A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  Derek left, brooding. He wasted a breath or two thinking that Tsauderei had to be lying, but why would he? He floated in the sky, watching from a distance as the others played, Senrid faster than anyone except Bren, and better at directing others. Maybe Senrid was like CJ, with no pretenses. Even though he’d been born a prince. As Derek watched Senrid, the thought occurred that if Senrid was really a king, then he could not just talk to whoever was in charge of the Marloven academy, he could make them accept Derek there, so he could learn all they had to teach.

  He decided to put it to Senrid after they’d rescued the rest of the kids. But, mindful of Tsauderei’s threat, he waited until nighttime, when the boys showed up to plan the next foray.

  “You two are kings,” he said. “Maybe you should stay here.”

  Senrid rolled his eyes, looking pained. “Someone got gabby, huh? Look, I’ve already had this argument. I carry a transfer token with me. If I catch a whiff of Norsunder around, I’ll be out of there faster than a heartbeat.”

  “Most of us are rulers of some sort,” Leander said amicably. “That’s what our alliance is.” He held up his hand. “But Senrid and I are both trained in magic. We’ll get out if we have to.”

  Derek grinned. I tried, Tsauderei. “Then let’s get back to planning . . .”

  * * *

  —

  They decided to rescue the remainder of the Derek’s orphan brigade in one day. Mindful of the kingship argument, Leander and Senrid recruited Hibern and Arthur to help. This meant talking Jilo into letting Arthur in on the secret of the book. He gave in reluctantly.

  At the other end of the Valley, Atan received a slightly peculiar note from Tahra, stating that they were now sailing aboard a little boat called a tender, and that as soon as they sank the land below the horizon, she and her brother Glenn would use the transfer tokens.

  Afternoon had shifted the shadows from west to east when two figures were spotted on the grassy Destination outside of Tsauderei’s cottage. Atan and the study group went to welcome them.

  They found a pair of dark-haired, sallow-complexioned young teens recovering from the transfer. Atan led in speaking words of welcome, then they went around the circle introducing themselves.

  Tahra stared from one to the next through droopy gooseberry eyes, marking a connection to the Landis family in her background, then said flatly, “I promised Puddlenose I would tell you that he will come after he sails the tender back to the ship it belongs to.”

  Glenn waited for her to finish, then stated, “Now that my sister is safe, I’ll wait here until Rel sends for me. I told my father I’ll lead any company whose commander has fallen.”

  Silence fell, some exchanging looks, then Arthur said easily, “Why don’t we show you where you can stay for now?”

  And so the Delieths joined the group.

  * * *

  —

  On the surface, that week was uneventful, at first even cordial. Glenn stopped talking wildly about war and duty after a short, pungently expressed set of questions from Senrid about numbers, terrain, and tactical observations, none of which Glenn could answer. After Senrid, with trenchant cheer, admitted that he wouldn’t know what to do himself, Glenn stopped talking about commanding wars and contented himself with counting up how many had titles, and ignoring anyone who didn’t.

  The first evidence of strain occurred when Kitty offered to introduce the Everoneth siblings to the famous Sartora; on hearing herself addressed that way, Liere sidled off as quickly as she could, but not before she heard CJ say, “Sartora was great at world-rescuing one time. But I guess even she can’t do it again, in spite of all those mind powers.”

  It was no more than the truth, but CJ’s sharp disappointment acted like a whip to the spirit.

  The second bad moment occurred a couple mornings into the newcomers’ stay, when Glenn discovered the orphan drill. If Senrid had gotten there first, things might have gone differently; as it was, Glenn landed, surveyed the plainly dressed, barefoot orphans, then marched with princely assurance to the front.

  Faen, one of the orphans’ leaders, gathered a couple of the bigger boys with a glance, and all three summarily muscled Glenn to the back row with unnecessary vigor. “Beginners start here,” Faen said.

  “But I’m Prince Glenn Delieth of Everon,” Glenn said in a reasonable tone. “Should we not go in order of rank?”

  “Well, I’m Lord High Emperor of the Brick-Layers, so I go first,” Faen retorted, to gusts of laughter from the orphans.

  “And I’m King of the Silversmith Prentices, so I’m next,” Ruddy added, prompting more laughter.

  Derek stood to the side, arms crossed, and smiled to see the arrogant young prince get the trimming he deserved.

  When Glenn saw Derek’s smirk, and realized that he was not going to interfere, he flew away in disgust, and never came back.

  * * *

  —

  Hibern’s morning flights had changed.

  Senrid now attended the orphan drill every morning, rather than flying with her and Atan, but Liere had taken his place. Liere was now living in the hermit’s cottage with Hibern and Atan.

  One morning the three flew out at dawn to watch the sun rise over Sartor far beyond the mountains.

  “You’re both unhappy,” Atan observed after a very long silence. She did not want to point out that they looked as unhappy as she felt during this protracted waiting.

  Hibern said, “I think it’s this waiting. Though I know it’s necessary, it isn’t good for us. The alliance, I mean. There are some of us who are used to acting on their own, and, well, I’m afraid the alliance is in trouble.”

  Liere said solemnly, “CJ is angry with me. But I can hear her trying so hard not to be. It’s that she wants so strongly for me to be a hero. But I’m not. I try to stay out of her way. I’m sorry if my being here makes the trouble.”

  “It doesn’t,” Hibern said quickly. “And CJ isn’t the only problem in their group.”

  All three girls glanced across the valley to Selenna house, where some of the Mearsieans sat on the roof eating breakfast. Sitting with them, her silken skirts spread around her, was Leander’s stepsister Kyale, her silvery hair a shining fall down her back. Kyale, who veered between wanting to be called Princess Kyale and Kitty, reminded Liere of spun glass—beautiful to look at, but fragile, and sharp-edged.

  Atan contemplated Kyale’s penchant for sticking to CJ’s side, trying hard to create an inner circle exclusively made up of princesses. CJ seemed typically oblivious, trying a little too hard to organize group games whether others wanted to play or not.

  Hibern said, “At least Jilo seems to like studying light magic with Arthur. And I was glad to see Clair joining them.”

  “Who wants to wager,” Atan said with a smile, “they’re over there right now, half the breakfast things set out.”

  “Water filled, but the fire forgotten,” Hibern suggested.

  “Bread sliced, but nobody remembered to make the toast.”

  Liere chuckled soundlessly. “Yesterday I saw Arthur with the jam pot beside his dish, and a knife, and no bread. Then he got up and went off with Jilo to study something horrible called mirror wards, thinking breakfast was over.”

  “His theoretical breakfast was over,” Atan commented.

  “What are mirror wards, anyway?” Liere added, with a thoughtful glance.

  Atan grimaced. “I don’t understand them at all, except that this is very, very dangerous magic.”

  Hibern said, “Imagine a mirror behind a candle sconce. You’ve seen that, right?” At Liere’s cautious nod, “Well, the magic reflects the image, doubling the power. Especially if you are strong enough to make interlocking mirror wards, in effect breaking the connection between real and unreal, just as the flame in the candle is real, but the one in the mirror isn’t. And yet it reflects li
ght.”

  “This,” Atan said, “is how dark magic distorts time and place. And if you also draw on life itself, you are on the way to creating Norsunder.”

  “I’m sorry I asked,” Liere whispered, and dove down in an effect to let the wind scour away the horror.

  But it went right along with her, so she willed it away, and as she, Atan, and Hibern finished their circuit all around the valley, Liere turned her attention to her surroundings in order to impress all the details she could into her mind: the little goats hopping along steep slopes, juts of striated rock glistening in the sun, wildflowers of colors she had no names for. She wanted these memories to show up in dreams, after she had to leave. And nothing about mirror wards.

  They finished, as usual, at Tsauderei’s hut. Hibern caught sight of Seshe’s long light hair through the window, and thought that a good sign, as she was hungry. Though she had no objection to fixing breakfast, she wasn’t very good at figuring out how to estimate, much less cook, food for more than herself and Erai-Yanya.

  She opened the door first, then recoiled when she smelled smoke. Alarm flashed through her, just as Liere darted past her, yelling happily, “Rel, you came!”

  Atan was right on her heels.

  Except for Seshe, quietly toasting bread at the fireplace, Tsauderei was alone with Rel, who looked unfamiliar in his white tabard edged with midnight blue and gold, the formal wear of the Knights of Dei. Rel wore no device on his chest, as he was not sworn a Knight, but somehow the tabard made his chest look broader, and emphasized his height.

  Atan stared. He was thinner, the hard bones of his face pronounced. It struck her that she now knew what he would look like as a man, and as warmth pulsed in her middle, she thought in alarm, not now, not now, I am not ready for that.

  “Rel, what happened?” Hibern asked, with the freedom of easy acquaintanceship. “I smell smoke.”

  “Ferdrian is burning.” Rel indicated Tsauderei’s cleaning frame. “I stepped through that first thing, but before I could, I guess I still stank up this cottage. I’ve been wearing these clothes for . . .” He thumbed his eyelids in a gesture of tiredness. “Ten days? Two weeks? I’ve lost count.” He looked around, as Tsauderei made a casual gesture and the side windows to his great bay opened, flashing briefly with magic.

  “I’ve been asking Tsauderei what I should say to Glenn and Tahra,” Rel began, but not two heartbeats later the door slammed open, and Glenn flew in.

  “I saw you arrive,” he said, his eyes wild. “I saw you from the other ledge.” He pointed at Rel. “Why did it take you so long to come get me? Where are my parents?”

  “I don’t know,” Rel said, and after a hesitation, “Ferdrian is on fire. I had to leave.”

  Glenn’s face reddened as his angry gaze swept over the faces, then he whipped around and zoomed out again, flitting past the window in the direction of Selenna House.

  Hibern made a gesture as if to follow, feeling some sense of responsibility, but Tsauderei said, “Let him be. If he or his sister want help dealing with the news, or lack of it, they’ll let us know.” He turned his head. “Rel? Tell us what happened.”

  By now several others, seeing Glenn’s wild arrival and departure, had come to see what was going on, including Kyale, whose secret, unexpressed desire was to be accepted into Atan’s select group, so that one day she might be invited to Sartor’s court. She had a happy vision of stunning the Sartorans with her most beautiful gown—then, afterward, she could come home, and everyone would be impressed when they heard where she’d been, and they would finally give her the due respect of her rank! Only every time she flew out to that secluded cottage, they were talking about such boring magic or history stuff.

  She saw Atan’s attention on Rel, so she added her voice to those pestering him, “What happened in Everon? Tell us!”

  “It fell to Norsunder.” He looked around for a subject change. “Is that the house where everybody is staying?”

  Hibern leaned out the door, peering toward Selenna House. “Speaking of Everon. Where are Glenn and Tahra? I thought they were coming right back?”

  Arthur scratched his head with the inky quill clutched in his fingers, leaving spots of dried ink in his tousled yellow hair, and said vaguely, “I saw Glenn, I think. I was reading this, and didn’t really notice.” He brandished the scroll he’d been carrying. “Where’s Leander? I thought he was right behind me.”

  Jilo spoke up from behind him, “No. He and Senrid were talking to Glenn when I left.”

  * * *

  —

  Jilo had finessed that a little.

  At Selenna House, Glenn had burst in on the boys while Senrid was dressing for the morning drill, and Leander was assembling his study materials.

  “Rel is back,” Glenn said, his sallow face blanched to the color of paper. “Ferdrian is on fire. He didn’t see my parents. Uncle Roderic. Anyone. I have to go back. Will one of you send me?”

  Jilo sidled a glance at Glenn’s angry face, faded straight out the open window, and headed for Tsauderei’s house.

  Senrid and Leander met each other’s gazes. Leander said slowly, “He should. Be able to go home.”

  Senrid knew that Leander was loading the words with meaning, but what meaning? He leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, and reached mentally.

  He recoiled at the intensity of Leander’s memories from the time Senrid’s uncle invaded Vasande Leror. Senrid gritted his teeth, hating his own memories of that shameful episode. Through came Leander’s thought: It was important to be there. Though I could do nothing.

  That, too, hit Senrid hard, in an unprotected place: that inward conviction he’d fought against ever since he was five, that he ought to have been there when his father was killed.

  “Let’s go,” he said, more in reaction to his own memories—the instinct to get away—but once he said it, Glenn’s whole demeanor made so dramatic a change that Senrid listened to his thoughts instead of warding them. He heard below the anger and frustration a gnawing anxiety.

  “Let me get Tahra,” Glenn said, and arrowed out the window.

  Leander felt obliged to say, “Tsauderei won’t like it,” and when Senrid shrugged sharply, “nor will the others. If we find something bad, they’ll say our taking them was cruel.”

  “Let ’em. Glenn wants to be there. He yaps a lot about princely rights, but this is one I agree with.”

  “And I don’t disagree.” Leander sighed. “Transfers?”

  Senrid picked up the tokens waiting for the orphan rescue the next day. “We’ll use these. We can get Arthur and Hibern to help us make new ones tonight.”

  Tahra and Glenn dashed in, Tahra tousled and heavy-eyed from being wakened. Her mouth was pressed in a thin line.

  “Where do we go? Give us a Destination,” Senrid said.

  Tahra did, with her usual meticulousness. Senrid and Leander altered the transfer spells, changing Destinations. Then Senrid handed the tokens to the siblings. “Don’t lose these. There are two transfers on each, there and back here again. Let Glenn and me go first. We’ll wait while the Destination clears.”

  When they arrived in the Ferdrian royal palace’s Destination, smoke and heat nearly knocked each pair down. Everywhere flames roared and snapped, withering the textiles that the Sandrials had not been able to remove. They raced down a hallway, dodging small fires and bending low, to fetch up short at the first blood-splattered, hacked body sprawled in death.

  Tahra choked. Glenn gripped her hand and tugged her onward before Leander could get the words past his tongue, “We should go back.”

  Glenn put on a desperate burst of speed. In his father’s chambers they found three dead guards, all known to the siblings; one was a cousin. He ran out again, batting furiously at the drifting smoke. Eyes burning, the others followed until he stopped again on the terrace above the square, giving a
n inarticulate cry.

  The king lay below the first step, surrounded by the remainder of his personal guard. All dead, King Berthold with a sword loose in his hand.

  Glenn jolted forward as if yanked by invisible strings. His chest heaved on a sob, then he dropped to his knees, and reached a tentative, shaky hand to straighten his father’s tabard.

  Tahra threw herself down on his other side, heedless of the darkened pool of gore. She kicked the sword angrily. It clattered away, fetching up horribly against a lifeless Knight. Glenn shot her a venomous look, retrieved the sword, and gently laid it by his father’s side.

  Tahra pulled her father’s hands together, then tried to order his hair, but it was filled with spiky black blood from a killing blow to the head. So she smoothed the jagged wrinkles in his clothes, though her joints had turned to water, and the world had broken into rust-colored elevens and sevens.

  While Glenn and Tahra laid out their father, Leander and Senrid watched the perimeter, Leander troubled, and Senrid stone-faced.

  “Shall we Disappear them?” Senrid asked when the siblings had done what they could.

  Glenn’s lips moved, but he couldn’t speak.

  Leander and Senrid stepped carefully to each of the fallen. They left the king for last. Glenn’s face was a rictus. He’d given up the fight against weeping, as tears of rage dripped onto his father’s chest. The king’s body, his kingly garb so lovingly woven and embroidered, and the steel he had borne when he was killed, broke down to their components and vanished into Everon’s soil.

  Tahra said, “We have to—”

  A noise behind caused Senrid to grasp the hilts of his forearm knives, and Leander to grip his transfer token. But they stilled when a bloody figure staggered through the door. “Gone.” It was a young Knight-cadet. She stared at the ground, her lips working. “He’s gone? I came to . . .”