Truth - Hidden Truth Part 11

He nodded sharply. "Only the wealthier families are allowed to trade directly with the foothills. A starving man has a very short temper, especially when surrounded by food." His eyes dropped. "It would create too many problems. If you get thin, your name loses its chartered status. It's very rare you get it back."

Alissa was silent, only now understanding why Strell put so much pride in his name.

"Don't think too badly of Shay or my family," he said in a rush. "She was only doing what she thought best. There were the rest of my sisters, and aunts, and all the children to think about. It's difficult," he said, his eyes downcast, "living on the edge of abundance, never being allowed in. A bad decision can often mean the loss of an entire season's work."

"I'm sorry, Strell," she apologized again. "I had no idea."

"Don't be. Not many from the foothills know." He smiled faintly. "Your innocence of the true state of affairs was intentional, and now that you know, you will keep it to yourself."

Astonished, she blinked. "Beg your pardon?"

Strell hesitated, then slowly exhaled. "What do you think would happen if it was widely known the plains are, at times, full of famine and want?"

"There would be an outpouring of goods!" Alissa a.s.serted.

He shook his head. "The price of grain would go up."

"No," she demanded.

"Yes," he whispered, his gaze distant. "The hills would band together and boycott our goods, trying to starve us out. Not willing to allow our children to go hungry, we would undoubtedly steal what we needed, laying waste to what we couldn't carry away.""Hounds," she said, knowing he was right. It was all she could manage.

"Hush." Strell stood up, clearly wanting to end the discussion. "The plains and foothills have been bartering for years. They won't stop now."

He went back to his bowls, and knowing how hard it was for him to talk about his family, Alissa bent back over her work to give him some privacy. The wheel had almost stopped, and she kicked it back up to speed. Her bowl was the furthest thing from her mind, and so she promptly b.u.mped it, gasping as it collapsed in the quick sound of slapping clay. "Oh, no," she moaned. "Now I have to start all over."

Alissa's eyes went miserably to the wall. The sun was gone.

Strell silently c.o.c.ked his head at the ceiling and the disappearing light. He smiled and turned away, pretending he didn't see.

"Thanks," she said shyly. Still not meeting her eyes, he made a small noise. Alissa thought he was pleased she was showing so much interest in his first craft, despite his efforts to get her away from his wheel. He did have a point though. It had been three days, but she was as bad now as when she started.

She was cold and hungry, and the daft thing was never going to look the way she wanted it. "Strell?" Her whisper broke the quiet, and he turned. "Will you show me how?"

He broke into a soft grin and nodded. Alissa began to rise so he could take her place, but he motioned her to stay. Much to her surprise, he pulled a stool up across from her and sat down. His long leg went out, and with a few practiced kicks, the wheel was spinning. "Here," he said as he reached out and took her hands into his own. Her eyes widened at his touch, and together, with her fingers between the clay and his, they gathered the mangled bits of clay into a small hill.

"Do you feel it humming?" he asked. She nodded, not sure what to make of his casual contact. But it did seem as if the clay under her palms was humming. "That means it's centered," he said. "Now, notice the continuous pressure needed to change its shape." Their hands shifted, and she started as the edge of her palm found the gritty, spinning wheel. "As with any endeavor, it's always best to lure changes from the bottom," he said softly, his eyes fixed upon the clay. "Starting in the middle only ruins the beginning and the end, much as it does a good story."

He leaned closer, his head almost touching hers, and she stiffened. Strell nodded. "Yes. That's better.

If you're hesitant, it will rebel and run away from you. But if you're too bold, it will do the same. Clay requires more of-an enticement?"

Under their combined pressure, the hill turned into a perfectly circular, squat column. Her eyes were drawn to his mutilated hand. Their fingers were intertwined, making his pinky difficult to find. Up to now he had tried to hide it, refusing even to let her see it closely and make sure it was healing properly, but here, trying to teach her his first craft, he had allowed himself to forget. A small knot of worry in her began to ease.

"But if you have a gentle firmness," he continued, "and know exactly the limits of your mastery, it will respond willingly to anything you ask." Their joined thumbs sank into the clay to make a well. Beneath his fingers gray with mud, the hollow cylinder thinned and rose to become a delicate vase. She watched, enthralled with how easy he made it seem. It was more like magic than a skill. "And perhaps," he said, preoccupied with his task, "create something you might never expect."

His other foot went out, and using his heel, he slowed the flywheel until it was barely moving. Taking her finger, he traced a close spiral from the bottom up. She allowed him to shift her hand, letting him do as he wished, wanting him to know she didn't mind.

"My father," he said softly, "maintained much as a fiery-tempered woman, clay had to be forced into obedience." He paused, eyeing the gently moving spiral. "I disagree. I believe clay must be charmed, thereby not forfeiting any of its own temperamental spirit, but rather lending it to the potter's skills, supplementing it, allowing him to craft far more that he could make alone."The wheel stopped. In the new hush, Alissa look questioningly at Strell. He was contemplating their work, more content than she had ever seen him. Her heart went out to him, knowing his music had been a large part of him and now it was gone. Perhaps he could find solace in being a potter again. A sigh slipped from him. His lips parted and he blinked, clearly only now realizing their hands were yet intertwined. Still, she smiled, and seeing it, he relaxed.

"You see?" he said, his voice pitched lower. "It's a matter of gentle firmness joined with a willingness to let the clay show you its own desires, and the ability to meld those desires with your own."

She nodded, her pulse quickening with the question of what would happen next.

"I think we should keep this one," Strell a.s.serted softly, and she nodded again, waiting. His head tilted, and he leaned closer to her over the clay. Her breath caught.

But then Talon winged in, landing on the table before them in a backwash of unmitigated hostility.

Feathers raised like the hackles of an angry dog, she stalked stiffly forward, growing more and more agitated. Small sounds resembling cracking ice came from her, and Alissa's eyes widened. It was her bird's tiny nails, snapping on the table.

A flash of ire flickered behind Strell's eyes, and he sighed in resignation. "All right, old bird," he grumbled as he disentangled their fingers and reluctantly stood. "I was just showing your mistress the finer points of throwing a pot." Still hissing, Talon fluttered up to the rafters. Her shadow lay upon the table like a cold warning, watching.

Strell ran a length of twine under their vase to loosen it from the wheel. Fingers carefully s.p.a.ced, he gently shifted it free and moved it to the drying table, covering it with a light piece of damp cloth so it wouldn't dry too quickly and perhaps crack.

Alissa remained where she was, disgusted with her bird's bad timing. It wasn't until Strell began to wash the clay from his fingers that she rose, stiff, sore, and muddy. Ignoring Talon's muttered comments, Alissa cleaned what she could of herself, resolving to do a better job later. She was lost in a mix of embarra.s.sment and frustration when she turned to see Strell crouched by the vase, knife in hand.

"There," he said, and extended the knife to her. "Your turn."

"My turn?" she said, coughing to clear her throat as her voice cracked.

"Your name," he prompted. "I can tell already this piece is worth keeping. It will withstand the heat of the fire. You have to put your name upon it before it dries."

"Doesn't that go on the underside?" she asked, sure that was were she had seen such marks in the past.

"Yes. But as we're not going to sell it, it can go anywhere we want. And I do want both our names upon this," he said, glancing nervously to the rafters.

"Oh." Alissa took the knife, glancing at him as their fingers seemed to touch intentionally. Down at the narrow footing were a series of subtle scratches that she recognized as Strell's name. Crouching, she carefully traced hers next to his. "Done," she said firmly, straightening her back with a wince.

Strell bent low, examining her handiwork. He looked at her, then back down.

"Is there something wrong with the way I write my name?" Alissa asked. He had shown her how to write her name in his script on their way to the Hold. She had returned the favor, giving his name the symbol for stone, as in dense, after spending three extra days slogging through briars because of his "short cut." But his script looked so stiff and boring. She had signed the vase as her papa taught her, in a graceful character consisting of a continuous swoop and swirl. It was small, but clearly enough written using the symbol for luck.

"No," he said softly. "It's just that-" He stopped, shaking his head."Just what?"

"Your name has the same pattern as your luck charm," he finished apologetically.

Alissa's eyebrows went up, and her gaze went down. Crouching again, she pulled her charm out from a pocket, unwrapped it, and compared the two. "You're right!" she exclaimed quietly, and a chill ran through her. How had the Masters' jealousy guarded script made it into the plains in such a blatant display as a luck charm?

Talon, up in the rafters, finally went still.

Chapter 13.

"Sleep well, Alissa," Strell whispered. Shutting her door behind him, he slumped back against the wall with a contented sigh, smiling in the darkness that engulfed the hall. It was the middle of the night, but he was wide awake. Alissa's restless sleep had woken him not long ago, and he had gone to quiet her as usual. It was the third time in the last four days. He didn't mind, though it made his early mornings all the more difficult. She never woke fully, and so he was free to treat her as he would like. All it had taken was a softly sung lullaby and a gentle kiss on her fingertips, still rough and gritty from her valiant efforts this afternoon.

He grinned as he levered himself into motion, recalling her pathetic attempts at throwing a pot. They had been astonishingly terrible. Her persistence, though, was marvelous. Imagine, he chuckled, suffering three entire days before asking for help! It had been a real test of his willpower, watching her missteps and not offering to show her what to do, but she needed to ask, or his advice would have been disregarded.

Bypa.s.sing his door, Strell continued to the stairs, running a hand along the wall to find his way.

Something needed his immediate attention, something that required the night's clandestine shadow, an unfulfilled desire.

Desire. Strell's smile deepened as the image of Alissa at his wheel flashed through his mind. Hounds, he had almost managed to steal a kiss. She had looked grand, mud-splattered and cranky, her eyes bright in frustration. And she had asked for help. And he had obliged. And then there had been that warm, inviting look in her eyes, both shocking and delighting him. Burn that bird of hers to ash for interrupting.

He didn't care that her background was mixed. His years of travel had expunged his ingrained prejudice of anyone not from the plains. But the harsh reality was, a plainsman joining with a "foothills wh.o.r.e" might result in the loss of their lives; the hate between their two cultures ran that deep. His family, though, was dead, and Alissa's parents had survived being a mixed union. He was sure her father wouldn't have disapproved solely because he was plains, and Alissa's mother would probably be pleased, knowing he came from a chartered name. They could live without recrimination on the coast.

Everyone looked different there.

Alissa balanced against him better than any other he had cared to spend time with, and there had, he admitted, been a few. At least one every winter since leaving home. But he liked Alissa. He didn't care what the rest of the world thought.

Hesitating in the lighter darkness at the landing, Strell gingerly felt for the first step. He eased himself down, finding the stair's pattern. Upon reaching the ground floor, he slipped into the dining hall.Something was calling him, drawing him from his warm bed, and he could do nothing but submit.

The light was almost nonexistent as the moon was a thin arc that wouldn't show until nearly dawn.

Shadows were thick where none should exist. It was absolutely silent. Even the mice were asleep. Strell skulked through the cold dining hall, his pace quickening in time with his pulse as he went into the kitchen.

Ghosting past the banked hearth, he slunk to a cloth-covered plate. There was a single, furtive look behind him, and then, sighing in antic.i.p.ation, he gently lifted the cloth to reveal two candied apples. "Ah,"

he whispered lovingly. "There you are." With a quick s.n.a.t.c.h, he had the plate and was halfway across the room, fleeing his misdeed. Alissa would a.s.sume Bailic had eaten them. He would do nothing to change her belief.

Inexcusably pleased, he sniffed deeply, feeling his mouth begin to water as he pa.s.sed through the dining room to sit upon the lowest stair in the great hall. The first, deep bite of the sugared delicacy filled his mouth, and a slight moan escaped him. His eyes closed in bliss as the juice dripped sticky from him.

Ashes. They were perfect.

Apart from Alissa's cooking, he hadn't seen a candied apple since leaving his homeland. They were a plains delicacy. Alissa's mother would've taught her the vigilantly guarded secret. Wolves, but Alissa's recipe was a good one. Worth every st.i.tch of her bride price.

Slowly, the faint aroma of pine came to him, mixing with the apple spice in an unsettlingly familiar scent. Strell's head came up, and he set the plate with the remaining apple on the step and licked his fingers as he tried to shake the sensation of being watched. It was ludicrous, but he was beginning to think the distinctive aroma was the telltale sign of Lodesh.

Strell's mood shifted to a wary watchfulness. He wasn't quite sure what to think of Lodesh, the supposed Warden of the abandoned city. Alissa had shown him the handsome staff he had given her-she had since hidden it in the kitchen behind the apples-and told him about her midnight tea party with Talo-Toecan and the Warden. Part of him was relieved he hadn't been seeing things in the grove of ancient trees and that Alissa, not Bailic, had woken the city, but he didn't like ghosts. The plains were full of them, making his skin crawl and his head hurt.

Even worse, every time he asked Alissa about Lodesh, she blushed and changed the subject. He couldn't help the sharp, surprising flash of jealousy at the thought of someone other than himself charming Alissa, and Lodesh sounded too substantial to be a true ghost.

From the dark came a faint sound, pulling his gaze up and around behind him. He listened, frowning with the effort. It was the whisper of fabric against stone. Thinking Alissa was up and about, he frantically looked for a place to stash the plate. But his guilt turned to astonishment as Bailic's outline hesitated at the top of the stair. "Bailic,"

Strell muttered, brushing his shirt free of the brown of wayward spice. "I should have known."

"Piper?" Bailic seemed uncharacteristically surprised as well. "I wasn't seeking you."

Unwilling to let Bailic loom over him, Strell gripped the banister and pulled himself to a stand. Bailic made his slow way down to halt on the last step. Strell eyed the fallen Keeper suspiciously, clenching his hand to hide his weakness.

"Your night is restless?" Bailic said, no hint to his emotion in his tone.

"Yes." With a false impa.s.sivity, Strell stood before Bailic. None of his growing hatred showed, hidden behind years of dealing with contrary landowners and balky innkeepers. Bailic had taken his finger, his music, his chosen way of life, but he would not take his pride.

"My night is restless, too." Bailic's gaze slid to the plate on the stair, and a whisper of a smile drifted over him. "She makes a wicked sugared apple, doesn't she?""She does."

Bailic adjusted the long vest he wore open over his shirt and trousers. "She might make them for me, someday," he said slyly, "if she agrees to act as my eyes."

"She hates you. Bailic," Strell said, his voice flat. "She won't."

Bailic's eyes rolled to the far ceiling, an insulting sigh escaping him. "She didn't tell you of our conversation in the hall?" Bailic stepped closer, a taunt eagerness in him that Strell didn't trust. "I asked her to stay and be my eyes when the book is open. She agreed to consider it."

Strell drew back, and Bailic laughed, a soft murmur of sound. "Don't hold it against her," he said.

"She's only looking out for her well-being. She knows I'm going to bring the foothills and plains to war. I can protect her." His lips curved into a smile. "You can't."

His jaw clenched, and Strell's grip on the banister grew to a white-knuckled strength. He wondered if the conversation had really taken place or if Bailic was goading him, trying to make him react so he could justify taking off another finger. It wouldn't work. He wasn't a child to be manipulated that easily. "She won't agree to it," he said. "She hates you more than I do."

The fallen Keeper's shoulders shifted, and he leaned confidently against the banister. His smiled deepened. "Really?" Stooping low, he retrieved the plate with the remaining apple. "I'm glad to have found you tonight. There is the small matter of your studies we need to talk about."

Strell tried to make his step backward look casual. His missing digit throbbed in remembered hurt, and he pulled his hand close. Frustration burned as Bailic noticed and raised his eyebrows. Strell would nearly give his soul for five minutes with Bailic as his equal.

"Your skills seem to have reached another unfortunate plateau," the Keeper said, his voice light as he took a bite of the apple. "You haven't shown any progress this last week. What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm trying very hard," Strell said softly, his breathing shallow. "You said yourself I was doing third-year tasks. I can't learn everything overnight."

"Mind your tone," Bailic warned as he brushed his vest free of the fallen sugar crystals with a free hand. "It's up to you how fast you learn. The tasks are third-year only because the Masters were jealous with their secrets. I'm not." He smiled benevolently. "I'm very generous. And I won't wait twenty years for you. You will have that book open by summer."

"Summer!" Strell said, aghast. "That's impossible."

"I hope not, my piper, for your sake." Bailic took another bite with a mocking slowness.

A thick feeling of helplessness, of being trapped, welled up in him. It was a feeling Strell wasn't used to, and he nearly panicked at the unfamiliar tightness about his thoughts. He backed away, remembering the humiliation of being under Bailic's ward, unable to do anything but watch as the Keeper removed the first joint of his finger as easily as Strell might a dandelion head.

But pain came to pa.s.s, and his music was already dead, killed in his effort to keep Alissa safe. It was a sacrifice he didn't regret. What did it matter now if he had nine usable fingers or eight? Bailic's threats of more mutilations were empty. Strell drew himself up with a new courage. "You've taken away everything I cared about already," he said, his voice harsh.

Seeming unruffled, Bailic took another bite of the apple, his attention focused entirely on the sweet.

"Not quite everything," he said. "It's foolish to become attached to anything, especially that girl you brought with you." He placed the last bite of apple in his mouth and chewed reflectively. "I do believe I'm going to keep her."Strell's eyes widened. "She won't stay once the book is open," he said, as much to a.s.sure himself as deny Bailic's claim.

Bailic pushed the plate at Strell until he took it. "I never said she was going to like the situation. I only said I'm going to keep her." He turned as if the conversation were over and took a step upward.

"You agreed to leave her alone," Strell said as he followed him. "You got the cursed book. Leave her alone!" he shouted, not caring if he tempted Bailic's anger or not. The Keeper paused, and Strell came to an abrupt halt below him.

"The agreement with Talo-Toecan ends when the book is opened," Bailic said. "I'm not going to break my word." Leaning over him, Bailic whispered, "I don't need to. But what if she should knock on my door-again? Who am I to coldly turn such an innocent from my chambers-a second time?" A white eyebrow rose. "I'll not be accused of being rude."

Strell's throat tightened. He couldn't attack Bailic. The man would take his entire hand off. But his guile and distractions weren't working anymore. He couldn't protect Alissa from this! Strell's blood pounded in his temple, and he took a ragged breath. He couldn't do anything! "I won't let you keep her,"

he gasped out, and Bailic shook his head.

"Silly man," Bailic taunted. "You'll probably be dead. It depends entirely on how fast you open the book."

"Threatening her won't encourage me to open it," he said, the hurt from his nails digging into his palm breaking into his awareness.

"I think it will. Open it fast enough, and I may reconsider. The longer it takes, the more-fond-I'll become of her." Bailic smiled. "Study hard, Piper."