Tris raised his hands and magic streamed from his fingers, sending a force toward the bogwaithe that hurled boulders through the air. The bogwaitbe was undeterred. It was near enough now that Tris could feel its hunger and sense the danger in the shadows that searched for the spark of his soul.
"Cover me!" Tris shouted to Fallon.
Tris willed himself fully into the Plains of Spirit, feeling the ties to his mortal form sunder as his body fell to the ground. Pure spirit, Tris moved fluidly on the nether plain. Tris glided toward the darkness that was the bogwaitbe. And in the bogwaithe's realm, Tris knew its weakness.
Before the bogwaithe could withdraw from the mortal world, Tris summoned his magic. Drawing on his own life force, Tris called both flame and power, drowning the bogwaitbe in a brilliant, fiery flare. The bogwaitbe screamed. The ear-splitting wail seared through Tris as he concentrated all of his power to keep the bogwaitbe pinned in light and fire. His life force was flickering. If he did not return quickly to his body, he would die. The damaged Flow made it difficult for him to focus his power, as if the magic itself were splintering.
Just as his control began to buckle, the bog-waithe's wail reached a crescendo and then fell silent. On the Plains of Spirit, the bogwaithe disappeared; in the mortal world, Tris saw the darkness vanish. With the last of his power, Tris willed himself back to his body just as Fallon dropped to her knees beside him, a look of panic on her face.
"He's not breathing!" she shouted.
Tris's spirit returned abruptly to his body, and he lurched. His back arched and he gasped, desperate for breath. His heart pounded as blood surged through a body that had been freshly dead. Shock and recoil of powerful magic overwhelmed Tris, and unconsciousness took him.
"He's coming around."
Tris heard Esme's voice, faint arid distant. Blood pounded in his ears, and his head felt as if it might split open from the pain. His body felt leaden, and he doubted he could find the strength to move. It took an effort of will just to open his eyes.
Tris was lying in the back of the healer's wagon. Esme knelt next to him, Soterius opposite. "What the hell did you do?"
"I couldn't fight the bogwaithe in the mortal world. I had to fight it on the Plains of Spirit."
"You almost didn't make it back in time." Esme's voice was stern. "Another minute and your body might not have responded."
"Where are we?"
"We've pitched camp for the night," Soterius answered.
"How did you kill it?" Esme leaned over Tris, putting a warm cloth on his head to dull the throbbing ache.
"I had to destroy it where it came from, on the Plains of Spirit. Magic didn't work against it here, but it was vulnerable there." Esme held him up so that he could sip water from a cup. "Most of the time, I can be in both realms at once. But not this time."
"The siege is pointless if you die. Try to keep that in mind next time." Soterius looked both angry and relieved.
"I promise." Tris could feel Esme's medicines begin to work, dulling the headache and drawing him toward sleep. "Where's Fallon?"
Esme felt for the pulse in his neck, counted silently, and seemed satisfied. "She's out with the mages, on watch in case something else comes out of the forest."
"Speaking of which, I'd better let the troops know you're all right before they panic," Soterius said. "You looked pretty bad when we carried you in here."
"Rest," Esme commanded as Soterius slipped out of the wagon. Tris heard cheering outside as Soterius shared the news of his recovery with the soldiers.
"When Fallon returns, send her to me," Tris murmured. "There's something wrong with the magic here... something that called the bogwaitbe. Those woods have never been haunted before."
"I'll tell her—after you get some sleep."
Tris meant to say something in return, but the potions did their work and sleep took him.
Tris's dreams were restless. Old dreams returned, of Kait trapped in the Soulcatcher orb. The battle with Arontala, the final confrontation with the Obsidian King, when Kiara lay dying in his arms and all seemed lost. Then, new images, just as terrifying. Tris sensed Kiara's presence on the Plains of Spirit and felt a terror intent on consuming both her life force and the spark that was the child she carried. As if he watched from behind a pane of glass, Tris could see everything but was powerless to help. In his dream, the darkness overtook Kiara, and he heard her cry out as it leeched away her soul and the soul of their child.
Tris awoke, shaking and sweating. Esme was next to him.
"Dreams again?"
"Old ones—and something new. Kiara was in danger. Something from the nether plain wanted her—and the baby. It overtook her—"
Esme laid a hand on his arm. "It's just a dream, Tris," she said. Her blue eyes were worried. "Most fathers-to-be get bad dreams. Even the ones who aren't Summoners."
Tris used the techniques Taru had taught him to distance himself from the dream, but it remained on the edge of his thoughts. "I'm afraid for her, Esme."
"Kiara's the most resourceful woman I've ever met. She has Mikhail and Harrtuck and all the others watching over her. You're going to have to trust them to take care of her."
Soterius poked his head into the wagon. "I don't know what you're doing in there, but you've called every ghost within a league. Half of them want to come with us to fight, and the other half are annoyed that you disturbed them."
Tris sighed. "We're going to need all the help we can get. Accept the ghosts who want to fight, and send the others back with my apologies."
Esme looked at him sternly. "It'll be daylight in just a few hours. You have to ride. And you're going to have to look ready to fight, even if you aren't. Enough talk. Back to sleep with you."
Tris had no desire to argue. He lay down on the cot and pulled his cloak around him, praying that this time, his sleep would be dreamless.
After six days' ride through snow and wind and sleet, the Margolan army reached the Southern Plains. Lochlanimar loomed against the foothills of the Tabinar Mountains, high on a hill. The oldest parts of the fortress were more than a thousand years old. Its foundation was even older, built atop ruins. A thick wall encircled the main house and dependencies, as well as the oldest part of the town. Made of the same gray stone as the exposed cliffside of the mountains, it had withstood raids from the wild fighters of the Southlands and the nomadic tribes from the West. Lochlanimar would not be easy to defeat. All their planning would be sorely tested.
Tris looked out over the encampment. Thousands of tents, lean-tos and campfires filled the flat plain. Come nightfall, the ghosts and vayash moru soldiers would also join them. He sat warily on horseback, in full armor beneath the flag of Margolan as Soterius and General Palinn rode out to make the first contact with Curane.
"Lord Curane!" Soterius shouted. Palinn rode beside, him, and behind them were several hundred men at arms, just a fraction of the full encamped force. "In the name of Martris Drayke, king of Margolan, open your gates. Surrender now, and you'll receive a fair trial."
For a few moments, there was silence. Then a hail of flaming arrows streamed from the crenelations. Rowdy cheers and cries rose from Curane's soldiers. Soterius, Palinn, and their escort fell back, unsurprised by the attack.