Dark Haven (10 page)

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Tris shrugged. “It’s all one Goddess. I’ve never quite figured out what the fuss was about. Father wasn’t exactly observant, if you recall.”

“Ah, but the ‘faithful’ don’t see it that way,” Mikhail said. He grew serious. “Out in the countryside, all people care about is getting enough rain for the crops and keeping the plague away. They’ll pray to whichever Aspect seems most likely to make that happen. But here in the city—well, you know how some of the folks can be. They don’t care what you actually do as long as you put on the right show when people are looking. And they don’t like ‘foreign’ Aspects.”

“Kiara knows all about being careful,” Tris replied, extinguishing the handfire and closing the door to the queen’s suite. “She’s already juggled public profession to Chenne and private devotion to Athira with her mother. And she was raised from birth to be the bride of the Margolan heir,” he said with a hint of irony, “so she was well‐schooled in observance to the Mother and Childe.” That long‐ago betrothal

contract originally paired Kiara with Jared, the eldest and the heir to the throne. Kiara loathed Jared as much as Tris did, and her attempt to escape that betrothal contract had put her on the road to the Library at Westmarch, where she and Tris had met and their fates had intertwined.

Mikhail cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t bring that up in public if I were you. From what Carroway says, the court wags are already having a field day with you stealing Jared’s bride‐to‐be.”

Tris shrugged. “Father married the daughter of a sorceress. Eventually, mother won over the nobles who counted. Some of the court would gossip even if I married the Goddess Herself!”

Tris fingered the silver amulet at his throat, a birthday gift from Kiara. He longed for her company more than ever.

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Mikhail sensed the shift in his mood. “You’re worried about bringing her here, aren’t you?”

Tris sighed. “Back when we first met him, Jonmarc made the comment that ‘friends and lovers are just hostages to fate, waiting to be taken.’”

Mikhail laughed. “And you can see how well he followed his own advice, falling head over heels for Carina!”

“He’s still right. People who want to get to me will try to hurt her—or our children—to do it. And right now, there seem to be an awful lot of people who have it in for me. Jared didn’t give a damn about anyone. He wasn’t vulnerable. ”

“Don’t underestimate Kiara. I’ve seen her fight—she’s almost as good as Jonmarc. She’s not one of those helpless noble maidens. You said yourself that she ran Isencroft from behind the throne when her father was ill. She couldn’t be better prepared.”

“You know the pressure to produce an heir. She’s hardly going to be swinging into an East‐mark kick when she’s big with a baby. The politics at court can be as vicious as a battlefield. We haven’t sniffed out all of the nobles loyal to Jared. She’s going to be vulnerable and I’ll be down on the southern plains tied up in a siege.”

Mikhail laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m staying behind to help out with that, remember? Kiara won’t be alone. She’ll have Harrtuck and Zachar. Carroway and his bards know all the gossip.

They’ll help where they can. And you know the castle ghosts and your dogs will keep an eye on her.”

“It will be good for Shekerishet to have a queen once more.” The voice came from behind him.

He turned. The ghost of Comar Hassad, one of his father’s men‐at‐arms slain in the coup, was just visible at the shadow’s edge. “We’re sworn to her protection, as we are to yours. Although,”

the spirit said with chagrin, “our ability to intervene is limited. I am sorry about your injury, my 81

Lord.”

“If it hadn’t been for a ghost’s warning, I might be one of you now. It was enough.”

Hassad’s ghost nodded. “Perhaps we serve best by being the eyes and ears of the palace. Not all those within Shekerishet are loyal. They serve only themselves.”

“You’ll look after Kiara, when I go to war?” Tris asked.

“She’ll bear the heir to the throne. We’re oath‐bound to protect both of them.” Hassad paused.

“Some of us can make ourselves seen to her. Seanna has been a handmaid to Mar‐golan’s queens for two hundred years. She can’t wait to meet your bride. And Ula has watched over the babes in the royal nursery for just as long, so she’s quite excited—it’s been a long time since there’s been a little one for her to fuss over.”

Tris chuckled. “I remember Ula‐. Father didn’t believe I could see her, but I think Mother understood. Ula would stand at the foot of my bed, and sometimes, if I listened very hard, I could hear her humming. When I was very little, I wasn’t afraid when Ula was there. And when I was older, Ula would wake me by jerking back the covers if Jared was coming so Kait and I could hide.”

Hassad smiled. “Ula died in the Great Plague. She was a nursemaid to King Hotten’s children.

When his youngest took sick, Ula wouldn’t leave him. She caught the plague from him. They died together, and the king buried Ula next to his son so they would always be together. Ever since then, she has watched over the heirs.”

Coalan stuck his head into the room. “The generals are ready.”

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“Ban asked me to…accompany…you to your meeting,” Mikhail said.

“Not taking any chances, are you?”

“None of us are,” Mikhail replied.

De spite Mikhail’s company, two human guards joined them as they made their way down to the chamber where the generals waited. As they walked, Tris readied himself for the encounter. The pain medicine had begun to wear off, and his shoulder throbbed.

Meeting with the council of generals was one of the duties of kingship Tris liked least. Of all his counselors, the generals were consistently the most negative and the least cooperative. As Tris and his escort reached the war room, Mikhail stepped forward and opened the door. The vayasb moru bowed as Tris passed by.

“I’ll wait for you,” Mikhail said, closing the door behind Tris.

“Your Majesty!” General Senne greeted him, and the others rose and bowed. Tris had the strong feeling his arrival had interrupted an argument, and the set to Soterius’s jaw supported his intuition. Senne pulled back the chair at the head of the table for Tris, who hoped he didn’t look as much in need of a seat as he felt. The six men were solicitous with expressions of concern.

Tris noted that only one man remained on the fringe, less talkative than usual. Tov Harrtuck, Captain of the Guard, looked both conflicted and crestfallen.

“By your leave, Sire.” Harrtuck moved around the table toward Tris. The stocky man always looked like he had just come from a hard workout in the salle. Today, his dark hair was askew and even his usually well‐trimmed beard seemed disheveled‐. Harrtuck sank to one knee and offered his sheathed sword on his outstretched hands. “I failed to protect you,” Harrtuck said in a gravelly voice. “I offer you my sword and my commission.”

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Ban Soterius looked ready to burst with anger. General Senne and General Palinn appeared uncomfortable. Tris glanced toward Tarq and Rallan. Both sat comfortably, and while their faces were impassive, the confidence of their posture told Tris all he needed to know.

Tris turned his attention to Harrtuck, who knelt before him, his head down, eyes averted. “On the night my father was murdered, you ran for the castle, hoping to save the rest of my family.

Without your service, I wouldn’t have escaped, or survived to take back the throne.” Tris reached down and folded his hands over Harrtuck’s hands around his proffered sword. “Your men acted quickly and bravely. They stopped the assassin.”

“It would have been nice to find out who sent him,” Tarq muttered.

Tris looked at the general with narrowed eyes. “I summoned the assassin’s spirit. Surely Soterius told you.”

“My mistake.”

Tris returned his attention to Harrtuck. “I won’t accept your offer. There’s no one I trust more or who’s better suited to the task.” He managed a thin smile. “Now please, take back your sword and let’s get down to business.”

Harrtuck met his eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured as he belted on his sword and returned to his seat. Soterius had calmed, although his eyes flashed. Tris imagined they would discuss the issue at length in private. Senne and Palinn looked relieved. Tarq and Rallan revealed nothing. Tris guessed that the conversation immediately prior to his entry had involved finger‐pointing and blame around the assassination attempt.

Tris made little attempt to hide his annoyance. “It’s impossible to keep a king completely safe without locking him up in his own tower,” he said. “If there’s anyone at this table who’s better 84

acquainted with every weak point of this castle than Ban, Tov, and myself, I’d like to know it. To my knowledge, we’re the only ones here who have ever tried to infiltrate Shekerishet and kill the king.” Putting their efforts to overthrow Jared and reclaim the throne in those terms brought a glimmer of amusement to Soterius’s eyes, and even lightened Harrtuck’s mood.

“Point taken, Sire,” said Rallan. “But the fact remains that this assassin was hired by someone with Trevath gold.”

“Curane is less than a day’s ride to the Trevath border,” added Tarq.

“If you were going to hire an assassin, wouldn’t it be nice to throw off the scent by casting blame on the player everyone wants to suspect?” Senne countered. Senne was the age of Tris’s father, and had been a close friend of the late king. Bricen had spoken well of Senne. He had deserted with his troops when Jared seized the throne, eluding the manhunts and using a small band of deserters to harry Jared’s troops throughout the mountain passes of central Margolan, eventually joining’ his efforts with the insurrection Soterius and Mikhail had raised.

Palinn, too, had paid a price for his‐loyalty to King Bricen. He and his troops had also deserted.

But their hiding place had been betrayed, and Palinn lived to see his troops, his lands, and his family destroyed by Jared’s decree. He survived six months in Jared’s dungeons. A thin red scar around his throat and a gravelly voice were reminders of a garroting and hinted at what he had endured. His hair, previously a sable black, had turned white as snow. His eyes, in unguarded moments, revealed glimpses of what he would not discuss.

“Trevath has meddled in Margolan’s affairs before,” responded Tarq.

Tarq, Tris thought with distaste, had fled into south Isencroft, where he had waited out the remainder of the war. Rallan had sought refuge with a noble family in northern Margolan.

Neither had played any role in overthrowing Jared. Only a lack of other qualified candidates for the roles had convinced Tris to keep the two men in their positions.

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“We can’t win a war against Trevath right now, not with the army in its present condition,”

replied Palinn. “We can’t fight both Trevath and Curane’s men. Maybe Curane did receive assistance from Trevath. And maybe Curane wants to lead us into a war he knows we can’t win, so he can sit back and claim the spoils.”

“The fact remains—” Rallan began.

“We have no facts, except one. Someone tried to kill Tris,” snapped Soterius. “And in a fortnight, we’re going to have a palace full of visiting royalty. We’d damn well better figure how to assure their safety. An incident like this at the wedding, and we could find ourselves at war with one of our allies.”

“Ban’s right,” Harrtuck said. “We need to make sure that the wedding goes smoothly. In my opinion,” he said with a flinty look at both Tarq and Rallan, “that means soldiers as well as guardsman on patrol throughout the castle grounds, the villages below, and the main routes into the city.”

“I agree,” said Soterius. “If we fail to secure the wedding, we’ll be so busy cleaning up the mess that we won’t get free to march on Curane before the snows.”

“Agreed,” replied Senne, although it was clear from the expressions on Tarq and Italian’s faces that they did not share the opinion. “When’s the first possibility for marching on Curane?”

“Once the feast is done, we should move quickly,” grumbled Rallan. “We’ll be late into the fall.

The north will already have snow by then.”

“We’re headed south. Snow doesn’t worry me,” replied Palinn. “Best time of year for a siege.”

His voice, a painful rasp, immediately commanded attention. Tris listened in silence as the 86

generals debated the possible routes and options for attack for nearly a candle‐mark.

Palinn turned to face Tris. “It would be advisable to secure the secession before we leave for Curane’s lands.”

“Preferable, but we have no way to know whether the… timing… will be fortuitous,” replied Tarq, attempting to be delicate.

“I understand that handling such things is part of the responsibility of those who arrange the dates,” responded Rallan.

The comments hit Tris like‐ a dousing of cold water. A first flush of embarrassment gave way to anger. Secure the secession! They’re discussing Kiara and me as if we were a pair of horses to be put out for stud, he thought

indignantly. And in a way we are. Isn’t that part of it? Noble bloodlines, champion heritage—

“That’s enough,” Tris broke in.

“I realize this is a sensitive topic, Sire,” Senne said smoothly, with a glare to silence Tarq and Rallan. “We mean no disrespect, to you or the princess. But the safety of Margolan is our concern, and a smooth succession bodes well for the kingdom. As matters stand, if you were to fall in battle—may the Lady protect you always—Jared’s bastard would be the legitimate heir. Until you produce an heir of your own, we live with that peril. Capable as she may be, the future Queen cannot rule Margolan save as regent for a child.”

Tris forced back his anger. Senne was right. The coming of winter provided for a short honeymoon—perhaps at most a month— before the army would have to march south or wait until spring. He had heard that healers could tamper with nature’s cycles to improve the odds of 87

conception, just as a skilled healer or hedge witch could prevent pregnancy. Such things were the most common matters for which both healers and hedge witches were consulted.

Damn! Tris thought. If there was one thing I wanted to be free of Margolan intrigue, it was a private space for Kiara and me. He knew better. A royal wedding was by definition betrothed by arrangement to Jared made the buzz of court gossip that much higher. Spending a year on the road with her beforehand and proposing without even a ‘by your leave’ to the Council raised even more eyebrows. Add to that talk that it was a marriage of necessity given Isencroft’s poor fortunes of late and a hint of scandal about a bride‐to‐be who was an apt swordswoman; Tris knew he had already given the Margolan court more to talk about than in many a year. “My Liege, you’re pale,” Soterius said. I’m not quite ready to swoon, but it would be a good excuse to.get out of this damnable conversation, Tris thought ill‐temperedly. “I would prefer to leave the details for another time,” he replied.