The Summoner (13 page)

Tris shrugged. “No. At least, not yet. If he’s an honest mercenary, he won’t change sides in the middle of a war. Harrtuck’s fought beside him, so that’s something. But I don’t think he stays alive by being overly sentimental.”

“Then we’re thinking alike,” Soterius replied. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

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CHAPTER FIVE

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The sword glinted in the sunlight as it struck for its mark. Teeth gritted, the auburn‐haired young woman parried, her arms aching at the jarring blow.

“Good, get in closer, closer,” the instructor hissed, and she drove forward, slashing determinedly, her jaw set resolutely. And then, the opening she was watching for came. With a cry, she dove forward, beneath his guard, to score on the shoulder of his padded practice jacket.

Overhead, a little greens‐caled gyregon, Jae, fluttered its leathery wings and rasped its excitement, a spectator with an aerial view.

“Well done, your Highness, well done!” the instructor congratulated her, out of breath but pleased.

Kiara Sharsequin, princess of Isencroft, grinned tiredly and wiped the sweat from her brow with her padded sleeve. Her auburn hair was caught back in a knot, framing features that showed both her mother’s Eastmark blood and her father’s Isencroft heritage. Dark, almond‐shaped eyes and a slightly duskier complexion gave an exotic look to the northern features she had inherited from her father, along with her height and high cheekbones. The little gyregon fluttered to land on her shoulder, and she reached up to stroke its scales.

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“By the Mistress, you made me work for that, Darry!” she exclaimed, catching her breath.

“That’s enough for today,” Darry replied, still grinning at her triumph. “But your parry has gotten much better and you’re taking the offensive more vigorously of late. Working out frustrations?”

Kiara reached up to loosen the knot that held back her hair, and shook her head as the auburn waves cascaded around her face. “You’ve guessed it. Some days, I think you and these sessions are the only things keeping me sane.”

Darry sobered. “So I guessed, Kiara. But you are the Goddess Blessed,” he reminded her. “The Holy Lady watches over you.”

Kiara sighed and sheathed her sword, dropping down on a bench to unlace her padded gear. “I hope so, Darry. With the way my luck’s been going, She’s lost interest, or forgotten me altogether.”

“Not likely, my princess,” Darry replied, his weathered face softening with a smile as he ran one hand back through thick hair well streaked

with gray. “I remember when She appeared to you, lady, everyone who was living then remembers! No, She has a purpose for you,” he repeated with conviction. “But, like you, I pray it bodes well for Isencroft.”

Kiara set aside her padded jacket. “So do I, Darry,” she said pensively. “Of late, nothing bodes well for Isencroft, I fear.”

“You are tired, my princess,” the salle master replied. “Perhaps things will not loom so large in the morning,” he said, reaching out to touch her chin affectionately. She smiled, but it was forced, and the smile did not reach her eyes. “Or, if not, perhaps you will feel more their equal.”

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He paused. “At the least, you can give thanks that another day has passed without you being Chosen for your Journey.”

Kiara shook her head and looked up at the salle roof. “One more thing to worry about,” she said resignedly. “Trouble on the northern border, Cam and Carina gone these weeks and no word, Father…” Her voice drifted off. “And now, at any time, to be called by the Sisterhood for my Journey—”

“You are finding, perhaps, that to rule is not so easy, hmmm, my little falcon?” he said, sheathing his own sword. “But trust the Sisterhood. They do not choose these things lightly. And for you, Goddess Blessed, I expect that your coming‐of‐age Journey will not be ordinary.”

“I’m not sure that’s comforting, if you were trying to reassure me,” Kiara said, already feeling her aching muscles protest as she rose. Once more, to no one in particular, she cursed Isencroft’s tradition of insisting that all of its nobility, male or female, excel at the swordsmanship which distinguished the realm. She knew better than to let Darry hear her, since the arms‐master was wont to remind her that even the peasant folk, except for women with suckling babes and children too young to wield a weapon, were expected to drill with the homeliest of arms. To be of Isencroft was to know the sword. She prayed that her people’s preparations might be enough.

She feared otherwise. Broad and vast, Isencroft was populated more by herds than people; scattered pockets of townspeople staked a hard‐won home on Isencroft’s flat plains of fertile ground and good pastureland. There had been no famine in Isencroft for longer than anyone could remember. But in generations past, wars came almost as regularly as the rains, as one neighbor or another advanced, hungry for Isencroft’s land and access to the Northern Sea.

Kiara no longer trusted in the skill at arms of her people. The threat that lurked beyond the borders was of magic, not of men. “And then, there’s Margolan,” she sighed, helping Darry pick up the weapons strewn around from their practice.

“I heard there was a messenger,” Darry replied noncommittally.

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Kiara gave an undignified snort. “Messenger indeed. A little overstuffed hedgeweasel arrived with an invitation from His Majesty, Jared of

Margolan, bearing royal greetings and an invitation to visit the palace. And a reminder of a betrothal contract signed when I was born.” She grimaced as she helped Darry replace the weapons. “His Majesty,” she repeated derisively. “All our spies report the same thing, that he murdered his family to seize the throne—”

“Dangerous words, my princess,” Darry cautioned, “even if true.”

“Of course they’re true!” she retorted, resting her hand on her hip and fixing Darry with a glare.

“And now he wants to enlarge his empire. By marriage.”

“Your father would never force you—”

“But my father is not himself,” Kiara replied, dropping into a dispirited slump on the salle bench.

“We both know that. And if Jared has any spies at all—let alone the dark mages that are supposed to be at his bidding—he knows that. If he didn’t cause it,” she added darkly. “That demon of his, Arontala, could probably create a curse at least as strong as the one on Father, before breakfast, no doubt.”

“You worry too much, Goddess Blessed,” Darry said gently, resting one foot on the bench beside her and leaning on his knee. “Our people will hardly let you be carried off into a marriage against your will.”

Kiara shrugged. “You’ve told me enough times yourself that we of the blood royal often have less choice about our lives than the poorest peasant. So many things hang by a thread right now, Darry,” she said, pulling her knees up to her chest like a child and wrapping her arms around them, hugging herself tight. “The nobles must suspect that father’s not well. He can’t even keep 106

up appearances now, and the longer he’s ‘indisposed,’ the more they’ll talk. Two poor harvests in a row plus foul weather this year, and we may have famine on our hands come winter.

Margolan used to be a trusted ally. But now, weak as Isencroft has become, all it might take is a threat from the east, or magicked beasts from the north, to give us no choice. Give me no choice,” she whispered, “except to buy Isencroft’s safety with myself.”

“By the Childe and Crone, you’re gloomy today!” Darry exclaimed. “Any other disasters you would care to consider? Plague? Flood? Locusts?” He grinned wickedly. “Perhaps extra practice sessions for a morbid princess would turn her mind to more useful things?”

Kiara lifted her head just far enough to glare balefully above her folded arms. “There’s a penalty for killing a princess with too much arms practice. There has to be. And if there isn’t, I’ll see that Allestyr creates one right away.”

Darry laughed. “Since Carina’s gone away, you brood too much, my princess,” he chided. “Trust the Bright Lady. One day Isencroft, and you, will see happier days.”

With a sigh, Kiara uncurled and stretched, standing. She patted the instructor on the shoulder affectionately. “I hope you’re right, Darry. For all of us,” she said, painfully aware of her aching muscles and knowing that, even with a

hot bath, she would feel their session in her bones come morning.

The much‐coveted hot bath was over far too soon, and the night’s work that awaited her gave Kiara far more concern than her sore muscles. In the private parlor outside her sleeping rooms, Kiara’s closest advisors waited for her arrival. She slipped into the room and greeted the group.

Their reserve gave her an indication of their concern.

“Is everything ready, Tice?” Kiara asked the thin, white‐haired man.

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Tice nodded. “All is ready, Your Highness. But I beg you, please reconsider. The risk is just too great.”

“You know as well as I do that there is no other way,” Kiara replied stubbornly, and reached out to accept the small velvet pouch in Tice’s hand. From it she drew out a finely worked necklace, set with stones that glimmered in the candlelight. Pressing her candle into his hand, Kiara secured the clasp around her throat and lifted her head

“You are too young for such great responsibilities,” Tice clucked.

Kiara gave him a sidelong look. “You coddle me, Tice,” she chided gently. “Hasn’t father told you that I’m already almost too old to make a ‘suitable’ bride? By this age, almost twenty summers old, in the farmlands, a girl has already whelped four brats, five if she starts young and keeps at it each year,” she said with a wicked grin.

“Your Highness,” Tice said with a “tsk tsk” that did little to hide his amusement. “I hope you restrain your language in public.”

Kiara chuckled. “That all depends. I’d like the Margolan ambassador to convince his king that I’m not at all suitable for such a great ruler,” she replied, her voice thick with sarcasm.

“Another scrying might not be necessary,” Tice argued. “You should conserve your strength.

You’re driving yourself too hard.”

Kiara fingered the intricate designs of the ancient pendant. It was set with oval stones in each of the five gems sacred to the Goddess: diamond, the stone of the deepest caverns; ruby, the color of fire; emerald, green as the seas; sapphire, blue as the skies; and amber like the Lady’s eyes. Its metal was worn smooth from the years, and its power made her fingers tingle. “Really, Tice,”

Kiara said, touching his arm gently, “you worry too much.” She smiled her most engaging smile 108

and Tice shook his head in resignation.

“You have always gotten your way with me, Kiara,” Tice replied. “And I don’t imagine that is going to change. I just beg of you to conserve your strength. Isencroft needs you.”

“Everyone is here, Your Highness,” said Kellen, a trusted guard. Although the man‐at‐arms had been at every Ritual since the start, he still looked decidedly ill at ease.

Kiara looked at the small, anxious group. Her five closest advisors awaited the Working, appre-hensive yet committed. Allestyr, the king’s

seneschal, nodded in silent greeting, as did Brother Felix, an acolyte to the Oracle.

“I’ll begin the warding.” Cerise, healer to Kiara’s late mother, took her place, stepping forward and taking up a chalice from the altar in the center of the room. Even her healing talents could not overcome the hunching back and slight limp that age inflicted.

The others formed the circle. Kiara stepped into the center. Jae made his perch this time on Tice’s shoulder. Brother Felix reverently raised his hands, revealing another chalice, cradled gently between his roughened palms. This one was low and wide, filled with still water. Kiara took the glass chalice from Brother Felix and held it in front of her. Then, taking a deep breath, she began.

“Powers that be, hear me! Goddess of Light, attend!” Kiara recited, her eyes closed in concentration. “I am the Chosen of Isencroft, the line of the blood. We gather to invoke the ancient Powers. I claim the Powers by the blood of my family and the title of the crown. In the name of the aspects of the Holy One, protect this kingdom. May the Mother defend it like a firstborn and the Avenger guard its borders. May the Dark Lady cherish it like a lover and the Childe in all her innocence preserve it as a beloved. I will it be so!”

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The chalice flared, lighting Kiara’s face with its eerie blue glow. Kiara gasped as the air in the chamber began to stir, sweeping around them. Gentle at first, its strength grew until it rushed around them with a howl, and Kiara imagined that she glimpsed faces in the magewind. “Spirits of the Land, hear me!” Kiara began again. “Winds of the North, obey! Waters of the Southlands, bend your course to the will of the Chosen. Fires of the Eastern Sun, be bound by my command.

Land of our fathers under the sun of the west, I compel you by the right of the heirs of Isencroft to reveal what is hidden and find what is dear. Let it be so!”

A glow began deep within the still waters. Kiara stared into the chalice and its swirling mist. The image within was nearly complete. “Cam and Carina,” Cerise reported as the images of Kiara’s journeying cousins filled the chalice. The mists shifted and the image blurred. When the waters cleared once more, Cerise gasped.

The images shifted again, flashing fragments of scenes so brief it was just barely possible to identify them, of flames and the flash of swords. Kiara saw images flicker in the amber mist.

Carina was in danger, and Cam’s face was grim, his hair sodden with sweat, as he set about with his sword. Then, a gray mist obliterated the picture.

Kiara sagged to her knees and the image disappeared.

“Break the circle!” Cerise hissed. “We can’t help you until you break the circle!”

“Wind and Fire, Land and Sea, I release you!” Kiara whispered. The chalice’s light dimmed, then faded into darkness. Tice and Allestyr rushed forward as Kellen wrapped Kiara in his arms and gently lifted her from the floor. Brother Felix took the chalice from Cerise.

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“What did she see?” asked Allestyr.