The Summoner (40 page)

“Ready, Your Majesty?” Arontala asked, in the self‐confident tone that Jared knew paid only lip-service to the rank and power of a mortal king.

“I am,” Jared said, managing just the right note of ennui to impress the hapless baron, who hugged the wall so closely as to resemble a tapestry.

“Then begin,” Arontala instructed the inquisitor, who stepped toward his subject and jerked her upright.

The baron fainted.

In all, the interrogation went on for more than two candlemarks, and even Jared was surprised at the victim’s single‐mindedness. Battered beyond reasonable hope, bearing the wounds of the inquisitor’s craft, the Sister remained mute, fixing Arontala with a steady gaze that infuriated the dark mage.

“You don’t seem to be getting anywhere,” Jared observed dryly, as the inquisitor tried yet another instrument of his trade, inflicting its measured agony to no avail, as the Sister remained 338

silent but for her screams.

“She is obstinate,” Arontala fumed, and Jared hid a smile, enjoying the mage’s frustration.

“Perhaps,” Jared replied, “she is the first real mage you’ve questioned, instead of those hedge witches with whom you so enjoy toying.”

“Even mages have a breaking point,” Arontala replied, setting his teeth, and gesturing for the inquisitor to try yet another set of tools.

“And their failures,” Jared said, relishing his first opportunity to best the dark mage in quite some time.

“As do kings,” Arontala replied evenly. “Your Majesty,” he added, barely bothering to veil the sarcasm in his voice.

“The fact remains that you have yet to find and destroy the remains of Bava K’aa,” Jared pointed out. “Until you do, we are at risk.”

“We have destroyed every citadel from here to the Principality border, and west to Isencroft,”

Arontala replied tightly.

“You just haven’t looked hard enough,” Jared replied, stepping over the prone noble and walking toward the stairs. “I’ve had enough amusement for tonight,” he said dryly. “I’ll be in my rooms.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Arontala replied, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. As Jared turned the first corner of the stair, he glimpsed Arontala wheeling on the hapless captive, snatching away the tools from the inquisitor and advancing on the drugged mage. Her screams 339

echoed the length of the twisted stairway.

Jared had barely reached the main hall before the captain of his guard caught up with him. “If it please Your Majesty,” the man interjected, bowing.

“It does not,” Jared snapped irritably. The man clearly had come from a long ride, his clothes splashed with mud and bearing the dust of the road. “Well?” he growled. “What is your news?”

“From the Principality border, Your Majesty,” the flustered captain replied. “There’s been a report that a swordswoman on a great steed drove off two of our guardsmen single‐handedly and took a group of peasants across into Principality.”

Jared frowned. “A woman, with a sword?”

The captain nodded. “Aye, Your Majesty. And not a dabbler, either, from the report. A trained blade, and a good one.”

Jared cursed. “What else could your men tell you after they failed to hold the road?” Jared snapped. “I’m amazed that they didn’t dream up a giant ten feet tall!”

The captain fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with his role as the bearer of bad news. “I couldn’t say, milord,” he replied nervously. “But they’ve stuck to their story, even though they took not a little ribbing from their mates about being driven off by a doxy. They’ve said she was a pretty lass, excepting for her travel clothes, which were more suited to a man.”

“What did they say she looked like?” Jared asked, his suspicions growing.

The captain gulped. “Auburn hair, quite wavy, and tied back in a queue. A pretty face, if she 340

weren’t of a mind to chop you in two,” he added.

“On a warhorse, you say?” Jared asked carefully.

Once again, the nervous captain nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. A big horse, trained to kick and rear, and she knew how to ride it well, they said. Nearly kicked their heads in with its hooves, she did, until she ran them off.”

Jared’s eyes narrowed. “Send your best men into Principality after her,” Jared ordered. “Have them go in twos, armed with bows, and bring the horse down first. But I want the woman alive, do you understand?” he barked.

“Aye, Your Majesty,” the captain assented hesitatingly. “But sending troops, into Principality, suppose they should be discovered? A war—”

“I haven’t asked you to think, I’ve asked you to fetch the bitch and bring her to me for questioning,”

Jared snarled. “Do you think you can handle that, or should I send someone else?” Just then the mage’s anguished screams sounded again, and the captain’s face went paler than moonlight.

“No, Your Majesty,” the luckless man gulped. “As you request, Your Majesty.”

“And be quick about it,” Jared snapped, turning, his mood even more foul than when he had left the catacombs.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the man answered, his voice trailing off as Jared began to ascend the broad 341

main stairs to the king’s quarters above.

The captain’s report could mean only one thing, Jared knew. Kiara Sharsequin had begged off from traveling with his emissary only to slip out of Isencroft, through Margolan. Her betrayal meant nothing to his heart; he had met her once, years ago, and had no interest in a wife beyond securing his dynasty. For those practical uses, he admitted, a more pliant partner would certainly be less trouble, more likely to know her place. No, the only reason to suffer the tempers of the Isencroft princess were the lands that would come as her dowry, rich farm lands that would more than double the size of his holdings.

If, once the wedding was past and an heir was delivered, his queen were to die in childbirth, well, such things were common. And practical. But now Kiara added an affront atop her veiled rejection, slipping through his hands and running off his soldiers like errand boys. That a few peasants had found their way into Principality did not bother him in the least. More troublesome, he thought, as he reached his chambers and secured the iron‐wrought door behind him, was the notion it might put in others’ minds that the troops and, therefore, the king, of Margolan was easily bested. For that, Jared sulked as he poured a large goblet of brandy, she must be punished.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers before Arontala joined him. Jared was used to the mage’s silent approach. “Well?” he asked without looking away from the fire. He was well into the brandy, soaking up its warmth as he basked in the glow of the flames.

“The mage is dead.”

“And what you have learned?”

“That mages of the Sisterhood are not made of iron and rock,” the dark sorcerer replied evenly, refusing to take the bait. “That they can be killed even if they cannot be broken.”

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“So you failed.”

In the blink of an eye, Arontala traversed the room, to lean against the large hearth, watching Jared with his expressionless gaze. “Failure depends upon the goal sought, My Ford,” he replied, here in private making no attempt to veil his scorn. “Another of the Sisterhood is dead, a message that will not be overlooked by the group. Another of their citadels has been abandoned. Word comes from the king of Nargi that he would be more than happy to loan his troops should the uprisings along the river need a strong hand to settle. Dhasson is too busy with the beasts on their border to come to the traitor’s aid. And I have fed… quite well,” he said, his tongue darting at the corners of his lips as they drew back, just barely, to expose the elongated teeth within. “We advance our cause.”

“Advance!” Jared roared, sending the table at his side to the floor with a crash as he rolled to his feet. “My brother remains at large, despite your ‘best’ efforts. The Sharsequin bitch has slipped the net. And the Sisterhood you are so proud of destroying has merely gone underground. Tell me those aren’t failures!”

Arontala regarded him unemotionally, his chalky complexion almost glowing in the firelight. “It is still too early in the game to know,” he responded, shrugging away from the hearth. “You hold the throne. Your coffers have never been more full. And whatever the people may think of your methods, they now fear the vayash moru even more than they fear their king.” He smiled. “We have given them a common enemy, and eliminated my rivals, all for the good of Margolan. Quite ingenious, don’t you think?”

Jared wheeled on the slender mage and made a drunken roundhouse punch. He would have missed a mortal man by a fair distance, but the vayash moru traveled across the room before the punch was completed, and watched the king stagger. “Temper, Jared,” Arontala clucked. “I shouldn’t like to have to remind you about the terms of our partnership,” he said smoothly, circling the enraged king just out of reach. “But if I must, I will… how shall I say it?… ‘nip’ the behavior in the bud?” he smiled, his teeth the grimace of a predator.

With a howl of rage, Jared lunged at the mage, only to fall flat on the chamber floor while Arontala affected a bored pose against the opposite wall. “Really, Jared. This is pointless. What 343

do you propose if you got your hands on me, hmm? Are you going to kill me?” he taunted.

“You’re too late. Someone did that for you a long time ago. And you’re forgetting something quite important.”

“What is that?” Jared snarled, having unsteadily regained his feet to glower impotently at the smug mage.

“Before too many more months, the Hawthorn Moon will come,” Arontala replied. “When it does, nothing else will matter. I’ve bound the spirits of the mages we’ve killed, along with Kait and Serae and more than a few of the palace ghosts, in the Orb as an offering,” he explained in a self‐congratulatory voice. “As a meal when the Obsidian King awakes from his slumber. I will hold the power of rebirth over the greatest mage that ever lived,” he went on, “and you,” he added with a hint of acid in his voice, “you hold power over me. We both get what we want, isn’t that true, milord?”

“Get out!” Jared shouted, trembling with a drunken combination of rage and fear. “Don’t come back until you’ve something to show for it. Bring me the body of Bava K’aa, or the head of my brother, or that Isencroft trollop in chains. I will not be mocked!” he bellowed, hurling a pitcher at the mage, who moved aside faster than the mortal eye could follow, and watched with a trace of disapproval as the pitcher’s contents dripped down the stone wall.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Arontala replied, completely unflustered. In the blink of an eye, he stood by the chamber door. “And I’ll have someone sent to clean that up,” he said as the door shut behind him against another shouted oath, and a piece of crockery slammed against the heavy wood.

Jared, out of breath and hoarse with shouting, leaned on his thighs and stared after the mage.

Somewhere, somehow, he thought, this entire thing had gone drastically out of hand. And come the Hawthorn Moon, it was likely to get worse.

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CHAPTER TWENTY‐TWO

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Martris Drayke awoke—and regretted it. His head pounded and every muscle in his body protested. Resolutely, he opened his eyes to find himself staring at a strange ceiling. With even more effort, he managed to sit up, then grimaced and shut his eyes again as the scene swam and his head throbbed.

“Welcome back,” Alyzza rasped from nearby, pressing a cup of steaming tea into his hands and helping to hold it to his lips. For a moment, he focused on nothing except the smell of the hot liquid, feeling it burn its way down his throat. Then he opened his eyes once more to find himself the center of attention of the small group gathered in an unremarkable tavern room.

Vahanian sat in a chair near the fire, his sword nearby, looking not much better than Tris felt.

Berry was sitting on the table, her legs crossed under her, playing an animated game of tarle with Carina while Carroway looked on in amusement.

“Where are we?” Tris asked, his voice sounding strange as it croaked from his dry throat. He drew another draught from the cup Alyzza offered, then refused to lay back down, although Alyzza had to prop him up with pillows to keep him from swaying.

“You’re just across the river from Principality,” Vahanian replied. “A little north of the forest and a little east of where we left the slavers. A few days from the Dhasson Pass.” He paused. “Gabriel brought us here. And he warned us again that there’s a spell on the Dhasson border, so if you try to cross it will call every one of those magicked beasts. Now you’re supposed to go to the Library at Westmarch and then on to Principality City—and the rest of us are along for the ride.”

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Bits and pieces of the flight from the slavers returned to Tris’s memory, the thrill of his power as it filled him, and the terror as the angry spirits worked their long‐awaited revenge on the slavers.

Beyond that, Tris remembered nothing. “You’ll have to fill me in,” he said, chagrined. “I don’t remember anything after the ghosts in the forest left us.”

“Not much to tell,” Vahanian replied. “Gabriel found us in the forest and brought us here—he seems to have an arrangement with the innkeeper to cover anything we need. You’ve been sleeping for the last two days.

Can’t say I objected to the chance to rest, myself. Carina’s earned a little travel money healing some poor unfortunate, Carroway’s been playing for coins in the common room, and we’ve all been getting the crap beat out of us at tarle by Berry,” he summarized, and the girl grinned her satisfaction.

“What about the other captives?” Tris managed, sipping at his tea.

“We’ve seen nothing ourselves,” Carroway said soberly. “Gabriel told us that they all escaped.

They weren’t among the dead in the glade, although how they fared if they fled into the woods, I don’t know.”

Tris nodded. “I made a bargain… with the spirits,” he said, quietly. “Their vengeance in exchange for our lives—all of the captives. I hope they… kept their part,” he rasped, finishing the brew and returning the cup to Alyzza, who skittered off to fetch another cup from the kettle that boiled next to the fire.