The Summoner (16 page)

“Don’t underestimate him,” Harrtuck said quietly. “His grandmother was Bava K’aa. He’s a Summoner.”

“He’s a mage?” Vahanian asked sharply, looking through narrowed eyes from Tris to Harrtuck.

“You didn’t tell me he was a mage.”

“I’m not a full mage,” Tris said, “at least, not yet.”

“Yeah, well, I hate mages.”

“Right now, I’m not even a mage student.”

129

“Well, prince, if you’re going up against Arontala and expect to live through it, you’d better be a damn good mage,” Vahanian said. “Glad I won’t be there to see it.”

“I told you a hired sword was a bad idea,” Soterius snapped, coming up from the campsite. “You can’t trust them further than you can throw their money.”

“Young pups bark the loudest,” Vahanian returned with a shrug. “You know so much, you guide them. I’ve got other ways to earn as much gold as I want.”

“You’ve wanted to get Arontala for ten years now,” Harrtuck objected. “After what happened at Chauvrenne, you ought to be glad for an opportunity.”

A cynical, lopsided smile drew over Vahanian’s features. “You can’t enjoy revenge if you’re dead,” he replied. “Save your breath. I’ll take you to Dhasson. After that, you’re on your own.”

He walked away, leaving the others in the glow of the fire. Tris looked at Harrtuck. “Now what?”

The armsmaster gestured to the sky in frustration and spat. “Let him cool off,” he said finally, and raised one hand to stroke his absent beard. “By the Whore, I miss my whiskers! Damn thing itches all the time.”

“I don’t like it,” Soterius began, with a baleful glance toward where Vahanian had disappeared.

“You wouldn’t like any hired sword if he were led here by the Childe, vouched for by the Virgin herself, and brought on the wings of the Avenger,” Harrtuck snapped. “Really, Ban, I know what guardsmen think of them. But I’ve hired out my sword and you trust me, don’t you?”

“You know I do.”

“Then trust me on this,” Harrtuck pressed. “Jonmarc will come around.” He looked after the angry mercenary, who was barely visible in the darkness. “Just give him some time.”

130

Tris bent down to pick up the empty bucket that lay with their gear. “While that happens, I’ll get some water,” he said eager for the chance to do something other than sit and wait. The evenings were the hardest time. He headed down the slope toward the village well. During the daylight, with the ride to think about, he could push away the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.

But come night, the loss grew almost too great to bear. Of everything he left behind, he missed Kait the most. At times, the loss ached as if someone had broken off a sword tip, deep inside him. At other times, it hurt too much to feel anything at all. Only the knowledge that he might have to outride Margolan troops kept him from seeking relief in the flask of brandy Harrtuck carried, and so he wrestled with the dull ache that made it impossible for him to focus on much else, and wondered when, if ever, it would lessen.

The wooden handle of the well’s crank creaked in protest as Tris drew up a bucketful of water.

Just as it neared the top, he felt an insistent tap on his shoulder. He spun to look, losing his grip on the crank as he drew his sword, but the roadway around the well was empty. The autumn wind stung his face, and Tris realized that the

night was suddenly colder. He felt gooseflesh rise on his neck, and looked around once more as the sense of a spirit’s presence tingled in his mind.

“Show yourself,” he whispered to the darkness. He waited. When nothing stirred, he turned and began to draw water, only to feel the tap on his shoulder once more. This time, he pulled the bucket up to the edge of the stone well before he turned. Closing his eyes, he focused on the tingle and stretched out his will, summoning the presence. When he opened his eyes, the apparition of a young woman stood before him. She wore a scullery maid’s dress that was at least a generation out of date. She had the ample, sturdy build of a milkmaid, but her eyes were filled with such a great sadness that Tris reflexively stepped toward her in comfort. “Please sir, have you seen my baby?” Tris shook his head, and the girl’s sad eyes grew fearful. “He was here a moment ago,” she said, stepping toward the well. “I just ran back for another bucket.”

She turned toward the well, and looked down, then cried out in horror. “Oh sweet Goddess, there’s his hat!” she wailed, tearing at her hair and launching herself toward the water far below before Tris could start toward her. Though insubstantial as she was, there was no way for him to prevent the tragic reenactment.

Tris’s heart thudded as he stared at the silent well, guessing at the tragedy that bound the girl’s 131

spirit to this place. She no doubt left her small son unattended for a moment, only to find when she returned that he had climbed to peer into the well and had fallen to his death. In her grief, she threw herself after him, doomed to repeat the awful moment for eternity.

Or perhaps not, Tris thought. He laid a hand on the cold stone of the well and shut his eyes. He felt a thrill of challenge as he decided to try something that he could only barely frame in his mind. Trusting to instinct more than thought, he stretched out with his thoughts, reaching out to the doomed girl in the silent spirit realm where he glimpsed Kait at the palace. After a moment, he felt a tug in response, growing stronger as he focused on it, willing it into substance. When he opened his eyes, she stood before him, transparent but visible.

“I want to help you,” he said gently. Maybe, he thought, if I can keep Kait’s spirit here, I can help this spirit pass over, though how he might accomplish that, he had no idea.

“I will not leave without my son.”

“You have proved your love by staying with your son. You have paid your debt. You may rest.”

Once more, she fixed him with a gaze half‐mad with grief. “Not without my son.”

At that, Tris turned back to the well and stared down into its black waters. He shut his eyes, concentrating, and stretched out a hand toward the water. Nothing stirred. Although he could feel himself tiring quickly, he tried once more, and again, felt nothing in response. The third time, he stretched out his hand toward the darkness, he

felt a gentle tug in reply, and pulling with all the strength of his will, he gradually sensed another spirit’s presence, small and faint. When he opened his eyes, the ghost of a tiny child sat atop the well, and the woman spirit gasped in recognition and rushed forward, clasping him to her 132

breast. “Lost,” the boy cried, clinging to his mother.

“Lost in the dark.”

Tris felt his throat tighten watching the two shades hold each other tightly. Finally, he raised his hand in farewell. “It is time for you to go.”

The woman looked up at him, her eyes peaceful as she clasped her child against her. “I do not know by what power you can do these things, but I thank you,” she said with an awkward curtsey. “You must be the chosen of the Lady.”

“Would you pass over to Her now?” Tris asked, and the spirit woman nodded.

“We are tired,” she said, holding her child tight. “Now that we are together, it is time to rest.”

Tris stretched out his hand as his grandmother did over those who were about to die. He struggled to remember what Bava K’aa said at those times, doing the best he could to match the idea, if not the exact words. His head throbbed from the exertion, painful enough to blur his vision.

“Sleep, sister,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. “Let the winds carry you to your rest. Let the river guide you and the warm soil welcome you. You are welcome in the arms of the Lady.

Let it be so.” As he spoke, the image of an old woman stirring a deep cauldron flashed through his mind, and when he opened his eyes, the outline of the mother and child was beginning to blur. The woman held her son against the hollow of her throat, her hand upraised in parting, and the small boy waved a farewell.

“What in the hell is going on?” a rough voice said from behind him. Tris wheeled to find Vahanian standing on the other side of the well, his hands planted on his hips, his face a mixture 133

of anger, disbelief and uncertainty.

Tris swallowed hard and turned toward his bucket. “I came for some water,” he said, hoping his voice sounded steady. The implications of what just transpired made his head swim.

“That’s not what I meant,” Vahanian grated. “You’re standing out here in the dark, talking to ghosts. Your friend was telling the truth, wasn’t he? You are a mage,” he pressed, the last word clearly an indictment.

Tris squared his shoulders and turned toward the mercenary. “I don’t know what I am,” he snapped. “I’m a prince without a kingdom, a son without a family, a fugitive and a beggar. Why do you care?”

“Like I said, I’m either in on everything, or I walk away,” Vahanian replied, his voice icy. “I’m not going to ask again, but I may pound it out of you. What the hell did you do?”

Tris licked his lips nervously. “I’m… not really sure,” he admitted. “I’ve always been able to see ghosts, talk to them, not just on Haunts, but all the time. Even ghosts that nobody else sees.” He shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess. But I never saw them outside of the palace. Now, since the…

murders,” he forced himself to go on, “I see the ghosts outside Shekerishet just as easily as I saw the palace ghosts.”

“There hasn’t been a Summoner since the sorceress in Margolan died,” Vahanian replied, chewing on his lip. “That’s been five, maybe six years ago. No one to lay them to rest, nobody but the seers and frauds to pass a message over to the other side, no way for anyone to get their blessing and know for sure it was real.” He looked thoughtfully at Tris. “If you’re as good as Harrtuck thinks, you really are the deadliest thing in Margolan. I imagine Arontala and that new king would love to get their hands on you.”

134

Before Tris could reply, Vahanian snatched up the bucket. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk about not making a target of yourself,” the mercenary grated, striding off toward the camp so that Tris had to hurry to follow. “I doubt your uncle will pay me if you’re dead.”

At dinner around their campfire, Vahanian gave his report to the others. “We’re in luck. Linton’s caravan is coming this way, bound north—right where we want to go.”

Soterius bolted down his food and went to check on the horses, making an obvious effort to stay out of Vahanian’s way. Tris sat quietly on the other side of the fire, in no hurry to answer more of the mercenary’s questions, or think about the implications of what had happened at the well.

Vahanian didn’t seem to notice. He looked back down the slope toward the quiet town. It was just after dusk, and the villagers were gathering in their herds, securing their flocks for the night.

The glow of cooking fires warmed each of the small houses as whisps of smoke rose from the chimneys and on the still night air, they could smell roasting meat.

“We should have no problem being hired on as extra guards,” Vahanian reported. “There’s been

‘trouble’ in the north, although no one would say exactly what. Bandits, for sure, that’s part of it.” He shook his head, pausing to bite into the rabbit Tris offered him. “But there’s something more. Wouldn’t be surprised if there was border trouble. There are some pretty wild clans out beyond the northern ridge who have always been hard to keep at bay.”

He paused and stared at the fire. Harrtuck looked at him skeptically. “There’s more you’re not saying,” the other soldier prodded. Vahanian shrugged.

“Just a funny feeling about what they did say,” Vahanian admitted finally. “People are afraid, and some of the people in the tavern weren’t the type who scare easily. I had the feeling there’s 135

some dark magic involved, or at least,” he added, “people suspect it.”

“That’s just great,” Soterius replied as he returned from the horses. “Bandits you can fight.

We’re not going to be any protection against magic.”

Tris shifted uncomfortably as Vahanian gave him a pointed glance.

“If the tavern information was right,” Vahanian continued, “the caravan’s heading our way. We can wait for them to catch up to us,” he said, “but our rations are running a little thin. Or,” he added, “we can ride toward them. We’ll backtrack, but once we find them we won’t have to forage for provisions.” He paused. “We’ll just have to watch for guardsmen.”

“Since I always vote with my stomach,” Carroway said, “I say go looking for them.”

Tris grinned at his friend’s quick analysis. “It sounds reasonable.”

“I’m glad you said that,” Vahanian replied as Harrtuck chuckled. “Because riding suits me better than sitting around. We’ll leave in the morning.”

Late that night, when the fire burned down to embers, Tris wrapped his cloak closer around himself, ready for his turn on watch. It was unseasonably cold, and frost covered the leaves, chilling him to the bone. Despite the late hour and his aching muscles, Tris was wide awake as he awaited Vahanian’s return from walking the camp perimeter. Finally, he came into view and Tris mustered his nerve as he rose to meet the mercenary.

“Goddess take anyone fool enough to be out on a night like this,” Vahanian cursed, stomping 136

wet leaves from his boots. His breath fogged in the chill air. “I don’t envy you the next turn.”

“You look like you were in a fight.” Vahanian shrugged. “There was someone out there. Tackled him once but he got loose, damn his soul.” Vahanian shook his head. “Might have just been a bandit, but then again, could be a spy.” He looked pointedly at Tris. “Keep your eyes open. He might be back.”

“There’s something I need to ask you, Jonmarc,” Tris said as Vahanian turned back toward the camp.

“How about tomorrow, huh? I doubt I can get warm tonight, but I’d at least like to lie down.”

“Teach me to fight.”

Vahanian looked up at him, then paused a moment before answering. “Yeah, sure. You’re going to have to learn if we’re gonna earn our keep with a caravan.”

“That’s not what I mean. I need your help. Harrtuck says you’re the best.”

“Does he, now?” Vahanian chuckled. “Don’t believe everything you hear.” He paused.