The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two

by Gail Z. Martin

“You can stay the night. There’s room on the floor in the back, by the still. It’s a mite warm, but better than too cold. It’s angled off the main room, so you can take your customers there if you’re quiet about it. I get half of whatever they pay, and you get two meals and two cups of poitin. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Food, shelter, a way to earn coin, and, possibly, a protector. It was the best she was likely to get.

  She turned to find her way to the back room when a familiar face caught her attention. Ed the peddler sat against the wall. He was well into his cups, but he was sober enough to entertain a few of the tavern’s customers with one of his tales. He looked up and a glimmer of recognition crossed his face.

  “Aidane! Come on over here.”

  Aidane hurried to comply, fearful that Ed might say something that would give her away. One of the men got up and gave Aidane his seat, but from his quick exit Aidane decided that a full bladder had more to do with it than any form of rough chivalry. Aidane forced a chuckle as Ed finished his story and waited nervously as his listeners drifted up to the bar, leaving them to themselves.

  “What are you doing in this nest of rats?”

  Aidane could smell the river rum on Ed’s breath, but she recalled from the journey from Margolan that the peddler held his liquor deceptively well. Ed knew for certain that Aidane was a serroquette, having used his own hedge witch magic to free her when hostile spirits had tried to possess her.

  Aidane spread her hands, palms up, and shrugged. “What everyone else is doing here, I imagine. I ran out of places to go.”

  Ed looked at her skeptically and dropped his voice, further proof that he was quite sober. “I thought Jolie was looking after you. How did you end up in Principality City?”

  Aidane sighed. Ed pushed his glass of river rum toward her and Aidane took a drink, letting the rough liquor burn down her throat, fortifying her. “It’s a very long story.”

  She could see worry in Ed’s eyes. “Principality City’s not safe for the likes of you,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. “Doubly so, with what you are, and what you can do. Buka—”

  She cut him off and made a warning sign. “I know. The ghost of one of his victims led me here, told me the barkeeper would shelter me.”

  “Not Surrie—”

  Aidane nodded, and Ed’s face fell.

  “She was a sweet girl, come to a bad place. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Aidane took another drink of the river rum. “How is it you’re here?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

  Ed shrugged. “You remember the musicians? Cal, Nezra, Bez, and Thanal? They crossed from Margolan with us.” When Aidane nodded, he went on. “Cal had an old friend he thought would have a place for us in a tavern up this way. Thought there might be more business. Fie! We should have stayed in Dark Haven. The tavern was closed, boarded up tight. They ended up playing on the street for coins, and that’s cold work with winter coming on. That’s where they are tonight, playing for the festival crowds, hoping to make enough to keep them in food and ale for a few weeks, at least.”

  “And you?”

  Another shrug, but this time, Ed looked away. “What’s a peddler with naught to sell? I traded all that I had on the journey to Dark Haven. Meant to buy more with what I’d earned, but I was robbed and lost it all. I get by now by telling fortunes, mixing poultices, and doing a bit of healing when I can. On a good night, I can tell a few stories in here and someone will buy me a drink and share a bit of bread.”

  Aidane looked closely at Ed. He had a narrow, angular face that was more gaunt than she remembered. His clothes, hard worn a few months ago, were tattered. He seemed to be sizing her up as well.

  “You look like things have been a little rough for you lately.” His gaze went pointedly to the bruise on her cheek, and Aidane looked down.

  “One of the hazards of my kind of work,” she murmured.

  “I thought that biter, the blond one, might have taken a liking to you,” Ed said. “Thought he’d have looked after you. ’Course, I thought Jolie would have wanted someone with your skills in her house.”

  “I had business that brought me to Principality City, and with the war, I don’t think I could make it back to Dark Haven on my own, so even if Jolie would take me, I can’t get there, at least no time soon. As for Kolin—” Her voice fell, and she stared at her hands. “He has more important things to think about.”

  Ed took the meaning she intended him to take, and he clucked comfortingly. “Then he’s blind as well as dead, if he left you on your own. Do you have a place to stay?”

  “The barkeep said I could have the back room, by the still.”

  Ed’s eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to use your gift when you work?”

  Aidane shook her head. “I didn’t tell him… what I was. I didn’t think it was safe.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Can you feel the spirits? They’re all around us. I can barely think for having them crowd me.”

  She could see in Ed’s eyes that he understood. “Aye. I feel them. Thick as thieves. Between Buka and the plague, there are plenty of souls so newly dead they can’t find their way.” He paused. “Probably as well to keep your gift under your hat, though you’d earn a bit more coin.”

  “Assuming my patron doesn’t kill me.”

  Ed shrugged, and he reached for his river rum, knocking back the rest of his drink. “Just a matter of time before everyone down here is dead of the plague anyhow.” He looked over Aidane’s shoulder toward Kir at the bar. “No one’s saying it, but they all know. Plague travels fastest in places like this. Bad air, foul water, people pressed on top of each other, and no real food to speak of. I’m afraid that we’ve come here to die, Aidane.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Your Majesty, I must protest. This is far too dangerous.” Tice crossed his arms and glared at Kiara, who turned back toward him exasperatedly.

  “We accomplish nothing if I hide in the palace. I dare not fight in the front lines, like a proper queen, because I’m pregnant. But I have to do something, Tice, and this is important. If we succeed, we’ll end the burnings in the city, cut off the chance that our troops might face an attack from the rear.”

  “And if we fail, the succession of two kingdoms is in danger.”

  Kiara sighed. “I know. I just don’t see any way around it. I’m the only one who can do this.”

  “You’re using yourself as bait.”

  “There isn’t any other way.”

  “There’s always another way,” Tice said, glowering. “Use a double. Kings and queens have done that for centuries when situations were too dangerous.”

  Kiara shook her head. “If we want to draw out the Divisionists and the Durim, then we’ve got to take a risk. A public coronation—really public—will be too much for them to pass up. For once, our soldiers won’t need to hunt for them; the Durim and the Divisionists will come to us.”

  “What makes you so sure that they’ll come?” Tice fidgeted as Kiara crossed to the window and looked down on the streets of the city.

  “Oh, they’ll come. The prize is too good to refuse. Allestyr is proclaiming the Sohan festival as a special celebration in honor of the unborn prince.”

  Tice turned to her, slack jawed. “I was not consulted. This is madness!”

  “Blame Allestyr. He knew you’d worry. But it’s perfect. There were going to be large public celebrations for Sohan night anyway. The ghost in the kings’ crypt said that it takes one of the blood to rally the people. That’s exactly what I mean to do, and the Festival of Changes is the time to do it.”

  “What makes you think that the sword of the clan lords will mean anything to a crowd of drunk revelers?”

  Kiara gave a smirk. “Are you telling me you don’t know from which of the eight clans you’re descended?”

  Tice stiffened. “Of course not.”

  “Uh-huh. Royster’s done some digging in the last few days. Seems that all of the current nobility can trace
a direct lineage back to the eight warlords and their clans. But we didn’t know whether it was just the nobles, so Captain Remir and a few of his soldiers did a little experiment for us. They spread out to about a dozen pubs in the city, everything from the better inns to some of the taverns in the worst part of town. They had coin enough to buy drinks for the house and keep the ale flowing. Then they made a show of feigning an argument that the invaders could whip the asses of the eight old clan lords.”

  “And?”

  Kiara’s smile widened. “In every case, it nearly touched off a riot. Crofters may not feel especially cozy toward the crown at the moment, but the old warlords are still revered. Not only that,” she said, grinning, “but everyone in the pubs, down to the drunk in the corner, claimed one of the clans for his own.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Kiara crossed to a writing desk and opened up a box. She withdrew a paper with a hand-drawn crest showing a sword cleaving apart the three-bone symbol of the Shrouded Ones. “The lords and the drunks aren’t the only ones who have clan blood. Royster found this in the archives. Father’s family isn’t just the royal line. They’re descended from the intermarriage between two of the eight old clans.” Her hand fell to the sword that hung in a scabbard at her side. “I’m willing to bet that if the threat of invaders isn’t enough to turn people against the Divisionists for the love of the crown, they’ll do it for their family ties.”

  Tice looked at her skeptically. “Do I need to point out how many times war has pitted brothers against brothers? Blood ties aren’t as thick as we’d like to think.”

  Kiara put the crest back carefully in the box and closed the lid. “Let’s see what Balaren and Royster are able to find. If they bring me what Balaren promised, it could change everything.”

  The rest of the evening was consumed in consultations with Allestyr regarding the Sohan feast as well as a briefing from messengers from the front lines. A fitting for her festival clothing took two candlemarks, largely because the seamstress had little experience concealing chain mail and a hardened leather cuirass beneath a satin gown.

  Throughout the meetings, Kiara had difficulty concentrating. Balaren and Royster were a day late, and the Sohan feast was the next night. She began to fear that the quest she had given Balaren and Royster might have been impossible.

  Her spirits rose when one of the guards hurried her way as she finished dinner. “Your majesty,” the guard said with a low bow. “You have visitors. Vayash moru,” he added nervously.

  Her broad smile was not the reaction the servant expected. “Bring them to the parlor. And make sure there are refreshments for both mortals and vayash moru.”

  The servant blanched and swallowed hard, and then nodded. “As you wish.”

  Kiara left the rest of her meal untouched and hurried to the parlor. She had just arrived and taken a seat near the fireplace when the guards knocked on the door to announce her visitors and one of the guardsmen swung the door open. Royster rushed into the room, his white hair forming a wild cloud around his excited features. The librarian looked fit to burst with news. Behind him, Balaren followed at a more leisurely pace, and his features did not reveal his thoughts.

  Kiara’s attention went to the third man, a vayash moru. He moved with the grace that she had come to associate with the oldest among the undead, and he was quite pale. The newcomer was built like a professional soldier, medium height but with muscular shoulders and arms earned from years of serious swordsmanship. Kiara found herself holding her breath in anticipation.

  “Your Majesty,” Balaren said, making a low bow. “May I present Olek, of the clan Kirylu, the last surviving warlord of the great clans.” He turned to Olek. “Warlord Olek, I present Queen Kiara Sharsequin of Isencroft.”

  Olek regarded Kiara carefully. His ice-blue eyes seemed to miss nothing, and Kiara steeled herself to meet his gaze. Finally, just when she thought he would not yield to protocol, Olek gave a small nod and an equally shallow bow. “Your Majesty,” he said, his tone neutral, but in his eyes Kiara thought she saw skepticism.

  “Warlord Olek. Thank you for agreeing to come to the palace.”

  An ironic smile touched his lips. “How could I not obey the summons of the queen?” His eyes told Kiara what she already knew—that it was up to the Old Ones whether they recognized any mortal ruler.

  “Please, sit down.” Kiara led them to a grouping of chairs near the fireplace. A visibly nervous servant offered brandy to Royster and goblets of fresh deer blood to Balaren and Olek. A goblet of watered wine for Kiara went untouched as she leaned forward, intent on Olek.

  “It’s true, then, that you are the last surviving warlord who fought in the eight clans?”

  Olek gave a cold chuckle. “How polite a phrase you turn, m’lady. ‘Surviving’ covers a wide territory, does it not? And yet, ‘living’ wouldn’t be quite right, either.” He paused and took a sip of the blood. “Yes. I am the fifth warlord of Kirylu, the fifth and last Olek. I was mortal over four hundred years ago.”

  “Do you recognize this?” Slowly, so as not to give any indication of threat, Kiara unsheathed the sword that the spirit ancestor had given to her. She held it out, blade flat across her open palms, and extended her hands toward Olek.

  It was satisfying to see an ancient vayash moru look startled. “Where did you get that?”

  “I went into the tomb of my ancestors for guidance. One of the spirits gave me the sword with a stern reminder to look to the old clans in order to unify my people.”

  Olek took the sword from Kiara and turned it in the light. She could not read his expression when he finally handed it back to her. “Balaren told me nothing of the sword. Yet I dreamed of a sword just like it only a few nights ago. Did your spirit give you any indication of what you are to do with it?”

  “She said to raise the sword and remind my people who they are.”

  Olek was quiet for a moment, still and silent. Finally, he looked up at Kiara and seemed to be evaluating her anew. “You are the one who saw a vision of Chenne on the battlefield years ago.”

  Kiara nodded. “Father had been wounded. It was my first real battle. We were doing badly. I saw a vision of the Lady and she told me to raise the flag and rally the troops. It gave them heart again, and we won the day.”

  “I have paid scant attention to the whims of the crown for many, many years,” Olek said. “Do you know why the spirit might have chosen to give you this sword, a sword I know was buried with its owner?”

  “I’d like to hear your thoughts, and then I’ll share my own.”

  Olek looked at the sword in silence for a moment. He did not meet Kiara’s eyes, but he began to speak. “Five hundred years ago, the first eight warlords won their lands in battle from the savages and brigands. This land you call Isencroft was wild, nearly unsettled except for small groups of barbarians and men-at-arms who were nothing more than thieves. Those who became the warlords did not rise together. Each rose separately, out of the conviction that it would be better to unify sections of the land under one strong ruler than to have the constant bloody battles for territory that came from the warring tribes.”

  He paused and took another sip of the blood. “Generation after generation, the battles raged. My family conquered the lands in the northwest, against the coast and the lands of the Adair. Gradually, the seven other warlords brought their lands under control. War was constant in those days, and we feared it might always be so. Finally, the other warlords and I consolidated our control and war ceased.”

  “How did the warlords give way to a monarchy?” Kiara leaned forward, fascinated by Olek’s account.

  “Although eight warlords arose, we were not all equally powerful. Four of the warlords were already related by blood, descending from two pairs of brothers. When marriages and alliances took place between the strongest families of those four houses, it consolidated the power into those four families. One of those was my own clan, Kirylu. The four combined clans had more
land and more men than the other four warlords, and when war broke out once more, the four allied lords won. To seal the alliance, a woman descended from two of the houses wed a man descended from the other two houses. Their son became the first king of Isencroft.”

  Olek paused. “The sword that you were given in the crypt was forged for the coronation of King Jashan, the first king of Isencroft, who was the son of Lord Gavrill. It was buried with Jashan.”

  Kiara sipped the watered wine as she considered Olek’s story. “But it wasn’t until your lifetime that the followers of Shanthadura were driven out, and the worship of the Sacred Lady took its place.”

  A shadow crossed Olek’s face, and he made a gesture of warding, something Kiara guessed was an unconscious mannerism left over from his mortal days. “As much as we sometimes hated the other warlords, all of us hated the Durim more. I have seen all the horrors war can provide, and yet I judged the Black Robes far worse. They were a greater scourge on our people than any famine or plague. Of all my victories, I was most proud of destroying the Durim.”

  “But they weren’t really destroyed,” Kiara said quietly.

  Olek shook his head. “No. We thought we had rooted them out, but my guess is that a handful of them escaped into the mountains and wild places and waited. Balaren tells me that they have risen again.”

  “We have reason to believe that a dark summoner is behind the invasion fleet from Temnotta that lies in the harbor,” Kiara said, straightening. She met Olek’s gaze. “The Durim may not be working with him, exactly, but it appears that the dark summoner’s power is related to the Durim’s attempts to bring back the cult of Shanthadura.” She paused and took a deep breath.

  “Are you familiar with the Sworn?”

  Olek nodded. “I know of them, and the spirits they guard, the Dread.”

  “Then you know that the Dread guard even more fearsome spirits, the Nachele. The Durim are trying to wake the Nachele from their slumber.”

  “Though the Nachele were bound long before my lifetime, the stories remained. I would not care to see them loosed once more.” He paused. “Neither, I dare say, would my fellow warlords.”