A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  “You can stay here. Until the situation is clearer.”

  “I failed. Again,” Derek muttered, his gaze going sightlessly from object to object.

  Tsauderei waited for comprehension; Derek glanced up. “But I can’t stay here. There are those children still in Sarendan. Including Lilah, Bren, and Innon. I promised Peitar I’d get them to safety here.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “The flims you put the magic on are still sitting in my house.”

  “Most likely.”

  “So give me the magic to go back and rescue them.”

  “No. Not yet. Not until I know the nature of the magic on Peitar, and . . .” Tsauderei paused, and decided against explaining how the few mages who as yet knew about Erai-Yanya’s antidote were waiting to discover if it held. “. . . and what Norsunder would do.”

  And Derek didn’t care about magic. “You can’t keep me here,” he stated.

  “I can’t stop you from walking out,” Tsauderei retorted. “It’ll take you, oh, maybe six weeks to clamber the mountains to the border. Longer, in the storms I predict as a result of my interference the other day.”

  Derek remembered the sudden storm, which sparked an older memory: the sudden storm the dawn he and Peitar were marched out to face execution. “That was you?”

  Tsauderei brought his chin down, his white beard rippling on his chest. “The local weather will be disturbed for a time, but this is the mountains. Such storms are frequent. It will do little harm. Except maybe to lone travelers scrambling over the cliff faces. I trust any such will be Norsundrian stragglers.”

  Derek drew in a shaky breath. “Where is that little girl who ended Siamis’s enchantment before?”

  “She’s expected here any time, as it transpires. We will discuss that when she does arrive.”

  Derek let his breath go. “All right.” A plan of action, of sorts. He could live with that. “What can I do?” He added, “Don’t tell me I’m useless because I don’t know magic.”

  “There is a very important service you could provide, actually. Those children you brought, added to others who are gathering here, will need organization. This Valley has served as a refuge before, from time to time, and I believe we can accommodate them, but when they tire of swimming in the lake and flying, they will probably get restless. I would not like to see them disturbing the villagers unduly.”

  Derek gave a short nod. He had a lot to learn before he’d become a good commander. But he did know how to organize a rabble.

  “All right,” he said. “Where are they? Who claims authority here? Some damned noble, no doubt?”

  “‘Damned’ is not for me to decide,” Tsauderei said wryly. “But you may look to me for whatever authority exists. Now, sit down. There’s fresh bread on the table over there, and some good goat cheese. If you like Sartoran steep, you may fill the kettle from the pump in that corner. The dried leaves are in that lacquered canister with the flowers painted on it, that Lilah’s mother made for me when she was about ten.”

  Derek was surprised enough to obey without question.

  Tsauderei nodded, and smiled benignly. “You can eat, and listen, while I claim the privilege of the old and regale you with the Valley’s history so you will understand how things are done here. We need to go far, far back in history, when magic was much stronger in the world. This valley was a home for aging mages, or those who needed to retreat from the world, as well as for the small population of people whose descendants’ houses you can see on the other plateaus. . . .”

  * * *

  Everon

  Princess Tahra Delieth of Everon sat up in bed. There was nothing to get up for, but too much to get away from.

  She swung her feet out of bed, pressing them to the floor at exactly the same moment, all ten toes. Then she got up and walked to her dresser, five steps each side. Even stayed clear. Odd was brown, and brown meant a bad day.

  Tahra knew that counting steps and touching her things in the right order didn’t make any difference outside her room. Her father had told her. Her mother had told her. Uncle Roderic had told her. Rel had told her. Mearsieanne had told her. Even Glenn had bored on at length.

  That was fine. Nothing she did or didn’t do in the right way, the right order, affected other things, except she knew if she didn’t do them right, she had a bad day. If she did them right, she might have a good day. Might was better than nothing. Clear was better than mud brown.

  But all the days had been bad, ever since this war happened. Going on three weeks, now, she and Glenn had to stay in the palace all day, and their parents were always in conference. Always with long faces. Every couple of days there seemed to be new skirmishes somewhere, which meant somebody new was dead.

  Here it was, Restday again, the third since the Norsundrians had invaded, killing Valenn and taking over the harbor.

  Today was to be the memorial for the latest dead.

  Tahra stepped through her cleaning frame, one two, and decided that yesterday’s trousers and shirt would do. No one would notice if she put on a proper mourning robe over them. She lifted the white one from the trunk, shook it out twice, then pulled it on, both arms at the same time. Sash, over, over, under, through. The ends . . . yes, they hung together. Clear, so far. Everything in order.

  Relieved, she put on stockings and shoes, then brushed her hair, twenty strokes left, twenty right.

  When she stepped out, she found her mother having just left her suite, her shining dark hair with white starliss braided into it. “Darling,” Mersedes Carinna exclaimed, eyeing her daughter. “I was about to send Jenel to you.”

  “I’m ready. And my hair is neat. See?” Tahra turned, so her mother could see her ordered hair. Tahra had cut hers to shoulder length, like Glenn’s, so she wouldn’t have to sit there and endure someone’s fingers in it. Just the thought made her skin crawl.

  Mersedes Carinna saw Tahra’s long face turn obdurate. Her heart already ached at the loss of Alstha, her husband’s new sweeting; life was so fragile, she believed that joy should be embraced fiercely wherever it came. Her arms ached to hold her daughter within their circle, but Tahra had pushed her away long ago.

  She forced herself to smile, and to say, “You look quite proper. Come, let us not keep Uncle Roderic waiting.”

  Tahra’s maid Jenel was standing by with an understanding smile, holding the dethorned white roses that Tahra would carry. She quietly surrendered them into Tahra’s keeping without permitting their fingers to touch, which Tahra was grateful for.

  They waited until the king’s door opened and he joined them, sorrow carving lines into his face as he reached down to kiss Mama.

  Tahra stiffened when it was her turn, and grimaced at the warm, moist pressure of his lips on her cheek, the brush of his beard against her neck.

  As the king saluted Glenn, Tahra hastily wiped her cheek against her shoulder, then walked beside her brother behind their royal parents, leading the procession into the court.

  There, people waited for them. Tahra looked into each face; last was Uncle Roderic, his head down, only his graying beard visible. It wasn’t until she was within ten paces that she discovered it wasn’t Uncle Roderic at all, but some gray-bearded man wearing the white robes of the Knights of Dei with the commander’s gold trefoil embroidered on the shoulder.

  Her parents had been watching. The king flashed a bitter smile at his wife, a shared moment of anticipatory triumph.

  Henerek, watching through field glasses from a rooftop in the city, saw that brief grin, cursed, and lifted his hand in a fist, signaling his galloper waiting at the end of Woolens Row: whatever caused that smile, there was a good chance his surprise attack wasn’t.

  And that meant the Knights—or someone—weren’t all ranged down below, but were about to attack his hostage towns.

  “Go, go, go,” he yelled.
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br />   Below, the stately procession followed the four biers along the tree-lined path leading from the palace to the Knights’ square. The citizens of Ferdrian tossed showers of white petals, gathered in the dew before sunup.

  The royal family and the supposed Knights were barely visible in the soft, fragrant snow of petals, tranquil and melancholy for the space of twenty steps.

  Zing! Then the first arrow hissed through the air. Shields whipped up, as citizens screamed in terror and outrage. Henerek’s assassination team began to converge, to find themselves in turn shot at from behind chimney pots and attic windows that looked down on either side of the royal parade: while they had crept over roofs into position, watching the palace, young Knight candidates had gained their rooftop vantages through the houses, and one by one shot half of Henerek’s assassins, Roderic Dei’s daughter Carinna leading the team.

  * * *

  —

  A day’s fast ride away, Rel sat behind a honeysuckle shrub, watching bees bumble between blossoms as the summer sun rose, baking the back of his head. Down beyond the slope, along a sluggish river, lay the two towns that the Norsundrians had taken when they were driven from the harbor.

  Behind Rel, Roderic Dei sat in the lee of a squat juniper, talking quietly to his new captain, another of his weedy teenage daughters serving as squire. She looked as upset as all of them had to feel, not to be present as the rest of Everon sang the memorial farewell to the gallant Captain Alstha and three other Knights. Rel’s mind wandered to Atan, far to the south. He hoped Sartor was all right. But he could do little there—the royal council had made it clear that the mages were in charge.

  The commander raised a hand, halting the conversation. Everyone stilled as he flicked open his notecase, read, then beckoned to Rel, who was the duty runner for the day.

  Rel hunched over, hoping his head and shoulders were not visible above the curling tendrils at the top of the honeysuckle.

  The commander said grimly, “It’s as the king expected. Henerek has not sufficient a sense of honor to grant us this Restday memorial. Our decoys are busy chasing his assassins over the rooftops right now.”

  “Ah,” said Rel. Not only did that give the Everoneth leave to attack in turn, by their own code, it probably strengthened their resolve to rescue the hapless citizens whose lives the Norsundrians had threatened.

  “Also, Henerek is apparently leading the would-be assassins, which means he’s not here,” Roderic said. “And so, let us put the secondary plan in motion.”

  Rel nodded his assent, backed away, and returned to his position, which was in line of sight of two watchers. He held up his hand, then pumped it twice, once to each side.

  A count of fifty as the signal spread to the other side of the river, and then it was time to move.

  Rel hated covert movement. He was not made for skulking. His neck and spine ached by the time he had duck-waddled, hunched over, from bush to bush along a gentle inward slope carved by a chuckling spring that emptied into the river; his shield and sword seemed to grow extra corners just to gouge him in unexpected places. Sweat soaked his clothes and ran down the back of his neck by the time he’d reached the candle-bloom chestnuts along the base of the hill.

  They’d nearly reached the village when the first signs of the enemy appeared: archers on the rooftops. A hail of arrows slowed the Everoneth slightly, but everyone had shields up.

  Then the first wave of attackers boiled out from between sleepy-seeming cottages, two forces going for the Knights forward of Rel’s position. Rel ripped free his sword, whirling it in tight circles to either side as he charged.

  A furious battle compounded of dust, sweat, the fierce glint of sun off steel, and he was through the line of Norsundrians, but glimpsed more beyond the houses. Where were the villagers who were supposed to rise against the enemy? A sense of foreboding grew as he loped down a narrow alley between cottages, and he peered cautiously over a projecting porch rail.

  The village square was crowded, the villagers gathered in a tight group, ringed by Norsundrians. Swords and knives held at the throats of all the children. Along the perimeter, hidden Norsundrians attacked the occasional Knights who burst through singly or in pairs. Rel dropped back, then retreated at top speed, his breath burning his throat. He caught sight of Roderic and the main body descending in columns fifty paces away.

  Rel caught up before Roderic reached his first cottage. In a few gasped words, he repeated what he’d seen.

  Roderic’s face blanched nearly as gray as his beard. Then he jerked his mailed fist at the signaler. “Sound the retreat.”

  Nauseated from thirst and heat, Rel fought his way past the laughing, hooting enemy, and at a gesture from his patrol leader, helped to pick up a fallen comrade to carry up the hill.

  Stalemate—again. And again, new dead to mourn.

  * * *

  —

  At that same moment, in Sarendan’s capital, Miraleste, Kessler marshaled his company.

  They’d enjoyed a couple days of rest and relaxation in the enchanted city, while Kessler amused himself with locating Peitar Selenna’s annoying sister, one of the brats who had caused him so much trouble in the Sartoran enchantment fiasco a couple years back.

  He tested the limits of Siamis’s spell to see how it was put together by asking questions, and repeating demands, over and over. Before he left, he laid a blood-enchantment over a blade. All it needed was contact with Derek Diamagan’s blood to work. He pressed the enchanted blade into Lilah Selenna’s hand, and ordered her to stab Derek Diamagan on sight.

  Laughing at the brat’s slack face, he summoned his company and said, “To the coast. Double-time. We’re off to Everon to have some fun.”

  Chapter Nine

  Othdi (Eighthmonth), 4742 AF

  Delfina Valley

  “YOU’LL stay here,” Tsauderei said, as he and Jilo flew past the main plateau of the Delfina Valley. Jilo glanced down at steep roofs made of slate. Otherwise the houses reminded him of those in Mearsies Heili, with colors on the shutters, the doors, and the plastered walls.

  Jilo had assumed the old mage couldn’t fly, he was so stiff-jointed, but flying clearly made movement easy for him. It was odd, how his body felt bird-light, but his hair and clothes did not float upward, the way they did in water. He wondered how the flying spell was bound, and who had done it.

  Tsauderei led Jilo to the largest house in the Valley. It had been built on a plateau of its own, in the midst of a wildly overgrown garden. “This belongs to Peitar and Lilah Selenna,” Tsauderei said, his voice low with regret. “It once belonged to their mother. They won’t mind its being used.”

  When they landed, Tsauderei winced as the magic dissipated, the ground again pulling at his joints the moment his feet touched down. He lifted the latch and led the way into a slate-floored foyer, past a beautiful salon done in white and black. “Run upstairs, and pick out a bed,” Tsauderei said. “Go ahead. I’ll wait, in case you have questions.”

  Jilo walked from room to room and back again, up the steep stairs and down, just looking at all the colors, and how each fitted well with the next. He found a trunk filled with art supplies next to a bed, the edges of the paper curled from age. He knew an abandoned trunk when he saw it and dared to claim it for his own.

  Also in the trunk, he found folded clothing: tunics of various sizes, riding trousers, socks, various types of shoes. All in summer-light fabrics, even colors.

  Elsewhere in the room was another bed, another trunk. There were two gabled windows, and between them a desk. On the corner opposite the window, there stood a wooden frame that looked like a window frame with no window. When he approached it, he felt magic. A cleaning frame! For two people? In Chwahirsland, the only ones left were in barracks, for officers.

  He ran downstairs. “I found a chamber,” he said. “Is there someone living here who does drawing?”r />
  “Bren.” There was the regret again. “He won’t mind sharing. Whatever art gear he left wasn’t what he wanted to take back into Sarendan. In fact, I encourage you to investigate the clothes in the trunk, which are donations from a couple generations of family and guests. Unless you’re fond of yours.”

  “No,” Jilo said. “But may I use the cleaning frame?”

  “As often as you wish. You might consider resuming your studies. If you do, I recommend visiting Atan, who lives in the hermit’s cottage, on the platform at the western end of the Valley.”

  “Atan?”

  “She’s your age. An accomplished mage student.”

  Jilo nodded, but he couldn’t get his thoughts past that cleaning frame for a single bedroom. Why wouldn’t Wan-Edhe permit people to have cleaning frames? Because he despised the people. Because the onerous task of scrubbing laundry and trying to dry it in the harsh weather kept people busy who might otherwise be fomenting revolt, of course.

  Jilo was going to change that first thing when he returned.

  “As for meals, I have an arrangement with a colleague at a very popular inn in Colend. We will not burden the locals with feeding the refugees.”

  Tsauderei had explained on Jilo’s first night that under ordinary circumstances the Valley was nearly impossible to get to. Transfers were strictly warded. Access to the Valley was by flying, and the prospective visitor appeared in Tsauderei’s scry stone. He could block the magic with a word, and deny their entry.

  But for the current refugees, he had created special transfer tokens like the one that had brought Jilo directly to his cottage. Jilo found this demonstration of the power of waxer magic so intriguing he was almost tempted to talk to a stranger, this Atan.

  That night and the next, Jilo only saw Tsauderei at meal times. Otherwise he was alone. He dared the trunk, choosing one of those soft shirts, dyed a bright yellow, with blue embroidery in fanciful blossoms down the front. It felt good next to his skin, and he liked the cheerful color, but years of habit were difficult to break, and he didn’t want anyone actually seeing him.