Tris and the others made camp at the edge of a small forest, just far enough within the tree line to hide themselves from the village below. There were many people on the road, returning from festival or taking goods to the last fairs before winter, and so Harrtuck made a small fire without concern.
"Now what?" Tris asked Vahanian as the mercenary sat next to the fire, a hot mug of watered ale gripped in his hands against the cold.
Vahanian glanced up at him. "Now, we find some cover for going north," he said, draining his mug and setting it aside. He clasped his hands and looked into the fire. "A caravan's good cover," he said after a pause. "Lots of people for camouflage and they still make decent time on the road."
"Won't that be slow?" Carroway asked, finishing his dinner. "I mean, they have to stop a lot to sell their wares and give their shows."
"Beats four fugitives and a guide trying not to look obvious," Vahanian said, never taking his eyes off the fire.
"So what are we going to do?" Soterius asked, setting his plate aside. "Just walk up and say, 'Hello there, we want to be your hired swords?'"
Harrtuck laughed and even Vahanian smiled. "A little like that," Vahanian said. "If they're passing anywhere near here, there's a caravan I have in mind. An old friend of mine named Maynard Linton owns it. Maynard will take us on, no questions asked, and keep his theories to himself if our guards seem overly well-bred," he said, with a pointed glance toward Tris and Soterius.
"How do we find him?" Tris asked.
Vahanian shrugged. "There's a settlement on the other side of the forest. I'll go down to the tavern. Tavern keepers always know where the caravans are."
He left within the hour, heading down the slope into the village while Tris and the others stayed hidden in the forest. Vahanian paused at the outskirts of the village to take stock. It looked quiet enough. Some of the banners from the holiday remained aloft from the corners of buildings, fluttering cold and forlorn on the autumn breeze.
The tavern was on the edge of the settlement, its broken sign askew and unreadable. Vahanian made his way up the sagging steps, toeing a drunk out of the way, and pushed open the greasy door. Something skittered across his boot as he entered. The tavern was full, testimony to a lack of competing facilities, Vahanian was sure, rather than to the food and ale. He sized up the clientele—third-rate merchants, petty cutthroats, fewer and uglier whores than usual, and one or two freelance fighters who appeared to be nothing more than common thugs.
He took a place at the bar so that his back was to a wall, and casually rested his boot on the rail of a chair as the barkeeper brought him a mug of ale. For a candlemark, he listened silently as the patrons grumbled about taxes and guardsmen, muddy roads and too much rain. He listened more closely when the talk turned to trouble in the north, but heard nothing more specific than rumors of dark magic and fierce beasts. As he listened, he watched the crowd. There were few enough inns on the way north, making it likely for those who traveled frequently to spot one another. That included bounty hunters, whom Vahanian wanted to avoid more fervently than ever.
"Heard anything about caravans coming this way?" he asked, draining his mug. He slid his coin across the sticky wood.
The barkeeper shrugged, bit the coin, and threw it into his apron pocket. "I hear there's some coming," he replied in a voice that suggested that he sampled too many of his own goods.
"Any in particular?"
"Maybe. Heard something about Couras's caravan passing through here going south in a few weeks," the barkeeper added, wiping out a glass and setting it back to be used again. "Heard tell that Linton's caravan was heading north, might be here in two or three days."
Vahanian nodded and sipped his drink. He froze as he recognized a squat man with oily blond hair, rising from a table in the back. He had an inkling the man had been looking for him, back in Ghorbal. When it came to tracking prey, bounty hunters seemed to have all the time in the world. If the hunter made a calculated guess about Vahanian's direction, he would check out the inns first. Bad enough if Vahanian were about his usual business, but with the fugitives in tow, it made the risk unacceptably high. He would have to do something about it. As Vahanian watched, the bounty hunter made his way among the crowded tables toward the door. Vahanian turned slightly so that his face was hidden as the man passed, then set his drink aside when the door closed behind the man and followed him into the night.
In the darkness of the alley behind the inn, Vahanian tackled the squat bounty hunter from behind, locking his arm around the man's throat.
"So, Chessis, you're still in business," Vahanian said, tightening his grip.
"Let me go, Vahanian. I'm not looking for you."
"Right," Vahanian replied, maintaining his pressure on Chessis's throat. "And I'm not worth a lot of money to you dead."
"That was a long time ago," Chessis croaked. "They've probably retired the purse by now."
"Somehow, I doubt it. What are you doing here?"
The bounty hunter twisted slightly, enough to bring his boot around, and Vahanian realized almost too late that there was a blade set in its toe. The knife sliced his pantleg as he released his hold and jumped back, pulling his own blade. Chessis dropped into a defensive squat, circling and looking for an opening. In the narrow alleyway with its tangle of overhead laundry lines, drawing a sword would be impossible. Instead, Vahanian crouched, knife in hand, ready to spring.
Chessis lunged. Vahanian parried. Chessis feinted, then lunged again, his knife scoring against Vahanian's arm. With an oath, Vahanian pivoted, his left foot snapping out towards the surprised bounty hunter, letting his boot connect hard against the man's knife hand and sending the weapon skittering down the alleyway. Before Chessis could recover, Vahanian spun, slipping within the bounty hunter's guard and burying his knife deep in the man's chest. With a groan, the oily-haired man clutched at the spreading stain on his shirt and sagged to the ground, just as Vahanian felt the point of a sword in his back.
"It may be too close to fight with this," a gravelly voice said, "but I have plenty of room to run you through, Jonmarc."
Vahanian dropped his knife and raised his hands. "Hello, Vakkis."
"Some day, before I kill you, you're going to have to teach me that footwork," Vakkis remarked coolly. "You're really a marvel, Jonmarc. I may miss you when you're dead. Escaping from the Nargi is feat enough. Learning their ancient fighting skills is another." Vakkis made a tsk tsk in the back of his throat. "It's going to be much quieter for me after you're gone, Jonmarc."
"I never knew you cared, Vakkis," Vahanian replied. "I'll be glad to give you your first lesson now, if you want."
The jab of the sword's point between his shoulder blades was his reply.
"You know, Chessis was telling the truth," the bounty hunter went on. "We aren't looking for you, at least, right now. I've got another client."
"Slime spreads," Vahanian remarked, and this time, the sword jab drew blood.
"Where is Martris Drayke?"
"How in the hell would I know?"
"Turn around, slowly, and keep your hands up," Vakkis replied, keeping the point of his sword against Vahanian's flesh as the fighter turned, and bringing the sword to bear above his heart. "Now, I'll ask again. Where is Martris Drayke?"
"You're getting old, Vakkis," Vahanian replied. "Hearing's going. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
A slow smile crept over Vakkis face. "You actually don't, do you?" the bounty hunter chuckled. "This is more satisfying than I'd dreamed. Jonmarc Vahanian, played for a fool."
"I'm glad one of us is having fun. Mind letting me in on the joke?"
A cold smile made Vakkis's pointed features even harsher in the moonlight. "They managed to elude me in Ghorbal, but I heard they'd teamed up with you. Our little kingslayer, Martris Drayke of Margolan and his friends, seem to have bought themselves a guide," Vakkis said, watching Vahanian with amusement. "You really didn't know, did you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." To Vahanian's astonishment, Vakkis reached into his cloak and withdrew a small purse filled with coins, which he dropped at Vahanian's feet. "Even by your standards, there's fair compensation in there for information," Vakkis said, stepping back a pace and lowering his sword. "Now, where is Martris Drayke?"
"Go to hell."
"Loyalty from you, Jonmarc? I'm surprised," Vakkis clucked. "I thought you unburdened yourself of that along with your commission."
"Go screw the goddess."
"In time," Vakkis said with a cold smile. "Think about my offer. I'm easy to find. That purse is only a down-payment. Jared of Margolan has promised to make a rich man of anyone who delivers his brother alive. And you've never let king, honor or country stand in the way when money's involved."
The bounty hunter took another step backward, into the shadows of the alley, so that his face and form were barely visible.
"Think about it, Jonmarc," Vakkis said, his voice carrying in the chill night air. "More money than you can imagine. Pay me a cut and I'll stop hunting you. Wealth and freedom, just for delivering the goods. What businessman could resist?" Vakkis said as he faded into the darkness.
Vahanian did not move for several minutes, until he was sure that Vakkis was actually gone. Only then did he realize just how hard his heart was thudding. Wealth and freedom. He looked down at the purse at his feet. There's only one thing worse than a bounty hunter, a voice said in the back of his mind. And that's the snitch he pays for the kill. The cold night air seared his lungs. He paused and then, surprising himself, stepped over the purse and walked toward the end of the alley, stopping only to snatch up his fallen blade.
Vahanian found Tris at the edge of the camp when he returned, skinning the rabbits Harrtuck brought down for their dinner. "I killed a man for you tonight, Prince Drayke," Vahanian grated. Tris stiffened and rose to his feet as Vahanian continued. "You didn't think it was important enough to tell me the truth, even though it's my neck you're risking to get you to Dhasson."
"Jonmarc, I—"
"Let's get something straight right now," Vahanian continued. "I am not expendable. We don't move from here until I know what's going on. The whole story. If I like what I hear, and believe it, I'll take you to Dhasson. If not, I leave right now, and you can find another fool. And, Your Highness, I'm nobody's liegeman. If I take you to Dhasson, and that's a very big 'if right now, it's on my terms, my way. Do you understand?"
Tris took a deep breath and nodded.
"Good," Vahanian said. "That means you're smarter than most royals. Now, let's hear your story—all of it. "
"Vahanian, you're back," bustled Harrtuck. Harrtuck ambled toward them from the fires of the camp, coming up behind Vahanian. With one fluid movement, Vahanian wheeled, bringing his fist to connect soundly with Harrtuck's jaw.
"What the hell was that for?" Harrtuck shouted.
"I found out from a bounty hunter who your 'cargo' really was," Vahanian snapped. "He could have slit my throat and I'd have never seen it coming."
"Jonmarc, you don't understand—"
"I understand that my life is as important as your three nobles," Vahanian grated, still standing over the stout armsmaster. "And that I can't decide what risks are worth taking if I don't know the game." Glaring, Vahanian turned away and Harrtuck scrambled to his feet.
"In fact, I can't think of one reason right now—even your money—why I should take you to Dhasson."
"Arontala's back. And he's got a king this time, not just a general at his command," Harrtuck said quietly from behind Vahanian, who stiffened at the name.
"How do you know?"
Harrtuck gave a short, harsh laugh. "Know? How we know is the reason we're in the forest freezing our rumps off instead of toasting by a nice palace fire," he said, and together, he and Tris told their tale. This time, the only thing Tris omitted was what happened with Kait in the bedchamber and his subsequent dreams of his sister and his sorceress grandmother.
Vahanian sat in silence for several minutes after they finished, staring at his hands, his face unreadable. "I take you to Dhasson, and then what?"
"Then you collect your money from King Harrol and leave," Harrtuck snapped. "At that point, your jewels are out of the fire."
"And the rest of you?"
"I'm going back," Tris said evenly. "Someone has to stop Jared. I'm the only one who can."
"You're going to stop Foor Arontala? Look, prince, even with King Harrol's entire army, it just ain't enough," Vahanian said, shaking his head.
"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.
"What in the hell is going on?" a rough voice said from behind him. Tris wheeled to find Vahanian standing on the other side of the well, his hands planted on his hips, his face a mixture of anger, disbelief and uncertainty.
Tris swallowed hard and turned toward his bucket. "I came for some water," he said, hoping his voice sounded steady. The implications of what just transpired made his head swim.
"That's not what I meant," Vahanian grated. "You're standing out here in the dark, talking to ghosts. Your friend was telling the truth, wasn't he? You are a mage," he pressed, the last word clearly an indictment.
Tris squared his shoulders and turned toward the mercenary. "I don't know what I am," he snapped. "I'm a prince without a kingdom, a son without a family, a fugitive and a beggar. Why do you care?"
"Like I said, I'm either in on everything, or I walk away," Vahanian replied, his voice icy. "I'm not going to ask again, but I may pound it out of you. What the hell did you do?"
Tris licked his lips nervously. "I'm... not really sure," he admitted. "I've always been able to see ghosts, talk to them, not just on Haunts, but all the time. Even ghosts that nobody else sees." He shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess. But I never saw them outside of the palace. Now, since the... murders," he forced himself to go on, "I see the ghosts outside Shekerishet just as easily as I saw the palace ghosts."
"There hasn't been a Summoner since the sorceress in Margolan died," Vahanian replied, chewing on his lip. "That's been five, maybe six years ago. No one to lay them to rest, nobody but the seers and frauds to pass a message over to the other side, no way for anyone to get their blessing and know for sure it was real." He looked thoughtfully at Tris. "If you're as good as Harrtuck thinks, you really are the deadliest thing in Margolan. I imagine Arontala and that new king would love to get their hands on you."
Before Tris could reply, Vahanian snatched up the bucket. "Tomorrow, we'll talk about not making a target of yourself," the mercenary grated, striding off toward the camp so that Tris had to hurry to follow. "I doubt your uncle will pay me if you're dead."
At dinner around their campfire, Vahanian gave his report to the others. "We're in luck. Linton's caravan is coming this way, bound north—right where we want to go."
Soterius bolted down his food and went to check on the horses, making an obvious effort to stay out of Vahanian's way. Tris sat quietly on the other side of the fire, in no hurry to answer more of the mercenary's questions, or think about the implications of what had happened at the well.
Vahanian didn't seem to notice. He looked back down the slope toward the quiet town. It was just after dusk, and the villagers were gathering in their herds, securing their flocks for the night. The glow of cooking fires warmed each of the small houses as whisps of smoke rose from the chimneys and on the still night air, they could smell roasting meat.
"We should have no problem being hired on as extra guards," Vahanian reported. "There's been 'trouble' in the north, although no one would say exactly what. Bandits, for sure, that's part of it." He shook his head, pausing to bite into the rabbit Tris offered him. "But there's something more. Wouldn't be surprised if there was border trouble. There are some pretty wild clans out beyond the northern ridge who have always been hard to keep at bay."
He paused and stared at the fire. Harrtuck looked at him skeptically. "There's more you're not saying," the other soldier prodded. Vahanian shrugged.
"Just a funny feeling about what they did say," Vahanian admitted finally. "People are afraid, and some of the people in the tavern weren't the type who scare easily. I had the feeling there's some dark magic involved, or at least," he added, "people suspect it."
"That's just great," Soterius replied as he returned from the horses. "Bandits you can fight. We're not going to be any protection against magic."
Tris shifted uncomfortably as Vahanian gave him a pointed glance.
"If the tavern information was right," Vahanian continued, "the caravan's heading our way. We can wait for them to catch up to us," he said, "but our rations are running a little thin. Or," he added, "we can ride toward them. We'll backtrack, but once we find them we won't have to forage for provisions." He paused. "We'll just have to watch for guardsmen."
"Since I always vote with my stomach," Carroway said, "I say go looking for them."
Tris grinned at his friend's quick analysis. "It sounds reasonable."
"I'm glad you said that," Vahanian replied as Harrtuck chuckled. "Because riding suits me better than sitting around. We'll leave in the morning."
Late that night, when the fire burned down to embers, Tris wrapped his cloak closer around himself, ready for his turn on watch. It was unseasonably cold, and frost covered the leaves, chilling him to the bone. Despite the late hour and his aching muscles, Tris was wide awake as he awaited Vahanian's return from walking the camp perimeter. Finally, he came into view and Tris mustered his nerve as he rose to meet the mercenary.
"Goddess take anyone fool enough to be out on a night like this," Vahanian cursed, stomping wet leaves from his boots. His breath fogged in the chill air. "I don't envy you the next turn." "You look like you were in a fight." Vahanian shrugged. "There was someone out there. Tackled him once but he got loose, damn his soul." Vahanian shook his head. "Might have just been a bandit, but then again, could be a spy." He looked pointedly at Tris. "Keep your eyes open. He might be back."
"There's something I need to ask you, Jonmarc," Tris said as Vahanian turned back toward the camp.
"How about tomorrow, huh? I doubt I can get warm tonight, but I'd at least like to lie down."
"Teach me to fight."
Vahanian looked up at him, then paused a moment before answering. "Yeah, sure. You're going to have to learn if we're gonna earn our keep with a caravan."
"That's not what I mean. I need your help. Harrtuck says you're the best."
"Does he, now?" Vahanian chuckled. "Don't believe everything you hear." He paused. "Although, in this case, Harrtuck is right."
"Then you'll do it?"
Vahanian laughed harshly. "This isn't some high-priced salle and I'm not your fencing instructor. If I weren't this good, I'd have been dead a long time ago. I learned what I know one fight at a time. I can't teach that, and you can't learn it any other way."
"I want to kill the man who killed my family," Tris said, surprised how flat the words sounded when he actually brought himself to say them.
"And that will bring them back, right? Forget it. Nothing brings them back. Forget it and move on." "I can't bring them back, but I can stop Jared, make him pay for what he's done."
"All by yourself," Vahanian mocked. "Kill the beast, save the princess, be a real hero."
"That's not what I said."
"I've known a lot of heroes," Vahanian returned. "Buried them myself."
"I'd like a fighting chance. If you're so good, you could give me that."
"I don't give anything," Vahanian replied, turning away. "I'm paid. Well."
"Then I'll pay you. Double."
"Double?"
"Yeah, double. As soon as we get to Dhasson."
"Dhasson's a long way away," Vahanian replied skeptically. "You could be dead by then."
"So could you. Guess we'll both have to take our chances."
Vahanian smiled coldly. "Then you have a teacher. Be ready at dawn. Miss one day and the deal's off."
Tris nodded, feeling his stomach tighten.
"Good enough."
"Now let me get some sleep, will you?" Vahanian grumbled, heading toward the bed of pine branches he had fashioned earlier. "I've had enough for one day."
Tris watched him go, then drew a deep breath and headed out on his own patrol. He had the uneasy sensation that things were starting to come together, like being swept up in a swift current. Oh Kait, he thought. I'm sorry I let you down. He reached out in his mind in the darkness and felt a tingle of her familiar spirit, far away. Kait's spirit blurred, as if something powerful were holding it back. He felt a glimmer of her presence, and sensed her terror. The image was gone as quickly as it came, like a heavy door sealing out the light. Tris opened his eyes, shaking at the contact.
Something imprisoned Kait's spirit, something strong enough to keep her from coming at his summons, evil enough to frighten even the dead. The image of the glowing orb in Arontala's chambers flashed into his mind. The only way to free Kait's spirit would be to find the Soulcatcher and destroy the Obsidian King's soul. And the only way to do that lay in destroying Arontala.
At dawn, Tris nudged Vahanian with his boot.
"Go away," Vahanian grumbled, rolling over.
Tris nudged again, and Vahanian opened one eye and groaned. "It's dawn," Tris said, taking perverse delight in the mercenary's reaction. "Let's go."
With a curse, Vahanian grimaced and sat up. "All right, all right," he muttered. "There's a clearing over there," he said, pointing. "Let's go."
Tris followed him to the clearing, his hand already on his sword. When they reached the open space, Vahanian stopped, and folded his arms across his chest. "Draw your sword," the mercenary said, all traces of sleep gone. "Let me see your stance and grip."
Tris complied, and Vahanian circled him, appraising. "Not bad," the fighter said after a moment. "At least you've had some training."
"I need to know more than what they teach at the salle."
"Well, if you've figured that out, you're smarter by half than most of the aristocrats I've met," Vahanian muttered from behind him.
Tris had only the briefest warning, a rush of a sword slicing through the air. His reaction was more instinct than cunning as he wheeled, deflecting the blade at the last second, barely averting a nasty gash. The intensity of Vahanian's attack made Tris wonder if the mercenary truly meant to harm him, as Tris parried blow after blow. But the determination in Vahanian's eyes told Tris that the lessons had begun.
At the first clash of steel, a cry went up from the camp. Before Tris and Jonmarc had traded half a dozen blows, the others joined them at a run. While Vahanian's advance absorbed Tris's complete attention, out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Soterius's sword was at the ready, suspecting the worst.
"Just an early lesson," Vahanian called to them, and Tris realized as he wheeled to parry that Vahanian was not even out of breath. On the other hand, Tris thought ruefully, it was taking his complete concentration to avoid getting hurt.
Vahanian's sword whistled past Tris's ear. Tris felt his heart pounding as he parried, knocking the blade away. If I Jive through my first lesson, I might learn something, Tris thought, clearing sweat-soaked hair from his eyes.
Instinct warned Tris to duck. He swung his sword upward to clash his blade against Vahanian's, deflecting but not stopping the point of his weapon. Tris cried out as the blade gashed his arm.
"Enough!" Vahanian shouted, lowering his sword. Breathing hard, Tris lowered his weapon, awaiting a trick. But Vahanian sheathed his sword and approached, frowning in real concern as Tris's hand went to his injured shoulder.
"Let me see," the fighter commanded, and Tris removed his hand, sticky with blood. "Not too bad," Vahanian pronounced, examining the wound. "Wash it out with some of Harrtuck's herb tea and bind it up. It'll be gone in a few days."
"You're good," Tris panted, cursing himself for being out of breath. Vahanian regarded him with amusement.
"Yeah. I've had to be," Vahanian replied, standing back. "Whoever trained you did well on the basics," he added. "But he played by the rules. Rule one out here is that there are no rules."
"I noticed," Tris answered ruefully, his hand covering his injured shoulder once more. Though the wound was not deep and would not impair his ability to fight, Jaquard, the palace armsmaster, would never have intentionally inflicted such an injury. Vahanian's would be a rougher school.
"You got one good defense in, right at the end," Vahanian continued. "Just before you lost your focus. Do it again next time."