Authors: Sevastian
Remember Carroway’s story? If Arontala could banish the ghosts, Father had one less level of protection,” he went on, his voice catching.
“You are correct, Prince Drayke,” a deep voice said from the crossroads, startling the four men.
Tris’s horse shied, and he struggled for a moment to rein in the frightened animal. They wheeled round to see a man on a gray steed almost obscured by the darkness, a few paces away from them on the forest road. Although his face was partially hidden by shadows, Tris recognized Comar Hassad, one of his father’s most trusted men‐at‐arms. Tris’s senses prickled as they moved closer, and although his companions seemed to note nothing amiss, Tris realized that their new guide was a spirit.
“Comar, what’s happened?” Tris asked, still trying to calm his panicked horse.
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“Time is short, my prince. Follow me and I will lead you to safety,” Hassad said, wheeling his mount soundlessly and heading off down the forest road at a gallop.
Tris had to spur his mount to catch sight of Hassad. They rode single file, with Hassad in the lead, then Tris, followed by Carroway. Harrtuck and Soterius brought up the rear. Tris had to strain his eyes to follow their guide in the nearly total darkness of the forest. Only hoof beats broke the stillness of the night. The moon above was hidden by the dense trees, and the horses picked their way with care. Hassad led the way, keeping a steady pace despite the darkness.
Moonlight streamed down through a rare break in the trees. Hassad was already on the other side of the clearing, waiting in the shadows. Tris felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. As they re‐entered the shadows of the forest, he listened more closely to the hoof beats around him. The sound of four horses rose clearly above the silence of the night and as Tris stared at their guide, he realized that the soldier’s mount gave off none of the sweaty mist of the other heaving horses.
The coldness of the air around them had nothing to do with the growing numbness he felt inside, as he wrestled with pain and fear and grief. The simple mechanics of urging his horse forward helped him stave off the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him.
They followed their guide for most of a candle‐mark, until Shekerishet and the palace city were far behind them and they were nearly through the pitch‐black forest. Finally, Hassad slowed and then stopped.
“I can go no further, my liege,” the man said, almost hidden in the shadows. “But I have a gift for you. Take it,” he said, withdrawing a long, slim package wrapped in cloth, and passing it reverently to Tris. “It is the sword of your father’s father. May it guide you home to rule Margolan as a good and true king,” he said solemnly as Tris received the package.
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“You are nearly through the woods,” Hassad continued, looking up to the others. “On the other side is a small village. There is a tavern called the Lamb’s Eye. Stay there tonight. You will be safe. Those who keep the tavern will provision you for your journey.”
“The Lamb’s Eye?” Harrtuck repeated from behind Tris. “When did they rebuild that? It burned last year.”
“Seek your shelter in the inn. There you will be safe,” Hassad repeated.
The leaves rustled behind them as an animal scurried for cover. When Tris turned again to question their guide, the road ahead was empty. “He’s gone,” Carroway said quietly, looking around them.
“He didn’t just vanish,” Soterius protested, reining in his skittish mount. A dozen paces ahead, he stopped. “I think you need to see this,” he said, gesturing for the others to follow.
Tris, Harrtuck and Carroway closed the distance, sidling up to where Soterius’s horse stood restlessly. A dead horse with the livery of a Margolan man‐at‐arms lay in the roadway felled by a crossbow bolt. Its hapless rider, half pinned beneath the dead beast, lay still, his armor no protection against the crossbow bolt that pierced his chest.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Garroway croaked. “And that didn’t just happen a moment ago, did it?”
“Uh uh,” Harrtuck said uneasily, taking in the scene with battle‐practiced detachment. “Been dead several hours, I reckon.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Carroway whispered.
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Soterius glanced sideways at the bard. “More grist for your stories, minstrel—if we live that long.
You’ll hold them in awe with this one.”
“If we live that long,” Tris repeated, looking out over the dark forest around them.
Carroway’s expression clearly reflected his terror. “Those stories, about the spirits being able to be solid on Haunts, I never really thought—”
“The sooner we get off the road, the better,” Soterius broke in. He looked no less comfortable than the others felt, but his battle training won out over fear. “We’d better get going.”
“Where?” Carroway asked, his voice nearly a whisper. Tris glanced back at the minstrel, to see the young man’s face pale and his eyes wide. Tris doubted he looked much better, from the way his own heart was pounding.
“To the Lamb’s Eye,” Tris shrugged and nudged his horse into a canter. “Unless someone has a better idea.”
They came to the edge of the woods at the top of a hill. Below them, the fires of the village cast a reassuring glow in the darkness. Even the country folk celebrated Haunts, although with less abandon than their city cousins. There was sure to be no shortage of ale and wenching going on in the streets below, while the more pious made a candlelit pilgrimage to the barrows. In the distance, Tris saw a single‐file line of walkers heading for the burial grounds. The pious appeared to be in the minority, as the sounds of music and revelry rose above the cold, still darkness.
“There, that must be the inn,” Carroway said, pointing to a lone structure that squatted near the road on the outskirts of town. Its windows glowed and smoke rose from its chimney, and even at this distance, Tris could smell roasting meat.
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“Looks pretty solid for a place that’s not there any more,” Soterius said, glancing skeptically at Harrtuck, who shrugged.
“I haven’t been this way in quite a while. If it made enough money for the innkeeper, I imagine he rebuilt it.”
“Or else, it’s one of those illusions, like in the tales,” Carroway whispered.
“Do your tales give any helpful hints for telling the real thing from the illusion?” Soterius grated.
“Not that I know of,” Carroway replied, his voice a few tones higher and more pinched than usual.
“I try not to disobey a ghost,” Tris observed dryly, urging his horse down the steep road. “If it was important enough for Hassad to send us there, he had a reason. Let’s go.”
A very solid wooden door gave reassuringly to Tris’s touch. The common room was empty, but the air was heavy with the smell of roasting meat mingled with tobacco smoke. Despite a log fire glowing in the hearth, a chill hung in the room.
“Awfully quiet place for a feast night, isn’t it?” Soterius murmured, his hand on the pommel of his sword.
“Considering how we must look, maybe that’s lucky,” Tris replied under his breath with a glance at their disheveled costumes. They approached the empty bar warily, and Tris thudded his fist against the wood to call the innkeeper.
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“We’d like a room for the night,” Harrtuck rasped as the innkeeper appeared in the kitchen doorway, a florid, heavy‐set man whose ample apron was stained with ale and meat.
“Ah yes,” the man said flatly from the shadows, gesturing for them to enter. “Two coppers a person. Find a room for yourselves upstairs.”
Tris stretched out his senses, feeling the warning tingle of nearby spirits. It was strong here, but wordlessly reassuring. He eyed the silent innkeeper, extending his mage‐sense. The image, seemingly solid, wavered and blurred to Tris’s sight, and the revenant bowed his head in acknowledgement.
On my soul and by the Lady, you and yours are safe here tonight, Tris heard in his mind. Tris glanced at his companions, who were edgy from the fight and unnerved from the ride, but who did not seem to sense anything other‐worldly about their host. He said nothing as they climbed the steps, noting that neither of the fighters took their hands far from their swords, and even Carroway kept his hand near the shiv in his belt.
“Bed for four here,” Soterius said, opening the first door. A candle was already burning on the nightstand as they entered. On the table lay a platter with sausages, cheese and hard biscuits, and two full buckets of ale with four mugs.
“Nothing but dried meat and cheese,” Carroway groused, collapsing into a chair. “Can’t tell me that’s not venison stew I smell.”
“Yeah, well, it’s food and we’re off the road,” Soterius growled, walking around the perimeter of the room like a caged thing. “I’m just as glad to eat up here.” He stood to the side of the single window and glanced down at the street below, but only a few travelers made their way through the night.
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“Not exactly the friendly types, are they?” Harrtuck muttered as Carroway passed around the tray of food and began to fill the mugs. “This whole place feels wrong,” he said. “Morning can’t come fast enough for me.”
“I’ve had my fill of adventure for one night,” replied Carroway, downing a mug of ale. “But Soterius was right. After tonight, I’ll have ballads they’ll pay gold to hear!”
Tris let them talk. He could feel the reassurance of the spirits in this place, promising their watchfulness and protection. And something else, a pervasiveness of magic that seemed to surround them, like a warding. He started to say something to his companions, to explain the spectral nature of their host, then reconsidered. He saw too clearly the discomfort on Soterius’s face and the fear in Carroway’s expression back at the palace, when they saw him speak with Kait’s spirit and they glimpsed what his power might truly mean. They won’t stay if I tell them, he knew. We’re safer here than on the road, I’ll stake my soul on it, but I’ll never convince them.
Too weary to argue, unwilling to feel the weight of incredulous glances, Tris resigned himself to silence.
He was chilled through from the night’s ride and bone weary, too overwhelmed to take in the evening’s events. The king, dead. His family, slaughtered. Jared, a traitor. And now, he and his friends were wanted men, running for their lives. He struggled against the images of Serae’s and Kait’s bodies, of Bricen’s murder. The cold numbness that tingled in his fingers and chilled him had as much to do with the ache in his soul as it did the chill night outside. They were gone. All gone.
“Let’s get a look at that gash,” Soterius said. A pot of water’already boiled on the fire.
“Look there,” Harrtuck said, his voice wary. On the scarred mantel lay a packet of healer’s herbs and two vials of oil, along with a pile of torn cloth bandages. “I don’t like this at all, for what it counts,” he murmured. “Too damn strange.”
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Soterius knelt next to Tris and gently lifted up the ripped, blood‐soaked shirt. “By the Whore!”
he stammered, looking up uncomprehendingly at Tris. “What happened to your wound?”
Tris glanced down. Where an open gash should have been was unmarked flesh.
Carroway exchanged astonished glances with Soterius and Harrtuck. “Before I decide I’ve lost my mind,” the bard said incredulously, “someone please tell me they saw a knife gash here? Ban?
Tov?”
Soterius and Harrtuck nodded wordlessly. “Aye, and a bad wound, too,” Soterius murmured.
Carroway and Harrtuck crowded closer, and Tris felt Soterius’s uncompromising stare. “Lady and Childe,” Harrtuck swore. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Carroway met Tris’s eyes, levelly awaiting an explanation.
Certain of just how mad the story sounded, Tris recounted what had happened in the procession. Soterius continued to stare at the site of the wound, and Tris knew that the explanation sorely tested his practical friend’s credulity. Harrtuck frowned, but faced with the evidence of his own eyes, could do nothing but shake his head in wonder. Carroway’s eyes were alight at the thought of true intervention by the Goddess, and Tris guessed that it was only with great effort and out of respect for the tragedy of the evening that Carroway refrained from grilling him mercilessly about the experience.
They ate their cold dinner in silence. Out in the street, someone was playing the lute and drunken voices rose in chorus as boots pounded time. The inn itself was silent, and Tris gathered his cloak around him.
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“Coldest damn inn I’ve ever stayed in,” Harrtuck said with a mouthful of sausage. “The sooner we’re out of here, the happier I’ll be.”
Secure in the knowledge that Soterius stood the first watch, Carroway and Harrtuck retired for the evening, with the bard moving a bench closer to the fire and Harrtuck settling himself into a chair. When they were asleep, Tris paced to the window.
For the first time since the tragedy, Tris felt despair finally overwhelm him, and he sagged against the window frame, sobbing silently. The enormity of what had happened, the finality of the loss, the growing awareness of the danger now surrounding him rushed over him in waves.
Roused finally from his grief by the chill draft that slipped through the closed window, Tris looked up at the clear stars outside. He caught his breath. There, auguring for all to see, a faint ring burned around the full moon, testimony that a king was dead this night. Eyes still fixed on the stars, Tris sank to one knee, placing his sword flat across his open palms.
Chenne, Avenger of Wrongs, hear me! By all the magic of Margolan, on the souls of my grandmother and my family, let me be the instrument of your judgment. Take my life, my soul, whatever you require, but let me put right what has been done this night.
From everywhere at once and nowhere at all, came a woman’s voice so beautiful that it pierced Tris to his soul, and so powerful that his heart thudded in his throat at the sound of it.
Like your grandmother before you, I accept your vow, the voice said, and Tris felt an unseen presence far more powerful than any of the ghosts of Shekerishet brush past him, though nothing save the wind stirred in the darkness. Then, as quickly as the presence came, it was gone.