Talwyn shook her head. “It seemed to be made of light, so I don’t think it was meant to be a real bridge, a place that we’d find. Maybe it’s a symbol of something that connects two sides. I don’t know.”
Tris’s face was pale. “Alyzza said ‘protect the bridge.’ ”
“What?” Jair asked. Kiara had moved to the door to give Cwynn back to his nursemaid, but she rejoined them and laid a hand on Tris’s arm, her expression troubled.
Briefly, Tris recounted his journey to see Alyzza and her manic pronouncements. “So much of what she said was almost in code, but there was one thing she said clearly, although I had no idea what she meant. She told me to ‘protect the bridge.’ ”
“You think now that she might have meant Cwynn?” Jair asked.
Tris shrugged. “It’s an odd coincidence, don’t you think? But if he is the bridge, or a bridge, then the question is, a bridge to where? A bridge between what two things?”
“And from whom does he need protecting?” Jair murmured.
“I don’t think there’s any doubt about the last question.” Talwyn’s voice startled them. “We face a common enemy. Potent magic is calling the Durim and courting the Dread. Something terrifies Cwynn, even if he’s too young to understand. It may be that our enemy has found something attractive about Cwynn, or perhaps Cwynn will come to his attention. You don’t yet know what Cwynn’s gifts are. Maybe right now, we don’t need to know what Cwynn bridges. If the enemy wants him, then he is a prime asset in the war that’s coming. Protecting him is more than a matter of succession. For all we know, Cwynn might be the point of the whole war.”
At dusk the next evening, Tris and Talwyn met to answer the summons of the Dread. Kiara and Jair insisted on coming. Fallon and Nisim came to provide warding and a magical anchor, grounding Tris and Talwyn in the realm of the living. Ban Soterius also was adamant about being present, and he brought with him half a dozen handpicked guards to seal the area from intruders during the working.
The only ancient barrow near Shekerishet had been desecrated. After making a quick scout of the area, Talwyn had selected a suitable compromise. The spot she chose was near the mouth of a cave just at the forest’s edge, not far from the banks of a stream. It was a place where many small shrines had been erected over the years by passersby. Stacked stones and guttered candles marked the offerings people had made in this place, sensing that the other realm was close here. Bits of colored cloth fluttered in the trees, tied to the lower branches as petitions to the Lady.
“Why here?” Soterius grumbled. “There are too damn many places someone could shoot from cover. Why can’t you do magic out in the middle of a nice, flat field where I can see who’s coming?”
Talwyn smiled. “I really don’t pick the place for magic like this. The spirits pick it. There is power in this place.” She swept a hand to indicate the small shrines. “I’m not the only one to feel it. And I’ll bet that if you look closely at the rocks around that cave, you’ll find runes scratched into them, maybe some more offerings. The deep places have their own power. Barrows or not, the Dread and the Nachale walk in the deep places. Those realms belong to them.”
Tris nodded. “I feel it. You know, I spent my boyhood avoiding places like this, and I didn’t know why. Grandmother didn’t tell me about my magic to protect me from Jared. She thought he’d kill me if he suspected, and I think she was right. I just knew that the ghosts I wasn’t supposed to be able to see were stronger in places like this. Ghosts—and other things that weren’t friendly.”
Talwyn shut her eyes. “I don’t sense dark spirits here. This area feels neutral. That’s another reason why I chose it.” She opened her eyes and glanced up at the setting sun. “I’d like to work this before full dark, just to be on the safe side. Let’s get started.”
Fallon and Nisim raised wardings around the area. An outer warding protected a large area around the group. A second warding separated the four mages from the others. Soterius’s guards were prominent and fully armed, creating a third, practical level of protection. While the others prepared the space, Talwyn readied the materials for the working. She built a small fire midway between the creek bank and the cave opening, just paces from the edge of the trees.
The shadows were stretching long as Talwyn called to the Consort Spirits while she set the fire. Herbs from her pouches raised thick smoke that smelled of juniper and sandalwood. Around the fire, she placed polished stones in recognition of the eight Aspects of the Lady. Chalcedony, aventurine, peridot, and citrine for each of the Light Aspects, and at the cross quarters she placed bloodstone, garnet, iron, and salt, tribute and wardings for the Dark Aspects. Talwyn took a talisman for each of the Consorts and placed them atop the stones on the four quarters: an eagle feather, a bear claw, the tooth of a stawar, and a wolf’s tooth.
Through Talwyn, Tris could feel the light touch of Nisim’s magic like a gossamer rope to secure her return. He knew that Fallon was anchoring him in a similar manner. When Fallon and Nisim were satisfied, Talwyn looked to Tris. “Ready?”
“Ready,” he said, and his voice was steady.
Talwyn took his hand. “Since we don’t know for certain whether I spirit walk in the space you call Nether, watch me make the shift, and then see if you can follow.” She managed a smile. “It wouldn’t do for us to end up in different places.”
Talwyn gathered her magic around her, drawing on the images of the Consorts and the Faces of the Lady. Tris was very aware of her magic, and he could sense it through their bond. Talwyn let the musky incense fill her lungs and Tris felt the loosening of the bonds that secured her spirit within her body. It wasn’t the complete separation Tris could make with his summoner’s magic. As Talwyn had explained it to him, it was her spirit, her consciousness, that walked, and not what some called a soul. Beneath his tunic, Tris wore Marlan the Gold’s talisman on a strap around his neck, hoping that it might serve as a vouchsafe.
Once Tris joined her, Talwyn let her magic call to the Consort Spirits. In his mind’s eye, Tris saw a figure with the head of a wolf and the body of a man step from the mists. The being wore the mantle of a Sworn shaman and a beaded belt hung with charms and amulets. The Consort Spirit wore the rough woven pants of a Sworn warrior but he was bare chested. His body was covered with thick, brown hair, although he was clearly in the form of a man. The guide beckoned for Talwyn and Tris to follow him, and then turned and began to walk down a path that appeared out of nowhere just a step in front of him.
Still clasping hands, Talwyn and Tris followed. Tris could feel their magics resonating through the skin of their palms. Their powers seemed to feed each other, and Tris almost expected to see an arc flash between them, although none did.
The Wolf Consort guided them through heavy mist. Tris could see few features of the terrain, but there was enough to tell him that their spirits walked somewhere far different from the landscape they had left behind. Time ceased to have meaning. They might have walked for a candlemark or a day. Finally, the Wolf Consort stopped, and with a bow and a sweep of his hand, he indicated that they should pass in front of him.
“Thank you, Spirit Father,” Talwyn said. “I ask that you await our return, to guide us back safely.”
The Wolf Consort nodded in assent, and then vanished into the mist.
Before Talwyn could say anything, Tris felt the coming of the Dread. Cold, ancient power rolled over him, like a wave on a storm-ravaged sea. It was enough to make Talwyn stumble. Tris tightened his grip on her hand, but he did not move. The mist roiled, but it did not part to show a solid figure, although Tris thought he could make out an outline blurred by the fog. The Dread’s shape was larger than most men, and taller. Its arms and hands seemed too long—not quite, and perhaps never, human. Its face was darkness, and as the mist shifted, Tris could not make out any clear features.
“Yes, you are indeed a true summoner.” The voice might have sounded in their minds, or all around them.
“Why have yo
u called me?” Tris’s voice was firm, making it clear in his tone that the Dread had issued an invitation, and a king had chosen to respond.
“We would take your measure.” Now, Tris heard the low murmur of multiple voices, and he sensed that more shadows moved beyond the veil of fog.
Tris withdrew Marlan the Gold’s talisman from beneath his tunic. It glowed in his hand. “See for yourself. I’m Marlan the Gold’s heir in blood and power. What more would you know?”
A rumble of voices sounded just below Tris’s ability to catch their words. Or perhaps they spoke a language that he did not recognize, even on the Plains of Spirit.
“Your power is great. We have been touched by another power from beyond these borders. Others have tried to call us to their aid. Always, we have refused. We may still refuse this call, but we would know more of you, Marlan’s heir. What would you offer us in exchange for our support?”
Tris took a deep breath. “Honored spirits, I didn’t choose to call you from your slumber. I respect your choice to be apart from mortal concerns. But if you choose to walk among the living once more, then I would ask you to protect Margolan and the Winter Kingdoms from those who would cross our borders unbidden. Judge the measure of the magic by how it’s worked. I have not called you with blood magic.”
“And yet, it is your blood itself that calls to us,” the voice replied. “Blood is the oldest magic, and the most powerful. Marlan knew this.”
Tris nodded. “Yes, as did Hadenrul. But I don’t shed human blood in sacrifice, or destroy the undead as offerings. And if it’s possible, I would rather avert this war than pay its price in blood, although if it comes to that, I would pay in my own blood to protect my people.”
“Interesting,” the voice replied. “What spoils would you offer us to ally with you? What payment would you make for us to tip the balance?”
There was a note of anger in his voice when Tris spoke. “Once, long ago, you walked these lands. My ancestors trusted you as their protectors. Marlan trusted in your power to protect his people. I would call on those vows to ask that you protect Margolan once more, if war comes. I have nothing to offer you as payment, except honor’s satisfaction. I won’t barter my kingdom’s freedom. I won’t accept any power as master of Margolan, yours or the invader from across the sea. We will fight any hand that tries to dominate us. We may lose, but we will die free.”
Tris’s jaw was set. He felt the Dread’s power like a low hum that reverberated in his bones, almost too low to hear but impossible to ignore.
“You are indeed Marlan’s heir. He, too, was not afraid to challenge us.” Tris thought he heard a note of amusement in the voice. “What of the Nachale? You’re the Summoner King. You’ve called the recent dead to your aid in battle. We felt your power across the graves when you raised the spirits in your recent war. Would you seek the power of the Nachale to win your cause?”
“If Margolan faced defeat, I would ask for help from all allies, living, dead, and undead. I would use my power to gain their willing help. But I would not loose a greater bane upon my people to rid us from a mortal threat.”
Again, the sound of low conversation just at the threshold of sound. “We must give this matter thought.”
“Wait!” Tris moved a step closer, nearly pulling his hand out of Talwyn’s grip. “Is this a War of Unmaking? Is there still a way to keep this war from coming?”
“Whether or not this becomes a War of Unmaking lies in the decisions made upon the battlefield. Great powers, mortal and magical, will align against each other, great enough to destroy everything you have known. And yet, the end is unclear. Only one thing is certain. War will come.”
The Dread did not ask their leave. One instant, Tris could feel the oppressively heavy power of the dark shapes beyond the mist, and the next, the shapes were gone and with them, their power. Talwyn tugged on Tris’s hand and nodded toward the Wolf Consort, who had emerged behind them, ready to guide them home. Neither Talwyn nor Tris spoke until they stood in the mist back in the clearing. The Wolf Consort stood between them and the fire, and beyond him, their bodies waited.
“Honored Consort,” Talwyn said. “Thank you.” She and Tris both made a low bow. The Wolf Consort inclined his head, and then his image dissipated like smoke on the breeze. Talwyn dropped Tris’s hand, and Tris felt her energy return to her body. Tris shuddered as his spirit returned.
Fallon and Nisim withdrew their anchoring presence, and Tris felt the wardings fall. Jair and Kiara rushed forward, each of them bearing bread and wine so that Tris and Talwyn could ground themselves.
“Did the Dread come? What did you see?” Fallon’s voice was uncharacteristically curious.
Tris nodded, finishing a mouthful of bread and taking the time to gulp down the wine before replying. “Yes, the Dread came. As for what I saw—it was a shadow more than a clear image. But the legends are right. They’re powerful. Really powerful. We want them on our side, if they choose sides, but I think it would be better for everyone if they didn’t play at all.”
“What did they want from you? Do you think they’ll side with Margolan?” Kiara reached out to touch Tris on the shoulder, as if to reassure herself that he was fully back among the living.
“He wanted to size me up. Whether that’s as a potential ally, or as an enemy to defeat, I still don’t know.” Tris’s voice showed the fatigue of the working.
Jair slipped his arm around Talwyn’s shoulders to steady her, as if he could read how much the working had drained her. “Did they answer your questions?”
Tris exchanged glances with Talwyn before he replied. “After a fashion. They believe war is inevitable. Whether or not the war ends everything is apparently up to us.”
Chapter Eighteen
Here’s what we think of your whore-spawned king!” The rebel’s face was partially covered by a kerchief, but the dung that flew through the air to land with a wet thud against Cam’s shield made the protester’s meaning abundantly clear.
“Disperse to your homes! Disperse now!” Cam’s voice was raw with shouting, and the crowd facing them seemed in no mood to hear. That he and the Veigonn were helping to put down rioters should have given anyone an idea of just how bad things had become.
The palace city of Aberponte was aflame.
What had begun as a tavern brawl between a soldier and a townsman with Divisionist sympathies had spilled out into the street. Whether the first fire had truly been from a lantern knocked over in the brawl or whether it had been set intentionally no longer mattered. From where Cam sat astride his battle steed, the smoke was thick and the fall night was unseasonably hot. The entire horizon glowed orange with flames. At least a third of the city was on fire, and though he could hear the cries of the bucket brigades behind him, it was anyone’s guess as to whether they could stop the flames from leaping from roof to roof.
A hail of rocks answered the shouted warning. They slammed against Cam’s shield and helm, clattering off his horse’s armor. Cam tugged on his reins to keep his warhorse still. As one, the line of mounted soldiers advanced, forcing the crowd back a pace.
“Disperse, by order of the king! Go home now, and no one gets hurt.”
“Pox take you and your king! Go to the Crone!”
The rioters surged forward, fueled by rage and ale. Cam knew that their orders to put down the riots with as little violence as possible could only control the situation for so long. At some point, one side would push the other too far, and blood would flow. The soldiers were armored and mounted on massive horses with iron-shod hooves. The crowd had its fury and its sheer size, emboldened by alcohol and provoked by fear.
A row of men with homemade pikes rushed forward to hold the mounted soldiers at bay while the crowd pelted them with larger objects, fist-sized pieces of stone, broken bottles, and sharp shards of pottery. Though Cam’s armor deflected the worst of the blows, one of the pottery pieces opened a gash on his cheek and a large stone hit his left forearm hard enough to moment
arily numb his hand.
“Swords out!” Cam and the other soldiers drew their swords. Half a dozen men armed with sickles and barn rakes ran at them with a cry as the crowd roared. Before their makeshift weapons could do damage, the soldiers’ swords whistled down, sending heads and limbs rolling.
Cam winced. It was one thing to fight invaders; it was another thing entirely to slaughter townsfolk. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Run away, Cam willed to the angry mob. Do the smart thing and run away.
Plague, famine, and fear fueled rage. The mob surged forward, hurling anything that wasn’t nailed down and grabbing whatever they could carry as weapons. Two burly men wrenched a watering trough free from its moorings and ran at full speed toward the line of soldiers.
“Defend yourselves!” Wilym shouted. Cam’s stallion reared up on his great hind legs and kicked at the attackers. The horse’s massive hooves connected with a sick thud, taking the top off one man’s skull and sending the other man flying back.
Enraged, the crowd kept coming. All around him, Cam could hear the snick of swords meeting flesh and the sound of bodies hitting the ground. Curses flew from both sides, and the rioters had begun to climb for higher ground, scaling the balconies and drainpipes for better advantage. The hail of muck and solid objects now rained down from above. Out of the corner of his eye, Cam saw a small boulder slam down on one of the soldiers. The crowd cheered wildly as the soldier toppled from his horse, and three men ran forward to slit the downed man’s throat, scrambling out of the way before the soldier’s comrades could ride to his defense. The cobblestones were red with blood and strewn with shattered glass, and the air smelled of burning thatch and open sewers.
We’re damned, no matter what we do. Fall back, and the mob storms the palace gates. Cut them all down, and they become martyrs, while the soldiers become the enemy. Even if we win, we lose.
If the soldiers had held back before, the sight of one of their own lying dead on the road put an end to restraint. Cam heard battle cries tear from the throats of the men around him as they urged their war steeds forward, laying into the crowd with their swords with as much fury as if they were on a field of battle. Half of the mob held their ground, hurling broken bottles and rocks. Behind them, the others put up hastily made barricades of overturned wagons and upended barrels and crates. From behind the cover of the barricade, slings and slingshots replaced hand-thrown rocks, firing their missiles with better aim and deadly force.
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