Fleeing Peace

She lifted her head. An owl drifted among the high tree branches, and then disappeared.

  Devon’s breathing deepened.

  Senrid said in a low voice, “You told her you’ve got Norsunder all figured out, and not to worry.”

  Liere glanced his way. He couldn’t see her expression, but he felt her surprise. “She doesn’t know anything that could help them. Why would they harass her?”

  Senrid said, “Siamis might not. Or Detlev, even. But the underlings—” He thought of the countless petty cruelties he’d endured at the Base, all of which was considered ‘entertainment’ for the denizens.

  Liere drew her breath in. “Yuk.”

  “There you go again,” he said, irritated.

  “I can’t help it. You’re sending.”

  “‘Sending.’”

  “You wanted me to see those memories. So you sent them.”

  “I didn’t ‘send’ anything,” he retorted, unsettled and annoyed. He moved away from her.

  “You can deny that you made your unity last night, but I don’t see why,” Liere said flatly.

  Senrid snorted.

  Now sure of herself, Liere spoke in a firm voice. “You used dena Yeresbeth—the unity—last night during the Twelfth of Never—”

  “The what?”

  “The Old Sartoran name for that last spell. When we pulled the dyr into the world, from beyond time. It was you who managed the magic, not me. If I’d been on my own, I’d still be back there caught in that lovely dream realm, waiting for Siamis to come in and collect me and the dyr.”

  Senrid snorted. “So The Guardian abandoned you?”

  Liere fell silent, then lifted her head. “No. There was someone. I didn’t get identity. On the . . . outskirts . . .”

  “Periphery.”

  “On the periphery. I think, watching over me. But you helped me first. And then that awareness was gone.”

  “All I remember is confusion,” Senrid said. “Anyway, you sidetracked me. So you think you’re too tough for Norsunder?”

  “Well, for that torture stuff,” Liere said. “I could get out of first-face, and stay in second-face, and never notice if they drilled holes through me. I’d just never wake up. A battle of wills . . . I think I can win. I think. I have so far.” Yet even as she spoke she remembered that unknown mind swatting her away like a gnat—and how she’d cowered away when her mind had encountered Siamis’s. She flushed, feeling like she’d been bragging.

  Senrid sat back. Maybe it was true, but he doubted it. She seemed to have a distorted picture of Norsunder. With a mental shrug he dropped the subject. Maybe he had one. His original point was still important, though. “I think you’re wrong to give Devon the impression she’s not in danger from Norsunder unless you can promise her safety.”

  Liere’s head bent. He sensed that his words had troubled her. He sat back, glad to let the drowsiness overtake him at last. It was good not to have to fight it.

  Liere ate her food with methodical inattention. What Senrid had said indeed had disturbed her. Had she been arrogant after all? Had her success against Siamis—a grown man from four thousand years ago, an enemy, dedicated to evil—given her a false sense of her own strengths?

  What was Siamis doing right now—and would she cower away again if their minds met in the mental realm?

  Unconsciously, she reached—

  And he was waiting.

  o0o

  At noon, Frederic and the girls had ridden into a weird ruined city, in company still with Siamis and his men.

  ‘“Looks like bleached bones,” one of the Norsundrians said.

  Another promptly made a comment about bleached bones, a comment nasty, graphic, and predictable. Frederic was used to this type of interchange by now. He knew better than to comment—not that the Norsundrians would listen. If Siamis wasn’t around, they’d just smack him for speaking. The only one who didn’t slap the kids if they spoke was the silent Davernak, who left the kids strictly alone.

  Not that they’d talked much when they finally did stop, after long, seemingly endless days of hard riding. Rain, clouds of insects flying in their faces, mud, sudden bursts of wild animals from bushes that spooked the horses, thick fogs that somehow got them going the wrong way—it all made for a miserable trip. And that was only the outer stuff. Frederic’s legs and butt seemed to hurt worse each day, but he dared not complain, and neither did the girls. Whoever said horseback riding was fun? Some idiot who never did it, obviously.

  The Norsundrians complained bitterly whenever Siamis wasn’t there to hear, but not about riding. They wanted an honest fight (they said) and not this typically cowardly lighter war of attrition.

  But a hard ride was what they got. Of them all, only Siamis seemed tireless, and because he rode every inch of it with them, springing down at the end of a long day as if it had been a casual half-hour’s canter.

  The food wasn’t bad when they finally did stop, and it was fun when Siamis had time to pay them some attention. He really seemed to enjoy hearing all about their previous adventures—especially about the Mearsieans, and Dtheldevor, and their friends who knew magic.

  Stories about Dtheldevor made Siamis laugh. Frederic couldn’t tell if it was what she’d said or what she’d done, but he smiled with evident inner enjoyment when Gloriel and Peridot bragged about the pirate girl’s various exploits, and he even asked questions. The only thing the Warrens couldn’t seem to remember was how to get into the island hideout—or what kind of spells protected it.

  A couple of times Siamis gave Frederic and Peridot lessons with the sword. Not just any sword, but his sword, the silver rapier Emeth. Frederic enjoyed the attention, but it would have been better with only the other girls as audience, because the watching Norsundrians were loud, sarcastic, and unstinting in their comments about his and Peridot’s lack of strength, speed, or talent. It was better when Siamis organized the Norsundrians into teams to fight one another, for his comments were just as unstinting about their performances.

  Best of all was the one time he practiced with the Norsundrians himself, defeating them all. Not just one on one, either, but one against three and even four. A few of them he stung hard with the flat of the blade, and one fellow he deliberately nicked over one eye: that guy was the loudest and meanest. Siamis was a blur of movement, deft, strong, never out of breath, always just ahead of the others—as if he knew what they were going to do next.

  “He does know,” Deirdre murmured, firelight reflecting in her eyes as she watched. Deirdre almost never talked.

  Frederic was mildly puzzled. He hadn’t known he’d spoken out loud.

  He was disappointed when Siamis stopped fighting without letting Davernak have a turn; he saw by their looks that the Norsundrians were also disappointed. They wanted to see Davernak trounced.

  Siamis didn’t practice again, but the Norsundrians’ complaining lessened after that. And the complaining stopped the day they finally reached Roth Drael.

  They trotted up a kind of street, the horses skirting white stone rubble.

  Siamis murmured, making signs. Magic spells, Frederic thought incuriously.

  “Fresh tracks,” Davernak said.

  “Two horses,” someone else pointed out.

  Siamis looked around, his eyes half shut. “They were here,” he said finally. He dismounted right in front of a big tiled terrace, and tossed the reins to Davernak. “You see to the animals. The rest of you? Occupy yourselves while I do some investigating. I must break the remainder of the wards. There’s a web of them.”

  Frederic and the girls got down, and Davernak took the horses away. The girls poked at the bits of stone on the grassy street. It was boring—but boring was better than hard riding through mud and rain. Frederic was glad to be on his feet, stretching legs that he’d been afraid were going to be forever bent in a barrel shape.

  Frederic noted some of the Norsundrians going off to search, carrying bows. He heard snatches of commentary in Norsundrian, wagers being p
laced on who could nail the first animal or bird that showed muzzle or beak. Not for food—nobody ate mammals on this world, or birds that flew. Just to kill.

  Time wore slowly on, shadows moving steadily eastward and lengthening. The searchers returned, reporting to Davernak, who waited silently outside the big building, that there were day-fresh animal tracks a couple hundred paces to the north, and what looked like human tracks.

  “Adult size?” Davernak asked.

  “No.”

  “Must belong to either the Fer Eider girl or Montredaun-An. Put out a full search tomorrow, if we’re still here.”

  He posted guards, and then they passed out bread and cheese. The kids were last to get theirs—as always when Siamis wasn’t around. He hadn’t emerged from the big building.

  Nor did he until after sundown.

  o0o

  When Liere first reacted to the sudden contact with Siamis, Senrid was alarmed enough to leap to his feet, hand on the hatpin, feet planted in a fighting stance—but the pin remained just that, a silver pin, and no Norsundrian warriors boiled out of the darkness, swords in hand.

  Presently Liere looked up, breathing audible even over the rush of the stream.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Siamis, I take it?”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t talk about it,” she said in a quavery voice, wrapping up in her cloak.

  Senrid watched her sit down, her knees drawn up to her chin.

  “At least tell me what to be ready for.”

  “We’re going to have to go alone. No, I will have to go alone,” she declared, her voice thin and high with strain. “He said he will have the dyr at any cost. He said I am the only one they’ll keep alive—something I’ll regret forever—”

  “Never mind the threats,” Senrid said, when her voice suspended. “Standard scare-babble.”

  “Is it? New to me.” She gave a shuddering sigh.

  Her anxious gaze met hers, and he felt the memories impact her just as if he’d spoken. Her expression changed.

  She flinched inside. Senrid knew what he was talking about. He had lived through just the sort of experiences she dreaded most. She sighed again. Siamis didn’t have to try very hard to scare me, when I did most of the work myself. So much for my brag that I can win a battle of wills! “And I’m a stupid coward to listen. Fear! I’m letting it defeat me and he’s not anywhere near. But he said anyone with me gets the knife. The cursed kind.” She gulped in another breath. “I’m going to have to tell our allies to leave me alone.”

  “Horseshit!” Senrid exclaimed. “That’s the oldest trick in the world! He told you that to cut you out from the run. Make it so much easier to hunt you down. You’ll do their work for them before they even touch our trail.”

  “So you are saying I should not warn our allies?”

  “Warn ‘em all you want, but don’t cut free.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t risk others’ lives.”

  “Let them make that choice.”

  “Let’s sleep,” she retorted sharply, and she threw herself down on the mossy ground, her back to Senrid.

  But within a very short time she sat up. He was not asleep, he was not even lying down. He leaned back against a tree, arms crossed, faint moon and starlight gleaming palely on his shirt. “Senrid, I don’t think you can understand how impossible it is now for me to—”

  “So now it’s time to fling my background in my teeth, right?” he shot back. “What could a Marloven possibly know of ethics?”

  “Senrid, when have I ever said anything about your homeland?” she retorted.

  Senrid whuffed a laugh of surprise. And embarrassment. “Never. I ask your pardon,” he added. “It must be twice as sickening, my claiming the moral high ground when I harp on about how morals don’t really exist.”

  “Pardon granted,” she responded with a quaint, somewhat shy, formality. “But you do have morals,” she added, and though he couldn’t see her, he felt her regard just the same—steady and honest and true. No pretense whatsoever. “That is, you’re finding—I don’t know, matching—oh, I wish I had a better vocabulary!”

  Senrid was thoroughly unsettled at someone having so much insight into his most private thoughts. His survival had depended on hiding his thoughts. “Yes,” he said, experimenting with how the truth sounded out loud. “Yes.” He grinned sourly at the dark sky overhead. “But maybe one moral at a time.”

  And was rewarded at last with her laugh, as faint starlight glinted in the tips of grasses and in loose strands of her hair.

  “It’s this Sartora thing,” she muttered, and it was her turn to feel embarrassed. “It makes me feel a sham, and yet I still think I have to live up to some, oh, some ideal from a great story as if it were real! Because of what it stands for, that much is real!”

  “So why are you so resistant, if you believe all the fine things they say are true?”

  “I just don’t want them to say it about me. It’s the Sartora name. No. Not the name. What it’s beginning to mean. Good meaning, but . . . I don’t want to be the one wearing a hero-face even to people who will never meet me!”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s, oh, that I can’t make mistakes. I get it, why the Guardian told all these people about me. The animals, even. Not only to watch out for us, as they’ve done. But now they have a kind of symbol, something to give our side courage in a terrible time. So if I make a mistake, then the mistake isn’t just mine, it affects everyone. I cannot bear that!”

  “You think the Guardian set you up?” Senrid said. “Now, that’s interesting. Using myth as a weapon. And . . . it works.”

  He thought back over what he knew of lighter viewpoints on history. He’d already categorized much of lighter celebratory ritual as a poetic way of naming “ins” and “outs”—the ins being our side, and the outs being the enemy. And it did work to hearten the weak, to bind them emotionally to the greater cause. He’d seen it work in Kyale Marlonen, heroic gestures from a kid who otherwise was the most self-involved and narrow-minded he’d ever met, despite her righteous prating about being on the side of Good.

  “Okay, Sartora aside, and back to Siamis. One thing we wicked Marlovens know is military stratagems, and I’m telling you that Siamis slipped you that threat in order to prod you into doing just what he wants.”

  “And I’m telling you that that’s the risk I have to take,” she said.

  “Liere, you’re being a blockhead.”

  Silence.

  She lay down once again, this time on her side, facing away from him.

  He flung himself down on the grass in disgust. Moss tickled his ear, and his back was tired from the posture he’d adopted during the long ride so that Devon could lean against him, but his mind would not cease its whirl of memory, calculations, questions.

  He rolled over, and it was his turn to break the silence. “So what do we do? Because I’ll tell you now I’m not going to stand by and watch you blunder off alone, leaving me to twiddle my thumbs and wait for the great, sad songs about the late martyred Sartora—”

  “I. Am. Going.” Her voice was cold, so cold he knew she was as upset as she’d probably ever been—and as usual, had buried her emotions behind a wall. “Fast. As fast as I possibly can. Use the dyr to free people. It’s what he doesn’t want, so I have to do it. Don’t you see? The dyr will break that weird spell he has on people. That’s why he makes all those threats. He doesn’t want me to use it because he knows it’ll work.”

  “So you get allies to speed you along. Hide your trail.”

  “No. He will kill them. Not just kill them, but bind them to Norsunder. He promised—”

  “You believe the promises of a Norsundrian?”

  “When it comes to death and murder, I believe them.”

  Back and forth they argued, too passionate to be angry with one another for long, because they both knew the stakes either way were horrible.

  Neither convinced the other, though they tried until
they were too exhausted to keep their eyes open—and dawn was very near. Sometimes he referred to incidents in his past as illustrations, always brief, not really comprehending that the entire memory impacted her just as if they’d shared the experience. That is, he didn’t know until he realized that the images he was seeing when she talked about her own limited experiences were not coming in words, but by then he didn’t care.

  Eventually exhaustion wore them both out, and they slept.

  o0o

  The Norsundrians had started a big fire on the terrace, using gathered wood and some furnishings they’d scouted out of the building and smashed up.

  Frederic drifted around the edge of the warmth, occasionally shoved out of the way until he found a spot behind some rubble. He was there, out of sight, when a new Norsundrian appeared. No, not new. He’d been around once or twice; he had a loud, stinging voice. He began many sentences with “But Detlev says . . .”

  Siamis came out, standing in the archway. “Well?” he addressed the newcomer.

  The man was big, with grizzled gray hair. “Detlev sent me for your report. What do you have?”

  Siamis made a summoning gesture. The newcomer and a couple of other Norsundrians ctossed the terrace to go inside, Davernak last. Frederic followed—ignored, as usual.

  The building had been some kind of palace. It was weird because so few of the rooms were whole. Great cracks marred them all. Most had portions of walls or ceiling missing and were opened to the sky, yet the furniture below (that left by the Norsundrians) didn’t look weatherworn. Someone had lived quite comfortably here.

  Siamis snapped his fingers and blue-white glowglobes lit.

  “Liere Fer Eider has indeed been here,” Siamis said. “And she managed to successfully find and free the dyr that had been hidden here for centuries.”

  “Dyr?” One of the Norsundrians muttered, and “Shut up,” Davernak muttered back.

  “It can be used to undo much of what we’ve done,” Siamis explained. “And we can presume that the same helpful busybody who told her how to free it has provided lessons in how to use it.”

  The Norsundrians were silent. None of them understood magic, especially the kind that related to Siamis’s Old Sartoran background, that much Frederic had perceived. What they saw was a rarity: Siamis was angry.