Fleeing Peace

by Sherwood Smith

  “I can tell you where Evend is,” the man said. “I believe he sits in Bereth Ferian, protected by formidable magic.”

  “Yes, magicians are like that,” Kyale said airily. “But I don’t really care about him so much as I do about finding my brother. He needs looking after. Especially if that disgusting Senrid is anywhere around.”

  “I think . . . I really believe I met your brother briefly,” the man said, looking up at a line of high-flying gulls. “But that was some time ago. Do you think if you find Senrid—or he finds you—your brother might not be far behind?”

  He fell in step beside Kitty, who walked up the shore to where the row of kids stood.

  “Oh, he probably would,” she said briskly. “Just to keep Senrid from causing too much trouble, you know.”

  “Indeed! Now, tell me more about your brother and Senrid,” the man said invitingly, and nothing could have pleased Kitty more.

  She described in detail how he was prone to forget things like food and sleep when he was busy with his stupid magic books, and he also was much too absent-minded to remember his position in life around people of lesser status. And kind hearted! He was nice to every fathead who walked in and asked a favor. If she weren’t on hand to remind him, he probably would have become best friends with that horrible, evil, disgusting, nasty, ravening beast of a Senrid Montredaun-An . . .

  The man’s eyes were friendly and interested, and his voice was nice to listen to, but more important, he seemed to find her interesting. Nobody did, she found herself complaining as they joined the four silent kids. Everyone seemed to do everything better than she did, and it wasn’t fair.

  He agreed with all her statements, until she found herself agreeing with him.

  And by the time Kitty remembered to ask the man’s name, and found out that he was Siamis, she’d forgotten exactly why he was to be feared. All she could think was that he was kind, with a nice, smiling voice, and he was much, much, preferable to that horrible Tdanerend Montredaun-An, who was the biggest villain in the universe—except maybe for Detlev.

  And stupid Senrid was third on the list.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Dawn brought a summer shower. New Year’s Week was nigh.

  Arthur woke up, looked out of his tent, and felt the soothing sense of rightness that came with the clean, cool scent of gentle rain in lush greenery, while one was cozy and warm.

  But then the old worries gripped his skull like invisible steel fingers. He sighed, folded up his bedding, and walked out into the misting rain.

  “Arthur!” Sherry Sherwood waved from across the camp. “Sartora’s here!” She vanished in the direction of the horse pickets.

  Arthur ran, enjoying the squish of mud in his toes.

  He arrived at the same time as a crowd of other people. A wagon had just pulled up, driven by old Hagan from the Bereth Ferian palace stables. The man spotted Arthur at the same time, and called a greeting.

  “Safe journey?” Arthur asked.

  The wrinkle-framed eyes squinted down at him. “Safe enough, safe enough, your highness.”

  Arthur winced internally. He still was not accustomed to the stupidity of titles, which Evend claimed were as much a part of social habit as any other manners. Arthur had spent his early childhood running barefoot among the ruins of Roth Drael with animals and morvende (who paid no attention whatever to political boundaries and terms), with a mother who changed her gown maybe once a year (a step through the cleaning frame when she woke and before she went to sleep being the extent of her interest in appearance) and kicked off her shoes the first day of spring.

  “Let me see to the horses,” Hagan said.

  “Did you see Evend?” Arthur asked in a low voice. “How is he?”

  The wiry old man was already busy at the traces. “Saw him indeed. Bade me say that you are doing very well, your hi—”

  “Thanks, Hagan,” Arthur said hastily.

  He turned around, to find the rest of the wagon blocked entirely by a huge crowd. Half the camp seemed to have arrived in the brief time he’d spoken with Hagan. The mist was now steady rain, but they all ignored it.

  Arthur ducked elbows and squeezed between damp raiders and mage-apprentices—most of whom gave way when they saw him—until he spotted two skinny girls. Or was one a boy?

  From every side came eager questions. The taller kid said, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember,” to someone.

  Arthur recognized acute embarrassment when he heard it.

  He thought: why doesn’t his highness use his ‘highness’ and issue a few orders?

  “Here,” he said, raising his voice. “Haven’t we all things to do? Let’s give Sartora a chance to get out of the wagon, at least, and then maybe a bite of breakfast?”

  Miraculously they listened, wandering off in clumps, with backward glances and whispers.

  Sartora’s downcast eyes and her flat voice probably helped send them along, Arthur thought with an inner laugh. It would be hard to find a more unlikely-looking or sounding hero than this skinny, scruffy girl. Especially for those used to Winn’s dashing grace.

  “This way,” Arthur said, pointing to the cook tent. “Um, which is which?”

  The boyish one looked up. Meeting those eyes, Arthur felt that same painless flash-through-the-head he’d felt when he went swimming in one of the Ghost Lakes once.

  Her lips parted. “Another one,” she said. Then she flushed, her thin, flat cheeks mottling with red. “I’m Liere. This is Devon.”

  “Sartora?” Arthur asked, confused. “And, uh, another what?”

  The blush reached her ears. “Sartora’s something our allies thought up. I agreed, hoping to sidetrack Siamis. It’s meant as an honor—”

  “But honorifics are like wearing somebody else’s clothes,” Arthur finished, understanding thoroughly.

  Liere’s brow cleared. “Oh, yes. Someone’s fancy clothes, and I—a person—feels like a, a, thief!”

  “Like a fake,” Arthur said. “But—if I can ask—I’m another what? Not something disgusting, I hope.”

  “Another ready to make his unity,” came a wry voice from behind.

  Liere looked up quickly, then she gave a happy laugh. “Senrid!”

  “How’s the world saver?” Senrid asked. He was also grinning. Arthur stared in amazement. He’d never seen that kind of expression on Senrid’s face before. “Eh, Devon?” Senrid asked.

  From him, apparently, the imputation of heroism wasn’t embarrassing, because it was a shared joke.

  “Tired,” Devon said, rolling her eyes. “But we are done--” She uttered a shrill shriek. “The Mearsieans are here!”

  “Where is Siamis?” Liere asked quickly, as rain began to tap the ground. “Exactly, I mean. I know he’s . . . that way.” She pointed vaguely east.

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out.” Senrid looked around, his eyes narrowed. “You say that Siamis is to the east. Along the coast?”

  “I think so.”

  Senrid’s expression hardened. He looked old, almost grown up for a startling and unsettling moment. “Arthur.”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s what he was waiting for. We’re all here.” He pointed to Liere, Arthur, and himself.

  Liere held up her hands. “You mean, by my coming, I did something wrong?”

  Senrid shook his head. “Never mind that. It’s better, or will be, if we act fast. Arthur, let’s plan. Now. Just kids. Let’s pool what we know—right now—without any adult on hand to interrupt and tell us we’re wrong, or inexperienced, or just children, or of a questionable background. But we’ll just call it a breakfast, not a conference. So they won’t feel the need to nose, or to break it up for our own good.”

  “I’ll go get Clair and CJ.” Sherry Sherwood had been standing behind Arthur.

  “I’ll come with you!” Devon said.

  Liere looked after, wondering if she was wrong to feel relief as Devon ran off with someone else.

 
; Arthur blinked at the coolness trickling on his scalp. He shook his head and fingered his hair back. As they walked toward the cook tent to get their food, they were in time to see Dtheldevor come from the other direction. She stomped in the mud, shaking herself like a dog, then turned her face up into the steadily increasing rain.

  CJ Sherwood appeared, and shouted, “Get your food and come to our tent!”

  They began crowding in, with plates and gently steaming mugs. They sat in a circle, their camp plates on their knees.

  “Grownup cooks,” CJ was heard muttering. “All they make is tea or coffee. Sickness stuff! Horse-wash! No chocolate within three kingdoms. Ugh!”

  “Speak for yourself,” Senrid said. “I like coffee. Hot chocolate tastes like sugared mud.”

  “That’s because you haven’t had ours,” Sherry said earnestly.

  “Something he can try,” Arthur said, “if we defeat Siamis.”

  “‘Nother words,” Dtheldevor cut in, “shut yer flaps!”

  Arthur looked around the expectant faces, then he waved a hand at Senrid. “Okay. All yours.”

  Senrid leaned forward, his quick gaze assessing every face. “I think we have to act fast. The adults all seem to think they have lots of time. That if they keep finding and negating the little rift accesses the Norsundrians put up, we’ll eventually wear them out and they’ll go home. I gather that’s what happened in the south.” He turned to Clair. “You’ve been the only kid besides Arthur included in their sessions. Am I right?”

  Clair said slowly, “I have not been to all their planning sessions, but so far, I think you’re right. But sometimes I get the sense that there is something they don’t discuss, except maybe with each other. Out of our hearing.”

  Arthur’s insides squeezed with the familiar gnaw of worry. “And I get the same sense.”

  “Because we’re kids.” Senrid’s lips curled. “We’re just too young to understand their great and powerful thinking.”

  Arthur grimaced at his toes; he hated the sarcasm Senrid used about people he’d known and respected all his life . . . but Senrid was right. And the way CJ snorted, Arthur knew he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  Senrid went on. “I think Siamis is keeping the mages busy with some of his underlings, making rift accesses over the old rift site, just as he’s keeping Winn and the rest busy chasing small ridings all over the hills. He gets two things out of it: he keeps the mages out of the way, and he’s got to have an idea where our camp lies.”

  Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his food forgotten. “I heard him tell Faris that, just a few days ago. He ordered their group to make shadow camps.”

  Senrid flashed a grin. “Okay, here’s my next guess. I think Siamis himself is making the rifts he’s going to use. And we have to find him, and act before he can finish. Because now he has everyone he could possibly need, all neatly gathered for him. We have to act before he can gather all his scattered forces and send them to round us up.”

  Silence, as the kids looked at one another.

  “Where?” Leander asked. “I mean, where is the rift?”

  Senrid pulled a folded paper from his shirt pocket. “I made a copy of Winn’s map last night.”

  He spread the paper out in the middle of the circle where all could see it. Some scooted closer to stare down at it. Others glanced down at the painstakingly neat writing, then returned to their breakfasts.

  “Right here. Along this coast. If you agree with my guess, then the next step is, we need a plan,” Senrid said.

  “Always,” Sherry put in. “A good plan to ignore will always footle up the villains.”

  “Sherry,” CJ said sharply. “That’s us. I bet those Marlovens make a plan and stick to it.” She dusted her hands on the last three words.

  “Then they don’t win,” Sherry responded with calm certainty.

  Leander smothered a laugh, and Dtheldevor snickered. The Mearsieans promptly launched into descriptions of past plans that had flubbed on them, and Dtheldevor, Leander, Arthur, and Liere listened with interest.

  Senrid fought impatience. This was what it was going to be like, dealing with people who had little or no regard for procedure in a military situation. But he enjoyed the freedom of his interactions with the lighters. Trade-off. So he found patience—and his sense of humor.

  “Sherry, you’re free to footle the villains any way that works. For the rest, here’s what I think. If someone has a better idea, that’s why we’re here. But I think we have to act now. Today.” He glanced at Liere, whose thin face paled to the color of oatmeal. “Arthur?”

  “Yesterday,” Arthur said, in a low, fervent voice. “Before they close in on us. I think Senrid is right, that has to be their next move. And I think if Winn were here, he’d agree.”

  “That settles it. I’m in.” Dtheldevor smacked Arthur heartily on the shoulder—and Arthur clutched hastily at his plate to keep it from flying out the tentflap. “Well? Spit out yer idee! Want me ‘n Leander t’ try to assassinate the old soulstealer agin?”

  “No. I want you searching. I’m going to be the only decoy. What you’ve got to do is find him, and spring the off-worlders. Liere can unenchant them, then we can try some spells I’ve written out. We’ll use Cassandra’s hatpin, or the dyr, or whatever works, to close the rift.”

  “But Evend said the dyr isn’t useful for that,” Liere said, wringing her hands together. “Or the hatpin.”

  Senrid said, “Lighter magic can’t. But dark magic is all about force. I know how to do it.” Senrid drummed his fingers on his map. “So we spring those four off-worlders, and I’ll give them the spells. I think they’d go for this plan if they had their wits.”

  “Thass right,” Dtheldevor exclaimed. “Gloriel and Peridot, I know ‘em. They’ll be fair gutwrenched t’ find out they been livin’ next’r nigh that stenchifyin’ Siamis, and not even holdin’ their noses.”

  “I can vouch for Deirdre and Frederic,” Arthur said. “They saved my life before they even knew me.”

  Senrid said, “So that’s my plan.”

  Clair said, “Are you going to write out the magic? Because I could help, too, if you do.”

  Liere said, “I can, too, if you tell me, Senrid. I can remember it, even if I don’t know what any of it means.”

  CJ looked squinty-eyed. “Any reason why you have to be the noble martyr—” Her tone made that no compliment. “—who has to decoy Siamis-the-Stench?”

  “The way I see it,” Senrid said, “is I have the easy job. See, he wants me alive. He likes my background. Thinks he’s going to use me as a shortcut for his big rift. The elevens have no orders to spare your lives, so you’re going to be in the most danger. That means you have to be fast. If he does catch up with me, all I have to do is concentrate on his middle shirt button and try to keep him from enchanting my brains out until the rest of you get the off-worlders out, and they do the spells.”

  CJ chewed her lip, then glanced up, her blue eyes suspicious.

  Senrid waited, holding his breath. He worked hard to hide his emotions—how much he wanted everyone to fall in with his plans.

  Liere said in his head: You figured CJ out.

  She wasn’t praising him.

  Senrid thought back: Everyone to the job best fitted, and reasons they’ll understand, even if they aren’t my reasons.

  Liere’s awareness vanished from his, like a candle being snuffed.

  “Anyone have a better idea?” Senrid asked, looking around.

  CJ whispered to Irene, “I thought he looked Siamised, there, for a moment. Yeccch!”

  “Where do we begin the search . . .?” Leander asked, studying the map.

  Senrid’s inner ‘ear’ was still listening; Leander had doubts, but he was not going to voice them. His nature was to be cautious.

  “ . . . said something about needing access to a good natural harbor as well.” Leander was still speaking.

  Senrid shut his eyes against the dizziness ca
used by that inner listening shifting abruptly to outer listening. He shook his head impatiently, and knelt in front of the map. Putting his finger on the representation of Hier Alverian’s coast, he said, “Here. And maybe here.”

  “So we better get moving,” Dtheldevor said. “But where do we find ye?”

  “I have the last two slates in my tent,” Arthur said. “They were meant for the raiders who rode down the coast to Chor. They might not be back for a week.”

  “We’ll take ‘em.” Senrid folded his map and pocketed it. “And divide into two groups. Get your gear and let’s move.”

  He dashed out, followed by everyone save the Mearsiean girls.

  As soon as they were alone, CJ turned to Clair. “What do you think? You didn’t say much.”

  “I think it’s too easy,” Clair said.

  “What?” Irene flung her arms out dramatically. “Decoying elevens? Trying to keep our minds out of Siamis’s mucky spell?”

  “The plan.” Clair shook her head. “Everything in steps, like the elevens will go right along. Our plans never worked because we always ended up being surprised by something we didn’t know about the villains. Senrid seems to think they are all alike, all stupid—except for Siamis. That is, now he thinks Siamis is stupid, he’ll just stand there while those kids do that spell.”

  “Well, aren’t they stupid?” Irene demanded.

  “Of course. Or they wouldn’t be elevens,” CJ chimed in.

  Clair sighed. How to articulate what she meant? She’d had so little experience with Norsundrians—a good thing. But during her year of trying to protect her country, she’d watched from a distance, and listened carefully to what Ben had reported hearing.

  Norsundrians weren’t all alike. Some were smart, some acted almost like the enchanted people did, like they were caught in a dream. In a nightmare, maybe—except they weren’t scared. They weren’t anything. Some were old, some young. Some were even funny, Ben had told her in private. They were mean, but funny. Others were just bullies who’d gone to the Base in order to get away from rules about being nice and helping your fellow human, some wanted to live forever and get more and more power, at any price.