Dark Haven (12 page)

Tris had done his best to prepare himself during the long ride. Candles would be difficult with the autumn wind, so Tris decided upon a token element instead to set the wardings, with handfire as a focus.

The soldiers drew back to permit Tris to pass among them. He directed the guards to make a small pile of rocks. On this rough altar, Tris set out honey cakes and a flask of ale to honor the Goddess. When Tris reached the edge of the field, he drew his sword as an athame and made the sign of the Lady.

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Tris felt power gathering around him as the wardings rose. He set a warding over the soldiers and the audience, and called a second warding around himself. When the wardings were in place, Tris called hand fire and focused on the pure, cold, blue flame that rested in his palm. He closed his eyes. As his concentration grew deeper, he extended his mage sense, inviting the spirits of the dead to come from their exile and join him. Tris could feel their energy all around him. As they began to manifest, the intensity of their feelings grew.

Tris opened his eyes. At least two hundred ghosts stood before him. He had expected a village, perhaps thirty or forty. But this! The dead were of every age—elders, young children, men, and women. They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching him, waiting. It was clear that while some had been hanged, most had perished by the sword.

“I can’t restore to you the life that was taken,” Tris said to the spirits. “The usurper is dead. On my soul, no one will harm the villagers of Margolan while I live. You have the word of the king.”

“We would make our peace with those who live,” said the spirit of an old man.

“Have I your word that you’ll harm no one?” Tris asked. The spirits nodded.

Tris expended more magic, enough to assure that the families of the Scirranish who huddled together on the outskirts of the field could see the revenants. A collective gasp told Tris he had been successful. He watched as the spirits moved among the living. The families cried out in recognition, sagging to the ground in grief or clinging to each other sobbing. Some of the soldiers stepped forward to greet loved ones, unashamed of the tears they shed. “Would you go to your rest now?” Many of these spirits had. rallied to Tris’s summons during the rebellion. Drawing on Tris’s magic, they made themselves visible to Jared’s soldiers, attacking the marauding troops.

Now, their vengeance complete, the ghosts’ anger was spent.

When he had the spirits’ agreement, Tris stretched out his hands toward the ghosts and spoke the words of power. The image of the Lover impressed itself in his mind, arms stretched forth in 98

welcome, offering healing and succor. As the spirits began to wane, Tris felt them make the passage over. When the last had passed, he closed the energy behind them. Soterius had a cup ready for him and pressed it into his hands. Tris’s hands shook as he accepted the brandy and downed it in one swallow. The Scirranish gathered around them.

“Your Majesty,” Sahila said, bowing low. Behind him, the others did the same until Tris motioned for them to rise. “We offer our thanks and our loyalty. Your gift is beyond price.”

“What was stolen from you can’t be replaced,” Tris replied. “But your loved ones rest with the Lady. They’re at peace.”

Sahila made a sign of blessing. “You and your soldiers may sleep without fear tonight, my king.”

Tris inclined his head. “Thank you.” When the families of the Scirranish withdrew to their encampment, the soldiers returned to their evening chores, and Soterius appeared at Tris’s side.

“Are you sure you’re up to going to Hunt‐wood?” Soterius asked, refilling Tris’s cup and guiding him to a seat. “You look like you’re going to fall over.”

“Really? Then I’m doing better than I thought.” The night was chill. He startled as a soft footfall came on the other side, and looked up to see Mikhail.

The vayash moru bowed. “We’ve secured the forest’s edge. The wolves won’t disturb you.” He glanced over at Soterius. “I promised Ban that I would come to Huntwood with him. A dozen of my family’ are already waiting there. They, too, lost loved ones. You’ll be safe there.”

Tris looked into the dark amber liquid in his the struggle to retake the throne, he had not acquired a taste for brandy. Now, it was the surest way to a peaceful sleep. “I wonder how many 99

more there are.”

“Of what?” Soterius replied.

Tris motioned toward the field. “Places like this. Massacres.”

“A lot, I’d bet.”

Coalan and another young man came forward with their horses. Tr‐is exchanged glances with Soterius. “Are you ready?”

“It’s time. Let’s go.”

Half a dozen soldiers and as many vayash moru fell in behind Tris and Soterius as they rode for the manor. Coalan looked pale and nervous. Tris gasped as Huntwood Came into sight. The manor house was a ruined shell. In the moonlight, Tris could see where fire had burned the casements around the shattered windows. The sky was visible through holes in the roof. A burly man stepped through the manor’s doorway.

“Thank you for coming, your majesty,” he said with a bow. Tris swung down from his horse and greeted Danne, Soterius’s brother‐in‐law, with an embrace.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t come sooner,” Tris said. All around him, he could feel the press of familiar spirits. Bricen had been fond of the hunt, as had Soterius’s father. Bricen and Tris had spent many weeks at Huntwood. The manor was as familiar to Tris as Shekerishet.

“Where would you like to do the working?” Tris asked.

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“In the garden,” Danne replied. “We haven’t made as much progress on the house as we’d like, but Anyon and I got the worst of the mess in the garden cleaned up. It’s quiet there.”

Anyon, Lord Soterius’s groundskeeper and the only living witness to the massacre, waited for them in the garden. Tris looked across the once‐manicured garden and past it to fields that should have been high with grain. Even with Danne’s care, the garden showed where the soldiers had trampled the plantings and uprooted the beds. Below on the hillside was the stone fence, only partly rebuilt. The fields were empty. Beneath the trees were the barrows where Danne, Anyon, and Coalan had buried their dead.

Tris moved down the steps toward the rear lawn of the manor house, motioning the others to remain where they were. Coalan moved closer to his father, and Danne laid a hand on his shoulder. Tris opened himself to the magic. The spirits obeyed his summons. Lord Soterius, a round, stout man, bore a deep wound where a sword had run him through. Lady Soterius had a knife gash in her chest. Tae, Soterius’s sister and Coalan’s mother, stood with her murdered children, all of whom looked to have been trampled. Servants came, bearing the scars of fire.

Soterius’s three older brothers, Caedmon, Innes, and Murin appeared, each stabbed multiple times, their necks still red with the mark of the noose.

Tris felt the spirits’ anger and sorrow. Blinding flashes of their memories seared through him. Soldiers in the livery of the king, breaking down the door, running Lord Soterius through. Lady Soterius, fleeing toward the gardens, only to face more soldiers coming from the back. Terror, as Tae and the children fled toward the woods with the sound of pounding hoof beats growing ever closer behind them. All‐consuming fire as the manor burned, trapping servants between the flames and the soldiers’ swords. Tris sent his power to the revenants to appear without their death wounds. Lord Soterius’s ghost approached him. “I am so sorry,” Tris said. Lord Soterius’s ghost took Tris’s hand in his own and knelt in fealty.

“I know you are, m’boy,” Lord Soterius said. “There was nothing you could have done.”

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“Father—” Ban Soterius’s voice was a strangled cry. Lord Soterius rose. “Welcome home,” Lord Soterius said. “I never meant to bring this on you,” Soterius said. “Anyon told me what the soldiers said—”

Lord Soterius shook his head. “I never believed the soldiers. I want you to know that. I know my son. Reckless, yes,” he said with a sad smile. “A traitor? Never.”

Lady Soterius joined them and placed a spectral arm around Ban’s shoulders.

“The night you came back to the manor, we saw and heard everything,” Lady Soterius said. “And although our spirits can’t move beyond our lands, we watched over you as best we could.” Lady Soterius brushed her hand across Ban’s face. “We’re proud of what you did, helping Tris escape and take back the throne.”

“But I cost.all of you your lives!”

Lord Soterius shook his head. “Our lot was cast as soon as Jared took the crown. He’d have come for us one way or t’other. Bricen and I were too close for him to dare let me live.”

Tae, Ban’s sister, was as beautiful in death as she had been in life, with long, chestnut hair and wide brown eyes. Coalan had her curly hair and her smile. Danne’s broad shoulders shook with tears. Coalan looked too grief‐stricken to cry as his sisters and brothers crowded around him. To the side, Anyon spoke in low tones with the dozens of servants whose ghosts rose from the fields and the wreckage of the manor house. Tris glanced at Mikhail. The vayash moru stood apart, out of respect for the family’s grief. And while Mikhail shed no tears, Tris thought that the vayash moru looked more troubled than Tris had ever seen him. He wondered about Mikhail’s own long‐lost ghosts.

After a while, the voices grew silent. Lord Soterius’s ghost left the knot of family gathered 102

around Ban and approached Tris.

“Would you go to your rest now?” Tris asked.

Lord Soterius looked back at his wife, who nodded, and to Tae, who stood between Danne and Coalan with a ghostly arm around each. “We’ve had some time to think about this. Anyon and Danne told us about your being a Summoner and all. We talked it over and we’re agreed. We’d like to stay on, watch over the place. If that’s all right with the new lord of the manor,” he said with a wink toward Ban.

Ban Soterius exchanged glances with Danne and Coalan, and then took a step toward his father.

“This will always be your home,” Ban promised. “I didn’t dare ask, but yes, I want you to stay.”

Tris fought a pang of remembered pain, recalling his own sorrow as his mother and sister parted from him forever, choosing their rest with the Lady. In Coalan’s eyes, Tris could see a measure of peace, and the boy managed a sad smile. “Please stay,” Coalan said quietly.

“Then be at peace here,” Tris said. “I can’t give you back your lives, but I can grant you the ability to be seen.” He gestured, and fiery letters wrote themselves on the manor house wall, glowing without smoke, and fading to become unmarked stone once more. “I’ll leave a sigil so that you can make yourselves seen when you wish.”

Lord Soterius knelt, as did his sons and the ghosts of his servants. “As I was to your father, so also to you, my king,” the spirit said, reaching out as if to take Tris’s hand and kiss his signet ring in fealty.

“Thank you,” Tris said. “And thank you for your loyalty to Bricen. He was never happier than 103

here at Huntwood, in pursuit of a great stag!”

Lord Soterius’s ghost rose, and a twinkle came into his eye. “Since we’re both dead now, I guess that means my record stands. I was one stag to the better at the end of last season, though Bricen had a boar to his credit. Pity when I can’t even enjoy the bottle of port we wagered!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

A WEEK later, Tris listened to the evening bells and tugged at the collar of his tunic. A fine cape of gray velvet lined with midnight blue satin lay across a chair where he had tossed it. A crown awaited him downstairs. He was dressed for court in a velvet and brocade outfit in deepest gray, with his long, white‐blond hair pulled back in a queue. It was just after dusk on the evening of Haunts.

The image of his father and mother leading last year’s procession burned bright in Tris’s memory. It had been the last time he had seen them alive. Taking his father’s place in the rituals and feast days made Tris feel their absence all the more sharply. Right on time, Soterius, Carroway, and Harrtuck arrived at his door to accompany him to the great room. From the looks on their faces, Tris knew their thoughts

were similar. One year ago this night, they had fled for their lives together. Now, as they headed for the great room and the ceremonies of the evening, Tris took comfort in having his friends around him.

Zachar was waiting for them just around the corner from the top of the main stairs to the 104

common room.

“My liege!” the white‐haired official called. “I was beginning to worry.”

Tris laid a hand on Zachar’s arm. “These three didn’t let anything happen to me a year ago.

Surely we’re safer tonight.”

“Let’s hope so.” Zachar opened a wooden box that lay on a nearby table, and withdrew one of the formal crowns of Margolan. It was not the crown Bricen had been wearing when he was murdered. The more opulent crown Jared had fashioned, Tris had melted down for coinage. This was a new crown, forged for Tris’s coronation to his own specifications. It was austere, relying on a finely worked design in silver and gold rather than a heavy crust of jewels.

The real weight comes from the responsibility, not the crown itself, Tris thought as Zachar fussed to get the crown just right.

“You look every inch your father’s son,” Zachar praised.

“Thank you. I keep thinking that I catch glimpses of Mother and Father out of the corner of my eye,” Tris confessed. “And Kait. She was so happy to dress as a falconer last year.”

“Your sister was happy to dress as a falconer at any opportunity,” Zachar said fondly. “And I don’t think your mother ever looked more beautiful. Perhaps tonight, a Summoner can lay his own ghosts to rest?”

“That’s one of the reasons I wanted to wait for the wedding. I wanted to get through this anniversary. I thought it would make a new beginning easier.”

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“My liege!” Tris and Zachar looked up at Crevan, Zachar’s assistant. The thin, balding man was as nervous as a sparrow as he rushed toward them.

“I’m glad I’m not too late. I didn’t want to miss your entrance into the banquet hall.” Crevan was one of the few at court who was originally born in Isencroft, although as Tris understood it, the man had lived most of his life in Margolan. Crevan had been extraordinarily helpful to Carroway in researching Isencroft foods, fashions, and art. He seemed more likely to burn the candles low in the exchequer’s office examining ledger books than indulge in theatre and music, and Tris had never seen Crevan in the company of anyone outside his role.