The Blood King (46 page)

Nyall pushed the gangplank away. Tris and the others took their places, long poles in hand, as the river pilot guided them out into the swift waters. The lights of Jolie’s place remained visible for quite a distance, until the river changed its course, whisk-ing them along in its current, deeper into Margolan.

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NEAR DUSK ON the first day they glimpsed a dozen soldiers riding together not far from the river. The well-armed men lacked both flag and livery, raising Tris’s suspicions. Tris and Vahanian poled their raft toward the shallows and waited in the thin cover of dead reeds and overhanging branches until the guardsmen were gone. They trav-eled the rest of the night in silence, scanning the riverbanks. Though they saw no more guards, the camps of ragged sojourners dotted the forest’s edge, more refugees fleeing Margolan for whatever the road might offer. By night Gabriel traveled with them, his enhanced sight aiding Nyall through the shallows and rocks of the swift river. By day Gabriel disappeared, leaving them to their wits to navigate the difficult river.

The deeper they traveled into Margolan, the more Tris felt the ghosts of his homeland tugging at his senses. Their restlessness became mirrored in his own.

The rivers’ ghosts drifted near the raft, sub-stantial enough that the others glimpsed them through the spring fog. Fearing the dreams that plagued him nightly, Tris slept little, pushing him-self until Carina chided him and exhaustion gave him no choice. But he could not evade the dreams, the sound of Kait’s plaintive call in his mind, the memory of the desperate look in her eyes.

Worse, the images of the dark sending haunted him most nights. He finally let Carina use her healing magic to put him into a deep sleep while Gabriel stood watch. It was the first dreamless rest he could remember in a fortnight.

THEY BEACHED THE raft on the banks of a deserted fishing village in the waning light of the moon. A feeling of dread settled over Tris as he helped Carroway wrestle the heavy boat far enough onto the beach that the horses could be unloaded safely. Without Sakwi, Carina had been preoccupied for the journey keeping the horses calm on the raft. Now she led the animals one by one down the gang-plank and onto dry land, working in relay with Vahanian until the horses were safely ashore.

The wind changed, and a foul smell drifted down toward the river. Nyall waited nervously near the raft, making it clear by his stance that he would go no further. Tris dug into the pouch he carried beneath his tunic for gold, and added half again to what was promised to the river pilot.

“Thank you for your trouble,” Tris said, pressing the coins into the boatman’s hand. With a mumbled word of blessing and a nervous glance in Gabriel’-.

direction, the river pilot sprinted across the gang-plank, pulled the boards up behind him, and poled back into the current.

“He certainly didn’t waste any time,” Kiara said.

Tris shrugged. “Why should he? He already got a lot more than he bargained for.”

“You could say that,” Carroway observed.

“What happened to this place?” Carina said, heading toward the ruins of the village.

“Smells like someone left all of last year’s catch out in the sun,” said Vahanian.

The others held their scarves over their noses as the foul smell returned, stronger now. What remained of the small cabins and stone houses was gutted by fire, so that only portions of the walls still stood, open to the sky.

Abandoned nets hung from the trees and bush-es where they had been stretched to dry, swaying in the wind like ghostly moss.

Even without consciously stretching out his sens-es, Tris could feel the restless dead. Their anger washed over him like a cold wave, and he struggled for control against the unseen presences that buffet-ed him. Without warning an image of the slaughter came to him, then another and another, the testa-ment of eyewitnesses sent with a fury that battered his control.

Soldiers, in the livery of the King of Margolan, wielded swords and battle axes against villagers armed with hoes and sickles. No quarter given, even as women and children begged for their lives. Terror, as the soldiers took their pleasure of the vil-lage’s young girls before casually slaughtering them. On the Plains of Spirit, the ghosts’ emotions washed over him, as hungry for vengeance as the spirits in the Ruune Videya. Tris staggered and clutched his head, closing his eyes. He dropped to his knees, overcome, reinforcing his war dings. The brutal images continued, and the ghosts cried out for jus-tice.

“Tris!” Kiara cried. Tris opened his eyes to see Kiara and Vahanian with swords drawn, ready for a cautious advance.

“I can feel what happened here,” he said, strug-gling for composure.

“Look there.” Carroway pointed. In the twilight, a man’s ghost stood ahead of them.

Tris, Kiara, and Vahanian stepped forward to follow the beckoning ghost, swords unsheathed and ready. Tris saw the glint of a dagger in Carroway’s hand, and noted that Carina gripped her walking staff a bit more tightly. Jae flew on ahead, his leath-ery wings making the only sound as the ghost led them toward the large common barn. Gabriel took the rear.

“Wait for us!” Kiara hissed at Jae as the ghost vanished. With the others just a pace behind, Tris swung open the barn door and recoiled. The smell was overpowering. Inside, barely visible in the dim light, hung what remained of dozens of villagers, their corpses suspended by nooses from the barn rafters.

Tris called hand fire to his palm and used it to light their way as he and Vahanian pushed forward, swallowing hard against the stench. A sword thrust up from the barn floor and from it hung a bit of cloth: the royal standard of House Margolan.

“Nice touch,” Vahanian said acidly. “Just in case someone didn’t get the message.”

“Such messages have become common in recent days,” Gabriel said from behind Carina. The vayash moru seemed unaffected by the carnage, though he had unsheathed his sword. “Arontala has grown bolder, and the list of crimes that prompts such vengeance grows by the candlemark. Come. We must find sanctuary.”

“Not yet,” Tris said. “Not until I’ve given them their peace.”

“Do it fast,” Vahanian muttered. “I don’t want to meet up with those guards on their return trip, if it’s all the same to you.”

It took two candlemarks to cut down the corpses and carry them to a nearby cave. When the bodies were laid out and covered with makeshift shrouds, Tris lifted his hands in farewell as the ghosts once more made themselves visible.

“I can’t give you your lives,” Tris said, “but I bid you rest. I am oath-bound to the Lady to destroy the one who caused your deaths.”

A bearded man who bore himself with the digni-ty of a village elder stepped forward from the silent line of specters. “We don’t want to rest yet,” the elder said. “We want to fight. Give us the power, Lord Summoner, and let us hold this ground and this river crossing so that none of the usurper’s sol-diers can pass.”

Tris nodded, and stretched out his hands in bless-ing. “By the crown of my father, King Bricen, I honor your service. Take your vengeance on Jared’s troops, but let no harm come to innocent travelers who pass this way.”

The elder bowed in acceptance. “Your word is a bond upon us, m’lord. We’ll do as you command.”

Gabriel and Vahanian moved a large boulder into place to block the entrance, burying the unfortu-nate villagers in a rough cairn.

“Can we go now?” Vahanian asked. Carina opened her mouth as if to chastise Vahanian, but at the look on his face, she said nothing. Tris guessed that it was the memory of Vahanian’s own village, destroyed by the magicked beasts, which loomed in the fighter’s mind.

No one spoke as they retraced their steps to where the horses were tethered. Tris looked over to Vahanian, trying to appraise his companion’s con-dition. While Vahanian had made a valiant effort aboard the raft to keep up, it was apparent that he had not yet fully recovered from his injuries.

“Ready to ride?” Tris asked.

“Never felt better,” Vahanian lied blatantly. To prove his point, he swung up into his saddle. Tris saw him wince as pain flickered across his face. So did Carina, who made sure that she rode where she could keep an eye on him.

“Welcome back to Margolan,” Carroway said as they rode. They kept a brisk pace, alert for any signs of patrols.

“This way,” Gabriel directed. “We must hurry.”

Tris rode in silence in the darkness. The story they heard from the old man in Sakwi’s village, the mur-dered villagers in the fishing town, and the desolation they saw along the road wore heavy on him. Margolan, so prosperous and peaceful under Bricen, had been reduced to starvation in less than a year. Tris’s anger against Jared warred with Alyzza’s warning about power used in hatred, and as they rode, Tris bowed his head, letting his cow; hide the tears that streaked down his face for his homeland and his people.

Kiara rode up beside him, and he was grateful that she did not try to talk. She seemed resolved to comfort him just by her silent presence. He doubt-ed she could guess just how much that gesture meant. His heart was long past breaking for his land, his people, his lost family. He knew that he must quiet his anger, master his hatred, or risk being turned by the Obsidian King. Tris focused on the pathworkings that Alyzza had taught him, the small magicks for bringing calm and clearing the mind. Gradually, he felt some of the tension ease, although the fresh grief he felt still ached.

They finally slowed to a stop; silhouetted in the moonlight were the ruins of a temple. Tris felt a tin-gle of old sorcery as they approached. One look at Kiara confirmed that she, too, sensed that ancient and powerful magic had been worked here long ago, the traces of it dimmed by years.

•”Want to put in a few prayers for luck?” Vahanian jibed, and Carina gave him a withering glare.

Gabriel secured their horses in the shelter of a ruined stable, out of sight of casual passers-by. “This way,” the vayash moru beckoned, leading them amid the ruins. In the gray just before the dawn, it was almost possible to imagine those broken arches soaring toward the sun, buttressing high stone walls, awash in the brilliance of stained and beveled glass. Nothing remained of that former splendor, save some of the marble flooring and broken walls.

At the very front of the ruins, Gabriel pushed aside a heavy stone altar.

Underneath, steps descended into darkness. “Here,” fee indicated, standing aside.

Kiara gave him a skeptical look and Jae squawked in agreement. “You want us to just… go down there?”

“You’ll be safe. Hurry. The sun is about to rise.”

Vahanian moved to lead the way, drawing his sword.

“That won’t do you any good,” Gabriel said.

Vahanian glanced over his shoulder. “For luck,” he said, stepping carefully into the darkness.

Tris, Carina, and Carroway followed, then Kiara, with Gabriel behind them to pull the heavy stone back into place. Tris conjured hand fire, which lit the tight corridor with a blue glow. The darkness smelled of mold and rotting cloth, and the metallic-sweet tang of fresh blood. Even without a conscious effort, Tris could sense other beings near them, not living but not dead, restless spirits neither mortal nor at peace. He raised wardings around the group, unsure what he would do should Gabriel’s estima-tion of their hosts prove incorrect.

Tris felt a rush of wind, heard the scuff of leather on stone. Carina gasped and Vahanian cried out as something lunged for them in the darkness. Gabriel moved faster than sight, block-ing the creature that grabbed for Tris. Tris sent fire to flare in the torches on the walls around them. A door at the end of the corridor opened, and more torchlight flooded into the corridor. Framed in the doorway stood Riqua, and behind her, dozens of vayash moru.

“Hail, Riqua,” Gabriel said, making a low, cour-teous bow. “I have brought you the Lord of the

Dead and the new Lord of Dark Haven. We seek sanctuary for the night.”

Reluctantly, Tris and the others followed Gabriel into the next room, a large vault with a catafalque in one corner. Although the crypt was freezing cold, it was otherwise appointed like a fine salon, with comfortable chairs, rich tapestries, and fine furnish-ings in the most current fashion. Riqua returned Gabriel’s bow, and held out her hand in greeting to Tris. Without hesitation, he took it and kissed the back of her ice cold hand, making a courtly bow.

“Our deepest gratitude, Lady Riqua, for your welcome and sanctuary,” Tris said.

The deference seemed to please Riqua.

“Hail, Lord of the Dead,” she said in a tone that walked an indistinguishable line between true respect and sarcasm. “And which of you, might I inquire, is the Lord of Dark Haven?”

“I am,” Vahanian answered, stepping up behind Tris, his hand still near his sword. The move seemed more for Tris’s defense than as an indication of comfort with his new title.

“Well, well,” said Riqua as she circled Vahanian, taking his measure. “A long way from Chauvrenne and Nargi, aren’t you, Lord Vahanian?”

“It’s been an interesting road.”

Riqua exchanged glances with Gabriel. “So it is always with the will of the Lady.”

She looked at the others, who stood in silence, alert and still braced for an attack. Riqua paused for a moment in front of Kiara, staring intently at the Isencroft princess. Even Jae seemed to shrink at the inspection. “I knew your mother in the court of Eastmark,” Riqua said, watching for Kiara’s reaction. “Her spirit was as wild as the stallions she rode. Welcome, Viata’s daughter. You’ll be safe here.”

Whatever Kiara’s misgivings, her court training served her well. She made a gracious courtesy. “Your hospitality is most appreciated, m’lady Riqua.” Kiara’s hand never strayed far from the pommel of her sword.

Riqua’s attention moved to Carroway. “I’ve seen you in Bricen’s court,” Riqua said with a faint smile. “You’re far from home, Bard Carroway.”

“Thank Jared,” Carroway replied. “Until Tris takes back the throne, I’m where I should be—at his side.”

Riqua looked at Carroway a few seconds more in silence, and Tris wondered again whether Gabriel had told him the whole truth about vayash moru’s ability to read mortal minds. While he suspected that his own power as Summoner afforded him unique protections and Vahanian seemed to have unusually good shielding for a non-mage, Tris won-dered if the same was true for the others.