“Can we trust the Dread?” Senne’s raspy voice broke in. “How do we know they’re not in league with the invaders, trying to lure Tris into some kind of trap? For all we know, they had something to do with what happened to Cwynn.”
“Possible,” Fallon admitted, “but I don’t think it’s likely. The Dread have avoided getting involved with mortal conflicts for over a thousand years. From what Tris and Cheira Talwyn have said, the Dread are stirring now because someone—or something—is threatening to raise the Nachele, the dark spirits the Dread guard. I don’t think the Dread have called for Tris to help us with our problems. I suspect their interest is more self-centered. We may have a common enemy.”
“And in war, the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Soterius finished for her.
“Exactly.”
Tris looked at Soterius and Senne. “What are the scouts reporting? Have you heard anything from the Sentinels or the fleets? How likely is an attack over the next few days?”
Senne shrugged. “Good commanders don’t give away their moves in advance. I don’t think they’re going to give up and go home.”
Soterius leaned forward. “When the Temnottan ships pulled back from the harbor after the first engagement, they moved out of range of the Sentinels. Nisim and I think they’ve dispatched ships to the east, where the coast makes an easier landing spot. They’ll try to flank us.”
“You’ve sent troops?”
Soterius nodded. “All we could spare. I bet a division on it.”
“It’s a gamble, no matter how you play it,” Senne grumbled. “Your father was a man who believed in intuition. Whether you call it regent magic or damn fine luck, his guesses worked out far more often than they didn’t. So how about it, Your Majesty? What is your gut telling you?”
Tris took a deep breath. “I think Soterius is right; the Temnottans are going to make a move very soon. That makes this especially difficult. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to attack Cwynn. He’s my son. I would have to go because of that. But I believe that he is a key to this war. And I intend to bring him back.”
“I’d recommend you ride in disguise,” Soterius said. “Not that I doubt your fighting skill,” he said with a glance from Emil to Tris, “but I’ll feel better sending half a dozen of the Telorhan with you—just in case.” He held up a hand to forestall Tris’s protest. “Once you reach the Sworn camp, I know you’ll be safe. But there are still Durim out there as well as whatever it was that tried to attack you tonight, and we don’t need an opportunist getting off a lucky shot.”
Reluctantly, Tris nodded. “Anything else?”
Soterius gave him a grim, lopsided grin. “Yeah. Just remember what Jonmarc used to say. ‘If you get your royal ass fried, the rest of us hang.’ It’s still true, so be careful.”
Chapter Fourteen
Just moments after Tris and Emil and the five Telorhan guards reached the outskirts of the Sworn camp, Tris spotted a tall man running toward them. Jair Rothlandorn was dressed like the rest of the Sworn warriors and armed with a broad, deadly stelian sword. “Ho there! Are you come to keep the feast with us!”
Despite the circumstances, Tris could not keep from smiling. Jair answered Tris’s smile with a grin of his own, welcoming Tris with a slap on the back and an embrace when Tris swung down from his horse.
“We came as quickly as we could,” Tris said as he walked with Jair farther into the camp. Emil and the guards fell behind them, allowing a respectful distance and the semblance of privacy for their conversation.
“I know this is a bad time for you,” Jair began.
Tris waved off his apology. “More than you think.” Briefly, he explained the attack on Cwynn and the unsuccessful attack he had fended off himself.
“You think that the two attacks are related to Talwyn’s vision—and the Dread’s request?”
Tris shrugged. “These days everything seems to be related.” He met Jair’s gaze. “If there’s a chance that the Dread might know how I can rescue Cwynn, well, I can’t pass that up.”
Jair’s gaze wandered to where a small, curly-haired young boy practiced in the center of the camp with his bolas. “If it were Kenver, I’d feel the same way.” He paused. “Come on. Talwyn’s waiting for you.”
Tris looked around him as they walked through the camp. Despite the obvious war-readiness of all of the young men and women of fighting age, there was an unexpected air of celebration to the camp. In the center of the temporary village created by the Sworn’s gars was the beginning of a bonfire. Boys and girls too young to fight carried wood to the fire pit. Large wooden bowls filled with apples, pinecones, and acorns were gathered to one side of the camp’s center.
As Tris watched, several of the old women came to the camp center with their aprons bulging. The young girls ran up with empty bowls and unloaded the delivery of eggs, seeds, and more nuts. Near where the fire would be, Tris saw a strange, bean-shaped pod made of cloth and twine hanging from a post. He also noted that he and his guards were not the only strangers among the Sworn.
“Is all this for the harvest feast?”
Jair nodded. “War or no war, the Sworn take Sohan very seriously. It’s the last of the autumn festivals, after the Moon Feast and Haunts, but even though it’s after the equinox, it’s special to the Sworn. It’s the Feast of Changes.”
Tris looked again at the offerings in the bowls. “Eggs become chickens,” he said quietly. “Nuts become trees. Seeds grow into plants.” He looked at Jair questioningly. “But what about all the outsiders?”
Jair chuckled. “Shapeshifters, all of them. Some vyrkin, but also some who can shift into the other forms of the Lady’s Consorts: the stawar, the bear, and the eagle. We’ll have a few vayash moru as well, who understand transformation between the living and the dead.”
“And that thing hanging from the post?” Tris asked, jerking his head toward the odd-shaped object.
“An effigy of a caterpillar’s cocoon. At the festival, it’s Talwyn’s honor and duty to bless the offerings. Then she uses her magic to let a small bevy of birds loose from the cocoon.” He shrugged. “The Sworn live with the land even more closely than farmers do. Sohan honors the death of autumn and the coming of winter before the year is reborn in the spring. I hope you’ll have the chance to pass the feast with us.”
Tris sighed. “That depends on the Dread.”
When he entered the gar Jair shared with his family, Talwyn jumped to her feet and greeted him with a smile of welcome and an embrace. “I’m so glad my message reached you. I didn’t sleep well last night, fearing that Emil might not be able to find you.” Although Talwyn spoke Common with the heavy accent of the language of the Sworn, her voice was lilting and musical, and not for the first time, Tris saw what tempted Jair away from the throne of Dhasson.
“Last night brought many messages,” Tris said.
“Oh?” Jair asked. Talwyn grimaced at him.
“Despite war and festivals and even the Dread, we need to make your cousin welcome,” Talwyn said, beckoning for Tris to sit near her on one of many large cushions on the floor. “Please don’t think me frivolous. There is power in ritual, even something as simple as welcoming a guest correctly. That’s why we keep the feast days, even when it is not convenient. Hearth magic is strong protection, and we bypass it at our peril.”
Talwyn went to an ornate metal pot that sat over its own small fire. From it, she poured the thick, dark tea the Sworn preferred, its nutty flavor softened with syrup made from sweet grass. She brought him the tea in a copper cup that matched the pot’s intricate decoration, and Tris recognized sigils of warding and protection worked into the beautiful scrollwork. Talwyn brought him a plate of goat cheese with honey and pieces of thin, hard bread. Tris accepted the food gratefully, hungry after the ride. Afterward, she brought out a carafe of vass and poured a small amount for each of them. Then Talwyn settled back onto her cushion with her legs crossed.
“Tell me of your other messages, T
ris. Please, hold nothing back.”
Tris did as Talwyn requested, and both Jair and Talwyn listened in silence as he recounted his vision and the attack on Cwynn.
“You were right about Cwynn being a pawn in all of this,” Tris concluded.
Talwyn frowned and shook her head. “Important, yes. But not a pawn. Such power, even at a young age, takes its own course.”
“It had crossed my mind, before Emil arrived, to ask your guidance and perhaps even seek counsel from the Dread. That they’ve asked for me now—”
Talwyn nodded. “It cannot be a coincidence. But be wary. My dreams have been dark. The Nachele no longer sleep. Never before have I felt concern from the Dread. They are not exactly fearful, but they are not pleased. Any help they give to you is likely to come at a price.”
“My child’s life and my kingdom are on the line,” Tris said. “It’s already a high-stakes wager.”
By sundown, the festival in the center of the camp was well underway. Talwyn had completed her duties as shaman and as the daughter of the chief, leaving Pevre to oversee the festivities and watch over Kenver.
Talwyn, Tris, and Jair stood in the center of a warded workspace Talwyn had created next to the nearest barrow. The Telorhan stood a short distance away, on guard to make sure they were not disturbed. Talwyn had marked a circle of runes and sigils. She was dressed in her shaman’s robes, and the embroidery along the hem seemed to move and pulse.
Tris carried Nexus in a scabbard at his hip. His regular sword was easily drawn from a back scabbard, but he doubted it would do him much good. Around his neck, he wore the amulet Talwyn had made for him, and Marlan the Gold’s talisman. At Talwyn’s nod that all was ready, Tris closed his eyes and centered his magic.
“The Dread have asked to meet with you on the Plains of Spirit. That rules out using the smokewalkers and the Spirit Guides,” Talwyn said. “It’s as close to face to face as you can get without entering the barrows, and it’s only possible because you’re a summoner.”
“You don’t like it.”
Talwyn shook her head. “It makes you more vulnerable than if we walked the smoke. More of your life energy will be between realms. But the Dread are the ones dictating the terms.”
The autumn air was cold, misting his breath. Tris let his magic flow down through his body, through the soles of his feet, down into the cool ground. He opened his mage senses, aware of the hum of magic that surrounded both the living and the dead. His summoner’s magic sensed the powerful life forces of the Sworn and the shapeshifters, and the different energy of the vayash moru.
Stretching out his senses, Tris heard the rustle of dry bones and ragged shrouds, and the whispers of the dead reached him. He did not turn his full attention to them, and they did not cry out to him.
Tris listened for the voice of the Dread. He stretched out his magic toward the ancient mound and listened. He could feel the layers of strong power that interlaced over and through the burial mound, magic placed long ago and reinforced age after age, both from outside and from within. The magic carried the signatures of many wielders, too many to count. He felt the magic of the Sworn, and other, less benign powers.
You heeded our call. The voice sounded in Tris’s mind, seeming to come from everywhere at once and nowhere at all. It was a low rumble, and Tris felt it as much as heard it.
I came.
Walk with us on the Plains of Spirit.
Tris let his magic shift inside of him, allowing his consciousness to separate from his physical form, moving into the Nether realm between life and death, the Plains of Spirit.
Tris was glad for Talwyn’s protections, both the wardings that she set and her constant chant. The Nether was a dangerous realm. More than once, he had encountered dimonns in this realm. Whatever power had attempted to hollow him might also find the Nether to its liking.
They cannot harm you. The low voice seemed closer now. Those things that you fear, fear us more. They will not trouble us while we meet.
Tris forced down his apprehension and focused on Cwynn. There was a ripple in the Nether, and Tris saw a dark shadow roll across the burial mound. He could sense the personality, and the great age, of the shadow.
Why have you called me from battle?
We have merely called you from one battle to another, Summoner-King. The war to which we call you is one your army cannot fight.
Why should I fight a second battle? Name the enemy and his prize.
Tris could hear the distant rumble of voices, as if the Dread held a muted conversation among themselves.
A dark summoner has risen in the East. He is called Scaith. He would raise the Nachele to do his bidding, and for the first time in a thousand years, the Nachele have roused from their slumber. Many have tried to do this; none have succeeded until now.
The Nachele are yours to guard. Can Scaith take them from you?
Tris heard the weariness of ages in the deep rumble of the Dread’s voice. It required a War of Unmaking to seal the Nachele within the barrows. We hoped never to see such destruction again, nor to be the cause of it. Even now, we hope that such a catastrophe can be averted. We are a match for the power of the Nachele, but Scaith has worked powerful blood magic to strengthen himself. Those you call the Durim, the Black Robes, have called on the power of the Shrouded Ones, strengthening Scaith with their sacrifices. The Durim are not alone. Scaith feeds his power with bloodshed and with the stolen souls and hollowed spirits of the dead. If you wish to prevail against Scaith, you must strengthen yourself.
How?
You are the mage-heir of Bava K’aa, and of Lemuel, who became the Obsidian King. You wear the talisman of Marlan the Gold, who was your forebear.
Bava K’aa and Lemuel were my grandparents. Marlan was my ancestor. Their magic and their blood flow through me.
The Obsidian King was nearly as powerful as Scaith. He was called by many names: Darkness, Blood-Sower, Slaughterer. He gained through blood sacrifice a very rare magic: the ability to meld his magic with the Flow so completely that they became nearly indistinguishable. Scaith does not possess this magic. You must gain it, if you hope to fight him. Even then, it does not guarantee your success, only a fighting chance.
Tris felt his temper rise. You want me to practice blood magic? You ask me to turn against everything I’ve learned, everything I am?
More than one road leads to a destination. The Obsidian King gained that power through blood magic. But there is one who possesses that power by accident of birth. Your son, Lemuel’s great-grandson, the one you call Cwynn.
Tris caught his breath in surprise. Cwynn’s only an infant.
The poison that endangered his birth opened him to great power. Even now, Scaith seeks him. And infant though he is, his will to survive has enabled him to hold off Scaith—at least for now.
Hold him off? How?
Scaith moved in the Nether to hollow your son’s soul and take Cwynn’s power for his own. Cwynn’s instincts served him well. Like a rabbit knows how to flee a predator almost from its birth, Cwynn instinctively sent a part of his life force into hiding. His consciousness followed the child’s mother to a relic far away from the threat. His vitality, that which breathes and makes the heart beat, remained in the body his consciousness left behind. Scaith could not hollow an incomplete soul. Your mage’s wardings were sufficient to rush Scaith, who stole what was easiest. He stole the child’s essence, his eternal being. You must regain what was stolen. You will need it as an ally in the war that is to come.
Tris struggled to understand. Part of Cwynn had followed Kiara—or her regent magic—to refuge in Isencroft. A remnant of his soul remained to keep his physical body alive—for now. But his essence, his eternal self, the portion that would, at his death, cross the Gray Sea to rest in the Lady, was Scaith’s prize of war. Tris felt rage at the violation, and he used that rage to fuel determination.
Tell me what I have to do to bring him home.
Again, the Dread conferred amo
ng themselves. What are you willing to pay, Summoner-King, for your child?
Tris raised his head to glare defiantly at the shadow. Everything I have.
Your life, certainly. Your kingdom?
There is no choice. If I allow Scaith to keep Cwynn’s essence, he may be too powerful to destroy. Either way, my kingdom is forfeit.
Your soul?
If that is the only way, yes.
Well spoken, Summoner-King. We have watched you from afar. You have shown great courage. To save your son, you must enter the Abyss. Scaith has struck a deal with Konost, the Guide of Souls. Cwynn is a prisoner in her realm. You must bring him back.
Konost—one of the Shrouded Ones?
The shadow shifted in a way that Tris took as an indication of assent.
Scaith has made a blood pact with the Shrouded Ones to restore their worship in exchange for the Winter Kingdoms. Peyhta, the Soul Eater, hollows the souls and shares the feast with Scaith. Shanthadura bathes in the blood of sacrifices, sparing a few drops for her chosen champion. Konost has been promised a feast of death on the battlefield, with legions of new souls to torment.
You would have me fight a goddess? I’m most certainly not a god.
In the distance, Tris sensed what sounded like the rumble of grim laughter. It’s well that you are clear on that point, Summoner-King. You are indeed not a god. Nor do you need to be in order to prevail.
Stop talking in riddles. Tell me what I have to do to save Cwynn. I have a war to fight.
For a moment, the shadow was silent, and Tris cursed his impatience.
Return here tomorrow night at dusk, on Sohan. Before the bells of midnight, light magic will be favored over dark. Bring with you Marlan’s talisman, your spirit sword, and the amulet you wear. They will serve you well. Take these with you also.
The shadow stretched toward him, an opaque fluid movement, and Tris fought a primal urge to flee. The tide of darkness receded, leaving a small pile of objects at his feet.
Our “gifts” exist in both the Nether and the mortal world. When you return to us, we will open the barrow to you. You must pass through eight gates in the Underrealm to reach the Abyss. At each gate, a guard will ask for your passage token. Give the gifts in the order in which they lie at your feet. You will be able to pass through the gates. Take nothing, and do not eat or drink anything, or you cannot return.
The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two Page 22
