The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two (28 page)

The Oracle inclined her head as if listening to a voice only she could hear. She did not speak, and Kiara feared her questions would go unanswered. Finally, the Oracle returned her attention to Kiara.

“Your son, Cwynn. I see a knife, poison.”

“Yes, m’lady. An assassin stabbed me with a knife tainted with wormroot when I carried Cwynn. I almost lost him. He seems healthy, but he’s not… right. Tris can sense no power in him, but Cheira Talwyn believes he is stronger than we know. I fear he may not be able to take the throne.”

“Wormroot blocks a mage’s power, but so much, so early, has opened Cwynn to the power of the Flow long before he can control that power. He is lost in it, adrift, too young to know it from himself.”

“And the
nenkah
?”

The Oracle was silent for a moment. “Someone hunts your child. They seek to use his power. After you left him, he fled the darkness. A child follows its mother. Some part of his consciousness found your magic in the Flow and followed you here, where he found your spirit in the
nenkah
and took refuge. Your magic was imprinted on the
nenkah
and part of your spirit, and so he took refuge there.”

“Can he be made whole?” Another terrifying possibility occurred to Kiara. “Does he live?”

“He lives. But he is not whole. Dispel the darkness, and he can be led back to himself and the last of your spirit will return.”

“How can he live if his consciousness is here, in the
nenkah
?”

“Consciousness I sense, but not a soul. His essence has been split.”

“Did the… darkness do that? Cwynn’s too young to know—”

“Fish emerge from their eggs and swim. Hatchlings fly. Turtles walk as soon as they leave the egg. Abilities do not have to be understood to be done.” She paused. “Cwynn’s consciousness searched for you and recognized you, and the energy of the babe you carry. Guard the
nenkah
as you would your son.”

“And the child I carry?”

“The future is uncertain. A War of Unmaking is upon us. If you survive the battle, the son you will bear will be a great leader, but not a mage. Whether he is a king or a renegade depends upon the outcome of the war. He will rise up against his enemies and challenge the Abyss itself.” The Oracle grew quiet. “Leave me now. I have told you all I see. The blessing of Chenne be upon you.”

T
ris Drayke fled for his life. Darkness itself pursued him, neither living nor dead nor undead. Ancient and evil. Powerful. The darkness lapped at his heels like water. It snapped at his legs and slipped like a snare around his feet. To fall into the darkness was to perish. He could feel the darkness pull at him. It hungered for the light of his life thread. It thirsted for his magic, his power. It wanted his soul.

Tris ran for the clear, pale moonlight, but as he neared it, the darkness threatened to overtake him. He scrambled up a tumble of boulders to reach high ground lit by moonlight.

“
Lethyrashem!
”

The banishment spell pushed back the darkness, but Tris could feel the strength of the darkness warring with his own. He cast out his power, drawing on the Flow beneath him and on the spirits of the dead buried deep within this land that had once been a killing ground. He pulled that power into himself, mingling it with his life force, and cast it forward, toward the darkness, with a word of power.

“
Lethyrashem!
”

This time, the darkness scattered, receding like the undertow of the ocean. Tris felt it pull back, beyond the tree line, beyond the forest, back and back until he knew it was gone. He collapsed to his knees, utterly spent, as a blinding headache pounded.

“Tris? Tris, wake up. Come on, Tris, you’re scaring me. Wake up now!”

The voice was barely audible, coming from a great distance, and the pounding in his head made Tris wonder if he was imagining it.

“Come on, Tris. Wake up now!” The voice was closer, more insistent, and there was a sharp crack of pain that blurred his vision. Another snap of pain dissolved the forest and the moonlit night. Tris woke on his cot in his own campaign tent, with a blinding reaction headache, his face feeling as if it were on fire. His vision became clearer, and he saw Coalan, his valet, standing over him, one hand raised as if to slap an errant child. When Coalan saw Tris’s eyes open, the young man gave a weary smile and relaxed, dropping his hand.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Tris. I know it’s probably a hanging offense or worse to strike the king, but I’d already tried putting cold water on your face and nothing roused you.” Coalan looked shaken, and Tris managed a reassuring smile.

“I imagine that slapping the king in the middle of a rescue is permitted under dire circumstances,” Tris murmured.

Coalan hurried to pour a brandy for him and steadied him as Tris sat up. With practiced ease, Coalan withdrew a pinch of herbs from a pouch in the bag at the head of Tris’s cot and mixed the herbs with a small amount of
wine. “Drink this first. You sound like you’ve got one of your magic headaches.”

Tris complied, grimacing. Just moving his jaw to swallow hurt. “The headache isn’t magic. It’s caused by magic.”

“You get them often enough to make me quite glad I’m plain old Coalan, and not a mage.”

Coalan had shown enough pluck and valor that Tris hardly thought of him as “plain,” but his head hurt too much to argue.

“That wasn’t just a bad dream.” Coalan gave him an appraising look. Tris grimaced, realizing how often this sort of thing must happen for Coalan to recognize something few people other than mages ever experienced.

Tris set aside the wineglass and sipped the brandy. “No. It wasn’t a bad dream. There was power. Not a vision. Something was after me. It didn’t want my life or my magic. It wanted my soul.”

“Soul thief. Can someone hollow the living?”

Tris managed a wry half smile. “You really are listening when you’re sitting in the back of the tent, aren’t you?”

Coalan gave a broad smile. “My father always told me foolishness pours out of an open mouth, but wisdom sneaks in through the ears.” Despite the seriousness of impending war and soul-thieving darkness, it was clear that Coalan still regarded his service to Tris as the greatest adventure of his life.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing as hollowing the living, but then again,” Tris said, groaning as he shifted position and his head pounded, “I’d only heard rumors of soul harvests and hollowing before this war.”

“Uncle Ban thinks Temnotta has a dark summoner,” Coalan said, all mirth gone from his voice. Tris looked up
at Coalan and saw a resolve that told him Coalan probably had a better understanding of the war at hand than many of the ranking officers.

“I think that’s not just likely; it’s certain. I can sense power just beyond where I can reach it. It feels dark, and strong.”

“You’ve fought dark mages before, and won. And you destroyed the spirit of the Obsidian King. If you could do all that, then can’t you beat this one, too?”

Tris closed his eyes, letting the potion work its healing, warming the chill deep inside that had nothing to do with the autumn night. “Jonmarc Vahanian is the best warrior in a generation, but I’ve seen him nearly die, twice. Once from being run through by a sword, and once from an assassin’s knife. You can be the best and strongest, but it only takes one mistake.”

“Uncle Ban said to tell you that he’s sent reinforcements and scouts down the coast to the east. He said he thinks it’s likely the invaders will look for a less-defended harbor to land and flank us. They should be in place by morning.”

Tris finished the last of his brandy and let it burn down his throat. “Good. Because I don’t think the fleet is just going to go home.”

Voices outside his tent flap drew both men’s attention as a newcomer argued with the guards. “I have an important message for the king.”

Tris and Coalan exchanged glances, recognizing a familiar voice that was out of place on the battlefield.

“It’s the middle of the night,” one of the guards challenged.

“I’m quite well aware of that,” replied the newcomer.

“What’s Mikhail doing here?” Tris asked, as Coalan rushed to the door of the tent just as a guard stuck his head inside.

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but Mikhail is here to see you.”

“Send him in.”

Mikhail stepped through the tent flap as the guard returned to duty. He looked from Coalan to Tris and frowned. “Other than it being the middle of the night, did I come at a bad time? I get the feeling you weren’t sleeping.”

“It’s a long story,” Tris said, motioning for Mikhail to have a seat.

“Is Kiara well? And Cwynn? What could possibly bring you out to the front lines of a war to carry a message?”

Mikhail met Tris’s gaze. “It’s not the kind of message I’d care to entrust to paper—or to a messenger. The first news is, King Donelan is dead.”

“Mother and Childe,” Tris murmured. “Beyral’s omens predicted it, but we had no way to verify. How did he die?”

“Murdered. Someone bewitched one of the servants.”

Tris felt grief well up in his chest. He had admired Donelan, and from their brief meeting at the royal wedding, Tris had looked forward to getting to know Kiara’s father. “I’m so sorry. How is Kiara taking it?”

Mikhail’s gaze was direct. “The letter that bore the news asked her to return to Isencroft. She rode for Isencroft weeks ago, with a handpicked guard, as well as Cerise and Royster. An Isencroft guard waited for her at the border. The Margolan soldiers reported transferring her safely to the Isencroft guards. Patov, Jorven, Antoin, and
the other
vyrkin
and
vayash moru
who accompanied her as… civilians… will remain with her as protectors.”

“What about Cwynn?”

Mikhail nodded. “Kiara was especially concerned about leaving Cwynn behind. She called for Alle and Lady Eadoin to care for him, along with Sister Essel and Sister Nardore. We tripled the guards on the palace to keep him safe from intruders.”

Tris drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “It’s too early to have heard anything back from Kiara. We’d talked about what might happen if the war went badly for Donelan, but truly, I never expected it to cost him his life.” The herbed wine and the brandy were beginning to take the edge off of his headache, but he could feel new tension building in his neck and shoulders at Mikhail’s news.

“How is Cwynn?” Tris paused and ran a hand across his eyes, rubbing his forehead. “I have to admit, she made a wise choice in calling Alle and Eadoin to the palace. There’s no one I’d trust more to care for him.”

Mikhail’s pale features looked like they had been chiseled from stone, and his eyes did not reveal any emotion.

Tris felt his heart sink. “Something’s gone wrong,” he said quietly.

“I’m afraid so. Three nights after Kiara left Shekerishet, after the mages reinforced the wardings, something struck at Cwynn in his sleep. He began screaming and crying, and nothing would console him. The healers couldn’t find anything amiss. Eadoin thought he acted terrified of something.

“Cwynn went limp. He breathes, he’ll suckle, and his body functions as it should, but he hasn’t awakened since
then. He responds to no one, not to voices or chimes or even loud noises.” A sad smile touched Mikhail’s face. “Even your dogs can’t rouse him. Cwynn usually laughed when they visited him. He loved it when they licked him and his happiness was very… loud. He was also fond of the ghost dog, your mastiff. It often sleeps next to Cwynn’s crib.”

Mikhail frowned. “It was very odd… Right before Cwynn began screaming and crying, we all swore we heard a dog barking angrily, as if it was trying to frighten away an attacker or warn its owner. But your wolfhounds weren’t in the room at the time.”

“What do the mages say?” Tris swallowed hard to keep his voice even. He tried to breathe deeply, stemming the rise of panic he felt.
What use is it to be a king, and a mage, if I can’t protect the ones I love?

“Sister Essel and Sister Nardore used all the magical resources they had available to investigate,” Mikhail replied.

“Did they find anything?”

“Nardore detected a… residue… of power that breached the wardings. She believes that whatever attacked Cwynn was looking for him in particular. No one else was troubled, not even by bad dreams,” Mikhail added.

“And Essel?”

Mikhail met Tris’s gaze. “Essel’s magic focuses on energy. She believes a part of Cwynn’s soul was taken from him. All that remains is an empty shell.”

Tris and Coalan exchanged an alarmed glance. “Soul harvest,” Tris murmured.

“Hollowing,” Coalan whispered.

Mikhail looked from one to the other and sat in
silence as Tris described the attack he had just withstood. As Tris spoke, Mikhail’s expression grew more somber. “What could the attacker hope to gain? Cwynn’s just an infant.”

Tris shrugged. “It could be a challenge to me, a way to call me out to fight someone who’s certain that I’ll defend Cwynn.”

“So they took his spirit as a hostage,” Mikhail replied.

Again, Tris gave a nod. “The second possibility worries me more. Cheira Talwyn believes that Cwynn has great power. She said he was a ‘bridge.’ Alyzza, the old sorceress at the Vistimar madhouse, warned me to ‘protect the bridge.’ ”