First Truth Read online

  It seemed a good bet it was true. Alissa knew rakus might be about—she was in the mountains, their preferred hunting grounds—but she had never seen one before.

  Up until recently they were said to have been a daily hazard of farming in the foothills. Even now when a sheep went missing, it was blamed on the leathey-winged hunters, never on the thief who probably took it. Her papa claimed they had once been as common as beggars on market day, and that he used to have long conversations with one in particular. That, Alissa scorned, was ridiculous. Everyone knew rakus were no more than wings and appetite.

  The beast had dropped into the valley, but unless it was going for a swim, there was nowhere to land. It was probably already gone, a possibility she emphatically hoped was true. She was bigger than a sheep, but rakus weren’t known for their discriminating taste. They were the most feared predators of the mountains, said to be behind many a lost traveler.

  Easing her blanket closer to Talon, Alissa settled herself to try and sleep, shunning the cover of the pines for the more certain safety of the fire. The crickets had returned full force, and her small falcon’s grip was again loose. Talon’s feathers were fluffed for sleep, and she wasn’t even looking at the sky. Her bird, Alissa realized, spotted the beast long before she had. If Talon was calm, she would be, too. “Brave words, Alissa,” she whispered, “but rather impractical.”

  As she gazed sleeplessly into the night with her blanket clutched about her, she considered the uncomfortable fact that she wasn’t the only one watching the sky. The realization left her uneasy in a way the raku hadn’t. Someone else was out here. Traveling alone wasn’t smart, and though Alissa knew her fire made her safe from wolves and rakus, nothing could guarantee her safety from her fellow human beings. There was a small comfort in that whoever it was would probably be headed east out of the mountains. Only an idiot such as herself, she contended, would start the crossing this time of year. If she made it through tomorrow without seeing anyone, she could forget the entire incident.

  Sighing, Alissa turned from the fire to the moonless skies. It was going to be a long night.

  3

  Strell reached up, straining as the sweat trickled into his eyes, his fingers searching for the lip of the rock face. Pebbles and dust sifted over him as he found the edge. Im-Pebbles and dust sifted over him as he found the edge. Immediately it crumbled. Eyes wide, he scrambled for another hold, his heart pounding as he felt his grip slip.

  He flung his hand higher, and this time the earth held. Blowing in relief, he clung to the rock face and risked a glance down. Strell swallowed hard. “Bone and Ash,” he whispered. “Why am I doing this?” Because, he answered himself, if you don’t catch up with whoever was on top of this bluff last night, you’ll never find anyone who’ll believe you saw a raku. Only mad men and fools claimed to have seen a raku that close and lived to tell of it.

  Strell looked down again and closed his eyes against the fall. “It’s not worth it,” he breathed, pressing himself tight to the rock face. But the skills he had gained as a boy, tagging after his brothers as they climbed about the walls of their desert ravine, served him well. His muscles tensed, and as he found a new toehold, he levered himself up, wedging an elbow over the edge. With a groan and a scattering of rocks, he hauled himself over the lip of the cliff.

  Flat on his back, Strell lay at the edge of the cliff and laughed weakly at how foolish it had been to try to climb straight up. “But I made it,” he said with a breathless chuckle. Whoever he was following must have gotten up another way, but he couldn’t see how.

  High in the southwest, a falcon rode the thermals. Strell’s eyes followed it as it stooped after something by the lake. As if its disappearance was a signal, he rolled to his feet and untied the thin rope from his belt. Peering down the cliff face, he pulled his pack and coat up. The rope was carefully coiled and placed into his pack before he turned to investigate the abandoned camp.

  His fellow traveler was alone, he decided, as there was only one smoothed area by the fire where a bedroll had been. The firepit held a staggering amount of half-charred wood, still smoldering with the dusky scent of security. He smiled, imagining he would have used more if he sighted a raku from here. They were solitary hunters, shunning mankind but for the occasional raid when the cold bit deep, vanishing like wolves into the cursed fog the mountains were afflicted with.

  Strell’s hope rose as he saw the beginnings of a trail headed east into the heavy woods. He would have to set a fast pace to catch up with his fellow traveler before he reached the plains and the trail became confused. The traveler had to be headed to the plains. Only a fool would risk crossing the mountains this late. Strell was a passable tracker, and he was anxious to ask him about not only the raku but the music. It had been a long time since he’d played a tune so hauntingly beautiful, and he wanted to hear it again. He hadn’t caught all the nuances last night.

  Strell ran a hand over the thick bristles on his chin with a sudden thought. Perhaps he should get rid of his beard first. He was nearing familiar territory. It would be symbolic, he thought, taking off his hat and digging through his pack for his soap and mirror. He would leave his barbaric beard behind with the barbaric mountains. It wouldn’t take long, he rationalized. The person he was trailing might be someone he knew—and he did have a reputation to uphold.

  With a soft sound of satisfaction, Strell took a fold of cloth woven with the likeness of seaweed from his pack, unfolding it to find his mirror. The unusual fabric was for his mother. For his father he had a packet of salt. It had taken him a week to convince the salter to teach him how, but he made it himself. Also hidden among the folds of cloth was a blunt knife, jar of ink, packet of wax, a pair of dice made out of fish bones, and a new kind of knot. They were for his brothers. For his sisters he had a satchel of dry, purple glaze, an anklet bell, two evenly matched shells, and a tightly wrapped slab of soap reeking of flowers. Surprisingly enough, the bell had been the most expensive of the lot, costing even more than the mirror.

  Strell took the cracked glass from its box, propping it up reverently before him. The coast was the only place glass was still common enough one could trade for it. Hills pox claimed the sole clan in the plains that had known the art of molding glass. Glass, in any form, was almost nonexistent east of the mountains.

  Setting his souvenirs aside, Strell poured a portion of the sun-warmed water from his water sack into a bowl and lathered up his thin sliver of soap. He slipped his shaving knife from his boot sheath and began to remove the thin foam. Only the faint noise of the wind in the pines, the scrape of his blade, and the rustle of a raggedy squirrel in last year’s leaves destroyed the hush. Strell soon finished, and he gazed at his reflection wondering what his parents would think.

  Staring back at him were plainsmen-brown eyes set above a sharply angled nose, bent from being broken one too many times. His cheeks were pink from his shave, but the rest of him was tan from long exposure. Strell shifted his jaw from side to side. His chin was cleft, and if he wasn’t careful, he missed a spot there. Satisfied, he ran his hand through his dark, gently curling hair to try and arrange it somehow.

  As the youngest son, he had always been smaller than his brothers. But the travel had done him good. I bet I could look Sarmont eye to eye now, he thought. Sarmont was the eldest, and he took great pains to be sure everyone knew it. Strell rubbed his nose in remembered hurt. In all fairness, he chuckled, he had deserved it—every single time.

  Strell tossed his shaving water over the edge of the cliff, packed everything away, and put his coat on against the chill of the trees. His coat was nearly brand-new, still sporting the rich, dark color of oiled wood. It went down to the tops of his boots, covering every finger-width of his long legs, and he was quite proud of it.

  “One more week at that last town,” he said ruefully, “and I could have bought one brushing the ground.” Or a new hat, he added soundlessly as he looked his over. It was a fine hat six years ago, but it
had been trampled, soaked, and otherwise abused until it was a shadow of its former self. But if he had stayed a week longer, he might not have made it home before the snow.

  Thoughts of home and family were foremost in Strell’s mind as he placed the sorry-looking hat comfortably on his head and returned his pack to his shoulders. He was eager to see the colorful tops of his family’s tents poking up like mushrooms from their ravine. The site of their holdings had been chosen by his grandfather Trook with much care. In the far past, a strong river had carved a canyon deep into the hard, clay soil. The water had long since gone, making the land useless for farming even if his father would stoop that low. But it was perfect for his family’s profession of clay works.

  Eyeing the faint signs of passage, Strell turned his back on the tracks and the mountains to stride into the woods toward his still-distant home. He wasn’t going home to stay— it was a visit—but he wouldn’t brave the mountains again. Now that he had all the stories and songs the coast could give him, he would remain where he belonged, deep within his beloved, arid plains.

  Strell hesitated under the chill shade of the pines, reluctant to step into cultivated fields. Beyond grazed a small flock of sheep. No, he decided as an alert head with sharp horns oriented on him. There was one goat, too. Farther on stood a pretty little house tucked under the trees.

  Yesterday Strell had tried to track the unknown traveler through the woods scrub, his hopes of catching up with him evaporating immediately. It hadn’t taken long to realize the fool was headed into the mountains, not out. Somehow they had passed each other unknowingly. Strell wished him well, wondering what could be so urgent it was worth risking his life over.

  Earlier that morning Strell had stumbled across what was obviously a farm’s irrigation works. The craftsmanship of those lines, he grudgingly admitted, had been exceptional for a farmer. And now those lines had led him here.

  Strell eyed the quiet farm and shifted his pack uneasily, weighing his need to know where he was against the possibility of snarling dogs and angry young farmers with pitch-forks. Plainsmen weren’t welcome in the foothills. He ran a quick hand through his hair in worry. Whatever he was going to do, he’d better do it quickly. That goat was staring at him.

  “Hello-o-o-o!” he shouted through cupped hands. He waited, listening. “Hello? Anyone about?” Strell eyed the goat now casually moving his way, its bell clanking softly.

  A shutter at the house thumped open amid a billow of smoke, and a woman leaned out, coughing violently. Strell waved to catch her attention. Pointing to the flock, he shouted, “Is that your goat?” The woman ducked inside. Immediately the brightly painted door opened and she stepped out.

  “Nanny!” she scolded, her pleasant voice coming faint over the fields. “Leave the young man alone.” The goat turned, appearing to understand as it paused in its threatening advance. “Nanny won’t chase you now,” the woman called, waving him closer. “Come on down.”

  Strell picked his way through the field, prudently giving the grazing animals plenty of space despite the lady’s assurances. As he drew close, his eyebrows rose at the house’s deceptively simple lines, and his estimation of its inhabitants went up a bit more. This was no shack in the hills, he decided. It obviously belonged to a family of means. True, he had never actually seen a foothills homestead before, but everyone knew they were nothing like this!

  The woman stood and waited, motioning him to a simple but well-sanded bench set against the front of the house. “I would invite you in,” she apologized, “but the house needs to air.” Sitting down, she gestured again for Strell to do the same. “My name is Rema,” she said, leaving her last name unspoken. It was unusual but not impolite under the circumstances.

  “Strell,” he answered, declining her invitation to sit. She was, he decided in confusion, from the plains despite her thick hills’ accent. Dark hair and eyes were a combination to be found only on the arid flatlands, and her skin was as dark as his. Hills people were invariably fair, pasty-looking things. A woman of such stately presence had no business among the ignorant farmers. They would run her out as soon as speak to her, yet here she was as if she belonged.

  “You’re coming from the coast then?” Rema’s hands folded graciously in her lap. Her accent had shifted to deep plains.

  “Yes.” Strell was suddenly conscious of his travel-stained clothes. “I’m going home. I’ve been away these past six years.”

  She smiled knowingly. “Goodness, that’s a long time. You must be the youngest son.”

  Surprised, Strell nodded. “How did you know?”

  She pointed to his feet. “Although old, your boots are well-made, as is your coat, which, by the by, is new and specially tailored. Your background is excellent as betrayed by your accent, and you’re the youngest of a large family, or you wouldn’t have been allowed to leave. Only a young son has any chance to choose his profession, and only the youngest is allowed to go wandering into the wilds for six years! I’d say you’re a traveling poet or bard, or your coat would have been cut to the style on the coast and not the plains.” She smiled. “How did I do?”

  Strell closed his mouth with a snap. “Uh, yes. Musician, actually.”

  Laughing lightly, Rema looked up at the gently soughing branches. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, all trace of her hills’ accent gone, “but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen such a charming mismatch of styles and outdated clothes. They suit you very well.”

  “M-m-m,” Strell said, eager to change the subject. “Do you know how far the Hirdune valley is from here?”

  “Hirdune. . . .” Rema’s eyes went distant. “You mean the Hirdune potters?” She rose, cutting off his next words. “Let’s look at my maps,” she said over her shoulder, and went inside.

  Rocking forward to his toes, Strell followed her in, carefully wiping his feet on the doorsill. This lady demanded the very best of a person, and he wanted to leave her with a good impression. He silently took in the well-swept floors, the wide windows, and the artful placement of household goods to display a modest show of wealth. There was even a book by the hearth, used by the look of it, not just for show.

  Rema was standing at a table in what was obviously the kitchen. Light poured in to make the low-ceilinged room seem bright and airy. The acrid smell of burnt bread hung in the air. A thick stack of supple leather sheets was piled before her, and she was shuffling through them, shifting each one gently. Strell stepped closer. This wasn’t what he had expected. They were in vibrant color with an astonishing artistry. “Where did you get these?” he whispered. They were the most gorgeous maps he had ever seen, and there were dozens of them.

  “They were my husband’s.” Rema bit her lip, not looking up.

  “Oh-h-h,” Strell breathed as his fingers alighted upon a map. It showed the range of mountains he had just crossed. Trails were marked in a vivid yellow, rivers and lakes in blue, and what were probably good campsites were x-ed in red. The coast, too, was shown, and Strell eagerly ran his eyes over familiar landmarks, remembering the people he had left behind.

  “See here?” he said, shifting the map to an open spot. “This river here? This is were I rode in my first boat.” Strell smiled sheepishly. “I was sick the entire three days it took to get to the delta. I was supposed to entertain the crew in return for passage.”

  “And you were seasick?” Rema continued her search. “How awful.”

  “My head was hanging over the side of the boat more often then not. The passengers and crew thought it was amusing. I hadn’t any money to pay for my fare, but the captain said I earned my passage, though I hadn’t played a note the entire trip.”

  “How nice of him,” the woman said absently.

  “Not really. He said I was entertaining enough. They had never seen anyone stay that shade of green for quite so long.”

  Rema smiled, looking up at him.

  “And look here,” he said, pointing again. “This is where I spent my first winter. I li
ved with a smith, pumping the bellows when the wind wasn’t blowing from off the water.” Strell felt his mouth quirk in a soft smile. The smith’s daughter had been a delight.

  “And here,” he said, almost to himself. “This is where I learned how to fish, and there’s the beach where I watched a man walk across live coals.”

  “You mean fire?” Rema set down her map and peered over his shoulder.

  “Yes. Barefoot. They do it every year.” Strell pointed out the small bay. His eyes went distant in thought as Rema bent closer to see. Having a map like this would increase the credibility of his stories and bring him a correspondingly higher wage for his tales.

  “This,” he said slowly, “is a very fine map.” He hesitated, feeling a stir of excitement. Plainsmen lived to trade. When the two participants were skilled, it was very like a formal dance. Bargaining with anyone else was like dancing with a goat. He hadn’t played the game with his countrymen in what seemed like ages. “It’s a little small, though,” he added, giving his words the proper cadence to signify he was testing the sands to see if she was willing to part with it.

  The woman started, and Strell was sure he heard her breath catch.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, flicking her eyes to him and away, feigning disinterest. “My husband was always one to skimp on the hide. See how uneven the edge is?”

  His pulse increased, and though it meant a small misstep, Strell smiled. Clearly, Rema missed the thrill of a good trade as well. “I understand,” he murmured, carefully rolling the marvelous map up and setting it before them. “My mother is the same. I’m bringing her a rude cloth from the coast. Enough to make a scarf, nothing more, but she will undoubtedly try to make a cloak from it.” He hesitated, pitching his voice with the proper formality. “Would you like to see it? There’s the pattern of an ugly fish woven into it. By far the most ugly weave I have ever seen.”