Soterius looked over his shoulder, toward the wounded men who lay on pallets in the makeshift hospital tent. “We’ll have to prepare the fighters as we recruit them. At least now that we know that the ashtenerath are in pain and won’t live long, maybe our men will see it as a kindness to kill them, espe-cially if it’s someone they knew.” He sighed. “By the Whore! This war hasn’t even started yet, and it’s already a nightmare.”
Mikhail jerked his head toward the refugee camp outside the hospital tent walls.
“When they find out what Arontala does to his captives, you may have the most motivated troops in Margolan’s history.”
“By Chenne, we’re going to need it.”
next
contents
TRIS RESUMED HIS lessons with Royster within a day of his return to the palace. Although not fully recovered from his training with the Sisterhood, Tris was driven by the knowledge that time was pass-ing quickly. It was already the Crone Moon, the last month of the year, and Winterstide would soon be upon them. And while he had begged off of a return to the salle and climbing practice for a few days, even that could not be postponed for long. There was far too much to learn, and too little time.
Tris and Royster continued their lessons in the palace library. A huge fireplace, easily the height of a tall man and twice a man’s length, held a roaring fire that barely warmed the room. Royster focused on history and legend, and on the complex wording of powerful incantations. Tris was physically and mentally weary, but he knew he could not allow himself the luxury of rest.
“What do you know of Winterstide?” Royster’s voice shook Tris out of his thoughts.
Tris searched his memories. Bricen had not been overly devout, and Margolan’s celebrations had lacked some of the pious observances of other king-doms.
“Winterstide is the winter solstice,” Tris said, try-ing his best to remember.
“The longest night of the year. The spirit realm is closer then, as it is at the Hawthorn Moon, on the summer solstice. On those nights, the division between the realms is fragile.” He paused. “At Winterstide, the spirits are closer because the realms are out of balance, and the scales in the hand of the Lady tip toward the realm of the dead. After the night of solstice, the days grow longer again, until the balance is restored again in the spring when day and night become equal. Then, the balance tips once more, until the Hawthorn Moon.”
Royster nodded. “What do you know of the role of a Summoner on Winterstide?”
Tris tried to remember the celebrations of his childhood, when Bava K’aa played a prominent role in his father’s court. From the night of the sol-stice for a fortnight, Winterstide was one of the most glittering feasts of the year, filled with candles and torches, banqueting and processions. He had vague memories of his grandmother welcoming the ghosts of the kingdom to the palace, but for what purpose, he could not recall.
“I don’t know,” he admitted with embarrassment.
“In the days leading up to the solstice, Summoners help to ease the imbalance created between the realm of the living and the dead,” said Royster. “It is very important when the fabric between the realms is thin. You must learn to hold court for the spirits and ease the imbalance.”
“Why?”
Royster closed his book. “As with the cycle of the rains and the movement of the winds, the natural way of magic is a balance among the currents of force, and between the living and the dead. As the gift of Summoning became rarer, so it became more difficult to maintain that balance.
“When Arontala works his blood magic, the cur-rents of magic become tainted.
You—like all mages—must draw upon those currents of magic, the river of power that the Sisterhood calls the Flow, when you confront Arontala.
Anything that can be done to remove the taint and balance the energy of the living and the dead will strengthen your power. You will confront Arontala when the fabric between realms is once again thin.”
Tris closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. “I used to think that all a mage had to do was learn a few mysterious rhymes and ‘poof,’ it would be done.” He ran his hands back through his hair wearily.
Royster gave him a dry look. “Shows what you knew, doesn’t it?” he said irreverently. “Oh, there are little rhymes a mage might use to remember the sequence of what must be done, but the words themselves don’t do a thing. You could write every magic ‘spell’ as high as a man on the barn wall, but if you don’t have the power to start with, all you’d have is a strange rhyme. And a bad one at that.”
“You and the Sisterhood have told me what a Summoner may and may not do.
You’ve listed for me every kind of ghost and spirit and made me memorize all the things that can bind a spirit to this world. And between me and them stands only death,” Tris said quietly. “But what is death?”
Royster pulled a coin from his pocket. “What’s on the front?” He held the gold up in the firelight so that it glistened.
“The image of the king.”
“And on the back?”
“The crown of Principality.”
“Can you cut the coin to separate the front from the back?” Royster handed him the coin.
Tris took it and turned it in his fingers, then final-ly shook his head. “How could I tell where one stopped and the other started?”
Royster nodded. “Exactly. So it is with death. On one side of death, a person is alive. And on the other, only the spirit remains. But death itself? It’s only the somewhere between awake and asleep. For those without your gift, it’s a line that can be crossed only once, and in one direction. But for a Summoner, it’s a doorway that can be entered and exited at will.”
Tris turned the coin thoughtfully in his fingers. “The dead aren’t really at rest, are they?”
“That’s the true purpose of a Summoner,” Royster said. “To give rest to spirits that would oth-erwise wander, or who cannot find their rest. And to defend them against those who would hold them against their will, or snuff out their energy for power’s sake, or bind them for evil.
“A land mage knows the secrets of the world around him, the stories of the birds and animals, the voices of every living thing. An air mage speaks to the winds and the weather. The sea itself answers a water mage, and all the things that live in it obey his commands. And a fire mage knows the myster-ies of the depths of the world,” Royster said. “But only to a spirit mage is it given to summon the dead and ease their pain and to know the mysteries of life itself.
That’s why the Lady permits so few to share the power, and why so often the power corrupts.”
“How can I know if I’m being corrupted, too?”
“You can never know for sure. The heart has a hundred ways of telling you all is well. Power used in anger is already corrupt. Guard against that, and you may be safe.”
Tris looked toward the fireplace, staring into the embers. “To know what Jared has done, and the evil Arontala has caused, and not feel angry…”
“There is a difference between anger and justice,” Royster said. “It appears the Lady’s hand is on your quest, and if you reach your goal, it may be that She is using you as the instrument of Her judgment. But if you go to Arontala with hatred in your heart, no matter how justly deserved, he will own your soul.”
“I’d rather be destroyed.”
“Pray the Lady it does not come to that. Bava K’aa couldn’t bring herself to destroy the Obsidian King, and so she was nearly destroyed by him.” Royster met Tris’s eyes. “How far are you willing to go to destroy the Obsidian King?”
Tired as he was, Tris felt his anger rise. “I’m will-ing to sacrifice myself, and I’ve proven that,” he snapped. “But if the Sisterhood is looking for me to offer up Kiara and the others as some kind of loy-alty test, then no, I won’t do it. There has to be another way.”
“And if there is no other way?” Royster asked, watching him carefully. “Then I’ll do what I must, even if I go to the Crone.”
TRIS WAS PLEASED to find Kiara waiting for him in the hallway when he concluded his lessons with Royster for the evening.
“Royster promised he’d let you off by the tenth bell,” she said conspiratorially.
“I didn’t even have to bribe him.”
Tris smiled tiredly. “I’m glad to see you—but I’m hardly up to sparkling conversation.”
Kiara took his hand. “That’s all right.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her. She reached up and touched the pendant on the chain around his throat, her gift for his birthday. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you,” he said, letting his fin-gers toy with her dark hair.
“I thought it might be a bright spot in your train-ing.” She tilted her head so that her cheek brushed his fingers.
“The only one,” Tris sighed.
“Since neither you nor Carina is talking about it, it must be grim.”
Tris fought down the memories of the dark send-ings, and the horror they foretold. “The Sisterhood isn’t much for half measures.”
They walked out onto a loggia overlooking the courtyard. Servants and merchants bustled across the dark cobblestones, their way lit by the small fires and torches that gave the guards a measure of light and heat in the cold evening.
Kiara shivered. Tris wrapped his arms around her, letting her lean back against him and enjoying the moment.
“Do you think that Jared and Arontala know where we are?”
Tris remembered the red fire that pulsed from Alaine’s orb, and the battle at the citadel. “I’m sure of it.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “How is it that two brothers can be so different?”
“We’re half-brothers, really. Same father—differ-ent mothers. Father was younger than I am now when he married Eldra—it was an arranged mar-riage, to keep the peace with Trevath. I understand that they hadn’t even met before their wedding day. But they fell very much in love.
“Remember that all this happened before I was born, and it wasn’t often spoken of openly, since father had remarried by then. But Eldra didn’t make a good impression. The ladies at court thought she was aloof and demanding. Her mood could be so dark that some of the noblewomen said she had a demon.
And she had difficulty producing an heir.”
Tris looked out over the darkened courtyard. “Through it all, father loved her.
And when she died bearing Jared, father was devastated. Bricen had just taken the throne—my grandfather died suddenly on a hunt—and he had no idea what to do with a baby. So Jared was left for the servants to raise and father retreated into his grief for ten years—until he met my mother.”
He smiled, remembering Serae. “Mother was like a spring wind, full of life and energy. And even though there was talk because she was the daughter of a sor-ceress, she gave father a son within the first year they were married. Me.
Kait came along seven years later— they lost three children in the years between.
“I always thought Jared hated Kait and me for having a mother—and for getting father’s attention. Jared was an awful bully, and he had a pack of noble trash that did his bidding and liked the way he took whatever he wanted. Jared had Eldra’s tem-per, and her dark moods. It got worse once he found Arontala—or Arontala found him.”
“I don’t know whether father realized the mis-takes he’d made with Jared or whether he just didn’t know what to do about it, but he wouldn’t crack down on Jared, and Jared knew it. Mother and grandmother did their best to keep Kait and me out of Jared’s way, but I don’t think they ever real-ized how often he thrashed us.” He gave a sad chuckle. “I got rather good at stealing herbs out of the kitchen to mix up poultices to patch us both up. Since Jared had a penchant for beating the servants, I always wondered whether the kitchen staff knew what I was doing, and made sure to leave what I needed where I could find it.”
“I’m sorry,” Kiara said, turning in his arms to face him. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memo-ries.”
Tris shrugged. “Everything we’re doing is about unseating Jared. It’s hardly as if I can keep from thinking about him.” He closed his eyes and the memory of the dark sending came again. He strug-gled to push the thought of Kiara with Jared from his mind.
She raised a hand to touch his cheek. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he said tightly. He met her eyes. “I want to keep you safe, Kiara. I know what Jared is like. I’d die before I’d let him hurt you.”
“The Oracle sent me on my Journey for a pur-pose,” she said, and let her right hand fall to the pommel of her sword. “I fight as well as you do— maybe even better.” There was a hint of challenge in her voice and Tris chuckled at the dare.
“And until Arontala is destroyed, father—and Isencroft— are in danger. It’s my fight too. Don’t you dare try to make me into one of those cosseted noble-women, spending their days playing tarle and embroidering handkerchiefs!”
After all the tension of the last week, it felt as good to laugh as it did to hold her near him. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Tris promised. “I love you,” he murmured, bending to kiss her. More than yon can imagine, he added silently as she returned the kiss. More than life itself.
MUCH LATER, WHEN Tris found his way back to his own quarters, he found a warm fire and a fresh bot-tle of Cartelesian brandy waiting for him. He kicked off his boots and sprawled in a chair in front of the fireplace. The brandy, a belated birthday gift from Vahanian and Soterius, made his aching mus-cles relax. He let the fire warm him as he drifted off to sleep in his chair.
Tris, help me! He could hear Kait’s voice in the darkness all around him, and Tris sat bolt upright. The cry rang in his mind, not from a dream, but from the netherworld itself. Tris closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.
Focusing his power, Tris cast his circle and drew his wards, plunging into the darkness after Kait’s cry. In the gray world where only his spirit could travel, he slipped among the dead and the undead, steeling himself against their cries and petitions. With all his strength, he focused on the sound of his sister’s voice. As he drew closer he could feel her pain, her fear, even as the image of her face, trapped in a glass prison, grew clearer in his mind. But before he could reach her, a wall of cold darkness drove him back.