Make them stop stealing our dead!”
The red-faced man leaned across the table, and his body trembled with his shout.
On the other side of the table, Lord Jonmarc Vahanian passed a hand across his eyes. There were many duties that came with the title and land holdings that Jonmarc enjoyed. Holding court was not one of them. “Sit down before I put you down,” Jonmarc growled. The red-faced man looked startled, but he pulled back and took his chair.
“Now, let’s start at the beginning,” Jonmarc said tiredly. As lord of the manor, he was the final arbiter of disputes, petty and otherwise. While the Blood Council dealt with disagreements between vayash moru, and the vyrkin handled their problems among themselves, dealings between mortals or between a mortal and either a vayash moru or a vyrkin fell to the lord of the manor to arbitrate. The irony of the once-brigand Lord of Dark Haven now handing down judgment was not lost on Jonmarc. “Why do you think your dead are missing and what makes you think anyone took them?”
“They bloody well didn’t walk off all by themselves,” the man retorted.
Jonmarc fixed him with a glance. “Want to rephrase that? Dark Haven has more dead men walking than anywhere else I’ve ever been.”
The florid-faced man glanced at Gabriel, who stood behind Jonmarc, and reined in his temper. “These dead aren’t biters.”
“And you’re certain of that how?”
The man sighed. By his clothes and his manner, Jonmarc guessed him to be a farmer. Beside him sat another man, likely a tinker or tradesman, Jonmarc thought. Probably a newcomer to the area, and thus automatically under suspicion. The yellow-haired tinker looked bewildered and indignant. Things like walking dead were out of the men’s experience, and some days, Jonmarc wished they were out of his, as well. But a year spent with Tris Drayke and another year as Lord of Dark Haven had altered a good many of his theories about life, death, and afterlife. “Because our dead stayed dead, until he came,” the farmer said, with a glare toward the tinker.
Jonmarc glanced at Sakwi, who had agreed to attend the tribunal should any need for magic arise. “Can you tell if he’s a blood mage or a summoner?” Jonmarc asked Sakwi.
Sakwi moved closer to the tinker, who drew back in his chair fearfully. Though Sakwi’s specialty was land magic, Jonmarc had learned enough about mages from recent experience to know that, regardless of their expertise, they could sense another’s magic. Sakwi held out his hands, palms out, and closed his deep-set, brown eyes, losing himself in thought for a moment. Then he opened his eyes and shook his head. “No. No magic at all, in fact. Just a charm around his neck that isn’t worth its tin.”
The tinker relaxed, but only for a moment. The farmer was again on his feet. “I don’t care what your hocus says. Someone is stealing our dead!”
“You’ve said that twice now, without explaining it,” Jonmarc said, with a dangerous undercurrent in his voice that was not lost on the farmer, who remembered himself and sat back down. “If someone’s robbing tombs, then we need to look for a thief. Do you bury your dead with gold or jewelry?” The question was logical, but the hard-scrabble look of the farmer made Jonmarc doubt that the man or his neighbors had a gold coin among them, let alone treasures to waste on the dead.
“You’re not hearing me,” the farmer said, straining for control. “No one’s stealing the pots and charms we buried with the bodies. They’re still in the graves. It’s the bodies that are gone. Someone’s torn up our burial grounds.”
“Is it just the newly dead who’ve gone missing?”
The farmer shook his head. “They’re gone, but they’re not the only ones. We have a crypt that the whole village uses. It’s dug into the caves. We’ve used it for generations. My sister’s husband was killed last week when his horse bolted. Broke his neck. We washed the body, and the women prepared it with herbs and honey, as we do all our dead. When we’d mourned him, we wrapped him in a shroud and carried him into the tomb. But when his widow went back two days later to bring a soul offering, the crypt had been opened. His body was gone-windings and all-and so were the other bodies in the newest chamber.” He swallowed hard. “You can excuse my sister for not taking a complete count when she realized what had happened.”
“So you don’t know how many bodies are gone?”
The farmer shook his head. “No. But three weeks before my sister’s husband died, an old woman in the village died of the cough. And then last month, one of the Rimmin boys drowned in the creek. Their bodies should have been in the crypt-but they weren’t, and neither were the bodies from the three we lost to consumption over the summer.”
Jonmarc exchanged puzzled glances with Gabriel. “Do your people know anything about this?”
Gabriel shook his head. “I can assure you no one of my brood has made any new fledglings. I’d be willing to wager that Riqua’s family hasn’t, either. I can’t say for certain about the other vayash moru broods, but what the man described doesn’t sound right for a vayash moru rising.”
“Could the bodies have been taken by animals?” Jonmarc asked. “The herbs and honey used to preserve them might smell like food.”
The farmer looked appalled. “We’re not stupid, m’lord. The crypt seals tightly.”
Jonmarc felt a headache beginning to grow. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were stupid,” he said carefully, “but people forget things in their grief. Is it possible that someone forgot to close the crypt?”
The farmer shook his head. “We were all there when the body was laid to rest. We helped to seal the door. It was closed.”
“How difficult is it to open the door?”
“I’m not a small man, m’lord, and I can’t open it by myself. It was made heavy enough to require two men, to stop tomb robbers and vandals.” He paused. “There is one other thing, m’lord. The dead weren’t carried off. They walked.”
Jonmarc had been slumped in his chair. Now he sat up and leaned forward. “Walked?”
The farmer nodded, wide-eyed. “My eldest son saw it. Ran home babbling about wights, but at the time, we just thought a trick of the moonlight spooked him.”
“Is he with you?”
The farmer turned and summoned a young man from the back of the room. This was the last judgment of the day, and the room was otherwise empty of onlookers. The farmer’s son bore a strong family resemblance, with a wide face and a strong jaw and an unruly shock of straight, brown hair that stuck out at odd angles. The boy looked to be about sixteen summers old, old enough to testify in court as a man.
“Tell us what you saw,” Jonmarc said.
The boy spoke without looking up. “I wasn’t supposed to be out that night. But I’d slipped out to see Molly Rimmin. We’d agreed to meet up in a clearing that’s just out of view of the village.”
“You always meet your girlfriends in the burying grounds?”
The boy winced. “We weren’t actually in the burying grounds, but the crypts aren’t far from there. We’d been… busy… for a while, when I heard a noise, like something crashing through the underbrush. I was scared that it might be wolves.”
“If it had been wolves, you wouldn’t have heard them until they were on you,” Sior, the representative for the vyrkin, spoke from his place behind Jonmarc. The boy blushed scarlet.
“We didn’t have all our clothes on,” he admitted in a mumble. “I didn’t want to die naked, and I was trying to put my pants back on when I saw them.”
“Who?”
“I saw the dead. I know my own uncle. And I knew he was dead. But there he was, and behind him were others. I didn’t stop to count. I grabbed Molly and what clothes we could gather and we ran.”
“What did they look like?” Jonmarc pressed.
The boy made an impatient expression. “They looked like themselves, only dead.”
Jonmarc shook his head and silently counted to ten. “Was there anything unusual about how they moved?”
The boy shook his head in frustration. “Did you not hear me? They were dead and they were walking-that’s damn unusual where I come from!”
The farmer cuffed the boy on the side of the head. “You forget yourself. That’s the lord you be talking to.”
“Sorry,” the boy mumbled, looking down.
“I once saw a dead body able to move when a ghost possessed it,” Jonmarc said. Even now, the memory sent a chill down his back. “Is the area around the crypt haunted?”
The farmer shrugged. “No more than any burying ground. We have our ghosts, like all villages. Our ancestors lie in there. They stay with us.”
Jonmarc struggled to make himself understood. “Do you have any bad ghosts? Ones who throw things or try to hurt people? Anyone who was murdered and looking for revenge?”
The farmer thought for a moment and shook his head. “Old man Velnost hung himself in his barn a few years back, and he soured the milk when his wife remarried, but our ghosts are quiet folk, like they were when they were alive. I don’t imagine my sister’s husband was happy about dying, but he wasn’t the sort to trouble the living.”
“Has anyone other than the tinker come to your village lately?” Sakwi’s question was unexpected, and everyone turned to look at the land mage.
The farmer thought for a moment. “Just the two holy men who blessed the village.”
Sakwi and Gabriel both stepped closer, and Jonmarc leaned forward until he was nearly eye-to-eye with the farmer. “What holy men?”
“They came two days after I did,” the tinker spoke up, eager to clear his name. “I was staying at the inn, trading odd jobs for my room and board. Not much coin to be made as a tinker these days, with the plague and all. The inn was pretty empty, which is why I remember. Folks aren’t going from place to place anymore, and they don’t welcome those who do. I knew the innkeeper from my last travels, so he took me in, but I think he would have turned these two away if they hadn’t been scholars.”
“Why did he think they were scholars?” It was Gabriel who spoke. The vayash moru had moved close enough to meet the tinker’s eyes. Jonmarc guessed that Gabriel was using the compulsion vayash moru could use on most mortals to enable the tinker to tell his story more coherently. While Jonmarc was better able than most to resist that compulsion, he understood its power.
The tinker’s eyes widened just a bit, and Jonmarc was certain Gabriel was nudging the man to examine his memories closely. “They carried satchels with them that looked heavy. The innkeeper asked what was in them, and they told him it was books. They said they were going to see the Sisterhood, and the innkeeper stopped asking questions.” He made the sign of the Lady to ward off evil. “We don’t have anything to do with the likes of them.”
Sakwi looked lost in concentration, but he roused himself from his thoughts. “What did these ‘scholars’ look like?”
The tinker frowned. “They were plain-dressed and clean-shaven. Couldn’t see much of their clothing under the black robes they wore.”
“Black robes,” Jonmarc repeated, feeling his heart sink. What he’d assumed had been petty tomb robbing or a prank had just taken a turn into serious business. “You’re certain the robes were black?”
The tinker nodded vigorously. “Black as night, m’lord. That didn’t strike me as odd, but this did: For scholars, they paid their fare in gold.”
“Whose gold?”
“That’s the other thing that was strange,” the tinker said. “The innkeeper didn’t recognize the coin. It was gold, no doubt about it, but strange looking. When he asked them, they said it was an old coin that had been in their citadel’s treasury.”
Jonmarc pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to stop the headache that was now throbbing. “Great. Just great. Walking dead, Black Robes, and a coin no one can recognize.” He felt the weight of a long day that was just about to get much longer. “I don’t know where your dead have gone to, but I’ve got a good idea who took them. We need to see the crypt, and I’d like to know whether your innkeeper still has that coin. Will you take us to your village?”
The farmer and the tinker exchanged glances. The animosity between them had been exchanged for a sense of foreboding that Jonmarc could read clearly in their faces. “Yes, m’lord. We would be honored.”
Jonmarc looked to Gabriel, Sior, and Sakwi. “I think you need to see this, too.”
Gabriel nodded. “Clearly so.”
It took half a candlemark on horseback to reach the village. Synten, the farmer, led the way, followed by the tinker, Val. It was a small farming village, perhaps only three dozen homes, and Jonmarc was willing to bet gold that all of the inhabitants were related by blood or marriage. It was the kind of village that dotted the countryside across Dark Haven and Principality, not so different from the village where Jonmarc had grown up. The inn probably also doubled as the village bakery, Jonmarc guessed as they rode into town. Unlike the larger taverns that, in better times, did a brisk business along major roadways, the inn looked as poor as the village.
Val the tinker led them into the inn. Everything about it was small, cramped, and hard used. In his smuggling days, Jonmarc had stayed in many inns like this one, and he could guess that its ale was watered, its food middling at best, and its mattresses buggy. The innkeeper was a wan-faced man with a sallow complexion. He looked up as the newcomers entered, but his eyes held no welcome.
“What brings you out here?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral. Jonmarc was certain the man had spotted Gabriel as a vayash moru and Sakwi as a mage, and while it was less likely for him to guess that Sior was vyrkin, it was clear that the innkeeper was wary of strangers.
“This is Lord Vahanian,” Val introduced. “He’s come about the… problem.”
Fear flashed in the innkeeper’s eyes for a moment before he locked down his expression once more. “Honored to meet you, m’lord, and your friends,” he said with a glance toward Sakwi and the others.
“He’s interested in the two men who came here a couple of weeks ago. The ones in the black robes.”
The innkeeper made the sign of the Lady in warding. “Pox take them! Wouldn’t have let them in if I’d known they were hocuses. Had to whitewash the room to be rid of their markings, and my dog went missing when they left. Sprinkled salt all around the room they used, and salt’s not cheap, but my wife says nothing less will cast out dimonns.”
Jonmarc asked the innkeeper to lead them to the room, and the man did so, reluctantly. It was a small room, barely large enough for a bed. As the innkeeper said, it had been freshly whitewashed, both floor and ceiling. Despite the clean appearance, Jonmarc shuddered. An ominous feeling clung to the room. It seemed unseasonably cold, and he wondered if something about the runes had called ghosts. Whatever it was gave him an instinctive urge to flee. Neither Gabriel nor Sior seemed to be affected, but Sakwi looked both thoughtful and concerned.
“What did the runes look like?” Sakwi asked.
The innkeeper’s eyes widened. “I did my best not to look at them.”
“It’s important,” Jonmarc said, fixing the man with a glare. “If you want to find your dead, we need your help.”
The innkeeper grimaced, and then sighed. “All right. What do you need?”
Sakwi motioned for him to come to the hearth, and he handed him a half-burnt stick. “Can you draw the runes you saw on the hearthstone?”
“I can try.”
They watched in silence as the innkeeper struggled to trace the runes that he had seen. Finally, he sat back on his heels. “That’s the best I can do. They seemed to move when I looked directly at them, and although I should remember what they looked like, they’re blurry in my mind.”
Sakwi nodded. “They weren’t meant to be read by anyone who wasn’t a mage. Thank you, this will do.” He hunkered down next to the hearth as the innkeeper scrambled away as if the runes might burn him.
“What do you make of them?” Jonmarc asked.
Sakwi’s lips moved silently as his hands made warding gestures. Finally, he looked up. “Someone did blood magic in this room.”
“I can smell traces of blood, even over the whitewash,” Gabriel said. “I’m betting Sior can, too.” Sior nodded.
“I don’t recognize all of the runes. Rune magic isn’t my gift,” Sakwi continued. “But the runes I do recognize are words like ‘destroy,’ ‘destroyed,’ ‘destroyer.’ ”
“Shanthadura,” Jonmarc murmured. Sakwi nodded.
“Yes, I believe they stand for the name. I think that whatever magic was done here called to the dead.”
“Were they summoners?”
Sakwi frowned. “I don’t sense that strong a magical resonance. It’s not the same kind of signature as Tris’s power. No, this feels like blood magic, although it’s strong. Remember, a blood mage can animate a corpse, but can’t force a soul back into the body. Blood mages can also draw ghosts to them, but they can’t call specific spirits like a summoner can, or give them their final rest.”
“So there are ghosts? I thought I felt something.”
“Oh, yes,” Sakwi, Gabriel, and Sior all spoke at once. The innkeeper paled.
“Can you get rid of them?” he asked, his defiance replaced by desperation. “We’ve got enough trouble getting guests to stay as it is without ghosts running them off.”
Sakwi did not answer immediately. He took pinches of several herbs from the pouches on his belt and mixed them in his palm, then sprinkled them over the runes the innkeeper had drawn. He bade the innkeeper to bring him water and salt, which the man returned with promptly. Sakwi muttered under his breath as he sprinkled salt over the hearth, and then made small gestures of warding over the basin of water. Finally, he poured the water over the hearth, washing away the markings. When he was finished, he stood.
“I didn’t think it wise to leave the runes. Such things, even badly copied, have power.” He glanced around the room toward the corners of the ceiling, places that looked empty to Jonmarc but that seemed to hold Sakwi’s attention. “Yes, whatever was done here called spirits, and I don’t think they’re pleased.” He thought for a moment. “As I said, my gift is land magic, not summoning. But I will do what I can.”
Sakwi threw open the window and door, and checked to assure that the chimney was clear. Then he lit a fire in the fireplace. The night was too warm for a fire, and the hearth looked as if it had not been used in months, but it was stocked with wood and kindling, and the fire caught quickly. They stood back as Sakwi gathered items from his pouches. On a small nightstand, he laid out a disk of amber and a pendant of onyx. He drew wolfsbane leaves, dried witchberry, and sticklewort from his pouches, and sprinkled them with a few drops of an oil that smelled strongly of juniper. Then he carefully gathered the mixture and threw it into the fire, making a gesture of warding as he did so.
“Go in peace. You are released. Go in peace,” he murmured.
The air around them stirred. There was no sound, no other movement, but all at once, it felt to Jonmarc as if an oppressive weight had been lifted. The air had a heaviness, like a gathering storm, but in that moment, the sense of foreboding vanished.
“I can’t send them to their rest,” Sakwi said, stifling another bout of coughing, “but I could free them from this place. They’ll most likely return to wherever they came from, if they lack the will or ability to cross over to the Lady.”
The innkeeper, Val, and Synten stared at Sakwi in a combination of respect and fear. For Synten’s son, the look was complete panic. Val the tinker was the first to regain his composure.
“Do you still have the coin they gave you?” Val asked the innkeeper. “The gold one?”
The innkeeper spit and ground the spittle with his heel in a gesture of warding. “Buried it, I did. Don’t want no more of the bad luck they brought. What do you want with the likes of them?” His eyes narrowed.
“We’ve come to find out what happened to your dead,” Jonmarc replied. His annoyance with the innkeeper’s thinly veiled hostility was clear in his voice. “Can you find the coin?”
A tug-of-war of emotion crossed the innkeeper’s face. On one hand, Jonmarc was quite sure the man resented being bothered, and it was clear that, for a man in his business, he didn’t like newcomers. At the same time, he wasn’t quite ready to disobey a direct order from his lord. “Follow me,” he said, and led them out the back door.
The coin was buried beneath a large oak tree. Grains of salt clung to the dirt, and Jonmarc guessed the man had taken as many precautions as he could to ward against evil. At least he didn’t throw it down the well. The man handed it over to Jonmarc as if the coin would bite, and Jonmarc held the coin up in the moonlight.
“It’s not Principality gold, that’s for sure,” Jonmarc murmured.
“It didn’t come from any of the Winter Kingdoms,” Gabriel said, his voice unusually quiet. Jonmarc turned to him, and saw concern in Gabriel’s eyes.
“You’ve seen it before?”
Gabriel nodded. “I’ve seen coins with those markings, yes. A very long time ago. And either the Black Robes were telling the truth about it coming from an ancient stash of treasure, or we have a very big problem.” He met Jonmarc’s gaze. “The last time I saw a coin like this was when I was mortal, over four hundred years ago. Men brought them from across the Northern Sea when they came, first as traders, and then as invaders.”
“Why would Black Robes have gold from across the Northern Sea? The Durim are following the old ways, but they’re from here in the Winter Kingdoms. None of the Black Robes we’ve fought gave any indication of being from somewhere else.”
Gabriel shrugged. “We didn’t stop to interrogate them before we killed them. We weren’t looking for outsiders. Or perhaps someone from outside has found common cause with the Durim.”
“I really don’t like what you’re suggesting,” Jonmarc replied. “Especially when it comes to the walking dead.”
They thanked the innkeeper for his trouble and paid him in Principality gold the equivalent of one night’s lodging. That seemed to improve the man’s mood, although he didn’t offer them ale in the bargain.
“I can take you to the crypts now,” Synten said. His son blanched, and it was clear that the young man did not want to go, and equally clear that his fear of the dead came second to his fear of his father. Synten and his son stopped at their small, thatched house long enough to gather torches, which they lit. Gabriel and Sior refused to carry torches, and Jonmarc knew both could see better by moonlight than most mortals could see in the day. Sakwi wanted his hands free for magic. Jonmarc took a torch, but he also unsheathed his sword, keeping it at the ready. Synten gave the sword a nervous glance, and then motioned for them to follow him.
Sakwi walked in the lead along with Synten and his son. Although the mage said little, to avoid panicking the farmer, Jonmarc was certain that the land mage was using his power to sense for traces of magic.
Jonmarc followed. No one had claimed that the missing dead were dangerous, but he had found over the years that it was much easier to negotiate with a sword in hand. Sior and Gabriel followed, but they each took a meandering route that often left the path. Both the vayash moru and the vyrkin had heightened senses, and Jonmarc wondered what, if anything, they were picking up from the trek through the fields. But if either of them sensed anything amiss on the short walk from the village, they said nothing.
“There,” Synten said, pointing. They had walked along the edge of several fields that were almost ready for harvest. The ground rose on the other side of the fields, and Jonmarc could see several squat, stone buildings set into the hillside. It was grassy and open from the edge of the fields to the crypts, though forest edged the entire area. Jonmarc scanned the tree line for danger, but saw nothing.
“Where were you and where were the dead?” Jonmarc asked, turning to Synten’s son.
The young man blushed scarlet. “Molly and me were over there, around the bend of the trees,” he said, leading the way. If his trysting place had been a secret before, it was no longer. The set of Synten’s jaw told Jonmarc that the farmer would have a few choice words with his son in private, later.
They followed the young man around a copse of trees. The village and part of the fields were now out of the line of sight. “We’d made a place in the grass over there,” the young man said, licking his dry lips nervously. “We weren’t looking at the crypts. No reason to pay them any mind.” He paled at the recollection. “We heard something coming through the woods. Making an awful racket. Sticks cracking, leaves rustling. I grabbed a stone and got up, thinking it might be a wolf, or a pack of dogs. But it was my uncle. My dead uncle.”
“How did he look?” Sakwi probed.
“He looked dead!” The young man’s voice was close to panic.
“Did he recognize you?”
The young man calmed enough to think for a moment. “I don’t think so. Mind, we got out of there quickly! I didn’t stick around to ask questions. But he looked blank, dazed. And he moved oddly, stiffly. Like one of those puppets on strings that the traveling bards had at the inn one time. Only there warn’t no strings, and no puppet master.”
“Not one you could see,” Sakwi murmured. The land mage moved away from them and began to walk slowly along the tree line. He was slightly built, and in his brown robes, he blended in among the trees. He stopped for a moment as a violent coughing fit racked his thin body, but he held up a hand to forestall help. “It’s nothing. Nothing,” he protested, and took a wad of herbs from a pouch beneath his belt to put beneath his tongue. In a few moments, the coughing ceased and Sakwi continued walking.
Gabriel and Sior followed him at a distance. “There are footprints here,” Sior said. “They smell of the dead. Many scents. Perhaps a dozen.”
“Not fresh dead,” Gabriel added. “There’s more than scent here. There’re bits of flesh and grave clothes in the grass and on the twigs. If they’d arisen as vayash moru, that would not be so.” A note of relief was in his voice. “No, vayash moru didn’t do this. If the old dead had really been brought across, they would have risen within the first few nights after their burial. And they wouldn’t rise in a group. That’s not our way.”
Sakwi continued his walk toward the crypt in silence. Jonmarc, Synten, and the young man followed. Even at a distance, Jonmarc could see that the crypt had been sealed.
“You closed the crypt?” he asked.
Synten nodded. “When he rushed in babbling like an idiot,” he said with a nod toward his son, “I had to go. My wife begged me to stay home; it was growing dark. But if Midri really had risen from his tomb, well, I needed to see for myself. So I brought out my neighbors, and we took our torches and scythes. There wasn’t anyone in sight when we got here, but the crypt was open. That’s why we thought someone had stolen the bodies. I figured my son just saw them being carried off and lost his head.”
“I need to enter the crypt.” Sakwi’s voice startled them. The land mage stood near the crypt door, running his hands along the entrance without touching the stone. “I want to see how it was disturbed.”
Gabriel and Sior moved the heavy door easily, using their preternatural strength. The door was as large and thick as Synten had said, and Jonmarc had no doubt that two men would struggle against its weight unless they were quite strong. Jonmarc and Gabriel ventured in first. Having a torch in an unfamiliar crypt made Jonmarc just slightly more comfortable; in the unlikely event that the tomb robbers had been vayash moru, the torch would deter an attack. And just in case anything still lurked within the tomb, Gabriel’s vayash moru reflexes were a good defense.
As Synten said, the first room of the crypt was empty. Bits of torn shroud littered the floor. While the entrance to the crypt was made of cut and fitted stones, it was clearly designed to fit the entrance of a natural cave. Flat spaces had been carved into the rock, wide enough to lay a body. The niches were empty, but along the ground, the tokens left behind by grieving loved ones remained. Clay pots, strings of beads, homemade toys, or well-worn hunting gear lay undisturbed, although the bodies of the people for whom the gifts had been meant were gone.
“Look there,” Sakwi said quietly, pointing. Crudely drawn onto the walls of the crypt were the same runes they had seen at the inn.
“Well, that makes it pretty certain that either the Black Robes from the inn were here, or their friends were,” Jonmarc said.
They moved through the first room and into the next. The crypt smelled of death and moldering cloth, but there was a cold air that told Jonmarc that the passageway eventually led into caves below. “How large is this crypt?”
“It’s very old,” the farmer replied. “My family has worked this land for five generations, and all our dead are buried here. The same is true of my neighbors, who share the crypt. No one goes into the lowest levels; they were filled with bodies long ago. But my father told me once that there are thirty-two rooms. Eight faces of the Sacred Lady, times four for the Light Aspects. A good number to settle the dead.”
“Do the caves go beyond the crypt?”
Synten frowned. “I haven’t explored them, but I’ve heard it said that when the crypt was made, the men blocked up the back to keep out the rats and scavengers.”
Gabriel raised his face to the stirring of cold air. “The passage is no longer blocked.” He vanished before anyone saw him move, and returned a few moments later. “The tomb is empty. There are runes like these all along the passageways. I found where stones once blocked off the rest of the caves. They’ve been removed.”
“And the grave offerings? Are they gone, too?”
Gabriel shook his head. “Everything else is in its place. In the lower levels, where Synten says no one has gone in years, there were fresh footsteps in the dust. They led back into the caves, beyond where it was blocked.”
“So the dead that I saw were only part of it?” Synten’s son was wide-eyed, and his voice cracked with terror. “You mean that the rest are wandering around somewhere, down in the caves?”
“My guess is that whatever animated them drew them to it along the easiest route. The newly dead close to the door came out that way, and the older dead went toward the back.” Sakwi looked thoughtful. “Or perhaps, they were all meant to go to the caves, and those in the front didn’t respond properly.” He looked up at the others. “It would take a powerful blood mage to move so many bodies, but remember, they’re puppets, not capable of thought.”
“They’re still dead and moving. That makes them a problem.” Jonmarc’s jaw clenched. “What I want to know is, why? Why did the Black Robes want the bodies? From what you say, they wouldn’t be easy to use in battle. If they can’t think for themselves and they can’t move without magic, then someone has to move them, right? It would take a lot of mages-and a lot of magic-to operate that many ‘puppets’ in any kind of battle, and I can’t imagine they’d move with any skill.”
“They wouldn’t need skill if terror would do,” Gabriel replied quietly. “Soldiers are leery to strike down the bodies of their kin. And while you’ve become somewhat accustomed to the dead and the undead, many mortals are not so calm about such things.”
Skilled or not, dozens of puppet-dead would create chaos on a battlefield, Jonmarc knew. They would also spark panicked riots in any city. “I don’t get it,” Jonmarc said, shaking his head. “This seems big for the Black Robes that we’ve fought. Until now, they’ve taken people, vayash moru, and vyrkin for the blood they need for their magic. They’ve disturbed the barrows, but that made sense if they were trying to draw on old magic. But these dead aren’t special. They weren’t mages. They didn’t have any magic. What do they gain from stealing the bodies? And why go to the trouble to use magic to make them walk? Why not just tear down the rocks at the back of the caves and carry them out?”
Sakwi met his eyes. “Find out who gave the Black Robes their gold, and you might find your answers.”
The ride back to Dark Haven went by quickly. The night was cool, and a nip in the air warned that colder weather would come soon. The exchange in the village was troubling, and Jonmarc knew that, come daylight, he would be back at the crypts with as many mages as he could find, hoping to track either the missing dead or the blood mages who troubled their rest. But even the vayash moru counseled caution in the darkness, and Jonmarc wasn’t of a mind to argue.
“ Skrivven for your thoughts,” Sakwi said from beside him.
Jonmarc smiled. “Looking forward to a good Moon Feast dinner, to tell you the truth. Carina put Carroway in charge this year, and so I won’t be surprised if we have a celebration worthy of the palace.”
Sakwi chuckled. “It would be nice to end the evening on a happier note. Did you know that Carina asked me in to have a look at Carroway’s hand? It’s much improved; perhaps Macaria can persuade him to play tonight.”
“He’s lucky. I’ve seen men stabbed through the hand before, and most of them never got back enough movement to play an instrument. Some of them were lucky to hold a knife or make a fist.”
Sakwi shrugged. “While most people would say it was worth it to save the heir to the Margolan throne at any cost, it would be a great shame to lose so fine a bard as Carroway. Even when you were all outlaws, he gave the best performances I’ve ever seen.”
Jonmarc chuckled. “And more than once, he earned the coin to keep us fed and get us a place to sleep when we were trying to stay out of Jared’s dungeon. I won’t argue with you-he’s talented, and it would be nice to see him get patched back up.”
“Of course, a good meal never hurts. Fresh bread, candied squash, baked early apples,” Sakwi mused. “Corn and roasted chicken and a blueberry cobbler if we’re lucky.” He sighed, smiling. “Ah yes, it’s good to be visiting a manor on a feast day,” he said with a grin.
“You’re out of luck if you were hoping to see the same kind of spectacle they put on in Principality City,” Jonmarc replied. “No burning cornstalk men in Dark Haven.”
“Why not?”
“Because in other times, when the vayash moru weren’t so well received, such burnings usually involved one of our number, staked through the heart and wrapped with dry leaves and branches and set to burning.” Gabriel had ridden up alongside them, and the look in his eyes gave Jonmarc to guess that the other had seen such things done.
“You mean when Shanthadura was worshipped.”
Gabriel nodded. “The rituals date from then, but whenever the vayash moru become feared or hated, someone remembers the old ways. Worship of the old gods is just an excuse for hatreds long nurtured.”
“Not this time,” Jonmarc said, setting his jaw. “Not if I can help it.”
Dark Haven was alight with candles when they arrived. An offering of cider and freshly baked bread lay within a protective circle drawn in the center of the courtyard around a great oak tree ringed by candles. A silver disk hung suspended from the oak, in honor of Istra, the Dark Lady, the patron Aspect of Dark Haven and the protector of outcasts and vayash moru. The manor house windows glowed, and even at a distance, Jonmarc could hear music and voices. Games of chance and cards were especially favored this holiday, and Jonmarc was certain the festivities had not waited for them to begin. Despite the conversation, his mood lightened. Tomorrow be damned; tonight he would celebrate. He’d spent too long on battlefields to miss an opportunity to enjoy a feast. The next battle would come soon enough.
Carina was waiting for him. She stood, framed in the doorway, watching as Jonmarc and the others gave their horses to servants to tether and headed for the broad stone stairs. Her gown of yellow and orange made the green of her eyes even more striking. Now, her expression was tense.
“I was worried when you were late.”
Jonmarc took her in his arms and kissed the top of her head, brushing back her short, dark hair. “Unexpected complications,” he said. Her swollen belly made it difficult to hold her close, and he let his hand fall protectively to her abdomen. It was a reminder that new responsibilities lay ahead, and an even greater obligation to keep those who depended on him safe from harm.
He took Carina’s hand, forcing himself to smile and pushing the dark thoughts from his mind, at least for a few candlemarks. “I want to see what kind of a celebration you and Carroway have cooked up.”
Carina smiled, although Jonmarc doubted she would forget to ask for details of his trip later, when they could speak in private. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that most of the village is here. We did our best to make sure there’s food enough for all of the refugees. Some of the vyrkin brought in additional deer, so there’s plenty of meat and an ample supply of blood for the vayash moru.”
Gabriel and Sakwi followed them into the large dining room. Candles glittered overhead in the large candelabras, and the torches along the walls banished the autumn chill. Carroway and Macaria had gathered the local musicians from the village pub and had obviously been rehearsing new material, because the crowd was clapping, dancing, and cheering. Carroway sat in the second row, unusual for the Margolan court’s master bard, who preferred the visibility of center stage. Then Jonmarc realized that in the second row, no one had a clear view of his left hand, or how nimbly his fingers moved across the lute’s strings. Carroway’s head was bowed in concentration, and his long, dark hair obscured his face, but once, Jonmarc caught a glimpse that told him whatever precision Carroway wrested from his healing hand was not painless.
“It’s the first time Macaria and I have gotten him to perform for more than a small audience in the pub,” Carina whispered, as if she guessed his thoughts. “Although I’ve persuaded him to play for the refugees and he does quite well then. I think he’s more focused on their pain than his own when he plays while I’m healing. He might not have Macaria’s magic, but Lady Bright, he’s still the most talented musician I’ve ever heard.”
“And maybe the first bard to save a kingdom.” Jonmarc chuckled.
“Jonmarc!”
Jonmarc looked up to see Berry hurrying toward him. Although Carina had persuaded Berry to dress for the occasion, she looked more like the daughter of a well-to-do merchant than a princess. Berry’s auburn hair was loose, though it retained a wave from the tight braid that kept it out of her way as she helped Carina with the refugees. Her dress was in shades of orange and brown in keeping with the holiday, but devoid of the gemstones and pearls that glittered in the gowns Jonmarc had seen her wear in the palace.
“Carina made me dress up.” Berry gave a joking pout. “Do you have any idea how often I have to wear gowns like this back home? They’re heavy and hot and the corset hurts when I sit down.”
Carina laughed. “I promised your father I’d keep you in practice. What will he say if we return a hoyden instead of a princess?”
“He knows me. He won’t blame you. He could never keep Mother in hand, either. That was one of the things he loved about her.”
“You look beautiful,” Carina said, reaching out to plump one of Berry’s sleeves.
Berry gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “The only thing this much cloth is good for is hiding my blades.” She shifted, just a bit, and the steel of a throwing knife glittered in the candlelight. The set of knives had been a gift from Carroway, who had taught her how to throw during the long nights the group had spent on the road fleeing Jared’s soldiers.
“Someday, you’re going to make a very interesting queen.” Jonmarc’s voice was serious, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Berry rolled her eyes. “I hope it’s not until I’m old. Old and gray and wrinkled. Maybe Father can be brought across by a vayash moru and live forever, and I’ll never have to suffer through those interminable Council of Nobles meetings.”
“From your lips to the Lady’s ear,” Carina murmured.
Just as quickly, Berry’s mood shifted as the musicians took up a popular dance tune. “That’s the song I asked Carroway to play for me! Got to go.” She blew an exaggerated kiss to Jonmarc and headed back through the crowd to find a place in the circle dance that was just forming. Jonmarc could see Laisren and Lisette among the couples who were dancing, and even Sister Taru had joined the circle. Riqua and many of her vayash moru “family” were present, as were most of Gabriel’s brood and Sior’s pack of vyrkin. Rafe and Uri stood near the far end of the room, deep in conversation. Jonmarc had been as surprised that Uri came to the feast as he was certain that Astasia would not deign to visit. But the fact that four of the Blood Council were in attendance was a positive sign, and Jonmarc was determined not to spoil the evening with concerns that could wait until morning.
Despite the plague, the resurgence of the Black Robes, and the coming winter, spirits seemed high, and Jonmarc let out a long breath, aware of how tight his shoulders were, as if he was anticipating danger. He looked around the room. Carina and Carroway had done an excellent job organizing the feast. One table along the back of the room held an assortment of bread sculptures. There were intricate braids and bread formed in the shape of sheaves of wheat and corn shocks, to thank the Lady for the harvest thus far and petition for good weather to gather the remaining crops. He could smell spiced cider simmering on the hearth, and large dishes offered guests a bounty of fruit compotes, roasted squash, and potatoes, along with a roasted deer and plump baked chickens.
“How is the harvest going?” Gabriel had moved silently to stand beside Jonmarc.
“Very well, considering. Neirin keeps the harvest teams circulating from farm to farm, or to the vineyards, depending on who’s got crops ready to gather. Sior’s brought all the vyrkin who don’t have pups to care for to help, and with the assistance we’ve gotten from your brood and Riqua’s brood, we can harvest day and night, so we might stay a jump ahead of the rains this year.”
Gabriel nodded. “Some good luck is overdue. Between the wars in Margolan, the refugees, and the plague, we don’t need a poor harvest as well.”
“Even Maynard Linton’s caravan pitched in, since they’re effectively stranded here until the plague runs its course. They’ve been helping press the grapes and make mash for the ale, and lending a hand mending fences and fishing nets, that kind of thing.”
“Speaking of whom…” Gabriel said with a nod toward the crowd.
“Jonmarc, m’boy. Good to see you!” Maynard Linton was a short, round man whose coppery tan spoke of seasons spent out of doors. He bustled through the revelers with a wide grin on his face. “Damn fine celebration. Damn fine!” He clapped Jonmarc on the shoulder and gave Carina a kiss on the cheek.
“Glad you could make it, Maynard.” Jonmarc could not resist a grin. Maynard Linton had taught Jonmarc how to make his way on the river as a smuggler years ago, and they had maintained an on-again, off-again business relationship that profitably trod just this side of legality. When Jonmarc accepted the title of Lord of Dark Haven, he had extended an invitation for Linton’s caravan to winter with him. It was good business for both of them, since it supplied Linton with a safe place to rest off-season, and it gave Dark Haven’s village and vayash moru craftsmen and distillers a way to sell their wares to the Winter Kingdoms when the caravan headed south in the spring.
Linton snorted. “Make it? No place I’d rather be, what with the pox and the Black Robes loose. Did I tell you that when we go south next season, we’ll have a troupe of vayash moru performers? Carroway made some introductions, seeing as how you and Tris and ’Carina and he could all speak firsthand for the caravan and all. ’Course they can only perform at night, but that makes them a rare spectacle that commands a premium admission fee,” he said and chuckled.
“Which, of course, you’ll be sharing with the performers,” Gabriel finished with a pointed gaze.
“Of course, of course. Just good business to keep the performers happy. Wouldn’t do to make them famous and have them bribed away by another caravan,” Linton said hurriedly.
“Uh-huh. I’ve never known you to split profits with anyone less than sixty-forty.” Jonmarc folded his arms.
Linton rolled his eyes. “By the Whore! Must you give up all my secrets! Yes, yes, I agreed to a fifty-fifty split. Only keep it down, or the dancers and jugglers will demand a bigger percentage and you’ll drive me out of business.”
Linton’s outburst managed to make Gabriel chuckle. “You don’t think Carroway’s thought of that?”
Linton glanced toward the musicians with a look of horror that Jonmarc suspected was only partially falsified for their benefit. “You don’t really think-”
Jonmarc shrugged. “I learned a long time ago not to underestimate Carroway. Not after the first time I saw him throw a dagger and peg a slaver between the shoulders, anyhow.”
“Fie!” Linton made the sign of the Lady in warding. “Don’t even mention that word around me.” Linton’s former caravan had been attacked by slavers hired by Jared the Usurper to hunt for Tris Drayke. Tris and his friends had barely escaped with their lives, and Linton had needed two years to rebuild. “On the bright side, between the plague and new management in Margolan, the slavers seem to have gone out of business. For now.” He sobered. “ ’Course, it’s the Black Robes a body has to watch for now.”
Jonmarc and Gabriel exchanged glances. “What do you hear?” Jonmarc asked.
Linton dropped his voice, so their conversation did not carry. “There’s talk along the river that the Black Robes are behind the people who’ve been disappearing. Heard that in Nargi, they’re working with the Crone priests to hunt vayash moru. Dhasson’s never held with that sort of thing, but can’t say that King Harrol will send his army out to stop it, either. Bad for business. Bad all the way around, if you ask me.” He shrugged. “Ah well, no need to talk shop when there’s ale to be drunk. Did I tell you that you give a damn fine party, Jonmarc? Damn fine.” And with that, Linton bustled away toward the barrels of ale.
“Did I mention that Maynard was quite open to the idea of helping the Ghost Carriage spirit vayash moru and vyrkin out of trouble spots?” Gabriel said. The musicians struck up a lively tune that had Carina tapping her toe and swaying to the music.
“Oh?”
“Says that being a legitimate business man is too stressful, and he wants to smuggle something to keep his hand in and his skills sharp.” Gabriel smiled, and his long eyeteeth showed, just a bit. “That’s part of the reason for the new vayash moru and vyrkin entertainers. Of course, Riqua and I have promised to make some introductions for him in return, introductions that will give him the stawar’s share of the Noorish rug market and some of the best Principality gemstones.”
“Of course.”
Carina had just tugged on Jonmarc’s hand to lead him to the dance floor when Neirin hurried in, scanning the crowd until he spotted them. By the look on the grounds manager’s face, there was trouble.
“There’s someone here to see you.”
Jonmarc spread his hands to indicate the crowded room. “There are several hundred people here to see me, or at least to drink my ale.”
“It’s Captain Gellyr. And he’s got a visitor with him from the palace.”
The sense of foreboding Jonmarc had managed to dispel returned, and his smile vanished. “Please handle the formalities for me,” he said to Carina, with a glance to Gabriel as well. “Let me see what’s going on.”
He followed Neirin to the manor’s entrance hall. Captain Gellyr was the commander of King Staden’s garrison at Jannistorp. Jonmarc’s previous interactions with the captain had been cordial, and Gellyr had been helpful in quelling unrest when a rogue vayash moru had violated the Truce, but it was highly unusual for him to show up unannounced at Dark Haven. Gellyr’s companion wore a traveling cloak, and at a glance, Jonmarc knew it for military issue. Boots, pants, and sword marked the other as a ranking officer, and Jonmarc felt any hope dim that this might be just a social call.
“Lord Vahanian.” Gellyr’s voice was friendly but businesslike. “Good feast to you.” Gellyr was a large man, taller than Jonmarc, and perhaps a decade older, with enough scars on his face and hands that it was clear his rank had been earned the hard way. Though he wore no armor this night, his blond hair was cut short for a helm, and his manner would have marked him as a soldier in any crowd. The man beside him stood stiffly, and though the entrance hall was warm, he had made no move to remove his cowl.
Jonmarc nodded warily. “And to you.” He shook Gellyr’s hand, mentally noting that since neither of them had drawn a blade, it was going well so far. “If it’s the Moon Feast that’s brought you to Dark Haven, you’re welcome to join us. There’s ale enough for all.”
Gellyr shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m here on king’s business. May we speak to you in private?”
Jonmarc led them to Neirin’s office and lit the torches, then closed the door. “Now, what made Staden send you all the way out here on a festival night?”
Gellyr looked at his companion. “You’ll have to ask the general. I’m just the guide tonight.”
The man beside Gellyr lowered his cowl. He was a dark-haired man with intelligent, brown eyes and a hard line to his mouth. “So good to see you again, Lord Vahanian.” The venom in the man’s voice matched a deadly glint in his eyes.
“Gregor.” Jonmarc kept his hand away from his sword, but he was glad there was enough space between him and his guests to give him a chance to draw his blade if need be. “Don’t you have prisoners to bully?”
“I see the wound to your shoulder healed. Pity.”
“I’m surprised you kept your commission, since the last time you managed to throw both Martris Drayke and your own princess in the dungeon.”
Anger flashed in Gregor’s eyes, telling Jonmarc that the error might not have gone completely unpunished. “I had my orders. King Staden didn’t say why he wanted your group, only to detain you and bring you to the city. I don’t question a direct order.”
“Understanding is different from questioning, General.”
Gellyr cleared his throat uncomfortably. Gregor glared at Jonmarc and took a deep breath. “King Staden sent me with this.” He reached slowly beneath his cloak, keeping his eyes on Jonmarc’s sword at all times, and produced a sealed parchment. Gregor handed it to Gellyr, who handed it to Jonmarc. “Staden’s taken ill with the plague. He wrote this the night before I left, and by morning, he had lost consciousness. Despite what the healers have done for him, he may not survive.” Beneath Gregor’s anger, Jonmarc heard a note of sorrow.
“That parchment is his signed decree, in case anybody missed your investiture ceremony, making it clear that you are Princess Berwyn’s Champion,” Gregor said bitterly. “If he dies, it’s your responsibility to escort the princess to the palace and see that she’s safe until she can be crowned.”
Jonmarc broke the seal and read down through the formal document. Staden’s royal seal at the bottom left no doubt as to the letter’s authenticity. “I’m sorry about Staden’s health. Do you want me to call Berry?”
Gregor seemed to wince at the princess’s nickname. “Not yet. Wait and see. But the king wanted you to be prepared for the worst.” He paused. “The sickness came on him quickly. Just a fortnight ago, he and King Kalcen met aboard a ship at sea for two full days, working out an accord. We know they made agreements, and that a group from Eastmark is supposed to come to Principality soon to complete the pact, but Staden took ill before he was ready to tell anyone what commitments he’d made. If anything happens to him, the princess will have to pick up the pieces.”
A hard glint came into his eyes. “You know, even in Principality City we hear about the legendary healer, Lady Vahanian. Staden gave specific instructions for her to remain here, at Dark Haven. He said it was too late for anyone to help him, but I wonder.” Gregor’s thin lips twisted to a sneer. “After all, she let my brother die.”
Jonmarc struggled to keep his hand clear of the pommel of his sword. “Trying to heal Ric nearly killed Carina. That was almost ten years ago. Tris Drayke summoned Ric’s ghost. Ric forgave her.”
“Well, I haven’t.” He paused. “Then again, your reputation’s reached the palace, too. Perhaps you deserve each other. A smuggler-lord and a fraud healer. Perhaps the plague will take her and give me my long overdue vengeance.”
Jonmarc didn’t bother with his sword. His right arm swung hard, connecting his fist with Gregor’s jaw before Gregor moved for his blade. Months of training against vayash moru opponents gave Jonmarc an edge in speed that few, if any, mortal opponents could match. Before Gellyr could move to break them apart, Jonmarc landed two more blows, easily dodging Gregor’s punches. He slammed Gregor against the wall and had a dagger drawn against Gregor’s throat.
“I don’t give a damn what you think. Carina’s my wife. No one speaks about her like that.”
Gregor spat blood from a split lip and laughed. “Princess Berwyn thinks you’re quite the hero. What would she think if she saw you now?”
“I’d think you were an ass, Gregor.” The voice came from the doorway. Berry stood framed in the entranceway, and her eyes glinted with anger.
“Your Highness.” Gellyr dropped to one knee. Jonmarc released Gregor and watched him warily as Gregor slumped more than bowed.
“Father sends you with a message, and this is how you represent the crown?”
“Your Highness, I did not mean-”
Berry made a disdainful gesture. All the coquettishness she had shown in the festival was gone, and everything in her manner left no doubt that she had been raised to rule. “I know exactly what you meant. I heard you from outside the door. Carina told me there were visitors from the palace.”
“You weren’t supposed to know.”
Berry’s fists were balled at her sides. “Not supposed to know my father is dying? Not supposed to prepare myself to take the crown if he doesn’t recover?”
Gregor flinched. “He didn’t want to worry you.”
“He’s my father. But he’s also the king. Not worrying me is a luxury we can’t afford.”
“He forbade you to return to the palace until… until he recovers or dies. He was adamant, m’lady. He does not want you to contract plague.”
Jonmarc could see the struggle on Berry’s face. “And as much as I want to go, that’s not a luxury we can afford, either. I will stay at Dark Haven… until we know how he fares.” She stepped closer to Gregor and Jonmarc stepped back.
“General, I command you to look at me.”
Gregor lifted his face. His lip was split. One eye was beginning to purple, and there was a small cut on his neck where Jonmarc’s blade had drawn blood.
“Jonmarc risked his life for me time and again. He rescued me from the slavers. He protected me on the road. He earned the right to be my Champion. He bears that title by order of the king. To question that is to question the king.” Berry had drawn herself up to her full height. Her voice, her words, and her bearing were unmistakably royal. Two years ago, Berry’s acting skills had saved her life, keeping the slavers from realizing just what a valuable prisoner they had taken. Now, Jonmarc realized how carefully Berry intentionally hid her upbringing to fit in at Dark Haven and to pass among the refugees without drawing attention to herself.
“I understand, Your Highness.”
“Here’s something else to understand, General. Lady Carina is a gifted healer. She told us what happened to your brother. I’m sorry for your loss. But she is a favorite of the king’s and of mine. You will not speak ill of her. And”-Berry paused for emphasis-“if letting the past go is too difficult for you, I can see about having you reassigned.”
“There is no need for that, Your Highness. I understand.”
Berry’s gaze was unyielding. “I hope so, General.” She drew a deep breath, and for an instant, Jonmarc could see the worry beneath her control. She turned to Jonmarc. “Neirin’s brought food for them and readied rooms so they can stay, since it’s late. But after this display, I wouldn’t fault you if they’re unwelcome.”
“They can stay.” Jonmarc resheathed his knife. “Just keep him the hell away from Carina.”
Berry held out her arm for Jonmarc to escort her, and he suppressed a smile at a gesture he knew was solely for Gregor’s benefit. After they had left Neirin’s office and were out of earshot, Berry took a deep breath. The fight and formality seemed to leave her, and she looked like a worried young girl.
“Do you think it’s true? Do you think he’ll die?”
Jonmarc winced at the despair he heard in her voice. She threw her arms around him and he held her close as though she were a frightened child. “Your father earned his reputation for stubbornness. He doesn’t give up easily. Even when I was just a merc, I heard stories about how he faced down raiders and fought off challengers to the throne. He’s tough.”
Berry struggled not to cry. “I saw how Mother’s death last year affected him. I don’t know how much of that fight he still has, with her gone.”
Jonmarc tipped Berry’s chin up to look him in the eyes. “He has you. I’m just getting used to the idea of being a father, but I know I’d battle the Formless One herself for Carina and my girls. Don’t borrow trouble.”
Berry sniffed back tears and wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she said, stepping back. “For everything.” She met Jonmarc’s gaze. “I’m glad you’re my Champion.”
Jonmarc managed a lopsided grin. “I’ll try to stop beating up your generals.”
That got a laugh from Berry, though tears glistened in her eyes. “I haven’t quite forgiven Gregor for the way he treated us when he threw us in the dungeon. But Father forgave him because he has a good record on the battlefield. We might need him. I think he’ll watch his tongue after this-if you didn’t break his jaw.”
Jonmarc rubbed his own bruised knuckles. “I wasn’t trying to, but then again, my last few fights have been with vayash moru. They don’t break as easily, so I’ve gotten in the habit of hitting harder.”
Berry sobered. “If we go back to the palace, I’d like you to bring Laisren, too. I know Gabriel will need to help Carina here at the manor, but I’d like you to have someone else you trust completely, and I’ve heard enough to know Laisren understands both court and the army.”
Jonmarc frowned. “Are you expecting a challenge?”
Berry shrugged. “Under normal circumstances, no. But look around. These aren’t normal circumstances, not with the plague and a lean harvest and the Black Robes kidnapping victims for Shanthadura. Now we find out Father’s made commitments to Eastmark and we don’t know what promises he made. It’s just a feeling I’ve had for a while now, like there’s a storm coming. I was hoping I was wrong, but now, with Father ill-”
Jonmarc laid his hand on her shoulder. “As Carina tells me all the time, don’t fight the battle until it’s time.” He forced a smile, although he was certain it did not fully reach his eyes. “I can still hear music playing. Carroway’s counting on his best patron to appreciate his performance. And I know Carina asked the cook to make the apple tart you like so much. So why don’t you go have some before it’s all gone?”
Berry mustered a wan smile. “Thank you. That sounds perfect. Maybe the wassail won’t be gone, either.” She stretched up on tiptoe to kiss Jonmarc on the cheek. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell Carina about Gregor. No need to open old wounds.”
“Thanks, Berry.”
“I’ll have them pour a brandy for you, so hurry back!”
Jonmarc watched her go and he took a deep breath. Down the corridor, he could hear Neirin leading Gellyr and Gregor to their rooms for the night. Principality had managed to remain remarkably stable given the chaos that had been Margolan’s lot over the last few years. Staden’s reputation as a fair ruler with a firm hand had a lot to do with that. It was a bad time for the crown to pass to a young, untested heir, even one as bright and strong-willed as Berry. Despite the feast night and his own visions of the Dark Lady, it was not Jonmarc’s custom to pray. But just in case, before he returned to the feasting, Jonmarc lit a candle in Istra’s chapel beneath Dark Haven, for the health and soul of King Staden.