The Blood King (26 page)

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Carina carried over the gemstones that Royster had pried from their setting.

There was a large, flat piece of turquoise and a smaller, black onyx disk. “If Royster is right, I should be able to pull the poi-son through the stone. If we can do that, then I can heal the other damage. Right now, I can’t get through the poison.”

“Let’s do it,” Tris said, moving to sit beside Vahanian. Carina moved a stool to the other side, and nodded to Tris. He gripped Vahanian’s arm with his right hand and let himself slip onto the Plains of Spirit.

The soulbond he had set was still in place, but despite his intervention, the blue thread of Vahanian’s life was growing dimmer. Tris focused his power on sustaining that glow, something Taru could not do. Carina removed the bandage from the wound on Vahanian’s chest. It looked red and sore, proof that the poison blocked Carina’s ability to heal.

Carina bit her lip as she slid the turquoise disk over the wound and laid the piece of onyx beside it. Then she placed her fingertips around the edge of the two stones with her palm raised and closed her eyes in concentration.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Tris felt a stirring in the currents of power, as if distant clouds on the horizon were becoming lighter. He looked at the stones beneath Carina’s hand and saw beads of a black, vile-looking ichor beginning to ooze up through the smooth surface of the stones. As the ichor seeped through the stone, a tremor shuddered through Vahanian’s body. It grew stronger, until he was shivering so hard that Tris and Kiara had to grab him by the shoulders to keep him still enough for Carina to hold the stones in place.

“It’s working!” Kiara cried. “Keep going, Carina. It’s working!”

With agonizing slowness, bead after bead of the thick, dark liquid struggled through the stone. Taru rushed to contain the ichor in a small vial from Carina’s bag, taking care not to touch it with her bare skin. Finally, when nearly a quarter dram of ichor had been extracted, no more beads rose from the stone.

Carina slumped in exhaustion.

Tris retreated to his mage sense and reached for Vahanian on the spirit plain.

There was a definite clearing, Tris thought, as if a heavy fog had lifted. He opened his eyes to see Carina, her eyes bright with tears, with a look of triumph. “We did it! The poison is gone. Without it, he should be able to move again. Do we dare see if he can breathe on his own?”

Tris nodded and closed his eyes, following the traces of his magic. With a silent prayer to the Lady, he loosed the spell that kept Vahanian’s heartbeat and breathing functioning. Vahanian gasped sharply, and his whole body convulsed.

He shud-dered, then drew another deep gasp, and his fingers flexed. After a ragged breath, he opened his eyes. Vahanian blinked several times.

“Hooray!” Berry shouted, throwing her arms around Tris and planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Huzzah!” Carroway chimed in from the other side of the room. Kiara and Taru clapped their approval.

Tris laid a hand on Vahanian’s uninjured shoul-der. “Glad you’re back. And thank you,” Tris said soberly. “If you hadn’t gotten between me and that knife, I’d be dead.”

Vahanian gave a tired, lopsided smile. “It’s what I do best,” he rasped, and Carina brought him a glass of water, helping him sit to drink. He laid back, his struggle clear in his face. “I could hear most of what went on, but I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.” He looked at Tris. “I don’t know how you did it, but thank you.”

Vahanian glanced at Carina, who hastily dabbed at the corners of her eyes, and he held out his hand to her. “Thank you, too.”

Carina squeezed Vahanian’s hand. “The next time I let you escort me to a fancy ball, I’m going to wear red so the blood doesn’t show.” Vahanian realized she still wore the ruined ball gown from the night before.

“Tris’s coronation. You’ll look lovely in red,” Vahanian murmured, closing his eyes.

Carina blushed. “All right,” she said, resuming her best healer’s tone. “We’ve all had a rough night. I’ll stay ‘til dawn. Whoever is eager for an early morning can take a shift, but let’s get some sleep.”

Carina watched the others file from the room, and then took the two cloaks Tris and Taru had left near the door. She wrapped one around herself as she dragged a chair near the fire. She slipped the other cloak over Vahanian, who was already asleep.

Carina meant to settle in for her watch, but she found that the nervous energy from the evening wouldn’t let her relax. So she paced, with the cloak wrapped around her, as the fire burned down. On one hand, she felt relief. Tris’s quest wouldn’t fail because of her. Jonmarc was alive. She hadn’t let him down the way she’d failed Ric. Despite her best efforts to keep Jonmarc at a distance, he was unde-terred in pursuing her. She was as flattered as she was uneasy at his pursuit. In the caravan, she’d been impressed by his ability as a fighter, but even more by his loyalty, although what he did was often at odds with his carefully maintained appearance of not giving a damn about anything. Even that intrigued her. While Jonmarc looked nothing like Ric, that rebelliousness was a characteristic they shared, as was Jonmarc’s willingness to break the rules for a good cause, and his foolhardy courage.

She remembered how it felt to dance with Jonmarc at Berry’s welcome home feast. She was well aware of how much she had reacted to his touch in their brief encounters since then. The story he’d told her of his own background, when he sat with her after she returned from the citadel, the openness he’d shown her, drew her even closer to him. Close enough that it scared her.

The odds of any of them living through this quest were very slim, she knew, even if they were able to win their goal. Tris and Kiara seemed to have found the courage to acknowledge their feelings for one another despite those odds.

Perhaps their love was stronger because it might be wrested away at any moment. Jonmarc already knew what it was to lose a lover to fate, and yet he had decided to act on his feelings. Here she was, too fearful to make the com-mitment, more afraid of losing him than of never knowing where their story might lead, despairing over either alternative. When they reached Principality, Jonmarc had decided his future, whether to take his reward and go back to the river, or to throw in his lot with Tris and the others. Carina knew that the same moment of decision would come for her in matters of the heart.

She hoped that when it did, her courage wouldn’t fail her.

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contents

DESPITE THE ASSASSINATION attempt on Tris, Staden’s court resumed its merrymaking in short course. Festival days were filled with jousts and entertainment, and glittering banquets and feasts kept most of the courtiers awake until dawn. Winter fell much harder on Principality than on the palace cities in either Isencroft or Margolan. Despite themselves, Tris and his friends could not resist the unfamiliar spectacles.

“I thought I knew what winter was in Isencroft, but the cold here is something completely different!” Kiara exclaimed, her breath steaming in the bitterly cold air. Carina nodded, almost completely buried in a borrowed fur coat that hid everything but her eyes. “I’d forgotten what Principality winters were like.

That’s one reason the merc troops winter here—the snow is too deep for anyone to attack them, and they’re likely to get a decent rest!”

Vahanian shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the cold. He wore a plain coat of wolf hide, with the leather side out and the fur turned in. What the cloak lacked in opulence, Tris bet it made up for in warmth. “Eastmark’s worse. The army has to clear away enough snow to practice. Come spring, the floor of the practice field can be packed snow waist-high above the real ground.”

“Mother always said that Isencroft’s winter was Eastmark’s high summer,” Kiara chuckled. “And while she made me bundle up when I was a child, I always marveled that she went about with just a woven wrap most of the time.”

Tris laughed. “By comparison, Shekerishet must seem like endless summer.

We’re further south than any of this, even the Borderlands. Our snows get deep, but not for most of the winter. I don’t ever remember it getting quite this cold!

Carroway looks like he’s frozen solid.” He looked toward where the bard played his lute with the other minstrels. Even with short gloves that left their fingers exposed, the musicians looked uncomfortably cold. They stood as close to the fire as they could without damaging their instruments.

“When all this is over, I want to buy one of those sleighs and have it sent to father,” Kiara said, with a glance toward the large, graceful troikas that slid across the snow effortlessly behind a team of massive horses. Come winter, Principality nobles traded their carriages for ornately decorated sleighs, and even the merchants replaced the wheels on their wagons with runners. “But for now, let’s beg another ride!”

Tris smiled as Kiara left them to find an accom-modating driver. All around them, sleighs coursed

through the deep snow, and men raced each other with snowshoes over thigh-deep drifts. Daredevils skied down steep slopes, and artists carved complex figures from huge blocks of ice. Groups of soldiers staged mock battles with armaments of snow and ice. The children followed suit; no one was safe from pelting snowballs. Huge bonfires lit the long nights, providing warmth against the bitter cold and making the icy decorations sparkle like the gems for which Principality was famous. All around them, nobles and villagers took comfort in a reminder of light and life during winter’s darkest days.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people dressed in fur,” Tris commented.

Women snuggled beneath heavy fur coats and blankets in their sleighs; men wore thick fur hats. Carroway confid-ed that it was almost impossible to sing outside for more than a brief chorus or two without his lungs burning and his head pounding from the chill.

“Fur is only one way to stay warm,” Vahanian said with a grin. He produced a small flask from a pocket, downing a gulp. Even from a distance, Tris could smell the potent liquor. The chill was a boon to the vendors who hawked wassail, mulled wine, and steaming mugs of warm ale. The crowd, warmed by the alcohol, did not seem to mind the cold.

“Were you watching?” Soterius puffed as he and Harrtuck trudged toward them through the snow. They came from the direction of the mock battle, and their hands and faces were reddened from the cold. “We trounced the other side! A complete rout!”

“Glad to see you’ve gotten into the festival spir-it.” Carina laughed, but Tris could see that the joviality did not reach her eyes. As guests of the king, Tris and the others felt obliged to visibly par-ticipate in the festivities. But the guards that surrounded them were a constant reminder of the danger. Vahanian in particular chafed at having a bodyguard. Knowing that even here Jared was a threat overshadowed the party spirit. While Tris and his friends could not help enjoying the opu-lence and beauty of the festival, the companions often withdrew early from the parties, keeping their own company in one of the upstairs rooms, as they had on the road. This night was an excep-tion.

As darkness fell on the longest night of the year, the vayash moru joined the festival. They moved through the crowd unconcerned with the bitter cold; they wore no greatcloaks. No breath steamed as the vayash morn spoke. They kept their distance from the bonfires, and were indifferent to the carts that sold food and ale. Ghosts milled among the partygoers. They were dressed in fashions ranging over several hundred years. They seemed drawn by the music and the crowd. The spirit of one young man had the power to move objects, and he enjoyed playing pranks on festival goers who had had too much ale, deliberately moving their tankards and pulling out their chairs from beneath them. A few of the ghosts looked on with bittersweet longing from the edges, swaying with the tempo of the min-strels’ ballads. One young couple, invisible to all but Tris, lingered just behind Carroway. They held hands, lost in the music. All the spirits, visible or not, bowed as Tris passed them, paying their respects to the Lord of the Dead.

Vahanian nodded toward the other side of the courtyard. “Sahila’s back,” he said with a glance toward the refugee spokesman, jarring Tris from his thoughts. “I don’t think he’s here for the sleigh rides.”

Tris sobered. “Probably not. Staden and I sent blankets and provisions to the refugee camps, but it’s still going to be a miserable winter for them. There’s no way to get them enough shelter, even with the old army tents we found. I think Sahila’s been making the rounds of the merc troops, using some of the gold I gave him to haggle with them for their worn out tarpaulins and field shelters.

Since we’ve been paying gold to hire the troops’ services, it seems the mercs are buying new equip-ment for the spring march. Sahila’s a tough bargainer. He’s managed to get wagon loads of castoffs that’re better than what his people had before.”

Tris received reports now almost nightly from Sahila and the refugees. So many soldiers had deserted from Jared’s army that the remaining loy-alists had begun capturing men and boys from the villages and conscripting them into service, threat-ening to destroy their families and villages if they refused. One village had hidden their boys in a secret cellar under a barn, but the soldiers burned the barn in retaliation for the villagers’ refusal to give up their sons. The boys had perished, roasted alive in their hiding place. More than one of the mothers had thrown herself on the flaming heap, mad with grief.

It was no longer an isolated incident to hear of Jared’s troops harvesting the battlefields, taking away the wounded and dying from both sides of the conflict.

The wounded would be used to create more ashtenerath, while Arontala would trap the dying men’s souls for his Orb to feed the Obsidian King, and his blood magic would grow stronger on their pain and death.

One refugee, a servant Tris remembered from Shekerishet’s kitchen staff, recounted the death toll of Jared’s lusts. Many of the servants in the palace served as whole families, in positions of honor that were handed down from generation to generation. Bricen had prided himself on his generosity to the servants, who ate nearly as well as the nobles and who received more than adequate clothing and shelter. Bricen’s servants were freemen, and the king’s openhandedness created bonds of loyalty far stronger than any indenture. Tris knew first-hand that the servants recognized Jared’s brutality, and that Jared availed himself of every young girl who came to serve in the castle. Nearly every family had suffered from Jared’s vile tempers, his willingness to thrash any servant who displeased him, and his bru-tality toward the palace animals.