Forgotten Truth

by Dawn Cook

  Somehow silent, though he, too, wore boots, Lodesh retrieved his coat. He bent low over Mav. There was a whisper and a kiss on her forehead. Eyes downcast, he stepped to the hall.

  “And Lodesh?” Redal-Stan’s soft words seemed to echo. “See that Earan doesn’t use any of Mavoureen’s tools. Find him something from the stables. It was months before I heard the end of it the time he used her best kitchen knife.”

  “Yes, Redal-Stan,” he murmured. He left, looking empty and drained.

  The tall, somewhat disheveled Master listened to Lodesh’s steps fade before he turned to Alissa. “May I come in?” he asked, though he stood in the center of the room.

  Grimacing, she gestured weakly. She went to the patch of morning sun and slumped to sit cross-legged within it. “I’d offer you a place to sit,” she said, “but that’s the only chair, and I wouldn’t trust it to hold a kitten.”

  Redal-Stan gingerly bent to sit, regardless, jumping up as the chair creaked and began to give way. Silently he moved to the window and sat on the sill. He was blocking her sun, and peeved, she spun about, setting her back against the cold hearthstones.

  “I would send you down to the front steps as well,” he said. “But you would only make things worse between them.”

  Alissa slouched. “Earan is right,” she said, gesturing to Mav. “It’s my fault. Why won’t you let me help her? Burn it to ash, Redal-Stan. I know where she is. I can bring her back!”

  Redal-Stan held up a hand, stopping her. Rubbing his eyes, he drew his legs up and sat to take up the bottom half of the window. The hem of his long Master’s vest edged the floor. He gazed over the barren walls and threadbare rug before settling upon her. “No.”

  She felt her mouth turn down. Against her will, memories of a gray, enfolding peace filled her thoughts as she exhaled. Mistress Death’s gracious promise. Alissa clenched her arms tight about her drawn-up knees. The thought of the gray, muzzy nothing where Mav had hidden herself seemed to drive a spike of cold through her. She knew that to go back might allow Mistress Death to claim her due, but she wouldn’t tell Redal-Stan. Alissa gave herself a shake. “Then at least tell me why you won’t let me try,” she whispered, setting her chin on her knees.

  “Don’t you understand, Alissa?” he said in frustration. “I don’t know how. The last Master who knew how to return from so deep within his consciousness died before the first stone for the Hold was set. I won’t ask a student to go where I can’t hope to follow. If you slip, I can’t catch you.” He took a steadying breath. “I am your teacher, Alissa. I’m responsible for you.”

  “And Mavoureen is my responsibility,” she countered, frustration pulling her head up. “I can find her. I know it. And I won’t slip. Please, Redal-Stan,” she pleaded. “I can’t sit here and watch her die. You know I’ve done this before. I don’t need a teacher.”

  “No. You need a nursemaid,” he said sharply. But he didn’t leave as he had yesterday and the day before, so she silently waited. The wind fitfully shifted his sleeves, and with a slow exhalation, Redal-Stan turned from a Master of the Hold to a weary man from the desert, one too familiar with death. “I can’t bear the thought of another morning without Mavoureen,” he whispered. “Are you sure, Squirrel? You know the way back?”

  A thrill of excitement went through her, quickly quashed by dread. “Yes.”

  “I want to try, too.” Connen-Neute’s quicksilver thought slipped unexpectedly into theirs, causing them both to start.

  17

  Alissa jerked her gaze to Redal-Stan. He looked as surprised as she, and she sent a trace of thought to find Connen-Neute in the room next door by the fireplace, eavesdropping. “Someone,” Redal-Stan muttered, “needs to teach him some manners.” Taking a huge breath, he shouted, “Verbally, Connen-Neute! And ward that ash-ridden door shut on your way out.”

  There was a flash of resonance on her tracings as the ward went up. Connen-Neute ghosted into existence beside her open door, his long face pinched with a worried defiance.

  “Well?” Redal-Stan said wryly. “Are you going to invite him in? It’s your room.”

  “C-come in,” she stammered, flustered.

  “This is exactly why no one wants these rooms, isn’t it.” Frowning, Redal-Stan stuck his head into the chimney and craned his neck. “I can’t say that I blame them.”

  Glancing nervously between them, Connen-Neute sank down beside Alissa. He looked frightened at his spying having been discovered, and she gave him a thin smile, glad to know she wasn’t the only one who got into trouble. “I want to try, too,” he said, his voice low.

  “No.”

  Connen-Neute opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. It suddenly struck Alissa that speaking aloud wasn’t a natural task for rakus but a skill laboriously taught and diligently practiced. As if confirming her belief, Connen-Neute’s thoughts slid into hers with a refinement his spoken words lacked. “You’re allowing Alissa. I-I claim the same right.”

  “No. No. No!” Redal-Stan shouted, standing up. “It’s too dangerous. She has gone before. You haven’t. You’ll get lost and die. And verbalize!”

  “I can’t get lost if I pickaback,” he thought, looking anxious for his persistence.

  Pickaback? Alissa wondered as Redal-Stan’s eyes grew large.

  “No!” he exclaimed, eyes widening in shock. “Neither of you can possess the finesse.”

  “We lose nearly three Keeper students a century to this wasting death,” Connen-Neute said, his eyes darting. “It’s worth the risk to learn how to return them. And I like Mavoureen.”

  “You don’t need to,” Redal-Stan said. “Alissa knows. One of you is enough.”

  “Alissa is leaving. You said it yourself.”

  Redal-Stan’s eyes went furious. “You devious little—” he sputtered. “Go wait for me in my room!”

  Connen-Neute went ashen. Remaining where he was, he tugged his red sash straight.

  “Go to my room and wait, fledgling!” Redal-Stan shouted, red-faced.

  Uncomfortable in witnessing their argument, Alissa cleared her throat. “Will someone please tell me what pickaback refers to?”

  The silence was so profound, the singing of the Hold’s gardeners below could be heard. Redal-Stan and Connen-Neute exchanged tense, almost embarrassed looks. The older Master was still angry, but it seemed their argument had been postponed by her question. Stiff and uneasy, Connen-Neute rose with an enviable smoothness and went to the window. He turned his back on them to gaze out into the hazy morning. “M-m-m,” Redal-Stan murmured. “Talo-Toecan never explained . . .”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, wondering if she had broken an unwritten rule. “If you tell me what it is, I’ll tell you.”

  Redal-Stan grimaced. “Well . . . ah . . . when Talo-Toecan instructs you on the trickier wards, his awareness is in your thoughts but most assuredly separate from yours. Correct?” She nodded, and he added, “Er, pickabacking is . . . ah . . . closer than that.”

  “How close?” she asked quickly.

  “Your entire emotional state would be exposed.” His attention flicked to Connen-Neute and back. “It’s tantamount to standing naked in the center of the room.”

  “I see.” Alissa frowned. “I don’t think so. I’ll find Mavoureen alone.”

  Connen-Neute spun, his long black vest furling elegantly. “It’s not that bad, Alissa.”

  “Unfortunately he’s correct,” was Redal-Stan’s unhappy agreement. “I won’t lie to you. There’s the potential for your thoughts to intermingle, but it’s only a possibility. It’s a matter of restraint, which either of you may or may not possess.”

  “So,” Alissa mused aloud, “it’s more like standing naked in a room where everyone promises not to open their eyes.”

  Redal-Stan’s breath puffed out. “Exactly. But the penalty for peeking is far more than embarrassment. It invariably spawns a deep hatred. Put bluntly, one of you might eventually kill the other, not wanting to risk having
your deepest fears known.” Alissa knew her look had turned decidedly pale when he soberly nodded. “But first,” he continued, “you have to keep from assaulting him outright. You,” he turned to Connen-Neute, “you have never been tested that far, and you,” he pointed a finger at her. “I don’t know your limits at all.”

  “I won’t peek,” Connen-Neute offered meekly.

  “That’s the least of my worries.” The old Master sighed.

  Alissa took a deep breath. She didn’t want to risk Connen-Neute spotting Beast. But if they could do it, the Hold would again have a Master capable of such a rescue, not to mention that Mavoureen would be saved. “You’ve pickabacked before?” she asked Connen-Neute.

  “No.”

  Alissa found her fingers twirling her hair and forced her hands to her lap. “Then perhaps I should show Redal-Stan.”

  “Me!” It was an appalled shout. “Wolf’s tears and sorrow. Absolutely not.”

  She turned to Connen-Neute. “But you will?”

  Connen-Neute shrugged. “I’m too young to have any secrets.”

  Alissa furrowed her brow. “Beast?” she asked softly. “Can you stay hidden from him?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But if he should see me, won’t he think I’m you?”

  Alissa thought about that, looking up at Connen-Neute’s eager, expectant eyes. She slumped, knowing she had worn that same look on her face just moments ago. “Can we try it,” she asked slowly, “and see what happens?”

  “Yes,” was Connen-Neute’s intent whisper.

  “No!” Redal-Stan shouted. He took in their obstinate frowns and closed his eyes in a long blink. “I’m losing control,” he muttered. “I must loosen my hold further still.” Slowly his expression grew still and, Alissa thought, devious. “Fine,” he said, and her pulse leapt. “I’ll allow it if Connen-Neute accepts responsibility for all mishaps.”

  “Done,” Connen-Neute breathed. His glowing eyes met Alissa’s suddenly wary ones. Redal-Stan had given in far too easily.

  The old Master grimaced. “You may pull this ill-advised stunt off if you proceed as adults and not the giggling adolescents you are.”

  “Promise you won’t look?” Alissa asked Connen-Neute.

  “If you promise not to attack me . . . again,” he finished wordlessly, pitching the word so only she could hear.

  “Again?” she privately sent in confusion.

  He fiddled with the toe of his slippers. “The night you arrived,” he mumbled.

  “Oh!” Alissa laughed into his thoughts. “That little slap! I’m truly sorry, but we hadn’t been introduced, and you were being most impolite.”

  “That was a slap?” he said in disbelief, and a chill ran through her, shocking her. Though Connen-Neute had probably lived five times her years, he was still an innocent. He had never been hurt. He had no idea the risk he was taking, of the pain one Master could inflict upon another. He had learned of the ugly possibilities couched in stories, not the reality she had been forced to deal with to survive. She could hurt this young Master, and hurt him severely. Frightened, she looked up at Redal-Stan. And he knew it.

  Redal-Stan’s eyes became mocking when he saw that Alissa understood. Anger slipped into her. Redal-Stan expected her to burn him. He wanted to use her as his tool to curb Connen-Neute’s newfound assertiveness! Her lips pressed together, and she frowned.

  “Should I come in slow or fast?” Connen-Neute asked as he sat smoothly before her.

  “Fast,” she said, wondering if it was too late.

  It was. Before Alissa could stiffen, he was there, or here, and it was Beast holding Alissa back from smashing Connen-Neute’s presence with a blast of white-hot thought. “Out! Get out!” Alissa shrieked, then, “Wait.” She wrenched her outrage back. Her breath caught as her fury crashed just shy of him, ripples of mental fire eddying up to the edge of his awareness as he seemed to shrink back, trying not to move. “Stay,” she gasped, shuddering. “We can do this.”

  His sudden, overwhelming presence in her mind had been like finding a spider on her neck and struggling not to strike at it while it skittered closer.

  “You could h-have . . . You almost . . .” was his broken whisper of thought.

  “I didn’t,” she stammered back, her stomach twisting. The urge to smash him held steady, and for a moment they did nothing but exist. Together they opened their eyes. Alissa struggled to focus, feeling ill and disoriented. She nearly panicked as she realized she was seeing through Connen-Neute’s eyes as well as her own.

  Tracks of sweat marked his face, and she felt warm from the sun he was sitting in. They stared blankly at each other. For an instant she was tempted to lift her awareness beyond her thoughts to see who Connen-Neute really was, but then she shuddered, afraid. Her pulse slowed to match his, and their breathing synchronized. As one, they raised a trembling hand to brush the hair from their eyes, though Connen-Neute’s was too short to be a bother.

  Redal-Stan’s face was slack in alarm. “I didn’t think you could. This will stop. Now!”

  Together they shook their heads, their faces blank as they closed their eyes. It was easier without sight, and her nausea eased as they found a still point they could both tolerate. Slowly he went from a spider needing to be crushed to an annoying sliver. Connen-Neute’s presence was as malleable as sand, pooling into areas of little-used thought. With a stab of anguish, she felt him settle into the gap that Strell had left.

  “Strell . . .” she mourned, feeling the emptiness all the more, even as Connen-Neute squirmed, uncomfortable in it. And then she thought she could hear Strell’s pipe, filled with his breath, playing a forgotten tune of promises, soothing her pain, making it bitter-sweet.

  “What’s that?” came Connen-Neute’s intense question.

  “A memory,” she whispered, aching for Strell’s smile. “We have to find Mavoureen.”

  “Wait,” he persisted. “I want to hear more.”

  Too melancholy to answer, she turned from the music, trying to ignore its mournful, loving sound and focus upon Mav’s consciousness instead. Immediately Alissa was overwhelmed by the cloying, gray presence of Mistress Death. The memory of Strell’s music accompanied them; Alissa was loath to set it aside completely. Connen-Neute shrank into himself, soaking in the recollection of Strell’s music like she soaked in the morning sun.

  Together they drifted, going where the shroud was the thickest. Alissa slowed, feeling Mistress Death’s hold tighten. Her thoughts became sluggish, distracted. The serenity slipped into her, pulled by the remnants of thought that remained from her first fall. The fog recognized Death’s mark and followed it home. Rest, she thought, snuggling down, abandoning herself to oblivion. She had lost Strell. What did anything matter?

  “Alissa! No!” came a piercing thought, stark with horror. The memory of Strell’s music evaporated, replaced by an icy shock. The scent of death puckered her senses. She jolted back to awareness with a numbing fear.

  “Ashes!” she exclaimed. “Thanks, Connen-Neute.” But he didn’t answer. Frightened, she cast about, finding him caught by the same promise of peace. “Connen-Neute! Wake up!” she cried as the gray thickened about him, making his thoughts hard to separate.

  “Just a little longer, Mother,” came a childlike lisp. “The sun is so warm. The updrafts aren’t blue enough to hold me yet.”

  Panic drove the last of the cloud from her. She would lose him. Along with Mavoureen! “Connen-Neute! Wake up. It’s Death!”

  “Death?” he wondered with a child’s innocence. “Who is Death?” Then he started. “Wolves!” he exclaimed, his thoughts regaining their familiar tone. With a shudder, he was free. She felt him gather his scattered emotions, shaking off his panic. Despite his efforts, a wisp of his fright spilled into her.

  “Mavoureen will be difficult to free,” Alissa said grimly. “She’s been here longer.”

  “But where is she?” he asked.

  Alissa hesitated. The gray still whisper
ed its promise, but its summons fell upon minds warned and wise. The ancient memory of slow decay had become chokingly obvious. “This way,” Alissa puzzled, fancying she could smell the scent of baked bread. Focusing upon it, Connen-Neute and Alissa felt the gray shroud thin, and there she was. “Mavoureen!” Alissa exclaimed in relief. “Thank the Navigator and all his hounds. Wake up. It’s time to go back.”

  Together, Connen-Neute and Alissa watched the silver blue of her awareness stir and gain definition. “Who?” she questioned.

  Connen-Neute started as the woman’s thought came softly into theirs. It was the first time he had heard a human’s thoughts, deciphered through Alissa’s mind first. Mav, Alissa realized, had Keeper tracings, just not the training to use them.

  “Alissa?” Mav questioned, as mild and soft as a moth. “Be a dear and shut the door on your way out? I’m taking a rest. . . .”

  “What door?” Connen-Neute asked.

  “She’s fashioned a vision of familiar surroundings,” Alissa explained. “It’s as real to her as . . .” She paused. What was real anyway? Her entire life was a dream. Setting the uneasy thought aside, she tried again. “Mavoureen,” she said. “You can’t wake from this sleep alone.”

  “Oh?” the old woman questioned innocently. “I won’t be long. Lodesh and Earan get along fine without me. Such fine men they’ve grown into. Just like their father.” She sighed. “I’ll just sleep for a space. I’m so tired.”

  A wisp of alarm stirred Alissa. She had never considered Mavoureen wouldn’t want to return. “Kally!” Alissa pounced on the girl’s name. “Kally misses you. She’s in the kitchen, crying because you won’t come down and bake the bread.”

  “Kally is fine,” Mav said, her thoughts blurring to gray. “I’ve baked enough bread. Can’t you see? Enough bread, enough dinners, enough apples . . . My hands are tired.” Her thoughts mixed with the scent of toast and became faint. “I want to rest.”

  “But, Mavoureen!” Alissa insisted, starting to panic. “The day is so fine! The wind is from the hills, smelling of the first highland frosts. Please. Walk with me in the garden? You could tell me of the gentleman who once courted you there. Please?” Alissa begged, already knowing her answer. “Please tell me how he smiled at you?”