The Summon Stone

by Ian Irvine

  “Looks like the place.”

  He began to dig. Wilm attacked the ground with his broken sabre and within a few minutes they uncovered a long rusty iron box. They had just heaved it out of the ground when Thandiwe rode up, her hair streaming out behind her in the wind. A greedy gleam came and went in her brown eyes.

  “I don’t think you’ll find anything in this to help you with Mendark’s Tale,” said Llian.

  “He might have secreted anything in so ancient a hoard.”

  “How do you know it’s ancient?”

  She swung down. “The box is practically falling apart. It’d take decades to rust in this dry country.”

  “Why are you here, anyway?”

  Her eyes slid to the box.

  “You’re broke,” said Llian, “and you need a lot of gold to stave off your creditors for the year it’ll take to write your tale.”

  The box was locked with a padlock but a blow from Llian’s boot heel tore the hasp out. Wilm reached for the lid.

  “No!” Llian said sharply.

  “Sorry,” said Wilm, ducking his head.

  “Mancers always protect their treasures.”

  A little dead tree stood a hundred yards away. Llian snapped off a branch, worked it under the lid and heaved it up. Bang! The rusted base of the box slammed into the standing stone and crumbled, scattering its contents across the ground. The top howled through the gap between Llian and Thandiwe and struck the ground forty feet away.

  Wilm had gone very pale. “You saved my life!”

  “Turn and turn about.”

  The contents included half a dozen little bags, one of which had burst releasing a double handful of gold tells, two knives in cracked leather sheaths and a sword in an embossed copper sheath, the like of which Llian had never seen before. The copper was mottled with verdigris and both the sword and sheath were marked with the letter M. There was also a small book written on what appeared to be papyrus reed.

  Thandiwe dived for the book. Llian reached it first, shoved it into an inner pocket and buttoned the flap down. “You’ve got all you’re going to get from me.”

  “One betrayal after another,” she said bitterly.

  “You’re such a hypocrite. If you’d helped overturn my ban instead of blocking it, you’d have been master years ago.”

  “I don’t bel— Why do you say that?”

  “Wistan was going to make you master until your betrayal of me, your friend, convinced him that you weren’t of good character. A lovely irony, isn’t it?”

  Thandiwe did not storm off, as he had expected. There was gold to be divided up, after all. Llian withdrew the sword from its sheath and a shiver crept up his arm – it had a definite presence. It was lighter than he would have expected, and the blade, of some black metal, was uncorroded. He tested the edge, which was still sharp, and sheathed it. Wilm was staring at it, his eyes wide with hopeless longing.

  Llian handed it to him. “This is a fine sword. Take it and practise your strokes.”

  Wilm shook his head. “I was brought up to not touch what isn’t mine.”

  “Mendark is ten years dead,” said Llian, “and since he had no heir, this cache is treasure trove. Legally, it belongs to whoever finds it.”

  “Are you sure?” said Wilm.

  “Absolutely.”

  Wilm had not even looked at the gold, but his thin hand was trembling as he took the sword. He stared at it for a moment as if he had felt something too, then removed the sabre scabbard from his belt and attached the copper sheath. He worked the sword up and down several times, walked away, checked Llian’s notes and began to practise the seven basic strokes again.

  Llian counted the gold and divided it into three piles each containing two hundred and ten gold tells. “Yours,” he said to Thandiwe.

  She put it in her pack. Llian was bagging his and Wilm’s shares when he noticed Thandiwe watching Wilm with a curiously yearning look. Despite all he had suffered recently he remained an innocent, and perhaps she longed for the days of her own innocence, long lost.

  “He blames himself for not saving Dajaes from Unick,” said Llian.

  She rubbed her face with her hands. “It’ll take more than a fancy sword to bring down that mongrel!”

  “Did he have a go at you too?” said Llian.

  She shuddered and closed her eyes, but not before he saw what she wanted never to reveal.

  “It might be an idea to warn Wilm about that sword,” said Thandiwe.

  “What about it?”

  “A mancer’s weapon could be enchanted.”

  “Why are you telling me this? You hate me.”

  “Wilm has suffered enough. And life won’t be easy for him… with you as a friend.”

  “Why don’t you take your gold and go?” said Llian.

  “Because you want me to.”

  Damn. She’d worked out why he’d given it to her. Thandiwe sat in the shade, took bread and cheese from her bag and ate, watching Wilm all the while. He worked on the first of the basic strokes for several minutes, repeatedly checking Llian’s notes and diagrams, before moving to the second, then the third.

  “He looks like a ploughman trying to chop wood,” said Thandiwe.

  “But he’s utterly determined to succeed,” said Llian.

  She wandered down the slope towards the pool, a hundred yards away. Wilm made a particularly agricultural stroke and swore a miner’s oath he must have learned from Dajaes. He studied the instructions then rehearsed the stroke over and again in a rather more professional manner. Llian smiled. Not so hopeless after all.

  He yawned, climbed a sloping stone and checked for signs of pursuit. On finding none he had a drink from his water bag and sat in the shade of the stone. He felt desperately tired. He thrust a hand in his pocket to make sure Mendark’s little book was safe, then closed his eyes…

  Llian jerked awake, thinking that something was badly wrong. He scrambled to his feet and saw Wilm fifty yards away, still practising. The angle of the sun indicated that less than an hour had passed. Llian breathed a sigh, rubbed his eyes, checked for pursuit and saw a small dust cloud to the south.

  “Wilm! Someone’s coming.”

  Wilm sheathed his sword and came running.

  “Bring the horses,” said Llian. “I’ll pack up.”

  Wilm ran down towards the pool, then stopped. “Where are the other four horses?” he yelled.

  It struck Llian like a punch in the mouth. The dust cloud wasn’t someone coming, it was Thandiwe going. He raced back to where he had left the bags, already knowing what he would find.

  The gold was gone. Every last tell.

  62

  A SOURCE OF DARK POWER

  Karan, Shand and Ussarine tracked the three riders north-east, then north. It wasn’t as hard as Karan had expected; the six horses had left clear hoofmarks on the dry plains north of Chanthed. They were heading directly for the salt lake megaliths.

  She hardly spoke all day. She no longer knew what to think. Was Llian a much put-upon hero or a fornicating scoundrel? And why, why had he gone with Thandiwe?

  After much agonising she put the question out of mind. Only time would tell, and her other problem grew more pressing with every mile they headed north, away from the Whelm and Sulien, who would be going further south, and further out of reach, every day.

  In the desperate moments that had led to Sulien going with Idlis and Yetchah, Karan had been in no state of mind to consider what it would actually be like for her. But in every sending, every fleeting link and unguarded emotion Karan had picked up since, Sulien’s anguish was more apparent. She should have known better that to entrust her to them.

  The Whelm were hard, cold and repressed; they had no sense of fun or joy and took no pleasure in any of the good things in life – the scent of a flower, a lovely sunset, a simple meal or the company of friends. Their lives were entirely given over to hard labour, duty, sacrifice – and punishment.

  “She’s having a
dreadful time,” Karan said to Ussarine. “And I don’t know what to do.”

  “If she were my daughter,” said Ussarine, “I’d be riding after her right now.”

  “I would if I knew where to look for her… though that would mean abandoning Llian.”

  “Children must come first.”

  “But if I went anywhere near her, the magiz’s stigma would reveal Sulien to her.”

  “Then… I feel for you.”

  Ussarine never judged – she simply was there when needed, as solid as a small mountain. It was something rare in Karan’s experience, but wonderful.

  “Have you known Hingis long?” she asked.

  It was as if the sun had risen, full in Ussarine’s face. “We were only together five days before I had to leave with Esea.”

  “You and Hingis must have made quite an impression on each other?”

  She smiled dreamily. “He treated me like a normal woman.”

  “And perhaps the converse…”

  “He’s in great pain – in all kinds of ways.”

  “But Esea came between—”

  “They’re very close, and they’ve both suffered,” Ussarine said quickly. “I won’t say a word against her.” Her jaw tightened and she stared into the distance.

  I will, Karan thought. Esea was utterly selfish. She would do whatever it took to keep them apart. “I wish you and Hingis all the joy in the world,” she said and rode ahead.

  “We’ve done twelve leagues, I’d say,” said Ussarine at sunset. “We must be close.”

  “We’re close,” said Shand.

  A keen southerly was blowing, and it was getting colder as the day waned. They were walking their horses now, keeping in cover as best they could, though Karan felt sure the precaution was wasted. Llian, Thandiwe and Wilm had changed mounts several times that day and their original five-hour lead must be far greater now. How could she ever catch them?

  “Been here before?” said Ussarine to Shand.

  He let out a dry chuckle. “I’ve been everywhere before.”

  “Lilis said you’re twice as old as Nadiril.”

  “Lilis is an impertinent little—”

  “Who is also Nadiril’s nominated successor and wise beyond her years. If we’re going to travel and fight together, and very probably die together, we should know each other’s warts.”

  Another chuckle. Karan could not remember when Shand had last laughed twice in the same day. Though years ago, before Llian discovered that the love of Shand’s life had murdered crippled Fiachra, he had been the best of company. Perhaps he resented Llian for that reason.

  “I’m sure you don’t have any warts, my dear,” he said to Ussarine. “While I – I’m practically all wart.”

  “Lilis said you used to be called the Recorder. And also Gyllias.”

  “Gyllias is my real name. I was an important man for a hundred years or so.”

  “How did you come to live so long? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I do mind. But those who are about to die should know they can rely on each other. I was given an extended life by my lover, Yalkara.”

  “Yalkara the Charon? The greatest of them all?”

  “Most people would say that Rulke was the greatest, but yes, it was that Yalkara.”

  “Oh!” said Ussarine.

  She seemed to be seeing Shand in a new and greater light. Or perhaps she was wondering how and why he had fallen so low. Karan certainly was.

  “Since we’re talking about personal matters, can I ask you a question?” said Karan.

  “I suppose so,” Ussarine said warily.

  “Why does Esea hate you?”

  “Because I like Hingis, and he likes me. Though I don’t see why it should upset her so…” Ussarine looked bewildered and, for the first time, a little teary.

  “She fears you’ll come first and she’ll be pushed away. So that’s why she engineered it for you to come with us,” said Karan. “To keep you as far away from Hingis as—”

  “I smell smoke,” said Shand.

  They followed it upwind and shortly a vast set of standing stones loomed ahead of them.

  “A good enough place for a camp,” said Shand.

  “Let me check all around first,” said Ussarine.

  “You go that way,” said Karan, pointing left. “I’ll check this way. Where was Mendark’s hoard, anyway?”

  “How would I know?” said Shand.

  Karan walked around the outside of the figure eight. Here and there the stones had toppled and lay like fallen sentinels on the barren ground. On coming to one that was tilted at an angle of fifty degrees, she scrambled up the dark ironstone to the top, twelve feet above the ground, and balanced there, looking around her. She saw no movement in any direction. Llian was long gone.

  “Hello up there,” called Ussarine. “Anything to see?”

  Karan did another rotation. “We might be the only people left alive in the world.”

  “Don’t say things like that.”

  Only a month until the night of the triple moons, when the world would end. Suddenly exhausted, she climbed down and they headed back. Shand had collected a pile of dead scrub, all that could be found in this largely treeless land, and was striking sparks into tinder.

  “All clear,” said Ussarine. “They found Mendark’s cache.” She pointed. “Back that way a hundred yards.”

  “Anything left in it?” said Shand, feeding the fire.

  “A rusted-out iron box, a couple of knives, bits of burned paper.”

  “Recently burned?”

  “Yes. By Llian, I expect. I’m going to look for tracks while the light holds.” Ussarine rode off, holding up a lightglass Shand had given her.

  Karan followed him to a hole in the ground at the base of a tall smooth-sided stone. He touched a little yellow lightglass until it glowed, and held it up, revealing a torn canvas money bag, two knives and three charred flakes of paper.

  “You need a knife?” said Shand.

  Karan shook her head.

  He dug a battered notebook out of his back pocket, lifted the flakes onto it, enclosed the notebook with his hands and headed back to the campfire. There he picked off the first of the flakes with the knife and held it over the coals. Two words, dark power, glowed briefly and faded. The second flake yielded one word, bleeding, which he thought was from the same sentence, and the third, betrayed.

  “Disturbing,” said Shand.

  “But unhelpful,” said Karan.

  Llian felt in his pocket. The little book was still there. He had gone to sleep holding it and presumably Thandiwe had not dared to try for it.

  “What are we going to do?” said Wilm very quietly.

  Get drunk on Snoat’s brandy, Llian thought, assuming she hadn’t taken that as well. Yet he felt more relieved than angry. Thandiwe had been draining him for years, and it was worth Mendark’s gold and the spare horses to be rid of her.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got any money left?” said Llian. Snoat’s guards had taken his.

  “We spent every grint buying stuff for the tunnel.”

  “Ah, but I do have this.” Llian rummaged in his bag and held up the purloined crystal decanter.

  Wilm blanched. “Is that the one I… killed Snoat with?”

  “It’s the one you whacked him with. I wouldn’t bet on him being dead.”

  “He looked dead to me.”

  “How many dead bodies have you seen?” Llian could have bitten his tongue out.

  “N-none.”

  Evidently Wilm wasn’t counting Dajaes. “I’ve seen hundreds,” said Llian softly, and the worst of them flashed into his inner eye. They would haunt his dreams tonight. “It’d be safer to assume Snoat is alive and bent on revenge.”

  Wilm swallowed. His eyes returned to the decanter. “What good is that?”

  “It’s the finest brandy in existence. A collector would pay at least a thousand gold tells for it… assuming there’s any left by the time
we find a collector rich enough.”

  “You mean… every teaspoon is worth a gold tell?” whispered Wilm.

  “At least.”

  “You wouldn’t drink that!”

  “Bloody oath I would. I might be dead tomorrow.”

  “Mother would have a fit. She doesn’t earn a gold tell in a year of scrubbing floors.”

  “We don’t have to tell her,” said Llian.

  “That’s all very well,” said Wilm primly, “but wherever we go we’ll have to buy food.”

  “We’ll drink the brandy and sell the decanter. The silver stopper must be the weight of thirty tars.” Llian twisted it to crack the wax that held it in place.

  “Aren’t you worried that we’re being followed?”

  Llian paused. “You’re right. We should get going.”

  He put the decanter away and opened Mendark’s book. There were some scrawls on the first few pages, though the rest of the book was empty. He turned to the first page, which held six lines written with a fine nib in purple ink. It was dated ninety-four years ago, presumably when the box had first been hidden here.

  Though Llian had plenty of experience in deciphering Mendark’s writing, this scrawl was more impenetrable than usual. The lines were short, some of the words were underlined and others in capitals; it might have been written in terror or drunkenness. Or both. He looked up. Wilm was practising again, and his strokes had a hint of desperation now.

  Llian scanned the page and closed his eyes to recreate a mental image of it. Mendark’s impenetrable scrawl became his voice as Llian remembered it.

  The drumming, the drumming!

  You bloody fool, the enemy has used you.

  It’s a source of dark power bleeding into the world.

  And you’ve been manipulated all your adult life.

  To find it for them – AND WAKE IT.

  If you had, you would have betrayed Santhenar and everything you believe in.

  Llian tore out a blank page and copied the lines. Sometimes the act of copying helped in deciphering the meaning. The enemy must mean the Merdrun and it was surely the summon stone. And all your adult life suggested they had got to Mendark as a young man. Had they given him the power to wake the summon stone because they, from the void, could not? Was that Mendark’s ‘deal with a demon’ that explained his astonishing rise to power?