Macaria wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Most folks don't let facts get in the way of a good story. Paiva and Bandele, two of our closest minstrel friends, think it's being put around by Lady Guarov. She's got a mean tongue, and she was a friend of Lady Nadine." The others took her meaning. Nadine was the noblewoman King Bricen banished years before for forcing Carroway into an affair when he was barely in his teens. "Where's Carroway?" Alle asked, as Cerise laid a hand in comfort on Kiara's shoulder. Macaria drew a ragged breath. "He's under house arrest at the Dragon's Rage Inn, until the king returns. If it weren't for Carroway's friendship with the king, Crevan would have probably put him in the dungeon. As it is, he's forbidden from returning to court or being in the presence of the queen, on pain of death." She looked from Kiara to Alle to Cerise. "What are we going to do? He'll be charged with high treason."
Kiara drew a deep breath. Her heart was racing. If the gossips believe the rumors, then only two courses are possible-that we conspired together or that he forced me. The penalty for either is death or exile. There's no doubt about the paternity of the baby, thank goodness, but after the birth…
"Unfortunately, there's nothing we dare do," Cerise said quietly. "The charges may be against Carroway, but they implicate the queen. She can't lift a finger to help him without seeming to confirm the rumors." She shook her head. "We knew there were nobles here who lost their chance at power when Tris took an outland bride. There are Margolan interests that benefit from disgracing Kiara. And then there are Curane's spies and Jared's loyalists who stand to gain if there were any question about the suitability of the child to take the crown. Lady Nadine has a powerful motive for revenge. There are too many suspects, and we don't even know if we're fighting one or all of them."
"Aunt Eadoin will know what to do," Alle said. "I'll find out what she's heard. She'll know all
the players. I'd been thinking of asking her if we could come to stay at her manor for a while to get you away from the palace and out of danger. Brightmoor is small and all of her servants have been with her forever. It would be so much easier to spot an intruder or an outsider."
Kiara nodded, and met Alle's eyes. "Go to her. We need all the help we can get on this. Damn them! One by one, all our friends become targets. We've got to figure out who's behind this, or Tris could win the battle to find his court fighting amongst itself. "The more we stay secluded in our rooms-trying to thwart the assassin-the freer the gossips are to talk," Kiara said, trying to still her own emotions. "But if we let it be known about the attacks-assuming anyone would believe us now-it undermines Tris's authority. He'll look unable to control his own court or assure my safety. If either of the rumors makes it back to Isencroft, father will be outraged, and the nobles will push him to save face. He's already in a precarious position with the divisionists. This could force him into two losing choices-to do nothing and appear weak, or to break the treaty and declare hostilities. Isencroft can't afford a war-and neither can Margolan."
Upstairs at the Dragon's Rage Inn, Master Bard Riordan Carroway paced the small, spare room. Outside, the two guards who had escorted him at sword's point from Shekerishet kept watch. Carroway ran a hand back through his long, blue-black hair. His stomach had been knotted since Crevan told him what the rumors alleged. Nothing Carroway had said moved Crevan to change his pronouncement of banishment, and in the absence of the king, the seneschal's word was law.
A servant arrived within a few candlemarks after Carroway was imprisoned in his room. The servant brought the contents of Carroway's room at the palace, confirmation that the banishment was expected to be permanent. His instruments were propped carefully against one wall. Clothing spilled from a large trunk. A smaller trunk held sundry personal belongings. On the table, dinner sat untouched.
Carroway looked up sharply as the door opened, half expecting to see soldiers come to move him to the dungeon. Macaria slipped into the room, lowering the hood of her cloak. She looked drawn and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.
"Oh, Carroway!" she cried, flinging her arms around him. "I came as soon as I could. Are you all right?"
Carroway gave a bitter smile. "For someone accused of high treason, tolerably well." "But it's not true. We all know it's not. King Martris will believe you. You're his best friend." Carroway sighed. "I'd like to believe that. But I've also heard enough stories about the kings of the Winter Kingdoms to know that more than one was betrayed by his best friend and his queen." He sank into a chair, his long-fingered hands clasped tightly together. "Besides, the damage is done. It's not just the charges against me. Everything that's being said also hurts Kiara. Margolan can find a new master bard easier than it can a new queen." He avoided meeting her eyes. "If I were chivalrous, I imagine I'd write a flowery note protesting my innocence and then have the good manners to hang myself, saving Tris the trouble. It might even make a good ballad." "Don't joke about things like that." Carroway shrugged. "It's one of the better options." "What do you mean?"
Carroway looked at her with a pained expression. "The usual penalty for high treason is hanging, or if the king feels theatrical, beheading. Throw in adultery with the queen, and there's precedent for being drawn and quartered." Impelled to move, he stood and began to pace once more. "If Tris decides to spare my life, the next possibility is confinement in one of the citadels of the Sisterhood, forced to take vows to the Lady, that sort of thing. If I were to be locked away at Westmarch, I might not mind too much-they had some Keepers there who were fine musicians-except that confinement traditionally includes castration, to make the point." He grimaced. "Not a pleasant thought."
Carroway turned away from Macaria, unable to watch the expression on her face. "Exile has its own set of complications. It would depend on how clearly the king let his displeasure be known. Out of the seven kingdoms, Tris is related by blood, marriage or alliance to five of them. Nargi and Trevath are hardly prospects," he said distastefully. "No other court would welcome me if it would sour relationships with Margolan. Neither would the most powerful nobles. That would leave the lesser houses, the ones that would be unlikely to be noticed by the crown, or the inns. I'd be playing for dinner and a place in the stable, but I might keep body and soul together."
There was another option, one he would not speak aloud. While they might not offer me a bard's position, there'd be more than a few of the nobility who would welcome me via the back entrance, trading shelter for… favors. Lady Nadine wasn't the first to offer, just the most
aggressive. It would keep a roof over my head-at least while my looks last. Sweet Chenne! Am I reduced to whoring already?
Macaria slipped up behind him and put her arms around him. Carroway stiffened at her touch. "We've talked about it, the others and I. Paiva, Bandele, Tadghe and Halik all agree that if you're exiled, we'll go with you. We stand a better chance together." She rested her cheek against his back, and Carroway closed his eyes. Please don't say you love me. Not now. I don't think I could bear it. He used all of his acting skill to keep his face neutral as he turned, gently disengaging from her embrace.
"What would that serve? Without me, you all get promoted," he said, although his smile was lopsided. "You have the talent to become the new master bard. Your music has real magic. 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 al
ready 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.
Chapter Five
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.
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