Dark Lady's Chosen (41 page)

Next came the report from the spirits of the fallen Margolan soldiers, both those who returned to fight and those newly dead in the latest battle. Tris recognized Pell and Tabb among the ghosts, two men who had fought beside Soterius in the rebellion and who had been betrayed to their deaths by Tarq. He beckoned for them to come forward. “What report would you make?” he asked.

“We spirits held our positions when the firestorm came,” Pell replied. “It had no power to harm us. We saw ghosts aplenty rise from the ruins after the explosion, but no living man, woman or child escaped the walls.”

Standing before them on the Plains of Spirit, Tris nodded. “Very well. How many of our own have we lost?”

From the ranks of the dead, he could hear the count begin. On and on it went, and his heart grew heavier with each number. “There are sixteen hundred and eighty-nine of us, Your Majesty, including those who fell with fever,” Pell reported. “And to a man, we were honored to lay down our lives to keep Jared’s bastard off the throne.”

Tris swallowed hard at the enormity of the sacrifice. “Margolan honors your memory,” Tris replied. “As do I.” He paused. “Would you go to your rest?”

Pell looked back to the ranks of the dead, toward the shadowed men who stood in somber silence. Tris recognized many of the fallen as
Scirranish
, those who had lost families to Jared’s brutality. He saw in their faces quiet resignation, the completion of duty, and a weariness that he

was beginning to understand. Pell turned to him and nodded. “Yes, m’lord. We would be grateful if you would make the passage for us.”

On the Plains of Spirit, Tris stretched out his hands in blessing toward the spirits who desired rest. “Let the sword be sheathed, and the helm shuttered. Prepare a feast in the hall of your fallen heroes. These men have died with valor. Make their passage swift and their journey easy, until their souls rest in the arms of the Lady,” he said, closing his eyes as he felt the power of the Goddess at the very edges of his senses.

He was not surprised that it was Chenne, Aspect of the warrior, who came for them, wearing a golden helm and wielding a sword of flame. Tris extended his power, easing the passage for the soldiers as they turned to follow the soulsong that they heard. He grieved to see Vira, Ana and Latt from the Sisterhood among the dead. They nodded in farewell as they followed the gray paths toward the Lady’s rest. Soon, the spirit plain was empty except for him. Not until he was certain he was alone did he dare to seek the one spirit he did not wish to heed his call.

“Kiara?” he asked, hearing the fear in his voice that she would answer. “Kiara?”

There was no answer. Exhausted and heartsick, Tris slipped from the Plains of Spirit and returned to himself. He felt stretched thin as fog, and if it weren’t for the feel of the stiff cot beneath him, he might have doubted that he was more than a shade himself.

“Tris?” It was Coalan’s voice, close to his ear. “Are you awake? Uncle Ban is here to see you. He has a report from Senne and Rallan.”

Tris groaned and opened his eyes. “Send him in.” He struggled to sit up, knowing that Soterius would not be fooled into thinking that he was functional.

“Goddess! You look awful,” Soterius said as he entered. “Lie down. I promise not to tell anyone.” He gave a tired smile. “After seeing you turn that Elemental, half of the men think you’re a god. And the other half just don’t ever want to get on your bad side.”

“How long before the army can go home?”

Soterius pulled a chair up alongside Tris’s cot. “Senne doesn’t think we can even get into the ruins for a couple of days. Most of the village and the manor are still on fire. We took more wounded on this battle, largely from the ones who didn’t outrun the Elemental. I just saw Esme. She says we have about three hundred men who won’t be able to travel for at least a week, maybe longer, even with healing.

“And there are probably five hundred down with fever who never even made it into the last battle. They shouldn’t move at all, not unless we want to take this bloody plague back with us.” He shook his head. “Esme says that about half of those who get the fever die of it. And it’s not a peaceful way to go. They’re bleeding from their ears and noses, they’ve got bloody flux and they’re burning up despite how cold it’s been. I don’t have a death count yet—”

“One thousand, six hundred and eighty nine,” Tris murmured.

“How do you know that?”

“They told me.”

“Esme and Fallon?”

“No. The dead.”

“Damn.”

Tris met Soterius’s eyes. “As soon as I can ride, I’m going back to Shekerishet. Something’s happened to Kiara. And I’ve got to deal with the rumors before it gets completely out of control.”

“You’re in no condition to make the trip, Tris,” Soterius said with concern. “You’d have to push hard to make it in less than five days, and the snow’s deep. Plus we have no idea how many of Curane’s supporters are out there. There’ve been incidents with the supply wagons, snipers in the forest—”

“Then send twenty men with me. I have to go.”

“I’m going with you.” Tris looked up to see Coalan standing just inside the tent door, hands on hips. “You’re going to need me.”

Soterius took a deep breath and finally nodded. “As you wish. It’ll take a couple of days to provision you, and you’ll need that time to square away the clean-up plans with Senne and Rallan.” He paused. “And if there are survivors from Lochlanimar…”

“There aren’t. The ghosts from the necropolis said that no one survived. I made the passage for the soldiers and villagers myself.”

Soterius’s expression darkened. “None? Curane really had no idea what he was playing at with that Elemental, did he?” Tris could see the shadows of memory in Soterius’s eyes that told him that the other remembered all too well from his own experience the fury of an Elemental unleashed against villagers trapped within a walled citadel.

“Apparently not.” Tris sighed. “And we’ve got to keep the army from bringing the plague back with them. Esme and Fallon will have to make a ruling on each man before he can leave the

ranks. That includes me and everyone who rides with me. You know how many volunteers we had, from the villages, the
Scirranish
. We can’t let them scatter to the winds and take the fever with them. Father once had to keep two divisions in the field for forty days until a fever spent itself.”

Soterius leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “That’s going to be tough. We’re barely feeding them as it is. Wintering them for another month won’t be easy, even if it’s just a few hundred men. We’re already having some problems with the volunteers. They’re not regular soldiers. It was their fear of Curane seizing the throne that kept them here, but we don’t have enough soldiers to police them all if they decide to slip off. If they think you’re leaving them here to die, they’ll riot.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Tris snapped. He was feeling the headache and the bone weariness and it made him short tempered. “But I’ve no desire to rule over the land of the dead, and that’s what Margolan will be if the plague spreads. If they panic and run, they could spread it to Dhasson and Isencroft. We won’t be able to contain it if we let it get away from us here.”

Soterius nodded. “I understand. But most of these soldiers are farmers and workmen. There are some already wondering if it’s the Crone’s judgment on us for one thing or another.

Bound to be talk like that. It’ll get worse if the plague spreads. People don’t blame things like plague on ill humours for long. After a while, they want someone to sacrifice.”

“All the more reason we’ve got to keep this from spreading,” Tris said. “We’ve had enough bloodshed in Margolan. Enough death.” He knew Soterius could read his feelings clearly in his eyes. “It has to end.”

Soterius was silent for a moment. “When you get back to Shekerishet, then what?”

Tris looked away. “I deal with the situation.”

“You know, I realized that since we’ve been gone, I’ve only gotten a couple of letters from Alle. One of them was mangled so badly I couldn’t read most of it. One of them had gotten wet and the ink ran. The two that got through without damage had loose seals. From what they said, I wondered whether she’d even read my letters.” He met Tris’s eyes. “What if someone’s made sure we didn’t hear from Kiara and Alle—and that they didn’t hear from us? Someone who might have a stake in sabotaging Kiara.”

“You have someone in mind?”

Soterius shrugged. “No. But I don’t like coincidences and there are too many for me to let this go. Because I don’t believe for a moment that either Kiara or Carroway betrayed you.”

Tris closed his eyes. “When I get back to Shekerishet, I have a choice to make. I can take their word—or I can read their souls. My power could remove all doubt—or damn them both without reprieve. Do I trust, and always wonder? Or do I know for certain and risk destroying everything?”

“My mother would have said to follow your heart.”

Tris opened his eyes and looked at him. “I love her, Ban. Even if the rumors are true. But the court—”

Soterius laid a hand on his shoulder. “One catastrophe at a time, huh? Clean up here. I’ll find twenty men I trust with my life to ride with you. Anything can happen between now and when you get back to the palace. The answers may be clear by then.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Ban,” Tris said quietly, meeting his eyes. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Carroway paced his new prison, measuring the same steps. After the relative ease with which he slipped his guards at the Dragon’s Rage Inn, it didn’t surprise him that Harrtuck felt obliged to move him to a more secure cell in the guardhouse tower of Shekerishet’s bailey. It was a cell made for prisoners of noble blood, and Carroway knew the legends of its former residents well. None of those imprisoned in this room had ever gone free, save at the end of a hangman’s rope.

Harrtuck had been apologetic about returning him to custody, but they both understood the stakes. His belongings had been transported from the inn and thoroughly searched. He’d feared that they would find the evidence Paiva had stolen from Crevan and the book with the drawing of the blade in it among his things, sealing the case against him. To his relief, the letters, the book and the odd metal ring had disappeared.

A lack of evidence did not dissuade the mob that gathered by nightfall outside the tower.

Led by one of Count Suphie’s men, they had tried to storm the tower and take him by force to hang him for the attack on Kiara. Only Harrtuck’s stalwart refusal to yield had prevented his murder. Grudgingly, the crowd had dispersed at swords’ point.

Now, Carroway looked out the thin slit of a window that was one of only two openings besides the locked door. The winter night was cold and still, and the clear sky shone with stars. The frigid air kept all but the duty-bound or the most intrepid indoors. He looked down at his crabbed left hand, still wrapped in the bandages.

Hanging would be a mercy,
he thought.
I can’t play with a hand like this. Singing will earn
me a pittance of what a good musician can beg. And those who fancied my face more than
my music won’t take a scarred lover to their beds. Banishment’s as good as a death
sentence. Harrtuck should have offered me up to the mob. It would have saved Tris the
heartache and solved the problem. Kiara could save herself by saying that I forced myself
on her. There’s no future for me—here, or anywhere.

He tensed when he heard the heavy bolts draw back on the door, and steeled himself for the worst.
Maybe Harrtuck’s realized that sacrificing me is the best solution after all. If I’m to
hang

tonight, just please make sure someone knows how to tie a proper noose. I’d rather snap
than strangle.

To his astonishment, Macaria slipped inside. The door slammed shut behind her and the bolts clanked into place. “How did you get in?” he asked, crossing to take her in his arms.

The bruise on the side of her head where Crevan had hit her with the pitcher had faded, and the swelling had gone down considerably.

Macaria looked down, avoiding his eyes. “I lied to Harrtuck. Please forgive me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him we’d made a secret handfasting, and I claimed a wife’s right to visit.” She lifted her head defiantly. “They have to allow it. It’s old law. Even the condemned—” She broke off suddenly, as Carroway began to laugh.

“Forgive you? I’m only sorry that it’s not the truth. I didn’t think I’d see you again—this side of my hanging, anyhow.”

She cringed. “Don’t say that.”

He sighed and held her to him. “Came a heartbeat away from swinging a few candlemarks ago. Won’t be surprised if the mob returns. Maybe it’s for the best.”

She pushed away and stared at him, aghast. “The best? You risked everything to save Kiara’s life. You’re innocent. How could that possibly be best?”

Carroway lifted his bandaged hand. “Innocent or guilty, there’s no life for me without my music, and there’s no music without my hand.”

Macaria put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a glare. “Riordan Carroway! You have a voice like one of the Lady’s consorts. You write the best ballads in the Winter Kingdoms, and you have invitations from four kingdoms to arrange their next holiday feasts. Cerise said the hand may heal—”

“And it may not,” he finished for her. “I can’t move it without terrible pain. I’m no use to anyone, Macaria.”

Her eyes relented and she wrapped her arms around him. “I disagree, but I didn’t come to fight with you. I figured you’d want to know how Kiara is doing.”

“And?”

“She’s in and out of consciousness. She hasn’t lost the baby, but she’s not well. Cerise said it’s the wormroot. Even if Kiara and the baby survive, Cerise has no idea what that high a dose of wormroot might do. It’s possible the baby could live and not be right.”

Carroway bowed his head. “I’m so sorry. If I’d just been faster—”

“That you got there at all was amazing,” Macaria interrupted him. “You’re all that stopped Crevan from killing her—and probably the rest of us, too.”