Senrid

  Tdanerend had been appalled to discover that Senrid was alive. Of course. But what was behind the intensity of that reaction? His uncle had never been quite that ready to anger in the past, so easy to provoke into losing control. He seemed almost desperate, at times. The invasion of Vasande Leror was not just an act of desperation. It was an act of madness to claim the throne of Marloven Hess—and then leave. To try to smash Vasande Leror into producing steel for an even bigger army—

  He pulled out his bread-and-cheese and munched slowly as he reviewed the past weeks. From the moment that mysterious transfer magic had whisked him away from Puddlenose and Christoph in Everon and slammed him down outside of Crestel he’d been on the run, his plans always just ahead of his own steps. Immediate actions and reactions had been all he’d been capable of, but now, with no one around (side-question: was he being watched?) and time to consider, he questioned things that he’d taken for granted scarce days before. The more he considered, the more it seemed that there was something missing. Tdanerend, on first seeing Senrid, had been so enraged because of what, fear?

  Fear?

  Fear of…what?

  Longing to be home seized Senrid, but he forced himself to walk at a steady pace, to resist futile anger. To consider carefully everything he could remember.

  He was reviewing the details of that last magic battle when a persistent bird cry broke into his thoughts.

  It came from behind. He turned as the cry resolved into a voice.

  When he recognized the short, silver-haired figure toiling up the road toward him, annoyance burned through him. It was Kyale—the person he wanted least to see right now, excepting only his uncle.

  Arms swinging, she bustled the last distance. Her face was crimson. “There you are!” she cried, nearly out of breath. “I thought you’d be slower than a frozen snail. And I can see how welcome I am, which is wonderful, because I am going to stick to your side until you stop being a fathead and let me tell Leander everything.”

  “Shut up,” he said.

  Kitty had thought it all out, and she was determined not to relent. What she’d decided was that Senrid stuck to his promise out of a weird sense of… Well, in a normal person it would be honor, or maybe even embarrassment, but in a Marloven it had to be arrogance.

  “Oh, I’m not going to shut up,” she proclaimed, smirking with anticipation. No doubt about it, she was going to thoroughly enjoy every moment. How often, after all, did a person get to be nasty, loud, and insulting to a villain, and know she was every bit in the right? “I am going to be so obnoxious you won’t be able to bear it, because you’ve made my life at home too miserable to stay.”

  “If you get yourself killed it won’t be my fault,” he honked.

  Kyale laughed at the weird sound of his voice. “Not if I stick close to you. One thing for sure, you seem to know how to stay alive. I can’t go home.” She lifted her chin. “You’ve destroyed my honor.”

  He laughed—and coughed so hard he sat down inadvertently in the snow.

  Kyale watched him with a weird mixture of hilarity and worry, and when at last he got control of the coughing, she said, “I don’t think you’re going to make it.”

  “I’ll make it,” he said, breathing fast. “But without you.” He got up, disliking the way his head swam, and sniffed juicily wishing he dared use his magic so he could get a besorcelled handkerchief. He wished he hadn’t left Leander’s behind, but he hadn’t wanted to take anything from them, except that money obviously left for him. Stupidity!

  He sneezed.

  “Quite a concert of disgusting sounds.” Kyale made a euch.’-this-stinks face.

  “You don’t have to stay to hear it,” he hinted.

  Kitty eyed him, then started in with a few other gambits that she’d thought invented over the previous day.

  Senrid scarcely heard her. His “Shut up,” was automatic; what worried him was that the coughing fit seemed to have drained him.

  He plodded one foot in front of the other, head down, arms folded tightly across his aching chest, letting the sound of Kitty’s voice wash past as he considered how he might get around the tracers no doubt on him so he could transfer, and leave Kitty behind.

  His thoughts vanished like dream images when he heard crunching steps in the snow behind him. And Kyale was right at his side, as she’d promised to be. She whirled around, looking up a moment before he did; he saw her expression of fear and distrust before he turned his attention behind them to the man walking not two paces behind.

  FIVE

  To Kitty, the sudden visitor seemed tall and dark with threat. Senrid, used to assessing adults, saw a man a little over medium height—no taller than Tdanerend—but there the resemblance ended. Tdanerend’s face had become lined with ill-humor; this man, though appearing roughly the same age, had only the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that came of squinting against the sun. His brown hair was combed straight back, square-cut over the neck—the same military style Marloven Hess currently favored, and he was dressed in black and gray, the gray tunic unmarked. No weapons in sight, but his walk was that of someone who was well trained.

  Another difference was that where Tdanerend almost never met anyone’s eyes unless he was angry—and in control of everyone in view—this man’s glance was direct, acute, and amused.

  Senrid instantly distrusted him.

  “Do I interrupt?” the man asked, the amusement Pronounced. And to Senrid, “I am here to offer my aid.”

  “I don’t want any help,” Senrid said.

  The man made a gesture, murmured a few words, and Senrid felt the sudden impact of intense magic. So did Kyale, who looked up in surprise and fear.

  “My aid would advance your cause with relative ease,” he said. “Go on, try your magic. The tracers are all gone.”

  The gesture might have been intended to be taken as altruism, but Senrid knew what he’d really seen: a demonstration of power! And a quick glance at that face made him realize the man was reading him without any trouble.

  “I don’t need your help,” Senrid said, even more distinctly.

  “Who are you?” Kyale demanded. “Go away!”

  The man turned his gaze to Kyale, and it narrowed slightly. She stared up at gray eyes flecked with little bits of green, a steady gaze that she couldn’t…seem…to…look…away… from…

  Senrid felt Kyale’s will start to dissolve. He drew in a sharp breath, knowing just where the man came from, and that the stories about ensorcelling—if not stealing—one’s mind with a mere act of will were true.

  He hooked his foot out, caught Kyale behind the ankle, and yanked. She collapsed in the snow with a “Whoop!”

  The man smiled slightly, apparently waiting for a reaction.

  “Who are you, Senrid’s father?” Kyale demanded, her voice breathy with fright and false bravado.

  Senrid rounded on her, but stopped himself in time. Idiot! To reveal anything to this soul-sucker, a real one—”Are you all right?” he asked her, hoping to cover.

  “Yes,” she snapped, getting up and brushing snow off her gown. “I know what that creep almost did, because I saw Mara Jinea try to do it, only with a lot of magic spells. Well, you won’t get me!” She snarled at the man.

  He looked down at her with the air of someone observing the antics of a puppy.

  Senrid’s heart hammered. Norsunder—the man was from Norsunder. The evil beyond time and the physical world that he’d heard about his entire life was real, and it was here.

  And then he had it. Tdanerend had tangled himself with Norsunder, probably in a desperate bid to gain more power. He was sure of it with an instant but utter conviction.

  The man turned his gaze to Senrid, and both kids felt a subtle but distinct focus of intent.

  Kyale gulped in a breath, and said, her face stricken, “Hibern’s tower!”

  Hoping that its image was still in her head, Senrid did the transport spell, touched her hand, and they transferred, appea
ring in a warm round room with a tall black-haired girl staring at them in surprise.

  The man appeared a heartbeat afterward.

  Senrid stared, transfer-reaction and fear making red flare across his vision, but the man only said, “Impressive wards,” to someone else, and then to Senrid, “We’ll continue our discourse when I choose.”

  He vanished.

  Senrid drew in a slow, shaky breath. The malaise dissolved, leaving him looking up at a tall, dark-eyed girl his own age.

  “Kyale?” the girl exclaimed, having backed against the wall. “Who’s this?”

  Kitty grinned, relieved that the man was gone, and delighted to feel safe and warm again. “Who, him?” She pointed at Senrid, who leaned back against the opposite wall, pale and grim. “Your future P.I.L.!”

  “P.I.L.?” Hibern repeated, her mouth smiling, but her eyes still wide with reaction.

  “Partner In Life!”

  “Oh. King Senrid, of course. Welcome.”

  For a moment they assessed one another. Senrid had heard about this girl, who studied white magic right in her father’s home, and in Senrid’s own kingdom. She was indeed tall, about as tall as Leander, a long thin, brown face framed by long dark hair. Her most dominant feature was a pair of intelligent black eyes under straight black brows.

  “I am Hibern,” she said, her mouth quirked. “Latvian’s lame, insane daughter.”

  “Thanks for getting me out of a betrothal with your plea of insanity,” Senrid said.

  “You’re welcome,” Hibern retorted with good-natured irony. “But my motives were entirely selfish.”

  Senrid laughed—and endured another fit of coughing, which left black spots swimming before his eyes.

  Kitty said, “Hibern, can you ward out Latvian and Uncle Nasty-face Tdanerend and them?”

  “Already done,” Hibern said. “This is the first time any stranger has ever transferred in like that. He must have put a tracer on you,” she said to Senrid. “Who was he, anyway?”

  “Don’t know,” Kitty said, and Senrid gave his head a single shake. “He appeared on the road, gabbled a lot of stuff about ‘helping out’, and when Senrid got us away by magic, he followed us here.”

  Hibern said, “My rooms have been warded against the Regent and my father for a couple of years. Obviously I need a more complex ward, a general one, though it will be hard work. I will get to that right away.”

  “Maybe second thing?” Kitty asked.

  Hibern gave her a rueful smile. “Dare I ask?”

  Exhausted as he was, Senrid could see that Hibern had been shaken by the man’s appearance in her tower. She might have thought herself invisible to enemies before; the man’s wry compliment about impressive wards was a more effective threat than any sinister speeches would have been.

  Kitty flapped a hand Senrid’s way, recalling his wandering wits. “Because if Boneribs here doesn’t get more rest, he’s gonna croak and make that disgusting uncle happy.”

  “Boneribs?” Hibern murmured, her brows raised in question.

  “What CJ called him, on this other world we got thrown into.”

  “I see! You can tell me about it anon,” Hibern said. “Senrid, you can tuck up in my bed. When the servants come up with food, don’t talk. I’ll put an illusion in the doorway and tell them I’m sick, and they’ll put the trays down and run.”

  “What about us?” Kitty asked.

  Hibern laughed. “Oh, we’ll resort to a very fine bit of new magic one of my tutors helped me set up. There is a room directly above here, both warded and protected by illusion. That’s where I keep my most important books! Watch, for it’s only accessible by magic.” She made a sign, and vanished. The other two copied it, and found themselves in what appeared to be a room exactly like the one below, only minus the bed. In its place was a fine desk, covered with neat stacks of books and papers at which Senrid glanced with weary curiosity. There was also a narrow couch, and rugs on the floor.

  Despite her careless words, this kind of magic was difficult, exacting, and must have taken a full year to set up, transferring and binding each brick, stone, and board. And then shrouding them with illusion. Senrid was impressed.

  “Records,” Hibern said, pointing to the bookshelves all round the walls below the windows. “From all over the world, copies obtained by—” She glanced at Senrid and said, “—various mages. Senrid, why don’t you go below and sleep?”

  “I don’t need—” he began to protest.

  “Rot,” Hibern interrupted unemotionally. “You do need. And you and I are going to converse after you do.”

  He met that dark, clever gaze, but had not the energy to challenge it.

  “Use my nightgown,” Hibern continued. “From the looks of you, size will not be a problem. The cleaning frame is in the door of the wardrobe.”

  Senrid flicked his palm up, made the sign, and vanished.

  Kitty sighed with relief.

  Hibern surveyed her, smiling. “It’s good to meet you. Now, tell me everything. Beginning with how you managed to meet up with who, on further thought, I very much fear was Detlev of Norsunder.”

  Kitty jumped. “Norsunder? That man was from Norsunder? “

  “If I am right, he’s one of the commanders. Though not one of the Host of Lords who created it, so many thousand years ago.” Hibern gave a rueful wince. “I’m so glad I didn’t realize it at the time.”

  “Detlev?” Kitty repeated, wondering if she’d heard the name before.

  “It’s one of his names—or at least I believe that was he. The descriptions are very like. Has Senrid been courting Norsundrians?”

  Kitty gasped. “I don’t think so!” And, more rapidly than she had ever told a story, she outlined what had happened.

  Hibern listened intently, leaning forward, her dark eyes every bit as acute as that mysterious man’s—but without being threatening.

  At the end, she said, “I do think it’s Detlev. Now we’re in trouble.” She rubbed her hands up her arms, though the room was warm enough. “Detlev. Here. Just long enough to let me know he recognized the wards I have in place. What does it mean? Nothing that can even remotely do us any good whatever, that I can be sure of.”

  “Who? What?” Kitty asked. “Though maybe I don’t want to know.”

  “Would you shut your eyes to danger?”

  “Yes!” Kitty squirmed, loathing the question. “No. I guess not.”

  “I’ve learned a little about Detlev because I’ve been reading world history. How much do you know about Old Sartor?”

  “Old Sartor?” Kitty repeated, surprised. “As in, before the Fall? Thousands of years ago?”

  “That Old Sartor, yes.”

  “Nothing, really, except it was our ancestors, and they had glorious art and were all perfect and had all these incredible abilities.”

  Hibern grinned. “Well, they weren’t all that perfect or we wouldn’t be here talking about them as ancient history. They had their problems, though they did also have abilities we don’t have, and their art was apparently something special. When they did have personal problems, they had these kind of mental healers who used objects made out of this, oh, silvery-white material with natural magic, not rock and not metal, that we also don’t have any more, but it helped them focus their thoughts so the healers could fix whatever needed to be fixed.” She paused.

  Kitty nodded, comprehending so far.

  “Well, this Detlev was supposedly one of these mental healers. The best of them, or so it’s said. And Norsunder got him by some kind of really nasty trickery, and after a couple thousand years, he switched over to their side.”

  “A couple thousand… years!”

  Hibern said a trifle impatiently, “Not like day-to-day. Norsunder exists outside of time—you have to know that.”

  “Well, sure. But I guess I never thought about what that means,” Kitty admitted. “All right, so this Detlev turned from a good guy to a bad guy, and it maybe took a thousand years. E
uw.” She grimaced.

  “For our purposes, he was gone from the physical world well over a thousand years, and then reappeared in the records, doing evil things. He also tried to locate and gather those dyr things—the objects I told you about—so they could be switched to evil purposes.”

  “But he didn’t use anything like that on me,” Kitty said. “His hands were bare.”

  “Right.” Hibern flicked her palm upward in agreement. “That’s because he only got a couple of the dyra and successfully managed to warp one of them to enhance black magic—so he could use one against an entire kingdom. With it, about a century ago, he did some really horrible experiments in powerful countries like Everon, and Sartor, and others, until he lost the dyra in some kind of big magical clash. Both have been hidden, though I guess he knows where the evil one is. Well, mages on both sides know, and the enchantment on it was broken recently. One thing for sure: Norsunder used to watch, but now they seem to be actively involving themselves again. And Detlev’s one of the worst of them.”

  Kitty shuddered. “Yuk! So what has all that to do with us?”

  “Well, that kind of depends on our friend asleep below, doesn’t it?”

  In the morning, Senrid woke when the door closed.

  At first he thought he was still in Crestel, and his bleary vision tried to force his surroundings into the plastered-and-fabric-hung walls of his room in Leander’s castle. But this room was not square, and the stone remained stone; memory came back, in emotion-charged shards, and with it the smells of herb steeped leaf and boiled oats—an expensive dish, here in Marloven Hess.

  He sat up. Felt the soft folds of an old linen nightgown shift about him. He looked down at the fine pink embroidery and his sense of reality took a serious misstep.

  A kind of perceptional vertigo sent his thoughts round in dizzying circles, and he groaned, and forced himself not to think at all. Instead, he got out of bed, noting with sour apprehension that merely lifting the tray and getting back in bed tired him out.