Sartor

  She would have, if the group hadn’t stopped her.

  So why did her smile of happiness hurt? Because she thought she was our prisoner.

  He cleared his throat, fingered the scab on his scalp, and continued as naturally as he could, “They’re way down the south end of Shendoral, which you’d expect, I guess, coming from the Norsunder base.” He waved his hand behind him. “They look like two Norsunder riders, I mean, one our age and one man. The man is dressed like a Norsunder warrior, and the other one like those spies that sneak around at night—you know, all in black. I waited for daylight so I could get a better look at ’em.” His tone changed to uncertainty.

  “And?”

  “Well, the scout could be a girl or a boy, I can’t tell. Red hair, like you said, and slanted eyes, but that’s not so unusual among sunsiders. No gown, though. Black uniform. The man is somewhat like the one that brained me—not tall, lean—but he doesn’t have curly, short black hair. This one’s got long brown hair.” Hinder’s thin, taloned morvende fingers wiggled downward, indicating waves. “Blue eyes. The one I followed I was mostly behind and so I never got all that clear a look at his face, but I do remember he had blue eyes. Those were the last thing I saw before he hit me. And this one also has blue eyes. I saw ’em clear as anything when they made a campfire. So you might want to be sure.”

  He paused, rubbing his chin again.

  Atan said, “Take me to them! Or is there something else?”

  “Only that they were talking in another language. Not Norsunder’s tongue, which has no familiar words, and this language did. In the middle of it, I heard the little one say what sounded like ‘Uncle Darian’. Or would have been in Sartoran.”

  The name obviously meant nothing to Hinder, whose historical perspective stopped at Sartor’s border a century ago, but Atan drew in her breath. It couldn’t be Darian Irad—could it?

  Of course it could. Atan remembered having asked Tsauderei once what Darian Irad looked like, to which the mage had replied, I would not say this in any of the family’s hearing, but except for the Selenna slant to the eyes, Peitar Selenna could be Darian Irad’s son, so strong is the resemblance.

  And she had a clear memory of Peitar Selenna: medium height, slender in build, and long, waving brown hair.

  So if that was indeed Darian Irad in that uniform, had the deposed king of Sarendan known for his cold-bloodedness gone over to Norsunder?

  Why would he have Lilah with him? Tsauderei had never named the former king as an evil man, just driven. And Peitar Selenna had said last summer that his uncle hated Norsunder.

  Atan dug her thumbnail into the lichen growing across the rock on the south side. If the ‘scout’ was Lilah, there was at least a chance that Darian Irad had helped her escape. Only why would he come into Sartor?

  Stupid question. What better prospect for a deposed king than another kingdom that needed, above anything else, either a mage—or a military leader?

  She looked up at Hinder, who waited for her to answer, his happy smile fading to question. In the background, the singing voices rose and fell once more, then broke into laughter, and then chatter, the succession of sounds reminding her of the waterfall splashing down onto the rocks and into a sunlit pool.

  Tsauderei had said that she would spend the rest of her life compromising between burdensome choices.

  “What bothers me most,” she said slowly, “is that Merewen wasn’t sure that the scout was Lilah.”

  “She saw them last night. Then whish.” Hinder waved a hand through the air. “She ran to find us.”

  “Is anyone watching them now?” she asked, pressing her forearms across her middle, which was tight with worry.

  “Sin and Pouldi.”

  “Good.” She let out her breath. “Take me to them.”

  o0o

  Darian Irad woke up from the first long, unbroken sleep he’d had in half a year at least.

  Shendoral Woodland was unlike any forest in Sarendan, even the ancient and tricksy Diannah, though some types of growth and scents were familiar. The light filtering down through sky-scraping trees in moisture-laden shafts, the constant rustle of wind-stirred foliage, all took him back to childhood, when his father had still been alive to protect him from the worst of his grandfather’s inimical focus. In those days, camping with the cadets at Obrin, exploring the palace’s secret passageways with his sister Rana, and later, running the forested hills above the military school in Khanerenth had been the happiest times of his life.

  It seemed appropriate that his present surroundings should hearken back to childhood, for his mood was much the same. In those days, every dawn had brought the light of promise: anticipation of mastering the wherewithal for change, and the prospect of at last using what he’d learned. One day, if he lived, he would be king, and when he was, life would be different. Better.

  But it hadn’t become better. His plans for improvement had stretched on and on into the future, leaving him striving for years to ready for war with Norsunder, after the sighting of Norsundrian scouting missions all during ’33—a fact that the civilians didn’t believe when he’d raised taxes again in order to support the force he knew he’d need.

  Scouting missions, he’d discovered since his summary recruitment, had been sent by Kessler Sonscarna, who indeed had been planning an invasion.

  But events had prevented them both from meeting in battle.

  Meanwhile, during those endless nights in the barren stone of Norsunder’s fortress barracks, breathing in the atmosphere of fear, and force, and intent that had nothing whatsoever to do with moral authority, he had faced the bleak truth: he had failed as a king, and though one could trace the reasoning behind every single decision, the end result was the same. Failure. Only separation from the bindings of power—and of expectation—gifted one with the space to contemplate the slow distortion of perspective that had brought him to face his own people in revolt.

  He had failed as a king, but Sarendan would not founder, for Peitar Selenna would not compound generations of error.

  Peitar comprehended the exigencies of power, all right. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sat there quite alone and unarmed when Darian was waking up after that dose of Lilah’s magical flowers, at the very end.

  They both were aware that it would take Darian about two heartbeats to kill Peitar. They both knew that Peitar’s strength lay in the willing and loyal crowd beyond the door. And so they’d walked out together, Darian to exile, and Peitar to the throne that Darian couldn’t keep.

  Darian got to his feet and set about refreshing the campfire that had kept him and his scruffy young niece warm during the night. The horses were not far, their heads down over a small stream. He bent to drink water, clear, cold, and tasting faintly of wood. Refreshing. Only hunger remained, but that was no great matter. Very soon he would be sitting alone on the bank of a stream, catching a trout or two.

  Lilah woke a little while later, rubbed her eyes, and breathed in. It was true! They were out of Norsunder’s horrible land! She scooted closer to the fire, for the morning was chill. The bite of winter was in the air.

  Then she looked around, her mouth open, her freckled face round and expressive with wonder and joy. “Shendoral,” she breathed.

  “We’ll just make certain of that,” Darian said.

  “I’m sure it’s Shendoral,” she said. “It looked, and smelled, just like this. All we have to do is find Atan!”

  She sat back, eyeing him in an uncertain manner that had become familiar. She’d rescued him not for her own protection, he had discovered, but because she had thought it right. Even so, she clearly did not trust him.

  He had made no effort to change that. In his experience, trust resulted from experience, not persuasion.

  “If you recognize this place,” he said, “it will suffice. I believe I will take my leave of you now.”

  Lilah said tentatively, “Now? But aren’t you going to wait till we find Atan?” In her worried gaze he saw t
he direction of her thoughts: she was afraid for her friend, the last Landis, kept hidden by Tsauderei all these years.

  Darian hid the wash of bitterness. He would have kept her safe, had he known of her existence. But he hadn’t been offered the option.

  “No,” he said, and whistled to his mount.

  As he began to saddle the horse, Lilah hovered at his side, looking up, and down, and sideways. Then she scrubbed her grubby fingers over her dirty face and blinked up him.

  “If—if you have a long way to go, why don’t you take both horses? Atan didn’t have one, so I probably won’t need that one.”

  He nodded and made that one ready as well. She followed him, chewing on her chapped lips.

  Finally she said, “Are you sure you’ll be—well, all right?”

  He hesitated, wondering if it would be possible to make her see how very sweet was the prospect of real freedom. But he didn’t think she would comprehend. Probably no one could, no one who had not been born yoked to a position of power and its endless obligations, and then had lost not only that but the ability to make the simplest choices. Going from king to Norsundrian ‘recruit’ certainly caused one to reflect upon the significance of autonomy.

  “Yes,” he said.

  When he’d tested the last saddle girth and slid the bigger saber home into the saddle sheath, he turned around, and this time saw decision in her face. “So,” she said. “No more fox hunts, Uncle Darian?”

  Laughter was another long-forgotten luxury. “No more fox hunts, Lilah.”

  He mounted up, and set out at an easy pace toward the northeast.

  PART TWO

  ONE

  The long fall of notes from a warbler high in the tree above rippled through Atan’s dream.

  She woke slowly, the jumble of dream-images mixing with sounds from below and above. The sweet, or shrill, or sharp sounds of forest birds and birds of the meadows, of the lakes, and of the mountains, complemented the chatter of young voices.

  Birds.

  She wondered if some of these birds had found their way out of the disintegrating time-binding.

  Her first instinct was to ask Tsauderei, from lifetime habit. She could picture his old, sardonic face, and his rusty voice when he’d said once, You must realize, Atan, that the magic-training for a prospective ruler is at best a slapdash affair. Far better that the heir has a sibling or cousin or friend who is trusted, who can spend the required ten or twenty years living in the wilds, doing nothing but listening to the land—and another who can spend ten or twenty years working a craft, and listening and learning how people interact. Only when mages know the balance of nature can they master the great magic.

  I am ignorant, Atan thought, still not opening her eyes. I read and read and read, until I spend enough candles for a family of twenty, and my eyes burn, and yet I am still ignorant, for I still lack experience.

  Sunlight—warm, golden—flickered across her eyelids, dappled by leaves rustling in the morning breeze. Urgency, then memory brought back the evening before: Lilah, back among them!

  She still didn’t know what to make of that. They’d traveled most of the day through the forest, to find Lilah alone, walking alongside a stream. She’d looked up, and smiled, and greeted everyone as though she’d only been gone since breakfast. As if there had been no Norsunder, except there she was in those black clothes, her face blanched except for those terrible circles under her eyes.

  She’d answered questions with a shrug and grimace, no words. Then said, “Tell me about the hideout.”

  Atan had found herself talking, no, babbling, to fill the silence as they all walked back to the hideout. She’d walked the silent Lilah around the clearing, explained the two morvende tree platforms, pointed out the girls’ tree, then taking Lilah to the swing. Lilah had stared at that, her lips parted, her gaze so strange that Atan had instinctively waved off the others.

  She and Lilah stepped alone onto the swing. Lilah said in a creaky voice utterly unlike her own, “I heard of these. But never. Saw one.”

  Atan said, “Put your hands on this bar. Lean back while I lean forward. Brick and Pouldi and Sana all swing it all the way over the bar, but I haven’t dared yet...” She found herself babbling again, as they swung back and forth, back and forth, Lilah’s breathing more ragged. Then Atan made the mistake of singing one of the simpler swing songs, the one that reminded her of Larksong.

  Lilah’s face had gone a nasty shade of yellow-white, and gulping, bone-shaking sobs racked her so badly she couldn’t talk. She crouched down with her head on her knees, her arms tightly wrapped around her legs, heedless of the sway of the platform, and wept.

  Atan grimaced, hating the memory of her own helplessness, the sick sense of guilt that this was her fault, and she could not fix it. Some queen of ancient lineage, couldn’t even assuage the grief of her first friend!

  A pretty voice broke into her thoughts, shaping words with aristocratic precision and music. “... well I would think that the Sarendan princess would wake up today, unless she plans to sleep until Norsunder is defeated. Oh! I did not see that you had returned! Good morning, Princess Merewen.”

  It was the tone that Atan could not define, except that she did not like it—and she immediately scolded herself for thinking such a thing.

  Then came Merewen’s soft reply: “Good morning, Irza.”

  Merewen was back? Time to get up.

  Atan opened her eyes, and rolled onto her elbows to peer over the platform’s edge, relieved and surprised to see Merewen’s golden hair gleaming in the mellow sunlight directly below her. Merewen and Julian sat next to one another, each with a lapful of daisies and white starliss and tiny lavender bee-blossoms, Julian watching with her characteristic solemn gaze as Merewen’s clever fingers twined the flowers together.

  Merewen shook her hair back and glanced up, question in her face.

  Atan cast a quick look behind her at Lilah, who was, not surprisingly, still slumbering. Her eyes no longer looked so dark underneath, and her coloring had returned to normal during the night.

  Atan looked down at the ring on her finger, twisting it around. It had seemed, when Tsauderei gave it to her, oh... not frivolous, but neutral. An artifact of history, possibly useful. After having pieced together from Lilah’s halting words what it had accomplished in the Norsunder base, she regarded it differently: the ring now carried mute threat. A powerful symbol of the violence of once-living ancestors.

  Atan sent one last glance at Lilah’s peaceful face. She’d cried herself out, then pulled off the ring, and followed Atan to the platform, where she’d wrapped herself up in the quilt Atan pointed out, and lay down with her face turned away. So Atan had climbed down to leave her in peace, finding the customarily loquacious Hinder and Pouldi waiting below in compassionate silence, and Sin in narrow-eyed wariness.

  Atan hoped Lilah would wake up wanting to talk. She would not pester Lilah. She had made a vow. But she wanted—very badly—to know what Darian Irad was going to do in Sartor. Not that she could stop him. But not to know—it was like turning your back on a lightning storm.

  She worked a brush through her hair and braided it quickly. Then she descended, careful not to make a sound.

  Merewen and Julian both looked up, and smiled a welcome. Atan sniffed: fresh pan-biscuits, smeared with the tart berry jam that Rip and his Poisoners made so well.

  As she passed by the girls, Merewen looked her way. So, too, did Julian, her gaze unnervingly watchful in that small, round face.

  Tsauderei had told Atan that her education was far beyond what most princes and princesses got. But when they weren’t reading, they were learning how to deal with real people, and here she felt her own lack every single day.

  She listened to the happy chatter of the Poisoners. Rip, whose nickname came from the initials of “Rest in Peace” was a big, cheery half-morvende. His hands did not end in the morvende talons, but he had pale coloring and a shock of blue-white hair. It was his cheery h
abit of experimenting with food that had earned him his nickname.

  With him worked Hannla, the oldest one in the group, Atan had recently discovered, though Hannla was very small and slight and didn’t look sixteen. Hannla’s mother had run a pleasure house in Eidervaen.

  There had been no pleasure house or anything like it in tiny Delfina Valley, where Atan had stayed hidden. Hannla had explained cheerfully, “Oh, downstairs is where families come, for the food is always the very best, and there is always music, and entertainment. The grownups might go upstairs, but everybody young stayed down below, and at our house, we were always getting up plays.”

  “Plays?” Atan had asked. “I thought people went to the theater to see those.”

  “They did. But if they wanted to act themselves, or sometimes to make one up, they came to us.” Hannla impatiently pushed back an unruly strand of her thick, curly hair.

  Plays! Music! Dancing! Wonderful foods from all other the world! This was what Norsunder had either destroyed or froze beyond time. It made Atan wild with longing, and regret, and anger.

  But Hannla was cheerful and friendly. It was she who knew how to cook so well, how to find spices (and grow more), and to sew small, exquisite stitches—when they were able to get sewing materials.

  Atan walked across the grass to join them.

  “Good morning,” Hannla said, her ruddy brown curls bouncing on her back as she whirled around. “Here’s your share, fresh out of the pan.”

  “Thanks,” Atan said.

  “How is Lilah?” Hannla asked, glancing back at Atan’s tree.

  “Sleeping still.”

  Hannla pursed her lips. “Was it very bad?”

  “Bad enough, I gather,” Atan said.

  Hannla gave a quick nod and returned to kneading dough, as Rip waved his stirring spoon at two of his helpers, who were wrestling on the ground, and told them to get to work before he dumped soup on them.