I hope you know what you’re doing.” Soterius’s voice attempted to be light, but Tris could see the worry in his friend’s eyes.
“So do I.”
Soterius and a handful of guards had come with Tris to the shrine of the Mother and Childe along with Sister Fallon. Tris had already made an offering of flowers and live doves to the Childe and water and wine to the Mother. Now, he was as ready as he would ever be to descend into the resting place of Margolan’s kings to seek the counsel of his long-dead ancestors. Although he had meant to visit right after his trip to Vistimar, the obligations of the throne had delayed him more than a week. Or perhaps, Tris admitted to himself, his own reluctance allowed him to become delayed.
“If you run into trouble, just give a shout. We’ll be there.”
Tris gave a wan smile. “The kind of trouble I’m likely to run into down there isn’t anything your swords can fight.”
Soterius glanced at the sword Tris carried. “That’s not your usual sword. It’s that ghost sword your grandmother gave you, isn’t it?”
“Ghost sword” wasn’t exactly the right term for Nexus. At Tris’s coronation, one of the Sisterhood had presented him with a sword that had once belonged to the sorceress Bava K’aa, Tris’s grandmother. A sword that was said to still possess a whisper of her soul and power. Tris had first dared to use the sword at the Battle of Lochlanimar, when desperate measures compelled him to draw on the sword’s magic without a complete understanding of its power. Now, he better understood both its power and its price, and he did not carry Nexus lightly.
“I’m hoping that I don’t need it.”
“Does it really steal a breath from your soul each time it’s used?”
Tris shrugged. “It held a memory of Grandmother’s spirit, and that’s the warning she gave me. If so, I’ve used a couple already.”
Soterius’s gaze was worried. “How many breaths are there in a soul? What happens if you use them all up?”
Several possibilities occurred to Tris, none of them good. “Let’s try not to find out, huh?” Tris drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. While he called or dispelled ghosts from all walks of life nearly every day in his Court of Spirits, this was the first time Tris had gone to seek the counsel of his ancestors. He had no idea whether the family reunion would be pleasant.
“May the Lady watch over your soul,” Soterius said, clapping Tris on the shoulder before he stood back, making room for Tris to descend the shadowed stone stairway.
Aboveground, the Shrine of the Mother and Childe was one of the most peaceful places Tris knew. Sacred to two of the Lady’s Aspects, the shrine was a place for offering and quiet reflection. Unlike Isencroft, Margolan did not have Oracles to speak for the Lady, nor did it have Hojun seers like Eastmark or Nargi’s Crone priests. Margolan’s tradition invited each individual to listen for the voice of the Lady. That ambiguity was often both comforting and disconcerting, since it offered few certainties. Right now, Tris thought he would give a lot for an Oracle to spell out the confusing omens.
The garden of the Childe was in its glory. Doves cooed and flowers bloomed in profusion, nurtured by magic even in the chill of autumn. Delicate, graceful archways decorated the garden and led down into the sacred ravine. A waterfall and channel of water, favored by the Mother, ran through all seasons of the year, warmed by magic in the coldest months. The water flowed down the waterfall, into a decorative sluiceway and then down the stone walls of a V-shaped cut through the hillside to a reflecting pool. Tris could hear the calming sound of running water and smell the fragrance of the garden as he started down the stairs. He refused the torch Soterius offered, opting instead for a ball of cold handfire raised by a flicker of his magic. Nexus was ready in his hand.
Even Fallon had been unsure about the protocol for entering the realm of the dead kings. Bricen, Tris’s father, had never attempted it. Neither had Bricen’s father. Royster, the Sisterhood’s archivist, had found a fragmentary text that mentioned the offerings made by long-ago kings who sought advice from the dead, along with a warning that the kings of past ages should not be disturbed lightly. Tris had taken that warning to heart.
As he descended into the crypt, Tris could sense the presence of the old dead around him. He felt the flicker of their spirits, and he also knew that they were not yet ready to reveal themselves to him. He had gone down enough stairs that the sunlight above was lost in shadow and there was no sound except for the scuff of his boots on the stone steps. Tris swallowed hard. I am king of Margolan, and the summoner-heir to Bava K’aa. I have every right to come here. But despite that, he could not dispel his sense of uneasiness as he moved farther into the crypt and left the living far behind.
At the bottom of the steps, Tris let his handfire flare, revealing a large chamber. Torches in sconces awaited the brave-or foolhardy-visitor. Tris used a flicker of magic to light the torches, illuminating the large room.
Arched passageways led off in eight directions, one for each Aspect of the Sacred Lady. Runes and gems, sacred to each Aspect, adorned the archway, inlaid in silver. Four catafalques sat in the outer chamber. One of them held the body of Bricen’s father, King Larimore. The few resources Tris had found differed on the occupants of the other catafalques. He knew for a certainty that his own father was not among the kings buried here. Although Tris had seen Jared murder their father, by the time Tris returned to reclaim the throne, no one could say just what had happened to Bricen’s body. Since Jared had killed Bricen with a dagger spelled to destroy the soul, Tris could not summon his father’s spirit to find out how to lay his remains to rest. Now, Tris realized that he had no emissary among the dead to guide him.
“Why have you come?”
The ghost stood pale and seemingly solid, blocking Tris from moving farther toward the passageways. He was an old man, wizened with years, gaunt but not frail. The ghost’s eyes held a keen intelligence, and though his body was wasted with age and sickness, in his youth, Tris guessed that he had been a powerfully built man.
Tris gave a half-bow, deep enough to be reverent but not so deep that he ever took his eyes off the ghost blocking his way. “I’m Martris Drayke, son of Bricen, King of Margolan, and summoner-heir to Bava K’aa. I come to ask the advice of Marlan the Gold and Hadenrul the Great. Let me pass.”
The ghost began to laugh. It was not a friendly sound. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he did not move aside. “The old dead do not wake without cause. Few have dared to disturb them. The concerns of the living mean little to us. Why would you wake the old ones?”
Tris drew deep breath. “I would ask Hadenrul how he ended the domination of the cult of Shanthadura. The Durim have risen again, and they may serve an invader from the north.” He paused. “I would ask Marlan the Gold about the Dread. The Durim have desecrated the mounds of the Dread and are attempting to break the wardings that hold the Dread-and their prisoners-within the barrows.”
The ghost stared at Tris with a piercing gaze. “How do I know that what you say is true?”
Before Tris could answer, the runes along Nexus’s blade burst into cold fire. Tris held the sword up so that both he and the spirit guardian could watch as the fire runes rearranged themselves along the blade. Blood of your blood slowly spelled out against the steel.
“Even the dead feel the strength of your magic,” the guardian said. “But do you have the power to raise the old ones? They will not speak to you unless your power can call them back from where their spirits have wandered.”
“My magic will have to do,” Tris replied. “Margolan’s in danger. If a dark summoner is really planning to raise the Dread with the help of the Durim, I’ll need all the help I can get to stand against them.”
The ghost seemed to consider Tris carefully in silence. Around them, Tris could feel the dead gathering. Some were drawn to the power of his magic. Others watched with detached curiosity. A few debated the matter among themselves. Whether or not the guardian spirit listened to the debate, Tris was not sure. Finally, the spirit stepped aside.
“We are agreed that you are Margolan’s rightful king and heir to Bricen’s line and to Bava K’aa’s power.” The ghost’s eyes narrowed. “Her power is not the only magic you inherited, is it? Lemuel’s power also fills you. I feel it.”
Tris didn’t flinch. “Lemuel was my grandfather.”
The ghost appraised him with a gaze weary with age. “If you mean to keep your crown, I hope that magic is sufficient.” He stepped aside and gestured for Tris to move deeper into the crypt, motioning for Tris to follow the fourth passage.
Handfire lit Tris’s way. This passage was old, older than the catafalques in the front chamber or the shrine above them. In the glow of the magic, Tris could make out the cuts of the tools that chiseled into the rock. He could sense the spirits around him, and he knew that the passageways went on, deep into the ground. There were more than just the spirits of Margolan’s long-dead kings and queens. The ghosts of stillborn heirs and royal children who died before their time walked these passages, as well as favored seers and mage advisors. Layer upon layer of magic warded these chambers. Tris passed through the wardings without effect, but he did not want to know what reception might have met an unauthorized explorer. Old magic pulled at his blood, as if the wardings verified the consanguinity of the visitor. Tris felt the weight of a host of watchers that gathered around him, felt their ghostly eyes on him as he made his way through the chamber, felt their presence in the unnatural chill that made his breath fog.
Frescoes had been painted onto the walls of the passageway. In the glow of the handfire, Tris could make out the images. The farther he descended into the crypt, the older the drawings appeared, until the images were faint ghosts of their original glory. The murals told of great battles and opulent investitures, with paintings of the kings and queens of Margolan in all their royal splendor. Some of the panels depicted bloody battles, and others showed Margolan’s people celebrating with abundant food and wealth. It looked as if chroniclers had added both pictures and narrative as each king’s remains were brought to the crypt. Tris was cynical enough to be certain that the tales had been varnished by the tellers to glorify the memory of the deceased king, but as the murals grew more ancient, he was surprised to find that famines and plagues were depicted as often as scenes of abundance.
They were deep into the passages now, and the paintings were quite old. Tris stopped to study the images. A robed man with a circlet on his brow stood next to what looked to be a mass grave. Pale bodies, many of them naked and emaciated, were heaped in carts and laid head to foot in a deep trench. In one panel of the mural, the robed king raised his hands in blessing over the dead. Even in the faded drawing, Tris could see that the artist had shown tears on the face of the king.
Hungry for more information, Tris moved to the next panel. Here, the king was shown in armor, wielding a sword. But it was the artist’s depiction of the king’s foes that caught Tris’s attention. Some were drawn in chalk tones, crudely, like corpses standing upright. Ashtenerath, Tris thought. Around the battlefield, the trees were hung with the dismembered bodies of men and animals. And behind the chalky fighters was a line of black-robed opponents. The next panel showed the victory, but Tris stared as the details became plain in the glow of the handfire. All of the black-robed foes lay vanquished on the ground, and the corpse fighters were fallen. The trees with their rotting fruit of dangling bodies, offerings to Shanthadura, were aflame. But it was the figure of the king that made Tris catch his breath. Hadenrul was on his knees, hands pressed against his chest, eyes turned skyward. And an unmistakable fountain of blood poured from the chest of the king.
The next panel showed a great funeral procession. It was drawn in haste and lacked the artistry of the earlier murals. The materials used for the drawing had not held up as well, and some parts were smudged beyond recognition. But it was clear that the body of the king was borne on a bier carried by a sea of mourners. Musicians with drums and cymbals followed, and the faces of the mourners were painted to show unbearable grief. The king’s hands were clasped over a sword that he held on his chest. On the King’s right hand, the artist had taken pains to draw a gold ring. Tris bent closer, because the ring stood out. Whoever had drawn the mural had left out many details, giving only suggestions of the attire and adornment of the mourners or the king’s grief-stricken court. But the king’s ring was drawn in exceptional detail. As Tris squinted for a better look, he could see a complicated knot pattern set with dots of color that he assumed were meant for gems. He straightened, pondering the meaning of the mural.
Nexus thrummed with power and a faint nimbus shone around it. Whether that was warning or warding, Tris had no way to know. As he had often complained to Soterius during their last campaign, no one had told him how its magic worked. Neither Royster nor Fallon could find any details about its forging or its origin in the annals of the Library at Westmarch, except that it was made for Bava K’aa on the eve of the Great War against the Obsidian King and it was said to hold a shadow of her magic. Wary of the sword and its price, Tris used it as infrequently as possible. For combat against a mortal foe, he had a beautiful and deadly long sword. But one of Nexus’s abilities was to manifest on the Plains of Spirit as a weapon that could destroy even the dead. And so, for this journey among the restless dead, Nexus was his weapon of choice.
Tris had worried that he might not recognize Hadenrul’s tomb. Whoever had carried Hadenrul’s bones to the shrine had been a devoted servant of the king. A chamber opened off of the passage, and above the doorway, runes marked the name of Hadenrul. It was old script, long fallen into disuse and difficult to read. Tris paused at the door and extended his magic, careful to sense for traps and wardings. He sensed none.
He let the mage fire illuminate the interior of the room. Unlike the catafalques in the outer chamber, there was no box to hold the body of the king. Instead, there was an altar in the center of the room. Tris entered, ducking to avoid the low transom of the doorway. Inside was a room with a domed roof. Murals covered these walls, too, as well as the ceiling. Eight panels of murals led the visiting mourner around the room. With a start, Tris realized that each panel depicted Hadenrul with one of the Aspects of the Sacred Lady, the deity whose worship he established in Margolan with the defeat of the followers of Shanthadura.
As a summoner, Tris had glimpsed the Aspects. Whoever had drawn Hadenrul’s journey had been given accurate descriptions of the Lady in all Her faces. In the first panel, Hadenrul received his crown from the Mother, who was a generously proportioned woman with a broad face and full breasts and hips, standing on the bank of a wide river. In the next panel, Hadenrul received a blessing from the Childe, slim and robed in white. Doves ascended all around Hadenrul, and the Childe presented him with an armload of flowers and an ornate baldric.
Next, the sultry Lover greeted Hadenrul with a kiss and laid her hand in blessing on his groin, in what Tris guessed meant that Hadenrul’s lineage would prosper and multiply. From Chenne, the Warrior Aspect, Hadenrul received a sword. Tris peered closely. Either the paint had smudged over the century or the artist meant to suggest that the sword itself shone with light.
The Light Aspects had given Hadenrul their gifts, and in the next panels, the four Dark Aspects bestowed their thanks. Istra, the Dark Lady, patron of the vayash moru and the outcast, handed Hadenrul an ornate chalice full to the brim with what appeared to be blood. Sinha, the Crone, splayed a reading of bone and runes, holding up the Jalbet card of the Victorious King, all omens of fate. From the Whore, Hadenrul received mountains of gold. Women knelt beside him, reaching up, caressing his body. Many of the women already showed bellies swollen with child. Heaps of grain, apples, and potatoes stood as tall as a man, and fields heavy with produce for the harvest surrounded the goddess. Finally, Hadenrul stood before the Formless One, the Aspect of the Wild Host, so feared that there was no name spoken for her. Nameless was drawn as Tris had glimpsed her, a shrouded figure without a face. Behind her were her ghostly Host, wraiths, and revenants riding the skeletons of steeds. Nameless did not bestow a gift. Instead, the Aspect of chaos and genesis held out her hand, demanding a gift of the king. Hadenrul’s hand held out a human heart, torn from the gaping wound in his chest.
Tris felt a shiver run down his spine as he turned back to the altar in the center of the room. Four candles made a semicircle around the three golden boxes. Someone had replaced the candles far more recently than Hadenrul’s death, Tris thought, and he wondered where the acolyte was hidden. Tris passed his hand over the candles and willed them into flame. Respectfully, Tris knelt in front of the altar and made the sign of the Lady in blessing. Then he stretched out his magic and carefully opened the first box. A man’s skull, yellowed with age, lay on a bed of crumbling velvet. The second box held the king’s sternum on silk that might once have been a brilliant red but now was the color of dried blood. In the third box lay the bones of a right hand, and on the index finger was the golden ring Tris had seen in the mural in the passageway.
Tris felt the temperature in the crypt plummet. He felt the ghost’s presence behind him before he had time to rise. Nexus flared blindingly bright in his hand.
“What do you seek?” The voice was deep and resonant, weary with years. It held both command and sorrow in equal measure, and a power that seemed to vibrate through Tris’s bones. Cautiously, Tris rose to his feet and turned, inclining his head in respect.
“Tell me how you defeated the Durim,” Tris said. Hadenrul’s appearance without Tris’s need to summon him gave Tris to guess that the spirit of the dead king knew who he was and judged his lineage worthy.
“You mean the Black Robes. The followers of Shanthadura.”
Tris nodded. “You vanquished them four hundred years ago. But they’ve returned. They may be working with a dark summoner from across the Northern Sea. I don’t know how to fight them.”
Hadenrul’s ghost looked solemn. “The Durim had caused great turmoil in Margolan when I saw the vision of the Sacred Lady. She wanted to end the slaughter, and her ways won over many of the worshippers of Shanthadura. As the worship of Shanthadura declined, so did the power of the Black Robes. But they had enough power for a final stand. It took all of my army’s strength and my mage’s cunning to win the day.”
“You died in that battle, didn’t you?”
Hadenrul nodded.
“Were you a summoner?”
Hadenrul looked startled for a moment, and then he smiled sadly. “Is that what the chroniclers say? My, how the stories have grown! No. No, I had no magic, unless you count exceptional intuition.”
“Some would call that a type of magic.”
Hadenrul shrugged. “Perhaps. But to your question, I did not have power over the dead, or the spirits, or the undead. I sense that power in you. Your magic animates even those of us who have not stirred in centuries. I can… feel… your breath, feel the blood flowing in your veins, feel the beating of your heart. Things I have not felt in a very long time. Great magic courses through you, my son.”
Hadenrul had been in his fourth decade when he died. He still had the features of a relatively young man, with dark hair cropped short for battle and a warrior’s build. He stood a head shorter than Tris, with broad shoulders and solid arms. A dark beard was braided, common for men going into combat. Whether he was a warlord or a king, Tris knew that Hadenrul had been a supreme warrior.
“What turned the Durim? I need to know.”
Hadenrul’s eyes were solemn. “Blood called them, and blood turned them. Not the blood of their sacrifices, taken by force. The blood of my troops, given in loyalty, given freely. Many men bled that day. But from that blood, the mages turned back the Durim.” His voice was a low whisper. “Not all magic that involves blood is to be feared, my son. In blood we’re birthed, and with the shed blood of the deer and cattle we fill our bellies. Blood can damn, and blood can redeem. It is the first magic, and the strongest.”
Hadenrul’s image began to waver. “Stand firm, my son,” his voice said, as if from a great distance. Hadenrul’s spirit was gone. Shaken, Tris extinguished the candles and said a prayer to the Lady in blessing. Hadenrul’s ghost had not required his power to appear, and had not asked his permission to leave. Tris might have been able to follow the ghost on the Plains of Spirit, but something warned him not to try.
Here in the gloom of the crypt, Tris had no idea how much time had passed. But before he could return to the world of the living, he had one more visit to make. Tris took a deep breath to steady himself. Nexus still had a faint glow, but if the sword sensed either danger or strong magic, it gave no sign. Making one last bow in respect, Tris left Hadenrul’s crypt and returned to the outer corridor, calling handfire once more to light his way.
The murals ended with Hadenrul’s crypt, and, for a while, Tris walked along a passage with bare stone walls. He wondered if he had missed a side corridor or a hidden room. The passageway rounded a bend and ended in a dark opening. Once again, Tris extended his magic. He sensed no threat, but there was a presence in the darkness, something ancient that was waiting for him to enter.
Nexus glowed brightly, and Tris sent more magic to the handfire, illuminating the end of the corridor. At the doorway to the darkened room were two very old vases. They were finely shaped and painted with faded images, fit for the grave goods of a barbarian king.
Tris sent his magic into the room, and the handfire filled it with a cold, blue glow. Tris felt the echo of magic, a preservation spell. A man’s form lay on a slab of stone. A coat of animal skins covered the body from shoulder to ankle. Gold vambraces glistened from wrist to elbow on both arms. Rings sparkled on the corpse’s fingers, and an intricate talisman of hammered gold set with gems glittered on his chest. A thin, plain circlet was held between the corpse’s hands. A crude iron sword lay beside the body. All around the king’s resting place lay a wealth of items intended to secure his comfort in the Nether. Leather quivers, fine sets of bows, knives with carved bone handles, and beautifully made spears and pikes lay ready for their master’s use. At the foot of the slab lay the skeletons of two large dogs. Wolfhounds, Tris guessed by the bone structure.
The walls of the crypt were covered with runes and symbols Tris did not recognize. Even after a thousand years, he could feel the vestiges of old magic in the room, magic that preserved Marlan the Gold’s body and his grave goods. Tris took a deep breath and willed his magic to fill him. He felt his magic resonate with the wardings in the tomb. His intent had been to probe the wardings and not to disturb them, but at the first touch of his power, a blinding light flared, and a rush of magic forced Tris to his knees, knocking his breath from him.
The crypt grew cold, and a fine mist formed in the torchlight, swirling and coalescing into the shape of a man. The figure scowled, as if the interruption displeased him, but when he spoke, Tris did not recognize either his words or his accent.
It’s been a thousand years. His language is as dead as he is.
The power that had forced Tris to his knees receded, allowing Tris to regain his feet. An image became clear in Tris’s mind. A man with long, unruly golden hair and a thick, reddish beard wore clothing that matched that of the ancient corpse on the slab. Marlan looked to have been late in his third decade, at the height of his power as a warrior. His eyes glinted with intelligence and ruthlessness, and the set of his mouth was a grim, thin-lipped half smile, as if, even now, he was sizing up Tris. Marlan’s gaze lingered on the signet ring on Tris’s right hand, the crest of the kings of Margolan.
Tris held up his hands, palms outward in a placating gesture as he stood, watching the spirit warily. He pointed toward the runes and markings on the crypt walls. “Tell me about the war,” Tris said carefully. The ghost frowned. “About the Dread.”
Marlan’s eyes widened as if he recognized that single word, “Dread,” and images flooded Tris’s mind. Memories that were not his own overwhelmed him with the sights and sounds of battle. Tris suddenly stood at the fore of a large force, facing the army of the Cartelasian Empire, whose numbers looked to be much greater than his own force. The battle raged all around him, and Tris knew he was seeing through Marlan’s eyes. What Marlan’s forces lacked in powerful weapons they made up for with courage and savagery. More of the empire’s soldiers than Marlan’s troops lay dead on the ground, and Tris watched as Marlan’s soldiers drove off the Cartelasian soldiers, riding down the stragglers and beheading the captives.
On Marlan’s side, there were score upon score of men wearing crude helmets and leather armor, wielding maces or swords. But among them, Tris glimpsed shadow warriors, opaque, black forms without faces. These shadow warriors carried no visible weapons, but the Cartelasian generals fled before them, stumbling over their own men to escape.
The shadow warriors moved like a cloud against the enemy. In front of the dark shapes, soldiers ran screaming, casting away their weapons as they ran for their lives. Behind the shadows, mangled corpses and skeletons lay on the battlefield.
Are they the Dread, or the beings that the Dread guard? Tris wondered.
Other strange shapes caught Tris’s attention. Dimonns? Tris wondered, and immediately decided differently. The shapes were amorphous balls of light, dark blue or bright red, and the light shifted to take on different, glowing forms. Some became huge beasts with fangs as long as a man’s forearm and claws that could eviscerate with a single swipe. Others became great winged reptiles that ripped their prey into pieces. Still others took on the form of men, but these fighters had six arms and carried vicious scythes, dismembering the enemy soldiers unlucky enough to get in their way.
Marlan’s soldiers held the field, but few men remained on their feet, and most of those were badly wounded. Severed arms, legs, and heads were strewn across the ground, along with entrails and the torn carcasses of battle steeds. The flag of the Cartelasian Empire lay bloody in the muck, trampled underfoot as its soldiers fled.
The creatures turned on Marlan and his soldiers.
Trapped within Marlan’s memories, Tris saw a yellow glow radiate from Marlan’s body. Light streamed from his hands, and the corpses of his fallen soldiers staggered to their feet against the new enemy. Against this foe, the former victors were badly outclassed. The creatures of blue and red swept aside Marlan’s soldiers, living and dead, and Tris realized that they wanted the magic that surrounded Marlan. Powerful magic. Summoner magic.
Just as the blue and red creatures reached Marlan, the shadow warriors rallied, raising their arms in a gesture of warding. Blinding light filled the sky. Tris felt the memories blur, and he guessed that Marlan was choosing which images to show him. When the memories once again took shape, Marlan stood beside a large mound, one of the barrows of the Dread. His hands were outstretched in warding, and a procession of shadow warriors filed into the mound. Behind Marlan stood what remained of his living soldiers.
The onslaught of images ended abruptly enough to make Tris stagger. Tris drew on his own power as he turned back to face the ghost, drawing them both onto the Plains of Spirit.
Why have you come? Whether Marlan’s voice sounded in the tomb or just within his own skull, Tris could not tell. Here in Nether, their spirits could communicate without the barriers of speech and language.
Someone is trying to raise the Dread-or whatever it is the Dread guard. I need to know how to stop them.
What the Dread bind, they choose to bind. And if they choose, they can loose the First Spirits, the Nachale.
Were you a summoner?
The old king’s spirit hesitated, as if it had to search to understand Tris’s words. Finally, Marlan spoke. We did not use that word, “summoner.” My people called me a ghost caller, and my enemies called me Sja Kun. It meant Death-bringer.
How can I persuade the Dread to ally with us? We think a dark summoner is trying to win the Dread to his side. It may become a War of Unmaking.
There were tales, even in my day, about Wars of Unmaking. For the dead, every war is a war of unmaking.
Tris remembered the warning Alyzza had given him. What of a bridge? Is there a bridge between the Dread and the Nachale? A bridge that the Dread guard?
I know nothing about a bridge. The Dread guard the passage to the world of the living. The Sworn are their guardians.
How can I persuade the Dread to side with Margolan to defend your kingdom again? How did you gain them as allies?
The Dread sought me. I did not seek them.
If they’re as powerful as you say, what did you have that they wanted?
Marlan paused. I was a channel for their power, and they were a channel for mine. They had not been alive in so long, I believe they had lost their connection to the power of breath and blood. Magic is born of both spirit and sinew. Whether they could have found another channel, I do not know. But together, we were enough to bind the Nachale, although they were too ancient to destroy. Whatever power now calls to them, it will be up to the Dread to decide whether to listen or whether to turn away.
If a dark summoner has the power to call to the Dread and raise the Nachale, how can I protect my people?
Tris felt Marlan’s full power crash over him. It lanced through him, as if weighing him to take his full measure. You are a true heir of power. If you wish to protect your people and defend the kingdom, then when the time is right, surrender yourself to that power. Take the talisman from my body. When battle comes, wear it into combat. If your offering is sufficient, it will open the magic of your fathers.
Abruptly, Marlan’s presence was gone, thrusting Tris from the Plains of Spirit and leaving a silence so complete it made Tris’s head pound. He fell to his hands and knees, waiting for the pain to subside. When his vision cleared, Tris got to his feet and moved cautiously toward Marlan’s body. The wardings yielded to him, and he reached out to carefully remove the golden talisman from the preserved corpse. It thrummed against his skin with a strange, old magic. For an instant, Tris felt Marlan’s magic sizzle through the channels of his power. It left him breathless and unsteady. When he could trust himself to move, Tris put the talisman into a pouch safe within his tunic and made his way back up the winding passageways of the crypt.
As he moved toward the world of the living, the magic seemed to part around him, receding like water. Once, when he had been a boy, he had gone swimming in the depths of a lake in the forest. He had accidentally gone almost to the bottom, not realizing how the press of the water would drive breath from him and that its cold would draw the warmth from his blood. Even now, he remembered how it had felt to kick his way toward the surface, for the grip of the depths to loosen as the water grew lighter and warmer, and how he had gasped for air when at last he broke through the surface into the light. It was magic, not water, that pressed him now from all sides, that stole his breath and leached the heat from his marrow. Tris quickened his step, and it felt as if the magic pulled at him, as if it would draw him back into the darkness where the ancients slept.
With a burst of both physical and magical power, Tris willed himself forward, and he felt the tendrils of magic snap, as if he had passed an invisible barrier. He stood, shaking, for a moment, feeling as if, freed of the encumbrance, his body was light enough to float. Tris sucked in deep lungfuls of air and realized that he was nearly to the outer chamber and the crypt entrance. Light reached into the doorway, though it was the golden glow of late afternoon, and not the bright light of morning. He quickened his footsteps, and something deep and primal within him urged him to run. With an effort, Tris kept himself from fleeing, more because he did not care to hear the laughter of the dead than because he cared what the soldiers at the door might think.
Relief swept over Tris as he stepped from the crypt into the late-afternoon sun. Soterius and Fallon ran to him, but Tris held up a hand to stave off questions.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Really.” Tris could see the concern in Soterius’s expression, and he knew that Fallon was using her magic to make her own assessment of his condition.
“You’ve been in there for nearly two days,” Soterius said, touching Tris’s shoulder as if to reassure himself that Tris was alive. “We tried to go in after you, but the magic wouldn’t let us pass. Even Fallon couldn’t get through the wardings.”
“Two days?” Now that he stood in the sun and fresh air, Tris realized that he was weak from hunger and his throat was parched. Fallon guided him to sit on the ground and pressed a flask of brandy and a wedge of cheese into his hands. “Eat. Drink. You’ve spent a long time in the realm of the dead. Ground yourself and remind your soul that you belong among the living.” She glared at Soterius as if to deter him from questioning Tris until Tris had finished eating.
“Did you talk with them?” There was a note of excitement in Soterius’s voice.
Wearily, Tris nodded. “Yes, and I’ll tell you all about it on the ride home. Just give me a chance to catch my breath.”
By the time they reached Shekerishet, Tris was exhausted. He and Soterius and Fallon had debated and dissected from every angle the meaning of what the ghosts had said. In the end, Tris had no more certainty about a course to protect Margolan from its enemies than he had before he entered the tomb.
“We’ll have to convene the war council,” Soterius said as they approached Shekerishet.
Tiredly, Tris nodded. “I know. And we’ll have to go over all this again and again. I don’t know if they’ll believe me. Margolan doesn’t have the resources to waste mustering the army again to sit by the edge of the sea and wait for an invader who might not be real.”
“You’ve got more than a hunch to base it on. You’ve had warnings from Staden, Jonmarc, even Eastmark. Fallon told you that even the mage Sentinels think there’s a blood mage or a dark summoner headed our way.”
“The council can argue that those are reasons for caution, but not war. We don’t have proof that there’s an invading fleet on the way-we just have Cam’s guess for the reason Alvior dredged the harbor. We don’t know for certain whether a fleet that invaded Isencroft would try to invade Margolan, let alone Principality and Eastmark. The council could argue to wait and see.”
The set of Soterius’s jaw told Tris his friend was already spoiling for a fight. “Wait and see? And if Cam’s right, does the council think we can snap our fingers and have an army provisioned and at the shore? We’ve barely recovered after Lochlanimar-”
“And that’s the point. They’ll argue that we’re stretching ourselves too thin. They’ll say that we’re risking revolt by calling up the army to play a game of wait-and-see.”
“And if it is a War of Unmaking?”
“Then they might say that nothing we can do will matter.” Fallon had spoken little since they had left the shrine of the Mother and Childe. Her comment made both men turn to look at her. Fallon shrugged. “Think about it. We have only legend to tell us about the Wars of Unmaking. After all, by definition, if it wipes the slate clean and begins time over again, even the legends are suspect. Who’s left to tell the story?”
“Do you think such a war is possible? Is it just a myth?”
Fallon frowned as she took a deep breath. “Some people say myth and they mean fable, a made-up tale. But the real myths, like the legends that endure, have a truth inside them, although it might be hidden in disguise. Do I think a War of Unmaking will actually destroy the entire world?” She shrugged again, palms open and upward. “Who knows? I haven’t seen the whole world. I take it on faith that there are lands and people outside the Winter Kingdoms, but I haven’t seen them with my own eyes. But do I think there could be a war that would unmake our world as we know it? That’s another question. And the answer to that is yes. We know that the Mage Wars happened. We know that the first battle against the Obsidian King nearly destroyed the Winter Kingdoms. We know that before the Mage Wars, the Blasted Lands were full of people and cities and farmland, and now they’re barren. Maybe that’s as much ‘unmaking’ as we need for the threat to be real. And by that measure, I’d say it’s a very real threat.”
A different kind of headache was starting at the back of Tris’s neck. It was a headache born of stiff muscles and the tension of trying to figure out something that might not have an answer. Right now, Tris decided, he wanted nothing so much as a hot dinner and another glass of brandy.
“You’re probably right,” he said, and he knew that the others could hear exhaustion in his voice. “But let’s tackle the rest of this tomorrow. There’s nothing more to be done tonight.”
At the entrance to the palace, Tris left Soterius and Fallon behind and headed for the private quarters he shared with Kiara. He was not surprised that she was waiting for him in the parlor. She looked tired and worried. Cwynn was not in the room, and Tris guessed that Kiara and the nurses had finally managed to get him to sleep.
“What’s wrong?” Tris gathered Kiara into his arms and she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Cwynn had another bad night. I don’t know how to soothe him. We’ve already found that some parts of the castle bother him more than others, so we keep him clear of those areas.”
“And when I went over those places with my magic, there was nothing,” Tris said, smoothing his hand down her long, auburn hair. “No ghosts, no energies, nothing.”
“I don’t know why he screams. The last few days it’s been like he’s been touched by madness.”
Tris felt a coldness settle through him. He pushed away from Kiara and met her eyes. “What did you say?”
“I said that it’s like Cwynn’s been touched by madness. He rocks back and forth in his crib, but nothing soothes him. We’ll finally get him to sleep and he’ll wake screaming. Sometimes, he won’t let anyone near him except Ula and Seanna, but they’re ghosts. They can’t hold him or clean him. Why?”
“When I went to Vistimar, the Sister in charge said that the residents there seemed to be more restless than ever, and that the restlessness came and went, almost like the waves in the sea or the cycles of the moon. Sometimes worse, sometimes better, but never gone completely.”
“You think Cwynn is mad?”
Tris shook his head. “No, of course not. On the other hand, I’m not convinced Alyzza is completely mad, either. There’s enough of her magic still intact to tell me that she senses something, even if her mind can’t explain it. Or even if it’s too frightening for her mind to explain.”
Kiara looked at him sharply. “And you think Cwynn… senses something like the crazy mages at Vistimar? You and Sister Fallon told me that he’s far too young to have power, even if he is your mage heir, which isn’t guaranteed.”
Tris shrugged, and reluctantly let go of her. “I don’t know. Forget I said anything. Even if he could sense something, it doesn’t solve the problem. Until he stops screaming, you and I and the rest of the castle aren’t going to get much sleep, and neither will he.” He shook his head. “If all firstborn children are this difficult, it’s a wonder there are ever siblings.”
Kiara drew a breath and turned away from him. “In a way, that brings up something I’ve been meaning to talk with you about.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been thinking about the problems Isencroft is having, first with the Divisionists and now with Alvior. Father’s enemies are playing on the fear that because you and I are married and the throne of Isencroft will pass to me when something happens to Father, Isencroft has somehow been colonized by Margolan.”
“You know that’s not true.”
Kiara nodded, walking as she talked, as if she needed the motion to help her sort out her thoughts. “I know that, and you know it, and Father knows it, but it’s the kind of thing that can be hard to explain to a plowman in the field. Now we have a son, and that child is heir to both crowns. From the Divisionists’ standpoint, that’s no better. But if there were a second child, an heir designated for the Isencroft throne-”
Tris met her eyes, suddenly guessing where the conversation was headed. “No, not yet. We’ve talked about this before. There’s barely been time for you to heal since Cwynn was born. You’re only just recovered enough for us to be together again. It’s too early to have another child.”
“It’s not completely our decision,” Kiara said, and Tris heard the sadness in her voice. “Like it or not, what you and I want personally comes second to the crown-to both crowns-and to our kingdoms.”
Tris turned to her with a stricken expression. “This is why I never wanted the crown. We aren’t just prize horses for stud.”
Kiara took a long breath. “Maybe not. But more depends on our children than on the children of a tinker or a smith. It’s not about passing down the family business. There’s already a threat from Jared’s bastard. We know he’s hidden away in Trevath, waiting for the right moment to challenge you.”
“Jared’s son is only a year older than Cwynn. Any challenge will be awhile in coming.”
Kiara shrugged. “Maybe. Then again, one hundred years ago, Mortimer the Bald raised a challenge for the Isencroft throne in the name of a toddler he claimed was the rightful elder son. It took a war to defeat him, and a panel of mages to determine the consanguinity.”
“We both know that wars can start over almost anything. Bad whiskey. Taxes. Empty bellies. I can’t rule looking over my shoulder.”
Kiara stepped closer. “If war comes to Isencroft, like it or not, part of the fight will be over our child. And if it comes, I’ll have to help Father stand against it.”
“Kiara, that doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe not to the Margolense, but in Isencroft, yes, it does. I’m Donelan’s heir. And don’t forget, I saw a vision of the Lady on the battlefield when I rode with Father to put down the border war. To the Crofters, that makes me ‘goddess blessed.’ If Isencroft had a civil war and I didn’t go home to show where my allegiance lies, it would undermine Father and give more fuel to the conspiracies that people already think are brewing.”
“Maybe I could help-”
Kiara shook her head. “If the king of Margolan and his troops set foot on Isencroft soil, I guarantee you that a civil war will become a war with Margolan in a heartbeat. Nothing unites us like the idea of a common threat, and you have to admit that more than once in its history, Margolan has tried to annex Isencroft. Trust me, my people haven’t forgotten that.”
Tris sighed. “Carroway wrote a play once about lovers from two feuding families. In the end, everyone died. I hated that play. Now, I feel like I’m living it.”
“There’s something else to think about.” Kiara’s voice fell nearly to a whisper. “If it’s true that there’s going to be another war, if there’s an invasion coming from across the sea, then it’s more important than ever to make sure there’s a safe succession. I don’t want to even think that it’s possible for something to happen to you, but I’ve been to war. I know what can happen. And if something did happen to you, and if Cwynn really can’t take the throne-”
Kiara did not have to finish the sentence for Tris to understand. Without its king and with a crippled heir, Margolan would be defenseless. The challenge to the throne would come both from across the sea and from the supporters of Jared’s bastard, while Isencroft dissolved into chaos. Both kingdoms would almost certainly fall to outsiders, and the resulting war could well draw in the rest of the Winter Kingdoms.
Which course leads to a War of Unmaking? Is it the threat of a dark summoner, or the risk of a weak succession? Or is war certain to come, no matter what we do?
As if she guessed his thoughts, Kiara took Tris’s hand. “It’s in our power to reduce the threat of war in one way. If I’m pregnant with a second heir, then if Cwynn turns out to be healthy, Isencroft has its new king. And if there’s really something wrong with Cwynn-” She couldn’t finish the sentence, but Tris knew what she was thinking.
If Cwynn isn’t suitable to take the throne, then, Goddess help us, we have a spare. It wouldn’t solve the Isencroft issue as neatly, but it would secure Margolan’s throne and the joint throne with Isencroft, and it might keep outsiders at bay. Tris folded Kiara into his arms.
“I anchored your soul when you gave birth to Cwynn,” Tris murmured, resting his cheek against Kiara’s hair. “It took all my power not to lose both of you. So many times, it was close. Too close.” His voice caught. “Crowns and kingdoms be damned, Kiara, I don’t want to lose you. Maybe that makes me a bad king. So be it.” His fingers trailed through her hair, tangling in the auburn strands.
Kiara leaned against him. “I have no intention of leaving you or Cwynn. This isn’t the timing I’d choose under other circumstances. But we don’t get to choose. Please, Tris.”
Tris swallowed hard, and nodded. “All right. What do Esme and Cerise say? How soon would it even be possible?”
Kiara turned in his arms. A bittersweet smile touched her lips. “Neither of them likes the idea any more than you do, but when I laid out the options, they had to agree that it’s less risky than all the other choices.”
“Which isn’t saying much.”
Kiara ignored his comment. “It’s been almost six weeks since Cwynn was born. Esme tells me that in the farmlands, many a wife is already pregnant with the next child well before the first is three moons old. You and Esme can use your magic to assure that we conceive quickly.”
“Most days, I’d give anything to be one of those farmers, with nothing to worry about except getting the crop in,” Tris said and sighed.
“And no control over soldiers riding across your fields or the taxes you pay or whether or not your lord conscripts your sons into the militia.”
“Point taken. On the other hand, we’ve just discussed how little control a king really has-over much of anything.”
Kiara gave him a mischievous look. “And is making a baby such an onerous duty to the king?”
Despite his gloomy mood and the exhaustion of the day’s working, Kiara’s smile quickened his pulse. Tris bent to kiss her hand with a flourish. “Absolutely not, m’lady. The crown is at your service.”
Kiara grinned broadly. “It wasn’t the crown I had in mind.”
The next afternoon found Tris presiding over a war council. Soterius sat to his right, along with General Senne. To his left, Sister Fallon sat next to a newcomer, Nisim, one of the Sentinels. Lord Dravan represented the Council of Nobles. Mikhail was both seneschal and the official representative of the Blood Council for the vayash moru, and with him was Kolja, from the Margolan vyrkin.
The council listened with growing concern as Tris and Fallon shared their news. The warning letters from Cam, Jonmarc, and Eastmark lay in the middle of the table. Tris’s summary of the situation in Isencroft elicited worried outcry.
“We may have no control over it, but this couldn’t be worse timing for the army,” Senne said. Tris had learned to depend on Senne’s experience and clear thinking during the siege of Lochlanimar. Senne was twenty years older than Tris, and his dark hair was gray at the temples. His eyes were a cold, dark blue, and there were fine lines at the corners of his eyes from time spent squinting against the sun. Bricen had always valued Senne’s advice, and after having seen him in battle, Tris now shared his father’s admiration. “With the soldiers home, we barely have enough men to bring in the crops. The plague’s made it hard enough, but if we call back the soldiers, can we really expect the women and elders to bring in a full harvest by themselves? I don’t fancy fighting a war when the townsfolk behind the lines are hungry. It’ll make it the Crone’s own to provision the troops, and hungry people have little patience. We could have a revolt on our hands, even without civil war in Isencroft.”
“Lady knows, the Council of Nobles has no desire to see another pretender to the throne, whether it’s from across the Northern Sea or it’s Jared’s bastard.” Lord Dravan was a generation older than Tris’s father and had been one of the nobles who remained loyal to Bricen throughout Jared’s rule. Dravan’s white hair showed his age, but his blue eyes were sharp and his angular features showed keen intelligence. “With the three new additions to the Council of Nobles, I trust Your Majesty will find the support you need if it comes to war, but I pray to the Lady such a course is not necessary.”
Tris nodded. Political maneuvering among three of the former members of the Council of Nobles had nearly resulted in unfounded charges of treason against Kiara and a warrant of execution for Master Bard Carroway, one of Tris’s dearest and most loyal friends. When Tris had returned from battle to set the matter straight, one of the Council had been hanged for treason and two were banished permanently from court. Their replacements had been chosen both for loyalty and the ability to think rationally on matters of policy. With any luck, the new Council reduced the threat of betrayal from among the most prominent nobility.
“We can’t count on support from the Sisterhood.” Fallon’s voice made her disdain for the ruling body of mages clear. “I’ve tried to get Sister Landis to rethink her position of neutrality, but she’s adamant that her mages will not get involved in ‘temporal’ concerns.”
“By the Whore!” Senne roared. “Will she stand by and do nothing if we’re invaded by a dark summoner?”
Fallon met the general’s eyes. “She’ll see to the safety of her mages. If they were attacked, she would use magic to defend them. But she won’t provide battle mages for the army or bring the Sisterhood to the aid of the crown.” She paused. “On the other hand, if war really does break out, I know of quite a few mages who might find their consciences tried by Landis’s edict. I think we could count on many of those mages to go rogue and join us, as some of us did during the battle for the throne.”
Dravan leaned over to Tris. “Refusing to aid the king-isn’t there something on the books about that?”
Tris managed a wan smile. “With the rest of Margolan’s problems, do you really want to skirmish with the Sisterhood?”
Dravan sat back in his chair with a muttered curse. “Of course not. It’s the principle of the thing.”
“Unfortunately, after the battle for the throne and the siege of Lochlanimar, the number of vayash moru who could join our forces is smaller than it used to be,” Mikhail observed. “We’ve also had more than a few vayash moru flee to Dark Haven after some of the locals tried to burn them out, blaming them for the plague. On the other hand, we’ve got more vayash moru than usual as refugees at Huntwood and Glynnmoor. They might prefer taking an active role, especially against a threat like a dark summoner. I could see who I can personally recruit, but we won’t have a very large contingent under the best of circumstances. There are never as many of us as the mortals believe, and now, there are fewer still.”
“Your people fought bravely at Lochlanimar,” Senne said. “Our losses would have been much heavier without them.”
“I’m afraid that the vyrkin are in much the same situation as the vayash moru,” Kolja said. “Our numbers were never very large, and Jared did his best to hunt us to extinction. He may have come closer to success than he knew. Many of my people have also fled for sanctuary in Dark Haven, but even there, I hear that mortals are hunting us for fear that we carry plague.” He spread his hands. “Ironic, isn’t it? Neither we nor the vayash moru can carry or die of plague, so they kill us for the crime of not dying.” Kolja paused. “Like the vayash moru, many vyrkin have found sanctuary at Huntwood and Glynnmoor. I will see whose pledges I can secure.”
“If the warnings are true, and Alvior’s invasion includes a dark summoner of real power, then we’re at a disadvantage without more mages and without significant numbers of vayash moru and vyrkin,” Tris said. He knew they could hear the weariness in his voice, and a glance in the mirror that morning had told him that his tiredness was plain on his face. If he hadn’t been born with white-blond hair, he was quite certain that the burden of the crown would have turned his hair gray within his first year as king.
“The vayash moru have strength and speed and they’re just plain tougher to destroy. That’s an advantage when we’re fighting magic. And as we saw at Lochlanimar, fever and pox spring up quickly in army camps. It helps to have some of your troops who are immune,” Senne said.
“It’s not just immunity to disease,” Fallon added. “Taking mortal troops up against a dark summoner means magic will be as much the weapon of choice as your catapults and trebuchets. Vayash moru and vyrkin are more immune to mind-meddling or magicked terrors than mortal troops, and they’re better at seeing through whatever glamours a mage might cast to trick soldiers into a trap.” She shrugged. “But if we don’t have the numbers, we don’t have them. There’s not much we can do about it.”
“What kind of a fleet can Margolan put to sea?” It was Nisim, the mage-Sentinel, who spoke, and Tris startled. Except for his report to the council of the warning signs observed by the Sentinels, Nisim had said nothing.
“There’s been no serious threat from across the Northern Sea in generations,” Tris said. “And while there are explorers who’ve gone into larger, open waters, the seas near Margolan are icebound for months out of the year. There are fishing boats and trading vessels that move from Isencroft to Margolan to Principality-some even to Eastmark, and the privateers who keep the pirates away from the villages. The fishermen from the Bay Islands are probably our best sailors. They go far out to sea for the best catch, but I’m not even certain they really consider themselves to be Margolense. Margolan’s never had much in the way of a real navy. If we were ever to go to war with our neighbors, it would make more sense to march rather than sail!”
Nisim nodded as if he expected Tris’s answer. “That had been my observation, but I wanted to hear confirmation.” He leaned forward. “To my thinking, and to my fellow Sentinels, the evidence is overwhelming that an invasion fleet from across the Northern Sea is coming. We don’t have time to build ships to counter that. But we might be able to rally the good shipping folk of the Bay Islands and the Borderlands to our cause if they knew that foreign troops and dark mages would be ravaging their lands and villages.”
“Say on,” Dravan said, stroking his chin as he listened.
Nisim looked uncomfortable being the center of attention. He was a thin man, perhaps ten years older than Tris, with long, straight, dark hair. His accent gave Tris to guess that Nisim came from the Borderlands he now protected. “Even mages have their limits when it comes to personally gathering information,” he said, with a glance toward Fallon, who nodded encouragingly. “The other Sentinels and I have been making contacts among the shipping folk for a while now. They agree to be our eyes and ears, and in exchange, we help them fill their nets with fish and keep the rough seas to a minimum.”
“Spies,” Senne said. “You’ve built a network of spies.”
Nisim nodded. “The shipping folk and the privateers were quick to spot evidence to confirm the dangers we observed in the currents of magic. There’s a powerful bond between those folk and the sea. If it isn’t magic, it’s near enough as to be no different. They’ve practically got brine for blood, and they can scent the winds almost as well as any weather mage.
“My point is, no one’s got more of a stake in this than they do. If invaders land their ships on the Margolan coast, it’ll be the shipping folk’s families who are first to die. And if it comes to a Mage War, then it’ll be their fields and homes blasted into oblivion,” Nisim continued.
“So you think they might help us?” Tris asked.
“The privateers have already offered their aid. And the fishermen are angry enough about anyone spoiling the catch that, with or without the king’s flag, they’ll fight any foreign ships that enter their waters.”
“You don’t need to convince me that Borderlanders are good fighters,” Tris said. “After all, Jonmarc Vahanian hails from those parts.”
“Could their flotilla hope to engage a navy?” Senne’s skepticism was clear in his voice.
Nisim shrugged. “Do you have an alternative?”
“I don’t like putting civilians in harm’s way.”
Nisim met Senne’s eyes. “And isn’t that exactly what happens when farmers become soldiers?”
With a growl, Senne sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I still don’t like it.”
“I don’t think we have a choice.” Tris knew he sounded more certain than he felt. “The truth is, we can barely field an army. Many of the people who fled Margolan because of Jared haven’t come back yet. They might never return. Then there’s the toll the plague’s taken, and the food shortages last winter. We lost a lot of men at Lochlanimar, even if we did win the siege.” He turned to Soterius and Senne. “How many troops do you really think we can muster and still have people left to harvest the crops?”
Soterius shrugged. “I’ve been working on the counts for a week, and no matter how I run the numbers, I don’t like them. We took four thousand men to Lochlanimar, and lost more than a third to battle and disease. If we call up every able-bodied man from fifteen to fifty-and every woman inclined to wield a sword-we might muster up six thousand.” He spread his hands. “It’s the best estimate I can come up with.”
“We might persuade fifty or so vayash moru and vyrkin to fight, but some of the vyrkin will need to stay with the pups, and some of the older vayash moru feel much like the Sisterhood, that the affairs of the living are no longer their concern,” Mikhail added.
“I think I could bring in about twenty mages, but they won’t all be true battle mages,” Fallon said. “That’s everything from hedge witches to healers, and no guarantee we won’t be overly supplied with one type of magic versus another.”
“So we could have ten land mages and only a few water mages?” Tris asked. “It would be good to have all four elements represented. Lady knows, we needed all the magic we could get at Lochlanimar.”
“I think you’ll find water magic, large and small, among the fishing folk,” said Nisim. “And my fellow Sentinels will do all we can.”
“Bricen’s army was twenty thousand at its peak strength,” Senne said. “How far we’ve fallen in so little time!”
“I’d guess that at least ten thousand of those soldiers lie in the shallow graves Jared’s men dug for them,” Soterius said bitterly. A thought crossed his face, and he turned to Tris. “Is there any chance-”
“If it comes to that, yes. I can call on the armies of the dead. But not without great cost, and only as a last resort. You saw what toll that kind of magic took at Lochlanimar. I’d rather not depend on it, if we have any other options.”
Soterius met his eyes. “As you’ve heard, our options are sparse.”
A knock at the doors to the council chamber startled them. Harrtuck, Captain of the Guard, leaned into the room. “Beggin’ your pardon, but there’re visitors here for you. I think you’ll want to see them right away.”
Tris rose and walked toward the door. “Who-”
The door opened farther. Framed in the doorway stood Jair Rothlandorn, and beside him a Sworn shaman.