Carina took a half step forward. “Who will be in the council chamber?” Tris had the sense, as he had often felt at Westmarch, that Carina and Taru’s acquaintance stemmed from somewhere before this present quest.
Taru gave a half-smile that did not reach her eyes. “Some friends—and others I’m not sure about.” She paused. “Sister Elam was the same age as Tris’s grandmother. She took over the leadership of the Sisterhood after Bava K’aa’s death.”
“Sister Landis will be Elam’s successor,” Taru said neutrally, but Tris saw a shadow of distaste color Carina’s face. “She was one of the younger mages at the time of the Mage War, and she often clashed with Bava K’aa over the role of the Sisterhood. Landis’ assistant, Alaine, may have recently given her reason to reconsider. Alaine was staying with another of our citadels when it was overrun by Jared’s troops. She barely escaped.”
Taru drew a deep breath. “And then there’s Theron.”
Carina muttered something that Tris did not catch.
“Theron will be one of your trainers,” Taru said. “She comes from Eastmark, and so her style may be similar to what you’ve learned from Kiara and Jonmarc.”
Taru frowned. “You may find that com-pared to Theron, Jonmarc’s training style is merciful.”
Merciful, Tris thought wryly. An odd word to use. Considering the pounding I’ve taken in the salle from Jonmarc, that doesn’t bode well.
Tris drew a deep breath, fighting his fear. Sweet Chenne, what have I gotten myself into? He knew that his real enemy was time. It was less than a fort-night before the Crone Moon, the last month of the year. The Hawthorn Moon at mid-year was just seven months away. There was very little time to prepare.
Tris knew what his failure would mean. Kiara delivered into Jared’s control, a thought that made his blood run cold. Jonmarc and the others hanged for treason. No relief for Margolan, and no justice for the wretched souls under Jared’s yoke. War, as Jared and Arontala sought to expand their bound-aries among the Winter Kingdoms. If he could prevent that future, Tris was willing to risk the con-frontation—even if it cost him his life. But Taru raised the thought that death was not the worst out-come, and the possibility that he might be possessed, his power used against his will, hardened Tris’s resolve. He felt a coldness wash over him that had nothing to do with the chill in the corridor. Taru was right—there was no alternative.
The citadel smelled of candle wax and herbs, with the musty scent of long-unused rooms. Taru stopped in front of two iron-bound double doors. The sound of raised voices carried through the heavy doors. While the words were not clear, the passion of the women’s voices was evident. One voice, higher in pitch, sounded angry. The other voice, low-pitched and measured, seemed resolute. Taru grimaced and rapped loudly at the door. The voices stopped abruptly, and Taru gestured for the doors too open.
Creaking heavily on their hinges, the doors slow-ly swung backward. Inside, the council chamber was hung with heavy tapestries, lit by a bank of torches and two fireplaces which were each the length and height of a tall man. Above the long table of dark wood hung two multi-tiered cande-labra, each holding dozens of candles. Even that light did not seem to completely dispel the shadows.
Despite the roaring fires, Tris shivered as he stepped into the room.
Four robed Sisters were seated at the table. At the center, facing Tris, was an old woman, cadaver-thin and very wrinkled. He guessed that she was Elam. At her right was an empty seat, and Tris assumed it was for Taru. To the thin woman’s left was another Sister in her middle years with a determined expres-sion.
Landis? He wondered. With gray short hair and a serious expression, she looked as if an inner dialogue continued the discussion they had over-heard from the hallway.
At Landis’s left was a younger woman who watched Tris intently. With dark blonde hair pulled back into a plain braid, she looked haggard. Tris guessed this was Alaine, Landis’s assistant. To the right of the empty seat was another young mage, a woman perhaps ten years Tris’s senior, whose lean form and strong arms seemed more fitting for a fighter than a sorceress. Her dark hair was cut short so that it stood up, brush-like, on her head. She seemed to be sizing Tris up like a sergeant-at-arms appraising a new recruit. He had no doubt that she was Theron. The Sisters did not seem to be con-cerned with Carina. She stepped behind him, as if relieved to be overlooked.
“Worthy Sisters,” Taru said when they stood before the table. “I bring to you Martris Drayke of Margolan, and with him, Carina Jesthrata.”
“Welcome,” said a figure at the center of the table. “I am Sister Elam,” the old woman said. Her voice was strong, at odds with how she looked, and Tris knew better than to judge a sorceress by her appearance.
“Do you accept our offer of training?” Elam asked.
Tris steeled himself. “I accept.”
Elam smiled mirthlessly, showing yellowed teeth. “As you may know, the Sisterhood does not lightly involve itself in the affairs of kings.”
At least, not openly, Tris thought.
From the stony expressions and stiff postures of some at the table, Tris surmised that Elam had greatly understated the amount of discussion that preceded the Sisterhood’s offer of training. He guessed that, at least for some at the table, the argu-ment was not yet over.
“Taru told me of your training at Westmarch. When you won Mageslayer from the ghost of King Argus, you passed one test.” A “test” Tris had bare-ly survived.
“If you are to be ready to face Arontala—and possibly, the Obsidian King himself—by the Hawthorn Moon, there is little time,” Elam said. “We don’t train from books. You’ll face a series of trials, not unlike what you encountered with King Argus. Real magic, sent against you with the full strength of our mages. Traps and obstacles that will push your body to its limits. We’ll see just what you’re willing to pay to win back the crown.”
“If I die here at the citadel, it seems rather point-less,” Tris countered.
Elam’s smile chilled him in its ruthlessness. “It would be worse for all of us should you confront the Obsidian King and fail. Pain is often the most powerful teacher of all. Your training begins today.”
AFTER THE MIDDAY bells, Tris was taken to a salle deep in the lower levels of the citadel. Despite Carina’s protests, Taru took the healer in a different direction, promising that Carina would be close at hand if need-ed. Carina gave Tris a wad of rope vine to hold in his cheek, a way to lessen the effect of the wormroot poi-son that could push his magic out of reach. Tris was dressed to skirmish, with a studded leather cuirass and Mageslayer in the scabbard at his belt. Theron was waiting for Tris in the windowless salle. She was nearly his own height. No longer dressed in her council robes, Theron wore the stud-ded leather armor of a fighter. She carried herself like a seasoned soldier.
“I wish to see you fight.”
“Very well,” Tris’s hand fell to Mageslayer’s pom-mel.
Theron launched herself at him, moving so quick-ly that Tris barely had time to draw his sword. Their blades clashed; Theron’s strength was easily equal that of any man Tris had fought. Parrying took all of his concentration as they traded blows that could cleave a man shoulder to hip.
Theron swung into an Eastmark kick, and seemed surprised when Tris blocked her, although the force of her kick almost knocked him off balance. Sweating hard, gripping Mageslayer two-handed, Tris saw the ensorcelled blade flare a brilliant green as Theron’s lips moved in the words of a spell. A streak of fire blazed from her left hand. The blade’s warning was all the time Tris had to summon his shielding, while deflecting another sword stroke that nearly tore the sword from his grip. Theron’s fire bounced away, only to be replaced by darkness so complete that only Mageslayer’s glow enabled Tris to see Theron’s attack.
He thought he saw a glint of approval in Theron’s eyes as he cast away the darkness, and before it cleared he swung into an Eastmark kick of his own, almost knocking her sword from her hand. As Theron’s lips moved once more, Tris felt blinding pain sear through his body. For an instant, he thought Theron had run him through.
He staggered, and Theron scored a gash on his forearm. Reeling, Tris held on to Mageslayer, gasp-ing as he struggled to counter her magical assault. As he focused his power to dull the pain, the gash on his forearm began to burn. Wormroot!
Tris thought, managing to deflect the worst of another thrust from Theron’s sword. This time, she scored his thigh, a deep cut that burned with the poison on her blade.
Tris nearly fell, swinging his blade wildly to keep Theron at bay as he drew on Mageslayer’s power to neutralize the effect of the poison. Even with the rope vine, the wormroot was beginning to take effect. Another wave of pain swept over him, as if he were being burned from the inside with hot coals, and his eyes stung. But he kept his grip on the sword, battling Theron’s press.
The tip of Theron’s blade opened a deep cut on Tris’s shoulder and he fought to retain control of his magic. His heart hammered and his palms sweat as he countered her blows, slowly losing control of his magic. Theron murmured another spell, and this time the pain seemed to be crushing his skull. Tris cried out, resisting the urge to drop his weapon and clasp his head in both hands.
Focusing all of his remaining power on Mageslayer, Tris saw in his mind an image of blue fire streaking from the sword’s tip, engulfing Theron and ending the pain. A heartbeat later Mageslayer blazed with light, fire streaking from its tip. He heard Theron gasp, her shields barely snap-ping up in time to deflect the attack.
Tris stumbled. The wormroot was making it dif-ficult for him to stay on his feet. With a predator’s smile, Theron whispered another spell. Mageslayer was torn from his hand by an irresistible force. With the blade’s magical protections gone Tris fell, unable to counteract the wormroot. As the worm-root pushed the magic beyond his reach, Tris felt his power fail him. Another wave of excruciating pain swept over him, and he nearly blacked out. Theron kicked Mageslayer beyond his grasp.
“Is that the best you can do?” she taunted, stand-ing over him. “Without your magic, you’re just a man, and a mage can break a man with a thought.” She whispered and the pain came again, worse this time. Tris’s screams echoed in the stone vault. The wormroot burned in his veins, and his magic was far out of reach.
Theron raised her sword over his neck like an executioner, and Tris rolled, scything his legs and bringing Theron down with him. She hit the ground hard and gasped. Tris dove for Mageslayer, barely able to keep his concentration against the pain. But as he struggled to his feet, his wounded leg folded under him. Theron rolled to her feet and swung her sword at his neck. For an instant, time seemed to stand still. Tris knew that her blade, if it connected, would kill.
It stopped just short of its mark as he collapsed to the floor.
“That’s nothing compared to what Arontala can inflict,” she hissed, laying the blade across his neck for emphasis. “And with the power of the Obsidian King, he can torment you past the point of death, past madness, and strip your soul to shreds.”
She might have said more, but the pain and the wormroot overwhelmed Tris, and darkness took him.
TRIS AWOKE IN a darkened room, utterly spent. He could still feel the wormroot in his blood, and knew that his power was out of reach. The void it left was unsettling to the point of discomfort. He remem-bered Carina telling him that a mage could be killed or driven mad by constant dosing with wormroot. He did not doubt it.
Tris shifted, and revised his assessment. While the torment of Theron’s spell was gone, his body ached of its own accord. Where Theron cut him the deep gashes were expertly bandaged, but even Carina’s healing had not completely removed their pain. He wanted to retch, and gauging from the taste in his mouth and how sore his stomach muscles felt, he ruefully gathered that he had probably already brought up any-thing he could, and more.
He sank back against the bed, angry at himself for his failure. I’m sure by now they’ve reconsidered training me, he thought. I’ll be lucky if they don’t just decide to kill me before Arontala does.
He heard a rap at the outer door to the sitting room, and the rustle of someone moving to answer. “You can’t go in there,” Carina protested. “He’s not ready.”
From the sound of the approaching footsteps, their visitor was undeterred. Tris forced himself to open his eyes and turn his throbbing head. Theron was approaching in the dim light. She wore her council robes, and her expression was of sincere concern.
“How long did it take for him to come around?” Theron asked Carina, who was clearly unhappy with the intrusion.
“Three candlemarks,” Carina clipped. “Most of the time, I was busy keeping him from choking on his own vomit. Just how much of this ‘training’ do you think he can take?”
Theron looked closely at Tris. “Just three candle-marks?” she asked. “And he’s only been hit with wormroot once before?”
Tris thought Carina might explode with the anger that seethed in her voice.
“Three candlemarks is an eternity,” she said between gritted teeth. “And com-pared to how much wormroot you managed to get into his system, what he had before was hardly any-thing.”
Theron nodded. “Exactly. He’s adapting. Learning to work around it. The last time—how did he react?”
“We’d just been attacked by soldiers. He barely stayed on his horse, and he collapsed when we got to the cell.”
“Um hum.” Theron moved to take Tris’s pulse and look into his eyes.
“I’m awake and alive,” Tris managed through parched lips. “You can speak like I’m here.”
“You kept fighting, after three doses of poison,” Theron remarked. “Your Eastmark kick needs some work, but given your condition, it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. We’ve got to work on your control. You didn’t effectively counter the pain spell.”
“I know.”
“And your magic got wobbly after you lost Mageslayer.”
“Wobbly?” Tris echoed hoarsely. “It was out of reach.”
“Not immediately. For an untrained mage, you hung on to it—at least a little bit—for quite a while.” Theron managed a smile. “I’m glad you weren’t at full strength when you sent that blast my way, or we might have needed a new trainer.”