They’d never spoken about that day since. Rel wondered from time to time if Puddlenose remembered it.
Puddlenose’s lazy gaze flicked his way, then back again, his smile fading. “Rel?”
Puddlenose was also unsettlingly quick at times.
Rel said, “Two continents away.”
Tahra lifted her chin. “Perhaps we should invite Sartora here. She might know how to use that dyr thing to protect kingdoms.”
“Or she could teach you,” the king began.
“Dyr!” The queen turned her head and spat. “Any such magic smacks of Detlev. He made those things, everybody says. Even if that thing served us once, I am certain it was inadvertent. As far as I’m concerned, ‘dyr’ is another word for ‘damnation.’”
Glenn grimaced. “I wish Mother wouldn’t spit,” he said beneath his breath.
Whether the king heard or not, he clapped his son on the shoulder, and brushed his fingers over the top of Tahra’s head, his touch brief and light. Even so, she stiffened.
The king gestured toward the field. “Come, my dears. Enjoy the last of the exhibition! Tomorrow they begin hard training.” His smile turned Rel’s and Puddlenose’s way. “Thanks to our friends, who brought us warning. When Norsunder comes, we shall be waiting.”
* * *
—
The next morning, Rel woke early out of habit, aware that he’d heard something. As he pulled on clothes, he identified the sound: a closing door.
He moved to the window and looked through the colonnaded archways into the secluded garden between the guest wing and the residence of the old, rambling royal palace. There was Puddlenose, ten steps from the huge gate that would let him into the big formal garden at the front of the palace.
Rel knew instantly that Puddlenose was heading quietly for the road.
Even kings you’ve done a good turn for do not like abrupt departures, and so Rel got up and dressed, sought out the royal family, and made farewells for the both of them in proper form.
Mid-morning, Rel caught up with Puddlenose on a bend in the Royal Highway. Puddlenose gave Rel a lopsided smile. There were a lot of things that Rel could have said, but he confined himself to, “Glenn wouldn’t let it go, eh?”
Puddlenose heaved a sigh. “Sometimes I think the enchantment is still on him.” He kicked at some weeds tufting along the roadside. “Christoph won’t come here anymore. Signed on for a cruise with Captain Heraford.”
Rel gave a nod. He’d been wondering where Puddlenose’s usual traveling companion had gone off to.
Puddlenose bent to pick up a pebble, and shied it along the newly smoothed road, then he sniffed the air. “Ah. Beyond that hill ahead, isn’t there a village with a good bakery?”
Puddlenose’s method for dealing with problematical people and situations was to walk away from them. They’d told the royal children about the alliance, and they had passed Kessler’s warning to King Berthold. Both had witnessed how Everon’s court almost welcomed the prospect of a fight. Prince Glenn definitely did.
Maybe that was what you had to do to prepare for what was coming anyway.
But if you weren’t a king, and you hated war, sometimes the only thing you could do was walk away.
Chapter Seven
Winter-spring, 4740 AF
Sartor
AS the previous year waned into winter, everyone in the alliance was busy.
When so much is happening, record keepers usually begin with Sartor, then spiral outward.
Directly after the festivities of New Year’s Week, one of Sartor’s mages tasked with monitoring their young queen for her own safety discovered Atan’s hoard of transfer tokens, and promptly reported it to the head of the guild, who discussed it with her senior mages before reporting it to the high council. They then waited for her next magic study hour, and sure enough, she was gone, transfer residue left behind in the air for those trained to perceive it.
Naturally the outlander Hibern was blamed.
Atan, at her next session with the high council, was presented with a unanimous recommendation: “We, as your counselors, feel it is best that you limit your magic study hour with the outland student to once a month.”
In other words, we know you have been going outside our borders unguarded.
Chief Veltos looked into that shocked young face, and added with an attempt at kindness, “But if you wish to study the specifics of Sartoran magic, I can find a volunteer among our students. Or I will take time aside from my own tasks to tutor you myself, your majesty.”
Your majesty. What a horrid irony. There was nothing majestic about being controlled like an erring child. Atan flushed, and spoke without considering: “I thank you, but I believe I have too many state matters to learn.”
“Ah, an astute observation,” exclaimed the Duchas of Ryadas, with a deep curtsey.
“I shall see to it that you are provided with tutoring in Star Chamber procedure,” the chief of the heralds said, bowing.
“But I do not wish to lay aside my magic studies,” Atan said quickly. “And Hibern teaches me what the senior students in the north learn, which no one here knows.”
All faces turned to Chief Veltos, who had to admit the truth of that. What Veltos didn’t acknowledge publicly was that she meant to change that. She saw the stubborn jut of Atan’s chin, and said in her most soothing tones that once a month with Hibern would permit her to continue her studies, but the rest of the month that hour would benefit the kingdom as well as the queen if it went to tutoring in state matters. Oh, that inescapable moral superiority!
Atan managed to accept that, though her throat hurt.
* * *
—
All winter, she and Hibern had faithfully restricted themselves to Bereth Ferian’s history and magical practice, which Atan duly reported on to Chief Veltos, in hopes of proving that the monthly hour was not wasted.
Hibern had also spent the winter with a changed schedule. Erai-Yanya vanished on some quest that she was not yet ready to talk about. Hibern spent the winter alone in the strange, cracked building kept warm by magic bindings, except for two days a week when she transferred to Bereth Ferian for her northern school classes, after which she had study time with Arthur. There were also weekly visits with Senrid.
She tried not to be lonely, or to brood about what could not be helped. Study, learning, mastery were the only solutions.
And yet, in spite of her resolve, Hibern was so glad one day early in spring when her next Atan study day arrived again after weeks of incessant rain, that she didn’t even mind the prospect of the double transfer as she shifted to Marloven Hess.
She found Senrid’s study empty. Hibern knew that he hated tardiness, so there had to be a reason. No, there had to be trouble. Magical or military? His academy had barely begun its season. Surely the trouble couldn’t be there?
She walked to the bank of four tall windows, and looked out over the academy. Her eye was caught by a short, slight, white-shirted figure among the many moving around the sandy-stone corridors. There was something about the set of those shoulders that caught her attention, though the curly blond head was exactly like so many others.
She was about to turn away when Senrid’s thought overwhelmed her own: Hibern? I’ve trouble in the academy. I sent Liere home last night. Next week?
The words hit her like a mental shout, strengthened by a whirlwind of emotion, most prominent being anger and remorse. Guilt. Fury, which came with an image of a tall, blond boy of about eighteen or so. Self-condemnation. Hibern recoiled, her head throbbing with protest, then as suddenly as it had come, Senrid’s thought was gone.
So once again, Hibern was given an extra hour, and decided to use it to take another tour of Eidervaen.
Hibern’s guide this time was a cart driver with bright red braids. She gave a practiced patter as the goat cart
whisked along the patterned-stone streets of Eidervaen.
“. . . and this is Peri’s Corner.” A quick look from the guide. “Are you interested in romance?”
“Not really,” Hibern said. “But tell me anyway. I did ask for famous sites in Eidervaen, where important things happened.”
The guide flicked a smile back at Hibern. “This isn’t important in the world of kings and queens. But it’s important to us.” The girl indicated the five-story buildings bordering the square, one with carved tree-columns on the first story and gargoyles peering down from under the roof, another with two false spires, a third with patterned stone blocks and colored glass windows, the fourth the plainest, and the oldest. It was below this one that a small fountain had been built, around which scattered flowers lay, petals fluttering in the spring breeze.
“If you want to make a public declaration of courtship, you bring flowers here every day until either you’re accepted or turned down.”
Public declarations? What if you get turned down just as publicly? The whole idea made Hibern feel squirmy.
As the cheerful guide went on about the history of tree-columns and what they meant during different centuries, Hibern tried to concentrate, but she kept seeing those blossoms, wilted and fresh. Declaration. Challenge. The squirmy sense settled between her bellybutton and ribs. Someday, that might be her. No. She’d never make a private declaration in public.
The cart rolled past, and eventually turned back toward the palace.
“You look thoughtful,” Atan said when Hibern entered her study as the last echoes of the bell died away.
“I need to learn how to make a mind-shield,” Hibern said. “Earlier today I was thinking about Siamis, and Dena Yeresbeth, and what hearing others’ thoughts really means. I want to talk to Sartora about mind-shields.”
“Yes,” Atan exclaimed. “Yes, include me, too.” She ran restless fingers along the queensblossom embroidery edging her sleeve and said slowly, “Sartora isn’t alone in having this talent, is that right? Your king is another one?” The fingers shifted to tapping. “Have you met Sartora?”
“As it happens, I see her occasionally. Sometimes when she visits Senrid. Sometimes when she’s back in Bereth Ferian and I go to study with Arthur.”
“She visits your king? I should like to meet them both,” Atan said. “I had a bad experience in Bereth Ferian’s school, when I was still living with Tsauderei. No one knew who I was, and . . .” She shook her head. “Maybe it was my upbringing, not knowing how to act around people my age in groups. Anyway, I’ve been reading about Marloven Hess. ‘Marloven.’ I tracked down the history of the word, and there is ‘Venn’ in it. Did you know the Venn took their name from Sartoran ‘fen,’ meaning ‘family,’ or ‘clan,’ and turned it around to mean ‘The People,’ as if they were elite?”
Hibern laughed. “One of my first mage lessons, learning our history from the outside view. And so we Marlovens became proud of our ‘Outcasts of the Venn,’ until the word ‘Venn’ came to imply barbarians and murderers, and the connection with them was frowned upon.”
“In Sartoran many words still include ‘ven’ or ‘fen’ or ‘vaen,’ which means ‘of the people.’ It’s odd, how words migrate and then come to mean different things.”
Hibern agreed, but she wondered about Atan’s experience at the northern mage school. Her tone suggested something unpleasant. Would the two mage schools, both dedicated to the good of the world, ever really be united in more than lip service? She hated it when Senrid was right about the hypocrisies of those who swore to dedicate their magic studies to the good of the world.
Atan shrugged. “Enough of that. The senior mages are busy with some project behind closed doors, so I believe we can resume our escapes for an hour. Have you ever been to Sarendan? Lilah and Peitar were my first friends.”
“No.” Hibern knew a little of its history. Peitar was another young king, barely adult-aged, unexpectedly inheriting his throne after a terrible revolution. Another for Clair’s alliance? She said, “I’d like to meet them.”
“I think you’ll like Lilah. I’ve never known anyone who makes friends so easily—when I first left Delfina Valley to release the enchantment over Sartor, Lilah traveled with me. So she’s one of the Rescuers. Peitar is so smart he’d be intimidating if he wasn’t as friendly as his sister,” Atan said as she handed Hibern a token.
They transferred to Sarendan, which lay east of Sartor across the jagged border mountains. It took Hibern longer to recover, as this was her third of the day, but she struggled to hide the reaction, walking to the Destination chamber’s window to look out. I have to get used to this, she thought, noting that the building she stood in was positioned along a hilly ridge, a jumble of city rooftops layering away at the extreme edges in both directions. Directly below the sheer cliffs under the window lay a lake, wind rippling patterns across the water that reflected the rapidly moving clouds overhead.
“Ready?” Atan asked, and Hibern remembered they only had their hour.
“Of course,” Hibern said, though her head still panged.
A servant took them down a hallway. Waiting side by side in the cheerful room overlooking the long lake below were stocky Lilah, her slanted eyes slits of mirth under her short thatch of rusty red hair, and slender, dark-eyed Peitar, whose only resemblance to his sister was the tilt at the corners of his eyes, and the quick flash of laughter when he smiled.
“Atan!” Lilah exclaimed. “I’m so glad to see you again!”
“This is Hibern, Lilah, and Peitar—”
Lilah was bursting with her almost-surprise. “I’ve wanted for ages and ages to introduce Derek to you, but I know you’re so busy in Sartor, and he’s always so busy all over Sarendan, doing stuff for Peitar.”
Derek? Hibern’s curiosity sharpened when she recognized the name: he had to be Derek Diamagan, the leader of the bloody revolution against the former king. He was also the one who very nearly got himself and Peitar executed.
Atan, aware of time streaming away, said, “Hibern was just suggesting that we ought to learn mind-shields. I think it a great idea, if we’re to be facing Ancient Sartorans from Norsunder again.”
Peitar Selenna turned to Hibern. “You’ve met Sartora, right? Perhaps you’ve heard her mention whether such things as mind-shields can only be used by those who have her ability?”
“I haven’t spoken to her long enough,” Hibern admitted. “But I wondered about that.”
Lilah clasped her hands. “A girl my age defeating nasty villains!” Her face clouded. “Or is she all noble and solemn, only talking in Ancient Sartoran? She can’t be a snob, because Derek told me everyone says she came from a little town of shopkeepers somewhere up north.”
Hibern thought of that tense little figure with the enormous, staring eyes. “She is definitely not a snob—”
The door banged open, and in strode a shaggy-haired young man, his bony face high with color. He wore a dusty shirt, the laces swinging carelessly at the open neck, baggy old riding trousers covering long legs, and shabby forest mocs on his feet. He brought in the scents of dust, and sweat, and a tinge of horse.
Hibern blinked, disoriented by aromas from home.
Lilah sprang up. “Derek!” she exclaimed happily.
Derek Diamagan flashed a boyish grin at Lilah, then he and Peitar exchanged the open smiles of brotherhood, absent the heat of passion.
Lilah waved proudly at Derek as she said to Hibern, “Derek helped us defeat our horrible uncle, who used to be king.”
Hibern nodded, noticing Peitar’s wince that Lilah did not see.
As Lilah spoke, Derek was taking in the two newcomers: both tall girls, one with black hair and what seemed to be a scribe’s or mage student’s robe over ordinary travel clothes, the other in a fine linen gown embroidered in gold with flowers, her shining brown hair bound up in a complicatio
n of braids above a pair of distinctive, protuberant eyes.
Into the short silence, he said, “Peitar, I’ve an idea about how we might get those city urchins off the streets. So many of ’em orphans.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Why didn’t we think of this before? They can become an orphan brigade. Maybe we can even resurrect your old Sharadan Brothers name.”
Lilah hopped from foot to foot. “Oh! I want to be one!”
Derek laughed. “You are one, Lilah. They all expect you to join them. I’ve got them drilling in the old coopers’ yard down on the east side, near your old hideout.”
“Drilling?” Peitar said.
Derek swung his way. “Sure. Learning to work together. To defend themselves and their families.”
Peitar sighed. “I thought the goal was to get the sword out of everyone’s hands. Make negotiation, not force, the way.”
Derek held out his hands, palm up. “That’s all very well for civilized folks. We’re agreed on that, but we’re also agreed that Norsunder won’t be civilized if they come again.” His voice was low, serious, coaxing, gentle. A curiously attractive combination of all, and Hibern watched Peitar’s sensitive face change, his brow puckering.
Derek turned to Lilah. “This is why I thought of the Sharadan Brothers, champions of justice for all.” He opened a hand toward Lilah, who grinned, drumming her heels against the legs of her chair as Derek took a quick turn around the room. “This isn’t a military in the way you fear, Peitar. It’s home defense. Readiness. You know we were our own worst enemies during the revolution, because we had no idea how to stand up to your uncle’s trained army, or even the city guard.”
Peitar said slowly, “Well, we do have a problem with orphans who don’t seem to have a place, yet who don’t trust us enough yet to come forward so I can help them find one.”
A Sword Named Truth Page 32
