When darkness fell, Tris gathered the mages in his tent. Soterius stood quietly by the door, both participant and sentinel. Coalan busied himself tending to their guests, and then attempted to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
"We've already started to work," Fallon continued. "Latt has attracted all the fleas, bedbugs, and rats she could find and concentrated them in the walled city. That should make them uncomfortable."
"Their water source is magically protected," Latt added. "So fouling their water isn't possible. We've placed protections of our own around the nearest fresh spring, and I'm working with Vira to cleanse a closer spring that Curane's people tainted with animal carcasses." She made an expression of distaste. "It's slow work."
"I'm sending random gusts of very high winds against the fortifications," said Ana with a sly smile. "Gusts strong enough to blow a man off his feet. There's no way to know when they'll strike, and I've seen a couple of their soldiers tumble off the walls. So far, their mages haven't caught on—we'll see how long it takes them."
"If you wish, I'll scry for you," Beyral said. "And cast runes to see the portents."
"Go ahead."
Coalan ran to fetch a basin and fill it with water. When the water stilled, Beryal closed her eyes and stretched out her right hand, holding her fingers spread just above the water's surface. Tris could sense the power, but could not read the images.
As Beyral watched the water tremble, her expression darkened. "The siege won't be short. Much blood. Darkness. So many dead." The water moved again, and Beyral gasped. "Danger within the gates." The trance broke and Beyral looked up, her eyes wide. "Let me cast runes. Sometimes, the images clear when the runes speak."
From a pouch at her belt, Beyral withdrew a handful of polished bone and ivory. The pieces were rectangular, about the size of a finger, smoothed with time and wear. Carved into each piece was a rune that blurred and vibrated with a magic of its own. Beyral placed the runes in her cupped palm, handling them with great care. She closed her hands over them, and lifted them to her mouth. Four times she murmured an invocation and breathed on her clasped hands. And then, with a final plea to the Lady, she opened her hands above the table and let the runes fall.
Five of the eight pieces landed with the rune showing. Beyral looked carefully at the placement of the carved bits, murmuring to herself as she moved around the table. Finally, she straightened.
"The runes speak. Only bone shows its rune—the ivory is silent," she said, motioning toward the face-down pieces. "A portent of danger. The speaking pieces lie at cross quarters—the dark faces of the Lady. Tisel, the first rune, is betrayal. Athira the Whore is its Aspect. Conflicting allegiances. Old vows broken. Katen, the second rune, is the rune of life. It speaks for the Dark Lady. This matter will be settled in places between life and death, where spirits and darkness dwell. Katen governs succession. The rune landed sideways—even it can't see what lies ahead.
"Aneh, the third rune, speaks for the Formless One. Chaos will govern. Zyhm is the fourth rune—intertwined destiny. It speaks for the Crone. It lies facing Aneh. The two powers war with each other. Zyhm weaves together; Aneb tears apart. Destinies are joined—and sundered. But whose, it doesn't say."
Beyral looked up. "I'm sorry. The omens are dark and the reading is unclear. I don't have any more to offer." "Thank you." Tris said. "I'll place sigils around the camp," Beyral said. "They'll warn me if the boundary is breeched, although they won't stop an attack." "I've placed wardings over our food stores," Latt said. "I can't hold a large warding for long, but I can hold smaller ones for quite some time."
"And I've changed the winds above our camp," Ana added. "The vayasb moru may find it more challenging to fly, but Curane's mages will also have difficulty magicking their arrows to carry further. Above our heads, where we can't feel it, the winds shift south. Anything sent on the air—arrows or pestilence—will blow over us and slip downstream."
"Can you tell how Lochlanimar is defended?" Soterius asked.
Fallon nodded. "Curane's mages have strong spells defending the main gates to the holding. Powerful, dark magic. Don't expect Curane to play fair." "We weren't."
"There's one more thing," Eallon said. "What Beyral read in the runes about succession—that can mean your heir, but it can also be read more broadly. There are moments in time from which all other moments turn.
Powerful forces are in motion. It may be that more than the fate of Margolan's throne depends on what happens here. We believe we're at a threshold. Once crossed, the Winter Kingdoms will not be as they were."
"Thank you." Tris managed a wry smile. "Knowing doesn't always make you feel better, does it?"
Fallon and the other mages bowed deeply and left. But before Soterius could comment on their information, the temperature within the tent plummeted, even colder than the winter air outside. Tris could feel the stir of spirits. He closed his eyes, opening himself to the Plains of Spirit. He felt no threat from these ghosts, and had a clear sense that they were responding to his summons. Warily, he beckoned them to come closer and lent them power to make themselves visible. When Tris opened his eyes, the ghosts of four men stood before him. One of the ghosts was a man who looked to be late in his fifth decade, with thin, graying hair and a short-cropped, gray beard. He was broad shouldered with the hands of a workman, and his eyes were troubled. "M'lord Summoner. We heard your call, and we obey."
Tris could not feel any falseness, but, mindful of the rune's warning, he remained guarded. "Thank you. I called you because my quarrel is with Curane and his mages, not with the people of Lochlanimar."
The bearded ghost looked to his comrades; it was clear he was their spokesman. "Lord Curane is a hard master, m'lord. He started rationing food and water a month ago, when he knew the army would camp against him. The people are hungry. Strange sicknesses have taken parts of the city—no one dares say it, but many think the mages are behind the ill humours. In some quarters, so many people have died that the houses stand empty. When someone takes sick, the Black Robes come. They take the person away. None have returned."
The bearded ghost shook his head. "I'm Tabok. I served Lord Curane's father, and his father's father. They were men who made mistakes, but they had honor. For two generations I've watched over my family. I fear for them, m'lord."
"What of Curane's granddaughter—and her baby?" Soterius asked.
Tabok frowned. "No one's seen them. They're prisoners in the keep. Sometimes, I can hear the babe crying. They're guarded heavily—by men and magic. Even spirits can't cross some of the wardings."
Tris and Soterius exchanged glances. "Well, that confirms the rumors."
"We came to offer our services," Tabok said. "We're men of honor. When Lord Curane imprisoned his own people, we believe our vows to be broken. We want to free our families, m'lord. We are willing to be your eyes and ears within Lochlanimar where the magic doesn't keep us from going."
"I'm grateful," Tris replied. "I have no desire to wage war on my own people. Give us Curane and his mages and we'll end the siege."
"What of the girl and her child?" Tabok asked.
"From what we know, the girl was given to Jared when she was still too young to wed. I've laid to rest enough ghosts of his 'partners' to know her fate with him. The baby will be a rallying point to threaten my own sons. I don't have many options."
The ghost's question tugged at him. It was a decision that had never completely left his mind. What of the girl and the child? He thought. She was sold like a whore for jared's pleasure. Beaten and raped and cast aside. Curane's used her like a brood mare to sire a child to claim his fortune. They're victims in this. Let them live, even in exile, and the child becomes a rival. Law and tradition ivould hold me blameless to have them killed. Is there another way? Some way to keep from finishing Jared's murders for him without endangering my own sons?
Tabok's ghost nodded. "A hard decision. We'll watch for you, and report. Mohr can't make himself seen, but he has the power to move things—and he enjoys playing tricks." At his words, a thin man in the rear of the group grinned. "The last few days, Curane's soldiers have been busy. They've got something planned. Curane's mad enough to make a first strike. You may not have much time to get your camp ready.
"M'lord, something else you should know," Tabok added. "The castle's set with many spells. There are some areas—like the keep where his granddaughter is held—spelled so that we can't enter. I've seen Curane's blood mages create asbtenerath from our own dead, and charms to ward away the vayash moru. He knows you're a Summoner—that's why he wears a null magic charm. He's afraid the spirits will rise up to follow you. Over the past months, his blood mages have desecrated our cemeteries, dug up bodies, and mutilated fresh corpses to sever their spirits from this place. There should be hundreds of newly dead spirits who have no love for Curane. Instead, only the old ghosts remain."
"No wonder the Flow is so unsteady," Tris said, imagining the damage so much blood magic would cause.
"Lochlanimar's an old city. Very old. Built before Margolan had a king, they say. There are other cities beneath it, or what's left of them. There are hallways full of bones under the city. There may be ghosts in those forgotten places untouched by Curane's blood magic. And something else. Long ago, there was a passage dug from Lochlanimar into the caves in the mountains," he said with a nod toward the foothills. "I haven't known them to be used in over a hundred years. If the passages haven't been closed up, your men might get in there. But beware. They've been spelled against us, and against vayash moru."
"Can you draw us a map?" Tris asked.
Tabok nodded. Tris beckoned to Coalan, who brought parchment and paper and did as the ghost bid. When the map was finished, the ghost looked up at Tris. "M'lord. I must ask one thing. If there be any survivors when the siege is over, what are your intentions?"
"Curane, his soldiers and his mages will have to stand trial for treason. Those guilty will hang. I'll do everything in my power to give safe passage to your families. My quarrel is with Curane. If Curane won't surrender, we'll have no choice but to destroy the entire walled town."
"We understand. Thank you." The ghosts bowed in fealty. And then, as quickly as they came, the spirits faded from view.
"Now what?"
Soterius shrugged. "We wait, just the way we planned. I've got the army split into two groups. Half of the soldiers—plus the vayash moru, the mages and whatever ghosts you can rouse—will be in fighting position come sundown. We'll make a first strike, try to take him by surprise. If he's planning the same, this could get interesting, but we wTon't be caught unprepared.
"The rest of the soldiers—and the vayash moru, when the fighting's done—will be working double shifts to get the battering ram and the trebuchets ready and in place. In the meantime, I'll send scouts to see if there are any weak points we've overlooked. There's no way around spending Winterstide in the field, but perhaps we'll be home by spring."
Tris accepted the glass of brandy Coalan pressed into his hand. "I spent my last birthday in exile. We're home again now, but not really 'home.'" He sipped the. brandy. "Beyral's runes weren't much comfort. I know Kiara's 'well-protected, but I'm afraid for her. The sooner we're back at Shekerishet, the happier I'll be."
Soterius took his glass of brandy and raised it. "To your birthday—and to a quick end to the siege."
Tris raised his glass. "To home."
At sundown, Tris reined in his horse and looked out over the plains toward Lochlani-mar.
Behind him on a platform high enough for them to see the entire battlefield, the mages waited.
Now. Tris sent the word to the mages as Soterius gave the signal to the vayash moru. Dark shapes, nearly obscured by the shadows that blackened the moon, streaked toward Lochlanimar. Tris lent his power to aid the mages. All the months of countering the remnants of Arontala's blood magic within Shekerishet had given him more knowledge than he'd ever wanted about breaking dark spells. Now, combining their magic, Tris and the mages sent a blast of power against the walled keep as Tris chanted the working to dispel Curane's wardings.
He raised his hands, eyes closed, completely intent on his target. He could feel the power of Fallon and her mages joining with his, feel the blood magic rising from the keep to fight them. He smiled as he recognized the dark magic charm. Arontala had used something similar. But neither Arontala nor Curane expected the diaries of the Obsidian King to have fallen into Tris's hands. In those forbidden tomes, he had uncovered the dark mages' weaknesses.
"We're in."
"Go!" Soterius and Palinn gathered their mortal troops, moving out silently across the snow-covered plain, clad in black. Tris focused his whole attention on the working, speaking the words of power. The blood magic fought him, but as he chanted the counter spells, one by one, he felt Curane's protections snap. First to fall were the wardings against the vayash moru.
Fallon and her mages drew on the Flow to send a powerful fear spell toward the keep. It would have no affect on the vayash moru, nor Tris's own troops. But those within Lochlanimar would, until his mages could counter, believe that their darkest nightmares had come true. When he had done all he could to counter the blood magic, Tris shifted to the Plains of Spirit. He stretched out his power along the gray pathways. The necropolis beneath Lochlanimar was very old. Many of the spirits would have long ago gone to their rest, Tris knew. But from among the long dead bones, Tris felt something stir in response to his summons.
Gray shapes assembled before him on the Plains of Spirit. More than two hundred ghosts, clad in the armor of a bygone century, rose to his call.
"Do you know what Curane has done?"
"We know."
"Will you fight him?"
"Aye."
The spirits stirred from their long rest and began to move like a gray storm up from their tomb. Tris felt their anger grow. Curane has betrayed us. He's brought blood magic against us. Disloyal. Disloyal. Remaining linked to the ghosts was dangerous. Tris did not need to be reminded of what had happened in the Ruune Vidaya. But the opportunity to guide their strike, see through their eyes, was too powerful to pass up, regardless of the danger. And so Tris let himself be carried along with the ghost horde, struggling to keep their growing desire for vengeance from overwhelming his ward-ings.
These raiders needed no command to spare civilians. Their anger burned on account of those innocents trapped within Curane's walls, their own descendents. The ghost horde burst from the entrance to the necropolis, sending a dozen soldiers fleeing in terror. Inside the keep, Tris could hear the wailing of the ghost horde as it swept around soldiers, turning its anger on the terrified guards. Tris opened himself up to the raw power of his gift, hanging on to the control he had lacked in the Ruune Vidaya, refusing to allow the ghosts to control him. He saw their bloody vengeance as their spectral maws turned on the soldiers, spattering the narrow alleyways with blood. I can hang on to control, but what of sanity? Tris thought as the ghost horde sought its next targets, falling upon a regiment just rousing in the guardhouse.
Soterius's soldiers neared bow range. All at once, the men fired hundreds of flaming arrows toward the walls. A second line of archers sent more arrows streaking through the cold night air, and within the walled city, Tris could see firelight flare.
All at once, a wall of darkness rose from Lochlanimar, black enough to obscure the stars. Tris felt it sweep toward him like a flood of ice cold water. The blood mages have gathered their wits enough to respond.
Tris pulled back from among the ghost horde, even as he felt the blood magic slam against the spectral troops, stopping their advance. Streaking back along the Plains of Spirit, Tris fought his growing fatigue to refo-cus his power against the blood mages. Dimly, he was aware of Fallon and the Sisters doing the same. Just as they massed their power for another strike, Tris felt as if the universe turned inside out.
All the magic in the world seemed to shatter. The Flow contorted around him, folding in on itself, wresting free of his grip. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't see. He doubted that his heart was beating. In the total darkness, he could hear the screams of the mages—his own and Curane's—as the Flow ripped free of its bonds. Wild magic coursed through him like fire running through his veins. The ground around him was shaking, and the soldiers cried out in fear. Tris tried once more to reach for his power and was thrown, knocked hard from his mount to land on his back as if pushed by a giant hand.
Soldiers ran for him, pulling him to his feet. The pain in his head was blinding; he doubted he could stand without help. He searched the panicked crowd for Fallon and the mages. In the torchlight, he made out Fallon's silhouette, but nothing more. Struggling to remain conscious, Tris reluctantly allowed the soldiers to help him to a seat. Around him, the soldiers on the construction detail scrambled into ranks to defend the camp.
"Retreat!" Soterius's voice cut across the cold night, echoed a moment later by Palinn. "Your Majesty. We need to get you to safe- ty-"
"There is no safety," Tris managed. It hurt to speak aloud. "Bring General Soterius and Sister Fallon to me." He leaned back against a wooden post. A year ago, that would have killed me. I'm alive. I'm conscious. I think I'm sane. Damn it hurts.
There was no magic, no magic at all. As if the world were dosed in wormroot, magic seemed pushed beyond his ability to sense it, let alone channel it. For a heartbeat, it seemed as if the universe held its breath. And then with the rush of a killer storm, a wave of magic engulfed him, crushing him beneath it. The Flow swept him away, overwhelming him with its power, and putting out the stars.
Tris awoke in his own tent. It hurt to open his eyes. Here we go again. I thought I was past this. But that was no human mage. That was the Flow itself. Goddess, how do we handle that?
"Tris, can you hear me?" Soterius's voice was close beside him.
Tris moved his right hand in reply. Even that effort took energy.
"All our mages are down. So are theirs, but they must have recovered faster, because the blood magic charms are back in place. We didn't lose any men or vayasb moru. I don't know what you did inside there, and I don't want to. I could hear them screaming. What happened?"
"Wish I could take credit for it, but I can't. The Flow snapped. Their mages recovered faster because when the Flow's out of balance, it favors blood magic."
"Wonderful."
"Did the attack succeed?" He managed to open his eyes and keep them open, despite the blinding reaction headache.
"Better than we hoped. We sent two dozen vayasb moru in, and they made about ten kills each. Took out one whole guard unit, by the looks of it. They weren't affected by the dark sending, but whatever Fallon cooked up must have worked, because the vayasb moru said it had the place in an uproar. And I guess you got through to the ghosts. Even the vayasb moru didn't want to tangle with them. Can't tell how much damage the archers did, but the vayasb moru reported fires just on the other side of the walls. All told, we took out several hundred of their men, burned part of their town, and set them into a panic without any casualties of our own."
"Not too bad."
"That depends. Are you alive or dead?"
"I'll have to let you know."
TWO days later, Tris rode next to Soterius and Tarq as the Margolan army prepared to lay siege to the walled manor. Men with a heavy wheeled battering ram massed on the plains in front of the holding. The battering ram, beneath a shelter of wood and hammered tin, would survive anything but a direct hit. Down the line, Tris could see his other generals, Palinn, Senne and Rallan, readying their troops to attack. To rally his own troops and strike fear into the besieged, Tris ordered the war drums and pipers to play their loudest. The huge drums, large enough to require two men to hold them, boomed out a rapid beat as the pipers played a rousing tune.
"I don't like this. They're just waiting for us to move." Tris's cloak whipped around him as the winter winds sliced across the land. He looked out over the army, just a fraction of the troops Bricen once commanded. Thousands of men stood ready in ranks for the attack. Archers had their bows in hand to give cover to the men who would storm the walls. Pike-men stood behind the archers, ready should Curane's forces attack. Well behind the lines, the mages stood on an elevated platform where they had a view of the entire plain. Tris could feel their protections, just as he could sense the distant tinge of blood magic as Curane's mages readied for the defense.
"A siege is something like a dance," Tarq replied. "Scripted by necessity. We attack. They defend. Not much happens until we breech the walls. Then it gets ugly."
"I'm expecting Curane to have all kinds of nasty surprises ready for us," Soterius said, never taking his eyes off the front lines.
"I'll see you at battle's end. Goddess go with you," Tarq said, galloping toward his troops.
"Ready?"
"Do it."
A roar rose up from the soldiers as the first wave of men swept forward, shoulder to shoulder. Curane's walled holding was surrounded by a fetid moat. Its main gate was defended by a heavy portcullis backed by solid iron" doors. Even at a distance, Tris could see archers at the crenellations, waiting to fire. Heavily armored men pushed the battering ram toward the main gate. A hail of flaming arrows rose from the archers, only to be snuffed out and blown aside by a mighty gust of wind, a gift from the mages. With the wind at their backs, the soldiers moved the heavy war machines more quickly. On both flanks, trebuchets launched heavy stones and iron balls into the walls and over the crenellations. The trebuchets forced Curane's forces to split their attention, giving the troops at the gate cover. Tris could feel the hum of magic as some of the projectiles stopped as if hitting an invisible wall, or were flung back toward his troops, only to meet a magical barrier of their own. He counted the snap of the trebuchets, and waited for the impact. One out of three of the huge boulders hit its mark, slamming against the fortifications with a thunderous bang. A third of the boulders were repelled, crashing with a force that shook the ground beneath their feet, forcing soldiers to break ranks and flee. The rest were flung away harmlessly by one side or the other, sending the great stones to land where they did the least damage to men or masonry.
Our mages are well matched. But it's more than that. The magic isn't working right for either side. If it were, we'd he hitting the target more often, and they'd be pounding us harder. The Flow is weakening. What if it fails altogether?
Magic tingled in his mind, and Tns recognized the taint of blood power. His mages worked in shifts, attempting to maintain their protections as long as possible. Tris commanded a battalion of archers, adding his magic to their protection as they moved forward behind the siege machines. A fierce wind arose from nowhere, raising a blinding wall of snow. Tris stretched out with his mage sense. He heard the thud of the defender's trebuchets, and let instinct guide his magic to deflect a boulder that hit the ground to the side of his battalion. The wind died just as suddenly as it came.
Tris could feel the battle in the currents of magic around him, and he could also feel the Flow's dangerous fluctuations, surging and waning. Twice, his own power flared. As quickly as the magic rose, it fell to nothing.
The battering ram was nearly at the gates. Made from a huge tree trunk, the battering ram was reinforced with iron and had a heavy iron tip. It was suspended from an armored frame that allowed it to swing forward and back, adding momentum to its sizeable force. Unseen overhead, the currents of magic struggled against each other. Tris lent what power he could spare, keeping his attention focused on his archers as they pressed forward. A flaming arrow sizzled toward him, and Tris barely had time to snuff out its flame and cast it aside. It was impossible for either set of mages to keep a full defensive shield over such a large army, and Tris could tell by their success that Curane's mages were stretched just as thin.
A cry rose up from the soldiers as the battering ram reached its strike position. Tris felt the magic shift, as his mages sent their protection over the soldiers at the wall. From behind the crenellations, Curane's fighters poured down cauldrons of boiling water and oil. It flowed harmlessly over the protective tin covering of the battering ram. Soldiers scrambled out of the way, shielded from the worst of the attack by Tris's magic.
Now.
Tris heard the word in his mind, although he was certain it did not come from his own mages. As the battering ram pounded iron on iron against the heavy portcullis, Tris heard the scrape of metal and saw gates open along the base of the massive stone walls. At the same time, a wave of blood magic surged around them, and the stinking waters of the moat began to boil.
Ashtenerath poured from the gates at the base of the walls. Eyes wild with rage, swinging their war axes and heavy broadswords with the ferocity of madness, the ashtenerath surged forward.
"Go!"
The archers dropped back and two lines of fighters surged past them armed with war axes. In daylight, the vayash moru could not help repel the ashtenerath. But, warned by Tabok, Tris had expected the attack. The foot soldiers swung their axes with deadly accuracy, or hurled them through the air with solid aim. Quickly, the archers reloaded with flaming arrows. Tris lobbed fireball after fireball toward the ashteneratb, incinerating them as they charged.
"By the Whore'—what is that?" The moat was sloshing and splashing, sending its cold, foul water spraying. From the depths of the black waters, corpses began to lurch up on the banks. Eyeless, bloated bodies jerked forward, like marionettes with an unskilled master. The corpses moved slower than the ashtenerath, without the driving rage.
Soldiers scrambled to get out of their way, trapped between the corpses and the ashten-erath.
"Hold your ground!" Tris shouted, rallying his men. He stretched out along the Plains of Spirit. Not bodies with souls forced back into dead flesh. Just puppets, to terrify.
Already, the soldiers nearest the gate had gathered their wits and were striking down the lurching corpses. The smell carried on the cold winter air, rotted meat and filthy river sludge. The corpses, sodden from their watery resting place, fell apart with the force of a sword strike, collapsing in stinking heaps as the soldiers held their positions. Through it all, the steady thump of the battering ram shook the battlements.
Tris felt the magic rising, and threw all of his power to shield his men. Images formed in his mind, dimmed by his shielding but not completely pushed from view. He saw his army, decimated. Bodies littered the plain, food for the scavengers and carrion birds that plucked their sightless eyes and ate from their corpses. In the sending, he saw the survivors ridden down and murdered, some by fire, others by the sword, the rest twisting from nooses. The sending grew stronger, and Tris saw Curane's forces and the Trevath army sweep across Margolan to take Shekerishet by force. He saw soldiers storm the castle and search its rooms for Kiara, saw torchlight glint from the knife as it rose above her, plunging into her swollen belly, killing her and the child she carried.
"Stand firm! Don't break ranks!" Tris heard Soterius and Tarq shouting around him. Tris clung to the pommel of his saddle, reeling from the assault on his mind as he struggled to absorb the brunt of the dark sending.
With a shout of anger, Tris marshaled all his power and sent a blast of magic back toward the source. Around him, he heard men crying out in terror and pain as the sending showed them their greatest fears come true. Although the other mages could not join him on the Plains of Spirit, Tris could sense their magic joining with his, a concentrated blast toward the void where the darkness was deepest.
The magic struck its target. Tris felt the blast of power burn as it reached the origin of the dark sending. Just as quickly, all magic disappeared, and then blinked back into place with a recoil as if he'd taken a sword-strike to the helm. Tris struggled for control against the staggering reaction headache. The magic rose and fell like a storm-tossed sea. The power inside his mind buckled and folded in on itself. He was falling, and the world opened its maw to swallow him whole. He landed with a thud on the ground. Bones snapped.
Tris struggled to his feet, rallying his power. Dimly, he could feel Fallon and the other mages around him. With all his remaining energy, Tris and the other mages sent a firestorm against Lochlanimar, hitting the wall to the right of the portcullis. The magic exploded on impact, breaking down the crenel-lations and collapsing part of the wall.
Let go. Let go now! He could feel the energy drain growing. A few seconds more and it would reach his life thread. Tris flung himself free of the magic and fell to his knees. Too damn close.
"I gave him a potion to ease the pain. It's wearing off."
It was Esme's voice, but it sounded as if she were a league away. Tris tried to open his eyes and thought better of it. His head felt as if he'd been kicked by an iron-shod war horse. No, worse than that. If I'd been kicked I'd be dead, and not feel the pain.
"Will he be all right?" Soterius sounded worried.
"The fall from the horse didn't help anything," Esme replied. "He broke a collarbone and a rib when he landed. The way the men and the horses were out there, he's lucky he wasn't trampled. None of the other mages are in better shape. Whatever the rest of us felt, they must have taken it double."
"Dark sending." Tris could barely make his lips move.
Soterius stepped closer and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Glad you're back with us. We were worried."
"How bad?"
"Not as bad as it could have been, considering. The battering ram's still in place, but that gate isn't coming down soon. My bet is they've reinforced it with rock behind the wood and the portcullis.
"We only lost about a hundred men. Most of our soldiers are volunteers who joined up after we unseated Jared. They're not career soldiers. They've never seen full battle. Still, they held their ground, even with the magic and the ashtenerath. The preparations helped. They knew what the ashtenerath were and how to fight them—and that it was a mercy to end their suffering. That's a lot more than my fighters knew the first time we met up with those damned things!"
"What did you see... when the sending came?"
Soterius's voice was not quite steady. "The men, dead, wounded, and captured. A field of corpses. Shekerishet in flames."
"Like a vision, or a real thing?"
"It was distant. As if I were seeing into a scrying bowl—hazy, not quite solid."
"Then we did our job."
"What does he mean by that?" Soterius demanded of Esme.
"I only know of dark sendings from what the healer-mages have told me. In a full sending, I'm told that it's impossible to tell what's sent from what's real. Tris and the other mages took the brunt of the sending. What we saw, however bad it was, is nothing compared to what it could have been, what they saw."
"Sweet Mother and Childe," Soterius whispered. "What I saw was bad enough to keep me from sleeping. Goddess help the mages, if they saw even worse."
"Regroup," Tris murmured. Even the candlelight was blinding.
Soterius looked spent and worn; Tris wondered how many hours had passed and how long he had been drugged. "We will. I'll give the troops credit—they didn't bolt for home. Once they get over the fright, I think this may work in our favor. No one wants another king like Jared. Curane's shown them exactly what kind of regent he would be. I think our soldiers will dig in their heels. This may not be the most seasoned army, but they've already lost a lot to Jared. This is personal. There isn't much distance between fear and anger. And from what I saw out there, our folks are covering that distance pretty quickly."
"If you want your king in one piece, I suggest you let him rest." Esme's voice was stern.
Soterius clasped Tris's forearm. "I've posted a vayash moru guard tonight—they can handle ashtenerath better than any of us and they weren't affected by the sending. I'll be back in the morning to check on you."
Tris wanted to reply, but the throbbing pain in his head coupled with exhaustion sent him back into darkness.
As soon as he was able, Tris met with the mages and the generals in his tent. It was cramped, and Coalan sat in the doorway to give the others as much space as he could. Tris's ribs and shoulder still ached, though he was healed enough to wield a sword. Soterius and the other generals looked to be in better shape than the mages. Tris guessed that the other mages had taken at least as much recoil as he had in the battle, perhaps more. But while Fallon and her sister mages looked drawn and worn, their eyes were resolute.
"Whatever we do next, I want to get rid of their damn trebuchets," Senne growled. Outside, a steady barrage continued. Large blocks of stone torn loose in the battle were favorite projectiles. Those were bad enough, requiring constant vigilance from the mages to keep them from landing where they could roll into the camp. For the last day, Curane's forces had sent a more gruesome payload. Corpses of men and animal carcasses rained down just beyond the outskirts of camp. By the smell, most were not freshly dead. Some of the bodies, those still frozen solid, burst apart like dry tinder on impact. The others... Tris tried not to imagine what the scouts had found splattered across the plain.
"While we're out of range, we're not out of danger—especially given what they've been sending our way of late," Fallon said. "We can't possibly bury the corpses as quickly as they've been thrown at us. We already had a hundred of our own dead from the battle with nowhere to bury them and little enough wood to spare for pyres. If the carcasses Curane's sending our way weren't diseased already, they'll draw disease quickly enough. At least it's not summer, or we'd be thick with flies."
Palinn nodded. "I thought the same myself. Since the cold shows no sign of letting up, I sent men out to bury whatever they could in the snow. If it freezes solid it may not stink or fester as quickly. But the fresh kills will draw wolves, and the rest will bring foxes and weasels—and worse. Once they come, they may decide we look like better food. We have enough problems without worrying about that."
Latt nodded. "I've already set wardings to warn the animals away from camp. It's in our interest to let them clean up the carrion—the sooner the better. I don't think all those bodies are war dead. Curane's been holed up for a while—and ill humours spread fastest when people are cramped together. My magic tells me that at least some of the bodies carry disease. Sooner or later, what's out there will be among us."
"If there's plague within the fortress, will that work to our advantage?" Senne mused.
"Come the harshest days of winter, there's always fever somewhere," Soterius replied.
"So long as Curane can wall off the affected parts, the rest of his people may make it through."
"What of our supplies?" Tris asked.
Palinn shrugged. "Our supply line is holding. Curane had snipers hidden along the main supply line, but he didn't count on our having vayash moru scouts. The snipers didn't last long, so since then, we haven't been troubled by raids. The biggest problem is there's not much left. Jared burned enough fields and farms that the people are barely feeding themselves, let alone an army. Even if we were of a mind to take what we could by force—"
"Which we won't," Tris said decisively.
"—it wouldn't be enough. I've sent out scavenging parties to within a full day's ride. Curane's own people are on the brink of famine. It takes a lot to keep an army fed. We don't have the luxury of a long siege."
Tris turned to Fallon. "Have the mages recovered?"
Fallon shared a glance among the other magic users. "We were able to contain the worst of the dark sending. Next time, we'll work on reflecting it instead of absorbing it. What worries me is the way the Flow is dropping out and then flaring back."
Tris and Fallon explained to the generals as best they could how the magic had fluctuated wildly. "If there was anything good about it, I think it flattened Curane's mages as well," Trisfinished. "It's the Flow itself that caused the problem."
"One of us is actively using magic at all times," Fallon added. "So we're very aware of the Flow. Just since the battle, we've counted more than a dozen times the energy dropped to nothing, then surged back. We're learning to read the warnings, but this is all new."
"What happens if you're caught in one of these surges?" Senne asked.
"Ana isn't here because of that," Fallon replied. "She was working with the water supply when the magic buckled around hen She said it was the way she's always imagined it would feel to be struck by lightning. It'll be several days before she's well again."
"And you're sure nothing Curane is doing causes the surge?"
Tris shook his head. "Curane's mages aren't causing the surge itself, but their blood magic is making the imbalance in the Flow worse. The more they draw on magic for dark power, the more unstable the Flow becomes. The question is—what happens when it shatters? We only have the stories from the Mage Wars. The last time that happened, it was in the Blasted Lands in the far north. That's why they're called the Blasted Lands."
"Have your ghost spies provided anything of value?" Tarq asked.
"From what they see—and they aren't all-knowing—Curane still believes he can outlast us. That means he thinks he's got something we don't have—or knows something we don't know. The ghosts have heard talk about some fever and plague in parts of the town, so that explains where they're getting some of the bodies. No one's seen the girl and her baby—they seem to be prisoners in the manor's tower." Tris looked at Soterius. "We do have the map Tabok's ghost gave us. Maybe it's a long shot, but if we could get a mage and a strike force through the caves and into Lochlanimar, we could coordinate another assault like the first one—magic and vayash moru and the siege engines. Bursts of small magic, rather than big pushes to keep the Flow from shattering. Curane's forces can't be everywhere at once." "What about the ashtenerath?" Senne asked. Soterius shook his head. "We know it takes a lot of power to make them. That means Curane started before we got here. Whether or not he's used up all he has, they're hard to replenish and dangerous to keep for any length of time. The troops know how to kill them, and now that they've fought them, they're not afraid of them anymore." "And the vayash moru?" Tarq pressed.
"They certainly can't take Lochlanimar alone," Tris said. "Tabok's ghost says the tunnels are charmed against the vayash mom, or I'd send a team of them into the caves. I'd like to send Ban and the strike force out tomorrow night, get them in place. Once we attack, maybe we can keep Curane busy until it's too late." He grinned. "I think I can manage to bring down the blood charms inside the castle—the ones keeping the ghost horde at bay. As for the vayash moru—Gabriel always said that those charms aren't as dependable as the Nargi like to think. I'll see what I can do."
"I have some men in my division you'll want for your strike force," Tarq said. "They're from the mines near the Trevath border. They're not afraid of the dark, and they can navigate underground."
"Done."
Tris looked from one face to another. "Let's hope this works. I don't know how much more the Flow can take, and if it splinters, it won't really matter who wins. We'll all be dead."