Fleeing Peace

  He paused, his gaze moving across the faces before him.

  Liere held her breath, her heart thumping against her ribs. Everyone in South End might think (if they still could think) he meant them, but she knew Siamis was referring to her.

  She looked at her lap, not daring to meet his eyes.

  Except . . . she should stand up to this man, if he really was evil. She should break that illusion, for it was equally evil of her to cower here on her seat and permit him to ensorcel her family, her town.

  “I command you to live in harmony with one another. If the day comes when we must rise against the foes of peace and plenty, then I will call on you. Will you follow me, and become like your ancestors, the Old Sartorans?”

  The entire town’s voices raised in a single shout of assent.

  Now she had it. That was the command to be feared—he would order them to make war on other people, and they all assented together, as if their minds had all been bound into a single will! Not theirs, his!

  Shaking with fright, with determination, she stood up and called, “No! Wait!”

  Her voice sounded embarrassingly shrill in her own ears, but she forced herself to speak on—to try to break that spell. “Who took away the good life from Old Sartor?”

  Everyone stared at her with blank eyes.

  “Norsunder,” Siamis answered, smiling.

  Liere gripped tightly on the wooden chair back in front of her. “And . . . where are you from?” she demanded.

  Now Siamis looked at her with astonishment. She knew it was false, for she could still see amusement crinkling his eyelids, but her family, her townspeople, all turned to stare at her in shock and astonishment.

  Liere gazed back at them in dismay. It was too late. They hadn’t betrayed her. They were now under enchantment. She’d betrayed herself—and them—by waiting, by being weak, by being too slow and too timid until it was too late.

  Whispers of indignation hissed from all corners of the room. Her own family looked ashamed.

  Liere wrenched her hands away from the chair back and stumbled over all the feet in her row. Then she ran down the center aisle and out of the building, tears blurring her vision. She heard her father’s voice apologizing, and Siamis reassuring him with kindly laughter. “What can you expect from a confused little child?” was the last thing she heard.

  The confused little child dashed across the terrace, but before she could jump down the stairs and go (where?) a hand caught her arm above the elbow. She stumbled against the plain wooden wall and blinked up at one of the gray-tunicked men.

  He didn’t speak, just gripped her arm firmly and guided her around the side of the building to the back. Another of the warriors opened the door to what looked like a storeroom, and the first one gave her a little push inside, and thrust her down onto a chair.

  The door shut behind her, and she heard the thump of a body against the door—one of the men leaning against it. Through a dirty window Liere just made out the gray of another tunic. She looked around at the jumble of boxes, tables, and two dusty mirrors. It seemed to be a sort of dressing room, probably for the players that sometimes came to town. There was nothing sinister or forbidding about the little room, but fear gripped her, making her feel sick inside.

  Fear. She sat up straight, forcing herself to examine her own emotions. Fear had clouded her judgment. Fear was now causing a physical reaction—the trembling, the tears. She had to use reason, not emotion. Now especially, for the door creaked and Siamis walked in.

  He looked around with that expression of amusement as he pushed aside a box of dusty decorations, hitched a knee over the corner of one of the tables, and perched there. “I’m glad I finally found you.” He gave Liere a kindly smile.

  “I found you first.” She was painfully aware of how thin and high her voice sounded. She’d meant to challenge his friendly comment but she suspected she just sounded silly—knew she’d sounded silly from the look on his face. Not that he laughed, like the local bullies. But his eyes crinkled as though he held the laugh back.

  Her face heated up and her insides roiled.

  “What I’d like to know,” Siamis said, hand open, inviting her to speak, “is what you object to in my prospect for peace?”

  He waited politely, not looking the least bit sinister.

  She took a deep breath. No fear! Reason.

  “I know you come from Norsunder. So I don’t believe you want to help make Imar into a new version of Old Sartor.”

  “I didn’t say that,” he answered. “I told them they’d become like their ancestors, which is true enough in the sense I mean.” His tone made it clear that he did not think highly of their ancestors—Old Sartorans or not.

  Liere looked down at her hands, then up, and met his eyes. She felt a mental contact, and flung up her mental wall.

  “You can’t bespell me,” she exclaimed with all the bravado she could muster. “I passed that trick when I was a day old.”

  Again Siamis almost laughed.

  Liere felt anger melting the icy fear in her middle. “You don’t have any interest in helping people,” she began. “You can’t, if you’re from Norsunder.”

  “You don’t know anything about my interests,” Siamis retorted, completely without anger. “What I’d like is your help.”

  “My help?”

  “Yes. Until you agree, I’ll be happy to sit here and answer any question you put to me.”

  “That won’t work, either.” Her voice quivered again. She hated it.

  “I don’t intend ill will toward anyone.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “If you need proof that I do come from Old Sartor, well, I have this one artifact.” Siamis stood up and unsheathed his sword, laying it across the table with the hilt toward her, the nasty sharp point safely away. Even in the weak, wintry light it gleamed with a silvery glow that scintillated with old magic. It was beautifully made, that she could see, though she knew little about such things. No jewels, and simple in design, but the metal, the style, matched the memories The Guardian had shared with her. The enemies of Old Sartor had not carried such weapons. The Old Sartorans had.

  He really did come from Old Sartor, then. Just like The Guardian.

  “They don’t approve, of course,” he said conversationally, as he lifted it, turned it this way and that to catch the light, then resheathed it. “It was given to me on my twelfth birthday. That was the tradition.”

  Liere stared up at him, struggling to banish mere emotion, to concentrate on pure reason. Except all the clues were so strange. This man carried a weapon made thousands of years ago, for people on the good side. He did not look or sound like the monsters of her imagination, or even like the cruel figures of whom The Guardian had given her brief memory images. He hadn’t denied her accusation; he’d referred to Norsunder as ‘they’, not ‘we’—but not as the enemy, either.

  He said, “After a time I joined them willingly enough, once I’d found that we agreed on specific goals. Norsunder might not like idiosyncrasies like this—” He touched the hilt of his sword. “—but I have a certain amount of autonomy.”

  She realized that she was now supposed to ask what those goals were, but she couldn’t. Once again fear dried her mouth.

  He spoke again. “My confederates ruined Old Sartor, not I. My plan is to accomplish our contiguous goals without needless loss of life.”

  “But they are still the goals of Norsunder,” she managed, furious with herself for not thinking faster, for not being able to do anything. “Norsunder wants to control us, to control life, and magic, and everything. Norsunder’s leaders are . . .” She thought of The Guardian’s warning, and she hated to use profane words—it made them too real. She squashed down her emotions and said, “They are devourers of souls.”

  “And the alternative isn’t? Do you really think you have autonomy after death? That’s Norsunder’s goal, to maintain freedom of will after the physical life ends. One can, allied wi
th Norsunder.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Liere said. “And I don’t want to listen.” She kept her gaze on the table, and again fought against her own emotional turmoil.

  “You are a remarkable child,” Siamis said, still in that kindly, warm voice. “Did you know that? Rare in the world. Perhaps the only one, yet, with your unique combination of potentials. Haven’t you felt isolated—lonely, even?”

  Liere pressed her lips together to keep from answering, but when she sneaked a quick glance Siamis smiled a little, just as if she’d said Yes.

  “I could train you to realize those potentials,” he said. “And you will not be alone. Ever again.”

  Compliments from an enemy were a threat—that much she’d learned just watching children tease one another. “No,” she said.

  “I came to this part of Imar because you are here. I think you understand now how long it took to track you down. Your instinctive mind-shield is quite effective. Until yesterday, I only knew you were a child. Last night I finally found your proximate location, and this morning I discovered you were among the girls in this little town. You are, as I say, singular. And Norsunder knows about you. If I don’t get you, they will.”

  Terror gripped Liere’s heart, and there was nothing she could do to banish it. She covered her eyes with her hands.

  The even, pleasant voice continued. “I will get what I want.” His absolute conviction carried all the force of a vow. “Never doubt that, child.” His voice sharpened slightly: from vow to threat. “If you run, you will wander alone and distrusted. I’ll see to it. I don’t want to kill you. My associates will, because they then have you—with your will or not—if they use one of the enchanted knives.”

  She heard a slight movement and jerked her hands down to see Siamis lay a black-handled dagger on the table, again the point safely away. But the threat was just as terrible as if he’d jabbed it toward her eyes: its steel blade had an ugly sheen to its edges. It was somehow more frightening than the sword because she had seen no evidence of it on his person, and because there was no art, no beauty—even deceptive beauty—in its design. This weapon had a single purpose: to kill.

  “All we need do is inflict a wound. The enchantment on it moves directly into your blood, nearly impossible to remove without killing you, and it enables us access to your mind where ever you go. I’d rather not use this kind of thing,” he said, still in that friendly tone. “Such methods are by necessity crude, and they tend to destroy initiative along with the will. I’d rather you make the sensible choice with clarity of mind, so that you will be able to realize your potential once I’ve been able to educate you. I was twelve,” Siamis said, still smiling, “and exactly the kind of child you are now when I realized what I really wanted.”

  The urge to scream for help seized her. She gritted her teeth, fought for control. “I have to think,” she managed. Her voice wobbled worse than ever, but she no longer cared. “Yesterday I—I didn’t know any of these things you’ve told me. I need time.”

  “They gave me years to decide.” Siamis’s tone was sardonic, and Liere wondered what had happened during those years—no, she didn’t. Not at all. “But I did eventually come around to the inevitable.” He was pleasant and friendly again. “I will give you time to do the same.”

  Liere twitched, fighting the urge to run. She couldn’t believe she’d be free in just a moment.

  Siamis picked up his knife. “Don’t flinch—this blade hasn’t your name on it, as we say. The enchantment on it is for someone far away.” In a quick, practiced movement, he made it vanish up into a wrist sheath. Then his cuff fell forward, covering his wrist, and there was no sign of any knife.

  Liere still backed away a step, but Siamis did not address her again, or make any move toward her. Instead he opened the door and spoke to one of the two men standing outside. The language sounded sinister; she realized she was hearing Norsundrian.

  What Siamis said to Davernak was, “This is the one. Now that we’ve found her, it’s time to pick up the tasks I’ve been forced to postpone. But as you can see, she will slow us down when we need to travel fast.”

  Davernak listened with a mental shrug. Maybe now they’d have some fun.

  But then Siamis said, “Take charge of her. She thinks she’s resisting, but her bravado will fade quick enough after she spends some time with her enchanted family, worrying about the prospect of what comes next. Let her sit in her house and do my work for me. I’ll summon you when I have the time for a recalcitrant child.”

  Davernak was furious when Siams turned to the brat and said in a kindly voice, “He will take you to your home and make certain that you do not leave it until I send for you.”

  Davernak wanted to smack the brat when she said, “My father won’t have one of his kind in our house.”

  “Oh, won’t he?” Siamis smiled.

  Chapter Nine

  Liere had lost all her bravado by then. She walked out the door in silence.

  Davernak gave her a shove once he was out of Siamis’s sight. The spindly brat sprawled on the gravel. As he hauled her up by the scruff of her neck, he thought bitterly, Why me? Why not one of the mindless? They’re perfect for child tending.

  There was one of the mindless tending the animals. Davernak got an idea.

  He threw the brat up into the saddle, mounted behind her, and snapped his fingers at the mindless guard to follow.

  Liere hated having this bully squashing her around the ribs in order to keep her on the horse. She could feel his contempt, his wish to knock her down just because he was angry at Siamis’s orders. But she was afraid of falling. The horse seemed as high as a roof, only shifty.

  “Where do you live?” the warrior asked in her own language.

  She managed to give directions. The horse plunged. She clutched its mane tightly in her fists, though the warrior had not loosened his grip.

  The horse snorted, began to move, its gait and speed soon alarming. Liere closed her eyes and held tightly to the rough horse hair, despite the jerks and heaves of the animal’s head and neck.

  When they reached her house, the man climbed off and yanked Liere down, setting her more or less on her feet. He left the horse with the other guard, whose mind was like fog, and followed Liere up onto the porch.

  Liere opened the door and walked in. The man followed.

  Her father came out just as she reached the first stair, but he was not angry, nor did he ask any questions. He smiled, an unfamiliar expression that seemed empty of meaning. That, too, was terrifying.

  “Siamis wants her kept from leaving,” Davernak said, knowing that he had to use Siamis’s name, and speak clearly and simply to the enchanted.

  “Very well,” Liere’s father responded agreeably.

  Liere’s emotions finally overcame her tenuous control, and she whirled and ran upstairs, her breath shuddering. The horror had not ended: she’d just heard a Norsundrian murderer invited into their house.

  With his own hands, her father set a chair by the door, so the warrior could see the stairs and the doors to the kitchen and parlor.

  She retreated into her bedroom, fighting to control the stupid weeping. Crying never did any good! She had to accept the fact that everyone in South End—everyone except her—was under this spell.

  Outside, she heard the horrible man’s voice, but not what he said.

  Davernak issued clear and simple orders to the mindless one: “Stay here. Sit by the door. Do not let the girl get past you. Keep guard until I return.” Davernak knew that Siamis would send a summons by magic, at which time he could return to South End and retrieve the guard and the brat.

  Until then he was on his own. He could make better use of his time.

  Up in the room Liere shared with Marga, she thought back over Siamis’s threats. She suspected he could do everything he said he could. She remembered his casual handling of the sword and the knife, such a contrast to her brothers’ sporadic attempts at martial tricks with t
he kitchen carving knives; their clumsiness, which usually resulted in a cut hand or a nicked knife, had caused their parents to forbid such games. Liere had never handled a knife at all, for her mother thought her too absent-minded to learn vegetable peeling yet. Siamis could have cut her throat with either sword or knife and she could not have stopped him. Even that warrior downstairs, who had lifted her so easily from the horse, how could she attack him and expect to win?

  She wasn’t strong enough to fight any Norsundrian. Certainly not in first, and she wasn’t sure about second. Not Siamis, anyway.

  So what could she do?

  Despair pressed on her mind. She moved to the window and looked into the busy street. Marga and the other little ones were not playing. Instead, they worked at chores. Others moved about their business, but without idling or gossiping like always.

  The spell was real, but no one knew. No one except Liere.

  I can’t fight Siamis, she thought. But I have to find a way to break that spell.

  Conviction gripped her. She wasn’t supposed to fight. Her job was to find a way to break Siamis’s spell.

  How?

  She knew so little about magic! She had to learn, and soon.

  But first she had to get away from that warrior downstairs—from Siamis—from South End. Then she could try to call Lilith the Guardian in her mind. If she got away, it wouldn’t matter if she was too far away to hear the Guardian at first.

  She couldn’t climb out the window as the walls were flat and bare. Her father did not like the messiness of trees or shrubs. She’d be seen by a neighbor, who would surely report it to the Norsundrians.

  The only way out was down the stairs—past the warrior.

  But not as herself.

  Siamis hadn’t even asked her name. The warrior had needed directions to her home. The Norsundrians—as yet—knew nothing about her family, but that could change at any moment.