The onslaught of images ended abruptly enough to make Tris stagger. Tris drew on his own power as he turned back to face the ghost, drawing them both onto the Plains of Spirit.
Why have you come?
Whether Marlan’s voice sounded in the tomb or just within his own skull, Tris could not tell. Here in Nether, their spirits could communicate without the barriers of speech and language.
Someone is trying to raise the Dread—or whatever it is the Dread guard. I need to know how to stop them.
What the Dread bind, they choose to bind. And if they choose, they can loose the First Spirits, the Nachale.
Were you a summoner?
The old king’s spirit hesitated, as if it had to search to understand Tris’s words. Finally, Marlan spoke.
We did not use that word, “summoner.” My people called me a ghost caller, and my enemies called me Sja Kun. It meant Death-bringer.
How can I persuade the Dread to ally with us? We think a dark summoner is trying to win the Dread to his side. It may become a War of Unmaking.
There were tales, even in my day, about Wars of Unmaking. For the dead, every war is a war of unmaking.
Tris remembered the warning Alyzza had given him.
What of a bridge? Is there a bridge between the Dread and the Nachale? A bridge that the Dread guard?
I know nothing about a bridge. The Dread guard the passage to the world of the living. The Sworn are their guardians.
How can I persuade the Dread to side with Margolan to defend your kingdom again? How did you gain them as allies?
The Dread sought me. I did not seek them.
If they’re as powerful as you say, what did you have that they wanted?
Marlan paused.
I was a channel for their power, and they were a channel for mine. They had not been alive in so long, I believe they had lost their connection to the power of breath and blood. Magic is born of both spirit and sinew. Whether they could have found another channel, I do not know. But together, we were enough to bind the Nachale, although they were too ancient to destroy. Whatever power now calls to them, it will be up to the Dread to decide whether to listen or whether to turn away.
If a dark summoner has the power to call to the Dread and raise the Nachale, how can I protect my people?
Tris felt Marlan’s full power crash over him. It lanced through him, as if weighing him to take his full measure.
You are a true heir of power. If you wish to protect your people and defend the kingdom, then when the time is right, surrender yourself to that power. Take the talisman from my body. When battle comes, wear it into combat. If your offering is sufficient, it will open the magic of your fathers.
Abruptly, Marlan’s presence was gone, thrusting Tris from the Plains of Spirit and leaving a silence so complete it made Tris’s head pound. He fell to his hands and knees, waiting for the pain to subside. When his vision cleared, Tris got to his feet and moved cautiously toward Marlan’s body. The wardings yielded to him, and he reached out to carefully remove the golden talisman from the preserved corpse. It thrummed against his skin with a strange, old magic. For an instant, Tris felt Marlan’s magic sizzle through the channels of his power. It left him breathless and unsteady. When he could trust himself to move, Tris put the talisman into a pouch safe within his tunic and made his way back up the winding passageways of the crypt.
As he moved toward the world of the living, the magic seemed to part around him, receding like water. Once, when he had been a boy, he had gone swimming in the depths of a lake in the forest. He had accidentally gone almost to the bottom, not realizing how the press of the water would drive breath from him and that its cold would draw the warmth from his blood. Even now, he remembered how it had felt to kick his way toward the surface, for the grip of the depths to loosen as the water grew lighter and warmer, and how he had gasped for air when at last he broke through the surface into the light. It was magic, not water, that pressed him now from all sides, that stole his breath and leached the heat from his marrow. Tris quickened his step, and it felt as if the magic pulled at him, as if it would draw him back into the darkness where the ancients slept.
With a burst of both physical and magical power, Tris willed himself forward, and he felt the tendrils of magic
snap, as if he had passed an invisible barrier. He stood, shaking, for a moment, feeling as if, freed of the encumbrance, his body was light enough to float. Tris sucked in deep lungfuls of air and realized that he was nearly to the outer chamber and the crypt entrance. Light reached into the doorway, though it was the golden glow of late afternoon, and not the bright light of morning. He quickened his footsteps, and something deep and primal within him urged him to run. With an effort, Tris kept himself from fleeing, more because he did not care to hear the laughter of the dead than because he cared what the soldiers at the door might think.
Relief swept over Tris as he stepped from the crypt into the late-afternoon sun. Soterius and Fallon ran to him, but Tris held up a hand to stave off questions.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Really.” Tris could see the concern in Soterius’s expression, and he knew that Fallon was using her magic to make her own assessment of his condition.
“You’ve been in there for nearly two days,” Soterius said, touching Tris’s shoulder as if to reassure himself that Tris was alive. “We tried to go in after you, but the magic wouldn’t let us pass. Even Fallon couldn’t get through the wardings.”
“Two days?” Now that he stood in the sun and fresh air, Tris realized that he was weak from hunger and his throat was parched. Fallon guided him to sit on the ground and pressed a flask of brandy and a wedge of cheese into his hands. “Eat. Drink. You’ve spent a long time in the realm of the dead. Ground yourself and remind your soul that you belong among the living.” She glared at Soterius as if to deter him from questioning Tris until Tris had finished eating.
“Did you talk with them?” There was a note of excitement in Soterius’s voice.
Wearily, Tris nodded. “Yes, and I’ll tell you all about it on the ride home. Just give me a chance to catch my breath.”
By the time they reached Shekerishet, Tris was exhausted. He and Soterius and Fallon had debated and dissected from every angle the meaning of what the ghosts had said. In the end, Tris had no more certainty about a course to protect Margolan from its enemies than he had before he entered the tomb.
“We’ll have to convene the war council,” Soterius said as they approached Shekerishet.
Tiredly, Tris nodded. “I know. And we’ll have to go over all this again and again. I don’t know if they’ll believe me. Margolan doesn’t have the resources to waste mustering the army again to sit by the edge of the sea and wait for an invader who might not be real.”
“You’ve got more than a hunch to base it on. You’ve had warnings from Staden, Jonmarc, even Eastmark. Fallon told you that even the mage Sentinels think there’s a blood mage or a dark summoner headed our way.”
“The council can argue that those are reasons for caution, but not war. We don’t have proof that there’s an invading fleet on the way—we just have Cam’s guess for the reason Alvior dredged the harbor. We don’t know for certain whether a fleet that invaded Isencroft would try to invade Margolan, let alone Principality and Eastmark. The council could argue to wait and see.”
The set of Soterius’s jaw told Tris his friend was already spoiling for a fight. “Wait and see? And if Cam’s
right, does the council think we can snap our fingers and have an army provisioned and at the shore? We’ve barely recovered after Lochlanimar—”
“And that’s the point. They’ll argue that we’re stretching ourselves too thin. They’ll say that we’re risking revolt by calling up the army to play a game of wait-and-see.”
“And if it is a War of Unmaking?”
“Then they might say that nothing we can do will matter.” Fallon had spoken little since they had left the shrine of the Mother and Childe. Her comment made both men turn to look at her. Fallon shrugged. “Think about it. We have only legend to tell us about the Wars of Unmaking. After all, by definition, if it wipes the slate clean and begins time over again, even the legends are suspect. Who’s left to tell the story?”
“Do you think such a war is possible? Is it just a myth?”
Fallon frowned as she took a deep breath. “Some people say myth and they mean fable, a made-up tale. But the real myths, like the legends that endure, have a truth inside them, although it might be hidden in disguise. Do I think a War of Unmaking will actually destroy the entire world?” She shrugged again, palms open and upward. “Who knows? I haven’t seen the whole world. I take it on faith that there are lands and people outside the Winter Kingdoms, but I haven’t seen them with my own eyes. But do I think there could be a war that would unmake
our
world as we know it? That’s another question. And the answer to that is yes. We know that the Mage Wars happened. We know that the first battle against the Obsidian King nearly destroyed the Winter Kingdoms. We know that before the Mage Wars, the Blasted Lands were full
of people and cities and farmland, and now they’re barren. Maybe that’s as much ‘unmaking’ as we need for the threat to be real. And by that measure, I’d say it’s a very real threat.”
A different kind of headache was starting at the back of Tris’s neck. It was a headache born of stiff muscles and the tension of trying to figure out something that might not have an answer. Right now, Tris decided, he wanted nothing so much as a hot dinner and another glass of brandy.
“You’re probably right,” he said, and he knew that the others could hear exhaustion in his voice. “But let’s tackle the rest of this tomorrow. There’s nothing more to be done tonight.”
At the entrance to the palace, Tris left Soterius and Fallon behind and headed for the private quarters he shared with Kiara. He was not surprised that she was waiting for him in the parlor. She looked tired and worried. Cwynn was not in the room, and Tris guessed that Kiara and the nurses had finally managed to get him to sleep.
“What’s wrong?” Tris gathered Kiara into his arms and she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Cwynn had another bad night. I don’t know how to soothe him. We’ve already found that some parts of the castle bother him more than others, so we keep him clear of those areas.”
“And when I went over those places with my magic, there was nothing,” Tris said, smoothing his hand down her long, auburn hair. “No ghosts, no energies, nothing.”
“I don’t know why he screams. The last few days it’s been like he’s been touched by madness.”
Tris felt a coldness settle through him. He pushed away from Kiara and met her eyes. “What did you say?”
“I said that it’s like Cwynn’s been touched by madness. He rocks back and forth in his crib, but nothing soothes him. We’ll finally get him to sleep and he’ll wake screaming. Sometimes, he won’t let anyone near him except Ula and Seanna, but they’re ghosts. They can’t hold him or clean him. Why?”
“When I went to Vistimar, the Sister in charge said that the residents there seemed to be more restless than ever, and that the restlessness came and went, almost like the waves in the sea or the cycles of the moon. Sometimes worse, sometimes better, but never gone completely.”
“You think Cwynn is mad?”
Tris shook his head. “No, of course not. On the other hand, I’m not convinced Alyzza is completely mad, either. There’s enough of her magic still intact to tell me that she senses something, even if her mind can’t explain it. Or even if it’s too frightening for her mind to explain.”
Kiara looked at him sharply. “And you think Cwynn… senses something like the crazy mages at Vistimar? You and Sister Fallon told me that he’s far too young to have power, even if he is your mage heir, which isn’t guaranteed.”
Tris shrugged, and reluctantly let go of her. “I don’t know. Forget I said anything. Even if he could sense something, it doesn’t solve the problem. Until he stops screaming, you and I and the rest of the castle aren’t going to get much sleep, and neither will he.” He shook his head. “If all firstborn children are this difficult, it’s a wonder there are ever siblings.”
Kiara drew a breath and turned away from him. “In a way, that brings up something I’ve been meaning to talk with you about.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been thinking about the problems Isencroft is having, first with the Divisionists and now with Alvior. Father’s enemies are playing on the fear that because you and I are married and the throne of Isencroft will pass to me when something happens to Father, Isencroft has somehow been colonized by Margolan.”
“You know that’s not true.”
Kiara nodded, walking as she talked, as if she needed the motion to help her sort out her thoughts. “I know that, and you know it, and Father knows it, but it’s the kind of thing that can be hard to explain to a plowman in the field. Now we have a son, and that child is heir to both crowns. From the Divisionists’ standpoint, that’s no better. But if there were a second child, an heir designated for the Isencroft throne—”
Tris met her eyes, suddenly guessing where the conversation was headed. “No, not yet. We’ve talked about this before. There’s barely been time for you to heal since Cwynn was born. You’re only just recovered enough for us to be together again. It’s too early to have another child.”