Gail Martin - The Sworn

Tris swallowed. “The birth was so difficult. Could Kiara bear another child?”

Esme met his eyes. “She needs to heal. But it may be wise, given the circumstances.”

An heir and a spare, Tris thought. He glanced back to where Kiara lay with Cwynn in her arms, and the tangle of emotions he felt made him want to laugh and cry all at once. Tris moved back to stand beside the bed and Kiara looked up at him.

“He eats like a warrior. That’s a good thing.”

Tris reached out to touch her cheek. “Goddess! I never realized what a battle it is to bring a child to the world. Both of you need to rest.” One of the midwives took Cwynn from Kiara’s arms to sponge him off in a bath of warm herbed wine. She swaddled him and returned him to Kiara, who let him rest against her skin as he slept.

“You need to rest, too.”

Kiara reached out to take his hand in hers. “I will. Thank you for holding on.” She looked down at the sleeping infant. “He’s a fighter, Tris. I know it. He wouldn’t have made it through everything if he weren’t.”

Tris squeezed her hand tightly. “I know. And whatever comes, we’ll fight for him. Someday, the runes will speak.”

Kiara smiled tiredly. “Or maybe he’ll make his own destiny.”

“Don’t we all.”

Later that night, when Tris was assured that both Kiara and the baby were sleeping soundly, he sat down at the large war room table with Fallon and Beyral. Both of the Sisterhood mages looked as exhausted as he felt after the long, grueling candlemarks they had all spent making certain that the new prince and the queen survived the birth. Two others joined them: Mikhail, Tris’s vayash moru seneschal, and General Ban Soterius, one of Tris’s closest friends.

“Is there anyone at the Citadel of the Sisterhood who might be able to figure out what’s happened to Cwynn?” Tris asked. He cradled a hot cup of kerif in his hands, hoping the inky black drink might help him stay awake.

Fallon shook her head. “No one I would trust with the prince’s life.” She met Tris’s eyes. “Sister Landis still hasn’t forgiven the mages who went rogue to help you fight Curane’s traitors, or those of us who used our magic to help you win back the throne. She wants the Sisterhood to focus on magic for its own sake, not on kings and wars. I understand why she thinks that way. Foor Arontala showed just how much damage a mage can do in support of a bloodthirsty king. And you saw for yourself the carnage Lord Curane’s blood mages created-along with this damned plague.” She sighed. “Landis has managed to reduce a complicated question to a simple yes or no. From her perspective, since mages can do damage when they become involved in the outside world, then they cannot be allowed to interfere at all.”

“Which means that the non-Sisterhood mages like Arontala can do what they please unopposed, while the strongest and best-trained mages spend their days chronicling elaborate spells to boil water,” Beyral muttered.

“Surely at some time in the history of the Sisterhood, a pregnant mage was exposed to wormroot,” Tris persisted.

Fallon grimaced. “I’ve already asked Landis for access to her Citadel’s healing histories, and she’s refused. It will take some time to acquire any books from the Library at Westmarch, but I’ve sent a messenger with a request.”

“Can Royster use the resources at Westmarch to help us? Isn’t the library run by the Sisterhood?”

A smile touched Fallon’s lips. “Many things work differently in the north. Yes, Royster’s still in charge at Westmarch. But the Keepers of the Library at Westmarch have never listened to the leader of the Sisterhood. They share their secrets as they please. Landis knows that she can’t stop Royster from helping us, no matter how she fumes and argues. But it will take weeks for the messenger to arrive, and more time before he returns.”

Tris leaned back in his chair. He was nearly a head taller than many men, and lean. The hard-fought war for the throne had put muscle on his rangy frame and brought a weariness to his features that seemed incongruous to his twenty-two summers. White-blond hair, shoulder length, fell in disarray around his face, and stray wisps fell into his green eyes. “Margolan needs a reason to hope for something better,” he said quietly, setting his empty cup aside. “Sweet Chenne! Look what the kingdom’s suffered in the last two years.”

He glanced up at the portrait of his father, King Bricen, that hung over the mantel. “It took Jared less than a full year to empty the treasury, beggar the kingdom, and leave the army in shambles. The farmers still haven’t all returned to their lands, and the plague’s killed off so many people, I don’t know how they’ll get the crops in. It’s going to be another hungry winter.”

“It’s not just Margolan at stake,” Soterius said quietly. “Isencroft has a civil war on its hands. Donelan won the first round against the Divisionists, but any weakness in your heir is likely to make the opposition bold.”

Soterius shook his head. “Think about it. Every time someone’s tried to fix one problem, they created a new one. By the Whore! Carroway couldn’t concoct a tale as wild as the truth. The whole betrothal contract between Isencroft and Margolan was supposed to stop a war with Eastmark a generation ago. Instead, it made the whole mess with Jared even worse. Now that you and Kiara are married, Donelan’s got a civil war on his hands because the Divisionists think it’s all a Margolan plot to take over Isencroft. And here we sit, with a brand-new heir to two thrones who might not be able to rule.” He ran a hand across his forehead as if his temples ached. “Goddess true! I’ve lived through it, but when I put it into words, it sounds like something out of the ballads!”

Tris grimaced. “Thanks to Carroway, it is something out of the ballads, or did you forget he wrote us into his songs and stories?”

Soterius rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. It was bad enough surviving everything it took to get you on the throne. I don’t need to hear it sung about and embellished every time I go to an alehouse for a drink!”

Tris leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “When will we know how badly the wormroot has affected Cwynn-or whether it’s damaged him at all?” Tris looked to Fallon hopefully, only to see the mage shrug.

“There’s no way to tell,” Fallon replied, choosing her words carefully. “If he learns to walk and talk like other babes, it’s a sign the wormroot hasn’t damaged him. What concerns me more is how it might have affected any magical talent he might possess. You’re one of the most powerful mages in the Winter Kingdoms, and heir to the magic of Bava K’aa, one of the strongest sorceresses of her time. Kiara has the regent magic, and while it hasn’t manifested strongly in her, the stories tell of powerful battle magic by the kings and queens of Isencroft in dire times. Magic can skip a generation. Your mother had none of her mother’s power. But often, the magic breeds true. We don’t know what the wormroot might have done to Cwynn’s ability to wield magic.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Everyone turned to look at Beyral. A necklace of charms and runes rattled as Beyral leaned forward. “During the last great Mage War, the Obsidian King experimented on the weaker mages he captured. He wanted to understand the source of power in order to drain magic from his opponents to strengthen himself. When his spirit was bound and his fortress breached, we saw just how far his experiments had gone.” A haunted look came into Beyral’s eyes. “I heard one of the old Sisters speak of it. In his dungeon, he had a score of captured mages, many of them Sisterhood. He’d sired children on them, and then used magic and potions to alter the babes before birth. None of the women or their children survived, although the Sisterhood did its best to save them.”