"Gabriel believes he can protect me. I hope he's right." With a worried glance in Vahanian's direction, Tris left to interrogate the assassin and ready himself for the Blood Council.

Taru stepped closer to Vahanian, and touched his forehead lightly with her fingertips. She closed her eyes in thought, and then looked over to where Carina watched worriedly from the fireplace. Berry had appointed herself Carina's apprentice. Royster set out two worn leather volumes he withdrew from under his coat.

"Whatever you need, Carina, we're here for you," the white-haired librarian promised.

Carina squared her shoulders and drew a deep breath. "Then let's get started. It's going to be a long night."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Alone in his rooms, Tris leaned back against the door and closed his eyes. He was far more spent than he had let on to Kiara, perhaps even more than Carina realized. Blinding headaches came less often in reaction to strong magic as Tris grew more adept with his power, but Tris resigned himself to a continual dull throb behind his eyes. His body ached from the grueling pace of sword practice and climbing drills. Although the night's commitments made it likely he would be awake until dawn, Tris wanted nothing so much as a long soak in a very hot tub and an uninterrupted night's sleep.

Giving up that fantasy, he pushed away from the door. A fresh outfit lay on his bed. His own shirt and doublet were stained with Vahanian's blood. Not something I want going into a council of vayash moru, Tris thought as he loosed his ruined vest and pulled his tunic over his head.

He was too tired to pick up the discarded items. He moved wearily to the pitcher and basin at the bedside, steeling himself for the splash of cold water as he washed Vahanian's blood from his hands. My own blood will be distraction enough for the Council.

Tris poured a glass of port, and realized his hands were shaking. It was the first opportunity he'd had to think about what happened. Saving Vahanian's life had crowded out everything else in the moment. Now, Tris realized that the knife had been meant for him. Clearly, the attacker had considered how best to strike a mage. Tris did not relish the task of interrogating the assassin.

He remembered Abelard's warning. Even here, amid Staden's protections, neither Tris nor his friends were completely safe. Yet another reason I never wanted to be king. No one tries to kill second sons. Normally, we're riot important enough to assassinate.

Tris sat for a moment beside the fire, letting it warm his chest and shoulders as he sipped the port. Oh, Kait, he thought, how did we ever get so far away from home? Her spirit did not answer him. He remembered the glitter of Winterstide in Bricen's court, with Bricen and Serae presiding over the well-feasted crowd of nobles, and Kait, showing off shamelessly at the falconing trials. Serae had been pressuring Tris to enter the jousting competition. Now they were all dead. Even if he succeeded in taking back the throne, Margolan's celebration would never be the same again.

Tris stared into the fire, watching the dancing flames as the port warmed his blood. Vahanian's injuries worried him. Tris had been able to anchor his friend's spirit and compensate for the paralysis, but all would be in vain unless Carina could purge the poison before lasting damage occurred. His own gratitude was tempered by guilt. I've got to be on guard, all of the time, Tris chastened himself. / can't depend on Jonmarc or anyone else to watch over me. It's my risk, my responsibility.

Reluctantly, he set aside the empty glass and stood, stretching to ease his tired muscles. He dressed in the fresh clothing and tried to smooth his hair into a reputable queue. There was a knock at the door just as Tris finished adjusting his collar. With one hand near his sword, Tris opened the door, relieved to find Gabriel outside. While Gabriel maintained that vayash moru could not truly read mortals' minds, Tris found that their enhanced hearing often gave the illusion of telepathy. The trait was unnerving.

"King Staden and General Hant will meet us in the greatroom, my prince," Gabriel said. "After that, by your leave, we'll go to the Council."

Tris fell into step beside the vayash morn, who slowed his stride to accommodate mortal speed. The evening's merrymakers had fled the palace after the attack. In the greatroom, only the king, Hant, and a half dozen guards awaited them.

Apparently Staden is feeling a bit vulnerable too, Tris thought.

The dead assassin lay in a pool of congealed blood on the floor. His back bore a burn from the blue mage lightning Tris had cast, and Jae's talons had left six long tears where the gyregon had struck the assassin's shoulders. The hilt of a small dagger protruded from the man's chest, testimony to Berry's aim. Tris motioned for the others to give him more room, and they all stepped back respectfully.

"So it's true... you intend to summon this brigand for questions, even now?" Hant asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Have the guards determined anything from the body?"

Hant shook his head. "By the look of him, he could be from Margolan—or from Isencroft or Dhasson, for that matter. No identification on him, but he had Margolan gold in his pocket, and these." Hant nudged the body with his boot to reveal a variety of short darts.

"He had a Mussa knife," Gabriel observed. "Not a common weapon."

Tris bent closer, and pulled the dead man's shirt to one side. Around his neck on a strap was an amulet. Tris sensed its dark power. Tris pushed Hant's hand aside when the general moved to touch the talisman. "It was spelled by Arontala, I'm sure of it. Don't touch it."

"What does it do?" Hant asked, fearlessly crouching closer for a better look.

"I won't know without probing it, and I don't want to probe it without wardings set. But I have a few suspicions."

Staden looked at Tris. "While this one is beyond punishing, if you can summon him and find who sent him, Hant can take it from there."

Tris took a deep breath and closed his eyes, finding his center. He raised a warding, first around the body on the floor, and then a second one separating himself from the group of onlookers. Finally, he raised a third warding over the entire group, remembering the way Arontala had sought and found him on the spirit plains during the ill-fated scrying at Westmarch.

Tris was aware of the living men in the room, of the curious emptiness that signaled a vayash moru, and of the body on the floor. It was toward that corpse that Tris stretched out his power, seeking its soul on the Plains of Spirit.

The spirit rushed up at him, rising so quickly that Tris took a step backward, raising his hands to keep the angry ghost at a distance. The spirit lunged at the wardings, trying to tear through with both teeth and nails, wild-eyed in its ferocity. When it found it could not break the wardings, it keened a high-pitched wail of sheer frustration.

The guards cried out and pointed in frightened awe. Staden drew back a pace. Hant did not move, his thin body coiled as if to spring, his flinty eyes narrowed and intent on the target.

"Why have you called me?" The spirit spoke with the accent of the Margolan plains.

"Who are you, and why did you try to kill me?" Tris countered, adding power to his wardings.

"I am Hashak, and I serve King Jared!" The ghost drew back, no longer charging at the wardings but still wary, his fists balled at his sides.

"Who sent you?" Tris pressed. "Someone acquired the knife and the poisons for you. Who was it?"

"I thought you were a Summoner," the ghost taunted. "If you want that information, take it from me. Why should I tell you?"