The Blood King (30 page)

“Crone take Jared’s soul,” Vahanian swore as Tris focused his power, making the spirits visible. Around him there were shouts, cries, and the high-pitched keening of mourners as the living claimed their dead. Tris pushed aside his feelings so that he could focus his power more clearly. The spirits’ images became more solid, and Tris lent them the power to speak aloud so that he did not have to bear tidings for each one.

In groups of twos and threes the refugees wel-comed their dead, tearful over the violence of their passing and the certainty of their death, and relieved at the finality of the knowledge. The emo-tions of the living Tris could shield from his consciousness, but the strong feelings of the dead washed over him like pounding waves. Gradually, the room grew quiet. Tris looked to the refugees and their dead.

“Would you go to the Lady now?”

“By your leave, Lord of the Dead,” answered one spirit, a burly man whose throat bore the marks of a noose. “We are agreed. We’re not ready to rest until Jared and his mage be destroyed.”

“What would you have me do?”

The ghosts moved forward, leaving their mortal loved ones behind, and formed a solemn row in front of Tris. “Is if true that you mean to challenge King Jared?” asked the burly ghost.

“It is.”

“Then we wish to fight,” said the ghost. “Lord of the Dead, grant us this request.

Let us return to the places were we’re buried. Give our spirits the power to show ourselves to the living and to be heard. Our bodies lie along the roads and in the ditches. When Jared’s soldiers pass, our spirits will rise up and take our vengeance.”

“Seems to me we met a whole forest like that once,” Vahanian murmured under his breath.

“What word do you give that only the guilty will be punished?” Tris asked. “My friends and I were nearly killed by the spirits of the Ruune Videya. Those ghosts were also slaughtered by an unjust king. They came to hate every living soul.”

The burly ghost knelt in fealty, and the other spirits silently followed suit.

“You’re the Lord of the Dead, and the rightful king of Margolan,” said the ghost.

“We are yours to command. We want to make Jared’s soldiers pay for what they stole from us. May my soul go to the Formless One if I punish the innocent,” he pledged, and the other spirits murmured their assent. Tris felt a chill go down his spine, remembering the approach of that dark and fearful Aspect.

They might forget their vow and harm the innocent, thought Tris, weighing the choices. But so might any living soldier, and I’ve sent Soterius and Mikhail out to raise an army of malcontents and outlaws. They could also harm the living.

He remembered the anger, the longing, and the loss he had sensed in the spirits of the Ruune Videya, long denied their vengeance, unable to take their revenge upon those who had unjustly ended their lives. Finally Tris nodded solemnly, and stretched out his hands in blessing and commission over the kneeling spirits.

“Go then, to the places where you rest, with the power to make your spirits visible to the living. Take your vengeance, but stay your hand against the innocent, even if he wears the colors of the crown. Do you swear?” Tris asked.

Power filled him as he raised his hands in benediction.

“We swear it, Lord of the Dead,” said the ghosts, in voices that sounded like the winds of a distant storm.

“Rise then, and fight. When this war is over, return to me, and I will give you passage to the Lady.”

“So it shall be.” The spirits turned to their loved ones with a final parting gesture, their images grow-ing less solid until they disappeared, leaving only the weeping of the refugees.

“Thank you, my prince,” said Nascha, and the refugees surged forward, thanking Tris through their tears.

“There are others who await your help,” Nascha said, “more families of the Scirranish. Perhaps, Prince Drayke, we’ll have our answers, and you’ll find your army.” He bowed low once more, and the group made their way toward the door. Tris retreat-ed to his seat, emotionally spent. Vahanian’s face made his feelings plain.

“If the rest of the people in that outer room are here for the same reason,”

Vahanian said, “it’s going to be a very long night.” He looked at Tris. “I should probably worry that watching you do this kind of thing doesn’t seem strange any more. But ghosts, attacking soldiers—are you sure about that?”

Tris shrugged. “No more than I’m sure about any of the plans. Mercenaries, ready to invade Margolan if I give the signal. Vayash moru, freed to protect themselves outside the truce. Ban and Mikhail, rallying deserters and turning them against the army. Those ghosts are of Margolan blood, just as surely as the deserters and the vayash moru. It seems to me that we’re going to need all the help we can get.” He paused. “Since the meeting with the Blood Council, Gabriel’s carried word of the ruling

to the vayash moru houses in Margolan. He says many of them will fight against Jared.”

“We have to ride back through Margolan to get to Shekerishet,” Vahanian said.

“Let’s just make sure that everyone’s clear about whose side we’re on.”

TRUE TO NASCHA’S word, the petitioners who filled the outer room were the families of Scirranish, some from Margolan’s plains and some from the Borderlands, some from the southern lands near Trevath and some from the mountains, but all came with the same story and the same plea. After the ninth bell, Gabriel came to replace Vahanian.

As the night wore on, group after group told of atrocities that shook Tris to his core. One of the men who came to Tris’s court told of searching for his missing daughter and finding a heap of bodies dumped with Shekerishet’s refuse, bodies of those Arontala had captured and tortured to discover the Sisterhood’s weaknesses. The man’s voice broke as he described the mangled bodies, each bearing the torturer’s mark. Some with crushed feet or limbs dipped in boiling oil, from which the flesh peeled and shredded. Others burned by molten lead, or blinded with hot pokers. A few, he said, had been crushed by heavy rocks, with the weight gradually increased as the victim refused to give up his secrets, until the boulders snapped through bones and suf-focated the unfortunate beneath.

One method seemed to have particularly caught Arontala’s fancy, the man reported, so shaken by his own tale that even a glass of brandy did not steady his voice. For Arontala’s special victims, those whom he suspected had important information, Arontala did not need his magic; all he required was a couple of starving rats, a solid bucket, and a shovel of hot coals. With the victim immobilized, Arontala placed the rats in the bucket and upended the bucket over the victim’s belly, placing the hot coals atop it. As the temperature within the bucket became unbearable, the rats sought their only escape route—by gnawing through the body of the victim. He wept as he described how he had found the body of his daughter, a minor mage with the Sisterhood, eviscerated, her skull crushed. Tris felt tears hot on his own cheeks as he called forth the dead girl’s spirit. The young mage corroborated her father’s story, and gave details of Arontala’s tortures that Tris knew would haunt his dreams.

Sweet Chenne, Tris thought, as the enormity of Jared’s crimes became clear, I knew fared was a monster, but I thought even he had limits. What would he do, if Arontala gains the powers of the Obsidian King? But deep inside, Tris knew the answer to his question. Jared would seek to extend his power over the Winter Kingdoms, beginning a war that would embroil all seven kingdoms in a dis-astrous conflict. The Obsidian King in Arontala’s body would feed on the souls and blood of that conflict, obliging the surviving mages to band together against him, opening up the cataclysm of magicked war. I never wanted to he king, let alone have the fate of the Winter Kingdoms rest on my actions. But there isn’t anybody else to do this—and there may never be.

When the midnight bells tolled Tris motioned for the guards to shut the doors, although the outer room was still filled with petitioners. Carroway and Royster, who had faithfully scribed the stories of the dead, wiped at their eyes as they packed up their parchments and pens and slipped from the room. That left only Tris and Gabriel.

Tris became aware of a ghostly presence, and turned toward the fireplace.

“Show yourself,” Tris commanded. In the shad-ows near the hearth, the spirit of a dark-haired young man appeared. He was dressed in the uni-form of an independent soldier—a merc—and a dark stain marked the death wound in his side. But it was the young man’s eyes that looked familiar, and Tris searched his memories. A little older, hard-er, yes, that’s it. The ghost resembled General Gregor, the soldier who had captured them when they crossed Gibbet Bridge.

He remembered Carina’s story about her lost lover, Gregor’s broth-er, and knew who the spirit was.

“Ric?” Tris asked, bidding the spirit come closer. He was a handsome young man, with the confi-. deuce of an accomplished swordsman and the bearing of a professional man of war.

“Lord of the Dead, a word with you, if I might,” Ric said, bowing low.

“Why have you come?” Tris watched the young man closely. He remembered Carina’s tearful con-frontation with Gregor when she pled their cause, seeking their release. Two of a kind? Gregor had taunted Carina in their cell, when Vahanian had come to her defense. Though Ric and Vahanian looked little alike, Tris could see a certain resem-blance in their manner. Carina’s lost one lover to the sword. No wonder she’s skittish around Jonmarc.

“My lord,” said Ric. “Seven years ago this night, I died in the arms of my betrothed. I couldn’t sever the bond between us, and it almost killed Carina.

Since your return to Principality, Pve watched over her, but I can’t show myself in my own strength.”

“What would you have me do?”

“I never wished to see her grieve for me. Perhaps, my lord, if you can let her see me, I might convince her to let me rest, and she could live without guilt.”

“I’ll warn you,” said Tris. “I’m rather protective of Carina. She’s kinswoman to my own betrothed, and soon kin to me. She’s been though a lot, and she’s worn ragged by the training we’ve been doing. If you can give her peace by making yourself known, then do it. But if you’ll only bring her grief, leave her to those among the living who love her.”

Ric looked pained. “I would never wish to bring her grief. I swear it by the Lady on my soul. Carina blames herself for my death, when I know it was in the hands of the Lady. I want to free her to move on, and take my rest.”

Tris looked at Ric in silence for another moment. Then he turned to Gabriel.

“Send for Carina.”

Though it was late, Carina arrived quickly, giving Tris to guess that she had still been up studying the old healing tomes. “Are you ill? Is there a prob-lem?”

Carina rushed to where Tris stood. Then she froze, sensing a presence in the room. Before she could turn, Tris took Carina gently by the shoul-ders.

“There’s someone who wants to talk with you,” Tris said carefully, seeing a mixture of fear and pain in Carina’s eyes. “He swears he wishes you well. If you don’t want to see him, I’ll send him away.”

“No.” Her voice was tight. “It’s all right.”

Squaring her shoulders, Carina turned slowly toward the shadows near the fireplace. From their depths, Ric stepped forward. Tris lent him the power to make himself visible without his death wound, hoping to spare Carina.

“I didn’t think you would ever come back,” Ric said.

Carina did not try to brush away the tears that slid down her cheeks. “I didn’t want to. Gregor was right. It was my fault you died. I didn’t have the right to live when I couldn’t save you.”

Ric moved closer. “Gregor’s an ass. I tried to push you clear, when my spirit left my body, but… it’s all a little strange. I couldn’t get you untangled, and I didn’t want to pull you with me. I stayed with you, at the citadel, but you couldn’t see me. Then Cam came and took you, and I didn’t know what became of you until I felt you cross into the city.”

“I’m so sorry—”

Ric reached out to touch her cheek. “Enough of that now, love. I’ve watched over you since you crossed Gibbet Bridge. You can’t let me become an excuse to stop living, Carina. You’ve mourned long enough.”

“I wanted to be faithful to you.”

Ric smiled sadly. “And you have been. Long enough, my love. Your guilt binds me to this place, and I want to rest. You have to let me go.”

“How can I let you go, when I love you?”

“Keep my memory,” Ric said, touching her hair. “But you’re too young to pine for the dead. Especially when there is another worthy brother-at-arms who loves you.”

Carina blushed. “I don’t—I mean, we haven’t—”

Ric chuckled, and took her hands. “You owe me neither apologies nor explanations, love. I came back to give you my blessing, because I fear that without it, from my own lips, you’ll continue to punish yourself. Follow your heart, Carina. Whatever you decide, do it because of what you feel, not out of imagined duty to me.”

Carina squeezed her eyes closed against the tears. Though insubstantial, Ric reached out for her, folding his arms around her. “Had I been a little faster with my sword, we might have had the future we dreamed about,” Ric said. “But that’s closed to us. Will you give me your promise that you’ll let me go?” He smiled sadly as Carina wiped away her tears. “Even in the arms of the Lady, I’ll see, and I’ll know.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“I want it because I love you still,” said Ric. “I don’t want you to be lonely. So tonight, perhaps, we are both set free?”

“I’m never going to stop loving you, you know that.”

“I know. But there is room in your heart for more than one love.”

Tris stretched out toward Ric’s spirit and felt a sense of completion, of peaceful resignation, settle over the ghost.

One more small task, m’lord, before you send me to my rest, the spirit asked as Tris began the pass-ing over ritual. Give me the power, I ask of you, to make myself visible to one more person.

Tris paused on the Plains of Spirit, and under-stood. I’ll help you, Tris promised. When you’re ready, return to me, and I’ll give you rest.