The Blood King (54 page)

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Tris murmured as they unpacked the climbing gear. In silence, Tris, Kiara, and Vahanian secured themselves into their sturdy harnesses and anchored their climbing ropes. Then, with a glance among the three companions and nods to indicate completion, Tris lowered him-self over the edge and began to carefully make his way down the cliff face. Below them in the mews Tris could hear the cry of Kait’s falcons. Jae circled in kinship, hissing to the captive birds of prey.

Gabriel signaled silently to them, descending to a shadowed place out of sight of the guards. They watched as a small noise attracted the attention of the two guards beneath them. The doomed soldiers approach Gabriel’s hiding place. The only sound that traveled up to them was a gasp of astonish-ment. Moments later, Gabriel appeared from the shadows and signaled them to descend.

“You’re one hell of a scout,” Vahanian muttered to Gabriel as they reached the stone walkway and rapidly detached themselves from the harnesses.

Kiara moved quickly to the mews and gently set Jae down near the caged falcons. The gyregon hissed and the falcons responded with an answering cry.

Carefully Kiara opened the cages and stood back as Jae flew into the air. Tris joined her. They each took up the gloves of the falconers that lay nearby, carefully removing each bird and its hood and launching the falcons into the air from their gloved forearms. The birds soared up to where Jae circled. Most fell in behind him. A few decided to challenge the newcomer, but the sparring was brief and decisive and the gyregon emerged dominant. Kiara and Tris removed the gloves, and Kiara smiled. “I think we can be sure that the roof is secure,” she murmured.

Gabriel stepped forward, beckoning for them to follow him. Even by moonlight, Tris noted that the vayash moru’s pallor had decreased, and his lips seemed more full and red.

“Come. The hunt is on,” Gabriel said.

BY THE NINTH bell on the day of the Hawthorn Moon, Carroway and Carina had made the rounds of the city, finding that word of the uprising had preceded them among the other minstrels, who had added ideas of their own.

Already, the mood of the revelers was beginning to shift. The minstrels’ songs took on a harder edge, replacing the maudlin love songs with ballads of heroes who threw off tyrants’ yokes, and the great warriors of Margolan’s past. Groups of wandering actors played out their skits, but now the tales told of villagers defying corrupt soldiers and maidens rescued from defilement. Guards set their dogs on the crowd, but one of the cart vendors tossed his load of meat pies in the opposite direction, drawing off the snarling dogs, who ran like puppies to snatch up the fallen treats. Angered, the guards started to beat the vendor, but the crowd closed around them, and one man who was as broad as both guards together and a head taller than either of them hefted one of the guards in both hands and hurled him against a nearby wall.

The other guard began to run, and the crowd pelted him with garbage as he fled.

By the tenth bell the crowd grew restless, then bel-ligerent. Tales of hardship and oppression resonated within the audience. A dozen villagers climbed the bell tower and tore down the royal ban-ner, setting it ablaze. Cries of outrage against the palace grew more strident.

“Now let’s really get their attention,” Carroway hissed. He headed toward the guardhouses just beyond the city gates, below the palace. A crowd milled there, mostly alesmen and whores tending to the needs of the guards. Positioning Carina and Alyzza for an easy escape, Carroway strolled among the crowd, ostentatiously juggling several flaming batons.

“You there, let’s see you juggle!” called the captain at arms, leaning away from the strumpet beside him.

Carroway obligingly came closer, sending the fiery batons high into the night air. The soldiers gathered around, cheering and clapping. The whore withdrew a coin from her bodice and tossed it at Carroway’s feet.

On the pretense of glancing at the coin, Carroway dropped one of his batons into the haystack nearest the guardhouse. The other two flaming batons went flying, one landing on the thatched roof of the out-post, the other landing so close to the drunken guardsman that he and his strumpet were obliged to jump out of its way.

“Stop him!” the captain cried.

“Now!” Carroway shouted. Alyzza flung a hand-ful of pellets onto the ground between Carroway and his pursuers. The pellets exploded into puffs of colored smoke, startling the guards. With a touch of her own, Alyzza summoned a ball of mage fire, giving the smoke an eerie glow and setting the guards back a pace.

It was enough of a diversion for Carroway and Carina to lose themselves in the crowd as the fire raged and the guards’ attention turned to salvaging their post.

The flames were the signal the rowdy crowd needed. Soldiers tried in vain to keep back the rev-elers as the mob surged forward. Wielding whatever came to hand, whether broken boards or broom handles, the surly crowd pressed toward the sol-diers. The captain waved his sword in vain. More shouts sounded a few streets over. In the distance, another guard house went up in flames.

One of the guards sent an arrow flying. It struck a man at the front of the mob, taking him through the heart. Like a spark to tinder, the crowd’s rage ignited. A wave of rioters swept forward. There was the sound of glass shattering as men smashed wine bottles to use as weapons. The night smelled of sweat and ale and of burning straw. To the soldiers’ horror, the angry revel-ers advanced with a howl and did not stop, even when more men fell to the archers’ arrows.

Alyzza’s hand moved, hidden by the press of bod-ies around them. The stable doors flew open and a loud noise sent the guards’ horses stampeding out the back, fleeing in panic down the streets. She chuckled as her hand traced a sigel in the air. “I’ve fused the blades together in the armory,” she called to Carina.

“Let them try to use those!”

Rocks crashed through the windows of the guard house. One of the guards fell with a hunting knife

protruding from his chest. The panicked soldiers rushed the crowd, brandishing swords. The mob advanced, beating back the soldiers with staves and walking sticks. Two men came running with the spoils from a looted blacksmith’s forge.

The rioters took up a cry as metal bars replaced walking sticks and horseshoes flew with deadly aim at the soldiers. Three more guardsmen fell to the ground as the crowd rushed forward, dragging their own dead and wounded out of the way.

The hapless guards, faced with several hundred drunken and increasingly well-armed festival goers, abandoned their burning post and fled. The crowd cheered and pelted the fleeing soldiers with rocks.

“I thought this was just supposed to be a diver-sion,” Carina said as they watched the fire from afar.

“I think there’s more loose tonight in the crowd that some ale,” Carroway said.

“Looks like we touched a raw nerve.”

“Aye, but can you control what you’ve started?” Alyzza cackled as the flames grew higher.

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CAREFULLY, TRIS, KIARA, Vahanian and Gabriel made their way into Shekerishet. Outside the tenth bell chimed, reminding Tris that within two candlemarks’ time their quest must be successful or lose everything. Gabriel slipped ahead of them to clear their path and disappeared into the shadows.

Tris felt for the pouch at his belt and took a wad of rope vine from it, holding the bit of dried leaves clenched in his teeth as a precaution against wormroot-tainted traps.

Tris stretched out his senses. The absence of cas-tle ghosts left an uneasy void.

In their place was a new, dark presence that chilled him.

Arontala, Tris thought, and the orb. The dark magic permeated the castle, although Tris could not pinpoint any single place as its locus. He headed for the throne room with every mortal and mageborn sense on high alert, his sword in hand, Kiara and Vahanian behind him.

Tris found his way through the corridors of Shekerishet easily, memories returning as he wound through the darkened hallways. Twice they pressed themselves into the shadows as a servant passed by. Around one corner, they found the still-warm bod-ies of half a dozen guards, the corpses unmarked except for the bloodless punctures on their necks. Three more guards happened upon them from the opposite direction. Vahanian’s crossbow silenced one before he had time to realize he was under attack. Kiara made short work on the second, run-ning him through. Tris swung into a clean Eastmark kick, sending his opponent sprawling, and finished the third with a single sword stroke. They did not bother to hide the bodies, but their pace increased. Tris hoped that Gabriel had made a clean sweep of the area in front of them.

Tris moved carefully, mindful of the traps he had encountered in his training at the citadel. Surely Jared has protections in place, Tris thought. There are enough of his subjects who want to kill him. Mortal guards could be easily removed by Gabriel without the sound of a scuffle. But the further into Shekerishet they got without springing any traps, the more concerned Tris became.

He’s expecting me. He knows I’m coming for the orb. Like a spider with a web.

All he has to do is wait.

“I don’t like this,” Vahanian muttered under his breath. “I don’t trust anything that’s this easy.”

“Do you think we’ve been betrayed?” Kiara whis-pered.

Tris shook his head. “Jared doesn’t need a spy to guess that we’d come for the Hawthorn Moon. Arontala probably thinks it’s too far gone for us to turn it around. Jared figures he’ll sit back and let Arontala do the fighting, and come in for his fun once we’re beaten.”

“It still means we’re being set up,” Vahanian said, his grip tight on his crossbow.

“The question is— when does the trap spring?”

Just before they reached the throne room, Vahanian put up a hand for caution and moved ahead slowly, his attention drawn to a dark pile on the floor. He ven-tured ahead a step or two, and then waved for the others to follow. Four men in the livery of the king’s personal guard lay dead in a heap.

“Gabriel’s going to need a week to sleep this off.” Vahanian shivered as he looked at the punctures in the dead men’s throats.

A few more steps and the doors to the throne room stood before him. Tris paused, stretching out his senses once more. He felt the blood magic that wrapped itself around Shekerishet like a moist shroud, so strong that it seemed to come from everywhere at once. He focused his senses on Mageslayer, and felt the spelled blade thrum with power. The sword itself seemed to pulse, sensing their mission. Tris glanced at Kiara and Vahanian. They nodded, their weapons ready. Trap or not, the night’s work would begin in earnest as soon as they found Jared.

Sword in hand, Tris pushed open the great doors. As his hand touched the door a light flared, pulling him into the room through an invisible curtain of power.

Behind him, Kiara and Vahanian vanished.

As he crossed the threshold, Tris felt a gut-wrenching lurch. Mageslayer, so full of power a moment before, became dead steel in his hands, its magic gone.

Fearing for the others, Tris looked behind him but the corridor was empty. And as he reached out to ward himself, he realized that in this room, his magic was suddenly out of reach.

“I HOPE TRIS has everything under control up there,” Carroway breathed as they watched the crowd. The revelers tumbled out of the heart of the city, moving up the hill toward the palace itself. Rioters took up staves and bricks, shouting curses and threats as they backed the overwhelmed garri-son toward the city gates.

The bells in the tower at the heart of the city tolled eleven.

“Tris is running out of time,” Carina fretted, looking toward the dark shape on the cliffside. Lights burned within Shekerishet’s many windows, but nothing hinted of unrest within the great, silent castle.

Carroway shared her worry. There was no middle ground. Come morning, Martris Drayke would be King of Margolan, or he and the others, if still alive, would surely hang.

“We’ve certainly kept the guards out of the way,” Carroway observed as soldiers from the palace streamed toward the city gates and the fire at the garrison. At the approach of the soldiers, the mob drew back, and then surged forward again.

“Disperse!” the captain-at-arms cried. Behind him, a dozen soldiers armed with longbows took the field. “Disperse now, or risk the consequences!”

But the crowd, riled by the minstrels and made foolhardy by ale, pressed forward. A dozen men at the front fell to the flying shafts, and a roar went up from the mob in fury. Before the archers could ready their bows again, the crowd lurched toward them like an angry wave, trampling the guards.

Carroway lifted his head. “Do you hear some-thing?”

“No. What—?”

The sound of hoof beats thundered louder. Alyzza’s curse told Carroway that the old witch heard it as well. As they watched, fighters on horse-back streamed toward the city gates at a gallop.

“WELCOME HOME,” JARED Drayke said to Tris. “What took you so long?

Planning to use grand-mother’s magic to just wink me out of existence?” Jared moved from his place near the tall window, and fingered an amulet beneath his robes, a null magic charm. “Your magic won’t work on me, boy. I’ve a few protections in place, and a sorcer-er in my employ. I’ve spent the better part of a year trying to find you, brother dear. And then I realized that in time, you’d come to me. All I had to do was wait.

“The doorway was spelled for you alone. As for your friends,” Jared shrugged.

“My mage has use of them. Tonight, we raise the Obsidian King.”

“I have no intention of letting that happen,” Tris said, advancing steadily, his sword ready. “I came to kill you—and destroy Arontala and his orb.” With or without magic, he added silently.

“Still the dreamer. How pathetic.” Jared took a step toward Tris. “In here, without your magic, you’re just the same boy I’ve thrashed before. I could always whip your ass.”

“I’ve seen what you’ve made of Margolan, how many people you’ve killed to get a throne that would have been yours in time.”