Hidden Truth

by Dawn Cook

  “Oh, no!” He reached to halt her hand’s motion as she dipped her leather rag into the jar of water to dampen her clay. “I had to earn it, just as my father and his before that—and if you add any more water, your bowl will fall completely apart.”

  “Thanks,” she said, squeezing the water back into the jar.

  “Sarmont wanted it as well.” Strell sighed and rubbed his nose. “He thought he would get it, too, seeing as he was the eldest. But he didn’t know I had been practicing in secret.”

  “Secret?” she mumbled, trying to even out the top again.

  “Yes. That way Shay wouldn’t break my fingers as she did Sarmont’s.”

  Alissa looked up, shocked. “Your sister broke your brother’s fingers over a silly pipe!”

  Strell chuckled and leaned back. “Yes, indeed. But we could never prove it was anything more than an accident. Backed a wagon right into his hand as he was shutting a gate.”

  Alissa arched her shoulders painfully. “Why? You said no one but you could play.”

  “It’s not just a pipe, Alissa,” he said softly, his eyes intent upon hers. “It’s the right to claim the profits of my entire family’s efforts, so don’t lose it, all right?”

  Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. “You want it back?” she finally managed.

  “Keep it.” Strell dropped his gaze. “It doesn’t mean anything now that they’re—gone.” His eyes flicked to hers and away. “It may sound an odd way to choose who will run the clan’s affairs for the next generation, but it does ensure the quality of work continues. And it’s safer than the way a lot of houses decide who assumes the leadership.”

  “It’s a problem?” she asked. Most hills children set up a farm next to their parents in the rare instance it was necessary.

  “It can be a very large problem.” Strell sighed. “There are many family names that have disappeared from treacherous schemes and betrayals.”

  “You’re jesting,” she said, and he shook his head. “Why?”

  Unable to meet her eyes, Strell turned away. “I have noticed,” he said slowly, “that you prefer your apples skinned when you have a choice.”

  Startled at the shift of topics, she nodded.

  Strell rubbed the back of his neck. “Even the wealthiest plainsman leaves the skin on.”

  “Meaning . . .” she prompted.

  He took a careful breath. “We would starve if we made a habit of throwing a perfectly edible rind away.”

  Alissa went cold. The wheel spun, all but forgotten. Food was plentiful in the foothills. Scraps, or even the slightly imperfect parts, went to the sheep. She had never imagined it was that much different anywhere else.

  “Carrying a chartered name, I never went hungry,” he said, “even in early spring. Being able to trace one’s lineage back to one of the original families to settle the plains does have advantages. But many aren’t so skilled as to meet the cost of grain at market.”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized in a small voice. Hounds, she must have looked so arrogant.

  “Oh, Alissa,” Strell said as he leaned to tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t tell you to make you feel guilty but so you would understand why Shay would find cause to break our brother’s fingers. Sarmont was a better potter than her, but he was loose with his money. He would’ve gambled the family’s assets away. I think Father asked him to throw the contest, and when Sarmont refused, Shay ‘explained’ it to him.”

  “So what happened when you won?” Alissa asked meekly.

  Strell rubbed his nose. “Shay had Sarmont beat me to a paste until I granted her the power to act in my stead while I was gone—had a paper drawn up and everything—but if I was staying, I think she would have accepted it.”

  “Oh.” Alissa felt ill. She would have never guessed the plains were that bad. “All the plainsmen I have seen were thin,” she said hesitantly. “None looked starving.”

  He nodded sharply. “Only the wealthier families are allowed to trade directly with the foothills. A starving man has a very short temper, especially when surrounded by food.” His eyes dropped. “It would create too many problems. If you get thin, your name loses its chartered status. It’s very rare you get it back.”

  Alissa was silent, only now understanding why Strell put so much pride in his name.

  “Don’t think too badly of Shay or my family,” he said in a rush. “She was only doing what she thought best. There were the rest of my sisters, and aunts, and all the children to think about. It’s difficult,” he said, his eyes downcast, “living on the edge of abundance, never being allowed in. A bad decision can often mean the loss of an entire season’s work.”

  “I’m sorry, Strell,” she apologized again. “I had no idea.”

  “Don’t be. Not many from the foothills know.” He smiled faintly. “Your innocence of the true state of affairs was intentional, and now that you know, you will keep it to yourself.”

  Astonished, she blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

  Strell hesitated, then slowly exhaled. “What do you think would happen if it was widely known the plains are, at times, full of famine and want?”

  “There would be an outpouring of goods!” Alissa asserted.

  He shook his head. “The price of grain would go up.”

  “No,” she demanded.

  “Yes,” he whispered, his gaze distant. “The hills would band together and boycott our goods, trying to starve us out. Not willing to allow our children to go hungry, we would undoubtedly steal what we needed, laying waste to what we couldn’t carry away.”

  “Hounds,” she said, knowing he was right. It was all she could manage.

  “Hush.” Strell stood up, clearly wanting to end the discussion. “The plains and foothills have been bartering for years. They won’t stop now.”

  He went back to his bowls, and knowing how hard it was for him to talk about his family, Alissa bent back over her work to give him some privacy. The wheel had almost stopped, and she kicked it back up to speed. Her bowl was the furthest thing from her mind, and so she promptly bumped it, gasping as it collapsed in the quick sound of slapping clay. “Oh, no,” she moaned. “Now I have to start all over.” Alissa’s eyes went miserably to the wall. The sun was gone.

  Strell silently cocked his head at the ceiling and the disappearing light. He smiled and turned away, pretending he didn’t see.

  “Thanks,” she said shyly. Still not meeting her eyes, he made a small noise. Alissa thought he was pleased she was showing so much interest in his first craft, despite his efforts to get her away from his wheel. He did have a point though. It had been three days, but she was as bad now as when she started. She was cold and hungry, and the daft thing was never going to look the way she wanted it. “Strell?” Her whisper broke the quiet, and he turned. “Will you show me how?”

  He broke into a soft grin and nodded. Alissa began to rise so he could take her place, but he motioned her to stay. Much to her surprise, he pulled a stool up across from her and sat down. His long leg went out, and with a few practiced kicks, the wheel was spinning. “Here,” he said as he reached out and took her hands into his own. Her eyes widened at his touch, and together, with her fingers between the clay and his, they gathered the mangled bits of clay into a small hill.

  “Do you feel it humming?” he asked. She nodded, not sure what to make of his casual contact. But it did seem as if the clay under her palms was humming. “That means it’s centered,” he said. “Now, notice the continuous pressure needed to change its shape.” Their hands shifted, and she started as the edge of her palm found the gritty, spinning wheel. “As with any endeavor, it’s always best to lure changes from the bottom,” he said softly, his eyes fixed upon the clay. “Starting in the middle only ruins the beginning and the end, much as it does a good story.”

  He leaned closer, his head almost touching hers, and she stiffened. Strell nodded. “Yes. That’s better. If you’re hesitant, it will rebel and run away from you.
But if you’re too bold, it will do the same. Clay requires more of—an enticement?”

  Under their combined pressure, the hill turned into a perfectly circular, squat column. Her eyes were drawn to his mutilated hand. Their fingers were intertwined, making his pinky difficult to find. Up to now he had tried to hide it, refusing even to let her see it closely and make sure it was healing properly, but here, trying to teach her his first craft, he had allowed himself to forget. A small knot of worry in her began to ease.

  “But if you have a gentle firmness,” he continued, “and know exactly the limits of your mastery, it will respond willingly to anything you ask.” Their joined thumbs sank into the clay to make a well. Beneath his fingers gray with mud, the hollow cylinder thinned and rose to become a delicate vase. She watched, enthralled with how easy he made it seem. It was more like magic than a skill. “And perhaps,” he said, preoccupied with his task, “create something you might never expect.”

  His other foot went out, and using his heel, he slowed the flywheel until it was barely moving. Taking her finger, he traced a close spiral from the bottom up. She allowed him to shift her hand, letting him do as he wished, wanting him to know she didn’t mind.

  “My father,” he said softly, “maintained much as a fiery-tempered woman, clay had to be forced into obedience.” He paused, eyeing the gently moving spiral. “I disagree. I believe clay must be charmed, thereby not forfeiting any of its own temperamental spirit, but rather lending it to the potter’s skills, supplementing it, allowing him to craft far more that he could make alone.”

  The wheel stopped. In the new hush, Alissa look questioningly at Strell. He was contemplating their work, more content than she had ever seen him. Her heart went out to him, knowing his music had been a large part of him and now it was gone. Perhaps he could find solace in being a potter again. A sigh slipped from him. His lips parted and he blinked, clearly only now realizing their hands were yet intertwined. Still, she smiled, and seeing it, he relaxed.

  “You see?” he said, his voice pitched lower. “It’s a matter of gentle firmness joined with a willingness to let the clay show you its own desires, and the ability to meld those desires with your own.”

  She nodded, her pulse quickening with the question of what would happen next.

  “I think we should keep this one,” Strell asserted softly, and she nodded again, waiting. His head tilted, and he leaned closer to her over the clay. Her breath caught.

  But then Talon winged in, landing on the table before them in a backwash of unmitigated hostility. Feathers raised like the hackles of an angry dog, she stalked stiffly forward, growing more and more agitated. Small sounds resembling cracking ice came from her, and Alissa’s eyes widened. It was her bird’s tiny nails, snapping on the table.

  A flash of ire flickered behind Strell’s eyes, and he sighed in resignation. “All right, old bird,” he grumbled as he disentangled their fingers and reluctantly stood. “I was just showing your mistress the finer points of throwing a pot.” Still hissing, Talon fluttered up to the rafters. Her shadow lay upon the table like a cold warning, watching.

  Strell ran a length of twine under their vase to loosen it from the wheel. Fingers carefully spaced, he gently shifted it free and moved it to the drying table, covering it with a light piece of damp cloth so it wouldn’t dry too quickly and perhaps crack.

  Alissa remained where she was, disgusted with her bird’s bad timing. It wasn’t until Strell began to wash the clay from his fingers that she rose, stiff, sore, and muddy. Ignoring Talon’s muttered comments, Alissa cleaned what she could of herself, resolving to do a better job later. She was lost in a mix of embarrassment and frustration when she turned to see Strell crouched by the vase, knife in hand. “There,” he said, and extended the knife to her. “Your turn.”

  “My turn?” she said, coughing to clear her throat as her voice cracked.

  “Your name,” he prompted. “I can tell already this piece is worth keeping. It will withstand the heat of the fire. You have to put your name upon it before it dries.”

  “Doesn’t that go on the underside?” she asked, sure that was were she had seen such marks in the past.

  “Yes. But as we’re not going to sell it, it can go anywherewe want. And I do want both our names upon this,” he said, glancing nervously to the rafters.

  “Oh.” Alissa took the knife, glancing at him as their fingers seemed to touch intentionally. Down at the narrow footing were a series of subtle scratches that she recognized as Strell’s name. Crouching, she carefully traced hers next to his. “Done,” she said firmly, straightening her back with a wince.

  Strell bent low, examining her handiwork. He looked at her, then back down.

  “Is there something wrong with the way I write my name?” Alissa asked. He had shown her how to write her name in his script on their way to the Hold. She had returned the favor, giving his name the symbol for stone, as in dense, after spending three extra days slogging through briars because of his “short cut.” But his script looked so stiff and boring. She had signed the vase as her papa taught her, in a graceful character consisting of a continuous swoop and swirl. It was small, but clearly enough written using the symbol for luck.

  “No,” he said softly. “It’s just that—” He stopped, shaking his head.

  “Just what?”

  “Your name has the same pattern as your luck charm,” he finished apologetically.

  Alissa’s eyebrows went up, and her gaze went down. Crouching again, she pulled her charm out from a pocket, unwrapped it, and compared the two. “You’re right!” she exclaimed quietly, and a chill ran through her. How had the Masters’ jealousy guarded script made it into the plains in such a blatant display as a luck charm?

  Talon, up in the rafters, finally went still.

  13

  “Sleep well, Alissa,” Strell whispered. Shutting her door behind him, he slumped back against the wall with a contented sigh, smiling in the darkness that engulfed the hall. It was the middle of the night, but he was wide awake. Alissa’s restless sleep had woken him not long ago, and he had gone to quiet her as usual. It was the third time in the last four days. He didn’t mind, though it made his early mornings all the more difficult. She never woke fully, and so he was free to treat her as he would like. All it had taken was a softly sung lullaby and a gentle kiss on her fingertips, still rough and gritty from her valiant efforts this afternoon.

  He grinned as he levered himself into motion, recalling her pathetic attempts at throwing a pot. They had been astonishingly terrible. Her persistence, though, was marvelous. Imagine, he chuckled, suffering three entire days before asking for help! It had been a real test of his willpower, watching her missteps and not offering to show her what to do, but she needed to ask, or his advice would have been disregarded.

  Bypassing his door, Strell continued to the stairs, running a hand along the wall to find his way. Something needed his immediate attention, something that required the night’s clandestine shadow, an unfulfilled desire.

  Desire. Strell’s smile deepened as the image of Alissa at his wheel flashed through his mind. Hounds, he had almost managed to steal a kiss. She had looked grand, mud-splattered and cranky, her eyes bright in frustration. And she had asked for help. And he had obliged. And then there had been that warm, inviting look in her eyes, both shocking and delighting him. Burn that bird of hers to ash for interrupting.

  He didn’t care that her background was mixed. His years of travel had expunged his ingrained prejudice of anyone not from the plains. But the harsh reality was, a plainsman joining with a “foothills whore” might result in the loss of their lives; the hate between their two cultures ran that deep. His family, though, was dead, and Alissa’s parents had survived being a mixed union. He was sure her father wouldn’t have disapproved solely because he was plains, and Alissa’s mother would probably be pleased, knowing he came from a chartered name. They could live without recrimination on the coast. Everyone looked
different there.

  Alissa balanced against him better than any other he had cared to spend time with, and there had, he admitted, been a few. At least one every winter since leaving home. But he liked Alissa. He didn’t care what the rest of the world thought.

  Hesitating in the lighter darkness at the landing, Strell gingerly felt for the first step. He eased himself down, finding the stair’s pattern. Upon reaching the ground floor, he slipped into the dining hall. Something was calling him, drawing him from his warm bed, and he could do nothing but submit.

  The light was almost nonexistent as the moon was a thin arc that wouldn’t show until nearly dawn. Shadows were thick where none should exist. It was absolutely silent. Even the mice were asleep. Strell skulked through the cold dining hall, his pace quickening in time with his pulse as he went into the kitchen. Ghosting past the banked hearth, he slunk to a cloth-covered plate. There was a single, furtive look behind him, and then, sighing in anticipation, he gently lifted the cloth to reveal two candied apples. “Ah,” he whispered lovingly. “There you are.” With a quick snatch, he had the plate and was halfway across the room, fleeing his misdeed. Alissa would assume Bailic had eaten them. He would do nothing to change her belief.

  Inexcusably pleased, he sniffed deeply, feeling his mouth begin to water as he passed through the dining room to sit upon the lowest stair in the great hall. The first, deep bite of the sugared delicacy filled his mouth, and a slight moan escaped him. His eyes closed in bliss as the juice dripped sticky from him. Ashes. They were perfect.

  Apart from Alissa’s cooking, he hadn’t seen a candied apple since leaving his homeland. They were a plains delicacy. Alissa’s mother would’ve taught her the vigilantly guarded secret. Wolves, but Alissa’s recipe was a good one. Worth every stitch of her bride price.

  Slowly, the faint aroma of pine came to him, mixing with the apple spice in an unsettlingly familiar scent. Strell’s head came up, and he set the plate with the remaining apple on the step and licked his fingers as he tried to shake the sensation of being watched. It was ludicrous, but he was beginning to think the distinctive aroma was the telltale sign of Lodesh.