A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  And she watched, her spirits about as low as they’d ever been, as Julian looked back over her shoulder and said triumphantly, “Irza gives me what I want. I love Irza.”

  Gehlei was standing next to Atan as the baras’s carriage rolled away. She smiled grimly.

  Atan said, “I feel sick.”

  “Don’t. The child knows the word love. An improvement.”

  Atan turned away, feeling even worse.

  Two days later, she sat on her dais at the back of the public interview chamber, gazing through the colored glass in the windows at the great square as, on the other side of the room, district street and water guild representatives argued in bristlingly formal words, their voices heavy with innuendo. Each tried to imply that paying for the much-needed repair to a six-hundred-year-old fountain was the responsibility of the other.

  Atan sat upright when she recognized a tall figure bearing some kind of burden.

  The guild chiefs and the city officials paid no attention, of course. Knowing that they would be forced to rise if she rose, she got to her feet. The tedious argument ceased abruptly as everyone bowed.

  Atan walked past, guessing how much resentment was constrained in those bent heads. A moment before the door shut behind her, she heard a low, angry, “Now see what you did!” from one of the district speakers.

  “I did?” yelped a water guild representative.

  The door snicked shut, and she hurried to meet Rel at the corridors’ intersection, returned from his usual visit to Mendaen at the guard. His arms bore a mound of draggling fabric, a hank of tangled brown hair hanging down. Out of the middle of the swathe popped a red face as Julian declared indignantly, “I hate Irza!”

  Rel set down the child, who scampered off as Irza herself appeared behind them.

  Irza slowed, face red from running. Atan wondered if she’d chased Julian clear from Parleas Terrace to the palace as Irza performed a formal bow that was stiff with fury. “I relinquish her . . . to your care. Your majesty.”

  “Irza,” Atan said. “What happened?”

  Irza’s face pinched up in an expression very like her mother’s. “I do not know . . . what has happened to her since . . . our peaceful . . . days in the forest . . . but she has become ungovernable.”

  Atan didn’t bother trying to deflect this blame. At the other end of the hall behind Irza, a white-haired boy appeared, waved, and retreated. Atan recognized Hinder, who should be underground in the morvende geliath for a family celebration.

  Atan made herself speak formal words of thanks to Irza, though she knew it was a waste of time, that Irza and her mother were surely already spreading gossip blaming Atan for Julian’s behavior. And Atan thought dismally that it was true. She was to blame as much as anyone.

  As soon as Irza was put into a royal Landis carriage for the ride back (Atan knew that it would mollify Irza at least somewhat, being seen in a royal carriage) Atan and Rel began walking upstairs to Atan’s private chamber.

  “Found her running over the bridge, screeching. I called to her,” Rel said. “Surprised when she came, but I think it was only because Irza was about to catch her.”

  Atan sighed. “I don’t know what to do. The servants refuse to go near her.”

  Rel grinned. “Her hair smells like a bird nest. They can’t trick her to step through a cleaning frame?”

  “Not anymore. We used to. I don’t know why she began putting up such a fuss. At least when the weather is warm she’ll swim in the river with the other little ones, or when she goes back to Shendoral, she plays in the streams.”

  They reached her study, whose perimeter Hinder paced, his cobwebby hair drifting. “Atan,” he said the moment she shut the door, “the elders sent me to warn you, and I wanted to tell you first: the Norsunder Base army is on the move.”

  “Where?”

  “They were seen from the southeastern watch post, marching toward the coast.”

  “How many?”

  “Hundreds. You have to remember we can only spy them out from a distance. But they were going toward the eastern coast.”

  Atan turned to Rel. “Then they must be taking ship. That makes it unlikely they’re marching here, or against Sarendan.”

  At the first mention of Norsunder, Rel’s smile had vanished. “I better get my gear,” he said. “I promised Tahra I’d return to Everon at the first sign of Norsunder emerging from the Base.”

  Atan faced him. “How do you know that Everon is the goal?”

  “I don’t. But like you say, if they’re taking ship, then they aren’t marching here. King Berthold can decide whether or not to act on such scant information. I feel I ought to provide that information.”

  “The ambassador will be doing that,” Atan said.

  Rel smiled. “My three days here are up.”

  “I can give you a transfer token,” Atan said as she reached for the bellpull. “It’s time for me to summon the high council . . .” She stopped. “I will, of course. In a moment,” she said, staring out the window at the courtyard below as she thought about Karhin’s message a few weeks back, about the first alliance mission—Senrid of Marloven Hess sending someone to help train Terenth of Erdrael Danara’s Mountain Guard—being a success.

  Atan whirled to face Rel, and remembered the beautiful letter that she had received from the scribe named Karhin, who had said that Rel had personally recruited her. “But first I’m writing to the alliance, as I promised,” and light filled her inner being at his sudden smile. “And then I’m writing to Hibern. For Sartor.”

  * * *

  —

  Senrid was sitting at breakfast, his knuckles throbbing from a good session on the mats, when a runner appeared, followed by Hibern.

  “It’s Atan,” she said, and in Sartoran, “there’s bad news on their south border. She wants to talk to you.”

  “Me?” Senrid said.

  “I think she wants military advice, and she asked me to come to you directly, rather than going through Karhin Keperi.”

  “This is exactly what I didn’t want happening,” Senrid muttered. But maybe it would only be another chance for Forthan to gain some more experience training foreigners. He’d certainly enjoyed going to Erdrael Danara.

  Most important, Senrid had promised.

  A short time later, he stood where he had never thought to be: in Sartor’s royal palace, parts of which were said to be more than five thousand years old.

  The longish walk from the Destination to the interview chamber didn’t surprise him, as he’d expected the mosaics, the murals, the patterned marble in the worn floor and all the fancy furniture. Unexpected was the way the low autumnal light slanted in through filigree carvings, throwing patterns on the marble, or reflecting again in long mirrors, so that even though he knew he stood in a stone building, the effect was of lightness and air and color.

  Then they reached the interview chamber, and here was Atan and a vaguely familiar tall boy who looked roughly the age of the academy seniors. Was that the sense of familiarity? That he stood like someone trained? No. Senrid had seen him. He just didn’t remember where.

  Atan noted that Senrid did not bother with formality when visiting any more than he did in his own home: he stood there in a white shirt, riding trousers, and boots, an outfit that her first and second circles would consider positively undressed. At least he wasn’t wearing any weapons. Or, he didn’t appear to be, she corrected herself as she took in his wary, tight posture.

  This conversation was going to be more difficult than she’d thought. “Sartor’s army was annihilated a hundred years ago,” she said, without any of the politenesses she ordinarily began with. Her single visit to Marloven Hess had made it clear that what worked as social easing in Sartor was pointless dither there. “The mages all think the only way to deal with Norsunder is by magic.”

  Senrid backe
d up a step, his palms out. “Why do you want me? I’m no expert in lighter magic. You’ve got your entire Sartoran mage guild.”

  “But they didn’t protect us a century ago. And,” she said quickly, seeing him stir, “I don’t want anybody’s army coming to our rescue, either. I have a very small palace guard, and scant more at the border, the fewest permitted by some old treaty. And Rel here tells me that their military approach is a hundred years out of date. I don’t even know what that means.”

  Senrid made a warding gesture.

  Atan said, “Look, Senrid, we don’t have any real defense. Oh, the council will shortly be telling me what to do. And I bow to their wisdom in so many ways. But this situation? I know they won’t know any more than I do how we should proceed, and I can’t help but hope that the kind of aid you gave to Erdrael Danara might do for us.”

  “They needed training.” Senrid turned up his palms. “You’re in need of action, right? You have to defend yourselves.”

  “How, without serving people up to the slaughter? At least tell me whom to ask? How about the person you sent to Erdrael Danara?”

  “I sent someone his age.” Senrid jerked a thumb at Rel, who stood silently by. “Ret Forthan will probably be a commander one day, but he’ll tell you himself, he’s not one now. All he did in Terry’s land was give their newly reformed Mountain Guard some ideas about reorganizing, and improving their drills. He showed them some basic ones. Really basic. We Marlovens don’t know anything about protecting mountainous land like Erdrael Danara.” He made a motion up and down. “Plains horses don’t like up and down.”

  He eyed Atan, who stared back, her desperation battering at Senrid’s consciousness because of course she wasn’t even thinking about mind-shields.

  Then she said abruptly, “You’re reading my mind. Aren’t you?”

  Senrid grimaced. “Yes and no. You’re sending emotions at me like a charge of lancers, but I’m no good at sieving out sense from the emotions and jumble of memories, the way Liere has been doing from the time she was a baby. You need to practice your mind-shield.”

  Atan blushed to the ears, her lips compressed.

  Senrid said quickly, “Here’s the truth. We know war is coming, and we’re not sure what will work to protect our kingdom, much less anyone else’s.”

  “War,” Atan said steadily, “is here.”

  Senrid struggled inwardly. He wasn’t going to admit to anyone how exhilarated he’d felt after that little brush between Ndarga and his companies from West Army. It would be so easy to find another reason to do that again, especially when he thought he would win.

  But that wasn’t going to happen in Atan’s kingdom. Atan didn’t want him leading any battles, not that the Sartorans would follow him even if he did jump on a horse and start waving a sword and yelling orders. She wanted to make sense of something he’d spent his life trying to learn in order to survive.

  Even if he didn’t quite know what to do about it, yet.

  His experiments with the city attack, and the secret communication network this past year, had taught him that much.

  “Do you have a map?” he asked.

  “This way.”

  Map-making had been one of the few activities Senrid’s uncle had approved of while regent, so Senrid’s first sight of the enormous table map of Sartor caused him to whistle in appreciation.

  The map was actually a model, set on an enormous round table in the center of a round room, with a mirror set above it. Atan said, “My ancestors have had it remade over the centuries, as it needs constant repair as things change. Herald apprentices spend a year traveling the kingdom as part of their training. They bring back sketches, and the map is adjusted as rivers alter course, streams become rivers, towns add a building here, and take one apart there.”

  “And after wars,” Senrid said.

  “Yes. And after wars. You can see from the scars on this one how much was lost before the ninety-seven years of silence. But I cannot bring myself to order it destroyed. The scars here remind us of scars in the hearts of those who endured the attack and the enchantment.”

  She indicated the places where once had stood tiny porcelain villages and castles, the marred spots etched with stylized flowers. “There’s building going on, of course. And a lot of trade coming over the border, which . . .” She paused, shook her head, then motioned for Senrid and Rel to join her at the south end. “Below here is Norsunder Base.”

  Senrid had been eyeing that gray expanse, with the ugly dark stone fortress made of unfired clay. “How accurate is that?”

  “Symbolic only. Lilah told me it’s completely wrong. She was a prisoner there before we lifted the spell. Uh, that’s Lilah Selenna of Sarendan, whose brother Peitar is the new king. The newest members of the alliance.”

  Senrid shrugged Sarendan away as irrelevant. “I take it you don’t have any inside information on numbers, defenses, that sort of thing?”

  Atan’s lips parted. “‘Inside line of communication.’ Is that what you mean? I was talking about that not three days ago in an interview. Quite an interesting fellow. Old. A prince of somewhere quite small, I forget.”

  Senrid had a feeling he knew. “Renselaeus?”

  “I think that was it. I forget how we got onto it, but I asked him to define this phrase after he used it in conversation, and though he was very obliging, time was pressing, and I still don’t quite understand what he was talking about, except that it sounded dauntingly military.”

  Senrid wavered, then thought, Why not? “Is he still here?”

  “In Sartor? I believe so. He’s one of the many who are trying to disentangle century-old trade agreements and funds. Nothing of that sort is done in a day.” Atan frowned at the relief map, then said, “In fact, I ought to warn those visitors when I send word to the heralds to warn the city. Thank you. As for what the morvende told me . . .”

  Little enough, Senrid soon discovered. He said, “Then here’s what I think. Even if you had exact numbers. Capabilities. Intent. There’s not a lot you can do in a military way if you don’t have a military.”

  Atan nodded cautiously.

  “So you have to use what you’ve got to make it as tough as possible for the enemy to invade. If you have wards, great. But we all know that lighter wards are mostly good for advanced warning. And it’s not that much of an advance. There are very few light magic wards that can keep Norsunder out for very long. The only wards that seem to hold are those bound to magical artifacts of the sort we aren’t able to make anymore.”

  He walked around the table to the southern border. “So, that aside. Is this city the heart of Sartor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then they will probably want to come up from the south, flank the city, and take it from both sides.”

  “I think that’s what happened a century ago. They crossed the river at two places, east and west corners, and marched up the royal roads. They met my father’s army here, and here, slaughtered them all, and then pushed on. It took them mere days.” Atan had been an infant, but since she’d freed Sartor from its century of sleep, she had heard stories from elders for whom the grief was still raw.

  “The map isn’t telling me what kind of terrain, but if this river over here can be diverted to wash out this road, that ought to slow up a column of foot and horse. Water is also notorious for resisting magical manipulation, I’m sure you know . . .”

  “I see,” she said, her eyes widening. “Yes. I wonder if the magic council tried such things?”

  “If they didn’t, talk ’em into it. There is no easy save,” Senrid said. “Eventually Norsunder’ll get to your gates, then you better be ready with the close and personal defense. Though magical traps through the city will help. You know the terrain. They don’t.” He was silent, then said apologetically, “Though if this city has been squatting unchanged for centuries, they’ve
got to have good maps.”

  “We can still try the traps,” Atan said, her voice flat.

  Senrid needed to get away from her whipsaw emotions. “The best person to help you would be Hibern. She and I have talked a lot about this plan for our own border. In my turn, I’d like to meet that prince from Renselaeus. You know where he might be staying?”

  “I’m almost certain he’s at the Carriage House.”

  “Carriage House?”

  “It has a splendid name, but everyone has called it ‘the Carriage House’ for generations. Where visiting dignitaries stay if they don’t have connections in the city.”

  “I’ll show him.” Rel spoke for the first time.

  Atan threw him a look of relief. “Thanks, Rel.”

  Senrid had recovered the memory by now: this was the tall fellow dressed in a stolen Norsunder uniform who had pulled Senrid and that northern girl out of the prison cells at the Norsunder Base, at the beginning of Siamis’s enchantment, and whisked them into a morvende tunnel.

  Further, this had to be the same Rel that he’d heard about from the Mearsieans, both praise (Puddlenose) and insults (CJ).

  A few steps into Sartor’s chilly air, and Senrid wished he’d thought to bring a coat, but after matching a few of Rel’s long steps, he decided he wasn’t going to need one.

  “From what I saw at the Norsunder Base that day, and from what Puddlenose has told me, you could take the field against Norsunder all by yourself,” Senrid said as they crossed the square toward the bridge leading into the eastern part of the city.

  “Puddlenose likes to joke,” Rel said.

  “So I take it Atan isn’t going to be sending you off to the south, waving a sword and acting heroic?”

  “The only time she’s seen me waving a sword,” Rel said in his deep, even voice, “she watched me get trounced by a fellow a head shorter than me.”

  “I should think most of the world is a head shorter than you,” Senrid commented, wondering where CJ got the idea that this Rel was an arrogant blowhard. Of course, everybody had their bad days.