Sartor

  The room they were locked in had one single window, perhaps shoulder height, far too narrow for a man to get through. A pair of kids, however, managed with a squeeze, a push, and a grunt.

  They found themselves on a narrow ledge. It had been formed when the upper story was added to the ancient wall, using a different type of stone. Keeping their backs to the wall, they sidled along the ledge. Lilah tried not to look down.

  Hinder had fewer problems with heights. He reached the battlements first, turned pulled Lilah after him.

  o0o

  Inside the tower, Atan looked up from the book, her eyes burning from her repeated attempts to complete the chain of powerful spells she found there. Her mind struggled against a flowing tide of magic power; she swayed, gripped the table, and the book almost toppled.

  Merewen caught it, though she, too, fought to comprehend the intersection of two worlds, one human and one not, that did not quite converge. The room was so crowded, she gave up trying to guess which figures belonged to which world.

  “I have to be outside,” Atan whispered. “I can’t do it here. I have to see the horizon, really see it, to anchor myself to the world...”

  Merewen drew a deep breath. The blue figures flowed outward, receding to clear a path.

  Merewen tucked the book under one arm, and Atan’s unresisting hand with the other hand, and followed the beckoning blue figures toward next pair of stairs.

  o0o

  “Up there!” came a shout.

  Lilah and Hinder peeped down at the courtyard to see Kessler’s runner pointing at them.

  Behind, a swarm of dark clad warriors fanned out.

  “They’re gonna chase us,” Hinder said.

  “Let’s run,” Lilah said, pointing in the other direction. “Get as many as we can after us. Because if they chase us, they can’t chase Atan.”

  Hinder ducked his head. “Right.”

  The wall was barely broad enough for them to attempt a low, loping sort of run. Hinder took the lead, running until he fetched up above an arched bridge. They stared down in surprise at all the people who had come out of their homes and shops. The people stood about in apprehensive clumps, looking around at one another. “They’re just getting out of the spell,” Hinder guessed.

  From the other end of the great square, a lone horseman rode an archway, twin to the one Hinder and Lilah stood on.

  “Rel!” Lilah exclaimed, as the Norsundrians poured into the square from a side street and once more fanned out.

  Rel’s head lifted. Lilah saw his dark eyes take in the square, the enemy, and also the bridge, with Lilah and Hinder standing on it. His hand flicked in a private salute, and she grinned and waved back.

  “It’s working,” Hinder breathed, the rising breeze ruffling his blue-white hair. “We’re keeping the enemy away from Atan.”

  Lilah wondered how he knew as below, Rel rode the horse in a prancing circle and began to shout, “To arms! To arms! Yustnesveas Landis has returned, and needs all of Sartor to rise!”

  His words were met by stares and open mouths. People exchanged looks.

  Then a woman from one of the inns took a swipe at a passing Norsundrian with a great iron skillet. The clang rang up the stone walls, the man staggered, and an eye-blink later the court was filled with shoving, struggling figures.

  The battle was grand for about the space of three breaths. Then the court filled with fast threesomes of dark-clad warriors who cut their way through the surging crowds. Lilah saw blood and heard cries of anguish, and she wailed, “Stop! Stop!”

  “Come, Lilah,” Hinder said sorrowfully, wondering why Lilah hadn’t known what ‘raising the city’ meant. He pulled her arm, having no idea that the sight of fighting threw her back into memory of angry crowds the summer before, during Sarendan’s revolution. “See that tree in the next square over? If we can reach that, we can get down. We’ll have to hurry, for the Norsundrians will be out on the wall soon.”

  Lilah gulped, her chest heaving on a sob.

  “They’re defending their city,” Hinder said. “It’s the only way we can get the time for Atan to do what must be done magically. Don’t look, Lilah, because you can’t stop it, and your pain won’t help them.” Hinder drew Lilah over the bridge, along another wall to where the branches of a mighty tree reached over.

  Back in the great square, Rel watched the people rise against the enemy. His reaction was a combination of admiration and dismay. He’d counted on a crowd. He had not expected violence—not after a hundred years of magical sleep.

  But to these people it had only been days since their king was killed.

  He could not stop it now. They were too angry, and more poured into the court with every breath. At least, they were slowing the Norsundrians, but at what cost? He winced at the sounds of ringing swords and cries of agony. He forced himself to ride on, for it was only a little ways to the house where he’d found the sword.

  When he reached it, he saw that it was empty. He dismounted and laid the borrowed weapon on a windowsill, hoping it was not too late for the unknown owners.

  The tired horse stood patiently, its hindquarters shivering. Rel spotted an inn yard across the street and led the mount there. A small boy peered fearfully at him from behind bales of fresh-looking hundred-year-old hay.

  “Take the horse?” Rel asked. “Needs care.”

  The blue eyes shifted, rounded, and the boy nodded firmly.

  Rel ran back to the square just as Kessler arrived from the other end, scanned the chaotic scene, then looked up and stilled.

  Rel looked up in the same direction—and made out two small figures on the top of the great white tower. They were silhouettes, but those knee-length braids had to belong to Atan.

  Kessler gestured to some of his followers to come close, and he began issuing a rapid stream of orders.

  Rel remembered the plan: delay, deflect, decoy. He looked around, spotted a fallen blade, and grabbed it. With an inward groan, he swung his way through the Norsundrians.

  Kessler looked his way and smiled.

  A moment later, Rel was too busy to think of anything.

  o0o

  On the tower, Atan heard the shouts of Sartorans coming to the rescue, and then clashes and clangs of steel. Every clash meant that someone was hurt or fighting for their life. She must hurry.

  She wiped her sweaty palms down her sides and gripped the great book in both hands.

  She whispered the first part of the spell over and over to herself first, knowing that it was going to tax all her ability and then demand more.

  She lifted her gaze to the horizon, purple in the already-setting sun, and began.

  The world narrowed to the sound of her voice.

  Merewen kept watch beside her, surrounded by blue figures looking down, down, waving their hands downward. Merewen sensed danger, warning, threat, its cause unidentifiable until a black flowering of destructive magic smote the blue figures away like a scouring wind.

  Merewen stared down at the spot where Dejain had appeared.

  o0o

  Rel attacked Kessler, who shouted orders over his shoulder as he met Rel with saber and knife both.

  A few of the Norsundrians had begun to surround them, obviously preferring to enjoy the show and leave tangling with the hapless citizens to their fellows. Kessler’s short commands sent them scattering.

  Rel fought for his life. He’d forgotten how strong Kessler was, in spite of his slight build and medium height. Kessler was not only strong, he was unnervingly fast, as only those with a long-term single-minded focus on the niceties of killing with steel can be.

  Though he’d improved, Rel soon knew he was going to lose, and concentrated on not making it easy.

  He had no idea it was the best fight Kessler had had in a long time, one that under other circumstances would have been worth prolonging, but he had glimpsed Dejain on the edge of the observers, and he had to end it fast.

  Rel’s chief advantage was his strength
and reach, but Kessler was faster, and he had the knife as well as his saber. High defense, low, feint, feint. Rel stepped to break, putting his blade at exactly the angle Kessler wanted. He caught Rel’s blade between the hilts of his weapon and used his body to force Rel’s arm backward and loosen his grip on the sword.

  Stepping close, Kessler whipped the knife from underneath and stabbed Rel in the shoulder, not to kill, for he’d as soon not lose this excellent prospect for recruitment, but to get him out of the way.

  He yanked his knife free. “Come,” he commanded the last man, as Rel dropped his sword and staggered. “Leave him. He’s not going anywhere. Bring the brat.”

  The Norsundrian grabbed Julian by the arm and half-carried, half-dragged her after Kessler.

  Rel had fallen to one knee as he fought against the shivery nausea of pain, and the weird rippling shadows that threatened to overwhelm him. He had to stay awake! He staggered to his feet, blinking at Kessler’s rapidly diminishing figure—and Julian being towed along behind. He bent to retrieve his sword, faltered, fighting against black waves, then drew in his breath. He was determined not to pass out.

  Kessler ran across the quadrangle.

  Dejain beckoned to him and held out a silver crossbow bolt. The greenish gleam of dark magic spells glimmered along its edge. “Kill her,” she said, lifting her chin toward the girls on the tower. “The tall one with the book.”

  He took the bolt. Magic tingled under his fingers. He wondered what ugly spell had been bound to it as he grabbed a crossbow from one of the sentries, slapped the bolt in, cranked it back, raised to aim—

  And shot.

  Up on the tower, the blue figures crowded around Merewen so close she could almost feel them. She could almost hear them, but her attention stayed on Atan as the princess gathered magic in a sky-wide vortex discernible only to those who had the training; it was the magic of her ancestors, of the place where she stood, of time.

  Merewen looked away as the woman below handed a thin thing that glowed with fiery threat to a man with a crossbow.

  Between heartbeats, she stepped once, twice, until she stood between the unheeding Atan and the red-glowing bolt flying toward her, the blue hands wreathed around her, tight, tighter—

  Merewen gasped at the cold prick of icy pain and recoiled not only physically, but in the realm of the spirit. She let go of her human self at last, felt mind and spirit caught by the waiting hands—

  And transferred.

  The metal bolt dropped with a clatter onto the tower stones at Atan’s feet.

  Atan glanced aside. In the briefest instant she saw the bolt, and Merewen falling away into a glittering wink of blue light that vanished. Horror and grief seized her by the heart, as deep and sharp as if the bolt had torn through her own flesh.

  But she had this task, and too many people’s lives depended on her finishing.

  Don’t look. She forced herself to keep speaking without faltering, though her heart wailed in anguish.

  The vortex began to turn, slow and massive, gathering power and speed, plucking at body, mind, and spirit—

  o0o

  Kessler said, “The little one took the bolt.”

  “Quick,” Dejain said, handing him a second bolt. “Now. It’s the only one left.” It had taken her an entire night to enchant only these two.

  Rel knew he was not going to make it before the rising waves of blackness overwhelmed him. But he could do one thing: free an innocent child. With the last of his strength, Rel picked up his blade and brought it hilt-down on the head of the Norsundrian holding Julian.

  The stunned Norsundrian crumpled, freeing the child, who sprang straight at the enemy.

  Kessler raised the crossbow—

  And Julian bit him on the leg as hard as she could.

  Unexpected pain flowered in his calf, causing his arm to flex the moment he triggered the release. The bolt flew harmlessly a hands-breadth over Atan’s head.

  Kessler looked down. “You leave her alone!” Julian shrilled.

  Atan closed her eyes, mind, heart, and spirit holding the magic... holding it... mind and magic and time—

  The last word—

  —and finished.

  Everyone felt Detlev’s enchantment snap and vanish like ash dispersing on the clean, driving winter wind. Atan swayed on the tower roof, then sank to her knees, clutching the book tight to her chest as tears filled her eyes for Merewen.

  Dejain cursed, a flow of bitter invective.

  Kessler slung away the crossbow, and laughed.

  THIRTEEN

  Atan bent down and studied that fallen silver bolt. She saw no blood on the thing. Yet it had been knocked down onto the roof by something, instead of sailing overhead. Yet again, Merewen was not there, either fallen and senseless or somehow alive. She’d vanished.

  I will not grieve until I am certain she will not come back, Atan thought, and forced herself to turn away and look over the city whose map she’d been studying ever since she was small.

  Under the low northern light, the slanted roofs gleamed cold, rank on rank of fine houses in the district called Parleas Terrace. Though it lay on the other side of the river behind the palace, the aristocrats had claimed it was part of the palace’s district from the early days when there were three districts, and again when the city expanded to six. To the northeast the rooftops were more interesting, curled around almost like Venn knots in the Apsos, the oldest part of the city. Atan could barely make out the ordered roofs of the outer part of the city, built beyond the city walls, called ‘new’ in all the records, though it was several centuries old before the enchantment.

  She turned. Straight east, where the river bisected at the gate, lay houses and businesses, and then south, the fourth, fifth, and sixth districts—the latter the military area. Her city. Her city.

  Urgency displaced wonder. Tsauderei had said over and over, If you do succeed in banishing that spell, that is when your work begins.

  She brought her gaze down to the square as the last of the magical residue glittered and winked away. People surged, startled, recoiling—shouting—as some of Norsundrians vanished by magical transfer, and those without tokens began a retreat before the swelling number of confused, angry Sartorans who were no longer bound by enchantment.

  Atan searched through the people—Sartorans!—until her gaze caught a tall, dark-haired figure who bled copiously from the shoulder. As she watched in helpless anguish, Rel struggled up from the ground, his face lifted toward the tower, and she saw his mouth move—he was trying to say something. She stepped to the very edge of the tower roof, the rising wind catching at her hair and clothes as she strained to hear. He took one step toward her, and then fell flat on his face.

  Julian wailed, running to his side. Most people took no notice. They were too busy exclaiming to one another, looking around, some organizing to chase Norsundrians.

  This is what Tsauderei meant, Atan thought.

  Would anyone listen to her? The time had come to find out.

  She looked around once more, her heart aching when she caught sight of the bolt lying there. No blood on it, so I will not grieve, Atan told herself, clutched the heavy book tightly to her chest, and turned to the stairwell. But Rel...

  She wouldn’t let herself finish the thought. She couldn’t bear to finish the thought.

  As if she could outrun the thought, she skipped down the stairs, plunked the book back on the table where she’d found it, then ran back to the stairs.

  This time she did not pause to appreciate the ovals worn in the stone or the smoothness of the carved rail, polished by centuries of hands. Her breath came fast, her heart juddering counterpoint to her steps as she ran down, and then bolted for the hallway that led to the square.

  She banged through the doors and began pushing through the crowd. “Pardon,” she said breathlessly. “I’m Atan—that is, Yustnesveas Landis—”

  The old-fashioned, clumsy name was difficult to get out, and felt stran
ge, but she may as well have used her heart-name, for nobody paid the least heed. She knew her voice was not loud enough, but she couldn’t catch anyone’s attention as everyone around her talked more, trying to be heard by their oblivious neighbors.

  She began ducking and dodging, sometimes shoving past extended arms, until she stumbled into Hinder and Lilah, who had linked arms and stood over Rel. He sat on the ground with his knees pulled up and his head resting on his knees, one hand clutching his shoulder, which bled sickeningly.

  “Wounded,” Atan said, relief welling inside her. Her eyes stung, and her head seemed to be floating somewhere above her, unconnected to her body. She stood blinking until she became aware of Lilah’s steady gaze, her hand holding her own, and her voice repeating, “Atan? Atan? Um... Atan?”

  “I’m here.” Atan looked around, then down at Rel, who was alive, but.... Atan gazed in shock at the blood pooling on his wounded side. “I need to get...”

  What?

  Lilah snorted out her breath. “I know what comes next. It was almost like this when the revolution ended. Well, not really, except for the crowds.” She darted at Hinder, grabbed his arm, and pulled him close as she whispered in his ear.

  “I’m louder,” Hinder said to her. “Remember who called the drills in Shendoral.”

  “All right,” Lilah said. She made a face, bent over with her hands on her knees, and Atan watched, bewildered, as Hinder put his taloned bare foot on Lilah’s knee, and then, as Lilah straightened, he nimbly leaped up and settled on her shoulders, feet tucked in her armpits.

  People around stared as Hinder cupped his hands around his mouth. “The queen is back!”

  “Queen?” The word rippled outward, interspersed with others saying, “What was that?” and “Who’s the morvende?”

  Mendaen appeared and in his louder voice roared, “The Landises are back! The princess saved us!”

  “Our new queen broke the spell!” Dorea shrieked, elbowing through from another direction. “The queen is come!”

  One by one people looked around, and took up the shout.

  The queen is come!