The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two

by Gail Z. Martin

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tris Drayke fled for his life. Darkness itself pursued him, neither living nor dead nor undead. Ancient and evil. Powerful. The darkness lapped at his heels like water. It snapped at his legs and slipped like a snare around his feet. To fall into the darkness was to perish. He could feel the darkness pull at him. It hungered for the light of his life thread. It thirsted for his magic, his power. It wanted his soul.

  Tris ran for the clear, pale moonlight, but as he neared it, the darkness threatened to overtake him. He scrambled up a tumble of boulders to reach high ground lit by moonlight.

  “Lethyrashem!”

  The banishment spell pushed back the darkness, but Tris could feel the strength of the darkness warring with his own. He cast out his power, drawing on the Flow beneath him and on the spirits of the dead buried deep within this land that had once been a killing ground. He pulled that power into himself, mingling it with his life force, and cast it forward, toward the darkness, with a word of power.

  “Lethyrashem!”

  This time, the darkness scattered, receding like the undertow of the ocean. Tris felt it pull back, beyond the tree line, beyond the forest, back and back until he knew it was gone. He collapsed to his knees, utterly spent, as a blinding headache pounded.

  “Tris? Tris, wake up. Come on, Tris, you’re scaring me. Wake up now!”

  The voice was barely audible, coming from a great distance, and the pounding in his head made Tris wonder if he was imagining it.

  “Come on, Tris. Wake up now!” The voice was closer, more insistent, and there was a sharp crack of pain that blurred his vision. Another snap of pain dissolved the forest and the moonlit night. Tris woke on his cot in his own campaign tent, with a blinding reaction headache, his face feeling as if it were on fire. His vision became clearer, and he saw Coalan, his valet, standing over him, one hand raised as if to slap an errant child. When Coalan saw Tris’s eyes open, the young man gave a weary smile and relaxed, dropping his hand.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Tris. I know it’s probably a hanging offense or worse to strike the king, but I’d already tried putting cold water on your face and nothing roused you.” Coalan looked shaken, and Tris managed a reassuring smile.

  “I imagine that slapping the king in the middle of a rescue is permitted under dire circumstances,” Tris murmured.

  Coalan hurried to pour a brandy for him and steadied him as Tris sat up. With practiced ease, Coalan withdrew a pinch of herbs from a pouch in the bag at the head of Tris’s cot and mixed the herbs with a small amount of wine. “Drink this first. You sound like you’ve got one of your magic headaches.”

  Tris complied, grimacing. Just moving his jaw to swallow hurt. “The headache isn’t magic. It’s caused by magic.”

  “You get them often enough to make me quite glad I’m plain old Coalan, and not a mage.”

  Coalan had shown enough pluck and valor that Tris hardly thought of him as “plain,” but his head hurt too much to argue.

  “That wasn’t just a bad dream.” Coalan gave him an appraising look. Tris grimaced, realizing how often this sort of thing must happen for Coalan to recognize something few people other than mages ever experienced.

  Tris set aside the wineglass and sipped the brandy. “No. It wasn’t a bad dream. There was power. Not a vision. Something was after me. It didn’t want my life or my magic. It wanted my soul.”

  “Soul thief. Can someone hollow the living?”

  Tris managed a wry half smile. “You really are listening when you’re sitting in the back of the tent, aren’t you?”

  Coalan gave a broad smile. “My father always told me foolishness pours out of an open mouth, but wisdom sneaks in through the ears.” Despite the seriousness of impending war and soul-thieving darkness, it was clear that Coalan still regarded his service to Tris as the greatest adventure of his life.

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing as hollowing the living, but then again,” Tris said, groaning as he shifted position and his head pounded, “I’d only heard rumors of soul harvests and hollowing before this war.”

  “Uncle Ban thinks Temnotta has a dark summoner,” Coalan said, all mirth gone from his voice. Tris looked up at Coalan and saw a resolve that told him Coalan probably had a better understanding of the war at hand than many of the ranking officers.

  “I think that’s not just likely; it’s certain. I can sense power just beyond where I can reach it. It feels dark, and strong.”

  “You’ve fought dark mages before, and won. And you destroyed the spirit of the Obsidian King. If you could do all that, then can’t you beat this one, too?”

  Tris closed his eyes, letting the potion work its healing, warming the chill deep inside that had nothing to do with the autumn night. “Jonmarc Vahanian is the best warrior in a generation, but I’ve seen him nearly die, twice. Once from being run through by a sword, and once from an assassin’s knife. You can be the best and strongest, but it only takes one mistake.”

  “Uncle Ban said to tell you that he’s sent reinforcements and scouts down the coast to the east. He said he thinks it’s likely the invaders will look for a less-defended harbor to land and flank us. They should be in place by morning.”

  Tris finished the last of his brandy and let it burn down his throat. “Good. Because I don’t think the fleet is just going to go home.”

  Voices outside his tent flap drew both men’s attention as a newcomer argued with the guards. “I have an important message for the king.”

  Tris and Coalan exchanged glances, recognizing a familiar voice that was out of place on the battlefield.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” one of the guards challenged.

  “I’m quite well aware of that,” replied the newcomer.

  “What’s Mikhail doing here?” Tris asked, as Coalan rushed to the door of the tent just as a guard stuck his head inside.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but Mikhail is here to see you.”

  “Send him in.”

  Mikhail stepped through the tent flap as the guard returned to duty. He looked from Coalan to Tris and frowned. “Other than it being the middle of the night, did I come at a bad time? I get the feeling you weren’t sleeping.”

  “It’s a long story,” Tris said, motioning for Mikhail to have a seat.

  “Is Kiara well? And Cwynn? What could possibly bring you out to the front lines of a war to carry a message?”

  Mikhail met Tris’s gaze. “It’s not the kind of message I’d care to entrust to paper—or to a messenger. The first news is, King Donelan is dead.”

  “Mother and Childe,” Tris murmured. “Beyral’s omens predicted it, but we had no way to verify. How did he die?”

  “Murdered. Someone bewitched one of the servants.”

  Tris felt grief well up in his chest. He had admired Donelan, and from their brief meeting at the royal wedding, Tris had looked forward to getting to know Kiara’s father. “I’m so sorry. How is Kiara taking it?”

  Mikhail’s gaze was direct. “The letter that bore the news asked her to return to Isencroft. She rode for Isencroft weeks ago, with a handpicked guard, as well as Cerise and Royster. An Isencroft guard waited for her at the border. The Margolan soldiers reported transferring her safely to the Isencroft guards. Patov, Jorven, Antoin, and the other vyrkin and vayash moru who accompanied her as… civilians… will remain with her as protectors.”

  “What about Cwynn?”

  Mikhail nodded. “Kiara was especially concerned about leaving Cwynn behind. She called for Alle and Lady Eadoin to care for him, along with Sister Essel and Sister Nardore. We tripled the guards on the palace to keep him safe from intruders.”

  Tris drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “It’s too early to have heard anything back from Kiara. We’d talked about what might happen if the war went badly for Donelan, but truly, I never expected it to cost him his life.” The herbed wine and the brandy were beginning to take the edge off of his headache, but
he could feel new tension building in his neck and shoulders at Mikhail’s news.

  “How is Cwynn?” Tris paused and ran a hand across his eyes, rubbing his forehead. “I have to admit, she made a wise choice in calling Alle and Eadoin to the palace. There’s no one I’d trust more to care for him.”

  Mikhail’s pale features looked like they had been chiseled from stone, and his eyes did not reveal any emotion.

  Tris felt his heart sink. “Something’s gone wrong,” he said quietly.

  “I’m afraid so. Three nights after Kiara left Shekerishet, after the mages reinforced the wardings, something struck at Cwynn in his sleep. He began screaming and crying, and nothing would console him. The healers couldn’t find anything amiss. Eadoin thought he acted terrified of something.

  “Cwynn went limp. He breathes, he’ll suckle, and his body functions as it should, but he hasn’t awakened since then. He responds to no one, not to voices or chimes or even loud noises.” A sad smile touched Mikhail’s face. “Even your dogs can’t rouse him. Cwynn usually laughed when they visited him. He loved it when they licked him and his happiness was very… loud. He was also fond of the ghost dog, your mastiff. It often sleeps next to Cwynn’s crib.”

  Mikhail frowned. “It was very odd… Right before Cwynn began screaming and crying, we all swore we heard a dog barking angrily, as if it was trying to frighten away an attacker or warn its owner. But your wolfhounds weren’t in the room at the time.”

  “What do the mages say?” Tris swallowed hard to keep his voice even. He tried to breathe deeply, stemming the rise of panic he felt. What use is it to be a king, and a mage, if I can’t protect the ones I love?

  “Sister Essel and Sister Nardore used all the magical resources they had available to investigate,” Mikhail replied.

  “Did they find anything?”

  “Nardore detected a… residue… of power that breached the wardings. She believes that whatever attacked Cwynn was looking for him in particular. No one else was troubled, not even by bad dreams,” Mikhail added.

  “And Essel?”

  Mikhail met Tris’s gaze. “Essel’s magic focuses on energy. She believes a part of Cwynn’s soul was taken from him. All that remains is an empty shell.”

  Tris and Coalan exchanged an alarmed glance. “Soul harvest,” Tris murmured.

  “Hollowing,” Coalan whispered.

  Mikhail looked from one to the other and sat in silence as Tris described the attack he had just withstood. As Tris spoke, Mikhail’s expression grew more somber. “What could the attacker hope to gain? Cwynn’s just an infant.”

  Tris shrugged. “It could be a challenge to me, a way to call me out to fight someone who’s certain that I’ll defend Cwynn.”

  “So they took his spirit as a hostage,” Mikhail replied.

  Again, Tris gave a nod. “The second possibility worries me more. Cheira Talwyn believes that Cwynn has great power. She said he was a ‘bridge.’ Alyzza, the old sorceress at the Vistimar madhouse, warned me to ‘protect the bridge.’ ”

  He looked from Mikhail to Coalan. “Talwyn was right. Cwynn’s been part of this, somehow, from the beginning. Whoever it is out there,” he said, gesturing toward the coastline, “has more of an inkling about Cwynn’s true power than we do.”

  “What are you going to do?” Mikhail’s voice was level.

  “One way or another, I’m going to get my son back.”

  Outside the tent, Tris and the others heard raised voices as the guards challenged another visitor. “You can’t go in there.”

  “It appears your king is not asleep.” The voice was unknown to Tris, who listened more closely.

  “He’s in a meeting. You can’t just barge in—” the guard argued.

  “My matter is pressing. I bring news from the Sworn. The information can’t wait.”

  Tris nodded to Coalan, who stepped to the tent flap. “It’s all right. We weren’t getting any sleep anyhow,” Coalan said, with a nod of thanks to the guard.

  Their visitor wore the rough-woven clothing of the Sworn. His black hair was woven into small braids with intricate silver talismans. The man’s dark eyes were bright and alert, and he glanced around the small group assembled in the tent until his gaze lingered on Tris.

  “Your Majesty. I bear an urgent message from Cheira Talwyn.” He made a perfunctory bow and handed Tris a folded piece of parchment. Tris frowned, recognizing the handwriting as that of his cousin, Jair Rothlandorn.

  “I wonder what made Jair send a rider in the middle of the night,” Tris said, carefully breaking the seal.

  Tris—I’m writing this on behalf of Talwyn, who said to tell you that her written Common is as imperfect as her spoken Common, and that both carry a heavy accent. Talwyn was preparing for the feast of Sohan, when, to her surprise, the Dread did not wait for her to come to them. They sought her out in dreams with a warning. The warning was for you.

  She dreamed of a broken lock and a missing key, of a sailor adrift on the currents of a swift river, and of two soldiers battling atop a bridge. Then she said it was as if a fog lifted, and she felt the presence of the Dread. “We would speak with the Summoner-King,” the Dread told her. The dream ended.

  Neither Talwyn nor I know what to make of this, Tris. I can’t advise you on whether or not to accept the Dread’s invitation. Such requests are not made lightly. At the same time, we don’t know whose “side” the Dread are on or whether or not they intend to take sides. Please, Tris, use caution.

  If you come, Emil will guide you to our camp. Talwyn and I trust him with our lives. Talwyn also begs you to accept the amulet Emil has for you. Talwyn crafted it herself, and her magic is strong. She said that it will protect you on your journey through dark places.

  I know that a king cannot lightly leave his troops at such a time, but Talwyn believes it is critical for you to make the journey. You know you are welcome and safe among the Sworn. May the Lady cover you with her protection. Even in such dire times, it is always good to see you, Tris. Ride carefully. Jair

  Tris read the letter aloud to the others and drew a deep breath. “I’m open to your thoughts about this,” he said, looking to Mikhail.

  “In light of what has happened at Shekerishet,” Mikhail said, “I don’t see how you have a choice. You have to go.”

  Tris nodded. “That’s what I make of it, too.” He looked to Coalan. The young man had put a fresh pot of water on the brazier and busied himself setting out a repast of hard rolls and sausage, though dawn—and breakfast—was still candlemarks away.

  Coalan looked sheepish as he realized Tris was watching him. “Sorry. I just figured that with all the company, you’d want some food and some hot tea.” He glanced at Mikhail. “I’ll get fresh blood from the butcher.”

  “Go find Soterius. Senne, too. Might as well wake up Fallon and Beyral. Tell them we’ve got a ‘situation’ to discuss and it won’t wait.” He paused, then sighed. “And after that, tell the stable master to have my horse ready. I’ll need you to pack a bag for me.” He frowned, thinking. “Set out both swords.”

  “Both?”

  Tris nodded. He understood why Coalan hesitated. Tris rarely carried Nexus, leery of its not-yet-fully understood power, and the warning that its use stole a breath of the user’s soul. Still, if he was going to seek out the Dread in the places of the dead, he doubted that his regular sword would be of much use.

  “Cheira Talwyn bade me give this to you,” Emil said. He held out a small pouch. It was made of cloth painted with runes and markings Tris did not recognize, but as soon as he took the small package, he could feel the signature of her magic.

  An amulet on a leather cord spilled into his palm. A round slice of agate was bound with hair, rough twine, and a thin copper wire to a piece of hematite. Tris recognized all of the stones as charms for warding and protection, amplified by the hair, hemp, and copper. Tris bowed his head and permitted Emil to fasten the amulet around his throat.

  “You do us a great
honor to wear Cheira Talwyn’s gift,” Emil said.

  Coalan set the tray of rolls and meat out for them as Tris motioned for Emil to sit. Then Coalan disappeared from the tent with a hurried aside to the puzzled guards. Tris and the others sat in silence, making only a halfhearted attempt to eat. Before long, Soterius ducked past the guards and into the tent. He gave a startled glance toward Mikhail and Emil.

  “I was wondering what made you call for a war council in the middle of the night,” he said, taking a seat next to Tris on the floor of the tent. “Bad news from home?” he said with a look toward Mikhail.

  “From home… and the Sworn,” Tris replied.

  Gradually, the others filed in and sat on the crowded floor of the tent. Tris gave a brief recap of the news Mikhail brought from Shekerishet, followed by Jair’s letter.

  “You’re going to go, aren’t you.” It was more statement than question, and Tris knew from the tone just what Soterius thought of the idea.

  “I’m inclined to,” Tris admitted. “That’s why I called the group together. We’ve already had one attack from the invaders. So far, I’ve tried to use a minimum of my magic, to not show our hand too early in case the invaders are trying to size us up. But the next attack might be in earnest, and my magic might be needed here to turn the tide.”

  Senne frowned. “How far away is the Sworn’s camp?”

  “A half-day’s ride behind the lines and to the east,” Emil replied. “But soon, our Ride will bring us within a few candlemarks of the battle lines.”

  “It’s not the journey that worries me,” Sister Fallon said. “We don’t know what kind of magic will be involved once Tris arrives at the camp. It might be a candlemark—or days—before he can return.”