The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two

by Gail Z. Martin

  “What of your other ghost blades?”

  Scian barked a harsh laugh. “You presume that we have an unlimited number of such rare weapons.”

  “I’m given to understand you employ about a dozen.”

  A hard glint came to Scian’s eyes, and Jonmarc took it to mean his information had been more correct than the assassin preferred. “We’ve taken steps to protect them,” Scian said. “Amulets, talismans, protective spells. But it’s difficult to keep out just one type of spirit when a ghost blade’s effectiveness relies on being able to channel the ghosts of our dead fighters.”

  “Then the job I bring you may be to your liking.”

  Scian regarded Jonmarc with suspicion. “You bring a job to us? From the queen?”

  Jonmarc nodded. “Kill Buka.”

  Scian sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “What do we care about a killer of whores?”

  “Buka is more than a madman. He’s not just a killer; he’s using blood magic to hollow the souls of his victims. The revenants he leaves behind are like ghostly ashtenerath, mad with pain and blind with rage.”

  “You know this how?”

  It was Jonmarc’s turn to sit back with a cold smile. “That’s restricted information.”

  Scian scowled, and for a moment she was silent, drumming her fingers against her arm as she thought. “If you know of the threat to the ghost blades, then you also know about the attacks in the city. We thought perhaps dimonns were behind them, but our mages proved us wrong.”

  Jonmarc nodded. “It’s the hollowed spirits of Buka’s victims. When they stay near where they died, they attack anyone unlucky enough to be in their way. When they find someone who can channel spirits, they possess the channeller and use the body as a weapon.”

  Scian drew a deep breath. “We’ve heard that the seers in the poorest neighborhoods have also been attacked, and the attacks sound like what happened to our ghost blades. It does seem to support what you say.”

  “What of the warrens beneath the city?”

  “The mines that built Principality’s wealth also run beneath the city. There’s an anthill of tunnels and passageways underneath every part,” Scian said. “It’s the last refuge of people with nowhere left to go. Of late, we hear that whole sections of the warren have been taken over by people dying of plague. It’s gotten so bad that, in some parts, the tunnels are clogged completely with bodies, and the smell even reaches the surface.”

  “Could Buka be hiding in the warrens?”

  Scian shrugged. “He may hide there, but from what we’ve heard, he doesn’t kill there. None of our sources from the warrens have talked of killings down there like the ones Buka’s been blamed for above ground.” She paused. “And yet… I think something about the warrens fascinates him. Of late, the murders have been close to entrances to the warrens, with the bodies placed near the openings to the underground, or hung in doorways.”

  Jonmarc felt a chill go down his back. “Hung in doorways?” he repeated sharply.

  Scian nodded. “Does it matter?”

  Jonmarc leaned forward intently. “Back in Dark Haven, we fought several battles against the Durim.”

  Scian nodded again. “So we’ve heard.”

  “I was part of those raids. The Durim seemed to prefer slaughtering goats—or vyrkin—while Buka apparently likes his victims to be human. But they made their sacrifices near the entrances to burial mounds, barrows, and cairns. We’ve caught them digging into the mounds, but we don’t know whether they’re trying to get in or let something buried get out.”

  “I’ve heard tell that mounds near the city have also been disturbed. What does that have to do with Buka?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Jonmarc admitted. “On the other hand, you might look at the warren as its own kind of barrow, where the desperate go to die. Buka’s drawn to death—that much is certain. And the way he’s killing his victims is binding their spirits here and driving them mad. The palace spymaster didn’t think Buka was in league with the Durim. But what if…”

  “What?”

  Jonmarc shook his head. “I’m the last person to be speculating about magic, since I haven’t a bit of it. But what if something is calling to both the Durim and to Buka, drawing them toward it, encouraging them to kill? Some kind of magic… something that they can feel and we can’t?”

  “Something like a dark summoner?”

  Jonmarc grimaced. “Yes. Something with power like that, calling to them.”

  “Strong enough to raise the dead?”

  Jonmarc felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “What do you mean?” He could see that Scian was debating with herself on how much to tell him, and perhaps on whether he might think her mad for whatever she was about to say.

  “We’ve seen some of the Durim’s handiwork in the burying grounds out from the city, that’s true,” Scian said, and licked her lips nervously. “Your spymaster hired us to hunt down the Durim responsible, and we did. But there were other places throughout the countryside where the dead just… walked away. Not ashtenerath, because no one reported attacks. Not dimonns. Just bodies that walked out of their crypts into the night and vanished.”

  “Like puppets on strings,” Jonmarc murmured.

  Scian’s head snapped up. “You’ve seen this?”

  Jonmarc shook his head. “Not here in Principality City. But back in Dark Haven such things occurred. We didn’t find the bodies.”

  “We haven’t, either.”

  Jonmarc tapped the toe of his boot as he thought. “I have it on good authority that during the war in Margolan last year, the traitor lord’s blood mages raised the bodies of the dead to terrify the Margolan troops and draw their fire away from the real enemy.”

  Scian’s eyes narrowed. “Your ‘good authority’ about such things might be quite good indeed.”

  “Count on it.”

  “I thought only a summoner could raise the dead.”

  Jonmarc spread his hands. “That’s where the magic gets technical, so I’m told. Apparently, it takes a summoner to return a soul to a body, actually bring someone back to life. I’ve had some experience being on the receiving end of that kind of magic. It works.”

  Scian raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

  “On the other hand, any mage who can move objects with magic can make a corpse walk. It takes blood magic to raise ashtenerath, but it’s hard work. Making the dead walk is more like puppetry, so I’m told.”

  Scian considered his words in silence for a moment. “Do you think they’re related: the Durim, Buka, the body snatchers?”

  Jonmarc frowned. “Related, yes. Working together, no.”

  “Explain.”

  Jonmarc leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I think there’s someone out there, maybe that dark summoner you mentioned, who’s the real threat. Whoever is doing this is powerful, very powerful. Maybe powerful enough that people attuned to that kind of magic can sense something, feel it calling even if they don’t know what it is. The Durim call it Shanthadura. Who knows what Buka or the body snatchers make of it. But I’m sure of one thing: What the three groups are doing, whether they know it or not, feeds the power of the real threat. Blood magic, dark magic, dark summoner—I don’t know what to call it, but I think the murders and the barrow desecrations and the body thefts are all part of someone’s plan.”

  “So the war has actually begun.”

  “Absolutely. And right now, before the armies even attack, this is the front line. Kill Buka, find the missing bodies, and we might just win this particular battle.”

  Scian gave a scratchy laugh. “And is our young queen ready to dirty her hands with the likes of me and my assassins as allies?”

  “If she wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Scian gave him a hard look. “What’s in it for us?”

  Jonmarc leaned back and smiled. “Gold. Oh, you’ll have the queen’s gratitude, at least privately, but I figured you’d prefer a reward you can
spend.”

  “Gold works. How much?”

  “For Buka, ten thousand gold pieces.” He gave a cold smile. “That should be enough to stir even your vayash moru assassins into action.” The rewards were lavish, higher even than the bounties Jonmarc had on his own head in the not-too-distant past. High enough to put the Assassin’s Guild in competition with every other bounty hunter in Principality.

  Scian seemed to guess his thoughts. “Have the bounties posted yet?”

  “I’m doing you a professional courtesy by telling you first.”

  For the first time that evening, Scian’s smile seemed genuine. “You’ve just hired yourself some assassins, Lord Vahanian.”

  Chapter Eight

  Bad dreams again?” Cerise set a cup of tea in front of Kiara and gave her an appraising look. Kiara knew better than to evade the healer’s scrutiny.

  “It’s the same dream, over and over. I haven’t been able to sleep for the last two weeks, since I saw a ring around the moon. That’s a bad omen, Cerise. It means the death of a king. I see a man stabbed through the heart, but I can’t tell who the man is.” She paused. “I see a rag doll in a box surrounded by bones. The doll has no features, no face, but somehow, I know that doll is… me.”

  She let out a long breath. “In the dreams, I see mother, weeping. Since the dreams began, I’ve felt her presence more closely than usual.” Her hand went to an amulet that hung from a gold chain at her throat. Inside the golden locket were a few of her mother’s ashes, enough to allow the spirit to cross the distance that separated Kiara from Viata’s crypt. “I feel it in my bones, Cerise. Father’s dead.”

  Jae, Kiara’s battle gyregon, lifted its head from where he lay on the hearth as if he knew she was distraught. Heedless of the two large wolfhounds that sprawled near Kiara’s chair, Jae waddled over, his compact, reptilian body easily navigating between the dogs. The same attunement to her mood that made Jae an excellent battle companion also drew him to her grief. Absently, Kiara stroked his smooth, greenish-brown scales and Jae settled into her lap.

  “Is it just the dreams? Like scrying, dreams can show what might be instead of what is.” Cerise cocked her head as if she knew Kiara was holding back information, and Kiara paused, then shook her head.

  “My regent magic is different.” Kiara knew Cerise could hear the fear in her voice. “Until now, it’s never been very strong. A little scrying—imprecise at best—a bit of truth-sensing, that’s all I could ever do, even when father was sick and I was ruling in his stead.”

  “Perhaps it’s because you couldn’t rule openly. It’s not as if you were crowned.”

  “Maybe. I wondered if the coronation ceremony here in Margolan would strengthen the regent magic. After all, it’s supposed to provide a nonmage with special abilities that are useful to a ruler.”

  “And did the Margolan coronation change anything?”

  Kiara shrugged. “I felt the regent magic stir when I was crowned queen, but nothing else happened. My magic has never compared to what a true mage like Tris can do, or even been as strong as father’s regent magic. I thought perhaps that it was because I’m the consort rather than the reigning monarch here in Margolan. I wondered if something different would happen when it came time to take the throne in Isencroft. But now, something feels different. If it’s changed, I’m afraid to find out why.”

  Just then, there was a knock at the parlor doors, and one of the guards outside leaned into the room. “My apologies, Your Majesty, but there are guests to see you.” The guard drew back, and Mikhail, Shekerishet’s vayash moru seneschal, moved into view. Mikhail was accompanied by another man; by the look of him, Kiara guessed he was vayash moru as well.

  “My apologies for interrupting, but I’m afraid this can’t wait,” Mikhail said. He took a leather pouch from the courier and handed it to Kiara.

  “This can’t be good news.” Kiara looked to the leather pouch in her hand and then back to the man who had brought it. She exchanged a worried glance with Cerise. That the courier was vayash moru signified a message too urgent to entrust its delivery to even the fastest mortal messenger. This particular vayash moru looked haggard, as if he had pushed even his abilities to their limit.

  “This is Antoin,” Mikhail said. “He carries with him verified papers from vayash moru in Isencroft who are known to me, and more important, whom I trust.”

  Kiara settled into a chair near the fire, staring at the wax seal with the mark of the king of Isencroft that secured the bundle. Kiara waved Cerise to sit beside her, fighting off a leaden feeling of impending ill news. She hoped no one noticed that her hand was shaking as she broke the seal and carefully unbound the message inside.

  It’s in Allestyr’s handwriting, not father’s, Kiara noted, catching her breath. She drew herself up to sit straight and began to read the letter to herself.

  Your Majesty, and my dearest Kiara, the letter began. I dread being the one to bear this news. I can only hope that our long and fond acquaintance will help to soften the blow. Your father was murdered in his bedchamber by a conspiracy among servants with Divisionist sympathies.

  Kiara caught her breath so sharply that Mikhail and Cerise both moved toward her. Cerise placed a steadying hand on Kiara’s shoulder, and Mikhail stood behind her protectively.

  We have buried him with the full honor he so richly deserved. Despite the unrest that has troubled Isencroft, throngs of loyalists followed the procession in mourning. Unfortunately, even with the visible presence of both the army and the Veigonn, several violent incidents marred the ceremony, a tragic commentary on the difficult times in which we live.

  In your absence, Count Renate has been named Regent, but this is, I caution you, a very temporary measure. Renate is a man of unquestioned loyalty, but he is not the leader our divided kingdom requires to navigate both unrest within and attack from outside. We have no choice except to beg you to return to Isencroft as quickly as you can. I know, my dear Kiara, that you have only recently given birth, and were our situation not desperate, I would not ask such a sacrifice from you. I know, as do the others who stand in the breach for Isencroft—Cam, Tice, Brother Felix, Kellen, Wilym, and Trygve—that it is dangerous for you to travel, and even more dangerous for you to return to Isencroft, with the ships of war on the horizon. But there is no other course if we are to preserve Isencroft. Without a monarch of the blood, I fear we will tear ourselves apart before any foreign enemy could lay waste to our shores.

  The situation is dire. Alvior of Brunnfen has betrayed his vows to your father and returns with the invaders to seize the crown. His claim of consanguinity is stronger than Renate’s position as regent. Only a more direct blood heir to both the crown and the regent magic of the fallen kings can hope to rise as both symbol and monarch and save our kingdom.

  My dear Kiara, my heart breaks for you. I know it cannot be easy to weigh your duty to your child and to your husband, and the burdens of your responsibilities in Margolan, against the claims of the crown, and yet, I beg of you, please find a way to return to Isencroft as quickly as you can. Long ago, on the battlefield, you saw a vision of the Sacred Lady, of Chenne the Warrior, and your conviction rallied the troops to victory. You are both heir and symbol, and it is that symbol of Isencroft around which our riven kingdom must rally.

  Your father made his journey to the Lady on the tenth day of the month, just after the eleventh candlemark in the evening. Before fifth bells the next morning, ere the sun could rise on a leaderless kingdom, our small cabal of loyalists worked a magic that must remain unnamed to make you queen in fact as well as in theory. You may already feel stirrings of the regent magic; such is your birthright in ways I do not pretend to understand.

  I ask an impossible choice of you, my dear Kiara, to leave behind your son and return to save your homeland, when war imperils both kingdoms. Yet I beg of you not to bring the baby with you, as he would present too ready a target for those who would destroy the monarchy. I can only ask that you heed
my pleas and return swiftly.

  Trust Antoin. His loyalty is unquestioned. Ride with whatever guard you deem appropriate to the Isencroft border at Beirmoth. There, you will find a handpicked garrison of Isencroft soldiers awaiting you. I mean to cast no aspersions upon your new home, or upon the intentions of King Martris, but given the difficult history of our two kingdoms, it would be best that Margolan soldiers not cross into Isencroft. The soldiers who await you are sworn to bring you to the palace at any cost. Take every precaution. Arm yourself as if for battle and wear a cuirass beneath your cloak. These are dangerous times.

  I wish your homecoming could be under better circumstances. You are not alone in grieving the loss of the king, although I know it is a double blow to lose both king and father. There is much more to tell you that I dare not trust to a letter. Come home as quickly as you are able, Kiara. Isencroft hangs in the balance. Your faithful servant, Allestyr.

  Kiara slumped forward and leaned against Cerise’s shoulder. For a few moments, the room was silent except for the sound of her sobs. Kiara took a deep breath, shook herself, and then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and lifted her head. “Father is dead. Murdered. Isencroft is in the middle of civil war, with a pretender to the throne among the invaders whose fleet is already off our shores.” Her voice nearly broke, but she willed steel into her tone.

  “I have no choice. I must go home.”

  Cerise took Kiara’s hand in hers. “What of Cwynn?”

  Kiara knew that her grief and turmoil were clear in her expression as she turned to Cerise and glanced upward at Mikhail. “I don’t dare take him with me. Yet I don’t know how I can leave him. It’s not quite three months since he was born. What if Talwyn was right? What if Cwynn is at the heart of this war? How can I leave him? How can I leave Margolan, when Tris has already gone to war?”

  Cerise’s grip tightened on Kiara’s fingers. “You aren’t the first mother who had to leave a small child. Think of the women who die in childbirth, and their babies survive. We’ll find a wet nurse for him, someone the mages can certify is completely trustworthy. He’ll need guardians, people you trust implicitly.”