Gail Martin - The blood king

"You may address the throne," he said with a trace of ennui.

"Why have you called us?" The speaker was the eldest of the priests, a bent, lined figure whose face looked more mummified than aged.

"I have a proposition for your king."

"Go on."

Jared felt his mood grow darker at the priest's complete lack of intimidation. "Half a century ago, your people swore allegiance to the Obsidian King. On the Hawthorn Moon, he will rise again, and I'm prepared to help Nargi regain the territories it once held… if," he held up a finger, "you'll prove to me your good faith and raise your army against one who would usurp the throne."

"How can this be?" The priest's dry voice was like the death rattle of a corpse. "The Obsidian King was destroyed."

"Not destroyed. Bound. What's bound can be loosed. At the Hawthorn Moon he will be free again, and his power can make Margolan a powerful ally… or a formidable foe."

"You would invite the armies of Nargi into Margolan?"

"Help me crush the usurper, and I'll reward your king richly."

"We will carry your terms to our king," the priest agreed. His companions whispered among themselves, their cowls shrouding their faces. "It is his to decide. Our armies cannot move before the snows melt. The worst of winter is now upon us."

"I understood that in Nargi, your king rules at the pleasure of the Crone and those who speak for Her. Can we not make an agreement now?"

Once more, the priest turned to his whispering companions, ghostlike in their hushed voices and hidden features. Finally, he returned his attention to Jared. "We will convey our endorsement to our king. But even for an ally, the king will not sacrifice his army. We cannot move until the snows melt."

Jared barely restrained his anger at the delay. "Then we shall ask the Goddess for an early spring," he said between clenched teeth.

The old priest regarded him for a moment. "Our days are in the hands of the Crone. As are we all."

When the emissaries had been escorted from the hall, Jared turned to Arontala. "Come the thaw, the Nargi army will show everyone the full power of my crown." He rose from the throne. "I don't need the soldiers of Margolan."

"As you wish, my king," he said, moving for the doorway. He paused, turning once more toward Jared. "But are you quite sure of your bargain?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've asked them to stop the usurper," Arontala explained. "In the most literal terms, only one man has usurped the throne of Margolan. You, my king." He was unconcerned at the rage that filled Jared's face. "Perhaps you should learn to be more precise in your wording. One should always be careful what one wishes."

In the palace of King Staden, the winter days quickly fell into routine for Jonmarc Vahanian. Most days, Vahanian was up before dawn, training in the salle with Kiara. The sessions ran late into the night when Mikhail was there, and sometimes Gabriel joined them.

In the few months since Harrtuck had hired him as the group's guide, Vahanian had seen his world turned inside out. He'd been skeptical at first, unwilling to believe in Tris's power as a mage and distrustful of nobles in general. But Tris had seemed unconcerned with rank, willing to accept Vahanian on the merit of his skill alone, and Vahanian had been grudgingly impressed. After the battle with the slavers, Tris and Carina had saved his life.

At Westmarch, Tris had helped Vahanian make peace with his grief and guilt over the death of his wife. And when Tris went to fight the ghost of King Argus for Mageslayer, Tris had entrusted his own signet ring and the vouchsafe from King Harrol into Vahanian's keeping-a small fortune by any standards. As the weeks passed, and Vahanian came to see that Tris's offer of friendship was real, his objections to throwing in his lot with the others gradually waned. He had come to genuinely like Tris. Ten years older and with more combat experience than any of the others save Harrtuck, Vahanian held no illusions about the odds against them. He had his own reasons for wanting to see Arontala destroyed. The Fire Clan mage had been the reason for the death of his wife and for his own rigged court martial.

But something else had stirred deep inside him as Vahanian heard the refugees' tales about plundered farms and murdered villagers. Although he'd proudly been liegeman to no king before Staden made him lord of Dark Haven, Vahanian was born in Margolan. And while he was cynical about appeals to flag and kingdom, a love for that land was in his blood. He'd survived the plunder of his own village, when marauders had come years before. Those memories would forever haunt his dreams. Now, the tragedies of his past made the stories of the refugees real to him, and the chance to help stop the killing was more compelling than he expected.

And then there was Carina. Back in the caravan, he'd enjoyed riling Carina, although he rapidly came to respect her healing talent and her stubborn dedication to her patients. When they were taken by the slavers and Carina was almost killed, Vahanian admitted to himself that he cared about

the healer. Time on the road had only deepened his resolve. While he was unsure whether Carina returned those feelings, his new lands and title made him bold enough to pursue her. On saner days, he chided himself for undertaking two hopeless quests at once. Most of the time, he put those doubts behind him, surprised that he could believe in anything again.

Vahanian wiped away the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve as he and Kiara wrapped up another round.

"You're good-damn good." Vahanian took a long draught of water from a bucket at the edge of the room. "I can see why Tris's Eastmark kick has improved, if he's been training with you on the side."

Kiara, her tunic wet with sweat, grinned. "Thanks. But the way you put those moves together still throws me for a loop. My armsmaster in Isencroft wouldn't have known what to do with you!" The princess's auburn hair was pulled back in a functional single braid, and she was dressed, as she preferred, in a tunic and trews. Her dark almond-shaped eyes and the dusky hue of her skin spoke of Eastmark blood.

Vahanian chuckled, and held out the dipper. "Alleys and battlefields are a different kind of salle. Points don't count-just blood." Kiara was the first real challenge he'd encountered in the Eastmark style of fighting since his days as a Nargi captive, and he found the purity of her technique an interesting counter to his own, battle-won skills. They were well-matched. Jae, Kiara's gyregon, perched high in the salle rafters where he had an excellent view of the sparring, and hissed at the action.

"Sun's up. The others will be here soon." Kiara replaced the dipper after a long drink.

Soterius hailed them as he and Carroway entered the salle. "Who won today?"

"A tie, as usual," Kiara laughed. "I beat him once, he bested me once, and we did enough damage to each other on the third round to agree to disagree!"

"Have you started yet?" Berry-Princess Berwyn-called from the doorway. She was dressed in a simple shift and slippers. "Did I miss anything?"

Vahanian sighed in jest. "Don't you have lessons or something?"

Berry fixed him with a dour look. "Of course I have lessons. I've finished my lessons for today. And I think we've all seen the need for a princess to defend herself." The mischievous twinkle in her eye showed how much she enjoyed her verbal jousts with Vahanian. "Carroway has graciously agreed to continue my knife throwing lessons." She twitched her right hand, and a blade fell out of her sleeve into her palm. "Besides," she complained, sounding every bit the ten year-old princess that she was, "lessons are boring. You're making history."

As they day wore on, they trained with swords and in hand-to-hand combat. When darkness fell, Mikhail joined them. Mikhail made a challenging sparring partner, combining the speed of a vayash moru with battle skills of a style two hundred years in the past. What Carroway lacked in strength he made up for