She remembered how it felt to dance with Jonmarc at Berry's welcome home feast. She was well aware of how much she had reacted to his touch in their brief encounters since then. The story he'd told her of his own background, when he sat with her after she returned from the citadel, the openness he'd shown her, drew her even closer to him. Close enough that it scared her.
The odds of any of them living through this quest were very slim, she knew, even if they were able to win their goal. Tris and Kiara seemed to have found the courage to acknowledge their feelings for one another despite those odds. Perhaps their love was stronger because it might be wrested away at any moment. Jonmarc already knew what it was to lose a lover to fate, and yet he had decided to act on his feelings. Here she was, too fearful to make the commitment, more afraid of losing him than of never knowing where their story might lead, despairing over either alternative. When they reached Principality, Jonmarc had decided his future, whether to take his reward and go back to the river, or to throw in his lot with Tris and the others. Carina knew that the same moment of decision would come for her in matters of the heart. She hoped that when it did, her courage wouldn't fail her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DESPITE THE ASSASSINATION attempt on Tris, Staden's court resumed its merrymaking in short course. Festival days were filled with jousts and entertainment, and glittering banquets and feasts kept most of the courtiers awake until dawn. Winter fell much harder on Principality than on the palace cities in either Isencroft or Margolan. Despite themselves, Tris and his friends could not resist the unfamiliar spectacles.
"I thought I knew what winter was in Isencroft, but the cold here is something completely different!" Kiara exclaimed, her breath steaming in the bitterly cold air. Carina nodded, almost completely buried in a borrowed fur coat that hid everything but her eyes. "I'd forgotten what Principality winters were like. That's one reason the merc troops winter here-the snow is too deep for anyone to attack them, and they're likely to get a decent rest!"
Vahanian shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the cold. He wore a plain coat of wolf hide, with the leather side out and the fur turned in. What the cloak lacked in opulence, Tris bet it made up for in warmth. "Eastmark's worse. The army has to clear away enough snow to practice. Come spring, the floor of the practice field can be packed snow waist-high above the real ground."
"Mother always said that Isencroft's winter was Eastmark's high summer," Kiara chuckled. "And while she made me bundle up when I was a child, I always marveled that she went about with just a woven wrap most of the time."
Tris laughed. "By comparison, Shekerishet must seem like endless summer. We're further south than any of this, even the Borderlands. Our snows get deep, but not for most of the winter. I don't ever remember it getting quite this cold! Carroway looks like he's frozen solid." He looked toward where the bard played his lute with the other minstrels. Even with short gloves that left their fingers exposed, the musicians looked uncomfortably cold. They stood as close to the fire as they could without damaging their instruments.
"When all this is over, I want to buy one of those sleighs and have it sent to father," Kiara said, with a glance toward the large, graceful troikas that slid across the snow effortlessly behind a team of massive horses. Come winter, Principality nobles traded their carriages for ornately decorated sleighs, and even the merchants replaced the wheels on their wagons with runners. "But for now, let's beg another ride!"
Tris smiled as Kiara left them to find an accommodating driver. All around them, sleighs coursed
through the deep snow, and men raced each other with snowshoes over thigh-deep drifts. Daredevils skied down steep slopes, and artists carved complex figures from huge blocks of ice. Groups of soldiers staged mock battles with armaments of snow and ice. The children followed suit; no one was safe from pelting snowballs. Huge bonfires lit the long nights, providing warmth against the bitter cold and making the icy decorations sparkle like the gems for which Principality was famous. All around them, nobles and villagers took comfort in a reminder of light and life during winter's darkest days.
"I don't think I've ever seen so many people dressed in fur," Tris commented. Women snuggled beneath heavy fur coats and blankets in their sleighs; men wore thick fur hats. Carroway confided that it was almost impossible to sing outside for more than a brief chorus or two without his lungs burning and his head pounding from the chill.
"Fur is only one way to stay warm," Vahanian said with a grin. He produced a small flask from a pocket, downing a gulp. Even from a distance, Tris could smell the potent liquor. The chill was a boon to the vendors who hawked wassail, mulled wine, and steaming mugs of warm ale. The crowd, warmed by the alcohol, did not seem to mind the cold.
"Were you watching?" Soterius puffed as he and Harrtuck trudged toward them through the snow. They came from the direction of the mock battle, and their hands and faces were reddened from the cold. "We trounced the other side! A complete rout!"
"Glad to see you've gotten into the festival spirit." Carina laughed, but Tris could see that the joviality did not reach her eyes. As guests of the king, Tris and the others felt obliged to visibly participate in the festivities. But the guards that surrounded them were a constant reminder of the danger. Vahanian in particular chafed at having a bodyguard. Knowing that even here Jared was a threat overshadowed the party spirit. While Tris and his friends could not help enjoying the opulence and beauty of the festival, the companions often withdrew early from the parties, keeping their own company in one of the upstairs rooms, as they had on the road. This night was an exception.
As darkness fell on the longest night of the year, the vayash moru joined the festival. They moved through the crowd unconcerned with the bitter cold; they wore no greatcloaks. No breath steamed as the vayash morn spoke. They kept their distance from the bonfires, and were indifferent to the carts that sold food and ale. Ghosts milled among the partygoers. They were dressed in fashions ranging over several hundred years. They seemed drawn by the music and the crowd. The spirit of one young man had the power to move objects, and he enjoyed playing pranks on festival goers who had had too much ale, deliberately moving their tankards and pulling out their chairs from beneath them. A few of the ghosts looked on with bittersweet longing from the edges, swaying with the tempo of the minstrels' ballads. One young couple, invisible to all but Tris, lingered just behind Carroway. They held hands, lost in the music. All the spirits, visible or not, bowed as Tris passed them, paying their respects to the Lord of the Dead.
Vahanian nodded toward the other side of the courtyard. "Sahila's back," he said with a glance toward the refugee spokesman, jarring Tris from his thoughts. "I don't think he's here for the sleigh rides."
Tris sobered. "Probably not. Staden and I sent blankets and provisions to the refugee camps, but it's still going to be a miserable winter for them. There's no way to get them enough shelter, even with the old army tents we found. I think Sahila's been making the rounds of the merc troops, using some of the gold I gave him to haggle with them for their worn out tarpaulins and field shelters. Since we've been paying gold to hire the troops' services, it seems the mercs are buying new equipment for the spring march. Sahila's a tough bargainer. He's managed to get wagon loads of castoffs that're better than what his people had before."
Tris received reports now almost nightly from Sahila and the refugees. So many soldiers had deserted from Jared's army that the remaining loyalists had begun capturing men and boys from the villages and conscripting them into service, threatening to destroy their families and villages if they refused. One village had hidden their boys in a secret cellar under a barn, but the soldiers burned the barn in retaliation for the villagers' refusal to give up their sons. The boys had perished, roasted alive in their hiding place. More than one of the mothers had thrown herself on the flaming heap, mad with grief.
It was no longer an isolated incident to hear of Jared's troops harvesting the battlefields, taking away the wounded
and dying from both sides of the conflict. The wounded would be used to create more ashtenerath, while Arontala would trap the dying men's souls for his Orb to feed the Obsidian King, and his blood magic would grow stronger on their pain and death.
One refugee, a servant Tris remembered from Shekerishet's kitchen staff, recounted the death toll of Jared's lusts. Many of the servants in the palace served as whole families, in positions of honor that were handed down from generation to generation. Bricen had prided himself on his generosity to the servants, who ate nearly as well as the nobles and who received more than adequate clothing and shelter. Bricen's servants were freemen, and the king's openhandedness created bonds of loyalty far stronger than any indenture. Tris knew first-hand that the servants recognized Jared's brutality, and that Jared availed himself of every young girl who came to serve in the castle. Nearly every family had suffered from Jared's vile tempers, his willingness to thrash any servant who displeased him, and his brutality toward the palace animals.
But now, according to the former servant, the girls Jared called for did not return. Their bodies were found in the tunnels beneath the garderobe, or buried behind the barracks. Jared believed himself to be above any law or precedent. The retelling of his atrocities, both from refugees and from ghosts, unsettled even Gabriel and Mikhail. Once again, Tris wondered whether the kingdom would survive Jared, and what it would require of him to put things right should he live through his bid for the throne.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN prev next contents
A FORTNIGHT AFTER Winterstide, Tris and Carina returned to the citadel of the Sisterhood. Carina did her best to cover her concern, but Tris could tell that she was worried. After his close call during the last training session, he shared her apprehension.
Vahanian recovered from the assassin's attack more slowly than Carina would have liked, a side effect of the poison. Royster could find no other recorded instances of survival from the poison that was used, so he eagerly wrote up the process by which Carina and Tris were able to save Vahanian. Tris took his leave of Kiara with regret. As a betrothal token and a gift for Kiara's birthday later that same month, Tris had a ring made for her of Margolan gold. It bore his crest as Bricen's second son set with precious stones from his portion of the reward Staden gave them for Berry's safe return.
Kiara worried more about Tris's return to training when he and Carina refused to share details, and so Tris finally told her about Elam's murder and the battle with Alaine, omitting only the dark sendings.
Despite Taru's healing, those images still haunted his dreams. Though they lacked the certainty of the sendings, the nightmares woke him more often than he cared to admit, bathed in sweat, his heart thudding. The memory of those dreams pushed him to master his power. And while Tris saw his growing skills as a way to assure his friends' survival, he told no one that he held very little hope of surviving the confrontation himself.
It was the first month of the new year, and Principality lay under heavy snow. Tris, who thought that he was colder at Winterstide than ever before in his life, discovered that the gray weeks of the Birth Month were colder still. He shivered despite his heavy cloak, mentally calculating just how much further south Shekerishet was, and what the weather there might be at this season. The heavy gray skies and the frigid wind seemed to dampen everyone's mood now that the festivities were over. Even the gathering the night before with Tris and his friends seemed subdued, despite Carroway's bawdy songs and good-natured joking. As the days slipped by, the reality of their quest loomed. There was very little time left for preparation.
At the citadel, even Taru seemed reserved when she met their carriage. She led Tris and Carina back to the same suite of rooms, where a platter of cold meat and cheese awaited them after their journey, and a pot of tea whistled on the hearth.
"How are things with Landis in charge?" Carina asked as she shook the snow from her cloak and hung it near the fire to dry.
"Landis is an able administrator-I've never doubted that. But her focus is on the present, not the future, as Elam's was. She's a manager, not a visionary. I hope practicality will be enough."
Tris realized that Taru's close relationship with Elam would have made the older mage's death a personal loss. "I never had the chance to tell you how sorry I am about Elam's death," Tris said quietly.
Taru smiled. "Thank you. But I understand-you had a few other things on your mind at the time." She paused. "I don't have your power with spirits, but I can sense Elam's presence. She's still here. That's been a comfort. Now that you've returned, perhaps you can tell whether she has a purpose for remaining, or awaits your help to pass over."
"Would you like me to try?" Tris asked as he hung his cloak near Carina's and shook the last of the snow from his boots.
"I'd be grateful if you would."
"Let's do it now-I may not be in such good shape later." He raised his hand and closed his eyes, stretching out along the Plains of Spirit. Elam's ghost came to him quickly, and he accepted her greeting. With a murmured word, Tris made the spirit visible, and opened his eyes. Elam stood before them, her expression sober.
"We miss you," Taru said to the spirit.
Elam inclined her head in acknowledgement. "Thank you. But I'm still here." The spirit looked at Tris. "Your work with the Court of Spirits has helped to ease some of the imbalance in the Flow, but it is still badly damaged. Until the Flow of power can be healed, Arontala's blood magic gains an advantage from the imbalance, and Light magic is not at its full strength. There is no time to fix it, so we shall have to work around it."
Elam's gaze was worried. "Landis didn't fight the Mage War; I did. She understands what's at stake in her mind, but not in her heart. She also didn't know your grandmother as I knew her. Landis is afraid that your loyalty to your friends-and to Kiara-will compromise your judgment." She held up a hand to stay Tris's argument. "Hear me out. Many of the Sisterhood believe that Bava K'aa was weakened by her love for Lemuel and see her refusal to destroy the Obsidian King as proof."
"And what do you believe? You were closer to her than anyone except Grayson."
Elam nodded. "Bava K'aa understood the peril of taking it upon oneself to decide who is expendable, and who is not. In binding the Obsidian King to save Lemuel, Bava K'aa upheld both her duty to the people and to her lover. She didn't want to put herself in the role of the Goddess and determine who should live and who should die."
"How will Landis's opinion of Grandmother affect my training?"
Elam's ghost met his gaze. "I saw the images of the dark sending that Arontala cast though Alaine. Arontala's counting on your loyalty to your friends to constrain your choices. He's ruthless, and he knows that you are not. He'll attack you through those you love."
Tris thought about the assassin at Staden's palace, and his charge to attack Kiara had he survived the attempt on Tris's life. "He already has."
"Landis isn't as scrupulous about such things as I was," Elam said. "She tells herself that because the cause is noble, the means are forgiven. She will design your training with the avatars to test your resolve as much as your battle skills. Landis would like to see evidence that you'll do whatever it takes to destroy the Obsidian King-regardless of the cost."
Tris stiffened. "I'm not afraid to die. But my friends aren't game pieces. They're not expendable. I don't accept that as the only way to win. If I did, how would I be any different from Arontala?"
"I agree," the ghost replied. "But Landis thinks differently. Your trials may resemble the sendings more than you care to think. Prepare yourself."
Tris swallowed hard. "I understand," he said, avoiding Carina's gaze as the healer looked at him questioningly. "Would you go to your rest?"
Elam shook her head. "Not yet. When your grandmother was dying, she sent for me. She made me promise that if you ever came to me in need, that I'd do everything within my power, for her sake. At the time, I thought it an odd request, since I had no reason to think you were a mage, and princes do not ofte
n seek the help of the Sisterhood. But I made a vow. I intend to honor that promise."
"Thank you," Tris said. He let the spirit fade, knowing that Elam remained nearby even though the ghost was no longer visible to the others.
Taru sighed. "I'm afraid I agree with Elam's opinion of Landis. She has a tendency to interpret what is 'light' and what is 'dark' by what profits her own viewpoint. And she wants the destruction of the Obsidian King, no matter what."
"How can you send Tris into training knowing that?" Carina demanded.
"Because without the training, I won't be strong enough to find that other alternative," Tris said quietly. "The stronger I am, the more choices I'll have, and the more chance there'll be for everyone else."
Taru nodded. "I agree." She managed a smile. "Enough of this talk. Eat something, and get some rest. Tomorrow morning, we start your new lessons. You'll have over a week to train-and recover. Late next week you'll face another trial. This one will use avatars. And it will be warded."
Tris hoped his nervousness did not show in his eyes. "I'll be ready."
TRIS'S NEW BATTLE trainer Laisren, a vayash moru hand-picked by Gabriel for unquestionable loyalty, pushed Tris's fighting skills and reaction time to their limits. It was unsettling to fight an opponent that could regenerate from everything except all-consuming fire, decapitation, and a clean strike through the heart; Tris found that his nightmares now had a whole new quality of realism. The worst of the wounds from their skirmishes were healed, but the scars remained to keep the lessons fresh in his mind.
The blood king cotn-2 Page 20
