First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  This was where her papa had fallen to his death.

  Her eyes dropped. “Here is your noon meal,” she said softly, recalling the long, empty years her mother had waited for her papa’s return.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Bailic said, trying to cover his surprise with a honeyed smoothness. “I’m pleased you finally found the way to my room. Won’t you come in? We so seldom have a chance to talk.” He leaned forward, his features easing into a false smile. “I just realized the other morning I know nothing at all about you.”

  She lowered her eyes and shook her head. The hands taking the tray were smooth and pale. He couldn’t have done a decent day’s work in his life, she thought, her gaze flitting over his new attire.

  Draping over his narrow shoulders in a smooth wave of black was a long sleeveless vest. It was bound tight about his waist with a wide gold scarf. Both the scarf and vest went nearly to the floor, lending him a more elegant air than usual. His shirt underneath was a softer black, with wide, expansive sleeves big enough to serve as pockets. He looked like refinement incarnate, and Alissa turned, eager to leave the unhappy place.

  “Just one question, then?” he said, smiling warmly, and she halted, edging the stair. “Recently your piper exchanged a jar of salve for material. You know the one?”

  Her piper? Alissa thought, taking a nervous step back as he moved into the hall. Strell wasn’t her piper. Her heel hung over the first stair, and she couldn’t distance herself any further without looking obvious. “Yes,” she admitted, unable to keep the hurt from her voice.

  Bailic hesitated, clearly waiting for more. When it became apparent Alissa wouldn’t volunteer anything, Bailic waved a hand carelessly. “It worked wonders on my . . .” He paused, rubbing a slow finger across the faint scar on his cheek. It seemed to have healed in a day. “Do you have any more?”

  “No,” Alissa said shortly, her face reddening.

  “That’s a shame. Tell me what you need to make it.” His smiled turned conspiratorial. “There’s a bolt or two of silk down there. Perhaps we could come to an agreement of our own? There’s no need for you to be shy. Women often make the shrewdest of bargains.”

  Alissa’s head rose, her jaw stiffening. “Strell does all my bargaining,” she said sharply. Somehow Bailic knew she had an argument with Strell and was trying to worsen it. The horrid thing was that she was nearly willing to agree just to get back at Strell.

  “Is there a problem?” Bailic crooned, his put-on charms failing miserably. “I couldn’t help but overhear an argument earlier.”

  “No,” Alissa said, managing to sound surprised. “No problem at all.”

  “Really.” The pale, washed-out orbs of his eyes narrowed and he leaned forward.

  It was much too close, and she couldn’t help but take a step down the stairs. “I have to start dinner,” she said quickly, turning leave. She practically ran down the stairs, the noise of her boots clattering against the hard walls. It was the most she had said to Bailic at any one time, and it left her feeling ill. Strell had always taken the trays, and now she thought she knew why.

  “What a hinny I’ve been,” Alissa said, her pace slowing as she neared the next landing. Strell had done nothing but help her since the day he pulled her out of that ravine. And for what? There was nothing for him to gain by being here. He owed her nothing, and she had repaid his kindness with her sharp words and quick temper.

  Guilt and feelings of remorse slowed her steps. Immediately she resolved to find Strell and apologize. She hesitated at the landing, then deciding he couldn’t still be in the stables, she turned and headed for his room. All the way down the hall she tried to think of something to say that would make it better, but the only thing she could think of was: “I’m sorry. You were right.”

  By the time she reached his door, she had worked herself into a splendid state of remorse. How, she wondered, could she have been so stubborn? Strell had only been being his usual helpful self. Alissa drew to a stop before his door, hesitating as she realized it was cracked open.

  “Strell?” she said quietly, pushing the door inward. He wasn’t there, but her face went cold as she saw what was. His chair. Strell had taken his chair from her hearth.

  Hoping she was mistaken and that he had just gotten a second chair, Alissa opened her door. Only one chair sat before her hearth. Hers. Strell’s was gone. He had taken it, leaving her hearth empty and deserted. Stunned, Alissa stood in her doorway and blinked in confusion. They argued lots of times, she thought desperately, but he had never done this! He knew it wouldn’t be long before she would cool off and apologize. She must have really hurt him.

  “Oh, Strell,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry.” Any apology would certainly fall upon deaf ears now, she thought miserably. Her cursed temper had dealt her a cruel blow, and she could only blame herself.

  27

  Bailic eased down the stairs in the great hall. His new Master’s vest and sash hissed against the steps, marking his passage in a pleasing sound. He had found the ensemble in a trunk years ago, but never thought to wear it until yesterday. The long, robe-like vest suited his height very well. Even the girl had noticed, despite her mood.

  He paused at the foot of the stairs to lean against the railing. It was quiet. Only a few motes of dust that the Hold’s nightly sweep had missed could be seen, dancing in the bands of early afternoon sun. He listened, trying to find his guests using his ears alone. There had been a falling out yesterday. He wasn’t sure where things stood, or even where they were.

  Last night’s meal was far from the high standards he had become increasingly used to. The acrid smell of burnt bread had hung thick in the lower levels of the Hold. The potatoes were undercooked and distressingly hard. But the carrots were the worst of the lot, almost a paste.

  He hadn’t cared. The food was of less interest than the two of them. They were far more entertaining than the sticky-sweet love story the piper stumbled his way through after dinner. Bailic ceased listening soon after the piper began it, preferring to gauge the girl’s reactions. He had to turn his heavy chair from the fire to do so, but it was well worth the effort. It was the second chair he had moved yesterday—and by far the easiest.

  A frown passed over him as he recalled his frustrating attempts to get the piper’s chair out of Meson’s old room without crossing the threshold. Eventually he had to throw weighted ropes at it. Once in the hall, he had spun the chair into the piper’s room, not caring to tempt fate further. He was lucky he hadn’t been caught. The noise he had made was considerable.

  He squinted from the small bit of sun as his eyes turned to the annexes. There was an ornate table outside his door to hold his tray that had come from one of them. And their bland fare had improved as well. Rare was the night that a small bit of fresh vegetable or fruit didn’t appear with their potatoes or rice. Perhaps he ought to go down and bring up some of the wine. He might get a few answers once tongues were loosened. And tongues needed to loosen if he was to make any progress before the snow melted and his prison became less secure.

  An anxious pang went through him. Bailic crushed it, reassuring himself that he had time. If his efforts to worsen their tiff succeeded, he was sure one of them would begin to confide in him. Bailic turned back to the tunnels. But no one was saying anything right now.

  Bailic halfheartedly sent his awareness to drift among the passages to search them out using his mind, and today, after weeks of failure he received a soft, garbled response. His tracings were almost healed.

  “Finally!” he breathed. An icy thrill of delight sang through him. Bailic unfocused his awareness and looked with his mind’s eye to see his network. It was still ash-covered, but when he allowed the connection between it and his source, he was pleased to find its strength raggedly slipping through the lines again. A soft whisper of a headache accompanied it. The flow wasn’t true yet. He daren’t use his tracings until fully healed. Perhaps as soon as tonight.

  Bailic whirled about
and took the stairs two at a time, intent on reaching his room. There were scores of ways to loosen tongues. His last two weeks of forced patience hadn’t been spent idly. He had a plan, one more certain than wine, more cunning than flattery, and more secure than force. And now he could begin.

  28

  “You look terrible,” Alissa whispered to her reflection in the small mirror on her hearth shelves. She took a deep breath, letting it slowly slip from her. Gray eyes aren’t at all attractive when red from crying. Her clothes had thin patches, and though clean, had clearly seen better days. Her hair? It was nearly to her shoulders, and she hated it.

  The dimming light told her it was nearly time to make dinner. The very idea tightened her stomach until she felt ill. Last night Strell had been tight-lipped, never looking at her as they prepared dinner together. She had been close to tears, not knowing what to say for fear of making things worse. She was hoping tonight she might find the courage to apologize and Strell would forgive her.

  “Yes,” Alissa said bitterly, “when the Navigator’s Wolves come to earth to hunt rabbits.” She hadn’t seen Strell all day. That told her more clearly than words that time had done nothing to soften him.

  Alissa turned from her reflection with a feeling of gloom. She couldn’t go downstairs looking like a beggar. Perhaps she should wear her new skirt. She had finished it this morning, having hidden herself in her room and buried herself in work. It was her opinion that the cloth was too fine for everyday use, but why make it if she wasn’t going to wear it?

  Her eyes slid to the fabric she had chosen for Strell. “I may as well toss you out the window,” she said. She couldn’t buy Strell’s friendship back. He probably wouldn’t even accept it now. Biting her lip to keep from crying, she wadded the soft fabric up and stuffed it under the bed. Ever the frugal farm girl, she would find a use for it later.

  Alissa struggled to keep her breath even, to keep the tears from brimming, to loosen the horrid tightness in her chest. Snatching up her skirt, she quickly changed. She hadn’t worn a skirt in ages, and her boots looked odd peeping out from under her hem. A quick brush through her hair and she was ready. She was no less unhappy, but at least she didn’t look like something Talon might bring back for her. At the last moment she tied her hair back with a scrap of green she had planned on using for Strell’s outfit.

  The appealing aroma of Strell’s cooking was thick in the hall as Alissa pulled her door shut behind her. “Now you’ve done it,” she whispered, feeling a stab of guilt. Sure Strell would use her absence as fuel for his anger, she hurried to the end of the hall and down the stairs. Bailic’s voice shattered the quiet as she reached the landing above the great hall, and she froze.

  “What do you mean she’s indisposed, Piper,” he shouted, his voice carrying well. Alissa almost turned around, but she couldn’t leave Strell to face his wrath alone. So crossing her fingers for luck, she ghosted down the stairs and stepped into the dining hall.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear.” Bailic’s anger vanished at the sound of her appearance. He rose from his chair, and she maneuvered quickly to avoid his outstretched hands. His ire showed for an instant until he hid it behind that false smile he had been favoring her with.

  “Please,” Bailic cajoled, “sit down.” He gestured grandly to the table, conspicuous with only two place settings. Silently Alissa blushed.

  “Here.” Strell was suddenly at her elbow. “Take my spot.”

  “No,” Bailic interrupted smoothly. “Do me the honor.”

  Alissa hesitated, wondering if she should go to the kitchen for her own place setting.

  “I insist,” grated Bailic, straightening to his full height.

  Helpless to refuse, Alissa reluctantly moved to the head of the table. Bailic assisted her with her chair and turned her cup and plate right-side up. He chuckled as he sat down beside her. Sneaking a glance at Strell, Alissa was startled by the absolute blankness on his face.

  “Piper!” Bailic barked, making both Strell and Alissa jump. “Would you please,” he continued quietly, “get me a new place setting?”

  Strell gulped and vanished into the kitchen. Alissa stared at her plate as she waited for his return. The fire was higher than she allowed herself to keep it, and the room was blessedly warm. Out of the corner of her sight she could see Bailic’s fingers drumming, silently drumming, upon the table. Their absolute whiteness was marred by new red-rimmed scratches and the grime of soot.

  “Your new attire suits you, my dear,” he said, and she stiffened, wishing now she hadn’t changed. “You show much skill with a needle. Tell me, Piper,” he demanded as a plate slid before Bailic, “my eyes are weary tonight. Is the cloth our companion selected, by chance, gray?”

  “No,” Strell answered in a strained voice, sitting at the far end of the table at Alissa’s usual spot. “It’s a blue-gray, much as the bottom of clouds that herald a violent summer storm.”

  “Really,” Bailic said sharply.

  Surprised at the emotion in Strell’s voice, Alissa pulled her gaze from the table, shocked at the distress she read in him. Even Bailic couldn’t fail to recognize the effect his question had upon Strell. Maybe, she thought with a faint stirring of hope. Maybe he wasn’t as angry as she thought.

  Maybe he would listen to her. She smiled in encouragement, and Strell stared blankly at her for a moment before dropping his eyes.

  “I would know,” Bailic said as he filled first his glass, then Alissa’s, “if you are finding my home to your liking?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said meekly, as his question was clearly directed at her.

  “Of course you do,” he repeated firmly. “Do have some raspberries, my dear. They’re probably older than you and me put together, but fresh as the day they were picked. I’m so pleased you found the foodstuffs.” Bailic ladled an enormous helping of berries onto her plate, and she froze. Glancing between Strell, Alissa, and the berries, he ran an introspective finger across the base of the old scar running down and across his neck. Alissa shot a nervous look at Strell, and he shrugged almost imperceptibly.

  “Your bird is absent tonight, is she not?” Bailic murmured as he rubbed his reddened knuckles, and before she could answer, he smiled in a fatherly fashion. “Have you chanced a walk in the garden recently? The snow is uncommonly deep this year. I do hope it doesn’t mean floods in the spring. We will be safe here on the top of the world, so don’t worry yourselves.”

  Bailic generally held himself to one topic while they ate, nitpicking over the smallest point of conversation. Tonight he took over the discussion with such a bewildering array of subjects, it left her breathless. Alissa was continually left fumbling, not knowing what to say. Bailic didn’t seem to notice he was doing all the talking and that most of his questions were going unanswered.

  Looking miserable and lost, Strell stared blankly into the fire, ignoring everything. It wasn’t like him. Alissa wondered if Bailic had set a ward upon him but decided she would have felt it. Strell must simply be as dazed as she by the rapidly changing subjects.

  But the fire was warm, much warmer than she allowed herself to have it, and soothing.

  Bailic’s low, pleasant speech never slowed, and despite her efforts to follow his train of thought, it became increasingly difficult. She found it easier to ignore him and watch the flames dance and leap. A soft lassitude slipped over her, and she yawned, drowsy with the heat.

  “Yes,” she heard Bailic say. “That’s a fine beginning. Let’s see if we can’t improve it even more. Piper? If you would be so kind? No story tonight. It would be my desire to hear such music that would gentle a petulant child down to sleep.”

  Alissa watched Strell slip his pipe from his shirt pocket. She wanted to turn to see if he was wearing the same blank stare he had earlier, but the flames would shift and weave so . . . and it wasn’t worth her effort.

  The dishes, she thought distantly. The dishes should be in the kitchen. Strell was going to play. They should
be in the kitchen. “The kitchen,” she murmured, then lost her thought. She shifted, confused. There was something she should be doing. She couldn’t remember what.

  “Hush,” a dark voice crooned, and her plate disappeared. With a languorous sigh, Alissa slumped back and lost herself in the fire. Whatever had disturbed her was gone. She could rest.

  Strell’s music flowed forth, reassuring and soft. It had been so long since he played his grandfather’s pipe. Perhaps he wasn’t angry with her anymore. Alissa felt her eyelids droop.

  “Yes,” a low, comforting voice whispered, “this is much better, much to my liking. You play well, Piper. Pray, continue for but a little more.”

  She drowsed, content to simply exist, not caring what happened as long as the music and the dancing flames continued. With a final sigh, she allowed her eyes to close. She was warm and comfortable. Strell was playing for her. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t care.

  “So,” she heard softly, “let’s see what we may learn, now that you are—comfortable.”

  The sound of the fire hissing and music, gentle music, came from somewhere. She felt as if she should recognize it. A distant, irritating plinking began to intrude into her contentment. From the soft gray that was her world, the soothing, persuasive voice whispered, “A Keeper lacks the skill for a ward of truth, even I, but there are other, more mundane ways to hear it spoken.”

  A small part of her realized the heat from the fire was blocked again, but she could hear the flames. It was enough to satisfy her.

  “It’s an old technique, my dear,” came the voice right before her, “older than the Hold itself, and anyone can learn, be he Keeper or commoner.”

  The plinking grew louder. Annoyed at the disturbance, she focused upon it.

  “The only problem,” the voice crooned, “is that the technique seldom works on the wary—so let’s make this as productive an evening as possible, shall we?”