First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  “There,” her mother said with a forced brightness as she stood and dusted her hands. “Warm clothes . . . kitchen tools. You’ve the tarp, extra blanket, water sack, supplies. . . . Oh!

  I’ve something else.” Alissa rose as her mother took her papa’s fire kit from the mantel. “You will need this for a while,” her mother said, blowing the dust from it before handing it to her.

  As a child, Alissa hadn’t been allowed to touch her papa’s fire kit. Now it was hers. “It looks like it hasn’t been used,” she said, eyeing the unblemished striker rock.

  “It hasn’t.”

  Alissa went cold as the fire kit thumped into her pocket. Her mother was serious. Whether or not the Hold was real, she was leaving. Today. Now. Alissa’s eyes went wide. “Mother. You can’t do this. What if it snows?”

  “You’ve just enough time. Here. Put these on.” She extended her cream-colored boots. “Your papa gave them to me when we were traveling.” Her voice had begun to tremble. “Wear them out for me?”

  “What if I get sick!”

  “When have you ever been sick? Put them on. They should fit now.”

  So Alissa did, too bewildered to appreciate the smooth softness of the fine leather. Her old boots sat abandoned in the patch of sun, looking as if they belonged to someone else.

  “What—what if I get hurt!” Alissa threw out desperately.

  That seemed to take her mother aback, but she gave herself a little shake and straightened. “I know it’s going to be hot, but put on your coat. There’s not enough room in your pack for it.” She held it up until Alissa obediently put her leaden arms into the sleeves. They struggled a bit; her mother hadn’t helped Alissa put on her coat since she was five. They were out of practice. “And here is your bag,” her mother said, “and your hat.”

  “Mother,” Alissa said firmly, realizing her excuses weren’t working. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Yes, you do.” The pack hit Alissa’s shoulders, and her floppy hat was placed lopsided on her head. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have fallen asleep in the garden. Your papa was the same way. There.” Her mother hesitated, looking Alissa over. “By the Hounds of the Navigator, you almost forgot to take a cup.”

  “What if I promise to not sleep outside anymore?” Alissa cried, but her mother had gone into the kitchen. In a moment she was back with the cup Alissa’s papa had carved for her when she was three.

  “Take this,” her mother murmured, unbinding her hair to use her ribbon to tie the cup to Alissa’s pack. “I’d give you a metal one, but this won’t be stolen if you run into someone.” Her mother’s eyes went distant, and a wash of worry crossed her features.

  “Mother. Wait!”

  “My,” her mother interrupted desperately, her eyes wide, “with that hat and pack, you look just like your papa. Even your eyes have darkened to his gray.”

  Almost of its own accord, Alissa’s gaze dropped. “They’re blue,” she said sourly, knowing they weren’t but wishing they were. Everyone born in the foothills had blue eyes, fair skin, and light hair. It was glaringly obvious that Alissa wasn’t a proper farm girl. She looked too much like her plains-born mother. And though Alissa’s hair and eyes were as fair as her papa’s, she had her mother’s height and dark skin. Alissa didn’t look enough like plains or foothills to be accepted by either, so was scorned and hated by both.

  With a gentle, resolute hand, her mother took Alissa’s chin and tilted her eyes up to hers. “They are not blue,” she said lovingly, “and don’t be ashamed of your heritage. You’re not a half-breed. You’re just—you. You belong to the plains and hills, Alissa, not neither of them.”

  Alissa’s eyes dropped. It was an old argument.

  “Now, out the door with you,” her mother said softly, and Alissa’s breath caught.

  “It’s a wonderfully crisp morning, you should make good progress,” she continued, opening the door and gently leading Alissa out. “Here. Don’t forget your walking stick.” The familiar, smooth length of wood was pressed into Alissa’s hand.

  “Mother! Don’t!” She looked back to see her mother standing in the threshold, her arms tight about herself, looking small and alone.

  “Just head west,” she said. “That’s the way your papa always went. He said you would be able to find the Hold on your own, that it was instinctive, like geese going south. He said those who dwell there will complete your studies. I hope I’ve done you no disservice in your book learning. Your papa never said what was needful.”

  The sun streamed down about Alissa, her new boots planted firmly upon the hard-packed dirt in front of the house. Faint over the pasture still damp with dew, came the nervous bleating of the sheep. Their watch goat, Nanny, rattled her bell as if in warning.

  “Good-bye, dear,” her mother said as she gave Alissa an abrupt hug, filling her senses with the musty smell of pumpkin. “Mind what I taught you. Especially about controlling that temper of yours. It’s going to be the end of you someday.” Her mother pulled away, leaving Alissa’s cheek damp. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, taking a quick breath. “I didn’t want to lose you. You were all I had left of him.”

  “Mother!” she cried, grasping her mother’s sleeve. “Don’t make me go. Papa didn’t believe in magic. He said there was no such thing as magic.”

  Her mother drew back, her face still. “Of course he said that. He didn’t know if—if you would be able to do it.”

  “But I can’t!” she protested vehemently. “I can’t do anything a Keeper can do in Papa’s stories. I can’t start a fire, or speak silently without words, or still anyone. I can’t even keep a cat from running away from me.”

  Her mother smiled, a mix of pride and heartache. “You will,” she said, wiping her eyes.

  “Magic isn’t real!” Alissa shouted. “They’re just stories!”

  “It’s real, Alissa. I’ve seen it.” Her mother closed her eyes in memory. “Your papa once stopped the wind for me.”

  “Then why didn’t he ever show me anything? Why didn’t he ever do one thing?”

  Her mother gestured helplessly. “He said if he did, it might trigger your abilities. It’s not his place to teach, and . . .” She hesitated. “He didn’t want you to be like him. He wanted you to be like me. He was so sure you would take after me, but at the same time was worried you wouldn’t.” Her mother bit her lip and her eyes dropped. “He was afraid,” she said softly.

  “Of what?” Alissa nearly shouted, terrified that this was really happening.

  “He was afraid for you. Or of what you might become,” her mother whispered. “I was never quite sure which.” And the door shut with a frightening sound of finality.

  2

  “I should have just eaten the burnt toast!” Alissa shouted, her voice echoing off the hills before her. Exhausted, she collapsed at the cliff’s edge. Her rump hit the dirt, and her breath puffed out. Talon landed with a soft rattle of leaves, her chittering sounding almost abusive.

  “Oh, do be still,” Alissa said. “I’m not going another step today.” Squinting at the low sun, she gestured to the tree-choked valley below them. “It’s already dark down there. Do you want to make camp in that? It’s not going to start snowing tomorrow.”

  No, Alissa thought as she bent to loosen the laces of her lovely new boots. It won’t snow tomorrow, but soon. And if she was in the mountains when it did, she wouldn’t get out.

  An aggressive scolding exploded from the pines behind her as a squirrel protested Talon’s presence. Together Alissa and her bird turned to see it, dancing on the branch tips in outrage. Talon launched herself after it, and the squirrel fled with a startled chirp. Grimacing, Alissa turned away as the sound of smacking branches filled the air. There was a tiny shriek.

  “Talon.” She rubbed at her eyes. “Let the squirrel go. I’m not going to eat it, and it’s too big for you.”

  Ashes, she thought miserably. Her feet felt as if they were going to fall off, her neck ached, and her back was
sore from the constant rubbing of the pack.

  There was a rush of dry leaves as Talon returned to shove a tuft of tail-fluff into Alissa’s fist. “Very nice,” she dryly praised her bird, tucking the trophy into her hatband. “Now go find yourself a grasshopper.” Talon appeared to swell in pride, seeming to know by Alissa’s actions that her gift had been accepted.

  Together Alissa and Talon looked out over the bluff as the soft, green damp from the valley rose, easing the heat of exertion from Alissa’s face. Far below in the shadow of the surrounding hills lay a lake, black and still, not yet hidden by the evening fog. The southern end of the long lake looked the easiest side to traverse. It was as good a direction as any, she thought, tucking her legs up and propping her chin on her knees. Seeing as she didn’t know where to go. West, her mother had said. Burn it to ash. What was she doing out here?

  Of course she’d go west. North or south would be more foothills, and why go east to the plains? Everything was dull there, up to and including its inhabitants. The last original thought they had entertained was baked out of them by the sun generations ago. Besides, her scandalous mix of hills and plains features was obvious. A plains’ encampment would run her out, as would any respectable foothills village, hers included. The only time she was tolerated was market day, when her mixed blood wasn’t so obvious.

  Alissa pushed her worry aside and rose with a spine-tingling stretch to set up camp. Tomorrow she would make an early start. Wherever she was going, she had to clear the mountains before winter.

  But it was hard to keep her thoughts upon snow on such a warm evening, and as Alissa kicked up last year’s leaves looking for wood and something to eat, she found herself humming a song concerning an addle-brained lad and his incessant predicaments. She flushed as she realized what she was doing. It was a tavern song. She had often slipped away from her mother at market, drawn by the promise of music and dance, hiding in the shadows to learn the songs and steps her mother deemed improper for a lady. Alissa flushed again. But as there was no one here to find fault with her, she gave up all pretense at decorum and began to sing.

  “Taykell was a good lad,

  He had a hat and horse.

  He also had six brothers,

  The youngest one of course.

  His father said, ‘Alas, my boy.

  I’ve nothing more to give ye.’

  His name forsook, the path he took,

  To go to find the blue sea.”

  Talon seemed unimpressed. Shifting her feathers in mild agitation, she preened in the reddening light. The refrain was next, and Alissa bellowed it out as was proper.

  “Oh, fathers hope for daughters,

  Someone light and frilly.

  They leave the house, to find a spouse,

  A blessing in it really.

  The land your father farmed on,

  Was split among his sons.

  If this goes on much longer,

  Soon there will be none!”

  The wintry, accusing voices of wolves rose to challenge Alissa’s in a series of low moans, leaving no doubt as to what they thought of her singing. She couldn’t help her grin, continuing to gather sticks until there was more than she would likely need. Wolves, she contended, were nothing to be frightened of. But it never hurt having a good blaze to remind them of their place.

  The sun had gone down by the time she was settled before her fire scraping the last of the “what’s under the leaves that I might eat?” out of her bowl. Setting the empty bowl aside, she dug through her pack, searching for her needle and threads. One of her stockings had a hole, and although she had known about it for several washings, she freely admitted she was never one to appreciate the “finer arts of domestication.” She’d have to do something about that someday, she thought as she searched for her sewing kit, frowning as her fingers found the rank little bag her mother had given her. She had hidden the pouch at the bottom of her pack her first day out, thinking she could punish her mother in some small fashion by disobeying her by not wearing it.

  “My inheritance,” she grumbled to Talon, holding it between two fingers as if it were a dead rat. “Where did Mother find something that reeks so wonderfully?”

  Perched on the firewood, Talon shifted her feathers, giving the impression of a shrug.

  Alissa tightened the strings and went to shove it back to the bottom of her pack, but she hesitated. Silently she stared at the small sack, her fingers seemingly loath to let it go. It didn’t feel right to put it back anymore. Reluctantly she looped the cord over her head. The Hounds take her, she thought. What if the seams tore? She would stink like a cart of rotted potatoes.

  “Papa’s stories of the Hold,” she scoffed nervously, feeling the unfamiliar weight about her neck. The Hold was synonymous with Masters, and Masters with Keepers, and Keepers with magic, and magic? Alissa harrumphed. Magic was slop for pigs. There was no such thing as magic. Feeling foolish and self-conscious, she glared down at the bag of ill-smelling dust, finally tucking it behind her shirt and out of sight.

  “What am I doing out here, Talon?” she asked softly, reaching to ruffle her bird’s feathers. “I ought to be bringing the sheep into the paddock now, not watching the stars rise from behind the mountain they used to set behind.” She slumped further into the dirt. Perhaps her papa had been a Keeper. It didn’t follow she had to be one. And asking her to believe they could do magic was ridiculous. Her papa must have been embellishing his tales of the Hold to make it more exciting.

  She had spent a lot of time with her papa before he left. He always had the most interesting answers to her questions, and she missed their early-morning chats. A smile quirked the corners of Alissa’s mouth. She imagined if he were still alive, his answers would make more sense now than when she was five. She should go to the Hold if only to find a piece of her papa. Once she saw it, she could go back home. And it did feel right to be moving. She had been unusually restless since the lace flowers bloomed.

  Asking her to believe in magic, though, was ridiculous. Magic was for babies and ignorant coastal folk. Her belief in magic and happy endings died when her papa hadn’t come home. Although, she admitted as she scuffed her boot into the leaf litter, there were several, hard to explain talents that occasionally cropped up. They were real. She’d read about them.

  Alissa knew she wasn’t a shaduf. Hot tempered as she was, it wasn’t from knowing the circumstances of her own death. Being a septhama was completely out of the question. Alissa had never seen a ghost, much less get rid of one. And as for a matchmaker? Auras were mysterious, never-seen conjectures to her. The only thing she had seen hovering about her mother’s silhouette was the occasional bad mood. Besides, Alissa thought crossly, there were ways to foster such bizarre quirks of human nature. None involved being cast out from one’s home to find a mythical fortress.

  Alissa shuffled through her belongings looking for her pipe. Despite her pleadings otherwise, her mother had insisted a proper lady knew how to play an instrument, claiming it soothed the sheep and made Nanny give better milk. Alissa was painfully aware she wasn’t any good at piping. But it was a reminder of home, and it would help ease her lingering melancholy.

  A tentative note drifted out, echoing softly off the far peaks in the evening’s rising damp. Pleased with the effect, Alissa sent another note to follow it. Slowly a halting melody emerged. The echo made a gentle counterpoint, odd and surreal, scarcely audible over the crickets. It was the lullaby her mother had sung Alissa to sleep with when she was a child. It seemed fitting.

  The stars slowly brightened. They were unusually sharp, as the moon was only a sliver that wouldn’t show itself until nearly sunrise. She found herself relaxing, the music and quiet hush working together to soothe her worries. Or at least allow her to forget them for a time.

  A thin, eerie whine from Talon split the night, pulling the pipe from her lips with an awkward peep. Alissa stared at her kestrel in astonishment. The bird was tense and alert, her head cocked at th
e stars, looking as unnerving as the time she warned Alissa and her mother about the twister last spring. Deciding the echo must be bothering her, Alissa chuckled and slumped back. Something, though, wasn’t quite right. Music was still coming from the valley.

  Her breath escaped in a small hiss. That wasn’t an echo. Someone was mimicking her!

  The wind rose, ruffling Talon’s feathers and scattering the coals from the edge of the fire. Her heart pounded as she squinted into the night, searching for the missing twinkle of a fire in the valley. Talon’s eyes, though, were on the sky. The music continued, unearthly and disturbing. Now that Alissa had stopped, it steadily gained in complexity until she hardly recognized it. It came faintly through the blackness sounding better, its ghostly notes rising out of the valley.

  The crickets’ song vanished as if blowing out a candle, pulling a tight gasp from Alissa and raising gooseflesh. Talon’s head swiveled in a tight arc, and then, drawn by the whoosh of cutting air, Alissa saw it. A huge shadow slashed an unmistakable silhouette against the stars.

  By the Navigator’s Hounds, it’s a raku! she thought in terror. Yanking back her first, deadly impulse to run into the woods, she shrank into her blanket. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched the monster pivot on a graceful wing tip and drop into the valley. Ashes, Alissa thought in fear and wonder. It was larger than six horses. Just its magnificent tail was thicker than she. Rumor said they had powerful haunches ending in claws as long as her arm, teeth like shattered glass, and skin as tough as snake hide. This was all hearsay. No one had ever seen a raku close enough to verify the stories and return. Three heartbeats later, the music ceased with a startling squawk.

  Alissa forced herself to move, unclenching her fingers from about her pipe and wedging it into her inner coat pocket. Steadfastly ignoring the shaking in her fingers, she built up the fire until the light billowed forth like a watch-beacon. Somewhere she had heard that rakus didn’t like fire.