Fleeing Peace

by Sherwood Smith

  Senrid met her calm, intelligent gaze, framed by that odd blue-white hair. It was impossible to know what Clair Sherwood was thinking, but she did not look the least bit disapproving, scornful, or wary.

  CJ’s thoughts were, as usual, plain on her face. She grinned a challenge. “Last I saw you were skinnier’n two twigs, and pasty-faced and boggle-eyed from five minutes of sleep a night. Now you look normal. Well, almost. You’re still skinny.”

  “And you’re not?” Senrid shot back.

  CJ simpered, “Mine is but a delicate build . . .”

  HAH!s from most of the others made CJ snicker. Leander breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  Senrid felt relieved as well, though he would never have admitted it to anyone.

  Clair gazed at Senrid in interest. Why had he been wary? Well, he’d gotten over it fast enough. Maybe she’d even misinterpreted.

  Arthur, a born peacemaker, was glad to see everyone getting along. But his worries about Evend would not be spoken—not unless a miracle happened and his mother returned from the mage battle in the south. “I wish we could find out where Siamis is,” he said to Clair as the others exchanged jokes and fake insults.

  “Speaking as a former acquaintance,” Clair said, putting fingers to nose, “I am just as happy we can’t. At least I feel like we can do better against underlings.”

  Arthur rubbed his chin. “Right.”

  He left CJ and Clair planning magic tricks for their next foray, and dashed away to find Winn. Almost all the magicians had slates now, which meant immediate knowledge of their movements, but it was taking a lot longer to get the last slates to Winn’s Chargers, who were spread out from east to west—wherever there were Norsundrians.

  The plans seemed to be working, spirits were high, and the hit-and-run tactics had, so far, produced very few casualties.

  But Siamis had yet to be heard from. And he still had the off-worlders.

  And Evend stayed in Bereth Ferian, with his magic books, and gave his mages separate orders.

  Arthur could not shake the feeling that there was another level to events that he was not seeing—that Evend did not yet want him to see.

  And he could not get rid of his sense of disaster looming.

  o0o

  Frederic yawned as he watched Peridot jabbing stonily away at a tree. Emeth flashed silver-blue in the spring sunlight; in this part of the world the light was gaining.

  Frederic had little else to do but watch the light change. Life was so very boring. Siamis almost never had time for them anymore. After he’d gotten back from Everon he disappeared entirely, and Frederic overheard one of the Norsundrians saying that Detlev had ordered him to return to the Norsunder base to help in the fight to make the rift, but someone else said he went to Norsunder itself. That meant he could be back in five minutes or five hundred years.

  It was dreary when he was gone, but at least the Norsundrians didn’t pick on the kids any more, not after Gloriel had repeated everything they said, and then rolled up her sleeve and showed Siamis the bruises. Now they left the kids strictly alone, but the girls had nothing to say, not even Deirdre. Didn’t Deirdre always used to be the leader, and think about things? Now she sat and stared at the horizon, unless someone talked right to her.

  Frederic watched the light change. Sometimes—when they didn’t notice him—listened to the Norsundrians talk.

  The Norsundrians didn’t seem to know any of the kids’ names, but Frederic had learned theirs. Long-faced Davernak seemed to be in charge again, after being the one stuck with the worst duties. But he still didn’t talk much, especially about whatever had happened to him before Frederic and the girls came along. How did they get here anyway? Frederic couldn’t remember.

  So he turned back to the Norsundrians. That one with the light hair and the sharp chin, that was Effrath. He bragged a lot about Toar, and how tough they were there. The old one with the eagle-beak nose, his nickname was Nolv. He had a long name, impossible to pronounce. He only talked about killing. Parand was as tall as the men. She talked about weapons. And there was Laengal. He said he’d joined up when he was ten. He was the meanest, even though he smiled a lot.

  Frederic stayed away from Laengal. The rest all acted a lot like the girls acted—just sort of sat around, only talking or doing something if someone talked right to them.

  Laengal and his friends looked down on them, too, calling them recruits. Recruits and joiners. Laengal and his friends were joiners. There was obviously a difference, but Frederic couldn’t figure it out.

  He’d ask Siamis when he—

  Oh yes. Now Siamis was back at last.

  Things were going to be better. At least he’d stopped to talk to them and let them have Emeth.

  He was inside the house now—the Norsundrians had taken over a house—and Siamis left the kids outside for some practice. They each had taken turns with Emeth, squaring off with the one practice blade the Norsundrians let them have, until they got tired of it. Now only Peridot persisted. To Frederic she looked like a robot—a robot?—as she switched from hand to hand, blocking, parrying, cut, lunge.

  Frederic watched the light on the blade, and thought about Old Sartor. . . except he didn’t know enough, not really.

  Oh yeah. Siamis was back, wasn’t he? Why did he sometimes have to remember something several times?

  Frederic wandered inside the house, glancing with disinterest at a jumble of children’s toys shoved into a corner. He hadn’t seen what had happened to the cottagers who’d lived here. The Norsundrians took care of all that first, unless the people had vanished before their arrival.

  Frederic drifted down a short hallway.

  “ . . . and in Colend as well,” someone was saying. “Everon is hottest, next to Colend. All of them shouting ‘Winn’s Charge,’ whatever that means.”

  “And Toar,” said another. “And, same thing: Winn’s Charge.”

  “That’s six separate fronts,” said Siamis. “Obviously coordinated through someone; where did it break out first?”

  “Middle of Toar is where we picked it up first. But within half a day it was everywhere.”

  “The Gerandans?”

  “Broke the binding a week back. They’re beyond our control. Those in coastal cities are strong-arming trade ships for home.”

  Siamis said, “You might go ahead and flush that despicable old man out of Chwahirsland and coopt some of his warm bodies. Their training is abysmal, but they can keep Colend busy—”

  A sudden silence made Frederic peek in.

  He felt the brief stir of air that meant magic transfer, and saw three new Norsundrians, the leader of whom he instantly recognized: Detlev.

  Frederic didn’t like Detlev. Wasn’t there something in the past? Frederic only remembered having seen Detlev in Roth Drael one day, just after Siamis brought them there. From the back he looked like anyone else, a man with brown hair. He had gray eyes with green in them. You remembered that not because the color was anything special, but because when he met your gaze it made your head ache. He always was the center of attention, even though he never seemed to wear any weapons, just the usual gray and black clothing.

  “You seem,” he said to Siamis, “to have misjudged the passage of time while you were sporting in the Garden.”

  The Garden, Frederic thought. That’s the Garden of the Twelve, what the Norsundrians called the place in Norsunder where the real leaders hung out. The only thing he knew for sure about it was that nobody liked going there. Even Laengal looked grim the one time Siamis mentioned it.

  “Is that an observation,” Siamis asked, “or a warning?”

  “Observation only.” Detlev flicked three fingers up in a brief gesture.

  The other Norsundrians were watching avidly. One of the newcomers, a very tall man wearing at least four visible weapons, snorted a laugh. This newcomer said, “His warnings are usually unequivocal.”

  Neither Detlev nor Siamis made any sign that they had heard.


  Detlev looked down at a map that one of the Norsundrians had spread on a battered old table, and said, “Winzhec’s camp is approximately here. They move it about daily, but so far have stayed in this area. Oalthoreh and the mages are still invisible to us. You will need to address that first.”

  Siamis said, “I take it you have not interfered.”

  Detlev lifted his hand, and turned the palm up. “This is your diversion. Not mine.”

  And then he made a sign, said something blurry, and vanished.

  The tall, heavily armed red-haired one said on the verge of laughter, “Do you want me to continue playing fire-and-drakes with Lilith?”

  “Yes.” Siamis’s voice sounded like he wanted to sigh.

  The red-haired man, and the one who had never spoken, also vanished.

  Davernak said, “We did not know Detlev was in the area.”

  Siamis walked to the window. “You must always assume he is watching. Always. Especially now.”

  “What did he mean about a diversion?” Davernak asked.

  “He is aware of the real reason I made my retreat to the Garden. They will not force him to release the Base to my control, even though he lost his rift. But they will not give him control over my rift here in the north. And of course he knows it.”

  The Norsundrians looked angry. Two looked worried. Frederic just listened, wondering what it all meant.

  “A diversion,” Siamis repeated.

  Frederic could only see Siamis’s profile. He looked annoyed. Frederic felt annoyed.

  The others began to speak, each trying to be heard. Their voices got louder; Frederic backed up a little.

  He was glad when Siamis finally turned away from the window. The others all shut up, like a TV turned off. A TV? Frederic thought. What’s that?

  “ . . . what is clear is that we need to move swiftly,” Siamis said. His voice sharpened, and Frederic frowned. He wanted Siamis to be happy. Then he and the girls would be happy. “I would have liked to accomplish our goals with as little interruption as possible. The lighters really do seem to prefer bloodshed. So be it. We will finish forming the rift here, and then we will give them bloodshed.”

  Laengal laughed.

  “Now. Our focus is going to stay local for the immediate future. Laengal, you and the other three are going to keep Oalthoreh and her minions busy here. Davernak, be patient. Once we have my arrogant young Marloven friend with us, you may do what you like with your four dead-weights, but until then, we do need them as backup.”

  “How are we going to lure him?”

  “No need.” Siamis smiled. “Senrid will find us. So. We first . . .”

  Marloven? Frederic thought. Senrid? Why did he know those words?

  Well, he’d forgotten them now. Frederic sighed, and wandered out. Orders were always boring.

  He saw a carved rocking horse, and stood there kicking at it with his toe, and watching it creak back and forth, back and forth.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Senrid drifted around the new camp, listening. The military side of Winn’s Charge was a stopgap. So far it had been successful, according to the reports the mages were receiving—Siamis’s forces were divided, distracted, spread too thin. But that would end the moment Siamis brought in a considerable force.

  Senrid was convinced that the magical side of their efforts was the most important.

  The adult mages ignored Senrid, and a few made it clear that they distrusted him. Not overtly. But somehow he never could find them whenever they held conferences. And though they now came often to the camp, and interacted with Faris and the mage-apprentices, Senrid was increasingly convinced that they spied more than they actually helped. They were obviously busy with their own plans.

  So he shrugged them off. It gave him freedom of action.

  At least Arthur and Winn understood that time was limited.

  Siamis has to be feeling the pressure of time, Senrid thought. His obedient population base was vanishing every day, which had to mean he was gambling all his resources on effecting his big rift and then cutting Norsunder loose for total warfare.

  What pressures might he be getting from Norsunder? “Gotta use ‘em for us,” he muttered, rounding behind a tent.

  He nearly tripped over someone.

  “Hey!” CJ Sherwood sat with her back to a tree, her legs out, and a plate in her lap. She gave him a sour glare. “Watch where yer going!”

  “What? All alone?” Senrid countered, quite ready for battle if she offered it.

  She grimaced. “Clair asked me to skip the meeting. I can’t stand the way Oalthoreh keeps looking down on the odd little white-haired kiddie.” CJ grinned. “So I made a comment or two, only to be helpful, but apparently the ol’ bat didn’t like ‘em. Clair will tell me whatever they decide, but she says we don’t have time to be squabbling with those grownup mages.”

  “She’s right,” Senrid said. “Though they don’t even let me have the chance to squabble. I didn’t know about this meeting.”

  CJ shrugged. “Probably the only reason Clair did is because she was here before, and happened to accidentally break that big spell. Or maybe because she’s got white hair. Who knows? They don’t talk to me, either, just to her.”

  Senrid snorted.

  “So anyhoo, what’s the hurry?” CJ said. “Can’t we just keep on doing what we’re doing until either you or the grownups find a way—find some other way,” she corrected herself,” to make sure Siamis doesn’t get a big rift made?”

  “Other way?” Senrid asked.

  CJ made a nasty face. “There’s a way. It mirrors your g-r-r-eat old dark magic, but it costs a life—”

  Senrid let out his breath. “So you do know about that.”

  “Everyone knows about that.” CJ’s expression changed again. “Well, maybe not everyone. The mages do, and Clair heard.” Her fine black brows drew into a line. “Clair also overheard some people worrying that Evend might be planning something nasty like that.”

  “He is,” Senrid said. “I thought you all knew it and didn’t care. Thought it a noble sacrifice, and all that.”

  “Wrong,” CJ said. “Haven’t you talked to Arthur at all?”

  “Oh, I know he doesn’t want it to happen, but I thought he was the only one. Seems to regard that old man as a kind of father.”

  CJ squinted up at Senrid, her blue gaze wide and speculative. “You think we’re stupid.”

  Senrid shook his head. “I’ve learned plenty about the ‘ignorance of the lighters’ but there are some things you seem to regard as noble and necessary and I think of as . . . unnecessary.” When her lips parted, he added, “If you’re about to shove my past in my teeth, I’m gone.”

  CJ snorted, obviously unimpressed. “It’s just that you looked so surprised. And I remember all that gas you blathered about idiot lighters, last year.”

  “Then forget it,” he said. “Here’s what I see shaping up. All of us under the age of sixteen, say, are hearing the same sort of stuff about how things are changing but we kids don’t know what we’re talking about, listen to those with experience, talk, talk, talk. It’s not a coincidence that there are a lot of us—”

  “Sartora said the same thing. To Clair. I’m the first to squawk if some grownup treats me like a stupid little kiddie,” CJ said, “but we don’t know all the stuff they know.”

  “Maybe alone,” Senrid said, urgency making him restless. This always happened when his mind followed two paths of thought, or rather, when one seemed clear but the important one was hidden, revealing itself in shadows and subtle signs. He began to pace back and forth, from the tree to the tent. “Maybe when we’re alone. But when we work together, kids can out-think adults. That’s what I’ve learned. I can out-think an adult. I did. I out-thought my uncle all the time, but until the end I never had the power to act on anything. You saw what my life was like.”

  “It stank.” CJ held her nose.

  Senrid grinned.“I know I will out-think him ag
ain when I go home and boot him out.”

  “And you’ll change some of his wonderful rules?”

  “No,” Senrid drawled. “I’ll spend all my time killing lighters.”

  CJ grinned unrepentantly.

  “Enough of that.” Senrid snapped his fingers. “We have to out-think Siamis. And we can. He’s arrogant, so arrogant he let Liere thrash through half his enchanted kingdoms before he even took her seriously. Arrogance doesn’t change overnight. And I think he’s also pressed for time. By us, and by his allies.”

  “Hah!” CJ snorted. “So what’s he doing, then?”

  “I think this is what’s going on. He’s sent flunkies out to make as many rift accesses as they can, to keep us busy putting them out—just like setting little fires.”

  CJ said, “Will you sit down? You’re making me dizzy. So what is it we need to figure out?”

  Senrid dropped to his knees, smoothed the dirt with a couple quick swipes, and began drawing a map with his finger. “Where the real accesses are, as opposed to the fake ones he’s making to keep us busy. We have to figure out where he plans to make the big rift, and that will tell us where he’s got the off-worlders stashed.”

  “Oh. That’s soooo easy.”

  Senrid didn’t mind her sarcasm any more than she minded his. She set aside her empty plate and crouched opposite, her chin on her knees, her bare toes just touching the northern edge of Helandrias, which he represented with finger-pokes.

  “You know how rifts work.”

  “Yes. No. I know that at eleven their magic is strongest, so the Norsunder gabboons can bring their snilches over.”

  “One or two at a time, through the rift accesses, which are kind of like doors. It takes a tremendous amount of transfer magic to transfer people anywhere—as you know. It’s apparently worse from Norsunder, and considerably worse if they try to do it repeatedly, due to the drag of time.”

  “I don’t get why,” CJ said.

  “Think of it a little as jumping back and forth from a moving ship to land—one that might move at different speeds, according to the will of the captain.”