The Blood King (29 page)

“Keep your ale—I’m hoping the forests haven’t been hunted clean of deer.”

Mikhail said.

“Actually, I thought Carroway might volunteer to go with us,” Soterius returned the teasing. “I sus-pect we’ll raise enough of a ruckus to make a few good stories.”

Carroway gave him a skeptical look. “And I imagine you think sneaking Tris back to the palace won’t be exciting enough?” Tris watched the others as the servants brought the dessert course. Soterius professed full confidence in his mission, but Tris knew his friend well enough to see his worry. Tris didn’t blame Soterius for being nervous. While the idea itself was brilliant, it was another thing alto-gether to slip into a land at war, recruit its army against its king and live to tell the tale. Even Mikhail seemed preoccupied.

Staden cleared his throat. “I can’t help you with the ladies—not that either of you seem to need assistance,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “But you’ll find two excellent horses ready for you in the stable, and all of the provisions you’ll need. I’ve instructed my groom to leave the horses unkempt so that they don’t look like they’ve come from my stable.”

“We’re in your debt, Your Majesty,” Soterius said.

“And there’s Isencroft tack for both of you,” Kiara added.

Mikhail looked at her. “How did you manage to come by that out here?

Isencroft tack doesn’t usual-ly stay long on the shelf.”

“Berry helped me make a few connections,” Kiara said and Berry giggled. “We made sure it’s seasoned, so it doesn’t look new. But if you need to fight and ride, there’s nothing better to help you keep your seat.”

Tris reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch, which he slid across the table to Soterius. “There’ll be gold for your journey in your packs,” Tris promised. “But this will either con-vince doubters that you really are on my side—or it’ll get you hanged faster if you’re caught. I suggest you keep it well hidden.”

Soterius emptied the pouch into his hand. A gold-en ring tumbled out, a replica of Tris’s own signet with the crest of Bricen’s second son. Soterius weighed it in his hand for a moment, then slipped it back into the pouch and nodded.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if that tack Kiara’s talking about doesn’t have a few secret compartments for something just like this.”

Gabriel reached into the breast pocket of his dou-blet and withdrew a similar pouch, which he handed to Mikhail. “It may not be an original gift,” he said with a dry smile, “but it might help if you encounter some of our kind who have not heard the Blood Council’s ruling.” Mikhail withdrew a signet like the one Gabriel wore on his left hand, with a crest Tris now recognized as the mark of the Blood Council.

“If we’re handing out gifts,” Carroway said, “then I’ve got something for both of you.” He reached into a small pack under the table and with-drew two bundles.

The larger bundle he handed to Soterius, and the smaller one to Mikhail.

“Well— open them!”

“We ought to take on harebrained stunts like this more often if it conies with dinner and gifts!” Mikhail joked. He was first to open his bundle. Inside was a small set of pipes. Mikhail lifted them to his lips and played a few bars of a popular tav-ern ditty.

“You’ve already memorized all the songs I’ve written to stir up trouble,”

Carroway added. “And I’ve heard you play when you didn’t think anyone was listening. Not bad… for someone who’s not a bard, that is.”

Soterius tore the paper from around his bundle. A bandolier of stawar leather tumbled out, complete with a set of throwing knives. Soterius raised the leather belt appreciatively. “Now that is beautiful.”

Carroway grinned. “You can thank Jonmarc for the leatherwork. Berry and I supplied the knives. Pity you can’t throw as well as we do, but maybe you’ll improve with practice.”

Soterius gave him a sour look that sent the rest laughing. Harrtuck reached behind him for his pack, and emptied it out unceremoniously onto the table.

Out fell a collection of small weapons—dag-gers, shivs, darts, and metal knuckle guards. Few of the items were considered legal; they were the equipment of a mercenary or a brawler rather than a regulation soldier.

“I’d rather not explain my sources,” Harrtuck said with a sideways glance at Staden, who laughed. “But I took up a collection from the boys in the company.

They decided that if you’re going to act like mercs you should be outfitted like them.”

When the group finally stopped laughing, Carina reached under the table for her gift. “This may not be as much help for Mikhail, since he doesn’t need my services,” she said as Soterius unpacked the cloth bag. “But it’s got enough herbs and powders to patch you up a few times at least. Try not to need more.”

“I’ll make it up to Mikhail with this,” Royster said, and withdrew a leather-bound book from beneath his chair. “It’s by King Argus’s court scribe; it has a full recounting of the king’s best military battles. Rather engrossing, if you ask me. Perhaps there’s something in the strategies you can use.”

Mikhail smiled as he weighed the book in his hands. “Argus was a friend of mine. And although I couldn’t join him in his ale, he was a man with an appetite for good times.”

Tris shuddered, remembering the crypt beneath the Library at Westmarch.

“Since I met him after he was already dead, I wouldn’t know. He was deter-mined at the time to take me with him.”

Mikhail chuckled. “Argus had a temper. And he could hold a grudge. But he was one of your grandmother’s most loyal supporters. Like every-one else, I suspect he had a bit of a crush on her. For a sorceress, she had more than her share of admirers.”

When the dessert was finished and the plates were cleared, an awkward silence fell over the group. Staden cleared his throat and stood.

“I suspect that you’ll be getting your nights and days turned around if you intend to ride together,” Staden said with a glance between Soterius and Mikhail. “But since I’m guessing that we’re into the early bells of the morning, perhaps we’d best let you get some rest before you set out.” He bid them rise, and stood in front of Soterius and Mikhail.

“Tis not an easy thing you set off to do,” the king said gravely. “But from what I’ve seen, there’s no one more likely to make it happen. May the Goddess ride with you.” He clapped a large hand on each man’s shoulder with a force that might have felled a frail person. Tris and the others crowded around them.

Kiara whispered a blessing and kissed Soterius on the cheek in parting as Jae hopped from foot to foot on her shoulder. Carroway shook Soterius’s hand and made his exit quickly after leaving them with a bawdy rhyme. Vahanian slapped Soterius soundly on the back and wished him well. Harrtuck embraced him until Soterius cried out for release, and then parted with a ribald prayer for the Lady’s favor. Berry pressed a small cockade into Soterius’s hand, a sign of her favor, and hugged him. Even Carina stretched up on tiptoe to kiss Soterius on the cheek in blessing and wish him well. The group also made their goodbyes to Mikhail, though a bit more formally, as seemed fitting. Then everyone was gone, save Tris, Mikhail, and Soterius.

“I’ll get the horses ready,” Mikhail said, bowing slightly to Tris. “If the Lady’s hand is on us, we’ll see you again at Shekerishet. May the Dark Lady favor you.”

He made the sign of the Lady. Tris and Soterius were silent until after Mikhail closed the door behind him.

“If there’s something formal I’m supposed to say,” Tris said, “I don’t know what it is.”

“The only reasonable thing would be to try to talk me out of it, but we both know it’s too late for that.”

“I know.”

“Hey, quit acting like it’s my funeral. We’re going to drink about this at your coronation, where you can amply reward me with some high-flying title.”

“You, on the Council of Nobles. I shudder to think.”

“We’ll shake them up a little,” Soterius promised. .”Show them how to have a good time.” He fell silent. Tris could see the stress in his friend’s face.

“Ban, if you’re having second thoughts—”

“Not on your life,” Soterius answered a bit too quickly. “I mean, hey, we’ve all got a part to play in this, right? After all, I helped get us into this. If we hadn’t been snooping around Arontala’s window like houseflies—”

“We’d be dead.”

Soterius grimaced. “Well, yes, I guess so.” He rested one foot on the bench of the table and leaned forward, picking the last traces from the meat plat-ter. “You know, Tris, Carroway is right. They’ll be singing about this in the taverns for generations.

Martris Drayke, the Summoner King of Margolan.” He shot a sly look in Tris’s direction, “And his noble queen, Kiara of Isencroft.”

“That’s enough of that,” Tris said, rolling his eyes. They were silent again for a few moments.

“Well,” said Soterius awkwardly. “I guess I’d bet-ter be going.”

“I guess so. I’ll see you back at Shekerishet, right?”

“I might even beat you there,” Soterius said, man-aging a grin. “I’ll be watching your back, just like always.”

“Be careful, Ban,” Tris said, clasping his friend in a tight farewell embrace.

Soterius stepped back. “You too. I think the Lady really does have Her hand on you, Tris, but be care-ful anyway.”

Tris murmured a blessing and then turned away, steeling himself against looking back, and closed the heavy door behind him. But it took him many candlemarks that night to fall asleep, and dreams, when they came, left him restless.

TRIS FOUND THAT nearly as many petitioners wait-ed for him after his return from the citadel as were there before Winterstide. He balanced his duties as a Summoner against the growing list of decisions that demanded his attention as the time for their return to Margolan grew closer. Even the training with Vahanian took on new urgency, and Tris ached from the candlemarks spent trying to perfect the difficult Eastmark fighting style that required both agility and full concentration. He despaired of ever matching Vahanian’s skill, although he secretly took pride in the complicated moves he had mas-tered.

And after the salle came more study with Royster, until Tris’s eyes blurred. He had fallen asleep at his desk more nights than he wished to remember, adding a stiff neck to his list of injuries.

Tris held his Court of Spirits in the evening, so that he could also serve the petitions of vayash moru. Gabriel and Vahanian took turns guarding him at all times. Tris accepted the protection rue-fully, though he declined Staden’s offer of more guards, fearing that soldiers might scare away too many petitioners.

It was early in the second month, the Hunger Moon, when Tris found himself more homesick than usual. Outside snow fell heavily, covering the Principality hills in drifts higher than a horse’s hocks.

“Didn’t anyone tell you?” Tris joked with Vahanian as the fighter pulled his cloak closer around himself. “We hold the Court of Spirits inside. You’re dressed for a ride through the snows.”

Vahanian grimaced. “Every time one of those spooks shows up, the temperature in here drops another notch. Can’t draw a sword if I can’t feel my fingers.”

Tris chuckled. “If you mind the cold, make sure you mention it to Gabriel before you head to Dark Haven. It’s in the foothills, and given that the care-takers are all… unconcerned… about the cold, it may take a bit to ready the fireplaces for a mortal resident.”

“You make it sound absolutely charming,” Vahanian muttered.

A group of petitioners ventured forward. Tris looked up. It was unusual for a group to come all at once.

One man stepped forward. “Hail, Prince Martris,” he said, bowing low. He spoke Margolense with a midlands accent, from the area near Shekerishet. His blond hair was dirty, and he had the raw-boned look of a farmer. Though he appeared to be only a decade older than Tris, his hands were already broadened from hard labor.

“If it please Your Highness, hear my petition.”

“Tell me what you seek.”

“My name is Nascha. We’ve come to ask for your help,” said the man. “We are the families of the scirranish, the vanished ones.” The word he used,

“scirranisb,” was from the old tales, where it meant “taken by monsters.” Tris saw that Vahanian was paying close attention.

People crowded behind Nascha, a group of at least twenty ragged men and women, their expres-sions etched with sadness. From their soiled and torn clothing, Tris guessed that they were refugees. Most were badly underdressed for the frigid weath-er, their faces and hands reddened with the cold.

“We’re camped three days’ ride from here, just over the Principality border from Margolan,” said Nascha. “We come from every corner of Margolan, but our stories are the same. King Jared’s soldiers came to our villages and dragged us from our beds. Some, they burned as vayash moru, even though they were mortal. Some of the men they executed as spies, for the crime of possessing a sword. Our boys they took for their army, our young women for their lust, and our winter crops for their bellies.

They left the rest of us to starve.” Beside Tris, Vahanian muttered a potent curse.

“How can I help you?” asked Tris, struggling with the anger that rose inside him against Jared.

“You’re a Summoner,” said Nascha. “We don’t know what happened to the Scirranish. We don’t know whether to mourn their passing and make their gifts to the Lady, or whether they still live, and might, through some miracle, return to us. We beg you, Prince Martris, show us their fate, so that we can make our peace.”

Every face in the group watched him with desper-ate hope. Tris rose, and walked out among the refugees. Vahanian fell into step behind him, and the crowd parted. “I will show you what I can,” Tris said.

Tris breathed a prayer to the Lady as he raised his wardings and opened himself to the Plains of Spirit. He let his thoughts focus on each petitioner’s face by turn. As he did so, he called out to the lost and wandering spirits. Each of the supplicants whis-pered the names of their missing ones. Gradually at the edge of his mage sight, like clouds heavy with impending snow, Tris could feel the spirits heed his call. He struggled with his own feelings as the ghosts presented themselves: men bearing the wounds of war and torture, boys barely old enough to lift a sword marked by battle, girls not old enough to wed whose wraiths showed the evidence of their disgrace and death.