A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  “It’s symbolic,” Tsauderei said. “The root appears to be ‘rael,’ which we are still unable to translate, but the combination of the two syllables would appear to connote your metaphorical syrup.”

  Senrid grimaced slightly, then opened his hand in a gesture that could have been apology. Then he said, “It can’t be too syrupy since the word, or the root, appears in the middle of Detlev’s name. Hibern once told me that his family name is Hindraeldrei. Drael is the continent above us, so he lived there, is that it? ‘Hin’ means ‘under,’ doesn’t it?”

  Tsauderei said, “The scribes think the prefix indicates something subordinate, either a personal or familial rank. The ‘dray-ee’ at the end of the name meant ‘oath-of-guardianship.’ So, people of the area could say they were from ‘ne’ Hindrael, but a guardian was Hindraeldrei, or ne-Hindraeldrei.”

  Hibern spoke for the first time, lifting her voice above the distant thunder. “No maps of Ancient Sartor exist, so we don’t know if Drael was even called that in the days before the Fall.”

  Senrid said, “Anyway, that was the military defense. Magical, we’d only had a single-point Emras Defense protecting the border. It was all I could manage to renew when I was ten.”

  “Many cannot complete one now,” Tsauderei observed.

  The implied compliment only made Senrid tighten up again. “Well, this past winter, I did it properly, around our entire border. A hundred anchor points. Took months. So at least I’ll have warning if they break it, and I’ll know where. But if they aren’t conquering for the fun of it, I’ve got nothing more than you do.”

  “Ah, but I didn’t say we had nothing. I told you we look at patterns of movement.”

  Senrid’s eyes narrowed. “You mean, where someone like Detlev’s been, since you can’t catch him in the act?”

  “We can’t follow as closely as that, I regret to say.”

  Senrid understood then that they hadn’t taken Jilo’s book away from him. Maybe they didn’t even know about it.

  Tsauderei went on. “From what Erai-Yanya has managed to gather, Detlev has been seen more times in the past five years than in the past five hundred.”

  Liere hugged her elbows tight against her body; the low, uneven rumble of thunder sounded sinister.

  “Then there’s Siamis, whose appearance in the world is new. Why now, after all these centuries? Though it’s possible he was around now and again before, there is no sign in any records, and the scribes have been searching patiently.”

  “So the Ancient Sartorans are out for a reason,” Senrid said.

  Tsauderei held up two gnarled fingers. “Two of the Ancient Sartorans. There are more, the ones who command them.”

  “The Host of Lords,” Senrid said.

  Liere thought that that would be the moment for the thunder to break right overhead, but in fact the rain was diminishing to drips at the corners of the eaves. Shafts of sunlight shot down into the valley, lighting up a lake hereto invisible behind the sheets of silvery gray.

  Tsauderei continued. “There’s some reason compelling enough to bring these two out of their citadel beyond time. Whether or not their appearance is on orders from the Host, Erai-Yanya believes their current goal is set in our sister world on the opposite side of the sun from us: the world called Geth.”

  Senrid lifted a shoulder. “Not our problem.”

  “It might become our problem,” Tsauderei said. “But you’re right. It isn’t our problem at this moment. I asked Hibern to invite you so that we could exchange information, which we have now done.”

  Senrid eyed him. “That’s it?”

  “Since you Marlovens, for whatever reason, see fit not to establish diplomatic relations with anyone outside your borders, I hoped you would be willing to share any future discoveries. Insights. Threats.” Tsauderei’s sardonic smile was back.

  “The jarls have never agreed to the Eidervaen Accord,” Senrid said. “Yes, I know what it is.” He’d learned of it only recently, but he wasn’t going to admit that. He sensed he was being tested. “In that treaty, ambassadorial residences are deemed part of the country of origin. Our people can’t get past the idea of inviting enemies right into your home to take notes on your defenses.”

  “And you don’t think spies of these potential enemies wouldn’t be doing that?”

  “Of course,” Senrid said, then admitted the truth. “I just learned about it. I don’t know what to think. I’m still trying to learn how to rule what I have, before I figure out stuff we don’t have. And I know I’m not strong enough to force it on the jarls at Convocation, especially since I don’t see what we’d gain. We do have envoys going back and forth for specific purposes.” Senrid walked to the window, then turned abruptly. “So what did you do to Jilo?”

  “Took him straight to a friend of mine, who has in past years made it his mission to battle the former—I hope he stays former—King of the Chwahir. He was going to teach Jilo some magic specific to the Chwahir plight. I know nothing more than that. But when I do, I can see to it that Hibern learns the information, if you’re not in the habit of communicating via notecase.” The old mage dug in a pocket in his fine robe, and pulled out a golden case.

  “I have one,” Senrid said, thinking that Hibern hadn’t told him about the kids’ alliance net, either. Not that it was much use. His gaze met Hibern’s black eyes, and her mouth curled sardonically. Oh, yes, she’d guessed what he was thinking.

  Senrid fought the hot prickles of a blush. “I made my notecase myself. But I rarely use it,” he admitted.

  No surprise there, Tsauderei thought. Like his forebears. Ah, dark magic! So very predictable!

  All Tsauderei said out loud was, “Fair enough.”

  Then Liere breathed, “This is. This is the place. Where you can fly?”

  And Tsauderei watched Senrid turn from a tense bundle of distrust into a boy. “What?” His head turned sharply.

  Liere didn’t waste time on words. She shared memory images from a conversation about Tsauderei’s Valley of Delfina.

  Unaware of that fast mental communication, Tsauderei laughed. “Go ahead.” He gave them the spell.

  The door banged shut behind Senrid and Liere. She stumbled to the edge of the cliff, hands clutched together at her skinny chest as she jumped softly up and down, then her face lifted with joy as she floated gently above the new grass. But Senrid flung himself straight off the cliff, tumbling downward, then swooping up, turning end over end and whooping as he figured out how to control his body in flight.

  Liere flailed after him, her shrill voice like a gull’s cry.

  “Go on,” Tsauderei said to Hibern.

  “I don’t like heights,” she admitted. “Just looking at them makes my stomach turn. A fast ride, I like, because a horse has at least one hoof on the ground.”

  Tsauderei laughed. “Then watch them, and rejoice. My guess is that neither of them remembers what fun really is.”

  * * *

  —

  When they left, Liere transferred with Senrid.

  In his study, Senrid stood looking around, his expression absent. Mildly alarmed, Liere brushed the surface of his unshielded thoughts, to discover a confusion of delight and embarrassment.

  “Senrid?”

  “I hate being stupid.” He turned his head, his face red to the ears. “I keep saying I’m not going to be like my uncle, but then I find out I am.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “In certain ways I have been. Stupid ways.” He threw himself in his chair, giving a jaw-cracking yawn. In order to meet Hibern he’d had to rise earlier than usual. He looked around the sun-filled study, then let out his breath. “Have you ever had so much fun? Ever?”

  “Flying!” She clasped her hands. “It was just like my dreams!”

  “You fly in your dreams?”

  “Oh, y
es. I thought everybody did. Well, I know some do.”

  “I never have,” Senrid said. “Though maybe I will after today.” He paused to consider the thrill in flying so high the lake had looked like another sky below, then falling, no, stooping like a hawk, the air pressing his face so hard his cheeks rippled and he had to close his eyes to the merest slits, then arching his back and flinging his arms out a moment before he’d hit the water, and skimming above the surface so close that splashes stung his face, and he could see his own shadow within arm’s reach. What was it about speed that was so exhilarating? He felt the same when galloping over the open plain. “We have to do that again.”

  “Tsauderei did say we can go back.” Liere looked wistful. “Though I know you don’t like to be away long. Because of your responsibilities.”

  “But that’s just it. That’s one way I’m like my uncle, thinking I daren’t be gone longer than an hour at most. Then when I do go, like transferring to Bereth Ferian to fetch you, I can’t help worrying about what I’ll find when I return. Well, we were gone half a watch, and here we are. I hear the boys in the academy. I can see the sentries strolling on the walls. Nothing’s changed.” He lifted a hand toward the open windows, and the spring air carrying in boys’ voices shouting in cadence.

  Liere sniffed the air, full of spring scents below the ubiquitous scent of horse. She almost didn’t notice that horsey smell anymore.

  “And another thing. That notecase,” Senrid said as he rummaged through the neat piles on his desk. “I forget about it for months on end. Ah.”

  He opened it and grimaced when he discovered two notes inside.

  “I’m going to have to put an alert spell on it,” he muttered as he opened the first note. “Oh. I really am a horseapple.”

  He held out the papers to Liere. One was written in the beautiful script of a scribe, from Karhin, another from Clair of the Mearsieans.

  Inside Clair’s note was another, short, written in Marloven, which Liere could read now.

  Senrid: I am told you are still king. Maybe some day I will come back. But only if I know my father is dead. You and I never really understood one another, or even really liked one another. This makes your having watched out for me mean a lot more, and so I am writing to you what will probably be one last time, to thank you for that. I wish you well, and I hope when you remember me, you will imagine my happiness at having made a life I chose.

  Ndand

  Liere looked up. “This is your missing cousin!”

  “Yes, and I really feel stupid now. Okay, let’s see how bad this other one makes me feel.”

  Senrid read it, and threw it on the desk. “This is the kind of thing I expected. Sort of. That an alliance would mean people might want my army coming in and strutting around and looking tough, or maybe even fighting. To clean up somebody else’s mess. And then we go home again, and everybody hates the villainous Marlovens.”

  Liere said, “That does sound like your uncle.”

  “Except it’s true. That is, in our history it happened over and over again. Both sides of our border.”

  “Did Karhin ask you for fighting?”

  “No. She passed on word from Puddlenose, who says this prince our age wants help with training. Where is Erdrael Danara? Isn’t it one of the little splotches west of the Land of the Chwahir? Hah. There’s ‘Erdrael’ again.”

  Liere said, “Are you going to do it?”

  “I think I need to know more, but listen. There’s Forthan sitting over there in the guard, bored spitless because he has to do his two years patrolling the city. When he was the senior commander in the Academy, part of his duties was to organize the boys. I’ll wager anything he could do that for someone else, what do you think? It might even be fun.”

  “I like him. He’s so nice,” Liere said.

  Forthan’s niceness was not the issue here, but Senrid let that pass. Liere was never going to take any interest in things military. “I was going to put him in charge of handpicking some tightlipped friends to pretend to be Norsundrians and test the defenses of the city. Keriam and I talked about the coin and what it might mean.”

  Senrid snapped the back of his hand up toward the windows, and imaginary Norsundrian spies. “If Detlev decides he wants me, well, this city is where I live, and if it’s the army they want, Choreid Dhelerei has the biggest garrison in Marloven Hess.”

  “Do you think they will attack?” Liere asked, shoulders hunching as she glanced at the windows.

  “If they do want my army, it would be stupid to attack us in force, because all they get is corpses. But if they want to force us to fight for them, then they have to take the commanders, because they have to know that in this kingdom, you obey or you die. So they’ll infiltrate, right? Execute snatch and grabs, then force the commanders to issue orders on behalf of Norsunder?”

  Liere knew he was not expecting an answer.

  He snapped his fingers. “This might even be better. Forthan knows the city. The Norsundrians won’t. What if, at least at first, I ask that foreigner Shevraeth to lead the attacks? He doesn’t know the city, so he’d be looking at it as a stranger. The city would love it,” he added. “When there’s an all-city war game, then I have to pay for the supplies, and the day’s wages, which they almost always turn into a bonfire party at night.”

  Party? Liere mouthed the word. Every time she thought she understood the Marlovens better, something like this would make it clear she didn’t. Maybe she never would.

  Senrid’s pen was already dashing fast, a little grin on his face. So she kept her thoughts to herself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Colend

  BECAUSE Colend was halfway around the world from Mearsies Heili, the three going on the alliance mission—CJ, Seshe, and Puddlenose—had tried to nap during the day, so they’d be awake and alert when transferring at midnight.

  The sudden shift from rainy darkness to the clear midday skies of Colend made the town square of Wilderfeld, decorated with streamers, bunting, and silk flowers, look even brighter. Even if it was too early in spring for actual flowers.

  But even with a dearth of flowers, little could spoil Flower Day.

  Once they recovered from the transfer, the sound of singing drew their attention to a flower-decorated gazebo at the other end of the square. Three people stood there, wearing green and white, their heads crowned by garlands mostly made up of lilies, the Colendi flower.

  Voices rose and fell. “What’s that?” CJ asked, pointing. “Some kind of celebration?”

  “A wedding, looks like,” Puddlenose said.

  CJ peered under her hand. “But there’s three people. And I know they don’t have priests or rabbis or religious guys to do the vows here, that if you want somebody Up There listening . . .” CJ pointed heavenward. “You talk directly to ’em. Or you know they’re already listening. Clair explained it, once, though I still don’t get it.”

  ‘Religious guys.’ Puddlenose shrugged, figuring this had to be another of CJ’s incomprehensible Earth references. “Is there a problem?”

  “Three? I guess weirdness like that is typical of Colend.”

  Seshe hesitated, not liking to contradict a friend, but Puddlenose grinned. “You don’t think it happens right at home in Mearsies Heili?”

  CJ made a gag face. “If by ‘it’ you mean sex, I know all about sex. I heard plenty of jokes on the playground, before I came to this world.” She snorted, then said in a low voice, “If you mean marriage, I didn’t think you could do that with three. On Earth, anyway. And thank goodness! On Earth, marriage really means fighting and arguing, and both take it out on the kids.”

  “I guess marriage is different on Earth than here,” Puddlenose said, with a total lack of interest.

  CJ scowled. Two people or ten, any thought of what she termed ‘mush’ made her squirm with disgust. But she had
come all this way as an ambassador to the alliance, so she squashed down the desire to mutter about how three would only make the arguments louder. “Where’s Thad’s house?”

  “Right across there.” Puddlenose pointed to the rambling two-story house, with a sign hanging that read Wilderfeld Scribes and Messengers. Before they crossed the sward, Puddlenose held out a hand. “Look, CJ. Remember that we’re here to make things easier for Senrid and Terry. I know you haven’t been in Colend since you and Terry were snabbled as hostages by Wan-Edhe.”

  CJ scowled, loathing that memory: being captured along with a boy she’d called Terry—Prince Tereneth of Erdrael Danara. He’d barely survived a political coup before he was captured.

  “I just want to say that if that should come up, Thad and Karhin—really, everyone in Colend—knows that their king is insane. Doesn’t help to talk about it. Okay?”

  “Clair already told me to be diplomatic,” CJ said.

  Puddlenose ducked his head. “Good enough, then.” And led the rest of the way across the grass. He said as they stepped onto the porch, “Today being a festival, all the kids will have freedom from work. Thad said to come straight upstairs.”

  Before they’d gone two steps inside, a slim, graceful teenage girl met them, red braids swinging against her cream-colored scribe student over-robe, her grin wide and merry. “Puddlenose! You’re here!”

  “As promised, Karhin.”

  Before Puddlenose could introduce CJ, Karhin looked up at tall, calm Seshe, dressed in a fine linen long robe over trousers. Seshe was the Mearsiean girls’ peacemaker, along to help in case she was needed. She’d loved beautiful Colend on her previous visit. As Seshe copied Karhin’s peace gesture, Karhin said, “And you brought your princess!”

  Seshe dropped her hands and reddened to the ears, which surprised Puddlenose and CJ both, but Puddlenose said quickly, “CJ’s the princess.” He jerked a thumb her way. “That’s Seshe.”