Free The Blood King by Gail Z. Martin Page A

eldest of the priests, a bent, lined figure whose face looked more mummified than aged.
    “I have a proposition for your king.”
    “Go on.”
    Jared felt his mood grow darker at the priest’s complete lack of intimidation.
    “Half a century ago, your people swore allegiance to the Obsidian King. On the Hawthorn Moon, he will rise again, and I’m prepared to help Nargi regain the territories it once held… if,” he held up a finger, “you’ll prove to me your good faith and raise your army against one who would usurp the throne.”
    “How can this be?” The priest’s dry voice was like the death rattle of a corpse.
    “The Obsidian King was destroyed.”
    “Not destroyed. Bound. What’s bound can be loosed. At the Hawthorn Moon he will be free again, and his power can make Margolan a power-ful ally… or a formidable foe.”
    “You would invite the armies of Nargi into Margolan?”
    “Help me crush the usurper, and I’ll reward your king richly.”
    “We will carry your terms to our king,” the priest agreed. His companions whispered among them-selves, their cowls shrouding their faces. “It is his to decide. Our armies cannot move before the snows melt. The worst of winter is now upon us.”
    “I understood that in Nargi, your king rules at the pleasure of the Crone and those who speak for Her. Can we not make an agreement now?”
    Once more, the priest turned to his whispering companions, ghostlike in their hushed voices and hidden features. Finally, he returned his attention to Jared.
    “We will convey our endorsement to our king. But even for an ally, the king will not sacrifice his army. We cannot move until the snows melt.”
    Jared barely restrained his anger at the delay. “Then we shall ask the Goddess for an early spring,” he said between clenched teeth.
    The old priest regarded him for a moment. “Our days are in the hands of the Crone. As are we all.”
    When the emissaries had been escorted from the hall, Jared turned to Arontala.
    “Come the thaw, the Nargi army will show everyone the full power of my crown.” He rose from the throne. “I don’t need the soldiers of Margolan.”
    “As you wish, my king,” he said, moving for the doorway. He paused, turning once more toward Jared. “But are you quite sure of your bargain?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You’ve asked them to stop the usurper,” Arontala explained. “In the most literal terms, only one man has usurped the throne of Margolan. You, my king.” He was unconcerned at the rage that filled Jared’s face. “Perhaps you should learn to be more precise in your wording. One should always be careful what one wishes.”

CHAPTER FIVE
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    IN THE PALACE of King Staden, the winter days quickly fell into routine for Jonmarc Vahanian. Most days, Vahanian was up before dawn, training in the salle with Kiara. The sessions ran late into the night when Mikhail was there, and sometimes Gabriel joined them.
    In the few months since Harrtuck had hired him as the group’s guide, Vahanian had seen his world turned inside out. He’d been skeptical at first, unwilling to believe in Tris’s power as a mage and distrustful of nobles in general. But Tris had seemed unconcerned with rank, willing to accept Vahanian on the merit of his skill alone, and Vahanian had been grudgingly impressed. After the battle with the slavers, Tris and Carina had saved his life.
    At Westmarch, Tris had helped Vahanian make peace with his grief and guilt over the death of his wife. And when Tris went to fight the ghost of King Argus for Mageslayer, Tris had entrusted his own signet ring and the vouchsafe from King Harrol into Vahanian’s keeping—a small fortune by any stan-dards. As the weeks passed, and Vahanian came to see that Tris’s offer of friendship was real, his objec-tions to throwing in his lot with the others gradually waned. He had come to genuinely like Tris. Ten years older and with more combat experi-ence than any of the