After a while, the voices grew silent. Lord Soterius's ghost left the knot of family gathered around Ban and approached Tris.

"Would you go to your rest now?" Tris asked.

Lord Soterius looked back at his wife, who nodded, and to Tae, who stood between Danne and Coalan with a ghostly arm around each. "We've had some time to think about this. Anyon and Danne told us about your being a Summoner and all. We talked it over and we're agreed. We'd like to stay on, watch over the place. If that's all right with the new lord of the manor," he said with a wink toward Ban.

Ban Soterius exchanged glances with Danne and Coalan, and then took a step toward his father.

"This will always be your home," Ban promised. "I didn't dare ask, but yes, I want you to stay."

Tris fought a pang of remembered pain, recalling his own sorrow as his mother and sister parted from him forever, choosing their rest with the Lady. In Coalan's eyes, Tris could see a measure of peace, and the boy managed a sad smile. "Please stay," Coalan said quietly.

"Then be at peace here," Tris said. "I can't give you back your lives, but I can grant you the ability to be seen." He gestured, and fiery letters wrote themselves on the manor house wall, glowing without smoke, and fading to become unmarked stone once more. "I'll leave a sigil so that you can make yourselves seen when you wish."

Lord Soterius knelt, as did his sons and the ghosts of his servants. "As I was to your father, so also to you, my king," the spirit said, reaching out as if to take Tris's hand and kiss his signet ring in fealty.

"Thank you," Tris said. "And thank you for your loyalty to Bricen. He was never happier than here at Huntwood, in pursuit of a great stag!"

Lord Soterius's ghost rose, and a twinkle came into his eye. "Since we're both dead now, I guess that means my record stands. I was one stag to the better at the end of last season, though Bricen had a boar to his credit. Pity when I can't even enjoy the bottle of port we wagered!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

A WEEK later, Tris listened to the evening bells and tugged at the collar of his tunic. A fine cape of gray velvet lined with midnight blue satin lay across a chair where he had tossed it. A crown awaited him downstairs. He was dressed for court in a velvet and brocade outfit in deepest gray, with his long, white-blond hair pulled back in a queue. It was just after dusk on the evening of Haunts.

The image of his father and mother leading last year's procession burned bright in Tris's memory. It had been the last time he had seen them alive. Taking his father's place in the rituals and feast days made Tris feel their absence all the more sharply. Right on time, Soterius, Carroway, and Harrtuck arrived at his door to accompany him to the great room. From the looks on their faces, Tris knew their thoughts were similar. One year ago this night, they had fled for their lives together. Now, as they headed for the great room and the ceremonies of the evening, Tris took comfort in having his friends around him.

Zachar was waiting for them just around the corner from the top of the main stairs to the common room.

"My liege!" the white-haired official called. "I was beginning to worry."

Tris laid a hand on Zachar's arm. "These three didn't let anything happen to me a year ago. Surely we're safer tonight."

"Let's hope so." Zachar opened a wooden box that lay on a nearby table, and withdrew one of the formal crowns of Margolan. It was not the crown Bricen had been wearing when he was murdered. The more opulent crown Jared had fashioned, Tris had melted down for coinage. This was a new crown, forged for Tris's coronation to his own specifications. It was austere, relying on a finely worked design in silver and gold rather than a heavy crust of jewels.

The real weight comes from the responsibility, not the crown itself, Tris thought as Zachar fussed to get the crown just right.

"You look every inch your father's son," Zachar praised.

"Thank you. I keep thinking that I catch glimpses of Mother and Father out of the corner of my eye," Tris confessed. "And Kait. She was so happy to dress as a falconer last year."

"Your sister was happy to dress as a falconer at any opportunity," Zachar said fondly. "And I don't think your mother ever looked more beautiful. Perhaps tonight, a Summoner can lay his own ghosts to rest?"

"That's one of the reasons I wanted to wait for the wedding. I wanted to get through this anniversary. I thought it would make a new beginning easier."

"My liege!" Tris and Zachar looked up at Crevan, Zachar's assistant. The thin, balding man was as nervous as a sparrow as he rushed toward them.

"I'm glad I'm not too late. I didn't want to miss your entrance into the banquet hall." Crevan was one of the few at court who was originally born in Isencroft, although as Tris understood it, the man had lived most of his life in Margolan. Crevan had been extraordinarily helpful to Carroway in researching Isencroft foods, fashions, and art. He seemed more likely to burn the candles low in the exchequer's office examining ledger books than indulge in theatre and music, and Tris had never seen Crevan in the company of anyone outside his role.

"I can only imagine how important this celebration is to you, your majesty. It's my honor to make sure every detail is as it should be."

"It's time," Zachar said. He went to the top of the stairs. "All hail, all hail. Your king, Mar-tris of Margolan, is among you now. Let the feast begin!"

I still wish Jonmarc were here, Tris thought. He's usually well-armed enough to stop a coup single-handedly.

The crowd murmured, parting as Tris and his friends made their way toward the platform with the throne and head table. Carroway veered off to take his place with the musicians and entertainers. As Tris and the others sat down at the banquet table and the rest of the guests took their seats, the serving staff brought out heaping platters of steaming food. The aroma of roasted venison, meat pies, pheasants, and baked lamb filled the common room. Freshly-baked bread, candied fruits, and heavy rum puddings waited on sideboards as servants poured the wine and passed the pitchers of ale. The castle ghosts, never more in evidence than on this night of Haunts, flitted among the guests.

Tris sipped at his wine and looked out over the crowd. How different from a year ago! The older, more established lords who owed Bricen decades of fealty had once been notable by their absence, replaced by younger, hot-headed new nobles who liked Jared's talk of a glorious empire. Now, those newly minted nobles were gone—fled when Jared's reign collapsed, in hiding or exile, captured and tried for their support of the traitor, or dead in battle. The older lords had returned.

But not all of them. Lord Alton had died with his family for his loyalty to Bricen. Lord Mont-bane's ill-fated attempt to rebel against Jared had earned him the gallows. Lord and Lady Theiroth had been hanged for plotting to poison Jared.

"Hail, King Martris, son of Bricen!" came a cry from among the tables. "Hail, to the King of Margolan!"

The cry began to echo through the common room until it became a chant that reverberated from the rafters. Tris raised a hand to still the cheers, and stood.

"Thank you," he said. "Tonight we celebrate the Feast of the Departed. I dedicate this evening to the memory of King Bricen and Queen Serae, my sister, Kait, and to all the loved ones we have lost." He raised his goblet; all around him, others did the same. "To their memories, that their spirits may live on in peace."

"Aye."

The first course was already on the tables, and its aroma tempted Tris from his gloomy mood. Balladeers performed their opening song, a haunting tale in memory of the late royal family. Its effect was not lost on the audience, though Tris found himself dry-eyed. Perhaps, he thought, I can't cry for them any more. Next came one of Serae's favourite ballads, then a ribald tavern tune known to be one of Bricen's favorites, and finally the "Falconer's Lament" in memory of Kait. It was this final song that made Tris avert his face until he regained his composure. The skirling notes told of a wandering falconer, forsaking home and comfort to search for a wounded prize bird. The castle ghosts, known to be partial to good entertainment, clustered silently to listen. When Carroway strummed the final notes on his lyre and bowed his head, the room exploded into applause.