Sartor

  Rel sighed as they descended the last bit and he was able to stand upright. He rubbed his neck. “In the ravine, or in the kingdom?”

  “Well, both,” Atan said, noticing that he spoke with a trace of accent. And she remembered his shout in that unknown language that had decoyed the Norsundrians. What had that been about?

  “I was in Eidervaen for some time. I don’t know yet how long. Caught in some kind of spell, until a fellow came along and gave me a thump to wake me up. Said to go south and find you, because you’d need help. I recognized your family name, of course. As for why I came to Sartor, I’m here because I wanted to see it—” He shrugged. “And I seem to have a nose for trouble. As for the ravine, I ran from some searchers. This ravine took me out of their line of sight. I was going to wait for dark before pushing farther south.”

  “It’s good that you’re here to help,” the little one piped, and when he looked at her, she gave him a sunny smile and said, “I’m Merewen. Now, how much do you know of our history?”

  She began talking about the old war, and about Savar and the orphans in Shendoral, as they crossed a great cavern. In the distance Rel heard singing, a waterfall of sound that tied together with echoes some of the ballad forms he’d encountered in his ramblings all over the southern hemisphere.

  An inadvertent intake of breath silenced Merewen.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You like the singing? So do I,” Merewen said. “Very much. We’re to hear more chamber singers later—oh! Here are some of our group.”

  Rel soon found himself surrounded by young people of various ages, some morvende, and all of them curious. When Atan announced that she and Merewen had just rescued him and that he was there to help, some cheered, some exclaimed, and a few eyed him speculatively.

  One black-haired young fellow sidled up, and when no one’s attention was on them he murmured, “Can you use a sword?”

  “Yes,” Rel said.

  The boy seemed relieved. “We’re going to have a practice after the next meal. Atan wants to try for the city soon, and I don’t know what kind of defense we can count on there.”

  “Not much,” Rel admitted. “I was in Eidervaen not long ago. Most of the people are still dazed, many still frozen, and Norsunder is patrolling it. Tight grip.”

  The boy nodded and vanished in the swarm, probably to pass the word.

  They converged on a great nest of pillows, and savory-smelling soup and cakes awaited them.

  Rel hadn’t had much to eat for the past couple of days, which (he decided) explained the mental fog. He found it hard to concentrate on any one person unless he was addressed directly. Mostly he ate, grateful for warmth and good food, and he enjoyed the chatter of high voices around him. It reminded him of friends far away in Mearsies Heili on the continent of Toar—

  When he looked up next, it was to find himself being stared at speculatively by a self-possessed girl around Atan’s age, her face framed in curly bright hair.

  “Are you some kind of prince on a quest?” Her tone made the question a joke, but her eyes were too appraising for that.

  “No,” he said, setting his plate down. “I’m just a wanderer. Father was a shepherd, I understand, though we’ve never met.”

  “Ah.” She nodded and turned away in scarcely disguised disinterest.

  Rel chuckled inside and reached for another helping of nut-cakes.

  NINE

  Atan loved the caves. She loved the people. But every day that passed increased the danger that Norsunder would find out that the enchantment was disintegrating, and come back to restore it.

  Yet she still did not know how she was to destroy it, and she’d been so sure that meeting other Sartorans, especially morvende, would furnish the last clues.

  After a night of restless dreams, she woke up in the small, round chamber that she’d been given. The stone was smooth, as if carved out by water millennia ago, and the morvende had made it cozy with glow globes, soft rugs woven in the colors of spring flowers, and pretty knotted hangings that reminded her of rose blossoms and violets and sweet-peas. She sat up, stretching her hand to touch one of the hangings, when she heard a clack, then the ring of steel.

  Sick with dread, she scrambled into her clothes and hastened out fearfully... to discover Mendaen, Rel the newcomer, and a bunch of the others gathered on a smooth platform of stone below her cave, practicing with their swords. Lilah had joined them, working away earnestly with a smoothed stick in the shape of a sword, alongside several others her size.

  It didn’t take long to see that Rel was not only the tallest, he was the best. Easily. He was quick and sure, warding the others’ blows, then he’d stop and explain—demonstrate—and sometimes, with his encouragement, he and his partner would move very slowly through an exchange.

  Atan had never held a weapon, but she could understand the principles he was trying to demonstrate. For the first time she found herself interested in self-defense, and made her way down to the platform. There she watched from the sidelines until she was joined by Mendaen.

  “He’s good,” Mendaen said to Atan in his low, husky voice. “He’s really, really good.”

  “I see that.”

  They observed Rel’s easy strength, Mendaen with the yearning of one who has sought mastery, knows what it is but not know to achieve it, and Atan with a mix of emotions she couldn’t define, except that they were intense. If he joins us, maybe we have a hope of succeeding, she thought.

  “M’dad used to say that the big fellows were never fast, just strong, but Rel’s both strong and fast.” Mendaen grinned. “Though he doesn’t brag, as you can see. Opposite. He told us he’s tangled with that Kessler once, in the past, and Kessler whupped him bad.”

  Atan was surprised by the sharpness of her disappointment. She recognized the cause: she wanted to believe he was the best. Then she steadied herself with inward laughter. Even if one fellow is the best in the world, he’s still one person. You don’t defeat Norsunder with one person, however good he is with a sword.

  And if Rel himself admitted that that horrible Kessler was better... “Does that mean he thinks we ought to abandon our plans?”

  “Oh no, not at all.” Mendaen shook his head vehemently. “He says we can’t take on any of Kessler’s people by force, because they’re too well-drilled, but we might be able to get by on stealth.”

  Atan snapped her fingers. “Irza! She got Arlas out through the drains going through the old ruins.”

  Mendaen grimaced.

  Atan said quickly, “I’ll ask her if you’d rather.” There was already enough bad feeling between the titled kids and the rest.

  “First snow!” The shout came from outside the alcove.

  Those practicing with sticks or real swords paused, looking across the vast cavern, to where a young morvende called.

  “Come, everyone! Celebrate!”

  Atan watched Rel carefully clean his sword and slide it into its sheath, aware of disappointment again. This time it was personal. She wanted to watch some more.

  But that, she decided, was selfish, and she certainly wasn’t going to say it out loud. She fell in behind those streaming down to the lower level, where they discovered the entire cavern on the move, excited voices echoing.

  The morvende were coming together for a great sing, in honor of the visitors and of First Snow. The first snow in over a hundred years.

  The glowglobes had been clapped into darkness, and the vast cavern was lit by hundreds and hundreds of candles, each carried by a white-haired morvende. The opalescent glow was replicated in glints and gleams from the stone around and above them; the susurrus of quiet morvende voices sounded like a rushing river.

  “There you are!” Lilah appeared and drew Atan to sit down next to her. “We snagged a good spot for listening. Hinder says the echoes will be best here. There he is, with his family.”

  Mendaen and Sana sank down on either side, Sana’s face lifted, expressive of exaltation. r />
  “How is the planning going?” Lilah asked. “I’ve barely seen you—those grownups keep talking to you.”

  “I know. It’s like they are testing me about my magic knowledge and my awareness of history. But plans? I don’t think they know what to do any more than I do.”

  “Hmm. Well, we’ve been practicing with Rel.”

  “I saw that. He looks like he’s a good teacher.”

  “Oh, he is! No swagger or boasting. Do you know he had an adventure with Kessler last year, and he was rescued by girls my age?” Lilah’s slanted eyes were wide with delight. “Girls who know magic! He says they get into lots of adventures. Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful to meet them?”

  The morvende began to sing.

  It was a simple song with no counter-harmonies, but the melody was so very old, reaching so far back into early memory that it caused many throats to constrict and eyes to burn. It was the song of Thanksgiving, brought apparently from another world entirely, and its melody had formed the basis for much of the world’s musical patterns.

  After it had been sung, the candles were set into flower-shaped holders, and food was passed from hand to hand, everyone taking a share. Lilah and Atan delighted in the soup with blossoms floating on top that were actually edible herbs, five different kinds of nut-cakes, and vegetable dishes made with savory sauces. The morvende, like their cousins the maulons—sometimes called dawn-singers—did not eat fish and fowl.

  When at last they shared cups of spiced cider, the music began.

  This time, everyone was enthralled, even those who had little taste for song. So many voices wove complicated harmonies, telling vivid stories through poetry.

  Of course, there were songs that honored the Landis family, but also songs that celebrated others who counted their ancestry as part of their identity, and songs that praised all the branches of human endeavor, from cooking to weaving.

  Weaving was a frequent element, Atan noticed. This was not surprising, as the deceptively plain tunics that the morvende all wore were woven of natural fibers in fascinating patterns. Colors were so muted they were more of a sheen, and because nothing was ever exposed to the elements, their garments were made for softness and for draping well. Youth dressed like Hin and Sin, in short tunics. Adults mostly wore them from knee to floor length.

  The last song had ended, the echoes sounding like silver bells as they faded, when the people took their candles and began to vanish in many directions. The air was sweet with the scent of berry-wax and of cider. Already many of the younger children had fallen peacefully asleep, Julian among them, undisturbed by the quiet bare feet of passing morvende.

  Tired as she was, Atan’s mind was too busy rehearing melodic strains. Since the area that had been set aside for them was filling with those who wanted to sleep, she rose and wandered away, with no particular direction in mind, but when she recognized the tall figure separating from some of the male morvende, she turned her steps that way.

  Rel saw her and paused.

  “I wished to thank you for sharing your skills with the others,” she said. “Mendaen tells me you’re better than any of our group.”

  Rel opened his hands. “Anyone can improve. I promised them I’ll do the best I can.”

  “It’s good of you to make our cause your cause.”

  “Why not? I’m came south to find a way to help. Seems right now I’ve found one.” He fingered the sword at his side, then gave a slight grimace. “Truth is, it makes me feel less bad about stealing this from one of your benighted city people.”

  “You can always take it back, if we are successful,” she said. “And if we’re not, it will not matter.”

  “True. I know the house and the street. I marked them especially.”

  She found that she’d led the way back up to the cozy stone alcove the morvende had given her. She sank down onto the pillows with a little sigh. It felt good to sit down.

  Rel hesitated, then ducked under the archway giving onto the alcove. He sat against the opposite wall. Atan observed with sleepy detachment that he seemed to fill the little space, yet she did not feel crowded. His hands automatically shifted the sword so he could sit, as if he was accustomed to wearing one.

  “I’m going to have that music running through my dreams,” he remarked. “I hope it will be for a long time to come.”

  Atan nodded. “You have not heard them previously, then?”

  “Not the ones down here so far south. North, yes.”

  “Where have your wanderings taken you? Mendaen and Lilah said that you encountered Kessler in another place.”

  Rel’s eyes narrowed. “I was a prisoner. Refused to join his and Dejain’s little project to murder every monarch they could find and govern on their warped notions of merit. Then we met again, not long ago.” He shook his head. “One of the reasons I came this way was to seek some more training, because I didn’t do very well either time. So I went to Khanerenth’s military school for a season. Then I decided to come here. Get as far as I could.”

  “We’ve been alone a long time, you see. You’re the first new person our age. Surface person, I ought to say. The rest of the kingdom is beginning to break free of the enchantment, but I don’t think they’re entirely free yet.”

  Rel clapped his hands on his knees. “I saw.”

  His expression hadn’t changed, at least not overtly. But she saw the subtle signs of reaction—of reluctance. “They are emerging from the magic and remembering the war,” she observed.

  Rel did not deny it. “It’s bad, some places,” he admitted. “The grief is new, for a lot of those people in your city.” He raised his dark eyes to meet her gaze. “Even if you manage to axe the Norsunder magic, you’re not going to have it easy. Some of those people are also desperately angry. Feel betrayed.”

  “By the king, my father. Yes, Tsauderei prepared me for that. I know that my poet of a father was a terrible war leader. No lack of courage, but Tsauderei told me once that in times of danger a poet-king is considered by some a luxury no one can afford.” She saw Rel’s faint grimace, but he did not disagree. “If I do free us, that will, I hope, help in some measure. But the reactions are going to happen.” She bit her lip, then said, “If you don’t mind a question—”

  Rel’s brows rose. “No, I’m not a prince in disguise.”

  Atan’s her face flooded with the heat of embarrassment. “I was not going to ask that.”

  Rel winced. “I’m sorry. I ought to have known you wouldn’t—” He shrugged again.

  Atan had a strong suspicion that she knew who had been asking such questions.

  “I was going to ask if, in your travels, you have met others my age who rule. Lilah hinted at something like it, earlier.”

  “Yes, I have,” Rel said. “And they do well.” He lifted one of his big, capable hands. “You also have a lot of young people behind you in your own ancestry. Quite a number. But then you know that—probably a whole lot more about ’em than I do.” His eyes crinkled.

  She said, “You want the truth? Sometimes my history feels heavier than all this stone above us.” A sudden yawn pulled at her jaws, and though she suppressed it, tears burned her eyelids. She was desperately tired, but still she did not want him to go yet. He was interesting—he was from the outside world. “I have my ancestors’ standards to live up to, in addition to the expectations of those gathered here.” She opened her hand toward the entryway.

  “Yes, I can see that,” Rel said. And then, as if in oblique apology, “I say that my father is a shepherd, but I don’t really know. My guardian told me when I was small that he was a wanderer, and the only people I’d seen who wandered were shepherds, so that’s how I understood the word. However, I do know there are no crowns buried under my straw mat.” Rel’s eyes narrowed again in amusement. “I’m not only free to wander, but free of anyone else’s expectations. I have to add, after what I’ve seen, if I did find a crown under my bedroll, I’d chuck it into the nearest fishpond.”
r />   Atan shook with silent laughter. “No established royal family is likely to leave a crown lying about,” she said finally, when she’d wiped her eyes. “Not unless there’d been a war like ours. I was hidden, though I always knew who I was.” She considered. “Of course, if there’d been a revolution, I guess it might be different.”

  “A new government would make it their business to track the ousted rulers, wouldn’t they? No one wants a prince boiling about his denied inheritance suddenly riding up—especially with an army at his back,” Rel said, again with his brief grin. “Especially these days, when so many of the formerly prominent kingdoms are in trouble.”

  “I believe I have some family—the Deis—and I might try to find them,” Atan said. Then she added, for the first time ever, “Though I might not. I—I have heard mixed things. About them.”

  Rel’s dark gaze altered again, now serious. “My guardian said my father was too restless to raise a son, and so he left. If I want to find him some day, I can. But from hints over the years, I gathered that both he and Raneseh, my foster-father, are actually from Everon.”

  “Ah, a kingdom with a history more tragic even than ours,” Atan murmured.

  “Yes. I mean to go there next, now that I’ve gotten a little more training and a little more experience, and see what’s what.” She saw his jaw flex—and realized with an inner laugh that he too was fighting yawns. “But I’ll help here first, as long as I’m needed.”

  “As long as you’re needed,” Atan repeated, and the back of her neck heated. “You’re dropping hints, aren’t you?”

  Rel spread his hands. “This is your kingdom.”

  “That’s no real answer. But what you said about the angry people. The breaking spell. Even training... the waiting is over. Should be over, is that it?”

  Rel said soberly, “Is time working against you or for you?”

  “It was standing still in Shendoral,” Atan said. “But it doesn’t, really?” She thought about the wisdom of listening, of planning, but her gaze was on his averted eyes, and a new idea occurred that made her prickle all over. “Is that what I’m doing? I’m waiting for someone to come along and tell me what to do.”