The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two (29 page)

He looked from Mikhail to Coalan. “Talwyn was right. Cwynn’s been part of this, somehow, from the beginning. Whoever it is out there,” he said, gesturing toward the coastline, “has more of an inkling about Cwynn’s true power than we do.”

“What are you going to do?” Mikhail’s voice was level.

“One way or another, I’m going to get my son back.”

Outside the tent, Tris and the others heard raised voices as the guards challenged another visitor. “You can’t go in there.”

“It appears your king is not asleep.” The voice was unknown to Tris, who listened more closely.

“He’s in a meeting. You can’t just barge in—” the guard argued.

“My matter is pressing. I bring news from the Sworn. The information can’t wait.”

Tris nodded to Coalan, who stepped to the tent flap. “It’s all right. We weren’t getting any sleep anyhow,” Coalan said, with a nod of thanks to the guard.

Their visitor wore the rough-woven clothing of the Sworn. His black hair was woven into small braids with intricate silver talismans. The man’s dark eyes were bright and alert, and he glanced around the small group assembled in the tent until his gaze lingered on Tris.

“Your Majesty. I bear an urgent message from Cheira Talwyn.” He made a perfunctory bow and handed Tris a folded piece of parchment. Tris frowned, recognizing the handwriting as that of his cousin, Jair Rothlandorn.

“I wonder what made Jair send a rider in the middle of the night,” Tris said, carefully breaking the seal.

Tris read the letter aloud to the others and drew a deep breath. “I’m open to your thoughts about this,” he said, looking to Mikhail.

“In light of what has happened at Shekerishet,” Mikhail said, “I don’t see how you have a choice. You have to go.”

Tris nodded. “That’s what I make of it, too.” He looked to Coalan. The young man had put a fresh pot of water on the brazier and busied himself setting out a repast of hard rolls and sausage, though dawn—and breakfast—was still candlemarks away.

Coalan looked sheepish as he realized Tris was watching him. “Sorry. I just figured that with all the company, you’d want some food and some hot tea.” He glanced at Mikhail. “I’ll get fresh blood from the butcher.”

“Go find Soterius. Senne, too. Might as well wake up Fallon and Beyral. Tell them we’ve got a ‘situation’ to discuss and it won’t wait.” He paused, then sighed. “And after that, tell the stable master to have my horse ready. I’ll need you to pack a bag for me.” He frowned, thinking. “Set out both swords.”

“Both?”

Tris nodded. He understood why Coalan hesitated. Tris rarely carried Nexus, leery of its not-yet-fully understood power, and the warning that its use stole a breath of the user’s soul. Still, if he was going to seek out the Dread in the places of the dead, he doubted that his regular sword would be of much use.

“Cheira Talwyn bade me give this to you,” Emil said. He held out a small pouch. It was made of cloth painted with runes and markings Tris did not recognize, but as soon as he took the small package, he could feel the signature of her magic.

An amulet on a leather cord spilled into his palm. A round slice of agate was bound with hair, rough twine, and a thin copper wire to a piece of hematite. Tris recognized all of the stones as charms for warding and protection, amplified by the hair, hemp, and copper. Tris bowed his head and permitted Emil to fasten the amulet around his throat.

“You do us a great honor to wear Cheira Talwyn’s gift,” Emil said.

Coalan set the tray of rolls and meat out for them as Tris motioned for Emil to sit. Then Coalan disappeared from the tent with a hurried aside to the puzzled guards. Tris and the others sat in silence, making only a halfhearted attempt to eat. Before long, Soterius ducked past the guards and into the tent. He gave a startled glance toward Mikhail and Emil.

“I was wondering what made you call for a war council in the middle of the night,” he said, taking a seat next to Tris on the floor of the tent. “Bad news from home?” he said with a look toward Mikhail.

“From home… and the Sworn,” Tris replied.

Gradually, the others filed in and sat on the crowded floor of the tent. Tris gave a brief recap of the news Mikhail brought from Shekerishet, followed by Jair’s letter.

“You’re going to go, aren’t you.” It was more statement than question, and Tris knew from the tone just what Soterius thought of the idea.

“I’m inclined to,” Tris admitted. “That’s why I called the group together. We’ve already had one attack from the invaders. So far, I’ve tried to use a minimum of my magic, to not show our hand too early in case the invaders are trying to size us up. But the next attack might be in earnest, and my magic might be needed here to turn the tide.”

Senne frowned. “How far away is the Sworn’s camp?”

“A half-day’s ride behind the lines and to the east,” Emil replied. “But soon, our Ride will bring us within a few candlemarks of the battle lines.”

“It’s not the journey that worries me,” Sister Fallon said. “We don’t know what kind of magic will be involved once Tris arrives at the camp. It might be a candlemark—or days—before he can return.”

“Can we trust the Dread?” Senne’s raspy voice broke in. “How do we know they’re not in league with the invaders, trying to lure Tris into some kind of trap? For all we know, they had something to do with what happened to Cwynn.”

“Possible,” Fallon admitted, “but I don’t think it’s likely. The Dread have avoided getting involved with mortal conflicts for over a thousand years. From what Tris and Cheira Talwyn have said, the Dread are stirring now because someone—or something—is threatening to raise
the Nachele, the dark spirits the Dread guard. I don’t think the Dread have called for Tris to help us with our problems. I suspect their interest is more self-centered. We may have a common enemy.”

“And in war, the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Soterius finished for her.

“Exactly.”

Tris looked at Soterius and Senne. “What are the scouts reporting? Have you heard anything from the Sentinels or the fleets? How likely is an attack over the next few days?”

Senne shrugged. “Good commanders don’t give away their moves in advance. I don’t think they’re going to give up and go home.”

Soterius leaned forward. “When the Temnottan ships pulled back from the harbor after the first engagement, they moved out of range of the Sentinels. Nisim and I think they’ve dispatched ships to the east, where the coast makes an easier landing spot. They’ll try to flank us.”

“You’ve sent troops?”

Soterius nodded. “All we could spare. I bet a division on it.”

“It’s a gamble, no matter how you play it,” Senne grumbled. “Your father was a man who believed in intuition. Whether you call it regent magic or damn fine luck, his guesses worked out far more often than they didn’t. So how about it, Your Majesty? What is your gut telling you?”

Tris took a deep breath. “I think Soterius is right; the Temnottans are going to make a move very soon. That makes this especially difficult. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to attack Cwynn. He’s my son. I would
have to go because of that. But I believe that he is a key to this war. And I intend to bring him back.”

“I’d recommend you ride in disguise,” Soterius said. “Not that I doubt your fighting skill,” he said with a glance from Emil to Tris, “but I’ll feel better sending half a dozen of the
Telorhan
with you—just in case.” He held up a hand to forestall Tris’s protest. “Once you reach the Sworn camp, I know you’ll be safe. But there are still Durim out there as well as whatever it was that tried to attack you tonight, and we don’t need an opportunist getting off a lucky shot.”

Reluctantly, Tris nodded. “Anything else?”

Soterius gave him a grim, lopsided grin. “Yeah. Just remember what Jonmarc used to say. ‘If you get your royal ass fried, the rest of us hang.’ It’s still true, so be careful.”

J
ust moments after Tris and Emil and the five
Telorhan
guards reached the outskirts of the Sworn camp, Tris spotted a tall man running toward them. Jair Rothlandorn was dressed like the rest of the Sworn warriors and armed with a broad, deadly
stelian
sword. “Ho there! Are you come to keep the feast with us!”

Despite the circumstances, Tris could not keep from smiling. Jair answered Tris’s smile with a grin of his own, welcoming Tris with a slap on the back and an embrace when Tris swung down from his horse.

“We came as quickly as we could,” Tris said as he walked with Jair farther into the camp. Emil and the guards fell behind them, allowing a respectful distance and the semblance of privacy for their conversation.

“I know this is a bad time for you,” Jair began.

Tris waved off his apology. “More than you think.” Briefly, he explained the attack on Cwynn and the unsuccessful attack he had fended off himself.

“You think that the two attacks are related to Talwyn’s vision—and the Dread’s request?”

Tris shrugged. “These days everything seems to be related.” He met Jair’s gaze. “If there’s a chance that the Dread might know how I can rescue Cwynn, well, I can’t pass that up.”

Jair’s gaze wandered to where a small, curly-haired young boy practiced in the center of the camp with his bolas. “If it were Kenver, I’d feel the same way.” He paused. “Come on. Talwyn’s waiting for you.”

Tris looked around him as they walked through the camp. Despite the obvious war-readiness of all of the young men and women of fighting age, there was an unexpected air of celebration to the camp. In the center of the temporary village created by the Sworn’s
gars
was the beginning of a bonfire. Boys and girls too young to fight carried wood to the fire pit. Large wooden bowls filled with apples, pinecones, and acorns were gathered to one side of the camp’s center.

As Tris watched, several of the old women came to the camp center with their aprons bulging. The young girls ran up with empty bowls and unloaded the delivery of eggs, seeds, and more nuts. Near where the fire would be, Tris saw a strange, bean-shaped pod made of cloth and twine hanging from a post. He also noted that he and his guards were not the only strangers among the Sworn.

“Is all this for the harvest feast?”

Jair nodded. “War or no war, the Sworn take Sohan very seriously. It’s the last of the autumn festivals, after the Moon Feast and Haunts, but even though it’s after the equinox, it’s special to the Sworn. It’s the Feast of Changes.”

Tris looked again at the offerings in the bowls. “Eggs become chickens,” he said quietly. “Nuts become trees.
Seeds grow into plants.” He looked at Jair questioningly. “But what about all the outsiders?”

Jair chuckled. “Shapeshifters, all of them. Some
vyrkin
, but also some who can shift into the other forms of the Lady’s Consorts: the stawar, the bear, and the eagle. We’ll have a few
vayash moru
as well, who understand transformation between the living and the dead.”

“And that thing hanging from the post?” Tris asked, jerking his head toward the odd-shaped object.

“An effigy of a caterpillar’s cocoon. At the festival, it’s Talwyn’s honor and duty to bless the offerings. Then she uses her magic to let a small bevy of birds loose from the cocoon.” He shrugged. “The Sworn live with the land even more closely than farmers do. Sohan honors the death of autumn and the coming of winter before the year is reborn in the spring. I hope you’ll have the chance to pass the feast with us.”

Tris sighed. “That depends on the Dread.”

When he entered the
gar
Jair shared with his family, Talwyn jumped to her feet and greeted him with a smile of welcome and an embrace. “I’m so glad my message reached you. I didn’t sleep well last night, fearing that Emil might not be able to find you.” Although Talwyn spoke Common with the heavy accent of the language of the Sworn, her voice was lilting and musical, and not for the first time, Tris saw what tempted Jair away from the throne of Dhasson.