Dark Lady's Chosen (19 page)

When Gabriel told the Blood Council about his dreams, we saw no reason to stop him from finding Jonmarc, although privately, some of us had our doubts. When we saw Jonmarc’s capabilities, Gabriel’s vision seemed possible. Now, I no longer know what to think.”

Tris groaned and opened his eyes. His left arm ached to the bone. The pain from the mage’s spells was gone, but it left him feeling completely drained. He raised a hand to his face, expecting to feel blistered skin. The blisters were gone, but the new skin was tender to the touch.

“Esme, he moved.”

Coalan moved into Tris’s field of vision. The young man smiled, and Tris could see relief in his eyes. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you.” Tris remembered little of what happened after he returned from his battle with the mages, but the image of Coalan braving his blind rage was clear in his mind.

Coalan shrugged uncomfortably. “You weren’t in the mood for conversation. I thought a voice you remembered from the old days might do the trick.”

The old days.
Just over a year ago, when Bricen ruled and Tris’s mother and Kait still lived.

When he had been just a spare prince happy to be as far from the palace as he could get.

When Margolan was prosperous and at peace. A time that seemed so far away as to be in children’s stories of long ago.

“The battle?”

“A stalemate.” The voice was Senne’s. “Fallon told me that you would be waking up, and she guessed you’d want a report.”

Tris managed a weak smile. “How bad was it?”

He heard resignation in Senne’s voice. “Bad. Palinn’s dead. That leaves Rallan and I until you’re up and about. We lost several hundred men in the battle—the monster you fought wasn’t the only one they turned loose on us. But we’ve hurt them. Wivvers’ infernal machine worked better than we hoped. Our
vayash moru
couldn’t get too close with all the fire flying around, but from what we could see, everything that could burn inside Lochlanimar is gone.

We took quite a few men off their walls as well.”

Tris knew from Senne’s pause that there was more, something else the man was loath to add. “And?”

“We’ve got another five hundred men dead or dying from that damned plague Curane’s blood mages sent us. And it’s spread beyond the camp. I sent men on a scouting trip and they came back with the report that the two closest villages were full of corpses when they went to barter for wood and food. There’d been some contact—beggars, camp followers, even some merchants desperate for a bit of coin. But it’s gone beyond the ranks, so it’s anyone’s guess whether there were villagers who fled before the sickness took them. And if they did, they’ve most likely carried it with them.”

Plague. The word chilled Tris. He’d heard his grandmother’s stories of the last great plague, back when she was a young girl. How disease and death had stalked across the Winter Kingdoms, relentless in its grip. No one could number how many died in that last horror.

With this year’s scanty harvest, a new plague would find its prey weak and vulnerable. And now that it had escaped the battlefield, the pestilence wouldn’t stop until it burned itself out.

“What about Soterius?”

“I’m here. And believe it or not, I’m in better shape than you are.”

Tris turned his head at his friend’s voice, and despite the way his body ached, he smiled broadly. Soterius was sitting up in a chair facing him. He looked drawn and haggard, but he was alive. “It’s good to see you up and around.”

Soterius looked chagrined. “‘Up’ is a relative statement. If you mean, ‘not flat on my back,’

then yes. If you mean ‘ready to fight,’ then no. I went out into the daylight just to make sure I wasn’t undead, and I didn’t catch on fire. So I’m alive, thanks to you and Trefor.”

Tris tried to shift his weight and pain flashed through his left arm. He grimaced.

“Your arm’s healing, but it’s going to be painful for some time,” Esme said. “You broke it when you fell. I’ve set it and splinted it, but it’s still going to require time.”

Tris remembered Jonmarc’s convalescence after the battle with the Obsidian King. “At least it’s not my sword arm,” he said, allowing Fallon to help him sit. He turned back to Senne and Soterius. “How many more strikes do you think Curane can take? And more to the point—how long do you think we can keep up the siege?”

Senne was silent for a moment. “When you’re up to it, I think you should call Tabok and the ghosts from Lochlanimar. Our
vayash moru
have made a few reconnaissance forays, and the situation is grim. The commoners are dead with plague or weak with hunger. Curane may have access to food and water inside his keep, but the villagers are hungry. We’ve given his forces a pounding, between the bombardments and the havoc that your ghosts have caused. The
vayash

moru
have run night raids when they can. That Curane’s troops haven’t countered more effectively tells me that he’s running out of things to burn to hold the
vayash moru
off.”

“And our side?”

Senne cursed. “Unfortunately, we’re not much better off. It’s the coldest month of the year, and this year seems to be colder than usual. Firewood is scarce. We’ve run out of rocks to make cairns for the dead, but the ground’s too cold to dig. The mages have helped us make ice mounds over the corpses to keep out the carrion-eaters and stave off more sickness.”

He paused. “We can sustain an encampment longer than we can effectively bombard Lochlanimar. We’re low on munitions, except for swords and pikes, which don’t help when the other side’s behind a stone wall. I stopped counting how many times our trebuchets and theirs just hurl the same rocks back and forth. Whoever built that wall built it well. It’s taken a pounding. We’ve breached it in a few places, but not the inner walls. And our army is in no shape for a frontal assault.”

“Food and supplies?”

“Erratic.” Senne shrugged. “I took the liberty of handling the packet that came from Crevan while you were indisposed. There was nothing of a personal nature,” he hurried to add at the look Tris gave him. “Crevan did say that the quartermaster was finding it difficult to stock the requests—seems things are tighter than usual even in the palace city. Of course, that letter was over a week old by the time it made it here, given the bad storms and the way the roads are. He may have more shipments on the way since then.”

“Or there may be even less for the next wagons,” Tris supplied, trying to hide his disappointment that no message had come from Kiara.

“The scouts have stripped the land bare between here and the caravan road,” Senne said.

“What our side didn’t take, Curane had already looted, preparing for the siege. I’ve even sent men south toward the Trevath border looking for supplies. Goddess help us; everything’s scarce this year.”

That meant famine, Tris knew. Famine and plague together, on top of the damage Jared caused, would be bad. But if his army failed to destroy Curane’s rebels, the prospect of war with Trevath might be enough to break what remained of Margolan’s forces. And that, he knew, would draw the rest of the Winter Kingdoms into a conflict that could destabilize everything.

For the first time, Tris saw Fallon standing at the back of his tent. “Ask the mages to come.

I’d like Beyral to scry again. We need to prepare for another strike. If I’ve recovered, then any

damage I did to Curane’s mages is likely to be undone. The battle may go to whoever makes the next move.”

Tris turned back to Senne. “See if you can get a final count on our readiness. Men, weapons, anything Wivvers has up his sleeve. I need to know what we’ve got to go up against Curane again. And if you’ve been holding back any brilliant strategies for a dramatic finish, now would be a good time to put them on the table.”

Senne gave a tight-lipped smile that did not reach his eyes. “I’ll see if I can find one, Your Majesty.” He gave a perfunctory bow and ducked from the tent.

Esme eyed Tris critically. “I had hoped you’d have the good sense to rest before pushing yourself like this.”

“We don’t have time. If we win, there’ll be time to rest later. And if we don’t—well, I can rest when I’m dead.”

“Cheery, aren’t we?” Esme shook her head. “I’d tell you to take it easy for a day, but I know you won’t. Pity I don’t have time to stand guard and enforce that request, but I’m due to visit the infirmary and see what I can do to keep the sickness from spreading.” The tent flap flared in the wind behind her as she exited.

Tris avoided Fallon’s eyes. Now that the heat of battle was behind him, the horror of what he had done filled him with guilt.
It’s forbidden to draw on the souls of the living for power.

Goddess help me! I won’t repeat Lemuel’s folly, excusing myself the unforgivable because it
was expedient. What I did is no better than the blood mages. I’ve tainted my soul, maybe
risked the wrath of the Lady against Margolan. And I have no idea how to make atonement,
or if I even can.

“It’s the potion I gave you that’s making you functional right now,” Fallon said tartly. “Push too far too fast, and even my remedies won’t get you on your feet.” Her tone softened. “You have a few candlemarks until Senne returns. We would all benefit if you would rest.”

Tris sighed and let her help him lie down again. Soterius stood and clapped a hand on Tris’s shoulder. “I may not be in full fighting shape, but I can help Senne with his report, and it might do the troops some good to see that I’m up and around. I want to see the shape of things for myself. Perhaps I can make a suggestion or two that’s worth something for the next strike.” He slipped from the tent, leaving Tris alone with Fallon.

“I’m not a mind healer like Taru, but it doesn’t take one to know that something’s wrong.

What happened when you disappeared?”

Fighting down his shame, Tris recounted the battle in the Nether. He slowed as he came to the final confrontation. “I knew I couldn’t hold out against all three of them much longer,”

Tris said quietly, refusing to meet Fallon’s eyes. “And I knew that with the death wards set, my only hope of getting out was to have enough of my power left to leave my body and be able to return to it.” He swallowed, knowing that none of his excuses made his actions acceptable. “I snapped their life threads and drew on their souls’ energy,” he said quietly.

“I’ve broken my vows as a light mage. Dark Lady take my soul, I know what happened to Lemuel. I won’t bring that horror down on Margolan.” He knew she could hear the self-reproach that was thick in his voice. “I failed.”

Fallon was silent for a moment, regarding him. “Do you judge the
vayash moru
, when they drink the blood of the enemy in battle?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you believe there’s a
vayash moru
in existence who hasn’t—at least once—drained an innocent, by accident or in hunger?”

“Probably not.”

“You know what’s at stake in this war. And you know that Margolan can’t afford to lose you as king. The war to govern the succession would tear it apart—and with it, the Winter Kingdoms. Like the
vayash moru
, you used your defenses. There was no good choice.”

“I did something unforgivable.”

Fallon’s expression softened, and she laid a hand on his arm. “Every soldier who kills snaps a life thread. They just can’t see it happening the way you do. Every death in battle makes the victor stronger at the expense of the loser. You didn’t make the first strike. You were defending yourself. It was three against one.”

“It was wrong.”

Fallon took a deep breath. “Running a man through the heart with a sword is wrong, too.

But it’s what happens on a battlefield. Margolan needs you as its king, Tris. You have to survive. Curane’s mages left you no choice. In that situation, you had to use every weapon available to you—including the full scope of your powers. What makes you different from the blood mages, from Lemuel, is what you do with your magic off the battlefield. At the end, with the Obsidian King in control of his body, Lemuel routinely fed from souls outside of battle. In as much as the Lady can ever forgive any of the pain we cause in war, I don’t think that you’ve compromised your magic—or your soul.”

Tris closed his eyes, wishing he could believe her. “The more I learn about my magic, the more I fear the choices Grandfather had to make. I see how easy it is to lie to yourself about why you do what you do, and what a dangerous thing this power really is.”

“Men who understand that are rarely the ones who become monsters,” she said quietly.

“Now—before I have to heal you again, rest. It’s not long before the meeting.”

Tris wanted to argue, but he could feel his newly healed body protesting. If he were to have any hope of actually being part of the battle, he knew he needed to regain his strength. He accepted a fresh dose of pain medicine, and let himself drift into a few candlemarks of uneasy sleep.

Sheer willpower enabled Tris to be dressed and seated at the campaign table in his tent before the generals and the mages arrived. Only Coalan knew how difficult it had been for Tris to manage, and Tris was certain Coalan would keep the secret that right now, Margolan’s king could barely stand. Soterius was back in uniform, although by the way he carried himself, Tris was certain that his friend’s injuries still pained him. Senne, Soterius and Rallan were already seated when Fallon entered the tent. Behind her were Vira and Beyral, who quickly took their seats. Trefor joined them a few moments later.

Tris raised his hands, palms out, and closed his eyes, summoning the last members to the table. The air inside the tent grew even colder than it had been on this winter night, and a faint green glow gradually solidified. Tabok and two other ghosts stood before them, almost solid enough to touch.

Senne repeated the report he had given to Tris. The others listened in silence as Esme gave an update on the number of sick, injured and battle-ready troops. Less than two-thirds of his original army remained in any shape to fight. The group looked to Trefor for his reconnaissance update.