Curly Beard hunkered down to peer into Jilo’s face. “So you went for help to another user of dark magic, a boy who also answers to no master. Who holds the throne of a large and powerful kingdom. If your two kingdoms weren’t almost at opposite ends of the continent, I should think half the monarchs around you both would be quite alarmed.”
Jilo stared at the harsh-boned face revolving gently before him. “I, I, I . . .” He shut his mouth and took a deep breath. Again, anger steadied him, enough for him to get the words out: “The first time. I asked Clair of the Mearsieans for help.”
As soon as the words were out, he braced for the “Who?” but instead, Curly Beard put his fists on his hips as he exclaimed, “Ah! Clair? Indeed! I shall ask her. Go on.”
“She took me to Senrid. He helped me. Twice. When I found Wan-Edhe’s hidden chamber . . .” He swallowed again, an action that took concentration. “It’s bleeding their lives out. To make that chamber. Slow time.”
Curly Beard’s heavy black brows shot upward, and he sat back. “Very well. Very well.” He laid his hand on his chest. “This is no easy problem to solve. But there might be some ways to begin.”
“Who are you?”
The big man laughed, white teeth flashing in the blue-black beard. “You may call me Rosey.”
“Rosey,” Jilo repeated, and glared at the man, hatred giving him enough strength to fling back his head. During those terrible days when he’d spied on the Mearsieans in order to find out where their underground hideout was, he’d heard references over and over to ‘Rosey.’ “You’re the one who rescued the Mearsieans from Wan-Edhe.”
“When I could. When I could. I’ve had to be very careful to avoid my real identity being discovered by your former king. He’s gotten close enough as it is. Now.” Jilo was so weary he was not surprised when Rosey shifted to perfect Chwahir, command mode, captain to flatfoot. The language, the mode, reached back into Jilo’s earliest memories, and he found it oddly comforting as Rosey said, “You are going to march into that cottage, and lie down. You’ll find an extra bed in the loft. It’s clean. There’s water in the pitcher. When you’re slept out, we will talk. Go.”
Jilo wobbled inside, clutching the book tightly against his stomach as he tipped his head back and gazed up the ladder to the loft. Those ten or twelve rungs seemed to stretch up forever. He forced each hand and foot to move, but it took all his strength, and finally he fell onto a low bed.
The moment he caught his breath, he took the book out of his shirt and checked the names, though he was fairly certain he’d memorized them all. Yes. Tsauderei was there, near the top. As he’d expected, there was no listing for ‘Rosey.’
He ran his gaze down the other names. Detlev: nothing new.
Siamis: nothing new.
Prince Kessler: Norsunder Base, Norsunder Base, Onekhaer, Mardgar, Imar, Everon, Norsunder Base. He’d been moving around a lot since the last time Jilo had looked. And when had that been?
Even thinking about time made Jilo’s mind swim unpleasantly. He blinked, and stared down at the book again. What did those spaces between the Norsunder Base entries mean? He remembered what Senrid had said about the named targets possibly going out of the world. Wan-Edhe would not care what they were doing somewhere so far away that he would not feel threatened.
So much of the book was useless. And yet. Jilo clutched it against him, fighting for concentration. Hide it? No. The medallion he wore with its wards might mask the magic, but if Jilo tried hiding the book in this cottage, Rosey was sure to sense its magic. Oh. Old habit: the hollowed tree where he had kept his drawing supplies, back in the days under Kwenz. Drawing was strictly forbidden, one of the many, many forbidden things. So he’d sneaked it.
That tree lay outside of the old Shadowland, so it ought still to be there.
With the last of his strength, Jilo transferred the book to the hidey-hole.
Then he fell back and dropped into sleep.
It had never occurred to Jilo how difficult for others it might be to fashion magical hidey-holes and transfer objects to them. He’d needed it, found a way to learn how to do it, and did it. Such was the pattern of his life.
* * *
—
Rosey—whose name was Mondros—and Tsauderei had watched Jilo slowly climb to the loft, his thin figure bowed as an old man’s. As soon as he vanished up the ladder, they spoke in Ancient Sartoran, which had never been added into the Universal Language Spell.
“That horror did not seem feigned,” Mondros said.
Tsauderei didn’t really know Mondros that well. Mages were notoriously reclusive; you didn’t dedicate your life to magic without being somewhat solitary. But he knew less about Mondros than any of the other powerful mages he had dealt with over the years.
He did not understand what drove Mondros to dedicate his life to fighting Wan-Edhe from a distance, as the man was not a Chwahir, but he respected Mondros for it. Everyone else seemed inclined to overlook Chwahirsland, and forget its ancient problems.
He sat down on the stone bench in Mondros’s tiny garden. “My predecessor’s records indicate two things: that Wan-Edhe of the Chwahir was not much older than this boy when he made his first kill. In defense, yes. And some records even seem to hint that when he started out, he meant well. By the Chwahir, I hasten to say.”
“It’s true, all of it.” Mondros dropped down beside him. “And so, what? Do you want me to go up there and knife that boy in his sleep? How do you justify that?”
Tsauderei gave a snort of disgust. “Of course not. But I mislike this pattern.”
“Jilo turning to Senrid Montredaun-An for help? What’s the truth about him? His grandfather had a terrible reputation, and so did the oldest son, but the middle son was supposed to have been fairly benign. For a Marloven.”
“I was an assistant mage at the border parley when the grandfather was forced by an alliance of all his neighbors to accept the treaty,” Tsauderei said, looking back down the years, then shaking his head. “If the grandson is anything like him, we can expect nothing but trouble. But that’s the future. Right now, I don’t like the way these children are turning to one another, and not to us.”
Mondros, he noted, did not ask him to define that ‘us.’ “You said Erai-Yanya’s prentice brought Jilo to you,” Mondros said.
“She did.” Tsauderei sat back on the bench. “But not because of established procedure. This particular problem seemed beyond her reach. Let’s consider what we just heard about your young Mearsiean, Clair. Why didn’t she report this Jilo and his actions to you, who saved her from Wan-Edhe’s vindictive pettiness? Why didn’t she go to Murial, her own blood relation?”
Mondros pointed a thick finger. “Did you always turn to the elders? I know I didn’t.”
“In matters of great import, I did. As did Evend. And even Igkai, who I believe is the most reclusive of all of us. We followed established procedure. Not that we didn’t make mistakes. Plenty of them. My point is, we find ourselves with a number of children in key positions. Many of them smart and well educated. And impatient of guidance.”
Mondros sighed. “You see Detlev’s hand here.”
“Possibly,” Tsauderei said. “A poke here, a threat there, an experiment over yonder, then fading back to watch a tragedy unfold. That’s his usual style, the rare times he comes out of Norsunder.”
“That we know of,” Mondros said.
“True. So let’s look at what we know of Detlev’s latest exploits. We know Senrid was Detlev’s prisoner during Siamis’s enchantment, before the morvende sent Rel into Norsunder Base to rescue one of their friends, and discovered him there. Did whatever happened to Senrid there make him even less trusting of outsiders than Marlovens are reputed to be?”
Mondros’s gaze had shifted sideways, and his hands tightened on his knees. But at Tsauderei’s question, he sat back and loosened hi
s grip. “You’re right. If there is one thing Detlev’s known for, it’s rarity of visits, and something always happens, usually wide-reaching and devastating. But even Detlev could not have foreseen the emergence of this Dena Yeresbeth after four millennia. That desperate search before Siamis launched his enchantment in ’36 indicates Norsunder had no more notion of its re-emergence than we did. I think it took them as much by surprise as it did us.”
Tsauderei was silent a long time before he said, “Dena Yeresbeth.” His tone made the words a curse. All his life, it seemed that he’d no sooner gain some understand of the world and how to keep it safe from Norsunder, than some new, larger, more sinister threat would appear. This one seemed the worst one yet because the only people who truly understood it were Lilith the Guardian, whose appearance was ephemeral at best—and the Norsundrian Host of Lords, with Detlev as their minion.
Mondros got to his feet. “Well, that’s yet another problem for the future. Right now, I have this boy upstairs. The first thing to be determined is if I’ll trust him enough to send him back with some carefully fashioned spells. Time bindings using lives! Wan-Edhe’s depredations were even worse than I’d thought. If Jilo really does intend to loosen those deadly wards from within Narad, then we’ll know how to proceed.”
“Good,” Tsauderei said, with feeling. “This one is all yours.”
Chapter Ten
WHEN Senrid showed up in Bereth Ferian the day after Hibern took Jilo away, he made no reference to whatever had caused him to end Liere’s previous visit so abruptly in the middle of the night. And she, remembering those vivid, horrifying images he didn’t know he’d shared, was too afraid to ask.
“Hibern has relatives who knew my mother,” he said to Liere as if they had parted the day before, and not a couple of months ago.
Though his voice sounded the same as ever, the quick flex of his hands, the pulse of horror he couldn’t quite mask on the mental plane, made her middle tighten with dread. But all Senrid said was, “I guess since I’ve managed to stay alive so far, or maybe because they wanted to get rid of the stuff and reclaim their cellar, they sent me some art things that my mother had brought from her home country. I remember you liked the blocks. Want to help me sort through this art and see what to keep and what to stick in our cellar?”
“Shouldn’t you ask somebody who knows about art?” Liere asked doubtfully.
“Nah.” Senrid made that quick motion, his palm down, hand flat, as though shoving something away. “I don’t care what some blathering expert on art likes. I have to look at the stuff, not them. So it makes more sense to go through and find what I like. But you have a good eye, I noticed that before. You’ll be able to tell me why I like it. Or not, if you don’t want to.”
“Oh, it sounds like fun, if you put it that way,” she exclaimed.
“Good! And Hibern is bringing the Queen of Sartor to our next tutoring session. They want to learn how to make mind-shields, and asked if you’d teach them.”
When Liere began to tense up, Senrid grinned. “Atan—Hibern says she wants to be called that, instead of The Great and Mighty Queen Yustnesveas Landis the 152nd of Ancient Sartor, or whatever her number is. ‘Yust-ness-vey-ass!’ No wonder she wants to be called Atan. Who wouldn’t, saddled with a load like that? Anyway, she’s my age. And was raised in a cave, or some such thing.”
Liere’s doubt turned to perplexity, and Senrid said quickly, “Liere, think about it, would anyone really come to Marloven Hess in a lot of pompous state, spouting speeches and old poetry that nobody can understand, or whatever these Sartorans and Colendi do when kings go calling?” He made a face. “Hah. Come to think of it, I don’t think any kings or queens have ever made any kind of visit here, state or not, unless they were wrangled into marrying one of my ancestors. That would be princesses, since nobody ever wanted any foreign princes snouting in.”
Liere’s tension eased slightly, and he said, “The cook even ordered more of that cocoa to make hot chocolate, just for you.”
Liere brightened. “Oh, that is so kind!”
They transferred to Marloven Hess.
And for the rest of the day, as she adjusted to the heat of summer, she hugged to herself the delight over knowing that the cook had ordered hot chocolate. For her.
By the end of dinner, she had come full circle to wondering if another word for ‘belonging’ was ‘expectation.’ Was she turning into one of those spoiled princesses everyone hated, who expected special treatment? And she wasn’t even a real princess!
And of course, by then, late at night, as she sat in her room trying to read in spite of eyes burning with exhaustion, as Senrid tended to his kingdom affairs, she fell into the old battle against the weakness, the futility of emotion.
She tried wearily to focus on the book she’d brought, which was the next on the shelves she’d been toiling through. And she wasn’t comprehending it at all. She blinked at the page. No. Not one word. She’d been moving her gaze over it while feeling sorry for herself.
Aware of that, she sat up straight, and settled the book firmly on her lap. Because of that stupid emotion, she would read twice as long the next day, and give up her ride.
Stupid stupid stupid emotions—worthless, useless, weak emotions. From now on, anything she discovered herself looking forward to, she would cancel.
She firmly turned back to the beginning. This would be useful. This would train her stupid, weak, useless brain.
Rhythms in Soil Richness.
In the north meadow, shall we ever seed with corn, but in the south meadow, shall three-fold the rhythm be: after summer’s heat shall be wheat, followed by a spring of sprouts, followed thence by a season of openness to birds of the air . . .
The second reading really did go easier. She was well into the third year—fifteen pages!—when Senrid returned from wherever he’d been.
“Keriam keeps telling me things my father said, and they sound good, but when I really think about what they mean, how to use them, I don’t get it.” He sighed and dropped cross-legged onto the other end of the window seat, where Liere sat with her books. “Like the difference between strength and power.” He stopped there, aware of her distracted attention.
She was thinking, More Marloven stuff. She knew she should take an interest, but it was so hard to, because she knew she’d never need any of it. Like old-fashioned harvests? she taunted herself.
“Fenis Senelac is down in the riding ring,” Senrid said. “It’s a full moon night, and the heat has finally gone. Perfect for riding.”
Liere clapped the thin book onto the fat lexicon of Ancient Sartoran, and leaped up happily.
Then she remembered her promise. She sat back down firmly, opened the ancient book, and said, “I can’t go riding. I didn’t complete my studying.”
Senrid looked surprised. “Studying?”
Liere tapped the book. “My project.”
“But you can read later. She’s got a horse saddled.”
Liere shook her head. “I didn’t study earlier. I need the discipline.”
Senrid sighed.
Liere forced herself to breathe, to calm herself. Rational discourse! “You’ve got discipline. I need to work on mine.”
Senrid eyed Liere. She sat there in the window seat, her fingers gripping that old book from Bereth Ferian’s library, her cuticles ragged. Senrid glanced down at the book. Ancient Sartoran. About farming, of all things.
“If I could go riding any time I wanted,” he said, “I would.”
Liere looked down, her mouth unhappy. Presented with the top of Liere’s head, Senrid noticed that she’d taken a knife to her hair again; it was more ragged than ever. He knew better than to argue, though he thought it was crazy to force herself to read every book in that library, starting with the first shelf and moving through every single tome, just because that sounded orderly. Likewise forcing her
self to learn Ancient Sartoran without knowing the modern language first.
When she got like that, he’d discovered, the only way to get her to act like a normal person was to ask her to go with him when he did fun things.
“How about if you lay that aside, and let’s try tackling an easier lesson in Ancient Sartoran? It’s more like code breaking, then, and less a toil of having to look up every second word,” he said.
Liere set aside the dusty tomes, angry with herself for having revealed whatever it was that got Senrid to say that. She would triple the study time on the farming book the next day.
If only she had his sense of discipline, and his lack of stupid emotion. No, he had emotions. She’d seen him angry, ashamed, afraid. Hurt.
But he didn’t let any of it out, it didn’t get in the way. He got things done.
* * *
Atan anticipated her visit to Hibern’s homeland with a pleasure that was the more intense for its being a secret. The more delving she’d done into her ancestors’ private archives, the more often she’d discovered far-reaching state matters turning on personalities and private actions—abductions at one point numbering high on the list.
Tsauderei, in his efforts to educate Atan on Sartoran matters when Sartor and its archives were beyond reach, had initiated her into the histories written by scribes. She really liked scribe histories. Most seemed more even-handed than official court histories, and some scribal memoirs gave hints of the sort of thing she was doing, finding ways around the complication of protocol and tradition.
She was going to keep using her free hour for . . . freedom.
As she paced her study waiting for the bells that would herald Hibern’s appearance, she wondered why it was that secret things were so much fun. And the idea that she would be the first Sartoran ruler to set foot in a kingdom depicted as full of villains made the fun that much more fun.
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