The Blood King (8 page)

“Once the snows are gone,” Jared said, “and the roads are firm enough to ride, I want to strike against Staden so that the Winter Kingdoms know that I am the true king of Margolan.”

Even the firelight could not add color to Arontala’s features. “I advise against that.”

“Of course you advise against it!” Jared raged, dashing a platter to the floor. “You care nothing about my throne. The only thing you care about is that damned orb and your pitiful spirit king.”

“Your troops are needed here, to keep your loyal subjects from slitting your royal throat,” Arontala continued as if he had not heard. “And as for the ‘pitiful spirit king,’” Arontala added with a trace of irony, “he can assure you the kind of power you crave to hold Margolan and the Winter Kingdoms for as long as you live. Perhaps longer.” He tasted his sharp eye teeth with his tongue.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jared felt a tingle of fear as his anger waned.

“You could reign as an immortal, with the great-est wizard the kingdoms have ever feared at your side, reborn to an immortal’s body,” Arontala said, his eyes alight.

Jared hand went to the amulet at his throat. “I want no part of your perversion.”

A mirthless smile touched Arontala’s lips. “No? You’ve already learned that it is the blood, and not the act, that satisfies.” He glanced pointedly toward the garderobe.

“We have spies among the Sisterhood, within the families of vayash moru, and soon in Staden’s court,” Arontala said smoothly. “A little patience, my king, and you’ll have what you desire.”

Whatever Jared might have said was silenced by the rapping at the door.

“What now?” Jared shouted.

The door edged open to reveal a pale guardsman. “Sire, the Nargi emissaries have arrived.”

Jared cursed. “Seat them in the audience hall. I’ll attend when I’m free.” He turned to Arontala. “If I can’t have results from you, I’ll find an ally who can honor a promise.” He rinsed the last traces of blood from his hands in the basin near the bed and pulled his stained tunic over his head, shouting for a valet to assist him. Arontala said nothing during the process, standing in the shadows near the doorway. When Jared had inspected his image in the looking glass and called for his circlet crown, he met the vayash moru’s eyes for a moment, then cursed and turned toward the door, giving tacit permission for the wizard to follow. Four Nargi priests wait-ed in the audience hall, watching impassively while Jared ascended the throne.

“You may address the throne,” he said with a trace of ennui.

“Why have you called us?” The speaker was the eldest of the priests, a bent, lined figure whose face looked more mummified than aged.

“I have a proposition for your king.”

“Go on.”

Jared felt his mood grow darker at the priest’s complete lack of intimidation.

“Half a century ago, your people swore allegiance to the Obsidian King. On the Hawthorn Moon, he will rise again, and I’m prepared to help Nargi regain the territories it once held… if,” he held up a finger, “you’ll prove to me your good faith and raise your army against one who would usurp the throne.”

“How can this be?” The priest’s dry voice was like the death rattle of a corpse.

“The Obsidian King was destroyed.”

“Not destroyed. Bound. What’s bound can be loosed. At the Hawthorn Moon he will be free again, and his power can make Margolan a power-ful ally… or a formidable foe.”

“You would invite the armies of Nargi into Margolan?”

“Help me crush the usurper, and I’ll reward your king richly.”

“We will carry your terms to our king,” the priest agreed. His companions whispered among them-selves, their cowls shrouding their faces. “It is his to decide. Our armies cannot move before the snows melt. The worst of winter is now upon us.”

“I understood that in Nargi, your king rules at the pleasure of the Crone and those who speak for Her. Can we not make an agreement now?”

Once more, the priest turned to his whispering companions, ghostlike in their hushed voices and hidden features. Finally, he returned his attention to Jared.

“We will convey our endorsement to our king. But even for an ally, the king will not sacrifice his army. We cannot move until the snows melt.”

Jared barely restrained his anger at the delay. “Then we shall ask the Goddess for an early spring,” he said between clenched teeth.

The old priest regarded him for a moment. “Our days are in the hands of the Crone. As are we all.”

When the emissaries had been escorted from the hall, Jared turned to Arontala.

“Come the thaw, the Nargi army will show everyone the full power of my crown.” He rose from the throne. “I don’t need the soldiers of Margolan.”

“As you wish, my king,” he said, moving for the doorway. He paused, turning once more toward Jared. “But are you quite sure of your bargain?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve asked them to stop the usurper,” Arontala explained. “In the most literal terms, only one man has usurped the throne of Margolan. You, my king.” He was unconcerned at the rage that filled Jared’s face. “Perhaps you should learn to be more precise in your wording. One should always be careful what one wishes.”

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contents

IN THE PALACE of King Staden, the winter days quickly fell into routine for Jonmarc Vahanian. Most days, Vahanian was up before dawn, training in the salle with Kiara. The sessions ran late into the night when Mikhail was there, and sometimes Gabriel joined them.

In the few months since Harrtuck had hired him as the group’s guide, Vahanian had seen his world turned inside out. He’d been skeptical at first, unwilling to believe in Tris’s power as a mage and distrustful of nobles in general. But Tris had seemed unconcerned with rank, willing to accept Vahanian on the merit of his skill alone, and Vahanian had been grudgingly impressed. After the battle with the slavers, Tris and Carina had saved his life.

At Westmarch, Tris had helped Vahanian make peace with his grief and guilt over the death of his wife. And when Tris went to fight the ghost of King Argus for Mageslayer, Tris had entrusted his own signet ring and the vouchsafe from King Harrol into Vahanian’s keeping—a small fortune by any stan-dards. As the weeks passed, and Vahanian came to see that Tris’s offer of friendship was real, his objec-tions to throwing in his lot with the others gradually waned. He had come to genuinely like Tris. Ten years older and with more combat experi-ence than any of the others save Harrtuck, Vahanian held no illusions about the odds against them. He had his own reasons for wanting to see Arontala destroyed. The Fire Clan mage had been the reason for the death of his wife and for his own rigged court martial.

But something else had stirred deep inside him as Vahanian heard the refugees’

tales about plundered farms and murdered villagers. Although he’d proudly been liegeman to no king before Staden made him lord of Dark Haven, Vahanian was born in Margolan. And while he was cynical about appeals to flag and kingdom, a love for that land was in his blood. He’d survived the plunder of his own village, when marauders had come years before. Those memories would forever haunt his dreams. Now, the tragedies of his past made the sto-ries of the refugees real to him, and the chance to help stop the killing was more compelling than he expected.

And then there was Carina. Back in the caravan, he’d enjoyed riling Carina, although he rapidly came to respect her healing talent and her stubborn dedication to her patients. When they were taken by the slavers and Carina was almost killed, Vahanian admitted to himself that he cared about the healer. Time on the road had only deepened his resolve. While he was unsure whether Carina returned those feelings, his new lands and title made him bold enough to pursue her. On saner days, he chided himself for undertaking two hope-less quests at once. Most of the time, he put those doubts behind him, surprised that he could believe in anything again.

Vahanian wiped away the sweat from his fore-head with his sleeve as he and Kiara wrapped up another round.

“You’re good—damn good.” Vahanian took a long draught of water from a bucket at the edge of the room. “I can see why Tris’s Eastmark kick has improved, if he’s been training with you on the side.”

Kiara, her tunic wet with sweat, grinned. “Thanks. But the way you put those moves togeth-er still throws me for a loop. My armsmaster in Isencroft wouldn’t have known what to do with you!” The princess’s auburn hair was pulled back in a functional single braid, and she was dressed, as she preferred, in a tunic and trews. Her dark almond-shaped eyes and the dusky hue of her skin spoke of Eastmark blood.

Vahanian chuckled, and held out the dipper. “Alleys and battlefields are a different kind of salle. Points don’t count—just blood.” Kiara was the first real challenge he’d encountered in the Eastmark style of fighting since his days as a Nargi captive, and he found the purity of her technique an inter-esting counter to his own, battle-won skills. They were well-matched. Jae, Kiara’s gyregon, perched high in the salle rafters where he had an excellent view of the sparring, and hissed at the action.

“Sun’s up. The others will be here soon.” Kiara replaced the dipper after a long drink.

Soterius hailed them as he and Carroway entered the salle. “Who won today?”

“A tie, as usual,” Kiara laughed. “I beat him once, he bested me once, and we did enough dam-age to each other on the third round to agree to disagree!”

“Have you started yet?” Berry—Princess Berwyn—called from the doorway. She was dressed in a simple shift and slippers. “Did I miss any-thing?”

Vahanian sighed in jest. “Don’t you have lessons or something?”

Berry fixed him with a dour look. “Of course I have lessons. I’ve finished my lessons for today. And I think we’ve all seen the need for a princess to defend herself.” The mischievous twinkle in her eye showed how much she enjoyed her verbal jousts with Vahanian. “Carroway has graciously agreed to continue my knife throwing lessons.” She twitched her right hand, and a blade fell out of her sleeve into her palm. “Besides,” she complained, sounding every bit the ten year-old princess that she was, “lessons are boring. You’re making history.”

As they day wore on, they trained with swords and in hand-to-hand combat.

When darkness fell, Mikhail joined them. Mikhail made a challenging sparring partner, combining the speed of a vayash moru with battle skills of a style two hundred years in the past. What Carroway lacked in strength he made up for in agility and a true eye for aim. With his blue-black long hair and his long-lashed, light blue eyes, Carroway was a favorite of the ladies, with good looks that were almost beautiful. That made his dead-on aim with a dagger even more unexpected. Jae fluttered down to join Kiara in a practice round, feinting and flying at her opponent, but careful to draw in his razor-sharp talons. When the little gyre-gon tired, Berry was happy to welcome him onto her lap, where he curled up, satisfied with the treats she always seemed to have in a pocket of her robe. Although Jae could be mistaken at court as a pet, Vahanian had seen gyregons in battle, and knew that they were as fast as a falcon and more dangerous.

“You’re improving,” Vahanian said to Soterius as they lowered their swords, sweating hard after a practice bout.

Soterius grimaced. “You know, every time you say that, I really want to punch you.”

Vahanian raised an eyebrow. “You can try. But I’ve won the last three rounds.”

Soterius was the same height and had the same reach as Vahanian, but where Vahanian was lean and muscular, Soterius was stocky. That difference gave Vahanian an edge with agility and Soterius an edge with strength. Vahanian, ten years older and with more battle experience than either Soterius or Tris, was a master of practical tactics. Soterius, like Kiara, was largely salle-trained, without Vahanian’s rough-and-tumble experience. Unlike Kiara, Soterius had difficulty leaving behind the rules.

Soterius grinned. “Don’t forget—we’ve got climb-ing practice after this. Your favorite.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

The group ate a cold supper before they under-took the second part of their training. The lower regions of Principality were gently rolling hills, so they made do with the tallest thing at hand: the inside of the great bell tower in the castle yard, and riggings affixed to the tallest beams in the high-ceilinged salle.

Given the snows that blanketed the countryside nearly thigh-deep, they trained in the salle. The rough salle walls served for practice, and the rigging that secured Vahanian across his chest and looped between his legs was attached to a rope that ran through a pulley affixed to the high beams of the salle ceiling. The rope was fastened to a winch of Soterius’ devising so that they could be secured as they climbed up or hoisted to the roof and left to climb down with some assurance that a misstep would not be fatal. Vahanian cursed under his breath as he secured his riggings, working the stiff rope into tight knots.

“Curse louder, and it can count for both of us,” Kiara groused, struggling to secure a foothold on the rough wall. It made her fingers bleed, and seemed to defy a solid toe hold for her boots.

Carroway and Berry cheered from the floor as Mikhail and Gabriel climbed effortlessly alongside them, clinging to the wall or hanging in midair with the vayash moru’s unsettling ability to levitate.

“Tell me again why you can’t just fly us wherever we need to go,” Vahanian grumbled as the rough rock opened another cut on his calloused fingers and he struggled for a grip.

“For one thing, it’s possible that Arontala has spelled Shekerishet against other vayash moru.” Gabriel stayed in place without any apparent effort as Vahanian’s arms ached from holding onto the

wall. “It’s more likely that he has his own fledglings standing guard, and that I’ll be needed elsewhere, for defense.” He smiled, showing his eye teeth. “And I’m told that mortals find such transport unsettling.”

“Try me.” The rock to which Vahanian clung slipped from his grasp and he nearly lost his foot-ing.

Vahanian heard a rush of air, saw a blur faster than sight could follow, and then felt two impossi-bly powerful arms close around his chest in a crushing grip.