful that she
was not expected to join them. Much as she enjoyed dancing, she doubted she
could keep her dinner and swirl through the steps, even had it not been
unseemly to dance in the king's absence.
The revelries continued through the night.
As the bells in the bailey tower chimed the hour before dawn. Kiara, Eadoin,
and Alle led the guests toward the courtyard, where a parade of costumed
revelers and more mulled wine awaited. Two servants opened the huge great room
doors for the crowd to move into the grand foyer.
In the center of the floor lay a man's
body in a pool of blood, throat torn open, eyes staring. Behind Kiara, a woman
screamed.
The guards formed a tight circle around
Kiara. Tov Harrtuck pushed his way through the crowd, followed by more guards.
Crevan came running from the far side of the entranceway. "Your Majesty,
this isn't safe—" "Nowhere's safe," Kiara replied. "What
happened?" Behind them, the soldiers tried to dispel the crowd, but the
revelers surged forward, straining for a look at the body on the floor.
"They found a second body in the back
corridor," Harrtuck said. "It's got all the marks of a vayash
moru killing."
"That's not possible," Kiara
said. "There aren't any vayash moru here tonight."
"Except Mikhail," Crevan said.
"No one's seen him all night."
"That's impossible," Kiara said.
She heard the sound of boot steps drawing near in the corridor. Behind
Harrtuck, six soldiers marched in tight formation, and Kiara could see a
dark-haired figure in their midst.
"We found him in the exchequer's
office, Captain," one of the soldiers reported.
"Of course I was in the exchequer's
office." Mikhail said. "I've been there all night, working on the
accounts. Would someone tell me what's going on?"
Crevan stood slowly. "We've found two
dead men—throats torn out."
The soldiers shifted, and Kiara met
Mikhail's eyes. We both know he could
easily escape.
The soldiers are only mortal. But if he does,
it's admitting guilt. The truce will be broken, and there'll he reprisals. And
if he stays, after all the damage Jared did, will anyone believe him? "I haven't left the exchequer's office since the sixth bells. I
wouldn't do anything like this—I fought to save the truce between my kind and
mortals. Whoever did this is not of Lord Gabriel's family."
"It's going to be hard to prove
that," Harrtuck said. "As far as we know, you're the only vayash
moru in Shekerishet tonight."
Crevan stood staring at the body, shaking
his head. "We've barely gotten the castle staffed again. When word of this
gets out—"
"When word gets out, you'll have a
riot on your hands," Harrtuck said gruffly. "And a mob looking for
Mikhail."
Running footsteps sounded behind Kiara.
She turned to see another guard. "Captain Harrtuck! We've found another
body in the stable—same as the last one."
"I have no choice," Crevan said.
"A tribunal must be called."
A crowd had already begun to form at the
doorway. Gasps at the sight of the dead man's body gave way to murmuring.
"Give us the biter!" a man's voice shouted from the entranceway.
Other voices took up the cry. "Burn him!"
Kiara glanced at the sky through the open
doors of the entranceway. It was nearly dawn, and once the sun rose, Mikhail
would be vulnerable. And while one vayash moru was more than a match
for a single human adversary, a mob of hundreds was likely to overpower
Mikhail. If they dragged him into the courtyard after dawn, the winter sun
would be jury and executioner.
"There's another way." Kiara
stepped forward, pushing her way past the guards. She raised her voice to
shout above the crowd. "Hold Mikhail until King Martris returns. Then let
the king call the spirits of the murdered men. Let the victims bear witness.
You've seen the Court of Spirits. You know the king can do this. There's no
need to rush to judgment."
"Let the king judge!" A voice
shouted from the crowd. Kiara recognized Halik's voice. "Give him to King
Martris to judge!" another woman shouted, and Kiara was certain it was
Macaria. A moment later, Kiara heard a flute playing in the courtyard. The tune
was soothing, and Kiara sensed the music was touched with Macaria's magic,
trying to sway the crowd from vengeance.
"When word of this gets out, I may
not be able to hold off the mob," Crevan said behind her.
"Leave that to me." Harrtuck
stepped forward. "Mikhail helped put Tris Drayke back on the throne. I
won't abandon him to a mob." "How will you hold him—and keep the mob
out?"
"If I'd wanted to escape, I'd be gone
by now," Mikhail noted dryly from among his captors.
"My men will take care of any mob. As
for holding him..."
"There's a cell in the dungeon built
to hold vayash moru," Mikhail said. "Three walls of solid
rock, and a door of iron a hand's breadth thick, with its pins sunk into the
rock. No windows. A small opening to the corridor for food. It can't be
breeched."
"And you would consent to be held
there, until the king returns?" Crevan asked.
"I would rather trust my chances with
the king than with a tribunal. I'll wait." Mikhail made a low bow to
Kiara. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
Kiara swung between hopelessness and rage
as the soldiers took Mikhail away. Alle laid a hand on her arm. A crowd
gathered around the castle entrance, and voices thick with ale shouted for
judgment. Soldiers broke up the rowdy festival-goers, sending the brawlers on
their way.
"Come, m'lady. You've done all that
you can."
Kiara let Alle guide her up the stairs to
her quarters. They had barely arrived before there was a knock and Macaria's
voice sounded through the door. "My Queen?"
"Come in."
Macaria let herself into the room.
"We saw what happened. Carroway sent us out to the courtyard, to see what
we could do to sway the crowd." She grimaced. "We were only partly
successful."
Kiara began to pace. Alle made cups of tea
for all of them, and Cerise padded to the door, still dressed in her
nightshift. She joined them, listening with an expression of growing horror as
Alle told about the murders in the castle. "I know Mikhail didn't do
it," Kiara said.
"Carroway said to tell you that he'd
check in on Mikhail," Macaria said. "Damn, I wish this tea were
brandy after, the way this night's gone!"
"I wish Zachar were here." Kiara
shivered despite the warmth of the fire. "Crevan's completely
overwhelmed. He's only been here since they restaffed the castle. Tris said
Crevan waited out the war in Isencroft and came back when it was safe again.
Zachar would know what to do."
"Why don't get your mind off
it?" Alle suggested. "There's nothing more to be done tonight.
Look—the guards left the gifts for you. Let's have a look. Even if you're not
curious, I am!"
"All right. Come on then."
Macaria and Cerise joined Kiara and Alle as they walked over to the table laden
with gifts. True to Alle's prediction, many of the gifts were charms and
amulets in an impressive variety of ornate and very expensive settings. Kiara
looked at all of the jewelry without touching any of the pieces.
Her hand closed over the talisman at her
throat made of Margolan gold, set with two large pearls, one white and
one black, in honor of the Lady's dual faces. It was a gift from Tris, left for
her to open this morning, and Kiara fingered it, wishing that she could sense
in it a trace of his presence. The amulet remained tucked inside her pillow, to
keep at bay the shadows that still haunted her dreams.
"I know you had one of the Sisterhood
here when the gifts were opened, but I'm not touching or wearing anything
until Tris gets back," Kiara said. "I've had all I want of magicked
items!"
Other sumptuous items covered the table.
Garments and baby blankets, woven from soft wool spun as fine as silk. Silver
and ivory rattles and teething rings. Pairs of tiny earrings, in styles
suitable for either a boy or a girl child. A coverlet of satin with an
exquisite embroidered crest. Kiara shifted the coverlet for a better view of
the small box beneath it. Inside was a folded garment and a small vial of oil.
An unusual, sharp scent rose from the vial.
Alle caught her hand. "Don't touch
it. Who would dare to give this awful thing!"
Macaria glanced at the box and paled.
"Sweet Mother and Childe," she murmured, making the sign of the Lady.
She dug through the gifts. "I can't find a note."
"What is it?" Cerise asked.
"Funeral oil," Alle said.
"The fabric is a shroud," Alle whispered. "For a baby."
Kiara felt her blood run cold. "Why?
Why would anyone want to do that?"
"Someone intended to send a message
with that gift." Beneath the anger in Alle's voice, Kiara could hear
steel. "Your baby's going to reshape the future of the Winter Kingdoms.
Every noble stands to gain or lose. Figure out who sent that, how it got into
the palace, and we might also find Malae's killer."
"We're not going to say anything
about this," Kiara said. "Whoever gave the gift is'out there,
watching. He wants to see how I'll react." I never ran from battle, and
I won't run from this. But Sweet Chenne! It won't be long before I can't fight
to protect myself—or my baby. What then?
A knock at the door startled them. Cerise
withdrew to her room, and Alle carefully went to open the door. To their
surprise, Carroway stood in the doorway. "M'lady, urgent news." Kiara
waved him in. Carroway's hair was windblown, and he looked haggard. "Paiva just found me. She came from the
tavern in the village. There's an uprising in the borderlands. Jared burned
their fields and now the corn Tris sent is gone. The people are hungry and
they're waylaying supply wagons." Kiara closed her eyes. "What
now?" Carroway looked as upset as Kiara had ever seen him. "I
overheard Crevan and Harrtuck—
half the castle overheard them, the way
Harrtuck was shouting. Crevan's ordering Harrtuck to take a battalion out to
the Borderlands to put down the uprising. Harrtuck believes Tris told him to
stay here to guard you. Crevan threatened to charge Harrtuck with
insubordination, replace him as captain of the guards."
"Which means that Harrtuck will be a
week's ride away from here—for who knows how long," Macaria finished.
"Nowhere close to Kiara."
"And someone else will be guarding
Mikhail," Carroway said. His long fingers drummed against his arm and his
whole body was tight with anger.
Kiara sank into a chair. "Who knows
how long the siege will last? It'll be months before we can prove Mikhail is
innocent."
"Harrtuck could spend months chasing
troublemakers across the Borderlands," Carroway replied. "Loyalty
only lasts as long as the food holds out."
Alle glanced from Kiara to the others.
"Nothing's going to be decided in the next few hours. We've been up all night.
Let's get some sleep. Macaria and I can stay with Kiara." She glanced at
Carroway. "If you hear anything else from the court gossip, let us
know."
Carroway nodded and headed for the door.
"I'm sorry, Kiara. I'm not doing a very good job of keeping my promise to
Tris."
Kiara managed a tired smile. "I don't
think Tris ever expected what happened tonight. He'll be glad if we're all
alive when he gets back."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When darkness
fell, Tris gathered the , mages in his tent. Soterius stood quietly
by the door, both participant and sentinel. Coalan busied himself tending to
their guests, and then attempted to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
"We've already started to work,"
Fallon continued. "Latt has attracted all the fleas, bedbugs, and rats
she could find and concentrated them in the walled city. That should make them
uncomfortable."
"Their water source is magically
protected," Latt added. "So fouling their water isn't possible.
We've placed protections of our own around the nearest fresh spring, and I'm
working with Vira to cleanse a closer spring that Curane's people tainted with
animal carcasses." She made an expression of distaste. "It's slow
work."
"I'm sending random gusts of very
high winds against the fortifications," said Ana with a sly smile.
"Gusts strong enough to blow a man off his feet. There's no way to know
when they'll strike, and I've seen a couple of their soldiers tumble off the
walls. So far, their mages haven't caught on—we'll see how long it takes
them."
"If you wish, I'll scry for
you," Beyral said. "And cast runes to see the portents."
"Go ahead."
Coalan ran to fetch a basin and fill it
with water. When the water stilled, Beryal closed her eyes and stretched out
her right hand, holding her fingers spread just above the water's surface.
Tris could sense the power, but could not read the images.
As Beyral watched the water tremble, her
expression darkened. "The siege won't be short. Much blood. Darkness. So
many dead." The water moved again, and Beyral gasped. "Danger within
the gates." The trance broke and Beyral looked up, her eyes wide.
"Let me cast runes. Sometimes, the images clear when the runes
speak."
From a pouch at her belt, Beyral withdrew
a handful of polished bone and ivory. The pieces were rectangular, about the
size of a finger, smoothed with time and wear. Carved into each piece was a
rune that blurred and vibrated with a magic of its own. Beyral placed the
runes in her cupped palm, handling them with
great care. She closed her hands over them,
and lifted them to her mouth. Four times she murmured an invocation and
breathed on her clasped hands. And then, with a final plea to the Lady, she
opened her hands above the table and let the runes fall.
Five of the eight pieces landed with the
rune showing. Beyral looked carefully at the placement of the carved bits,
murmuring to herself as she moved around the table. Finally, she straightened.
"The runes speak. Only bone shows its
rune—the ivory is silent," she said, motioning toward the face-down
pieces. "A portent of danger. The speaking pieces lie at cross quarters—the
dark faces of the Lady. Tisel, the first rune, is betrayal. Athira the
Whore is its Aspect. Conflicting allegiances. Old vows broken. Katen, the
second rune, is the rune of life. It speaks for the Dark Lady. This matter will
be settled in places between life and death, where spirits and darkness dwell. Katen
governs succession. The rune landed sideways—even it can't see what lies
ahead.
"Aneh, the
third rune, speaks for the Formless One. Chaos will govern. Zyhm is the
fourth rune—intertwined destiny. It speaks for the Crone. It lies facing Aneh.
The two powers war with each other. Zyhm weaves together; Aneb tears
apart. Destinies are joined—and sundered. But whose, it doesn't say."
Beyral looked up. "I'm sorry. The
omens are dark and the reading is unclear. I don't have any more to
offer." "Thank you." Tris said. "I'll place sigils around
the camp," Beyral said. "They'll
warn me if the boundary is breeched, although they won't
stop an attack." "I've placed wardings over our food stores,"
Latt said. "I can't hold a large
warding for long, but I can hold smaller ones for quite some time."
"And I've changed the winds above our
camp," Ana added. "The vayasb moru may find it more
challenging to fly, but Curane's mages will also have difficulty magicking
their arrows to carry further. Above our heads, where we can't feel it, the
winds shift south. Anything sent on the air—arrows or pestilence—will blow
over us and slip downstream."
"Can you tell how Lochlanimar is
defended?" Soterius asked.
Fallon nodded. "Curane's mages have
strong spells defending the main gates to the holding. Powerful, dark magic.
Don't expect Curane to play fair." "We weren't."
"There's one more thing," Eallon
said. "What Beyral read in the runes about succession—that can mean your
heir, but it can also be read more broadly. There are moments in time from
which all other moments turn.
Powerful forces are in motion. It may be
that more than the fate of Margolan's throne depends on what happens here. We
believe we're at a threshold. Once crossed, the Winter Kingdoms will not be as
they were."
"Thank you." Tris managed a wry
smile. "Knowing doesn't always make you feel better, does it?"
Fallon and the other mages bowed deeply
and left. But before Soterius could comment on their information, the
temperature within the tent plummeted, even colder than the winter air
outside. Tris could
feel the stir
of spirits. He closed his eyes, opening himself to the Plains of Spirit.
He felt no threat from these ghosts, and had a clear sense that they were
responding to his summons. Warily, he beckoned them to come closer and lent
them power to make themselves visible. When Tris opened his eyes, the ghosts of
four men stood before him. One of the ghosts was a man who looked to be late in
his fifth decade, with thin, graying hair and a short-cropped, gray beard. He
was broad shouldered with the hands of a workman, and
his eyes were
troubled. "M'lord Summoner. We heard your call, and we obey."
Tris could not feel any falseness, but,
mindful of the rune's warning, he remained guarded. "Thank you. I called
you because my quarrel is with Curane and his mages, not with the people of
Lochlanimar."
The bearded ghost looked to his comrades;
it was clear he was their spokesman. "Lord Curane is a hard master,
m'lord. He started rationing food and water a month ago, when he knew the army
would camp against him. The people are hungry. Strange sicknesses have taken
parts of the city—no one dares say it, but many think the mages are behind the
ill humours. In some quarters, so many people have died that the houses stand
empty. When someone takes sick, the Black Robes come. They take the person
away. None have returned."
The bearded ghost shook his head.
"I'm Tabok. I served Lord Curane's father, and his father's father. They
were men who made mistakes, but they had honor. For two generations I've
watched over my family. I fear for them, m'lord."
"What of Curane's granddaughter—and
her baby?" Soterius asked.
Tabok frowned. "No one's seen them.
They're prisoners in the keep. Sometimes, I can hear the babe crying. They're
guarded heavily—by men and magic. Even spirits can't cross some of the
wardings."
Tris and Soterius exchanged glances.
"Well, that confirms the rumors."
"We came to offer our services,"
Tabok said. "We're men of honor. When Lord Curane imprisoned his own people,
we believe our vows to be broken. We want to free our families, m'lord. We are
willing to be your eyes and ears within Lochlanimar where the magic doesn't
keep us from going."
"I'm grateful," Tris replied.
"I have no desire to wage war on my own people. Give us Curane and his
mages and we'll end the siege."
"What of the girl and her
child?" Tabok asked.
"From what we know, the girl was
given to Jared when she was still too young to wed. I've laid to rest enough
ghosts of his 'partners' to know her fate with him. The baby will be a rallying
point to threaten my own sons. I don't have many options."
The ghost's question tugged at him. It was
a decision that had never completely left his mind. What of the girl and the
child? He thought. She was sold like a whore for jared's pleasure.
Beaten and raped and cast aside. Curane's used her like a brood mare to sire a
child to claim his fortune. They're victims in this. Let them live, even in
exile, and the child becomes a rival. Law and tradition ivould hold me
blameless to have them killed. Is there another way? Some way to keep from
finishing Jared's murders for him without endangering my own sons?
Tabok's ghost nodded. "A hard
decision. We'll watch for you, and report. Mohr can't make himself seen, but he
has the power to move things—and he enjoys playing tricks." At his words,
a thin man in the rear of the group grinned. "The last few days, Curane's
soldiers have been busy. They've got something planned. Curane's mad enough to
make a first strike. You may not have much time to get your camp ready.
"M'lord, something else you should
know," Tabok added. "The castle's set with many spells. There are
some areas—like the keep where his granddaughter is held—spelled so that we
can't enter. I've seen Curane's blood mages create asbtenerath from our
own dead, and charms to ward away the vayash moru. He knows you're a
Summoner—that's why he wears a null magic charm. He's afraid the spirits will
rise up to follow you. Over the past months, his blood mages have desecrated
our cemeteries, dug up bodies, and mutilated fresh corpses to sever their
spirits from this place. There should be hundreds of newly dead spirits who
have no love for Curane. Instead, only the old ghosts remain."
"No wonder the Flow is so
unsteady," Tris said, imagining the damage so much blood magic would
cause.
"Lochlanimar's an old city. Very old.
Built before Margolan had a king, they say. There are other cities beneath it,
or what's left of them. There are hallways full of bones under the city. There
may be ghosts in those forgotten places untouched by Curane's blood magic. And
something else. Long ago, there was a passage dug from Lochlanimar into the
caves in the mountains," he said with a nod toward the foothills. "I
haven't known them to be used in over a hundred years. If the passages haven't
been closed up, your men might get in there. But beware. They've been spelled
against us, and against vayash moru."
"Can you draw us a map?" Tris
asked.
Tabok nodded. Tris beckoned to Coalan, who
brought parchment and paper and did as the ghost bid. When the map was
finished, the ghost looked up at Tris. "M'lord. I must ask one thing. If
there be any survivors when the siege is over, what are your intentions?"
"Curane, his soldiers and his mages
will have to stand trial for treason. Those guilty will hang. I'll do
everything in my power to give safe passage to your families. My quarrel is
with Curane. If Curane won't surrender, we'll have no choice but to destroy the
entire walled town."
"We understand. Thank you." The
ghosts bowed in fealty. And then, as quickly as they came, the spirits faded
from view.
"Now what?"
Soterius shrugged. "We wait, just the
way we planned. I've got the army split into two groups. Half of the
soldiers—plus the vayash moru, the mages and whatever ghosts you can
rouse—will be in fighting position come sundown. We'll make a first strike,
try to take him by surprise. If he's planning the same, this could get
interesting, but we wTon't be caught unprepared.
"The rest of the soldiers—and the vayash
moru, when the fighting's done—will be working double shifts to get the
battering ram and the trebuchets ready and in place. In the meantime, I'll
send scouts to see if there are any weak points we've overlooked. There's no
way around spending Winterstide in the field, but perhaps we'll be home by
spring."
Tris accepted the glass of brandy Coalan
pressed into his hand. "I spent my last birthday in exile. We're home
again now, but not really 'home.'" He sipped the. brandy. "Beyral's
runes weren't much comfort. I know Kiara's 'well-protected, but I'm afraid for
her. The sooner we're back at Shekerishet, the happier I'll be."
Soterius took his glass of brandy and
raised it. "To your birthday—and to a quick end to the siege."
Tris raised his glass. "To
home."
At sundown, Tris reined in his horse and looked out over the plains toward Lochlani-mar.
Behind him on a platform high enough for
them to see the entire battlefield, the mages waited.
Now. Tris
sent the word to the mages as Soterius gave the signal to the vayash moru. Dark
shapes, nearly obscured by the shadows that blackened the moon, streaked toward
Lochlanimar. Tris lent his power to aid the mages. All
the months of countering the remnants of Arontala's blood magic within
Shekerishet had given him more knowledge than he'd ever wanted about breaking
dark spells. Now, combining their magic, Tris and the mages sent a blast of
power against the walled keep as Tris chanted the working to dispel Curane's
wardings.
He raised his hands, eyes closed,
completely intent on his target. He could feel the power of Fallon and her
mages joining with his, feel the blood magic rising from the keep to fight
them. He smiled as he recognized the dark magic charm. Arontala had used
something similar. But neither Arontala nor Curane expected the diaries of the
Obsidian King to have fallen into Tris's hands. In those forbidden tomes, he
had uncovered the dark mages' weaknesses.
"We're in."
"Go!" Soterius and Palinn
gathered their mortal troops, moving out silently across the snow-covered
plain, clad in black. Tris focused his whole attention on the working, speaking
the words of power. The blood magic fought him, but as he chanted the counter
spells, one by one, he felt Curane's protections snap. First to fall were the
wardings against the vayash moru.
Fallon and her mages drew on the Flow to
send a powerful fear spell toward the keep. It would have no affect on the vayash
moru, nor Tris's own troops. But those within Lochlanimar would, until
his mages could
counter, believe that their darkest nightmares had come true. When he
had done all he could to counter the blood magic, Tris shifted to the Plains
of Spirit. He stretched out his power along the gray pathways. The necropolis
beneath Lochlanimar was very old. Many of the spirits would have long ago gone
to their rest, Tris knew. But from among the long dead bones, Tris felt
something stir in response to his summons.
Gray shapes assembled before him on the
Plains of Spirit. More than two hundred ghosts, clad in the armor of a bygone
century, rose to his call.
"Do you know what Curane has
done?"
"We know."
"Will you fight him?"
"Aye."
The spirits stirred from their long rest
and began to move like a gray storm up from their tomb. Tris felt their anger
grow. Curane has betrayed us. He's brought blood magic against us. Disloyal.
Disloyal. Remaining linked to the ghosts was dangerous. Tris did not need
to be reminded of what had happened in the Ruune Vidaya. But the opportunity to
guide their strike, see through their eyes, was too powerful to pass up,
regardless of the danger. And so Tris let himself be carried along with the
ghost horde, struggling to keep their growing desire for vengeance from
overwhelming his ward-ings.
These raiders needed no command to spare
civilians. Their anger burned on account of those innocents trapped within
Curane's walls, their own descendents. The ghost horde burst from the entrance
to the necropolis, sending a dozen soldiers fleeing in terror. Inside the keep,
Tris could hear the wailing of the ghost horde as it swept around soldiers,
turning its anger on the terrified guards. Tris opened himself up to the raw
power of his gift, hanging on to the control he had lacked in the Ruune Vidaya,
refusing to allow the ghosts to control him. He saw their bloody vengeance as
their spectral maws turned on the soldiers, spattering the narrow alleyways
with blood. I can hang on to control, but what of sanity? Tris thought
as the ghost horde sought its next targets, falling upon a regiment just
rousing in the guardhouse.
Soterius's soldiers neared bow range. All
at once, the men fired hundreds of flaming arrows toward the walls. A second
line of archers sent more arrows streaking through the cold night air, and
within the walled city, Tris could see firelight flare.
All at once, a wall of darkness rose from
Lochlanimar, black enough to obscure the stars. Tris felt it sweep toward him
like a flood of ice cold water. The blood mages have gathered their wits
enough to respond.
Tris pulled back from among the ghost
horde, even as he felt the blood magic slam against the spectral troops,
stopping their advance. Streaking back along the Plains of Spirit, Tris fought
his growing fatigue to refo-cus his power against the blood mages. Dimly, he
was aware of Fallon and the Sisters doing the same. Just as they massed their
power for another strike, Tris felt as if the universe turned inside out.
All the magic in the world seemed to
shatter. The Flow contorted around him, folding in on itself, wresting free of
his grip. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't see. He doubted that his
heart was beating. In the total darkness, he could hear the screams of the
mages—his own and Curane's—as the Flow ripped free of its bonds. Wild magic
coursed through him like fire running through his veins. The ground around him
was shaking, and the soldiers cried out in fear. Tris tried once more to reach
for his power and was thrown, knocked hard from his mount to land on his back
as if pushed by a giant hand.
Soldiers ran for him, pulling him to his
feet. The pain in his head was blinding; he doubted he could stand without
help. He searched the panicked crowd for Fallon and the mages. In the
torchlight, he made out Fallon's silhouette, but nothing more. Struggling to
remain conscious, Tris reluctantly allowed the soldiers to help him to a seat.
Around him, the soldiers on the construction detail scrambled into ranks to
defend the camp.
"Retreat!" Soterius's
voice cut across
the cold night, echoed a moment later by Palinn. "Your Majesty. We
need to get you to safe-
ty-"
"There is no safety," Tris
managed. It hurt to speak aloud. "Bring General Soterius and Sister
Fallon to me." He leaned back against a wooden post. A year ago, that
would have killed me. I'm alive. I'm conscious. I think I'm sane. Damn it
hurts.
There was no magic, no magic at all. As if the world were dosed in wormroot, magic
seemed pushed beyond his ability to sense it, let alone channel it. For a
heartbeat, it seemed as if the universe held its breath. And then with the rush
of a killer storm, a wave of magic engulfed him, crushing him beneath it. The
Flow swept him away, overwhelming him with its power, and putting out the
stars.
Tris awoke in his own tent. It hurt to
open his eyes. Here we go again. I thought I was past this. But that was no
human mage. That was the Flow itself. Goddess, how do we handle that?
"Tris, can you hear me?"
Soterius's voice was close beside him.
Tris moved his right hand in reply. Even
that effort took energy.
"All our mages are down. So are
theirs, but they must have recovered faster, because the blood magic
charms are back in place. We didn't lose any men or vayasb moru. I
don't know what you did inside there, and I don't want to. I could hear them
screaming. What happened?"
"Wish I could take credit for it, but
I can't. The Flow snapped. Their mages recovered faster because when the Flow's
out of balance, it favors blood magic."
"Wonderful."
"Did the attack succeed?" He
managed to open his eyes and keep them open, despite the blinding reaction
headache.
"Better than we hoped. We sent two
dozen vayasb moru in, and they made about ten kills each. Took out one
whole guard unit, by the looks of it. They weren't affected by the dark
sending, but whatever Fallon cooked up must have worked, because the vayasb
moru said it had the place in an uproar. And I guess you got through to the
ghosts. Even the vayasb moru didn't want to tangle with them. Can't tell
how much damage the archers did, but the vayasb moru reported fires just
on the other side of the walls. All told, we took out several hundred of their
men, burned part of their town, and set them into a panic without any
casualties of our own."
"Not too bad."
"That depends. Are you alive or
dead?"
"I'll have to let you know."
TWO days
later, Tris rode next to Soterius and Tarq as the Margolan army prepared
to lay siege to the walled manor. Men with a heavy wheeled battering ram massed
on the plains in front of the holding. The battering ram, beneath a shelter of
wood and hammered tin, would survive anything but a direct hit. Down the line,
Tris could see his other generals, Palinn, Senne and Rallan, readying their
troops to attack. To rally his own troops and strike fear into the besieged,
Tris ordered the war drums and pipers to play their loudest. The huge drums,
large enough to require two men to hold them, boomed out a rapid beat as the
pipers played a rousing tune.
"I don't like this. They're just
waiting for us to move." Tris's cloak whipped around him as the winter
winds sliced across the land. He looked out over the army, just a fraction of
the troops Bricen once commanded. Thousands of men stood ready in ranks for the
attack. Archers had their bows in hand to give cover to the men who would storm
the walls. Pike-men stood behind the archers, ready should Curane's forces
attack. Well behind the lines, the mages stood on an elevated platform where
they had a view of the entire plain. Tris could feel their protections, just as
he could sense the distant tinge of blood magic as Curane's mages readied for
the defense.
"A siege is something like a
dance," Tarq replied. "Scripted by necessity. We attack. They defend.
Not much happens until we breech the walls. Then it gets ugly."
"I'm expecting Curane to have all
kinds of nasty surprises ready for us," Soterius said, never taking his
eyes off the front lines.
"I'll see you at battle's end.
Goddess go with you," Tarq said, galloping toward his troops.
"Ready?"
"Do it."
A roar rose up from the soldiers as the
first wave of men swept forward, shoulder to shoulder. Curane's walled holding
was surrounded by a fetid moat. Its main gate was defended by a heavy
portcullis backed by solid iron" doors. Even at a distance, Tris could see
archers at the crenellations, waiting to fire. Heavily armored men pushed the
battering ram toward the main gate. A hail of flaming arrows rose from the archers,
only to be snuffed out and blown aside by a mighty gust of wind, a gift from
the mages. With the wind at their backs, the soldiers moved the heavy war
machines more quickly. On both flanks, trebuchets launched heavy stones and
iron balls into the walls and over the crenellations. The trebuchets forced
Curane's forces to split their attention, giving the troops at the gate cover.
Tris could feel the hum of magic as some of the projectiles stopped as if
hitting an invisible wall, or were flung back toward his troops, only to meet a magical
barrier of their own. He counted the snap of the trebuchets, and waited for the
impact. One out of three of the huge boulders hit its mark, slamming against
the fortifications with a thunderous bang. A third of the boulders were
repelled, crashing with a force that shook the ground beneath their feet, forcing
soldiers to break ranks and flee. The rest were flung away harmlessly by one
side or the other, sending the great stones to land where they did the least
damage to men or masonry.
Our mages are well matched. But it's more
than that. The magic isn't working right for either side. If it were, we'd he
hitting the target more often, and they'd be pounding us harder. The Flow is
weakening. What if it fails altogether?
Magic tingled in his mind, and Tns recognized
the taint of blood power. His mages worked in shifts, attempting to maintain
their protections as long as possible. Tris commanded a battalion of archers,
adding his magic to their protection as they moved forward behind the siege
machines. A fierce wind arose from nowhere, raising a blinding wall of snow.
Tris stretched out with his mage sense. He heard the thud of the defender's
trebuchets, and let instinct guide his magic to deflect a boulder that hit the
ground to the side of his battalion. The wind died just as suddenly as it came.
Tris could feel the battle in the currents
of magic around him, and he could also feel the Flow's dangerous fluctuations,
surging and waning. Twice, his own power flared. As quickly as the magic rose,
it fell to nothing.
The battering ram was nearly at the gates.
Made from a huge tree trunk, the battering ram was reinforced with iron and had
a heavy iron tip. It was suspended from an armored frame that allowed it to
swing forward and back, adding momentum to its sizeable force. Unseen overhead,
the currents of magic struggled against each other. Tris lent what power he
could spare, keeping his attention focused on his archers as they pressed
forward. A flaming arrow sizzled toward him, and Tris barely had time to snuff
out its flame and cast it aside. It was impossible for either set of mages to
keep a full defensive shield over such a large army, and Tris could tell by
their success that Curane's mages were stretched just as thin.
A cry rose up from the soldiers as the
battering ram reached its strike position. Tris felt the magic shift, as his
mages sent their protection over the soldiers at the wall. From behind the
crenellations, Curane's fighters poured down cauldrons of boiling water and
oil. It flowed harmlessly over the protective tin covering of the battering
ram. Soldiers scrambled out of the way, shielded from the worst of the attack
by Tris's magic.
Now.
Tris heard the word in his mind, although
he was certain it did not come from his
own mages. As the battering ram pounded iron on iron against the heavy
portcullis, Tris heard the scrape of metal and saw gates open along the base of
the massive stone walls. At the same time, a wave of blood magic surged around
them, and the stinking waters of the moat began to boil.
Ashtenerath poured
from the gates at the base of the walls. Eyes wild with rage, swinging their
war axes and heavy broadswords with the ferocity of madness, the ashtenerath
surged forward.
"Go!"
The archers dropped back and two lines of
fighters surged past them armed with war axes. In daylight, the vayash moru could
not help repel the ashtenerath. But, warned by Tabok, Tris had expected
the attack. The foot soldiers swung their axes with deadly accuracy, or hurled
them through the air with solid aim. Quickly, the archers reloaded with flaming
arrows. Tris lobbed fireball after fireball toward the ashteneratb, incinerating
them as they charged.
"By the Whore'—what is that?"
The moat was sloshing and splashing, sending its cold, foul water spraying.
From the depths of the black waters, corpses began to lurch up on the banks.
Eyeless, bloated bodies jerked forward, like marionettes with an unskilled
master. The corpses moved slower than the ashtenerath, without the
driving rage.
Soldiers scrambled to get out of their
way, trapped between the corpses and the ashten-erath.
"Hold your ground!" Tris
shouted, rallying his men. He stretched out along the Plains of Spirit. Not
bodies with souls forced back into dead flesh. Just puppets, to terrify.
Already, the soldiers nearest the gate had
gathered their wits and were striking down the lurching corpses. The smell
carried on the cold winter air, rotted meat and filthy river sludge. The
corpses, sodden from their watery resting place, fell apart with the force of a
sword strike, collapsing in stinking heaps as the soldiers held their
positions. Through it all, the steady thump of the battering ram shook the
battlements.
Tris felt the magic rising, and threw all
of his power to shield his men. Images formed in his mind, dimmed by his
shielding but not completely pushed from view. He saw his army, decimated.
Bodies littered the plain, food for the scavengers and carrion birds that
plucked their sightless eyes and ate from their corpses. In the sending, he saw
the survivors ridden down and murdered, some by fire, others by the sword, the
rest twisting from nooses. The sending grew stronger, and Tris saw Curane's
forces and the Trevath army sweep across Margolan to take Shekerishet by force.
He saw soldiers storm the castle and search its rooms for Kiara, saw torchlight
glint from the knife as
it rose above her, plunging into her
swollen belly, killing her and the child she carried.
"Stand firm! Don't break ranks!"
Tris heard Soterius and Tarq shouting around him. Tris clung to the pommel of
his saddle, reeling from the assault on his mind as he struggled to absorb the
brunt of the dark sending.
With a shout of anger, Tris marshaled all
his power and sent a blast of magic back toward the source. Around him, he
heard men crying out in terror and pain as the sending showed them their
greatest fears come true. Although the other mages could not join him on the
Plains of Spirit, Tris could sense their magic joining with his, a concentrated
blast toward the void where the darkness was deepest.
The magic struck its target. Tris felt the
blast of power burn as it reached the origin of the dark sending. Just as
quickly, all magic disappeared, and then blinked back into place with a recoil
as if he'd taken a sword-strike to the helm. Tris struggled for control against
the staggering reaction headache. The magic rose and fell like a storm-tossed
sea. The power inside his mind buckled and folded in on itself. He was falling,
and the world opened its maw to swallow him whole. He landed with a thud on the
ground. Bones snapped.
Tris struggled to his feet, rallying his
power. Dimly, he could feel Fallon and the other mages around him. With all his
remaining energy, Tris and
the other mages
sent a
firestorm against Lochlanimar, hitting the
wall to the right of the portcullis. The magic exploded on impact, breaking
down the crenel-lations and collapsing part of the wall.
Let go. Let go now! He could feel the energy drain growing. A few seconds more and it would
reach his life thread. Tris flung himself free of the magic and fell to his
knees. Too damn close.
"I gave
him a potion to ease the pain. It's wearing off."
It was Esme's voice, but it sounded as if
she were a league away. Tris tried to open his eyes and thought better of it.
His head felt as if he'd been kicked by an iron-shod war horse. No, worse
than that. If I'd been kicked I'd be dead, and not feel the pain.
"Will he be all right?" Soterius
sounded worried.
"The fall from the horse didn't help
anything," Esme replied. "He broke a collarbone and a rib when he
landed. The way the men and the horses were out there, he's lucky he wasn't
trampled. None of the other mages are in better shape. Whatever the rest of us
felt, they must have taken it double."
"Dark sending." Tris could
barely make his lips move.
Soterius stepped closer and laid a hand on
his shoulder. "Glad you're back with us. We were worried."
"How bad?"
"Not as bad as it could have been,
considering. The battering ram's still in place, but that gate isn't coming
down soon. My bet is they've reinforced it with rock behind the wood and the
portcullis.
"We only lost about a hundred men.
Most of our soldiers are volunteers who joined up after we unseated Jared.
They're not career soldiers. They've never seen full battle. Still, they held
their ground, even with the magic and the ashtenerath. The preparations
helped. They knew what the ashtenerath were and how to fight them—and
that it was a mercy to end their suffering. That's a lot more than my fighters
knew the first time we met up with those damned things!"
"What did you see... when the sending
came?"
Soterius's voice was not quite steady.
"The men, dead, wounded, and captured. A field of corpses. Shekerishet in
flames."
"Like a vision, or a real
thing?"
"It was distant. As if I were seeing
into a scrying bowl—hazy, not quite solid."
"Then we did our job."
"What does he mean by that?"
Soterius demanded of Esme.
"I only know of dark sendings from
what the healer-mages have told me. In a full sending, I'm told that it's
impossible to tell what's sent from what's real. Tris and the other mages took
the brunt of the sending. What we saw, however bad it was, is nothing compared
to what it could have been, what they saw."
"Sweet Mother and Childe,"
Soterius whispered. "What I saw was bad enough to keep me from sleeping.
Goddess help the mages, if they saw even worse."
"Regroup," Tris murmured. Even
the candlelight was blinding.
Soterius looked spent and worn; Tris
wondered how many hours had passed and how long he had been drugged. "We
will. I'll give the troops credit—they didn't bolt for home. Once they get over
the fright, I think this may work in our favor. No one wants another king like
Jared. Curane's shown them exactly what kind of regent he would be. I think our
soldiers will dig in their heels. This may not be the most seasoned army, but
they've already lost a lot to Jared. This is personal. There isn't much
distance between fear and anger. And from what I saw out there, our folks are
covering that distance pretty quickly."
"If you want your king in one piece,
I suggest you let him rest." Esme's voice was stern.
Soterius clasped Tris's forearm.
"I've posted a vayash moru guard tonight—they can handle ashtenerath
better than any of us and they weren't affected by the sending. I'll be
back in the morning to check on you."
Tris wanted to reply, but the throbbing
pain in his head coupled with exhaustion sent him back into darkness.
As soon
as he was able, Tris met with the mages and the generals in his tent. It
was cramped, and Coalan sat in the doorway to give the others as much space as
he could. Tris's ribs and shoulder still ached, though he was healed enough to
wield a sword. Soterius and the other generals looked to be in better shape
than the mages. Tris guessed that the other mages had taken at least as much
recoil as he had in the battle, perhaps more. But while Fallon and her sister
mages looked drawn and worn, their eyes were resolute.
"Whatever we do next, I want to get
rid of their damn trebuchets," Senne growled. Outside, a steady barrage
continued. Large blocks of stone torn loose in the battle were favorite
projectiles. Those were bad enough, requiring constant vigilance from the mages
to keep them from landing where they could roll into the camp. For the last
day, Curane's forces had sent a more gruesome payload. Corpses of men and
animal carcasses rained down just beyond the outskirts of camp. By the smell,
most were not freshly dead. Some of the bodies, those still frozen solid, burst
apart like dry tinder on impact. The others... Tris tried not to imagine what
the scouts had found splattered across the plain.
"While we're out of range, we're not
out of danger—especially given what they've been sending our way of late,"
Fallon said. "We can't possibly
bury the corpses as quickly as they've been thrown at us. We already had a
hundred of our own dead from the battle with nowhere to bury them and little
enough wood to spare for pyres. If the carcasses Curane's sending our way
weren't diseased already, they'll draw disease quickly enough. At least it's
not summer, or we'd be thick with flies."
Palinn nodded. "I thought the same
myself. Since the cold shows no sign of letting up, I sent men out to bury
whatever they could in the snow. If it freezes solid it may not stink or fester
as quickly. But the fresh kills will draw wolves, and the rest will bring foxes
and weasels—and worse. Once they come, they may decide we look like better
food. We have enough problems without worrying about that."
Latt nodded. "I've already set
wardings to warn the animals away from camp. It's in our interest to let them
clean up the carrion—the sooner the better. I don't think all those bodies are
war dead. Curane's been holed up for a while—and ill humours spread fastest
when people are cramped together. My magic tells me that at least some of the
bodies carry disease. Sooner or later, what's out there will be among
us."
"If there's plague within the
fortress, will that work to our advantage?" Senne mused.
"Come the harshest days of winter,
there's always fever somewhere," Soterius replied.
"So long as Curane can wall off the
affected parts, the rest of his people may make it through."
"What of our supplies?" Tris
asked.
Palinn shrugged. "Our supply line is
holding. Curane had snipers hidden along the main supply line, but he didn't
count on our having vayash moru scouts. The snipers didn't last long, so
since then, we haven't been troubled by raids. The biggest problem is there's not
much left. Jared burned enough fields and farms that the people are barely
feeding themselves, let alone an army. Even if we were of a mind to take what
we could by force—"
"Which we won't," Tris said
decisively.
"—it wouldn't be enough. I've sent
out scavenging parties to within a full day's ride. Curane's own people are on
the brink of famine. It takes a lot to keep an army fed. We don't have the
luxury of a long siege."
Tris turned to Fallon. "Have the
mages recovered?"
Fallon shared a glance among the other
magic users. "We were able to contain the worst of the dark sending. Next
time, we'll work on reflecting it instead of absorbing it. What worries me is
the way the Flow is dropping out and then flaring back."
Tris and Fallon explained to the generals
as best they could how the magic had fluctuated wildly. "If there was
anything good about it, I think it flattened Curane's mages as well,"
Trisfinished. "It's the Flow itself that caused the problem."
"One of us is actively using magic at
all times," Fallon added. "So we're very aware of the Flow. Just
since the battle, we've counted more than a dozen times the energy dropped to
nothing, then surged back. We're learning to read the warnings, but this is all
new."
"What happens if you're caught in one
of these surges?" Senne asked.
"Ana isn't here because of
that," Fallon replied. "She was working with the water supply when
the magic buckled around hen She said it was the way she's always imagined it
would feel to be struck by lightning. It'll be several days before she's well
again."
"And you're sure nothing Curane is
doing causes the surge?"
Tris shook his head. "Curane's mages
aren't causing the surge itself, but their blood magic is making the imbalance
in the Flow worse. The more they draw on magic for dark power, the more
unstable the Flow becomes. The question is—what happens when it shatters? We
only have the stories from the Mage Wars. The last time that happened, it was
in the Blasted Lands in the far north. That's why they're called the
Blasted Lands."
"Have your ghost spies provided
anything of value?" Tarq asked.
"From what they see—and they aren't
all-knowing—Curane still believes he can outlast us.
That means he thinks he's got something we don't have—or knows something we
don't know. The ghosts have heard talk about some fever and plague in parts of
the town, so that explains where they're getting some of the bodies. No one's
seen the girl and her baby—they seem to be prisoners in the manor's
tower." Tris looked at Soterius. "We do have the map Tabok's ghost
gave us. Maybe it's a long shot, but if we could get a mage and a strike force
through the caves and into Lochlanimar, we could coordinate another assault
like the first one—magic and vayash moru and the siege engines. Bursts
of small magic, rather than big pushes
to keep the
Flow from shattering. Curane's forces can't be
everywhere at once." "What about the ashtenerath?" Senne
asked. Soterius shook his head. "We know it takes a lot of
power to make
them. That means Curane started before we got here.
Whether or not he's used up all he has, they're hard to replenish and dangerous
to keep for any length of time. The troops know how to kill them, and now that
they've fought them, they're not afraid of them anymore." "And the vayash
moru?" Tarq pressed.
"They
certainly can't take
Lochlanimar alone," Tris said. "Tabok's ghost says the tunnels
are charmed against the vayash mom, or I'd send a team of them into the
caves. I'd like to send Ban and the strike force out tomorrow night, get them in place. Once we attack, maybe
we can keep Curane busy until it's too late." He grinned. "I think I
can manage to bring down the blood charms inside the castle—the ones keeping
the ghost horde at bay. As for the vayash moru—Gabriel always said that
those charms aren't as dependable as the Nargi like to think. I'll see what I
can do."
"I have some men in my division
you'll want for your strike force," Tarq said. "They're from the
mines near the Trevath border. They're not afraid of the dark, and they can
navigate underground."
"Done."
Tris looked from one face to another.
"Let's hope this works. I don't know how much more the Flow can take, and
if it splinters, it won't really matter who wins. We'll all be dead."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CARROWAY WAITED RESTLESSLY in the cold night air for the
carriage. When it arrived, he glanced up at the driver.
"Yes, m'lord?"
"Take me to Dragon's Rage Inn."
"As you wish, m'lord."
Carroway watched the winter landscape slip
by as the carriage made its way from the palace down into the town. With the
lengthening winter nights, his mood had grown pensive. Spending so much time
near Macaria of late only made it worse.
Goddess! I should get it over with. Tell
her how I feel. At least maybe then it wouldn't gnaw at me. Maybe I'd get some
sleep. He closed his eyes as the familiar
internal battle raged on. I can't tell her. How could I ever believe
her response? She'll always think of me as her patron, the one who sponsored
her at court. If she doesn't share my feelings, she won't feel free to turn me
down. She'd be afraid I'd have her sent away. She'd lose her livelihood. And if
she said she loved me, how would I know it's love and not just gratitude? He
sighed. I know better than anyone what it feels like to be pressured by a
patron. By the Dark Lady! I won't ever do that to someone else. Never. It's
hopeless. I've gotten that through my head. But when does my heart catch on?
The patrons of the Inn recognized him as
he entered, and cheered at the sight of his lute. The regulars remembered him
from the early days, when he played for drinks and food. The innkeeper
remembered also and, though he knew his bard was now court musician to the
king, came out with a tankard of ale and a plate of cheese and sausage that
Carroway accepted graciously.
"C'mon Carroway. A song or two for
your old mates!"
The tavern patrons moved to clear a seat
for him and Carroway settled in, tuning his lute quickly. His first song was
one he had written for the royal wedding, and the crowd cheered when he
finished.
"One more! Give us something
new!"
Carroway considered for a moment, and
then, on impulse, strummed a minor chord. He
closed his eyes and began to sing. It was
one of the songs he'd written last year, when they'd been at the Library of
Westmarch. It told of a girl whose music was so pure that it moved the ghosts
to tears, and of the ghost who loved her, forever separated from her by death.
He did not open his eyes until he was finished, letting the music fill him
completely. When the song was over, there was an instant of silence, and then
the crowd roared its approval. Carroway looked up just in time to see Macaria
in the doorway watching him, but she slipped away before he could meet her
eyes.
Carroway ended the impromptu concert to a
round of hearty applause and slipped up the back steps, carrying the plate of
food.
"We thought that must be you
downstairs," Halik greeted him, slapping him on the back as he entered. In
return for the regular services of Carroway's troupe of bards, the innkeeper at
the Dragon's Rage kept this small room for them. It was over the kitchen, so it
remained warm without a fireplace. The bards used it to store their instruments
and music, gather in privacy, and often, bed down for the night.
Halik and Macaria were there as well as
Paiva, who was tuning her lute. Tadhg, a barrel-chested man whose skill on the
fiddle defied the size of his large hands, lounged nearest the food, picking at
the sausage on a large tray. He laughed often and loudly, and was first always
with the newest
ribald rhyme. Bandele,
a
waifish woman with long, strawberry-blond
hair, leaned against the wall, seated on the floor at the warmest part of the
room, clearly lost in her own thoughts, her harp by her side.
They were the regulars, although at least
a dozen more might come and go on any night. The bard's room was an open
secret, though not all musicians were welcome. Some, whom Carroway knew to be
aligned with nobility of questionable allegiance to the king, were never invited.
Others, whom the group knew to be too free with their gossip or too enmeshed in
court politics, were equally unwelcome. This group had remained constant since
Carroway's fostering, with the addition of Paiva a year before. Paiva was the
sole survivor of a family killed by Jared's raiders, and when she sang of those
times, she didn't realize that she wept as she sang.
A large pitcher of ale and tankards all
round attested to the innkeeper's generosity. The Dragon's Rage was one of the
few places commoners could hear such accomplished musicians. And if they were
the practice audience for a new song or a ballad not yet completely polished,
they did not seem to mind. It was also the best place to hear what the people
outside the palace thought important enough to gossip about, which gave
Carroway the pulse of the kingdom.
"What brings you out in the storm,
dressed like a prize rooster?" Halik said.
"I keep telling you," Macaria
said, stretching. "He's too tall for a rooster. Peacock perhaps, but not
a rooster."
"Paiva was just about to sing us a
ditty she heard in the drawing room at Lady Jadzia's," Halik said.
"Have a seat." Carroway settled down on a bench next to Macaria. She
slid down to make room, leaving more space between them than Carroway would
have preferred. "Go ahead, Paiva," Halik encouraged. "Play for
us."
Paiva grinned widely. "I'm afraid
it's more of a tavern song than any fine music," she disavowed. "But
it had a lively tune, and it's hummable, so I suspect it will catch on quickly."
In the lands to the north they breed them
tall, and the lads of the north are the tallest of all
And the lasses they say like to pass their
days with a sword and a lance and hey! Hey! Hey!
Oh the men up north are not farmers bred
and the likes of their lasses they'd rather not bed
So they pack them off for the south to wed
with a sword and lance and hey! Hey! Hey!
Now the men up north are not fighters
brave, in a battle fierce their own skins they save
Then they'll send their lasses for the
neighbor's ale with a sword and lance and hey! Hey! Hey!
Now the moral of my story is sad but true—the men of the north are a motley crew
And they send their lasses for the work to
do with a sword and a lance and a hey! Hey! Hey!
In the lands up north—
"That's enough!" Carroway
snapped, rising to his feet. Paiva nearly dropped her lute in astonishment
before fleeing into the hallway. The other bards regarded Carroway as if he had
suddenly gone mad. Bandele jumped to her feet and headed toward the door.
"I'll go after her." Bandele
gave Carroway a sour look. "In the meantime, calm yourself."
"And exactly what was that
about?" Macaria demanded, hands on hips. "You're not usually a surly
drunk."
"I'm not drunk. But I am worried.
Don't you get it? That song is about Kiara."
Macaria shrugged. "Tavern songs are
often at the expense of the nobles—even the king. That's why drunk soldiers
like them so much. So?"
Carroway ran his hands through his long,
black hair and began to pace. "It's not just a tavern song," he said.
"You've seen how much has been happening—Zachar dead, Malae poisoned,
Mikhail imprisoned. Eadoin's been hearing talk among the nobles. Instead of
realizing that we've got a traitor among us and taking Kiara's side, some of
the nobles are blaming Kiara for bringing misfortune on the court. It's hard
enough to be a foreign queen and have the king gone for months to war. But if
the court turns against her—"
"I've heard some of the same
talk," Halik confessed. "I didn't want to say anything until I was
sure it was more than a couple of hotheads with too much ale."
"So have I," Tadhg said.
"But why? The marriage is official.
And if it hadn't been Kiara from Isencroft, it would have been a princess from
Trevath to keep the peace." Macaria wrinkled her nose in distaste.
"Whoever's behind the attacks on
Kiara might not even be from Margolan," Carroway said. "What if the
rebels in Isencroft are desperate enough to try to kill Kiara in order to
start a war between Tris and Donelan?"
"No queen, no heir, no joint throne,"
Tadhg summed up with a grim expression.
"Could they?" Macaria asked.
"Start a war, I mean?"
Carroway shrugged. "If King Donelan
gave his daughter into Tris's protection and she was murdered, that's
provocation enough for war, I'd say."
"And a war with Isencroft on the
northern border might be just the excuse Trevath needs to attack," Halik
said. "They'd put Jared's bastard on the throne with a Curane as
regent."
"For a bard, you think like a damn
soldier," Tadhg said.
"You travel with a company of soldiers
for a year and see if it doesn't rub off a little, along with the lice."
"But I thought they arrested one of
Lord Guarov's men for sending that awful shroud," Macaria said. "Lord
and Lady Guarov left court very suddenly after that."
"Do you really think Guarov's behind
everything that's happened?" Tadhg asked with a snort. "He's not
smart enough to dream up a scheme like this—or connected enough to make it
happen."
"Or there's more than one scheme
going on," Macaria said. "And more than one schemer."
"Tris hasn't had time to undo all
Jared's damage," Carroway said. "If someone tapped into that anger,
channeled it against something—like a foreign queen—it could be like a
tinderbox."
The door opened and Bandele and Paiva
entered. The young girl was red-eyed from crying, and Bandele fixed Carroway
with an accusing gaze.
Carroway walked over and knelt before
Paiva. He took the girl's hand and kissed the back of it. "I'm sorry. I
shouldn't have been sharp with you. Can you please forgive me?"
Paiva smiled at the extravagant show of
remorse. "Oh Carroway, you know I will." She threw her arms around
the bard's neck.
"Carroway thinks there may be a plot
to turn Margolan against the new queen," Macaria said, looking at Bandele.
"Paiva, you have a gift with remaking folk songs. What if you used the
same tune and came up some new lyrics—lyrics that say something good about the
queen." She laughed. "By the Dark Lady! I don't even think it would
hurt if you said all the Northern lasses are lusty, as long as they're not
running our men through with their swords and stealing our ale!"
Paiva sniffled and wiped her hair from her
eyes with the back of her hand. "I can do that. And if I teach it to all
of you, maybe we could get out to the other taverns before the first ditty
catches on." She smiled, thinking about how to turn the tide. "If I
add a little bounce to my version, pick up the tempo, and get the drinkers to
thump their mugs on the 'Hey! Hey!' it might just overtake the first
version."
"Some of the traveling companies that
came for the wedding have stayed because of the weather," Halik added.
"Macaria and I can offer them our welcome. And, if in the process, we get
down to swapping tales and songs, well, that's what bards do, isn't it?"
Carroway stood and grinned. "That's
my girl," he said, clapping her on the shoulder. "I'm willing to make
a round of ale houses myself for the cause. If we made a tour of the inns in
the palace city and a day's ride beyond, we might get ahead of it."
"How can I break this to you—you just
don't blend in," Bandele said with a meaningful look that swept from
Carroway's long sable hair down his ruby silk flounced shirt to his brocade
trews.
Carroway rolled his eyes good-naturedly.
"It's a curse." Macaria elbowed him in the ribs.
"She's right," Halik agreed.
"Everyone knows you're the King's Bard—and his friend beside. And everyone
at court knows you're close to the queen. Coming from you, it might look like
an effort by the palace to stop an embarrassing song—"
"—which would just make the old song
more popular," Macaria finished. "But .we can be your eyes and ears.
Maybe we can even find out where the other songs are coming from."
"We're going to need the luck of the
Dark Lady on our side," Tadhg said.
Carroway clapped Tadhg on the shoulder.
"I know, my friend. I know."
In the salle, Kiara wheeled and landed a solid Eastmark kick against the quintain.
Once the worst of the morning sickness was over, Kiara found that a good
workout just before dawn helped her calm her nerves. The quintain was the
opponent of last resort. Until his imprisonment, Mikhail had been a
challenging partner. While he lacked Jonmarc's skill with the East-mark
fighting style, Mikhail's strength and speed as a vayasb moru created
other challenges. But Mikhail was locked in the dungeon. And while Carroway
was a dead aim with throwing knives, even by his own admission, his
swordsmanship was lacking. There was no one else Kiara trusted as a sparring
partner, and so she took out her loneliness and frustration on the wooden
quintain.
It felt good to move. She was alone, with
the guards on the outside of the salle doors. No one could accuse her of
impropriety. Here in the salle, she was free of the cumbersome dresses required
at court. A simple dress lay to one side, along with her amulet necklace and
her other jewelry. She wore an Isencroft-made tunic and trews, dyed in the
colors of flame. As she danced through the fighting forms, Kiara felt her
spirits lift for the first time in many days. Jae dived at the quintain, easily
dodging Kiara's sword strikes, scoring with his talons against the wooden
practice dummy. When he tired of the game, the gyregon retreated to a perch
high in the salle rafters.
Focused on technique, Kiara could escape
the thoughts that haunted her nights and nagged at her days. It was a relief
not to think, to worry, to wonder what was happening with the army. Here, there
was only the freedom of movement and the joy of performance.
Without warning, the temperature in the
salle plummeted. A gust of wind snuffed out the torches. Still too early for
daylight, the windows at the top of the walls were dark. The salle was pitch
black. Before Kiara could react, the quintain spun on its own accord, catching
Kiara hard across the belly with the broad side of its lance. The force of the
blow knocked her to the ground. And just as quickly, a stabbing pain doubled
her up. She tried to call out for the guards, but there was no reply. Jae
landed beside her, his head turning watchfully.
The air around her swirled with a faint
green glow. The glow grew brighter, and Kiara heard voices in the darkness.
"It's too early—"
"Not ensouled yet—"
"Then the time is right. We must
determine which of us—"
"We had agreed—"
"No agreement yet—"
Kiara tried to climb to her feet, gritting
her teeth to ignore the pain. The quintain began to
spin wildly and she ducked down, fearing
that another blow from its lance could easily knock her out or worse. The green
glow grew closer, and she could hear the voices more clearly.
"Not an easy thing to do—"
"Still, not impossible—"
"One of us will surely be a
match—"
A wind rose around Kiara, hard enough that
she heard swords clatter down from the walls of the salle. "Guards!"
she shouted above the wind.
Laughter rose from the green glow.
"They can't hear you. We made sure of that. We've locked the doors, just
in case. We've been watching you. Waiting."
"What do you want?"
"To be reborn."
The green glow closed in around Kiara, and
she shielded herself, drawing on the regent magic. Laughter answered her.
"You're not a Summoner. We're not
mages. Your shields have no power over us." The glowing miasma swirled
around her and Kiara was shivering hard, in cold and fear. She struggled to
her feet, wincing at the pain in her midsection. She held her sword two-handed,
knowing that it would do no good against these opponents. Kiara could see
shapes in the glow now, faces emerging. A woman, not much older than herself. A
man in his middle years. A young man with cold, determined eyes.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
The hard-eyed young man spoke. "We
died in this castle at the hands of the Usurper and his mage. We were robbed of
our lives. We want to live again."
"How? I'm not a Summoner. You know
that."
"The soul is not yet fixed in your
child. There's room for one of us in its place."
Kiara's grip tightened on her sword as she
realized the ghost's meaning. "Get away from me! I won't allow you—"
The green glow streaked toward her. Jae
leapt for the glowing shapes, only to pass through them without effect. Kiara
felt the glow envelop her, felt the coldness slip through her with a chill so
complete that she began shivering violently, dropping to her knees. Unlike when
the Obsidian King forced himself through her shields, the spirits paid no heed
at all to her magic or her shielding. Her heart was thudding hard. It wasn't
her mind or body the spirits wanted. It was the child she carried, whose soul
would not be fixed until quickening. An empty vessel, yet to be filled. And if
one of the spirits could take possession before the soul fated for the child by
the Lady fixed itself in the babe.
The large mirror on the salle wall
suddenly fell to the floor, shattering in the darkness. The wind rose again,
from the opposite corner of the room. Just as
quickly as the glow had
surrounded Kiara, it jerked free, pulling
out of her so abruptly that she nearly blacked out. She looked up to see the
dim form of a man in the uniform of the king's army standing in front of her,
his eyes resolute. Beside him stood Seanna's ghost and the spirit of a woman
dressed as a nursemaid. Kiara guessed her to be Ula, long-dead guardian of the
heirs of Margolan.
"In the name of the king, leave her
alone!" the ghostly soldier said. "Her steel can't touch you, but
mine will burn."
From the outside, Kiara heard footsteps.
Guards pounded on the locked doors, shouting to her. The green glow wavered and
then streaked forward, filling the salle with a hideous wail. Seanna dived to
cover Kiara with her own ghostly form, while the soldier set about with his sword.
Ula blocked the glow from one direction, while the soldier-wraith slashed his
sword through the green mist. The revenant sword sliced through the green glow
and a deafening shriek filled the room. Jae dived at the glow, but flew through
it without connecting. Outside, the guards began to ram the heavy doors. The
ghost soldier took the offensive. Ula knocked the amulet from where it lay on
the bench and sent it skidding across the floor. Kiara clasped it in her fist.
Ula added her defense to Seanna's, blocking the attack. The soldier's sword
sliced through the glow once more and with a final scream, the glow winked out.
The pain in her belly had grown worse.
Kiara was curled in a ball, shivering violently.
"Who are you?" she managed to
ask the ghostly soldier who knelt beside her in concern.
"Comar Hassad, liegeman to
Bricen," the soldier said. "I was unable to protect Bricen. I am
sworn to the defense of his heirs."
"Did the ghosts...take the
soul?" The room swam around her, and Kiara struggled to remain conscious.
She could hear the wood of the doors splintering.
The spirits around her began to fade.
"No. We'll watch over you until the living come." Hassad's voice grew
faint. Jae flew down to land beside Kiara and nuzzled her hand.
Kiara heard the doors crash open and saw
torchlight. Through the windows, the faint glow of dawn began to light the
room. "Get the healer!" a guardsman shouted. One of the guards went
to do as he was bid as the other two ran for Kiara.
"We saw something in the corridor and
went to investigate. M'lady, who did this?"
"Ghosts," Kiara managed. She
fought the urge to cry out as another wave of pain swept over her. "Gone
now."
Kiara heard running footsteps and the
guards moved aside. Cerise and Alle knelt beside her. "Macaria went to get
a stretcher. What happened?" Cerise gentled Kiara onto her back, noting
with concern as Kiara winced trying to lie flat.
"Let's give the queen some
privacy," Alle said, taking control of the situation. "You— bring a
pitcher of cold water and a pot of hot water. And you—get rid of the broken
glass." With the guards occupied, Alle knelt beside Cerise.
"Tell me what you need and I'll do
it."
Cerise worked silently while Kiara
haltingly told of the attack and her ghostly defenders. "Is it true? Could
they take the soul?"
"The old stories say so. I always
thought they were just the prattling of old women. But out in the midlands,
I've heard the hedge witches tell of ghosts that possessed a babe before its
soul was fixed. A changeling. It takes blood magic or a Summoner's power to do
such a thing after birth, but there are tales of that as well."
"Hassad didn't think they had
succeeded. Can you tell for certain?"
Cerise closed her eyes and laid her hands
on Kiara's belly. After a few moments, she shook her head. "Only one life
thread for both of you. The soul is not yet fixed."
Kiara let out a deep breath and relaxed.
"Thank you." Just as quickly, a spasm caused her to grit her teeth
and wince.
"I don't know whether it was the blow
to the stomach or the stress of the attack—or whether you were pushing yourself
too hard in practice. But we've got to get those contractions stopped before
you lose the baby."
"My rooms—"
Cerise shook her head. "I'm sorry,
Kiara. There's no time. We'll have to make do."
Macaria arrived with the rest of Cerise's
healer's satchels and a stretcher. From the hot water the guard brought, Cerise
made both tea and a poultice and began to work. Alle shooed the guards from the
room, and they took up their places outside the broken doors. Macaria found a
sailcloth tarp in a storage chest and rigged it to shield Kiara from the view
of passers by. Alle dabbed Kiara's face with a cool, wet cloth, and Macaria
held her hand. For a candlemark Cerise worked, digging through her satchels for
herbs and dried mixtures and applying them to ease the muscle spasms. Kiara
clutched the agate amulet in her left hand. Finally, Cerise straightened.
"You're going to be all right,"
Cerise said with a tired smile. "You're both safe. Let's get you somewhere
more comfortable."
Alle signaled the guards, who gently
lifted Kiara onto the stretcher. Carefully, they made their way up to the
queen's quarters. Tris's dogs, sensing something amiss, stayed close. The gray
wolfhound, Kiara's favorite, lay down alongside the couch. The mastiff took up
a watch at the head of the couch, and the black wolfhound lay at the foot. Jae
settled himself on the back of the couch. In the shadows, Kiara saw the dim
outlines of Seanna and Ula, standing watch.
"I'm sorry, my dear," Cerise
said, taking Kiara's hand. "We've had so many other worries, I never
thought to warn you about the spirits."
Kiara leaned back against her pillow.
"I knew Tris wasn't sure whether he'd laid all of the ghosts of Jared's
victims to rest before he left. He tried but—Goddess!—there were so many."
A knock sounded at the door. Alle opened
it cautiously, her hand near the knife hidden in the folds of her skirt.
Carroway stood in the doorway, and Kiara waved for him to enter.
"I came as soon as I heard. Are you
all right?"
Kiara nodded. "If I remember Tris's
story about the night of the coup, I think I met one of your old friends. He
said his name was Comar Hassad."
"Hassad was one of Bricen's most
loyal guardsmen—and one of the first to die in the coup. He guided us through
the forest to that burned out inn, only when we stayed there the first time, it
looked solid and quite safe—not a charred shell!"
"If you see him again, tell him
'thank you' for me."
Carroway smiled. "Me, personally, I
don't go looking for ghosts. But since Tris left with the army, Hassad's been
busy. I've heard tell that the guardsmen have seen him all around the castle.
Scared a couple of minstrels out of their wits down on the road by the
bridge."
"Seanna and Ula seem to have taken a
personal interest in you and the baby," Macaria added.
"I was never so glad to see a
ghost," Kiara said, managing a smile. "Jae tried to protect me, but
he flew right through the spirits." She shivered at the memory.
"I'd hoped that you'd avoid the
problems your mother had," Cerise said. "And I think in many ways,
you have. But you've got to be careful." She held up a hand to stay
Kiara's protest. "I know that many of our soldiers train almost up to when
they give birth. I know the battle healers say such training is safe. But if
you have Viata's constitution, you must take care. Your mother was just as
excellent a fighter as you are, but she had to be very careful when she was
pregnant with you—and even so, it was a difficult and dangerous birth. If you
want to continue to train in the salle, you'll have to take it easy—perhaps
work on form and stretching instead of whacking our your frustrations on the
quintain," she added with a smile.
"Paiva and Bandele have some new
songs," Carroway said, standing. "I'll have them come up to give you
a private audience once you've had a chance to rest. If you need anything,
Macaria can find me." He bowed and left.
Macaria followed him into the hallway,
closing the door.
"I'm afraid for her," Macaria
said.
Carroway took her hand, and was surprised
that she did not draw away. "So am I. When I promised Tris we'd look after
her, I wasn't expecting anything like this. I'm starting to wonder where the
real war is—out there, or in here."
"We're still no closer to knowing
whether it's Curane's people or the Isencroft separatists who've been behind
most of the incidents. Now, with the ghosts—"
"Maybe the other minstrels will hear
something. Whoever's behind this may overplay his hand. You've got to help
keep an eye on Kiara—and an ear open to the palace gossip. I can't do it—I
don't dare. People will talk."
"What I said about your reputation
with your patronesses, that was a joke."
"The reputation is real even though I
didn't earn it. I can't stay close enough to make sure she hears the court
gossip. But you can. Paiva's too young. Bandele doesn't have the nose for
politics you do. There's no one else I trust to be that close to her. Alle only
hears the noble's talk. You hear what's said below stairs, what people in the
crowd say when they think no one important is listening."
Macaria smiled. She gave his hand a
reassuring squeeze, and he returned the pressure. "I will," she
said. "But stay as close as you can— all right?"
Carroway made a deep courtly bow. "I
live to serve, m'lady."
Kiara and Alle looked up when Macaria came back into the room. "How's your
bard?" Kiara asked.
Macaria looked away. "My bard? He's
just worried about you. That's all."
Kiara gave a tired smile but did not
argue. She could hear Cerise moving about her room, putting her satchels and
medicines away.
Alle sat down in a chair beside Kiara.
"I know you don't want to worry Cerise. How are you—really?"
Kiara pulled herself into a sitting
position. "In Isencroft, I understood the rules. When I went on my
journey, I was sure of my ability to fight—and I had a war steed as well as
Jae. On the road last year, heading to Westmarch and then on the way back to
confront Jared, I knew I could hold my own, even in a battle. Now— everything's
different. We still don't know who's trying to kill me—or whether it's more
than one person for different reasons. Tris is at war, and we don't know
anything about how that's going. I've never felt this helpless in my life—and I
hate it. I couldn't protect Mikhail or Make, and I failed today to keep the
baby safe. I've let Tris down—I've let everyone down."
"Now, you sound like Viata,"
Cerise said, joining them. "Your mother was merciless with herself when
she made a mistake, but she never recognized her successes. You've gotten used
to
relying on yourself since Viata died.
That's made you strong. But it takes courage to admit when you need help. We
won't think less of you." She paused. "What of your regent magic,
Kiara? Is it of any help?"
"We found out last year how dangerous
it could be for me to scry," Kiara said. "It worked too well.
Arontala nearly killed me. I can shield against magic, although a sorcerer of
power can break through. I learned that the hard way," she said ruefully.
"Father said his magic let him sense the weather—helpful for battle, not
much use for me at the moment. If anything, perhaps the regent magic makes our
child even more likely to be a mage. But I'm not counting on it for
protection."
"We need a plan," Alle said.
"We've got to figure out a way to keep you safe without making you a
prisoner—and still have the court see enough of you that the gossips don't
spread too many rumors."
Macaria flinched. "Speaking of
rumors... Carroway says he needs to keep his distance from Kiara because of his
'reputation.' I've always heard comments, but I figured it was his
looks—there's no denying the boy's handsome. I can't figure it out—in the
years I've been at court, I've never known him to take a lover, but he's got a
reputation for bedding his patronesses. I'm afraid for Carroway. Someone's
been peeling away Kiara's supporters. What happens if they go after him?"
Macaria looked at Alle. "You and your
aunt Eadoin know everything that goes on at court. What's behind the rumors? He
won't tell me. I've asked."
Alle fingered her bracelet. "I can
understand why he doesn't want to talk about it. I'm not sure—"
Kiara looked from Macaria to Alle.
"Macaria's right. Whoever's behind this seems to know all about court
secrets. Carroway's vulnerable, and if we're the only ones who don't know, we
can't do anything to help. He's a dear friend, Alle. Tris owes him his life.
"He's doing everything he can to protect us. We need to know."
Alle nodded. "I heard Aunt Eadoin
talk about it once, about how Carroway's family died in the plague. He was only
thirteen when it happened. Bricen and Serae took him in, gave him a home at
Shekerishet. Even then, he was quite a rising star among the minstrels, and his
looks didn't hurt.
"From what Aunt Eadoin said, the
trouble started about five years ago, when Carroway was sixteen. Lady Nadine
took a liking to him. She asked him to play at her manor any time he was free
from court. At first, it was all right. Then she started asking him to stay
longer and longer. Finally, she propositioned him, even though she was twice his
age. She wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. He felt trapped, but without a
family, he was afraid."
Anger tightened Alle's voice. "That
went on for a year. No one knew. Then Aunt Eadoin found out. She was just about
to go to the king when Carroway took matters into his own hands. He tried to
poison himself. He left a note, saying that he didn't know how to escape and
never wanted the affair in the first place. Tris found him; Esme healed him.
Bricen was so angry that he summoned Lady Nadine and banished her from court
forever. Still, the damage was done. You know how the court loves a good
story."
Macaria looked away. "That explains a
lot."
Kiara squeezed Alle's hand. "I know
all about that kind of gossip. Mother fought it all her life, and I saw the
toll it took on her. Carroway's right to be cautious. And since he has to keep
his distance, that makes you," she said with a nod toward Macaria,
"all the more important. There aren't many people we can trust completely.
You and the bards are the best source for what's going on at court, what people
are saying."
Kiara shook her head. "I wish we knew
who father's spy was. He—or she—would be another ally"
Macaria looked up. "We think we know
who all the other spies are—except for Isencroft's. Whoever your father sent is
keeping a very low profile."
"It worries me what's being reported
back to father," Kiara said.
"Malae's death. The murders Mikhail was blamed for.
Everything else that's happened. Father has enough on his hands trying to break
the divisionist rebellion. News like that doesn't help."
"Maybe that's part of the plan,"
Alle mused. "Maybe whoever's behind the attacks wants the news to cause
problems with Isencroft. We've been assuming they're in league with Curane.
Maybe they really support the Isencroft rebels."
"Or maybe there's more than one
group," Macaria said. "Right now, we just don't know. We've got to be
careful."
Kiara fastened the agate charm around her
neck. "For starters, Fm never taking off the amulet again. I don't know
whether it would have helped today—but it couldn't have hurt."
"And just having guards outside
wasn't enough. We're going to need to have one or two people with you at all
times—inside the room." Macaria added.
Kiara grimaced. "Fm afraid you're
right. We've got a battle of our own—only we don't even know where the lines
are drawn. Every time we leave these rooms, we need to have a defense, and we
need to be armed. We need to know where the doors are and where the guards will
be. I don't understand Margolan, but I do understand war. This is war."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
"I
don't like it, but I don't see another option." Soterius said, leaning
back in his chair.
"I agree." Senne crossed his
arms. "Fm worried about sending men down into the caves. It could be a
trap. Even if it isn't—there won't be much room to maneuver."
"There are men in my battalion who
are miners. Caves are roomy compared to what they're used to." Tarq
replied. "They've volunteered to be part of the advance troops, and I've
sent a dozen of the best, plus my second in command, to go with Soterius. If we
time it right, all of Curane's attention should be focused on the assault
against Fochlanimar." He glanced sideways at Senne. "You do have your
siege machines functional again—don't you?"
Senne's mouth pulled into a tight line.
"They're quite functional. We're making a two-part strike this time.
During the night, we'll send the vayash moru against the guards again.
Tabok said the tunnels were spelled against vayash moru, so they
couldn't help Soterius. We'll also put them around the battering ram
throughout the night. Ashtenerath or corpses won't bother them. Neither
will more of the 'dark sendings.' Come dawn, we'll replace them with regular
soldiers—after we've softened things up a bit."
"Latt and Fallon assured me that
they've already sent ill humors to cause dysentery among Curane's troops,"
Tris replied. "Unpleasant, but effective. It should reduce Curane's forces
and slow down their response." He took a sip of brandy. "The ghosts
came to me last night. They have a plan. They'll make another attack from
inside, timed to support Soterius. That'll give Latt the chance to break the
spells on the tower protecting the girl and her baby and let Soterius and his
strike force through."
Tris's head hurt from an afternoon spent
with the mages. It had taken a week after the last battle for Tris and the
other mages to regain enough strength to hold their own in a fight. Gauging
from Curane's silence, Tris doubted their foe's mages were in any better shape.
The Flow, which had been dangerously unpredictable before, was now even less
stable. If
Curane's forces don't kill us, our own magic might, Tris thought.
"Between the frontal assault and the
tre-buchets on the flanks, Curane won't notice us until it's too late."
Soterius said. "The tunnels come up right below the keep. If we can capture
the girl and her baby, Curane has no choice but to surrender."
Tabok's ghost stood behind Soterius.
"Unfortunately, after the last attack, Curane's mages have spelled their
war room. I can't get in. I think they suspect that the ghosts are spying for
you. They've been careful not to discuss anything outside of the war room. But
from what I do see, he's confident. He's got something planned, something
big." He sighed. "But I have some good news. The ghosts from the
crypts beneath the city terrorized enough of Curane's men that their commanders
had to threaten them with scourgings to get them back to their posts." He
gave a cruel smile. "There, at least, we succeeded."
"His blood mages are making amulets
to dispel ghosts and hold off the vayash moru. Most are worthless
trinkets. But some do carry power. He's armed his key battalions with those
charms, the ones manning the gates and the upper walks. His mages are showing
the strain. The more desperate his mages become, the worse the lot of the
villagers trapped in the walled city. There's plague down in the ginnels.
Curane ordered a quarter of the city walled off
to contain it. Others say his mages caused
it, to spread it to your troops and kill with fever what his arrows can't
reach." Tabok looked to Tris. "Curane won't accept defeat. He's not
going to give in so long as there's a man with breath to hold a sword. I'm
afraid that the only way to defeat him is to destroy every living thing inside
that holding."
"Can your land mage do something
about the weather? If it stays this cold, we'll be lucky not to freeze in our
beds." Palinn drew his cloak tighter around him despite the fire that
blazed in the metal stove in the center of the tent. Outside, strong winds
whipped the canvas of the tent and howled down the open spaces between the
encampments.
"If she could, she would," Tris
said. "There's worse weather coming—that's why we didn't want to put off
the strike any longer. Snow and high winds. If this doesn't work, it could be a
while before we have the opening for another strike—and it's a fool's bet on
whether our side or theirs will be more miserable waiting it out."
"We'll have pairs of mages with two
of the attacking forces," Tris said. "Fallon and I will cover the
front. Beryal will back up Ana on the left flank—she's not completely recovered
from the last attack. Vira will handle the right flank. Latt will go with the
strike force. That splits us up so that the enemy can't get in a lucky shot and
wipe us all out." Tris looked at Soterius.
"Get your forces into position. We'll
move at second bells. They may not be expecting an attack in the middle of the
night."
"We'll leave at dusk and be in
position by the time you're ready."
Esme slipped inside the tent as Soterius
and the generals headed for their troops. "A word with you, your
majesty?" "What is it?"
"There's a fever started among the
men," Esme reported. "Only a few cases so far, but it's nothing I've
seen before. One of the men was fine in the morning and dead by nightfall. He
was coughing up blood. We've tried to keep the sick men from going back to
their battalions, but with an attack coming up, they don't want to miss the
fight. I'm worried. If this attack doesn't break Curane, if we're stuck here
for weeks or months, the fever could get ugly. Worse, if we take it home with us to
the city." "Keep me informed. And if we didn't already have all
the reasons in
the world to
win tonight, we've got one more now."
Soterius braced
himself against the bitter wind. "I'm so
happy we decided to do this before the weather got bad," he muttered. A
light snow was falling, and by the look of the heavy clouds, more would fall by
morning. Behind them, the sound of battle echoed in the night. A sea of torches
lit the way for the army as it made its attack on Lochlanimar.
"They should be in place by
now," Pryce, Tarq's second-in-command, said.
"Let's move."
The soldiers pressed through the snow. It
was almost as deep as a man's knees, and Soterius knew it wouldn't be any
easier on the return journey. He had sent two scouts on ahead, and their tracks
were already covered by the snow. The two dozen soldiers trekked in silence.
Only a half moon lit their way. When it clouded over, Latt magicked a dim blue
magelight, just enough to keep them from blundering in the dark.
Ahead of them loomed the foothills, and
the entrance to the tunnels. They had walked for more than a candlemark, but
the torch fire of battle still glowed on the horizon. Even at this distance,
they could hear the distant thud of the battering ram.
"There it is," Soterius said,
pointing to the cleft in the foothills that matched Tabok's description. He
surveyed the terrain. "Now where the hell is the signal?"
A lantern blinked twice.
The scouts met them on a rocky hillside.
"Where's the cave entrance?" Soterius asked.
One of the scouts pointed to the ground a
few paces away. What Soterius first took for a shadow was really a deep hole.
"We explored as much as we dared. The path isn't so bad at first, but then
it slopes down. It'll be tricky."
Soterius nodded. "Tabok didn't think
we'd need them, but we've got ropes and harnesses, just in case. I'd feel
better if he and a few of his ghosts were around to lead the way."
Latt stepped closer to the cave entrance.
She raised her hands, palms out, and closed her eyes for a moment.
"Tabok's right. I can sense magic down there. My guess is that someone's
placed runes to ward away the vayash moru— and the ghosts, too. I'd
better be in the front—just in case they left us any other nasty
surprises."
Six of Tarq's men led the way into the
caves with Latt right behind them. Their torches sent flickering shadows across
the rock walls. Soterius followed, then Pryce. Pell and Tabb, two of Soterius's
first recruits in the rebellion, walked behind him. The soldiers carefully made
their way down the sloping cave entrance. Latt used her magic to assure that
the pathway was solid, and to feel for openings in the rock around them. As the
path led downward, deeper into the mountain, it grew even colder.
As the scouts reported, the path sloped
steeply. Ice made it treacherous. Their torchlight glistened as it reflected
from the sheets of ice that rippled down the cave walls and the crystals beneath.
In places, the pathway led along the rim of chasms that even Latt's magelight
could not illuminate to the bottom. I never thought I'd want a vayash
moru with me as much as I do now, Soterius "It's slipping," Latt
warned. "I can't hold it much longer."
With a mighty heave, the men pulled Hoyt
and Pell back from the brink as the path gave way completely. "Jump!"
Soterius shouted to the men stranded on the other side. It was too late. The
path crumbled beneath their feet. The men pulling Hoyt and Pell scrambled as
the walkway dropped into the abyss, nearly taking Pell and his rescuers with
it.
Rock dust filled the air, making it
difficult to breathe. Hoyt and Pell collapsed, safe on the remaining stub of
the pathway.
"That was too damn close,"
Soterius said, wiping the grit from his face with his sleeve.
"Agreed," Latt said.
"Are you all right?" Soterius
shouted to the men on the other side of the ruined pathway.
"We're all right, but we can't reach
you."
"Wait for us. And keep an eye out.
There were other passages that opened into that first room—we don't know where
they went or what's in them."
"Yes, sir."
"Can you find any of the sigils that
are keeping out the ghosts or the vayash moru?" Soterius asked
Latt, helping her to her feet. "Maybe if we could remove those, we could
get some reinforcements."
"I'm looking for them. Haven't come
upon any yet. They must be deep in the caves. But there's something up
ahead."
thought. Goddess! I'd give a lot to
have a few soldiers who could see in the dark.
Twice, Latt raised a hand for the group to
halt and tested the path ahead with her magic. Both times, a portion crumbled
into the abyss, forcing them to slide single file, inching their way, around
the collapsed sections. Soterius cursed under his breath as he scraped along
the icy rock wall, glad that the darkness kept him from seeing all the way to
the bottom of the chasm.
Behind him, a man screamed. Soterius
turned just in time to see Pell lose his footing on"the slick rock. Too
late, he scrabbled for a handhold as the pathway crumbled. Hoyt, another of
Soterius's men, dived to grab Pell's wrist.
"Let me go! You can't hold me!"
Pell shouted.
"Pell! Hang on!" Soterius tried
to work his way back toward where Pell clung to the rock. The narrow walkway
was too crowded for him to back up, and he feared adding more weight to the
crumbling path.
Hoyt slid forward and grasped Pell's other
wrist. "Let go! I can pull you up!"
Rocks began to fall beneath Pell's feet.
Latt turned, shifting her magic. The rockslide stopped. "Pull him up.
Hurry!"
The two men closest to Hoyt each grabbed
one of his legs and began to pull. "Go!" Latt grated through clenched
teeth. The walkway was beginning to shake, and a hail of small rocks began to
cascade along the sides.
They had been walking inside the caves for
at least two candlemarks. It was probably around tenth bells outside, Soterius
guessed. Still long before Tris and the others would launch the main attack.
Finally, the path leveled out.
Latt moved forward among Pryce's scouts.
"Look, there's one of the sigils!" Latt pointed to a rune written in
letters of fire on the rock wall. Its dim glow was barely visible in the
haiflight. Pryce moved up behind Soterius. On the narrow landing, there was
little room to spare. Behind them, a chasm opened into blackness.
In the dim glow of Latt's mage light,
Soterius could see a narrow walkway with chasms on either side leading to a
broad landing, and on the far wall, an .opening. "Maybe that's our way out
of here," Soterius whispered to Pryce.
Latt turned toward the sigils and raised
her hands, chanting as she tried to break the old magic. There was the sound of
rushing air, the glint of metal in the torchlight. Latt stiffened and staggered
as a thrown dagger found its mark, embedding itself hilt deep in her back. A
man's scream made Soterius wheel in time to see Hoyt fall backward, flailing,
into the chasm, pushed by one of Pryce's men.
Soterius gasped as the steel of a blade
slipped between his ribs. Pryce jerked the blade free, and it ran red with
blood. "The mage's dagger had wormroot. Don't expect any help there."
Torches fell to the rock floor as Pell and
Tabb struggled with Pryce's men. One lay face down, a dagger deep in his back.
On the narrow landing, it was impossible to fight with swords. Daggers drawn,
the two men fought back to back, outnumbered by Pryce's soldiers.
Gritting his teeth against the pain,
Soterius launched himself at Pryce. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Latt
stir. Soterius staggered as he tackled Pryce, taking them both close enough to
the edge of the chasm that Pryce's boots knocked stones loose to tumble into
the shadows. "Why?"
"I've been waiting for weeks in that
miserable camp. I'll give you credit. You didn't make this easy. Tarq promised
that Curane will make me a general for this." "Tarq? That lying son
of the Whore—" As Soterius and Pryce struggled, Pell and Tabb hurled
themselves at their attackers with a battle cry that echoed from the rock
walls. Caught off guard, one of the attackers stepped too far backward and
tumbled into the darkness. Two of Pryce's men closed in against Pell while the
others circled Tabb. Pryce chuckled.
"Admit it. You've lost." Pryce
slammed Soterius back against the rock wall so hard his head swam.
"Curane's got his own men in the tunnels—they'll take care of the ones who
couldn't cross the rock bridge. It's over." "Not while you're still
breathing."
Pell, bleeding from a score of wounds,
fought his attackers like a wild thing until a blade caught him in the throat.
He staggered and fell to his knees, blood foaming in his mouth. Tabb's
attackers sprang like a wolf pack, and Tabb went down.
Soterius saw Latt raise herself onto her
knees. A trickle of blood flowed from the corner of her mouth and her face was
tight with concentration, as if she were marshalling all of her effort to
overcome the wormroot in her system. A burst of magic streamed from Latt's
outstretched hands. The sigil flared, blinding them for a moment, then went
dark. Latt collapsed face down on the landing and lay still.
I'm dying—and
I'm taking that traitorous dimonn-spawn with me, Soterius thought grimly.
Soterius mustered his failing strength to shift his grip, throttling Pryce. His
battle cry was part defiance, part a howl of rage and pain. He could feel the
blood running down his side beneath his shirt. Pryce tore loose and drew his
sword, although the cramped quarters made a full press awkward. Soterius
staggered and drew his own blade as the caverns around them filled with the
sound of rushing air and ghostly wails.
"What in the name of the Crone—"
Pryce shouted. The wails grew louder and the temperature dropped until their
breath fogged. Streaming from the abyss and from the openings in the rocks,
ghosts swarmed down on
Pryce's soldiers, maws open and teeth
bared. The torches guttered as Pryce's men cried out in terror, cut off from
escape. As the last light flickered, the ghosts' green glow made it just
possible to glimpse the horror of their attack. Pryce's eyes glinted with
desperation as his men fell to the avenging spirits.
Soterius heard the swing of Pryce's sword
blade and threw himself out of the way, bringing up his own blade as he fell
to his knees. His sword caught Pryce in the belly, spilling a steaming mix of
blood and entrails onto the rocks. Soterius struggled to reach his feet, but
his body would not respond. The world around him blurred and lost focus.
Tris dozed
fitfully. It was early evening, long before the
attack would begin, and he knew it might be his last chance for sleep. Just
catching a candlemark of rest now could make the next few days more bearable.
Although he doubted he could, exhaustion won out, and he fell into a troubled
rest.
Tris found himself on the Plains of
Spirit, enveloped by darkness so complete that he could not see his own hands.
A presence rushed at him, tackling Tris before he could fully shield. It was a
creature of the spirit plains, neither ghost nor mortal nor undead, a dimonn.
A second dimonn joined them,
circling for the kill. The first dimonn tightened its grip, and Tris
gasped, feeling it constrict his life force. The dimonn brushed against
his mind, and Tris pushed back hard to repel the images of the dark sending
before they could take hold. The real danger was the dimonn's grip,
gradually drawing down his life energy. He knew he must break free or die.
Tris summoned his power, fueled by the
fear that pumped through his blood. He reached for the magic and it slipped
from his grasp. He reached again, focusing intently. The magic fluctuated
erratically. The dimonns lunged for him.
A brilliant flash of light erupted from
his fingertips, making the Plains of Spirit brighter than noonday. Tris bucked
at the dimonn with his body and power, throwing it clear. The second dimonn
howled and streaked toward him on the Plains of Spirit, but Tris raised a
wall of fire between them. Before the dimonn could strike again, Tris
doubled the fire, snapping the flames like a curtain around the dark spirit
until its howl became an ear-splitting scream. Hotter still the fire burned. Tris
poured his fear and rage into his magic and his heart thudded in his ears. A
mortal or vayash mom would have been instantly incinerated in those
flames. Tris sent a final surge of power and held it until he felt the dimonn's
energy wink out of existence. Where the flames had been was a scorched
circle of ash. The dimonn was gone. Forced back by the flames, the
second dimonn howled and disappeared.
With a rush, Tris returned to
consciousness. His eyes snapped open, and he saw a dark figure above his cot.
A blade glinted in the firelight. He threw himself to one side. Suddenly his
attacker jerked, and blood spurted from his mouth as the point of a sword tore
through his cloak from beneath his ribs. Behind the assassin stood Coalan,
still holding the pommel of his short sword two-handed, his face an expression
of horror and determination. With a gurgle, the attacker slid from the blade,
crumpling at the foot of Tris's cot.
"Sweet Chenne." Tris stood and
moved slowly toward Coalan.
"What happened?" Senne was the
first to reach the tent, throwing the flap aside as soldiers rushed in behind
him.
Tris placed his arm around Coalan's shoulders.
"You're all right now." He pried the sword from Coalan's grip and
handed it to a soldier to clean the blade. Then he guided Coalan to a chair by
the fire, and returned to the trunk at the foot of his bed to pour a glass of
brandy. Color returned to Coalan's face as he sipped the drink, but his hand
still shook hard enough to spill the liquor.
Tris looked at Senne. "Curane's blood
mages conjured dimonns. Without a spirit mage they can't actually
control them, but any blood mage can invite one to parlay and bargain with it.
They tried to kill me on the Plains of Spirit. I suspect they sent an assassin
to make sure the job was done. Lucky for me, Coalan's a light sleeper."
Senne walked to the body and toed it over
to lie face up. He reached down at snatched away the hood. "Dear
Goddess."
Tarq lay dead on the floor.
"We wondered whether Curane had someone
in the ranks. Now we know. What about the men he sent with Soterius?"
Tris stretched out his power along the
Plains of Spirit, calling for Soterius and the men who went with him to the
caves. One by one, the ghosts appeared. Pell, Latt, Tabb, Hoyt, and the rest.
All but Soterius. It was obvious from their death wounds that Pell, Tabb, and
Latt had died in battle. Coalan cried out as the ghosts manifested, and Senne
cursed.
"What happened?" Tris asked,
struggling to find his voice, overwhelmed by Tarq's betrayal
Tris and Senne listened gravely as Pell's
ghost told the tale. "What about Uncle Ban?" Coalan said..
"I saw Soterius struggling with Pryce
and I saw him bring Pryce down, but then, everything went dark." Pell
sighed. "We were too freshly dead for our spirits to interfere."
"I destroyed the sigil that kept the
ghosts from entering the caves. It was the-last thing I did," Latt said.
"The wormroot was too strong."
"If Ban's not among you, then he's
not dead."
"What about Pryce and his men?"
Senne asked. "They're not here."
"Not yet."
Tris reached out his hand and clenched his
fist. He sent his power out along the Plains of Spirit until he found the
ghosts of Pryce and his men where they fled from his call. He dragged their
spirits screaming back from the nether plains, until they stood before him.
Tarq's ghost was with them, as stiff and straight in death as he had been in
life.
"You betrayed them," Tris
accused.
Pryce's smile was ugly. "We took out
our objective. Just business."
"They were your comrades. They
trusted you."
"If we survived, Tarq said we'd be
rich men. What did we have here except soldiers' pay?"
"Honor," Senne spat. "You
had honor."
"I can't eat honor."
Tris struggled against his rage. Remember
Lemuel. Remember the Obsidian King.
Pryce looked at Tris. "If Soterius
isn't here yet, he will be soon. He was bleeding like a stuck pig when he went
down."
The adrenalin from the assassination
attempt still pounded in Tris's veins, fueling the raw emotion that found
expression in his power. "Go to the dimonn," he said,
unclenching his fist to let his power hurl the unrepentant ghosts back onto the
Plains of Spirit. The dimonn Curane's mages had summoned still prowled
the shadows of the netherworld, denied its meal. In Tris's mage sight, he saw
the dimonn set itself on the ghosts, and heard it rend their souls as it
fed on the last of their energy, saw their spirits wink out of existence as
their cries fell silent.
When he returned to himself, Tris was shaking
violently. The others were staring at him, ashen-faced.
"I don't know what just
happened," Senne said, his usually imperturbable manner shaken. "But
I think Ban and the others have been avenged."
Goddess help me. What did I do?
"Find me two vayash moru we
can spare. Send them to the caves. Latt broke the ward-ings, so they should be
able to enter. None of our men can get past where the path collapsed. If Ban's
alive, I want him found."
"Immediately, sire," Senne said,
bowing low and heading out the door.
Tris drew a deep breath and turned to face
Pell and the remaining ghosts.
"I owed them a court martial,"
Tris said quietly.
Pell managed a wan smile. "I've
always heard that the penalty for murdering your own officers was death—no
trial required."
"Perhaps so," Tris replied. He
looked at Pell. "Would you go to your rest now?"
Pell glanced around at his fallen
comrades. Slowly, they shook their heads. "We came to
fight this war," Pell said. "And
we're going to finish it."
Soterius lay
still for what seemed like forever. Low in his back where
Pryce's knife had ripped through his skin below his cuirass, it felt as if his
insides were on fire. I'm going to die here. Tris won't know until it's too
late that Tarq betrayed us. I've failed.
The ghosts swirled around him as he
slipped in and out of consciousness. Whether the growing cold was from the
spirits' presence or his coming death, he didn't know. "Is there anyone
else out there? Anyone?" Silence greeted him.
"Well, now I understand about the
Ruune Vidaya," he mumbled to no one. Watching the vengeful ghosts shred
Pryce's soldiers like starving wolves had been the worst thing he had witnessed
in all of his soldiering. "At least I won't lose sleep over it."
Nothing would wake him from his next sleep, nothing except the soulsong of the
Lady. Soterius drew a long, painful breath. He closed his eyes. I'm ready.
It's over.
"Got him."
The man's voice sounded close by, although
Soterius couldn't tell whether he heard it or imagined it. Impossibly strong
arms lifted him from the rock ledge. He opened his eyes, but the darkness was
complete. His rescuer took one step and then lifted from the ground, and
the brush of cold air against his skin
told him they were moving. "Hang on," a voice whispered.
"Rest." The last word sounded with compulsion, an undeniable request.
Soterius resigned himself to the darkness.
For the second time, the Margolan army forced its siege machines through the snow
toward the walls of Lochlanimar. The heavy battering ram creaked and groaned as
vayash moru soldiers added their inhuman strength to the horses' effort.
Two rows of archers with long bows kept up a constant cover of arrows to
protect their approach. The vayash moru, clad with helms and chest
plates, regarded the arrows of the enemy as annoyances, pulling them from their
arms and legs as if they were stinging gnats. The heavily armored horses were
happy to be rid of their burden just beyond Curane's archers' best firing
range, leaving the burden to the vayash moru. Mortal soldiers armed with
throwing axes and broadswords kept careful watch along the moat and the castle
footings, alert for asheten-erath or the blood-magicked corpses from the
moat.
Trebuchets on both sides sent deadly
missiles into the air. Bags filled with shards -of metal and nails pulled from
fence posts and old barns hurtled through the air, ready to explode with the
force of impact and send shrapnel through the bodies of the soldiers behind the
walls. Curane's trebuchets hurled flaming corpses, heavy rocks, and splintered glass and
pottery. The bombardment was too solid for Tris and Fallon to be able to
deflect every one. To his right, Tris saw a hail of broken glass reach its
target, cutting down his men in a spray of blood.
Beside Tris, Fallon raised her hands,
muttering to herself and raising her face to the winds. The air shifted and
the wind came about, favoring the Margolan archers. Tris could feel the magic
around them roiling. Even this small magic from Fallon took great skill against
the balky Flow. Tris felt the blood magic swell before it struck, a wall of
fire erupting down the castle walls, fire that burned men but not rock. Tris
could hear the screams of soldiers and vayash moru as burning men jumped
into the stinking moat or rolled in the snow to put out the flames. Tris
focused his power and struck back, imagining the flames snuffed like a candle
wick.
Rum kegs with burning rags stuffed in
their tap holes flew through the air, hurled by Curane's forces. They exploded
not far in front of the platform where Tris and Fallon stood.
Too late, Tris felt a presence focus on
his power. Pain like a sheet of fire descended on both Tris and Fallon, driving
them to their knees. Tris struggled against the bucking Flow to send power to
his shields. He felt Fallon's shields fail completely and heard her cry out in
agony, writhing in the snow.
Tris lashed out, sending all of his magic
burning back along the trail the pain spell had left in the Flow. Linked to
his tormentor by the pain spell, Tris felt his own magic explode along the
channels of magic.
Tris focused his entire being on a single
thought: burn.
With a lurch, Tris felt his magic reach
its target. Tris felt his power reach the mage's life thread and wrenched the
magic in his mind until it consumed the blue glow of the mage's life. Screams
echoed in his mind as the fire destroyed both body and soul.
Fallon grabbed him by the shoulders.
"What did you do?"
It took all his concentration to focus his
eyes. "Evened the odds."
Flames streaked across the night sky like
meteors. Anything at hand became fodder for the trebuchets. Tris and Fallon
could barely react in time to protect their troops from the worst of the
attack. The battering ram kept up its steady thudding. The walls of Lochlanimar
were giving way. Crenellations broke loose and fell, crushing men with their
deadly rain of stone.
"Do you hear?"
"What?"
"They've stopped launching,"
.Fallon said, looking up. "Do you think—"
"Shield!"
All of Curane's trebuchets fired at once,
sending cauldrons filled with molten lead into
the air. As the cauldrons tumbled, they
sprayed the ground and the troops with gobs of burning metal that instantly
stripped flesh from bones. Tris called for his magic and felt the Flow snap.
Strands of blue-white power, like a flail of lightning, whipped toward them.
One of the tendrils caught him by the leg, searing into his thigh. There was
magic all around him, wild and dangerous. He could hear Fallon screaming but
he couldn't see her. The great river of power that was the Flow glowed
blindingly bright in his mage sense. Tris knew that if more of the tendrils
gripped him he would die.
Dimly, Tris could hear the shouts of
soldiers and the thunder of hoof beats. The real world was at the edge of his
senses. Raw, wild magic engulfed him like a vortex and Tris was no longer
certain whether he was still alive or whether it was his soul the white-hot
river of power sought. His own magic was out of reach, further beyond his touch
than ever since its awakening. The Flow surrounded him, filled him. In its
surging power, Tris heard a howl of pain, as if the Flow knew it had gone mad.
He could see nothing but blood, hear nothing but the screams of men and the
howling of the Flow.
Tris's entire
body ached and he wanted to throw up. A familiar feeling
tingled through him. Wormroot?
"Take it easy. You're safe." Esme's
voice. "We had to use wormroot to break the hold of the magic. We almost
didn't get you clear in time. Our troops broke through part of the outer wall,
but the casualties were high. Senne and Palinn ordered the men to fall back and
regroup. Rest now."
He grabbed her wrist and forced himself to
open his eyes. Even the candlelight was too bright. "How bad?"
"Ana is dead. Whatever happened to
the magic consumed her. None of the other mages are in any better shape than
you are, and some are considerably worse. Half of Curane's keep is in flames.
We lost half a dozen vayash moru and one of the battering rams. As for
the rest of the troops—the counts are just now coming in. We may not know the
full toll until morn-ing."
"Ban?"
"Trefor found him. He's alive, but
he's in bad shape."
"How long until the wormroot wears
off?"
Esme looked worried. "You're in no
condition—"
"I'm a Summoner and their king. My
place is out there, with the soldiers. If I can touch the magic, then I can
help you heal, or make the passage for the dying."
"It's going to be several candlemarks
until the wormroot works its way out of your system. Why
don't you sleep until
then? You
aren't in any better shape than most of
the wounded." "I've been worse. Ask Carina."
Against Esme's
advice, Tris dragged himself out of his cot as
soon as the wormroot wore off. Only then did he realize that he was in his own
tent, and that Soterius lay on a cot nearby. Coalan managed a faint smile in
acknowledgement. Tris ignored the pounding in his head and knelt next to
Soterius's cot.
"How is he?"
"Not much changed from when they
brought him here." Coalan brought Tris a bowl of porridge from a pot by
the fire and poured him a cup of kerif. The strong, bitter drink cleared
his head.
Tris laid a hand on Soterius's arm.
Carefully, he reached out to touch the magic. The power was elusive, but no
longer wildly convulsing. Tris let himself stretch out, searching for the life
thread he knew belonged to Soterius. The thread burned dim but steady. He could
feel the remnants of Esme's healing power. Despite the dim blue glow of the
life thread, Tris could feel how bad the damage was, and how much pain had been
blunted by the healer's drugs.
"You don't look like you should be
up," Coalan said.
"It's because of me that they're
here," Tris said standing. "It's my burden to get them home again. If
we can't beat Curane, we'll have the armies from Trevath and Nargi beating down
our gates before summer. If Margolan falls, Isencroft falls with it, and the
rest of the kingdoms will be fighting for a generation."
Tris winced as he pulled a tunic over his
head and grabbed his cloak. He pulled back the tent flap. The harsh sunlight on
the snow made him shield his eyes from the glare. "By the Whore," he
whispered, looking out over the camp and the plains beyond it.
Bodies littered the trampled snow between
the camp and Lochlanimar. The battering ram remained where it was, charred and
useless. The walls of Lochlanimar were blackened and the eastern tower had
partially collapsed. The walls were pockmarked from the bombardment and in
many places the crenellations had fallen, leaving gaps like missing teeth along
the upper walls. The air was still and cold. Tris looked out over the camp.
At the end furthest from Curane's castle,
Tris saw the dead stacked on cleared ground, wrapped in whatever was at hand to
shroud them. Firewood was too scarce for a pyre and the ground too hard to dig
graves, and so men formed a relay line, handing along chunks of the stones
hurled by the enemy's trebuchets to make a cairn. A lone piper and a drummer
played a mournful tune. Clutching his cloak against the bitter wind, Tris
walked through the camp. Soldiers made way for him with deference, but no one
spoke.
He wasn't surprised to find Senne
overseeing the cairn-building. Senne looked worn, as if he had aged since the
start of the campaign. He made a perfunctory bow as Tris approached.
"How many dead?" Tris asked.
"Since we can't safely clear the
field, we won't know for certain until a count is complete. If I had to guess,
I'd say we lost about three hundred, and at least that number wounded in the
battle at the gates. Fever's taken another two hundred. It may kill more than
Curane's archers do before this is over."
Tris stepped forward and raised his hands
toward the cairn. The crowd and the piper fell silent, and the drummer stopped
his drumming. It hurt to reach for the magic, as if the channels of power had
been seared. On the nether plain, it took all the power Tris could harness to
make the spirits visible for the living.
The spirits of the dead soldiers turned
toward him, a formation of gray ghosts rank upon rank. They watched his every
move, as if the warmth of his living spirit might offer them comfort in the
darkness. "I can't bring you back to life, but I can make your passage to
the Lady," Tris said. One of the men stepped forward and struck his
chest. As one, the ghosts echoed the salute.
"In life and in death, we'll follow
where you lead."
Tris looked out over the faces of the
dead. "You know what's at stake." In the distance,
he could hear the soulsong of the Lady
offering her respite, and he knew that the ghosts also heard that sweet song.
"I won't bind you here, but if you wish to remain to fight, we'd welcome
your help."
One by one, the spirits of the fallen
soldiers knelt. To a man, they remained. "Thank you." Tris spoke the
words aloud, and his voice caught. "When this is over, I'll make your passage
to the Lady."
The magic wavered and threatened to slip
beyond his grasp. Tris turned to face the crowd of soldiers who had assembled.
Many of the soldiers were no older than he, and some were several years
younger. In their faces he saw the shock and loss of battle. The same innocence
that had died in his own heart was gone for them as well. In the faces of the
older men, Tris saw quiet acceptance. These were the men who had lost family
and entire villages to Jared, men who would not curse Death's coming if it
ended memory and dreams.
"We're all that stands between
Margolan and the darkness," Tris said, shouting to be heard above the
wind. "If we let Curane's forces win, our children and their children will
never know anything better than the yoke and the chain. On this thin line,
Margolan will stand or fall, and with it, the Winter Kingdoms."
Somewhere in the ranks, one man began to
clap. Others took up the beat until the entire camp rang with clapping, wave
upon wave
breaking the winter stillness. It echoed
off the stone walls of Lochlanimar, loud enough to shake the snow from the
trees.
"There's your mandate," Senne
said quietly. "They know the odds, and the price. And to a man, we'll
follow you to the Crone if that's what it will take to save Margolan."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"What
in the name of the Crone happened out there?" Curane thundered.
Cadoc looked up. The air mage was badly
bruised, and one eye was swollen shut. Beside him, Dirmed, a fire mage, was in
worse shape. One arm was badly burned, and his hair was singed from his head on
one side of his scalp. "The magic went wild," Cadoc said.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that that damned energy
river is going mad," Dirmed said. The right side of his face was peeling
from a burn. "It threw our power back on us. The Flow's unstable. All the
magic's making it worse."
"And Finten?"
Dirmed shrugged. "Finten was unlucky.
We think he struck close to Martris Drayke. Our guess is that, Drayke latched
onto the power and used it as a channel for his own magic. Finten was standing
next to me when he caught on fire. It wasn't pretty."
"A dozen mages, and the best you can
do is make some people down in the ginnels sick," Curane replied.
Cadoc glared. "Blood magic is slow
and costly. Every time we do a blood working, one of us is half dead for at
least two days. And each time we experiment with another nasty little pox, the
Flow gets further out of reach. It's starting to break apart."
"How can a river of energy break
apart?" Curane flicked his hand dismissively. "Can the wind break
apart? Can the sea split itself down the middle? I'm tired of excuses."
"I've found that magic is the answer
to every problem—for people who aren't mages," Cadoc said. He took a step
toward Curane, fury in his eyes. "I've lost three apprentices conjuring up
poxes for you. We've had to lock down half the ginnels because of it. At least
a quarter of the villagers are dead. No one's been in or out of midquarters
since we locked the yetts, but from the smell, it's a good bet they're dead. I
don't know how many Margolan men the plagues are killing, but they've probably
murdered more of our own people than the enemy."
"There's only so much lime we can
dump from the walkways," Dirmed said. "And no
way to keep the rats and the vultures from
spreading what's on the other side of the gates. If the Margolan army does
break through the wall, they'll likely find a city of the dead."
Curane smiled. "Let them. Plague's
cheaper than soldiers. Your magic protects us."
"For now," Cadoc said. "But
if the Flow fails us, the magic dies with it—and so do we."
"This'll be over before that
happens." Curane replied.
"Is that why you sent the girl and
her baby away? Because you're sure victory is imminent?" Dirmed asked.
"I sent them away because the girl
needs a stern hand and I know of no one more suited to the task than Lady Monteith.
Lady Montei-th can turn that slip of a girl into the mother of a king and show
her the proper way to raise a prince. When the boy is older, Lord Monteith can
introduce him to the Trevath court. It's about time King Nikolaj realized that
I've presented him with an outstanding opportunity."
"The fact remains that we're as hard
pressed inside the walls as the Margolan army is outside," General
Drostan said. "It's true that with fewer villagers our firewood and
supplies have lasted longer, but the villagers who are still alive are getting
desperate. They fear the plague more than the army outside. I don't have the
guards to put down an insurrection and fight a siege."
"Then take hostages. Separate out the
essential workers and guarantee their compliance by taking their families as
surety. You're a military man, Drostan. You can figure this out."
"With all due respect, Lord Curane,
the battle has gone hard on 'military men.' We lost General Arnalt when the
East tower collapsed in the bombardment. General Eddig burned with his garrison
when one of the fireballs hit the south wallwalk. General Nerin lost an eye to
shrapnel. Siencen and I are the only two generals still uninjured. Our ranks
are down by a third. There's precious little room to dodge boulders inside
stone walls," Droston said.
"Are we beaten so easily by a boy
king?" Curane thundered. "Every day, Martris Drayke becomes more
vulnerable. His army weakens. And while he's busy here, our man at Shekerishet
grows closer to solving another problem.
"The net's tightening around the new
queen. And as it does, our partners in Isen-croft are making sure that Donelan
is far too busy with his own problems to worry about Margolan." Curane
smiled. "Great plans take time. Just a while longer, and we'll be the regents
behind the crown—not just of Margolan, but of Isencroft as well. A handsome
payoff for a bit of messy work, wouldn't you say?"
"I learned a long time ago that a
soldier should never count on his pay until the battle's been fought,"
Drosten replied. "Especially when magic's involved."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Isencroft
night was bitter cold.
For two months, Kev had watched and
reported. The bit of information the stable boy provided had helped
"Kev?"
"Kev's right here." A pox-faced
man easily
"Let him go."
The pox-faced man shook his head.
"Too late for that."
Kev's eyes grew wide, but there was no
chance for him to scream. The man behind him drew his dagger across the boy's
throat in one swift movement, slitting him from ear to ear. Blood soaked Kev's
shirt and his body tumbled to the floor.
"Leave him as a warning," the
pox-scarred man said. He looked to
catching his attacker off guard and
throwing him clear. He overturned a hopper of feed, filling the air with dust
and momentarily blinding his attackers.
"Get him."
Four fighters approached him from the
right, and three more from the left.
It was over. Someone bound his wrists
tightly with rough rope. One of his attackers punched him in the kidneys and
"I expected better from the king's
champion." He delivered a hard
punch to
"Go to the Whore."
The pox-scarred man shrugged. "We'll
see." He reached out for
He turned his attention back to Cam.
"I think our luck just turned. And so did yours."
Fading in and out of consciousness, Cam
tried to count the turns and bridges as the wagon lurched along the rutted
roads. Every bump jarred his broken leg, sending shooting pains from ankle to
thigh. His hands were
numb from the ropes that secured his
wrists. He struggled to breathe with the dust. Cam could feel the roads change
as the wagon rolled from the town's plank road onto the hard-packed dirt of the
main road, and then onto a rough farm road. Finally, the horses stopped and two
men dragged him down from the wagon. .
"Damn, he's heavy."
"Shut up and lift."
They dumped him on the floor and jerked
off the hood. Cam blinked and coughed. They were in an old millhouse. In the
shadows, he could hear rats. Cold winds blew though the rickety walls and up
through the paddle-wheel's opening. One of the men secured Cam's wrists to the
prongs of the massive gears behind him. "He's not going anywhere, not on
that leg."
The pox-faced man left his conversation
and walked toward Cam. "I gather you've been wanting to meet me. I'm
Leather John."
"Donelan won't pay a ransom, if
that's what you're after. He'll hang hostage-takers before he'll negotiate."
Leather John shrugged. "Suits me.
We're not afraid. Not afraid of the King's Champion, and not afraid of the
king. All we want is an independent Isencroft."
"You won't get it from Curane, if
that's what you're thinking."
"Who said anything about Curane?"
"That's who Ruggs is dealing with,
isn't it? What'd he promise you? That if you keep Isen-croft tied up while
Curane wins the throne in Margolan, he'll send Kiara and the baby back here and
everything will be wrapped up with a bow?"
"What do you know about Curane?"
Leather John's voice was dangerous.
Cam was too angry to worry. "Curane's
got Jared's bastard son locked up in a keep on the Margolan plains. If Tris
Drayke dies, that bastard becomes king of Margolan—with Curane as his regent.
Jared wanted Isencroft all along. So will Curane—Isencroft and Margolan. He's
just keeping you busy until it's too late."
"You're lying."
"Why else would Curane care about
your rebellion? What's in it for him?"
"You're lying!" Leather John's
voice rose a notch and he backhanded Cam hard enough that Cam's vision blurred.
"I've been to Margolan. I've seen
what Jared's done to it. Towns looted. Farms burned. Whole villages
hanged—"
"Shut up! Shut the hell up!"
Leather John tore a strip from a feedback and gagged Cam with it. He was
breathing hard and his eyes were wide. "No more lies."
Leather John turned to his men. "Send
out the raiders tonight. Burn out anyone who gets in our way. Start with the
Stray Dog Inn. Let's make sure Donelan gets our message." Leather
John raised his sword. "Isencroft
independ-"Isencroft Independent! Isencroft Independ-He jerked Cam by the
hair to look at him. "The people don't want a joint kingdom. We don't want
Margolan taking our women, polluting the blood. Curane understands about
blood. He understands. Blood tells."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
"There's
Truly no end to the people who've come," Carina exclaimed as she
looked out at the courtyard of waiting patients. Old women, carried in carts or
on the backs of men, women with difficult pregnancies, children with fevers,
and wounds that would not heal. Despite her efforts, each new day lengthened
the line of those who waited.
"They've come from several days'
ride," Neirin observed. "Perhaps they fear that after the wedding
next week, your priorities may shift to other concerns."
Carina smiled. "I doubt it. Jonmarc
knew when he brought me here that healing was part of the bargain." A
month had passed since Winterstide, and true to his oath, Jonmarc had set a
date for a
ritual wedding. After
the
disturbances at the holiday, Dark Haven
had been quiet, falling into the slower rhythms of winter. Talk of the wedding
captivated the gossips, and many of the people who came for healing wished
Carina well or gave her a wedding blessing.
"It's the first time in a hundred
years that the Lord of Dark Haven has taken a bride here at the manor,"
Neirin said, smiling. "Quite an honor for us. And an omen, perhaps, of
brighter things to come."
"Right now, the only omen I want is
to smell lunch cooking," Carina laughed. "It's just mid-morning, but
I'm famished!"
"I'll have the kitchen send up
something," Neirin promised. His attention was distracted by a noise near
the doorway. A young man pushed through the crowd, still brushing snow from his
heavy cloak. He made a low bow when he approached Carina.
"Greetings, Lady Vahanian."
Carina looked at the newcomer. He was
slightly built, perhaps a few years younger than herself, with close-cropped
reddish-blond hair and a patchy beard. His skin was reddened from the cold, and
his cloak was wet with snow. "My name is Adon, from the village of
Westormere. They sent me here to see if I could convince you to come back with
me. There's a fever taken hold, a bad one. Our hedge witches tried, but they
can't do nothing for it, and some of them took sick as well." He dropped
to one knee and bowed his head. "Please, m'lady, I know it's a lot to ask,
but I'm afraid for my village. There were three dead just this morning.
There's no one else who can put it right."
"How far away is Westormere?"
Adon raised his head. "Not a
candlemark distant, m'lady."
Carina looked at Neirin. "I could be
back before sundown. If it's plague, there's no time to waste."
"I'd feel better if Lord Vahanian
rode with you. He's out in the fields. Please, m'lady, wait until he gets back.
Go in the morning."
Carina looked at Adon. "How many in
your village are sick?"
"Almost all, m'lady. My farm's on the
very edge, that's why I was well enough to ride. There are about sixty people
in the town, m'lady. Might be about a handful that aren't feverish. Please,
m'lady. They'll die if you don't come."
Carina looked back to Neirin. "I need
to go," she said. "Please, make the people here as comfortable as you
can while they wait. I'll be back before sundown."
"Please, Carina, you must take guards
with you. Lord Jonmarc would never forgive me if I let you go without
protection."
"Fine with me—sounds like I'll have
work for them to do when we get there."
Less than a candlemark later, Carina,
Adon, and ten of Jonmarc's guards were on the road
for Westormere. Bundled in Carina's saddlebags
were enough herbs and poultices to treat a wide range of maladies. The snow was
deep as a tall man's knees, and even on the road, it was higher than the
horses' hocks. Nothing moved in the forest except hares flushed from cover by
the sound of their approach.
Though it was not quite midday, no one was
about in the streets. Shops were closed and no guard met them at the village
edge. Carina heard the bleating of sheep and lowing of cattle unused to
remaining all day in their pens, their keepers too ill to take them afield.
"Come with me, m'lady," Adon
said, helping Carina down from her horse. "I can take you to the houses of
those who are the sickest. Then we can set you up in the tavern great room, and
the rest can come to you there. No one's about, so I doubt the tavern keeper
will mind."
Carina pressed two of her guards into
service carrying her saddle bags of medicines. Four went to patrol the town,
and the other four remained close to Carina, walking two ahead and two behind.
In this small village, Carina felt embarrassed by the guards' presence, but she
knew Jonmarc would angry if she were to go without protection. He would be
upset enough when he learned about the trip, she thought resignedly.
Adon knocked at the front door of the
first house, a wattle and daub home next to the bakery.
A faint groan answered them as they pushed the door open. It was cold inside.
The fire had died down to embers, and Carina sent a guard to fetch wood and build
up the fire once more. Adon helped her light the only two lamps in the
building, and Carina sent another guard in search of lanterns. Huddled in bed
were a woman and her two children.
"I'm a healer," Carina said with
a smile, hoping to win the woman's trust. "I'm here to help."
The woman and her children were hot with
fever, their skin flushed, and their hair matted with sweat.
"It's grippe," Carina said,
leaning back once her examination was complete. "Worse than what I've seen
up at the manor, but I can help." She beckoned for Adon. "I can't do
this alone. For this much healing, I'll need to draw energy from other people.
It doesn't hurt and it won't harm you—you'll be a little tired, that's all.
Will you permit me to draw from you?"
She saw a flicker of fear in the young
man's eyes, then he set his jaw. "Do what you must, m'lady. Most of this
village is kin to me. Whatever I have is yours."
Within another half a candlemark, Carina
had reduced her patients' fever. The guards, many of whom had seen her heal at
Dark Haven, willingly took turns with Adon lending her strength. Carina
instructed Adon to warm broth on the fire, and to spoon what their patients
could swallow into their mouths to build up their strength. After a time, she
sat back on her haunches, grateful for a cup of kerif one of the guards
pressed into her hands.
"I'll leave herbs with you,"
Carina said to Adon, part of the running narrative she kept up with the young
man as she worked. "I'll show you how to make teas and poultices, so that
you can keep the sickness from going down to their lungs. You've got to keep
them warm—bring the sheep and goats into the houses if you need to. The cold
will kill them."
In each of the village's small homes she
found much the same—a family huddled in bed, wracked with fever, weakened from
being unable to rise to get their own food. Fires burned nearly out, patients
dehydrated from lack of water. Candlemarks passed and Carina, Adon, and the
guards did everything they could to save those not already too far gone. It was
not uncommon to find four or five people huddled in bed together, with some too
sick to realize that one or more of their bedmates were dead. Carina had the
guards wrap the bodies as best they could and carry them outside, storing them
in a large woodshed until proper burial could be made.
"Here, eat this," Adon said,
pressing a chunk of hard cheese into Carina's hands. She smiled gratefully,
aware that the cold winter sun was already high in the sky and that she was
beginning to feel lightheaded.
"I've never seen a
healer who could bring back someone from
the arms of the Lady."
"I've had a lot of practice,"
Carina said, sipping the last of her kerif.
So many of the villagers were near death
that the healing went slowly. Carina lost track of time in the dark, smokey
houses.
"These are my mother and my two
sisters," Adon introduced three haggard-looking women who joined them
midday. Carina immediately set the women to work scavenging for root
vegetables and dried meat to create a large cauldron of soup on the tavern
hearth.
The winter sky glowed red, setting the
bare trees in silhouette as Carina finished the last of her patients. Casson,
captain of the guards, shook his head, hands on hips, looking at the sunset.
"It's late, m'lady. Too dangerous to
ride back to Dark Haven tonight. Lord Jonmarc would have my head if I let you
ride through the forest at night."
"You're very welcome to stay
here," Adon said quickly. "The tavern keeper is my uncle. There's
space enough for the men if they'll sleep two or three to a room, and a room
for you, Lady Vahanian. It would be our honor." He grinned. "I shall
be your host, minstrel, and servant."
"Bless you," Carina said,
feeling her mood lighten for the first time all day. "I accept your
hospitality with all my heart!"
True to his word, Adon found them enough
in the tavern kitchen for a meal of bread, dried fruits, meats and fresh
cheese. Carina was grateful for the hot tea, and cradled the mug in her hands.
She was exhausted. And while she had healed the villagers for the moment, there
was no guarantee that they would remain healthy unless they were able to stay
warm and get enough food to build up their strength. She sighed. More than
anything, she longed for the chance to stretch out and sleep.
A candlemark after sunset, the sound of
distant wailing rose in the cold air. Carina exchanged glances with her
guards, who ran to the tavern windows. The wailing grew louder, closer, and
Carina shivered despite herself.
"M'lady, what is that?" Adon
asked.
"I don't know," Carina replied.
Her guards drew their swords and took positions around the great room, urging
Adon's mother and sisters into the main room. The walls of the tavern shook,
and a loud crash nearby made them'jump. Every window in the tavern shattered;
a gust of bitter wind swept through the great room extinguishing all the
candles except for a single shuttered lantern hanging on a chain from the
ceiling in the middle of the room. The wind made the lantern swing violently,
sending a dizzying pattern of light and shadow across the room. Adon's mother
and sisters dived under one of the tables.
Carina grabbed a walking stick left behind
by one of the inn's patrons. In the dim light of the lantern, she saw Adon's
face, wide-eyed with fear. The young man drew a hunting knife from the sheath
at his belt and stood braced for a fight. The
main door exploded into the room, sending the guard behind it sprawling. Dark
shapes swept into the room with the wind, and Carina felt a coldness that had
nothing to do with the bitter winter air.
Vayash moru, she
thought, sensing the presence of the undead. It has to be Uri's brood.
Their war is beginning!
Black-clad shapes moved in a blur. One of
the figures lifted Casson like a toy, bent his head against the soldier's neck
and ripped open his throat in a single, fluid movement. In the dizzying light
of the swinging lantern, a guard ran at the black clad figures with a battle
cry, sword slashing. One of the vayasb moru stepped forward, easily
blocking the sword with his bare forearm, moving his other hand to rip out the
soldier's throat with his nails.
Carina heard tables being thrown aside and
the women's screams reached a frantic pitch. There was silence, and then the
sound of bodies falling to the floor. For a moment, Carina saw four
black-garbed figures facing them in the weak light of the single candle. She
could hear the breathing of the soldiers and, pressed together as they were,
she could sense their
fear. Beside her, Adon kept his grip
steady on his knife.
The black figures moved as one, with no
sound but the rush of air. Adon gave a strangled cry and stepped in front of
Carina. "Adon, no!"
Half-mad with terror and rage, the young
man dived at the nearest figure, landing a solid blow with his knife. Carina
screamed as the figure casually reached out and grabbed Adon by the forearms,
bending forward to press his mouth against the young man's neck. Adon gave a
single scream and slumped in the figure's hold.
"She's mine."
Carina wheeled. There was just enough
light to make out the figure that strode in through the kitchen door. Dressed
in black but wearing no hood, Malesh was smiling. "Greetings, Lady
Vahanian."
Carina held her ground. "The Blood
Council won't let you get away with this."
"I don't recognize the Blood
Council's authority." Malesh walked closer. "Nor do I recognize a
mortal Lord of Dark Haven."
Carina swung her staff at him, connecting
with full force across his shoulders. The staff snapped, and Malesh laughed.
"Did you enjoy the show? After all, you're the reason I'm here." He
moved toward her in a blur, grabbing Carina by the upper arms in a painfully
tight grip. "You, m'lady, are the key to Dark Haven.
Dark Haven must have an immortal lord. I'll make you my immortal lady."
"Why me?"
Malesh's smile broadened. "Because
taking you destroys Vahanian."
Malesh drew her close against him in an
unbreakable embrace and lowered his mouth against her neck. His lips were soft,
seductive, and she fought revulsion as he kissed her throat.
Pain flared as his teeth pierced her skin.
Carina gasped. Malesh wrapped his arms around her, crushing her against him so
tightly that she could barely breathe. The room around her swam. Her healer's
senses screamed a warning in her mind and she knew that she was losing blood
fast. Her heart thudded as her body weakened. She felt a wave of vertigo and a
growing coldness as her knees buckled. Pinpricks of light danced in her
vision, and her sight blurred.
Malesh eased her to the floor, and slid up
one sleeve of his coat, exposing his forearm. With a single slash of his nail,
he opened a vein and pressed it against Carina's lips. He forced her jaws open,
yanking her head back by the hair as drop after crimson drop fell into her
mouth.
Jonmarc, forgive me.
CHAPTER THIRTY
"What
do you mean, she rode to West-ormere?"
Neirin flinched. "She took ten guards
with her, m'lord. They left before noon, fully intending to be back before
sunset. If the village was as sick as the young man said, an afternoon might
not have been enough."
"Or maybe the entire thing was a
set-up. We don't know who the messenger was, or whether someone put him up to
it." Jonmarc warred with himself over what to do. Ride for Westormere, and
he and his men might ride into a trap—or merely incur Carina's ire by meeting her
group on the road back. Wait for dawn, and they would be too late if the messenger
had been a ploy.
"M'lord! Open the door!"
Vahanian drew his sword and cautiously
went to open the door. A runner stood in the doorway, his eyes wide and his
cheeks red with the bitter cold. "M'lord! A vayasb moru just
dropped a body off at the main gates. Two of the vayasb moru guards went
after him, but they lost him. The body's been drained, m'lord. This was beside
it in the snow." The young man held out his hand and opened his fist.
Carina's shevir, crushed and twisted, lay on his palm.
"Call up the guard—mortal and vayash
moru." Jonmarc said when he found his voice. "We ride for
Westormere." He paused, and looked at the runner. "Have the guards
tell no one about this. Do you understand?"
The runner nodded, wide-eyed, and left to
do as he was bid.
Gabriel met Jonmarc's eyes. "The
bracelet doesn't prove that Malesh has Carina. It could even be a copy. If you
ride out, you're playing into his hands."
Jonmarc sheathed his sword and reached for
his great cloak from the peg on the wall. "I promised her I would always
come for her. I'm going to keep that promise."
Jonmarc's soldiers pushed their horses as
fast as the snow covered roads would allow. The vyrkin caught up to them
just outside the manor, and loped alongside, making the trek seem effortless.
The guard rode with swords drawn, on alert for danger, but the forest and
the roads were empty. And as they rode,
Jonmarc struggled to quell fear that threatened to rise into panic.
Finally, Westormere came into view. Lights
glowed in the windows of the tavern and the houses. It was clear from the snow
that Carina's party had traveled this way. Jonmarc chafed at the delay as the
group stopped just outside the village gates. A soldier dismounted and warily
approached the guard seated in the small gate room. At a distance, Jonmarc
could see the soldier speak to the man without success. He gently shook the
guard, and the man slipped from his chair to the ground.
At Gabriel's silent signal, the guards
spread. Three of them, all vayash moru, kept close to Jonmarc. As they
rode into the village, trampled snow and broken windows were at odds with the
peaceful image from afar.
"She's likely to be in the inn,"
Jonmarc said.
The door was splintered, ripped from its
hinges. All of the windows were shattered, and shards of glass lay like bits of
ice on the trampled snow. Jonmarc felt his heart pound as his boots crunched
on the icy steps.
"Sweet Lady of Darkness," he
murmured as he stepped into the tavern great room. A ghastly tableau spread
before them. Near the fire, three women lounged as if drunk, spilled mugs of
ale in their hands, their skirts arranged enticingly as if they were strumpets
frozen in a moment of revelry.
Their pallor and
the bloodstains at the bodices of their dresses told otherwise.
Arranged at the long great room table was
a feast. The guards and a young man Jonmarc did not recognize were seated at
the table as if about to eat. Carina sat at the head of the table, as unmoving
and silent as the others.
With a strangled cry, Jonmarc ran past
Gabriel. He pulled back Carina's chair and she tumbled into his arms. She was
deathly pale, and her skin was as cold as the snow outside. "No, please,
no," Jonmarc murmured, desperately feeling at her throat for a pulse and
bringing away fingers bloodied from the two punctures at the base of her neck.
"Carina," he whispered, holding her to himself, burying his face in
her hair as he sobbed.
"Jonmarc." The voice sounded
with compulsion, something Gabriel had never used with him. Now, it broke
through his grief.
"Leave me alone."
"She's not dead, Jonmarc."
Jonmarc lifted his head, unashamed of the
tears that streaked down his face. "There's no pulse. I can't feel her
breath. She's cold as ice."
"Listen to me, Jonmarc. They meant to
bring Carina across as a strike against you. But a healer can't be brought
across. Whoever did this must have been young in the Gift not to know that. The
healing magic won't accept the Dark Gift. My senses are sharper than yours. She
isn't dead, and she isn't brought across. There's hope."
Jonmarc heard Gabriel giving orders to the
guards, and was grateful to him for taking command of the situation. Gabriel
called two of the vayash moru soldiers to him.
"Jess—I want you to find Riqua. Tell
her what's happened, and ask her to come to Dark Haven immediately. Then go to
Westmarch. Find the Keeper Royster. Bring him back to Dark Haven yourself.
"Kayden—go to Principality City. Find
Sister Taru in the Citadel of the Sisterhood. Tell her what's happened to
Carina. Bring her to Dark Haven—by magic or by our means, I don't care so long
as it's quick."
Both men bowed low and left immediately.
Two large wolves padded up beside Jonmarc: Yestin and Eiria. They took up an
unmistakably protective position near Carina.
"It's like this throughout the
town—all dead, and all posed." Gabriel's fist clenched. "Uri's
playing with us. He wants war because he's sure he can win. He's wrong."
"What are you suggesting?"
"Burn the village. There was an
outbreak of disease here—the young man told Neirin that most of the village was
too sick to leave their homes. No one will question it if we say the plague
took them and that we had to burn their possessions. We owe them a decent burial.
A pyre will hide the death wounds, buy us time. If we're fortunate, we can
bring Uri to ground before he and his brood do any more damage. The cost is too
high for all of us if war comes."
Jonmarc swallowed hard, looking through
the shattered windows at the ruined village. "How many?" he asked
hoarsely.
"Neirin said that the messenger told
Carina sixty people lived here," Gabriel said tightly. "Plus Carina's
guards."
Seventy dead, Jonmarc
thought. How many wars have started over less? He looked back to where
Carina lay. Goddess! I want to fight. I want revenge. I want to feel the
satisfaction of destroying the ones who did this. I've got to keep my head. If
I take revenge, the truce will shatter. I know that there are honorable vayash
moru. I know that Gabriel and Lais-ren and the others are as angry as I am. But
many mortals won't make distinctions. Dark Lady help me! I can't, I won't be
the cause of that.
"Let's get started," Jonmarc
said.
The task was done by midnight. Jonmarc saw
the same warring emotions in the faces of his guards that he felt within
himself. Vayash moru, suddenly unsure that their bonds of friendship
with their mortal comrades would be enough to transcend the carnage. Mortal
soldiers, overwhelmed with anger and grief, wishing for a target to strike.
That Jonmarc and Gabriel worked side by side throughout the night set the tone,
and the night progressed without incident.
They laid the bodies in the inn, and set
it to burn. Then, they burned the other homes and businesses. As the flames
rose against the night sky, Laisren closed his eyes and began to sing, his
baritone voice rising in a dirge. Other voices rose with his, clear and strong
in the bitter night air. They walked back to where Carina lay bundled on the
snow, still guarded by Yestin and Eiria. Jonmarc swung up onto his horse.
"Hand her to me. I'll carry her
back," he said to Gabriel.
Gabriel hesitated. "If I'm wrong, if
they found a way to bring her across despite her magic, then if she awakens
suddenly, she'll hunger. She'll be too driven by thirst to spare you. It's too
risky."
"I'll take my chances."
A full courtyard met them when they
returned to Dark Haven, despite the hour. Word had spread about Carina's
disappearance, although Jonmarc fervently hoped that the guards had kept silent
about the body at the gates. The crowd fell silent as Jonmarc dismounted, carrying
Carina in his arms. One look at his expression and they parted wordlessly, only
to buzz in hushed tones behind him as he ascended the entrance stairs into the
manor. Yestin and Eiria flanked him, refusing to leave his side until they were
inside the manor house.
When they reached Carina's rooms, Lisette
was waiting. She ran to Jonmarc, gently taking Carina from him, lifting her
easily with immortal strength. "I'll get her cleaned up and put to
bed."
"Riqua will be here shortly,"
Gabriel said. "We can cover distances swiftly when the need arises. It
takes a toll, but she'll have the chance to rest when she gets here. Royster's
close enough that Jess can bring him without great strain. As for Taru,"
Gabriel shrugged. "Mages have their own ways to travel, and their own
limitations. The time it takes her to recover after the power she spends will
still be less than the time to ride from Principality City in this weather."
Jonmarc sat down in a chair facing the
fire. Now that the battle was over, emotion overwhelmed him. He sat, hands
clasped, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs staring into the fire,
giving in to shock and grief.
Finally, he looked up at Gabriel, who
leaned against the wall in the shadows near the fireplace. "If you're
wrong," he said, and his voice faltered. He swallowed hard and went on.
"If they've brought her across, I have a favor to ask of you, my
friend."
He knew, looking at Gabriel's eyes, that
the vayash moru took his meaning immediately.
Gabriel shook his head slowly, and Jonmarc
saw pain in his expression. "Would you be a slave again? My slave? That's
what a fledgling is, for many lifetimes." Old memories flickered in his
eyes. "That's why I haven't made
any new fledges in more than one hundred
years."
"I told her that I'd come for her. I
won't leave her."
The doors opened into Carina's bedroom.
"She's resting," Lisette said. Jonmarc walked to the doorway. Carina
lay in a fresh shift under the bedcovers. She was pale against the pillow, with
her hands by her sides like the carving atop a catafalque.
In the courtyard, the bells tolled the
second hour of the morning. Riqua entered, followed by Royster. "Jess told
us what happened at the village." Her voice hardened. "I spoke with
Laisren and Kolin. They've gone to find Uri. We must convene the Blood
Council."
"The Blood Council means nothing
without its members' resolve," Gabriel said, and Jonmarc could hear the
undercurrent of anger in his voice. "Uri may get the war he's wanted— and
Goddess help us if he does. I no longer expect the Council to make a
difference."
Riqua took a deep breath. "Agreed. So
we must make our own way." She looked to Jonmarc. "Royster brought
the books he could throw in his bag. Kolin will fetch whatever we need. If
there is a way to heal Carina, we'll find it."
Taru arrived before the next candlemark.
She looked drained, but waved away concerns. After a hurried greeting, she
joined Royster and Riqua to huddle over Royster's books.
Outside, the bells tolled the third hour.
Jon-marc dozed fitfully in a chair near the fire, while Gabriel and the others
kept their vigil. Lisette drew the heavy draperies in Carina's room. In the
darkness of the inner chambers, the vayash moru could work into the late
morning before needing to take their rest.
Taru and Royster continued to work after
the vayash moru went to rest, conferring in low tones. Jonmarc paced or
stared at the fire. No one spoke.
Just after sunset, Laisren and Kolin burst
in, dragging Uri between them. They pushed the corpulent little man into the
room.
"I demand to know what's going on!
This is an outrage! I promise you, we won't stand for this!" Uri
sputtered.
Riqua moved in a blur, shoving Uri hard
with both hands against his chest, throwing him so hard against the paneled
wall that a nearby painting crashed to the floor. "Why did you do
it?"
"Do what?"
With a growl, the she-wolf tackled Uri,
knocking him to the ground, her teeth grazing his throat.
"Eiria, no!" Riqua shouted.
The she-wolf bared her teeth to strike.
Before she could go for Uri's throat, the 'male wolf lunged. Yestin blocked
her, growling dangerously.
Goddess help us. Eiria's lost control of
her shifting. Jonmarc thought as the wolves circled
each other. Eiria lunged again, opening a
bad gash on Yestin's shoulder. He howled in pain, nipping back at her. Her bite
connected on the next strike, sinking into his foreleg. With a growl, Yestin
launched himself at Eiria, teeth bared. He knocked her to the ground and pinned
her with his heavy paws. With a yelp, she surrendered and struggled free,
running from the room. Yestin followed.
Kolin and Laisren dragged Uri to his feet
and threw him into a chair. "First the shepherds. Now an entire village."
"I don't know what you're talking
about!" Uri's fear was plain. "What village?"
"Everyone in Westormere is
dead," Riqua said, advancing on Uri. "Every man, woman and child. Vayash
moru killings. They didn't even bother to drain most of the bodies. They posed
them in some obscene tableau—"
"Malesh," Uri whispered.
"He calls it his 'art.'"
"Where's Malesh?" Gabriel
demanded.
"How should I know?"
Riqua slapped Uri across the cheek hard
enough to snap a mortal's spine. "He's your fledgling. Young enough for you
to know his thoughts. Where is he?"
Uri wiped at the corner of his mouth with
the back of his hand, a gesture that was a memory from his mortal life, since
no blood flowed from his split lip. "How should I know?"
Riqua reached out with her right hand to
grasp Uri by the throat and dragged him to his feet. One by one, her manicured
nails sank into his neck on either side of his windpipe. Uri gasped and
twisted. " Vayash moru slaughtered the people of Westormere
tonight. Seventy mortals murdered. I want Malesh to pay."
"I told you," Uri rasped,
"I don't know where he is. He's been dabbling in blood magic. Most of it
doesn't work—he's no mage—but he must have bought a talisman to shield his
thoughts. I haven't been able to read him for months now." "And you
didn't destroy him when he betrayed you like that?"
Uri looked pale even by vayash moru standards.
"I thought he might come around." "Did you send Malesh to
Westormere?" "No. You have to believe me. I didn't know."
"Malesh tried to bring across Lady Carina." Uri frowned. "That
won't work. She's a healer."
Riqua's voice was icy. "She's in the
next room, neither living, dead nor undead, because of him." She reached
for Uri again and he cringed, flattening himself against the wall. This time,
her hand slid inside his brocade doublet, digging her nails into the silk
shirt above his heart. "You're going to bring your cur to heel, Uri. Find
Malesh and destroy him." Uri's voice was plaintive. "I don't think I
can." Riqua's lip twitched. "Have it your way. You wanted to leave
the Council, so you leave behind
your protection as a member. You want to break the truce, then become the first
martyr of the new order. There's not a mortal or vayash moru in the
manor who would fault us if we burn you at dawn for what's happened." She
raised her fingertips to brush against Uri's face as he flinched away. "Do
you remember the feel of sunlight on your skin?"
"Enough!" Panic tinged Uri's
voice. "I'll go after Malesh. I'll go. Just don't burn me."
Riqua's expression was remorseless.
"Until you destroy Malesh, my brood and yours are bloodsworn. My brood
will destroy yours on sight. You and yours will be hunted and outcast among our
kind."
"I share the oath." Gabriel took
a step forward. "My family will also be bloodsworn with Riqua's. We will
join the hunt."
Uri fell to his knees before Riqua and
clutched at the hem of her skirt. "Please spare them," he begged.
"Malesh has at most two score of his own fledglings. Most of the brood
isn't like him. Please, don't destroy my children." He looked to the stony
faces of the others in the room.
Riqua snatched her skirts out of his
grasp. Uri covered his face with his hands, groaning in fear and distress,
denied the ability to weep by the Dark Gift. "Don't look to them for
pity," Riqua said coldly. "They saw the slaughter. They burned the
bodies." She nodded, and Laisren and Kolin stepped forward, each grabbing
one of Uri's arms and hauling him roughly to his feet with enough force to have
dislocated a mortal's shoulders.
"Understand this. I won't allow the
Winter Kingdoms to return to a time when we hide in sewers and live in fear.
We'll exterminate every one of your brood if we have to, but we won't let the
truce die."
Uri was shaking. "I'll find Malesh.
I'll stop him. But please, spare the others. I beg of you."
"No one spared Westormere." It
was Jonmarc who spoke. Grief and rage drove out any ability to feel fear.
"I made an oath to Staden to protect everyone in Dark Haven—mortal or not.
But I'm not speaking as Lord of Dark Haven right now. Malesh tried to kill
Carina." Jonmarc drew his sword, angling the point at Uri's heart.
"You have no idea how much
satisfaction I'd get out of running you through. All your bluster gave Malesh
his ideas. You're just as guilty." Jonmarc let Uri feel the pressure of
the tip of the sword over his doublet. "I can't go after your brood—not
without starting reprisals. But I want Malesh. Bring the ones who massacred the
people in Westormere for judgment."
"Give me two days," Uri begged.
At Riqua's nod, Laisren and Kolin released
Uri. "Two days."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Just after the eleventh bells on the next night, Taru walked into the sitting room.
Riqua and oyster were behind her. Riqua looked grim. Royster's white hair was
disheveled, as if he had been running his hands through it. Taru's face showed
her exhaustion.
Jonmarc stood. "Anything?"
The others gathered from where they had
been waiting, Gabriel and Kolin and Neirin, Yestin and Eiria. Yestin's arm was
bandaged, and there were scratches across his face. Eiria moved with a limp.
Taru drew a deep breath. "Not as much
as we we'd like. Between Royster's histories and Riqua's memory, we've found
old tales where someone who was brought across regained mortality. Legends.
Nothing detailed or reliable enough to be much use. We can't find any record of
a healer being brought across without first losing the healing magic."
Jonmarc shook his head. "Carina won't
want to exist without being a healer. It's too much a part of who she is."
Taru nodded. "I expected you to say
that. I'd feel the same without my power. But it's an option. Since she hasn't
been completely brought across, we're still looking for a way to bring her
back. The Dark Gift is warring with Carina's healing power. It's like her body
is fighting itself. Even if we can awaken her, we're not sure she can take
sufficient sustenance either from foo'd or from blood. We don't have much time.
A week at the most."
"Tell me what you need. I'll find it
for you. Anything, just let me help."
The doors to the corridor opened, and
Laisren stepped inside. "There's been another killing."
Jonmarc struggled to focus. "What
happened?"
"Another body, dumped by the gates.
The throat was torn out. And a letter, for you, pinned to the body."
Laisren held out the parchment envelope.
Jonmarc took it from him and drew a deep
breath. "Lord of Dark Haven," he read aloud. "I challenge you
for the title. Meet me in the forest beyond the Caliggan crossroads tonight by
second bells. We will slaughter another village each night you delay." He
looked up. "It's signed, 'Malesh of Tremont."'
"He doesn't want the villages. He
wants you," Gabriel said.
"Does he? Maybe he wants war. Maybe
he thinks he can win. I'm pretty sure he wants more than just Dark Haven."
"The vayash moru who went to
Westormere will gladly ride with you for a chance to punish the guilty
ones," Laisren replied. "I'm in."
"So am I." Kolin stepped
forward.
"And us." Yestin took Eiria's
hand.
Jonmarc looked to Taru, Riqua, and
Royster. "Don't stop. No matter what happens, do whatever you can to
bring her back."
Riqua nodded. "I'll stay with Carina.
Lisette and I will be protection as well as assistance."
Jonmarc turned to Laisren. "Take
volunteers. Vayash moru only." Everyone but Gabriel followed
Laisren. "Are you going to ride with us?" Jonmarc asked.
Gabriel nodded. "Of course."
"I know it's a trap. But I can't let
Malesh pick off the villages. That's a sure way to bring war."
Gabriel stepped from the shadows into the
light of the hearth. "Malesh tried to bring Carina across. We know it
didn't work—completely— but we don't know how much of a bond was created. The
bond between a maker and a fledgling is very strong. It takes lifetimes to
weaken. Destroy the maker, and the new fledglings are also destroyed."
It took a moment for Jonmarc to find his
voice. "There's no choice, is there?" he said bleakly. "Buy time
for Taru to heal Carina, and Malesh kills a village every day we wait. Even if
I could do that, even if it didn't break my oath to Staden, Carina would never
forgive me for paying a price like that." His own voice sounded distant,
as if someone else were talking. "Destroy Malesh, and I destroy
Carina."
"The bond between maker and fledgling
is so close that the fledgling dies the maker's death."
Jonmarc closed his eyes, trying to
breathe. He lowered himself into a chair and stared into the embers.
"Sweet Chenne." "I'm sorry, Jonmarc."
"Malesh is mine. Just give me a clear
shot. I'll take him quickly, painlessly. It's more tha'n he deserves."
Gabriel said nothing, but Jonmarc knew
from his expression that he understood. "I'll help Lais-ren make
ready," he said, and left the room.
Jonmarc stood and walked to the doorway of
Carina's room. She lay on the bed, her eyes closed, unmoving. Jonmarc could not
see her chest rise and fall. The candlelight softened the pallor of her skin.
He crossed to sit at her bedside, and took
her hand in his. It was cold. "I shouldn't have brought you here. I should
have known better. Everything I touch crumbles." He withdrew the ruined shevir
from his pocket, straightened it as best he could, and slipped it onto
Carina's wrist. "I'll come for you," Jonmarc said qliietly, bending
forward to kiss Carina on the forehead. "Wait for me."
Quickly now, before I lose my nerve, he thought. When he reached the door, he looked
back for a moment, and then, taking a deep
breath, left the room.
He crossed into his own rooms. With
practiced speed, he dressed for battle. Beneath his sleeve, he strapped the
single quarrel in its launcher. He went to his desk and took a bottle of ink
and a stylus, slipping them into his pocket, sure now of what he must do.
Carrying his cuirass and cloak, he put out the candles and closed the door
behind him."
Dark Haven was quiet. Mortals were asleep,
and the vayash moru were busy elsewhere. Jonmarc encountered no one as
he descended the stairway. The familiar coldness of battle settled around him.
It was the same emotionless chill that had gotten him through Nargi, through
Chauvrenne. He'd hoped never to feel it again. Now it returned, as if it had
never left.
He paused only a moment at the arched
entrance to the chapel. The chamber was lit by banks of candles; the stained
glass image of Istra flickered with the torches that made it glow here, where
no sun reached. Steeling himself, Jonmarc stripped off his shirt. He moved to
stand in front of the large marble statue of Istra. Some long-ago sculptor had
depicted a moment of anguish, with Istra lifting up the body of one of her
fallen children as if to beseech the skies. At her feet was a large bronze
reflecting pool.
Jonmarc knelt and opened the ink. He
dipped the stylus, pleased that his hand was steady although his heart was
pounding. Better not to think about it. He carefully drew the symbol of
the Lady over his heart. The ink would stain his skin. It wouldn't
be permanent, but there would not be time for the mark to wear away.
Jonmarc set aside the stylus and
unsheathed his sword. He struggled to recall what he had seen men do on the eve
of battle, years ago when he fought with the armies of Eastmark and Principality.
He drew a deep breath, and raised his sword across his open palms as he bowed
his head.
"Istra, Lady of Darkness. Hear me. I
come to bargain with you." Only silence answered him. "Give me the
life of my enemy, Malesh. Let him fall without pain by my hand, and in return,
my soul is forfeit. I swear it." A slight breeze stirred in the chamber.
The candles flickered, and a tremor moved across the surface of the
water in the basin. As quickly as it came, the breeze was gone. Jonmarc
sheathed his sword.
"A noble gesture, but unnecessary."
Gabriel's voice sounded from behind him. "It's done."
"You're already the Dark Lady's
chosen." "She has a strange way of showing favor." "There's
still time. There's still hope." Jonmarc pulled his shirt over his head
and fastened on his cuirass. He looked at Gabriel. "I'm done with hope.
Now, there's certainty. I'll destroy Malesh. And I'll come for Carina. Let's
ride."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gail Z. Martin discovered her passion for
science fiction, fantasy and ghost stories in elementary school. The first story
she wrote—at age five—was about
a vampire. Her favorite TV show as a preschooler
was Dark Shadows. At age
fourteen, she decided to become a writer.
She enjoys attending science
fiction/fantasy conventions, Renaissance fairs
and living history sites. She is married
and has three children, a
Himalayan cat and a golden retriever.
You can visit Gail at:
www.myspace.com/chronicleofthenecromancer
www.chroniclesofthenecromancer.com
Read her blog: blog.myspace.com/chronicleofthenecromancer