Sartor (11 page)

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 southern edge of Shendoral,
the horse slowed to an exhausted walk.

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 of his
head, then slid into a faint.

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.

There was a space on one side, so he jammed the last of his
bread in his mouth and hopped on, finding the slow back and forth arc
comforting.

So began a pattern that lasted for several days.

In Shendoral, rain came. The kids stayed in great
tree-platforms that maulons had constructed centuries ago. Atan lay in her snug
hammock at the end of each day, listening to the patter of rain on green
leaves, fighting against that anxious helplessness that underlay everything she
did, said, or thought. Every day that ended without news of Lilah was another
day of personal failure; the only escape was this new thing she’d read
about, but no book could possibly describe the pleasure of the plain old
Sartoran swing. Sometimes she counted the arcs, hoping that each would bring
her closer to news of Lilah.

o0o

As for Lilah, each day saw her further south.

Lilah struggled with conflict. She had decided to keep on
pretending to be Atan, but how to escape? She could use her Lure, make Kessler
sleep, but what if the horse also went to sleep? What if it threw her off, or
ran toward the Norsunder Base—even if she knew which direction to go in?
The sky was always gray, and the landscape steadily more dusty and rocky, with
no landmarks at all to guide by.

It would be better to bide her time. She had a feeling she
would only get to use the Lure once. It had better be at exactly the right
time.

Kessler had no use for Yustnesveas Landis. Being a
mage-trained princess, she’d either prate a lot of gibberish about good
and evil, or else she’d mouth out defiant lies. His intention was to get
this demeaning assignment done with as fast as possible, and carry on with his
former plans—but he must first deliver a live prisoner who was reasonably
in her wits.

At the same time, he respected the abilities of the young. He
knew what he’d managed to do when he was scarcely ten, and his defeat in
’33 had been initiated by a pair of girls even younger than this Landis.

So when, on finishing her ration the next morning, she
asked, “Are we going to the Norsunder Base?” and he had answered “Yes,”
she blurted out, “Are you really dead?” he saw the incipient terror
in her slanted gaze and lied. “Yes. Killed by a brat your age. I exist
only for revenge.”

His reward was a shocked silence, which was scarcely broken
for the remainder of the journey.

Now Lilah was too afraid to attempt to use her Lure. What
could possibly work against the walking dead whose souls were owned by
Norsunder’s distant creators? She was afraid that the magic keeping him
alive would also keep him from falling into Lure sleep—though she wasn’t
sure, because he did seem to need regular sleep, though far less than she did.

She was even afraid to use that ring again, which obviously
hadn’t worked, or she wouldn’t be here.

In fact, she didn’t even like looking at it, she
discovered when she examined the milky gem. Its soft glow rippled slightly, as
if water ebbed across its surface or just under. When she stared at it, she
felt a nasty sensation, as if the ring sucked light right out of her eyes.

When Kessler led the horse to water, she pulled the ring
from her finger and slid it into the secret pocket next to the Lure, her heart
slamming against her ribs. What if he asked for it? Did he even remember it? The
ring was Atan’s, not hers, and she didn’t want to lose it, icky as
it was.