"You're a wizard. A Summoner. Restore to me what was stolen!" the ghost demanded.
King Martris Drayke of Margolan drew his power around him and focused on the angry wraith. Despite the torches that burned in sconces around the chamber, the air was cold enough that his breath clouded and his fingers tingled.
Tris went deeper into his mage sense, reinforcing the wardings he had placed around what was once Foor Arontala's interrogation room. The girl's ghost had begun to manifest a month ago, on the anniversary of her death. The ghost, a young woman named Esbet, wore the brown robes of a Sisterhood mage. She appeared as she had died. Her robe was mere shreds, and her body was covered with bruises and deep gashes. Seeping burns marked her arms. Two fingers were missing, and one of her eyes was swollen shut. Her death wound was a slash across the throat.
In the weeks since Tris had won the throne he had begun the grisly work of cleansing the palace Shekerishet. It seemed as if new bodies—and ghosts—turned up. daily. Between Jared's lust, his pillaging soldiers, and Aronta-la's blood magic, an unknown number of victims had perished in the dungeons of Shekerishet. "I can't return you to life. It's forbidden." Esbet's ghost did not require his power to become visible. On her own she had gained the notice of the palace by breaking crockery, smashing windows, putting out cooking fires, and souring milk.
Esbet scowled. "Forbidden by whom? The Goddess? Where was She when soldiers dragged me to the king? Where was She when I needed her?"
Images flooded Tris's mind, sent by the ghost. Tris saw the young woman, a land mage, ambushed by Jared's men along a forest road. Wormroot clouded her senses and disabled her magic, pushing her power out of reach as she fought to defend herself. Tris felt Esbet's fear as her memories of Arontala's dungeon washed over him. Through Esbet's memories, Tris watched as Arontala assaulted her with magic and drugs, ripping from her mind what he could not force from her with the torturer's tools. As if the walls around them retained a memory of the bloodshed, the images grew stronger as the ghost mage forced him to see her last moments. Broken by Arontala, ravaged by the guards, Esbet took her last refuge in madness. Linked in memory, Tris felt the pain of the blade that took Esbet's life, sharing the growing coldness as her blood ran across the stone table and into the cup for Arontala's feeding.
Tris fought his way free of the sending. The ghost's pain and anger enveloped him. "They took everything!" Esbet cried. "Avenge me!"
Tris struggled to keep a clear head as the ghost's emotions washed over him. "I've seen the Lady myself," Tris replied. "But I can't pretend to know why She sometimes turns her face in silence. Jared killed my family. I didn't try to bring them back, though I wanted to. But I gave them peace, and eased their passage to the Lady."
"That's not good enough!" The ghost screamed, launching herself at him in fury. Tris snapped a warding into place as the revenant keened and shrieked. Esbet's anger transformed her spirit into a twisted visage with a gaping maw and dark, eyeless sockets. The energy of her attack bounced against the whisper-thin, coruscating barrier of the warding, and she wailed louder in frustration.
Tris knew that, possessed by grief and terror, Esbet would willingly tear him apart. Now, contained within the chamber by the outer warding and restrained from her vengeance by his inner shielding, the ghost hurled herself against the magic barrier, filling the air with curses. Finally, after nearly a candlemark, the attacks subsided. The ghost stretched herself out against the inner warding, growing thinner and thinner until she covered the protective shield. Like layers of a wasp's nest, she shattered into pieces and disappeared.
"Esbet," Tris called gently. "We aren't finished yet." His voice was soft, yet behind it was the power of a Summoner and the command of a king. "You don't need to remain here in pain. I can't let you torment the living. Your family has buried you and completed the days of mourning. There's nothing holding you here except your anger. I can't undo what Jared did. But I can give you rest."
Slowly, as if caught by a gentle wind, the shattered ghost began to swirl and reform. Finally, Esbet stood before him. Her face was tear-streaked, no longer defiant, and the look in her eyes wrenched Tris's heart. "Please, sir. I want to go home."
Tris nodded. It was a risk,' he knew, to lower his inner warding, but he sensed no malevolence, only deep grief. He dispelled his warding, and stretched out his hand to the ghost. She reached out to him, and passed through him.
"Are you ready?"
Esbet nodded. Tris closed his eyes and gathered his power. This was the greatest gift of a Summoner: to make peace among the restless spirits and ease their passage to the next realm. Tris felt himself cross the threshold between the living and the dead onto the Plains of Spirit. He sensed, more than saw, the presence of the Lady. It was Her Aspect as the Childe that manifested, a young girl with the piercing, amber eyes of the Goddess.
The Childe beckoned. Tris began to murmur the passing over ritual, ancient and powerful words that would blur the line between the realms of the living and the dead. Esbet reached out. She took a halting step forward, looking back uncertainly at Tris, who nodded in encouragement. Esbet released Tris's hand and took another step, then another, until the light enfolded her like a great, warm cloak. Tris felt the ghost's presence fade. As suddenly as the vision came it disappeared, leaving Tris alone.
Before he could turn to release the outer wardings, shadows seized him.
Darkness rushed toward him through the channels of magic Tris opened to the Plains of Spirit. Drawn to the light of his power, dark beings swarmed toward the residue of Aronta-Ia's powerful blood magic that still tainted Shekerishet's dungeons. A legion of voices shrieked in his mind; shadows circled him like hungry wolves. These were not ghosts. Tris was certain of that. Not all of the beings on the Plains of Spirits had once been alive. Other spirits dwelled there in the barren places, hungry for the chance to steal power.
Blue fire streaked from Tris's fingers, forcing back the shadows. He could feel them licking at his life force, drawing away his breath and his power. The cacophony of voices made it difficult to think clearly, and Tris struggled to retain his focus. Though he'd had more practice than he'd have liked, the encounters were draining and difficult.
Soulless, these dimonns wandered the Plains of Spirit, seeking power. Tris knew they hoped to overtake him, to bleed him dry or possess him. And while his magic was strong enough to prevent that, Tris was well aware that any mistake would be deadly.
Tris spoke a word of power, and a curtain of fire roared around him. No flames lit the dungeon—the fire bathed the Plains of Spirit, scorching hot. The dimonns screeched in fury, pushed back by the flames. At the edges of perception, Tris sensed other, equally dangerous spirits watching, waiting to feast on him should he fail.
Drawing hard from his remaining energy, Tris sent another blast of white-hot power across the spirit plains. A clap like thunder echoed in his mind, nearly blacking him out. Quickly, while he could still follow the fragile thread back to his mortal body, Tris fled the Plains of Spirit. A tendril of darkness streaked after him, and sharp teeth opened a gash on his ankle. Tris sent a final salvo, burning along the passage between realms with a cloud of fire. He slammed his wardings into place as his spirit rushed fully back to the mortal world, staggering to keep his feet. He waited, magic at the ready. Silence.
Head pounding, Tris took a step toward the door and stumbled, falling hard against a work table. He caught himself and mumbled the words to lower his wardings. He grabbed for the door and opened it, holding on to the door post for support.
The guards reached out to steady him. Tris found the strength to wave them away. "Get me back to my rooms," he rasped. One guard led the way while the other followed. The midnight bells tolled in the tower outside as Tris reached his rooms. When the door was shut behind him, he leaned back against it, closed his eyes, and tried to remember if he had ever felt quite so weary in his life. Sure, he told himself, pushing a sweat-soaked strand of white-blond hair back from his eyes. Last week, when you cleansed the other cell. Then there was the time you got captured by slavers. And those weeks of tent rigging for the caravan when you were trying to stay out of sight. And don't forget the training at the citadel in Principality. It might be easier, he thought, to recall a time when he didn't feel exhausted. Before Jared's coup. Those days seemed like another life, although the anniversary of his family's deaths had not yet passed.
The servants had set a pot of water on the hearth to boil. Gratefully, Tris made himself a cup of tea, mixing in the last of the headache potion his healer left for him. By now, the guards and the healers expected that every cleansing in the tainted areas of the castle would come at great cost to their king. Neither he nor they were surprised when he returned barely able to climb the stairs. But even when expected, the consequences of working strong magic were painful.
As he stirred the tea, Tris found himself staring at the painting of his father, King Bricen. Jared had destroyed all of the paintings of the royal family in Shekerishet. One -of the first things Tris did when he regained the throne was to gather any paintings that were hidden in noble houses of his father, his mother Queen Serae, and his sister Kait. The paintings helped, just a little, ease how much he missed his murdered family.
Tris studied the portrait of Bricen as if his father might speak. There was no denying the family resemblance. From Bricen, Tris received the king's high cheekbones, angular features, and tall build. From Serae, Tris took his white-blond hair and green eyes. His shoulder-length hair was a wild cloud around his face, still tangled from his encounter with the ghost. The last time he'd looked at his own reflection he had barely recognized himself, thinking that in just the few months since he had taken the crown, he had grown gaunt and strained. It's why they say a crown is the heaviest load to bear, he thought. There are too many things to worry about—things that even a king, or a sorcerer, can't fully control.
At Tris's feet, basking in the warmth of the fire, three dogs looked up. The two wolfhounds, like rangy long-tufted carpets, stretched languorously and wagged tiredly. The third, a bull mastiff, shuffled to his feet and padded over to nuzzle Tris's hand. Absently, Tris patted the big dog's head. During his exile, Tris had feared for the dogs' safety, knowing that Jared's cruelty extended to the palace animals. Tris had gone to the hunting lodge where he'd kept the dogs, expecting the worst. To his surprise and relief, the dogs had survived, having been turned out into the woods for their own protection by the lodge keeper. Dirty and underfed, ribs jutting, the dogs had come to him. Tris saw to it that they received plenty of food and a healer's care. Just a few months later, the dogs were nearly back to their former weights, happy to be home and with him.
Tris put his empty cup aside and fell across the bed fully dressed. One of the wolfhounds licked his hand while the mastiff nudged at his ear. The other wolfhound padded up and sat down at the end of the bed protectively, as if on vigil. Safe at last, Tris gave in to exhaustion and let sleep take him, sure his dreams would be restless.
A knock at the door startled Tris. The sun was already shining through the windows; he had slept through the night. His dogs woofed warily. Cautiously, Tris went to the door. Master Bard Carroway stood in the doorway carrying a tray with a pot of tea, cups, and a heaped plate of cakes.
"Isn't this early for you?" Tris waved his friend inside.
Carroway, resplendent in the jewel-toned silks he favored, chuckled and took a seat near the fire. The dogs wagged sleepily and returned to their places. "I could ask the same of you. Begging your royal pardon, but you look like hell."
Tris chuckled. He offered the tea to Carroway, who accepted, then sank into another chair beside the fire and cradled his cup in his hands. "More ghosts."
"The poltergeist?" Carroway asked.
"Another one of Arontala's victims."
"By the Lady! How many people did he have time to kill? There wouldn't have been a kingdom left if Jared had had the crown a full year."
"There almost isn't anyhow," Tris said wearily. "Now that Zachar's come out of hiding, we've gone over the accounts. Father ran the kingdom well. Before he died, the treasury was more than ample. There were stockpiles of food and equipment. Now.... Whether Jared squandered it, Arontala used it to buy troops, or it just got looted, there's not nearly as much as there should be," Tris said. "This year's harvest isn't going to replace it, either. All the farmers ran for the border once Jared took over. The soldiers burned so many crops and villages trying to extort taxes that there'd be a famine before springtime if I hadn't managed to buy and barter grain from Dhasson and Principality. There still might be. And now, with war coming—"
"Is that certain?"
Tris sighed and nodded. "There's no getting around it, I'm afraid. Sweet Chenne, I wish there were. Father never trusted Lord Curane. He always thought Curane was too friendly with Trevath." Trevath, Margolan's neighbor to the south, had a long and bitter history of border disputes and attempts to meddle in Margolan's affairs. That it shared the kingdom of Nargi's affection for the Crone, one of the Lady's dark Aspects, made Trevath even more suspect.
"You think he's getting support from Trevath? Would Trevath be that bold?"
"Don't forget—Jared was father's son with Eldra, and Eldra was from Trevath. Arranged marriage to keep the peace." Tris made a face.
"You can see how well that worked. So while we don't have any evidence that Trevath supported Jared's coup, he might have been able to create an alliance that benefited Trevath through Eldra's family.
"The generals are suspicious," Tris said. "That's their job. We already know Jared tried to ally with Nargi. The only thing Nargi and Trevath hate more than each other is Mar-golan. We can't afford to have them team up against us. And it would be like Trevath to take advantage by backing Curane." He looked into the fire. "What we know for sure is that some of Jared's top generals—the ones who ordered the village massacres—are being harbored by Curane. The. Sisterhood believes he's giving shelter to dark mages. And then there's Jared's bastard to worry about." "Damn."
Jared had been notorious for his promiscuity. Many of the nobles' daughters had been among his willing paramours. But Lord Curane had seen a way to profit from Jared's lusts, and had willingly supplied his own granddaughter, a girl barely of marriageable age, for Jared's pleasures. Even before Tris had battled Jared for the throne, rumor had it that Curane had whisked his granddaughter—pregnant with Jared's child—into hiding. The girl and her newborn son were said to be in Curane's holdings. That alone was reason enough for war.
"Although I don't mind being confessor to the king," Carroway said with a sly grin, "it really isn't why I came. You're hard to catch, and your royal wedding planner has a few questions." Now that he was back in his role as court minstrel, Carroway had lost no opportunity to dress in the sumptuous style that had always been his signature. With Carroway's blue-black long hair and long lashes over light blue eyes, the minstrel was handsome almost to the point of beauty. Since Tris was now betrothed, Carroway remained one of the court's most eligible bachelors.
Tris finished his cup of tea, wishing fervently that he had had another dose of the headache potion.
"Before Soterius comes to get me for the trials, tell me about plans for the wedding. I could use some good news."
"I found a minstrel troupe that just spent a year in Isencroft, so I've got them busy teaching our bards and musicians everything they can about the latest music and the most fashionable dances there. One of them can cook, too, so I've gotten him to teach the kitchen staff to make some dishes Kiara might like. Found a merchant with the last caravan who knows what the styles have been there, and promised to design costumes for the entertainers in the Isencroft tradition. As for the food—"
"We can't justify feasting in the palace when the villagers are hungry. The last thing we need is a revolt. Please, keep the wedding as simple as you can."
Carroway looked at him in mock exasperation. "I finally get to plan a royal wedding, and I've got to watch the budget," he sighed. "But you're right: On the other hand, you're going to have a house full of royalty—we don't dare look like we're struggling to pay the musicians."
"I have no doubt that with you in charge, the musicians will get their pay, and all they can eat besides. Make our guests comfortable. Honor Kiara. But err on the side of dignified austerity instead of fabulous excess, all right?"
"Point taken. Zachar went out of his way to tell me the same thing only yesterday afternoon, but I still want to go over some of the plans with you. I happen to have them right here," he said, patting a scroll in the pocket of his tunic.
Carroway had no sooner laid out his plans than another knock sounded at the door. The dogs rushed to answer, barking a greeting. "Come in," Tris called.
Ban Soterius stepped inside. He was dressed in his formal uniform, a general in the Mar-golan army. Soterius smiled as the dogs rushed at him, tails wagging. He patted them in greeting. "You stay out so bloody late tending to spirits that the living have to wake up at dawn to find you."
"No way around it," Tris said, finishing one of the small cakes and pouring another cup of tea. He hoped the food would rid him of the last vestiges of headache. "The ghosts that won't come to the Court of Spirits still need to be sent to rest. I don't mind being haunted by friendly ghosts, but I've got to rid the palace of the angry ones before Kiara gets here."
Soterius declined Carroway's offer of tea. "The guards told me that you barely got up the stairs last night."
"It's not just the ghosts. I can still feel traces of Arontala's blood magic in the dungeons. Power like that leaves a residue—as if the walls remember. There are...bad things...lurking out there. We'll need to keep that area sealed off until I can set it right."
"Can the Sisterhood help?"
Tris shook his head and winced. "Landis clamped down on the Sisterhood after she saw how many of her mages came to help us defeat Jared. If it were up to her, the Sisterhood would stay hidden in their citadels."
"Would she prefer that we'd left Jared on the throne?"
"In her mind, if the Sisterhood pulls back from outside life, the world will leave them alone."
"Not likely."
Tris shrugged. "Judging from the number of nobles who did nothing to help us take back the crown, I'd say Landis isn't alone."
Outside, the bells rang the eighth hour.
"It's time," Soterius said.
"Have I mentioned how much I hate this part?"
Soterius ran a hand back through his light brown hair, close-cropped to fit a soldier's helm. "Several times."
Tris's valet, Coalan, knocked at the door, and Carroway exited as Tris dressed. Neither Tris nor Soterius spoke as they walked through the corridors with guards ahead and behind them. Tris's pulse quickened. Another round of trials for Jared's generals, followed by the executions of those found guilty by the court. Tris could feel the press of spirits around him as the bailiff announced the arrival of the king. Trumpets blared. Many of those ghosts would soon be witnesses. Two dozen guards created a living barrier between the onlookers and the king. Tris took his throne at the front of the room. This was the fourth day of trials, and the crowd had grown each day. "Bring the first defendant." Two guards escorted General Kalay into the courtroom. Shackled at the wrists and ankles, Kalay held himself stiffly and shook off the guards. Even in civilian clothing, his military bearing was unmistakable. He was a balding man, just past his thirtieth season, and his defiant blue eyes showed intelligence. Behind Kalay were ten soldiers, similarly shackled.
Tris did not need to glance at the paperwork. He had seen Kalay's work first-hand.
"General Asis Kalay. You and your men are charged with the murder of Margolan citizens under the orders of Jared the Usurper, a massacre that killed every villager in Rohndle's Ferry on the banks of the Nu River. How do you plead?"
Kalay met Tris's eyes. And although Tris could not read minds, everything about the glint in the man's eyes, his posture, and the slight turn of his lip made it easy to guess his thoughts. Prove it.
"Not guilty, Your Majesty."
Tris nodded. The bailiff produced a sheaf of parchment, and laid it in front of Kalay. "We have copies of your orders. We have documentation of your route. Do you wish to change your plea?"
"No."
Tris met Kalay's eyes. "Then we will call the witnesses."
The gallery grew still. The temperature in the courtroom fell. As the spectators and jurists watched, a mist began to coalesce in the space between the throne and the defendant's seat. The mist began to glow. Gradually, men, women, children, and elders gathered until the ghosts of an entire fishing village stood before the court.
Tris channeled power to the ghosts, and they became more solid. A gasp arose from the gallery, and sobs could be heard from among the Scirranish. The ghosts appeared with their death wounds. Men with skulls split open by battle axes, women and children run through by swords. Young girls dishonored and beaten. Blind old men and bent old women with the mark of a noose around their necks.
"Villagers of Rohndle's Ferry," Tris said. "Tell us how you died."
Even knowing what would come next, Tris struggled to retain his composure. He had already seen the villagers' memories of their deaths. Months ago, when he and his companions had made landfall after their journey down the Nu, they had chanced upon this desolate village and found what remained of the corpses. It did not make it easier to hear each person in turn come forward to tell the story.
"Soldiers came to our village in the uniform of the king of Margolan," said a village elder. Half of his skull was torn away. "They demanded money. We had already paid both first and second taxes—we had no more coin to give. First, they burned our homes. Then they chased down our livestock and our children for sport. They took our daughters into the forest. We heard them screaming." He looked at Kalay. "This man was their leader. He was angry. He gave the order, and his men set about with their axes and swords. Those who did not die immediately they hanged in the barn. This is the man."
Kalay's face was pale. His eyes were wide. Several of Kalay's soldiers were weeping with their heads in their hands, shaking in fear of judgment.
"Do I need to have the others tell their tale?" Tris struggled to keep his tone civil.
"I did as my king commanded. I followed my orders. I have done nothing wrong." His lip curled. "My allegiance is to King Jared."
So many of the onlookers in the gallery rose to their feet and surged forward that the guards were hard pressed to restore order. In the gallery, the Scirranish muffled their sobbing. Tris met Kalay's eyes.
"The crown finds you and your men guilty of murder as charged. You'll be hanged this afternoon."
"I did nothing wrong," Kalay snarled. The guards grabbed him by the arms and pushed him toward the door. "Nothing. All who opposed King Jared deserved to die. I have served my king."
Kalay was still shouting when the door swung shut behind him. Guards dragged Kalay's condemned soldiers to their feet. Despite their tears, none begged the crown for forgiveness. When they were gone, Tris looked to the ghosts that still remained in the front of the courtroom. The same village elder who had testified and who had first appeared to Tris in the village approached the throne.
"Thank you, my king. If you would, we're ready to make the passage. We have seen justice."
Tris closed his eyes, murmuring the passing over ritual. As he let the images of the wraiths dissipate, he met them in the Plains of Spirit. In the distance, he could hear the soulsong of the Lady. As the spirits passed and bowed in gratitude, Tris could feel their burden lift. The moment passed, and they were gone. Tris returned his attention to the courtroom, where the crowd watched in awestruck silence.
Four days of testimony, Tris thought wearily. Few of the defendants remained as defiant as Kalay once their victims stood in front of them. None of the men presented for trial had been exonerated. The testimony of their victims provided overwhelming evidence. Tris was emotionally and physically exhausted; serving as the conduit of power that made the dead visible and audible to the jury and onlookers. Few realized that while the rest of the assemblage heard the ghosts' tales, Tris saw the images of their memories, felt their terror and pain, fresh and horrifying. He had found no way to blunt the impact of those images, nor did he fully desire to do so. It would be so easy not to feel. But if I stop feeling, if the decision of life or death loses its pain, then I'm no better than they are. Then it's nothing but a bureaucratic process, and it demeans the price these people paid.
The executions would come later. Tris dreaded them. As in combat, he could not help but see the spirits of the condemned men twist free of their bodies, to hear their final anguished pleas for the mercy that they did not grant to others. That would be the final judgment— whether to ease their passage to whichever Aspect came to choose them.
Ten more defendants were brought for trial as the day wore on. In a few cases, living wit- nesses provided the damning evidence. More often, ghosts were the only ones left to tell the tale, and the stories were so horrific that some in the gallery fled the room sobbing or retching. Two of the accused men threw themselves on the king's mercy, and Tris sentenced them to hard labor repairing what was destroyed. Most were like Kalay, still certain that their actions were justified.
As the afternoon shadows stretched long across the courtroom, soldiers brought the last two defendants for judgment. Tris recognized the men from Bricen's guard, although he could not have put a name to their faces without the warrants handed to him by the bailiff. Tris glanced down through the charges and felt his blood run cold. The two men, Cerys and Meurig, were charged with the murders of Queen Serae and Tris's sister Kait.
The crowd murmured as the charges were read, and Tris knew that all eyes were on him. He hoped his face was impassive. In a few nights, it would be a year since his family was murdered on Jared's orders, and while he had made their passage to the Lady, the loss was still fresh.
"Cerys of Alredon and Meurig of King's City. How do you plead?"
The two men stood to face the king. "Your Majesty," Cerys stammered. "You've got the wrong men. We weren't near the castle that night, we swear. You've got to believe us." He was a short, wiry man just a few years older than Tris. Meurig, who stood beside him, was a large man, ox-like with massive arms and a thick neck. Soterius and Harrtuck had told Tris privately that both men were among the troops who favored Jared's aggressive talk.
"I've made the passage for Queen Serae and Princess Kait," Tris said, wishing that the formal language could distance him from the loss that still ached inside. It didn't. "They can't testify. But two guards also died that night defending my mother and my sister. Their spirits accuse you."
Tris was exhausted, both from the emotion of the day's trial and from the energy it took to call ghostly witnesses. His head throbbed, and his neck and shoulders ached. He stretched out his power once more, and two ghosts became visible. These men Tris knew well. Ifan and Nye had been his mother's personal guards for many years. The guards were men of unimpeachable integrity and unquestionable devotion to Serae and Kait. For that, they had been among the first to die in Jared's coup.
Ifan's ghost clearly showed the slit across his throat that had taken his life. Nye's wraith still showed the gash on his temple from where his head had been slammed against the rock wall of the castle. The guards bowed low in greeting to Tris.
"My prince...your majesty," Ifan corrected himself. "It's good to see you again."
"I'm sorry to disturb you," Tris said. "But at long last, it's time for justice to be served. Are the men who killed you and who killed Queen Serae and Kait in this room?"
Each of the ghosts in turn scanned the crowd, which had grown silent. The ghosts pointed to Cerys and Meurig. "These are the men," Ifan said. "They betrayed us and used our trust in them to get close enough to kill us. When we were gone and too freshly dead to intervene as spirits, they entered the Queen's chambers."
"That man," Nye said, pointing to Cerys, "drew his sword on the queen. We heard her scream, and she fell. Princess Kait ran into the room when she heard the queen cry out. She fought like a wild thing, but Cerys grabbed the princess and pinned her while Meurig stabbed her. We saw, my king, but we could do noththing"
Tris swallowed hard. The ghosts' testimony matched the scene he, Carroway, and Soterius found on the night of the coup. Hearing it described brought him back to that moment, and the grief he thought had been set aside washed over him once more, fresh and raw.
"There was a third man with you that night,"
Tris said. "Kait managed to kill him with her dagger. He also would testify."
Tris's head pounded as he called for the last ghost. Sister Taru had warned him that even with a lifetime of training, strong magic carried a physical price. It was, she said, what kept mages from believing themselves to be gods. His head hurt so much that he could barely see. Another spirit in the uniform of the king's guard materialized. This spirit's death wound showed the dagger in his chest Kait had thrown. "We found your body on the night of the coup in the room with mother and Kait," Tris said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded exhausted. "That night, Kait's ghost told me that she had killed you in self defense. Identify for the court the men who were with you that night."
The ghost looked at Tris in fear, and quickly turned toward Cerys and Meurig. "Those are the men," he said, pointing at the two disgraced guards. "Cerys received his orders from Prince Jared to go to the family quarters. We were to kill everyone—even you," he said with a nervous glance in Tris's direction. "Their guards fell before they knew what hit them. We entered the room, and it's just like the ghosts told you, only the princess had a knife in her skirts, and she pegged me in the chest when she heard the queen scream."
"We was just following orders," Cerys said sullenly. "Not for us to judge what to follow and what not to follow. Hang us if we did that, and hang us if we don't."
Tris felt all of the raw emotions of the day wash over him. Exhaustion, grief, and anger swept through him. On the Plains of Spirit, he could see the thin blue life threads of the two defiant guards. Sweet Mother and Childe, I want revenge! Tris thought. It would be so easy to focus his power on those life threads, to snuff out their glow. Even now, neither man showed remorse. Goddess help me. It would be so easy. Mother and Kait would be avenged. It's what I wanted more than life itself that night, to kill the men responsible with my own hands.
In his memory, he saw a tall green-eyed man. Lemuel, his grandfather, the Summoner whose body was taken hostage by the Obsidian King. I foolishly thought I could control power that I should never have sought, Tris remembered Lemuel saying. Taking that power opened Lemuel's soul to be possessed by the Obsidian King.
No one would fault me for killing them, Tris argued with himself. I have the right. But what of the Scirranish? What of their vengeance? Sweet Chenne, how much blood will there be if everyone who lost family to Jared's men takes their own revenge? Mother and Kait will be avenged if these men hang. I know better than any what awaits their souls—the judgment of the Crone or the wrath of the Formless One. Lady Bright! How can it still hurt so much?
Another memory came. Jared, drunk with whiskey but no less dangerous, on the night Tris took back Shekerishet. Jared's face was less than a hand's breadth away, reeking of sweat and drink. As Jared's hand had tightened on Tris's throat, Tris had seen his brother smile. I want to watch you die, Jared had said, and remember fust how you looked when the last breath slipped beyond your grasp.
Tris recoiled from the memory. I can't. I won't be like Jared. I won't make Lemuel's mistake. And it's all the worse, because of how easy it would be.
"The Crown sentences you to hang. It's more than you deserve." Tris stood and left the chamber. Behind him, he could hear the guards leading the condemned men toward the courtyard and the noise of the crowd rushing to see the hanging. Four guards moved with him into the small antechamber, and Soterius followed.
"Are you all right?" Soterius asked.
Tris knew his friend could easily read the pain in his eyes. "When you went to Hunt-wood, when Danne told you what Jared's men did to your family, did you want revenge?"
"More than I can tell you," 'Soterius admitted. "Ask Mikhail. I fought like a madman. I gave no quarter. We ambushed a group of Jared's soldiers and one of them recognized me. He told me it had been as easy to kill my family as slaughtering sheep." Soterius's voice broke. "Goddess help me, Tris. I ran him through. And I didn't stop. I hacked him to pieces, crying so hard that I couldn't see. And when it was over and I was covered in his blood, I realized that it didn't matter. It couldn't bring them back. Killing him didn't change anything for him or for them, but it changed me. I threw up and burned my clothes and scrubbed the blood off my hands, but I knew what I'd done. I don't know if the Lady can ever forgive me. Mikhail stayed with me all that night. He thought I might try to kill myself. He was right."
Soterius looked at Tris and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Whatever it was you didn't do in there—you were right not to do it."
"Then why does it feel like I let mother and Kait down?"
"You didn't. You would have failed them if you'd used your magic to kill those men, instead of letting justice be served. Those men will still be dead, but the blood won't be on your hands."
They walked together from the Hall of Petitions out onto the loggia and through the walled garden. The garden, one of Kait's favorite places, was now cluttered with the dry stalks of weeds. Even there, soldiers with crossbows kept vigil. Two dozen soldiers joined them as they walked to the main courtyard, where the crowd waited. It was a cold, late autumn afternoon. The sky threatened an early snow. Tris had banned any sale of food or ale, not wishing the executions to become the event they had been under Jared. Still, a crowd gathered. Some of the onlookers had brought their own baskets and blankets, setting up a picnic where they could best see the gallows. Children ran through the crowd, laughing. Tris knew that afterward, some would try to scavenge bits of the rope or a shoe or button from the condemned men's bodies.
In the center of the courtyard, the gallows waited.
Tris signaled for the prisoners to be brought out. He lifted his face to the wind. It was not the first such hanging and would not be the last, especially if the campaign against Curane and his rebels succeeded. But it would be the- final one for a long time here at Shekerishet. After months of trials, the tower was empty of prisoners.
The condemned officers walked with a defiant stride. Kalay raised his head to meet Tris's eyes.
"Hail, King Jared, the rightful king of Mar-golan!" Kalay shouted as the executioner fitted the noose around his neck. The crowd murmured, but Tris made no response other than to raise his hand and let it fall in signal to the officers below.
Beneath the prisoners' feet, trap doors sprung open. The men plummeted and jerked once, dying instantly as the noose snapped their necks. Tris could feel their spirits lurch free of their dangling bodies. Their fear and disorientation washed over him, and he could feel the taint that clung to their souls. The hangman's craft failed the last two men, who twisted and writhed, feet scrabbling in midair to gain a toehold, bucking and gasping for air. The hood slipped off of one of the men, and Tris saw that it was Cerys. Coincidence? Or was there someone in the executioner's party who wanted vengeance as much as I did? Minutes passed. Finally, the two men's struggles slowed. Cerys's eyes bulged and his face blackened as his swollen tongue lolled from his mouth.
Cerys and Meurig's souls wrenched free from their bodies. Tris felt the pain of the severing. They joined the others on the Plains of Spirit. Tris heard a sound like distant thunder, and the rush of wind. Darkness swept over the spirit realm. The Formless One was present, and, even as a Summoner, Tris's own soul shuddered. In the darkness, he heard the screams of the souls She harvested as a vortex opened and pulled them into its maw. As quickly as it had come, the darkness was gone, and with it, the souls.
When the last of the executions were finished, Tris signaled an end to the spectacle. A phalanx of guards protected him as he crossed the courtyard. Once they reached the safety of the walled garden, all but Harrtuck and two soldiers returned to their duties. Two guards with crossbows kept sentry at the entrance to the garden, and two more patrolled the portico. Still trying to clear his thoughts from the hanging, Tris - looked at the ruined garden sadly. Come spring, I'll make sure it's planted with Kait's favorite flowers, he promised himself. While the garden had been left to wither under Jared's rule, it had never been abandoned by the palace's ghostly servants, who favored the cool, shadowed corners and the fountain that now lay broken in the' middle. Tris could sense the spirits' presence, and wondered if they, too, missed his mother and sister as much as he did.
"Danger, my Lord!"
Tris heard the whisper of a ghost. The ghost shoved him hard to the right. His mage sense flickered a warning, and Tris glimpsed something streaking toward him a fraction of a second before it slashed deep into his left shoulder. Blood started down his chest, and he staggered.
"Get down!" Soterius dived for him, taking them both to the ground and shielding Tris with his body. "Call Esme!" Soterius shouted. "The king's been hit!"
Harrtuck ran in the direction of the bowman while the other guards formed a wall around them. Tris heard running feet and the sound of clashing steel. Footfalls came closer, and the guards parted as Esme, the king's healer, pushed her way between them.
Tris gasped at the pain. Blood ran down his arm and chest. He steadied himself, and looked at the quarrel embedded in his shoulder. He leaned heavily on Soterius and Esme as they returned to the protection of Shekerishet.
Esme commandeered a small sitting room and motioned for Soterius to help Tris to the floor.
"Ouch," the red-haired healer said, looking at the quarrel. Esme had been one of Serae's healers, before fleeing into exile after the coup. Soterius had found her among the Margolan refugees living in the Principality camps, and she had become a valuable aid to the resistance movement. Now, Esme returned to Shekerishet to become King's Healer.
She ripped open Tris' bloodstained tunic from neck to hem to see the damage. One of the guards was sent to fetch a pot of simmering water for herbs and poultices, and Esme laid out what she needed on a clean cloth beside her.
"I'll need Ban and a few others to keep you still while I pull it out. Have they your permission?"
Tris nodded. Soterius and three soldiers came and knelt beside him, each immobilizing an arm or leg while Esme sat beside the wounded shoulder. She poured a cup from a flask, and motioned for Tris to drink. The smell told him it was river rum, potent and rough. "Here," she added, wadding up a bit of clean cloth. "Bite on this. I can't wait for the rum to take full effect. You're losing blood."
His body arched as Esme withdrew the bolt with slow, steady pressure. The soldiers released him, and he opened his eyes.
"Nasty wound," Esme said. "This'll sting."
Tris spat out the wad of cloth. "Probably not as much as that did."
"I need to make sure it wasn't poisoned. You're lucky. It might have taken you full in the chest."
"There's no wormroot," Tris managed. "I'd feel it if there were."
Esme nodded. "That's one thing in our favor."
Esme pressed a pad of soft cloth against the wound and leaned on it with her full weight, stanching the flow of blood. She ground herbs with a mortar and pestle and mixed them with steaming water to make a wrarm paste. Gently, she daubed the mixture into the wound. "This should neutralize the most common poisons." The pressure and the warmth made Tris wince. "And it should prevent infection." Esme laid a hand on his forehead. "If you let me through your shielding, I can ease the pain."
Tris concentrated on bringing down his mental shielding enough to permit Esme's touch. Her hand passed over his brow, and he felt her power lessen the throbbing in his shoulder and arm.
A sharp rap came at the door. Soterius and the soldiers sprang from their places, and five soldiers stood to form a protective ring around Tris and Esme, swords drawn. Har-rtuck stood in the doorway, a grim expression on his face.
"Do you have the bowman?" Soterius asked Harrtuck.
"He attacked us. One of my men ran him through. He's dead."
Soterius swore. "Makes it hard to interrogate him."
"Not necessarily." Tris managed to pull himself up on his good arm. "Bring me some pillows."
"If you sit up you could start bleeding again," Esme protested. "I haven't had time to finish the healing."
"It won't be for long."
"This can wait..." Soterius began.
Tris shook his head. "There may be others. He might have had help. If traitors remain in the ranks, we need to know." A trickle of blood started from the wound, and Esme looked at him sternly. Tris extended his right arm toward the middle of the room and murmured the words of summoning.
The temperature in the room fell, and beyond Tris's outstretched hand a fine mist began to coalesce. Soterius moved forward so that he was positioned to step between the ghost and Tris if necessary. The spirit of a young, dark-haired man crouched before them, clad in the uniform of a palace guard.
"Who sent you to attack the king?" Soterius demanded. "Tell us, and maybe your journey to the Lady will be short."
"Don't rightly know, to tell the truth."
"You drew a crossbow on the king and you don't know why?"
The man tugged his forelock in deference. "Aye, 'tis the truth. Two moons ago, the wasting disease began to take me. I have five children and a wife to feed. They'll have nothing with me dead, no way to earn their keep. A man came to my house one night. Well dressed, with a nice horse. He spoke like one of the betters, although given his business, he didn't say his name. He offered to see to it that my wife had all the money she needed and that my little ones wouldn't go hungry if I would do a job for him. What's a man to do? Didn't matter to me who sits on the throne, so long as the taxes don't rise. I was going to die anyhow, and leave them with nothing. I took his offer, and he laid down gold on the table, right then."
"Whose gold?" Tris asked, teeth clenched against the pain.
"It was Trevath gold, but it spends the same," the ghost said with sly smile.
Tris and Soterius exchanged glances. "Can you tell us anything else?" Soterius asked.
The ghost shook his head. "Wore his cloak and kept his hood up the whole time. Wasn't surprised, given what he asked." The ghost fell to his knees. "Please don't hurt my family. They knew nothing. Please, they had no part in this."
"We won't harm your family." Tris was sure that once the guard left the visitor had returned, reclaiming his gold and silencing any who might have identified him.
Tris felt the threshold open, although he did not open it himself. The guard turned toward the power with wide, staring eyes. Shadows enveloped the assassin. In the midst of the shadows was the Crone.
The ghost gave one piercing shriek and the soldiers scrambled to get as far away as possible. Only Esme and Soterius held their ground. The Crone paid them no attention, claiming Her quarry. With the rustle of dry leaves, She disappeared as quickly as She came.
Esme was the first to collect herself in the hush that followed. "Now can we please get down to business healing that shoulder?"
Tris nodded. Carefully, Esme removed the pillows from behind him, laying him gently on the floor. She motioned for the soldiers to give her space to work. Then, closing her eyes, she laid her right hand over the wound.
Healing energy flowed to the gash. Esme's lips moved, but she made no sound. Her body swayed with the concentration. Finally, her eyes opened, and she removed her hands from his shoulder. When she took away the compress, only a thin pink scar remained.
"It's going to be very sore for a while."
Tris could see the effort the healing had cost Esme. He'd spent enough time with Carina— both as her helper and as her patient—to understand the toll a major healing took on a healer. He had no doubt that Esme felt nearly as spent as he did, perhaps more.
"Thank you."
Esme smiled self-consciously. "I'm happy to serve," she replied. "Don't be surprised if your shoulder and arm feel like you've broken them. That arrow tore through a lot of muscle and tendon. I'll give you something for the pain."
"Leave it for later," Tris said, struggling to sit. Esme placed a hand on his shoulder, lightly cautioning him that she did not thi'nk it was a good idea. With a weak smile, he lay back down.
"I've got a meeting with the generals."
"It can wait until later," Soterius countered. "No one will question that you need time to rest. I'll see to that. Let's get you to your room. I'll have the kitchen send up your supper. Listen to Esme and let her dull the pain."
"You may have a point there," Tris admitted. The shoulder was beginning to throb with an ache that shot down his arm into his fingers.
Esme dissolved some herbs in a cup of hot water. "Here." She held the cup for him to drink. "This will take the pain away."
"I'd like to rest. But I'd prefer to do it in my own bed, not here on the floor."
Esme fashioned a sling to take the weight off of his shoulder, and they made their way through the palace corridors to the king's chambers. Soterius motioned for the guards to move aside at the doors to Tris's chambers. "Leave the other generals to me."
"I have no doubt you'll keep them at bay."
"You know me."
Soterius posted two additional guards at the door. Then he and Esme helped Tris inside. The wolfhounds' greeting was subdued as the dogs flanked Tris, watching his every move, and the mastiff padded closer protectively. Esme and Soterius helped Tris lie comfortably in his bed. The pain potion was beginning to do its work, dulling the throbbing in his arm. It was all Tris could do to keep his eyes open.
"Sleep will help," Esme instructed. "Eat when you feel like it. And if you're worried about the medicine, it will wear off after sup-pertime. You can wait to take more after your meeting, if you like."
After this, the generals will be more set on war than ever, Tris thought as the medicine took effect. He drifted off, barely hearing the click of the door as Soterius and Esme let themselves out.