Chapter 61. The Summoning

he first thing Tyhric Wolfblade did upon awakening from a deep and satisfying slumber was look at his hands.  He laughed gratefully upon seeing human hands that belonged to powerful arms honed to fighting trim by ceaseless practice and battle.  Thank the gods, he was alive and free.  And a man once more.

His saviors were kind to him, plying him with tea and food, helping him to find a comfortable set of clothes that would fit his muscular frame.  Given all that he had been through, he had never felt better.  Somehow he had risen unscathed from his trials, and naturally he owed a debt to the man who had saved him.

Thus, when Master Bei came to him that afternoon asking if he were willing to help in a second ritual that might save Armand and the two other prisoners he had seen trussed on the dock, he naturally agreed.  He quite liked Armand, a man after his own heart, and he definitely hated Ashekoroth and would gladly do anything to gain vengeance for what he had done.

He vaguely remembered the room that they now entered alone.  One wall was clad in shelves of books and furniture was pushed against the wall along with the rolled up carpet.  There was no cauldron of fire this time, only a shallow circle of silvery water and four pots of resinous incense marking the corners of the world.

“Please, sit here at my side and make yourself comfortable,” Zhou said, the tone of his voice betraying nothing but calm.  He knelt gracefully before the shallow basin and picked up a band of black cloth that lay beside it and used it for a blindfold.  Then, raising his arms, he chanted quietly.  The cold of Grenth’s domain flowed from the water and chilled Tyhric, raising goose bumps upon his exposed skin.

The water rippled and a strange ghostly figure rose slowly from its center.  Eldritch chains clung to its misshapen limbs and its green translucent visage turned harshly upon Zhou.  The man ceased his chant and leaned back on his shins and addressed the spirit in Canthan.  Tyhric, of course, did not understand a word, but he found the exchange fascinating, for as the man finished speaking, the spirit glowed softly and a strange voice flowed back through its gaping mouth as if from a great distance.  It sounded vaguely female, distorted and ancient.

“I need you to tell her everything you can about the island, its shape, its features, and its rough direction and distance,” Zhou said.

“Will she understand me? I don’t speak the native tongue.”

“Yes, she will.  Please continue, I cannot long maintain this spell.”

Tyhric did as Zhou requested, recalling how the voyage took all night and part of a day heading west from Kaineng Docks.  He described the high cliffs, the lone dock on the north side of the island, the gathering of buildings on the eastern rise and the black beach that Armand had rappelled down to, and also that they could walk the length and breadth of the barren land in under two hours.  He recalled how the distant swath of land to the south made him think they were due north of Shing Jea Island.   Through all of his talk, the pale spirit said nothing until he was finished.

“I will find this place,” the woman replied, “Now I must speak to Master Bei.”

Tyhric felt strangely compelled to bow to her and did so without thinking.  Her voice floated back across the void now as clipped Canthan syllables.  Tyhric watched as Zhou’s back straightened and he swallowed heavily, his hand straying toward the spirit as if to touch the woman.  He was not much for arcane lore, but it did not take a genius to see that there was a strong relationship between the mesmer and the mysterious woman at the other end of the spell.

The water shimmered and the spirit faded with a raspy sigh.  Zhou lowered his face and exhaled with a sound that embodied regret and relief.  In the awkward silence that followed, Tyhric knotted his fingers upon his lap and waited.

“Thank you, Master Wolfblade.  Let us hope we are not too late.”