cannot be broken. Tris is on his own.”
WITHIN THE ENCOUNTER room, Tris bit down hard on the rope vine, clenching his teeth as he struggled to hold his shielding against the blast of mage fire that burst from the red-robed figure’s talisman. The hood fell back, revealing not Arontala’s face, but Alaine’s, her features twisted in an agonized gri-mace, her eyes desperate.
Tris knew the power of the red fire, and the searching presence that accompanied it. That fire had nearly killed Kiara in the scrying at Westmarch, and it had sought and found him when he had attempted a scrying with the caravan.
The fire battered his shielding, draining his strength as he struggled to hold his protections in place. Tris felt the presence find him. The glow in the talisman at Alaine’s throat pulsed a deep carnelian.
“See your future,” a voice rasped from Alaine’s throat, contorting her features.
Images flooded into Tris’s mind, searingly clear. Within Shekerishet’s corridors Tris saw Vahanian lying dead in a pool of blood, pierced through the chest by a crossbow bolt. The image flickered, and Tris saw a courtyard of gibbets, and hanging lifeless, Carroway and Carina, their faces blackened, their bodies twisting. Another image replaced that, of a forest of pikes set into the ground.
Fixed on the stakes, impaled alive, Tris saw Soterius, Gabriel, and Mikhail, saw the dawn break and saw the agony of the vayash morn as the daylight burned them, saw Soterius writhe in pain that did not end with the light of day. Once more the sending pulsed and the image shifted. This time Tris saw Kiara, battered and drugged, given to Jared for his pleasure.
“This is Margolan’s future,” the voice hissed, seeming to come from both around him and inside his own head, deafeningly loud, impossible to shut out. The sending shifted once more, and Tris saw the orb Soulcatcher in Arontala’s chambers pulsing with the same bright fire, saw the maw of the abyss open and the terrible power of the Obsidian King stream forth, freed from his prison, descending on the red-robed mage who stood with arms upraised, awaiting his possession.
The power of the next image nearly drove Tris to his knees. He saw himself in Arontala’s workshop at Shekerishet, saw the Obsidian King in Arontala’s body send a massive blast of power toward him. In the vision, Tris saw his own shields strain and buck-le, saw his body contort in agony, and felt the Obsidian King strip away his protections and break his will. Tris saw himself, tortured to the point of death and revived, pushed far past mortal endurance. In the vision, broken in spirit and body, he begged for death. And he saw himself, scarred and crippled by Arontala’s tortures, blank-eyed, without the will to resist, his power used as a resource for Arontala’s blood magic.
“You have failed,” the voice rasped, deafeningly loud. “And your failure will be the destruction of all those whom you loved.”
The visions were overwhelming and Tris strained for control, feeling grief and hopelessness wash over him even as the wormroot threatened to push his power beyond his reach. Then at the edges of his mage sense, Tris felt something else. As the air turned cold around him, he realized that he and Alaine were no longer alone.
“Take your shot!” Tris heard Theron’s voice in his mind as the spirit of the fallen mage-fighter streamed from her burned corpse. With her was an older presence, and Tris knew it was Elam’s spirit.
Reeling from the onslaught of the fiery blast and the sending, Tris saw the spirits howl toward Alaine. As they descended on Alaine with the fury of the ghosts of the Ruune Videya, Tris gathered all his remaining power.
With a murmured word he dropped his shielding and sent an answering blast, drawing on Mageslayer’s power to keep the poison at bay. Sighting down Mageslayer’s blade like an athame, Tris directed his power, borrowing from the blue glow of his life
WITHIN THE ENCOUNTER room, Tris bit down hard on the rope vine, clenching his teeth as he struggled to hold his shielding against the blast of mage fire that burst from the red-robed figure’s talisman. The hood fell back, revealing not Arontala’s face, but Alaine’s, her features twisted in an agonized gri-mace, her eyes desperate.
Tris knew the power of the red fire, and the searching presence that accompanied it. That fire had nearly killed Kiara in the scrying at Westmarch, and it had sought and found him when he had attempted a scrying with the caravan.
The fire battered his shielding, draining his strength as he struggled to hold his protections in place. Tris felt the presence find him. The glow in the talisman at Alaine’s throat pulsed a deep carnelian.
“See your future,” a voice rasped from Alaine’s throat, contorting her features.
Images flooded into Tris’s mind, searingly clear. Within Shekerishet’s corridors Tris saw Vahanian lying dead in a pool of blood, pierced through the chest by a crossbow bolt. The image flickered, and Tris saw a courtyard of gibbets, and hanging lifeless, Carroway and Carina, their faces blackened, their bodies twisting. Another image replaced that, of a forest of pikes set into the ground.
Fixed on the stakes, impaled alive, Tris saw Soterius, Gabriel, and Mikhail, saw the dawn break and saw the agony of the vayash morn as the daylight burned them, saw Soterius writhe in pain that did not end with the light of day. Once more the sending pulsed and the image shifted. This time Tris saw Kiara, battered and drugged, given to Jared for his pleasure.
“This is Margolan’s future,” the voice hissed, seeming to come from both around him and inside his own head, deafeningly loud, impossible to shut out. The sending shifted once more, and Tris saw the orb Soulcatcher in Arontala’s chambers pulsing with the same bright fire, saw the maw of the abyss open and the terrible power of the Obsidian King stream forth, freed from his prison, descending on the red-robed mage who stood with arms upraised, awaiting his possession.
The power of the next image nearly drove Tris to his knees. He saw himself in Arontala’s workshop at Shekerishet, saw the Obsidian King in Arontala’s body send a massive blast of power toward him. In the vision, Tris saw his own shields strain and buck-le, saw his body contort in agony, and felt the Obsidian King strip away his protections and break his will. Tris saw himself, tortured to the point of death and revived, pushed far past mortal endurance. In the vision, broken in spirit and body, he begged for death. And he saw himself, scarred and crippled by Arontala’s tortures, blank-eyed, without the will to resist, his power used as a resource for Arontala’s blood magic.
“You have failed,” the voice rasped, deafeningly loud. “And your failure will be the destruction of all those whom you loved.”
The visions were overwhelming and Tris strained for control, feeling grief and hopelessness wash over him even as the wormroot threatened to push his power beyond his reach. Then at the edges of his mage sense, Tris felt something else. As the air turned cold around him, he realized that he and Alaine were no longer alone.
“Take your shot!” Tris heard Theron’s voice in his mind as the spirit of the fallen mage-fighter streamed from her burned corpse. With her was an older presence, and Tris knew it was Elam’s spirit.
Reeling from the onslaught of the fiery blast and the sending, Tris saw the spirits howl toward Alaine. As they descended on Alaine with the fury of the ghosts of the Ruune Videya, Tris gathered all his remaining power.
With a murmured word he dropped his shielding and sent an answering blast, drawing on Mageslayer’s power to keep the poison at bay. Sighting down Mageslayer’s blade like an athame, Tris directed his power, borrowing from the blue glow of his life
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