The Summoner (23 page)

“The gamesmaster brought them to me. They claimed to be rug merchants from the west and said they left their wares back at the inn where they were staying. They also said they’d just been through Margolan and what a pity it was that things weren’t as they used to be.”

“Do tell,” Vahanian replied dryly, taking a long sip of his drink.

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Linton leaned back, clomping his heavy boots up onto a sturdy trunk and finishing off his drink.

“They went on to say that there was a new king in Margolan and that business wasn’t good. New taxes. And there were rumors that not all of King Bricen’s family were really dead,” Linton said, watching Vahanian carefully.

Vahanian said nothing, but he took another drink of his brandy and met Linton’s eyes steadily.

“And?”

“And I got the feeling that my two visitors were probably going from one caravan to another, plus all the inns between Margolan and Dhasson, with the same story,” Linton said.

“Why Dhasson?” Vahanian asked.

Linton shrugged. “It’s well known that King Harrol was kin to Bricen. It’s where I’d seek sanctuary if I were Martris Drayke,” he added, staring pointedly at Vahanian. “I told them it was an interesting story,” Linton continued. “And sent them on their way with a promise to look them up if we were ever in their province and needed rugs to trade.”

“So why tell me about this,” Vahanian asked, draining his glass.

“Because one of the men bore a striking resemblance to Vakkis,” Linton replied, setting his drink aside. “All the way down to the knife crease you put in his cheek.”

Now Linton had his full attention. Vahanian laid his empty goblet on Linton’s counting table.

“How sure are you?” he asked in a voice that could have etched glass.

“Very sure,” Linton said. “My casino master tells me that the traveler was unusually skilled at 190

contre dice and fond of Valiquestran whiskey and that he never, ever had his back to the door.”

“That’s Vakkis.” Vahanian cursed. “Any hint that he was still looking for me?”

Linton shook his head. “He didn’t mention anything. But he was dressed better than usual and either the bounty business has been good lately or he’s on retainer to someone with a lot of money. He was spending Margolan gold.”

“Damn.”

“Jared Drayke may be a whore’s son of a king,” Linton said, leaning, forward, his voice dropping to a cautious rasp, “but he is a dangerous whore’s son. And like as not, he has your number, Jonmarc.”

“Where was Vakkis headed?”

Linton’s tanned face creased in a grin. “Thought you’d ask. The Boar’s Inn in Westerhaven—not far. Of course, since he told me that’s where he’d be he won’t be totally surprised if he gets company—”

“Only if he sees me coming,” Vahanian replied, pushing to his feet.

“Jonmarc…”

“Don’t worry, Maynard,” Vahanian said as he grabbed his cloak. “I know we’re a danger to the 191

caravan. Let me take out Vakkis and we’ll be gone in the morning.”

“Would you sit down and stop thinking with your sword?” Linton snapped. “Did I say anything about leaving?” He spat loudly into a bronze cuspidor next to his counting table. “I haven’t gotten to be a rich old trader by shivering every time a bounty hunter looks in my direction. Do you think you’re the only one in my caravan who’s got someone looking for him? If you can take Vakkis down, all the better. Why do you think I called you in tonight? And if you can’t, we keep our eyes out. He doesn’t have anything solid or we’d have been ridden down by King Jared’s troops by now. Just warn the others to keep their heads down,” the caravan master continued, pouring himself another drink.

A slow grin crept into the edges of Vahanian’s mouth. “I knew you were a good man when you didn’t water the ale, Maynard,” he said.

“And I knew you were an honest mercenary when you paid for it,” Linton shot back. “Now get Out of here. And good hunting.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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The smoke of battle and the smell of blood filled the air. Around her, clashing swords clanged and hoof beats thundered as the struggle for the embattled city wore on toward evening. For Kiara Sharsequin, Princess of Isencroft, nothing mattered except the bearded man gasping for 192

breath on the ground.

“The king is down!” she heard a man shout. The word passed down the line. She pushed through the knot of armsmen around her fallen father and dropped to her knees beside him, weeping.

“Kiara, you must get free,” the injured monarch managed, blood flecking his lips as he struggled to raise a hand. Even that gesture exhausted him, but Kiara dabbed at his lips with her robe.

“I won’t leave you.”

“You must go,” he whispered. His eyes closed and Kiara sobbed, holding his hand. Just behind his head, the flag of Isencroft lay trampled in the mud.

“Your Highness,” a guardsman said insistently. “We must get you to safety.”

“I won’t leave him.”

“Look!” a guardsman shouted, pointing, and Kiara raised her head to follow his gesture. Just beyond where the king lay, the air shimmered. The sparkling air took on shape and substance, until the form of a stern, strong woman appeared, her close‐cropped, dark hair cut for wearing a battle helm and her arms strong and muscled from wielding a sword. To Kiara’s open‐mouthed amazement, she found herself not an arm’s length from Chenne, the Avenger Goddess.

“Kiara,” the apparition said.

“Yes,” the girl stammered, her eyes wide.

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“Take up the flag, Kiara. This is not yet your father’s hour, nor yours,” Chenne said, fixing Kiara with her amber eyes. “Darkness is coming, and you hold a key which can dispel it. Lift that sword,” the goddess commanded. Trembling, Kiara reached for her father’s bloody sword and wrapped her hands around its pommel. Chenne stretched out her ethereal hand and touched the sword’s point, sending a wave of white fire down the length of the weapon.

Kiara gasped. The blade glowed with an inner blue fire, as if first taken from the forge. Chenne withdrew her hand and looked appraisingly at Kiara.

“Raise this sword in my name and know that the armies of Isencroft will follow you in any just cause,” the Avenger Goddess said, transfixing Kiara with that amber gaze. “Your role will become clear. Only believe,” the Goddess said, her shape becoming more insubstantial as Kiara watched in astonishment. “Only believe.”

The air shimmered once more and then the image was gone, leaving Kiara sword in hand and open‐mouthed. The men‐at‐arms around her knelt in fealty, even as her father groaned and lost consciousness.

“We are yours to command, Princess,” the armsman closest to her said reverently.

Still trembling, Kiara swallowed, then grasped the sword firmly with both hands and lifted it high overhead as a rallying point. It seemed weightless in her hands, still tingling with power, more a relic than a weapon. “In the name of the Goddess, we’ll drive back the invaders’.” she swore, feeling the sword alive with supernatural fire. A soldier raised the flag aloft as two more came to bear the injured monarch away, and yet another brought Kiara a battle steed. And then they were cheering, shouting the name of the Goddess, chanting Kiara’s name…

“Your Highness,” the voice said again, more insistently. “Please, wake up.”

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Kiara Sharsequin found herself in a tangle of sweat‐soaked bedclothes under the worried eyes of Malae, her lady‐in‐waiting. “I’m awake, I’m awake,” she managed, still blinking at the light and attempting to convince herself that the memories of the dream were long in the past.

“You must get ready,” Malae repeated. “The ambassador will be here within the hour.”

With a groan, Kiara nodded, blinked a few more times, and then rolled groggily to her feet. “I can’t believe they’re sending an ambassador over this,” she said, shaking her head. As if in agreement, Jae rasped and hissed animatedly, then hopped onto her wrist and gurgled contentedly as she stroked his scales.

“He’s going to be downstairs sooner than you’d like,” Malae scolded gently, steering the princess toward a bowl of warmed water and letting her splash the sleep from her eyes as Jae hopped from Kiara’s arm to the washstand rail.

“How is father?” Kiara asked as she straightened and reached for a towel.

“The same as ever,” Males replied sadly. “Every morning you ask and every day the answer stays the same.”

“I know,” Kiara replied, setting the towel aside and walking to the wardrobe. “But every morning, I still keep hoping you’ll tell me something different.”

She flung open the wardrobe doors. “Hmm. I wonder,” she said, pondering her choices. “What does one wear when one doesn’t want to marry the ambassador’s king?” She reached for one gown, shook her head, started to reach for another than changed her mind and ended up planting her hands on her hips once more. From his perch on the washstand, Jae hissed his opinion.

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“Perhaps something somber,” Malae suggested, reaching for a gray gown that was never one of Kiara’s favorites. “Like this. It is not your most flattering gown.”

Kiara brightened. “Perfect. We’ll make my hair a bit more severe and skip the rouge. We’ll play up all his fears of what ‘warrior princesses’ should be.” She sighed. “With any luck, I’ll look less appealing than their stories led them to believe.”

Malae chuckled. “I’m not sure it’s possible to ruin your appeal so easily, Your Highness,” she said, helping Kiara remove the gray dress from the wardrobe. “But perhaps we can forestall them once again.”

Kiara sighed as she removed her nightgown. “We’ve got to do more than stall them, Malae,” she said, staring at the gown. “I want them to go away altogether.”

“I know, Your Highness,” Malae replied, offering the princess a robe and leading her to a chair.

Malae picked up a brush and began to work on the princess’s long auburn hair. “If only King Jared were a more honorable man.”

Kiara gave a decidedly un‐princesslike snort. “Honorable? Jared? The words don’t go together.

Not after what our spies tell us.”

“Is there any chance that the spies were mistaken?” Malae offered hopefully.

“None. And I know exactly why he’s interested. He wants Isencroft. He could raid what’s left in the treasury and draw on our men and boys to raise a larger army,” she said bitterly. “Plus our crop land, in a good year, could provision a massive army. Absorbing Isencroft would solve their problems.”

“You must admit, Your Highness, that it would solve a few of Isencroft’s, as well,” Malae said 196

gently.

Kiara slumped. “Yes, I know. There’s not enough left in the treasury to make it worth raiding.

And after three poor harvests, our men and boys might want to leave home for greater adventures.”

“I don’t think it has reached quite that point,” Malae reproved gently. “But still, you must keep him from suspecting how bad things have been here if you wish to avoid his offer.”

“And I’ve got to keep him thinking that father is well,” Kiara added as Malae began to braid and twist her hair. “That’s the hardest part. If he realizes I’ve been running the kingdom myself since father took sick, he’ll bring an army to take me to Margolan.”

“You underestimate yourself, Your Highness,” Malae said, her hands flying as she worked Kiara’s hair. “And you dismiss the loyalty of this kingdom. You are Goddess Blessed. Chenne came to you. Our army would follow you anywhere, and so would our people.”

It was true, Kiara knew. Ever since that day on the battleground a year ago, when she had seen the Avenger Goddess and rallied Isencroft’s failing troops, she had been a legend. While the reverence the peasants showed her was mortifying, even many of the nobles treated her with a respect that bordered on awe. It certainly helped over the course of her father’s illness, since there was never a question from the nobility about her fitness to rule in his stead until he could recover—if he recovered. Ordinary illnesses were bad enough, but magic ones were worse. First the war, then bad harvests. Donelan was a king with nearly empty coffers, and no likelihood of raising funds from his impoverished people. Even if he recovered, Kiara knew, Isencroft’s future was in peril.

“How will you turn him away, Your Highness?” Malae asked, pinning up Kiara’s hair.

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“I’ll think of something,” Kiara said, watching Malae slide the ornate hairpins into place.

“Although I’m running out of excuses. If it wouldn’t compromise my ability to rule, I’d have told him I was entering the service of the Goddess.”

Malae chuckled. “That would be a loss for the kingdom, Your Highness. And I doubt the Goddess needs your vows. She’s claimed you as her own already.”

Whatever that means, Kiara thought gloomily. She looked at herself in the mirror. Six months of hiding her father’s illness, taking on the burden of kingship in secret, had taken a toll. To her estimation, her reflection looked tired and worn.

Kiara sighed. “I guess I’m ready,” she announced as Jae fluttered to her shoulder. “How long until the ambassador arrives?”

Malae glanced out the window at the courtyard. “That’s his coach now,” she said, letting the curtain fall close. “He should be announcing his arrival within minutes.”

Kiara nodded in thought. “We’ll keep him waiting a candlemark,” she said. “It won’t do to look as if I were waiting for him. And I shall do my best to appear bossy and solemn, as I presume Jared would like it best to have an empty‐headed little doxy to follow him around like a lapdog.” She grinned wickedly. “At least, that’s the plan for starters.”

Malae adjusted Kiara’s gown. “I’m sure you’ll be quite convincing.”

Kiara met her eyes. “I hope so, Malae,” she said wistfully, staring toward the window. “I hope so.”

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The dreaded hour came too quickly. Steeling herself, Kiara gathered her skirts and headed for the stairway, preceded by an entourage hand‐picked by Malae for its impressiveness. Kiara paced in the back hallway above the stair as she heard the seneschal announce her with as many formal titles as he could apply. Jae fretted on her shoulder. When the time finally came to make her entrance, Kiara lifted her head, squared her shoulders, and reminded herself to appear somber and bossy, then began the descent to the chamber where Jared’s emissaries waited.