Carefully, Tris, Kiara, Vahanian and Gabriel made their way into Shekerishet. Outside the tenth bell chimed, reminding Tris that within two candlemarks' time their quest must be successful or lose everything. Gabriel slipped ahead of them to clear their path and disappeared into the shadows. Tris felt for the pouch at his belt and took a wad of rope vine from it, holding the bit of dried leaves clenched in his teeth as a precaution against wormroot-tainted traps.
Tris stretched out his senses. The absence of castle ghosts left an uneasy void. In their place was a new, dark presence that chilled him.
Arontala, Tris thought, and the orb. The dark magic permeated the castle, although Tris could not pinpoint any single place as its locus. He headed for the throne room with every mortal and mageborn sense on high alert, his sword in hand, Kiara and Vahanian behind him.
Tris found his way through the corridors of Shekerishet easily, memories returning as he wound through the darkened hallways. Twice they pressed themselves into the shadows as a servant passed by. Around one corner, they found the still-warm bodies of half a dozen guards, the corpses unmarked except for the bloodless punctures on their necks. Three more guards happened upon them from the opposite direction. Vahanian's crossbow silenced one before he had time to realize he was under attack. Kiara made short work on the second, running him through. Tris swung into a clean Eastmark kick, sending his opponent sprawling, and finished the third with a single sword stroke. They did not bother to hide the bodies, but their pace increased. Tris hoped that Gabriel had made a clean sweep of the area in front of them.
Tris moved carefully, mindful of the traps he had encountered in his training at the citadel. Surely Jared has protections in place, Tris thought. There are enough of his subjects who want to kill him. Mortal guards could be easily removed by Gabriel without the sound of a scuffle. But the further into Shekerishet they got without springing any traps, the more concerned Tris became.
He's expecting me. He knows I'm coming for the orb. Like a spider with a web. All he has to do is wait.
"I don't like this," Vahanian muttered under his breath. "I don't trust anything that's this easy."
"Do you think we've been betrayed?" Kiara whispered.
Tris shook his head. "Jared doesn't need a spy to guess that we'd come for the Hawthorn Moon. Arontala probably thinks it's too far gone for us to turn it around. Jared figures he'll sit back and let Arontala do the fighting, and come in for his fun once we're beaten."
"It still means we're being set up," Vahanian said, his grip tight on his crossbow. "The question is— when does the trap spring?"
Just before they reached the throne room, Vahanian put up a hand for caution and moved ahead slowly, his attention drawn to a dark pile on the floor. He ventured ahead a step or two, and then waved for the others to follow. Four men in the livery of the king's personal guard lay dead in a heap.
"Gabriel's going to need a week to sleep this off." Vahanian shivered as he looked at the punctures in the dead men's throats.
A few more steps and the doors to the throne room stood before him. Tris paused, stretching out his senses once more. He felt the blood magic that wrapped itself around Shekerishet like a moist shroud, so strong that it seemed to come from everywhere at once. He focused his senses on Mageslayer, and felt the spelled blade thrum with power. The sword itself seemed to pulse, sensing their mission. Tris glanced at Kiara and Vahanian. They nodded, their weapons ready. Trap or not, the night's work would begin in earnest as soon as they found Jared.
Sword in hand, Tris pushed open the great doors. As his hand touched the door a light flared, pulling him into the room through an invisible curtain of power. Behind him, Kiara and Vahanian vanished.
As he crossed the threshold, Tris felt a gut-wrenching lurch. Mageslayer, so full of power a moment before, became dead steel in his hands, its magic gone. Fearing for the others, Tris looked behind him but the corridor was empty. And as he reached out to ward himself, he realized that in this room, his magic was suddenly out of reach.
"I hope Tris has everything under control up there," Carroway breathed as they watched the crowd. The revelers tumbled out of the heart of the city, moving up the hill toward the palace itself. Rioters took up staves and bricks, shouting curses and threats as they backed the overwhelmed garrison toward the city gates.
The bells in the tower at the heart of the city tolled eleven.
"Tris is running out of time," Carina fretted, looking toward the dark shape on the cliffside. Lights burned within Shekerishet's many windows, but nothing hinted of unrest within the great, silent castle.
Carroway shared her worry. There was no middle ground. Come morning, Martris Drayke would be King of Margolan, or he and the others, if still alive, would surely hang.
"We've certainly kept the guards out of the way," Carroway observed as soldiers from the palace streamed toward the city gates and the fire at the garrison. At the approach of the soldiers, the mob drew back, and then surged forward again.
"Disperse!" the captain-at-arms cried. Behind him, a dozen soldiers armed with longbows took the field. "Disperse now, or risk the consequences!"
But the crowd, riled by the minstrels and made foolhardy by ale, pressed forward. A dozen men at the front fell to the flying shafts, and a roar went up from the mob in fury. Before the archers could ready their bows again, the crowd lurched toward them like an angry wave, trampling the guards.
Carroway lifted his head. "Do you hear something?"
"No. What—?"
The sound of hoof beats thundered louder. Alyzza's curse told Carroway that the old witch heard it as well. As they watched, fighters on horseback streamed toward the city gates at a gallop.
"Welcome home," Jared Drayke said to Tris. "What took you so long? Planning to use grandmother's magic to just wink me out of existence?" Jared moved from his place near the tall window, and fingered an amulet beneath his robes, a null magic charm. "Your magic won't work on me, boy. I've a few protections in place, and a sorcerer in my employ. I've spent the better part of a year trying to find you, brother dear. And then I realized that in time, you'd come to me. All I had to do was wait.
"The doorway was spelled for you alone. As for your friends," Jared shrugged. "My mage has use of them. Tonight, we raise the Obsidian King."
"I have no intention of letting that happen," Tris said, advancing steadily, his sword ready. "I came to kill you—and destroy Arontala and his orb." With or without magic, he added silently.
"Still the dreamer. How pathetic." Jared took a step toward Tris. "In here, without your magic, you're just the same boy I've thrashed before. I could always whip your ass."
"I've seen what you've made of Margolan, how many people you've killed to get a throne that would have been yours in time."
"In time," Jared spat back. "In time. Only if Bricen couldn't find a way to have me removed from the succession. He threatened that, you know. He threatened to set me aside, and pass the crown to you. And if he'd known you'd become a mage he would have certainly done it. I couldn't allow that." Jared drew his sword. "And so I took matters into my own hands."
"You've destroyed Margolan. You have to be stopped."
"By you, little brother?" Jared gestured toward the window to the courtyard below. "Did you see my garden?" Tris was close enough to see what lay below; it made his stomach churn. Stout, sharpened pikes, braced in the ground, stood in an obscene tracing of the crest of House Margolan. Impaled on each pike was the corpse of a victim.
"It's full now, but there'll be a place for your friends, I guarantee," Jared said smoothly, madness glinting in his eyes. "Some—the strong ones—are able to remain aloft and keep from piercing anything vital for more than a day. Quite fascinating, the dance-like motions, up on their toes—"
"You're a demon, just like Arontala."
Jared shrugged. "Arontala understands the power in death. I see the beauty. And speaking of beauty... I suppose I should thank you for bringing back my bride."
Tris felt his blood rise. "She'll never be yours."
"Oh, I'll take what's mine. Maybe I'll leave your body in the room the first time—just to relish the victory." His voice hardened and his face contorted with anger. "And every time I have her, I intend to make her pay for loving you." A smile twisted the corner of his mouth. "Of course, the first brat she whelps will have to die. Can't have a question of paternity when the throne is at stake."
"You're not going to live that long."
Jared raised his sword. "If you want the throne of Margolan, then win it, if you can. The only way to claim your inheritance, boy, is to take it over my dead body." Jared lunged in attack, swinging his heavy sword for Tris's head.
Tris countered the powerful blow, though it nearly tore Mageslayer from his grasp. Jared scythed a dagger dangerously close with his left hand as Tris parried two-handed, beating back Jared's advance. The clang of steel echoed in the throne room as the brothers circled, their swords glinting in the torchlight. Jared's blows fell with the wild strength of madness. A fierce press drove Tris toward the open fireplace. The heels of his boots crunched on the burning embers and he felt the heat at his back.
Tris held Jared off, struggling to remember every trick Vahanian had taught him. Jared let up just for an instant and Tris dove, rolling, with a wicked slash at Jared's heel that scored a deep cut and barely missed hamstringing the king. Jared howled in rage and dove after Tris, delivering a pounding set of strikes that Tris was hard-matched to counter.
"You've been practicing, little brother."
Tris regained his feet and launched the offensive, anger fueling his strength. He delivered great, hacking blows that drove Jared back toward the open window.
The point of Jared's dagger connected with Tris's forearm, slashing deep and giving Jared the opening he needed to turn the attack. This time it was Jared who delivered a sequence of sword blows that forced Tris against the wall by the window, breathless. The stench from the bodies beneath made the night air sickly sweet. Tris felt familiar warmth radiating from the gash on his arm; Jared's blade was tainted with worm-root. He clenched his teeth on the rope vine. While Jared's null charms had already put his power temporarily beyond reach, the wormroot threatened to slow his reactions, something he could not afford. Whiskey had never blunted Jared's skill with a sword; Tris knew from bitter experience that Jared was more vicious drunk than sober.
"You've had an apt teacher," Jared taunted. "Your mercenary friend? No matter. You've shown far more potential than I ever dreamed—challenging the throne, raising an army against me, bedding my bride-to-be."
"I have no desire to kill you," Jared assured him, driving the point of his sword closer, so that Tris pressed against the cold stone of the wall, "at least, not yet. Tonight, the Obsidian King returns to Margolan. He'll need a body to inhabit. Arontala will be that vessel, one with powers already in place. You can be the final meal for the Obsidian King's spirit before he returns in all his power. Perhaps he'll let some bit of you remain to witness the grand event."
Tris worked his fingers up inside of his sleeve for the dagger concealed in a sheath above his wrist. It fell into his palm, and he flicked his hand just as Jared shifted. The dagger embedded itself in Jared's shoulder, not his chest as Tris intended. Jared roared with pain and anger, slashing at Tris with all his might. Tris managed to deflect his wild blows— barely—but the force of one strike tore Mageslayer from his grip and shattered Jared's sword. Tris felt the full effect of the wormroot hit him as the blade skittered out of reach to lie beneath the window. Jared yanked the knife from his shoulder and threw it to the ground. His eyes burned with pain and madness, heedless of the blood that stained his tunic.
Tris dodged as Jared dove for him, upending a table to put distance between them. Jared seized a poker from the fire and swung it wildly, keeping himself between Tris and the fallen sword. Tris looked about for anything he could use as a weapon. He grabbed a pitcher of water from the table and hurled it at Jared's head as Jared vaulted over the table. Tris tried to duck out of the way of the poker, but its glowing tip seared into his left shoulder. He cried out and dove under Jared's swing with a vicious kick to Jared's groin. His foot connected, and Jared howled with pain and rage.
Tris reached the hearth first, grabbing a bucket of ashes from beside the fireplace. He threw the hot ash at Jared as his brother headed toward him at a dead run. Jared narrowly missed the heavy bucket, but the ashes formed a smothering cloud. Jared cried out, throwing his arms up to shield himself.
Tris used the diversion to run for his sword, but something hard clipped him on the side of the head and he fell, blood starting from his temple. A candlestick clattered to the ground beside him. Blinded by the blood that flowed from the gash on his brow, Tris struggled to his feet. Barehanded, Jared dove for Tris and tackled him, landing on Tris's back. Tris felt ribs crack and gritted his teeth as the world around him swam red with pain. Jared, taller and heavier, had the advantage hand-to-hand. Tris gasped as Jared's dagger plunged into his side just below the edge of his cuirass. Jared shifted and a cord jerked around Tris's throat, the belt of Jared's robe. Tris struggled for breath as it tightened.
"Speak, Lord of the Dead," Jared taunted. "Where are your spirits to save you? Where are your mighty spells?" Tris fought for air, trying to gain enough leverage to buck Jared from his back. Jared only laughed, the same cold laugh Tris knew too well from the beatings of his childhood.
"This is too easy," Jared said. "I can't see your face. I want to watch you die, and remember just how you looked when the last breath slipped beyond your grasp."
Keeping the noose taut Jared dragged Tris to his feet, pulling him up against the wall beside the grisly courtyard garden. He closed his hand around Tris's throat. Tris could smell the whiskey on Jared's breath as his brother leaned closer, his dark hair framing his face and his eyes alight with triumph. Jared tightened his grip. "You may see the spirits of the dead," he whispered. "But I can see the soul leave the body. It's in the eyes."
As the world around him began to darken, Tris brought his hand up sharply, wrenching at the amulet around Jared's neck. It burned his hand like fire, but he hung on and the strap snapped. Tris hurled the amulet away, feeling the magic that the null amulet had pushed out of reach grow just a bit closer. Jared howled with anger and twisted his wrist sharply, tightening the cord around Tris's neck.
"You think that's the only null charm in this room, boy?" Jared snarled. "I've got more protection than that!"
Tris's vision blurred and pinpricks of light danced in his sight. Jared slammed him against the wall just to the side of the window, and Tris felt something against his boot. Mageslayer, he realized as he struggled to remain conscious. A tendril of power was almost within his grasp. He shifted his boot onto Mageslayer's blade, and felt a tingle of power, faint but present. Tris gasped for air, focusing on Mageslayer. Protect!
A burst of fire glowed around him, a blue aura that sapped the small amount of magic he could reach. It crackled around Jared like lightning, throwing him clear with a jolt.
It was all the opening Tris needed. The heel of his boot swung up and connected hard with Jared's chest. The force of the blow took Tris to the floor, still gasping for air. Jared staggered backward, and the low sill of the open window caught him below the knees. Flailing, Jared fell from the window with the full force of the kick, and Tris grimaced as he heard the sickening crunch of Jared's body landing atop his sharpened pikes. He pulled himself to his feet and looked down. Jared's body, impaled by three of the spikes, contorted and bucked as he slipped lower with the weight of his fall. But the spike that took Jared through the back ended his struggles. As Tris watched he saw Jared's spirit writhe free of his broken body, flickering a sullied light. Tris felt the Formless One's approach even before the dark presence appeared, so close this time that Tris threw up an arm reflexively to shield his face, his soul shrinking back within him in instinctive fear.
From everywhere at once a cloud descended on Jared Drayke, as if the shadows themselves were fluid. From within the whirlwind Jared's spirit gave one wrenching scream of terror and pain. Then, as quickly as it came, the shadows were gone. And with them, Jared's soul.
Tris slumped against the throne room wall and tore the cord from his neck. I've got to find Kiara and jonmarc—and Arontala, he thought, staggering toward where Mageslayer lay on the floor. He fought the urge to pass out, weakened by both the poison and the pain of the wound in his side. He wiped the blood from his face with his torn sleeve. His left arm ached where the poker had burned him, a deep burn that made it agonizing for him to move his arm or clench his fist. With Jared's charm gone, Tris could sense more of his magic returning, slipping in and out of his grasp as he struggled against the wormroot that coursed through his veins. He picked up Mageslayer and felt its power buoy him, lessening the poison's effect. He found that he could control his magic—just barely.
Outside the throne room, Tris felt the magic more strongly, a clue that Jared's charm had not been the only power-dampening talisman in that chamber. Using every trick he had learned from the Sisterhood, Tris fought to lessen the wormroot's effect. He let Mageslayer's power strengthen him, hoping that the sword's protections might also stay the damage from his wounds. Tris felt at the edge of his cuirass, where his tunic was sticky with his own blood. The odds, never favorable, appeared to be getting worse.