The Summoner (19 page)

The smells of dinner reached them on the crisp night air as Tris and Vahanian ended another round. Tris dragged a sleeve across his face and wiped back his hair from his forehead. More than a candlemark of hard practice worked up a sweat, even in the cool fall air. He was just about to suggest that they head for dinner when a man ran up from the camp.

“Cam! Come quickly!” the runner shouted while he was still a distance away. “You’re needed!”

Without a word the giant sheathed his sword and with a nod toward the group, started out at a run for the camp.

“That’s it for tonight, anyhow,” Vahanian said, putting up his own weapon. “Let’s see what all the excitement is about.”

It was not hard to keep Cam in view, even when following at a more leisurely pace. The burly fighter stood a head taller than many in the camp, and was twice the bulk of all but a few. Cam slowed to a jog as he reached the more crowded section of the caravan’s midway, then took off again at a run as the messenger pointed to the left. Sure enough, there was trouble, Tris noted.

But not the sort for which he imagined Cam would be summoned. He had expected a brawl or a thief. One of the large tents where the caravan performers held shows in the evening collapsed.

A crowd of caravaners gathered, and Tris and the others worked their way toward the front.

“What happened?” Tris asked one of the men who was nearest the front.

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“Damn pole snapped clean in two,” the man replied. “Kraveck was setting the last of the rigging when it went down, and so did he.”

Carina knelt beside the fallen rigger. As Cam approached, she stretched out her hand to the big man, who took it, paused for a moment as they spoke in low tones, and then settled into place on the other side of the man. Cam raised his massive hand for quiet, and the crowd hushed immediately, stepping back a few paces.

Carina reached out once more for Cam with her left hand, and placed her right hand gently on Kraveck. She shut her eyes and let her hand begin to slide gently down the length of his body, slowly, hovering just above his skin. As Tris watched, her face twitched with pain, and her eyes pinched shut with the suffering she shared.

When she had followed the full course of his form once, she shifted toward his head, and gently laid her hand on his forehead, retaining her contact with Cam with her other hand. Cam looked as if he were in a trance, his eyes shut and his face slack, completely open to Carina’s working.

She’s drawing strength from him for her healing, Tris realised. Kraveck must be in bad shape.

Carina’s hand remained over Kraveck’s forehead for a quarter of a candlemark. Then, slowly, she began to move once more, slowing this time over his chest. Her face contorted and it seemed to Tris that Kraveck breathed more easily.

Just below Kraveck’s ribcage, Carina stopped. She swallowed hard and leaned forward, and it seemed to Tris that the thin healer was willing every ounce of her strength into her effort. For nearly half a candlemark, she labored, her lips moving in concentration, her body tight with effort. Then suddenly she slumped and would have collapsed but for Cam’s quick reflexes, as he caught Carina and tenderly lifted her into his arms. She raised her head and lifted one hand, giving direction that only Cam could hear. “You there,” Cam hailed one of the riggers standing near. “She’s done all she can for him, and she wants to get him to the building where he’ll be 157

easier to watch. She says to slip a board under his back so you don’t undo what she’s done, and take him there directly. She’ll be there as soon as she’s rested.”

Two of the riggers sprang to do as Cam ordered, and Tris noticed that the big man looked drained and tired himself. Cam waited, Carina cradled in his arms, until the riggers did as he asked. Satisfied that Carina’s wishes were carried out,’ Cam turned toward the healer’s tent, followed by the crowd as if he were a prophet.

“I’ve seen healers before,” Vahanian said. “But not like her. Curious why a healer with that kind of talent is here, wouldn’t you say?”

“Maybe they were dismissed from a noble house.”

Vahanian shook his head, still staring after them. “I doubt it. That kind of talent is too rare.”

“Easy on the eyes, too, if you ask me,” Soterius offered from behind them.

Vahanian shrugged. “Friends and lovers are just hostages to fate, waiting to be‐ taken,” he replied. “When you’re out on the road long enough, you learn that,” he said, and turned away, walking back toward the fallen tent where workers were already swarming to ready the area for the night’s crowds.

“Leave it to our friend to have a sour comment on everything,” Soterius said darkly, watching Vahanian leave. “I’ve never spent much time with a mercenary before. Guess I haven’t missed much, if they’re all like him.”

“Only the ones who stay alive very long, m’boy,” Harrtuck commented, joining them from behind. “When you’ve survived as many tight spots as Jonmarc has, you’ll have rough edges of 158

your own, I wager.” .

“We can’t reach Dhasson soon enough for me,” Soterius returned.

That night, the dreams came. Tris heard Kait calling his name so plainly that he expected to see her standing in his tent. She called again, more distant now, so plaintively that it made his heart ache.

“Kait, are you here?” he asked quietly, unsure whether he was awake or asleep.

“Help me, Tris,” Kait’s voice called, muffled and far away. Tris concentrated, allowing himself to fall into a light trance. Kait’s spirit remained

distant.

“Kait, where are you?” he called after her. She gave no sign of hearing him. Her voice grew more desperate, her pleas more anguished, but try as he might, Tris could neither bring her spirit to him, nor let his spirit be drawn to hers. It was as if a thick window separated them, on the edge of a gulf, so that he could see her, but nothing he could do could break the transparent prison, or bridge the gap.

“Help me, Tris. Help me.”

Tris woke shaking, covered in sweat. His heart raced and as he lifted a hand to wipe a sodden lock of hair from his eyes, he saw that his fingers shook. I’m going mad, he thought. He forced himself to breathe deeply, willing the shaking to stop, and attempted the centering exercises his 159

grandmother had taught him. He failed miserably.

Tris covered his face with his hands, as close to weeping as he had been since the night of the murders. I’m coming for you, Kait, he vowed. Living or dead, I’m coming for you. I’ll get you out, I swear!

“Are you all right?” a voice sounded outside the tent. Soterius popped his head through the flap.

“Just a bad dream,” Tris said, hoping his voice sounded stronger than he felt.

“I guess you’re entitled to a few of those,” Soterius allowed. “Me, I just keep dreaming about all those pretty wenches back home. Stood one up, you know, the night we left.”

Tris looked up, barely able to make out his friend’s face in the moonlight. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ve ruined everything for all of you.”

Soterius managed a tired grin. “It’s a little late for second thoughts,” he quipped. “And you didn’t ask us to come, we came on our own.” He shrugged. “I didn’t leave anyone special behind, just a string of broken hearts.” He grinned. “Harrtuck never said anything about a family. I think the barracks was home to him. Carroway had his eye on that pretty flute player, but I don’t think she knew it,” he added, “so don’t lose sleep on our account. I look at it as a chance to see the world.”

Tris stretched an aching muscle in his back. “Move the world, you mean,” he said. “I’m so sore from setting up tents I probably couldn’t sleep anyway.”

“I know what you mean,” Soterius replied. “And what doesn’t hurt from rigging tents hurts from Vahanian’s damn training. I wasn’t this sore when I first joined the guards!” He paused. “Are you going to be all right?”

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“I’ll be fine.” By the doubt on Soterius’s face, Tris knew the other took the lie for what it was worth, but with a nod, Soterius left. Tris ducked his head out of the tent flap and stared at the full moon. Kait’s voice, more distant now, still called to him. He would not sleep again tonight, he

knew, staring at the moon. Not now; maybe not ever again.

CHAPTER NINE

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The sound of arguing reached Tris as he arrived to take over Vahanian’s watch. Sure enough, as Tris rounded the corner, he spotted Vahanian and Carina locked in a pitched argument that seemed to stop just short of a toe‐to‐toe confrontation.

“He was one of my patients!” Carina defended hotly.

“He wasn’t too sick to loot the other poor bastards’ pockets,” Vahanian retorted. “Look, lady, when I’m on watch, I watch. And when I see something, I take care of it.”

“That doesn’t include dragging a man out of his sick bed and hauling him over to Linton!” she 161

snapped. “He had a fever.”

“He felt pretty cool when I grabbed him,” Vahanian replied. “Bit of wormroot under the tongue can give you hot flashes. So can a little dryfleck in a glass of wine. Ask Linton. He spent time in Noor. He knows all about drugs… and poisons. Takes a little widow’s heart each day, mixed with brandy, to make him harder to poison. Builds resistance.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” Carina argued stubbornly. “You hauled a sick man out of my hospital, dragged him across camp, and accused him of stealing. When something concerns one of my patients, I want to know about it, before you toss him out on his ear on the road and send him packing.”

Vahanian swore and rolled his eyes skyward. “I caught him wrist‐deep in one of your other patient’s pockets. All due respect, priestess, but why don’t you do your job and let me do mine?”

“I’d be happy to,” she grated, red‐faced, “if doing your job didn’t make more injured patients for me to fix.” She threw her hands in the air in resignation just as Tris came within a few steps of the pair. “I don’t know why I’m bothering. You won’t listen. And I’m not a priestess,” she added.

Shaking her head, she turned back toward the makeshift building that served as her healer’s shelter.

“Don’t disillusion me,” Vahanian called after her. “You’re so sure you’re right, I figured you heard it from the Lady herself.”

In reply, a crockery mug flew from the shelter’s door, sailing close enough to Vahanian’s head to make the mercenary duck.

“You have a real way with women,” Tris observed dryly.

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Vahanian chuckled. “I don’t think Carina likes any man who isn’t on a stretcher.”

“You really caught a thief?”

Vahanian shrugged. “Yeah. That’s not what worries me. I think it might have been the prowler I tackled snooping around our camp on the way here. He had an old bruise exactly where I thumped that guy on the jaw. Can’t say for certain.”

“Why would the same prowler be here?”

“Good question. All I can come up with are ugly answers. Maybe he’s found what he’s looking for, and he’s keeping an eye on it,” he said with a pointed look at Tris. “Or maybe he’s not interested in you at all. Maybe he’s scouting the caravan and other travelers for bandits. He might have just gone looking for an easy purse to cut when he found us.”

Tris was quiet for a few moments. “I’ll be extra careful,” he said finally. “You look tired. Go get some sleep.”

Vahanian cracked a smile. “First some ale and chow, then some sleep. But you’ve got the right idea,” he said veering off toward the cook tent. Despite Vahanian’s foreboding, Tris’s watch passed uneventfully, and he was happy to pass the shift to Harrtuck as evening fell.

“Heard Vahanian had another run‐in with the healer,” Harrtuck observed.

Tris shrugged. “I’m not sure it upset him as much as it did Carina,” Tris shrugged. “I rather thought he was enjoying the whole thing.”

Harrtuck chuckled. “That’s Vahanian. He can be a real pain in the ass when he feels like it.” He 163

lifted his face to the wind and fell silent for a moment.

“What’s wrong?” Tris asked.

Harrtuck shook his head, frowning. “Can’t say. Just a feeling. Something’s not quite the way it should be. Eyes on us, watching.” He shrugged. “I think I’ll make an extra pass along the perimeter tonight.” He paused. “In fact, why don’t you send Soterius out here? Might be nothing, but I’d welcome an extra sword tonight.”

Tris nodded. “Sure. I’ll get him.” What he didn’t add was confirmation of the same groundless foreboding. He had dismissed it as nerves before Harrtuck’s observation, but now he was not so easily persuaded. Still, he thought, looking around at the fires that glowed against the cold autumn sky, there was nothing of concern… yet. But he did not expect to turn in early tonight—

just in case.

The sound of hoofbeats thundered from the forest just as the supper fires burned low. Breaking from the woods at a headlong pace rode more than two dozen tattered riders, screeching a bloodcurdling battle keen, their battered weapons raised. The camp erupted in confusion, as men and women fled the attackers or ran for their weapons. Caught unprepared, the caravan cook hoisted what remained in his kettle of soup and with an oath, let fly the steaming liquid, scalding the nearest rider who flailed madly and dropped from his bucking mount.

“Bandits!” Vahanian shouted, drawing his sword. From out of the night came a hail of flaming arrows, and around them, the caravan tents

and wagons burst into flames as the wagoners ran cursing to extinguish the fires.

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Men on horseback ringed the camp. From their motley armor and the haphazard tack of their horses, Tris guessed that their attackers came together by chance more than design. No doubt more ranged in the forest, responsible for the hail of arrows. As the bandits charged, Tris ran for a place on the line, sword drawn and ready.

An arrow grazed his shoulder. Some of the car‐avaners charged forward with a cry, while others began to pull the wagons together for defense or ran to protect the horses. Just at the edge of his sight, Tris glimpsed a fleeting spirit, and a moment later, another and a third.

Sweet Chenne, I can see them dying! he thought, fighting down panic. As his gift had strengthened in the weeks since they fled the palace, sighting the spirits came easier and easier, until now it was almost impossible for him to block out the hum of the revenants that invisibly surrounded the living. But even that, outside the heat of battle, was far different from sensing spirits fresh‐torn from their bodies, feeling the sundering of soul and body.