The Summoner (47 page)

Vahanian shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why would you memorize what you can’t use?”

Royster leaned forward and tapped the mercenary on the forehead. “Knowledge. That’s why.”

“Because it’s there,” Vahanian mumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Exactly,” Royster replied with a satisfied smile, sitting down with a thump. “And, for another reason. The good Sisters feared that the Library might one day be destroyed. My life’s work has been memorizing the books as well as keeping them.”

“But how did you get to be the librarian?” Berry piped up. “The Mage Wars happened a long time ago. You don’t look that old.”

Royster chuckled indulgently, then looked sharply at his side and scowled. “You be quiet,” he 397

snapped at the ghost. “She’s a sweet thing and she didn’t mean it that way. You old coot!” he retorted to his unseen tormentor. Smiling once more, he turned to Berry.

“Oh, I’m old all right, but not quite that old,” he admitted gamely. “But you’re right, the Mage Wars were a long time ago. Pity,” he said, stopping to pick a particle of food out from between his teeth. “No decent chroniclers in the lot. Haven’t got an account worth reading of the whole war.”

He paused for a moment. “Ah, but you asked a question,” he replied with a grin. “When I was five years old, Kessen came to my village. He gave a test to all the children. He told them a story and they had to repeat it. Of them all,” he said with a hint of pride, “only I could say it word for word.” He shrugged. “I was an orphan, so Kessen took me with him right then. I have lived in the Library since that day.” He looked

around at his robed companions. “So it was with each of us,” he said. “Now, one of us journeys with a Sister to do the same. To be a Keeper is a calling of the Lady.”

“Kessen… is the ghost that bothers you?” Berry asked.

Royster chuckled, then poked a finger at the air beside him. “Did you hear that?” he challenged.

“She said ‘bothers.’ ‘Bothers’ you foggy old spirit! She’s being polite, you know,” he said, then smiled sweetly at Berry. “Yes, Kessen the ghost was Kessen, my teacher,” he said. “But why?”

Berry asked. “Why does he hang on here, looking to pester me day and night?” Royster said with overblown exasperation. “I’ll tell you. Because I could never organize the bloody books quite to his liking. ‘Royster,’ he used to say, ‘I’ll see you get the knack of this if it takes to my dying day or beyond,’” Royster quoted, “and even by the time the old coot died, I still wasn’t doing it up to his standards.” He sniffed. “Serves me fine. I can find anything I need. But he’s elected to plague me, anyway.” He leaned forward as if to impart a secret, and Berry bent to hear him. “You know what?”

“What?” she whispered conspiratorially.

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“I really don’t mind. Gets a bit too quiet here, what with fifty years come and gone. But don’t tell Kessen,” he warned. “It’ll go to his head.”

Berry pantomimed sealing her lips. Royster patted her hand. “That’s a good girl,” he said.

As Royster talked, Tris closed his eyes, focusing on the ghostly librarian. He called the image to mind, envisioning its outline with increasing clarity. When he opened his eyes, Kessen’s ghost was clearly visible.

“Look, there he is!” Berry gasped.

The librarian began to chuckle. “Serves you right, you old coot. Now you won’t be able to sneak up on people.” Royster paused and looked to Tris. “That’s your doing, isn’t it?”

Tris nodded. “And I’m afraid he can’t stay that way,” Tris replied. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t think he likes it. But he doesn’t mind that we’ve met him,” he added.

“Do as he bids,” Royster agreed. “It’s nice to see there’s still someone there,” he added wistfully.

“It’s been so long, sometimes I feared I was talking to myself.”

Tris closed his eyes once more. Kessen’s relief washed over him as the revenant vanished.

“You know all of these books?” Kiara asked, picking up the conversation once more. She looked unnerved, and Tris realized that it was the first time she had witnessed his magic beyond fire starting.

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Royster nodded. “Every one.” He chuckled. “I’m the index. After dinner, I will introduce you to the specialists.”

“Do they talk?” Vahanian asked irreverently, washing down his bread with a mouthful of ale.

Royster laughed, and they could hear a murmur of amusement pass among the figures at the other tables. “Oh yes, we talk,” he said. “But after so many years together, we often have little new to say to one another. Be careful what you

wish for—now that we have guests, our curiosity might give us more questions than you want to answer!”

“Could you show us the healing guides?” Carina asked. “Especially about mage‐sent illness? Oh, I’d like to see all the texts!” She looked at Kiara, her eyes shining. “What an opportunity!”

“I’ll be glad to help Carina,” Kiara put in, “but the Oracle sent me here to find a way to save Isencroft. I’m not sure what to ask you to look for,” she confessed. “The servants of the Lady said I would find what I needed here.”

Royster considered her request for a moment. “Perhaps a place to start is with the histories of Isencroft and the stories of her kings. You may find something to be of help.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any histories, would you?” Carroway asked, looking up as he finished his dinner. “Some nice volumes set in interesting times?” He glanced at Tris with an apologetic shrug. “Not that you haven’t given me enough to write songs about, but as Carina said, this is quite an opportunity.”

Royster’s eyes twinkled. “You’re a bard?” At Carroway’s nod, Royster grinned. “I’ve got histories you’ve never even heard, about warrior mages whose songs have been forgotten. Musical 400

instruments, too,” he said, and Carroway’s eyes lit up. “You’ll find that many of the Keepers are accomplished players and storytellers. We have much time to pass, and many winter evenings.

You’ll have your songs, bard, I promise.”

“Can I come with you?” Berry asked excitedly. “I’d like to hear some of those stories.” She looked at Royster. “Do any of them have princesses in them? I like stories about princesses. Especially ones that get into trouble and get rescued.”

Royster smiled paternally and chuckled. “Aye, you’ll find more than a few of those. I’ll pick out the best for you myself… if you can read,” he said, narrowing his eyes quizzically. At Berry’s decisive nod, he brightened. “Good girl. That’s rare for a girl.” He turned to Vahanian. “How about you?”

Vahanian put up a hand, “I’ve seen all the magic I want to see for a while. Just give me a nice empty room and let me get the weapons ready. You wouldn’t happen to have a salle here, and a blacksmith’s shop, would you?” When Royster nodded, Vahanian smiled. “Well now, that’s different. I’d like to have a look at that. I’d rather not train in the snow, and there’s work to be done with the horses and weapons.”

Royster turned to Tris. “You’ve been quiet, son. What can I find for you?”

“I’m not quite sure,” he said. “If there are books about summoning and spirit mages, perhaps I can find out why the magic works and what I’m really doing.” He grinned sheepishly. “It’s been rather trial and error so far,” he admitted. “I’ve had dreams, visions of my grandmother. She tells me that I will remember her training when the need is great,” he said, spreading his hands with a shrug, “but I can’t seem to remember any training.” He paused, “And the Obsidian King,” he went on, “if you have histories about him and about how my grandmother helped defeat him.”

He paused, longer this time, “We may have to face him again.”

“At your service, my lord,” Royster said, in all seriousness. “I suspect that perhaps for this need we have trained all our lives. I will find what you require.” He gestured toward a gray‐bearded 401

man at the next table. “Devin is our Summoning expert. Maire,” he said, and nodded to a white-haired woman, “knows all about the meaning of dreams and unlocking memories that do not wish to be found. And I,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “have always been partial to stories about the Obsidian King, so I shall work with you on that.”

“Thank you,” Tris replied.

“I take it these are the guests you were expecting?” A voice came from behind Tris, startling everyone but Royster. Tris turned to see a thin, dark‐haired man who looked scarcely older than himself—until he met his eyes. Lifetimes, not a mere two decades, haunted those eyes, set within the pallor of a fine‐featured face. The man held himself like a soldier, and his dark hair was close‐cropped, as if for a helm.

Royster smiled. “Yes indeed. Mikhail, let me introduce Martris Drayke and his friends,” he said, introducing each in turn. Royster looked back to Tris. “This is Mikhail, from King Harrol’s court.”

Mikhail made a courtly bow. “I am honored,” the vayash moru said. “King Harrol sent me to Westmarch since Dhasson’s borders are—difficult— for mortals to pass.”

“We’ve noticed,” Vahanian muttered.

“I was sent to learn how to dispel the beasts that plague Dhasson,” Mikhail went on. “The king also asked that I watch for you, should the fates bring you to Westmarch. I will be pleased to report success in both matters.”

“You’ve found a solution to the beasts?” Tris asked.

Mikhail shook his head. “Unfortunately, all evidence points to the work of one mage—Foor Arontala. Whether he created the beasts I cannot tell, but it appears certain that he called them.

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Until he is destroyed—or you are dead—they will not disperse.”

“Gabriel warned us that the border was spelled against my crossing,” Tris said. “Otherwise, we would have headed for Valiquet. Did Harrol have any other news?”

Mikhail withdrew a pouch from his pocket and handed it to Tris. Inside was a letter, and a seal.

Tris scanned the letter, then looked up. “He pledges what military assistance Dhasson can provide, given the siege of the beasts. And he’s given me his seal as a bond to his exchequer, to help us raise an army—and pay our debts,” he said with a glance toward Vahanian, who shrugged.

“King Harrol expected, I am sure, that what I found here would confirm his suspicions. He believes that to defeat the beasts, the power of the beasts’ sender must be broken,” said Mikhail. “It makes Margolan’s troubles Dhasson’s business, until the mage Arontala is destroyed.”

“Good luck,” Vahanian muttered darkly.

“Now can we get the stories?” Berry interrupted. They chuckled as they rose from the table. As they were about to leave, a cool breeze blew past them and the crockery rose, piece by piece, suspended in midair.

“Kessen,” Royster sighed. “It bothers him to no end if I don’t tidy the table the minute I’m through.” He planted his hands on his hips. “Leave the dishes!” he shouted at the empty room.

“Fifty years, you’ve done the dishes. The grandson of Bava K’aa comes for training, and all you can think of are dishes!” With a gesture of dismissal, he turned and motioned the others to follow. Behind them, the dishes crashed to the floor.

“He always had a bad temper,” Royster muttered without a backward glance at the pile of broken crockery.

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CHAPTER TWENTY‐SIX

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When they arose the next morning, a brown‐robed visitor awaited them. A spare‐framed, tall woman with close‐cropped white hair and piercing blue eyes stood in the main hallway. She took a few steps to stand in front of Tris, and looked at him as if she were taking his measure and weighing his soul.

“You are Martris Drayke?”

“I am.”

“What do you seek here, son of Bricen?”

Tris held her gaze unwaveringly. “To understand my power and control it. I have to find a way to defeat Arontala and unseat Jared.”

The sister looked at him appraisingly. “Very well. Our time is short, and the quest is great. At the coming of the Hawthorn Moon, Arontala will attempt strong magic—blood magic—to free the soul of the Obsidian King. If he succeeds, we will see conflict and darkness greater than in the 404

time of the Great War.”

“Can’t the Sisterhood stop him?” Tris asked. “I mean, you are experienced mages—”

“Only a Summoner can stop him.” She met Tris’s eyes. “And you are the only Summoner in the Winter Kingdoms.” She paused.

“Teach me,” Tris said levelly. “We came here to find out how to overturn the darkness, in Margolan, Isencroft and Dhasson.”

“It is the same darkness, and the same quest,” she said. “Your paths are woven together by the hand of the Lady. I have come to be the first of your teachers. I am Sister Taru.”

Tris began his lessons with Sister Taru and Maire right after breakfast. As Vahanian headed for the salle, and Carina, Kiara and Carroway— with Berry at his heels—paired up with keepers and headed into the depths of the Library, Taru guided Tris to a sparsely furnished study. Maire lit a fire and set a pot of tea to boil. Finally, Taru motioned Tris to sit. She and Maire sat down to face him.

“So you are the grandson of Bava K’aa,” Taru said. “My Sisters believe you are her mage heir.

What say you?”

Tris met her gaze. “I have always been able to speak to spirits, call them, see them—even when others couldn’t. Not just on Haunts. I remember some lessons with grandmother, when I was young. Simple pathworkings, warding spells, household magic. But since the murders,” he said, and his voice caught. “Since the murders,” he

repeated, willing his voice to hold, “I feel power I’ve never felt before—in me and around me.

Sometimes, like with the slavers, it flows through me, past what I can control.” Taru and Maire 405

listened as Tris recounted the story of their journey, the ghosts he had encountered and those he freed, and finally, the spirits of the Ruune Vidaya.

When he ended his tale, Taru and Maire exchanged glances. “In the years since Bava K’aa died,”

Taru began quietly, “mages have been sent to the Ruune Vidaya to quiet the spirits. None succeeded and none returned. Yet you have lived to tell the tale, you, barely twenty summers old, a fledgling mage, and you have bent the forests’ spirits to your cause, bargained for the safety of your friends, and then given them their rest!”