Dark Lady's Chosen (35 page)

The winter night was filled with the squeal of trebuchet wheels and the shouts of soldiers.

Torchlight and bonfires cast dancing shadows across snow fouled with soot and blood. The hard-frozen ground allowed them to move the huge war machines with relative ease, although heavy snow made it slow going. At the gates of Lochlanimar, a new battering ram swung from its frame, beating a steady, pounding rhythm that seemed to reverberate in Tris’s bones. Hewn from the largest tree to be found within two days’ ride, it was plated with as much scrap iron as could be spared, and a metal roof cobbled together of leather and steel shielded the soldiers beneath it from a rain of flaming arrows and boiling water.

In the distance, Tris heard the camp gong strike nine times. Just as he wheeled his horse to confer with Fallon and Beyral, he felt a pulse in the currents of magic. It didn’t come from the direction of Lochlanimar, and it didn’t come from the Flow. Images filled his mind, brief flashes that were there and gone, and Tris knew with cold certainty that they touched the part of his mind that had made a bond with Kiara.

Tris glimpsed Bricen’s hunting lodge. He felt Kiara’s fear and glimpsed the same
damashqi
blade that he had seen in his dreams, only this time, it was stained with blood. An instant of vertigo washed over him, as if his magic were pushed beyond reach by wormroot. He heard Kiara

scream and saw her fall backward. Instinctively, he reached for her, but his power dissipated in the Nether. The image winked out, leaving Tris gripping the reins of his horse white-knuckled, as his vision returned and only the battlefield lay before him.

“Are you all right?” Fallon had ridden up beside him.

Tris turned toward her, ashen. “Kiara’s in trouble. I felt it in the soulbond we made. If my power can reach Dark Haven, why can’t it reach Shekerishet?”

“The Flow doesn’t run beneath Shekerishet as it does beneath Dark Haven. Its power spreads wide, but it is strongest in its course, like a river. The next nearest energy river runs through Isencroft and down into the Southlands through the far west corner of Trevath.

Shekerishet’s site was chosen for defense, not for magic. Even the Flow has its limits,”

Fallon said.

Tris struggled to gain control of the panic that roiled within him, fear that had nothing to do with the battle.
I don’t care what Crevan says. I don’t care if the rumors are true. She’s my
wife and she’s carrying my child—and I love her. I swore I would defend her and I’ve failed.

The vision eluded his attempts to see more. He stared bleakly down at the rebel stronghold.

I may save my kingdom and my crown tonight, but if Kiara dies, I don’t know if I have the
will to carry on. Goddess help me! The crown drains everything, and gives nothing in return.

“Look there!” Fallon’s cry shook Tris from his brooding. Just outside the front gate of Lochlanimar, a whirlwind of fire began to coalesce, growing quickly from swirling sparks into a howling vortex.

“Fire Elemental,” Tris breathed. He could hear Senne and Rallan shouting for retreat above the panic of men and horses already stampeding toward the rear, fleeing an enemy no courage could stand against. Tris met Fallon’s eyes.

“No,” Fallon said, wide-eyed. “Even you can’t hold that off alone.”

“We have no choice. See if you and Beyral can conjure up some kind of barrier to shield the men. Although, if it reaches the camp, it will have already gotten past me, so—” The rest went unspoken. If it reached that far, a rout was certain.

“The Lady’s hand be upon you,” Fallon said, raising her hand in blessing. Tris dug his heels into his horse’s side and urged his mount forward at a gallop as his soldiers ran past him for their lives.

The Elemental was moving slowly but gathering power. It had more than doubled in size since it appeared, and Tris could feel the blood magic that conjured it even at a distance.

When his panicked horse would take him no further, Tris dismounted and let it run. On the blackened and trampled plain of battle, Tris stood alone and awaited the firestorm.

It was easier than he thought to silence his emotions. Battle coldness filled him, focused on his mission, indifferent to his own survival. Tris raised the sword he brought with him from his earlier working, the sword once wielded by Bava K’aa. It thrummed in his grip, resonating with his magic. The runes along its blade flowed with inner fire as Tris began to chant a warding. Elementals were difficult to conjure and draining to maintain. The longer he could keep the Elemental from destroying his troops, the greater the strain on the mages sustaining it. He hoped he had the strength to outlast Curane’s mages.

Tris raised a double warding, one layer of protection around himself and another curtain of power to keep the Elemental from moving past him toward the camp. Though invisible to others, he could see the shimmer of power in the cold winter air. It seemed thin protection against the rapidly growing wall of fire that was rushing across the battlefield. The Elemental moved relentlessly, its flames so hot that the wagons and war machines exploded. The Elemental moved through a haze of steam, vaporizing the snow with a loud hiss as it scorched the ground beneath it.

Tris felt his heart pound as the wall of flame grew closer. His training had been admittedly lopsided; skewed toward defeating a single powerful opponent. Now, he was painfully aware of the gaps in his magical education. He braced himself and focused all of his will and his magic on his wardings as the fire engulfed him.

Flames licked at the blue-white dome of his shielding, crackling against his power. Tris had to avert his eyes as the ball of fire became both sky and horizon. Despite his protections, the temperature within his warded dome began rising quickly. The Elemental’s fury pounded at his protections, requiring all of his concentration to hold the magic in place. Raw, unreasoning power battered his defenses, and Tris remembered what Soterius had told him about the air Elemental he had once faced. Nothing, not even the Sisterhood, could turn an Elemental until it was recalled by the mage who sent it.

Sweat dripped from Tris’s face and he loosened his cloak, letting it fall from his shoulders.

His shirt was soaked, and his mouth was dry. He might die from the heat within his own wardings before the flames could take him, Tris thought, struggling to keep hold of the magic. The

Elemental was straining his wardings, and Tris knew he could not hold them indefinitely. His head ached from both the heat and the stress of magic. He gritted his teeth and drew from his life force, doubling the effort. If his defenses failed, the Margolan army would be completely destroyed, overtaken by the unyielding flames before they had a chance to flee.

The sword thrummed in his hands, and Tris shielded his eyes, looking down at the blade.

Amid the maelstrom of magic, the runes on its blade flared brighter than ever, and Tris remembered the words Taru had spoken when she gave it to him at his coronation.
This
was the sword of Bava K’aa. You may find it harbors a vestige of her power, as well as her
memory.
Wary of the sword’s unknown abilities, Tris had not carried it into battle before this.

Its runes had eluded even Royster’s attempts to translate. But now, as he felt his strength fading, Tris grasped the sword tightly, and let his power course through it. As he did so, the runes seemed to rearrange themselves until the fiery writing appeared as Margolense, written in fine script.

“I am Nexus. Bound by blood and wrought by will, the spirit remains to conquer.”

And in that same moment, his power touched something within the blade that flared to his sight in the Plains of Spirit and he saw a ghostly image of his grandmother.
The blade
remembers magic,
he heard her voice in his mind.
But beware. The price is a breath from
your soul.
An image formed in his mind of the blade making a cut across his palm.

Well aware that his wardings were weakening fast, Tris took a deep breath and drew Nexus across the open palm of his right hand. The blade glowed white for an instant, and Tris felt a shift in his soul. Nexus now appeared in his hand as he saw his essence on the Plains of Spirit.

Tris focused on the gleaming sword blade and let his magic call out to the Flow. No longer wild and damaged, the river of power undulated in his mage sight like the Spirit Lights.

Using Nexus, Tris drew the Flow toward him, twining his own power with that of the river of energy, concentrated into a blue-white stream of magic that erupted from the tip of Nexus’

blade as Tris’s inner warding shattered.

The heat of the fire Elemental seared his lungs and blistered his skin. An instant later, the combined power of the sword and the Flow’s energy created a shield wall that enabled Tris to stagger to his feet. And while he was holding the Elemental at bay, Tris knew that the cost of channeling the Flow through his body was burning him out quickly.

One desperate idea formed in his mind. He remembered Soterius’s recount of defeating the air Elemental by distracting the mage who called it. Tris’s head ached so badly that it was becoming difficult to form his thoughts, but he called out to the ghost Mohr within Lochlanimar.

Can you find the mages who called the Elemental?

At first, only silence answered him. Finally, he felt Mohr’s spirit.
Aye.

Throw something at them. Anything. Break their concentration. Do it now!

Power unlike anything he had wielded before coursed through him and found its vent in Nexus until Tris felt as if his entire being had ceased to be flesh and bone and existed only as raw, pure magic. Without the newly-healed Flow, Tris knew he would have been consumed by that untamed power, but the glistening energy of the Flow sustained him, though he felt the effort draining him badly.

A sudden flash of white light over Lochlanimar lit the cold night air. The Elemental flared blindingly bright, and then rushed back like a storm tide toward the embattled keep with a deafening roar. The wall of flames hit Lochlanimar all at once, sending its energies the length of the walled fortress and lancing high into the night sky like a beacon.

A wave of unbearable pain forced Tris to his knees as the last of his warding shattered.

From the burning wreckage of Lochlanimar, Tris could feel the souls burn loose from their cindered bodies as the fiery cataclysm reduced every living thing within the fortress’s walls to ash. Wrenched with them onto the Plains of Spirit, Tris saw the souls stream into the Nether bearing the charred flesh and the blackened skin of their death wounds; men, women, children and elders. As flames consumed Lochlanimar, Tris despaired at the hundreds of lives claimed by the Elemental as it returned to its place of sending.

Their blood is on my hands
, Tris thought as the innocent dead fixed him in their baleful glare.
Goddess help me. There was no other way
.

No longer certain whether he was alive or dead himself, Tris did the only thing that remained within his power as Summoner to do; he began to speak the passing over ritual.

In the distance, he could hear the faint strains of the Lady’s soulsong. As his power opened up the gateways to the Aspects, the dead began to drift away toward their rest. Yet of the mages, Cadoc and Dirmed, there was no trace, nor did Tris sense the presence of Curane’s soul. For the first time, his own spirit feared the judgment of the Goddess. He tensed, awaiting the Dark Aspects, but soon the Plains of Spirit were empty and the sweet soulsong faded into nothing.

Conscience is its own inquisitor
. Tris heard a voice say in his mind, and he knew that the terror and pain he felt from the murdered residents of Lochlanimar would haunt his dreams for the

rest of his life.

Just as suddenly as he had shifted onto the Plains of Spirit, Tris felt himself return to his own body. Nexus fell from his hand, and the supporting magic of the Flow swept away from him. Tris crumpled to the scorched ground, completely drained.

Carroway listened to the city bells chime as he paced in his room above the Dragon’s Rage Inn. He had tried—and abandoned—several distractions. Neither music nor books could still his restlessness or dispel the sense of foreboding that filled him. The smell of roasting mutton filled the air from the kitchen below as the inn filled with patrons for Candles Night.

And although Carroway was certain the innkeeper would reserve a plate of the evening’s fare for him, even the delectable smells could not overcome the knot in his stomach.

When the door to the passageway opened unexpectedly, he spun to face it. Paiva’s eyes widened as she and Bandele closed the door behind them. “Sweet Mother and Childe, Carroway! You’re jumpier than an old hen.”

“You’re early,” he said, ignoring her comment. “Does that mean you have news?”

Paiva smiled conspiratorially and gestured for them to move to the corner farthest from the guards’ post outside the door. She set the basket of food she had brought on the table. “I broke into Crevan’s office.”

Carroway felt the blood drain from his face. “You did what?”

Paiva shushed him. “Keep your voice down. Bandele watched the corridor while I picked the lock.” She shrugged at his sideways glance. “I was on my own for quite a while before Macaria brought me to the palace. You learn things. Anyhow, we knew Crevan would be tied up down in the kitchen seeing to Candles Night. So it was the best chance we were going to get.”

“And?”

Paiva withdrew two stacks of sealed parchments from beneath the food in her basket, each tied with twine. She handed them to Carroway, who felt his hands begin to shake as he recognized the writing on the first stack. “That’s Tris’s handwriting,” he whispered. “And the other stack is in Kiara’s hand. I don’t understand.”

“You know how Kiara has been pining because she hasn’t received a letter from the king since he left for battle?” Bandele said, her eyes flashing. “Turns out, that’s not exactly true.

Count the letters in that stack—all sealed with the king’s signet and addressed to her.