The Summoner (28 page)

Using all the strength in his good leg, Vahanian jumped straight up for the net, slashing at it with his knife. As the heavy plaster fruit fell, he let his momentum carry him toward the table, and as he crashed onto it and slipped off the other side, he upended it, then scrambled for the small flat wagons stacked three high behind the table. Clutching one of the wheeled boards against his aching ribs, Vahanian dove, hitting the rough street with a bone‐jarring slam that nearly blacked him out. The wheeled cart skittered toward freedom as his attackers struggled with the fallen netting and the hail of plaster fruit. Just a little farther, Vahanian whispered under his breath as he heard boot steps pound. Just a little farther.

He heard a cry behind him as one of the guardsmen gave a flying tackle, falling just short of the wagon but grasping both Vahanian’s ankles, pulling him from the wagon. The second guardsman closed the distance, hauling Vahanian roughly to his feet and pinning his elbows behind his back.

The red‐haired guardsman stood before him, letting the staff rise and fall in his hands, his eyes hard.

“Not so easy this time, thief,” the guardsman taunted, and the guard behind Vahanian yanked his arms back hard, eliciting a gasp as the cracked ribs protested. “You’re going to die tonight.”

“Look, I’ve got money, I can settle this with you,” Vahanian bargained as the guardsmen pushed 231

him toward the darkened stalls. His heart thudded. The situation was rapidly moving from very bad to hopeless. “I got cheated on the rubies myself. It was an honest mistake.” Snatching an escape out of a dicey situation was his specialty, but this time, no opening presented itself. As they moved toward the shadows, Vahanian feared the guardsman’s prediction was quite likely to come true.

“Too late, thief,” the guardsman replied tone‐lessly. “We’ve had a bad week and you’re going to help us work it off.”

Vahanian felt a cold rush of air from the shadows, saw the blur of motion instead of the thing itself as something snatched the guardsman on his right and dashed his burly frame against the wall like a child’s doll. The other two guardsmen wheeled, swords in hand, to face darkness.

“What kind of trick is this, Vahanian?” the red‐haired guardsman cried, searching the darkness in a battle stance.

The rush of wind and the sense of a presence blurred the night again, and the guardsman to Vahanian’s left gave a dry wail of terror. There was silence, then boot steps as a dark figure emerged from the shadows, holding the dead guard by his crushed throat with an eerie effortlessness.

“What demon are you?” the red‐haired guardsman shouted at the darkness, his voice cracking with terror. The figure continued toward them, until the moonlight illuminated his face.

It was the flaxen‐haired man from the tavern.

Vahanian felt elation at his rescue die in a cold lump in his stomach. Nothing human could heft the guardsman by one hand. Cut off from the

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street, the man was wild‐eyed with fear, his sword shaking in his hand and his pale skin ghostly white in the moonlight.

“Stay back, whatever you are,” the guardsman menaced with the sword, voice quivering. “This sword was blessed by a priestess. It’s good against magic, so stay back now, I’m warning you.”

The blond man tossed the second guard aside. A cold, jaded amusement hinted at the corners of his thin lips as he moved relentlessly toward the last guardsman. Vahanian, blocked from escape and knowing himself to be easy prey in his present condition, stepped deeper into the shadows, hoping the blond man would be sated with a third kill.

The guardsman slashed frantically at the blond man, warning him away. Still, the stranger advanced, until with a lightning quick rush he snatched the blade from the guardsman’s hand.

Eyes wide in terror, sobbing for his life, the red‐haired man fell to his knees. The blond man stood before him, his aristocratic face emotionless. Then the stranger reached out one thin, impossibly strong hand to grasp the guardsman by the collar and lift him to his feet, bringing him into his arms. The doomed man fell silent and Vahanian watched in horror as the blond man’s lips drew back, revealing sharp, unnatural teeth. In a few moments, the feeding was over, and the vayash moru dropped the dead guardsman like a discarded crust. The flaxen‐haired man turned to the darkness where Vahanian hid.

“You are safe now,” the man said, with the hint of an accent that Vahanian could not identify.

“Yeah?” Vahanian stepped from the shadows into the moonlight, knowing that he stood no chance against this adversary.

A cold smile touched the stranger’s lips. “My name is Gabriel,” he said, with a self‐assurance Vahanian somehow only expected to find in an immortal. “I have a message for you from the Sisterhood.” He licked his lips. “I thought I might find you in the tavern, but the press of…

bodies… became uncomfortable for me. When I chose to wait for you outside, I overheard the guardsmen’s plan. It became necessary for me to… intervene.”

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“You have a message for me?”

“Martris Drayke must not cross into Dhasson. Dark magic waits for him there. What you seek from the north will meet you on the journey. He must not cross the border.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Vahanian put on his best wagering face, no small feat considering his heart was hammering so hard he could barely breathe.

Gabriel smiled, a cold grimace that made his teeth far more apparent than Vahanian preferred.

“Yes, my mistress informed me you could be difficult.”

“And who might that be?” Vahanian returned, managing to get a measure of bravado into his voice.

“I am the servant of the Dark Lady,” Gabriel replied, without a hint of sarcasm. “As are you.”

“The only goddess I serve is Luck.” Gabriel’s eyes held a cold amusement. “Perhaps. Or maybe, you know Her by another name.” He paused, an unreadable expression in his eyes, and his tongue darted at the last flecks of blood on his lips. “Now go. And ride a well‐used trail. I am not the only one who can smell blood in the darkness.”

“Yeah, sure,” Vahanian replied uneasily. “Whatever you say.” He glanced away to assure himself that his horse still waited at tether, and when he looked back to where Gabriel had been, the blond man was gone. Vahanian shivered. Tonight was too close a call he thought as he limped toward his horse. Apparently, he had seriously underestimated the stakes in this game.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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“Carina,” Tris hissed at the tent flap. He knew that his voice shook, and not entirely from the cold as he stood outside the healer’s tent. “Carina!” he rasped, barely above a whisper.

Carina pushed back the tent flap groggily. She pulled a blanket closer around her against the chill, and rubbed her eyes. “Tris, what’s wrong? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I need your help,” Tris said, managing as steady a voice as he could. “Please, I can’t wait for morning.”

Nodding, Carina stepped aside and gestured for Tris to follow. She lit two candles and motioned him to sit. “You look awful.”

“I haven’t slept for days,” Tris confessed. “Every time I drift off, the dreams come back, and I can’t block them out.”

“What dreams?” Carina asked, wide awake and alert as she settled into her healer’s role.

Tris looked away. “My family was murdered,” he said softly, swallowing hard. “I… I’ve tried to call their ghosts,” he admitted. “I can’t reach them. I can feel them out there, far away, but it’s 235

like they’re behind a wall, and they want to come, but they can’t. Something’s holding them back, keeping them prisoner,” he finished lamely.

“I keep dreaming about Kait,” he added, in a voice just above a whisper. “My sister. She’s frightened, she’s calling me, and I can’t go to her and I can’t call her to me. All I can see is her face, pressed against a barrier, calling my name,” he said with a shudder, and closed his eyes.

Carina laid a hand on his arm. “Nothing I taught you helps at all?” she asked gently. They had managed to steal a few hours over the last week to help Tris work on shielding, teaching him how to keep from being overwhelmed by the spirits he sensed around him.

Tris shook his head. “Not with the dreams. It keeps the other spirits further away, but it doesn’t work with the dreams. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything. Night before last, I even sat up drinking with Soterius and Vahanian until I was sick. Even that didn’t help,” he said miserably. “I couldn’t stop seeing her face.” He looked up and met Carina’s eyes, feeling they could see right through him. “I let her down once, Carina, when I didn’t save her life. I can’t let her down again. I swore to her I would come for her, wherever she is, but I can’t get through.”

Carina chewed on the end of a lock of her hair as she reflected, all traces of sleep gone. “Let’s try what I taught you again,” she said, and held up a hand to stay his argument. “I need to see what’s happening.” Her eyes softened and she put a hand on his arm. “There’s got to be a way to stop the dreams, Tris,” she said earnestly. “I’ll help you find it.”

Tris held her gaze. “I won’t let her down, Carina,” he repeated. “And I’m afraid if we stop the dreams, I’ll lose the link I have. Can we,” he paused, searching for words, “blunt it, like we did with the way I sense the ghosts, so I can pay attention or not, instead of wiping it out completely?”

Carina sat back and regarded him for a moment. “I’m a healer,” she said finally, “not a mage. We need Alyzza,” she decided. “Wait here.” After several minutes, she returned with the crone seer in tow. Alyzza looked no more disheveled for it being the middle of the night than she appeared 236

during the day.

“Bad dreams, m’lad?” she croaked, settling down cross‐legged beside him with surprising agility.

Tris nodded. Alyzza took Carina’s hand to draw the healer down with them. “Trust an old mad woman to help, do you?” she chuckled. “You must have very bad dreams.” She settled into her seat. “Let’s see what we can do.”

Patiently, Carina and Alyzza led Tris through the basic wardings and the pathworkings. They watched as he raised the mental barriers‐shields, Alyzza called them—that blocked out unwanted thoughts and intrusions. With his wardings and shields in place, Alyzza tested Tris, attempting to break through. Time and time again, he held her at bay while Carina stretched out her healer’s awareness to sense the energies and stress within his body.

It was almost dawn when Tris sat back in frustration. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere. I’m doing everything you’ve taught me. It’s not enough.”

“What if you tried to sleep here, where we can watch over you,” Carina suggested. “Maybe your shields are holding when you’re awake, and you’re not able to keep them in place when you sleep.”

Tris shook his head in frustration. “It’s nearly morning. There’ll be no sleeping once the camp is awake. Maybe I just imagined it.”

“No,” Alyzza rasped. “It was no accident, nor imagining either. There is power in you, great power.”

“If there’s so much power,” Tris snapped exas‐peratedly, “where is it when I need it?”

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“At your fingertips, as you have seen,” the old hag replied, nonplussed by his tone. “But it is wild, and so far, it has controlled you. You must learn to control it.”

Tris sat back on the rug and ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t understand,” he said tiredly.

“If it comes when I need it, when I’m in danger, isn’t that enough?”

Alyzza shook her head. “The more you use your power, the more power flows through you.

Power

will not be denied. Every mage fights a constant battle to keep his power from controlling him.”

“And the dark mages?” Tris asked, staring at the circle of candles on the tent floor.

“The dark mages live an illusion,” Alyzza replied. “Consumed by their own power, they believe themselves in control. But they are just the servants of a greater Darkness.”

“I’m ready to try again,” Tris sighed, sitting up on his knees.

“Focus your thoughts,” Carina coached. “See the fire, see the candles burst into light, feel it come from yourself,” she said softly as Tris closed his eyes and stretched out his hand.

In his mind’s eye, Tris saw the candles, sensed the current of power within himself. Unbidden, he saw Kait’s face from the dream, heard her cry out for him, sensed her pain. He felt the power surge and opened his eyes as fire leaped from his outstretched hand, lighting not just the first of the ring of candles, but roaring along the circle until all had burst into flame, nearly consumed.

Carina gave a sharp cry and scrambled out of the way, but the crone leapt forward, forcing Tris’s hand down.

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Shaking, Tris looked first to Alyzza and then to Carina. “What happened?” he asked, staring wide‐eyed at the flickering candles. “I was trying so hard, and getting nowhere,” he said softly,

“and then I thought about Kait, and I felt something so strong flood through me…”

“The dark magic,” the crone rasped. “Easy and strong, and more addictive than dreamweed.

Your anger called it.”

“If it could be harnessed, controlled—”

“It can never be controlled!” Alyzza cried. “Every instant that you draw upon the dark magic places your soul in peril. Even the greatest mages have felt its seduction. There has been no mage so great as the Obsidian King,” the crone continued, her voice falling to a whisper, “and even he could not control the darkness. It consumed him, and made him its slave.”

“You mean the Obsidian King was once a Light mage?” Tris asked, staring at his hands as if they held a bloodied sword.

“Long ago, yes,” the crone replied. “Some say he was possessed by the spirit of an evil one stronger than himself. So believed the greatest mage, Bava K’aa. Others believe he thought that the dark power could be harnessed for good, bent to his will, washed clean. If so, he was wrong.

It bent him, over the years, and dulled his mind, so that he could not see the change in himself.

Even Bava K’aa could not persuade him to give it up,” she went on, and seemed not to notice when Tris started at the mention of his grandmother. “That is how a good man became the greatest evil our world has seen.”