A zap of pain tightened her jaw, but two deep breaths and she had control again. Sasha had vanished, maybe against her will. The longer Sun messed around, the longer her search might be, for who knew what time was doing between here and there?
She looked in either direction. No one. So she stripped out of her middle-aged lady suit and pulled on the old clothes. Their softness and scent were nearly as powerful as magic in sending her emotionally back to her confused younger self, who stumbled through the World Gate into Los Angeles with a grieving child at her side, no money, nowhere to go except home—decades in Earth time after she’d left.
“Mom,” Sun whispered, leaning her forehead against the cold metal of a locker.
Her mother had taken them in, though she was old. And trenchantly conservative. You don’t change women of eighty, you upset them. Sun thought of her mother’s wrenching hands, her angry tears, during their last fight—over her giving Sasha fencing and martial arts lessons. She needs to be a lady, not a boy-girl, or she’ll turn out like you! At least Sasha had known her grandmother for a year, long enough for Sun to get on her feet and find work, before Gramma slipped away after a massive stroke, leaving them on their own yet again.
Time to go.
So. A quick look down. The shirt was roomy and long, the riding trousers voluminous. She tied an old, faded sash, belonging to Math, around her middle, then sat on the dusty floor and pulled off her sensible pumps. There was no leather where she was going. And no one had ever seen nylon stockings.
Her old cotton-wool socks fit over her feet, and then the soft greenweave mocs, cotton-lined inside, nubbly outside where the waxy leddas strips were woven. She stood and bounced lightly on her toes, loving the feel. The shoes were flexible, yet gripped the ground. A person could fight in those shoes. Or run. Or sit comfortably through a rainy night listening to ancient ballads—
She shook away the memory and bent down, her first instinct to bundle all her American clothes into the locker. That would not do. Who knew when she’d be back, and under what circumstances? Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. If so, in twenty-five years (for she was paid up that long) whoever emptied it out would find things tidy.
She pulled out the last item, a short knife her husband had given her. She hadn’t brought her sword. It would have gotten her arrested in seconds. But the knife she could tie on under her trouser leg.
When she was done she straightened up and opened her purse. Nothing in there was needed except one item, which she slid out and held tightly as she put the purse, with all her money and papers, into the locker. Shut it. Locked it.
And without allowing herself time to worry, she spoke the words she’d never thought to speak, stared down at the gleaming gold transfer talisman in her hand—
Magic ripped her apart and reassembled her on the other side of the World Gate, with all the sensitivity of a giant swatting a gnat.
She landed painfully on her knees and bowed her swimming head. Yoga breathing, in, hold, out, hold. In, hold, out, hold . . . When her stomach settled, she performed some cautious yoga stretches. Very slow stretches, for fifty-year-old hips and ankles aren’t as forgiving about sudden jars as twenty-year-old ones.
Gradually sound and sense returned. She picked up the transfer talisman that had fallen from her fingers and tucked it into the deep pocket in her trousers, then looked around the tower Destination chamber, apparently unchanged all these years, except by wind and weather blowing through the narrow arrow slits.
She stepped cautiously into the ancient dining room, and there were all those age-darkened tapestries hanging on the walls, as she remembered. Let’s see, the old shortcut—hardly a secret passage, as everyone had used it—lay behind the middle tapestry. On the opposite side of the room, the big carved doors led to the grand stairway, and the great hall below.
Where she heard voices.
She paused. Male voices, exasperatingly blurred by the lousy acoustics of stone. She scanned. The dust and spider webs in the corners indicated that no one had been around for years. Yet here and there the dust had been disturbed. One of the old tables lay on its side, and the other had been shoved into a corner, its top mostly dust free.
So who’d been here? Sasha? No female voices—
As the speakers became more distinct, she realized two things. One, they were coming up the grand stairway, and two, she recognized Canary’s voice.
Was it really Canardan Merindar? She shook her head. No, she would not mistake that charming baritone voice, the musical laughter. And they were coming straight here.
She tiptoed to the middle tapestry and slipped behind it, poised to run.
Moments later the voices abruptly resolved into audible clarity, meaning the speakers had entered the room through the main door.
“. . . they had that door locked. Signs they’d been in here. But by the time my men got the door opened, they were gone.”
“There’s supposed to be another entrance,” Canary said. “Probably behind one of these rotting rugs. Leave it for now. Where is the Destination chamber? Ah.”
The voices diminished slightly as the two passed into the tower, but Sun heard Canary say, “There’s still a strong sense of magic in here. I don’t know enough about transfer magic to gauge how long it would linger. There’s nothing else here. All right.”
The voices got louder. “Tell me again about the fight in the court. Samdan said it was two men who’d joined those Eban brats.”
Eban brats! So Steward Eban, or at least her children, are involved, Sun thought. She was Math’s most loyal—
Listen!
“. . . the pirate or the other?”
“The other, fool. Why do you hesitate?”
The second voice lowered into embarrassed formality. “Pardon me, sire. But the reports did conflict. I report only what I heard. I did not witness the fight myself. Samdan maintains he was at the front, but he was first down, a cut over his eye, then another in his knee. So his glimpse was merely that. But he insisted that, beside the Ebans and the pirate Zathdar, there was a young man in strange garb, a white shirt with odd letters. Tall, with a hawk nose, like the old king. Hair worn back in many braids.”
They had stopped. Sun turned her head, gauging their position by sound: standing by the old refectory table that had been shoved into the far corner.
“Well?”
“It was Lankinar who insisted this person was actually a female. He said that the clothes were quite strange. Trousers much like deck trousers on ships, yet different, the shirt made like body singlets, but worn with nothing over it. So it was revealing, ah . . .”
Amused despite herself, Sun wondered how Mr. Official Voice was going to get around the sorts of personal details that no one ever seems to like discussing in official reports to your superior, whatever world you are on. Especially when the personal bits belonged to the likes of kings, queens, and so forth.
The man cleared his throat and tried again in a tone utterly devoid of human emotion. “Lankinar insists there was no male body in those clothes, and most of the others now agree. They saw a man possibly because they expected to see a man, possibly because she was tall, possibly because she fought as well as the pirate.”
“Hawk nose, you say?” Canary let out a long breath. “Damnation. They’re back. Or at least one of them.”
“Who, sire?”
“Never mind. Now, my last question. Where is my son? All of you have been avoiding that question,” he added grimly, with a hint of the old laughter Sun remembered. “Which is why I had to drop my own work to oversee his. Is Jehan drunk in a tavern somewhere? Or holed up with some pretty minstrel girl who caught his eye?”
“Uh, no, sire. Prince Jehan did detail the extra ridings to us, you’ll remember.”
“Don’t excuse him. Tell me where he is.”
“He rode down to Sarendan. A sculptor. Famed, he said. Wanted to pose for him. Present you with a marble bust as a surprise.”
Canary gave a bitte
r laugh, and Sun remembered him long ago saying, My boy is too much like his mother. His heels rang on the floor as he moved through the door. “Finish the search, and send someone to remind Jehan that art, though no doubt admirable, must wait on events . . .” Their voices faded.
Sun leaned against the moldy wall. Tall, many braids. Hawk nose. Sasha was here. She was alive. She was also free, and had escaped Canary’s clutches, in spite of a fight.
All right, then. Food first. Sleep. Where to begin the search? The brief reference to a pirate made no sense, but “the Eban brats” did. Obviously Sasha was on her way to Steward Eban. And so thither go I.
Chapter Seven
One of the many euphemisms for chamber pot is ‘necessary.’ I can introduce the necessary topic once and then never again. It was a relief, oh, what a relief, to be able to use the Waste Spell.
When I was ten and new to Earth, I had to learn about toilets. Let me sum it all up in one word: yuk. The Waste Spell did work—sometimes—as magical influence ebbed and flowed through the Gate. But since using the spell involves saying the word at the same time you let go, well, you can imagine how trustworthy that spell turned out to be on Earth.
We paused and drank from a stream, after which I used the spell, celebrating inwardly at the notion of no more restroom hunts.
We rode on.
Conversation was tense and desultory, mostly between Elva and her brother as they brangled about where to go. I was so tired I only wanted to sleep, so I was content to follow, listen, and breathe in the fresh air. Zathdar seemed busy keeping watch.
When it was too dark to travel, we camped in a small clearing under a clump of low-hanging willow. When Elva and Devli began yet another argument about whether or not they could risk a fire, Zathdar said, “You have a Fire Stick, right?” And on their twin nods, “No one will search for the same reason we’re camping. They can’t see to travel at night any better than we can. As soon as we get these animals rubbed down, I’ll pace the perimeter, make sure the fire isn’t visible.”
Elva pulled the packs off the horses before Devli and Zathdar led the animals a few yards away to where a stream trickled. Elva took a Fire Stick from her pack. She snapped it into flame and made a gesture that would keep the flame low.
Presently Devli returned and sank down with a sigh. “Horses are fine.”
Zathdar returned shortly after. “As I thought, these woods are dense. Fire’s invisible on all side but from up the trail. Whichever of us is on guard could probably hear any pursuit before they could see the glow.”
Devli mouthed the word “Guard?” and Elva scowled again.
Zathdar hitched the rapier over his shoulder on a baldric, checked the other blade, then chose a grassy spot from which he could see the trail and us. While the siblings exchanged low-voiced talk about bedrolls, feedbags and stored food, I took out my splendid embroidered blanket to spread on the soft green grass.
In the sudden silence, foliage rustling in the summer breeze and the snap of the low fire were distinct. The ruddy glow revealed three faces staring at the glinting firebirds embroidered in gold thread on the scarlet background, surrounded by silver-edged white blossoms.
“If anyone wants proof of who you are,” Zathdar commented, “that banner is it.”
“Right now,” I said, fighting a yawn, “it’s a bedroll. In the morning it goes back into my bag. And no, I won’t ditch it. My father gave it to me.”
Devlaen stared at me, Elva stared at the firebird blanket, and Zathdar glanced in the direction of my bag, then away into the darkness.
Nobody spoke.
I fell asleep so fast I don’t even remember stretching out.
Crackling twigs woke me, and the smell of fresh tea. The sky through the trees was low and gray, the air cool and misty. I sat up, shivering, and accepted gladly a somewhat-battered travel cup from Devli, whose face looked as grimy as mine felt.
The tea tasted like a fine Gyokoro green tea at home, refreshing and above all, warm. I’d forgotten that summers on this world were usually cooler than Earth’s. Khanerenth lay at the eastern end of the enormous continent that stretched a good way around the southern hemisphere. Most people lived on this continent, I’d learned, in part because there was more sun, but in part because some of the northern lands were weird and wild, not conducive to humans building cities.
Elva snapped the fire out, and picked up the Fire Stick to stow away in her pack.
“Where is Zathdar?” I asked.
“He was gone before we woke.” Elva grinned. “Hope that means he’s gone for good.”
“No.” Devli cocked his head.
We all heard the thud and crunch of horse hooves on the trail.
Elva flushed, though we could all see that he was as yet too far away to have heard.
Zathdar appeared, leading his horse by the reins. “Time to move briskly. The king investigated the tower himself last night. And he knows you are here.” A glance my way.
Elva put her hands on her hips. “You found this out how?”
“I dispatched watchers before I met up with you. I also set up a possible rendezvous, which I kept while you were all asleep.”
“Watchers.” Devli said only the one word, but the look he gave his sister made it clear that once again they’d forgotten an important detail in their own plans.
Elva scowled as we mounted up. The horses, refreshed after a night of rest, trotted with head-rocking enthusiasm down the narrow trail.
We were low enough now to see the broad stream that all the mountain trickles were feeding into. The constant rush of white water paralleled us as the trail twisted between steep slopes, green with tough grass, gnarly pine and moss-covered rocks. The mist increased to drifting streamers of fog; the forest canopy was so thick we heard the constant splat, splat, splat of water on leaves.
I stayed out of their sporadic talk, which was mostly about the trail and where the searchers might be.
I was awake and alert enough to consider my options. The day before all I could do was follow along and try to keep my eyes open. Now, though I was hungry, thirsty, and still tired, at least I could think.
So . . . what should I do? No use in going back to the castle. Even if I knew any World Gate transfer magic, which I didn’t, if the king’s men were there, I’d walk straight into their clutches without them having to break a sweat. And while we’d managed to fight our way free of yesterday’s guys, I wasn’t going to count on that twice. Especially alone.
That left me with my companions. Should I ditch them? Good thing: they had rescued me from capture in the courtyard. Bad thing: at least two of them had been part of forcing me through the World Gate in the first place. Therefore I did not owe them anything.
We paused once on a cliff, and I drew up beside Zathdar. He slanted a questioning look at me. I said, “I assume the World Gate tower is guarded.”
“You can’t go back. They’re watching for you to do that.”
I laid the reins along my horse’s neck. The animal obligingly swung round and stopped, blocking the trail so the brother and sister drew to a halt. “Before we go on, I wish you would tell me why you forced me through that Gate.”
Devlaen sent a pleading look at his sister, but she studied her saddlebag as though it held the One Ring.
“I told you.” Devlaen fiercely rubbed grit from his eyes. “It was a promise made to your father. If he vanished we were to wait ten years, then perform a specific spell. It brought us a letter he’d written, telling us where you and your mother were. But the letter disappeared, and we were afraid the king also got that information. We thought it best to get you two safely back here, where we could guard you.” His face reddened. “I know what that sounds like. But we were going to bring you only for your own good!”
I decided against a pithy opinion about what they could do with their notions of ‘my own good.’ “Go on.”
“My mage tutor was certain they were ordered to offer you anything you wanted
if you would go back with them. They were not well prepared. I don’t think anyone was surprised when they came back empty handed, but rumor has it the king demanded that they cross over to that world before we could. So when they returned without you or your mother, they had the World Gate transfer magic to build all over again.”
My father had told me that transfer magic took weeks and weeks to make. It was actually a complicated layer of spells put on those transfer tokens. “The king’s mages being two older guys? One gray haired?” I asked.
Devli grimaced. “Magisters Perran and Zhavic.”
“My mother mentioned them once or twice. It seems weird that they knew my mother, yet came after me first. And tried to trick me! Truth, honor, sinister castles, secrets—”
Devli shrugged. “All that is in the records. When your mother first came, she said she liked such things. So the mages tried to lure you with them, the fools.”
“Yes, but at least they tried truth and justice. They didn’t pretend to be a lawyer!”
“Heh.” Devli’s shoulders now shrugged up around his ears, which were as red as his face. He said with the air of a guy picking his way over a minefield, “When your mother wouldn’t come with me, I had to find you. It took some time, because you’d changed location. And, see, we’ve notes from your father. About what he really saw on that world. So I had to find you, lay a false trail for Perran and Zhavic, and put together a plan. And. Um.”
“Lied and tricked me. Yes. As I just said. What I’m trying to get at is why.”
“I told you, they’re after you—”
Zathdar had been watching the sky, the fog-blurred treetops, and the shadowy trail that vanished under the forest canopy. I couldn’t see or hear anything amiss, but apparently he heard enough to cut in, “I think the rest of the explanation should wait on more trustworthy surroundings.”
Without waiting for an answer, he urged his horse down the trail, and we followed, Elva with many backward glances. Beyond the next bend we found the white water of the river where our mountain stream poured in. The bend after that revealed that the river had smoothed and widened. We rode along its bank. I clutched my gear bag to my side, wishing I had more answers. One thing seemed certain, on land I had more freedom of movement. On a ship, I’d be stuck.