Tris swallowed hard. "I think that's enough for one day."
"There is very little time," Alyzza replied. "We must make the most of it. Carina, bring us the scrying ball from my bag."
Alyzza pressed the scrying ball into Tris's hands. "Let's see what you can do with this."
Tris turned it. He remembered how accurate a ball like it was at the festival in Margolan, and how dark a future it foresaw. "But I don't know how to scry," he protested.
"You can learn," Alyzza dismissed his hesitation. "Mages of any clan can scry, some better than others. Place the ball in front of you," she instructed. "Clear your mind. Focus. Tell me what you see."
Tris took a deep breath and did as Alyzza instructed. The scrying ball remained dark.
"It's not working."
"You're not concentrating. Try again."
Carina leaned forward, staring into the dark glass ball. Tris took another deep breath and closed his eyes. He tried to ignore the sounds of the caravan beyond the thin tent walls and the dull ache of his muscles from sword practice with Vahanian. Tris pictured the scrying ball in his mind, forcing out all other thoughts, and sought the silent place within himself. As he made his mental descent, the scrying ball in his mind began to glow, faintly at first, and then stronger, a pale yellow light. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes and found the glass ball in his hands glowing like the image in his mind.
Suddenly the scrying ball flared like a captured ray of sunlight, and a tiny picture formed deep within the crystal. A stocky man in his late middle years appeared, his once-dark hair peppered with gray. "My uncle," he whispered. The image shifted, and Tris saw a woman whose resemblance to Bricen raised a lump in his throat. "My father's sister," he murmured. The scrying ball went dark.
Tris looked up at Alyzza questioningly, holding out the darkened glass ball. "What have I seen?" He looked back at the scrying ball as if it would flare once more into life.
"A glimpse of time," the fortune-teller replied. "Much more than I expected. You do indeed have power," she said, a hint of appreciation in her raspy voice. "You knew the figure?"
"My uncle," Tris replied, setting the scrying ball down gently. "The one I'm traveling to meet."
"Interesting," Alyzza mused. "Most pupils are lucky if they can merely make the scrying ball glow on their first try. Some manage an image, but often it is too faint to make out. How is it that you not only call an image, but find kin on your first scrying?" she asked, leaning forward until her wrinkled face was only inches away from Tris's own, and her ale-tainted breath stung in his nostrils. "Very interesting. Try once more."
Tris accepted the scrying ball again and let his hands slide over the smooth, warm surface. He shut his eyes and repeated the calming ritual, slipping into a light trance. He focused his thoughts on the glass ball and stretched out in the darkness.
Something touched his mind immediately. The unfamiliar presence jarred him, nearly causing him to drop the scrying ball. Unlike the warmth Tris had felt before, the presence that touched his mind was cold and malignant. Tris struggled to break the contact, dropping the scrying ball and scrambling backward. He felt the presence follow him. Alyzza lunged for him, wrapping him in arms both thin and strong.
"You must break free, Tris!" Alyzza hissed. "Break the contact!"
Without warning, the presence was gone. A pounding headache took its place. As Alyzza released her hold on him, Tris sank back, one hand covering his eyes. Carina leaned over him worriedly. "What happened?" the healer asked. "Something else was looking for him," the old witch replied. "Something evil and very strong."
Carina touched Tris's forehead, easing his pain. Tris's eyes flickered open and he could see the concern in the healer's face.
"Who looks for you, mageling?" Alyzza rasped. "And why is one so strongly gifted a hired caravan hand, I wonder?" she wondered, although by her tone, Tris knew she did not expect an answer.
"What was that?" Tris asked, his palm still pressed against his forehead.
"I do not know," Alyzza said in the singsong tone that indicated her mind was elsewhere. "Something strong, I think, yes. Something evil, very evil. Something knows you are missing and wishes to find you?" she asked. There was nothing of mirth in her toothless grin. "How to hide a mageling as he learns, that is the problem," she mused. "Untrained, you are a danger to us all. But It will be watching for your power. A problem," she muttered. "No matter. You must be trained. We must proceed and hope for time."
Tris looked from Carina to Alyzza. "Can 'it' destroy me?"
"Fie!" Alyzza hissed, "that is the least of your worries." She looked past Tris as if seeing something in her memories. "It does not want to kill.
First, it will consume. It will turn your power and use it for evil. If you are strong enough, you will kill the Master to end the pain but it will have twisted you by then."
"There's no one else to finish my task," Tris said, staring at the darkened scrying ball. "I have to go on."
"Yes, you must go on," Alyzza hissed. "And I will help you as my poor skills allow. But you must find a proper teacher."
"Where?"
"The Library at Westmarch," Alyzza murmured. Tris glanced sharply at Carina as the healer started. "You will find what you seek there, if it still exists anywhere."
"But how—"
"Enough!" Alyzza pronounced suddenly, and climbed to her feet. "I am tired. Tomorrow, when the supper fires are lit, come again. We will work another lesson."
"What if... It... comes looking for me again?"
"Run," the old woman hissed through broken teeth. "Run for your life."
At the edge of the forest, the night sounds surrounded Tris as he picked his way into the underbrush just beyond the camp. He settled onto a rock and started the pathway to trance. The night sounds grew louder as he concentrated on the pulse of the forest. He could hear the scrabbling of small creatures, the soft rustle of bat wings, the stirring of leaves. He stretched out his senses further, becoming aware of nearby creatures and of the rhythm of the breath of those that huddled deep within their nests and burrows. So far, so good.
Carina and Alyzza worked with him almost every night, improvising a shielding ritual that worked—most of the time—to keep out awareness of the constant cycle of birth and death in the world around him. As Tris gained control over sensing death, he grew better at screening out the endless procession of lost souls that sought him, some seeking rest, others merely attracted to his power like moths to a flame. By trial and error, he grew adept at simple banishing spells and long overdue "passing over" rituals. There seemed no end to the restless ghosts that sought his aid, and he knew he could not accommodate them all without driving himself to exhaustion.
This is what happens with no Summoner in more than five years. Since his grandmother's death, there was no spirit mage in these parts to reconcile the living with the dead, seek the blessing of the departed or send the spirits on their way. Nor had there been any intercessor to set right old grievances that bound souls to this world, he thought. Thank the Goddess that not every soul needs help with the passage.
The dream had not come since the night he had sought out Carina, though its memory never left him and the plaintive sound of Kait's voice echoed constantly in his thoughts. Carina and Alyzza were unwilling to try another scrying after the power that reached out for Tris during their last try. But Tris could not let it rest.
Tonight, he thought grimly, he would try once more to reach past whatever barrier held Kait prisoner, try again to bring Kait to him and end her suffering.
Out of habit, he raised a circle around him for the working. When the wardings were complete, he settled down onto a rock and closed his eyes, stretching out along the spirit plane.
Kaity, are you there?
The image sprang to mind so quickly it jarred him. Kait's face, pressed against the barrier, her cries deadened by a thick pane, desperation clear in her eyes.
Tris, help me!
Before Tris could respond, darkness fell around him, blotting out Kait's face and silencing her cries. Though the darkness made no sound, Tris knew it immediately, recognized it as the silent evil that sought him at the scrying, and struggled to withdraw. Faster and faster the darkness swarmed after him, so that he could feel its chill and its malevolence. He was operating on sheer instinct, and he raced on, desperate to outpace the darkness on his heels, overwhelmed with a primitive terror that transcended words. His power felt wide open, his senses on high alert. Tris's concentration was interrupted as a wood mouse raced past, pursued by a shrieking hawk. With a lurch, Tris felt the mouse's spirit, its hurried pulse and the tiny spark of life that filled it.
With a shriek and the rustle of wings, the hawk dropped from the sky, targeting its kill. Tris felt the mouse's panic like a visceral shock, nearly falling backward with sympathetic impact as the hawk's talons struck. Tris's heart raced as he struggled to break the contact before the mouse's terror moved him beyond reason. He could feel the rodent's fear as the hawk winged higher, felt the awful grip and the sudden, sharp pain as talons dug into the mouse's flesh. Then, with the same wrenching sensation he had experienced on the battlefield, Tris felt the small creature's spirit shudder loose and flicker out.
"No!" The word tore from his throat, deep and guttural, a howl more than a reasoned cry. Startled, the hawk dropped the dead mouse, even as Tris felt his power lash out, unbidden. He saw the animal hit the ground and lie still, and then, to his amazement, saw its savaged body begin to twitch. He stretched out his hand just as a heavy boot came down on the reanimated mouse, snuffing out the glimmer before Tris could react and breaking his contact with the animal with a violent lurch that left him gasping for breath.
Alyzza stood before him, her face a mixture of sternness and fear.
"Why?" Tris croaked, torn between the intensity of the experience and his own wordless loss. "Don't you know what you have done?" the old crone rasped, and in the moonlight, Tris realized that she was trembling, whether with fear or cold or rage, he could not tell.
Mutely, he shook his head, staring at the spot where the mouse lay.
"I know little of Spirit magic, but this I do know," Alyzza hissed. "Never may you bind a spirit that truly desires to leave. Never may you reanimate the dead. And never may you call the dead against their will."
Tris swallowed hard, still groping for equilibrium after the sudden, violent dissolution of his trance. "But... I don't understand..." he managed. The words tumbled out as Alyzza listened silently, then nodded when he finished.
"A spirit that wishes to remain can be bound to this world without a penalty on your soul," the old witch said, fixing Tris with the intense glare of her mismatched eyes. "Just like a spirit that desires to live may be anchored to its body until the breach be healed, if you have the power," she said. "And the dead that are not free to leave this world may be summoned, so long as you do not seek to bind them to your will or encumber their souls. But," she hissed, leaning toward him for emphasis. "No mage of the Light may reanimate a corpse, nor impose a spirit which is not its own. It is forbidden."
"Why?" Tris asked as Alyzza moved her boot and he stared forlornly at the torn body of the mouse.
"Those mysteries are not mine to know," the crone replied. "But I do know that to defy the Lady is to risk your soul. The Obsidian King breathed another spirit into the dead and bound them as his slaves."
"You knew the Obsidian King?"
The hag cackled. "Those of us who waged war against him will never forget, even in our dreams," she said, a shadow of pain crossing her features. "Did you really think that something less would have driven me mad?"
"Are you mad?"
Alyzza laughed harshly. "Oh yes, quite."
Just then, not far from the forest's edge, they heard a cry and the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground. Straining to see, unwilling to risk his magesight once more, Tris could barely make out the shadows of two men locked in combat, although he could hear their groans of effort and the dull thwack of fist meeting flesh. In a moment, one shadow was victorious, and knelt astride its victim's back, pinning the other to the ground.
"Since you're out there, Tris, could you lend a hand?" Vahanian's sardonic voice cut through the darkness.
Tris snatched up his sword and ran, grateful to leave Alyzza behind. He helped Vahanian keep his struggling prisoner pinned as they bound his wrists, then jerked the man to his feet.
"What happened?" Tris breathed as they began to wrestle their prisoner toward the camp.
"Caught a spy," the mercenary replied tersely. "Has no business sneaking around the camp at night, and I don't like the idea of who might be buying his information," Vahanian added, giving the man a shove toward Linton's tent. "Should I ask why you were out in the woods alone at night?" he asked, an edge in his voice.
Tris looked away. "I—"
"Oh, never mind," Vahanian cut him off. "I probably don't want to know. Here's Linton's tent," he said abruptly. "Let's see what our visitor has to say for himself."
The fat little caravan master groaned as Vahanian bellowed an urgent wakeup. Linton fumbled to light a candle. "Jonmarc, this had better be good," the merchant cursed as he stumbled to the tent flap, then fell silent as he took in their prisoner.
"I was out on guard duty and found this skulking around the edge of camp," Vahanian said, giving the man a push. Vahanian pulled a stool forward and pushed the prisoner to sit.
"Now," Vahanian said, drawing the dagger at his belt and letting it glimmer obviously in the candlelight as he turned it in his hands, "let's see what he has to say for himself."
Their prisoner looked from one to the other, then moved his mouth to speak, but the garbled words were unintelligible. With a curse, Linton turned on Vahanian.
"Wonderful work, Jonmarc. You've broken his jaw."
"Maybe we can heal him enough to get the story. What about Carina?"
"I can't think of many worse ways to get on her wrong side. You'd better let me fetch her," Linton said resignedly. "I imagine I won't be getting more sleep."
Tris and Vahanian waited as Linton left to get the healer. Their captive sat sullenly in his chair.
The signs of his struggle with Vahanian were beginning to show in his face, as one eye was rapidly swelling closed and his cheek purpled. After what seemed like forever, they could hear Linton and Carina arguing as they approached.
"Well, this should make the evening more fun," Vahanian muttered under his breath as Linton reached for the tent flap and held it open for Carina.
"I know that it's an unusual thing to ask of you, Carina, but I would appreciate it if—" Linton was saying. His voice faded as they reached the prisoner and Carina looked from the bound man to Vahanian and then reproachfully, to Tris.
"Let me get this straight," Carina said, lifting her head defiantly and stepping closer in challenge. "You see someone you don't know, beat him to a pulp," she said with a jerk of her head toward the prisoner, "and then you want me to help you interrogate him?"
Tris could see the anger flash in Vahanian's eyes. "I don't need your help to interrogate him. What I need," he said tersely, "is for you to fix his jaw so that he can tell us why he was scouting our camp."
"How do you know he was scouting us?" she argued. "I'm amazed you didn't just run him through and ask questions later."
A muscle in Vahanian's jaw twitched at his effort to remain civil. "I thought about it," he said evenly. "He's been sent here by someone, and I'd like to know why."
With a glare that clearly indicated that the quarrel was not resolved, Carina moved to examine the prisoner. Within moments, she shook her head. "You've broken his jaw," she said, looking up at Vahanian.
"I know that," Vahanian retorted. "Can you fix it?"
Carina looked to Linton. "I'm not going to heal this man just to have your hired muscle work him over again."
"You know we would never ask that of you, Carina," Linton said placatingly. "But it's important. Please, try," he beseeched.
"You understand, don't you, that I can't knit broken bone good as new just like that," she said, snapping her fingers. "I can hurry it along. But even after I'm through, he may not be able to talk for a while."
"Great," Vahanian muttered under his breath, and Carina glared at him.
"Look, if you wanted to talk to him, you should have hit him somewhere else." "Just try," Vahanian asked evenly. "Please." Carina looked at him, then glanced back at Linton. "All right," she said finally. "Give me a little room."
After nearly a candlemark, Carina stepped back tiredly from her patient and Linton pressed a hot cup of kerif into her hands, which she accepted gratefully. Their prisoner looked down at the floor, still silent. Tris noticed that in addition to whatever healing Carina had worked on the man's jaw, she had also managed to reduce the swelling over his blackened eye and heal his bruised cheek. Throughout the healing, Vahanian leaned on a tent post, arms folded, his face grim.
"That's the best I can do," Carina finally said.
"Can he talk?" Vahanian grated.
Carina shot the mercenary an angry glance. "You can try," she said.
"Thank you, Carina," Linton interposed, stepping between the two and taking Carina's arm. "Let me walk you back to your tent," he said, gently steering her toward the tent opening. "We are so fortunate to have a healer like you with us, and I apologize coming to you like that in the middle of the night—"
Unmoved by the flattery, Carina paused in the tent entrance to glance warningly back at Vahanian. "Leave him in one piece," she ordered. "I don't want to have to do this again."
"No promises," Vahanian replied evenly, with a measured glance toward the prisoner. "I'm watching out for the camp. Whatever it takes."
"Whatever it takes," Carina repeated, shaking her head. If she had a mind to add more she decided against it, turning instead to accept Linton's arm and head for her tent. Linton shot a look over his shoulder, which plainly cautioned Vahanian to be quiet, and then let the tent flap fall shut behind him, leaving Tris and Vahanian alone with the prisoner.
"Now," Vahanian said, stepping within arm's reach of the prisoner, "let's try the questions again," he said in a dangerous voice. "And you really ought to know," he said to the prisoner, "that I usually don't listen to the lady. So it might be healthy for you to tell me everything I want to know."
The prisoner gave up his story without forcing Vahanian to do more damage. He was looking for food and whatever loot he could carry. Tris could tell by Vahanian's manner that the mercenary suspected more but after a candlemark's questioning, Vahanian finally stepped back with a curse and shook his head.
"Satisfied, Jonmarc?" Linton asked from where the fat little man sat on a hassock, watching the proceedings with folded arms.
"No, but it's all I'm going to get," Vahanian replied tersely.
Just then, Cam stuck his head into the tent. "Excuse me, Maynard," the big man said, with a glance toward Tris and Vahanian, "but there are some people here to see you."
"This fellow was just leaving," Vahanian replied, pulling the prisoner to his feet and walking him to the door. "Would you mind seeing him to the edge of camp, Cam, and heading him away from wherever we're going?"
Cam nodded, taking the prisoner by the arm. "I can do that. I heard you had a restless night," he said non-committally, with a meaningful look at Vahanian.
"Can't imagine who told you that," Vahanian replied. He looked out beyond Cam to where three men on horseback waited, dressed in the robes of Mussa traders. Behind their horses trailed three pack mules, each with a waist-high basket strapped to either side and loaded down with bolts of silks wrapped in protective burlap.
Linton shouldered past Cam and Vahanian to meet the traders. "Greetings, friend traders," the caravan master bustled, managing not to look as if he had been up all night. "Welcome to our caravan. What may we do for you?"
"I don't know about you, but I could use some food and some sleep," Tris murmured under his breath. "Let's go."
Vahanian shook his head, not taking his eyes off the traders. "Not yet. I don't like this. Something's not right. I want to stick around."
The traders dismounted and gave the reins of their mounts to two of the riggers. They walked behind Linton into his tent, not glancing back as Tris and Vahanian followed them inside and took up unobtrusive spots along the tent wall.
Linton motioned the traders to sit and moved to pour them each a mugful of kerif from the pot that boiled on the fire. "So, my friends, what is your business?"
"We are silk traders from Mussa," the taller man replied. He was a strongly built man, with a beard and a tan that testified to a life on the road. "We are traveling toward the south, but we have been on the road for some time, and would appreciate the hospitality of a caravan for the night before we continue on our way."
"Tell me about the road north," Linton asked, drawing up a hassock and ignoring Tris and Vahanian. "We have heard many things."
The tall trader laughed. "I am sure of that. We found the road clear, the weather horrible as usual, and the women happy for new silks."
Linton frowned. "The road was clear?"
"Why yes," the tall trader replied. "As good as can be expected this time of year."
"You found nothing... unusual... on your journey?"
The tall trader shook his head. "No, why do you ask?"
Linton shrugged. "There have been rumors that 'strange things' have been seen on the road north."
The tall trader laughed, revealing a mouth dotted with gold teeth. "I have been on the road for many years, my friend, and seen many strange things. But I saw nothing remarkable on our journey here."
"You are welcome to stay the night here," Linton said, "but we will be on our way in the morning. We hope to reach Dhasson's border before the winter weather makes the road more difficult."
"A wise choice," agreed the tall trader. "We wintered once, not by choice mind you, near here because we lingered too long before the storms. It was not our most pleasant winter." He stood and his companions did the same. "If you will direct us to a place where we can rest, we will not trouble you any longer."
"I'll have someone show you to our trading tent," Linton replied. "We're packing the camp today, so it won't be in use. You can rest there, at least until the riggers take it down."
"You are most kind," the tall trader said with a bow. Tris waited until the men had left the tent and were out of earshot before he looked to Vahanian, but the mercenary was already at the tent flap, looking after the receding traders.
"I suppose I really should ask why you stayed for that, Jonmarc," Linton said tiredly. "Manners have never been your strong point, but you seem determined to be obnoxious."
"They were lying," Vahanian said with conviction. "If he's a Mussa trader, I'm a Nargi priest."
Linton looked at Vahanian for a moment before responding. "Why?"
"I've smuggled Mussa silk for years," Vahanian replied. "The traders aren't on the road this time of year because they've got some sort of festival honoring the silkworm. Silk is their livelihood. The festival is very important to them."
"Maybe these aren't very religious traders," Linton objected.
"And his report about the road," Vahanian continued doggedly. "Every other traveler has told stories that would curl your hair about magic beasts. That trader wanted you to believe he didn't even understand your question."
"Maybe he's not superstitious," Linton snapped. "Honestly, Jonmarc, you've always been cautious, but I can't see the need—"
"Something's wrong. I don't like it." "You can worry about it all you like," Linton said tiredly. "I'm going back to bed."