Rai Ame nodded slowly.
“In the meantime, there’s worse news.” Guntur’s voice was even more gloomy than before. “And this is why we have to hide. My father has been complaining that once Norsunder finds whoever it is they are looking for, they might drag him into their plans for the mainland. See, they can’t get huge armies over, yet, so they are looking around for ones already here—trained and equipped and ready to go.”
Rai Ame held up his hand, then said, “Rina just let me know that birds have brought similar news.”
Guntur rubbed his chin. Rai Ame reached for Rina, but he couldn’t feel any comfort in her warm, purring body. Not when the threat extended beyond just to his parents and country, but to the entire world.
Rai Ame said, “I think you’re right about hiding. And about the mainland.”
Guntur said, “Then that’s decided. Look, we’ve been talking long enough. Now remember, when the guards come in, you’re the miserable prisoner and I’ve been gloating. Make it good because they’ll report whatever they hear to my father. We’ll be able to leave soon, just in case I can’t get back to you. Be ready whenever the chance comes.”
“I don’t have anything else to do.” Rai Ame smiled, happy to have found an ally.
Guntur snorted a laugh, then moved to the door and struck it with his fist. As it opened, he sneered, “Just take that thought with you to your miserable cell, weak and worthless Setazhian!”
Rai Ame hung his head, shuffling out with a disconsolate air.
o0o
True to his word, Guntur arranged the escape the day after Rai Ame heard a great commotion in the courtyard beyond his cell. By standing on his bunk and peering out, he’d been able to see large numbers of splendidly armed and mounted warriors lining up in parade order, and then riding out amid trumpetings and the thunder of hooves.
The horses were the best of all, but none as beautiful as the white horse that awaited the boys in a garden at the other end of the nearly deserted palace.
Guntur came to the Keep himself. When Rai Ame heard his cell unlock, and he saw Guntur there, he was surprised. Further surprise attended his seeing all the guards snoring.
“Put sleep-weed in today’s beer,” Guntur said with a triumphant grin, as Rai Ame scooped up Rina.
As he spoke, he led them to the garden. Rai Ame’s breath caught. A number of other horses also waited, but Rai Ame scarcely noticed them.
“From the mainland, up north,” Guntur said, indicating the blue-white hair, the intelligent eyes. “They are reputed to be magic creatures from another world, who prefer the horse form. She hears my thoughts, and no one but me can ride her, not without her permission.”
Rai Ame tucked Rina securely under his arm.
“Here come our allies,” Guntur said.
Rai Ame and Rina watched the group of boys and girls coming from the other end of the garden. A red-haired girl a little older than Rai Ame gave them a shy smile.
“Mira of Landir,” Guntur said.
She mounted a roan behind a stringy, mobile-faced boy who said, “I am Jandar of Choree. Let’s ride!”
Guntur boosted Rai Ame up onto the white horse’s bare back, and they and the still-unnamed others rode from the garden, taking side paths away from King’s City and then to southeast, the next day reaching Choree.
Rina listened inside them all as they exchanged stories during the long two day ride. She could hear past the bragging, and the competition in describing hardships endured, that life in Choree had been especially terrible in recent years. Not all the problems were due to the Gerandans or the ambitions of their king (who-ever-heard-of-a-king-ruling-forever?).
Rina saw Guntur listening intently to everything. The Choree gang, who had a hideout in the wooded mountains above the main harbor, were wary around him—especially their leader, Jandar. Guntur was bigger and stronger than any of the others, but he behaved circumspectly. Yet even Rai Ame, who had never thought about such things before, understood by the end of that day that Guntur was a natural leader.
Perhaps there might eventually have been problems between Guntur and Jandar but there was not enough time.
Guntur had miscalculated his father’s reaction; when the King found out that the Prince was missing, His Majesty (may-his-boat-sink-with-him-on-it) halted his invasion march, returned to the capital, and instituted a search by magic.
o0o
Rina and Rai Ame woke up early the third morning. Jandar’s group had insisted on riding through darkness the night before, so they could reach their hideout.
Since they knew the land well, it had not been a difficult ride. Rai Ame—tired and confused by flickering torches—had climbed a rope-ladder, curled up in blankets that were given him, and slept.
He woke to blue light through tree branches, lighting up a kind of platform in a mighty tree. Grinning happily, he shed the blanket in order to explore. Rina sat nearby in her loaf-of-bread shape, two paws just visible; the air was chilly.
Rina purred. She was pleased. She, too, liked the tree house, and she had also met all the animals, including Guntur’s dog Steel, who also could talk mind to mind.
They climbed down together, finding Jandar’s group busy scouting out breakfast.
Steel was the first to stiffen.
The air seemed to flicker, and a host of armed Gerandans appeared in the middle of the clearing. In their center was the king, Guntur’s father, tall and broad and dark-haired like most of his guard. Beside him stood a slim fair-haired man in civilian clothing.
The white horse vanished in a flicker. No one seemed to notice as the king stepped forward. “Where is my son?”
“I am here,” Guntur said, ignoring a whispered suggestion to hide.
“You will return home.”
“No,” Guntur said, crossing his arms. “Not while you’re allied with Norsunder.”
The man who had come with the king stepped forward.
Steel and Rina both sensed danger, powerful danger, through the man looked on the outside less threatening than the king or any of his warriors.
Everyone turned his way. He was medium tall, lighter in build than the Gerandans, his features regular, his corn-silk hair a contrast to the mostly dark-haired descendants of the Venn. Though he wore no uniform he had a sword at his side; its grip was old-fashioned and artistic, not heavy and martial.
“There is no need for strife,” he said to the king. He had a light, laughing voice, with a faint trace of accent, like ancient song.
His Majesty (may-he-drown-in-his-victims’-tears) looked up, his dark eyes wide and unblinking as they met the light gaze of the man.
“Set the children at liberty,” the man suggested, smiling. “None of these are the one I seek. They will cause no harm.”
The King was silent.
“You have a greater task now,” the man spoke on, his voice carrying in the silent clearing. Next to Rina, Steel whimpered softly. “I have come to establish peace in the world, and you and your fine warriors are needed to maintain it.”
The King said in a flat voice, “We will go where you command.”
The man turned to Guntur, and caught his gaze.
Rina’s fur ruffled up. The air reminded her of lightning just before it struck the ground during terrible storms.
The man said, “Guntur, you and your friends may return peacefully to your homes. I will have something for you to do presently.”
The leader of the Choree orphans was next, and then Mira, and last Rai Ame. The man caught their attention, said something to them in his pleasant voice, and afterward they all stood quietly, their faces blank. Their minds were blank, or almost blank.
Rina discovered that Rai Ame’s thoughts were muted, distant. Like trying to see through fog.
The man vanished. The King and his Gerandan warriors also vanished—including Guntur.
Rina, who had crouched down small, put her hackles down. Steel whined, ran around sniffing all the children, then he returne
d to Rina.
Rina thought, I listened yesterday. These children have no homes to go to.
Steel thought, That man cares nothing.
Both animals felt a strong urge to do something. But what?
Rina remembered her birds.
The mainland, she thought, picturing a ship. I must go to the mainland and find the humans who know magic. Or animals like us.
Steel agreed. And I will guard them here.
So Rina, a small cat, started a very long journey that was to intersect with world events, and forever change them.
Chapter Seven
Now it is time to introduce Sartora.
Her name when she was born was Liere, and her family name was Fer Eider.
Before she could speak she knew she was special. This conviction never made her feel superior so much as lonely, and above all, afraid.
The difference was all on the inside. Alone of her family, she could hear others’ emotions—sometimes even their thoughts.
Until that winter morning early in the year ‘736, her sense of danger and discovery had seemed only a future possibility. That morning, as she made the shift from dream-consciousness to real, she sensed that the danger was nigh.
She opened her eyes, and lay in bed without moving, cataloguing every detail of her surroundings. Lilith the Guardian, the kindly mental “voice” who visited Liere’s dreams every so often, had encouraged her to be observant. Liere had heeded all of the Guardian’s advice, taking guidance for rules.
And so she assessed the ceiling first. She knew exactly how many rough-planed boards of old oak formed the ceiling, and how many nails studded each board. She’d followed with her eyes the grain in each plank, contemplating the colors and how they might have been so formed, for there was little opportunity in her circumscribed life, there on the narrow brick street, to learn about how and why trees grew in the wild. She had heard that one could find answers to these questions, and to many other questions, in books. But her father felt that reading made children disobedient and disinclined to obey their betters.
Liere shifted her attention from the ceiling, and the muted shades and shadows made by the pale winter sun, to the room itself. Each morning she charted the angle and quality of dawn’s light in the small, plain room. She contemplated the warps in the wood, the worn places on the floor, a year’s accumulation of handprints—to be scrubbed out again come spring—around doors and windows, masking the smooth-worn places where hands had touched over many years. Small finger-smudges at low height, steadying beginning walkers, amid the bumps and nicks and knocks of rowdy games. Bigger spots at medium, evidence of careless grabs while racing round the narrow corners. And higher ones, made by adults who navigated by touch when night-candles flickered or had burned out.
Liere liked the worn places because they made her think about Fer Eiders long ago.
I don’t play, Liere thought, looking at the ones at her height. But I’m not a grownup.
She watched her inner self consider that. I don’t play, but I’m not sad. I shouldn’t be sad. Sadness was a waste. A weakness. That much she had learned through observing her mother, who from time to time was sad, helplessly so, unable to change whatever it was that made her sad as she worked through each day’s house, family, and shop crises. I can’t be weak, Liere thought.
Especially not today.
She knew she was frightened, and she angrily squashed that emotion.
The bed shook. She turned her head. Her younger sister Marga rolled over, murmuring restlessly. Liere watched her waken, sensing Marga’s slow transition from dreams to wakefulness. It always took Marga a long time for her ‘self’ to find its way to the surface world. So it was with the rest of the family.
Marga sat up and poked her.
For Marga, Liere was in every way an unsatisfactory older sister. She wasn’t pretty, she never smiled, never played, and she said boring things. Why couldn’t she be like other girls’ sisters?
“Come on, lazy, get out,” Marga said, hoping for a smile, a tickle fight, something fun.
“Who’s the lazy one?” Liere asked, conscious of acting out a role. She sensed Marga’s disappointment in her, but how could she be someone other than what she was?
Yet Lilith the Guardian had told her during their very first dream-conversation that it was important to act normal, that is, like the others. “I can never get out when I sleep by the wall, and you always make us late downstairs. You know it, Marga,” Liere said, trying to act as if it mattered.
“Huh!” Marga tossed her dark curls back.
Liere slid out of bed, practicing softly to herself: “Huh!” While Marga’s nightgown was over her head, she tried tossing her hair back. It felt strange. Awkward. But girls did that kind of thing when they were offended—or pretended to be offended, and wanted attention.
Liere did not want attention. She’d learned very early its dangers.
Marga yawned as she pulled on her dress and smock. Liere’s fingers plaited her straight, fine hair into two long neat braids while she observed her sister. Marga’s braiding was slower; dark, luxuriant curls kept escaping her fingers.
As soon as they were done they ran downstairs to the bathroom. The big tub was reserved for the adults during the week; the young ones got to use it only on Lastday.
The oldest brother had brought the hot water from the kitchen and poured it in the ceramic basin, one of his daily chores. His siblings crowded round to wash the sleep from their faces. There was—as always—much needless shoving and splashing and laughing, in which Liere was careful to take her part. The cleaning-frame on the edge of the basin kept the water sparkling fresh. Liere liked the tingle on her fingers that told of the presence of magic. None of the others ever seemed to notice.
Then they ran to the table, Liere still conscious of that invisible boulder sense of something about to happen. She watched her siblings, wishing she felt the laughter, the unconscious fun they all had as naturally as they breathed, instead of merely hearing it.
Why was she so different?
On the outside she didn’t look different. They were all small and bird-light in build, like their mother, and all had some combination of blue eyes or pale brown. Their hair was either sandy or dark with golden highlights, straight or curly. In Marga one could see the best of the combinations. In Liere, the plainest.
Their father walked in, and everyone hastily straightened and fell silent, the latecomers breathless and red-faced.
Les Fer Eider surveyed his family as he pulled at his mustache. He frowned, for he liked order and decorum, and above all, he demanded respect from his family. Most of his attention was reserved for his oldest two boys. Liere had long ago stopped asking questions he deemed inappropriate for little girls, who ought to confine their attention to their proper sphere—the home. But a residue of distrust remained with him. She stood, small, uninteresting, and obedient, just as she ought, so his attention passed on.
He sat down. So did Mother, and Liere with her five siblings. The clatter of passing dishes and soft-voiced talk diffused her father’s attention. Private conversations were not permitted at the table. Everyone always turned toward Father and fell silent if he spoke, or offered comments with an eye to his reaction, for to displease him meant being sent away from the table hungry. Liere was careful to listen to the chatter about the weather, and about the store (in this case, repair work that would have to be made up later) and to reply in kind.
“There will be no complaining,” Father announced. “Today’s meeting is important. Town Council says this fellow’s going straight from here to the capital. His stopping in South End is an honor. His subject is no less than world peace. . .”
Everyone was silent, though one of Liere’s brothers surreptitiously rolled his eyes, and Marga tossed her hair again.
Liere’s mind turned inward as she considered the news. Town meeting on a work day—that was very rare. They had always been on Restday as long as she could remember.
<
br /> World peace. World peace sounded good. Peace could have nothing to do with the disturbing, questing mind-touch she’d sensed not long after The Guardian’s warning, back in the days when she’d not hidden her differences—and again last night, in the middle of her dreams.
She’d felt that presence as a threatening cloud, and had instantly retired behind the mental brick wall that The Guardian had told her to build every night around her thoughts before she went to sleep. She sometimes forgot—like last night.
She hoped the cloud thing hadn’t found her before she ducked behind her wall, but she was afraid it had.
She remembered the first time—during the days when she’d thought it all right to ask all the questions blossoming in her mind. All the town had talked about the little Fer Eider girl who wanted to know about the history of the ruins, and who’d begged to be taught reading and writing. Who wanted to know how music worked, why clouds came, how magic made life better.
Hide your identity in first, the Guardian had cautioned. And Liere had tried.
First-face: the physical self. It had made learning much easier when The Guardian said to Liere’s dream-figure, Think of your physical senses and presence as your first face, your mind and dreams as second face, and your spirit as third face. What we called in the days of Old Sartor dena Yeresbeth means the unity of the three, and that unity is what you must work on. But you must also be careful, because those with dena Yeresbeth can send their minds questing outside their physical selves—just as you will able to do with enough practice—and they will be searching for other minds like yours.
Like you found me, Liere had said.
I am glad I found you before they did, the Guardian had responded, with a calm inflowing of concern. And when I can, I will listen for you, and help you. But I cannot always be here, for I am a guardian for all the worlds around Erhal, our sun, and there is trouble in far too many places.