Gail Martin - Dark Lady_s Chosen

THE FIRST YEAR of the reign of King Martris of Margolan, son of Bricen, did not usher in the hoped-for peace. Though Jared the Usurper wore the crown for less than a full year, the damage that he caused brought Margolan to the brink of famine and fractured the centuries- old Truce between mortals and vayash moru. Loyalists to the Usurper King went into hiding, none so defiant as Lord Curane of Lochlanimar, whose granddaughter was forced to bear Jared's bastard son.

Just after the Feast of the Departed, King Martris Drayke wed Princess Kiara, daughter of King Donelan and successor to the throne of Isencroft. Their wedding, a rare love match, also sealed a covenant made long ago between their two kingdoms. The marriage joins the crowns of Isencroft and Margolan until heirs can be born to place the kingdoms under separate rule once more. Within a month of the wedding, the king and queen announced Kiara's pregnancy. Succession assured, Tris had no choice but to lead his army south to Lochlanimar to lay siege to Curane's stronghold.

On the battlefield, the great energy river called the Flow is violently unstable, making it increasingly dangerous for Tris and his mages to counter Curane's blood magic. The Margolan army is a tattered shadow of its former greatness, hurriedly reformed after Tris took back the throne. Rebels who followed Ban Soterius in the uprising, relatives of the thousands of people who were murdered or disappeared under the Usurper's reign, and willing ghost fighters make up the bulk of the forces, along with a few dozen vayash moru and those mages who have defied the Sisterhood to go to war. The siege is going badly. Nearly three months into the war, casualties are high, winter storms are fierce, and food is scarce. Plague has broken out among the soldiers, sent by Curane's blood mages. Magic and the Flow pose as great a threat as any of Curane's weapons, and Tris Drayke may lose his life, his kingdom and perhaps his soul if the tide cannot be turned.

Within Shekerishet, a traitor threatens Kiara's life. Several attempts on the new queen's life have barely been averted, and suspicion falls on old friends and trusted supporters. Alone in a foreign land, Kiara must rely on herself for protection. The crowns of two kingdoms depend on her ability to discover the traitor's identity and outmaneuver the dangers before it is too late.

In Isencroft, violent opposition to a joint throne raises the threat of civil war. Cam of Cairnrach, King Donelan's Champion, has been taken as a hostage to force the king's hand. Cam has discovered the identity of a traitor whose actions betray both King Donelan and Tris Drayke, but he may well die before he ever gets the chance send a warning. Lord Jonmarc Vahanian faces treachery of a different sort in Dark Haven. Rogue vayash moru, led by Malesh of Tremont, have slaughtered mortal villages in an attempt to draw out Jonmarc. Malesh tried to bring Lady Carina across as a strike against Jonmarc, but the Dark Gift warred with her healing magic, leaving her neither mortal nor undead. In desperation, Jonmarc swore Istra's Bargain, a soldier's vow to trade his soul to the Dark Lady in exchange for the death of his enemy. It is a suicide pact. He and Lord Gabriel of the Blood Council, along with vayash moru loyal to the Truce, have left to battle Malesh, aided by the shapeshifting vyrkin. Destroying Malesh before a cure can be found for Carina may assure her death, because of the strong bond between maker and fledgling. Malesh's threat to destroy a village every night left Jonmarc no choice, although the price of peace may be Carina's life.

Tris and Jonmarc thought that taking back the crown of Margolan would return the Winter Kingdoms to peace and prosperity. They were wrong.

Hoof beats thundered in the winter night. The wind was bitter cold. Jonmarc Vahanian pulled his collar up to shield his face. Thirty vayash moru rode with him, outfitted for battle. Vyrkin loped alongside them, shape-shifters in the form of large wolves. The vayash moru were the Dark Haven guard-almost all of its undead members, save the dozen who had remained to guard the manor house. The rest came at the summons of Riqua and Gabriel from their broods. Jonmarc was the only mortal among them. Tonight, anger and grief overrode fear.

They rode to end a war before it could begin. He rode to avenge Carina. The skin on his chest burned over his heart where he had drawn the sign of the Lady. Jonmarc had made an oath-Istra's Bargain, as soldiers called it. In return for the death of his enemy, Malesh, Jonmarc had bargained with the Dark Lady at the cost of his soul. He didn't expect to return to Dark Haven.

The bond between maker and fledgling is so close that the fledgling dies the maker's death. Gabriel had warned him that destroying Malesh would also kill Carina, giving her less time to recover from Malesh's botched attack. Malesh's challenge to destroy a village every night unless Jonmarc faced him in battle left no other choice. And so they rode. Jonmarc let the battle coldness deaden feeling. He had one mission: to destroy Malesh quickly and painlessly. The truce between vayash moru and mortals would be preserved-at the cost of any chance to save Carina. After that-well, he didn't expect there to be an 'after that' for him. That was the bargain.

"Remember what I told you." Laisren, his vayash moru weapons master, rode up alongside him. "Fledglings die easy-wood or metal through the heart. Direct sunlight. Decapitation. But if Malesh has older vayash moru on his side, it gets tougher. Stabbing through the heart immobilizes, but it won't kill the oldest ones. Sunlight cripples but won't destroy-not if they're more than a few hundred years old. The only sure way to destroy one of the Old Ones is to cut off the head."

Jonmarc glared at him. "How do I know which ones are the Old Ones?" Laisren's smile was chilling. "When nothing else destroys them."

Months of training with Laisren had honed Jonmarc's legendary sword skills sharp enough

to hold his own against a vayash moru opponent. Pitched battle against dozens of undead fighters would be something else entirely. Jonmarc had hedged his bet. Underneath his right sleeve was a single crossbow quarrel in a powerful spring-loaded launcher. It was his last resort, useful only when he was close enough for point-blank range. Malesh was young enough in the Dark Gift that a quarrel through the heart might destroy him. If not, it would immobilize him long enough for Jonmarc to strike the fatal blow. Under his left sleeve was a knife sheathed for quick release. A baldric across his chest held more knives, and a crossbow was slung over his shoulder. In his right boot, he had a blade that he could slip forward. It wasn't much, but he hoped it was enough.

A forbidding stand of massive trees stretched between the village and Dark Haven. Local legend held the forest to be haunted, and few hunters would venture into these woods even in dire times. As they rode, Jonmarc sensed the presence of spirits around them as wisps of green light flickered in the distance between the trees. A year on the road with Tris Drayke, Margolan's Summoner king, had made the appearance of ghosts unremarkable to Jonmarc. The revenants seemed to be waiting, watching their group in anticipation. Ghosts were the least of Jonmarc's worries tonight.

Gabriel, riding beside Jonmarc at the head of the group, reined in his horse and raised his hand to signal the others to slow. They dismounted, and tethered their horses. The road below them sloped downward toward the small village of Crombey, a clearing surrounded on three sides by dense forest. A few dozen homes lay quiet in the moonlight, smoke rising from the chimneys. Just before second bells, the village was still. At the edge of the forest was the Caliggan Crossroads. The main road ran parallel to the woods, and at the crossroads, the road branched, offering a dirt path into the darkness of the forest, or down the hill into the village. The trampled snow made it plain that Jonmarc and his party were the only ones foolhardy enough to take the forest road. Dark stories told of a sharp-toothed crone who would set upon travelers at the crossroads and feast on their hearts. Tonight, the crossroads was empty. In the distance, bells tolled twice.