Gail Z. Martin - COTN 03 - Dark Haven (V1.0)(lit) Page 5

  Tris fought his way free of the sending. The ghost's pain and anger enveloped him. "They took everything!" Esbet cried. "Avenge me!"

  Tris struggled to keep a clear head as the ghost's emotions washed over him. "I've seen the Lady myself," Tris replied. "But I can't pre­tend to know why She sometimes turns her face in silence. Jared killed my family. I didn't try to bring them back, though I wanted to. But I gave them peace, and eased their passage to the Lady."

  "That's not good enough!" The ghost screamed, launching herself at him in fury. Tris snapped a warding into place as the revenant keened and shrieked. Esbet's anger transformed her spirit into a twisted visage with a gaping maw and dark, eyeless sockets. The energy of her attack bounced against the whisper-thin, coruscating barrier of the warding, and she wailed louder in frustration.

  Tris knew that, possessed by grief and terror, Esbet would willingly tear him apart. Now, contained within the chamber by the outer warding and restrained from her vengeance by his inner shielding, the ghost hurled herself against the magic barrier, filling the air with curses. Finally, after nearly a candlemark, the attacks subsided. The ghost stretched herself out against the inner warding, growing thinner and thinner until she covered the protective shield. Like layers of a wasp's nest, she shat­tered into pieces and disappeared.

  "Esbet," Tris called gently. "We aren't fin­ished yet." His voice was soft, yet behind it was the power of a Summoner and the com­mand of a king. "You don't need to remain here in pain. I can't let you torment the living. Your family has buried you and completed the days of mourning. There's nothing holding you here except your anger. I can't undo what Jared did. But I can give you rest."

  Slowly, as if caught by a gentle wind, the shattered ghost began to swirl and reform. Finally, Esbet stood before him. Her face was tear-streaked, no longer defiant, and the look in her eyes wrenched Tris's heart. "Please, sir. I want to go home."

  Tris nodded. It was a risk,' he knew, to lower his inner warding, but he sensed no malevo­lence, only deep grief. He dispelled his warding, and stretched out his hand to the ghost. She reached out to him, and passed through him.

  "Are you ready?"

  Esbet nodded. Tris closed his eyes and gath­ered his power. This was the greatest gift of a Summoner: to make peace among the restless spirits and ease their passage to the next realm. Tris felt himself cross the threshold between the living and the dead onto the Plains of Spir­it. He sensed, more than saw, the presence of the Lady. It was Her Aspect as the Childe that manifested, a young girl with the piercing, amber eyes of the Goddess.

  The Childe beckoned. Tris began to murmur the passing over ritual, ancient and powerful words that would blur the line between the realms of the living and the dead. Esbet reached out. She took a halting step forward, looking back uncertainly at Tris, who nodded in encouragement. Esbet released Tris's hand and took another step, then another, until the light enfolded her like a great, warm cloak. Tris felt the ghost's presence fade. As suddenly as the vision came it disappeared, leaving Tris alone.

  Before he could turn to release the outer wardings, shadows seized him.

  Darkness rushed toward him through the channels of magic Tris opened to the Plains of Spirit. Drawn to the light of his power, dark beings swarmed toward the residue of Aronta-Ia's powerful blood magic that still tainted Shekerishet's dungeons. A legion of voices shrieked in his mind; shadows circled him like

  hungry wolves. These were not ghosts. Tris was certain of that. Not all of the beings on the Plains of Spirits had once been alive. Other spirits dwelled there in the barren places, hun­gry for the chance to steal power.

  Blue fire streaked from Tris's fingers, forcing back the shadows. He could feel them licking at his life force, drawing away his breath and his power. The cacophony of voices made it difficult to think clearly, and Tris struggled to retain his focus. Though he'd had more prac­tice than he'd have liked, the encounters were draining and difficult.

  Soulless, these dimonns wandered the Plains of Spirit, seeking power. Tris knew they hoped to overtake him, to bleed him dry or possess him. And while his magic was strong enough to prevent that, Tris was well aware that any mistake would be deadly.

  Tris spoke a word of power, and a curtain of fire roared around him. No flames lit the dun­geon—the fire bathed the Plains of Spirit, scorching hot. The dimonns screeched in fury, pushed back by the flames. At the edges of per­ception, Tris sensed other, equally dangerous spirits watching, waiting to feast on him should he fail.

  Drawing hard from his remaining energy, Tris sent another blast of white-hot power across the spirit plains. A clap like thunder echoed in his mind, nearly blacking him out. Quickly, while he could still follow the fragile

  thread back to his mortal body, Tris fled the Plains of Spirit. A tendril of darkness streaked after him, and sharp teeth opened a gash on his ankle. Tris sent a final salvo, burning along the passage between realms with a cloud of fire. He slammed his wardings into place as his spir­it rushed fully back to the mortal world, staggering to keep his feet. He waited, magic at the ready. Silence.

  Head pounding, Tris took a step toward the door and stumbled, falling hard against a work table. He caught himself and mumbled the words to lower his wardings. He grabbed for the door and opened it, holding on to the door post for support.

  The guards reached out to steady him. Tris found the strength to wave them away. "Get me back to my rooms," he rasped. One guard led the way while the other followed. The mid­night bells tolled in the tower outside as Tris reached his rooms. When the door was shut behind him, he leaned back against it, closed his eyes, and tried to remember if he had ever felt quite so weary in his life. Sure, he told him­self, pushing a sweat-soaked strand of white-blond hair back from his eyes. Last week, when you cleansed the other cell. Then there was the time you got captured by slavers. And those weeks of tent rigging for the caravan when you were trying to stay out of sight. And don't forget the training at the citadel in Prin­cipality. It might be easier, he thought, to recall a time when he didn't feel exhausted. Before Jared's coup. Those days seemed like another life, although the anniversary of his family's deaths had not yet passed.

  The servants had set a pot of water on the hearth to boil. Gratefully, Tris made himself a cup of tea, mixing in the last of the headache potion his healer left for him. By now, the guards and the healers expected that every cleansing in the tainted areas of the castle would come at great cost to their king. Neither he nor they were surprised when he returned barely able to climb the stairs. But even when expected, the consequences of working strong magic were painful.

  As he stirred the tea, Tris found himself star­ing at the painting of his father, King Bricen. Jared had destroyed all of the paintings of the royal family in Shekerishet. One -of the first things Tris did when he regained the throne was to gather any paintings that were hidden in noble houses of his father, his mother Queen Serae, and his sister Kait. The paintings helped, just a little, ease how much he missed his mur­dered family.

  Tris studied the portrait of Bricen as if his father might speak. There was no denying the family resemblance. From Bricen, Tris received the king's high cheekbones, angular features, and tall build. From Serae, Tris took his white-blond hair and green eyes. His shoulder-length hair was a wild cloud around his face, still tangled from his encounter with the ghost. The last time he'd looked at his own reflection he had barely recognized himself, thinking that in just the few months since he had taken the crown, he had grown gaunt and strained. It's why they say a crown is the heaviest load to bear, he thought. There are too many things to worry about—things that even a king, or a sorcerer, can't fully control.

  At Tris's feet, basking in the warmth of the fire, three dogs looked up. The two wolfhounds, like rangy long-tufted carpets, stretched languorously and wagged tiredly. The third, a bull mastiff, shuffled to his feet and padded over to nuzzle Tris's hand. Absent­ly, Tris patted the big dog's head. During his exile, Tris had fear
ed for the dogs' safety, knowing that Jared's cruelty extended to the palace animals. Tris had gone to the hunting lodge where he'd kept the dogs, expecting the worst. To his surprise and relief, the dogs had survived, having been turned out into the woods for their own protection by the lodge keeper. Dirty and underfed, ribs jutting, the dogs had come to him. Tris saw to it that they received plenty of food and a healer's care. Just a few months later, the dogs were nearly back to their former weights, happy to be home and with him.

  Tris put his empty cup aside and fell across the bed fully dressed. One of the wolfhounds licked his hand while the mastiff nudged at his ear. The other wolfhound padded up and sat down at the end of the bed protectively, as if on vigil. Safe at last, Tris gave in to exhaustion and let sleep take him, sure his dreams would be restless.

  A knock at the door startled Tris. The sun was already shining through the windows; he had slept through the night. His dogs woofed warily. Cautiously, Tris went to the door. Mas­ter Bard Carroway stood in the doorway carrying a tray with a pot of tea, cups, and a heaped plate of cakes.

  "Isn't this early for you?" Tris waved his friend inside.

  Carroway, resplendent in the jewel-toned silks he favored, chuckled and took a seat near the fire. The dogs wagged sleepily and returned to their places. "I could ask the same of you. Begging your royal pardon, but you look like hell."

  Tris chuckled. He offered the tea to Car­roway, who accepted, then sank into another chair beside the fire and cradled his cup in his hands. "More ghosts."

  "The poltergeist?" Carroway asked.

  "Another one of Arontala's victims."

  "By the Lady! How many people did he have time to kill? There wouldn't have been a king­dom left if Jared had had the crown a full year."

  "There almost isn't anyhow," Tris said wearily. "Now that Zachar's come out of hiding, we've gone over the accounts. Father ran the kingdom well. Before he died, the treasury was more than ample. There were stockpiles of food and equipment. Now.... Whether Jared squandered it, Arontala used it to buy troops, or it just got looted, there's not nearly as much as there should be," Tris said. "This year's harvest isn't going to replace it, either. All the farmers ran for the border once Jared took over. The soldiers burned so many crops and villages trying to extort taxes that there'd be a famine before springtime if I hadn't managed to buy and barter grain from Dhasson and Principality. There still might be. And now, with war coming—"

  "Is that certain?"

  Tris sighed and nodded. "There's no getting around it, I'm afraid. Sweet Chenne, I wish there were. Father never trusted Lord Curane. He always thought Curane was too friendly with Trevath." Trevath, Margolan's neighbor to the south, had a long and bitter history of border disputes and attempts to meddle in Margolan's affairs. That it shared the kingdom of Nargi's affection for the Crone, one of the Lady's dark Aspects, made Trevath even more suspect.

  "You think he's getting support from Tre­vath? Would Trevath be that bold?"

  "Don't forget—Jared was father's son with Eldra, and Eldra was from Trevath. Arranged marriage to keep the peace." Tris made a face.

  "You can see how well that worked. So while we don't have any evidence that Trevath sup­ported Jared's coup, he might have been able to create an alliance that benefited Trevath through Eldra's family.

  "The generals are suspicious," Tris said. "That's their job. We already know Jared tried to ally with Nargi. The only thing Nargi and Trevath hate more than each other is Mar-golan. We can't afford to have them team up against us. And it would be like Trevath to take advantage by backing Curane." He looked into the fire. "What we know for sure is that some of Jared's top generals—the ones who ordered the village massacres—are being har­bored by Curane. The. Sisterhood believes he's giving shelter to dark mages. And then there's Jared's bastard to worry about." "Damn."

  Jared had been notorious for his promiscuity. Many of the nobles' daughters had been among his willing paramours. But Lord Curane had seen a way to profit from Jared's lusts, and had willingly supplied his own granddaughter, a girl barely of marriageable age, for Jared's pleasures. Even before Tris had battled Jared for the throne, rumor had it that Curane had whisked his granddaughter—preg­nant with Jared's child—into hiding. The girl and her newborn son were said to be in Curane's holdings. That alone was reason enough for war.

  "Although I don't mind being confessor to the king," Carroway said with a sly grin, "it really isn't why I came. You're hard to catch, and your royal wedding planner has a few questions." Now that he was back in his role as court minstrel, Carroway had lost no oppor­tunity to dress in the sumptuous style that had always been his signature. With Carroway's blue-black long hair and long lashes over light blue eyes, the minstrel was handsome almost to the point of beauty. Since Tris was now betrothed, Carroway remained one of the court's most eligible bachelors.

  Tris finished his cup of tea, wishing fervently that he had had another dose of the headache potion.

  "Before Soterius comes to get me for the tri­als, tell me about plans for the wedding. I could use some good news."

  "I found a minstrel troupe that just spent a year in Isencroft, so I've got them busy teaching our bards and musicians everything they can about the latest music and the most fashionable dances there. One of them can cook, too, so I've gotten him to teach the kitchen staff to make some dishes Kiara might like. Found a merchant with the last caravan who knows what the styles have been there, and promised to design costumes for the entertainers in the Isencroft tradition. As for the food—"

  "We can't justify feasting in the palace when the villagers are hungry. The last thing we need

  is a revolt. Please, keep the wedding as simple as you can."

  Carroway looked at him in mock exaspera­tion. "I finally get to plan a royal wedding, and I've got to watch the budget," he sighed. "But you're right: On the other hand, you're going to have a house full of royalty—we don't dare look like we're struggling to pay the musi­cians."

  "I have no doubt that with you in charge, the musicians will get their pay, and all they can eat besides. Make our guests comfortable. Honor Kiara. But err on the side of dignified austerity instead of fabulous excess, all right?"

  "Point taken. Zachar went out of his way to tell me the same thing only yesterday after­noon, but I still want to go over some of the plans with you. I happen to have them right here," he said, patting a scroll in the pocket of his tunic.

  Carroway had no sooner laid out his plans than another knock sounded at the door. The dogs rushed to answer, barking a greeting. "Come in," Tris called.

  Ban Soterius stepped inside. He was dressed in his formal uniform, a general in the Mar-golan army. Soterius smiled as the dogs rushed at him, tails wagging. He patted them in greet­ing. "You stay out so bloody late tending to spirits that the living have to wake up at dawn to find you."

  "No way around it," Tris said, finishing one of the small cakes and pouring another cup of tea. He hoped the food would rid him of the last vestiges of headache. "The ghosts that won't come to the Court of Spirits still need to be sent to rest. I don't mind being haunted by friendly ghosts, but I've got to rid the palace of the angry ones before Kiara gets here."

  Soterius declined Carroway's offer of tea. "The guards told me that you barely got up the stairs last night."

  "It's not just the ghosts. I can still feel traces of Arontala's blood magic in the dungeons. Power like that leaves a residue—as if the walls remember. There are...bad things...lurking out there. We'll need to keep that area sealed off until I can set it right."

  "Can the Sisterhood help?"

  Tris shook his head and winced. "Landis clamped down on the Sisterhood after she saw how many of her mages came to help us defeat Jared. If it were up to her, the Sisterhood would stay hidden in their citadels."

  "Would she prefer that we'd left Jared on the throne?"

  "In her mind, if the Sisterhood pulls back from outside life, the world will leave them alone."
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  "Not likely."

  Tris shrugged. "Judging from the number of nobles who did nothing to help us take back the crown, I'd say Landis isn't alone."

  Outside, the bells rang the eighth hour.

  "It's time," Soterius said.

  "Have I mentioned how much I hate this part?"

  Soterius ran a hand back through his light brown hair, close-cropped to fit a soldier's helm. "Several times."

  Tris's valet, Coalan, knocked at the door, and Carroway exited as Tris dressed. Neither Tris nor Soterius spoke as they walked through the corridors with guards ahead and behind them. Tris's pulse quickened. Another round of trials for Jared's generals, followed by the executions of those found guilty by the court. Tris could feel the press of spirits around him as the bailiff announced the arrival of the king. Trumpets blared. Many of those ghosts would soon be witnesses. Two dozen guards created a living barrier between the onlookers and the king. Tris took his throne at the front of the room. This was the fourth day of trials, and the crowd had grown each day. "Bring the first defendant." Two guards escorted General Kalay into the courtroom. Shackled at the wrists and ankles, Kalay held himself stiffly and shook off the guards. Even in civilian clothing, his military bearing was unmistakable. He was a balding man, just past his thirtieth season, and his defi­ant blue eyes showed intelligence. Behind Kalay were ten soldiers, similarly shackled.

  Tris did not need to glance at the paperwork. He had seen Kalay's work first-hand.

  "General Asis Kalay. You and your men are charged with the murder of Margolan citizens under the orders of Jared the Usurper, a mas­sacre that killed every villager in Rohndle's Ferry on the banks of the Nu River. How do you plead?"

  Kalay met Tris's eyes. And although Tris could not read minds, everything about the glint in the man's eyes, his posture, and the slight turn of his lip made it easy to guess his thoughts. Prove it.

  "Not guilty, Your Majesty."