Tris concentrated on bringing down his mental shielding enough to permit Esme's touch. Her hand passed over his brow, and he felt her power lessen the throbbing in his shoulder and arm.
A sharp rap came at the door. Soterius and the soldiers sprang from their places, and five soldiers stood to form a protective ring around Tris and Esme, swords drawn. Har-rtuck stood in the doorway, a grim expression on his face.
"Do you have the bowman?" Soterius asked Harrtuck.
"He attacked us. One of my men ran him through. He's dead."
Soterius swore. "Makes it hard to interrogate him."
"Not necessarily." Tris managed to pull himself up on his good arm. "Bring me some pillows."
"If you sit up you could start bleeding again," Esme protested. "I haven't had time to finish the healing."
"It won't be for long."
"This can wait..." Soterius began.
Tris shook his head. "There may be others. He might have had help. If traitors remain in the ranks, we need to know." A trickle of blood started from the wound, and Esme looked at him sternly. Tris extended his right arm toward the middle of the room and murmured the words of summoning.
The temperature in the room fell, and beyond Tris's outstretched hand a fine mist began to coalesce. Soterius moved forward so that he was positioned to step between the ghost and Tris if necessary. The spirit of a young, dark-haired man crouched before them, clad in the uniform of a palace guard.
"Who sent you to attack the king?" Soterius demanded. "Tell us, and maybe your journey to the Lady will be short."
"Don't rightly know, to tell the truth."
"You drew a crossbow on the king and you don't know why?"
The man tugged his forelock in deference. "Aye, 'tis the truth. Two moons ago, the wasting disease began to take me. I have five children and a wife to feed. They'll have nothing with me dead, no way to earn their keep. A man came to my house one night. Well dressed, with a nice horse. He spoke like one of the betters, although given his business, he didn't say his name. He offered to see to it that my wife had all the money she needed and that my little ones wouldn't go hungry if I would do a job for him. What's a man to do? Didn't matter to me who sits on the throne, so long as the taxes don't rise. I was going to die anyhow, and leave them with nothing. I took his offer, and he laid down gold on the table, right then."
"Whose gold?" Tris asked, teeth clenched against the pain.
"It was Trevath gold, but it spends the same," the ghost said with sly smile.
Tris and Soterius exchanged glances. "Can you tell us anything else?" Soterius asked.
The ghost shook his head. "Wore his cloak and kept his hood up the whole time. Wasn't surprised, given what he asked." The ghost fell to his knees. "Please don't hurt my family. They knew nothing. Please, they had no part in this."
"We won't harm your family." Tris was sure that once the guard left the visitor had returned, reclaiming his gold and silencing any who might have identified him.
Tris felt the threshold open, although he did not open it himself. The guard turned toward the power with wide, staring eyes. Shadows enveloped the assassin. In the midst of the shadows was the Crone.
The ghost gave one piercing shriek and the soldiers scrambled to get as far away as possible. Only Esme and Soterius held their ground. The Crone paid them no attention, claiming Her quarry. With the rustle of dry leaves, She disappeared as quickly as She came.
Esme was the first to collect herself in the hush that followed. "Now can we please get down to business healing that shoulder?"
Tris nodded. Carefully, Esme removed the pillows from behind him, laying him gently on the floor. She motioned for the soldiers to give her space to work. Then, closing her eyes, she laid her right hand over the wound.
Healing energy flowed to the gash. Esme's lips moved, but she made no sound. Her body swayed with the concentration. Finally, her eyes opened, and she removed her hands from his shoulder. When she took away the compress, only a thin pink scar remained.
"It's going to be very sore for a while."
Tris could see the effort the healing had cost Esme. He'd spent enough time with Carina— both as her helper and as her patient—to understand the toll a major healing took on a healer. He had no doubt that Esme felt nearly as spent as he did, perhaps more.
"Thank you."
Esme smiled self-consciously. "I'm happy to serve," she replied. "Don't be surprised if your shoulder and arm feel like you've broken them. That arrow tore through a lot of muscle and tendon. I'll give you something for the pain."
"Leave it for later," Tris said, struggling to sit. Esme placed a hand on his shoulder, lightly cautioning him that she did not thi'nk it was a good idea. With a weak smile, he lay back down.
"I've got a meeting with the generals."
"It can wait until later," Soterius countered. "No one will question that you need time to rest. I'll see to that. Let's get you to your room. I'll have the kitchen send up your supper. Listen to Esme and let her dull the pain."
"You may have a point there," Tris admitted. The shoulder was beginning to throb with an ache that shot down his arm into his fingers.
Esme dissolved some herbs in a cup of hot water. "Here." She held the cup for him to drink. "This will take the pain away."
"I'd like to rest. But I'd prefer to do it in my own bed, not here on the floor."
Esme fashioned a sling to take the weight off of his shoulder, and they made their way through the palace corridors to the king's chambers. Soterius motioned for the guards to move aside at the doors to Tris's chambers. "Leave the other generals to me."
"I have no doubt you'll keep them at bay."
"You know me."
Soterius posted two additional guards at the door. Then he and Esme helped Tris inside. The wolfhounds' greeting was subdued as the dogs flanked Tris, watching his every move, and the mastiff padded closer protectively. Esme and Soterius helped Tris lie comfortably in his bed. The pain potion was beginning to do its work, dulling the throbbing in his arm. It was all Tris could do to keep his eyes open.
"Sleep will help," Esme instructed. "Eat when you feel like it. And if you're worried about the medicine, it will wear off after sup-pertime. You can wait to take more after your meeting, if you like."
After this, the generals will be more set on war than ever, Tris thought as the medicine took effect. He drifted off, barely hearing the click of the door as Soterius and Esme let themselves out.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Tris awoke, a clay pot with his dinner in it warmed on the hearth. On a small table next to his bed lay a trencher with cheese and a pitcher of watered wine. A fresh tunic, belted with a sash so that Tris did not need to pull it over his head, was at the foot of his bed. Just as he was about to remove the ruined remnant of his shirt, a young, dark-haired boy stuck his head into the room. "May I help you get dressed, Your Majesty?" Tris tried to move his injured arm, winced, and nodded. Coalan rushed to help, gently removing the tatters of Tris's shirt and fetching a rag and a bowl of water to wash away the blood.
Coalan's dark hair bounced in a mop of ringlets as he moved. Jared had driven off or killed most of the palace's servants. A luxury like a valet came second in Tris's mind to the necessity of restaffing the kitchen and the stables, and he was loathe to allow someone so close to him unless he was completely sure of their loyalty. He would have done without, but Soterius saw the opportunity to help both Tris and his own nephew, and proposed a plan.
When Jared's troops had destroyed the Soterius family manor, only Soterius's brother-in-law, his nephew, and a loyal servant had survived. Coalan, barely in his fifteenth year, had volunteered to fight beside his uncle in the resistance, and fought with valor. But Soterius was desperate to get his nephew out of danger. And so, seeing Tris's need for a valet of unquestioned loyalty, Soterius had proposed that Coalan serve the king, getting him out of the line of fire. Tris had not expected his service to become invaluable quite so
soon.
"I picked a shirt that you don't have to pull over your head," Coalan said with a grin. Tris had known Coalan all his life. Bricen and the late Lord Soterius had been fast friends, and Tris had spent many weeks at Huntwood with the whole Soterius family when it was the season for hunting stag. Losing Soterius's family hurt nearly as much as losing 'his own, Tris thought, and he was happy to give Coalan a role where he could remain safe. Lady knows, we've all lost too many to fate as it is. And while at fifteen, Coalan was almost grown, Tris found it hard to think of Ban's nephew as old enough to bear a sword.
"Thank you," Tris said, gritting his teeth against the pain. Just jostling the shoulder made his vision swim. Coalan hurried to fetch Tris's dinner from the hearth, but Tris waved him away with his good hand and insisted on sitting at the table.
"I'm glad you're all right."
"The bad part is, I'm starting to think feeling like this is actually 'all right,'" Tris replied with a sigh. Even moving his good arm brought a fresh wave of pain. How can I bring Kiara here, when I can't guarantee my own safety? Even worse, how I can leave her alone here so soon after the wedding and go to war? We obviously haven't found all of jared's loyalists yet.
"Uncle Ban said to tell you that he's put the generals off until eighth bells. He said some other things, too, but I probably shouldn't repeat them."
Tris was in no hurry to see the generals, although he knew they could not be pushed off for long. The thought set his teeth on edge.
"It's a lot better, now that Ban's a general himself."
Coalan laughed. "Knowing Uncle Ban, he shook them up a little!"
Having Soterius among the generals was a decided advantage, although Tris knew that not all of the seasoned military men saw it that way. While they might accept the youthfulness of their new king, some of the older men chafed at Soterius's age and rapid rise in rank. But after Soterius's success in rallying deserters and refugees and creating an effective fighting force that helped Tris win the throne, the generals could say nothing openly against Soterius's new commission. More to the point, the newly rebuilt Margolan army owed its existence in large part to the personal allegiance many of the recruits felt toward Soterius, and Tris knew that the soldiers, embittered by Jared's misuse of the army, would likely desert if Soterius. stepped down.
Sweet Chenne, I don't think Margolan can survive an outright war just now, Tris thought darkly as he picked at his stew and sipped the weak wine. We don't have the extra men to fight. We don't dare go after Trevath right now, even if they did send the assassin.
"So it's true—Trevath sent the bowman?" Coalan ventured. Tris wondered if he was trying to distract him from the pain.
Tris grimaced. "Trevath gold doesn't mean the Trevath king had anything to do with it. Down near the border, both Margolan and Trevath coin spends equally well."
"Could throw off the scent, using Trevath gold. Get people looking in the wrong direction."
Coalan may not know politics, but he understands a hunt. He's got as good a head on his shoulders as Ban does. Maybe with luck, we can keep him in one piece.
"I wish everyone used as much common sense as you do," Tris replied. Curane might like the idea of a war. If Margolan could not sustain a fight, or if Tris were to be killed in battle, the instability could create an opportunity for Jared's loyalists to declare a regency and put Jared's bastard on the throne.
"I'll let Uncle Ban know you're up." Coalan said.
"Tell him I'm in no hurry."
He opened the door that connected to what would soon be Kiara's chambers. They, like his own rooms, had been newly refinished. Tris refused to stay in Jared's chambers, even after he'd had all his half-brother's personal possessions destroyed. Serae's chambers and the old family suite next to them had been the site of the murders, and the memories were too strong for Tris to even think of bringing Kiara to those rooms.
The dogs stirred at a knock at the door, then whimpered and retreated, heads down and hackles up. It was enough to tell Tris that his visitor was vayash moru, and to guess the identity before he opened the door. Mikhail stood in the doorway, and smiled as Tris waved him in. He was, in face and form, just in his early twenties, although a glance at his eyes gave a clue to his real age, of lifetimes, not decades, one of Those Who Walk the Night. In the firelight, his pallor was not notable, and the smile that touched his lips did not reveal the over-long eye teeth.
"I was on my way up," he said. He peered over Tris's shoulder. "So those rooms are for Kiara?"
Tris nodded. "After what happened, I couldn't bring her to the old quarters."
"I can understand that."
"While you and Ban were out rounding up Jared's men, we moved everything over to the old guest suite," Tris said. "I'd rather have a smaller space than be in either the old quarters or Jared's rooms." He shook his head. "It's hard to explain... but things like what happened here leave an impression in the energy long after they're gone. Almost like the walls remember." He repressed a shiver. "Most people just say they get a 'bad feeling' in a place like that. But for me, even when the ghosts are set to rest, I can still sense the energy—at the worst, I can get images in my mind, even from long ago."
Mikhail raised an eyebrow. "Have I ever told you how glad I am not to have your power?"
"I can't imagine why anyone would covet it." Tris called a bright ball of mage fire to his hand to illuminate the room, which blended some of Isencroft's traditional furnishings with artwork and fabrics from Margolan. Rich Noorish carpets covered the floors, and heavy tapestries covered the walls, scenes of love stories from the old ballads.
"Considering what Carroway says you let him spend, he did a nice job. Just don't let the Oracle at the Mother's temple know about those shrines!" Mikhail teased. In a corner, a small shrine to Chenne, the warrior aspect of the Goddess, shared space with a shrine to Athira, the Lover/Whore, with a row of candles and statues to each aspect of the Lady.
Tris shrugged. "It's all one Goddess. I've never quite figured out what the fuss was about. Father wasn't exactly observant, if you recall."
"Ah, but the 'faithful' don't see it that way," Mikhail said. He grew serious. "Out in the countryside, all people care about is getting enough rain for the crops and keeping the plague away. They'll pray to whichever Aspect seems most likely to make that happen. But here in the city—well, you know how some of the folks can be. They don't care what you actually do as long as you put on the right show when people are looking. And they don't like 'foreign' Aspects."
"Kiara knows all about being careful," Tris replied, extinguishing the handfire and closing the door to the queen's suite. "She's already juggled public profession to Chenne and private devotion to Athira with her mother. And she was raised from birth to be the bride of the Margolan heir," he said with a hint of irony, "so she was well-schooled in observance to the Mother and Childe." That long-ago betrothal contract originally paired Kiara with Jared, the eldest and the heir to the throne. Kiara loathed Jared as much as Tris did, and her attempt to escape that betrothal contract had put her on the road to the Library at Westmarch, where she and Tris had met and their fates had intertwined.
Mikhail cleared his throat. "I wouldn't bring that up in public if I were you. From what Carroway says, the court wags are already having a field day with you stealing Jared's bride-to-be."
Tris shrugged. "Father married the daughter of a sorceress. Eventually, mother won over the nobles who counted. Some of the court would gossip even if I married the Goddess Herself!"
Tris fingered the silver amulet at his throat, a birthday gift from Kiara. He longed for her company more than ever.
Mikhail sensed the shift in his mood. "You're worried about bringing her here, aren't you?"
Tris sighed. "Back when we first met him, Jonmarc made the comment that 'friends and lovers are just hostages to fate, waiting to be taken.'"
Mikhail laughed. "And you can see how well he followed his own advice, falling head over heels for Ca
rina!"
"He's still right. People who want to get to me will try to hurt her—or our children—to do it. And right now, there seem to be an awful lot of people who have it in for me. Jared didn't give a damn about anyone. He wasn't vulnerable. "
"Don't underestimate Kiara. I've seen her fight—she's almost as good as Jonmarc. She's not one of those helpless noble maidens. You said yourself that she ran Isencroft from behind the throne when her father was ill. She couldn't be better prepared."
"You know the pressure to produce an heir. She's hardly going to be swinging into an East-mark kick when she's big with a baby. The politics at court can be as vicious as a battlefield. We haven't sniffed out all of the nobles loyal to Jared. She's going to be vulnerable and I'll be down on the southern plains tied up in a siege."
Mikhail laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm staying behind to help out with that, remember? Kiara won't be alone. She'll have Harrtuck and Zachar. Carroway and his bards know all the gossip. They'll help where they can. And you know the castle ghosts and your dogs will keep an eye on her."
"It will be good for Shekerishet to have a queen once more." The voice came from behind him. He turned. The ghost of Comar Hassad, one of his father's men-at-arms slain in the coup, was just visible at the shadow's edge. "We're sworn to her protection, as we are to yours. Although," the spirit said with chagrin, "our ability to intervene is limited. I am sorry about your injury, my Lord."
"If it hadn't been for a ghost's warning, I might be one of you now. It was enough."
Hassad's ghost nodded. "Perhaps we serve best by being the eyes and ears of the palace. Not all those within Shekerishet are loyal. They serve only themselves."
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