“In a safe place, a house in the city owned by another vayash moru.”
“The tunnels… Brother Albert…”
“Brother Albert sent us on our way with his blessing. The two musicians chose to stay behind. They were already sick. Brother Albert said he’d continue to manage on his own.”
A sudden memory came to her. “Lord Norden’s son—”
Kolin’s expression hardened. “The stable hands weren’t happy to be questioned, but in the end, I found out who attacked you. The problem has been eliminated.” He held up a hand. “And before you feel guilty about it, I’ve kept an ear out for the gossip below stairs. Seems Lord Norden’s son made a habit of forcing himself on the servants and roughing up any man who tried to stop him. He doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”
“Was his father really helping the Durim?”
Kolin nodded. “Yes. And we have you to thank for making us look in his direction. The queen thought Norden was obnoxious, but she hadn’t realized he was disloyal.”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s in the palace dungeon, awaiting execution. Once again, the queen says she is in your debt.”
Aidane’s hands rose to her chest and carefully slid down her body. “My clothes. They’re different.”
Kolin chuckled. “Making the transition is… messy. I brought you here, cleaned you up, and let you sleep while I went out to find a gown for you.”
Aidane’s hands fluttered to her throat and then down to the bodice of the gown. She sat up and realized that even without the light of a candle, she could see as if the room was cast in moonlight. Although she could not make out the color of the dress she wore, she knew it had a high bodice and a proper neckline, a gown fit for court. The trim waist was tied with satin cords, and the full skirt fell in yards of rich brocade. Aidane felt something slip against her arm and she looked down. The onyx bracelet Kolin had given her in the palace was fastened around her wrist.
“Kolin, I can’t wear this dress.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a proper lady’s gown. This… it’s a gown for a married woman, not a… whore.”
Kolin clasped her right hand in his and reached over to her belt, wrapping their wrists in its silken cords. “Aidane, I take you as wife and lover. I will teach you the ways of Those Who Walk the Night, and I will hunt beside you forever.”
Aidane stared at him, dumbfounded, until he nudged her with his other hand.
“You’re supposed to say something.”
She swallowed hard, still caught off guard. “I accept… I take you, Kolin, as husband and lover. Forever.”
Kolin smiled broadly, and she saw his long eye teeth. Gingerly, she lifted a hand to her own lips, drawing away startled as her fingers found that her teeth had changed.
“When you’re fed and rested, we can go back to the palace. I burned your old clothing and took the liberty of giving you a full bath while you slept off the change, so there’s no fear that you can carry any plague back to the queen.” He smiled. “By the way, I sent a messenger to tell her that I’d found you. She’s expecting you to return to the palace, and that, my dear, is an order from the queen.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tris Drayke looked up as the guard at the entrance to his tent announced a visitor. Coalan went to greet Sister Fallon as she entered. Fallon stopped and eyed Tris with a mixture of concern and resigned frustration.
“Aren’t you supposed to be getting some rest?”
Tris shrugged and pushed the book away that he had been reading by the light of a small lamp. “I could ask the same of you.”
Fallon made her way to sit down across the table from Tris as Coalan busied himself making a cup of tea for their guest. “What’s so important that you’re reading instead of sleeping?”
Tris hesitated, and then slid the slim, leather-bound book toward Fallon. Her eyes widened as she picked it up and began to flip through the yellowed pages filled with cramped handwriting. “Please tell me this isn’t—”
“The third journal of the Obsidian King,” Tris finished for her.
Fallon handled the book gingerly, as if it might bite. “Everyone thought this was destroyed long ago.”
“Grandmother gave it to Riqua to safeguard. Riqua gave it to me, two years ago. Like Nexus, I put it away, hoping I’d never need it.” Tris patted the sword that hung by his side, and Fallon shook her head.
“We still don’t know the full power of that blasted sword—or exactly what the repercussions will be if it steals a breath of your soul.”
Tris shrugged. “Better my soul than all those souls out there,” he said with a jerk of his head toward the crowded campground of the Margolan army.
“Every man—and woman—on that field lives to serve the king, and if need be, to die for you and for Margolan.”
Tris gave a tired sigh. “And too many of them have been dying. That’s why I turned to the diary—to see if there was something I could find that might turn the tide, something I could use against Scaith.” He looked at the careful handwriting on the journal’s yellowed pages. “The Dread mentioned my grandfather. They hinted that there was a way his power might serve me.”
Fallon looked wary. “Your grandfather was tricked by the spirit of the Obsidian King. Lemuel was nearly destroyed because of it, and he brought the Winter Kingdoms to their knees. We don’t need that kind of help.”
Tris gave a harsh, mirthless chuckle. “If the book was full of incantations to destroy enemies, you might have something to worry about. Unfortunately, it seems to be a collection of notes on Margolan history.” He sighed. “I was hoping for something more helpful. This daily skirmishing is like slow death.”
“It’s better since you’re back from the barrows. While you were with the Sworn, it was as if Scaith knew you weren’t here to fight, and the attack was brutal.”
“Soterius told me. Trust me, it was pretty brutal in the barrows, too.”
“But when you sent Cwynn’s essence back to his body, Scaith’s troops backed off. That tells me Scaith is powerful, but not more powerful than you are.”
Tris shrugged. “Maybe. But two equally matched summoners fighting a battle to the death are likely to take a whole lot of people with them.”
Fallon was quiet for a moment. “Still, there’s something else going on. Twice now, when it seemed the Temnottans were winning, they’ve suddenly fallen back for no apparent reason. I felt something in the magic, as if power was wind and the sails had just gone flat.”
Tris nodded. “But it wasn’t the Flow. It was blood magic—I’d stake my crown on it. Something disrupted the blood magic Scaith’s been drawing on to enhance his power. It’s weakened him. That’s why this next push has got to work, before he can rally.”
“Have you figured out how to do what the Dread told you, to meld your magic with the Flow?”
“Not and live to tell about it.” Tris took a sip from a goblet of brandy as Coalan handed a cup of tea to Fallon.
“And there’s nothing in the journal?” Fallon asked, nodding toward the leather book on the table.
Tris grimaced and stretched. “I expected a sorcerer’s working notebook, full of notes on potions, instructions for rituals, maybe even incantations. I thought it might have even been a logbook of his ‘experiments.’ But it’s not. It’s a collection of old stories and legends, about two kings—Hadenrul and Gustaven.”
Fallon frowned. “Hadenrul I know about. You met his spirit in the tomb. But Gustaven I don’t recognize.”
“Both of the kings died in battle. I know that’s true about Hadenrul from his tomb paintings, and from what he told me. In the tomb, there was a painting of the Nameless holding out her hand for Hadenrul’s bloody heart.” Tris shook his head. “Hadenrul died defending Margolan, and his death spurred his army to victory. But as far as I can tell, Gustaven was just a coward. In the thick of battle, when his army was overwhelmed and losing badly, he rode away from the fighting
with his trusted steward and fell on his own sword. He didn’t even have the courage to fight to the end. His army rallied and won the day despite him.” Tris frowned. “His name is damnably familiar, but I can’t remember why. I know I’ve heard of him before.”
Tris savored another sip of the brandy, swirling it in his cup. “And here’s the other strange thing: Neither Hadenrul nor Gustaven were mages, let alone summoners. Marlan was a summoner, and that’s how he brokered the arrangement with the Dread. But grandfather had very little interest in him. There is only one story about him, the story of how he sent the Dread away to guard the Nachele.” He took a velvet pouch from his belt and carefully shook out the talisman Marlan’s ghost had bid him take from the tomb.
“I’d hoped there would be something in the journal to explain why Marlan wanted me to take his talisman, why he said to wear it into battle. But there’s nothing.” He turned the talisman in his hands, and the gold shimmered in the lamplight. “There’s one place I’ve seen something like this before.”
“Where was that?”
Tris looked up to meet Fallon’s gaze. “When I went into the barrows to save Cwynn, the Dread gave me passage tokens so that I could pass through the gates of the Abyss to confront Konost. One of the passage tokens was a necklace with a hammered gold disk that looked a lot like this.”
“What, exactly, did Marlan tell you when he said to take the talisman?”
Tris closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “He said for me to wear it into battle, and if my offering was sufficient, it would open the magic of my fathers to me.”
“So it’s a passage token of another kind.”
Tris nodded tiredly, opening his eyes and leaning forward to lay the talisman gently on the battered campaign table. “I believe so. The question is—passage to where?”
“Can you speak to the spirits of Hadenrul and Marlan? Or Gustaven?”
Tris shook his head. “I wish it worked that way. The spirits are bound to the crypt. We’re on our own.”
Fallon reached out to take the old leather journal and opened the cover. “The third testament of he who is called by many names. Darkness. Slaughterer. Blood-Sower. The Obsidian King,” she read, almost to herself. “An intimidating heritage for a grandson.”
Tris’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”
Fallon looked nonplussed. “I just read the names he inscribed here in the front of the book, and said that it was an intimidating heritage.”
Tris reached for the book and stared at the page. “Darkness. Grandfather was called by many names, and one of them was Darkness.”
“I don’t understand why that’s so important.”
Tris met her gaze. “Because the night Donelan died, Beyral came to me with a rune scrying. She knew that a king had been killed. The runes spoke of war in the places of the dead, and of chaos, and succession. But they also spoke about something neither of us understood. According to Beyral’s runes, the fate of the war depended on the ‘son of darkness.’ At the time, I thought it had to mean Scaith, because he’s a dark summoner. But what if—”
“Lemuel, the Obsidian King, was your grandfather. You’re his mage heir, his son of power. That makes you—”
“The son of Darkness.”
Fallon sat in silence for a moment, thinking. “What about Cwynn?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Dread told you that the poison that nearly killed Cwynn blew open his magic to the Flow. Talwyn and Alyzza both called him a bridge, and the Dread told you he could channel the Flow itself without harm.”
“I felt some of that power when I freed his spirit in the Underrealm.”
“Alyzza also called him a ‘key’ and a ‘voyager.’ Well, now we understand that, at least,” Fallon said. “She was talking about his power in the Flow.”
“Talwyn was right—Cwynn is one of the spoils of war Scaith wants from this conflict.” Tris’s expression hardened. “He’ll have to take that over my dead body.”
Fallon shivered. “I’d really rather you not use that turn of phrase.”
“And if Cwynn can channel the Flow, that explains ‘voyager.’ I’ve touched the Flow directly, channeled it for a few moments. It’s like falling into a huge, swift river that carries you through the most amazing places—”
“As it burns your life thread to a crisp.”
Tris shrugged. “For any normal mage, yes.”
“No. No normal mage gets close enough to touch the Flow before turning into ash. For an extraordinary mage, the most powerful summoner in the Winter Kingdoms, you get a glimpse of wonders before you fry.”
“Thanks to Carina, I didn’t fry.”
“I was there, remember? It was too damn close.”
Tris shook his head. “But it’s not about what the Flow can do to a normal mage—or even to an unusually powerful mage. I get the feeling that when Cwynn comes into his magic, he’s going to be in a class by himself. But the question is—can his magic affect this war?”
“You mean, other than Scaith laying siege to the Winter Kingdoms and brokering a deal with a forgotten goddess to steal part of his soul? I’d say Cwynn’s magic has already affected this war.”
Tris shook his head. “Indirectly, yes.”
“It would have been quite direct if you had died in the Underrealm trying to free him.”
“That didn’t happen, now did it?” he replied with a grimace. “The Dread said that they would assure his safe return to Shekerishet. But they also said that when Cwynn felt Scaith searching for him, Cwynn instinctively knew to hide, and that part of him, his consciousness, followed Kiara to Isencroft. We don’t know what that means for his power—or his life.” He spread his hands, palms up, questioning.
“Scaith thought he could draw on Cwynn’s power. Cwynn fought him, even if it was just instinctive. If some part of Cwynn’s soul or consciousness followed Kiara to Isencroft, how did he do it? Where did he hide that part of him? And if his power is guided solely on a child’s instincts, what is he capable of doing if it ever senses that Kiara’s in danger?”
A few candlemarks later, Tris Drayke looked out over the battlefield from astride his warhorse. His generals had been unanimous that he must stay back from the front lines, and it rankled with Tris even as he grudgingly acknowledged their wisdom. He felt the same irrational irritation for the Telorhan who followed him everywhere he went. But the ever-present bodyguards were a small concession for managing to be closer to the battlefront.
“You really think Scaith will make his move today?” Sister Fallon had refused to leave Tris’s side. Her large roan horse shuffled impatiently.
“I’m sure of it. I don’t know how or when, but I’ve never felt his presence as clearly as I do today. That’s why I wanted to be the first to strike.”
A deafening war cry went up from the front lines as infantry and horsemen charged forward at General Senne’s command. Another cry on the left told Tris that Soterius had led his division against attackers who had landed a sizeable number of troops on the eastern flank of the battle. With luck, Tris thought, Senne and Soterius would catch the invading army in a pincers move to drive them back toward the beaches.
The armies met with the crash of steel and the cries of soldiers. Hoofbeats thundered on the clear, cold winter day, and the ground beneath Tris’s feet shuddered with the tide of men and horses.
The battleground had not shifted far from the opening salvos of the war. Margolan’s army dug into positions to hold the invaders as close to the shoreline as possible, while the Temnottans brought wave after wave of ships bearing fresh troops. Neither side had been able to gather their dead, and the press of battle pushed back and forth across a field of war strewn with the corpses of both armies. Out beyond the bay, Pashka’s fishermen and Tolya’s privateers did what they could to harry the Temnottans, picking off straggling ships and launching nighttime attacks that nipped at the invaders’ heels. But while the armies appeared to be evenly matched
once on land, it was clear that Margolan’s ragtag maritime presence was no match for the power of the Temnottan navy.
“I’ll keep the wardings. Go find Scaith!” Fallon raised her arms and began to chant, and Tris did his best to block out the banging of battle drums, the din of the pipers, and the howling maelstrom of war.
Tris felt the shift in magic even before he heard the cries of alarm from the battlefield. As he stretched out his mage sense, he could feel a massive tide of dark magic pouring across the killing grounds, touching the bloated corpses of the Temnottan dead and forcing their souls back into their rotting bodies.
“If they mobilize all their dead, they’ve got us seriously outnumbered,” Fallon shouted.
It is forbidden for a Light mage to compel a soul to return to a dead body, on peril of his soul, Tris thought in horror.
But not if we go willingly. In a breath, Tris was surrounded by the Margolan battle dead, rank upon rank, fully fifteen hundred soldiers strong. A young man stepped forward, and by his insignia, Tris knew him for one of Soterius’s captains. We swore our lives to you. We will rally in death. Send us, and spare the living.
Tris gathered his power. Once, by accident, he had sent a soul back to reanimate its corpse, and Alyzza had warned him of the consequences of such gray magic. What does my soul matter when Margolan hangs in the balance? Tris marshaled his magic and sent it forth in one powerful, rippling blast. The magic swept past the living like an unexpected wind, but it touched each of the fallen Margolan soldiers. Tris felt the magic stir in their cold, stiffened forms, felt the dead flesh tremble as magic coursed through their sinews, and as the tide of his power receded, it left in its wake not shambling puppets but corpses possessing the mind and will of their original soul, bent on taking their vengeance.
“What have you done?” Fallon breathed.
Tris drew back, staggered from the massive drain of power. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of terror as soldiers saw their fallen comrades rally to their feet, and above the din, he heard Senne and Soterius shouting for order, heard the bugles signal an advance.
The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two Page 40