Sartor (13 page)

He slammed the door and locked it.

Lilah slapped her pocket, wherein resided her thief tools,
including her lock pick. She could tell just from the sound that these locks
were old indeed—old and crude.

Why would they bother with new locks?
she thought
wildly. Once one got out, where would one go?

“But I have to try,” she whispered, becoming
aware of the steady sounds of horses and iron-reinforced boot heels on stone. She
moved to the window and looked out. The window gave onto a complicated angle of
tower curves and buttresses, and thence to a narrow concourse below.

What seemed to be an entire army marched under her tired
eyes. Streams of warriors passed below, some mounted, most not. Numbers of them
bore wounds, evidenced by cloth wrapped around arms, and comrades carrying
those who had difficulty walking.

Her mind wheeled purposeless, like a bird caught in vicious
crosswinds, until she was startled out of fugue by a vaguely familiar outline,
a familiar walk, in the midst of that countless horde.

A slim man of medium height in the middle of a row of three,
dark hair pulled back, the wary walk of the life-trained warrior—

The man’s head lifted at the last moment, and Lilah stared
down into a face she had known her entire life.

Then he was gone, leaving her to stumble to the single
wooden chair and sink down, terror having scattered all her wits. Everything
was gone except one inescapable fact: she had seen her uncle, Darian Irad,
former king of Sarendan.

And he had seen her.

The first live creatures that Rel encountered were horses.

Trained horses, wandering about in a small herd. At first
they were skittish, but they stayed close to him, and after a half day of
steady walking, he was able to make friends with one. They had no saddles, and
their hooves were new-shod. That was odd, but because there were no people
around to ask, he mounted the one that nudged his shoulder expectantly. The
rest of the herd followed.

Shifting from horse to horse, he rode down the great
mage-made mountains, wondering what it had been like to live through such a
spectacular cataclysm, and so into Sartor itself. Purple-gray haze obscured the
horizons, masking the lowlands.

No one stopped him, neither friend nor enemy. Most
noticeable was the silence. Not even the trill of birds broke the profound
hush. To find Sartor silent, after reading of its endless music, was more
sinister to Rel than anything he had seen so far.

Not that he saw anything threatening. It was as if the
entire kingdom were empty. The haze was never quite like fog—he never
passed through it. It seemed to recede into the middle distance, like a mirage
on a sun-baked road, and the sky remained obscured beyond a thick layer of
cloud.

Occasionally he passed villages and, as he proceeded
southward, towns. On the borders of each he’d feel as if someone had
stuffed his head with that haze. Once he tried forcing his way past. The
animals became restive, and his own mind slipped into a strange sort of
dream-state. He retained enough of a sense of alarm to turn away, without
knowing that he was escaping the whirlpools and eddies of magic that still
bound the inhabited areas.

He did not try any villages or towns again. Instead, he
stayed on the south road until he reached the great city of Eidervaen. Ancient
as it was, it was built on the ruins of an even more ancient city, legendary
Ilderven, made before the terrible mage-war that had raised that ring of
mountains to the north and far to the east, invisible now, but seen on a map
like the rim of a bowl round the kingdom.

A bowl that had not been able to keep the enemy out.

Nothing prevented him from riding into the city. The streets
were entirely empty. All Rel heard were the clopping steps of the horses.

The strange gray haze swirled around various buildings,
muting them. Rel kept riding, veering not at all, as the street widened,
becoming a great concourse lined with old silver-leafed argan trees.

The upper arches, spires and towers of a palace soared above
the rooftops. Central to the palace gleamed the tower that was reputed to go
all the way back in time when humans had first come to this world. That tower
reminded him of another castle he knew of on the other side of the world,
raised to a cloud city above a mountain. Until now he’d thought that
white castle the only one of its kind.

He kept his gaze on that tower, and rode steadily.

When he neared the palace, again the horses began to get
skittish. Rel dismounted and walked alone, for no one was in sight. He thought
back and back, of old histories he’d read in the house of his
foster-father, old ballads concerning older deeds. Voices seemed to whisper in
a tricky wind; cold air that smelled of ice made him flex his hands and hunch
inside his cloak.

He stayed on his path, unable to look away from that tower. He
had no plan, nothing but unvoiced intent. His mind filled with images from
dreams, his and those of the records he’d read, the voices mixing and
whispering in liminal space.

He sat down at last on the steps of a terrace at the
entrance to the great palace, wondering what it was he was supposed to do here.

He did not notice when the light faded. And then rose. And
faded again, for he was now beyond hunger and thirst, and such things as the
passing of days no longer carried meaning.

o0o

Norsundrians in the military and magical branches seldom
bothered with children. No one wanted to be cumbered with the unending physical
care of the very young, and the sort of people who chose Norsunder were seldom
domestic in inclination or talent.

If you needed recruits, it was far simpler to pinch them at
an age old enough so that daily care was not much more than that of a horse,
but young enough so that you could exert your will to make them into what you
wanted.

So the sight of a child (boy? girl? who cared!) up in Zydes’s
lair, reported by some stable hands, caused some surprise. It was duly
corroborated later when the quartermaster was told by Kessler to issue the
smallest uniform they had ready. The only reaction was some laughter—finally
Zydes found someone to impress—or some speculation on what plots he was
concocting now.

Before Lilah saw Zydes next she got to walk through a
cleaning frame, feeling a brief sense of relief as magic separated grime and
dust and sweat from her skin and hair and teeth. But the air smelled so stale
and flat and dusty, she didn’t enjoy it long.

Her gown, ruined by the journey, was exchanged for long
black trousers, a heavy linen shirt, and a sturdy black winter tunic-jacket,
for they didn’t have any of the gray ones small enough. The tunic had
inner pockets, she discovered. She ignored those, and unpicked tiny places in
the hem of sleeves and jacket to stash Atan’s ring and her thief tools,
plus the Lure. That way, if Zydes changed his mind about the ring and wanted to
search her pockets, he’d find them empty. When she walked out, she looked
like the youngest of the night-riding scouts or messengers.

Kessler was waiting. He said, “Don’t try another
bolt.”

“I won’t,” she squeaked, her throat tight
with worry. Did the dead also read minds? “Are you a long-dead Landis?”
she asked.

He laughed, and she flinched at the mockery. “No,”
he said. “My ancestral line crossed yours centuries ago. Why?”

She almost said,
Because your eyes look like Atan’s
,
but managed to remember her guise. A thrill of fear made her desperate. “I—I
don’t know. Something Zydes said.”

He had clearly lost interest. “Come along. You’ll
mess down this way.”

“With all those warriors I heard last night?” She
was almost breathless with relief at the close call.

“No. This end is command and support staff. Zydes,”
he added in his soft, expressionless voice, “is the current commander.”

“Oh.” She heard the faint emphasis on
current.
Her neck-hairs prickled again.

They walked to a plain room of stone and high windows that
looked out at gray sky. Sounds of weapons and shouts came in, a rhythm that
called up unexpected memories from early childhood, when she heard her uncle’s
guard drilling at the royal palace. She felt the same dread, intensified by her
wondering if her Uncle Dirty-Hands had told anyone his niece was here, and what
would happen when he did.

Lilah tried not to worry as she was shown where to get her
food. She plunked her plate down at a table where no one else sat. Kessler left
her alone.

The food was plain: fresh-baked bread, cheese, limp greens
obviously brought in from somewhere a long ways away, because there were
certainly no gardens here, and broiled chicken. She was hungry, so she ate it
all, and was pressing her thumb over the crumbs in order to munch those, too,
when Kessler returned.

He jerked his thumb and out they went through another door.

“That way is the garrison,” he said. “The
cavalry is housed over the stables. The foot in the far wing. Except for new
recruits, which are the greatest number. New recruits from elsewhere in the
world are transferred down here for training, and they are housed underground
in our wing.”

“New recruits,” she repeated.

“Seldom volunteers,” Kessler replied with that
sardonic edge to his flat voice. “Frequently what they must learn is not
skills so much as obedience. This way for Zydes’s rooms.”

That meant the ‘new recruits’ were prisoners.

The effect of the word was like an inner blow, because she
knew as soon as he spoke, she
knew
that Uncle Darian was a prisoner. How
he’d loathed the thought of Norsunder in the old days! His entire life he’d
been preparing to defend Sarendan
against
Norsunder. And whatever else
you could say about him—nothing nice, of course—he had been no
liar.

A prisoner. Why, that meant—

That meant—

She sighed, wrestling with duty and desire, until the Zydes’s
voice interrupted her thoughts. He spoke over her head at Kessler. “I
want a report from the scouts Dejain sidetracked.”

Kessler left without speaking.

Zydes frowned down at Lilah. “Where did you lose that
magical ring?”

“In Shendoral, when that man grabbed me.”

Zydes turned his eyes upward in disgust. “A pity
Kessler did not possess the wit to take it from you at the outset. Never mind.
I can make better myself. So. You can either be enchanted so that your will is
entirely subsumed under my whim, or else you will give me your pledge of
obedience by choice. The latter I prefer, because I can then teach you magic,
and you will, if you are quick and sensible, find yourself in a position of
power in your kingdom. More than you would ever have had while you were under
the thumb of some prating mage like Evend of Bereth Ferian or that old cripple,
Tsauderei.”

Lilah chewed her lip. “You mean an oath of loyalty?”

Zydes laughed. It was a harsh sound that hurt her ears. “If
you like, though your pledge is bound by a magical ward. Don’t waste my
time gassing about light magic sentiment such as loyalty—there is no such
thing. There is only obedience.” He smiled slightly. The lines in his
face made it a smirk. “If you speak the pledge, rather than I, the power
is the greater. But the reward is that you will have complete freedom within
the boundaries I set, which will be the entire fortress. For the initial part
of your learning will be as a messenger, an observer, and then as a... scout,
shall we say.”

A spy
, she thought, with sour dislike
. Spying on
his underlings, and everyone will hate me for it. Including him. Just like that
disgusting Kalaeb during Uncle Dirty-Hands’ time.

He spoke a spell. She couldn’t hear the words—the
sound of his voice blurred—but her teeth tingled, and her nails prickled
as if she’d scratched them down granite. The air smelled metallic, as if
lightning were about to strike.

Panic made her ears ring. How would she get out of it?

Zydes paused, and switched to Sartoran.

“Yustnesveas Landis. Give me your pledge to abide by
my commands, within the set boundaries. You must be precise,” he added,
waving his hand for her to speak.

Atan
.

Lilah took in a shaky breath. “I swear that as long as
I am Yustnesveas Landis that I will abide by your commands, within the set boundaries.”

She looked at him, trying to hide her anxiety. Was he
fooled?

Yes, he was fooled. Her pledge was more wordy than he’d
expected, but he attributed that to light magic pomposity. They set great store
by their oaths and ceremonies and rituals. All nonsense, of course, and yet he
was quite clever to bind the spell to her own words. Let that fool Dejain try
to figure that out, and alter it!

Lilah heard more of those blurry words, then a snap. Her
head felt brief pressure, which promptly eased.

Zydes sat down behind his desk to recover from the effort of
that spell, and contemplated his new student. She certainly had given in
quickly. Was it stupidity? Cowardice? He didn’t have enough respect to
consider it for longer than a moment. She was young, and weak as all light magic
people were. That was evidenced in how easily she’d been caught.

Still, intimidation was a cheap safeguard. “You are
either unexpectedly practical, or else futilely devious.” His voice was
slightly hoarse—as if he’d run up several flights of stairs. “It
had better not be the latter.”

Lilah tried not to let her own voice quake. “Just for
information, if I did try to run off, would some magic come out and strike me
dead?”

“Oh no.” Zydes smirked. “That would not
leave time for regret, would it?”

She heard the threat, but it was just another of so many. She
thought instead about how making magic spells had had some sort of nasty effect
on him, even though he was trying to hide it. Dark magic: greater power: harder
to perform. Just like Atan said.