Sometimes, Laisren wore a null magic charm, forcing Tris to hold his own with fighting skills alone. The null amulet dampened his magic, pushing it out of reach. Fortunately, the charm's influence was limited and its power dropped off
completely outside of the immediate presence of its wearer.
When Tris wasn't skirmishing with his undead opponent, Taru's lessons in defensive magic pushed him to exhaustion. Tris learned to counter the pain spells that Theron used against him, and to sense and deflect spells like the one that stopped Elam's heart. Tris guessed that Taru went well beyond the usual boundaries of acceptable gray magic to test him against an array of magical attacks. Tris was grudgingly proud of the fact that he managed to survive, and to send back counter spells that appeared to strain even Taru's defenses.
A week and a half after his return to the citadel, Tris stood before Landis, ready to go into the catacombs for his trial.
"What is the task?" Tris asked, hoping his voice was steady.
"The task is always the same," replied Landis. "Overcome the traps. Best the avatars. Defeat a mage and wrest the Orb from his possession. And, if possible, live through it."
"Your penchant for self-sacrifice is noble, but impractical. You must be willing to pay whatever price success demands. You may find that your own death is not the dearest coin." Landis flicked her wrist, and the door opened behind him to the catacombs.
"Now go. And may the Lady in all Her Faces look with favor on your battle."
Tris descended the stone stairs carefully, and felt the death warding snap into place behind him. Although he had expected it, the tingle of its magic was unsettling. Tris listened in the shadows with both hearing and mage sense. He knew that he was not alone.
Deep in the catacombs beneath the citadel, Tris stepped warily from the shadows. The dark, damp stones carried the imprint of old and powerful magic. At intervals, mage-fire torches lit the corridor, but between them stretched dangerous shadows. The tunnels formed a convoluted maze, with hidden rooms and real peril.
A rush of air was the only warning.
Tris pivoted, Mageslayer ready in his grip. Immortally strong hands seized him from behind. Tris could feel the chill of the vayasb moru's grip even through his tunic. "What now, Lord of the Dead?" Laisren's voice taunted near his ear, close enough to the blood pulsing through his neck that Tris fought the urge to shiver. While the other opponents he would encounter would be avatars, the vayash moru, exempt from the death warding, was very real.
"Lethyrashem!" Tris spoke the word of power, and the vayash moru dropped his grip as if burned. Tris turned, placing Mageslayer between them. The ensorcelled sword's faint glow lit the shadows. He had barely raised his sword when the vayash moru vanished from sight.
Tris swung with Mageslayer and felt the blade connect; his opponent withdrew to the shadows with a hiss. Mageslayer, possessing its own version of sentience, "understood" to blunt its magic against the vayash moru trainer. Laisren, in turn, agreed not to use his superior speed and strength to kill Tris. And while Tris believed that his Summoner's magic would make it unlikely for him to be brought across against his will, he did not want to find out how much blood he could lose before those magical protections set in.
Moving faster than mortal sight, the vayash morn pinned Tris from behind, and threw him sideways into the damp stone wall. Before Tris could find his feet, the vice-like hands tossed him into the air again. He landed hard enough to feel his collar bone snap and ribs crack, felt blood start along his side and face as he scraped along the rough wall.
Laisren struck again, avoiding Tris's swing with Mageslayer. Flung backward against the chamber's wall, Tris's head swam. He gasped for breath as impossibly strong arms lifted him and pinned him.
"Hurry, Lord of the Dead," the vayash moru whispered. The vayash moru's breath was cold against his neck, and Tris felt mortal fear fill him as teeth sank against his skin. Dizziness washed over him.
Tris fought panic and closed his eyes. He felt himself weakening, struggling to find the center of his •power. On the Plains of Spirit, he could see the vayash moru clearly, though darkness blocked his mortal sight. Tris summoned his power, and with the magic came a rush of spirits, called like moths to flame. The magic bore him up as his mortal body weakened. In his mind's eye, he saw his power fill him, saw it glow and burn through his skin and eyes, white-hot.
Laisren hissed sharply, lifting his teeth from Tris's neck and loosening his grip. Reeling, Tris relied on mage sight to swing Mageslayer, running his attacker through the belly. Tris staggered as the vayash moru's weight fell against the sword. Laisren's face came into focus, an ironic smile on his lips.
"Next time I shall make it more difficult," he said, falling still as Tris withdrew his sword.
Alone again in the darkness Tris gasped for breath, feeling his injuries fully. Left collar bone cracked or broken, at least one rib on the same side likewise. Blood trickled from the punctures in his neck, evidence that he had truly surprised his attacker, who had the means to leave a bloodless bite. Tris looked at the vayash moru's still form, and wondered whether his attacker would feel any worse for the wear after he regenerated.
Tris started forward again as soon as his heart slowed and the vertigo passed, alert for traps both magical and mundane. His Summoner's power meant that many traps that often protected magical places and items would not deter him. In winning Mageslayer, he had proved his ability to wrestle with hostile spirits, quell reanimated fighters, and dispel a demi-demon. But magic, he knew, posed only one threat. Even powerful mages were constrained by the limits of their bodies. Traps to ensnare mortals could just as easily kill an unwary mage. Tris moved forward cautiously into the darkness.
Tris's mage sense prickled a warning, and he tested the steps ahead of him with his power. At his touch a section of the floor gave way, yawning into blackness. Tris tested the other side of the chasm carefully. He used his newly-honed climbing skills to find toe holds in the rough stone wall and cross the gap. As he reached the other side, Tris heard wind roar up from the pit. Mageslayer brightened at the danger. Tris stepped backward against a solid rock wall. Trapped.
Rising from the chasm, a vortex of wind swirled with storm power, buffeting him against the wall. From the depths of the darkness it brought with it shards of stone and bone, blinding dust, and stinging grit. Tris flung up shielding, and struggled to hold it against the force of the storm.
His skin burned with the grit that swirled in the air around him as his shields snapped into place. The wind was powerful, and the close quarters seemed to double its force. Such a storm could rage for days, far longer than he could hold his shields. Around him the wind howled, full of debris that could strip skin from bone. Despite Mageslayer's glow, it was almost impossible to see.
The winds were not sentient, so his spirit magic was of no help. The storm surged, threatening to break through his shields; Tris knew he could not hold out forever. Even if the wind storm doesn't kill me, it can make enough of a mess of me that it will take forever for Carina to put back the pieces, he thought.
The winds howled louder. Tris seized on a slim hope.
He threw his cowl over his head and took a deep breath, tightening a two-handed grip on Mageslayer. He let his shields fall.
As the storm howled toward him, Tris focused on Mageslayer, willing his energy and power to become one with the blade. Firel he willed, letting his magic thrum along the blade until the metal glowed hotter than forged steel. The winds reached him and the grit and shards began to tear at his clothing and exposed skin. The force of the storm threatened to sweep him off his feet into the pit, but Tris closed his eyes, willing his power through the blade.
With a roar, fire erupted from Mageslayer's blade, so hot that Tris felt his breath leave him. A blast of concentrated flame struck at the heart of the winds. Long ago, the palace smithy told him that fire burnt air; a fire in a closed place will take the air until there is none left to breathe. As the
heat rose, Tris held firm to Mageslayer's grip, though the metal burned his hands and the buffeting of the storm strained his outstretched arms. The air filled with the smell of scorched rock, but Tris felt the wind weaken, dropping its lethal cargo of grit and shards. Arms aching, Tris held on to the sword. A reaction headache was beginning to pound in his temples. Then with a rush, the winds died.
Sweat-soaked, bleeding from tiny cuts, and heaving for breath in the thin air, Tris dropped to his knees. Mageslayer gradually dimmed to a faint blue light.
I'm alive! Tris thought, lightheaded from the scorched air. Just as quickly, he remembered that he was trapped against a sheer stone wall, with the pit between him at the cool, sweet air of the passage.
Aching in every muscle, Tris reached for a flask at his belt and took a drink. Carina swore that the herbed water would sustain him from minor injuries and fatigue. While it did nothing for the pain in his ribs, Tris felt the pounding of his headache recede. The sting of his cuts and burns faded. Still dizzy from the loss of blood and the thin air, Tris searched a pouch at his belt for a wad of pummeled rope vine, about as thick as the tip of his thumb. He pushed the wad between his back teeth, and bit down hard, hoping it would help to clear his head. After a few moments he felt strong enough to stand, Mageslayer held warily against any surprise from the pit.
When nothing stirred from the blackness, Tris turned his attention to the rock wall at the back of the passage. He felt his way toward the magic that tingled in the rocks. As Tris slid his free hand across the rough stone, he also let his mage sense play across the wall until both touch and magic located a loose stone. With Mageslayer gripped in his right hand Tris carefully felt the edges of the stone with his left, finding that it would neither pull nor push, but could be rotated with effort.
The stone clicked into place and the wall gave way, sliding very slowly backward. But before Tris could withdraw his hand, a whirring noise buzzed from within the hole and a sharp pain in his palm made him jerk back his hand.
A tiny dart was embedded in his palm. Tris pulled it free, but already the wormroot burned through his veins. He staggered into the newly opened corridor, falling against the cold stone wall.
He clenched his fist around Mageslayer, drawing from its power to fight the poison. Tris chewed harder on the rope vine, letting its bitter juice course down his throat.
Sweet Chenne, Tris thought, willing himself not to be sick. I'm barely in one piece, and I've yet to face the avatars!
With the help of Mageslayer and the rope vine, Tris clung to his power. He was flushed with fever and the headache pounded, but he willed himself forward. Although his palm burned from the poison, he reached for a dirk from his belt. The corridor turned and he saw pale red light glowing from an open doorway.
The Soulcatcherl Tris thought, remembering the deadly orb in Arontala's study, the prison of the Obsidian King. It took conscious effort for Tris to keep his power within his grasp as he made his way carefully down the corridor, Mageslayer gripped white-knuckled in his hand.
Tris reached the doorway. Inside the stone room, Soulcatcher lit the vaulted ceilings of the chamber, glowing like a captured sun on a pedestal in the center of the floor. A cowled, red-robed figure stood, arms upraised over the orb, his back to the door. Tris heard Arontala's cold chuckle from an avatar that looked to be a perfect replica. But unlike in his confrontation with Alaine, neither the orb nor the avatar radiated the imprint of Arontala's power.
"Come to join your sister?" Arontala baited with a smile that showed his long eye teeth.
Tris loosed a burst of power toward Arontala and the Fire Clan mage brushed aside the assault without raising his shields. His counterstrike nearly tore Mageslayer from Tris's grip.
"Come now. You'll have to do better than that."
The mage's next strike almost broke through Tris's shields. Tris could feel the poison in his veins growing stronger, eroding his control, making his magic a wild and unpredictable force.
Tris clasped Mageslayer tighter, drawing from the spelled blade against the poison, and he ground his teeth on the rope vine. His ribs throbbed and his head pounded, making it difficult to focus his vision.
"I have the offering," a familiar voice said. Tris's blood ran cold. Straight from his nightmares, Jared stepped into the room from a side door, dragging with him a battered and bound Kiara.
They're just avatars, Tris struggled against the anger and instinct that boiled up in him. It's not really him, not really her. Not real. Can't be real.
"We have a visitor," Arontala purred, inclining his head.
Jared's familiar leer twisted his handsome features. "Hello, Tris." He intentionally pulled on the ropes that bound Kiara's wrists, eliciting a groan. Her eyes were closed, one cheek bruised, and her tunic was smudged and bloody. The gash on Jared's sleeve and his torn shirt told of the fight that victory had required. "My mage assures me that once we feed her soul to the orb, what remains will be sufficient for my… needs."
A cold, rational corner of Tris's mind calculated his odds. The battle with the vayash morn, his injuries.from the storm, and the wormroot had already taken a toll, pushed further by the exchange with Arontala. He would have one chance, if his magic would obey his will at all. Although he stood equally close to Arontala's avatar as to Jared's, a move toward either would bring a counter from the other. And there was Kiara. Avatar or not, he would not accept her sacrifice.
"Bring her," Arontala ordered. Jared dragged the Kiara-double forward, forcing her to kneel beside the glowing orb.
In the back of Tris's mind, one possibility presented itself.
Tris plunged onto the spirit plains and found the glow that was Mageslayer's power. His magic was waning as the poison worked its way through his blood. Drawing on Mageslayer for support, Tris hurled the dirk in his left hand, catching Jared in the chest.
With Mageslayer as an athame, Tris sent a blast of power toward Arontala, using the orb as a lens to magnify the effect. Spent to the point of exhaustion, Tris sent the last of his power toward Kiara, covering her with a fragile shield. The explosion at Westmarch when Tris forced power back through the scrying ball did not compare to the firestorm that erupted from Soulcatcher, incinerating Arontala and blistering Tris's skin. Everything in his sight turned to black, and Tris collapsed.
FIRST CAME PAIN, then consciousness. In the darkness Tris heard voices, but whether the lightless space was in a room or inside his own mind he did not know.
"He failed," snapped one voice.
"Tsk, Tsk," chided another. "Define failure. He made it through the traps, past the wormroot. And his solution worked-after a fashion."
"He has his grandmother's weakness," said a third. "He might have survived the explosion if he had been willing to let her go. If he dies in the attempt, we are no better served. Jared's bastard will become the rightful king."
"If you're so worried about the girl, keep her from accompanying him," said the first voice.
"Have you forgotten? It was the will of the Oracle," argued the second. "She may be in greater danger of being taken-or turned-if she is alone,
or if they wed and she stays behind to bear his child. This is the will of the Lady."
"I've found," noted the third voice dryly, "that the will of the Lady is always clearer in retrospect. He did what we required-destroyed the orb, Jared, and Arontala. Landis seemed intent that he be willing to sacrifice someone. He sacrificed himself. We did not actually say he must survive the encounter."
"It was implied," sniffed the second. "Bava K'aa's foolish sentiment endangered us all, and now, his weakness will do so again."
"Perhaps he'll learn from his recovery," noted the first voice, growing faint in the darkness. "It won't be pleasant."
The voices might have said more, but the darkness and fever took him. He did not remember anything else.
WHEN HE FOUND the strength to open his eyes, Tris could make out only shadows in the dim light. I'm a Summoner, so I should k
now if I were dead, he thought. It doesn't look like the spirit plains. But maybe they look different from the other side.
"Don't even think about moving," a familiar voice instructed. The shadow came closer in the twilight, bringing a cool rag for his forehead and a cup of water. "Slowly," she cautioned, lifting the water to his parched lips as she helped him rise from his pillow. The water tasted of herbs and medicines. Even the slightest movement hurt, and he realized he was wet with sweat.
"Where-"
The shadow gently laid him back and wiped his face with the rag. "You're still in the citadel," the voice said. Tris realized the shadow was Carina, though he could not see her face in the darkness.
"Why so dark?" He was barely able to form the words. Excruciating pain radiated from behind his eyes. His whole body seemed on fire.
"Shh," Carina hushed gently. "It's been three days. They weren't expecting what you did back there. They barely shielded you in time. Sister Taru has been helping me. It was too close, Tris. It was just an avatar, dammit! You shielded her instead of yourself, and it wasn't even a real person!"
"It was the right thing to do," Tris managed, finding his throat sore and his lips cracked.
"There was so much wormroot in your system it took a day before we could even begin to heal," Carina said. "I saw everything you did," she reached out to take his hand. "You were amazing."
"Not good enough," Tris murmured.
"You were amazing," Carina repeated. "But we need you to live through the real thing, do you understand? It's not complete unless you live to take the crown."
Tris wanted to respond, but her potion drew him back into the respite of the darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A LITTLE MORE than a week later, Tris and Carina returned to Staden's palace in time to see Soterius and Mikhail off on their journey back into Margolan.
"Now that Ban's an outlaw hero, he'll probably have twice the number of ladies vying for him," Carroway teased. He set his lyre down. The group was still chuckling at the off-color ballad he'd dedicated to the high points of Soterius's upcoming ride into Margolan to inspire dissent. Even Staden dabbed a tear from his eye as the laughter subsided.
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