The Summoner (36 page)

Tris felt his heart pound. Vahanian was far paler than usual, and a faint blue already tinged his lips. The smuggler’s breath was shallow and rapid, and a nasty crimson stain below his ribs soaked his tunic. Tarren stepped forward, drawing a dagger, and Carina shrank back instinctively. The slaver reached down and sliced through her bonds.

“All right,” Tarren said, crossing his arms. “He lives and so do you. If he dies… there are plenty of brothels that would be glad for you.”

Tris managed as reassuring a glance as he could muster. Carina knelt beside Vahanian and let her right hand glide down the length of the smuggler’s body. She moved slowly, beginning with his head, and as her hand moved across his features, the superficial marks of battle—a split lip, a purple bruise on his cheek, a surface cut along his jaw, faded. Tarren watched intently, noting the changes with raised eyebrow.

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Tris slowed his breathing and let himself slip into a trance. As if suspended between two realms, he was dimly aware of the slavers’ camp, but he also saw the spirit plains, and sensed Carina’s healing on a different, life‐force level. It was possible to share limited communication, Tris and Carina had found, here in the trance.

Tris, help me! Carina called to him.

Tris breathed deeply and focused his senses on the life force that was Carina, channeling his own energy to her as he had done before in the healer’s hut. As he brushed her spirit, he could sense the toll the healing was already taking on her strength.

Carina’s hands reached Vahanian’s abdomen and she blanched, tearing at the fighter’s shirt with both hands to expose a deep belly wound. Tris let the scene in front of him recede further, trying to blunt his own emotions and channel more energy to Carina. He felt a wave of panic in return.

He’s dying, Tris! I don’t think I can heal this in time.

Tris stretched his mage senses further. He licked his lips with concentration, willing himself deeper still, until he could not smell the smoke or hear the cries of the prisoners, until nothing existed at all except the darkness behind his closed eyes.

And then, he glimpsed it, a thin, evanescent strand of light, so dim that it barely shone above the darkness. It flickered and instinctively Tris

dove for it, stretching out with all his will until he reached the glowing strand. He looked back, and saw himself as a second, more brightly glowing strand, as if all the vital strength of his life force could be captured in a single, shining thread. On instinct, he reinforced Vahanian’s flickering strand with his own, picturing himself hanging on to the end of a slipping cord with all his strength, hoping that he could lend his strength for long enough for Carina to work her 303

healing.

Unbidden, Alyzza’s warning in the glade returned to mind. Never, never can you bind a soul that does not wish to stay, the old witch had warned. Tris held on to the flickering strand with all his might, sensing no desire for the spirit to depart.

He waited forever in the darkness, suspended in unending night. The strand that was Vahanian’s fragile life still flickered, but to Tris’s relief, did not fade further. Nor did Tris feel the wrenching separation he had experienced at Kait’s death, when it was not her life but her spirit he had caused to remain. Perhaps, he hoped, that meant that he was doing what Carina needed him to do, sustaining Vahanian while she worked, and lending his strength to support both the healer and her patient.

The strain began to take its toll as Tris struggled to keep his concentration. Once, the thread flickered dangerously, and Tris lunged for it with all his will. He imagined that he felt the thread surge toward him in response, and clung to the hope of that faint sign of life. Time meant nothing there in the blackness, cut off from all senses but the presence of the clear blue light.

Gradually, Tris felt a growing warmth, which began from the very edges of his perception, warming the chill of the blackness as it advanced resolutely.

Just a little longer, Tris heard Carina urge, tired but steady. He redoubled his own flagging efforts, and found, to his relief, that the glimmering thread that was Vahanian no longer flickered, but pulsed a dim, steady blue.

After what seemed like an eternity, Tris heard Carina’s voice again. Break the contact, she urged.

Tris imagined himself gently letting go of the strengthened blue thread, easing his way back through the darkness, which by now had lightened to pale twilight. With a lurch, he came back to himself, and opened his eyes, painfully aware that both his feet had gone to sleep and his back cramped uncomfortably.

Vahanian groaned and heaved a deep breath. Tris dared a look at the swordsman. Vahanian’s 304

breathing was measured and deep, and color had returned to his face.

“Well done, healer,” Tarren said appraisingly. “You there,” he hailed two of the slavers who were among the small crowd that gathered to watch the healing, “tie him up and make sure it’s secure,” he said with a nod toward Vahanian.

The slavers took a step back, fear plain in their faces. “Vayash moru,” they murmured, and the murmur spread among the small crowd.

Tarren looked at them with contempt. “Rubbish. Wives’ tales, all of it.” He looked levelly at the two again, and the slavers seemed to shrink in on themselves, torn between their fear of Vahanian and their fear of their commander. “Now, tie him and make it tight,” Tarren repeated in a voice that threatened worse than any vengeance of the undead. Pale but obedient, the slavers did as they were bid, binding Vahanian to a stake in the ground between Tris and Carina. Carroway, to Tris’s right, gave Tris a silent nod of approval. On Carina’s left, Alyzza, still hooded, rocked back and forth, humming a haunting melody.

Once Tarren and the others left, Tris glanced over to Carina. The healer slumped against the stake to which she was tied, eyes on the ground. “You were fantastic,” Tris praised. “I never believed in miracles, but that was close.”

Carina barely managed a wan smile in acknowledgment. “I couldn’t have done it without you.

Truly,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. The life had gone out of her voice, leaving it flat and tired. He guessed that she was thinking about Cam, and feeling his loss even more potently than before, having lost her healing partner as well as her brother.

“We don’t know for sure about Cam and the others,” he said as hopefully as he could muster.

“Ban and Tov are resourceful. Maybe they were able to slip away, get help,” he suggested, although in his heart, he feared the worst.

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Carina shook her head. “I want to believe that,” she whispered, her voice catching. “But I think we’re just fooling ourselves. And we were so close to Dhasson.”

“Somehow, we’re going to make it,” Tris swore, although his resolve far surpassed any ideas of how he might make good his oath. “We have to. I have to.”

Carina looked up and held his gaze for a long moment, as if she were taking his measure anew. “I shouldn’t dare to hope,” she whispered finally. “But I wish I could.”

Vahanian roused from his spot between them, then settled back into an uneasy rest. “What about him?” Tris asked, worriedly. He knew how close Vahanian had been to death. Any escape attempt would hinge on the swordsman’s recovery.

“I don’t know,” Carina answered honestly. “He’s much better than before, but it was pretty bad.

I didn’t sense any permanent damage, but then again, there wasn’t a lot of time.”

Tris nodded. Carroway leaned as close to Tris as the bard could and hissed through his teeth to get Tris’s attention. “What’s the plan?” Carroway whispered, keeping a wary eye on their distant guards.

Tris grimaced. “Watch and wait, at least for now,” he replied with as much of a shrug as his bonds would permit. “And hope for an opening.”

“There aren’t many of us left,” Carroway observed soberly. “Fewer to rescue, but on the other hand, fewer to help fight.”

“I know,” Tris replied, closing his eyes as the bruises and wounds of the day began to ache in 306

earnest. “It will have to do.”

At dawn, the rest of the slavers’ camp joined them. Provision wagons rolled noisily into the remains of the caravan grounds, followed by pack mules and finally two wagons filled with another dozen manacled slaves. The slaves on the wagon regarded the new captives with studied disinterest, avoiding eye contact.

They’ve given up, Tris thought. Not a one of them looks like he’s spoiling for a fight. Another omen that any reprieve would have to be of their own making. Tris shut his eyes, willing himself to find a steady center and review his last lessons with Carina. This time he must be ready, he thought. When the time came, his powers—new as they might be—must be under his control.

He glanced at Vahanian’s slumped form. Sleep well, my friend, Tris thought. I’m going to need time.

Tris watched the slavers closely throughout the next morning. The band appeared to number no more than thirty. They made camp efficiently and were well provisioned. Tris’s spirits sank. It was unlikely that these slavers would provide them with an easy opportunity.

He first caught sight of the young girl at breakfast, slipping quickly among the slavers, dodging them like an experienced scullery maid. Just a few years younger than Kait, he thought, but with a glint to her eyes much more worldly than his sister had acquired. Her brown hair was dirty and matted, caught back with a piece of string. The tattered dress might once have been of good cloth, but was now far too ragged and stained to do more than barely protect her from the cold.

Still, there was quickness in her movement that suggested intelligence, Tris thought with curiosity, although during the first two candlemarks that he watched, the girl appeared to be a disaster in action. She spilled hot karif on one slaver, earning herself an incidental cuffing, which she took without a word. She kicked loose two coals from the fire and set a small patch of grass on fire, disrupting breakfast, for which she apologized abjectly, sparing herself another blow.

But when she tripped over a guywire and tipped Tarren’s breakfast onto the ground, Tris 307

happened to catch her eye and, to his surprise, caught the barest of winks before she scrambled to clean up the mess. Not inept, he thought, smothering a smile. Intentionally destructive, with an impish humor. Before he could guess more, she disappeared inside the cook’s tent.

Just before the breakfast fires were banked, Vahanian stirred. “What hit me?” he moaned to no one in particular, and struggled to open his eyes, then blinked and squinted against the sun.

“From the blood, I imagine the edge of a broadsword,” Tris answered dryly.

Vahanian shifted, seemed to become aware of his bonds for the first time and struggled briefly, then leaned back in surrender against the post that secured him. “Let me guess,” he murmured.

“We lost.”

“Uh huh,” Tris replied.

Just then, the girl appeared with a loaf of bread under her arm and a pitcher and cup in her other hand. She began to work her way down the line of bound prisoners, giving each an ample slice of the bread and holding the cup for them to drink. She caught Tris’s eye knowingly, as if they shared a secret, then moved on to Vahanian.

“How did you get lucky enough to feed the prisoners?” Vahanian asked, licking his lips dryly.

The girl smirked. “Well, for one thing, they sent me to see if you really are vayash moru,” she replied. “I guess if I live through it, they might try. Or maybe not,” she shrugged.

Vahanian sipped greedily at the water. “I don’t understand,” he said. She pushed a bite of bread between his lips.

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“Half the camp is sure you’re back from the dead,” she explained in a whisper, with a surrep-titious glance over her shoulder. “There were bets on that you’d disappear in a puff of smoke come dawn.”

Vahanian swallowed, and bit again at the bread. “I’ve been accused of a lot of things,” he said.

“But that’s a new one.”

“Just promise me something,” the girl said, leaning forward as if to press another bite into his mouth. “I know who you are. I’ve heard them talk about your bounty,” she said, her green eyes bright. “When you escape, take me with you.”

Vahanian opened his eyes a bit wider at that. “I was dead yesterday,” he said, sipping the water she held for him. “What makes you think I’m going anywhere?”

“I’ve heard Tarren talk about you,” she said. “You will.”

Vahanian glanced at Tris and back at the girl again. “Fair enough. What’s your name?” he asked.

“Berry,” the girl replied, giving Vahanian the last of his portion. “I’ve got to go,” she said suddenly, glancing over her shoulder. At that, she moved on to Carina, although she said no more as she fed the remaining prisoners.

The slavers remained at the burned‐out caravan site for two days. On the morning of the second day, a rider approached, and Tris looked up to see a dark, thin‐faced man on horseback ride into camp.

“We’ve got company,” Tris whispered to his companions. Vahanian looked up, then stiffened, his face tight with anger.

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“Vakkis,” he muttered, making the name a curse.

“You know him?”

Vahanian nodded grimly. “Too well. Bounty hunter. He’s the one I warned Linton about, the one I saw in the tavern. Only this time, I’m not top of his list,” he said with a measured glance at Tris.

“You are.”

Tris digested that piece of news wordlessly, watching the stranger approach. Tarren came out to meet Vakkis personally, and while the tall slaver did not completely sacrifice his reserve in his efforts to please the newcomer, it was apparent, even out of earshot, that Vakkis held the upper hand. After a brief conversation, Vakkis and Tarren headed for where the prisoners were tethered, accompanied by two slavers who

walked behind them with the horses. The slavers looked askance at Vahanian, clearly fearful of the smuggler, who grinned wickedly, making sure his lips drew back to expose his teeth. The two slavers recoiled, and Vahanian chuckled.

Vakkis stopped in front of Vahanian, who looked up and met the bounty hunter’s eyes defiantly.