Fleeing Peace

  “Oh, no,” he exclaimed with genial sarcasm.

  He stamped about barefoot, waving his socks and wringing them by turns. On a rock sat his neatly folded cloak, and on the cloak the hatpin and dyr gleamed like a little pool of starlight.

  The girls enjoyed his performance. When he saw that, he spread his socks on a rock and grabbed his butter-colored hair in two handfuls. “Wish we had a knife,” he said. “My hair gets any longer, I’ll be sitting on it.”

  “It’s hardly past your collar,” Devon pointed out. “That’s not long.”

  “It is for me,” Senrid exclaimed, then he puffed out his chest. “We Marlovens are tough! Our hair stays short, not long like some foppish courtier.” He stretched out the front part, which, when straight, nearly reached his chin. “A curtain like this is good for hiding an ugly mug, but it sure gets in the way if you’re fighting a duel.”

  Devon snickered as he demonstrated fighting a duel while blinded, lurching, staggering, and tumbling around. Devon laughed happily, and Senrid warmed himself up as his clothes began to dry out.

  Liere looked down at herself, and discovered to her surprise that there was grime under her nails, and in the cracks of her knuckles. Grime also darkened the stitched seams of her brother’s tunic, which was now too short lengthwise, but was still baggy through the body. The knees of her trousers were shiny with ground-in smears of forest moss. I probably smell like a dirt pile, she thought. But then dirt piles didn’t smell so bad—not outside, anyway. Ought I to have asked the morvende if they had a cleaning frame?

  She leaned over and picked up the dyr, passing it from hand to hand as she turned her attention to Devon, whose dress was also grimy at hem and seams, and her hands and neck were shadowed with dirt, but her braids lay neat and straight down her back and her dawn-singer cloak had been lovingly folded and set on a rock while she brought out and divided up their breakfast. Her expression was one of contentment.

  Liere reflected that Devon, too, had a quest. It was small in relation to the world, but important to her. She wanted to take care of people, and she was happiest being in charge of the food, and of directions and any other concerns Liere gave her.

  What was that image The Guardian had shared with her when she was little, when she tried to explain what harmony in the world meant? Liere employed that image, seeing Devon’s work as a kind of weaving made of invisible threads, golden in the realm of the spirit, bound to everyone whom she contacted: Liere, Senrid, the animals, the morvende.

  Was it so for her own actions? Yes, it was, and for Senrid as well, everything he had done was a kind of weft to her own warp. And so their actions bound to others. In turn, the others’ actions wove invisibly out and out, not just their aid in this quest, but their music, their art, the animals through their own actions, weaving with others yet unseen, until the world was covered by a great tapestry made up of kind acts and common endeavor and shared life.

  That’s what she meant by harmony, she thought, watching the silvery, melted-ice glint of the dyr in the sunlight. She hears it as all the voices singing together, all the way back through time.

  She glanced at Senrid, who sat across from Devon, eating his breakfast. She wouldn’t tell him her thoughts, because she was afraid he’d think she was being pompous. But there would be time enough during the days to come.

  There’d be time if Norsunder didn’t find them.

  Urgency squeezed invisible bands around her heart again, ending the brief respite.

  She set the dyr down again and forced herself to eat her portion of the food. When she was done, she concentrated and listened for the white horses. They were not far. They seemed restless, though.

  She opened her eyes again, and turned her focus to Senrid and Devon. Senrid’s clothes looked damp, not soggy, his hair curling away from his brow and down over his ears and collar. She was conscious of her own grimy, lank hair clumping drearily over her own collar.

  Thinking about appearances?

  Annoyed with herself for such a pointless waste of time, she said, “Let’s go. The horses are uneasy.”

  Senrid’s head lifted quickly and he gave her one of those assessing looks. For once she wasn’t reading his emotions or even his thoughts.

  She turned away to get her cloak and get a last drink of water while he put on his shoes and socks.

  When she returned Senrid was pinning the dyr in his pocket. Then he slung his cloak around Devon, who looked up in surprise. “I want to finish drying out,” he said. “And you got cold yesterday. Maybe two cloaks will keep the wind out.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” Devon said, pulling her own on over Senrid’s.

  Senrid mounted, then lifted Devon up behind. By now it was habit. Devon settled herself, thighs gripping, hands loose.

  The weight of the dyr in Senrid’s pocket reminded him of the discovery he’d made earlier: that he could, in fact, hear others’ thoughts, just as Liere had said.

  She had not even thought to shield her reverie, and so he too experienced her image of the great tapestry, but what he saw that Liere had not was the utterly unconscious generosity and compassion motivating her view of the world.

  Just as well that she hadn’t directed her thoughts at him, forcing him to respond, because he had no response. Not yet. He still didn’t trust himself, or anyone else, with that kind of discourse.

  So he tried constructing one of those mental wall things—and to his surprise discovered that he could shut her out. He could also shut out Devon’s small, running stream of busy thoughts.

  For a time he maintained it, watching the while the countryside around them as they progressed ever southward.

  The afternoon had lengthened the shadows, turning the light to a mellow gold when Senrid sensed a change in the atmosphere. No danger in sight, but the horses’ bodies signaled tension.

  Senrid shifted his gaze away from the river valley below. Flat meadowlands greeny-yellow with late summer growth were dotted here and there with dark groves of trees. He scanned from horizon to horizon. Nothing.

  So he scanned the sky—and got that shoulder blade crawl of danger.

  A huge, dark bird wheeled overhead. Both horses saw it, their heads tossing.

  “Liere?”

  “You, too?”

  They were near one of the clumps of young oak. The horses veered, halting beneath the spreading branches—which were bare. Liere shut her eyes, focusing on the bird as Devon and Senrid watched in silence.

  Liere tensed, then she looked up, blinking hazily. “Elevens,” she whispered. “It’s spying for the elevens. It’s a binding spell.”

  Senrid said, “I wondered when they were going to get the idea of finding animals of their own to use.”

  “I don’t know if it’s looking for us,” Liere began, then she saw Senrid’s sarcastic face, and she gathered her energy and forced herself to make contact again.

  She was used to contact with Norsunder horses, and had managed to become—not accustomed—but inured to the twisting of will she’d found, the knots of fear and anger that underlay magic-reinforced obedience.

  This bird was something new, but she made contact and gave it a brief, vivid image of two white horses bearing human riders moving away to the east downriver.

  The bird gave a shrieking cry and flapped away to the east.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she muttered, struggling against the dizziness caused by these contacts.

  The horses moved again, staying between hills, and zigzagging between groves of trees. Senrid had forgotten his mental wall, and Liere had picked up his thoughts, relaying to the horses the idea of sticking to cover.

  Clouds piled up overhead, driven by a strong and steady wind. The storm blew out of the east, ending the day’s light early.

  When the horses slowed again, Senrid said, “Send the next spy-bird to the west, okay? We need to bear east and get back under cover again.”

  “For now, let’s just find a good spot to—”

 
Liere’s voice suspended when one of the horses tossed his head.

  The other sidled nervously.

  “Elevens,” Liere breathed.

  All three scanned the sky, seeing nothing but clouds.

  Senrid touched the hatpin. It did not grow, but it gleamed silvery, as if reflecting a light-source that Senrid knew wasn’t anywhere near.

  He slid off the horse, then looked back at Liere and Devon, who stared down at him with twin expressions of fear.

  He handed the hatpin up to Liere. “I’m going to scout around a bit. Take a look over these two hills down-valley. This thing only works if elevens are right nearby.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out the dyr. “You better take this, too, because I don’t want it falling out and getting lost in the grass.”

  Liere said, “But I should—”

  Senrid cut in with his old sarcasm, “You want to scout? Sure. You’re so well trained.”

  “Danger,” she said, her voice high. “Don’t go into—on my behalf—”

  “Look. I don’t want to ride blind and trust the elevens not to find us. You shut up, keep looking in that direction over there, and if anyone pops up, you keep your hand on that pin. If it turns into a sword, ride out. I’ll find you. Horse trails are not hard to follow.”

  “So what does scouting mean?”

  “Nothing dangerous. I’m just going to sneak a quick squint down the road in that direction. If I see anything, we’ll know which way to run.”

  Liere hesitated, looking down into Senrid’s face. All she could see was a shadowed blur. She could hear nothing of his thoughts.

  What he said sounded sensible, and he also sounded impatient.

  “All right,” she said.

  Their fingers touched briefly as he slapped the dyr and the hatpin onto her palm, then he was gone.

  Senrid ran low and fast up the adjacent hill. Liere, watching from between branches, saw only a faint glow on his shirt from the disappearing light, then nothing as he went to cover.

  Senrid eased his way up to the crown of the hill, taking care not to create a silhouette or rustle the growth.

  He peered out.

  On the next hill a lone rider sat, motionless. Such an arrogant disregard for cover meant only one thing.

  They’re here! Run!

  He sent the command to Liere’s mind. Then he closed her off, and made a rapid plan of diversion.

  He shouted and pointed away from the girls, “Get away! They’re here!”

  The eleven on the other hill turned his head sharply, and whistled on a piercing note. Senrid slipped down the side of the hill and began running flat out to the north. From the east came the rest of the Norsundrians, veering to close in.

  Senrid lifted that inner wall, reached for Liere, and—ah! She and Devon were now just outside of the search perimeter, and galloping away fast.

  Senrid laughed as he ran. Laughed for once not in bitterness, though he had no illusions about what was about to happen. If he could just keep the Norsundrians from getting the girls, he would call it a score against Siamis.

  The thunder of hooves on the right made him dodge left, leaping a little stream. He ducked through a thicket, heard cursing behind him; the mounted riders were forced to ride round.

  Time. He had to win her time.

  Once again he veered, then doubled back and dove through the thicket again—to almost collide with a horse’s chest. His face stung where prickly leaves had ripped. He rolled, nearly under the horse’s hooves, leaped to his feet, and—

  A hard fist clouted the back of his head from behind. He staggered, tripped, and fell with a splat.

  The Norsundrians ringed him. The single dismounted one moved in with casual ease, clearly expecting to expend little effort to subdue the short, round-faced kid.

  Only to find that the short, round-faced kid, denied training with swords, had been coached by the very best in contact fighting. All his speed, his unvoiced anger, drove him forward.

  Palm-heel to midsection, foot to knee, doubled fists behind the ear, lightning speed and focus.

  The Norsunder crashed down, rolling away to the scornful whoops of his fellows.

  Senrid made a dash for the man’s mount, but a grip on his ankle snapped his head back and he hit the ground hard. A heavy knee thumped down across his spine, and his hands were wrenched excruciatingly behind his back.

  Pain shot across his vision. The red mixed with flaring torchlight.

  “Slit his throat?” came a hard-breathing voice just behind him.

  Senrid’s cheek ground against crushed grass and gravel. He smelled sharp herbs, and almost sneezed.

  Someone stepped near. Senrid heard the crunch of boots on gravel.

  “We’ll have a look.”

  A heave, more pain, and Senrid stood more or less on his feet. Behind him, a pair of big, strong hands held his wrists in a murderous grip. In front a tall man yanked his head back by his hair.

  He stared up into a face silhouetted by torchlight.

  A voice: “That’s Senrid Montredaun-An. Detlev had him on a list—”

  Another voice, one of command: “Siamis gave me specific orders. You four, take him back to Roth Drael.”

  A third: “The girl is riding southeast.”

  The command voice: “Pace her. But stay out of sight.”

  Senrid gritted his teeth.

  The girls were ‘escaping’ straight into a trap.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Thoroughly ashamed of herself, Liere wept as she and Devon rode at the gallop across the wide starlit meadows southward, poor Devon clutching desperately at the horse’s mane as she rode alone.

  Liere was angry with herself as well as ashamed. She knew that crying did no good at all, yet sobs shook her like rocks slamming her ribs, because Senrid had forgotten his mind-shield when he began to run. She’d seen in his memory that he knew what horror he was going back to yet he still ran deliberately into danger and maybe even death in order to deflect her enemies.

  Would this be the first death branded forever on her conscience? The first person killed because she was weak—and the first person she’d ever met who didn’t think her boring, or awkward, or incomprehensible. Or some kind of symbol.

  He’d talked to her. Liere Fer Eider. And their talks had been interesting, even though they always ended up arguing. But that hadn’t mattered, because she had known from the beginning—even though he hadn’t—that their goals were truly the same.

  He was not just interesting, he’d become a friend. Two friends in her life, and one insisted on sharing her danger, and the other had possibly thrown away his own life on her behalf.

  She couldn’t stop crying, hiccupping and nose running, until her chest and throat ached, her head pounded.

  The horses—great-hearts both—at last had to slow.

  They’d brought the girls back to the protection of forestland.

  We’ll go on foot. Liere sent the words to them, along with an image of the girls walking. Even though they descended from creatures not of this world, they were still finite, and she could feel their exhaustion. No more lives would be risked on her behalf. Thank you. Thank you.

  She slid down, and Devon wordlessly followed. They watched the horses trot away into the darkness, and then Liere, seeing Devon’s anxious little face in the moonlight, forced herself to say, “I think we’re safe enough from elevens now. Let’s sleep.”

  It was the first time she’d spoken since they lost Senrid. Devon, racked by fear, felt some of her worry unknot from her bones, and she plumped down onto the grass. Liere’s face had gone remote again, and it was clear to Devon she wouldn’t speak—wouldn’t tell Devon what had happened.

  Devon wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Her eyes blurred and stung as she curled up right where she was, in her two cloaks.

  Liere sat on the grass, then opened her right hand. She felt the ridges that the dyr had cut into her palm. The hatpin she could stick in the collar of her tunic, but
the dyr she would have to carry. And rightly so, she thought bleakly. Just as she would have to carry the memory of Senrid’s last, bitter thoughts as the Norsundrians closed in on him. Then he’d shut her out, and now she couldn’t reach him at all.

  o0o

  She slept badly that night, and her mood remained bleak through the next day.

  Senrid’s absence galled her attempts at control in so many little ways: the sight of Devon’s extra cloak; the extra food in the knapsack; the lack of conversation. The lack of someone to ask when Liere wanted to air a question, because Devon did not really comprehend what interested Liere, and would always quietly defer.

  Liere worked hard to build a shield against her feelings. She had a job ahead, and she could not fail, or there would be yet more deaths on her conscience.

  Halfway through the day more horses showed up, tossing their heads and sidling when Liere tried to warn them away. Devon’s unspoken but strongly felt relief when she gave in reminded her that Devon was only just turned ten—Liere’s eleventh birthday had passed unnoticed as well—and she’d made a long, hard journey for barely comprehensible reasons.

  Devon could ride now, even without reins. Senrid had obviously taught her as they rode south, and Liere hadn’t even noticed. Now the sight of Devon’s straight back, her legs tight against the horse, was yet another reminder of Senrid, a sickening reminder that forced her to realize she didn’t just feel guilty, she missed his company—she who had never looked back when she left her own family.

  The girls rode the rest of the way to the Fereledria, where they spent a couple of days in safety. The snows did not hurt them, and they slept well, always waking to oat-cakes, cheese, and fruits from somewhere far away. Rainbow figures shimmered just at the edges of vision. Liere sensed the dyr resonating in her hand to the sound of faint singing, always just inaudible, like the echo in a morvende cavern after the voices have stopped; the boundaries of time and space blurred. The dream realm was nigh. It was also safe, and so she reached for Lilith the Guardian, to tell her she had the dyr. The Guardian was very far away, and Liere suspected from the shortness of the exchange that she was not in a place of safety.