A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  Hibern walked up the first few steps of the mossy stairway, wondering if Erai-Yanya was somehow connected to the mages behind the extra protection. “We’re a decoy,” she whispered to Senrid, who was right on her heels. “I feel something under these illusions.”

  “I don’t care.” He shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with me finding Liere and yanking her out of here.”

  Hibern knew Senrid would have walked in without illusion, protection, or anything. She’d chosen the most nondescript form she could think of, which wasn’t much different from her real form, except that she looked older, and Old Bones had given her the illusion of a common Geth robe-gown, loose from the shoulders, with a long contrasting swath of fabric draped crosswise around and over one shoulder so the ends hung behind. She’d chosen muted colors.

  She looked past Senrid down at the waiting faces on the steps behind her, many unrecognizable in their disguises. Even distorted by illusion, faces betrayed tension and uncertainty.

  So maybe it was time to repeat what they already knew, because knowing was a kind of protection against the unknown. “Remember, as well as looking for Liere, we’re looking for the First Witch: old, dark hair, white stripe. Fetch Senrid and Jilo so they can break any dark magic wards on her. As soon as she’s found, retreat. We’ll gather here.”

  Atan added, “You know what the enchanted look like. Don’t stare. Walk slowly. Ignore any Norsundrians as if they aren’t there.”

  “Whether we find her or not, return by sundown,” Leander added from the middle of the crowd. He’d chosen a male version of Hibern’s nondescript person, complete to robe-gown.

  “That’s right,” Dak called from the other end of the cavern. “The illusions will fade by then. If no one discovers you, we can camp here tonight and try again tomorrow.”

  A murmur of agreement rose, then by ones and twos they mounted the stairs, counting to fifty between each so no crowd would be seen emerging into what they’d been told was a forgotten stairway at the back end of the palace.

  * * *

  —

  Atan had asked only for an illusory Geth outfit. When she looked down, her hermit’s tunic over riding trousers had scarcely altered, the hem of her tunic extending past her knees, her old hermit cottage riding trousers billowing around her ankles in the same dull dun color.

  The station she’d volunteered for was the front side of the palace, which Dak had said was a lot of right turns from where they’d emerge. Though she intended to do her part in the search for this mysterious First Witch—and for Liere—she meant to find Julian first. No one else would be looking for her.

  She found herself in a narrow hallway. The ground shivered slightly as she walked. Alarm burned through her, and faded: another quake. The tenth one since their arrival. The building creaked warningly around her, but she reminded herself that it had survived this long. It was not likely to fall around her ears now, and all the quakes had been small, no more than the swaying of a small boat on a pond. Surely that had to mean that quakes here were like the ones on Sartorias-deles, lessened by ancient magecraft. But at home, they were made much smaller, so no one felt them.

  She emerged from a hall across from an open door, through which she glimpsed neat stacks of various sizes of brooms and mops. The hall stretched in both directions, meeting what looked like other halls. Right turns.

  She struck out, meeting another intersection, then another, always turning to the right; she noticed that these were not squared-off turns, which meant she was bending gradually in a long arc.

  After the seventh right turn the hall widened abruptly, the floor of reddish tiles becoming a mosaic pattern of twined geometric shapes making forms around fish and blooms and birds.

  She peered inside the countless rooms for a blank-faced middle-aged woman with a streak of white in her dark hair. She saw people of every age, some going about simple tasks in a rote manner that made her skin crawl, others sitting quietly, the way people had in Sartor.

  None of them fitted First Witch’s description, and she wondered if Norsunder had put an illusion over First Witch. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to pick out an illusion seen across a room.

  She pushed on, until the inner blow of extremely powerful dark magic caused her to stumble, staring around the silent hall.

  All over the palace, everyone looked up and around uneasily. The Norsunder mages stopped their search through the libraries, and exchanged glances: someone was in trouble, judging by the power of that impact. They returned to work with a sedulous air. Nobody wanted to become a target.

  At the key intersections in the city, and at the gates, the Norsundrian patrollers who had begun another boring day of useless duty among the mindless sheep straightened up, alerted by that sense of teeth-gritting, metallic danger, smelling of burnt steel.

  Inside the Palace, Siamis stilled, then dropped the map he’d been rolling. It fell to the table, half on, half off, then slipped to the floor, bringing with it a whispering cascade of papers.

  But the cascade went unnoticed. He was already out of the room.

  Julian looked up as footsteps approached. She scrambled to her feet and backed away when Siamis reached for the cellar door.

  A few moments later, Liere saw the door swing open for the first time in days. She blinked in the bright light as Siamis took hold of her shoulder, drew her out, and said, “Detlev is getting impatient. He’s trying to break my wards. I knew you would come in useful.”

  “Where is she going?” Julian asked, dismayed.

  Siamis glanced absently down at her. “Let’s see if our young friend here can distract him.”

  He did not say for what: Liere staggered as the hard fingers let her go, and transfer magic seized her, and flung her back into the world again. She staggered and looked around in fear, finding herself in another bare stone room lit by a single slit near the ceiling.

  A door opened. Blue-white light slanted in, bringing in a heavy scent of mimosa.

  Liere wanted to run, but where could she run to? She got her trembling legs moving, and ventured out.

  Unkind laughter met her. She looked across a low room full of low curved chairs like half-circles in which various people sat. Her attention passed over them, then snagged on the derisive gaze of a brown-haired man.

  She knew from Senrid’s memories that this was Detlev.

  “So this is the famous world-rescuer, Sartora, Queen of Bereth Ferian!” he said, and the people laughed.

  Every word stung. She dropped her head forward, shutting her eyes, her mind-shield tight.

  “Where is the dyr?” came the amused voice.

  She braced for the careless roughness of Siamis’s searchers, but no one touched her. She looked up, instinctively putting out the tiniest tendril of mind quest . . . and he was waiting.

  Lilith had exhorted her to practice her mind-shield. Liere had exhorted others to practice theirs, and she had what she thought was a good shield against the battering of others’ thoughts, but now she learned how very, very inexperienced she really was.

  Detlev was there in the surface of her mind. Terror struck through her, knife-sharp in agonized expectation of him tromping through all the corners of her mind, opening and slamming doors into memories. She cowered into as small a ball as she could as his mental voice shouted endlessly, Where is the dyr? Where is the dyr? while ignoring her mental voice whimpering I don’t know, I don’t know.

  Finally he gave up in disgust. His presence was gone. She snapped her mind-shield around herself so hard she scarcely heard as Detlev turned to the avid watchers. “Meet the mighty mage who defeated my nephew. Are you impressed yet?”

  Raucous laughter battered Liere. She collapsed onto the floor, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her mind shrinking into inward focus. She knew she was isolated, totally without defenses or the possibility of aid.

>   “Who is going to save the world-saver?” came the scornful voice, followed by excoriating laughter.

  But when Detlev shifted to describing in remorseless detail how cowardly, self-centered, and hypocritical her so-called allies were, and how none of them would stir to save her, she thought: Not Senrid.

  She clung to that thought with all her strength. She knew what Senrid’s faults were. He’d told her himself. She’d seen them, but among them cowardice, self-centeredness, and hypocrisy did not number. She knew he would be there if he could—that wherever she was, he’d try to find her.

  Then there was Arthur, with his endless patience. And Rel, and Hibern, and even CJ, who believed that ‘Sartora’ could do miracles—that girls could do miracles. Though CJ had a temper, and struggled with it, she was so fiercely loyal, Liere knew that CJ would come running if she thought another girl was in danger.

  Liere hugged those thoughts tightly, deep inside her shell. She even felt a pulse of pity for Detlev, whom everyone hated, even Siamis. He was alone, in the world of the heart.

  I am not alone.

  She did not know how long she could endure, but right now, that thought sustained her.

  * * *

  —

  Abruptly Detlev’s mental voice vanished.

  Liere kept her head down, but peeked to the side; she half expected the light to be gone, for it felt like she’d been under bombardment for a hundred years. But the square of sunlight on the floor had scarcely shifted.

  “She’s useless. This,” Detlev said contemptuously, “is nothing more than a diversion.”

  A rough hand seized Liere’s arm and drew her to her feet. Pins and needles made standing difficult, and she was dizzy.

  “Let us make a little journey,” Detlev said.

  Chapter Five

  AFTER that soundless impact that reverberated through teeth and bones, Atan paused, her back flat to a wall, as she listened for alarm, shouts, footsteps, any sign that one of the rescuers had been discovered.

  Nothing.

  The pulse of strong magic was not followed by another. She had to go on.

  The rooms she passed now had double doors. They appeared to be libraries. Most were empty. Down one more hall of library rooms she trod until she was startled to hear voices.

  They weren’t supposed to talk! But as she neared a doorway, she discovered that these voices did not belong to people her age. These were adults, their tones irritated.

  “What that spell means is trouble,” somebody was saying in Sartoran, “but not for us if we can find that damned book.”

  Atan put her head down, and peeked out of the sides of her eyes as she walked slowly past the door. Her heart thundered, but the glances cast her way were distracted, uninterested. Several of the adults in there wore the gray uniform tunics of Norsunder, two wore gray mage robes, and one stood out, a small blond woman in a velvet gown.

  Atan had seen her before, on a tower, using magic to fight against Atan when she freed Sartor: that was Dejain, the chief mage of Norsunder Base.

  Atan began to suspect that the Norsundrians were also pressed for time, though she had no idea why. She wondered if she ought to try to find out as she turned toward a hall from which enticing smells emanated.

  Kitchens! Julian used to raid food from the kitchens, rather than be seen in the dining room, where she might be expected to sit at table and use utensils. Atan was wondering how big the kitchens would be for so large a place when a small figure hurled into her, and she stared down at Julian in wit-flown shock.

  Julian was equally startled. “Atan?” She said fiercely, “Go away!”

  Julian scampered off. Atan set out after her, but between one turn and another Julian darted into a room or hall and vanished. Atan grimly kept looking until she knew she was lost.

  Her eyes stung, sorrow seizing her chest so hard she couldn’t breathe. But others were counting on her. She had lost Julian, so it was time to keep her promise and search for the First Witch.

  Her eyes were so blinded by tears that she didn’t see Julian peering from behind a tapestry until Atan had passed safely by. Everything hurt, especially inside her. She couldn’t stop thinking about the sad, afraid face Liere had made before Siamis pushed her into that magic. If he saw Atan, he would do that to her, too!

  Julian wasn’t mad at Atan any more. Atan never caused bad dreams. She was nice in the dreams. She did keep her promises, even if they were boring ones. She wasn’t like Irza, or Mother. And Siamis was just like Mother and Irza, smiling and soft when other people were around, but doing mean things to people, and never keeping promises.

  Atan had to go away and be safe!

  Julian found who she was looking for: there was the runaway prince at the gate, with a whole lot of warriors ready with bows and arrows and swords and things. But they didn’t move, much less spit, so she ran past the rows.

  Kessler glanced down at the crimson-faced child who dashed up, trailing her grimy rags. “You said you keep promises,” she gasped out, breathing hard.

  “If I make them.” He glanced down at those eyes shaped so much like his.

  Julian looked around, shoving sweaty, matted hair off her cheek, then said in a low voice, “Atan is here.”

  “Atan?” Sharp interest caused him to wave off the runners waiting for orders. He knelt down. “Atan? On this world? Where?”

  “In there.” Julian waved impatiently at the palace. “I don’t want Siamis to put her in magic, like he did to Liere. She was scared! It was mean. Will you make sure Siamis doesn’t do that to Atan?”

  Kessler said, “I will take care of Atan. But you must do something for me.”

  Julian gazed at him in surprise, not unpleased. Nobody asked her to do things, unless it was stupid stuff like putting on princess clothes. “What?”

  “Go find Dejain. She’s the yellow-haired one, usually in a pink or rose gown. Tell her I want to talk to her, and if she will not come to me, I will come to her. Have you got that right? Repeat it.”

  Julian repeated it exactly as he’d said.

  Kessler gave a brief nod. “Quick.”

  The child scampered off, bare feet twinkling among the dusty rags. Kessler watched her go, suspecting that if Atan Landis was here, there were surely others from Sartorias-deles. It was actually a clever move on the part of the lighter mages, sacrificing brats who Siamis would never think would turn up, so hadn’t warded.

  Kessler beckoned to two of his scouts. “You know where they stashed the First Witch.”

  “Yes.”

  “Watch without being seen. If anyone suspicious goes near her, you follow them until you find out where they’re coming from. Then report back to me.” And to the second, “There’s at least one Sartoran youth running around. Find out where they’re hiding.”

  * * *

  —

  One of the most valued of all the architectural professions on Geth was that of the joiner. The best of them did quite well, and were always in demand. Their guild subsequently had a prominent place in the city, as in all cities on Geth; and, as it happened, the First Witch had a brother who was the head of a successful shop.

  In a back room, sitting in a rocking chair that moved gently back and forth as if she would go on rocking until the end of time, sat a woman of about sixty-five, with dark hair bound up, not hiding the white streak.

  Leander was the one to find her.

  When he saw that white stripe, he backed up slowly, then forced himself to compose his face. His body. To walk slowly out into the square with its fountain, across which Norsunder patrols rode frequently.

  Leander fell in behind a couple of people carrying empty baskets. Did they think those baskets were filled? The evidence of the enchantment gave him the creeps, but he kept his pace slow, his attention unfocused as he traversed the square in the direction he’d la
st seen Senrid.

  He caught sight of Senrid’s middle-aged man guise at the end of a long street. Of course he was moving away, but Leander forced himself to walk slowly, though he increased each step a bit more until finally Senrid turned his head, then moved to one of the benches, and sat down.

  When Leander caught up, he explained about the woman in the rocker.

  “Just sitting there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wards or tracers or traps?”

  “None that I could discern.”

  Senrid uttered a soft laugh, then shut his eyes. Leander knew that expression: Senrid was doing his mind thing. Presently he opened his eyes. “Cath knows. I hope that means Lilith is out there listening, and will do whatever it is they planned to do.”

  “Let’s round up the others,” Leander suggested.

  “Start that. I’ll go see if I can sense a trap. If you see Jilo, tell him where I am.”

  “Right.”

  Senrid and Leander forced themselves to rise with dreamy slowness, and to shuffle off in opposite directions.

  Leander spotted Jilo (in old man form, but as unlike Wan-Edhe as imagination could make him) two streets away, slogging grimly through a row of upholstery and finishing shops. He drifted up, and said low-voiced, “I found her. Senrid’s on his way. I’ll go warn the others to retreat. Here’s the directions to the joiner’s shop.”

  He described the route twice, then Jilo set out at an awkward lope under the low eaves for the joiner’s. Senrid spotted him from the other end of a long palm-lined path, and forced himself to move slowly to join him, without looking right or left.

  When they reached the shop, they slipped inside—without noticing Kessler’s scout watching from the midst of a flowery pocket garden, or the Norsundrian patroller who noted a pair of old men shuffling into the joiner’s shop that he knew was supposed to remain empty.

  Both patroller and scout went off to report, as inside the shop, Senrid and Jilo separated and began feeling out dark magic wards, tracers, and traps.