by Dawn Cook
“Not yet, Keeper,” came Connen-Neute’s voice, low and silky.
“But Alissa . . .”
There was a hesitation. “She’s fine.” Worry colored Connen-Neute’s voice, and the Master’s grip vanished. “Just pale.”
Connen-Neute escorted him under the chill shade of the mirth trees until he felt the walls of a tent about him and his blindfold was removed. He blinked in the amber light filtering through the yellow folds of fabric. Alissa sat cross-legged upon a cushion in a corner. Her head was in her hands, and she looked as exhausted as if she had run to Ese’Nawoer instead of riding. She smiled weakly up at him and mouthed the words, “Feeling better,” but he knew she wasn’t.
Earan and Breve were in a corner. His brother was dressed in a short, gold-colored tunic with matching trousers. It was elegant, with braided coils and silver buttons. He looked every finger-width the Warden, and he gave Lodesh a forced smile. Lodesh dropped his eyes to his own attire, and his eyebrows rose. The coat was his usual deep green, and though simpler of decoration than Earan’s, it was exquisitely cut.
“Where did this come from?” he said in awe, looking over his hat. It was as tasteful as the rest, something he would commission if he dared dip into his birth father’s coffers.
Reeve gave a pleased grunt. “Your mother and Nisi picked it out with Marga’s help.”
Lodesh’s face went slack. It would take weeks to commission a suit this fine. “You knew this would happen?” he asked.
“Not till last night,” he said with a sad smile. “They used to be your father’s.”
“Oh.” Lodesh grew thoughtful, fingering the silver buttons engraved with the likeness of a mirth flower. He thought he remembered them.
There was a chorus of frightened horses, and Redal-Stan stormed into the tent in a billow of yellow fabric. “Everyone here?” he said brusquely. “Fine. Let’s begin.” He took position in the center of the tent. “Guardians, bring forth your charges and petition your case. Breve?”
Taking Earan’s elbow, Breve stepped forward.
Redal-Stan nodded respectfully. “What has this man been taught?” he asked.
“I have taught him the strategies of war and peace, skill with the sword and pen, eloquence with words and deeds, and the balance between the want and the have,” Breve said.
“What are his skills?”
Breve shifted, looking discomfited. “That of the hunt and deed.”
“His strengths?” Redal-Stan asked.
“They rest within the loyalty of his convictions.”
“His failings?”
Breve’s eyes flicked away briefly. “His pride.”
There was a heartbeat of silence. “Well answered,” Redal-Stan praised. “Who speaks for Keeper Lodesh?
Alissa struggled to rise. Connen-Neute motioned for her to stay as he moved forward. But it was Reeve who boldly stated, “I do,” and Redal-Stan’s eyes widened.
“He’s a gardener,” Earan whispered too loudly. Connen-Neute gave him a poisonous look, and Earan’s ears reddened.
“What have you taught this man?” Redal-Stan asked.
Reeve removed his hat. There was dirt under his nails and he smelled of outside. Lodesh knew the squat man looked coarse next to him, and Lodesh was proud to be his son. “The joy of living things and the nurturing of them,” Reeve said clearly, and Earan’s grin turned patronizing.
“To strive for an end result his grandchildren’s children might see,” Reeve continued. “The ability to listen to the words of people and hear the truth behind them . . .”
Earan’s smile faltered.
“. . . and the difference between desire and need.”
Redal-Stan held his face still. “What are his skills?”
“To recognize a large problem when it’s small and how best to prune it to a proper path.”
“His strengths?”
“His love for his city,” Reeve said solemnly.
“His failings?”
Reeve hesitated. “His love for his city.”
For an instant, surprise showed in Redal-Stan’s eyes, then he nodded. The Master waved for everyone to step back. “I deem both petitioners are equally worthy, and I give the decision to the people, who must abide with it. Connen-Neute? Would you help me, please?”
Lodesh turned as the Masters untied the back panel of the tent, letting it fall away to reveal the field. It wasn’t empty, and Lodesh’s mouth fell open. The entire city must be assembled. As the crowd caught sight of them, the low rumble grew to an exuberant cheer. From the corner of his sight, Lodesh saw Alissa slump with a hand over her eyes.
Redal-Stan took three steps out of the tent, his feet edging into the sun. He raised a hand above his head. “Ese’Nawoer!” he cried. “Greetings!”
A thunderous noise swelled and grew, and Lodesh blanched. The sound dimmed to nothing as Redal-Stan lowered his hand. “I am, as you know, Redal-Stan, ranking Master at the Hold. I called you before me so I may ask your opinion on a matter of great importance.”
The crowd answered eagerly. They knew why they were here.
“The city stands without a Warden,” Redal-Stan said as the noise subsided. “It cannot remain so. The citadel has given you a candidate, and as choice is necessary for self-worth and satisfaction, the Hold has offered you another.”
Redal-Stan waited until the crowd’s small noise ceased. Clear and soft, his voice floated out over the multitudes, carried to the edges of the field by a ward. “The decision, Ese’-Nawoer, belongs to you.” Turning, he whispered, “Step forward, both of you. One on either side.”
Lodesh moved in a daze, overwhelmed by the throng and what was happening.
“Do you know the supplicants?” Redal-Stan said, and the people roared their approval. “Is there a third consideration?” he asked, and field went silent. “Then we will waste no more of the morning.” Redal-Stan turned to his right. “Earan Stryska, Keeper of the Hold, eldest son of Marl and Lucian Stryska, step forward.”
A thunderous noise rose, stunning everyone before the yellow tent. Earan raised a firm hand, acknowledging them. He was flushed, holding himself confidently. Lodesh drew a careful breath. Perhaps it would be all right.
“Thank you, Earan,” Redal-Stan said over the noise, looking as relieved as Lodesh felt. “If you would step back.” The Master drew a large breath. “Lodesh Stryska,” he said loudly. Keeper of the Hold, youngest son of—”
The crowd surged forward, drowning out his last words in a sound so loud it was a physical force, rocking everyone but Lodesh into taking a step back. His mouth hanging open, Lodesh took a hesitant step forward. The people redoubled their efforts. Terrified, Lodesh turned to Redal-Stan. “You can’t make me do this,” he said, ashen faced. “Then he turned the other way. “Father,” he pleaded. “Don’t let them do this to me.”
“Buck up, boy,” the short man said. “I didn’t raise you to turn from those that need you.”
“But I don’t know anything about governing a city.”
Reeve’s frown melted into a smile. “Listen to them,” he said. “They don’t want someone to run their lives. They want someone to stay out of their way. Someone who will listen when things go wrong. Someone who will put their needs before his or her own wants.”
“But your trees,” Lodesh said. “Who will care for them?”
Reeve hugged him fiercely, giving him a rough kiss on his cheek. “You will,” he whispered. “You will, my boy, in due time. Now go greet those who look to you.”
Lodesh turned to his brother. “Earan, I didn’t want . . . I wasn’t trained . . .”
Earan made a sour-looking shrug, trying to hide his disappointment but not doing very well. “Neither was I, little brother. We were never meant to administer, but I don’t think they care.” Earan nodded to the crowd, now beginning to stir uneasily.
“Decide quickly, Lodesh.” Redal-Stan was suddenly at his side. “Either accept their will or not. A city scorned is more vicious
than a proud woman wronged.”
Lodesh’s eyes widened as he realized the trap was secure. “I can’t refuse them,” he whispered. “Anything I say will sound like an insult.” He turned to find Alissa. She smiled proudly from her cushion, looking as if she were trying not to cry.
Redal-Stan gestured flamboyantly for him to step forward, and the field went silent. As if in a dream, Lodesh moved. There was a tingle of a ward. His words, however soft, would be heard by all. The wind brought the hot smell of the field to shift his hair, and the mirth flowers drifted down peacefully behind him. One settled on his shoulder, and he reached for it, taking strength in its familiar scent. He would be all right. He wouldn’t have to leave his grove forever.
“Ese’Nawoer,” he said into the hush, then hesitated. “I’m overwhelmed, honored,” he raised his flower, the traditional token of affection between two lovers, “and completely at a loss for words.” He grinned, and the crowd burst into a thunderous cheer. They had their Warden.
“Wolves,” Earan whispered. “He was the Warden even before we lost Uncle,” and Redal-Stan gave a short grunt of agreement.
Behind him, Lodesh felt Alissa collapse. He and Redal-Stan turned as one, but it was the Master who moved first. “Quick, Connen-Neute,” Redal-Stan snapped. “Help me get her out of here. Why the Wolves didn’t that sorry excuse of a raku teach her a ward of shielding!”
Lodesh was half a step to her when a strong arm caught him. “Hold, little brother,” Earan admonished. “If you leave without giving them the satisfaction of a speech, they’ll know something is wrong and go home uneasy, thinking your service has begun with a bad omen.”
Shaking his arm free, Lodesh watched in frustration as Connen-Neute rolled Alissa into the back flap of the tent. The two Masters shifted, grasped opposite ends of the sling, and struggled into the air. Redal-Stan was almost gray from his worry and age, dark about the muzzle and tail. By contrast, Connen-Neute was young and inexperienced in carrying heavy loads in tandem. Lodesh watched them dwindle into the distance. They would make it back to the Hold safely. They had to, he thought, forcing himself to believe it.
He took a rough breath and turned back. The crowd had noticed the departing Masters, and an uneasy buzz had begun. Lodesh resolutely set his worried thoughts of Alissa aside. He had to. The people of Ese’Nawoer were sharp and canny. They would recognize any worry, any hesitation, and like a jealous lover, know if his thoughts weren’t with them and them alone. But he loved them, too, this stubborn, bullheaded, benevolent people, and to them he belonged. He looked at them proudly and took a breath. “People of Ese’Nawoer . . .”
36
Her shoulder was agony. At first, that was the only thought Alissa’s muzzy head could comprehend. That and the nasty taste in her mouth. Her tongue felt thick and her throat raw, as if she had been shouting. “Beast?” she called into her thoughts, and a blinding wave of pain thundered through her head.
Whimpering, she curled up into herself on her side, knees to her chest. It was back. Her infamous headache. Hurt washed over Alissa in time with her pulse. Shoulders hunched, she kept her breaths shallow as the agony diminished. It even hurt to breathe.
Waking up in pain had once been a habit with her, one she didn’t enjoy, but at least she had learned to deal with it. And so, before making her traditional moan, she examined her tracings. They were clear and pristine. Satisfied she hadn’t burned them into a temporary state of ash, Alissa counted the days and decided she could do a ward of healing.
The first influx of warmth infused her and dissolved the pain. Blessedly quick, the spikes of pain in her shoulder became dull throbs. Her head felt light, and her headache disappeared. Sighing, she burrowed farther between the blankets, wanting to go to sleep with that intoxicating sense of well-being. But the sheets smelled like book glue, and the surprise brought Alissa alert. Not only was she in someone else’s bed, but she had no idea how she had gotten there.
“Ashes,” she whispered, opening her eyes and sitting up. The room was very tall, very large, and very full of books carefully shelved against three walls. One high window tried to light it. From the shadows, she would say it was late afternoon. A white screen was set up in the center of the room. Alissa guessed she was in Redal-Stan’s bedroom.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember how she got here. Maybe Beast would know. “Beast?” she whispered carefully, feeling the throbbing echo of her headache return. It wasn’t debilitating this time, and she closed her eyes and endured it.
“What?”
It was very subdued, frightened almost, and Alissa grew concerned. “What happened?”
“I did it again.”
The four words sent a wash of alarm through Alissa. It was mirrored by Beast’s separate emotions, but hers were tinged with guilt. “You, ah, took over?” Alissa said hesitantly.
“Yes.” Beast’s thoughts grew untamed. “And it was so easy,” she breathed, sending a chill through Alissa. “It was as if you never existed until I heard his music.”
“Music?” Alissa strove to hide her fear, not wanting Beast to know how scared she was at her admission. “Strell’s music? You heard him?”
“Yes,” Beast admitted. “They dropped you on the balcony. That’s why your shoulder hurts. I almost shifted and flew away, but then I heard his music and remembered. . . .”
Alissa gulped at her near escape. “And?”
Beast turned frightened, like a small child. “I got scared. I forgot you again! Then I got angry because I hurt. Then everything got worse. The old one knew I almost forgot you. He said I would again. He said he wanted to help me to go to sleep until you woke up. I told him I would stay awake to protect you, and that if no one hurt or scared me, I wouldn’t forget my promise, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Alissa gripped the bedclothes, frightened of things she didn’t remember.
“I told him no,” Beast continued. “And he said yes. Then I said a few things I shouldn’t have. And he said a few things he ought not. Then,” Beast grew indignant, “they sat on me and tied your hands! They held your nose and made me drink that—dirt-water! And then I fell asleep.” Beast’s thoughts turned fearful. “It was so fast. I didn’t want to go to sleep.”
Alissa took a deep breath. Her fingers were trembling, and she gripped them into fists. “Well,” she thought shakily, “it’s done, and I’m all right, and you’re all right.”
“But it’s going to happen again,” Beast said miserably, hiding herself.
Seeming to be alone in her thoughts, Alissa tried to settle herself. Slowly her headache eased. She was beginning to believe Redal-Stan was right in that she was going to end up feral. That Beast didn’t want it either somehow made it worse. Restless, she swung her feet to the floor. There had to be a way to get home before Beast forgot her completely.
A note on the bedside table caught her attention, and she picked it up. It was addressed to Squirrel, and Alissa frowned, pulling it closer to make out the swirling characters in the dim light. “Squirrel,” she read. “No Keeper visitors. No nonverbal talking with anyone. You bruised your tracings, and until they heal you will have a headache. My room is warded to block most of the Hold’s background noise, so stay put. I’ll be back by sundown tomorrow to talk to you. And stay out of my books.” It was signed Redal-Stan.
Alissa let the paper drop back to the table. It came to rest beside a thin book. Glancing at the title, she frowned. Her papa had once read to her from this before he left. It was a child’s book concerning a scatterbrained squirrel and his never-ending predicaments caused by his temper. Now realizing why Redal-Stan called her Squirrel, her frown deepened.
Irate at the pet name, Alissa rose to investigate Redal-Stan’s room. She found all his books, with the exception of the one on the bedside table, were warded shut. The screen in the center of the room sheltered a bathing tub of all things, and after regretfully deciding she had no way to fill it, she wandered out into his main room. All the books t
here were warded, too. Deep among the clutter she found her book, First Truth. This one couldn’t be warded against her, but the wash of baffled emotion coming from the book when she bypassed its protective wards with a claim of ownership dissuaded her from opening it.
Trapped, she thought darkly as she sat atop Redal-Stan’s desk. Told to stay put and not talk to anyone. She felt like she had the plague. Would they remember to feed her? After that ward of healing, she was starving!
The wind gusted in from the balcony, tugging at Redal-Stan’s papers, safe under their paperweights. A cup of forgotten tea sat atop the largest stack, and she toyed with the idea of lifting it in spite to let them all blow away. A smooth rock pinned the stack beside it. This she took in hand, placing the papers under the teacup. The rock’s river-washed smoothness filled her grip pleasantly.
Alissa tossed the rock from hand to hand. It was just the right size to make a cup. It would take some time, but time was exactly what she had. Her tools were three hundred odd years away, but she could improvise.
Feeling a faint stir of anticipation, Alissa snatched Redal-Stan’s wooden writing board. A cloak made of thick leather went over her good shoulder. Several paperweights were next. She could use them as hammers. Her cup would be crude, not the polished perfection she could manage given time and the right materials. But if she used the fine-grained sand Redal-Stan had to rub out mistakes in his writing, she could polish out at least the inside, especially if she used the pestle from the mortar kicked under the desk.
Smiling, Alissa took her tools and moved to the bed. Yes, she thought. A cup would be nice. And if she worked it right, she might even fix the memory of its making into her thoughts.
37
Lodesh paced stealthily to his door. After dimming his ward of light, he cautiously levered open the thick slab of ornate ash. Breath held, he peeked around the frame. His gut tightened as the man sent to watch the hall straightened.
“Would you like a plate of sup before retiring, Warden?” the man in citadel livery asked.
