A little more than a week later, Tris and Carina returned to Staden's palace in time to see Soterius and Mikhail off on their journey back into Margolan.
"Now that Ban's an outlaw hero, he'll probably have twice the number of ladies vying for him," Carroway teased. He set his lyre down. The group was still chuckling at the off-color ballad he'd dedicated to the high points of Soterius's upcoming ride into Margolan to inspire dissent. Even Staden dabbed a tear from his eye as the laughter subsided.
"I figure you advised him on the high-born ruffian look," Tris rejoined, grinning. "The hair and the beard, the leather cloak; I just assumed it was all for the benefit of the village girls!"
"Mikhail's done the same, so it must be in fashion," Kiara added. She gave a sly grin in Tris's direction. "We're waiting for you and Jonmarc to pick up on the trend."
Soterius rolled his eyes, taking the ribbing good naturedly as the small group laughed. "I doubt we'll have much time for trysting," he observed. "Although I'm hoping that we won't be completely without good ale."
The friends were assembled in Staden's private dining room. Servants cleared away the dishes from a sumptuous farewell dinner in honor of Soterius and Mikhail. Only the companions from the road, plus Royster, Staden, and Berry attended, and everyone seemed committed to keeping the conversation light.
"Keep your ale—I'm hoping the forests haven't been hunted clean of deer." Mikhail said.
"Actually, I thought Carroway might volunteer to go with us," Soterius returned the teasing. "I suspect we'll raise enough of a ruckus to make a few good stories."
Carroway gave him a skeptical look. "And I imagine you think sneaking Tris back to the palace won't be exciting enough?" Tris watched the others as the servants brought the dessert course. Soterius professed full confidence in his mission, but Tris knew his friend well enough to see his worry. Tris didn't blame Soterius for being nervous. While the idea itself was brilliant, it was another thing altogether to slip into a land at war, recruit its army against its king and live to tell the tale. Even Mikhail seemed preoccupied.
Staden cleared his throat. "I can't help you with the ladies—not that either of you seem to need assistance," he said with a raised eyebrow. "But you'll find two excellent horses ready for you in the stable, and all of the provisions you'll need. I've instructed my groom to leave the horses unkempt so that they don't look like they've come from my stable."
"We're in your debt, Your Majesty," Soterius said.
"And there's Isencroft tack for both of you," Kiara added.
Mikhail looked at her. "How did you manage to come by that out here? Isencroft tack doesn't usually stay long on the shelf."
"Berry helped me make a few connections," Kiara said and Berry giggled. "We made sure it's seasoned, so it doesn't look new. But if you need to fight and ride, there's nothing better to help you keep your seat."
Tris reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch, which he slid across the table to Soterius. "There'll be gold for your journey in your packs," Tris promised. "But this will either convince doubters that you really are on my side—or it'll get you hanged faster if you're caught. I suggest you keep it well hidden."
Soterius emptied the pouch into his hand. A golden ring tumbled out, a replica of Tris's own signet with the crest of Bricen's second son. Soterius weighed it in his hand for a moment, then slipped it back into the pouch and nodded.
"Wouldn't be surprised if that tack Kiara's talking about doesn't have a few secret compartments for something just like this."
Gabriel reached into the breast pocket of his doublet and withdrew a similar pouch, which he handed to Mikhail. "It may not be an original gift," he said with a dry smile, "but it might help if you encounter some of our kind who have not heard the Blood Council's ruling." Mikhail withdrew a signet like the one Gabriel wore on his left hand, with a crest Tris now recognized as the mark of the Blood Council.
"If we're handing out gifts," Carroway said, "then I've got something for both of you." He reached into a small pack under the table and withdrew two bundles. The larger bundle he handed to Soterius, and the smaller one to Mikhail. "Well— open them!"
"We ought to take on harebrained stunts like this more often if it conies with dinner and gifts!" Mikhail joked. He was first to open his bundle. Inside was a small set of pipes. Mikhail lifted them to his lips and played a few bars of a popular tavern ditty.
"You've already memorized all the songs I've written to stir up trouble," Carroway added. "And I've heard you play when you didn't think anyone was listening. Not bad... for someone who's not a bard, that is."
Soterius tore the paper from around his bundle. A bandolier of stawar leather tumbled out, complete with a set of throwing knives. Soterius raised the leather belt appreciatively. "Now that is beautiful."
Carroway grinned. "You can thank Jonmarc for the leatherwork. Berry and I supplied the knives. Pity you can't throw as well as we do, but maybe you'll improve with practice."
Soterius gave him a sour look that sent the rest laughing. Harrtuck reached behind him for his pack, and emptied it out unceremoniously onto the table. Out fell a collection of small weapons—daggers, shivs, darts, and metal knuckle guards. Few of the items were considered legal; they were the equipment of a mercenary or a brawler rather than a regulation soldier.
"I'd rather not explain my sources," Harrtuck said with a sideways glance at Staden, who laughed. "But I took up a collection from the boys in the company. They decided that if you're going to act like mercs you should be outfitted like them."
When the group finally stopped laughing, Carina reached under the table for her gift. "This may not be as much help for Mikhail, since he doesn't need my services," she said as Soterius unpacked the cloth bag. "But it's got enough herbs and powders to patch you up a few times at least. Try not to need more."
"I'll make it up to Mikhail with this," Royster said, and withdrew a leather-bound book from beneath his chair. "It's by King Argus's court scribe; it has a full recounting of the king's best military battles. Rather engrossing, if you ask me. Perhaps there's something in the strategies you can use."
Mikhail smiled as he weighed the book in his hands. "Argus was a friend of mine. And although I couldn't join him in his ale, he was a man with an appetite for good times."
Tris shuddered, remembering the crypt beneath the Library at Westmarch. "Since I met him after he was already dead, I wouldn't know. He was determined at the time to take me with him."
Mikhail chuckled. "Argus had a temper. And he could hold a grudge. But he was one of your grandmother's most loyal supporters. Like everyone else, I suspect he had a bit of a crush on her. For a sorceress, she had more than her share of admirers."
When the dessert was finished and the plates were cleared, an awkward silence fell over the group. Staden cleared his throat and stood.
"I suspect that you'll be getting your nights and days turned around if you intend to ride together," Staden said with a glance between Soterius and Mikhail. "But since I'm guessing that we're into the early bells of the morning, perhaps we'd best let you get some rest before you set out." He bid them rise, and stood in front of Soterius and Mikhail.
"Tis not an easy thing you set off to do," the king said gravely. "But from what I've seen, there's no one more likely to make it happen. May the Goddess ride with you." He clapped a large hand on each man's shoulder with a force that might have felled a frail person. Tris and the others crowded around them.
Kiara whispered a blessing and kissed Soterius on the cheek in parting as Jae hopped from foot to foot on her shoulder. Carroway shook Soterius's hand and made his exit quickly after leaving them with a bawdy rhyme. Vahanian slapped Soterius soundly on the back and wished him well. Harrtuck embraced him until Soterius cried out for release, and then parted with a ribald prayer for the Lady's favor. Berry pressed a small cockade into Soterius's hand, a sign of her favor, and hugged him. Even Carina stretched up on tiptoe to kiss Soterius on the cheek in blessing and wish him well. The group also made their goodbyes to Mikhail, though a bit more formally, as seemed fitting. Then everyone was gone, save Tris, Mikhail, and Soterius.
"I'll get the horses ready," Mikhail said, bowing slightly to Tris. "If the Lady's hand is on us, we'll see you again at Shekerishet. May the Dark Lady favor you." He made the sign of the Lady. Tris and Soterius were silent until after Mikhail closed the door behind him.
"If there's something formal I'm supposed to say," Tris said, "I don't know what it is."
"The only reasonable thing would be to try to talk me out of it, but we both know it's too late for that."
"I know."
"Hey, quit acting like it's my funeral. We're going to drink about this at your coronation, where you can amply reward me with some high-flying title."
"You, on the Council of Nobles. I shudder to think."
"We'll shake them up a little," Soterius promised. ."Show them how to have a good time." He fell silent. Tris could see the stress in his friend's face.
"Ban, if you're having second thoughts—"
"Not on your life," Soterius answered a bit too quickly. "I mean, hey, we've all got a part to play in this, right? After all, I helped get us into this. If we hadn't been snooping around Arontala's window like houseflies—"
"We'd be dead."
Soterius grimaced. "Well, yes, I guess so." He rested one foot on the bench of the table and leaned forward, picking the last traces from the meat platter. "You know, Tris, Carroway is right. They'll be singing about this in the taverns for generations.
Martris Drayke, the Summoner King of Margolan." He shot a sly look in Tris's direction, "And his noble queen, Kiara of Isencroft."
"That's enough of that," Tris said, rolling his eyes. They were silent again for a few moments.
"Well," said Soterius awkwardly. "I guess I'd better be going."
"I guess so. I'll see you back at Shekerishet, right?"
"I might even beat you there," Soterius said, managing a grin. "I'll be watching your back, just like always."
"Be careful, Ban," Tris said, clasping his friend in a tight farewell embrace.
Soterius stepped back. "You too. I think the Lady really does have Her hand on you, Tris, but be careful anyway."
Tris murmured a blessing and then turned away, steeling himself against looking back, and closed the heavy door behind him. But it took him many candlemarks that night to fall asleep, and dreams, when they came, left him restless.
Tris found that nearly as many petitioners waited for him after his return from the citadel as were there before Winterstide. He balanced his duties as a Summoner against the growing list of decisions that demanded his attention as the time for their return to Margolan grew closer. Even the training with Vahanian took on new urgency, and Tris ached from the candlemarks spent trying to perfect the difficult Eastmark fighting style that required both agility and full concentration. He despaired of ever matching Vahanian's skill, although he secretly took pride in the complicated moves he had mastered. And after the salle came more study with Royster, until Tris's eyes blurred. He had fallen asleep at his desk more nights than he wished to remember, adding a stiff neck to his list of injuries.
Tris held his Court of Spirits in the evening, so that he could also serve the petitions of vayash moru. Gabriel and Vahanian took turns guarding him at all times. Tris accepted the protection ruefully, though he declined Staden's offer of more guards, fearing that soldiers might scare away too many petitioners.
It was early in the second month, the Hunger Moon, when Tris found himself more homesick than usual. Outside snow fell heavily, covering the Principality hills in drifts higher than a horse's hocks.
"Didn't anyone tell you?" Tris joked with Vahanian as the fighter pulled his cloak closer around himself. "We hold the Court of Spirits inside. You're dressed for a ride through the snows."
Vahanian grimaced. "Every time one of those spooks shows up, the temperature in here drops another notch. Can't draw a sword if I can't feel my fingers."
Tris chuckled. "If you mind the cold, make sure you mention it to Gabriel before you head to Dark Haven. It's in the foothills, and given that the caretakers are all... unconcerned... about the cold, it may take a bit to ready the fireplaces for a mortal resident."
"You make it sound absolutely charming," Vahanian muttered.
A group of petitioners ventured forward. Tris looked up. It was unusual for a group to come all at once.
One man stepped forward. "Hail, Prince Martris," he said, bowing low. He spoke Margolense with a midlands accent, from the area near Shekerishet. His blond hair was dirty, and he had the raw-boned look of a farmer. Though he appeared to be only a decade older than Tris, his hands were already broadened from hard labor.
"If it please Your Highness, hear my petition."
"Tell me what you seek."
"My name is Nascha. We've come to ask for your help," said the man. "We are the families of the scirranish, the vanished ones." The word he used, "scirranisb," was from the old tales, where it meant "taken by monsters." Tris saw that Vahanian was paying close attention.
People crowded behind Nascha, a group of at least twenty ragged men and women, their expressions etched with sadness. From their soiled and torn clothing, Tris guessed that they were refugees. Most were badly underdressed for the frigid weather, their faces and hands reddened with the cold.
"We're camped three days' ride from here, just over the Principality border from Margolan," said Nascha. "We come from every corner of Margolan, but our stories are the same. King Jared's soldiers came to our villages and dragged us from our beds. Some, they burned as vayash moru, even though they were mortal. Some of the men they executed as spies, for the crime of possessing a sword. Our boys they took for their army, our young women for their lust, and our winter crops for their bellies.
They left the rest of us to starve." Beside Tris, Vahanian muttered a potent curse.
"How can I help you?" asked Tris, struggling with the anger that rose inside him against Jared.
"You're a Summoner," said Nascha. "We don't know what happened to the Scirranish. We don't know whether to mourn their passing and make their gifts to the Lady, or whether they still live, and might, through some miracle, return to us. We beg you, Prince Martris, show us their fate, so that we can make our peace."
Every face in the group watched him with desperate hope. Tris rose, and walked out among the refugees. Vahanian fell into step behind him, and the crowd parted. "I will show you what I can," Tris said.
Tris breathed a prayer to the Lady as he raised his wardings and opened himself to the Plains of Spirit. He let his thoughts focus on each petitioner's face by turn. As he did so, he called out to the lost and wandering spirits. Each of the supplicants whispered the names of their missing ones. Gradually at the edge of his mage sight, like clouds heavy with impending snow, Tris could feel the spirits heed his call. He struggled with his own feelings as the ghosts presented themselves: men bearing the wounds of war and torture, boys barely old enough to lift a sword marked by battle, girls not old enough to wed whose wraiths showed the evidence of their disgrace and death.
"Crone take Jared's soul," Vahanian swore as Tris focused his power, making the spirits visible. Around him there were shouts, cries, and the high-pitched keening of mourners as the living claimed their dead. Tris pushed aside his feelings so that he could focus his power more clearly. The spirits' images became more solid, and Tris lent them the power to speak aloud so that he did not have to bear tidings for each one.
In groups of twos and threes the refugees welcomed their dead, tearful over the violence of their passing and the certainty of their death, and relieved at the finality of the knowledge. The emotions of the living Tris could shield from his consciousness, but the strong feelings of the dead washed over him like pounding waves. Gradually, the room grew quiet. Tris looked to the refugees and their dead.
"Would you go to the Lady now?"
"By your leave, Lord of the Dead," answered one spirit, a burly man whose throat bore the marks of a noose. "We are agreed. We're not ready to rest until Jared and his mage be destroyed."
"What would you have me do?"
The ghosts moved forward, leaving their mortal loved ones behind, and formed a solemn row in front of Tris. "Is if true that you mean to challenge King Jared?" asked the burly ghost.
"It is."
"Then we wish to fight," said the ghost. "Lord of the Dead, grant us this request. Let us return to the places were we're buried. Give our spirits the power to show ourselves to the living and to be heard. Our bodies lie along the roads and in the ditches. When Jared's soldiers pass, our spirits will rise up and take our vengeance."
"Seems to me we met a whole forest like that once," Vahanian murmured under his breath.
"What word do you give that only the guilty will be punished?" Tris asked. "My friends and I were nearly killed by the spirits of the Ruune Videya. Those ghosts were also slaughtered by an unjust king. They came to hate every living soul."
The burly ghost knelt in fealty, and the other spirits silently followed suit. "You're the Lord of the Dead, and the rightful king of Margolan," said the ghost. "We are yours to command. We want to make Jared's soldiers pay for what they stole from us. May my soul go to the Formless One if I punish the innocent," he pledged, and the other spirits murmured their assent. Tris felt a chill go down his spine, remembering the approach of that dark and fearful Aspect.
They might forget their vow and harm the innocent, thought Tris, weighing the choices. But so might any living soldier, and I've sent Soterius and Mikhail out to raise an army of malcontents and outlaws. They could also harm the living. He remembered the anger, the longing, and the loss he had sensed in the spirits of the Ruune Videya, long denied their vengeance, unable to take their revenge upon those who had unjustly ended their lives. Finally Tris nodded solemnly, and stretched out his hands in blessing and commission over the kneeling spirits.
"Go then, to the places where you rest, with the power to make your spirits visible to the living. Take your vengeance, but stay your hand against the innocent, even if he wears the colors of the crown. Do you swear?" Tris asked. Power filled him as he raised his hands in benediction.
"We swear it, Lord of the Dead," said the ghosts, in voices that sounded like the winds of a distant storm.
"Rise then, and fight. When this war is over, return to me, and I will give you passage to the Lady."
"So it shall be." The spirits turned to their loved ones with a final parting gesture, their images growing less solid until they disappeared, leaving only the weeping of the refugees.
"Thank you, my prince," said Nascha, and the refugees surged forward, thanking Tris through their tears.
"There are others who await your help," Nascha said, "more families of the Scirranish. Perhaps, Prince Drayke, we'll have our answers, and you'll find your army." He bowed low once more, and the group made their way toward the door. Tris retreated to his seat, emotionally spent. Vahanian's face made his feelings plain.
"If the rest of the people in that outer room are here for the same reason," Vahanian said, "it's going to be a very long night." He looked at Tris. "I should probably worry that watching you do this kind of thing doesn't seem strange any more. But ghosts, attacking soldiers—are you sure about that?"
Tris shrugged. "No more than I'm sure about any of the plans. Mercenaries, ready to invade Margolan if I give the signal. Vayash moru, freed to protect themselves outside the truce. Ban and Mikhail, rallying deserters and turning them against the army. Those ghosts are of Margolan blood, just as surely as the deserters and the vayash moru. It seems to me that we're going to need all the help we can get." He paused. "Since the meeting with the Blood Council, Gabriel's carried word of the ruling to the vayash moru houses in Margolan. He says many of them will fight against Jared."
"We have to ride back through Margolan to get to Shekerishet," Vahanian said. "Let's just make sure that everyone's clear about whose side we're on."
True to Nascha's word, the petitioners who filled the outer room were the families of Scirranish, some from Margolan's plains and some from the Borderlands, some from the southern lands near Trevath and some from the mountains, but all came with the same story and the same plea. After the ninth bell, Gabriel came to replace Vahanian.
As the night wore on, group after group told of atrocities that shook Tris to his core. One of the men who came to Tris's court told of searching for his missing daughter and finding a heap of bodies dumped with Shekerishet's refuse, bodies of those Arontala had captured and tortured to discover the Sisterhood's weaknesses. The man's voice broke as he described the mangled bodies, each bearing the torturer's mark. Some with crushed feet or limbs dipped in boiling oil, from which the flesh peeled and shredded. Others burned by molten lead, or blinded with hot pokers. A few, he said, had been crushed by heavy rocks, with the weight gradually increased as the victim refused to give up his secrets, until the boulders snapped through bones and suffocated the unfortunate beneath.
One method seemed to have particularly caught Arontala's fancy, the man reported, so shaken by his own tale that even a glass of brandy did not steady his voice. For Arontala's special victims, those whom he suspected had important information, Arontala did not need his magic; all he required was a couple of starving rats, a solid bucket, and a shovel of hot coals. With the victim immobilized, Arontala placed the rats in the bucket and upended the bucket over the victim's belly, placing the hot coals atop it. As the temperature within the bucket became unbearable, the rats sought their only escape route—by gnawing through the body of the victim. He wept as he described how he had found the body of his daughter, a minor mage with the Sisterhood, eviscerated, her skull crushed. Tris felt tears hot on his own cheeks as he called forth the dead girl's spirit. The young mage corroborated her father's story, and gave details of Arontala's tortures that Tris knew would haunt his dreams.
Sweet Chenne, Tris thought, as the enormity of Jared's crimes became clear, I knew fared was a monster, but I thought even he had limits. What would he do, if Arontala gains the powers of the Obsidian King? But deep inside, Tris knew the answer to his question. Jared would seek to extend his power over the Winter Kingdoms, beginning a war that would embroil all seven kingdoms in a disastrous conflict. The Obsidian King in Arontala's body would feed on the souls and blood of that conflict, obliging the surviving mages to band together against him, opening up the cataclysm of magicked war. I never wanted to he king, let alone have the fate of the Winter Kingdoms rest on my actions. But there isn't anybody else to do this—and there may never be.
When the midnight bells tolled Tris motioned for the guards to shut the doors, although the outer room was still filled with petitioners. Carroway and Royster, who had faithfully scribed the stories of the dead, wiped at their eyes as they packed up their parchments and pens and slipped from the room. That left only Tris and Gabriel.
Tris became aware of a ghostly presence, and turned toward the fireplace.
"Show yourself," Tris commanded. In the shadows near the hearth, the spirit of a dark-haired young man appeared. He was dressed in the uniform of an independent soldier—a merc—and a dark stain marked the death wound in his side. But it was the young man's eyes that looked familiar, and Tris searched his memories. A little older, harder, yes, that's it. The ghost resembled General Gregor, the soldier who had captured them when they crossed Gibbet Bridge. He remembered Carina's story about her lost lover, Gregor's brother, and knew who the spirit was.
"Ric?" Tris asked, bidding the spirit come closer. He was a handsome young man, with the confi-. deuce of an accomplished swordsman and the bearing of a professional man of war.
"Lord of the Dead, a word with you, if I might," Ric said, bowing low.
"Why have you come?" Tris watched the young man closely. He remembered Carina's tearful confrontation with Gregor when she pled their cause, seeking their release. Two of a kind? Gregor had taunted Carina in their cell, when Vahanian had come to her defense. Though Ric and Vahanian looked little alike, Tris could see a certain resemblance in their manner. Carina's lost one lover to the sword. No wonder she's skittish around Jonmarc.
"My lord," said Ric. "Seven years ago this night, I died in the arms of my betrothed. I couldn't sever the bond between us, and it almost killed Carina. Since your return to Principality, Pve watched over her, but I can't show myself in my own strength."
"What would you have me do?"
"I never wished to see her grieve for me. Perhaps, my lord, if you can let her see me, I might convince her to let me rest, and she could live without guilt."
"I'll warn you," said Tris. "I'm rather protective of Carina. She's kinswoman to my own betrothed, and soon kin to me. She's been though a lot, and she's worn ragged by the training we've been doing. If you can give her peace by making yourself known, then do it. But if you'll only bring her grief, leave her to those among the living who love her."
Ric looked pained. "I would never wish to bring her grief. I swear it by the Lady on my soul. Carina blames herself for my death, when I know it was in the hands of the Lady. I want to free her to move on, and take my rest."
Tris looked at Ric in silence for another moment. Then he turned to Gabriel. "Send for Carina."
Though it was late, Carina arrived quickly, giving Tris to guess that she had still been up studying the old healing tomes. "Are you ill? Is there a problem?" Carina rushed to where Tris stood. Then she froze, sensing a presence in the room. Before she could turn, Tris took Carina gently by the shoulders.
"There's someone who wants to talk with you," Tris said carefully, seeing a mixture of fear and pain in Carina's eyes. "He swears he wishes you well. If you don't want to see him, I'll send him away."
"No." Her voice was tight. "It's all right."
Squaring her shoulders, Carina turned slowly toward the shadows near the fireplace. From their depths, Ric stepped forward. Tris lent him the power to make himself visible without his death wound, hoping to spare Carina.
"I didn't think you would ever come back," Ric said.
Carina did not try to brush away the tears that slid down her cheeks. "I didn't want to. Gregor was right. It was my fault you died. I didn't have the right to live when I couldn't save you."
Ric moved closer. "Gregor's an ass. I tried to push you clear, when my spirit left my body, but... it's all a little strange. I couldn't get you untangled, and I didn't want to pull you with me. I stayed with you, at the citadel, but you couldn't see me. Then Cam came and took you, and I didn't know what became of you until I felt you cross into the city."
"I'm so sorry—"
Ric reached out to touch her cheek. "Enough of that now, love. I've watched over you since you crossed Gibbet Bridge. You can't let me become an excuse to stop living, Carina. You've mourned long enough."
"I wanted to be faithful to you."
Ric smiled sadly. "And you have been. Long enough, my love. Your guilt binds me to this place, and I want to rest. You have to let me go."
"How can I let you go, when I love you?"
"Keep my memory," Ric said, touching her hair. "But you're too young to pine for the dead. Especially when there is another worthy brother-at-arms who loves you."
Carina blushed. "I don't—I mean, we haven't—"
Ric chuckled, and took her hands. "You owe me neither apologies nor explanations, love. I came back to give you my blessing, because I fear that without it, from my own lips, you'll continue to punish yourself. Follow your heart, Carina. Whatever you decide, do it because of what you feel, not out of imagined duty to me."
Carina squeezed her eyes closed against the tears. Though insubstantial, Ric reached out for her, folding his arms around her. "Had I been a little faster with my sword, we might have had the future we dreamed about," Ric said. "But that's closed to us. Will you give me your promise that you'll let me go?" He smiled sadly as Carina wiped away her tears. "Even in the arms of the Lady, I'll see, and I'll know."
"If that's what you want."
"I want it because I love you still," said Ric. "I don't want you to be lonely. So tonight, perhaps, we are both set free?"
"I'm never going to stop loving you, you know that."
"I know. But there is room in your heart for more than one love."
Tris stretched out toward Ric's spirit and felt a sense of completion, of peaceful resignation, settle over the ghost.
One more small task, m'lord, before you send me to my rest, the spirit asked as Tris began the passing over ritual. Give me the power, I ask of you, to make myself visible to one more person.
Tris paused on the Plains of Spirit, and understood. I'll help you, Tris promised. When you're ready, return to me, and I'll give you rest.
Carina stood in silence, still staring at the spot where Ric's ghost had vanished.
Tris put his arms around her and let her sob against his shoulder. "Why don't you let us walk you back to your room? I'll get Kiara to stay with you."
"Thank you," she murmured, and looked up at Tris. "Thank you from both of us."
It had been a very long day. Vahanian threw his cloak across a chair in his room and poured himself a glass of brandy. Between the Court of Spirits and the bitter wind that howled outside, he did not think he would ever feel warm again. Sipping the brandy, Vahanian edged closer to the fire.
The air in the room took on a sudden chill, and Vahanian recognized the prickle at the back of his neck. He had felt it all evening, when he stood guard over Tris in the Court of Spirits.
"Who's there?" Vahanian challenged, his hand .falling from habit to his sword.
Just beyond the edge of the fire's glow, a ghost began to grow solid, until the image of a young man dressed in the uniform of an Eastmark mere stood before him. It was the same ghost he had glimpsed in the crowd at Winterstide. Vahanian took in the man's uniform, the stain of his death wound, and the uncanny resemblance to Gregor. He felt a mix of apprehension and jealousy.
"You know who I am?" The spirit lifted his hands, palms up and open in a gesture of truce.
"Yes."
"Take good care of Carina. Watch over her, and keep her from harm." The ghost raised a hand in farewell and, to Vahanian's astonishment, faded without another word.
Gradually the fire warmed the room, removing the only evidence of the ghost's presence. But Vahanian sat staring at the embers, brandy untouched, long into the night.