Dark Lady's Chosen (7 page)

And now, you’ve become the queen’s protector. It’s the access and the position you’ve always wanted. I’ll manage.”

“Kiara thinks it’s a plot,” Macaria blurted. Carroway listened intently as Macaria told him about the most recent attack. “There’s no doubt that blocking the flue was intended to kill.

And it might have succeeded, if Kiara hadn’t sat up late with Cerise in Cerise’s rooms.

Cerise always sleeps with the windows open—must have ice for blood,” Macaria chuckled, although her eyes were bright with tears.

“I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Alle’s going to see about inviting Kiara to Lady Eadoin’s manor for a while. She says it might be easier to protect her there.”

“That’s an excellent idea. Eadoin might also be able to find out who’s behind the rumors.”

“Alle’s already working on it,” Macaria replied.

Carroway took her hand. “That’s your first priority: protect Kiara and the heir. Compared to that, nothing else matters—certainly not a bard, in the grand scheme of history.”

“Since I first came to court, I’ve heard you talk about Tris… King Martris,” Macaria said evenly. “And since he took the throne, you’ve told us all how fair he is, how important justice is to him, what a good king he is. If all that’s true, then I can’t believe he’ll just toss you away. You saved his life when the coup happened, and you protected him time and again on the road.”

Carroway smiled sadly. “That’s what you do for your king,” he said quietly. “And, friendship aside, I was honored to do it. The sacrifices usually don’t work the other way around.”

Macaria set her jaw and her eyes flashed. “He slipped into Nargi to rescue Jonmarc Vahanian.”

Carroway sighed. “Tris wasn’t king then. Now, the kingdom is depending on him. There are risks he can’t afford to take.” Although he longed to take her in his arms and hold her until his fears calmed, banishment placed that choice even further out of reach. “You’d better be getting back to the palace,” he said. “And while I like the company, please be careful. You don’t want people to say you’re carrying messages from the queen to her imprisoned lover.”

Macaria swallowed hard and nodded. “I thought about that. I’ll be careful. I promise. But I had to come.”

“I’m glad you did. Thank the others for me. And please, send my deepest apologies to Kiara. I’d never do anything to harm her, or Tris.”

“She knows. We all know that.” Macaria threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly.

He let the moment sear into his memory, recalling the press of her body against his, the scent of her hair, the feel of her hands on his back. “There has to be a way out of this,” she whispered. “There just has to be.”

Gently, Carroway disentangled himself before his composure crumbled. “Maybe. But there’s a reason so many of the true ballads have sad endings.” He shook his head before she could say anything. “You’d better be getting back,” he repeated, surprised that his voice was steady. “It means a lot that you came.”

Macaria nodded. She grabbed her cloak and wrapped it around herself, pausing to look back at him, before she slipped out of the door. Carroway poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle that was sent with his dinner, and was not surprised that his hands were shaking.
Dying young and tragically is the surest way to eternal fame,
he thought.
Maybe I’ll
be remembered after all.

Kiara, my love.

I worry because there’s been no word from you. I search Crevan’s packages, and find only
the dull documents that require my signature. Sadly, even my magic can’t reach as far as
Shekerishet, or I’d ask the ghosts for news of how you fare. I’m worried that you’re not well,
that the pregnancy has made you sick. And, if the king dare admit it, I’m terribly homesick.

Please ease my mind and send just a short letter. Any news from home would be happier
than what surrounds me on the battlefield.

I don’t dare tell you all I would like to share. We’ve made gains, but there have been costly
setbacks. Ban’s been badly wounded. Tarq betrayed us. Progress is slow. Because of the
damage to the Flow, magic is more wild and brittle than I’ve ever seen it. I’ve never held
much with charms and offerings for luck, but if you’re so inclined, the men and I would be
grateful. Senne tells me all this is to be expected from a siege. I hate this war, and long for it
to be over, so that we can all, by the Lady’s grace, return home.

I await your letters more than you can imagine.

Love, Tris

King Martris Drayke of Margolan shivered, wrapping his cloak tightly around him. Outside, the winter wind howled, whipping against the sides of the campaign tent so that a flurry of snow burst from beneath the tent flap. Coalan, the king’s valet, added more fuel to the small brazier that struggled to warm the tent. Tris noticed that Coalan was wearing all of the clothing he owned, plus several new pieces he had scrounged from the camp. Even so, his nose and cheeks were red with cold.

“You’re sure there were no other packets from Crevan than this?” Tris asked, shaking the pouch for the fifth time, only to find it empty.

Coalan shook his head. “Nothing.”

Tris sighed. It was cold enough that he needed to warm the ink to keep it from congealing before he could sign the stack of petitions and proclamations his seneschal had sent with the

supply wagon. Most of them were meaningless outside of the court’s bureaucracy. Here in the field, early in the third month of a winter siege, little of the pomp and intrigue of court held any meaning. Tris signed the documents and replaced them in the courier pouch along with the sealed letter. “I can hope,” Tris murmured.

“Perhaps something was lost when the brigands attacked,” Coalan suggested. “I heard that two wagons were destroyed in the fighting.”

Tris shook his head. “Doubtful. But thanks for the suggestion.” Coalan managed a wan smile. Ban Soterius’s nephew was only six years younger than the king. He looked exhausted. Tris glanced toward the still form bundled on a cot near the fire. “How’s Ban doing?”

“Sister Fallon says he’s not bleeding anymore. That’s something. He doesn’t have much blood left to lose,” Coalan said tiredly. “His fever’s down, but the storm isn’t helping. It’s too damn cold.”

“Has he come around?”

Coalan stared at the fire and sighed. “Not yet.”

Tris walked over to where Soterius lay. Even without a healer’s magic, Tris could see how pale and drawn his friend looked, the aftermath of narrowly escaping an assassin’s attack.

Tris laid his hand gently on Soterius’s forehead and let his summoning magic reach out in the darkness. He did not try to draw on the wild energy of the Flow that surged around them. Instead, he drew from his own life force, a limited but stable supply. He could sense the glow of the blue-white life thread that anchored Soterius’s soul. And while that glow burned more brightly than it had the day before, Tris knew that it was far from the strength it should be for Soterius to be out of danger.

“Begging your royal pardon, but you don’t look much better than Uncle Ban,” Coalan said.

The young man’s lifelong friendship with Tris made him the perfect valet—unquestionably loyal, refreshingly honest and a link to a shared past that could never be reclaimed.

“I know. But we’ve got to strike Curane again before his people regroup.”

“I’m not afraid to take my place on the line,” Coalan said, raising his face with a hint of defiance. “I fought before, with Uncle Ban and the troops he raised. I could help protect you when you use your magic.”

Tris’s smile was sad. “Ban would never forgive me,” he said. “Although it may come to that, if we lose more men. Right now, you serve me best by protecting Ban and seeing that he’s well

tended. You’ve already done what my soldiers didn’t—protect me from an assassin.”

Coalan blushed. “My honor to do so.”

Tris laid a hand on his shoulder. “Then you do me another service, by letting me sleep safely.”
When the dreams and the visions allow
, Tris added silently. Tris turned toward the door. “Right now, I need to meet with Senne and Palinn for the next attacks.”

“So soon?”

“We don’t dare let the blood mages regroup. The damage to the Flow aids them at our expense. Although after the last battle, I’m not sure the Flow isn’t a danger to all of us.”

Four
vayash moru
guards fell in step beside Tris as he emerged from his tent, leaving two mortals behind to guard his quarters. Tris looked out over the snow-covered plains, dotted with row upon row of tents and rutted by war machines. At the far edge of the camp, torches burned, and Tris could see the silhouette of the large cairn built over their fallen soldiers. He had gone to the siege with over four thousand men at arms. In less than three full months, battle and disease had killed a third of those troops, and the ranks of the injured grew with every battle.

He turned to look at the brooding outline of Lochlanimar, dark against the sunset. The outer wall was broken in many places, scorched by fire and pounded by trebuchets, catapults and magic. The tower on one corner was collapsed in a heap of rubble. Lochlanimar’s defenders still posed enough of a threat that a direct assault was likely to be a disaster. Time was running out, Tris knew. For him and for Curane.
And nothing’s worse than an enemy with
his back to the wall.

Now, the army mobilized for battle just days after tending its wounded from the last encounter. Tris scanned the ranks. Without fresh troops, victory would depend on cunning.

Since Margolan’s tattered army had no more soldiers to send without risking the palace and the northern roads, cleverness would have to do.

“Is everything in place?” Tris hailed General Senne, who inclined his head in deference on Tris’s approach.

“Preparations are nearly complete, Your Majesty,” Senne said. General Palinn hurried over, and with him, Tris recognized Sister Fallon.

“The pulse strategy—you can do it?”

Senne motioned for Tris to follow him. “Here’s the weapon I told you about.” Tris looked down at the contraption and frowned. Mounted on a crank, a three-sided pyramid covered with hollow tubes sat at the front of a massive bow on a solid, heavy cart. Tris looked down the line at

dozens of the devices.

“Wivvers is my best engineer,” Senne said with pride. “The man’s a genius. You really should consider giving him a title when this is all said and done. He came up with these to treble our archer fire. We’ll have three ranks of longbows, each firing in sequence for a steady hail. But we don’t have enough archers to maintain that fire on all sides. Each machine,” Senne said, laying a hand proudly on the contraption, “can fire off three rounds of two dozen arrows. Any soldier can operate it, so long as he can aim. It’s not magic,” Senne said with a sly smile. “But it’s close.”

Behind the rows of archers, drummer-and -pipers in armor prepared to raise a war chant to strike fear into the besieged village. This night, the drumming would not end until the battle was over. Two staggered rows of trebuchets ringed Curane’s fortress, salvaged from the pieces that survived the last battle. Soldiers stood ready to relay rocks and battle debris into the slings of the trebuchets to keep up a steady barrage.

“The mages are in place,” Sister Fallon reported. “We have one on each side to help you in the frontal assault. The mages each have hourglasses, timed for the half-candlemark.

They’re instructed to pulse clockwise, then counterclockwise, then front-to-back and side-to-side. We’ll strike with the element we best control—land, water or air. Or in your case—the spirits. The
vayash moru
are in place, ready to strike when you give the signal.”

“I’ve summoned the ghosts of our own battle dead, and ghosts from the crypts below the fortress,” Tris said. “There’ve also been quite a few defectors from among the spirits of those killed by Curane’s plague inside the walls. If the mages can strike against the wardings, the
vayash moru
and the ghosts will break through and cause whatever damage they can before the wardings can be raised once more.”

“In theory,” Fallon said, meeting Tris’s eyes, “that should keep Curane’s people hopping while our folks get a break.”

“In theory,” Tris said. “The mages know to avoid the Flow?”

Fallon nodded. “That’s the tricky part. If we’re pulling on our own personal reserves, none of us can last long. We might not burn up in the Flow, but we could burn out quickly and be useless for days—or dead.”

Tris nodded. “Agreed. Then the pulse will have to work.” Fallon nodded in farewell and moved quickly to take her place. This time, Tris opted for the bed of a horse-drawn cart rather than a platform, to keep his position easily mobile and less quickly targeted.

He looked to Senne. “Give the word.”

At Senne’s signal, the pipes and drums erupted in a fearsome racket, with a wild rhythm of chant and drumbeat that echoed from the walls of Lochlanimar. Torches flared into brightness, illuminating the plain. The first hail of arrows filled the night sky, blotting out the moon. In ranks among the archers, shield bearers carried large, rectangular shields, raising them to provide cover for the archers against the returning volley of arrows from the keep’s defenders.

The second and third round of arrows launched, and down the line, Tris could hear the creaking of the trebuchets as they were winched back into position, and the thud of their release, each sending rocks and huge, solid balls of ice into the air, to crash a few moments later against the beleaguered walls.

Tris cleared his mind, letting his generals see to the physical needs of battle. Carefully drawing on his own power without touching the raging torrent of the Flow’s power, Tris could see three warded places in the front quadrant of the castle. To counter the wardings, his magic would require surgical precision, not great blasts of power, to avoid drawing on the Flow for support. Tris took a deep breath and let his power stretch out, concentrating his effort and his magic in a focused burst against the weakest of the charms. It was badly set, and the warding shattered under the assault.