The Summoner

by Gail Z. Martin

  "Go to hell."

  "Loyalty from you, Jonmarc? I'm surprised," Vakkis clucked. "I thought you unburdened yourself of that along with your commission."

  "Go screw the goddess."

  "In time," Vakkis said with a cold smile. "Think about my offer. I'm easy to find. That purse is only a down payment. Jared of Margolan has promised to make a rich man of anyone who delivers his brother alive. And you've never let king, honor or country stand in the way when money's involved."

  The bounty hunter took another step backwards, into the shadows of the alley, so that his face and form were barely visible. "Think about it, Jonmarc," Vakkis said, his voice carrying in the chill night air. "More money than you can imagine. Pay me a cut and I'll stop hunting you. Wealth and freedom, just for delivering the goods. What businessman could resist?" Vakkis said as he faded into the darkness.

  Vahanian did not move for several minutes, until he was sure that Vakkis was actually gone. Only then did he realize just how hard his heart was thudding. Wealth and freedom. He looked down at the purse at his feet. There's only one thing worse than a bounty hunter, a voice said in the back of his mind. And that's the snitch he pays for the kill. The cold night air seared his lungs. He paused and then, surprising himself, stepped over the purse and walked towards the end of the alley, stopping only to snatch up his fallen blade.

  Vahanian found Tris at the edge of the camp when he returned, skinning rabbits Harrtuck brought down for their dinner. "I killed a man for you tonight, Prince Drayke," Vahanian grated. Tris stiffened and rose to his feet as Vahanian continued. "You didn't think it was important enough to tell me the truth, even though it's my neck you're risking to get you to Dhasson."

  "Jonmarc, I-"

  "Let's get something straight right now," Vahanian continued. "I am not expendable. We don't move from here until I know what's going on. The whole story. If I like what I hear, and believe it, I'll take you to Dhasson. If not, I walk, and you can find another fool. And, your Highness, I'm nobody's liegeman. If I take you to Dhasson, and that's a very big 'if' right now, it's on my terms, my way. Do you understand?"

  Tris took a deep breath and nodded. "Good," Vahanian said. "That means you're smarter than most royals. Now, let's hear your story-all of it."

  "Vahanian, you're back," bustled Harrtuck. Harrtuck ambled towards them from the fires of the camp, coming up behind Vahanian. With one fluid movement, Vahanian wheeled, bringing his fist to connect soundly with Harrtuck's jaw.

  "What the hell was that for?" Harrtuck shouted.

  "I found out from a bounty hunter who your 'cargo' really was," Vahanian snapped. "He could have taken me down and I'd have never seen it coming."

  "Jonmarc, you don't understand-"

  "I understand that my life is as important as your three nobles," Vahanian grated, still standing over the stout armsmaster. "And that I can't decide what risks are worth taking if I don't know the game." Glaring, Vahanian turned away and Harrtuck scrambled to his feet.

  "In fact, I can't think of one reason right now-even your money-why I should take you to Dhasson."

  "Arontala's back. And he's got a king this time, not just a general at his command," Harrtuck said quietly from behind Vahanian, who stiffened at the name.

  "How do you know?"

  Harrtuck gave a short, harsh laugh. "Know? How we know is the reason we're in the forest freezing our rumps off instead of toasting by a nice palace fire," he said, and together, he and Tris told their tale. This time, the only thing Tris omitted was what happened with Kait in the bedchamber and his subsequent dreams of his sister and his sorceress grandmother.

  Vahanian sat in silence for several minutes after they finished, staring at his hands, his face unreadable. "I take you to Dhasson, and then what?"

  "Then you collect your money from King Harrol and walk," Harrtuck snapped. "At that point, your jewels are out of the fire."

  "And the rest of you?"

  "I'm going back," Tris said evenly. "Someone has to stop Jared. I'm the only one who can."

  "You're going to stop Foor Arontala? Look, prince, even with King Harrol's entire army, it just ain't enough," Vahanian said, shaking his head.

  "Don't underestimate him," Harrtuck said quietly. "His grandmother was Bava K'aa. He's a Summoner."

  "He's a mage?" Vahanian asked sharply, looking through narrowed eyes from Tris to Harrtuck. "You didn't tell me he was a mage."

  "I'm not a full mage," Tris said, "at least, not yet."

  "Yeah, well I hate mages."

  "Right now, I'm not even a mage student."

  "Well, prince, if you're going up against Arontala and expect to live through it, you'd better be a damn good mage," Vahanian said. "Glad I won't be there to see it."

  "I told you a hired sword was a bad idea," Soterius snapped, coming up from the campsite. "You can't trust them further than you can throw their money."

  "Young pups bark the loudest," Vahanian returned with a shrug. "You know so much, you guide them. I've got other ways to earn as much gold as I want."

  "You've wanted to get Arontala for ten years now," Harrtuck objected. "After what happened at Chauvrenne, you ought to be glad for an opportunity."

  A cynical, lopsided smile drew over Vahanian's feature. "You can't enjoy revenge if you're dead," he replied. "Save your breath. I'll take you to Dhasson. After that, you're on your own." He walked away, leaving the others in the glow of the fire.

  Tris looked at Harrtuck. "Now what?"

  The armsmaster gestured to the sky in frustration and spat. "Let him cool off," he said finally, and raised one hand to stroke his absent beard. "By the Whore, I miss my whiskers! Damn thing itches all the time."

  "I don't like it," Soterius began, with a baleful glance towards where Vahanian had disappeared.

  "You wouldn't like any hired sword if he were led here by the Childe, vouched for by the Virgin herself, and brought on the wings of the Avenger," Harrtuck snapped. "Really, Ban, I know what guardsmen think of mercs. But I've hired out my sword and you trust me, don't you?"

  "You know I do."

  "Then trust me on this," Harrtuck pressed. "Jonmarc will come around." He looked after the angry mercenary, who was barely visible in the darkness. "Just give him some time."

  Tris bent down to pick up the empty bucket that lay with their gear. "While that happens, I'll get some water," he said eager for the chance to do something other than sit and wait. The evenings were the hardest time. He headed down the slope towards the village well. During the daylight, with the ride to think about, he could push away the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. But come night, the loss grew almost too great to bear. Of everything he left behind, he missed Kait the most. At times, the loss ached as if someone had broken off a sword tip, deep inside. At other times, it hurt too much to feel anything at all. Only the knowledge that he might have to outride Margolan troops kept him from seeking relief in the flask of brandy Harrtuck carried, and so he wrestled with the dull ache that made it impossible for him to focus on much else, and wondered when, if ever, it would lessen.

  The wooden handle of the well's crank creaked in protest as Tris drew up a bucketful of water. Just as it neared the top, he felt an insistent tap on his shoulder. He spun to look, losing his grip on the crank as he drew his sword, but the roadway around the well was empty. The autumn wind stung his face, and Tris realized that the night was suddenly colder. He felt gooseflesh rise on his neck, and looked around once more as the sense of a spirit's presence tingled in his mind.

  "Show yourself," he whispered to the darkness.

  He waited. When nothing stirred, he turned and began to draw water, only to feel the tap on his shoulder once more. This time, he pulled the bucket up to the edge of the stone well before he turned. Closing his eyes, he focused on the tingle and stretched out his will, summoning the presence. When he opened his eyes, the apparition of a young woman stood before him. She wore a scullery maid's dress that was at least a generation out of da
te, with the ample, sturdy build of a milkmaid, but her eyes were filled with such a great sadness that Tris reflexively stepped towards her in comfort.

  "Please sir, have you seen my baby?"

  Tris shook his head, and the girl's sad eyes grew fearful. "He was here a moment ago," she said, stepping towards the well. "I just ran back for another bucket." She turned towards the well, and looked down, then cried out in horror. "Oh sweet Goddess, there's his hat!" she wailed, tearing at her hair and launching herself towards the water far below before Tris could start towards her, though insubstantial as she was, there was no way for him to prevent the tragic reenactment.

  Tris's heart thudded as he stared at the silent well, guessing at the tragedy that bound the girl's spirit to this place. She no doubt left her small son unattended for a moment, only to find when she returned that he climbed to peer into the well and fell to his death. In her grief, she threw herself after him, doomed to repeat the awful moment for eternity.

  Or perhaps not, Tris thought. He laid a hand on the cold stone of the well and shut his eyes. He felt a thrill of challenge as he decided to try something which he could only barely frame in his mind. Trusting to instinct more than thought, he stretched out with his thoughts, reaching out to the doomed girl in the silent spirit realm where he glimpsed Kait at the palace. After a moment, he felt a tug in response, growing stronger as he focused on it, willing it into substance. When he opened his eyes, she stood before him, transparent but visible.

  "I want to help you," he said gently. Maybe, he thought, if I can keep Kait's spirit here, I can help this spirit pass over, though how he might accomplish that, he had no idea.

  "I will not leave without my son."

  "You have proved your love by staying with your son. You have paid your debt. You may rest."

  Once more, she fixed him with a gaze half-mad with grief. "Not without my son."

  At that, Tris turned back to the well and stared down into its black waters. He shut his eyes, concentrating, and stretched out a hand towards the water. Nothing stirred. Although he could feel himself tiring quickly, he tried once more, and again, felt nothing in response. The third time, he stretched out his hand towards the darkness, he felt a gentle tug in reply, and pulling with all the strength of his will, he gradually sensed another spirit's presence, small and faint. When he opened his eyes, the ghost of a tiny child sat atop the well, and the woman spirit gasped in recognition and rushed forward, clasping him to her breast.

  "Lost," the boy cried, clinging to his mother. "Lost in the dark."

  Tris felt his throat tighten watching the two shades hold each other tightly. Finally, he raised his hand in farewell. "It is time for you to go."

  The woman looked up at him, her eyes peaceful as she clasped her child against her. "I do not know by what power you can do these things, but I thank you," she said with an awkward curtsey. "You must be the chosen of the Lady."

  "Would you pass over to Her now?" Tris asked, and the spirit woman nodded.

  "We are tired," she said, holding her child tight. "Now that we are together, it is time to rest."

  Tris stretched out his hand as his grandmother did over those who were about to die. He struggled to remember what Bava K'aa said at those times, doing the best he could to match the idea, if not the exact words. His head throbbed from the exertion, painful enough to blur his vision.

  "Sleep, sister," he said in a voice just above a whisper. "Let the winds carry you to your rest. Let the river guide you and the warm soil welcome you. You are welcome in the arms of the Lady. Let it be so." As he spoke, the image of an old woman stirring a deep cauldron flashed through his mind, and when he opened his eyes, the outline of the mother and child was beginning to blur. The woman held her son against the hollow of her throat, her hand upraised in parting, and the small boy waved a farewell.

  "What in the hell is going on?" a rough voice said from behind him. Tris wheeled to find Vahanian standing on the other side of the well, his hands planted on his hips, his face a mixture of anger, disbelief and uncertainty.

  Tris swallowed hard and turned toward his bucket. "I came for some water," he said, hoping his voice sounded steady. The implications of what just transpired made his head swim.

  "That's not what I meant," Vahanian grated. "You're standing out here in the dark, talking to ghosts. Your friend was telling the truth, wasn't he? You are a mage," he pressed, the last word clearly an indictment.

  Tris squared his shoulders and turned toward the mercenary. "I don't know what I am," he snapped. "I'm a prince without a kingdom, a son without a family, a fugitive and a beggar. Why do you care?"

  "Like I said, I'm either in on everything, or I walk away," Vahanian replied, his voice icy. "I'm not going to ask again, but I may pound it out of you. What the hell did you do?"

  Tris licked his lips nervously. "I'm... not really sure," he admitted. "I've always been able to see ghosts, talk to them, not just on Haunts, but all the time. Even ghosts that nobody else sees." He shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess. But I never saw them outside of the palace. Now, since the... murders," he forced himself to go on, "I see the ghosts outside Shekerishet just as easily as I saw the palace ghosts."

  "There hasn't been a Summoner since the sorceress in Margolan died," Vahanian replied, chewing on his lip. "That's been five, maybe six years ago. No one to lay them to rest, nobody but the seers and frauds to pass a message over to the other side," he mused, "no way for anyone to get their blessing and know for sure it was real." He looked thoughtfully at Tris. "If you're as good as Harrtuck thinks, you really are the hottest thing in Margolan. I imagine Arontala and that new king would love to get their hands on you."

  Before Tris could reply, Vahanian snatched up the bucket. "Tomorrow, we'll talk about not making a target of yourself," the mercenary grated, striding off towards the camp so that Tris had to hurry to follow. "I doubt your uncle will pay me if you're dead."

  At dinner around their campfire, Vahanian gave his report to the others. "We're in luck. Linton's caravan is coming this way, bound north-right where we want to go."

  Soterius bolted down his food and went to curry the horses, making an obvious effort to stay out of Vahanian's way. Tris sat quietly on the other side of the fire, in no hurry to answer more of the mercenary's questions, or think about the implications of what happened at the well.

  Vahanian didn't seem to notice. He looked back down the slope towards the quiet town. It was just after dusk, and the villagers were gathering in their herds, securing their flocks for the night. The glow of cooking fires warmed each of the small houses as whisps of smoke rose from the chimneys and on the still night air, they could smell roasting meat.

  "We should have no problem being hired on as extra guards," Vahanian reported. "There's been 'trouble' up north, although no one would say exactly what. Bandits, for sure, that's part of it." He shook his head, pausing to bite into the rabbit Tris offered him. "But there's something more. Wouldn't be surprised if there was border trouble. There are some pretty wild clans out beyond the northern ridge that have always been hard to keep at bay."

  He paused and stared at the fire. Harrtuck looked at him skeptically. "There's more you're not saying," the other soldier prodded. Vahanian shrugged.

  "Just a funny feeling about what they did say," Vahanian admitted finally. "People are afraid, and some of the people in the tavern weren't the type who scare easily. I had the feeling there's some dark magic involved, or at least," he added, "people suspect it."

  "That's just great," Soterius replied as he returned from the horses. "Bandits you can fight. We're not going to be any protection against magic."

  Tris shifted uncomfortably as Vahanian gave him a pointed glance.

  "If the tavern information was right," Vahanian continued, "The caravan's heading our way. We can wait for them to catch up to us," he said, "but our rations are running a little thin. Or," he suggested, "we can ride towards them. We'll backtrack, but once we find them won
't have to forage for provisions." He paused. "We'll just have to watch for guardsmen."

  "Since I always vote with my stomach," Carroway said, "I say go looking for them."

  Tris grinned at his friend's quick analysis. "It sounds reasonable."

  "I'm glad you said that," Vahanian replied as Harrtuck chuckled. "Because riding suits me better than sitting around. We'll leave in the morning."

  Late that night, when the fire burned down to embers, Tris wrapped his cloak closer around himself, ready for his turn on watch. It was unseasonably cold, and frost covered the leaves, chilling him to the bone. Despite the late hour and his aching muscles, Tris was wide awake as he awaited Vahanian's return from walking the camp perimeter. Finally, Vahanian came into view and Tris mustered his nerve as he rose to meet the mercenary.

  "Goddess take anyone fool enough to be out on a night like this," Vahanian cursed, stomping wet leaves from his boots. His breath fogged in the chill air. "I don't envy you the next turn."

  "You look like you were in a fight."

  Vahanian shrugged. "There was someone out there. Tackled him once but he got loose, damn his soul." Vahanian shook his head. "Might have just been a bandit, but then again, could be a spy." He looked pointedly at Tris. "Keep your eyes open. He might be back."

  "There's something I need to ask you, Jonmarc," Tris said as Vahanian turned back toward the camp.

  "How about tomorrow, huh? I doubt I can get warm tonight, but I'd at least like to lie down."

  "Teach me to fight."

  Vahanian looked up at him, then paused a moment before answering. "Yeah, sure. You're going to have to learn if we're gonna earn our keep with a caravan."

  "That's not what I mean. I need your help. Harrtuck says you're the best."

  "Does he, now?" Vahanian chuckled. "Don't believe everything you hear." He paused. "Although, in this case, Harrtuck is right."