The Sworn (45 page)

“It’s not completely our decision,” Kiara said, and Tris heard the sadness in her voice. “Like it or not, what you and I want personally comes second to the crown—to both crowns—and to our kingdoms.”

Tris turned to her with a stricken expression. “This is why I never wanted the crown. We aren’t just prize horses for stud.”

Kiara took a long breath. “Maybe not. But more depends on our children than on the children of a tinker or a smith. It’s not about passing down the family business. There’s already a threat from Jared’s bastard. We know
he’s hidden away in Trevath, waiting for the right moment to challenge you.”

“Jared’s son is only a year older than Cwynn. Any challenge will be awhile in coming.”

Kiara shrugged. “Maybe. Then again, one hundred years ago, Mortimer the Bald raised a challenge for the Isencroft throne in the name of a toddler he claimed was the rightful elder son. It took a war to defeat him, and a panel of mages to determine the consanguinity.”

“We both know that wars can start over almost anything. Bad whiskey. Taxes. Empty bellies. I can’t rule looking over my shoulder.”

Kiara stepped closer. “If war comes to Isencroft, like it or not, part of the fight will be over our child. And if it comes, I’ll have to help Father stand against it.”

“Kiara, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe not to the Margolense, but in Isencroft, yes, it does. I’m Donelan’s heir. And don’t forget, I saw a vision of the Lady on the battlefield when I rode with Father to put down the border war. To the Crofters, that makes me ‘goddess blessed.’ If Isencroft had a civil war and I didn’t go home to show where my allegiance lies, it would undermine Father and give more fuel to the conspiracies that people already think are brewing.”

“Maybe I could help—”

Kiara shook her head. “If the king of Margolan and his troops set foot on Isencroft soil, I guarantee you that a civil war will become a war with Margolan in a heartbeat. Nothing unites us like the idea of a common threat, and you have to admit that more than once in its history, Margolan has tried to annex Isencroft. Trust me, my people haven’t forgotten that.”

Tris sighed. “Carroway wrote a play once about lovers from two feuding families. In the end, everyone died. I hated that play. Now, I feel like I’m living it.”

“There’s something else to think about.” Kiara’s voice fell nearly to a whisper. “If it’s true that there’s going to be another war, if there’s an invasion coming from across the sea, then it’s more important than ever to make sure there’s a safe succession. I don’t want to even think that it’s possible for something to happen to you, but I’ve been to war. I know what can happen. And if something did happen to you, and if Cwynn really can’t take the throne—”

Kiara did not have to finish the sentence for Tris to understand. Without its king and with a crippled heir, Margolan would be defenseless. The challenge to the throne would come both from across the sea and from the supporters of Jared’s bastard, while Isencroft dissolved into chaos. Both kingdoms would almost certainly fall to outsiders, and the resulting war could well draw in the rest of the Winter Kingdoms.

Which course leads to a War of Unmaking? Is it the threat of a dark summoner, or the risk of a weak succession? Or is war certain to come, no matter what we do?

As if she guessed his thoughts, Kiara took Tris’s hand. “It’s in our power to reduce the threat of war in one way. If I’m pregnant with a second heir, then if Cwynn turns out to be healthy, Isencroft has its new king. And if there’s really something wrong with Cwynn—” She couldn’t finish the sentence, but Tris knew what she was thinking.

If Cwynn isn’t suitable to take the throne, then, Goddess help us, we have a spare. It wouldn’t solve the Isencroft issue as neatly, but it would secure Margolan’s
throne and the joint throne with Isencroft, and it might keep outsiders at bay.
Tris folded Kiara into his arms.

“I anchored your soul when you gave birth to Cwynn,” Tris murmured, resting his cheek against Kiara’s hair. “It took all my power not to lose both of you. So many times, it was close. Too close.” His voice caught. “Crowns and kingdoms be damned, Kiara, I don’t want to lose you. Maybe that makes me a bad king. So be it.” His fingers trailed through her hair, tangling in the auburn strands.

Kiara leaned against him. “I have no intention of leaving you or Cwynn. This isn’t the timing I’d choose under other circumstances. But we don’t get to choose. Please, Tris.”

Tris swallowed hard, and nodded. “All right. What do Esme and Cerise say? How soon would it even be possible?”

Kiara turned in his arms. A bittersweet smile touched her lips. “Neither of them likes the idea any more than you do, but when I laid out the options, they had to agree that it’s less risky than all the other choices.”

“Which isn’t saying much.”

Kiara ignored his comment. “It’s been almost six weeks since Cwynn was born. Esme tells me that in the farmlands, many a wife is already pregnant with the next child well before the first is three moons old. You and Esme can use your magic to assure that we conceive quickly.”

“Most days, I’d give anything to be one of those farmers, with nothing to worry about except getting the crop in,” Tris said and sighed.

“And no control over soldiers riding across your fields or the taxes you pay or whether or not your lord conscripts your sons into the militia.”

“Point taken. On the other hand, we’ve just discussed how little control a king really has—over much of anything.”

Kiara gave him a mischievous look. “And is making a baby such an onerous duty to the king?”

Despite his gloomy mood and the exhaustion of the day’s working, Kiara’s smile quickened his pulse. Tris bent to kiss her hand with a flourish. “Absolutely not, m’lady. The crown is at your service.”

Kiara grinned broadly. “It wasn’t the crown I had in mind.”

The next afternoon found Tris presiding over a war council. Soterius sat to his right, along with General Senne. To his left, Sister Fallon sat next to a newcomer, Nisim, one of the Sentinels. Lord Dravan represented the Council of Nobles. Mikhail was both seneschal and the official representative of the Blood Council for the
vayash moru
, and with him was Kolja, from the Margolan
vyrkin
.

The council listened with growing concern as Tris and Fallon shared their news. The warning letters from Cam, Jonmarc, and Eastmark lay in the middle of the table. Tris’s summary of the situation in Isencroft elicited worried outcry.

“We may have no control over it, but this couldn’t be worse timing for the army,” Senne said. Tris had learned to depend on Senne’s experience and clear thinking during the siege of Lochlanimar. Senne was twenty years older than Tris, and his dark hair was gray at the temples. His eyes were a cold, dark blue, and there were fine lines at the corners of his eyes from time spent squinting
against the sun. Bricen had always valued Senne’s advice, and after having seen him in battle, Tris now shared his father’s admiration. “With the soldiers home, we barely have enough men to bring in the crops. The plague’s made it hard enough, but if we call back the soldiers, can we really expect the women and elders to bring in a full harvest by themselves? I don’t fancy fighting a war when the townsfolk behind the lines are hungry. It’ll make it the Crone’s own to provision the troops, and hungry people have little patience. We could have a revolt on our hands, even without civil war in Isencroft.”

“Lady knows, the Council of Nobles has no desire to see another pretender to the throne, whether it’s from across the Northern Sea or it’s Jared’s bastard.” Lord Dravan was a generation older than Tris’s father and had been one of the nobles who remained loyal to Bricen throughout Jared’s rule. Dravan’s white hair showed his age, but his blue eyes were sharp and his angular features showed keen intelligence. “With the three new additions to the Council of Nobles, I trust Your Majesty will find the support you need if it comes to war, but I pray to the Lady such a course is not necessary.”

Tris nodded. Political maneuvering among three of the former members of the Council of Nobles had nearly resulted in unfounded charges of treason against Kiara and a warrant of execution for Master Bard Carroway, one of Tris’s dearest and most loyal friends. When Tris had returned from battle to set the matter straight, one of the Council had been hanged for treason and two were banished permanently from court. Their replacements had been chosen both for loyalty and the ability to think rationally on matters of policy. With any luck, the new Council
reduced the threat of betrayal from among the most prominent nobility.

“We can’t count on support from the Sisterhood.” Fallon’s voice made her disdain for the ruling body of mages clear. “I’ve tried to get Sister Landis to rethink her position of neutrality, but she’s adamant that her mages will not get involved in ‘temporal’ concerns.”

“By the Whore!” Senne roared. “Will she stand by and do nothing if we’re invaded by a dark summoner?”

Fallon met the general’s eyes. “She’ll see to the safety of her mages. If they were attacked, she would use magic to defend them. But she won’t provide battle mages for the army or bring the Sisterhood to the aid of the crown.” She paused. “On the other hand, if war really does break out, I know of quite a few mages who might find their consciences tried by Landis’s edict. I think we could count on many of those mages to go rogue and join us, as some of us did during the battle for the throne.”

Dravan leaned over to Tris. “Refusing to aid the king—isn’t there something on the books about that?”

Tris managed a wan smile. “With the rest of Margolan’s problems, do you really want to skirmish with the Sisterhood?”

Dravan sat back in his chair with a muttered curse. “Of course not. It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Unfortunately, after the battle for the throne and the siege of Lochlanimar, the number of
vayash moru
who could join our forces is smaller than it used to be,” Mikhail observed. “We’ve also had more than a few
vayash moru
flee to Dark Haven after some of the locals tried to burn them out, blaming them for the plague. On the other hand, we’ve got more
vayash moru
than usual as refugees at
Huntwood and Glynnmoor. They might prefer taking an active role, especially against a threat like a dark summoner. I could see who I can personally recruit, but we won’t have a very large contingent under the best of circumstances. There are never as many of us as the mortals believe, and now, there are fewer still.”

“Your people fought bravely at Lochlanimar,” Senne said. “Our losses would have been much heavier without them.”

“I’m afraid that the
vyrkin
are in much the same situation as the
vayash moru
,” Kolja said. “Our numbers were never very large, and Jared did his best to hunt us to extinction. He may have come closer to success than he knew. Many of my people have also fled for sanctuary in Dark Haven, but even there, I hear that mortals are hunting us for fear that we carry plague.” He spread his hands. “Ironic, isn’t it? Neither we nor the
vayash moru
can carry or die of plague, so they kill us for the crime of not dying.” Kolja paused. “Like the
vayash moru
, many
vyrkin
have found sanctuary at Huntwood and Glynnmoor. I will see whose pledges I can secure.”

“If the warnings are true, and Alvior’s invasion includes a dark summoner of real power, then we’re at a disadvantage without more mages and without significant numbers of
vayash moru
and
vyrkin
,” Tris said. He knew they could hear the weariness in his voice, and a glance in the mirror that morning had told him that his tiredness was plain on his face. If he hadn’t been born with white-blond hair, he was quite certain that the burden of the crown would have turned his hair gray within his first year as king.

“The
vayash moru
have strength and speed and they’re just plain tougher to destroy. That’s an advantage when
we’re fighting magic. And as we saw at Lochlanimar, fever and pox spring up quickly in army camps. It helps to have some of your troops who are immune,” Senne said.

“It’s not just immunity to disease,” Fallon added. “Taking mortal troops up against a dark summoner means magic will be as much the weapon of choice as your catapults and trebuchets.
Vayash moru
and
vyrkin
are more immune to mind-meddling or magicked terrors than mortal troops, and they’re better at seeing through whatever glamours a mage might cast to trick soldiers into a trap.” She shrugged. “But if we don’t have the numbers, we don’t have them. There’s not much we can do about it.”

“What kind of a fleet can Margolan put to sea?” It was Nisim, the mage-Sentinel, who spoke, and Tris startled. Except for his report to the council of the warning signs observed by the Sentinels, Nisim had said nothing.

“There’s been no serious threat from across the Northern Sea in generations,” Tris said. “And while there are explorers who’ve gone into larger, open waters, the seas near Margolan are icebound for months out of the year. There are fishing boats and trading vessels that move from Isencroft to Margolan to Principality—some even to Eastmark, and the privateers who keep the pirates away from the villages. The fishermen from the Bay Islands are probably our best sailors. They go far out to sea for the best catch, but I’m not even certain they really consider themselves to be Margolense. Margolan’s never had much in the way of a real navy. If we were ever to go to war with our neighbors, it would make more sense to march rather than sail!”