With a backward glance toward Cam, Donelan left the room as Trygve returned through a side door with a bottle of elixir. Trygve gestured for Rhistiart to move forward from the shadows. "He'll need someone to sit with him until he's through the worst of it."
"I'll do it."
Trygve nodded. "I thought you might. The king is grateful for your service." "You wouldn't happen to need another silversmith around the palace, would you?" Trygve chuckled. "We might yet, before all is settled." He turned to Cam. "I need to work on your knee, and lance the poison from your hand. To spare you pain, I'm going to put you into a very deep sleep. You won't wake for several days. Your body will handle the shock better that way. Do you understand?" Cam nodded. "Do it."
Trygve laid a hand on Cam's forehead. "Sleep, now. Find a place where there is no pain, where you feel no hurt, where there is neither fever nor cold. Sleep, while your body heals. Do not awaken until I call for you."
As Trygve spoke, Cam felt a deep calm settle over him. His eyes became too heavy to remain open, and his limbs were too leaden to move. Trygve's voice sounded as if he were moving backward, away from Cam, growing fainter and fainter until nothing remained except blessed darkness.
DAY 7
Chapter Thirty-one
Tris Drayke looked out over the ruins of Lochlanimar. Wisps of smoke still rose from heaps of rubble, but most of the wreckage lay cold and silent. The ghosts of the necropolis and the spirits of the village dead who had not accepted Tris's offer of passage had returned to their resting places. Those soldiers who were still uninjured worked in teams headed by Soterius, Senne and Rallan to sift through the broken remains of the manor house and its bailey. On Tris's orders, they had already cordoned off the lower sections of the manor village where the plague had spread. The search progressed more quickly than expected, since so little was left standing. Still, Tris could not wait to leave the ruins.
Soterius rode up to him. "We've finished the quadrant. It's as the ghosts said. No survivors. Not much left, aside from ash." He looked shaken. "I remember how little the air Elemental left when I fought it during the rebellion. I can't imagine that power coupled with fire." Tris nodded. "I felt them die," he said quietly. "I heard them scream. They had no chance, no chance at all."
Soterius reined in his restless horse and looked at Tris. "I'm staying in my saddle due to sheer cussedness, and I haven't been through half of what you have. By rights, you should be flat on your back."
Tris shrugged. Though Fallon and Esme had done their best, Tris knew he was far from up to his full strength, either physically or magically. "You're probably right. But the men need to see me. I'd feel like I wasn't honoring their sacrifice if I lay abed in my tent while they're soldiering on." He grimaced. "And besides, both Esme and Fallon threatened to knock me out if I so much as moved to ride back to Shekerishet before tomorrow." Soterius grinned. "Good for them." He sobered. "You can soothe your conscience by tending to the souls of the new casualties. We're still losing some of the battle-wounded as well as the ones with fever." He dropped his voice. "I came here prepared to lose men in battle. I didn't count on plague. We've ended the battle. But can we contain the fever?" "In truth, I can't leave without knowing for certain that Curane and his blood mages are dead," Tris replied. "This is why I never wanted the crown. The king is duty-bound to stay. But my
heart wants to set out for home tonight." "Have there been more dreams?"
Tris shook his head. "None. That's worse. There's been nothing since Candles Night. She doesn't answer when I call for her on the Plains of Spirit." He met Soterius's eyes, and knew that the other understood the implication. "But then again, neither did Bricen," Soterius said quietly.
Bricen's ghost had never come to Tris because Jared murdered him with a dagger that destroyed the soul. The thought that Kiara might have been taken from him forever filled Tris with the greatest fear he had ever felt. As a Summoner, he could transcend death. But even he could not bring back a soul that had been utterly destroyed. I don't care what's happened while I've been gone. I don't care if the rumors are true. I'll win her back, or I'll stand beside her, regardless. Only please, let Kiara and the baby live. "Can you tell from the Flow whether Carina was successful?" Tris nodded. "The Flow is healed-and it restored my power instead of draining me. I believe it did the same for Carina. I hope so."
"Have you called for Jonmarc?" Soterius asked quietly. "You said he'd sworn the Bargain."
Tris let himself slip into the Plains of Spirit. The paths of power were still raw and sore. He cast his magic, calling for Jonmarc. To his relief, there was no reply. He came back to himself, and shook his head. "He doesn't answer."
"That's good. It would be too quiet without him."
Tris managed a smile. "Coming from you, that says a lot."
Soterius shrugged. "He grows on you. Like fungus."
"Did you choose the men who'll ride back to Shekerishet with me?"
"They're already provisioned. They'll be ready when you are. And if you don't mind, I'd like
to send Coalan with you."
Tris nodded. "He'll be a help. Fallon and I think we've figured out how to use magic to make sure the plague doesn't cling to us. The last thing we need is to carry it home. Once we're gone, she and Esme and Beyral will start releasing the healthy ones as quickly as they can. The others will have to stay here until they recover."
Or die. Tris didn't have to say it, but he knew Soterius took his meaning. And every day that it took to pack up the camp carried with it the risk of infection for those who had, so far, evaded
death. There was a reason, Tris thought, that war, famine and pestilence were so frequently mentioned together by the legends. It would be Margolan's bitter fate for their shadow to cross over the land, and nothing in Tris's power as king or sorcerer could stop it. Later that evening, a trumpet heralded the convening of a military tribunal. Senne, Rallan, Soterius, Fallon and Beyral filed into seats along one side of the parade ground in the camp. The three highest ranking senior officers joined them, making a jury of eight in honor of the faces of the Lady. The rest of the open space was packed with soldiers curious to watch their Summoner-king try the spirits of the dead. Along with the soldiers were those ghosts who had not chosen to go to their rest: spirits of fallen Margolan soldiers, ghosts from the necropolis and the wights of the murdered villagers who had elected to remain. At the very back stood the vayash moru, and Tris grieved to see how their number had been reduced.
"There's no reason this can't wait," Esme scolded as she helped Tris get ready for the working. "You're not back to your full strength, even with the Flow's help. You were lucky to live through the Elemental. And you have no idea whether this is one last trap Curane's left for us."
Tris sighed. "You're probably right about everything. But I have to do this. The men deserve to see Curane stand trial for what he's done. The ghosts deserve vindication. And, Goddess forgive me, I want to see them called to account for the harm they've caused." Esme nodded. "I understand. Just be careful, Tris, please. Especially if you plan to start the trip back to Shekerishet tomorrow."
"That's another reason why this has to be done. I need to know whether Curane's got something to do with the rumors and my dreams about the knife. I need to know, Esme." "As you wish, m'lord."
The orbs lay on a small table toward the front of the clearing. They pulsed with inner fire that sent streaks of red, orange and yellow through their misty interiors. Tris walked toward them, already raising a shielding between the orbs and the onlookers, mindful of how dangerous it had been to splinter the orb of the Obsidian King. The winter wind snapped Tris's hair around his face. Compared to facing down the Elemental, summoning Curane's spirit was a less powerful working, though no less fraught with potential dangers. When his inner and outer shieldings were in place Tris raised his hands and gathered his power. In the battle for the throne, he had inadvertently gained experience in shattering magical orbs, a painful and dangerous lesson. Dra
wing on the Flow as well as his own magic, Tris sent a blast of power toward the orbs, a blue-white arc so bright that onlookers gasped and turned away. At the same time, Tris reached out with his Summoner's magic to grasp the souls hidden inside and wrest them free. The orbs exploded with a hail of broken glass that bounced harmlessly against his wardings and fell like ice shards into the trampled snow. When the explosion was gone, three spirits stood inside the inner wardings. Lord Curane, Tris recognized from court. One of the mages was a thin man with red hair close-cropped enough to resemble a skull cap. The other was a sullen-eyed man with lank black hair and stooped shoulders.
Tris smiled coldly and focused his power again. One more soul still needed to give full account for his treachery. Tris reached out onto the Plains of Spirit and found a soul that shrank away from his power but feared the crossing over.
Tarq. Tris felt his power make contact and closed his hand, wrapping the balky spirit in his magic to drag him back to stand trial. The audience gasped as Tarq's spirit became visible in the center warding.
"You have been summoned here to stand trial for your crimes against the crown of Margolan, the Margolan army and the villagers of Lochlanimar," Tris said, hoping his voice sounded more impartial than he felt. It would be so easy for him to be judge, jury and executioner. Just a tightening of his power, a sudden twist, and he could snuff out their souls, deny them even eternal torment and condemn them to oblivion. I won't make Lemuel's mistake.
Setting his jaw, Tris faced the ghosts. "Curane, Lord of Lochlanimar. You are charged with treason against the throne of Margolan and conspiracy. General Tarq, you betrayed the men under your command and actively aided the enemy." He looked to the two mages. "You have invoked blood magic and caused the deaths of your own people, as well as creating a plague which may well reach beyond this battlefield. For these crimes, you stand trial before this assembly. How do you plead?"
"Unsuccessful, and unrepentant," Curane spat. "You'll never be half the king your brother was. You're weak like your father, and like Donelan. The divisionists were too stupid to know my men were behind them, using them to weaken Donelan until the Isencroft crown fell. With Jared's son on the Margolan throne, Margolan would have ruled Isencroft and soon, the Winter Kingdoms." He gave a cold smile. "Enjoy your trial. Crevan's betrayed both you and Donelan. He's carried out his orders by now. Your outland queen is dead, and with her, your heir." Although Tris had steeled himself to remain emotionless, Curane seemed to see what he wanted in Tris's eyes. "Let the plague run its course. It will make it all the easier for Trevath to pick up the pieces. My grandson is safe inside Trevath. Your heir is dead. I may not have lived to see my victory, but while you may have won this battle, I have won the war." Every fiber of Tris's being warred with his conscience. I want vengeance. I want to avenge Kiara, the baby, all the soldiers and villagers whose lives have been squandered. I want to make him pay for what he's done. I want to destroy him myself. Goddess help me! And if I do, I become what Lemuel was, a monster worse than anything he destroyed. I make a mockery of everything we've fought for. Forgive me, Kiara. I won't do that, even if I forfeit my right to avenge you.
Tris knew that Soterius and Fallon were watching him closely. He could see in their eyes
that they guessed at his struggle. Forcing down his emotions, Tris turned to the ghosts of
Tarq and the two mages. "Have you anything to say for yourselves?"
Tarq smirked as he glanced from Tris to Soterius. "My only regret is that I didn't have better aim."
The red-haired mage drew himself up to his full height. "I was privileged to serve my lord," he replied, meeting Tris's gaze. "And I served him to the best of my ability." The second mage did not look up, avoiding Tris's eyes with a sullen look. "I have no regrets. I serve the memory of King Jared, Margolan's rightful king."
Tris turned to the jury. "You've heard them speak for themselves. What is your ruling?"
Senne's eyes were hard. "Judgment."
Soterius looked at Tarq and Curane with loathing. "Judgment."
Fallon glanced at the remaining jurors, who slowly nodded. "We rule for judgment."
Tris found that he felt nothing as he looked back to the four condemned spirits. No triumph,
no vindication, not even satisfaction. Just an eerie coldness that seemed to permeate every
corner of his soul. "The jury has spoken. We give you over to the judgment of the Lady. May
you answer to Her for your crimes for eternity."
On the Plains of Spirit, Tris felt a shift that signaled the presence of the Goddess. His soul cringed as he recognized the Aspect that came for the condemned men. It was Nameless, the Formless One, a dark and faceless presence. Tris had no idea how much the living audience could sense, but the spirits in the audience fled before the Formless One as her bleak aura filled
the space. Tris held his ground, although everything in him wanted to flee. Nameless passed by him like a frigid wind, covering the four cringing spirits with her shroud-like wings. Tris could hear the screams of their spirits as Nameless drew them into the Void. Dirmed's spirit fell to his knees, sobbing and rocking. "You're not real," he murmured over and over, until the darkness that was Nameless began to draw off strips of soul that unwound like ghostly entrails until there was nothing left.
Cadoc screamed and tried to flee, but Tris's power held him in his place. Frozen with fear, the red-haired mage began to chant, calling on his magic and the names of the ancient gods to save him. Nameless's shadow passed through his ghost like obsidian slivers as he screamed and begged for mercy, his cries echoing until, like the tattered bits of his soul, his voice faded to nothing.
Tarq shrank back against the warding, screaming in terror. The darkness pulled at him from all directions, shredding his form as if he were being flayed, drawn and quartered. He shrieked until the tendrils of darkness had pulled his form limb from limb, leaving it until last to smash in his head as the whips of his soul dissipated.
Curane stood rigidly, his face betraying no emotion. He did not try to run, and he did not grovel. Eyes clear, chin lifted, Curane stared into the darkness, resolute. Only when the night swallowed him completely did a strangled scream escape the enveloping shadow. Abruptly, there was silence. Tris felt himself shaking as he carefully lowered the wardings. From the ashen faces and terrified looks of the jury and audience, he knew that, even though they lacked his power as a Summoner, they had sensed something of Nameless's terrible presence.
"Believe that you are fully avenged," Tris said quietly. He felt utterly spent, but he stayed on his feet and was steady enough to refuse Esme's help. Fallon, Esme and Soterius walked back with him to his tent. His control lasted until they were safely inside. Coalan moved silently to bring them each a warm mug of brandy. Tris sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
"How could I have been so blind? Curane's had a man at the very heart of things all this time. Crevan was Curane's man, and I left Kiara and the baby defenseless." The loss he felt was overwhelming, making it difficult to breathe.
"We're a long way from Shekerishet," Soterius said quietly. "Curane has no way to know that Crevan was successful. He knows even less what's going on in Isencroft. That's cause for hope."
Tris said nothing. Fallon laid a hand on his shoulder, and Tris felt her magic join with his, helping to bear the burden of his grief. Esme knelt next to him. "I'll do everything in my power to make sure you're as fully healed as possible so you can ride with the first light," she said quietly. "There's nothing left to do here that requires the king's presence. After Curane's confession, the men know what may be at stake at Shekerishet. No one will begrudge you your leave."
"Thank you," Tris said raggedly. He drew his sleeve across his eyes. "It's hardly the homecoming I envisioned." He dared not let himself think about what lay ahead if Curane was right. Donelan would be within his rights to declare war-assuming he's held his throne against the divisionists. Both our kingdoms will be dest
royed if it comes to that. Margolan will be without a legitimate heir. And I-He could not bring himself to finish the sentence. Without Kiara, he would be forced into a political alliance just to secure the succession. That thought chilled him more than any fear for his own safety. I will have lost everything.
Chapter Thirty-two
The steady pounding of hammers echoed within Carroway's tower cell. Below in the bailey, workmen built a gallows within sight of his window. After the first night, the mob had subsided, making him apprehensive about Guarov's next move. He did not have long to wait. Before the noon bells rang, the door to his cell opened. Harrtuck entered first, with a scowl that made his mood plain. Behind him was Lord Guarov. "M'lord," Carroway said cautiously. He glanced to Harrtuck for some kind of signal, but Harrtuck looked away.
"How do you like my new construction?" Guarov asked, watching Carroway closely. Carroway did his best to give away nothing in his expression. "It looks to be sturdy, m'lord." Guarov looked around. "I guess you're entitled to this chamber, as your family was noble, but if it were up to me, I'd have you in shackles in the lower level." "It isn't," Harrtuck growled.
Guarov ignored Harrtuck. "The queen has not yet awakened. As it stands, your treachery is a hanging offense. But if she and the heir die, the Council of Nobles will have no choice but to charge you with treason, conspiracy against the king and regicide." Guarov's dark eyes narrowed, and the muscles of his jaw tightened. "The penalty for which is to be hanged, drawn and quartered."
Carroway blanched. He tried to keep his face emotionless, but his heart raced and one hand balled into a fist. "I understand."
"Are you familiar with the process?" Guarov pressed. "They hang you until you're nearly dead, and a healer revives you. Then you're broken on the wheel until your bones snap and your joints are sundered, and finally, they take four large horses-"
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