The victorious shout of the soldiers' commander jerked Tris's head up as the captain came running toward him.
"By the Lady, you've done it!" a familiar voice cried. The soldier lifted his helm and Tris saw Soterius, beaming in triumph. He thought that Soterius would clap him in a hearty embrace, but instead, the soldier stopped a pace in front of him and went down on one knee.
"Honor your king," Soterius called out to his men. One by one, they also dropped to their knees in fealty. "Hail King Martris of Margolan."
Tris looked out over the group with a mixture of awe and astonishment. His head still reeled from the battle. The reality of Soterius's proclamation, after months of struggle, hit him like a dousing of cold water. Arontala lay dead at his feet. The crown of Margolan was his. Outside the palace walls, he could hear the cries of the mob. He knew that he should feel more, that he should feel something, but the battle coldness still gripped him. He could feel neither relief nor triumph. Now, more urgent concerns took his attention. Tris knew how dim the glow of his own lifethread had become. He drew more heavily on the strange mage's power, struggling to remain on his feet.
"Rise," Tris said, his throat tight. He reached out his hand to Kiara, who inclined her head, too unsteady yet even to kneel. Gabriel made a low bow.
"Don't mind me," Vahanian quipped from against the wall. "But I don't kneel well on a broken leg." Soterius rose. At his gesture, two soldiers ran to improvise a stretcher for the wounded fighter. Vahanian protested, and then resigned himself with a sigh.
Tris leaned heavily on Soterius as the soldier guided him to the windows. He flung them open, stepping with Tris onto the balcony, and the crowd cheered below them.
"Hail, King Martris! Long live King Martris!" the crowd cheered from the bailey. Tris lingered for a moment, long enough for the crowd to see him and for him to acknowledge their cheers. Then he turned, stepping back into the room and out of sight of the crowd. He felt the last of his strength falter and the stranger's power slipped out of reach as the floor rushed to meet him and everything around him turned to black.
Gabriel caught Tris before he hit the floor.
"The king is down!" Soterius cried out, rushing to Tris's side. Tris was pale, his eyes were shut, and his breathing was shallow. The hair on one side of his head was matted with blood from a gash that swelled on his temple, and the contrast made Tris seem even paler.
"Stay with us," Soterius urged, shaking him gently. "Tris, stay with us!" There was no response. Soterius looked up at Gabriel.
"Find Carina," Soterius told the vayasb moru. "She's in the courtyard, with Carroway. Get her up here as fast as you can."
Gabriel nodded, looking at Tris with a sober expression that only fed Soterius's panic. Then the vayasb moru stepped to the balcony, and disappeared. When Gabriel returned in a few moments, he had Carina with him. The healer looked slightly shaken as she stepped off the balcony, away from Gabriel. She glanced around the room, confused over who needed her most. Kiara's clothes were covered with blood, but she waved Carina away. Vahanian, his leg at an unnatural angle and his sword arm badly broken, shook his head. Then Carina spotted Tris. With a gasp, she ran to kneel beside him.
Soterius stripped off Tris's tunic, revealing the knife gash on Tris's upper arm and the seeping burn where the poker had struck. But when he lifted away Tris's cuirass, Soterius caught his breath. Beneath the bloodied shirt was a deep side wound.
"Sweet Mother and Childe," Carina said to Soterius. "What happened?"
"Tris put up one hell of a fight with Arontala and the Obsidian King," Vahanian supplied. He turned to the soldier who was trying to move his stretcher. "I'm not going anywhere—not until Tris is patched up." Kiara likewise refused their assistance, moving behind Carina where she could see. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle her cry.
"The energy from the blast when the orb exploded—and the battle—would have been a significant drain," Gabriel observed. Soterius realized that the back of Gabriel's coat was burned and tattered. Gabriel's skin, which had been blackened in places and covered with cuts and gashes when Soterius first entered, was healing before their eyes. As the skin healed, it pushed out the bits of broken glass from the orb. They fell to the floor with a crunch at the vayash moru's feet.
"Speaking of that—thank you," Vahanian interjected. "I don't heal nearly as quickly as you do; I'd be a very dead pincushion by now if you hadn't put yourself between me and that bloody ball!" Gabriel inclined his head in acknowledgement, and returned his attention to Tris.
Carina looked at Soterius. "I'm going to need to draw from someone. We don't have time to wait for Carroway."
Soterius met her gaze. "Use me. Take whatever you need—my life if you must—only tell me what you require."
"Do you trust me?" Carina asked.
"Completely."
"Then open your mind to me, and I'll have what I need."
Soterius closed his eyes and laid his hand on Carina's shoulder. She connected with him and he swayed, then regained his balance. Carina frowned and moved her hands over the knife wound in Tris's side. "Dear Goddess," she murmured. "He's lost so much blood."
Carina slipped into a healing trance, drawing on the energy Soterius lent her. The side wound had pierced no vital organs, but the blood loss was substantial. Wormroot made the healing more difficult. Worse was the drain Carina could sense in Tris's life force, from the injuries, the poison, and the strong magic he had worked despite the wormroot. She could feel his life thread flickering. Tris's skin was gray, and his breathing shallow. A rapid, irregular pulse sounded in Carina's mind and she threw her energy into the healing. Tissue knit and sinews repaired under her touch, but replenishing blood would take time. Carina knew she was racing death.
There was something else, there in the darkness of the healing trance. Another presence, old and strong and essential, a Summoner who was not Tris. The image of a man with golden blond hair and green eyes like Tris's own came to her mind: older, saddened, with a haunted look in his eyes. His power was helping to sustain Tris's life. Carina was sure of it, just as she was certain that Tris was very close to death.
"Don't let go," she whispered, unsure whether she was talking to Tris or to the stranger. "Just don't let go."
Tris saw himself on the Plains of Spirit but the spirit realm felt different, more solid. Tris looked backward, toward his own body. As if from a far distance, Tris heard the cries of the soldiers. Tris saw Soterius, panic-stricken, grasping his unresponsive body by the shoulders, shaking him and calling to him. He wanted to respond, but the power to do so failed him. I'm dying, Tris thought. Or perhaps, I'm already dead. He felt the palace ghosts, newly freed from their exile, swirling past him and through him, bearing him up with their power, rallying around him.
Do you want to live? The question came in the stranger's voice, and Tris saw the man again, walking toward him. His green eyes bored into Tris's soul. Tris met those eyes, and knew.
Lemuel, Tris said, and the tall man bowed. So grandmother was right—the Obsidian King did possess you, but he didn't destroy your soul.
Tris could see the weight of that horror in the man's eyes, and Lemuel nodded. I foolishly thought I could control power that I should never have sought. The price I paid was possession, and the torment of seeing my own body used for the working of one abomination after another.