Dark Haven (13 page)

“I can only imagine how important this celebration is to you, your majesty. It’s my honor to make sure every detail is as it should be.”

“It’s time,” Zachar said. He went to the top of the stairs. “All hail, all hail. Your king, Mar‐tris of Margolan, is among you now. Let the feast begin!”

I still wish Jonmarc were here, Tris thought. He’s usually well‐armed enough to stop a coup single‐handedly.

The crowd murmured, parting as Tris and his friends made their way toward the platform with the throne and head table. Carroway veered off to take his place with the musicians and entertainers. As Tris and the others sat down at the banquet table and the rest of the guests took their seats, the serving staff brought out heaping platters of steaming food. The aroma of roasted venison, meat pies, pheasants, and baked lamb filled the common room. Freshly‐baked bread, candied fruits, and heavy rum puddings waited on sideboards as servants poured the wine and passed the pitchers of ale. The castle ghosts, never more in evidence than on this night of Haunts, flitted among the guests.

Tris sipped at his wine and looked out over the crowd. How different from a year ago! The older, more established lords who owed Bricen decades of fealty had once been notable by their absence, replaced by younger, hot‐headed new nobles who liked Jared’s talk of a glorious 106

empire. Now, those newly minted nobles were gone—fled when Jared’s reign collapsed, in hiding or exile, captured and tried for their

support of the traitor, or dead in battle. The older lords had returned.

But not all of them. Lord Alton had died with his family for his loyalty to Bricen. Lord Mont-bane’s ill‐fated attempt to rebel against Jared had earned him the gallows. Lord and Lady Theiroth had been hanged for plotting to poison Jared.

“Hail, King Martris, son of Bricen!” came a cry from among the tables. “Hail, to the King of Margolan!”

The cry began to echo through the common room until it became a chant that reverberated from the rafters. Tris raised a hand to still the cheers, and stood.

“Thank you,” he said. “Tonight we celebrate the Feast of the Departed. I dedicate this evening to the memory of King Bricen and Queen Serae, my sister, Kait, and to all the loved ones we have lost.” He raised his goblet; all around him, others did the same. “To their memories, that their spirits may live on in peace.”

“Aye.”

The first course was already on the tables, and its aroma tempted Tris from his gloomy mood.

Balladeers performed their opening song, a haunting tale in memory of the late royal family. Its effect was not lost on the audience, though Tris found himself dry‐eyed. Perhaps, he thought, I can’t cry for them any more. Next came one of Serae’s favourite ballads, then a ribald tavern tune known to be one of Bricen’s favorites, and finally the “Falconer’s Lament” in memory of Kait. It was this final song that made Tris avert his face until he regained his composure. The skirling notes told of a wandering falconer, forsaking home and comfort to search for a wounded prize bird. The castle ghosts, known to be partial to good entertainment, 107

clustered silently to listen. When Carroway strummed the final notes on his lyre and bowed his head, the room exploded into applause.

The next number also bore Carroway’s mark, though it was a different set of minstrels who performed it. A suite of songs from Isen‐croft, in honor of the king’s betrothed, with dancers in the soft silk tunic and pants common in southern Isencroft. The entertainment was well-received, and Tris knew that Carroway had begun seeding Isencroft‐themed songs and diversions into the entertainment of the palace months ago to ease the acceptance of a foreign queen.

After each course, as the kitchen prepared for the next indulgence, Zachar presented a dozen of the guests to the king. Soterius stood to Tris’s left as the receiving line formed, close enough to draw his sword if trouble arose.

Tris looked out over the next group awaiting their moment of audience. Lord Acton was the first of many. There were rumors that he had turned away a legion of Jared’s soldiers by his steady gaze and a curt word of dismissal. Acton bowed low as he approached the throne, slowed by his age.

“Rise, old friend.”

“It’s good to see you wear the crown, King Martris,” Acton said in a voice as clear and strong as a young man’s. “Some among us believe it was always the Lady’s will that it be so.”

“My father spoke often of his trust in you. I shall count on the same.”

“The days are past when I can ride in battle, as I did with Bricen. But if I may yet serve, you need only give the word.”

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“Thank you.”

“Good feast to you, my king,” greeted the next noble in line. Tris steeled himself to show nothing on his face. Duke Guarov was as suspicious as Acton was trustworthy. Tris knew that Soterius had spies in Guarov’s manor house. No links to Curane had been found— yet. Still, Guarov had managed to weather Jared’s reign remarkably unscathed. While he had not openly collaborated, it was widely suspected that had had found less direct ways to keep the usurper king content.

Rumor had it that Guarov had profited handsomely under Jared, aligning his blacksmiths, his farmers, and his craftsmen to turn out whatever the king demanded for a premium price. Tris accepted Guarov’s professions of tribute with a stony face.

He brightened, however, when Lady Eadoin was presented. The elderly lady held the arm of a striking young woman. Eadoin and her companion curtsied low. Lady Eadoin’s bloodlines were royal for as long as anyone with memory could count, far older even than Bricen’s line‐age.

Eadoin was the last of a great noble family. Childless, she was Margolan’s premier supporter of the bards.

“My king and lord,” Eadoin said in a voice thick with the accent of Margolan’s old nobility‐

“My gracious lady,” Tris replied, smiling.

“It will be good for Margolan to have a young queen once more. The royal nursery needs to be full once again.”

“All things in due course, my lady.”

A smile played at the corners of Eadoin’s lips. “Of course, my king. My seer predicts that in the year to come, the year of your marriage, there will be ample harvest and fine wine. Such predictions are good for child bearing, you know.”

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“Your wish is gracious.”

“Our kingdom prospers most when a good king has a healthy heir—or two,” Eadoin said with a twinkle in her eye.

“We’ll keep that in mind.” Tris barely kept the laughter out of his voice.’ He glanced back at Soterius to see him staring at the young woman who gently held Eadoin’s arm.

“I don’t know if you recall my niece, Alyssandra,” Eadoin said with a hint of mischief in her voice. “Perhaps she and your friend have already met.”

“Alle?” Soterius managed to stammer, looking completely at a loss.

Alyssandra tossed back her long blonde hair. “I told you no one was where they belonged or who they seemed, Ban Soterius!”

“I believe my niece may have met General Soterius during the insurrection,” Eadoin said. “Alle helped some of the bards escape after the Usurper killed my brother’s family. I thought Alle might make a good companion for the new queen. Help her navigate the court. Introduce her to the nobility.” Eadoin leaned forward so that only Tris could hear her next words. “And watch her back. Alle slit two of the soldiers’ throats the night she saved the minstrels.”

“I think it would be lovely for Alle to meet Kiara. Her skills sound… perfect.”

Eadoin patted him on the arm. “We’ll talk later. Carroway can make arrangements.” Eadoin 110

allowed Alle to lead her back toward the tables, where a new course awaited.

The evening wore on, with course after course of food and a dizzying array of performers.

Acrobats, magicians and a trained dog (whose abilities Tris sensed to be enhanced by magic) kept the crowd cheered. Finally, the bells tolled midnight, and Tris stood. He raised his glass in tribute.

“Good gentles,” Tris said loudly. “Tonight, let both the living and the dead make merry!

As we are now, so once were they. And, by the Goddess, as they are now, so we shall someday be, so best we eat and drink while we may!” They were the same words his father had given a year before. Tris’s mouth tasted of ash as he pronounced the blessing, knowing how ironic it had proven for his father.

The outer doors to the great room swung open and a black robed figure, its face shrouded by a deep cowl, stood in the doorway bearing a glittering chalice. The figure bowed in deference to Tris,.who bowed in return.

“Greetings, Grandmother Spirit. We are ready for the march.” From behind the robed figure of the Crone emerged three costumed actors, each in one of the other three faces of the quartern Goddess: Mother, Childe, and Lover. Tris glanced at both Soterius and Har‐rtuck who stood with him, and together they led the group assembled at the king’s table down the aisle toward the waiting players, with the tables emptying as the other guests filed in behind them.

Carroway and the other musicians piped a haunting tune as the procession moved out of the dining hall, through the main corridor of the palace, and out of the main entrance. Tris’s senses and his magic were on high alert in the throng, and he noted the number of guards. The night was cold enough that his breath misted as they headed toward the large bonfire at the far end of the bailey.

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Some of the procession passed them by and continued into the town, costumed revelers in the guise of the four aspects of the Lady, drunk and ready to find entertainment this night. A smaller group carried single candles in a slow procession of dark, hooded figures. Those who sought special favors from the Lady often chose to spend the night of Haunts in silent reflection. Tris opened the king’s private chapel to these penitents.

All around them, the smell and noise of the feast pressed close in the cold air. For those not invited to dine with the king, vendors sold roasted meat pies from carts and hawked watered ale. Others sold trinkets for lovers, good luck charms, divinations of dubious veracity, and shiny baubles.

“This year, no one gets his fortune told,” Carroway said as he slipped up behind Tris. A parade of mourners carrying mannequins and puppets to resemble the dead wound their way through the crowd with song and the jangle of bells.

“You made a better‐looking corpse than that,” Soterius said, nodding at the figures held by several of the robed celebrants, “but damn you were heavy!”

Even now, Tris’s memories of the escape were blurry, save for the piercing amber eyes of the Childe goddess whom he had glimpsed in the crowd, and whose murmured incantation had healed him.

The fire in the bailey burned high and bright, and revelers danced around it. The fire crackled with aromatic herbs to scent the smoke. Well‐wishers threw bits of colored rags into the blaze, symbols of their hopes for the new year, counting on their petitions to be heard when the glowing cinders rose on the wind and swirled into the night sky. The castle ghosts, as prominent this night as the soldiers, seemed determined to make up for their absence last year. Tris’s dogs ambled about the celebration, snatching up fallen sausages and accepting treats from indulgent party‐goers. The mastiff and the wolfhounds trotted up to greet Tris and waited for a pat on the head and a treat.

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“Here, you greedy things!” Carroway laughed, tossing each a cracker from his pockets. Both dogs snapped up the treats in mid‐air, then looked at their master for more.

Tris smiled. “Go beg,” he said, patting the dogs affectionately. “When you’re too full to move and your bellies hurt, don’t look for sympathy!” The dogs wagged their tails and bounded off through the crowd.

Across the crowded courtyard was a young girl dressed in white. Tris met the girl’s amber eyes and knew that she was the Childe.

Even with my blessing, your path is not certain. Sorrow and hardship lie on your journey. Guard well your soul.

Tris blinked and the girl was gone.

“Tris? Tris!” Carroway shook Tris by the arm. “Don’t tell me. I’ll sleep better if I don’t know. But you saw Her again, didn’t you. The Lady. Like the night of the coup.”

“I don’t think this time, good luck alone is going to be enough.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

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During most days at Sheketishet, the common room was empty. Between it and the kitchen was a smaller butler’s pantry where Carroway and his musicians rehearsed. The room stayed warm due to the large kitchen fireplaces, and it was easy for the musicians to grab a pot of tea or a few hunks of bread and cheese during long rehearsals.

The smells of a rich venison stew and freshly baked bread wafted in from the kitchen as Carroway struggled to tune an obstinate string on his lute.

“Need a fresh ear for that?” Macaria tossed her dark fringe out of her eyes as she slipped the lyre from over her shoulder and threw her cloak onto a chair.

“I’d love it.”

Macaria took the lute. She hummed and plucked at the strings, concentrating. The tuning knobs began to turn, ever‐so‐slightly, on their own, until the pitch of the vibrating string matched Macaria’s voice. With a grin, she handed it back.

“No matter how many times I see you do that, I never get over being jealous.”

“Well, it’s not much to be jealous of,” Macaria cheeks reddened.‘“It’s the only magic I have.”

Carroway smiled and met her eyes. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“As usual, apologies for being late,” said Helki. His blond hair, mussed by the Fall winds, fell in a tangle around his face. He dropped his burdens in a pile: a heavy cloak, a pouch of music, a wineskin, and the cases for his flute and dulcimer. With a grin, he reached into the kitchen and 114

availed himself of a biscuit from the nearby counter, deftly missing a good‐natured swat by the cook. His mouth stuffed with biscuit, he plunked down in a chair and unwrapped his dulcimer from the layers of cloth that protected it from the cold.

Macaria rolled her eyes and reached over to take the dulcimer. “Give me that. You’ll break a string.” The instrument glowed a bright blue for a moment, and then she handed the instrument back to Helki.