The Summon Stone

by Ian Irvine

  The next page had been written thirteen years later, using a thicker nib and green ink.

  Can the secret of mancery be used to block them?

  Or would that be playing into their hands?

  Might the summon stone feed on mancery?

  Llian knew that Mendark loved Santhenar and would never knowingly betray his world. That must be why he had tried to crack the secret of mancery, hoping to block the enemy permanently.

  The third and last page was dated only eleven years ago, not long before his death, and was written in what appeared to be silverpoint. Mendark had pressed so hard that the page was torn through in places.

  I was also sure nyphalle would work – it eats through wood, metal, glass, porcelain and stone – but no one could create any. I can’t destroy it, but maybe the future can. I’ve got to SLEEP it – and there’s only one way to do that.

  The fatal way.

  “What does the fatal way mean?” said Wilm, who had approached silently and was clutching his sword as if it were the only safe thing in the world.

  “It means that the Histories have to be rewritten,” said Llian. He burned the copy he had made of the first page, then laughed aloud.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s ironic, really. Thandiwe did whatever it took to get herself a Great Tale, and corrupted herself in the process, but this book proves she’s got the ending wrong. Mendark wasn’t corrupt at the end, nor had he gone mad. He was fighting to save the world.”

  “How did he die?”

  Llian looked back through the years. “He was gutted by a thranx, a savage winged humanoid that got in from the void when the Way Between the Worlds was opened. Mendark gave his life to save the rest of us.”

  Wilm shivered. “Are you going to tell Thandiwe?”

  “Should bad behaviour be rewarded?”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “After burning his library,” Llian mused, “Mendark raced up to Carcharon, then made a gate to Shazmak, where he was subsequently killed. But as to what he was really trying to do, no one knows.”

  “Is Shazmak where the summon stone is?”

  “I don’t know. But Carcharon is a very dark place.”

  What had Basunez and Karan’s father really got up to there? If only Karan hadn’t burned their papers.

  “I think,” Llian added, “we’d better head for Carcharon.”

  “What if it’s there?” said Wilm.

  “I’ve got to destroy it…”

  “But?” Wilm said perceptively.

  “It’s a magical device of great power that can defend itself. It corrupted Unick in a twinkling, and he’s a greater mancer. So how can I hope to harm it?”

  Mummy, Mummy?

  Karan, who had been dozing behind a megalith, shot upright.

  Mummy, they’re going to initiate me! Idlis keeps saying, “You’re one of us now, my little Whelm.” What if… what if they won’t give me back?

  Then Karan sensed a greedy alertness and felt a tiny spike of pain at the top of her head. The magiz again, picking away at her like a sore, trying to wear her down. She tried to send feelings of warmth and comfort to Sulien, but they felt pathetic and useless.

  Mummy, where are you? You’ve got to come and get me.

  Karan could hardly breathe. Could Sulien be right? Were the Whelm planning to keep her? Tears poured down her cheeks but with the magiz so close she dared not reply.

  If they did plan to keep Sulien, how would she ever find her? The frozen wilderness of Shazabba was vast and the Whelm must have a thousand hiding places. In trying to save Sulien, had she delivered her to a fate that was almost as bad?

  Mummeeeee?

  Sulien’s link faded away. Karan could sense nothing now. Would it be like this for the rest of her life – just emptiness? She screwed herself up into a ball, wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth, but it could not ease her torment. Nothing could. She had given Sulien away and was never going to get her back.

  Ussarine rode in, carrying something rectangular under her arm, and jumped down. Karan looked up listlessly, unable to care.

  “What’s that?” said Shand.

  “The lid of the box. It must have been booby-trapped, and the lid was blasted off when it was opened.”

  Karan stood up. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “There’s no sign of blood,” said Shand.

  Ussarine turned the lid over. A small canvas money bag was caught in a snag in the metal.

  Shand opened the bag. “Silver tars. I dare say Llian would have taken the gold.”

  “How do you know there was gold?” said Karan.

  “It’s worth twenty times as much as silver, and a Magister on the run would have great need of it for bribes, the hire of horses, coaches, ships and guards. And to encourage reluctant allies.”

  He tossed the bag to Karan. “Share it with Ussarine.”

  Karan let it fall. “I’d sooner starve than touch Mendark’s silver.”

  “You’re broke, Karan. You may need it to save your daughter.”

  Karan’s eyes burned. What if… what if they won’t give me back? She stumbled away, choking.

  “Karan, what is it?” said Ussarine, running after her.

  “Sulien is calling out for me, calling and calling, and I’m terrified to answer in case the magiz gets to her through me. She’s addicted to death and she aches to drink Sulien’s life. And I… don’t know… what to do.”

  Shand shook his grey head. “I’m sorry.”

  “I just want to reach out to Sulien and comfort her. If I’m quick… it’ll be all right, won’t it?” Karan turned her tear-stained face up to Ussarine.

  “You have to do whatever keeps Sulien safe,” said Ussarine.

  “But is she safe with the Whelm?” Karan cried.

  “I don’t know,” Shand said heavily.

  “I also found tracks,” said Ussarine after a minute’s silence. “Going two ways.”

  “They split up?” said Shand.

  “Not deliberately.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Judging by the tracks, one person left with their own horse and the three remounts. The other two people headed east with the remaining two horses.”

  “Who was the one and who were the two?” said Karan dully.

  “We’d better take a look,” said Shand.

  Ussarine led them to the spot, and he studied the tracks of the person who had taken the four horses. “Definitely not Wilm. He’s got big feet and a long stride.”

  “Not Llian either,” said Ussarine. “These footmarks are slender; it’s got to be Thandiwe.”

  Karan felt a vague stirring of relief but suppressed it. Not yet!

  “Funny-looking tracks,” said Shand.

  “How do you mean?” said Karan.

  “There are hardly any heel impressions. It’s as though she was walking on tiptoe. Yet the toe impressions are really deep and dug in at the front.” Then he laughed. “What a gall she’s got!”

  Karan looked at him blankly.

  “Thandiwe’s sneaking away carrying a lot of weight.”

  “She’s tall,” said Karan, “but she’s not a heavy woman.”

  “She was when she made these footprints. She must have nicked all Mendark’s gold, then stolen the spare horses and run for it.”

  “South-west towards the Hirthway,” said Ussarine. “Doesn’t sound like Llian’s dearest friend to me, Karan.”

  “The treacherous bitch!” said Karan, but she felt an exhausting sense of relief. And a degree of guilt that she had so misjudged and mistrusted Llian.

  When they arrived back at the campfire she counted out the bag of silver and gave Ussarine half. Karan put some in her pocket and the rest in her pack, and retired to her sleeping pouch. Once the camp was silent she looked up at the stars and imagined that one of them was Llian. If only she knew where he was.

  If only she could link to Sulien.

  63

/>   THE BROKEN PHIAL

  Wilm and Llian rode due east from the megaliths to the River Gannel, which they reached late in the afternoon. Wilm took no notice of their surroundings. He could think of nothing but Dajaes, her short life and terrible death, of throwing the dirt onto her cold body, filling the grave and riding away. Would he ever return? Would he even be able to find her grave again in this arid wilderness?

  How could he have failed her so? Why hadn’t he attacked Unick with the sabre? If he had she might still be alive. It was all his fault. The thoughts went round and round; he could not escape them.

  “Come on, Wilm,” said Llian, who had ridden into the sandy riverbed until the water came up to his horse’s belly.

  The Gannel was low at this time of year, broad but shallow. Wilm realised that he was staring blindly at the pebbles beneath the water. The round stones were just like the ones he had scattered on Dajaes’s grave.

  “We’ll ride up the river for a while,” Llian added, “to hide our tracks.”

  “How do we get to Carcharon?” said Wilm.

  “We can’t risk the track via Tullin…”

  Llian trailed off. He had been preoccupied ever since reading those pages in Mendark’s notebook. Wilm knew the look by now; Llian was sorting through his prodigious chronicler’s memories, trying to find links between the past and the present.

  “And?” Wilm prompted after another silent minute.

  “There’s another way across the mountains. It’s shorter than the route through Tullin, but higher, and often closed by avalanches in winter.”

  “How do you know it’ll be open now?”

  “You don’t get many avalanches in autumn.”

  Wilm looked ahead to an expanse of woodland that appeared to stretch all the way to the mountains. It was close to sunset.

  “Shouldn’t we find a campsite?”

  “Not on the plains,” said Llian. “Campfire could be seen for miles.”

  They rode through the woodland for half an hour, by which time it was almost dark. The land was undulating here and, as it rose towards the foothills, the open woodland became forest. They reached a freshet chuckling over a series of rocky rills between two knobbly hills, like an old man’s knees. Llian headed upstream to a place where the trees were tall and there was plenty of cover.

  “This’ll do. The only way we can be seen is if someone stumbles right on us.” He yawned. “Hardly keep my eyes open.”

  Wilm gathered wood and fetched water. Llian charred chunks cut from the goat hindquarter in the fire. Wilm didn’t taste a single mouthful; he just sat there, staring at the flames and picturing Dajaes’s lovely face, her soft brown eyes. How could he have failed her so?

  Llian was writing in his journal. Wilm rose abruptly, turned away so Llian would not see the tears in his eyes and practised the seven basic strokes with desperate fury. He kept it up for an hour, by which time his arm was aching all the way to the shoulder and his knees were rubbery. He stopped for a minute, panting. Llian did not look up.

  Sword fighting was one of the most exhausting activities of all, and few people could keep it up for long, but Wilm continued, fighting against the pain. He had to master the seven basic strokes and both strength and endurance mattered. He had not said anything to Llian, but Wilm planned to take Unick on and kill him. He could not be allowed to do to anyone else what he had done to Dajaes.

  Wilm could not hope to match Unick after a few days’ practice, for he was a cunning, experienced brawler. But he also looked like a sick man. Wilm had to stay alive long enough to wear him down, exhaust him. And then…

  “I can’t think,” Llian said. “I’m too bloody tired.” He got out the brandy decanter. “Want some?”

  “No,” Wilm said miserably.

  “I guess it’s not the time.” Llian slipped the notebook into his pocket. “Ow, what’s that?”

  The tip of his middle finger had a spot of blood on it. He felt in his pocket and brought out a little stoppered phial.

  “Where did this come from, anyway?” Llian sniffed it.

  A troubling memory surfaced in Wilm’s mind but sank again before he could identify it.

  “There’s a label on it,” said Llian. He carried it across to the fire and studied the tiny writing. “It says, WILM. Did you drop it on the way into Pem-Y-Rum?”

  “I’ve never seen it before,” said Wilm. “But Aviel uses those perfume phials. She must have made it for me.”

  “Then how did it get there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The phial set off a flood of memories – Dajaes and himself going every step of the way, rescuing Llian, trying to find the way back to the cellar but discovering they could no longer get to it, then deciding to head for the gates of Pem-Y-Rum. He saw the three of them walking down that fatal corridor…

  Llian passed the phial to Wilm. “Unick picked up a bit of glass. He sniffed it and put it in his pocket.”

  Unick’s final words exploded in Wilm’s mind and he let out a cry of anguish.

  Llian must have realised what it meant at the same second, because he said the words aloud: “I’ll have her too. Why would Unick say that?”

  “Aviel!” cried Wilm.

  “Why would Unick care about someone he’s never heard of, a hundred miles away on the other side of the mountains? It was just a meaningless taunt, because that’s the kind of swine he is.”

  “Yes,” said Wilm, so relieved that he felt dizzy and had to put his hands on the ground. “He wouldn’t have the faintest idea where she lives.”

  “Is she a special friend?” said Llian.

  “I remember the first time I saw her.” Wilm stared into the fire. “I was four; she must have been two. All the little kids used to play in the paddock across from the butcher’s shop, and Aviel was on the other side, trying to walk like everyone else. She was trying so hard, but her ankle was never going to go straight and the other kids made fun of her – Twist-foot, twist-foot! You know how cruel kids can be.”

  “I know.”

  “Mum rounded on them and asked me to take Aviel home. She was trying not to cry, and her ankle was red and swollen. I offered to carry her but she refused. She took my hand, though, and I walked with her all the way, and we talked about… stuff. We were both different. Me because I had no father, and Aviel with her terrible family. And being a twist-foot. Plus the silver hair and the seventh-sister business…”

  “What about it?”

  “They all mean bad luck, and Aviel has the worst luck of anyone I’ve ever met.”

  Llian smiled indulgently.

  “It’s true!” said Wilm. “She once tossed a coin fifty times, and forty-eight times it came up the opposite of what she called.”

  “I could use a skill like that at the gaming tables,” Llian said dreamily.

  “If she calls heads but secretly hopes for tails, heads nearly always comes up. She’s tried to beat her bad luck but she can’t.”

  “It doesn’t explain what the phial was doing in Pem-Y-Rum.”

  Wilm held it up to the firelight. There was still a trace of liquid in the bottom. He worked the stopper out and took a careful sniff.

  “It smells like the herbs and flowers in her garden.”

  “I wish I had a scent to remind me of home,” said Llian gloomily. “I’m going to turn in.”

  He wrapped himself in his cloak and one of Snoat’s horse blankets, and was asleep within a minute. Wilm put the phial away. He was desperate for sleep but it did not feel right to put Dajaes out of his mind on the day she had died.

  It seemed impossible that it could have happened this morning. It felt like a hundred years since he had been young and innocent, going on the great adventure with her through the tunnel to rescue Llian. He had to stay with her as long as he could.

  He sat there for hours, grieving and remembering the good times, and only when he knew from the wheeling stars that it was past midnight and the awful day was done at last did he final
ly let go.

  But later on he jerked awake, hearing Unick’s voice, over and over.

  I’ll have her too. I’ll have her too. I’ll have her too.

  Wilm felt for the phial in his bag and eased the stopper out. Pressing the broken end to his nose, he took a deep sniff, then stoppered it and put it away again. He sensed Aviel, far away in Casyme, smelling the same scent and smiling. It was all right; Unick’s words didn’t mean anything.

  But then she gasped, doubled up and slapped a hand over her nose, though not before Wilm smelled it too – a disgusting reek that he would never forget if he lived a hundred lives. Unick!

  I’ll have her too.

  It wasn’t a dream and it wasn’t some vision of madness. Somehow Aviel’s perfume had connected her to himself, and to Unick. Wilm remembered him swinging another device back and forth. What had Llian called it? Identity! Then the two red crystals on the end had lit up, and Unick had said, “Ah!”

  He was after Aviel, and he had to be stopped. Wilm kicked the sleeping pouch away, drew the black sword and ran this way and that, staring into the darkness. But there was nothing to see – Unick would be east of Chanthed by now, and Aviel was a hundred miles away in Casyme.

  Though with the Identity device he could find her.

  With quiet desperation Wilm began to practise the seven basic strokes, and did not stop even when bloody blisters formed on his palm and fingers, or even after the blisters burst. Every so often he paused to check his instructions by the firelight, correct his stroke and go at it again.

  He was still practising three hours later when Llian woke with the dawn.

  “You’re up early,” he said, smiling.

  Wilm kept going mechanically for another half-dozen strokes before grinding to a stop. He turned towards Llian, bleakly, knowing he must look like a madman.

  “Wilm, what is it?”

  Wilm explained what had happened in the night, expecting Llian to dismiss it as a nightmare. Hoping he would.