Sasharia en Garde

  When I reached the right place, there was no warning. No trumpets, no sinister barriers or portents, no mysterious guardians. Nothing but the two of us emerging from the tunnel into a chamber with a pair of entrances opposite one another.

  But I remembered it.

  Here the painted ceiling was not flaking off. It glimmered pale blue in the brilliant light given off by hundreds of tiny glowglobes no bigger than a pea, the effect like the twinkling lights some people put in trees, back on Earth. The blue intensified in gradations up the dome of the ceiling, becoming a deep, cobalt glow directly overhead, the constellation depicted there glittering like a real sky.

  My throat squeezed up when I recalled standing there once before, a scared little kid transfixed with wonder. I’d thought the top of the mountain had opened, leaving me staring straight up at the night sky.

  But I knew it was day, and I stood deep inside a mountain—and that an enemy rode hard on my trail.

  I had a job to do.

  I dropped the reins. The mare watched me, the glowglobes pinpoints in her patient eyes. I dug through my bag and pulled out the little seashell wrapped in its homespun.

  I opened the cloth and held out the shell, which began to glisten. There was enough ambient magic—or maybe it was the right magic—for the spell I’d been taught so long ago.

  I stepped into the middle of the room, rubbed my damp palms down my grubby clothes, drew in a couple of chi breaths, and began the spell.

  Magic potential rushed inward through me, a feeling akin to channeling a lightning strike. I shut my eyes and concentrated on the shaping words . . . and finished.

  Light snapped on my palms and the shell vanished.

  A current of air rushed round the chamber, and the horse tossed her head and stamped as a tall man with wild gray hair appeared. His thin body was clad in a long tunic down to his knees and baggy riding trousers. He had bare feet.

  My astonished eyes flicked back to his face, that hawk-nosed, kindly face I’d remembered in dreams and in waking, and then it blurred as hot tears welled up.

  “Dad!”

  His arms opened, and I hurled myself into them.

  o0o

  When Randart realized he was going to have to deal with a magic mountain, he used one of two transfer tokens the king had insisted that Zhavic make. They were instant summons, pulling either Magister Zhavic or Magister Perran willy nilly from wherever they were.

  Randart had possessed these two tokens for years. He’d never thought he’d want a mage, but the time had come. The one he chose was Magister Perran, who had been guarding the old tower in case anyone tried a World Gate transfer. It was far too late for that.

  Magister Perran arrived abruptly. Before he recovered from the transfer dizziness, Randart pointed at him and three of his men seized the mage, who was older, stocky and not exactly in fighting shape. They searched him thoroughly, taking away his magic case, paper, a writing chalk, several transfer tokens, and the book he’d had in his hand.

  In silence they handed these things to Randart, who tossed the book off the trailside cliff without a second glance and put the rest of the items in the pouch at his belt. He glared down at the mage, ignoring his faint cry of dismay. “Atanial’s girl is farther up the trail here on Ivory Mountain. You will get us inside, without any trickery, or I will cut you down myself before you can gabble one of your spells.” He drew his sword from the saddle sheath and kept it gripped in his hand.

  Perran shook his head once, and began walking.

  Randart glanced back and motioned to two of his very best trackers. They came forward and saluted. “String your bows. Be ready to shoot the girl on first sight. Do not wait for an order. Do it. The one who drops her—and anyone she’s with—will get land and a title to match.”

  They saluted again, the fervency of their emotions expressed in the gesture. The white-lipped rage in their commander’s face made it unsafe speak.

  So this is how they wound their way up the mountain, Magister Perran walking, the trackers at either side, the others riding. The mage desperately looking for some way in. He had not been taught the access-way, and if you haven’t been taught, it’s going to be difficult to find. He knew that much, if nothing else about morvende geliaths.

  As they climbed higher, woman and horse tracks fresh before them, his anxiety changed to despair and he wondered if he should jump off the mountain. One glance at Randart’s angry face made it clear he was going to get no sympathy or understanding. If the tracks kept going, and all they found was a horse without a rider, Perran knew he would be murdered.

  When they reached the place of the carvings, the tracks seemed to lead directly into a wall. How to get in? Magister Perran began searching for any kind of illusion, magical lock, whatever he could find.

  Randart shifted impatiently, reminded yet again how much he loathed and distrusted magic and mages. The warriors watched the mage rustling desperately through the holly bushes that grew with profusion all along the cliff face. Perran’s hands were soon pricked with scarlet, and his robe tangled constantly on the sharp-edged leaves. But he kept at it until Randart snapped, “Either you find a way in or die right now.”

  Perran turned around, flinging his bleeding hands out. “Then kill me,” he cried. “Because you won’t believe anything I say—”

  A shimmer at the edge of everyone’s vision caused Randart to start violently. The mage stumbled back. The trackers raised their crossbows.

  The leaves rustled, and a small boy emerged, seemingly from the stone. He was no more than nine or ten, with brown hair and a considering hazel gaze. He wore ordinary riding clothes.

  Randart stared in amazement, as a whisper hissed back down the line: this was the boy who had won at the games.

  o0o

  My father staggered, laughing breathlessly into my filthy hair. “Careful! I’m afraid I’m going to be a bit on the weak side until I learn to live in my body again.”

  I gave him a gentle squeeze then let him go, knuckling my eyes. “What? Where were you?” I looked up into his face. He had aged along with the rest of us.

  He touched my cheek and gave me a crooked grin. “I had a choice. I could go right out of the world, someplace where time stops, and I would not age, nor would I know what was occurring at home. Or I could sleep in body, but in mind I could learn how to watch. I chose the latter, though my body aged, and though it took me a long time before I could master the art of wandering in the . . . the realm of the mind, I guess you would say.”

  “Then—you know Randart is after me?”

  “Yes.” Papa winced. “I have been watching him for several years, now. I eventually even learned to hear his thoughts, a little. However, this summer suddenly I could hear them all, as plain as if I were with him.” He shut his eyes and cocked his head. “Could hear his thoughts, and anyone else’s I wished to. But those voices are fading. His is already gone. Perhaps it is because I’m back inside my own skull, so to speak. How limiting it is! Soon all I’ll hear is my own yammer. I’m yammering, aren’t I, Sasha?” He gave a wheezy laugh. “Never mind. I do know where we had better go, because there are two others I’ve been listening to, and they are also here, as it happens.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think I’d better show you.” Dad drew in a deep breath. “But I don’t know how fast I can walk.” He peered down and wiggled his toes. “Especially barefoot. When I chose to sleep, I made myself as comfortable as possible and that meant kicking off my shoes. They’re back wherever Glathan hid my body while I slept.” He waved a hand vaguely.

  “Well, why don’t you ride? I’m tired of riding. I’d as soon shake out the kinks in my muscles.” I handed him the reins to the mare. “You point the way, and we’re outa here.”

  Dad gave me a pensive smile. “This way.”

  o0o

  Some of the men reacted with questions, but Randart raised his sword. “Are you some kind of damned mage spy? What are you doing here?
”

  “I was sent to this mountain this summer, to further my studies in history,” the boy replied. “You saw me at your games with some friends. Just now I discovered that other humans were approaching. You can see the outer accesses from certain vantages within,” he explained, pointing behind him.

  “Other humans, like a tall girl who has no business being on this world at all?” Randart was angrier than ever at the unsettling situation, the sense that he was swiftly losing control. When the boy did not answer, he snapped, “Get out of my way.”

  For a long moment, as the boy gazed steadily up at Randart, the only sounds were the plop-plop of moisture from the trees, the snort of a horse, and in the distance, the sweet, melodic song of a lark.

  The boy said, “I really think you should reconsider. Return to your royal city, as you promised. There is no cause for you to meddle here—”

  A low growl of inarticulate rage began in Randart’s chest and came out as a cry. He flung the sword like a spear straight at the boy.

  Who sidestepped, raising an arm from which the loose sleeve fell, revealing a metal-linked wrist guard. Swifter than sight his arm whirled in a circle, deflecting the blade, which rammed into the twisted holly trunk, vibrating.

  Randart gasped, “Who are you?”

  “My name is immaterial to your purposes, but for what it is worth, it is Sven Eric.”

  The mage gasped, his cheeks blanching.

  The boy looked his way, saying quite kindly, “Not a modern version of that name. I would hardly be named after a fool. It’s a modern version of my Aunt Svenrael’s name.” He turned his attention back to Randart. “Will you return to Vadnais?”

  The war commander, goaded by his own action as well as the result, by the implied secrecy of some name he’d never heard but which the mage obviously recognized, said distinctly, “I will not permit anyone to interfere with a lifetime of work. Anyone. And if you do not get out of my way I will kill you or this mage or whoever is in reach, and not stop until that access lies open.”

  The boy stepped aside. “Then ride within.”

  When they passed the shimmer and their eyes had adjusted enough to reveal purplish blotches along the tunnel walls, they discovered the boy was gone.

  Randart turned to the mage. “What name was he talking about?”

  The mage said flatly, “Sfenaraec. The one who Norsunder was . . . founded on, over four thousand years ago. A name not used since.”

  Silence.

  Randart said, “Be ready to shoot.”

  o0o

  Dad and I and the mare walked in silence until cool air currents wafted up the tunnel, bringing the smell of running water and the low, steady rumble of a waterfall. Above the sound we heard voices.

  Dad put out a hand. “The last thing I heard from Randart was his order to have us shot on sight. We cannot be seen.”

  I gazed at him in surprise. “Randart is already ahead of us?”

  “I think he’s near. There are some others as well.”

  We walked the last few steps and stared down at a vast lake under another domed ceiling, this one about the size of one of those super sports domes in the USA. Again, it was painted with gleaming, even glittering stars, in constellations so specific I had a feeling they were astronomically correct, and I blinked back in memory to childhood, standing on the stone edge of the lake, looking up and thinking I was outside.

  Then memory was gone—thought was gone—when I recognized two of the voices.

  One was my mother.

  The other was Canardan.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dad slid off the mare, wincing when he landed on his bare feet. He leaned against the animal’s neck, his face hidden behind the wild tangles of his hair, which, uncut for at least ten years, frizzed out spectacularly, ahem, almost as wild as mine.

  The eerily perfect acoustics carried the voices up to us as if they spoke from a few yards away.

  Canardan exclaimed with a surprised laugh, “Is that really you, Atanial?”

  Mom replied, “I could say the same to you.” She wasn’t laughing.

  I laid my hand on my father’s bony shoulder. “Come on, Dad, we gotta tell them we’re here. You’re here.”

  He turned his head. “I’ve been out of her life all these years, darling. What I owe her now is a clear choice, not an impossible one.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, but my voice collided with Canardan’s. “Who are these companions you’ve gathered about you?”

  My mother stated in her Parent Night Voice—pleasant, even bright and social, but quite determined. “Canardan, we have two missions. The first, I am searching through here in case there is any chance, any possible chance, I might find my husband. Yes, you may laugh, but at least we’re out of the rain. Our second mission was to confront you. Once we’d made a circuit of the kingdom gathering more women.”

  “Confront me?” His laughter sounded forced. “What is this? War in the bedroom? Except we are not quite there, are we?”

  She said in a loud, clear voice, “The mission is to prevent you, if we can, from creating a war in spring. Everyone here has children, or nieces and nephews, or brothers and sisters, friends and lovers who enlisted in the army in order to protect Khanerenth. Abrogating the treaty with Locan Jora by invading it is not protecting the kingdom.”

  During the silence that followed, Dad moved slowly the last distance, with me at his side. We found ourselves on a kind of cliff, really no more than a slab of granite forming an outcropping, directly opposite the waterfall. There was a jumble of rock below it, a scree slanting down to a lower natural balcony.

  Dad stood well back, in the shadow of the fissure that made our tunnel.

  Canardan and his force were ranged up alongside the lake, a huge broken-walled cavern behind them with the faint glow of day stippling the rock. Apparently the lake was not part of the geliath, or at least not any more. An ancient avalanche had opened it to the outside, so people could come and go freely. During that long silence, I noticed that most of the surrounding walls had been shored up, built, torn down, temporarily housing all kinds of people, from thieves to political opponents—“people” constituting what the morvende called sunsider humans, like us. The morvende had abandoned this lake cavern way back when, leaving only that marvelous ceiling.

  Mother’s army appeared to be in the hundreds, far outnumbering Canardan’s force, but they were unarmed. They spread all along the edge of the lake until they were quite near the waterfall, which thundered directly into the lake from a fissure high above. The women seemed to have reached the place within the last day or so, for I saw signs of a campsite, and many had wet hair, and clothing spread over flat rocks.

  As Mom spoke across that leg of the lake, they gathered behind her in silence.

  Canardan said, “Who is there? I cannot make out faces. The light from this end runs reflections upward, making it difficult to see you.”

  Mom said, “Never mind who, if you’re thinking of removing people from their places in life, for there are far more of us even than you see here. Some are on the way, others are gathering ahead, waiting for us to catch up. I can assure you, if something happens to any of us, your troubles will only begin. And that’s before you start your war.”

  Canardan laughed again.

  Then he said, “Atanial sunshine dancingstar from the far-off world, will you marry me?”

  I nearly choked, but Dad did not react at all.

  I whispered to him, “Speak!”

  “She has to have free choice, darling. If I pop up right now, the choice is not free.”

  I tried not to groan as I peered down. Canardan stood among his warriors, tall, strong, with long waving hair. From the distance across the lake he looked as handsome as I remembered him—unchanged.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked, his voice the warm, kingly voice I remembered from childhood, and had learned to distrust and even to hate, with all my single-minded childish passion. I?
??d thought Mom hated him, too, but obviously I’d not perceived a lot of things. “Marry me, Atanial. Marry me and show me your right and my wrong. There’s never been a queen like you, and maybe that’s what the kingdom needs.”

  “I am already married,” Mom said, her voice high and tight.

  “To a ghost? If you really believe Math is alive, then set aside the marriage. You’ve waited longer than most would have. He’d understand, especially if it was for the good of the kingdom. Come! Come, I ask you before all these people, make peace and take your place beside me as my queen.”

  Mom’s voice caught. “Canardan, that is probably the most generous offer I’ve ever heard from you. But it is impossible.”

  “No, it’s not. That’s the fun of being king. And queen. You can do things you want to do. You give the orders, make it happen!”

  Mom laughed, a kind of half laugh, half sob. “If you truly want my advice, why not make me your adviser? You could do a lot better with me than with Dannath Randart, I promise you that.”

  “He’s right,” Dad whispered. “And she knows it. She’d make a wonderful queen. She might even save the kingdom. If not Canardan.” He shut his mouth, frowning down in unhappy intensity.

  “As adviser, you’d argue with Randart every day.” Canardan laughed again. “As queen, you would give him orders, and he must obey.”

  “Again he’s right,” Dad murmured. Adding in a less neutral voice, “Until Dannath has her killed.”

  I fought against the instinct to yell out, Mom, he’s here! “Dad, you have to do something.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t you see? The important thing for all is the kingdom. Your mother would make a better queen than I would a king. The second most important thing is her happiness. He does love her in his fashion. And I abandoned her.”

  I kicked at the rubble in frustration, sending rocks skittering back toward the mare, who snorted and backed up a step or two, tossing her head.

  Then Dad’s hand gripped my shoulder, and he pointed below us. I heard vague sounds, mostly muffled by the water. Randart and his warriors had arrived through another tunnel which gave out onto the natural balcony right beneath us.