Tris Drayke stood on the balcony outside his rooms. He felt the sun on his face and tried to relax. Thanks to Esme, his shoulder, arm, and chest were nearly healed from the dimonn ’s attack. His dogs clustered around him. The two large wolfhounds were nearly tall enough to see over the carved stone railing. Content to press up against Tris’s leg was the ghost of a large, black mastiff. Tris let his hand fall to pet the dogs as his thoughts strayed. With a small brush of magic, even the mastiff felt his touch, and the big dog’s ghost leaned harder against him, a weight that would have caused Tris to change his footing had the dog been solid.
Cwynn had had a hard night, and even with the help of Kiara’s nurses and nannies, the young prince’s agitation was taking a toll. Tris blinked a couple of times and sipped a cup of kerif, wishing the bitter drink could do more to keep him awake. Cerise, Kiara’s healer, had assured both Tris and Kiara that such things were not uncommon with a young baby, but the last time Tris remembered feeling so bone-achingly tired had been in the aftermath of a pitched battle.
Tris heard a knock at his door and turned. Out of old habit, one hand fell close to the pommel of his sword, even here, at home. Coalan, his valet, poked his head through the doorway.
“Uncle Ban’s here to see you. Should I send him in?”
Tris relaxed and nodded, then finished the rest of his kerif. The dogs followed him inside. They sprawled in the sunlight that warmed the floor just inside the balcony, with the mastiff’s ghost curling up next to the two living dogs, just as he had often done in life.
Coalan stepped aside to allow Ban Soterius to enter.
“Rough night?” Soterius said with an appraising glance. Soterius and Coalan were old friends of Tris’s, and their friendship was one of the few remaining ties Tris had to a time before Margolan’s troubles began, and before he had shouldered the burden of the crown.
Tris chuckled. “Just wait until you and Alle have a baby of your own. But not right away-please! One of us should be awake to defend the kingdom.”
Soterius grinned. “I’m still adjusting to being a married man. I have a mind to wait as long as I can before we add to the family.” His grin widened. “Although don’t mention that to Alle, please. She may have other plans.”
Tris sank into a chair near the cold fireplace and motioned for Soterius to join him. “What are you hearing from the barracks?”
Soterius shrugged. “Not a day goes by that one of the men doesn’t hear from someone back home about the plague. And it’s not just folks taking sick. The trading villages are starved for business, since the caravans aren’t traveling and even the minstrels are staying close to home. Between Jared running the farmers off their land and last spring’s rains, planting got a late start. The crops are in the fields, but now there aren’t enough men in a lot of the villages to harvest them.”
Tris closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the cushions. “Can the soldiers help? At least for the farms near garrisons and within a day or two of the palace? How about the vayash moru? It would mean night harvesting, but Margolan can’t afford another hungry winter, and we’ll have one if we leave crops in the fields.”
“Most of the villages are already heavily relying on their vayash moru family members to care for the sick, bury the dead, and help where they can with the farming. There aren’t that many of the vayash moru- fewer since Jared went after them, but they’re starting to trickle back, although the incidents don’t help.”
“Tell me about the ‘incidents.’ ”
Soterius stretched his legs. He was tall, but still a hand’s breadth shorter than Tris, and muscular. His brown hair was cut short for a helm, and his dark eyes hinted at a keen intelligence. “It’s not so much about our Margolan vayash moru as it is the refugees. They’re coming over the border from Trevath and even from Nargi, although why any vayash moru would stay in either of those kingdoms is beyond me, given how the Crone priests treat them.”
“Family,” Tris replied tiredly. “They stay for their families, or because it’s home. It’s not so different from why the living put up with terrible conditions rather than leave. It’s home.”
Soterius sighed. “Yeah, well, I guess both of us know a thing or two about that, don’t we? Anyhow, I’ve taken several dozen of the vayash moru and vyrkin refugees to Huntwood. You remember Danne, Coalan’s father?”
Tris nodded. “Danne was married to your sister.” When Jared’s troops murdered Soterius’s family because of Lord Soterius’s loyalty to Tris’s father, only Danne, Coalan, and one loyal servant had survived.
“Danne is rebuilding Huntwood. It’s slow going. Jared’s men made a real mess of it. But the walls have been repaired and it’s got part of a roof again. The vayash moru and vyrkin are helping, and they’ve got the forest to keep themselves in deer meat and blood. It helps that Huntwood is out in the country. Fewer people around to get it into their heads that the vayash moru have something to do with the plague.
“We’ve also got as many of them as we can over at Glynnmoor, Carroway’s family house. When he and Macaria get back from Dark Haven, they’ll have a lot of company, but at least the old manor house is livable again. And the rest of the refugees are on Lady Eadoin’s lands at Brightmoor. For now, we’ve been able to keep them out of the way, so that the villagers don’t get frightened about a sudden influx of undead and shapeshifters. You know how that goes-every time a goat goes missing, someone blames it on a vayash moru.”
Tris nodded again, tiredly. “But there are still incidents.”
Soterius took a long breath. “Yes. Mostly over on the eastern side of Margolan. It’s been hit the hardest with the plague. And it had more of the farms that lay fallow this season with no one to work them. The violence doesn’t seem organized. Someone burns out a crypt here or there, tries to burn out a den of vyrkin somewhere else. What worries me aren’t the locals so much as the Durim.”
Tris opened his eyes and sat forward, reluctantly alert. “Tell me.”
Soterius shrugged. “One of the garrisons out toward Ghorbal said they’ve had problems with tombs being looted, even a couple of the old barrows. At first, they thought it might be locals down on their luck, looking for a bit of gold to pawn. But there were some weird things that made the garrison leader look twice. Slaughtered goats and chickens, odd runes, and a couple of young girls gone missing. Then one night, they caught some men in black robes in the process of trying to hack their way into an old tomb. Put up an awful fight. Even used some magic. Fortunately, that particular garrison has its own battle mage. We think the Black Robes are Shanthadura followers, but they’re not talking.”
Tris smiled thinly. “Put them in magical bonds and have them sent to me.”
“I thought you’d say that.”
Tris pushed out of his chair and began to pace. The dogs roused at his movement, and while the wolfhounds soon stretched back out, the mastiff padded over to pace beside him. “No one’s tried to revive the cult of Shanthadura in over three hundred years. Now, it’s springing up everywhere. You saw what happened in the village, with the boy and that dimonn in the barrow. Now imagine that kind of thing happening across Margolan, across the Winter Kingdoms.”
Soterius glanced up sharply. “What makes you say that?”
Tris walked to his desk and picked up three pieces of folded parchment. He handed them to Soterius. “Those have all come via messenger over the last few days. One came by vayash moru last night from Jonmarc. They’re seeing a lot of the same kind of ‘incidents’ even in Dark Haven-and he’s gone up against those Black Robes himself. He’s positive they’re Durim, and he says Gabriel and some of the other Old Ones who actually remember when Shanthadura was worshipped are not too happy about seeing the cult revived.
“Then I got another note from my cousin, Jair. You know Jair.”
Soterius nodded. “He’s your Uncle Harrol’s son. Next in line for the Dhasson throne. He was at your wedding. Not too bad with a sword, as I recall.”
“You could say that. Under an old agreement, he spends about half of the year riding with the Sworn.”
Soterius let out a low whistle. “Really? The Sworn are a spooky bunch. I tried to recruit them during the Rebellion to fight against Jared, but they said they had bigger monsters to worry about, and I had my hands full, so I didn’t ask questions.”
“The Sworn don’t get involved in the usual squabbles-even something like the war against Jared. They’re the keepers of the barrows, and it’s their job to make sure what’s buried in those barrows stays buried.”
“You’re a summoner. Isn’t that your job?”
Tris gave a wan smile. “I’ve never messed with the things that live in those barrows, and I don’t want to. Whatever’s down there has been buried for over a thousand years, and it’s nasty enough to have another set of guardians, the Dread, to make sure it doesn’t rise.”
“I thought the Dread were just fairy tales to keep children from wandering off.”
Tris shook his head. “They’re real. I try to steer clear of the barrows because when I get too close, I can feel… something… is down there. Whatever it is, it’s old and powerful, and it seems to sense when I’m near. So until I can find out more from Fallon and the Sisterhood, or Royster and his library, I give the barrows wide clearance. But according to Jair, the Sworn are seeing the same kind of attacks you’re describing. And in at least one case, the attacks came too damn close to weakening the barriers.” He ran a hand across his eyes. “We really don’t want what’s down there getting loose.”
“There’s a third letter here.”
Tris leaned against the mantel. “That came from Cam, and he must have messengers riding in shifts to get it here in only two weeks. Cam went back to his family’s holding at Brunnfen to clean up the mess his traitor brother left behind. He’s certain that his brother Alvior had some kind of connection to a blood mage-maybe even a dark summoner.” He watched Soterius’s face. “And Cam thinks whoever it is will try to invade Isencroft.”
Soterius’s eyes widened. “A dark summoner? Can you tell if he’s right?”
“Not completely.”
“I don’t like the sound of that, Tris. I really don’t.”
Tris clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace once more. “Ever since we returned from the Battle of Lochlanimar, I’ve felt edgy. I tried to tell myself it was battle fatigue, or even some nervousness about the birth, but it’s something else. The magic is wrong.”
Soterius shifted in his chair to watch Tris as the other paced. “I thought you and Carina fixed the Flow during the battle.”
Tris shrugged. “There are many rivers of energy in the world. The one that we fixed was the Flow that runs from the far north country in the east down through southern Margolan and beyond. But there are others. Fallon once told me there are at least three major energy rivers that run through Margolan and into Isencroft-and even the Sisterhood isn’t completely certain where the offshoots and tributaries, for lack of a better word, run.
“The closest of those energy rivers is the Northern Flow. It runs from the Northern Sea, along the Nu River, and down into Dhasson and Nargi.” Tris gave a pointed glance back to Soterius. “And not too surprisingly, the line of barrows that the Sworn patrol run right along that course.”
“Oh really?”
“There’s another Flow that also comes from beneath the Northern Sea and veers westward, into Isencroft. Several of the old palaces were actually built along one energy river or another. Cerise told me she’s almost certain Aberponte in Isencroft is built on a Flow. I think the palace in Eastmark may be as well. But Shekerishet wasn’t built for magic; it was built as a fortress. So we’re between the Flows, but not on top of one.”
“They obviously weren’t expecting a Summoner-King,” Soterius observed dryly.
“Maybe not. But the point is, while we’re not right atop one of the Flows, there’s enough ‘leftover’ magic that I can feel it. I never realized that was what I was drawing from, until Fallon explained it. But lately, the Flows have felt sluggish. It’s hard to put magic into words, but if you’ve ever seen a stream that’s gotten fouled with leaves and silt, it doesn’t run right. That’s sort of what the magic feels like. Fouled. Not broken apart and wild like the Flow underneath Lochlanimar. But wrong.”
“You said that blood magic damaged the Flow,” Soterius said slowly, thinking as he spoke. “Wouldn’t a dark summoner also damage the magic?”
Tris grimaced. “I don’t know. The last dark summoner we know about was Lemuel, but when he became the Obsidian King, he was also using blood magic. In that case, they weren’t able to heal the Flow when it got out of hand and, as a result, we got the Blasted Lands, a place that’s magically unstable and too dangerous for anything mortal to live.”
“So you’re saying that you might not sense a dark summoner just by the Flow?”
“That’s what Fallon tells me.”
Tris could tell from Soterius’s expression that the other was calculating possibilities. “So is there any way to find out whether or not Cam’s right before we’ve got trouble on the northern shore? Because I really, really don’t want to take an army up against someone who’s as powerful as you are, only on the other side.”
Neither do I, Tris thought. “According to Fallon, we have a couple of options.”
“I’m all ears.”
Tris grinned. “Good, because I’m counting on your help. And the first person I need to go see is Alyzza.”
Soterius stared at him. “The old hedge witch?”
“Actually, according to Fallon, Alyzza’s had a hard time of it since she helped Carroway and Carina muster up a riot on the night we fought Jared. Fallon says Alyzza’s come ‘unstuck.’ She’s lost her bearings in time and place, and she sees visions and carries on conversations with thin air.”
“I seem to recall someone else who can see visions and talk to thin air, but you’re quite sane.”
Tris rolled his eyes. “In my case, there’s a ghost in that thin air. According to Fallon, no one’s been able to confirm that Alyzza is really talking to anyone. She’s up at Vistimar, in the citadel of the Sisterhood.”
“I didn’t think you and the Sisterhood were getting along so well these days.”
Tris shrugged. “Landis didn’t want her mages to take sides during the war. She thinks mages should be above that sort of thing. And she wasn’t too happy about Fallon and the others going rogue and defying her. But… I am the king. And maybe more important for Landis, she still respects Grandmother’s memory.”
“Your grandmother earned that respect,” Soterius replied. “I remember Bava K’aa. Even when we were children, although she was always kind to me, there was something about her that seemed too powerful to just be someone’s grandmother.”
Tris chuckled. Bava K’aa had been the most powerful summoner of her age. “She led the battle in the Mage Wars to defeat the Obsidian King the last time he rose, before Arontala tried to summon him. I only ever thought of her as a grandmother, but Fallon tells me that every king in the Winter Kingdoms recognized her power.”
“Vistimar is a place of the damned, Tris,” Soterius said quietly, returning to the subject. “The people in there are more than just insane; they’re dangerous. I’ve heard stories that might even curl your hair, and I know you’ve looked into the Abyss itself.”
“The old legends say that madness is a touch of the Goddess,” Tris replied. “But Alyzza was one of Grandmother’s inner circle. It was the war with the Obsidian King that drove her mad. She’s the only one alive that I know of who actually went up against a real dark summoner.”
“You’re mage-heir to their power, aren’t you? Bava K’aa and Lemuel?” Soterius said quietly. A mage once known as Lemuel who had been possessed by an ancient, malevolent spirit, the spirit of the Obsidian King. But until the night Tris had won back the throne, he had not known that Lemuel was his grandfather, something Bava K’aa had managed to hide from nearly everyone. Defeating the Obsidian King a second time had freed Lemuel’s spirit and had provided Tris with a frighteningly clear picture of just how dangerously wrong magic could go when misused. Tris vowed not to make the same mistakes. He, Kiara, Soterius, and Fallon were the only ones who knew the secret.
Tris nodded. “They were the two greatest summoners of their age. I’ve always wondered why, when there were times that had more than one summoner, I should be the only one now.” He met Soterius’s eyes. “Maybe I’m not.”
That night, five cloaked men left the city without attracting notice. Their horses bore no livery. A cold rain was falling, and so no one wondered why their hoods covered their heads, obscuring their faces. If the bulges under their cloaks suggested that they were well armed, the guards at the gate did not think it their business to ask why. Tris, Soterius, and Mikhail rode to Vistimar, accompanied by two soldiers Soterius had personally chosen for the task.
In the shadows along the road, Tris could sense a dozen vyrkin, who provided silent reinforcements. He did not expect trouble on the road between Shekerishet and Vistimar, but Soterius and Mikhail argued strenuously against riding with less protection, and Tris had reluctantly agreed. For most of the way, they rode in silence. The rain grew heavier, then lightened, but never stopped completely. It made the two-candlemark ride unpleasant, even though the autumn night was warm. Mud splashed as high as the horses’ bellies, and Tris fidgeted as the rain made his cloak cling to his shoulders and arms.
Finally, they reached Vistimar’s entrance. Tris lowered his hood and the startled gatekeeper dropped his keys twice in his hurry to unchain the madhouse’s massive iron gates. The vyrkin took up positions around Vistimar’s entrance. Tris and Soterius led the others into the compound, and the heavy gates clanked shut behind them. The chain rattled ominously as the gatekeeper secured the gates, and while Tris knew that a blast of his magic would be more than sufficient to free them if need be, uneasiness prickled at the back of his mind.
Tris stopped his horse a few paces inside the gates.
“What’s the matter?” Soterius asked as his horse shuffled and pawed.
“There are wardings in place. Since this is a social call, I’d rather not blast through them.”
“What do we do, ring the bell?”
“I think we’ve been noticed,” Tris replied, inclining his head toward a brown-robed figure who was making its way toward them through the rain.
Tris swung down from his horse, and so did Soterius and Mikhail, though the others remained on their mounts. “The night’s greetings to you, Sister,” Tris said. He pushed back his hood again, so that his face was plain.
The Sister closed her eyes and raised her hands, palm out, and Tris knew she was sensing his power, confirming his identity. She opened her eyes and looked from Tris to the men who rode with him. “What brings the king to such a place on this miserable night?” Her voice was scratchy with age, but neutral.
“I’ve come to visit an old friend,” Tris replied. “Alyzza.”
“You’ve come at a bad time.”
“Perhaps. Might we discuss this out of the rain?”
Grudgingly, the Sister raised her hands once more, and Tris felt the invisible wardings fall. She motioned for them to move forward, although the horses shied and tried to sidle away. When they had moved a dozen paces, Tris felt the wardings snap back into place. He touched the wardings with his power, and they flared. They were well set, and it would take a considerable amount of power to break them, Tris thought. While he did not doubt that he could muster the magic to do so, being encircled by shields that were not his own increased his wariness.
The Sister led them to Vistimar’s entrance and motioned for them to tether their horses in a nearby copse of trees. By moonlight, Vistimar looked like the stuff of nightmares. It was an old building, and Tris guessed that it had once been a fortress for a local garrison. He stretched out his mage senses and realized that the stonework was much older than he had first suspected. Vistimar was older than the line of Margolan’s kings, dating back to a time when warlords fought over wild lands that knew no sovereign. The thick stone of its walls had been chosen for defense, not for looks. It hunkered like a large, blocky beast against the night sky.
Tris stretched out his magic. Though they heard nothing but the sound of the rain, Tris could sense a restlessness inside Vistimar that had more to do with madness than it did the weather. Vistimar’s residents were uneasy.
They followed the Sister up the wide, front steps to a heavy oaken door bound with iron strips and studded with hobnails. The Sister gestured, and Tris felt the brush of her magic. From the other side of the door, they could hear the clunk of iron bolts drawing back and mechanical locks releasing. Vistimar might once have been built to keep unwanted visitors out, but now its formidable defenses appeared to be arrayed to keep its unwilling residents in.
Two servants appeared to take the men’s cloaks. If the Sister noted that beneath their plain cloaks Tris and the others were armed well enough for battle, she said nothing. She turned to Tris, and in the light of the entranceway candles, he had the first clear look at her features. She was in her middle years and looked to have some Isencroft blood. Her long hair had streaks of gray through it, and her skin had been roughened by the sun. But her dark eyes were clear and bright, and Tris could sense her magic swirling around her like a mantle of power. This was a mage he didn’t know, although her brown robes marked her as one of the Sisterhood, a community of elite mages that Tris’s grandmother, Bava K’aa, had once led.
“What brings you out to Vistimar on such a night, my king?”
“I need to see Alyzza. I assume you know which of your residents that is?”
Before the Sister could answer, the night air filled with cries. They came from far back in Vistimar’s corridors, and they seemed to echo from every corner of the ancient stone building. Some sounded like screams of terror, while others, wails of pain. High-pitched keens sounded like nothing that came from a human throat. The two soldiers flinched at the noise. Tris saw that Mikhail was examining the entrance hall carefully, using his heightened senses.
“Alyzza has not been well,” the Sister said. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Sister Rosta.”
“As you’ve noted, Sister Rosta, it’s a bad night to be about. I have an important matter that requires me to talk with Alyzza.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. But she’s not as she was when you last saw her.” Rosta’s voice dropped, and Tris had to listen hard to hear her above the wailing. “Alyzza was once a very powerful sorceress, and a friend of your esteemed grandmother. But the battle against the Obsidian King broke her mind, and she was never quite… fully sane… after that.”
“She had moments of clarity. I’ve seen her quite lucid,” Tris countered.
Rosta nodded. “The madness came and went. The Sisterhood tried to heal her, and when her affliction did not respond to our efforts, we attempted to shelter her for her own safety, and that of others. Of late, the madness hasn’t left her.”
“Tell me what her madness is like.”
Rosta looked away and pursed her lips, thinking. “Sister Landis thinks that Alyzza is reliving her youth and the Mage War. Terrors wake her in the night. She begs for salt to ward her room, and she drives herself to collapse warding her room over and over.” Rosta shook her head. “She’s in no danger here. These walls have withstood sieges for one thousand years, and we have spelled them stone by stone. Nothing can get in.”
Tris nodded, although he was disinclined to take Rosta’s word for the security of Vistimar’s wardings. No warding is perfect, and there’s always something that has more power than you think it does. “What else?”
Rosta frowned. “She’s arranged all of her furniture to barricade the northern wall of her room. And we discovered that she’s been stealing small objects and hiding them in her room-worthless things, but she’s got a whole pile of odds and ends that she’s carved with symbols and strewn around the room.”
“What kind of symbols?”
Rosta met his eyes, and Tris knew that in this at least, she was telling the truth. “No one knows. We’ve called in our best rune scryers. We’ve consulted the old texts. They don’t match anything we can find. Lately, she’s taken to making blood charms.”
Tris raised an eyebrow. “Where does she get the blood?”
Rosta’s gaze was level. “It’s her own. She cuts herself. It’s a fearsome thing, m’lord. On the nights when the frenzy takes her, she dances until her clothes are soaked with sweat. She chants and sings, but no one can figure out what she’s saying. We’ve tried to tie her to her bed-for her own safety, to stop the cutting-but she can still summon strong magic, and every time, she’s ripped the shrouds from around her arms and left them in pieces.”
Another scream echoed down Vistimar’s halls. “Your residents don’t sound happy tonight, Rosta,” Tris said evenly.
Rosta sighed, and Tris could see exhaustion in the lines around her eyes. “You’ll judge us harshly by tonight, m’lord. I can’t blame you. It wasn’t always so. Vistimar is haunted by the restless dead. That’s true. There are wretched souls who have never left these walls, and some dark spirits that torment the vulnerable. But in the last few months, it seems as if all the poor souls here are troubled. Have you watched dogs before a storm, turning and fussing? Or horses, when a killing wind is coming? It’s like that, as if they feel something on the night air or hear something on the breeze. All the Sisters have tried to use their magic to quiet them, but it’s no use. Whatever it is, it’s not for the sane to hear.”
Tris looked around the room. Once, Vistimar might have been a wealthy warlord’s prize, but now, evidence of decay was everywhere. The old castle had a dank, musty smell. Rosta was correct about restless spirits. Tris could sense them, and he knew that they felt his power and recognized it for what it was. Already, he could feel them gathering like moths to a flame.
Tris opened his mage sight. On the Plains of Spirit, Tris could see dozens of spirits. As his power focused, the spirits moved toward him, and he could see them in their human forms, with their death wounds. Some had been hanged and others stabbed. More than one had died from a fall. How many of the deaths were self-inflicted, Tris did not know at first sight, but given the uneasiness of the ghosts, he was quite sure that most had died by their own hand.
“Why do you trouble the living?” Tris added another surge of power, assuring that Rosta and the others could see the assemblage as he saw them.
“This is our home,” an old man whose neck bore the mark of a noose spoke. The noose had been badly made, and it was clear that he had died by strangulation and not from the snap of his neck.
“Then stay in peace, and leave the living alone.”
The strangled man’s ghost made a deep bow. “You mistake me, m’lord. We seek to warn them.”
“About what?”
The ghosts pressed closer around him. Tris felt their agitation. No, it was more than that. Fear. Few things retained the power to make the dead fearful. Most feared the coming of one of the Dark Aspects of the Sacred Lady. That was the most common reason Tris had found for spirits refusing to go to their rest. Others wanted to remain near loved ones, or just lingered out of a fascination with the everyday drama of life. A few were confused about whether or not they were truly dead. And more than a few were bound by the trauma of their deaths to a place or time. Those were the ghosts who appeared on the anniversary of their death or seemed doomed to reenact their final moments for eternity. And while Tris’s powers as a summoner were strong, he had learned the hard way that it took an enormous expenditure of power to banish a ghost who did not want to go, and it was not within his power to release a ghost from its self-imposed reenactment until it had made its peace.
No matter the reason that these ghosts remained at Vistimar, tonight they shared something in common. They were terrified.
“What do the dead fear?”
The strangled man’s bulging eyes fixed Tris with a steady gaze. “We fear the North Winds, m’lord. On them comes the Hollowing.”
“Hollowing?”
The strangled man nodded, bobbing his blood-bruised face. “Darkness rides the North Winds, Hollowing soul from spirit like marrow from bone. We have heard the cries of the spirits who were extinguished, like the flame blown from a wick. We fear the judgment of the Lady, m’lord, but we fear the Hollowing more.”
“If I add my protection to Vistimar’s wardings, will you agree to leave the living in peace?”
The strangled man looked to the other spirits. Their faces held a terror Tris had rarely seen among the dead. “Your power is great, but it may not hold against the North Winds. Can you save us from the Hollowing?”
“Who brings the Hollowing? By whose power does it come?”
The strangled man considered the question. “We don’t know. But we’ve felt it like a stain at the edge of the Plains of Spirit. Can’t you sense it, Summoner?”
Tris stretched out his power beyond the gathering of spirits. Space and time on the Plains of Spirit did not correspond exactly to the mortal world. In the Nether, it was difficult for Tris to judge distance or place. But in the distance, Tris saw a darkness he had glimpsed before. More solid than a shadow, “stain” was the right word for it, and it sent a cold shiver through Tris. His power moved cautiously forward, but the darkness receded, rolling back like the tide and disappearing into the Nether. It left behind a residue, an unknown signature of magic, powerful and evil.
“I sense it,” Tris replied. He began to weave a warding of his own, both in the Plains of Spirit and around Vistimar itself. If Rosta thought to interfere, she said nothing. Tris felt for the wardings the Sisters had placed around the madhouse and added his own signature of power, his own protections. In his mage sight, the new wardings shone like a coruscating barrier, gossamer thin, yet powerful.
The spirits felt Tris’s magic and began to calm. What remained was their usual level of agitation, but not the fever pitch of frenzy.
“Thank you, m’lord,” said the strangled man. “Our duty is complete. We have delivered our warning.”
“I’m grateful for your warning,” Tris replied, gathering his power to fully return to the realm of the living. “Will you be sentinels for me? For the living?”
The strangled man looked to the others and nodded. “Yes, m’lord. We will watch.”
The spirits drifted away and Tris released his power, returning completely to himself. Rosta was watching him carefully, and in her eyes, Tris saw a mixture of admiration and caution. The two soldiers who had accompanied them looked pale but stood their ground. Soterius and Mikhail, who had seen Tris work powerful magic many times before, looked disquieted but not surprised. “Well?” Tris asked. “I made sure you could hear what the spirits had to say.”
“It’s certainly disturbing,” Mikhail replied thoughtfully. “But consistent with some of the comments I’ve heard among the vyrkin and vayash moru. There’s an edginess, a feeling that a storm is coming.”
Rosta nodded. “It’s been discussed among the Sisters, unofficially. Sister Landis will not speak of it. But the magic feels… wrong. And there is a feeling like when the wind changes before a squall that something unseen is coming.”
Tris met Rosta’s eyes. “Take me to Alyzza.”
Rosta led Tris down a long, shadowed corridor. Mikhail and Soterius followed a few paces back, and behind them, the soldiers. Tris wasn’t sure whether Soterius had insisted that they follow out of any real belief that they could be of help, or whether after the confrontation with the spirits, no one really wanted to remain behind.
Tris could sense that the level of agitation had dropped among the residents, but there was an odd discordance in the magic that he sensed around him, as if each of the residents was playing a different instrument at once, and all of them off-key.
“We have over seventy-five mages here, all hopelessly mad,” Rosta said as they walked. “And if they are at Vistimar, they have some type of magic that makes them a threat without control of their powers.”
“How many of your residents have come within the last year?” Tris asked. He had to increase his shielding to keep the magical noise from distracting him.
Rosta paused to think. “Interesting you should ask. Fifteen of our residents were committed to our care over the last year or so. That’s more in a short span than we had seen in a while-since Jared the Usurper carried out his attacks against mages. Without a war, we often get only a handful of damaged mages each year, and most of them have just gradually declined from eccentric to unstable.”
“Is there anything different about the new residents?” Tris pressed.
Rosta nodded. “They’re more agitated than usual, and more self-destructive. We’ve had more suicides than usual.” She looked abashed. “I know Your Majesty must be judging us harshly. Our resources are few, but we do try to do our best for the poor souls given to our care. No Sister is forced to come here to serve. We come of our own will, and we would protect our charges with our lives.”
Tris nodded. “I didn’t come to judge you. I can tell that what you say is true, and I commend you for your work. Is there anything else about the newcomers? Anything at all?”
Rosta frowned as she thought. “They were all once mages of power. I know Alyzza has passed herself off as a hedge witch for close to fifty years, but in her prime, during the Mage Wars, she was a fearsome sorceress.”
“What broke her mind?”
Rosta drew a deep breath. “Have you ever heard musicians tune their instruments to a bell or chime?” When Tris nodded, she continued. “Those of us who work among the afflicted have a theory, although please don’t speak of it to Landis. She doesn’t like what she can’t prove.”
“You have my word.”
Rosta dropped her voice. “You know how bells of different sizes produce different sounds? Well, we think-but we can’t prove-that magic is like those bells. For some, the power is like a gong, while for others it might be like a delicate chime. I’ve heard it whispered that Alyzza’s magic was ‘attuned’ to the power of the Obsidian King, and that the backlash from his destruction damaged her.” She paused as if she were debating whether to say more. Finally, she gathered her courage. “We think that those who have gone mad in this recent group all heard the same pitch, for want of a better word. We think that’s why they’re still so addled. Their magic is resonating with something that literally frightened them out of their wits.”
They stopped in front of a door. All of the rooms down the corridor had heavy wooden doors braced with iron. This door was solid iron. “We’ve had to put Alyzza in this room because it’s the most secure in the whole fortress. The windows are warded so that nothing can enter or leave except light. Her furnishings are minimal, to keep her from hurting herself.” Rosta motioned for Tris to come to one side of the door. She raised her hand and spoke a word of power. The stone wall became transparent. Inside, Tris could see a figure swaying and dancing, arms upraised.
“She’s quiet at the moment,” Rosta said. “But she dances or paces all day long. She barely sleeps. It’s mania. I wanted you to prepare yourself.”
Tris nodded. “I’m ready.”
Rosta gestured for the others to stand back from the door. “I’d suggest that you raise your wardings. When you’re ready, I’ll drop the magic that binds the door long enough for you to enter. I have to raise the magic again when you’re inside. I’ll keep watch on you while you’re with her. When you’re ready to leave, come to the door, but make sure Alyzza keeps her distance.” She paused. “M’lord, I realize that you think of Alyzza as a friend. But I beg of you, be wary. She’s not as you last saw her.”
Tris raised his wardings and waited. The magic that bound the door shifted, and the door opened for him of its own accord.
“Come in, come in. It’s time, you know.” Alyzza’s gravelly voice was a sing-song chant. She had a threadbare shawl wrapped around her body and head, and her feet danced to music only she could hear. She did not turn.
From the back, Alyzza looked gaunt and frail. She had been stooped before, but now the hunch was more apparent. Where she had been well fed, now her skin hung like crepe on her bones. “It’s time, it’s time,” she sang, almost to herself. Swaying to the rhythm, Alyzza turned to face Tris. Her face looked as wizened as an old corpse, and her eyes were bright with madness. But in those eyes, Tris saw a glimmer of recognition, and something else. Fear.
“Ah, yes, you’ve come.”
Tris slowly took a few steps into the room. “Do you recognize me, Alyzza? It’s me, Tris Drayke.”
It had been only two years since Tris had fled for his life from Jared’s coup. Tris, Soterius, Carroway, and another friend, Harrtuck, had tried to elude Jared’s guards by hiring on as tent riggers with Maynard Linton’s caravan on their way to safety outside Margolan’s borders. Alyzza, then a hedge witch traveling with the caravan, had been the first to recognize Tris’s newly woken magic, powers Tris did not understand and could not control. Alyzza and Carina had been his first teachers as he struggled to keep his power from destroying him. And it had been Alyzza who one night had put a blade against his throat, determined that he should prove himself to her rather than let a new dark summoner rise again.
Alyzza hummed a tune and swayed toward him, looking like an animated corpse. “The king, the king, all hail the king,” she sang. “Let warriors tall and maidens all attend, all hail the king.” The words were to a popular song, long a tavern favorite, but the melody had been replaced by a discordant sing-song that sent a chill down Tris’s spine.
Tris met Alyzza’s eyes. Fire and fear burned in equal measure, and with them, a canny intelligence. “What do you see, Alyzza? What frightens you?”
“Fie!” Alyzza’s outburst startled Tris. “I will not speak ill of the damned, lest we meet, and soon.” Words to a play this time, a drama that local bards often performed at festivals. A play popular among taverngoers for its lurid enactment of corpses drawn from their graves by a dark mage.
“Where would the damned meet, if not by moonlight?” Tris ventured, remembering a line from the play. Alyzza’s eyes lit up with recognition, and a gap-toothed smile spread across her face.
“Walk not by moonlight, m’lord, or risk your soul. There be corpses in the copses, and dimonns by the wayside. On such a night, keep salt and iron at hand.” Alyzza’s voice had become conspiratorial, though her words were still those of the play. Tris glanced around Alyzza’s sparse room. All along the walls lay a fine white powder of salt. Runes were scratched into the stone walls, darkened with what Tris guessed was blood, from the ruined fingernails and scabbed fingers of Alyzza’s hands. A circle had been drawn on the stone floor in what appeared to be charcoal, and a braid of rags had been added to it as a charmed mat. At the quarters and cross-quarters lay bits of slag iron. Salt and iron-two of the most basic charms to ward off evil.
Tris racked his brain for memories of the tavern play. It had been a long time since he’d seen it. Carroway could probably recite the entire play from memory, but he was far away, healing his damaged hand in Dark Haven. Tris gambled on his memory and remembered another line. “The Wild Host comes on the north wind. But ’tis souls, not stags, that come to the hunting horn. Hide yourself away.”
Alyzza’s face shone with recognition. Tris felt as if they were sharing an elaborate code. “Where will you hide, when Nameless sounds Her horn? Where will your soul take its refuge? Would there were a summoner to hide my soul away.”
Tris drew a sharp breath. He had forgotten that line. The stories of Nameless, the eighth Aspect of the Sacred Lady, told of the Goddess in her guise as the Formless One riding the cold autumn winds through the countryside, harvesting souls. Tris had heard it said that many villagers would not be abroad by night in the weeks around the Feast of the Departed for fear of hearing Nameless’s horn and being called to her hunting party of the damned.
“I’m that summoner, Alyzza,” Tris said, meeting Alyzza’s eyes. “I have the power to protect you. Tell me what you see.”
“I see, I see, a far, far sea. The sea we all must cross. Gray and cold, dark and deep. Across that sea there comes a ship, a ship. A ship that comes for me.”
Cam’s note said that Alvior sailed away in a strange ship across the Northern Sea. Cam thinks Alvior’s coming back across the sea with his dark mage. Alyzza may be mad, but she’s mad as a dancing spider.
“You hear a bell I can’t hear, Alyzza,” Tris said evenly. “Let me listen with you. I won’t hurt you. Let me listen through you.”
Alyzza exhaled in a hiss. “I would not take that road, m’lad, though all the gold be mine. Not king, nor queen, nor beggar fool return from that dark lane.” A song again, about a desperate man’s date with Death.
“The bells, Alyzza. Let me hear the bells.”
Reluctantly, Alyzza stretched out a gnarled hand. Despite her madness, she stopped just shy of Tris’s wardings without touching them, giving him to know that she saw the magical protection and knew it for what it was.
Without dropping his wardings, Tris projected his magic across the shield to touch Alyzza’s outstretched palm. Tris drew them both onto the Plains of Spirit, anchoring Alyzza with his power. Tris could sense the power that Alyzza’s magic still commanded, although that power had become as gnarled as her bony hands. Tris extended his spirit, and as Alyzza dropped her own battered and ragged shielding, Tris let his power brush against her mind.
Immediately, he heard it. The sound was low and distant, like a rumble of thunder or the crash of a rock slide. But this sound was as much unlike those sounds as it was similar. Deep and vibrating, the sound waxed and waned. At its loudest, it crowded out thought, but at its softest, it hovered menacingly at the threshold of hearing, threatening to return. Carroway had once told Tris that there were certain chords that could produce madness if sounded incessantly. Tris had heard of torturers who used particular sounds to increase the pain of their victims. Until now, Tris had believed that the sounds of battle were the most damnable, along with the dying screams of men. But something in that distant rumble resonated with primal terror deep in Tris’s mind. It supplanted reason and training, and all vestiges of modern civilization, a warning to the animal core at its most basic. Channeled through Alyzza, Tris heard the reverberating sound, felt it amplified through her terror and her tangled power. It was all he could do not to tear free and scream.
Alyzza suddenly launched herself at him. His shields held, but Alyzza reached as if to grip and hold his head close to hers, hanging on though the magic of his wardings burned.
“It comes,” she shrieked, as if she were trying to shout over the low, damnable sound. “A key. A bridge. A voyager. It comes for these.”
“Who? What key? Which bridge?”
But as abruptly as Alyzza had thrown herself toward him, she drew back. For an instant, her eyes were unclouded. “Protect the bridge, Tris. Protect the bridge.”
Like a curtain, the madness descended once more. Alyzza’s hands fell to her ragged skirt and she curtsied as she began to dance. “Oh, will you walk a space with me, a pace with me, or two or three. Oh, will you walk a pace with me for now, the sun is setting.” It was a child’s rhyme this time, and Alyzza’s voice was reedy and high, like a deranged young girl. “Oh hush, my love and don’t you fear, or shed a tear, or two or three. Oh hush, my love, and don’t you fear, for I the fire am setting.” Alyzza’s voice grew by turns louder and softer, and she turned away from Tris as if she had forgotten he was there. He watched her for a moment, and then walked to the door, making sure that he did not turn his back on Alyzza. Until Rosta opened the door, Tris did not realize he had been holding his breath.
“You see, she is quite mad,” Rosta said as she closed the door behind Tris, setting the wardings back in place.
“I felt it, Rosta. The resonance. You were right. There’s something out there, something she’s attuned to-and probably the others, too. Goddess help me, if I had that in my head all the time, I’d be as mad as she is.”
The guards took up their places outside the door as Rosta gestured for Tris, Soterius, and Mikhail to follow her into a small parlor. Its furnishings were threadbare and hard used, but at the moment, Tris welcomed the chance to sit down. His encounter had left him shaken, and he wondered if it showed. As if Rosta guessed his thoughts, she went to a cabinet and withdrew a bottle of Cartelasian brandy, pouring Tris a generous portion and offering some to the others as well. Soterius accepted the drink. Even Mikhail looked uneasy.
Rosta and the others listened as Tris recounted his exchange with Alyzza. At the end, Tris looked to Rosta and Mikhail. “What do you make of it?”
Rosta thought for a while before she replied. “I don’t know what the ‘bells’ are that you heard, unless it’s the reverberation of immensely strong magic. Some mages are able to see halos of energy around people, and they say we each glow a different color and that our colors change or fade depending on many things. If some mages can ‘glow,’ perhaps others have a sound to their magic, although I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Mikhail nodded. “You may be immune to it as a summoner, but most mortals get an uneasy sensation near places where the undead dwell-both vayash moru and other immortals.” He paused. “My point is, just the presence of the magic that sustains us seems to ‘resonate’-to use your word-with mortals on a level that’s often below thought. They don’t know why they’re uneasy; they just are. Something makes them avoid an area, for no apparent reason. It’s stronger for some than others, and a few are either immune or are able to block it out. I’m thinking about Jonmarc Vahanian in the latter case, a mortal surrounded by undead all of the time.”
“There are mages of minor power-hedge-witch-quality magic-who can sense the presence of spirits year-round, not just on Haunts, but they can’t summon them,” Tris mused. “I’ve spoken with several. Some of them are quite attuned to restless spirits, places where energies remain disturbed after a massacre, things like that. They also say it’s a disquieting feeling, almost like a hum, that alerts them.
“We had a genius of a scientist who built our war machines at the Battle of Lochlanimar last winter,” Tris said thoughtfully. “Wivvers. He makes all kinds of contraptions and tries to figure out how magic-and other things-work. Wivvers explained to us how particular noises, like the banging of drums or very shrill pipes, can make glass shatter or whole walls collapse. Perhaps that’s something like the ‘resonance’ Alyzza hears, and maybe only some mages are attuned to it.”
He sighed. “I had a firsthand experience with just how powerful the Flow really is when Carina and I healed one of the energy rivers. I saw it as light, but perhaps others ‘hear’ it.”
“Well, if it drives mages mad, then we’re fortunate you can’t hear it,” Soterius said. “And I’m the last one to speculate about how magic works, not having a speck of it in my bones. But the possibility remains that something is coming from across the sea-and it’s not friendly.” He looked at Tris. “You fought Foor Arontala and won. You defeated the Obsidian King’s spirit. And I saw the magic you did at Lochlanimar-you’re much stronger now than you were then. Do you doubt that you could fight whatever this is?”
Tris swirled his brandy and stared at the golden liquid. “Only a fool never doubts,” he murmured. He looked up. “You know as well as I do that I very nearly died fighting the Obsidian King. And from what I remember-and the scars I have to prove it-I defeated Curane’s mages and his Elemental by the skin of my teeth.” He shrugged. “That’s the thing about magic; you aren’t always sure what you’re up against until you’re in the thick of it.”
Rosta sat back in her chair and sipped the brandy she had poured for herself. “There’s another problem. Landis still wants the Sisterhood to be apart from ‘mundane concerns.’ She’s no different than when she denied you assistance for the war last year. She wouldn’t be willing to provide any further training, and to be honest, I can’t think of another mage alive today who can harness more power than you already can.”
“Thanks, but that’s rather disquieting in itself,” Tris said with a grimace. “Because what I know about magic has been learned one battle at a time, the hard way.”
Soterius smiled. “I happen to remember Jonmarc saying something like that about sword fighting, when he was trying to sharpen our skills back in the caravan. He said he’d learned everything he knew one battle at a time. He’s right. Some things really can’t be taught. If you survive the education, you get to keep the skill.”
“Which might also account for the fact that there are so few very old mages of great power,” Tris observed. “Trial and error has its peril.”
“Alyzza is the last of the mages who played a key role in the Mage Wars fifty years ago,” Rosta said. “But you might see what the Library at Westmarch has regarding that period.”
Tris nodded. “I’ve already sent a messenger to Royster at Westmarch with a request that he come to Shekerishet and bring as much as he can carry regarding the Mage Wars.” He leaned forward. “Which raises the next question: What do you know of the Dread?”
Rosta did not conceal a shiver. “Why do you ask?”
Tris told her about the messages he had received. Rosta’s expression grew worried. “The Dread haven’t walked abroad in a thousand years. Their power was greater than a mage like the Obsidian King, as was the power of the things they guard. If someone seeks to awaken what slumbers in the Abyss, then dark times are truly upon us.”
“I know nothing but legends and tales told to frighten children out of the forest,” Tris replied. “I need more than that. Especially if we do face a dark summoner, I need to know which side the Dread will choose.”
“The Dread have always chosen their own side,” Rosta said, and she made the sign of the Goddess in warding. “But there is a way you might find what you seek.” She looked at Tris. “You’re a summoner. Call to the bones of your fathers. Their spirits will speak to you.”
“I’ve never called spirits that old. I don’t even know where to find their tombs.”
Rosta smiled. “Now that I can help with.” She rose and gestured for Tris to follow her over to one of the large shelves of books that lined the parlor’s walls. Rosta ran her hand along the spines of the books on one shelf until she found the leather-bound volume she wanted. The book was thick, with a heavy cover of handworked leather and gold leaf. Its pages were fragile and yellow with age. Rosta carried the heavy volume to a desk and opened it carefully, searching for the right page.
“Here,” she said finally.
Tris looked at the page over Rosta’s shoulder. At first glance, it was a long genealogy with a series of names of fathers and firstborn sons. “One thousand years ago, Margolan didn’t exist as a kingdom,” Rosta said. “It was wild territory, divided up among tribal chieftains and warlords. The old Cartelasian Empire never established a firm foothold in most of Margolan. They got as far as Eastern Margolan and were driven back.” She glanced at Tris. “Some say the Dread had a hand in that.
“There’s not much left from that long ago,” Rosta said. “Even these genealogies were passed down by bards from memory for centuries before someone finally wrote them down. But the bards took great pride in remembering the genealogies perfectly, so much so that when there were legal disputes over inheritances or properties, a bard’s word was law regarding family line.”
Tris looked down the yellowed page at line after line of careful script. In many places, the ink was almost too faint to read. The centuries rolled back as he traced backward the family line. “Wait, that says Marlan the Gold. He was the first real king of Margolan,” Tris said, eyes widening.
Rosta shrugged. “He’s far enough back that ‘king’ is probably not quite as accurate as ‘chieftain,’ but you’re right. Marlan the Gold is remembered for driving back the Cartelasian Empire and proclaiming that all the territory was Marlan the Gold’s land, hence the name, Margolan.”
“Are you certain there was no magic in his line?” Tris asked, peering closer at the list of names. “Look here. Hadenrul the Great. He was the king who defeated the last great uprising of the Shanthadura followers over three hundred years ago.” He looked at Rosta. “Those are both impressive victories for men who you say had no magic.”
Rosta nodded. “They weren’t known as mages in the stories that have been passed down, but who knows? Sometimes, men and women who used powerful magic long ago were thought to be particularly blessed by the Goddess. There have been many times when it wasn’t wise to admit to being a mage.”
“Marlan the Gold and Hadenrul the Great were both in Father’s lineage,” Tris said.
“And so, your kin. Even if they weren’t, as king you have the right to consult the ancient dead for their advice. Your claim on them is even stronger since their blood is yours.”
“How do we know they haven’t both gone to their rest with the Lady long ago? After all, Grandmother and Lemuel both asked me to make their passage for them. That’s why I can’t just ask their advice.”
Rosta shrugged again. “You won’t know until you call for them. According to this book, Marlan the Gold was buried beneath what is now the Shrine to the Mother and Childe. And while no one seems to know exactly what happened to all of Hadenrul’s body, legend has it that one of his chief advisors-probably a mage himself-brought Hadenrul’s skull, breastbone, and the bones of his right hand to the same shrine.” She looked at Tris. “There were hundreds of years separating their deaths, yet a devoted follower carried part of Hadenrul’s remains to lie in the same tomb as Marlan’s. Why? I don’t think it’s any coincidence that those were the bones that were taken.”
“Why?” Soterius asked.
To Tris’s surprise, it was Mikhail who answered. “There are old beliefs that say a man’s essence is stronger in some parts of the body than others. The skull rules thought, the breastbone, heart. And the right hand, will. There is some truth to that. There is more than one reason those who seek to destroy vayash moru take the head and heart.”
“What if whoever took Hadenrul’s bones to the shrine did it so that his spirit would be available to future kings?” Soterius mused. He looked at Tris. “Didn’t you say that King Argus’s spirit stayed in the crypt beneath Westmarch to guard a sword?”
Tris nodded. “I had to fight him for it, and prove my magic worthy in battle before he yielded. And then he also went to the Lady, so that’s one more person who fought the Obsidian King who can’t be asked for help.”
Rosta finished her brandy and laid her goblet aside. “The night is late, m’lord. Vistimar’s hospitality is sparse but sincere, and while our suppers aren’t what you’re used to at the palace, we have an excellent cook whose portions are more than ample. You’re welcome to stay the night, and in the morning, you can plan your journey to the Shrine to the Mother and Childe.” She looked to Mikhail. “There are crypts beneath Vistimar where no light can reach. You won’t be disturbed if you take your refuge here until next sunset.”
Tris smiled. “Thank you. We’d be grateful for the hospitality.” He glanced toward Soterius. “And I think that soon we’ll make a little family visit to the Shrine.”