A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  Leander smiled with genuine welcome, and Kyale scowled. “Yes, they are,” Leander said. “In the kitchen.”

  There was no irony in his voice, sparking amazement and admiration in Senrid. Though Leander regarded himself as Kyale’s brother, he wasn’t. The only relation between them was the disastrous marriage Kyale’s mother had tricked Leander’s aged father into making before she arranged his murder so she could reign as queen.

  But none of that was Kyale’s fault. In fact, Senrid’s private suspicion was that Kyale might even have been stolen from somewhere else, a conveniently acquired daughter for the ambitious queen.

  He showed no sign of these reflections as he followed the two into the servants’ mess area beyond the kitchen, Kyale sighing dramatically.

  Leander held open the door, whispering, “Maybe you can convince them to get themselves to the Delfina Valley.” He sent a glance at the Mearsiean girls, who had crowded around the plain table that Leander and his servants customarily sat at.

  Seven faces turned his way. Senrid searched among them, his disappointment so sharp he couldn’t keep it from his voice as he said to Leander, “Liere isn’t here? Is she safe, at least?”

  CJ hopped up, a short figure in her habitual white shirt, long black vest, and green skirt, bare feet planted wide. “Who cares about Sartora?” she demanded, the black line of her brow furrowed over angry blue eyes. “I mean, I care!” She exclaimed, hands going out. “I do! We all do! But she can take care of herself, can’t she, with all those mind powers?” CJ’s fingers whirled little circles on either side of her head. “Clair got Siamised, because of her. And I want to go back to make sure she’s safe.” She shifted her glare to Leander. “And to unspell her, if it really works.”

  “You can’t,” Senrid said. “Unless you want to walk right into whatever trap Siamis laid. In which case, you’ll deserve what you get for willful stupidity.”

  CJ kicked an imaginary object, then said in a less belligerent tone, “We have to do something. We can’t just leave her there.”

  “That’s why we have to wait for Hibern,” Leander said.

  Senrid said, “What’s going on?”

  Kyale, obviously tired of not being the center of attention, spoke up in a self-important tone, “There’s been a horrid war in Bereth Ferian.”

  Leander said quickly, “Mage struggles. Not armies.”

  “Should we try to help?” Senrid offered, thinking of Liere in the middle of it, probably believing it her duty, and Arthur struggling to cope, knowing it was his. Though he was merely a mage student.

  “I suspect they wouldn’t take your offer.” Leander’s smile turned wry, and when Senrid had to laugh, acknowledging the truth of it, Leander added, “They wouldn’t take me, either, I’m sure. Having been largely self-taught.”

  CJ’s fierce blue gaze shifted from one boy to the other, and she said, “You mean they don’t want kids. Think we’re stupid and useless.”

  Senrid tried for fairness. “I think it’s natural to look to the strongest and most experienced.”

  CJ crossed her arms with a thump against her scrawny chest. “Did you get that from your stenchiferous Uncle Bully?”

  Senrid flushed. “When people—not only Marlovens—can’t defend themselves, they look to someone stronger. It’s human nature. Not Marloven nature. Or Sartoran nature. Or whatever else you want to call it. A boy to his older brother, the older brother to his father, his father to the jarl, the jarl to the king. Whatever regional authorities are called. And kings turn to their armies, or to their law.”

  CJ glowered. “I remember your laws,” she fired back. “The first time I ever heard of you was when Leander came here to warn us that you were going to come into our country, and drag Falinneh back to yours for execution. Because why? Because she helped some people, and what did Leander say your fine and superior law was? ‘You don’t cross Marloven kings and live.’”

  Senrid flushed to the ears. “Leander didn’t know shit about our laws,” he retorted, then reined his temper hard, and forced himself to really look at her pale face, at the betraying signs of anger and fear. This was stubborn loyalty he was seeing, not Kyale’s equally stubborn wish to be the center of attention. CJ was clearly one spell away from transferring back to rescue Clair any way she could.

  Leander walked between them, holding out a tray of fresh cinnamon buns that he must have fetched that moment from the kitchen behind them. “Take one,” he invited. “Both of you. And please, don’t pull me into your argument.” To CJ, “When I told you that, I was ignorant about Marloven Hess. Which has its problems. Did, and does. But, well, I learned that that was never law. More like tradition. Old tradition. No longer in force.”

  Senrid added, “How many times have you crossed me? Enjoying every moment. It seems to me you’re still alive.”

  “Okay. Yeah.” CJ grinned, but she still radiated tension. “True! On both counts.”

  Before anyone else could put in unwanted opinions, a faint sense of magic alerted Senrid.

  Leander glanced toward the door. So he’d felt it as well. But whatever tracer had alerted him didn’t disturb him unduly, so Senrid relaxed.

  Then Hibern walked in, tall and gaunt as always, her long black hair flagging against her blue robe. Her black eyes were marked underneath, indicating too little sleep.

  She glanced from CJ squared off to Senrid’s tight shoulders and curled lip, and said quickly, “I’m sorry I haven’t answered any of your notes. We’ve been working so hard, and transferring back and forth between Murial’s and the northern mage school until Siamis’s mages attacked, and I left my notecase . . . well,” she stuttered to a stop, seeing impatience in Senrid and subtle signs of tension in the others.

  She let out a short breath. They clearly didn’t care about the months of study, trial, and error, error, error. She forced herself to skip to what they would care about. “Erai-Yanya,” she stated, “has figured out an antidote to Siamis’s enchantment.”

  And everyone started talking at once.

  Hibern waited until they stopped exclaiming and shouting questions, then added, “And we just discovered that it works. I was there with Erai-Yanya. We freed Oalthoreh from the enchantment. We left her freeing all the other mages up north. Murial—”

  “You mean Clair’s Aunt Murial?” CJ interrupted.

  “Yes. I think you know that she and Erai-Yanya studied together as students, right? She’s been helping all along. Right at this moment, she’s still trying to break the magical traps around that palace, and said that you girls should stay away. Erai-Yanya says someone Siamis would never lay magical traps for must go break the enchantment over Clair.”

  Leander said, “That would be me. Want to come?” He glanced at Senrid, a friendly grin. “Like old times.”

  Kyale scowled resentfully, as Senrid grinned back. Whenever they could, that first year or so after they both came to their thrones, they’d tried setting magic traps for the other, and breaking them. Win or lose, they’d go back and study. But since those days that now seemed a lifetime ago, they’d had less time for that kind of fun.

  Hibern added, “And she also warned that if you break Siamis’s spell, he’s probably going to be able to trace the magic. And come after you.”

  Leander said, “I counted on that. Everything is ready here. As soon as we do this, we all have our transfer tokens to get to the Valley of Delfina. Though I doubt he’ll bother with Vasande Leror. We’re too small.”

  “And I’ve given certain orders in Marloven Hess as well. He wants my army? He won’t find it,” Senrid said. And in a lower voice, “All that’s left is the city guard, but they won’t take Choreid Dhelerei easily. And Detlev can’t get in at all. What about Liere?”

  Hibern said, “She and Arthur were swept off by the northern mages to someplace Norsunder can’t possibly find them. Without the dyr, Lier
e can’t break that enchantment, though she feels really bad about that.”

  Senrid said, “This new antidote doesn’t need the dyr?” He knew that Liere had to be writhing with guilt and anxiety over not being able to rescue the world, but if there was a new way around that nasty object . . .

  “No.” Hibern made a negating motion. “We know that Siamis and his evil uncle want the dyr back, very badly. All the mages agree that this magical attack up north was a ruse to flush out Liere and the dyr, so they could grab them both. As I told Leander, the antidote is not easy. First, you have to get the attention of the enchanted person through using a personal object of theirs . . .”

  Two conversations were going on, CJ and the Mearsieans dividing off to plan their raid to reclaim Clair, and Hibern instructing Leander and Senrid in the new spell.

  Kyale looked from one to the other, and sighed. “I may as well go pet my cats,” she said loudly.

  Everyone stopped talking. “Let’s go,” Leander said.

  * * *

  —

  For CJ, the rescue of Clair, her most important priority, was almost an anticlimax. First of all, none of the girls could go near the white palace because of magical traps.

  They found Murial alone at the top of what had once been the town square, and now was a broad street leading away from the palace terrace and Destination down the eastern slope into the town, the townspeople keeping a prudent distance. Dhana sat on the terrace steps near the Destination, swinging Clair’s medallion on its chain.

  When all had arrived one by one, then recovered from the transfer, Leander said, “First I need a personal object of Clair’s.”

  Dhana silently held out the medallion, then joined the anxiously awaiting girls as he and Senrid proceeded cautiously into the silent palace made of strange white almost-stone that somehow always got remembered as marble.

  Clair was a still, small figure on the throne, exactly where Senrid had left her. Leander swung the medallion with intent. When Clair’s hazel gaze lost its blind affect and her eyes began following the medallion, Leander said the spell.

  Sensitive to magic, Leander and Senrid stepped back a pace as a not-quite-blow, not-quite-wind radiated outward. For an instant the air scintillated, then the spell was gone, and Clair stirred, blinked, and said, “How did you two get here?”

  Senrid turned to Leander. “Want to explain?”

  A short time later the three walked out, and Clair was surrounded by shrieking, jumping girls. Leander and Senrid approached Murial.

  “Good,” the woman said. “This is our second success. I’ll take care to spread it. Now, get out of here. I’m certain Siamis layered traps within that enchantment, which will alert him. I’ll prepare some nice surprises if he or anyone from Norsunder does show up.”

  Murial stepped up to the crowd of girls, who fell silent. She and Clair hugged, then she said to them all, “I want you all to go somewhere safe. Don’t tell me where, in case. But I believe I am much safer than you, as I am not Siamis’s target. But listen to me first.”

  Everyone fell silent, Senrid wary.

  Murial said, “Keep the antidote spell to yourselves for the moment. It’s still new, and while we now know it works, we don’t know if, or how, Siamis will retaliate. And we certainly don’t want all your friends haring off to try the spell without any plan or protection. It’s terrible that people are enchanted, but at least they are in no pain. Correct?”

  Clair said, “True. It’s like being asleep, kind of.”

  Murial gave a tiny nod. “So waiting until the senior mages decide how best to deploy it is the best course right now. Will you do that?”

  They agreed.

  “Then go somewhere safe,” Murial said gently.

  Senrid longed to check on Marloven Hess, but remembered what Clair looked like sitting on that throne, her expression utterly empty. Asleep or not, he loathed the idea of it happening to him—and of being unable to resist anything Siamis might tell him to do while he was ‘asleep.’

  He yanked out the token he’d readied the day the bells rang in Marloven Hess, and transferred to Delfina Valley.

  Clair met Leander’s gaze, and she saw agreement there. She said to Murial, “I’ll fetch my notecase. Will you write to me if anything happens?”

  Murial said, “You may be sure I will.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sharmadi (Seventhmonth), 4742 AF

  Sarendan and Delfina Valley

  IT was late at night when Peitar Selenna heard footsteps outside his study.

  He noted them, hoping Lilah was not awake so late, but this new line of inquiry into the nature of Dena Yeresbeth was so intriguing!

  He put his finger on the moldering page he’d been translating mentally from Sartoran. He’d stumbled across the ancient book, which had been completely mis-shelved among books for beginner mages trying to learn the quake easement magic. Its extreme age had caught his attention, an anomaly.

  Tiredness vanished as he reread a passage in growing wonder. It really seemed that the translator, twelve centuries ago, had misinterpreted the Ancient Sartoran. Unless the meaning of the word had shifted . . .

  “The first,” came a pleasant voice. “But the misinterpretation goes back much farther than twelve centuries.”

  Peitar looked up, startled, at an unfamiliar fellow maybe a year or so younger than he was, wind-tousled wheat-colored hair glinting in the candle light, his white linen shirt dappled with raindrops. “Who—”

  “I just arrived from Sartor,” the newcomer said with a smile. “Why candles? Where are your glowglobes? Surely they provide better light to read by.”

  “I made a promise,” Peitar said, “not to work long past midnight. So I made time candles. What’s your source for the mistranslated word for ancient magic, and how did you find it?” He sat back, pleased at the prospect of discussing magic, his mind open with questions. “Did Tsauderei send you?”

  “No,” said Siamis, and closed the trap.

  He glanced through Peitar’s books, then gently shut them all, as Peitar gazed beyond the walls into timelessness. “It’s almost a shame you won’t remember your discovery,” Siamis said, listening on the mental plane as the enchantment ringed outward. Asleep or awake, all those within the border who shared the same loyalty for which Peitar served as symbol slid into that same timelessness.

  “Almost,” Siamis said, and made that one book vanish. Then Siamis caught Peitar’s gaze and issued the instructions that Peitar was to follow.

  * * *

  —

  Derek woke to the rumble of distant thunder. He blinked, his eyes burning. He sat up, rubbing the crust from his eyelids and working his dry mouth. The sound of voices emerged from the fading thunder: Tsauderei’s gravely old man’s voice, and the nasal honk of a teenage boy.

  Derek turned his head, finding a broad window overlooking a sky full of tumbling clouds, gold-lit at one end, purple at the other. A flicker of lightning briefly outlined the clouds as they sailed away.

  He sat up, his head pounding. He had slid to the floor, tangling himself up in a quilt.

  He flung away the covering and looked around. At the other end of the cottage, the old mage sat with a hunch-shouldered, black-haired young teen whose pasty face was completely unfamiliar. The kid wore shapeless garments of rusty black.

  They each looked Derek’s way, then Tsauderei said something in another language, his tone kindly.

  The teen ducked his head, mumbled an answer, then sloped out the door. He reappeared in the window a moment later, shuffling toward the edge of the cliff the cottage sat on. As Derek watched, he made an ungainly, tentative hop, then came down slowly. He hopped higher, arms wiggling, and floated down. Then he sprang upward, limbs flapping like an ungainly crow as he shot out over the cliff into air. Derek heard a faint, strangled yell through the thick window gla
ss.

  Tsauderei approached, leaning heavily on a cane. The old mage’s face looked more furrowed than Derek remembered it.

  “Who’s that?” Derek asked. Even his voice felt crusty.

  “His name is Jilo.”

  “Why is he dressed like that? Someone’s livery?” Derek didn’t hide the contempt in his voice for whoever would put his servants in such willfully ugly garb.

  “Jilo is a Chwahir. They all dress like that.”

  “Chwahir,” Derek repeated. That explained the sickly, pale skin. He’d never seen any Chwahir, but he’d heard jokes about moon- and platter-faces.

  “He is, I hope and trust, the first of several refugees from the various kingdoms Norsunder is currently attacking.”

  “Someone else besides us?” Derek asked.

  “Everon,” Tsauderei stated, “is at present getting the worst of it.”

  Worse than the other day? The tide of memory flooded unmercifully, prompting a deep desire for vengeance. “I’ve got to get back.” Derek struggled to his feet, head swimming. He leaned against a bookcase. “I promised Peitar I’d get those youngsters out.”

  Tsauderei sank into the empty wing-backed chair, and let out a long sigh. “Derek, I have bad news for you.”

  “Worse than the battle I lost? Another battle,” Derek said wryly, lunging toward the door in reflex.

  “To a degree it’s worse than that.” Derek jolted to a stop when Tsauderei waggled a hand back and forth. “After you fell asleep, I had to go to aid my fellow mages in Bereth Ferian. But while I was there, expecting magical attack from Siamis, he was here. In Sarendan. He put Peitar under enchantment, which extends to the entire kingdom.”

  Lightning shot through Derek’s nerves. “I’ve got to do something!”