Fleeing Peace

  From the great ferns and broad oaks behind him several fierce-looking young men and women rode, leading three riderless mounts.

  “Mount up,” the young man said, his horse tossing his head and sidling. “We want to get back to camp before the next rain, and we have much to talk about. Ah, I’m Meral Winzhec—everyone calls me Winn—at your service.” The young man bowed over his horse’s withers.

  Leander and Dtheldevor liked his manner. Senrid reserved approval until he saw some action.

  The three mounted up, and there followed a wild gallop through the hills. Leander was not used to rough riding, and so he did not even attempt to guide his mount. The smooth gait of the white horses on their occasional rides down in North Forest had been too easy; now it took all his concentration just keep his seat. From the looks of her profile (and the occasional curse) Dtheldevor was having the same problem. Not Senrid. Riding was one of the few exercises his uncle had not denied him—it was too much a part of Marloven culture—and he matched Winn pace for pace, leap for leap.

  Leander kept the pace—barely—and was relieved to observe in Winn and Senrid as they rode into a camp surrounded by gentle hills grown over with towering aspen and young oak and maple, that whatever unspoken contest had taken place had been resolved to mutual satisfaction.

  “This way,” Winn said, leading them down to a tent village.

  Senrid noted the camp with approval, as he had the perimeter.

  Inside a tent, they dropped onto low cushions around a folding table.

  “We have to get to Evend,” Senrid said. “Norsunder is building a rift here.”

  “We know about the rift. We know all about the weakness between worlds here. Norsunder has been trying off and on, in various ways, to reestablish their access as long as history has been written.” Winn shrugged. “What can you tell us that’s new?”

  Senrid gave him a concise report on what he’d understood of Siamis’s plans, and then what he’d surmised.

  Winn said, “Oalthoreh and the other mages have been finding and extinguishing these rift-points for months. But I have heard nothing about Siamis being here.” Winn turned back to Senrid. “However, we’ve had a sudden increase in the number of Norsundrians riding about. So what is needed?”

  “Three things.” Senrid leaned forward.

  Leander eased his aching legs and sighed in relief. Maybe convincing them wouldn’t be so hard after all.

  “First is magic harassment. And I know spells that are effective. Second, hit-and-run attacks to keep his bully-boys busy. Third, a wider plan of harassment in the other countries, to keep Siamis busy. All people have to do what they can, or the elevens will regroup and start in with kill-and-burn tactics to buy themselves time until the rift is ready. We have to keep ‘em busy before they keep us busy—keep ‘em separate and on the run. This is our territory, an advantage only if we use it. Siamis doesn’t have a big force, not in world terms. He’s spread thin. And if he has to run all over, then he doesn’t have time to use his . . . considerable force to make the kind of rift he really wants.”

  “Yes,” Winn said, wondering what Senrid had almost said, but hadn’t. Then he mentally shrugged off the matter: even if the boy told them, it was probably magic-related. Winn knew nothing about magic.

  So he’d talk about what he did know. “If the dyr-wielder can free the Gerandans and Toarans he’s using down south for strong-arm purposes . . .” He snapped his fingers, then opened his hand. “Even more trouble for Norsunder.”

  “I like that!” Dtheldevor cackled.

  “So let’s talk specifics. I’ve got armies of birds waiting to disperse all over, and others who will spread the news farther, but we’ll need to do a couple of things with our messages, if we expect to get the entire world to listen.”

  “Spell out the tactics for the civs to follow,” Senrid said.

  “You’re ahead of me, young Marloven,” Winn countered, and at the wary expression on Senrid’s face, he laughed. “Of course I know who you are. And I’ve been to your cavalry academy, oh, ‘bout ten years ago. Was not impressed, I might add.”

  “No,” Senrid said, and grinned his toothy grin. “But try again in five years.”

  Winn smiled. “We shall see! For now you must remember: as the countries are freed, so the rulers will be busy at home. Magic I don’t know, but politics I do. We need something stronger than home-instinct to turn their attention outward. A symbol, a leader. A way to bind them together.”

  Senrid’s lip curled, then his expression smoothed as he reminded himself that though lighters needed symbols, he’d seen the effect.

  More important, he had seriously underestimated the leaders of Bereth Ferian. Most of his time had been put to figuring out ways to get them to listen, to get them to think universally, without acknowledging the fact that Bereth Ferian was a world center of learning.

  Senrid looked up to discover Winn studying him in a calculating way. “Whatever you pick for a symbol, it sure isn’t going to be a short kid who wasn’t even permitted to attend the corrupt academy of Marloven Hess. And Liere still seems to be hiding.”

  Leander saw where this conversation was going, and galloped his fingers across the table. “I think I know what you want. Winn’s Charge.”

  Winn pressed his fingertips on his chest. “Not I!” He gasped in a parody of humility.

  “You did well enough for us when we fought against Dzydes,” the young woman spoke for the first time.

  Winn groped in the air. “Help me think of a suitably modest denial.”

  Leander laughed, Senrid grinned, and Dtheldevor slapped her knee. “What’s the use o’ a hero unless he’s out there doin’ heroics?”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Messengers winged across the world, sped by those who were capable of effecting transfers. Anyone near the Selenseh Reidian caves was considerably startled by sudden flights of birds emerging, then spreading out in all directions to spread the word.

  In Mearsies Heili, so near one of the caves, it was only half a day before a sparrow came to Murial. She promptly dispatched a summons to Clair, who transferred down to the Junkyard with the message.

  “I want to go!”

  “Me! Me! Me! Me!”

  “Wahoo, an adventure!”

  “Snorble grunch!” That was Faline, of course.

  Since everybody wanted to go to Murial’s, too, Clair got them together and performed the transfer.

  As soon as they recovered, Murial pressed her hands together in the old-fashioned peace mode. “I am honored to meet you, Sartora.”

  Clair was dismayed at the way Liere hunched her shoulders, her mouth turning down at the corners.

  “Thank you,” Liere said in a flat, remote voice. “But anyone could have done what I’ve done. Probably better.”

  Clair wondered what to say to make things right, but her aunt forestalled her. “I don’t know much about people.” Murial made an apologetic gesture. “My study has been magic, my friends animals. And it’s the animals who have befriended your cause.”

  “Oh,” Liere said, slightly mollified. “They have saved us many times.”

  Murial smiled. “And will continue so long as they can. Norsunder has already discovered ways to use them against us, something we can’t address now. What we need to address is the recent news from the north, because it will affect you, if you are ready to go forth to unenchant the world.”

  “I think I’d better.” Liere looked down at her hands. “I probably should have left the day I came.” She turned Clair’s way, her expression wistful. “But it was so nice here.” Her expression closed. “But I’ve been weak. Clair, may I ask Hreealdar for help?”

  “He already wishes to carry you,” Clair said, wishing she knew Liere well enough to say You haven’t been weak, you’ve been normal. But even after several days, she couldn’t understand Liere, who sometimes acted like the rest of the girls, then in the next moment hunched up wooden-faced. Like now.

&
nbsp; “Thanks.” Liere’s relief showed in her pink cheeks, and her skinny chest heaved. “But what else, then? With Hreealdar taking me, I will be almost as fast as magic would be.”

  “You can carry a message,” Rel said, speaking for the first time. “It’s not enough to free people. We have to stay free. If your kings or councilors or dukes or guild leaders ask what is to be done, there is a plan. Straight from Bereth Ferian, arrived just today. Even if they do not ask, you must tell them, or it’s not going to work—everyone must rise at once, and attack the Norsundrians in concert. Or as close as we can get.”

  Liere chewed her lip, feeling her own inadequacy—her own arrogance. How could she think she was really fighting alone? “Tell me what to say,” she asked. “And I will say it. But I have to understand.”

  Rel explained Winn’s Charge in simple terms. “Kings and queens and other leaders used to warfare will probably know immediately what to do,” he finished. “Enough to let them know there’s a general strategy, and a target date. Others will probably ask for the details—and sometimes the justification, for they are going to want to confine their attentions to recovery at home.”

  Liere thought, My safe life is over.

  She did not dare to think about the future. It just brought all those horrible emotions that clouded clear thinking. “I will leave today,” she said.

  Rel smiled. “The magic side is now your end, but this one is mine. I think I’ll go out and see what I can stir up locally.”

  Clair said quickly, “Thanks, Rel.”

  He flipped up a hand in casual farewell and walked out of Murial’s cabin into the night, his pack slung over his back, and Daelender at his side.

  Liere said, bewildered, “What? He’s gone? Like that?”

  “He hates being thanked, or being made much of,” Clair said, as CJ rolled her eyes, but stayed silent. “He told me once that it is usually followed promptly by requests for favors.”

  Liere sighed. “The magic side. What does that mean? I don’t know any magic, save my spell with the dyr.”

  “That’s what you need to be concerned with,” Murial said as she sat in her window seat. “And that is plenty. The rest will concern others. It has to do with the ongoing trouble with rifts, now that Siamis has reappeared again, in the north. Apparently he vanished instead of helping in the south, and as you know, Norsunder was unable to establish their rift.”

  “I hope it means trouble between the elevens,” Clair said. “That can only help us.”

  CJ rubbed her hands. “If the elevener stinkbombs squabble and fight among themselves, they do our work for us.”

  Murial said smoothly, “Conversely, if they get us fighting among ourselves, we help their cause. We seem to be very good at that. It takes so little effort on their part.”

  CJ flushed, arms crossed.

  Liere felt accused, too, as if the world’s problems were somehow her responsibility.“So that is why you live alone?” she asked, then blushed for her daring.

  Murial laughed. “It is. But I am not the matter before us. Clair, this is where you are concerned. Keeping Norsunder busy is not just a military matter. We need mages making nuisances of themselves up in the north.”

  Clair drew a breath. “I could do that.”

  Murial turned her way. “You and CJ could both go north to Bereth Ferian. Mearsieanne and I can break the remainder of Norsunder’s wards here, and watch the country. But there is a reason to send you—a young person—north.”

  The floorboards creaked as Mearsieanne entered the room from the little study.

  Mearsieanne said to Clair, “I would like to stay here to help. I do not plan to usurp your throne. This is not my time, it’s yours. But I need a cause.”

  Clair had been trying not to think about what it meant to have two queens. She understood Aunt Murial’s I am not the matter before us. Clair had had nightmares about enemies stealing her kingdom from a girl whose land had no army, but she’d never thought to lose her throne to her own family.

  “I’m ready,” CJ stated, arms still crossed. “Just tell me where to go, and I’ll pack some nasty pies, and my spell book.”

  Liere had been studying the ground. She said, “I’m confused. I learned . . . by accident . . . that the only way to end a large rift was if someone put magic on themselves and then sacrificed their life. So Norsunder couldn’t get them and reverse the spell. They are afraid about a mage called Evend. Isn’t there another way?”

  Murial sighed. “It’s been the most permanent way. It is a reversal of the way they are set up, but for light magic it only works on those who have extended their lives by magic. The magic falls apart if someone is forced, or whose natural span is not over.”

  Liere shook her head. “It doesn’t make it right.”

  “No,” Clair and Murial said together.

  Mearsieanne stayed silent.

  Liere wiped her clammy palms on her trousers. “I sent Evend a message. Telling him to wait. See, Senrid told me there’s another way, that you can use a magical object. It gets destroyed. Maybe the same way as the life. I don’t know how it works. As soon as I am done with Siamis’s enchantment, I thought I would go to Bereth Ferian and find Senrid.”

  “He is there,” Murial said.

  “He is?” Liere’s face lifted, and for the first time, the others saw a genuine smile instead of her polite one.

  Clair said, “Now that we’ve got a plan, let’s go back to the Junky and get a good night’s sleep. I’ve got to figure out a way to get us up north that won’t take months.”

  “The Selenseh Reidian,” Mearsieanne said. “The messenger birds came via those caves. It seems that magic transfer is possible between caves. But you can only transfer to other caves. As soon as you leave them, Norsunder’s wards detect you, as always.”

  “That’s good enough,” Clair said, thinking of that vast long distance northwards. “I know there is one up near Bereth Ferian—that is why the city was built there in the first place.”

  Mearsieanne said, “That’s what I read as well. That all the Old Sartoran cities were built near those caves.” She turned to Murial. “Except, what about ours? There weren’t any Old Sartoran cities here. Not in any records I’ve seen!”

  Murial lifted her hands. “The ancient past in this area is hidden—there are no records that I have ever found. But have you ever considered who might have built our palace on the mountain? Though it is familiar to us as we all were born in it, I’m told there is nothing like it in all the world.”

  Mearsieanne said, with a twisted smile, “Its history is also hidden. As is our family history.”

  Clair snorted a laugh, glancing at the card game going busily at the other end of the room. “The girls are going to hate using the cave.”

  Liere looked at her in surprise. The Mearsieans really didn’t know that what they called the Selenseh Reidian ‘cave’ was home to another kind of sentience.

  Chapter Forty

  Back at the Junky, Clair outlined the plan. The girls cheered, and Devon said, “I’ll help you pack.”

  No one noticed Devon as CJ rubbed her hands. “They need us. No grownup magicians will be able to think of the good stuff. Why, they’ll spend days poring over musty books in order to find a spell to stop the boulder-brains when a good, quick food spell and a rain of pea soup will do it much faster.”

  “Fire ants in the boots!”

  “Itch-weeds in the clothes!”

  “Prune-peach-pumpkin pies in the phizz!”

  “Oh, this plan is going to be fun.” CJ grinned. “Except I really think we ought to test those pies ahead of time, to make sure that we get ones that the villains can’t possibly like!”

  “Of course,” Faline exclaimed. “Detlev couldn’t possibly like a good chocolate pie, or he wouldn’t be a villain.”

  “Right,” Sherry said—completely serious—and raised a finger. “Now, when he thinks of tasty pie, what you want to bet his first choice is a rotten-banana-cabb
age-cherry disgustimento?”

  “No!” Gwen hooted. “A yam-spam-cram deluxe!”

  “No, a mud-onion-spoiled-spud wazoo!” Faline declared, hopping from one foot to the other.

  Voices rose, all the girls offering disgusting combinations, until CJ yelled, “Enough talk! Time for action!”

  “I can help . . .” Devon began, but the girls dispersed in all directions. Devon turned one way, then back, and followed Sherry to the kitchen, where Liere could hear her piping voice issue a stream of advice about what foods Liere would eat.

  Liere didn’t know if she should interfere or if that would make things worse. Then Clair waved her over to the side table.

  “We still can’t use our magic because of those wards, but one kind of magic will get around that, because who ever wards kitchen spells?”

  Liere turned out her hands, not knowing what to answer.

  Then Sherry reappeared, carrying a big tray of pies. Devon trailed her, looking completely confused.

  Liere was also confused. Something was going on. The pies oozed a slime of jellies, buttered goods, and sauces that smelled awful in conjunction with one another.

  Sherry yelled, “Testing!”

  A stampede of bare feet brought the girls back up the tunnels.

  “Okay.” CJ whirled around. “Who’s going to be Siamis?” And when no one spoke, “You get first pick of the weapons.”

  “I will,” Dark-haired Diana said promptly. She reached down and reverently lifted a pie with a glutinous filling of boiled cherries, topped with mashed green peas and old banana. It looked revolting.

  “Oh, Siamis,” CJ warbled. “You are so evil and nasty. I am so afraid. I guess I’ll have to give you the thousand year old crown of the Mearsiean Empire—”

  She picked up a pie that seemed to comprise orange filling mixed with prune-jelly, and threw it right at Diana—who ducked.

  The orange pie landed on Faline’s knee, making a squelching noise. Faline copied the noise with her lips, then convulsed.