The Dread

Book 2: The Fallen Kings Cycle

by Gail Z. Martin

Genres: Action & Adventure; Epic Fantasy; Fantasy

Synopsis

Still reeling from plague and civil war, the Winter Kingdoms face an invasion
force from across the Northern Sea led by a dark spirit mage in the name
of ancient, vanquished gods. Summoner-King Martris Drayke and an
untested generation of new rulers must stand against an unholy alliance
of shadowy invaders. To prevail, Tris must win the uncertain support of
the Dread, spirit-beings that stand guard within the sacred barrows over
an even more fearsome threat imprisoned within. In the balance lies not
only the freedom of the Winter Kingdoms but Tris's life and the soul of
his young son, whose untested magic might be the biggest spoil of war.

Release date: February 1, 2012

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 640

Sample

“Fans of Martin’s previous series as well as those who enjoy the large-scale fantasy of George R.R. Martin and Robert Jordan should enjoy this series opener.”

—Library Journal

“Well written and full of action, this grabs the reader on the first page and refuses to let go until the very last page.”

—RT (four stars)

“Very well-written and intricately plotted epic fantasy novel in a great setting, and I can’t wait for the second book.”

—Civilian-reader.blogspot.com

“Top notch, engrossing fantasy.”

—SFRevu.com

“The characters are the highlight of this book. Gail Z. Martin has clearly taken a great deal of time and care in drawing them into the world.”

—Robwillreview.com

“Gail Z. Martin has a good grasp of pacing, and tells a fast-paced tale laced with plenty of action.”

—Sfsite.com

“I loved this story from beginning to end. Packed with suspense, excitement, and colorful characters, The Summoner is a true epic fantasy. Gail Martin has done a wonderful job of taking well-known story elements and infusing them into a truly magical tale.”

—SciFiChick.com

“The Summoner is consistently composed, easy to get into and reads very quickly… It offers plenty of sword & sorcery action…”

—Fantasybookcritic.blogspot.com

“Martin’s first novel, a series opener, presents a beleaguered hero with a unique gift of communicating with the dead… this fantasy adventure belongs in most libraries.”

—Library Journal

“We can be thankful for this breath of new life Martin has summoned into the fantasy genre… Gail Z. Martin is certain to keep her readers entranced from page one to the finale.”

—Kankakee Journal

“Attractive characters and an imaginative setting combine in an excellent, fast-moving quest novel.”

—David Drake, author of Some Golden Harbor and Other Times Than Peace

“A rich, evocative story with vivid, believable characters moving through a beautifully realized world with all the quirks, depths and levels of a real place. A terrific read!”

—A.J. Hartley, author of The Mask of Atreus and On the Fifth Day

“The Summoner is a pleasant and enjoyable read that any lover of fantasy should enjoy. The characters are well developed and the story line is solid.”

—Midwest Book Review

“The Blood King is the riveting sequel to The Summoner. It entertained and kept me spellbound to the end. When I turned the last page I couldn’t help but wish for more.”

—Midwest Book Review

“These novels were quite good, and very easy to read. Diverting and fun.”

—Cosmo Digital

“As epic dark fantasy goes, The Blood King was entertaining and satisfactory. Martin’s strengths lie in worldbuilding and the big picture. I’ll be interested in seeing what Martin does next, as I believe she has a lot of potential.”

—Sfsite.com

“With creepy ghosts, nefarious undead, magic, plenty of intrigue, and even a little romance, high fantasy fans shouldn’t miss this series.”

—SciFiChick.com

“My recommendation for this series gets stronger with each book, so just buy it now before I start going door-to-door!”

—Neolibrarium.com

“Rather than get bogged down in details or endless back-and-forth dialogues between characters for the sake of argument, Martin keeps things zipping along. For the type of reader who views plot as a way to get the various characters on stage and interacting, however, Dark Haven will be heavenly. The characters are undeniably strong and distinctive, and they get to show off in interesting ways on a regular basis.”

—Richard Dansky, Fantasy Magazine

“The air is thick with intrigue, threats and deception that captures the reader and sweeps them into the story. It’s one of those wonderful books you can’t bear to put down. Dark Lady’s Chosen is a satisfying and entertaining read that shouldn’t be missed.”

—Victoria Kennedy, Midwest Book Review

“Dark Lady’s Chosen is well written and brings the reader fully into the universe… For fantasy lovers and those who just love a damn good story, Dark Lady’s Chosen and the Chronicles of the Necromancer are the perfect read.”

—Epheros.com

I had hoped that Isencroft wouldn’t see war again in my lifetime.” King Donelan of Isencroft took a deep breath and swirled the brandy in his goblet. “I had my fill of it in my younger days. It was a bad bargain then, and it hasn’t gotten any better.”

“It’s not by your choosing, m’lord.” Wilym, the head of the elite Veigonn warriors and a close personal friend of the king’s, set aside his drink. “Temnotta’s made the first move.”

Donelan sighed. “Spare me any words about a ‘good war.’ There is no ‘good’ war. The only thing worse than war is slavery. I know we have no choice, dammit. I know Temnotta cast the die. But it’s a funny thing about war. Even when you win, you lose. There are several thousand men having a good night’s sleep tonight who won’t be breathing by war’s end. There are villages that won’t exist when the fighting’s through. I never thought a king’s reputation was earned on the battlefield. I always thought it was earned by making sure fields never saw battle. War is easy. But keeping peace for any length of time—well, that’s the tricky part.”

Donelan downed the last of his brandy in one gulp, and for a moment, Cam thought the king might pour himself another draught. Instead, Donelan let his head rest against the chair and closed his eyes. And although Cam had been the King’s Champion for years, never had he thought Donelan looked so worn and tired. “There are no thoughts in my head fit to fall asleep with,” Donelan said, his voice gravelly with fatigue. “Tell me just one good thing before I turn in for the night. I’d rather not dream of war.”

Cam exchanged worried glances with Wilym. “Think on the packet you received this morning from Kiara,” Wilym said. “You told me her letter says that she and Cwynn are doing well, and that the baby has a fine appetite. The portrait she sent showed a healthy, strong boy. And they’re safe from this madness, far away in Margolan.” He chuckled. “I’ve heard it said that no one except Martris Drayke himself ever breached the walls of the palace Shekerishet. Count that as your good thing to sleep on, Your Majesty. Kiara and Cwynn are safe.”

Donelan seemed to relax. The king was known both for his appetite for strong drink and for his ability to seem utterly untouched by it. Cam wished that tonight the brandy might overcome the king’s tolerance and give Donelan a few candlemarks of untroubled sleep.

“Aye, that’s a fine thing,” Donelan agreed, his voice a deep rumble. “A fine thing to sleep on. Thank you.”

“The firesetter’s been to your room a candlemark ago,” Wilym replied. “The chill will be off and the fire should be banked for the night. We have a few more days before the army heads for the coast. Perhaps you should enjoy a bed while you have the chance.” He chuckled. “Even the finest cot gives a poor night’s rest once we’re in the field.”

Donelan stretched and twisted in his chair, as if to loosen his shoulders. “I think I will,” he said, and he smiled, but Cam saw that it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks to you both for sitting with me a while. I’d best let you get some rest as well.” Donelan stood and walked across the sitting room to where a guard stood by the door to his bedchamber. He glanced over his shoulder. “Mind that you’re careful going about your business. I’ll need both of you beside me when we ride for the coast.”

The door closed behind Donelan, and the guard resumed his place. “I’m worried about him,” Cam remarked quietly.

Wilym was silent for a moment. “Donelan drew his first blood on the battlefield when we were still sucking on our mothers’ teats. Does it surprise you that it gets tiresome after twenty-some years? By the Whore! I’m wholly sick of every campaign by the end of the first battle, and I haven’t seen as much of it as he has.”

Cam nodded. “I’ve never met a sane man yet who enjoys battle, even if they love soldiering. I’m just not used to seeing Donelan look so haggard. Now it seems his dreams are dark. Makes me worried—”

A man’s scream cut off the rest of Cam’s words. Cam and Wilym jumped to their feet as the guard threw open the door to Donelan’s chamber.

“Sweet Chenne,” the guard whispered, blanching. Cam and Wilym shouldered past him at a dead run and stopped at the foot of the king’s bed.

Six stout pikes thrust up through the bed, spanning from one side to the other. Donelan lay impaled, with one of the spikes protruding from his chest. Blood spread down the king’s nightshirt, soaking the bedding, enough blood that Cam was sure the spike had taken Donelan through the heart.

“Get Trygve!” Wilym shouted. He grabbed the guard by the shoulders and spun him around, shoving him out the door. “Run, dammit!” He turned back to the king. “Hang on, Donelan. Trygve will be here in a moment.”

Donelan’s whole frame shook. His hands opened and closed convulsively, grasping at the covers. The king’s eyes were wide with pain and shock, and his mouth opened and closed, gasping for breath. Wilym took the king’s hand. “Hold on, please. Just hold on.”

Cam drew his sword and made a thorough inspection of the room. The king’s private quarters were large, but by design, they offered no easy hiding place. Cam flung open the wardrobe doors but found nothing except dress robes. The garderobe alcove was empty, with an opening too small for even a slender boy to navigate. Then he looked at the high four-poster bed. The frame was at least two feet off the floor, tall enough that two steps were required for Donelan to climb onto the mattress, and it was skirted with heavy tapestry material. When Cam knelt to look under the bed, he caught his breath.

“By the Crone!”

“What?”

Cam climbed to his feet. “Someone’s rigged a bow contraption beneath the bed. Must have gone off once there was weight on it.”

Trygve barreled through the doorway, followed by the guard, who seemed close to panic.

“Mother and Childe!” Trygve swore under his breath, never breaking stride until he reached Donelan’s side. Cam and Wilym melted back along the wall, giving the healer room to work. Trygve was one of the finest battle healers in all of Isencroft, but by the set of his mouth, Cam could tell that Trygve was worried.

“We’ve got to remove the stake, and the moment we do, he’ll start bleeding harder.” Trygve’s voice was clipped.

“Tell us what to do,” Wilym said, as he and Cam stepped forward.

“Can you retract the weapon from below? I’d rather not try to lift him.”

Cam dropped to his knees. “I think so. It’s been bound to the frame with rope.”

“Then on my mark, with one of you on each side, slice the ropes while I try to staunch the bleeding.” Trygve climbed up on the bed and straddled the king’s body so that his hands were best positioned above the wound. “On three: one… two… three.”

The two swords swished through the air simultaneously, slicing through the ropes and hitting the bed frame with a thunk. The stakes dropped, but did not completely retract.

Trygve cursed. “Get on your knees. On my mark again, grab each side of that cursed thing and pull straight down.”

This time, the apparatus gave way. Cam and Wilym climbed back to their feet. Donelan gave a sharp cry, and Trygve murmured healing incantations while his hands cupped over the hole in Donelan’s chest. Blue healing light glowed beneath Trygve’s hands. But from where Cam stood, Donelan’s skin looked ashen, and his body had gone still. Trygve’s tension gave Cam no reassurance.

Blood spattered Trygve’s healer’s uniform and his hands were slick. Donelan’s breathing was slow and labored. Trygve leaned closer, and the blue light flared. Donelan murmured something Cam could not hear, and then, with one heavy breath, the king lay still.

“Donelan!” Cam said, starting forward.

“No!” Wilym cried.

Trygve bowed his head and his shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. It was too much damage. Perhaps if we’d had a summoner to bind his soul, we might have bought more time for healing. The stake… it tore through his heart…” His voice faded. Slowly, he climbed down from the bed and drew up a sheet to cover Donelan’s body.

Cam turned to the guard at the door. The young man stared wide-eyed at the king’s body. “Who beside the firesetter entered the king’s rooms tonight?”

It took two tries for the guard to find his voice. “No one, m’lord. There’s been a guard at the door to the king’s bedchamber all day. The chambermaids set out his night clothes, but they come on the watch before mine, just before supper.”

“We’ll find the firesetter and the maids and the previous guard.” Wilym’s voice was tight and emotionless, and only his eyes revealed his sorrow. “I handpicked the king’s guards myself, and I’d swear to their loyalty on my own life. As for the servants, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Cam looked at Wilym and Trygve. “The army’s about to head to war, and the king’s dead.”

Wilym took a deep breath. “How fast can a vayash moru travel from here to Shekerishet?”

Cam met his gaze. “A few days.” He paused. “You’re not proposing—”

“Yes, I am.” Wilym’s expression was resolute. “Kiara may be Queen of Margolan, but she is also the rightful heir to the Isencroft throne. We have no choice except to call her home to lead her people. Alvior’s behind this. He’ll count on chaos slowing our response. Maybe he’s betting that without Donelan we’ll fall into a full civil war and he can sweep up the pieces. The army can move without the king. But the people need someone who can rally them, someone to remind them why they fight.”

Footsteps in the doorway made them turn. Both Cam and Wilym drew their swords. Kellen stepped into the room, followed by Tice and Allestyr. “By the Whore!” Kellen swore softly. Tice froze, a look of shock on his face. Allestyr swallowed back a sob.

“It’s true, then.” Allestyr was the first to speak. Tears ran down his cheeks. “The servants found us when the guard came for Trygve. Is he—”

Wilym nodded. “Donelan is dead. And if Isencroft is to survive, the six of us must make it happen.”

The next candlemarks passed in a blur for Cam as Donelan’s closest advisers prepared for the burial of the king. Allestyr sent messengers to the Council of Nobles, while Tice recruited Cam’s squire, Rhistiart, for help with the formal funeral arrangements that protocol demanded. Wilym went to break the news to the Veigonn in person and dispatched messengers to the generals who had already taken troops afield. Cam kept vigil beside Donelan’s body, waiting for the king’s last official visitor.

The door opened. Cam stood, knowing that the guard had orders to admit only one person. A white-cloaked figure entered, and Cam recognized the newcomer as an Acolyte to the Oracle of the goddess Chenne. He made an awkward bow. “Your Grace,” he stammered, unsure of the proper acknowledgment.

The Acolyte nodded in response, but said nothing. Cam watched her in silence. The hood hid the Oracle’s face in shadow, and her long sleeves covered her hands. Cam wondered if it was his imagination that she glided rather than walked, or whether the Acolyte’s communion with the goddess had altered her enough to make her no longer of this world.

Cam stepped back as the Acolyte approached the bed. She moved in silence; not even footsteps broke the pall. The Acolyte bent over the king’s still form as if listening for breath.

“He’s well and truly dead, if that’s what you’re checking,” Cam mumbled, as grief gave way to irritation.

“Magic did this.” The Acolyte’s voice was a murmur, barely above a whisper.

“Beggin’ Your Grace’s pardon, but there’s a row of stakes beneath the bed and each one longer than my forearm. Must’ve run on some kind of spring,” Cam argued.

The hooded head turned toward him, and he fell silent. In the shadow of the cloak, Cam could not make out any features, or any glimpse of a face at all. She considered him without speaking, and that moment of silence felt like it lasted forever. “Magic, not mechanics, sprang the trap. The man you arrested, the firesetter, was bewitched. He was not the only one.” She held out a hand above the king’s corpse, as if sensing something in the air. “Two others have handled the weapon. One merely carried it, perhaps unknowingly. The other stinks of blood magic.”

“We’ve got a pretender to the throne headed this way with dark mages and a navy. There’s rioting in the streets, and now the king’s dead. If your Mistress or the Lady Chenne has any suggestions on what to do about it, I’m sure we’d all like to hear it right about now.” Keep it up, and she’ll probably turn you into a frog. It took effort for Cam to bottle his anger and grief and swallow the rest of his comments unspoken.

Once again, the Acolyte turned toward him, and Cam felt as if she were taking his measure. “You loved him.”

Cam swallowed hard. “More like a father to me than my own father he was, that’s for damn sure. I’d have died to save him.” Cam fell on his knees in front of the Acolyte. “Can the Oracle—or the Goddess—bring him back? Take my life instead. Please, m’lady, I beg of you.” Cam smeared away his tears with the back of his sleeve.

The Acolyte inclined her head. “It isn’t given to my Mistress to bring back the dead, and Our Lady Chenne keeps her own counsel. While your grief is sincere, and your offer heartfelt, I can’t give you what you seek.”

Before Cam could answer, the Acolyte swept from the room. Then, with a silent bow toward Donelan’s body, Cam blew out the candle in the lantern and left the bedchamber.

Just a few candlemarks before dawn, a solemn group assembled in the seneschal’s chambers. Tice, the king’s closest adviser; Allestyr, Donelan’s seneschal; Kellen; Trygve; Wilym; Darry, the armsmaster; and Rhistiart were seated around a table. With them was Brother Felix, the king’s favored scholar and an Acolyte of the Oracle. Cam joined them and accepted the warm mug of wassail Wilym pressed into his hand with a nod of thanks. No one spoke until Allestyr cleared his throat.

“I know we all have duties that demand our attention, as well as our own grief. But I thought it was important to gather this group before things get any more complicated.” Allestyr’s voice was tight and his eyes were red. In all the years Cam had known the seneschal, he had never seen Allestyr look as worn and sad.

“You’re here because your loyalty is certain,” Allestyr continued, his voice growing firmer. “By dawn, Count Renate should arrive at the palace. As the most senior member of the Council of Nobles, he is empowered, under Isencroft’s Covenant of the Lords, to step in as Regent for up to ninety days until an Heir of the Blood is crowned.”

He paused. “Renate is an honorable man, and his loyalty to the crown has never been doubted. He even volunteered to raise a private army and hunt down the Divisionists himself, but Donelan persuaded him that it was a matter best left to the king’s troops.”

Tice nodded. “He’s a bold man, and good in a fight. We could do worse for a Regent, that’s for sure.”

“Since we learned of the king’s death, we’ve allowed no one to leave the palace. We wanted to keep the news from spreading until Renate could be installed as Regent and until Wilym had a chance to speak with the generals,” Allestyr continued. He shook his head. “I don’t know what will happen when word reaches the streets. I fear the worst. We have to crown a new monarch before Alvior lands his armies on Isencroft soil, or he will claim a right by blood to the throne, and I don’t know how many might throw their allegiance to him out of sheer panic.”

Cam leaned forward. “Kiara is in Margolan. By fast horse, it’s a two-week ride. She’s recently given birth, and it was hard on her. We may well be at war before she can reach Isencroft.”

Allestyr nodded. “There’s no helping that. And although Kiara is an excellent warrior, she can’t be expected to fight so soon after the birth, nor would we put her in that kind of danger.”

“Wilym asked me to contact my friends among the vayash moru. They can travel more quickly than mortals. Antoin will take the news to Kiara in Margolan. He’ll leave tonight. It should take him only a few days.” Everyone turned toward Brother Felix. “Antoin’s loyalty is beyond doubt. He can be trusted to carry word to the princess.”

Allestyr and Tice exchanged glances. “Thank you,” Allestyr said. “In the meantime, we had something a bit more arcane in mind.”

Wilym raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“There is a way to crown a new king—or queen—in absentia,” Allestyr replied. “It hasn’t been done in several hundred years. We need a mage, preferably one of the Oracle’s Acolytes. It also requires eight witnesses, one for each of the Faces of the Lady. There’s a very particular way to carry out the ceremony. For one thing, it has to be done in the necropolis.”

“Why in the tombs, for the Lady’s sake?” Rhistiart clapped a hand to his mouth as he realized his outburst.

Allestyr gave a wan smile. “It has to be done in the necropolis because that’s where the dead monarchs of Isencroft are buried. The only way to crown someone in absentia is with the agreement of the ghosts of the fallen kings.”

“There is precedent.” Once again, Brother Felix drew their attention, although his voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Aldo the Wise was crowned in such a manner, over two hundred years ago. He was on a visit to Dhasson when King Zoccoros the Third choked on a piece of venison at dinner and died. A group of loyalists and an Acolyte petitioned the dead kings and consecrated the crown. Something about the ritual activates the regent magic that’s carried in the royal blood. Once done, it can’t be undone by writ.”

“So once the crown is consecrated for Kiara, the regent magic can’t be conferred on anyone else, even if Alvior found some traitor lords to crown him?” Wilym leaned forward earnestly.

Brother Felix nodded. “If the ceremony is done right, then the crown can’t be claimed by another—unless Kiara dies.”

Wilym crossed his arms over his chest. “Just what does this ‘consecration’ ceremony involve?”

Allestyr looked to Brother Felix. The scholar took a deep breath. “It’s very old magic, and somewhat controversial. There are reasons why it fell out of favor in recent generations. For one thing, the spirits of the dead kings can be temperamental. They don’t like to be disturbed. There are legends—”

“Save the ghost stories for another time, Felix,” Allestyr prompted gently.

“Right. Well, assuming you don’t bring the wrath of the dead kings down on you—which we shouldn’t, I hope—then, a small figure is created using items that were used frequently by the heir, either things she wore or things she valued highly, and dirt from the burial place of the kings. The items are placed inside a piece of cloth cut and sewn to be the shape of a person, like a child’s doll without the stuffing. The Acolyte petitions the dead to come. It’s up to them whether they do, unless the Acolyte happens to be a summoner, which none of the current ones are.”

“Skip the details, Felix, please, or we’ll be here all night,” Tice muttered, but there was affection in his voice.

“Sorry. Sorry.” Felix rubbed his bald head. He was obviously warming to his tale. “The warding and ceremony are not unlike a ritual wedding—each of the eight witnesses must contribute a few drops of blood into a chalice, which is mixed with wine and sacred herbs. Then we each lay hands on the effigy and drink from the chalice and the Acolyte says the words of power. The dead kings lend their magic, and the doll becomes a nenkah. Magically, it ‘becomes’ Kiara until she arrives to take its place.”

“You want us to do blood magic?” Trygve’s voice was a warning growl.

Felix sighed. “I told you it was controversial. That’s one reason why it went out of fashion. But anyone who makes a ritual wedding uses a form of blood magic when they cut their palms and mix the blood with wine. It’s not like there’s a human sacrifice.”

Tice cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of reading over Brother Felix’s shoulder when he retrieved the old scrolls. There are a few potential complications.”

“Complications?” Cam asked warily.

Tice nodded. “Because the items that are used to make the nenkah are very personal to the heir, they have a strong physical and emotional tie. When that link is activated by magic, the nenkah shares that magic with the person who owned the items. In exchange, the heir shares a glimmer of life force with the nenkah.”

“This thing is alive?” Cam’s voice reflected his horror.

Tice sighed. “In a manner of speaking, yes. That’s how it can be crowned in the princess’s absence with the force of law. It creates a way for Kiara to be in Margolan and here at the same time. But if the nenkah were to be captured, or destroyed… well, the records aren’t entirely clear. It’s possible that whoever controls the nenkah may control the princess so long as the nenkah exists. And there’s at least a suggestion in the records that destroying the nenkah might be able to wound Kiara through it—maybe kill her.”

“I don’t like this.” Wilym sat back in his chair, arms crossed and face set. “What happens after Kiara arrives? How do you get rid of the damned doll?”

Brother Felix shrugged. “According to the scrolls, once Kiara is crowned and the regent magic is activated, the nenkah becomes nothing more than a rag doll filled with an odd collection of items.”

Kellen leaned forward. “While I have to say that I share Wilym’s concerns, what choice do we have? Without the nenkah, Alvior might be able to have himself crowned and invoke the blood magic before Kiara could take the throne. I agree there are risks. I don’t like magic. But even with the vayash moru’s help, it will take weeks for Kiara to reach Isencroft. We can’t leave the succession open.”

“What of the Regent?” Trygve shifted in his seat.

Allestyr shrugged. “The nenkah must remain our secret. We’ll need Renate as our public face. As far as everyone at court knows, there’s only Renate. But the crown is both legal and magical. Renate covers us as far as the legal matters go. But for the magical, we need the nenkah.”

“Does Antoin have everything he needs to leave for Margolan?” Cam asked, turning to Brother Felix.

“All he needs is a letter—I was assuming Allestyr would want to write the message.”

Allestyr nodded. “Very well. I’ll do it immediately. While I’m busy with that, I’ll need your help to make ready for our little ceremony.” Cam could hear a touch of distaste in the seneschal’s voice and he guessed that Allestyr was as uncomfortable about the ritual as the rest. “Trygve, I’m hoping nothing goes wrong, but I’d like you to have your healer’s kit with you, just in case. Cam and Tice, I need you to go to Kiara’s rooms and find some things that belonged to her that we can use for the nenkah. Kellen, I’ll need you to prepare the ritual chamber. We haven’t used it since Kiara left for Margolan.”

“What about me?” Rhistiart had been nearly silent, but now he sat forward. “I want to help.”

Brother Felix regarded him for a moment. “There have to be eight witnesses. You’ll be the eighth man.” He stood. “Gentlemen, this kind of magic is best done at dusk or dawn. We’ll meet in the crypt chamber at fifth bells. And may the Goddess look kindly on our souls.”

When the group assembled in the necropolis beneath Aberponte, Cam could not recall seeing them ever look so ill at ease. His own stomach was tight as if anticipating a battle, and he caught himself pulling nervously at the collar of his uniform. Rhistiart was pale, and although the crypt chamber was cool, a light sheen of sweat showed on Rhistiart’s forehead. None of the others looked any less nervous.

The necropolis was ancient, older than the Isencroft monarchy, going back at least to the time when warlords ruled the clans that would someday unite to become a kingdom. The newer sections of the necropolis, still centuries old, were tunnels of stone with barrel ceilings and bricked floors. Crypt rooms opened off the walkway, and many corridors branched off into darkness. The walkway led into several large rooms ringed with ornately carved catafalques, monuments to Isencroft’s dead kings and queens. Cam swallowed hard as he filed past the tomb of Queen Viata, Kiara’s mother, and noted the as yet incompletely carved catafalque next to it that would hold Donelan’s remains.

As they descended, the cut stone and bricked corridors gradually became tunnels in the rock, and many of the openings appeared to be natural cave rooms enlarged and embellished over the centuries. Bones were stacked in alcoves cut into the walls, neatly piled with the skulls facing out so that, in places, the walls on either side of the corridors appeared to be made from yellowed, grinning skulls. The deeper they went into the necropolis, the more ornate the