The Sworn (24 page)

Tris smiled thinly. “Put them in magical bonds and have them sent to me.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

Tris pushed out of his chair and began to pace. The dogs roused at his movement, and while the wolfhounds soon stretched back out, the mastiff padded over to pace beside him. “No one’s tried to revive the cult of Shanthadura in over three hundred years. Now, it’s springing up everywhere. You saw what happened in the village, with the boy and that
dimonn
in the barrow. Now imagine that kind of thing happening across Margolan, across the Winter Kingdoms.”

Soterius glanced up sharply. “What makes you say that?”

Tris walked to his desk and picked up three pieces of folded parchment. He handed them to Soterius. “Those have all come via messenger over the last few days. One came by
vayash moru
last night from Jonmarc. They’re seeing a lot of the same kind of ‘incidents’ even in Dark
Haven—and he’s gone up against those Black Robes himself. He’s positive they’re Durim, and he says Gabriel and some of the other Old Ones who actually remember when Shanthadura was worshipped are not too happy about seeing the cult revived.

“Then I got another note from my cousin, Jair. You know Jair.”

Soterius nodded. “He’s your Uncle Harrol’s son. Next in line for the Dhasson throne. He was at your wedding. Not too bad with a sword, as I recall.”

“You could say that. Under an old agreement, he spends about half of the year riding with the Sworn.”

Soterius let out a low whistle. “Really? The Sworn are a spooky bunch. I tried to recruit them during the Rebellion to fight against Jared, but they said they had bigger monsters to worry about, and I had my hands full, so I didn’t ask questions.”

“The Sworn don’t get involved in the usual squabbles—even something like the war against Jared. They’re the keepers of the barrows, and it’s their job to make sure what’s buried in those barrows stays buried.”

“You’re a summoner. Isn’t that your job?”

Tris gave a wan smile. “I’ve never messed with the things that live in those barrows, and I don’t want to. Whatever’s down there has been buried for over a thousand years, and it’s nasty enough to have another set of guardians, the Dread, to make sure it doesn’t rise.”

“I thought the Dread were just fairy tales to keep children from wandering off.”

Tris shook his head. “They’re real. I try to steer clear of the barrows because when I get too close, I can feel… something… is down there. Whatever it is, it’s old and
powerful, and it seems to sense when I’m near. So until I can find out more from Fallon and the Sisterhood, or Royster and his library, I give the barrows wide clearance. But according to Jair, the Sworn are seeing the same kind of attacks you’re describing. And in at least one case, the attacks came too damn close to weakening the barriers.” He ran a hand across his eyes. “We really don’t want what’s down there getting loose.”

“There’s a third letter here.”

Tris leaned against the mantel. “That came from Cam, and he must have messengers riding in shifts to get it here in only two weeks. Cam went back to his family’s holding at Brunnfen to clean up the mess his traitor brother left behind. He’s certain that his brother Alvior had some kind of connection to a blood mage—maybe even a dark summoner.” He watched Soterius’s face. “And Cam thinks whoever it is will try to invade Isencroft.”

Soterius’s eyes widened. “A dark summoner? Can you tell if he’s right?”

“Not completely.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, Tris. I really don’t.”

Tris clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace once more. “Ever since we returned from the Battle of Lochlanimar, I’ve felt edgy. I tried to tell myself it was battle fatigue, or even some nervousness about the birth, but it’s something else. The magic is wrong.”

Soterius shifted in his chair to watch Tris as the other paced. “I thought you and Carina fixed the Flow during the battle.”

Tris shrugged. “There are many rivers of energy in the world. The one that we fixed was the Flow that runs from the far north country in the east down through southern
Margolan and beyond. But there are others. Fallon once told me there are at least three major energy rivers that run through Margolan and into Isencroft—and even the Sisterhood isn’t completely certain where the offshoots and tributaries, for lack of a better word, run.

“The closest of those energy rivers is the Northern Flow. It runs from the Northern Sea, along the Nu River, and down into Dhasson and Nargi.” Tris gave a pointed glance back to Soterius. “And not too surprisingly, the line of barrows that the Sworn patrol run right along that course.”

“Oh really?”

“There’s another Flow that also comes from beneath the Northern Sea and veers westward, into Isencroft. Several of the old palaces were actually built along one energy river or another. Cerise told me she’s almost certain Aberponte in Isencroft is built on a Flow. I think the palace in Eastmark may be as well. But Shekerishet wasn’t built for magic; it was built as a fortress. So we’re between the Flows, but not on top of one.”

“They obviously weren’t expecting a Summoner-King,” Soterius observed dryly.

“Maybe not. But the point is, while we’re not right atop one of the Flows, there’s enough ‘leftover’ magic that I can feel it. I never realized that was what I was drawing from, until Fallon explained it. But lately, the Flows have felt sluggish. It’s hard to put magic into words, but if you’ve ever seen a stream that’s gotten fouled with leaves and silt, it doesn’t run right. That’s sort of what the magic feels like. Fouled. Not broken apart and wild like the Flow underneath Lochlanimar. But wrong.”

“You said that blood magic damaged the Flow,”
Soterius said slowly, thinking as he spoke. “Wouldn’t a dark summoner also damage the magic?”

Tris grimaced. “I don’t know. The last dark summoner we know about was Lemuel, but when he became the Obsidian King, he was also using blood magic. In that case, they weren’t able to heal the Flow when it got out of hand and, as a result, we got the Blasted Lands, a place that’s magically unstable and too dangerous for anything mortal to live.”

“So you’re saying that you might not sense a dark summoner just by the Flow?”

“That’s what Fallon tells me.”

Tris could tell from Soterius’s expression that the other was calculating possibilities. “So is there any way to find out whether or not Cam’s right before we’ve got trouble on the northern shore? Because I really, really don’t want to take an army up against someone who’s as powerful as you are, only on the other side.”

Neither do I
, Tris thought. “According to Fallon, we have a couple of options.”

“I’m all ears.”

Tris grinned. “Good, because I’m counting on your help. And the first person I need to go see is Alyzza.”

Soterius stared at him. “The old hedge witch?”

“Actually, according to Fallon, Alyzza’s had a hard time of it since she helped Carroway and Carina muster up a riot on the night we fought Jared. Fallon says Alyzza’s come ‘unstuck.’ She’s lost her bearings in time and place, and she sees visions and carries on conversations with thin air.”

“I seem to recall someone else who can see visions and talk to thin air, but you’re quite sane.”

Tris rolled his eyes. “In my case, there’s a ghost in that thin air. According to Fallon, no one’s been able to confirm that Alyzza is really talking to anyone. She’s up at Vistimar, in the citadel of the Sisterhood.”

“I didn’t think you and the Sisterhood were getting along so well these days.”

Tris shrugged. “Landis didn’t want her mages to take sides during the war. She thinks mages should be above that sort of thing. And she wasn’t too happy about Fallon and the others going rogue and defying her. But… I
am
the king. And maybe more important for Landis, she still respects Grandmother’s memory.”

“Your grandmother earned that respect,” Soterius replied. “I remember Bava K’aa. Even when we were children, although she was always kind to me, there was something about her that seemed too powerful to just be someone’s grandmother.”

Tris chuckled. Bava K’aa had been the most powerful summoner of her age. “She led the battle in the Mage Wars to defeat the Obsidian King the last time he rose, before Arontala tried to summon him. I only ever thought of her as a grandmother, but Fallon tells me that every king in the Winter Kingdoms recognized her power.”

“Vistimar is a place of the damned, Tris,” Soterius said quietly, returning to the subject. “The people in there are more than just insane; they’re dangerous. I’ve heard stories that might even curl your hair, and I know you’ve looked into the Abyss itself.”

“The old legends say that madness is a touch of the Goddess,” Tris replied. “But Alyzza was one of Grandmother’s inner circle. It was the war with the Obsidian King that drove her mad. She’s the only one alive
that I know of who actually went up against a real dark summoner.”

“You’re mage-heir to their power, aren’t you? Bava K’aa and Lemuel?” Soterius said quietly. A mage once known as Lemuel who had been possessed by an ancient, malevolent spirit, the spirit of the Obsidian King. But until the night Tris had won back the throne, he had not known that Lemuel was his grandfather, something Bava K’aa had managed to hide from nearly everyone. Defeating the Obsidian King a second time had freed Lemuel’s spirit and had provided Tris with a frighteningly clear picture of just how dangerously wrong magic could go when misused. Tris vowed not to make the same mistakes. He, Kiara, Soterius, and Fallon were the only ones who knew the secret.

Tris nodded. “They were the two greatest summoners of their age. I’ve always wondered why, when there were times that had more than one summoner, I should be the only one now.” He met Soterius’s eyes. “Maybe I’m not.”

That night, five cloaked men left the city without attracting notice. Their horses bore no livery. A cold rain was falling, and so no one wondered why their hoods covered their heads, obscuring their faces. If the bulges under their cloaks suggested that they were well armed, the guards at the gate did not think it their business to ask why. Tris, Soterius, and Mikhail rode to Vistimar, accompanied by two soldiers Soterius had personally chosen for the task.

In the shadows along the road, Tris could sense a dozen
vyrkin
, who provided silent reinforcements. He did not expect trouble on the road between Shekerishet and
Vistimar, but Soterius and Mikhail argued strenuously against riding with less protection, and Tris had reluctantly agreed. For most of the way, they rode in silence. The rain grew heavier, then lightened, but never stopped completely. It made the two-candlemark ride unpleasant, even though the autumn night was warm. Mud splashed as high as the horses’ bellies, and Tris fidgeted as the rain made his cloak cling to his shoulders and arms.

Finally, they reached Vistimar’s entrance. Tris lowered his hood and the startled gatekeeper dropped his keys twice in his hurry to unchain the madhouse’s massive iron gates. The
vyrkin
took up positions around Vistimar’s entrance. Tris and Soterius led the others into the compound, and the heavy gates clanked shut behind them. The chain rattled ominously as the gatekeeper secured the gates, and while Tris knew that a blast of his magic would be more than sufficient to free them if need be, uneasiness prickled at the back of his mind.

Tris stopped his horse a few paces inside the gates.

“What’s the matter?” Soterius asked as his horse shuffled and pawed.

“There are wardings in place. Since this is a social call, I’d rather not blast through them.”

“What do we do, ring the bell?”

“I think we’ve been noticed,” Tris replied, inclining his head toward a brown-robed figure who was making its way toward them through the rain.

Tris swung down from his horse, and so did Soterius and Mikhail, though the others remained on their mounts. “The night’s greetings to you, Sister,” Tris said. He pushed back his hood again, so that his face was plain.

The Sister closed her eyes and raised her hands, palm
out, and Tris knew she was sensing his power, confirming his identity. She opened her eyes and looked from Tris to the men who rode with him. “What brings the king to such a place on this miserable night?” Her voice was scratchy with age, but neutral.

“I’ve come to visit an old friend,” Tris replied. “Alyzza.”

“You’ve come at a bad time.”

“Perhaps. Might we discuss this out of the rain?”

Grudgingly, the Sister raised her hands once more, and Tris felt the invisible wardings fall. She motioned for them to move forward, although the horses shied and tried to sidle away. When they had moved a dozen paces, Tris felt the wardings snap back into place. He touched the wardings with his power, and they flared. They were well set, and it would take a considerable amount of power to break them, Tris thought. While he did not doubt that he could muster the magic to do so, being encircled by shields that were not his own increased his wariness.

The Sister led them to Vistimar’s entrance and motioned for them to tether their horses in a nearby copse of trees. By moonlight, Vistimar looked like the stuff of nightmares. It was an old building, and Tris guessed that it had once been a fortress for a local garrison. He stretched out his mage senses and realized that the stonework was much older than he had first suspected. Vistimar was older than the line of Margolan’s kings, dating back to a time when warlords fought over wild lands that knew no sovereign. The thick stone of its walls had been chosen for defense, not for looks. It hunkered like a large, blocky beast against the night sky.