The Summoner (6 page)

“We’re not going to get out easily,” Carroway hissed as they started toward the door.

“Got any better ideas?” Soterius growled.

“Actually, yes,” the minstrel snapped. “In here.”

Carroway pulled, rather than led, Tris and the others into a storage room under the back stairs.

Strewn about were cloaks and tunics, masks and costumes from the night’s revelry. “Here, see if this fits,” he said, snatching up a black tunic, cape and mask from the floor and thrusting them toward Soterius.

“You’ve got to be crazy,” the swordsman said in disbelief. “We’re running for our lives, and you want to—”

“Just do it,” Carroway snapped, plucking more outfits from the jumble and tossing them toward Tris and Harrtuck.

“What in the Winter Kingdoms—” Harrtuck wondered.

“It’s where the entertainers change before going to the feast,” Carroway explained breathlessly as he shed his own cloak and ripped more than pulled his tunic over his head. “They’ll come back tomorrow to fetch their things, but tonight, there’s too much to do to worry about being neat.

Thank the Goddess.”

But as Carroway moved toward him, a voluminous cape in hand, Tris felt the rush of blood to his head as his legs gave way beneath him. Dimly, he heard the worried cries of his companions as he sank to the floor. Then, the room went dark. Tris was jostled awake to find himself staring at the stars. The cold fall air stung his face and around him pressed a crowd that smelled of ale and 45

sweat, their rowdy songs far overshadowing the more subdued chants of the priestesses.

Tris struggled to sit up, and felt a hand press him down. “Lie still,” Soterius hissed. “We’re in the procession, on our way to the city gates.”

The pain in his side threatened to make him pass out once more, but Tris set his jaw and fought the wave of darkness. A gray robe with a heavy cowl covered his body and obscured his face. His hands were covered with black paint. A wisp of hair that struggled from beneath the hood was sable brown, not the usual striking blond of his own shoulder‐length queue.

“Relax,” Soterius warned. “Carroway improvised some disguises. Yours was the best we could do, given the circumstances,” he apologized. Tris realized that he lay on a bier, one of the many effigies of departed loved ones carried in the ceremony toward the river, where a steady procession of figures, tokens and flowers would make their way down the waters toward the sea. Tucked in with the offerings were pleas for favors from the Goddess or departed loved ones, prayers for intercession or the righting of some wrong, or heartfelt expressions of longing for those who rested with the Lady.

Yet despite its more serious side, Haunts was a night for revelry in the town, and this year appeared to be no exception, regardless of what had transpired at the castle. Banners hung from every window, snapping on the cold night wind. Vendors’ carts crowded the streets and costumed revelers elbowed their way through the congested passageways. The city smelled of sausages and ale, candles and incense. From somewhere in the walled city, bells pealed and Tris could hear the plaintive wail of flutes and the beat of drums.

With any luck, Tris thought, they could blend into the crowd and meld into the procession most of the way to the Merchant Gate. From the high spirits of the crowd, Tris was certain no word of the treachery at the palace had reached theacity. And it might not, ever.

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Jared was clever, and so was his mage. No one but Tris, Soterius and a few guards had witnessed the actual attack. Jared could invent a tale of assassins, and blame the dead guards. Arontala’s magic could probably manufacture evidence, or blur the eyes of those who might see otherwise.

Bricen was a popular king, because he did not commandeer the harvest and his troops neither looted the local farms nor raped the farmers’ daughters. Of the royal family, Serae had won the good will of the nobility, her gentle manner a stark contrast to Eldra’s tempers. In return, the court lavished much more interest and favor on Tris and Kait than on Jared, whose brooding manner and dark habits fed the gossips’ talk. Even so, Bava K’aa told Tris once that to commoners, one king was the same as the next so long as the taxes didn’t change. No one might even care about the manner of Bricen’s death, although Tris was sure that Jared’s rule would not be as benign.

It was impossible to distinguish the parade from the crowd. The throng pressed through the main street of the city, flowing toward the outer gates and the burial grounds beyond. In its center, large litters carried statues of the four Light aspects of the Goddess. Drummers pounded, pipers played and the shimmer of tambourines sounded above the din of the revelers. The litters and their statues bobbed above the crowd, held aloft by the press of people The costumes rivaled any Tris had ever seen. There were “nobles” and gaudy ladies, river merchants and legendary heroes, together with no few revelers costumed as the Lady’s aspects; grown women as well as children in the flowing white robes of the Childe; revelers of both sexes in the seductive garb of the Lover; others, male or female, in matronly attire as the beneficent Mother. And dark‐cowled specters in the scarlet robes of Chenne, Avenger Goddess. But Haunts was a night for the Dark Aspects as well, and on this night, darkness held sway. Even more partygoers preferred the painted finery of the bitch Goddess, Luck, and they tossed candy coins and painted cards to the crowd. Others swaggered through the streets in the tawdry glamour of Athira the Whore, needing no skill to mimic the rolling, drunken gait. Like dark shadows in the torchlight, gray‐cloaked partygoers played the role of Istra, the Demon Goddess, appearing insubstantial as wraiths in the wavering light and wafting smoke. Hunched figures old and young took on the visage and tattered rags of Sinha the Crone.

One goddess, eight aspects—four Light and four Dark. Tris had always suspected that the aspect a person venerated said as much about the person as it did the kingdom and traditions from 47

which they came. Margolan was partial to the Mother, although many within its borders also worshipped the Childe aspect. Isencroft, on Margolan’s eastern border, gave homage to Chenne, the warrior. Principality, to the northeast, home to caravans and mercenary companies, traders and roustabouts, was partial to the Lover. Eastmark, Principality’s southern neighbor, venerated the Whore, a favorite of gamblers and paid soldiers. Dhasson, to Margolan’s west, encouraged adoration of all of the Lady’s faces, save for that of the Crone. Dhasson’s reluctance to embrace Crone worshippers was natural, given its southern neighbor, Nargi, whose sour‐faced priests ruthlessly enforced the Crone’s ascetic doctrines. Trevath, Margolan’s southern neighbor and frequent rival, shared Nargi’s veneration of the Crone, but in Trevath, known for its mines and fine carpets, such worship was much more practical, serving to enhance the power of the

king.

The Dark Lady was the patron of the vayash moru, the undead who walk the night. Few mortals gave homage to the Dark Lady, though her name was a frequent oath. Of the eighth aspect, the Childe’s dark mirror aspect, even fewer spoke. Worship of the Formless One had ceased generations ago, and now, if the most terrible of the aspects was mentioned at all, it was with a nervous glance and a sign of warding. Nearly all of the residents of the Winter Kingdoms made at least nominal reverence to one or more of the aspects, although Tris heard that some followed the old ways in secret, the belief in the spirit and power of the rocks and trees, the streams and dark places under the ground.

Those ways, it was said, were the ways of the Winter Kingdoms a millennium past, before Grethor Long Arm invaded from the eastern steppes, spreading his influence as his reign in Margolan prospered and his power grew. His mages were more powerful, and his wealth and power seductive enough for belief in the One Goddess of Many Faces to gradually supplant the old ways, though elements of the superstition and blood sacrifice of those ways lived on, in the cruel worship of the Nargi, thinly overlaid with the trappings of the Crone.

As Tris watched from his bier, a young girl costumed as the Childe Goddess emerged from the crowd by the side of the road. She was playing her role to the hilt, tossing colored rags and straw 48

instead of the Childe’s fabled profusion of flowers to those on whom she showed favor. As Tris passed by, the young girl looked up, and her eyes met Tris’s.

You are my chosen weapon, Tris heard a voice ring in his mind, disorientingly clear, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, and as he stared into the eyes of the young girl, he thought for an instant that he saw them glow amber as the face now seemed not that of a mortal child, but of the Childe Goddess Herself. Die not until I call for thee. Thy time is not yet come. And as the girl’s eyes stared into his, Tris felt a sudden fire touch the wound in his side, as if a red‐hot poker were laid against the torn flesh. He stiffened and arched, biting into his lip to keep from crying out.

The voice was gone as quickly as it came, and when Tris looked around, the girl had vanished.

Shaken, Tris closed his eyes. I’m seeing things, he thought, swallowing hard. Goddess help me, I must be dying.

“If Harrtuck’s found us horses,” Soterius whispered, “he’ll be down the next alley with them.”

Carroway veered off from the procession at the dark maw of the next street, and they made their way down the cluttered, twisted thoroughfare that was barely wider than two riders abreast. Harrtuck appeared from the shadows and motioned for them. Carroway and Soterius followed the soldier to where four sturdy horses waited impatiently, tethered to a rickety hitching post. Carefully, Harrtuck helped them rest Tris’s litter on the ground. “Can you ride, my liege?” Harrtuck asked as

he bent over Tris.

Tris nodded. “There’s no choice,” he said, and gritted his teeth as he started to rise. To his amazement, no answering pain throbbed through his side. Tris accepted Harrtuck’s assistance in swinging up to his nervous mount. Cautiously, the four made their way back to the 49

procession.

“Damn the Fates,” Soterius hissed as they ventured out among the pilgrims and revelers.

A handful of palace guards milled at the gate, far from their usual station. They were unmounted, but their horses were saddled and waiting nearby. Tris and Harrtuck exchanged worried glances.

“Are we ready?” Soterius’s flat voice cut through the confusion.

“We’re going to have to bluff our way through,” Harrtuck appraised. “If we get separated, head for the road north.”

“Give the signal,” Tris assented, never taking his eyes from the guards at the gate.

They waited until the procession swung wide to round a bend, taking the stream of revelers as close as possible to the gate. They were still at least twenty yards away, and while the gates were open, anyone who entered or left had to pass between the guards.

“Now!” Soterius shouted, wheeling his horse from the procession and driving straight for the gates. The others did the same, as nearby revelers scrambled to get out of the way. The gates seemed a lifetime away as Tris leaned low over his mount and spurred the horse into an all‐out gallop.

The move caught the guardsmen by surprise and the fugitives took the advantage, driving through their line. Soterius and Harrtuck charged first, freeing their swords and cutting past the guards who blocked the gates. Tris could almost feel the breath of Carroway’s mount behind him 50

as their horses plunged into the darkness just beyond the city gate. Behind them came the cries of the guardsmen giving chase.

“Almost there,” Soterius shouted.

The horses pounded down the slope from the city to the road below. As he reached the thoroughfare, Tris felt a dizzying lurch, as if he had passed through an unseen boundary. He clung to his reins as a fog swelled around them, rising from the road as their pursuers closed the gap.

The fog thickened and swirled up to the horses’ bridles. In the mist, something solid and cold brushed against Tris’s leg. Their terrified horses screamed in fright, bucking and lurching. From the forest itself, a ghastly moan filled the darkness. Tris clutched his reins, his heart pounding, as all around them, the fog writhed and twisted. The mist became wraiths, gaping-mouthed and wailing, as more and more of the ghostly fog swept toward them from the dark forest. Whisps of mist became clutching tendrils and puffs of smoke stretched and spread into fearsome, hollow‐eyed faces. A multitude of howling spirits swept past Tris and the others, clawed ethereal hands outstretched, moaning the cries of the damned. The air was clammy as they passed and Tris shivered. He clung to the reins, straining to control his panicked mount.

“Look!” Soterius shouted as they‐ continued their headlong run for safety. Tris stole a glance over his shoulder. The spirits massed around the guardsmen as the fog thickened and swirled.

The revenants’ wails caterwauled above the screams of the guardsmen.

“Let’s get out of here!” Harrtuck yelled above the infernal din, setting his horse in a headlong gallop down the road. The others followed close behind, but it was at least a mile before they could no longer hear the screams of the guardsmen or the wails of the dead.

“What the hell was that?” Soterius demanded when they finally brought their panting mounts to a halt at the crossroads.

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“We finally found the palace ghosts,” Tris replied with an uncertain glance over his shoulder. The night around them was quiet and cold.

“What were the palace ghosts doing outside the city?” Carroway asked, his breath steaming in the chill.

“I don’t know, but thank the Childe for them,” Harrtuck rasped.

“We hadn’t seen the spirits most of the night, remember?” Tris said, staring back into the darkness.

“Yeah, Tris is right,” Soterius replied, watching the night around them carefully. “There wasn’t a ghost to be seen after we saw the fortune‐teller, and that’s never the way it is around the palace— especially not on Feast night.”

“What if Arontala banished them?” Tris theorized, unwilling to tell the group just yet about his encounter with his grandmother’s ghost. “The ghosts are sworn to protect the king, right?