A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  The world this far south had dwindled to infinite shades of gray, including the thick hat that Rel had pulled down to just above his eyelids, the heavy scarf he’d wound around his neck and lower face to cover his nose, the mittens, and four pairs of socks stuffed inside his forest mocs.

  Forcing himself not to hurry, he crouched to keep from making a silhouette, and lowered himself with painstaking care from upended, treacherously slippery rock to rock. Tsauderei had said that the day the tent reappeared in his cottage, he would transfer Rel away at sundown. A transfer token would easily be traced if mages did a sweep. But if Rel had nothing magical about him, any mages would not find him.

  “I watched that harbor for one miserable season sixty-five years ago,” Tsauderei had said, “when we were still uncertain whether Norsunder was going to move against Sarendan the way it had against Sartor. The crevasse my predecessor watched from, and showed to me, is the equivalent of two stories up from the sand, which means you will be climbing down the cliff about three stories. You must not descend all the way to the sand, unless you wish to leave footprints. Or wade through the tide. Your limbs will freeze beyond the ability to heal.”

  Rel had spent lonely days watching the invisible progress of the northerly sun behind the clouds, and observing the milky rime slowly building along the coast and along the old stone jetty put in the natural harbor centuries ago, judging by the long greenish streamers surging in the surf.

  To pass the time, Tsauderei had given him a court history of Sartor, which was exactly as boring as it sounded, but from which, the old mage said, “All Sartorans will quote, as they were all brought up on it.” He also gave him a gossipy history of Eidervaen written by a retired household goods mover in the century before Sartor was bespelled, which recounted all the local legends that were most definitely left out of court histories. Crammed with stories about the insides of famed houses, this one entertained Rel so much he could ignore the uncomfortably rocky ground, the continual drum of the wind on the tent, and the pervasive chill.

  Now those and the tent were gone. He crept down the face of the cliff until he reached the crevasse, whose ancient bracken still held sturdily against wind, weather, and time.

  He crouched in the mossy slime, one hand alternating with the other as he peered through his field glass. The free hand, he pressed between his chest and thigh as he perched in the tiny space with his knees up under his chin. His feet had begun the inevitable pins-and-needles prickling by the time the distant movement had resolved into a column snaking its way down the ridge on the extreme southwestern side.

  He was still too high to overhear the Norsundrians as they streamed down onto the sand at low tide and marched toward the jetty. He caught the occasional word on the brittle air, mostly curses, as the thickening overcast began spitting slushy rain. Winter was nigh, and the desire to get well out into the water before the first freeze of the coming season was apparent in the way the marchers were crowded up onto the rocks.

  A perimeter team made a fast, thorough search along the edge of the sand where it met the rock, and another marched along the top of the ridge. Rel had done his best to make certain he left no prints, never treading on any moss, no matter how thin. Still he held his breath, ducking down when the inner perimeter passed directly below.

  The searchers moved on, clapping their arms to their sides, rubbing mottled noses, stamping, and generally making it clear that the cold wind was fast getting even colder as the short day drew swiftly toward its end.

  When they rejoined the column picking its way like a trail of lumbering ants along the rocky jetty, Rel relaxed enough to lift his field glass to scan them. It was frustrating to be so near, and yet not near enough to overhear anything. At least he could count up the force.

  He had positioned himself in the crevasse so that he could see along the jetty. Thanks to Puddlenose’s having introduced him to Captain Heraford, he’d spent a little time crewing on board the Tsasilia, which had taught him something about currents and tides.

  On the far side of the bay, a lone figure peered down from the crevasse through which the Norsundrians had marched. He made a perfunctory visual sweep, but didn’t see Rel. His attention was on Henerek as the husky man moved carefully from rock to rock along the jetty, to where the sea splashed up.

  Rel also scrutinized that bundled-up figure, wondering if there was something familiar about the way the fellow moved, or if it was only his imagination.

  The man paused on a huge stone jutting out over the seaweed trails in the water, and peered back toward the beach as though measuring something. Then he dug deep in the pocket of his bulky coat, cocked back his arm, and threw something as far as he could out into the choppy waters.

  White water boiled up in an enormous splash, and in less than an eyeblink, an entire ship appeared, an old-fashioned thing with an up-curving prow of a kind Rel had never seen before. It rocked dangerously on the water, sending an enormous greenish-gray wave splashing up onto the rocks to drench the waiting warriors, who gave a huge outcry. Many fell painfully. Several were knocked from the rocks entirely.

  On board the ship, the crew fell to the deck, then struggled to their knees, or grabbed for ropes. Rel knew enough about ships to see the immediate danger: if the crew did not get some sort of sail up, the ship would swamp on the beach.

  The captain seemed to recover first, bawling something at the man on the rocks, who had staggered back, dripping wet.

  Aboard the ship, the captain began kicking and striking his crew to get them moving. After they had accepted the mysterious Ramis’s offer to send them beyond time, the captain had ordered his crew at the first sight of the great crack in the world to lay aloft on yards and mastheads. So when the magic released them, they were already in position. They scrambled into action, unreefing a sail that the crew below sheeted home. The ship came alive, shivering in the water as it moved against the inexorable tide toward the very tip of the jetty.

  On the rocks, the man removed his sodden scarf, which he flung down. For a heartbeat his face was visible as he took in the ship from tumblehome to masts, and Rel’s breath hissed in when he recognized that arrogant countenance, and the sandy hair: Henerek, the would-be Knight who had been dismissed for too many infractions to remember.

  This had to be the Everon attack force that Kessler promised.

  Henerek turned away and began clumsily hopping from rock to rock farther along the jetty. He had to be freezing. His waterlogged coat clung to his long body. He, too, had aged from a weedy teen to a man heavy with muscle along chest, shoulders, arms.

  At the extreme tip of the jetty, as the ship beat out to take up station a short distance away, once again Henerek threw something. This time, he ducked down behind a rock when the expected wave surged over the jetty. The rest of the Norsundrians having stayed where they were, there was no other damage to those waiting. This ship recovered itself and got a sail up, as the first one lowered a longboat into the water.

  Twice more this happened. As the light began to fade, the ships withdrew to a safe distance, sending longboats to the beach to fetch Henerek’s waiting force and ferry them back.

  They had begun lighting lanterns when abruptly Rel transferred, his cramped, shivering body falling to the thick red and gold rug in Tsauderei’s cottage.

  The old mage remembered the extreme cold. He had a warm change of clothing, hot food, and drink waiting. When Rel could get his jaw to work without chattering, he gave a concise report.

  “Four ships,” Tsauderei repeated. “From what you describe, they sound rather like vessels from the bad old days when the Venn ruled the seas. Records insist that Norsunder used to grab pirate ships wholesale, shoving them through powerful rifts, before the mages learned to close those rifts. Now, it seems, they are going to begin reappearing. This is grim tidings.”

  “So we should look for vast armies appearing on the coasts?”
Rel asked.

  “It is possible, and yet . . . only four to transport that force. I wonder if this is an experiment by someone higher up the command chain. Yet one would think they would be sparing. The magic that put those ships beyond time has been unreproduceable for centuries.”

  “Henerek might have stolen the means. He was a thief as well as a bully and a liar.”

  “Always possible. But even so, the higher-ups have a way of catching out unruly underlings and taking advantage of their resourcefulness.” Tsauderei sat back. “Here. Eat the rest of that food. Get a good night of rest up in the loft, where it’s warmest. I’ll send you directly on to Everon in the morning. Tonight, I have some letters to write.”

  * * *

  Everon

  The next morning, Tsauderei transferred Rel to Everon as promised.

  Once he recovered, he was brought by a footman into the royal presence. Though Everon was quite a ways north of the border mountains where Tsauderei’s valley was located, to the sun’s movement, it was perhaps an hour to the west. The royal family was at breakfast, their faces sharing similar expressions of concern when Rel was conducted in.

  Rel made his bow, then once again issued a report, this time with precise numbers.

  On the name ‘Henerek,’ the king reached for the hand bell to summon a page, as Glenn grinned fiercely down at his plate. “Please request the presence of Commander Dei,” King Berthold said.

  The king left his half-eaten breakfast. The queen went off in another direction, leaving Rel with the royal children.

  Glenn threw down his napkin. “They have to let me ride with the Knights,” he declared, and he, too, ran off.

  Tahra scowled at her plate, then looked at Rel. “The alliance needs to know.”

  Rel said, “I don’t have the means to communicate with them.”

  “My friend Piper is a scribe student, and she writes regularly to Karhin for me,” Tahra said as she pushed a last bite of berry tart around on her plate. “Her Sartoran is better than mine.” She tapped her fingers twice on the table, the side of her cup, then the table again before looking up. “Do you think the alliance can help us?”

  “I’m not sure.,” Rel admitted, and when Tahra’s thin brows crimped anxiously, he said, “I think it’s a good idea, but I don’t know how it’s supposed to work other than as a way to pass news.”

  Tahra’s long face seemed to lengthen as she glared at her plate. “Glenn is wrong to think everything will be fixed by swinging swords. Norsunder must have millions of warriors, if they never die.”

  “They can die. Unless they’re soul-bound. But then they lose their wills.”

  “So what happens when they are inside Norsunder? Are they statues?”

  “Maybe it’s like what happened to Sartor, you just . . . stop. Until you go again.”

  Tahra folded her arms across her front and ran her thin fingers up her arms, her stomach tight with disgust. “I thought it was horrible when my family was enchanted. But that sounds so much worse. How can anybody even fight them, if they have millions?”

  “We don’t know that they have millions, and anyway, they aren’t in our world. They need rifts to bring them to the world from Norsunder-Beyond. Transfer magic is dangerous, so they can’t even bring them in by twos and threes without a safe period in between.”

  “I know that much.” Tahra’s straight dark brows crimped, then she turned her head sharply as a page entered. “What is it?”

  The page said to Rel, “The king requests your presence.”

  Rel was shown into the king’s interview chamber, where the king himself was busy unrolling one map, the queen another.

  They occupied themselves looking at the map of the Sartoran continent, tracing the natural harbor where Rel had spied the Norsundrians, and estimating how long it would take to sail northward. Rel listened, aware that none of them knew the winds and currents enough to be certain of anything.

  But it gave them something to do until Roderic Dei arrived, looking as if he had hastened away from his breakfast. Once again Rel gave his report, after which the Commander said, “I’ll talk to the fleet captains, but one thing for certain, we’ll need to work on shore defenses.”

  “Yes!” The king slammed his hand down in a gesture of agreement. “That, we can do over winter.” He looked up at Rel. “Thank you. I trust you will honor us with your skills?”

  Rel had been about to ask to be sent back to Sartor. Except what could he do there? The high council scorned military action. He could march around holding a candle in parades, but they didn’t want his help, or even his presence, in Sartoran affairs.

  “If you can use me, I’m yours,” Rel said.

  Roderic Dei smiled, well pleased. Maybe he would gain Rel as a Knight after all. “Come along with me. We’ll report your findings, and get you situated.”

  Chapter Two

  Roth Drael

  HIBERN woke up late, startled by the internal tick of her notecase. She groped for it, wondering who would send her a note by magic before dawn.

  She snapped the glowglobe alight. The note was written in a shaky hand, strong on the downstrokes:

  Hibern: I am certain Erai-Yanya arranged an emergency signal with you. If your demonstration is prepared, now would be the time to use that signal. I’ve Atan and Veltos ready to meet tomorrow. Erai-Yanya’s presence might make all the difference.

  Tsauderei

  Hibern scrabbled on desk for the token Erai-Yanya had made. She picked it up, murmured the words she’d been taught, and the thing snapped away from her fingers and vanished.

  She heard rustlings from the outer room, and sighed inwardly. Liere, whom she had removed from Marloven Hess at Senrid’s request, had rendered the past few days tedious almost past bearing by her stream of questions about magic that was way beyond her level as a beginner.

  For someone who claimed she wasn’t the least bit special, she certainly seemed to expect special tutoring. Hibern pulled on a wrapper against the cool drafts moving along the floor. Why hadn’t the senior mages put Liere in a magic school?

  She found the girl hovering over the basket of food transferred daily from the Bereth Ferian palace’s kitchen. Liere looked rumpled, as if she’d slept in her clothes and forgotten to step through the cleaning frame, her short, raggedly cut hair sticking out in all directions.

  “Why are you up so early?” Hibern asked.

  “I was awake a long time,” Liere mumbled. “My mother was dreaming bad things about me again. I had to fix things inside her dream. So she knows I’m all right.”

  Hibern’s skin chilled. “You can do that?”

  Liere looked startled, as if she’d been caught committing a crime. Her cheeks mottled with color. “Siamis did that to me once, talked to me in my dreams, I mean. When I was with Senrid, running away from the eleveners. When I had the dyr. He tried to scare me into giving it up. I figured, if he can do it, I can. I was used to hearing my mother’s dreams. Hadn’t known that I might be able to talk to her in them and make it all right.”

  And that was probably why they didn’t put Liere in a magic school. Hibern turned away, hiding her expression of revulsion as she concentrated on her mind-shield. Neither school would want a mind reader among them, much less someone who could wander into dreams and ‘fix’ them.

  “Is the bread still warm?” Hibern asked. “Pass the elderberry jelly.”

  As the sun began sifting golden shafts between the eastern trees, they finished, worked together in dunking and drying the dishes, then Liere picked up her garden tools and went outside in the clear summer air while Hibern looked at her piles, trying to decide which project would be least annoying to be pulled out of when Erai-Yanya arrived.

  A blast of warm, oddly scented air startled her. Erai-Yanya appeared in the corner reserved for magical transfers. She staggered as if she
’d run down a couple of steps, sneezed violently five or six times, then lifted a hand to her head. “I’ll never get used to how different the air is. Emergency?” she said, rubbing her sun-browned face. She looked unfamiliar, wearing an odd, brightly colored outfit that seemed comprised of three layers of thin cloth.

  “In a way. Tsauderei asked me to send for you.”

  “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “We’ve spent the past three weeks talking about almost nothing else.”

  “We?” Erai-Yanya asked, “You, Tsauderei—”

  “And Senrid, and Peitar—”

  “Peitar Selenna of Sarendan?” Erai-Yanya rubbed her eyes again. “Please don’t tell me he’s discovered the sport of kings, and is marching to war.”

  Hibern said, “Peitar’s friend Derek has organized the orphans of Sarendan into defense. But that’s made Peitar more determined than he was before to find some way to defend his kingdom without bloodshed.”

  “All right. That sounds like Peitar Selenna.” Erai-Yanya sighed. “I’m glad people haven’t changed out of all recognition while I’ve been gone. Tell me your part.”

  Hibern looked down at her hands, clean and warm right now, but the echo of bitter cold pulsed there as she considered how much to report. And how very important it all was to her—this first time she had been asked to act as a mage, instead of being exhorted to watch and learn as a student.

  But what can seem vitally important for all kinds of reasons could sound really boring, especially when performing dangerous and yet tedious tasks again and again, as she and Senrid had endured the late-autumn winds and rain, toiling along Marloven Hess’s southern border, where Norsunder had crossed a few years back.

  “I worked with Senrid,” she said. “Our strategy was that illusion works when it’s unexpected. Especially if its traces are subsumed by stronger magic. So we created false roads on Marloven Hess’s southern border.”