Sartor by Sherwood Smith
She scarcely had time to register this strangeness before she found herself surrounded by a crowd. A few looked like they were her age, but most were younger.
Brick said, “In here, it will be safe to talk.”
Hinder—still rubbing his head—stepped up onto a boulder and said, “A descendant of the king and queen did indeed live, and we have her now! Here is Yustnesveas Landis!”
A shout rang through the trees, breaking into swift chatter. Atan tried to follow the conversations, and caught scraps of words. “Man from Norsunder—another girl, got taken, we think—followed for two days, and ran out of food—didn’t expect the patrol to last so long—knew Savar—house missing—” and last, “When I saw Savar last, he said that one of Them truly existed.” Brick extended a hand toward Atan, and she discovered everyone looking at her, then back at Brick as he said, “And if that person came, we would have to protect the person all the way to Eidervaen and the tower.”
Merewen listened with a pensive expression.
“Eidervaen,” a dark-haired boy whispered. “I think—I think I remember it. A little.”
“Me, too,” someone else said, again hidden in the crowd. “Me, too.”
“But we can’t go north.” That was a new voice—another morvende.
This one was a girl, who looked much Hinder’s age, though she was thin as a twig and moved in a curious, drifting manner, like a leaf in the wind. She tended to look at you from the sides of her eyes, her expression less humorous and more intense than Hinder’s. Her eyes were pale blue, her white hair wispy as cobwebs. “The magic still lies strong northward, for we tested it just days ago. I almost got lost, but when I didn’t come back, Averseas came after me.” She pointed at an older girl.
“Sin!” Hinder exclaimed.
Sin shrugged. “It wasn’t on purpose, Hin.” But she looked down at the ground.
Hinder sighed. “What was it?”
The morvende girl lifted her face. “I saw someone. I really did. I thought whoever it was needed a rescue—was trying to reach us. There was no chance to go back and get a whole group together.”
Silence fell, broken only by heedless birds high in the trees. Hinder touched the back of his head and winced. “I felt the same way about not getting the others when I followed that fellow, and the only reason why I’m not dead is because he didn’t want to die himself. Well, what’s done is done. Sin, you were right. We have to be careful. But it could be that the spell is breaking up in pockets, just like the Loi magic makes places like this.” He waved around at the spring-time dell.
“I take it time does not change here?” Atan asked.
Sin and Brick shook their heads.
“But it’s not like Norsunder’s spells. We get day and night, and rain, and water, but otherwise it’s always spring. We don’t get older here. And the Norsunder people have never found us. This dell seems to be warded against adults,” Hinder added.
“That would explain why Savar brought us here and let us go,” Pouldi explained, waving his hand. “But he never crossed the bridge.”
Before Atan could ask any more questions, a whisper ran through the crowd, sounding a little like a sough of wind in the treetops, and children parted as someone very small made her way forward.
Atan stared down in amazement at a self-possessed child of about six, who was dressed in an odd assortment of castoffs much too large for her. Blonde-streaked brown hair hung down her back, and grave brown eyes looked up at her, protuberant brown eyes with a rim of white below the iris.
“You’re my cousin, aren’t you?” this child asked.
“I don’t know. I hope I am. I would love to have a cousin,” Atan said. “Who are you?”
“Julian,” said the child. She stared up at her cousin, who smiled so kindly, a real smile, like Hinder’s, only even nicer. The sunlight shone just behind her head, striking drifting hairs with gold, like a crown. “Cousin,” she breathed, shivering with a new, warm feeling inside.
A new teen girl stepped forward with the air of one who had the right of way. She had a cloud of curling light hair and a prepossessing gaze. She was the most well-groomed of them all, though her clothes were patched and ragged like everyone else’s. But they were neat, the patches edged with embroidery. “I am Irzaveas Ianth of the third circle of Star Chamber and of the duchy of Yostavos. I have watched over Julian. She is daughter to Julian-Sartora Dei, the queen’s sister—your mother’s sister.” Irzaveas’ voice slowed to a testing tone.
Atan was not yet ready to deal with the complexities of Irza’s tone. In her mind she repeated the words: your mother’s sister. So Julian was not a Landis, even though she had the eyes. But then the Dei family, so famous (some records said infamous) had intermarried with the Landises several times in the past generations.
Atan squashed the impulse to ask what had happened to her aunt. Julian might not know, and the answer would not be a happy one. So she held out her hand. “Call me Atan, Julian. That was my mother’s heart-name for me.”
Irzaveas lifted her chin, then brought it down. “In my turn, I beg you will call me Irza, which is my circle-name.”
Atan had practiced her speech about circle-names and court-names and the like so many times she felt the words shaping her lips, but always before, she’d imagined speaking to friendly faces, each wanting to share her idea of the circle of humanity.
There was no sign of that friendliness in Irza’s face. The smile was there on the lips, but not in the cheeks, the eyes, the glow of color. Irza’s chin was lifted, her head tilted. Challenge, Atan thought.
And here were small, warm fingers clutching her hand. Julian smiled up into Atan’s face. “I’m so glad you came,” she said.
Perhaps it’s better that my speech wait, Atan thought. “I’m so glad to meet you,” Atan said to Julian, and then to Irza, and the others, “All of you. But right now, I wish to rescue Lilah,” she said firmly. She had almost said the word ‘command’ but what if they did not obey? There was no sign yet that they would obey her. Cherish her because of her name, yes. Listen to her, possibly. Definitely respect her rank. But actually follow her commands?
No one answered. No one moved as the older teens sidled glances at each other.
Merewen got to her feet and ran back across the bridge, vanishing among the trees. No one tried to stop her. Atan wondered what would happen if she did the same, then saw Brick and Sana looking uneasy, and both stepped toward the bridge, standing firmly to block it.
“We feel sorry for your friend,” Hinder said earnestly. He looked apologetic, as did Brick and Pouldi and Sana.
“But you cannot go chasing after a Norsundrian, not if you are the last Landis,” Irza stated. She did not look sorry at all. “We know our duty. Our patrollers will be on the watch for the enemy and your friend. But your place is here, and our place is with you.”
“We’ll make a celebration,” Hinder suggested, and Sin cheered, looking around and making surreptitious hand motions.
“We have a swing,” Julian announced proudly. Shall I show you?”
Others quickly joined it, the younger children with enthusiasm. They liked celebrations.
Atan sighed. She now had before her a horrible dilemma: if she resisted, her very first war would be with her own people.
So she bowed in acquiescence, thinking: So I must somehow get a message to Tsauderei—that is, if he is not already watching. Yes! Tsauderei must be watching the borders of Norsunder, as he always has. Surely he will see Lilah.
And he’d be able to act. Because even if she caught up with that knife-throwing man, what else could she really do? He certainly wasn’t going to obey a command from Sartor’s last queen.
She smiled at Julian. “Show me your swing,” she said.
EIGHT
Lilah fought an inward battle even worse than the outward one.
The outward one was bad enough, beginning with a frightening ride all through the night, but as soon as they neared the south
Its head drooped as they rode back into the dusty kingdom that was slowly sliding back into temporal alignment with the land around it. Whoever it was that had grabbed Lilah did not loosen the cotton-tasting cloth gagging her.
An arm strong as a steel band clamped round her middle, making it impossible to move at all, and so she’d passed the night in a dreary swing between awareness of cold, and dust, and endless road, and a nightmarish doze. Her head would drop forward until the horse’s gait broke rhythm and she’d jolt awake, her neck throbbing, to discover that this part of the nightmare was in fact real.
A dull gray dawn gradually pushed the shadows back while Lilah dozed again. When the horse paused at a stream to drink, Lilah woke. She winced at the ache sent invisible needle prickles through her muscles. Day had arrived.
The horse was dark brown, its mane snaggled after days of travel, its sides dusty. Whoever had grabbed her clearly didn’t have another mount waiting somewhere—like with friends. So he was alone.
Good. She couldn’t escape a bunch of villains, but maybe she could from one.
Who was this villain, anyway? She twisted her head to peek up behind her, and caught sight of a young man’s face. He looked a little older than Peitar, but younger than her horrible, awful, disgusting Uncle Darian Irad, former king of Sarendan. Short, curly black hair, light blue eyes—eyes shaped like Atan’s. That gave her a really nasty jolt. Was it possible that Norsunder had managed to twist one of Atan’s relatives and send him after her?
Except why had he grabbed Lilah instead? She winced. Her head hurt, her mouth felt dry as the dusty trail, and her neck ached. She couldn’t think.
Just once she tried to wriggle free from that rock-like grip round her middle, only to feel the arm tighten. The reins snapped against her ear, stinging smartly. “Sit still,” said a voice in flat-accented Sartoran.
Lilah yelped behind the gag.
“I suppose,” the man said, “you are hungry and thirsty. We will stop at sundown. Until then, you’ll live.” His voice was slightly husky, almost more whisper than voice.
It was creepy because there wasn’t any expression at all in it, except for the sarcasm in the last two words. Was this man, maybe, one of those ones who were killed and sent back alive again, their souls taken by the authors of Norsunder? Just the idea of it made her quake inside.
The dreary ride made the day seem the longest she had ever endured. It was broken only by alterations between a slow canter and a walk, the walks getting steadily longer as the hidden sun made its slow way across the sky behind those thick clouds.
Lilah veered between desperate boredom and fearful anticipation of what would happen when the day did end. They stopped on the banks of a tributary to the Ilder River. The man dismounted, pulled Lilah off, plunked her down onto a flat rock near the water, and said, “Sit. Don’t move.”
She sat, fingering uselessly at the tight-bound gag, too tired and achy and light-headed to do anything else. The man took care of the horse, leading it to drink a few paces away. He finished by putting down onto the dusty ground a small sackful of stuff that smelled of grass and oats.
While the animal lipped and snuffled its way through its dinner, the man dug out another sack from his saddlebags, and pulled out one of the hard-crusted breads that looked a lot like what the warriors at home in Sarendan ate, when they couldn’t get anything else. Supposedly the inside stayed soft—though that depended on how old the bread was.
He tore the bread in half, cut crumbly cheese, and tossed her share onto her lap. To that he added a few grapes that he’d obviously picked while riding through Shendoral.
The sight of the grapes reminded her of Shendoral. A cramp of anguish tightened her insides, but she was glad to have them.
With a sudden yank he pulled off the gag, ripping out a few strands of her hair with it. “Eat up,” he said, working the gag’s knot loose, and then trailing the cotton in the rushing river to wash it clean.
Lilah looked at that water, her tongue feeling worse than the dust around her feet. She carefully folded her food into her dusty lap, and moved to the riverside to drink.
The water was so cold it made her teeth ache, but it tasted good. She drank until she gasped for air, then sat with her back to a stone and tackled her food.
He was already done with his share. As she chewed the bread (yes, it was just as dry and tough as she’d feared), he washed his hands and his knife, sheathed that, and then sat down, staring at her.
“Landis is your family, that much I know. What’s your given name?” he asked.
Lilah squeaked in her home tongue, “You mean Atan’s?” And almost choked on a bit of cheese.
“What?” he repeated in Sartoran, eyes narrowed.
Of course her first instinct was to exclaim that he had the wrong person, that she wasn’t Yustnesveas Landis! She was Lilah Selenna of Sarendan!
But she hesitated, and stared down at the crumbs in her lap as her fingers toyed with her last grape. And here began the inward battle.
She could tell him who she was, of course. And then what? He’d probably kill her on the spot and ride all the way back—
And get Atan, and condemn all of Sartor forever.
Conviction locked her muscles, and her blood chilled in her veins. She sat there mentally struggling. Not even the night before her brother’s trial had been this terrible, for that time it was not her own life in jeopardy, but her brother’s.
Either she spoke up now, probably ending up dead, and definitely endangering Atan. And everyone else who depended on her breaking the waiting spells.
Or... what? Go on, pretend she was Atan? And then what? Probably get killed! But if it didn’t happen right away—if she could just fool them long enough for Atan to free Sartor—wouldn’t that be a good thing?
In difficult situations she’d always asked herself what Peitar would do. It didn’t even take thought to know. She could see so clearly her brother’s austere face, the ardent ring of conviction in his voice at the trial. His life had been forfeit, but he’d spoken up for the sake of others, because he’d thought it was the only chance he had to speak and be heard.
If he can do it, can I do less? Lilah thought, and with bleak wryness—not humor, she was too afraid for that—she realized the decision had been made.
And so she opened her eyes, and though her stomach by now was roiling and boiling with fear, she popped that last grape in her mouth, and sighed inwardly, then said, “The name is Yustnesveas Landis.” She couldn’t quite lie.
“You’re done,” the man said. “Turn around.”
“What?” She blinked, confused.
The man did not answer. Instead, he yanked her wrists in back of her and tied them in a way that did not cut off her circulation, but she could not wriggle loose or reach the knots. Too late she remembered the Lure in her pocket. Why hadn’t she pulled it out, thrown the petals at him, and when he fell over into the deep sleep caused by the Valley flowers, escaped?
Because of the headache, and tiredness, and him thinking I’m Atan, that’s why, she thought as her ankles were bound. Stupid stupid stupid!
“Two nights and two days I’ve spent running after you,” the man said. “I want some sleep, and this way I am sure to get it. If you make any noise, you’ll get the gag as well.”
So saying, he wrapped her coat round her so she turned into a giant worm, and then pushed her so she landed flat in the dust. She wriggled over onto her stomach so her hands wouldn’t hurt quite as much. The coat covered her face so she couldn’t see—not that there was anything to look at. And at least it pillowed her head a little against the hard ground.
Sounds were loud and distinct: the crunch of boot heels in the gravel, the thud of the horse’s hooves. The endless rush, rush, rush of water over stone.
About the time she fell asleep, up in Shendoral to the northeast, Hinder faltered in the middle of a song, touched the back
NINE
While Hinder lay safely in Shendoral’s springtime glade, recovering—and far to the south Kessler forced himself to saddle the horse, uncover his prisoner, and begin the long ride to the Norsunder Base—Atan tried to learn the names of Savar’s rescuees. She listened to as much of their stories as they wished to tell. She was polite, attentive, and courteous, but not forthcoming.
“She’s angry with us for not letting her search for her friend,” Hinder said to his cousin as they stood in line for pan bread one morning.
“So what?” Sinder responded with a shrug. “The patrols are looking. Could she really do any better?”
“I don’t know, Sin. You’ve known her as long as I have.”
“Exactly, Hin.” Sinder clapped her cousin on his bony shoulder, and tapped her talons against her bowl. “If she were trained for scouting, if she were an expert with weapons, if her magic skills could penetrated Norsunder’s spells, I’d say, let her do what she wants. But she’s not even forest-trained.” The cousins observed Atan climbing carefully down the rope ladder from the tree platform they’d given her.
Sinder picked up her bread in one hand, her bow in the other, and ran off to join the morning patrol. Hinder sighed, knowing that his cousin wouldn’t think about Atan’s reflective gaze, her sad smile. Sin wasn’t interested in people the way she could crouch at the side of a pond and watch the flutter and flex of a duck’s feet, or stare up at the slow pattern of leafy boughs swaying in a wind. So he let her go, picked up his own bread and, hearing the familiar triple-beat melodies of a swing song, ducked under a low branch and ran to the smaller clearing beneath the girls’ tree, where they’d discovered an old platform swing.
Atan was in the middle, a tall girl surrounded by smaller figures, her eyes half closed. The only time Hinder had seen her smile was when she swung, though he could see from her stiff stance and her tight grip on the bar that she still was getting used to the motion. The older kids had agreed that there’d be no circle over the bar until Atan was ready.