The Blood King (52 page)

back roads as much as they could. There were more travelers on the road than they had seen in other parts of Margolan, but not the crush of people Tris had expected so near the city just before a major festival.

Trouble found them a day’s ride outside the palace city. “Look there,”

Carroway noted under his breath as they rode, and Tris froze in his saddle. Six Margolan guardsmen rode toward them in the livery of the king, boisterously taking up more than their half of the road and crowding other travelers into the ditch. Tris struggled to relax as the guards-men rode closer, dropping his head and turning his face to the side as the soldiers passed without a sec-ond glance.

“What have we here?” one of the guards said as they rode toward Carina and Kiara. Without turn-ing, Tris and Carroway slowed their mounts to narrow the gap between them and the women. When neither of Tris’s companions replied the guard captain drew closer, matching the women’s pace.

“A pretty lady,” another soldier said, side-stepping his horse to block Carina’s path.

Tris steeled himself not to turn. He let his mount slow further so that he could catch every word. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Carroway gripped his reins white-knuckled, anticipating a fight. “I’m a healer,” Carina returned haughtily. “I’ve been summoned by a merchant in the city and I must not delay. Please move aside.”

“You’ve strange tastes in escorts, if you pick a beardless one like that,” the third soldier said, still blocking the road.

“We’ve been on duty for a long time,” the captain said, moving closer to Carina.

“The company of a lovely lady would be very much appreciated.”

“Move aside,” Carina repeated, but the guards now blocked their way completely.

“That’s no soldier with her,” one said suspicious-ly. “They’re both wenches.”

The captain chuckled. “There’s a clearing over there. Let’s go.” He drew his sword.

Kiara’s draw was lightning quick, blocking the captain’s sword. Jae, on his way back from hunting, descended with a shriek, raking his talons across the soldier’s face. At the sound of drawn steel, Tris and Carroway wheeled their horses. Vahanian gal-loped in from the rear, standing in his stirrups, sword aloft.

“Ambush!” the captain cried, turning to deflect Tris’s advance. Kiara battled the first soldier, and Vahanian drove at another hard enough to topple him from his horse as he struggled to parry. Carina pulled free her stave and went after Kiara’s oppo-nent from behind, beating at his head and shoulders. Carroway sank a throwing knife hilt deep into a guard’s chest. Vahanian ran his oppo-nent through and dispatched him with a slash across the throat.

Vahanian made short work of a fifth guard just as Kiara’s attacker was thrown from his panicked mount, trampling the downed soldier in its hurry to escape.

Tris’s opponent bore down on him with single-minded focus, fighting for his life now that his companions had fallen. With a two-handed swing, Tris maneuvered past the soldier’s parry, scoring a blow that cleaved through the soldier’s neck. The last guard launched himself at Tris with a wild cry. Tris barely got his blade up in time to block the strike. Tris knocked the blade aside and swung into a clean Eastmark kick, sending the guard stumbling into the path of Vahanian’s sword.

“Someone’s bound to be by soon,” Carroway hissed. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up.”

Kiara was already dragging a body into the thick-et at the edge of the road. Tris sent Carina to watch the road for danger as he and the others dragged the remaining bodies out of sight.

“Not a bad kick,” Vahanian commented as he wiped blood from his hands.

“Not bad at all.”

Winded and sweating, Tris calmed his nervous horse. “A little too much practice lately, but thanks.”

Carina, shaken and pale, drove off the guards-men’s horses. Kiara, her expression grim, cleaned her sword and resheathed it. Carroway cut down a tree branch and began obscuring the blood on the road, masking the signs of struggle.

“Those bodies won’t stay hidden long,” Vahanian said, resting his hands on his hips.

“If we strip off the uniforms and take their purs-es, no one may think much of it,” Carina said practically. “There’re always bandits on the road when there’s festival traffic.”

Vahanian looked at her and grinned. “You’re starting to think like a cutpurse. I like that in a woman.”

Carina ignored the jibe and began pulling off the dead guards’ livery. Kiara and Tris joined her as Vahanian and Carroway stood guard. Within a few minutes, nothing remained to identify the dead men as soldiers.

“That might buy us a little time,” Carroway said. Carina stuffed the torn tunics into one of her sad-dlebags.

“It would be a shame to hang for killing a soldier when we came to kill a king,”

Vahanian said dryly. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

The group grew quiet as the day passed. They ran into no more problems as they neared the palace, doing their best to blend in among the crowds head-ed for the feast day. Tris’s mood swung between anger and sadness as they rode. Under Bricen’s rule, Margolan had been prosperous. Margolan boasted a large population of trades-people and merchants whose industry and income lifted them—if not up to noble standards of living—then well above the means of their counterparts in Isencroft, Trevath, and Nargi. Most of Margolan’s farmers were freemen, taking pride in the small plots of lands and healthy herds they owned for themselves. Margolan had fewer sharecroppers and indentured servants than in either Trevath or Nargi, where such arrangements were often corrupt and indistinguish-able from slavery. That meant that the debtors’

prisons were relatively empty; those unfortunates who landed in jail could work their way free if they had the will and health to do so. Margolan’s pros-perity had also meant that its roads were generally safe from brigands and free of beggars. Bricen’s dis-ciplined troops had weeded out the highwaymen and cutpurses, while the acolytes of the Mother and Childe tended to the mendicants, taking in those who had nowhere else to go.

For as long as Tris could remember, the closer one got to Shekerishet, the more prosperous the surroundings had looked. The city was full of wealthy merchants and tradesmen who did a thriving business. Their homes and shops reflect-ed their prosperity. The city had bustled with taverns, shops, and theaters, offering tempting diversions and trinkets for wealthy and poor alike.

All that had changed. As the roads grew more familiar, Tris grieved at the differences he saw. Once-thriving inns were empty. Broken windows went unmended. Farm fields stood abandoned, either burned or still in the remnants of the last sea-son’s crops, when they should have been plowed and well into new growth. Some villages were pop-ulated only by ghosts, old people, and cripples, those who could not or would not flee.

Beggars lined the roads. Even more disturbing were the reasons for their begging. Before, the beg-gars might have been old blind men or cagy urchins looking for a few coins. Now the beggars were men and women of every age, bearing the scars of war and violence. Children missing limbs, their faces marred by fire. Disheveled women with small chil-dren at their skirts, clutching their tattered shawls around them like the remnants of their dignity as they begged for food. War-crippled men whose eyes reflected horrors of which they could not speak, discarded by an army that took them by force, and then sent back to villages that no longer existed. Tris felt the beggars’ eyes on them as they passed. While he knew that the ragged villagers did not rec-ognize him for who he was, he felt the responsibility of the crown more heavily than before. Tris’s gam-bit was the only hope these wretched souls had; he was well aware of how uncertain the chance of suc-cess remained.

The city, when they reached it, was even worse.

The palace city had been well known for its wel-coming, easy feel. Travelers came from all over the Winter Kingdoms to experience its theaters, music gardens, and the taverns that sold Margolan’s famous dark, rich ale. Trade flowed from all cor-ners of the realm, with festivals and caravans stopping on the green outside the city’s edge. Before the coup, the city had been filled with languages from every kingdom, from across the Northern Sea or the far-away realms of the Southern Kingdoms, below Trevath’s borders. Acolytes and pilgrims came from throughout Margolan to make homage at the Childe’s sacred grove and the great shrine to the Mother Aspect.

Now, the streets were sparsely populated. Although Tris and the others stayed away from the heart of the city, the outskirts were bad enough. Residents avoided eye contact, and seemed to skit-ter for shelter like bugs in bright light.

Guards roamed the streets in groups of twos and threes, some with snarling dogs on chains. Those without dogs carried quarterstaffs, bouncing them against their hands with casual malice. In less than a year the city’s vibrant spirit had disappeared, and the people on the streets looked hard-worn, dressed in muted colors as if they feared to draw attention to themselves. Shops were boarded up.

“Traitor to the crown” was scrawled on the door to one pillaged shop. In the green along the edge of town, where musi-cians once played and caravan tents used to flutter stood a huge gibbet. Ten fresh bodies still hung from their nooses, twisting in the summer breeze. Tris had to close his eyes, remembering the dark sending at the citadel. Hanging from posts along the green were other bodies, tarred and encased in a form-fitting wire cage to keep the vultures away.

It was clear that in King Jared’s Margolan, fear reigned with as strong a hand as the king.

ONLY A DAY remained before the Hawthorn Moon. Tris knew there would be no second chances. He brooded over strategy, considering every scenario. Kiara seemed to sense Tris’s mood, riding alongside him in silence. She neither pressed him for conver-sation, nor avoided it when he sought her out as a respite from his own dark thoughts. She gave no hint to her own fears. Jae was restless, flying on ahead of them then doubling back, as if they could not travel quickly enough to suit the little gyregon. Carroway juggled obsessively any time they were not riding. Carina and Vahanian resumed their ver-bal sparring. Of them all, only Gabriel did not appear concerned.

“We shouldn’t go further tonight,” Gabriel announced. The roads had grown increasingly familiar. Tris recognized the rutted highway as the same route along which they had fled nearly a year ago.

“I can’t wait to see today’s accommodations,” Carroway murmured under his breath.

“Our lodging is just around the corner,” Gabriel said, nudging his horse onward.

Gabriel was the

first to clear the bend. When the others joined him, they reined in their horses to stare at the tumble-down building.

“It’s the same bloody ghost inn we started at,” Carroway said.

The burned-out remains of the Lamb’s Head Inn hulked in the shadows. But unlike the night of their escape it now appeared to be no more than it was, the ruined shell of an old tavern, unfit for even beg-gars.

“My liege,” a man’s voice called in a hoarse whis-per from the shadows of the ruins. From the shadows stepped Comar Hassad, the swordsman’s ghost who had led them away from the city on the night of Jared’s coup.

“Hello, old friend,” Tris said, expending the small bit of power necessary to make the ghost vis-ible to the others.

“We’ve been awaiting your return, my liege,” Hassad’s ghost said, bowing. “Much evil has been done.”

“I know.”

“Follow me,” Hassad said, beckoning them to lead their horses to the back of the ruined inn. There, enough of a stable remained to both hide and shelter the horses. When the horses were tend-ed, Hassad showed them to an opening in the inn’s foundation that led down into the cellars. Tris longed in vain for a fire, but they ate a cold supper from the supply of dried meats and fruits, fresh cheese and wine that Lars had provided for their journey. Gabriel took his leave, returning a few can-dlemarks later with a satisfied smile, his pallor lessened.

“The spirits will watch over you,” Hassad said. Other ghosts appeared from the mist to join him, standing silent and indistinct in the shadows. “The palace ghosts are still banished from Shekerishet,” the slain soldier cautioned. “They’ve grown angry and impatient for vengeance. I don’t know if even so strong a mage as yourself, my liege, can control their fury once Arontala’s spell is broken.”

Tris could feel the ghosts that swirled unseen around them. They were familiar, ghosts he had known since childhood, the ghosts of Shekerishet. This time the spirits did not come to him seeking intercession. These were the ghosts of his ancestors, of loyal family retainers, and of oath-bound guards who had died long ago in the line of duty. The ghosts came to him offering their support and condolences. If he was able to break the spell that banished the ghosts from the palace, Tris knew they would swarm back on their own accord to seek vengeance against Jared and Arontala. If so, they might help to turn the odds.

Just knowing that the spirits supported his quest and pledged their fealty was enough to lift his mood from the fears and nightmares that had troubled his sleep.

“I’ll stand guard,” Gabriel said.

“I’ll leave you now,” Hassad said, his form grow-ing less distinct. “The castle ghosts are watching over you. You’ll be safe tonight.” In the blink of an eye, the spirit was gone.

“Somehow, knowing that many ghosts are hover-ing over me just doesn’t make me feel any better,” Vahanian muttered as they picked their way through the littered cellar. Gabriel took up a post near the entrance, just beyond where the moonlight turned to shadow.

“How can it still be this cold in Margolan and it’s nearly the Hawthorn Moon?”

Carina muttered, wrapping her cloak around her. “I thought only Isencroft was cold this late in the year.”

“Let’s go over things again,” Kiara suggested. “Having a plan makes me feel better.” Tris conjured faint hand fire in the windowless basement, enough for them to see each other’s faces.

Carroway leaned back against one of the thick foundation timbers and took a bite of his dried meat before he replied. “All right. Once we get some rest, Carina and I leave for the city, using the festival crowd for cover. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble finding help from the hedge witches. We’ll meet up with Helki and the others, and see who they’ve recruited. That gives us most of the day to look for Alyzza and get the crowd going. We’ll be in position before you head for Shekerishet.”