"By the Sisters?" Vahanian asked intently.
Royster shook his head. "No, no that was the odd thing about it," he remembered. "Fallon said that the Sisters hadn't found a way to destroy him. But someone did," Royster said, nodding. "I guess he underestimated one of his rivals."
"Royster, have you ever seen this?" Tris asked, sliding his hand across the table toward the old librarian. When he lifted his palm, the dull metal talisman lay before the librarian.
"Why did you bring that cursed thing with us?" Vahanian demanded.
"A madman gave it to me in a burned-out village," Tris said to Royster. He told the story while Vahanian listened, white knuckled and tight-lipped.
"That thing calls those monsters," Vahanian said in a rough voice. "You should have left it with the madman."
Tris shook his head. "It turned the things, not called them." He paused and glanced from Mikhail to Royster. "But would it have been powerful enough to get me across the Dhasson border?"
"Nothing turns those things," Vahanian retorted. "Nothing but fire."
"Tris is right, Jonmarc," Royster replied quietly. "Here. Let me show you." The white-haired man sprang up from his seat, disappearing into the stacks to emerge a few minutes later with a dusty, leather-bound tome. "Look here," he said, as they gathered around him. His gnarled finger moved down page after page of yellowed parchment, along lines of carefully inscribed manuscript in a language Tris did not recognize.
"It's an old Eastmark book," Royster said, answering their unspoken question, "from before the days of the Obsidian King. It details the rise and fall of a dark mage, and all of the damage he inflicted. But look here," he said, his finger pointing to an illustration. He slid the metal talisman over the page until it lay over the drawing—a perfect match.
"See," he said, and began to read from the text, interpreting as he went.
"'But in the days of the final battle," he read, "the mage fashioned a metal working with the power to protect its wearer against beasts born of magic. The king took the talisman, and none of the beasts harmed him. The king smote the beasts with fire, and they were destroyed.'" He looked up. "There you have it," he said with a shrug. "Doesn't call them. Protects the wearer. Handy thing." He thought for a moment. "As for getting across the border—I don't know that I'd trust my luck if Arontala's spell called hundreds of those things. Amulets have their limits. And there's no protection for the rest of your party. Me, I wouldn't chance it."
"I've got some work with the horses," Vahanian mumbled, and with barely a nod to the others, walked out of the room.
Royster looked after him. "Odd," he mused.
"You know fighters," Tris said, attempting to hide his concern. "I don't know if they ever get comfortable around magic."
"While we're comparing jewelry," Kiara said dryly, "have you ever seen anything like this?" she asked Royster. From a pouch beneath her tunic, she withdrew the spelled pottery chit. Royster held the flat clay circle gently, turning it against the light. Tris leaned forward to get a better look. He could feel the magic in the simple oval, but try as he might, he could not make out the runes stamped on its surface.
Royster motioned to one of the Keepers, a woman in her middle years with short dark hair. The plump scholar hurried over, and exchanged an excited glance with Royster.
"This is Ystra, whose expertise is talismans," Royster said.
"You are indeed favored by the Sisterhood," Ystra said appreciatively. "I've never actually seen one of these, just sketches in books."
"What does it do?" Berry asked, elbowing forward.
"The Sister told me that it could transport people from one place to another," Kiara said, carefully tucking it back into her pouch.
"It will move them magically," Ystra agreed. "Such magic comes at great cost to the mage who sets the spell," he added. "It is not lightly that the Sisters give such a powerful token. Use it only when no other power can suffice. Strong magic has its consequences," she warned.
When the group had dispersed and Tris was certain no one would follow, he headed down to the stables to find Vahanian. He found the mercenary practicing his kicks against a stack of hay bales, jumping and wheeling until he raised steam in the chill night air and sweat soaked through his shirt. Tris stood in silence for a few moments until Vahanian finally paused and leaned against the bales to catch his breath.
"What do you want?" the mercenary said.
"I came to talk."
"I've talked enough for one night."
"What if I could prove to you that Royster is right about the talisman?" Tris said, walking closer.
"How are you going to prove that?"
"Maybe it's time you stopped hanging yourself for something you didn't do." The words hung between them for several moments before Vahanian spoke. "What are you proposing?"
"Let me call Shanna's spirit," Tris said, meeting Vahanian's gaze without flinching. "Royster is right. Your village got caught in a war between two mages. I believe Arontala was the one who destroyed Lustari—that's why he wanted the talisman. Only Lustari struck before Arontala could come for it. You got caught in the middle. But it wasn't your fault." Tris had never seen the look in the mercenary's eyes that transfixed him, and he wondered if any other man lived who saw that anger burning there.
"How sure are you that you can do it?" Vahanian growled.
"I'm sure," Tris replied. "I suspect she's bound here by your guilt. Maybe I can free both of you."
Vahanian swallowed hard, his eyes conflicted. Then he nodded. "Do it if you can," he said quietly. He looked at Tris. "But I swear by the Dark Lady, if this is any kind of trick, I'll rip your heart out."
"No trick, Jonmarc. I swear."
At Vahanian's nod, Tris closed his eyes, and found the center of his magic. Then, he let himself flow out, searching among all of the lost and disquieted souls that roamed the hidden places until one spirit stirred to his call. He opened his eyes to find the ghost standing before him, a young blonde woman who would have been pretty in a common place way, were it not for the sadness in her eyes. One glance at Vahanian confirmed his success, for the mercenary was pale as death and speechless.
"Hello, Jonmarc," the spirit said. "I've missed you."
"I've missed you, too," Vahanian replied in a strangled voice. "Oh Shanna, I'm so sorry!"
The spirit moved a step closer. "You fought bravely, Jonmarc. You were fearless."
"I wanted to die with you."
The spirit shook her head. "The Lady's hand is on you. It was not your time." She glided closer and Vahanian stretched out his hand, palm first. Her image stopped and she did the same, reaching out for him and through him. "What happened was not your fault," Shanna said earnestly. "There was nothing more you could have done."
"I could have given the necklace to you," Vahanian replied, heedless of the tears that streaked down his face. "I could have saved you."
The spirit smiled sadly. "You tried, my love. Now please, let me rest. Let me go." Her image flickered and dimmed.
"Stay with me," Vahanian begged, his voice raw.
"I cannot, except in your memory. Please, if you loved me, forgive yourself and let me rest." The image faded. "I will always love you," she whispered, raising her hand in farewell. "Goodbye."
Vahanian mouthed the words in response, but his voice failed him as the ghost faded and disappeared. Tris murmured the passing over ritual and felt the presence slip away. With wrenching clarity, he returned to himself. As the ghost disappeared, Tris's head began to throb.