Tris awoke to the sound of a shutter banging in the wind. His eyes snapped open and his heart pounded as he looked around, disoriented. The events of the night before rushed to memory and he sat up groggily, feeling the last night's ride in sore muscles.
He stared at the room around him. A single shutter hung by one broken latch, flapping free in the breeze. Jagged fragments of glass clung to the ruined sash and the morning sun streamed through large holes in the charred roof. Tris shivered and sat up on the bare bed—just a weather-beaten collection of boards. On the other side of the room, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the broken shards of a mirror, dulled by long exposure to the elements. He stretched out his mage sense. The spirits whose presence he had felt so strongly the night before were gone, and so was the pervasive power he had sensed.
"Harrtuck, wake up," Tris rasped. Harrtuck, asleep in a chair near the fire, responded with a snore and rolled over. "Wake up!" Tris insisted, and with a snort, the stocky guardsman startled awake.
"What? Oh, Tris. Goddess, I was sleeping soundly," Harrtuck muttered as he stretched and rubbed his eyes. He sat up, and stopped.
"What in the name of the Holy Childe is going on?" he croaked, looking at the ruined room around them. Just then, the hallway door creaked open as Soterius pushed his way into the room, his face ashen and bewildered. Carroway crowded behind him, wide-eyed with fear.
"What the hell happened to the inn?" Soterius asked, looking around the room.
"Downstairs is the same?" Tris asked, not surprised when the soldier nodded.
"Yeah. And the pitcher and bowl that I used last night are in pieces on the floor, but I never heard it break," Soterius replied.
"Look there," Harrtuck rasped, pointing to the chair beside the ruined dresser. Neatly folded, four clean traveling outfits lay in a pile, and next to them, a stack of nondescript brown riding cloaks.
"They're solid," Tris verified, crossing to the clothing and examining one of the cloaks. "And Goddess knows, we need them."
They started for the common room, swords drawn. The charred remains of broken tables met their gaze as they made their way carefully down the partially burned stairs. The heavy front door hung askew on its hinges, and dead leaves blew along the ruined bar.
"Over there," Carroway said, pointing. On one of the few tables that were still standing was a stack of provisions. A napkin of hard biscuits, enough dried meat and wrapped cheese to keep each of them for a week, a large pouch of dried fruits and four new, filled wineskins. Next to the wineskins was a bag of silver coins, easily enough to keep them in food and shelter for a fortnight.
"Look at the coins," Harrtuck rasped as Tris emptied out the purse into his hand. Tris lifted one of the coins and held it up the light. "Look at the date." In the early morning light, Tris could just make out the date stamped on the coin below the imprint of his father's visage. Twenty-five years past.
Wordlessly, the four men exchanged glances. Fear shone clearly in Carroway's eyes, and Tris saw that Soterius and Harrtuck barely masked their own uneasiness. Even in Margolan, where the spirits moved often and openly among the living, such a display went far beyond the usual encounters, feast day or not. Carroway's hands were shaking as they gathered the provisions. Silently, Tris mulled over the decision he had made the night before, to remain quiet about the true nature of their benefactors. He walked slowly behind the others as they headed toward the stables, as he thought about what to do next. If I tell them what I saw, what I can see, will they be too afraid to go on? But if I hide what I can do, what that makes me—and Lady knows, I'm not sure just what that is—if I don't tell them, then they're following a lie. They have a right to know, he concluded, although the thought of making himself more of a stranger to his companions made him feel even gloomier than before.
To their relief, their horses were waiting where they had left them, wide-eyed and skittish. "They've been curried and blanketed," Soterius observed uneasily, looking up at the half-burned stable roof and the sky that showed clearly through its gaping holes.
"Aye, fed and watered, too," Harrtuck added, shaking his head. "Never seen the like in all my years." He looked at Tris. "Looks like your palace ghosts are looking out for you," he said.
It was just the opening Tris needed. "I owe you all an apology," he said, forcing himself to meet Soterius's skeptical gaze. "Last night, when we reached the inn, I realized that the innkeeper was a spirit. I swear by the Lady I didn't know the inn was like this," he said with a sweep of his hand toward the tumbledown ruin. He paused, feeling their eyes on him.
"I was afraid that you wouldn't stay the night if you knew. I could sense that the spirits meant us well. I knew we would be safer here than on the road, but I didn't know if I could convince you. And I wasn't sure... whether you would want to stay... if you knew what I can do." He took a deep breath.
"I've always been able to see the ghosts when others couldn't—talk to them, call them.
Grandmother taught me a little bit of magic." He steeled himself and raised his head. "But the things that happened yesterday, last night, go far beyond what we did... anchoring Kait's spirit, sensing ghosts outside the palace. I can sense things, feel things, see things that I've never seen before. I don't think Grandmother told me everything, told me the truth about what I could do. I don't know myself. And I bear no grudge if you do not want to ride further with me," he finished soberly.
"You're a Summoner," Carroway breathed, eyes wide, but with awe, Tris thought in amazement, not fear. "They say every great mage has an heir, someone trained to take on the power when the mage dies. In the stories, sometimes the power passes at the time the wizard dies. But sometimes," he said, his voice growing stronger as he warmed to the tale, "sometimes it takes a shock, a tragedy, to open the heir to his inheritance." He looked at Tris with growing excitement. "You're the mage heir of Bava K'aa," he said reverently. "And if Arontala suspects that, he's going to want you dead even more than Jared does."
Tris could see warring emotions in the eyes of the two soldiers. He was barely acquainted with Harrtuck, but he knew Soterius well. Ban Soterius was a practical man, accustomed to dealing with what he could see and touch and fight. Soldiers were notoriously distrustful of mages, Tris thought, watching the struggle in his friend's face. Then, to his surprise, Harrtuck slowly bent to one knee, followed a second later by Soterius.
"You're still Martris Drayke," Harrtuck said. "And you're still the only hope Margolan has. Maybe the Lady knows that only a mage can win against that demon in the palace. Where you go, I go, my liege."
"Tris," Tris corrected absently, still overwhelmed by the morning's revelation. "Just Tris." He smiled ruefully at Harrtuck. "There's nothing left to be 'liege' of."
"I can't say I understand magic, or even trust it," said Soterius haltingly, "but I trust you. Count me in."
Embarrassed but relieved, Tris bid them rise. "Thank you," he said and Carroway bowed low, then stood and clasped his hand as well. "Thank you all."
Harrtuck slapped him on the shoulder. "Leave it to the Goddess, Tris. She has her ways."
"And we'll be seeing Her sooner than we like if we don't get out of here," Soterius added impatiently. "Let's ride before we get company."
"Ride where?" Carroway asked, absently stroking his horse's muzzle. "Last night we were just trying to get away. But we have to head somewhere."
Tris realized they were all looking at him. "North," he said finally. What little time there was for thinking last night, he'd spent trying to answer that same question. "To Dhasson, my uncle's kingdom. King Harrol is married to father's sister. We'll be safe there."
"It's as good a plan as any," Soterius agreed. "King Harrol is a fair king, and I think well of his army, so if that's where I'm to end up, it's not too bad."
"He's got a good court for minstrels, too," Carroway added, patting his horse. "Or so they say."
"Then north it is," Harrtuck agreed. "But that's two months' ride and we're wanted men," the grizzled soldier added. "No doubt your brother's put quite a price on your head, Tris. Probably has you wanted for king killing, which is more than a hanging offense. With enough of a bounty, we'll have no chance to tell our story if we're caught.
"And the road north is the worst one, especially at this time of year, coming on toward winter," Harrtuck went on. "Can't do it without a guide. Wouldn't hurt to have an extra sword, either, since the closer we get to the mountains, the more bandits we're likely to see."
"We don't have enough money to hire a guide," Soterius argued, cinching the belts on his saddle and arranging his steed's bridle.
"That's true," Harrtuck mused, and looked at Tris. "Could we promise payment once we reach Dhasson?"
Tris thought for a moment, and then nodded. "Unless we hire a whole army, that's a small favor to ask. But where do we find a guide? And how do we know he won't sell us out for the bounty?"
Harrtuck smiled as he swung up into his saddle. "If we can find the man I'm thinking of, he won't. I've fought beside him. He's no traitor. Damn good guide, too, if he hasn't managed to get himself killed with his business deals."
"Where do we find this miracle worker?" Soterius asked dryly as he settled into his saddle. Harrtuck scratched his head. "Last I heard, Vahanian was doing some trading up near the river. He was running Principality silks and brandy into Nargi."
Soterius looked sideways at the guardsman. "Brandy and silk into Nargi? Their priests take a dim view of drinking and with their women cloistered off, I can't think of much use for silk."
Harrtuck chuckled. "That's the point, m'boy. The priests take a dim view—but it's not shared by many of the 'faithful.' A man can get quite rich giving them what they want, providing the priests don't find out." He clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Of course, if they do, they make an example of you. There aren't many worse ways to die, from what I've heard."
"Nice," Soterius muttered. "Either he's a rich madman, or dead."
"Can't imagine wanting to go to Nargi," Carroway said as he mounted his horse and took a backward glance toward the ruined inn. "Their priests ran the minstrels out years ago. Now there's only the temple bards, and since they're devoted to the Crone, I can't think that there's much that's pleasant to sing about."
"Maybe that's why they need the silks and brandy," Soterius rejoined, pressing his heels to his mount. "Let's get going."
They stayed to the less traveled roads, keeping to the forest whenever possible. With the ending of the Feast days, travel was tapering off as winter grew closer. The weather was turning colder, and Tris was grateful for his heavy cloak. He rode in silence, letting the others keep up the banter around him.
It was all almost too much to take in. An icy resolve settled over Tris as he lifted his head to the wind, still finding it difficult to believe that he was now a fugitive, without king or country, a mark for bounty hunters and hired assassins. Just as humbling was the knowledge that Soterius, Harrtuck and Carroway had left everything to come with him.
Tris had no doubt how Jared would rule. Jared argued on more than one occasion against what he considered Bricen's "weak" kingship. An iron-fisted king, mage spies and the taxes to support a large army, those were the things in which Jared trusted. Goddess help any who got in his way, or the merchants and farmers from whom the taxes must be extracted.
And there was no one who could do anything about it, except him. The thought made his mouth dry. Tris enjoyed his role as the second son, out of the public's eye. He'd had the same lessons in law, history and the rule of kings as Jared did, since eldest sons did not always live to claim their crowns. But for Tris, there was never the pressure that was part of the heir's birthright. He would have been quite content to live out his life on one of his father's country estates, surrounded by his books and his dogs, away from the intrigues of court. Now, that possibility was closed forever. It had died with King Bricen, and Tris found that he mourned that loss as much as he grieved for his family.
A slow, cold rain pelted off his cloak and made traveling miserable. On top of everything else, more questions. What had Kait meant when she said he was both alive and in the realm of the dead? Or that to her spirit eyes, he looked like their grandmother, the sorceress Bava K'aa? Tris shivered. A few possibilities tugged at the back of his mind, half-remembered conversations and dreams too real to forget. But at the moment, he was too miserable to ponder them, and so he let his thoughts wander, settling finally on nothing more important than the sound of hoof beats on the cold, wet road.
When they reached their stopping point for the night, a down-at-the-heels inn, Tris caught Harrtuck's sleeve before the soldier had a chance to unpack his horse.
"I need you to teach me to fight," Tris said lev-elly, meeting Harrtuck's eyes in earnest.
Harrtuck chuckled. "You've studied with Jaquard, my liege—Tris," he corrected himself. "He's as good an armsmaster as any."
"Not out here. Not with what I have to do," he insisted. "Jared almost cut me down in the hallway, drunk and half out of his mind in a rage. That's not good enough if I'm to take back Margolan."
Harrtuck nodded, as if the reality of what lay behind Tris's proposal was becoming clear for the first time. "Aye, you're right," he said finally. "As you wish. Let's get the horses seen to and we'll have a go-round right here. No time like the present to get started."
Later, when Tris could push Soterius and Harrtuck no further for lessons, they went back to the common room for dinner. Sweating and out of breath, the three men were sure they looked as if they'd just come from a wild ride. Carroway was already by the fire, amusing the inn's few other patrons with romantic ballads and tales of heroes from Margolan's past. Although almost unrecognizable with his dyed hair and unfashionable tunic, Carroway's talent still certainly made him the most accomplished bard the inn had seen in quite some time, Tris guessed, gauging by the interest of the serving staff and the innkeeper. The minstrel refrained from his flamboyant sleight-of-hand and was deliberately limiting his repertoire to the older songs any wandering performer might know. Grateful patrons tossed a few coins toward Carroway, which the bard acknowledged graciously.
The innkeeper, a haggard man with stooped shoulders, brought hearty trenchers of venison and leeks to Tris and his companions, together with a large pitcher of ale. The man winced at the crash of breaking pottery in the tavern's kitchen, and shook his head.
"Always happens right about now," he muttered.
"Sounds like you've got a problem with your serving girl," Harrtuck commiserated, downing half of his ale in a gulp.
The beleaguered tavernkeeper sighed. "I wish to the Goddess it were." Overhead, a door slammed and heavy boot steps clunked across the floor. The thin man wiped his hands on his stained apron and scurried back to the kitchen.
Tris shivered, feeling a sudden cold. He looked up, as a familiar prickle started to raise the hair on his neck. Though he saw nothing, he could feel a spirit's presence, an angry ghost flitting just beyond his sight.
"Thin crowd for a cold night," Soterius observed over the rim of his tankard.
"Aye, and it's not the fault of other inns," Harrtuck replied. "Naught else for at least another hour's ride."
"It's not as bad a place as some," Tris mused. "I wonder why—"
The crash overhead made the tavern guests jump. Either several travelers were having a row upstairs, or part of the roof just caved in. Tris glanced toward the innkeeper, but the man merely rolled his eyes in resignation, muttered something to himself and went on with his work, determined to ignore the noise. Out of the corner of his eye, Tris caught a slight movement, like a shadow there and gone.
"Damn!" Harrtuck exclaimed, jumping to his feet to escape the cascade of ale that spilled from his overturned tankard. A serving girl appeared at his side with a cloth, gushing apologies and wiping up the spill. "Never saw my elbow anywhere near the damn thing," Harrtuck mumbled as he daubed the ale from his cloak.
"No problem at all, my lord," the innkeeper assured him, pressing another tankard into his hand. "Don't trouble yourself about it. I'll take the first one off your tab," he fussed, bustling away with the empty mug.
Tris and Soterius exchanged glances. "Odd fellow," Soterius said, glancing toward the bar where the innkeeper conversed with the cook in hushed tones. "Unless the guests upstairs settle down," he added, "we may not be getting much rest tonight."
Carroway finished his songs and accepted a tankard passed to him from one of the appreciative guests. With a disingenuous smile, the minstrel struck up a conversation with his benefactor, one that Tris was certain would provide far more information to Carroway than the bard would share. The other guests, realizing that the entertainment was over, rushed to finish their meals and take their leave. Carroway's companion, seeing the others about to depart, hurried to join them, leaving the four refugees the only remaining guests in the common room.
"They look like they're in a hurry to go somewhere for so late at night," Harrtuck commented.
Tris glanced toward the dark windows. "Should we be concerned?" he asked under his breath as Carroway propped his borrowed lute in the corner and came to join them. Once again, a fleeting shadow flickered in Tris's side vision. The bard had made it only halfway across the room before the instrument slid to the floor with a twang and a disconcerting crunch.
With a pained expression, Carroway ran back to retrieve the instrument. "I don't understand," he said, puzzled, as he lifted the lute and turned it in his hands. He turned back toward Tris and the others. "I set it down carefully—it shouldn't have fallen," he said, looking down at the ruined instrument, its broken neck hanging by its strings.
"I'm sorry," he said ruefully to the innkeeper, carrying the instrument toward the bar. The innkeeper snatched the lute. "Accidents happen," he said quickly. "If you're finished with your meal, I'll show you to your rooms."
Just then a young boy burst through the door and ran toward the innkeeper. "Papa, come quick!" he huffed. The innkeeper bent to listen to the boy's hurried, whispered account, leaving Tris and his friends to exchange worried glances. After a moment, the innkeeper straightened.
"My son tells me there are three Margolan guardsmen riding this way," the thin man said. "They're stopping folks to see if any's seen four fugitives from the city." He paused, then seemed to make up his mind. "If you've no mind to go back that way soon, come with me," he said abruptly, gesturing for them to follow him.
Tris could guess Soterius's thoughts by the look in the guardsman's eyes and the ready way his hand dropped to the pommel of his sword. They had little choice but to accept the innkeeper's offer, unless they wished to fight the guards here and now. Still, the innkeeper's sudden willingness to hide four total strangers was odd enough to raise suspicion. "Hurry," the innkeeper urged. With an eye toward the door, Tris and his friends followed the man into the kitchen, where a plump woman stood near a cookfire and a rangy girl—the serving wench—brushed back a sweaty lock from her face. They were, Tris guessed, the rest of the innkeeper's family, all the help he could afford for such a meager clientele. The boy preceded them, and the others moved aside wordlessly as the innkeeper led Tris and the others to a small storage shed. As if he guessed their thoughts, the innkeeper managed a wan smile. "There's a door out the back, if that's what you're worried about. You could kick the thing apart, if you needed to. But I'll not lead them to you," he assured them. "Been shaken down by enough of their lot. Whatever you did that has them looking for you, Goddess bless," he said, gesturing for them to hurry.
The door shut behind them, leaving them with the scant light that seeped through the cracks between the boards. The four men drew their weapons and hid behind barrels of provisions and wine casks. They heard muffled conversation, then a series of crashes and bangs as if the inn were being torn apart. Tris shied back into the shadows as the heavy boot steps drew closer to their hiding place. The door rattled, then opened a handsbreadth before a crash of crockery sounded and the soldier turned with an oath.
"Nothing here," the soldier called back.
"Nobody upstairs, either," a second voice said.
"You there, innkeeper," a third speaker barked. "There's gold in it for you if you see them and turn them in. You look like you could use some gold."
"Most everyone could use some gold," the innkeeper replied off-handedly. "I'll remember what you've said."
"Let's move on," the third speaker clipped. The boot steps receded. There was the sound of a tankard clanging against a wall, as if it had been thrown with full force, and the boot steps drew near once more.
"What's the meaning of this!"
"Please sir, it slipped," the serving girl apologized.
"Slipped!" the outraged guard shouted. "It nearly hit me on the head!"
"Must have been put back too close to the edge of that shelf," the innkeeper interjected. "So sorry. No harm done. Can I get a wineskin for you gentlemen to take with you?"
That seemed to appease the guard, for the footsteps receded and did not return. Tris could barely make out the outlines of his companions in the darkness, but his own thoughts whirled at the overheard conversation. How could the upstairs be empty, when it sounded as if a pitched brawl were going on? He wondered. But before he could puzzle long, the light tread of the innkeeper came their way, stopping to unlatch the door to their hiding place. "They're gone," he whispered, gesturing for them to emerge. Cautiously, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the relative brightness of the kitchen, Tris and the others stepped out, their weapons still at the ready.
"What was all that about?" Soterius questioned.
The innkeeper shrugged. "We're a natural place for them to stop if they're looking for fugitives," he said, with a sideways glance to his wife that gave Tris the impression the innkeeper was purposefully answering only part of Soterius's question.
"Whatever your reason, thank you," Tris said, as Soterius moved to the common room door, glanced out and signaled an all clear.
"With them gone, you're welcome to stay the night," the tavern master offered nervously.
Tris looked to Harrtuck, who shrugged. "Might be safest," the armsman mused, stroking his chin as if the newly shaven whiskers remained. "We know the guards have already been here. So there's no reason for them to come back. And there's nowhere else close tonight."
Tris looked back to the innkeeper. "We are grateful for your hospitality."
"One thing I don't understand," Carroway remarked as the innkeeper began to lead them from the kitchen. "If there's no one upstairs, who was making all the racket?"
The innkeeper froze, then exchanged a worried glance with the squat cook. Finally, as if resigned to losing his guests one way or the other, the haggard man turned. "There's nothing human up there, no," he admitted slowly. "But there's a ghost with a fearsome temper that has ruined this inn, and me with it," he lamented, and at that, he sagged against the wall and covered his face with his hands.
"I won this inn fair and square in a card game last summer's feast," he went on miserably. "Should have known nothing good could come that way. Found out that the haunting started just before that, driving out the travelers, breaking up the crockery, making it hard for a body to sleep, if you know what I mean." He sighed. "Driven us to the brink of ruin," he continued. "Every night, same thing. Sounds like an army tearing the place apart upstairs, but when I go up to look, nothing's been touched. Don't even bother any more. Then it moves to the common room, playing tricks, like the lute tonight, and your friend's ale." He shrugged. "Likes to bother the girls in the kitchen, too." He sighed. "There's naught can help except a Summoner, and there's been no Summoner in Margolan since Bava K'aa went to the Lady."
Dejectedly, the innkeeper led them to their rooms. "It's always like this," the innkeeper lamented. "Cold as a tomb. Hard to keep a lantern lit. But no one's ever seen anything, just heard footsteps and bumps."
As the innkeeper talked, Tris strained to look into the darkness. His heart pounded, though he felt no fear in the presence of the spirit, just a rise of the blood in anticipation of the contact. He peered down the hallway, and frowned. Near the end, he saw a faint glow, like sunlight catching a mist. He took a step toward it, and the glow started to fade. On instinct, Tris closed his eyes and called out in his mind to the haze.
You there! Stand fast!
The glow hesitated, then grew brighter. Emboldened, Tris reached out his hand, his eyes still closed. Show yourself! We mean you no harm.
Gradually, the mist coalesced, Caking on shape without mass until at last an outline of a man stood before them. Behind Tris, the cook gasped, and the innkeeper muttered a curse, making it clear that the specter was visible to all. Tris studied the silent shape. It was a young man, perhaps a few seasons older than himself, with the strong, rangy build of a plowman and the homespun clothes of a farmer. But what struck Tris most was the anger that radiated from the revenant, in face and stance and feel.
"Good sir," Tris said carefully, daring to open his eyes. The spirit stood as real before him as it had taken shape in his mind. "We bid you peace," he said with a gesture of welcome. "Why do you harm this inn?"
At first, Tris could hear nothing as the specter began to speak. Closing his eyes to concentrate once more, Tris strained to hear, and began to make out the voice, as if from a great distance. "—just last planting season," the spirit was saying. "I had a bag of coins, all that my family owned, to buy two cows at market. Out back," the spirit recounted, with a gesture behind him, "a brigand overtook me." The shade's hand went to its ghostly throat. "He slit my throat and took my coins and dumped me in the woods. I want my coins back," he stated simply. "And a stone raised over my body."
"Sweet Mother and Childe," the innkeeper gasped behind Tris. There was a soft thud, and Tris guessed that either the cook or the serving wench had fainted.
Tris took another step toward the spirit, and moved slowly to take four coins from the purse at his belt, money from the first tavern. "If the boy took these back to your family, they would buy your cows and more beside," Tris offered, holding the coins on his outstretched hand toward the spirit. "And my companions and I can raise a cairn in the woods, if you like." He paused. "If we do that, will you rest and not trouble this good man any longer?"
The spirit hesitated as if he were considering the bargain, then slowly nodded. "It is a good offer," he said, nodding. "I will rest."
Tris gestured for the boy to come forward, and to his credit, though trembling, the lad did as he was told. Tris bid the spirit give directions to his family's home, and had the boy repeat them. "At daybreak, as soon as it is safe for the boy to travel, he will take the coins where you bid," Tris said evenly, and once more, the spirit nodded.
"Now," Tris said, gesturing behind him for the others to begin descending the stairs, "will you show us where you lie, so that we can give you peace?"
The spirit winked out. "Where did he go?" the innkeeper gasped, backing toward the stairs.
"Out back, I suppose," Carroway guessed. He shrugged as the others turned to stare at him. "Well, he hardly needs to use the stairs!"
Sure enough, when the group reached the back of the inn, the spirit stood waiting for them at the edge of the woods. Motioning his companions to join him, Tris led the others after the ghost, who stopped just a few feet from the path. The shade pointed, and Tris took several steps to the right until the ghost nodded in satisfaction.
"Give me a hand," Tris said, bending to lift a stone the size of a melon that lay nearby. His foot kicked at something partially hidden beneath the leaves, and in the dappled moonlight, he glimpsed the yellow-white of a weathered bone. Gently, Tris laid the stone over it and turned to accept another from Carroway. Within a quarter hour, they had built a small cairn, and Tris made over it the sign of the Goddess. He looked back to the spirit. The anger was gone from the young man's stance, a wistful expression on his plain features.
"Go to your rest in peace, good sir," Tris said solemnly, raising one hand, palm outstretched.
The ghost began to fade, growing dimmer and dimmer until it was once more nothing but mist, and then the mist itself was lost in the moonlight.
Tris stared after the apparition, feeling a mix of satisfaction at having been able to free the ghost's spirit, and chagrin that it had been witnessed so openly.
"I'll go see to the horses," Soterius said, turning away. Tris frowned as he watched his friend stride off, but Harrtuck stepped closer and laid a hand on Tris's arm.
"Don't worry about him," Harrtuck rasped. "Like as not, it'll take him a bit to think this all through. After all," the armsman said with a chuckle, "we soldiers don't have much trust in mages. Me, I'd rather trust in cold, hard steel than a lot of mumbo jumbo." He paused. "Until now." Tris stared after Soterius. What in the name of the Four Faces is happening to me? he wondered, feeling an uneasy mixture of pride and fear. Calling hand fire, lighting candles without a reed, doing a little hedge magic, that's one thing. Being Grandmother's mage heir, controlling the kind of power she had, that just can't be true! And if it is true, if Carroway's right, if I'm a Summoner, a mage—by the Lady, what does that mean? But before he could think further, Carroway plucked at his sleeve.
"The woods are no place for the living at night," the bard cautioned. "Let's go back to the fire. You look like you could use some brandy, and I think I'll have a bite of that cheese I saw on the bar."
Reluctantly, Tris let his companions lead him back to the welcome lights of the inn. The innkeeper and his family were waiting for them, greeting him with the honor due to a king, so that Tris flushed with embarrassment.
"Anything you want is on the house," the relieved innkeeper gushed. "Your food, your drink, your beds, and food for your horses." He beamed, and seemed to stand a bit straighter. "Now perhaps we can make a decent living from this pile of boards!" he cried, and did a little jig with the plump cook that left the dough-faced woman flushed and out of breath.
With a sigh, Tris accepted their gifts of food and beverage, though all he yearned for was a stiff drink of brandy and a bed for the night. He entreated the innkeeper to tell no one, and he and his wife swore silence. Tris realized that his unthinking reaction to the troubled spirit put them in even greater danger should Arontala hear the tale. Harrtuck sat beside him by the fire, saying nothing, yet by his presence, reassuring him that the events of the night had not in any way compromised his loyalties. Sweet Lady, it can't help but change the way they see me, Tris thought as the brandy burned its way down his throat. I don't know what it means myself.
The brandy did its work, and Tris found that he could barely keep his eyes open. He fended off more offers of bread and dried fruits, protesting that the grateful family had already done quite enough as he stumbled up the stairs to bed.