Gail Martin - Dark Lady_s Chosen

Tris shrugged. Though Fallon and Esme had done their best, Tris knew he was far from up to his full strength, either physically or magically. "You're probably right. But the men need to see me. I'd feel like I wasn't honoring their sacrifice if I lay abed in my tent while they're soldiering on." He grimaced. "And besides, both Esme and Fallon threatened to knock me out if I so much as moved to ride back to Shekerishet before tomorrow." Soterius grinned. "Good for them." He sobered. "You can soothe your conscience by tending to the souls of the new casualties. We're still losing some of the battle-wounded as well as the ones with fever." He dropped his voice. "I came here prepared to lose men in battle. I didn't count on plague. We've ended the battle. But can we contain the fever?" "In truth, I can't leave without knowing for certain that Curane and his blood mages are dead," Tris replied. "This is why I never wanted the crown. The king is duty-bound to stay. But my

heart wants to set out for home tonight." "Have there been more dreams?"

Tris shook his head. "None. That's worse. There's been nothing since Candles Night. She doesn't answer when I call for her on the Plains of Spirit." He met Soterius's eyes, and knew that the other understood the implication. "But then again, neither did Bricen," Soterius said quietly.

Bricen's ghost had never come to Tris because Jared murdered him with a dagger that destroyed the soul. The thought that Kiara might have been taken from him forever filled Tris with the greatest fear he had ever felt. As a Summoner, he could transcend death. But even he could not bring back a soul that had been utterly destroyed. I don't care what's happened while I've been gone. I don't care if the rumors are true. I'll win her back, or I'll stand beside her, regardless. Only please, let Kiara and the baby live. "Can you tell from the Flow whether Carina was successful?" Tris nodded. "The Flow is healed-and it restored my power instead of draining me. I believe it did the same for Carina. I hope so."

"Have you called for Jonmarc?" Soterius asked quietly. "You said he'd sworn the Bargain."

Tris let himself slip into the Plains of Spirit. The paths of power were still raw and sore. He cast his magic, calling for Jonmarc. To his relief, there was no reply. He came back to himself, and shook his head. "He doesn't answer."

"That's good. It would be too quiet without him."

Tris managed a smile. "Coming from you, that says a lot."

Soterius shrugged. "He grows on you. Like fungus."

"Did you choose the men who'll ride back to Shekerishet with me?"

"They're already provisioned. They'll be ready when you are. And if you don't mind, I'd like

to send Coalan with you."

Tris nodded. "He'll be a help. Fallon and I think we've figured out how to use magic to make sure the plague doesn't cling to us. The last thing we need is to carry it home. Once we're gone, she and Esme and Beyral will start releasing the healthy ones as quickly as they can. The others will have to stay here until they recover."

Or die. Tris didn't have to say it, but he knew Soterius took his meaning. And every day that it took to pack up the camp carried with it the risk of infection for those who had, so far, evaded

death. There was a reason, Tris thought, that war, famine and pestilence were so frequently mentioned together by the legends. It would be Margolan's bitter fate for their shadow to cross over the land, and nothing in Tris's power as king or sorcerer could stop it. Later that evening, a trumpet heralded the convening of a military tribunal. Senne, Rallan, Soterius, Fallon and Beyral filed into seats along one side of the parade ground in the camp. The three highest ranking senior officers joined them, making a jury of eight in honor of the faces of the Lady. The rest of the open space was packed with soldiers curious to watch their Summoner-king try the spirits of the dead. Along with the soldiers were those ghosts who had not chosen to go to their rest: spirits of fallen Margolan soldiers, ghosts from the necropolis and the wights of the murdered villagers who had elected to remain. At the very back stood the vayash moru, and Tris grieved to see how their number had been reduced.

"There's no reason this can't wait," Esme scolded as she helped Tris get ready for the working. "You're not back to your full strength, even with the Flow's help. You were lucky to live through the Elemental. And you have no idea whether this is one last trap Curane's left for us."

Tris sighed. "You're probably right about everything. But I have to do this. The men deserve to see Curane stand trial for what he's done. The ghosts deserve vindication. And, Goddess forgive me, I want to see them called to account for the harm they've caused." Esme nodded. "I understand. Just be careful, Tris, please. Especially if you plan to start the trip back to Shekerishet tomorrow."

"That's another reason why this has to be done. I need to know whether Curane's got something to do with the rumors and my dreams about the knife. I need to know, Esme." "As you wish, m'lord."

The orbs lay on a small table toward the front of the clearing. They pulsed with inner fire that sent streaks of red, orange and yellow through their misty interiors. Tris walked toward them, already raising a shielding between the orbs and the onlookers, mindful of how dangerous it had been to splinter the orb of the Obsidian King. The winter wind snapped Tris's hair around his face. Compared to facing down the Elemental, summoning Curane's spirit was a less powerful working, though no less fraught with potential dangers. When his inner and outer shieldings were in place Tris raised his hands and gathered his power. In the battle for the throne, he had inadvertently gained experience in shattering magical orbs, a painful and dangerous lesson. Drawing on the Flow as well as his own magic, Tris sent a blast of power toward the orbs, a blue-white arc so bright that onlookers gasped and turned away. At the same time, Tris reached out with his Summoner's magic to grasp the souls hidden inside and wrest them free. The orbs exploded with a hail of broken glass that bounced harmlessly against his wardings and fell like ice shards into the trampled snow. When the explosion was gone, three spirits stood inside the inner wardings. Lord Curane, Tris recognized from court. One of the mages was a thin man with red hair close-cropped enough to resemble a skull cap. The other was a sullen-eyed man with lank black hair and stooped shoulders.

Tris smiled coldly and focused his power again. One more soul still needed to give full account for his treachery. Tris reached out onto the Plains of Spirit and found a soul that shrank away from his power but feared the crossing over.

Tarq. Tris felt his power make contact and closed his hand, wrapping the balky spirit in his magic to drag him back to stand trial. The audience gasped as Tarq's spirit became visible in the center warding.

"You have been summoned here to stand trial for your crimes against the crown of Margolan, the Margolan army and the villagers of Lochlanimar," Tris said, hoping his voice sounded more impartial than he felt. It would be so easy for him to be judge, jury and executioner. Just a tightening of his power, a sudden twist, and he could snuff out their souls, deny them even eternal torment and condemn them to oblivion. I won't make Lemuel's mistake.

Setting his jaw, Tris faced the ghosts. "Curane, Lord of Lochlanimar. You are charged with treason against the throne of Margolan and conspiracy. General Tarq, you betrayed the men under your command and actively aided the enemy." He looked to the two mages. "You have invoked blood magic and caused the deaths of your own people, as well as creating a plague which may well reach beyond this battlefield. For these crimes, you stand trial before this assembly. How do you plead?"