"And someone else will be guarding Mikhail," Carroway said. His long fingers drummed against his arm and his whole body was tight with anger.
Kiara sank into a chair. "Who knows how long the siege will last? It'll be months before we can prove Mikhail is innocent."
"Harrtuck could spend months chasing troublemakers across the Borderlands," Carroway replied. "Loyalty only lasts as long as the food holds out."
Alle glanced from Kiara to the others. "Nothing's going to be decided in the next few hours. We've been up all night. Let's get some sleep. Macaria and I can stay with Kiara." She glanced at Carroway. "If you hear anything else from the court gossip, let us know."
Carroway nodded and headed for the door. "I'm sorry, Kiara. I'm not doing a very good job of keeping my promise to Tris."
Kiara managed a tired smile. "I don't think Tris ever expected what happened tonight. He'll be glad if we're all alive when he gets back."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When darkness fell, Tris gathered the mages in his tent. Soterius stood quietly by the door, both participant and sentinel. Coalan busied himself tending to their guests, and then attempted to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
"We've already started to work," Fallon continued. "Latt has attracted all the fleas, bedbugs, and rats she could find and concentrated them in the walled city. That should make them uncomfortable."
"Their water source is magically protected," Latt added. "So fouling their water isn't possible. We've placed protections of our own around the nearest fresh spring, and I'm working with Vira to cleanse a closer spring that Curane's people tainted with animal carcasses." She made an expression of distaste. "It's slow work."
"I'm sending random gusts of very high winds against the fortifications," said Ana with a sly smile. "Gusts strong enough to blow a man off his feet. There's no way to know when they'll strike, and I've seen a couple of their soldiers tumble off the walls. So far, their mages haven't caught on—we'll see how long it takes them."
"If you wish, I'll scry for you," Beyral said. "And cast runes to see the portents."
"Go ahead."
Coalan ran to fetch a basin and fill it with water. When the water stilled, Beryal closed her eyes and stretched out her right hand, holding her fingers spread just above the water's surface. Tris could sense the power, but could not read the images.
As Beyral watched the water tremble, her expression darkened. "The siege won't be short. Much blood. Darkness. So many dead." The water moved again, and Beyral gasped. "Danger within the gates." The trance broke and Beyral looked up, her eyes wide. "Let me cast runes. Sometimes, the images clear when the runes speak."
From a pouch at her belt, Beyral withdrew a handful of polished bone and ivory. The pieces were rectangular, about the size of a finger, smoothed with time and wear. Carved into each piece was a rune that blurred and vibrated with a magic of its own. Beyral placed the runes in her cupped palm, handling them with great care. She closed her hands over them, and lifted them to her mouth. Four times she murmured an invocation and breathed on her clasped hands. And then, with a final plea to the Lady, she opened her hands above the table and let the runes fall.
Five of the eight pieces landed with the rune showing. Beyral looked carefully at the placement of the carved bits, murmuring to herself as she moved around the table. Finally, she straightened.
"The runes speak. Only bone shows its rune—the ivory is silent," she said, motioning toward the face-down pieces. "A portent of danger. The speaking pieces lie at cross quarters—the dark faces of the Lady. Tisel, the first rune, is betrayal. Athira the Whore is its Aspect. Conflicting allegiances. Old vows broken. Katen, the second rune, is the rune of life. It speaks for the Dark Lady. This matter will be settled in places between life and death, where spirits and darkness dwell. Katen governs succession. The rune landed sideways—even it can't see what lies ahead.
"Aneh, the third rune, speaks for the Formless One. Chaos will govern. Zyhm is the fourth rune—intertwined destiny. It speaks for the Crone. It lies facing Aneh. The two powers war with each other. Zyhm weaves together; Aneb tears apart. Destinies are joined—and sundered. But whose, it doesn't say."
Beyral looked up. "I'm sorry. The omens are dark and the reading is unclear. I don't have any more to offer." "Thank you." Tris said. "I'll place sigils around the camp," Beyral said. "They'll warn me if the boundary is breeched, although they won't stop an attack." "I've placed wardings over our food stores," Latt said. "I can't hold a large warding for long, but I can hold smaller ones for quite some time."
"And I've changed the winds above our camp," Ana added. "The vayasb moru may find it more challenging to fly, but Curane's mages will also have difficulty magicking their arrows to carry further. Above our heads, where we can't feel it, the winds shift south. Anything sent on the air—arrows or pestilence—will blow over us and slip downstream."
"Can you tell how Lochlanimar is defended?" Soterius asked.
Fallon nodded. "Curane's mages have strong spells defending the main gates to the holding. Powerful, dark magic. Don't expect Curane to play fair." "We weren't."
"There's one more thing," Eallon said. "What Beyral read in the runes about succession—that can mean your heir, but it can also be read more broadly. There are moments in time from which all other moments turn.
Powerful forces are in motion. It may be that more than the fate of Margolan's throne depends on what happens here. We believe we're at a threshold. Once crossed, the Winter Kingdoms will not be as they were."
"Thank you." Tris managed a wry smile. "Knowing doesn't always make you feel better, does it?"
Fallon and the other mages bowed deeply and left. But before Soterius could comment on their information, the temperature within the tent plummeted, even colder than the winter air outside. Tris could feel the stir of spirits. He closed his eyes, opening himself to the Plains of Spirit. He felt no threat from these ghosts, and had a clear sense that they were responding to his summons. Warily, he beckoned them to come closer and lent them power to make themselves visible. When Tris opened his eyes, the ghosts of four men stood before him. One of the ghosts was a man who looked to be late in his fifth decade, with thin, graying hair and a short-cropped, gray beard. He was broad shouldered with the hands of a workman, and his eyes were troubled. "M'lord Summoner. We heard your call, and we obey."
Tris could not feel any falseness, but, mindful of the rune's warning, he remained guarded. "Thank you. I called you because my quarrel is with Curane and his mages, not with the people of Lochlanimar."
The bearded ghost looked to his comrades; it was clear he was their spokesman. "Lord Curane is a hard master, m'lord. He started rationing food and water a month ago, when he knew the army would camp against him. The people are hungry. Strange sicknesses have taken parts of the city—no one dares say it, but many think the mages are behind the ill humours. In some quarters, so many people have died that the houses stand empty. When someone takes sick, the Black Robes come. They take the person away. None have returned."
The bearded ghost shook his head. "I'm Tabok. I served Lord Curane's father, and his father's father. They were men who made mistakes, but they had honor. For two generations I've watched over my family. I fear for them, m'lord."
"What of Curane's granddaughter—and her baby?" Soterius asked.
Tabok frowned. "No one's seen them. They're prisoners in the keep. Sometimes, I can hear the babe crying. They're guarded heavily—by men and magic. Even spirits can't cross some of the wardings."
Tris and Soterius exchanged glances. "Well, that confirms the rumors."
"We came to offer our services," Tabok said. "We're men of honor. When Lord Curane imprisoned his own people, we believe our vows to be broken. We want to free our families, m'lord. We are willing to be your eyes and ears within Lochlanimar where the magic doesn't keep us from going."
"I'm grateful," Tris replied. "I have no desire to wage war on my own people. Give us
Curane and his mages and we'll end the siege."
"What of the girl and her child?" Tabok asked.
"From what we know, the girl was given to Jared when she was still too young to wed. I've laid to rest enough ghosts of his 'partners' to know her fate with him. The baby will be a rallying point to threaten my own sons. I don't have many options."
The ghost's question tugged at him. It was a decision that had never completely left his mind. What of the girl and the child? He thought. She was sold like a whore for jared's pleasure. Beaten and raped and cast aside. Curane's used her like a brood mare to sire a child to claim his fortune. They're victims in this. Let them live, even in exile, and the child becomes a rival. Law and tradition ivould hold me blameless to have them killed. Is there another way? Some way to keep from finishing Jared's murders for him without endangering my own sons?
Tabok's ghost nodded. "A hard decision. We'll watch for you, and report. Mohr can't make himself seen, but he has the power to move things—and he enjoys playing tricks." At his words, a thin man in the rear of the group grinned. "The last few days, Curane's soldiers have been busy. They've got something planned. Curane's mad enough to make a first strike. You may not have much time to get your camp ready.
"M'lord, something else you should know," Tabok added. "The castle's set with many spells. There are some areas—like the keep where his granddaughter is held—spelled so that we can't enter. I've seen Curane's blood mages create asbtenerath from our own dead, and charms to ward away the vayash moru. He knows you're a Summoner—that's why he wears a null magic charm. He's afraid the spirits will rise up to follow you. Over the past months, his blood mages have desecrated our cemeteries, dug up bodies, and mutilated fresh corpses to sever their spirits from this place. There should be hundreds of newly dead spirits who have no love for Curane. Instead, only the old ghosts remain."
"No wonder the Flow is so unsteady," Tris said, imagining the damage so much blood magic would cause.
"Lochlanimar's an old city. Very old. Built before Margolan had a king, they say. There are other cities beneath it, or what's left of them. There are hallways full of bones under the city. There may be ghosts in those forgotten places untouched by Curane's blood magic. And something else. Long ago, there was a passage dug from Lochlanimar into the caves in the mountains," he said with a nod toward the foothills. "I haven't known them to be used in over a hundred years. If the passages haven't been closed up, your men might get in there. But beware. They've been spelled against us, and against vayash moru."
"Can you draw us a map?" Tris asked.
Tabok nodded. Tris beckoned to Coalan, who brought parchment and paper and did as the ghost bid. When the map was finished, the ghost looked up at Tris. "M'lord. I must ask one thing. If there be any survivors when the siege is over, what are your intentions?"
"Curane, his soldiers and his mages will have to stand trial for treason. Those guilty will hang. I'll do everything in my power to give safe passage to your families. My quarrel is with Curane. If Curane won't surrender, we'll have no choice but to destroy the entire walled town."
"We understand. Thank you." The ghosts bowed in fealty. And then, as quickly as they came, the spirits faded from view.
"Now what?"
Soterius shrugged. "We wait, just the way we planned. I've got the army split into two groups. Half of the soldiers—plus the vayash moru, the mages and whatever ghosts you can rouse—will be in fighting position come sundown. We'll make a first strike, try to take him by surprise. If he's planning the same, this could get interesting, but we wTon't be caught unprepared.
"The rest of the soldiers—and the vayash moru, when the fighting's done—will be working double shifts to get the battering ram and the trebuchets ready and in place. In the meantime, I'll send scouts to see if there are any weak points we've overlooked. There's no way around spending Winterstide in the field, but perhaps we'll be home by spring."
Tris accepted the glass of brandy Coalan pressed into his hand. "I spent my last birthday in exile. We're home again now, but not really 'home.'" He sipped the. brandy. "Beyral's runes weren't much comfort. I know Kiara's 'well-protected, but I'm afraid for her. The sooner we're back at Shekerishet, the happier I'll be."
Soterius took his glass of brandy and raised it. "To your birthday—and to a quick end to the siege."
Tris raised his glass. "To home."
At sundown, Tris reined in his horse and looked out over the plains toward Lochlani-mar.
Behind him on a platform high enough for them to see the entire battlefield, the mages waited.
Now. Tris sent the word to the mages as Soterius gave the signal to the vayash moru. Dark shapes, nearly obscured by the shadows that blackened the moon, streaked toward Lochlanimar. Tris lent his power to aid the mages. All the months of countering the remnants of Arontala's blood magic within Shekerishet had given him more knowledge than he'd ever wanted about breaking dark spells. Now, combining their magic, Tris and the mages sent a blast of power against the walled keep as Tris chanted the working to dispel Curane's wardings.
He raised his hands, eyes closed, completely intent on his target. He could feel the power of Fallon and her mages joining with his, feel the blood magic rising from the keep to fight them. He smiled as he recognized the dark magic charm. Arontala had used something similar. But neither Arontala nor Curane expected the diaries of the Obsidian King to have fallen into Tris's hands. In those forbidden tomes, he had uncovered the dark mages' weaknesses.
"We're in."
"Go!" Soterius and Palinn gathered their mortal troops, moving out silently across the snow-covered plain, clad in black. Tris focused his whole attention on the working, speaking the words of power. The blood magic fought him, but as he chanted the counter spells, one by one, he felt Curane's protections snap. First to fall were the wardings against the vayash moru.
Fallon and her mages drew on the Flow to send a powerful fear spell toward the keep. It would have no affect on the vayash moru, nor Tris's own troops. But those within Lochlanimar would, until his mages could counter, believe that their darkest nightmares had come true. When he had done all he could to counter the blood magic, Tris shifted to the Plains of Spirit. He stretched out his power along the gray pathways. The necropolis beneath Lochlanimar was very old. Many of the spirits would have long ago gone to their rest, Tris knew. But from among the long dead bones, Tris felt something stir in response to his summons.
Gray shapes assembled before him on the Plains of Spirit. More than two hundred ghosts, clad in the armor of a bygone century, rose to his call.
"Do you know what Curane has done?"
"We know."
"Will you fight him?"
"Aye."
The spirits stirred from their long rest and began to move like a gray storm up from their tomb. Tris felt their anger grow. Curane has betrayed us. He's brought blood magic against us. Disloyal. Disloyal. Remaining linked to the ghosts was dangerous. Tris did not need to be reminded of what had happened in the Ruune Vidaya. But the opportunity to guide their strike, see through their eyes, was too powerful to pass up, regardless of the danger. And so Tris let himself be carried along with the ghost horde, struggling to keep their growing desire for vengeance from overwhelming his ward-ings.
These raiders needed no command to spare civilians. Their anger burned on account of those innocents trapped within Curane's walls, their own descendents. The ghost horde burst from the entrance to the necropolis, sending a dozen soldiers fleeing in terror. Inside the keep, Tris could hear the wailing of the ghost horde as it swept around soldiers, turning its anger on the terrified guards. Tris opened himself up to the raw power of his gift, hanging on to the control he had lacked in the Ruune Vidaya, refusing to allow the ghosts to control him. He saw their bloody vengeance as their spectral maws turned on the soldiers, spattering the narrow alleyways with blood. I can hang on to control, but what of sanity? Tris thought as the ghost horde sought its next targets, fallin
g upon a regiment just rousing in the guardhouse.
Soterius's soldiers neared bow range. All at once, the men fired hundreds of flaming arrows toward the walls. A second line of archers sent more arrows streaking through the cold night air, and within the walled city, Tris could see firelight flare.
All at once, a wall of darkness rose from Lochlanimar, black enough to obscure the stars. Tris felt it sweep toward him like a flood of ice cold water. The blood mages have gathered their wits enough to respond.
Tris pulled back from among the ghost horde, even as he felt the blood magic slam against the spectral troops, stopping their advance. Streaking back along the Plains of Spirit, Tris fought his growing fatigue to refo-cus his power against the blood mages. Dimly, he was aware of Fallon and the Sisters doing the same. Just as they massed their power for another strike, Tris felt as if the universe turned inside out.
All the magic in the world seemed to shatter. The Flow contorted around him, folding in on itself, wresting free of his grip. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't see. He doubted that his heart was beating. In the total darkness, he could hear the screams of the mages—his own and Curane's—as the Flow ripped free of its bonds. Wild magic coursed through him like fire running through his veins. The ground around him was shaking, and the soldiers cried out in fear. Tris tried once more to reach for his power and was thrown, knocked hard from his mount to land on his back as if pushed by a giant hand.
Soldiers ran for him, pulling him to his feet. The pain in his head was blinding; he doubted he could stand without help. He searched the panicked crowd for Fallon and the mages. In the torchlight, he made out Fallon's silhouette, but nothing more. Struggling to remain conscious, Tris reluctantly allowed the soldiers to help him to a seat. Around him, the soldiers on the construction detail scrambled into ranks to defend the camp.
"Retreat!" Soterius's voice cut across the cold night, echoed a moment later by Palinn. "Your Majesty. We need to get you to safe- ty-"
Dark Haven cotn-3 Page 33
