Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1)

by D J Salisbury

  The kid chucked a flat, frying-pan-sized rock at her. He grabbed another and started scraping dirt into the fire pit. “Come on, hurry. We won’t be able to fill the hole, but we have to make sure the fire’s out.”

  Weaver drowned in tears. She was so late she’d never talk her way out of it, and he wants to play in the dirt.

  She kicked at the rock.

  He glanced up at her. “You really want to burn down Zedista?”

  Weaver snip his thread. But he was right. If they set the forest on fire, somebody would hire a sorcerer to hunt them down. And if the forest caught, maybe it would burn the town. She dropped to her knees, grabbed the rock, and scraped dirt with all her strength.

  The kid stopped her long before she thought he would. “That’s enough. It’s got to be smothered by now.”

  She leaned over the half-filled pit and stared. His side of the pit was filled twice as high as hers. How’d he do that? She’d been pushing rock and gravel, and the kid didn’t have enough strength to move much. She stood and walked around to his side.

  Her feet slid in soft, shifting grit. The miswoven kid had been shoveling sand. “That’s cheating.”

  “What’s cheating?” He even looked confused, what little she could see of his face in the moonlight.

  “Never mind. Come on.” She slung the bag over her shoulder before grabbing her cloak.

  The kid slipped into his oversize coat and eased rag-wrapped fork thingies into the pockets. “Do they show? Or rather, do they look like weapons?”

  “No, it looks like you’re carrying radishes in your pockets.” She led the way under the trees. “Yes, noodle brain, they look like knife hilts, especially by moonlight. We just better not get seen.”

  He followed her through the brush, crunching through dried leaves and making more noise than a herd of cattle.

  Not that she was much quieter. Hard to move in silence when she couldn’t see her feet. “How to they do it?”

  “Do what, turybird?”

  “In hero tales, all the warriors drift through the forest silent as a breeze.”

  “In the dark?” The kid snorted. “They don’t. One of Trevor’s books mentioned there’s a trick to walking so you don’t attract attention, but I’ve never seen it done. Setoyan warriors go charging around looking for something to fight.”

  “I might like Setoyans after all.” She paused to check for snitches before turning onto the trail into town.

  The kid thudded into her back. “Warn me, would you?” He sighed and poked her ribs. “It’s like running into a tree. You’re as tall and as stubborn as a pine tree.”

  “Shut up, kid.”

  “Whatever you say, pine tree.”

  Somehow he managed to stay quiet for the rest of the walk through the forest. He stopped talking anyway. They both make enough noise stumbling down the trail that she worried the guard would be waiting for them when they reached town.

  Trader’s Inn still bustled with customers when they walked by. Must not be as late as she feared. Not midnight, at least. She snorted. Way past the time Dad expected her home. Her thread was so snipped.

  The bag thumped against her back, and she grinned. The swords were worth every day she’d be grounded.

  The kid hissed and grabbed her cloak. What now? He pointed down Outland Ter.

  Blood in the Weave. Jorjan.

  She shoved the kid ahead of her into Greenhorn Alley and prayed he had brains enough to keep his mouth shut.

  Jorjan looked up the road like he’d heard them. Or heard something. Fish grabbed his sleeve and yakked.

  Good old Fish. She’d make sure she didn’t hit him too hard, next time the limp thread came after her.

  His arm still in a sling, Raven skulked closer to Jorjan. He should’ve healed up ages ago. Rat Raven was milking that broken bone for every shred of profit he could. The coward.

  Jorjan pushed Fish away and stared directly at Greenhorn Alley. Weaver’s cold toes, the toad must have seen them. Or at least seen movement worth investigating. They better get out of here.

  She turned to give the kid a push, but he’d already crept to the far end of the alley. She never even heard him move. And he claimed he didn’t know how warriors did it in hero tales.

  That wasn’t fair. Weren’t no leaves here to go crashing through.

  The kid looked back, turned, started back toward her.

  She waved at him to wait and softfooted close to him. “Back ways,” she breathed. “They’re coming.”

  He nodded like she’d made sense. He didn’t say nothing, so maybe he did understand.

  She led him across Saddler Street, down Claypath Alley, and through a hole in old lady Chorette’s wood fence. While they crept across the winter-burned yard she prayed the old woman didn’t look out her window. Chorette would tell her son, who’d tell Dad before sunrise. It might not even matter, though. How many times could he ground her?

  The kid paused at the next fence, so she grabbed him around the ribs and boosted him up until he sprawled belly down across the top rail.

  He grunted like she’d knocked the wind out of him.

  “Shut up and keep moving.”

  He rolled off his belly and struggled to get both legs on the far side of the wooden beam.

  She hopped over the fence and turned back to lift him down. “Fish lives in this neighborhood.”

  He grunted again and trudged forward, holding his gut like she’d slugged him. Maybe she shouldn’t toss him so hard next time.

  Down Back Silver Alley, across Silver Street to Little Mary Alley. They were too close to Blue Dye Alley for the kid’s safety. What if more of the gang were hanging out down there?

  It frayed her thread to sneak around like this, but she needed to keep the kid away from the gang. And to keep her swords secret. If she had to fight, they’d be sure to notice the long skinny bag half-hidden under her cloak. If they figured out what she carried, Kraken or Blizzard would rat her out to their fathers in the guard. Or worse, the gang would mob her and take her swords for themselves.

  She’d kill somebody first. Then they’d hang her. Bitter blood in the Warp and the Weave.

  The kid trotted on ahead of her, still quiet enough she had to listen to hear his footsteps. How did he do that? She lengthened her stride and grabbed his shoulder before he got to Old Mary Street.

  They peeked around the corner together. A carter led a tired draft horse toward Market Square, but none of the gang was in sight.

  She thumped the kid on the back and followed the cart. “You want me to walk you home?”

  He shook his head. “I know where I am now.”

  That weren’t the point. No need to insult him though. “I gotta go right past Trevor’s house, anyway.”

  “Maybe I should walk you home and tell your parents you rescued me.”

  Tempting, but knowing her brothers, it would only make things stickier. “Nah, nobody cares if I’m out this late.”

  His eyes flashed in the moonlight. Had the frayed thread just rolled his eyes at her? She sighed. She didn’t believe the lie herself.

  The kid nudged her away from a steaming trail of horse apples. Hooves clomped up the street ahead of them. Weaver’s cold toes, she wished she could own a horse. Or even borrow a horse. Even a tired old nag like the one pulling the cart.

  When they reached the brighter moonlight in Market Square, she stopped and inspected the kid. “Stand up straight and walk normal. Don’t look sneaky. And put your hands in your pockets. That’ll hide your fork thingies.”

  This time she saw pint-sized frayed thread roll his eyes. Clearly.

  Neither of them spoke as they strolled across the Square and up Ladysmith Street. They both heaved a sigh when they turned onto Thorn Lane. No guards, no gang. At least the kid would be safe now.

  Candlelight glowed from one of Trevor’s upstairs windows.

  “You in trouble, kid?”

  “I doubt it. He’s probably already forgotten I didn’t
cook dinner.”

  “I bet he remembers more than you think. Especially an empty belly. I sure would.” Her own belly rumbled.

  The kid laughed. “I hope he didn’t eat all the bread and cheese. Want to check?”

  Her gut grumbled again. “Shut up, you. How’m I gonna sneak in with you making all that noise? No, I gotta get moving. I’ll see you tomorrow, if I ain’t grounded.”

  “Good luck.” The kid saluted her and bounced up the swaying front steps.

  Noodle brain. If he’d just walk normal, them steps wouldn’t move hardly at all. Some warrior he was.

  She checked the lane for movement. Jorjan’s gang might think she’d let her guard down so close to home. They might be stupid enough to ambush her. That would be fun.

  No, it wouldn’t. They’d find her swords. She better sneak the rest of the way home.

  How boring.

  She strolled to the end of Thorn Lane, eased down Hackberry Street to Lyremaker Street. She turned into Old Saddler Alley, snuck through a broken fence and sidled down Lesser Catgut Alley to the back of her parents’ shop.

  All of the windows were lit up. Were they having a fraying party? After midnight?

  Or was the Lorel-hating customer still there? Bless the noodle brain’s thread on the Loom. If he kept her family distracted, she’d never say another bad word about him. At least, not to his face.

  Still no sign of Jorjan. Her luck was so good tonight. Nobody to rat on her, nobody to ground her, and three weapons all to herself. Life didn’t get no better.

  She crept up to the backdoor and picked the lock with her cloak pin. After relocking the door – she’d learned that lesson the first time she’d neglected the fraying lock – she snuck through the candlelit workshop to the stairs.

  Hysterical laughter hooted through the curtain to the front shop. What was Dad serving the poor noodle brain to get him that drunk? Nashidran brandy? They’d all have hangovers come morning. She hoped the customer bought a bunch of instruments. Nashidran brandy was thread-snipping expensive. Mom would play the demon if they didn’t make a bunch of money.

  Not her problem. Not tonight. She eased up the stairs, stepped over both of the squeaky treads, slid around the corner and down the hall. Past the sitting room, past her brothers’ bedroom – maybe they hated her because they had to share and she had her own – past her parents’ bedroom door. They’d moved her to the room at the very end, like they thought it would keep her from sneaking out. The limp threads. But it was a bigger bedroom than her old room, since it used to be the sitting room, and it had a great view of the city stretching up the hill. Some days she could see all the way to Trader’s Inn. Some nights she spotted Jorjan’s gang sneaking down Souwall Road.

  She pushed back the window curtains and eased up the glass. Good, it didn’t screech this time. All that bacon grease actually worked. Too bad it would attract flies come spring. But she’d think of something else by then.

  Moonlight flooded her room. It lit up her new bed, one long enough that her feet didn’t hang off the end. It shined on the clothes chest she had made for herself. It glistened on the little table Dad made for her when she was five.

  She loved this room.

  But it had one problem. There was nowhere to hide stuff. No closet, no loose floorboard, no hidden holes in the ceiling. And the hidey-holes in her old room were too small for the long sword, even if she risked leaving her blades there.

  Where on the Loom could she hide her treasures?

  She shrugged off her cloak and hung it on the peg behind the door. After pulling the bag’s drawstring over her head, she drew the rag-wrapped long sword free and tried to squeeze it inside her clothes chest.

  No matter which way she turned it, the long sword wouldn’t never fit inside the chest. Not even if she took out all her clothes. The short sword barely fit, but if Mom opened the chest, she’d see it. She could bury the knife under her underwear, but Mom was sure to go digging sooner or later. A girl just wasn’t allowed no secrets in this house.

  Where could she hide the fraying things? Under the mattress?

  She heaved the mattress up, stuffed all three blades on top of the wood frame, and carefully lowered the thread-snipping-heavy pad. What had Mom stuffed it with, wood shavings? Rags? Couldn’t be feathers, it was way too heavy.

  Still, her new blades were hid for now. She’d find a better place tomorrow.

  She stripped off her clothes and dumped them over the chest. No telling how dirty they were by moonlight. She’d check them in the morning.

  She slipped on the fraying frilly nightgown Aunt Ranvier sent for her last birthday. She still hadn’t forgiven Mom for throwing away her favorite night­shirt. It hadn’t been that short. But miswoven Chalmer complained he saw her knees. So what? He didn’t belong in her room to start out with. The prying, spying chunk of Loom lint.

  Speaking of spying, she better close the window. If either of her brothers noticed a draft, they’d rat on her. And Dad would nail the window shut again.

  A huge yawn attacked her. What a long day. A totally wonderful day. A wide smile felt permanently glued to her face as she laid down on the bed.

  A gigantic ridge stretched down the middle of the mattress. Blood in the Weave. She must be lying right on her long sword.

  She shifted closer to the wall. A shorter ridge bit into her ribs.

  Whatever Mom had stuffed inside the Loom-tangling mattress, it wasn’t doing the job. She’d never be able to sleep with them swords poking up like some wrecked ship’s keel.

  She heaved the mattress up again, pulled the blades out, and laid them on the floor. After straightening the bedding, she lined all three weapons up on the pink and white quilt Grandma made for her four years ago. She adored Grandma, but whatever made the old lady think she’d like a girly-girl pattern of pink roses and baby’s breath? Even back then she’d wanted a black and purple pattern of swords and armor.

  Her new swords did look nice against the light colors of the quilt. But they couldn’t stay there.

  Could she hide them under the bed? Just for tonight?

  Her bedroom door opened. “Thank goodness you’re home,” Mom said. “I hate lying to your father. Why does it smell like smoke in here?”

  Blood in the Weave. Now she was in for it. “I helped the kid keep track of his fire.”

  “How nice.” Mom leaned against the doorjamb and blinked at her.

  Too much Nashidran brandy, for sure. Maybe she’d get away with it. “I’m about to go to bed, Mom. Good night.”

  Mom didn’t take the hint. “What are those things on your bed?”

  Rats. “The kid carved them for me.”

  “He carved wooden swords?” Mom ambled into the room. “Doesn’t he know even wood swords are illegal?”

  “He’s a barbarian, they don’t know nothing.”

  “You can’t leave them here.” Mom picked up the short sword and carried it to the moonlit window. “It’s lighter than it looks. He does lovely carving. Do you think he’d consider an apprenticeship with us?”

  “I’ll ask him.” The next time he’s so busy ogling Faye he couldn’t hear her. No way did she want him near her brothers. The kid was nice for a boy.

  Mom laid the short sword on the little table, tiptoed boozily to the door, and peered down the hall. “Good, the men are still downstairs. We’ll hide them under my bed until we figure out a place your brothers won’t look.”

  Under her parents’ bed? Oh, no.

  “I’ll talk your father into building you a hope chest, a long narrow one. Oh, a window-seat hope chest.”

  A Blood-woven hope chest? No way was she gonna embroider underwear and nightgowns for her wedding night. She didn’t never want to get married! “Um, Mom–”

  “Your brothers will pry into everything but a hope chest. Especially if you store female necessaries in there.” Mom propped her back against the doorjamb and grinned. “Men get amazingly embarrassed about finding their sister’s mon
thly equipment.”

  Hm. Mom should know. She had four brothers.

  “Once your father installs it, I’ll give you the lacey pillowcases and sheets from my hope chest. Useless things. Horribly scratchy to sleep on. But pretty. Between the lace and your monthly napkins, your brothers will be too embarrassed to ever peek again. Later you can put your toys inside it.”

  She’d be too embarrassed to look inside it herself. Her face was burning just thinking about it. But if Mom was right, she could store all sorts of things under the thread-snipping lace.

  She could even start collecting stuff for traveling.

  Chapter 17.

  Viper sighed and leaned over to stir the pot of simmering stew. Of all days to be stuck inside reading. Going to the market with Faye would be much more interesting. He gazed into the kitchen fire and contemplated luck, the wondrous luck of meeting Faye.

  The expression on her face when he handed her the combs in their carven box haunted him. Were it not for that indescribable look, the book would be fascinating.

  If only he understood what that look meant. She’d held the vertebra box as if she were afraid of it, but she seemed pleased with the rose carvings on the combs.

  He longed to share the saikeris with her, but he didn’t dare show them to anyone. These Zedisti had such strange laws, and Faye insisted he follow them. Still, he was pleased with the weapons. He hadn’t expected the results of his impromptu ceremony to feel so … powerful. So alive.

  But he wasn’t supposed to be dwelling on the saikeris, either. Trevor had insisted he read this book. The old turybird even threatened to quiz him on it. Not that he’d needed to.

  It was a wonderful book, given the slightest chance. One thousand, six hundred and eighty seven years ago, mindbender Altrada had been born in Na, and within three centuries she’d combined three coastal cities to create the nation of Nashidra. Brash and beautiful, strong and frighteningly smart, she soon dominated the greatest minds of her era. Completely against his will, Viper found himself terrified, awed, and enthralled by the woman, and by the memories trapped in the book.