Fleeing Peace

by Sherwood Smith

  He stopped when a drunken baker handed him a freshly baked chicken pie. No one was giving him the chance to finish a sentence. It was time to give up, and find those children. Make sure they were safe.

  He wove through the crowd, eating his pie. He heard Roderic shouted down by a carpenter who roared, “Whadder ya worried about? That little girl mage’ll wave her hands and winkle away any damned elevens who dare to poke their noses inside the town walls!”

  A few jutted their chins, and took up martial stances as they yelled variations on, “Let ‘em come. I’ll show ‘em enchantment.”

  Darkness shrouded the sky. The buildings were lit with golden color: candles in most windows, bonfires in the streets. The cool, rain-washed air carried happy voices taking up old songs, or laughing and clapping to the beat. Silhouettes danced around the fires.

  The eleventh hour was nigh. The urgent sense that Rel must find Sartora was so strong he could not stop walking, looking, listening.

  He started across one of the streets leading to the town square. The dancers and singers limned in torchlight reminded him of the Colendi outlined by fire, and King Carlael of Colend—usually urbane, elegant, chillingly remote—staring in. I can’t fight this kind of war.

  o0o

  Leander tried to dismiss the shock he’d felt when he saw Senrid. He had to get Senrid safely away while Siamis was busy doing whatever it was he did when he sat like that. All he knew was that Siamis shut out his surroundings to the extent he didn’t hear voices or anything else.

  Including spies.

  They’d gotten pretty good at concentrating on a stone or a tree or a blade of grass when they moved in and out between the steadily less vigilant sentries for spy trips. Siamis was either surrounded by Norsundrians, or else inaccessible in the room beyond the magic ward. They could see him, they could hear him, but they couldn’t—yet—get at him.

  Leander led the way back to their new hideout. They’d had to let the horses go, for they were too hard to keep hidden, and bored Norsundrians often tramped through the forest hunting Fens—or any other animals they could flush. They’d found so few they hadn’t yet figured out they only got targets when a diversion was needed, and those targets knew how to evade attackers, drawing them deep into the worst, thorniest thickets where a bow could hardly be drawn.

  The new camp was the best yet, a real cave. Here they could risk a fire, at least while the storm was bad. The inevitable search once Senrid was discovered missing would be slow while the rain lasted.

  They tramped inside and Dtheldevor whooshed in relief. “I know I need a bath, but blast their souls! Not by rain, and not until I get me some soup!”

  She looked at the short blond boy with interest. He was in terrible shape, so it didn’t surprise her that the boy just stared stupidly at the ground.

  Dtheldevor waited while Leander skillfully started the fire, which he’d laid out before they left. She appreciated how he’d thought up their rescue, planning the rope thing out in his head while they moved through the forest. She hadn’t seen him get all the vines. Suddenly he just had them, coiled round his arm: it was she who bound them into a sturdy rope, something anybody on shipboard was skilled at.

  After Siamis put the kid in the room, Dtheldevor would have been all for attacking from the front, despite all those blasted warriors, even though she knew the likelihood of winning was just about zero. No. Wait. I know a better way, Leander had said. Same way he insisted they not attack Siamis when he was sitting in the room all alone, his eyes closed. Easy target that he looked, there was magic all around, probably protections, Leander had pointed out. Dtheldevor could see its shimmer. Leander’s caution made sense, even if it also made her impatient, so she’d remained quiet while Leander sat there beside her, watching, listening—and sure enough, eventually Siamis sat down and went all still again, like he was asleep sitting up.

  “Now,” Leander’d said, and he leaned forward to whisper down to Senrid below. . .

  Now Leander studied the kid as if he didn’t know what to do next.

  Dtheldevor stepped in front of the kid and peered into his vacant face. “Well,” she said. “He’s lookin’ like some of ‘em used to look at home. He have any smarts?”

  “Yes,” said Leander.

  “Then let’s try this.” Dtheldevor opened her hand, and dealt Senrid a ringing slap across the face.

  “Don’t—” Leander began.

  “Too late,” Dtheldevor said cheerfully.

  Senrid staggered backwards, arms wheeling, and hit the ground. Then he looked up, his eyes wide and mouth tight with anger. “Who did that?”

  Dtheldevor smiled with satisfaction. “I did.” And when he tensed, she added, “Wanta make something of it?”

  “Don’t try,” Leander cut in, almost laughing. “You could dice him easy enough with your sword, but you’ll be sorry if you tangle with his hands.”

  “Uh?” Dtheldevor said doubtfully, eyeing Senrid.

  “He’s small but he’s quick, and a lot stronger than you’d think,” Leander said. “He nearly drowned me once, and you can see how much taller I am. Speaking of water. Where’s our pan? I want to brew up some of that summer-leaf while the storm lasts.”

  Dtheldevor cast an eye over Senrid’s scrawny body, then shrugged. She’d learned long ago not to underestimate anyone. “Maybe so,” she said, returning to the subject—to see how Senrid responded. “But I could give him a mighty good thumping first.”

  Senrid said, “I don’t doubt it, judging from the example you just bestowed upon my handsome visage—” He had to stop here because Dtheldevor snorted loudly. “And when I think how close I came to . . .” He realized then that he was babbling. Waves of tiredness wrung down his body, making him dizzy.

  Leander held out a cup of water. Senrid took it gratefully, sucked it down, then he dropped back flat on the dirt, closed his eyes, and dropped promptly into sleep.

  “Ho,” Dtheldevor said, watching Senrid snore. “I couldn’ta done that.”

  “Nope.” Leander stuck his finger in the pan of water. “One thing for sure, he’ll wake up hungry. I don’t know how long he was a prisoner, but they obviously didn’t stand him to any banquets.” He rubbed his chin as he looked down at Senrid’s open mouth. “He’s changed. Last summer he would have tried to murder you, tired as he was.”

  “You changed, too.” Dtheldevor leaned against a moldering hunk of gnarled tree branch, her hands in her pockets. “In that country we was in, what, Mearsies Heili? Anyhow you was a rule hound. Order. Didn’t think I could stick travelin’ wi’ye.”

  “Feeling was mutual. Opposite reason.”

  “Then how come yer still here?” Dtheldevor grinned wickedly. “I been around too long to change.”

  “Because I changed,” Leander said, laughing. “Come on, let’s scout out some grub before the search is on.”

  Dtheldevor moved to the entrance to the cave. “Tell ye what. I’m a-goin’ back to see ol’ Siamis’s mug when he discovers our boy is up an’ missin’. No action, just nosin’.”

  “See about some extra eats while you’re at it,” Leander said.

  “At home, the question was, who’ll we snaffle it from. Here it’s where,” Dtheldevor observed, then disappeared into the rainy night.

  o0o

  Liere jerked awake.

  “Fire! Town’s on fire!”

  The voice was powered by a psychic load of terror that clove through Liere’s head like an invisible sword.

  On the mental plane she sensed a jumble of terrified sleepers wakening, then caught someone’s shock-stilled sight of ordered groups of Norsundrians riding with deliberate intent toward the Guildhall.

  It’s me they’re after.

  She flung off the quilt and landed barefoot. Where were her clothes? Tiredness confused her. She’d had a bath—but someone had taken her clothes away, saying they’d be mended by morning.

  Move, move. Get out, save lives—they are after YOU.

&n
bsp; Her dyr bag thumped against her ribs, and her flesh felt chilled and bumpy as she dug feverishly through the trunk in the room.

  You can have my grandson’s room, the Magister had said. He’s away in Ferdrian, studying at the scribe school.

  A boy. Liere did not want to deal with gowns, after a year of trousers. She found clean clothing and wrestled into it with shaking fingers. Then she flung herself into Devon’s room.

  The girl sat up in bed, her eyes huge with fear and tiredness.

  “They’re after me,” Liere said, voice quavering. “Get dressed. We’ve got to get out right now—”

  Devon sprang out of bed and pulled on a pretty blue dress that someone had laid out for her the night before. Liere saw it, felt a pang, then squashed it angrily. No fancy clothes for her. No heroics. Deeds, not the person—

  My deed is to bring death—

  Devon was crying as she thrust her arms into the sleeves of the dress, a noiseless weeping that scared Liere even more.

  “Come on,” Liere urged. She pushed Devon out the door, and they clambered down a staircase. Elsewhere in the great house Liere heard shouts, and an adult weeping loudly.

  “The doorways are all blocked! I can’t get out!” a man wailed.

  No emotions—think! What would Senrid do? He’d go out the—

  “Window.” Liere pulled Devon to one of the side rooms. Norsundrians ran by, swords reflecting redly off distant fires.

  The window opened with an easy latch. She and Devon climbed out, and dropped directly into a thick flower-shrub just before more Norsundrians appeared, moving slowly; the outside ones stuck swords in each bush they passed.

  The girls flattened to the ground, Devon weeping soundlessly. Liere threw her arm over Devon’s skinny shoulders in hopes Devon would hold back the scream Liere could sense wanting to tear its way out. Slish, hiss! The sword jabbed above them, then withdrew. Liere held her breath until the Norsundrians had tramped past.

  Smoke stung their noses, eyes, and lungs, and Devon coughed, but the sound was swallowed in the escalating noise. Liere grabbed Devon’s hand, crooked her other elbow over her nose, and pulled the girl into the street.

  Panicking people ran past, some pulling carts. Liere and Devon dodged, Devon stumbling over the hem of her new dress. She grabbed her skirts with her free hand.

  Liere scanned the intersection. A formation of torch-bearing riders approached from one direction, and four mounted riders from the other. Liere pulled Devon back into someone’s ornamental shrub.

  Liere heard them on the mental plane: “Search first for brats!” from the leader of the torch bearers.

  The leader of the four riders said, “We haven’t seen any brats!” And he thought in disgust: Tell that snake Davernak he can kill all the brats he wants. We’re looking for a fight.

  The four passed on, and as the girls watched in horror, the Norsundrians cut down everyone fleeing from the Guildhall. Chase, chivvy, laugh, they sported with them first, pausing only if somebody turned and took a desperate stance, fighting either with a sword or some other implement they’d grabbed up in desperation.

  The leader of the torch bearers pointed. Two riders with streaming torches separated off. One paused across the street from the hiding girls, cocked his arm back, then flung the torch high. Fire arced upward, looping in a cartwheel, then splintered a window. Moments later flames licked up draperies.

  Another torch whooshed smashed a window directly above the girls. Shards tinkled down around the girls’ shrub. Devon trembled, pressing herself against Liere.

  The Norsundrians passed slowly on, making sure the ground floors on both sides of the streets were in flame. Devon’s breath came in soft whimpers, but Liere kept her hand on the girl’s wrist, her gaze on the perimeter of warriors who watched the Guildhall go up in flames.

  A cluster of Norsundrians stood in the streets admiring their bonfire, whose brightness reduced the rest of the street to impenetrable shadow.

  Liere whispered, “Now.”

  The girls crept out, and dashed into drifting smoke; the Norsundrians were too busy talking and laughing at every crash of burning timber and gout of upward spiring sparks to gaze into the shadows.

  From all around, the cries of terrorized minds barraged Liere. The impact on inner as well as outer senses made her head ache fiercely, but she forced herself to run, for she had to save Devon and the dyr. How? Everything around was flame, death, smoke, crashing and screaming and burning—terror, anger, desperation, savage laughter—and here and there, Find that brat! And But there aren’t any brats in sight!

  Liere didn’t see any children, or hear them on the mental plane, but there was far too much terror all around her for any vestige of relief.

  Through the mental chaos came a quiet, determined thought: Sartora. How can I find her?

  She sent a tendril desperately to that mind. There was no mental shield. She discovered that the thoughts belonged to fellow somewhat older than Senrid, in whose mind there was an echo of another mind, an animal. A cat! This fellow was seeking her in hopes of getting her out!

  She sent a thought directly to the mind: We are here.

  She and Devon began to cross a square, but out of an adjacent street came the clop of hooves. Another patrol! Half-hidden by wreathing smoke.

  She withdrew her tendril, staggered dizzily, looked about for somewhere to hide. Nothing but smoke, flames, and the fallen—

  “Down,” she breathed. “We’re dead.”

  She and Devon dropped besides the motionless form of a man. Liere heard nothing from this man; his mind had fled. Liere squeezed her eyes shut. Devon’s thin body still trembled but she did not move, not even when the horse hooves clopped within a hand’s reach of her head. The horse leaped over her.

  The Norsundrians passed. The growing fires were a reddish smear in the smoking gloom.

  Sartora?

  Here.

  The silhouette was a Norsundrian on horseback. Liere desperately reached again for the mind, and saw herself through his eyes. The echo made her so giddy she staggered. When she shut her eyes, she understood what she was seeing, and that the fellow was in disguise.

  “Get her up,” she cried hoarsely, pushing Devon to the young man’s nervous horse.

  Their rescuer pulled Devon over the saddle front. Then Liere felt a strong hand close on her arm. She was hoisted up.

  “Lie flat,” a voice said to Devon. “You, act like a prisoner.”

  Devon curled around the saddle horn, her legs hanging awkwardly.

  Torchlight danced at the edge of Liere’s vision: guards, looking at everyone passing.

  Pretend, Liere shot the thought into Devon’s mind, her face bumping against the smooth, warm side of the horse. Pretend he killed somebody . . . he killed your mother.

  “Let me go!” Devon screeched, her voice shrill with real fear. “Let me go! You killed my mother! Let me go!”

  “Not till you tell me where your family keeps their gold,” their rescuer snarled. “You won’t need it anymore!”

  Harsh laughter, and someone shouted, “Turn the brat over to Davernak!”

  “When I’ve got their gold,” Liere’s rescuer responded in the Norsunder language, his voice harsh with his anger and disgust. “Then he can have their corpses.”

  But the Norsundrians did not understand his anger or disgust; they thought it was aimed at his victims, not at them.

  More laughter as more horses clopped by. Another ugly voice yelled something unintelligible, to which their rescuer replied in a hard voice, “I found ‘em, I kill ‘em.”

  Liere was beyond question. The voices of the dying still echoed in her head, endless and agonizing.

  Her eyes blurred with smoke and tears. She could not see. More torches, ugly laughter, sudden plunges of the horse. A Norsunder horse. Liere felt its fear and desperation, the magical controls through pain.

  Gradually the air got sweeter, cooler. The rescuer said, “You can sit up now. We’re o
utside the perimeter.”

  Devon just clung tighter. Liere was held on the horse by a relentlessly strong grip on her belt.

  Up, up. Liere coughed, briefly smelled pine.

  “We’re safe enough,” the rescuer said, and let go his grip. Liere slid down the horse’s side to the ground.

  “Loose the horse—” Liere croaked, but he was already doing that.

  He set Devon on her feet and slapped the animal’s rump, then shifted a knapsack over one shoulder. In the ruddy glow of the burning city below he looked unsettlingly like one of Siamis’s Norsundrian guards.

  Devon swayed, then crumpled to the muddy ground.

  The rescuer picked her up, and set her on a broad, low tree branch.

  Liere climbed up into the tree and looked down at the city, clutching the dyr in both hands. How could she help? How—

  She sense the dying, those whose firsts were pain-bound, seconds frantic with terror or anger. They slipped into third like vanishing stars—those who were not consumed by a vast, horrible mental awareness, one that was so powerful she quailed away, the horror unbearable.

  Was that Siamis? No, it was someone even worse: she knew Siamis’s signature on the mental plane, and powerful as it was, this one was far, far stronger. Older. Like a blackness in the night sky that swallowed suns.

  She closed herself within her own pain, letting the dyr in its bag drop against her breastbone. She wrapped her arms around her middle and rocked with grief.

  She was too inexperienced to identify the watchers who darted skillfully in, easing the passage of as many as they could.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  In Senrid’s dream, Liere tried to call to him. She stood on a hillside above a smoking city, but he couldn’t hear her voice. He could see her face, and the terror and grief that wrenched her mind and spirit hurt him as well. But when he tried to call to her, he seemed to fall through a storm of sound and light—