Dark Haven (6 page)

Jonmarc nodded. “How many mortals and vayash moru have to die before we end up right back where we started? And while the Winter Kingdoms are consuming themselves, what’s to keep the Southlands from driving their armies north and taking it all? Or the war lords of the Western lands from burning their way across Isencroft?” He shook his head. “My kind, your kind—we all lose if Malesh tips the balance. In every barroom brawl, the best way to avoid a fight is to look like the nastiest son of the Bitch fighter in the room.” He met Laisren’s eyes. “So what about it?”

Laisren smiled. “I heal a lot faster than you do.”

“I’ll deal with it. Let’s get started.”

“Fine by me. Just don’t complain if you’re limping at the royal wedding.”

CHAPTER FOUR

47

“You’re a wizard. A Summoner. Restore to me what was stolen!” the ghost demanded.

King Martris Drayke of Margolan drew his power around him and focused on the angry wraith.

Despite the torches that burned in sconces around the chamber, the air was cold enough that his breath clouded and his fingers tingled.

Tris went deeper into his mage sense, reinforcing the wardings he had placed around what was once Foor Arontala’s interrogation room. The girl’s ghost had begun to manifest a month ago, on the anniversary of her death. The ghost, a young woman named Esbet, wore the brown robes of a Sisterhood mage. She appeared as she had died. Her robe was mere shreds, and her body was covered with bruises and deep gashes. Seeping burns marked her arms. Two fingers were missing, and one of her eyes was swollen shut. Her death wound was a slash across the throat.

In the weeks since Tris had won the throne he had begun the grisly work of cleansing the palace Shekerishet. It seemed as if new bodies—and ghosts—turned up. daily. Between Jared’s lust, his pillaging soldiers, and Aronta‐la’s blood magic, an unknown number of victims had perished in the dungeons of Shekerishet. “I can’t return you to life. It’s forbidden.” Esbet’s ghost did not require his power to become visible. On her own she had gained the notice of the palace by breaking crockery, smashing windows, putting out cooking fires, and souring milk.

Esbet scowled. “Forbidden by whom? The Goddess? Where was She when soldiers dragged me to the king? Where was She when I needed her?”

Images flooded Tris’s mind, sent by the ghost. Tris saw the young woman, a land mage, ambushed by Jared’s men along a forest road. Wormroot clouded her senses and disabled her 48

magic, pushing her power out of reach as she fought to defend herself. Tris felt Esbet’s fear as her memories of Arontala’s dungeon washed over him. Through Esbet’s memories, Tris watched as Arontala assaulted her with magic

and drugs, ripping from her mind what he could not force from her with the torturer’s tools. As if the walls around them retained a memory of the bloodshed, the images grew stronger as the ghost mage forced him to see her last moments. Broken by Arontala, ravaged by the guards, Esbet took her last refuge in madness. Linked in memory, Tris felt the pain of the blade that took Esbet’s life, sharing the growing coldness as her blood ran across the stone table and into the cup for Arontala’s feeding.

Tris fought his way free of the sending. The ghost’s pain and anger enveloped him. “They took everything!” Esbet cried. “Avenge me!”

Tris struggled to keep a clear head as the ghost’s emotions washed over him. “I’ve seen the Lady myself,” Tris replied. “But I can’t pretend to know why She sometimes turns her face in silence.

Jared killed my family. I didn’t try to bring them back, though I wanted to. But I gave them peace, and eased their passage to the Lady.”

“That’s not good enough!” The ghost screamed, launching herself at him in fury. Tris snapped a warding into place as the revenant keened and shrieked. Esbet’s anger transformed her spirit into a twisted visage with a gaping maw and dark, eyeless sockets. The energy of her attack bounced against the whisper‐thin, coruscating barrier of the warding, and she wailed louder in frustration.

Tris knew that, possessed by grief and terror, Esbet would willingly tear him apart. Now, contained within the chamber by the outer warding and restrained from her vengeance by his inner shielding, the ghost hurled herself against the magic barrier, filling the air with curses.

Finally, after nearly a candlemark, the attacks subsided. The ghost stretched herself out against the inner warding, growing thinner and thinner until she covered the protective shield. Like layers of a wasp’s nest, she shattered into pieces and disappeared.

49

“Esbet,” Tris called gently. “We aren’t finished yet.” His voice was soft, yet behind it was the power of a Summoner and the command of a king. “You don’t need to remain here in pain. I can’t let you torment the living. Your family has buried you and completed the days of mourning.

There’s nothing holding you here except your anger. I can’t undo what Jared did. But I can give you rest.”

Slowly, as if caught by a gentle wind, the shattered ghost began to swirl and reform. Finally, Esbet stood before him. Her face was tear‐streaked, no longer defiant, and the look in her eyes wrenched Tris’s heart. “Please, sir. I want to go home.”

Tris nodded. It was a risk,’ he knew, to lower his inner warding, but he sensed no malevolence, only deep grief. He dispelled his warding, and stretched out his hand to the ghost. She reached out to him, and passed through him.

“Are you ready?”

Esbet nodded. Tris closed his eyes and gathered his power. This was the greatest gift of a Summoner: to make peace among the restless spirits and ease their passage to the next realm.

Tris felt himself cross the threshold between the living and the dead onto the Plains of Spirit. He sensed, more than saw, the presence of the Lady. It was Her Aspect as the Childe that manifested, a young girl with the piercing, amber eyes of the Goddess.

The Childe beckoned. Tris began to murmur the passing over ritual, ancient and powerful words that would blur the line between the realms of the living and the dead. Esbet reached out. She took a halting step forward, looking back uncertainly at Tris, who nodded in encouragement.

Esbet released Tris’s hand and took another step, then another, until the light enfolded her like a great, warm cloak. Tris felt the ghost’s presence fade. As suddenly as the vision came it disappeared, leaving Tris alone.

50

Before he could turn to release the outer wardings, shadows seized him.

Darkness rushed toward him through the channels of magic Tris opened to the Plains of Spirit.

Drawn to the light of his power, dark beings swarmed toward the residue of Aronta‐Ia’s powerful blood magic that still tainted Shekerishet’s dungeons. A legion of voices shrieked in his mind; shadows circled him like

hungry wolves. These were not ghosts. Tris was certain of that. Not all of the beings on the Plains of Spirits had once been alive. Other spirits dwelled there in the barren places, hungry for the chance to steal power.

Blue fire streaked from Tris’s fingers, forcing back the shadows. He could feel them licking at his life force, drawing away his breath and his power. The cacophony of voices made it difficult to think clearly, and Tris struggled to retain his focus. Though he’d had more practice than he’d have liked, the encounters were draining and difficult.

Soulless, these dimonns wandered the Plains of Spirit, seeking power. Tris knew they hoped to overtake him, to bleed him dry or possess him. And while his magic was strong enough to prevent that, Tris was well aware that any mistake would be deadly.

Tris spoke a word of power, and a curtain of fire roared around him. No flames lit the dungeon—

the fire bathed the Plains of Spirit, scorching hot. The dimonns screeched in fury, pushed back by the flames. At the edges of perception, Tris sensed other, equally dangerous spirits watching, waiting to feast on him should he fail.

Drawing hard from his remaining energy, Tris sent another blast of white‐hot power across the spirit plains. A clap like thunder echoed in his mind, nearly blacking him out. Quickly, while he could still follow the fragile

thread back to his mortal body, Tris fled the Plains of Spirit. A tendril of darkness streaked after 51

him, and sharp teeth opened a gash on his ankle. Tris sent a final salvo, burning along the passage between realms with a cloud of fire. He slammed his wardings into place as his spirit rushed fully back to the mortal world, staggering to keep his feet. He waited, magic at the ready.

Silence.

Head pounding, Tris took a step toward the door and stumbled, falling hard against a work table.

He caught himself and mumbled the words to lower his wardings. He grabbed for the door and opened it, holding on to the door post for support.

The guards reached out to steady him. Tris found the strength to wave them away. “Get me back to my rooms,” he rasped. One guard led the way while the other followed. The midnight bells tolled in the tower outside as Tris reached his rooms. When the door was shut behind him, he leaned back against it, closed his eyes, and tried to remember if he had ever felt quite so weary in his life. Sure, he told himself, pushing a sweat‐soaked strand of white‐blond hair back from his eyes. Last week, when you cleansed the other cell. Then there was the time you got captured by slavers. And those weeks of tent rigging for the caravan when you were trying to stay out of sight. And don’t forget the training at the citadel in Principality. It might be easier, he thought, to recall a time when he didn’t feel exhausted. Before Jared’s coup. Those days seemed like another life, although the anniversary of his family’s deaths had not yet passed.

The servants had set a pot of water on the hearth to boil. Gratefully, Tris made himself a cup of tea, mixing in the last of the headache potion his healer left for him. By now, the guards and the healers expected that every cleansing in the tainted areas of the castle would come at great cost to their king. Neither he nor they were surprised when he returned barely able to climb the stairs. But even when expected, the consequences of working strong magic were painful.

As he stirred the tea, Tris found himself staring at the painting of his father, King Bricen. Jared had destroyed all of the paintings of the royal family in Shekerishet. One ‐of the first things Tris did when he regained the throne was to gather any paintings that were hidden in noble houses of his father, his mother Queen Serae, and his sister Kait. The paintings helped, just a little, ease how much he missed his murdered family.

Tris studied the portrait of Bricen as if his father might speak. There was no denying the family 52

resemblance. From Bricen, Tris received the king’s high cheekbones, angular features, and tall build. From Serae, Tris took his white‐blond hair and green eyes. His shoulder‐length hair was a wild cloud around his face, still tangled from his encounter with the ghost. The last time he’d looked at his own reflection he had barely recognized himself, thinking that in just the few months since he had taken the crown, he had grown gaunt and strained. It’s why they say a crown is the heaviest load to bear, he thought. There are too many things to worry about—

things that even a king, or a sorcerer, can’t fully control.

At Tris’s feet, basking in the warmth of the fire, three dogs looked up. The two wolfhounds, like rangy long‐tufted carpets, stretched languorously and wagged tiredly. The third, a bull mastiff, shuffled to his feet and padded over to nuzzle Tris’s hand. Absently, Tris patted the big dog’s head. During his exile, Tris had feared for the dogs’ safety, knowing that Jared’s cruelty extended to the palace animals. Tris had gone to the hunting lodge where he’d kept the dogs, expecting the worst. To his surprise and relief, the dogs had survived, having been turned out into the woods for their own protection by the lodge keeper. Dirty and underfed, ribs jutting, the dogs had come to him. Tris saw to it that they received plenty of food and a healer’s care. Just a few months later, the dogs were nearly back to their former weights, happy to be home and with him.

Tris put his empty cup aside and fell across the bed fully dressed. One of the wolfhounds licked his hand while the mastiff nudged at his ear. The other wolfhound padded up and sat down at the end of the bed protectively, as if on vigil. Safe at last, Tris gave in to exhaustion and let sleep take him, sure his dreams would be restless.

A knock at the door startled Tris. The sun was already shining through the windows; he had slept through the night. His dogs woofed warily. Cautiously, Tris went to the door. Master Bard Carroway stood in the doorway carrying a tray with a pot of tea, cups, and a heaped plate of cakes.

“Isn’t this early for you?” Tris waved his friend inside.

53

Carroway, resplendent in the jewel‐toned silks he favored, chuckled and took a seat near the fire. The dogs wagged sleepily and returned to their places. “I could ask the same of you. Begging your royal pardon, but you look like hell.”

Tris chuckled. He offered the tea to Carroway, who accepted, then sank into another chair beside the fire and cradled his cup in his hands. “More ghosts.”

“The poltergeist?” Carroway asked.

“Another one of Arontala’s victims.”

“By the Lady! How many people did he have time to kill? There wouldn’t have been a kingdom left if Jared had had the crown a full year.”

“There almost isn’t anyhow,” Tris said wearily. “Now that Zachar’s come out of hiding, we’ve gone over the accounts. Father ran the kingdom well. Before he died, the treasury was more than ample. There were stockpiles of food and equipment. Now…. Whether Jared squandered it, Arontala used it to buy troops, or it just got looted, there’s not nearly as much as there should be,” Tris said. “This year’s harvest isn’t going to replace it, either. All the farmers ran for the border once Jared took over. The soldiers burned so many crops and villages trying to extort taxes that there’d be a famine before springtime if I hadn’t managed to buy and barter grain from Dhasson and Principality. There still might be. And now, with war coming—”