The blood king cotn-2

by Gail Z. Martin

  "I'll send the healers right up. And I'll bring up some stew and ale. I'd best go have a look at who's in the common room, so that we don't have problems later. Wait here. Don't go wandering around."

  "I'm too cold to wander anywhere." Soterius leaned back against the wall and ran his hands up and down his arms to warm himself. Despite his heavy cloak he was chilled through. It would take time, even in the warm inn, for him to feel comfortable again.

  "Aye, everyone but Mikhail was feeling the wind tonight, I wager!" Tadrie replied.

  Alle returned before long with a thin, hawk-faced woman, a pot of stew, and a pitcher of ale. Tucked into her belt was a large napkin filled with hard rolls. Alle laid the food on the small table as the hawk-faced woman looked at the girl and the two injured men.

  "This is our healer, Kae. She'll take good care of your folks. Help yourself to the food-it's warm. Lemus has sent more of the same out to the barn, so your men should be warming up!"

  Kae quickly triaged the wounded, and started on the two soldiers first. Alle motioned for Soterius to step to the side.

  "The Margolan guardsmen downstairs," she whispered. "I don't like the look of them. Lemus says they've been throwing their weight around, bullying the servers and threatening some of the customers. They've taken a room for the night, just a few doors down. Keep your head down-the older one talks like he's spent time at Shekerishet. You don't need to be recognized."

  Soterius looked at her, startled. "Oh, I know who you are, Ban Soterius. Captain of Bricen's guard. And I'll wager I wouldn't be the only one. No one's where they're supposed to be these days. And even fewer are who they pretend to be. That beard's not much of a disguise."

  Alle moved to help Kae with the healing, dutifully fetching hot water and whatever ingredients the healer needed for her poultices. Soterius tore strips of cloth for bandages from a clean sheet Alle thrust into his hands. Tadrie stayed close to the village girl, talking to her in low, reassuring tones, like a father with a sick child. Soterius guessed that Tadrie's wife would find herself with a new charge once the girl was well enough to travel.

  After a couple of candlemarks, Kae finished her healing. The wounded fighters rested on pallets on the floor. After much coaxing and reassuring, the wounded girl permitted the healer to tend her wounds, and drank a mixture of herbs and warm wine that guaranteed her a peaceful sleep. When Kae finished, she washed her hands in the basin Alle provided and looked from Alle to Soterius.

  "I've been to the village that girl came from," Kae said sadly. "They were honest tradesfolk. They did nothing to deserve what happened to them. What she's been through… I've healed her body, made sure she wasn't with child, but there are scars I can't fix. She needs a mind healer." Kae's hand tightened to a white-knuckled fist and shook against her skirt. "I'm glad you killed the ones that did that to her-saves me from breaking my healers' vows."

  "I killed their captain myself," Soterius assured her. "He had it coming."

  "I'll be back to check on them before dawn. They should all sleep well tonight, and feel no pain," Kae looked back at her three charges. "On the other hand, they're in no shape to flee if we get raided tonight."

  "I'll stand guard," Tadrie volunteered, patting the pommel of his sword.

  "Come downstairs with me," Alle said to Soterius. "Lemus has information for you from what he's heard in the common room the last few nights."

  They were halfway down the narrow hallway when a loud voice sounded on the front stairs. The speaker was well into his ale.

  "Margolan officer!" Alle hissed. The door behind her was locked, and they were too far from the back stairs to run without being caught. As the footsteps approached the top of the stairs, Alle fell backward against the wall, grabbing a handful of Soterius's shirt and pulling hard against him. He lost his balance, bracing himself against the wall with one hand on either side of her shoulders. Alle reached up and pulled his head down, crushing his lips against hers. Her leg slid up and wrapped around his hip. She gave a shrug, letting her blouse fall provocatively from one shoulder.

  "Someone's lucky tonight!" the drunken man chortled as he and his companion started down the hallway. "How about coming to see us when you're finished?"

  Alle thrust out her hand, rubbing her fingers together as if to ask for coin.

  "Poxy whore!" the man's companion spat as they shoved past. The two made ribald remarks, laughing at their own jokes, until they reached their room at the end of the hall and the door closed behind them.

  Alle pushed Soterius away, straightened her blouse, and smoothed her skirt. "Don't let it go to your head," she warned, and then flashed him a wicked grin. "I figured it was better than killing them and having to clean up the blood. And we've all got to make sacrifices for the war-right?"

  Soterius gave her a sour look that made her laugh. "C'mon. Lemus is waiting."

  After another candlemark in the kitchen, Soterius was finally warm once more. His mind buzzed with the bits of information Lemus shared: overheard

  troop movements, rumors about Jared's interest in an alliance with Nargi, and unsettling tales about soldiers in the cities sent to round up and eliminate dissenters. It was almost dawn when Soterius finally made his way back to the barn, and while he thought he might be too full of thoughts and worries to rest, exhaustion won out, and sleep found him quickly.

  CHAPTER NINE

  STADEN GAVE HIS whole-hearted permission for Tris to set up a Court of Spirits in the weeks before Winterstide. Word spread quickly, and Tris was aghast to see how many petitioners, living, dead, and undead, lined up to receive the blessing of the first Summoner to pass through the kingdom in years. Tris began the Court of Spirits just a few days after he returned from the citadel. Within a week, the court was so crowded that Tris could not see all of the petitioners in a single day. Many camped outside the palace wherever the guards would permit, awaiting their place in line. As Winterstide grew closer, both petitioners and spirits seemed to be filled with a new urgency to make things right before the solstice. Staden often watched from the back of the great room, shaking his head in awe at Tris's ability to intercede between the living and the dead.

  Inside the great hall, many of the revenants could not be seen by anyone except Tris. These spirits lacked the power to show themselves except on the night of the Feast of the Departed-"Haunts" as it was called. Other, stronger spirits made themselves

  Winter Kingdoms expected their loved ones to remain with them after death. In Margolan, most households set out a plate with a token amount of food at the evening meal, inviting their departed loved ones to join them. Some of the more devout households even had a "spirit room," a small box with miniature furnishings and tiny replicas of personal items to entice family spirits to dwell alongside them in comfort and respect.

  In the Winter Kingdoms, living with the dead was a daily occurrence; most gave it no more thought than they gave to fixing their meals or minding their trade. Ghosts and the undead were a part of life, though it rapidly became apparent to Tris that many of life's complications and tangled relationships extended even beyond death.

  Women came to seek the favor of a departed mother or grandmother for advice. Husbands, sons, and brothers sought to make peace, beg forgiveness, or have a troubling spirit banished. Ghosts asked Tris to bear messages to their families, or carry word of some important thing left unsaid before the spirit's death. Restless spirits sought redress and the help of a Summoner to make the final passage to the Lady. Even vayash moru came, seeking the spirit of someone from their mortal past. Living, dead, and undead, they filled the audience chamber and the hallway beyond, waiting for Tris's help.

  It was a good thing that most spirits did not require the intervention of a Summoner to pass over, Tris thought. Most of the time, only those souls who wished to stay or were bound by tragedy or the guilt of the living remained behind. Among the living, those without an urgent need were content to wait until Haunts to communicate with the dead. Most made offe
rings of ale and honey cakes around the small altar kept in every home, no matter how poor. Tris knew that the petitioners who were willing to wait for days to see him now were desperate in their need for reconciliation.

  The next petitioner stepped forward, a man who was very much alive. He was in his middle years, with work-worn hands. Despite his weathered appearance, the man had a plain dignity about him as he tugged uncomfortably at his home-spun coat. "Your Highness," he said awkwardly, attempting a deep bow.

  "What is your need?"

  "My name is Kelse, and I'm a freeman. My family owns a bit of ground a day's ride from the palace. Please, sire, I need to speak to the ghost of my father."

  "And what is it you seek?" As the man spoke, Tris extended his mage sense, trying to gain not only the measure of the man, but also to sense whether any spirits lingered near him.

  "My father was a cautious man. He put away some coins in a safe place, against a bad year. He was also a stubborn man. Last year, during the troubles-" Kelse's voice caught. He took a moment to compose himself. "Last year, during the rains, our village flooded. Father died. We managed to save some of the barn and all of the livestock, but our planting stock is gone, and there's naught to replace it. I need to find those coins," he begged. "I've looked everywhere. Please, sire. I've nothing to feed my family with. If I can't find the coins I'll have to sharecrop, and I swore to my father I'd never be any man's servant."

  As Tris stretched out his senses, he felt the tug of a spirit, and used his magic to enable the spirit to travel to him. Tris reached out his hand to where the farmer stood and concentrated on the dim pulse of the wraith, focusing his power to bring it closer and make it visible. Kelse gasped and Tris knew that he had succeeded.

  There in front of him stood a thin man with a set jaw and a hard-bitten glint in his eye. Kelse sank to his knees, sobbing. "Your son wishes to ask for your help," Tris said to the apparition. The old man's ghost looked from Tris to his son.

  "I'm sorry, Kelse. I should have told you long ago, but I was always afraid someone would fritter it away." The ghost's voice was distant. Kelse lifted his head, silent as the tears streaked down his cheeks. "Take the logs out of the fireplace. Sit where the logs would be, face the hearth, and lift a candle up above your head. There is a ledge above the fireplace opening. Reach all the way to the back. You'll find five pieces of gold. It's all I had. The Lady bless you, son. I didn't plan to leave you like this."

  "I know, father. I know." Kelse rocked back and forth in his grief. "Thank you," he whispered, both to Tris and to the ghost. "Thank you."

  Tris turned toward the old man's ghost. "Would you go to your rest now?"

  The old man looked at his son, and then back to Tris. "I can do no more to help him," the ghost replied. "And I've worked the fields since I could walk. I'm tired. It's time."

  Kelse stood slowly, and took a step toward the wraith. "We didn't get to say goodbye," he said in a strangled voice. "The Goddess bless you, father, and hold you in Her arms." He made the sign of the Lady in blessing.

  The ghost turned back toward Tris, who nodded, and began to murmur the passing over ritual. As he spoke the words of power, he felt the threshold open, although no one else but the old man's spirit could see it. In the distance, Tris heard a voice; the words were beyond his grasp but the sweetness pulled at his soul. He closed his eyes and felt, not saw, as the old man turned toward that voice and squared his shoulders, crossing the threshold. When Tris opened his eyes again he found Kelse staring, wide-eyed, at the place where the apparition had been.

  "Thank you, Your Highness." Kelse backed away, still bowing in respect as one of the bailiffs led him to the door.

  Carroway and Royster showed up at lunchtime bearing a plate of cheese and meat for Tris, and pitchers of warm ale. The two retreated to seats near the back of the room, and Royster withdrew a leather volume from the folds of his heavy robes.

  "What brings you here?" Tris was glad for a momentary reprieve.

  Carroway grinned. "When we heard what was happening, we didn't want to miss it."

  "As I've told you, your grandmother didn't have a decent chronicler in the lot," Royster said. "We intend to fix that. I've already begun your history- I'm calling it the Chronicles of the Necromancer. Catchy, isn't it?"

  "And since music travels faster than the wind, I figured that I'd get the inspiration for some tavern songs, the kind that stirs the ladies to tears and make strong men rise up to arms." Carroway smiled conspiratorially. "Musicians make the best spies."

  Tris chuckled. Carroway had always seemed to know what was going on anywhere in the kingdom. Jared viewed traveling bards with distrust; he sought to silence or imprison those he considered a threat. Since most of the farmers and many of the villagers could neither read nor write, song, skit, and story were the most reliable ways to transmit news. Even in matters of faith, the acolytes of the Lady depended on pictures and symbols to share the rudiments of belief. Kings and the Sisterhood and the temple priestesses had their libraries, but most of the people cared only enough about history to share a sense of tribe or have an excuse to hate their enemies, and about faith to find a good luck charm for warding off monsters, real and imagined.

  "I'm open to all the help we can get." Tris thought of the ghosts he had seen earlier in the day. "But if you're going to stay, prepare yourselves. The tales aren't always easy to hear."

  The next petitioner was a tall, angular woman who smelled of fish. Although she might have been in her third decade, her face was creased from worry, and her eyes were troubled.

  "By your leave, m'lord." The woman made an awkward curtsey.

  "What is it you seek?" Tris asked.

  "My only son is dead a year," she said. "We quarreled over a small matter, but the quarrel became bitter, and my tongue got the best of me. In his despair, he hanged himself." Tears welled in her eyes. "I'd give all I possess to have him back with me."

  "That power is not given to me."

  "I know that. But if you can summon him, my lord, please-I wish to beg his forgiveness, and to tell him that I love him."

  "What is the boy's name?"

  "Tabar. His name was Tabar."

  Tris took a deep breath and let himself slip into the Plains of Spirit. He called for the ghost of the woman's son, waiting until an answer came. A young man appeared, bearing the red scar of a noose. Tris used a little more magic, and the spirit became visible. For a moment, he thought the woman might swoon. She clutched at her heart and dropped to her knees.

  "Forgive me!" she cried, prostrating herself at the ghost's feet. "Tabar, I never meant for our quarrel to go so far. I wish you had put a knife through my heart instead of leaving me this way!"

  The young man's ghost stepped toward her and knelt, taking her into his insubstantial arms. "I was foolish and angry," the ghost said. "1 didn't mean to die; I wanted to worry you and win my point. When the breath left me and you found my body, I saw your pain. Every day I've been with you, although you couldn't see me. I was wrong-both in the quarrel and for taking my life. I know it can't be undone. I need your forgiveness before I can rest."

  The woman reached out to touch the dead boy's face. "I didn't know that you were with me," she said, as tears streaked down her cheeks. "I want you to stay with me, but I know it's wrong to keep you from your rest. I just couldn't let you go without telling you how sorry I am, without saying goodbye." She embraced the spirit, wrapping her arms around the wraith, soaking up one last moment of contact. She moved as if to kiss the boy's forehead, although her lips met only air, and the boy returned the kiss.

  "I thank the Lady that you came to us," the woman said to Tris, standing beside the ghost. "M'lord, will you see him across, so that I know he is safe on the other side?"

  Tris stretched out his hands and spoke the words of power, feeling the young man's ghost fade before him and grow stronger on the Plains of Spirit. As Tris made the passing over ritual, he felt the ghost's turmoil subside, replaced by
a sense of peace, tinged by regret. Then the spirit was gone, and only the woman stood before him. She bowed low.

  "Thank you, m'lord," she murmured. "May the Lady favor you."

  As he waited for the next petitioner, Tris sipped some of Carina's headache tea. It did little to ease the throbbing behind his eyes that came with can-dlemarks of using his magic. He could see a line of supplicants that wound out of the room. Those were the living who waited for their chance to speak with the dead. In a room that had become cold even for the season, spirits milled among them, awaiting their turn. Some of the spirits were strong enough to manifest on their own, but many were

  visible only to Tris, until he acknowledged them and lent them the energy to take form. It had been the same every day since he began to hold court for the spirits, and he was certain that the demand for his help would last until he left Principality.

  There was bitter irony in knowing that he could lay to rest everyone's ghosts except his own. While he could intercede on behalf of all of his petitioners, the spirits of his mother and sister remained beyond his reach, trapped in Arontala's orb, in torment.

  Tris looked at the desperate faces of those who came to beg his help. For him, the inability to reach Kait and Serae was an aberration, as all the other spirits responded to his call. But Tris knew that for those who came to seek his intercession, the silence was unbearable. Try as he might to distance himself from the emotion of the crowd, his own loss was too fresh for him to be objective. And so he drove himself to exhaustion, giving closure to others that he could not find for himself.

  He had seen at least fifty supplicants since morning, and Tris knew he could not go on much longer before he was exhausted. Tris motioned to the bailiff. "Please-close the doors and bid them come again tomorrow. I'll hear this spirit's request, but then I've got to rest."