The Summoner

by Gail Z. Martin

  "Ready for tonight's practice?" Vahanian asked, dropping down beside them with a steaming trencher of food. The mercenary grinned as Tris groaned his reply. "That excited, huh? Must be doing a good job then."

  "Couldn't you at least look tired?" Carroway complained as he finished his ale.

  "What's the point?" Vahanian replied with his mouth full. "Doesn't make any less work."

  "No, but it would give me a lot of satisfaction," Tris answered. "Where are we going next?"

  "Further north," came a reply from Tris's other side. "And if you ask me, it's a mistake." Tris turned to see Kaine, looking tired and dirty. "Nothing but trouble up north." Kaine swigged his ale. "'Course, seems to be a lot of that goin' around, if you take my meaning," he said, with a sidelong glance at Vahanian.

  "I'm not sure I do," Tris answered carefully.

  Kaine snorted. "Where have you been? Dhasson's at war. "'Course, now, they're not saying that, but war's what it is, all the same," he said, dropping his voice. "Some of the people coming through from that direction have some mighty strange tales. Mighty strange," he said, taking another draught.

  "How strange is 'strange?'" Tris asked, leaning forward.

  Kaine finished his ale and set his mug aside, then tilted his head to look at Tris. "How's unnatural things from out in the Blasted Lands for strange, huh?" he asked. "Word is that there've been some creatures sighted up near Dhasson that aren't the making of the Goddess, if you take my meaning," he said broadly. "'Twas a deserter through here that told some stories would stand your hair on end. Thought Dhasson's army was taking a beating and didn't fancy being eaten, or worse, so he lit off, or so he said," the tent rigger continued, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  "The tribes' mages couldn't conjure things like that," Vahanian said thoughtfully and Tris turned. By the Lady's breath, Tris thought, he looks like he's taking this seriously!

  "Don't know about the past, but they sure seem to now," Kaine replied. "And there were other stories. About day turning to night and lightning that wasn't the right color. About locusts coming up out of nowhere and disappearing just as fast. And about whole plains that were dry as a bone turning into mud right when the army went to cross them, and there weren't no rains for days, either," Kaine added. "Now if that's not magicked, what is it?"

  "Certainly sounds like magic to me," Vahanian replied. He got up, headed for the barrel of ale, and scooped up another mugful.

  "You're a cautious one," the tent rigger said to Tris as Vahanian walked away. "There're lots that don't hold with magic, but I've been around. I've seen strange things can't be explained no other way. Here's another piece of advice," Kaine said under his breath. "Watch your back around that one," he said with a barely perceptible nod towards Vahanian, who was out of earshot at the ale barrel. "No count of the men he's killed or betrayed. The Eastmark army doesn't hang men lightly, but there's a death sentence for him. Betrayed a whole platoon, he did, at Chauvrenne," Kaine said.

  "I'll certainly keep it in mind," Tris replied, as Vahanian walked back towards them. His thoughts lingered on the reports of magic far more than Kaine's dark warnings about Vahanian's past. Certainly magic was no stranger to any of the Seven Kingdoms. And the grandson of Bava K'aa ought not to be surprised at arcane works, he thought, remembering the many times he saw his grandmother work spells at the palace. Some of them were workings of convenience, the sort of things that any hedge witch might have done, like lighting a candle without a spark. But there were other times, Tris recalled, when as a young boy he hid in the shadows of his father's warroom, hoping to be overlooked so he could watch the exciting bustle of preparations for war. Then he saw some of Bava K'aa's true magic, as she scryed for the location of enemies or divined the weather or learned something of an enemy from captured belongings.

  So it should not be unusual for magic to be at hand if Dhasson really were at war, he thought. Except that the kind of dark magic the tent rigger gossiped about was unusual. There were legends about a time when dark magic was as common as locusts, and the people of the Seven Kingdoms suffered for it. Then the Light mages banded together and fought the Mage Wars up in the sparsely populated far north.

  That was many years ago, when Tris's grandmother was just a young woman. But anyone who ventured into the Blasted Lands did not doubt that strong magic had been loosed. There were creatures and plants that existed nowhere else, nightmare things that survived on the magic left in the area, magic which made it unsuitable for use by normal folk for long. For every story about monsters in the Blasted Lands there was at least one story of some fool who ventured in and never returned. The stories of lost treasures ensured a steady supply of fools, and kept the legends alive.

  Dark magic like that was not supposed to still happen, Tris thought, watching the fire. After the Mage Wars, a secret society of the most powerful female witches formed, the Katae Canei. The Katae Canei combined their powers to suppress knowledge of the dark arts, to discover and root out any mage bold enough to try to learn them, and to destroy the runes and spellbooks of the dark masters. For a generation, they were successful. Bava K'aa was rumored to be the chief of the Katae Canei Sisterhood.

  Who took the mantle in the years since his grandmother's death, Tris did not know. The Sisterhood did not announce such things. Without a court mage, there was even less such information in Margolan. One thing was certain. If there were magicked creatures loose in the Northern Lands, someone was dabbling in the dark arts. And the return of the dark mages would be a disaster, unless someone could do something to stop it.

  Just then, Soterius ambled up and dropped down beside Tris, warming his hands around a hot mug. "So what am I missing?"

  Tris glanced from Kaine to where Vahanian stood and back. "Just talking about the trip north. Kaine here doesn't like the idea of crossing into Dhasson."

  Carroway made a dismissive gesture. "Dhasson doesn't bother me. But the forest on the way to the border, that's another matter," he said, taking a long draught. "You know, the natives call it Ruune Videya, which means 'ghost trees,' the minstrel said, warming to his subject.

  "Stories say," he recounted, leaning forward, "that Jaq the Damned slaughtered peasants there two hundred years ago over a rebellion." He paused to sip his drink. "They say bodies are buried everywhere, which is why the forest grows so thickly," he added, glancing at Kaine and Tris. "They say that the spirits walk, restless from their unjust death, waiting to avenge themselves." He looked pointedly at Tris. "Not that I put much stock in ghost stories."

  "Ready to turn in?" Vahanian asked as he walked back toward the group, draining his mug in one draught. Tris nodded and stood, ignoring Kaine's warning glance.

  "If tomorrow's as long as today, I don't imagine there's enough time to rest before Winterstide," Tris replied. "Thanks for the stories," he said as he fell into step beside Vahanian.

  "Keep them in mind," Kaine replied darkly. "All of them."

  Tris and Vahanian walked halfway across the camp before either spoke. Finally, Tris broke the silence. "I get the feeling you two know each other from somewhere?"

  Vahanian snorted. "You could say that. Kaine's a lying son of a whore and always has been. I met him a long time ago, right after he slipped the Nargi border with an angry captain at his heels. Seems Kaine helped himself to the captain's gold. I'm rather surprised he's still alive."

  "He seemed a bit surprised to see you, too."

  "I hope so," the mercenary replied. Tris heard concern in his voice. "Because otherwise, someone sent him here, looking for me. While there are more than a few people with a reason to find me, only one has a recent grudge. In which case, Kaine's only looking for me because someone told him that I'm with you," Vahanian said, looking out over the dark horizon as if he expected to see more bandits, or worse.

  "Good night, Jonmarc," Tris said as they reached their tents.

  "Sleep lightly," the mercenary replied. "And keep your sword in reach."

  Vahanian made it his
business each night to check on his traveling party's mounts. They began the journey with better than average horses, and although most places hanged horse thieves, a surprising number of the beasts still managed to go missing. When the horses were accounted for, Vahanian headed back across the camp, shivering in the chill night air. He ducked into Linton's tent and squinted at the light. Several oil lamps set the large tent in a cheerful glow, and a brazier warmed the small space.

  "You're looking good, Jonmarc," the caravan leader chuckled as he brought out a tray with a large decanter and two glasses. "Life on the road suits you."

  "I'd have been dead a long time ago if it didn't," Vahanian replied, leaning back and propping up his boots on a trunk.

  "Your 'contraband' are finally earning their keep," Linton continued, pouring the golden Margolian brandy and setting a glass in front of Vahanian. "Some day you'll have to tell me the full story. It's not like you to rescue the nobility."

  Vahanian sipped his glass. "Times change," he said, staring at Linton and past him. "You'd be surprised."

  "Probably not," Linton said, dropping heavily into his leather folding chair.

  "Get to your point."

  "My point, Jonmarc," Linton repeated, stopping long enough to take another sip of the brandy, "is that someone else has figured out as much."

  "Who?"

  Linton shrugged. "The names they gave, like their reasons, are fabricated, I'm sure. But earlier this evening, two men won a sizable amount at our gaming tables. Large enough to get the attention of the master gamer, and when he came to congratulate them on their winnings-and make sure they weren't cheating-they asked to see the caravan master.

  "The gamesmaster brought them to me. They claimed to be rug merchants from the west and said they left their wares back at the inn where they were staying. They also said they'd just been through Margolan and what a pity it was that things weren't as they used to be."

  "Do tell," Vahanian replied dryly, taking a long sip of his drink.

  Linton leaned back, clomping his heavy boots up onto a sturdy trunk and finishing off his drink. "They went on to say that there was a new king in Margolan and that business wasn't good. New taxes. And there were rumors that not all of King Bricen's family were really dead," Linton said, watching Vahanian carefully.

  Vahanian said nothing, but he took another drink of his brandy and met Linton's eyes steadily. "And?"

  "And I got the feeling that my two visitors were probably going from one caravan to another, plus all the inns between Margolan and Dhasson, with the same story," Linton said.

  "Why Dhasson?" Vahanian asked.

  Linton shrugged. "It's well known that King Harrol was kin to Bricen. It's where I'd seek sanctuary if I were Martris Drayke," he added, staring pointedly at Vahanian. "I told them it was an interesting story," Linton continued. "And sent them on their way with a promise to look them up if we were ever in their province and needed rugs to trade."

  "So why tell me about this," Vahanian asked, draining his glass.

  "Because one of the men bore a striking resemblance to Vakkis," Linton replied, setting his drink aside. "All the way down to the knife crease you put in his cheek."

  Now Linton had his full attention. Vahanian laid his empty goblet on Linton's counting table. "How sure are you?" he asked in a voice that could have etched glass.

  "Very sure," Linton said. "My casino master tells me that the traveler was unusually skilled at contre dice and fond of Valiquestran whiskey and that he never, ever had his back to the door."

  "That's Vakkis." Vahanian cursed. "Any hint that he was still looking for me?"

  Linton shook his head. "He didn't mention anything. But he was dressed better than usual and either the bounty business has been good lately or he's on retainer to someone with a lot of money. He was spending Margolan gold."

  "Damn."

  "Jared Drayke may be a whore's son of a king," Linton said, leaning forward, his voice dropped to a cautious rasp, "but he is a dangerous whore's son. And like as not, he has your number, Jonmarc."

  "Where was Vakkis headed?"

  Linton's tanned face creased in a grin. "Thought you'd ask. The Boar's Inn in Westerhaven-not far. Of course, since he told me that's where he'd be he won't be totally surprised if he gets company-"

  "Only if he sees me coming," Vahanian replied, pushing to his feet.

  "Jonmarc... "

  "Don't worry, Maynard," Vahanian said as he grabbed his cloak. "I know we're a danger to the caravan. Let me take out Vakkis and we'll be gone in the morning."

  "Would you sit down and stop thinking with your sword?" Linton snapped. "Did I say anything about leaving?" He spat loudly into a bronze cuspidor next to his counting table. "I haven't gotten to be a rich old trader by shivering every time a bounty hunter looks in my direction. Do you think you're the only one in my caravan who's got someone looking for him? If you can take Vakkis down, all the better. Why do you think I called you in tonight? And if you can't, we keep our eyes out. He doesn't have anything solid or we'd have been ridden down by King Jared's troops by now. Just warn the others to keep their heads down," the caravan master continued, pouring himself another drink.

  A slow grin crept into the edges of Vahanian's mouth. "I knew you were a good man when you didn't water the ale, Maynard," he said.

  "And I knew you were an honest mercenary when you paid for it," Linton shot back. "Now get out of here. And good hunting."

  Chapter Eleven

  The smoke of battle and the smell of blood filled the air. Around her, clashing swords clanged and hoof beats thundered as the struggle for the embattled city wore on toward evening. For Kiara Sharsequin, princess of Isencroft, nothing mattered except the bearded man gasping for breath on the ground.

  "The king is down!" she heard a man shout. The word passed down the line. She pushed through the knot of armsmen around her fallen father and dropped to her knees beside him, weeping.

  "Kiara, you must get free," the injured monarch managed, blood flecking his lips as he struggled to raise a hand. Even that gesture exhausted him, but Kiara dabbed at his lips with her robe.

  "I won't leave you."

  "You must go," he whispered. His eyes closed and Kiara sobbed, holding his hand. Just behind his head, the flag of Isencroft lay trampled in the mud.

  "Your Highness," a guardsman said insistently. "We must get you to safety."

  "I won't leave him."

  "Look!" a guardsman shouted, pointing, and Kiara raised her head to follow his gesture. Just beyond where the king lay, the air shimmered. The sparkling air took on shape and substance, until the form of a stern, strong woman appeared, her close-cropped, dark hair cut for wearing a battle helm and her arms strong and muscled from wielding a sword. To Kiara's open-mouthed amazement, she found herself not an arm's length from Chenne, the Avenger Goddess.

  "Kiara," the apparition said.

  "Yes," the girl stammered, her eyes wide.

  "Take up the flag, Kiara. This is not yet your father's hour, nor yours," Chenne said, fixing Kiara with her amber eyes. "Darkness is coming, and you hold a key which can dispel it. Lift that sword," the goddess commanded. Trembling, Kiara reached for her father's bloody sword and wrapped her hands around its pommel. Chenne stretched out her ethereal hand and touched the sword's point, sending a wave of white fire down the length of the weapon.

  Kiara gasped. The blade glowed with an inner blue fire, as if first taken from the forge. Chenne withdrew her hand and looked appraisingly at Kiara.

  "Raise this sword in my name and know that the armies of Isencroft will follow you in any just cause," the Avenger Goddess said, transfixing Kiara with that amber gaze. "Your role will become clear. Only believe," the Goddess said, her shape becoming more insubstantial as Kiara watched in astonishment. "Only believe."

  The air shimmered once more and then the image was gone, leaving Kiara sword in hand and open-mouthed. The men-at-arms around her knelt in fealty, even as her father groaned an
d lost consciousness.

  "We are yours to command, Princess," the armsman closest to her said reverently.

  Still trembling, Kiara swallowed, then grasped the sword firmly with both hands and lifted it high overhead as a rallying point. It seemed weightless in her hands, still tingling with power, more relic than a weapon. "In the name of the Goddess, we'll drive back the invaders!" she swore, feeling the sword alive with supernatural fire. A soldier raised the flag aloft as two more came to bear the injured monarch away, and yet another brought Kiara a battle steed. And then they were cheering, shouting the name of the Goddess, chanting Kiara's name...

  "Your Highness," the voice said again, more insistently. "Please, wake up."

  Kiara Sharsequin found herself in a tangle of sweat-soaked bedclothes under the worried eyes of Malae, her lady-in-waiting. "I'm awake, I'm awake," she managed, still blinking at the light and attempting to convince herself that the memories of the dream were long in the past.

  "You must get ready," Malae repeated. "The ambassador will be here within the hour."

  With a groan, Kiara nodded, blinked a few more times, and then rolled groggily to her feet. "I can't believe they're sending an ambassador over this," she said, shaking her head. As if in agreement, Jae rasped and hissed animatedly, then hopped onto her wrist and gurgled contentedly as she stroked his scales.

  "He's going to be downstairs sooner than you'd like," Malae scolded gently, steering the princess towards a bowl of warmed water and letting her splash the sleep from her eyes as Jae hopped from Kiara's arm to the washstand rail.

  "How is father?" Kiara asked as she straightened and reached for a towel.

  "The same as ever," Males replied sadly. "Every morning you ask and every day the answer stays the same."

  "I know," Kiara replied, setting the towel aside and walking to the wardrobe. "But every morning, I still keep hoping you'll tell me something different."

  She flung open the wardrobe doors. "Hmm. I wonder," she said, pondering her choices. "What does one wear when one doesn't want to marry the ambassador's king?" She reached for a gown, shook her head, started to reach for another than changed her mind and ended up planting her hands on her hips once more. From his perch on the washstand, Jae hissed his opinion.