A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  These days, Tsauderei seldom left his cottage on the border between Sartor and Sarendan. His colleagues, new and old, were accustomed to going to him.

  As soon as Hibern transferred to Bereth Ferian for her deferred day studying with the northern mage school, Erai-Yanya braced for the long shift from winter to summer. She found herself standing on the grass outside the small one-room cottage with its broad front window. She blinked away the transfer haze, gazing down into the deep blue of the lake at the bottom of the valley, then turned toward the door and walked in.

  She glanced around at the three walls filled with books and scrolls as she waited for the transfer-throb in her joints to subside. Why was the sight of books so reassuring? Mages intent on destruction surely had libraries, too . . .

  Tsauderei waited until his former student regained her focus and said, “You went to Chwahirsland again?” He leaned forward.

  How did he even know? Of course he’d know.

  Men had worn beards when Tsauderei was young. His was long, white, and the diamond he wore in one ear glittered against the ordered locks of his long snowy hair. His gaze was reassuringly direct, the many lines in his face emphasizing his ironic view of the world.

  “Yes, a useless journey,” she said. “More interesting on our return than for anything we discovered.”

  “Please tell me what happened, even if it was disappointing.”

  “First you need to know that Hibern and the Mearsiean girls, without consulting Murial, decided that Senrid of Marloven Hess ought to go along, as he could probably read the books.”

  “Senrid Montredaun-An. Taking an interest in something outside of that benighted kingdom? I might have to meet that boy some day,” Tsauderei said, his interest sharpening exponentially as Erai-Yanya reported the rest of the visit.

  At the end, she said, “The time candle had burned down and we all felt ill, so I insisted we leave.” She let out a breath. “And now we come to the disturbing discovery, that a full day had passed while we were gone, though I had watched that candle. Which I had cut and bespelled myself, binding it to half an hour.” She held two fingers apart, indicating the length of the candle.

  Tsauderei looked grim. Several possible reasons for the time anomaly occurred to him, all of them dire, but he didn’t know enough about dark magic to determine which was right. “That, too, will have to be sorted out, if Wan-Edhe is really gone. Which I don’t believe. It’s too easy. Right now, I need your advice.”

  “On what? You know I have nothing to do with so-called world affairs, except magical, and your knowledge outstrips mine there.”

  “Except in other-world studies,” he observed. “But that’s a conversation for another day. This is as political as you can get, as is everything having to do with Sartor. But I still think you’re the best advisor. Erai-Yanya, I have yet to see Atan. They keep her so busy she can’t even visit me. But she writes to me via magic transfer.” He leaned out to tap a golden notecase. “She wants a study partner, and asked me to find one.”

  “She asked you, not the chief mage?”

  “Precisely.” Tsauderei uttered a soft, sardonic laugh. “Now, if I ask Oalthoreh up at the northern school, she’ll send Atan the same sort of student that the Sartoran mages would give her: scrupulous, obedient, careful, and who will think it his or her duty to report every word they exchange. I was hoping you might have a suggestion of a smart, dedicated mage student who’ll permit Atan that one hour of freedom from being Queen of Sartor.”

  At first Erai-Yanya turned her mind dutifully to the northern magic school’s seniors, but as she sifted them mentally, the sense of Tsauderei’s words sank in, and she laughed at the obvious. “I believe I can help with that. Hibern would be perfect.”

  “I thought she might.”

  * * *

  Two weeks later

  Marloven Hess to Sartor

  Remembering how bad Senrid had looked the day they went to Chwahirsland, the next week Hibern dutifully put in her skipped day of northern study instead of going to Marloven Hess for her weekly magic session with Senrid.

  The week after that, she transferred to Marloven Hess, having dressed carefully, her best polished cotton robe under her blue mage robe, her hair brushed and braided. But she did not transfer directly to the capital.

  She appeared on a low, forested hill from which she could look down at her family’s castle, and her old tower room. Now empty. Each time she did this, she promised herself it would be the last, but after a few weeks she couldn’t resist another visit, for all kinds of reasons that she knew were weak.

  No one moved in the narrow windows, built for archers to shoot through and not be shot. The clear air over the tower indicated that her secret structure, which had taken two years to make, was gone as if it had never happened.

  As if she had never happened. Except that she could feel the wards against her entry if she began the transfer spell to her old Destination.

  No one looked out, and if her father detected her presence, no one was sent to invite her in. Her imagined triumphant conversation with her parents about being invited to be study partner to no less a person than the Queen of Sartor faded like morning mist.

  She turned away, knowing it was stupid to keep returning, because it always hurt. “That will be the last time,” she resolved. “Absolutely the last.”

  And she transferred the short distance to Choreid Dhelerei, where she was expected.

  Senrid’s face had resumed its normal shape, and his skin looked less like someone had thrown a set of paints at him. As she took her seat, she found the resumption of everyday schedule calming, and once again she tidied the pain away.

  Ordinarily they argued about magic and history as much past their hour as Senrid had time for, but today, as the castle bells clanged the watch change, echoed from farther away by the city bells, Hibern closed her book. “We’re done.”

  Senrid eyed her. “And you’re all dressed up.”

  “I am.” Hibern shook out her robe as she rose. “Oh yes. I forgot to mention when we went to Chwahirsland, but I made a promise to pass this along: the Mearsieans want to start some kind of alliance.”

  Both knew it wouldn’t be military. “This is to prepare for Siamis’s return?” Senrid asked.

  “That, and to be an alliance between underage enemies of Norsunder, especially rulers and magic students, against whoever else comes along.”

  Senrid sighed, remembering CJ’s annoying rants about how all adults were stupid. Maybe on that weird world she came from they were. He wouldn’t have survived if he hadn’t had Commander Keriam in his life, but on the other hand, that older generation of lighter mages? Before the defeat of Siamis, those old lighters up at Bereth Ferian had looked at him as if he’d kill them as they stood when they found out he was a Marloven.

  “Like who?” he asked cautiously.

  “Like you.” Hibern held up three fingers. “You inherited a throne, you know magic, and you’re an enemy of Norsunder.”

  He could see that kind of alliance being useful, if it really was an alliance. “What am I expected to do? If it’s to waste time at lighter celebrations, listening to forty-verse snores about Golden Ages and Lo, How Great We Be, I’m not doing it.”

  “Nothing was said about celebrations,” Hibern said. “The idea is kind of like what we just did for Clair in Chwahirsland.”

  Senrid snorted. He’d really gone to find out how far Wan-Edhe had gotten in developing the mind control spells. Looking for some kind of evil plan for taking over Mearsies Heili (as if Wan-Edhe would be idiot enough to write such a thing in a magic book) had been secondary.

  But he’d looked, and as a result, had stumbled on that ugly little spell designed for Jilo. Which he duly passed along to Clair once that stiff-necked mage of Hibern’s was not listening.

  Hibern went on. “If someone in the al
liance asks for the kind of help we can provide, we give it.”

  “That I can do.” But Senrid wondered how any of them could possibly help him. Assuming they would want to.

  To say that out loud might sound like whining. He’d been up studying far too long the previous night, but had still risen before dawn to practice with bow and knife. As a consequence, his mind was tired, making it more difficult to control his nascent Dena Yeresbeth. So he heard thoughts: Hibern’s regret, and from farther away images of Hibern’s crazy brother Stefan.

  Physical distance didn’t seem to matter to Dena Yeresbeth. Stefan himself was at Hibern’s family castle, glowering at phantasms that may or may not be there. What snagged Senrid’s focus, however, was the strength of Hibern’s regret, shame, and bitterness.

  Senrid closed off Stefan and listened to the whisper of minds in relative proximity. Jarend Ndarga? Yes, surrounded by other minds, some scoffing, others angry, some laughing. A few afraid. Nothing good ever comes of tangling with kings, my dad says . . . And someone else, Yes. You wait. He’s a young scrub, so he might smile and pretend there’s no repercussion, but next season, next year, if he thinks he can get away with it . . .

  Senrid knew he shouldn’t listen to Ndarga, but he couldn’t resist. Just the surface. Ndarga had been so surprised and angry over his own hurts, believing he shouldn’t have had any after fighting a scrub of fifteen. He had spent days (Keriam told Senrid grimly) watching for retribution after that fight.

  That’s who he was to the senior academy boys: a scrub. So much for his ancient lineage . . . Senrid laughed at himself, and then made another reach with his Dena Yeresbeth. It was a long reach, very long, and yet it was so easy: Liere. There she was, far away, struggling with Ancient Sartoran verbs . . .

  Senrid shut the mental door. He shouldn’t do that. It was wrong. Liere hadn’t come to see him because she hadn’t. If she’d wanted to, she would have. There was no point in guessing at reasons.

  Senrid didn’t realize he’d spoken Liere’s name out loud until he opened his eyes to find Hibern paused at the door. “Senrid, this is none of my concern, but when I was in Bereth Ferian last, Sartora asked when you were going to visit. It didn’t take mind powers to see she was disappointed.”

  “‘Sartora,’” he repeated. “Liere hates that stupid name. Or she did. Anyway, she’s got to be surrounded by an army of mages. Heralds. Arthur. All busy stuffing her head with lighter magic and . . .”

  The word ‘hyperbole’ died.

  Hibern said, “. . . and?”

  Senrid sighed. “She could visit any time she wants.”

  Hibern said, “I think she misses you. She did say that you were her first friend.” She found Senrid’s wide gaze disconcerting. “Senrid, I don’t know her, but everybody says she came from a family of shopkeepers who don’t travel. If that’s true, then she would probably never think to invite herself to visit a king. Even one who’d said he was a friend. She’s probably been told how little words of friendship mean from nobles, much less anyone who considers themselves above that rank.”

  “Oh,” Senrid said. “Never thought of that.” He grimaced, his ears reddening.

  “Study those wards!” Hibern said as the last of the castle bell-clangs died in the distance.

  Now that she was about to transfer to Eidervaen, ancient capital of Sartor, anxiety tensed Hibern. It was a different sort of anxiety from the sick grief and betrayal of being rejected by her family. For several days she had happily tackled her studies, bolstered by the knowledge that the new Queen of Sartor wanted a study partner, and who had been suggested? Not some favored student at either magic school, but Hibern.

  Doubt formed into question about why she’d been chosen. Or maybe she was merely the latest in a very long line already interviewed and sent away again.

  All she knew about the new queen was that she was more or less Hibern’s age, and a formidable mage student. Nobody seemed to know much else about her, except that she had been raised by Tsauderei, hidden away in a mountain cottage until she and a band of war orphans had made their way into the disintegrating enchantment that had held Sartor beyond the reach of the rest of the world—beyond time—and by so doing, broke the last of it so that Sartor could rejoin the world.

  After nearly two weeks of wondering, Hibern was about to meet her now.

  She clutched the transfer token she’d been given. Magic wrenched her out of Senrid’s dusty castle and thrust her into a cool space smelling of an herb a little like cinnamon mixed with lemon, with undertones of beeswax, and faintest of all, a vague scent that reminded her a little of mildew.

  As Hibern gasped from the effects of the transfer magic, she looked around the Sartoran Destination chamber. Three walls were plain blue-white marble. The fourth divided into three long panels, a gilt sun placed high above the middle one, with rays slanting down through all three panels. Dragons wound in a sinuous curve up the outer panels, their open mouths reaching up toward the sun.

  It was Sartor which, history insisted, brought through the world-gate the notion of dividing the day into twenty-four hours, eight sets of three. Everything in threes. Even the Marlovens had threes, though those were military in nature.

  At the exact moment Hibern recovered her breath and could move, a door opened in the middle panel, and a teenage page conducted Hibern out of the Destination chamber. Behind her, someone else appeared by transfer, causing a flurry of air that brought a faint whiff of some unfamiliar place.

  The girl leading Hibern wore a gown of soft green under a paneled robe of dark blue edged with white. There was a stylized star worked in white thread along the edges of the white border, the symbol for the Sartoran mage guild. It was small and subtle enough that Hibern only recognized it when the girl was two paces away.

  The girl said, “I bid you welcome,” as she guided Hibern to a cushioned couch. Conventional greeting, Hibern said to herself. Polite, for the widest circle. The next circle in would have been acknowledged with a polite question about well-being.

  Hibern made the conventional response, “I thank you for the welcome,” then the girl offered her a tiny cup of fresh steep—the best Sartoran steep, the aroma like summer grass clearing the last of the transfer malaise from Hibern’s head. Hibern accepted the cup. It was not too hot or too cold, and tasted fresh and slightly astringent, slightly tart.

  A skinny boy appeared, wearing livery edged in lavender, and once again Hibern completed the conventional outer-circle exchange of greetings, after which she said in her best Sartoran, “I am here for my interview with the queen.”

  The attendant took the empty cup and made a polite gesture to follow.

  The hall was also marble, with round windows high above, framed by stylized running vines. They let in summer light indirectly, keeping the air cool.

  Hibern breathed in the complicated scents—more elusive spice, a trace of nut oil (furniture polish?)—as they passed a sideboard with no straight lines, and complicated knotwork inlays in various types of colorwood. Then a tapestry depicting some historical occasion, a treaty from the looks of the figures, the long robes and tiny ruffs and rosebud “mouse ear” headdresses the fashion nine centuries previous. To the Sartorans, a nine-hundred-year-old fashion was probably next thing to modern, Hibern thought, turning slightly to take in the last of the silvery blues and golds of the colors.

  A broad landing was next, a carved door full of knotted vines in threes, and Hibern found herself inside an interview chamber with an amazing vaulted ceiling. She tried not to gawk, catching a glimpse of a night-blue sky and stars painted on it: so they were in mage territory.

  The attendant bent to whisper to the young man at the desk, then gave Hibern a nod and retreated noiselessly as for the third time Hibern was given the conventional greeting, to which she responded politely.

  A girl of about twelve appeared through a door at the back o
f the office, carefully bearing a silver tray, which she set down noiselessly next to the young man. Hibern couldn’t help but compare these gliding, quiet runners with those in Senrid’s castle, with their clattering boot heels and unmodulated voices and weapons at their belts.

  The young man then indicated one of the several empty chairs, all upholstered in pale blue, and said, “If you will have a seat?”

  Hibern did, looking askance at the empty chairs. Maybe Erai-Yanya had been wrong, and there was a line of interviewees before her. Or—her heart sank—maybe this wait was some kind of insult because Hibern didn’t belong to either mage school, but was taught by Erai-Yanya, the hermit-mage of Roth Drael.

  Erai-Yanya had said when Hibern first came to her as a student, “These bare feet of mine? Yes, I find it comfortable to go like this. But there’s a reason why I’ve always gone before various kings and queens with my hair tumbling down, my toes bare, even in winter, and wearing an old gown I carefully preserve for these interviews: it is a reminder that I stand apart from their social and political hierarchies, and I will not be ‘managed.’”

  Hibern wondered if it was a mistake to come in her best robe. Maybe she should have routed out an old horse blanket.

  The orderly quiet of the hall was broken by a quick ticketty-tick sound, followed by the abrupt emergence of Hibern’s first sight of one of the southern morvende, the cave-dwelling people. Like the morvende of the northern continent, this boy was pale-skinned, with drifting blue-white cobwebby-hair. He wore a knee-length, sleeveless tunic woven out of a gold-dyed fabric that rippled like gauze. His lower legs and his feet were bare, the talons on his toes ticking on the marble as he walked.