A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  Six couriers arrived, claiming that half the countryside was on fire. Berthold said after the first three, “You know how wild rumor spreads. I will not have people harming themselves through panic. If Roderic hasn’t sent anyone from the western border, or Berneth from the harbor, then there is no real news. Just countryside gossip.”

  Mersedes Carinna tried to believe it until the fourth report, then she took her husband by the shoulders. “Are you certain this is mere gossip? Or is that what you want to believe, so strongly you are trying to make it true through will?”

  Berthold covered her hands with his own. She saw in the quick flicker of his eyelids, the jut of his beard, that her guess was right, and she intuited with a thrill of sorrow that he couldn’t let himself believe it, because he did not know what to do other than what he had already done.

  And so she kissed him, then said, “I hope it’s true.” She kissed him again, harder, because he was a man underneath the trappings of kingship, a man enduring as much fear as his subjects. More, because they looked to him for a way out. And he had no one to look to.

  She ran her hands up his sides to cup his face. “I’ll feel better when we hear from Roderic.” A third kiss.

  A clatter of footsteps announced another arrival; the king’s head turned slightly, and she excused herself and sped to her own rooms.

  When she came out, she had changed into a riding outfit of dark blue velvet, and had bound up her hair under her coronet. She headed toward the stable, where she nearly collided with Rel.

  “The harbor is on fire,” he began, and coughed.

  “You’re the sixth person to come in with that news,” she said.

  “Why isn’t anyone doing anything?” Rel was too exhausted to be diplomatic.

  “Because we thought it was rumor. Until now. I was about to ride out to find Roderic myself, but I think that shall have to wait. Rel, if you will help me, it’s time to rouse the city. I’ll wrangle with the nobles, who’ll be watching one another, and talking absurdities about standing and fighting, as if—like my darling son thinks—war with Norsunder will be the same as the Knights’ martial displays, only better. Because it’s an enemy you can really hate.”

  Rel was hesitant to agree, but she saw in his lowered gaze what he thought to hide, and she went on, “If you’ll begin with the merchants and the older sections. Tell them to take refuge in the hills. It is where we traditionally went, back in the bad old days when the Venn raided up and down this coast. They couldn’t kill people they couldn’t find. Remind people of that, but if they argue, move on.”

  Rel held the back of a chair. “Understood.”

  “I see how tired you are, and if we survive this, you shall be awarded a medal you will probably be embarrassed by, and a grant of land that you won’t use.”

  Her smile trembled, and sorrow constricted her heart at the thought of what the destruction of Ferdrian would do to Berthold. If it came to that. She would rather be the foolish queen who sent the populace of the capital scrambling for the hills than a queen reigning over ghosts. “I’ll send another equerry to Roderic, in case your Kessler ordered someone to cut off any communication between us and the Knights flanking Henerek’s last position.”

  She compressed her lips, longing to go kiss her darling, difficult children, but she knew that Tahra would push her away, then feel guilty, and Glenn would fret about his duty as a warrior prince, arguing and sulking, because those emotions were easier to bear than helpless anxiety. “Before you go, please help Puddlenose get my children out of the country. I think they’ll listen to you boys quicker than they will to me. If Puddlenose still has the boat he told us about, it would be perfect. You know the path to take, the Knights’ trail through the northern forest. Norsunder will probably avoid that, in the unlikelihood they even know about it. Difficult to maneuver in.”

  “Done,” he said.

  Mersedes pressed his hands, then dashed away.

  Rel forced himself down the hall to the heirs’ wing.

  He found all four youths together, the boys clustered around Tahra. They all turned, their expressions so individual: Glenn sulky, Tahra stolid-faced, Puddlenose lazily smiling except for his watchful eyes, Christoph clearly wishing himself elsewhere.

  “You look like you fought a war all by yourself,” Christoph said, running a hand through his short blond curls so they stuck up all over his head. His expression was the habitual mild one, but Rel recognized in that swift gesture the frustration he sought to hide.

  Tahra scowled at the ground, unsettled because the world was breaking into angles and uneven numbers, all murky, muddy shades. That morning she’d received a note from the scribe student Piper that their mutual courier friend, who had been translating Tahra’s notes into good Sartoran before sending them on to Thad, was dead, killed at the harbor. No one knew when it had happened, but Tahra could assume that any notes she’d written had not been sent on.

  Not three glasses after, her notecase, silent for so many weeks, had ‘tapped’ again. Before Rel could answer Christoph, she said, “I just got a note from Hibern, who was requested by the Queen of Sartor to ask if you are all right.” She nodded at Rel, eyes wide with curiosity.

  “Atan?” Rel stopped short. “Is she all right?”

  “She and many others of the alliance are in the Valley of Delfina,” Tahra said. She was embarrassed to admit that she hadn’t written directly to any of them because she didn’t want them to see her mistakes in Sartoran.

  “Cowards,” Glenn sneered. “Hiding. They don’t have anyone locking them in the nursery wing.”

  It didn’t take more than a breath to figure out the truth: Glenn wanted any excuse to go riding off to war, which he believed would be won by the daunting presence of that golden circlet on his brow, and the king had tasked Puddlenose to use his ingenuity to keep the prince in the palace, out from under everyone’s feet.

  No wonder the queen wasn’t there herself. Glenn would spend the entire war arguing with his mother while Ferdrian was attacked from all sides.

  Tahra gave a short nod. “Maybe someone ought to send an official letter to that snot Conrad, that the Queen of Sartor is thinking of us, at least.”

  “What?” Rel asked, remembering the difficult prince from Imar. “What’s he done now?”

  “Nothing,” Tahra and Glenn said together, Tahra adding, “They’re supposed to come to our aid. But haven’t. I think it’s because he’s so high and mighty.”

  “I hate that soul-sucker,” Glenn snarled.

  While Rel tried to find a way to shift the subject, Tahra said indignantly, “He thinks we Delieths are upstarts, because our dynasty is only four centuries old, and we were originally a fisher fleet.”

  “As if Winstanhaeme is as old as Landis,” Glenn said, kicking the rungs of Tahra’s chair.

  “Stop that,” she said irritably. “They aren’t. Their throne has changed hands more often than ours, and the Haeme family was from Sartor, yes, but only through a cousin who had nothing to do with . . .”

  As she went on detailing the minutiae of family history that no one else cared about, Rel decided this was his chance.

  “As it happens,” he said as soon as Tahra stopped to draw breath, “I know that the Queen of Sartor would personally invite you to her. . .” He glanced at Glenn. “To her strategic retreat. Her royal retreat.” And because he suspected the underlying cause of Tahra’s lack of communication, “If you’ll permit me to function as your secretary, I’ll write to her and I can assure you of a royal invitation to join her.”

  He saw the effect of these words on the siblings. He knew that most royal children, at least in the south, were taught ‘pure’ Sartoran. But lessons in a language they didn’t use daily didn’t make them fluent. Tahra had asked him countless questions ever since she found out he spoke the language.

  “You can send it in my
notecase,” Tahra said. “If you know the sigil to send a letter to the Queen of Sartor.”

  “I do,” Rel said. “And if you’ll teach me your sigil, so she can write back, I’ll send a note right now.”

  Rel took up a pen, and sat down at a little distance. Puddlenose, judging correctly that Rel did not want anyone overseeing his words, said to Glenn, “So what would you do to lead the defense?”

  Glenn had taken a few steps toward Rel. He turned back. “I wish Uncle Roderic would ask that, instead of you. If they listened to me, we would have been rid of Henerek weeks ago. All it takes is a charge with lances . . .”

  A short time later, Rel handed Tahra her notecase, shoved the token that had been wrapped with Atan’s answer deep into a pocket, and said, “It’s even better than I thought. You can write to Prince Conrad that you’re invited to visit the Queen of Sartor in the Valley of Delfina. She is in company with several other young rulers. Such as the King of Marloven Hess.”

  Glenn’s head came up at that. “He’s there?”

  “Discussing strategy,” Rel said, figuring it had to be true from what little he knew of Senrid. “The Queen of Sartor’s issued you an immediate invitation. They’ll send transfer tokens to your notecase, Tahra, once they make them.” He took a chance. “But you’d better leave the palace now, because the tokens might not get here before the imminent attack.”

  Glenn said warily, “But my parents? My father might still permit me to ride in command of a company.”

  “Before I came to this suite I encountered your mother. There are no companies in need of leaders at present, and I believe she would appreciate your making diplomatic connections.” With every word Rel felt he was treading closer to becoming the kind of liar he despised. Back to the truth—though the truth they most wanted to hear. “In the Valley are two kings, a queen, and a couple of princesses. All your age. In the alliance. Discussing countermeasures against Norsunder.”

  Glenn grinned. “Finally someone will listen to me! Let’s go.”

  Tahra looked puzzled. “Mother? Wants us to go?”

  “You know they will be pleased to hear you taking diplomatic initiative,” Puddlenose said, hands out wide. “And you also know they aren’t going to let either of you pick up swords. So why not do what you can? Impress them with your resourcefulness?”

  “If we leave now, we can reach the coast by nightfall,” Christoph put in. “Where we have hidden a fast sailcraft. Why not grab a suitable outfit or two? But no more than you can carry. We’ll go by a secret path, because Norsunder would like nothing better than to capture the two of you.”

  Secret path and the risk of capture? Glenn’s expression changed from stubborn to enthusiastic, and the royal pair departed.

  Puddlenose turned to Rel. “Captain Heraford said he’d be following us from a circumspect distance. If those tokens take a while to make, we can return the boat to him. It’ll be tight, with five of us.” He grimaced.

  “I’ll sleep on deck,” Christoph said hastily.

  “Just four of you.” Rel quickly outlined what Mersedes Carinna had requested of him. Then, “So I’d better get to it. Tell Tahra and Glenn I have courier duty. To the merchants,” he added, thinking of Glenn.

  Rel ran out, breathing a sigh of relief. He spotted a half-eaten meal sitting in the outer chamber, and paused long enough to pick up a chicken pie, a peach, and a hunk of cheese. He devoured the food as he ran.

  He wondered if he should begin with the royal palace, but discovered the queen was ahead of him there. The Sandrial family and all their subordinates, who had been stewards for the Delieths as long as Delieths had been in the royal palace, were buzzing about like bees in a hive, packing for evacuation.

  When he reached the high street, the alarm bells in the palace began to ring. People emerged from houses and shops, making his task easier at first: they spotted his mud-splashed white tabard, and crowded around.

  Rel repeated over and over, “The queen orders . . .” which they responded to with endless questions.

  He answered as patiently as he could, but by the time darkness closed in, he saw that he’d not even completed one street.

  He pushed on until he stumbled over the low threshold of an empty house. He sat down with his back to the wall to rest . . . and woke up with an aching head, a fiery thirst, and a driving urgency to carry out his orders.

  * * *

  —

  Rel worked his way from house to house, and street to street, repeating the same words until they leeched of meaning in his head. The responses fell into patterns: pleading, angry, bewildered. Some were shouted in his face, as if asking more forcefully would bring a different answer.

  And some he couldn’t answer, like “Why didn’t the king deal with them earlier?” and “I thought the Knights were invincible!”

  When he got to the narrower streets, many people had already heard gossip and had evacuated. He found a woman hastily washing dishes, as if leaving a clean house would somehow guarantee order when she returned. Halfway down the otherwise empty street, he found a family setting up defenses, determined to protect their shop and home. As he moved on, he had to help carry bushel baskets of belongings, tie down furniture jumbled onto carts, and lift squalling children after harassed elders.

  “I’ve lived here girl to widow,” an old woman declared, her voice wavering. “And my grandmothers before me. No one crosses this threshold without my permission!”

  Rel tried to argue, but the woman shook her head. “Where would I go? How would I travel? I can barely walk to market each day.”

  “If you come with me to Prince Solenn Road going east, someone will help you,” Rel said. “I’ll find you someone with an extra corner in their wagon or cart if you’ll come now.” But she shook her head and shut the door in his face.

  He’d been at it a couple days by the time he began finding more empty side streets. Through the middle of the city the royal road leading north toward the mountain filled with streams of people bearing baskets and parcels, and the occasional wagon loaded with the elderly and young, furniture, and baskets of food. Most of those were pulled by family cows, or goats, for all horses had long since been commandeered; many carts were pulled by the families who owned them.

  Rel forced himself to the last street at the extreme west end of the city. Darkness had fallen once again, broken by no lights anywhere. He walked into the open door of a cottage, and sank down into a chair by the cold hearth. He leaned on the table next to the chair, which cradled his aching body, the cushions shaped by a generation of some unknown family.

  He only meant to rest his eyes a moment . . .

  Chapter Thirteen

  Delfina Valley and Everon

  FLYING was the most wonderful sensation in the world, but Liere discovered that she missed smells. If the wind shifted one way, she could catch a pine scent, and the other way, snow. But it wasn’t anything like walking on a road and sniffing fresh bread baking, or wildflowers, or the fragrance of soil and grass just after a rain. Still, she thought as she followed the swarm swooping, diving, chasing, and laughing, she wanted to remember every sensation concerned with flying, because Atan had said this was the only place in the entire world that had this magic. There were, she said, flying people in another range of very high mountains, but you had to be born one.

  Liere flew with the chase games to be part of the group, but she never tried to catch anyone, and never tried to be the target. It was more fun to watch the ones who were the most graceful.

  She was watching when Tsauderei came out of his cottage and took to the air. He was another who became graceful in flight. Liere watched him go to Derek, which surprised her, because usually the two avoided one another. She realized then that she might be snooping instead of watching, and so she flew in another direction.

  Tsauderei was not aware of her scrutiny. He had considered
everything going on, and decided it was time to try talking to Derek. Derek, Senrid, and Leander had been leaving more frequently.

  To Tsauderei’s surprise, Derek came willingly, and he wondered if this apparent cooperation was due to Derek having his own set of demands.

  As soon as they stepped inside the cottage, weight mercilessly pulled Tsauderei’s bones. He winced as he sat. Joint pain made him more irascible than he’d intended to be as he eyed Derek standing there, arms crossed, head at a wary angle, then said bluntly, “You know Peitar would hate your risking yourself, so we’ll take that as a given. But what you might not know is that both Leander and Senrid are kings, which is something Siamis could use against their kingdoms if they get caught.”

  Derek’s eyes widened. “Impossible.”

  Tsauderei snorted, his mustache fluttering. “Go right ahead and ask.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Right next to each other. Of course Leander’s Vasande Leror has, as far as I know, one tiny town, and the rest of it isn’t any bigger than one of the middling counties here in western Sarendan. But Marloven Hess . . . you may have heard of it.”

  Derek frowned. “Kessler talked about a regent who . . .” He stopped. “Senrid’s the crown prince?”

  “He’s been king for a couple years now.”

  Derek shook his head. “He doesn’t talk or act like any king. Why, when he joined my orphans at morning drill, he went to the back. No prince or king would do that.”

  “Ask him. Or don’t. I don’t care. My point remains, if you keep pestering them to go with you into Sarendan, you’re risking more than you think. And that goes double for snatching Lilah, if she’s being held at the palace, which has to be laced with magical traps. Wait until I can go.”

  “Why can’t you go now?” Derek tipped his head the other way.

  “Because we need to free more mages, so that we can break the Siamis enchantment at the same time, all over the world. Then it won’t matter if breaking it brings Siamis at the run.”