With Mageslayer as an athame, Tris sent a blast of power toward Arontala, using the orb as a lens to magnify the effect. Spent to the point of exhaustion, Tris sent the last of his power toward Kiara, covering her with a fragile shield. The explosion at Westmarch when Tris forced power back through the scrying ball did not compare to the firestorm that erupted from Soulcatcher, incinerating Arontala and blistering Tris's skin. Everything in his sight turned to black, and Tris collapsed.

First came pain, then consciousness. In the darkness Tris heard voices, but whether the lightless space was in a room or inside his own mind he did not know.

"He failed," snapped one voice.

"Tsk, Tsk," chided another. "Define failure. He made it through the traps, past the wormroot. And his solution worked—after a fashion."

"He has his grandmother's weakness," said a third. "He might have survived the explosion if he had been willing to let her go. If he dies in the attempt, we are no better served. Jared's bastard will become the rightful king."

"If you're so worried about the girl, keep her from accompanying him," said the first voice.

"Have you forgotten? It was the will of the Oracle," argued the second. "She may be in greater danger of being taken—or turned—if she is alone, or if they wed and she stays behind to bear his child. This is the will of the Lady."

"I've found," noted the third voice dryly, "that the will of the Lady is always clearer in retrospect. He did what we required—destroyed the orb, Jared, and Arontala. Landis seemed intent that he be willing to sacrifice someone. He sacrificed himself. We did not actually say he must survive the encounter."

"It was implied," sniffed the second. "Bava K'aa's foolish sentiment endangered us all, and now, his weakness will do so again."

"Perhaps he'll learn from his recovery," noted the first voice, growing faint in the darkness. "It won't be pleasant."

The voices might have said more, but the darkness and fever took him. He did not remember anything else.

When he found the strength to open his eyes, Tris could make out only shadows in the dim light. I'm a Summoner, so I should know if I were dead, he thought. It doesn't look like the spirit plains. But maybe they look different from the other side.

"Don't even think about moving," a familiar voice instructed. The shadow came closer in the twilight, bringing a cool rag for his forehead and a cup of water. "Slowly," she cautioned, lifting the water to his parched lips as she helped him rise from his pillow. The water tasted of herbs and medicines. Even the slightest movement hurt, and he realized he was wet with sweat.

"Where—"

The shadow gently laid him back and wiped his face with the rag. "You're still in the citadel," the voice said. Tris realized the shadow was Carina, though he could not see her face in the darkness.

"Why so dark?" He was barely able to form the words. Excruciating pain radiated from behind his eyes. His whole body seemed on fire.

"Shh," Carina hushed gently. "It's been three days. They weren't expecting what you did back there. They barely shielded you in time. Sister Taru has been helping me. It was too close, Tris. It was just an avatar, dammit! You shielded her instead of yourself, and it wasn't even a real person!"

"It was the right thing to do," Tris managed, finding his throat sore and his lips cracked.

"There was so much wormroot in your system it took a day before we could even begin to heal," Carina said. "I saw everything you did," she reached out to take his hand. "You were amazing."

"Not good enough," Tris murmured.

"You were amazing," Carina repeated. "But we need you to live through the real thing, do you understand? It's not complete unless you live to take the crown."

Tris wanted to respond, but her potion drew him back into the respite of the darkness.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A little more than a week later, Tris and Carina returned to Staden's palace in time to see Soterius and Mikhail off on their journey back into Margolan.

"Now that Ban's an outlaw hero, he'll probably have twice the number of ladies vying for him," Carroway teased. He set his lyre down. The group was still chuckling at the off-color ballad he'd dedicated to the high points of Soterius's upcoming ride into Margolan to inspire dissent. Even Staden dabbed a tear from his eye as the laughter subsided.

"I figure you advised him on the high-born ruffian look," Tris rejoined, grinning. "The hair and the beard, the leather cloak; I just assumed it was all for the benefit of the village girls!"

"Mikhail's done the same, so it must be in fashion," Kiara added. She gave a sly grin in Tris's direction. "We're waiting for you and Jonmarc to pick up on the trend."

Soterius rolled his eyes, taking the ribbing good naturedly as the small group laughed. "I doubt we'll have much time for trysting," he observed. "Although I'm hoping that we won't be completely without good ale."

The friends were assembled in Staden's private dining room. Servants cleared away the dishes from a sumptuous farewell dinner in honor of Soterius and Mikhail. Only the companions from the road, plus Royster, Staden, and Berry attended, and everyone seemed committed to keeping the conversation light.

"Keep your ale—I'm hoping the forests haven't been hunted clean of deer." Mikhail said.

"Actually, I thought Carroway might volunteer to go with us," Soterius returned the teasing. "I suspect we'll raise enough of a ruckus to make a few good stories."

Carroway gave him a skeptical look. "And I imagine you think sneaking Tris back to the palace won't be exciting enough?" Tris watched the others as the servants brought the dessert course. Soterius professed full confidence in his mission, but Tris knew his friend well enough to see his worry. Tris didn't blame Soterius for being nervous. While the idea itself was brilliant, it was another thing altogether to slip into a land at war, recruit its army against its king and live to tell the tale. Even Mikhail seemed preoccupied.

Staden cleared his throat. "I can't help you with the ladies—not that either of you seem to need assistance," he said with a raised eyebrow. "But you'll find two excellent horses ready for you in the stable, and all of the provisions you'll need. I've instructed my groom to leave the horses unkempt so that they don't look like they've come from my stable."

"We're in your debt, Your Majesty," Soterius said.

"And there's Isencroft tack for both of you," Kiara added.

Mikhail looked at her. "How did you manage to come by that out here? Isencroft tack doesn't usually stay long on the shelf."

"Berry helped me make a few connections," Kiara said and Berry giggled. "We made sure it's seasoned, so it doesn't look new. But if you need to fight and ride, there's nothing better to help you keep your seat."

Tris reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch, which he slid across the table to Soterius. "There'll be gold for your journey in your packs," Tris promised. "But this will either convince doubters that you really are on my side—or it'll get you hanged faster if you're caught. I suggest you keep it well hidden."

Soterius emptied the pouch into his hand. A golden ring tumbled out, a replica of Tris's own signet with the crest of Bricen's second son. Soterius weighed it in his hand for a moment, then slipped it back into the pouch and nodded.

"Wouldn't be surprised if that tack Kiara's talking about doesn't have a few secret compartments for something just like this."

Gabriel reached into the breast pocket of his doublet and withdrew a similar pouch, which he handed to Mikhail. "It may not be an original gift," he said with a dry smile, "but it might help if you encounter some of our kind who have not heard the Blood Council's ruling." Mikhail withdrew a signet like the one Gabriel wore on his left hand, with a crest Tris now recognized as the mark of the Blood Council.