Sartor (30 page)

She had dropped into the old-fashioned Sartoran that some of
the morvende had spoken to them. Its quaintness was instantly familiar to
Merewen, who had been read to from very old texts by Savar.

“Mayhap,” Merewen said, delighted to play with
the language she’d heard every day as a small girl, and never since. “I
should like me a great ballad with all our names enflowered amid heroic deeds.”

“Better that than to be mere examples of woe and
sorrow.” Atan wrinkled her nose. “Oh, now let me see. I shall have
Sana write it but insist she shall cast it in most proper pompous language,
full of praises—”

“Old-word praises,” Merewen said happily as they
neared the top of the hill. “I myself would be yclept fair and—”

“Fell! Nay, that would be our enemy, sore afraid—”

“Wouldst thou,” began Merewen. “Full of
dole—”

“Hark! Believeth-me there is yonder a—”

“Flapdoodle,” Merewen supplied, remembering one
of Rip’s favorite insults.

She gripped her elbows, laughing inside—too delighted
with their game to note much beyond the fact that they’d discovered
another person, but since the tall—
boy? young man?
sitting on a
rock at the bottom of the ravine did not raise any sense of alarm in her, her
interest was fleeting, and she scrambled through memory, trying to find more
words.

Atan had stopped. Her first instinct was danger—she
felt horribly exposed, being on the outside again. But she’d come to rely
on Merewen’s instincts, and Merewen was just smiling at the fellow with
no indication of worry or distrust. “Let us step yonder and inquire of
him his wherefores and forebyes!” She wondered if she had just
encountered her very first Sartoran citizen, outside of the Shendoral orphans.

As she and Merewen picked their way down, the fellow stood
up—and up and up. He was the tallest boy Atan had ever met, and she was
tall for a girl her age.

He was also older. Not grown, for his hands were larger yet,
his wrists bony, and there was no hint of beard on his face; she knew that that
started when young men crossed the puberty threshold, after they were full-grown.
Though this one must be near, for he was quite tall indeed and broad through
chest and shoulder.

He had a long face with strong bones, deep-set dark eyes, an
abundance of badly cut waving dark hair, and a generous mouth, an interesting
face.

He said, “I’m looking for the Landis princess.”

“Why, that is I,” Atan exclaimed. She was so
surprised that at first she did not register the muted clack and clatter that
indicated they were not alone in these hills.

The boy turned his head, his hand out, and then he looked
back, his mouth grim. “They did find my trail again. I’m afraid I
brought danger on you.”

Horse hooves! Pursuit?

Atan looked helplessly at Merewen, who waved her hands and
keened, “Take him in! Take him in!”

Atan relied on Merewen’s instincts. “There’s
a morvende tunnel near here.” Atan looked around fearfully. “But we
daren’t use it if they can see us.”

For answer, the fellow ran a few steps down the little
ravine, cupped his hands, and shouted something in another language.

Then he returned, bent to pick up his pack—and they
heard horse hooves clattering on the other side of the hill.

“Fast, fast,” Atan whispered as they scrambled
back up the trail. They reached the rock, but how to protect the access? She
could not betray the morvende—despite the danger!

Merewen said, drawing the fellow’s attention away, “Who
are you?”

“Rel,” he said, and he obligingly kept his gaze
averted.

With shaking hands Atan did the magic, the tunnel opened,
they slid in, and she made the sign to close the place behind them.

They stood in the narrow tunnel, Rel stooping his head.

“You’re here to help,” Merewen observed,
looking up into his face.

“Well, yes,” Rel said, and gave her a brief
grin, barely discernible in the weak light reflected from down the tunnel. “But
I hope you don’t want me taking on Kessler Sonscarna and Dejain alone.”

“Dejain?” Atan asked. “There was one
called Zydes, but I don’t remember mention of a Dejain.”

“Magician. Considerable ability. Not good, finding her
here.”

Atan understood then that Rel had been making a joke about
taking on the enemy alone. He didn’t laugh, and his deep voice hadn’t
changed, but there was a suspicious narrowing of the eyes, and the realization
was so unexpected that she did laugh.

It was a merry sound, free and unaffected. Rel was amazed
that a daughter of the legendary Landises, rulers of the world’s oldest
kingdom and emblems of what history, song, and story claimed to be the most sophisticated
court in the world, should be so ordinary of countenance—except for those
distinctively shaped eyes, which had stared out of so many old portraits and
histories—dressed in an old-fashioned, threadbare riding tunic and
trousers. No, not ordinary. That word did not encompass that sense of fun, the
quick alertness, the concern for others, or the mannerisms natural and free,
not in the least court-trained.

The little one asked him questions, gazing at him with an
unblinking blue stare. He answered very much at random, trying to marshal his
thoughts.

Why could he not think? Perhaps it was hunger and thirst, or
the residue of whatever spell had held him in Eidervaen until he’d gotten
too weak to move, and then there had been the discovery of Kessler and Dejain—

“You’ve never heard of Eidervaen?” the
little one asked.

“The capital,” Atan said. “We will be
going there soon, to destroy Norsunder’s spells if we can.” She glanced
back, tense and concerned. “How did you come to be here?”

Rel sighed as they descended the last bit and he was able to
stand upright. He rubbed his neck. “In the ravine, or in the kingdom?”

“Well, both,” Atan said, noticing that he spoke
with a trace of accent. And she remembered his shout in that unknown language
that had decoyed the Norsundrians. What had
that
been about?

“I was in Eidervaen for some time. I don’t know
yet how long. Caught in some kind of spell, until a fellow came along and gave
me a thump to wake me up. Said to go south and find you, because you’d
need help. I recognized your family name, of course. As for why I came to
Sartor, I’m here because I wanted to see it—” He shrugged. “And
I seem to have a nose for trouble. As for the ravine, I ran from some
searchers. This ravine took me out of their line of sight. I was going to wait
for dark before pushing farther south.”

“It’s good that you’re here to help,”
the little one piped, and when he looked at her, she gave him a sunny smile and
said, “I’m Merewen. Now, how much do you know of our history?”

She began talking about the old war, and about Savar and the
orphans in Shendoral, as they crossed a great cavern. In the distance Rel heard
singing, a waterfall of sound that tied together with echoes some of the ballad
forms he’d encountered in his ramblings all over the southern hemisphere.

An inadvertent intake of breath silenced Merewen.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You like the singing? So do I,” Merewen said. “Very
much. We’re to hear more chamber singers later—oh! Here are some of
our group.”

Rel soon found himself surrounded by young people of various
ages, some morvende, and all of them curious. When Atan announced that she and Merewen
had just rescued him and that he was there to help, some cheered, some
exclaimed, and a few eyed him speculatively.

One black-haired young fellow sidled up, and when no one’s
attention was on them he murmured, “Can you use a sword?”

“Yes,” Rel said.

The boy seemed relieved. “We’re going to have a
practice after the next meal. Atan wants to try for the city soon, and I don’t
know what kind of defense we can count on there.”

“Not much,” Rel admitted. “I was in
Eidervaen not long ago. Most of the people are still dazed, many still frozen,
and Norsunder is patrolling it. Tight grip.”

The boy nodded and vanished in the swarm, probably to pass
the word.

They converged on a great nest of pillows, and savory-smelling
soup and cakes awaited them.

Rel hadn’t had much to eat for the past couple of
days, which (he decided) explained the mental fog. He found it hard to
concentrate on any one person unless he was addressed directly. Mostly he ate,
grateful for warmth and good food, and he enjoyed the chatter of high voices
around him. It reminded him of friends far away in Mearsies Heili on the
continent of Toar—

When he looked up next, it was to find himself being stared
at speculatively by a self-possessed girl around Atan’s age, her face
framed in curly bright hair.

“Are you some kind of prince on a quest?” Her
tone made the question a joke, but her eyes were too appraising for that.

“No,” he said, setting his plate down. “I’m
just a wanderer. Father was a shepherd, I understand, though we’ve never
met.”

“Ah.” She nodded and turned away in scarcely
disguised disinterest.

Rel chuckled inside and reached for another helping of nut-cakes.

Atan loved the caves. She loved the people. But every day
that passed increased the danger that Norsunder would find out that the
enchantment was disintegrating, and come back to restore it.

Yet she still did not know how she was to destroy it, and
she’d been so sure that meeting other Sartorans, especially morvende,
would furnish the last clues.

After a night of restless dreams, she woke up in the small,
round chamber that she’d been given. The stone was smooth, as if carved
out by water millennia ago, and the morvende had made it cozy with glow globes,
soft rugs woven in the colors of spring flowers, and pretty knotted hangings
that reminded her of rose blossoms and violets and sweet-peas. She sat up,
stretching her hand to touch one of the hangings, when she heard a clack, then
the ring of steel.

Sick with dread, she scrambled into her clothes and hastened
out fearfully... to discover Mendaen, Rel the newcomer, and a bunch of the
others gathered on a smooth platform of stone below her cave, practicing with
their swords. Lilah had joined them, working away earnestly with a smoothed
stick in the shape of a sword, alongside several others her size.

It didn’t take long to see that Rel was not only the
tallest, he was the best. Easily. He was quick and sure, warding the others’
blows, then he’d stop and explain—demonstrate—and sometimes,
with his encouragement, he and his partner would move very slowly through an
exchange.

Atan had never held a weapon, but she could understand the
principles he was trying to demonstrate. For the first time she found herself
interested in self-defense, and made her way down to the platform. There she
watched from the sidelines until she was joined by Mendaen.

“He’s good,” Mendaen said to Atan in his
low, husky voice. “He’s really,
really
good.”

“I see that.”

They observed Rel’s easy strength, Mendaen with the
yearning of one who has sought mastery, knows what it is but not know to
achieve it, and Atan with a mix of emotions she couldn’t define, except
that they were intense.
If he joins us, maybe we have a hope of succeeding
,
she thought.

“M’dad used to say that the big fellows were
never fast, just strong, but Rel’s both strong and fast.” Mendaen
grinned. “Though he doesn’t brag, as you can see. Opposite. He told
us he’s tangled with that Kessler once, in the past, and Kessler whupped
him bad.”

Atan was surprised by the sharpness of her disappointment. She
recognized the cause: she wanted to believe he was the best. Then she steadied
herself with inward laughter.
Even if one fellow is the best in the world,
he’s still one person. You don’t defeat Norsunder with one person,
however good he is with a sword.

And if Rel himself admitted that that horrible Kessler was
better... “Does that mean he thinks we ought to abandon our plans?”

“Oh no, not at all.” Mendaen shook his head
vehemently. “He says we can’t take on any of Kessler’s people
by force, because they’re too well-drilled, but we might be able to get
by on stealth.”

Atan snapped her fingers. “Irza! She got Arlas out
through the drains going through the old ruins.”

Mendaen grimaced.

Atan said quickly, “I’ll ask her if you’d
rather.” There was already enough bad feeling between the titled kids and
the rest.

“First snow!” The shout came from outside the
alcove.

Those practicing with sticks or real swords paused, looking
across the vast cavern, to where a young morvende called.

“Come, everyone! Celebrate!”

Atan watched Rel carefully clean his sword and slide it into
its sheath, aware of disappointment again. This time it was personal. She
wanted to watch some more.

But that, she decided, was selfish, and she certainly wasn’t
going to say it out loud. She fell in behind those streaming down to the lower
level, where they discovered the entire cavern on the move, excited voices
echoing.

The morvende were coming together for a great sing, in honor
of the visitors and of First Snow. The first snow in over a hundred years.

The glowglobes had been clapped into darkness, and the vast
cavern was lit by hundreds and hundreds of candles, each carried by a
white-haired morvende. The opalescent glow was replicated in glints and gleams
from the stone around and above them; the susurrus of quiet morvende voices
sounded like a rushing river.

“There you are!” Lilah appeared and drew Atan to
sit down next to her. “We snagged a good spot for listening. Hinder says the
echoes will be best here. There he is, with his family.”

Mendaen and Sana sank down on either side, Sana’s face
lifted, expressive of exaltation.