The Blood King (57 page)

An inhuman shriek tore from Arontala’s throat. The mage’s body burst into flame. Mageslayer began to melt and Tris dropped the pommel, his hands burned and red. The fire was gone as quick-ly as it came, leaving a cindered corpse and blackened, twisted sword. Bells began to toll the midnight hour.

One… two… three…

Hundreds of shadows swirled in a whirlwind around Arontala’s corpse. Spectral visages gathered in the darkness around Arontala’s spirit open-mouthed and angry, their gaping eyes and toothy jaws eager for vengeance.

This time the Formless One came as a vortex, a maelstrom that plunged down into infinity beneath Arontala’s charred body. Tris felt the pull of its winds and heard its roar. A gust of power raged from the heart of the abyss, seizing Arontala’s soul in its inexorable grasp and drawing it into the dark-ness. The last thing Tris glimpsed was the abyss, folding in upon itself. Then it snapped shut and dis-appeared into thin air.

Tris struggled to stay conscious. He dropped to his knees, his shielding wavering without Mageslayer’s power. He saw the spirits stream from the shattered globe, swirling thickly as heavy fog descended around him. The spirits washed over him, grateful for release, brushing against his mind. By Vahanian’s gasp, Tris knew that the spirits were visible beyond his mage sight. Kiara caught her breath sharply as the Orb lost its hold on her and her own shields snapped into place.

From the still-glowing shards of the Orb came a spirit of red flame so bright Tris had to shield his eyes and dampen his mage sight. The Obsidian King rose from the splintered glass. Tris could sense its triumph in release, its anger at being denied its chosen vehicle, its desperation to find a host. He knew that the spirit must have a mage’s body to inhabit or die. Tris remembered the vision of the dark sending, of what it would mean should he be taken. He sent all his waning power into his wardings, resolved not to permit that vision to come to pass.

The Obsidian King’s power slammed against Tris’s shielding. It was a bet, Tris knew, as to which of them was the closest to death. Tris threw all of his power into his shields, resolved to die rather than be possessed. He drew power from the blue glow of his own life thread, though it flickered dan-gerously; he knew that the Obsidian King was weakening fast. Tris could feel the Obsidian King’s panic.

Just when Tris thought that his opponent was at the breaking point, the Obsidian King streaked toward Kiara. Weakened from her ordeal within the Orb, Kiara’s shields buckled and dissolved. Tris could hear her soul cry out as the invader forced himself into her mind.

“I… am… back!” a voice rasped from Kiara’s body, a mixture of wonder and hideous satisfaction molding her features into a visage not quite her own. Four…

five… six… The bells continued their mournful toll, announcing that all had been lost.

Tris staggered as he summoned his power for a final salvo. The struggle with Arontala had drained him badly. Without Mageslayer, the wormroot’s poison went unabated. In moments his power would be beyond his control. Blood loss made him lightheaded. He knew that the blue thread of his own life energy was dimming. He looked at Kiara, her face twisted by the spirit that possessed her body, her eyes desperate, and he remembered the torment Alaine and Lemuel endured when their bodies had been seized against their will. The vision of his own possible fate foretold by the dark sending, of a blank-eyed and crippled shell twisted to the will of the Obsidian King, made up his mind. He knew that there was only one way to free Kiara.

You must do what I could not, because you have what I did not.

Bava K’aa’s words rang in Tris’s mind and he clove toward Kiara, snatching up her fallen spelled dagger. The spell to separate a spirit from the body from the hidden journal of the Obsidian King was clear in his mind. Tris murmured the spell of sepa-ration as he hurtled forward, knowing that he could not—must not—think about what he had to do. Tris felt Kiara’s soul wrench free from her body and he sheltered it within himself, plaiting her life thread with his own.

Weakened as they both were, he could not sustain them both long. Tris listened, heartsick, to the toll of the bells. Seven… eight…nine…

“Forgive me,” he whispered as he turned the knife in his hand, and as tears streaked down his face, he sank the blade deep into Kiara’s chest.

Dimly, he heard Vahanian cry out and Gabriel gasp. Tris threw all of his remaining power into his shields, holding on to the blade as Kiara’s blood soaked his hand and her body sagged against him. It was her scream that pierced the night, as her body convulsed in his arms. The spelled blade, wielded by a mage against both a mage’s body and a mage’s spirit, struck at the only soul remaining within—the soul of the Obsidian King. In the Plains of Spirit, Tris heard the death scream of the Obsidian King as the dagger rent the soul. Tris felt the ancient life force sunder, saw the dying soul tear free from Kiara’s open mouth as her head fell back.

In one last burst of magic, the Obsidian King enveloped them in flames. Tris flung his shields around himself and Kiara, his power and life force strained to the breaking point. An acrid stench rose as the stone floor blackened in a circle around his shields. Gabriel, still shielding Vahanian, cried out as the flare burned his cloak. Then the remnants of the Obsidian King’s soul dimmed and went dark, destroyed beyond even the vengeance of the Formless One. Tris sank to his knees, cradling Kiara’s body.

Tris sagged forward, too drained to move. Sure he was dying, Tris heard a voice in his mind, close by, as if someone leaned down to his ear. I will sustain you, he heard a man’s voice say, and he glimpsed the image of a tall man with golden hair and green eyes like his own. Tris felt no fear; he was too weak-ened from the fight to argue. He gratefully accepted the stream of life energy that made it possible to move again.

“What have you done?” Vahanian cried. Tris tore at the throat of Kiara’s tunic, desperate to find the vial on the strap around her neck.

“What his grandmother could not do,” Gabriel said. Tris lifted the vial, his hands slick with Kiara’s blood, and carefully pulled free the stopper.

“Please,” he whispered to the fates as he lifted Kiara with one arm and tilted back her head, care-fully forcing the vial between her lips. “Please.”

There was no time for second chances, Tris knew. No time to find Carina. The attack and Kiara’s struggle with the Obsidian King had drained both of them.

Supporting Kiara’s life force with his own was burning his waning energy even faster. Tris could feel that he was pulling heavily from the strange mage’s power.

Only a few moments were left for Tris to return Kiara’s soul. Tris knew he could not last much longer. His side was wet with blood, and he felt a growing coldness that had nothing to do with the night air.

It wasn’t at all like he thought dying would be. One part of Tris’s consciousness watched from afar, growing sleepy as death drew near, knowing that he had never really expected to survive the confronta-tion. There was no fear, no pain; only regret, and even that was dulled by the knowledge that with Arontala’s destruction, Kait’s spirit and the other prisoners were free. I will sustain you, the stranger’s voice came again. Tris felt old, strong power bear-ing him up.

As the final bell tolled midnight, a faint glow began to envelop Kiara’s form. It spread from where the potion entered her body, illuminating her. Tris sensed the strong magic of the glow, magic that bore the unmistakable imprint of his grandmother’s power. Where the knife had torn into Kiara’s chest the skin knit closed without a scar, faster even than the work of an expert healer. Kiara’s body jerked as her heart began to beat again. Tris let her spirit slip from within him, gently loosing the glowing thread from his own. As quickly as it came the glow was gone. Tris wavered, nearly losing consciousness.

“That potion… You gambled with Kiara’s life?” Vahanian accused.

“No. With his own,” Gabriel said. “He couldn’t have held on to her much longer.”

Tris watched, barely daring to breathe, as Kiara’s eyes opened. She raised a hand to touch his face.

Tris could only nod wordlessly, overcome from the physical strain, the fight, the victory, the loss, and the restoration.

“By the Dark Lady, look!” Vahanian gasped, pointing behind Tris.

The doors to the throne room burst open. Two dozen armed men in the livery of the House of Margolan streamed into the room, their weapons drawn.

Tris staggered to his feet, placing himself between the soldiers and Kiara. Not like this, Tris thought. Dear Lady, not so close just to fail. Against the wall, Vahanian reached for his crossbow with his left hand. Tris saw that Gabriel was ready to strike, although the odds were against him.

The victorious shout of the soldiers’ commander jerked Tris’s head up as the captain came running toward him.

“By the Lady, you’ve done it!” a familiar voice cried. The soldier lifted his helm and Tris saw Soterius, beaming in triumph. He thought that Soterius would clap him in a hearty embrace, but instead, the soldier stopped a pace in front of him and went down on one knee.

“Honor your king,” Soterius called out to his men. One by one, they also dropped to their knees in fealty. “Hail King Martris of Margolan.”

Tris looked out over the group with a mixture of awe and astonishment. His head still reeled from the battle. The reality of Soterius’s proclamation, after months of struggle, hit him like a dousing of cold water. Arontala lay dead at his feet. The crown of Margolan was his. Outside the palace walls, he could hear the cries of the mob. He knew that he should feel more, that he should feel something, but the battle coldness still gripped him. He could feel neither relief nor triumph. Now, more urgent con-cerns took his attention. Tris knew how dim the glow of his own lifethread had become. He drew more heavily on the strange mage’s power, strug-gling to remain on his feet.

“Rise,” Tris said, his throat tight. He reached out his hand to Kiara, who inclined her head, too unsteady yet even to kneel. Gabriel made a low bow.

“Don’t mind me,” Vahanian quipped from against the wall. “But I don’t kneel well on a bro-ken leg.” Soterius rose. At his gesture, two soldiers ran to improvise a stretcher for the wounded fight-er. Vahanian protested, and then resigned himself with a sigh.

Tris leaned heavily on Soterius as the soldier guid-ed him to the windows. He flung them open, stepping with Tris onto the balcony, and the crowd cheered below them.

“Hail, King Martris! Long live King Martris!” the crowd cheered from the bailey. Tris lingered for a moment, long enough for the crowd to see him and for him to acknowledge their cheers. Then he turned, stepping back into the room and out of sight of the crowd. He felt the last of his strength falter and the stranger’s power slipped out of reach as the floor rushed to meet him and everything around him turned to black.

GABRIEL CAUGHT TRIS before he hit the floor.

“The king is down!” Soterius cried out, rushing to Tris’s side. Tris was pale, his eyes were shut, and his breathing was shallow. The hair on one side of his head was matted with blood from a gash that swelled on his temple, and the contrast made Tris seem even paler.

“Stay with us,” Soterius urged, shaking him gen-tly. “Tris, stay with us!” There was no response. Soterius looked up at Gabriel.

“Find Carina,” Soterius told the vayasb moru. “She’s in the courtyard, with Carroway. Get her up here as fast as you can.”

Gabriel nodded, looking at Tris with a sober expression that only fed Soterius’s panic. Then the vayasb moru stepped to the balcony, and disap-peared. When Gabriel returned in a few moments, he had Carina with him. The healer looked slightly shaken as she stepped off the balcony, away from Gabriel. She glanced around the room, confused over who needed her most. Kiara’s clothes were covered with blood, but she waved Carina away. Vahanian, his leg at an unnatural angle and his sword arm badly broken, shook his head. Then Carina spotted Tris. With a gasp, she ran to kneel beside him.

Soterius stripped off Tris’s tunic, revealing the knife gash on Tris’s upper arm and the seeping burn where the poker had struck. But when he lifted away Tris’s cuirass, Soterius caught his breath. Beneath the bloodied shirt was a deep side wound.

“Sweet Mother and Childe,” Carina said to Soterius. “What happened?”

“Tris put up one hell of a fight with Arontala and the Obsidian King,”

Vahanian supplied. He turned to the soldier who was trying to move his stretcher. “I’m not going anywhere—not until Tris is patched up.” Kiara likewise refused their assistance, moving behind Carina where she could see.

She put a hand over her mouth to stifle her cry.

“The energy from the blast when the orb explod-ed—and the battle—would have been a significant drain,” Gabriel observed. Soterius realized that the back of Gabriel’s coat was burned and tattered. Gabriel’s skin, which had been blackened in places and covered with cuts and gashes when Soterius first entered, was healing before their eyes. As the skin healed, it pushed out the bits of broken glass from the orb. They fell to the floor with a crunch at the vayash moru’s feet.

“Speaking of that—thank you,” Vahanian inter-jected. “I don’t heal nearly as quickly as you do; I’d be a very dead pincushion by now if you hadn’t put yourself between me and that bloody ball!” Gabriel inclined his head in acknowledgement, and returned his attention to Tris.

Carina looked at Soterius. “I’m going to need to draw from someone. We don’t have time to wait for

Carroway.”

Soterius met her gaze. “Use me. Take whatever you need—my life if you must—only tell me what you require.”

“Do you trust me?” Carina asked.

“Completely.”

“Then open your mind to me, and I’ll have what I need.”

Soterius closed his eyes and laid his hand on Carina’s shoulder. She connected with him and he swayed, then regained his balance. Carina frowned and moved her hands over the knife wound in Tris’s side. “Dear Goddess,” she murmured.

“He’s lost so much blood.”

Carina slipped into a healing trance, drawing on the energy Soterius lent her.