First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  The man’s eyes grew intent. “I have these sundry items,” he said, stepping into the room and laying open his bundle of cloth upon the worktable.

  Bailic leaned close, struggling not to sneer at the pathetic display: a pouch of salt, a knife, a set of dice, a tied bit of string, two shells, a cracked mirror, a capped jar made of stone, and an anklet bell from the coast, not worth the metal it was made from this far from the coast. Trinkets. He hoped the plainsman was holding something back, because this was nothing.

  “Knives and knots I have, fine though these are,” Bailic said softly, his fingers rifling through the clutter. “Is there anything else you might . . .” He froze, his fingertips on the stone jar. There was a hint of loose power there, a whisper, no more. A source?

  Swallowing his excitement, Bailic picked up the jar and brought it close to his eyes. “Tell me of this,” he breathed, looking up in irritation as the plainsman plucked it out of his grasp.

  “This?” the man said, slipping into the pattern of words and phrases used when bargaining. “This poorly crafted container is a trifle. The worst of the lot. Good for nothing more than holding horse liniment, perhaps.”

  Bailic placed his hands behind him, refusing to give in to his desire to take the jar as the piper offered it back. The indulgent smile the plainsman wore was infuriating. Bailic knew he’d lost whatever edge he had. He had allowed his emotions sway. But he had to have that jar.

  “Right now it stores an ointment,” the piper was saying. “Worthless stuff from the foothills. I couldn’t let you have the jar until I empty it. Give me a moment to throw it—”

  “No!” Bailic exclaimed, drawing his hands back with a fierce determination. “No,” he said quietly. “I’ll take it as it is. What did you say you wanted?” He didn’t care that his hands trembled in eagerness as the man put the jar into grasp.

  “Fabric and leather.” There was a hesitation. “As much as she can use.”

  Bailic looked up. Allowing the plainsman to think he could have anything was intolerable. “None of the silk.”

  The man nodded, wrapping up his trash and tucking the package under his arm. “Done and done,” he said.

  “Done and done,” Bailic agreed, ushering the piper out with an absent gesture.

  Not even waiting for the door to shut, Bailic strode to the shrinking sliver of sun. He dragged his chair into it, sitting down with the jar in the light. He would pay for it later with red, tender skin, but he had to see the container clearly.

  The lid grated off, and he sniffed warily at the ointment. Wrinkling his nose at the stench of burnt skies and lightning, he gingerly dabbed a bit onto his finger. Yes, he thought in growing excitement as his fingers cramped with a humming sensation. There was the scent of loosed power, almost a catch in his throat more than a smell. The source was gone, but enough remained in the stone to have seeped back into the salve. Eagerly he slathered the ointment onto his cheek, his eyes closing in bliss as a warm tingle spread from the angry line, taking the last of the pain with it.

  A sigh escaped him as he slumped back, smiling as he failed to feel the familiar pull of pain across his cheek. His score would probably heal overnight with only a ghost-line to mark it rather than the expected thick welt. Bailic reverently capped the jar and held it up. “Plains-made,” he whispered. “Common enough.” It had to have been an accident. Source was too precious to use this way, even if it was highly effective in the healing of raku score. It was far more likely the jar had simply held a source at some time. It was rather tenacious stuff, soaking into anything surrounding it. Once the container was emptied of its precious cargo, the residual power in the stone could have seeped back into the salve. But why store so much source in the first place?

  The strength it contained could be drawn upon as long as it was close, but it was unheard of not to meld it into one’s inner-being when one had the chance. It was too risky to leave it lying about where a rival Keeper could happen upon it and commandeer it for himself, supplementing his strength with another’s. Source was a very rare substance. The Masters of the Hold were uncharacteristically uncommunicative from whence it came.

  A wash of anger flooded through him at the thought of them. Rising, he strode across the room to set the jar on his desk with a thump. “They will see,” he directed to Meson’s hat as he sullenly sat on his desktop. “I’m deserving, and I will have that cursed book! I’d have it now if you hadn’t been so stubborn.” Noticing his fingers drumming upon his crossed arms, he took a methodical, calming breath, dispelling his anger with an iron will and three practiced breaths.

  His slow investigations were getting him nowhere, he thought darkly. He had to know more. There had to be a way to discover what he needed without using the power of his tracings. He had gotten soft relying upon the strength of his source rather than his wit. This lack of progress was his own fault.

  Bailic reached across his desk and pulled his midday tray closer. His eyes upon the bright rectangle of the balcony window, his fingers sifted through a bowl nuts. They dropped into their wooden bowl with a soft clatter, the repetitious patter calming him.

  “So which one of them is the latent Keeper?” he said with a sigh. Taking a handful of nuts, he rose to find two other bowls: a deep, musty green and a brilliant gold. He set them all on the table beside his balcony chair and sank down, deep in thought.

  “The piper knows the history of Ese’ Nawoer,” he said, gently placing a nut into the green bowl. The story was kept unknown outside the Hold, a carefully held history. Only if Strell was a Keeper’s child would he have heard it. “But the girl knew it as well.” And he tossed a nut into the gold one. There was no help here.

  Bailic ran his fingers over his shortly cropped hair as he considered the sparse information he had managed to pry from her over the last two weeks. It wasn’t much, but it was patently obvious they weren’t siblings, and the piper didn’t treat the girl with the disdain flesh-runners usually heaped upon their unwanted burdens. It seemed likely the strange duo had grown up together, probably in the plains, as they both knew the subtleties of its customs: The tea was almost chokingly strong, the cups and plates were laid out upside down to keep the sand from them, and he had seen both of them sitting cross-legged upon their chairs as all good children from the plains are taught to keep the snakes from their ankles.

  Their diet, however, had been distressingly free of meat, speaking of a foothills upbringing. It didn’t seem to bother either of them. Perhaps they were simply too lazy to go out and hunt anything. Nothing seemed to fit, and it was making him increasingly uneasy.

  Spinning from excessive force, a second nut slammed into the green bowl. “The piper opened Meson’s room,” he said with a snarl. Or did he? Bailic frowned. Perhaps the girl opened it. She was in possession of the room. “No,” he whispered. It was far more likely the piper opened it, then offered what he thought was the best chamber to her. Many concessions were made in the name of courtship, and that was exactly what the piper was doing.

  Bailic’s lips twisted in distaste. The fool was so far gone, he wasn’t even aware he was wooing the empty-headed half-breed girl. More proof they weren’t siblings. It was a disgrace. The man was clearly pure plains. He ranked better than she. And the nut remained where it lay.

  Then there was the piper’s hat. The wide brim and loose cut was identical to the distinctive dress of a Keeper. There was little chance the piper would have it unless raised by one of them. Battles were won or lost over such details, and with a crack, a third nut landed in the green bowl.

  Sending his gaze into the blur past the balcony, Bailic considered the more nebulous facts at hand. The temperament of the two weighed surprisingly heavily in his decision. Keepers were notoriously willful, seldom suffering themselves to be told what to do, especially when it was in their best interests. The annoying trait was linked to their highly ordered tracings, and therefore, control of one’s temper was the first and hardest lesson the Masters taught
. It was too dangerous to allow the enormous power of a source to flow through a mind unfettered with restraint. But it was ironic that the fieriest tempers led to the coolest of manners under the Masters’ tuition.

  The girl was decidedly reticent. Often he would only see her during their too-brief dinners. She would invariably scurry off to the kitchen after the piper’s performance. Once he had followed her, only to be driven away by her bedeviled bird. Who could think with all that hissing? His efforts to question her concerning her background always seemed to be intercepted by the piper. Bailic frowned. At times it seemed as if the man was purposely trying to annoy him.

  Bailic shifted in his chair, his thoughts turning to the plainsman. The piper had the flamboyant, easy way with people that most Keepers had possessed. And he had a strong will, Bailic mused, tapping a nut on the table. Taking two nuts, Bailic put his hand over the green bowl. Hesitating, he dropped one.

  “And the salve,” he said, rubbing a finger over his cheek, relishing the lack of pain. His hand dropped and he reached for a nut. The piper had mentioned the salve, therefore it must be his. A nut clattered into his bowl. Five against the girl’s one.

  Bailic’s eyes narrowed in vexation. The piper’s bowl was decidedly the fullest, but something didn’t feel right. He had to know more, especially about the girl. A slow smile eased over him. Yes, he would spend the interim while his tracings healed focusing his attention on her. And when he had the full use of the power within his source again, he would act on his findings. He had waited decades; he could bide a bit longer—but only a bit.

  25

  “Ouch,” Alissa whispered as her needle slipped. Setting aside her stitching, she stuck the side of her thumb in her mouth, then checked to see if it was bleeding. It was. The morning sun streamed in to light the dining hall, and she gazed out the windows, enjoying the sensation of seeing snow and not being cold.

  Strell glanced up from the fire, where he was contentedly stringing apple slices on a bit of twine. “Why don’t you use a thimble?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his voice.

  “It’s harder to control the needle when I’m wearing it,” she grumbled.

  “It has to be better than stabbing yourself six times before dinner.”

  She looked at her thumb again. Deciding to put something on it, she stood and stretched. A smile eased over her as she set her stitching down. If all went as she expected, she ought to be done with it by next week. Then she could turn her attention to Strell’s outfit. She had already marked what she thought was a good fit from a handsome green cloth, patterning it after what she could recall from her papa’s attire, her sole model. She wanted it to be a surprise. A little bit every night after he left her room ought to get it done in time for the solstice.

  Strell’s head came up as she moved to the arch. “Where are you going?”

  “My room. I want to put something on my thumb.”

  “Like a thimble?” he teased.

  Alissa grinned. “No. Have you seen my jar of salve? I seem to have misplaced it.”

  Strell stood and draped his string of apples across the mantel. “Oh! I forgot to tell you,” he said as he sat back down and arranged himself among his apples and twine again. “That’s what Bailic wanted.”

  Alissa stopped in the archway to the great hall, blinking in astonishment. “For what?”

  “The fabric,” he said quickly. “You ran back to the annexes before I could tell you, and then I forgot. That’s what did the trick. The salve for all the fabric you could use.” Strell looked up, smiling uncertainly. “Done and done.”

  Alissa shut her mouth with a snap. “That was my salve.”

  “And now that’s your fabric. You said you’d give anything to have it.”

  “My mother’s salve?” Alissa felt her warm. “What am I supposed to use when Talon scratches me?”

  Strell picked up a handful of sliced apples. “When was the last time she scratched you?”

  “That’s not the point,” she said, not understanding why he was being so cavalier.

  “Well, what is the point?”

  Alissa gestured in exasperation. “You gave Bailic my salve. My mother made it. I’ve been looking for it for three days! Just when were you going to tell me you gave it away?”

  “I told you, I forgot.” His face was reddening.

  “Well, why didn’t you ask me first?”

  Strell glanced up. His brow was furrowed. “I thought I already had. Look. I’m sorry. You said you’d give anything for that fabric. I thought that was what you meant.”

  “But it was mine!”

  “And now you have anything you want in the dry goods.” Strell lowered his head, jabbing his thick needle through an apple slice, His shoulders were tense, and he looked cross.

  “Everything except for the silk,” she muttered, leaning against the arch.

  Strell sighed. “Ashes. I think I made a good trade for you. Besides,” he added darkly, “Bailic didn’t want anything of mine. It seems I don’t have anything of value.”

  Alissa’s jaw stiffened. “What about one of your pipes! You don’t even play the one.”

  His eyes narrowed, and Strell leaned back in his chair. “That’s how I make my living, Alissa. And you’re the one who’s going to use the fabric, not me.”

  Alissa pulled herself away from the arch. “You know what I think?” she said tightly. “I think you’re jealous I had something he wanted, and you didn’t.”

  “Don’t be daft.” His voice was hard.

  “That’s it, isn’t it!” she said triumphantly. “So you gave him the only thing I had that belonged to my mother.”

  Strell’s brow furrowed. “That’s not true. You have lots of things to remind you of your mother. I don’t have anything from mine. I don’t have anything at all. I think I traded well for you. It was only a jar. Look what you got for it!”

  Anger overwhelmed her, and she crossed her arms aggressively. “Well you know what? Your grandfather once said if you make a deal that’s decidedly in your favor, you’ve probably overlooked something.”

  Strell’s jaw clenched. Without a word, he stood up and stalked out of the room, brushing past her without a glance.

  Alissa followed him out into the great hall. “I’m not done yet!” she called after him. “Where are you going?”

  “Somewhere you aren’t,” Strell shouted over his shoulder.

  “Fine,” Alissa cried at his back. “Go hide in your smelly stables. See if I care!” He disappeared into the first tunnel. She was alone.

  Alissa took a shuddering breath. “How dare he give my salve away without asking,” she muttered, flopping back in her chair and pushing her threads into a messy pile. “What kind of fool takes someone else’s things and trades them away?” Even if it was for all the fabric she could use, she admitted, feeling a flush of guilt. The finest fabric she ever had the chance to work with.

  Her anger slowed in a pang of regret, and she looked the empty room over. It was quiet. She didn’t like it. Deep down she knew Strell had made an excellent trade. Bailic had no need for a tenth of what the annex contained. Her salve was probably the only thing he didn’t have. And she had said she would give anything.

  Alissa sat in the silent dining hall, her pulse slowing. She felt ill. Perhaps, she thought as her eyes lowered, she ought to apologize. It was the surprise that got to her, she rationalized as she rose to her feet. That, and his indifferent attitude. Her temper had gotten the better of her again, letting her mouth run amuck, uncaring of any hurt it might cause. Bringing his family into it had been unfair. Strell had only done what she’d asked. Ashes, she thought. She was a fool.

  Her breath slipped from her in a slow puff. She hated apologizing, but she could see no other way. Calmer, but not feeling any less foolish, she followed Strell to the stables. Sure enough, she heard his voice raised in anger before she was halfway down the long passage.

  “What an idiotic, sand-for-brains fool!” His voice was har
sh, and it jerked her to a halt just shy of the end of the tunnel. “Never again,” she heard him vow cholerically, “never will I let that happen again.” There was a yelp of surprise. “Cursed ward!” he shouted. “What’s a ward doing down here?” There was a short pause. “By the Navigator’s Wolves, you’ve known her too long to forgive that kind of behavior. How is it possible to act that childishly?”

  Her pulse quickened and her temper rushed back. She remained where she was, fuming.

  “Well,” he said, his voice virulently bitter, “I’m going back up there and tell her—”

  Strell came out of a box stall then, nearly running her down. “Alissa!” he blurted, his fierce expression changing to one of surprise. “How long—”

  “Long enough!” she shouted. “Maybe I can save you a trip. The idiotic, sand-for-brains fool heard every word!”

  “But . . . I was coming up to tell you—”

  “What! Tell me what? That I’m acting childishly? I heard you the first time!” And with that, she spun about and stormed back up the passage.

  Now she was done.

  26

  “Milksop,” she muttered. “Hiding in the stables all day. I can take Bailic’s tray all by myself.” Alissa stomped up the stairs. It was late afternoon, almost too late for a noon meal. She had prepared the tray ages ago, setting it and herself at one of the kitchen tables, waiting for Strell to come and take it to Bailic. He hadn’t, and now she was boiling mad. Rather than risk Bailic coming down in search of his meal, she was going to have to deliver it.

  She took the stairs fast, anger adding to her speed. By the time she reached the ninth landing, she was out of breath. Strell once said Bailic’s door was the first one, and she pursed her lips and kicked at it. Her eyes widened at the scuff mark, but then her resolve firmed. So what, she thought defiantly, it’s not really his room anyway.

  Bailic flung open the door and blinked down at her in astonishment. Alissa glared at him, forgetting for a moment where she was.