Gail Z. Martin - COTN 03 - Dark Haven (V1.0)(lit)

by Gail Z. Martin

  "Don't underestimate Kiara. I've seen her fight—she's almost as good as Jonmarc. She's not one of those helpless noble maidens. You said yourself that she ran Isencroft from behind the throne when her father was ill. She couldn't be better prepared."

  "You know the pressure to produce an heir. She's hardly going to be swinging into an East-mark kick when she's big with a baby. The politics at court can be as vicious as a battle­field. We haven't sniffed out all of the nobles loyal to Jared. She's going to be vulnerable and I'll be down on the southern plains tied up in a siege."

  Mikhail laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm staying behind to help out with that, remem­ber? Kiara won't be alone. She'll have Harrtuck and Zachar. Carroway and his bards know all the gossip. They'll help where they can. And you know the castle ghosts and your dogs will keep an eye on her."

  "It will be good for Shekerishet to have a queen once more." The voice came from behind him. He turned. The ghost of Comar Hassad, one of his father's men-at-arms slain in the coup, was just visible at the shadow's edge. "We're sworn to her protection, as we are to yours. Although," the spirit said with chagrin, "our ability to intervene is limited. I am sorry about your injury, my Lord."

  "If it hadn't been for a ghost's warning, I might be one of you now. It was enough."

  Hassad's ghost nodded. "Perhaps we serve best by being the eyes and ears of the palace. Not all those within Shekerishet are loyal. They serve only themselves."

  "You'll look after Kiara, when I go to war?" Tris asked.

  "She'll bear the heir to the throne. We're oath-bound to protect both of them." Hassad paused. "Some of us can make ourselves seen to her. Seanna has been a handmaid to Mar-golan's queens for two hundred years. She can't wait to meet your bride. And Ula has watched over the babes in the royal nursery for just as long, so she's quite excited—it's been a long time since there's been a little one for her to fuss over."

  Tris chuckled. "I remember Ula-. Father didn't believe I could see her, but I think Moth­er understood. Ula would stand at the foot of my bed, and sometimes, if I listened very hard, I could hear her humming. When I was very little, I wasn't afraid when Ula was there. And when I was older, Ula would wake me by jerk­ing back the covers if Jared was coming so Kait and I could hide."

  Hassad smiled. "Ula died in the Great Plague. She was a nursemaid to King Hotten's children. When his youngest took sick, Ula wouldn't leave him. She caught the plague from him. They died together, and the king buried Ula next to his son so they would always be together. Ever since then, she has watched over the heirs."

  Coalan stuck his head into the room. "The generals are ready."

  "Ban asked me to.. .accompany.. .you to your meeting," Mikhail said.

  "Not taking any chances, are you?"

  "None of us are," Mikhail replied.

  De spite Mikhail's company, two human guards joined them as they made their way down to the chamber where the generals wait­ed. As they walked, Tris readied himself for the encounter. The pain medicine had begun to wear off, and his shoulder throbbed.

  Meeting with the council of generals was one of the duties of kingship Tris liked least. Of all his counselors, the generals were consistently the most negative and the least cooperative. As Tris and his escort reached the war room, Mikhail stepped forward and opened the door. The vayasb moru bowed as Tris passed by.

  "I'll wait for you," Mikhail said, closing the door behind Tris.

  "Your Majesty!" General Senne greeted him, and the others rose and bowed. Tris had the strong feeling his arrival had interrupted an argument, and the set to Soterius's jaw sup­ported his intuition. Senne pulled back the chair at the head of the table for Tris, who hoped he didn't look as much in need of a seat as he felt. The six men were solicitous with expressions of concern. Tris noted that only one man remained on the fringe, less talkative than usual. Tov Harrtuck, Captain of the Guard, looked both conflicted and crestfallen.

  "By your leave, Sire." Harrtuck moved around the table toward Tris. The stocky man always looked like he had just come from a hard workout in the salle. Today, his dark hair was askew and even his usually well-trimmed beard seemed disheveled-. Harrtuck sank to one knee and offered his sheathed sword on his outstretched hands. "I failed to protect you," Harrtuck said in a gravelly voice. "I offer you my sword and my commission."

  Ban Soterius looked ready to burst with anger. General Senne and General Palinn appeared uncomfortable. Tris glanced toward Tarq and Rallan. Both sat comfortably, and while their faces were impassive, the confidence of their posture told Tris all he needed to know.

  Tris turned his attention to Harrtuck, who knelt before him, his head down, eyes averted. "On the night my father was murdered, you ran for the castle, hoping to save the rest of my family. Without your service, I wouldn't have escaped, or survived to take back the throne." Tris reached down and folded his hands over Harrtuck's hands around his proffered sword. "Your men acted quickly and bravely. They stopped the assassin."

  "It would have been nice to find out who sent him," Tarq muttered.

  Tris looked at the general with narrowed eyes. "I summoned the assassin's spirit. Surely Soterius told you."

  "My mistake."

  Tris returned his attention to Harrtuck. "I won't accept your offer. There's no one I trust more or who's better suited to the task." He managed a thin smile. "Now please, take back your sword and let's get down to business."

  Harrtuck met his eyes. "Thank you," he murmured as he belted on his sword and returned to his seat. Soterius had calmed, although his eyes flashed. Tris imagined they would discuss the issue at length in private. Senne and Palinn looked relieved. Tarq and Rallan revealed nothing. Tris guessed that the conversation immediately prior to his entry had involved finger-pointing and blame around the assassination attempt.

  Tris made little attempt to hide his annoy­ance. "It's impossible to keep a king completely safe without locking him up in his own tower," he said. "If there's anyone at this table who's better acquainted with every weak point of this castle than Ban, Tov, and myself, I'd like to know it. To my knowledge, we're the only ones here who have ever tried to infiltrate Shekerishet and kill the king." Putting their efforts to overthrow Jared and reclaim the throne in those terms brought a glimmer of amusement to Soterius's eyes, and even light­ened Harrtuck's mood.

  "Point taken, Sire," said Rallan. "But the fact remains that this assassin was hired by someone with Trevath gold."

  "Curane is less than a day's ride to the Tre­vath border," added Tarq.

  "If you were going to hire an assassin, wouldn't it be nice to throw off the scent by casting blame on the player everyone wants to suspect?" Senne countered. Senne was the age of Tris's father, and had been a close friend of the late king. Bricen had spoken well of Senne. He had deserted with his troops when Jared seized the throne, eluding the manhunts and using a small band of deserters to harry Jared's troops throughout the mountain passes of cen­tral Margolan, eventually joining' his efforts with the insurrection Soterius and Mikhail had raised.

  Palinn, too, had paid a price for his-loyalty to King Bricen. He and his troops had also desert­ed. But their hiding place had been betrayed, and Palinn lived to see his troops, his lands, and his family destroyed by Jared's decree. He survived six months in Jared's dungeons. A thin red scar around his throat and a gravelly voice were reminders of a garroting and hinted at what he had endured. His hair, previously a sable black, had turned white as snow. His eyes, in unguarded moments, revealed glimpses of what he would not discuss.

  "Trevath has meddled in Margolan's affairs before," responded Tarq.

  Tarq, Tris thought with distaste, had fled into south Isencroft, where he had waited out the remainder of the war. Rallan had sought refuge with a noble family in northern Margolan. Neither had played any role in overthrowing Jared. Only a lack of other qualified candidates for the roles had convinced Tris to keep the two men in their positions.

  "We can't win a war against Trevath rig
ht now, not with the army in its present condition," replied Palinn. "We can't fight both Trevath and Curane's men. Maybe Curane did receive assis­tance from Trevath. And maybe Curane wants to lead us into a war he knows we can't win, so he can sit back and claim the spoils."

  "The fact remains—" Rallan began.

  "We have no facts, except one. Someone tried to kill Tris," snapped Soterius. "And in a fortnight, we're going to have a palace full of visiting royalty. We'd damn well better figure how to assure their safety. An incident like this at the wedding, and we could find ourselves at war with one of our allies."

  "Ban's right," Harrtuck said. "We need to make sure that the wedding goes smoothly. In my opinion," he said with a flinty look at both Tarq and Rallan, "that means soldiers as well as guardsman on patrol throughout the castle grounds, the villages below, and the main routes into the city."

  "I agree," said Soterius. "If we fail to secure the wedding, we'll be so busy cleaning up the mess that we won't get free to march on Curane before the snows."

  "Agreed," replied Senne, although it was clear from the expressions on Tarq and Ital­ian's faces that they did not share the opinion. "When's the first possibility for marching on Curane?"

  "Once the feast is done, we should move quickly," grumbled Rallan. "We'll be late into the fall. The north will already have snow by then."

  "We're headed south. Snow doesn't worry me," replied Palinn. "Best time of year for a siege." His voice, a painful rasp, immediately commanded attention. Tris listened in silence as the generals debated the possible routes and options for attack for nearly a candle-mark.

  Palinn turned to face Tris. "It would be advisable to secure the secession before we leave for Curane's lands."

  "Preferable, but we have no way to know whether the... timing... will be fortuitous," replied Tarq, attempting to be delicate.

  "I understand that handling such things is part of the responsibility of those who arrange the dates," responded Rallan.

  The comments hit Tris like- a dousing of cold water. A first flush of embarrassment gave way to anger. Secure the secession! They're discussing Kiara and me as if we were a pair of horses to be put out for stud, he thought

  indignantly. And in a way we are. Isn't that part of it? Noble bloodlines, champion heritage—

  "That's enough," Tris broke in.

  "I realize this is a sensitive topic, Sire," Senne said smoothly, with a glare to silence Tarq and Rallan. "We mean no disrespect, to you or the princess. But the safety of Margolan is our con­cern, and a smooth succession bodes well for the kingdom. As matters stand, if you were to fall in battle—may the Lady protect you always—Jared's bastard would be the legiti­mate heir. Until you produce an heir of your own, we live with that peril. Capable as she may be, the future Queen cannot rule Mar­golan save as regent for a child."

  Tris forced back his anger. Senne was right. The coming of winter provided for a short honeymoon—perhaps at most a month— before the army would have to march south or wait until spring. He had heard that healers could tamper with nature's cycles to improve the odds of conception, just as a skilled healer or hedge witch could prevent pregnancy. Such things were the most common matters for which both healers and hedge witches were consulted.

  Damn! Tris thought. If there was one thing I wanted to be free of Margolan intrigue, it was a private space for Kiara and me. He knew bet­ter. A royal wedding was by definition betrothed by arrangement to Jared made the buzz of court gossip that much higher. Spend­ing a year on the road with her beforehand and proposing without even a 'by your leave' to the Council raised even more eyebrows. Add to that talk that it was a marriage of necessity given Isencroft's poor fortunes of late and a hint of scandal about a bride-to-be who was an apt swordswoman; Tris knew he had already given the Margolan court more to talk about than in many a year. "My Liege, you're pale," Soterius said. I'm not quite ready to swoon, but it would be a good excuse to.get out of this damnable conversation, Tris thought ill-temperedly. "I would prefer to leave the details for another time," he replied.

  "We've taxed your strength today," Senne responded. "I'll work with the others to secure the wedding, and set a timetable to march on Curane. We can meet again to discuss the details."

  Soterius opened the door to the corridor, and motioned for Mikhail and the guards. Amid profuse expressions of concern for his health, Tris took his leave, grateful to escape. There were no more interruptions until they reached his chamber. Zachar the seneschal was waiting for them. Coalan hurried to turn down the bedclothes and fetch Tris a cup of tea. With Zachar was Sister Taru.

  "Esme was by earlier," Zachar said. "She wasn't pleased that you were out of bed," he

  added dryly. "And she left some more pain medicine. She said if you were going to push yourself, you would probably need a stronger dose. I've taken the liberty of canceling your commitments tomorrow before noon."

  Tris could feel Taru's magic as the healer- mage checked the spot where the arrow struck.

  Her familiar mental presence slipped warmly against his mind, easing the pain and draining off tension. When she finished, Coalan stood ready with a cup of tea. Taru mixed a powder into the tea that smelled of berries and anise and handed the cup to Tris.

  Tris breathed in the steam. The warmth felt good on his face, and the herbs' scent began to relax him before he even had a chance to sip the liquid. "Don't tell me you're just hanging around for the wedding," he said with a glance at Taru. "What's keeping you this far from your citadel?"

  Taru smiled and adjusted the sash on the brown robe that marked her as one of the Sis­terhood, the elite and secretive group of mages once led by Tris's famed sorceress grandmoth­er, Bava K'aa.

  "You catch on quickly." She gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Mikhail and moved to warm herself by the fire. "I am the Sister­hood's delegate for the royal wedding," she said with a mischievous grin. "But I'm also here to confer with some of the mages from citadels in the south. All along the Flow, magic is becoming unstable."

  "And it's getting worse," Tris agreed. "I can sense it, when I hold the Court of Spirits or dis­pel the ghosts of Jared's victims. It's like a dark shadow around the edges of power. It's a drain—it makes it harder to control the power."

  "It will also affect your battle magic," Taru warned. "The Flow runs from above the Northern Sea down through Dark Haven; it cuts across Margolan, down through Trevath, and into the Southern Kingdoms. Curane's keep is almost directly on top of the course of the Flow. That means the problems will get worse the closer you are to the source of power." She grimaced. "And the same splinter­ing that makes it harder for you aids Curane's blood mages."

  "Damn."

  "Sister Landis is pressuring all of the Sisters to rise above mortal politics and tend to arcane matters. She wasn't happy that we trained you. She wants to keep the Sisterhood neutral." Taru gave a harsh chuckle. "That's not hap­pening."

  "Do tell," Mikhail leaned against the hearth.

  "Arontala's blood magic not only tainted the Flow, it scarred the land. It's especially bad near the Dhasson border, where he called down the magick beasts. Our Sisters could eas­ily stay busy just cleansing the land and blessing the ground where the ashtenerath were buried.

  "This is personal," Taru went on. "We're Margolan born. Before it's over, you'll need battle mages in the Southern plains. Landis is likely to have a revolt. There are many of us who would go rogue before we'd turn our back on you or our kinsmen."

  "Interesting," Mikhail observed. "The Blood Council faces much the same challenge. Lord Gabriel won a concession in letting vayasb moru fight against Arontala. But most of the vayash mora who helped us win back the throne have already said they'll fight to keep Tris there. Some have even joined the army."

  "It's a damn good thing, too." Tris yawned. The medicine was doing its work. "We're short on soldiers."

  Mikhail nodded. "You'll need us to go up against Curane."

  "What will the Blood Council do?" Tris
asked.

  "Like the Sisterhood, they face a revolt. Enough of the older vayasb moru wish to sup­port you and they won't influence their fledglings to withdraw. Even the Blood Coun­cil can't put down a full rebellion."

  Tris passed a hand over his eyes. Crucial as the information was, he was fading rapidly.

  "This can wait for another day," Taru said with a glance at Mikhail. "We'll let you rest." Coalan saw them to the door.

  Zachar shook his head. "You really haven't changed at all. Always demanding too much =

  from yourself. You were the most stubbornly persistent child I ever saw," the white-haired seneschal said, chuckling. "I remember watch­ing you learn to ride. It didn't matter how many times you fell off or how badly you were bruised. Even when you broke your arm, noth­ing mattered until you could stay in the saddle."

  Zachar had been around for as long as Tris could remember. Carroway's music might be the heart of Shekerishet, but Zachar was the brain—an able administrator who oversaw the complexities and finances with honesty and rigor. It was Zachar who had presided over the workings of the castle and its lands when the king went to war. Zachar knew every servant's name, and could locate any piece of silver for the table or sacred item for ritual. The wiry man had looked old to Tris since Tris had been a child. In other ways, he never seemed to age. Zachar was as constant as the rising of the sun. During his exile, Tris had often wondered about the seneschal's fate. He'd assumed the worst. Within a month of Tris regaining the throne, a robed man had arrived on foot— dirty, unshaven, dressed as a tradesman too poor to even own a donkey. The man had been rebuffed twice by the watchmen when he requested to see the king, until he refused to leave without an audience with the captain of the guard. Harrtuck recognized Zachar imme­diately, and had personally escorted him to Tris. There, amid tears and embraces, Zachar recounted how he had escaped Jared by slith­ering down a garderobe the night of the coup, pushing a cart of offal out of the city gates, and taking refuge with a rug merchant in a distant town. For Tris, the sight of the familiar retain­er was almost as comforting as seeing Bricen himself. Having Zachar back at his post made their chance of succeeding all the better.