by Dawn Cook
Strell grinned. “You want this one, huh?”
“Are potatoes sweet?” Alissa set her candle on the mantel and plunked herself possessively into the chair, sinking deep into the musty cushions.
“I’ll see what’s down the hall. Maybe the next is bigger.” Still chuckling, he left.
Settling further into her chair, she decided she didn’t care if it was. This room was perfect. It even felt like home. There was only one presence needed to make it complete, and Alissa whistled. If Talon heard it, she would come. Not moving from her chair, she whistled again. It would probably take three calls before Talon found her. After all, there were eight floors to be bypassed. Alissa took a breath to whistle a third time when Strell’s rapid footsteps echoed in the hall and he skidded to a halt before the door. “What! What’s wrong?” he cried.
She stared at him in astonishment, then grinned as she figured it out. “Sorry.” She laughed, pleased he had dropped everything to see if she was all right. “I was calling Talon.”
“You don’t sound very sorry,” he muttered, shooting a furtive glance behind him into the dark hall. “Give a person some warning next time, all right?”
“Strell,” Alissa whispered, her eyes dancing.
“What?”
“I’m going to whistle.”
Grunting, he gave her a sour look and set his candle down to plug his ears. Alissa gave a shrill blast, and Talon winged in to settle neatly on the back of her chair. Not bothering to rise, Alissa sightlessly reached up to ruffle Talon’s feathers.
Strell puffed in resignation, but then his brow furrowed. “Do you hear something?”
Alissa shook her head, hesitated, then nodded. Beginning as a low rumble, it grew unsettlingly fast into a loud, irate roar. It was Bailic, thundering down the hall, hollering something unintelligible. Alissa jumped to her feet in alarm. What, she wondered, had she done now?
“Who made that beastly noise, and how did you open that room?” Bailic’s shout echoed as his shoes whispered to a halt in the hall. His housecoat was open, revealing a black shirt whose fabric and stitching was of an astounding quality. The gray vest was an exquisite fit, accenting his pale coloring, making him look all the more elegant. He held his candle high to see them.
“We apologize,” Strell said with a slight, formal bow, stepping between her and Bailic. “It was a whistle to call our bird.”
Bailic took a huge breath as if to shout at them, and Alissa cringed. But then his wrath evaporated, and his face went frighteningly still as he slowly exhaled, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. His icy control was reminiscent of the moments before her papa fell to his death. Alissa’s fear tightened. “I see,” he said lightly. “There will be no more such disturbances.”
There was a tiny pull on Alissa’s thoughts, as if someone had tugged on her skirt or sleeve. She jumped, covering the motion with soothing Talon. The small bird was glaring at Bailic, a faint whine coming from her. The feeling was very much like the one when Useless had invoked that bothersome ward to block her access to her sphere. Immediately she slipped a peek at the dark, still pattern in her thoughts. Although no force had flown for weeks, there was a dim glow from her tracings.
Alissa bit back a gasp as she realized Bailic had his own tracings, and when he shunted force into it, he must have created a ward. It seemed to have set up a resonance to cause her own pathways to glow. Hounds! she thought. She was a Keeper!
“I expect you to keep quiet, especially after sundown,” Bailic said, trying to disguise his earlier anger with a stiff smile. “I’ve been here alone for some time. I’m used to the silence.”
“Of course,” Strell agreed, interrupting him.
Bailic’s smile faltered. “And how did you get in here? The door was locked.”
“Why, it was open when I crossed the threshold,” Strell said with a wide-eyed innocence. “Shouldn’t we be here? This is the eighth floor, isn’t it?”
Alissa’s exuberance evaporated, and she went cold as Bailic’s face tightened. He said nothing for a moment, studying Strell from the tip of Alissa’s old hat to the toes of his brown boots. Strell was walking a fine line between being a simpleton and being belligerent, and she thought Bailic knew it.
“The door was open?” he asked softly, his eyebrows raised.
Strell gave a pensive nod. He looked none too eager to push Bailic any further.
“Curious,” the tall man drawled from the hallway. “I had thought all these doors locked.” He leaned forward, and Talon began to hiss. “Tell me, most fortunate of tale-tellers,” he said, “did you open more?”
“I hadn’t the chance to try,” Strell said boldly, but Alissa could see his hidden tension.
Bailic nodded, his eyes distant in thought. “Any of the rooms on the eighth floor are acceptable,” he said smoothly, ignoring Talon’s noise. “I have decided that for tomorrow’s entertainment I would hear the story of how you found my doorstep.”
“Oh,” Strell protested. “It’s a dull tale. Wouldn’t you rather hear of a giant fish and the men who braved the sea to catch her?”
“No,” Bailic said. He turned to smile at Alissa, and though he did it very well, she couldn’t help her shudder. Seeing it, Bailic stiffened. “We will hear your story tomorrow, bard,” Bailic said with a forced politeness, and with a disparaging glance at Talon, he spun away, his open coat snapping about his ankles.
His footsteps padded down the dark hallway, and Alissa shivered, trying to rid herself of the last of his presence. Thank the Navigator he hadn’t actually come in. The only good thing was realizing she really was a Keeper. Bailic had set up a ward, and she had seen it.
Alissa caught her breath at an uncomfortable thought. “Strell, try to whistle.”
“Don’t you think we’re in enough trouble?” he said sharply.
“It doesn’t have to be loud,” she said. “Just try.”
Strell obligingly pursed his lips. As she expected, nothing came out. Thoroughly confused, he frowned and tried again.
“You can’t,” Alissa said glumly, then brightened. “I saw it. I saw how he did it!”
“Did what?” Strell asked, blowing all the harder. “And what do you mean I can’t?”
“Make the ward, of course.”
Strell’s eyes went wide. “Wait. You saw how he made a ward, and it keeps me from whistling?”
She nodded, kneeling to light the fire, only to remember all her equipment was in the kitchen. Her eyes rose to the mantel, where her mother had kept the kindling in the event the fire went stone cold. A pleased smile came over her as she saw a basket of fluff and striker rocks exactly where they’d be at home. Taking them, she arranged a small fire with the crumbling wood.
“Sweet as potatoes,” Strell grumped, collapsing in her chair. Talon chittered sharply at him, pecking softly at his hat.
Alissa turned from the hearth, settling herself more comfortably. It would need close attention for a while; besides, it was warmer. “He suspects, doesn’t he?” she said, looking at her boots. They were due another oiling, but she wasn’t going to do it. She scuffed them on the hearth, drooping as Strell shifted in the chair.
“Probably. I don’t think he even believes his version of the truth anymore, much less ours.” His eyes slid away. “I don’t want to be your brother, but I’d rather be that than a— than what he thinks. Let’s hold to our story. But even so”— he smiled faintly—“you’ll notice I’m the one silenced, not you.”
Alissa’s eyes widened. “He thinks you’re the threat. Strell! You can’t be my scapegoat.”
“You may also note that I’m still here, and you have possession of a nice room. Obviously he isn’t sure, or he thinks he can use me to his advantage.”
She stifled a tremor. Bailic could wring every last thought from Strell and find nothing he wanted. What Bailic would do then was anyone’s guess. “You can’t do this, Strell,” she pleaded. “Right now he’s playing the pleasant host, but he could turn
in the flick of an eyelash.”
“I know,” he said lightly, “but I’d rather have him watching me than you.”
“But—”
“Let me finish,” Strell said, holding up a hand. “Three reasons. One: No offense, but you aren’t that good at friendly deception. I can draw attention from you and any other mistakes that happen, like unlocking a door that won’t open for me.”
“Oh,” she said, just now realizing the significance of that tingle. Perhaps she ought to try the door under the stair again.
“Two: If he’s watching me, you at least can poke around to find that book of yours.”
Alissa nodded. “And number three?” she prompted.
“Uh,” he said, dropping his eyes. “If he’s watching me, he won’t be likely to look at you.”
It was nearly the same thing he had just said, but the way he said it caught her attention. “Sorry?” she asked, a slight smile hovering about her. “I didn’t quite hear that.”
Strell got to his feet. “Your fire is almost out.” Grabbing his candle, he walked into the hall. “I’ll get your pack,” he shouted from the dark.
Her smile widened as she watched the thin glow in the hall slowly fade. Didn’t want Bailic looking at her, indeed, she thought. Bailic was almost as old as her papa.
The fire was well set by the time Strell made his way back with their packs, and once they had a pot of water on for tea, they went to see what the other doors offered. “Were all of them locked?” Alissa asked, not comfortable in the least that one of them had opened itself for her.
“All I tried,” Strell said as he wrung the handle of the door next to hers. It wouldn’t budge, and with an exaggerated gesture, he motioned for her to try. Not expecting her luck to be any different, she warily touched the door. It creaked open with a whisper of tingles in her fingers. Alissa fought with the twin feelings of elation and alarm, finally deciding to pretend it hadn’t happened.
Curious, they stuck their heads in. It was almost a mirror image of her room, without the west window, of course. The chair didn’t look nearly as comfortable, but the rug was newer. There was a faint, stale smell that disappeared even as they stood there. Strell spun in a slow circle, his arms outstretched. “What do you think?”
“It’s not any bigger than mine.”
He sighed in mock sadness. “I suppose some concessions must be made.”
Alissa watched in astonishment as Strell knelt before the hearth and craned his neck to look up the chimney. “That’s what I thought,” he said as he got up and dusted his knees.
“What are you talking about?”
Strell nodded at the fireplace. “See where the hearth is in relation to yours? The flues are joined.”
“So?” Alissa said, not seeing the significance.
“So I hope you don’t snore.”
Alissa let her breath out in a huff. Grabbing the back of the chair, Strell started to drag it to the door. “What are you doing?” she cried, jumping out of the way.
“You don’t think I’m going to sit on the floor do you?” he grumbled, lugging the chair into the hall and to her room.
“Well—no, I guess not.” She followed Strell to find he had already arranged their chairs companionably before the fire.
“Sit,” he commanded. “I will make the tea.”
Alissa gratefully sank into the fire-warmed cushions, and as the night deepened, they talked, enjoying the novelty of four walls and a hearth. It was Strell’s belief that her “talent,” as he called it, had unlocked the doors. He had no idea why Bailic had reacted so strongly to her whistle. It was, in his words, “not that loud,” and according to him, it was painfully clear Bailic knew they weren’t simply travelers lost in the snow. Strell believed he was playing a cruel game of cat and mouse. Maybe, Strell thought, they were simply some serendipitous entertainment for him. Maybe he didn’t want to eat his own cooking.
It was with thoughts of potatoes in white sauce that Alissa fell asleep, not meaning to, of course, in her lovely chair before the fire. Strell must have covered her with her blanket, because much later she found it draped about her when she woke as the fire shifted. Smiling, she snuggled deeper under the prickly wool. She had spent the better part of a month sleeping on dirt. Her chair was large enough to curl up in and an absolute delight.
The embers of the fire glowed, shedding enough light to see Strell, still slumped in his chair, snoring lightly, his gangly legs outstretched almost to the coals. He, too, had succumbed to the drowsy effects of a full stomach and warm fire before reaching his cot. Glancing up to Talon, Alissa was surprised to find her awake. Peering down at her, Talon raised her feathers and murmured comforting noises.
“Keeping watch, old girl?” Alissa whispered and closed her eyes, too comfortable to move, satisfied to spend her first night in the Hold right where she was.
20
Bailic sat brooding in his rooms. The hour was late. A trio of candles set behind him lit the page he was studying, and he leaned closer, squinting to see the swirling print. It was the third time he had read the page, and he still didn’t remember what it contained. Manipulating a closed population for a desired trait was by no means beyond him, but Keribdis had written it. Her tight scrawl was hard for him to decipher.
Leaning back, Bailic stretched his shoulders painfully. He would try again in the morning when there was more light. The bright glare would hurt his eyes, but he needed the sun to see as much as any man—maybe more. Bailic set the book aside. He knew the real reason he couldn’t concentrate was that his thoughts were on other, more pressing matters.
As he sat, he cast his thoughts inward, down through the Hold’s abandoned halls in a halfhearted search for the last object of any importance left to him. He had known for years the First Truth was close, and it was his habit to listen for its sirenlike call at this hour. The empty space between sunset and sunrise, when all men’s minds were still, had always been the easiest time for him to search. Someday, he thought bitterly, the book would be his.
He had once been counted as a Keeper and was confident he could use its knowledge. Its borrowed wisdom would give him the strength to claim the souls of Ese’ Nawoer. The abandoned city had once fallen under the shadow of the Hold, its commerce and population supporting the burgeoning needs of the fortress. It had lain abandoned for four hundred years, populated by the ghosts born from a single man’s tragic decision.
With the book he would demand their support and overwhelm any opposition to his plans. He would be free of the Hold, now both his protection and prison. He could claim anything he desired, which, he admitted, might be more than many would willingly give. But more importantly, he could govern the miserable denizens of the plains and foothills. Bailic huffed in contempt. They had, in his opinion, far too much freedom.
But first, he mused, slipping easily into the familiar thought, he would instigate a conflict to throw their two highly structured but stagnant societies into chaos. It shouldn’t take much with the strength of the book to help. They already despised each other. Open hostility wouldn’t be hard to instigate. Keeping safe in the background, he would manipulate both sides to insure there would never be a victor, just continuous losses. Only when he deemed they had beaten themselves sufficiently would he arise as the great peacemaker, bringing his will upon the dirt-eaters and foothills squatters. “You will welcome me,” he whispered, “and praise me. I will forge you into the image I desire, and no one will think to question me.” He couldn’t help his smile, but it faltered as a small tug of doubt took him. Against his will, his eyes were pulled to a high shelf where a Keepers’ wide-brimmed hat, old and work-stained, sat like a silent accusation.
“Isn’t that right, Meson?” Bailic said mockingly, shoving the unwelcome feeling away. He rose and strode across the room to snatch up the hat. Forgotten notes hidden under it sifted down on top of him. Bailic set the hat on his desk and stooped to gather the papers. Another smile, this time of satisfaction, ea
sed over him as drew near the fire to put them back in order. The sheets were old, written when he had begun his self-taught lessons of how to cripple another Keeper with wards, something their Masters diligently conditioned them against.
It had been nearly fourteen years since the last entry. “Today Meson settled our argument that pushing the Masters’ truth ward too far could kill you,” Bailic read. “He lies at the base of the tower.” Still looking at his shakily written words, Bailic set the paper on the desk, and taking a quill, he added in a slow, careful script: “Meson was the last of the Keepers.”
Growing unexplainably wary, Bailic set his notes aside and looked at the yellow hat again. It had been sitting atop that shelf all these years, unnoticed until his “guests” arrived. He had forgotten he even had it until he saw the plainsman’s hat. The plainsman’s Keeper hat, Bailic added soundlessly, not sure if his pulse had increased from fear or anticipation.
It was increasingly obvious one of his guests was a latent Keeper. Long before Bailic’s time, great pains had been taken to insure there were other, easier ways through the mountains. No one found the Hold unless he was drawn to it, and no student Keepers had stumbled in since the Masters drowned in the western sea. Even more compelling was that the ancient wards of the fortress were waking. Only someone who truly belonged could account for it.
Having renounced his title of Keeper, he was no longer recognized by the warming wards. They had slowly diminished until it was like winter inside, even during the brief mountain summer. Since the two passed the threshold, the icy grip had loosened. Soon fires would be unnecessary except for light. It would make for a more comfortable winter, but the idea of another Keeper in the Hold made him uneasy. Even a latent Keeper could alter his plans, especially if he knew of his potential status.
“What do you think, Meson?” he said, again taking the hat into his hands. The yellow leather was dry and needed oiling. “Is the unfortunate innocent of his skills, as I was when I found the Hold, or aware of them, as you were?”
