A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  The boys laughed, then took off, arguing happily over what to do first while they were waiting.

  That left the four standing in a circle—Hibern, Senrid, and Leander alert and ready, Jilo tense. This would be the first time Jilo wouldn’t be monitoring his book during the rescue, but Detlev and Siamis were not even in the world, so it was easier to agree to Tsauderei’s stipulation that Jilo aid Senrid in sniffing out dark magic traps at the palace.

  As always, Derek had to keep his face well hidden. He’d stuffed his shaggy brown hair up into a winter cap, and pulled the front down to his eyebrows. He wrapped a scarf around his lower face, leaving a thin slit to peer through. He’d look suspicious to anyone not under enchantment, but to the enchanted, he would be unrecognizable.

  He’d told the boys the best place to transfer would be the fish market along the docks below the lake. If there were any Norsundrians left in the city, they surely wouldn’t patrol there during summer. Bren, with an artist’s eye, gave them an exact description of a locale that they could use as a Destination.

  Nobody was in sight, except boats bobbing gently on the water as a hot summer wind kicked up. When they recovered from the transfer they found themselves baking in the summer sun, the odor of fish strong. They forced themselves to move at a slow, steady pace.

  The only conversation was from Derek, who muttered as they turned up toward the royal palace on a road bare of people, “I will never eat a boiled potato again without remembering this day.” He touched his head in its wrappings.

  Hibern grimaced with sympathy. She usually wore her hair loose, except in summer. High in the mountains, she hadn’t bothered with a braid, but now she wished she had. To avoid the glare of the sun she watched her sandaled feet treading stones placed by unknown hands unknown years before.

  Leander, Senrid, and Derek found the quiet eerie. That much reminded Jilo of Chwahirsland, though nothing else about the city did. He stared in astonishment at new buildings jostling old smoke-damaged ruins, everything dappled with painted and chalked slogans and drawings. Some were actually well done, though most were messy scrawls.

  The people themselves were also unlike Chwahir. They didn’t dart furtive looks around them, or converse in hand signals. They looked like a city of sleepwalkers. He wondered if Wan-Edhe would demand that spell from Siamis, then he remembered that it was predicated on a sense of loyalty to a leader. Wan-Edhe would never lay that enchantment over himself. The thought made Jilo shake with silent laughter.

  When they reached the palace gate, Senrid and Jilo both searched for tracers. Nothing happened.

  “This way.” Derek motioned toward a narrow path between a couple of buildings made of light stone, with fine slate roofs. This was not the main part of the palace, which was built of marble.

  He led them along servants’ paths. Senrid fingered the silk scarf that he’d been given for the purpose: as soon as they saw Lilah, Senrid, being the fastest, was to bind the scarf around her lower face before Derek came into the room. That way she wouldn’t be able to perform any tracer spells that she might have been commanded to use while under the enchantment.

  Derek silently pointed to a discreet entrance in what was obviously a wing of the royal residence. No guards in sight. Senrid held out his hands as a signal to tread warily. It stood to reason, you hedged your royal prisoners with either human guards or magical ones.

  He and Jilo moved to the front, testing for wards and tracers.

  Jilo halted them before the door to the room Derek indicated. He’d already found a bad trap. He whispered another spell, and Hibern saw with her magical sense a flash of green around the door. Senrid reached for the latch, but Jilo shook his head, and Senrid pointed to the latch.

  “Nothing here,” Senrid mouthed.

  Jilo shook his head. He knew he might be slowing them up, but dealing with Wan-Edhe’s complexity of deadly wards had taught him about chained spells. He crouched down, holding his hand flat above the floor near the bottom of the door. And once more he whispered. Once more there was a subtle flash of green.

  Senrid whistled soundlessly.

  “Clear?” Senrid breathed.

  “I think so. But . . .” Jilo flicked his fingers outward. Maybe that was the way this particular spell dispersed. It was a nasty one. He had the sense there had been a secondary spell, though there was no trace now.

  That was enough for Senrid. “Let’s be quick.”

  Derek gave Jilo a grateful clap on the shoulder, which startled Jilo into jumping backward, nearly colliding with the inlaid buffet outside the door. Senrid and Hibern both caught his arms. He blushed as he righted himself.

  Senrid led the way in. Hibern took up a station inside the door, to listen for footsteps or sense magic.

  She gazed across the room at Lilah, a sturdy girl of twelve or so sitting decorously at her window. “She’s wearing the same clothes she had on that night. When I returned after my defeat at the pass,” Derek whispered.

  Lilah’s head turned. Her eyes were wide and glassy as a doll’s. Hibern’s heart galloped at the girl’s tense stillness. She found it impossible to believe that she’d sat like that for all these weeks, and wondered how time distorted under Siamis’s enchantment.

  Derek peered in the open doorway, then stepped into the enormous salon with its fine old desk and the comfortable circle of low chairs with embroidered cushions that had somehow survived the revolution. Everything was the way it was supposed to be, except that was not Lilah behind that flat stare.

  Hibern shut the door and set her back to it.

  Lilah didn’t move even when Senrid whipped the scarf around her face, firmly covering her mouth. She just stared.

  The boys began picking up objects in the room and holding them before her eyes, but she never gave them a glance. It was as if they were invisible. Lilah’s blank gaze was turned toward Derek.

  He met that flat gaze and ripped off the mask. It was time to end this nightmare, and get out. He knelt before her chair so she’d see him well enough to focus for Leander’s spell.

  Lilah brought her hand up in a fast, deadly arc. Senrid was the first to react to the glint of steel, smacking Derek out of the way, the green-glowing tip of the knife cutting the air a fingernail’s breadth from Derek’s throat. Leander, Jilo, and Hibern all lunged toward them, then stilled as Derek fell back on his butt.

  “Lilah?” Derek exclaimed. “It’s Derek.”

  “Somebody took extra time inside the enchantment,” Senrid muttered. “Gave her this blood-spelled knife, and commanded her to use it on you.”

  “Blood-spell?” Derek asked.

  “All it has to do is nick you. The magic gets into your blood, and Norsunder can get at you,” Senrid said. “Control you.” He grabbed Lilah’s wrist from behind, and twisted until she dropped the knife onto the floor. “The spell is very hard to make.”

  “And very hard to break,” came a new voice from behind them.

  While everyone’s attention was on Lilah, the door had opened noiselessly. Hibern felt a strong arm bend her right arm up behind her and a hand clap over her mouth.

  Senrid, Derek, Jilo, and Leander whirled around.

  “Siamis,” Senrid whispered sickly.

  Derek’s first reaction was disgust at yet another failure of magic, but maybe this was better: hand to hand.

  Hibern stomped as hard as she could on the man’s instep, but she could feel her sandal sliding over his boot, and Siamis’s soft laugh stirred the top of her hair. Then his grip tightened, bending her arm up behind her to an excruciating degree. She groped with her free hand, trying to get her elbow up to dig into his ribcage.

  A Norsundrian warrior stepped up to her side, crossbow pointed directly at her ribs, and she subsided, her heart crowding her throat.

  Derek rose slowly to his feet, readying for an instant of inattention on Siamis’
s part. Come on, Hibern—someone—distract him, he was thinking.

  Jilo nudged Leander, glancing toward Lilah, who twitched, blinking. Leander softly whispered the antidote spell as Senrid kept one hand on Lilah’s wrist, his other gripping the transport tokens so tightly his knuckles crepitated.

  Siamis said to Derek, “Well, king-breaker. What’s it to be? Her life or yours?”

  ‘King-breaker’? Rage ignited in Derek. He snatched Lilah’s knife from where it had fallen and flung it straight at Siamis’s head.

  But Siamis was faster. In three moves he thrust Hibern stumbling, swept the crossbow from his guard to whack the knife spinning—

  “Now,” Senrid yelled, his voice cracking.

  Siamis shot the bolt as everyone said their transfer words—

  Senrid landed hard, rolled, then sprang up, ignoring the transfer nausea as he stared witlessly at Derek, who lay lifeless on the grass outside Tsauderei’s cottage, the bolt sticking up from his heart.

  Lilah staggered, then flung herself down beside him, crying, “Derek? Derek?” And then, holding tightly to his lifeless hand, she let out a long, desolate howl that soon brought everyone running.

  Tsauderei came out, leaning heavily on a stick, and gazed down at Derek’s lifeless form. The old mage looked even older, face furrowed with grief and regret. It was Senrid who laid hands to the bolt sticking up so horribly from Derek’s chest; everyone flinched as if it were pulled from their own bodies as Senrid drew it out then snapped it angrily over the cliff.

  “We have to take him to Selenna house,” Lilah wailed.

  “We have to get Peitar first, we have to,” Bren shouted.

  “Yes,” Faen cried. “You get the king. We orphans will guard Derek’s . . .” He choked on a sob.

  Tsauderei put up a hand for silence. “All of you know that Derek Diamagan would prefer being Disappeared in the open air,” he said. “And Peitar will prefer knowing everything was done properly, beginning with a cessation of this quarrel over Derek’s lifeless body. Lilah, you, Bren, Innon, Ruddy, Sig, the five of you may take him to the village. The rest of you, get yourselves cleaned up, and find candles. There are plenty in the storage cupboard at Selenna House; you needn’t raid the villagers for all theirs.”

  Nobody argued with that.

  Someone in the village brought out an artisan’s table as a bier, over which the grandmother in the house where Derek had been staying produced an heirloom quilt to cover the table. The five kids—all five still weeping—laid him on that as gently as if he could feel their tenderness, and many hands came forward to straighten his clothes and limbs, and order the long, tangled hair that he had rarely bothered combing in life.

  Lilah collapsed by the bier, weeping wildly; Bren keened on the other side, next to Innon, who stood, head bent, tears dripping down his face. Most of the brigade wept with them until the first paroxysm was over, and then, in ones and twos, they all repaired to bathe, and dress in whatever they thought was their best.

  Senrid remained behind with Tsauderei to give a report. At the end, he said flatly, “King-breaker?”

  Tsauderei gave his head a shake. “You know how Norsundrians look for the worst in people, and then use it to divide others. Let it go. It’s immaterial now.”

  Senrid turned his palm up in assent, but those words—king-breaker—continued to fret him, because once again he sensed knowledge shared by others that they weren’t going to tell him. He wasn’t sure if this was because he was a Marloven, and therefore not to be trusted, or because Tsauderei and Derek had been antagonistic, but as he turned away he promised himself he would find out.

  * * *

  —

  Ordinarily it was left for the next of kin to do the Disappearance spell, and failing that, the highest-ranking person there. Given the preponderance of those with royal claims, and the fact that Derek’s brother was in another country altogether, Tsauderei snuffed the possibility of argument by declaring that he would do the spell himself, as eldest. No one objected to that.

  So at sunset he stood at the head of the bier, holding a tall candle in both hands, though one of his knees shot pains up his legs to pool at the base of his spine. But he was determined to see this memorial through with utmost respect. He was grateful that he would never have to hold the conversation with Peitar that he had been rehearsing in his head for a couple of years now—well knowing that it would be useless. Peitar would never have believed ill of Derek. And the worst of it was, Tsauderei was fairly certain that Derek would never have intended ill.

  King-breaker. How unsettling, this oblique corroboration from a source such as Siamis. Why would the Norsundrian have said that?

  What did he hear inside Derek’s head?

  Tsauderei shifted position minutely, as yet another child stepped forward, clutching a candle in tight, sweaty fingers, to speak a long, disjointed, sob-punctuated memory.

  The sun sank beyond the snowcaps in the west overlooking slumbering Sartor, and still they came forward to speak their memories.

  The Mearsieans stood in a tight group, eventually their surreptitious nudgings of CJ becoming more obvious, until finally she stepped forward and said in an uneven voice, “I didn’t know Derek’s name when we all got taken prisoner by that evil skunk Kessler. But I met him when he refused to fight in Kessler’s disgusting army, and I . . .”

  That wasn’t coming out right. She looked back at Clair, who stepped to her side. “CJ saved Derek’s and his brother Bernal’s lives,” she said in a firm voice. “Without knowing who they were. Derek told us that moment was important to him. That showing mercy to a person not because of who they are, simply because they are another person, was important. We don’t . . . we didn’t know Derek. But we’ll always remember that about him.”

  She and CJ stepped back together, holding hands tightly, as a brief rustle of approving whispers went around the watchers.

  Atan, standing at the back with Rel, murmured for his ears only, “That was actually civilized.”

  Rel shifted, his breathing changing. “You’ve seen the worst of CJ. You haven’t seen the best.”

  “Is there a best?”

  “Yes. You just heard about one incident.”

  Atan struggled to control the corrosive sense of dislike. It helped no one, it never did anyone any good. “I’d like to hear more,” she said. “Not just for me. But because, especially at times like today, there needs to be more best in the world. Peitar is going to be so hurt.”

  Rel’s chin came down. “Yes. He and Derek should have been brothers. Did you know?”

  “Peitar and Lilah both told me something about Peitar’s mother having loved Derek and Bernal’s father, but she was a princess and he was a stablemaster. How sad that is, when stupid rules . . .” She sensed herself nearing uncomfortable thoughts, personal thoughts, and said instead, “I hate the idea that Peitar will come out of that enchantment to this news. I wonder if he would like to walk the labyrinth.” Then she thought back, and it occurred to her that Peitar had never actually been to Sartor. “I should invite him. When the troubles are over. Don’t you think he would love it? He knows so much about history.”

  Rel said, “From what I saw, I think he would like that very much.”

  And as the painful memorial went on, Atan called the royal Purrad to mind and set Peitar there, imagining his reaction to the wind chimes, the sough of leaves and branches, the scents, the sound of footfalls on pebbles, the unfolding of quiet beauty all around. Some of the pain banding her heart loosened.

  Hibern observed Atan and Rel whispering, then raised her head to take in the alliance all gathered. And no one arguing. She looked down, grief and guilt intensified by a new thought, that it took tragedy to unite them. Her gaze lit on Derek’s still profile, and the unsettling way the flickering candlelight made it seem as if he breathed. It took leaders to draw people together fo
r good purposes, she was thinking.

  She glanced inadvertently at Senrid, who stood in the second row on the other side of the bier, between Jilo and Leander.

  Senrid was unaware of her glance, unaware of anything. He was shut tightly inward, lest Liere hear his thoughts.

  Memory and custom both threw him off balance. The sight of Tsauderei standing in a robe of sky blue, embroidered down the front in gold with the ancient symbols of the Twelve Blessed Things, was so unlike Marloven custom, and yet Senrid was thrown back in memory to when he stood at his father’s bier, a shivering five-year-old, surrounded by black-clad people tall as the castle towers, the bier framed by leaping torchlight.

  In Marloven Hess, a king’s memorial was held at midnight, with everyone singing the Hymn to the Fallen. This ancient hymn was accorded all kings, commanders, and jarls, but also every warrior who fell in battle, no matter what his background or degree.

  Senrid remembered the deep male voices singing the hymn, and in his own mind, he sang it over again for Derek Diamagan. He shut out the kids’ halting, rambling memories, which had no place in Marloven custom: the stories and anecdotes were reserved for the banquet following the burning of the person’s private effects by the family.

  I know why you did that, Siamis, Senrid thought, ice-cold conviction flowing along his nerves. You didn’t want Derek to make Sarendan ready to fight you off. You’re the real king-breaker. At least, that’s what you intend. But I’m going to make sure you don’t get your chance.

  I’m going to kill you myself.

  * * *

  —

  Nobody saw that Liere had already slipped away.

  PART FOUR

  The Alliance Acts

  Chapter One

  GETH-DELES is an azure gem in the night skies of the fifth and third worlds from Erhal, the sun.

  Scattered across that blue expanse, a necklace of islands rises on the sea, vanishing in a horizon where the sun burns itself out among the monumental clouds.