Liere had learned that that was true. Sometimes she could call the Guardian in mind, but other times she couldn’t; the Guardian was too far away to sense. Once it had been half a year before the Guardian returned, and she hadn’t stayed very long. I need to return to a far world, she’d said sadly. The enemy is very strong there.
The first time Liere felt that threatening cloud-presence questing in the realm of dreams, she was frightened into heeding the Guardian’s words. She built her brick wall in second face—and she also choked back her questions in first face, and pretended to lose interest in the world.
How it hurt to be labeled a mere showoff—and later, stupid! But she’d set Marga and her friends as a model, not even daring to mimic children her own age, and eventually she’d slid out of town gossip enough to feel safe again. The cloud presence had not come back . . .
Until last night.
Liere’s attention returned to the present when her father pushed back his plate. He was still talking. “ . . . I was told at Council that he is famous not just in our kingdom, but in those to the north.” He smiled on them all.
He. So the Visitor bringing world peace was not the Guardian, who Liere knew was a she.
Liere watched her siblings smile back, but their thoughts were clearly not ‘Oh now nice’ but “Oh, how boring.’ The older ones made dutiful, polite noises. The younger ones exchanged elbow digs and private grimaces.
Liere’s boulder grew bigger, pressing on her spirit.
Why would such an important personage want to come to South End? She listened to her parents’ conversation, but all they talked about was how to get the day’s work done around the meeting, and some gossip about other shopkeepers and what their plans might be.
While the girls cleared away breakfast, the middle boys swept the floor and brought out the good rugs, and the older boys got the family’s old mare hitched up to the cart. Everyone shrugged into coats and mittens then piled into the cart, spreading rugs around. While everyone in town knew that they made and repaired work rugs and cushions, Father liked to display their sturdy rugs.
The winter sun was bright and the air warm except in the shadows. Liere wedged herself securely in one corner, ignoring splinters. She watched her family, making certain no one’s attention was on her. The siblings joked and shoved, the parents up on the buckboard talked, and Liere, whose apprehension had intensified steadily, decided she had to take the risk and check ahead.
The Guardian had warned her about wandering in second-face, for the mental realm had no physical boundaries. It was all right to practice focus, and seek identity, and it was important to learn how to make her mental ‘questing finger’ small in order to better protect her own identity—but if she were to touch with that mental finger any entities who were aware of her, it was better to retreat behind her mental wall, and withdraw back into first.
She composed herself, and closed her eyes. To anyone else she’d appear to be asleep. Instead she relaxed her body limb by limb so that when she disengaged mind from body she wouldn’t flop over like a stuffed doll.
Then she sent a tendril questing into the mental realm.
When she touched the minds of her family, or one of the neighbors,’ she thought of the quest as the rootlet of an ivy plant, stretching out, looking for sunlight. Avoiding darkness.
She passed by all the familiar minds of her neighbors. Their thoughts were a little like bits of dreams, with words chattering through—like birds.
She reached farther, and found several new minds.
Five of them.
With great care she let her rootlet touch them, no communication, just ‘listening.’ Four were like gray silhouettes, composed of threatening thoughts: Who is the target?
When can we cut loose from this boring place?
It would only take half a day to smash our way through these stupid peasants!
Let this be a worthwhile hunt . . .
Liere shied quickly away from these violent thoughts. This mind, like three others, all waited for orders, for permission. They did not have the focus of intent.
The one longing for a worthwhile hunt watched the fifth figure. His focus was clear, so clear that the visual image carried easily to Liere: a man sitting cross-legged on the hardy winter grass atop a little hill just outside of town. Liere knew the spot. It was just off the great road on the way to her cousins’. The man’s blond head was bowed. One of his hands supported his forehead. The other rested on something long and shiny-silver beside him.
She abandoned the surface thoughts of the fourth man and sent her tendril cautiously toward that fifth figure.
The mental image that came was a black silhouette against a weird flat gray sun, like molten lead: a very powerful wall, keeping her out.
But it did not keep the other mind from sensing her. At once that shielded mind was aware of her, because though the identity was still hidden behind the silhouette, a ghost ‘voice’ invited her to make herself known—the effect like the sun popping up from behind the rim of the world and shining in your window directly at you.
Snap! She escaped—just barely. She was afraid one more heartbeat and that sun would have burned right through her wall, shining its terrible light on identity and memory, and burning her tendril to ash.
For a short time all she could do was breathe, trying not to tremble. Finally she brought her focus back into first-face, and opened her eyes. The cart jiggled and jounced through caking mud-ruts, and her family, all unawares, still chattered happily, glad to be free of work even if only for half a day.
Liere drew in a deep, shaky breath, partly in recovery—for her body almost always felt dizzy when she returned to it—but mostly in reaction.
She was very sensitive, hearing the excited surface thoughts of minds all around her. The cart reached the Town Hall just then, jolting behind a ragged line of conveyances.
“Hai, Les!” The familiar shout was from one of Father’s friends.
“Hail, Tham! Good day, Inge! Do you remember so many mild days together in one winter?”
“Means a blizzard soon for certain,” was the prompt reply, as the two carts creaked to a stop.
The young of both families leaped out, everyone looking for friends. Liere saw the mother in the other cart staring, lips pursed, at the Fer Eiders. She gave that same attention to vegetables at market.
Liere had heard the two sets of parents once talking about how fine it would be if some of their children would marry into one another’s families, and ever since then Inge considered them all as if they were for sale. Liere’s siblings didn’t seem to care—if they even noticed—but Liere hated that appraisal, and not just because they were always wrong about her. Inge’s thoughts about her were unflattering. Liere saw herself through Inge’s eyes: a plain, boring, backward scrap of a child only good for kitchen chores and yard work. Liere didn’t care about that. In fact, she wanted them to think her boring and backward, because she hated the idea of marriage—of living the same life as her mother.
She slid into the crowd of children from both families, who were busy organizing a game with any others who seemed interested.
At first Liere only meant to escape the scrutiny of Inge and Tham, but then she saw a group of strange men standing at the side of the entrance to Town Hall. They were studying the mass of children with a close attention that sent alarm through Liere.
She thrust herself into the forming game, playing just enough to seem like everyone else. Running when the others ran, shouting when they shouted, she maneuvered so she could watch the watchers, and not be spotted doing it.
Four of the men wore some kind of uniform, not the gaudy one of the King’s Guard, but plain gray winter tunics, long black trousers, and high blackweave riding boots. They all carried weapons. The fifth man wore brown trousers and a white shirt, no jacket or cloak despite the cold air. He also wore a sword. And he had blond hair.
Control. Liere had learned that from The Guardian. When one ma
de the unity one could, when needed, shut out cold. That man had such control over first-face that he had to be the mind behind the silhouette-wall.
The children screamed and surged in one direction, and Liere followed, running in the midst of the crowd. Why does he seek me? she thought. What am I supposed to do?
For now, she had this one advantage: she knew what he looked like, but he did not, as yet, know how to identify her.
Chapter Eight
Davernak loved the hunt.
On some worlds people hunted animals for sport. Davernak had tried it, and found it boring. Why waste your time on non-sentient creatures? Where was the fun in running down and destroying a stupid animal whose efforts to save itself were nothing but instinct?
The pleasure was worthwhile when the contest was equal, or nearly so—when the quarry could provide a chase worthy of one’s exertion. When there might even be some risk, which made the capture, and the clash of wills, so much more exquisite. It was that sense of loss in the victim’s eyes—when he had to acknowledge your power as the greater—that was even more satisfying than the actual kill. Though he enjoyed the kill.
There couldn’t possibly be anyone worth the hunt in this tiny town called South End in the northeast region of Imar, a kingdom once great, but through several generations of indifferent government had dwindled to backwardness. The evidence was the empty, tumbled remains of once-thriving cities, on the edges of which small trade towns like South End had sprouted, built from the brick and tiles of the ruins. North End had been even more boring.
Davernak stood on the dilapidated porch of the Town Hall building and looked in disgust at the scrambling mass of children. Children! When he’d first been told that Siamis had somehow sniffed someone out who had those mysterious mind powers shared by the Old Sartorans, Davernak had anticipated a worthy hunt.
Time had narrowed the possibilities not to kings or even war-leaders, but to children, in shambling little towns scarcely worth burning. Even worse, he’d been told just now they were scouting for a little girl! Disgust and boredom made him impatient, and he turned away.
Watched covertly by Liere.
Parents emerged on the terrace before Town Hall, and began calling for their offspring. Liere stopped running when the others did, and she positioned herself in the center of the scramble of siblings and Inga’s children. Now she was glad that the families always sat together at special events. She felt safer in the large group. She knew as long as she did nothing to bring attention to herself, none of those sinister people in the gray and black would look twice at a plain, undersized ten-year-old.
The children shuffled glumly inside, Liere in the middle, imitating posture and voice. For the parents, the interesting part of the day was just beginning. For the children it was over. Town Meetings too often featured some pompous rich noble who issued decrees or made long, dull, and on one memorable occasion confused speeches. (That time being when the shoemaker’s son had found the speech and mixed all the pages up, and the fellow never noticed because his wife had written it.)
This time the speaker was a young man and he had no papers, which meant he knew exactly what he was going to say. And he was wearing a sword! The boys looked at him with interest, and so did the young women, for he was tall, and though slender he was well-made, grace and strength in his movements, his fine hair waving back from a broad brow, his eyes light-colored and intelligent, his smile kind and gentle.
“I greet you, citizens of South End,” he said, and his voice was a little like song, his accent reminding them a little of the ancient chants of the morvende and the dawn-singers. “My name is Siamis, and I am traveling through Imar, visiting every town of importance, on my mission to bring peace to troubled lands.”
Siamis! Liere thought back. Had she heard the name before? If so, it had been unfamiliar, and she hadn’t known it for a name, but had thought it yet another of the mysterious terms she didn’t understand from The Guardian’s shared memories of the days of Old Sartor.
It’s an ugly name, she decided, remembering that shadow on the hill. No, an evil name.
“Imar has been troubled,” he said, and many adults nodded, looking at one another and then nodding again.
There was something for everyone in his talk, for young and old, male and female, poor and rich. He spoke well, sometimes making people laugh by unflattering comparisons to unpopular rulers or buffoons of recent history—even local gossip, causing gasps of gratification and intense curiosity. How could he know? Who had been talking?
Liere’s apprehension intensified.
“What I want,” Siamis said, “is for everyone in this country to regain the peace and prosperity your ancestors once enjoyed in the long-ago days of Ancient Sartor.”
Ancient Sartor! The words riffled through the room in a susurrus of surprise and anticipation.
Siamis then described, in vivid detail, what life had been like in Ancient Sartor.
The adults listened with interest, though at first about half actually listened and the others thought about personal concerns, or about what troubles the government caused when they interfered with local trade, and was it really a wise idea to speak up and ask for change? What power did he have, after all, if the government hadn’t sent him?
The children did not hide their reactions. Most looked more skeptical, but soon they, like the adults, were all listening, for the man’s voice was light, pleasing to the ear, friendly, reassuring . . . and as compelling as a once-loved melody.
Slowly, though, his images wrested attention away from present concerns. As he talked about the power and wealth and grandeur of the Old Sartorans, the people of South End seemed to see them, hear them. Know them, as if they were real memories.
But they weren’t memories. The Guardian had willingly shared certain of her own memories—some from her childhood, which Liere treasured—and others from later. These Liere had pondered often, for dena Yeresbeth enabled one to revisit memories with the clarity of the first occurrence. The Guardian had promised that understanding would come with age and experience.
These things he talked about were not true memories, they were stories.
The people in them were not real, yet they were all so vivid—
Oh—oh—oh—
They were illusions.
Alarm burned through Liere. With an effort she shut out the melodic tenor voice. The world suddenly felt cold and bleak and dreary, with her alone in it, while her mind yearned to return to that vision of a world of beautiful things, of continuous music, where art and life were inseparable.
She forced herself to look, and not to listen. Her family, Inge’s family, the baker’s family—all so different, wore exactly the same expression, as if they were under a spell.
Illusions were false images made by magic. That much she had learned from The Guardian. If people consented to see illusions, like at the great plays in the capital, then they were harmless, for the people knew they witnessed illusions. When the illusion captured the attention, when it pretended to be real, then magic was being used falsely.
Liere closed her eyes, still careful to imitate the posture of those around her—and touched her mental finger to the minds of her family.
Every one of them walked mentally among Siamis’s images, in a dream world of illusion. Every one of them. And not just her family, but Inge’s as well. And the others were also enraptured.
It’s not just an illusion, Liere realized. It’s a spell of some kind.
A spell to do what? Wary, too amazed by her discoveries yet to be frightened, Liere sent out another tendril, testing the words, and his voice—resisting the images as she reached for the meaning that must lie behind the words, the intent of the spell.
“How do I know so much?” His voice altered from coaxing to commanding. “Because I was there!”
Now everyone’s attention shifted from the pretty images to the man himself. He regarded them with wide eyes that reflected tiny pinpoints of light from
the windows, and his brief smile, his soft laugh expressed victory and enticement. “If we all work together, we shall regain everything that once was lost.”
Liere pressed her knuckles against her teeth. Again she checked the minds around her, and again she found each person thinking about Siamis, agreeing happily to work together—each and every mind waiting for his commands.
Everyone except Liere.
What am I supposed to do? she thought. O Guardian Lilith, where are you?
She could not hear The Guardian, could not ask her for directions—to give her commands. But Lilith had never given her commands.
Liere understood that she alone was able to choose, for all the people around her, from Marga sitting quietly beside Liere to the Mayor, fat and pompous in the front row, had willingly surrendered—something—in order to wait for Siamis’s orders.
“I want you to go home and live in peace with one another,” he said.
That sounded very fine, didn’t it?
“I will show you the way to regain the lost power and prestige of Old Sartor.”
Power. Prestige. Were they wrong? Not if . . .
She struggled with so many new thoughts it felt like trying to capture and hold the dancing sun reflections on water.
Power, prestige, were not wrong as such, only if—
Oh. Oh! She saw the difference, then: in his descriptions he had avoided mention of any of the great magical accomplishments, the harmony between humans, animals, and the other life forms on the world, the awareness of place among all living things celebrated by the Processions between the cities, and other aspects of the Blessed Twelve. The Guardian had shown her these things. All he’d shown them so vividly were skills the Old Sartorans had once had in creating material things. And now he promised personal power, the ability of the stronger mind to impose order on the weak—
“I appeal to your sense of reason,” Siamis said. “All of you, regardless of status or age. I appeal in particular to one who is among you, one of exceptional gifts. The potential you show will be trained. You will become a leader if you will come forward and learn from me.”
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