The Summoner (49 page)

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He swung into a high Eastmark kick. She blocked him, although the force nearly knocked the air from her. It was worth it, she thought, to see the surprise on his face. She used the momentum of his strike to wheel into a kick of her own, and grazed his ear with her boot. At that, she saw the glint in his eye that said the fight was on. She

was barely aware of the others who made their way into the salle, watching the combat silently from along the walls. Vahanian kicked again and she caught his leg, using his momentum against him. He went down, but scythed his legs to take her with him. In a heartbeat, the point of his knife was at her throat.

“Yield?”

She saw it register in his eyes as her own knife came up below his breastbone. “Draw.”

A grudging smile hinted at the corner of his lips, and he helped her to her feet. Both looked a little chagrined at the applause that greeted them from Tris and the others, who awaited their morning training.

Vahanian leaned forward with his hands on his thighs to catch his breath, and Kiara noted with satisfaction that he was sweating.

“You’re good,” the mercenary acknowledged. “Damn good. Where’d you learn that?”

Winded, Kiara used her forearm to clear a stray lock of hair from her face and realized she was bleeding. “My armsmaster came from Eastmark. He left there during the Troubles. My mother was also Eastmark born and raised. In Isencroft, two years of military service is required of everyone—even the king’s own.”

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Vahanian noted the shallow cut on her forearm and went to fetch a strip of cloth and a bit of salve. The cut she had scored on him was bleeding through his shirt, but he did not seem to notice. “I imagine you can get Carina to heal that if you want,” he said, with a cynical smile. “You likely won’t get the lecture that comes with the healing I get.”

The others crowded around them with appreciative comments, until Vahanian raised a hand for silence.

“Now that we’ve got a salle and not some Goddess‐forsaken clearing in the woods,” he said, “it’s time to get down to real training. We’ll also train with a bow and crossbow. It might not be a bad thing for our bard there,” he said with a nod to Carroway, “to enlighten us about throwing knives. I’ll keep working you on swords. And since there’s been interest in footwork,” he said, with a glance toward Kiara, “perhaps Kiara would help me work with anyone who thinks he’s up to it.” He straightened his tunic. “To fit that in means double practices,” he said and Kiara chuckled at the reaction. “If you’re going to start a war, you’re going to need all the practice you can get.”

A candlemark later, Kiara dipped a cup from the bucket by the window when Tris approached.

“I’m impressed,” he said.

She searched his expression for any hint of sarcasm and found none. To her chagrin, she could feel the color rise in her face.

“Thanks,” she murmured. “I guess that’s one of the good things about my Journey,” she said, meeting his eyes and looking away. “I can actually use my training out here. There wasn’t much call for it with the ladies at court.”

“The ladies at court are overrated,” Tris replied evenly. “At least, I always thought so.”

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Kiara turned to look at him. His eyes were absolutely serious, and she saw nothing in his manner to suggest that he felt any distaste for her skill. She offered him the water cup. “I thought I was the only one who didn’t care for court.”

“If you two are done at the water barrel—” Vahanian interrupted, calling them back to the group. Tris flashed a mischievous grin and sauntered back to the group, and she followed a step behind, lost in thought.

After arms practice, Tris found Sister Taru waiting for him. With her was Keeper Devin, a man of middle years with a close‐shaved tonsure of white hair and a salt‐and‐pepper beard. His dark brown eyes were uncomfortably perceptive, and he had a swarthy complexion that suggested blood‐lines from Nargi or Trevath. Tris followed them to a study room and was grateful to see a mid‐morning snack of bread, cheese and dried fruit set out on a table. Taru handed him a warm cup of tea from a kettle on the hearth. The fire barely drove back the autumn chill.

“I have shared with Devin what we learned yesterday,” Taru said. “He has many questions for you.”

Tris took a seat near the hearth. “I want to understand this… gift. And I’d like to stop being knocked flat on my back every time I do a major working.”

Devin chuckled. “Such is the price of magic, I fear. But with practice and skill come resilience.

Now, tell me about the spirits of Shekerishet and your experiences on the journey north.”

It took a candlemark for Tris to answer Devin. The Keeper made him go back over the encounters with the spirits on the way from Margolan, quizzing him on how it felt when he used his power, and what—specifically—he did in each situation. Devin was most interested in the encounter with the evil spirit who possessed Carina and with the spirits of the Ruune Videya.

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Finally, when Tris could tell him no more, Devin closed his eyes.

After a moment, he looked at Taru. “He is indeed the heir of Bava K’aa. A spirit mage with less power would not have survived these tests.”

“It was a little too touch‐and‐go,” Tris replied. “Even now, I can feel the spirits out there, the ones who want intercession, or justice, or simply the freedom to pass over. How can I keep them from driving me mad?”

Devin considered in silence for a moment. “That is one of the burdens of a Summoner,” Devin said finally. “You are the mediator between the living and the dead. When your power becomes known, the living will seek you out as well, hoping to receive final blessing— or pardon—from the dead, wishing to calm angry spirits or cast out evil spirits. To be Lord of the Dead and Undead is not a ceremonial title. It holds all of the responsibilities, in the shadow realm, that a living king bears in the day realm. It is necessary to bring the realms into balance.”

“If it’s so important, why are there so few spirit mages?”

“Mages are made at the choosing of the Lady,” Taru replied. “Perhaps there are times when Summoners are more common. In our time, Land and Water magic is the most common gift, and to our good fortune, less so Fire.”

“Arontala is a Fireclan mage,” Tris murmured.

“Arontala aspires to become a Summoner,” Devin replied. “He believes that when he frees the Obsidian King, in return for permitting the spirit to use his body, he will also gain the mage gifts of that spirit. Those gifts together would bring ruin.”

Taru nodded. “We can help you gain the stamina you need for strong magic. You will have to 418

work hard for it.”

“I’m ready.”

“I will bring you the texts of the spirit mages,” Devin promised. “Two of the Obsidian King’s journals are here at the library. The third has been missing for many years. It is wise to know one’s adversary.”

“Spirit magic is the rarest of the gifts,” Devin continued, “and the most dangerous. Only the spirit mage, the necromancer, may blur the line between life and death. It is the province of the Goddess herself. Only a few in a generation receive the gift, yet without an intercessor between the living and the dead, we are not complete. Many of the great spirit mages were destroyed because the temptation of their gift is the strongest.”

“Like moths to light,” Taru said, “your power draws the dead and the undead. Most pass without need for a mediator into the realm of the Lady. But those who are bound by guilt—their own or that of the living—those whose purpose is unfinished, and those who do not have their vengeance, remain. Those are the souls that seek you out, some for honest reasons, and some less so.”

“Many mysteries of the spirit mages died with Bava K’aa and the Obsidian King,” she said. “You must never assume the intentions of spirits are as they seem.”

“I don’t understand.”

Taru shrugged. “Spirits see much more than the living can imagine. They have a way of ferreting out the weaknesses of the living to use against them.”

Tris shut his eyes. The image of Kait from the dream came unbidden. “I would give everything I 419

have to save my sister’s spirit,” he whispered.

“Then you are already lost,” Devin replied. “For what harm can you do to Arontala, who holds her spirit?” Tris said nothing, staring at the shadows. “To defeat Arontala, you must be willing to give up what you hold dearest,” Devin pressed. “Your companions, your sister’s spirit, those you love most. Your grandmother could not,” Devin said sadly, “and that is why the Obsidian King may rise to threaten us again.”

“But why would she hold back against such evil?”

“The Obsidian King was not always evil,” Taru replied. “Once, he was a good man. Some say he became impatient with the ways of the Lady and bitter about the randomness of fate. Bava K’aa believed that he was possessed by an ancient and evil spirit. He began to take the course of life and death into his own hands, to punish and forgive. He took on the role of a god,” Taru said.

“And the power seduced his soul.”

“But if grandmother knew him, why didn’t she stop him?” Tris asked.

Taru shook her head. “Many were the times she tried. You see, before she was a sorceress, or he a wizard, they were in love. But she saw the bitterness growing in him and the longing for power. She was the last to truly believe that he was evil, and her loyalty nearly cost this realm its freedom,” she continued. “She and your grandfather, once the Obsidian King’s dearest friends, were forced to bind him,” she said sadly. “Even so, she could not bring herself to completely destroy him.”

“Your way is perilous,” Taru went on. “Never may you bind a soul that wishes to be free. Never may you reanimate a corpse. And never may you bend a spirit to do your will. Never, even when to do so might seem to serve the greatest good,” she cautioned. “Heed well, or we are lost.”

“I will help you defend yourself better in the ways of magic,” Sister Taru continued. “It will soon 420

be time to journey to Principality City, where there is a citadel of the Sisterhood. You can continue your training there.”

Tris met her eyes, knowing that she understood what was at stake. “I will do whatever it takes to free Margolan,” he vowed.

“I believe you will, Martris Drayke. Let us pray to the Lady it is enough.”

CHAPTER TWENTY‐EIGHT

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Inside the thick stone walls of the Library there was no sense of time. Engrossed in their separate studies, armed with parchment, ink and quills, the travelers had to be reminded, usually by Berry, of the passing hours and approaching meal times.

Vahanian spent his days in the salle. He found the promised blacksmith’s quarters behind the Library, and fired it up to fix their weapons. Mending armor and saddles, re‐shoeing the horses, exercising their mounts and keeping the weapons honed kept him busy as the late autumn days grew shorter. The others would not have ventured outside the Library at all had Vahanian not insisted that sword practice be augmented with archery lessons. When the first practice of the day had ended, the researchers disappeared into the Library until it was time for the evening practice session. Vahanian seemed content to fade into the background.

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After morning arms practice, Tris headed for training with Taru, Devin and Maire. After evening sword training and supper, Tris plunged into the dusty volumes assigned to him for his studies.

He found a quiet chair in the Library and settled in with a sack of cheese and bread. Yet for all his reading, not one mention of a “Soulcatcher” came to light.

Tris also noticed that Kiara kept her distance from him. She remained close to Carina, giving him no chance to inquire as to the sudden shift from her friendliness on the road. Tris found that the absence of her conversation bothered him more than he expected, and he resolved to find an opportunity to question her.

That chance came sooner than he expected. As he readied himself for sword practice in the first light, Tris stepped outside the Library to get a breath of fresh air. The cold, crisp morning air snapped him awake—a welcome change from the mustiness of the old leather volumes and the dusty Library.

In the garden, he saw Kiara. She sat alone on a small bench, wrapped in her cloak and deep in thought.

“Hello.”

“Oh! Hello, Tris,” Kiara replied. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Has Carina found a way to strengthen your father?” Tris asked, taking a seat at the other end of her bench.

Kiara shook her hair, her auburn braid coming loose from her hood and spilling down her shoulder. “I don’t think so. Not yet.” She looked away.

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“Carroway tells me you’ve been looking for other ways to help your kingdom.”

Kiara brushed back a lock of hair. “Things haven’t been good for Isencroft for a long time,” she said quietly. “If we can’t turn the situation soon, Isencroft will not survive.”

“Mikhail means to ask my uncle’s advisors for whatever help they can provide,” Tris said, and she looked up at him. “I can’t even promise that I’ll live to take the throne, but if I do, Margolan will pose you no threat.”

He saw tears start in her eyes, and she looked away. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“I’ve missed talking to you,” Tris said after a pause.

“I’ve had so much on my mind.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Tris said gently. “Did I say something to offend you?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Kiara looked down at her hands, silent for so long that Tris feared she was not going to speak.

“Do you remember what I told you when we met?” she said finally. “About why I left Isencroft?”

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Tris nodded. “For your Journey.”

“And something else,” she added.

Tris paused. “You were avoiding an arranged marriage.”

“Did you ever wonder with whom?”

Oh yes, Tris thought. Many times. It surprised him just how much he enjoyed Kiara’s company. In Margolan, Tris had his choice of companions. He found that few could converse on anything of interest and fewer still could carry an interesting conversation more than once. Bored with the available company, and sickened by Jared’s indiscretions, Tris had kept to himself, much to the consternation of ambitious fathers at court. Kiara was different. Her retreat bothered him more than he expected.