The Blood King (28 page)

Tris started forward again as soon as his heart slowed and the vertigo passed, alert for traps both magical and mundane. His Summoner’s power meant that many traps that often protected magical places and items would not deter him.

In winning Mageslayer, he had proved his ability to wrestle with hostile spirits, quell reanimated fighters, and dispel a demi-demon. But magic, he knew, posed only one threat. Even powerful mages were con-strained by the limits of their bodies. Traps to ensnare mortals could just as easily kill an unwary mage. Tris moved forward cautiously into the dark-ness.

Tris’s mage sense prickled a warning, and he test-ed the steps ahead of him with his power. At his touch a section of the floor gave way, yawning into blackness.

Tris tested the other side of the chasm carefully. He used his newly-honed climbing skills to find toe holds in the rough stone wall and cross the gap. As he reached the other side, Tris heard wind roar up from the pit. Mageslayer brightened at the danger. Tris stepped backward against a solid rock wall.

Trapped.

Rising from the chasm, a vortex of wind swirled with storm power, buffeting him against the wall. From the depths of the darkness it brought with it shards of stone and bone, blinding dust, and sting-ing grit. Tris flung up shielding, and struggled to hold it against the force of the storm.

His skin burned with the grit that swirled in the air around him as his shields snapped into place. The wind was powerful, and the close quarters seemed to double its force. Such a storm could rage for days, far longer than he could hold his shields. Around him the wind howled, full of debris that could strip skin from bone. Despite Mageslayer’s glow, it was almost impossible to see.

The winds were not sentient, so his spirit magic was of no help. The storm surged, threatening to break through his shields; Tris knew he could not hold out forever. Even if the wind storm doesn’t kill me, it can make enough of a mess of me that it will take forever for Carina to put back the pieces, he thought.

The winds howled louder. Tris seized on a slim hope.

He threw his cowl over his head and took a deep breath, tightening a two-handed grip on Mageslayer. He let his shields fall.

As the storm howled toward him, Tris focused on Mageslayer, willing his energy and power to become one with the blade. Firel he willed, letting his magic thrum along the blade until the metal glowed hotter than forged steel.

The winds reached him and the grit and shards began to tear at his clothing and exposed skin. The force of the storm threatened to sweep him off his feet into the pit, but Tris closed his eyes, willing his power through the blade.

With a roar, fire erupted from Mageslayer’s blade, so hot that Tris felt his breath leave him. A blast of concentrated flame struck at the heart of the winds. Long ago, the palace smithy told him that fire burnt air; a fire in a closed place will take the air until there is none left to breathe. As the heat rose, Tris held firm to Mageslayer’s grip, though the metal burned his hands and the buffeting of the storm strained his outstretched arms. The air filled with the smell of scorched rock, but Tris felt the wind weaken, dropping its lethal cargo of grit and shards.

Arms aching, Tris held on to the sword. A reaction headache was beginning to pound in his temples. Then with a rush, the winds died.

Sweat-soaked, bleeding from tiny cuts, and heav-ing for breath in the thin air, Tris dropped to his knees. Mageslayer gradually dimmed to a faint blue light.

I’m alive! Tris thought, lightheaded from the scorched air. Just as quickly, he remembered that he was trapped against a sheer stone wall, with the pit between him at the cool, sweet air of the passage.

Aching in every muscle, Tris reached for a flask at his belt and took a drink.

Carina swore that the herbed water would sustain him from minor injuries and fatigue. While it did nothing for the pain in his ribs, Tris felt the pounding of his headache recede. The sting of his cuts and burns faded. Still dizzy from the loss of blood and the thin air, Tris searched a pouch at his belt for a wad of pummeled rope vine, about as thick as the tip of his thumb. He pushed the wad between his back teeth, and bit down hard, hoping it would help to clear his head. After a few moments he felt strong enough to stand, Mageslayer held warily against any sur-prise from the pit.

When nothing stirred from the blackness, Tris turned his attention to the rock wall at the back of the passage. He felt his way toward the magic that tingled in the rocks. As Tris slid his free hand across the rough stone, he also let his mage sense play across the wall until both touch and magic located a loose stone.

With Mageslayer gripped in his right hand Tris carefully felt the edges of the stone with his left, finding that it would neither pull nor push, but could be rotated with effort.

The stone clicked into place and the wall gave way, sliding very slowly backward. But before Tris could withdraw his hand, a whirring noise buzzed from within the hole and a sharp pain in his palm made him jerk back his hand.

A tiny dart was embedded in his palm. Tris pulled it free, but already the wormroot burned through his veins. He staggered into the newly opened cor-ridor, falling against the cold stone wall.

He clenched his fist around Mageslayer, drawing from its power to fight the poison. Tris chewed harder on the rope vine, letting its bitter juice course down his throat.

Sweet Chenne, Tris thought, willing himself not to be sick. I’m barely in one piece, and I’ve yet to face the avatars!

With the help of Mageslayer and the rope vine, Tris clung to his power. He was flushed with fever and the headache pounded, but he willed himself forward.

Although his palm burned from the poison, he reached for a dirk from his belt. The corridor turned and he saw pale red light glowing from an open doorway.

The Soulcatcherl Tris thought, remembering the deadly orb in Arontala’s study, the prison of the Obsidian King. It took conscious effort for Tris to keep his power within his grasp as he made his way carefully down the corridor, Mageslayer gripped white-knuckled in his hand.

Tris reached the doorway. Inside the stone room, Soulcatcher lit the vaulted ceilings of the chamber, glowing like a captured sun on a pedestal in the cen-ter of the floor. A cowled, red-robed figure stood, arms upraised over the orb, his back to the door. Tris heard Arontala’s cold chuckle from an avatar that looked to be a perfect replica. But unlike in his confrontation with Alaine, neither the orb nor the avatar radiated the imprint of Arontala’s power.

“Come to join your sister?” Arontala baited with a smile that showed his long eye teeth.

Tris loosed a burst of power toward Arontala and the Fire Clan mage brushed aside the assault with-out raising his shields. His counterstrike nearly tore Mageslayer from Tris’s grip.

“Come now. You’ll have to do better than that.”

The mage’s next strike almost broke through Tris’s shields. Tris could feel the poison in his veins growing stronger, eroding his control, making his magic a wild and unpredictable force.

Tris clasped Mageslayer tighter, drawing from the spelled blade against the poison, and he ground his teeth on the rope vine. His ribs throbbed and his head pounded, making it difficult to focus his vision.

“I have the offering,” a familiar voice said. Tris’s blood ran cold. Straight from his nightmares, Jared stepped into the room from a side door, dragging with him a battered and bound Kiara.

They’re just avatars, Tris struggled against the anger and instinct that boiled up in him. It’s not really him, not really her. Not real. Can’t be real.

“We have a visitor,” Arontala purred, inclining his head.

Jared’s familiar leer twisted his handsome fea-tures. “Hello, Tris.” He intentionally pulled on the ropes that bound Kiara’s wrists, eliciting a groan.

Her eyes were closed, one cheek bruised, and her tunic was smudged and bloody. The gash on Jared’s sleeve and his torn shirt told of the fight that victo-ry had required. “My mage assures me that once we feed her soul to the orb, what remains will be suffi-cient for my… needs.”

A cold, rational corner of Tris’s mind calculated his odds. The battle with the vayash morn, his injuries .from the storm, and the wormroot had already taken a toll, pushed further by the exchange with Arontala. He would have one chance, if his magic would obey his will at all. Although he stood equally close to Arontala’s avatar as to Jared’s, a move toward either would bring a counter from the other. And there was Kiara. Avatar or not, he would not accept her sacrifice.

“Bring her,” Arontala ordered. Jared dragged the Kiara-double forward, forcing her to kneel beside the glowing orb.

In the back of Tris’s mind, one possibility pre-sented itself.

Tris plunged onto the spirit plains and found the glow that was Mageslayer’s power. His magic was waning as the poison worked its way through his blood.

Drawing on Mageslayer for support, Tris hurled the dirk in his left hand, catching Jared in the chest.

With Mageslayer as an athame, Tris sent a blast of power toward Arontala, using the orb as a lens to magnify the effect. Spent to the point of exhaustion, Tris sent the last of his power toward Kiara, covering her with a fragile shield.

The explosion at Westmarch when Tris forced power back through the scrying ball did not compare to the firestorm that erupted from Soulcatcher, incinerating Arontala and blistering Tris’s skin. Everything in his sight turned to black, and Tris collapsed.

FIRST CAME PAIN, then consciousness. In the dark-ness Tris heard voices, but whether the lightless space was in a room or inside his own mind he did not know.

“He failed,” snapped one voice.

“Tsk, Tsk,” chided another. “Define failure. He made it through the traps, past the wormroot. And his solution worked—after a fashion.”

“He has his grandmother’s weakness,” said a third. “He might have survived the explosion if he had been willing to let her go. If he dies in the attempt, we are no better served. Jared’s bastard will become the rightful king.”

“If you’re so worried about the girl, keep her from accompanying him,” said the first voice.

“Have you forgotten? It was the will of the Oracle,” argued the second. “She may be in greater danger of being taken—or turned—if she is alone, or if they wed and she stays behind to bear his child. This is the will of the Lady.”

“I’ve found,” noted the third voice dryly, “that the will of the Lady is always clearer in retrospect. He did what we required—destroyed the orb, Jared, and Arontala. Landis seemed intent that he be will-ing to sacrifice someone. He sacrificed himself. We did not actually say he must survive the encounter.”

“It was implied,” sniffed the second. “Bava K’aa’s foolish sentiment endangered us all, and now, his weakness will do so again.”

“Perhaps he’ll learn from his recovery,” noted the first voice, growing faint in the darkness. “It won’t be pleasant.”

The voices might have said more, but the dark-ness and fever took him. He did not remember anything else.

WHEN HE FOUND the strength to open his eyes, Tris could make out only shadows in the dim light. I’m a Summoner, so I should know if I were dead, he thought. It doesn’t look like the spirit plains. But maybe they look different from the other side.

“Don’t even think about moving,” a familiar voice instructed. The shadow came closer in the twilight, bringing a cool rag for his forehead and a cup of water.

“Slowly,” she cautioned, lifting the water to his parched lips as she helped him rise from his pillow. The water tasted of herbs and med-icines. Even the slightest movement hurt, and he realized he was wet with sweat.

“Where—”

The shadow gently laid him back and wiped his face with the rag. “You’re still in the citadel,” the voice said. Tris realized the shadow was Carina, though he could not see her face in the darkness.

“Why so dark?” He was barely able to form the words. Excruciating pain radiated from behind his eyes. His whole body seemed on fire.

“Shh,” Carina hushed gently. “It’s been three days. They weren’t expecting what you did back there. They barely shielded you in time. Sister Taru has been helping me. It was too close, Tris. It was just an avatar, dammit! You shielded her instead of yourself, and it wasn’t even a real person!”

“It was the right thing to do,” Tris managed, find-ing his throat sore and his lips cracked.

“There was so much wormroot in your system it took a day before we could even begin to heal,” Carina said. “I saw everything you did,” she reached out to take his hand. “You were amazing.”

“Not good enough,” Tris murmured.

“You were amazing,” Carina repeated. “But we need you to live through the real thing, do you understand? It’s not complete unless you live to take the crown.”

Tris wanted to respond, but her potion drew him back into the respite of the darkness.

next

contents

A LITTLE MORE than a week later, Tris and Carina returned to Staden’s palace in time to see Soterius and Mikhail off on their journey back into Margolan.

“Now that Ban’s an outlaw hero, he’ll probably have twice the number of ladies vying for him,” Carroway teased. He set his lyre down. The group was still chuckling at the off-color ballad he’d dedicated to the high points of Soterius’s upcom-ing ride into Margolan to inspire dissent. Even Staden dabbed a tear from his eye as the laughter subsided.

“I figure you advised him on the high-born ruffi-an look,” Tris rejoined, grinning. “The hair and the beard, the leather cloak; I just assumed it was all for the benefit of the village girls!”

“Mikhail’s done the same, so it must be in fash-ion,” Kiara added. She gave a sly grin in Tris’s direction. “We’re waiting for you and Jonmarc to pick up on the trend.”

Soterius rolled his eyes, taking the ribbing good naturedly as the small group laughed. “I doubt we’ll have much time for trysting,” he observed. “Although I’m hoping that we won’t be completely without good ale.”

The friends were assembled in Staden’s private dining room. Servants cleared away the dishes from a sumptuous farewell dinner in honor of Soterius and Mikhail. Only the companions from the road, plus Royster, Staden, and Berry attended, and everyone seemed committed to keeping the conver-sation light.