"To Shekerishet!" The mob took up the cry. The garrison commander looked on haplessly. Soterius's horsemen urged their mounts forward, through the boisterous crowd that cheered their passing and closed ranks behind them. Up the hill toward the palace the mob followed, torches aloft.
At the palace gates the soldiers stopped. Behind them, the mob came to a halt.
"Open the gates!" Soterius shouted, the banner of the Royal House of Margolan fluttering above him
in the breeze. "We come in the name of Prince Martris, to overthrow the tyrant!"
To their amazement, the gates swung open. Soldiers and servants poured out, waving white cloths in makeshift flags of surrender. The palace soldiers threw down their arms, and the fear-stricken servants surged toward the mob.
"Save us!" they cried, yielding willingly.
"There's demons loose in there!" one man cried, white-faced in panic. "Naught but the Dark Lady can save you if you go there."
"At least we know Gabriel's been hard at work," Carroway observed dryly. Carina looked around for Alyzza, but the hearth witch had disappeared into the crowd.
"Let's take the castle, men!" Soterius shouted, gesturing forward with his sword. "Prince Martris is in there. Are we with him?"
A resounding chorus of "aye" echoed from the stone walls of the bailey. The crowd surged forward in a cloud of torch smoke, smelling of sweat and horses and ale. The rearguard attempted to quiet the mob and set them to work securing the outbuildings and the outer bailey, leaving the true night's work for the trained soldiers. Some soldiers remained behind to keep the mob under control, while the others began to infiltrate the palace.
"You're safest here," Soterius said, turning back to Carina and Carroway. He held up a hand to still Carina's ready protest. "I know Kiara and Jonmarc are in there, and that both you and Carroway have seen more battles that many a seasoned fighter. But if it's a trick, if Jared and Arontala are waiting for us…" He paused, looking toward the upper floors of the castle cautiously and shook his head. "I'd rather know you two were down here, to lead the last charge."
Carina looked as if she intended to argue with him, but then relented. "All right," she conceded. "Just warn your bow-happy archers that the vayash tnoru are on our side, huh?"
Outside, the city bells began to toll midnight.
Carina and Carroway exchanged worried glances. "Time's up," she whispered. "We've either won or lost… everything."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
WITH A BURST of magic to smash the binding spells, Tris slammed open the doors to Arontala's workroom.
"Turn them loose."
Arontala only turned a fraction, as if the intrusion did not merit his interest. Gabriel slipped into the workroom behind Tris.
"I've been waiting for you to join us." Arontala jerked Kiara's head up. "You're just in time. My offering will be given to the Master for one last meal before his reemergence. It's over," he said triumphantly. "We've won."
Tris advanced on the mage, his sword held ready, his eyes only on Arontala. "By the Lady, I won't let you do this." The orb was between Tris and Arontala, with Kiara to one side and Vahanian on the other, against the wall. Tris had no clear shot. Anything he did stood a good chance of hitting the orb or one of his friends, and the wormroot made him doubt the precision of his aim.
"The Lady has nothing to do with this," Arontala laughed. "I am the supreme power in Margolan. My will controls its destiny."
Tris searched with his mage sense. Arontala was well shielded, and Tris knew his own strength was fading quickly. He searched for a weapon, anything he could use to turn an advantage, and he felt a glimmer of power radiating from a wax tablet on Arontala's worktable. The tablet was on a stand, covered with a glass dome. Carved into its surface were runes and glyphs traced in fire. Tris stretched out his power and knew the tablet for what it was- the anchor of Arontala's spell to banish the ghosts of Shekerishet. Never taking his eyes off Arontala, Tris sent a burst of power toward the tablet, shattering the glass and igniting the wax. The tablet exploded into flame.
Arontala cursed and sent a streak of red fire sizzling in Tris's direction. Tris hurled himself out of the way before the red fire struck. The temperature in the room suddenly plummeted, cold enough for him to see his breath. With a gust so powerful that it slammed the window open, the banished ghosts of Shekerishet streamed home, released from Arontala's spell. The windows shattered, sending shards of glass flying against the stone walls. In the fireplace, the flames guttered and danced crazily as the freezing wind swept through the room.
ANGRY AT THEIR banishment, the exiled ghosts of Shekerishet streamed back into the room in a torrent, thick as the spirits in the Ruune Videya forest.
Tris struggled to his feet, trying to hold onto his control as the spirits swept over him and through him.
A… ron… ta… la! the spirits howled, knowing the one who banished them from their home. Tris knew that Kiara and the others could see the spirits; Arontala's face twisted in a hateful grimace. The ghosts swirled around the red-robed mage in a wild vortex.
Tris seized the chance while Arontala was distracted and drew on Mageslayer's power. As he had done in the citadel when he fought Alaine, Tris sought the soul within the dark mage, using all of his power to capture and extinguish that spark. But where Alaine had been mortal, Arontala's undead soul had no blue life thread. On the Plains of Spirit, Tris could feel the dark wizard's soul as he reached for it. But within the undead body, animated by the Dark Gift, the soul was shielded by powerful magic. He stretched out, sure that he could grasp the fleeting spark, and felt a wave of cold raw power throw him back, physically and psychically. Tris slammed against the wall, his head reeling, his senses screaming from the assault.
Arontala's shielding glowed so brightly that Tris's eyes hurt to look at the mage. The angry ghosts threw themselves against Arontala's shields to no avail. Arontala's lips worked, casting a spell that wrote itself in fiery letters on the rock of the castle wall.
Tris could sense the power of the banishment spell; he sent his waning power to counter it. As the spirits howled around them the letters of fire wavered, etching into the ancient stones, burning without smoke or ash. With a terrible smile, Arontala met Tris's eyes. Tris knew that Arontala was gauging how much more he could take.
Arontala gestured and the orb flared with a red light that enveloped Kiara. She arched backward and screamed.
With Arontala's attention focused on the ghosts and the orb, Vahanian's left hand slipped to the knives on his belt. He palmed them, and in quick succession sent three daggers flying toward Arontala. Arontala's attention wavered just for an instant as he struck down the daggers, buying Tris a slim opening.
Blue fire streaked from Tris's left hand to intercept the red glow of Arontala's spell. Tris's aim wavered with the wormroot; instead of striking Arontala, his mage fire struck the growing aura of the orb. The orb pulsed once, almost too bright to behold. Tris had scarcely enough time to dive between the orb and Kiara. He flung up his battered shielding to protect them both as the orb flared like a crimson sun and with a roar, exploded into a thousand scarlet fragments.
Gabriel shielded Vahanian from the explosion that seemed to rock the foundation of Shekerishet itself. Tris held on to Mageslayer, fighting the wormroot in his blood to hold his shielding over himself and Kiara. The blast took him off his feet, and the psychic recoil almost blacked him out. Fresh blood started from beneath his cuirass, and Tris's broken ribs made it difficult for him to breathe as he dragged himself to his feet. Kiara, suddenly released from Arontala's control, slumped to the floor.
Tris felt his shields strain dangerously beneath the waves of power that surged from the shattered orb. Old, raw power washed over him, tainted by Arontala's blood magic. Tris could feel the press of spirits rushing toward freedom-Arontala's victims and the Obsidian King himself-joining the angry palace ghosts that swirled around them.
Arontala cried out. Closer to the orb, he stag
gered from the blast. The fire of the explosion drove Arontala backward. As he redirected his power to contain the spirits of the orb, his shielding wavered. Tris seized the advantage, striking with Mageslayer.
The blade thrummed with power as it hit Arontala's shielding. Tris hung on with all his strength, gasping as his broken ribs protested. Arontala screamed as the blade reached him, blasting his power against Tris's shields. Tris staggered, his strength fading from the wormroot and the warm rush of blood that oozed from his side.
Instinctively, Tris brought his full power to bear on the sword, drawing on the wavering blue life thread within him, holding on as the pommel of the sword became searingly hot. Suddenly the blade broke free. Tris poured all of his will and strength and magic into the sword's downward motion, cleaving Arontala from shoulder to hip through the heart.
An inhuman shriek tore from Arontala's throat. The mage's body burst into flame. Mageslayer began to melt and Tris dropped the pommel, his hands burned and red. The fire was gone as quickly as it came, leaving a cindered corpse and blackened, twisted sword. Bells began to toll the midnight hour. One… two… three…
Hundreds of shadows swirled in a whirlwind around Arontala's corpse. Spectral visages gathered in the darkness around Arontala's spirit open-mouthed and angry, their gaping eyes and toothy jaws eager for vengeance.
This time the Formless One came as a vortex, a maelstrom that plunged down into infinity beneath Arontala's charred body. Tris felt the pull of its winds and heard its roar. A gust of power raged from the heart of the abyss, seizing Arontala's soul in its inexorable grasp and drawing it into the darkness. The last thing Tris glimpsed was the abyss, folding in upon itself. Then it snapped shut and disappeared into thin air.
Tris struggled to stay conscious. He dropped to his knees, his shielding wavering without Mageslayer's power. He saw the spirits stream from the shattered globe, swirling thickly as heavy fog descended around him. The spirits washed over him, grateful for release, brushing against his mind. By Vahanian's gasp, Tris knew that the spirits were visible beyond his mage sight. Kiara caught her breath sharply as the Orb lost its hold on her and her own shields snapped into place.
From the still-glowing shards of the Orb came a spirit of red flame so bright Tris had to shield his eyes and dampen his mage sight. The Obsidian King rose from the splintered glass. Tris could sense its triumph in release, its anger at being denied its chosen vehicle, its desperation to find a host. He knew that the spirit must have a mage's body to inhabit or die. Tris remembered the vision of the dark sending, of what it would mean should he be taken. He sent all his waning power into his wardings, resolved not to permit that vision to come to pass.
The Obsidian King's power slammed against Tris's shielding. It was a bet, Tris knew, as to which of them was the closest to death. Tris threw all of his power into his shields, resolved to die rather than be possessed. He drew power from the blue glow of his own life thread, though it flickered dangerously; he knew that the Obsidian King was weakening fast. Tris could feel the Obsidian King's panic.
Just when Tris thought that his opponent was at the breaking point, the Obsidian King streaked toward Kiara. Weakened from her ordeal within the Orb, Kiara's shields buckled and dissolved. Tris could hear her soul cry out as the invader forced himself into her mind.
"I… am… back!" a voice rasped from Kiara's body, a mixture of wonder and hideous satisfaction molding her features into a visage not quite her own. Four… five… six… The bells continued their mournful toll, announcing that all had been lost.
Tris staggered as he summoned his power for a final salvo. The struggle with Arontala had drained him badly. Without Mageslayer, the wormroot's poison went unabated. In moments his power would be beyond his control. Blood loss made him lightheaded. He knew that the blue thread of his own life energy was dimming. He looked at Kiara, her face twisted by the spirit that possessed her body, her eyes desperate, and he remembered the torment Alaine and Lemuel endured when their bodies had been seized against their will. The vision of his own possible fate foretold by the dark sending, of a blank-eyed and crippled shell twisted to the will of the Obsidian King, made up his mind. He knew that there was only one way to free Kiara.
You must do what I could not, because you have what I did not.
Bava K'aa's words rang in Tris's mind and he clove toward Kiara, snatching up her fallen spelled dagger. The spell to separate a spirit from the body from the hidden journal of the Obsidian King was clear in his mind. Tris murmured the spell of separation as he hurtled forward, knowing that he could not-must not-think about what he had to do. Tris felt Kiara's soul wrench free from her body and he sheltered it within himself, plaiting her life thread with his own. Weakened as they both were, he could not sustain them both long. Tris listened, heartsick, to the toll of the bells. Seven… eight…nine…
"Forgive me," he whispered as he turned the knife in his hand, and as tears streaked down his face, he sank the blade deep into Kiara's chest.
Dimly, he heard Vahanian cry out and Gabriel gasp. Tris threw all of his remaining power into his shields, holding on to the blade as Kiara's blood soaked his hand and her body sagged against him. It was her scream that pierced the night, as her body convulsed in his arms. The spelled blade, wielded by a mage against both a mage's body and a mage's spirit, struck at the only soul remaining within-the soul of the Obsidian King. In the Plains of Spirit, Tris heard the death scream of the Obsidian King as the dagger rent the soul. Tris felt the ancient life force sunder, saw the dying soul tear free from Kiara's open mouth as her head fell back.
In one last burst of magic, the Obsidian King enveloped them in flames. Tris flung his shields around himself and Kiara, his power and life force strained to the breaking point. An acrid stench rose as the stone floor blackened in a circle around his shields. Gabriel, still shielding Vahanian, cried out as the flare burned his cloak. Then the remnants of the Obsidian King's soul dimmed and went dark, destroyed beyond even the vengeance of the Formless One. Tris sank to his knees, cradling Kiara's body.
Tris sagged forward, too drained to move. Sure he was dying, Tris heard a voice in his mind, close by, as if someone leaned down to his ear. I will sustain you, he heard a man's voice say, and he glimpsed the image of a tall man with golden hair and green eyes like his own. Tris felt no fear; he was too weakened from the fight to argue. He gratefully accepted the stream of life energy that made it possible to move again.
"What have you done?" Vahanian cried. Tris tore at the throat of Kiara's tunic, desperate to find the vial on the strap around her neck.
"What his grandmother could not do," Gabriel said. Tris lifted the vial, his hands slick with Kiara's blood, and carefully pulled free the stopper.
"Please," he whispered to the fates as he lifted Kiara with one arm and tilted back her head, carefully forcing the vial between her lips. "Please."
There was no time for second chances, Tris knew. No time to find Carina. The attack and Kiara's struggle with the Obsidian King had drained both of them. Supporting Kiara's life force with his own was burning his waning energy even faster. Tris could feel that he was pulling heavily from the strange mage's power. Only a few moments were left for Tris to return Kiara's soul. Tris knew he could not last much longer. His side was wet with blood, and he felt a growing coldness that had nothing to do with the night air.
It wasn't at all like he thought dying would be. One part of Tris's consciousness watched from afar, growing sleepy as death drew near, knowing that he had never really expected to survive the confrontation. There was no fear, no pain; only regret, and even that was dulled by the knowledge that with Arontala's destruction, Kait's spirit and the other prisoners were free. I will sustain you, the stranger's voice came again. Tris felt old, strong power bearing him up.
As the final bell tolled midnight, a faint glow began to envelop Kiara's form. It spread from where the potion entered her body, illuminating her. Tris sensed the strong magic of the glow, m
agic that bore the unmistakable imprint of his grandmother's power. Where the knife had torn into Kiara's chest the skin knit closed without a scar, faster even than the work of an expert healer. Kiara's body jerked as her heart began to beat again. Tris let her spirit slip from within him, gently loosing the glowing thread from his own. As quickly as it came the glow was gone. Tris wavered, nearly losing consciousness.
"That potion… You gambled with Kiara's life?" Vahanian accused.
"No. With his own," Gabriel said. "He couldn't have held on to her much longer."
Tris watched, barely daring to breathe, as Kiara's eyes opened. She raised a hand to touch his face.
Tris could only nod wordlessly, overcome from the physical strain, the fight, the victory, the loss, and the restoration.
"By the Dark Lady, look!" Vahanian gasped, pointing behind Tris.
The doors to the throne room burst open. Two dozen armed men in the livery of the House of Margolan streamed into the room, their weapons drawn.
Tris staggered to his feet, placing himself between the soldiers and Kiara. Not like this, Tris thought. Dear Lady, not so close just to fail. Against the wall, Vahanian reached for his crossbow with his left hand. Tris saw that Gabriel was ready to strike, although the odds were against him.
The victorious shout of the soldiers' commander jerked Tris's head up as the captain came running toward him.
"By the Lady, you've done it!" a familiar voice cried. The soldier lifted his helm and Tris saw Soterius, beaming in triumph. He thought that Soterius would clap him in a hearty embrace, but instead, the soldier stopped a pace in front of him and went down on one knee.
"Honor your king," Soterius called out to his men. One by one, they also dropped to their knees in fealty. "Hail King Martris of Margolan."
Tris looked out over the group with a mixture of awe and astonishment. His head still reeled from the battle. The reality of Soterius's proclamation, after months of struggle, hit him like a dousing of cold water. Arontala lay dead at his feet. The crown of Margolan was his. Outside the palace walls, he could hear the cries of the mob. He knew that he should feel more, that he should feel something, but the battle coldness still gripped him. He could feel neither relief nor triumph. Now, more urgent concerns took his attention. Tris knew how dim the glow of his own lifethread had become. He drew more heavily on the strange mage's power, struggling to remain on his feet.
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