Soterius rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. It was bad enough surviving everything it took to get you on the throne. I don’t need to hear it sung about and embellished every time I go to an alehouse for a drink!”
Tris leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “When will we know how badly the wormroot has affected Cwynn—or whether it’s damaged him at all?” Tris looked to Fallon hopefully, only to see the mage shrug.
“There’s no way to tell,” Fallon replied, choosing her words carefully. “If he learns to walk and talk like other babes, it’s a sign the wormroot hasn’t damaged him. What concerns me more is how it might have affected any magical talent he might possess. You’re one of the most powerful mages in the Winter Kingdoms, and heir to the magic of Bava K’aa, one of the strongest sorceresses of her time. Kiara has the regent magic, and while it hasn’t manifested strongly in her, the stories tell of powerful battle magic by the kings and queens of Isencroft in dire times. Magic can skip a generation. Your mother had none of her mother’s power. But often, the magic breeds true. We don’t know what the wormroot might have done to Cwynn’s ability to wield magic.”
“That’s not entirely true.” Everyone turned to look at Beyral. A necklace of charms and runes rattled as Beyral leaned forward. “During the last great Mage War, the Obsidian King experimented on the weaker mages he captured. He wanted to understand the source of power in order to drain magic from his opponents to strengthen himself. When his spirit was bound and his fortress breached, we saw just how far his experiments had gone.” A haunted look came into Beyral’s eyes. “I heard one of the old Sisters speak of it. In his dungeon, he had a score of captured mages, many of them Sisterhood. He’d sired children on them, and then used magic and potions to alter the babes before birth. None of the women or their children survived, although the Sisterhood did its best to save them.”
“How did they die?” Tris asked quietly, suddenly cold all over.
Beyral met his eyes. “Some were consumed alive by magic gone wild. Others died birthing babies that were monsters. We found bodies in the Obsidian King’s dungeon of more women and of babies too grossly deformed to survive. It’s best for all of us that he left no heir.”
But he did. Tris felt Fallon’s gaze even as he averted his eyes. Only a few people knew the truth. The Obsidian King had taken the sorceress Bava K’aa prisoner. Her rescue had been one of the only bright spots in the cataclysmic battle. That Bava K’aa had been pregnant with the child of the Obsidian King was a secret that her rescuers took to their graves. That secret was kept for over fifty years, until Tris defeated the new incarnation of the Obsidian King and learned the truth. The child of that forced union had been Serae, Tris’s mother. There was nothing wrong with mother. She didn’t have any magic at all. Maybe the Obsidian King didn’t try his experiments on Bava K’aa. I know Lemuel’s spirit fought him as best he could. Tris struggled with the fear that welled inside him.
“Tris?” The sound of Soterius’s voice roused Tris from his thoughts and he looked up, hoping his expression masked his feelings.
“I didn’t know about the experiments,” Tris replied. “But do we know whether wormroot was one of the drugs the Obsidian King used? Cwynn looks perfectly normal, even though he had a difficult birth.”
“The journals of the Obsidian King were recovered after the war,” Beyral said. “Two of them were entrusted to the Library at Westmarch for safekeeping. The third journal was lost. It’s believed to have been destroyed.”
Tris kept his face impassive. Thanks to a gift from a powerful vayash moru, the “missing” journal lay safe inside a locked trunk upstairs in Tris’s rooms.
“We may have more to deal with than the heir,” Fallon said. “For centuries, a loose alliance of mages has kept sentry along Margolan’s borders. They aren’t Sisterhood, but they do represent all of the elemental magics: land, water, air, and fire. Their job has been to be aware of the currents of magic, with the hope that they might spot hostile magic before it reaches Margolan.”
“Then why didn’t they do something to stop Arontala?” Soterius demanded.
Fallon turned toward him. “Their role is to watch beyond Margolan’s borders for an invader with strong magic. But to your point, the Sentries did make the Sisterhood aware that two mages of increasing power were in Margolan. One of them was Foor Arontala.”
“And the other?”
Fallon inclined her head toward Tris. “Martris Drayke.”
“What do your Sentries tell you now?” Tris asked, leaning forward.
“Two currents in the Flow run beneath Margolan. The Eastern current was healed from the damage that made it unstable. The Western current is troubled.”
“Is it damaged?” Tris asked. Rivers of magical energy crisscrossed the Winter Kingdoms. Known as the Flow, the rivers enhanced magic.
Fallon shook her head. “The Sentries believe that someone is working strong blood magic beyond the Northern Sea.” She met Tris’s eyes. “They’re certain it’s a spirit mage. A very strong summoner, and a dark one.”
“What happens beyond the Northern Sea is none of our concern,” Soterius muttered. “We have our hands full with our own problems.”
“Things like a dark summoner have a way of becoming everyone’s problem.”
Chapter Three
Go!”
Lord Jonmarc Vahanian gave the signal and a dozen black-clad fighters made their way from the cover of the forest toward the shadow of a massive barrow. An unnatural fog clung to the grassland, giving them cover. The brown-robed mage responsible for the fog was right behind the fighters, and Jonmarc could hear the land mage Sakwi chanting under his breath.
He felt a shiver run down his back. For a few steps, the air around him grew as cold as winter, and he knew it was the invisible warding Sakwi had warned them about, a warding set for vyrkin shapeshifters or the undead vayash moru. Behind Jonmarc, a dozen vyrkin and vayash moru fighters awaited a signal that it was clear to advance.
Jonmarc rose from the cover of the waist-deep fog behind one of the guards who watched the doorway cut into the barrow’s side. Rounding into a perfect Eastmark kick, Jonmarc’s boot caught the guard in the chest and slammed him to the ground. Before the man had a chance to cry out, Jonmarc drew a blade across the man’s throat. Three guards fell with muffled groans as the other fighters found their marks. Jonmarc gave a curt nod to Sakwi, and the land mage raised his hands and closed his eyes, reaching for the magic that spelled the barrow’s entrance. A sudden gust of wind swept across the long summer grass. Sakwi opened his eyes and nodded, then gestured with his hands toward the forest. An owl hooted in response, taking flight, followed by the swift advance of the vayash moru fighters.
“We’re already dead and the vyrkin heal faster than mortals,” Laisren, the lead vayash moru fighter, said tersely. “I don’t like you going in first.”
Jonmarc glared at him. “You wouldn’t have made it through the warding. Otherwise, I’d be happy to let you go first.”
Sakwi walked toward the torch-lit entrance to the barrow. Runes were carved into the wooden doorposts and the lintel. The land mage’s hands moved slowly across the runes, which glowed in response, shifting from fiery red to cool silver. Sakwi nodded and gestured for the others to move forward. They slipped silently down the stone stairs that descended into the depths of the barrow.
The vyrkin shimmered and their forms blurred, changing them from men into large gray wolves. As they’d agreed beforehand, the group swiftly sorted themselves: mortal, vayash moru, and vyrkin. Jonmarc and the other mortals wielded close-range weapons in the tight space, and the torchlight glinted on their daggers and short swords. At the front, Jonmarc held his crossbow at the ready. Behind him padded one of the vyrkin, and Laisren, who would need no weapon beyond his strength, speed, and fangs. The others followed them, with Sakwi close behind.
The passageway opened to a large room. Three black-robed men startled as the fighters burst into
the chamber.
“You have no right to desecrate—” The man’s protest died in a bloody gurgle as Jonmarc’s quarrel tore through his throat. The vyrkin launched himself at the second robed man, taking him to the ground and silencing his spells with a snap and a snarl that nearly tore the man’s head from his neck. Laisren moved faster than sight could follow to pursue the third man, who had turned to flee. Laisren caught him by the shoulder, wheeling him so that he could see the terrified man’s face.
“You desecrate this place,” Laisren growled, closing one pale hand around the man’s neck. “You foul it with the blood of innocents to wake a power you don’t comprehend. You can’t possibly atone for what you’ve done.”
The man struggled and gasped for breath, then spat in Laisren’s face. “I have no need to atone,” he gasped, jerking in Laisren’s grasp before his spine snapped and he fell to the floor.
“Sweet Chenne,” Jonmarc whispered as he and the others looked around the chamber. The body of a vyrkin hung chained by its hind feet above a basin filled with blood. Two other wolf corpses lay where they had been thrown into a gutter carved into the rock along one wall. Both had been skinned. Around the room, cages lined the rock walls. The bars shimmered with magic.
Jonmarc moved toward the cages, careful not to touch the glowing bars. He heard Laisren swearing under his breath beside him. In each of the cages lay vayash moru, injured too severely to rise, although it was night. Several had been eviscerated; others bore the deep gashes of axes or lay carefully because of multiple crossbow quarrels through their bodies, wounds that would have easily killed a mortal. One lay completely still, with the hilt of a damashqi knife protruding from his heart, his panicked eyes the only clue that he remained aware. Vyrkin lay in other cages, some in human form, others still shifted, all showing the gashes of an ax or multiple wounds where they had been run through by swords.
“How could they have captured so many vayash moru?” Jonmarc asked, stunned.
Sakwi began to move from cage to cage, muttering words that sounded like water flowing over rock. As his hands traced the outline of the cage, the bars lost their glow and the cage doors swung open.
“Most of these are young in the Dark Gift,” Laisren replied, moving with Jonmarc to gather up the bodies of the maimed prisoners. “They’re vulnerable in their day crypts. The fanatics know to injure them without striking the heart or cutting off the head. It takes the young ones so long to heal that they’re helpless from the pain.”
“What about him?” Jonmarc said with a jerk of his head toward the body impaled by the knife as he hefted one of the prisoners into his arms.
“He was old enough to be more cautious,” Laisren said, walking toward the vayash moru. With one swift motion, he removed the knife from the man’s heart. The man’s body convulsed and he gave a deep groan.
“Get on your feet,” Laisren said, helping the injured vayash moru up. “We’ve got to go.”
Jonmarc glanced around the chamber. A small corridor branched off, sloping down into darkness. “What do you suppose is down there?”
“If it’s what’s been feeding on the blood, you don’t want to know,” Laisren said as they headed for the stairs, carrying the bodies of those too badly injured to walk.
This time, Sakwi and the vayash moru led the group, armed and ready for a fight. Two mortals remained behind.
“Burn what’s left.” Jonmarc did not turn as he climbed up the stairs. When they had reached the top, running footsteps sounded behind them, followed by the roar of fire. They hurried toward the shelter of the forest, and Sakwi raised the fog around them once more. Dark shapes darted through the fog, huge gray wolves called by the land mage to protect their vyrkin brothers.
“I hope you’ve told them we’re off the menu,” Jonmarc said with a warning glance toward Sakwi.
The land mage gave a grim smile. “Of course.”
Just before they reached the tree line, the vayash moru took to flight, carrying bodies of their fallen comrades. Inside the forest, horses awaited the mortals. A few of the vyrkin were well enough to ride in human form; the rest, Jonmarc and the others strapped carefully behind their saddles, wrapped in blankets.
“I hate to think what Carina’s going to say when she sees this,” Jonmarc said to Sakwi as they swung up into their saddles.
Sakwi smiled. “Since she’s been married to you, I must say that her vocabulary has grown. She’ll do what she always does. First, she’ll curse like a merc, and then, she’ll send the rest of us running to fetch her healing supplies.”
“I wish I didn’t bring her so much business. At least, not this kind.”
“How many more like this do you think there are?”
Jonmarc shook his head. “They’re like rats. Every time you think you’ve found all the nests, another one shows up. We won’t know until we find more of the day crypts violated. The Blood Council’s issued a warning to their families, but Dark Haven’s been getting so many refugees—living and undead—because of the plague, we don’t know where the newcomers are going to ground. Same with the vyrkin. They move here to keep from being hunted in Nargi or Dhasson, and before they can find a safe place for their pack, the Shanthadurists are on them.”
“Can King Staden help?”
Jonmarc shrugged. “He’s sent some troops, but I get the feeling he’s stretched thin, keeping peace as the refugees pour in. There’ve been some outbreaks of plague near the Dhasson border. Plague’s gotten so bad in Margolan, Staden’s closed that border.”
“Didn’t Cam just leave for Isencroft? He’s got to cross Margolan to do it.”
Jonmarc nodded. “Carina wasn’t too happy. Said she didn’t fix her brother up just to have him catch the plague, but Cam’s as hardheaded as Carina.”
“They are twins, after all.”
“Cam’s a soldier first. He’s fixed up well enough to return to service, and Lady knows, King Donelan needs him. Anyone who can escape Isencroft’s Divisionists and live to tell about it can get across Margolan in one piece.”
“He was barely in one piece when he got to Dark Haven.”
Jonmarc grimaced. “Yeah. Only Cam would blow up the place where he was being held prisoner to warn the king.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Finally, they reached the forest’s edge and saw Dark Haven looming in the distance. The manor house was large, austere, and foreboding. Jonmarc reached up to brush a strand of long brown hair from his face as the wind swept across the flatland that separated the forest from the manor. Vyrkin in their wolf form went first, intent on flushing out any surprises lurking in the high grass. They howled an all clear for the others to follow.
When they reached the manor gates, Jonmarc was not surprised to find Carina waiting for them. He swung down from his saddle and went to her. Short, dark hair framed her face, and even the full cut of her healer’s robes could not hide that she was well along in her pregnancy. Jonmarc knew she was appraising him as he approached, looking with a practiced eye for injuries.
“How bad?” she asked as he reached her.
Jonmarc laid a hand on her shoulder. “Our side got lucky this time—no injuries. Laisren’s informants had good information. Sakwi took down their magical protection, and we were on them before they knew what was happening.”
Carina’s green eyes searched his, and he knew that she could tell he was evading a full answer. “And the prisoners?”
“It’s bad. Real bad.” She started to move past him and he grabbed her arm. “Carina, please, let the other healers help, at least with the vyrkin. If you collapse again…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he glanced down toward her belly, growing large with twins. “Please,” he repeated quietly, “be careful.”
Carina nodded, but her gaze was already going to where Laisren and the others had begun carrying the limp bodies into the manor house. “I know. There’s just so much to do.” She reached over to squeeze his hand. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
>
He watched her go, forced to smile as she took charge of the rescue operation, summoning guards to help transport the wounded, and sending servants to gather supplies.
“You were successful?”
Jonmarc turned. Gabriel, his sometime seneschal, sometime business partner, had approached with the annoying preternatural silence of the vayash moru. “Yeah,” Jonmarc replied. “Got in, got out, killed the Durim we could find, and burned the hole. But there’s nothing to say there aren’t a dozen more holes like that one, and I don’t know if we can keep the peace if this goes on much longer.”
Gabriel’s expression was troubled. “It’s not the first time plague has brought oppression on my people. Ironic, isn’t it? We can’t die of the plague because we’re already dead, and yet so many mortals want to destroy us rather than letting us help.”
Jonmarc glanced at him. No one would mistake Gabriel for anything other than an aristocrat. Even dressed as he was this night, in a simple black tunic and pants, everything about his manner spoke of power and breeding. Long, flaxen hair fell shoulder length, framing an angular but not unpleasant face. But while Gabriel had the face and form of a man in his early thirties, Jonmarc knew the other had existed for over four hundred years, to become one of the most powerful lords on the Blood Council that ruled the vayash moru in Principality and beyond. “You’ve seen this happen before?”
Gabriel nodded. “Once a century or so. Fashions change. Monarchies change. People don’t.”
Jonmarc pushed back a strand of long, brown hair and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He’d risen from smuggler to Lord of Dark Haven when he’d helped Tris Drayke win back the Margolan throne. When he’d gone to war against an uprising of renegade vayash moru to avert a bloodbath, Jonmarc had become the protector of the mortals, vyrkin, and undead within his lands. He tugged at the collar of his shirt against the summer heat that made the air sticky, even in Dark Haven’s northern climate.
The Sworn Page 4
