The Sworn (27 page)

Tris swirled his brandy and stared at the golden liquid. “Only a fool never doubts,” he murmured. He looked up. “You know as well as I do that I very nearly died fighting the Obsidian King. And from what I remember—and the scars I have to prove it—I defeated Curane’s mages
and his Elemental by the skin of my teeth.” He shrugged. “That’s the thing about magic; you aren’t always sure what you’re up against until you’re in the thick of it.”

Rosta sat back in her chair and sipped the brandy she had poured for herself. “There’s another problem. Landis still wants the Sisterhood to be apart from ‘mundane concerns.’ She’s no different than when she denied you assistance for the war last year. She wouldn’t be willing to provide any further training, and to be honest, I can’t think of another mage alive today who can harness more power than you already can.”

“Thanks, but that’s rather disquieting in itself,” Tris said with a grimace. “Because what I know about magic has been learned one battle at a time, the hard way.”

Soterius smiled. “I happen to remember Jonmarc saying something like that about sword fighting, when he was trying to sharpen our skills back in the caravan. He said he’d learned everything he knew one battle at a time. He’s right. Some things really can’t be taught. If you survive the education, you get to keep the skill.”

“Which might also account for the fact that there are so few very old mages of great power,” Tris observed. “Trial and error has its peril.”

“Alyzza is the last of the mages who played a key role in the Mage Wars fifty years ago,” Rosta said. “But you might see what the Library at Westmarch has regarding that period.”

Tris nodded. “I’ve already sent a messenger to Royster at Westmarch with a request that he come to Shekerishet and bring as much as he can carry regarding the Mage Wars.” He leaned forward. “Which raises the next question: What do you know of the Dread?”

Rosta did not conceal a shiver. “Why do you ask?”

Tris told her about the messages he had received. Rosta’s expression grew worried. “The Dread haven’t walked abroad in a thousand years. Their power was greater than a mage like the Obsidian King, as was the power of the things they guard. If someone seeks to awaken what slumbers in the Abyss, then dark times are truly upon us.”

“I know nothing but legends and tales told to frighten children out of the forest,” Tris replied. “I need more than that. Especially if we do face a dark summoner, I need to know which side the Dread will choose.”

“The Dread have always chosen their own side,” Rosta said, and she made the sign of the Goddess in warding. “But there is a way you might find what you seek.” She looked at Tris. “You’re a summoner. Call to the bones of your fathers. Their spirits will speak to you.”

“I’ve never called spirits that old. I don’t even know where to find their tombs.”

Rosta smiled. “Now
that
I can help with.” She rose and gestured for Tris to follow her over to one of the large shelves of books that lined the parlor’s walls. Rosta ran her hand along the spines of the books on one shelf until she found the leather-bound volume she wanted. The book was thick, with a heavy cover of handworked leather and gold leaf. Its pages were fragile and yellow with age. Rosta carried the heavy volume to a desk and opened it carefully, searching for the right page.

“Here,” she said finally.

Tris looked at the page over Rosta’s shoulder. At first glance, it was a long genealogy with a series of names of fathers and firstborn sons. “One thousand years ago, Margolan didn’t exist as a kingdom,” Rosta said. “It was wild
territory, divided up among tribal chieftains and warlords. The old Cartelasian Empire never established a firm foothold in most of Margolan. They got as far as Eastern Margolan and were driven back.” She glanced at Tris. “Some say the Dread had a hand in that.

“There’s not much left from that long ago,” Rosta said. “Even these genealogies were passed down by bards from memory for centuries before someone finally wrote them down. But the bards took great pride in remembering the genealogies perfectly, so much so that when there were legal disputes over inheritances or properties, a bard’s word was law regarding family line.”

Tris looked down the yellowed page at line after line of careful script. In many places, the ink was almost too faint to read. The centuries rolled back as he traced backward the family line. “Wait, that says Marlan the Gold. He was the first real king of Margolan,” Tris said, eyes widening.

Rosta shrugged. “He’s far enough back that ‘king’ is probably not quite as accurate as ‘chieftain,’ but you’re right. Marlan the Gold is remembered for driving back the Cartelasian Empire and proclaiming that all the territory was Marlan the Gold’s land, hence the name, Margolan.”

“Are you certain there was no magic in his line?” Tris asked, peering closer at the list of names. “Look here. Hadenrul the Great. He was the king who defeated the last great uprising of the Shanthadura followers over three hundred years ago.” He looked at Rosta. “Those are both impressive victories for men who you say had no magic.”

Rosta nodded. “They weren’t known as mages in the stories that have been passed down, but who knows? Sometimes, men and women who used powerful magic long ago were thought to be particularly blessed by the
Goddess. There have been many times when it wasn’t wise to admit to being a mage.”

“Marlan the Gold and Hadenrul the Great were both in Father’s lineage,” Tris said.

“And so, your kin. Even if they weren’t, as king you have the right to consult the ancient dead for their advice. Your claim on them is even stronger since their blood is yours.”

“How do we know they haven’t both gone to their rest with the Lady long ago? After all, Grandmother and Lemuel both asked me to make their passage for them. That’s why I can’t just ask their advice.”

Rosta shrugged again. “You won’t know until you call for them. According to this book, Marlan the Gold was buried beneath what is now the Shrine to the Mother and Childe. And while no one seems to know exactly what happened to all of Hadenrul’s body, legend has it that one of his chief advisors—probably a mage himself—brought Hadenrul’s skull, breastbone, and the bones of his right hand to the same shrine.” She looked at Tris. “There were hundreds of years separating their deaths, yet a devoted follower carried part of Hadenrul’s remains to lie in the same tomb as Marlan’s. Why? I don’t think it’s any coincidence that those were the bones that were taken.”

“Why?” Soterius asked.

To Tris’s surprise, it was Mikhail who answered. “There are old beliefs that say a man’s essence is stronger in some parts of the body than others. The skull rules thought, the breastbone, heart. And the right hand, will. There is some truth to that. There is more than one reason those who seek to destroy
vayash moru
take the head and heart.”

“What if whoever took Hadenrul’s bones to the shrine did it so that his spirit would be available to future kings?” Soterius mused. He looked at Tris. “Didn’t you say that King Argus’s spirit stayed in the crypt beneath Westmarch to guard a sword?”

Tris nodded. “I had to fight him for it, and prove my magic worthy in battle before he yielded. And then he also went to the Lady, so that’s one more person who fought the Obsidian King who can’t be asked for help.”

Rosta finished her brandy and laid her goblet aside. “The night is late, m’lord. Vistimar’s hospitality is sparse but sincere, and while our suppers aren’t what you’re used to at the palace, we have an excellent cook whose portions are more than ample. You’re welcome to stay the night, and in the morning, you can plan your journey to the Shrine to the Mother and Childe.” She looked to Mikhail. “There are crypts beneath Vistimar where no light can reach. You won’t be disturbed if you take your refuge here until next sunset.”

Tris smiled. “Thank you. We’d be grateful for the hospitality.” He glanced toward Soterius. “And I think that soon we’ll make a little family visit to the Shrine.”

T
his night, the Sworn rode to battle. Jair rode with them, ready to fight. To his right was the leader of the
trinnen
, Alin. Talwyn was to his left, armed for magic and for battle. Pevre led them, and the insignia worked into his leather armor made it clear that he was a chief and a warrior. With them rode more than twenty Sworn warriors. Emil and Mihei, the warriors who had been wounded with Jair on the journey from Dhasson, were with them, fully recuperated. Each of the warriors carried at least one
stelian
, and many, like Jair, had a variety of wicked-looking blades on baldrics across their chests, as well as a two-handed blade in a back sheath. Despite an array of weapons that would have been ample in pitched battle, tonight, Jair felt unarmed. He fingered the new amulet at his throat nervously. Talwyn had given each of the Sworn fighters a charm that she said would ward them against the Black Robes’ magic. Although Jair had the utmost faith in Talwyn’s power, he found it difficult to put his trust completely in a talisman to protect him. For that, he relied on his
stelian
.

A man stepped into the moonlit path ahead of them, and Pevre motioned for them to halt. The scout moved into the moonlight, letting them be certain of his identity, before venturing closer. He made a quick bow toward Pevre and Talwyn before turning toward Alin.

“It’s as we thought. The Durim are massed near the barrow.”

Alin nodded. “How many?”

“Equal numbers, perhaps more.”

“Are there captives?”

“We counted two. A woman and a man. They had also brought a goat and a chicken.”

A mirthless smile touched Alin’s lips. “Sounds like they were worried about running out of blood.”

They were still a distance from the barrow; half a candlemark on foot, Jair guessed, and less than that on horseback. Alin motioned to the soldiers behind them, and half of them slipped down from their horses to tether their mounts among the trees. Pevre was among them. Jair and Talwyn remained on their horses.

“Pevre will signal Talwyn when we’re close,” Alin said quietly. “Mihei will come with us. We may need his talents to help conceal our approach.” The land mage inclined his head in acknowledgment. “With luck, we’ll strike before the Black Robes can work any real magic or properly ward themselves.” He made the sign of the Goddess in blessing. “May the Lady’s favor ride with you.”

With that hushed blessing, Alin and his fighters melted into the night. Though Jair had mastered much of the Sworn’s lore, he still could not move as silently as the best of the warriors, despite years of practice. On the other hand, courtiers in Dhasson often noted his silent approach.
But tonight, there was no room for error, and so Jair willingly stayed with those on horseback.

Jair had his
stelian
in hand, as did the rest of the riders, prepared to fight. Finally, a distracted look crossed Talwyn’s face, just an instant before she smiled with grim purpose.

“They’re in place. Let’s ride.”

Talwyn and Mihei timed their magic so that a brilliant flare of light burst from both sides of the assault in unison. As the riders and the foot soldiers attacked, Jair could hear both mages chanting the counterspell to weaken or destroy the Black Robes’ warding.

The woman captive screamed. Jair could see that the goat and the chicken had already been sacrificed. The man lay on an unlit pyre, unmoving. Their attack appeared to have interrupted several of the Black Robes who were digging into the side of the barrow.

The autumn night felt thick with power. Though Jair had no magic of his own, he knew the tingle of it against his skin. Talwyn and Mihei blocked a blast of the Black Robes’ mage, and the sky lit in an arc of white light. But a prickle at the back of Jair’s neck told him that more magic was in play.

“What was that?” Alin held his
stelian
in hand, watching the night around them. Jair had just the barest glimpse of movement, like a shadow among the trees.

A cry went up from the foot soldiers, who surged forward as Talwyn and Mihei forced down the Black Robes’ warding. Alin ordered the horsemen forward, riding from the cover of the forest to attack the Durim’s flank.

Magic crackled in the air as Talwyn and Mihei battled the Shanthadurists’ wardings. If the Sworn had grown
more alert to the barrows desecrators, then the black-robed Durim had obviously learned to anticipate an attack. A red-tinged dome of power encompassed the Durim’s ritual area and the barrow. The warding was translucent; it looked as if a red haze hung in the air. Inside the dome, where the Durim’s black-robed priests had begun digging into the side of the barrow, they had erected what looked like a wooden door frame around the hole. The lintels and cross piece were marked with bloody sigils, and a slaughtered goat hung by its legs so that blood dripped into the freshly turned soil. A dead chicken hung beside the goat, and around the base of the door frame were dark objects that looked from a distance to be severed body parts. A woman knelt beside the door frame, bound to the rough wood. She sobbed hoarsely, as if she were too terrified to scream.

The man lay still on the unlit pyre. Bundles of grain lay around the base of the pyre like offerings. Above the pyre, one of the Black Robes lifted a pitcher of what appeared to be oil and poured it over the man’s body. Over the pyre was a scaffold with three large wheels made from dried cornstalks, one for each of the Shrouded Ones. The Durim priest lit the wheels and they began to spin, sending arcs of flame and sparks into the night air and lighting the oil to set the pyre aflame.