Hidden Truth

by Dawn Cook

  “No matter,” he crooned. “You’re mine.” Bailic snatched his hand back as a silver-lined containment field blossomed into existence about the book with a finger-cramping hum of warning. He hadn’t even set a ward. It had responded to his unconscious desire alone. With a sharp cry of frustration, he rose and strode to the hall. “Piper-r-r-r-r!” he bellowed.

  He stormed back to the book, staring down at it in outrage. “Mine,” he nearly spat. It might be as long as sunset until the hateful thing let its protection drop and he could touch it again. Bailic began to pace, spinning as he reached the windows to glare at the book glowing under its silvery field. “I say you are mine,” he vowed.

  7

  Alissa fidgeted outside Strell’s door in worried indecision. The sun was shining on the Hold’s tower already. Soon it would fill the practice room. A tray with a small pot of tea and sweet roll for Strell was in her hands. He hadn’t been down for breakfast, and it was too late for their usual meal together. Either he had forgotten to get up or decided to skip his first meal. The latter was a physical impossibility.

  Strell?” she called through the door. “Are you awake?”

  She held her breath and listened, keeping the tray sideways so she could put her ear close to his door. Nothing. She didn’t want to be improper, but deciding she had no choice, she set the tray on the floor and cracked the door open.

  “Strell?” she said hesitantly, making out the lump under the covers. The fire in the grate was banked, and it was dark. “Strell. Get up. You’re late.”

  “Late?” It was a sleep-slurred word.

  Emboldened in that he seemed to be covered by his blanket, Alissa entered. There was a tingle of a ward left in the sill by a long-gone Keeper, recognizing her and dismissing her as no threat. Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the ominous crack in the wall running from the warded window to the ceiling. The explosion caused by improperly removing the ward about her source had torn through their shared chimney flue, cracking Strell’s wall and giving him a slight concussion. Flushing, she dropped her gaze back to the lump on the bed. “Wake up,” she said. “Bailic said he would remove all your hair if you were late again.”

  “He can’t do that,” Strell said as he propped himself up on an elbow. “Can he?”

  Her brow furrowed as she imagined Strell with no hair. “I don’t particularly want to find out.” His face was slack from slumber, and he blinked as if struggling to focus. “I’ll wait for you in the hall,” she said and ducked out, embarrassed. He looked charmingly defenseless while soft with sleep.

  Knowing he would be a while, she picked up her tray and went to wait at the landing, but a shout from Bailic drew her to a stop before going three steps. Such a blatant show of emotion from him wasn’t typical, and worry flickered through her.

  There was a sudden commotion behind Strell’s door, and he strode into the hall, unshaven and his boots unlaced. He halted in surprise when she extended the tray to him. “I thought you would be hungry,” she said.

  “Yes. Thanks,” he said as he took it. “It’s not Bailic’s?”

  “No. You’re late. He already has his tray.”

  Grimacing, Strell took it, and they continued down the hall. “Wolves,” Strell complained. “He has himself in a state this morning. I could hear him through the walls.”

  Alissa grabbed his elbow to steady him as he stumbled on the stairs. “I think he’s getting impatient again,” she guessed.

  Strell nodded around a yawn. “I’ll become an expert today in fields, at least the theory of them. That should satisfy him for a time.”

  She returned his smile, but it faded quickly. There was only so much Strell could do, or pretend to do. Useless hadn’t given her permission to perform any wards or fields in Strell’s stead, saying she hadn’t enough control yet. She didn’t understand why she had to be good. Even Bailic couldn’t expect Strell to get it right the first time.

  The silence from the practice room was daunting as they reached the door. An amber light from the risen sun was spilling out into the hall, and Alissa’s hopes that they might make it in time were dashed. She held herself back a step, and Strell went in first. Eyes lowered, she moved to her accustomed spot in the sun, not wanting to risk Bailic’s attention by getting her usual cup of tea.

  Bailic stood with his arms crossed before him, his shadow running halfway up the opposing wall. “You’re late,” the man said. They were his first words, more often than not.

  “Sorry,” Strell said. She watched his fingers fumble to straighten his collar in the probable hope that Bailic would drop the subject if he at least looked contrite. Reaching for the pot, Strell poured himself a cup of tea, pointedly ignoring Bailic’s silence. Alissa settled herself into the cold cushions and pulled her stitching out from between them. The dress she was working on was primarily black linen, and when done, she was going to make a matching scarf.

  A faint pull, a familiar jittery feeling, drew her attention up, searching. Her eyes widened and her heart seemed to stop. Her book. Bailic had brought down her book. It was on the small table beside his chair. A containment field was wrapped around it, so strong it was actually visible as a faint shimmer. What had he done to her book to make it do that?

  Her pulse raced with the thought it was so close, and with a strength she didn’t know she had, she tore her eyes away. Desperate, she looked helplessly to Strell. He gazed blankly at her until he followed her darting eyes back to the book. His mouth opened slightly, and he stared at it. Burn me to ash, she thought. How could she stop herself now? It was right in front of her.

  Strell casually rocked forward to a stand. Taking his cup of untasted tea, he brought it to her, breaking her line of sight with the book and kicking the leg of her chair. She gave him a tense smile as her gaze was jolted from the book, resolving to not look at it again. Should Bailic realize her desire for it, he would know she was the Keeper, not Strell.

  Falling into his familiar role of distraction, Strell returned to the table, shifting from his usual spot to block her view of the book. A flash of indignation took her, quickly followed by relief. She could do this. If she didn’t look at it, she could do this. But as she picked up her stitching, the same restless feeling took her. Ashes, she thought as her foot started to jiggle. If she crossed the room, she could touch it. Bailic’s eyebrows rose at her erratic motion, and she dropped her head and focused on her stitching.

  “No excuse this morning?” Bailic said as he turned back to Strell. There was no emotion in his voice.

  “I said I was sorry.”

  Bailic eased across the practice room to lean over Strell as he slumped in his chair. “Sorry won’t do, my piper,” he said, his anger almost hidden under his smooth voice.

  “Hair grows back,” Strell said as he met Bailic’s eyes from under his lowered brow.

  A benevolent smile came over Bailic, and Alissa’s heart gave a hard thump. There was an eager intensity to him that said he was up to something. “You’re right,” the Keeper said. “Fetch me my book.”

  Alissa’s gaze darted to Strell. If he touched the field, the ward it held would burn him. Bailic wanted Strell to singe his tracings—as if he had any that mattered. But it would still hurt and probably give him a nasty headache.

  Strell glanced from Alissa to the book, and then to Bailic. “Get it yourself,” he said.

  “No.” Bailic sat on the long, black table. “You get it for me.”

  “It’s under a field,” he protested.

  “It’s not my field,” Bailic said gently, as if chiding a child for being afraid of the dark. “It’s the book’s. It’s claimed you. You ought to be safe.” He hesitated. “I want to find out.”

  Strell glanced past Bailic to the open door. “I don’t know enough yet. It will burn me.”

  Bailic heaved a dramatic sigh. “Oh, very well. The girl will retrieve it for me. What does it matter if a commoner is burnt?” He smiled at her, and she shrank back. If she touched her book
, she wouldn’t be able to put it back down. She knew without trying.

  Immediately, Strell stood, his chair grating on the smooth floor. His face was pale with the knowledge of what was going to happen. Alissa shifted uneasily in her chair. It was her fault, she thought. She should have gotten Strell up earlier. She shouldn’t have waited so long. What did it matter if she saw his bare feet or that her mother would think it improper for her to be in his room while he was still in bed? Strell was going to singe his tracings. And she could do nothing to stop it. Helpless, she clenched her stitching in her lap and watched Strell move down the row of tall, sun-filled windows to where Bailic kept his chair in the shadows. Her pulse pounded as Strell squatted to bring his eyes level with the shimmering field.

  Bailic had spent a long, boring week explaining fields and how they could protect and defend either in or out of one’s thoughts. Strell couldn’t make a field, but Bailic had made sure he understood them. If he violated the bubble of thought, the ward it contained would burn him.

  Or would it? she wondered as Strell scrubbed his hand over his stubbled cheeks, delaying the inevitable. Strell didn’t care what the book contained, and Bailic had explained over and over again that intent was often more important than action when it came to triggering the ward a field carried. Alissa had found this to be true to a certain extent. The wards on the windows would burn her fingers and thoughts even when touched by accident. But others, like the one on her doorsill left by her papa, didn’t.

  “Now, Piper!” Bailic exclaimed impatiently.

  Strell took a breath. Screwing up his face, he gingerly reached out

  “Please, no,” Alissa thought, hoping the book could hear her and understand.

  Like a snuffed candle flame, the field extinguished itself as he touched it. Strell jerked his hand back and lurched to his feet. Clearly shocked, he darted his gaze to Alissa, then Bailic.

  “Good,” Bailic said. It was a short sound, but heavy with emotion. He held himself alarmingly still. Alissa waited, knowing it wasn’t over. “Open it,” he said.

  Strell shook his head and took a step back.

  Bailic sent a sly look toward Alissa in an unspoken threat. “Open it,” he repeated, and Strell grimaced. Resettling himself before the book, he wiped his palms on his pant legs and reached for the clasp.

  There was a sharp pop, and Alissa gasped. Strell snatched his hand back, gripping it protectively in the other. The smell of burnt lightning bit at her nose, and she felt ill. What more could Bailic ask for?

  “Get away from it,” Bailic said, and Strell backed up, putting space between himself and the book. A hard eagerness had come over Bailic’s usually closed face. “Ready yourself,” the Keeper said as he scooped up the book. “We’re going out.”

  Alissa’s worry shifted to surprise. “Outside? In the snow? What for?” she asked.

  “My attempts to wedge wisdom into the piper’s skull may shortly become redundant. We’re going to Ese’ Nawoer. Now.”

  “You can’t leave the Hold. Talo-Toecan can kill you,” she said, then dropped her eyes as Bailic focused on her.

  “Really?” he said, his voice cold. “I’m taking both of you and the book with me. Talo-Toecan wouldn’t dare attack me the last time I held it. He won’t this time.” Bailic stepped to the door, seeming to be talking more to himself than to them. “I imagine we won’t even see his shadow. He won’t expect me to go out in the snow.”

  Strell had eased back to his seat. Eyes on his hand, he opened and closed it as if it wasn’t his. “That’s because it’s foolish,” he said softly as Bailic left the room.

  Bailic jerked to a halt in the threshold, his head pulling up with an angry stiffness. He turned, his jaw clenched. Alissa shot a pained glance at Strell. Why couldn’t he hold his tongue?

  “I believe the word you want to use is clever,” Bailic said tightly. “And you’d better pray to the Navigator and all his Hounds I’m not successful. If I can bring the souls of the abandoned city awake, I won’t need you.” Bailic’s eyes went distant as he gazed out the window towards Ese’ Nawoer. His breath shook as he slowly exhaled. “I’ve waited long enough,” he whispered fiercely. “Snow isn’t going to stop me if there is a chance I can start now. You removed the ward from it. Perhaps you can open it if you’re in the city.”

  “But—the snow is up to my knees!” Alissa protested.

  Bailic’s eyes cleared and his brow rose mockingly. “I’m not leaving you here alone. You’ll survive, and if you don’t, that’s one less half-breed to worry about.”

  She froze in a nauseating mix of shock and betrayal.

  “Bailic,” Strell said in sharp warning. He was glaring at him, his muscles tensed.

  A sedate smile came over the fallen Keeper. “But that’s just what she is,” he taunted, shifting her book to his other arm, cradling it as if it were a child. “A bred-in-shame half-breed. We’ve been over this before, plainsman.”

  Alissa felt her chest tighten in misery. Her mix of plains and hills was obvious, but to have the reminder thrust upon her without warning was painful. It seemed Strell had found it in himself to ignore her background, but the hatred for half-breeds was so ingrained in both plains and foothills, she was sure Strell would never see her as anything but that odd girl he had met on the way to a legendary fortress. It hadn’t seemed to matter before. Now it did. Miserable, she stared out the windows at the cloudless sky.

  She heard the sound of Bailic’s shoes as he left, and Strell called after him, “You might show some tolerance. Looking the way you do.”

  “Enough!” Bailic nearly spat, storming back into the room.

  A gasp slipped from Alissa as she felt a sharp tug on her awareness. Bailic was setting a ward. Strell choked on his next words, making a terrifying gurgle. He stiffened into immobility as his expression froze into a mask of anger and frustration. Bailic had warded him to stillness, rendering him incapable of everything but the basic movements to keep alive.

  As she sat in her chair in horrified indecision, Bailic crouched to look him face-to-face across the narrow table. “I’ve been very patient with you,” he said softly.

  Alissa tensed with fear. “You can’t kill him,” she said, her voice quavering. “You can’t. You won’t be able to open the book.”

  Clearly ignoring her, Bailic rose. He set the book down on the table and crossed his arms. Cocking his head, he eyed Strell, seeming to be deciding what he was going to do. Alissa bit her lip as a small groan came from Strell as he tried to move. His face was turning red with the effort, and sweat had started to bead on his forehead.

  “You’re right,” Bailic said, coming around the table to stand beside him. “Hair grows back. But there must be something. . . . Ah.” He bent down and whispered in his ear, “Which hand is it now that uses all its fingers to play your pipe? The right one. Yes?”

  Alissa went cold in a wash of panic. “Bailic, no!” she cried, standing up. “He’s a minstrel. He needs his hands to play. It’s his life.”

  There was a flash across her tracings, showing her the pattern the ward took in her consciousness, then nothing. Her muscles froze and her pulse raced in fear. Bailic had warded her to stillness! He hadn’t even looked at her! How could she fight something that fast?

  “Your life, piper?” he said as he pulled Strell’s right hand out from under the table and set it on top. It was brown from the sun, made strong by his travel. “You don’t need all these fingers to open a book. That’s why you are alive. To open a book. And do you know what I’m going to do when you open that book?” he whispered. “I’m going to wake the dead. An entire city of death to dabble my fingers in.”

  Alissa struggled to move as Bailic lifted Strell’s pinky. “Ese’ Nawoer was sixteen thousand souls when they built their walls to keep out the refugees from the plague of madness,” Bailic said lightly. “Women and children from both the plains and hills went there for help. The mountain city turned a blind eye, refusing them even as thei
r pleas for mercy turned to a savage rage under the throes of madness.The guilt from watching them tear themselves apart against their gates has cursed Ese’ Nawoer. They will serve the one who wakes them, and with the book, I can do it.”

  The Keeper came around to the front of the table and crouched to look Strell in the eyes with a mocking smile. “And do you know what I’m going to do with my sixteen thousand souls? My desperate, cursed, pathetic, guilt-ridden souls? I’m going to send them to the foothills and plains, by ones and twos and threes, until the city is empty. They will infuse their feelings of despair and misery into the minds of the living. It will be as if the plague of madness has returned as they each blame the other and go to war. My souls will drive the living insane. Having Death’s thoughts in your own will do that.”

  Seemingly satisfied, Bailic straightened and took a cleansing breath. “Now, Piper,” he said shortly. “I’m not good at this yet. Too much and I’ll set your hand on fire, too little, and you will have a stump that will take weeks to fall off. I don’t like the stink of decay, so hold still so I can get it right.”

  The Navigator help me, Alissa thought. Bailic is jesting. He has to be. He won’t do this. This is to scare Strell into obedience. That’s all. Strell has to have all his fingers to play his pipe. His hands are his life. Bailic knows that.

  There was another desperate, half moan of a sound from Strell, and Alissa tried to move a foot, anything, not knowing how to break the ward. A sheen of sweat glistened on Strell’s face, and he had gone white. This is enough, she thought. Bailic should stop. Stop now.