The Summoner (8 page)

“Are you all right?” a very human voice said from behind him.

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Tris startled, and turned to see Soterius, standing with his hands on his hips. While his face showed concern, there was nothing to suggest to Tris that his friend heard the voice that still echoed in his own ears, the vow of the Lady. Tris lowered his sword and resheathed it without explanation, rising to his feet.

“I want to know everything you and Harrtuck know about war,” Tris said levelly, finding his voice clear and strong. “And I will accept whatever you can teach me about sword skill.” His eyes locked with his friend’s and he knew that Soterius understood just what treason they were committing, and how high were the stakes. “I know what kind of king Jared will be. I have to stop him.”

Soberly, Soterius nodded. “I rather thought you’d come to that conclusion,” he said, and to Tris’s amazement sank to one knee, taking Tris’s hand in fealty. “As I was to your father, so also to you,” his friend said, his voice cracking with emotion. “By the Lady, I’ll see you on Margolan’s throne, my liege,” he swore, and when he raised his eyes to Tris, they were bright with tears. “I can’t let that monster rule this land.”

Overwhelmed, it took Tris a moment to find his voice. “Thank you,” he managed, bidding his friend to rise as a shiver ran though him at the chill night wind gusting through the cracked window. “But before we can do all that,” he said, “perhaps we’d best get back some sleep or the night air will do what Jared hasn’t… yet.”

Tris eased his boots off and stretched out fully clothed on his bed, sinking into its blankets, undeterred by Harrtuck’s hearty snores. Although he doubted the images of the evening would ever let him sleep, exhaustion won out, providing a reprieve from dark memories.

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CHAPTER THREE

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Tris awoke TO the sound of a shutter banging in the wind. His eyes snapped open and his heart pounded as he looked around, disoriented. The events of the night before rushed to memory and he sat up groggily, feeling the last night’s ride in sore muscles.

He stared at the room around him. A single shutter hung by one broken latch, flapping free in the breeze. Jagged fragments of glass clung to the ruined sash and the morning sun streamed through large holes in the charred roof. Tris shivered and sat up on the bare bed—just a weather‐beaten collection of boards. On the other side of the room, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the broken shards of a mirror, dulled by long exposure to the elements. He stretched out his mage sense. The spirits whose presence he had felt so strongly the night before were gone, and so was the pervasive power he had sensed.

“Harrtuck, wake up,” Tris rasped. Harrtuck, asleep in a chair near the fire, responded with a snore and rolled over. “Wake up!” Tris insisted, and with a snort, the stocky guardsman startled awake.

“What? Oh, Tris. Goddess, I was sleeping soundly,” Harrtuck muttered as he stretched and rubbed his eyes. He sat up, and stopped.

“What in the name of the Holy Childe is going on?” he croaked, looking at the ruined room around them. Just then, the hallway door creaked open as Soterius pushed his way into the room, his face ashen and bewildered. Carroway crowded behind him, wide‐eyed with fear.

“What the hell happened to the inn?” Soterius asked, looking around the room.

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“Downstairs is the same?” Tris asked, not surprised when the soldier nodded.

“Yeah. And the pitcher and bowl that I used last night are in pieces on the floor, but I never heard it break,” Soterius replied.

“Look there,” Harrtuck rasped, pointing to the chair beside the ruined dresser. Neatly folded, four clean traveling outfits lay in a pile, and next to them, a stack of nondescript brown riding cloaks.

“They’re solid,” Tris verified, crossing to the clothing and examining one of the cloaks. “And Goddess knows, we need them.”

They started for the common room, swords drawn. The charred remains of broken tables met their gaze as they made their way carefully down the partially burned stairs. The heavy front door hung askew on its hinges, and dead leaves blew along the ruined bar.

“Over there,” Carroway said, pointing. On one of the few tables that were still standing was a stack of provisions. A napkin of hard biscuits, enough dried meat and wrapped cheese to keep each of them for a week, a large pouch of dried fruits and four new, filled wineskins. Next to the wineskins was a bag of silver coins, easily enough to keep them in food and shelter for a fortnight.

“Look at the coins,” Harrtuck rasped as Tris emptied out the purse into his hand. Tris lifted one of the coins and held it up the light. “Look at the date.” In the early morning light, Tris could just make out the date stamped on the coin below the imprint of his father’s visage. Twenty‐five years past.

Wordlessly, the four men exchanged glances. Fear shone clearly in Carroway’s eyes, and Tris saw that Soterius and Harrtuck barely masked their own uneasiness. Even in Margolan, where the 63

spirits moved often and openly among the living, such a display went far beyond the usual encounters, feast day or not. Carroway’s hands were shaking as they gathered the provisions.

Silently, Tris mulled over the decision he had made the night before, to remain quiet about the true nature of their benefactors. He walked slowly behind the others as they headed toward the stables, as he thought about what to do next. If I tell them what I saw, what I can see, will they be too afraid to go on? But if I hide what I can do, what that makes me—and Lady knows, I’m not sure just what that is—if I don’t tell them, then they’re following a lie. They have a right to know, he concluded, although the thought of making himself more of a stranger to his companions made him feel even gloomier than before.

To their relief, their horses were waiting where they had left them, wide‐eyed and skittish.

“They’ve been curried and blanketed,” Soterius observed uneasily, looking up at the half‐burned stable roof and the sky that showed clearly through its gaping holes.

“Aye, fed and watered, too,” Harrtuck added, shaking his head. “Never seen the like in all my years.” He looked at Tris. “Looks like your palace ghosts are looking out for you,” he said.

It was just the opening Tris needed. “I owe you all an apology,” he said, forcing himself to meet Soterius’s skeptical gaze. “Last night, when we reached the inn, I realized that the innkeeper was a spirit. I swear by the Lady I didn’t know the inn was like this,” he said with a sweep of his hand toward the tumbledown ruin. He paused, feeling their eyes on him.

“I was afraid that you wouldn’t stay the night if you knew. I could sense that the spirits meant us well. I knew we would be safer here than on the road, but I didn’t know if I could convince you.

And I wasn’t sure… whether you would want to stay… if you knew what I can do.” He took a deep breath.

“I’ve always been able to see the ghosts when others couldn’t—talk to them, call them.

Grandmother taught me a little bit of magic.” He steeled himself and raised his head. “But the things that happened yesterday, last night, go far beyond what we did… anchoring Kait’s spirit, 64

sensing ghosts outside the palace. I can sense things, feel things, see things that I’ve never seen before. I don’t think Grandmother told me everything, told me the truth about what I could do. I don’t know myself. And I bear no grudge if you do not want to ride further with me,” he finished soberly.

“You’re a Summoner,” Carroway breathed, eyes wide, but with awe, Tris thought in amazement, not fear. “They say every great mage has an heir, someone trained to take on the power when the mage dies. In the stories, sometimes the power passes at the time the wizard dies. But sometimes,” he said, his voice growing stronger as he warmed to the tale, “sometimes it takes a shock, a tragedy, to open the heir to his inheritance.” He looked at Tris with growing excitement.

“You’re the mage heir of Bava K’aa,” he said reverently. “And if Arontala suspects that, he’s going to want you dead even more than Jared does.”

Tris could see warring emotions in the eyes of the two soldiers. He was barely acquainted with Harrtuck, but he knew Soterius well. Ban Soterius was a practical man, accustomed to dealing with what he could see and touch and fight. Soldiers were notoriously distrustful of mages, Tris thought, watching the struggle in his friend’s face. Then, to his surprise, Harrtuck slowly bent to one knee, followed a second later by Soterius.

“You’re still Martris Drayke,” Harrtuck said. “And you’re still the only hope Margolan has. Maybe the Lady knows that only a mage can win against that demon in the palace. Where you go, I go, my liege.”

“Tris,” Tris corrected absently, still overwhelmed by the morning’s revelation. “Just Tris.” He smiled ruefully at Harrtuck. “There’s nothing left to be ‘liege’ of.”

“I can’t say I understand magic, or even trust it,” said Soterius haltingly, “but I trust you. Count me in.”

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Embarrassed but relieved, Tris bid them rise. “Thank you,” he said and Carroway bowed low, then stood and clasped his hand as well. “Thank you all.”

Harrtuck slapped him on the shoulder. “Leave it to the Goddess, Tris. She has her ways.”

“And we’ll be seeing Her sooner than we like if we don’t get out of here,” Soterius added impatiently. “Let’s ride before we get company.”

“Ride where?” Carroway asked, absently stroking his horse’s muzzle. “Last night we were just trying to get away. But we have to head somewhere.”

Tris realized they were all looking at him. “North,” he said finally. What little time there was for thinking last night, he’d spent trying to answer that same question. “To Dhasson, my uncle’s kingdom. King Harrol is married to father’s sister. We’ll be safe there.”

“It’s as good a plan as any,” Soterius agreed. “King Harrol is a fair king, and I think well of his army, so if that’s where I’m to end up, it’s not too bad.”

“He’s got a good court for minstrels, too,” Carroway added, patting his horse. “Or so they say.”

“Then north it is,” Harrtuck agreed. “But that’s two months’ ride and we’re wanted men,” the grizzled soldier added. “No doubt your brother’s put quite a price on your head, Tris. Probably has you wanted for king killing, which is more than a hanging offense. With enough of a bounty, we’ll have no chance to tell our story if we’re caught.

“And the road north is the worst one, especially at this time of year, coming on toward winter,”

Harrtuck went on. “Can’t do it without a guide. Wouldn’t hurt to have an extra sword, either, since the closer we get to the mountains, the more bandits we’re likely to see.”

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“We don’t have enough money to hire a guide,” Soterius argued, cinching the belts on his saddle and arranging his steed’s bridle.

“That’s true,” Harrtuck mused, and looked at Tris. “Could we promise payment once we reach Dhasson?”

Tris thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Unless we hire a whole army, that’s a small favor to ask. But where do we find a guide? And how do we know he won’t sell us out for the bounty?”

Harrtuck smiled as he swung up into his saddle. “If we can find the man I’m thinking of, he won’t.

I’ve fought beside him. He’s no traitor. Damn good guide, too, if he hasn’t managed to get himself killed with his business deals.”

“Where do we find this miracle worker?” Soterius asked dryly as he settled into his saddle.

Harrtuck scratched his head. “Last I heard, Vahanian was doing some trading up near the river.

He was running Principality silks and brandy into Nargi.”

Soterius looked sideways at the guardsman. “Brandy and silk into Nargi? Their priests take a dim view of drinking and with their women cloistered off, I can’t think of much use for silk.”

Harrtuck chuckled. “That’s the point, m’boy. The priests take a dim view—but it’s not shared by many of the ‘faithful.’ A man can get quite rich giving them what they want, providing the priests don’t find out.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Of course, if they do, they make an example of you. There aren’t many worse ways to die, from what I’ve heard.”

“Nice,” Soterius muttered. “Either he’s a rich madman, or dead.”

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“Can’t imagine wanting to go to Nargi,” Carroway said as he mounted his horse and took a backward glance toward the ruined inn. “Their priests ran the minstrels out years ago. Now there’s only the temple bards, and since they’re devoted to the Crone, I can’t think that there’s much that’s pleasant to sing about.”

“Maybe that’s why they need the silks and brandy,” Soterius rejoined, pressing his heels to his mount. “Let’s get going.”

They stayed to the less traveled roads, keeping to the forest whenever possible. With the ending of the Feast days, travel was tapering off as winter grew closer. The weather was turning colder, and Tris was grateful for his heavy cloak. He rode in silence, letting the others keep up the banter around him.

It was all almost too much to take in. An icy resolve settled over Tris as he lifted his head to the wind, still finding it difficult to believe that he was now a fugitive, without king or country, a mark for bounty hunters and hired assassins. Just as humbling was the knowledge that Soterius, Harrtuck and Carroway had left everything to come with him.

Tris had no doubt how Jared would rule. Jared argued on more than one occasion against what he considered Bricen’s “weak” kingship. An iron‐fisted king, mage spies and the taxes to support a large army, those were the things in which Jared trusted. Goddess help any who got in his way, or the merchants and farmers from whom the taxes must be extracted.

And there was no one who could do anything about it, except him. The thought made his mouth dry. Tris enjoyed his role as the second son, out of the public’s eye. He’d had the same lessons in law, history and the rule of kings as Jared did, since eldest sons did not always live to claim their crowns. But for Tris, there was never the pressure that was part of the heir’s birthright. He would have been quite content to live out his life on one of his father’s country estates, surrounded by his books and his dogs, away from the intrigues of court. Now, that possibility was closed forever. It had died with King Bricen, and Tris found that he mourned that loss as 68