First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  If tonight were like any other, they would take their evening tea together while Strell planned out tomorrow’s entertainment. They would then say their good-nights and he would retire to his room. It was nearly the same pleasant pattern they began on their journey here, and Alissa had been pleased when it continued unabated. Tonight he had promised to play something of her choosing, and she was looking forward to it.

  “Anything?” she said as she settled into her chair, not really believing his offer.

  “Anything.”

  “And it won’t cost me a thing?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Well,” she said wisely, “that’s rather magnanimous of you.”

  Strell invariably chose what he would play, when he would play, and how long he would play it. Whenever she suggested a tune, he would grin, informing her in a rather irritating fashion that it would cost her, and how much coin did she have? It was his mercenary plainsmen side showing, and the one time she took him to task over it, he had laughed, telling her this was his profession, and he would be compensated for any such tasks. But now she could choose. The decision was easy. “Your new one,” she said, setting her cup down in anticipation.

  “New one?” Strell gave her a blank look.

  “The one you were humming endlessly a while back,” she coaxed. As the words left her, she realized she hadn’t heard it since they arrived. He had to know the one she meant, though.

  “Oh, that one!” Strell pushed at the air is if driving the very idea away. “You don’t want to hear that. It’s not done yet. How about that ballad about the raku, the fish, and the apple?”

  “No,” she replied mildly, feeling her ire rise. He had asked what she wanted to hear. Why was he being so difficult?

  “Well then, how about—”

  “No,” she said, her voice as hard as a rock and as soft as a feather. Talon chattered and opened her wings nervously.

  Strell shifted in his chair, glancing from Talon to the pipe in his hands. “I can’t hit the low notes with this,” he said. Standing up, he took his grandfather’s pipe from behind him, hidden in the cushions. “I’m going to have to use this one.”

  “Won’t it give you a headache?” she teased lightly.

  “One tune won’t hurt,” he said sheepishly. A few bars of “Taykell’s Adventure” briefly filled the air as Strell warmed the wood, and Alissa smiled, remembering the first time she had heard him play it. He paused, and once satisfied all was as it should be, he began to play.

  The ethereal melody drifted forth, simple and true, untainted and free from the day’s uncertainty. With a heavy smile, Alissa allowed her eyes to close. The very essence of the mountains seemed to be distilled into his music. It was almost too easy to envision the clear autumn skies, pale and washed out from the summer’s relentless heat. She snuggled deeper into the cushions of her chair, feeling in their aged smoothness the remembrance of the silken caress of a late evening breeze, damp with the moisture of a coming rain.

  Masterfully and from his heart, Strell played, and Alissa let the music flow through her, erasing all the fear and doubt Bailic had instilled. Strell held the last note as long as possible, and she opened her eyes drowsily as it faded into nothing. “That was lovely,” she sighed, too far gone to say more. It often seemed Strell’s music lulled her into an almost irresistible urge to sleep.

  Strell gave her one of his expressive grunts, but she could tell he was pleased. “Good night, Alissa,” he said as he stood.

  She smiled her farewell, satisfied to remain where she was. Maybe someday she would make it to the bed against the wall. So far, every night had been spent in peaceful slumber curled up in her large, overstuffed chair before the fire. With another nod, Strell left, softly closing the door behind him. Utterly content, Alissa shut her eyes and slipped into an easy sleep.

  23

  “You decide which one. It was your idea,” Alissa said. She glanced past Talon perched on her shoulder to Strell with a faint feeling of exasperation. They stood in the stark entryway of the Hold staring at the six tunnels leading to the separate, underground annexes. The tunnels were dark, but the great hall was filled by the early-morning light that streamed in through the huge windows that lined the eastern wall above the door.

  Strell handed her a lit candle. “Well, if you don’t care, let’s look in the first one again.”

  “The livery?” she said, looking up to where the word was etched into the stone atop the arch. “Why would my papa have hidden it in the stables? There’s nothing but dust down there.”

  “Oh,” he teased. “So you do have an opinion.”

  Alissa sighed. They had found the inscriptions the first time they investigated the annexes, labeling the tunnels in the script she understood. Finding exactly what she expected at the end of the passages went a long way in proving to Strell she could read. His hesitant admission made her think he had believed it all the time. He simply enjoyed teasing her too much to admit it.

  They had found the stables dark, musty, and empty. The tunnel labeled Quarters held only row upon row of sad-looking cots. The kitchens were just what they said, but lacked even the smallest spoon. It wasn’t until they investigated the archway marked “Perishables” that they found anything worthwhile. The storage room contained more food than an entire fortress could eat in a year, all preserved under wards that dissolved upon touch and left the food susceptible to spoilage. Bailic had said nothing the night the bowl of strawberries appeared on the table. Now they had vegetables and fruit every meal.

  Alissa had found the last two tunnels, dry goods and castoffs, to be the most interesting. “Dry goods?” she said, remembering the stacks of leather and linen. She thought searching the annexes were a waste of time, but perhaps she could find something she could use. Strell was right. Her stockings had been mended so often, they were getting rather useless.

  “Dry goods sounds fine,” Strell said, striding to the last open archway.

  Talon chittered sharply from Alissa’s shoulder as they stepped under the first arch. The passage led slightly down, its floor worn smooth from use, and they hesitated as their eyes adjusted. Alissa was glad for the candles and their warm glow reflecting off the low curve of the roof. She squinted as the draft shifted her hair into her eyes. It had grown annoyingly long, almost to her shoulders, and needed to be cut.

  A faint light at the end beckoned, and soon their boots were edging the sunlight. Together they stood at the opening of the belowground closet, taking it all in. Stretched before them was a narrow, tall room, lit by thin slits in the distant stone ceiling. There were four levels, all of which opened up in wide balconies overlooking a central, narrow work area on the ground floor.

  The first floor was devoted to paper and anything one would need to use or make it. There were baskets of ink pots, brushes, quills, and barrels of scrap cloth in various stages of processing. Off to the side were several tall cupboards containing stacks of the precious paper stored out of the sun. The ward that was keeping the Hold dust-free was working here, too.

  The three other levels were divided into low-ceilinged alcoves filled with leather and fabric. At the highest point hung a huge block and tackle affair, presumably to raise and lower bundles too large or awkward for the shallow stairs snaking up one wall.

  Alissa reached for Strell’s candle, blowing it and hers out. Talon abandoned her as she crouched to set the candles by the archway. The small bird flew to the highest balcony, her sharp calls echoing against the curved roof. Alissa slowly followed Strell as he jumped down the few steps to the first floor. The sun streamed in to warm the storage room, but not enough to prevent the small shiver that ran through her. It was chilly, as if the window wards weren’t present.

  “There are enough goods here for three markets,” Strell exclaimed as he jogged up the steps to the second floor.

  “Mmmm,” she said dismally. Somehow she knew her papa’s book wasn’t in the dry goods, but if Strell insisted
they search, it would take all winter. Alissa followed him up the stairs. It was dark the last time they were here, and she wanted to take a closer look at the leather she had found. There was no reason she had to waste the winter. She could make some clothes. Besides, she rationalized, she needed to. Hers hadn’t been designed for the abuse she had been subjecting them to, and were positively threadbare. She was beginning to feel like a beggar next to Bailic’s exquisitely tailored clothes.

  Sniffing deeply for the warm scent of leather, she followed her nose past bales of linen and wool until she found it. Her hands dove to her favorite shade, a rich cream, and a small sigh escaped her. It was as soft as a puddle of sun-warmed water. Very little good leather ever made it as deep into the foothills as her parent’s farm. Her mother’s boots were the exception, but now sporting that dismal brown, they had lost much of their appeal.

  “Have you ever seen so much good leather?” she said in awe as Strell came close.

  “Market,” he said, critically eyeing the swath she held up.

  “This good?” she questioned.

  “Not a foothills market, a plains market.”

  There was a trace of pride in his voice, and Alissa set the leather back. “I didn’t know the plains had their own markets.”

  Strell headed up the stairs to the third floor. “Only the wealthier families—those with a chartered name—are granted the right by the council to trade for food. It goes from a foothills market to a plains, where anyone can trade for it.”

  “Why can’t everyone trade for food?”

  Strell disappeared up the stairs, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s safer that way.”

  Alissa opened her mouth to ask for an explanation, but he was gone. Talon dropped from the rafters, bouncing across the leather as if inspecting it as well. Seeing a good-sized piece of the cream, Alissa draped it over her shoulder. Perhaps she could make a new pair of boots from it. It couldn’t be that hard. Her fingers caressed a swath of green leather so dark as to be almost black. “Strell would look good in that,” she whispered, draping it over her shoulder.

  Alissa wandered through the tall stacks and bales of cloth, her awe growing at every turn. “Look at how good this stuff is,” she breathed to Talon, pulling out a bolt of blue and holding it up to herself. No wonder Bailic was so well-dressed, she thought. Even the heavyweights designed for hard labor were of an astounding quality. Never had she had the chance to choose the cloth for her clothes, and never had it been this good. Always it had been what was left. Spying a bolt of linen that matched her leather, she tossed the blue away and unrolled the cream. “This is nice,” she said admiringly to her uncaring bird.

  Fingering the tight, unblemished fabric, Alissa broke into a delighted grin. She didn’t need to make trousers. She could make a skirt! They weren’t traveling anymore, so her hated pants weren’t necessary. Terribly pleased, Alissa measured out enough for two skirts and a knee-length blouse, cutting the fabric with a knife hanging from a string on a nearby support post.

  Alissa bent close to the faded swirl of paint under the nail as she replaced the knife. “Fail to return my knife, and you will be bringing me my morning trays for a month,” Alissa whispered, frowning at the signature, “Keribdis.” Glancing uneasily about the empty room, Alissa rolled up the leftover and tossed the bolt aside.

  “Strell?” she called. “Have you seen any thread?”

  “No,” came his faint shout from what sounded like the fourth and last level.

  Curiosity pulled her to the stairway. Halfway up to the third floor she spotted the heavy spindles. “You passed right by it!” she shouted.

  “Really?” He sounded as if he didn’t even care.

  Hounds! she thought in delight when she reached it. There were more shades than spoons in her mother’s cupboard. Humming happily, she chose the proper weight for her leather and cloth. Alissa wrapped everything up in a messy bundle, eager to get back to the Hold’s upper rooms and get started. Her thoughts were deep into flamboyant styles and unheard-of lengths when she noticed the angle of the sun. It had grown late. Nearly afternoon. “Strell?” she called. “Where are you?”

  “Right behind you.”

  She jumped, her pulse pounding as she spun around to find him grinning. “Where were you?” she accused, not liking the delight in his eyes for having startled her.

  “Ropes, nets, and stuff,” he said. “Fourth floor is for the men. Want me to take that?”

  “Yes. Thanks,” she said, handing him the leather.

  “A lady shouldn’t carry her own bundles at market,” Strell said lightly, taking it all.

  She flushed, turning away in embarrassment. “We should probably get Bailic his noon meal,” she said, eager to change the subject. “Before he comes looking for it.”

  Strell grunted his agreement, and they headed down the stairway, single file. Trying to avoid the confusion Strell’s last words started, Alissa turned her thoughts to her new fabric. She couldn’t wait to get started stitching. Her lips pursed as she tried to figure out how she was going to prepare Bailic’s meal and still have enough light to plan out how to use all that fabric.

  “Tell you what,” Strell said as they reached the first floor and he came up alongside of her. “Why don’t I make up Bailic’s tray today? I don’t mind. That way you can get started.”

  Alissa smiled sheepishly. “Is it that obvious?”

  His eyes softened. “I had four sisters, Alissa. You aren’t much different from them.”

  “Thanks, Strell,” she said, suddenly shy. “Talon?” she called, looking for a distraction. “Come on, silly bird. You can catch mice in the kitchen.” Swooping so low, she brushed Alissa’s hair with a careless wing tip, her bird flew up the corridor.

  “Just don’t go cutting into anything until I ask Bailic if there’s anything we might do to trade for your—purchases,” Strell said as they entered the dark tunnel.

  Alissa’s eyes went wide in alarm. “Oh, I forgot. Maybe I ought to put it back.”

  Strell shook his head, barely visible in the light coming from the great hall up ahead. “Let me ask him. There must be something we can do or give him to trade.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Alissa said fervently. “I’ve got to have some of that fabric.”

  Strell smiled in understanding. “Do you know how to make anything special in the kitchen? Maybe a sweet?”

  A slow smile came over Alissa. Men were men. “How about candied apples?” she said, recalling how her papa hovered about the kitchen when her mother had taken the effort and time to make them. They took three days.

  Strell nearly stumbled, so quick did he look at her. “You know how to make candied apples?” He hesitated. “Think you could make it a double batch?”

  “That depends,” she said, feeling herself in a position of power for the first time in ages. “What will you give me?”

  24

  The early afternoon sun shone bright upon the Hold’s grounds, reflecting off the snowfield in a blinding glare. A thin sliver still found its way into Bailic’s room, where he sat in his chair before his shattered balcony, brooding. It had been nearly two weeks since he had burned himself. Trying to use his ash-clogged tracings still gave him headaches, and worse, he was no closer to finding out which one of his “guests” was the potential Keeper. It was irritating, Bailic thought as he set his book and quill aside. He was more clever than both of them put together.

  Soon the plainsman would knock softly at his door and leave the tray. It was a ritual that began shortly after their arrival and showed no sign of changing. Bailic stood, moving to look out over the black-branched woods between him and the cursed city Ese’ Nawoer. The sun was bright, making everything a blur of brown, white, and blue. His eyes began to water in hurt, and cursing himself, he backed up into the shadow.

  The ward on the window was thin here, not having been designed to stretch over the larger opening Meson had made, and he felt a slight draft. Odd, he mused. The draft h
ad never bothered him before. He must be getting accustomed to the comforts he had been indulging in lately. Bailic rubbed gently at the welt on his cheek, still as sore and ugly as if he had acquired it yesterday. Three meals a day in addition to the conversation, stilted as it was, had become quite pleasant.

  The sound of the piper’s heavy boots on the stair came clear from behind his door. There a was the traditional soft knock followed by a surprising, “Bailic? If I might? I have a question.”

  Bailic turned with raised eyebrows. “Come in,” he called, not moving from the balcony.

  There was a moment of hesitation, and the door swung inward. The piper stood awkwardly on the sill, seeming reluctant to cross it. He had Bailic’s noon tray in his hands.

  “Here,” Bailic said, remembering to be pleasant and hospitable. “Let me take that from you.” Striding forward, Bailic took the tray, setting it on his nearby worktable.

  The tall plainsman shifted from foot to foot and took a bundle of cloth from under his arm.

  “It smells wonderful as always,” Bailic said, disguising his impatience by pouring himself a glass of water. He leaned back against his worktable, glass in hand. “Please,” he said graciously, gesturing for the man to continue.

  “Salissa and I have been in the tunnels,” the plainsman said, his eyes fixed to the balcony,

  “The annexes,” Bailic prompted, feeling his pulse rise. They had been busy.

  “Yes,” the man said quickly. “I would propose a bargain with you.”

  Bailic’s breath quickened. You wish to search for something, possibly?” A book, perhaps? he added silently in his thoughts.

  “Fabric, leather, and such material,” the man said. “Salissa would like to make a few things to prepare for our departure in the spring.”

  Bailic nodded. This plainsman was clever, dancing around his words. It would make Bailic’s victory all the sweeter when he brought him down. “What can you trade?” he said in a mock sadness. “I already have your services.”