by Dawn Cook
Seeing Bailic standing in his tight panic, Meson finally understood. “By the Wolves,” he breathed. “You don’t want the book for its wisdom. You want it for protection. You’re afraid of him! You killed everyone in the Hold over a book for protection you don’t even need!”
“I am not afraid of him!” Bailic shouted, his eyes large and wild. “I’m not afraid of Talo-Toecan! I bested him. Did I tell you that? He surprised me, coming in through the window. But I tricked him, tricked him soundly, and now he’s no threat to me.” He glared fiercely at Meson, daring him to call him on his slip. Slowly he forced his clenched hand down and away from his scar. “No threat to my plans, I mean.”
Meson stared at him. It was worse than he could have imagined. “What happened, Bailic?” he whispered. “This is insane.”
“So what!” Bailic strode to the table and snatched up his tea. “I’ll be alive when the sun sets tonight. Will you?”
Meson’s chest tightened. He had to get out. Edging backward, his fingertips brushed against the door. His breath escaped in a pained hiss from the strength of the warning he only now recognized. Bailic was going to question him, not stopping until every last scrap of lore was ripped away, including his most precious secret playing at home before the fire. “Alissa,” he breathed. All thoughts of the book vanished with a gut-wrenching chill. His Alissa would be coming. As a latent Keeper, nothing could stop her, and all she would find here would be Bailic.
The thought of his child caught in Bailic’s devices kindled within him a rage fueled by fear and helplessness. Instinctively he set his thoughts to a ward of destruction and lunged. Too late he learned Bailic had been watching and was ready.
The air shattered with a sharp crack! as Meson’s ward was nullified—its energy set to burn and entangle, turned to that of sound. Meson found himself paralyzed, having flung himself into Bailic’s ward. His momentum propelled him into the table. He hit the floor in a crash of pottery and splintering wood.
Meson cleaved the ward from him, feeling it fall away with the cooling sensation of rain. He lay gasping, clutching his shoulder. Smooth, uncallused hands pulled him up, throwing him, stunned, into a bookcase. “No!” he heard himself scream as fire lanced through his mind. Bailic had thrown him against a ward of his teacher’s making. It had been created to guard his books, but it was capable of far more. Agony sang through his mind as it tried to channel the devastating mass of power. He felt his tracings begin to melt to slag, unable to contain the force running through them.
Meson never realized he fell, but suddenly the cold rock was there, soothing his cheek.
“You’re the only one left!” Bailic screamed, and a foot slammed into Meson, doubling him up. The salty taste of his blood trickled over his tongue. Again he was pulled up, hearing in his breathing the beginnings of a terrifying gurgle. Something had broken within him. The pain was spotting his sight; he could hardly see Bailic’s rage, a hand’s width from his eyes. “You must have it,” Bailic demanded. “I want it now!”
“I hid it,” Meson gasped, struggling to keep his thoughts from where. If he couldn’t remember, the Hold’s ward couldn’t force him to tell. “You’ll never find it.”
“Aarrrgh!” Bailic cried, throwing him out onto the balcony and into the sun. Meson struck the thick railing, a groan slipping from him. His hands scrabbled for a hold as he strove to pull himself up, to think, to form a ward, anything. But the pain in his chest and the agony in his mind was all there was.
A small part of him realized Bailic was quiet. Meson sprawled awkwardly, focused on keeping his rasping breath moving in and out. Slowly he looked up, seeing Bailic standing tight to the shadow’s edge, unwilling to chance burning his skin, knowing he would have his answer whether he beat Meson into a senseless pulp or not. Meson’s sight darkened, then cleared as he pulled himself into a crouch, and from there, to an unsteady stand.
“You made me lose my temper,” Bailic said stiffly, wiping the sheen of sweat from under his chin with the back of his hand. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“No?” Meson wheezed. “Neither of us seem to be having a very good day.”
Bailic half turned as if in dismissal, then spun back, his eyes wild. Meson gasped as Bailic’s field formed about him, but he was helpless, his tracings burned to ash. He tensed, only to cry out at the cessation of pain. It was a ward of displacement to prevent his mind from recognizing the hurts of his body.
As Meson straightened from his crouch, Bailic smiled patronizingly. He hadn’t done it out of compassion but because he didn’t want the pain to keep Meson from talking. Even escape by way of his own suffering would be denied him. Bailic had him—body, but not soul. There was a way out. He had a choice—there was always a choice—he just didn’t like it.
Meson turned, trying to keep his breathing shallow as he felt his ribs grate. With a sick feeling, he flicked a glance over the edge, spasmodically clutching the railing in a white-knuckled fervor. The wall dropped nine stories in a sheer expanse of stone. But he couldn’t jump. To jump would deny him any chance to take Bailic with him.
“Come now, Meson,” Bailic cajoled from the edge of the shadows. “I followed your thoughts through every corner of the Hold and pastures. It’s here somewhere. You will tell me.”
The force of Bailic using his name was a strong compulsion, and Meson began to sweat with fighting it. Unseen, the strength of the Hold rose, thick and cloying, the scent of ice and snow. The scent of truth, of death.
“Meson,” Bailic said tensely, seeing him glance past the edge. “Don’t be a fool. The fall will kill you more certainly than I. Where,” he thundered, “is the First Truth!”
Black and cold, Meson’s thoughts swirled. Nothing could stop Alissa from coming. But perhaps he could even the odds. He had to believe she would survive given a chance, and that was something he could still give her. She would find the book where he hid it—he wouldn’t be here now if she couldn’t—but to give her that chance, he had to summon the strength to do the impossible. He must shatter the Masters’ truth ward.
The attempt would trigger the Hold’s safeguards and cost him his life, but he was already dead. He couldn’t let Bailic trap Alissa like he had been. Meson, too, could use the Hold’s wards for his benefit. But where would he find the strength to break what a Master created?
He would have to find it, he decided. For the love of his child, he would have to. And with that, he knew. Here at the end of all, he recognized the only entity stronger than any ward, than any Master. And Bailic had none of it, not even for himself.
Bailic watched and waited, sending his elegant laughter to mock him, sure of his victory.
With a muffled groan, Meson grabbed the rail and looked down. A single tear fell, and he watched it vanish from view. “Oh, Alissa,” he whispered, “I’m truly sorry. Rema, you deserve so much more.” He turned, trembling. Bailic’s laughter cut off sharply upon seeing Meson’s face soften with an emotion that Bailic could only link to betrayal.
Standing on the balcony, bathed in the warm sun of his mountains, Meson remembered his wife: her joyous abandonment to an early spring morning, her dark whispers in the twilight, the sly smiles when she thought he couldn’t see, and then his daughter, instigated by one of those smiles. His child, who delivered his lunch late and half-eaten, knowing he would understand how long the trek had been and forgive her. She, who would fall asleep in his arms to the soft alternating rumble and murmur of her parents’ voices in the late dusk of summer. She, who would bring him injured crickets and mice for his inspection and treatment, knowing he could do anything, anything at all, because he was her papa.
All these things he drew close, wrapping them about himself in his thoughts as if they were a mantle of grace, and when he had them both so close, he could almost smell the hot, meadowy sun in their hair, he looked at Bailic, startling him to stillness with the enchanted look in his eyes.
In a clear, centered voice, Meson uttered a single wor
d. “No.”
There was a heart-stopping crack. With a terrifying shudder, the balcony collapsed itself in a vain effort to stop Meson’s solitary word of defiance. But it was too late. The word had been spoken. The truth ward was shattered, overcome by a force stronger than the truth.
“Stop!” he heard Bailic scream as he lunged to the balcony in a futile attempt to snatch Meson even as he fell. Meson’s last sight was of Bailic, but his last thought was of his Alissa. His child had a chance, and sometimes that was the best a papa could do.
You were wrong, Talo-Toecan, he mused as the bare moment before he struck the ground seemed to stretch to infinity. There is a force more potent than that wrought by the mind—that of the heart.
11
Strell watched in astonishment as Alissa turned ashen, blinked twice, and collapsed where she sat. Startled, he simply gaped at her. “Alissa?” he said, leaning forward to give her a shake.
A sudden flurry of wings and beak drove him back.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Daft bird. What the Wolves is wrong with you?”
Hissing like an angry cat, Talon landed next to her mistress’s outstretched hand. Strell leaned back, and the bird’s warning turned into a worried chitter. “I just want to see if she’s all right,” he muttered. Slowly he stretched toward Alissa again, his eyes tight to the bird.
Talon began to keen eerily, and he withdrew. He had felt the sting behind her small beak and claws, and was in no hurry to repeat it, not with Alissa unable to stop her. Sinking back on his heels, he grimaced at the tiny predator, not liking to admit he was afraid of something so small.
Alissa didn’t look like she was in immediate danger: She was breathing, her skin was again its normal color, there were no convulsions, and she hadn’t shown any sign of pain before passing out. And it wasn’t anything he had put in their dinner. He had grown up gleaning the desert for food. Finding it in a verdant valley was second nature after his years of travel. The foothills people were wasteful, not eating a third of what was available. She hadn’t eaten anything, picky little foothills girl that she was. She probably collapsed from exhaustion. She had no business being out here.
But he couldn’t just leave her lying there all twisted and askew.
Strell’s eyes slid from the girl to the dark sky. She had better be all right. He wasn’t about to cart her out of here, though he might make better time if she were unconscious, seeing as he wouldn’t have to listen to her incessant prattle. It was a wonder she ever had any breath for walking. Her mouth never seemed to stop.
He blinked, suddenly realizing Talon was stalking a line between him and Alissa. “Now look, bird,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “I want to see if she’s all right.” Despite the odd, unbirdlike growl coming from the kestrel, Strell stretched his hand out. Again there was a whirl of wings. Glowering, he put his knuckle to his mouth. It was throbbing dully, and he wasn’t surprised to find it was bleeding from a small scratch. Clearly he would have to win over the bird before he could touch Alissa.
Crouched on his heels, he thought for a moment, then with a soft grunt, he turned to find his dried meat. He had made friends with aggressive dogs in the past. Charming a silly little bird couldn’t be any harder. “Hush,” he crooned as he had seen Alissa do, reddening in embarrassment. “Have some meat. I won’t be eating much of it anymore. Alissa makes such a face when I do.” Strell awkwardly extended a piece of meat, and Talon cocked her head. “Hurry up, bird,” he whispered, risking a worried glance at Alissa. “Take the meat.”
The bird eyed him, then the meat. Temptation became too much, and she cautiously extended her neck and took the tidbit.
“There.” Strell sighed in relief, glancing at Alissa. “That wasn’t so bad.” Shifting closer, he tried once more. This piece was accepted as well, and he continued until, faster than he would have believed possible, he had a plump, content kestrel pinching his hastily cloth-wrapped hand. Strell ran a tentative finger over her markings grayed with age, marveling at the feel of having a piece of the wind perched on his wrist, even if it wasn’t his to claim. Then he chuckled, dismissing the odd thought. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks with his stomach,” he murmured as he put the bird on the stack of wood and turned to Alissa.
Watching the kestrel for any hint of attack, he tried shaking Alissa, then shouting, all to no effect. Only when Talon chittered a warning as he prepared to douse Alissa with the water sack did he admit defeat. Frowning, he drew her blanket over her and returned to his side of the fire.
His breath came out in a long, puzzled exhalation as he sat. Pulling his pack to him, he dug to find his grandfather’s pipe. He pulled it out and unwrapped it, hesitating as he recalled Alissa’s unvoiced doubt when he confessed playing it gave him a headache. Not liking how her disbelief had made him feel, he rewrapped it and jammed the pipe deep into his pack. He took up his other instrument instead, polishing it as he stared across the fire at Alissa.
By the Wolves, he thought. What was he supposed to do now? What if she was sick? But it seemed unlikely she was seriously ill. Alissa was fit and strong, and he had never known anyone to heal as astonishingly fast as she did. Her ankle, for instance, should still be too tender to walk on, much less nearly keep up with his pace. But if it was only exhaustion, he should have been able to ge some response from her.
Finished with his polishing, he blew into his pipe. The single note slipped into the evening’s mist, shaming the crickets and clattering leaves to a temporary, respectful silence. Talon shifted her feathers in a pleasant hush. “Like that, eh?” Strell leaned to ruffle her feathers. Despite his better judgement, he was beginning to like the little beast.
Strell seldom practiced without a paying audience, but tonight, curious as to how far his still-tender hand would stretch, he was reluctant to put his pipe away. “How about that tune your mistress taught me from across the valley and under raku wings?” he mused, delighting in the head bob Talon made as if she understood him. Carefully, until he knew his limits, Strell reconstructed the melody, finding it easier now that his thoughts had mulled it over.
Soft at first, then even softer, Strell’s breath slipped into the rising damp, a vanguard for his wanderlust soul, sending it out with his music, feeling as if it became the mist somehow as soon as it left the circle of light his fire cast. Within him stirred a hushed restlessness, a need to rise, to go. There was a quiet acceptance of loss, an unsettling need for something unknown. He would have to be careful when he performed it, or he would lose his audience. It made him want to wander, to search. It was disturbing. Strell liked it.
He began to modify the tune, shifting notes until he found something better. The results of his tinkering pleased him immensely. The tune had begun odd, but now it was downright eerie. With uncertain descents and unexpected rhythm shifts, he expunged everything but the desperate need to fulfill and become. He shivered, cold for the first time in months.
Strell reached the end and began a third time. He had played it once to learn it, once to modify it, and now he wanted to play it for himself. Captivated by the music, he hardly noticed Talon had become alert and tense, and the crickets had stopped their incessant chorus. He sounded the last desire-filled note and lowered his instrument, rubbing his palm and sighing wistfully. It had been a most satisfying exercise, and he was sorry to end it.
“That was very close to the original, Piper. You seem to have a knack for putting a tune back to its beginnings,” came Alissa’s voice, sounding unnaturally strong and articulate.
The pipe slipped from his fingers and Strell half rose. He had forgotten she was there. “Alissa?” he breathed, for her accent was strange, even for her. Talon began to hiss.
“No,” she sighed, sitting up and blinking at him owlishly. “Alissa is otherwise occupied.”
Strell dropped heavily to his seat. Alissa looked decidedly wrong. Her brow was furrowed, and her jaw had an unusual tightness to it. Though never clumsy, Alissa now m
oved with a smooth, controlled grace he had never seen in her before.
“Restrain that bird before she hurts herself,” Alissa said, her blanket slipping from her to pool about her crossed legs as she sat with a ramrod straightness.
Strell unthinkingly reached for the kestrel, earning a new gash on his hand. Quickly he wrapped his hand back in the cloth and gripped Talon’s feet, wishing she had jesses. Talon, weaving her head and sputtering, never noticed her new perch.
“A-Alissa?” he stammered. “You passed out. Are you all right?”
She harrumphed, shocking Strell with the rude sound. “I told you, I’m not Alissa. But seeing as I’m useless at the moment, you can call me that.”
“The Wolves take me,” Strell whispered in sudden understanding. “She’s sunstruck.”
Alissa’s eyes narrowed. “Alissa isn’t insane. Trust in that—always,” she said, pointing a finger at him. She pulled her hand close to her nose, watching her fingers as she slowly opened and closed her hand, seemingly fascinated by the simple act. “But I thought plainsmen were made of stronger stuff that what you’re showing,” she said softly. “Catch your wind under you. I gave you a name to call me.”
Strell raised a placating hand to the heavens in frustration. “I don’t believe this. The little dirt-farmer is sun-struck!”
Ire crossed Alissa’s face for a fleeting moment, then, ignoring his outburst, she calmly asked, “Do you have a bit of mirror about you? I haven’t seen Alissa since her second season.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” Strell shouted to the sky. “Halfway into the mountains before I find out she’s mad. I should have known something was wrong when this ignorant bird”—he gave Talon a little shake to try and get her to be still—“attacked me.”
“No mirror?” Alissa sighed dramatically. “Pity. Did her eyes remain blue?” She sent her gaze disapprovingly over her attire. “Or did they darken to that absurd shade of her father’s?”