The Blood King (33 page)

“And?” Jared interrupted. Curane was useful, and was one of Jared’s staunchest supporters. Curane did not even flinch when Jared had demanded a dalliance with his granddaughter, though she was barely of marriageable age. Curane willingly supplied the girl, drugged and pliable, for Jared’s pleasures, and just as willingly made her dis-appear when Jared tired of her. What became of her, Jared neither knew nor cared. Now, Jared imag-ined, Curane was going to expect some reward.

“I understand from Lord Monteith that the King of Trevath is most impressed with Your Majesty’s resolve in securing the throne. Most impressed. It’s also known in Trevath that you have made alliance with Nargi, a frequent trading partner with Trevath.”

“Get to the point,” Jared snarled. The brandy was taking much too long to reach his head, and he felt far too sober.

“As you wish, my king. Lord Monteith believes that the King of Trevath might be approachable for a similar alliance. Such an arrangement could be quite profitable, and might serve to deter some of the other kingdoms, which may not have yet seen the advantage in allying with your power.”

“Not seen the advantage?” Jared roared. “Isencroft, Principality and Dhasson have recog-nized my traitor brother. I consider that a declaration of war. Only Eastmark has ‘not seen the advantage.’ But their silence to our approaches is an answer in itself.” Now Jared could feel the brandy rising in his blood, filling him with a boldness which, of late, seemed more and more elusive.

“A thousand pardons, my king,” Curane said, bowing low. “I hoped to bring you good tidings from Trevath. They are a wealthy and powerful nation, with an esteemed army. Such an alliance might show the others the error of their ways.”

And it certainly wouldn’t hurt your standing with their king, either, Jared thought cynically. “All of this is speculation,” he snarled. “When their king is ready to sign a treaty, then he’ll have my interest.”

“Of course, my king,” Curane said. His obse-quiousness both pleased and annoyed Jared, and the king only barely restrained his temper, remind-ing himself of Curane’s usefulness.

“And while you’re in Trevath,” Jared said, his words slurring as he finished the last of his flask. “Tell them to send better brandy. This year’s batch was pig slop!” He hurled his empty flask into the fire.

“Of course, my king, as you wish,” Curane said, with the same imperturbable smile he always wore. He backed away, bowing low, and made his exit. Alone, except for the guards that now always accompanied him, Jared watched the partygoers with detachment, feeling an odd mixture of disdain and jealousy.

Disdain, for the trivial intrigues and the self-absorbed interests of the courtiers, and jeal-ousy, because they bore none of the weight of the crown, nor the dangers of kingship.

Both disdain and jealousy were doubled when it came to Tris. Just the thought of his half-brother made Jared want another brandy. Tris, whose life had been as charmed from birth as Jared’s had been cursed. Queen Serae could do no wrong in the eyes of the court, while even after Eldra’s death, dark rumors persisted about Bricen’s first wife. Jared had taken care of that. He’d noted since childhood who among the noblewomen had been uncharitable toward his mother’s memory. They had been the first to die when he gained the power to make things right.

Eldra had been avenged, but it didn’t bring her back. But a Summoner could, a Summoner who wasn’t chained by weak concepts of rules and ethics. When the Obsidian King returned, adding his power as a Summoner to Arontala’s magic, Arontala promised Jared that Eldra would return to take her rightful place beside him. Together, they would rule Margolan.

That was something Tris could never understand. Jared grabbed a tankard of ale from a passing ven-dor who bowed low and scurried away. He downed the ale in one long swallow, wishing it would go to his head. No, Tris never got passed from one ser-vant to another, servants who barely noticed a small boy’s existence. Tris had both mother and father; Bricen had doted on his second family the way he had never had time to do with his first. But Serae and Kait would both pay. Arontala had locked them away in the Orb. They would experience the torment they deserved.

Now Tris was the darling of the Winter Kingdoms. Jared spat to one side. He pushed his way through the crowd, and the partygoers scat-tered to clear a path for him as he strode through the throng. Staden had received Tris like a real king, instead of a boy with delusions of grandeur. Word had it that King Harrol of Dhasson and King Donelan of Isencroft had also recognized Tris as Margolan’s rightful king—a travesty, considering that Jared was the first born and heir.

Tris had even inherited magic. Bava K’aa had always kept a watchful eye on Jared, and Jared had hated the old crone witch for it. He’d assumed it was because Serae was Bava K’aa’s daughter and Tris her grandson. He’d stayed out of her way, hat-ing how uncomfortable he felt around her, as if she could read his mind. That Bava K’aa let Tris and Carroway help in her study never bothered Jared at the time. He’d assumed the old witch was just using the two for free labor. Now, he understood. All those years, Bava K’aa had been training Tris, right under Jared’s nose. Training him to seize the throne, to acquire immense power, to push Jared aside as Jared had always been pushed aside. Even then, they’d been plotting.

And then there was Kiara. Jared’s fists clenched. She was his by right, by covenant. Kiara had been promised to him twenty years ago, when she was born. But Bricen had stalled, refusing Jared’s demands to claim his bride when she turned six-teen, easily of marriageable age. Bricen had invented one reason after another to keep Jared from visiting Isencroft, keep Kiara from coming to Margolan, although by the betrothal contract, they were as good as wed already.

Bricen had kept Kiara out of reach the same way he had always dangled the crown. Jared came to realize that something had changed in his father, that Bricen did not intend for his first-born son to take the throne. That was when Jared had decided to seize his own destiny.

Kiara and Tris added another humiliation, announcing their betrothal in defiance of the covenant. By ancient law, Jared now had the right— the duty—to have both of them put to death for treason and adultery. You got the childhood I never had. You got a mother—and father’s attention. But I’ll be damned if you think you’ll steal what belongs to me!

“Careful that you don’t take a chill, my king,” a familiar voice said from behind him. Arontala’s approach, as always, was completely silent.

“What do you want?” Jared snapped as Arontala fell into step beside him.

Arontala’s presence parted the crowd around them. Even the guards kept their distance. In the midst of the throng, they were utter-ly alone.

“I bring news, my king, from Principality.”

“And?”

“Our assassin did not find his mark,” Arontala reported. “He nearly killed one of the ruffians who accompany your brother, a smuggler who is not unknown to me. Sadly, the encounter was not fatal.”

Jared wheeled on the mage, staggering from the brandy. “You promised results.”

“And results we have, my king,” Arontala replied. “Your brother—and King Staden—now realize that they are not safe from our reach.”

“Not enough.”

“There is more,” Arontala remarked, almost off-handedly. “I understand, through a very reli-able source, that the Blood Council convened in Principality for the purpose of determining whether vayash moru would be granted permis-sion to fight against you. The majority of the Council gave their assent.”

Arontala held up a hand, staving off Jared’s irate response. “This is in our favor.”

“How?” Jared roared. Nearby partygoers shud-dered, though none dared to look toward the angry king.

“Because, my king, it legitimizes what we have told the people about the vayash moru. When the people see vayash morn attacking mortals, we will not need to urge them to take their revenge. Yes,”

Arontala said with an unsettling smile. “This is a very good thing.”

“The only good thing will be when my brother dangles from that noose.” Jared pointed at the gib-bet.

“Patience, my king. We’re closer than ever to the Hawthorn Moon. Whatever grandiose dreams your brother may have, there is no time for him to move against us. In just a few months the Hawthorn Moon will be upon us, and we’ll seize power that will last for generations to come.”

“Unless you fail—again,” Jared sneered. “One of my platoons disappeared, near the Principality bor-der. They brought the lone survivor to me, a raving madman who swore that vengeful ghosts had ripped his comrades to shreds before his very eyes.”

Jared leaned toward Arontala. The brandy made it possible to ignore the smell of stale blood. “Such a thing could be done by a Summoner.” Jared made the word a curse. “But of course, my mage has assured me that my brother could never gain such power so quickly.”

“When the Obsidian King is freed, you will have your own Summoner, my king. The greatest Suinmoner who ever lived, hosted in my body and combined with my power as a Fire Clan mage. Your brother stands no chance against that power.” Arontala smiled, his sharp teeth prominent.

“When I took the Orb from its hiding place in the foundation of Dark Haven, it did more than dam-age the great house and kill the lord. Bava K’aa meant to use the power of the Flow, one of the great rivers of energy, to contain the Obsidian King. But in wresting the Orb from its mooring, I altered the balance of the Flow. The imbalance in the Flow changed the timbre of magic in the Winter Kingdoms. It makes me stronger, and it makes the Light mages weaker.” He licked his lips. “That power is increased by blood magic. And once the Obsidian King is free to combine his spirit magic with my fire magic, the altered energies of the Flow will give us even more power.”

“Power? Your blood magic couldn’t even produce useful fighters from the wretches they captured for you. They turned on our own troops so often that the captains don’t want them. And the troops that did use them had to kill them when they were done because they wouldn’t go back in their damn wagon!”

“The troops lack patience,” Arontala replied dis-missively. “Powerful magic takes time.”

“Spare me your talk of magic,” Jared said. “I want results!”

“You’ll have your revenge,” Arontala promised. “When I’m a Summoner, I can help you question your brother. I can bind his soul to his body, so that you can enjoy his questioning for as long as you want. Think of it. I can keep him from dying. How many times do you want to kill him? How far past mortal endurance do you want to push him? Force the Isencroft bitch to watch, so that she appreciates your power. Is that sweet enough for you?”

“It’s only sweet if it happens,” Jared said, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve made a lot of promises. I’m expecting to see them come to pass.”

“Very soon, my king, very soon. You’ll have every-thing you desire, and more, at the Hawthorn Moon.”

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contents

“WHAT’S ON YOUR mind, Ban?” Mikhail V V asked as they rode. The early spring weather was unseasonably cold, and the steady rain pelted their cloaks and soaked their horses. The rain made the night seem even darker. The roads were deep in mud that splattered with each step their mounts took. Soterius wanted nothing so much as a warm fire and a dry bed.

Soterius shrugged. “I just can’t shake the feeling that we should be further along, I guess.”

Mikhail chuckled. “Impatience does get easier with immorality,” he said. “Let’s see. We’ve trained sixty fighters in the refugee camp, and sent out six teams to seal off the roads around the border to Principality and the Dhasson Pass.

Andras’s village gave us twenty fighters, and promised to hold the roads and tributaries south to Ghorbal. Pell got us thirty fighters and three new leaders.

With Tabb’s help and the thirty fighters his village supplied, we’ll have cut off all the main northern roads through the Borderlands to the Northern Sea.” He dusted off his hands. “Not a bad job for two month’s work—considering that we’ve added at least thirty vayash moru to that number,” he said with a grin.

“I know. Anybody else would probably think we’d made a great start. But we’ve still seen too many soldiers on the roads for my taste. There’s lit-tle reason for soldiers to be patrolling this far out in peacetime—except to steal from the farmers and the townspeople.”

“It would be nice if they would do something about the brigands and cutpurses while they’re out here,” Mikhail added. They had passed at least a dozen Margolan soldiers in pairs and small groups over the last few days, backtracking to go around a contingent of fifty soldiers camped by the side of the road the night before. Despite the soldiers’ pres-ence, nothing seemed to deter the highwaymen that lurked along even the best-traveled roads.

“I used to travel this way often in the old days,” Soterius said. “Even alone, I had nothing to fear of thieves while Bricen ruled.”

“We made short work of the two who wanted our horses,” Mikhail chuckled.

“And the three before that, who wanted our money,” Soterius said. “If the rest of Margolan is like this, I hope Tris has a kingdom left when he gets here.”

“We’ll reach the citadel none to early for my lik-ing,” Mikhail said, shaking his shoulders to get some of the rain off his cloak.

“I didn’t think you minded the cold and the rain. Isn’t that one of the advantages of being dead?”

Mikhail snorted. “Shows what you know. Cold is one thing—soaked to the skin is another. Just because I’m not alive doesn’t mean I like being uncomfortable.”

“At least we haven’t gone hungry. I think I’ve actually had my fill of deer meat since I’ve traveled with you. Remind me to invite you to the next King’s Hunt!”

“I used to love the hunt, before I was brought across. Now, I’m afraid my senses are too sharp. I can find the deer on smell alone. There’s no chal-lenge anymore.

But it does keep both of us well fed—you with meat and me with drink.”

They fell silent for a while. Reading a vayash morn’s body language was not easy, but Soterius had the distinct feeling Mikhail was worried about something he had not put into words. “There’s something you’re not saying.”