The Summoner

by Gail Z. Martin

  Tris started past him towards the door toward the servants' steps. "I've got to warn Mother and Kait."

  "Tris," Soterius cried, catching Tris by the arm. "If Jared's killed the king, he's going to want you, too. We've got to get you out of here," Soterius grated with military calm. "With Bricen dead, the crown is at stake. Jared's going to want to eliminate loose ends. We've got to get you to safety."

  "Not without Kait and Mother," Tris snapped as shock gave way to anger. He shook free and wrenched the back stairs door open.

  "All right, then we're coming too," Soterius said, and tossed the rope to Carroway. "Here. Carry this. I've got a sword and you don't." He barred the door to their chamber and drew his sword. "At least if they come looking for us, it will hold them for a while."

  He turned towards Carroway, but the bard had already drawn a small dagger from the folds of his tunic. "You thought it was just for the stories?" Carroway asked. "Some of your army friends like to rough up bards now and again."

  Soterius slipped past Tris and led the way down the stairs. He tried the handle on the door at the bottom, and eased the unlocked door open. The bedchamber was in shambles. Queen Serae lay in a heap near the door, her party gown stained crimson with blood.

  "Mother!" Tris called, feeling the panic rise in his voice as he shouldered past Soterius and scrambled across the room.

  "Dear Goddess Bright," Carroway breathed. "Jared's raised a coup!" Soterius was already at the door to the corridor, which hung broken and useless on its hinges.

  Please, please no, Tris begged the Goddess as he reached Serae. Her body was still warm to the touch, still loose-limbed as he stifled a cry and rolled her to face him. The dagger that ended her life protruded her chest as her head lolled on Tris's arm. His throat tightened and his eyes swam as he listened in vain for a heartbeat. She's gone.

  A sob tore from his throat as he cradled Serae, squeezing his eyes shut as unbidden tears streamed down his face. Gasping for breath, Tris dragged a sleeve across his eyes and scanned the room once more. He laid Serae's body gently on the floor, passed a hand across her staring eyes to close them, and whispered a prayer to the Lady.

  A groan startled Tris and Soterius wheeled, his sword drawn. Almost hidden among the shambles of an overturned bed lay Kait. Tris and Carroway ran to her, shoving aside debris and the body of a fallen guardsman, and freed her from the tangle of blankets. Kait lay pale and still, her bloodstained tunic warning Tris not to expect too much.

  "Kait, can you hear me?" Tris whispered, gathering her into his arms against his tunic stained with Serae's blood. Dark Lady, please, he begged silently. Not both of them. Please, spare her.

  "What happened?" he asked quietly, as a spasm of pain crossed Kait's face. Her lips were tinged with blue, and her breathing was rapid and shallow. Her blood stained his hand, seeping between his fingers as he tried to compress the deep gash on her belly. There was too much damage for any but the most experienced battle healer, and no such healers at hand.

  Kait's eyes opened. She focused, and managed a weak smile. "I knew you'd come, Tris. Are you dead, too?"

  Tris stifled a sob, unashamed of the tears that streaked down his face. He struggled to find his voice as he shook his head. "No, Kaity," he managed to rasp. "At least, not yet. Neither are you."

  "Soon. I've seen the Goddess. She's waiting."

  "Who did this?" Tris urged as gently as he could, grasping her hand as if to bind her spirit closer.

  Kait coughed, and blood flecked her lips. "Jared's men," she whispered. "They were waiting for us. I tried to protect mother. You'd have been proud."

  "I am proud," Tris whispered, blinking back tears.

  "Should have seen me, big brother. I think I got one of them."

  Tris glanced back at the guardsman's body. "You did, Kaity. You did."

  "I've got to go."

  "Kaity, stay with me!"

  Her eyes opened wider. "Tris-you're here, too. Like grandma." She coughed harder, and Tris thought she was gone. "If you will it, I can stay," she murmured as her eyes fluttered shut. "I'll just take your hand on this side."

  The image burned bright in Tris's mind as he clutched her to him, of Kait taking his hand and holding on. With everything in his being, he willed it be so. Yet even as he struggled to hold on to the fleeting spirit, something else, something strong, struggled to pull her away.

  Kait shuddered in his arms and went limp. Tris buried his head on her shoulder and wept, rocking on his heels, cradling her lifeless form.

  Tris, you've got to go, the voice said in his mind, Kait's voice, far away. Tris looked up and frowned. Kait stood in front of him, real but insubstantial, with the same faint luminescence of the palace ghosts.

  "Kaity?" Tris rasped in a raw voice.

  The ghost shimmered. "You did it, Tris. You kept me here. You've got grandma's power," Kait said. The image wavered once more, nearly blinking out, and a look of distress, then fear crossed her face as the ghost appeared to be pulled away, like smoke caught in a draft. "There's a spell on the palace ghosts. Arontala... help me, Tris," she begged as the apparition disappeared.

  It was Carroway's gasp that told Tris the apparition was visible to the others. Soterius looked shaken, never having seen Tris work any kind of magic. Carroway stared at the empty space where Kait's ghost had been, his ashen face witness that he had just seen far more powerful magecraft than he had ever expected of Tris. Gently, Tris laid Kait's body down among the blankets and covered her with a sheet.

  "Before we join her, let's get out of here," the minstrel said gently.

  Tris felt grief and shock throb through his body, filling him with rage. "Damn Jared!" he cried, lurching to his feet. His sword was already in hand as he started toward the hallway door at a dead run. Soterius blocked him.

  "Let me go!" Tris grated. "Damn it, let me pass!" The blood pounded in his ears as he tried to fight his way past Soterius, who parried and drove him back from the doorway. Carroway tackled him from behind, taking him to the ground and struggling to wrest away his sword while Tris swung wildly with his free hand, blinded with tears and gasping for air. Soterius joined the fray, helping Carroway as he fought to keep Tris back from the door.

  With a sharp flick of his blade, Soterius sent Tris's sword skittering out of reach, and lunged, pinning him against the floor. "You won't get within sight of Jared before his mage gigs you like a frog," Soterius snapped, struggling to keep his hold on Tris. "You can't help your mother or Kait. But you can still save Margolan by getting clear of here and coming back with an army of your own."

  "And can we do it soon?" hissed Carroway, who had taken Soterius's watch at the door. Breathing hard, Tris closed his eyes and conceded defeat.

  "Down the back stairs," Soterius returned, letting up on his grip and tossing Tris his fallen sword. "They come down in the servants' area. We'll run for the stable. Go."

  They ran down the narrow back stairs and burst into the kitchen, swords drawn, terrifying the scullery maids who shrieked and ran from the room. Outside in the corridor, Tris heard the pounding of boot steps and hard after it, the clang of steel. The doors from the feast hall banged open as three soldiers wearing the king's livery charged after two men who were fighting for their lives. Tris and the others flattened themselves against the side of the fireplace, cut off by the battle from their only escape. Tris had only the barest glimpse of the fighters, but he recognized one of the men on the defense as Harrtuck, a sergeant-at-arms, a stocky, barrel-chested man with a full dark beard and olive skin who often guarded Bricen.

  "I'll not give up this palace without a fight!" Harrtuck swore as he dodged and parried. His companion, another of the king's guard, thrust and scored. Tris and the others exchanged glances and raised their weapons. With a cry, both Tris and Soterius launched themselves into the fray beside Harrtuck, driving the attackers back by surprise.

  "Nice to see you," Harrtuck panted, pressing their sudden advantage.

  "Watch out!"
Carroway shouted, and Tris whirled, blade ready, in time to see one of the guardsmen clasp his hands to his chest in surprise and slowly topple to the floor. A growing red stain surrounded Carroway's dagger, hilt deep between the man's ribs.

  With a cry, Tris engaged the dead man's partner. "You'll soon be as dead as the king," the soldier taunted, driving Tris back a step. Engulfed by grief and rage, Tris struck back with all his might, wielding his sword with a two-handed grip. Startled by the ferocity of Tris's attack, the traitor fell back, then pressed forward again, a murderous gleam in his eyes as three more guards raced in to join him. Out of the corner of his eye, Tris saw Carroway grab a torch stand as a staff to hold off one of their attackers. Soterius and Harrtuck focused on the other two newcomers, leaving Tris to circle the grinning guard in a deadly dance of swordplay.

  A burst of red light exploded in the fireplace, and Tris lunged forward, recognizing one of Carroway's parlor tricks. It was just enough of a distraction for him to slip inside the soldier's guard and drive his blade home. The guard sagged forward, and Tris staggered as the dying man's weight nearly wrenched his sword from his grip.

  A glint of steel in the firelight was the only warning Tris had as a new opponent dove forward, scything a dagger in one hand as Tris parried the guardsman's sword. Tris staggered as the guard sank his dagger into Tris's side. The guard arched and stiffened, dropping to his knees as his hands clawed at his back, revealing a shiv in his back and Carroway standing with grim satisfaction over the dying traitor.

  Tris pressed his hands against his side as both Carroway and Soterius sprinted towards him. Harrtuck made short work of the remaining attackers. His ally lay dead on the floor. Carroway rolled Tris's assailant over with his boot, bending over to withdraw his dagger and wiping it clean in two quick movements on the dead man's tunic as he dropped to his knees beside Tris.

  "There'll be more soldiers," Soterius warned.

  "They've killed the king, Prince Martris," panted Harrtuck. "None of us could save him. You have to flee!"

  Tris gasped as Carroway struggled to lift him to a sitting position. Soterius knelt beside Tris and Carroway moved back to let the experienced swordsman examine Tris's wound. Without a word, Tris knew from the look on Soterius's face how nasty a gash he had taken.

  "We've got to get you to a healer," Soterius said tersely as he nodded for Carroway to move to Tris's other side and together they lifted Tris to his feet.

  "Aye, but first, we've got to get out of Shekerishet," Harrtuck agreed.

  As if on cue, boot steps sounded on the back stairs. With a motion, Harrtuck signaled Carroway to cover Tris while he and Soterius took the newcomers. A burly guardsman in the bloodstained livery of the king stepped into view. Two more guardsmen flanked him. Harrtuck waited in silence until all three were within range.

  "Now!" the armsmaster cried, springing forth, sword lowered, to run through the guardsman. There was a whistle of air and then a dull thwack, and the lead guard tumbled forward, his hands grasping at Carroway's dagger as Soterius's sword sliced down from the shadows, neatly cleaving the third man shoulder to hip.

  "Come on!" Soterius cried. He returned to where Tris and Carroway waited, pausing just long enough to regain the bard's dagger, and helped Tris to his feet once more. The blood pounded in Tris's ears and his knees threatened to buckle under him.

  "We're not going to get out easily," Carroway hissed as they started toward the door.

  "Got any better ideas?" Soterius growled.

  "Actually, yes," the minstrel snapped. "In here."

  Carroway pulled, rather than led, Tris and the others into a storage room under the back stairs. Strewn about were cloaks and tunics, masks and costumes from the night's revelry. "Here, see if this fits," he said, snatching up a black tunic, cape and mask from the floor and thrusting them towards Soterius.

  "You've got to be crazy," the swordsman said in disbelief. "We're running for our lives, and you want to-"

  "Just do it," Carroway snapped, plucking more outfits from the jumble and tossing them towards Tris and Harrtuck.

  "What in the Seven Kingdoms-" Harrtuck wondered.

  "It's where the entertainers change before going to the feast," Carroway explained breathlessly as he shed his own cloak and ripped more than pulled his tunic over his head. "They'll come back tomorrow to fetch their things, but tonight, there's too much to do to worry about being neat. Thank the Goddess."

  But as Carroway moved towards him, a voluminous cape in hand, Tris felt the rush of blood to his head as his legs gave way beneath him. Dimly, he heard the worried cries of his companions as he sank to the floor. Then, the room went dark.

  Tris was jostled awake to find himself staring at the stars. The cold fall air stung his face and around him pressed a crowd that smelled of ale and sweat, their rowdy songs far overshadowing the more subdued chants of the priestesses.

  Tris struggled to sit up, and felt a hand press him down. "Lie still," Soterius hissed. "We're in the procession, on our way to the city gates."

  The pain in his side threatened to make him pass out once more, but Tris set his jaw and fought the wave of darkness. A gray robe with a heavy cowl covered his body and obscured his face. His hands were covered with black paint. A wisp of hair that struggled from beneath the hood was sable brown, not the usual striking blond of his own shoulder-length queue.

  "Relax," Soterius warned. "Carroway improvised some disguises. Yours was the best we could do, given the circumstances," he apologized. Tris realized that he lay on a bier, one of the many effigies of departed loved ones carried in the ceremony towards the river, where a steady procession of figures, tokens and flowers would make their way down the waters toward the sea. Tucked in with the offerings were pleas for favors from the Goddess or departed loved ones, prayers for intercession or the righting of some wrong, or heartfelt expressions of longing for those who rested with the Lady.

  Yet despite its more serious side, Haunts was a night for revelry in the town as well, and this year appeared to be no exception, regardless of what transpired at the castle. Banners hung from every window, snapping on the cold night wind. Vendors' carts crowded the streets and costumed revelers elbowed their way through the congested passageways. The city smelled of sausages and ale, candles and incense. From somewhere in the walled city, bells pealed and Tris could hear the plaintive wail of flutes and the beat of drums.

  With any luck, Tris thought, they could blend into the crowd and meld into the procession most of the way to the Merchant Gate. From the high spirits of the crowd, Tris was certain no word of the treachery at the palace had reached the city. And it might not, ever.

  Jared was clever, and so was his mage. No one but Tris, Soterius and a few guards witnessed the actual attack. Jared could invent a tale of assassins, and blame the dead guards. Arontala's magic could probably manufacture evidence, or blur the eyes of those who might see otherwise.

  Bricen was a popular king, because he did not commandeer the harvest and his troops neither looted the local farms nor raped the farmers' daughters. Of the royal family, Serae had won the good will of the nobility, her gentle manner a stark contrast to Eldra's tempers. In return, the court lavished much more interest and favor on Tris and Kait than on Jared, whose brooding manner and dark habits fed the gossips' talk. Even so, Bava K'aa told Tris once that to commoners, one king was the same as the next so long as the taxes didn't change. No one might even care about the manner of Bricen's death, although Tris was sure that Jared's rule would not be as benign.

  It was impossible to distinguish the parade from the crowd. The throng pressed through the main street of the city, flowing toward the outer gates and the burial grounds beyond. In its center, large litters carried statues of the four Light aspects of the Goddess. Drummers pounded, pipers played and the shimmer of tambourines sounded above the din of the revelers. The litters and their statues bobbed above the crowd, held aloft by the press of people

  The costumes rivaled any
Tris had ever seen. There were "nobles" and gaudy ladies, river merchants and legendary heroes, together with no few revelers costumed as the Lady's aspects; grown women as well as children in the flowing white robes of the Childe; revelers of both sexes in the seductive garb of the Lover; others, male or female, in matronly attire as the beneficent Mother. And dark-cowled specters in the scarlet robes of Chenne, Avenger Goddess. But Haunts was a night for the Dark Aspects as well, and on this night, darkness held sway. Even more partygoers preferred the painted finery of the bitch Goddess, Luck, and they tossed candy coins and painted cards to the crowd. Others swaggered through the streets in the tawdry glamour of Athira the Whore, needing no skill to mimic the rolling, drunken gait. Like dark shadows in the torchlight, gray-cloaked partygoers played the role of Istra, the Demon Goddess, appearing insubstantial as wraiths in the wavering light and wafting smoke. Hunched figures old and young took on the visage and tattered rags of Sinha the Crone.

  One goddess, eight aspects-four light and four dark. Tris had always suspected that the aspect a person venerated said as much about the person as it did the kingdom and traditions from which they came. Margolan was partial to the Mother, although many within its borders also worshipped the Childe aspect. Isencroft, on Margolan's eastern border, gave homage to Chenne, the warrior. Principality, to the northeast, home to caravans and mercenary companies, traders and roustabouts, was partial to the Lover. Eastmark, Principality's southern neighbor, venerated the Whore, a favorite of gamblers and paid soldiers. Dhasson, to Margolan's west, encouraged adoration of all of the Lady's faces, save for that of the Crone. Dhasson's reluctance to embrace Crone worshippers was natural, given its southern neighbor, Nargi, whose sour-faced priests ruthlessly enforced the Crone's ascetic doctrines. Trevath, Margolan's southern neighbor and frequent rival, shared Nargi's veneration of the Crone, but in Trevath, known for its mines and fine carpets, such worship was much more practical, serving to enhance the power of the king.