"That's the third in as many months," Arontala observed acidly. "Not counting the ones you've given to the guards for their sport when your use is over. At least they're buried in a trench behind the barracks."
"I don't want to hear it."
"The common folk think you're sacrificing maidens to the Crone," Arontala continued without pause. "Or that you've conjured a demon."
"I'd need a mage for that, wouldn't I?" Jared shot back. "A real mage, not just one that promises everything and delivers nothing."
Arontala shrugged again. Beneath the voluminous red robes that marked him as a Fire Clan mage he was slightly built, standing a head shorter than Jared. The undead pallor lightened the duskier complexion of his native Eastmark. He crossed his arms, and the long, thin fingers of his right hand tapped with boredom. "You wear the crown. Margolan is yours."
"For now. My brother's still out there, and every thing you've tried to do about it has failed." Jared began to pace, running a hand through his long, wavy dark hair. He had his late mother Eldra's black eyes and an olive complexion that was a mixture of Bricen's fair skin and Eldra's darker tones. But the high cheekbones and angular features were all Bricen's, and the family resemblance between Jared and his hated half-brother Tris was as near as the reflecting glass. "He slipped right through your slavers' fingers. And Staden of Principality welcomed him like a hero! You heard the spies." Jared fingered the null magic charm that hung around his neck. Although it limited any magical control over him that Arontala might try to wield, Jared did not trust the charm completely against the dark mage, nor did he underestimate the power of Arontala's abilities as a vayash moru.
"There's no cause as romantic... or hopeless... as an exiled prince's," Arontala said. "There are no Principality troops at the border, and your guards have burned a swath through Principality to make Staden pay for his indiscretion."
"You forgot to mention the Isencroft bitch. The spy said she was with Tris in Principality. She's defied me, and joined him in treason."
"Then you can watch her hang for it. You'd most likely have killed her before you could have sired a brat by her."
"I want more than promises!" Jared's face was only inches from the vayash moru. "Summon your great spirit. Secure my throne!"
"Patience is a virtue." Arontala turned away. "Anyway, it's not mine to decide. The working can only be done at midnight on the Hawthorn Moon. The spells won't break before then. It's been tried."
Arontala didn't flinch as Jared hurled a metal pitcher past his head. It clanged against the wall. "Then try it again. The Hawthorn Moon is months away. I can't wait forever."
"You can't wait at all, that's the problem," Arontala observed. "Your army is deserting because they're sick of burning down their own villages. Your nobles are close to revolt. I handed you the throne of Margolan on a platter and you've destroyed it before you've worn the crown a year."
"My only mistake was trusting you."
In the blink of an eye, Arontala was across the room, and the display of power only served to darken Jared's mood further. "A little late for second thoughts, my king," the vayasb moru said in a voice as smooth as brandy. "Our fates are joined until we've seen this through." Jared repressed a shiver, unwilling to let Arontala see how much the undead mage unsettled him. He was glad that he had reinforced his amulet's power with other null charms hidden around the room. Arontala never spoke of them, and if he noticed an effect on his magic, he did not seem to care.
"Once the snows are gone," Jared said, "and the roads are firm enough to ride, I want to strike against Staden so that the Winter Kingdoms know that I am the true king of Margolan."
Even the firelight could not add color to Arontala's features. "I advise against that."
"Of course you advise against it!" Jared raged, dashing a platter to the floor. "You care nothing about my throne. The only thing you care about is that damned orb and your pitiful spirit king."
"Your troops are needed here, to keep your loyal subjects from slitting your royal throat," Arontala continued as if he had not heard. "And as for the 'pitiful spirit king,'" Arontala added with a trace of irony, "he can assure you the kind of power you crave to hold Margolan and the Winter Kingdoms for as long as you live. Perhaps longer." He tasted his sharp eye teeth with his tongue.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Jared felt a tingle of fear as his anger waned.
"You could reign as an immortal, with the greatest wizard the kingdoms have ever feared at your side, reborn to an immortal's body," Arontala said, his eyes alight.
Jared hand went to the amulet at his throat. "I want no part of your perversion."
A mirthless smile touched Arontala's lips. "No? You've already learned that it is the blood, and not the act, that satisfies." He glanced pointedly toward the garderobe.
"We have spies among the Sisterhood, within the families of vayash moru, and soon in Staden's court," Arontala said smoothly. "A little patience, my king, and you'll have what you desire."
Whatever Jared might have said was silenced by the rapping at the door.
"What now?" Jared shouted.
The door edged open to reveal a pale guardsman. "Sire, the Nargi emissaries have arrived."
Jared cursed. "Seat them in the audience hall. I'll attend when I'm free." He turned to Arontala. "If I can't have results from you, I'll find an ally who can honor a promise." He rinsed the last traces of blood from his hands in the basin near the bed and pulled his stained tunic over his head, shouting for a valet to assist him. Arontala said nothing during the process, standing in the shadows near the doorway. When Jared had inspected his image in the looking glass and called for his circlet crown, he met the vayash moru's eyes for a moment, then cursed and turned toward the door, giving tacit permission for the wizard to follow. Four Nargi priests waited in the audience hall, watching impassively while Jared ascended the throne.
"You may address the throne," he said with a trace of ennui.
"Why have you called us?" The speaker was the eldest of the priests, a bent, lined figure whose face looked more mummified than aged.
"I have a proposition for your king."
"Go on."
Jared felt his mood grow darker at the priest's complete lack of intimidation. "Half a century ago, your people swore allegiance to the Obsidian King. On the Hawthorn Moon, he will rise again, and I'm prepared to help Nargi regain the territories it once held... if," he held up a finger, "you'll prove to me your good faith and raise your army against one who would usurp the throne."
"How can this be?" The priest's dry voice was like the death rattle of a corpse. "The Obsidian King was destroyed."
"Not destroyed. Bound. What's bound can be loosed. At the Hawthorn Moon he will be free again, and his power can make Margolan a powerful ally... or a formidable foe."
"You would invite the armies of Nargi into Margolan?"
"Help me crush the usurper, and I'll reward your king richly."
"We will carry your terms to our king," the priest agreed. His companions whispered among themselves, their cowls shrouding their faces. "It is his to decide. Our armies cannot move before the snows melt. The worst of winter is now upon us."