Fleeing Peace

“A big rift?” Leander’s throat went dry. “That can only mean they want to bring across big armies. Centuries of warriors.”

  Hibern said, “That’s if they make the rift. Here’s what’s important right now. Some of them are here, and they are searching. No one knows what for, but it’s happening right now.”

  The quick patter of Kitty’s step sounded outside the door. “I ordered some hot chocolate,” Kitty said importantly.

  Llhei appeared, obligingly carrying an old kitchen tray covered with a folded table cloth, and set with the fine porcelain that Mara Jinea had left behind; Leander had wanted to smash all those dishes, but Kitty had grown up with them, so here they were, in use.

  He waited until Kitty had meticulously poured out hot chocolate for two, using her very best manners, and while Kitty asked after people she’d met in Marloven Hess, Leander slipped out and ran upstairs to scout out whatever he could find in his new library about rifts.

  Chapter Two

  New Year’s Week was over, and Senrid Montredaun-An, fifteen years old and newly king of Marloven Hess, had managed to survive the week without being assassinated.

  It was a good beginning—but it was only the beginning.

  He stood at the window of his new study and looked out over the jumble of snow-quilted rooftops, blue-white in the pale early-morning glow. The extensive royal castle and its training academy annex, two citadels within the citadel of his capital city, appeared from this height to be peaceful enough. The sentries roaming the walls moved with the steadiness of habit. No furtive glances or fingered weapons hinted at plots.

  Senrid knew without getting out a spyglass that the city walls would look the same. Probably somewhere, someone was plotting against him. Marloven history was full of plots, successful or not. But so far, nobody seemed to have enough support to get rid of him and set themselves up as king, in spite of his age and lack of experience.

  Yet.

  But he couldn’t let himself worry about hypothetical threats, not when there was a real threat just south of his border, where a number of Norsundrian warriors had camped.

  His clock chimed six times, as elsewhere bells tolled the dawn watch. All normal sights, sounds, and yet he sensed trouble. So far, his instincts for trouble had been too accurate to ignore.

  The internal alarm of transfer magic prodded him mentally—someone he’d given access had just arrived. He relaxed enough to draw a deep breath. A cold draft of displaced air blew across his face, carrying with it the scents of cinnamon and burning wood.

  Hibern appeared by secondary transfer. She was late, for the first time since they’d begun meeting in secret to discuss magical protections for the kingdom.

  While she blinked away the transfer-vertigo, Senrid said, “Something’s wrong. Is it your father?”

  Hibern rubbed her eyes, partly to get rid of the transfer blur, and partly because she was tired. “My father is busy ordering magic books to try to find a cure for my brother’s insanity.”

  Senrid decided against saying anything. Hibern’s father had been the cause of Stefan’s insanity through the experiments that Senrid’s regent, Uncle Tdanerend, had ordered him to perform. Tdanerend had wanted a way to control minds.

  Specifically Senrid’s.

  Hibern said, “As for why I’m late, I stopped to warn Leander what I’m about to tell you. But listen, Senrid. You’re going to be on your own.”

  “I’ve been on my own.”

  Hibern glanced across the wide desk at Senrid as she considered her words. Short, blond, and round-faced, he looked much younger than fifteen—until you noticed his eyes. She was glad he wasn’t an enemy. “Senrid, there’s one thing I’ve learned from my studies in Sartor. You can’t remain neutral, not in the greater battle—”

  “It’s not my battle. I have enough to do to get control here, and keep it,” he interrupted.

  Hibern opened her hand in agreement. They were both Marlovens. They knew how much trouble a youth would face, especially one who’d been denied formal military training, in establishing control of a warrior kingdom like Marloven Hess. They also knew from whom.

  She gave him the same report she’d given Leander.

  Though the two boys were the same age, and both had learned magic while trying to survive machinations by adults, Senrid was far advanced in magic over Leander, though it was dark magic.

  His life had depended on it.

  Senrid got up and walked to the window and back. “Searching for what?” he asked at last, then took an impatient turn around his study. “Never mind. Has nothing to do with me, unless they’re coming to my kingdom. There’d have to be more of them than that camp on my south border. So you’re here to tell me you’re leaving, is that it? You won’t be able to meet with me anymore?”

  Hibern made an open-handed gesture of assent. “I’ve got to stay in Sartor. It’s going to take all of us, even us journeymages, to try to close that rift.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Senrid said.

  Hibern whispered the transport spell, and then she was gone.

  o0o

  The next morning, Leander was poked out of his dreams by two of his magic alarms: the sound of clacking sticks, and the sharp scent of pine.

  The clacking sticks meant one person: the evil Mara Jinea.

  The pine smell meant that someone had broken the protective ward he’d put over the castle against dark magic.

  As he fought his way into last night’s clothes, he thought, the horrible thing about expecting trouble is that you always hope it will be later. You can try to be ready, but unless the villains actually send you a note saying Just to let you know we’ll be attacking next Thirdday at noon, it’s always too soon.

  “She’s back,” Leander whispered, his breath clouding.

  He clawed his hair out of his eyes as he ran to the window overlooking the courtyard.

  Sick at heart, he saw Norsundrian warriors forcing the two gate guards inside, their weapons taken, their hands on their heads. At least they hadn’t been killed outright: that had to mean that Mara Jinea intended to stay, to resume being queen. A rotten queen, but one who knew more magic than Leander did.

  So he’d made plans for that.

  He danced around in a circle as he pulled his socks on, then he shoved his feet into his forest mocs, and ran down the hall to Kitty’s room. In the pale light of impending dawn, her bed was a mound of lumps—somewhere in there she was asleep with at least half her cats.

  “Kitty,” he whispered fiercely.

  Kitty groaned as the middle mound jerked upright. Kitty flung the covers off, rumpled in her embroidered night dress. She sat in the middle of a moat of at least six cats, some still in pie-rounds. Others leaped down and vanished through the door, tails twitching.

  “She’s back,” Leander said.

  Kitty’s mouth rounded, then she leaped out of bed.

  “Change into something sturdy and warm. I need to test the magic she’s ruined before I can figure out what to do,” he said.

  He raced out to warn the servants, but skidded to a stop when he heard Mara Jinea’s distinctive drawl, “Are these the brat’s only servants? No, don’t touch them, unless you intend to do the cooking and cleaning.”

  Captured—all of them—probably at breakfast.

  At least she wasn’t going to kill them. Leander’s insides gnawed with regret; that meant he had to escape. He’d talked about this endlessly with Llhei and Alaxandar, and both had insisted: If She comes back, you run. You are our only chance of getting aid.

  He pounded to his room, grabbed his coat and the pack of overnight supplies he’d always kept ready, wishing he could get the fresh bread he smelled, but at least he had a traveler’s loaf.

  He whispered a test spell as he ran to Kitty’s room, where he found her dressed and ready, her eyes enormous. Sure enough, his border had a magical overlay of some kind. Norsunder was good at that kind of binding. He could probably break it, but then they’d be able to track hi
m.

  He eyed Kitty. Nothing could convince her to wear sturdy trousers and tunic in winter, but at least that gown looked warm. He took her hand and transferred to the border destination he’d made ready during autumn. When the transfer reaction wore off, he said, “You are safe here. I have to go back to release the magical traps I made.”

  Kitty said fiercely, “I hope you made some good ones.”

  “Oh yes,” he assured her. “I learned some great ideas from those Mearsiean girls. I’ll return shortly.”

  Transfers feel a lot like being shoved off a roof. You know how to land, but it still hurts every bone and muscle.

  Leander braced himself and transferred to the second destination he’d prepared, back in the castle, inside the closet off the room Mara Jinea had once used as her magic chamber.

  And sure enough—he heard her voice, but the second voice shocked him cold.

  “. . . find the brat?”

  That harsh, angry voice belonged to Senrid’s horrible uncle, who had been the Regent, some said after knifing his own brother in the back. Leander believed it. Typical Marloven.

  “He’s gone, of course,” Mara Jinea said. “Coward transferred out moments ago, probably squealing in fear as soon as he heard us down below.”

  “You should have broken the wards first.”

  “I couldn’t,” she retorted impatiently. “He had a tangle of them. One on every door. But I’ll find him. He will be my prime exhibit when I warn the populace just what the reward for disobedience is. It should last all day.”

  Tdanerend cursed, and in the closet, Leander grimaced, hating the memory of that voice, the violence in every sentence the man uttered. “I don’t see why they won’t let me make an example of Senrid . . .”

  More mumbles. Cursing? Leander wondered if he’d heard enough.

  “ . . . until the northern rift is made.” Tdanerend’s voice rose.

  Leander started. What was that about a northern rift? Hibern had said that Norsunder was making one in the south, hadn’t she?

  A third voice joined the two villains. This voice was completely different, with an accent that made the words seem almost sung. “You really ought not to be discussing these plans with your intended target listening eagerly ten paces away.”

  The shock of that made Leander jump, knocking against an old footstool. But he transferred out so fast that Mara Jinea only found the footstool, and traces of recent magic.

  Kitty whirled around when he appeared. Her hands rose to her mouth, then she whooshed out a sigh. “Where were you? Why did it take so long?”

  “Come on. We can’t go by magic. Mara Jinea got past my wards, and put tracers on me, so she’ll know if I do any magic at all. So we’ll have to travel overland to the nearest city, and find a mage.”

  And so began a cold, dreary, frightening trek.

  They reached the border road a short time later. For a while they walked peacefully, but the wind kicked up, making the ice creak in the stream alongside the road, and the evergreens roar. Those sounds and the snow muffled the hooves of a Norsundrian rider, who happened on them so fast all Leander had time to do was push Kitty behind a bush and fling himself into a snow drift as he fumbled for the knife he’d stuck in his pack.

  Their trip would have ended there, along with their lives, if the Norsundrian hadn’t been one of those strange ones whose mind was completely subsumed by some horrific magic: he looked like someone’s dad, except for the blank lack of focus of his eyes, and his silence as he pulled a sword and tried to kill them.

  Under magic compulsion, Leander thought as he evaded the steady, lethal swings. He backed up, ducking and bobbing, jabbing high so the blank face lifted, until he found what he’d been looking for: a stream. He leaped, the Norsundrian swung—and slipped on ice, falling with a crash into the frigid waters.

  Leander let out a whoop of triumph—and his feet slid out underneath him. He landed on one knee, the pain making the world go white. But he flung himself forward, his arms reaching the snow; Kitty ran to the edge of the stream and hauled him off the cracking ice with determined grunts.

  They staggered away, leaving the Norsundrian floundering in the icy water as he fought for breath. His horse had run away.

  They cut across country, heading for a stand of pine forest, under whose thick canopy little snow had dropped, so they made no footprints.

  In forest, Leander knew how to move fast and well. Ignoring the pain in his knee, he kept them moving until nightfall.

  They camped in a shelter of fallen rock, shared the dry journeybread, and Kitty curled up in her cloak and tried unsuccessfully to make herself comfortable. Cold, achy, still hungry, she burst out, “Where are we going, anyway? And don’t tell me I wouldn’t know it because I never study the map. I want to know,” she snapped. “Even if I’ve never heard of it.”

  Leander sighed. Here it comes. “You’ve heard of it. Choreid Dhelerei. Senrid’s capital.”

  o0o

  Senrid woke from deep sleep by the invisible skull-rap of an internal magic-alarm.

  He thrashed into his clothes, then raced barefoot down the dark halls to his study, ignoring the wintry cold. Glow-globes flickered into life on his entrance. He crossed the room in two flying steps, slammed open a book that always lay waiting, and performed the assessment spells he’d set up. The lack of response forced him to the grim certainty that someone very powerful indeed had not only nullified his castle-wards, but those protecting the kingdom as well.

  In a single spell.

  He sank down into his chair, contemplating the power that had been behind the spell.

  A footstep at the door brought his gaze up. Uncle Tdanerend no longer wore a Marloven uniform, glittering with his ancestors’ medals, in an effort to enhance his prestige. He was dressed in the gray and black of Norsunder.

  Tdanerend could not enter past the powerful ward, but he could look in. He could talk. His dark eyes narrowed with malicious triumph. “A nice piece of magery, eh?”

  Senrid’s heart thumped loudly in his ears, but he would have died rather than show any fear. “You didn’t break my castle ward. If you’d ever had that much mastery over magic you’d be on the throne right now.” And I’d either be dead, or your mind-blank servant.

  “Detlev’s power is my power,” Tdanerend said, his tone even—unlike the old days, when his vile temper flashed at the slightest cause. “And that’s why I’m here. I am retaking my throne, and Norsunder is backing me. You have a choice, boy. Detlev wants you. Either you conform willingly, and become useful, or your worthless life ends.”

  Senrid crossed his arms and said a word both short and rude.

  Tdanerend shrugged. The lack of his characteristic ready anger illustrated most effectively how the Detlev’s magic had subsumed his will. The skin roughened on the outsides of Senrid’s arms as his uncle said in that same even tone, “The two brats from Vasande Leror are probably on their way here. It will be considered a gesture of compliance if you detain them for us. Compliance will earn you a certain amount of freedom.”

  He touched the transfer token lying on his palm, and vanished.

  Senrid stared at the place where he’d been, then he summoned the night-duty runner to carry a three-word message to his commanders: It has begun.

  o0o

  An hour later, though it was midnight, glowglobes lit the top floor of the royal castle and a new fire crackled in Senrid’s study, giving off warmth. Senrid was the only one in civilian dress, and under age, but he was the focus of attention as he walked back and forth before the fireplace, his words—and thoughts—headlong.

  “ . . . I don’t know what happened in Vasande Leror, but from what Tdanerend said, Kyale and Leander escaped. Tdanerend seems to think they will come here. If Detlev wants me to knuckle under by betraying them, then that means we’ve got until the two show up. After that, you can expect my uncle, probably at the head of that force in the south.”

  Commander Keriam, head of the C
avalry Academy, said, “I didn’t think we’d be at war so soon.”

  Senrid shook his head impatiently. “It’s not war. Yet. Those Norsundrian warriors on our southern border are for scare, and probably for occupation. Look, if they wanted the land, they would have crossed the border already and they’d be busy killing us right and left. Instead, there’s all this maneuvering and magical stuff with my uncle. That means something else is going on. Some goal bigger than Norsunder and Marloven whacking each other with swords.”

  Keriam’s grizzled head bowed a little as he made the gesture of assent. He did not understand magic at all. What he did understand was the whacking with swords. Whatever Norsunder planned, Marloven Hess and its army would eventually be a part, or why show up at all?

  “So do we muster?” Gherdred, the old cavalry commander, asked. He, too, knew about war with other nations—none better. But war with Norsunder, the fearful and myth-enshrouded enemy beyond time, beyond death, left him feeling like an academy scrub.

  They all did. Senrid could see it—he felt it as well. He’d been thinking about it during every free moment since autumn, when he decided to take his kingdom back from Tdanerend. For the past month he’d bombarded Hibern with questions about the greater battles between Norsunder and the world’s guardians, so about this subject he knew more than his war leaders.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  “I don’t think so,” Senrid said. “Not for a magic-backed ploy. We still might have to fight.” He thought to himself, Though we’d never win.

  Keriam frowned. “Then we let them walk in and take us, without even lifting a sword?”

  Senrid turned to face him. “You fight, you die. Detlev’s magic alone will see to that. I don’t want a kingdom of dead, and I am gambling on the fact that Detlev doesn’t want a ghost land, either . . .” Once again he was pacing, back and forth, wheeling quickly, talking fast. “Of what use is that? If they kill you, you all go to Norsunder, to supposedly await their pleasure in using you, but they have to have a rift to bring you back into the temporal world. And you lose will, which means you lose initiative—all the things you’ve been trained to use.”