"So I was your rebellious fling on the road?"

"Even a princess can dream," Kiara said. "But father might have sent the guards after me if I'd taken off with a tent rigger from a caravan."

"Do you think your mother would approve—of your tent rigger?"

Kiara smoothed back a lock of his white hair. "She'd approve that I followed my heart. That was one thing she always did. And if we can add horses to the menagerie at the hunting lodge, I know she'd approve. Mother loved horses. That's how she died—out riding."

"She's proud of you, you know," Tns said. Kiara looked at him oddly for a moment, and then understood. "She's with you, just out of sight. Even on the road I could sense a presence near you, a guardian spirit."

"I've seen her on Haunts. She loved me fiercely, and I knew she would be near. So you've met her?"

"Not formally," Tris said. "I try not to intrude on other people's ghosts without permission."

"Even with all of the intrigue at court, she and father never stopped being in love." Kiara touched his cheek. "Perhaps we can carve out something of the same for us."

"We will." Tris promised, bending to kiss her. "I promise."

In his mage sense, Tris felt the strong presence of a spirit, and saw the ghost of the beautiful Isencroft queen. Viata's ghost extended her hands in blessing. Tris drew back from his kiss with Kiara, feeling oddly embarrassed, as if someone had walked in on their embrace. He had the strong sense that Viata wished to be seen.

"About that introduction—"

"She's here, isn't she?"

"I think she'd like to speak with you."

"I'd like that, too."

Tris stepped back. He let himself stretch out onto the Plain of Spirits and lent his power to Viata's ghost until the queen stood before them. Tris saw an immediate resemblance between Viata and Kiara. Kiara took a half step forward, and the ghost moved to embrace her.

"You're as pretty and clever as I knew you would be," Viata smiled.

"Father says I take after you."

"I was afraid Donelan would be joining me before his time," Viata replied, growing more serious. "But at least for now, the wasting spell is halted. While I want our spirits to be together eventually, there is no hurry."

Viata looked past Kiara to Tris, who felt himself suddenly color. "And this is your young man?"

Kiara wiped away her tears and reached out to take Tris's hand. "I'd like you to meet Tris—Martris Drayke of Margolan, Bricen's second son. My betrothed."

Viata nodded solemnly. "I was grateful that Bricen intervened with the marriage pact because I didn't want war. But I worried as I came to know more about what kind of man Jared Drayke had become. I'm pleased that you've found a more desirable solution."

Viata's ghost met Tris's eyes. "I've seen your training, and I'm most impressed. You have my blessing to wed Kiara, and my prayers to the Lady that your quest will be successful."

Tris gave a courteous bow. "I'm honored, m'la-dy."

"Kiara," Viata said, and Kiara turned toward her mother's ghost. "Even when you can't see me, never doubt that I'm watching over you. I've resolved not to go to the Lady until Donelan can join me and you are safely established. Death doesn't end love."

"Thank you," Kiara whispered. "I love you, too."

Tris bade Viata's ghost farewell and the spirit faded from view. Kiara leaned against him, letting him hold her in silence, until the bells sounded midnight.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"HOW do you like my garden?" Jared of Margolan asked the middle-aged noble at his side. It was early in the second month. The day was cold but clear. A light snow no deeper than a horse's fetlock covered the ground. Jared and the noble stood outside Shekerishet, next to the pattern of long, sharpened stakes that from above made the crest of the House of Margolan.

Thirty stakes, and on each of them, a body.

Some were impaled through the back, others face down through the gut. Vayash moru were staked facing east, so that Jared might see whether they burst into flames at dawn. Others, around the perimeter, were either coated alive in wax or soaked in oil, making human torches that burned as night fell.

Jared's favorite punishment, however, he reserved for those from whom he truly wished to exact the greatest revenge. A sturdy, sharpened pole impaled the victim between the legs, on a stake just tall enough that the victim could remain on his toes for several candlemarks, until his strength failed, and he finally sank low enough for the stake to pierce vital organs. Jared found the death dance mesmerizing. Today the moans of his dying victims sounded like a distant wind.

Lord Curane's expression was neutral. "Your parties are always memorable, Your Highness."

"It's been a good day," Jared said amicably, taking another deep draught from his flask. He had been drinking Tordassian brandy since early in the day, even before the show trials of a dozen deserters, tracked down by faithful officers and brought back in chains. The deserters had been hanged at noon in the castle square and their bodies still dangled from the nooses, a cautionary tale to any who might have contemplated similar treason.

The real event, however, was the trial and execution of General Lothe. Jared felt his mood darken just thinking about Lothe, who claimed to be loyal to Margolan, and apolitical when it came to kings. Whether Lothe was a convincing liar who remained loyal to Bricen or whether he had a change of heart, Jared neither knew nor cared. What mattered was that Lothe had tried—and failed—to poison him, and for that, Lothe had paid dearly.

Broken on the rack, his skin seeping with fresh burns from the torturer's irons, what was left of Lothe was poisoned with the same tincture that Lothe had tried to use on Jared. Jared found it particularly satisfying to watch Lothe writhe in pain as the slow poison worked, and then, finally, to have Lothe's body burned in the public square.

The executions were well attended, and a party mood filled the air as the sun set. Musicians played lively tunes, but remained circumspect in their choice of ballads and songs, taking caution from the disappearance of a few of their fellows who had the poor judgment to sing of Bricen and his victories in battle. The smell of roasting sausages mingled with the odor of burning flesh from the human torches, and ale flowed freely. Jared knew that one maiden already awaited his pleasures inside the castle, a girl he had chosen from the crowd and pointed out to his guards. Yes, he thought, it was a good day, a very good day indeed.

"A fine party, Your Majesty," Curane agreed, snapping Jared out of his thoughts. "But I wonder, my king, if I might have a word with you."

"Speak." Jared took another long draught of his brandy.

"I bear tidings from my wife's uncle, Lord Monteith," said Curane. His voice dropped. "As you may recall, my king, the Monteith family is one of the oldest noble houses in Trevath, and quite well-regarded by their king. They have significant influence on the opinions of the Trevath crown."

"And?" Jared interrupted. Curane was useful, and was one of Jared's staunchest supporters. Curane did not even flinch when Jared had demanded a dalliance with his granddaughter, though she was barely of marriageable age. Curane willingly supplied the girl, drugged and pliable, for Jared's pleasures, and just as willingly made her disappear when Jared tired of her. What became of her, Jared neither knew nor cared. Now, Jared imagined, Curane was going to expect some reward.

"I understand from Lord Monteith that the King of Trevath is most impressed with Your Majesty's resolve in securing the throne. Most impressed. It's also known in Trevath that you have made alliance with Nargi, a frequent trading partner with Trevath."