First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  The fire whooshed as it resettled itself, and the sparks outlined Strell in a glittering shimmer. Except for his music it was silent, almost as if the stones were listening. Talon left the mantel to settle on the back of Alissa’s chair. From where Alissa sat, she could see only Bailic’s feet from beneath his seat. In her imagination he was gone and Strell was playing only for her.

  It was always a pleasure to listen to Strell perform, Alissa mused as his music eased her slight tension away. His entire demeanor changed as he became involved with the emotional context of his art. And it was an art, whether it was piping or telling a story. It wasn’t what he said but how he said it that made the difference, adding details and emotion that turned a story she had heard all her life into something that rang of truth and forgotten history.

  Ceasing the eerie music, he took a slow breath, closing his eyes in a long blink. When they opened, he seemed like another person, older and careworn, half slumped against the hearth as if weary of the world. His eyes were riveted to the past as he began to speak.

  “Far, far back in time, so far that even the memory of their once-proud name is lost, there was a wise and joyful people. They lived apart from all in a great city that fulfilled their every need. Even today, no one can guess if they dwelt on the plains, hills, or perhaps even the coast. But it matters not from whence they came, for they stepped from time itself, fading under a shroud of mystery. It is of this people I would tell you, and of a great battle which they did not fight, but endured, a conflict so magnificent that its memory stands where their name does not. They held they had no choice, and held true to their beliefs.

  “It was so that a plague covered the land. Not a plague of the flesh, but of the mind, one that stole the thought and reason from all it touched. It begot a carnage on the plains, in the foothills, and by the coast. People became as beasts, preying upon each other in a rage that excluded little, and those who survived could not say why, only that a fever burned in their mind with the soft thought of killing keeping them from sleep. Confusion and death were a welcome state.

  “Only one group of people was spared this plague of madness, if indeed it could be said they did. When the first hint of the illness and the futility of combating it reached them, their beloved Warden consulted his finest shaduf and built a tremendous wall about his city to keep the sickness at bay. Some say it was of earth from the plains, others of stone from the mountains, and yet others of wood from the coast, but all agree it was thick and tall.

  “Many were the young mothers who traveled far to the supposed sanctuary after word of it reached them. Some say it was through the dunes of the plains, others through the wilds of the hills, and yet others through the swamps of the coast, but all admit they were lead to their deaths by Amaa.

  “To her shock, Amaa found walls about the city of her birth, a friend barring the gate. With feet stained from travel and arms weary from the weight of children, Amaa implored her Warden, ‘Let me in. We are not ill. Take my children. They can do you no harm.’ She pleaded to no avail. The gates remained closed— her cries, ignored. In shame, the Warden turned a deaf ear to her entreaties. He held he had no choice and remained true to his beliefs.

  “A great wailing rose on both sides of the wall as the madness came upon those gathered outside, the seeds of the sickness they carried finally ripening on to their deadly end. Amaa wept as she destroyed her children, and still begging for mercy, she turned upon herself.

  “The proud people hid behind their wall and waited for time to sweep the danger away. But after the pitiful screams and mournful cries of the children and women slipped uneasily into the past, a new danger threatened. The illness, having spent itself upon the surrounding lands, left behind a world mourning the loss of two thirds of its people. The survivors looked for someone to blame. The walled city had suffered no casualties. In the survivor’s sight, it deserved to be punished.

  “Thousands of men racked with grief descended upon the beautiful land, finding a leader to give direction for their separate pain. The coast calls him Keppren, the hills call him Keperen, the plains simply call him Kren, but all call him betrayed as he stood outside the city he had once called his own to find the blood of his wife and children upon the threshold and his friend safe within.

  “Kren camped upon the nearby grounds, and as he stood unmoving, his men hammered upon the gates with the next generation’s supply of winter heat. For months, drumbeats set a counterpoint to the pounding of boots and the striking of the gates. But the walls remained true and did not succumb.

  “With the passage of time, the heartache of the survivors lessened. Realizing the folly of trying to assuage their pain by inflicting it upon another, they left as they had come, abandoning the untouched city, returning to the plains, coast, and hills. Only Kren remained, a ragged man shattered in mind and spirit.

  “Kren wept and pummeled his fists against the barred gates, imprisoning an entire city with only his words. ‘Warden!’ he cried, filling the sky with the sound of his grief. ‘Why have you shut me out? Why have you killed my Amaa?’

  “And the Warden answered from atop his walls, ‘Kren, my friend, why have you laid siege to me? I must protect my people. I’m their servant. I have no choice.’

  “ ‘There’s always a choice!’ Kren screamed. ‘And I am stained with the blood of the ones who looked to me for protection.’ Kren raised his hands stiffly to the sky. ‘I will not take the blame for this! I choose to not accept the responsibility for the deaths of Amaa and our children. Do you hear me, Warden! I give my guilt to you and all who hide behind these walls of shame and fear!’

  “The air trembled, stirred by a force so low, it could only be felt, and Kren stood as if made of stone. ‘You!’ Kren said as an ebony glow enveloped his upraised fists. ‘You will be cursed, though you should live for a thousand years, Warden. My anguish and shame are my gifts to you, and you will not rest until, as a people, you prove yourself worthy of the name!’

  “Kren’s raised hands became lost in a darkness even the sun couldn’t penetrate. A wild cry of rage escaped him, and as it reached its peak, the blackness exploded from his hands to cover the sun. Then the blackness was gone. Kren slumped where he stood, shattered and drained. A gentle rumbling began within the earth. Feeding upon itself, it grew to a great unrest as the very ground protested the curse. With a mighty shudder and crash, the gates fell, outraged at the strength of the curse set upon those it once sheltered. Kren didn’t look back, turning east to never be recorded in tale or song again.

  “The city was untouched, but not unchanged. All who hid behind its walls were deeply ashamed and dishonored. They realized that to have ignored the cries for pity and succor of their kinsmen and to have allowed such violence upon their doorstep was more inhumane than anything done in the throes of a fevered brain.

  “The city sent great envoys to the plague-torn lands to heal what remained of those they turned away. Some said it was to avoid Kren’s curse, others said it was to ease their shame. After many years the lands of the plains, foothills, and coast grew sound again. Laughter and song were heard as the scars were buried beneath the smiles of the newly born. The walled city thrived as well, becoming more influential and beautiful than before. All appeared well; the city’s inhabitants, content. But as the years passed and a new generation replaced the old, the meaning of Kren’s curse grew evident, and they became afraid. After fifty turnings of the earth about the sun, it could no longer be denied.

  “The souls of the frightened people who built and hid behind the wall were not at rest. They continued in silence, filling the night with their tremulous presence. For they still regretted their choice so long ago and even in death tried to make amends. But it could never be enough, and to this day they roam the empty streets of their abandoned homeland. For, who could remain in a city of ghosts, no matter how gentle and kind they were?

  “And so Amaa became Amaa the Innocent, and Kren, Kren the Betrayed. And of the one who bu
ilt the walls there is no name, be he remembered by the coast, plains, or hills, condemned to be known by his title alone. For the Warden held he had no choice, and remained true to his beliefs.”

  Strell’s head dropped, and Alissa shut her eyes against a tear. It was a story she had heard uncounted times as a child, but Strell, as usual, told it so much better. His haunted eyes met hers as she opened them and she smiled weakly. Talon made a contented chitter deep in her throat.

  “That was an excellent rendition,” Bailic said, and Alissa stiffened, having forgotten he was there. “Tell me. Where did you learn it?”

  Suddenly nervous, Alissa bent over her mending. Though Bailic often questioned Strell about his stories, there was an intent eagerness in his tone she had never heard before. And she had begun to distrust anything different when it came to Bailic.

  “It’s something Salissa and I shared when we were younger,” Strell said softly, his vacant eyes showing he hadn’t yet shaken his mood. “She asked to hear it endlessly. It’s one of her favorites.”

  And this was true. She had related the tale to Strell when they were younger, only three weeks younger, but younger. And Strell knew it was one of her favorites. She had told him of how she used to sit on the hearth and shiver despite the fire’s warmth as her papa whispered the tale to her, his eyes dark and terrible in the cold shadow of a winter’s night. Imagining the distraught man hammering at the gates, and the empty houses populated by ghosts, hundreds of years later, always sent a delicious chill through her.

  Bailic leaned around his chair to see her. “You both know the history of Ese’ Nawoer?”

  “Ese’ Nawoer?” Alissa whispered, slowly mouthing the unfamiliar name. “It really existed? It’s not just a story?”

  Bailic smiled indulgently. “Of course it existed. It still does—in a manner of speaking. Rare is the tale that lacks a grain of truth. Didn’t you find the walled city on your way here? It lies only a morning’s walk from the Hold. The history texts say—”

  “You mean the stories,” Strell interrupted, and Bailic’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

  “No. The history texts.” Bailic rose to his feet, going to stand before the fire where he could see them both. “You really didn’t find it? It’s said you can see the walls from the top of the tower.” He hesitated, his gaze going distant. “When the sky is clear.”

  “Strell took a shortcut,” Alissa murmured, almost to herself. She felt a stirring of excitement. Ese’ Nawoer, she thought. That had to be the mysterious symbol on her papa’s map. It was an abandoned city, the same in her papa’s tale, and it was called Ese’ Nawoer.

  Bailic’s expression cleared into what Alissa thought was an uncanny sharpness. “The tale of how Ese’ Nawoer acquired her walls is well-known to me, but you”—he pointed to Strell—“left out the most interesting part.”

  Alissa frowned as he faulted what she deemed a perfect rendition.

  “Your face tells me you disagree.” All sweetness and honey, Bailic chuckled. “Don’t be surprised,” he said with a mocking smile. “Most are reluctant to speak the truth to little girls.”

  He said the last patronizingly, and she struggled to hide her anger. Hesitating, he steepled his fingers in a shocking mimicry of her papa, and she waited, confident Bailic would continue. As much as he couched his words with pleasantries, he enjoyed belittling them, and dispensing information seemed to give him a sense of control. He smiled benevolently as he came to where Alissa sat, settling himself beside her on one of the hard-backed chairs. Talon protested with a short hiss, and from the hearth, Strell stirred uneasily. Alissa and he exchanged worried looks.

  “I’ll tell you the rest,” Bailic whispered to her alone, his pale eyebrows looking almost nonexistent in the shadow light, “not because you deserve it, but because it pleases me for you to know how the world will change itself to satisfy me.”

  Satisfy him? Alissa wondered, raising her eyes. Bailic locked his gaze on hers and the force of his will slammed into her. She took a frightened breath, shocked to find herself confronted with the madness within him. This was the man who destroyed her papa, the Hold, and all who had claimed a place within it. If he guessed who she was, he would use her as he had countless others, discarding what he didn’t need. There was nothing she could do to stop him if he knew. Ashen-faced, she sat, drained of all emotions but one. Fear.

  From the hearth came a rough scraping as Strell got to his feet. Talon began to hiss in earnest. Alissa’s eyes darted to Strell and back again. Her eyes met Bailic’s, and he simpered, apparently not caring that Strell was white with anger. “Good,” Bailic said, settling back. He glanced at Strell as if in dismissal. “I see we have reached an understanding.”

  Again he leaned forward, and Alissa couldn’t help but shirk away. “Know this then,” he continued. “It’s written the souls of Ese’ Nawoer are obliged to rise and absolve their guilt by serving the one who calls them from their perpetual unrest. When I gain what I need, I will claim them. They will be my first minions, the ones I use to set a new order.” Barely audible, his words were a sigh upon on her ear. “My order.” Slowly, he leaned back and she began to breathe again. “The souls of the abandoned city will bring the foothills and plains to heel. If not, they will bring a return to the plague of madness. Think on that, my dear, and upon which side you wish to be counted.” He rose without a sound, his eyes never leaving the kestrel. “It was an excellent tale, Piper. Quite enlightening.” And in a hush of sippered feet, he was gone.

  Numb, Alissa stared at Bailic’s empty chair. Set a new order, she thought. Gain what he needed? Bailic wanted to shatter the tenuous peace between the foothills and plains. And now she knew why he hadn’t thrown them out into the snow. He had killed her papa for the book of First Truth. That must be what he meant by “When I gain what I need.” Bone and Ash, she nearly moaned. It was just as she thought. Bailic knew they were searching for it.

  “What the Hounds is wrong with him tonight?” Strell said tightly as he left the hearth and came to stand beside her.

  “Don’t you get it, Strell?” Alissa said. “He expects us to find my papa’s book for him.” She looked miserably up at him. “And if he knows when I find it, he’ll take it away.”

  Strell’s gaze darted to the black archway to the great hall. “Shhh,” he whispered urgently. “He might be by the door.”

  Alissa pressed her lips together and shook her head, glancing up to Talon contentedly preening on the back of her chair. The clever bird always knew when Bailic was within earshot. Several times when they were searching the Hold, she had alerted them to his spying. He always had an excuse when they doubled back to confront him, but it was terribly obvious. Lately he had given up—or learned Talon’s range of detection.

  “But he said he was going to use the ghosts,” Strell said as he eased down in the seat Bailic had left. “The ones at that city. What did he call it?” He shifted his shoulders to try and disguise his unease.

  “Ese’ Nawoer.” Alissa picked nervously at her stitching. “I think he needs the book to claim them, and what’s keeping us out of the snow is him not knowing who can find it.”

  Strell was silent. Not meeting her eyes, he rose and went to the hearth. Slowly the bright flames began to disappear under the ash. “So why hasn’t he put a ward on us and asked?”

  Alissa gathered up her stitching, ignoring how scared she was. Strell waited until she relit a candle before he carefully placed the last shovel of ash on the fire. The flame quivered in response to her hand, and she hated herself for it. Her eyes flicked up to him in the new darkness. “I don’t know. But I’m not leaving without my book. And Bailic will take it as soon as I find it.”

  “We can’t overpower Bailic,” Strell said softly. His face turned sour, and he sighed as if in resignation. “Not if he’s killed all those Keepers. We have to find a way to open that door and get Useless out.” The fire irons clattered as they were replaced, and he stood, looking frustrated.
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  Useless, Alissa brooded. What good was he? Frowning, she rose and followed Strell into the kitchen where the dishes waited. The crockery was already stacked in the sink, and she smiled her thanks as Strell thoughtfully warmed the basin with a portion of water slated for their evening tea. He stood ready to dry her efforts with an annoying mix of expectancy and impatience. Alissa hastily reached for a bowl.

  “So,” Strell said as he held out a hand, “where do we look tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know,” she said listlessly over the harsh scraping of the plates. They had already searched the first eight floors, finding rooms so empty, even the dust was missing. It had all been a boring repetition except for the Keepers’ rooms. Most looked as if their owners had simply walked away. Then it went from boring to alarming as she found each and every ward they had left protecting their things, warning her away with a threat of tingling hums. Only the tower had they left unsearched, as her papa hadn’t gone that high before he confronted Bailic the day he died. Still, it might be worth a look if they could come up with an excuse. “Do you think we might sneak up to the tower and see that walled city?” she mused aloud, hinting.

  Strell’s shoulders shifted as he exhaled. “Maybe, but perhaps we should search the annexes again first.” He held out a hand, and she gave him the last plate.

  “I suppose, but I don’t think my papa hid the book there.”

  Strell placed the last cup away and hung the towel by the fire. “If we can’t find the book, we might find a couple of new stockings for you.” Chuckling, he lit a candle and banked the fire.

  “Harrumph,” Alissa snorted, and after a sharp look around the tidy kitchen, she went to fetch her mending where she had left it in the dining hall. Strell followed with the brewing pot of tea, and they made their way through the dark into the great hall and up the stairs. A swift shadow darted over them as Talon led the way, eerily finding her path even in the darkness.