First Truth

  “I know,” Strell said and was silent.

  14

  Alissa’s feet hurt, but she’d let them fall off before admitting it to Strell. Ever since that hard frost two days ago, he had been setting an unreasonably fierce pace. Yesterday he had forced a march late into the dusk, ending it high in the pass to the next valley. Alissa had been too exhausted to start a fire, making it a miserable night, as the fog was unusually thick and clingy. Just before dawn, the mist turned into a light rain. She was awoken quite rudely by the dampness seeping into her bedroll. Despite her strident opinions otherwise, Strell refused to let her take the time to light a fire from the wet wood she found. They had left without a hot breakfast.

  Needless to say, they were both out of sorts. Alissa’s toes squished, and her boots pinched at every step, but she kept up with Strell’s irate strides with a stoic desperation. Clearly he was worried about the rain—it meant autumn was full upon them—and Alissa thought this, more than anything else, was responsible for his sour mood. She was miserable but didn’t want Strell to know, afraid he might think she was milksop.

  They had nearly reached the floor of the next valley when Strell finally called for a halt. He stood ramrod straight in defiance of the rain, alternately squinting at the map and scowling into the fog. Alissa was exhausted and hungry, still carrying the fatigue of the previous day with her. She leaned heavily against a cold boulder, wiping a cold hand under her cold nose. The damp had seeped into her, making her achy and slow. “Terrible weather,” she said, trying to break the silence in as inoffensive a manner as possible.

  Strell said nothing. He had hardly said a word all day, and his mood was growing tiresome. Not even acknowledging she had spoken, he continued to glower at the map.

  “The rain sure gets into everything, doesn’t it?” she asked, trying again for some response.

  Absorbed in his scrutinizing, Strell gave her a preoccupied, “M-m-m-m . . .”

  Alissa grimaced in defeat and whistled for Talon. At least her bird would talk to her. Talon’s gray shadow ghosted out of the rain from up ahead and landed upon her wrist. “Where have you spent your morning?” Alissa whispered, giving Talon a good scratch.

  Soft and silky, Talon fluffed her feathers and chittered. Alissa breathed deep, taking in the smell of long, dusty afternoons spent in the hay. A frown passed over her. “Strell,” she said tersely, “Talon’s feathers are dry.”

  He turned to her with a frown. “So?”

  “It just seems odd,” she said. “We’re dripping wet, and Talon is as dry as a summer day on the plains.”

  Starting, he came close to run a careful finger over Talon’s markings. “You’re right,” he exclaimed. The frown he had worn all day softened as the bird chittered deep in her throat, enjoying the attention.

  Catching Strell’s eye, Alissa smiled hopefully. “Maybe her dry spot is big enough for all three of us. How about it, Talon? Show us where it is?” With an ease born from long practice, Alissa launched the kestrel into the soggy afternoon. Talon disappeared as quickly as she had come. Strell took a step to follow, hesitating when Alissa didn’t move.

  “Go ahead.” She waved him on, not wanting him to see her limping. “My lace is loose. I’ll catch you up.” Talon’s shelter couldn’t be far; she had responded very fast to Alissa’s whistle. Pretending to tie her lace, she waited until he was out of sight before lurching into painful motion.

  Rounding the next outcrop, she spotted them beneath a good-sized ledge of stone. Strell had his head up for the first time all day. One hand supported Talon, the other was on his hip. He cut an unexpected figure, and Alissa blinked, realizing how different he was from the short farmers she had grown up avoiding. His head nearly brushed the ceiling of the shallow, open cave.

  “Look at this!” he cried, gesturing with his free hand. There was a surprisingly large patch of dry earth. They would never find a better place to stop. There was even a fallen tree for a fire, only half of which was in the rain. “Let’s eat here.”

  “Good,” she said, clenching her teeth as she tried to walk without crinkling her face in pain. Strell shifted to make room as she came under the overhang, and she gratefully eased her pack off. Trying to hide the soreness of her feet, she slowly sank to her knees. If she wasn’t careful, her heels were going to blister, and she was so tired, she wanted to cry.

  Alissa stared out at the rain with a numb fatigue as Strell set Talon on the fallen tree. If it was up to Alissa, they would stay the night, but she knew Strell would object. She was tired of arguing with him. She never seemed to get her way. It was frustrating.

  A contented sigh slipped from Strell as he sat down at the edge of the dampness. Taking his hat off, he hit it against the palm of his hand, trying to shake off the rain.

  Maybe, she thought morosely, if she had a fire going, he might want to stay. Slowly, afraid of being noticed, Alissa tugged the dead tree farther in from the rain and began snapping the smaller branches into the proper size for a large fire.

  “What are you doing?”

  Alissa jumped. “Making a fire,” she said softly. She felt her cheeks redden. She didn’t want to argue. She just wanted to stop.

  “We don’t have time,” Strell said, and her shoulders tightened. “Only a short break.”

  She swallowed hard, too weary to be angry. “I’m tired,” she whispered. “I know we have to move faster now that the rains have begun. But if one of us gets sick, we are both likely to spend the rest of our very short lives out here halfway to nowhere.” She felt the hot pricking of tears and hated herself for them, but she refused to cry from exhaustion. It was humiliating. “I want to stay and dry out our things,” she said, working to keep her voice even. “I want a hot meal. I want to rest. All right?” She stared at the unlit fire. “You haven’t said one nice thing to me all day, and I’m sick of it.”

  “Look, Alissa,” Strell said tightly. “The weather has turned. We have to move as fast as possible. You know that.”

  Alissa sent her fingers to arrange her sticks, making room for the dry fluff in her pack to start the fire. Keeping her eyes lowered, she sighed. “I’m not going to move,” she said with a quiet resolve. “And you can’t make me.”

  Strell took a breath, and Alissa looked up. His jaw was clenched, and anger had hardened his eyes. She shrugged, too tired to argue, and Strell seemed to collapse with a slow exhalation. “You don’t travel well, do you,” he said in sudden understanding.

  She dropped her gaze. “Not this long.”

  “All right,” Strell said softly. “But we’ll have to leave before the sun rises, rain or no.”

  Alissa looked up, thoroughly confused. “I thought you wanted to go.”

  Strell got to his feet with a soft groan, looking everywhere but at her. “I do, but it’s the first time you ever disagreed with me without shouting. I’m not about to say no.” He flashed a grin, and she flushed. “Besides,” he finished, “you should put some oil on your boots before they get so wet, they start to leak.”

  “Yes. I suppose,” she mumbled with a flush of guilt.

  Strell stood at the edge of the overhang and put his hat back on.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, surprised.

  “Fungus,” he said, striding out into the rain.

  “Fungus?” she repeated, but he was already disappearing into the mist. She watched him go, mystified at his change of heart. She had been so sure he would get angry. This calm acceptance left her not knowing what to think.

  “At least I don’t have to walk anymore,” Alissa said glumly to Talon, and the small bird chittered as if in agreement. Immediately Alissa turned her attention back to starting the fire. Now that she wasn’t moving, the damp seemed to grip her all the more. The first hint of warmth was like a sunbeam, and she settled back, catching sight of her wet boots. Alissa glanced out past the overhang. Strell was nowhere in sight. Struggling, she tugged on the slimy laces, trying to loosen them. The heavy leather had da
rkened to a light brown, and it stuck to her like a second skin. Finally her boot came off with a sodden, sucking sound, taking her stocking with it. A small noise of disgust slipped from her, and she glanced at the rain, wanting to get the other boot off before Strell returned to see the mess she had made of her boots.

  There was a rustling of wet leaves, and her head shot up. Panicking, she gave a final tug. The second boot popped off, and she hurriedly hid them behind her. Her feet were naked, and she tucked them under her, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

  “Fungus,” he said, his eyes bright as he dropped a handful of mushrooms in Alissa’s upturned hat. “There’s more. I’ll be back.”

  “Thanks, Strell,” she said softly.

  He glanced back before returning to the wet. The faint smile he wore made it obvious he knew she hadn’t meant for the mushrooms. She watched him go, his back hunching in a sudden flurry of wind and rain. Rivulets were running from the wide brim of her old hat to his shoulders, and she felt a pang of guilt. Strell hated the rain, and she was the one making a fuss.

  Their usual roles were reversed that afternoon. Strell hadn’t wanted to stop, but once decided, he utilized the time to its utmost. By nightfall they were surrounded by piles of roots, late berries, and other woodsy stuff Strell assured her was edible. She had grown up in the outskirts of the mountains and was amazed at what Strell could find to eat. She wouldn’t have given most of it a second glance. The fog was heavy and damp, making the night darker than it should be. It seemed to have encouraged the rain, and it pattered noisily upon the fallen leaves, beating them into a submissive brown. The earthy smell of the leaves was comforting in a way, not yet soured to the bitter decay they would greet the spring with. It mixed pleasantly with the musty smell of drying leather and wool. The night would have been unbearable if not for the overhang. Alissa couldn’t help but smile as she worked steadily on the last bit of stitching on her hat. Her aches had disappeared with the warmth of the fire, and her mood was considerably lighter now that she knew they were from the weather and not an illness.

  Strell was fussing about with her papa’s map, having carefully unrolled it out on his blanket so it wouldn’t get dirty. She watched, stifling a stab of envy. “Strell?” she said slowly, tugging her last three stitches tight. “How about a trade?”

  He glanced up, his eyes glinting in amusement. “You’ve nothing worth this map, Alissa.”

  Pursing her lips, she wedged her needle through the leather. He sounded so much like a plainsmen at market, it was hard to forgive him. “How about my bowl? You said it was good.”

  His eyebrows rose in an infuriating mix of amusement and confidence. “Not that good.”

  “Why not?” she said defensively. “I’ve traded my work lots of times for cloth.”

  Strell leaned halfway across the fire and whispered, “I gave her a length of silk.”

  Dismay washed over Alissa. “How much silk?” she asked, not sure whether to be dismayed or proud that her papa’s work was worth a scrap of silk.

  “Enough to make a skirt—”

  Alissa couldn’t help her gasp.

  “And a long-sleeved shirt,” he added, grinning.

  Astonished, Alissa set her work down and rubbed her eyes. Her papa’s map was worth that much silk? She would never have enough to get it back.

  “It was a good trade,” Strell said, clearly pleased. “I think I made out the best.”

  “But you can’t even read it,” she protested.

  “I know enough to use it,” he said lightly, returning his attention to the map.

  Alissa’s lips pursed. “At least let me trade you something for her hair ribbon.”

  He didn’t look up. “No.”

  “You have no use for it,” she cried. Why was he being so difficult?

  “You never can tell,” he said softly, his eyes distant with an unvoiced thought. “She gave it to me as a token of her motherly affection. It keeps the map from unrolling. I’m keeping it. And besides, you don’t need it. You’re hair is shorter than the lowest plains’ beggar’s.”

  Alissa stiffened. Her hair was cut foothills, as her papa had liked it. She wasn’t going to change it for him. But maybe . . . “If I let my hair grow long, will you trade it to me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not!” It was practically a shout.

  He shrugged. “If you want a hair ribbon, use the one your cup is tied with.”

  Alissa slumped in temporary defeat. Slowly she picked up her stitching. She would get that map. She could be patient, make something so fabulous, he would beg to trade. He could carry it for a while.

  Strell slid closer, map in hand. “Alissa? What does this say?”

  Curious, she glanced down. With a breathless thrill, she realized they were almost to the Hold. She was going to get her book, insane Keeper or not! She looked to where Strell was patiently pointing. “It says ‘Deep Water,’ and do you realize how close we are!”

  His eyes dropped, and a sigh escaped him.

  Alissa’s smile fell. “All we have to do is find my book and leave,” she said quickly.

  Strell looked at her askance. “Bailic isn’t just going to let you walk out with it.”

  “He will if he doesn’t know I have it.” She hesitated. “We should find Useless, too. Let him take care of Bailic.” Alissa frowned, wondering if she really wanted to. Useless was a domineering, egotistical, ill-mannered idiot. He might think the book was his.

  Strell was silent, his eyes on the rain. Finally he nodded, looking as eager as Alissa to find Useless. “Just how helpful,” he muttered, “can someone be who calls himself Useless?” Sitting up straighter, he smiled, but it faded quickly, leaving her rather disconcerted. “Here,” he said, pointing at the map. He was clearly trying to change the subject. “What does this say?” Strell pointed to an open area next to the Hold.

  Squinting in the flickering light, Alissa read the tiny scratchings. “ ‘Grazing,’ and this”—she pointed to the word next to it—“is ‘Fields,’ and that says ‘The Hold.’”

  “Really?” Strell bent closer. “They’re all in that circle. What does that mean?”

  Not bothering to look at the map, she made a tight knot of her thread and bit her needle free. “It means the fields and pastures are part of the Hold’s environs.”

  Strell brought the map close to his nose, turning it sideways. “Are you sure?” he asked, and she nodded. “What about this one?” He pointed to a symbol just outside the Hold’s circle. Alissa didn’t recognize it, and had been hoping he wouldn’t ask.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted sheepishly.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? You said you could read that stuff.”

  Alissa flushed. “It’s a proper name. I won’t know what it is until someone tells me.”

  Strell blinked. Embarrassed, she pulled the map closer. “If you want to get specific, that word means ‘to be neither,’ but this little mark”—she ran a finger over it—“means it’s being used as a proper name. Until I hear someone say it, I won’t know how to pronounce it.”

  He stared at her. “You don’t know how to pronounce a name until someone tells you?”

  “Yes, and I can’t write a name until someone shows me what it looks like.”

  “Even if you know how to say it?” Strell asked incredulously.

  She nodded, not liking the way he was looking at her.

  “That’s a daft way to write,” he finally said.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Look here,” he said, sliding close with the map, seemingly oblivious to her ire. “See here, how the trail bends back on itself like a slow river?”

  Alissa glanced down. Strell had put himself closer than usual, and she felt awkward for him being so close. “Yes.”

  “I would be willing to wager we could eliminate two days of travel by leaving the trail and cutting across it here.” He ran a long finger over his proposed plan, and Alissa puffed in doubt.


  “If my papa detoured, there’s a reason,” she said shortly, going back to her sewing. She jabbed the needle through the leather, wishing he would back up but refusing to move herself.

  “Maybe,” Strell said. “But it looks to me as if he looped around to go through that neither place. I want to try cutting across. What do you think?”

  “I think you ought to give me my papa’s map if you can’t read it and won’t use it.”

  Strell glanced up, his face turning sly. “You know what?” he said, rolling up the map and edging away. “I don’t think you can read at all. Not even that swirly stuff on my map.”

  Alissa’s mouth fell open. “What?” she sputtered.

  Grinning, he moved farther. “I think you’re making the entire thing up. I don’t think those squiggles mean anything.”

  “What about the berries the other day? I told you that’s what the map said, and that’s what we found.”

  He smiled indulgently. “Everybody knows berries grow thick on that side of the slope.”

  “But I said they would be blueberries!”

  “Lucky guess.”

  Alissa stared as his smile grew wider. It was obvious he was teasing her, and it made her all the more frustrated. She fixed her attention on her sewing, desperately hoping he couldn’t tell how much it bothered her, but she thought the white-knuckled grip she had on the rim of her hat and the sharp jabs as she stabbed with her needle gave it away.

  He leaned around the fire, coming dangerously within reach. “Look, Alissa. See this?” He pointed to the map. “That’s where the stars go in the daytime.”

  She ignored him.

  “See here? Snails.” He leaned back, adopting an important air. “For your headache.”

  Her jaw clenched.

  “And this one here? See this word? That means you can’t cross the river unless you catch a fish for the river spirits first.”

  Alissa gave him a slow look through narrowed eyes, but it only seemed to encourage him.