The Blood King (21 page)

Soterius wore a simple but elegant ensemble of hunter green, with straight, almost military lines that complemented his bearing. Harrtuck looked chagrined but resigned to his dark brown outfit, with a velvet vest and a finely spun shirt that did not strain at his broad, barrel chest. Carroway, as usual, was resplendent in a fashionable mix of silks, with deep plum, bright green, and gold accents. Seated at the front of the greatroom with the other musicians, Carroway was reveling in his return to giving court performances.

Mingling among the crowd, a mix of mortals and vayash mom, Mikhail wore a steel-gray doublet of opulent brocade. Mikhail moved through the crowd comfortably, and Tris wondered how many lifetimes it might take to feel so at ease. Across the room, Tris spotted Gabriel wearing an exquisitely cut dark blue doublet, his flaxen-colored hair loose around his shoulders, every inch an aristocrat.

Tris nudged Kiara as Carina and Vahanian entered, with the healer lightly taking Vahanian’s arm. Carina’s gown was of emerald silk, with a high waist and a slim fit that accentuated her petite frame and set off her dark hair. At her throat, a necklace of green turquoise and onyx glittered, and Tris wondered from where Berry had procured such a beautiful complement to Carina’s dress.

Beside Carina, Vahanian seemed in exceptionally good spirits, dressed head to toe in black as was his preference when ceremony demanded that he dress for court. The outfit set off Vahanian’s dark brown hair and brown eyes. He wore no other adornment than his sword belt with its expertly-forged and well-used blade.

“Still taking bets?” Tris whispered.

Kiara chuckled. “Now that Berry has us taken care of, I’m sure she’ll double her efforts to match them up.”

“They might not need her help,” Tris observed, grinning as the others joined them. “Glad you could make it,” Tris greeted Vahanian, who seemed quite pleased to have Carina as his companion for the evening.

“Nice to know the witch biddies let you have the night off,” Vahanian quipped.

“I understand con-gratulations are in order.” In the busy greatroom, the press of guests jostled them as a new group of musicians took the stage.

Kiara’s smile was wistful as she took Tris’s arm. “There are a few technicalities to take care of,” she murmured, “but thank you.”

“Good evening to you all,” a familiar voice greet-ed, and they turned to see Gabriel behind them, though there was no noise at the vayash moru’s approach.

The flaxen-haired vayash morn bowed to Kiara and Carina, then greeted Vahanian and Tris with a nod.

He turned to Tris. “Are you ready for our appointment with the Blood Council?”

Vahanian looked askance at Gabriel, then at Tris. “Call me superstitious, but coming from him, that doesn’t sound good.”

Gabriel regarded Vahanian with faint amuse-ment. “You’re welcome to join us,”

Gabriel said smoothly. “As Lord of Dark Haven, it would be appropriate. At some point, you must also meet the Council.”

“Why me?”

“Because Dark Haven is the traditional sanctuary for the sons and daughters of darkness,” Gabriel’s faint smile showed his disquietingly long eye teeth. “And you are the Lord of Dark Haven.”

“That was something Staden didn’t exactly make clear when he gave me the title,” Vahanian replied. Carina giggled.

“Nonetheless, the matter does, in a way, concern you directly. The members of the Blood Council are the ruling noble houses of Dark Haven.”

“Just how, exactly, can you have a hereditary nobility among vayash moru?”

Vahanian asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It would be more accurate, perhaps, to say there is an aristocracy of age and wealth, more by the dark gift than by mortal birth,” Gabriel replied. “Many have served on the Council for well over two hundred years.”

“So you’re planning to walk Tris into a room full of vayash moru, and you want me along for what—an appetizer?”

“When the Obsidian King fell, the orb that held his soul on the edge of the abyss, Soulcatcher, was given to the sons of Dark Haven to protect. It was secured beneath Dark Haven, where a great river of power runs. When Arontala wrested the orb from its resting place, the last Lord of Dark Haven died, and the great house itself was damaged. The river of power has been tainted, and not even the Sisterhood has been able to purify its flow. That his-tory makes the present problem Dark Haven’s concern. Tonight, we meet with the Council to pres-ent Tris as Summoner and the rightful king of Margolan.”

“Why does this Blood Council care?” Vahanian asked warily.

“Because Arontala is vayash moru,” Gabriel replied. “There are old and binding rules among my people that govern how we may act—toward mor-tals and toward our brethren of the dark gift. This is necessary to keep the truce. It’s forbidden for vayash moru to side with mortals to destroy anoth-er vayash moru. I believe I can receive the Council’s permission to make an exception.

“Before this is over,” Gabriel continued, “we’ll likely need the assistance—or at least the forbear-ance—of those vayash moru who remain in Margolan. Such things are better done through proper channels.”

“As much as this doesn’t sound like my kind of party,” Vahanian said grudgingly, “maybe I’d better come along to watch Spook’s back.”

“As you wish,” Gabriel said with a low bow. “I’ll return for you at the twelfth bell. Until then, I’ll take my leave. There are preparations to be made.”

The vayash moru seemed to vanish into thin air. “I hate it when he does that,”

Vahanian muttered.

“Thanks for the support,” Tris said. “I have to admit, the whole idea makes me nervous.”

“You hold court for ghosts all day and a couple of vayash moru make you nervous?” Vahanian joked. “Aren’t you officially Lord of the Dead and Undead?”

“In the case of the vayash moru,” said Tris, “I have the distinct impression that the title is ceremo-nial.”

Partygoers jostled as the guests, crowded shoul-der to shoulder, moved for a better view of the musicians, who struck up a lively tune. Vahanian turned toward the music. In that instant, he saw torchlight glint off steel behind Tris.

“Get down!” Vahanian shouted, pushing hard against Tris as the dagger fell.

The dagger struck just below his shoulder as he shoved Tris out of the way. He staggered, reaching for his sword. Carina screamed. Jae gave a shriek, diving toward the assassin. A streak of blue mage fire burned past Vahanian, striking the attacker. Vahanian heard the whirr of a blade flying through the air. The attacker fell to the ground, a small blade lodged between his shoulders.

Vahanian glanced up, expecting one of the guardsman, and instead saw Berry, standing on her chair, a look of surprise and self-congratulation on her face.

“You’re hit,” Carina said, guiding Vahanian to the floor as the room began to spin. Guardsmen shoved their way through the screaming crowd, forming a circle around Vahanian and Carina. The guards tried to whisk Tris and Kiara out of the room, but Tris jerked away and Kiara would not be moved. Vahanian could hear Carroway shouting above the screams of the crowd, attempting to shift the partygoers away from the incident.

“Coming through!” he heard Soterius shout as he and Harrtuck barreled their way through the guardsmen’s line.

“How bad?” Harrtuck asked, taking in Vahanian’s condition with a practiced eye.

A servant handed Carina a fistful of rags. She applied pressure through Vahanian’s bloodsoaked shirt and felt around the wound. “Not as bad as it could be,” she appraised, looking worriedly at Vahanian. “The knife hit a rib, or it might have had you in the heart.” Blood stained her green gown and covered her hands. “We’ve got to get it out.”

Vahanian felt the room swim around him. He turned to one side, and retched.

“I’m betting the blade was poisoned,” Carina assessed. “Wormroot, to disable a mage.” She laid a hand on Vahanian’s shoulder, steadying him. “Since you don’t have magic, it’s just going to make you throw up.” She looked up, and saw Berry, ashen and scared, just within the circle of guards-men. “Nice aim,” she said, and Berry nodded, too concerned to smile.

“Problem is, we won’t know who sent the assas-sin, because he’s dead,” Soterius clipped.

Vahanian saw Tris glance past the guardsmen, to where the assassin lay. “Not necessarily,” said Tris. “Let’s get Jonmarc taken care of, and then we’ll deal with the assassin.”

Vahanian became aware of a growing stiffness that started in his legs and rapidly worked its way up his body. It was getting harder to breathe, as if iron bands encircled his ribs. He grabbed Carina’s wrist.

“Can’t… breathe…” he rasped.

“Tris—I’m going to need help!” Carina shouted, and Tris knelt beside them.

“There must have been another poison on the blade,” Carina said. Vahanian fought his own rising panic and pinpricks of light danced before his eyes. “He’s not breathing—Tris, I need time to counter the poison!”

Vahanian had the disquieting sensation that he was watching from outside himself, Tris clutching his arm,

Carina trying to push a wad of rope vine between his own clenched teeth. He felt disoriented, as if he were drunk with strong wine, and then a familiar presence brushed against his mind, something that he knew was Tris’s power, closer than thought.

Abruptly, Vahanian felt himself back in his body, starved for air. Panic filled him in the darkness, the memory of nearly drowning in the cold water of the Nu River, his lungs burning. And then Vahanian felt his chest rise, awkwardly at first, then in smooth, regular rhythm. He gasped, and his lungs filled with sweet, fresh air.

Carina, her face wet with tears, struggled with the knife. Berry stood behind her, clinging fearfully to Kiara. “Please don’t die,” Carina whispered as she tried to free the knife. “Please don’t die.”

“I’ve got him,” Tris said. “And at least for now, his heart and breathing are stable.”

“By the Dark Lady!” It was Staden’s voice, some-where behind them. “How is such a thing possible?”

“I could bind soul to body because he wants to live. That is permitted to a Summoner.” Tris replied, and Vahanian guessed that Tris was also supplying Carina with energy. “As for the heart and the lungs, they’re like a bellows and pump—if he can’t move them, it’s a small thing to make them move on their own.”

“A small thing,” Staden replied, awestruck.

Vahanian felt a sharp pain as Carina pulled the knife free and pressed a rag into the wound to staunch the blood. Two grooves marked each side of the blade.

“I’ve never seen a knife like this,” she mused, holding up the blood-covered weapon.

“It’s a Mussa knife,” Vahanian heard Gabriel say, as the vayash moru walked up behind Carina. “The grooves hold thin vials of poison that shatter when the blade enters the body.”

Carina looked at Tris grimly. “There was even more wormroot on the knife than what the Sisterhood used on you. If the assassin had hit you—”

“My magic would have been out of reach, with no one to do for me what I did for Jonmarc. I’d be dead.”

“How long does the poison last?” Staden asked. “You can’t breathe for him forever.”

Carina shook her head. “There are antidotes I can try, but I don’t know—this poison works so quick-ly, the victim is usually dead long before it can wear off.”

She looked up sharply. “Tris—what will you do? You were to meet with the Blood Council tonight.”

“The Council does not reconvene lightly,” Gabriel observed. “From their perspective, being dead is not an excuse.”

Tris looked down at Vahanian, who was unable to so much as nod in recognition. “Call for Taru,” he said. “The soul-binding will hold. I’ve set the breathing spell so that a mage of her power could monitor it, even add to the magic if necessary.” He looked at Gabriel. “We won’t be long, I hope.”

Staden sent a servant to the citadel for Sister Taru. Carina finished her makeshift bandage. “Let’s get Jonmarc off the floor and somewhere quieter,”

Carina ordered She wiped the blood and tears away with her stained sleeve.

Soterius and Harrtuck picked him up, one at his shoulders and one at his feet, and hefted him onto a couch in a nearby sitting room.

“T’will have to do—he’s too blasted heavy to carry up the stairs!” Harrtuck exclaimed.

“What about him?” Kiara asked. The assassin still lay in a pool of blood on the floor of the great-room.

“Let me get Jonmarc settled,” Tris said. “Then, with your permission, Your Majesty, I’d like to interrogate the assassin and see if we can get some answers.”

“But he’s dead,” Staden began to protest, letting his voice trail off as he realized the implications. “Yes, yes, interrogate him. I have to see this. I’ll bring Hant with me. He’s the best one for this if we’ve rats to catch.”

“I’ll sit with Jonmarc,” Carina said, and looked to Kiara. “Please, can you bring my bag from my room? And water—I’ll need a kettle and a basin, along with fresh rags. He’s lost a lot of blood.” Kiara nodded, but before she could move, Berry bolted for the door.

“I’ll get them,” the princess assured Carina as her running footsteps grew distant.

“I’d best leave you to your healing,” Staden said, turning for the door. “I’ll see you in the greatroom at the tenth bell, to see what you can make of the assassin.”

“Tris,” Carina said quietly, her voice faltering, “are you sure… sure he’s alive?

Your power is so strong… I was thinking about that time, by the well—”

Tris shuddered. Vahanian remembered the ghost who tried to possess Carina and how in throwing the spirit free, Tris accidentally reanimated her corpse.

“I’m sure,” Tris said. He sounded exhaust-ed. “Although we’d better hope the poison wears off before too long, since he’ll have to eat.”

Vahanian could not see Carina’s face, but her voice was ragged. “There’s an insect, in the forests of Eastmark, whose sting can make a man lose the feeling in an arm or leg for a day if he’s bitten. I’ll start with that antidote, see if I can concentrate it. Royster will help me. There has to be something.”

Tris laid a hand on Carina’s shoulder. “If anyone can figure it out, it will be you and Royster.”

Carina found the pulse in Vahanian’s neck. Her fin-gers lingered on his skin, and her eyes had a haunted look. Although Vahanian called out to her with his thoughts, he could not force his lips to form the words, or his body to make any movement at all.