First Truth
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Seeing is believing . . .
Strell dragged Alissa’s numb feet across the frozen ground to stand wide-eyed before the huge entryway of the Hold. Even after having seen it through her papa’s eyes, it was impressive. The outer set of doors still hung open, and snow had collected against the thick, rough timbers . . .
It had been left to the decorative set of doors to keep the Hold secure. Between the two sets of doors hung a huge bell. Shrugging, Strell grasped the frayed cord and gave a firm tug.
Even expecting it, the harsh clank made Alissa jump. The snow seemed to swallow the sound, and she fidgeted as her pulse slowed. It seemed to take forever until the doors opened and they were greeted by a pale figure clenched with cold under a long, elegantly trimmed housecoat.
“Burn me to Ash,” Alissa whispered, her eyes going wide and her knees threatening to give. Her papa’s memory hadn’t been a dream.
“Dawn Cook’s First Truth is a fun book, sure to appeal to fans (like me) of Tamora Pierce or Robin McKinley. With characters to cheer for, vicious villains, and attack birds, First Truth had everything I need in a good read. I look forward to Alissa’s next adventure.”
—Patricia Briggs, author of the Locus bestseller The Hob’s Bargain
“In her beguiling debut, Cook has woven together magical threads . . . a tale of courage and quest . . . a world rich with vivid detail . . . and characters, whether valiant or villainous, impossible to forget.”
—Deborah Chester, author of The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
FIRST TRUTH
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with
the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / June 2002
Copyright © 2002 by Dawn Cook.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced
in any form without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-4406-1952-6
ACE®
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Tim, who not only loosed the beast, but gave it wings and a heckuva strong updraft.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank those who helped me bring this work up from its first scratchings:
My husband, Tim; my dear neighbor, Natalie; and the many friends who were kind enough to read the works in progress and offer encouragement. Your criticisms fanned the spark of creativity rather than put it out.
The core members of my writers group: Misty Massey, who showed me the back roads to everywhere; Norman Froscher, who kept the red ink and libations flowing in equal proportions; Craig Faris, who agreed we could all kill him on paper; Todd Massey, whose questions always pulled something out I had forgotten; Virginia Wilcox, who showed me it was possible to put poetry into prose; and of course, Gwen Hunter, without whose business savvy and forceful critiques nothing would have moved from the kitchen table. Thank you for your honest criticism and friendship.
I would also thank my agent, Richard Curtis, for giving me the incredible opportunity to bring my work to light and for being so generous with his time. And my editor at The Berkley Publishing Group, Anne Sowards, whose willingness to explain rather than demand made the difference in keeping the joy of creating alive.
Dawn Cook
“There’s no such thing as magic,” he protested, clutching his thin coat closer, shivering in the cold.
“That’s what they all believe.”
“And the only way to insure our survival,” said a third, “is to be certain that it stays that way.”
The meeting was over. With the scrape of a claw and the downward pulse of a leathery wing, he was alone.
1
You were up late again last night,” she said into the morning quiet. “I don’t recall hearing you come in.”
Alissa cringed. Ashes, she thought. Her mother hadn’t heard her come in because she had fallen asleep in the garden. Again. “I was out on the rock watching the night,” she admitted, trying to sound as if it meant nothing. “The big one in the squash patch.”
Standing before the sink, her mother sighed, gazing out the window as she continued to clean the pumpkin seeds she had put to soak last night.
“I wasn’t alone,” Alissa protested weakly. “Talon was with me.”
Her mother’s shoulders drooped, but she said nothing. Alissa knew her mother’s opinion wasn’t very high when it came to her one and only pet. That Talon flew at night only made it worse. Kestrels generally didn’t, but no one had told Talon that, and the small oddity was easily overlooked. At least, Alissa thought, she could overlook it.
Alissa’s mouth twisted as she scraped her knife across her toast, rubbing off the burnt parts with a stoic acceptance. It had been toasted only on one side. At least half of it was edible. She glanced up as her mother slumped at the harsh, repetitive sounds. Breakfast was invariably well-done. Alissa had taken over the kitchen in self-defense years ago, but her mother refused to let go of their morning meal.
It didn’t matter how much she scraped at it, Alissa thought. Burnt is burnt. And she pushed the plate with its crusty, black char away with an all too familiar resignation. Slouching on her stool, she stretched until her boots reached the patch of sun that made it into the kitchen. The sound of dripping water slowed. Her mother’s shadow lay long behind her. A frown stole over Alissa as she realized it wasn’t moving. She looked up, straightening in unease. Her mother was still washing the same handful of seeds as when Alissa had come in. Something was up.
“So, what are your plans this morning?” her mother asked, her gaze never shift
ing as the water dripped unnoticed from her fingers.
“Um,” Alissa grunted, forcing herself to be casual. “I thought the side vegetable patch. The beans are about done. I was going to clear them out, give what’s left to the sheep. Oh! That reminds me,” she blurted, glad to have some bad news that couldn’t possibly be her fault. “I think a dog is about. The sheep have gotten skittish. Even Nanny won’t let me touch her.”
“M-m-m,” was the distant answer, worrying Alissa all the more. Her mother stared out the window, her gaze seeming to go all the way to the unseen plains. The silence grew uneasy. Alissa watched her mother take her eyes from the hills, turning to her hair ribbon draped on its hook next to the sink.
Oh, no! Alissa thought with a tight stab of alarm. Her mother only tied her hair back when she was planning something strenuous like a spring-cleaning, or meting out punishment. And Alissa hadn’t done anything wrong lately—she thought. Alissa’s eyes widened as the pumpkin seeds fell back into the slop her mother had been rinsing them free of and she absently dried her fingers on her skirt. “Don’t do it,” Alissa breathed, but her mother’s fingers twitched, and reached, and grasped the thin, coppery band of fabric. With a determined abruptness, she gathered her long, dark hair.
Alissa took a shaky breath. She was still all right. If her mother wrapped it about her hair once, she was all right. Once is no problem, twice is lots of work, three, and she was in trouble.
Alissa swallowed hard as her mother wrapped it four times, tying it with a severity Alissa had never seen before. “I should have locked her door,” her mother said to herself as her fingers worked. “I should have shuttered her windows.” Without another word her mother turned, strode into Alissa’s room, and shut the door.
“I’m pig slop,” Alissa whispered. “That’s it. I’m pig slop.” Breakfast forgotten, she tip-toed to the door and put an ear to it. The sharp sounds of cupboards opening and shutting met her. There was an annoyed squawk, followed by a muffled, “Then get out of my way!” and Talon joined her, having flown out the bedroom window and back in through the kitchen’s.
Chittering wildly, the small bird landed upon Alissa’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” she said. Talon cocked her head at the closed door. With a slight gasp, Alissa flung herself back to the table trying to look nonchalant. Her mother didn’t seem to notice Alissa’s artful disinterest as she blew out of her daughter’s room and into her own, a bundle of cloth in her arms, a determined look on her face. The door crashed shut. Alissa’s ear was against it almost before it hit.
“No,” Alissa heard her mutter. “She won’t need that. Yes. Most definitely yes. That would be nice, but it won’t last a week.”
“Oh, Ashes,” Alissa whispered, and feeling decidedly ill, she sank down on her stool at the table. It had been her spot ever since she could pull herself into a chair. She had a bad feeling it wasn’t her spot anymore.
In a flurry of soft, quick steps, her mother burst forth. Talon gave a startled peep and flew out to lose herself in the bitter smell of frost-killed pumpkin vines. Alissa’s overnight pack, the one she used when they went to market, was in her mother’s hands. “This isn’t big enough,” her mother said, then turned to Alissa. Her mother wore a tight smile, looking pained and desperate. “Good. At least you’re dressed for it.”
Alissa’s eyes slid to the work-stained trousers tucked into her boots. She usually wore a full-length skirt, but slogging about in the garden demanded something a bit more sturdy.
Not wanting to admit what the pack meant, Alissa hastily shifted her plate as her mother dropped her load on the table. She strode briskly to the storage chest and brought out a larger pack, Alissa’s winter coat, and a second set of work clothes. Under them was her mother’s treasured pair of cream-colored boots. All of it went on the table.
“Are we going somewhere?” Alissa asked weakly, noticing that almost everything on the table belonged to her.
“Half right, dear. Half right.” The oiled tarp hanging behind the door joined the pile.
Alissa’s stomach dropped. It was worse than she thought. “Mother,” she protested. “I know we talked about this, but you can’t send me to the Hold. It’s just one of Papa’s stories. The Hold doesn’t even exist!”
“Yes, it does.”
Alissa’s brow furrowed. “Have you seen it?” she accused.
As expected, her mother’s eyes dropped. “No. He said— he said it wasn’t safe.” What Alissa thought was fright slipped into her mother’s eyes, sending a chill through her. “I’m not supposed to know it’s there,” her mother said softly.
Taking a quick breath, Alissa pushed her fear away, turning it into something far more familiar. “You’re going to send me there, though,” she said sharply.
Much to her surprise, her mother didn’t tell her to hush, or be still, or even give Alissa that look of hers. Instead, she reached out and ran her hand through Alissa’s hair. Her fingers were trembling and she looked worried. “I waited too long to send you on,” her mother whispered. “I didn’t want to see. Your papa said it was a month’s trip, and you’ll have to get there before it snows.”
“You’re going to make me leave because of a bedtime story?” Alissa cried in disbelief.
Silently her mother took from a pocket a small pouch and reluctantly extended it. Alissa had never seen it before, but she was sure it was a piece of her mother’s childhood; the initials stitched on it were from her maiden name. Slowly Alissa accepted it, feeling the heavy weight of uncertainty in her hand. It smelled faintly, sort of a rank, back of the throat smell. “What is it?” she asked, grimacing at the stink.
“Your inheritance.” Her mother leaned forward, her eyes pinched. “Go on. Open it.”
At her encouraging nod, Alissa picked at the knots holding it shut. Finally they loosened and she peered inside. “Oh, Ashes!” she cried, her head snapping back as she struggled not to retch. The stench was a sharp, eye-watering assault that seemed to close off her throat. Fish wrapped in decaying cabbage, summered at the bottom of a wet ditch didn’t come close. Alissa couldn’t even see what the bag held for the tears streaming down. It was worse than her mother’s salve, if that was at all possible. “What is it?” she gasped when she found the breath to speak.
Her mother slumped where she stood. “Bone and Ash,” she whispered. “That decides it. Falling asleep in the garden I could dismiss, but this?” She took a deep breath, closing her eyes in a slow blink. Alissa shivered when they opened. Her mother looked old. For the first time, her mother looked old. “You have to go,” she said faintly, taking the bag from Alissa and tightening the strings. “Now. It was wrong of me to make you wait.”
“But what is it?”
Slowly her mother sank down in a chair. “Dust. Your papa said it was your inheritance.”
“My inheritance? A rank bag of dust is my inheritance? Can’t I have a goat instead?”
Her mother’s lips pursed and she frowned, returning for a moment to the mother Alissa knew. “Don’t be flippant, Alissa. It’s from your papa. He said it would free you from the guilt of obligation. He kept it in that jar I store my salve in, but he said you should carry it on your person after you leave, and I thought the bag would be easier.”
Alissa lifted her chin defiantly. “I’m not going.”
“Here.” Her mother made a loop of the drawstring and put the bag around Alissa’s neck.
Alissa looked down at the unfamiliar bump. The bag was well-made. With the drawstring tightened, she couldn’t smell a thing. “Mother,” she protested, starting to take it off. “I’m not a Keeper. Papa wasn’t a Keeper. There is no such thing as Keepers or Masters or the Hold. And I’m not wearing this. It stinks!”
Her mother’s hands covered hers, stopping her. “I can’t smell anything, Alissa. But your papa could.”
The first faint stirrings of panic began to swirl through Alissa, and she swallowed hard. “This is ridiculous. I’m not going.” She felt her throat catch.
“If you don’t want me anymore, I—I’ll leave, but don’t expect me to believe this!”
Her mother’s eyes grew wide. “Of course I don’t want you to go, but you belong to the Hold. For almost twenty years you were mine, but look at you.” Her brow furrowed, and she brushed her hand through Alissa’s hair again, trying to arrange it. “I can’t ignore it anymore. Up all night, staring at the sky. The Hold is calling to you as strongly as it used to call to your papa. Always, just before he would leave, he would lie awake at night until he thought I was asleep, then slip out to the garden. He never knew I watched him, sitting on that same rock. . . . Oh, Ashes!” Biting her lip, she turned away.
“I can’t pretend anymore,” her mother said to the floor. “Curse you, Meson, you warned me this might happen if we had a child, but I didn’t want to believe. You promised me I wouldn’t be alone, but I’m going to lose her just like I lost you. . . . And it’s not my fault!”
“Mother?” Alissa reached out. She had never seen her mother like this. It was scaring her.
Taking a ragged breath, her mother seemed to steady herself. “It’s not your fault either. Come on.” She smiled her eyes shining with a hint of tears. “Let’s raid the kitchen. You’ll need more cooking tools then you have. The mortar you chipped out last year is large enough for a cooking pot. Let’s start with that.”
Alissa’s thoughts went terrifyingly blank as her mother took her elbow and led her unresisting to the cupboards. She was going to be forced out because of Papa’s stories? Had her mother gone mad? It was almost winter. The passes would be closed in a month. She had to do something! But nothing rose to disturb Alissa’s wonderfully empty skull.
Sitting numbly on the floor in the patch of sun, Alissa watched item after item disappear into her much larger pack. She hardly heard the patter of her mother’s voice as she talked of the importance of the placement of this and that— warning Alissa that she should pay attention or she wouldn’t be able to find anything. Her mother’s voice was too cheerful, a thin disguise for her growing grief. All too soon the pack was full. The shelves looked bare, though her mother had taken little.