Soterius retrieved A large bag from his quarters, and together, the three made their way through the passageways of Shekerishet. It was already the wee hours of the morning and the night's revelry was winding down inside the castle. Most of the partygoers had departed. A few costumed stragglers made their way across the courtyards as Tris and his friends climbed the steps to the upper chambers.
They headed for the section above the audience rooms of the king. Tris tried his best to push aside his earlier foreboding. Despite the warnings of the ghost, and his grandmother's apparition, no danger presented itself. Under other circumstances, tonight's adventure might have been fun, harking back to the escapades he and the others had shared when they returned from fostering. They had been high-spirited boys back then, Zachar's private curse, the seneschal was fond of telling them. Tris might be the second son of the king, but it didn't exempt him from a tongue-lashing if things got out of hand. "You're quiet," Soterius prompted. Tris shrugged. "Maybe I'm festivalled out. It's been a long week." He paused. "Carroway," he said, turning to the bard, "have you seen any of the palace spirits since the fortune-teller?"
Carroway shook his head. "Now that you mention it, no. Funny, especially on Haunts. I've seen lots of people dressed as spirits, but the real ghosts are nowhere to be seen."
Tris nodded, uneasy. "There's something wrong. Did you see the way the fortune-teller disappeared, how she seemed pulled away? And where are the rest of the ghosts? There're always as many ghosts as mortals at the festival. The palace ghosts are always most visible on Haunts."
"Could that be why it bears the name, do you think?" Carroway smiled. "It's strange, I'll give you that." He shrugged. "Maybe they're all entertaining the guests in the courtyard. Or maybe even they celebrated a little too much and they've gone back to wherever ghosts go to rest."
"Maybe," Tris said, unconvinced.
Carroway sobered. "That's one more thing that's got you thinking there's trouble?" he asked, with a look that Tris knew read more into the statement. While Tris always self-consciously downplayed what magic talent he possessed to Soterius, Carroway was a willing helper when Bava K'aa would ask the boys to help her with a minor working. Carroway was also comfortable with Tris's odd ability to speak to spirits at any time of the year—not just on Haunts—and drew some of his best tales and songs from the stories of these long-dead courtiers. It was a talent Tris had learned early to hide from nearly everyone else, although Kait and Bava K'aa quietly encouraged him. Instinctively, Tris knew not to let Jared suspect that he had any magic talent. He was glad to avoid another reason for the palace wags to talk.
"Hurry up!" Soterius whispered, holding open a door. They followed him into the darkened room. Carroway lit a torch.
"So what's the plan?" Tris asked.
Soterius grinned as he unpacked his bag. Two large, heavy coils of rope tumbled to the floor. As Soterius laid it out, Tris could see two climbers' harnesses of leather straps and buckles. Soterius wriggled into one harness and passed the other to Tris. "Help me with this, will you?" he hissed.
"Now what?" Carroway asked skeptically. "Men aren't supposed to walk down walls like flies."
"Back in my father's lands, everybody climbs down walls like this," Soterius pointed out.
"Everybody?" Tris teased.
"Well, all right, mostly just the mountain people, because the cliffs are so sharp they'd never go anywhere otherwise. But we have a lot of mountain people and a lot of cliffs, so it's almost everybody!" Soterius replied. "Help me get this anchored before we get caught. If I'm going to get another tongue-lashing from Zachar, I want to earn it!"
"You have a pretty strange hobby," Carroway muttered as he cinched the rope tight around its anchor.
"Coming from a grown man who makes smoke ghosts for a living, I'll take that as a compliment," Soterius shot back. Now that he had secured his own harness, he turned his attention to Tris, double-checking the sturdy leather and testing the buckles. When both men were satisfied with the climbing gear, they secured the ropes to iron rings sunk deep in the stone walls near the fireplace. Soterius opened the window and leaned out to look around. He sat on the wide stone of the window ledge and swung his legs over the castle wall, then looked down to the flagstones four stories below. This was the tallest part of Shekerishet, with the lowest floors carved into the cliffside against which the palace stood. The oldest sections of Shekerishet were carved from the cliffside almost five hundred years ago. Made of the same gray granite as the cliffs, the old palace was an unadorned fortress, square and foreboding, with archers' slits and crenellations. Over generations, Margolan's kings built on to the old castle, adding whole wings and new towers, so that now, Shekerishet sprawled against the base of the mountain's sharp crags, a brooding presence above the city and farms below.
With a grin, Soterius patted, the ledge for Tris to join him. Tris fought a moment of vertigo as he looked down into the courtyard.
"All right, here goes." Soterius pushed off, spinning for a moment until he oriented himself with his back to the courtyard and his feet against the stone wall.
"We should have painted a bullseye on your back to make it easier for the archers," Carroway hissed.
"Funny," Soterius muttered. "Just keep that flag of yours handy, Tris, in case someone gets ideas."
Tris patted the pennon of the king's second son in his pocket. It was meant to identify him in battle, but tonight, if a guard spotted them, letting the flag unfurl might make the archer hold his fire long enough to identify the bearer.
"All right, Tris. Your turn."
Swallowing hard, Tris let himself over the ledge. "I just remembered how much I hate heights." He caught his breath sharply as he spun for a moment in the chill fall air, and fought the urge to close his eyes. Aware that his friends were watching, Tris nodded his readiness.
Soterius worked his way carefully down the smooth stone wall of the castle. Tris followed, trying not to constantly reassure himself by jerking on the rope. Although he and Soterius climbed the cliffs around Shekerishet frequently during good weather, Tris had not been out since summer's end, and he felt the lapse in his aching muscles.
It was colder than he expected, and the chill nipped at his face. Tris glanced at Soterius, but the guardsman grinned as the wind whipped his dark hair into his eyes. If the king were to look out of one of those windows just now, they would all have some explaining to do, but that was the beauty of Haunts. Nearly everything could be forgiven in the name of the night's revelry.
As he drew close to the windows of the second floor, Tris frowned. There was a light in the window, a strange, red glow that did not look like firelight. The light glowed from Foor Arontala's chambers, pulsing like a heartbeat. Ignoring Soterius's concerned glance, Tris worked his way over.
Tris eased closer to the window and felt the familiar prickle at the edges of his senses that signaled magic close by. But the magic here felt different from his grandmother's power, Tris thought, his breath steaming in the cold night air. Even an arm's breadth away from the window, there was an aura of dread that almost drove him back. He pressed on, though the foreboding was almost palpable, and while no physical barrier slowed him, he had the feeling of wading through deep, ice-cold water the closer he got to his goal. Forcing himself past his fear, Tris leaned in to get a glimpse through the window. The room was dark, but the embers in the fireplace made enough light for him to recognize the trappings of a wizard's workplace. Chalices and athames, cords braided from materials of all descriptions, a scrying bowl, chits and bones—the stuff of divination—and clusters of dried herbs crowded for space with vials of powders and potions. But only one thing in the sorcerer's room commanded his attention, transfixing him as if it knew he was there. On a pedestal in the corner of the room sat a crystal globe the size of a man's head, and from the globe pulsed light the color of blood. As Tris stared, the light seemed to focus, and for an instant, Tris could have sworn it oriented itself on him, like one bloody eye, aware of his presence. Tris's heart hammered in his throat, and he was suddenly unsure he could tear himself away.
"Have you lost your mind?" Soterius hissed from beside him, making him jump.
"Can't you feel it?" Tris murmured, backing away from the window.
Soterius looked at him skeptically. "I can feel my rump freezing, if that's what you mean." They heard angry men's voices from just outside the door to the wizard's room, and both Tris and Soterius swung back, flattening themselves against the wall as torchlight flared in the room and the voices drew closer. Jared and the king, Tris thought with a sinking heart. And this time, whatever the topic of their argument, it was more heated than usual, with Bricen almost apoplectic in his anger, though Tris could not catch the words over the din of revelry in the village. Edging his way close enough to see into the room, Tris caught his breath in horror.
It was magelight, not torchlight that lit the room. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Blue magelight glowed from Arontala's hands, pinning the king against the rough stone wall.
Although Tris could hear none of what was said, the expression on King Bricen's face needed no explanation, nor did the leer that distorted Jared's features as the heir closed the distance between himself and his father, his dagger raised. Commonsense and terror finally won out over shock. Soterius began to jerk at his rope with all the fright of a first climber, signaling for Carroway to begin winching them up. Tris's heart thudded in his throat as Jared sank the dagger deep into Bricen's chest. Just as Tris readied himself to kick through the panes, Soterius swung against him, slamming him into the wall hard enough for him to lose his breath.
"Are you crazy?" Soterius hissed. "You don't have a chance. We've got to get the guards," he argued, fighting against Tris's struggles with all his might. Just then, Carroway heeded his signal and began to hoist them skyward. Fighting shock, Tris found the presence of mind to begin to climb on his own the last few lengths and dove more than crawled into the window, gasping in fright.
"You look like you've seen the Avenger herself!" said Carroway, helping Soterius to his feet.
"The king!" Soterius stammered, numb with fear and cold. "They've killed the king!"
"That's not funny," Carroway said, glancing out the window once more to make sure they had avoided the guards' attention. His voice trailed off as he looked at Tris, and he paled.
"It's true," Tris gasped, leaning forward and steadying himself on his knees. His heart was thudding so hard he could hardly speak. "I saw Jared—"
"You couldn't have seen anything very well," Carroway said, shooting an uncertain look at Soterius. "You weren't down there very long."
Soterius started freeing himself from the climbing gear as fast as his cold fingers would go. "It was the king and it was Jared," he repeated as if he were speaking with a slow child. "And Arontala. There was blue light pinning the king to the wall. Then Jared came closer and, dear Goddess, stabbed King Bricen, over and over." he said, shutting his eyes to escape the memory.
Tris started past him for the door toward the servants' steps. "I've got to warn Mother and Kait."
"Tris!" Soterius cried, catching Tris by the arm. "If Jared's killed the king, he's going to want you, too. We've got to get you out of here," Soterius grated with military calm. "With Bricen dead, the crown is at stake. Jared's goings to want to eliminate loose ends. We've got to get you to safety."
"Not without Kait and Mother," Tris snapped as shock gave way to anger. He shook free and wrenched the back stairs door open.
"All right, then we're coming too," Soterius said, and tossed the rope to Carroway. "Here. Carry this. I've got a sword and you don't." He barred the door to their chamber and drew his sword. "At least if they come looking for us, it will hold them for a while."
He turned toward Carroway, but the bard had already drawn a small dagger from the folds of his tunic. "You thought it was just for the stories?" Carroway asked. "Some of your army friends like to rough up bards now and again."
Soterius slipped past Tris and led the way down the stairs. He tried the handle on the door at the bottom, and eased the unlocked door open. The bedchamber was in a shambles. Queen Serae lay in a heap near the door, her party gown stained crimson with blood.
"Mother!" Tris called, feeling the panic rise in his voice as he shouldered past Soterius and scrambled across the room.
"Dear Goddess Bright," Carroway breathed. "Jared's raised a coup!" Soterius was already at the door to the corridor, which hung broken and useless on its hinges.
Please, please no, Tris begged the Goddess as he reached Serae. Her body was still warm to the touch, still loose-limbed as he stifled a cry and rolled her to face him. The dagger that had ended her life protruded from her chest as her head lolled on Tris's arm. His throat tightened and his eyes swam as he listened in vain for a heartbeat. She's gone.
A sob tore from his throat as he cradled Serae, squeezing his eyes shut as unbidden tears streamed down his face. Gasping for breath, Tris dragged a sleeve across his eyes and scanned the room once more. He laid Serae's body gently on the floor, passed a hand across her staring eyes to close them, and whispered a prayer to the Lady. A groan startled Tris and Soterius wheeled, his sword drawn. Almost hidden among the shambles of an overturned bed lay Kait. Tris and Carroway ran to her, shoving aside debris and the body of a fallen guardsman, and freed her from the tangle of blankets. Kait lay pale and still, her bloodstained tunic warning Tris not to expect too much.
"Kait, can you hear me?" Tris whispered, gathering her into his arms against his tunic stained with Serae's blood. Dark Lady, please, he begged silently. Not both of them. Please, spare her.
"What happened?" he asked quietly, as a spasm of pain crossed Kait's face. Her lips were tinged with blue, and her breathing was rapid and shallow. Her blood stained his hand, seeping between his fingers as he tried to compress the deep gash on her belly. There was too much damage for any but the most experienced battle healer, and no such healers at hand.
Kait's eyes opened. She focused, and managed a weak smile. "I knew you'd come, Tris. Are you dead,too?"
Tris stifled a sob, unashamed of the tears that streaked down his face. He struggled to find his voice as he shook his head. "No, Kaity," he managed to rasp. "At least, not yet. Neither are you."
"Soon. I've seen the Goddess. She's waiting."
"Who did this?" Tris urged as gently as he could, grasping her hand as if to bind her spirit closer.
Kait coughed, and blood flecked her lips. "Jared's men," she whispered. "They were waiting for us. I tried to protect Mother. You'd have been proud."
"I am proud," Tris whispered, blinking back tears.
"Should have seen me, big brother. I think I got one of them."
Tris glanced back at the guardsman's body. "You did, Kaity. You did."
"I've got to go."
"Kaity, stay with me!"
Her eyes opened wider. "Tris—you're here, too. Like grandma." She coughed harder, and Tris thought she was gone. "If you will it, I can stay," she murmured as her eyes fluttered shut. "I'll just take your hand on this side."
The image burned bright in Tris's mind as he clutched her to him, of Kait taking his hand and holding on. "With everything in his being, he willed it be so. Yet even as he struggled to hold on to the fleeting spirit, something else, something strong, struggled to pull her away.
Kait shuddered in his arms and went limp. Tris buried his head on her shoulder and wept, rocking on his heels, cradling her lifeless form.
Tris, you've got to go, the voice said in his mind, Kait's voice, far away. Tris looked up and frowned. Kait stood in front of him, real but insubstantial, with the same faint luminescence of the palace ghosts. "Kaity?" Tris rasped in a raw voice. The ghost shimmered. "You did it, Tris. You kept me here. You've got grandma's power," Kait said. The image wavered once more, nearly blinking out, and a look of distress, then fear crossed her face as her ghost appeared to be pulled away, like smoke caught in a draft. "There's a spell on the palace ghosts. Arontala... Help me, Tris," she begged as her apparition disappeared.
It was Carroway's gasp that told Tris the apparition was visible to the others. Soterius looked shaken, never having seen Tris work any kind of magic. Carroway stared at the empty space where Kait's ghost had been, his ashen face witness that he had just seen far more powerful magecraft than he had ever expected of Tris. Gently, Tris laid Kait's body down among the blankets and covered her with a sheet.
"Before we join her, let's get out of here," the minstrel said gently.
Tris felt grief and shock throb through his body, filling him with rage. "Damn Jared!" he cried, lurching to his feet. His sword was already in hand as he started toward the hallway door at a dead run. Soterius blocked him.
"Let me go!" Tris grated. "Damn it, let me pass!" The blood pounded in his ears as he tried to fight his way past Soterius, who parried and drove him back from the doorway. Carroway tackled him from behind, taking him to the ground and struggling to wrest away his sword while Tris swung wildly with his free hand, blinded with tears and gasping for air. Soterius joined the fray, helping Carroway as he fought to keep Tris back from the door.
With a sharp flick of his blade, Soterius sent Tris's sword skittering out of reach, and lunged, pinning him against the floor. "You won't get within sight of Jared before his mage gigs you like a frog," Soterius snapped, struggling to keep his hold on Tris. "You can't help your mother or Kait. But you can still save Margolan by getting clear of here and coming back with an army of your own."
"And can we do it soon?" hissed Carroway, who had taken Soterius's watch at the door. Breathing hard, Tris closed his eyes and conceded defeat.
"Down the back stairs," Soterius returned, letting up on his grip and tossing Tris his fallen sword. "They come down in the servants' area. We'll run for the stables. Go."
They ran down the narrow back stairs and burst into the kitchen, swords drawn, terrifying the scullery maids who shrieked and ran from the room. Outside in the corridor, Tris heard the pounding of boot steps and, hard after it, the clang of steel. The doors from the feast hall banged open as three soldiers wearing the king's livery charged after two men who were fighting for their lives. Tris and the others flattened themselves against the side of the fireplace, cut off by the battle from their only escape. Tris had only the barest glimpse of the fighters, but he recognized one of the men on the defense as Harrtuck, a sergeant-at-arms, a stocky, barrel-chested man with a full dark beard and olive skin who often guarded Bricen.
"I'll not give up this palace without a fight!" Harrtuck swore as he dodged and parried. His companion, another of the king's guard, thrust and scored. Tris and the others exchanged glances and raised their weapons. With a cry, both Tris and Soterius launched themselves into the fray beside Harrtuck, driving the attackers back by surprise.
"Nice to see you," Harrtuck panted, pressing their sudden advantage.
"Watch out!" Carroway shouted, and Tris whirled, blade ready, in time to see one of the guardsmen clasp his hands to his chest in surprise and slowly topple to the floor. A growing red stain surrounded Carroway's dagger, hilt deep between the man's ribs.
With a cry, Tris engaged the dead man's partner. "You'll soon be as dead as the king," the soldier taunted, driving Tris back a step. Engulfed by grief and rage, Tris struck back with all his might, wielding his sword with a two-handed grip. Startled by the ferocity of Tris's attack, the traitor fell back, then pressed forward again, a murderous gleam in his eyes as three more guards raced in to join him. Out of the corner of his eye, Tris saw Carroway grab a torch stand as a staff to hold off one of their attackers. Soterius and Harrtuck focused on the other two newcomers, leaving Tris to circle the grinning guard in a deadly dance of swordplay.
A burst of red light exploded in the fireplace, and Tris lunged forward, recognizing one of Carroway's parlor tricks. It was just enough of a distraction for him to slip inside the soldier's guard and drive his blade home. The guard sagged forward, and Tris staggered as the dying man's weight nearly wrenched his sword from his grip. A glint of steel in the firelight was the only warning Tris had as a new opponent dove forward, scything a dagger in one hand as Tris parried the guardsman's sword. Tris staggered as the guard sank his dagger into Tris's side. The guard arched and stiffened, dropping to his knees as his hands clawed at his back, revealing a shiv in his back and Carroway standing with grim satisfaction over the dying traitor.
Tris pressed his hands against his side as both Carroway and Soterius sprinted toward him. Harrtuck made short work of the remaining attackers. His ally lay dead on the floor. Carroway rolled Tris's assailant over with his boot, bending over to withdraw his dagger and wiping it clean in two quick movements on the dead man's tunic as he dropped to his knees beside Tris. "There'll be more soldiers," Soterius warned.
"They've killed the king, Prince Martris," panted Harrtuck. "None of us could save him. You have to flee!"
Tris gasped as Carroway struggled to lift him to a sitting position. Soterius knelt beside Tris and Carroway moved back to let the experienced swordsman examine Tris's wound. Without a word, Tris knew from the look on Soterius's face how nasty a gash he had taken.
"We've got to get you to a healer," Soterius said tersely as he nodded for Carroway to move to Tris's other side and together they lifted Tris to his feet.
"Aye, but first, we've got to get out of Shekerishet," Harrtuck agreed.
As if on cue, boot steps sounded on the back stairs. With a motion, Harrtuck signaled Carroway to cover Tris while he and Soterius took the newcomers. A burly guardsman in the bloodstained livery of the king stepped into view. Two more guardsmen flanked him. Harrtuck waited in silence until all three were within range.
"Now!" the armsmaster cried, springing forth, sword lowered, to run through the guardsman. There was a whistle of air and then a dull thwack, and the lead guard tumbled forward, his hands grasping at Carroway's dagger as Soterius's sword sliced down from the shadows, neatly cleaving the third man from shoulder to hip.
"Come on!" Soterius cried. He returned to where Tris and Carroway waited, pausing just long enough to regain the bard's dagger, and helped Tris to his feet once more. The blood pounded in Tris's ears and his knees threatened to buckle under him.
"We're not going to get out easily," Carroway hissed as they started toward the door.
"Got any better ideas?" Soterius growled.
"Actually, yes," the minstrel snapped. "In here."
Carroway pulled, rather than led, Tris and the others into a storage room under the back stairs. Strewn about were cloaks and tunics, masks and costumes from the night's revelry. "Here, see if this fits," he said, snatching up a black tunic, cape and mask from the floor and thrusting them toward Soterius.
"You've got to be crazy," the swordsman said in disbelief. "We're running for our lives, and you want to—"
"Just do it," Carroway snapped, plucking more outfits from the jumble and tossing them toward Tris and Harrtuck.
"What in the Winter Kingdoms—" Harrtuck wondered.
"It's where the entertainers change before going to the feast," Carroway explained breathlessly as he shed his own cloak and ripped more than pulled his tunic over his head. "They'll come back tomorrow to fetch their things, but tonight, there's too much to do to worry about being neat. Thank the Goddess."
But as Carroway moved toward him, a voluminous cape in hand, Tris felt the rush of blood to his head as his legs gave way beneath him. Dimly, he heard the worried cries of his companions as he sank to the floor. Then, the room went dark. Tris was jostled awake to find himself staring at the stars. The cold fall air stung his face and around him pressed a crowd that smelled of ale and sweat, their rowdy songs far overshadowing the more subdued chants of the priestesses.
Tris struggled to sit up, and felt a hand press him down. "Lie still," Soterius hissed. "We're in the procession, on our way to the city gates."
The pain in his side threatened to make him pass out once more, but Tris set his jaw and fought the wave of darkness. A gray robe with a heavy cowl covered his body and obscured his face. His hands were covered with black paint. A wisp of hair that struggled from beneath the hood was sable brown, not the usual striking blond of his own shoulder-length queue.
"Relax," Soterius warned. "Carroway improvised some disguises. Yours was the best we could do, given the circumstances," he apologized. Tris realized that he lay on a bier, one of the many effigies of departed loved ones carried in the ceremony toward the river, where a steady procession of figures, tokens and flowers would make their way down the waters toward the sea. Tucked in with the offerings were pleas for favors from the Goddess or departed loved ones, prayers for intercession or the righting of some wrong, or heartfelt expressions of longing for those who rested with the Lady.
Yet despite its more serious side, Haunts was a night for revelry in the town, and this year appeared to be no exception, regardless of what had transpired at the castle. Banners hung from every window, snapping on the cold night wind. Vendors' carts crowded the streets and costumed revelers elbowed their way through the congested passageways. The city smelled of sausages and ale, candles and incense. From somewhere in the walled city, bells pealed and Tris could hear the plaintive wail of flutes and the beat of drums.
With any luck, Tris thought, they could blend into the crowd and meld into the procession most of the way to the Merchant Gate. From the high spirits of the crowd, Tris was certain no word of the treachery at the palace had reached theacity. And it might not, ever.
Jared was clever, and so was his mage. No one but Tris, Soterius and a few guards had witnessed the actual attack. Jared could invent a tale of assassins, and blame the dead guards. Arontala's magic could probably manufacture evidence, or blur the eyes of those who might see otherwise.
Bricen was a popular king, because he did not commandeer the harvest and his troops neither looted the local farms nor raped the farmers' daughters. Of the royal family, Serae had won the good will of the nobility, her gentle manner a stark contrast to Eldra's tempers. In return, the court lavished much more interest and favor on Tris and Kait than on Jared, whose brooding manner and dark habits fed the gossips' talk. Even so, Bava K'aa told Tris once that to commoners, one king was the same as the next so long as the taxes didn't change. No one might even care about the manner of Bricen's death, although Tris was sure that Jared's rule would not be as benign.
It was impossible to distinguish the parade from the crowd. The throng pressed through the main street of the city, flowing toward the outer gates and the burial grounds beyond. In its center, large litters carried statues of the four Light aspects of the Goddess. Drummers pounded, pipers played and the shimmer of tambourines sounded above the din of the revelers. The litters and their statues bobbed above the crowd, held aloft by the press of people.
The costumes rivaled any Tris had ever seen. There were "nobles" and gaudy ladies, river merchants and legendary heroes, together with no few revelers costumed as the Lady's aspects; grown women as well as children in the flowing white robes of the Childe; revelers of both sexes in the seductive garb of the Lover; others, male or female, in matronly attire as the beneficent Mother. And dark-cowled specters in the scarlet robes of Chenne, Avenger Goddess. But Haunts was a night for the Dark Aspects as well, and on this night, darkness held sway. Even more party-goers preferred the painted finery of the bitch Goddess, Luck, and they tossed candy coins and painted cards to the crowd. Others swaggered through the streets in the tawdry glamour of Athira the Whore, needing no skill to mimic the rolling, drunken gait. Like dark shadows in the torchlight, gray-cloaked partygoers played the role of Istra, the Demon Goddess, appearing insubstantial as wraiths in the wavering light and wafting smoke. Hunched figures old and young took on the visage and tattered rags of Sinha the Crone.
One goddess, eight aspects—four Light and four Dark. Tris had always suspected that the aspect a person venerated said as much about the person as it did the kingdom and traditions from which they came. Margolan was partial to the Mother, although many within its borders also worshipped the Childe aspect. Isencroft, on Margolan's eastern border, gave homage to Chenne, the warrior. Principality, to the northeast, home to caravans and mercenary companies, traders and roustabouts, was partial to the Lover. Eastmark, Principality's southern neighbor, venerated the Whore, a favorite of gamblers and paid soldiers. Dhasson, to Margolan's west, encouraged adoration of all of the Lady's faces, save for that of the Crone. Dhasson's reluctance to embrace Crone worshippers was natural, given its southern neighbor, Nargi, whose sour-faced priests ruthlessly enforced the Crone's ascetic doctrines. Trevath, Margolan's southern neighbor and frequent rival, shared Nargi's veneration of the Crone, but in Trevath, known for its mines and fine carpets, such worship was much more practical, serving to enhance the power of the king.
The Dark Lady was the patron of the vayash moru, the undead who walk the night. Few mortals gave homage to the Dark Lady, though her name was a frequent oath. Of the eighth aspect, the Childe's dark mirror aspect, even fewer spoke. Worship of the Formless One had ceased generations ago, and now, if the most terrible of the aspects was mentioned at all, it was with a nervous glance and a sign of warding. Nearly all of the residents of the Winter Kingdoms made at least nominal reverence to one or more of the aspects, although Tris heard that some followed the old ways in secret, the belief in the spirit and power of the rocks and trees, the streams and dark places under the ground.
Those ways, it was said, were the ways of the Winter Kingdoms a millennium past, before Grethor Long Arm invaded from the eastern steppes, spreading his influence as his reign in Margolan prospered and his power grew. His mages were more powerful, and his wealth and power seductive enough for belief in the One Goddess of Many Faces to gradually supplant the old ways, though elements of the superstition and blood sacrifice of those ways lived on, in the cruel worship of the Nargi, thinly overlaid with the trappings of the Crone.
As Tris watched from his bier, a young girl costumed as the Childe Goddess emerged from the crowd by the side of the road. She was playing her role to the hilt, tossing colored rags and straw instead of the Childe's fabled profusion of flowers to those on whom she showed favor. As Tris passed by, the young girl looked up, and her eyes met Tris's.
You are my chosen weapon, Tris heard a voice ring in his mind, disorientingly clear, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, and as he stared into the eyes of the young girl, he thought for an instant that he saw them glow amber as the face now seemed not that of a mortal child, but of the Childe Goddess Herself. Die not until I call for thee. Thy time is not yet come. And as the girl's eyes stared into his, Tris felt a sudden fire touch the wound in his side, as if a red-hot poker were laid against the torn flesh. He stiffened and arched, biting into his lip to keep from crying out.
The voice was gone as quickly as it came, and when Tris looked around, the girl had vanished.
Shaken, Tris closed his eyes. I'm seeing things, he thought, swallowing hard. Goddess help me, I must be dying.
"If Harrtuck's found us horses," Soterius whispered, "he'll be down the next alley with them."
Carroway veered off from the procession at the dark maw of the next street, and they made their way down the cluttered, twisted thoroughfare that was barely wider than two riders abreast. Harrtuck appeared from the shadows and motioned for them. Carroway and Soterius followed the soldier to where four sturdy horses waited impatiently, tethered to a rickety hitching post. Carefully, Harrtuck helped them rest Tris's litter on the ground. "Can you ride, my liege?" Harrtuck asked as he bent over Tris.
Tris nodded. "There's no choice," he said, and gritted his teeth as he started to rise. To his amazement, no answering pain throbbed through his side. Tris accepted Harrtuck's assistance in swinging up to his nervous mount. Cautiously, the four made their way back to the procession.
"Damn the Fates," Soterius hissed as they ventured out among the pilgrims and revelers.
A handful of palace guards milled at the gate, far from their usual station. They were unmounted, but their horses were saddled and waiting nearby. Tris and Harrtuck exchanged worried glances.
"Are we ready?" Soterius's flat voice cut through the confusion.
"We're going to have to bluff our way through," Harrtuck appraised. "If we get separated, head for the road north."
"Give the signal," Tris assented, never taking his eyes from the guards at the gate.
They waited until the procession swung wide to round a bend, taking the stream of revelers as close as possible to the gate. They were still at least twenty yards away, and while the gates were open, anyone who entered or left had to pass between the guards.
"Now!" Soterius shouted, wheeling his horse from the procession and driving straight for the gates. The others did the same, as nearby revelers scrambled to get out of the way. The gates seemed a lifetime away as Tris leaned low over his mount and spurred the horse into an all-out gallop.
The move caught the guardsmen by surprise and the fugitives took the advantage, driving through their line. Soterius and Harrtuck charged first, freeing their swords and cutting past the guards who blocked the gates. Tris could almost feel the breath of Carroway's mount behind him as their horses plunged into the darkness just beyond the city gate. Behind them came the cries of the guardsmen giving chase.
"Almost there," Soterius shouted.
The horses pounded down the slope from the city to the road below. As he reached the thoroughfare, Tris felt a dizzying lurch, as if he had passed through an unseen boundary. He clung to his reins as a fog swelled around them, rising from the road as their pursuers closed the gap.
The fog thickened and swirled up to the horses' bridles. In the mist, something solid and cold brushed against Tris's leg. Their terrified horses screamed in fright, bucking and lurching. From the forest itself, a ghastly moan filled the darkness. Tris clutched his reins, his heart pounding, as all around them, the fog writhed and twisted. The mist became wraiths, gaping-mouthed and wailing, as more and more of the ghostly fog swept toward them from the dark forest. Whisps of mist became clutching tendrils and puffs of smoke stretched and spread into fearsome, hollow-eyed faces. A multitude of howling spirits swept past Tris and the others, clawed ethereal hands outstretched, moaning the cries of the damned. The air was clammy as they passed and Tris shivered. He clung to the reins, straining to control his panicked mount.
"Look!" Soterius shouted as they- continued their headlong run for safety. Tris stole a glance over his shoulder. The spirits massed around the guardsmen as the fog thickened and swirled. The revenants' wails caterwauled above the screams of the guardsmen.
"Let's get out of here!" Harrtuck yelled above the infernal din, setting his horse in a headlong gallop down the road. The others followed close behind, but it was at least a mile before they could no longer hear the screams of the guardsmen or the wails of the dead.
"What the hell was that?" Soterius demanded when they finally brought their panting mounts to a halt at the crossroads.
"We finally found the palace ghosts," Tris replied with an uncertain glance over his shoulder. The night around them was quiet and cold.
"What were the palace ghosts doing outside the city?" Carroway asked, his breath steaming in the chill.
"I don't know, but thank the Childe for them," Harrtuck rasped.
"We hadn't seen the spirits most of the night, remember?" Tris said, staring back into the darkness.
"Yeah, Tris is right," Soterius replied, watching the night around them carefully. "There wasn't a ghost to be seen after we saw the fortune-teller, and that's never the way it is around the palace— especially not on Feast night."
"What if Arontala banished them?" Tris theorized, unwilling to tell the group just yet about his encounter with his grandmother's ghost. "The ghosts are sworn to protect the king, right? Remember Carroway's story? If Arontala could banish the ghosts, Father had one less level of protection," he went on, his voice catching.
"You are correct, Prince Drayke," a deep voice said from the crossroads, startling the four men. Tris's horse shied, and he struggled for a moment to rein in the frightened animal. They wheeled round to see a man on a gray steed almost obscured by the darkness, a few paces away from them on the forest road. Although his face was partially hidden by shadows, Tris recognized Comar Hassad, one of his father's most trusted men-at-arms. Tris's senses prickled as they moved closer, and although his companions seemed to note nothing amiss, Tris realized that their new guide was a spirit.
"Comar, what's happened?" Tris asked, still trying to calm his panicked horse.
"Time is short, my prince. Follow me and I will lead you to safety," Hassad said, wheeling his mount soundlessly and heading off down the forest road at a gallop.
Tris had to spur his mount to catch sight of Hassad. They rode single file, with Hassad in the lead, then Tris, followed by Carroway. Harrtuck and Soterius brought up the rear. Tris had to strain his eyes to follow their guide in the nearly total darkness of the forest. Only hoof beats broke the stillness of the night. The moon above was hidden by the dense trees, and the horses picked their way with care. Hassad led the way, keeping a steady pace despite the darkness.
Moonlight streamed down through a rare break in the trees. Hassad was already on the other side of the clearing, waiting in the shadows. Tris felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. As they re-entered the shadows of the forest, he listened more closely to the hoof beats around him. The sound of four horses rose clearly above the silence of the night and as Tris stared at their guide, he realized that the soldier's mount gave off none of the sweaty mist of the other heaving horses.
The coldness of the air around them had nothing to do with the growing numbness he felt inside, as he wrestled with pain and fear and grief. The simple mechanics of urging his horse forward helped him stave off the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him.
They followed their guide for most of a candle-mark, until Shekerishet and the palace city were far behind them and they were nearly through the pitch-black forest. Finally, Hassad slowed and then stopped.
"I can go no further, my liege," the man said, almost hidden in the shadows. "But I have a gift for you. Take it," he said, withdrawing a long, slim package wrapped in cloth, and passing it reverently to Tris. "It is the sword of your father's father. May it guide you home to rule Margolan as a good and true king," he said solemnly as Tris received the package.
"You are nearly through the woods," Hassad continued, looking up to the others. "On the other side is a small village. There is a tavern called the Lamb's Eye. Stay there tonight. You will be safe. Those who keep the tavern will provision you for your journey."
"The Lamb's Eye?" Harrtuck repeated from behind Tris. "When did they rebuild that? It burned last year."
"Seek your shelter in the inn. There you will be safe," Hassad repeated.
The leaves rustled behind them as an animal scurried for cover. When Tris turned again to question their guide, the road ahead was empty. "He's gone," Carroway said quietly, looking around them.
"He didn't just vanish," Soterius protested, reining in his skittish mount. A dozen paces ahead, he stopped. "I think you need to see this," he said, gesturing for the others to follow.
Tris, Harrtuck and Carroway closed the distance, sidling up to where Soterius's horse stood restlessly. A dead horse with the livery of a Margolan man-at-arms lay in the roadway felled by a crossbow bolt. Its hapless rider, half pinned beneath the dead beast, lay still, his armor no protection against the crossbow bolt that pierced his chest.
"It's him, isn't it?" Garroway croaked. "And that didn't just happen a moment ago, did it?"
"Uh uh," Harrtuck said uneasily, taking in the scene with battle-practiced detachment. "Been dead several hours, I reckon."
"I was afraid you were going to say that," Carroway whispered.
Soterius glanced sideways at the bard. "More grist for your stories, minstrel—if we live that long. You'll hold them in awe with this one."
"If we live that long," Tris repeated, looking out over the dark forest around them.
Carroway's expression clearly reflected his terror. "Those stories, about the spirits being able to be solid on Haunts, I never really thought—"
"The sooner we get off the road, the better," Soterius broke in. He looked no less comfortable than the others felt, but his battle training won out over fear. "We'd better get going."
"Where?" Carroway asked, his voice nearly a whisper. Tris glanced back at the minstrel, to see the young man's face pale and his eyes wide. Tris doubted he looked much better, from the way his own heart was pounding.
"To the Lamb's Eye," Tris shrugged and nudged his horse into a canter. "Unless someone has a better idea."
They came to the edge of the woods at the top of a hill. Below them, the fires of the village cast a reassuring glow in the darkness. Even the country folk celebrated Haunts, although with less abandon than their city cousins. There was sure to be no shortage of ale and wenching going on in the streets below, while the more pious made a candlelit pilgrimage to the barrows. In the distance, Tris saw a single-file line of walkers heading for the burial grounds. The pious appeared to be in the minority, as the sounds of music and revelry rose above the cold, still darkness.
"There, that must be the inn," Carroway said, pointing to a lone structure that squatted near the road on the outskirts of town. Its windows glowed and smoke rose from its chimney, and even at this distance, Tris could smell roasting meat.
"Looks pretty solid for a place that's not there any more," Soterius said, glancing skeptically at Harrtuck, who shrugged.
"I haven't been this way in quite a while. If it made enough money for the innkeeper, I imagine he rebuilt it."
"Or else, it's one of those illusions, like in the tales," Carroway whispered.
"Do your tales give any helpful hints for telling the real thing from the illusion?" Soterius grated.
"Not that I know of," Carroway replied, his voice a few tones higher and more pinched than usual.
"I try not to disobey a ghost," Tris observed dryly, urging his horse down the steep road. "If it was important enough for Hassad to send us there, he had a reason. Let's go."
A very solid wooden door gave reassuringly to Tris's touch. The common room was empty, but the air was heavy with the smell of roasting meat mingled with tobacco smoke. Despite a log fire glowing in the hearth, a chill hung in the room.
"Awfully quiet place for a feast night, isn't it?" Soterius murmured, his hand on the pommel of his sword.
"Considering how we must look, maybe that's lucky," Tris replied under his breath with a glance at their disheveled costumes. They approached the empty bar warily, and Tris thudded his fist against the wood to call the innkeeper.
"We'd like a room for the night," Harrtuck rasped as the innkeeper appeared in the kitchen doorway, a florid, heavy-set man whose ample apron was stained with ale and meat.
"Ah yes," the man said flatly from the shadows, gesturing for them to enter. "Two coppers a person. Find a room for yourselves upstairs."
Tris stretched out his senses, feeling the warning tingle of nearby spirits. It was strong here, but wordlessly reassuring. He eyed the silent innkeeper, extending his mage-sense. The image, seemingly solid, wavered and blurred to Tris's sight, and the revenant bowed his head in acknowledgement.
On my soul and by the Lady, you and yours are safe here tonight, Tris heard in his mind. Tris glanced at his companions, who were edgy from the fight and unnerved from the ride, but who did not seem to sense anything other-worldly about their host. He said nothing as they climbed the steps, noting that neither of the fighters took their hands far from their swords, and even Carroway kept his hand near the shiv in his belt.
"Bed for four here," Soterius said, opening the first door. A candle was already burning on the nightstand as they entered. On the table lay a platter with sausages, cheese and hard biscuits, and two full buckets of ale with four mugs.
"Nothing but dried meat and cheese," Carroway groused, collapsing into a chair. "Can't tell me that's not venison stew I smell."
"Yeah, well, it's food and we're off the road," Soterius growled, walking around the perimeter of the room like a caged thing. "I'm just as glad to eat up here." He stood to the side of the single window and glanced down at the street below, but only a few travelers made their way through the night.
"Not exactly the friendly types, are they?" Harrtuck muttered as Carroway passed around the tray of food and began to fill the mugs. "This whole place feels wrong," he said. "Morning can't come fast enough for me."
"I've had my fill of adventure for one night," replied Carroway, downing a mug of ale. "But Soterius was right. After tonight, I'll have ballads they'll pay gold to hear!"
Tris let them talk. He could feel the reassurance of the spirits in this place, promising their watchfulness and protection. And something else, a pervasiveness of magic that seemed to surround them, like a warding. He started to say something to his companions, to explain the spectral nature of their host, then reconsidered. He saw too clearly the discomfort on Soterius's face and the fear in Carroway's expression back at the palace, when they saw him speak with Kait's spirit and they glimpsed what his power might truly mean. They won't stay if I tell them, he knew. We're safer here than on the road, I'll stake my soul on it, but I'll never convince them. Too weary to argue, unwilling to feel the weight of incredulous glances, Tris resigned himself to silence.
He was chilled through from the night's ride and bone weary, too overwhelmed to take in the evening's events. The king, dead. His family, slaughtered. Jared, a traitor. And now, he and his friends were wanted men, running for their lives. He struggled against the images of Serae's and Kait's bodies, of Bricen's murder. The cold numbness that tingled in his fingers and chilled him had as much to do with the ache in his soul as it did the chill night outside. They were gone. All gone.
"Let's get a look at that gash," Soterius said. A pot of water'already boiled on the fire.
"Look there," Harrtuck said, his voice wary. On the scarred mantel lay a packet of healer's herbs and two vials of oil, along with a pile of torn cloth bandages. "I don't like this at all, for what it counts," he murmured. "Too damn strange."
Soterius knelt next to Tris and gently lifted up the ripped, blood-soaked shirt. "By the Whore!" he stammered, looking up uncomprehendingly at Tris. "What happened to your wound?"
Tris glanced down. Where an open gash should have been was unmarked flesh.
Carroway exchanged astonished glances with Soterius and Harrtuck. "Before I decide I've lost my mind," the bard said incredulously, "someone please tell me they saw a knife gash here? Ban? Tov?"
Soterius and Harrtuck nodded wordlessly. "Aye, and a bad wound, too," Soterius murmured.
Carroway and Harrtuck crowded closer, and Tris felt Soterius's uncompromising stare. "Lady and Childe," Harrtuck swore. "I've never seen anything like it."
Carroway met Tris's eyes, levelly awaiting an explanation.
Certain of just how mad the story sounded, Tris recounted what had happened in the procession. Soterius continued to stare at the site of the wound, and Tris knew that the explanation sorely tested his practical friend's credulity. Harrtuck frowned, but faced with the evidence of his own eyes, could do nothing but shake his head in wonder. Carroway's eyes were alight at the thought of true intervention by the Goddess, and Tris guessed that it was only with great effort and out of respect for the tragedy of the evening that Carroway refrained from grilling him mercilessly about the experience.
They ate their cold dinner in silence. Out in the street, someone was playing the lute and drunken voices rose in chorus as boots pounded time. The inn itself was silent, and Tris gathered his cloak around him.
"Coldest damn inn I've ever stayed in," Harrtuck said with a mouthful of sausage. "The sooner we're out of here, the happier I'll be."
Secure in the knowledge that Soterius stood the first watch, Carroway and Harrtuck retired for the evening, with the bard moving a bench closer to the fire and Harrtuck settling himself into a chair. When they were asleep, Tris paced to the window.
For the first time since the tragedy, Tris felt despair finally overwhelm him, and he sagged against the window frame, sobbing silently. The enormity of what had happened, the finality of the loss, the growing awareness of the danger now surrounding him rushed over him in waves. Roused finally from his grief by the chill draft that slipped through the closed window, Tris looked up at the clear stars outside. He caught his breath. There, auguring for all to see, a faint ring burned around the full moon, testimony that a king was dead this night. Eyes still fixed on the stars, Tris sank to one knee, placing his sword flat across his open palms.
Chenne, Avenger of Wrongs, hear me! By all the magic of Margolan, on the souls of my grandmother and my family, let me be the instrument of your judgment. Take my life, my soul, whatever you require, but let me put right what has been done this night.
From everywhere at once and nowhere at all, came a woman's voice so beautiful that it pierced Tris to his soul, and so powerful that his heart thudded in his throat at the sound of it.
Like your grandmother before you, I accept your vow, the voice said, and Tris felt an unseen presence far more powerful than any of the ghosts of Shekerishet brush past him, though nothing save the wind stirred in the darkness. Then, as quickly as the presence came, it was gone.
"Are you all right?" a very human voice said from behind him.
Tris startled, and turned to see Soterius, standing with his hands on his hips. While his face showed concern, there was nothing to suggest to Tris that his friend heard the voice that still echoed in his own ears, the vow of the Lady. Tris lowered his sword and resheathed it without explanation, rising to his feet.
"I want to know everything you and Harrtuck know about war," Tris said levelly, finding his voice clear and strong. "And I will accept whatever you can teach me about sword skill." His eyes locked with his friend's and he knew that Soterius understood just what treason they were committing, and how high were the stakes. "I know what kind of king Jared will be. I have to stop him."
Soberly, Soterius nodded. "I rather thought you'd come to that conclusion," he said, and to Tris's amazement sank to one knee, taking Tris's hand in fealty. "As I was to your father, so also to you," his friend said, his voice cracking with emotion. "By the Lady, I'll see you on Margolan's throne, my liege," he swore, and when he raised his eyes to Tris, they were bright with tears. "I can't let that monster rule this land."
Overwhelmed, it took Tris a moment to find his voice. "Thank you," he managed, bidding his friend to rise as a shiver ran though him at the chill night wind gusting through the cracked window. "But before we can do all that," he said, "perhaps we'd best get back some sleep or the night air will do what Jared hasn't... yet."
Tris eased his boots off and stretched out fully clothed on his bed, sinking into its blankets, undeterred by Harrtuck's hearty snores. Although he doubted the images of the evening would ever let him sleep, exhaustion won out, providing a reprieve from dark memories.