Hibern followed, glancing back every few steps in hopes of seeing Senrid and Liere.
On her last glance, she saw what she feared most: Siamis appeared at the top of the stairs, gripping Liere with one arm.
He smiled down at Kessler, let Liere free, and drew his sword from its sheath.
* * *
—
Senrid catapulted himself through the entrance at the top of the stairs, then stilled in astonishment at the sight of Siamis, fair hair gleaming in the light slanting down from the stairway, facing a shorter, slight, black-haired fellow in black Norsundrian uniform.
Liere cowered nearby, her drawn, anxious expression lightening to joy when she saw Senrid. He jumped down the stairs, reached her, and their hands met and gripped tight, Liere reassured by Senrid’s solid, callus-palmed grip, and he unsettled by how thin her fingers were.
She turned her huge eyes to him, and her thought came, clear as speech: Siamis said it again, he left the sword as a gift. What can that mean, a gift?
Senrid grimaced, watching as Siamis and Kessler sized each other up, swordpoints making tiny testing motions. Siamis was taller, wearing a loose, light, open-collared tunic shirt sashed around his hips. He wore forest mocs rather than riding boots, and moved with ease over the smooth stone. Kessler, shorter, reminded Senrid of something with antennae, the way he’d go still, then move so fast he was a blur. Both held their weapons well.
Liere tugged his hand: Senrid?
He dragged his gaze away. He hated trying to form words with Dena Yeresbeth—it was too clumsy, with memories and emotions and images leaking into his thoughts, making it difficult to concentrate. But he tried: Whatever he meant doesn’t matter. Because you didn’t take it.
Her response was swift: But it scares me, Senrid, what he said. I keep thinking, he was twelve when Norsunder took him. I was twelve when I did the Child Spell.
Senrid’s return thought was swift and sarcastic: He’s not twelve now. Then he got her meaning: You think he’s threatening to make you into a copy of him?
Clang! The first move in the swordfight was almost too fast to follow. A flurry of exchanges, and the two stepped back, Siamis smiling. Kessler’s expression remained blank.
Senrid thought: What are Detlev and Siamis really after? Did you learn anything while they had you?
Liere’s mental response rocked him back with emotion-charged memory: They wanted the dyr. Thought I had it.
Kessler feinted, jabbed, fast as lightning. Siamis sidestepped lightly, just enough for the point to pass uselessly by his ear, and whipped his blade inside Kessler’s guard—to find only air.
Senrid’s mind ran with images, memories, connections as Kessler and Siamis circled one another on the ancient stone, worn smooth by millennia of flowing water.
The gift. The threat . . . Detlev’s You’re not worth my time yet. “They want us to grow up,” Senrid murmured, as maintaining a conversation by Dena Yeresbeth took too much effort.
“Is that it?” Liere whispered, her gaze unwavering. “And then make us into Norsundrians? I never want to grow up, ever.”
Senrid watched another flurry of attacks, feints, ripostes from Siamis and Kessler as he struggled against the conflict inside him. There were times when the Child Spell felt like a pair of boots that were too tight, only it was his spirit so confined. One day, he knew, he was going to get rid of the Child Spell.
But if Detlev and Siamis wanted him to do it now, for whatever reason, well, that was easy.
“So we won’t,” Senrid said, and because he could feel her longing for safety, he cast a fast scan behind them. “Rel’s over there,” he whispered as Siamis extended his blade in a deceptively leisurely strike, which Kessler evaded with minimal movement. “Let’s go.”
Liere gave a shaky sigh of relief, and tugged on his hand. Senrid followed, but walking backward. He did not want to miss what so far promised to be the duel of a lifetime. Senrid wasn’t all that experienced in training, but he’d watched the academy boys train, and he could see that both Siamis and Kessler were in a class beyond the best the Marlovens had to offer as they circled, upper bodies motionless except for the subtle movements of eye and wrist as they exchanged blows, almost like a conversation.
He let Liere’s hand go so he could watch.
Liere ran on a few steps, until she passed the water-carved archway. The illusion made Rel look weird, but she knew he was Rel from the mental plane. She stopped beside him, and shivered, every bruise aching, as she stared at the back of Senrid’s head, knowing that Senrid would always stop to watch the duels. But he will stay a child with me, she thought. He won’t take the sword gift any more than I will.
Senrid was not aware that he’d stopped.
Siamis sidestepped an attack, smiled past Kessler, his light gaze reaching across the cavern to meet Senrid’s. He deliberately flashed the sword up in a mocking salute, and then returned to the attack.
Kessler’s teeth showed at that salute. He had learned three things so far. One, that they were nearly matched in speed and strength. Two, Siamis’s training was probably better, or Siamis could read his mind in spite of his mind-shield, because he always knew where Kessler was going to attack.
Third: he was not going to win this match.
But he could try. He flung himself into a risky attack high, low, high, double-bind. The blades rang, bringing a laugh of sheer pleasure from Siamis.
And then came a firm female voice: “The Witches are roused. You know what comes next.”
Both swords lifted as the duelists glanced at the new arrival at the top of the stairs. Siamis recognized Lilith the Guardian, as she began whispering a spell. “Late,” he said. “Again.”
Then he made a motion, a token gleamed briefly, and he vanished: by accident or by intent he was gone before his sword, which stood in midair for the single beat of a heart, as if in mockery. Or challenge. Then it, too, was gone.
Kessler lifted his head, his expression disturbingly flat of affect. “Was that for you or for me?”
“I will have to consider,” Lilith replied, looking down sadly. Kessler made a sign, murmured, and also vanished.
“Kessler knows magic?” Rel asked, from the cavern archway, where he, too, had been determined to watch that sword duel. “That’s bad news. Terrible,” he added under his breath.
“It seems he does,” Lilith said. “But I believe he’s just broken his enforced allegiance to Norsunder. He trusts no one, and with a background like his, who could blame him?”
“I could,” CJ whispered from beside Clair.
Rel agreed, but he said nothing as Lilith descended the rest of the stairs. They all began to move, as if released from some kind of spell. Norsunder was truly gone—it began to sink in.
Liere’s control gave way at last, and a deep sob shook her as she ran back and cast herself on the Guardian’s comfortable bosom. For a time Lilith stood looking down at the tousled head, the unkempt hair hacked so badly, and her smile was tender.
Liere raised teary eyes. “I can’t be Sartora. Why can’t you stay and teach me?”
“You know my limitations,” Lilith said softly. “And there is a world full of wise people who can teach you many things, even if they don’t have your talent. But you have to listen to them.”
Liere straightened up, aware of the sound of many footsteps as everybody reappeared from the far tunnel and crowded around. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and said, “Siamis didn’t kill me. I thought he would.”
Lilith looked at the space where Siamis had been. “Perhaps he had a trade in mind? Or he didn’t want Detlev to keep you? I don’t know. He is not your friend, but I wonder if he might be the enemy of your enemy.”
Senrid snorted, then cut a fast glance at Liere, whose fingers clutched her elbows in the old worried manner. Moderating his voice, he said, “So why can’
t we use the dyr against them? It has to be powerful if they want it so badly.”
Lilith had been staring at the air where that sword had been, her expression difficult to define, though it wasn’t triumphant. Senrid remembered that Late. Again. He wondered what history lay behind it—then he remembered that Siamis had once been on the lighter side in the Fall, before he was taken as a child of twelve. Senrid wondered if Siamis was blaming Lilith for not saving him. Then he remembered what she’d said about her daughter, and winced.
Hibern and Rel stepped up to either side of Senrid and Liere as Lilith said, “Ordinarily I am a firm believer in sharing knowledge, and I know how annoying it is to hear ‘I can’t tell you.’ But in this case, really. Believe me. The less you know about those objects, the better for everyone.” She raised her hand, palm out. “Yes, I am aware that to some, my words would act only as a goad. But there are so many better uses of your time, and pursuing the dyra will only bring further trouble.”
By then all the others had joined them, Dak and Cath standing a little way away.
“Ah,” Lilith said, and turned to Glenn and Tahra. “I wanted to tell you two that the news is perhaps not as dire as you feared. Your mother was taken prisoner. I am sorry to report that we know nothing more than that, but there is one good thing that is definite: your Uncle Roderic escaped from the Norsundrians. He is in Ferdrian now, with what remains of the Knights, busy restoring the city. They need you both.”
Liere was saying to Arthur, “Senrid will have to straighten out the mess in his kingdom. Maybe it’ll be done by New Year’s, when I always visit.” She sighed. “I have so much to learn.”
Arthur smiled. “One thing about Bereth Ferian. Throw a pen and the ink will splash ten teachers.”
Liere smiled at the mild joke, thinking of her quiet room, hot chocolate, books to read, and a walk among the beeches. She no longer wanted to join the Mearsieans, who couldn’t seem to see Liere instead of Sartora, but that was all right. They wouldn’t have come all this way to help if they didn’t think Sartora was their friend, even if she wasn’t a very good heroine.
They are all friends, Liere thought. The alliance is real.
Lilith turned her head to survey the gathering and lifted her voice. “All together, I see. Good. The Witches are ready to unite in sending you all home.” She looked from one to another. “Siamis’s enchantment is gone from Sartorias-deles, and I believe it will be impossible to use it again without its being removed instantly. The antidote is being spread to mages of both worlds.”
“Hurray!” the Mearsieans shrieked. “We won! Siamis lost twice, ha ha!”
A noisy cheer went up.
No, we didn’t, Senrid thought, remembering that mocking salute with the sword named Truth. That wasn’t a battle, it was a scouting foray.
He didn’t say it out loud, but it was heard by all those listening on the mental plane.
Chapter Seven
Sartorias-deles
THE young allies found themselves transferred back to Delfina Valley, from which they all returned to their own homes.
Prince Glenn and Princess Tahra of Everon arrived to a devastated kingdom with only a few months in which to prepare for the winter ahead. The queen was still missing. Roderic Dei had survived his capture, and returned to hold the kingdom for the underage prince and princess. Most of the royal palace had been burned as well as looted, but the Sandrials had been cleaning what they could, and hauling back the things they’d saved. Everyone, from the two royal children to the servants, crowded into a single wing for winter.
Sarendan emerged from the enchantment to be plunged into grief for the loss of the gallant Derek Diamagan. Peitar Selenna, who shared similar personality traits with his exiled uncle as well as physical resemblance, threw himself into mastering magic with all the singlemindedness with which his uncle had once thrown himself into building military might—all to withstand the threat of Norsunder. Peitar understood that though Siamis and Detlev’s race to find and control the Geth-deles transfer magic had failed, it was only a temporary setback.
Sartor emerged from the enchantment to discover that the erstwhile commander Bostian had been unable to keep his bored battalion from beginning to sack the city around their oblivious eyes. The guilds were quite angry with the mages for having failed, again, to stop the magic attack—and for having so diminished the Royal Guard that it could not stand against Bostian’s invaders.
But at least the invaders themselves were gone: about the time the alliance first transferred to Geth, Siamis had had to drop his search for the source of Geth-deles’s transfer magic to return to Eidervaen, which he wanted intact once he was successful.
Since Bostian had proved to have so little control over his command, Siamis confronted him, acidly pointing out that they were completely exposed to a flank attack from, for example, the Marlovens from the other side of the mouth of the Sartoran Sea. They were ordered to plan and drill a defense at the same harbor from which Henerek’s army had departed. They marched south and east, and duly planned their defense.
On a wild summer night, they discovered that they were being invaded, and a sharp, nasty fight ensued until combatants discovered that they were nominally on the same side. This was Kessler’s and Henerek’s combined forces, back on the ships they had commandeered, assuming that Sarendan had been raised against them.
By the time the miscommunication was straightened out, orders came down to retreat to Norsunder Base.
Marloven Hess, which had not been invaded, merely had to resume normal life. The horses had enjoyed a splendid summer on the plains their ancestors had come from; the academy had only lost a couple of weeks, which customarily ended with a weeklong wargame in the plains. They had withdrawn deep into the plains, where their instructors taught them to forage, and conducted a protracted game. They returned, sunbrowned and lean, to find that the king was back.
When their families showed up to fetch them, Senrid had to endure questions, silent queries, and a certain amount of oblique chaffing for his having disrupted the entire kingdom for . . . nothing.
He endured it grimly, reflecting that at least he still held his throne.
The least disturbed was Chwahirsland, still in the grip of the glacially disintegrating time binding that Wan-Edhe had laid over Narad, the capital city. To that city, Jilo might never have been gone. To the rest of the kingdom, the season of planting resulted in a slightly more endurable winter than usual, though much bitterness arose in certain army factions at their having had to lower themselves to labors outside of the endless drill they were used to.
Jilo departed Tsauderei’s sunlit, beautiful Valley, and transferred back into the toxic grip of that magic, where he got to work.
* * *
Hibern: I promised myself I would inform you when Stefan was cured. Your father succeeded in removing the spells that your meddling made worse. Stefan is himself again, and though your father still refuses to acknowledge you, I asked your brother if he wished to see you home again. I know not what your father said to Stefan during their many wearying magical sessions, but Stefan’s bitterness and resentment mirrors your father’s.
Some day it might be different. I find my own anger abated, especially after many conversations with my own relations. I trust you are learning useful skills, but then you were always an excellent student. I wish you success in your endeavors, my daughter.
Tdor Askan
* * *
Peitar:
Lilah will surely tell you how much we talked about your visiting Sartor. I still cannot believe that you have yet to visit Eidervaen. Rel says that when he visits next, he hopes by then Sarendan will be settled, and you and Lilah will come, even if you can be away only for a few days.
I say ‘by then’ partly because I know how much is left to be done after recent events, and that includes a time for grief and memorial
. I have made a vow to light a candle each year for Derek, whose gallantry will never be forgotten by any who knew and loved him.
But the other reason is because when I arrived back in Eidervaen, it was to discover that the royal Purrad, our labyrinth, which we often talked about showing you, had been destroyed by the parting Norsundrians in a final act of petty malice.
I say ‘petty’ because if the intent was to frighten us, it had the opposite effect. Everybody in the Eidervaen palace, from the smallest curtain runner to Chief Veltos, remembers exactly how it lay, and we have all made a vow to work together until every pebble, every plant, every chime, is replaced exactly the way it was. Their destruction will be erased as if it never happened.
Atan
Atan sent the note and set the new notecase down as Julian entered, almost unrecognizable with her hair cut short to get rid of the impossible mats. Julian wore a neat child’s tunic and comfortable riding trousers. Though they were made of unadorned cloth, they fit. What’s more, Julian took them off at night, and even put them through the cleaning frame herself. She had decided that baths were the most wonderful thing ever invented, sometimes taking two in a day—one for serious and one for fun.
“What would you like to do?” Atan asked, with a pulse of guilt. But nobody would stop her if she abandoned the tight schedule the high council had bound her to. They were too busy dealing with angry guild leaders and envoys from other parts of the kingdom that the Norsundrians had marched through, taking what they wanted.
“Visit Hannla,” Julian said. “She lets me push the broom, and gives me pastry if I do a good job.”
“Very well. Maybe she’ll let me push the broom, too, and we both can earn a pastry.” Atan half-held her hand out, ready to drop it at the first sign of a scowl.
But Julian took that hand, letting out a sigh of contentment as they walked together downstairs.
A Sword Named Truth Page 78
