The Summoner (10 page)

“a brigand overtook me.” The shade’s hand went to its ghostly throat. “He slit my throat and took my coins and dumped me in the woods. I want my coins back,” he stated simply. “And a stone raised over my body.”

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“Sweet Mother and Childe,” the innkeeper gasped behind Tris. There was a soft thud, and Tris guessed that either the cook or the serving wench had fainted.

Tris took another step toward the spirit, and moved slowly to take four coins from the purse at his belt, money from the first tavern. “If the boy took these back to your family, they would buy your cows and more beside,” Tris offered, holding the coins on his outstretched hand toward the spirit. “And my companions and I can raise a cairn in the woods, if you like.” He paused. “If we do that, will you rest and not trouble this good man any longer?”

The spirit hesitated as if he were considering the bargain, then slowly nodded. “It is a good offer,” he said, nodding. “I will rest.”

Tris gestured for the boy to come forward, and to his credit, though trembling, the lad did as he was told. Tris bid the spirit give directions to his family’s home, and had the boy repeat them.

“At daybreak, as soon as it is safe for the boy to travel, he will take the coins where you bid,” Tris said evenly, and once more, the spirit nodded.

“Now,” Tris said, gesturing behind him for the others to begin descending the stairs, “will you show us where you lie, so that we can give you peace?”

The spirit winked out. “Where did he go?” the innkeeper gasped, backing toward the stairs.

“Out back, I suppose,” Carroway guessed. He shrugged as the others turned to stare at him.

“Well, he hardly needs to use the stairs!”

Sure enough, when the group reached the back of the inn, the spirit stood waiting for them at the edge of the woods. Motioning his companions to join him, Tris led the others after the ghost, who stopped just a few feet from the path. The shade pointed, and Tris took several steps to the right until the ghost nodded in satisfaction.

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“Give me a hand,” Tris said, bending to lift a stone the size of a melon that lay nearby. His foot kicked at something partially hidden beneath the leaves, and in the dappled moonlight, he glimpsed the yellow‐white of a weathered bone. Gently, Tris laid the stone over it and turned to accept another from Carroway. Within a quarter hour, they had built a small cairn, and Tris made over it the sign of the Goddess. He looked back to the spirit. The anger was gone from the young man’s stance, a wistful expression on his plain features.

“Go to your rest in peace, good sir,” Tris said solemnly, raising one hand, palm outstretched.

The ghost began to fade, growing dimmer and dimmer until it was once more nothing but mist, and then the mist itself was lost in the moonlight.

Tris stared after the apparition, feeling a mix of satisfaction at having been able to free the ghost’s spirit, and chagrin that it had been witnessed so openly.

“I’ll go see to the horses,” Soterius said, turning away. Tris frowned as he watched his friend stride off, but Harrtuck stepped closer and laid a hand on Tris’s arm.

“Don’t worry about him,” Harrtuck rasped. “Like as not, it’ll take him a bit to think this all through. After all,” the armsman said with a chuckle, “we soldiers don’t have much trust in mages. Me, I’d rather trust in cold, hard steel than a lot of mumbo jumbo.” He paused. “Until now.” Tris stared after Soterius. What in the name of the Four Faces is happening to me? he wondered, feeling an uneasy mixture of pride and fear. Calling hand fire, lighting candles without a reed, doing a little hedge magic, that’s one thing. Being Grandmother’s mage heir, controlling the kind of power she had, that just can’t be true! And if it is true, if Carroway’s right, if I’m a Summoner, a mage—by the Lady, what does that mean? But before he could think further, Carroway plucked at his sleeve.

“The woods are no place for the living at night,” the bard cautioned. “Let’s go back to the fire.

You look like you could use some brandy, and I think I’ll have a bite of that cheese I saw on the 78

bar.”

Reluctantly, Tris let his companions lead him back to the welcome lights of the inn. The innkeeper and his family were waiting for them, greeting him with the honor due to a king, so that Tris flushed with embarrassment.

“Anything you want is on the house,” the relieved innkeeper gushed. “Your food, your drink, your beds, and food for your horses.” He beamed,

and seemed to stand a bit straighter. “Now perhaps we can make a decent living from this pile of boards!” he cried, and did a little jig with the plump cook that left the dough‐faced woman flushed and out of breath.

With a sigh, Tris accepted their gifts of food and beverage, though all he yearned for was a stiff drink of brandy and a bed for the night. He entreated the innkeeper to tell no one, and he and his wife swore silence. Tris realized that his unthinking reaction to the troubled spirit put them in even greater danger should Arontala hear the tale. Harrtuck sat beside him by the fire, saying nothing, yet by his presence, reassuring him that the events of the night had not in any way compromised his loyalties. Sweet Lady, it can’t help but change the way they see me, Tris thought as the brandy burned its way down his throat. I don’t know what it means myself.

The brandy did its work, and Tris found that he could barely keep his eyes open. He fended off more offers of bread and dried fruits, protesting that the grateful family had already done quite enough as he stumbled up the stairs to bed.

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CHAPTER FOUR

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A day later, when they left the innkeeper and his unhaunted tavern behind them, Tris sat with the others around a small fire at a makeshift campsite, surrounded by the noises of wild things and the darkness of the forest. He was still sweating from a thorough bout of sword practice with Soterius and Harrtuck, and he smiled to himself, recalling their praise at his growing skill.

Tonight, the travelers roasted what game they had snared and sat in silence, watching the flames. They were still a day’s ride from Ghorbal, a bustling trade city on a tributary of the Nu River, upstream from where that swift current grew to its mighty rush toward the sea.

Finally, Tris looked up at Harrtuck. “Tell me again what happened, out in the barracks,” he said, and although effort made his voice flat, he guessed that Harrtuck could easily read the emotion in his eyes. Tris clasped his hands, staring at the flames, hoping he could maintain his composure.

“Everyone knew that there was bad blood between Jared and your father,” Harrtuck began quietly, looking into the fire. “Your brother made no secret of it in the barracks, and those of us loyal to your father tried to warn Bricen. But many of the soldiers liked Jared,” Harrtuck continued, “because he had simple ideas they could follow.

“After a while, some of the soldiers started to like the idea of having a young fighting man to lead the kingdom, as I’m sure Jared always intended.” He paused. “Although I’m not sure the idea was completely theirs,” he added, with a watchful look at Tris.

“Arontala,” Tris muttered the name of the mage like a curse. “I should have guessed.”

“One of Jared’s men burst into the barracks and announced that the king was dead,” Harrtuck 80

went on. “A dozen of us who were loyal to the king headed for the palace, hoping that we could save you and the Queen and Kait, but we failed—except for you, my liege.”

“And the others you came with?” Tris asked softly.

“All dead,” Harrtuck reported. “As I would have been. You know the rest.”

“Thank you,” Tris said in a voice just above a whisper. He stared into the flames, trying to push away the memories. It was no use. They haunted his dreams and lingered behind every conscious thought. If only I had found a way to get father to listen, he thought miserably, clenching his fists. I should have done more, tried harder to get him to see how dangerous Arontala was, to see what Jared was really like. His nails dug into his palms until he drew blood.

But then, father wouldn’t listen to Kait and me when we tried to tell him how Jared beat the servants… or us. Mother tried. He wouldn’t hear her either. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough, often enough. I could have done more. And now, because I didn’t, Kait and mother are dead.

“Tris,” Carroway said softly, and Tris realized that the other had been addressing him without response for several minutes. “Don’t blame yourself. You did all anyone could do.”

Tris started to his feet like a snapped spring. “If I had done everything I could, we wouldn’t be here,” he said thickly. “Mother and Kait wouldn’t be dead. I should have made father see. I should have challenged Jared. By the Whore, if I’m a mage, I should have tried to stop Arontala when he first came. He was weaker then.”

“And you were just a boy,” Carroway said quietly. “Your father never got around to finding a new court mage when your grandmother died. Maybe he didn’t know how. Maybe he didn’t want to share the power. When Jared took the initiative, I think your father was relieved. I always thought he hoped it was a sign Jared was growing out of his brawls and wenching.”

“What if grandmother trained me just for that reason?” Tris cried, the words tearing hoarsely 81

from his throat. “What if she foresaw something like this, and trained me in order to stop it? If I had studied more, practiced more, maybe the power would have come on me before this, maybe I was supposed to stop Arontala, and I failed.”

“Men go mad on maybes,” Harrtuck observed, watching compassionately as Tris dragged a sleeve across his eyes. “What’s done is done. And it seems to me, we need to put as much distance between you and Margolan as we can. Once we’re in Dhasson, we can figure out the best way to take the bastard down. But there’s naught to be done tonight, except live to see morning.”

Tris nodded, although sleep seemed far from likely. “I know,” he said, his voice raw. “But running away doesn’t seem like the most noble thing.”

Harrtuck regarded him cynically. “Dead is better?” When Tris turned away, back toward the fire, Harrtuck shrugged and began helping Soterius drag some pine boughs closer to the fire for them to bed down. Carroway watched Tris in silence for a few minutes as the latter paced at the edge of the forest, deep in silent argument with himself.

When Soterius and Harrtuck went to see to the horses, Carroway ventured closer. “There really hasn’t been a chance to tell you how sorry I am, about Kait and everything,” he said.

“Thanks,” Tris murmured in a strangled voice. “It seems like a nightmare that I’m going to wake up from any minute now, and I’ll find Kait, and tell her how much I love her.” He squeezed his eyes closed against the tears that came anyway, making further words impossible.

“The worst thing is, I know she’s out there,” Tris rasped when he could find his voice again. “I can feel it, but I can’t bring her to me. There’s something holding her back.” His eyes met Carroway’s, and Tris knew that his friend could clearly read his pain. “She’s trapped, she’s terrified, and I can’t help her,” he admitted, his voice raw. “What good is being able to talk to spirits if you can’t help the ones you love the most? I can’t fail her again, but I don’t know how to help her.”

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Carroway laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know how, but I know you. And if you were of a mind to listen, I’d tell you that there was nothing you could have done differently back at Shekerishet, but I know you won’t hear a word I say.”

Tris shook his head. “No, I won’t, but thank you for saying so.”

“Get some sleep,” Carroway instructed. “Ban’s got the first watch.”

In Tris’s dreams, Bava K’aa still stood as straight and uncompromising as she had in life, a dark-haired woman for whom the years added little gray and few lines. Bava K’aa had an aura of power, even without the gray robes and charcoal mantle that marked her as a spirit sorceress or Summoner.

“Tris,” the dream figure summoned.

“Here, grandmother.”

“The time has come,” Bava K’aa said.

“For what, grandmother?”

“For you to remember my lessons,” Bava K’aa replied. She reached out to take his hand, and he felt her warm flesh close around his fingers. “You must remember what you have learned. Do 83

not be afraid. The power will come to you, Tris. I have prepared you.”

“For what?” he asked again. Bava K’aa’s image seemed so real and her touch so firm that it was hard to remind himself this was only a dream. He reached toward her on instinct, hungry for the comfort of her touch, and the spirit’s eyes acknowledged his pain as her expression softened, then grew worried once more.

“There is a threat to Margolan and the Winter Kingdoms that is greater than Jared,” the ghost-figure of his grandmother said, with the perfect assurance her tone always carried when she advised kings. “An old evil has arisen. The Obsidian King is stirring once more. Arontala seeks to free him from where we imprisoned him, long before you were born. You must stop him,” she said with a gaze that seemed to stare through him and into his soul. “Seek your teachers well.”

“Why didn’t the power come before… before they died?” Tris demanded. “I could have stopped Arontala—”

“You were not yet ready,” the ghost replied. “Power knows when the vessel is ready. I knew from your birth that you were my mage‐heir, Tris,” his grandmother said. “To protect you from…

others… it was not safe to tell you, until the power came upon you.” Her gaze was uncompromising. “I have taught you many things, and taught you to forget them, until the time was ready,” she said, with a faint smile. “Now, you must remember.”

“Grandmother!” Tris called. “What is the Soulcatcher?”

The spirit stopped as if stung, and great concern filled her eyes. “What do you know of the Soulcatcher?”

Tris told her about the ghost’s warning. Bava K’aa listened gravely, then nodded. “I should have 84

seen this,” she said with a sigh. “When the Obsidian King was vanquished, we were too few and too worn to destroy him completely. So we bound his soul in an ancient orb, a portal to the abyss. An orb called ‘Soulcatcher.’ We believed it safe, but perhaps we were too confident, too anxious to be done,” she mused. “If Arontala can release the Obsidian King’s soul, all we labored for is lost. The Obsidian King will combine his power with Arontala’s, take Arontala’s body for his own, and return to rule the world.” The image wavered, and Tris feared it would disappear altogether. “There are no longer enough powerful mages to defeat him, as we did, should he rise again. It would take another generation, and he would ensure that all who could threaten him would be destroyed.”