The Summoner (31 page)

“Are you a warrior?” the girl breathed in adulation.

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Despite the seriousness of the situation, Kiara found herself smiling. “Not really,” she said, letting her cloak cover her scabbard once more. “Where I come from, everyone trains as a fighter, from the time we can hold a sword, so that we

never have to suffer from fools like those,” she said, with a jerk of her head in the direction the guards had gone.

“We have nothing of value,” the farmer said, “but my brother waits for us in the camp just over the border in Principality. Knowing you’re high born and all, I’ve no right to ask, but perhaps you’d share a meal with us, if you be hungry. Sleep well, you could—safe with us— until you’re on your way.” He smiled self‐consciously. “Find a healer for that cut, too,” he said, looking toward Kiara’s shoulder.

Kiara had almost forgotten the wound until now, but she felt at the ripped cloth, chagrined to find it soaked with blood. Still, not a bad wound, she appraised as she gingerly touched the injury. She had taken worse in practice bouts. But a healer’s poultice might still take out the soreness and keep it from going bad.

Kiara smiled at the nervous farmer and his awestruck daughter. “I would be honored to eat with you,” she said, and the man brightened in unbelief at his fortune. Shyly, the girl reached out to pet Wraith, shrinking back as the great black horse turned a dark eye to look at her, and then, gaining the courage to gently stroke the horse. “You were very brave back there,” Kiara said quietly to the girl, who smiled gratefully and averted her eyes.

“Thank you,” the girl said quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Kiara replied, trying not to wonder how many other young girls the soldiers had encountered, girls who did not have a protector appear out of nowhere.

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Kiara worked her way slowly through the throng behind the farmer, who became something of a celebrity. For Kiara, the refugees moved aside with a reverence that made her feel self-conscious, closing behind her with whispered comments about Jae, the warhorse and her sword.

Inwardly, Kiara sighed, torn between her chagrin at making herself so conspicuous, and her knowledge that she could not have sat idle and let the girl be abused. That’s what you get for taking yourself so bloody seriously, she thought. Now every bard in Principality will have a new story, and every border guard in Margolan will have a new target. Perhaps, out here, weeks from Margolan’s palace, the incident would go unnoticed. Please, she silently beseeched the Goddess. The last thing I need is the Margolan guard on my trail, she thought. Neither she nor the farmer said anything else as the group moved on until they were long past the border and the fires of the refugee camp came into view.

The camp was really a collection of tumbledown lean‐tos made from scraps of lumber and tents fashioned from worn blankets. More than fifty fires burned, and Kiara guessed from the bustle around her that each fire easily represented ten to fifteen refugees. The camp smelled of waste and animals, roasting meat and sharp onions. Dogs and pigs ran past her, and only the autumn cold prevented the ground from becoming a fetid pool of mud. She was glad she did not have to experience the smells of the camp in high summer, and was grateful that the steppe flies were dormant for the winter. She sighed as she looked over the makeshift camp. Unless Jared were stopped, and soon, more would experience the misery of the camps, until Jared quelled the flow of refugees or the surrounding nations were forced to close their borders.

The farmer, whose name was Lessel, guided Kiara through the crowded camp until they met his brother, a darker version of himself, who greeted them heartily and invited them to share his fire. Tethering Wraith, Kiara followed Lessel to sit by the fire, jostled by his dozen nieces and nephews who crowded around for a look at the “sword lady.” To Kiara’s relief, Lessel and his brother asked no questions, happy to have a way to show their gratitude.

“All these people,” Kiara asked after she finished a bowl of stew, “are they from Margolan?”

Tadrie, Lessel’s brother, nodded grimly. “Aye, ma’am. And until King Bricen’s death, we were proud of it. But there’s something evil astir in Margolan,” he said, “and any that can are running, 259

as a sane man would do.”

Kiara frowned. “How could things go so wrong so fast?” she asked. As Tice often pointed out during his interminable history lessons, peasants often lived in miserable situations for generations, uncomplaining even under onerous kings. What degree of oppression must have happened, she wondered, to force so many to leave behind their lands and livelihoods?

“It’s almost too big for the telling,” Tadrie said. One of his children crawled up onto his lap and a dog scratched his way closer to the fire, teasing a scrap from the dirt. “Whether it be the new king or his whore‐spawn mage I can’t say, but no sane man can stay in Margolan and keep his life for long.” He paused and stroked his daughter’s hair absently. “It’s not just the taxes, ma’am,” Tadrie said, staring at the fire. “We’re used to them. And we know that a new king always makes them higher, even if we have no more to give. And it’s not just the soldiers, thieving our pigs and busting up a wagon or two to get their payment.” He shook his head, but his eyes were hard in the firelight, remembering.

“Never in all the years King Bricen ruled, or his father or his grandfather, did the soldiers of Margolan carry off women from our villages for their own use,” he said, his voice rough with anger. “Never once were our homes and crops burned, our animals slaughtered, our men hanged. And never did we see the Dark Things that roam about the woods now, whatever they are, Goddess take them,” he said with a shudder.

“Dark Things?” Kiara asked, feeling a sudden chill. Unconsciously, her hand fell to the dagger the Sisterhood had given her. It will turn the undead, the Sister had told her. In the hand of a mage, it will destroy the soul of an Immortal.

“Aye,” Tadrie replied. “I’ve heard them, caught a glimpse, but no one who has seen them close has lived to tell. Once, I found a piece of one,” he said with a shudder, “although I can’t imagine what could kill one of those,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh, the guards told us it was the vayash moru. But it’s not.”

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“How can you be so sure?” Kiara asked, leaning forward, as Lessel’s wife approached her tentatively with a steaming mug of watered ale and, with an awkward curtsey, pressed it into her hands before fleeing.

Both Lessel and Tadrie shook their heads once more. “Because in Margolan, we’ve never feared the vayash moru,” he said, and Kiara tried not to show her amazement at how matter‐of‐factly the two men spoke of the undead among them. “Oh, we’ve heard tell of other places where they prey on folks, but in all the years my father lived, and his father and grandfather before him, never have we been harmed by them. Fact is,” he said, “they seem to know who the bad ‘uns are, and if they take a man, he’s one about to have his neck stretched for thieving or worse.

Most of the time, I guess they live from animals though, of course, we only see them rarely.” He managed a half‐smile. “They don’t mix with our kind, unless they have to.”

“You’ve met one?”

Tadrie nodded seriously. “Aye. They’re a solitary sort. The one I met didn’t give me aught to fear.

Perhaps I didn’t meet him when he was hungry,” he chuckled, and Lessel laughed with him.

Tadrie sobered. “But their kind have it worst in Margolan right now,” he continued. “Being blamed for what the soldiers do. A body with any sense ought to know that it’s all lies, but some as have been afraid of the vayash moru see a chance to get even, I guess. Soldiers burning them out, putting a stake through them and throwing them out in daylight—worse, too.” He sighed.

“The soldiers aren’t particular when they’re hunting, if you take my meaning. Many a regular person’s been burned, just on tales folks tell.” He shook his head once more. “It’s bad, ma’am.”

Kiara sipped her drink thoughtfully. If what he said were true, she thought, then two courses were likely. The vayash moru might rise up against Jared Drayke and work their own vengeance or they might forsake their peace with mortal neighbors, and strike back. She shivered. Either way, Tadrie was right. It was a bad time to be in Margolan.

Just then, Lessel leaned forward and gently touched her shoulder, just above her wound. “We must have you see a healer,” Lessel said.

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“There is a healer who comes to the camp,” Tadrie said, rising. “From where, I do not know. He is not one of us. Come. We will look for him.”

Kiara rose and followed the brothers, winding through the crowded camp among the makeshift bedrolls and banked fires, stepping over offal and around dogs and chickens, and picking her way over the tangle of sleeping children and idle adults. How Tadrie took his bearings in the chaos, Kiara had no idea. Finally, they reached a tent just within the camp’s perimeter. Several small pots steamed on the fire, smelling of herbs and succulents, and more herbs dried on haphazard racks made of sticks. A thin, hollow‐cheeked

man hunched over the fire, stirring one of the pots.

“Begging your pardon,” Tadrie interrupted respectfully, as the man looked up at them, his large dark piercing eyes fixing Kiara as if they could look into her soul. The healer stood, and Kiara realized that beneath his voluminous robes he was slightly built, but his forearms attested to a whipcord strong frame and his hands spoke of hard work. Lank brown hair fell to his shoulders with a slight wave, and around his neck hung several amulets. Just as he was about to speak, he was taken by a paroxysm of coughing that lasted until Kiara feared for him.

“What can I do for you?” the healer asked, when the coughing finally subsided.

“This woman helped my brother on the road from Margolan,” Tadrie said. “She stopped two soldiers from hurting his child. She’s been cut on her shoulder,” he said, gesturing. “Please, can you help her?”

The healer nodded. Tadrie gestured for Kiara to step closer. “This is Sakwi. He will take good care of you.” Tadrie looked to the healer again. “Thank you,” he said. “We must go back to our family now,” Tadrie said to Kiara, “but you are welcome to pass the night with us. You can sleep safely.

None here will let anything harm you.”

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“Thank you,” Kiara said. “Save me a place,” she added. Tadrie and Lessel nodded, then made their way back to the throng.

“Now let’s look at that arm,” Sakwi said, moving closer. He gently peeled back the cloth and frowned, then crossed to a pot near the fire and dipped a cloth in its liquid, wringing out the steaming rag as he walked back to her. “First, to clean it,” he said, dabbing carefully at the wound until he was satisfied. Then he opened a small leather case and began to rummage through it. He withdrew a vial and dipped a second cloth into another pot, sprinkling it with the contents of the vial and working it in his hands until a paste covered the surface. He returned to Kiara and bandaged her shoulder. The warm poultice felt good, taking the pain from the cut. The pungent scent of herbs cleared her mind.

“How is it that a woman travels alone through Margolan?” Sakwi asked.

Kiara looked toward the fire. “I am on a journey for my father,” she replied.

Sakwi met her eyes, studying her. “Show me your sword.” Kiara paused, then shrugged and drew her blade, holding the flat of the sword on her open hands for him to see in the firelight, which glittered on the fine engraving of twined roses and thorns.

The healer caught his breath. “You are the one,” he said, and as if triggered by the sharp intake, began to cough again. The deep coughs wracked his thin frame.

“It sounds like you need a healer yourself,” Kiara observed as she resheathed her sword.

Sakwi shook his head. “It is something no healer may mend. I fear it is the touch of the Goddess, perhaps to keep me humble,” he said with a half smile. “Maybe it will take me to her 263

someday, hmm? But not yet I think. Not yet. Come, sit with me by the fire. I have something for you.”

Curious, Kiara followed him to a log near the fire, and sat as he motioned her to join him. Jae fluttered to land beside her. Sakwi looked into the fire. “A fortnight ago, I had a dream of the Goddess. She was holding a sword, entwined with roses, and told me to take a message to Margolan. She said to wait among her lost children, for the one for whom the message was sent.

I found this camp,” he said, gesturing toward the bedraggled refugees around him, “and here I waited. This is the sword from my dream. So the message must be for you.”

“And what message is that?” Kiara asked cautiously.

“This,” Sakwi replied, reaching under his robe to draw out a star‐shaped gem set in silver, about the size of her palm. The pendant hung from a sturdy chain.

“What is that?” she breathed.

Sakwi’s deep‐set, dark eyes seemed older than his years. “It was given to me for safekeeping, many years ago. I was told to share it with no one until the Goddess herself told me otherwise.

Now, you have come. The Library at Westmarch is where you will find that which you seek.” The star‐shaped amulet in his hand pulsed with a warm glow like the beating of a heart. “The Library at Westmarch was spelled against intruders,” Sakwi went on. “I am told that this amulet will allow you to enter.”

Sakwi motioned for Kiara to incline her head, and he gently dropped the star pendant’s chain around her neck. The gem glowed once more, then went dark.

“What do you know of the Library?”

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“For those the Lady sends, it still exists,” Sakwi said cryptically. “And to the rest, it might not exist at all. For you, it will give its secrets.”

Kiara gingerly lifted the heavy pendant and tucked it carefully into her tunic. “Can you tell me anything more?”

Sakwi shook his head. “About the Library, no. But look,” he said with a barely perceptible nod.

“Someone else seems to be looking for you.”

Kiara looked up and felt her heart sink. On the far edge of the crowd, barely visible in the firelight, were five Margolan guardsmen. Lady, what have I done? Kiara groaned inwardly, knowing the guards were looking for her. Or worse—planning a reprisal against the camp and its ragtag inhabitants.