The Blood King (7 page)

Numb with shock and grieving from the images of the sending, Tris felt no fear.

Istra opened her arms, spreading her heavy cloak. Tris’s mage sense could feel the spirits clustered in the darkness beneath that cloak, spirits that clung to the power of the Dark Lady like frightened chil-dren, sheltered beneath an intricately woven pattern that shifted as he stared. He knew without a word that he must step into that embrace, though in the mortal world, fear would have frozen him in place. Drawn by Her power, Tris stepped forward, won-dering what would become of his soul with no Summoner to make his passage. Istra’s cloak folded around him, smelling of leather and sweet grass, and Tris felt a power beyond words stream through him as he fell into her embrace. Strong immortal arms closed around him and the darkness of the cloak covered him.

My soul is forfeit, Tris made his confession. I’ve failed my family, my friends, and my people.

Not yet. Istra’s voice sounded in his mind, impos-sibly sweet, defying mortal description. You must return.

Tris felt the spirits that clustered beneath the cloak enfold him as his own strength failed him entirely. Borne up by the spirits, supported in the arms of the Dark Lady, Tris surrendered to the darkness.

TRIS WOKE TO find himself in his own room, the darkness lit only by a bank of candles. At first he wondered if he had truly returned to himself, or whether he might find himself a witness to his own funeral. But the bed beneath him felt solid, and the bandaged wound in his shoulder throbbed. When he turned his head, the pain nearly made him lose consciousness.

In the near-darkness, Tris could make out two fig-ures near the fire, and realized that both Carina and Taru were keeping a vigil. He wanted to call out, but he found he lacked the strength even to do that, and his power felt out of reach entirely.

Maybe this is the Lady’s judgment, Tris thought, closing his eyes. Maybe She won’t take me until I’ve lived the visions, until I’ve lost everything, and felt the pain. Maybe I’m damned.

Three days later, after the chills and fever of the wormroot left him and he was able to leave his bed, Tris sat by the window of his room, huddled in the deep window frame, looking out at the snow-covered city below. The food on the table beside him was cold, untouched. Carina had pleaded with him to eat, but he felt no hunger, and while the gash in his arm was nearly healed and the poison in his system was gone, the images of the sendings haunted him. He had not slept.

Carina, worried because he would not speak to her, had finally left him alone.

Tris was too numbed by his own grief and failure to find the words to answer her questions. He could not look into her eyes without seeing the noose and the gibbet. He was resolved to neither share his visions nor allow them to come to pass, but how to stop them from happening he did not know.

The door behind him opened. Tris did not turn. The worst that can happen is that someone sinks a shiv in my back, he thought. Perhaps it would be for the best.

He sensed Taru’s power before she spoke. “Carina asked me to come,” Taru said, moving toward him in the darkened room. Tris neither waved her away nor bid her closer, never taking his eyes off the falling snow beyond the window.

“Something else happened in that room that Carina didn’t heal.”

Tris didn’t move. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You have to.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

“I don’t think Arontala expected to kill you through Alaine. Oh, he could have gotten lucky— and he certainly came close. But he can sense your power. You’ve turned him back before, without training. No,” Taru said, “he didn’t really expect to kill you. And at a distance, he couldn’t possess you. So it had to be something else. Something to break your will, make you question your purpose, lose heart.”

Tris kept his back turned, so that Taru could not see the tears that filled his eyes.

“You saw something in that room, didn’t you?”

Tris nodded wordlessly, unable to trust his voice.

“A mage of Arontala’s power could project a vision through a vessel like Alaine,” Taru went on quietly. “A dark sending can take the heart of a strong man,” she said. “Once, I saw a great gener-al throw himself off a cliff because a dark mage convinced him that his wife, his children, had been slaughtered.”

“Jonmarc, Carina, Carroway—I saw them die,” Tris whispered. “I saw Kiara taken—” his voice failed him and he bowed his head.

Taru moved to stand behind him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Wormroot poisons the body,” Taru said quietly. “But a dark sending poisons the soul. Tell me—were the images you saw clear, as if they were happening in front of you?”

Tris nodded, swallowing hard as the images came again to him, real and overwhelming.

“Real scryings of the future are not so clear,” Taru said. “A real scrying sees a future that is always in motion. To see what’s happening at the same instant is one thing, but to see into the future with certainty—that is for the Lady alone.

A clear future vision is not even given to seers, whose gift is the magic of foresight. Even they get fragments, not sharp images. That’s part of their gift of divination, to know what those pieces mean.

“Arontala meant the sending to break your will,” Taru said gently. “It’s a soul poison, pulling from your own fears. As long as you hold it inside, it will do its work.”

“I can’t tell Carina. I can’t—”

“Carina is a powerful healer, but she’s young in her gift,” Taru said. “And she has scars of her own that, until they are healed, limit her power. She isn’t the only healer at the citadel.” Taru drew up a chair to sit behind him. “She is also not yet a mind heal-er. I am.”

Tris wondered if she saw madness in his green eyes. “I can’t sleep,” he said, choking back tears. “I can’t close my eyes without seeing the visions. Last night,”

he confessed, his voice a tortured whisper, “last night I reached for Mageslayer. I thought that I might save them if I didn’t come back. I thought that I might end the dreams.” He held out his hand that was clenched against his body, and Taru gasped at the blistered burn on his palm. “Mageslayer knew. It wouldn’t let me draw the blade.”

“Show me the visions.” Whatever she saw in his eyes, she did not turn away.

“I’ve seen more than you can imagine, both of battle and of death. Open your mind to me, and let me see.”

She held out a hand to him and Tris grasped it in both of his, heedless of the pressure against his scalded palm. He felt warmth as Taru placed her free hand on his head, felt that warmth move from her hand into his scalp, through flesh and bone into his mind, and deeper into his being. Tris could feel Taru’s presence in his thoughts as he could feel the presence of the ghosts on the Plain of Spirits. He shut his eyes and let the images of the sending wash over him, hearing himself weep as if from a dis-tance. His shoulders shook and he gasped for breath. He held back nothing, sparing her none of the details of the deaths he saw, nor of his vision of the Dark Lady.

Tris felt Taru’s presence shield him, her power absorbing the dark sending, as if the images were pulled into the light that was her magic. As the images faded he felt the dread and grief recede, leaving him raw and spent. When the darkness was gone, Tris felt Taru’s power like a balm, washing over him, healing the wounds of memory. Then he felt the presence fade, until he became aware that he was rocking back and forth, Taru’s hand clasped in a desperate grip.

“I still remember,” he whispered.

“But you remember a nightmare—not a reality,” Taru said. “The danger still exists—but not the cer-tainty of their fate, or of your own. The poison of the sending is gone. What remains you can handle without being consumed.” She paused. “The other image, of the Dark Lady—that came after Alaine’s death?”

Tris nodded.

“You weren’t breathing when Carina and I reached you,” Taru said quietly. “For a moment,

Carina thought you were dead. She pushed against your ribs and breathed into your mouth, and you came back to yourself. Truly, I hadn’t seen the like, though she swore it wasn’t magic, that it was like pushing on a bellows, something she learned from a battle healer, long ago.” Taru paused again, longer this time.

“What you saw of the Dark Lady, that was a true vision. I can feel the remnant of Her power. And I believe that you’ve glimpsed Her before.”

Tris swallowed hard and nodded. He dragged his sleeve across his red-rimmed eyes. “Some hero, huh?”

He could not read the look in Taru’s eyes, but her expression softened. “Only madmen are unafraid. Even the dead—and the undead—feel pain. Arontala knows that your love for your friends is your weakness—as your grandmother’s love for Lemuel was hers. He can’t understand that it’s also your strength.”

“I refuse to believe that I have to sacrifice Kiara and my friends in order to defeat the Obsidian King,” Tris said, raising his head. “I refuse to go into battle, willing to let them die. I might as well put a knife to their throats. I’d make Istra’s Bargain myself before I’ll do that.”

Taru smiled. “That won’t be necessary. I believe you are already the Dark Lady’s own.” She was quiet for a moment. “Arontala will try to use your fears against you. Darkness always does. It’s as if we’re each followed by a dragon, Tris, made up of those fears and those old wounds. And if you don’t turn and face your dragon and call it by its true name when you’re young and strong, then when you’re old and weak, it comes by night and devours you in your bed. You’ve faced your dragon,” she said quietly. “You know the price of your worst fears.

You know now that the future isn’t certain. And as a Summoner, you know that death itself can’t sunder love.”

Tris nodded, feeling his throat tighten. “I know.” Tris caught at her sleeve as she stood and turned away. “Thank you.”

Taru nodded in acknowledgement. “Tomorrow night, you and Carina will return to Staden’s palace until after Winterstide. Then your training will resume.”

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THE WOMAN’S PIERCING scream ended abruptly as she slammed against the stone wall and slid limply to the castle floor. Jared Drayke stood, pant-ing and sweat-soaked, his fists balled and ready to strike again.

“You ought to know by now that the human neck is a fragile thing,” Arontala’s comment sounded from the doorway. Jared wheeled.

“Shut up.” When Arontala made no reply other than a shrug, Jared strode over to the battered body and hefted it in his arms, then crossed the room with his burden to fling wide the curtains to the garderobe and dump the body down.

“That’s the third in as many months,” Arontala observed acidly. “Not counting the ones you’ve given to the guards for their sport when your use is over. At least they’re buried in a trench behind the barracks.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“The common folk think you’re sacrificing maid-ens to the Crone,” Arontala continued without pause. “Or that you’ve conjured a demon.”

“I’d need a mage for that, wouldn’t I?” Jared shot back. “A real mage, not just one that promises everything and delivers nothing.”

Arontala shrugged again. Beneath the volumi-nous red robes that marked him as a Fire Clan mage he was slightly built, standing a head shorter than Jared. The undead pallor lightened the duskier complexion of his native Eastmark. He crossed his arms, and the long, thin fingers of his right hand tapped with boredom. “You wear the crown. Margolan is yours.”

“For now. My brother’s still out there, and every thing you’ve tried to do about it has failed.” Jared began to pace, running a hand through his long, wavy dark hair. He had his late mother Eldra’s black eyes and an olive complexion that was a mixture of Bricen’s fair skin and Eldra’s darker tones. But the high cheekbones and angu-lar features were all Bricen’s, and the family resemblance between Jared and his hated half-brother Tris was as near as the reflecting glass.

“He slipped right through your slavers’ fingers. And Staden of Principality welcomed him like a hero! You heard the spies.” Jared fingered the null magic charm that hung around his neck. Although it limited any magical control over him that Arontala might try to wield, Jared did not trust the charm completely against the dark mage, nor did he underestimate the power of Arontala’s abilities as a vayash moru.

“There’s no cause as romantic… or hopeless… as an exiled prince’s,” Arontala said. “There are no Principality troops at the border, and your guards have burned a swath through Principality to make Staden pay for his indiscretion.”

“You forgot to mention the Isencroft bitch. The spy said she was with Tris in Principality. She’s defied me, and joined him in treason.”

“Then you can watch her hang for it. You’d most likely have killed her before you could have sired a brat by her.”

“I want more than promises!” Jared’s face was only inches from the vayash moru. “Summon your great spirit. Secure my throne!”

“Patience is a virtue.” Arontala turned away. “Anyway, it’s not mine to decide.

The working can only be done at midnight on the Hawthorn Moon. The spells won’t break before then. It’s been tried.”

Arontala didn’t flinch as Jared hurled a metal pitcher past his head. It clanged against the wall. “Then try it again. The Hawthorn Moon is months away. I can’t wait forever.”

“You can’t wait at all, that’s the problem,” Arontala observed. “Your army is deserting because they’re sick of burning down their own villages. Your nobles are close to revolt. I handed you the throne of Margolan on a platter and you’ve destroyed it before you’ve worn the crown a year.”

“My only mistake was trusting you.”

In the blink of an eye, Arontala was across the room, and the display of power only served to darken Jared’s mood further. “A little late for second thoughts, my king,” the vayasb moru said in a voice as smooth as brandy. “Our fates are joined until we’ve seen this through.” Jared repressed a shiver, unwilling to let Arontala see how much the undead mage unset-tled him. He was glad that he had reinforced his amulet’s power with other null charms hidden around the room. Arontala never spoke of them, and if he noticed an effect on his magic, he did not seem to care.