First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  “No,” Strell said from between gritted teeth. “Only that it’s at the Hold where she can find it and Bailic can’t.” He jabbed at the fire to try and slow his anger. The conversation wasn’t going the way he wanted. He had given a lot of thought to what he would say if Useless showed himself again, and as much as it rankled him, Strell was going to try to get the man out of his cell—if he couldn’t convince Alissa to go to the coast. “Look,” he said. “Just tell me where you are and we’ll get you out. Then you can take care of Bailic.”

  Disbelief and a mocking surprise flowed over Alissa’s face. It was so familiar to the looks Alissa had once given him, it was eerie. “You think you can get me out?” Useless said. “Fine. I’m in the cellar. The passage starts from a hidden closet under the stair. The door there can only be unlocked by a full Keeper. If you get past that, there’s a gate made impassable by a ward only a skilled Master can break. Are you a Master, poet?”

  “What stairway?” Strell said, undeterred. Useless’s disbelief didn’t bother him. The man’s mocking tone did.

  “In the great hall, but don’t be foolish. You can’t free me. Take her home.” Useless sent a quick hand over Alissa’s head, grunting in surprise when he touched her hair. “What I want to know,” he said tightly, “is how she got it into her head to seek out a memory belonging to your line. I set for her a pattern of thought that would frighten the wind from the hills, and she’s shifted it to some—frivolous—no account path that’s—absolutely worthless!”

  Strell struggled to keep his breath even and his hands unclenched. Drawing himself up, he looked across the fire, proud for some inane reason that Alissa had succeeded in defying Useless. “I asked her to,” he said boldly. “She said she wouldn’t be dragged about any longer.”

  “Dragged about!” Useless choked. “Dragged about! I try to save her miserable hide, and she complains of being dragged about!”

  In a single, fluid motion, Alissa rose and began to pace the edge of the overhang, keeping just shy of the rain. Strell scrambled to his feet, unwilling to let Useless have the high ground. But Useless seemed to be angry at Alissa, not him. “Burn her to ash,” Useless said in a whisper. “I can’t send her among the lines again. She might jump to one that’s not compatible with the pattern I set. She was lucky I found a congruent septhama point this time.”

  “Septhama?” Strell’s hostility vanished in an icy wash and he swallowed hard. “You mean like—a ghost?”

  Alissa turned from the rain in astonishment. “Ghost! Ashes, no. A septhama point. A memory fixed in an object rather than a person.”

  Strell felt himself go pale. Angry voices taking over young women were one thing. Ghosts were something else.

  “I found it on a piece of Mirthwood, no less,” Useless said, unnoticing or, more likely, uncaring of Strell’s increasing panic. “Where,” he accused, “did you get a piece of Mirthwood?”

  “Me?” Strell said, wincing at how high the word came out. “I don’t have any Mirthwood.” He hesitated. “What’s Mirthwood?”

  Alissa ceased her pacing and sat on her bedroll as if made of stone. Her gray eyes looked almost black in the dim light of the fire as Useless drew Alissa’s features into a tight knot and fumed. “Reddish wood. Heavy. Smells like—like Mirthwood,” he said irately. “I know Alissa doesn’t have any. And the memory was fixed by someone in your line about sixty years ago.” He stared up at Strell. “How did a sliver of Mirthwood get into the plains sixty years ago?”

  Strell slowly sank to the ground, his thoughts swirling. His grandfather’s pipe. He had asked Alissa to see why he was forced to leave his family. It couldn’t have been his grandfather! Slowly, Strell brought out his second pipe from his pack, watching as if his hands belonged to someone else, hoping that Useless wouldn’t confirm his suspicions.

  “That’s it!” Useless shouted, snatching the pipe from Strell. Alissa’s eyes went round. “Bone and Ash. It’s worked wood,” he whispered, gazing at him in undisguised wonder. “How did you come by a piece of worked Mirthwood?”

  “It’s my grandfather’s.” Feeling betrayed, Strell stiffly extended his hand for his pipe. Not his grandfather, he thought. Anyone but him.

  Useless slowly gave the pipe back, watching Strell tuck it into a shirt pocket. “Who are your sire and dame,” Useless murmured calmly, and Strell started. “Your family name,” he prompted. “Though having no unusual properties other than being exceedingly dense, Mirthwood is hard to come by. I haven’t seen a worked piece that large since—in a long time.”

  “My family name means nothing anymore,” Strell said tightly. “They’re all dead.”

  Useless blinked. “You’re from a culled line? From the plains? Which one?”

  Strell caught his breath, refusing to speak. Culled line! Had their deaths been arranged?

  Useless pointed an angry finger at him as if to demand an answer, then seemed to reconsider. “Fine,” he snapped. “It doesn’t matter. If you can’t turn Alissa from the Hold, you’ll soon be dead with the rest of your kin.” He glanced deeply into the pattering rain. “I’m leaving. I can’t save you if you insist on killing yourself.” He sent his gaze back to Strell. “I wash my hands of you. Both of you.”

  Alissa collapsed where she sat into a crumpled heap.

  Trembling in anger, Strell stood looking down at Alissa. “And I wash my hands of you as well—Useless.”

  16

  Oh, no! Alissa thought, horrified, as she set her empty breakfast bowl down. Her boots! What did he do to her beautiful boots! Trying hard not to cry, she met Strell’s proud smile. “Thank you, Strell,” she murmured. “I’m sure they will keep my feet dry now.”

  “Uh,” Strell grunted, his morning grump brightening with a flash of satisfied embarrassment. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he stumbled to his feet and scattered the last of their fire.

  Alissa swallowed hard, gazing at the most ugly pair of boots she ever had the misfortune to own. It had been three days since she’d soaked them. Rightly deciding she was going to tempt fate by not oiling them, Strell had taken it upon himself—waiting until she fell asleep last night. Obviously he had meant it as a surprise. It was.

  She knew she should have oiled her boots at the first sign of rain—they had been stuck in that storage chest for ages— but all Strell had was that vile dark grease. Alissa guessed it would turn her lovely cream-colored boots to brown. She had been right. “Vanity,” she whispered, “your last name is pain.”

  “What’s that?” Strell said as he tossed his shaving water away.

  “I said, ‘thank goodness there’s no more rain.’”

  He tied his bedroll to his pack, his fingers moving slowly as if the small task took all his mental strength. “Yes. Clear skies. It’s going to be hot again.” He glanced into the pale haze of blue. “I could do with a bit of frost right now.”

  “Strell!” she warned. “Shut your mouth!”

  “What?” he said around a yawn.

  Alissa looked nervously at the cloudless sky. Mountain weather was as unpredictable as a new bride’s supper. “Why did you go and say that? Now it might . . .” She hesitated. Saying the word would bring it on that much sooner.

  “Snow?” he said, a wisp of a smile appearing as he tossed the hat back.

  “Be still!” she shouted, snatching her boots and cramming her feet into them as if the clouds were massing already. She paused, startled at how soft the brown leather was now and how her heel slid into place with a satisfying ease.

  “And you think I’m the superstitious one?” he said.

  Giving him a severe frown, Alissa folded her coat, wedging it between her pack and her bedroll like Strell had shown her so she wouldn’t have to wear the thick leather. His wish for frost, though dangerous, was understood. It had turned exceedingly hot and sticky for late fall. The sun was barely above the horizon, and already the heat pressed down like a physical sensation. The scrub they had been forcing their way through for the las
t three days was high and thick, blocking any cooling wind that might have existed and slowing their pace to a crawl. What should have taken a day to traverse was taking three. Strell’s shortcut was anything but.

  Alissa sighed. She was quite proud of how well she had held her tongue for three entire days, never saying a word as the briars caught at her legs and the vines tripped her. Oddly enough, she had found not saying anything was nearly as effective as rubbing Strell’s nose in it. He had become positively guilt-ridden, making an obvious effort to make her path easier. But she couldn’t resist saying something, now that the tangle seemed to be at last thinning.

  Her eyes strayed to his pack, and she hid a smile as an idea struck her. She might not have to say anything after all. “Strell? Can I see the map?” She kept her eyes wide with mock innocence. “I want to add this path to it.”

  Looking distrustful, he dug it out of his pack, untied the ribbon, and handed the roll of leather to her. Alissa tried not to smile as she took a sharp rock and etched the path and two symbols onto the map. She went over it with a bit of charcoal to make it semipermanent. “There,” she said, handing it back. “Now it’s accurate.”

  “What does it say?” he asked suspiciously.

  “‘Strell’s Shortcut,’” she answered as she bent over her boots.

  His defensive attitude seemed to vanish as he brought the map close to his nose. “That’s how you would write my name?” Strell eagerly ran a finger around the first symbol.

  “It is now.”

  He thought for a moment, his stance becoming wary. “You said proper names are written as everyday words. What word is this?”

  “That’s the word for stone,” she said, hiding a smile as she looked away. He resumed his packing, seeming to be relived. “As in hard head,” she added to herself.

  “Kind of like firm and substantial,” Strell said, clearly pleased.

  “Or dense,” she added, grinning at him.

  “No. I like it,” he said shortly, putting the map in his pack. “What word is your name written as?”

  “Mine?” she said, surprised. It wasn’t polite to ask, but he didn’t know that. “Mine is written as luck.”

  He bobbed his head. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” He got to his feet, standing as stoic as a mule at the plow as she finished tightening her ugly boots. Ashes, she thought sourly. She didn’t care if her boots did fit better, he had ruined them. Perhaps this was her penance for Talon tearing his coat. It would be pointless to tell him what she thought of his handiwork now. Besides, it was nice seeing even that small glimmer of a smile. Though not unhappy, Strell had been decidedly subdued since she told him how his grandfather purchased his family’s fleeting success with Strell’s expulsion from the Hirdune home.

  Odd, she mused, how an erratic spring flood proved the shaduf wrong. Typically, they were infallible. But how could his family name become forever known now? He was the only Hirdune left, and he wasn’t even a potter anymore. Perhaps he hadn’t left soon enough.

  “Uh, Strell?” Alissa said, wondering if it was a mistake to bring it up. “Why didn’t your parents just tell you about your grandfather’s agreement with the shaduf?”

  Strell sighed, squinting into the sky. His eyes traced an arc in the haze, and she knew he had spotted Talon riding the breezy end of the updraft, leaving them to slog through the stagnant bottom end alone. “It’s shameful to deny the family trade to a son, even on the advice of a shaduf,” he said somberly. “I don’t fault them for not telling me. I always assumed my grandfather wanted me to follow his second love, music. That’s one of the reasons I’m a piper.” Strell’s eyes went distant as he touched the shirt pocket where he had taken to keeping his grandfather’s pipe. “I liked him,” he said softly. “We spent a lot of time together before he died.”

  A faint smile stole over him. “Apparently I look like he did when he was my age—except for his blue eyes.” Strell extended a hand to help Alissa up.

  “You do, especially your hair.”

  “He had hair?” Strell’s eyes went wide and wondering.

  Grinning, Alissa needlessly adjusted his hat. “Oh, yes. As dark and unruly as yours.”

  “He had hair!” Strell exclaimed. Then his smile faded, and he put a slow, hesitant hand to his head, running his fingers under his hat and through his dark mop, checking to see if anything came away with them. Seeing her laughing eyes, he shrugged sheepishly. “It usually skips a generation,” he muttered, turning away to start their slow slog forward.

  Alissa followed, her steps marginally easier for being behind him. The chore precluded their usual conversation, leaving her to her own devices. It was a dangerous enough situation on the best of days, but lately it had been more so. She was dreadfully uneasy with the thought of going nearly comatose every time she wanted to see her source or tracings. The last few days, in the mornings when Strell was the most incommunicative, she had been practicing dividing her attention to find her source and retain her awareness of her surroundings. The first time she had tried, it was a disaster. The temptation to lose herself entirely to her inner sight and slip into a light trance was nearly irresistible.

  Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, every time she did, she was yanked back to her surroundings rather painfully as her toe hit an outcrop of stone or she slipped on a loose rock and fell. Sure as flowers spring from sheep dung, she would misplace her inner sight completely and have to start over. Strell’s concern over her stumbles had quickly faded, and now her every slip was followed by his barely audible, “Bone and Ash. Again?” It was really hard, on the thoughts as well as the shins, but yesterday Alissa thought she had finally begun to see some improvement.

  Today, Strell stayed unusually closemouthed, silent even during their infrequent breaks. Alissa took advantage of his mood to practice long after she usually quit. By late afternoon she was successfully visualizing the sphere while simultaneously watching her feet. Yes, she thought with a nod, it was definitely getting easier. Her pleased smile lasted all of three heartbeats—until she ran into Strell. “Sorry,” she muttered, rubbing her nose and backing up.

  He half turned, grinning back at her. “Are you still stumbling about back there? We’ve been out of those vines for ages. If you’re that tired, we can stop and make camp.”

  She looked up, seeing for the first time all day more than the small circle her feet were in. The brambles and burs were gone. They were in a mature forest, on what looked like an overgrown road. “For the night?” she said, shocked. “The sun is still high.” She spun in a slow circle, looking behind them in a growing excitement. “Is this a road? You think it leads to the Hold?”

  Strell grinned, pushing his hat up to glance at the sky. “For the night? Yes. Is this a road? Yes. We’ve been on it since you last tripped. Does it lead to the Hold? I would bet my last pipe on it.”

  “Then why stop!” Alissa cried, suddenly overwhelmed with her mixed feelings of anticipation and apprehension. “Let’s get there. Tonight!”

  Swinging his pack down from his shoulders, Strell took out his map. “I think we’re here,” he said, pointing. “We won’t be able to make the Hold by sunset. Let’s cut today short. That way I have a chance to fix the hem of my coat, have a good meal.” He hesitated. “Do some thinking.”

  Alissa watched him glance to the west and down the road. Clearly tidying up wasn’t the reason he wanted to stop early. He was uneasy.

  “Besides,” he said, looking up through the empty branches to the sky. “Not a cloud up there. We have time. No snow for a while yet. Maybe a week.”

  Alissa’s heart gave a sharp pound. “Ashes, Strell!” she cried. “Would you stop that!”

  He gave her a lopsided smile as he moved off the grass-covered road and settled himself with a heavy sigh. “What?” He paused, gathering his breath. “Snow?” he drawled.

  She shook her head as she moved to join him. He had said the word three times. It was going to snow for sure.

 
17

  It was the cold that woke her, just as the morning sun spilled over the rim of the earth. The chill pricked the inside of Alissa’s nose, seeming to burn. She looked to find side of Alissa’s nose, seeming to burn. She looked to find Strell with his mouth open, his light snores sending streams of moist breath into the sharp frost. Last night the frigid air from the vast ice sheets in the north had spilled from valley to valley like a river between rocks, filling the mountains with winter. It was cold. Very cold. Alissa didn’t think she had ever been this cold. It was almost an ache.

  Rising up on an elbow, she poked at the fire’s ash until a small tongue of flame awoke. It was difficult building up the fire without leaving her blanket, but she managed. A thin layer of rime sparkled on the surrounding trees in the growing light. Talon was absent, no doubt in search of whatever the silent forest had to offer. With an ease born from her mornings of practice in the brambles, Alissa visualized her source to see if by some miracle Useless’s ward was gone. It wasn’t. The thin gauze obscuring the brilliant sphere remained. Alissa went still in thought. Slowly she pulled the small pouch of dust from behind her shirt and looked at it. The two had to be the same thing. Hoping that perhaps this time Useless’s ward would let her pass, she gripped the sack tightly and edged a tiny thought closer to her source. She held her breath. Closer . . . closer . . .

  “Ow,” she said under her breath as a bolt of liquid fire raced through her, shocking her fully awake. “Cursed ward,” she muttered. Glancing at Strell, she tucked the rank-smelling bag back behind her shirt and turned her attention to making breakfast.

  Urged on by the cold, Alissa finished breakfast preparations long before Strell showed the slightest indication of waking. This past week he had been rising slower and slower, and grumpier and grumpier. When they began to travel together, he hadn’t been so bad. Clearly his previous temperament had been a front that continued to deteriorate to an unknown, dismal depth. But she wasn’t complaining. Watching him try to wake up was amusing.