The Blood King (19 page)

“Viata’s father, the late King Radomar, was furi-ous. Rumor said he planned to take his warships across the Northern Sea and strike at Isencroft from its coast.

Then your father stepped in. Margolan, as one of the oldest and most powerful kingdoms, has always been able to be heard among the rulers of the Winter Kingdoms. Bricen didn’t want war. He offered a betrothal contract to Donelan, matching the two heirs. His action showed Margolan’s sup-port, and King Radomar backed down. There was no war.”

“The betrothal contract between Kiara and Jared,” Tris murmured. “I wondered how that came to be.”

“I have an awkward question, my prince, but one I must ask, with your permission.”

“Go on.”

“Your interest in Princess Kiara—is it genuine, or is it a calculation to embarrass the usurper?”

Tris felt himself color, and struggled to keep his voice neutral. “I fell in love with Kiara before I knew of the pact. She didn’t know who I was when we first met. While I’d die before I’d see Jared touch her, that ‘calculation’ never came into my thinking.”

“So I hoped, and so I believed knowing what I do of you, Prince Drayke. You received King Donelan’s recognition as the rightful heir to the Margolan throne.

Do you realize that he has, in that recogni-tion, declared you to be Kiara’s betrothed by the terms of the covenant?”

Tris’s mouth went dry.

Abelard chuckled. “I thought not. That’s why your intentions matter. I should hate to see you gain the throne and begin a war.”

“If I survive the battle for the throne,” Tris replied, regaining his composure, “I hope to ask for Kiara’s hand. But there’s so much that must happen, between now and then—”

“I understand, my prince. These are your judg-ments to make. But should you choose to wed in exile, and secure the succession—”

“Out of the question. Kiara intends to accompany me to Margolan. She’s an excellent swordswoman, and was sent on her quest by the Oracle herself. To do as you suggest would place her in even greater danger.”

Abelard held up a hand. “I meant no disrespect, my prince. Merely an option.”

This is exactly why I never wanted to be king, Tris thought. Yet he knew that Abelard would not be alone in wanting a stable line of succession. There would be pressure to produce an heir, espe-cially if there was truth to the rumor about Jared’s bastard. Tris had cherished the relative freedom of the road. They had been hunted and in danger for their lives, but these past months had been free from the politics of court. That would end if he suc-ceeded in winning the crown.

“Thank you,” he told Abelard, anxious to work though this alone. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Walk carefully, my prince.” Abelard bowed low, leaving Tris alone with the fire and his thoughts.

As THE DAYS grew shorter, Staden’s court prepared for Winterstide. While Staden welcomed Tris’s par-ticipation as Summoner, many at court were curious as to what such participation might add to the feast day. Tris knew that most residents looked forward to a week of revelry.

Carroway was thoroughly enjoying the chance to entertain once more at court.

When he was not practicing in the salle, he was rehearsing with the minstrels.

His skills gained him the respect of Staden’s musicians, who, knowing his stay to be temporary, did not see him as a rival. Carroway commented dryly that perhaps Staden’s minstrels eyed his odds of surviving the return to Margolan, taking this opportunity to learn his songs and sto-ries in the event of his untimely demise.

Even Tris couldn’t resist the lure of the festivities. Winterstide was a festival of light at the year’s dark-est month, glittering with candles, stuffed with traditional delicacies, and brimming with ale and merriment. Staden kept the feast in high style; balls and jousts marked the weeks leading up to the feast night itself. In Margolan, Tris had often excused himself early from the revelries, to keep his distance from Jared and the nobles’ predatory daughters.

Now, the prospect of accompanying Kiara height-ened his interest tremendously.

Tris had to admit that his record with the ladies was every bit the disaster Soterius joked it was. He was realistic enough to know that his title and rank alone would have gotten him almost any young woman he set his eye on. He’d been told often enough that he was handsome, though he private-ly had his doubts. A few early crushes had gone badly; the girls he’d trusted with his heart had been more interested in becoming a princess than in the particular prince it took to achieve that goal. And then there was Jared.

Jared’s reputation for promiscuity was legendary, but beneath that lust ran a fondness for violence. There were too many retainers at the palace eager to cover Jared’s indiscretions, either to save Bricen from embarrassment or to court favor with the heir apparent. Perhaps they knew Jared’s rages and learned to fear him. Even before the murders of the coup, Tris had formed a loathing for his half-brother. He’d vowed to never take after Jared. So while courtiers bedded each other without a second thought and trysting became the favored sport of the young nobility, Tris held back. It wasn’t piety, and it certainly hadn’t been for lack of interest. He had no intention of having his heart toyed with, or being a prize for the winning. And while the warmth of a bedmate would have been pleasant, he had no desire to callous his heart to the casual partings.

There had been beautiful girls aplenty at court, though few cared to talk about anything but tire-some gossip, and fewer still could engage in a discussion of ideas, with convictions and opinions of their own. Tris had despaired of ever finding a soulmate. He’d witnessed the loveless marriages at court, the travesties of name and residence that held a tattered mask of propriety over sordid schemes and affairs. Being alone seemed better than that. Kait, knowing that the blows she’d taken at Jared’s hand were not uncommon even in noble marriages, had resolved to never marry. Tris often dreamed of the day when he might be permitted to escape the scrutiny of court and move to Bricen’s lodge.

Jared’s coup ended those plans.

The constant danger of fleeing from Margolan should have pushed any thought of romance from his mind, but Tris never expected his reaction when he met Kiara on the road to Westmarch. Before that night, Tris dismissed love at first sight as one of Carroway’s exaggerations. But from the first time he had looked on Kiara, his heart had been forfeit. She was everything he had hoped to find: smart, strong, confident, and able to make her way in her own right. He hadn’t cared about her birth or rank, or even that she came from beyond Margolan’s bor-ders. All he had wanted was to gain her favor.

Then reality hit. While he might unseat Jared and destroy Arontala, surviving was asking a lot of fate. Worse, there was the old betrothal contract, prom-ising Kiara to the heir to the Margolan throne. He could not bear to think on that, to imagine Kiara given to Jared. He would have been willing to fight Jared to the death just to prevent that from hap-pening, even without so much else at stake.

Many a night he’d been unable to sleep, wrestling with the fear that he would not survive to marry Kiara.

He’d underestimated her. Kiara knew enough of war to realize that their gambit to unseat Jared was up against the odds. But it had been impossible to deny the attraction they felt for one another, even though Tris knew he should hold back. Kiara did not seem to care that their romance might cause a scandal, and she shared his loathing for Jared. And so, in the brief sanctuary of their stay in Westmarch, they had declared their love. Nothing about his feelings had changed since then; if any-thing, the peril at the citadel of the Sisterhood had deepened his resolve. But at the same time, between the dark sending and his own brush with death, Tris was torn, not wanting to cause Kiara pain.

Abelard’s revelation forced Tris’s hand. While the shift in the betrothal contract removed the scandal from their relationship, declaring their engagement would enrage Jared even more. Tris had no illusions that Jared wanted anything beside Isencroft’s lands and satisfaction of his own lust, but he knew his half-brother well enough to be sure that Jared would see their alliance as a challenge. Jared would be merciless in his revenge.

Tris rejected out of hand Abelard’s suggestion of a wedding in exile. The phrase

“secure the succes-sion” rang of all the things that made him never want the crown. He knew that to be the heir meant to be brokered off like a prize race horse for breed-ing stock. It was one of the many things he was not looking forward to if he survived to gain the throne. He could not in good conscience put a wife and child in that kind of danger. And so he had not slept all night, arguing with himself over what to do, his heart aching at every option.

Since the conversation with Abelard a few days before, Tris had found no private moment to talk with Kiara. This evening, she lingered after dinner, as Carroway offered a preview of the music for the feast. When the music ended amid enthusiastic applause, Tris noticed that Vahanian offered to walk Carina back to her rooms. Carina had accept-ed with a blush and a smile.

Tris took Kiara’s hand, deliberately falling behind the others. Knowing what he had to say left him dry-mouthed, and he decided that when it came to talk of marriage, both princes and plowboys were alike in finding themselves tongue-tied.

The great hall was garlanded for the feast It was empty for the moment, though the torches and can-dles that burned warned that its decorators might return before too long to finish their chores.

“You’ve been quiet,” Tris said.

“Just thinking of Isencroft at Winterstide,” she said. “It was always my favorite time of the year. I thought father knew how to throw a feast, but I’ll admit that Staden puts our feast to shame.”

“Kait
always loved the falconing trials that came before the feast. Father kept the feast well, and I know Carroway is happy to have a real audience once more.” Tris paused. “I’ve missed you, the weeks I’ve been at the citadel.”

Kiara turned to him, lifting a finger to touch a newly healed scar on his cheek.

“Carina won’t tell me much about what happened there, but I can see it troubles her. You look so tired. I’m worried about you.”

Tris drew her into his arms and kissed her, taking comfort from the moment, enjoying her nearness.

She leaned against him, her arms wrapped around his waist. After a moment, she drew back, looking at him questioningly.

“What’s on your mind?”

Tris tangled his fingers in her auburn hair. “I swore to you, back in Westmarch, that if I take the throne, nothing will be required of you—or Isencroft—by force.”

Kiara kissed his hand. “I know.”

“Abelard says that when your father sent the let-ter recognizing me as Margolan’s rightful heir, that it changed the terms of your betrothal contract.”

The words just tumbled out. “He says it means that we’re already betrothed.”

Kiara gasped.

“I love you, Kiara. And I am willingly your betrothed.” He swallowed hard. “But I can’t—not now, not when it’s so unlikely that I’ll even live to take the throne.

I can’t ask you to be bound to me like that. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Kiara stood completely still. “And that will save my heart? To be betrothed in thought but not in deed?” The same pain that filled his own heart was in her eyes. “The weeks you’ve been at the citadel— every time I heard footsteps outside in the corridor, I was afraid that Staden was coming to tell me you’d been killed in the training. It’s too late. I love you. It has nothing to do with that damned covenant, and it never did. My heart’s already bound to you.

“If you… don’t take the throne… I won’t have time to mourn. Don’t you see? I can’t—I won’t—let Jared use me to gain Isencroft. I’ve seen what he’s done to Margolan. And I swear by the Lady, I won’t be captured. So we’ll be together—one way or another.”

Tris’s vision blurred. “Kiara, I—”

“We have this time, these days,” she said fiercely. “Father and mother thought they had all the time in the world. They were wrong. Today is all we ever have.

It’s too late to protect me. We can deny the covenant, we can pretend that what’s between us isn’t here—but it’s not going to spare my heart. I love you, Tris. If these next few months are all we ever have, then so be it. Just don’t make me lose you twice.”

Her voice was firm, although her whole body was shaking. Tris reached for her and she fell against him, sobbing. He laid his face against her hair, knowing that she saw his own tears. “I didn’t dare to hope that you would feel that way,”

he mur-mured, stroking her hair, holding her until the shaking stopped. “I want to marry you, Kiara. I want you with me always.”

She pulled back far enough to look in his eyes, and she raised a hand to touch his tear-stained cheek. “I accept. And Istra damn the conse-quences!”

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contents

VAHANIAN FELT HIS spirits rise as the prepara-tions for Winterstide bustled around him at the palace. Principality’s Winterstide celebrations were opulent, and Vahanian was impressed despite himself. Carroway had already won an esteemed place among the court musicians and entertainers, letting slip with a wicked smile that he planned to try out a song about their journeys. Vahanian could only hope that his part would be omitted.

His years of smuggling had never made him rich, but they had earned him more than a few enemies. Some of those enemies had the means to settle the score through bounty hunters. Once the struggle to win back the throne in Margolan was over—assum-ing he survived—Vahanian intended to use some of his reward money from Staden to pay off his remaining debts. He resolved to start fresh with his new holdings in Dark Haven. Between now and then, he was content to keep as low a profile as pos-sible.

Vahanian was also well aware of just how close Principality lay to Eastmark, where he had disas-trously crossed paths with Arontala ten years before.

Although he had escaped a wrongful court martial and the royal death sentence that claimed his squadron, Vahanian suspected that the death warrant remained on the books. He was unwilling to find out, and leery of providing a target to any-one who thought to claim a bounty by delivering him across the border.