Truth - Hidden Truth Part 1

Hidden Truth.

Dawn Cook.

Acknowledgments.

I'd like to thank the core members of my writer's group, Nat for her above and beyond the call ofduty critiques, my husband Tim for seeing it before I did, and of course, Richard Curtis and Anne Sowards.

Dawn Cook

Chapter 1.

Alissa crept up the stairway, her skirts gripped tightly in her fists. Gaze fixed upon the landing, she felt for the next step, easing herself up in what she hoped looked like casual disinterest. This was not a good idea, she thought. She had been making Bailic's meals all winter and knew risking his attention was asking for trouble. Taking a slow breath, she hesitated, the opposing feelings of curiosity and common sense teetering in her. Pulse quickening, she resumed her upward motion. Curiosity won. Not that that was a surprise, she admitted.

She had woken as usual before dawn, pulled from her warm covers by a feeling of discontent. There was nothing different she could see about today than yesterday. The sparrows still pecked on the rooftops of the Hold, the ice mist rose as the sky brightened in a false dawn, the fires needed tending, and the mice ran when she turned corners.

But an unexplained restlessness, an itching to do something, had filled her. Even worse, she was unable to tell what needed doing. It almost seemed she should have done it already, and the feeling of having been remiss tugged at her. This morning, as her feet touched the floor, a strange need to find out what Bailic wanted for breakfast filled her. It pulled her up the tower stairs when a healthy measure of caution urged her to go the other way, back down to the kitchen. Up until today, she hadn't cared if the madman liked what she made for his breakfast or not. And she said mad, for anyone who claimed owners.h.i.+p of the Hold, when it clearly wasn't his, had to be mad. The only reason she made Bailic's meals was to keep him out of her kitchen. But now it seemed as if knowing what he wanted might end her discontent.

Alissa drew to a stop as she realized her fingertips were tingling. She dropped her gathered skirts and stared at her hands, her disquiet growing. "By the Hounds of the Navigator," she whispered, opening and closing her hands. Her fingers only tingled when she was near a dangerous ward, and then it was painful, not this warm sensation. This felt more like ...

"When I held my book of First Truth," she whispered in dismay, leaning back against the stone of the stairwell. A sound of self-disgust slipped from her. "Burn it to ash," she muttered. "Strell is going to have to pen me up like a nanny goat."

It was her book that had been filling her with this intolerable restlessness, enticing her to come and steal it back, not caring that if she were caught, Bailic would kill her. Last fall she had unknowingly followed its silent pull from her foothills farm across the mountains to the legendary Hold. Never would she have believed her papa's stories about the Hold were true and that her papa, Keeper Meson, had been anything other than the foothills farmer he had pretended to be.

Though she had found the Hold empty but for Bailic, a fallen Keeper, it had once been the home of the Masters, a race of winged scholars skilled in magic, posing as savage beasts called rakus. In return for small services and loyalty, the Masters taught a select group of people they called Keepers how touse their comparatively stunted magical abilities. The book of First Truth held the Masters' most powerful secrets. Now that all but one Master had been lured to their deaths by Bailic, the First Truth was possibly the only way to become a Keeper. And Bailic had taken it the moment she found it in the Hold's well, where her papa hid it fourteen years past.

She would sooner die than let Bailic keep it, but she wasn't going to steal it back today, and not under the guise of finding out what Bailic wanted for breakfast. That the fallen Keeper was going to use her book to put the foothills and plains at war seemed far away and distant next to her simple desire to possess its knowledge for herself. Her book was now resting in Bailic's chambers, as inaccessible as if it were at the bottom of the sea. But having touched it once, its pull upon her seemed all the stronger.

Alissa impatiently pushed her hair out of her eyes as she looked up the stairway, torn between being angry for not realizing why she was restless and being upset that she was so vulnerable to its call.

"Maybe," she breathed, clenching her hands to try to drown out the tingling, "I'll ask Bailic what he wants for breakfast anyway, just to look at my book." She gathered her skirts and took a step, unable to help herself. "I won't go in. Just look at it through the doorway." The First Truth was rightfully hers.

How dare Bailic, Keeper or not, claim it for himself. He couldn't even open it.

A m.u.f.fled twittering came from the stairway below her. Heart pounding, she spun, embarra.s.sed for having fallen victim to the book's call again so easily. Her kestrel, Talon, landed against the rough wall, gripping it awkwardly as the tight turn was too much to make in flight. Alissa's resolve faltered. Talon hated Bailic, often hissing and threatening violence when he was within earshot. Carrying on a conversation with Bailic, however stilted and contrived, would be impossible with her tiny defender near.

Her shoulders s.h.i.+fted, and she resolutely headed back to the kitchen. "Get off that wall," she said sourly as she pa.s.sed the robin-sized bird, still hanging by her claws. "You look silly like that." The kestrel twittered and, as if understanding, half jumped to Alissa's shoulder. Alissa ran a finger over the bird's markings, now faded with age. Together they wound their silent way down to the first floor and the Hold's great hall. The room stretched high to make a cavernous s.p.a.ce overlooked by the open balconies on the second, third, and fourth floors. Alissa's steps echoed against the barren walls. Pa.s.sing through the empty, unused dining hall, she entered the Hold's smallest of two kitchens. It was still larger than her entire home in the foothills.

As she leaned to tend the long-burning fire, Talon jumped from her shoulder to land neatly on the chandelier. The metal and chain swung slightly, and the bird's head s.h.i.+fted to keep Alissa in focus. Alissa went back to the sweet-roll dough she had started earlier. She pushed the dough down with a growing feeling of discouragement. Knowing her book had lured her into risking her life to try to take it did nothing for her confidence. Even now, that same jittery feeling had begun to nag at her, urging her to rise back up the stairs again.

Alissa tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear as she glanced up at the kitchen's one narrow window high overhead. Closing her eyes, she took three slow breaths as taught by her papa, willing her restless emotions away. Her eyes opened. The gray patch of light was noticeably brighter. The sun would be up soon. She was going to be late to the practice room with Bailic's breakfast. Even worse, Strell hadn't come down for his meal yet and was going to be late as well.

Perhaps, she wondered, she ought to wake him? Flus.h.i.+ng, she dusted the counter with flour and began coaxing the dough into a rectangle. Going to wake Strell wasn't prudent. The one time she had, she caught a glimpse of his uncovered feet. Bone and ash, she would have thought a well-bred plainsman would have the grace to sleep with his feet decently covered. She may as well have caught him naked in the rain. Perhaps it came from being a wandering piper for the last six years. But if he didn't come down soon, he was going to miss breakfast.

Deciding she couldn't wait any longer for Strell, she cut a slice of bread and set it over the fire to toast for her own breakfast. Talon s.h.i.+fted her feathers in an almost inaudible swish. "Why don't you go wakeStrell?" she whispered, half serious, and the bird jumped to the rafters.

Thoughts of Strell pulled Alissa's eyes to the mirror. There was flour on her nose, and knowing Strell would tease her if he saw it, she hurriedly brushed it off. He had found the reflection gla.s.s weeks ago, propping it up in the kitchen with the claim it added to the light. She hadn't noticed any difference, but it did give her a good view of the dining hall when she was standing by the hearth with her back to the archway. The tall plainsman seemed to have taken it upon himself to see to her safety, something she insisted she could see to herself.

Squinting at her reflection, fuzzy in the predawn gloom, she gathered her straight, fair hair and retied the ribbon holding it back. Her hair was driving her to distraction as Strell refused to cut it, holding a true lady had hair she could sit on. It was a plains tradition, one she didn't subscribe to. She preferred it short, as her foothills papa had liked it. Her mother, though, would be pleased with its length. It was brus.h.i.+ng the tops of her shoulders.

The small pouch hanging about her neck peeped from behind her shut, and she nervously tucked it back, glancing behind her at the dining hall. She wasn't sure, but she thought the dust the sack held was her source, the sphere of power she found in her thoughts somewhere between her reality and imagination. One day she would use it and the silvery web she saw with her mind's eye to make wards. If Bailic knew what the pouch contained, she was sure he would take it, killing her with no more thought than he had killed her papa.

Alissa took a pained breath and resolutely pushed the memory of her papa to the back of her mind.

He had died when she was five to prevent Bailic from discovering she existed. Bailic still didn't know whose daughter she was, and if he ever found out, her life wouldn't be worth the rolls she was making.

Turning back to her dough, she spread a thin layer of honey across the even rectangle. Living with the danger for so long seemed to have dulled her fear of it.

A faint scent of char slipped into her musings. But it wasn't until Talon chittered that Alissa looked up from her dismal thoughts to find her breakfast burning. "By the Hounds!" she cried as she swung the toasting fork from the fire and vainly tried to brush the black scorch from the toast with a towel. Talon's cluttering sounded like laughter, and Alissa gave up. Plucking the slice from the toasting fork, she tossed it clattering onto the waiting plate. Ruined. She stared at it, wondering if she ought to eat it anyway. The last time she refused to eat burnt toast, she was half a mountain away from her home when the sun had set. Omens were useless if ignored.

"Omens," she said with a soft scorn, glancing up and away from her bird. She didn't believe in such things. Alissa eyed Bailic's half-prepared breakfast tray, briefly entertaining the idea of giving the toast to him. Knowing it would result in a series of degrading, half-breed slurs, she rose to throw it away. She had the plate with its crusted char tipped over the slop bucket when Talon chittered a cheery greeting.

"Don't throw that out!" came Strell's voice from the open archway, and she spun around, embarra.s.sed he had caught her throwing food away. His usual early morning, sleepy countenance was stirred to life with an indignant accusation.

"I burnt it," she said, holding out the plate as proof. "We've plenty of bread."

Strell was plains born and looked it, being almost awkwardly tall and thin despite the volumes of food he ate. His hair was dark and gently curling as was everyone's from the desert, nearly as long as hers, and pulled back with a metal clip. Clean shaven, his skin was as brown in the dead of winter as the sun turned hers at the height of summer. They had met in the mountains: she following the pull from her book, he running from the tragic demise of his family in an unprecedented desert flood. Their different backgrounds dictated they were to hate each other, but somewhere, in their joined efforts to remain alive, she had forgotten how. Occasionally, in the deep stillness of the night, she dared believe he might be flaunting the wrath of both the foothills and plains and have grown to truly like her.Strell came forward, his brown eyes failing to hide his amus.e.m.e.nt for having caught her in an embarra.s.sing moment. Saying nothing, he plucked the plate from her grasp. Strell never threw out food, often spending inordinate amounts of time making her toss-outs into something edible. It was probably a remnant from his chosen profession and never knowing where his next meal was coming from. Settling himself at his usual breakfast spot, he pulled the jam pot closer. He ladled a huge helping onto the blackened bread and took a bite. "See? It's fine," he said around an ash-ridden mouthful.

Alissa scrunched her eyes as she imagined the acrid taste. "You know, it would be less wasteful to throw out a single slice of bread than to use half a pot of jam to make it edible."

He gave her a half smile and arched his eyebrows. "Not nearly as tasty, though," he said as he caught a drip of jam with his finger.

Giving him a last, pained look, she cut a second slice of bread and set it close to the fire. Strell methodically devoured his breakfast, silent but for the obvious crunches. With a rush of air and warning chitter, Talon dropped from the rafters to Strell's hastily raised fist.

"Morning, bird," he said gruffly, not seeming to mind the pinch of her talons as he offered her a crumb. Alissa watched, amus.e.m.e.nt pulling up the corners of her mouth, as the kestrel predictably refused. Seeing no meat forthcoming, the bird worried at his fingers, finally retreating back to the ceiling with a helpful toss from Strell. He rose to his feet as he finished his toast, clearly looking for something more to eat. Giving Alissa a sly look, he dipped a spoon in a pot set to warm at the edge of the fire and pulled out a thick, glistening strand of melted sweet. "M-m-m. What's this?"

"That's my candied-apple syrup," she blurted. It was supposed to have been a surprise for tonight's dinner, and her brow pinched in feminine outrage as he stuck the spoon in his mouth. "Stop that!" she protested, knowing he was teasing her but unable to stop.

Strell grinned as he licked the spoon clean. "You aren't supposed to know how to make candied apples. It's a plains secret. Did your mother teach you her recipe? It's a good one."

"Then keep your fingers out of it," she said tartly but was too pleased he thought it good to be angry.

Going back to her dough, she rolled the rectangle into a squat log shape and began to cut slices. Strell hovered over her shoulder, trying to snitch a bit of unattended dough. She skillfully thwarted his attempts, surprised when she was unable to find her usual contentment in their silent, long-running game of thief and guard.

She was tired of being silent. Tired of the pattern her days had fallen into. Bailic knew one of them had come in search of the book of First Truth. Thanks to Strell's skillful acting and distractions, the man had been deceived into thinking Strell was the latent Keeper, not her. For the last four weeks, Bailic had been trying to teach Strell enough magic so he could open the book for him. And though she had mended all her stockings and made a new skirt while eavesdropping on Strell's lessons, she had learned little about how to manipulate her hidden source and tracings. The idea had been that Useless, the last Master, would secretly teach her, and she would perform the magic for Strell without Bailic knowing, buying time until the Master found a way to kill Bailic. But Useless hadn't returned to teach her anything, Strell was running out of excuses, and Bailic was growing impatient.

It was all Useless's fault, she thought, her lips pressing together in misplaced frustration as she thunked the knife on the table to warn off Strell's reaching fingers. The Master had introduced himself to her last fall with the pseudonym Useless. She would just as soon keep using it, seeing as it seemed to be more appropriate than his real name, Talo-Toecan. Useless had flitted away on his raku, batlike wings with only his whispered promise to return. He wasn't ever coming back. Counting on him was-useless?

She should take things into her own hands. Soon.

"I've been thinking," she said slowly, not sure how Strell would react. His cautious plainsman nature made him more inclined to follow a wait-and-see approach rather than her try-and-see philosophy. "Thesnow isn't that deep yet. We could make it to the coast. Then we won't have to stay the winter here. It's not too late."

Strell took the toast off the fire and set it on a plate for her. "There's snow on the ground. It's too late," he said shortly, stretching to reach the b.u.t.ter tin.

"Still," she said. "If we get enough blankets from the annexes-"

He looked up from b.u.t.tering her toast, a wary, knowing look in his eyes. "You're thinking about stealing your book back, aren't you." It wasn't a question, and Alissa flushed for Strell having guessed her plans. He leaned halfway over the table towards her. "Just what are you going to do?" he asked. "Go up to his rooms under some pretense and s.n.a.t.c.h it?"

"Useless isn't coming back," she protested.

"What about the ward on Bailic's door?" he asked. "You'd be trapped until he gave you permission to leave."

Her breath hissed out in vexation. He wasn't even listening. Grinding her teeth, she continued to cut the rolls. "I can break any ward," she grumbled.

"You cannot," he said, shooting a glance at the open archway and the dining hall. "You have no idea what you're doing with your source and tracings."

"I'm not going to go into Bailic's room." Turning from her almost lie, she settled a roll upon the baking stone. "Today," she finished softly.

"And even if you did manage to get out of his room, what's to stop him from taking it back? It's winter, Alissa. There's nowhere to go! The coast is a three-week trip from here in good weather. The snow is up to my knees."

Alissa wouldn't meet his eyes. "I'm tired of waiting," she said plaintively.

"But to risk your Me for it? It's just a book."

"It isn't just a book!" Alissa shouted, unable to fathom herself just what kind of a hold it had on her.

Ever since pulling it from its hiding spot, it seemed as if it contained something she needed. But she wasn't missing anything. Confused and wanting to end the argument, she dusted her hands free of the flour and picked up Bailic's half-empty tray.

Strell was right behind her. "Where are you going? We aren't done with this yet."

"Upstairs to the practice room," she said with a forced brightness. "You're late, you know. Why don't you take the tray up for me?"

"I will, and stop trying to change the subject." He pulled the tray from her and set it down. Alissa slumped where she stood. "Be reasonable, Alissa," he coaxed, his tone abruptly softening. "There's nowhere to run, even if you could get your book. And if he catches you, he'll kill you for it. He's killed for it before."

Miserable, she caught her breath. Reminding her of her papa's death wasn't fair. "I know, Strell," she said. "Just stop." Her eyes flicked to his as he took her chin and gently turned her to him. The soft concern in his expression surprised her. It almost seemed he understood. Perhaps he did. He knew loss.

It was easy to forget, when he never let it show.

"I'm sorry," he said gently. "But you had some plan to take it, didn't you?"

She lowered her eyes. There was nothing she could say. If she ever found her book unattended, she didn't know if she could stop herself.

Strell let go of her and turned, seeming as frustrated as she. "I don't know what to do anymore," hesaid with a quiet urgency, "except wait. Master Talo-Toecan knows what he's doing. He will come up with an idea."

Talo-Toecan, she thought darkly. He was Useless to her, now and forever.

An aggressive hiss came from the rafters, and she glanced up to see Talon's feathers raised like the hackles of a dog. She was glaring beyond them to the open archway to the dining hall. A faint shout echoed into the kitchen, and Alissa and Strell exchanged a worried look. "That's Bailic," she said, putting her untouched toast on his tray. Her appet.i.te was gone.

"Well, there's no one else it could be, is there." Strell had said it as if making a jest, but he immediately picked up the tray and turned to go.

"I'll finish my rolls and be up in a moment," Alissa said, her earlier bluff and bl.u.s.ter evaporating in the cold shock of reality. Bailic had broken the conditioning that kept Keepers from using their wards to harm, emptying the Hold of students and Keepers with his self-taught lessons of murder with magic. If she couldn't keep her desire for her book hidden, Bailic would realize he was being deceived. Anonymity was her only defense until Useless tutored her on how to use the maze of tracings that lay in her unconscious.

"Will you be all right until I get there?" she asked as he went into the dining hall.

"Yes. I've got it." Strell turned and gave her a tired smile. "I won't forget my lines."

She returned his smile, but it vanished quickly. She had coached Strell endlessly on what her source and tracings looked like so he could answer Bailic's questions properly, but she worried when she wasn't up there to catch any possible mistakes.

"I'll be fine." Strell gave her a solemn nod, clearly pleased to see her slip into the unaccustomed role of meek and mild. The slight clattering of the dishes seemed loud as he left.

She turned back to her rolls and blinked. One was missing. He had stolen it right out from under her nose. It was the second time this week! "Strell!" she called loudly after him. "Burn you to as.h.!.+" But a smile crossed her face as his laugh came echoing back. Next time, she would catch him.

A sharp snap broke the silence, and she pulled her head up, wondering what it was. The kitchen was empty except for her and Talon. But the small bird was staring at the narrow door leading to the expansive kitchen garden. It was really more of a walled-in slice of wood and field, but there were a few herbs that had yet to go wild.

The tap came again. She straightened, not in fear but curiosity. Glancing at Talon, she wiped her hands free of flour. It had sounded almost like the peck of a bird. She tip-toed to the door and held her breath as she leaned closer, listening. A third tap echoed thinly. This time she heard a small rattle as something clattered against the stone sill on the other side of the door.

Someone was throwing stones at the garden door.

Immediately she reached for the handle and pushed. It wasn't Bailic, and it wasn't Strell. That only left one presence: Useless.

A thrill of excitement tinged with relief went through her as she stepped outside into the cold, clasping her arms around herself. He hadn't forgotten her. The postdawn chill seemed to catch in her nose, and puffs of air marked her breathing. The sun was s.h.i.+ning on the upper reaches of the Hold, but the ground was still in shadow. She looked across the silent lumps of snow the dormant vegetation made. Where was he?

"Here," a low, deep voice whispered, and her gaze darted to the tall, unclimbable wall surrounding the garden. The wall stood higher than two man lengths, and perched upon it like an errant goat was Useless.The raku was in his human form, dressed in a yellow s.h.i.+rt with overly expansive sleeves and a matching pair of trousers. He had no coat, but he wore a sleeveless vest so long it went down to cover his unseen boots. It was bound tightly to his waist with a black scarf, the ends of which reached the top of the frozen wall. He let a handful of pebbles drop, and Alissa struggled to pull her eyes from his hands.

His fingers were long, looking as if they had four segments rather than three. His eyes, too, couldn't hide his raku nature and were a startling gold. Though not seeming old, he clearly was far from youth, his short cap of white hair and eyebrows making him appear older than his lightly wrinkled face would make him look otherwise. Even standing atop the wall he possessed a quiet strength that Alissa envied. And he had promised to teach her.

"Useless!" she exclaimed, knowing he wouldn't be here if Bailic could see him from the practice window. She gathered her skirts to step into the snow, but a rough sound stopped her.

"No," he said, motioning her to stay. His eyes traveled up the Hold's tower, and his thin lips pressed together as if in worry. "Tonight," he whispered. "Wait up for me."

"Tonight?" she repeated, then caught her breath as the Master dissolved into a gray mist. There was a tug on her awareness, jolting her. "Useless, wait," she cried, stepping out into the snow as the mist grew and solidified into the ma.s.sive bulk of a raku.

She stopped dead in her tracks with an instinctive fear. He was as large as six horses put together, with teeth as long as her arm and eyes as big as her head. She swallowed hard as the sinuous beast turned his head to her and raised an impossibly long finger to his snout, clearly admonis.h.i.+ng her to be quiet. His muscles bunched under his golden hide, and Alissa stepped involuntarily back to the threshold as, with one downward push of his wings, he became airborne. The Master headed east over the trees towards the unseen, abandoned city of Ese' Nawoer, a morning's walk away.

Alissa bit back a cry of surprise as Talon darted out over her head with a screech of outrage, following the huge raku as if driving it away. Tonight? Alissa thought as her toes turned cold and the chill settled into her. He was coming back tonight?

Chapter 2.

An irregular drumming s.h.i.+fted the air as Bailic waited, his pale fingers tapping the arm of the chair. It was the only noise in the narrow practice room. "He will be late again," Bailic said, not caring that he was talking to himself. He rose to stand before the row of tall windows. Meson had once told him the roofs of the long-abandoned city, Ese' Nawoer, were visible from here. For Bailic, though, the spectacular view was a blur of blue, brown, and green in the summer, s.h.i.+fting to blue, brown, and white in the winter. Right now it was gray with the unrisen sun.

His nearly pink eyes were almost useless and abnormally sensitive to light, but it was only in the strong sun he could see much of anything. Even so, he avoided the sun as his transparent skin burned frighteningly fast. His hair, too, was the color of faded straw instead of the dark brown all plainsmen had, and so he kept it cut close to his skull to minimize its tendency to make him look old. As if to make up for his lack of color, he had taken to wearing black. Reluctant to abandon his stolen Master's vest, he wore it open over his traditional Keeper garb of a gray, wide-sleeved tunic and trousers. He had donned the soft-soled shoes the Masters had insisted on behind the Hold's walls, not out of respect but for his occasional need for stealth. A puckered scar ran from behind an ear, across his neck, and under his s.h.i.+rt.

It had been a parting gift from Talo-Toecan more than a decade ago, and it still hurt when the air wasdamp. Raku score was long to heal.