Cerise ended her ministrations and stood. The princess fought back sleep, determined to remain alert while the others were near. Jae left his perch on Tice's shoulder and flew to the top of Kiara's headboard like a sentry.
Allestyr took a kettle from the fire and poured them each a cup of mulled wine. Cerise cradled her cup in her hands and sank into a chair, staring at the fire.
"She's pushing herself too hard, taking her father's place and training for her Journey. Carina's absence only makes it worse." Cerise said.
"Perhaps the Oracle—" Allestyr began.
"You know that the king is impatient with the Oracle," Cerise replied tiredly. "The Goddess too often keeps her own counsel about Isencroft's troubles."
"We need an answer soon," Kellen said, draining his cup.
"I know, Kellen," Cerise whispered. "I know." They may have said more after that, but the mulled wine, the warmth of the fire and the fatigue of the evening finally overcame even Kiara's will, and despite her best efforts, she drifted into sleep.
CHAPTER SIX
Jared Drayke drummed his fingers. "He's not telling everything he knows," the king growled, oor Arontala gestured to the black-robed torturer, and the subject of Jared's irritation screamed once more as the red-hot iron burned into his flesh.
"Please, no more!" the soldier begged. "Master, I swear I have told you all!"
Jared's mood soured by the minute. "Where is my brother?" Jared growled.
The soldier's face was white with terror. "No one knows, sire, I swear I am telling you the truth. We lost his trail in Ghorbal, when he escaped with the mercenary Vahanian. It's as if they were swallowed up whole. I can tell no more. Mercy, my liege, I beg you," the scout whimpered. Hog-bound with chains and forced to kneel before his king, the man was barely coherent, and a row of fresh, seeping burns along his face and arm attested to Jared's frustration.
Jared exploded into a string of expletives. "No, of course you can't tell me. You failed." Jared nodded once more to the torturer, who set aside his poker and lifted an axe. "You know the consequence for failure." Before the scout could twist to see, the torturer swung the axe, neatly cleaving the scout's head from his shoulders. The body, still pumping blood, fell to the side of the interrogation dais, and the blood ran along the narrow gutter along its edge, into the ornate bowl at its lip. Jared looked away in disgust.
"Display his body outside the barracks," Jared ordered. "Let him serve as an example. Perhaps the next scout will be more diligent." Jared turned his glare pointedly to the red-robed mage who stood silently by the cold hearth. "Not that my mage has done much better," he said dryly after the executioner dragged the corpse and its head from the room.
Foor Arontala was a thin man, his shoulders slightly rounded, with lank brown hair that fell unkempt around his pale, youthful face. His robes, the color of dried blood, only heightened his pallor. Arontala's pale blue eyes hinted at his true age, centuries instead of mere decades, and his thin lips hid incisors that confirmed the rumors that said he was among the Deathless Ones. Arontala's expression was unreadable as always. "I'm not sure what you are saying, sire." Jared made a contemptuous noise. "The hell you aren't. You assured me this would go smoothly."
"It did," the mage replied, unmoved by Jared's temper. "You have the throne of Margolan and any who resisted you were silenced."
"My brother lives," Jared snapped. "He can rally discontent, challenge my throne—"
"Your brother has never shown the slightest interest in ruling."
"He doesn't have to," Jared fumed. "All he has to do is live long enough to reach Dhasson and others will make him a rallying point."
"Then we have to make sure he never reaches Dhasson."
Jared stood and walked to the window of his chamber. It was autumn and only the thick stone walls of the palace kept a chill from the room. His sable brown hair fell in soft waves to his shoulders, framing a face that would have been handsome but for the arrogant turn of his lip and the hard glint in his brown eyes. The resemblance between Jared and his younger half-brother was unmistakable, though Tris was as fair in coloring as Jared was dark. "What do you suggest?"
"You are certain he is heading north. Only a few roads lead there. Hire a tracker to find him and reward him well for the hunt."
Jared wheeled on the mage. "That's it? I could have come up with that. Can't a mage do better than that?"
Arontala fixed him with a cool stare. "There are uses for magic and uses for men. My magic confirms that your brother is alive and heading north. But without more precise information, I cannot summon harm without laying waste to a good bit of the population along the northern route." "Then do it!"
Arontala looked faintly amused. "That would not be wise, sire," he replied, moving away from the wall. "Even you rule by consent of the people. My power can't alter that should enough of them seek to change it. There are still whisperings about your father's death. And about your suspicious dark mage," he added with a hint of irony. "They fear you, but they do not hate you. Yet. Wait until your brother is dead before you make your presence more onerous to them, or you will provide him the opening you wish to avoid."
Jared turned back to look out the window. "Then hire your assassins and pay them well. I want Tris dead." "As you wish, my lord."
Jared looked back at him over his shoulder. "And the other matter? Did you secure it?"
Arontala crossed the room, but Jared did not see him move. It was an annoying habit and Jared suspected that was precisely why the mage continued to do it. Arontala lifted the bowl with the soldier's blood and let his finger run along its rim. The mage's tongue wet his lips as he raised the bowl and began to drink, Jared saw a flash of white teeth that made him shiver.
"Feed your filthy habit elsewhere," Jared snapped. "A mage that can only go about in darkness is only half of use to me."
Arontala ignored the command and set the empty bowl aside, his mouth immaculately clean.
"You should not speak of what you do not comprehend, my liege," the mage said dryly. "If you prefer, I can feed otherwise, but I am not sure that even you are strong enough... yet... to harbor a rogue vayash moru with impunity."
"Your precious dark gift has done me little good," Jared growled. "And as for rumors, do you think the commoners would believe I would give safety to one of your kind... after we've gone to such pains to exterminate the others?" He paused. "I still think they could have been turned to be... useful to us."
"Ah yes," Arontala said in that smooth voice Jared found so mocking. "Jared Drayke, slayer of vayash moru, defender of the kingdom. Even I could not turn and retain control of so many of... as you put it... my kind." "Even you?" Jared sneered. Arontala made a dismissive wave. "There are still the palace ghosts." "The dagger which slew your father was spelled to destroy the soul as well as the body. His body was burned, and the ashes mingled with dryroot and scattered under a full moon. There is no magic that can bring him back," Arontala replied. "And the others?"
"Some of the spirits were banished," Arontala replied. "They cannot return unless I bid them come. As for your stepmother and her brat, their spirits are still here under my watchful eye," he said with a lethal smile as he walked around the pulsing, red orb in the center of the room. "They await the Feeding," he said, his hand hovering just above the surface of the orb. "They are quite safe in my Soulcatcher," he smiled.
"There is still Bava K'aa," Jared snapped. "I saw what she could do."
"Bava K'aa is dead."