A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  Yet when the sun was out, he couldn’t bear to be inside. Sometimes he left through the window, because he could. He still didn’t like the idea of putting himself into the deep waters of the lake. He had only swum in small ponds during the Shadowland days. He watched from above as other kids swam, always staying away from the far end, where some kind of noxious flowers grew.

  And the food! Goat cheese was familiar, but the flavor, so delicate and delicious, wasn’t. Jilo knew that this was because the goats ate sweet grass and clover, far better than the bitter, drought-tough weeds eaten by Chwahir goats.

  All the food was delicious.

  But by the end of that second night the questions began to proliferate, bringing back the old worries: was Chwahirsland safer with him home, or away? If he returned, what could he actually do, if Wan-Edhe was sent back from Norsunder?

  He checked the book convulsively. That raised more worries: what if someone found the book? Tsauderei had said that the Valley was laced with very deep protections, ancient ones impossible now to reproduce—like the flying spell. No one could do any sort of magic without Tsauderei knowing. Creating a tiny pocket beyond space and time was (this surprised Jilo to discover) considered a major piece of magical working, and Tsauderei would know immediately. Did that mean he’d know what was in the book? Or demand to know?

  The last worry was what would happen when the Mearsieans showed up and found him (ostensibly) part of their alliance. Or maybe they’d think him only a refugee, as Tsauderei did. In all his talk, the old mage never mentioned the alliance, whereas he was clear about this valley having served as a refuge from Norsunder many times in the past.

  The third morning, Jilo woke to the sound of high girlish voices elsewhere in the house. He decided he’d better get it over with, dressed, and went downstairs, to discover the Mearsieans newly arrived.

  “Jilo! You here?” Falinneh exclaimed, echoed by others.

  Falinneh pointed and laughed, almost doubled over, at the idea of Jilo in normal clothes. She didn’t intend to be mean, but he just looked so . . . so odd!

  Several laughed, surprised to see a Chwahir in anything but rusty black, except for Seshe, the tall quiet girl, who studied Jilo’s mottled face and said, “I think it looks nice.”

  “Yes!” CJ said, bright blue eyes going from Jilo to the tall girl and back. “That is a pretty shirt. Where did you get it?”

  Now they all stared at Jilo. He cringed inside, waiting for the punch line of the joke. Or was she accusing him of theft? Of course they were making fun of him. They always had. He’d never understood those girls and their fast games and slang.

  CJ tried again. She said to Jilo, “Did that grunge-bearded geez of a king splat back on the throne?”

  Jilo stared back, and by the time he understood she meant Wan-Edhe, CJ thought he was ignoring her, and turned away to join the other girls crowding protectively around Clair, all talking at once, as they left the house and took off like a flock of starlings to experiment with flying over the lake.

  Jilo fled back to his room, ripped off the green silky shirt, put it through the cleaning frame, then put it at the very bottom of the trunk.

  When he was back in his old clothes, he took off again, his intention to avoid any encounters at all by exploring the limits of the flying area.

  On his return mid-afternoon, he angled down to the open bedroom window, where he surprised Senrid and a tall, thin, dark-haired boy startlingly symmetrical of feature. No, not just symmetrical, it was the way he was put together. Was this what people called ‘handsome’? Jilo discovered an urge to draw him in order to figure out what compelled the eye.

  Senrid whirled around, one hand going to the other sleeve, then dropping when he recognized Jilo. “Tsauderei told us to bunk in here with you. They expect to fill up the other rooms. This is Leander.”

  “Jilo.”

  “Well met,” Leander said pleasantly.

  Jilo didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that, so he mumbled something and retreated to his side of the room. He’d learned from Senrid that Vasande Leror was a tiny kingdom next to Marloven Hess, and that its king was a boy named Leander. These two who were historically supposed to be enemies worked together to sling a canvas hammock between candle sconces on adjoining walls. It took the effort of both boys to get the thing stable, after which began a friendly argument about who was to get the second bed, and who the hammock.

  Senrid said, “Look, the way we’ve got this thing hung, whoever is in it is going to have their knees up by their ears. Since you’re taller than I am by at least a hand, that means you’ll hang lower, right? I don’t want your butt directly over my head. If you fart, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “So you put your head at that end of the bed,” Leander pointed out. “And we’ll cinch this hammock up tighter.” He moved to the sconces and efficiently retied the hammock at both ends.

  Then Senrid leaped up and landed in the hammock, which swung dangerously. The way he grinned, it was clear he liked it, and Leander gave up, throwing his travel pack on the bed.

  The two born princes acted more like the lowest recruits as they took turns swinging in the hammock and trying to launch themselves from it to the open window. Jilo watched, fascinated; they laughed as one or the other got tangled in the hammock, or knocked into the windowsill or wall.

  When Leander got himself successfully out the window, he let out a whoop of triumph, then circled back and peered inside, arms swinging as he tried to stabilize himself midair. “I’ll never use a door again,” he predicted. “While I’m here. I should probably make sure Kitty is all right, and then how about some exploring? I want to get used to this.”

  “Your sister will be happy as a bird as long as I’m not around,” Senrid predicted, to which Leander flashed a wry smile. “I’ll catch up.” And to Jilo, as Leander skimmed away over the treetops, arms waving awkwardly, “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

  Senrid said impatiently, “You’ve got two magic study books there on the table. That means you’ve got the enemy-tracking book hidden somewhere. Mattress? Another room? Come on, that’s what I would have done.”

  Jilo grimaced and pulled the book from under the mattress.

  “I want to see where the head snakes are.”

  Jilo opened the book. “Wan-Edhe, no sign. Siamis is in Roth Drael. Roth Drael?”

  Senrid’s stomach hurt. “Where Erai-Yanya and Hibern live. He’s probably trying to track them down, if he found out they’re the ones who discovered the antidote to his enchantment.”

  “Detlev, still nothing,” Jilo said.

  “I wonder if our guess is right,” Senrid mused.

  “Going out of the world?”

  “Hibern told us that Erai-Yanya thinks he’s gone back to Geth-deles. You know, our sister world, the one we never see in the sky because it’s always on the other side of the sun. Though I’m told they call us Darkside.”

  “Hope he stays there,” Jilo said.

  “No.” Senrid struck the air as if pushing something away from him. “Don’t you see? If he’s there, and not here handing out commands right and left, then it has to mean he’s on the hunt for some kind of magical weapon he can come back and hammer us with.”

  Jilo considered, then said, “If he is, what can we do about it?”

  “Probably nothing.” Senrid scowled. “But I have to know.”

  Jilo was more concerned about the book, and how Senrid had hustled his friend out the window so he could ask about it. Hoping this would prevent trouble, instead of starting it, he said, “Well, you know where I keep it. Look at it any time you like. Just don’t let anyone see it.”

  “I can’t read your language. And it’s probably as well,” Senrid said so quickly that Jilo eyed him uncertainly. “Can I tell Leander?”

  Jilo grimaced. “I don’t k
now him.”

  “I do. You can trust him.” Senrid’s smile was not particularly humorous. “He’s far more trustworthy than I am, but the Mearsieans will tell you that’s not saying much. Though they like him.”

  “I wouldn’t ask the Mearsieans anything,” Jilo retorted, mentally excepting Clair. And maybe the tall one, Seshe. Maybe. If only he’d had a real twi! How did anyone figure these things out about people? “All right. But only him.”

  “One more,” Senrid said. “Only one. Hibern. When she gets here. She’s very good with secrets.”

  Jilo thought he may as well give in now. “Done. That’s it.”

  “Come on. Show us around.”

  * * *

  —

  In the Valley, Atan and Derek existed as polar opposites.

  Derek’s Sarendan orphans had been taken in by Valley families on the central plateau. Derek drilled them each morning, his determination no more ferocious than theirs.

  Derek’s anger at his failure had gradually metamorphosed into anger at his lack of training. There were times when he held imaginary conversations with King Darian, whom he had helped to oust, as he lay restlessly in bed through long nights. “I understand now why you wanted the army alert and ready,” he once admitted. “You were right. You were right.”

  At the extreme western end of the Valley, almost not in the Valley at all, lay a single cottage tucked up on a cliff amid thick forest. In centuries past, this was where mages who required solitary tranquility had been housed, leaving a formidable magic library almost as good as Tsauderei’s.

  Atan had spent her childhood secluded in that house, and here she was again, only without Gehlei, the faithful steward who moved about in an enchanted dream-state in Eidervaen.

  Atan wept a great deal those first few days, missing Gehlei and worrying about everyone else; she wept about the hard irony of her ending up back here in this cottage that never quite stopped smelling of mold no matter how vigorously she scrubbed every surface. And she did scrub, but restoring clean and shining order did not take away the truth: she had lost Sartor as assuredly as her father had. At least no one had died on a battlefield. The Siamis enchantment had been broken once before, and by a ten-year-old. That meant it could be broken again. Just not by her.

  Tsauderei came to visit her those first couple of mornings. He told her about the shy Chwahir boy who had apparently assumed an infamous throne. But this Jilo did not appear, and Atan was too dispirited to seek him out. What had she to offer him, save lessons in how to lose a throne?

  When Tsauderei came the third morning, he said, “Sinking into self-pity isn’t going to do you or anyone else any good. Use those skills of yours. Find Jilo, because he really needs help.”

  She grimaced. “I keep trying to overcome—to plan—but it’s impossible.”

  Tsauderei lifted his hand, gnarled as an apple tree. “Choose a happy memory. Sometimes mine are my best companions. Think of your Sartor in celebration, after the enchantment broke. Imagine how it will be when everyone is free, and you’ve helped to make it that way.”

  She admitted, “I’ve tried to walk the Purrad in my mind, and I remember every step and turn, but it hurts. I don’t feel I deserve its peace.”

  “Tchah!” Tsauderei’s expression was so explosive his long, snowy mustache fluttered. “That is exactly why those things were built. You dishonor their purpose, child, with this mood.”

  He left, and she promptly sat down to make a napurdiav in memory.

  He was right. If she approached it the way she ought, walking it mentally did lift her spirits. As soon as she was done, she left the cottage, flying by habit toward the village plateau. But when she recognized Derek Diamagan down there, leading children in some kind of exercise with sticks, she couldn’t bear to risk his sneers about royal blood and failure, and she retreated again.

  She tried again on another day, flying well away from the main plateau. When she caught sight of a group of girls flying over the lake, she slowed and hovered. The one who drew the attention by cartwheeling in a gleefully awkward, limb-flapping manner was a redhead in bright, mismatched clothing. Prominent in the admiring circle were a girl with pure white hair and a smaller one with long black hair.

  Sharp disappointment caused Atan to recoil when she recognized the Mearsieans, the Rel-haters. And no word or sign of Rel for months.

  Atan retreated to her cottage once again, too angry to attempt a false napurdiav. So she pulled out a book at random to study.

  Her solitary struggle was summarily broken early one morning a few days later, when Tsauderei reappeared, this time towing a figure burrowed in a heavy coat still sparking with melting snow.

  “Hibern!” Atan exclaimed.

  Hibern smiled, making a mental note to remember what she could say and what she couldn’t say. That morning, Erai-Yanya had told her, Now that the antidote is out there, Tsauderei will do much better at herding the cats, that is, dealing with the senior mages, than I ever could. I am going back to Geth-deles. My quest is even more urgent than it was before, and I believe that Roth Drael isn’t safe—Siamis might show up looking for the dyr. Tsauderei invites you to join him in the Valley. But remember, no mention of the antidote until he has the senior mages ready to deploy it.

  Forestalling possible questions from Atan, Hibern looked around with an air of interest. “So this is your famous cottage? I would never have left, if I had a library like that.”

  “Come, get rid of that coat,” Atan said. “Where did you come from? Have you eaten?”

  “I was up north. Oh, it’s a long story. One thing I can say is, I found Arthur and Liere, and gave them transfer tokens. They should be along soon.”

  Tsauderei said, “Show her around, Atan. There are some friends who have been waiting to meet you, but dislike imposing.”

  Atan studied the old mage, who smiled back, the diamond in his ear winking in the light of the fire on the hearth. “What does that mean, they think I’m a snob? Too good for everyone else, is that it?”

  Tsauderei did not deny it. “Prove them wrong.”

  Chastened, Atan frowned down at her hands. ‘Friends.’ Such an easy word to say, but what did it really mean? She knew that her prejudice against the Mearsiean girls was wrong. Rel had said himself that they were his friends. He hadn’t explained how he could be friends with that loudmouthed princess who complained about him behind his back, but Atan struggled to dismiss her own prejudice. They were allies against the evil of Norsunder. They had to work together.

  “Very well, then.” She forced a smile. “The one bad thing about this cottage, buried in the woods as it is, it never gets any sunlight.” She indicated the leaping fire. “So getting outside will be good, especially if the weather is fine.”

  “It is right now,” Tsauderei said. “Which probably won’t be true by afternoon. So. I have to see about making arrangements for the kitchen at Selenna House, now that we’re gathering quite a crowd there. And troll for news,” he added.

  Atan remembered the Sartoran mage council, yet again caught in a web of magic, and the familiar sick sense of humiliation and defeat tightened around her heart. She caught a sympathetic glance from Hibern. That much, at least, Atan could share. “Do you truly want to hear it?” she asked.

  They’d reached the ledge, and as Hibern made the sign for flying, she wrinkled her upper lip. “Please tell me everything. Then I don’t have to think about how much I really, really hate heights. Especially with nothing below my feet but air.”

  Atan unburdened herself as they floated above cliff and crevasse. Hibern listened in sympathy, severely tempted to reveal that the Siamis enchantment could be broken, but she had to keep her promise not to talk about it. It won’t be long, Erai-Yanya had promised.

  Presently they approached the village on the main plateau. Atan would have veered away, but Hibern caught sight of famili
ar figures. “Hold, isn’t that Senrid?”

  They were unnoticed by the orphan brigade, who formed up into their lines, as they did every morning at dawn.

  The girls watched from above as Senrid sauntered up. “Is this open to anyone?” he asked. He missed his morning exercise.

  “Sure,” Sig said, remembering how Derek always welcomed new people. He added, “Your accent is funny.”

  Ruddy put in, “You must be one of the foreigners that old geez said might come.”

  “Yep,” Senrid said.

  Someone else shouted, “Derek is coming!”

  The lines instantly straightened, and the orphans began doing the warm-up arm swings that they always began with. Senrid took up a place in the back row.

  Red-haired Falinneh of the Mearsieans emerged early from Selenna House, seeking breakfast. She always flew over the big plateau if she saw people. When she spotted those uniform lines, most of them boys, drilling in unison, the urge to have some fun with them was irresistible.

  She landed in the front, and promptly began copying the drill with loud groans, groaning, making popping noises as if her joints creaked, and falling down.

  The rest of the Mearsieans streamed after her.

  Derek had pulled a small boy out to demonstrate a better grip on his sticks, and hadn’t noticed the addition. When he looked up, irritation flared through him at this garishly dressed urchin making fun of his war refugees. He started toward her, hot words forming, when the rest of the Mearsieans landed.

  He glanced their way, then his head snapped back when he recognized CJ.

  From the air, Atan and Hibern watched as Derek Diamagan made a profound bow to CJ.

  The orphans, knowing how Derek felt about bowing, gaped.

  CJ flushed, at first suspecting she was being ridiculed. She gazed warily at Derek, her chin lifted. Then her lips parted. “Don’t . . . I know you?” she asked.