Authors: Sevastian
Kiara could think of no reply, and so she looked back out the window. Carina’s words echoed in her mind, even after the healer and the sorceress had said goodnight and left her to her thoughts.
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CHAPTER THIRTY‐ONE
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Although Tris said nothing to his companions about the quest for Mageslayer, he suspected that Carina had told the tale. On the day he was to go into the crypt, his friends lingered with him at lunch, as if unsure of what to say. Berry kissed him on the cheek for luck. Carroway looked sober, clapping Tris on the shoulder and wishing him the favor of the lady. Carina reassured him that she and Royster would be waiting, then took leave to gather up her medicines.
Kiara hung back, as did Vahanian. “Carina told us… about Mageslayer,” Kiara confessed, avoiding his gaze. “Please be careful.”
Tris dared to take her hand, and lightly kissed it. “I have a lot of reasons to come back,” he said, meeting her eyes. She blushed and murmured a blessing before leaving.
There was silence for a moment between Tris and Vahanian. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard— a duel without taking a second with you,” Vahanian said finally. “I can’t be much of a bodyguard from up here.”
Tris smiled wanly. “I have a favor to ask,” he said, and dug into his pocket. He withdrew the pouch with King Harrol’s seal, and to Vahanian’s amazement, handed it to the mercenary.
“If I don’t come back, I’m counting on you to get the others to safety,” he said soberly. “I need 463
your word that you will see them safe.”
Vahanian turned the seal m his hand. “What makes you so sure I won’t just take off and collect my pay?”
Tris met his eyes. “You won’t.”
Vahanian said nothing for a moment. “You have my word,” he said finally. “But you’d better come back in one piece,” he warned.
Tris chuckled. “Believe me, that’s my plan.” Then he offered Vahanian his hand, in the forearm clasp of brothers at arms. “Thank you,” he said.
“We’ve got a long road ahead. Thank me when we’re done.”
From there, Tris made his way to the Library’s small chapel, sacred to Principality’s favored aspect of the One Goddess, in her guise as Lover, and her dark reflection, the Whore. As he had seen Soterius do on the eve of battle, he offered his sword for blessing before the flickering candles of the altar, and awkwardly made his peace. Although he hoped against hope that the Lady might favor him with some sign, as she had done in the crowd the night of the coup, no supernatural presence touched his magesense.
Sweet Lady, he prayed. Honor my quest and let me win the sword. But if you will not, then honor the cries of your lost children in Margolan, and bring some other justice.
He waited, but the chapel remained silent save for the sound of his own breathing. Finally, he sheathed his sword, and made the sign of the Lady as he rose, hoping for a few hours’ sleep before it was time to go.
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Tris, Taru and Royster made their way at the eleventh bell to one of the small parlors on the first level of the Library. Royster tied a rope to an iron ring set into the massive stone fireplace, then let the rope out as he moved to the right of the hearth. His hand slid along the wooden paneling until they heard a faint click. A panel in the wall slid back, revealing stairs descending into blackness.
By torchlight, they went down a steep and crooked set of stone steps. As they descended, Royster let out the rope. They made their way down to the bottom of the stairs, into a small antechamber, at the end of which was a massive, ironbound door. Royster stopped. The darkness smelled of moldering cloth and wet ground, and the remnants of old magic prickled at the back of Tris’s neck.
“This is the entrance to the tomb of King Argus,” Royster said. “We can go no further.” He paused. “One of us will watch for you at all times. If you cannot make it back up the stairs, pull on the rope. We will come for you.”
Taru raised her hand in blessing, and murmured a prayer to the Lady. “Now go,” she said. “And if Argus finds you worthy, return with the sword.”
Royster and Taru turned and headed back up the steps. Tris set his torch in an empty sconce.
Putting both his back and his magic into the effort, he inched the heavy door aside and called handfire, leaving the torch to light his way back. Royster’s rope lay slack at the bottom of the steps. The crypt smelled of decay. Tris could barely make out two torch sconces on the wall just inside the door, and ahead, something massive and dark.
“Fire,” Tris murmured, willing the torches to light. He stood in the tomb of a warrior king. To the right, finely wrought armor awaited its owner for eternity. To the left, a beautifully worked saddle sat astride a life‐sized wooden horse. In the center of the room lay a catafalque with the 465
likeness of Argus in eternal repose. Tris’s heart thudded as he took a step toward the resting-place of the king.
A noise from behind him and a stirring of his magesense was his only warning. Tris wheeled, sword raised, as a warrior of sinew and bone lurched toward him from the darkness, its sword menacing. The undead warrior swung so hard, its blow nearly tore Tris’s sword from his grip.
Fighting back his own horror, Tris parried, even as he saw a second skeletal warrior rise from a heap of moldering cloth near the wall.
What gray magic is this? Tris wondered, parrying the shattering blows. It was clear that Argus played by no rules but his own. One thing was painfully clear, he thought as the third warrior struggled toward them. His mortal strength would fail long before the implacable warriors gave up their fight. Tris cut down through the first of the bony soldiers, only to see the bones rattle toward each other on the stone floor and sinew magically pull them into place.
A fourth and a fifth skeleton were starting from against the far wall. At this rate, Tris thought, breathing hard, the fight would be over before it began. Sweat poured down his back in the freezing chamber. One of the warriors slipped inside his guard and scored a painful gash. Then, as Tris made another stroke connect, splitting the skeleton from collar to hip, Tarn’s words sounded in his mind.
None has been a Summoner.
“Halt!” Tris cried out, even as one of the sword blows struck his blade so hard that it felt as if it might break his arm. “Fall back.” As he spoke, he called forth his power, so that he saw the warriors in his magesight on the plains of spirit, where they stood with the appearance of living men, mortally wounded.
“By the power of the Lady, fall back,” he willed, and the skeletal warriors lowered their swords and began to step away. Silently, the undead soldiers took up sentry positions against the walls, their swords lowered. But permeating the crypt, Tris could feel another magic, another 466
presence, waiting to spring. Just then, the torches winked out, leaving him in total darkness. The crypt door behind him slammed shut, although it had taken his full strength to push it open. A keening wail began, rising until it echoed in the stone chamber, as the temperature dropped until Tris was sure his breath fogged.
He called fire to the torches, but just as quickly, another power snuffed them out. Tris closed his eyes, relying on magesight, as he felt a presence, strong and dangerous, slip against him. His heart thudded, as the revenant turned on him, and in his magesight, he saw a hideous mouth lined with teeth, like the magicked beasts.
It lunged at him, and he felt its cold essence slide past him and through him as the wailing grew ear‐shatteringly loud. Teeth snapped next to his neck, and he could hear the scratch of talons on the stone. Though his heart was pounding and every instinct told him to flee or fight, Tris struggled to find his center.
Protect! he willed, and his wardings rose, casting a pale blue light within the inky crypt and driving back the ghostly beast. It paced outside the shielding, more hideous in the faint light than the thought of it had been in the darkness. Depart! You have no power here. By the Lady, be gone!
The beast made one final lunge against Tris’s wardings, flinging itself against the shields, which surged blue. Its teeth were only a breath away from him, its talons clawed vainly at the warding, and its keen shrieked until Tris thought it might split his eardrums. And then, the wraith vanished. Sweating hard, his heart in his throat, Tris fought to catch his breath as he warily lowered his shielding and willed the torches to light. “None of your tricks, brother.” Tris wheeled at the voice, and felt his mouth go dry as a familiar figure stepped from the shadows. Jared stood just paces away, his sword in one hand, his left hand behind his back.
“You can’t be here,” Tris breathed, raising his sword.
Jared laughed coldly. “But I am. I’ve come to finish what I started—what I should have ended a 467
long time ago.” He advanced slowly. “And I’m going to enjoy it.” He leered. “I could always whip your ass,” he said, taking another step forward. “But I’m going to make sure that you’ve got plenty of time to think about how stupid it was to defy me,” Jared grated. “Plenty of time while you’re dying. You thought you could take my crown, my kingdom… and my bride. But I’ll keep what’s mine. You might be lord of the dead, but I am death itself,” rasped Jared, as he withdrew his left hand from behind his back. Kiara’s severed head hung by its hair, her expression frozen in pain and terror.
Every fiber of Tris’s body and heart wanted to lunge for Jared, even as a cry tore from his throat.
Jared chuckled. “I am as real as your nightmares, brother,” he said, letting the head swing. As real as my nightmares. Which aren’t real at all.
“Dispel!” Tris screamed, hearing his own voice pinched with terror, as he held on to the center of his power. “You… are… not… real. Be gone!” And quick as thought, Jared’s image winked out.
Without warning, unseen hands shoved Tris back so hard that he staggered. A mist coalesced above the catafalque until a stout, sturdy man stood at the foot of the tomb. “Why have you come?” the specter boomed. Tris bowed in respect. “I am Martris Drayke, son of Bricen of Margolan, grandson of the sorceress, Bava K’aa.”
“Step closer,” the ghost of Argus said. “Yes,” he murmured after studying Tris for a moment, “I see your father in you. Why have you disturbed my rest?”
“By your leave, sire,” Tris replied, “I have come for Mageslayer.”
“Mageslayer may not be given,” the ghost roared. “It may only be won in combat.” At that, the force of the ghost’s offensive drove Tris to his knees. Strong arms like iron bands encircled his chest, making him heave for breath. Tris thrashed, trying to break free, as the ghost chuckled and the grip tightened. “Too easy,” he heard the ghost say behind his ear as the pressure increased. “Surely you are not the grandson of Bava K’aa.”
Gasping for air, Tris struggled to ignore the ghost’s taunts. He let his body go slack as he 468
summoned his powers, then lashed back with all his might at the revenant now clear in his magic‐enhanced vision.
“Well now, that’s more like it,” the ghost chuckled, coming at him again. Argus’s spirit was as solid and real to Tris as any mortal opponent. Tris circled the catafalque warily.
Argus launched himself over the tomb in a leap impossible for a living fighter, driving Tris to the floor and knocking the wind out of him. “You’ve got to do better than this, lad,” Argus said.
Setting his jaw, Tris slammed forward with his magic and sent the ghost reeling.
They sparred for what seemed like eternity. Tris knew that Argus possessed one thing he did not—an immortal’s tireless strength. Tris dodged and feinted, willing himself to ignore the pounding reaction headache and the crushing weariness that made every move ache.
When Argus leaped on him and sent them both to the ground, Tris could do no more than brace himself against the ghost, refusing Argus the upper hand although Tris lacked the strength to break free.
“Admit it, lad. You’re beaten,” Argus taunted, jerking his hold to make it hurt.
“I won’t leave without Mageslayer,” Tris grated between bloodied lips.
“You won’t leave at all!”
Then, so clear that Tris could not believe he had not seen it before, the solution came to him and with a certainty driven of desperation, he closed his eyes and leaped along the inner pathworkings, into the twilight of the spirit world. Down, down he dove as he had at the well, when Carina’s soul was in peril, and before that, when Vahanian lay dying amid the slavers. This time, the pathway was familiar, and Tris hurtled along it before Argus could adjust his grip, speeding 469
like a falcon on attack, toward the blue life thread that was Argus. Heedless of consequence, Tris envisioned his own glimmering soul strand and began to weave it around Argus’s in a complex, shining knot.
“Aye there, what are you doing?” Argus roared.
“If I cannot leave without Mageslayer, then I will not stay as your servant,” Tris shouted. “We will spend eternity together, bound at the soul, closer than brothers. You will not think a thought without me, and I will not dream without you.” He continued his weaving as the life threads glimmered and shone.
“Stop!”
“Yes?”
Argus loosened his hold. “I’ve no need for another infernal voice inside my head.”
“But we have a stalemate,” Tris replied. “I will not yield, although in time, you must win because my mortal body will tire. And if I must remain with you, it will be on terms of my choosing.”
Argus released his grip on Tris with a curse. “Take the bloody sword,” he swore. “No one in fifty years has fought me like that,” he said, the gleam in his eyes making it clear that he relished the conflict. “‘Tis a rigged game, that’s sure, as you say. But I lose when I yield, and I can no more stand the thought of having someone in my thoughts than I can walk back among the living.”
At that, the heavy stone lid of the catafalque ground open on its own accord, and the crypt door swung open. “Take the sword,” Argus said, standing beside his tomb, “and with it, the blessing of Argus the king.”
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As carefully as he had woven the knots, Tris unraveled the glittering life threads, until the two strands glowed separately. And then, stretching out his spirit, he returned along the twilight pathway to sit up with a start. Doing his best to ignore the hammering in his head and his aching body, Tris struggled to his feet, feeling the long fight in every muscle. He staggered to the tomb and, with a nod of permission from Argus, thrust his hand inside. Cold steel greeted his touch, and he withdrew a sword of incomparable craftsmanship, its intricately wrought grip inlaid with gems in the crest of the House of Principality.