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 She wore a scullery maid's dress that was at least a generation out of date.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.