Gail Z. Martin - COTN 03 - Dark Haven (V1.0)(lit)

by Gail Z. Martin

  "Why don't get your mind off it?" Alle sug­gested. "There's nothing more to be done tonight. Look—the guards left the gifts for you. Let's have a look. Even if you're not curi­ous, I am!"

  "All right. Come on then." Macaria and Cerise joined Kiara and Alle as they walked over to the table laden with gifts. True to Alle's prediction, many of the gifts were charms and amulets in an impressive variety of ornate and very expensive settings. Kiara looked at all of the jewelry without touching any of the pieces.

  Her hand closed over the talisman at her throat made of Margolan gold, set with two large pearls, one white and one black, in honor of the Lady's dual faces. It was a gift from Tris, left for her to open this morning, and Kiara fingered it, wishing that she could sense in it a trace of his presence. The amulet remained tucked inside her pillow, to keep at bay the shadows that still haunted her dreams.

  "I know you had one of the Sisterhood here when the gifts were opened, but I'm not touch­ing or wearing anything until Tris gets back," Kiara said. "I've had all I want of magicked items!"

  Other sumptuous items covered the table. Garments and baby blankets, woven from soft wool spun as fine as silk. Silver and ivory rat­tles and teething rings. Pairs of tiny earrings, in styles suitable for either a boy or a girl child. A coverlet of satin with an exquisite embroidered crest. Kiara shifted the coverlet for a better view of the small box beneath it. Inside was a folded garment and a small vial of oil. An unusual, sharp scent rose from the vial.

  Alle caught her hand. "Don't touch it. Who would dare to give this awful thing!"

  Macaria glanced at the box and paled. "Sweet Mother and Childe," she murmured, making the sign of the Lady. She dug through the gifts. "I can't find a note."

  "What is it?" Cerise asked.

  "Funeral oil," Alle said. "The fabric is a shroud," Alle whispered. "For a baby."

  Kiara felt her blood run cold. "Why? Why would anyone want to do that?"

  "Someone intended to send a message with that gift." Beneath the anger in Alle's voice, Kiara could hear steel. "Your baby's going to reshape the future of the Winter Kingdoms. Every noble stands to gain or lose. Figure out who sent that, how it got into the palace, and we might also find Malae's killer."

  "We're not going to say anything about this," Kiara said. "Whoever gave the gift is'out there, watching. He wants to see how I'll react." I never ran from battle, and I won't run from this. But Sweet Chenne! It won't be long before I can't fight to protect myself—or my baby. What then?

  A knock at the door startled them. Cerise withdrew to her room, and Alle carefully went to open the door. To their surprise, Carroway stood in the doorway. "M'lady, urgent news." Kiara waved him in. Carroway's hair was windblown, and he looked haggard. "Paiva just found me. She came from the tavern in the village. There's an uprising in the borderlands. Jared burned their fields and now the corn Tris sent is gone. The people are hungry and they're waylaying supply wagons." Kiara closed her eyes. "What now?" Carroway looked as upset as Kiara had ever seen him. "I overheard Crevan and Harrtuck—

  half the castle overheard them, the way Har­rtuck was shouting. Crevan's ordering Harrtuck to take a battalion out to the Border­lands to put down the uprising. Harrtuck believes Tris told him to stay here to guard you. Crevan threatened to charge Harrtuck with insubordination, replace him as captain of the guards."

  "Which means that Harrtuck will be a week's ride away from here—for who knows how long," Macaria finished. "Nowhere close to Kiara."

  "And someone else will be guarding Mikhail," Carroway said. His long fingers drummed against his arm and his whole body was tight with anger.

  Kiara sank into a chair. "Who knows how long the siege will last? It'll be months before we can prove Mikhail is innocent."

  "Harrtuck could spend months chasing trou­blemakers across the Borderlands," Carroway replied. "Loyalty only lasts as long as the food holds out."

  Alle glanced from Kiara to the others. "Nothing's going to be decided in the next few hours. We've been up all night. Let's get some sleep. Macaria and I can stay with Kiara." She glanced at Carroway. "If you hear anything else from the court gossip, let us know."

  Carroway nodded and headed for the door. "I'm sorry, Kiara. I'm not doing a very good job of keeping my promise to Tris."

  Kiara managed a tired smile. "I don't think Tris ever expected what happened tonight. He'll be glad if we're all alive when he gets back."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When darkness fell, Tris gathered the , mages in his tent. Soterius stood quietly by the door, both participant and sentinel. Coalan busied himself tending to their guests, and then attempted to make himself as incon­spicuous as possible.

  "We've already started to work," Fallon con­tinued. "Latt has attracted all the fleas, bedbugs, and rats she could find and concen­trated them in the walled city. That should make them uncomfortable."

  "Their water source is magically protected," Latt added. "So fouling their water isn't possi­ble. We've placed protections of our own around the nearest fresh spring, and I'm work­ing with Vira to cleanse a closer spring that Curane's people tainted with animal carcass­es." She made an expression of distaste. "It's slow work."

  "I'm sending random gusts of very high winds against the fortifications," said Ana with a sly smile. "Gusts strong enough to blow a man off his feet. There's no way to know when they'll strike, and I've seen a couple of their soldiers tumble off the walls. So far, their mages haven't caught on—we'll see how long it takes them."

  "If you wish, I'll scry for you," Beyral said. "And cast runes to see the portents."

  "Go ahead."

  Coalan ran to fetch a basin and fill it with water. When the water stilled, Beryal closed her eyes and stretched out her right hand, hold­ing her fingers spread just above the water's surface. Tris could sense the power, but could not read the images.

  As Beyral watched the water tremble, her expression darkened. "The siege won't be short. Much blood. Darkness. So many dead." The water moved again, and Beyral gasped. "Danger within the gates." The trance broke and Beyral looked up, her eyes wide. "Let me cast runes. Sometimes, the images clear when the runes speak."

  From a pouch at her belt, Beyral withdrew a handful of polished bone and ivory. The pieces were rectangular, about the size of a finger, smoothed with time and wear. Carved into each piece was a rune that blurred and vibrat­ed with a magic of its own. Beyral placed the runes in her cupped palm, handling them with

  great care. She closed her hands over them, and lifted them to her mouth. Four times she mur­mured an invocation and breathed on her clasped hands. And then, with a final plea to the Lady, she opened her hands above the table and let the runes fall.

  Five of the eight pieces landed with the rune showing. Beyral looked carefully at the place­ment of the carved bits, murmuring to herself as she moved around the table. Finally, she straightened.

  "The runes speak. Only bone shows its rune—the ivory is silent," she said, motioning toward the face-down pieces. "A portent of danger. The speaking pieces lie at cross quar­ters—the dark faces of the Lady. Tisel, the first rune, is betrayal. Athira the Whore is its Aspect. Conflicting allegiances. Old vows bro­ken. Katen, the second rune, is the rune of life. It speaks for the Dark Lady. This matter will be settled in places between life and death, where spirits and darkness dwell. Katen governs suc­cession. The rune landed sideways—even it can't see what lies ahead.

  "Aneh, the third rune, speaks for the Form­less One. Chaos will govern. Zyhm is the fourth rune—intertwined destiny. It speaks for the Crone. It lies facing Aneh. The two pow­ers war with each other. Zyhm weaves together; Aneb tears apart. Destinies are joined—and sundered. But whose, it doesn't say."

  Beyral looked up. "I'm sorry. The omens are dark and the reading is unclear. I don't have any more to offer." "Thank you." Tris said. "I'll place sigils around the camp," Beyral said. "They'll warn me if the boundary is breeched, although they won't stop an attack." "I've
placed wardings over our food stores," Latt said. "I can't hold a large warding for long, but I can hold smaller ones for quite some time."

  "And I've changed the winds above our camp," Ana added. "The vayasb moru may find it more challenging to fly, but Curane's mages will also have difficulty magicking their arrows to carry further. Above our heads, where we can't feel it, the winds shift south. Anything sent on the air—arrows or pesti­lence—will blow over us and slip downstream."

  "Can you tell how Lochlanimar is defend­ed?" Soterius asked.

  Fallon nodded. "Curane's mages have strong spells defending the main gates to the holding. Powerful, dark magic. Don't expect Curane to play fair." "We weren't."

  "There's one more thing," Eallon said. "What Beyral read in the runes about succession—that can mean your heir, but it can also be read more broadly. There are moments in time from which all other moments turn.

  Powerful forces are in motion. It may be that more than the fate of Margolan's throne depends on what happens here. We believe we're at a threshold. Once crossed, the Winter Kingdoms will not be as they were."

  "Thank you." Tris managed a wry smile. "Knowing doesn't always make you feel better, does it?"

  Fallon and the other mages bowed deeply and left. But before Soterius could comment on their information, the temperature within the tent plummeted, even colder than the win­ter air outside. Tris could feel the stir of spirits. He closed his eyes, opening himself to the Plains of Spirit. He felt no threat from these ghosts, and had a clear sense that they were responding to his summons. Warily, he beckoned them to come closer and lent them power to make themselves visible. When Tris opened his eyes, the ghosts of four men stood before him. One of the ghosts was a man who looked to be late in his fifth decade, with thin, graying hair and a short-cropped, gray beard. He was broad shouldered with the hands of a workman, and his eyes were troubled. "M'lord Summoner. We heard your call, and we obey."

  Tris could not feel any falseness, but, mindful of the rune's warning, he remained guarded. "Thank you. I called you because my quarrel is with Curane and his mages, not with the peo­ple of Lochlanimar."

  The bearded ghost looked to his comrades; it was clear he was their spokesman. "Lord Curane is a hard master, m'lord. He started rationing food and water a month ago, when he knew the army would camp against him. The people are hungry. Strange sicknesses have taken parts of the city—no one dares say it, but many think the mages are behind the ill humours. In some quarters, so many people have died that the houses stand empty. When someone takes sick, the Black Robes come. They take the person away. None have returned."

  The bearded ghost shook his head. "I'm Tabok. I served Lord Curane's father, and his father's father. They were men who made mis­takes, but they had honor. For two generations I've watched over my family. I fear for them, m'lord."

  "What of Curane's granddaughter—and her baby?" Soterius asked.

  Tabok frowned. "No one's seen them. They're prisoners in the keep. Sometimes, I can hear the babe crying. They're guarded heavi­ly—by men and magic. Even spirits can't cross some of the wardings."

  Tris and Soterius exchanged glances. "Well, that confirms the rumors."

  "We came to offer our services," Tabok said. "We're men of honor. When Lord Curane imprisoned his own people, we believe our vows to be broken. We want to free our families, m'lord. We are willing to be your eyes and ears within Lochlanimar where the magic doesn't keep us from going."

  "I'm grateful," Tris replied. "I have no desire to wage war on my own people. Give us Curane and his mages and we'll end the siege."

  "What of the girl and her child?" Tabok asked.

  "From what we know, the girl was given to Jared when she was still too young to wed. I've laid to rest enough ghosts of his 'partners' to know her fate with him. The baby will be a ral­lying point to threaten my own sons. I don't have many options."

  The ghost's question tugged at him. It was a decision that had never completely left his mind. What of the girl and the child? He thought. She was sold like a whore for jared's pleasure. Beaten and raped and cast aside. Curane's used her like a brood mare to sire a child to claim his fortune. They're victims in this. Let them live, even in exile, and the child becomes a rival. Law and tradition ivould hold me blameless to have them killed. Is there another way? Some way to keep from finishing Jared's murders for him without endangering my own sons?

  Tabok's ghost nodded. "A hard decision. We'll watch for you, and report. Mohr can't make himself seen, but he has the power to move things—and he enjoys playing tricks." At his words, a thin man in the rear of the group grinned. "The last few days, Curane's soldiers have been busy. They've got something planned. Curane's mad enough to make a first strike. You may not have much time to get your camp ready.

  "M'lord, something else you should know," Tabok added. "The castle's set with many spells. There are some areas—like the keep where his granddaughter is held—spelled so that we can't enter. I've seen Curane's blood mages create asbtenerath from our own dead, and charms to ward away the vayash moru. He knows you're a Summoner—that's why he wears a null magic charm. He's afraid the spir­its will rise up to follow you. Over the past months, his blood mages have desecrated our cemeteries, dug up bodies, and mutilated fresh corpses to sever their spirits from this place. There should be hundreds of newly dead spir­its who have no love for Curane. Instead, only the old ghosts remain."

  "No wonder the Flow is so unsteady," Tris said, imagining the damage so much blood magic would cause.

  "Lochlanimar's an old city. Very old. Built before Margolan had a king, they say. There are other cities beneath it, or what's left of them. There are hallways full of bones under the city. There may be ghosts in those forgot­ten places untouched by Curane's blood magic. And something else. Long ago, there was a pas­sage dug from Lochlanimar into the caves in the mountains," he said with a nod toward the foothills. "I haven't known them to be used in over a hundred years. If the passages haven't been closed up, your men might get in there. But beware. They've been spelled against us, and against vayash moru."

  "Can you draw us a map?" Tris asked.

  Tabok nodded. Tris beckoned to Coalan, who brought parchment and paper and did as the ghost bid. When the map was finished, the ghost looked up at Tris. "M'lord. I must ask one thing. If there be any survivors when the siege is over, what are your intentions?"

  "Curane, his soldiers and his mages will have to stand trial for treason. Those guilty will hang. I'll do everything in my power to give safe pas­sage to your families. My quarrel is with Curane. If Curane won't surrender, we'll have no choice but to destroy the entire walled town."

  "We understand. Thank you." The ghosts bowed in fealty. And then, as quickly as they came, the spirits faded from view.

  "Now what?"

  Soterius shrugged. "We wait, just the way we planned. I've got the army split into two groups. Half of the soldiers—plus the vayash moru, the mages and whatever ghosts you can rouse—will be in fighting position come sun­down. We'll make a first strike, try to take him by surprise. If he's planning the same, this could get interesting, but we wTon't be caught unprepared.

  "The rest of the soldiers—and the vayash moru, when the fighting's done—will be work­ing double shifts to get the battering ram and the trebuchets ready and in place. In the mean­time, I'll send scouts to see if there are any weak points we've overlooked. There's no way around spending Winterstide in the field, but perhaps we'll be home by spring."

  Tris accepted the glass of brandy Coalan pressed into his hand. "I spent my last birthday in exile. We're home again now, but not really 'home.'" He sipped the. brandy. "Beyral's runes weren't much comfort. I know Kiara's 'well-protected, but I'm afraid for her. The sooner we're back at Shekerishet, the happier I'll be."

  Soterius took his glass of brandy and raised it. "To your birthday—and to a quick end to the siege."

  Tris raised his glass. "To home."

  At sundown, Tris rein
ed in his horse and looked out over the plains toward Lochlani-mar.

  Behind him on a platform high enough for them to see the entire battlefield, the mages waited.

  Now. Tris sent the word to the mages as Soterius gave the signal to the vayash moru. Dark shapes, nearly obscured by the shadows that blackened the moon, streaked toward Lochlanimar. Tris lent his power to aid the mages. All the months of countering the remnants of Arontala's blood magic within Shekerishet had given him more knowledge than he'd ever wanted about breaking dark spells. Now, combining their magic, Tris and the mages sent a blast of power against the walled keep as Tris chanted the working to dispel Curane's wardings.

  He raised his hands, eyes closed, completely intent on his target. He could feel the power of Fallon and her mages joining with his, feel the blood magic rising from the keep to fight them. He smiled as he recognized the dark magic charm. Arontala had used something similar. But neither Arontala nor Curane expected the diaries of the Obsidian King to have fallen into Tris's hands. In those forbidden tomes, he had uncovered the dark mages' weaknesses.

  "We're in."

  "Go!" Soterius and Palinn gathered their mortal troops, moving out silently across the snow-covered plain, clad in black. Tris focused his whole attention on the working, speaking the words of power. The blood magic fought him, but as he chanted the counter spells, one by one, he felt Curane's protections snap. First to fall were the wardings against the vayash moru.

  Fallon and her mages drew on the Flow to send a powerful fear spell toward the keep. It would have no affect on the vayash moru, nor Tris's own troops. But those within Lochlani­mar would, until his mages could counter, believe that their darkest nightmares had come true. When he had done all he could to count­er the blood magic, Tris shifted to the Plains of Spirit. He stretched out his power along the gray pathways. The necropolis beneath Lochlanimar was very old. Many of the spirits would have long ago gone to their rest, Tris knew. But from among the long dead bones, Tris felt something stir in response to his sum­mons.