Dark Haven (7 page)

“Is that certain?”

Tris sighed and nodded. “There’s no getting around it, I’m afraid. Sweet Chenne, I wish there were. Father never trusted Lord Curane. He always thought Curane was too friendly with Trevath.” Trevath, Margolan’s neighbor to the south, had a long and bitter history of border disputes and attempts to meddle in Margolan’s affairs. That it shared the kingdom of Nargi’s 54

affection for the Crone, one of the Lady’s dark Aspects, made Trevath even more suspect.

“You think he’s getting support from Trevath? Would Trevath be that bold?”

“Don’t forget—Jared was father’s son with Eldra, and Eldra was from Trevath. Arranged marriage to keep the peace.” Tris made a face.

“You can see how well that worked. So while we don’t have any evidence that Trevath supported Jared’s coup, he might have been able to create an alliance that benefited Trevath through Eldra’s family.

“The generals are suspicious,” Tris said. “That’s their job. We already know Jared tried to ally with Nargi. The only thing Nargi and Trevath hate more than each other is Mar‐golan. We can’t afford to have them team up against us. And it would be like Trevath to take advantage by backing Curane.” He looked into the fire. “What we know for sure is that some of Jared’s top generals—the ones who ordered the village massacres—are being harbored by Curane. The.

Sisterhood believes he’s giving shelter to dark mages. And then there’s Jared’s bastard to worry about.” “Damn.”

Jared had been notorious for his promiscuity. Many of the nobles’ daughters had been among his willing paramours. But Lord Curane had seen a way to profit from Jared’s lusts, and had willingly supplied his own granddaughter, a girl barely of marriageable age, for Jared’s pleasures.

Even before Tris had battled Jared for the throne, rumor had it that Curane had whisked his granddaughter—pregnant with Jared’s child—into hiding. The girl and her newborn son were said to be in Curane’s holdings. That alone was reason enough for war.

“Although I don’t mind being confessor to the king,” Carroway said with a sly grin, “it really isn’t why I came. You’re hard to catch, and your royal wedding planner has a few questions.” Now that he was back in his role as court minstrel, Carroway had lost no opportunity to dress in the sumptuous style that had always been his signature. With Carroway’s blue‐black long hair and long lashes over light blue eyes, the minstrel was handsome almost to the point of beauty. Since 55

Tris was now betrothed, Carroway remained one of the court’s most eligible bachelors.

Tris finished his cup of tea, wishing fervently that he had had another dose of the headache potion.

“Before Soterius comes to get me for the trials, tell me about plans for the wedding. I could use some good news.”

“I found a minstrel troupe that just spent a year in Isencroft, so I’ve got them busy teaching our bards and musicians everything they can about the latest music and the most fashionable dances there. One of them can cook, too, so I’ve gotten him to teach the kitchen staff to make some dishes Kiara might like. Found a merchant with the last caravan who knows what the styles have been there, and promised to design costumes for the entertainers in the Isencroft tradition. As for the food—”

“We can’t justify feasting in the palace when the villagers are hungry. The last thing we need is a revolt. Please, keep the wedding as simple as you can.”

Carroway looked at him in mock exasperation. “I finally get to plan a royal wedding, and I’ve got to watch the budget,” he sighed. “But you’re right: On the other hand, you’re going to have a house full of royalty—we don’t dare look like we’re struggling to pay the musicians.”

“I have no doubt that with you in charge, the musicians will get their pay, and all they can eat besides. Make our guests comfortable. Honor Kiara. But err on the side of dignified austerity instead of fabulous excess, all right?”

“Point taken. Zachar went out of his way to tell me the same thing only yesterday afternoon, but I still want to go over some of the plans with you. I happen to have them right here,” he said, 56

patting a scroll in the pocket of his tunic.

Carroway had no sooner laid out his plans than another knock sounded at the door. The dogs rushed to answer, barking a greeting. “Come in,” Tris called.

Ban Soterius stepped inside. He was dressed in his formal uniform, a general in the Mar‐golan army. Soterius smiled as the dogs rushed at him, tails wagging. He patted them in greeting. “You stay out so bloody late tending to spirits that the living have to wake up at dawn to find you.”

“No way around it,” Tris said, finishing one of the small cakes and pouring another cup of tea. He hoped the food would rid him of the last vestiges of headache. “The ghosts that won’t come to the Court of Spirits still need to be sent to rest. I don’t mind being haunted by friendly ghosts, but I’ve got to rid the palace of the angry ones before Kiara gets here.”

Soterius declined Carroway’s offer of tea. “The guards told me that you barely got up the stairs last night.”

“It’s not just the ghosts. I can still feel traces of Arontala’s blood magic in the dungeons. Power like that leaves a residue—as if the walls remember. There are…bad things…lurking out there.

We’ll need to keep that area sealed off until I can set it right.”

“Can the Sisterhood help?”

Tris shook his head and winced. “Landis clamped down on the Sisterhood after she saw how many of her mages came to help us defeat Jared. If it were up to her, the Sisterhood would stay hidden in their citadels.”

“Would she prefer that we’d left Jared on the throne?”

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“In her mind, if the Sisterhood pulls back from outside life, the world will leave them alone.”

“Not likely.”

Tris shrugged. “Judging from the number of nobles who did nothing to help us take back the crown, I’d say Landis isn’t alone.”

Outside, the bells rang the eighth hour.

“It’s time,” Soterius said.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate this part?”

Soterius ran a hand back through his light brown hair, close‐cropped to fit a soldier’s helm.

“Several times.”

Tris’s valet, Coalan, knocked at the door, and Carroway exited as Tris dressed. Neither Tris nor Soterius spoke as they walked through the corridors with guards ahead and behind them.

Tris’s pulse quickened. Another round of trials for Jared’s generals, followed by the executions of those found guilty by the court. Tris could feel the press of spirits around him as the bailiff announced the arrival of the king. Trumpets blared. Many of those ghosts would soon be witnesses. Two dozen guards created a living barrier between the onlookers and the king. Tris took his throne at the front of the room. This was the fourth day of trials, and the crowd had grown each day. “Bring the first defendant.” Two guards escorted General Kalay into the courtroom. Shackled at the wrists and ankles, Kalay held himself stiffly and shook off the guards.

Even in civilian clothing, his military bearing was unmistakable. He was a balding man, just past his thirtieth season, and his defiant blue eyes showed intelligence. Behind Kalay were ten soldiers, similarly shackled.

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Tris did not need to glance at the paperwork. He had seen Kalay’s work first‐hand.

“General Asis Kalay. You and your men are charged with the murder of Margolan citizens under the orders of Jared the Usurper, a massacre that killed every villager in Rohndle’s Ferry on the banks of the Nu River. How do you plead?”

Kalay met Tris’s eyes. And although Tris could not read minds, everything about the glint in the man’s eyes, his posture, and the slight turn of his lip made it easy to guess his thoughts. Prove it.

“Not guilty, Your Majesty.”

Tris nodded. The bailiff produced a sheaf of parchment, and laid it in front of Kalay. “We have copies of your orders. We have documentation of your route. Do you wish to change your plea?”

“No.”

Tris met Kalay’s eyes. “Then we will call the witnesses.”

The gallery grew still. The temperature in the courtroom fell. As the spectators and jurists watched, a mist began to coalesce in the space between the throne and the defendant’s seat.

The mist began to glow. Gradually, men, women, children, and elders gathered until the ghosts of an entire fishing village stood before the court.

Tris channeled power to the ghosts, and they became more solid. A gasp arose from the gallery, 59

and sobs could be heard from among the Scirranish. The ghosts appeared with their death wounds. Men with skulls split open by battle axes, women and children run through by swords.

Young girls dishonored and beaten. Blind old men and bent old women with the mark of a noose around their necks.

“Villagers of Rohndle’s Ferry,” Tris said. “Tell us how you died.”

Even knowing what would come next, Tris struggled to retain his composure. He had already seen the villagers’ memories of their deaths. Months ago, when he and his companions had made landfall after their journey down the Nu, they had chanced upon this desolate village and found what remained of the corpses. It did not make it easier to hear each person in turn come forward to tell the story.

“Soldiers came to our village in the uniform of the king of Margolan,” said a village elder. Half of his skull was torn away. “They demanded money. We had already paid both first and second taxes—we had no more coin to give. First, they burned our homes. Then they chased down our livestock and our children for sport. They took our daughters into the forest. We heard them screaming.” He looked at Kalay. “This man was their leader. He was angry. He gave the order, and his men set about with their axes and swords. Those who did not die immediately they hanged in the barn. This is the man.”

Kalay’s face was pale. His eyes were wide. Several of Kalay’s soldiers were weeping with their heads in their hands, shaking in fear of judgment.

“Do I need to have the others tell their tale?” Tris struggled to keep his tone civil.

“I did as my king commanded. I followed my orders. I have done nothing wrong.” His lip curled.

“My allegiance is to King Jared.”

So many of the onlookers in the gallery rose to their feet and surged forward that the guards 60

were hard pressed to restore order. In the gallery, the Scirranish muffled their sobbing. Tris met Kalay’s eyes.

“The crown finds you and your men guilty of murder as charged. You’ll be hanged this afternoon.”

“I did nothing wrong,” Kalay snarled. The guards grabbed him by the arms and pushed him toward the door. “Nothing. All who opposed King Jared deserved to die. I have served my king.”

Kalay was still shouting when the door swung shut behind him. Guards dragged Kalay’s condemned soldiers to their feet. Despite their tears, none begged the crown for forgiveness.

When they were gone, Tris looked to the ghosts that still remained in the front of the courtroom. The same village elder who had testified and who had first appeared to Tris in the village approached the throne.

“Thank you, my king. If you would, we’re ready to make the passage. We have seen justice.”

Tris closed his eyes, murmuring the passing over ritual. As he let the images of the wraiths dissipate, he met them in the Plains of Spirit. In the distance, he could hear the soulsong of the Lady. As the spirits passed and bowed in gratitude, Tris could feel their burden lift. The moment passed, and they were gone. Tris returned his attention to the courtroom, where the crowd watched in awestruck silence.

Four days of testimony, Tris thought wearily. Few of the defendants remained as defiant as Kalay once their victims stood in front of them. None of the men presented for trial had been exonerated. The testimony of their victims provided overwhelming evidence. Tris was emotionally and physically exhausted; serving as the conduit of power that made the dead visible and audible to the jury and onlookers. Few realized that while the rest of the assemblage heard the ghosts’ tales, Tris saw the images of their memories, felt their terror and pain, fresh and horrifying. He had found no way to blunt the impact of those images, nor did he fully desire to do so. It would be so easy not to feel. But if I stop feeling, if the decision of life or death loses 61

its pain, then I’m no better than they are. Then it’s nothing but a bureaucratic process, and it demeans the price these people paid.

The executions would come later. Tris dreaded them. As in combat, he could not help but see the spirits of the condemned men twist free of their bodies, to hear their final anguished pleas for the mercy that they did not grant to others. That would be the final judgment—

whether to ease their passage to whichever Aspect came to choose them.

Ten more defendants were brought for trial as the day wore on. In a few cases, living wit‐ nesses provided the damning evidence. More often, ghosts were the only ones left to tell the tale, and the stories were so horrific that some in the gallery fled the room sobbing or retching. Two of the accused men threw themselves on the king’s mercy, and Tris sentenced them to hard labor repairing what was destroyed. Most were like Kalay, still certain that their actions were justified.

As the afternoon shadows stretched long across the courtroom, soldiers brought the last two defendants for judgment. Tris recognized the men from Bricen’s guard, although he could not have put a name to their faces without the warrants handed to him by the bailiff. Tris glanced down through the charges and felt his blood run cold. The two men, Cerys and Meurig, were charged with the murders of Queen Serae and Tris’s sister Kait.

The crowd murmured as the charges were read, and Tris knew that all eyes were on him. He hoped his face was impassive. In a few nights, it would be a year since his family was murdered on Jared’s orders, and while he had made their passage to the Lady, the loss was still fresh.

“Cerys of Alredon and Meurig of King’s City. How do you plead?”

The two men stood to face the king. “Your Majesty,” Cerys stammered. “You’ve got the wrong men. We weren’t near the castle that night, we swear. You’ve got to believe us.” He was a short, wiry man just a few years older than Tris. Meurig, who stood beside him, was a large man, ox-62