First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  A stir of excitement took her as she made her way to the great hall. Tonight Strell was making her dinner. He felt bad about his forced immobility from a badly wrenched ankle. Now that he was becoming useful again, he wanted to make up for it. And so Alissa had been cordially invited to dine tonight with the minstrel of her choice. Bailic’s tray, though, came first. He took all his meals in his room now. When she had asked Strell about it, he had mumbled something about Bailic being tired of his stories. Alissa didn’t care. Delivering Bailic’s trays was a small price to pay to have Strell all to herself.

  Strell was hunched awkwardly over the fire as she scuffed into the kitchen. “Don’t look!” he shouted, lurching to block her view. “The tray is by the door.”

  Her nose in the air, Alissa sniffed for a hint as to what was on the menu. The kitchen smelled like nothing. Nothing at all. “Is Talon here?” she asked.

  “No. Go away! I’m not ready for you yet.”

  Alissa scrunched her nose in a mock irritation as she took the tray and left. The plate was covered, making dinner a pleasant mystery. She was tempted to peek but didn’t, wanting to preserve Strell’s surprise, as it obviously meant a lot to him.

  Alissa wound her way up through the dusk to Bailic’s door without a candle. After weeks of this, the passage was as familiar as the trails on her mother’s farm. She intentionally took it slow, but still only rose five flights before she was puffing and blowing. It seemed she tired so easily, but she was much improved from last week, when she rested every third flight. Even so, by the eighth floor she had to stop. She slid Bailic’s tray onto the wide windowsill at the landing, and mindful to keep clear of the window ward, she sat, catching sight of herself in the oval mirror.

  “Much better,” she congratulated herself, nodding at her image, fuzzy in the dim light. Between mourning the loss of her tracings and Strell nearly breaking his ankle, the last three weeks hadn’t been easy. She had lost weight she could ill afford to lose. It was coming back, and she wasn’t quite so gaunt-looking. She wore a new dress, too. Just for the occasion, not Strell.

  “Look at your hair,” she said in dismay, rising to move closer to the mirror. Shaking her head, Alissa untied the green ribbon binding. It was brushing her shoulders as Strell flatly refused to cut it. Her mother would be pleased, holding that a proper lady had hair she could sit on, but her papa would be appalled. Strell, she had found, couldn’t be shamed, bribed, or bullied into cutting it for her.

  Feeling better for the short rest, Alissa returned to Bailic’s tray and wearily ascended the last few stairs. As she neared the top, a muffled curse, followed by a foul smell, slipped under Bailic’s door in a luminescent, pearly fog. She sidestepped the cold mist, watching it eddy down the stairwell. She could have left the tray by his door, but this was something new, and so ignoring her mother’s advice about cats and their fatalistic tendencies, she kicked at the door.

  There was the sound of wood scraping and breaking crockery. “A moment!” came Bailic’s muffled shout, and the door swung open. “Good evening,” he said, looking down at her through sore-looking, red-rimmed eyes. He held a green-stained bowl smelling strongly of mint, and it seemed she had interrupted something.

  “Bailic,” Alissa said. Calm and serene, she gazed back at his frown. She had seen Mistress Death, been held in her deceiving embrace, and allowed to escape. Her days were tolerable enough, but her nights brought memories of self-inflected agonies. Bailic could do nothing worse to her.

  “Would you like to come in?” Bailic suddenly smiled and stepped back.

  Curiosity and a longing to be closer to where her papa had once stood caused her to peek in. The smell was horrid. By leaning, Alissa could see the source of the stench frothing in a frosted metal bowl surrounded by candles. A chipped yellow pot rocked slightly on the floor.

  “It’s so seldom you have seen fit to rap so gently at my door,” he continued, his eyebrows raised at the new scuff mark. “Certainly there must be a reason?”

  “Not really,” Alissa said. “I was curious.”

  “Curious!” He shoved the gold bowl out of sight under the table with a backward kick. Going to his worktable, he dumped the green-stained bowl into the froth. Immediately the stench faded, overpowered by a sudden rush of mint. “Well, do come in, at least for a moment.”

  Recalling the ward on his doorsill, Alissa hesitated. She wouldn’t be able to cross it again until he allowed it. Then she shrugged. Tempting fate reminded her she was still alive. Besides, the tray was getting heavy.

  As if reading her thoughts, Bailic graciously took it, half pulling her into the room. She imagined she felt the tingle of the ward as she stumbled in. Impossible, Alissa thought. She had felt nothing for weeks. Her tracings were ash. Frowning, she reminded herself that just because she couldn’t discern a ward, it didn’t follow, it wouldn’t burn her, and pain was still pain, no matter how meaningless her life seemed. Alissa’s eyes went to the balcony, still as shattered as she recalled it from her papa’s memory, and she sighed.

  “Quite a view, isn’t it?” Clearly misreading her small sound, Bailic slipped to the edge of the drop-off and stared into the night. “I’m told when the sun is high and bright, you can see Ese’ Nawoer.” He grimaced. “My sight seems to worsen every year. I can’t even see the ground anymore in this pitch.”

  He turned suddenly, and Alissa froze. “I have noticed your skill with needle and thread,” he said lightly. “You have a fine eye for cloth. Did you know I once studied under a master weaver? Caldera cloth, my family made, in the finest shades of reds. It was too elegant to be traded into the foothills, but there’s a bolt or two in dry goods. I could have carried the family name had I not been driven out.” He looked back into the dark and his face went still. “I couldn’t make it now. I’ve been too long from the loom. You need a steady hand and a keen eye to keep the threads even and the pattern accurate.”

  Alissa’s eyes flicked from him to the open door, wondering if she should try to leave.

  “Tell me,” he said softly, “what does the night look like?”

  With a last, longing glance at the door, Alissa took a step closer and gazed over the balcony and into the evening. The moon’s light spilled over the fields and woods. The black branches of the forest stood sharp, seeming to be lit from behind as the light reflected off the snow behind them. Lower down the mountain, the moonlight spread in a glorious puddle across the top of the fog. It appeared as if they were an island amid a sea of clouds. It was breathtaking.

  “Please . . .” Bailic said softly.

  Alissa half turned, staring at him. She could tell his wish was genuine, and a stab of what might have been pity went through her. It must be difficult to have lost one’s sight, she thought. Bathed in the shadow-light of an early dusk, he seemed like another person. Against her better judgment, she edged closer. “The moon,” she said, “is a scant week from full and has yet to reach its highest point.”

  “No,” he whispered urgently. “You misunderstand. What does it feel like.”

  Shifting to her other foot, Alissa pushed her growing unease away. What had she gotten herself into? “The night is cool and damp with the weight of the snow carried within it,” she tried again. “The wind makes a gentle sport with the empty, black branches of the forest, and they shift in complaint of the disturbance.” She felt herself smile as her pulse slowed and her breath grew lethargic. “Whispering remnants of the day’s fleeting warmth have swirled the fog into a pool of milky-white, eddying about the lower reaches of the Hold. Even now it rises, swallowing the trees one by one until soon, only the Hold will remain above the mist, appearing to float upon a sea of air, glowing from within from the moonlight. Above, only the strongest of stars bear the shining face of the moon, and even these seem to bow to the glory of her presence, allowing her alone to light the night.” Slumped against the wall, Alissa sighed contentedly.

  “Yes,” Bailic murmured, “that’s how I would see it as well.�
�

  She froze at his voice. Bone and Ash! She had forgotten where she was.

  Bailic shifted and looked through her, not seeing her at all. “Wait,” he said, slowly moving to his desk and scratching a note. “Take this to your piper. Mind the ink. It’s still wet.”

  Burn it to ash, she thought. He wasn’t her piper. But she gingerly took the paper as Bailic extended it. She glanced down and read: “Eggs and toast tomorrow.” What did that mean? she wondered, disguising her confusion by waving the paper gently in the air to dry the ink. “I’ll take it to him now,” she said, taking a step back to distance herself, but Bailic reached out a pale hand, catching her sleeve, stopping her. Staring hard at him, she tugged free, wondering what he wanted now. Perhaps he wished her opinion of the lovely stench he had made on the worktable.

  “Once,” he said, low and soft, “I offered you the chance to choose what side you wished to be counted upon.” He hesitated. Taking a slow breath he continued, his voice terrible in its stark honesty. “That choice is still yours to make.”

  Alissa drew back as if slapped.

  “I see,” he continued, not noticing, or perhaps ignoring, her look of disgust and horror, “you have lost your fear of me somewhere. Just as well. It’s of no use to me.” He stepped to the balcony and turned his back to her. “I wouldn’t ask much,” he said to the night. “Perhaps your thoughts on an evening rain, or the soft heat of a summer afternoon, hazy and smelling of bees.” He sighed without making a sound, his eyes fixed to eternity. “You may go, but think about it, and please knock if you become—curious—again.”

  She stifled a shudder. Taking his empty afternoon tray, Alissa stepped over the warded sill. Her thoughts and stomach were churning as she made her way down to the kitchen, vowing to not let Bailic’s invitation spoil her one night of being pampered. Ashes. What had she done now? Two months ago she had been a half-breed to be kept out from society’s eyes. But then, he had been alone for the better part of two decades. Perhaps the companionship of a half-breed girl who could cook was better than none. She tucked the note in a pocket, anxious to show it to Strell and ask his opinion. Bailic’s proposition, she would keep to herself.

  Much to her surprise she found the dining hall empty and the fire still banked. The kitchen, too, was conspicuously devoid of place settings. In fact, there was no Strell either. Shrugging, Alissa went to inspect the covered pot hanging just shy of the flames.

  “No you don’t!” The garden door slammed shut behind Strell with a bang.

  She spun about, the lid clattering harshly as she dropped it. “Where’ve you been?” she accused, feeling herself blush.

  “Nowhere.” Not taking off his coat, he sat down to ease his ankle, sighing as his backside hit the stool. One foot was booted, the other swathed in tight layers of leather.

  “So,” Alissa said, her eyes wide in anticipation, “where’s dinner?”

  “Dinner? What dinner?”

  “What’s that then?” she demanded archly, pointing to the pot.

  “That? Oh, that’s my socks.” Strell looked at the rafters in apparent idleness.

  “Mmm,” she said, confident that with his hurt ankle, dinner wouldn’t be the extravagant production he so enjoyed. She didn’t mind. Anything would be welcome, even if it was only soup. “I see,” Alissa said saucily. “You won’t mind if I peek then?” and she reached for the lid.

  “Go ahead.” Strell covered a yawn and brushed at his coat.

  Tiring of the game, she did just that. It didn’t look or smell like soup, but it wasn’t until she stuck a spoon into it that she figured it out. “Oh, yuck!” she cried, letting the sodden mass of yarn fall back into his wash water.

  “Told you.” Grinning, he levered himself up. “Here, put these on and close your eyes.” He extended her coat and boots, and Alissa arched her eyebrows in question.

  “Outside?” she asked.

  “Now,” he commanded playfully, “or you’ll go hungry.”

  With a small gasp of dismay, Alissa shrugged into her coat and boots, and with a last frown at his dancing smile, she closed her eyes as he demanded. Strell took her hands and guided her slowly to the garden door. “Keep ’em shut,” he warned as he dropped her hands. Alissa heard the door open and felt the cool night air on her face. “Gently now, there’s a step.” Alissa awkwardly followed Strell down the garden path. They went slowly, as it was difficult for him to limp backward, especially when he was holding on to her hands the way he was. Baffled by the numerous twists and turns, Alissa had no idea where they were going.

  “All right,” he finally whispered. “You can look now.” She felt her hands drop, and she eagerly opened her eyes.

  “Oh, Strell!” Alissa breathed, entranced. A small fire hissed in the center of a large, lowered pit. It was surrounded by a squat, circular stone bench built into the surrounding walls of earth. Strell had covered several of the stone seats with thick blankets to make the cold bearable. Over the fire was a metal-weave table upon which sat covered dishes. The most wonderful smells were coming from them. Soup? Alissa thought in pleasure. This was a banquet!

  “Milady?” Strell inclined his head in a gentle invitation.

  Happy to play the part, Alissa extended her hand, and Strell “helped” her to her seat.

  And so they took their dinner under the moon and open sky. Strell was overly attentive, causing her to be shy and modest. Their gentle voices rose and fell in pleasant conversation to be lost among the scent of iced bracken and wet stone. For a space there was only the two of them: no book, no Hold, no brooding man in the dark hatching plots. It was as if they were still traveling, oblivious to what might be ahead.

  How innocent she had been, Alissa mused, sipping at the first hot mug of after-dinner tea. Imagine. Thinking she could walk in, find Useless, take her book, and walk out. She snorted at her past optimism, drawing Strell’s attention.

  “Was there enough?” He glanced worriedly at the abandoned plates and bowls.

  “Goodness, yes. I couldn’t eat another thing.” Satisfied, Alissa pulled her blanket close against the damp chill. Thaw or not, the snow was still deep, and it was still cold. She shivered, eyeing the fire. “Remind me to take up some wood tonight,” she said.

  Strell took a slow breath. “Alissa, why don’t you find another room? The one down from mine has a window ward on it. There’s no reason you have to be cold.”

  Alissa eyed him. It had quickly become an old argument. “The shutters work fine. I’m not moving.” Alissa took a quick sip of tea. He had been badgering her for weeks, trying to persuade her to move to another room. Apparently Bailic never saw the chaos of her room and had assumed only Strell’s window was broken. Neither of them would correct his interpretation of what actually happened that night. Alissa had made the shutters herself using the tools and materials she found in the annexes. They were slipshod and ramshackle—she would be the first to admit her carpentry skills were right up there with her attempt at shoemaking—but they kept out most of the winter. Strell had offered to craft them, but his ankle was the size of a squash at the time, and Alissa wouldn’t let him stand on it for more than a moment at best.

  Seeming to finally give up, Strell slumped beside her with his own cup, and they sat together, enjoying the unseasonably warm night until he smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I forgot my pipe,” he groaned. “There was to be music tonight as well.” He sighed and began to rise to make the arduous journey upstairs to fetch his last remaining woodwind.

  “Wait.” Alissa put a hand upon his arm. “Mine is still in my coat pocket. It’s been there since we got here.” It had been jabbing her in the ribs all through dinner, and she would be glad to be rid of it. Wanting to make him sweat, she demurely looked up until he shifted and dropped his hand. Beckoning him closer, she whispered, “It’s going to cost you.”

  His eyes went wide in mock alarm. “I’ve no coin to spend.”

  “You may use your music as currenc
y,” she murmured, dropping her gaze back to the fire. He’d know the song she wanted to hear.

  Sure enough, he pulled back. “Not that one. It puts you to sleep.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, knowing it probably would. “But you owe me.” Setting her cup aside, Alissa reached awkwardly into her pocket for her pipe, hearing the crackle of Bailic’s note. She removed and handed him first her pipe and then, from her skirt pocket, Bailic’s message.

  “What’s this?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “I can’t read this.”

  “It’s from Bailic. It says ‘Eggs and toast tomorrow.’ ”

  Strell tilted the paper to the fire, grunted, folded it back up. “It was on the table outside his door, right?”

  “No.” Slightly irritated at his possessive tone, Alissa stared up into the night. “Perhaps it’s what he wants for breakfast,” she said. Then her eyes grew round. “I think he’s testing to see how much you know. My papa taught me to read, and he was a Keeper.”

  Strell froze in mid-reach for the teapot. Slowly he sat back. “I think you’re right.” Appearing to be deep in thought, he tapped his fingers in an awkward rhythm. Suddenly he snapped them and straightened. “I’d wager he saw the writing on your father’s map. Bailic asked me what one of the words was. That’s why he thinks I can read those frost-tracks.”

  Alissa smiled at his obvious pleasure for having solved the mystery. “Which word was it?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Treacherous Ravine.”

  Alissa bit her lip with a sudden consternation. “This could be a problem, Strell.”