First Truth

by Dawn Cook

  Talo-Toecan leaned wearily against the rockface and watched Bailic creep up the tunnel. Only one thing could account for the amount of energy that could shake the Hold to its foundations. “You tried to break my ward,” he said through a sigh. “I warned you, but you didn’t listen. Perhaps now it’s truly ended.” His ancient eyes almost filled with emotion.

  In a swirl of gray, the diminutive figure of a tired man shimmered and grew until the sleek bulk of a raku replaced it. The floor was hard and cold, and he felt it less in the form he had been born with. Besides, he thought, the tragedy was easier to bear this way. Rakus were never known to weep— as men often do.

  32

  Cold. It was so cold, Strell thought muzzily. Why was he so cold? He hadn’t been cold for ages. He sat up, gingerly rubbing the back of his head. His fingers found a small lump, and he winced as it began to throb under his investigations.

  “By the wrath of the Navigator, what happened?” he whispered. There wasn’t even the barest glow from the hearth. The only light came from moonlight spilling in through his window. He shifted, surprised to find that not only was he on the floor, but he had on his coat and hat. Strell fingered the ash-covered leather and tried to remember how he had gotten there.

  As he stumbled to his feet, he discovered why his fire was out. It was strewn the length and breadth of his room. Strell rubbed the soot from his face. He stared at the pieces of charred wood in confusion, coughing at the bitter stink of ash. The dark outlines of his fallen chair showed before the lighter darkness of the window, and he grasped the smooth, polished wood, setting the chair surely before the fireplace where it belonged.

  A frigid breath wafted through his single window, and he tottered unsteadily to it to look out. Snow-covered woods stretched below, a study in black and white. Against his better judgment, he leaned out to test if the ward was really gone. The bitter night air stabbed deep into his lungs, and he gazed at the stars. They seemed to be shocked by the astounding cold into hard, sparkling jewels. His breath made a mist obscuring their severity, and he watched as they alternately softened and cleared as he breathed. The silence was absolute.

  No, he thought, frowning, he could hear Talon chittering in distress.

  Strell turned to Alissa’s window. “Alissa . . .” he whispered softly as a bit of cloth fluttered around the edge of her window looking like a living thing, weakly struggling to escape. There was something about Alissa . . .

  “Alissa!” He lunged to his door, slipping on the firewood. His ankle turned on a rolling stick, and he crashed to the floor. With a single-minded purpose, he clawed his way to the door, not acknowledging the pain stabbing through his ankle.

  She had cried out. He remembered that. The sound of it still seemed to echo in his thoughts, her heart-stopping scream. Using his door as a crutch, he pulled himself up and flung it open, scarcely noticing the warmth of the hall. The three steps to her room seemed to take forever, and he burst in, forgetting they were still at odds.

  “Alissa!” he cried as he took in the destruction. Her room looked as if it had been ripped apart. The fire was pushed to the back of the chimney and was nearly out. Her windows, too, had lost their wards. The frigid wind blew in one and out the other. It was frighteningly cold.

  “Where are you?” Strell called, his breath steaming, and then he spotted her on the floor as Talon chittered from beside her. He fell to his knees before Alissa and untangled her from the blanket. With shaking hands, he gently rolled her to face him. Her skin was pale and cold. Her hands, as he took them into his own, were blue.

  What had happened? he thought, panic blanking his mind. His room. It was warmer there. He could restart the fire. Carefully he wrapped Alissa back in her blanket, picked her up, and much as a wounded animal, returned to the security of his hearth. Talon followed him, and he set Alissa in his chair, watching her breathe for a terrible moment to be sure she was no worse before hobbling back to her room for the still-glowing coals to restart his fire. Nearly frantic, he divided his shattered attention between the fire and Alissa until the former was strong and bright.

  Half mad with worry, he knelt at her side, rubbing her hands to warm them. “Alissa? Please, can you hear me?”

  There was no answer. Her eyes remained closed. Standing at her head, Talon began to tug on Alissa’s hair.

  Strell’s dread plunged to his belly and twisted. He stiffened, looking at the empty corners of his room for anything to help him, but it held nothing. For the first time in his life he didn’t know what to do. She was dying. He was going to lose her. He was going to lose everything, only now knowing he had it!

  As he sat frozen in panic, she turned a pasty gray and her breathing became shallow.

  “Alissa!” Strell cried, shaking her shoulders. “Alissa, please,” he begged, bringing her blue fingers to his lips to warm them. “Please don’t.” There was no answer but her slow breaths.

  Riven with grief, Strell struggled with himself. “Bailic,” he whispered. “He can help. I’ll give him what he wants.” Strell rose, desperately not wanting to leave her. Finally he bent low and whispered, “Wait. I will return to you,” and ran awkwardly from the room.

  “Bailic!” he shouted as he raced to the end of the hall. “Where are you? Show yourself!” he bellowed, then quietly, brokenly, said, “You conniving, insidious, worm of a man.”

  At the landing he hesitated, paralyzed in indecision. Up or down? His frenzied state wouldn’t let him go either way, and his face grew tight.

  “Killy, killy, killy,” Talon called, sweeping low over his head and down the dark stairs.

  Strell caught his breath in relief as his decision was made for him. He began to descend, leaning heavily on the smooth banister. Talon would know where Bailic was. She always did.

  “Too long . . . too long . . .” he agonized, but down he went until he overlooked the great entryway from the fourth-floor walkway.

  “Bailic!” he cried. Moonlit silence greeted him. He must be here, Strell thought frantically. He couldn’t wait any longer. He had to go back. He couldn’t leave her alone, alone to . . . to . . .

  “Bailic!” He looked toward his room where she lay. With a moan, he tore his eyes away, sending them to the floor of the great hall. Talon was there, bouncing insanely along the last step. Again he followed the small bird down to the floor of the great hall.

  Strell stood at the center of the hall and looked wildly about. A cry of despair slipped from him as Talon took flight and flew swiftly back upstairs. “Bailic!” he shouted, the name raging from him in desperation. “Where under the Eight Wolves are you!”

  33

  “I’m right behind you—Piper,” Bailic mocked.

  “Hounds,” the gangly man cursed as he jumped and turned at the voice. “Salissa.” He gulped. “I need your help.”

  “Yes, I thought as much.” Bailic leaned confidently back against the hidden door under the stair. He could understand the piper’s confusion. Bailic heard the man bellowing halfway up the cramped, slippery staircase, but had to wait until Strell’s back was turned before he could leave the security of the concealed passage.

  “You know?” Strell’s expression shifted to anger. “You did this to her!”

  Bailic’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t jump to conclusions that may prove deadly,” he said sharply, wondering why the man was covered in ash. “I’ve done nothing.”

  Strell seemed to slump in relief. “Quick. She’s upstairs.” Strell grasped at his sleeve. “Hurry. I—”

  “Let—go—of me,” Bailic said softly, planting his feet on the first step. His ire rose at the plainsman’s insolence.

  Strell turned on the stair. His eyes were wide in the moonlight, his face suddenly pale as if just now realizing Bailic might not come. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “But she won’t wake up.” His eye shot to the stairway. “Please,” he whispered. “I’ll give you anything.”

  A thin smile eased over Bailic. Anything would do nicely. “I’
ll come see,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss this for all the source ever conferred.” Pushing past Strell, he deliberately set a slow pace, wanting to irritate him. It was obvious the piper longed to leave him behind and race up the stairs, but didn’t, rightly afraid Bailic might conveniently forget where he was headed.

  Bailic eyed him slyly. “Are you going somewhere?” He took a leisurely step.

  Clearly at a loss, Strell shrugged. They had risen only two flights; his look had become decidedly frenzied.

  “Your coat and hat . . .” Bailic pointed out patronizingly.

  Strell looked down. “Oh, yes. I mean, no. No. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Bailic nodded wisely. “I see. It’s a lovely hat. Such an unusual style.” He smiled, delighting in Strell’s anxious reaction to their sedate pace.

  The man said nothing, his gaze fixed upon the next landing.

  “Have you had it long?” Bailic asked pleasantly.

  “What?” Strell barked, turning to face him.

  “Your hat. Have you had it long?”

  “It seems an eternity.”

  “Mmm.” Unseen in the shadow-light, Bailic smirked. Much as he enjoyed tormenting the man, he remained silent. He held them to their measured pace, though, all the way up until the eighth-floor landing materialized out of the moonlight. Wild with impatience, Strell lurched up the last steps.

  Eager to see what lay beyond Meson’s door, Bailic met stride for stride Strell’s hurried gait as the man limped down the long hallway. Bailic slid to a hasty stop as he realized the piper was no longer with him; he had gone into his own room. Surprised, Bailic backed up and looked past the open door. His mouth dropped open in wonder.

  It looked as if the piper’s room had been overturned. Aside from the tiny new fire, the fireplace was a black, hollow shell, its previous contents littering the floor. There was an ominous-looking crack running from the ceiling to the room’s single window. A cloying pall of ash hung to tickle his throat. Everything was coated in an oily gray with the exception of a slumped, man-shaped silhouette against the far floor and wall.

  The piper was kneeling beside the girl propped up in a chair, watching her take slow, tentative breaths. Perched above her was that cursed bird. How, Bailic wondered, did the beast get inside?

  “What under the open skies happened?” Bailic whispered, then louder, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Isn’t this pleasant?”

  Strell looked up. “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “Yes.” Only now did Bailic step over the threshold. Any wards that may have been hidden in it were neatly nullified, quenched by the piper’s haphazard invitation. It was cold, despite the fire, and he wrinkled his nose. “Oh,” he said, clicking his tongue, “your window is broken.” That, he thought, explained the bird’s presence. Ignoring Strell’s pained look, he leaned out past the sill and craned his neck to confirm his suspicions. The entire top of the flue had been blown apart, probably at the same time as the ward on the window. His eyes grew wide as he estimated the force of the blast. If it had been any stronger, it would have taken out the wall.

  “Bailic . . .” Strell called from the fire.

  Pulling himself in, Bailic set up a new window ward. He didn’t like the cold. “You’re packed?” he said, seeing the full sack lying on the bed.

  “She’s over here, Bailic,” Strell grated.

  “So she is.” Bailic picked his way through the scattered wood to the trio. This could very well be his only chance to investigate the piper’s room, and he wasn’t going to squander it. He eyed the bird cautiously, having learned to respect her weapons, small though they were. Bailic’s gaze strayed to the hearthstones and he stifled a gasp. There, almost in the flames, was a map, one he had never seen before, but even in this dim light he recognized its craftsmanship. It was Meson’s, and it was in the piper’s possession!

  He snatched it up and shook the film of ash from it. “Is this yours?” he asked, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. He pulled it close, the soft blur clearing to show the entire mountain range, the way to the Hold boldly mapped out.

  “Yes,” Strell said through gritted teeth. “You said you would help, Bailic.”

  “Of course.” Bailic carefully spread the map on the rumpled bed. “What does this say? My eyes fail me tonight.” He pointed to one of the phrases etched in Meson’s handwriting.

  Strell stood with a fierce look. “It says ‘Treacherous Ravine.’ Now about Salissa?” and he held out his hand stiffly.

  Slowly Bailic handed the map back, a thrill of satisfaction cutting through him as the plainsman rolled it up and tucked it into a coat pocket. A thin smile replaced Bailic’s look of mock puzzlement. “Yes, of course,” he said, going to see what state the girl was in. He didn’t know what to expect anymore. He had been so sure she was the latent Keeper, but now . . .

  He knelt smoothly before the fire, struggling to not show his pleasure at the situation. With the light behind him he could see the piper’s reactions better. “Be silent,” he warned, “this is exacting.” He shut his eyes in sham concentration, confident as long as the piper thought he was doing something, the man would be still about the girl and let him think.

  Perhaps the evening hadn’t been wasted, he thought gleefully. He could find a way to use this to his advantage. The bowls of nuts had been in the piper’s favor. Bailic had allowed his intuition to guide him before. But now the annoying man had made a slip so blatant, Bailic could hardly keep from chuckling. Not only did the piper have one of Meson’s precious maps, but he could read the Masters’ script. It wouldn’t be possible for him to know it unless painstakingly taught. It was a dead language, reserved for the seemingly unchanging Masters and their once steady stream of Keepers.

  No wonder Talo-Toecan had laughed at him, Bailic thought. It was obvious. Strell was the latent Keeper and Meson’s son. The hat, the map, unlocking Meson’s door, even his tolerance of half-breeds. The Wolves take him,

  Bailic thought in disgust. The piper was a half-breed himself. He looked full plains, but if Meson took to wife whom he thought, then all likeness to Meson would’ve been masked by the dominate traits of the plains, his accent included.

  Bailic’s chest tightened and his blood begin to rise as thoughts long and securely padlocked stirred within him. Rema, the hypocritical whore, would have raised her half-breed spawn in the plains when Meson hadn’t returned. May the Wolves take her, he thought, seething. She should have chosen him. Meson was foothills. It wasn’t natural. How dare she spurn him!

  But Bailic had killed her beloved Meson, and he was alive—and Rema’s child was kneeling before him, begging for his help.

  With an almost indistinguishable shudder, Bailic crushed the memory of his exquisite betrayer, unwilling to let anything mar his evening of success. All thoughts of revenge and vindication aside, the question remained, what had caused the explosion?

  He stirred as if coming out of a state of intense concentration. “Tell me, my most worthy minstrel,” he said, struggling to soften the hard stare he couldn’t help but fix upon the piper, “how did she come to this sad state we now find her in?”

  Strell’s eyes fell. “I don’t know. I—I woke on the floor.”

  “Ah . . . Well, then, by chance did you two exchange words again this evening?” Bailic waited impatiently, damning himself for trying to find a whisper of his back-stabbing charlatan in the piper’s eyes. “Come, come,” he coaxed, “it’s obvious there was a falling out between the two of you. Perhaps there was an attempt at reconciliation, with, shall we say, explosive results?”

  Strell’s head came up, and he stared at him fiercely.

  “Really,” Bailic crooned in delight, “I must know if I am to help. You do want me to help, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Strell said shortly.

  “Yes, you want me to help, or yes, you had another argument?” Bailic leaned back, enjoying the look of unmitigated hatred pouring from Strell.

  “Yes to bot
h. Curse you, Bailic. Just get on with it.”

  “Patience, bard.” He smiled. “A final question and I’ll see what I can do. Did you, perhaps, lose your temper?” Bailic held his breath as Strell glanced toward the hearth.

  “Yes. Yes, I did,” Strell agonized.

  “Very good.” Bailic bit his cheek in an effort to remain calm. “It’s well you told me. It explains a great deal.”

  And it did. It had happened many times in the past; a tragedy that would work well for him. They had argued, and in a fit of jealous rage, the piper accidentally scorched the very object of his desire, sending her into a state close to, but shy of, death. In all likelihood it had been an unconscious reaction. The piper might not even be aware he’d done it.

  Strong emotions elicit strong power, which was why latent Keepers were denied a source until attaining a high level of control. Yet, it had been a quite a backlash, spilling from the mental plane into the physical. He would have believed only someone with a source could produce it.

  Bailic turned his attention to the girl. As she was all but dead, he could see her tracings and determine if she was a Keeper or commoner. It mattered little if a commoner was burnt. The pain was just as bad, but when over, it was done. Their tracings were an unusable tangle anyway. What did it matter if the bridge was gone if no one was there to cross the river?

  Carefully, delicately, he slipped a tendril of thought into the comatose girl’s mind. “By all that’s sacred.”

  “What!” Strell bent close.

  “Be still, Piper,” he barked, shoving him back. He hadn’t known he said the words aloud. Licking his lips, he reluctantly returned his attention to the girl’s shattered mind. It was worse than he had thought. The piper’s explanation led him to believe she had only been scorched. She hadn’t been. Her tracings were ash. The piper had been very thorough.

  His stomach churning, Bailic gazed at the charred remains of her pathways in a morbid fascination. There was no way to tell if what he was seeing was the crusted remains of a defunct pattern, once capable of channeling great power, or merely a commoner’s random pathways. The damage looked irreparable. Shuddering, Bailic removed his awareness, glad he had never made the awkward man angry. Bailic would have been hard-pressed to counter a backlash such as this without being forewarned. “This could have been me,” he whispered in awe.