"Everyone knew that there was bad blood between Jared and your father," Harrtuck began quietly, looking into the fire. "Your brother made no secret of it in the barracks, and those of us loyal to your father tried to warn Bricen. But many of the soldiers liked Jared," Harrtuck continued, "because he had simple ideas they could follow."
"After a while, some of the soldiers started to like the idea of having a young fighting man to lead the kingdom, as I'm sure Jared always intended." He paused. "Although I'm not sure the idea was completely theirs," he added, with a watchful look at Tris.
"Arontala," Tris muttered the name of the mage like a curse. "I should have guessed."
"One of Jared's men burst into the barracks and announced that the king was dead," Harrtuck went on. "A dozen of us who were loyal to the king headed for the palace, hoping that we could save you and the Queen and Kait, but we failed-except for you, my liege."
"And the others you came with?" Tris asked softly.
"All dead," Harrtuck reported. "As I would have been. You know the rest."
"Thank you," Tris said in a voice just above a whisper. He stared into the flames, trying to push away the memories. It was no use. They haunted his dreams and lingered behind every conscious thought. If only I had found a way to get father to listen, he thought miserably, clenching his fists. I should have done more, tried harder to get him to see how dangerous Arontala was, to see what Jared was really like. His nails dug into his palms until he drew blood. But then, father wouldn't listen to Kait and me when we tried to tell him how Jared beat the servants... or us. Mother tried. He wouldn't hear her either. Maybe I didn't try hard enough, often enough. I could have done more. And now, because I didn't, Kait and mother are dead.
"Tris," Carroway said softly, and Tris realized that the other had been calling him without response for several minutes. "Don't blame yourself. You did all anyone could do."
Tris started to his feet like a snapped spring. "If I had done everything I could, we wouldn't be here," he said thickly. "Mother and Kait wouldn't be dead. I should have made father see. I should have challenged Jared. By the Whore, if I'm a mage, I should have tried to stop Arontala when he first came. He was weaker then."
"And you were just a boy," Carroway said quietly. "Your father never got around to finding a new court mage when your grandmother died. Maybe he didn't know how. Maybe he didn't want to share the power. When Jared took the initiative, I think your father was relieved. I always thought he hoped it was a sign Jared was growing out of his brawls and wenching."
"What if grandmother trained me just for that reason?" Tris cried, the words tearing hoarsely from his throat. "What if she foresaw something like this, and trained me in order to stop it? If I had studied more, practiced more, maybe the power would have come on me before this, maybe I was supposed to stop Arontala, and I failed."
"Men go mad on maybes," Harrtuck observed, watching compassionately as Tris dragged a sleeve across his eyes. "What's done is done. And it seems to me, we need to put as much distance between you and Margolan as we can. Once we're in Dhasson, we can figure out the best way to take the bastard down. But there's naught to be done tonight, except live to see morning."
Tris nodded, although sleep seemed far from likely. "I know," he said, his voice raw. "But running away doesn't seem like the most noble thing."
Harrtuck regarded him cynically. "Dead is better?" When Tris turned away, back toward the fire, Harrtuck shrugged and began helping Soterius drag some pine boughs closer to the fire for them to bed down. Carroway watched Tris in silence for a few minutes as Tris paced at the edge of the forest, deep in silent argument with himself.
When Soterius and Harrtuck moved further away to see to the horses, Carroway ventured closer. "There really hasn't been a chance to tell you how sorry I am, about Kait and everything," he said.
"Thanks," Tris murmured in a strangled voice. "It seems like a nightmare that I'm going to wake up from any minute now, and I'll find Kait, and tell her how much I love her." He squeezed his eyes closed against the tears that came anyway, making further words impossible.
"The worst thing is, I know she's out there," Tris rasped when he could find his voice again. "I can feel it, but I can't bring her to me. There's something holding her back." His eyes met Carroway's, and Tris knew that his friend could clearly read his pain. "She's trapped, she's terrified, and I can't help her," he admitted, his voice raw. "What good is being able to talk to spirits if you can't help the ones you love the most? I can't fail her again, but I don't know how to help her."
Carroway laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I don't know how, but I know you. And if you were of a mind to listen, I'd tell you that there was nothing you could have done differently back at Shekerishet, but I know you won't hear a word I say."
Tris shook his head. "No, I won't, but thank you for saying so."
"Get some sleep," Carroway instructed. "Ban's got the first watch."
In Tris's dreams, Bava K'aa still stood as straight and uncompromising as she had in life, a dark-haired woman for whom the years added little gray and few lines. Bava K'aa had an aura of power, even without the gray robes and charcoal mantle that marked her as a spirit sorceress or Summoner.
"Tris," the dream figure summoned.
"Here, grandmother."
"The time has come," Bava K'aa said.
"For what, grandmother?"
"For you to remember my lessons," Bava K'aa replied. She reached out to take his hand, and he felt her warm flesh close around his fingers. "You must remember what you have learned. Do not be afraid. The power will come to you, Tris. I have prepared you."
"For what?" he asked again. Bava K'aa's image seemed so real and her touch so firm that it was hard to remind himself this was only a dream. He reached towards her on instinct, hungry for the comfort of her touch, and the spirit's eyes acknowledged his pain as her expression softened, then grew worried once more.
"There is a threat to Margolan and the Seven Kingdoms that is greater than Jared," the ghost-figure of his grandmother said, with the perfect assurance her tone always carried when she advised kings. "An old evil has arisen. The Obsidian King is stirring once more. Arontala seeks to free him from where we imprisoned him, long before you were born. You must stop him," she said with a gaze that seemed to stare through him and into his soul. "Seek your teachers well."
"Why didn't the power come before... before they died?" Tris demanded. "I could have stopped Arontala-"
"You were not yet ready," the ghost replied. "Power knows when the vessel is ready. I knew from your birth that you were my mage-heir, Tris," his grandmother said. "To protect you from... others... it was not safe to tell you, until the power came upon you." Her gaze was uncompromising. "I have taught you many things, and taught you to forget them, until the time was ready," she said, with a faint smile. "Now, you must remember."
"Grandmother!" Tris called. "What is the Soulcatcher?"
The spirit stopped as if stung, and great concern filled her eyes. "What do you know of the Soulcatcher?"
Tris told her about the ghost's warning. Bava K'aa listened gravely, then nodded. "I should have seen this," she said with a sigh. "When the Obsidian King was vanquished, we were too few and too worn to destroy him completely. So we bound his soul in an ancient orb, a portal to the abyss. An orb called 'Soulcatcher'. We believed it safe, but perhaps we were too confident, too anxious to be done," she mused. "If Arontala can release the Obsidian King's soul, all we labored for is lost. The Obsidian King will combine his power with Arontala's, take Arontala's body for his own, and return to rule the world." The image wavered, and Tris feared it would disappear altogether. "There are no longer enough powerful mages to defeat him, as we did, should he rise again. It would take another generation, and he would assure that all who could threaten him would be destroyed."
Her gaze turned once more on Tris. "You must defeat Arontala. You must find a way to destroy completely the soul of the Obsidian K
ing. All hope rests with you, my child." And before he could ask her any of the questions that echoed in his mind, the apparition vanished, and with it, the dream, leaving him startled and awake, chilled with sweat.
The fire was out, and a light frost clung to the ground. But the morning cold was not the only reason for the chill Tris felt. Never in his life had a dream felt so real. Tris realized he was shaking, and let out a breath that misted in the morning air.
While Carroway rounded out the last watch, Tris gathered wood and rebuilt the fire. The chill of the dream had still not left him, and he could hear Bava K'aa's voice ringing in his ears. Gratefully, he accepted a cup of the strong hot drink Harrtuck brewed over the fire.
"We're not too far from the last place I'd heard Vahanian was doing business," Harrtuck said, leaning against a tree, his face wreathed with the steam that rose from his mug. What the ghosts at the inn had not left for them, Harrtuck obtained at the last village. The goods were minimal, but more than sufficient to keep body and soul together until better could be earned. Tris stretched, more saddle-sore than he had been in his life, ruefully becoming aware that a prince's life during peacetime made one painfully out of training.
Harrtuck noticed his discomfort and flashed him a wicked grin. "Give it a week, Tris," he chuckled. "You'll harden up." Tris took cold comfort that even Soterius looked stiff and sore. Harrtuck, however, seemed none the worse for the past few days' adventures though he was a dozen years older than Tris and his friends, tribute to hard years on the road with the king's army.
"Why would Vahanian agree to be our guide?" Soterius asked, seating himself slowly by the fire and gratefully accepting the warmed rations Harrtuck dispensed. Soterius looked more dour than Tris could recall, and kept a bit more distance.
"Because we're going to pay him, for one thing," Harrtuck replied. "Because he owes me a few rather large favors, for another."
"Large enough to die for? We're rather hot these days."
Harrtuck shrugged. "I wasn't planning to announce who you were when we were introduced, if that's what you mean. Vahanian's used to running questionable cargo. There are things you ask, and things you don't. It won't be the first time he's run contraband that could get him killed." He paused. "I know you don't care for hired swords, Soterius, but sometimes, they're a necessary evil. And Jonmarc Vahanian can be trusted. That's more than can be said for some."
"He'll probably want us to travel with a caravan, at least part of the way," Harrtuck went on, chewing at a piece of roasted meat. "Most caravans are always looking for hired swords. Good mercenaries don't want to wander around waiting for action with a bunch of rug merchants, and since even wealthy caravans pay less than noble Houses, what swordsmen a caravan gets usually leave as soon as they've gotten a little experience."
"Hired swords, huh," Tris replied skeptically.
"Not such a bad life, given the alternatives," Harrtuck replied, pausing to sip his steaming drink. "Your meals are free, for one thing. That's nice when you're out on your own. And caravans are full of interesting types," he added dryly.
"It will make for a little slower progress than traveling alone," Harrtuck continued, "but we won't be as clear a target. Jared's likely to guess that you'll head for your uncle's kingdom, and he'll send people to look for you. As part of the caravan, you'll have safety in numbers. And if you can keep the bandits away, it's not a bad way to see real life in the kingdoms," Harrtuck added, finishing his drink and setting it aside on a stump. "That might be most interesting to you, my prince."
It was true, Tris thought. He knew little of the common life. He had the classic royal training, fostered out to his uncle's for several years in his teens, been coached and prodded by a herd of tutors and advisors. But of the people themselves, he knew little. It might, as Harrtuck said, be interesting indeed.
"At least, that's what I think he'll recommend," Harrtuck said, stretching. "But with Vahanian, who knows?"
"So where do we find this legendary adventurer?" Soterius asked acidly.
Harrtuck shrugged. "Well, that's the hard part. Last I heard, he was trading near Ghorbal, on the river. We'll start there. Of course, there's no guarantee he's still there." He spat. "Hell, there's no guarantee he's still alive."
"That's a days' ride, at least," Soterius objected.
"Most likely," Harrtuck agreed. "But it's in the right general direction, so if we can't find him, we'll have lost no time."
"Sounds reasonable to me," Tris replied.
"I'm for anything that raises our chances of making it north alive," Carroway put in. "I've got far too many ideas for stories to die just yet."
Ghorbal was a thriving small city, at the crossroads of the main routes between Margolan, Principality, the river and roads east through Eastmark and Nargi. Caravans made Ghorbal their resupply stop before heading north into the very profitable territories of Principality, or to unload the "unorthodox" supplies banned by the sour-faced Nargi priests before heading into the eastern theocracy. A thriving black market existed in the Nargi borderlands near Ghorbal, where knowing the right people and paying the right bribe made it safer for smugglers to double their profits by moving contraband into the unfriendly kingdom. Further south, the river was watched by Nargi garrisons, and traders foolish enough to venture past those borders never returned.
The Tordassian Mountains lay between Ghorbal and Principality to the north, a place of treacherous passes and dark forests. That combination had served to discourage unwanted incursions from its northern neighbor, though the gems and gold of Principality and the wealthy markets of Eastmark drew intrepid traders despite the hardship. A major trade route wound north just above Ghorbal, to the best river crossing into Dhasson in over a month's ride, and through the passes into Principality with its rich mines and then to Eastmark's fabled court. That made Ghorbal a popular supply outpost. The Nargi, on the eastern banks of the Nu River downstream and to the east of Ghorbal, had no official interest in Ghorbal's wares, though smugglers found the northern border of Nargi to be a profitable market-trade to which Margolan patrols turned a blind eye. Although Margolan patrols were frequent south of Ghorbal along the river border with Nargi, above Ghorbal, patrols were few, leaving the flatland to the traders and the mountains to the outlaws.
Ghorbal nestled in a curve of the Nu River's largest tributary. The Nu was the wide, swift trade artery for points south and west. Although further north the Nu would become wild and nearly unnavigable, between Ghorbal and the Southern Sea, it was a trader's dream.
They left their horses tethered in a copse on the northern side of the city, as a precaution, Harrtuck explained, which permitted them to make their way through the city on foot and have a ready escape should one be needed. Ghorbal stretched out across the river plains, a tumble of low, white buildings and vast open market areas. They could hear its bustle even before they entered the city, and the morning air smelled of horses and incense, market animals and cooking meat.
"Busy place," Soterius observed as they squeezed between a trader leading a loaded cart and an obese merchant with a donkey laden with Cartelasian rugs.
"Keep your wits about you," Harrtuck warned under his breath. "Ghorbal is not a place for the timid."
"Great," Carroway muttered. He glanced around, then brightened as he saw a minstrel performing not far away. "On the other hand," he added, not taking his eyes from the bard, "this might not be such a bad place after all."
"Assuming Vahanian is even here," Tris asked, uneasy in the press of people, "Where is he likely to be?" Although Carroway reapplied the dark dye, which masked his white-blond hair, Tris still felt vulnerable, as if the four of them stood out in the crowd, an easy mark. The sooner they left Ghorbal, the happier he would be.
Harrtuck shrugged. "Might not even be in town any more, for all I know. He doesn't make his money standing still," he chuckled. "Actually, given the ways he's made his money, he doesn't stay alive standing still." The older man stopped to get his bearings
. "Been a while since I've been in Ghorbal," he rasped, looking around. "But there are two good places to start. One's the marketplace, just over that way," he said, gesturing north. "And the other's the Dragon's Bane Inn, over in the East Quarter," he added.
"Where do we start?" Soterius questioned.
"We start with both," Harrtuck replied. "You and Carroway head for the Inn. There won't be anything remarkable about a soldier and a minstrel going to the Bane, unless they arrive together," he said, glancing skeptically at Carroway. "Separate, but stay in sight of each other. Soterius, you follow Carroway. Carroway, keep your eyes open."
"Tris and I will head for the market. We'll rendezvous back at the horses at dusk. This may take a few days," he warned. "If you find Vahanian, tell him Harrtuck has an offer for him and tell him that there's gold in it for him," Harrtuck added with a grin.
"We just walk into the Innand ask for him?" Carroway asked, perplexed.
Harrtuck raised an eyebrow. "There's few in Ghorbal don't know Jonmarc Vahanian, for good or bad. Those at the Inn were rather fond of him, last I knew, since he paid his bills and didn't often break the place up."
"Sounds like a great guy," Soterius muttered.
Harrtuck ignored the comment. "Time's wasting, boys," the armsman growled. "Wouldn't be surprised if Jared's sent troops as far east as this, looking."
"This just keeps getting better and better," Carroway replied darkly, as he and Soterius headed off for the Inn.
The closer Tris and Harrtuck got to the market, the tighter the press of bodies became in the winding streets of the city. Finally, the streets opened on to a large market area, a forest of vendors' carts, flags waving with pictures of their wares, smelling of leather and spices and roasting meat. All around them, vendors haggled with patrons, their voices rising. Other merchants hawked their wares, calling out to passers-by and holding up their goods for inspection. The cacophony of voices mingled with the clatter of carts and the staccato of hoof beats. From somewhere in the market, the sound of a minstrel rose above the din.
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