The Summoner (33 page)

With a shriek and the rustle of wings, the hawk dropped from the sky, targeting its kill. Tris felt the mouse’s panic like a visceral shock, nearly falling backward with sympathetic impact as the hawk’s talons struck. Tris’s heart raced as he struggled to break the contact before the mouse’s terror moved him beyond reason. He could feel the rodent’s fear as the hawk winged higher, felt the awful grip and the sudden, sharp pain as talons dug into the mouse’s flesh. Then, with the same wrenching sensation he had experienced on the battlefield, Tris felt the small creature’s spirit shudder loose and flicker out.

“No!” The word tore from his throat, deep and guttural, a howl more than a reasoned cry.

Startled, the hawk dropped the dead mouse, even as Tris felt his power lash out, unbidden. He saw the animal hit the ground and lie still, and then, to his amazement, saw its savaged body begin to twitch. He stretched out his hand just as a heavy boot came down on the reanimated mouse, snuffing out the glimmer before Tris could react and breaking his contact with the animal with a violent lurch that left him gasping for breath.

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Alyzza stood before him, her face a mixture of sternness and fear.

“Why?” Tris croaked, torn between the intensity of the experience and his own wordless loss.

“Don’t you know what you have done?” the old crone rasped, and in the moonlight, Tris realized that she was trembling, whether with fear or cold or rage, he could not tell.

Mutely, he shook his head, staring at the spot where the mouse lay.

“I know little of Spirit magic, but this I do know,” Alyzza hissed. “Never may you bind a spirit that truly desires to leave. Never may you reanimate the dead. And never may you call the dead against their will.”

Tris swallowed hard, still groping for equilibrium after the sudden, violent dissolution of his trance. “But… I don’t understand…” he managed. The words tumbled out as Alyzza listened silently, then nodded when he finished.

“A spirit that wishes to remain can be bound to this world without a penalty on your soul,” the old witch said, fixing Tris with the intense glare of her mismatched eyes. “Just like a spirit that desires to live may be anchored to its body until the breach be healed, if you have the power,”

she said. “And the dead that are not free to leave this world may be summoned, so long as you do not seek to bind them to your will or encumber their souls. But,” she hissed, leaning toward him for emphasis. “No mage of the Light may reanimate a corpse, nor impose a spirit which is not its own. It is forbidden.”

“Why?” Tris asked as Alyzza moved her boot and he stared forlornly at the torn body of the mouse.

“Those mysteries are not mine to know,” the crone replied. “But I do know that to defy the Lady is to risk your soul. The Obsidian King breathed another spirit into the dead and bound them as 275

his slaves.”

“You knew the Obsidian King?”

The hag cackled. “Those of us who waged war against him will never forget, even in our dreams,” she said, a shadow of pain crossing her features. “Did you really think that something less would have driven me mad?”

“Are you mad?”

Alyzza laughed harshly. “Oh yes, quite.”

Just then, not far from the forest’s edge, they heard a cry and the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground. Straining to see, unwilling to risk his magesight once more, Tris could barely make out the shadows of two men locked in combat, although he could hear their groans of effort and the dull thwack of fist meeting flesh. In a moment, one shadow was victorious, and knelt astride its victim’s back, pinning the other to the

ground.

“Since you’re out there, Tris, could you lend a hand?” Vahanian’s sardonic voice cut through the darkness.

Tris snatched up his sword and ran, grateful to leave Alyzza behind. He helped Vahanian keep his struggling prisoner pinned as they bound his wrists, then jerked the man to his feet.

“What happened?” Tris breathed as they began to wrestle their prisoner toward the camp.

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“Caught a spy,” the mercenary replied tersely. “Has no business sneaking around the camp at night, and I don’t like the idea of who might be buying his information,” Vahanian added, giving the man a shove toward Linton’s tent. “Should I ask why you were out in the woods alone at night?” he asked, an edge in his voice.

Tris looked away. “I—”

“Oh, never mind,” Vahanian cut him off. “I probably don’t want to know. Here’s Linton’s tent,”

he said abruptly. “Let’s see what our visitor has to say for himself.”

The fat little caravan master groaned as Vahanian bellowed an urgent wakeup. Linton fumbled to light a candle. “Jonmarc, this had better be good,” the merchant cursed as he stumbled to the tent flap, then fell silent as he took in their prisoner.

“I was out on guard duty and found this skulking around the edge of camp,” Vahanian said, giving the man a push. Vahanian pulled a stool forward and pushed the prisoner to sit.

“Now,” Vahanian said, drawing the dagger at his belt and letting it glimmer obviously in the candlelight as he turned it in his hands, “let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

Their prisoner looked from one to the other, then moved his mouth to speak, but the garbled words were unintelligible. With a curse, Linton turned on Vahanian.

“Wonderful work, Jonmarc. You’ve broken his jaw.”

“Maybe we can heal him enough to get the story. What about Carina?”

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“I can’t think of many worse ways to get on her wrong side. You’d better let me fetch her,”

Linton said resignedly. “I imagine I won’t be getting more sleep.”

Tris and Vahanian waited as Linton left to get the healer. Their captive sat sullenly in his chair.

The signs of his struggle with Vahanian were beginning to show in his face, as one eye was rapidly swelling closed and his cheek purpled. After what seemed like forever, they could hear Linton and Carina arguing as they approached.

“Well, this should make the evening more fun,” Vahanian muttered under his breath as Linton reached for the tent flap and held it open for Carina.

“I know that it’s an unusual thing to ask of you, Carina, but I would appreciate it if—” Linton was saying. His voice faded as they reached the prisoner and Carina looked from the bound man to Vahanian and then reproachfully, to Tris.

“Let me get this straight,” Carina said, lifting her head defiantly and stepping closer in challenge.

“You see someone you don’t know, beat him to a pulp,” she said with a jerk of her head toward the prisoner, “and then you want me to help you interrogate him?”

Tris could see the anger flash in Vahanian’s eyes. “I don’t need your help to interrogate him.

What I need,” he said tersely, “is for you to fix his jaw so that he can tell us why he was scouting our camp.”

“How do you know he was scouting us?” she argued. “I’m amazed you didn’t just run him through and ask questions later.”

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A muscle in Vahanian’s jaw twitched at his effort to remain civil. “I thought about it,” he said evenly. “He’s been sent here by someone, and I’d like to know why.”

With a glare that clearly indicated that the quarrel was not resolved, Carina moved to examine the prisoner. Within moments, she shook her head. “You’ve broken his jaw,” she said, looking up at Vahanian.

“I know that,” Vahanian retorted. “Can you fix it?”

Carina looked to Linton. “I’m not going to heal this man just to have your hired muscle work him over again.”

“You know we would never ask that of you, Carina,” Linton said placatingly. “But it’s important.

Please, try,” he beseeched.

“You understand, don’t you, that I can’t knit broken bone good as new just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I can hurry it along. But even after I’m through, he may not be able to talk for a while.”

“Great,” Vahanian muttered under his breath, and Carina glared at him.

“Look, if you wanted to talk to him, you should have hit him somewhere else.” “Just try,”

Vahanian asked evenly. “Please.” Carina looked at him, then glanced back at Linton. “All right,”

she said finally. “Give me a little room.”

After nearly a candlemark, Carina stepped back tiredly from her patient and Linton pressed a hot cup of kerif into her hands, which she accepted gratefully. Their prisoner looked down at the floor, still silent. Tris noticed that in addition to whatever healing Carina had worked on the man’s jaw, she had also managed to reduce the swelling over his blackened eye and heal his 279

bruised cheek. Throughout the healing, Vahanian leaned on a tent post, arms folded, his face grim.

“That’s the best I can do,” Carina finally said.

“Can he talk?” Vahanian grated.

Carina shot the mercenary an angry glance. “You can try,” she said.

“Thank you, Carina,” Linton interposed, stepping between the two and taking Carina’s arm. “Let me walk you back to your tent,” he said, gently steering her toward the tent opening. “We are so fortunate to have a healer like you with us, and I apologize coming to you like that in the middle of the night—”

Unmoved by the flattery, Carina paused in the tent entrance to glance warningly back at Vahanian. “Leave him in one piece,” she ordered. “I don’t want to have to do this again.”

“No promises,” Vahanian replied evenly, with a measured glance toward the prisoner. “I’m watching out for the camp. Whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes,” Carina repeated, shaking her head. If she had a mind to add more she decided against it, turning instead to accept Linton’s arm and head for her tent. Linton shot a look over his shoulder, which plainly cautioned Vahanian to be quiet, and then let the tent flap fall shut behind him, leaving Tris and Vahanian alone with the prisoner.

“Now,” Vahanian said, stepping within arm’s reach of the prisoner, “let’s try the questions again,” he said in a dangerous voice. “And you really ought to know,” he said to the prisoner,

“that I usually don’t listen to the lady. So it might be healthy for you to tell me everything I want 280

to know.”

The prisoner gave up his story without forcing Vahanian to do more damage. He was looking for food and whatever loot he could carry. Tris could tell by Vahanian’s manner that the mercenary suspected more but after a candlemark’s questioning, Vahanian finally stepped back with a curse and shook his head.

“Satisfied, Jonmarc?” Linton asked from where the fat little man sat on a hassock, watching the proceedings with folded arms.

“No, but it’s all I’m going to get,” Vahanian replied tersely.

Just then, Cam stuck his head into the tent. “Excuse me, Maynard,” the big man said, with a glance toward Tris and Vahanian, “but there are some people here to see you.”

“This fellow was just leaving,” Vahanian replied, pulling the prisoner to his feet and walking him to the door. “Would you mind seeing him to the edge of camp, Cam, and heading him away from wherever we’re going?”

Cam nodded, taking the prisoner by the arm. “I can do that. I heard you had a restless night,” he said non‐committally, with a meaningful look at Vahanian.

“Can’t imagine who told you that,” Vahanian replied. He looked out beyond Cam to where three men on horseback waited, dressed in the robes of Mussa traders. Behind their horses trailed three pack mules, each with a waist‐high basket strapped to either side and loaded down with bolts of silks wrapped in protective burlap.

Linton shouldered past Cam and Vahanian to meet the traders. “Greetings, friend traders,” the caravan master bustled, managing not to look as if he had been up all night. “Welcome to our 281

caravan. What may we do for you?”

“I don’t know about you, but I could use some food and some sleep,” Tris murmured under his breath. “Let’s go.”

Vahanian shook his head, not taking his eyes off the traders. “Not yet. I don’t like this.

Something’s not right. I want to stick around.”

The traders dismounted and gave the reins of their mounts to two of the riggers. They walked behind Linton into his tent, not glancing back as Tris and Vahanian followed them inside and took up unobtrusive spots along the tent wall.

Linton motioned the traders to sit and moved to pour them each a mugful of kerif from the pot that boiled on the fire. “So, my friends, what is your business?”

“We are silk traders from Mussa,” the taller man replied. He was a strongly built man, with a beard and a tan that testified to a life on the road. “We are traveling toward the south, but we have been on the road for some time, and would appreciate the hospitality of a caravan for the night before we continue on our way.”

“Tell me about the road north,” Linton asked, drawing up a hassock and ignoring Tris and Vahanian. “We have heard many things.”

The tall trader laughed. “I am sure of that. We found the road clear, the weather horrible as usual, and the women happy for new silks.”

Linton frowned. “The road was clear?”

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“Why yes,” the tall trader replied. “As good as can be expected this time of year.”

“You found nothing… unusual… on your journey?”

The tall trader shook his head. “No, why do you ask?”

Linton shrugged. “There have been rumors that ‘strange things’ have been seen on the road north.”

The tall trader laughed, revealing a mouth dotted with gold teeth. “I have been on the road for many years, my friend, and seen many strange things. But I saw nothing remarkable on our journey here.”

“You are welcome to stay the night here,” Linton said, “but we will be on our way in the morning. We hope to reach Dhasson’s border before the winter weather makes the road more difficult.”

“A wise choice,” agreed the tall trader. “We wintered once, not by choice mind you, near here because we lingered too long before the storms. It was not our most pleasant winter.” He stood and his companions did the same. “If you will direct us to a place where we can rest, we will not trouble you any longer.”

“I’ll have someone show you to our trading tent,” Linton replied. “We’re packing the camp today, so it won’t be in use. You can rest there, at least until the riggers take it down.”