Forgotten Truth

by Dawn Cook

  “No.” Lodesh sighed. “Could you . . . tell me what time it is?”

  The man beamed. “I would rightly guess it’s a good two hours after sunset, Warden.”

  Lodesh thought for a moment. “You’re Krag, right?” and the man puffed out his substantial chest in obvious pride. “Go to bed,” Lodesh said. “And not in front of my door.” He turned and muttered, “If I want something to eat, I’ll get it myself.”

  Krag grinned, settling himself more firmly at his spot as Lodesh shut the door. Escape past Krag would be impossible. Tugging his short vest straight, Lodesh strode across the room to the window. He shook his head in disgust. His upper-floor apartments took up more space than Reeve’s entire home and kitchen garden put together. The window, too, was oversized, though not big enough for a raku to land at.

  The night breeze tugged at his hair, bringing him the distant scent of mirth flowers as he stood at the window with his hands on his hips and brooded. Large as it was, the four walls of his room were confining. He wanted out, if only for a breath of air. And while he could stroll among the garden’s roses and moonlight with impunity, the idea lost much of its appeal knowing his walk would be with Krag. “At least I can smell the roses,” he said sourly, reaching past his window to worry a flower free from the thorny vine that snaked up the trellis to the roof.

  Lodesh froze at a sudden thought, a grin stealing over him. He looked down at the ground, and with a sharp nod, strode to his closet for the outrageous stockings he was supposed to wear tomorrow. They were purple, and they looked terrible, but he hadn’t the heart to tell the woman who chose his clothes. They would be more productive in protecting his hands.

  Again at the window, Lodesh wrapped the hose about his palms and fingers and pulled tentatively upon the trellis. It held firm. Slowly, carefully, using all his balance and finesse, Lodesh climbed out onto the wall. His breath slid easily from him in a relieved sigh. There was an ominous creak, and his smile faltered.

  It was followed by the sound of a small crack, and he tensed. The eye-opening sound of metal pulling from stone split the night, and he knew he was going down.

  He scrambled frantically up. Thorns bit at him. A rung snapped. There was a frightening moment of drop. He gasped at the sudden pain in his shoulder as he jerked to a halt.

  A long-fingered hand was wrapped securely about his wrist.

  Feet scrabbling against the insecure trellis, Lodesh grasped the lip of the flat roof with his remaining hand and tried to pull himself up. A sharp heave flung him to sprawl on the roof. Rubbing his shoulder, he squinted up at the shadow before him. Immediately he made a light.

  “Connen-Neute!” he exclaimed. “Thank you. I was just—” He halted, his relief turning to embarrassment. “Just checking the top buds for aphids.”

  The young Master arched his eyebrows and sank to sit cross-legged across from him on the flat roof. Lodesh put his knees and elbows in order. He unwound the stockings from his hands and brushed the broken thorns and leaves from him. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked. Then his face grew cold. “Alissa!” he cried. “Is she all right? How could I have forgotten about her!”

  Connen-Neute raised a placating hand. “Not Alissa,” he said quietly, his dark voice seeming to belong to the night as much as the owl and the wolf. “Marga.”

  “What about her?” he said, suddenly afraid for his sister.

  Connen-Neute looked to the west, to the Hold, his golden eyes seeming to glow eerily in the warded light. To Lodesh, he looked anxious, ready to take flight at the least provocation. Realizing the young Master was frightened, Lodesh forced himself to relax. Whatever it was must be important, or Connen-Neute wouldn’t be here. “Please,” he said softly. “Tell me.”

  Connen-Neute nodded, his long face serious. “It’s my belief the chances have increased tenfold that Marga’s unborn children will be allowed to turn shaduf.”

  Lodesh’s breath hissed out as if he had been kicked. “By the Navigator, no,” he whispered, stunned. Not Marga. Not his sister. It would tear her apart, watching her children turn cold and bitter as the knowledge of a thousand deaths fell upon them.

  Feeling as if he might be sick, Lodesh turned his cold face to Connen-Neute. “How do you know?” he said brokenly, then felt his face harden. “What do you mean, allowed to turn shaduf? You can stop it?” He stood up, angry. “Could Sati have been stopped from turning?”

  Connen-Neute rose as well, standing very still. “I shouldn’t have come.”

  “No!” Lodesh said with a whispered urgency. “Wait.” He forced his arms to his side. “I’m sorry. I’m not in a position to condemn anyone. But you’re here. You wouldn’t be if you could do something to change it.”

  “Change?” the young Master said, mouthing the word slowly as if it was made of wool. “No. Prevent.” He looked uneasily towards the Hold again, then sat down. “I need help.”

  Lodesh forced himself to sit, knowing the effort he was making to get the words out.

  The Master’s eyes seemed to glow. “I must know when Marga is with child.”

  Lodesh shivered from the multitude of questions that simple statement gave rise to.

  “The earlier the better,” Connen-Neute added. “I have reason to believe a mild burn—”

  “You would burn a child’s tracings before it’s born!” Lodesh exclaimed in outrage.

  Connen-Neute’s eyes hardened. “Shall I leave?” he said, and Lodesh eased back. “It need only be a gentle burn if the timing is good. You wouldn’t feel it, and neither will the unborn.”

  Slowly Lodesh nodded, still unsure. “But an infant?”

  “A neural net is very . . .” Connen-Neute took time with his next word, “. . . susceptible as it’s forming. To wait until birth would necessitate a stronger, painful burn.”

  Lodesh shifted uneasily. “Marga’s children won’t be shaduf.”

  “Or Keeper,” Connen-Neute added softly.

  He frowned. “What of Trook?”

  The white evenness of Connen-Neute’s teeth gleamed in the faint light. “Keeper,” he said.

  “You know already?” Lodesh beamed with pride as if he was his own son.

  The Master nodded. “I looked as soon as I could without Redal-Stan becoming suspicious.”

  Suddenly the furtive glances to the west became clear. Connen-Neute was acting on his own, against a course of action that the Masters had agreed upon. It put him in a precarious position if his actions to prevent Marga’s children from going shaduf were discovered. “Why are you doing this?” Lodesh asked, wondering what had changed in Connen-Neute for him to risk it.

  Connen-Neute stood, his lips pursed. “I’m not brave enough to voice my beliefs and fight for them,” he said. “My hidden actions will have to suffice until I find the strength.”

  “Redal-Stan says actions speak louder than words.” Lodesh rose as well. “You’re braver than you give yourself credit for.”

  Clearly unused to such praise, Connen-Neute shifted his shoulders awkwardly. “Be subtle when telling me when I’m needed. Brave or not, I’ve no wish to be tried for sedition.” He shuddered. “You tell Marga.”

  Lodesh nodded. Their meeting was obviously over, and he glanced at the edge of the roof, wondering how he was going to get back down. He had no doubt Marga would want Connen-Neute’s help and tell him as soon as she thought she might be with child. Lodesh paused, frowning. That is, if she could tell him.

  “Connen-Neute, wait,” he called as the young Master distanced himself in preparation to shift. “Marga is leaving for the plains this coming spring. Can you look in on her yourself? Perhaps every few months?”

  The Master tightened the red sash around his waist in agitation. “They’d become suspicious, especially when her children appear as commoners.” He frowned. “A few years and they will guess.”

  A wash of hopelessness rushed through Lodesh, leaving him feeling ill. Sarken was determined to go. “Perhaps a box, such as the one
you warded for me to give Sati.” Lodesh flushed in guilt. “She can take it with her, a going-away present,” he added. There was something wrong when one felt compelled to give one’s sister a gift to burn her children.

  Connen-Neute’s eyes went thoughtful. “That’s better. It would be hard to link it to me.”

  Lodesh watched Connen-Neute straighten. His speech, too, had improved dramatically, even over this short conversation. No wonder Alissa liked him.

  “Not a box,” the young Master said softly, seeming unaware he was talking aloud. “They know I’ve done that. Something else. Something valuable so it isn’t lost. Something that performs a task in order to invoke and then check the ward. A continuous burn, no matter how gentle, will be noticed.”

  “I have a metal brooch,” Lodesh suggested. “It opens—”

  “I’m not skilled enough to ward metal. Wood perhaps?”

  “Mirth wood,” Lodesh said. “No one would lose worked mirth wood. I have something left over from when my father thought I was going to be too shy to win a wife.” His eyes went distant in remembrance. “Poetry, music, swordplay, he tried everything until realizing that the only thing I was good at was dancing. I have a pipe downstairs made of mirth wood. They moved all my things.” Lodesh peered over the edge to find the ground lost in shadow. “Marga’s husband is a musician, so no one would ever suspect it. You could ward it tonight, and I could give it to her in the morning. That is, if I can get down from here without breaking my neck.”

  Connen-Neute’s mouth curved in a sly smile. Beckoning Lodesh to follow, he took Lodesh’s light and brought it close to his feet, running it across the roof until he made a satisfied noise. Lodesh wasn’t surprised when the Master levered a part of the roof aside to reveal the top of one of his closets.

  “Your grandfather,” Connen-Neute said, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “He liked to play cards. Talo-Toecan would come out here when Keribdis was—gone.”

  Lodesh looked down at his two pairs of shoes, stacked neatly upon what could obviously pass as a ladder. “Why am I not surprised?”

  38

  Alissa broke from her trance with three deliberate breaths, startled by the sound of a soft knock. The room was dusky with shadows. Her back was achy and stiff, and she was filthy with stone chips and sand. Cramped and abraded, her fingers sported several small gashes. With a flush of guilt, she realized she had gouged Redal-Stan’s writing board. His cloak was ruined. And in her hands was a shallow cup. A smile eased over her.

  There was a scuff at the dark archway, and Alissa looked to see Mav, a candle in her grip and a bundle of cloth under her arm. She set it all on the bedside table and extended her hand. “May I see?” she asked. Alissa grinned and handed it over. Blowing the dust from it, Mav examined the cup thoroughly. It was more of a palm-sized bowl than a cup, being small and shallow and having no handle. Strell would call it a thimble. She sighed at the reminder of him.

  “This is very nice,” Mav said.

  “Thank you.” Alissa straightened her legs and winced, rubbing at her knees.

  Mav handed it back. “Well. Let’s see you try it.” Caught off guard, Alissa stared. “Weren’t you trying to fix a new form into your thoughts?” the old woman added as she sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve climbed the tower five times since yesterday afternoon, and each time you said nothing to me, buried in concentration. I missed eavesdropping on the dinner crowd for this. I want to know if you’ve done it.”

  Alissa vaguely recalled gulping cold tea and gritty toast. Her eyebrows rose, and with anticipation stirring in her, she set her cup on the scarred board and shut her eyes. Wards of creation were tricky things. There was a basic pattern they all followed, but deviations were rampant due to the nature of their task. The ward drew upon memories, and depending upon where those memories were stored, different pathways were used. It was because of these irregularities that it took so long to learn a new ward of creation. Specializing in one media helped, but still, fixing a new form was tedious and time-consuming.

  Taking three breaths, Alissa set the basic pattern alight as she concentrated on her cup. A thrill went through her as new tracings were added, making the pattern larger. She relived the entire night and day in less than a heartbeat, gave the memory substance, and with a curious twinge on her thoughts, turned her source’s energy to mass. Alissa’s eyes flew open. There in the candlelight were two cups where one once stood. “I did it!” she exclaimed, beaming at Mav’s satisfied nod.

  “That you did, dearie. That you did.” She beat Alissa’s reach for the new cup and blew the dust from it. “And now I would ask a favor?” She smiled mischievously. “Promise me I can be there when Redal-Stan sees you craft one for the first time.”

  “Redal-Stan!” Alissa’s hand went to her hair. Back protesting, she rose. “He said he’d be back at sundown. It looks like it’s nearly that now. I’m filthy!”

  “That you are.” Mav stood as well. “He’s been gone all of yesterday and today, off on a Master’s business important enough to be done in person. Connen-Neute’s been minding the stairs. Won’t let Keeper or student higher than the eighth floor. Love a duck, that child is so serious and solemn. I told him you would be all right, but he wouldn’t risk anyone damaging your tracings further until they’ve had a day or two of rest. Now, do you promise?”

  Alissa blinked. Oh, yes. Make a cup when Mav was present. “All right,” she said, deciding she couldn’t chance Mav seeing her shift to a raku and back so as to clean up.

  “I drew you a bath last time I was here,” Mav said as she pulled the gritty sheets from Redal-Stan’s bed and threw them in a pile by the door. “The water is probably cold, but it won’t be chill. Redal-Stan, the old goat, is the only one in the Hold with a private bath. He fills it from a catch basin on the roof. Empties it with a pipe through the wall, all the way to the ground.”

  Alissa stiffly moved to the white partition. Grimacing at the temperature, she warmed it with a ward, then another until it steamed. With a last look over the panels, she wiggled from her clothes and slipped into the tub. A sigh slipped from her. It was as good as a healing ward. She attacked her hair with a thick cut of brown soap smelling of mint. Grit slid beneath her fingertips. The soap found every scratch and abrasion, setting her teeth on edge.

  “Nothing like a bath to loosen stiff muscles,” Mav was saying. There was the sound of sheets being snapped over the bed. “I’ll stay and chat,” she said. “Keep the riffraff out until you’re decent. I’ve brought a set of clothes for you, something other than that Keeper garb. A girl needs more than one set of clothes.”

  Alissa held her breath and went under, scrubbing the soap from her scalp. She felt, more than heard, a soft thumping through the water. Alissa sat up in a wash of water, listening. Faint through the walls was the sound of stomping feet. Redal-Stan.

  Alarmed, she stood up. Water went everywhere. Frantically wrapping a towel about herself, she scrambled out of his tub. Mav met her gaze questioningly, spinning with hands raised when Redal-Stan burst into his outer room.

  “Alissa!” he bellowed, and bright light lit the archway.

  Mav jumped in a whirlwind of feminine outrage to the outer room. “Out!” her frail voice commanded shrilly. “Get out, you old beast. She’s bathing!”

  “Alissa!” he thundered. “I want to talk to you.”

  “I said, get out!” Mav’s trumpet hurt Alissa’s ears. “Give the girl a chance to breath!”

  “She’s had two days to breathe. I want to talk to her!” He appeared at the archway with a light in hand. Mav was boiling mad at his elbow. Seeing Alissa by the tub with a towel wrapped about her, too scared to move, he stopped short. His mouth opened, then shut, and he turned away, a hand running over his bald head. “Why didn’t you tell me she was bathing?” he groused.

  “What do you think I’ve been doing!” Mav swatted him with her apron strings.

  He frowned at Alissa’s puddle on the floor. “Get d
ressed. I want you in my reception room.” He held up a finger. “Now.” He spun on a heel and left. The room went dark.

  “Well!” Mav huffed, coming to sop up the water with another towel.

  Not liking his tone, Alissa resolved to take her time.

  “Now, Squirrel!” came his distant bark, and she jumped, dropping the stockings Mav had laid out. They had no holes in them. How novel. Flustered, Alissa’s fingers fumbled with the laces of the new yellow dress Mav had brought up. It was embroidered with gray-blue flowers across the neckline to match her eyes, and Alissa made a light to see it better, liking how it fit.

  “Don’t mind him.” Mav tried to arrange Alissa’s hair, and she squirmed under the attention. “I don’t think he’s angry at you. He probably found out about his Shaduf Sati burning herself to uselessness.”

  Alissa’s breath caught, and Mav went still. “Oh, Alissa,” she breathed. “You are in a pudding.” Her eyebrows bunched. “Perhaps I’ll make some tea.” Looking tired, she blew out her candle, took up the sheets, and went to the archway. “Maybe a plate of ham.” She paused uncertainly. “You know how he loves his ham.”

  “Mavoureen?” Alissa said, not wanting to go out there just yet.

  “I wouldn’t keep him waiting,” she said as she slipped away.

  From the outer room came Redal-Stan’s respectful, “Good evening, Mavoureen,” and her thin, piping reply. Alissa heard the door open, then shut to leave an ominous silence.

  She found her shoes and slipped them on. With a worried gulp, she allowed her sphere of light to go out and peeked past the archway.

  Sitting behind his ward-lit desk, Redal-Stan gave Alissa the impression of an angry cat. Seeing her, he pointed at the couch placed dead center before his desk. Alissa meekly sat on the very edge of it. The sound of night crickets filled the silence.

  “Why!” he barked, making her jump, “didn’t you tell me you were having headaches?”

  Alissa’s eyes widened in surprise. She took a breath, and he raised an irate finger.