The Sworn (42 page)

I
hope you know what you’re doing.” Soterius’s voice attempted to be light, but Tris could see the worry in his friend’s eyes.

“So do I.”

Soterius and a handful of guards had come with Tris to the shrine of the Mother and Childe along with Sister Fallon. Tris had already made an offering of flowers and live doves to the Childe and water and wine to the Mother. Now, he was as ready as he would ever be to descend into the resting place of Margolan’s kings to seek the counsel of his long-dead ancestors. Although he had meant to visit right after his trip to Vistimar, the obligations of the throne had delayed him more than a week. Or perhaps, Tris admitted to himself, his own reluctance allowed him to become delayed.

“If you run into trouble, just give a shout. We’ll be there.”

Tris gave a wan smile. “The kind of trouble I’m likely to run into down there isn’t anything your swords can fight.”

Soterius glanced at the sword Tris carried. “That’s not your usual sword. It’s that ghost sword your grandmother gave you, isn’t it?”

“Ghost sword” wasn’t exactly the right term for Nexus. At Tris’s coronation, one of the Sisterhood had presented him with a sword that had once belonged to the sorceress Bava K’aa, Tris’s grandmother. A sword that was said to still possess a whisper of her soul and power. Tris had first dared to use the sword at the Battle of Lochlanimar, when desperate measures compelled him to draw on the sword’s magic without a complete understanding of its power. Now, he better understood both its power and its price, and he did not carry Nexus lightly.

“I’m hoping that I don’t need it.”

“Does it really steal a breath from your soul each time it’s used?”

Tris shrugged. “It held a memory of Grandmother’s spirit, and that’s the warning she gave me. If so, I’ve used a couple already.”

Soterius’s gaze was worried. “How many breaths are there in a soul? What happens if you use them all up?”

Several possibilities occurred to Tris, none of them good. “Let’s try not to find out, huh?” Tris drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. While he called or dispelled ghosts from all walks of life nearly every day in his Court of Spirits, this was the first time Tris had gone to seek the counsel of his ancestors. He had no idea whether the family reunion would be pleasant.

“May the Lady watch over your soul,” Soterius said, clapping Tris on the shoulder before he stood back, making room for Tris to descend the shadowed stone stairway.

Aboveground, the Shrine of the Mother and Childe was
one of the most peaceful places Tris knew. Sacred to two of the Lady’s Aspects, the shrine was a place for offering and quiet reflection. Unlike Isencroft, Margolan did not have Oracles to speak for the Lady, nor did it have
Hojun
seers like Eastmark or Nargi’s Crone priests. Margolan’s tradition invited each individual to listen for the voice of the Lady. That ambiguity was often both comforting and disconcerting, since it offered few certainties. Right now, Tris thought he would give a lot for an Oracle to spell out the confusing omens.

The garden of the Childe was in its glory. Doves cooed and flowers bloomed in profusion, nurtured by magic even in the chill of autumn. Delicate, graceful archways decorated the garden and led down into the sacred ravine. A waterfall and channel of water, favored by the Mother, ran through all seasons of the year, warmed by magic in the coldest months. The water flowed down the waterfall, into a decorative sluiceway and then down the stone walls of a V-shaped cut through the hillside to a reflecting pool. Tris could hear the calming sound of running water and smell the fragrance of the garden as he started down the stairs. He refused the torch Soterius offered, opting instead for a ball of cold handfire raised by a flicker of his magic. Nexus was ready in his hand.

Even Fallon had been unsure about the protocol for entering the realm of the dead kings. Bricen, Tris’s father, had never attempted it. Neither had Bricen’s father. Royster, the Sisterhood’s archivist, had found a fragmentary text that mentioned the offerings made by long-ago kings who sought advice from the dead, along with a warning that the kings of past ages should not be disturbed lightly. Tris had taken that warning to heart.

As he descended into the crypt, Tris could sense the presence of the old dead around him. He felt the flicker of their spirits, and he also knew that they were not yet ready to reveal themselves to him. He had gone down enough stairs that the sunlight above was lost in shadow and there was no sound except for the scuff of his boots on the stone steps. Tris swallowed hard.
I am king of Margolan, and the summoner-heir to Bava K’aa. I have every right to come here.
But despite that, he could not dispel his sense of uneasiness as he moved farther into the crypt and left the living far behind.

At the bottom of the steps, Tris let his handfire flare, revealing a large chamber. Torches in sconces awaited the brave—or foolhardy—visitor. Tris used a flicker of magic to light the torches, illuminating the large room.

Arched passageways led off in eight directions, one for each Aspect of the Sacred Lady. Runes and gems, sacred to each Aspect, adorned the archway, inlaid in silver. Four catafalques sat in the outer chamber. One of them held the body of Bricen’s father, King Larimore. The few resources Tris had found differed on the occupants of the other catafalques. He knew for a certainty that his own father was not among the kings buried here. Although Tris had seen Jared murder their father, by the time Tris returned to reclaim the throne, no one could say just what had happened to Bricen’s body. Since Jared had killed Bricen with a dagger spelled to destroy the soul, Tris could not summon his father’s spirit to find out how to lay his remains to rest. Now, Tris realized that he had no emissary among the dead to guide him.

“Why have you come?”

The ghost stood pale and seemingly solid, blocking
Tris from moving farther toward the passageways. He was an old man, wizened with years, gaunt but not frail. The ghost’s eyes held a keen intelligence, and though his body was wasted with age and sickness, in his youth, Tris guessed that he had been a powerfully built man.

Tris gave a half-bow, deep enough to be reverent but not so deep that he ever took his eyes off the ghost blocking his way. “I’m Martris Drayke, son of Bricen, King of Margolan, and summoner-heir to Bava K’aa. I come to ask the advice of Marlan the Gold and Hadenrul the Great. Let me pass.”

The ghost began to laugh. It was not a friendly sound. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he did not move aside. “The old dead do not wake without cause. Few have dared to disturb them. The concerns of the living mean little to us. Why would you wake the old ones?”

Tris drew deep breath. “I would ask Hadenrul how he ended the domination of the cult of Shanthadura. The Durim have risen again, and they may serve an invader from the north.” He paused. “I would ask Marlan the Gold about the Dread. The Durim have desecrated the mounds of the Dread and are attempting to break the wardings that hold the Dread—and their prisoners—within the barrows.”

The ghost stared at Tris with a piercing gaze. “How do I know that what you say is true?”

Before Tris could answer, the runes along Nexus’s blade burst into cold fire. Tris held the sword up so that both he and the spirit guardian could watch as the fire runes rearranged themselves along the blade.
Blood of your blood
slowly spelled out against the steel.

“Even the dead feel the strength of your magic,” the
guardian said. “But do you have the power to raise the old ones? They will not speak to you unless your power can call them back from where their spirits have wandered.”

“My magic will have to do,” Tris replied. “Margolan’s in danger. If a dark summoner is really planning to raise the Dread with the help of the Durim, I’ll need all the help I can get to stand against them.”

The ghost seemed to consider Tris carefully in silence. Around them, Tris could feel the dead gathering. Some were drawn to the power of his magic. Others watched with detached curiosity. A few debated the matter among themselves. Whether or not the guardian spirit listened to the debate, Tris was not sure. Finally, the spirit stepped aside.

“We are agreed that you are Margolan’s rightful king and heir to Bricen’s line and to Bava K’aa’s power.” The ghost’s eyes narrowed. “Her power is not the only magic you inherited, is it? Lemuel’s power also fills you. I feel it.”

Tris didn’t flinch. “Lemuel was my grandfather.”

The ghost appraised him with a gaze weary with age. “If you mean to keep your crown, I hope that magic is sufficient.” He stepped aside and gestured for Tris to move deeper into the crypt, motioning for Tris to follow the fourth passage.

Handfire lit Tris’s way. This passage was old, older than the catafalques in the front chamber or the shrine above them. In the glow of the magic, Tris could make out the cuts of the tools that chiseled into the rock. He could sense the spirits around him, and he knew that the passageways went on, deep into the ground. There were more than just the spirits of Margolan’s long-dead kings and
queens. The ghosts of stillborn heirs and royal children who died before their time walked these passages, as well as favored seers and mage advisors. Layer upon layer of magic warded these chambers. Tris passed through the wardings without effect, but he did not want to know what reception might have met an unauthorized explorer. Old magic pulled at his blood, as if the wardings verified the consanguinity of the visitor. Tris felt the weight of a host of watchers that gathered around him, felt their ghostly eyes on him as he made his way through the chamber, felt their presence in the unnatural chill that made his breath fog.

Frescoes had been painted onto the walls of the passageway. In the glow of the handfire, Tris could make out the images. The farther he descended into the crypt, the older the drawings appeared, until the images were faint ghosts of their original glory. The murals told of great battles and opulent investitures, with paintings of the kings and queens of Margolan in all their royal splendor. Some of the panels depicted bloody battles, and others showed Margolan’s people celebrating with abundant food and wealth. It looked as if chroniclers had added both pictures and narrative as each king’s remains were brought to the crypt. Tris was cynical enough to be certain that the tales had been varnished by the tellers to glorify the memory of the deceased king, but as the murals grew more ancient, he was surprised to find that famines and plagues were depicted as often as scenes of abundance.

They were deep into the passages now, and the paintings were quite old. Tris stopped to study the images. A robed man with a circlet on his brow stood next to what looked to be a mass grave. Pale bodies, many of them
naked and emaciated, were heaped in carts and laid head to foot in a deep trench. In one panel of the mural, the robed king raised his hands in blessing over the dead. Even in the faded drawing, Tris could see that the artist had shown tears on the face of the king.

Hungry for more information, Tris moved to the next panel. Here, the king was shown in armor, wielding a sword. But it was the artist’s depiction of the king’s foes that caught Tris’s attention. Some were drawn in chalk tones, crudely, like corpses standing upright.
Ashtenerath
, Tris thought. Around the battlefield, the trees were hung with the dismembered bodies of men and animals. And behind the chalky fighters was a line of black-robed opponents. The next panel showed the victory, but Tris stared as the details became plain in the glow of the handfire. All of the black-robed foes lay vanquished on the ground, and the corpse fighters were fallen. The trees with their rotting fruit of dangling bodies, offerings to Shanthadura, were aflame. But it was the figure of the king that made Tris catch his breath. Hadenrul was on his knees, hands pressed against his chest, eyes turned skyward. And an unmistakable fountain of blood poured from the chest of the king.

The next panel showed a great funeral procession. It was drawn in haste and lacked the artistry of the earlier murals. The materials used for the drawing had not held up as well, and some parts were smudged beyond recognition. But it was clear that the body of the king was borne on a bier carried by a sea of mourners. Musicians with drums and cymbals followed, and the faces of the mourners were painted to show unbearable grief. The king’s hands were clasped over a sword that he held on his chest.
On the King’s right hand, the artist had taken pains to draw a gold ring. Tris bent closer, because the ring stood out. Whoever had drawn the mural had left out many details, giving only suggestions of the attire and adornment of the mourners or the king’s grief-stricken court. But the king’s ring was drawn in exceptional detail. As Tris squinted for a better look, he could see a complicated knot pattern set with dots of color that he assumed were meant for gems. He straightened, pondering the meaning of the mural.

Nexus thrummed with power and a faint nimbus shone around it. Whether that was warning or warding, Tris had no way to know. As he had often complained to Soterius during their last campaign, no one had told him how its magic worked. Neither Royster nor Fallon could find any details about its forging or its origin in the annals of the Library at Westmarch, except that it was made for Bava K’aa on the eve of the Great War against the Obsidian King and it was said to hold a shadow of her magic. Wary of the sword and its price, Tris used it as infrequently as possible. For combat against a mortal foe, he had a beautiful and deadly long sword. But one of Nexus’s abilities was to manifest on the Plains of Spirit as a weapon that could destroy even the dead. And so, for this journey among the restless dead, Nexus was his weapon of choice.