by Tanya Huff
SUMMON THE KEEPER
The finest in Fantasy and Science Fiction
by TANYA HUFF from DAW Books:
THE SILVERED
THE ENCHANTMENT EMPORIUM
THE WILD WAYS
The Confederation Novels:
A CONFEDERATION OF VALOR
Valor’s Choice/The Better Part of Valor
THE HEART OF VALOR (#3)
VALOR’S TRIAL (#4)
THE TRUTH OF VALOR (#5)
SMOKE AND SHADOWS (#1)
SMOKE AND MIRRORS (#2)
SMOKE AND ASHES (#3)
BLOOD PRICE (#1)
BLOOD TRAIL (#2)
BLOOD LINES (#3)
BLOOD PACT (#4)
BLOOD DEBT (#5)
BLOOD BANK (#6)
The Keeper’s Chronicles:
SUMMON THE KEEPER (#1)
THE SECOND SUMMONING (#2)
LONG HOT SUMMONING (#3)
THE QUARTERS NOVELS, Volume 1:
Sing the Four Quarters/Fifth Quarter
THE QUARTERS NOVELS, Volume 2:
No Quarter/The Quartered Sea
WIZARD OF THE GROVE
Child of the Grove/The Last Wizard
OF DARKNESS, LIGHT, AND FIRE
Gate of Darkness, Circle of Light/The Fire’s Stone
TANYA HUFF
SUMMON THE KEEPER
The Keeper Chronicles #1
Copyright © 1998 by Tanya Huff.
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-101-65803-1
Cover art by Mark Hess.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1085.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
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Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.
First Printing, May 1998
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES—MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.
For the real Austin, and for Sid and Sam and Sasha.
And in loving memory of Emily and Ulysses.
Because there’s no such thing as just a cat.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
ONE
WHEN THE STORM BROKE, rain pounding down in great sheets out of a black and unforgiving sky, Claire Hansen had to admit she wasn’t surprised; it had been that kind of evening. Although her ticket took her to Colburg, three stops farther along the line, she’d stepped off the train and into the Kingston station certain that she’d found the source of the summons. It was the last thing she’d been certain of all day.
By the time it started to rain, her feet hurt, her luggage had about pulled her arms from their sockets, her traveling companion was sulking, and she was more than ready to pack it in. She’d search again in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be that easy.
A Great Lakes Hydroecology convention had filled two of the downtown hotels, the third didn’t allow pets, and the fourth was hosting the Beer Can Collectors of America, South Eastern Ontario Division. Claire had professed indignant disbelief about the latter until the desk clerk had pointed out the sign in the lobby welcoming the collectors to Kingston.
Some people have too much spare time, she thought as she shifted her suitcase into her left hand, the lighter, wicker cat carrier into her right, and headed back out into the night. Way too much spare time.
Pulling her coat collar out from under the weight of her backpack and hunkering down into its dubious shelter, she followed her feet along King Street toward the university, where a vague memory suggested there were guest houses and B&Bs hollowed out of the huge old mansions along the lake. Logically, she should have caught a cab out to the parade of hotels and budget motels lining Highway 2 between Kingston and Cataraqui, but, as logical solutions were rare in her line of work, Claire kept walking.
Thunder cracked, lightning lit up the sky, and it started to rain harder. Down the center of the street, where the reaching leaves of the huge, old trees didn’t quite touch, grape-sized drops of water hit the pavement so hard they bounced. On the sidewalk, under the trees, it was…
A gust of wind tipped branches almost vertical, dumping a stream of icy water off the canopy and straight down the back of Claire’s neck.
…not significantly drier.
There were times when profanity offered the only satisfactory response. Denied that outlet, Claire gritted her teeth and continued walking through increasingly deeper puddles toward City Park. Surely there’d be some kind of shelter near such a prominent tourist area even though September had emptied it of fairs and festivals. Tired, wet, and just generally cranky, she’d settle for anything that involved a roof and a bed.
At the corner of Lower Union and King, the lightning flashed again, throwing trees and houses into sharp-edged relief. On the third house up from the corner, a signboard affixed to a wrought iron fence reflected the light with such intensity, it left afterimages on the inside of Claire’s lids.
“Shall we check it out?” She had to yell to make herself heard over the storm.
There was no answer from the cat carrier, but then she hadn’t actually expected one.
In this, one of the oldest parts of the city, the houses were three- and four-story, red-brick Victorians. Too large to remain single-family dwellings in a time of rising energy prices, most had been hacked up into flats. The first two houses up from the corner were of this type. The third, past a narrow driveway, was larger still.
Squinting in the dark, water pouring off her hair and into her eyes, Claire struggled to make out the words on the sign. She was fairly certain there were words; there didn’t seem to be much point in a sign if there weren’t.
“Never any lightning around when it’s needed….”
On cue, the lightning provided every fleck of peeling paint with its own shadow. At the accompanying double crack of thunder, Claire dropped her suitcase and clutched at the fence. She let go a moment later when it occurred to her that holding an iron rod, even a rusty one, wasn’t exactly smart under the circumstances.
White-and-yellow spots dancing across her vision, the faint fizz of an electrical discharge bouncing about between her ears, she stumbled toward the front door. During the brief time she’d been able to read the sign, she’d seen the words “uest House” and, right now, that was good enough for her.
The nine stairs were uneven and slippery, threatening to toss her, suitcase, cat carrier, backpack, and all, down into the black depths of the area in front of the house. When she slid into the railing and it bowed dangerously, she refused to consider it an omen. From the unsheltered porch, she could see neither knocker nor bell but, considering the night and the weather, that meant very little. There could have been a plaque warning travelers to abandon hope all ye who enter here, and she wouldn’t have seen it—or paid any attention to it if it meant getting out of the storm. A light shone dimly through the transom. Hol
ding her suitcase against the bricks with her knee, she tried the door.
It was unlocked.
Another time, she might have appreciated the drama of the moment more and pushed the heavy door open slowly, the sound of shrieking hinges accompanied by ominous music. As it was, she shoved it again, threw herself and her baggage inside, and kicked it closed.
At first, the silence came as a welcome relief from the storm, but after a moment of it settling around her, thick and cloying, Claire found she needed to fill it. She felt as though she were being covered in the cheap syrup left on the tables at family restaurants.
“Hello? Is anybody here?”
Although her voice had never been described as either timid or tentative, it made less than no impact on the silence. Lacking anywhere more constructive to go, the words bounced painfully around inside her head, birthing a sudden, throbbing headache.
Carefully setting the cat carrier down beyond the small lake she’d created on the scuffed hardwood floor, she turned to face the counter that divided the entry into a lobby and what looked like a small office—although the light was so bad, she couldn’t be sure. On the counter, a brass bell waited in solitary, tarnished splendor.
Feeling somewhat like Alice in Wonderland, Claire pushed her streaming hair back off her face and smacked the plunger down into the bell.
The old man appeared behind the counter so suddenly that she recoiled a step, half expecting an accompanying puff of smoke— which would have been less disturbing than the more mundane explanation of him watching her from a dark corner of the office.
“What,” he demanded, “do you want?”
“What do I want?”
“I asked you first.”
Which was true enough. “I’d like a room for the night.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That all?”
“What else is there?”
“Breakfast.”
Claire had never been challenged to breakfast before. “If it’s included, breakfast is fine.” Another time, she might have managed a more spirited response. Then she remembered. “Do you take pets?”
“I do not! That’s a filthy lie! You’ve been talking to Mrs. Abrams next door in number thirty-five, haven’t you? Bloody cow. Lets her great, hairy baby crap all over the drive.”
Beginning to shiver under the weight of her wet clothing, it took Claire a moment to work out just where the conversation had departed from the expected text. “I meant, do you mind pets staying in the hotel?”
The old man snorted. “Then you should say what you mean.”
Something in his face seemed suddenly familiar, but the shadows cast by the single bulb hanging high overhead defeated Claire’s attempt to bring his features into better focus. Her left eyelid began to twitch in time with the pounding in her skull. “Do I know you?”
“You do not.”
He was telling the truth although something around the edges of his voice suggested it wasn’t the entire truth. Before she could press the matter, he snarled, “If you don’t want the room, I suggest you move on. I don’t intend standing around here all night.”
The thought of going back out into the storm wiped everything else from her head. “I want the room.”
He dragged an old, green, leather-bound book out from under the counter and banged it down in front of her. Slapping it open to a blank page, he shoved a pen in her general direction. “Sign here.”
She’d barely finished the final “n,” her sleeve dragging a damp line across the yellowing paper, when he plucked the pen from her hand and replaced it with a key on a pink plastic fob.
“Room one. Top of the stairs to your right.”
“Do I owe you anything in ad…” Claire let the last word trail off. The old man had vanished as suddenly as he’d appeared. “Guess not.”
Picking up her luggage, she started up the stairs, trusting to instinct for her footing since the light was so bad she couldn’t quite see the floor a little over five feet away.
Room one matched its key; essentially modern—if modern could be said to start around the late fifties—and unremarkable. The carpet and curtains were dark blue, the bedspread and the upholstery light blue. The walls were off-white, the furniture dark and utilitarian. The bathroom held a sink, a toilet, and a tub/shower combination and had the catch-in-the-throat smell of institutional cleansers.
Given the innkeeper, it was much better than Claire had expected. She set the wicker carrier on the dresser, unbuckled the leather straps, and lifted off the top. After a moment, a disgruntled black-and-white cat deigned to emerge and inspect the room.
As the storm howled impotently about outside the window, Claire shrugged out of her coat, wrapped her hair in a towel and collapsed onto the bed trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore the drum solo going on between her ears.
“Well, Austin, do the accommodations meet with your approval?” she asked as she heard him pad disdainfully from the bathroom. “Not that it matters; this is the best we can do for tonight.”
The cat jumped up beside her. “That’s too bad because—and I realize I risk sounding clichéd in saying it—I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Claire managed to crack both eyelids open about a millimeter. No one had ever been able to determine if cats were actually clairvoyant or merely obnoxious little know-it-alls. “A bad feeling about what?”
“You know: this.” He paused to rub a damp paw over his whiskers. “Aren’t you getting anything at all?”
She let her eyes close again. “I seem to be getting MTV on one of my fillings. It’s part of the Stomp tour.” Flinching at a particularly robust bit of metaphor, she sighed. “I’m so thrilled.”
A furry, ten-pound weight sat down on her chest. “I’m serious, Claire.”
“The summons isn’t any more urgent than it was this morning, if that’s what you’re asking.” One-handed, she unbuttoned her jeans, pushing the cat back onto the bed with the other. “Nothing else is getting through this headache except a low-grade buzz.”
“You should check it out.”
“Check what out?” When Austin refused to answer, Claire decided she’d won, tossed off her clothes, and got into a pair of cream-colored silk pajamas—standard operating procedure suggested night clothes suitable for the six o’clock news, just in case.
Tucked under the covers, the cat curled up on the other pillow, she realized why the old man had looked so familiar. He looked like a gnome. And not one of those friendly garden gnomes either.
Rumpelstiltskin, she thought, and went to sleep smiling.
“This is weird, my shoes are still wet.”
Austin glared at her from the litter box. “If you don’t mind!”
“Sorry.” Claire poured liquid out of the toe of one canvas sneaker, hung them back over the shower curtain rod by their tied laces, then made a hasty retreat from the bathroom. “It’s not that I expected them to be dry,” she continued, dropping onto the edge of the bed, “but I was hoping they’d be wearably damp.”
It was starting out to be a six of one, half a dozen of the other kind of a day. On the one hand, it was still raining and her shoes were still too wet to wear. On the other hand, her sleep had been undisturbed by signs or portents, her headache was gone, and the low-grade buzz had completely disappeared. Even Austin had woken up in a good mood, or as good a mood as he could manage before noon.
Flopping back against a pile of bedclothes, she listened past the sound of feline excavation to the hotel’s ambient noise, and frowned. “It’s quiet.”
“Too quiet?” Austin asked, coming out of the bathroom.
“The summons has stopped.”
Sitting back on his haunches, the cat stared up at her. “What do you mean, stopped?”
“I mean it’s absent, not present, missing, not there.” Surging to her feet, she began to pace. “Gone.”
“But it was there when you went to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“So between t
en-thirteen last night and eight-oh-one this morning, you stopped being needed?”
“Yes.”
Austin shrugged. “The site probably closed on its own.”
Claire stopped pacing and folded her arms. “That never happens.”
“Got a better explanation?” the cat asked smugly.
“Well, no. But even if it has closed, I’d be summoned somewhere else.” For the first time in ten years, she wasn’t either dealing with a site or traveling to one where she was needed. “I feel as though I’ve been cast aside like an old shoe, drifting aimlessly…”
“Mixing metaphors,” the cat interrupted, jumping up on the bed. “That’s better; while there’s nothing wrong with your knees, they’re not exactly expressive conversational participants. Maybe,” he continued, “you’re not needed because good has dominated and evil is no longer considered a possibility.”
They locked eyes for a moment, then simultaneously snickered.
“But seriously, Austin, what am I supposed to do?”
“We’re only a few hours from home. Why don’t you visit your parents?”
“My parents?”
“You remember; male, female, conception, birth…”
Actually, she did remember, she just tried not to think about it much. “Are you suggesting we need to take a vacation?”
“Right at the moment, I’m suggesting we need to eat breakfast.”
The carpet on the stairs had seen better days; the edges still had a faint memory of the pattern but the center had been worn to a uniform, threadbare gray. Claire hadn’t been exactly impressed the night before, and in daylight the guest house had a distinctly shabby look.
Not a place to make an extended stay, she thought as she twisted the pommel back onto the end of the banister.
“I think we should spend the day looking around,” she said, following the cat downstairs. “Even if the site’s closed up, it wouldn’t hurt to check out the area.”