"M'lady, you're tired. Please, rest now." Lisette pulled at Carina's sleeve. Carina looked out over the long line of villagers who still waited for treatment.
"I've been here since sixth bells this morning, and the line isn't any shorter now than it was then," Carina gratefully accepted a cup of kerif. From sunup to sundown, mortal servants assisted Carina. Come evening, she and Lisette worked late into the night. Word had spread of Carina's talent. Her patients came from within the manor house, the village, and from several days' ride away. That the sick and injured people-braved Principality's harsh winter storms to come was testimony to how much they needed a healer of true power.
"You sound like Lord Jonmarc, always pushing for more."
"Stubborn, willful, driven, and damn good at what we do. Nothing in common," she chuckled.
"Hmm?"
"Something Jonmarc once told me. You're right. But they've come so far, and the need is so great."
"If I see to it that those you don't treat tonight have a warm place to sleep in the stables, will you stop after another candlemark? Lord Jonmarc was quite clear that I'm to watch over you." She-grinned. "But perhaps between the two of us, we can keep some small secrets, no?"
Carina laughed. "All right. Let's see if there's anyone who is in real danger out there. I'll see them tonight. We'll make the rest as comfortable as we can. Sweet Mother and Childe! I won't be surprised if their number doubles by morning."
Lisette made Carina eat a bit of cheese and meat and finish the rest of her kerif before going to triage the waiting villagers. While she waited, Carina stretched, trying to relieve the knotted muscles in her neck and shoulders. She couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Probably just exhaustion, she told herself. She'd been working long hours, expending a lot of energy. But it wasn't just fatigue. Something was changing in the magic itself, something that made healing more difficult. The longer she stayed at Dark Haven, the more she could feel the imbalance in the Flow. And while she was not conscious of drawing on the great river of energy, she could feel ripples in the power, a swift undercurrent, like water flowing over shards of rock. The disturbance was growing stronger, as if she were trying to walk against the wind.
Carina felt a presence touch her mind. As quickly as it came it was gone.
"M'lady?"
Carina blinked. The vision was gone. "I must be working too hard. I could swear I felt someone reach out for me. Whoever it was wanted to tell me something."
"I don't understand."
Carina shook her head. "Neither do I.I don't think it—whoever it was—was dangerous. Curious. Like it was looking for something."
"You really should rest."
"Have you seen the line of people out there? I'll rest later. Have I told you how glad I am to have your help?"
Lisette returned her smile. "Thank you, m'lady."
They cared for two more patients before Carina signaled for a few minutes' rest. "You know, before I came here, I couldn't have imagined something like that last patient, the old woman with the sore back. That young man with her—the vayasb moru. That was her husband, wasn't it?"
Lisette nodded. "He was brought across forty years ago."
"They've stayed together all that time," Carina said admiringly. "Openly. I used to think Isencroft was a welcoming place for the vayash moru because no one's gone hunting for them in generations. But I've never seen the living, the dead, and the undead go on together like this. I realize now how low my expectations were."
"In the farmlands of the other kingdoms, many families provide sanctuary for loved ones who've been brought across. It works so long as their neighbors don't notice, or don't care. That doesn't usually last."
"Then why don't all the vayash moru come to Dark Haven, if it's safe for them here to exist openly?"
"They stay for all the reasons mortals stay. Because those places have always been their home. Because their family is there, and they don't wish to leave them, even if they can only watch over them from a distance. Because it's familiar. After a lifetime or two, 'home' changes so much that it's no longer what you remember. That makes the leaving easier."
"I think I understand, a little," Carina said, washing blood from her hands. "My brother and I were forced to leave our home, our family, when we were young. We were twins, but I had magic. Being twins was a scandal; having magic was unforgivable."
"Not too different," Lisette said. "To be driven out for what you are, what you had no choice about being. And in places like Nargi, mages and vayash moru often suffer a common fate."
"The further I stay from Nargi, the happier I'll be." Carina dried her hands. "How many more patients must be seen tonight? I nearly fell asleep during that last healing!"
"I have half a dozen for you m'lady," Lisette said. "A woman in labor—she thinks the baby did not turn—and a girl who struck her head and hasn't awakened. There's a man with an arrow through his hand, a boy with a bleeding eye, and a vyrkin with its foot in a trap. And a young woman delirious with fever."
Carina set aside her empty cup. "Let's get started. Let me check the woman in labor. If I can get babe turned, perhaps you can sit with her while I treat the others."
"As you wish, m'lady." Lisette smiled. "Babies haven't changed since I was mortal. That's something I understand."
It took more than a candlemark to tend to the last of the patients. Lisette and Eiria gently herded the remaining villagers out of the room, guiding them to the place Neirin had cleared for them in the granary. Carina washed her hands in a basin. She felt a sudden chill behind her, and straightened. Months of working closely with Tris made her highly aware when spirits were near, and she was quite sure that a ghost was right behind her.
Carina turned slowly. The room was empty, except for a green haze that floated like wood smoke about waist-high near the fireplace. "Don't be afraid," Carina said, taking a step toward the haze. "Can you show yourself?"
The haze grew brighter and changed to gray as it swirled and coalesced. The figure of a sad-eyed young girl stood before her. Carina guessed her to be a few years younger than herself. "Are you looking for me?"
The apparition nodded.
"Did you come for healing?" Carina guessed. As the girl's form became more solid, she could see a fevered look in the ghost's eyes. Again, the ghost nodded.
"Show me." Carina had no idea how she was going to help. The girl's gown was a fashion that was long out of favor. What if she doesn't know she's dead? Carina wondered. What if she's still waiting for a healer to come? I wish Tris were here!
Now the girl's ghost was fully formed, as if someone stood before Carina covered in gray gauze. The girl's neck looked badly swollen on either side of her jaw, and from the way she stood and held her arms, Carina guessed other places were painfully swollen also. Darker patches appeared on the girl's arms and face, and Carina guessed that in life, they had been lesions. The longing in the ghost's eyes brought Carina to tears.
"I have no idea whether this will work," she said, more to herself than to the ghost. "Do you know that you're dead?" she asked gently.
The ghost slowly nodded. "Something is keeping you here. I'm not a Summoner. But I'll do what I can." Carina drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. She stretched out her hands until she felt the chill of the mist fold around them. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Keeping the image of the ghostly girl in her mind, Carina drew on her healing power. And in the back of her mind, she felt a tingle of magic, old and deep. Someone is watching, she thought. She shook her head, unsure which was more irrational—the idea that she could heal a ghost or the thought that she was being watched.
Carina felt healing magic warm her hands. Keeping the mental image of the girl firmly in mind, Carina let her hands move from the ghost's forehead down to her swollen neck, imagining how her power would heal a living person. Slowly, she let her palms glide over the ghost girl's body. She imagined the painful swelling decreasing, the fever abating, the lesions closing over with new skin. Gently working her way down the girl's form, Carina mentally pictured joints aching with fever gaining relief beneath her touch. Nothing but air met her touch. Without Tris's ability to move on the Plains of Spirit, Carina relied on her intuition, hoping that if the girl's spirit could manifest within the space between her hands, enough of the girl's essence remained to absorb the healing energy Carina's magic projected.
When she finished her mental "treatment," Carina opened her eyes.
The ghost girl stood before her, and Carina saw the shadow of tears streak down the specter's cheeks. "I don't know whether I've done anything at all," Carina said, embarrassed.
The ghost knelt before her and reached for and through Carina's hand in gratitude. Through her tears, the girl smiled, standing. She gave a deep curtsey, and then her image began to fade. Carina found herself staring at an empty room as the last hint of the ghost's' presence disappeared.
"Lady be! Never have I seen someone heal the dead!"
Carina turned, blushing as she saw Lisette standing by the door. "I don't really know that I did anything at all," Carina murmured. "She was in so much pain. I figured that since she was already dead, it couldn't hurt to try."
Lisette looked overcome with emotion. She closed her eyes tightly, a mortal gesture against tears that the undead could not shed. "M'lady, that girl has wandered these corridors for two hundred years, seeking a healer who never came. She was the daughter of the first Lord of Dark Haven. It was the last time a great plague swept over this land. The girl took sick, but the healer they sent for never arrived. Some healers died tending their patients, and others fled, afraid to catch the disease. The girl died, and took with her many of the servants. In his grief, the Lord hanged himself. It's said that she's bound by her guilt over those deaths. No one ever thought to try to set her spirit at rest. She was only a ghost. But you tried. That changed something, m'lady. She looked to be at peace."
"I'm not a Summoner," Carina stammered. "I spent a year with Tris Drayke. I don't have anything like his power."
"The girl wasn't asking to pass across to the Lady. She wanted someone to end her pain. You were willing to try." Lisette took Carina's hands in her own icy grasp. "You're so overburdened now, I shouldn't ask. But if such a thing is possible, might it not be possible for you to become a mind healer? It's not just the power—it's the willingness to touch those of us others dismiss. Please, m'lady, won't you think on it?"
"Sister Taru in Principality City is the only mind healer I know. I'll write her a letter. Perhaps when the snows melt, she'll be willing to come if there's a chance I might be ready to learn from her."
Lisette smiled broadly and embraced her. "Truly the Lady sent you! Hope dies long before life ends. But after what I saw today, I have hope once more. Thank you, m'lady."
Eighth bells had chimed before Carina wearily climbed the steps to her quarters, looking forward to a chance to clean up and change clothes before dinner. Lisette spoke with two servants briefly before joining Carina on the stairs.
"Lord Jonmarc is expected back shortly," she reported as they reached Carina's room. "There are preparations to be made. It's the first night of Winterstide, and as lord of the manor, he has many responsibilities. I believe he and Lord Gabriel went to fell a tree for the Dresill log. The cooks have been busy all day. I no longer require your food, but Winterstide is the one season when I can't resist a few tastes of my old favorites."
Carina stripped off her stained healer's robes and welcomed the warmed basin of water Lisette brought for her. "I think we'll both be grateful if Winterstide passes quietly this year." Lisette listened wide-eyed as Carina recounted the previous year's celebration in King Staden's court, ending with the assassination attempt on Tris's life that had nearly cost Jonmarc his own.
"Lady bless! I should hope Lord Jonmarc is safer here. I don't think even Uri would be bold enough to strike, with Gabriel and Yestin so close." She handed Carina a fresh shift. "You may find Dark Haven's celebrations much different from either Isencroft's or King Staden's court. We keep the old ways here."
Lisette laid out a black dress that shimmered with strands of silver and small crystals beaded into the elaborate bodice. "Each nightbelongs to one of the Aspects of the Lady. Tonight, we pay homage to the Formless One."
Carina slipped into the dress. "Tris saw the Formless One take Jared's soul. He said She was a fearsome presence."
"Fearsome, yes. But not evil. Chaos is necessary for creation. Those who know the old stories understand that Nameless is the Aspect of ending and beginning. She takes the souls of those who must be re-formed in the great cauldron, those who are not ready yet for rest. During Winterstide, Nameless leads a wild host through the skies. She rides a pale steed, and the wights and spirits ride with Her. Those whose hearts are secretly evil fear Her, because She knows their thoughts. Sometimes, she catches an evil-hearted person up with Her to ride across the night sky, and leaves him like one dead many leagues away. But Nameless also blesses the fields and the trees and the livestock." Lisette grinned at Carina. "And it's said that the wild winds favor new brides who wish to conceive."
Carina blushed and busied herself with the lacing of her bodice. "Healers are able to control such things, as the hedge witches do."
"Bearing children is one thing my kind can't do, and I was brought across before I became a mother. I would dote on your children as if they were my own."
"How were you brought across?"
"My story isn't very important."
"It is to me," Carina sat down near the fire and welcomed Lisette to sit with her.
"I was the youngest daughter of a minor noble on the outskirts of Palace City. My father made an arranged marriage for me to the son of a wealthy merchant. But my husband cared more about my dowry." Her eyes grew dark with the memories. "He didn't need to be drunk to beat me, and his attentions were rough. One night I came back late from the market. He was in a rage, and accused me of taking a lover, though I'd never been with any man but him. He raped me, beat me senseless, and then he threw me out in the snow to die." Lisette was silent again for a few moments.
"Laisren found me. Later he confessed that he'd been watching me from a distance for a long time. He brought me across and he took me to his home and helped me make the passage. Then, when I slept, Laisren returned and killed my husband for what he had done to me. No one ever found the body, and no one missed him." Lisette looked down, and her long hair fell around her face. "That was almost two hundred years ago. Laisren and I have been together since then, soulbound in the Dark Gift. Now do you see why I asked if you were a mind healer? It would be a great gift if you could ease the pain of old memories. Not take them completely, because they make us who we are. But make them distant, heal the wounds. Even after centuries, some memories are as fresh and raw as if it were yesterday."
"Sister Taru told me that mindhealing comes with time for many healers. Even though my gift is strong, I'm not yet a mind healer. But if I become one, I promise that I'll serve both vayash moru and mortals. You have my word."
"Thank you, m'lady."
There was a knock at the door from the shared parlor just before it opened, and Jon-marc peered into the room. "Ready for dinner?" He was also dressed in black.
"Lisette was just telling me about Winter-stide in Dark Haven."
"Good. Then you can help me remember what I'm supposed to do." He held out an arm for Carina. They descended the great main stairs into the throng of celebrants below. In the candlelight, Carina glimpsed a glint of light mail beneath his shirt, a precaution after the previous season.
"Wait until you see the ballroom. Even without Tris, there are enough ghosts here to put Haunts to shame. Seems most of our guests— living and undead—brought along an ancestor or two for company."
"So where were you?"
"Gabriel's been talking me through what I'm supposed to do. On the first night of Winterstide, it's customary for the Lord of the manor to exchange a gift of gold coins with the merchant guild, and a sheaf of wheat with the farmers. Good luck for the new year. Earlier today, I took five men and a team of horses to chop down a large oak and drag it out of the woods. You'll see it in the courtyard. They've started a bonfire at one end of it. Each night we'll push more of the log in until it's all burned—that's supposed to be a good sign. At sundown, Gabriel took me out to the barrow where they bury the lords of the manor. I guess sometimes the spirits feel inclined to give advice, but they didn't seem to have anything to say tonight."
Outside, a fierce wind blew. In response, the crowd raised their tankards of ale and wassail and gave a cheer, saluting Nameless and the wild host. The cheer became a toast as Jon-marc and Carina entered the room arm in arm. A feast of roasted goat and goose was spread on the largest table, along with rum pudding and brandied fruits, yams and leeks and pies with baked apples and raisins. The smell of mulled cider and spiced wine joined the scent of burning evergreen as pine boughs crackled on top of the logs in the hearth, sending sparks into the air.
In a place of honor at the head of the table was the goat's head, an offering to the Lady. The children at the feast brought small figures made of straw, people and animals and star shapes, and placed them in homage around the goat's head. An elderly woman, one of the matrons of the village, made her way to place an offering bowl of porridge, thick with nuts and berries, in tribute to the spirits. Around the great room, wreaths of yew and holly were adorned with winter berries. A large evergreen branch in one corner was hung with straw talismans in the shape of the Lady's mark. Eight glass globes with small candles, one for each of the Lady's eight faces, were suspended from its twigs.
"I've never seen such a feast!" Carina exclaimed, as Gabriel and Laisren joined them. In the center of the room a spot had been cleared for dancing, and the musicians played a lively reel. Carina recognized Yestin and Eiria among the dancers who wheeled and twirled to the music.
"You might have, had you been in Margolan or Principality a few hundred years ago," Gabriel said, bowing low in greeting and kissing the back of Carina's hand. "Those of us who've outlived our times can take comfort in remembering the old ways at least once a year. Though it's vexing that the mead has lost its taste for me."
"That's why there's fresh goat's blood and plenty of it. I hope you're in a party mood," Laisren said to Carina. Lisette stood beside him, and it was clear that they were a couple. "In Dark Haven, Winterstide is eight days, not a fortnight as they celebrate at the palace. Each night is for one of the Aspects. By the end, the mortals are drunk and the rest of us are sated enough to need a week to sleep it off!"
Yestin and Eiria joined them, flushed with the dancing. "Ah, but in Eastmark, the vyrkin aren't forgotten," Yestin said, slipping his arm around Eiria. Eiria seemed to lean heavily on Yestin, as if she did not feel well. "On the fourth night, the night of the Dark Lady, the spirits of the vyrkin come to pay tribute to the king of Eastmark. All vyrkin, living and dead, meet with the king around a great fire, and the seers of our kind give the king a prophecy for the coming year. One of the Dark Lady's prophetesses and one of our seers in human form dance together, a ritual that tells how the Dark Lady and the Stawar God we're joined. I've heard tell that the king brings with him two head of cattle, so there's meat enough for all!"
Carina laughed. "Isencroft isn't nearly so colorful. With Chenne as its patron, Winterstide is all jousts and bonfires, and a special pyre for the heroes and honored dead. There are all kinds of contests and sporting events, and the winners are honored at a great banquet with the king. I never did figure out why we feast for twelve nights instead of eight."
Gabriel answered her. "A very old tradition. Eight for the faces of the Lady and four more for Her consorts: the gods of the stawar, the wolf, the bear and the eagle."
Despite the roaring fire a draft moved through the room, and Carina knew that the kindred dead were near. Some were able to make themselves seen without the aid of a Summoner, but the others who lacked such power moved unseen through the room, joining in the dance or clustering by the fire.
Another gust of wind rattled the manor windows and shrieked across the rooftop, met with a hearty cheer by the celebrants within. Carina shivered and Jonmarc drew her against him, wrapping his arms around her. Across the room, the musicians struck up a lively tune.
"A dance, m'lady?" Jonmarc asked with a smile, making an exaggerated bow and clicking the heels of his boots together. Carina let him lead her to the dance floor. Yestin and Eiria joined them, as did Laisren and Lisette, while Gabriel withdrew to the corner of the room to confer with Riqua. They danced until the bells tolled the eleventh hour and Carina dropped gratefully into a chair gasping for breath.
"Enough! It's warm as summer in here with that fire."
Jonmarc handed Carina a cup of wassail, and looked up as Gabriel began to move from the far side of the room with a nod in his direction. "Catch your breath while I take care of some official business. Then we'll see about another dance."
He made his way to the hearth and clapped his hands for attention. Gradually the rowdy group grew quiet and the musicians ended their tune.
"Good Winterstide!" Jonmarc was greeted with a roar of cheers and raised mugs. "Before we feast, Lord Gabriel tells me that we have some courtesies to see to. First, to our spirit guests, welcome!" In reply, a gust of wind flickered the candles and danced in the fire at the hearth. Gabriel poured a cup of cream and handed it to Jonmarc, who set it next to the porridge by the fire in tribute.
"And to the spirits of Dark Haven, good feast." The fire suddenly roared in the fireplace, sending sparks, dancing up through the chimney. "A toast to the Lady in all Her faces, for the bounty we enjoy," Jonmarc said, lifting his goblet high. The rich, strong mead was brewed especially for the feast. Even in Isen-croft, Carina knew that oaths made over a cup of the mead at Winterstide were considered binding, in this life and the next.
There was a stir at the far end of the room, near the outer doors. Two of the village men led in large boar. Harnessed securely, the boar followed the promise of a large turnip held out before it. The boar and its keepers passed through the partygoers, and they made way as if the large animal were an honored guest.
"What's going on?" Carina whispered to Lisette.
"By tradition, the Lord of the manor blesses the boar and makes a sacred oath. Then it's slaughtered. The blood is given to the vayash moru, a portion of the raw meat to the vyrkin, and the rest is cooked on a slow fire for the feast tomorrow, Sinhame, the Crone's Night."
The boar was led to the front of the common room, and Gabriel gave Jonmarc a goblet of mead. Carina had no idea how much coaching Gabriel must have given Jonmarc, but he moved through the ritual as if he had been doing it all his life. "The blessing of the Lady on you, and on us," Jonmarc said, pouring a few drops of the mead on the boar's head. Then Jonmarc raised the goblet, and met Carina's gaze.
"An oath, to my lady," Jonmarc said. "First, that I will always come for you. And second, that we'll have a proper ritual wedding, before the next moon is full." He dashed the goblet and its mead into the fire. The boar reared and squealed. Another turnip was produced from the pocket of one of the animal's tenders and the boar was led from the room. Amid the cheers of the guests, Jonmarc moved to meet Carina in the center of the great room. The musicians struck up another tune, and Carina smiled as Jonmarc took her in his arms and they began to dance. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"You did well up there," she murmured.
"Gabriel's a good teacher. We didn't exactly celebrate like this in the Borderlands." He touched the shevir at her wrist and it sparkled in the firelight. "I wanted to get through all the Winterstide celebrating before the wedding. I hope you don't mind."
Carina stretched up on tip toe and kissed his cheek. "As long as we're together, I don't mind at all."
The next day, Carina found that her misgivings about the number of patients awaiting her care was correct. Twice as many people waited for her. Jonmarc stopped in at lunch time to bring her a slab of fresh bread with cheese from the kitchen and a small crock of hot soup. "Thought you might like to eat, since dinner's late again tonight," he said. She tore off a chunk of bread and offered it to him, but he shook his head.
"Already ate. I've got more business to take care of in the village before the festival tonight. You've got a role in tonight's festivities, according to Gabriel."
"Oh?"
"As the Lady of the manor, you get to make an offering to the spirit of the big oak tree just outside the manor. And there's a procession from the village to the barrows tonight. Personally, I'm hoping that the whole festival remains calm and boring. I had enough excitement last year!" He kissed her and left her to finish her meal.
"Lord Vahanian!" Jonmarc had barely reached the stable when Rann, one of bis mortal guardsmen, came running up. Two more guardsmen were behind him.
"You're out early."
Rann shook his head. "I was just headed to the manor to find you. One oi the men from Haven village came in a panic this morning. There's been an attack."
"What kind of attack?"
"We were headed out to see. You'd best come with us, m'lord."
Jonmarc headed into the stables with the guardsmen. Four more of their fellows were already saddling up. "What warrants so many guards?"
"He said it was bad, m'lord. He called it a massacre."
On the road outside the village, they found a group of townsmen waiting for them. Their expressions extinguished the last hope Jonmarc had that the runner's story had been an exaggeration. In the distance, he could hear the wailing of mourners and the keening of the village women. "Where did it happen?" he asked the town's elder, a bearded man in the forefront of the group.
"Out of the far hills, sometime in the night, m'lord," the elder replied. "We've just been out, but I'll ride with you. Though I wish I never had to see such a thing again in my life." They rode half a candlemark. The wind whipped around them, making the snow rise from the ground in whirlwinds and driving it in gusts from where it lay heavily in the trees. When they reached the far hills, the elder reined in his horse, and Jonmarc looked out over the hillside.
Scattered across the hillside were the remains of sheep, torn limb from limb. The snow was dark with blood. Among the carcasses were the bodies of half a, dozen herders. "By the Whore!" Rann exclaimed as they neared the bodies. Other soldiers cursed in fear.
The men's throats showed two clear punctures; their bodies were pale as the snow. The corpses had been gutted, and then stuffed with hay and pebbles. Their entrails lay in a frozen mass beside them. Jonmarc fought the urg'e to retch. The tracks in the snow showed the herders' panic, running in vain as their attackers chased them. No tracks led to or from the site into the nearby woods. There were no tracks at all leading away, except by the trail they had followed.
"The herders that came out to relieve them found the bodies," the elder said. "They said that there were no tracks except their own. Only one boy survived, and he won't speak of what he saw. Whatever did this wasn't mortal, m'lord. They flew here and flew away. It didn't snow last night, and the wind hasn't been strong enough to cover the tracks completely. Crone take my soul! There are tales of the Wild Host doing such things, but that was long ago. What does it mean?"
"Someone's trying to start a war." Jonmarc paused. "Can you take me to the survivor?"
"He's with the hedge witch. Half-frozen and terrified near out of his wits."
The group rode in silence back to the village. As they neared the small grouping of houses and shops, the sound of bells and mourners grew louder.
The elder led them to a small house at the edge of town. The smell of herbs and poultices permeated the thatched-roof cottage. The hedge witch was a plump, stooped woman with short-cropped gray hair. Jonmarc could feel the accusation in her glare as he passed, and the unspoken charge that the Lord of the manor had failed in his vows.
Near the fireplace sat a boy about fifteen seasons old, huddled in a threadbare blanket. He did not look up when they entered.
"I've warmed him up, but he won't eat," the hedge witch said. "Not a mark on him. Don't know whether the Host did him a kindness or not, leaving him alive to tell the tale." She looked at Jonmarc. "His name is Kendry. His father and older brother were also with the herds."
Jonmarc remembered when he shared a similar fate. How long was it before I would tell Shanna's mother what happened to my family, my village, when the raiders came? Weeks? It was years before I stopped dreaming about it.
"Kendry," the elder said gently. "Lord Vahanian has come to talk with you. He wants to know what you saw."
Jonmarc took a step toward Kendry, and when the boy did not start in fear, he hunkered down to be on eye level. "I'm sorry about your family."
Kendry nodded, never taking his eyes off the fire.
Jonmarc drew a deep breath. "When I was fifteen summers old, raiders came to my village. They killed my family. Everyone but me. No one ever went after them, ever caught the men who burned my village. I want to find the people who killed your family, Kendry. Find them and make them pay. But I need to know what you saw."
Kendry was silent for so long Jonmarc did not think the boy would speak.
"It was the middle of the night," Kendry said. "The moon was high and full. We were sleeping. Gastell saw them first. A score of dark figures, flying through the sky. They circled us, wailing and moaning. And then—" The boy's voice broke and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly as tears started down his cheeks.
"They were dressed all in black, with masks over their faces. They dived at us. They started to chase us and scatter the sheep. There was nowhere to run. They picked up Gastell and I saw them, saw them—" Kendry buried his face in his hands. Jonmarc laid a hand on the boy's shoulder as the hedge witch pushed forward to talk softly with Kendry and lead him into a back room.
Jonmarc stood and looked to the village elder. "I'm sorry about your men, and your herd. When he's ready to travel, bring the boy to the manor. Perhaps Carina can help him." He looked back to where the hedge witch tended the boy in the back room, and wondered how he could expect the villagers to heed his next request. "I need your word that you'll let us handle this," Jonmarc said to the elder. "I'll go to the Blood Council. There are a small number of rogue vayash moru trying to end the truce. You know that if that happens, we all suffer."
"Aye. We'll do our best to keep the peace. But those were our lads out there. The families are going to want justice. And if it happens again—"
"I'll do everything in my power to make sure it doesn't. I need you to buy me some time to handle this. Let me bring it to the Blood Council. I promise you, your dead will be avenged."
"I'll do as you ask, Lord Vahanian, to the best of my power. But they will be avenged— one way or another."
"I'm sorry, m'lady, but they keep coming." Neirin, Jonmarc's day manager, apologized. After news spread far and wide about Carina's healing, Neirin had appointed himself gatekeeper to assure that the crowds that sought her attention remained orderly.
"It's not your fault. Any more word about what happened in Haven?"
"Lord Jonmarc went from there out to the south holdings. The story from the guards is all I know."
"Send after the boy tomorrow, please. I don't dare leave tonight with so many waiting. If he'll come to the manor, I'll see what I can do for him." Carina listened as the bells tolled the fourth hour. "I just wish Jonmarc would get back before dark."
"Understandable, m'lady," Neirin said. "And I'll do as you ask." He looked out over the long line of people waiting to be healed. How far news had traveled of the attack was uncertain, but waiting patients were edgier than usual. "I've brought a couple of the serving girls, and a midwife from the village. If you give them direction, they can help with simple things like binding up wounds. Lisette will come at nightfall. Eiria volunteered as well."
"I'll be glad for their help," Carina confessed. "Goddess! At least when I treated battle wounded I wasn't the only healer!"
Carina put the two mortal servants to work separating out the sickest patients from those with minor injuries. She set to work, not noticing that the sun had set until Lisette came to take over as her assistant.
"Your fame is spreading," Lisette observed, helping Carina calm a small girl with a bad burn on her arm.
"Jonmarc warned me that it had been a long time since Dark Haven had a full healer, but I didn't realize just what that meant," Carina tried to distract the girl long enough to heal the burn. "When Arontala stole the orb from under the manor, Dark Haven seemed to go to sleep," Lisette observed. "Now, with the new lord, things are awakening, both good and bad."
"What do you mean?" Carina slipped into a light trance as she sped the healing of the girl's arm, willing the pain to decrease as the new skin covered the angry burn. The girl's mother bowed low, repeating her thanks and trying to offer Carina the sparse contents of her satchel in gratitude.
"Last night, the Wild Host seemed closer than I've ever felt them. Today, I heard the servants talking about the killings in Haven. None of the mortals can remember when that happened before. Even those of us who have lived centuries have only heard of such a thing on occasion. The Flow beneath the manor seems to be stirring. I can't explain it, but I've been here long enough to know that its energy is different, darker. I'll be glad as anyone when the Dark Aspects' nights are over."
Carina sat back on her haunches. She still had about a dozen patients waiting for her attention. She wiped her hands on her robe and sipped at a cup of kerif, now gone cold.
"Tonight is for the Crone?" she asked, beckoning her next patient, a young man with a badly-broken leg. "I thought Principality frowned on Crone worship."
"They do. But what the Nargi call the Crone has no likeness to the ancient tales. I've heard the elder vayash moru tell stories. In the old days, Sinha was a weaver, not a hag with a cauldron. She spun the threads of life and wove out destiny, determining how long each thread should be. That's why woven gifts are given tonight, shawls and blankets. Like Nameless, Sinha comes for unrepentant souls because their threads must be ripped out and woven again. She can be harsh, like the winter wind. She was also a tanner, taking the hides of evil men and rekindling the spark to send their souls back until their lessons were learned.
"But the Nargi took Sinha's name and put it onto other stories. Sinha wasn't a destroyer or a monster. The Nargi's priests have made Her so, because it suited them. Tonight in the procession, you'll see a very old custom, where Sinha battles Peyhta, the soul-eater. In Nargi, Sinha and Peyhta became one."
"Why would anyone want to worship a monster?" Carina removed the soiled strips of cloth that bandaged a festering leg wound. She gritted her teeth against the smell and focused her healing power. At the edges of her power, she could feel a drain—more noticeable now that Lisette had drawn her attention to it. Deep below Dark Haven, the Flow was tainted. Carina could sense its energies, tugging at her. "Laisren says we make our gods in our own image," Lisette said. "The Nargi priests rule by fear, and Peyhta rides in nightmares to feed on souls. The Nargi give those images power by choosing to worship Her. Sometimes, it's best to let the old gods die."
Jonmarc swung down from his saddle, tired and sore. The morning's events still weighed heavily on his mind. Gabriel would have risen for the night by the time Jonmarc reached the manor, and the briefing would not be pleasant.
Jonmarc stretched. After he'd done what he could to calm the villagers in Haven, he'd spent the rest of the day out with the farmers in the southern holdings, mending fences. This night, sacred to the weaver-Crone, was considered a lucky day to patch fences, make rope, and tie new nets. Despite the cold and a constant flurry of snow, the village men and boys had turned out to walk the fence lines, mending the stacked stone and zigzagged wood in preparation for the new herds of the spring. As darkness fell, Jonmarc's face and hands were red and cold, and he could barely feel his toes. "You'd think after last year, I'd remember what winter in Principality is like," he muttered to himself. His breath steamed in the bitterly cold air.
An old memory came back to him as he patted his horse's neck and led the animal toward the stables. He could hear the snick-snick of the weaver's shuttle, as constant a sound in his boyhood home as the clang of blacksmiths'
hammers. An image of his mother came to mind, weaving a shawl of the finest yarns. Soft, light, and delicate, it showed the best of her craft. He remembered watching as his mother carefully wrapped the shawl in another piece of cloth, tying it closed with yarn. Then she placed the package on the doorstep in the snow, along with cakes and a cup of ale. "For the elder-Goddess," she had said when he questioned. He'd never connected that patron of weavers to the fearsome dark Crone of the Nargi. Now, on the Crone's Eve, the two images warred in his memory. Which' was right? And could even Tris know for certain?
He led his horse into its stall and took off the saddle. None of the grooms was in sight, so he hung up the tack himself and looked for a blanket to cover his horse. Only one of the lamps burned in the stable, casting the rest of the barn in deep shadow. Without warning, the shadows struck. The figure tackled him from behind. Jonmarc reacted on instinct, driving his elbow back hard. His elbow connected, but the attacker showed no pain. Arms clenched around his chest like iron bands, and for a few seconds, Jonmarc could not breathe. Then the attacker threw him forward and Jonmarc stumbled, gasping for breath and reaching for his sword. In the half light of the lantern, he glimpsed his opponent, dressed in black, with a black hood and mask. Only eyes showed, and in them, Jonmarc read a challenge. Behind him in its stall, Jonmarc's horse shied in fear and banged against its gate.
Jonmarc drew his sword, but the attacker shot upward, out of reach. Jonmarc heard boot steps behind him as a powerful blow struck his hand, knocking his sword from his grip. He swung into an Eastmark kick, connecting with the shadowed attacker's chest and knocking his opponent backward, but it came at him again with impossible speed. The shadow fighter rushed at Jonmarc, pushing him backward so that he skidded half the length of the barn. He hit one of the support posts and it knocked the breath from him.
The attacker disappeared into the shadows, and Jonmarc climbed to his feet warily, every sense on alert. A rush of air was his only warning. The black-clad stranger struck from the side, knocking them into the middle of the empty barn. Jonmarc held on, landing blow after blow with his boots and knee. A human fighter would have been howling in rage and pain. The dark opponent remained eerily silent. Triumph glinting in his eyes, the attacker lifted Jonmarc by the throat with one hand, holding him high enough that Jonmarc's boots dangled a hand's-breadth above the floor. Jonmarc struggled, knowing that the hand that held him could easily crush his neck. The stranger stood no taller than himself, more slightly built; no human could heft him so casually. Pinpricks of light danced in front of him as he tore at the attacker's hand, trying to free himself. Just as he thought he might black out, the attacker threw him to the floor.
It was the opening Jonmarc needed. His sword lay beyond the lantern light, at the edge of the shadows. Jonmarc dived for his sword, wheeling on his opponent and sinking the blade deep into the attacker's belly. For an instant, the dark eyes behind the mask met his, and Jonmarc saw a hint of amusement. Run through, the attacker hegan to laugh, and flew backward, freeing itself from Jonmarc's blade and disappearing into the shadows.
Jonmarc heard a deep growl and a huge wolf sprang from the shadows, leaping past him and landing where his attacker had been just an instant before. Jonmarc recognized the gray-streaked fur of Yestin, and struggled for breath. "You're too late. I think it's gone." He looked at his sword. The blade was dark with an ichor that was not blood. His sword-stroke should have been a mortal wound, but the sawdust on the floor showed no blood at all.
The wolf-Yestin slowly circled the barn, growling as it peered into the shadows. The horses now sensed no threat, and watched the wolf curiously or went back to their feed. At the edge of the shadows, the wolf's outline blurred. The space where the wolf stood rippled and folded on itself, growing larger. Yestin straightened and stood. "It's a bit cold out here," he said. "Don't have any clothes hidden about. And I don't fancy frostbite!" Jonmarc tossed a horse blanket to him.
"Thanks for coming. But your timing's off."
"What happened?"
Yestin's frown grew deeper as Jonmarc recounted the attack. "I'm certain he was vayash moru," Jonmarc finished. "What I can't figure out is, why? He had the opportunity to kill me if that's what he wanted. But I had the sense that he was testing me. As if he wanted to know how I'd react, what I'd do in a fight."
"And how did you do?"
"The practice with Laisren is paying off. I'm faster than I've ever been. Couldn't get a clean shot to put my blade through his heart, but I ran him through."
"So there was a possibility that whoever attacked you might have been destroyed," Yestin mused. "Everyone knows you're good with a sword. Whether skill or luck, you might have taken off his head or run him through the heart. So your attacker is a gambler. Uri?"
Jonmarc shook his head, sheathing his blade. He threw a blanket over his horse and checked its feed and water. "Wrong build. Too tall. Too thin. The mask and hood covered both face and hair. I don't have any idea who it could have been."
Outside, the bells chimed the seventh hour. "Come on," Yestin said. "You've got official duties tonight. "We'll figure out what was behind this. I'll walk you in, and then we'll find Gabriel. He'll want to know what happened."
"Odd that all the grooms were gone. The stable's never empty."
Yestin raised an eyebrow. "It's early enough that the grooms would have been humans, not vayash moru. Want to bet they all felt some urgent 'need' to go somewhere right before you were attacked?"
They headed out of the stable together. Outside, the courtyard bustled with humans and vayash moru hurrying toward the night's festivities. "Whoever did this isn't worried about breaking the truce," Jonmarc said.
"Or he considers it already broken. A very bad sign indeed."
Jonmarc and Yestin headed for Gabriel's rooms in the lower level of the manor. They found Gabriel already awake, dressed for the evening's events. Jonmarc recounted for both men what he had seen in the village that morning, and what had transpired in the stable. From the set of Gabriel's jaw, Jonmarc knew that he was furious.
"Whoever did this—and I have to believe it's tied to Uri—intends to provoke.a war. If this were anywhere but Dark Haven, war would be upon us."
"Convene the Blood Council. They've got to rein in Uri," Jonmarc urged.
"They'll be here within two candlemarks. It's customary for them to attend this feast day. Whether Uri will come or not remains to be seen." Gabriel frowned. "This is aggressive for Uri, out of character. It may be that his brood has gone farther than he intended."
"Even Uri has to see the danger," Yestin said.
"For years, Uri has argued for our kind to take the upper hand. Nothing like this happened. Either something has changed within his brood, or someone else has a stake in beginning this war. Either way, if war comes, we all lose."
Carina opened the door from the sitting room almost immediately after Jonmarc entered his rooms.
"I thought I heard you in the hallway." She stopped and took in his dirt-streaked great coat, and the bruise from the fight beginning to darken on his cheek. "What happened?"
"Someone ambushed me in the stable. No idea who it was—but he wasn't mortal."
Carina moved to stand beside him, reaching up to heal the bruise on his cheek. Her touch was warm and her healing magic sent a calmness through him. When the bruise was gone, she let her hand stroke down his cheek and rest on his chest. "Anything else I should know about?"
"My back is probably already black and blue after how hard I hit the post in the stable," Jonmarc confessed, wincing as she helped him slip his shirt off. He sat on a couch with his back to her so that she could ease the stiffness and mend the scraped skin. As Carina worked, Jonmarc told her about the attack on the herders, only to discover word had reached the manor by midday. .
"Lisette is beside herself she's so angry," Carina said. "I could feel the difference in the mood today—the people who came for healing were afraid. Lisette told me that the vayash moru servants are afraid, too." "Something else is bothering you." Carina withdrew a letter from one of the pouches at her belt. "It's a letter from Cam." "Rough life guarding Donelan?" Carina handed him the letter. Jonmarc scanned the paper, making out Cam's cramped handwriting as best he could. "I don't get it. He sounds like Isencroft's on the brink of uprising."
"It's because of Kiara—and Tris. Kiara's the only direct heir to the Isencroft throne, remember? When Donelan dies, the thrones of Isencroft and Margolan will be joined until heirs can be born for both. That's not going over well in Isencroft." She shook her head. "There was an incident in Isencroft before Kiara left for the wedding—some crazy divi-sionist tried to kill her. I'm afraid, Jonmarc—for Cam and Donelan and Kiara."
"I figured whoever sent that magicked beast at the wedding was after Tris."
"So did I. Maybe we were wrong."
"Cam's pretty good at taking care of himself. Donelan's got an army to protect him. Kiara has Mikhail and Harrtuck, as if she needed any help in a fight."
"She's pregnant, Jonmarc. She won't be able to fight like she did on the road for long. Tris is gone to war. If something happens to Kiara, the kingdoms won't be joined. Jared's loyalists have their own reasons to want the heir out of the way. She's so far away, and I can't help her."
"You're the one who's always telling me to trust the Lady."
Carina leaned against him, letting him hold her close. "No other choices, are there? For any of us."
A candlemark later, the Blood Council met in Gabriel's rooms. Tonight, Jonmarc found that his anger burned hot enough to overcome any fear at being the only mortal in the room. All of the Council was present, even Uri. Jonmarc watched their faces as Gabriel recounted the attack.
"You say you control your own. Prove it." Jonmarc met Rafe's eyes.
"This is none of our doing. Surely you know that?" Rafe countered.
"There were a dozen men gutted like deer out on that hillside, and a boy who saw masked creatures hunt the men for sport before tearing them and their herd apart."
"The hill country is dangerous at this time of year," Uri said. "Perhaps a wolf—"
Yestin started forward from where he stood behind Gabriel. "It wasn't wolves."
Jonmarc rounded on Uri, standing close enough to smell his rancid breath. "It wasn't a wolf that ambushed me in the stables. It was vayash moru. Whatever game you're playing ends tonight, Uri. The villagers aren't going to take any more of this." He leaned closer. "If this is about Dark Haven, then stop sending your underlings to do your work. You want the title? Then challenge me. Now."
No one moved. Jonmarc refused to look away, meeting Uri's eyes defiantly. Uri's face puffed in indignation, and his hands balled at his side. Just as quickly as his bluster came, it faded.
"I knew nothing of the murders before tonight," Uri said, taking a step back. "I spent last night until almost dawn at the Drunk Rooster Inn, playing contre dice. Ask the bar-keep—I never left the common room."
"What about your brood?" Jonmarc was too angry to care about the danger. The single arrow trigger was beneath his sleeve. He was close enough to score a fatal shot before Uri could stop him. Give me an excuse.
Uri glanced at Malesh. "I can't account for them every minute. But my link to them is strong—I'm sure I would have known."
"This solves nothing." Riqua said. "Either one of us has lost control over our family, or there are others of our kind outside our circle who've done this. Brawling among ourselves won't fix it."
Jonmarc turned away grudgingly. His heart was pounding and it took effort to unclench his fists. "The villagers aren't going to make distinctions if they start burning crypts," Jonmarc said, taking satisfaction at seeing Astasia startle. "There aren't enough vayash moru to kill them all—and if you did, how long do you think it would be until Staden brought his army down to keep the peace?" He glared at Uri again. "Or did you forget? The title wasn't granted by the Blood Council. I'm liegeman to King Staden. Attack me, and the king is oath-bound to retaliate. Don't start a war you can't finish."
Gabriel moved between Jonmarc and Uri. "There will be no war. We all have too much to lose." He glanced sharply at his fellows on the Council. "Jonmarc's right—if the mortals strike back, none of us is safe. See to your own houses. We need to bring the murderers to justice—-swiftly and publicly—if we expect the forbearance of the mortals."
The festival night had a subdued feeling about it. Dark mead and rum cakes, the traditional foods this night, were in ample supply, along with blood pudding. The musicians played a lively tune. Carina noticed that their songs became bawdier as the night went on, as if they were trying too hard to rouse the crowd to higher spirits. This evening, the guests ranged from vyrkin and vayash moru to merchants and farmers. Carina even glimpsed the ghost girl among the night's revelers in the shadows along the wall. Despite the ale and the minstrels, the gathering felt different. Carina was certain the happenings in the village had dampened the mood.
In honor of the weaver-Crone, the evening's dances were circle dances where men and women clasped arms and wove in and out to the music. Taking a break from the dancing, Carina wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. It was a gift from Lisette and Eiria, a beautiful piece from one of the village's best weavers. Alerted by Neirin, Carina had returned a similar gift to each of her friends. The dress Carina wore was Jonmarc's gift this night—finely woven linen with an intricate border done in the style of the local artisans. The match between the shawl and the dress was so perfect, Carina suspected that Lisette and Eiria had known of the gift in advance. Jonmarc's cloak, set aside for the moment in the warm room, was Carina's gift, a heavy coat of woven wool that was sturdy enough even for a Principality winter.
As the bells tolled the eleventh hour, Gabriel touched Carina on the shoulder. "It's time to make your gift to the Lady," he said, and held out her cloak. Lisette appeared, holding a deep crockery bowl filled with cream and honey. Jonmarc fell into step beside her as they left the great room, with the rest of the merry-makers behind them.
Outside the main doors of Dark Haven, bonfires lit up the courtyard. In the center was an ancient oak. It towered above the manor house, and its branches spread above much of the courtyard. Neirin had schooled her on the proper way to present the gift of cream and honey to the Weaver-Crone, but Carina still felt nervous as she approached the ancient tree. The snow had been cleared from its base, and its roots buckled up beneath the cobblestones of the courtyard.
At its base, Carina knelt, carefully holding the bowl in front of her. "Lady of the loom, we offer our gifts," Carina said. "Grant us favor." She gradually tipped the bowl, watching steam rise from the warm cream as it poured onto the roots of the old tree.
As the cream spilled out onto the tree trunk and the cobblestones beneath, Carina felt energy crackle around her. Welling up from beneath the ground, traveling like lightning along the deepest roots, old power rose to envelop her. An image burned into her mind, of fire and rending and a red orb torn free, leaving a gash like a bleeding wound. There was an instant of agony, as if a clawed hand had reached into her body and torn loose her heart. In her mind, Carina saw a vision of the ground shaking, the west wing of Dark Haven collapsing in rubble, and panicked mortals running in fear. The Flow reached out to her, and the image of healing the ghost girl filled her mind. Pain, fear and desperation washed over her. Then, darkness.
"What happened?" Carina was still wearing her dress from the night's festival and lying on her own bed. Jonmarc sat beside her, holding her hand. Lisette pressed a cool cloth to her forehead. Gabriel stood in the corner opposite the fire, watching with concern.
Jonmarc shook his head, and Carina saw worry in his dark eyes. "You tell us. One minute you were presenting the offering to the tree. Then all of a sudden, you stiffened up and fell backward. Your eyes were open, but they sure weren't seeing anything. We brought you up here. It's been almost half a candle-mark."
Carina shut her eyes and swallowed, groping for words. "When I poured the cream on the tree roots, I saw a vision."
"The Crone?" Jonmarc asked with concern.
Carina shook her head. "I don't know. She recounted the vision at the foot of the tree. When she finished, Gabriel and Jonmarc exchanged glances. "And you've felt something like that before?" Gabriel asked.
Carina looked from Jonmarc to Gabriel. "Yes. Earlier today. When the ghost came."
Lisette stepped forward. "She healed the ghost girl, the one who died in the plague. I saw her."
Feeling foolish, Carina recounted what happened. But this time, she added her impression that something had been watching her. Gabriel's frown deepened.
"We assumed that healers saw no reason to come to Dark Haven because vayash moru had no need of them. We thought they were afraid. Perhaps there was another reason. Maybe they felt something here they couldn't explain, something that made them uncomfortable."
Jonmarc looked down. "This is all my fault. I never should have brought Carina here. It's too dangerous."
Gabriel shrugged. "There's no changing it. There've been storms in the Dhasson Pass. Snow as deep as a man's waist. No one's going to be traveling anywhere."
Carina took Jonmarc's hand. "I wouldn't go if I could. This is my home now. Here. With you."
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
Carina smiled. "Nothing's going to. Whoever, whatever it is had the power to hurt me if it wanted to. It's more like it wants me to know something, do something."
"Promise me you won't try anything foolish," Jonmarc said.
"I promise."
Gabriel laid a hand on Jonmarc's shoulder. "We'd best return to the feast and let the guests know Carina is resting. Mention how bard she's been working with all of the patients who have come to see her. Perhaps that will keep too many stories from spreading."
Jonmarc leaned down to kiss Carina on the forehead. "I'll be back to check in on you later. Now as you're so fond of telling me, get some rest."
Carina smiled and leaned back against the pillows. "You have the makings of a great healer."
The door closed behind Jonmarc and Gabriel before Lisette spoke. "Here's something odd, m'lady." Lisette held a book in her hands. The leather binding was cracked and broken and the pages yellowed. "This book was open on the table when we came in, but it wasn't there when we left. It's a record of the families of the Lords of Dark Haven. Births, feast days, marriages, deaths. Look here," she said. Carina followed Lisette's finger. The cramped handwriting was faded with time, but she could make out the inscription.
"Raen, daughter of Lord Brentig, died in the great plague on the twenty-first day of the Crone Moon," Carina read. "Raen, is that the name of the ghost?"
"She was watching from the shadows when Lord Jonmarc carried you up here. She didn't leave until you came around. That name seems familiar." Lisette frowned and went to the bookshelves. She returned with a thin leather-bound journal. "I picked this up a few days ago—it had fallen on the floor. I thought it an accident at the time, but now, I'm not so sure."
The journal was filled with neat, feminine handwriting. The name "Raen Brentig" was centered on the page, and a date.
"That's about a year before the last great plague struck."
Carina gently touched the page. "It's almost as if she wants us to know her," she said. Lisette removed the pillows from behind her so she could lie flat. "I seem to have made a friend."
Carina pulled the covers up around herself, handling the book carefully. "Has it always been the custom for the noble daughters in Principality to read and write?"
"It was fairly common when I was mortal," Lisette said. "I didn't know Raen, but she would have been alive close to the time I was brought across. A large manor is as complicated to run as any trade. A smart man wanted an educated wife to help keep the accounts."
Carina found herself drawn into the entries in the journal. Most were notes about the ups and downs of a young woman's life, with comments about parties and invitations and young men who caught Raen's eye. The lavender is blooming in the garden now. I'll have to take some for a fresh sachet. The ball is only a fortnight away. Carina turned the page. Another entry, dated just a few days after the first. Not feeling well. Hope, this passes by the ball. The rest of the pages were blank. Carina set the journal aside, lost in thought.
"Lord Jonmarc was right, m'lady. You must rest. Fear nothing. I'll watch until dawn."
Carina let herself sink into the mattress, warmed by the down comforter, her mind still on the journal and its sudden end. In the distance as she dreamed, she could hear Raen singing to her.
When Carina awoke, the first light of dawn was streaming through her windows. She lingered for a moment beneath the warm covers. Jonmarc had already left for the day's tasks, and Lisette had gone to rest. Few of the mortal servants were stirring. Dark Haven was quiet.
As Carina belted her healer's robe over her dress, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Raen stood in the shadows.
"Hello," Carina greeted the ghost girl. "Thank you for your song last night."
Raen moved toward the windows. The fire had warmed the room enough to fog the glass. As Carina watched, letters traced themselves in the fog. "Come."
Carina looked at Raen, perplexed. "Come where? Why?"
Another word formed as an invisible finger traced the letters. "Heal."
"You want me to heal someone? One of the ghosts?" Carina shook her head. "I don't know if it will work—I'm still not sure how I did what I did for you."
More letters appeared. "Hurt."
"All right. Let me gather my things— although if it's a ghost who needs my help, they won't be of much use."
Carina collected her pouches and opened the door. The corridor was empty. Raen glided out of the room and into the darkened hallway, visible as a green glow. Torches lit their way. Carina followed Raen down the back staircase to the second landing. The ghost halted at a door. "Those rooms haven't been restored," Carina said. "No one lives there now."
Raen glided through the closed wooden door. Carina reached for the nearest torch and took it down from the sconce on the wall. No footprints except for the scrabbling of mice marked the dust-covered floor. It was cold, and Carina shivered. "How far?"
Raen beckoned for her to follow. They passed a row of long-abandoned bedrooms. The corridor smelled musty, as if water had gotten in. At the end of the hallway a stairway descended into darkness.
"This is the East wing, isn't it?" Carina said, looking from the ghost to the dark stairs. "It's dangerous down there—Jonmarc said that's where the walls collapsed when the orb was stolen."
Raen reached out an insubstantial hand to lead the way. Carina pulled back. "We should wait. I don't think this is a good idea."
Raen moved back into the hallway, where a thin shaft of light struggled through a dirty window. The dust on the floor began to move. This time, the ghost drew a bare-limbed tree, and beneath it, one word. "Understand."
Carina looked at Raen. "The power that touched me last night, the presence that's making it hard for me to heal—that's what you want me to understand?"
Raen nodded.
Carina weighed her fear against the frustration of her gradually waning power. "Can I reach the bottom safely? You can go through solid rock, but I can't."
Raen moved toward the door. As they started down the stairs, Raen's form began to glow, adding to the torchlight in the lightless stairway. From the cramped turns and narrow tread, Carina guessed that it was a servant's passageway. She grimaced as cobwebs brushed her face. No one but the spirits had passed this way in many years. Carina counted the steps as they descended, making note of the landings. They kept going, as the stairway grew colder and the air damp. Carina was quite sure they were beneath the ground. Finally, they stopped in an antechamber. By the torchlight, Carina could see that deep cracks ran through the stone walls. Through the next archway, the darkness was broken by a silver glow. Carefully picking her way through bits of fallen rock, Carina realized that the archway was the opening to a natural cave.
Raen walked beside her as Carina crossed through the archway. Inside the cave, large pieces of rock littered the pathway. The walls glistened with crystals, and in the distance, Carina could hear falling water. A doorway on the opposite side of the chamber had collapsed. Coruscating light filled the cave, surrounding them with an evanescent glow.
Once before, during an Eastmark winter, Carina had glimpsed the Spirit Lights in the cold night sky. The ribbon of colored light glistened yellow and green, painted in bold strokes across the darkness. Like the Spirit Lights, the glow that filled the cave changed colors, as if the air were filled with diamond dust. The walls shone as the light hit crystals, reflecting in millions of tiny facets.
Carina could sense the power around her like a thunderstorm overhead. This is the Flow.
The glow became brighter, its colors began to shift. Gone were the tranquil shades of yellow and green. Deep pink and fiery red came over the glow as if reflecting a vivid sunset. At the reined in his horse, and Jonmarc looked out over the hillside.
Scattered across the hillside were the remains of sheep, torn limb from limb. The snow was dark with blood. Among the carcasses were the bodies of half' a dozen herders. "By the Whore!" Rann exclaimed as they neared the bodies. Other soldiers cursed in fear.
The men's throats showed two clear punctures; their bodies were pale as the snow. The corpses had been gutted, and then stuffed with hay and pebbles. Their entrails lay in a frozen mass beside them. Jonmarc fought the urge to retch. The tracks in the snow showed the herders' panic, running in vain as their attackers chased them. No tracks led to of from the site into the nearby woods. There were no tracks at all leading away, except by the trail they had followed.
"The herders that came out to relieve them found the bodies," the elder said. "They said that there were no tracks except their own. Only one boy survived, and he won't speak of what he saw. Whatever did this wasn't mortal, m'lord. They flew here and flew away. It didn't snow last night, and the wind hasn't been strong enough to cover the tracks completely. Crone take my soul! There are tales of the Wild Host doing such things, but that was long ago. What does it mean?"
"Someone's trying to start a war." Jonmarc paused. "Can you take me to the survivor?"
"He's with the hedge witch. Half-frozen and terrified near out of his wits."
The group rode in silence back to the village. As they neared the small grouping of houses and shops, the sound of bells and mourners grew louder.
The elder led them to a small house at the edge of town. The smell of herbs and poultices permeated the thatched-roof cottage. The hedge witch was a plump, stooped woman with short-cropped gray hair. Jonmarc could feel the accusation in her glare as he passed, and the unspoken charge that the Lord of the manor had failed in his vows.
Near the fireplace sat a boy about fifteen seasons old, huddled in a threadbare blanket. He did not look up when they entered.
"I've warmed him up, but he won't eat," the hedge witch said. "Not a mark on him. Don't know whether the Host did him a kindness or not, leaving him alive to tell the tale." She looked at Jonmarc. "His name is Kendry. His father and older brother were also with the herds."
Jonmarc remembered when he shared a similar fate. How long was it before I would tell Shanna's mother what happened to my family, my village, when the raiders came? Weeks? It was years before I stopped dreaming about it.
"Kendry," the elder said gently. "Lord Vahanian has come to talk with you. He wants to know what you saw."
Jonmarc took a step toward Kendry, and when the boy did not start in fear, he hunkered down to be on eye level. "I'm sorry about your family."
Kendry nodded, never taking his eyes off the fire.
Jonmarc drew a deep breath. "When I was fifteen summers old, raiders came to my village. They killed my family. Everyone but me. No one ever went after them, ever caught the men who burned my village. I want to find the people who killed your family, Kendry. Find them and make them pay. But I need to know what you saw."
Kendry was silent for so long Jonmarc did not think the boy would speak.
"It was the middle of the night," Kendry said. "The moon was high and full. We were sleeping. Gastell saw them first. A score of dark figures, flying through the sky. They circled us, wailing and moaning. And then—" The boy's voice broke and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly as tears started down his cheeks.
"They were dressed all in black, with masks over their faces. They dived at us. They started to chase us and scatter the sheep. There was nowhere to run. They picked up Gastell and I saw them, saw them—" Kendry buried his face in his hands. Jonmarc laid a hand on the boy's shoulder as the hedge witch pushed forward to talk softly with Kendry and lead him into a back room.
Jonmarc stood and looked to the village elder. "I'm sorry about your men, and your herd. When he's ready to travel, bring the boy to the manor. Perhaps Carina can help him." He looked back to where the hedge witch tended the boy in the back room, and wondered how he could expect the villagers to heed his next request. "I need your word that you'll let us handle this," Jonmarc said to the elder. "I'll go to the Blood Council. There are a small number of rogue vayash moru trying to end the truce. You know that if that happens, we all suffer."
"Aye. We'll do our best to keep the peace. But those were our lads out there. The families are going to want justice. And if it happens again—"
"I'll do everything in my power to make sure it doesn't. I need you to buy me some time to handle this. Let me bring it to the Blood Council. I promise you, your dead will be avenged."
"I'll do as you ask, Lord Vahanian, to the best of my power. But they will be avenged— one way or another."
“Tm sorry, m'lady, but they keep coming." Neirin, Jonmarc's day manager, apologized. After news spread far and wide about Carina's healing, Neirin had appointed himself gatekeeper to assure that the crowds that sought her attention remained orderly.
"It's not your fault. Any more word about what happened in Haven?"
"Lord Jonmarc went from there out to the south holdings. The story from the guards is all I know."
"Send after the boy tomorrow, please. I don't dare leave tonight with so many waiting. If he'll come to the manor, I'll see what I can do for him." Carina listened as the bells tolled the fourth hour. "I just wish Jonmarc would get back before dark."
"Understandable, m'lady," Neirin said. "And I'll do as you ask." He looked out over the long line of people waiting to be healed. How far news had traveled of the attack was uncertain, but waiting patients were edgier than usual. "I've brought a couple of the serving girls, and a midwife from the village. If you give them direction, they can help with simple things like binding up wounds. Lisette will come at nightfall. Eiria volunteered as well."
"I'll be glad for their help," Carina confessed. "Goddess! At least when I treated battle wounded I wasn't the only healer!"
Carina put the two mortal servants to work separating out the sickest patients from those with minor injuries. She set to work, not noticing that the sun had set until Lisette came to take over as her assistant.
"Your fame is spreading," Lisette observed, helping Carina calm a small girl with a bad burn on her arm.
"Jonmarc warned me that it had been a long time since Dark Haven had a full healer, but I didn't realize just what that meant," Carina tried to distract the girl long enough to heal the burn.
"When Arontala stole the orb from under the manor, Dark Haven seemed to go to sleep," Lisette observed. "Now, with the new lord, things are awakening, both good and bad."
"What do you mean?" Carina slipped into a light trance as she sped the healing of the girl's arm, willing the pain to decrease as the new skin covered the angry burn. The girl's mother bowed low, repeating her thanks and trying to offer Carina the sparse contents of her satchel in gratitude.
"Last night, the Wild Host seemed closer than I've ever felt them. Today, I heard the servants talking about the killings in Haven. None of the mortals can remember when that happened before. Even those of us who have lived centuries have only heard of such a thing on occasion. The Flow beneath the manor seems to be stirring. I can't explain it, but I've been here long enough to know that its energy is different, darker. I'll be glad as anyone when the Dark Aspects' nights are over."
Carina sat back on her haunches. She still had about a dozen patients waiting for her attention. She wiped her hands on her robe and sipped at a cup of kerif, now gone cold.
"Tonight is for the Crone?" she asked, beckoning her next patient, a young man with a badly-broken leg. "I thought Principality "They do. But what the Nargi call the Crone has no likeness to the ancient tales. I've heard the elder vayash moru tell stories. In the old days, Sinha was a weaver, not a hag with a cauldron. She spun the threads of life and wove out destiny, determining how long each thread should be. That's why woven gifts are given tonight, shawls and blankets. Like Nameless, Sinha comes for unrepentant souls because their threads must be ripped out and woven again. She can be harsh, like the winter wind. She was also a tanner,, taking the hides of evil men and rekindling the spark to send "their souls back until their lessons were learned.
"But the Nargi took Sinha's name and put it onto other stories. Sinha wasn't a destroyer or a monster. The Nargi's priests have made Her so, because it suited them. Tonight in the procession, you'll see a very old custom, where Sinha battles Peyhta, the soul-eater. In Nargi, Sinha and Peyhta became one."
"Why would anyone want to worship a monster?" Carina removed the soiled strips of cloth that bandaged a festering leg wound. She gritted her teeth against the smell and focused her healing power. At the edges of her power, she could feel a drain—more noticeable now that Lisette had drawn her attention to it. Deep Carina could sense its energies, tugging at her. "Laisren says we make our gods in our own image," Lisette said. "The Nargi priests rule by fear, and Peyhta rides in nightmares to feed on souls. The Nargi give those images power by choosing to worship Her. Sometimes, it's best to let the old gods die."
JONMARC SWUNG down from his saddle, tired and sore. The morning's events still weighed heavily on his mind. Gabriel would have risen for the night by the time Jonmarc reached the manor, and the briefing would not be pleasant.
Jonmarc stretched. After he'd done what he could to calm the villagers in Haven, he'd spent the rest of the day out with the farmers in the southern holdings, mending fences. This night, sacred to the weaver-Crone, was considered a lucky day to patch fences, make rope, and tie new nets. Despite the cold and a constant flurry of snow, the village men and boys had turned out to walk the fence lines, mending the stacked stone and zigzagged wood in preparation for the new herds of the spring. As darkness fell, Jonmarc's face and hands were red and cold, and he could barely feel his toes. "You'd think after last year, I'd remember what winter in Principality is like," he muttered to himself. His breath steamed in the bitterly cold air.
An old memory came back to him as he patted his horse's neck and led the animal toward the stables. He could hear the snick-snick of the weaver's shuttle, as constant a sound in his boyhood home as the clang of blacksmiths' hammers. An image of his mother came to mind, weaving a shawl of the finest yarns. Soft, light, and delicate, it showed the best of her craft. He remembered watching as his mother carefully wrapped the shawl in another piece of cloth, tying it. closed with yarn. Then she placed the package on the doorstep in the snow, along with cakes and a cup of ale. "For the elder-Goddess," she had said when he questioned. He'd never connected that patron of weavers to the fearsome dark Crone of the Nargi. Now, on the. Crone's Eve, the two images warred in his memory. Which was right? And could even Tris know for certain?
He led his horse into its stall and took off the saddle. None of the grooms was in sight, so he hung up the tack himself and looked for a blanket to cover his horse. Only one of the lamps burned in the stable, casting the rest of the barn in deep shadow.
Without warning, the shadows struck.
The figure tackled him from behind. Jonmarc reacted on instinct, driving his elbow back hard. His elbow connected, but the attacker showed no pain. Arms clenched around his chest like iron bands, and for a few seconds, Jonmarc could not breathe. Then the attacker threw him forward and Jonmarc stumbled, gasping for breath and reaching for his sword. In the half light of the lantern, he glimpsed his opponent, dressed in black, with a black hood and mask. Only eyes showed, and in them, Jonmarc read a challenge. Behind him in its stall, Jonmarc's horse shied in fear and banged against its gate.
Jonmarc drew his sword, but the attacker shot upward, out of reach. Jonmarc heard boot steps behind him as a powerful blow struck his hand, knocking his sword from his grip. He swung into an Eastmark kick, connecting with the shadowed attacker's chest and knocking his opponent backward, but it came at him again with impossible speed. The shadow fighter rushed at Jonmarc, pushing him backward so that he skidded half the length of the barn. He hit one of the support posts and it knocked the breath from him.
The attacker disappeared into the shadows, and Jonmarc climbed to his feet warily, every sense on alert. A rush of air was his only warning. The black-clad stranger struck from the side, knocking them into the middle of the empty barn. Jonmarc held on, landing blow after blow with his boots and knee. A human fighter would have been howling in rage and pain. The dark opponent remained eerily silent. Triumph glinting in his eyes, the attacker lifted Jonmarc by the throat with one hand, holding him high enough that Jonmarc's boots dangled a hand's-breadth above the floor. Jonmarc struggled, knowing that the hand that held him could easily crush his neck. The stranger stood no taller than himself, more slightly built; no human could heft him so casually. Pinpricks of light danced in front of him as he tore at the attacker's hand, trying to free himself. Just as he thought he might black out, the attacker threw him to the floor.
It was the opening Jonmarc needed. His sword lay beyond the lantern light, at the edge of the shadows. Jonmarc dived for his sword, wheeling on his opponent and sinking the blade deep into the attacker's belly. For an instant, the dark eyes behind the mask met his, and Jonmarc saw a hint of amusement. Run through, the attacker began to laugh, and flew backward, freeing itself from Jonmarc's blade and disappearing into the shadows.
Jonmarc heard a deep growl and a huge wolf sprang from the shadows, leaping past him and landing where his attacker had been just an instant before. Jonmarc recognized the gray-streaked fur of Yestin, and struggled for breath. "You're too late. I think it's gone." He looked at his sword. The blade was dark with an ichor that was not blood. His sword-stroke should have been a mortal wound, but the sawdust on the floor showed no blood at all.
The wolf-Yestin slowly circled the barn, growling as it peered into the shadows. The horses now sensed no threat, and watched the wolf curiously or went back to their feed. At the edge of the shadows, the wolf's outline blurred. The space where the wolf stood rippled and folded on itself, growing larger. Yestin straightened and stood. "It's a bit cold out here," he said. "Don't have any clothes hidden about. And I don't fancy frostbite!" Jonmarc tossed a horse blanket to him.
"Thanks for coming. But your timing's off."
"What happened?"
Yestin's frown grew deeper as Jonmarc recounted the attack. "I'm certain he was vayash moru," Jonmarc finished. "What I can't figure out is, why? He had the opportunity to kill me if that's what he wanted. But I had the sense that he was testing me. As if he wanted to know how I'd react, what I'd do in a fight."
"And how did you do?"
"The practice with Laisren is paying off. I'm faster than I've ever been. Couldn't get a clean shot to put my blade through his heart, but I ran him through."
"So there was a possibility that whoever attacked you might have been destroyed," Yestin mused. "Everyone knows you're good with a sword. Whether skill or luck, you might have taken off his head or run him through the heart. So your attacker is a gambler. Uri?"
Jonmarc shook his head, sheathing his blade. He threw a blanket over his horse and checked its feed and water. "Wrong build. Too tall. Too thin. The mask and hood covered both face and hair. I don't have any idea who it could have been."
Outside, the bells chimed the seventh hour. "Come on," Yestin said. "You've got official duties tonight. "We'll figure out what was behind this. I'll walk you in, and then we'll find Gabriel. He'll want to know what happened."
"Odd that all the grooms were gone. The stable's never empty."
Yestin raised an eyebrow. "It's early enough that the grooms would have been humans, not vayash moru. Want to bet they all felt some urgent 'need' to go somewhere right before you were attacked?"
They headed out of the stable together. Outside, the courtyard bustled with humans and vayash moru hurrying toward the night's festivities. "Whoever did this isn't worried about breaking the truce," Jonmarc said.
"Or he considers it already broken. A very bad sign indeed."
Jonmarc and Yestin headed for Gabriel's rooms in the lower level of the manor. They found Gabriel already awake, dressed for the evening's events. Jonmarc recounted for both men what he had seen in the village that morning, and what had transpired in the stable. From the set of Gabriel's jaw, Jonmarc knew that he was furious.
"Whoever did this—and I have to believe it's tied to Uri—intends to provoke a war. If this were anywhere but Dark Haven, war would be upon us."
"Convene the Blood Council. They've got to rein in Uri," Jonmarc urged.
"They'll be here within two candlemarks. It's customary for them to attend this feast day. Whether Uri will come or not remains to be seen." Gabriel frowned. "This is aggressive for Uri, out of character. It may be that his brood has gone farther than he intended."
"Even Uri has to see the danger," Yestin said.
"For years, Uri has argued for our kind to take the upper hand. Nothing like this happened. Either something has changed within his brood, or someone else has a stake in beginning this war. Either way, if war comes, we all lose."
Carina opened the door from the sitting room almost immediately after Jonmarc entered his rooms.
"I thought I heard you in the hallway." She stopped and took in his dirt-streaked great coat, and the bruise from the fight beginning to darken on his cheek. "What happened?"
"Someone ambushed me in the stable. No idea who it was—but he wasn't mortal."
Carina moved to stand beside him, reaching up to heal the bruise on his cheek. Her touch was warm and her healing magic sent a calmness through him. When the bruise was gone, she let her hand stroke down his cheek and rest on his chest. "Anything else I should know about?"
"My back is probably already black and blue after how hard I hit the post in the stable," Jonmarc confessed, wincing as she helped him slip his shirt off. He sat on a couch with his back to her so that she could ease the stiffness and mend the scraped skin. As Carina worked, Jonmarc told her about the attack on the herders, only to discover word had reached the manor by midday.,
"Lisette is beside herself she's so angry," Carina said. "I could feel the difference in the mood today—the people who came for healing were afraid. Lisette told me that the vayash moru servants are afraid, too."
"Something else is bothering you."
Carina withdrew a letter from one of the pouches at her belt. "It's a letter from Cam."
"Rough life guarding Donelan?"
Carina handed him the letter. Jonmarc scanned the paper, making out Cam's cramped handwriting as best he could. "I don't get it. He sounds like Isencroft's on the brink of uprising."
"It's because of Kiara—and Tris. Kiara's the only direct heir to the Isencroft throne, remember? When Donelan dies, the thrones of Isencroft and Margolan will be joined until heirs can be born for both. That's not going over well in Isencroft." She shook her head. "There was an incident in Isencroft before Kiara left for the wedding—some crazy divi-sionist tried to kill her. I'm afraid, Jonmarc—for Cam and Donelan and Kiara."
"I figured whoever sent that magicked beast at the wedding was after Tris."
"So did I. Maybe we were wrong."
"Cam's pretty good at taking care of himself. Donelan's got an army to protect him. Kiara has Mikhail and Harrtuck, as if she needed any help in a fight."
"She's pregnant, Jonmarc. She won't be able to fight like she did on the road for long. Tris is gone to war. If something happens to Kiara, the kingdoms won't be joined. Jared's loyalists have their own reasons to want the heir out of the way. She's so far away, and I can't help her."
"You're the one who's always telling me to trust the Lady."
Carina leaned against him, letting him hold her close. "No other choices, are there? For any of us."
A candlemark later, the Blood Council met in Gabriel's rooms. Tonight, Jonmarc found that his anger burned hot enough to overcome any fear at being the only mortal in the room. All of the Council was present, even Uri. Jonmarc watched their faces as Gabriel recounted the attack.
"You say you control your own. Prove it." Jonmarc met Rafe's eyes.
"This is none of our doing. Surely you know that?" Rafe countered.
"There were a dozen men gutted like deer out on that hillside, and a boy who saw masked creatures hunt the men for sport before tearing them and their herd apart."
"The hill country is dangerous at this time of year," Uri said. "Perhaps a wolf—"
Yestin started forward from where he stood behind Gabriel. "It wasn't wolves."
Jonmarc rounded on Uri, standing close enough to smell his rancid breath. "It wasn't a wolf that ambushed me in the stables. It was vayash moru. Whatever game you're playing ends tonight, Uri. The villagers aren't going to take any more of this." He leaned closer. "If this is about Dark Haven, then stop sending your underlings to do your work. You want the title? Then challenge me. Now."
No one moved. Jonmarc refused to look away, meeting Uri's eyes defiantly. Uri's face puffed in indignation, and his hands balled at his side. Just as quickly as his bluster came, it faded.
"I knew nothing of the murders before tonight," Uri said, taking a step back. "I spent last night until almost dawn at the Drunk Rooster Inn, playing contre dice. Ask the bar-keep—I never left the common room."
"What about your brood?" Jonmarc was too angry to care about the danger. The single arrow trigger was beneath his sleeve. He was close enough to score a fatal shot before Uri could stop him. Give me an excuse.
Uri glanced at Malesh. "I can't account for them every minute. But my link to them is strong—I'm sure I would have known."
"This solves nothing." Riqua said. "Either one of us has lost control over our family, or there are others of our kind outside our circle who've done this. Brawling among ourselves won't fix it."
Jonmarc turned away grudgingly. His heart was pounding and it took effort to unclench his fists. "The villagers aren't going to make distinctions if they start burning crypts," Jonmarc said, taking satisfaction at seeing Astasia startle. "There aren't enough vayash moru to kill them all—and if you did, how long do you think it would be until Staden brought his army down to keep the peace?" He glared at Uri again. "Or did you forget? The title wasn't granted by the Blood Council. I'm liegeman to King Staden. Attack me, and the king is oath-bound to retaliate. Don't start a war you can't finish."
Gabriel moved between Jonmarc and Uri. "There will be no war. We all have too much to lose." He glanced sharply at his fellows on the Council. "Jonmarc's right—if the mortals strike back, none of us is safe. See to your own houses. We need to bring the murderers to justice—swiftly and publicly—if we expect the forbearance of the mortals."
The festival night had a subdued feeling about it. Dark mead and rum cakes, the traditional foods this night, were in ample supply, along with blood pudding. The musicians played a lively tune. Carina noticed that their songs became bawdier as the night went on, as if they were trying too hard to rouse the crowd to higher spirits. This evening, the guests ranged from vyrkin and vayash moru to merchants and farmers. Carina even glimpsed the ghost girl among the night's revelers in the shadows along the wall. Despite the ale and the minstrels, the gathering felt different. Carina was certain the happenings in the village had dampened the mood.
In honor of the weaver-Crone, the evening's dances were circle dances where men and women clasped arms and wove in and out to the music. Taking a break from the dancing, Carina wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. It was a gift from Lisette and Eiria, a beautiful piece from one of the village's best weavers. Alerted by Neirin, Carina had returned a similar gift to each of her friends. The dress Carina wore was Jonmarc's gift this night—finely woven linen with an intricate border done in the style of the local artisans. The match between the shawl and the dress was so perfect, Carina suspected that Lisette and Eiria had known of the gift in advance. Jonmarc's cloak, set aside for the moment in the warm room, was Carina's gift, a heavy coat of woven wool that was sturdy enough even for a Principality winter.
As the bells tolled the eleventh hour, Gabriel touched Carina on the shoulder. "It's time to make your gift to the Lady," he said, and held out her cloak. Lisette appeared, holding a deep crockery bowl filled with cream and honey. Jonmarc fell into step beside her as they left the great room, with the rest of the merry-makers behind them.
Outside the main doors of Dark Haven, bonfires lit up the courtyard. In the center was an ancient oak. It towered above the manor house, and its branches spread above much of the courtyard. Neirin had schooled her on the proper way to present the gift of cream and honey to the Weaver-Crone, but Carina still felt nervous as she approached the ancient tree. The snow had been cleared from its base, and its roots buckled up beneath the cobblestones of the courtyard.
At its base, Carina knelt, carefully holding the bowl in front of her. "Lady of the loom, we offer our gifts," Carina said. "Grant us favor." She gradually tipped the bowl, watching steam rise from the warm cream as it poured onto the roots of the old tree.
As the cream spilled out onto the tree trunk and the cobblestones beneath, Carina felt energy crackle around her. Welling up from beneath the ground, traveling like lightning along the deepest roots, old power rose to envelop her. An image burned into her mind, of fire and rending and a red orb torn free, leaving a gash like a bleeding wound. There was an instant of agony, as if a clawed hand had reached into her body and torn loose her heart. In her mind, Carina saw a vision of the ground shaking, the west wing of Dark Haven collapsing in rubble, and panicked mortals running in fear. The Flow reached out to her, and the image of healing the ghost girl filled her mind. Pain, fear and desperation washed over her. Then, darkness.
"What happened?" Carina was still wearing her dress from the night's festival and lying on her own bed. Jonmarc. sat beside her, holding her hand. Lisette pressed a cool cloth to her forehead. Gabriel stood in the corner opposite the fire, watching with concern.
Jonmarc shook his head, and Carina saw worry in his dark eyes. "You tell us. One minute you were presenting the offering to the tree. Then all of a sudden, you stiffened up and fell backward. Your eyes were open, but they sure weren't seeing anything. We brought you up here. It's been almost half a candle-mark."
Carina shut her eyes and swallowed, groping for words. "When I poured the cream on the tree roots, I saw a vision."
"The Crone?" Jonmarc asked with concern.
Carina shook her head. "I don't know. She recounted the vision at the foot of the tree. When she finished, Gabriel and Jonmarc exchanged glances. "And you've felt something like that before?" Gabriel asked.
Carina looked from Jonmarc to Gabriel. "Yes. Earlier today. When the ghost came."
Lisette stepped forward. "She healed the ghost girl, the one who died in the plague. I saw her."
Feeling foolish, Carina recounted what happened. But this time, she added her impression that something had been watching her. Gabriel's frown deepened.
"We assumed that healers saw no reason to come to Dark Haven because vayash morn had no need of them. We thought they were afraid. Perhaps there was another reason. Maybe they felt something here they couldn't explain, something that made them uncomfortable."
Jonmarc looked down. "This is all my fault. I never should have brought Carina here. It's too dangerous."
Gabriel shrugged. "There's no changing it. There've been storms in the Dhasson Pass. Snow as deep as a man's waist. No one's going to be traveling anywhere."
Carina took Jonmarc's hand. "I wouldn't go if I could. This is my home now. Here. With you."
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
Carina smiled. "Nothing's going to. Whoever, whatever it is had the power to hurt me if it wanted to. It's more like it wants me to know something, do something."
"Promise me you won't try anything foolish," Jonmarc said. "I promise."
Gabriel laid a hand on Jonmarc's shoulder. "We'd best return to the feast and let the guests know Carina is resting. Mention how hard she's been working with all of the patients who have come to see her. Perhaps that will keep too many stories from spreading."
Jonmarc leaned down to kiss Carina on the forehead. "I'll be back to check in on you later. Now as you're so fond of telling me, get some rest."
Carina smiled and leaned back against the pillows. "You have the makings of a great healer."
The door closed behind Jonmarc and Gabriel before Lisette spoke. "Here's something odd, m'lady." Lisette held a book in her hands. The leather binding was cracked and broken and the pages yellowed. "This book was open on the table when we came in, but it wasn't there when we left. It's a record of the families of the Lords of Dark Haven. Births, feast days, marriages, deaths. Look here," she said. Carina followed Lisette's finger. The cramped handwriting was faded with time, but she could make out the inscription.
"Raen, daughter of Lord Brentig, died in the great plague on the twenty-first day of the Crone Moon," Carina read. "Raen, is that the name of the ghost?"
"She was watching from the shadows when Lord Jonmarc carried you up here. She didn't leave until you came around. That name seems familiar." Lisette frowned and went to the bookshelves. She returned with a thin leather-bound journal. "I picked this up a few days ago—it had fallen on the floor. I thought it an accident at the time, but now, I'm not so sure." The journal was filled with neat, feminine handwriting. The name "Raen Brentig" was centered on the page, and a date.
"That's about a year before the last great plague struck."
Carina gently touched the page. "It's almost as if she wants us to know her," she said. Lisette removed the pillows from behind her so she could lie flat. "I seem to have made a friend."
Carina pulled the covers up around herself, handling the book carefully. "Has it always been the custom for the noble daughters in Principality to read and write?"
"It was fairly common when I was mortal," Lisette said. "I didn't know Raen, but she would have been alive close to the time I was brought across. A large manor is as complicated to run as any trade. A smart man wanted an educated wife to help keep the accounts."
Carina found herself drawn into the entries in the journal. Most were notes about the ups and downs of a young woman's life, with comments about parties and invitations and young men who caught Raen's eye. The lavender is blooming in the garden now. I'll have to take some for a fresh sachet. The ball is only a fortnight away. Carina turned the page. Another entry, dated just a few days after the first. Not feeling well. Hope this passes by the ball. The rest of the pages were blank. Carina set the journal aside, lost in thought.
"Lord Jonmarc was right, m'lady. You must rest. Fear nothing. I'll watch until dawn."
Carina let herself sink into the mattress, warmed by the down comforter, her mind still on the journal and its sudden end. In the distance as she dreamed, she could hear Raen singing to her.
When Carina awoke, the first light of dawn was streaming through her windows. She lingered for a moment beneath the warm covers. Jonmarc had already left for the day's tasks, and Lisette had gone to rest. Few of the mortal servants were stirring. Dark Haven was quiet.
As Carina belted her healer's robe over her dress, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Raen stood in the shadows.
"Hello," Carina greeted the ghost girl. "Thank you for your song last night."
Raen moved toward the windows. The fire had warmed the room enough to fog the glass. As Carina watched, letters traced themselves in the fog. "Come."
Carina looked at Raen, perplexed. "Come where? Why?"
Another word formed as an invisible finger traced the letters. "Heal."
"You want me to heal someone? One of the ghosts?" Carina shook her head. "I don't know if it will work—I'm still not sure how I did what I did for you." More letters appeared. "Hurt." "All right. Let me gather my things— although if it's a ghost who needs my help, they won't be of much use."
Carina collected her pouches and opened the door. The corridor was empty. Raen glided out of the room and into the darkened hallway, visible as a green glow. Torches lit their way. Carina followed Raen down the back staircase to the second landing. The ghost halted at a door. "Those rooms haven't been restored," Carina said. "No one lives there now."
Raen glided through the closed wooden door. Carina reached for the nearest torch and took it down from the sconce on the wall. No footprints except for the scrabbling of mice marked the dust-covered floor. It was cold, and Carina shivered. "How far?"
Raen beckoned for her to follow. They passed a row of long-abandoned bedrooms. The corridor smelled musty, as if water had gotten in. At the end of the hallway a stairway descended into darkness.
"This is the East wing, isn't it?" Carina said, looking from the ghost to the dark stairs. "It's dangerous down there—Jonmarc said that's where the walls collapsed when the orb was stolen."
Raen reached out an insubstantial hand to lead the way. Carina pulled back. "We should wait. I don't think this is a good idea."
Raen moved back into the hallway, where a thin shaft of light struggled through a dirty window. The dust on the floor began to move. This time, the ghost drew a bare-limbed tree, and beneath it, one word. "Understand."
Carina looked at Raen. "The power that touched me last night, the presence that's making it hard for me to heal—that's what you want me to understand?" Raen nodded.
Carina weighed her fear against the frustration of her gradually waning power. "Can I reach the bottom safely? You can go through solid rock, but I can't."
Raen moved toward the door. As they started down the stairs, Raen's form began to glow, adding to the torchlight in the lightless stairway. From the cramped turns and narrow tread, Carina guessed that it was a servant's passageway. She grimaced as cobwebs brushed her face. No one but the spirits had passed this way in many years. Carina counted the steps as they descended, making note of the landings. They kept going, as the stairway grew colder and the air damp. Carina was quite sure they were beneath the ground. Finally, they stopped in an antechamber. By the torchlight, Carina could see that deep cracks ran through the stone walls. Through the next archway, the darkness was broken by a silver glow. Carefully picking her way through bits of fallen rock, Carina realized that the archway was the opening to a natural cave.
Raen walked beside her as Carina crossed through the archway. Inside the cave, large pieces of rock littered the pathway. The walls glistened with crystals, and in the distance, Carina could hear falling water. A doorway on the opposite side of the chamber had collapsed. Coruscating light filled the cave, surrounding them with an evanescent glow.
Once before, during an Eastmark winter, Carina had glimpsed the Spirit Lights in the cold night sky. The ribbon of colored light glistened yellow and green, painted in bold strokes across the darkness. Like the Spirit Lights, the glow that filled the cave changed colors, as if the air were filled with diamond dust. The walls shone as the light hit crystals, reflecting in millions of tiny facets.
Carina could sense the power around her like a thunderstorm overhead. This is the Flow.
The glow became brighter, its colors began to shift. Gone were the tranquil shades of yellow and green. Deep pink and fiery red came over the glow as if reflecting a vivid sunset. At the same time, Carina felt power reaching out for her. New images filled her mind. She felt the rending of the Flow as a shock to the heart, gasping for breath as pain seared through her, seeing in her mind Arontala wresting the Orb from its pedestal in a glare of blue mage fire. Images of dark magic pressed into her mind as she saw Arontala and his mages bind the damaged Flow to work their blood spells. Distantly, Carina could hear her own screams echoing from the rock walls as she witnessed the abominations of blood magic that Arontala had worked in the dungeons beneath Shekerishet.
The Flow shifted, and Carina glimpsed new images. A walled keep set on a snow-covered plain, surrounded by an army. The Flow swirled closer around her, and Carina could smell the stench of decaying flesh and the fetid odor of plague. She fell to her knees, retching. The Flow came no closer to her, but the images it sent burned brightly in her mind. She could feel the tug of light and darkness pulling at the Flow, war magic, powerful and dangerous. For an instant, she glimpsed Tris's face, and then the image vanished.
The room glowed a deep blood red. Over her head, the Flow lashed back and forth. Carina fell flat against the stone floor, knowing instinctively to stay out of the way of the Flow's power. A hum like an angry swarm of bees grew louder. The images in her mind were coming in a jumble, too fast to recognize. Fear. Death. Vengeance. Whether the power was sentient or not, Carina had no doubt that it was in great pain, weakened by the taint of blood magic and stretched to the breaking point. It wants to be whole. Goddess help me! I can feel its power. I won't survive if I touch that. What can I do?
The Flow convulsed, and the cave shuddered. Bits of rock clattered down around her. One final image, a vision of what might be, filled her mind and Carina saw the Flow ripped asunder. She saw raw power burn across the valleys of Dark Haven as the Flow shattered into wild tendrils of magic. The magic leveled everything in its path in a blast brighter than the sun. Caught up in the vision, Carina felt the light as searing pain. She collapsed to the cave floor, too drained to move.
"Help me, Raen." There was no reply.
Carina's head throbbed. She felt completely drained, both of her healing magic and the energy to move. The taste in her mouth reminded her that she had been sick. Unbidden, the images she had seen in the Flow returned to her, and she squeezed her eyes shut to make them go away.
"You're safe. It's all right." She opened her eyes slowly. Jonmarc sat beside her, with her hand clasped in his. Lisette and Gabriel came closer to where she lay. She glimpsed Raen standing in the shadows with a frightened look on her face. Gradually, Carina realized she was lying on a couch in Dark Haven's parlor. Her skin looked as if she had spent the day outdoors in the heat of summer. Breathing almost seemed too much effort.
"Whatever she encountered down there may not have drawn blood, but it definitely drained her." Gabriel knelt beside her and let his fingertips brush against her temples. "Vayash moru can sense the barest spark of life. Normally, it glows brightly." He looked up. "It's as if something fed from her, knowing just when to pull back."
"What possessed you to go to the East wing?" Jonmarc asked. "You know it's dangerous. If the ghost hadn't come for us, we might not have found you."
"The Flow is coming apart," Carina murmured. "Raen thought she was helping. She knew the Flow was in pain. It wants a healer."
"Mages have tried to heal the Flow," Gabriel said, standing. "None of those who tried survived."
Carina looked up at Gabriel. "You remember the Mage Wars?"
Gabriel nodded.
"What happened to the Blasted Lands?"
Gabriel frowned. "The Obsidian King's allies had a stronghold in the far north, on the rim of the Northern Sea above Eastmark. They were powerful blood mages. During the final battle, as the Sisterhood and Bava K'aa made their last strike against the Obsidian King, we knew that his allies were preparing a counterstrike." He turned away and began to pace. "I'm not a mage, but I've known powerful magic users. They say that power flows like the underground rivers, deep beneath us. All magic draws on that power. Blood magic weakens the energy.
"During the final battle of the Mage War, the river of power that flowed through that place broke loose. I can't tell you how it happened, only what I saw. There was a bright flare, and a clap louder than thunder. The ground shook like it was going to open up and swallow us. The building collapsed around me and I was buried in the rubble. Some of the mages died instantly. Others went mad. Only the most powerful were able to keep their wits to finish the battle.
"Later, we went to see what became of the blood mages who were the allies of the Obsidian King. For a league around their stronghold, everything was scorched and flattened. No plants, no trees, only the burned carcasses of animals. There was a crater where the keep had been. Wild magic still fills that place. It dried up the milk, made the crops die, killed the children. People fled. It's been a wasteland ever since."
"So if the Flow comes apart, we don't have a chance," Jonmarc finished.
"Raen's right. The Flow's very badly damaged," Carina said. "I don't know how to fix it, but if we don't come up with something, soon, it's not going to matter. Dark Haven won't be here—and neither will we."