The Blood King (9 page)

Without warning, they rushed upward so fast that Vahanian felt his rope snap like twine. They reached the highest peak of the roof and then descended with equal speed; he fought a primal fear of falling and felt his stomach lurch into his throat. His feet touched the ground with a gen-tle thud, and Gabriel released him.

Soterius and Kiara barely hid their snickering as Vahanian tried not to be sick.

“You’ve made your point,” Vahanian said thickly, his knees suddenly unsteady.

“I’ll take my chances on my own, thank you.”

Kiara looked at Gabriel. “The vayash moru have the strength, the speed, and the means to kill beyond any war machine. Yet I can’t recall hearing of a battle where the vayash morn fought—except against the Obsidian King. Why is that?”

Gabriel answered. “Four hundred years ago, a truce was formed between mortals and Those Who Walk the Night. Mortals feared us because they knew that although we were few in number, we had superior strength and speed. Because of that fear, mortals often turned against us, burning our day resting places and destroying us at our most vulner-able. We were hunted and murdered, and when the vayash moru defended themselves or retaliated, it got even worse. So we agreed to allow mortals to fight their own battles. The mortals agreed to stop trying to destroy us. Part of that bargain was that we would not intervene in wars of plunder or expansion. Only for the survival of the Winter Kingdoms, and not the power of a mortal king, have we set aside that agreement. Such was the peril in the Mage Wars, when we helped to defeat the Obsidian King.

Among ourselves, the terms of that truce are stringently enforced.”

Gabriel went on. “And so Mikhail and I believe it is again, should Arontala succeed in raising the Obsidian King from the abyss. But not all of our kind are in agreement.”

Vahanian met Gabriel’s eyes. “So you break the truce. What are they going to do? You’re already dead.”

Gabriel’s eyes held something Vahanian could not read. “Death is not the worst punishment. Pain can continue after death. The penalty for breaking the truce is destruction. At Winterstide, I must make our case before the Blood Council, the ruling body of our kind. If we can persuade them, we may gain powerful allies.

If not,” he exchanged glances with Mikhail, “we’ll deal with those consequences as they arise.”

Under Soterius’s energetic urging, Vahanian and Kiara grew more confident with their climbing, practicing ascents and descents. They practiced until they had memorized the other’s individual rhythms and skills, and then they rehearsed even more, with Soterius devising increasingly difficult trials. On occasion Carroway joined them for fun. The bard’s natural agility annoyed Vahanian, whose own dislike of heights made the exercise gru-eling.

After another candlemark, Carroway took a seat next to Berry to cool down.

“Sorry to leave early, but I promised the court minstrels that I’d help plan the Winterstide festivities. I’m due there before the evening is completely gone.”

The bard grinned as the others dished out good-natured ribbing for his departure. “Sure, sure, you say that now,” he grinned at their teasing. “But when you’re enjoying a glorious Winterstide spec-tacular with the finest music in the Winter Kingdoms, you’ll realize I had my priorities straight!”

Vahanian and the others wrapped up their prac-tice in time for a late snack.

Berry’s lady in waiting came looking for her, and hustled the princess off for bed against her strident objections. Although Vahanian and the others were exhausted from the day’s training, they had little time to rest. Staden had sent word of a war council meeting at the ninth bells, and so while Gabriel took his leave, Kiara, Soterius, Mikhail, and Vahanian did their best to look presentable before heading for the war room.

“I have to admit, I enjoy the salle time more than the strategy sessions,” Kiara said as she and the oth-ers made their way toward the war room. “Sometimes I think we’ll talk ourselves to death!”

Vahanian shrugged. “I’d rather hear the argu-ments now, when there’s time to change the tactics, than later when we’ve got troops in the field.”

Mikhail nodded. “I agree with Jonmarc. Much better to know your strategy—and your enemy— going into war than to change directions with troops on the ground.”

Some days, Staden sent military experts from his army to consult on difficult scenarios. The rest of the time, Vahanian and the others met with leaders of the mercenaries Tris retained for the war against Jared. Tonight, Staden’s spy chief, Hant, promised to bring them a leader from among the Margolan refugees who crowded Principality’s makeshift bor-der camps.

“Good night for a warm mug of ale,” said Harrtuck as he met them at the door.

“Miserable weather out there.”

Vahanian looked askance at Harrtuck. “Missed you at practice today.”

“Yes, well. Might have stayed up a wee bit too late last night, and had a tad more ale than I recall,” Harrtuck said, rubbing his neck.

“The war hasn’t even started yet, and you’re already acting like a merc.”

Harrtuck chuckled. “I’m a bit out of practice. Had a nice comfortable palace job for too long.”

Vahanian, Kiara, and Harrtuck bantered with Soterius and Mikhail in the war room as they wait-ed, jokingly taking bets on Soterius’s ability to climb a local landmark. The door opened, and all joking stopped as Hant stepped briskly into the room, followed by a cowled stranger.

“It’s nasty outside,” Staden’s spymaster remarked, shaking off the snow from his cloak as he set it aside. He gestured toward the man beside him. “I’d like you to meet Sahila.” His companion,

a thin man, was wraith-like in a dark cloak. The hood fell back, revealing Sahila’s badly scarred face.

“You!” The gasp of surprise came from both Sahila and Vahanian at once.

“We were told you died,” Sahila said to Vahanian, falling into Eastmark’s guttural language.

“I nearly did,” Vahanian replied, in heavily-accented Markian.

“How is it you’re here?”

“Long story.”

Kiara cleared her throat. “Although Hant and I are following this, perhaps you’d like to switch back to Common for everyone else?” she prodded in perfect Markian. Vahanian glanced at Kiara. It was the first time he had heard her speak Eastmark’s language. She spoke it fluently, without an accent.

“What mystery is this, I wonder,” Sahila said, “to have a high-born swordswoman in Principality who looks and speaks like a daughter of Eastmark?”

Kiara met his eyes evenly. “I’m Kiara Sharsequin of Isencroft. Daughter of the late Queen Viata, who was sister to your king.”

Sahila bowed low, making a gesture of deference. “A thousand pardons, m’lady.

We could never for-get the beauty of Princess Viata, nor the tragedy of her loss.

May your days be long, m’lady, and may you favor her in both beauty and skill.”

Kiara inclined her head in acceptance, then returned her attention to Vahanian.

“You two know each other?”

Sahila spoke first. “He saved my life, ten years ago, at great cost to himself.”

Vahanian shifted uncomfortably as all but Harrtuck leaned forward to hear the unfamiliar story. Harrtuck exchanged glances with him, and Vahanian drew a deep breath, then shrugged.

“I’m Eastmark born,” said Sahila, addressing first Hant, then the others. “I was hoping to live out a quiet life as a farmer in a village called Chauvrenne. A bad harvest left nothing to pay taxes with. The first time I saw Jonmarc Vahanian, he brought a troop of Eastmark soldiers to our village, demand-ing payment for the king.

“We had nothing to give, and he went away. But there was a shadow over the land in those days,” Sahila said. “A blood mage named Arontala.” He paused to spit and grind the spittle under his heel as a warding against evil. “Arontala corrupted a great general among my people, and turned his head against the king, father to King Kalcen, who now reigns.

“The general sent the soldiers back, and told them to burn us out. But this man, their captain, refused.” Sahila looked at Vahanian, whose expres-sion had become unreadable. “The soldiers warned us to flee, so disgusted by their orders that they buried their uniforms and fled in farmers’ clothes with us.”

“What happened?” Soterius asked quietly, look-ing at Vahanian as if taking his measure anew.

“The general sent more troops to hunt us down,” Sahila said in a bitter voice.

“Many were killed. Vahanian and his troops were run to ground and brought back in chains, as were the villagers, to make an example of us.” He met Vahanian’s eyes, sharing an old, painful memory. “They locked us in a barn, but we could see what they did outside. The general and his mage hanged the soldiers for trea-son—all but their captain.” His voice became quieter. “They locked him in the barn with us, and set it afire. I bear these scars.” He turned his head to show the puckered and discolored skin along one side of his face, and slid the loose sleeve of his robe up to show an equally disfigured arm.

“Together, he and I kicked out a portion of the floor, into the caves below. We saved as many as we could, but there were so many, and the fire was so fast.” He shut his eyes, remembering.

Vahanian looked down, aware that the others were watching him, uncomfortable with the telling of the tale, the scenes that had replayed themselves too often in his dreams. He clasped his hands, sweating.

“When the fire was out, and the general was gone, those of us who survived dug our way out,” said Sahila. He turned to Vahanian. “You left us, headed south toward Margolan. We heard you were taken by Nargi. Then we heard no more.”

“Wasn’t much to tell,” Vahanian said, with a glance toward Harrtuck that quieted anything the other might have added.

“For a while, I fought with the resistance in Eastmark,” said Sahila. “We were ten to their hun-dred. We took a heavy toll and, I believe, stopped Arontala. I grew tired of war, and made my way to Margolan, perhaps more luckily than you.” He directed a faint smile toward Vahanian. “There I raised a family and found a living with my plow. Then Arontala returned, and the fires began again.” The pain was fresh in Sahila’s voice. “This time, I was able to get my family to safety, but many could not. And so, I laid down my plow and raised a sword.

“There are rumors, among the refugees, that Prince Martris survived the coup.

General Hant tells me the rumors are true. I’ve seen what Arontala has done in Margolan, and I’ve seen how King Jared rules. Hant tells me that Prince Martris intends to destroy Arontala and win back the crown. If you believe that Prince Martris can do this, my friend,” Sahila said, “then I’ll give you what help I can.”

“Believe,” said Vahanian. “If there’s anyone who can defeat Arontala, it’s Tris.”

Sahila took his place at the table, and Hant cleared his throat. “I contacted Sahila because he has done on a small scale what Soterius and Mikhail plan for Margolan. Sahila recruited and organized the farmers and townspeople in Eastmark against Arontala’s gen-eral. They were able to harry him enough to stop him from gaining more power.” Hant paused. “Sahila can advise you, connect you to the refugees, guide you through the camps.”

“If you wish to raise an army against Jared and his mage, you’ll find a legion waiting among the refugees,” Sahila promised. “I’ll take you to the camps and the hiding places, and they will show you where the others have fled. I’ll show you how we fought in Eastmark, from the forests and marsh-es, in the mountain passes and the caves, so that we moved as shadows, and couldn’t be driven out by armies a hundred times our size.” He took in Soterius and Mikhail once more.

“You’re both soldiers?” Sahila asked, and they nodded. “Are you willing to forget the rules, to

think like a stawar that stalks his prey, or a falcon that strikes like lightning?

There are no rules in this combat, save honor. Can you fight like a predator without becoming an animal, without hurting your enemy the way he has hurt you, and thus becoming him?”

Soterius met Vahanian’s eyes, and for the first time, Vahanian thought he saw true understanding in the soldier’s gaze. “Yes, I believe so,” Soterius said.

Sahila smiled wolfishly. “Good. Then bring me your maps.”

LATE THAT EVENING, after the eleventh bell, Vahanian slipped out onto one of the small bal-conies that overlooked the courtyard. Even now the bakers and grooms bustled back and forth, their torches and lanterns bobbing in the darkness. For the season the night was mild, and although Vahanian was glad for his cloak, the brisk night air was refreshing. He brushed the snow from a stone bench and leaned back against the wall, drawing a wineskin from beneath his cloak. The wine warmed him but did little to relax his tired muscles or lift his mood.

Seeing Sahila again, hearing his recount of the rout at Chauvrenne, brought back old memories Vahanian preferred to avoid. While Sahila’s story seemed to have further increased Staden’s esteem, and possibly won him grudging regard from Soterius, Vahanian knew it was also likely to replay itself in his dreams for nights to come. Though eight years had passed, Vahanian doubted he would ever be free of those memories. The thud of a gallows trap door—common enough since hangings dou-bled as public entertainment—or the smell of burning hay could bring the memories back in full and twist his stomach into a knot. Memories, Vahanian knew, were just another type of scar.

The sound of footsteps made him reach for his sword. To his surprise, Kiara stepped out onto the balcony, raising her cowl around her head once he had a chance to recognize her. “Mind if I join you?”

Vahanian offered her his seat, and walked over to the railing to look out over the night fires of the city. “Be my guest. But if you want another go in the salle, you’re out of luck. I’ve had it for tonight.”

Kiara chuckled, but it sounded forced. “No thanks. I just came out to get a breath of fresh air and hoped it would clear my mind.”

“Something bothering you?”

Kiara drew her knees up and wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself.

“Homesick, mostly. I’ve never been away from home for Winterstide. I miss father.”