And maybe things could change.
Like this alliance?
He looked down at the transfer token Senrid had given him. He had to find out.
* * *
Sarendan
Derek Diamagan had taken the poorest house on the east side of Miraleste as a sort of temporary home. He traveled too much for the idea of ‘home’ to be much more than a place to store the things he didn’t want to take on the road. He’d chosen that sorry little house to demonstrate his contempt for the perquisites of being friends with royalty.
He sometimes bunked at the city guard barracks because it was convenient, but Lilah and Peitar could never get him to stay in the palace except during the worst of winter weather, and then he always stayed with the servants.
Derek’s house was meant to be ordinary, but people had gradually, always while he was away, taken to improving it for him. As gifts. So each trip he’d returned to find new articles of furniture, each plain but well-made. Dishes. Curtains. Upholstery on the chairs, then embroidery on the upholstery. Good traveling boots, sized to his footprint in the mud when he left. Then he returned to a lack of mud, the street having been paved with good stone.
Once the house was painted inside and out, and reroofed, the adjoining houses were cleared out and the former owners resettled in good locations. He had to admit it was convenient, because he always had people waiting to talk to him, and they could wait in those houses. He could feed and house the more skittish orphans because he had a fully equipped kitchen and willing hands and donated food as well as those extra rooms.
He protested that it was too grand, but his protests were mild because he could see the pride in the artisans’ faces.
Guilt underlay the fury that oppressed him as he walked down the hill away from the palace in the streaming rain, though every bone and muscle in his body ached, and the little casket in his hand weighed as heavily as the guilt and grief, fury and remorse. He longed to shout, “Nobody told me!”
There had been no lessons on fighting in mountains. But the knowledge hadn’t been kept from him, because no one in his army had experienced anything like that Norsundrian attack, and as for mountains, they had always been regarded as the kingdom’s protection. Battles happened on flat fields, or alongside rivers, or along streets.
He walked faster, thinking furiously. Kessler Sonscarna and his Norsunder force were coming. Maybe not that night. The weather was too bad for that: horses would mire on the road, and he’d already sent people to hack the bridges apart, once the support magic was broken. The Norsundrians would have to ford the high waters, and get shot at from the banks.
But they’d still come. There was little that could divert Kessler, Derek had learned once, a lesson that had nearly cost his and his brother’s lives. But he’d learned this much, so he could learn more. If a runaway prince could learn to command like that, Derek could learn faster. And better. Commoners had self-discipline that no noble ever had.
Next time it would be Derek winning.
Anticipation brought him smiling grimly to his street, where he found the rain-washed square full of people waiting. At the front stood familiar faces, clearly hoping for word of their loved ones. Or for personal condolences, for those whose bad news had run ahead.
All right. This was his duty as a commander.
He set the casket on his desk and turned to the first anxiously waiting face, laboring to find words that would hurt less.
There were none.
The man looked into his face, then backed up a step, saying, “No! No! He’s just seventeen—”
It was near morning when the last of them departed. Stupid with exhaustion, Derek forced himself into his bedroom, where he discovered a new rug, woven in bright colors. He shut his eyes, which brought the dizziness, and he swayed, then jerked upright.
He would not look at that waiting bed. He picked up the casket again. Inside rattled the coins that had been turned into transfer tokens. Tsauderei had begun making them directly after that battle. Before Derek left the palace, Peitar had made him promise that all the brigade children under thirteen were to be transferred to the Valley.
This promise made sense in all directions. Those loyal children were Derek’s future officers. When they all got training along with their strength, it would be them winning against the likes of Prince Kessler Sonscarna.
But that was for the future. He had to deal with them right now. Once Derek got the children to the Valley, Tsauderei would be able to keep them locked down.
A muffled laugh, and the sound of a rock skipping over the stones, brought him to his window. The orphans were already gathering, in spite of the rain that was now tapering off. They were going to be angry with him; they would probably consider it a broken promise when he took them out of harm’s way, because he’d so easily promised them all an important role in defending the country.
He knew that no one could reason with youngsters who thought danger would be like the hero songs and tales, or the plays on stage, in which there might be an exciting fight, but only the villain would fall to the boards, and there would be no blood.
Until a week ago, Derek had led them in believing it.
To get away from that thought, he marched outside, oblivious to the rain. Ruddy whistled, and the orphans scrambled into their rows. Derek counted, then counted again. Not including Lilah and her three friends (one of whom was outside the country altogether), ten were missing.
“I have special orders for you,” he said. “We have to be fast, which means travel by magic.”
The questions burst out. He gave evasive answers as he passed along the rows, handing each kid the thin copper coin called a flim, which had been bespelled into a magic transfer token for one journey. Peitar had reasoned that the flims could then be tendered to pay for room and board.
“Now here’s what you do,” Derek began, and told them the sign and word that would carry them all directly to the Valley, then he made them count between transfers, giving them a graphic description of what could happen if they all tried to transfer to the same Destination at the same time, even in the Valley. Though Peitar had told him that a mass transfer using light magic wouldn’t work, Derek didn’t trust magic any more than he trusted kings.
He waited until they had all popped out of existence, one by one in orderly fashion, then followed last.
He found what he expected, a milling group of youths all yelling over one another to be heard. Faen and another boy were already shoving at one another.
“Quiet!” he shouted.
They subsided, and cast quick looks around. They found themselves on a broad cliff, with a cottage built in the middle, surrounded by grass. Tsauderei opened the door and shuffled out, old-fashioned robes swaying in the pearly morning light. There was no storm here.
“What’s our special orders?” a girl shouted, her expression a mix of hope and, for the first time, wariness. Derek hated seeing that wariness. He hesitated, too tired to think of special orders that would satisfy his followers.
“Would you like to fly while you wait?” Tsauderei asked.
The children whirled around.
“Fly?” half a dozen voices responded in disbelief.
“I am a mage. I made a spell the lets you fly all over this valley, and the mountains nearby.” Tsauderei let that sink in, then said, “Here are the rules. You can fly anywhere you want, but don’t disturb the villagers on the lower ledge that way.” He pointed down at the circle of houses on the westward slope of the mountain. “Or any other houses. You also stay away from the flowers on the other side of the lake, unless you want to sleep forever.”
“Listen to what he says,” Derek ordered, but he hadn’t needed to.
The orphans were too intimidated to argue. A mage! He could turn them into toadstools, and looked like he might if they sneezed wrong.
The
old mage taught them the spell, and as kids launched into the air like so many ungainly birds, Derek looked around for somewhere to sit until Tsauderei could send him back to Miraleste.
“Come along. I’ve some extra Sartoran steep already made,” Tsauderei said, and Derek started. He’d nearly fallen asleep on his feet.
He was going to argue, but couldn’t find the words.
It was easier to walk those few steps inside, where vague curiosity flared briefly. He’d never seen the inside of the mage’s cottage. It was as plain as any laborer’s hut, a single room, with a sleeping loft above the fireplace. Only the books on all the walls but the front, which was all window, differentiated it from a commoner’s house. Derek looked around with reluctant approval. He’d assumed mages would whistle up palaces for themselves, and invisible servants to provide for every need.
At a gesture from the mage, Derek sank into an upholstered chair. Tsauderei pressed a cup into his hands. Derek drank deeply, leaning his head back on the chair to appreciate the warmth going down. Maybe now he could think again. Special orders . . . something that would keep that loyalty, so very important . . . loyalty . . . He closed his eyes . . .
And fell asleep. Tsauderei glanced at him askance, then sighed, shaking his head. He didn’t particularly want Derek Diamagan in his cottage, and was overdue somewhere else, but from the looks of the boy, he wasn’t going to waken any time soon.
He finished his own steep, set down his cup, cast a quilt over Derek, then braced for the long shift north.
* * *
Mearsies Heili and Vasande Leror
Senrid stepped off the Destination on the terrace before the white palace in Mearsies Heili’s tiny capital. He gazed up at the spires of the palace, which owed nothing to symmetry, yet did not look like a random collection of towers. What kind of design was that? It would be impossible to defend in a war. You’d think. Yet it was still standing after unknown centuries.
Not ten steps into the nacreous light of the hall, he shut his eyes hard. Something was trying to make him dizzy. He listened on the mental plane, then recoiled, slamming his mind-shield tight against a subtle shimmer of dark magic, a thin sheen like oil spilled upon a lake.
Siamis has been here. Senrid controlled the urge to flee, and ventured farther, keeping his footfalls quiet. All senses alert, he crossed the broad, empty hall to the open doors of the throne room. He’d never seen anyone in that room until now.
Surprised, he gazed at Clair, a small white-haired figure sitting on the carved throne. He had never seen her in her throne room in all his visits.
Did he look as ridiculous perched on his own throne? Probably worse.
He approached. She could have been a square-faced kid statue, her waving white hair falling in ordered locks down to her lap where her hands rested loose, palms upturned. It was so uncharacteristic that his skin crawled: it was too easy to imagine her body hollowed out, brains, wit, and heart removed, leaving this empty shell.
But her color was a normal, healthy light brown with rose beneath, and her rumpled blue tunic stirred slightly with her breathing.
He remembered encountering people under the grip of the Siamis enchantment. They could answer specific questions. But then they would report the conversation, as ordered.
So he wasn’t going to mention Liere directly. “Where are the girls?”
“I don’t know,” Clair stated.
Senrid looked around, and wondered if they’d escaped the spell. Otherwise, wouldn’t they be sitting here with Clair, like a row of live dolls? ‘Did you send them somewhere?’ No, that question might put Siamis on their trail—if he hadn’t already asked it. He eyed Clair, then bent closer, perceiving the glint of metal above the first button of her tunic, nestled below her collarbones.
He reached, then pulled his hands back. Those medallions were loaded with magic, and if someone tried to take them from the girls, they’d get a spark of fire on their fingers.
“Will you give me your medallion?” he asked. “I want to look at it.”
Clair sat still for a breath or two, as if her thoughts came from very far away, then her hands moved to her throat, and she lifted the chain over her head and dropped the thing onto Senrid’s palm with a soft ching.
“Thank you. I’ll be right back,” he said.
He walked out of the throne room to the hall, where he fingered the medallion, then shrugged. Why not try? He whispered the transport spell, picturing the girls’ underground hideout, and moments later staggered a few steps forward on the brightly colored wool rug in the main chamber. The stuffy air smelled stale, laden with traces of a long-ago meal.
“Anyone here?” he called.
The quick patter of bare feet on the smooth dirt tunnel heralded one of Clair’s friends. Her brows lifted, then snapped together. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for Liere, so I can get her to safety before Siamis nabs her,” Senrid said, and remembered that this particular girl, though she looked ordinary enough—thin, with short hair a soft tint midway between brown and blond, and a light scattering of freckles across her high-bridged nose—was not actually human. He remembered her name then: Dhana.
“Not here,” Dhana said with an air of triumph. “None of ’em are.”
“They escaped Siamis’s spell, then?”
Dhana’s changeable expression hardened. “Clair made them promise. If Siamis showed up, and he did. Walked right into the interview room. She couldn’t get away. Me and Ben are watching over things. Ben stays in animal shape, and Siamis’s magic can’t do anything to me,” Dhana said. She grinned. “So I got to see Andrea chase the eleveners out of the forest.”
“Who?”
“Andrea. The forest ghost,” Dhana stated.
Senrid couldn’t help the derisive expression the word ‘ghost’ sparked, but Dhana just laughed. “Go ahead. Call me a liar. I was just talking to her this morning.”
“Talking. To a ghost,” Senrid said.
Dhana shrugged. “She usually only talks to Seshe. When she appears, which isn’t often. Maybe they get foggier over the centuries.”
Senrid was thinking that it couldn’t be a ghost. Magical anomaly, maybe. But he wasn’t going to argue.
Dhana had been eyeing him, trying to figure out what Clair would want. Well, she knew what Clair would want. She knew as soon as Senrid appeared. The problem was, in this instance, what Clair would want might not be what CJ wanted.
But she decided to do it anyway. “They’re at Kitty and Leander’s. Something about the spell Hibern was going to teach Leander, to break Siamis’s enchantment.”
Senrid stared, astounded, forced himself not to blurt questions, and said, “Thanks. Here’s Clair’s medallion.” He dropped the thing onto her palm and braced himself for another transfer, to a long-familiar Destination.
When he came out of it, he found himself sitting on the gravel outside a familiar small, square castle, the size of an outpost.
This was the royal castle of Vasande Leror, an inkblot of land adjacent to the northeast corner of Marloven Hess, above the Nelkereth plains. Vasande Leror had once belonged to Marloven Hess. Its king, Leander Tlennen-Hess, was even related to Senrid way, way back in their family trees. And they both had endured similar problems in coming to their crowns.
Senrid got to his feet, shrugging away the ache in his joints from so much magic transfer. It would be harder to shake away the reaction of irritation he’d felt at Dhana’s news.
It was strong enough to make him angry, so he took the time to sort it out.
One. There was no reason Hibern ought to have come to Senrid first, if there really was an antidote to Siamis’s enchantment. He could easily imagine her saying, “Yes, I could give it to you, and what would you do with it? You’ll sit around and watch your academy play games, whereas Leander will go out and use it.”
&
nbsp; Two. Leander was really good at magic and history, which was why Senrid had made sure that he was invited into the alliance. But Senrid hadn’t invited him himself because—
Three. Leander’s stepsister, Kyale. She’d once helped Senrid, grudgingly, when he finally defeated his uncle. But she was the most self-involved, annoying person Senrid had ever met.
No help for it. He brushed off the last of the dust, noting that if Leander still had guards, they weren’t very competent, and walked in through the barren stone entrance, then turned in the direction of the kitchens, where most often Leander was to be found if he wasn’t in his study.
And there was Kyale’s high voice echoing down the hall. Considered as a voice, it could have been pleasant, but her constant, simmering anger (akin to his own, he was very well aware) made it shrill. At least he didn’t sound self-righteous.
He hoped.
“Leander, really, a king ought to at least receive royalty in a drawing room. Let’s get them to move upstairs. It’s such a pretty room, and it’s silly, sitting there with nobody in it, and here we all are, crammed into that smelly old kitchen.”
“The Mearsieans like to gather in their own kitchen, Kitty,” Leander said patiently. “And CJ never acts like a princess.”
“Well, maybe she should.”
“I don’t see the purpose in getting the kitchen help to haul all that food and those dishes upstairs, and then haul it all back again, when they’ve got things to do to get ready for the festival.”
“There isn’t going to be any festival if Siamis comes!”
This was obviously a private conversation, but Senrid decided it was time to interrupt. “Are the Mearsieans here?” he asked, rounding the corner.
The two turned, Leander as tall as Puddlenose, dark-haired, with bright green eyes that he’d inherited from the ancestor he and Senrid shared. He dressed like a forest ranger, in a rough old long tunic over loose trousers. Kyale was tiny, with silvery hair and light gray eyes, wearing a gown of lace and fragile tissue over satin, festooned with ribbons and bows.
A Sword Named Truth Page 58