A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  One, two, three, hold still . . . Gradually sense returned, and with it, awareness of thirst, weakness in knees and wrists. He had stayed much too long. Oh no. Had ten years passed?

  He shoved the book inside his shirt, then walked up to a duty guard he knew. Thought he knew, only he looked so much older. “What is the date?”

  The fellow looked at Jilo as if he’d spoken in Norsundrian, fear widening his eyes. “Date?” he repeated.

  Jilo tried again. He knew these questions were important. No, it was the answers that were important. No, it was how the fellow didn’t answer. “How old are you?” Jilo asked.

  The guard said, his tone placating, “I joined at my twelfth year.”

  Jilo stared at the guard, horror curling inside him, and the guard stared back, his pupils wide and black. Like the Shadowland days, only this was fear. Jilo forced himself to move. He pushed on in search of water and food.

  It was easiest to walk into the city, to the place he knew. Habit. That was important. Habit was as strong as . . .

  As strong as? Twi. Groups. Loyalty. You stayed loyal to your twi, you survived. Every Chwahir grew up knowing that. Survived what, that was the question for a king to face. Survive an evil king who had no twi, who had killed everyone close to him?

  The Mearsiean girls always won. They’d had a real twi, almost the right number, even. They did have the right number when Clair wasn’t there, something that had always irritated Jilo, as if they somehow made game of the fundamental strength of Chwahir life. A bunch of silly waxers . . .

  As he blew the steam off the soup, his thoughts shambled on. Waxers. Lighters. Where had he had that conversation? That boy king from, what was it? Somewhere far to the southwest. Senrid, that was it. Tutored in dark magic. Came to help, once. Said to find the source, and I’ve found it.

  Jilo left the tasteless food after only two bites and sloped out to the street. He looked around, trying to remember why he was there. Passers-by distracted him, the way they watched one another . . . were they doing the hand-signs? Hands. Talk. Talk? Yes, he was going to Marloven Hess.

  He recollected the Destination that Clair had taken him to, braced, and did the magic.

  He found himself standing on the windswept tiles, the sun barely risen. He fell painfully to his knees, fighting for breath as black spots drifted across his vision.

  * * *

  —

  Senrid had done his morning drill earlier, so he could take a fast horse out to ride the plains below his city. As the strengthening sun made its way each day a little farther along the distant eastern ridge of mountains, he liked to pause and watch the sky lighten, then the first rays of ruddy light outline the towers of Choreid Dhelerei, his city.

  He sighed out his breath. It barely frosted. After a very cold, late spring, summer was coming at last.

  The tug of obligation pulled him cityward. The mare, a young one newly released into the garrison stable, sensed his decision, and she tossed her head, sidling. She wanted to run some more, so why wasn’t the two-leg giving her the signal?

  He obediently tightened his thighs, and she bolted off the mark like an arrow from the bow. And that was what Jilo saw, as he stood there on the Destination below the city wall, horse and boy so well melded in the rhythm of the gallop that they looked from a distance like one of the northern centaurs he’d seen pictures of in some old book.

  The round face turned Jilo’s way, the horse veered, and clods of mud flew up behind the animal’s hooves from the rich soil so different from the sandy clay found in Chwahirsland.

  Senrid reined in with an ease that made Jilo’s heart yearn for such unthinking skill. He’d always been so awkward on horseback.

  “Is that you?” Senrid asked. “Jilo?”

  “You said I could come back.” Jilo looked around. “Wasn’t it snowing last time?”

  “So you’ve solved the time riddle?”

  “Not the time riddle,” Jilo said painstakingly, picking out each word.

  Senrid could see the effort. At that moment, the inner perimeter riders approached, and Senrid motioned for one to surrender his horse.

  Jilo grimaced. Here came the humiliation. He wondered how quickly that horse would boost him off at that thunder-and-turf pace.

  Jilo scrambled up onto the saddle pad (barely any saddle, he noticed dismally), and clutched the reins desperately, braced for the inevitable fall. Senrid cast him a quick look, then his horse, which had begun to trot, unaccountably slowed to a walk. Jilo’s, trained to follow, also slowed.

  Senrid said, “Now we can talk. What’ve you found?”

  “I think I’ve located a . . . I’m not getting the word. It’s a locus of power? Where it draws . . .” Jilo breathed hard against the pressure in his throat. “Just thinking about it strangles me.” His breath shuddered as he fingered the medallion at his neck. Cold tightened the muscles and nerves along his spine when he contemplated how very close he had come to . . . what? Would the servants who finally dared to come looking for him have found a desiccated body? How long before they would have come?

  Or would they?

  He was not aware of having fallen into reverie, but Senrid noticed the absent gaze, the squint of oncoming headache, the desperate clutch on the reins. The first thing Jilo obviously needed was a decent meal between his belt buckle and his spine, and then sleep.

  They reached the castle and dismounted, and part of the reason for Jilo’s oddly stiff, awkward style of riding became apparent. Jilo looked shiftily around, then stuck his hand into his heavy-weave tunic-shirt, and produced a thin book.

  Jilo already whiffed of the distinctive burnt-metal stink of intense dark magic, a stench more psychic than physical. When the book appeared, Senrid reeled back a step. “Jilo, whatever wards you put on yourself are killing you.”

  “Oh.” Jilo blinked rapidly, clutched at the medallion, muttered, and took a cautious breath.

  The miasma of intense dark magic eased, but did not disappear.

  “Come on,” Senrid said, resisting the unnerving sense that he was being towed into deep and unfamiliar waters.

  Jilo tucked the book under his arm, his head drooping, and he followed Senrid in silence. Along the way, Senrid hailed a runner and gave swift orders for a meal to be brought to the study. As soon as the door was shut, Jilo sank into the chair beside Senrid’s desk, then held out the book.

  Senrid stretched out his hand, then recoiled from the smell of stale sweat and mildew and dark magic emanating from the thing. “Go ahead.” Jilo’s voice husked with the effort he made just to speak. “I think I got all the wards and tracers off it. And the wards on me are gone. They were the only protection I had in the King’s secret chamber.” He tapped the medallion.

  Senrid could feel layers of magic from a palm’s breadth away. “Are you sure?” Jilo didn’t look sure of anything, even his own name. Be specific. “What type of spells are in that book?”

  “No.” Jilo dropped the book onto the desk, leaned back in the chair, and shut his eyes.

  “No?” Senrid prompted, clamping down hard on impatience.

  Jilo’s throat knuckle bobbed in his skinny neck as he said, “Purpose. It tracks the movements of any enemy if they visit designated Destinations. A lot of them. And I’ve added Wan-Edhe’s name.”

  Fire shot along Senrid’s nerves. That thing would track enemies who moved about by magic?

  He stared at the thin, grubby book, no longer seeing the oily smudges along the edge from frequent openings, or smelling the mildew and the rank odor from that terrible chamber in faraway Narad. Senrid reached convulsively, then stilled, eyeing Jilo, who sat there, eyes closed.

  What was the danger? There was no danger.

  Even if Jilo weren’t obviously exhausted, Senrid suspected he could take him in three strikes. This was Senrid’s citadel, he could command the gu
ard, he could drop a stone spell over Jilo and set him aside to deal with some other year.

  He could take the book, add Destinations within Marloven Hess, add names of troublemakers, and track every one of his enemies . . .

  Once again he reached, his fingers halting a grass-blade’s width from touching. He sensed the layers of magic. Maybe Jilo had put protective wards over the thing as a trap. Senrid knew he would.

  The door banged open, and in came the runner with a tray loaded with oatmeal drowned in milk, and rye buns, with a little bowl of blackberry jam to spread on them. Since Senrid ate what everyone else ate, from garrison to castle staff, it was easy to dish up extra for a sudden guest.

  Hoping his voice sounded normal, he said to Jilo, “Eat up.” And to the runner, “Some listerblossom steep. Make it strong.”

  Jilo’s color was never going to appeal to anyone outside of Chwahirsland, but as he worked his way through the food, the pale, pinkish sallow that replaced the mottled gray looked almost healthy.

  Senrid possessed himself in patience, but never had a meal lasted so long. Through his mind flitted images, sustained by the alluring, the sweet image of knowing. At all times. Where his enemies were.

  When the steep came, filling the air with the astringent summery scent of listerblossom, Jilo gulped it down hot. He blinked away tears from the scalding liquid, and sighed.

  “So tell me how this book of yours works,” Senrid prompted.

  “Go ahead. Take a look,” Jilo said.

  “I don’t want to touch it,” Senrid replied, the instinct to grasp and keep it so strong that his voice must have changed, for Jilo looked up, one eye narrowed. Senrid cleared his throat. “There might be other wards on it. Against outsiders. Non-Chwahir. Anyway, I can’t read your language.”

  Jilo’s blinks made it clear that he had not thought this far ahead. Flipping the book open, he pointed. “As you can see. Wan-Edhe had a lot of enemies. This book is just the last year. Before he got snatched by Norsunder. There must be pages and pages stored somewhere. Or maybe he burned them. He writes in a name. It shows when and where they transferred by magic.”

  “It has to be transfers? Can it track them if they travel by horse or walking?”

  “Magic transfers only. Specific Destinations.”

  “Let’s get to who. Start with Detlev? He has to be in there.”

  “Yah.” Jilo’s ragged, grimy nail pointed to a line. “Few notes, as you can see. Spaces between entries, like holes. Because otherwise, why would it say ‘Norsunder Base’ four times in a row? He wouldn’t be transferring around inside, would he?”

  “How about if he transfers to Norsunder-Beyond and then back? Or off-world?” Senrid guessed.

  Jilo blinked slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Senrid grimaced. “So you just write someone’s name in? Or do you have to find the person and bespell them, the way you do if you put a tracer on them?”

  Jilo bobbed his head. “There is a very complicated spell, requiring the person to step into a warded Destination. I don’t know how he differentiated between people. I just know it works.”

  Senrid whistled. “My uncle wanted something like this book. Had me working on it from the time I was ten. Best I could do was lacing objects with tracers, then you had to get the person to take the object with them.” He whistled again, more softly, as he extended his hand over the top of the book. “There’s lethal magic on this thing.”

  Chill flashed through Senrid to pool in the pit of his stomach as he recollected some of the stuff he’d overheard when he was a prisoner of Siamis’s bully-boys. They hadn’t known he could understand their language. Most of it had been brag, threats, and lies, but once one of them said, The Host of Lords sit in the Garden of the Twelve and watch anywhere they want, any time.

  Senrid had shrugged that off as scare-brag, but if the likes of the King of the Chwahir could construct this book, maybe it was real.

  Yet even the Host of Lords can only watch one thing at a time.

  Right?

  Senrid shook off the dread, reached across his desk, and closed his fingers on one of his steel-nib pens.

  He pushed pen and ink toward Jilo. “Try an experiment? Write a name in another language. Someone you know enough to make the spell work.”

  “Who?”

  “How about Puddlenose of the Mearsieans?”

  Jilo glanced up in surprise. “He’s an enemy?”

  “No. I just want to see how it works.”

  “He’s already in here. I think he’s this one, ‘The Brat.’”

  “Already in there?” Senrid remembered Puddlenose as a jokester, but there had been some brief, sharp moments hinting at some kind of past. “Someday I want to hear about that. Try Arthur of Bereth Ferian, then. Have you met him?”

  “No.”

  “Try. His real name is Irtur Vithyavadnais, and he’s the son of Erai-Yanya, if that helps.” And Senrid described Arthur.

  Senrid breathed out silently, considering the feeling that he’d dodged a falling rock as Jilo closed his eyes and whispered a long spell. Senrid heard Arthur’s name mixed in, but when Jilo wrote the name down, nothing happened. He shut his eyes. “I don’t know what I did wrong,” he whispered. “I think maybe I need to do the spell again after he steps into one of the warded Destinations?”

  All right. It had limitations. Still. Senrid wanted so badly to try it, his fingers twitched toward the pen.

  He forced himself to sit back. “Okay. Go hole up. Sleep it out. No one will touch this thing,” Senrid added. “Including me.”

  Chapter Nine

  SENRID’S natural inclination was to turn to Commander Keriam, but not for anything having to do with magic.

  His second thought was Hibern, but he suspected she would go straight to her tutor if she had any idea that something like this book existed. He couldn’t imagine the lighter mages doing anything other than ganging up on Jilo to take away that book for his own good.

  For the rest of the day Senrid’s body moved about his various tasks, his mind on that book lying there on his desk, as he asked himself useless questions, such as Where is Jarend Ndarga’s exiled father right now? And, How could I locate any conspiracy if I don’t know who is conspiring against me?

  He knew the cause of his ambivalence. This desire to possess that book was his uncle’s thinking. Tdanerend had always been frantic about conspiracies. Toward the end, he had a full flight of guards on duty around his sleep chamber at night, plus his three handpicked private guards, men he bribed and flattered then changed if he thought that they, too, might be conspiring. Thirty thinking, breathing beings on the watch all night so one man could sleep, and even then, Tdanerend had often been wakened by a noise, and fearing attack from his guards, set up traps, because though he demanded loyalty he never believed he had it. How could he, when he had professed loyalty to his own brother up until he stabbed him in the back?

  Senrid tried to shove the book out of his thoughts, but when he found himself thinking about thinking about it, he hopped up onto the fence to watch the choosing of colts after summer-long training, and let his mind ride down the what-if trail.

  He saw himself taking the book away from Jilo. Learning Chwahir. It shouldn’t take long. He was good with languages. And he could easily get proximity to all his targets, in order to bespell book and person, if that’s what it took. Warding the city, each jarl’s capital, the army garrison Destinations, to begin with.

  And then what? Spend the entire day creeping back to check on their movements? Or would he carry the book around with him all the time, and constantly sneak peeks?

  That was exactly what Tdanerend would have done. Senrid understood, now that he was king, the relentless desire to know, to brace for attack, to be ready for the knife in the dark. Anywhere he went, he was a moving target.

  The
colt selection ended. He ran to the quartermaster, who was waiting with reports related to the stables. He was supposed to know all that stuff, so he forced himself to listen and concentrate. When he finally retired, he was still so ambivalent he tossed and turned, finally falling into an uneasy sleep in which he dreamed that he and Liere were lost and Siamis was chasing them, but Senrid’s feet had turned to rock and he couldn’t run.

  Sleep fled at sunup, leaving him groggy. A cold bath shocked him awake. He ran to the garrison side, where he found the sword master waiting. “You haven’t tried the sword again for quite some time,” the man said, indicating the rack of practice swords. “Or would you prefer our usual?”

  Senrid was tired, his mind full of Jilo and his damned book. He eyed the swords, hating his slowness, his clumsiness: by now he’d had enough lessons to know that to be really good he was going to have to unlearn everything that had become habitual with knife fighting. He hated that.

  “Knife,” he said. “Some castle guards took against my learning the sword,” he added when the sword master evinced a little surprise. “Thought it some kind of reflection on their ability to keep me alive.”

  It was true—in a sense. They’d been mostly joking, when some of the morning shift had come in while Senrid was finishing one of his lessons in basic sword moves, not long after Liere’s last visit.

  The sword master’s brows went up. He opened his hand in assent, accepting Senrid’s not-quite-lie, and Senrid sensed the man’s opinion of the guard lessening.

  Senrid picked up his practice weapons, throat tight with disgust and self-condemnation. Lying was so easy. That was another path down which his uncle had gone, only Tdanerend had also lied to himself. Senrid had lied to survive. He could not claim that this lie was even remotely about survival.