The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two (31 page)

He returned to himself abruptly, with a thudding reaction headache from the strong magic. His knees buckled and he slumped to the ground. He could hear voices shouting around him, but they seemed distant and muted.

“Tris! Tris, come back to us. Come all the way back. All the way.”

It was Jair’s voice, and Tris heard an edge of fear in his cousin’s tone. With effort, he released the last of his magic and shuddered. Strong hands grasped him by the shoulders and rolled him face up on the dry, brown grass. In the background, Tris could hear Talwyn chanting, dispelling the wardings.

“He’s back.” Jair turned to call over his shoulder, and Talwyn made a bow of thanks to the spirits before she rose and joined Jair at Tris’s side.

“You were successful?”

Tris swallowed hard, blinking against the headache that pounded in his temple. “In reaching the Dread, yes. And I know what happened to Cwynn.” Tris looked down at his right hand, where the heart had been clasped in his grip. His hand was empty.

Jair helped him sit with his back against a tree, while Talwyn brought him a cup of
vass
and a chunk of bread. “Eat. Remind your body that you are among the living,” she urged.

They waited until Tris had taken a few sips of the strong drink and managed several bites of the bread. “I have a name now for the Temnottan summoner. Scaith,” he told them. Jair and Talwyn listened in silence as Tris recounted his exchange with the Dread.

“If you’re looking for the passage tokens, they’re set out just as you described, in a line near where Talwyn was keeping vigil,” Jair said with distaste in his voice as his gaze lingered on the gray heart that lay on the ground.

“You can’t really mean to enter the Abyss,” Talwyn challenged.

Tris drew a deep breath. “Is there a choice? Not only is Cwynn my son, but his fate seems to be tied up with this whole war, as you said. If Cwynn is a conduit to the Flow, then we don’t dare allow Scaith to access that kind of power.”

“The Dread said that it wasn’t a guarantee of victory.” Jair’s voice reflected his concern.

“They said it wouldn’t guarantee victory for
me
,” Tris replied. “They never really said whether it would be enough for Scaith.

“I had the distinct feeling that my grandfather’s power is involved in this somehow,” Tris added. “When I get back to camp, I think I need to spend some time with that third diary of his. He tried to possess the same kind of ability to channel the Flow that Cwynn was born with. Maybe there’s something in what he wrote that can help us… assuming I survive the journey into the Abyss,” Tris added grimly.

Talwyn made a sign of warding against evil. “I believe it works in your favor that this battle occurs on Sohan night,” she said quietly. “It’s the third of the harvest feasts.
First, the Moon Festival, to welcome the long nights and the autumn moon. Then, Haunts—the Feast of the Departed, on the equinox, to honor the dead and speak with their spirits.

“But Sohan is a darker festival,” she mused aloud. “It’s the feast day when the Sworn renew their vow to guard the Dread. It’s also a requiem for the death of summer. In legend, the Summer King is killed by his brother, the Winter Prince, who rules from the Underrealm until the spring equinox, when the Summer King returns and slays his brother to take back the throne. In the legend, the battle begins at dusk and rages until midnight.”

“When the Summer King dies.”

Talwyn grimaced. “Well, yes. But it isn’t permanent. The Summer King isn’t destroyed. And no one said you had to relive the legend.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Uncle Tris! Wake up, you’re missing the festival.” A young boy’s voice shrilled from the doorway of the tent. “Mother said you have to get up. Come on!”

With a groan, Tris rolled over, and then, blinking, sat up. Kenver stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright daylight.

“I’m coming. Give me a moment.”

The headache of the evening before was gone, but a leaden feeling of anticipation for the night to come had replaced it. Tris dressed hurriedly, deep in thought. Even so, Kenver’s unabashed enthusiasm managed to rouse a weak smile as his nephew grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out into the daylight.

A small fire burned in the center of the camp where a
bonfire had raged the previous night. Already, the air smelled of roasting meat and baked goods. Musicians played an upbeat tune near the fire, and throughout the camp, Tris heard the shouts of children. Tris’s guards followed him at a discreet distance.

“They’re racing the horses, Uncle Tris. Come on!” Kenver tugged harder at Tris’s hand, and Tris let himself be pulled toward the edge of camp. The Sworn were well known for their horsemanship and the fine plains horses that they rode. Tris had heard Jair’s proud comments that as young as Kenver was, he showed every promise of following in his tribe’s abilities. Kenver pointed excitedly as the older boys and girls, most of them younger than fifteen summers old, put their horses through exacting turns and leaps.

“If I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I could ever learn to ride as well as Sworn children do by their tenth birthday,” Jair observed from behind them. Kenver grabbed his father’s hand, letting go of Tris.

“I suspect Kenver will be out there long before he’s ten,” Tris replied. Some of the riders showed horsemanship skills as good as any cavalry soldiers, and Tris did not doubt that the Sworn’s renown as warriors was due in no small part to their skill astride a horse.

“Just so long as he doesn’t expect me to keep up with him!”

Although the coming confrontation was never far from Tris’s mind, he allowed Kenver and Jair to escort him through the camp. While he found his mind wandering back to the conversation with the Dread, Tris did his best to accept the hospitality of his hosts.

No matter where they wandered, Tris found himself
offered food. He started to decline, only to have Jair say something in the consonant-heavy language of the Sworn to the woman who offered Tris a trencher of meat. Jair took the meat and handed it to Tris.

“Talwyn was very specific. She said I’m to make sure you eat and drink today so that you’re grounded in this world before your journey tonight.”

They found a place to sit in the shade of a large tree. The leaves had turned to brilliant shades of red, and a light breeze rippled through them, dappling the ground with sunlight. For a moment, the smells, sounds, tastes, and sights of the camp seemed more intense than ever, reminding Tris of what he would be leaving behind when he entered the Underrealm.

“There’s a little matter I need to discuss with you,” Jair said as Tris finished his food. “About adoption.”

“What?”

Jair chuckled. “Blame Talwyn. She had the idea. Do you remember her mentioning that Sohan is when the Sworn reaffirm their vow to the Dread?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s also when the Dread renew their promise to defend the living against the Nachele. Most years, it feels like a formality. This year it’s more of a pressing issue.”

“What’s this got to do with adoption?”

“Talwyn and Pevre decided that it might not hurt to have you acknowledged as one of our blood, a member of the Sworn. It’s not something that’s done very often. In fact, it’s been long enough since the last time that Pevre had to consult the old writings to remember how the ceremony goes. You should be honored.”

“I am. But didn’t they adopt you?”

Jair shrugged. “My case is a little different. There’s a perpetual bond between the Sworn and the heirs to the throne of Dhasson. I was born into it.” He paused. “Anyhow, Talwyn thought that having you made one of us would mean that the reciprocal vow with the Dread applied to you as well.”

“You mean, it would include me in their protection?”

“That’s what Talwyn and Pevre believe.”

Tris mulled over Jair’s words for a few moments. “Half of the Sworn’s Ride runs through Margolan, so it makes sense. Is there a reason they haven’t made a pact with the Margolan kings like the one they have with Dhasson?”

Jair shrugged. “I don’t know. The pact with Dhasson is very, very old.”

“Would it mean my sons would be committed to the Ride?”

“I would guess so. The challenge there is persuading them to come back home to take the crown.” Jair’s voice was joking, but Tris could see in his cousin’s eyes the tension between his commitment to the Sworn and his duties as heir to the throne.

“If my magic is likely to be passed down through the line of Margolan kings, such an agreement would make sense.”

Jair smiled. “Good. I’ll tell Pevre. There is some preparation to be done. He’ll make certain we can complete it before dusk.”

Just then, Tris’s attention was caught by the strains of a familiar song. It took him a moment to recognize the tune.

“Please tell me that’s not the song I think it is.”

Jair grinned widely. “Ah, but it is. I believe it’s called ‘The Forest Is Dark No More.’ ”

Tris groaned. The song was one of bard Carroway’s most popular, celebrating and romanticizing Tris’s quest to win back the throne from Jared the Usurper, and his cleansing of the haunted Ruune Videya forest. As Tris recalled, the ballad had an interminable number of verses and a tune that was difficult to forget. It was also, to Tris’s way of thinking, an overwrought and embarrassing ditty that would not die. The only person Tris knew who hated the song more than he did was Jonmarc Vahanian, who figured prominently in the ballad’s heroic story.

“Just wanted to give you a taste of home. It’s very popular in the Dhasson court. If you ever came to visit, you’d probably be serenaded wherever you went.”

“I heard Jonmarc banned it from being played in Dark Haven.”

Jair chuckled again. “I couldn’t resist. And I must say, the musicians here in camp have really enjoyed the new material.”

Tris rolled his eyes. “When all this is over, and Carroway is back at Shekerishet, I’ll set him to immortalizing you, and we’ll see how you like it.”

When they walked back to the fire circle, Tris was greeted with clapping and cheers. He gave a good-natured bow in acknowledgment and shot a glare in Jair’s direction when no one else was looking. The rest of the afternoon passed with a lighthearted holiday spirit that managed to draw Tris out of brooding over the evening’s work to come.

Late in the afternoon, Pevre and Talwyn came to the fire circle and held up their hands for the attention of the group. Voices hushed, and others who had been busy with preparations drifted closer.

“Amid the celebrations of the feast day, we have our solemn duty to renew our vow as the guardians of the Dread,” Pevre said. “For the last thousand years, the Sworn have guarded the barrows of the Dread, as the Dread guard the living from the Nachele. Each year, the vows are renewed, reforging the bond between the Sworn and the Dread. That bond is more important now than ever before.

“Today, we are honored to have yet another duty, a joyous and rare event. Today, we gain a brother among the Sworn.” He held out his hand to Tris, who stepped forward. Tris took Pevre’s hand and made a low bow.

“Martris Drayke, king of Margolan, summoner, and blood kin to my son-by-marriage, the Sworn claims you as one born among its number, blood of blood, breath of breath. You will be numbered among us, and you will share in our duty to stand watch over the spirits of the Dread.”

Talwyn removed a thick pillar candle from the sleeve of her shaman’s robe. The candle was yellow like beeswax, with streaks and swirls of a much darker, reddish-brown color throughout. The candle sat in a stone bowl engraved with runes. She held the candle between Pevre and Tris.

“Mingled with the wax of this candle is a drop of blood from every member of the Sworn. This is the Vow Candle, which will be used to affirm our oath to the Dread. Will you add your blood to ours and become one of us?”

Tris drew a deep breath. “I will.”

Pevre withdrew a silver knife from his belt, and he took Tris’s left hand. Holding Tris’s hand high enough for all to see, Pevre made a swift cut in the center of Tris’s
palm and held his hand above the unlit candle until four drops of blood fell into a depression in the top of the broad candle. With a murmured word and a flicker of Pevre’s magic, the cut healed as if it had never been.

Another whispered word called the wick into flame. Pevre took the candle from Talwyn and held it up. “As the flame melts the wax, the blood of our new brother mingles with our own. We will reshape the wax, to make it anew as we make our vow to the Dread anew. Celebrate the birth of your new brother within the family of the Sworn.”

Next, Pevre motioned for Tris to extend his right arm. “Gather your sleeve to the shoulder,” he commanded. Tris did as Pevre ordered.

“A child marked as one among the Sworn is forever one of our people. What is done cannot be undone.” Pevre touched Tris on the upper arm, just below his shoulder. His touch burned, radiating around Tris’s arm, and with the burn came a tracery of shadow as the tattoo that marked each of the Sworn with their family and clan wound its way across Tris’s skin. It took only a moment, and when the burning sensation was gone, Tris saw a complex marking that matched the pattern on Pevre’s arm and on Talwyn’s.

“This is my son, from this day forward. Rejoice that new life has joined us.”