It can happen to anyone.
Eidolon’s friends consoled him after everything went south, but their words only made things worse. During the drive to his safehouse, their words echoed in his head:
Don’t sweat it, chummer.
Maybe you were just tired.
Whatever the cause, it wasn’t just “performance anxiety,” as Ophelia had claimed. This was far deeper, something elusive just beyond the edge of his peripheral vision.
I am a summoner, Eidolon told himself upon entering his silent doss. I summon things. That is what I do.
If that was true, then why had no spirits answered his summons during the run? If Eidolon was really a summoner, he would’ve snagged a fire elemental without a problem, and Faust wouldn’t have gotten winged. Then Eidolon could’ve had the elemental torch the Ming Solutions building’s entire security detail. Or he could’ve ordered the spirit to sustain some of his spells so he could focus on other ones.
But no. Damn things wouldn’t obey him. Worse still, the spirits he had tried conjuring during the run just flatout ignored him. He’d heard old shaman tales about impolite spirits, but any spirit could still be dominated, even impolite ones.
Take a few days off, Faust had ordered once the team had escaped to safety. Figure this out or we’ll find ourselves a new summoner.
Eidolon shook his head. Maybe he was just tired.
But the spirit world called to him. Instead of resting he sat lotus style at his hermetic circle. For hours he wandered astral space until the connection between his body and astral form grew tenuous.
Just as he was about to collapse back into his body, a little wisp in the shape of a newborn babe hovered before him.
Quit whining, the spirit of man said. If you’ll shut up, El Infante will perform one service for you. Deal?
Eidolon couldn’t believe his luck. Deal, he said. Intertwining tendrils of astral energy passed between him and the spirit, and he returned to his meat body.
Spirit, he said through their astral link, why do none of your kind answer my summons?
You already know why, said El Infante.
No, I don’t.
Trust me, you do.
Eidolon scrunched his eyebrows. Then … cast a spell to compel truth from me and ask why I cannot conjure your brethren.
Very well, El Infante said.
Eidolon momentarily felt a sensation of falling as tentacles of mana dug into his aura. The sensation quickly passed, and he shifted to the astral perception to face his accuser.
Summoner, El Infante demanded, why do my brethren refuse to answer your calls?
The energy of the spell yanked the words from him: Because I treat spirits as tools rather than equals, by subjecting them to spiritual discomfort, disruption, and anything else I want. Since I’m a complete and total drekhead to spirits, every inhabitant of the metaplanes knows to avoid me.
Eidolon gasped and collapsed back into meatspace. The loosening of his own astral presence meant El Infante was departing, the conditions of the service having been met.
Wait! Eidolon shouted into the ether. Tell me how to fix this!
Silence answered him. The spirit was gone.