The Summoner (3 page)

“You’re going to give her nightmares,” Tris joked, rescuing the blushing minstrel.

Carroway grinned. “I hope so. That’s what Haunts is all about.” He stood, shaking out the folds of his cloak. A group of costumed revelers passed them, arms entwined, singing loudly and badly off‐key.

“Good Haunts to you, bard and all,” one of them called out, tossing a golden coin to Carroway, which the storyteller caught in midair.

“Good Haunts to you, sir!” Carroway called in acknowledgment, holding up the coin and then, with a flourish, making it disappear, to the delight of the partygoers. Carroway was as tall as Tris but thinner, with a dancer’s grace. His long, blue‐black hair framed features so handsome that they veered toward beauty. Light blue eyes, with long lashes, sparkled with intelligence and a keen wit.

Ban Soterius appeared at Carroway’s side. “Don’t let the priestesses hear you call it that,” their friend warned in mock seriousness. “It’s Feast of the Departed, young man.” Soterius grinned and rubbed his knuckles. “I got reminded of that more than once when I was in school.”

Carroway grinned. “Haunts is a lot easier to say,” he replied archly. “Besides, what else are you 21

supposed to call a holiday for dead people?”

“I suspect you’re missing some deeper point on that,” Tris laughed.

“I’ll see you three later,” Kait said, reaching up to calm her falcon as a noisy group of revelers passed by. “Good Feast to you,” she called. “Don’t get into too much trouble.”

“Easy for you to say,” Tris rejoined. He turned to Carroway as Kait blended into the departing crowd. “Come on, or we’ll be late for the feast.” The three young men were easily Margolan’s most eligible bachelors, not yet twenty summers old, and were the targets of the court’s ambitious mothers. While Soterius relished the attention, and was rarely without a lady on his arm, Carroway was more likely to choose his partners from among the castle’s entertainers, singers or musicians whose talent he respected, and who were less star‐struck over his court position and friendship with Tris.

To the chagrin of many of the court mothers, and even, sometimes Tris suspected, his mother Serae, Tris had successfully evaded the matchmakers. Jared’s escapades made Tris wary, and he had yet to meet any of the local nobles’ daughters with whom he could carry on an interesting conversation more than once. His self‐imposed solitude was in sharp contrast to Jared’s wanton-ness, and Tris was well aware that some of the court wags invented their own, less flattering explanations for his unwillingness to choose and discard consorts with the same regularity as the rest of the court. Let them talk, he thought. He had no intention of bringing a bride into Shekerishet with Jared nearby, and even less desire to subject children of his own to Jared’s cruelties.

Perhaps some day, he thought wistfully, watching as Soterius and Carroway bantered easily with the costumed girls who passed them. Some day, when I’m safely out of Shekerishet, in permanent residence at father’s country manor, far from court, far from parties, far from Jared.

“Tell your fortunes?” a voice rasped from behind them. Tris turned, startled, to find a bent old woman in an alcove, gesturing with a gnarled finger. He knew at once that she was one of the 22

palace’s ghosts, although this night, the spirits walked openly, seemingly solid. “For you, Prince Drayke, and your friends, there is no charge.”

“Where did she come from?” Soterius murmured.

Carroway shrugged. “Let’s go see what our fortunes hold.”

“I’m not really sure I want to know,” Soterius balked, but Carroway was already dragging Tris by the sleeve.

“Come on,” Carroway teased. “I want to know how famous a bard I’m going to become.”

“Speak for yourself,” Soterius muttered under his breath. “Really, I’m not sure—”

“I’m with Ban,” Tris murmured.

“No spirit of adventure. Come on,” the bard insisted.

The crone looked up as they approached, and her jaw worked a wad of dreamweed. A bit of spit dribbled down her stubbly chin as she

pushed back a lock of greasy hair and nodded, taking in everything with piercing green eyes that seemed to see through them. Her dress was made of faded silk, expensive once but now long past its glory; and she smelled of spice and musk.

The seer sat before a low, intricately carved table, its worn surface wrought with complicated 23

runes. In the center of the table was a crystal globe, set atop a golden stand. Both the globe and its stand were of much greater quality than Tris had anticipated, and he looked more closely at the crone.

She raised a bony finger and leveled it at the bard’s chest. “You first, minstrel,” she rasped, and motioned for Carroway to kneel. She looked up at Tris and Soterius, and her eyes narrowed.

“Wait in silence.”

She hummed a raspy chant, ancient and strange, intoned just below Tris’s ability to catch the words. Her gnarled hands caressed the crystal, brushing its surface, shaping themselves around it gently, hovering just above its smooth contours.

The globe began to glow, a cold, swirling blue that began at its nexus and gradually filled the whole crystal with a brilliant flare. The crone closed her eyes, humming and swaying.

When she spoke, it was in the clear tones of a young girl, without a trace of the smoky rasp they’d heard before. “You are the maker of tales and the taker of lives,” said the girl’s voice, bell-like and preternatural. “Your tales will be the greatest Margolan has ever known, but sorrow, yes, great sorrow will teach you your songs. Take heed, dreamspinner,” the voice warned. “Your journey lies among the immortals. Guard well your soul.”

Tris realized he was holding his breath. Soterius stared, unmoving. Carroway, eyes wide, watched the swaying seer with amazement. The seer’s face relaxed, as if a curtain had fallen, and the voice went silent.

“Let’s get out of here,” Soterius said.

“Stay,” the crone commanded, and while she did not raise her rasping voice, the grated com-24

mand froze Soterius in place. “You will come, soldier,” she said as Carroway, still dazed, scrambled to his feet. Ashen, Soterius obeyed.

From the voluminous pockets of her frayed robe, the hag withdrew a well‐worn pack of cards.

Jalbet cards. Tris recognized the stock‐in‐trade of roadside oracles and the parlor amusement of ladies at court. Deftly, the crone laid down four cards.

“The Ox,” the crone grated, naming the cards. “The Black River. The Coin. The Dark Lady.” The crone gave a harsh laugh. “These speak for the Goddess,” she rasped. “Look with care.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Silence!” Her twisted finger stroked the first worn card. “The Ox is the card of strength. Your health and strength will serve you well, soldier. Together with the Black River, the cards speak of war.” She spoke as if to herself, her dry voice taking on a singsong quality. “You will prosper.

That is the tale of the coin. But,” she hissed, as

one broken nail quivered above the last card, “beware. For your journey shall be taken along dark roads, in the company of the dead and the undead. You will be among the servants of the Dark Lady. Guard well your soul.”

Soterius swallowed hard, staring at the cards. He gave a nervous glance at the globe, which remained clear and unremarkable. The crone looked up at Tris, and beckoned wordlessly. His heart thudding, Tris obeyed, settling nervously into his seat as Soterius hurried out of the way.

“Give me your hand,” the crone commanded, reaching across the table. Slowly, Tris extended his hand, turning it palm up as the witch drew it toward her.

“A great quest will come to you, Son of the Lady,” the crone whispered, tracing a barely visible 25

line on Tris’s palm with her nail. “Who can see its end?” she mumbled, her nail tracing the folds of Tris’s palm. “Many souls hang in the balance. Your way lies in shadow.” She caught her breath, her finger trembling.

“What is it?” Tris breathed, afraid to speak above a whisper.

“You are indeed the Lady’s own,” the crone rasped. “Your hand betrays no time of dying.”

“Everyone dies.”

“As the Lady sees fit. Your time is of her making. You are truly in the Lady’s hands,” she whispered. “Guard well your soul, or all is lost.” Then, before their eyes, the crone’s image wavered, and while her mouth moved, they could not hear her words. Tris could feel a strange power pulling at the spirit, a force he could not identify. The spirit seemed to disintegrate, fading first to haze and then to nothing.

Soterius tugged at Tris’s shirt, nearly pulling him to his feet. “Come on!” the soldier urged, his voice just shy of panic. “Let’s go.”

The smell of roasting meat wafted from the banquet hall. A roaring fire crackled in the huge hearth and musicians played a lively tune as the guests hustled in. With a grin, Carroway joined his companion minstrels, eagerly accepting the lute that one of his friends pressed into his hands. Tris could see Jared at the front of the room near the king’s table, angrily berating a servant. Tris saw the studied control in the seneschal’s face as Zachar struggled to show neither his disapproval nor his embarrassment. Kait motioned Tris towards two seats next to her, and he and Soterius slipped through the crowd to take their places. Kait’s falcon shifted, nervously, and Kait signaled to the falconer, who accepted her bird onto his gauntleted arm and whisked the predator away to quieter mews.

“Your father’s never allowed falcons at the table in the manor,” Soterius whispered to Kait. “I’ll 26

have to tell him how it’s done at court.”

Kait gave him a bantering look of disappointment. “Another fashion you can share with the rural nobility,” she said with feigned ennui. ,

Tris glanced at Soterius, aware that the other tensed. “What’s wrong,” Tris asked, scanning the crowd that awaited King Bricen’s arrival.

Soterius shook his head, and while his expression was neutral, his eyes showed their concern.

“The guards assigned to the feast aren’t the ones I ordered,” he said barely above a whisper.

“I’m going to have a word with the lieutenant over there,” he said. But just as Soterius moved to leave the dais, a trumpet’s herald announced the arrival of King Bricen of Margolan.

“Later,” he murmured, frustrated at the delay. Tris watched Bricen and Queen Serae process through the throng, stopping to greet the well‐wishers who pressed around them. His father’s ruddy exuberance told Tris that the king had enjoyed a few pints of ale in his private rooms before joining in the celebration. Serae, always so coolly self‐possessed, seemed to glide across the floor, graciously accepting the curtsies and bows of the ladies and nobles who formed an aisle among the tables. Bricen assisted Serae onto the dais just as Jared concluded haranguing the servant, and Bricen glowered at his eldest son, whose mute glare in return made no pretense to shield the tensions between father and son from onlookers.

“Good gentles,” the king boomed. “Tonight, let both the living and the dead make merry! As we are now, so once were they. And by the Goddess, as they are now, so we shall someday be, so best we eat and drink while we may!”

The king took his seat and washed his hands in the proffered bowl. The cupbearers began their work and a procession of kitchen staff followed the steward to the king’s table, bearing steaming trenchers of roasted game. Carroway and his fellow musicians struck up a jolly tune, and the 27

buzz of conversation, interrupted by the king’s arrival, resumed its din. But despite the festive atmosphere, Tris felt a chill settle over him. The ghost’s cryptic warning repeated in his mind.

Glancing around the greatroom, Tris could see none of the palace spirits that were usually so evident, even to those without a trace of magical talent. Never could he recall the ghosts’

absence from such a feast, especially on Haunts.

As dinner wore on, Tris could sense Soterius’s increasing tension. At the first opportunity, Soterius excused himself and slipped over to speak with the ranking lieutenant. In a few moments, he returned, looking no less concerned. “What’s going on?” Tris murmured.

“I don’t like it. The lieutenant said he was ordered to change the guards by Jared.” Soterius gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. “Look around. They’re all new guards, the younger ones who fancy Jared’s talk of a bigger army. I’d ordered more of the seasoned men, whose loyalty to the king I don’t doubt.”

Tris looked out over the crowd. Soterius was correct. For months, Jared had been visiting the barracks. To “raise the spirits” of the guards, the prince had replied in answer to his father’s questions. Bricen, perhaps tired of the incessant arguments with his heir, had let it go at that.

Now, Tris felt his misgivings renewed about Jared’s sudden interest. Of equal concern, he noted, scanning the guests, were the faces he saw—and did not see—among the partygoers. Few of the older nobles were in attendance, lords

and barons whose loyalty to the crown was absolute. Those who figured among the guests looked ill at ease, a rarity at one of Bricen’s legendary fetes. Instead, Tris saw many of the newer nobles, landowners whose first‐generation status had been won on the field of combat or bestowed by recent favor. And like the guards, Tris knew that these newly titled men looked favorably on Jared’s fiery rhetoric of expansion and conquest, finding it much more exciting than Bricen’s stable statesmanship.

On pretext of returning a poor goblet of wine, Tris signaled to Zachar. A whispered question and confirmation gave Tris his answer, though it did nothing to allay his concern.

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“Zachar says that many of the older nobles responded late to the invitation, as if they hadn’t received notice in time,” Tris related to Soterius under his breath. “Very strange. And there seemed to be some pressing reason in each case why they couldn’t attend.”

“You think they know something we should?”

Tris stole a glance toward Jared’s end of the table, where Foor Arontala sat next to Jared, toying with the food on his trencher but consuming nothing. “Maybe there was some ‘help’ creating those pressing reasons,” Tris said, looking away as Arontala’s unblinking gaze leveled in his direction.