Hidden Truth

by Dawn Cook

  Bad luck. Bad luck. The words hammered at Bailic as he stomped down the remaining stairs. Apparently he had allowed his guests too much freedom. They were starting to undo his careful assault of the Hold. Their domain, indeed! Thoroughly disgusted, he stepped to the floor of the great hall, stopping stock-still as his shoes tread not upon stone, but fabric. He looked down in disbelief. It was too dark to see properly, but he knew by the familiar give beneath his feet that the large rug depicting the ever-changing path of the sun had been replaced. His pulse pounded, and he took a calming breath before he strode into the dining hall.

  “Great stars above us!” he gasped. He hadn’t been here in weeks. The room was nearly back to its original state. The tables were out of place, but everything else was nearly perfect. Everything was as it had been almost twenty years ago: the floor coverings, the drapes, the small table before the hearth, even the picture hanging above the fireplace, the one done all in blue that gave him the shivers. How had they known? It was perfect.

  Almost, he seethed. There were two chairs before the fire instead of the traditional one. “And the smell—of mirth wood,” he whispered, forcing himself to relax as he breathed deeply of the pleasant aroma. It was everywhere, mixing with the musty, earthy smell of the garden that ghosted in with each billow of curtain.

  He knew the scent well as his Keeper status had allowedhim to possess a rather large piece of it, nearly as long as his finger. It had been on a chain around his neck until a Keeper he briefly “entertained” one afternoon ripped it from him, claiming he had no right to it anymore. In his rage, Bailic forgot to take it back before literally burning the Keeper to dust.

  The fire was only a tongue of orange, and he slipped through the gloom to the table to investigate. It seemed the piper was making something, as Bailic could discern the shapes of saws and drills. Wood chips littered the floor, and he scooped up a handful to bring to his nose. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s mirth wood.” Shavings of it were lying about as if it were a common wood to be shaped and worked. With a shock, Bailic realized the plainsman was using mirth wood to make a pipe. Where did he get enough for that?

  The answer was obviously Talo-Toecan. It wasn’t a breach in their contract, but it was close. Bailic’s eyes rose to the archway leading to the kitchen, the flame shadows cast by the cooking fire flickering upon it. The chips fell slowly through his fingers, clattering down in a cascade of rustling fragrance.

  “Listen to that rain, Strell,” he heard. “The window wards have fallen.” There was a masculine comment and the noise of water splashing followed by a feminine shout of dismay.

  “Piper!” Bailic barked in frustration.

  The laughter and splashing ceased. “In the workroom?” Bailic heard, then, “I’ll see.”

  The lanky silhouette of the piper appeared in the shadowed archway, followed shortly by the smaller form of the kestrel. The agitated bird hovered until Strell raised a hand to provide her with a perch. Together they stood, blocking the way. “Yes, Bailic?” the man said, keeping his mutilated hand behind his back.

  Bailic sneered, glad to see that lesson had been learned. “You will meet me in the garden tomorrow,” he said on the spur of the moment.

  “In the rain?”

  “It won’t be raining tomorrow, Piper.”

  Strell nodded suspiciously. “Why outside?”

  Bailic looked Strell up and down disparagingly. “I’m going to attempt teaching you the difficult task of shifting the source’s energy to that of light,” he said. “I simply don’t want to have to scrape you from the walls if you get it wrong.”

  “It’s that dangerous?” Strell’s eyes grew round.

  “You will arrive well before sunup,” Bailic continued, stepping to stand toe-to-toe with the surprised man. He wanted to torment the girl. It was the reason he had come down here. “I want to see how bright a light you can manage.”

  A worried frown crossed Strell, and his eyes grew vacant.

  “Early, Piper,” Bailic growled, “or I will roust you out from beneath your warm covers myself. Now, get out of my way! ”

  There was no ward behind the command, but Strell stepped aside, seemingly dazed by Bailic’s demand of an early meeting. “Wait!” Strell cried as Bailic whisked past.

  But it was too late, and Bailic strode into the brightly lit kitchen with a satisfied air. He stopped short, giving Strell a black look as the annoying man almost crashed into him. “Where is she?” Bailic muttered.

  Water was standing upon the floor by the abandoned sink, half full of dishes. In the center hearth, a cooking fire burned low and even. A teapot hissed over it. The room was suspiciously lacking the girl.

  Bailic’s fingers drummed against his crossed arms. He sent a thought to find her, but her hiding spot was so close, it seemed as if she were still in the room. Perhaps in the garden . . . Well, he wasn’t going to chase after her in the rain. His hand slapped on the table in disgust, jolting the bird into motion. The wicked thing flew to one of the unused hearths and fluttered over nothing until she finally settled upon the mantel. A chill took Bailic as she glared into space. Then she turned her anger to him and hissed, all her feathers raised.

  “Tell the girl we will be meeting at the firepit,” Bailic said, his eyes riveted to the bird. “She already knows where I expect her to put the breakfast tray.” With a last suspicious look, he spun on his heel and left.

  “Something isn’t right,” he muttered as he crossed the dark hall. “I don’t like this, not at all.”

  25

  “Strell,” she whispered, then rolled her eyes. Why was she whispering? The whole idea was to wake him. Alissa moved to his hearth to see if any of his coals lived through the night. She shivered as she cupped her hands close over the small spot of orange she unearthed. It was cold without the wards—they had fallen last night—and in the dim glow of the predawn, she looked about Strell’s sparse room.

  He had never done anything to change his quarters as she had, and there was little to mar the stark, stone walls. With the exception of the crack in the wall, his room looked nearly the same as when they found it. Alissa felt slightly ill as she realized he could leave at a moment’s notice and there would be nothing to show he had ever been here. Grimacing, she turned back to Strell. He had buried his head in his blankets, and he looked nearly immovable. “Strell.” She stood up and dusted her hands. “Your lesson.”

  “Uh?” came his muffled groan.

  She gently shook his shoulder. “Come on,” she demanded. “I told you that second pot of tea last night was a bad idea.”

  “Uh.” He rolled over, her proddings beginning to have an effect.

  “I’m getting my hat,” she threatened. “If you aren’t up when I get back, I’ll—I’ll . . .”

  “You’ll what?” Strell mumbled, his eyes open but by no accounts focused.

  “I don’t know,” she huffed, “but you won’t like it.”

  “Uh-h-h-h.”

  With a final harrumph, Alissa left to open her shutters. The thought of her room remaining stuffy as the rest of the Hold was being swept clean of winter’s staleness was intolerable. The shutters creaked open, and Alissa leaned out into the icy stillness that spilled in to pool about her feet. There was a bright twinkle of a fire burning in the pit in the garden. Alissa pulled herself back in, not liking Bailic in her classroom.

  She snatched her hat from the bed—she had finished it yesterday; it matched the one she had given Strell perfectly—and returned to Strell’s room. Peeking hesitantly around the open door, she wasn’t surprised to see he hadn’t moved. “Hey!” she shouted, her hands on her hips.

  “I’m up!” He jumped, his eyes flashing wide and unseeing. “I’m awake.” Rubbing his stubbled cheeks, he sat up and swiveled until his feet touched the cold floor. His bare toes poked out from under his trousers, and Alissa hastily spun around, flushing.

  “I’ll wait in my room,” she said, watching him from the corner of her sight
.

  “Whatever suits you.” He held up two mismatched stockings in the semidarkness. Then realizing they weren’t on him yet, he tucked his feet back under his covers.

  Alissa couldn’t help her grin as she returned to her room, pleased to find at least one moral conviction ran the same from plains to foothills. Knowing he would be some time, she settled herself cross-legged before her fire to practice her latest diversion.

  Her breath eased from her in a slow sigh of concentration as she formed a field just above the low flames. Bailic’s ability to use fields to sculpt dust was incredible, and Alissa had spent the better part of last month trying to figure out how he managed it. All her fields came out as spheres. She had some success by overlaying one field upon another, thereby giving it the illusion of a different form, but the more fields she had up, the harder it became. It would be years before she could maintain more than a handful at any given time.

  But she kept at it. Not with dust, though. That had given Strell a bad case of farmer’s fever. So instead, Alissa used the flames of a fire. She hadn’t told anyone, especially Useless. It wasn’t breaking her word as he had given her permission to explore fields freely, but somehow she didn’t think he’d approve of her playing with fire.

  Alissa made her field as permeable as possible without it falling completely apart. It was difficult, much more so than making an impervious field, and it was only her incessant practice that made it look easy. The shape of her thoughts became apparent as a tongue of flame curled up the top of the field. Feeding upon itself, the fire’s heat filled the entire sphere to make a fist-sized swirling globe of red and orange. It was a useless trick, she thought, but pretty. Alissa overlaid a second sphere partway through the first, and the flame reached higher than normal, channeled by her field. On a good day, she could hold four fields at once.

  There was the small scuff of booted feet, and Alissa looked up as she let the fields collapse in a wash of guilt. Strell couldn’t be ready so soon! But he smirked good-naturedly from the door. “Hounds,” he said around a yawn. “What time is it? The middle of the night?”

  Alissa’s eyebrows rose as she took him in. “You haven’t shaved.”

  “Later, later,” he said, rubbing the prickly looking stuff. “Can’t keep Bailic waiting. He’s already in the garden. You can see the fire from my window, and nearly hear him grumping, too.”

  Alissa rose, relieved he hadn’t noticed the odd shape of her fire. “Let’s go then.”

  The predawn sky showed only a lighter blackness through the occasional window, doing little to light their path down the dark stairwell. It didn’t matter. The way was as familiar to her as the trails about her parents’ farm.

  “Where’s Talon?” Strell asked as they reached the walkway overlooking the great hall.

  “Kitchen. We ladies have been up long enough to make rolls.”

  Strell grunted, giving her a nod. “Mind if I make dinner tonight? I’ve got a meal I want your opinion on. It’s kind of a tradition in my family. Made entirely with carrots to honor the new season.”

  “Hounds, yes. I’d love it,” she gushed, then paused. Everything made from carrots? What kind of tradition was that?

  “Talon,” Strell called as they entered the kitchen. He looked up at the rafters, and the bird dropped to land upon his wrist. “What did you catch this morning?” he murmured, sending a thin finger across her age-faded markings. Talon hopped to Strell’s shoulder, settling herself by his ear where they compared whispered notes. Alissa shook her head in amusement as she checked the breakfast tray.

  Strell yawned as he shrugged into his coat and reached for the tray. “I’ll take it.”

  Smiling her thanks, Alissa grabbed three cups. Much to Strell’s disappointment, she prudently left Lodesh’s cup behind. Strell would have to make do with, as he called them, Talo-Toecan’s thimbles. “What a beautiful day it is,” she exclaimed quietly as she opened the garden door and Talon launched herself into the freshly washed heavens.

  “Is it?” grumbled Strell. “It still looks like night to me.”

  “Don’t be such a goat,” she said cheerily, her gaze going deep into the clear, transparent-seeming skies. “Spring is here. Can’t you see it?”

  “It’s too dark,” he groused. Stifling another yawn, he hunched deeper into his coat.

  Alissa gave him a friendly shove and moved eagerly ahead, the toes of her shoes quickly going damp. She should have put on her boots, but she hadn’t been able to find them, and she really didn’t care; the morning was so grand.

  Now that the snow was gone, she would begin to see what surprises Useless’s garden would provide. As overgrown and neglected as it was, there were bound to be a few delights among the weeds, and she itched to get her hands dirty in the finding of them. The warm, coastal rain had finally made it over the first of the mountains last night, leaving behind only soft, black earth. Even the ground was thawed where the sun had been upon it yesterday.

  “Good morning, Bailic!” Alissa called happily as they rounded the bend.

  His head jerked up—he was clearly startled at her pleasant voice. Strell seemed surprised as well, and he gave her a long, questioning look before he set the tray down. The clinking of the dishes sounded comfortable and right among the dripping branches and long, wet grass.

  “Morning,” Bailic returned cautiously, apparently not knowing what to make of her cheerful disposition. He turned to Strell, who, Alissa would admit, looked half dead, as he was unshaved and still in the rumpled clothes he had on last night. “I’m glad to see,” Bailic continued, “at least one of you is prepared for the day’s lesson. Unfortunately, it’s the wrong one.”

  “I’m here.” Strell slumped heavily onto the bench. Balancing her roll on the rim of her cup, Alissa retreated to the farthest corner of the pit. The sun was on the peak rising high above the Hold, turning the gray stone a marvelous gold. She could almost see the light creeping down the mountain, growing ever closer to the fortress. Soon it would reach her room to fill it with the strong spring sun, warming the old stones to life.

  “Set up your primary loop, Piper,” Bailic said, jolting her from her reverie. “You’ll eat later.”

  Alissa reluctantly brought her attention back from the faultless skies. It only took a moment to do as Bailic demanded, but he continued to drone on and on about field strengths, and proper channels, and the perils of setting them up incorrectly. She ignored him, as did Strell.

  Just as well Strell wasn’t listening, she thought. Bailic wasn’t explaining it very clearly. It was obvious he wasn’t confident in the process. She just wished he would get on with it. As if responding to her desires, Bailic’s globe of light blossomed into existence to throw the shadows from the firepit. “Oh!” she exclaimed, remembering to be impressed.

  Strell looked up, half a heartbeat behind. He, too, looked convincingly awed by the light.

  “You see,” Bailic said, a patronizing lilt to his voice. “It’s difficult, and it uses a lot of source, but it does impress the commoners.”

  Alissa frowned at his last words and looked to see what tracings Bailic was using. Her source was barely touched when she created a ward of illumination, and she couldn’t imagine even Bailic would be so miserly over such a minuscule loss of strength. Well, no doubt, she mused, finding a long stick and poking it into the soft earth. He wasn’t using the most efficient paths. All that waste. No wonder he used candles instead of his skills. His source would be depleted within a matter of years.

  Then she recalled what Useless had said about broken paths and fragmented neural nets. This was obviously the case here. It was a wonder he could create the tricky ward at all. Rather ingenious actually, and her estimation of the pale man begrudgingly went up. The ward was hard enough without the handicaps he had to circumvent. Something near to pity went through her, and she shifted, not comfortable with applying the emotion to Bailic.

  “You see the resonance?” Bailic said, and Strell nodded.
“Then try it,” the pale man demanded as his light vanished.

  “I’m—uh—not sure I have it,” Strell said uneasily.

  Alissa’s eyes rose to Strell. Perhaps he thought she hadn’t been paying attention, and so she cleared her throat to let him know she had been listening.

  “Sand and wind,” Bailic griped. “You’re slower than a beggar with a full belly.”

  “I don’t want to make any mistakes.” Strell’s jaw clenched. “You said it was dangerous.”

  Alissa thumped her heels against the side of the bench. A ward of light dangerous? Maybe, but not if you knew what you were doing.

  “If it makes you feel better, close your eyes.” Bailic arched his eyebrows. “Well?” he mocked, almost looking eager for Strell to make a mistake and turn them all to ash.

  “Give me a moment.” Strell frowned and closed his eyes. His elbows were propped up on his knees, and his head dropped into his hands.

  Alissa quickly set up the proper paths, and her containment field snapped into existence as the cold pathways filled. Immediately there was the eerie sensation of being in two places at once as the intricate pattern existed simultaneously in her thoughts and in the field. Unlike most wards, this one required constant maintenance; it remained securely connected to her conscious until disengaged. The sensation of vertigo faded not because the ward left her thoughts to make the leap to her field, but rather because it became overshadowed by the impressions from her other, more frequently used senses. A soft glow enveloped them just as the sun reached the Hold’s roof.

  “Good,” Bailic grudgingly admitted, his confidence in Strell’s nonexistent abilities restored. The man frowned up at the Hold. Alissa could imagine his thoughts were in the same vein as hers. It wouldn’t be long until the sun reached the garden, and the lesson would be over.

  “Drop your ward and begin again,” said Bailic, his eyes fixed to creeping beam of light. “Implementation and dissolution are more important. Maintaining is easy.”

  Alissa licked her fingers clean of the last of the sticky rolls and did as he asked. The glow of her light mixed with that of the rising sun, illuminating the outskirts of the firepit. Crocus! she silently exclaimed as she spied a small bit of yellow peeping from beneath a barren shrub. Glancing at Bailic—who was watching the encroaching light— she decided she could investigate. It was well within a raku length. The last thing she wanted to do was to step out of range and have that resonance fade.