The Blood King (55 page)

“In time,” Jared spat back. “In time. Only if Bricen couldn’t find a way to have me removed from the succession. He threatened that, you know. He threatened to set me aside, and pass the crown to you. And if he’d known you’d become a mage he would have certainly done it. I couldn’t allow that.” Jared drew his sword. “And so I took matters into my own hands.”

“You’ve destroyed Margolan. You have to be stopped.”

“By you, little brother?” Jared gestured toward the window to the courtyard below. “Did you see my garden?” Tris was close enough to see what lay below; it made his stomach churn. Stout, sharpened pikes, braced in the ground, stood in an obscene tracing of the crest of House Margolan. Impaled on each pike was the corpse of a victim.

“It’s full now, but there’ll be a place for your friends, I guarantee,” Jared said smoothly, madness glinting in his eyes. “Some—the strong ones—are able to remain aloft and keep from piercing any-thing vital for more than a day. Quite fascinating, the dance-like motions, up on their toes—”

“You’re a demon, just like Arontala.”

Jared shrugged. “Arontala understands the power in death. I see the beauty. And speaking of beauty… I suppose I should thank you for bringing back my bride.”

Tris felt his blood rise. “She’ll never be yours.”

“Oh, I’ll take what’s mine. Maybe I’ll leave your body in the room the first time—just to relish the victory.” His voice hardened and his face contorted with anger. “And every time I have her, I intend to make her pay for loving you.” A smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “Of course, the first brat she whelps will have to die. Can’t have a question of paternity when the throne is at stake.”

“You’re not going to live that long.”

Jared raised his sword. “If you want the throne of Margolan, then win it, if you can. The only way to claim your inheritance, boy, is to take it over my dead body.” Jared lunged in attack, swinging his heavy sword for Tris’s head.

Tris countered the powerful blow, though it near-ly tore Mageslayer from his grasp. Jared scythed a dagger dangerously close with his left hand as Tris parried two-handed, beating back Jared’s advance. The clang of steel echoed in the throne room as the brothers circled, their swords glinting in the torch-light.

Jared’s blows fell with the wild strength of madness. A fierce press drove Tris toward the open fireplace. The heels of his boots crunched on the burning embers and he felt the heat at his back.

Tris held Jared off, struggling to remember every trick Vahanian had taught him. Jared let up just for an instant and Tris dove, rolling, with a wicked slash at Jared’s heel that scored a deep cut and bare-ly missed hamstringing the king.

Jared howled in rage and dove after Tris, delivering a pounding set of strikes that Tris was hard-matched to counter.

“You’ve been practicing, little brother.”

Tris regained his feet and launched the offensive, anger fueling his strength.

He delivered great, hacking blows that drove Jared back toward the open window.

The point of Jared’s dagger connected with Tris’s forearm, slashing deep and giving Jared the opening he needed to turn the attack. This time it was Jared who delivered a sequence of sword blows that forced Tris against the wall by the window, breathless. The stench from the bodies beneath made the night air sickly sweet. Tris felt familiar warmth radiating from the gash on his arm; Jared’s blade was tainted with worm-root. He clenched his teeth on the rope vine. While Jared’s null charms had already put his power tem-porarily beyond reach, the wormroot threatened to slow his reactions, something he could not afford. Whiskey had never blunted Jared’s skill with a sword; Tris knew from bitter experience that Jared was more vicious drunk than sober.

“You’ve had an apt teacher,” Jared taunted. “Your mercenary friend? No matter.

You’ve shown far more potential than I ever dreamed—challeng-ing the throne, raising an army against me, bedding my bride-to-be.”

“I have no desire to kill you,” Jared assured him, driving the point of his sword closer, so that Tris pressed against the cold stone of the wall, “at least, not yet.

Tonight, the Obsidian King returns to Margolan. He’ll need a body to inhabit.

Arontala will be that vessel, one with powers already in place. You can be the final meal for the Obsidian King’s spirit before he returns in all his power.

Perhaps he’ll let some bit of you remain to witness the grand event.”

Tris worked his fingers up inside of his sleeve for the dagger concealed in a sheath above his wrist. It

fell into his palm, and he flicked his hand just as Jared shifted. The dagger embedded itself in Jared’s shoulder, not his chest as Tris intended. Jared roared with pain and anger, slashing at Tris with all his might. Tris managed to deflect his wild blows— barely—but the force of one strike tore Mageslayer from his grip and shattered Jared’s sword. Tris felt the full effect of the wormroot hit him as the blade skittered out of reach to lie beneath the window. Jared yanked the knife from his shoulder and threw it to the ground. His eyes burned with pain and madness, heedless of the blood that stained his tunic.

Tris dodged as Jared dove for him, upending a table to put distance between them. Jared seized a poker from the fire and swung it wildly, keeping himself between Tris and the fallen sword. Tris looked about for anything he could use as a weapon. He grabbed a pitcher of water from the table and hurled it at Jared’s head as Jared vaulted over the table. Tris tried to duck out of the way of the poker, but its glowing tip seared into his left shoulder. He cried out and dove under Jared’s swing with a vicious kick to Jared’s groin. His foot con-nected, and Jared howled with pain and rage.

Tris reached the hearth first, grabbing a bucket of ashes from beside the fireplace. He threw the hot ash at Jared as his brother headed toward him at a dead run. Jared narrowly missed the heavy bucket, but the ashes formed a smothering cloud. Jared cried out, throwing his arms up to shield himself.

Tris used the diversion to run for his sword, but something hard clipped him on the side of the head and he fell, blood starting from his temple. A candlestick clattered to the ground beside him. Blinded by the blood that flowed from the gash on his brow, Tris struggled to his feet. Barehanded, Jared dove for Tris and tackled him, landing on Tris’s back. Tris felt ribs crack and gritted his teeth as the world around him swam red with pain. Jared, taller and heavier, had the advantage hand-to-hand. Tris gasped as Jared’s dagger plunged into his side just below the edge of his cuirass. Jared shifted and a cord jerked around Tris’s throat, the belt of Jared’s robe. Tris struggled for breath as it tightened.

“Speak, Lord of the Dead,” Jared taunted. “Where are your spirits to save you?

Where are your mighty spells?” Tris fought for air, trying to gain enough leverage to buck Jared from his back. Jared only laughed, the same cold laugh Tris knew too well from the beatings of his childhood.

“This is too easy,” Jared said. “I can’t see your face. I want to watch you die, and remember just how you looked when the last breath slipped beyond your grasp.”

Keeping the noose taut Jared dragged Tris to his feet, pulling him up against the wall beside the gris-ly courtyard garden. He closed his hand around Tris’s throat. Tris could smell the whiskey on Jared’s breath as his brother leaned closer, his dark hair framing his face and his eyes alight with triumph. Jared tightened his grip. “You may see the spirits of the dead,” he whispered. “But I can see the soul leave the body. It’s in the eyes.”

As the world around him began to darken, Tris brought his hand up sharply, wrenching at the amulet around Jared’s neck. It burned his hand like fire, but he hung on and the strap snapped. Tris hurled the amulet away, feeling the magic that the null amulet had pushed out of reach grow just a bit closer.

Jared howled with anger and twisted his wrist sharply, tightening the cord around Tris’s neck.

“You think that’s the only null charm in this room, boy?” Jared snarled. “I’ve got more protec-tion than that!”

Tris’s vision blurred and pinpricks of light danced in his sight. Jared slammed him against the wall just to the side of the window, and Tris felt something against his boot. Mageslayer, he realized as he struggled to remain conscious. A tendril of power was almost within his grasp. He shifted his boot onto Mageslayer’s blade, and felt a tingle of power, faint but present. Tris gasped for air, focusing on Mageslayer. Protect!

A burst of fire glowed around him, a blue aura that sapped the small amount of magic he could reach. It crackled around Jared like lightning, throwing him clear with a jolt.

It was all the opening Tris needed. The heel of his boot swung up and connected hard with Jared’s chest. The force of the blow took Tris to the floor, still gasping for air. Jared staggered backward, and the low sill of the open window caught him below the knees. Flailing, Jared fell from the window with the full force of the kick, and Tris grimaced as he heard the sickening crunch of Jared’s body landing atop his sharpened pikes. He pulled himself to his feet and looked down. Jared’s body, impaled by three of the spikes, contorted and bucked as he slipped lower with the weight of his fall. But the spike that took Jared through the back ended his struggles. As Tris watched he saw Jared’s spirit writhe free of his broken body, flickering a sullied light. Tris felt the Formless One’s approach even before the dark presence appeared, so close this time that Tris threw up an arm reflexively to shield his face, his soul shrinking back within him in instinctive fear.

From everywhere at once a cloud descended on Jared Drayke, as if the shadows themselves were fluid. From within the whirlwind Jared’s spirit gave one wrenching scream of terror and pain. Then, as quickly as it came, the shadows were gone. And with them, Jared’s soul.

Tris slumped against the throne room wall and tore the cord from his neck. I’ve got to find Kiara and jonmarc—and Arontala, he thought, stagger-ing toward where Mageslayer lay on the floor. He fought the urge to pass out, weakened by both the poison and the pain of the wound in his side. He wiped the blood from his face with his torn sleeve. His left arm ached where the poker had burned him, a deep burn that made it agonizing for him to move his arm or clench his fist. With Jared’s charm gone, Tris could sense more of his magic returning, slipping in and out of his grasp as he struggled against the wormroot that coursed through his veins. He picked up Mageslayer and felt its power buoy him, lessening the poison’s effect. He found that he could control his magic—just barely.

Outside the throne room, Tris felt the magic more strongly, a clue that Jared’s charm had not been the only power-dampening talisman in that chamber.

Using every trick he had learned from the Sisterhood, Tris fought to lessen the wormroot’s effect. He let Mageslayer’s power strengthen him, hoping that the sword’s protections might also stay the damage from his wounds. Tris felt at the edge of his cuirass, where his tunic was sticky with his own blood. The odds, never favorable, appeared to be getting worse.

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AT THE ENTRANCE to the throne room Vahanian and Kiara hung back a pace, their weapons ready, as Tris approached the heavy double doors. Kiara’s sword was ready in her hand. Vahanian notched a quarrel into his crossbow.

Tris touched the doors, and the world around them seemed to turn inside out.

In a heartbeat, Tris and the throne room were gone and Vahanian was falling through total darkness, into a hole so deep it had no bot-tom. Somewhere in the darkness, he heard Kiara cry out. Then, just as quickly as it began, the wrenching shift was over. Vahanian found himself tumbled out onto a hard stone floor, his crossbow still notched and ready in his hand. An instant later, Kiara appeared from nowhere beside him. A sense of foreboding filled Vahanian as he took in the room around them—a room that could be nothing other than a wizard’s study.

Tapestries covered the walls. Thick candles and torches illuminated the room.

One wall was lined with books from floor to ceiling. Scattered over tables and on shelves were a hodgepodge of vials and bowls, stoppered bottles, and unfamiliar tools. Over the mantle, above a darkened fireplace, a nearly life-sized portrait of Jared Drayke glared down with a haughty disdain. As dark as Tris was fair, Jared Drayke still bore a striking likeness to his younger brother. They shared the same high cheek-bones, fine nose, and wild mane of hair, though Jared’s hair fell in a dark cloud around his face, making the cruel turn to his lips even more pro-nounced.

Vahanian and Kiara climbed to their feet, weapons ready. At the far side of the large room, laughing at their folly, stood a dark-haired man in the red robes of a Fire Clan mage. Beside him, on a pedestal worthy of the Goddess, was a large crystal orb that pulsed like a living heart.

Moving on instinct, Vahanian leveled his cross-bow and sent its arrow flying.

With a muttered word, Arontala plucked the quarrel from midair. The mage gave a flick of his wrist; unseen hands slammed Vahanian across the room and against the stone wall, pinning him above the floor. Vahanian cried out as the bones in his right wrist snapped, forcing him to drop the bow. With a sound of dry sticks cracking, his right arm and right leg broke as well. Satisfied Arontala released him. Vahanian fell to the floor, gasping in pain.

Kiara lunged toward the mage with an oath, her heavy sword wielded in both hands. Clucking dis-dainfully, Arontala gestured and Kiara’s sword flew from her grasp. Her spelled dagger fell from her belt, clattering to the floor.

“You’ve saved me the effort of hunting you down,” Arontala greeted them. He looked at Kiara and smiled coldly. “I told Jared we’d find you, in time.”

“Go to the demon.”

“My dear,” he replied with a smile that revealed his sharp eye teeth, “I am the demon.” He gestured once more, and Kiara struggled against a force that pushed her to her knees. “I think a proper attitude is the place to start.”

“Leave her alone,” Vahanian growled, struggling to reach his bow where it lay below the large mul-lioned window.