The Summon Stone

by Ian Irvine

  “So,” said Tallia, looking around the room. “Is this – my apologies – all we have to lead the fightback?”

  Karan studied them. Nadiril, an old man who spent his time studying books. Shand, who had renounced most of his powers after suffering a terrible loss and a great rejection. Yggur, a great but mentally unstable mancer who wanted to hide from the world. Tallia, ill and desperate to go home to Crandor. Lilis, who might become a worthy successor to Nadiril, but was young and inexperienced and no fighter. And herself, unable to focus on anything but saving her family.

  “Malien is coming with some of her people,” said Shand, “though she’ll be weeks yet. And we may get some help from the Faellem.”

  “The world will be lost long before they get here from Mirrilladell,” rumbled Yggur.

  “After what Llian’s done, it’s probably lost already,” said Shand.

  “What has he done?” said Karan.

  “Wistan was going to make Llian Master of the College. Next thing we know, Wistan is dead, apparently by Llian’s hand.”

  “That’s a stinking lie! And if you believe it, you’re an even bigger fool than you look.”

  “Karan, please,” said Nadiril. “No one’s made any accusations.”

  “I’m making one,” said Shand. “Llian came here to support Thandiwe, and she would have made a fine, strong master.” His voice rose. “Instead, he voted for Basible Norp, Snoat’s lackey! Now Snoat controls the college, its wealth and its secrets – and that’s not the worst.”

  Karan was shocked speechless. Why would Llian come all this way, at such cost, then vote for Snoat’s man against Thandiwe?

  “What is the worst?” she croaked.

  “Wistan gave Llian his dirt book and told him to protect it with his life. But it’s clear from the number of our supporters who’ve been blackmailed, killed or have disappeared in the past few days, that Snoat has it. Wistan protected it for forty years, and within three days – three days – of Llian taking it, it was in Snoat’s hands.”

  Ever so faintly, Karan heard the drumming. Shand winced.

  “Llian loathes Snoat,” Karan said furiously. “He stole Llian’s manuscript.”

  “Maybe Llian has done a deal with him to get it back.”

  “Snoat hates the Zain,” Karan said coldly, “almost as much as you do, you bigoted old bastard!”

  “It wouldn’t stop Snoat doing a deal. And where is Llian now, Karan?”

  “He… he’s in Pem-Y-Rum,” Karan whispered. “He’s Snoat’s prisoner.”

  “My information is he went willingly, with Thandiwe, in Snoat’s own coach. Llian is probably blabbing our secrets right now.”

  “That’s a lie! Snoat’s going to have Llian killed.” Her voice cracked. “Ragred said so.”

  “Who the hell is Ragred?”

  Karan bared her bruised throat. “He was Snoat’s man. He did this to me yesterday – before the Whelm killed him.”

  There was a long silence. “You’d better tell us about it,” said Nadiril.

  Karan told the story. At the end, when everyone started to speak at once, Nadiril held up a withered hand.

  “Let’s not do the enemy’s work for him. And Shand, please refrain from making unsubstantiated accusations.”

  “What Karan did to Maigraith isn’t unsubstantiated,” snapped Shand. “Nor is what her ancestors did up at Carcharon, is it, Karan?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Karan lied. This was getting dangerous.

  “I think you do,” said Nadiril. “We must know what’s going on, Karan.”

  Karan told them about Maigraith’s visit with Julken, her obsession revealed by the drumming at the Black Lake, and how, when there was no other option, Karan had dosed her with hrux.

  “I heard her psychic cries and went looking for her,” said Shand. “And I found blood further up the range towards Carcharon. If she’s dead,” he said harshly, “Karan killed her!”

  This hurt, coming from someone she had thought of as a friend. “I will do whatever it takes to protect my daughter. Anyway, Maigraith isn’t dead.”

  “How do you know?” said Tallia.

  Karan, afraid they would ask her to prove it, said nothing.

  Tallia clutched at her injured shoulder. “If we’re going to be at each others’ throats from the beginning, we might as well stop this right now and wait for the Merdrun to kill us all.” She looked pointedly at Karan. “Please set Shand’s mind at rest.”

  “The very first time Maigraith used me,” Karan said icily, “she forced me to create a link between us so she could get into Fiz Gorgo and steal the Mirror of Aachan from Yggur.”

  Yggur scowled. “Which is where it all began.”

  “It began with Shuthdar’s Golden Flute, thousands of years before that,” said Nadiril, “and will go on for thousands of years after we’re gone.”

  “A trace of my link still exists,” said Karan. “If Maigraith were dead, it would be gone.”

  “Then open the link,” said Tallia. “Show Shand.”

  “What if it reveals me to her? She’s out of her mind.”

  “If you want our help…” Shand said remorselessly.

  Why was he so changed, so cold? Could the drumming be affecting him? Surely not Shand. But if she did not cooperate they would never help her.

  Karan closed her eyes, settled her hands in her lap and rifled through her memories for the long-buried link to Maigraith. She teased it up to the surface and opened it gingerly. The drumming roared through her mind.

  Shand clutched his temples. “Ah, my head!”

  Karan swayed, opened her eyes, and the pain faded a little. “She’s in a cave. Or underground.”

  “Where?”

  “Can’t tell.”

  She felt a psychic pressure, like trying to hold a door closed while someone far stronger was determined to force it open. Pain rippled through her skull as though the bone was being prised apart, then the drumming went boom-boom, boom-boom-boom.

  There was a burst of brilliant light, like a lantern being thrust into her face. A pair of indigo and carmine eyes were blazing into her own, then Maigraith forced the door open.

  The link set like a solid white beam between them and she shrieked, “I’ll get you for this, Karan! Llian is a dead man. And you’ll never see your daughter again.”

  With all the strength she had left, Karan forced the rage back. Maigraith cried out. Karan snapped the link, tore it out by the roots, then aftersickness overcame her and she toppled and struck her head on the iron firebox.

  She roused, her head throbbing worse than before. Lilis was dabbing at her forehead with a handkerchief spotted with blood. The others were all around her: Nadiril, Tallia and Shand, his face now a mixture of anxiety and guilt. Yggur had not moved.

  “I’m sorry,” said Shand, whose tanned face had a grey tinge. “Maigraith’s… not herself.”

  There had been such rage in her eyes. Had Karan created her own nemesis?

  “Where’s Sulien?” Shand said suddenly.

  “I sent her away with Idlis and Yetchah. They went south to Shazabba and I don’t know which way.”

  Shand’s anger flared again. “To stop us from searching her mind!”

  “I sent her away to protect her from the magiz.”

  “Whose side are you on, Karan?”

  “She doesn’t know the Merdrun’s weakness.”

  “How the hell would you know?”

  “Because I asked her… and looked into her mind.”

  “Karan, I’m disappointed,” said Nadiril. “We have to identify their only weakness.”

  “No one is using deadly mind spells on my daughter,” she said flatly.

  “But you’ve just put her in danger,” Yggur said quietly. “The Whelm are unreliable – as servants or as friends.”

  Karan shivered. They had served him for a very long time, only to betray him when a better master had come along. Had she made a terrible mista
ke?

  “We’ve got to deal with Snoat before we can defend against the Merdrun,” said Nadiril.

  “What’s the plan?” said Tallia.

  “Do what Malien asked in her letter to Shand. Kill Snoat, and find and destroy the summon stone. And in case that fails, raise an army to hold the Merdrun back.”

  “How?” said Karan.

  “You don’t need to know. Walls have ears, Karan.”

  “What does Snoat want, anyway?” said Lilis.

  “He’s a power-hungry narcissist. He sees the world as his personal toy box, to use, plunder or destroy at whim.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have sourc— I just do,” Nadiril amended hastily.

  44

  WE COULD BE KILLED

  The top of the ten-foot wall around Pem-Y-Rum was lit by lanterns and Snoat’s sentries paced it night and day. Wilm and Dajaes had spent days watching from the forest, trying to find a way in, but the sentries did twelve-hour shifts and never slackened off… save the one time.

  Wilm and Dajaes were forty feet up, squashed together in the fork of a big tree; from it they had a line of sight through the forest to the main gates and part of the wall. A warm breeze rustled the leaves all around. It was exciting; they were on a great and important adventure together. And he found it very pleasant to be pressed up against a charming and attractive girl who admired him.

  A exhausted guard, a hollow-eyed youth with huge ears and sandy hair that stuck out in all directions like a badly made broom, stopped by the guardhouse, leaned back against the wall for a moment and fell asleep standing up.

  The next guard to pass by discovered him and shouted for the sergeant, who came running. Half a dozen sentries assembled. A captain appeared and conferred with the sergeant.

  “What are they going to do?” whispered Dajaes.

  She smelled like roses. Wilm found it distracting. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Though sleeping on duty isn’t good. In wartime—”

  “It’s not wartime, and this is just a country estate.”

  “Sometimes my imagination runs away with me.”

  The captain and the sergeant broke apart. The broom-headed youth pulled free of the man who was holding him and reached out with both arms towards the captain as if begging. Wilm could not make out what he said, though it was clear the captain wasn’t receptive. He spun on one foot and snapped an order to the sergeant, who gestured to the sentries.

  The broom-headed guard ran as if intending to leap off the wall. Another sentry tripped him. He was lifted to his feet, his wrists were bound behind his back and then, as he was held from behind, one of the guards thrust a sword into him.

  Dajaes gasped and caught Wilm’s right hand in her two hands, squeezing it tightly.

  The youth doubled over. The sergeant hauled him upright. Blood began to puddle on the walkway. The other five sentries put their swords into him, one after another. The sentry holding the guard let him go. He folded up and fell, and did not move. The blood spread until it was the size of a kitchen table. The sergeant snapped an order and the guards went back to patrolling, stepping carefully around the dead man as they paced.

  Dajaes was shivering violently. Wilm put his arms around her and she pressed her face against his chest. When she pulled away, her face was wet with tears and her nose was running.

  He found a rag in his pocket and wiped her tears away and then, self-consciously, dabbed at her nose.

  Dajaes looked up at him. “What have we got ourselves into?”

  “I thought it would be an exciting game,” said Wilm, “but if we’re caught breaking into Pem-Y-Rum, we’ll be killed too.”

  He imagined someone taking the news to his mother. If she could see him now, she would be out of her mind with worry. Work hard, do the right thing and never attract attention to yourself.

  Dajaes was holding his hand again.

  “This changes everything,” said Wilm.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t change anything. Llian is in even more danger than we thought, and if we don’t rescue him, he’ll be killed as well.”

  “But we’re just kids!”

  “You’re seventeen and I’m eighteen. If I’d gone home, father would be marrying me off any day now. That makes me an adult.”

  “What if we told the sergeant in Chanthed what Snoat’s up to?”

  “We don’t have any proof. Besides, how can a town sergeant take Snoat on? Llian’s only got us, Wilm.”

  Her logic was unarguable. “But what are we going to do?”

  “Find him inside Pem-Y-Rum. Get him out. Help him to clear his name.”

  Wilm felt utterly overwhelmed. He lowered his head onto his bony knees. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “I do,” said Dajaes. “We’re going back to Chanthed. Come on.”

  “Pem-Y-Rum was originally built by Odio Lossily,” said Dajaes.

  “Who’s he?” said Wilm.

  They were in the sub-basement of the college library, in a section that, judging by the dust, had not seen much use in decades. Shelves full of boxes, books, scrolls and paper folders stretched for thirty yards in every direction.

  Dajaes shook her head in disbelief. “You must have read about him when you were studying for the scholarship test.”

  “I can’t remember anything. I crammed so many facts in that they all got mixed up.”

  “Odio Lossily was a legendary teller of eleven centuries ago.” She was reading a page attached to the plans. “He crafted the eighteenth Great Tale, the Tale of Rula.”

  “Rula was a Magister during the Clysm, wasn’t she?” said Wilm.

  “In the Annals of the Magisters, she’s regarded as the greatest of all.”

  “Greater than Mendark, who lived more than a thousand years and renewed his life thirteen times?”

  Dajaes smiled. “It’s good to see one of those facts has stuck.”

  “What did Rula do that was so great?”

  “If you read the Great Tale you’ll find out. Getting back to the point, Odio Lossily became fabulously wealthy and built himself a magnificent country manor, Pem-Y-Rum.”

  “Yes?” said Wilm.

  “He was one of the first of the great collectors. Maybe that’s another reason why Snoat bought the place.”

  “Um…” Wilm did not have the faintest idea where she was going with this.

  “Lossily was also a master at this college, and all his papers are here. I read that when I was studying for the test too.”

  “Go on.”

  “Before the builder started work he would have needed drawings and detailed plans of everything. And if we can find them—”

  “We might be able to get Llian out. Let’s get to work.”

  It took long and weary hours of searching before they found the plans, but they turned out to be less use than they had hoped.

  “Pem-Y-Rum looks nothing like that,” said Wilm, riffling through the drawings again. They showed a large but simple one-storey villa with a courtyard in the centre, completely different to the current house.

  Dajaes lowered her head onto the papers. “So tired. Even my eyes ache.”

  She closed them for a minute or two, then sat up. A smudge of dust on her left cheek was shaped like the letter P. “Eleven centuries is an awfully long time. It might have burned down.”

  “Or been torn down and rebuilt several times. Few houses would have survived unchanged all that time.”

  She gave a weary sigh. “Would you mind awfully if I had a little nap?”

  “Odio Lossily was also a master of wine,” said Wilm. “He wrote books about the wines of Iagador and established the first vineyard in the area.”

  “I’ve never tasted wine,” she said drowsily.

  “Llian drinks it; I tasted some a couple of times.” He made a face. “It wasn’t very nice.”

  “Perhaps he couldn’t afford anything good.”

  “A vineyard would need a big wine cellar,�
� said Wilm. “And even if the place was torn down and rebuilt, why would they rebuild a perfectly good cellar?”

  He went through the plans again. “Here we go.”

  Dajaes did not answer. She was asleep. He studied the plan of the cellars, which ran under the manor and back into the hill in two wings for fifty yards, then tossed the plan on the pile and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

  “It’s no damn use!” he muttered.

  “What were you looking for?” said Dajaes, sitting up with a jerk.

  “I was hoping the old cellars came out past the boundary wall.”

  “If they did, the entrance would be guarded.” She checked that there was no one within earshot and picked up the plan. “Wilm, this tunnel goes close to the wall.”

  “How does that help?”

  “What if we tunnelled under the wall from the forest?”

  “It’d take years to tunnel that far through rock,” said Wilm.

  “It isn’t rock. The soil is ten feet deep there. We saw it in the road cutting near Pem-Y-Rum, remember?”

  Why would he remember that? “It would still take ages to tunnel that far – if the tunnel didn’t collapse on us.”

  Wilm shuddered at the thought of being trapped underground, nose and mouth and ears filled with dirt, unable to breathe, choking, gasping, dying.

  “I used to go underground with Father all the time,” said Dajaes. “Before he took to the grog and they sacked him.” Her small fists clenched. “He taught me everything he knew about tunnelling in hard rock – and soft earth.”

  “We’d have to start a long way back from the wall, otherwise the guards would see us.”

  Dajaes measured distances with her fingers. “Eight yards from the end of the cellar to the wall. Plus three yards for the wall. And another forty to here,” she tapped a point in the forest, “where we could start a tunnel out of sight. Fifty-one yards. Fifty-five, to be safe.”

  “Fifty-five yards!” He did a quick calculation. “But if the tunnel was a yard square, say, the soil would fill about… dozens of four-wheeled wagons.”

  “Twenty-eight, actually, if a wagon holds two cubic yards.”