Dark Lady's Chosen (21 page)

Kiara had brought only two servants with them—a cook and a maid whom Alle could vouch for. The lodge was well provisioned with food, wine and firewood. Alle had overseen the provisioning herself, and had promised to share a few of the recipes she had learned during her year with the innkeeper during the rebellion. Cerise had brought an ample supply of powders, roots and medicines, and Macaria saw to the diversion, making sure they would lack no entertainment during the long winter evenings with a supply of cards and dice, and a warning that no one should expect to beat her at
tarle
or
contre
. Her lyre and flute came with her as well, and a small pennywhistle. Free from the stifling scrutiny of the Margolan court, Kiara found herself actually looking forward to their stay.

“Who knows? Cerise might actually teach me to embroider something,” Kiara said, dropping into a chair near the fire.

Cerise laughed loudly. “That will be the day, my dear. Not unless you can embroider with the point of a sword. Viata never had the patience for it, either, much to her father’s chagrin.

It’s still considered to be part of the finishing of a well-born lady, you know.”

Alle gave an unladylike snort. “It wasn’t my stitching that vexed my tutors. My stitches are neat and regular. But once my tutor realized that I’d woven the curses I heard the stable hands say into the design, she made me tear out every stitch!”

Kiara snickered. “Now I’m sure I know why Soterius fell in love with you. Although really, I’ve never heard anyone curse as creatively as Carroway.”

Macaria’s expression darkened and she turned away. Kiara exchanged glances with Alle, immediately regretting her comment. “Macaria, I’m sorry. I know you’re worried about him.”

Macaria shrugged. “No harm done, m’lady. But news of how he fares won’t be easy to get out here. I have to hope that Crevan will leave matters as they are until the king returns.”

“Speaking of Crevan, aren’t you expecting him?” Alle asked.

Kiara nodded. “He promised to come along with the wagon-load of supplies and bring any news that may have come from the troops.”

Alle frowned. “He’s coming himself?”

“He said that, given the attacks at the palace, the fewer people who came to the lodge, the better. Goddess bless! What I wouldn’t give for there to be a note from Tris in the packet this time.”

“Has Crevan told you anything of how the war goes?”

Kiara shook her head. “Very little. He claims that he doesn’t know, but I think he’s coddling me. I’d asked Comar Hassad, but he said that the ghosts of Shekerishet can’t go beyond the bridge. And with Mikhail imprisoned, I hear nothing from the
vayash moru
.” She twisted her belt between her fingers. “All I get are dreams, and they’re dark.”

Cerise looked at her closely. “What do you see?”

Kiara looked away. “Fire. Glimpses of battle. Monsters, like the one that attacked at the wedding. Sometimes, it’s the same things I saw in the scrying ball. Other times, I see snatches of things, too little to understand the meaning.” She avoided looking at Alle as she spoke. Last night, in her dreams, she’d seen Ban Soterius fall, the hilt of a knife deep in his back. He hadn’t gotten up, and she feared for him almost as greatly as she feared for Tris.

“Keep heart, Kiara,” Cerise said quietly, patting her hand. “Your young man is full of surprises.”

Kiara forced herself to smile, but her heart ached. The biggest surprise had been that in the nearly three months Tris had been at war, there had been no news from him. None at all.
I
shouldn’t doubt. I know what he did, when we fought the Obsidian King. I’ve seen his soul.

What he felt for me was real—at least it was, then. I had hoped he would miss me.

But deeper than her disappointment lay a larger fear.
Has Crevan told him about the
Council of Nobles? About the gossip? Sweet Chenne, will he believe that Carroway and I
betrayed him? Is there anything either of us can ever say to prove our loyalty?

Cerise squeezed her hand, drawing her out of her thoughts as if she could guess the course they took. “The king has a good head on his shoulders, my dear. Trust him to make the right decisions.”

Kiara bit her lip, forcing back tears and nodded.
Dammit! I should blame this on being
pregnant, but I’m supposed to be a warrior and I’m acting like a farm girl. If I were in the
salle back in Isencroft, Derry would tell me I needed some steel in my spine. Tris expects
better from me. I expect better.
But the reality remained. Nothing was unfolding as expected.

Carroway sat closer than usual to the fire in his room at the Dragon’s Rage Inn. Outside, the winter wind banged the shutters against the inn’s walls, and the draft that came from the windows made even the upstairs cold. He’d been grateful for tonight’s meal of cheese soup, sherry and a hunk of warm bread. There were many worse places to be imprisoned.

Bandele had brought him a stack of books, knowing that the worst part of his solitude lay in passing the time. A book dealer in the city was one of the minstrels’ favorite patrons, and Carroway guessed Bandele had told him about the situation. Carroway sighed and flexed his hands. The books, which told of the earliest times in the Winter Kingdoms, were good fodder for the songs he was writing. If he were to be exiled, those new ballads might tempt a patron into overlooking his tarnished reputation. And if he were executed… well, Carroway thought, leaning back to stretch, at least the songs would be a legacy.

Carroway turned a page. The smell of ink and parchment filled the air. He’d been reading tales of long ago, when the lands that would someday become the Winter Kingdoms were ruled by warlords and tribes, long before the first of the Lady’s followers brought their new beliefs to a wild and brutal place. A carefully drawn illustration of a ceremonial dagger impaling two hearts caught his eye. Carroway looked more closely. The dagger had a
damashqi
blade that showed the many folds and swirls of the steel used in its forging. He frowned as he read further, trying to make out the cramped handwriting of the historian who had written the book.

Before the time of King Hadenrul and the ways of the sacred Lady, the Birth Moon and the
Hunger Moon were the times of vicious raids between warring tribes,
he read.
Raids were
carried out early in the Birth Moon, not just for scarce food, but to seize the wife of the rival
chieftain. The kidnapped woman, if she was not already pregnant, would be given as a
bride to the most feared warrior, who had one month to impregnate her. On the second day
of the Hunger Moon, the prisoner would be sacrificed by the chieftain, who lit a bonfire and
then plunged a ceremonial damashqi dagger through her abdomen, allowing the blood to
anoint the snow. The ceremonial shedding of two lives was thought to bring renewal to the
land, but some believe that the true purpose of the ceremony was to gain magical control of
the great rivers of energy through blood

magic. Others say it was an offering to Shanthadura. When the ways of the Sacred Lady
came to the lands in the days of Hadenrul the Great, the practice of human sacrifice ended,
substituting the ritual slaughter of a pregnant ewe. Over the years, the bonfires became
torches and then candles, believed to be why this eve is now called Candles Night.

Carroway pushed the book aside, deep in thought. Absently, he sipped at the sherry as he watched the fire dance on the hearth, whipped by the winds that found their way down the chimney. Candles Night was only two days hence, and while it was a minor holiday with almost no sacred overtones in Margolan, he’d always looked forward to the evening of midwinter cheer with its banks of lit candles and a traditional feast of roast lamb and red wine. After what he’d just read, Carroway doubted he could ever enjoy the holiday in quite the same manner again.

Absently, he reached for the pendant at his throat, a gift from Macaria. It was woven from strands of green and indigo thread and her own dark hair. Copper beads marked with runes were tied into the design. She had assured him that the hedge witch promised the amulet would protect him from harm. He discounted the talisman’s protection, but he treasured the gift. It was a comfort to know that she shared his feelings, but bittersweet. His future held only death or banishment.

A quiet rap at the door roused him from his thoughts. Paiva, Bandele, Tadghe and Halik slipped into the room, shaking off the snow that clung to their cloaks and shoes.

“I was beginning to think the storm kept you from coming,” Carroway said, accepting hugs from Paiva and Bandele and backslaps from Tadghe and Halik. From beneath their cloaks, Tadghe and Halik withdrew bottles of wine and held them aloft.

“Spirits for the imprisoned!” Tadghe pronounced. Paiva and Bandele put down their well-wrapped instruments and withdrew pouches of dried figs, and a small crockery bowl with honeycomb, cheese and flatbread from their bags.

“We had to bring extra, to bribe the guards,” Paiva said impishly. “But we feed them well and leave two bottles of river rum for them around back in the snow by the steps, so they’re quite willing for us to visit.”

“Bless you!” Carroway exclaimed, motioning for them to sit. Halik opened a bottle of the wine and filled cups for all of them as Paiva and Bandele caught Carroway up on the trivialities of the court.

“What of Kiara—and Macaria?”

“They left by sleigh this morning, very early,” Bandele replied. “Crevan seemed to be doing his best to make their departure quiet. He may be the only one going back and forth with supplies, so getting word is going to be difficult.” She sighed. “The only tidbit that I did hear from Macaria was that Kiara’s terribly worried about the king. Seems she hasn’t received a letter from him since he left for war.”

Carroway glanced at her sharply. “That’s not like Tris. He wrote to her several times a week when she went back to Isencroft after the coronation. Almost drove the couriers crazy.

That’s not like him at all.”

“Perhaps he’s too busy with the war,” Halik replied. “I heard some of the men talking after the wagons came back from running supplies to the army. They said the war’s not going well. The men are hungry. A lot of soldiers have died. And there’s fever in the camp.”

Carroway swore. “Tris needs to win this. Margolan’s in a lot of trouble if he doesn’t.”

“I don’t have any news from the queen,” Tadghe said, clearing his throat. “But Halik and I have been able to slip down to see Mikhail.”

“How is he? I’d imagine Shekerishet’s dungeons are miserable, even for a
vayash moru
.”

Tadghe nodded. “He’s not one to complain, but he didn’t mind that we brought him a flask of fresh goat’s blood and some dry clothing. The guards thought we’d lost our minds to ask to be let in to see a
vayash moru
in a dark cell, and if it were anyone besides Mikhail, I might have agreed. But he’s had time to think in there by himself, and he had a message for you.”

“For me?”

Tadghe nodded. “Mikhail said that he’s been thinking about the murders, the ones everyone seems to think he committed. He said that he got a good look at one of the bodies when the guards marched him past it. And he’s sure that whatever the marks were on its neck, they weren’t made by a
vayash moru
.”

Carroway frowned. “Come to think of it, I didn’t get a close look myself. But I remember there were two punctures, and a lot of blood.”

“That’s right. But Mikhail says that even if a
vayash moru
doesn’t drain a victim, they can kill without leaving that much of a mess.”

“Maybe whoever did this intended to make a statement with all the blood.”

“Or maybe,” Halik put in, “we were intended to look at the blood and not at the punctures.”

“What happened to the bodies?”

Halik shook his head. “That’s where it gets even more interesting. No one seems to know. I spoke to old Hadric—he’s been the court’s undertaker for years. Normally, he takes the body if someone dies at Shekerishet and the family doesn’t want them to be shipped home for burial. He buries the servants who die, too. But Crevan told him that the bodies were being studied as evidence. Hadric never buried them.”

“So where are they?”

Halik met his eyes. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? You know Bonday? He’s the one who fetches the firewood for the kitchens. He told me that the day after Mikhail was accused, Crevan told him to set up for a bonfire in the middle of the night. Said it had to be ready by morning so that they could have the fire right at sunrise. Only in the middle of setting up the bonfire, Bonday says he was called away for half a candlemark. When he came back, he thought the wood was stacked up further than he remembered it. Says he also remembers seeing a bit of cloth fluttering in the wind, but he was behind on his work, so he didn’t bother with it.” Halik leaned forward. “Here’s the kicker. When Bonday lit the fire, he says that there was an awful smell for the first couple of candlemarks.”

“So you think someone got rid of the bodies in the bonfire? But why? And who?”

Tadghe crossed his arms and leaned back. “Why? To keep anyone from looking too closely at them, that’s why. Despite the gossip about Mikhail, the
vayash moru
still have friends at court. Someone wasn’t taking the chance that the bite marks might be questioned.”

“I remember the bonfire that next night,” Carroway said, thinking. “And at the time, I was surprised. I usually know all about plans like that, but I hadn’t heard anything about a bonfire.” He paused. “Halik, are you suggesting that Crevan deliberately asked for the bonfire in order to destroy the bodies?”

Halik shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like ol’ tightbritches, does it? Maybe someone talked him into it. But after we came back from seeing Mikhail, I paid a couple of
skrivven
to the butcher’s boy to keep an eye on Crevan without being seen. And I’ve found out some strange things.”