First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  Leaning confidently back against the bench, he swirled his tea, smiling contentedly. “Hmm? How so?”

  “Think about it,” she cajoled. “What if he asks you to read something else? Something not on the map?”

  Still absorbed in finding the bottom of his cup, he grunted. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He gave her a sick look. “I guess you’ll have to teach me?”

  “I guess so,” she said unenthusiastically, glad he had been the one to suggest it, not her. “It won’t be easy.”

  “Oh, sand and wind,” he scoffed. “How bad can it be? I already know how to read, just not that scratch. You learned it. I can learn it.” He drained the last bit of tea from his mug. Smacking his lips, he confidently threw a stick on the fire as if to say: “So there.”

  “Yes, but I started when I was four.” Exasperated with his self-assured air, Alissa reached across him and threw a stick on the fire as well.

  “Even so,” he said, adding a third, grinning all the while.

  “All right then,” she challenged him, “how do you write ‘good fishing’?”

  Still smiling, he smoothed a bit of packed snow. Using a twig, he sketched the proper figure, looking up for her approval.

  “Very nice,” she grudgingly admitted, “but that was on the map. Now, this”—quickly she wrote an identical form— “is good fishing as you have correctly shown. This”—she made a drastic modification to her character—“is night fishing, and this”—she drew a completely different symbol— “means anyone caught fishing here will be strung up by their own net and left for the crows.”

  “It doesn’t say that!” he exclaimed.

  “Well, no,” she confessed. “Actually, it says good night.”

  “But it doesn’t look anything like good fishing or night fishing,” he complained, staring at the three sketches.

  “Yes, I know.” Silently Alissa waited as the magnitude of what he proposed sank in. Every word had to be memorized. Each had its own symbol. The pattern they followed couldn’t be seen until one knew nearly all of them.

  Strell’s breath slipped loudly from him as he rubbed out the words and threw the twig on the flames. It slowly caught and began to burn. “You never did say how you got that note.”

  “Uh,” she said unintelligently, caught off guard. Strell wasn’t going to like her answer. “Bailic asked me in,” she mumbled into her cup.

  “And you went?” he cried. “What about that ward on his door?”

  Oh, she thought. She had forgotten she told him about that, and no, it hadn’t been a good idea, but instead of admitting it, she frowned and said shortly, “I survived.”

  Absolutely stunned, Strell could do nothing but sputter. “You survived?” he finally managed. “You survived! Alissa, do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

  Her face reddened, and she refused to look at him. “I’m fine, Strell. He’s not interested in me. I was in no danger. Bailic doesn’t frighten me anymore.”

  “That’s what worries me!” Strell scooted back from her. “He ought to scare you silly!” Frustrated, he shook his hands in the air, searching for words. “Wolves, Alissa. What’s happened to you? You aren’t the same anymore. You don’t care about anything!”

  “That’s because I’m not the same anymore!” she suddenly cried, her sorrow causing words to spill from her. “My tracings are gone! There’s nothing left! I’m worthless! I threw everything away.” Her breath caught as she finally said the words aloud. It was true. She was worthless, all because of her own stupidity.

  She turned away from him. The night was suddenly silent. Alissa bit her lip in her effort not to cry, but the warmth of tears burned her eyes. She had thrown it all away. Everything.

  Beside her, Strell shifted uncomfortably. “Alissa?” he said softly. “You aren’t worthless. Maybe it was for the best.”

  “The best!” she cried, struggling to keep the words from turning into a sob. She looked up at him, her sorrow blunted in the expression of hope in Strell’s eyes.

  “Now,” he said as he dropped his eyes from hers, “you can go to the coast with me. You don’t have to be a Keeper. You can be anything you want.”

  The night seemed to hesitate as they sat a bare moment away from each other, an unnamed emotion dancing precariously within reach. Wild and fierce and dangerous—and right. His eyes rose, and Alissa caught her breath. They were dark and fervent, carrying a whisper of something she had never seen before, yet it seemed as if it was there for a long time, hidden, afraid to be recognized.

  And then the fire shifted with a frightening pop of sap and they turned away, finding great interest in their empty cups.

  Their discussion was dropped by silent agreement. Alissa busied herself arranging the blankets. Strell was silent, pensive even, as he fussed redundantly with the fire, avoiding her eyes. Taking her pipe, he began making soft noises too obscure to be called a tune. Slowly the silence grew comfortable. Alissa settled back, not wanting to leave but unable to keep her thoughts from what might have happened if the fire hadn’t shifted. Her heart gave a thump. That look he had could have led to—to anything.

  More than a little relieved, Alissa tucked her feet up under her and watched the few stars make their courtly way among the heavens. Slowly the fog seeped out of the earth, rising slowly up the walls of the garden. Strell slipped into a lullaby—not her song, but close enough—and despite her efforts, she fell asleep. At least she thought she fell asleep, because the next time she looked, the stars had shifted and the fire was nearly out. Its dying embers glowed, barely lighting their dinner camp. Talon had found them and was glaring at Alissa from a nearby shrub.

  Alissa’s eyes opened wide as she realized her head was on Strell’s shoulder. She was quite comfortable, though, and didn’t stir, sleepily wondering how he had become her pillow. She could hear his heart beat and the gentle give and take of his breath. The scent of hot sand and bright sun filled her senses, warm and secure. Shamming sleep, she watched the mist rise higher, deepening the night. She let a sigh escape her before remembering she was supposed to be sleeping. Miffed at herself, she shifted and stirred, trying to give the impression she had just woken. Smiling softly, Alissa looked up into Strell’s contented eyes.

  He grinned. “Ready to call it a night?”

  She nodded, too embarrassed at having her deception realized to do more. Reluctantly they rose. Leaving everything but the blankets for the morning, they slowly wound their way through the silent, sleeping garden. The fog was thick, and their steps were muffled by its enfolding gray softness.

  It had been the most pleasant of evenings.

  37

  Strell pulled the charm close, squinting at the final knot as he cut the last of the silken strands free. “There,” he said, “that should do it.” With a pleased smile, he examined the small talisman resting on his knee. The brilliant gold showed strong against the dark green of his new clothes. Alissa had given him the handsome outfit just this morning, complete with a pair of soft-soled shoes. An early solstice gift, she had said as she shyly handed him the bulky package.

  It couldn’t have been a more thoughtful present, he mused as he fingered the collar of the shirt, so different from any style he’d seen on his wanderings. His reflection had shocked him the first time he saw it. Through some miracle of thread and cut, the short vest and long, wide-sleeved shirt made his awkward height look elegant, pleasing him to no end. There were years left in his old clothes, but they were looking out of place beside Alissa’s new and numerous outfits. What he wore hadn’t bothered him before—but it did now. Smiling faintly, he looked up.

  Strell was perched in the broad sill of the largest window on the fourth floor above the great hall, well back from the window’s ward. There was a wonderful view of the southern expanse of the mountain as well as most of the entryway. If there were a cat in the Hold, this was where it would be, able to see everything, yet not be readily seen. A muffled yap drew his attention to the snow
y field. A fox, as gray as one from his plains, was hunting mice. Poised, its ears twitched, then it jumped, turning to trot smugly away, its catch in its teeth. Strell frowned, wondering if it was an omen.

  He looked toward the kitchen, unseen past the dining hall arch. Alissa was there amid the fires and pots, cooking up something or other for tonight. She had banished him this morning, insisting he would only get in the way. Soon he would go down and indeed get in her way, as much in her way as he possibly could. It was, of course, the day before the winter solstice: the shortest day of the year, the beginning of winter—and the last day to fulfill his agreement with Bailic.

  Strell set the charm on the sill, his stomach twisting. The Wolves should take him. He was a coward, sitting in the sun like an old man making charms instead of fighting for her life. But plainsmen don’t fight, they bargain, and that had gotten him nowhere. His pleading today to exchange his life for Alissa’s had only gained him a lecture on moral ethics.

  Taking a ragged breath, Strell held it, denying his body’s demand for action—hating himself. His life for hers, he thought bitterly. Since her tracings were burnt, it was as if part of her was already tending the flowers in Mistress Death’s garden, but he would give anything to have what was left. He had been so relieved that she was alive, he never considered she would suffer any lasting effects. Now, rather than a wild summer storm, she was a gentle spring mist. She was calm instead of angry, mild instead of irritated, indifferent instead of excitable. But her placid temperament stemmed from her new fatalistic pessimism, and he hated it, even as he treasured what remained of her.

  This past week, though, had seen improvement in her strength. He had stood in the stairwell and silently cheered the first time she delivered Bailic’s tray without a rest. Alissa hadn’t known he was there, hiding a mere flight away. But there was still the odd time she would nod off in the afternoon, and it was almost a guarantee she’d fall asleep in front of her fire long before he wanted to leave her. On those occasions, he lovingly tended her fire and slipped out with a whispered good-night. These were the evenings he enjoyed the most. Once he had purposely lulled her to sleep, not wanting to admit he hadn’t studied the words she set him to learn.

  Strell nervously adjusted the last of the wraps about his foot. He hadn’t yet told her of his bargain with Bailic, and the thought of that kept him up at night. Every day he had put it off made it that much harder. He had slipped into his old pattern of avoidance almost without knowing. To tell her the first night would have been cruel. She was so tired the second day. The third day Talon dropped a dead mouse right in her breakfast. The day after, Alissa spent all afternoon cutting out a new dress only to discover it would be too small. Something, Strell thought, always seemed to interfere. And it was always easier to put it off.

  He had spent an entire month telling himself he would be able to free Useless, convinced he wouldn’t have to tell Alissa he bought her five weeks of life for the promise of a book he didn’t have. It was only now when Alissa’s time was measured in hours, not days, would he admit he couldn’t get past the closet door. Bailic was going to have to help him. Unknowingly, of course.

  The hidden door under the stairs wouldn’t open for Alissa—the Navigator knew he had cajoled her into trying enough times—but Bailic’s sudden appearance the night Alissa burned herself told Strell that Bailic could. So Strell sat in the sill whenever he was able: watching the door, hoping to catch Bailic using it, pinning his hopes on the whims of a madman.

  He hadn’t told Alissa of his plan, afraid of what she might do if it turned out to be nothing. Her state of mind was so tenuous of late, he refused to chance getting her hopes up only to smash them. He was betting Bailic would visit his prisoner today, if only to gloat over his upcoming victory in acquiring Alissa’s book. He would have to, Strell thought, his stomach churning.

  “I can’t tell her,” he whispered. Their celebration tomorrow of the new year would end when Bailic made his appearance, then his claim. Alissa’s look of betrayal would turn to an even more wrenching expression of forgiveness. That would be the last look she ever gave him, the one he would carry echoing in his thoughts for all time.

  “I must tell her,” he said, and he carefully slid from the sill so as not to jar his foot. With the help of Alissa’s staff he hopped expertly downstairs and into the dining hall. He paused at the archway to gather his courage. There was the clatter of Alissa at work, the splashing of water, and—something else. From the great hall came the distinct sound of stone grating against stone.

  “Hounds!” Strell breathed in relief as he ran back to the echoing hall. Ignoring the pain, he skidded around the foot of the stairs to see Bailic’s robe slip between a crack in the once-solid wall under the stairs. It was almost as if the distasteful man had been waiting for him to leave.

  Panicking, Strell lurched the last few steps and jammed his knife into the vanishing crack. It was a move born from countless games of search-and-find with his brothers, who would trap him in a kiln until supper if he wasn’t careful. His heart pounded as he waited, frozen. First one moment passed, then another. There was no outcry, no “Good afternoon, Piper.” Finally believing he had done it, Strell allowed himself a small sigh. Not a sound came from the crack, and so he slowly pried open the door to find the smell of wet stone and half-burned oil. As his eyes adjusted, he discerned a hole in the floor, a stack of torches, and what looked suspiciously like Alissa’s backpack. Strell’s breath hissed in over his teeth. It must have belonged to Alissa’s father, the pack she had told him about.

  Strell retreated. Keeping his body between the door and the frame, he ripped a small length of cloth from his foot wrappings. Rolling it neatly into a tube, he wedged it into a corner of the doorframe and pushed the door back into place, wincing at the slight noise it made. Now all he had to do was wait until Bailic returned. He would not try the evil-looking hole in the floor with the possibility of meeting Bailic coming up. If he was lucky, the pale man wouldn’t notice his modification to the door.

  Concealing himself in one of the annex tunnels, he crouched down. With a surprised grunt, he found himself humming the ballad of “Beggar Thumbkin” and stilled himself. Slowly the angle of the sunbeams shifted, and he yawned, nearly falling asleep despite the draft on his neck.

  A muffled crash from the kitchen followed by a feminine shriek of dismay jolted him awake. Strell lurched to his feet, then grinned as Talon winged frantically out of the dining hall.

  “And stay out!” he heard Alissa shout faintly. The unlucky falcon landed upon the railing of the fourth-floor walkway and began to preen wildly. Flour sifted to make a dusty sunbeam. Smirking, Strell painstakingly began to lower himself. Halfway to the floor, the noise of stone on stone gently filled the air, and he froze, weight on his bad foot. Oblivious to the new surge of discomfort in his ankle, he watched Bailic poke his head out from the closet and look directly at the annexes. “Wolves,” Strell swore, shrinking back. But the man spun as if in a hurry and pushed the door shut.

  “Please, please, please don’t notice,” Strell whispered, fingering his knife in his boot sheath. He had never killed a man. And what could he do against a Keeper who had emptied an entire fortress? It would be by guile, or not at all.

  Bailic paused and looked at the door.

  Strell held his breath.

  The suspicious man glanced at the tunnels, then backed up to consider the door, his hands on his hips. He reached up to run his fingers over the slight crack.

  “Killy, killy, killy,” Talon called from the fourth-floor landing, making both men jump. She ruffled herself, and a feather slowly drifted down. Strell watched it, barely breathing, as it made its circuitous journey to the floor.

  In a rustle of fabric, Bailic turned. For a moment, man and bird silently regarded each other. Then Talon took flight to vanish up the stairway. “Indeed,” Bailic muttered, “that annoying piper will soon find whatever he’s looking for in the old kitchens and will be ba
ck at his post.” With a final, disparaging glance at the tunnels, he spun about and followed Talon upstairs.

  Strell slumped in relief as he watched him rise out of his sight, then listened as Bailic’s steps whispered into nothing. He felt like the proverbial mouse as he peeked from his tunnel and crossed the open space. Blood thrumming in calm anticipation, he pried the door open and slipped through.

  There was a flurry of wings, and Talon landed upon his shoulder. “Curious?” he whispered. The bird had never accompanied him before, and it gave him courage.

  Strell reached for a torch, useless without a flame to kindle it. Grimacing, he looked out at the bright hall. He could light it in the kitchen, but Alissa would want to know what he was doing. His eyes flicked uneasily to the pack. Maybe there was a fire kit in it.

  With more than a few misgivings, Strell pulled the pack into the thin shaft of light falling through the open door. There was a faint, finger-cramping tingle of a ward that quickly faded. Through painful experience, Strell had found the tingle was a warning that would either fade to nothing or shock him with a bolt of fiery thought. Having recognized and dismissed him, the ward on the satchel had, in effect, given him permission to open it. Rummaging carefully, he found a set of striker rocks. This, he decided, he could borrow without affronting the dead.

  His fingers twitching from anticipation, he quickly lit the torch, jammed the kit back into the pack, and returned the sack to its spot. The thick layer of dust he disturbed gave clear indication that someone had been about, but if all went well, it wouldn’t matter. A final look at the great hall and he pulled the door shut. The torch flickered in the new darkness, sending eerie shadows to dance upon the walls of the close room. Excitement, fear, and hope swirled together, making Strell ill. He was going to find Useless. He was going to save his Alissa.

  The light firmly in one hand and Alissa’s staff in the other, he peered down the hole in the floor. The steps glistened wetly, and a small sound of disgust slipped from him. He hated the damp, and the stairs looked slippery. A capstone lay askew nearby, and he frowned, thinking how easy it would be to become trapped. What, he wondered, was he doing here, so far from his dry, arid home? And with that, he stepped into the black.