"I'm open to all the help we can get." Tris thought of the ghosts he had seen earlier in the day. "But if you're going to stay, prepare yourselves. The tales aren't always easy to hear."
The next petitioner was a tall, angular woman who smelled of fish. Although she might have been in her third decade, her face was creased from worry, and her eyes were troubled.
"By your leave, m'lord." The woman made an awkward curtsey.
"What is it you seek?" Tris asked.
"My only son is dead a year," she said. "We quarreled over a small matter, but the quarrel became bitter, and my tongue got the best of me. In his despair, he hanged himself." Tears welled in her eyes. "I'd give all I possess to have him back with me."
"That power is not given to me."
"I know that. But if you can summon him, my lord, please-I wish to beg his forgiveness, and to tell him that I love him."
"What is the boy's name?"
"Tabar. His name was Tabar."
Tris took a deep breath and let himself slip into the Plains of Spirit. He called for the ghost of the woman's son, waiting until an answer came. A young man appeared, bearing the red scar of a noose. Tris used a little more magic, and the spirit became visible. For a moment, he thought the woman might swoon. She clutched at her heart and dropped to her knees.
"Forgive me!" she cried, prostrating herself at the ghost's feet. "Tabar, I never meant for our quarrel to go so far. I wish you had put a knife through my heart instead of leaving me this way!"
The young man's ghost stepped toward her and knelt, taking her into his insubstantial arms. "I was foolish and angry," the ghost said. "I didn't mean to die; I wanted to worry you and win my point. When the breath left me and you found my body, I saw your pain. Every day I've been with you, although you couldn't see me. I was wrong-both in the quarrel and for taking my life. I know it can't be undone. I need your forgiveness before I can rest."
The woman reached out to touch the dead boy's face. "I didn't know that you were with me," she said, as tears streaked down her cheeks. "I want you to stay with me, but I know it's wrong to keep you from your rest. I just couldn't let you go without telling you how sorry I am, without saying goodbye." She embraced the spirit, wrapping her arms around the wraith, soaking up one last moment of contact. She moved as if to kiss the boy's forehead, although her lips met only air, and the boy returned the kiss."I thank the Lady that you came to us," the woman said to Tris, standing beside the ghost. "M'lord, will you see him across, so that I know he is safe on the other side?"
Tris stretched out his hands and spoke the words of power, feeling the young man's ghost fade before him and grow stronger on the Plains of Spirit. As Tris made the passing over ritual, he felt the ghost's turmoil subside, replaced by a sense of peace, tinged by regret. Then the spirit was gone, and only the woman stood before him. She bowed low.
"Thank you, m'lord," she murmured. "May the Lady favor you."
As he waited for the next petitioner, Tris sipped some of Carina's headache tea. It did little to ease the throbbing behind his eyes that came with candlemarks of using his magic. He could see a line of supplicants that wound out of the room. Those were the living who waited for their chance to speak with the dead. In a room that had become cold even for the season, spirits milled among them, awaiting their turn. Some of the spirits were strong enough to manifest on their own, but many were visible only to Tris, until he acknowledged them and lent them the energy to take form. It had been the same every day since he began to hold court for the spirits, and he was certain that the demand for his help would last until he left Principality.
There was bitter irony in knowing that he could lay to rest everyone's ghosts except his own. While he could intercede on behalf of all of his petitioners, the spirits of his mother and sister remained beyond his reach, trapped in Arontala's orb, in torment.
Tris looked at the desperate faces of those who came to beg his help. For him, the inability to reach Kait and Serae was an aberration, as all the other spirits responded to his call. But Tris knew that for those who came to seek his intercession, the silence was unbearable. Try as he might to distance himself from the emotion of the crowd, his own loss was too fresh for him to be objective. And so he drove himself to exhaustion, giving closure to others that he could not find for himself.
He had seen at least fifty supplicants since morning, and Tris knew he could not go on much longer before he was exhausted. Tris motioned to the bailiff. "Please-close the doors and bid them come again tomorrow. I'll hear this spirit's request, but then I've got to rest."
The spirit who awaited his attention was the ghost of a man in his fifth decade, with the tight-jawed look of a merchant. He bowed when he was brought to stand before Tris. Tris willed for the spirit to become visible to the others in the room, and the man's spirit took form.
"My lord Summoner," he said formally. "A petition, if you will."
"What do you seek?"
"Justice, m'lord," the ghost replied. "I'm Hanre, the silversmith. For twenty years, my partner Yent and I built a profitable business. I did not know that Yent was seducing my wife and that he wanted all the profits of the business for himself. He put poison in my cup, and told the doctors that it was a weak heart when I collapsed at my work bench. Within a few months of my death, Yent married my widow. He stole my life from me. My lord, I beg of you. Let there be justice done!"
Tris stretched out his mage sense, but read no falseness in the spirit's words. He gestured, and one of Staden's guards approached. "Tell your story again to this guard" Tris instructed. Hanre repeated his tale, and the guard listened solemnly.
"Bear the news to King Staden," Tris told the guard. "It's for him to determine how to deal with the murderer. You can witness that you heard the story yourself."
"Yes, Your Highness." The soldier bowed. Hanre watched solemnly as the soldier departed.
"No punishment can return my life," Hanre said sadly. "It grieves me to know that all the work I've done these many years is now to the profit of a murderer!"
Tris blinked, trying to focus. His head was pounding so badly that it was becoming difficult to see. "Would you have me help you make the passage?" he asked Hanre's ghost.
The silversmith shook his head. "Not yet, my lord Summoner. I would stay and see justice be done. Then, perhaps, I can truly rest. Thank you, m'lord. I'm in your debt." The spirit made a deep bow, and departed. Tris signaled to the bailiff to close the doors. He hoped that he could make it up to his rooms before the headache grew any worse.
A hot bath and a good supper eased both Tris's headache and the stiff muscles he had from swords practice. He'd wrenched his neck climbing, and he had still not completely recovered from his injuries at the citadel. The warm fire sent him to sleep. He dozed in a chair in his rooms until a sharp knock at the door roused him. A page stood in the hallway.
"Begging your pardon, Lord Wizard," the boy said nervously, "but the king wishes you to meet with him in his sitting room."
"I'm hardly dressed for an audience," he said wearily. "Please give me a few minutes to get ready." Moving as quickly as he could, Tris tried to ignore his headache as he dressed to meet with King Staden. The page waited until Tris emerged. They walked the short distance to the king's doors, and the guards stood to the side to allow Tris to enter.
Staden took in Tris's condition. "How long do you think you can go on like this, before you have nothing left?" Tris gave a courteous bow that made his head pound.
"Just long enough, I guess," Tris replied. With Staden was another man, and Tris frowned, struggling to place the unexpectedly familiar face. The man had white hair and was dressed well without ostentation. His bearing spoke of nobility. Tris finally connected the face with a memory, and he recognized Abelard, Bricen's ambassador to Principality.
Tris stepped forward to shake Abelard's hand, but the older man bowed low. "Greetings, my prince," the ambassador said, accepting Tris's hand as Tris bid him rise. "We thank the
Goddess for your safe passage to Principality."
Staden motioned for them sit near the fire. A servant brought them each a mug of warm mulled wine.
"Abelard has been here in Principality City, under my protection, since the coup," said Staden. "With your comings and goings to the Sisterhood, I haven't had the chance to present him before this. I imagine you two have much to discuss," he said, rising. Staden bustled out of the room before either man could reply.
"Is this official business?" Tris watched the older man closely.
Abelard chuckled sadly. "There's been no official business since I declined Jared's demand that I return to Shekerishet. Word of the coup reached me just before Jared's orders. I was a friend to your father for many years. I could not serve his murderer. And so I'm an exile, kept by King Staden's kindness, for which I'm grateful."
"What of the other ambassadors?" Tris asked. He sipped at the wine, which eased his pounding headache.
"Much the same. Cattoril is dead. Drawn and quartered, I hear, for his failure to bring Princess Kiara back with him from Isencroft."
"And the others?"
"All, like myself, are in exile. We remain in touch, hoping that there might be some way to serve our homeland, not daring to believe the rumors that you had survived.
"We had no man in Nargi, so from that kingdom I have no news," continued Abelard. "You've met Mikhail, who brings news from my counterpart in Dhasson that magicked beasts have closed the border."
"The beasts were sent by Arontala to keep me from reaching King Harrol's court."
"That may well be," Abelard said. "I believe Jared's coup was long-planned. From Trevath, I hear little, but the last message gave me pause. Their king is concerned about the events in Margolan, and fears being drawn into war."
"Why?"
"Are you familiar with Lord Curane?"
Tris nodded. Curane held lands on Margolan's southern plains. Bricen had considered Curane self-serving, and of dubious honor.
"Curane's wife is from a powerful family in Trevath, one that wields much influence at court. Trevath's king is concerned that Lord Curane's family ties may compromise Trevath, and bring Jared's army against them."
"Why would Jared care?"
"Because it is said that Curane's granddaughter bears Jared's child."
"By rights, half of Margolan should be Jared's bastards," Tris said dryly. "But if that's true, it bodes darkly for the future."
"Aye, my prince. Although you've more pressing threats to deal with, and there are years before the throne is in danger. The situation will bear watching.
"From Eastmark, King Kalcen is taking a personal interest in Margolan's troubles. Princess Kiara's mother, Viata, was his older sister. So Jared's threat to Viata's daughter is worthy of Kalcen's regard." Abelard smiled knowingly. "Or perhaps, he thinks history might repeat itself."
"How so?"
"A little more than twenty years ago, Donelan of Isencroft met Viata of Eastmark at a court ball, here in Principality. Eastmark does not give its daughters to wed outlanders, but the two fell very much in love. They eloped, keeping their wedding a secret until Viata was with child and the bond was irrevocable.
"Viata's father, the late King Radomar, was furious. Rumor said he planned to take his warships across the Northern Sea and strike at Isencroft from its coast. Then your father stepped in. Margolan, as one of the oldest and most powerful kingdoms, has always been able to be heard among the rulers of the Winter Kingdoms. Bricen didn't want war. He offered a betrothal contract to Donelan, matching the two heirs. His action showed Margolan's support, and King Radomar backed down. There was no war."
"The betrothal contract between Kiara and Jared," Tris murmured. "I wondered how that came to be."
"I have an awkward question, my prince, but one I must ask, with your permission."
"Go on."
"Your interest in Princess Kiara-is it genuine, or is it a calculation to embarrass the usurper?"
Tris felt himself color, and struggled to keep his voice neutral. "I fell in love with Kiara before I knew of the pact. She didn't know who I was when we first met. While I'd die before I'd see Jared touch her, that 'calculation' never came into my thinking."
"So I hoped, and so I believed knowing what I do of you, Prince Drayke. You received King Donelan's recognition as the rightful heir to the Margolan throne. Do you realize that he has, in that recognition, declared you to be Kiara's betrothed by the terms of the covenant?"
Tris's mouth went dry.
Abelard chuckled. "I thought not. That's why your intentions matter. I should hate to see you gain the throne and begin a war."
"If I survive the battle for the throne," Tris replied, regaining his composure, "I hope to ask for Kiara's hand. But there's so much that must happen, between now and then-"
"I understand, my prince. These are your judgments to make. But should you choose to wed in exile, and secure the succession-"
"Out of the question. Kiara intends to accompany me to Margolan. She's an excellent swordswoman, and was sent on her quest by the Oracle herself. To do as you suggest would place her in even greater danger."
Abelard held up a hand. "I meant no disrespect, my prince. Merely an option."
This is exactly why I never wanted to be king, Tris thought. Yet he knew that Abelard would not be alone in wanting a stable line of succession. There would be pressure to produce an heir, especially if there was truth to the rumor about Jared's bastard. Tris had cherished the relative freedom of the road. They had been hunted and in danger for their lives, but these past months had been free from the politics of court. That would end if he succeeded in winning the crown.
"Thank you," he told Abelard, anxious to work though this alone. "You've given me a lot to think about."
"Walk carefully, my prince." Abelard bowed low , leaving Tris alone with the fire and his thoughts.
As the days grew shorter, Staden's court prepared for Winterstide. While Staden welcomed Tris's participation as Summoner, many at court were curious as to what such participation might add to the feast day. Tris knew that most residents looked forward to a week of revelry.
Carroway was thoroughly enjoying the chance to entertain once more at court. When he was not practicing in the salle, he was rehearsing with the minstrels. His skills gained him the respect of Staden's musicians, who, knowing his stay to be temporary, did not see him as a rival. Carroway commented dryly that perhaps Staden's minstrels eyed his odds of surviving the return to Margolan, taking this opportunity to learn his songs and stories in the event of his untimely demise.
Even Tris couldn't resist the lure of the festivities. Winterstide was a festival of light at the year's darkest month, glittering with candles, stuffed with traditional delicacies, and brimming with ale and merriment. Staden kept the feast in high style; balls and jousts marked the weeks leading up to the feast night itself. In Margolan, Tris had often excused himself early from the revelries, to keep his distance from Jared and the nobles' predatory daughters. Now, the prospect of accompanying Kiara heightened his interest tremendously.
Tris had to admit that his record with the ladies was every bit the disaster Soterius joked it was. He was realistic enough to know that his title and rank alone would have gotten him almost any young woman he set his eye on. He'd been told often enough that he was handsome, though he privately had his doubts. A few early crushes had gone badly; the girls he'd trusted with his heart had been more interested in becoming a princess than in the particular prince it took to achieve that goal. And then there was Jared.
Jared's reputation for promiscuity was legendary, but beneath that lust ran a fondness for violence. There were too many retainers at the palace eager to cover Jared's indiscretions, either to save Bricen from embarrassment or to court favor with the heir apparent. Perhaps they knew Jared's rages and learned to fear him. Even before the murders of the coup, Tris had formed a loathing for his half-brother. He'd vowed to never take after Jared. So while
courtiers bedded each other without a second thought and trysting became the favored sport of the young nobility, Tris held back. It wasn't piety, and it certainly hadn't been for lack of interest. He had no intention of having his heart toyed with, or being a prize for the winning. And while the warmth of a bedmate would have been pleasant, he had no desire to callous his heart to the casual partings.
There had been beautiful girls aplenty at court, though few cared to talk about anything but tiresome gossip, and fewer still could engage in a discussion of ideas, with convictions and opinions of their own. Tris had despaired of ever finding a soul mate. He'd witnessed the loveless marriages at court, the travesties of name and residence that held a tattered mask of propriety over sordid schemes and affairs. Being alone seemed better than that. Kait, knowing that the blows she'd taken at Jared's hand were not uncommon even in noble marriages, had resolved to never marry. Tris often dreamed of the day when he might be permitted to escape the scrutiny of court and move to Bricen's lodge.
Jared's coup ended those plans.
The constant danger of fleeing from Margolan should have pushed any thought of romance from his mind, but Tris never expected his reaction when he met Kiara on the road to Westmarch. Before that night, Tris dismissed love at first sight as one of Carroway's exaggerations. But from the first time he had looked on Kiara, his heart had been forfeit. She was everything he had hoped to find: smart, strong, confident, and able to make her way in her own right. He hadn't cared about her birth or rank, or even that she came from beyond Margolan's borders. All he had wanted was to gain her favor.
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