Gail Martin - The summoner

Tris pressed his hands against his side as both Carroway and Soterius sprinted toward him. Harrtuck made short work of the remaining attackers. His ally lay dead on the floor. Carroway rolled Tris's assailant over with his boot, bending over to withdraw his dagger and wiping it clean in two quick movements on the dead man's tunic as he dropped to his knees beside Tris. "There'll be more soldiers," Soterius warned.

"They've killed the king, Prince Martris," panted Harrtuck. "None of us could save him. You have to flee!"

Tris gasped as Carroway struggled to lift him to a sitting position. Soterius knelt beside Tris and Carroway moved back to let the experienced swordsman examine Tris's wound. Without a word, Tris knew from the look on Soterius's face how nasty a gash he had taken.

"We've got to get you to a healer," Soterius said tersely as he nodded for Carroway to move to Tris's other side and together they lifted Tris to his feet.

"Aye, but first, we've got to get out of Shekerishet," Harrtuck agreed.

As if on cue, boot steps sounded on the back stairs. With a motion, Harrtuck signaled Carroway to cover Tris while he and Soterius took the newcomers. A burly guardsman in the bloodstained livery of the king stepped into view. Two more guardsmen flanked him. Harrtuck waited in silence until all three were within range.

"Now!" the armsmaster cried, springing forth, sword lowered, to run through the guardsman. There was a whistle of air and then a dull thwack, and the lead guard tumbled forward, his hands grasping at Carroway's dagger as Soterius's sword sliced down from the shadows, neatly cleaving the third man from shoulder to hip.

"Come on!" Soterius cried. He returned to where Tris and Carroway waited, pausing just long enough to regain the bard's dagger, and helped Tris to his feet once more. The blood pounded in Tris's ears and his knees threatened to buckle under him.

"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 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.

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 party-goers 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 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