"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.
"Are you all right?" a very human voice said from behind him.
Tris startled, and turned to see Soterius, standing with his hands on his hips. While his face showed concern, there was nothing to suggest to Tris that his friend heard the voice that still echoed in his own ears, the vow of the Lady. Tris lowered his sword and resheathed it without explanation, rising to his feet.
"I want to know everything you and Harrtuck know about war," Tris said levelly, finding his voice clear and strong. "And I will accept whatever you can teach me about sword skill." His eyes locked with his friend's and he knew that Soterius understood just what treason they were committing, and how high were the stakes. "I know what kind of king Jared will be. I have to stop him."
Soberly, Soterius nodded. "I rather thought you'd come to that conclusion," he said, and to Tris's amazement sank to one knee, taking Tris's hand in fealty. "As I was to your father, so also to you," his friend said, his voice cracking with emotion. "By the Lady, I'll see you on Margolan's throne, my liege," he swore, and when he raised his eyes to Tris, they were bright with tears. "I can't let that monster rule this land."
Overwhelmed, it took Tris a moment to find his voice. "Thank you," he managed, bidding his friend to rise as a shiver ran though him at the chill night wind gusting through the cracked window. "But before we can do all that," he said, "perhaps we'd best get back some sleep or the night air will do what Jared hasn't... yet."
Tris eased his boots off and stretched out fully clothed on his bed, sinking into its blankets, undeterred by Harrtuck's hearty snores. Although he doubted the images of the evening would ever let him sleep, exhaustion won out, providing a reprieve from dark memories.
CHAPTER THREE
Tris awoke to the sound of a shutter banging in the wind. His eyes snapped open and his heart pounded as he looked around, disoriented. The events of the night before rushed to memory and he sat up groggily, feeling the last night's ride in sore muscles.
He stared at the room around him. A single shutter hung by one broken latch, flapping free in the breeze. Jagged fragments of glass clung to the ruined sash and the morning sun streamed through large holes in the charred roof. Tris shivered and sat up on the bare bed—just a weather-beaten collection of boards. On the other side of the room, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the broken shards of a mirror, dulled by long exposure to the elements. He stretched out his mage sense. The spirits whose presence he had felt so strongly the night before were gone, and so was the pervasive power he had sensed.
"Harrtuck, wake up," Tris rasped. Harrtuck, asleep in a chair near the fire, responded with a snore and rolled over. "Wake up!" Tris insisted, and with a snort, the stocky guardsman startled awake.
"What? Oh, Tris. Goddess, I was sleeping soundly," Harrtuck muttered as he stretched and rubbed his eyes. He sat up, and stopped.
"What in the name of the Holy Childe is going on?" he croaked, looking at the ruined room around them. Just then, the hallway door creaked open as Soterius pushed his way into the room, his face ashen and bewildered. Carroway crowded behind him, wide-eyed with fear.
"What the hell happened to the inn?" Soterius asked, looking around the room.
"Downstairs is the same?" Tris asked, not surprised when the soldier nodded.
"Yeah. And the pitcher and bowl that I used last night are in pieces on the floor, but I never heard it break," Soterius replied.
"Look there," Harrtuck rasped, pointing to the chair beside the ruined dresser. Neatly folded, four clean traveling outfits lay in a pile, and next to them, a stack of nondescript brown riding cloaks.
"They're solid," Tris verified, crossing to the clothing and examining one of the cloaks. "And Goddess knows, we need them."
They started for the common room, swords drawn. The charred remains of broken tables met their gaze as they made their way carefully down the partially burned stairs. The heavy front door hung askew on its hinges, and dead leaves blew along the ruined bar.
"Over there," Carroway said, pointing. On one of the few tables that were still standing was a stack of provisions. A napkin of hard biscuits, enough dried meat and wrapped cheese to keep each of them for a week, a large pouch of dried fruits and four new, filled wineskins. Next to the wineskins was a bag of silver coins, easily enough to keep them in food and shelter for a fortnight.
"Look at the coins," Harrtuck rasped as Tris emptied out the purse into his hand. Tris lifted one of the coins and held it up the light. "Look at the date." In the early morning light, Tris could just make out the date stamped on the coin below the imprint of his father's visage. Twenty-five years past.
Wordlessly, the four men exchanged glances. Fear shone clearly in Carroway's eyes, and Tris saw that Soterius and Harrtuck barely masked their own uneasiness. Even in Margolan, where the spirits moved often and openly among the living, such a display went far beyond the usual encounters, feast day or not. Carroway's hands were shaking as they gathered the provisions. Silently, Tris mulled over the decision he had made the night before, to remain quiet about the true nature of their benefactors. He walked slowly behind the others as they headed toward the stables, as he thought about what to do next. If I tell them what I saw, what I can see, will they be too afraid to go on? But if I hide what I can do, what that makes me—and Lady knows, I'm not sure just what that is—if I don't tell them, then they're following a lie. They have a right to know, he concluded, although the thought of making himself more of a stranger to his companions made him feel even gloomier than before.
To their relief, their horses were waiting where they had left them, wide-eyed and skittish. "They've been curried and blanketed," Soterius observed uneasily, looking up at the half-burned stable roof and the sky that showed clearly through its gaping holes.