A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  Maybe she should go and stand there, even if she scarcely dared sit. Anything was better than the irresistible urge to see It, to make sure It was still there. She knew she shouldn’t, though she couldn’t say why. It was just wrong.

  But she had to. Just a peek. Because Senrid had said before he left that Siamis hadn’t surrendered that ancient sword named Truth, he’d left it as a warning.

  Liere took a step and another across the elaborate mosaic depicting a winged dragon surrounded by flames, or petals, or both. She hunched her shoulders, refusing to look up at the great dome overhead with its many long windows that should be showing sunlight. They were nearly dark, though the ceremony had begun at noon.

  She reached the richly gleaming double doors higher than the eaves of her father’s shop back in Imar. She ran her fingers along the gold carvings, a riot of flames that Arthur had said represented the Gate between Worlds, whence the dragons had come millennia ago, and through which they’d vanished again, leaving behind the inspiration for strange pieces of art and music and stranger tales about their sojourn in Sartorias-deles.

  She yanked her hands down guiltily and scurried inside the antechamber before the old throne room.

  Arthur had told her that this beautiful building had once been a royal palace, from which kings and queens had ruled over a federation of territories bound together to defend themselves against the ancestors of those very Venn who were eating pastries over in the Hall of Light on the opposite side of the palace, as they talked about trading foodstuffs—hard to grow in the storm-battered Land of the Venn—for their wonderful stoves, beautifully soft yeath fur gathered from the bushes where the animals scraped it off each spring, and wool.

  Father was right. Revealing that she’d been born with the ability to hear people’s thoughts and remembering everything she’d been told seemed to make her so awful, or boring, or something, that no one wanted to be around her. Like the Mearsiean girls. She had spent weeks with them, had done everything they suggested, had laughed at all their jokes, but when Clair got that letter, did they think about asking Liere to join them?

  No.

  All those girls had been adopted by Clair. They were Liere’s age. Senrid had said . . . She sighed. No use in remembering what Senrid had said. She had to stop having imaginary conversations with him.

  She tapped the carving in the discreet side door, then held her breath and stepped through. The door looked solid, but Arthur had taught her that this was illusion. Glowglobes much plainer than the pretty ones outside in the silent halls revealed a narrow stone passage. She ran down the stairs to what had once been a treasure room, and before that a dungeon. At the end of the hall, there was an iron-reinforced door, with a magic spell bound into it for extra protection.

  Arthur had showed her how to get past the spell, after which she used both hands to lift the heavy latch and ease the door open wide enough to slip inside.

  The room beyond was even colder. She clapped on the glowglobe, and let out a breath of relief. It was still there, lying alone on a carved stone table. She tiptoed up, knowing she was being silly. That sword would not jump up and slash around the room at the sound of footsteps. But still. She kept her hands laced behind her as she stared at the thing made four thousand years ago.

  She tried to imagine Siamis her own age, being given this sword, in a world that shared the same seas and lands and sky, but in all other ways completely different. She tried to imagine having to grow up in Norsunder while thousands of years passed. Her father scolded her, and despised her, but at least he wasn’t a Norsundrian villain.

  She heard an echo of Senrid’s wry voice. Nobody throws away a four-thousand-year-old sword. He’s going to come back for it.

  “Liere?”

  Liere knew that voice so well that she thought at first it was inside her head, another memory vivid as life. But the quick step that followed caused her to whirl around, joy and surprise sparking into light inside her. “Senrid!”

  Senrid and Arthur stood side by side in the treasure room door, two blond boys of roughly the same age, but to her eye they were utterly unalike: Arthur slightly taller, but slightly stooped, skinny in his formal robe, and Senrid short and slender, his shoulders and hands tension points, his body poised to move. Just as he had when she first met him, he wore a perfectly tailored white shirt with loose sleeves, and black riding trousers with a dull gold stripe down the side, disappearing into high blackweave riding boots.

  His reaction to her obvious joy was too quick to catch before he shuttered it away, but she recognized that wry grin of self-mockery.

  “I hoped you wouldn’t be here,” Arthur said. Then he grimaced, knowing he sounded petty, but he was worried.

  And he’d forgotten that both the others could hear his thoughts. Liere turned to Senrid as if had been a day or two since they’d last seen one another, instead of months. “Tell him. What you said. Siamis didn’t surrender that sword.”

  “Definitely not.” Senrid shrugged, a jerky movement. “Arthur, have your mages checked it over? There’s only one reason to leave it behind. Because it’s loaded with magical traps.”

  “They checked it first thing,” Arthur said in a defensive tone.

  Senrid opened a hand, palm down. “Second reason, maybe he left it here so his uncle couldn’t have it.” At Arthur’s surprised look, Senrid said, “They were squabbling when I was a prisoner in Norsunder. I mean, I only heard it—sort of—once, but everybody in the Norsunder Base gossiped about some kind of trouble between Siamis and Detlev. And you should remember at the end, there, before Evend ended the rifts, your mages were all willing to back Liere in ending Siamis’s enchantment. But Detlev didn’t back Siamis. Though we don’t know why.”

  The mention of Evend caused a quick contraction of grief in Arthur’s face. He was obviously remembering, too. Arthur said, “Oalthoreh and the senior mages think that Detlev abandoned Siamis.”

  “Or it was a test,” Senrid said. Or a feint. He didn’t want to reveal how much he’d been worrying at that question, knowing it was futile. He simply didn’t know enough.

  Senrid shrugged tightly. “So I think the sword got left so Detlev can’t have it, it being some kind of family heirloom. It even has a name,” he added, for Marlovens did not name weapons, considering them extensions of their hands, instruments of will and skill. But Senrid knew that in other lands, weapons had names because warriors felt a kinship with the implement that was expected to defend their lives.

  “Emeth,” Liere said in a low voice, her gaze fixed not on the sword, but beyond it, into memory. “Ancient Sartoran word for ‘truth.’ Siamis said once when he attacked me by mind, wasn’t it funny that he had a weapon named ‘truth’ when there isn’t any truth. That truth is whatever the strong say it is.”

  Both boys stared at her. Arthur had never heard her speak a word about the harrowing days when she had been on the run from Siamis and Norsunder, being the only person who could use the dyr, an Ancient Sartoran artifact, to rip apart Siamis’s enchantment like a broom clearing moth webbing.

  Senrid remembered the chase, remembered the day Siamis had attacked Liere mind to mind, but she had refused then to tell him what was said.

  When the pause became a silence, Arthur cleared his throat. “Well, I believe he’s wrong. Just because he doesn’t want to believe there isn’t any truth doesn’t make it so.”

  Senrid shrugged, quick and sharp. “What matters here is why he left that sword behind.”

  Liere stirred, her huge light-brown eyes golden in the shafting light. “I think . . . I think he left it on purpose. As a sort of warning.”

  Senrid’s brows shot upward. “You mean, like throwing down a war banner? Yeah, that I can see.”

  But Liere gave her head a little shake. “Not that. Not just that. Norsunder makes threats all the time, don’t they? Everything they do is a threat of war, or
attack, or bad things. I think there’s something else.” She looked up at the boys. “Though maybe you’re right about him not wanting Detlev to have it.”

  “Sounds kind of petty,” Arthur said doubtfully. “But maybe they are that petty.”

  Senrid turned his palm upward. “Not so petty if there’s magic on it that even your mages can’t find, or there’s some power struggle going on in Norsunder, and the sword is part of it.”

  Senrid knew his speculation was getting wilder with every word, but he pursued it anyway, because he wanted to hear what Arthur, who had the ear of all the senior lighter mages, would say.

  But Arthur merely shook his head, and Liere’s gaze narrowed. “Senrid, what’s that on your face?” She peered at the nearly faded bruises.

  He jerked one shoulder impatiently. “Walked into a door.” And, “I didn’t hear from you. Thought you’d . . .” He flicked a hand up, taking in the palace.

  Liere’s joy altered to dismay, and Senrid knew instantly that he’d managed to talk himself into misjudging her. “. . . be too busy learning,” he amended the sarcasm, striving for neutrality.

  “And I thought you were too busy. But here you are. You remembered!”

  “Remembered?” he repeated.

  “You promised. I could visit your country. If things settled down. Have they settled down?”

  Senrid was about to say that she could have come to visit any time she wanted, but recollected what Hibern had said. It matched with Liere’s anxious twisting of her fingers, her wistful expression. He should have known that she would never ask for something expensive like a transfer token.

  The bards could warble about Sartora, the Girl Who Saved the World, but she saw herself as a shopkeeper’s brat. She’d been scolded her entire life into believing herself clumsy, stupid, and unimportant. He knew it better than anybody, but he’d managed to let himself believe she’d swallowed all the twaddle about ‘the great Sartora.’

  Furious with himself, he said, “Things are . . . things. No use in boring on about home.”

  Liere said quickly, “I’ve been learning.” Her thumbnail dug at the cuticles on her forefinger in the worried gesture he remembered from the desperate days they were on the run together. “You know how ignorant I am. So I’m going to read everything in the archive. I started with the first shelves, which turned out to be the oldest ones, copies of Sartoran taerans. Do you know that word? It means their old scrolls, and they are ever so difficult. But sometimes there are these events, and Arthur says it’s polite and proper to attend . . .”

  Senrid was gazing at her, unsettled by how quickly she detected his emotions. He’d forgotten how quick she was, and he wasn’t used to anyone seeing past the bland face he’d used as his shield ever since he could remember.

  “. . . though Arthur said to pretend that Sartora is a role, and I’m on a giant stage, but it doesn’t work. When people go to a play, they know that the players wear roles. People who come here expect Sartora to be a real person. Not me,” she said in a breathless rush.

  Senrid exclaimed, “This is why I don’t see any jewels? Royal robes? Isn’t that your brother’s old tunic? I can’t believe there isn’t any cloth in the entire north to sew up a new shirt or pair of trousers, at least.”

  Liere’s thin cheeks reddened. “They’ve given me so many beautiful things! Enough for a family of ten. But I don’t really feel comfortable in all that stuff.” She looked helplessly at Arthur. “Everyone here is so generous and kind . . .”

  So no one teased her? Senrid would fix that. “And it makes you feel even more like a fake. Oh-h-h-h, wo-o-o-o-oe is me!” He grinned when he won a small laugh at that.

  He’d meant to make this a short visit. But as he listened to her sudden laugh, he thought about how much he’d missed it, and he had to face the truth: he really didn’t want her in Marloven Hess. It was too easy to imagine her looking around in horror, or saying something about warmongers.

  Who was being stupid now? He said recklessly, “Come on, let’s cure your gloom with some broiling weather.”

  Liere’s lips parted. “What? You mean—”

  “Unless you don’t want to risk poisoning your purity by setting foot in my evil kingdom, why not come along and watch the academy gymkhana?”

  Her joy flared, a flash of sunlight in the realm of the spirit. “I’d love that!”

  Liere remembered where she was, and her obligations, and turned to Arthur, who was staring at her like she’d grown an extra arm. “Um, ought I to be back at a certain time? Or—” Liere spread her stiff, nervous fingers.

  Arthur gave them a determined grin. “That’s the good part about being a symbolic queen. Come and go as you like. Long as you aren’t forgetting an appointment to meet with any powerful sorcerers or guild chiefs that you might have made?”

  “Just breakfast with Siamis and three other Norsundrian commanders,” Senrid put in, his face straight. “I can transfer her back in time for those.”

  Liere had been shaking her head somberly, but now she looked up, startled, then laughed.

  It was the first real laugh Arthur had heard from her, so different from those self-conscious, sycophantic giggles she’d expressed at the Mearsiean girls’ antics.

  “. . . it’ll be hot, and dusty, and you’re going to see more horses then you’ve probably ever seen. Or smelled—”

  “Could I ride one? I so miss riding.”

  Arthur stared at Liere, his lips parting to say, You never told us that. But Senrid forestalled him. “After the exercises, I’ll introduce you to the girls at the stable. How’s that?”

  Liere whispered, “Don’t tell them who I am. Then nobody will pay any attention.”

  Senrid knew that ‘no one paying attention’ was impossible for anyone in his position. He was a walking target, at least for talk, maybe for assassination. But he could use his position to keep people at arm’s length until she felt more comfortable. If comfort was possible in the Evil Marloven Hess.

  “Oh, let’s go,” she said, sensing his mounting doubts.

  They soon transferred away, leaving Arthur wondering what was he going to say to the Sartoran mage guild when they sent their next emissary. She hates being here, and would rather go watch Marlovens play war and ride horses didn’t sound very diplomatic, even if it was the truth.

  * * *

  —

  The transfer made Liere feel as if she’d been turned inside out, then stuffed back right side in again by an impatient hand, like a pair of socks readied for the washtub.

  She found herself in a room with a row of tall windows open to the air. She looked out as she drew in a long, unsteady breath to settle her insides. The windows looked out over some kind of square filled with color, and noise, and a whole lot of shades of brown, gray, and yellow. Gradually the noise resolved into what seemed to be a thousand versions of Senrid, all speaking quick, sibilant Marloven, with horses in a long string at one wall.

  Among all the blond heads were ones with dark hair, and red hair; tall boys, short, even a few girls, all dressed pretty much alike; clear consonant-sharp voices in the hot air. They sounded like Senrid because they spoke with his accent, and they kind of moved like him, except none so fast, or with three stiffened fingers, the way Senrid tended to gesture when he was tense.

  Because he was definitely tense. She saw it the moment she turned around. She remembered all his sarcastic remarks about Evil Marlovens, and knew instinctively that he was waiting for her to judge. But what was there to judge? When she’d broken Siamis’s worldwide spell, she’d had to do it kingdom by kingdom. A light-being called Hreealdar had taken her on that journey, which had lasted several weeks, during which she’d seen people from across the world. All kinds of people. From places famed down the ages to ones no one had ever heard of. But the people in all those places had all shared so many of the same emotions: pu
zzlement, fear, anger, relief, when the spell restored their minds to them.

  To her, Marlovens looked like people.

  “Arthur resents your muscling into a title up there in Bereth Ferian?” he asked, startling her out of her reverie.

  “Oh, not at all.” Liere glanced at him in surprise. “Not at all. He is still a kind of king, too, as Evend’s heir, and anyway those titles are what they call a courtesy.” She squirmed, hating that sense of being a fraud, even if her ‘title’ didn’t actually mean anything.

  “What does a courtesy title entail?” Senrid asked, coming to stand beside her at the window.

  “Arthur told me that a king or queen in Bereth Ferian can’t make laws, or give commands. It’s a presiding thing, over the federation, and also over the archive, and all the old magical protections. Did you know the library is the biggest one in all the north half of the world?”

  “Not much competition, from what I remember of our run,” Senrid said.

  “Arthur says that humans are outnumbered by all the other types of beings in the north. It’s here in the south where there are more humans,” Liere said, looking slowly around the room with interest. “Anyway, I’m not a real queen, but Arthur said if the federation ever comes to argument, and I’m presiding, they might think I’ll do some kind of mind spell, and I shouldn’t tell them I can’t. I still don’t get that, whether he was joking or not. Like when he said that what he really wants to be is King of the Libraries. I like this room,” she exclaimed, taking in the fine desk, the cabinet by it, and the colorful map on the wall behind the desk.

  “It’s my study.” Senrid jabbed the three fingers toward the door. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour.”

  She followed him into a hall formed out of light brown stone, not the expected gray of granite. The sandy color seemed warm, though maybe that warmth was the strong summer light brightening everything, so welcome after the horrible dark and pervasive cold of the far north. Someone had carved reliefs of dashing horses and flying raptors into the plastered walls, in colors of silver and white and gray.