Jilo was halfway around the perimeter of the room when Senrid spoke.
“I’ve found at least two, maybe three traps around her chair,” Senrid said to Jilo. “So far. I think we’d better work on these first.”
A short time later, “Mirror ward,” Jilo sang out.
“You handle that,” Senrid said, and began crawling around the room to finish looking for other tracers and traps.
* * *
—
Julian found Dejain, and delivered her message.
The mage stared down at the filthy urchin, fighting the urge to run, to transfer away. The moment she’d dreaded was here.
Her fingers twitched toward the secret pocket in which she’d put the transfer token she’d prepared against disaster, then her hand dropped. She did not want Kessler coming after her. He was unnervingly single-minded when he went on the hunt, and it would only make him angrier. If she pretended cooperation, she might be able to deflect him.
“Show me where he is,” she demanded of Julian. To Dejain’s annoyance, the child trotted at her heels. “Go on back,” Dejain said. “Scat.”
“No,” Julian said.
“Go pester Siamis.”
“I don’t like Siamis anymore,” Julian retorted.
Dejain uttered a harsh laugh. “No one likes Siamis.”
She turned her back and walked faster, forcing the child to pound grimly behind, dragging her load of cloth.
Dejain spotted Kessler standing at his post by the gate, and slowed as she considered her options. She halted in the lee of a flowering jessamine tree and watched as one, then another scout rode up to report.
Dejain hurried her pace, but didn’t make it in time to hear either scout make their reports; Kessler saw her, dismissed both his scouts, then gestured to Dejain. “Come with me.”
He didn’t wait for her corroboration, but scooped up Julian, tucked her under his arm, and took off with rapid step. Dejain lifted her skirts to keep pace, while she reviewed her exit strategies.
Kessler didn’t stop until he reached the side entrance to the palace. He set Julian down before the stairway opposite the broom closet. “My spy tells me that you’ll find your cousin down that way. Run along. I’ll be right behind you.” He gave the little girl a push. After one disconcerted look behind her, tear tracks marring her grimy face, Julian ran.
Kessler faced Dejain. “Remove the blood spell.”
She stared at him.
He said distinctly, “You enchanted the blade I ordered for someone else. I’ve known ever since it struck me and threw me straight into Norsunder. Did you really think I did not know?”
Her hand slid toward the secret pocket sewn into the seam of her gown, but Kessler gripped her painfully by the elbow. “Now.”
They both knew Detlev and Siamis were involved in a magical struggle. Judging by the impact of powerful magic, it was happening now. Kessler had no more interest in helping the two Ancient Sartorans than Dejain—less, as she still claimed a place at Norsunder Base—and at this moment, they were both unwatched.
She knew Kessler carried at least one hidden weapon. He could kill her in a heartbeat and no one would know. Or care.
She had dreaded this moment so long that it was almost a relief. Without denying or uttering the myriad falsities she’d concocted as excuses, she whispered the long sequence of spells, memorized long ago.
Kessler let her go the moment he was free of Norsunder’s hold.
Dejain plunged her hand into her pocket. She had nowhere to go, nothing to be, except chief mage at Norsunder Base. There, precarious as it was, she had power. Anywhere else, she’d have to fight for it, and be on the watch for the greater powers who could be endlessly vindictive. The mere thought made her feel old.
Lesca would make her comfortable until Dejain saw who won. She used her cross-world transfer.
Chapter Six
THE guards at the gate stood around speculating about why their commander had taken off with the brat and the pretty mage.
“Look,” one muttered, causing all heads to turn.
Beyond the open gate, the air shimmered. The smell of mimosa and wild thyme gusted outward in a ring, heat buffeting watching faces, and then a host appeared directly outside the gate. Armed. On horseback. At the center rode Detlev, next to a skinny girl clutching the mane of her horse.
Every mage in the city felt that mass transfer as an inward blow, sharper than the first.
The guards withdrew to either side as Detlev and his force rode slowly in, Liere in the middle, looking blanch-faced and incongruous holding on desperately to the mane of a horse whose reins were held by another rider.
They rode up the street toward the palace.
* * *
—
“What was that?” Jilo asked.
Senrid shrugged, and was about to say Let’s get back to work, when they heard the sound of many footsteps on the pale stone tiles outside the door.
“Who are you?” Armed warriors blocked the door, though as yet they hadn’t drawn their weapons. They’d reported the sighting and had been duly ordered to bring in the old men who had entered the shop, but they weren’t worried about a fight from a couple of geezers.
Senrid and Jilo avoided looking at each other, knowing that the illusion did not hide their expressions, only distorted their features.
Senrid waggled his hand surreptitiously to Jilo, and rose to his feet as slowly as he could, blocking Jilo from sight as the latter got back to work on breaking the chain of spells.
Hoping he sounded like the enchanted, Senrid said in a monotone, while staring a little above the head of the patrol leader, “I am here to check my sister. I always come to check my sister upon this day.”
The patrol leader looked at the others, who looked back. “Nobody’s supposed to be here,” he said, and when Senrid just stood there, “You can come along and tell Siamis that,” he said.
Senrid’s thought careened wildly. What to say when he was supposed to be enchanted out of his wits? Of course.
“I am here to check on my sister. I always come to check on my sister this day.”
“Yes. Come along.” The patrol leader motioned impatiently. Then winced, and cast a troubled look at the window.
Senrid felt the teeth-scraping, burning metal sense of great power building. Behind him, he heard Jilo hiss in his breath.
“Come along!” The Norsundrian’s voice sharpened. He took a step toward Senrid, hand going to the hilt of his sword.
Senrid’s right hand drifted to his other wrist, though he knew that taking on a patrol with a knife was not going to keep them off longer than a moment or two.
Greenish-white light flashed from horizon to horizon.
Senrid winced; Jilo said, “The ward on the city gates. It’s gone.” He began whispering, and magical light glittered greenish, smelling of solder.
The patrol leader had interrupted himself to look out into the street. He turned to one of his followers and said, “Find out what that was.”
Behind Senrid, Jilo muttered, “First one on her gone.” It seemed forever, but was only a moment or two before Jilo said, with satisfaction, “Two, and three.”
Senrid was uttering the first phrases of the antidote to Siamis’s spell when he remembered he was supposed to catch the victim’s attention with a personal object. He cast a despairing look about, glanced at the Norsundrians, and performed the enchantment spell anyway, in the time it took for the patrol leader to draw his sword and advance three steps.
“Lilith,” the First Witch murmured on an outgoing breath, gazing into space.
Senrid knew immediately what that meant: Lilith the Guardian had been listening on the mental realm. Oh, yes, the mages were outside the city with their own plans.
But that was pretty much what Lilith had said. At leas
t she played fair. I did my part, Lilith. Over to you. Now I’m going to find Liere.
Senrid looked up at the patrol leader, who was motioning impatiently to what he obviously thought were slow old people. The First Witch blinked rapidly, touched Senrid and Jilo to protect them, and spoke several words.
Light slammed into the Norsundrians, freezing them between one step and another.
“That will not last long,” she said. “I seem to have little strength. But it ought to be enough to get us past them.” She tried to rise, then sank back. “Oh.” Her voice was soft, breathless. “Very little strength. Will one of you give me an arm?”
Jilo stepped back, expecting Senrid to take care of that, but Senrid was gone, his footsteps rapidly diminishing. So Jilo awkwardly took hold of the old woman’s thin arm. She rose with a grunt, and slowly they walked out, Jilo stumbling a little before he found the right pace to match hers.
“There’s a shorter way to the palace, up this path,” she murmured, pointing to an archway connecting two buildings with what looked like palm-frond roofs. Past Weaver’s Row and the Pearl Garden . . . “Let us hurry,” she added breathlessly, leaning on Jilo as she increased her pace.
* * *
—
Siamis strolled out the main door to the palace, backed by a company of armed guards, who spread out along the perimeter of the main plaza. They blocked off access from the various tree- and shrub-lined pathways opening onto the plaza, as a small number of vague-faced denizens drifted along oblivious as they went about some habitual task.
The warriors formed up, shield to shield, swords out, as Detlev and his force came riding up the main street from the gate barely visible in the distance.
Siamis gripped his sword by its sheath and sauntered to the center of the plaza.
Detlev reined in, halting his company.
“You’re here again,” Siamis said as he stepped up to Liere’s horse, his back to Detlev.
“I appreciated the diversion,” Detlev said, looking down at the top of Siamis’s fair hair, his faint smile acerbic. “You knew she was completely ignorant?”
“I thought,” Siamis said, “if she did know where the dyr is hidden, you would be the one to discover it, surely.” Siamis’s lips parted in a smile up at Liere.
Detlev turned his head. His eyes narrowed, and the ring of Siamis’s guards surrounding his company stirred. Their patrol leader staggered, then righted himself, saying hoarsely, “Fall back.”
Swords rang as they were sheathed again, and shields lowered. The Norsundrians Siamis had ordered to surround Detlev’s force now began to line up behind Detlev’s warriors—it was clear that Detlev had superseded whatever command they had been given by a mental order to the patrol leader.
As if nothing had happened, Siamis smiled up at Liere, closed his hands around her arms, and lifted her down, keeping his grip on one arm, his other hand still holding the sword.
At that moment Jilo and the First Witch appeared from a side street, as the handful of Isul Demarzal denizens began stirring and looking around with returning awareness. Some sat down abruptly, putting heads in hands, others glanced around bewildered and fearful.
The First Witch tightened her grip on Jilo and raised her voice. “You had better go now. You are not wanted here,” she declared. “Your spells are broken. And my allies are coming.”
Detlev’s head turned sharply. He didn’t answer, but raised his hand, and those who knew magic sensed the ingathering of power.
The First Witch struck first, but she was too far away, and too weak, to drop a stone spell around him the way she had around the patrol in the joiner’s house.
But her attempt diverted Detlev for a crucial moment. He turned to look for her as the air flickered blue-white and a host of people in layers of bright, filmy fabric appeared.
“Ah,” the First Witch said. “I knew the Ones would come.”
In the square, a white-haired man wove a spell that raised a wall of virulently glowing green around the Norsundrian warriors. Detlev muttered a spell and struck it down, but the mages united in raising a larger, thicker magical ward.
“Ones?” Jilo asked.
“Help me sit down, young man, will you?” the First Witch asked, pointing to a pretty little bench carved of the shiny wood that looked to Sartorias-deles people like poured chocolate.
In the plaza Detlev raised his hands, which began to glow, but the mages worked together to dissipate the spell he was forming, as the First Witch said, “The Ones is what we call our roaming mages. For a time they give up name, family, home, to wander and do good in the world. They are called simply Ones while they serve.”
Detlev turned their way. Jilo hunched down, terrified, as the First Witch called in her cracked, tremulous voice, “You know you do not have the secret of our tunnel transfer. You have only an echo, and we shall break that. I say to you, unwanted enemy, that you had better use it now to remove yourself and these.” A gnarled hand dismissively waved at the armed force. “You can fall upon us, and many will die, but we’ll—”
Jilo could see that Detlev wasn’t listening. His head turned, his eyes searching, and Jilo realized that Siamis had abandoned Detlev. Detlev was alone, facing seven powerful mages, who began to chant in unison. Once again the air shimmered, and the chant became a harsh hum; Jilo started, though the hum was as different from the Great Hum as a scream from a song. But both were products of voice.
The shimmer coalesced into fog, swallowing Detlev and his force, then vanished, blasting the area with a rush of hot air.
At once the newly disenchanted Isul Demarzal people began clamoring for explanations, as more people poured out of the palace, looking about wildly.
Jilo said, “Norsunder was hunting for rift magic, right? But you do it differently here?”
The First Witch looked into his earnest face. “Yes. We call it a chain. For transfer between worlds, the number doesn’t matter. Our method is different—it takes several of us to safely chain a transfer.”
“So it’s not a real tunnel?”
“No, but the word is a way for our minds to grasp how we manipulate space between destinations.” By now a couple of younger Geth mages had spotted them, and came hurrying toward their leader. The First Witch rose to greet them, but smiled back at Jilo. “Norsunder will find no cooperation from us now. And that one, he knows it. Thank you for your aid. Go in peace.”
Jilo backed away, and anyone who cared to saw a slightly blurry old man loping through the gathering crowds. Inside the palace, it was left turn, left turn, left turns all the way until he reached the stairs.
* * *
—
Glenn was the first one to find his way back to the underground cavern by the dark lake. He’d never had any intention of looking for some old woman. He’d gone straight to spy on Siamis, hoping to be able to kill him for unleashing Henerek on his home, but the fire for vengeance in imagination was doused by the cold splash of reality: Siamis was a fit-looking young man carrying a saber with the absent comfort of one well used to his weapon, and surrounded by guards.
So Glenn had retreated, joined by his sister. She’d lost count of the rooms, which disturbed her so much she intended to start over. But Hibern found her first, and said that Leander had spread the word to retreat.
They descended to the cavern to find the Mearsieans trickling in, having received the news that the First Witch had been found. The ever-growing group of young allies milled around, exchanging stories and speculations about what was going on, as Cath sat silently in their midst, eyes closed.
Then Cath gasped, opened his eyes, and got to his feet as Julian appeared on the stairs. She began to hop from step to step, but tripped as a swathe of her filthy clothes caught underfoot. She pitched out over the stones, but before anyone could do more than exclaim, Rel took two fast steps and caught her midair.
Atan waited, arms kept stiff at her sides until the solid little body collided with her, and then—tentatively, gently—she put her arms around the little girl, who sobbed herself into hiccoughs.
So intent were they all on this reunion that they didn’t see Kessler until he appeared at the top of the stairs.
Rel started forward protectively, but Kessler raised a hand as he leaped down, four stairs at time. “Siamis is on the way. I suggest you get out.”
Some looked around uncertainly, and Dak turned to his brother, who nodded.
“But we’re missing three of our people,” Hibern said.
“Two,” Atan corrected, pointing to Jilo in old man illusion at the top of the stairs. When he saw Kessler he backed up, looking around wildly.
Kessler glanced up, and said with complete indifference, “Siamis is right behind you.”
Jilo looked back and forth in a way that Kessler found comical and Atan heartbreaking, then he hustled down the stairs, nearly tripping in his haste. He slunk past Kessler, as, at the other end of the cavern, Dak was silently motioning the allies toward the far tunnel. Hibern lingered, hesitant to leave until she saw Senrid safely among them.
Rel pushed past her to confront Kessler. “What are you doing?”
Kessler’s sword scraped free of its sheath. “Waiting for him.” His smile made Hibern’s nerves chill. “I’m going to cut out his heart with the sword named Truth.”
Hibern said to Rel in an urgent undervoice that hissed in echoes, “Senrid’s missing. And we never did find Liere, so he has to be looking for her.”
Cath’s young voice echoed from the other end of the tunnel, “Siamis has the girl. The boy is following them.”
Rel said, “Let’s get out of sight, at least.” He indicated the archway.
A Sword Named Truth Page 77
