The Summoner (50 page)

“What does it matter?” Tris asked. “You’re not in Isencroft.”

“I have to go back,” she said softly.

“Do you love him?”

“No!” she protested. “And I never could.”

“Is your father the sort to force you into a marriage you don’t want?”

Kiara shook her head. “Father won’t. But circumstances may. If father dies, we will be 424

vulnerable. Another poor harvest, and I won’t have a choice. I’ll have to make the alliance, just to keep the people fed.”

“Is he a stranger, or truly a bad man?” Tris asked gently. The dim light set Kiara’s face in shadows. Even the heavy cloak could not completely hide the strength of her shoulders, the fitness of her body. Her independence intrigued him, as had her skill with a sword. He was acutely aware that this journey was no place to form an attraction, that he stood little chance of living through his quest. But denying that attraction would also be futile, Tris thought, although the best he might hope for would be her friendship.

Kiara looked at him for a moment before speaking, and he could see the conflict in her eyes. “I’m betrothed to Jared Drayke of Margolan.”

Tris felt the force of the words like a physical blow. “No.”

Kiara looked away. “It was an old pact, made long ago. Father wanted more security for Isencroft, and he liked and trusted your father. It seemed logical to unite our kingdoms and so they made a pact that I should wed the heir to Margolan’s throne.”

“You can’t marry Jared,” Tris protested. “He’ll never honor the pact. He’ll tear Isencroft apart to feed Margolan and leave the rest for bandits.” But the image that came to his mind was not about kings and treaties. The image was of Jared, the night of the coup, and of the rape Tris interrupted. And when his mind supplied Kiara’s face in place of the terrified servant girl’s, his blood felt turned to ice.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Kiara cried. “I’ve already eluded his ambassador twice. And if I had any doubts, I don’t any more. Not after riding through Margolan.”

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“Tell me, please. What did you see?”

Kiara recounted the tales of the refugees and her flight from the border guards. Tris felt his anger rise as she described ruined villages, murders and rampaging guards. They sat in silence when Kiara finished, the weight of the matter between them.

Finally, Tris spoke. “You know that I’m going to have to kill him.”

“I know.”

Tris reached out to take her hand. “Listen to me,” he said. “If I live to rule Margolan, I swear to you that nothing will ever be required of Isencroft by force. You have my word.”

“Thank you,” she said, so quietly that the words were nearly lost on the wind. She squeezed his hand before she pulled away. “You can’t imagine how much that means.”

They were silent for a few moments. “Where will you go, when it’s time to leave here?” she asked.

Tris looked away, to the cold horizon where the first light of dawn was fading. “First, to Principality City. Uncle Harrol’s accounts are there. We’ll need them to pay Vahanian. And then there’s Berry I was hoping Carina could find a safe place with the healers for her.

“Then, we raise an army and plan the assault on Jared,” Tris continued quietly.

“You’ll have to kill Jared’s mage first, won’t you?”

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“I don’t know if I can,” Tris admitted. “But I swore to the Lady on the souls of my family that I would do it, and I will.”

Kiara’s smile was bittersweet. “Then you’ll find a way.”

“Quite an errand for a prince who never wanted to be king, don’t you think?” Tris mused aloud.

“I guess they’re right when they say the Lady chooses our path.”

“She does,” Kiara agreed, and told him of her vision on the battlefield. “Ever since then,” she admitted quietly, her breath freezing in the chill air, “I’ve known that there was something She meant for me to do.” She shrugged. “Only I still don’t know what it is,” she admitted. “Maybe that’s why She gave me the Journey.”

Footsteps on the dry leaves startled them both and they turned to see Vahanian. “There you are,” he said, planting his hands on his hips like a schoolmaster. “They’ve turned the Library upside down looking for the two of you. It’s practice time.”

When practice had finished, Tris headed back, anxious to resume his studies. His aching muscles told him that Vahanian had put him through a particularly grueling session. Inside, the smell of stew and baking bread greeted them—testimony that Royster was already at work on supper.

He took a platter of bread, fruit, dried meat and cheese with him, along with a pitcher of water, and headed up the stairs to the tower for his lessons with Devin and Taru. They were still at work when Berry scampered up hours later, to remind him of evening arms practice and dinner.

By the time Tris and the others had finished their work in the salle with Vahanian, Royster and the others were already gathered in the dining hall. The group became accustomed to unseen hands setting the table for dinner as Kessen helped with meals. Royster kept up a onesided banter with Kessen’s ghost the whole way through the meal, ending in the shattering of a goblet when one of Royster’s barbed comments annoyed the spirit beyond restraint.

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“I wish I could see Kessen all the time,” Berry said, reaching for another piece of the warm bread. “I haven’t met any ghosts at all, other than the nasty ones with the slavers.” She bit off a large piece of bread and chewed it hungrily.

“Royster,” Mikhail said, “are there any books I haven’t found yet about the beasts?” He paused.

“Short of burning down the world, there seems to be nothing about how to turn them.”

Royster drained the last of the ale from his mug. “Well,” he said, licking his lips, “the only way to get rid of them is to destroy the mage who sent them.” The old librarian looked thoughtful. “The last time, ten years ago, it was the same way.”

“Ten years ago?” Vahanian asked, leaning forward with sudden interest. “Where?”

Royster pulled at his beard in thought. “Up north, along the border between Isencroft and Margolan, just below the great sea. Terrible things got loose up there.”

“What do you know about it?” Vahanian pressed.

Royster paused again, staring at the ceiling as he thought. “Haven’t thought about that in years,”

he mused. “I lose track of things a bit here in the Library.” He frowned, thinking. “Ah, yes,” he said, brightening. “There was a dark mage who called himself Lustari, ‘the fearsome one,’” he recounted. “He raised the beasts to keep his rivals at bay. They did some awful damage until he was destroyed.”

“By the Sisters?” Vahanian asked intently.

Royster shook his head. “No, no that was the odd thing about it,” he remembered. “Fallon said 428

that the Sisters hadn’t found a way to destroy him. But someone did,” Royster said, nodding. “I guess he underestimated one of his rivals.”

“Royster, have you ever seen this?” Tris asked, sliding his hand across the table toward the old librarian. When he lifted his palm, the dull metal talisman lay before the librarian.

“Why did you bring that cursed thing with us?” Vahanian demanded.

“A madman gave it to me in a burned‐out village,” Tris said to Royster. He told the story while Vahanian listened, white knuckled and tight‐lipped.

“That thing calls those monsters,” Vahanian said in a rough voice. “You should have left it with the madman.”

Tris shook his head. “It turned the things, not called them.” He paused and glanced from Mikhail to Royster. “But would it have been powerful enough to get me across the Dhasson border?”

“Nothing turns those things,” Vahanian retorted. “Nothing but fire.”

“Tris is right, Jonmarc,” Royster replied quietly. “Here. Let me show you.” The white‐haired man sprang up from his seat, disappearing into the stacks to emerge a few minutes later with a dusty, leather‐bound tome. “Look here,” he said, as they gathered around him. His gnarled finger moved down page after page of yellowed parchment, along lines of carefully inscribed manuscript in a language Tris did not recognize.

“It’s an old Eastmark book,” Royster said, answering their unspoken question, “from before the days of the Obsidian King. It details the rise and fall of a dark mage, and all of the damage he inflicted. But look here,” he said, his finger pointing to an illustration. He slid the metal talisman 429

over the page until it lay over the drawing—a perfect match.

“See,” he said, and began to read from the text, interpreting as he went.

“‘But in the days of the final battle,” he read, “the mage fashioned a metal working with the power to protect its wearer against beasts born of magic. The king took the talisman, and none of the beasts harmed him. The king smote the beasts with fire, and they were destroyed.’” He looked up. “There you have it,” he said with a shrug. “Doesn’t call them. Protects the wearer.

Handy thing.” He thought for a moment. “As for getting across the border—I don’t know that I’d trust my luck if Arontala’s spell called hundreds of those things. Amulets have their limits. And there’s no protection for the rest of your party. Me, I wouldn’t chance it.”

“I’ve got some work with the horses,” Vahanian mumbled, and with barely a nod to the others, walked out of the room.

Royster looked after him. “Odd,” he mused.

“You know fighters,” Tris said, attempting to hide his concern. “I don’t know if they ever get comfortable around magic.”

“While we’re comparing jewelry,” Kiara said dryly, “have you ever seen anything like this?” she asked Royster. From a pouch beneath her tunic, she withdrew the spelled pottery chit. Royster held the flat clay circle gently, turning it against the light. Tris leaned forward to get a better look. He could feel the magic in the simple oval, but try as he might, he could not make out the runes stamped on its surface.

Royster motioned to one of the Keepers, a woman in her middle years with short dark hair. The plump scholar hurried over, and exchanged an excited glance with Royster.

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“This is Ystra, whose expertise is talismans,” Royster said.

“You are indeed favored by the Sisterhood,” Ystra said appreciatively. “I’ve never actually seen one of these, just sketches in books.”

“What does it do?” Berry asked, elbowing forward.

“The Sister told me that it could transport people from one place to another,” Kiara said, carefully tucking it back into her pouch.

“It will move them magically,” Ystra agreed. “Such magic comes at great cost to the mage who sets the spell,” he added. “It is not lightly that the Sisters give such a powerful token. Use it only when no other power can suffice. Strong magic has its consequences,” she warned.

When the group had dispersed and Tris was certain no one would follow, he headed down to the stables to find Vahanian. He found the mercenary practicing his kicks against a stack of hay bales, jumping and wheeling until he raised steam in the chill night air and sweat soaked through his shirt. Tris stood in silence for a few moments until Vahanian finally paused and leaned against the bales to catch his breath.

“What do you want?” the mercenary said.

“I came to talk.”

“I’ve talked enough for one night.”

“What if I could prove to you that Royster is right about the talisman?” Tris said, walking closer.

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“How are you going to prove that?”

“Maybe it’s time you stopped hanging yourself for something you didn’t do.” The words hung between them for several moments before Vahanian spoke. “What are you proposing?”

“Let me call Shanna’s spirit,” Tris said, meeting Vahanian’s gaze without flinching. “Royster is right. Your village got caught in a war between two mages. I believe Arontala was the one who destroyed Lustari—that’s why he wanted the talisman. Only Lustari struck before Arontala could come for it. You got caught in the middle. But it wasn’t your fault.” Tris had never seen the look in the mercenary’s eyes that transfixed him, and he wondered if any other man lived who saw that anger burning there.

“How sure are you that you can do it?” Vahanian growled.

“I’m sure,” Tris replied. “I suspect she’s bound here by your guilt. Maybe I can free both of you.”

Vahanian swallowed hard, his eyes conflicted. Then he nodded. “Do it if you can,” he said quietly. He looked at Tris. “But I swear by the Dark Lady, if this is any kind of trick, I’ll rip your heart out.”

“No trick, Jonmarc. I swear.”

At Vahanian’s nod, Tris closed his eyes, and found the center of his magic. Then, he let himself flow out, searching among all of the lost and disquieted souls that roamed the hidden places until one spirit stirred to his call. He opened his eyes to find the ghost standing before him, a young blonde woman who would have been pretty in a common place way, were it not for the sadness in her eyes. One glance at Vahanian confirmed his success, for the mercenary was pale as death and speechless.

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“Hello, Jonmarc,” the spirit said. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Vahanian replied in a strangled voice. “Oh Shanna, I’m so sorry!”

The spirit moved a step closer. “You fought bravely, Jonmarc. You were fearless.”

“I wanted to die with you.”

The spirit shook her head. “The Lady’s hand is on you. It was not your time.” She glided closer and Vahanian stretched out his hand, palm first. Her image stopped and she did the same, reaching out for him and through him. “What happened was not your fault,” Shanna said earnestly. “There was nothing more you could have done.”

“I could have given the necklace to you,” Vahanian replied, heedless of the tears that streaked down his face. “I could have saved you.”

The spirit smiled sadly. “You tried, my love. Now please, let me rest. Let me go.” Her image flickered and dimmed.

“Stay with me,” Vahanian begged, his voice raw.

“I cannot, except in your memory. Please, if you loved me, forgive yourself and let me rest.” The image faded. “I will always love you,” she whispered, raising her hand in farewell. “Goodbye.”

Vahanian mouthed the words in response, but his voice failed him as the ghost faded and disappeared. Tris murmured the passing over ritual and felt the presence slip away. With wrenching 433