Shevraeth whistled, something he’d picked up from the Marloven boys. No courtier would whistle. “And you can read Ancient Sartoran?”
“Some. Barely. Liere and I have been trying to study it. But with all the success of a couple of puppies trying to learn the famed Colendi flower symbols, their ribbon symbols, their fans and the rest of it.”
Shevraeth laughed, a sound scarcely louder than a sigh. “I wonder which one is the more obscure, Ancient Sartoran, about which my father had some pungent things to say, when he told my tutor to confine his exertions to modern history, or Colend’s court customs.”
“Maybe the Ancient Sartorans weren’t trying to be obscure. I think they used metaphor for when ordinary vocabulary wasn’t working. They seem to have been a lot closer to the non-human beings in this world. Until we humans almost managed to destroy ourselves along with everything else. Anyway, for non-human ideas, human language isn’t enough, is it? I mean, how would you describe red to a blind man?”
Senrid couldn’t tell from Shevraeth’s polite, courtly expression if he believed any of it.
Memory seized Senrid. Gone was the playing field, the courtly boy, birds, trees, flowers. Again Senrid stood on a cliff beside Detlev in the frigid winter wind, the very first day of his reign, as Detlev forced him to watch Norsundrian warriors decimate Marloven Hess’s South Army on the border below.
Senrid had been helpless to do anything. South Army as well as himself would be dead now, except that Senrid had been given a name half a year before, a continent away, by a mysterious and ghostly figure, who had said, When you want my help, Senrid Indevan Montredaun-An, ask for it. Once, only, you may call upon me and I will aid you. Say ‘Erdrael,’ and I will come.
Senrid did not believe in ghosts any more than he believed in mysterious offers, but in utter desperation that day on the cliff, he’d shouted the name. It had evoked a blast of magic that effectively blinded the Norsundrians, forcing them into retreat. The remnants of South Army were saved, as was Senrid, leaving him with the bitter conviction he had just served as a pawn in a game so vast, and so old, that he couldn’t see but a sliver of it.
He snapped his gaze to Shevraeth’s waiting face. “Fall into the hands of Siamis, or worse, Detlev. They’d probably be glad to discourse on the verities of their day, right before they rip your identity from out of your skull, and all without moving their hands. See that you keep that thing always by you. If I do have to transfer you away from here, likely there won’t be time for warning.”
And he left.
Chapter Thirteen
More consequences of bad news
Beginning at Sarendan
IN Miraleste’s royal palace, Lilah Selenna flung open the new doors to one of the rooms burned by the revolutionaries, glad to escape the smell of paint into the balmy air of spring. She sprinted across the garden, and was about to hop the low stone fence and drop onto the path that would lead to the palace gates, when she caught sight of Derek Diamagan coming from the other direction.
“Derek!” she yelled, surprised. “I was just about to go to drill practice. Only . . . why are you here?”
“I’ve been thinking about something Rel said,” Derek replied as he drew up next to her. “Here I am, going on about the uselessness of the aristos, which I still believe, but also about the uselessness of the army, because it was commanded by the former king.”
Lilah made a sour face. “Ugh!”
Derek grinned as she hopped around in a circle, pretending to shiver and shudder at the thought of her deposed uncle. Peitar might have a lot of sympathy (misplaced, Derek believed) for his uncle, but Lilah unreservedly hated him. “Why would you ruin a perfect spring day thinking about him?” she demanded, fists on her hips.
“Not thinking about him.” Derek perched on the low wall, fists propped on his knees. “I’m thinking about what Rel didn’t say. Much as I hated the king’s army, they did know what they were doing. They defeated us without half trying, which is how I nearly got Peitar and me executed.” He jerked his thumb toward himself, then up toward the palace on the highest hill. “So I thought, now that they’re not commanded by the former king, maybe it’s time to go to Obrin and become cadets. Learn something. Want to go with me?”
Lilah’s mouth rounded. “Me?”
“Sure.”
“But I don’t even like army stuff!”
“You’ve been practicing with the orphans.” Derek shrugged, and his expression turned rueful. “Lilah, you know how much I’ve spoken out against the army. Perhaps not as much since your brother took over as king, but the little I’ve said hasn’t been good. I still object quite strongly to nobles being trained there. They already have enough power. But since Peitar declared that anyone may train there, boy or girl, commoner or courtier, perhaps it’s time for me to learn some of the basics. And if you’re there to protect me, they won’t heave my sorry carcass back over the fence.”
“Well,” Lilah exhaled on a breath of satisfaction. “If you put it like that. Why not? Let’s go tell Peitar, and pack a knapsack. It’ll take us a few days to get there . . .”
* * *
Roth Drael to Delfina Valley to Marloven Hess
Liere enjoyed her stay at Roth Drael so much that she might have felt guilty getting pleasure out of a dire situation had not Hibern made it plain how much she liked having company.
“I thought I’d get used to living alone,” Hibern said one morning as they lay side by side on a beautiful old Bermundi rug, a bowl of warm muffins between them. They ate as they gazed straight up through the cracked roof of the white-stone domicile, where the first cold rain of the season ran along the ward that took the place of a roof. This magic was ancient. Hibern couldn’t replicate it, though it was one of her many ongoing personal projects.
“It was fine the first month or so that Erai-Yanya was gone,” Hibern continued. “Then it got lonely. Especially in winter. Well, you can tell by how many times I came north to visit Arthur. I didn’t even mind twice weekly transferring to Oalthoreh and the school.”
Liere wrinkled her nose, but didn’t say anything. She felt so uncomfortable around those mage students and their teachers, though at least the teachers showed her respect. Maybe too much respect? It was the ‘Sartora’ thing all over again. Maybe they wouldn’t even want her back, now that Siamis’s sword was gone, and she hadn’t somehow found and vanquished Siamis with some mysterious spell.
She wasn’t the only one thinking along a similar path. Not that Hibern thought Liere a fraud. But after a few days around Liere’s finger-twisted worries and awkwardnesses, Hibern formed the impression that Liere was more of an ordinary person who might have stumbled into the right circumstances at the right time, and now was paying the price of fame.
As the days turned into weeks, she kept her word and began teaching Liere modern Sartoran in the mornings and Marloven in the afternoons. Instead of complaining the way students usually did about language lessons, Liere soaked in everything Hibern said. Liere also remembered everything the first time she heard it. She asked interesting questions about the origins of words, or word patterns, that Hibern hadn’t thought about.
She knew Liere couldn’t be slow in mental capacity. Senrid did not include patience among his better qualities. It wasn’t that he despised people whose minds didn’t crash and carom headlong the way his did, but he tended to avoid spending time around people who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, keep pace. Liere, though significantly younger than Senrid, didn’t seem to have any difficulty in that regard.
But it wasn’t until the local morvende (who left Erai-Yanya and Hibern strictly alone) sent a pair of youths on those amazing creatures that took the form of white horses, with an invitation to ‘Sartora,’ that Hibern began to suspect that Liere was more of a puzzle than she appeared.
Especially when she turned up three weeks later, a garland made of flowers
that Hibern had never seen bound around her brow, her escort singing songs in those distinctive braided triplets that never failed to send Hibern’s heart racing.
Liere waved a farewell, wandered back in, smiled, and asked how Hibern was. She was speaking perfect Sartoran.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Hibern said. “I have a feeling that you’re going to be needed.” Hibern was sorry to see the old, anxious look tighten Liere’s face. She said quickly, “Tsauderei wants to meet with Senrid. And I think you should be there.”
Liere’s eyes rounded. “Me? Why?”
“While you were gone, one of those old Venn coins showed up in Keriam’s tower.”
Liere blanched.
Hibern said quickly, “Nothing more happened. So far. But after I got the letter from our alliance net, I told Tsauderei, because Erai-Yanya would expect me to. If Senrid’s temper goes runaway-horse, it might take both of us to rein him in.”
But Senrid didn’t argue—at least with others. He’d already been through all the arguments with himself.
Norsunder was coming.
Everyone knew that.
The specifics of why the coin was there didn’t matter. The overall message was clear enough: he was one of the pieces on their game board, and swearing didn’t fix the fact that he was vastly outmatched in magic, power, brains, military, and experience.
The one most surprised at Senrid agreeing to meet was Tsauderei. He would have liked very much to get a glimpse inside the mysterious Marloven Hess, but Senrid wouldn’t go that far. Hibern had explained, “With the military, you try to pick the ground, and if you can’t, you try to take the battle to the enemy. That goes for magic, too.”
“So I’m the enemy,” Tsauderei said, and though he laughed, Hibern sensed he was not pleased.
She said, “Everybody is a potential enemy to him. It’s the only way he’s managed to stay alive.”
Tsauderei grunted. “And so he doesn’t want me nosing around his wards. Very well. Bring him here. I will even pass you all through.”
So the three transferred across the entire continent. Senrid sensed their being passed through two significant wards, which made him warier than normal as they recovered from the rough transfer outside Tsauderei’s mountain cottage, under the deafening crash of a mountain thunderstorm.
Hibern hastily motioned them inside.
Liere, terrified by thunder, shot through first. She hated storms at any time, but had never been on a mountaintop so close to a storm. She stared out the window at the tumble of grayish green clouds that seemed so low she could touch them if she stretched out her hand. When lightning flared, she gasped and backed against the wall, which shivered as thunder exploded right overhead.
Senrid gave his host a grim, assessing look, then turned to sweep his gaze over the floor-to-ceiling bookcases surrounding him on three sides in the one-room cottage.
Tsauderei took a moment to observe the newcomers. He’d briefly met that poor little Liere, who looked as if she’d jump out of her skin if he coughed suddenly. Best to leave her alone for now.
Senrid had a strong look of his grandfather, his expression exactly as wary. When the thunder had rumbled away over the land below, Tsauderei said easily, “So someone planted a Venn coin inside your citadel? What’s your defensive strategy?”
Senrid’s eyelids flickered up, betraying how tightly he’d been braced for demands, lectures, admonishments. “Detlev once said I wasn’t worth bothering with yet. When he decides I am, I want to be very hard to get.” He looked down at his callused palms. Then up. “It might not be me they want at all, but the Marloven army. So our strategy has been twofold: to make sure they cannot surprise us on the border again, and to make it tough to take the royal city.”
‘Twofold.’ This little speech sounded rehearsed. “We can discuss your border,” Tsauderei said, “but first, permit me to point out that your strategy is shortsighted.”
Tsauderei observed Senrid’s defensive hostility easing to interest, and said, “Feel free to disagree, but I think the most effective defensive strategy is to determine Norsunder’s overall goal, and to deny it to them.”
“I know that.” Senrid’s chin lifted, his expression thoughtful, then the wariness was back. “We know what they want: the world. And tactics will preferably include wholesale slaughter for sport.”
“That would be the means, or a means, but I’m not so certain it’s the end. Not for the ones who matter most, the Host of Lords. If that were all they wanted, they would have come out of their lair beyond time centuries ago.”
Tsauderei paused as green-white lightning filled the room with actinic glare, and Liere covered her eyes, cringing against the battering noise of thunder. She loathed herself for her stupid fear, wishing she could be like Senrid, who loved thunderstorms. Or like Hibern, who didn’t seem to care.
Tsauderei spoke again, lifting his voice against the steady roar of hail bouncing on the roof: “Is it possible that there are competing strategic aims? Take the invasion, conquering, and enchantment of Sartor, now rejoined the world. That appears to have been a random act, isolated because it devolved into an internal squabble between Norsunder’s military commander and the mage Detlev.”
Tsauderei had all Senrid’s attention now.
Senrid said, “Invasions are never random. Take too much effort. Too much cost. There has to have been some plan. What makes you think there were conflicting strategies?”
Tsauderei said, “The enchantment came at the point the kingdom had been overrun and the Norsundrian force had slipped their leash and were settling in for slaughter for sport, as you say. When the enchantment cleared away, the entire population of Sartor was there, but the Norsundrians weren’t. Where did they go?”
Senrid shrugged. “Probably just transferred back to the Beyond through a rift. Because Sartor came out of the enchantment right before the Siamis attack, and the closing of the rifts, right?”
“Except there was no evidence of a rift.”
“It had been a hundred years, almost, right?” Senrid retorted.
“Not to the locals,” Tsauderei responded. “Not to the locals. They’re still mostly a hundred years back. Anyway, my point is that Norsunder seems to have competing commanders. So that would indicate competing goals.”
Senrid drew in a long breath, his gaze distant. “Right. Yeah, right.”
“So,” Tsauderei went on, hiding how pleased he was not at having won his point, which was minor, but in having won Senrid’s interest. “I’d hoped, when you found that coin, you’d also find a suitable threat, or warning, or something indicating Siamis’s goal. Alas. We’ll have to look at patterns of movement, but first, would you tell me about Norsunder’s attack on your border, right before Siamis first appeared?”
“Hibern didn’t tell you?” Senrid glanced her way.
“Hibern has been here fewer than five times, and has never stayed very long. She is not my student.” Tsauderei’s voice was sardonic.
Senrid flushed at the implied rebuke, as Tsauderei thought with mordant humor, yes, let us narrow the chasm between Us and You that you seem so determined to dig.
Senrid began to speak in a far less hostile tone. “I’d barely been king for a day. Detlev captured me and—” He decided not to mention Leander of Vasande Leror’s annoying sister, who he’d beent traveling with at the time. She was immaterial to what had happened. “Detlev forced me to watch them march a couple of companies over my border. They’d been hidden from view by illusion. I know now that the idea was to shock me into thinking that they’d appeared suddenly. Well, it worked. Wasn’t until later that I learned about the rifts. Norsunder sent ’em over from Sartor’s southern rift. I found out that the king of Perideth let ’em march through his kingdom on the understanding they were coming to attack us.” Senrid’s voice was bitter.
“They were coming to ta
ke over your uncle’s Marloven Hess,” Tsauderei suggested, as lightning flared again, and the hail abruptly ended.
But it was farther away, and Liere let out a trickle of breath as Senrid looked down at his hands, the rope scars on his wrists whitish below the edges of his cuffs.
Senrid appeared to be struggling inwardly, then made a sharp movement with one hand that again called his grandfather to Tsauderei’s mind. “The southern companies were shorthanded because of, well, me. Trying to take my throne from the regent, my uncle. Half of them were first-year guards, right out of the academy, with no experience. What made it worse was, magic made the Norsundrians invisible to my army until they attacked. It was a slaughter. Detlev knew it was a slaughter. I think he was enjoying it. He forced me to watch . . .” Senrid struggled again. Then looked away. “The short version is, I’d been traveling with Puddlenose of the Mearsieans earlier in the summer. Came across some sort of, oh, magical artifact that thought it would be fun to take the form of a, call it a ghost.”
Liere said softly, “Her name was Erdrael. Leander’s sister called her an angel.”
Senrid’s voice was hard. “There is no such thing. It was some sort of magical artifact. It might even have been meant for Puddlenose.” Though Senrid remembered Erdrael’s words had been specifically for him. “Anyway, that sort of thing never happens twice.”
Tsauderei leaned forward. “What exactly did Erdrael do, whatever she was?”
“Mirrored the invisibility illusion, but a lot stronger. It was so strong that Norsunder couldn’t see any of my people, and Detlev was forced to withdraw.”
Tsauderei let out a long sigh. “Whatever she, or it, was, no, we cannot expect to see that again. ‘Erdrael.’ I take it you never did figure out the mystery?”
Senrid’s struggle this time was shorter. “No. I wasted a lot of time delving for mentions of ‘Erdrael’ before I discovered that the Sartoran language is full of them. Not surprising, considering there’s a continent called Drael. I still have no idea what it means, other than the lighter syrup about blessings and sunlight and so forth.”
A Sword Named Truth Page 41
