First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  “When you’re done with it. You like it?” she added shyly.

  “M-m-m-m . . .” he grunted, handing it back. “I bet it cost a fortune at market.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said lightly, “but thank you. It was rather tedious to make.” With a faint smile, she filled it with water and placed it in the outer coals.

  “You made that?” Strell exclaimed, now satisfied she was from the plains despite her questionable looks. “It’s wonderful,” he gushed. “I should know. My family used to make them. Well,” he admitted, “not exactly like that, but out of clay.” Ignoring the sudden tightness of his throat, Strell dug through his pack for his dwindling supply of tea leaves. “Sorry,” he muttered. “For a moment I thought you were from the foothills.”

  “I’m sorry?” Alissa murmured.

  Strell bobbed his head and continued his search. “Your fair hair and eyes. I thought you might have been a foothills bast—uh—squatter. Beg your pardon. Every family in the plains has an occasional throwback. But someone who can make such a marvelous piece of work has got to be from the desert.”

  “Oh,” Alissa said faintly. “So you’re of the opinion that smoothing a stone bowl is far beyond the capabilities of those poor, ignorant farmers?”

  Deep into his bag, Strell shrugged. “I’ve never seen its like. A bowl polished out of stone so well, it looks as if it came from the Navigator’s table itself! I have yet to meet the farmer who has the skill to make anything nice, much less something that exquisitely pure and beautiful.”

  “Why, you . . .” sputtered Alissa.

  Startled, Strell looked up.

  “I have never . . .” she said, her face a bright red.

  “How can you sit there . . .” This time she got a little further. Eyes flashing, she took a deep breath and explosively let it out, shaking in anger.

  “Now you look here,” she said, her voice soft and dangerous. “Those so-called ignorant farmers are the only thing between your kind and starvation. Do you think it’s easy trying to win a harvest from the foothills? Weather claims it often. Occasionally there’s a surge of pestilence, and that takes its share. If you’re lucky, the growing season isn’t too hot or cold, and the snows of last winter are enough to last through the summer. You put by what you need and take the rest to market where some stuck-up, ignorant, self-righteous, plainsman fingers it with a sneer before offering you half of what you’re asking!”

  Alissa stopped to find her breath. Strell sat and stared in shock. She was a farmer?

  “Then,” she shouted, “when we look to buy some simple thing from you, all we hear is, ‘You may want to look at this section, it’s more in your price range.’” Livid, Alissa flung an angry hand toward the steaming water. “That bowl is nothing!” she yelled. “It’s not fit for the table. It’s not even a bowl. It’s a kitchen mortar!”

  Strell began to slowly edge backward.

  “I was willing to suffer your company considering you hauled me out of that ravine, but you insult me too far. I’m a throwback, am I? A foothills squatter? Get out of my camp!”

  Too stunned to move, Strell watched Alissa’s attention shift high above his head. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck as her face changed from anger to dismay, then horror. “Talon! No!” she shouted, trying to get up. The blanket tangled about her. With a small cry, she almost fell into the fire.

  Strell instinctively moved to catch her, drawing back at a sudden pain in his neck. “By the Hounds,” he said, finding himself under attack by something feathered, sharp, and more determined than a beggar camped outside a rich man’s tent.

  Alissa was shouting again, but not at him, something he was oddly grateful for. He couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, as his head was between his knees with his arms covering it. Tiny claws and a wickedly pointed beak raked him, ripping at his coat. Hard thumps beat against his back. “Talon!” he heard Alissa shriek. “Stop it. Stop it now!”

  The barrage of blows ceased, and Strell cautiously raised his head. Alissa was sitting before the fire with her blanket bunched about her. She was cooing and shushing to a ruffled bird perched on her knee. As Strell moved, the small bird opened its wings and chittered. “Hush,” Alissa whispered to the small falcon, coddling and caressing the agitated bird, trying to pacify it.

  A rock was jabbing him, and he shifted. The bird whipped her head around and hissed.

  Still using her gentle tone, Alissa half sang, “I wouldn’t move yet if I were you.” Her eyes never left the bird.

  Strell froze, and only the fire snapping and Alissa cooing broke the stillness. That tiny thing attacked him? he thought. It was smaller than a blue jay.

  He had seen kept birds before and admired them greatly. Most had been hooded and tied, firmly under their owner’s control. Being attacked was more than annoying, it was humiliating. He shifted again and the bird glared, but at least he’d gotten that stone out from under him.

  Ceasing her soft murmur, the girl set the bird on the stack of firewood. “Are you all right?” she asked in a bland voice, not smiling at all.

  Strell angrily brushed his coat. “I’m sweet as potatoes,” he said sarcastically.

  The bird and Strell regarded each other warily as he removed his hat. A small sound of disgust slipped from him. It was worse than he imagined. The rear top and brim were in tatters. Appalled, he threw it down. The bird chittered but remained at her perch. “If you can’t control a falcon,” he said tightly, “you shouldn’t have one.” Where, he thought, was he going to get a new hat? His was useless now.

  Alissa silently looked at the mass of shredded leather. As if reading his mind, she cleared her throat and said in a quavering voice, “I’m sorry about that. You can have mine.” Covering her face, she turned away.

  Strell felt his lips curl in disgust at the very thought. No wonder he hadn’t recognized the style of her hat. It was a farmer’s hat. Not trusting her vicious bird, Strell slowly removed his coat. It wasn’t as bad, but it was a mess. There was a ragged tear from the left shoulder to nearly halfway down the back. Scratches marred the dark leather, crisscrossing the shoulders and sleeves like fractures in new ice. Furious, Strell dropped his coat into a crumpled heap. The hat was old; the coat was new. It had been especially costly, as it was made to his specifications and not the tailor’s.

  “I’ll sew it together,” came Alissa’s muffled words. Her hands were still over her face, and she had begun to shake.

  How typical, thought Strell. Here he was scratched and bleeding, and all she could do was cry. Well, he wasn’t going to pat her on the head and say it was all right, because it wasn’t.

  Taking one of the cloths he used for cleaning his instrument, Strell doused it in the cold water from his water bag. He wasn’t about to ask to use the warm water in her bowl to clean the scratches on his shoulders. It wasn’t his fault, he thought, savagely wringing his rag out. It’s that half-witted farm girl’s. Can’t even control a tiny bird. Talon, she called it. Strell snickered. At least she got the name right.

  Strell pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside, not caring if he set the beastly carnivore off again. He glared across the fire. The bird was oddly at peace, considering her mistress was rocking back and forth with her hat pulled over her face. No, he thought sullenly, it was his hat now. Burn him to ash. What if someone he knew saw him with a farmer’s hat.

  His eyes narrowed, and Strell looked closer at the girl. She wasn’t crying. She was laughing! “That does it!” he exploded.

  The bird gave a startled squawk but remained where she was.

  “I’m sorry,” Alissa gasped, her eyes bright with tears. “Talon is a good bird. She’s never done anything like that before.” She laughed, trying to stifle it, failing miserably. “You looked so funny. Cowering as if . . .” And she collapsed, giggling as the tears ran down her face.

  Strell sat and stiffly dabbed the scratches on his wrists and neck, wanting nothing more than to leave. But there was
nowhere to go, and he refused to do anything that might give her the notion he was accepting any of the blame for this.

  There was a last hiccup of laughter from the far side of the fire, and Alissa tossed him a small stone jar. It landed on his ruined coat with a thud. Strell ignored it. “I said I was sorry,” she tittered. “You don’t have to like me. I know all too well what plainsmen think of my kind, but your scratches will fester if you don’t put something on them.”

  Strell took the jar with a nasty look, noting with a trained eye that it was worked the same way as the bowl. He sniffed suspiciously, detecting nothing from the creamy white salve. It was probably some folk remedy, he thought patronizingly, but it was better than nothing, and he dabbed it on his scratches.

  His spare shirt hadn’t been washed yet, and he refused to put it on, having to content himself with wrapping up in his coat and blanket. Carefully watching the bird, he leaned forward and set the jar next to the silent girl with a firm thump. He retreated to his side of camp and sank into a cold silence.

  The fire snapped and popped, and by an unspoken agreement they let it die down to coals. Alissa crumpled something into her steaming cup, and it smelled delicious. She kept her eyes on the fire as she held her ankle in one hand and her cup in the other, taking slow, methodical sips. “I meant it when I said I would fix your coat,” she said into the long silence. Her voice was cold and emotionless.

  “M-m-m,” Strell grunted, chewing on his dried meat. It was tough and stringy, but he wasn’t about to bring out his cheese and fruit.

  “If you hand it to me, I’ll fix it now,” she said, seeming not to care one way or the other.

  Strell silently removed his pipe from its pocket and stiffly handed his coat to her, tensing in the sudden cold.

  The evening passed very slowly. Alissa kept herself bent low over her work, and he occupied himself with clearing a spot to sleep. Every time he thought he had all the rocks, a new one would surface to jab at him. Realizing he could never make a comfortable bed between the stones and his scratchy blanket, he gave up and stared at the stars, discreetly watching her out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t expect much of a job from her—she was only a farmer’s daughter and hardly had the skill to lace her own boots—but anything would be better than that gaping tear. The grease he kept for his boots would help disguise the scratches, but his fine new coat would never be the same.

  The fire settled and shifted, sending sparks up to vanish suddenly in the dark. Alissa steadfastly ignored him. Lulled by the steady, rhythmic flow of her needle, Strell fell asleep. His last conscious thought was how comforting it was to be sharing the fire with another human being, no matter how insensitive, irritating, and thoughtless that person was.

  8

  Meson brushed the sweat from his brow and adjusted the chisel. Three firm taps, and the shape of an ivy leaf took form on the walking stick. Last fall he had caught Rema sighing over a set of bowls at market. They were Hirdune-made; far beyond their means. He was hoping that with a fine bit of worked wood, he might persuade the stingy flatlander to part with at least one of their like. It was to be a surprise. Rema assured him she was content with the life he could provide for her here in the foothills, but it tore at him. She was accustomed to so much more.

  “Papa!”

  “Just a moment, sweetheart,” he mumbled, the handle of a second chisel between his teeth.

  “Papa!” it came again, urgent and muffled.

  “Alissa?” Meson looked toward the pines to where she had been making pies out of birch seeds and mud. The grove was empty.

  “Help me, Papa! I’m slipping!”

  Slipping? he thought, and his gaze shot to the well. “Wolves!” he swore, his chisel falling forgotten to the ground. The three heartbeats it took to get to her seemed an eternity. Meson reached the well, grabbed his daughter by the back of her dress, and pulled her to safety.

  His heart pounded as he clutched her close, cursing himself for being so inattentive. Then he put her at arm’s length. “How many times have I told you to stay away from the well!”

  Pale blue eyes filled with tears, and her chin began to quiver. “I’m sorry, Papa. But—”

  “No.” He gave her a little shake. “It’s not safe. You could have broken your neck!”

  “But, Papa—”

  “No.” Meson frowned, and Alissa collapsed in on herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and his heart melted.

  “Come here, Lissy,” he said softly, and she fell into him, weeping for having displeased him. “Hush,” he said, breathing in the warm scent of her hair, smelling of meadow and sun. “It’s not your fault. I’ve been promising to put a wall about the well for five years now. I’m the one who deserves a good scolding.” Alissa looked up, snuffing and hiccuping. “Let’s not tell your mother about this, hmm? It will only get me into trouble.” He tweaked her nose, winning a soft, hesitant smile. “Tomorrow we will go to the rock slide and get enough stone to put a few rings up around that hole in the ground.”

  “But then I won’t be able to reach it,” she protested.

  Halfway to a stand, Meson froze. Slowly he lowered himself to sit on the ground. “Reach what?” he distantly heard himself say.

  “I won’t know until I see it.” Alissa leaned to look down the well. “But it’s there. I can feel it. Will you get it for me?” She beamed, plying her five-year-old charms upon him.

  Meson swallowed hard. “Yes. I’ll get it.”

  Alissa’s eyes grew round. “You know what’s down there?”

  “M-m-m-m. I always hide my treasures in a well. I always have; I always will. But you’re not to touch it. Understand?”

  Her head bobbed, and Meson took her chin in his hand, turning her to look at him. “You are not to touch it,” he repeated sternly, and she dropped her gaze.

  Lying flat upon the ground, Meson leaned over the lip of the well, grinning as two small hands clamped upon his ankles. His smile quickly faded as he sent his fingers to brush the rough walls of earth, searching for the feel of leather among the dirt and stones. Recognizing the binding, he carefully slipped the book from its hiding place and sat up. Again he wondered why his teacher, Talo-Toecan, had given it to him for safekeeping. The Master knew things of power made him uncomfortable, always seeming to attract misfortune. It appeared as if the book’s bad luck had finally seeped up out of the ground to find him.

  “That’s it!” Alissa cried, jumping up and down. “I knew something was down there!”

  It was as if the summer sun had turned to ash as he watched his daughter dance in delight among the pines and yellowing birches. Alissa had lost the gamble of birth. He could no longer deny his child was a latent Keeper. Cursing himself for a fool, his eyes went distant and unseeing upon the ancient tome. His Lissy had found it. It would have to go back. For her to find it again could prove deadly, and there was nowhere on his small farm he could hide it where her sensitive soul couldn’t ferret it out. Oh, she would never willingly disobey him, but she couldn’t help herself. Even now he had to clear his throat as her eager hands reached to take it from him. “Lissy . . .” he warned, and she flushed.

  “Here.” He smiled with a bittersweet understanding. “You can look at this.” From between the binding and spine, he wiggled free a thin gray oval about the size of a coin. He put it into her grasp, and she held it up to the sun and squinted through it.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. A teacher of mine gave it to me on the wager I could recognize the whole of a thing by seeing a part of it.” Meson chuckled. “I guess he won.”

  Alissa shifted eagerly. “Can—can I have it?”

  Immediately he shook his head.

  “You never let me have anything!” she wailed.

  “Absolutely not. I don’t know what it is—yet.” He gave her a quick, sorrowful squeeze to soften his words.

  “All right,” she conceded and handed it back, her eyes widening as she real
ized its gray color was gone; the warmth of her hand and the noon sun had turned it a luminescent gold. Meson hid a smile, wondering if her astonishment would win out over her desire to appear cavalier over its color shift. Deciding by her silence that pride had won, Meson wedged the disk back in the book, and they both sighed. He stood and tucked the book under an arm and took his daughter’s fingers. “Come on. Let’s have our noon meal. Then you can help me pack.”

  “Pack?”

  “Yes,” he said, ignoring the sudden tightness in his chest. “I need to map out another part of the mountains.”

  “Oh.” Alissa snatched up the walking stick in passing, peering at its end far over her head. “Is this for Mother’s bowls?” she asked, stretching to run a finger over the small nick where the falling chisel had marred it.

  Meson started. “No,” he lied. “It’s for you.”

  “Thanks,” she breathed, thumping it in time with her steps.

  “It’s a going-away present,” he said, gazing about his small farm as if he would never see it again. “A going-away present.”

  The dream faded with the scent of gritty fingernails and dry pine needles. Alissa clenched her eyes shut and held her breath, struggling to rebury old wounds. Slowly she exhaled.

  Wolves take her, she thought miserably. She hated it when she dreamed of Papa. This time, though, it seemed as if it had been real, like she was reliving it, almost as if—as if it was a memory. She had smelled the dry curls of worked ash, felt the cramped pinch of his right boot he used to complain about, and even now, her throat was as tight as his had felt that afternoon. He had known, Alissa thought bitterly. Burn him to ash. He’d known he might not come back.

  She felt the beginning of tears and gave herself a mental shake. This was daft. No one dreams memories, especially not their own. She would just forget it. Besides, something was cooking. It actually smelled good, and the novelty of that was irresistible.