The Blood King (18 page)

The old man looked at his son, and then back to Tris. “I can do no more to help him,” the ghost replied. “And I’ve worked the fields since I could walk. I’m tired. It’s time.”

Kelse stood slowly, and took a step toward the wraith. “We didn’t get to say goodbye,” he said in a strangled voice. “The Goddess bless you, father, and hold you in Her arms.” He made the sign of the Lady in blessing.

The ghost turned back toward Tris, who nodded, and began to murmur the passing over ritual. As he spoke the words of power, he felt the threshold open, although no one else but the old man’s spirit could see it. In the distance, Tris heard a voice; the words were beyond his grasp but the sweetness pulled at his soul. He closed his eyes and felt, not saw, as the old man turned toward that voice and squared his shoulders, crossing the threshold. When Tris opened his eyes again he found Kelse staring, wide-eyed, at the place where the apparition had been.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Kelse backed away, still bowing in respect as one of the bailiffs led him to the door.

Carroway and Royster showed up at lunchtime bearing a plate of cheese and meat for Tris, and pitchers of warm ale. The two retreated to seats near the back of the room, and Royster withdrew a leather volume from the folds of his heavy robes.

“What brings you here?” Tris was glad for a momentary reprieve.

Carroway grinned. “When we heard what was happening, we didn’t want to miss it.”

“As I’ve told you, your grandmother didn’t have a decent chronicler in the lot,”

Royster said. “We intend to fix that. I’ve already begun your history— I’m calling it the Chronicles of the Necromancer. Catchy, isn’t it?”

“And since music travels faster than the wind, I figured that I’d get the inspiration for some tavern songs, the kind that stirs the ladies to tears and make strong men rise up to arms.” Carroway smiled conspiratorially.

“Musicians make the best spies.”

Tris chuckled. Carroway had always seemed to know what was going on anywhere in the kingdom. Jared viewed traveling bards with distrust; he sought to silence or imprison those he considered a threat. Since most of the farmers and many of the villagers could neither read nor write, song, skit, and story were the most reliable ways to transmit news. Even in matters of faith, the acolytes of the Lady depended on pictures and symbols to share the rudiments of belief. Kings and the Sisterhood and the temple priestesses had their libraries, but most of the people cared only enough about histo-ry to share a sense of tribe or have an excuse to hate their enemies, and about faith to find a good luck charm for warding off monsters, real and imagined.

“I’m open to all the help we can get.” Tris thought of the ghosts he had seen earlier in the day. “But if you’re going to stay, prepare yourselves. The tales aren’t always easy to hear.”

The next petitioner was a tall, angular woman who smelled of fish. Although she might have been in her third decade, her face was creased from worry, and her eyes were troubled.

“By your leave, m’lord.” The woman made an awkward curtsey.

“What is it you seek?” Tris asked.

“My only son is dead a year,” she said. “We quar-reled over a small matter, but the quarrel became bitter, and my tongue got the best of me. In his despair, he hanged himself.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’d give all I possess to have him back with me.”

“That power is not given to me.”

“I know that. But if you can summon him, my lord, please—I wish to beg his forgiveness, and to tell him that I love him.”

“What is the boy’s name?”

“Tabar. His name was Tabar.”

Tris took a deep breath and let himself slip into the Plains of Spirit. He called for the ghost of the woman’s son, waiting until an answer came. A young man appeared, bearing the red scar of a noose. Tris used a little more magic, and the spirit became visible. For a moment, he thought the woman might swoon. She clutched at her heart and dropped to her knees.

“Forgive me!” she cried, prostrating herself at the ghost’s feet. “Tabar, I never meant for our quarrel to go so far. I wish you had put a knife through my heart instead of leaving me this way!”

The young man’s ghost stepped toward her and knelt, taking her into his insubstantial arms. “I was foolish and angry,” the ghost said. “1 didn’t mean to die; I wanted to worry you and win my point. When the breath left me and you found my body, I saw your pain. Every day I’ve been with you, although you couldn’t see me. I was wrong—both in the quar-rel and for taking my life. I know it can’t be undone. I need your forgiveness before I can rest.”

The woman reached out to touch the dead boy’s face. “I didn’t know that you were with me,” she said, as tears streaked down her cheeks. “I want you to stay with me, but I know it’s wrong to keep you from your rest. I just couldn’t let you go with-out telling you how sorry I am, without saying goodbye.” She embraced the spirit, wrapping her arms around the wraith, soaking up one last moment of contact. She moved as if to kiss the boy’s forehead, although her lips met only air, and the boy returned the kiss.

“I thank the Lady that you came to us,” the woman said to Tris, standing beside the ghost. “M’lord, will you see him across, so that I know he is safe on the other side?”

Tris stretched out his hands and spoke the words of power, feeling the young man’s ghost fade before him and grow stronger on the Plains of Spirit. As Tris made the passing over ritual, he felt the ghost’s turmoil subside, replaced by a sense of peace, tinged by regret. Then the spirit was gone, and only the woman stood before him. She bowed low.

“Thank you, m’lord,” she murmured. “May the Lady favor you.”

As he waited for the next petitioner, Tris sipped some of Carina’s headache tea.

It did little to ease the throbbing behind his eyes that came with can-dlemarks of using his magic. He could see a line of supplicants that wound out of the room. Those were the living who waited for their chance to speak with the dead. In a room that had become cold even for the season, spirits milled among them, awaiting their turn. Some of the spirits were strong enough to manifest on their own, but many were

visible only to Tris, until he acknowledged them and lent them the energy to take form. It had been the same every day since he began to hold court for the spirits, and he was certain that the demand for his help would last until he left Principality.

There was bitter irony in knowing that he could lay to rest everyone’s ghosts except his own. While he could intercede on behalf of all of his petitioners, the spirits of his mother and sister remained beyond his reach, trapped in Arontala’s orb, in torment.

Tris looked at the desperate faces of those who came to beg his help. For him, the inability to reach Kait and Serae was an aberration, as all the other spirits responded to his call. But Tris knew that for those who came to seek his intercession, the silence was unbearable. Try as he might to distance himself from the emotion of the crowd, his own loss was too fresh for him to be objective. And so he drove himself to exhaustion, giving closure to others that he could not find for himself.

He had seen at least fifty supplicants since morn-ing, and Tris knew he could not go on much longer before he was exhausted. Tris motioned to the bailiff.

“Please—close the doors and bid them come again tomorrow. I’ll hear this spirit’s request, but then I’ve got to rest.”

The spirit who awaited his attention was the ghost of a man in his fifth decade, with the tight-jawed look of a merchant. He bowed when he was brought to stand before Tris. Tris willed for the spirit to become visible to the others in the room, and the man’s spirit took form.

“My lord Summoner,” he said formally. “A peti-tion, if you will.”

“What do you seek?”

“Justice, m’lord,” the ghost replied. “I’m Hanre, the silversmith. For twenty years, my partner Yent and I built a profitable business. I did not know that Yent was seducing my wife and that he wanted all the profits of the business for himself. He put poison in my cup, and told the doctors that it was a weak heart when I collapsed at my work bench. Within a few months of my death, Yent married my widow. He stole my life from me. My lord, I beg of you. Let there be justice done!”

Tris stretched out his mage sense, but read no falseness in the spirit’s words. He gestured, and one of Staden’s guards approached. “Tell your story again to this guard,” Tris instructed. Hanre repeat-ed his tale, and the guard listened solemnly.

“Bear the news to King Staden,” Tris told the guard. “It’s for him to determine how to deal with the murderer. You can witness that you heard the story yourself.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The soldier bowed. Hanre watched solemnly as the soldier departed.

“No punishment can return my life,” Hanre said sadly. “It grieves me to know that all the work I’ve done these many years is now to the profit of a murderer!”

Tris blinked, trying to focus. His head was pounding so badly that it was becoming difficult to see. “Would you have me help you make the pas-sage?” he asked Hanre’s ghost.

The silversmith shook his head. “Not yet, my lord Summoner. I would stay and see justice be done. Then, perhaps, I can truly rest. Thank you, m’lord. I’m in your debt.” The spirit made a deep bow, and

departed. Tris signaled to the bailiff to close the doors. He hoped that he could make it up to his rooms before the headache grew any worse.

A HOT BATH and a good supper eased both Tris’s headache and the stiff muscles he had from sword practice. He’d wrenched his neck climbing, and he had still not completely recovered from his injuries at the citadel. The warm fire sent him to sleep. He dozed in a chair in his rooms until a sharp knock at the door roused him. A page stood in the hallway.

“Begging your pardon, Lord Wizard,” the boy said nervously, “but the king wishes you to meet with him in his sitting room.”

“I’m hardly dressed for an audience,” he said wearily. “Please give me a few minutes to get ready.” Moving as quickly as he could, Tris tried to ignore his headache as he dressed to meet with King Staden. The page waited until Tris emerged. They walked the short distance to the king’s doors, and the guards stood to the side to allow Tris to enter.

Staden took in Tris’s condition. “How long do you think you can go on like this, before you have nothing left?” Tris gave a courteous bow that made his head pound.

“Just long enough, I guess,” Tris replied. With Staden was another man, and Tris frowned, strug-gling to place the unexpectedly familiar face. The man had white hair and was dressed well without ostentation. His bearing spoke of nobility.

Tris finally connected the face with a memory, and he recognized Abelard, Bricen’s ambassador to Principality.

Tris stepped forward to shake Abelard’s hand, but the older man bowed low.

“Greetings, my prince,” the ambassador said, accepting Tris’s hand as Tris bid him rise. “We thank the Goddess for your safe passage to Principality.”

Staden motioned for them sit near the fire. A servant brought them each a mug of warm mulled wine.

“Abelard has been here in Principality City, under my protection, since the coup,” said Staden. “With your comings and goings to the Sisterhood, I haven’t had the chance to present him before this. I imagine you two have much to discuss,” he said, rising. Staden bustled out of the room before either man could reply.

“Is this official business?” Tris watched the older man closely.

Abelard chuckled sadly. “There’s been no official business since I declined Jared’s demand that I return to Shekerishet. Word of the coup reached me just before Jared’s orders. I was a friend to your father for many years. I could not serve his murder-er. And so I’m an exile, kept by King Staden’s kindness, for which I’m grateful.”

“What of the other ambassadors?” Tris asked. He sipped at the wine, which eased his pounding headache.

“Much the same. Cattoril is dead. Drawn and quartered, I hear, for his failure to bring Princess Kiara back with him from Isencroft.”

“And the others?”

“All, like myself, are in exile. We remain in touch, hoping that there might be some way to serve our homeland, not daring to believe the rumors that you had survived.

“We had no man in Nargi, so from that kingdom I have no news,” continued Abelard. “You’ve met Mikhail, who brings news from my counterpart in Dhasson now that magicked beasts have closed the border.”

“The beasts were sent by Arontala to keep me from reaching King Harrol’s court.”

“That may well be,” Abelard said. “I believe Jared’s coup was long-planned.

From Trevath, I hear little, but the last message gave me pause. Their king is concerned about the events in Margolan, and fears being drawn into war.”

“Why?”

“Are you familiar with Lord Curane?”

Tris nodded. Curane held lands on Margolan’s southern plains. Bricen had considered Curane self-serving, and of dubious honor.

“Curane’s wife is from a powerful family in Trevath, one that wields much influence at court. Trevath’s king is concerned that Lord Curane’s fam-ily ties may compromise Trevath, and bring Jared’s army against them.”

“Why would Jared care?”

“Because it is said that Curane’s granddaughter bears Jared’s child.”

“By rights, half of Margolan should be Jared’s bastards,” Tris said dryly. “But if that’s true, it bodes darkly for the future.”

“Aye, my prince. Although you’ve more pressing threats to deal with, and there are years before the throne is in danger. The situation will bear watch-ing.

“From Eastmark, King Kalcen is taking a person-al interest in Margolan’s troubles. Princess Kiara’s mother, Viata, was his older sister. So Jared’s threat to Viata’s daughter is worthy of Kalcen’s regard.” Abelard smiled knowingly. “Or perhaps, he thinks history might repeat itself.”

“How so?”

“A little more than twenty years ago, Donelan of Isencroft met Viata of Eastmark at a court ball, here in Principality. Eastmark does not give its daughters to wed outlanders, but the two fell very much in love. They eloped, keeping their wedding a secret until Viata was with child and the bond was irrev-ocable.