The Blood King (50 page)

Soterius struggled to focus on Mikhail’s words, using all of his battle training to center on the task at hand, and step back from the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. “If we can survive there without tak-ing sick, it might be perfect,” Soterius agreed. He looked to Danne and the others. “If you’ll shelter us tonight, we’ll leave tomorrow. I don’t want to add to your pain, and we have a job to do.”

Danne looked to Anyon and Coalan, who met his eyes, and nodded in silent agreement. “If you’ll have us, we’re of a mind to go with you,” the big man said.

“There’s nothing for us here but to starve. We’re none of us soldiers, but after what happened here I’ll have no problem killing Jared’s troops.”

“Nor I,” swore Anyon, straightening. “There’s vengeance due.”

“Count me in,” said Coalan. Soterius started to object that his nephew, only fifteen summers old, was too young for battle. But the look in Coalan’s eyes, the anger and pain and loss that Soterius saw there, silenced his objections.

“We would welcome you,” Soterius said. “I’d be honored.”

When the others had gone to bed Soterius was still awake, staring into the small fire. He stood and walked to the door, letting himself out into the cold moonlit night. After a time, he felt Mikhail’s pres-ence, though the vayash moru’s approach was silent.

“Ban, I’m sorry about your family.”

Soterius looked up at the full moon. “I was think-ing about Tris, the night we left Shekerishet. How he seemed to move in a fog. We were running for our lives, and he didn’t seem to share the same urgency the rest of us felt. I was so impatient with him that night. I needed him to make decisions, to tell us what to do. I didn’t know what to do with his grief. And I was so proud of how battle-calm I was, so unruffled. Such a perfect soldier.”

Soterius kicked at the ice, and looked out at the shadow of the ruined manor house. “I feel like that deer in there—like I’ve been gutted and left to bleed dry. I guess that’s how Tris felt, too. Only I was too busy playing soldier to understand. And when we met Jonmarc, I was so sure he couldn’t be trusted, that anyone who sold his sword would be a turn-coat.”

He looked up at the moon, and the silent tears tracked down his cheeks. “But Jonmarc under-stood. I didn’t realize then, but I know now what he went through, what he lost. I’ve been such an ass. Playing the hero while the people I loved were dying because of it. Danne was right. They died because of me. And while—Goddess help me!—I couldn’t have done anything differently, Father died, think-ing me a traitor. I wish I could make that right.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Soterius glimpsed old pain in the vayash moru’s eyes. “Even if you hadn’t saved Tris that night, Jared would have sent his troops. Your father was one of Bricen’s closest friends. The same has befallen any who didn’t have the good luck to hear of the coup and go into hiding before the soldiers could come. Without your sacrifice, there would be no hope of unseating Jared, no one to defeat Arontala.”

“I know that,” Soterius said.

“Maybe when all is settled, Tris would come to Huntwood, and let you make your peace,” Mikhail suggested. “He’s done so for strangers—would he do less for you?”

Soterius swallowed hard, and shook his head. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that tonight, it seems so far out of reach.”

Mikhail gave a sad smile. “One of the things I miss most about being mortal is the ability to get drunk. I’ve seen much that I wish I could forget, even for a little while. But perhaps, my friend, you can take some solace in wine and find your rest. You need fear nothing—I’ll stand watch.”

Soterius nodded, but paused as he turned to go back into the kitchen house.

“Does it get better— with time?”

He saw the centuries in Mikhail’s eyes. “All things fade in time,” the vayash moru replied. “But even faded, there are those things that death itself cannot erase.”

next

contents

“WHY SO GLUM, Carroway?” Carina nudged

her horse onward through the unseason-ably cold rain.

The bard gave her a sour look. “Because it’s near-ly dusk, and every nightfall seems to bring us to a place to stay that’s even more dreadful than the last.”

Their horses splashed through the water-filled ruts as they trudged down the muddy roads. “Crypts. Basements. Abandoned buildings. What I wouldn’t give for an inn with a fireplace!”

Kiara chuckled. “I understand completely. Last night, I think I saw the biggest rat in Margolan in that basement!” Jae, snuggled for warmth in Kiara’s lap, gave a gurgle of agreement.

“All I know is that the next time I go somewhere with Tris, I’m going to be in charge of where we stay,” Carroway said. “I may never be warm again!”

Vahanian, who was riding point, stopped to let the others catch up. “Can’t say I disagree,” he said, flexing his cold hands, nearly numb from holding his reins.

We’re still a good ways from Shekerishet. Perhaps a warm place to stay and a hot meal would do us all good.”

“Do you remember the inn we stayed at on our way to Ghorbal?” Tris asked the bard. “The one with the young man’s ghost?”

“Is that the way you remember all the places you’ve stayed—by what haunts them?” Vahanian turned his horse to avoid the worst of the rain that ran down his leather cloak and dripped from its hem.

“Lately, yes.”

Carroway stood in his stirrups to get his bearings. “We should be close. Why?”

Tris looked out over the horizon. “It would be a safe place for us—I’m sure of it.”

Carroway nodded. “The innkeeper was willing to hide us—even before you sent away the ghost. He’s unlikely to turn us in now.”

“Whatever we’re doing, can we decide before I freeze?” Carina put in.

Tris and Carroway conferred on the roads, and the group headed out with considerably lighter spirits at the prospect of a night in a real inn. A steady flow of traffic passed them, bound for the palace city and the upcoming festival. Still, Tris noticed that the travelers seemed shabbier than in years past, and the carts of provisions less full than before. It was a marvel that the people of Margolan had the will to celebrate at all under Jared’s yoke.

When they reached the Sparrow’s Roost Inn, Tris and Carroway exchanged glances. “Looks like get-ting rid of the ghost was good for business,” the bard remarked. The inn, which had been in need of repair and nearly empty on their flight from Shekerishet now had a freshly painted sign, a tidy exterior, and a stable filled to capacity with guests’ horses.

“Apparently so,” Tris said. “Let’s go around back.”

Tris gave his reins to Carroway and bade the oth-ers stay back a few paces as he approached the kitchen door. He gave a few sharp knocks, and the stout innkeeper’s wife came to the door. “Go ‘round to the front if you need something,” she said. “But mind that we’ve got no rooms left tonight.” She started to close the door and Tris caught it, letting his hood fall back in the rain. The woman caught her breath and brightened, throwing her arms around Tris in a hug that nearly took him off his feet.

“Bless the Lady—you’re back!” she cried. “Lars, Toby, come quickly!”

The innkeeper and his son came to the door, and puzzled looks quickly changed to broad grins of welcome. “Come in, come in,” the innkeeper said, looking beyond Tris to where his friends waited. “But tell me, sir mage, why do you come to the back door like a beggar?”

Tris extended his mage sense, feeling no threat in the presence of the innkeeper and his family. While he was glad of their welcome, he did not wish to put them in danger. He thought it best to tell a lim-ited version of their story.

“We’d still prefer to stay clear of the king’s troops,” Tris said honestly. The others secured their horses in a copse of trees a lit-tle way from the crowded barn and joined him in the kitchen. “Not everyone is as glad as yourself to see a mage these days.”

Lars, better fed and less harried than he had been, nodded. “Aye, there’s many in the land today have a reason to stay clear of the king’s troops, that’s for sure.

Have no love for them myself, as you know. Bust up the place, and then charge a fee if I want to keep them from busting it up again.

“But since you sent that young man to his rest, folks will stay the night again—and I don’t lose so much ale spilled for no reason. We’re in your debt, m’lord mage. Thought we would starve to death until you came along.” Lars welcomed the others into the crowded kitchen, which smelled of roasting venison, cooked leeks, and the dark, rich ale for which Margolan’s southern plains were famed.

“Come in, come in. I’ll give you my best table, and all the food and ale you want,” Lars said.

Tris smiled, knowing the welcome was genuine. “We’re grateful for your kindness, but we’d like to keep a low profile. We’ll be happy to eat in the kitchen.”

Carroway lifted his head, listening. “Do I hear a bard in the common room?”

Lars nodded. “Had more than a few musicians traveling through with the festival. You’re welcome to go join them—don’t think we’ve ever had the like of you since you left.”

Carroway grinned at the compliment. “My fin-gers are too frozen to play, at least right now,” he said, flexing his hands. “But there’s something familiar in that voice. I’d like to see who’s out there.”

“Keep your head down,” Vahanian cautioned.

“You know me,” Carroway tossed back with a grin. “I blend into the crowd.”

Carina and Kiara chuckled. Even in drab riding clothes, with his long black hair pulled back and soaked, Carroway cut a handsome figure. The bard disappeared through the kitchen doors and the innkeeper’s daughter motioned the group to a work table in the back of the kitchen. She and Toby began to bring out the first hot food the group had enjoyed in several days.

“Perhaps I risk my neck by saying this,” Lars began with a nervous glance at the doors, “but since you’ve got no love of the king’s troops, I’ll wager I’m safe. Since King Bricen died—the Lady rest his soul—this year has been the demon’s own.

Got plenty of guests tonight, but people aren’t trav-eling the way they used to—scared of the highwaymen, and the guards, too. And what’s to travel for anymore, I ask you? Half the farmers ran away—can’t blame them, being burned out by the guardsmen. The others can’t eke out enough to feed their own families, what with the looters and all, let alone take more to trade in the city.

Don’t see so many merchants either. And there hasn’t been a car-avan through here since slavers got one group up near the pass last Fall.

“We’ve fixed the inn up since you took care of the ghost, and it’s been good for business. But many’s the night there’s no one at all on the road to stay anywhere. And it wouldn’t do to look like we turn much of a profit—would just invite the guardsmen to double what they charge me to keep them from busting up the place.”

Lars shook his head. “Never was like this under King Bricen. How he had such a rotter for a son, I don’t know, but King Jared”—he paused to spit on the floor at the name—”belongs to the Crone her-self. Guess those are hanging words, and I ought to be more careful. But it’s gotten bad, m’lord mage. I don’t go nowhere, but I hear everyone who does.” He leaned forward. “It’s worse in the city. King’s got his guardsmen, and they make anyone who dares speak against the king disappear. Leave the bodies in the street the next day, as a warning. I imagine they’ll be watching the festival this year, to keep things from getting out of hand. Now that’s the demon’s own, ain’t it?”

Vahanian cursed, and Kiara laid a hand on Tris’s arm. Tris had gone pale at the innkeeper’s story, and it was only with great effort that he held back his anger and sorrow. “Perhaps the Lady will show pity,” Lris said. “Maybe She will give favor to a champion.”

Lars glanced nervously over his shoulder. “She didn’t favor that general who tried to poison King Jared, that’s for sure. Drawn and quartered he was.”

Lars leaned closer. “But I’ve heard that to the north, the spirits are restless. I’ve heard that some of the king’s troops were set on by the ghosts of the poor bastards they’ve killed, and that none but the horses survived. They say that there’s bands of deserters stalking the king’s troops on the main roads. Got so the army won’t even go to the high-lands no more, because they don’t come back. Just last week, heard tell that on the plank road, the one that leads north of Ghorbal, a whole unit of guards-men just disappeared.” Lars snapped his fingers with a malicious smile.

“Maybe your spirits can tell you true,” Lars added with a glance at Tris. “But that’s what I hear, anyhow.”

Carroway returned to eat with them, and then went back to the greatroom with a promise to be their eyes and ears. Carina noticed a burn on Lars’ daughter Lara’s arm. She smiled gratefully as Carina healed it to a faint, pink scar.

Tabethe, the innkeeper’s wife, prevailed on Carina for help with a bad back. In return, she brought the group food and ale until they could eat no more.

“Picked a good night to be inside—it’s still rain-ing out there,” Vahanian observed from his post near the door. Tris sat toward the corner, out of the way of the busy kitchen staff. Jae lazed near the hearth, much to Lara’s amusement, who dropped bits of venison near the little gyregon until it finally fell asleep, completely sated. “What’s got you so deep in thought?”

Tris looked up from the diary of the Obsidian King. “Just looking for anything I can in the diary. I was hoping we could get an early start,” he said with a glance toward Tabethe, who was bustling near the fire, “but our business has to start and end on the main night.”

Beside him, Kiara dozed in a chair until it was her turn on watch. Carina slipped into the great-room with Carroway. Tris immersed himself in the small, tight handwriting that crowded the precious diary.

What he found troubled him. Tris hoped to find a way to approach Arontala before the Hawthorn Moon, destroying the orb and the dark mage before Arontala could even begin his working to free the Obsidian King’s spirit. But as Tris studied the jour-nal, it became clear that the only way magic worked on a witches’ moon could be dispelled was on that same eve of power. An advance strike was doomed to fail. Only on the night of the working could he intervene and destroy both the orb and the one who sought to escape it. Their opportunity for victory was much smaller than he had hoped.