Jair stole a glance at the three large, grass-covered mounds behind them. The ancient burial sites stretched from the coast of the Northern Sea in Margolan south through Dhasson to the Nargi border, and at one time, legend held that the barrows continued through Nargi into the steppes of the Southland tribes. One look at the dark hair and golden skin of the Sworn, and it was impossible not to guess that their bloodlines harkened to those same Southland tribes and to the people of the long-destroyed Southern Empire.
Imprisoned in the mounds for more than a thousand years were the Nachele, dark beings entombed to stop them from preying on the living. Their guardians, the Dread, were as fearsome as the things they guarded. Both were known only through tales passed from generation to generation, since neither had walked among mankind for ten centuries. The shamans of the Sworn were the only living people with whom the Dread communicated, and then only on the paths of spirit and by the Dread’s rare invitation. Talwyn and her father, both shamans of the Sworn, had seen the Dread, heard their long-dead voices. Jair suppressed a shiver, glad he shared none of his wife’s magic.
“The Dread are… agitated.” Talwyn chose her words carefully, and Jair wondered whether the spirits that dwelled in the large mounds bothered to listen to the living. “The magic is wrong. It was harder than it should have been to raise the Spirit Gods, difficult to walk the paths, more tiring than usual. It’s like there is a strange hum in the background that shouldn’t be there.”
“A hum?” Jair shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Talwyn sighed and leaned against him. Jair realized that it was for support as much as it was a gesture of endearment. “I don’t understand it either. It’s hard to find a word for it. Hum is the closest I can get. Like there are voices talking in the distance. Only it’s not voices. It’s in the magic itself, and I think it’s coming from the invaders.”
Jair looked north, beyond the barrows, toward the shore of the Northern Sea. They were well behind the lines of battle, positioned by agreement with King Martris Drayke of Margolan, Jair’s cousin. In the cold light of the moon, the shadows seemed sharper-edged, and Jair was glad for the reassuring warmth of the fire in the early-autumn chill.
Talwyn closed her eyes. “The war may not have started yet, but somewhere, there’s been blood spilled. The Nachele are stirring in the barrows, and for the first time since I’ve been a shaman, I sense that the Dread are uneasy.”
Jair frowned and looked from Talwyn to Pevre. “If no one’s dying yet in battle, then where is the blood coming from?”
Talwyn shrugged. “I guess it’s up to us to figure that out—more of that bad luck you mentioned.”
They looked up as footsteps came closer, and Jair’s hand automatically fell to the stelian sword at his belt, the weapon he carried as one of the Sworn’s elite trinnen warriors. Mihei, one of Jair’s fellow trinnen, was approaching with an unfamiliar guest. Mihei reached the edge of the firelight and stopped, bowing to Talwyn and her father.
“My apologies for the interruption, Cheira Talwyn, Chief Pevre.”
Pevre shook his head. “We’ve finished the working. Who’s this with you, and how did we come to have a visitor on the eve of battle?”
The newcomer stepped into the firelight, and Jair raised an eyebrow, recognizing the cut of the man’s jacket to be Dhasson military issue, although it was stripped of its insignia. “Honored Chief and Cheira,” the man said, making a deep bow. “My name is Captain Davin, and I’ve come with a message for Prince Jair, from King Harrol.”
Jair motioned for Davin to join them and be seated. Mihei returned to his post. “These are dangerous times for a ride through Margolan,” Jair said cautiously, trying to read Davin’s face and posture. “Is father well?”
Davin made the sign of the Lady in warding and then cast a glance toward Talwyn and her father, as if he feared they might take offense at the gesture. “The king’s well, thank the Lady. But I’m afraid these are dangerous times in Dhasson as well. Plague has spread from the Margolan border, and it’s reached the outskirts of Valiquet. So many farmers have died or fled from the plague that food is becoming scarce in the cities. The king sent soldiers out to recover what he could of the harvest, since much of it was left to rot in the fields and on the trees. I’m afraid we’ll eat through the winter stockpile long before spring.”
“And hunger means unrest,” Jair murmured. Davin nodded. “What else can you tell me, Captain?”
“Your father’s called up all the regiments on high alert. Dhasson doesn’t have coastline on the Northern Sea, but there’s plenty of shoreline along the Nu River, and the chroniclers warned the king that the last time invaders came from the north, their raiders went as far south as Trevath before they were beaten back.”
“So father’s going to make sure they don’t get past Dhasson this time?”
“Yes, my prince.” He shook his head. “Granted that I’ve been on the road for several weeks, but when I left, the army had its hands full keeping the peace. Frightened people drink more, and pick more fights. It’s as if there’s been a month of full moons, what with people losing their senses. The wretches at the madhouse went on a rampage and broke down the gates. No one knows why, or where they’ve gone. Even the Sisterhood is having a grim time of it. Word has it that some of their mages have been frightened out of their wits by something only they can see.” He shivered. “We’re past the Feast of the Departed, but there are ghosts walking in every crossroads and burying ground. They won’t lie still, and even the hedge witches can’t make them rest quietly. These are bad days, m’lord. Never seen the like of them.”
Davin reached into his jacket and withdrew a folded parchment. It bore the royal seal pressed into scarlet wax. From the way the seal made a dim glow as Jair broke it, he guessed that it had been spelled to open only for him.
“Problems?” Talwyn asked, turning to watch as Jair read down through the bold, sweeping pen strokes.
Jair’s mouth formed a hard line as he scanned the letter. “They’ve had more problems with the Black Robes,” he said dryly. “Damn Shanthadurists. He put an armed guard around the barrows while the Sworn is on the northern leg of the Ride, but there’ve been grave robbings and goat killings at cairns and crypts all around the kingdom. Amulet sellers are making piles of gold off people’s fears, and the farmers won’t put their flocks out to the autumn pastures because they’re afraid of what might happen to the animals and the shepherds.”
“No wonder the Dread are restless,” Talwyn murmured. Davin paled.
“He’s sent three regiments to patrol the Nu River in case the Temnottans try to move inland. He also sent a division to watch the Nargi border. Seems some of the nobility think the Crone Priests might be behind all the grave robbing, and while father says he doubts that, he wouldn’t put it past Nargi to make a move while everyone’s busy fending off invaders from the north.”
“Anything else?”
Jair managed a wry half smile. “Father sends his regards to Pevre, and his love to Talwyn and Kenver. He says he’d far rather be on the Ride with us than where he is.” He frowned. “He’s asked you to pray to the Spirit Gods to bless Dhasson. He says he’s asked the same of the Lady’s seers.” He glanced up to meet Talwyn’s eyes. “He must really be worried. Father’s not exactly observant when it comes to religion. I’ve never seen him pray except in public on feast days, and then the seneschal has to write out the words on a paper father keeps in his sleeve.” Jair carefully folded the letter and slipped it into a pouch at his belt.
“I’m sorry to bear worrisome news, m’lord.”
Jair shrugged. “It’s not as if you were the cause of it. What instructions did father give you once the message was delivered?”
“I’m to return with your reply, if it’s possible to do so with war in the offing. If I can’t return, then I’m to offer my services to you or to King Martris.”
“And your assessment of the road between here and Dhasson?”
“Twice on the road, I was set upon by ashtenerath,” Davin said in a quiet voice. “Fortunately, only one or two at a time, and they smell so bad I had warning of their coming. I saw ghosts aplenty and even though I know how to set stones for a night warding, many a night I couldn’t sleep because there were things out there, just beyond the wardings, wanting my blood. I came upon the body of a peddler near a crossroads, and the man and his horse looked as if they’d been torn apart by something, but it wasn’t any animal I could name. The bite and claw marks were wrong. Magicked beast or dimonn, I didn’t stick around to find out. I passed villages without a living soul in them from the plague, and at night, I could hear their wights calling me to join them.” He shivered. “I’d prefer to face a whole army in battle, Your Highness, than take that road again. But I’ll do as you command.”
“Perhaps one of the vayash moru could be persuaded to carry your reply to your father,” Pevre suggested.
Jair nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. Right now, there’s nothing urgent I have to tell father that won’t wait.” He looked at Davin, and the soldier averted his eyes, as if ashamed to admit his fear of a return journey. “You’re a brave man, Davin, and a clever one to make that trip in one piece. I’d like you to carry a message for me to the Margolan battlefront, to King Drayke. You need to tell the king what you’ve told me.”
Davin drew a deep breath, pride in his eyes at the unexpected praise. “I would be honored to do so, my prince.”
“Good, then it’s settled.” Jair gestured to Mihei, who had waited just beyond earshot. “Davin’s going to need provisions and a place to stay the night.”
Mihei inclined his head in assent. “Done.” He looked to Davin. “Please follow me.”
Jair watched Davin and Mihei leave the edge of the firelight. Talwyn laid a hand on his arm. “What are you really thinking?”
Jair sighed and stared into the fire as if a sign from the spirits might appear. “I’m worried, about father and about Dhasson. I’m too far away to do anything, and besides, we’ve got more than our share of problems here. Between his report of strange goings-on in Dhasson and Davin’s stories of what he saw on the road, I have to think that it’s more than just the Shanthadura Black Robes trying to revive the worship of a long-forgotten goddess. It’s too close to what you heard from the Spirit Guides, about something disturbing enough to upset even the Dread and the Nachele. I don’t look forward to going up against a power that has the Dread worried.”
Pevre nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. I’ve spent my life riding these barrows, and more than once, I wondered whether the whole thing was just a myth. After all, the Dread haven’t stirred in a thousand years, and generations of Sworn have ridden from one end of the barrows to the other time after time without anything noteworthy ever happening. But now…” His voice drifted off and he looked up at the star-lit sky. “Now, I’m afraid I have the answer I was looking for, and it’s one I’d have rather done without.” He looked from Jair to Talwyn. “It’s late, and there’s no telling what morning will bring. Best you get some sleep while you can, before Kenver wakes you up at dawn.”
When Jair and Talwyn reached their tent, the fire inside was banked and the embers cast a dim light around the interior of their gar, the portable circular dwelling that the Sworn called home. Jair could just make out Kenver’s sleeping form underneath the woven blankets. The tent smelled of incense, and Jair guessed that Talwyn had scattered some herbs and scented wood in the fire before they left.
As if seeing them for the first time, Jair took stock of the painted images and symbols drawn on the interior of the dwelling’s cloth walls, and of the crystals and talismans that hung from the support poles. Despite Talwyn’s position as cheira and chief’s daughter, their home was nearly identical to those of the rest of the Sworn. For all the years Jair had ridden with the Sworn, he had never fully thought about the paintings and talismans beyond their value in teaching the nomadic people’s history to the children of the tribe. Now, after hearing Davin’s story and reading Harrol’s letter, Jair wondered about the protective nature of the decorations, and whether the markings, passed down from parent to child across generations, harkened back to more dangerous times.
Kenver did not stir as Jair and Talwyn settled into their bed. Jair closed his eyes, enjoying the night sounds outside the gar. The sounds mingled with the scent of burning embers and incense, and Jair sank into the comfort of the sensations, wishing once again that he could remain on the Ride forever. None of the comforts of Dhasson’s palace ever made him feel as much at home as he did on the Ride, and each year, the months slipped by too quickly, until it was time for his return to the palace city. The war might be more adventure than you bargained for, he reminded himself silently, and he inched closer to Talwyn, who was already asleep. Tired as he was, worries about the war would have to wait, and Jair drifted off to sleep.
He awoke with a start, unsure of what had awakened him. By habit, his hand fell to the pommel of his stelian in the scabbard that lay next to the bed. Nothing stirred in the darkness of the tent, and the glow from the banked embers was nearly gone. Across the way, Jair could make out Kenver’s form, assuring himself that Kenver was still where he had been candlemarks before. Jair reached out to rouse Talwyn, and he withdrew his hand with a gasp.
Talwyn’s body was cool. Jair shook her, swallowing back rising fear, but Talwyn did not rouse. She grimaced in pain, as if about to scream, but no sound came from her, even as Jair shook harder. Talwyn’s hands were fisted, and her body was rigid. Fresh gashes, like claw marks, raked her arm and cheek, though no paw prints of an attacking animal led away from where she lay.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?”
Jair felt Kenver behind him, and only then became aware that he had been calling Talwyn’s name loudly. “Mommy’s sick. Go get grandpa. Run!”
Jair drew a deep breath, forcing himself to think instead of feel. Talwyn’s skin was unusually cool, but not devoid of warmth like a corpse. Her muscles were clenched tight, though not with the rigor of death. To his relief, he found both breath and pulse, although Talwyn did not rouse, even when he splashed her face with water.
Pevre and Kenver were beside him in minutes. “What happened?” Pevre asked, taking in Talwyn’s condition with detachment.
Jair moved back to permit Pevre to examine Talwyn. “I don’t know. Something woke me. There was nothing unusual in the tent, no strange noises outside. I reached over to Talwyn and found her like this.”
Pevre frowned in concentration, and he extended one hand, palm down, over Talwyn’s face. Slowly, he moved his hand down the center of her body, just above her skin. He closed his eyes as he moved his hand and began to chant under his breath in a low voice. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at Jair.
“Someone… or something… has sent dream magic against her. She’s rigid because she’s fighting for her life in the dream realm, against something we can’t see or hear but that is very real to her. Her body is cool because whatever it is drains her life force, the same way a vayash moru drains blood.”
“Fighting for her life,” Jair repeated quietly, and instinctively he put a protective arm around Kenver, drawing the small boy close. “So it’s real to her, even in the dream realm?”
Pevre nodded. “Very real. This kind of magic is old. It takes power to wield it, and skill. It’s considered gray magic at best because the potential to misuse it is so strong. You can imagine what such a thing could do to a political rival, or a spurned lover, for example.”
“How do we break it?”
Pevre rocked back on his heels, thinking. “I need my ritual bag from my tent,” he said with a glance to Kenver, who ran to fetch it. While they waited for Kenver to return, Pevre motioned for Jair to help him move Talwyn closer to the fire. Lifting her by shoul
ders and ankles, they carried her near the fire pit and laid her on a mat. Pevre added wood to the fire and lit the lanterns. Kenver returned with the ritual bag, and Pevre set it down near Talwyn. He made a gesture of warding over the bag and opened it reverently, and then he walked a larger circle of warding around Talwyn, carefully keeping Jair within the circle and motioning for Kenver to step back so that he would be outside the warded space.
“I don’t know who sent this, or how strong their magic is. I’ll need your help to fight it,” he said with a nod toward Jair. “But I’d just as soon Kenver stay outside the warding. My magic should be strong enough to keep it contained.”
Pevre withdrew a shaman’s mantle from the ritual bag and carefully laid it around his shoulders. Then he took four carved images from the bag, one for each of the Spirit Gods the Sworn honored—the Bear, the Eagle, the Wolf, and the catlike Stawar. These he placed in a ring around the fire. As he placed the images, he bowed to each one.
“Guardian spirits, we honor you,” Pevre said in a low rumble. “Walk with me on the dream paths, and give me your strength to overcome the attacker.”
The fire glowed more brightly, and Jair thought he glimpsed movement in the shadows of the four images, and he wondered if it were a trick of the light. Pevre removed several polished disks of amber and agate from his bag and placed them at Talwyn’s head, feet, shoulders, and hips. He took a smooth piece of onyx and pried open Talwyn’s fist, closing her fingers around the disk. Then he motioned for Jair to kneel beside Talwyn.
“Hold her hand in your left hand, and your stelian in your right. Concentrate on the onyx she’s holding. I’ll open up the dream realm for you. A shadow of your weapon should follow you into her dream. Use the onyx to bring both of you back to the waking world.”
Jair nodded and began to breathe deeply as Pevre began to chant. Inhaling the smoke and incense, Jair closed his eyes and let himself enter a trance, keeping his mind focused on the onyx disk in Talwyn’s fist. At first, Pevre’s voice was loud, sounding just behind him. Over the span of several breaths, the voice grew more distant, until it was so faint Jair could no longer hear it.
The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two Page 3