Senrid

by Sherwood Smith

  “Vasande Leror belonged to Marloven Hess at one time,” Senrid said. “According to one of those histories,” he added quickly. “Maybe the old monster next door thought in terms of retrieving what was once his.”

  “But allegiance has to go two ways,” Leander retorted. “According to my own family records—the few I managed to save—the Marloven crown requires heavy payment in harvest and in human terms: each family had to send their best for military service, and also half their harvest, or work in the mines for ore to be forged for their never-ending demand for weapons. The supplies for a huge army have to come from somewhere. But for what? For supposed protection? Except no one ever attacks them. That is, from outside, but the old stories about the First Lancers make it clear that they had been far worse than any mere outlaws or brigands ever could have been. Some protection!”

  “So you did away with an army entirely?”

  Leander sighed. “How can I raise one? It has to be supported somehow, and it’s going to take us years to recover from Mara Jinea’s greed and bad governing, especially if we can’t get the silk trade going again and re-establish our trade relations down south. Mara Jinea destroyed half the mulberry groves in the southern border mountains against that mine business I mentioned. Anyway, I’ve been hoping that the struggle to recover would make us less appealing as a target.”

  “Well, you’re not defenseless,” Senrid said, smiling. “Kyale says that you ousted two Marloven detachments as well as a mage with the help of a foreigner and a couple of easy magic tricks.”

  ‘”Easy,”‘ Leander repeated, and groaned. “Kitty would think so, because she didn’t have to spend all night repeating the illusion spell a thousand times in the north, and laying wards and traps and illusions all over the pass in the west. It took me the better part of a day and night to set it all up.”

  “That’s not easy, it’s clever,” Senrid said.

  “And I can’t expect it to work again.” Leander twirled his fork. “Much as I’d love to join Kitty in believing the Marlovens are stupid, I can’t, really. They have to have figured it out by now. And next time—if there is a next time—they’ll be ready for that one. If only I had the time to master the kind of magic I need! But white magic isn’t geared toward warfare, and thinking up ways to employ it to ward black magic, which is, eats up an enormous amount of time I’d rather spend finding ways to reestablish harmony in the places Mara Jinea destroyed.”

  Senrid flexed his hands once, then closed them around his cup. “Do you see that as a weakness inherent in white magic, the lack of defensive capabilities?”

  “Only when you think in terms of war,” Leander said. “A subject I don’t know as much about as I ought, I guess. White magic is strongest at improving—maintaining—the quality of life.” He studied his guest. Interesting, that a boy of eleven or twelve could think of asking about defensive capabilities. Kyale probably didn’t even know the words—and Leander was trying to master the concept of defense, under Alaxander’s patient coaching, at twelve. “These are good questions. Have you an interest in the problems inherent in ruling?”

  Senrid turned the cup around and around in his fingers. “I have an interest in everything.” Then he looked back, smiling cheerily. “That’s why I am traveling!”

  “Ah.”

  “I also have an interest in what might be for dessert,” Senrid offered, still grinning.

  “So have I,” Leander said. “And since my sister isn’t here to get miffed at my lack of manners, why don’t we go into the kitchen and find out?”

  “Lead on.” Senrid rose and pushed in his chair.

  They made their way to the baking kitchen, where they found peach tartlets being pulled from the ovens. As they each snagged a hot pastry they stood around and talked with the cook and her daughter about peaches, harvest, baking, and the upcoming harvest festival.

  Leander realized that the Senrid’s round, smiling face rarely altered expression; during the entire discussion, Senrid was exactly as bland and friendly discussing peaches as he had been while the subject was black magic enchantments and keys.

  Well, so he looked bland. At least he was fun to talk to. Leander hadn’t had any company quite like him in his entire life. Tiredness pulled at mind and eyes and he suggested retiring for the night, but he looked forward to the next day.

  On his way upstairs he stopped by Kitty’s room—to be thwarted by Llhei.

  “She’s asleep, poor thing,” Llhei said.

  “Then she really is sick?” Leander asked.

  Llhei nodded, lips pursed. “Silly child sat out on the wall half the morning—that has to be what did the damage. She’s made herself ill from being chilled once or twice before.”

  “How’s she sick?”

  “Fever. Headache. She sat in that cold wind until it leached out her strength.” Llhei shook her head.

  Leander sighed. He’d only known Llhei as long as he had Kitty, but he could talk frankly to her. “Not sure whether to be sorry or glad. I thought she was sulking.”

  “She was,” Llhei said, nodding. “I don’t know if the one led to the other, or the reverse.”

  Leander glanced up the hall, which was empty; the door to the guest suite remained closed. “Because of Senrid?”

  Llhei nodded again. “She liked the company. He was a good audience. She didn’t like it when he wanted to talk to you.”

  Leander felt guilty at once. “If she’s not better by morning, we should have the healer in.”

  Llhei nodded. “I think she’ll be fine. She drank down all of my listerblossom and willowbark infusion, and she’s sleeping well. This has happened before, she’s usually fine in a day.”

  “Good.”

  Leander retreated to his room, and stood for a while at his window, looking out at the departing rain. Had he possibly found a friend near his age? Someone Mara Jinea couldn’t make vanish? Instinct said that it was much too easy.

  So he’d have to arrange an experiment.

  Meanwhile, the endless routine of tasks awaited him, so he set to work.

  At dawn he was in the kitchen finishing up his orders to Pertar’s twin brother Portan, who ran the stables and served as relay to the border scouts, when Senrid appeared. “Early riser?” Leander asked.

  Senrid flicked a hand palm up. “When you travel, you get used to being up with the sun.”

  “Speaking of travel,” Leander said. “I have always wanted to, but there wasn’t much chance. So once in a while I get out of here and go camping. My old lair. Interested?”

  Senrid hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Senrid followed him out to the stable, where Portan had finished saddling two horses.

  “Can you ride?” Leander asked, mounting one.

  Senrid waved a hand as he mounted the other, his movements quick and practiced.

  They rode out side-by-side, sedate at first. Leander kept the pace slow as they left the castle gates and started down the road. Senrid matched his pace, looking about with interest. His hand on the reins, his seat, were excellent.

  The morning was balmy, and promised warmth later; Leander knew that today would be a good harvest day.

  “Up to a gallop?”

  Senrid turned his palm up.

  Leander lightly touched his mount’s sides, and she frisked, tossing her head, then began to gallop. The second mare followed.

  Side by side they raced down the road, veering north at the fork. Leaping streams and shrubs, they traversed the meadowlands below Sindan-An—’An’ being the old word for ‘forest’.

  The light had bent westward, sending shafts of glowing gold between the branches of the trees that Leander had lived among for so long, when they reached the site of his old camp, tucked up against a rocky hill down which tumbled a stream to feed the river snaking past.

  Leander said, “I am unused enough to castle comfort that I keep this place well stocked. You never know when we might need it
again.”

  Senrid looked around appraisingly. “This is where you hid out?”

  “This was the main camp, but we had hidey-holes all over Sindan-An. I like this one because of the waterfall over there, and the cave. Nice place to hole up when the weather’s bad, and it’s got plenty of stores. We fished off the bridge downstream there—you can see it through those two maples.”

  Senrid squinted. “That’s a nice-looking bridge. But there’s no road.”

  “Strange thing to find out in the middle of nowhere, isn’t it?” Leander grinned. “We use it for fishing. It was built by my friend Arel, and his father. Arel was trying to do his ‘prentice work despite the fact that he had no home. Lots of wood around, though.” Leander opened his hands, and Senrid snorted a laugh. “Hungry?”

  Senrid turned his palm up.

  “Well, lam.”

  “You stock food?” Senrid asked, brows askance.

  “No—but the forest is full of it. You can catch us a couple trout, and I’ll dig up some taters and greens. There’s probably some garlic and spice left over. But first let’s get a fire going. Would you do that while I see to the horses?”

  “I’m better with horses. Never fished,” Senrid admitted.

  Leander nodded. “All right, then, we’ll switch jobs. You’ll find what you need in the cave there. Should be fodder all the way in the back.”

  It was true. Senrid knew how to care for horses. He worked with the same ease with which he’d ridden, but he was distracted by Leander’s actions as he set up a fire with wood and a sparker, then banked it to burn slowly within their old cooking stones.

  Leander left to forage. He found plenty of potatoes, and some wild onions, and succulent purple grapes from the vines that one of his old friends had tended so carefully, and a few herbs. Last a handful of carrots, and he headed back.

  Leander said, “You wash these in the river and I’ll catch us some fish. I know where the best ones hide.”

  Senrid looked down at the vegetables that Leander indicated, and opened his hand, palm upward. Leander found the gesture curious; it could have meant anything.

  Senrid carried the root vegetables down to the river’s edge; as Leander watched from the periphery of his vision, Senrid splashed them about in the water, rubbing them with his fingers. He did his best to get the soil off, but it was clear he’d never done such a chore before.

  Leander had caught and prepared a couple of fish before Senrid was done.

  When they retreated to the cave, the light was already blue, the shadows having melded and deepened. Leander said casually, “Have a knife? If the two of us chop, we’ll eat the faster.”

  “No weapons,” Senrid said, hands out.

  Weapons. Interesting that a traveler would regard a knife only as a weapon. Interesting—but not entertaining. Leander felt a sharp twinge of regret.

  “Well, we’ve a few stashed here.” Leander got one out and tossed it so that it landed point down near Senrid’s foot. Senrid didn’t flinch or jump. He yanked it free and wiped it on his sleeve without any of the reluctance of those who seldom touch steel. His fingers were deft as he angled the knife for chopping—but the actual chopping was slow and uneven.

  Leander found a few withered olives left from the last trip someone had made to the cave, and crushed them into the pan, which he set on the glowing stones. They worked, and talked more history: Sindan-An and the old plains-riding families. Senrid seemed to know more about local history than Leander did—though his knowledge was centuries old.

  When he got the food sizzling, Leander sat back. “This used to be our storytelling time,” he said. “Or we’d make music. But I confess I liked best the old stories, about the morvende, and hervithe, and Geres, and other magic races. I wish they lived around here—I’d like to see them once.”

  Senrid looked up politely. The fire leaped and snapped, twin flames, in his steady gaze. His face, lit by the ruddy glow, was exactly as bland as ever as he said, “Unlikely, as you say. The morvende live deep down under the oldest mountains, the hervithe are only found far in the northlands. And the Geres limit themselves to the belt of mountains round the world.”

  “True. Have you a favorite tale about Old Sartor, or the non-humans on the world?” Leander asked, leaning forward to give the food a vigorous stir.

  “I like everything I hear,” Senrid said. “But I confess I prefer tales about the times and places I’m in, rather than those far away.”

  “Why don’t you tell one you know? I’ve talked enough.”

  Senrid looked out at the whispering trees.

  Leander glanced out as well. The smells from the sizzling pan had overcome the familiar scents of the huge silver maples rising into the sky, surrounded by cottonwood and willow and elm and white oak, all ready to change to autumn brilliance amid the dark evergreens. One more cold storm would alter the entire forest—its own kind of magic, and art. Whatever happened with Senrid, he was glad he had come.

  The lengthening silence brought his attention back to the food, which he gave a practiced stir, and then to his guest.

  Senrid said apologetically, “I guess I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t be boring. Or silly.”

  Leander snorted. “Silly. You mean romantic? First thing when we defeated Mara Jinea, I sought out and used the no-growth spell, and ‘romantic’ is one of the reasons why. I had to watch adults acting like idiots—and dying for it—from the time I was small. Including my own parents.”

  “You can do that in—” Senrid stopped, looking slightly confused. “I mean, I heard that if you take the spell away, or someone does, if people had it on them long enough they wither and die like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “That’s black magic. You can use it at any age in black magic, but that does happen. In white, the spell won’t work once you’re fully grown. It only prolongs youth. But when you take it away, you just continue. Apparently our ancestors could do it by will—taking longer to reach adulthood if they needed it. I need it. Or maybe what I don’t need is the foolishness of adulthood,” Leander finished, sitting back and staring out at the stars. “Anyway, you won’t bore me, as long as it’s not a story about romance. I had enough of Mara Jinea’s intrigues to last a lifetime.”

  He breathed deeply. His annoyance at the reminder of the former queen died away as he thought about how much he’d always loved the complex scents of the forest. To him, the smell of loam, and water, and hidden herbs, and pine would always remind him of freedom.

  “You do like this place, don’t you,” Senrid observed.

  Leander laughed. “Didn’t I say so?”

  “True.” Senrid’s tone made it clear that he hadn’t believed it. Then he said, “A story. Not sure I remember any! What I heard or read latest tends to shove out what I read before.” He added, “I used to make up stories for my cousin when we were little, but that was funny stuff.”

  “Well, you can do that now. Kyale loves that kind of story,” Leander said.

  “But she’s not here.”

  “I like ‘em too, I’m just not good at making them up.”

  Senrid embarked on a fast-paced, witty story about a duel between a pair of arrogant, eccentric magicians. It was funny, and heartless—as funny stories often are—and Leander noticed even while laughing that Senrid gauged what prompted the laughter and effortlessly bent the story in that direction.

  The story, as a story, revealed nothing about Senrid, except that he was quick, but that Leander already knew. His manner of telling it made it clear that Senrid was remarkably adept at telling people what they wanted to hear.

  He finished as the food did. They ate with good appetites. The grapes ended the meal, and then Leander washed the cookware and stowed it all away.

  When he suggested they get some sleep, Senrid agreed immediately. Leander dug out the old quilts, which smelled slightly of dust and mildew; he’d have to put them out in the sun, or better, construct and enable a cleaning frame.
r />   He pitched a quilt at Senrid, who rolled up in it, close to the fire. Leander made up his bed on the other side of the fire, thinking as he settled down how familiar this was—and how much better he seemed to sleep out under the stars than shut up in a castle, even with the windows wide open.

  When he woke up, the light was blue. The sun was not up yet, but he heard splashes and the gasps of someone enduring a cold water bath.

  He rolled out of his warm quilt to see Senrid down in the river bathing—with his clothes on. Now, why would he do that?

  In Leander’s experience, people bathed with their clothes on when either they were in mixed company or they were wary of attack at all times, waking and sleeping.

  Why not test his theory?

  Leander could move soundlessly when he wanted to—another benefit of years in this environment.

  He came up behind Senrid, waited, and when the kid was stepping over a rock, he gave him a gentle push.

  Senrid’s arms flailed—splash!

  Leander snorted a laugh. Or he started to. A foot hooked round his ankle and yanked, and the trees and sky whirled past as he toppled backwards, making an even bigger splash.

  Then everything changed. The splashes didn’t lead to one of those wrestle games he’d played with his old gang, dunking one another and laughing. The kid fought hard, with trained strength and unnervingly fast reflexes—and he fought to win. Block, strike, block; by the time Leander’s body caught up with his mind, it was already too late, and he sank down, whooping for breath as water closed over his head.

  Klunk. His skull thumped against one of the round flat rocks along the shallow stream bed—but he couldn’t get up. Senrid held him in a grip he couldn’t break.

  Through the rippling water he made out a round kid-face, yellow hair, and staring dark gray eyes.

  One last violent effort—nothing.

  Leander relaxed, staring up at those eyes through the clear water, as bubbles escaped from his nose, and then his vision started to fade.