Dark Lady's Chosen

by Gail Z. Martin

  Tris smiled coldly and focused his power again. One more soul still needed to give full account for his treachery. Tris reached out onto the Plains of Spirit and found a soul that shrank away from his power but feared the crossing over.

  Tarq. Tris felt his power make contact and closed his hand, wrapping the balky spirit in his magic to drag him back to stand trial. The audience gasped as Tarq's spirit became visible in the center warding.

  "You have been summoned here to stand trial for your crimes against the crown of Margolan, the Margolan army and the villagers of Lochlanimar," Tris said, hoping his voice sounded more impartial than he felt. It would be so easy for him to be judge, jury and executioner. Just a tightening of his power, a sudden twist, and he could snuff out their souls, deny them even eternal torment and condemn them to oblivion.

  I won't make Lemuel's mistake.

  Setting his jaw, Tris faced the ghosts. "Curane, Lord of Lochlanimar. You are charged with treason against the throne of Margolan and conspiracy. General Tarq, you betrayed the men under your command and actively aided the enemy." He looked to the two mages. "You have invoked blood magic and caused the deaths of your own people, as well as creating a plague which may well reach beyond this battlefield. For these crimes, you stand trial before this assembly. How do you plead?"

  "Unsuccessful, and unrepentant," Curane spat. "You'll never be half the king your brother was. You're weak like your father, and like Donelan. The divisionists were too stupid to know my men were behind them, using them to weaken Donelan until the Isencroft crown fell. With Jared's son on the Margolan throne, Margolan would have ruled Isencroft and soon, the Winter Kingdoms." He gave a cold smile. "Enjoy your trial. Crevan's betrayed both you and Donelan. He's carried out his orders by now. Your outland queen is dead, and with her, your heir."

  Although Tris had steeled himself to remain emotionless, Curane seemed to see what he wanted in Tris's eyes. "Let the plague run its course. It will make it all the easier for Trevath to pick up the pieces. My grandson is safe inside Trevath. Your heir is dead. I may not have lived to see my victory, but while you may have won this battle, I have won the war."

  Every fiber of Tris's being warred with his conscience. I want vengeance. I want to avenge Kiara, the baby, all the soldiers and villagers whose lives have been squandered. I want to make him pay for what he's done. I want to destroy him myself. Goddess help me! And if I do, I become what Lemuel was, a monster worse than anything he destroyed. I make a mockery of everything we've fought for. Forgive me, Kiara. I won't do that, even if I forfeit my right to avenge you.

  Tris knew that Soterius and Fallon were watching him closely. He could see in their eyes that they guessed at his struggle. Forcing down his emotions, Tris turned to the ghosts of Tarq and the two mages. "Have you anything to say for yourselves?"

  Tarq smirked as he glanced from Tris to Soterius. "My only regret is that I didn't have better aim."

  The red-haired mage drew himself up to his full height. "I was privileged to serve my lord," he replied, meeting Tris's gaze. "And I served him to the best of my ability."

  The second mage did not look up, avoiding Tris's eyes with a sullen look. "I have no regrets. I serve the memory of King Jared, Margolan's rightful king."

  Tris turned to the jury. "You've heard them speak for themselves. What is your ruling?"

  Senne's eyes were hard. "Judgment."

  Soterius looked at Tarq and Curane with loathing. "Judgment."

  Fallon glanced at the remaining jurors, who slowly nodded. "We rule for judgment."

  Tris found that he felt nothing as he looked back to the four condemned spirits. No triumph, no vindication, not even satisfaction. Just an eerie coldness that seemed to permeate every corner of his soul. "The jury has spoken. We give you over to the judgment of the Lady. May you answer to Her for your crimes for eternity."

  On the Plains of Spirit, Tris felt a shift that signaled the presence of the Goddess. His soul cringed as he recognized the Aspect that came for the condemned men. It was Nameless, the Formless One, a dark and faceless presence. Tris had no idea how much the living audience could sense, but the spirits in the audience fled before the Formless One as her bleak aura filled the space. Tris held his ground, although everything in him wanted to flee. Nameless passed by him like a frigid wind, covering the four cringing spirits with her shroud-like wings. Tris could hear the screams of their spirits as Nameless drew them into the Void.

  Dirmed's spirit fell to his knees, sobbing and rocking. "You're not real," he murmured over and over, until the darkness that was Nameless began to draw off strips of soul that unwound like ghostly entrails until there was nothing left.

  Cadoc screamed and tried to flee, but Tris's power held him in his place. Frozen with fear, the red-haired mage began to chant, calling on his magic and the names of the ancient gods to save him. Nameless's shadow passed through his ghost like obsidian slivers as he screamed and begged for mercy, his cries echoing until, like the tattered bits of his soul, his voice faded to nothing.

  Tarq shrank back against the warding, screaming in terror. The darkness pulled at him from all directions, shredding his form as if he were being flayed, drawn and quartered. He shrieked until the tendrils of darkness had pulled his form limb from limb, leaving it until last to smash in his head as the whips of his soul dissipated.

  Curane stood rigidly, his face betraying no emotion. He did not try to run, and he did not grovel. Eyes clear, chin lifted, Curane stared into the darkness, resolute. Only when the night swallowed him completely did a strangled scream escape the enveloping shadow.

  Abruptly, there was silence. Tris felt himself shaking as he carefully lowered the wardings. From the ashen faces and terrified looks of the jury and audience, he knew that, even though they lacked his power as a Summoner, they had sensed something of Nameless's terrible presence.

  "Believe that you are fully avenged," Tris said quietly. He felt utterly spent, but he stayed on his feet and was steady enough to refuse Esme's help. Fallon, Esme and Soterius walked back with him to his tent. His control lasted until they were safely inside. Coalan moved silently to bring them each a warm mug of brandy. Tris sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

  "How could I have been so blind? Curane's had a man at the very heart of things all this time. Crevan was Curane's man, and I left Kiara and the baby defenseless." The loss he felt was overwhelming, making it difficult to breathe.

  "We're a long way from Shekerishet," Soterius said quietly. "Curane has no way to know that Crevan was successful. He knows even less what's going on in Isencroft. That's cause for hope."

  Tris said nothing. Fallon laid a hand on his shoulder, and Tris felt her magic join with his, helping to bear the burden of his grief. Esme knelt next to him. "I'll do everything in my power to make sure you're as fully healed as possible so you can ride with the first light," she said quietly. "There's nothing left to do here that requires the king's presence. After Curane's confession, the men know what may be at stake at Shekerishet. No one will begrudge you your leave."

  "Thank you," Tris said raggedly. He drew his sleeve across his eyes. "It's hardly the homecoming I envisioned." He dared not let himself think about what lay ahead if Curane was right. Donelan would be within his rights to declare war-assuming he's held his throne against the divisionists. Both our kingdoms will be destroyed if it comes to that. Margolan will be without a legitimate heir. And I-He could not bring himself to finish the sentence. Without Kiara, he would be forced into a political alliance just to secure the succession. That thought chilled him more than any fear for his own safety. I will have lost everything.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The steady pounding of hammers echoed within Carroway's tower cell. Below in the bailey, workmen built a gallows within sight of his window. After the first night, the mob had subsided, making him apprehensive about Guarov's next move.

  He did not have long to wait. Before the noon bells rang, the door t
o his cell opened. Harrtuck entered first, with a scowl that made his mood plain. Behind him was Lord Guarov. "M'lord," Carroway said cautiously. He glanced to Harrtuck for some kind of signal, but Harrtuck looked away.

  "How do you like my new construction?" Guarov asked, watching Carroway closely.

  Carroway did his best to give away nothing in his expression. "It looks to be sturdy, m'lord."

  Guarov looked around. "I guess you're entitled to this chamber, as your family was noble, but if it were up to me, I'd have you in shackles in the lower level."

  "It isn't," Harrtuck growled.

  Guarov ignored Harrtuck. "The queen has not yet awakened. As it stands, your treachery is a hanging offense. But if she and the heir die, the Council of Nobles will have no choice but to charge you with treason, conspiracy against the king and regicide." Guarov's dark eyes narrowed, and the muscles of his jaw tightened. "The penalty for which is to be hanged, drawn and quartered."

  Carroway blanched. He tried to keep his face emotionless, but his heart raced and one hand balled into a fist. "I understand."

  "Are you familiar with the process?" Guarov pressed. "They hang you until you're nearly dead, and a healer revives you. Then you're broken on the wheel until your bones snap and your joints are sundered, and finally, they take four large horses-"

  "For the love of the gods, enough!" Harrtuck said.

  "You forget your place, CaptainHarrtuck."

  Harrtuck's expression made his feelings clear, but he fell silent.

  "I am familiar." Carroway drew on all of his acting skill to keep his voice steady.

  A cold smile touched the corners of Guarov's face. "There is an alternative. If you were to make a full confession of your crimes before the court, I might be able to get the executioner to shorten your pain. But it would need to be a full confession: that you forced the queen to your bed, and that you went to the king's lodge in a jealous rage to strike her down, killing Crevan as he tried to protect her."

  Carroway's jaw was tight. "I understand."

  Guarov met his eyes. "It's unfortunate about the girl. As an accomplice, she'll be banished under interdiction, along with any bastard she bears to you." His eyes gleamed as he saw Carroway flinch. "Do you know what interdiction is? She'll be anathema, by writ of the king. No noble house or legitimate inn may give her shelter without incurring royal penalty."

  He paused. "Still, I can be merciful. If she were to renounce you publicly, tell the court that you abused your patronage to take advantage of her and that she feared for her life to go against you, I could be persuaded to lessen her sentence to banishment only. She might find work in a tavern instead of a bawdy house."

  Carroway's fist tightened until his nails dug into his palm. "Let her renounce me. I'll be dead."

  Guarov's eyes shone. "The king may be in the field for months with the army. If the queen dies, this matter cannot be allowed to fester. Listen for the death knell. I'll see you hang that same night."

  Guarov turned with a flourish of his heavy cape. "See that his door is secured and doubly guarded," he commanded Harrtuck as he left the room. "We can't afford another escape."

  When Guarov was gone, Harrtuck looked to Carroway. "I'm sorry, Carroway. I have authority over a mob, but I can't act against the Council."

  "What have you heard? Is Kiara dying?"

  Harrtuck shrugged. "Cerise is worried. Kiara hasn't awakened. It may be the wormroot. Cerise still doesn't know how it may affect the baby. Goddess knows what a mess it made of Tris last year! And unfortunately, we have no idea when Tris and the army will return."

  Carroway turned away, walking a few steps to stand before the fire. "Is there anything you can do to protect Macaria?"

  Harrtuck snorted. "I've got my hands full protecting you. But it may not be quite as dire as Guarov makes it sound. Alle told me that some of the Council are livid about the way he's been threatening you. She says Acton practically had a stroke when he heard about the gallows, he was so angry. Lord Dravan nearly came to blows with Guarov over it. He's taking this personally, since he was a friend of your father's. And according to Alle, Eadoin's gotten wind of it and informed the Council that she will join them in person before the week is through if she has to wake from the dead."

  "I'm grateful. But if Kiara dies, the court will need someone to blame. Crevan's already dead. I'm convenient."

  Harrtuck nodded. "Aye. And all too few seem to remember Guarov's ties to Lady Nadine to see that he's finally taking her vengeance." He paused. "I hope it doesn't come to this, but I won't see you suffer." He took a dagger from his belt and handed it, hilt first, to Carroway. Harrtuck met his eyes. "I've only seen one man drawn and quartered. I haven't the stomach to see another-least of all a friend. Many a soldier's turned his blade on his own wrists rather than give his enemy that satisfaction. 'Tis a quick and honorable way to seek the Lady, if there's no other choice."

  Carroway swallowed hard and took the blade, concealing it in his doublet. "Thank you."

  Harrtuck laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'll see that the guards bring you brandy by mistake tonight. Take comfort where you can."

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Jonmarc Vahanian rose just after dawn. His room at Airenngeir, Astasia's manor house, was opulent, furnished almost as lavishly as King Staden's palace. A cold breakfast waited on a side table, along with his weapons and a new sword to replace the one broken in the battle at the Lady's temple. A note in Gabriel's handwriting drew a rough map to show him the way back to the main road. The house was silent, giving Jonmarc to believe that few, if any, mortal servants assisted Astasia and her brood.

  He ate quickly and buckled on his weapons, trying the new sword in his hand. It was perfectly balanced and beautifully made: Jonmarc was certain Gabriel had a hand in its choosing. His body ached as he moved. Vigulf's healing had cured only the wounds that were life-threatening. Other damage, such as his cracked ribs and the gashes from the battle, still throbbed. Jonmarc bandaged them as best he could, resigned to a painful ride home.

  I'm afraid of what I'll find when I get back to Dark Haven. I saw Malesh burn. I know what that had to have done to Carina. I have to return. People are depending on me. But Dark Haven without her will never be home.

  He descended the broad staircase without encountering another person, living or dead. The manor house was deserted, its undead occupants safely resting in hidden chambers below. Jonmarc found a horse tethered outside for him, its saddlebags already provisioned for the ride. Without a backward glance, he swung up to the saddle.

  The road was deep with snow but passable. He saw few other travelers, and those he passed gave him wary glances. Knowing how he must look, Jonmarc couldn't blame them. His leather great cloak was cut and torn from the battle, stained with blood and ichor. He was dirty with grime and sweat and sported a week's growth of beard. His tunic was torn open at the neck, dark and stiff with his own blood. I look like a brigand, or worse. I'll be lucky if I don't have to outride guardsmen to get home.

  The day was bitterly cold. Jonmarc did his best to keep his thoughts focused on scanning the road for threats. As for what would happen when he returned to Dark Haven, he kept his mind blank. Time enough for that when he arrived. He ate a cold lunch as he rode, unwilling to chance causing a scene at a tavern. Candlemarks slipped by, marked only by the crunch of his horse's hooves.

  Maybe Gabriel was right. Maybe Riqua and Taru were able to heal Carina, protect her from what happened to Malesh.Part of him clung to that thought as he rode.

  Mid-afternoon, he reached a rise in the road. In the distance, Jonmarc could see Dark Haven against the snow-covered mountains, and all hope died. From its tower flew a flag of mourning.

  Jonmarc stopped in his tracks. High winds whipped the gray flag. His throat tightened. I can't do this. I can't bury her.He would find where they had laid Carina's body to say goodbye, and then find oblivion in a bottle of brandy.

  A new sound carried on the winter wind. In the di
stance, he heard the clash of steel.

  Dark Haven was under attack.

  Grief became rage as Jonmarc urged his horse for as much speed as he could muster in the rutted snow. As he neared the gates, he saw his guards engaged against a mob armed with sickles, scythes and axes. With a roar, Jonmarc stood in his stirrups, brandishing swords in both hands. The mob heard him and turned as the beleaguered guards raised a cry in greeting.

  "Drop your weapons and go home," Jonmarc shouted to the mob. "The war is over."

  Three men charged at him. One swung a sickle, while the others were armed with farm axes. Jonmarc's swords glinted in the sun. The sickle man fell back with a scream as the sickle and the hand holding it fell into the snow. The two axemen closed, but Jonmarc's horse reared, kicking its huge front hooves to fell one of the men as Jonmarc's sword finished the other. He stared down the remaining mob.

  "Go home. The war is over. The Truce will stand. Leave now, or by the Crone, they'll carry you home in pieces."

  Caught between the emboldened guards and Jonmarc's swords, the mob grumbled, and then man by man, began to disperse, straggling off in all directions.

  Jonmarc rode through the cheering guards as the manor's gates opened for him. He slid from his saddle and absently handed his reins to the groomsman who ran to assist him. Neirin was striding toward him.

  "Where is she?"

  Neirin pointed, and Jonmarc turned, frowning against the glare of the sun on the snow. A cloaked figure was running down Dark Haven's broad steps. The hood fell back as the figure reached him, and Carina threw her arms around him.

  Jonmarc gritted his teeth against the pain of his broken ribs as he caught her, stunned. It took a few seconds for it to register that she stood in full daylight and that her lips were warm. He could feel the warmth of her breath and the beating of her heart as she kissed him.

  "How?" he whispered in a strangled voice as the crowd in the bailey began to cheer.

  Carina stepped back far enough to meet his eyes. "It's a long story. I didn't think you'd make it back." She seemed to take in his grimy cloak and the bloody tunic, as well as the newly healed punctures on the side of his neck. Her expression changed, and Jonmarc knew she had extended her healer's magic. "You're hurt."