by Dawn Cook
“Stuffed with small new potatoes and onions,” Lodesh said dreamily.
“Or a piglet, roasted all day over a spitting fire, flaring up as the juice drips out,” Strell said, his mouth watering. He put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on a fist.
“Or venison cooked over an open fire . . .”
“Or a haunch of sheep, rolled in crushed mint and pastry.”
“Or even—even a goat,” Lodesh finished longingly.
Together, they heaved a wistful sigh. Strell stirred first, breaking out of their dream as he sat back. “What are we really having?”
“Vegetable stew and biscuits.”
They sighed once more.
“I’ll never eat meat again,” Strell lamented, leaning his chair precariously back on two legs. “It’s not that I can’t do without it, but every once in a while . . .”
Lodesh rose and went to the oven. “Alissa would take us flying if she caught us cooking meat in her kitchen.”
“Maybe she could get lost in the garden one night,” Strell said, “and we could have a real dinner.”
With a scrape of the metal latch, the oven opened and seemed to fill the warm space with the smell of Alissa’s stew. “Maybe she could at that,” Lodesh said into the desert heat billowing out. He turned with a tray of biscuits. “Do you want to call them, or should I?” he asked brightly.
“I’ll do it.” The legs of his chair hit the floor with a thump as Strell levered himself up. Striding eagerly to the door leading to the Hold’s walled garden, he went into the night, weaving his way through the tangled paths. The way curved and turned so sharply that he could hear Talo-Toecan’s voice before he was even close.
“The pattern of tracings used for finding a septhama point is really just a looser form,” the Master was saying. “Once a strong enough thread is found, you narrow your concentration.”
A faint whisper of thought touched Strell’s, and he smiled. Alissa must be in her raku form and was forced to speak silently. He could hear her only when she directed her thoughts specifically at him. It should be impossible, but Alissa never listened to impossibilities.
“Correct,” came Talo-Toecan’s rumble. “The smaller the pattern, the less time spent unconscious while reexperiencing the memory.”
Strell jerked to a halt as he nearly ran into a low-hanging limb in the dark.
“Try finding one,” Talo-Toecan said. “There’re numerous septhama points in the garden, especially at the firepit. Keep the energy flow below the threshold of invocation. I don’t want you tripping the lines without me.”
Coming around the last turn, Strell paused. Nestled at the foot of the Hold’s wall was a circular, sunken firepit large enough to hold eight people comfortably. Stone benches were built into the earthen walls, lending it a sense of permanence. Overgrown bushes, tall weeds, and untidy scrub circled it, creating a private space. Tonight it was occupied by a man, more old than young, with yellow eyes. The Master looked up at Strell’s approach, his sharp, angular features acknowledging him with a simple, respectful nod.
Pressing an oval of grass flat behind him was his sweet Alissa. Her petite figure was gone, replaced by a lithe but large, sinuous shape. The only thing familiar about her was her gray eyes, and they widened, noting his arrival and his besotted smile. Oh, yes; she had wings, too. Great, glorious things that blocked the sun when she flew.
In a flurry she stood and vanished in a swirl of pearly white glowing from more than the nearby fire. Alissa knew her hulking size made him uneasy, a reminder of that horrible morning when she had been entirely a beast and none of Alissa, and she had tried to kill him.
Useless watched the thought of Alissa swirl and coalesce. “She had better remember to clothe herself,” he said, and Strell grinned. That had been a sight, but no one knew he’d seen it.
The mist that was Alissa continued to swirl, and Strell’s smile faltered. Useless, too, paused. She was taking a long time to shift, even for her. Together they watched in horror as her misty shape blurred, shrank, and continued to shrink until with a slight pop, it vanished completely.
Useless blinked in the stunned silence, rising to his feet, his hand outstretched.
“Alissa?” Strell breathed. “Alissa!” he called again, fear slicing icily between his soul and reason. Even the light trace of her thought he had never recognized before, lying still and warm within his, was gone.
“Alissa!”
And the elegantly dressed figure of Lodesh, hearing Strell’s cry even from that distance, stood, his eyes bright and knowing, waiting no longer.
4
Strell! Alissa thought, catching sight of him on the path. She didn’t want him to see her like this! Not, she admitted, that he ever said he didn’t like her as a winged monstrosity. Energy slipped coolly into the proper mental channels to maintain her existence as she began her shift. Beast awoke, watching in undisguised boredom. “Why,” she asked, “the extra lines this time?”
“Extra?” Embarrassed, Alissa realized that in her rush, she had forgotten to shut down the pattern used for tripping the lines. It stood silver and quick against the darkness of her mind. She left it, afraid to take anything down until her neural net was a reality again, not just a thought. In fact, she mused, she was nothing but thought.
“One who had better clothe herself,” Beast said drowsily.
“I remembered, thanks,” Alissa said dryly, eyeing the third pattern. She swirled back into reality and blinked in bewilderment. The fire was out. Then she smiled. Useless had probably snuffed it, concerned she might forget her clothes again. Before he had the chance, she formed a containment field about the wood and put within it the proper ward to set the wood alight. The amount of energy she had to use was more than she expected. It was as if the wood was stone cold, not still warm from its recent extinguishment. But her fire snapped to life with a satisfying whoosh, throwing back the dark.
She was alone. The teapot and her cup were gone. Even Lodesh’s slippers. “Strell?” she called, stepping down onto the bench, then, “Useless?” There was no answer. Concerned, she sent a thought to find them. Her breath seemed to catch in her. The Hold was full of people.
Alissa sat down rather hard on the bench.
“I must have tripped the lines with no memory fixed,” she whispered, “and as Useless warned, I fell asleep and missed their arrival.” The pattern for tripping the lines had been set when she shifted. Perhaps she had engaged it unwittingly. Her confusion slowed, but a whisper of unease lingered, fluttering at the edge of her awareness. Pushing it aside, she sent a silent call to Useless. Who knew how long she had been asleep?
Again, there was no answer. “Strell?” she called, twisting her thought so he could hear. “Lodesh?” Almost panicking, she tried again. A faint response touched her mind, and her shoulders drooped relief. “Lodesh,” Alissa thought with a sigh, then hesitated. “What are you doing out on the road? And where are Strell and Useless?”
“Who?” came his somewhat garbled reply.
“Sorry. Talo-Toecan.” Alissa frowned. Lodesh was always so blessedly formal.
“No.” It was stronger now. “Who is this?”
“It’s Alissa,” she blurted in a stunned surprise.
“You’re in the Hold’s garden?”
She nodded, forgetting for a moment he couldn’t see the gesture. Her unease returned full force, settling into an immovable lump.
“Odd.” His thoughts slipping into Alissa’s were tinged with confusion. “I should be under the Hold’s ward of silence by now.” He hesitated. “Wait. I’ll be right there.”
Alissa’s knees came up to her chin, and she waited on the hard bench, just her and the crickets, in the cloudy, warm night. Lodesh was on the road between his abandoned city of Ese’Nawoer and the Hold. What was he doing there? And he was moving fast. Too fast for running. And why, she wondered, worrying at the hole in her stocking, had he mentioned the Hold’s ward of silence? He knew it didn’t bind
her, only Keepers.
A log slipped, threatening to roll out of the fire, and she twisted to find a stick in the brush behind her to shove it back. Her eyes widened. The grass was trimmed! She rose, afraid to make a light to see clearly. But even in the hazy glow from the cresting moon she could see the bushes had been pruned and the flowerbeds weeded. She spun about, her heart pounding. “That tree,” she whispered, pointing with a trembling finger. “I don’t remember that tree.” There was a scuffling on the path. Alarmed, she turned to see Lodesh striding towards her, his boots crunching on the gravel path.
Tall and lithesome, he moved with the grace of a dancer. His head was bare, and his blond waves were in an unusual disarray. There was a pair of gloves in his hand, which, even as she watched, he slapped together and tucked away in a back pocket.
Riding gloves? Alissa questioned, realizing how he had gotten here so fast. Where did Lodesh get a horse?
Catching sight of her, he paused. “Alissa?” he called.
“Here,” she breathed, and held her hands out to draw him into the firepit. “Thank the Navigator’s Hounds. I was beginning to think I had lost my mind. What’s happened?”
Lodesh took her hands and stepped down. “I don’t know, but trust me to find out.”
Alissa felt his eyes travel from her mussed-up hair to the hem of her skirt. Used to his warm, inviting gazes, she smiled back. His hands exerted a warm pressure, drawing her gaze to his. He was trying to make her blush! “Where did all the people come from?” she asked, neither recognizing or dismissing his invitation. “They’re all over, even the old annex dorms.”
“Old annex dorms?” His eyes smoldering, he drew her hand to his lips, hesitating as she stiffened. His fingers were bare.
Her eyes went to his shoulder and then his chest. “Lodesh?” She dragged her hand from his. “Where are your city’s ring and pendant?”
His smile vanished. “All right. Who put you up to this?”
Feeling her face go cold, Alissa backed away. This wasn’t Lodesh. He didn’t know her.
Lodesh took her wrist. “Was it Earan?”
“Uh,” she stammered, suddenly frightened.
“I hope he didn’t promise you one of the Keepers’ private quarters for this performance.”
“I—uh . . .”
“How dare he mock me by telling you I was the Warden.”
“But that’s who you are,” she said, taking a ragged breath. It sounded harsh against the crickets. “You’re Lodesh Stryska, the last Warden of Ese’Nawoer.”
“That,” he snapped, his face going hard, “is enough.”
Alissa gasped as he yanked her off balance and out of the firepit. “Lodesh! What are you doing?” she cried. “Lodesh!”
“We’re going to find Earan.” He halted, eyes vacant with the familiar look of someone running a search. “The Keepers’ dining hall.” He frowned. “Cards, most likely.” And their pace resumed.
Alissa stumbled after him, stunned into complacency, dazed, confused, and very frightened as she stared at the moon. It was supposed to be new, not a waxing crescent. Lodesh didn’t know her. The Hold was full of people. Useless and Strell were gone!
Lodesh’s boots found the path, crunching determinedly forward. Alissa bit back a cry as her foot found a sharp stone. “Ow! Lodesh, stop!” she demanded, tugging free.
He squinted down at her stockings in disbelief. “Where are your shoes?”
She looked blankly at him. “I can’t make shoes, yet,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Yet?” he repeated. Then his face cleared. “Come on,” he said.
“No, wait,” she pleaded as he dragged her forward. “Lodesh, please. Something is wrong. Just—let me figure it out.” Ignoring her fingers prying at his grip about her wrist, he pulled her to the kitchen. The door was painted; she could see it in the moonlight. Stunned, she stumbled past it, feeling a tingle of a ward shiver through her. More atrocities met her increasingly panicked eyes.
All three kitchen hearths were in use; they were banked for the night, but they were in use. There were four pitchers and two stacks of plates stretching unsettlingly high, waiting for breakfast. The overhead rack where she hung her wash held more herbs than she could use in a year. An acidic, unfamiliar scent hung in the air, and she stiffened, realizing it was the odor of cooked meat. All this she saw and despaired over in a moment. Then the angry voices coming through the open archway from the dining hall drew her attention.
“You’re cheating, Ren!” came a harsh accusation. “No one has such good luck.”
“Am not!” asserted a higher pitched, indignant voice. “Ask Connen-Neute. That’s what he’s here for.”
“Connen-Neute!” Alissa gasped, yanking herself free. Connen-Neute was a Master who had gone feral almost four hundred years ago. Ashes! Her stomach tightened, and with a sick feeling, she knew she wasn’t viewing the past. This was nothing like reliving a memory. She was conscious, interacting, an active participant. What had she done?
Lodesh’s fingers resumed their grip, and despite her efforts, he pulled her stumbling into the brightly lit hall. Silence greeted their arrival as five people looked up from the far end of one of the familiar black tables. Three were garbed in Keeper fashion, one in commoner, and the last, sitting apart by the hearth, was in the clothes of a Master.
Alissa returned his stare, her heart pounding. He was young, with a long, solemn face, dark of skin and hair. It was cut obscenely short as she remembered her father liking his. Even without the black Master’s vest and red sash about his waist, she would have known he was a Master; his eyes were as golden as Useless’s and his fingers had that extra segment. Seeing her gaze on them, he hid them in his wide gray sleeves.
The largest Keeper cleared his throat, making it into an insult. “Really, Lodesh. Don’t be stupid.” His thin lips pressed together disapprovingly. “Dressing your latest conquest up as a Keeper to sneak her in? Common folk aren’t allowed after sunset.” Running a hand over his neatly trimmed, reddish beard, he returned his attention to the cards in his hand, giving her presence as much consideration as he would a stray dog. “Take her out,” he muttered.
Lodesh drew back a step, leaving her alone under unfriendly eyes. “I thought she was one of your jests, Earan. You don’t know her?”
His flat face unreadable, Earan looked up from his cards. “No.”
“Nisi?” Lodesh turned to a young woman, who, with her fair features, had to be from the foothills like Alissa.
The woman shook her head seriously, the tips of her hair brushing her ears.
“I’ve never seen her either,” volunteered the youngest. He wasn’t a Keeper, for he lacked the proper attire. Actually, he wasn’t dressed well at all. Ankles showed above mismatched shoes, and there were patches in the huge shirt he kept tugging straight. He was growing too fast to justify better was Alissa’s guess, seeing as he had the thin, awkward look of adolescence.
“What about you, Breve?” Lodesh turned to a dour-looking man whose beard was shot with gray and whose face was leathered from the sun.
“Never seen her,” he said as he crossed his arms and leaned back from the table in mistrust. His words were startlingly rich for his gloomy demeanor. He was, Alissa realized, a voice musician. That voice was too cultured not to have been schooled. It was similar in timbre to Strell’s, and she felt a stab of loss.
“I found her in the garden,” Lodesh said.
The mismatched adolescent tilted his chair back on two legs to look under the table. “In her stockings?” he said, and everyone but Connen-Neute leaned to look.
“Shut up, Ren.”
Alissa flushed, scrunching down to hide them. Even her mentally crafted stockings had holes. Useless said it was because her fundamental concept of stockings included them.
Earan collapsed the fan of cards in his thick hands. “Who are you, girl?”
“Alissa Meson,” she heard come out of her. “Student Ma—” Eyes wide, she clas
ped her hands over her mouth to keep the rest of her title from slipping forth. It was the Hold’s truth ward, demanding an answer. That’s what that tingle as she passed the kitchen’s threshold had been! While under it, she couldn’t lie, but she could stretch the truth or refuse to answer by walking away, or even stall for time, hoping to divert his attention. Her father had lost his life breaking the ward almost a decade ago, yet here it was.
The cards in Earan’s hand hit the table in a soft hush. “I don’t know you,” he threatened, eyes narrowed. Alissa took a step back, feeling her face go cold.
“Well, somebody knows her,” Lodesh said. “They told her I was the Warden.”
Earan laughed, sending the patronizing sound into the rafters. “That’s rich!” he said, making the table thump with a heavy fist. “My little brother, made Warden ahead of me.”
“Be that as it may, she believes it,” Lodesh said stiffly.
Abruptly loosing his mirth, Earan leaned back with his thick arms crossed before him. “Enough,” he said impatiently. “Who are you?”
“I already told you,” Alissa said, sidestepping the truth ward. Telling them she was a Master would only label her insane. She jumped when Lodesh put a comforting hand on her shoulder. The faint smell of mirth wood came to her, and her pulse quickened. This was all wrong. What had she done?
Earan leaned across the table. “How did you get into the garden in your stocking feet?”
“I walked,” she said, feeling her stomach tighten.
Ren and Breve chuckled. Earan gave them a dark look, clearly not liking to be made the fool. “Sorry little snippet,” he said as he placed his hands upon the table and levered his bulk up.
“Earan . . .” Nisi warned, her voice carrying a hint of fear. “Sit down. Let’s just find out who she is and let Redal-Stan handle it.”
“That’s what I’m doing.” Out from behind the table, Earan was a huge, red bear of a man, tall as a plainsman but thick as a foothills farmer. Alissa’s eyes widened. Earan carried his mass easily, gliding to stand before the table with a masterful grace, which he spoiled with a spiteful expression. “Who told you Lodesh was the Warden?” he demanded.