Authors: Sevastian
“The Lady’s blessing upon you,” Argus said, raising a hand in farewell as his image began to blur and fade.
“I can send you to your rest,” Tris said, though his swollen lips slurred the words.
Argus shook his head. “Not yet. I made a vow, when I was mortal, that I would give my life to defeat the Obsidian King. He is not yet destroyed. Until then, I may not rest.” He lifted a hand in salute. “You have earned my sword, and my blessing. My body and my army lie buried near the river. We are at your service, though we are bound to remain in these lonely lands.”
The ghost shimmered and disappeared. The unlucky soldiers, one by one, winked out as a chill gust swept through the tomb, sending wild shadows across the walls. Mageslayer glistened in Tris’s hands, unsullied by its years in the crypt, and from its rune‐worked blade, he could feel the thrum of power deep within the ensorcelled steel.
“The Lady rest your souls,” Tris murmured. With a thought, he snuffed out the torches, inched back the catafalque lid and staggered from the room. He felt a touch of pride that he did not fall to his knees before he reached the bottom of the stairs. The last thing he remembered was tugging on the rope and the distant sound of a bell.
When he opened his eyes, he lay on a couch in the Library parlor. Mageslayer lay beside him, and next to it, King Harrol’s pouch. Royster dozed in a chair, but woke with a start, then grinned 471
broadly at Tris. “I knew you could do it!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.
“Easy, easy,” Tris murmured, his head throbbing. He wanted nothing so much as a hot bath and a soft bed. “I can’t believe you couldn’t stay awake.”
Royster hummed an irreverent tune. “Oh I stayed awake for a long time, a very long time,” he replied, fairly dancing in his excitement at Tris’s triumph. “But after the first night, these old bones of mine needed some rest.”
Tris found the energy to gape in amazement. “The first night?” he repeated.
Royster chuckled. “Aye. You were down there a night and a day, don’t you know? Had to threaten the wrath of the Lady herself to keep that damn fool Jonmarc from charging in after you,” he went on. “You’ve been out cold for a full day since we carried you up. But I knew you could do it, lad. I knew it!”
Tris looked around the room. Sprawled across chairs and library benches, Tris’s companions slept in the parlor. Jae’s startled shriek awakened the others, who crowded around Tris.
“Hold on!” Royster shouted. “Give him some room. There’ll be plenty of time to tell his story,”
he said. “You there,” he hailed Carina. “I suspect he’s got a walloping headache that could use your touch. The rest of you, back to your rooms.” Like a schoolmaster, Royster ran off the others until only Carina remained.
Tris could see a thousand unasked questions in Carina’s eyes as she bent to her healing, letting her cool palms smoothe over his forehead and easing the pounding within.
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When she was finished, Royster helped Tris to his feet. He leaned heavily on the librarian, and Carina slid under his other arm. Together they made their way to Tris’s room, where Royster turned down the bed as if for a sick child while Carina heated a cup of tea by the fire. Against his weak protests, they pulled off his boots and trundled him into bed fully clothed, pressing a steaming mug of tea into his hands.
“Sleep,” Carina instructed archly, supervising as Tris drank the tea. It smelled of herbs and honey and its steam soothed his pounding head. Tris handed her the empty cup and eased himself down. Sleep overtook him, and he remembered nothing else until morning.
CHAPTER THIRTY‐TWO
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Three nights later, Tris and his companions readied for a hasty departure. Steam rose from the horses in the cold air, as they cinched their saddle straps and tied down their few belongings.
Vahanian added a bucket of pitch to each rider’s provisions, taking the torch‐lance for himself and passing arrows and bows to the other riders. When they were in the saddle, Mikhail and Gabriel stepped from the shadows.
“Remind me again why we’re safer riding past magick beasts and assassins at night?” Vahanian 473
snapped.
A hint of amusement curled Gabriel’s mouth. “Because by night, we ride with you,” the vayash moru replied. In the shadows beyond, Tris could see more figures stirring.
“Forgive me for noticing—but there aren’t that many of you,” Vahanian replied testily.
Gabriel shrugged. “These are of my family. Their loyalty is absolute. And they see that, in this, we have common cause with you.”
“And they’re real clear who’s with us, and who isn’t, right?”
Gabriel’s disquieting smile revealed his incisors. “Quite.”
“How does the road look between here and the bridge?” Tris asked, hoping his nervousness did not show in his voice. His mount nickered and pawed at the ground, as if it sensed both the undead and the looming danger.
“Clear when we passed,” said Mikhail. “But we’ve seen scouts within a candlemark.”
“If you saw them, why didn’t you just eat them?” Vahanian growled.
“That would rather reveal our hand, wouldn’t it?” Mikhail replied evenly.
“What of the beasts?” Kiara asked, and behind her, Berry edged her horse closer to Carina.
Royster’s eyes widened, and he clung more tightly to his reins.
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“None sighted.”
“The snows are getting deeper,” Gabriel said, as two of the other vayash moru opened the stable doors. “We’d best be going.”
Once on the road, the vayash moru slipped into the shadows. Vahanian rode point, with his lance lightly holstered and his sword close at hand. Tris rode behind him, while Kiara rode at the rear with Berry, Carina, Carroway and Royster in the middle. Each of them had a weapon at the ready—even Royster, who as it turned out, had
perfected the use of a slingshot under Berry’s tutelage.
“We’ve only got to reach the bridge,” he heard Carina tell Berry comfortingly.
“Why is it called Gibbet Bridge?” Berry asked.
“Because they used to hang men from it,” Royster replied absently. At the unanimous frowns he received from the rest of the party, Royster shrugged. “Sorry. It’s the truth.”
“If it keeps on snowing, we’ll be pressed to make it in a night,” Vahanian said, his sour mood clear in his tone. “Ride hard, but stay together.”
Tris nudged his horse to pick up the pace, glad for the darkness. He hoped it would hide his fatigue from his friends. If they knew how much the working with Argus had cost him, and how drained he still remained despite Carina’s best efforts, he was sure they would have postponed the journey. But the reports of Margolan scouts seemed to worry even Taru, who urged them to leave as quickly as possible.
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Mageslayer hung at his belt, the finest sword he had ever possessed. Partnered with this, he amended his thoughts, because there was a sense of presence in the ensorcelled sword that was just shy of sentience. Taru had had little time to school him on the ways of enchanted weapons, but he had been able to glean three things about the sword. First, that it would temporarily enhance his magic in a battle arcane. Second, that it had some warding powers against poisons and venom and cursed objects, though Taru did not
know the extent of its power, and cautioned against relying on the sword’s protection. And third, that it was a masterfully forged and perfectly balanced weapon, which incited a glance of envy even from Vahanian, though no one dared handle it besides Tris.
They rode in silence, guided by moonlight, riding as fast as they dared over the snowy roads. No other travelers were about at this hour, and the inns were few in this sparsely populated corner of Principality. As the hours passed without incident, Tris began to wonder whether they had been worrying for naught.
“Not far now,” Vahanian said wearily an hour before dawn. They could see the riverbank, and in the distance, Gibbet Bridge. Tris’s imagination supplied dangling corpses, though he knew it was only the swaying of branches. A small hamlet sat to one side of the road, near a bend in the river. As they approached, the thatched roof of a house burst into flames, startling them and driving them back a pace with the rush of heat.
“Watch out!” Carroway shouted as arrows flew from the darkened houses.
“Ambush!” Vahanian yelled. “Ride for the bridge!”
Tris felt an arrow slice through his thigh, opening a gash. A rush of fire streamed from the darkness, averted at the last moment as Tris snapped his shields up, barely in time. Something was wrong, very wrong, he thought, as his heart began to pound and his blood thundered in his 476
ears. The fire streamed brighter, as Tris fought to
keep his seat on his horse. The fire pulsed once more, and Tris lashed out, on instinct more than plan, unsure later even of what power he sent in return. An explosion shook the night, sending a stream of sparks high into the sky and the blue light winked out.
“Ride!” Kiara shouted, as mounted men pounded from the hamlet’s streets. Tris fell forward on his horse, gripping its mane, as vertigo washed over him. He heard the clang of steel and the swish of quarrels as his horse thundered through the snow behind the others.
In the moonlight, Tris sensed more than saw dark shapes, moving too swiftly for the eye to track. He heard a strangled cry from one of the archers, and then the panicked shriek of a horse as its rider was snatched from the saddle.
“Don’t look back!” Carina shouted, grabbing Royster’s reins and pulling the librarian’s frightened horse along with hers.
Disoriented, struggling for breath, Tris held on to his horse with sweaty hands, feeling as if both sight and magesense were distorted by strong wine. He saw the spirits that rose up behind them as they neared the bridge, and knew by instinct that it was Argus and his routed men, risen to fight one last battle. The frightened cries of those few pursuers who remained assured him that the ghosts were not a product of his sudden delirium. He tried to raise a hand in warding, tried to work a simple spell to cover his friends, but found his power distant, unwilling to respond to his command.
The winter wind whipped their hair and stung their faces as they rode for the arched stone bridge. Their horses thundered across the roadway, over the dark, icy waters of the Nu River.
Though they left behind both pursuers and protectors at the bridge, none of the companions slowed until the crossing was well behind them. Dawn was breaking as Vahanian, still leading, finally reined in his foam‐flecked mount. The others nudged their exhausted horses to catch up.
Vahanian rose in his stirrups and counted heads. “Everyone’s here,” he said, fatigue clear in his 477
voice. “Let’s find somewhere to sleep.”
The sharp staccato of quarrels hitting the ground rang out in the morning air. A line of arrows, launched at close range by crossbows, cut across the road in front of them. From out of the bushes, soldiers in the livery of the Principality army stepped into view. “Drop your weapons,”
their captain grated. By reflex, Vahanian reached for his sword, and cried out as a quarrel clipped his shoulder.
“The next shot finds your heart,” the soldier warned. “Drop your weapons.”
With a curse, Vahanian dropped his sword. Tris and the others exchanged worried glances, but did the same as more soldiers ringed them, crossbows raised and notched. Two soldiers came forward and gathered up their weapons.
“We have urgent business,” Tris said, hoping he looked better than he felt. It was taking all of his concentration just to stay in the saddle, and he felt feverish. He felt suddenly worse as Mageslayer fell from his grasp. His power still seemed out of reach, and it left a wrenching void that made him feel physically ill.
“I’ll bet you do,” the captain chuckled. “The king put a watch for a group with two swordsmen, a bard and a healer,” he said with a nod toward Carina’s green belt and the lute‐shaped sack on Carroway’s pack. “You can tell your urgent business to the general.”
They rode for a candlemark in silence, ringed by armed soldiers. The gash on Tris’s thigh burned, and he had begun to shake. Once, he saw Carina watching him worriedly. The soldiers led them to a small fort a few hours’ ride from Gibbet Bridge. The captain motioned for them to dismount, and Tris fell rather than swung down from his horse, but managed to keep his feet.
“You’ll wait here, until the general returns,” the captain said, leading them to a large, sparsely furnished cell. Four soldiers with crossbows kept their weapons trained on the group until the 478
door was secured, and two more remained on guard as the captain left.
Tris leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, as Carina rushed to his side. “What happened?
Are you hit?” she said, and Tris wondered if he were as pale as he felt.
“Something’s wrong,” he murmured. “The magic… is out of reach.”
“What does he mean by that?” Vahanian whispered, as Carina found the gash on Tris’s leg. She frowned, and pressed one finger against the wound, then lifted it to her nose.
“Wormroot,” she said, and looked through die pouches on her belt that the soldiers had permitted her to keep. “The arrow tips were poisoned.”
“Wormroot?” Vahanian questioned. “It doesn’t grow anywhere near here. And besides, at worst it causes a stomach ache—”
“That’s because you’re not a mage,” Carina replied in a low voice. “I heard stories when Cam and I were with the mercenaries, here in Principality. They said to stop a mage, use worm‐root. In large enough doses, over a long period, they say it will kill or drive a mage mad.”
“Can you help him?” Carroway said anxiously. Royster kept watch for the guards, who stood at their posts, paying their captives no heed.
“I’ll try,” she replied. “But I never heard what the antidote was for wormroot, except that it should wear off over time. I’ll start with rope vine,” she said, digging in her pouch. “It helps with some of the poisons that fog the mind. The wound wasn’t deep, so he can’t have gotten much.”
“He seemed to get worse when we were captured,” Kiara mused. “In fact, he nearly fell when 479