The Summoner

by Gail Z. Martin

  "Good, get in closer, closer," the instructor hissed, and she drove forward, slashing determinedly, her jaw set resolutely. And then, the opening she was watching for. With a cry, she dove forward, beneath his guard, to score on the shoulder of his padded practice jacket. Overhead, a little greenscaled gyregon fluttered its leathery wings and rasped its excitement, a spectator with an aerial view.

  "Well done, your Highness, well done!" the instructor congratulated her, out of breath but pleased.

  Kiara Sharsequin, princess of Isencroft, grinned tiredly and wiped the sweat from her brow with her padded sleeve. Her auburn hair was caught back in a knot, framing features that showed both her mother's Eastmark blood and her father's Isencroft's heritage. Dark, almond-shaped eyes and a slightly duskier complexion gave an exotic look to the northern features she inherited from her father, along with her height and high cheekbones. The little gyregon fluttered to land on her shoulder, and she reached up to stroke its scales.

  "By the Mistress, you made me work for that, Darry!" she exclaimed, catching her breath.

  "That's enough for today," Darry replied, still grinning at her triumph. "But your parry has gotten much better and you're taking the offensive more vigorously of late. Working out frustrations?"

  Kiara reached up to loosen the knot that held back her hair, and shook her head as the auburn waves cascaded around her face. "You've guessed it. Some days, I think you and these sessions are the only things keeping me sane."

  Darry sobered. "So I guessed, Kiara. But you are the Goddess Blessed," he reminded her. "The Holy Lady watches over you."

  Kiara sighed and sheathed her sword, dropping down on a bench to unlace her padded gear. "I hope so, Darry. With the way my luck's been going, She's lost interest, or forgotten me altogether."

  "Not likely, my princess," Darry replied, his weathered face softening with a smile as he ran one hand back through thick hair now well streaked with gray. "I remember when She appeared to you, Lady, everyone who was living then remembers! No, She has a purpose for you," he repeated with conviction. "But, like you, I pray it bodes well for Isencroft."

  Kiara set aside her padded jacket. "So do I, Darry," she said pensively. "Of late, nothing bodes well for Isencroft, I fear."

  "You are tired, my princess," the salle master replied. "Perhaps things will not loom so large in the morning," he said, reaching out to touch her chin affectionately. She smiled, but it was forced, and the smile did not reach her eyes. "Or, if not, perhaps you will feel more their equal." He paused. "At the least, you can give thanks that another day has passed without being Chosen for your Journey."

  Kiara shook her head and looked up at the salle roof. "One more thing to worry about," she said resignedly. "Trouble on the northern border, Cam and Carina gone these weeks and no word, Father... " her voice drifted off. "And now, at any time, to be called by the Sisterhood for my Journey-"

  "You are finding, perhaps, that to rule is not so easy, hmmm my little falcon?" he said, sheathing his own sword. "But trust the Sisterhood. They do not choose these things lightly. And for you, Goddess Blessed, I expect that your coming-of-age Journey will not be ordinary."

  "I'm not sure that's comforting, if you were trying to reassure me," Kiara said, already feeling her aching muscles protest as she rose. Once more, to no one in particular, she cursed Isencroft's tradition of insisting that all of its nobility, male or female, excel at the swordsmanship which distinguished the realm. She knew better than to let Darry hear her, since the armsmaster was wont to remind her that even the peasant folk, except for women with suckling babes and children too young to wield a weapon, were expected to drill with the homeliest of arms. To be of Isencroft was to know the sword. She prayed that her people's preparations might be enough.

  She feared otherwise. Broad and vast, Isencroft was populated more by herds than people; scattered pockets of townspeople staked a hard-won home on Isencroft's flat plains of fertile ground and good pastureland. There had been no famine in Isencroft for longer than anyone could remember. But in generations past, wars came almost as regularly as the rains, as one neighbor or another advanced, hungry for Isencroft's land and access to the Northern Sea.

  Kiara no longer trusted in the skill at arms of her people. The threat that now lurked beyond the borders was of magic, not of men. "And then, there's Margolan," she sighed, helping Darry pick up the weapons strewn around from their practice.

  "I heard there was a messenger," Darry replied noncommittally.

  Kiara gave an undignified snort. "Messenger indeed. A little overstuffed hedgeweasel arrived with an invitation from His Majesty, Jared of Margolan, bearing royal greetings and an invitation to visit the palace. And a reminder of a betrothal contract signed when I was born." She grimaced as she helped Darry replace the weapons. "His Majesty," she repeated derisively. "All our spies report the same thing, that he murdered his family to seize the throne-"

  "Dangerous words, my princess," Darry cautioned, "even if true."

  "Of course they're true!" she retorted, resting her hand on her hip and fixing Darry with a glare. "And now he wants to enlarge his empire. By marriage."

  "Your father would never force you-"

  "But my father is not himself," Kiara replied, dropping into a dispirited slump on the salle bench. "We both know that. And if Jared has any spies at all-let alone the dark mages that are supposed to be at his bidding-he knows that. If he didn't cause it," she added darkly. "That demon of his, Arontala, could probably create a curse at least as strong as the one on Father, before breakfast, no doubt."

  "You worry too much, Goddess Blessed," Darry said gently, resting one foot on the bench beside her and leaning on his knee. "Our people will hardly let you be carried off into a marriage against your will."

  Kiara shrugged. "You've told me enough times yourself that we of the blood royal often have less choice about our lives than the poorest peasant. So many things hang by a thread right now, Darry," she said, pulling her knees up to her chest like a child and wrapping her arms around them, hugging herself tight. "The nobles must suspect that father's not well. He can't even keep up appearances now, and the longer he's 'indisposed,' the more they'll talk. Two poor harvests in a row plus foul weather this year, and we may have famine on our hands come winter. Margolan used to be a trusted ally. But now, weak as Isencroft has become, all it might take is a threat from the east, or magicked beasts from the north, to give us no choice. Give me no choice," she whispered, "except to buy Isencroft's safety with myself."

  "By the Childe and Crone, you're gloomy today!" Darry exclaimed. "Any other disasters you would care to consider? Plague? Flood? Locusts?" He grinned wickedly. "Perhaps extra practice sessions for a morbid princess would turn her mind to more useful things?"

  Kiara lifted her head just far enough to glare balefully above her folded arms. "There's a penalty for killing a princess with too much arms practice. There has to be. And if there isn't, I'll see that Allestyr creates one right away."

  Darry laughed. "Since Carina's gone away, you brood too much, my princess," he chided. "Trust the Bright Lady. One day Isencroft, and you, will see happier days."

  With a sigh, Kiara uncurled and stretched, standing. She patted the instructor on the shoulder affectionately. "I hope you're right, Darry. For all of us," she said, painfully aware of her aching muscles and knowing that, even with a hot bath, she would feel their session in her bones come morning.

  The much-coveted hot bath was over far too soon, and the night's work that awaited her gave Kiara far more concern than her sore muscles. In the private parlor outside her sleeping rooms, Kiara's closest advisors waited for her arrival. Kiara slipped into the room and greeted the group. Their reserve gave her an indication of their concern.

  "Is everything ready, Tice?" Kiara asked the thin, white-haired man.

  Tice nodded. "All is ready, your Highness. But I beg you, please reconsider. The risk is just too great."

  "You know as well as I do th
at there is no other way," Kiara replied stubbornly, and reached out to accept the small velvet pouch in Tice's hand. From it she drew out a finely worked necklace, set with stones that glimmered in the candlelight. Pressing her candle into Tice's hand, Kiara secured the clasp around her throat and lifted her head

  "You are too young for such great responsibilities," Tice clucked.

  Kiara gave him a sidelong look. "You coddle me, Tice," she chided gently. "Hasn't father told you that I'm already almost too old to make a 'suitable' bride? By this age, almost twenty summers old, in the farmlands, a girl has already whelped four brats, five if she starts young and keeps at it each year," she said with a wicked grin.

  "Your Highness," Tice said with a "tsk tsk" that did little to hide his amusement. "I hope you restrain your language in public."

  Kiara chuckled. "That all depends. I'd like the Margolan ambassador to convince his king that I'm not at all suitable for such a great ruler," she replied, her voice thick with sarcasm.

  "Another scrying might not be necessary," Tice argued. "You should conserve your strength. You're driving yourself too hard."

  Kiara fingered the intricate designs of the ancient pendant. It was set with oval stones in each of the five gems sacred to the Goddess: diamond, the stone of the deepest caverns; ruby, the color of fire; emerald, green as the seas; sapphire, blue as the skies; and amber like the Lady's eyes. Its metal was worn smooth from the years, and its power made her fingers tingle. "Really, Tice," Kiara said, touching his arm gently, "you worry too much." She smiled her most engaging smile and Tice shook his head in resignation.

  "You have always gotten your way with me, Kiara," Tice replied. "And I don't imagine that is going to change. I just beg of you to conserve your strength. Isencroft needs you."

  "Everyone is here, Your Highness," said Kellen, a trusted guard. Although the man-at-arms had been at every Ritual since the start, he still looked decidedly ill at ease.

  Kiara looked at the small, anxious group. Her five closest advisors awaited the Working, apprehensive yet committed. Allestyr, the king's seneschal, nodded in silent greeting, as did Brother Felix, an acolyte to the Oracle.

  "I'll begin the warding." Cerise, healer to Kiara's late mother, took her place, stepping forward and taking up a chalice from the altar in the center of the room. Even her healing talents could not overcome the hunching back and slight limp that age inflicted.

  The others formed the circle. Kiara stepped into the center. Jae made his perch this time on Tice's shoulder. Brother Felix reverently raised his hands, revealing another chalice, cradled gently between his roughened palms. This one was low and wide, filled with still water. Kiara took the glass chalice from Brother Felix and held it in front of her. Then, taking a deep breath, she began.

  "Powers that be, hear me! Goddess of Light, attend!" Kiara recited, her eyes closed in concentration. "I am the Chosen of Isencroft, the line of the blood. We gather to invoke the ancient Powers. I claim the Powers by the blood of my family and the title of the crown. In the name of the aspects of the Holy One, protect this kingdom. May the Mother defend it like a firstborn and the Avenger guard its borders. May the Dark Lady cherish it like a lover and the Childe in all her innocence preserve it as a beloved. I will it be so!"

  The chalice flared, lighting Kiara's face with its eerie blue glow. Kiara gasped as the air in the chamber began to stir, sweeping around them. Gentle at first, its strength grew until it rushed around them with a howl, and Kiara imagined that she glimpsed faces in the magewind. "Spirits of the Land, hear me!" Kiara began. "Winds of the North, obey! Waters of the Southlands, bend your course to the will of the Chosen. Fires of the Eastern Sun, be bound by my command. Land of our fathers under the sun of the west, I compel you by the right of the heirs of Isencroft to reveal what is hidden and find what is dear. Let it be so!"

  A glow began deep within the still waters. Kiara stared into the chalice and its swirling mist.

  The image within was nearly complete now. "Cam and Carina," Cerise reported as the images of Kiara's journeying cousins filled the chalice. The mists shifted and the image blurred. When the waters cleared once more, Cerise gasped.

  The images shifted again, flashing fragments of scenes so brief it was just barely possible to identify them, of flames and the flash of swords. Kiara saw images flicker in the amber mist. Carina was in danger, and Cam's face was grim, his hair sodden with sweat, as he set about with his sword. Then, a gray mist obliterated the picture.

  Kiara sagged to her knees and the image disappeared.

  "Break the circle!" Cerise hissed. "We can't help you until you break the circle!"

  "Wind and Fire, Land and Sea, I release you!" Kiara whispered. The chalice's light dimmed, then faded into darkness. Tice and Allestyr rushed forward as Kellen wrapped Kiara in his arms and gently lifted her from the floor. Brother Felix took the chalice from Cerise.

  "What did she see?" asked Allyster.

  Cerise shook her head. "Nothing good, I fear. Cam and Carina are in danger, but the waters are unclear. Whether our vision was, or is to come, or may be changed is not certain."

  "Thank you," Kiara whispered, still leaning heavily on Kellen. She could feel the last vestiges of the powers they summoned tingling around them.

  Kellen shouldered open the heavy door to Kiara's bedchamber and Cerise helped the princess into bed. Brother Felix stepped up to attend her as Tice and the others stood back along the walls of the room, waiting.

  "Well?" Tice asked.

  Cerise looked up and brushed a strand of gray hair from her eyes. "She'll be all right," the healer reassured. "But each scrying drains her."

  Kiara rolled her head to look at the old healer. "You know I hate it when you talk about me like I'm not here," she reproved, a tired smile softening her complaint. Cerise patted her hand and pressed a cup to Kiara's lips. They had their answer for tonight, Kiara thought. Cam and Carina, King's Champion and King's Healer, were in danger, their quest to seek the Sisterhood and find a solution to the king's illness still uncertain.

  Cerise ended her ministrations and stood. The princess fought back sleep, determined to remain alert while the others were near. Jae left his perch on Tice's shoulder and flew to the top of Kiara's headboard like a sentry.

  Allestyr took a kettle from the fire and poured them each a cup of mulled wine. Cerise cradled her cup in her hands and sank into a chair, staring at the fire.

  "She's pushing herself too hard, taking her father's place and training for her Journey. Carina's absence only makes it worse." Cerise said.

  "Perhaps the Oracle-" Allestyr began.

  "You know that the king is impatient with the Oracle," Cerise replied tiredly. "The Goddess too often keeps her own counsel about Isencroft's troubles."

  "We need an answer soon," Kellen said, draining his cup.

  "I know, Kellen," Cerise whispered. "I know." They may have said more after that, but the mulled wine, the warmth of the fire and the fatigue of the evening finally overcame even Kiara's will, and despite her best efforts, she drifted into sleep.

  Chapter Six

  Jared Drayke drummed his fingers. "He's not telling everything he knows," the king growled. Foor Arontala gestured to the black-robed torturer, and the subject of Jared's irritation screamed once more as the red-hot iron burned into his flesh.

  "Please, no more!" the soldier begged. "Master, I swear I have told you all!"

  Jared's mood soured by the minute. "Where is my brother?" Jared growled.

  The soldier's face was white with terror. "No one knows, sire, I swear I am telling you the truth. We lost his trail in Ghorbal, when he escaped with the mercenary Vahanian. It's as if they were swallowed up whole. I can tell no more. Mercy, my liege, I beg you," the scout whimpered. Hog-bound with chains and forced to kneel before his king, the man was barely coherent, and a row of fresh, seeping burns along his face and arm attested to Jared's frustration.

  Jared exploded into a string of expletives. "No, of
course you can't tell me. You failed." Jared nodded once more to the torturer, who set aside his poker and lifted an axe. "You know the consequence for failure." Before the scout could twist to see, the torturer swung the axe, neatly cleaving the scout's head from his shoulders. The body, still pumping blood, fell to the side of the interrogation dais, and the blood ran along the narrow gutter along its edge, into the ornate bowl at its lip. Jared looked away in disgust.

  "Display his body outside the barracks," Jared ordered. "Let him serve as an example. Perhaps the next scout will be more diligent." Jared turned his glare pointedly to the red-robed mage who stood silently by the cold hearth. "Not that my mage has done much better," he said dryly after the executioner dragged the corpse and its head from the room.

  Foor Arontala was a thin man, his shoulders slightly rounded, with lank brown hair that fell unkempt around his pale, youthful face. His robes, the color of dried blood, only heightened his pallor. Arontala's pale blue eyes hinted at his true age, centuries instead of mere decades, and his thin lips hid incisors that confirmed the rumors that said he was among the Deathless Ones. Arontala's expression was unreadable as always. "I'm not sure what you are saying, sire."

  Jared made a contemptuous noise. "The hell you aren't. You assured me this would go smoothly."

  "It did," the mage replied, unmoved by Jared's temper. "You have the throne of Margolan and any who resisted you were silenced."

  "My brother lives," Jared snapped. "He can rally discontent, challenge my throne-"

  "Your brother has never shown the slightest interest in ruling."

  "He doesn't have to," Jared fumed. "All he has to do is live long enough to reach Dhasson and others will make him a rallying point."

  "Then we have to make sure he never reaches Dhasson."

  Jared stood and walked to the window of his chamber. It was autumn and only the thick stone walls of the palace kept a chill from the room. His sable brown hair fell in soft waves to his shoulders, framing a face that would have been handsome but for the arrogant turn of his lip and the hard glint in his brown eyes. The resemblance between Jared and his younger half-brother was unmistakable, though Tris was as fair in coloring as Jared was dark. "What do you suggest?"