"We've taxed your strength today," Senne responded. "I'll work with the others to secure the wedding, and set a timetable to march on Curane. We can meet again to discuss the details."

Soterius opened the door to the corridor, and motioned for Mikhail and the guards. Amid profuse expressions of concern for his health, Tris took his leave, grateful to escape. There were no more interruptions until they reached his chamber. Zachar the seneschal was waiting for them. Coalan hurried to turn down the bedclothes and fetch Tris a cup of tea. With Zachar was Sister Taru.

"Esme was by earlier," Zachar said. "She wasn't pleased that you were out of bed," he added dryly. "And she left some more pain medicine. She said if you were going to push yourself, you would probably need a stronger dose. I've taken the liberty of canceling your commitments tomorrow before noon."

Tris could feel Taru's magic as the healer- mage checked the spot where the arrow struck.

Her familiar mental presence slipped warmly against his mind, easing the pain and draining off tension. When she finished, Coalan stood ready with a cup of tea. Taru mixed a powder into the tea that smelled of berries and anise and handed the cup to Tris.

Tris breathed in the steam. The warmth felt good on his face, and the herbs' scent began to relax him before he even had a chance to sip the liquid. "Don't tell me you're just hanging around for the wedding," he said with a glance at Taru. "What's keeping you this far from your citadel?"

Taru smiled and adjusted the sash on the brown robe that marked her as one of the Sisterhood, the elite and secretive group of mages once led by Tris's famed sorceress grandmother, Bava K'aa.

"You catch on quickly." She gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Mikhail and moved to warm herself by the fire. "I am the Sisterhood's delegate for the royal wedding," she said with a mischievous grin. "But I'm also here to confer with some of the mages from citadels in the south. All along the Flow, magic is becoming unstable."

"And it's getting worse," Tris agreed. "I can sense it, when I hold the Court of Spirits or dispel the ghosts of Jared's victims. It's like a dark shadow around the edges of power. It's a drain—it makes it harder to control the power."

"It will also affect your battle magic," Taru warned. "The Flow runs from above the Northern Sea down through Dark Haven; it cuts across Margolan, down through Trevath, and into the Southern Kingdoms. Curane's keep is almost directly on top of the course of the Flow. That means the problems will get worse the closer you are to the source of power." She grimaced. "And the same splintering that makes it harder for you aids Curane's blood mages."

"Damn."

"Sister Landis is pressuring all of the Sisters to rise above mortal politics and tend to arcane matters. She wasn't happy that we trained you. She wants to keep the Sisterhood neutral." Taru gave a harsh chuckle. "That's not happening."

"Do tell," Mikhail leaned against the hearth.

"Arontala's blood magic not only tainted the Flow, it scarred the land. It's especially bad near the Dhasson border, where he called down the magick beasts. Our Sisters could easily stay busy just cleansing the land and blessing the ground where the ashtenerath were buried.

"This is personal," Taru went on. "We're Margolan born. Before it's over, you'll need battle mages in the Southern plains. Landis is likely to have a revolt. There are many of us who would go rogue before we'd turn our back on you or our kinsmen."

"Interesting," Mikhail observed. "The Blood Council faces much the same challenge. Lord Gabriel won a concession in letting vayasb moru fight against Arontala. But most of the vayash mora who helped us win back the throne have already said they'll fight to keep Tris there. Some have even joined the army."

"It's a damn good thing, too." Tris yawned. The medicine was doing its work. "We're short on soldiers."

Mikhail nodded. "You'll need us to go up against Curane."

"What will the Blood Council do?" Tris asked.

"Like the Sisterhood, they face a revolt. Enough of the older vayasb moru wish to support you and they won't influence their fledglings to withdraw. Even the Blood Council can't put down a full rebellion."

Tris passed a hand over his eyes. Crucial as the information was, he was fading rapidly.

"This can wait for another day," Taru said with a glance at Mikhail. "We'll let you rest." Coalan saw them to the door.

Zachar shook his head. "You really haven't changed at all. Always demanding too much =

from yourself. You were the most stubbornly persistent child I ever saw," the white-haired seneschal said, chuckling. "I remember watching you learn to ride. It didn't matter how many times you fell off or how badly you were bruised. Even when you broke your arm, nothing mattered until you could stay in the saddle."

Zachar had been around for as long as Tris could remember. Carroway's music might be the heart of Shekerishet, but Zachar was the brain—an able administrator who oversaw the complexities and finances with honesty and rigor. It was Zachar who had presided over the workings of the castle and its lands when the king went to war. Zachar knew every servant's name, and could locate any piece of silver for the table or sacred item for ritual. The wiry man had looked old to Tris since Tris had been a child. In other ways, he never seemed to age. Zachar was as constant as the rising of the sun. During his exile, Tris had often wondered about the seneschal's fate. He'd assumed the worst. Within a month of Tris regaining the throne, a robed man had arrived on foot— dirty, unshaven, dressed as a tradesman too poor to even own a donkey. The man had been rebuffed twice by the watchmen when he requested to see the king, until he refused to leave without an audience with the captain of the guard. Harrtuck recognized Zachar immediately, and had personally escorted him to Tris. There, amid tears and embraces, Zachar recounted how he had escaped Jared by slithering down a garderobe the night of the coup, pushing a cart of offal out of the city gates, and taking refuge with a rug merchant in a distant town. For Tris, the sight of the familiar retainer was almost as comforting as seeing Bricen himself. Having Zachar back at his post made their chance of succeeding all the better.

"How are the preparations for the feast day coming?" Tris's pain dulled, but so did awareness of his feet and legs, making him think it might be safer to just spend the night in the chair.

"The kitchen is laying in supplies, sire," Zachar reported. If pressed, Zachar could recount precisely which supplies and in what amounts. "Carroway has the entertainment planned. The minstrels are already rehearsing. He has a new ballad about your father that is quite moving."

"Haunts is going to be hard this year." Tris's voice was just above a whisper. He knew he wouldn't be the only one for whom the memory of Bricen and Serae—and of his sister Kait—would be as real as if their spirits were present.

"The kingdom mourns with you, my liege," Zachar said. "We all loved them."

"I miss them, Zachar," Tris said quietly. "I miss them all so much. Especially Kait."

"Shekerishet has indeed been a shadowed place since Kait left it."

"She would've loved Kiara," Tris said with a sigh. "The wedding is the only thing that keeps me going right now. Knowing that Kiara will be here with me, soon."

Tris tried to stand, realized that the medicine had taken full effect, and gratefully accepted assistance from Zachar and Coalan to cross the room. Coalan hurried to help Tris remove his boots. Tris stretched out, pulling the blankets over him.

"Sleep well, my king," Zachar said softly, leaving a lantern burning by the bedside. Tris heard the door latch behind him, and closed his eyes.