Dark Haven (18 page)

“As ready as we’ll ever be.” Cathal, Lord Curane’s seneschal, answered him.

“Except?”

“Sieges are unpredictable things, m’lord. Many things can go wrong.”

“That’s what we have the mages for.”

Cathal pursed his lips, carefully considering his words. “True enough. But it’s easier to be the 152

siege‐bringer than the besieged. Once an army is encamped, our options will be limited.”

Curane’s voice made his annoyance clear. “We have provisions enough for months. The springs beneath the manor give us ample fresh water. The issue isn’t our readiness—it’s theirs. An army’s vulnerable while it sets up camp. We can strike early and take them off.guard. The Margolan army is in tatters; its king is barely more than a boy. ”

“He’s a Summoner.” General Drostan’s gravelly voice commanded attention. “Martris Drayke did, after all, defeat King Jared’s armies and Foor Arontala. He overcame the Obsidian King and laid the spirits of the Ruune Videya forest to rest. It would be dangerous to underestimate him.”

Curane frowned. “Mage or not, he can die. All the better if he falls before his own army, so that they can see his defeat. Once Margolan’s here, we can chip away at them at our leisure.”

“This is business, gentlemen. Defeat the boy‐king of Margolan, and Jared’s son takes the throne.

While he’s a child, Margolan will need regents. We’ll rule Margolan until he comes to the throne—and afterward, through a puppet of our own making.”

Drostan leaned back. “Your man in Margolan failed.”

Curane dismissed the comment. “We’ve shown Drayke’s vulnerability. And we’ve neatly planted the seed that Trevath may be behind the attempt. So we may yet nudge our reluctant King Nikolaj into action.”

Drostan frowned. “Play the Trevath card with care, Curane. King Nikolaj and Lord Monteith might strike a side bargain that you don’t like.”

“Let me worry about Lord Monteith.”

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“Neither Isencroft nor Dhasson would allow Trevath to take Margolan unchallenged—for reasons of trade and alliance as well as blood ties. Principality is likely to enter any war on the side of Margolan, and the king of Eastmark is kin to King Martris’s betrothed. A full war beggars us all and invites attack from the Southlands or the Western raiders.”

“Not everyone considers blood ties as lightly as you do.” Cadoc’s voice made the others turn.

The air mage was dressed in gray robes the color of dark fog. His dark red hair looked like a bloody skullcap, giving his skin less color than a fresh corpse.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Curane snapped.

“You had no second thoughts about providing your granddaughter for Jared Drayke’s pleasure when she was barely of marriageable age.”

“I secured a dynasty.”

Cadoc raised one eyebrow. “In the farmlands, men can be stoned for such arrangements. Kings and armies are not so bloodless as you suppose. Isencroft and Dhas‐son may choose war over gold for those blood ties you find so useless. Gold won’t buy everyone.”

“It bought your service, didn’t it?” Curane growled. “And you shed plenty of blood serving Jared Drayke. We’ll see how much blood ties count. Martris Drayke can’t possibly hold out against our mages.”

“What of the Margolan wedding?” Drostan asked.

“I’ve got a man in position at Shekerishet. Not only will there be no heir in Margolan, but more 154

than a few of the king’s guests will go home in pieces. We’ll see how much love the other kingdoms have for Drayke then.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

King Martris Drayke stood on the steps to Shekerishet. The heavy cloak that protected him from the early Fall snows also hid his nervousness. Kiara’s carriages had just arrived from Isencroft, bearing King Donelan, the princess, and her retinue. A lone figure stood on one of the castle balconies. Jonmarc. He and Gabriel had arrived from Dark Haven two nights before, on the eve of the heavy snows that now blanketed the Margolan landscape. Tris had stayed up late with them, talking over a bottle of brandy.

Soterius pushed the crowd back from the reception, keeping the well‐wishers beyond bow range. The pomp Tris hated about kingship swirled around him. Zachar had worn himself ill making certain everything was perfectly according to protocol. Crevan, Zachar’s assistant, had to take over to give Zachar a needed rest before the wedding. Carroway was beside himself with the sudden change, and his nervousness added to Tris’s apprehension.

Heralds blew their trumpets as King Donelan’s carriage approached. Every element was like an elaborately staged play, including formal greetings that satisfied protocol but felt stilted and awkward. As if I didn’t have enough to be nervous about, meeting Kiara’s father for the first time!

King Donelan was tall and gaunt, but his walk was purposeful. “Greetings, King Donelan,” Tris said. “Welcome.”

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“Hail, King Martris. Your welcome is accepted.”

Their eyes met. Tris felt his stomach knot.

“I trust your journey was uneventful?”

“Fortunately so.” He gestured toward the waiting carriages. “May I present my daughter, Princess Kiara.”

Trumpets blared. The crowd moved forward for a look at the princess. Despite his best attempts to maintain a regal indifference, Tris could not keep from smiling. Two footmen helped Kiara from the carriage, through Tris knew she could swing down from the saddle of a battle steed unassisted. Gone were the tunic and trews Kiara had favored on their journey, as well as her sword. A gown of pale blue showed beneath the white furs of her traveling cloak, brushing the snowy ground as she walked. Her auburn hair was elaborately coiffed, glistening with gems and pearls. She met his eyes, and Tris could tell she also chafed at the formalities.

Donelan took Kiara’s arm. Gathering her skirts, Kiara slowly ascended the stairs, making a low bow as she came two steps below where Tris was standing. “Greetings, your majesty,” she said, head bowed and eyes averted.

So much for being allowed to remain two nobodies from nowhere.

“We are graced by the honor of your presence, your highness,” Tris replied, extending his hand for Kiara to clasp as she rose to stand. If she startled at the note that he passed to her in his palm, her face gave away nothing, although he thought he saw a glitter of amusement in her eyes.

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“Come in, warm yourselves, and be comfortable,” Tris welcomed them. The other carriages were now unloading their passengers, and Tris glimpsed Cam and Carina among the entourage.

He was certain he saw Carina glance toward where Jonmarc stood, but by then, Crevan was leading the way into Sheker‐ishet. Compared to all this nonsense, I almost prefer rappelling in from the top, the way we did when we fought fared. Storming the castle was easier than satisfying the diplomats!

“It’s been many years since I visited Sheker‐ishet,” Donelan said as they entered. “Your father was an excellent hunter. I’ve missed him this autumn, when there are stag aplenty in the forest.”

Tris smiled, taking Kiara’s arm. “I don’t think I ever saw father happier than on a hunt. And I know that he enjoyed your hunts together, although I suspect the stag got bigger with each retelling!”

There was no time for private conversation. Crevan led them to a dining room where a table lay glittering with all the formal settings that Jared had not pillaged. Servants bustled around them, seating each person in the order court protocol demanded. Tris hoped that his desire to be done with formalities was not plain in his face.

“Your shoulder is feeling better, I hope?” Donelan asked casually.

Of course Donelan bad heard about the assassin. He’s got spies in Shekerishet, just as Margolan has spies in each of the other kingdoms, friendly or not. It’s just good business—never mind that he’s sending his daughter into a kingdom that’s barely stable.

“Mending well, thank you,” Tris replied.

“Most unfortunate. Such things happen in difficult times,” Donelan replied.

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Tris lifted his goblet, and the others followed his lead. “To peace and prosperity.”

“To peace and prosperity.”

When the meal finally ended, Tris felt relieved. Cam grinned at him and surreptitiously tapped a flask at his belt, an invitation for Tris to stop by for a drink when time permitted.

King Harrol of Dhasson made a less formal entrance, as boisterous as Tris recalled from his fostering. Seeing his aunt, Queen Jinelle, Bricen’s sister, made Tris feel a sudden pang of loss.

Jinelle had Bricen’s eyes and her laugh reminded Tris so much of Bricen that it brought a tear to his eye.

“There you are! Look at you. A king. I shudder to think.” Jair Rothlandorn of Dhasson slapped Tris on the back.

“Glad you made it. You look very official,” Tris said, taking in Jair’s well‐tailored clothing and the circlet that marked him as the Dhasson heir to the throne. “Don’t tell me you’ve become a responsible member of the royal family.”

Jair was just as tall as Tris but stockier, and although Jair’s features showed his Dhassonian heritage, there was no mistaking the family resemblance. “Spent the last year fighting those bloody magicked beasts out on the border.” Tris saw a fresh scar across Jair’s right cheek. “Heard tell they were meant for you.”

“We met up with a few of them ourselves.”

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“So where’s your bride‐to‐be? I came prepared with plenty of stories from your fostering.

Father says he can add a few of his own. Although,” he said with a conspiratorial glance toward King Harrol, “truth be told, father never really knew the best ones.”

Tris laughed. Jair, just two years older, had shared Tris’s love for adventure, much to King Harrol’s chagrin. “I’ll introduce you to Kiara at the reception. By then it’ll be too late.”

Jair clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve heard some of what you had to go through to free Margolan. I’m sure the news that reached Dhasson is only half the story. I’m sorry about Uncle Bricen, Aunt Serae, and Kait.”

“Thanks.” Tris managed a sad smile. “Now, get going before you miss the entertainment.

Carroway will never forgive me if I hold up the guests.”

King Staden and Princess Berwyn arrived from Principality before nightfall. “The least a mage of your power could do is magic‐up some better weather!” Staden joked, embracing Tris like a son.

“Won’t be too long before the mountain passes close altogether. Of course, I guess it assures you that your northern company won’t stay too long.”

“Is Jonmarc here?” Berry asked. She was dressed for court in a gown of dark green Mussa silk accented with pearls. A fine headpiece of gold mesh covered her auburn hair. It was difficult to look at the young lady on Staden’s arm and remember the tomboy captive Tris and his companions had freed from the slavers less than a year ago.

Tris laughed. “Yes, he’s here. And I imagine Carina won’t mind too awfully much if you claim a dance or two with him. Just between us, I think Jonmarc’s going to propose to her any day now.”

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Berry beamed and clapped, forgetting herself enough to give a little hop of glee. “I hope you’re right!” She returned the conspiratorial whisper. “You know, Kiara and I have been working on that project for a while now.”

“I never doubted it for a moment,” Tris replied.

“Your majesty,” Crevan interrupted as Tris greeted a long line of well‐wishers. Tris caught Carroway’s eye, signaling for the musicians to begin early. “We have unexpected guests.”

“Who?”

“King Kalcen of Eastmark—and his entire retinue,” Crevan replied.

“That’s a first, isn’t it?”

“King Radomar, Kalcen’s father, never forgave Bricen for the marriage pact between Margolan and Isencroft. We’ve had ambassadors in Eastmark, but there’s been no meeting between the crowns of Margolan and East‐mark in over twenty years. We issued the invitation out of politeness, but I never expected them to come.”

Tris drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He wanted nothing so much as the chance to slip off somewhere far removed from the politics of court to talk privately with Kiara. That was unlikely to happen for many hours. “Well, they’re here. Let’s make sure we don’t start another war.”

Tris waited outside of the great hall until Crevan and the heralds properly announced his arrival.

He was nervous at the prospect of meeting Kalcen. Eastmark was, if not exactly secretive, 160

intensely private. It was well known for its military expertise and did a brisk trade, but its people kept their own counsel. Few outsiders fully understood Eastmark’s ways.

The doors swung open.

“Greetings, King Kalcen,” Tris said with a perfunctory bow.

“Greetings, King Martris,” Kalcen returned. “We would have liked to have arrived sooner, but snow is already deep in Eastmark; The passes were treacherous.”

“Thanks to the Lady in all Her Faces for your safe travel,” Tris replied.

King Kalcen of Eastmark w.as an imposing figure. He stood slightly taller than Tris, among the tallest of the guests in attendance, and he was at least fifteen seasons older. His dark skin, the color of brewed kerif, made it clear that Eastmark’s ruling nobility and unbroken line of kings were descended from the fearsome nomadic warriors of the far Southeastern plains. Long, raven‐black hair framed an angular face. Around Kalcen’s broad shoulders was a cape of black stawar fur. Beneath the cape, Kalcen wore flowing robes of deep ochre, and a clavicle of gold set with large precious gems lay below his throat. Gold glittered on each finger, and wide gold cuffs finely wrought with runes stacked up each arm.

Kalcen’s crown showed a roaring stawar crafted of gold.

The left side of Kalcen’s face was marked with a complicated design tattooed into his skin: a sigil, Tris knew, that told both rank and ancestry. Between the gold cuffs and the ochre sleeves, Tris glimpsed more complicated markings. To prove his worthiness for the crown, Kalcen would have had to endure a series of mystic visions and quests, each more brutal and dangerous than the last. Completing a quest earned him the right to have part of his family’s history tattooed into his skin, a living tapestry and a testament to his endurance, bravery, and strength. Tris thought of all the new scars he had gained in his own quest for the throne. He did not envy Kalcen his 161