Gail Martin - The summoner

"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 features. "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 toward 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 them. 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 toward 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 him. 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 date. She had the ample, sturdy build of a milkmaid, but her eyes were filled with such a great sadness that Tris reflexively stepped toward 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 toward the well. "I just ran back for another bucket." She turned toward 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 toward the water far below before Tris could start toward 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 had climbed to peer into the well and had fallen 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 that 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 toward 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 toward 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.