Authors: Sevastian
“So what do we do about it?” Soterius asked, his words muffled by a bite of venison.
Tris paused. “I want to get a look at what’s going on in Arontala’s workshop.”
Soterius choked on his meat, and the servant behind him had to pound on his back. “You want to do what?” he rasped after he took a sip of wine. “Are you crazy?”
Tris did not reply for a moment, mindful that Jared’s eyes were on them. When Jared resumed his conversation with the red‐robed mage, Tris glanced again at Soterius. “If Jared’s up to something, you can bet Arontala’s behind it. And we won’t know what it is until we get a look in that workshop.” Although he was not prepared to recount the ghost’s warning, Tris already concluded that if such a thing as a “soulcatcher” posed a threat, then the first place to go looking for it was the library of the Fireclan mage.
“You know I’m not much for magic,” Soterius retorted under his breath. “But I believe my guards when they tell me that the doors to Arontala’s rooms are spelled tight. No one comes or goes without him.”
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Tris chewed thoughtfully on a leg of mutton. “Then let’s try the window.”
Soterius bit into his bread. “No. Uh huh. Not a good idea. Besides, I thought you hated heights.”
“I do,” Tris admitted. “But it’s for a good cause. Come on, you’ve been dying to get me back up in your climbing rig ever since last year. And you know you always like to try some stunt on Haunts, just to give Zachar a few more gray hairs.” He chuckled. “One year you decided we should rappel from the tower and we nearly got shot by the guards. The next year you decided to try to swing from the sleeping rooms to the other
side of the courtyard, but you landed in the stable instead.”
“Thank the Mother and Childe it was hay and not manure,” Soterius replied dryly. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
Tris nodded. “Too many things aren’t what they should be. “We’ll get our chance when dinner is over and the festival moves down into the town.”
The rest of the long feast went uneventfully, with a series of jugglers, acrobats and magicians that even lifted even Tris’s mood. Carroway, the mastermind behind the evening’s festivities, looked quite pleased with himself as he fussed over his actor friends, adjusting the elaborate costumes and makeup in the far corner of the feast hall and watching with pride as one group of performers after another strove to outdo themselves before the king. As Carroway finished a long, haunting ballad, which was among Serae’s favorites, Bricen, showing the same gusto in his feasting for which he was legendary on the hunt, clapped and roared his approval, prompting even louder accolades from the guests. But Tris thought his mother looked distracted, as if she might be marking time until she could make her exit to the private rooms. That was unusual, he thought with concern, for his mother—though never as boisterous as Bricen—was known for her graciousness as a hostess and was usually quite partial to Carroway’s ballads.
As the bells in the tower tolled midnight, the outer doors to the greatroom swung open. A black-30
robed figure, its face shrouded by a deep cowl, stood in the doorway bearing a glittering chalice.
Soundlessly, the figure bowed in deference to Bricen, who stood, playing his role in the drama.
“Greetings, Grandmother Spirit,” the king intoned. “We are ready for the march.” From behind the robed figure of the Crone emerged three costumed actors, each in one of the other faces of the quartern Goddess: Mother, Childe and Lover. Four faces of one goddess, the light aspects of a single deity. The king offered his arm to Serae, and together they led the procession down the aisle toward the waiting players, the tables emptying as the other guests filed in behind them.
Tris saw Soterius catch Carroway’s eye and make a slight gesture; the minstrel nodded in acknowledgment as the procession left the feast hall.
Tris pulled Soterius into a side corridor, letting the rowdy supper guests push past. Carroway dodged into the hallway a few minutes later. “What’s going on?” the bard asked as the last of the revelers passed. The three friends moved further into the shadows, and Tris cast an anxious glance toward the torchlit main hall to make sure they were alone.
“Father and the rest of the family will take leave of the guests at the main gates,” he hissed. “As late as it is, they should all head up to bed. Once it’s quiet, we can head for the tower and climb down from there.”
Soterius looked askance at Tris. “Let’s be clear about royal prerogative here,” he objected. “Tris has a hare‐brained idea that’s likely to get us all charred into bits or turned into frogs,” the guard complained, his expression resigned as Tris explained the night’s work to Carroway.
“I’m game,” the minstrel chimed in when Tris was finished. “We bards are quite accepting of magic,” he said with mock snootiness aimed at Soterius, who scowled. “Unlike those plebeian military types who only believe in what they see. Count me in.”
“What I see worries me enough,” Soterius groused. “Wait here. I’ll go get my gear.”
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CHAPTER TWO
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Soterius retrieved A large bag from his quarters, and together, the three made their way through the passageways of Shekerishet. It was already the wee hours of the morning and the night’s revelry was winding down inside the castle. Most of the partygoers had departed. A few costumed stragglers made their way across the courtyards as Tris and his friends climbed the steps to the upper chambers.
They headed for the section above the audience rooms of the king. Tris tried his best to push aside his earlier foreboding. Despite the warnings of the ghost, and his grandmother’s apparition, no danger presented itself. Under other circumstances, tonight’s adventure might have been fun, harking back to the escapades he and the others had shared when they returned from fostering. They had been high‐spirited boys back then, Zachar’s private curse, the seneschal was fond of telling them. Tris might be the second son of the king, but it didn’t exempt him from a tongue‐lashing if things got out of hand. “You’re quiet,” Soterius prompted. Tris shrugged. “Maybe I’m festivalled out. It’s been a long week.” He paused. “Carroway,” he said, turning to the bard, “have you seen any of the palace spirits since the fortune‐teller?”
Carroway shook his head. “Now that you mention it, no. Funny, especially on Haunts. I’ve seen lots of people dressed as spirits, but the real ghosts are nowhere to be seen.”
Tris nodded, uneasy. “There’s something wrong. Did you see the way the fortune‐teller dis-32
appeared, how she seemed pulled away? And where are the rest of the ghosts? There’re always as many ghosts as mortals at the festival. The palace ghosts are always most visible on Haunts.”
“Could that be why it bears the name, do you think?” Carroway smiled. “It’s strange, I’ll give you that.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’re all entertaining the guests in the courtyard. Or maybe even they celebrated a little too much and they’ve gone back to wherever ghosts go to rest.”
“Maybe,” Tris said, unconvinced.
Carroway sobered. “That’s one more thing that’s got you thinking there’s trouble?” he asked, with a look that Tris knew read more into the statement. While Tris always self‐consciously downplayed what magic talent he possessed to Soterius, Carroway was a willing helper when Bava K’aa would ask the boys to help her with a minor working. Carroway was also comfortable with Tris’s odd ability to speak to spirits at any time of the year—not just on Haunts—and drew some of his best tales and songs from the stories of these long‐dead courtiers. It was a talent Tris had learned early to hide from nearly everyone else, although Kait and Bava K’aa quietly encouraged him. Instinctively, Tris knew not to let Jared suspect that he had any magic talent.
He was glad to avoid another reason for the palace wags to talk.
“Hurry up!” Soterius whispered, holding open a door. They followed him into the darkened room. Carroway lit a torch.
“So what’s the plan?” Tris asked.
Soterius grinned as he unpacked his bag. Two large, heavy coils of rope tumbled to the floor. As Soterius laid it out, Tris could see two climbers’ harnesses of leather straps and buckles. Soterius wriggled into one harness and passed the other to Tris. “Help me with this, will you?” he hissed.
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“Now what?” Carroway asked skeptically. “Men aren’t supposed to walk down walls like flies.”
“Back in my father’s lands, everybody climbs down walls like this,” Soterius pointed out.
“Everybody?” Tris teased.
“Well, all right, mostly just the mountain people, because the cliffs are so sharp they’d never go anywhere otherwise. But we have a lot of mountain people and a lot of cliffs, so it’s almost everybody!” Soterius replied. “Help me get this anchored before we get caught. If I’m going to get another tongue‐lashing from Zachar, I want to earn it!”
“You have a pretty strange hobby,” Carroway muttered as he cinched the rope tight around its anchor.
“Coming from a grown man who makes smoke ghosts for a living, I’ll take that as a compliment,”
Soterius shot back. Now that he had secured his own harness, he turned his attention to Tris, double‐checking the sturdy leather and testing the buckles. When both men were satisfied with the climbing gear, they secured the ropes to iron rings sunk deep in the stone walls near the fireplace. Soterius opened the window and leaned out to look around. He sat on the wide stone of the window ledge and swung his legs over the castle wall, then looked down to the flagstones four stories below. This was the tallest part of Shekerishet, with the lowest floors carved into the cliffside against which the palace stood. The oldest sections of Shekerishet were carved from the cliffside almost five hundred years ago. Made of the same gray granite as the cliffs, the old palace was an unadorned fortress, square and foreboding, with archers’ slits and crenellations.
Over generations, Margolan’s kings built on to the old castle, adding whole wings and new towers, so that now, Shekerishet sprawled against the base of the mountain’s sharp crags, a brooding presence above the city and farms below.
With a grin, Soterius patted, the ledge for Tris to join him. Tris fought a moment of vertigo as he looked down into the courtyard.
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“All right, here goes.” Soterius pushed off, spinning for a moment until he oriented himself with his back to the courtyard and his feet against the stone wall.
“We should have painted a bullseye on your back to make it easier for the archers,” Carroway hissed.
“Funny,” Soterius muttered. “Just keep that flag of yours handy, Tris, in case someone gets ideas.”
Tris patted the pennon of the king’s second son in his pocket. It was meant to identify him in battle, but tonight, if a guard spotted them, letting the flag unfurl might make the archer hold his fire long enough to identify the bearer.
“All right, Tris. Your turn.”
Swallowing hard, Tris let himself over the ledge. “I just remembered how much I hate heights.”
He caught his breath sharply as he spun for a moment in the chill fall air, and fought the urge to close his eyes. Aware that his friends were watching, Tris nodded his readiness.
Soterius worked his way carefully down the smooth stone wall of the castle. Tris followed, trying not to constantly reassure himself by jerking on the rope. Although he and Soterius climbed the cliffs around Shekerishet frequently during good weather, Tris had not been out since summer’s end, and he felt the lapse in his aching muscles.
It was colder than he expected, and the chill nipped at his face. Tris glanced at Soterius, but the guardsman grinned as the wind whipped his dark hair into his eyes. If the king were to look out of one of those windows just now, they would all have some explaining to do, but that was the beauty of Haunts. Nearly everything could be forgiven in the name of the night’s revelry.
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As he drew close to the windows of the second floor, Tris frowned. There was a light in the window, a strange, red glow that did not look like firelight. The light glowed from Foor Arontala’s chambers, pulsing like a heartbeat. Ignoring Soterius’s concerned glance, Tris worked his way over.
Tris eased closer to the window and felt the familiar prickle at the edges of his senses that signaled magic close by. But the magic here felt different from his grandmother’s power, Tris thought, his breath steaming in the cold night air. Even an arm’s breadth away from the window, there was an aura of dread that almost drove him back. He pressed on, though the foreboding was almost palpable, and while no physical barrier slowed him, he had the feeling of wading through deep, ice‐cold water the closer he got to his goal. Forcing himself past his fear, Tris leaned in to get a glimpse through the window. The room was dark, but the embers in the fireplace made enough light for him to recognize the trappings of a wizard’s workplace. Chalices and athames, cords braided from materials of all descriptions, a scrying bowl, chits and bones—
the stuff of divination—and clusters of dried herbs crowded for space with vials of powders and potions. But only one thing in the sorcerer’s room commanded his attention, transfixing him as if it knew he was there. On a pedestal in the corner of the room sat a crystal globe the size of a man’s head, and from the globe pulsed light the color of blood. As Tris stared, the light seemed to focus, and for an instant, Tris could have sworn it oriented itself on him, like one bloody eye, aware of his presence. Tris’s heart hammered in his throat, and he was suddenly unsure he could tear himself away.
“Have you lost your mind?” Soterius hissed from beside him, making him jump.
“Can’t you feel it?” Tris murmured, backing away from the window.
Soterius looked at him skeptically. “I can feel my rump freezing, if that’s what you mean.” They heard angry men’s voices from just outside the door to the wizard’s room, and both Tris and Soterius swung back, flattening themselves against the wall as torchlight flared in the room and the voices drew closer. Jared and the king, Tris thought with a sinking heart. And this time, whatever the topic of their argument, it was more heated than usual, with Bricen almost apoplectic in his anger, though Tris could not catch the words over the din of revelry in the 36