Senrid

by Sherwood Smith

  “Don’t want to watch an execution.”

  “You never cared before.”

  In a panic, I hazarded a guess, “But not kids.”

  He flicked his right hand palm up. “True.”

  Sheer nerves got me across the room. I shoved my feet into Ndand’s shoes, picked up the brush and gave my hair a couple swipes, and he said, “You look fine. We’re going to be late.”

  Late—for an execution. Oh dear.

  I sucked in a deep breath, trying to get my emotions under control. I could not give in to temper; lives depended upon my doing exactly what Leander and Clair had planned.

  Even so, as we galumphed downstairs again I snuck a glance Senrid’s way, and thought about how he could have been a friend. He was smart, and funny, and interesting—when he wasn’t boring on about local politics and power—but the fact that he could actually not want to be late to see kids be killed, and not seem to care, made it so much worse. I was angry at liking him, angry at him, angry at myself. The sooner I was out, the better.

  As bells tolled Senrid grabbed my hand and did the transfer. I loathe black magic transfers. They might be faster, but it’s a jolt that hurts your bones and your head and makes you much dizzier than the displacement miasma of white magic transfers.

  We appeared in a courtyard—what they call a parade ground—in the garrison area, and I yanked my hand free while he was still recovering.

  Shaking off my own transfer reaction, I pulled off the spectacles and polished them on my skirt. After a few blinks I scanned the territory. Well, even with the spectacles on I would have been able to see that danger lay 100% of everywhere—and a second glance made it even worse.

  What seemed to me a gigantic army was lined up on three sides of this courtyard, but actually it was only the castle’s guards, plus the top-ranking splatniks from the cavalry academy adjacent to the palace, which was where they trained their future officers. This wasn’t even an important execution—no high ranking victim, no political significance. There were no factions to whom Tdanerend had to underscore his power—not in killing off a bigmouthed foot warrior and a couple of kids.

  Tdanerend was aiming this particular reminder of who held the power at one person: Senrid.

  I didn’t know it at the time. All I saw was, there were way too many of them to kick, scratch, and bite my way past if my plan squelched (as my plans usually do). I had to make it work..

  But.

  Directly opposite a bare wall—no less a sinister sight than all those uniformed and armed klunks—was a stand with seven chairs on it. Chairs! Like this was a theater! Warriors stood directly behind and beside this stand, within arm’s reach of the end chairs.

  There’d be no way to slip between the lines of warriors in order to take hold of the victims, which was what I’d planned. I had to be able to perform the multiple transfer without contact, because I was going to be stuck on a chair within reach of no one but enemies.

  If the transfer wasn’t warded, and if the three ended up close enough for me to bind them, and if I successfully transferred them—I would still have to get myself out, because I wouldn’t be close enough to include myself in the binding.

  Two spells. Not one.

  Two spells, and Tdanerend and Senrid right beside me.

  “Are you all right?”

  The whisper was close to my ear. I jumped, my nerves firing as if struck by lightning. I looked up into Senrid’s face. He stood close by, closer than he ever had; as I glared witlessly into his face his expression changed, and he rubbed his eyes.

  The illusion! Did he see it? Sense it?

  “I’m fine.” I backed away.

  He rubbed his eyes again, and I was grateful that he’d had far less sleep than I’d had.

  Before he could speak a bugle pealed out several running chords.

  Tdanerend appeared in the archway opposite, dressed with all those medals and the rest of that flapdoodle. Everyone snapped to attention. He looked the happiest, no, the most satisfied, that I’d seen him yet as he strutted across the courtyard with everyone watching him, and chose the chair next to the middle one.

  Senrid and I splorched up the steps to join Tdanerend. I had the spectacles on, of course, but peeked over the tops in time to see Tdanerend frown at Senrid’s head, which was bare, his blond hair dry now and lifting in the cold wind, like so many of the heads all around us.

  We were joined by three men, two Tdanerend’s age and one older, and all of them wearing plenty of rank markers—but not as many as ol’ Uncle Modesty. They closed in on either side.

  Senrid sat down next to Tdanerend, and I on his other side. Senrid’s face was utterly bland.

  Tdanerend lifted a hand, and this time through the archway, between double columns of marching knucklebrains, walked Faline, Kitty, and a tall, big-boned, messed-up looking young man who had to be 713. His face was all bruised, and he wasn’t smiling, so one couldn’t see the gap between his two front teeth that Faline had thought so funny, but who else could it be? His uniform was a wreck—the tunic-coat didn’t fit him at all, but the rest of it looked worse.

  All three had their hands bound behind them, which seemed sort of stupid—where would they go? How would they get any weapons, when surrounded by an army of armed hulks?

  Faline looked around, blinking a little in the sun, her freckled face determinedly cheery. She and Kitty, whose silvery hair glinted in the wintry-gray sunlight, looked very small in the midst of all those tall and muscled clods.

  The girls looked small—and so did Senrid.

  I turned my attention back, making a long, fake yawn—so long that it caused a real yawn, so big a yawn my eyes watered. Senrid was right, I thought as Tdanerend gave me a sour look. He did look silly and little-boyish next to Tdanerend. No, that wasn’t right. He looked powerless. He knew it, too.

  Yawning again, then muttering “Excuse me,” I forced my attention back to the stone wall with all those ugly brown stains, and the victims at either side. They still weren’t close enough together yet.

  Faline smiled, but her eyes were a little forlorn as she searched me out—Kitty had managed to tell her the plan. Faline would know how dangerous it was.

  Tdanerend gave me another nasty glare, but I didn’t care any more. Either I’d be gone or discovered; meantime, I yawned once more, yearning for the clods to shift the prisoners closer together.

  Tdanerend turned his attention away from us and to the prisoners, at whom he had not yet bothered to glance, and he gave a hiss of displeasure. At what? The tunic on 713!

  The warrior was supposed to be in total disgrace, and Tdanerend wanted everyone to see whatever they’d done to him, and the coat hid most of it.

  Tdanerend looked mad. “Where’d he get that tunic?”

  Faline glared up at us.

  Tdanerend began a spell, but Senrid raised his hand. “No.”

  The creep uncle looked at him, surprised. “What’s this?”

  “I said Faline could have it. I take responsibility—but we’ll deal with it later. Let the execution go on. No more delays,” Senrid said grimly. He spoke without looking at any of us, only at the scene straight ahead.

  Tdanerend’s frown increased, and I could feel him assessing the others all around, who stood there stone-faced, but had to be listening. He then sat back, apparently not wanting to be seen arguing with Senrid in public. He waved his hand, and once again whoever was in control below us started getting people into position.

  I settled my head against the back of my wooden chair. The spectacles blurred my vision and made my eyes hurt, my insides were a pit of boiling snakes, but I laid my hands in my lap. It was not only important to look like I was falling asleep, I was about to attempt an extremely difficult spell to do to on even one person, a transfer without physical contact. Yet I had to make it work with three. I would need every bit of energy I had in me. And then some.

  They marched Faline to the wall first. Then, just as Tdanerend had threaten
ed, the other two were ranged alongside, with an uninterrupted view—

  And in range of one another.

  My heart clumped against my ribs. I let some of my hair fall across the lower part of my face, hiding my mouth and nose, which were tucked against my shoulder.

  Peek.

  The death squad marched out next, a neat, orderly row, each with a blackwood longbow and arrows.

  I noted the position of each prisoner, and started my spell. I had to hold in my mind their position, binding each to the next, yet keeping all three spells open so I could finish with the transfer.

  Someone shouted a command. The death squad raised their bows. It was all slow and deliberate and orderly—as cruel as possible for the victims. It threw me back in memory to another, similar situation, and I lost my thread on the second spell. I forced the memory away—and the accompanying terror—and concentrated again on my spells, this time whispering faster.

  And felt one hold.

  “Nock arrows!”

  Peek. Faline now looked scared, 713 stone-faced, and Kitty gazed at me, her face blanched, as I bound each name into the transfer spell, whispering into my shoulder, and I felt the energy holding—my own fear gave me more control than I usually had. I closed my eyes so I could see Leander in my mind.

  “Aim!”

  I could hear the creak of the bows, the wind on the stone ramparts, and somewhere the placketing of a flag as I forced myself to pronounce the triple-weighted transfer words—

  “Shoot!”

  Snap! I felt the spell hold, peeked through my lashes—and saw them vanish, with three soft pops of displaced air.

  And a heartbeat later, the clatter of the arrows against the empty wall.

  I closed my eyes and sank back, as waves of magic-reaction sogged my mind and clawed at my empty innards.

  Tdanerend gasped, then said something very nasty that I won’t even write.

  The commander next to me started firing questions at the one next to him, who was gabbling his own questions. Behind us, a quick susurrus of whispered comment riffled through all those neat rows, quickly silenced.

  I heard Senrid’s breathing; he’d turned my way. I held my pose, my head buzzing severely from the magic reaction, but tried to gather what was left of my energy for a second transfer spell—

  Hard fingers dug into my arm.

  I didn’t have to fake a violent start. “Huh? Who—”

  “Ndand! They transferred!”

  I looked at him—or the blur of him—in horror. “Oh, no!”

  “Yes,” he said grimly, then blinked, and I saw a blurry hand rub at his blurry face. Then, in a soft undertone, “And I’ve a feeling there’ll be a long night ahead.”

  “Oh, no,” I said again. He was still holding onto me—I couldn’t transfer! This time there was no need to fake horror, because I felt it, right down to the bottoms of my feet.

  I peered over the glasses. Senrid’s eyes were shut as he muttered. The air charged with that intense inward hum of extremely powerful magic.

  Wards snapped into place around us, preventing anyone from transferring either out or into the castle.

  Meanwhile, poor Faline had shut her eyes at the last moment, scrunching up to make herself as small a target as possible, awaiting instant interior ventilation.

  Then her head felt that weird almost-dizzy sense that she associated with transfers. She opened her eyes, breathed experimentally—and found no arrows in her middle.

  “Am I dead?” she muttered, then looked around. “Nope. In a shack.” She was perfectly happy to be in a shack. The shack was more welcome than the finest palace, because there were no Marlovens in sight—and more welcome than eternity, because it meant she could go home, crack jokes, and see Clair and the girls.

  She became vaguely aware of voices around her, including a familiar one. “Faline, please get up so I can untie you.”

  “By Klutz, it’s Cracky! I mean Leander! Hi!” she exclaimed happily, cackling in joy.

  She turned around and soon her hands were free. She saw 713 and Kitty then, both looking puzzled and relieved; Kitty had, true to her promise, explained 713’s presence, though Leander had guessed the moment he laid eyes on the poor slob.

  Now Leander closed his eyes, began a spell—and abandoned it.

  “Wards,” he said. “Up as fast as I expected. So much for the easy way out. Okay, you three,” Leander added briskly, trying to hide his alarm. “We must get moving, before they can try a tracer on CJ’s spell, or get the searchers out. I’ve got everything all ready—” He looked at 713 and frowned. “The shirts I brought aren’t going to work out.”

  Leander had brought a bundle of raggedy clothes from Vasande Leror, thinking to disguise himself and three girls. He was surprised—and pleased—to see 713 rescued, but it meant a scramble with the disguises.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Faline said quickly. “Give me that old blanket to hide my jacket, that’s all I need.” Faline loathed using her Yxubarec shape-changing powers, but to save a life, she’d do it and not complain.

  Leander nodded. “Right. 713, you be the shepherd, and I’ll stay a boy, since they don’t know me. Kitty, you’re about to become my brother. Go up in the loft and change. This hole I dug here is for our old clothes. Put yours in, and we’ll smooth it over before we leave.”

  Faline ran outside. Clouds gathered on the horizon. Cold wind whipped at them, and she wrapped the moth-eaten blanket tightly around her shoulders and head as a shawl and cape. The patched brown riding pants Leander had brought she pulled on over her own.

  Within a short time the others emerged, 713 with his bruised face now dirty, and a knit cap pulled low over his head. The shepherd’s smock Leander had selected for himself had been far too big, which worked to their advantage now. It fit 713 fine.

  “Here’s the walking stick,” Leander said. “And the bag of coins for the wool we sold. You’d better hold it, since you’re now the oldest brother.”

  All three had dirtied their faces with the soil that Leander had dug up. Leander’s wavy dark hair hung in his eyes, and he’d pulled over his own clothes the tunic he’d brought for CJ—luckily too large again. On him it was too short. Kitty looked completely unlike herself, except for her silvery eyes. She was dirty, with her hair stuffed up in a ratty old cap, wearing a ragged tunic and baggy trousers and cloth shoes laced up over her house-slippers.

  Behind the shack was an old plow horse that Leander had bought that morning. Faline and Kitty climbed up on the horse—Kitty holding tightly to Faline—and the other two walked beside—after 713 had checked it over, including its shoes, the horse whuffing into his neck.

  Leander knew Senrid had magic and was smart. He’d assumed (rightly, as he’d just found out) that some kind of nasty border ward could be initiated within moments.

  So they were going to have to get across the border without magic.

  They started toward the northwest, heading back toward the capital—Leander explaining that as soon as the inevitable searches were over they’d turn right around and cut east over the mountains. But until then they couldn’t be seen heading east, it would be instantly suspicious.

  No one talked much after that. The rescuees were too tired and apprehensive from their close call. 713 might not have been scared, but he was in such rotten physical shape it was all he could do to make himself march, the stick carried like he’d carry a quarterstaff.

  Within a frighteningly short time they heard the steady hoof-beats of a search party.

  Faline looked over, and gasped. ‘”3! Stop walking like a warrior!”

  713 shuffled his feet on the dusty road, leaning on the stick and hunching over.

  A few seconds later they heard the galloping horses slow as they came into view, and a loud voice commanded them to halt.

  “Who are you?” the leader rapped out to 713.

  ‘3 blinked. “Claid’s my name.”

  “No,” the leader said impatiently. “All of you
—who are you, where are you going, and what is your business?”

  “Shepherd,” 713 said. “Selling wool.”

  Another warrior edged his horse near Leander, then reached down and roughly grabbed his hair to yank his head back.

  “That the one?”

  “No. Too young, hair too dark.” The warrior frowned. “Familiar… Who are you?”

  Had this creep been on the expedition to conquer Vasande Leror? It was possible, for they were relatively near the border.

  Then Faline said in a high, crotchety voice, “He’s m’middle grandson.”

  Everyone looked up, including the fugitives, to see a very old woman riding the horse.

  “We’ve sold our wool at market, an’ we’re goin’ home, y’see,” she cackled. “I’m tired, and if I have to sit here one more heartbeat, I might up and die right here.”

  “Have you seen two girls and a warrior on this road? They are traitors, wanted by the Regent himself, in the name of the King. Turn them in, and you will be rewarded.”

  “Oooh, from the king, are you?” Faline crotchetted respectfully. “Gold?” she asked with even more interest. “How much?”

  “Plenty,” the leader said, edging his restless horse away. “Thank you. Go your way.” He saluted them, fingers flicking briefly to his heart, and the posse thundered off, mail jingling, weapons clattering, the horses raising dust to choke the four.

  Leander—knowing that Faline hated her powers—said only, “That was fast thinking. Now we can leave this road and cut directly north, cross-country.”

  Faline glanced at the endless plains to the west, the broad sky with birds arrowing northwards, then scrutinized the border mountains not so very far to the east.

  “This looks kind of familiar,” she exclaimed. “We wouldn’t be anywhere near Hibern, would we? She’d know what to do, if we could get to her.”

  Leander’s face changed. He wasn’t considering the map he’d spent the morning studying, he was remembering the summertime when he’d received, without any warning, a strange message from Hibern of Marloven Hess, promising a contact within the country If your intentions are to protect your own kingdom, but not to harm mine.