Sartor

  “I will,” Tsauderei said. Now was not the time to report the discovery he’d made.

  And Evend transferred out, leaving Tsauderei and Irtur studying one another. Tsauderei took in that high, thoughtful brow, the question in the quirk of the boy’s light brows, and said, “Do you know what Evend is asking?”

  They spoke in the quaint, archaic form of Sartoran that had been maintained without much alteration (mostly due to the age of the books that they all grew up studying) since the days when the northern and southern mage schools had allied.

  “I think so,” Irtur said. “He wants some kind of spell that will protect me if Norsunder comes again to Bereth Ferian.”

  “Do you know what it means?” Tsauderei asked.

  Irtur’s lips parted and his gaze lifted to the horizon. “It means—to Evend—that he need never worry about my safety. That I can spend my time learning magic, and not defense.”

  “It means that you, unlike the people about you, will never have to think about danger. If it came, you would instantly be transferred to safety. It is very powerful magic, very involved magic. It takes time, strength, and concentration, but I know how to do it, and I don’t think Norsunder could break it, at least not currently.” He sat back. “It also goes directly against the vows we made when we were confirmed masters at the mage school in Bereth Ferian. It is deemed inappropriate for us to protect ourselves when that kind of magic cannot be extended to those we are supposed to be serving. But you have taken no vows.”

  Irtur looked out the window at the falling snow. “We are almost finished with winter, where we live,” he murmured. “It is strange, transferring so far.”

  Tsauderei lifted a hand then dropped it.

  Irtur faced him. “I know Evend wants me to be safe.” His lips pressed into a line.

  To give the boy a chance to master the conflict of emotions he couldn’t quite hide, Tsauderei said easily, “Evend’s magic was always focused toward land interface. He is the best there is at the subtle intricacies of weather protection, quake easement, and the flow of water.”

  Irtur jerked his head in a nod. “He’s training me to learn the same magic, along with other kinds.”

  “It calls for tremendous patience, but you know that. Did he tell you that, at least in the old days, you would have been required to live as a hermit somewhere outside of reach of humans, for at least ten years, just watching the seasons change? Perhaps what you have not yet perceived is that Evend’s studies select for—and perhaps develop—a type of horizon-to-horizon awareness of the changing seasons, the interconnection of natural forces, that often precludes knowledge of human interaction.”

  Irtur’s eyes rounded. “You know what happened to my mother.”

  Tsauderei recognized in himself an echo of old anger, and older fear. “She was the only survivor of that particular attack, was she not?”

  “Because she had one of those wards on her,” he said. “It—it makes a difference. You can be alone, if you like, and study whatever you want, because you don’t have to worry. It was she who rescued Evend from Detlev’s enchantment. And kept him hidden.” Irtur turned that desperate gaze outside again. The snow continued to fall, white, neutral. Indifferent. “And you live with mages, away from your family and friends, so you won’t get drawn into politics at home. I’ve been reading all the records and reasons. I listen to the older people talk—”

  “And?” Tsauderei prompted.

  “And you cease to worry about people,” Irtur offered in a tentative voice. “In the same way that you would if you lived among them, and shared their dangers. That’s why the vow, isn’t it?”

  “This is why we agreed never to perform that ward upon ourselves,” Tsauderei stated. And, lest the boy think him accusing Evend even indirectly, he added, “Evend never thought to ward himself. Not even after Bereth Ferian’s defeat. He wants to protect you, and thereby protect the future.”

  “But if I’m not strong enough to protect myself, what good will I be?” Irtur asked. He ran his thumb absently along the carving on the chair arm, then said in a quick voice, “You know we were rescued by two boys and a girl. It was the girl who knew the magic. Younger than I am. No wards on them. They came all the way north from some tiny little kingdom no one has ever heard of—”

  “Mearsies Heili.” Tsauderei smiled. “I’ve done some research since Evend told me about them.”

  “Well, those two seem to be the kind of leaders Evend wants me to be. I want to meet them,” Irtur said. “I want to find out how they did it. And why. What makes them the way they are.”

  “That’s a good goal,” Tsauderei said.

  Irtur said, “Was there a ward on the Unnamed?”

  “No. She refused to have it,” Tsauderei said. “She could not have entered the kingdom with that ward on her, for there are Norsundrian wards against that type of magic all along the border. Dark magic is very good at defense,” he added. “You have to remember that. Its purpose is control, not protection.”

  Irtur frowned. “So she went under those Norsundrian wards with no protection at all, only her wits?”

  “I gave her a ring that had belonged to one of her ancestors. It has limited use,” Tsauderei said. “It also has a tracer ward on it, one that will go undetected by the Norsundrians.” And the ring is now at the Norsunder base.

  Irtur said, “I don’t want any wards on me. I never did, but I have not been able to convince Evend.” He drew in a breath. “If those people my age from tiny, insignificant Mearsies Heili can do what they’ve done without being warded, or hidden away for their own safety, so can I.” He gave Tsauderei a tense smile. “I don’t think I’m strong enough yet to hold the transport spell all the way to Bereth Ferian. Would you please send me home?”

  “So you will not be warded?”

  “No. I will tell Evend why.”

  “Very well,” Tsauderei said. “I expect we’ll see more of one another by and bye. You can tell Evend that I approve his choice of heir.” He smiled, and before the boy could frame an answer, transferred him.

  When the reaction had dissipated, he closed his eyes, whispered another spell, and—as he expected—found that the ring had not moved.

  Atan is at the Norsunder Base.

  He turned his gaze back to the window, and the soft and steady snowfall beyond. He had chosen not to add yet another burden to Evend’s load. This watch he would have to suffer alone.

  ELEVEN

  Lilah’s skin prickled with terror sweat. She wished she could claw off that sturdy woolen tunic, but of course she did not dare, for it was black, and as she ghosted down the silent hallway from her room to Zydes’s, she hoped that the black clothing would keep her from being easily seen.

  In one hand she gripped her lock pick, and in the other, her thief tools. Outside Zydes’s office door, she paused just long enough to send fearful glances in both directions.

  Lilah had left the office after her first long interview with Zydes knowing that she had to escape before he started experimenting with spells on her, or she might not be able to. She walked away knowing two things: that she had to get away right now, but before she could escape, she had to get rid of that scope thing, because otherwise he’d find her wherever she ran.

  The torchlit halls were empty, the ruddy light beating on the stone, making shadows leap and quiver.

  She listened at the door.

  Kessler had said that Zydes would be gone for most the night—a supply run all the way to the other side of the world—but she listened just in case.

  Nothing.

  She fingered her lock pick. Wiped her sweating palm. Gripped the lock pick again, eased it into the old lock, pressed the mechanisms into line, and pulled the latch.

  Click!

  Gratitude flooded through her for all those weeks of practice over the summer. She shouldered the door open, slipped inside, and then eased the door shut again. Her insides gripped painfully as she tiptoed over to the table where that ho
rrible scope thing rested. All day, while Zydes had blabbered on and on about military stuff, she’d considered how to break it.

  Lilah approached fearfully, bracing against some kind of terrible protective spell. Nothing happened. She bent close, staring down at the round black shiny disc supported between the thin metal rods. She did not dare touch it until she was ready to smash it. She was convinced she’d only get one try before some nasty magic came right back at her.

  She didn’t want to touch the thing. Better to use some piece of furniture from Zydes’s room.

  But when she peered close, the cold, sickening sense of failure pooled inside her when she saw that it wasn’t made of darkened glass after all. It was heavy, solid, metal. Metal wouldn’t smash.

  Now what? As she stared at it, no, into it, the blackness seemed to tug at her mind. She turned away quickly.

  That horrible feeling was instantly familiar. The ring!

  The ring did that same thing to your mind, except it made light.

  Was it possible that light and dark could mix each other up somehow?

  She’d learned last year, when she and the other Sharadan Brothers were striving against Uncle Dirty-Hands’s forces, that if she was already in danger, to keep on trying until she either succeeded—or someone stopped her.

  So she forced her trembling fingers to pull the ring free, then jammed it onto her thumb. She whispered the words Atan had taught her, and aimed the ring at the scope.

  Light blazed from the ring straight into the shiny metal disc—and did not reflect! Her scalp crawled as the light was entirely swallowed into the blackness.

  The ring grew warm on her finger, then hot, but she gritted her teeth and held it there, for the metal of the scope was also glowing, and it smelled hot—like a blacksmith’s shop when the forge was being used. She held the ring steady, ignoring the pain of heat as red light ringed round the edges of the scope.

  Hotter... hotter... tears ran down her face, and her arm shook with the effort it took to hold it still, as pain licked up her muscles and bones and jabbed right into her eyes—

  —and the metal disc exploded into weirdly glowing shards that winked out of existence, leaving white ash to drift down to the floor.

  She jumped back, not wanting even that to touch her, then flung the ring down onto the floor and cradled her arm against her middle for an agonizing time. When the throbbing had died down from red heat to a sharp pang, she blinked teary eyes at the two curving rods, now holding up nothing, and then finally forced herself to look down at her hand, expecting to see it sickeningly charred.

  But astonishment turned to shock when she saw her skin unbroken—not even pink. Yet pain still sang up her nerves in throbbing waves.

  She wiggled her fingers. They worked, though the pain intensified briefly. But as she wiggled her fingers the pain receded, leaving only the ache of memory.

  And a ruined scope.

  It was time to leave.

  She forced her shaky fingers to pick up the now-cold ring, stuck it back into her pocket, and ran to the door. There she paused, enduring the last inward struggle: Uncle Dirty-Hands.

  She even knew where he was. After Zydes had released her earlier that day, Kessler had sent her to execute some of the errands that Zydes stuck on him. Before she could, Kessler had to explain how the castle was laid out, and the rules for passing from one wing to another.

  And so, while delivering a bunch of messages, she discovered where the new “recruits” were housed, and who guarded them. She’d glimpsed her uncle in a line of men leaving a barracks for one of the practice yards. Had he seen her? If so, he certainly hadn’t shown any sign. No telling what he thought, either.

  She hated her uncle. In her mind, he was no better than Norsunder, but Peitar did not agree. It would be so easy to just leave her uncle here, where (she argued with herself) he belonged... but he didn’t belong. She knew it, or there would be no argument.

  And if I don’t do something, I can never go home again, she thought. Because there would be no facing Peitar.

  That decided her.

  She slipped out, closed the door, and ran down the hall toward the stairway to the lower level where the recruits were housed. Before she got to the last turning, she reached again into her pocket for the little bag of Lure flowers. It had been many days, but she knew that as long as the bag stayed tightly closed so the flowers did not dry out, they would stay potent.

  She untied the knot at the mouth of the bag. A faint whiff escaped, smelling overwhelmingly sweet and enticing. And with such powerful effect! The faint whiff seemed to brush her mind with soft cobwebs, obscuring thought, emotion, almost obscuring consciousness. She crushed the bag closed again, jamming it down inside her pocket.

  Holding her breath, she walked a few steps on. Breathed out. Sucked in a deep breath. Her head cleared as she rounded the corner.

  Two bored-looking guards looked up and gripped their weapons. When they recognized her, they relaxed a little.

  “What now?” one of them asked her.

  She sucked in a deep breath as she walked up to them, then she silently pulled open the bag and held it out. They both bent to see what she was offering.

  When the men gasped and swayed, she ran around the corner again, with the bag crushed closed. Dizziness twinkled darkly at the edges of her vision as the two guards thudded to the ground, followed by the clatter of their fallen weapons.

  She whooped in another lungful of air and ran back to where the guards both slumped, then pulled the edge of her coat over her nose and breathed as she hopped over the men and let herself through the iron-reinforced door. There she threw back her head and gasped in a deep breath, grateful for the flat, stale, stone-scented but flower-free air.

  She ran down the empty hall, past locked barracks rooms from which came the low murmur of voices, until she reached the door at the very end. She used her tool on the old-fashioned lock—for the men inside were locked in at night—and cried in her home language, “Hold your breath, Uncle Dirty-Hands!” then opened the door and tossed the entire bag of Lure inside.

  Thud! Thud! Exclamation—thud!

  She opened the door to find her uncle standing just on the other side. Reflexive terror almost made her slam it shut again, but in the instant she wavered he got out and pulled the door shut, then let out his breath in a long, shuddering sigh.

  “The last time I smelled that odor I woke up to discover that I’d lost a kingdom,” he murmured, his eyes closed.

  Lilah stared up at him, heart-sickened. How could she have forgotten that? It was she who’d used the Lure on her uncle and his commanders, just before Peitar and his people had arrived. That had brought the revolution to an abrupt close. The easiest way to shipwreck a government is to capture the leaders, Atan had told her, and she’d done just that.

  She stared doubtfully up at him, wondering if he wanted revenge. He was watching her, his familiar blue eyes both cold and amused, two expressions she’d always hated.

  “Well?” he asked, brows raised. “It’s your move.”

  She groped toward the door, still staring up at him. “I—I need to get the Lure back. In case. Then we can escape.”

  His expression changed. “Do it, then.”

  Nothing about the past, about Sarendan, or kingship. Or revenge.

  She was so frightened, it was easier to follow commands than to think of her next actions. She snorted air, opened the door, scooped up the withered flowers, and then ran out, stuffing them into their bag.

  She and her uncle ran down the hall. She pounded ten, twenty steps, her vision twinkling. She gasped for air. Again she caught a faint whiff of sweet flower scent, feeling the inside of her head going foggy, but fear and the stale, dry air of the next corridor banished the weird cottony sense.

  “Guards?” her uncle asked as they ran up the corridor toward the entrance.

  “Sleeping,” she said, patting her pocket. And she turned to go, but he stood there, looking down at
her, the torchlight from the corner highlighting the sharp bones in his face, emphasizing his bleak expression.

  His question took her completely by surprise. “Why are you here?”

  “I got pinched,” she said, numb with too many reactions coming too fast. “That nasty villain Zydes has this thingie that spies on the land—used to, anyway. I hope. Well, um, anyhow, he sent that Kessler to pinch Atan, and they thought she was me—”

  “Never mind,” he said. “You’ve told me enough.” He glanced along the halls, then said, “We will exchange histories later. Do you have any weapons?”

  “No. Just my thief tools. You know, when we were the Sharadan Brothers.” She jerked her thumb toward a passing door.

  “Effective.” He gave her an ironic smile. “But I think we’ll require steel as well.” He gestured for her to follow.

  And the rest of the escape was under his direction.

  Lilah complied, relief easing her fear just enough to keep her from the nausea and trembling that had plagued her so far. Once upon a time her uncle’s quickness to decision, his cold, dispassionate military attitude had contributed to her dislike of him, but she discovered that it was welcome now. At least he seems to know what he’s doing, she thought as she pounded along behind him. More than I do, anyway.

  When they reached the outer access to the command wing, he stopped, asked her to get the sleepweeds out, and she threw it when she was told. Listened to the thud of falling guards. Retrieved it when he said it was safe, as he relieved the guards of weapons.

  Then they ran again, Lilah wondering worriedly, Why are we back here? Is he lost? Her uncle seemed to be looking for something—or for someone. He ran fast, and Lilah pounded along behind, doing her best to catch up when he paused at corners to listen and then to look.

  After three or four of these pauses she heard someone walking, and dug her hand in her pocket, but Uncle Darian put out a hand to stay her, and hefted the sword and knife he’d taken from the first pair of snoring guards.