The Blood King (24 page)
Along the walls, candles glittered in recesses. In the center of the room, a heavy mahogany table with rich, Noorish inlay was cir-cled by velvet-upholstered chairs. The inlay was cunningly designed. For a mage, such complex pat-terns could serve as the focal point for a working, or a way to calm the mind in order to open oneself to power. It was said that some pieces could take a single master craftsman a lifetime to complete. The oldest and most convoluted of such pieces were prized by powerful mages for their help in produc-ing trance and focusing magic.
“My fellows of the Blood Council,” Gabriel said, making a low, formal bow. “I present to you Prince Martris Drayke, son of Bricen of Margolan, Summoner and mage-heir of Bava K’aa.”
Tris stepped forward at the introduction and made a ceremonial bow. “Most honored members of the Blood Council, I bid you greetings.”
Tris knew the vayasb moru, with their sharp sens-es, could hear and smell the blood that pounded in his chest. In the silences of their ride, Tris had searched for the right phrases for this meeting. So many mortal pleasantries would not do. He could hardly wish them continued good health and long life, he thought wryly, and he hoped fervently Gabriel had not lied about the vayasb moru’s abili-ty to read minds.
“We have been awaiting you, Prince Drayke.” The speaker was an angular man with finely-chiseled features and precisely cropped sandy-colored hair. He had a short, perfectly manicured beard and dark eyes that glittered with intelligence.
“I am Lord Rafe, speaker of the Council. We bid you enter.” Rafe gestured to the young man who stood behind him to close the chamber doors, and Tris stifled a shudder at the sound of the latch.
Gabriel took a seat to the right of Rafe, and Mikhail went to stand behind him.
Tris noted that the Council sat on the opposing side of the table. Tellingly, there were no empty seats. It was clear that he had been invited to be seen, interviewed, and possibly heard, but the offering of a seat at the table—both literally and figuratively—was being withheld, at least for now.
I’ve had mortals trying to kill me for half of the last year, Tris thought, drawing a deep breath and remembering all of his court protocol. As long as I leave alive, it’s a win. He looked down the table from Rafe, trying to match the Council’s members to Gabriel’s description. A woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties, with elaborate, upswept dark blonde hair sat to Gabriel’s right.
Riqua, Tris guessed, noting that the woman’s gown was one that his mother, Queen Serae, would have found quite acceptable for court. The design of the fabric and the cut of the dress were of the most fashion-able style. The rich brocade bodice was daringly low, with a narrow waist and a full skirt that would accentuate the vayash moru’s preternatural gliding walk. Dark burgundy satin heightened Riqua’s pal-lor. The effect was beautiful and unsettling.
Behind Riqua stood a younger woman with long blonde hair, dressed in a simple but elegant gown, as if she had stopped by on her way to a court party.
Tris noticed that each of the Council members had a second with them, and wondered what service, beyond errands, these attaches provided.
To Rafe’s left was a beautiful, dark-haired woman with chestnut-colored hair.
She looked to be no older than her mid-twenties, though her eyes told of centuries of experience.
Astasia, Tris guessed. She met his eyes, simultane-ously taking his measure.
While her figure was provocative and her face was coquettish, her eyes were shrewd and calculating. She’s used to getting what she wants, Tris thought, unable to completely ignore her plunging decolletage, and the full breasts it barely hid. A handsome young man with red hair stood behind Astasia. While he had a pleasant face and a fit form, he looked barely out of his teens. Consort?
Tris wondered. Plaything? There was a coldness to the young man’s eyes when he met Tris’s gaze that made him wonder even further about what relationships vayash moru formed—or con-tinued—after death.
Next to Astasia sat a man with hair as black as coal, and the dark eyes of a Nargi native. Unlike the others there was no sign of fine breeding in his fea-tures. He was good-looking in an unsavory way, and had an air about him of a man who spent too much time in card parlors. His wine-colored dou-blet accentuated his broad shoulders and stocky build, with an extravagantly cuffed white silk shirt that spilled from beneath its sleeves. Gold glittered in the candlelight, on his fingers, at his throat, and in the lobe of one ear. His dark eyes regarded Tris with unabashed contempt. Uri, Tris thought, daring to meet the vayash moru’s gaze and not look away.
Behind Uri was a young man whose beauty might even have surpassed Carroway’s, marred only by a cruel upturn of his full lips. Sinewy, clad in a form-fitting black velvet coat and brocade pants, with a full frilled white lace collar and foppish, costly lace cuffs, Uri’s assistant reminded Tris of a poisonous lizard waiting to strike.
“To what do I attribute the honor of the Council’s invitation?” Tris asked, deciding to cut through the pleasantries.
Rafe inclined his head slightly, as if he recognized and appreciated directness.
“We have heard much of you, Prince Drayke, both from Lord Gabriel, and from… others. Already, your power as a Summoner
is becoming legendary. They say you dispelled the revenants from the Ruune Videya.”
“My companions and I had been captured by slavers. It was necessary to survive.”
“Living is vastly overrated,” Uri commented with affected boredom, eliciting a cold half-smile from the young man behind him and no response at all from the rest of the Council.
“We have also heard of your Court of Spirits,” Rafe went on. “And while this Council would ques-tion your authority to settle matters between vayash moru, it is clear that your power is as for-midable as it appears.”
“I’m a Summoner, heir to the power of my grand-mother, Bava K’aa.”
“Several of the Council knew Bava K’aa,” Gabriel said. “We remember her battle against the Obsidian King, and the binding of the orb, Soulcatcher, in the foundation of Dark Haven.”
“That worked well, didn’t it?” Uri remarked.
“We have convened at the request of Lord Gabriel,” Rafe continued, ignoring Uri’s jibes. “The Blood Council determines what is law among the vayash moru of the Winter Kingdoms. And it is we who punish transgressors, even noble ones,” he said, with a glance toward Gabriel, whose expres-sion gave no clue as to his thoughts.
“We are aware of the usurpation of the crown of Margolan by Jared the Tyrant,”
Rafe went on. “We know he and his mage, Arontala, have broken the truce, hunting down vayash moru.”
“If you know those things,” Tris said, “then you understand why Jared must be unseated and Arontala must be stopped.”
“For four hundred years,” Rafe replied, “we of the Blood Council have stood apart from mortal kingmaking. This was desired by the mortals, who feared we might reign over them, and by the oldest and wisest among our own kind, who knew the danger and the truth of that fear.”
“If that is the case,” Tris challenged, “then look no further than Arontala. Ten years ago, he tried— and failed—to gain power in Eastmark. Arontala pinned my father, King Bricen, with his magic while Jared stabbed him. It was on Jared’s order that my family was murdered. Now, at Arontala’s behest, Margolan troops terrorize both vayash moru and mortals alike, destroying any who dare to object.”
“Yet you don’t come here tonight asking us to dis-cipline one of our own, do you, Prince Drayke?” It was Uri, whose mellifluous voice had a knife-edge just below the surface. “You come requesting aid for your revolution, an endeavor that will, in the end, be of greatest benefit to Margolan’s mortal res-idents.”
“There is precedent,” Gabriel responded with irritation. “Two hundred years ago, when your own people of Nargi tried to drive our kind from cover and kill them all, this Council gave its permission for vayash moru to defend themselves and aid their mortal defenders.”
“Nargi hardly remains a welcoming place to our kind,” Uri rejoined.
“The mass burnings stopped in Nargi and have not resumed,” Gabriel replied, leaning forward. “There will always be unfortunate incidents, driven by mortal fear and those who use that fear for their own greed. But what Jared of Margolan is doing
goes beyond ‘incidents.’ I have traveled Margolan, and so has Mikhail. We’ve seen whole villages burned at the stake, people’s heads severed from their bodies, left on a pile with a warning sign that said, ‘Thus so to all blood stealers.’”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tris saw in Riqua’s expression a shadow of remembered fear.
Tris felt his gorge rise at the description, nauseat-ed at Jared’s cruelty, shamed by the stain it brought on the memory of his father and the honor of his family name. Unbidden, the images of the dark sending—and the fate it threatened for Gabriel and Mikhail—rushed to mind and he forced the night-mare vision away.
“What do you seek, Prince Drayke?” Astasia purred, and Tris sensed the danger in her voice. “Do you wish to recruit vayash moru as killing machines for your army? Send us by night to make Jared’s soldiers vanish in the darkness?” She paused, shifting slightly in her seat, a move Tris was sure was calculated to better display her figure. “What would become of our kind, after you take the throne—assuming that you can? Will you pro-tect us, you—a boy-king and newly minted mage?”
She was being deliberately provocative, both in manner and in words. He struggled with his emo-tions to avoid giving her the victory she sought. “I’m the only surviving direct heir of King Bricen, other than Jared the traitor,” Tris said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “I realize that I’m young— both in years and in mage training. But my power is strong. Even the Sisterhood couldn’t dispel the wraiths of the Ruune Videya. But I did. As for my age—what is the alternative? Should I live in exile for a decade or two while those in Margolan—both living and undead—are slaughtered and oppressed by Jared and his mage?”
He looked at each Council member in turn. “At the Hawthorn Moon, Arontala will awaken the Obsidian King from his exile in Soulcatcher, and free him from his prison. The Sisterhood believes he’s powerful enough to do this.
“When that happens, the Obsidian King will pos-sess Arontala’s body, infusing him with his power. Think of it. A dark Summoner of immense power, combined with the power of a Fire Clan mage in an immortal’s body. Who’ll stop him then? Who will dare to stand against him?”
Uri leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering. “Perhaps it’s as it should be,” he baited, watching Tris closely. “Perhaps the age of mortals is at an end. Perhaps the Obsidian King’s rising is an omen, that the age of Those Who Walk the Night is come at last. After all, I’ve been told that the new Lord of Dark Haven may not even live to see his holdings. Perhaps that’s an omen, too.”
Tris felt his temper rise, and he thought he saw a glint of anger in Gabriel’s eyes as well. Mikhail’s pos-ture made his anger clear, though he said nothing.
“You speak rubbish,” denounced Riqua sharply, targeting Uri with her ire. “I remember before the truce. We all remember what it was to be hunted, to live off the blood of rats because we dared not ven-ture out to find livestock or human criminals to feed our hunger. I don’t want to go back to those days.”
“No one wishes to survive such a purge again,” replied Rafe carefully. “But we have yet to hear from Prince Drayke what he proposes.” Rafe turned his attention to Tris. “Forgive my stating the obvious, but your cause—however noble—seems unlikely to succeed. What do you offer to offset the risk of our backing should you fail?”
“If I fail, I’ll be in no position to offer anything, as I’ll be food for the Obsidian King,” Tris replied, a morbid smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know my challenge to Jared’s throne—and Arontala’s power—is up against steep odds.
But there’s no one else to raise a challenge, no one else who can legitimately take the throne, no one else with a Summoner’s power to challenge Arontala and the Obsidian King. I’m the only chance you’ve got.” Tris hoped he appeared as coolly confident as Vahanian in this high stakes bluff.
“I don’t ask for your help en masse; I ask only that the Council permit the vayash moru of Margolan—as individuals—to follow their hearts. Let them act against Jared and his followers with-out fear of the Council’s judgment. Let them protect themselves and their kin.”
“A mortal, asking us to loose the vengeance of our kind against other mortals?”
Rafe asked, watching Tris closely. “Is that what you really want? Do you think you can stop that force once it’s turned loose?”
“I don’t know. But as it is the truce will shatter one day. The vayash moru will take their vengeance against all mortals, innocent and guilty, and the bloodshed won’t end at Margolan’s borders. Reprisal will follow reprisal. You’ll see your precious truce dissolve, and all hope of peace with it. x\nd behind it all will be the Obsidian King, growing bloated on the blood, increasing his power in an immortal body with no one to challenge him—perhaps for generations.”
“I’ve already made my choice,” said Gabriel, ris-ing from his seat. “I am resolved to see Martris Drayke on the throne of Margolan, or be destroyed in the attempt.”
Mikhail stepped forward. “And I, likewise,” he said, raising his head to meet the gaze of the Council. “I served King Hotten two centuries ago. Now, my kingdom and my people require my serv-ice once again. I stand with Lord Gabriel and Prince Drayke.”
Rafe looked at the three men in silence for a moment. “You realize that you are in defiance of the Council’s truce, for which the penalty is destruc-tion?”
Gabriel returned his stare. “We’re within Council chambers, within the borders of my lands, sur-rounded by my brood. Neither you nor the Council can act against us here. To do so would trigger reprisals, both from my family and from the King of Principality. Either way, the truce ends. Prince Drayke has spoken truly. The only way to preserve our freedom to move safely among mortals is to give our support to Martris Drayke, and trust the Dark Lady that She will give her blessing in our endeavor.”
