Sartor (38 page)

Kessler slung away the crossbow, and laughed.

Atan bent down and studied that fallen silver bolt. She saw
no blood on the thing. Yet it had been knocked down onto the roof by something,
instead of sailing overhead. Yet again, Merewen was not there, either fallen
and senseless or somehow alive. She’d vanished.

I will not grieve until I am certain she will not come
back,
Atan thought, and forced herself to turn away and look over the city
whose map she’d been studying ever since she was small.

Under the low northern light, the slanted roofs gleamed
cold, rank on rank of fine houses in the district called Parleas Terrace.
Though it lay on the other side of the river behind the palace, the aristocrats
had claimed it was part of the palace’s district from the early days when
there were three districts, and again when the city expanded to six. To the
northeast the rooftops were more interesting, curled around almost like Venn
knots in the Apsos, the oldest part of the city. Atan could barely make out the
ordered roofs of the outer part of the city, built beyond the city walls,
called ‘new’ in all the records, though it was several centuries
old before the enchantment.

She turned. Straight east, where the river bisected at the
gate, lay houses and businesses, and then south, the fourth, fifth, and sixth
districts—the latter the military area. Her city.
Her
city.

Urgency displaced wonder. Tsauderei had said over and over,
If
you do succeed in banishing that spell, that is when your work begins.

She brought her gaze down to the square as the last of the
magical residue glittered and winked away. People surged, startled,
recoiling—shouting—as some of Norsundrians vanished by magical
transfer, and those without tokens began a retreat before the swelling number
of confused, angry Sartorans who were no longer bound by enchantment.

Atan searched through the people—
Sartorans!
—until
her gaze caught a tall, dark-haired figure who bled copiously from the shoulder.
As she watched in helpless anguish, Rel struggled up from the ground, his face
lifted toward the tower, and she saw his mouth move—he was trying to say
something. She stepped to the very edge of the tower roof, the rising wind
catching at her hair and clothes as she strained to hear. He took one step
toward her, and then fell flat on his face.

Julian wailed, running to his side. Most people took no
notice. They were too busy exclaiming to one another, looking around, some
organizing to chase Norsundrians.

This is what Tsauderei meant
, Atan thought.

Would anyone listen to her? The time had come to find out.

She looked around once more, her heart aching when she
caught sight of the bolt lying there.
No blood on it, so I will not grieve
,
Atan told herself, clutched the heavy book tightly to her chest, and turned to
the stairwell.
But Rel...

She wouldn’t let herself finish the thought. She
couldn’t bear to finish the thought.

As if she could outrun the thought, she skipped down the
stairs, plunked the book back on the table where she’d found it, then ran
back to the stairs.

This time she did not pause to appreciate the ovals worn in
the stone or the smoothness of the carved rail, polished by centuries of hands.
Her breath came fast, her heart juddering counterpoint to her steps as she ran
down, and then bolted for the hallway that led to the square.

She banged through the doors and began pushing through the
crowd. “Pardon,” she said breathlessly. “I’m
Atan—that is,
Yustnesveas
Landis—”

The old-fashioned, clumsy name was difficult to get out, and
felt strange, but she may as well have used her heart-name, for nobody paid the
least heed. She knew her voice was not loud enough, but she couldn’t
catch anyone’s attention as everyone around her talked more, trying to be
heard by their oblivious neighbors.

She began ducking and dodging, sometimes shoving past
extended arms, until she stumbled into Hinder and Lilah, who had linked arms
and stood over Rel. He sat on the ground with his knees pulled up and his head
resting on his knees, one hand clutching his shoulder, which bled sickeningly.

“Wounded,” Atan said, relief welling inside her.
Her eyes stung, and her head seemed to be floating somewhere above her,
unconnected to her body. She stood blinking until she became aware of Lilah’s
steady gaze, her hand holding her own, and her voice repeating, “Atan?
Atan? Um... Atan?”

“I’m here.” Atan looked around, then down
at Rel, who was alive, but.... Atan gazed in shock at the blood pooling on his
wounded side. “I need to get...”

What?

Lilah snorted out her breath. “I know what comes next.
It was almost like this when the revolution ended. Well, not really, except for
the crowds.” She darted at Hinder, grabbed his arm, and pulled him close
as she whispered in his ear.

“I’m louder,” Hinder said to her. “Remember
who called the drills in Shendoral.”

“All right,” Lilah said. She made a face, bent
over with her hands on her knees, and Atan watched, bewildered, as Hinder put
his taloned bare foot on Lilah’s knee, and then, as Lilah straightened,
he nimbly leaped up and settled on her shoulders, feet tucked in her armpits.

People around stared as Hinder cupped his hands around his
mouth. “The queen is back!”

“Queen?” The word rippled outward, interspersed
with others saying, “What was that?” and “Who’s the
morvende?”

Mendaen appeared and in his louder voice roared, “The
Landises are back! The princess saved us!”

“Our new queen broke the spell!” Dorea shrieked,
elbowing through from another direction. “The queen is come!”

One by one people looked around, and took up the shout.

The queen is come!

The queen is come!

The queen is come!

A clear space grew around Atan, revealing more fallen people.
Some were still moving, others horribly still.

“Shouldn’t we carry them inside the palace?”
Atan asked, pointing behind her. “Is there a healer?” As people
looked at each other as if waiting for the someone to be the first to move,
Atan heard whispering. “What did she say?” and “I’m not
touching one of the Norsunder offal.”

Atan turned in a circle, tightened her stomach, and tried to
look princessy. “Find a healer! Our first duty is to the fallen.”
Ordering a crowd didn’t work. So try individuals? “Brick! Pouldi!
Can you help Rel inside?”

“Glad to!” Brick said from somewhere in the
crowd, and Pouldi’s genial voice followed, “Hai! Shift it, there.
Make way.” The two boys leaped to Rel’s side. Mendaen helped as all
three got Rel to his feet and began moving toward the palace.

“Some of the rooms are burned,” a shrill voice
cried.

“Find rooms that are not burned,” Atan said.
One
by one, just like building a ward
, Atan thought tiredly. “We’ll
use that wing of the palace, right there, for the wounded, as it’s close.
It’s not burned—I was just in there.”

Yes, people could agree to that.

“I’ll help!” Sana said.

“Me, too! Me, too!” Voices chimed in, and as the
Shendoral group began moving purposefully, people emerged out of the crowd to
offer help carry, to find blankets, to fetch bandages.

Atan was relieved to see Rel borne inside. Then Mendaen
vanished with a bunch of other people, mostly men, who divided up and began
moving up the streets in search of Norsundrians. They waved swords and other
implements, like blacksmith tools and hoes.

That was when the first person came out of the crowd and
addressed her. “Are you really the princess?” the woman asked,
looking doubtfully into Atan’s face. She flushed. “You have a look
of the royal family. Very much. But... the princess Yustnesveas is a babe in
arms!”

“My guard, named Gehlei, ran with me...” The
crowd fell silent as Atan told her story. At the end, Atan felt her voice going
hoarse. She hadn’t eaten since they’d left the caves, nor had
anything to drink. She was desperately thirsty and found herself repeating
words without knowing what to say as people just stood there, staring.

Lilah stepped up to her side. “Hannla’s going to
find us some food,” she whispered. “I think you need some
supper.”

Atan gazed at her, the sides of her vision glittering.
“Julian! I nearly forgot. I promised her...”

Lilah looked up into her face, recognizing that lost look.
She’d seen Peitar wearing that same expression, at the end of the
revolution. Well, she’d been in this situation before, and Sartor might
be the oldest country in the world, but those people looked a lot like ordinary
people to her. “Hannla has her,” Lilah whispered. “You need
to eat.”

“I can’t. There’s too much to be done,”
Atan said over the slowly rising hubbub. The silence had broken, and now it
seemed that everyone wanted to be heard—to tell their story and to get
justice, aid, direction.

There were too many wounded to be seen to, and too many
people wandering around. Some were angry at having discovered their houses
burned down, others having been looted.

Hinder reappeared, shoving his way unceremoniously, Sinder
helping. Over his arm Hinder carried a basket of fresh food.

“It’s that inn down that street,” he said,
pointing. “If you’ll see to it they get paid, they said they’ll
feed all comers, until supplies run out.”

“Then let us send for food for the wounded right now,”
Atan said as Lilah handed her some bread and cheese. It might be hundred-year-old
bread and cheese, but to the people walking around, talking, exclaiming,
exploring, it was yesterday’s provender.

She scarcely got to eat half of it.

Everywhere she walked, she saw expectant faces, many wanting
to tell their story of the war, others wanting decisions to be made. Decisions,
revisions, compromises, most of them were increasingly painful.

The sun vanished, yet the streets were still filled with
people carrying lamps, torches, candles. Atan stayed where she was, constantly
surrounded, until Lilah and Hannla got the morvende to link hands in a circle
around Atan, and draw her gently but inexorably inside the palace.

The moment Atan stepped inside, her thoughts flew to Rel.
“He’s asleep,” Hannla said to Atan’s worried question. “And
so is Julian. I took her to my family’s pleasure house. We tucked her up,
and she dropped off before I could count to three.”

Count to three... sleep...
Mendaen and Sana closed
the door to the wounded wing at midnight. Despite the rapping and banging, they
kept it shut and guarded it.

Atan wasn’t even aware. After she saw Rel resting
comfortably, his shoulder bound up, she discovered her feet ached almost as
badly as her head. She made it to the women’s side, and there was a bed...

o0o

The second morning of her queenship, she remembered the gown
that she had made so long ago, and her promise to Gehlei. She ducked out of the
wounded wing and its makeshift tumble of bedding on the floor that had been
looted from rooms above, and found a private corner where she hastily changed.
This palace was supposed to be home, but it felt cold and strange and
unwelcoming. She had no idea where anything was, and the smell of burnt wood in
the old state areas was horrible.

When she emerged wearing her new dress, yesterday’s
worries crowded back, Merewen foremost, Rel second, with that anxious sense of
responsibility for Julian a close third. She made her way to the wounded wing,
to discover that Rel was gone—he’d gone off with Mendaen and the
others to do... something, no one knew what.

No one knew anything. People walked about, poking,
exclaiming, asking for her. Atan wanted to run and hide, but by midmorning a
vast change occurred when many of the old palace servants reappeared, people
who had sensibly gone to ground at the end of the war.

They took over, chasing off would-be souvenir-seekers and
loungers. Those with legitimate business were told to line up in the square,
where someone would take names and business. The new queen would see people by
appointment only—as always.

As always, just like normal, remember the rules
.
These were magical words, promising the restoration of order, and the crowds
thinned rapidly. That freed Atan to walk the length of the great building that
had housed her ancestors for so many centuries. She surprised little groups
here and there, busy with brooms, mops, wood-working tools, needles and thread.
All traces of the century-old battle were being removed from the public rooms. Only
the private wing upstairs remained untouched, pending Atan’s orders.

She could not yet face her parents’ rooms.

When she neared the kitchen, she smelled baking bread, a
homely, simple smell, but somehow it made her throat close up with the ache of
sadness. She ran into the linen room, where stacks and stacks of beautiful
linens waited to be used, and she stood there with a century-old damask table
cloth pressed over her face as sobs shook her.

Your work begins
, Tsauderei’s voice echoed.
Your
work begins
... She fought the tears under control and walked out,
determined to start. She’d begin with promises.

She found Hannla in the wounded wing, and said,
“Please take me to Julian.”

Hannla smiled. “She’s waiting for you.”

Atan turned her head, and to her relief, found Lilah talking
to Dorea. She beckoned, and Lilah accompanied Hannla and Atan for Atan’s
first foray into the city. As they walked across bridge over the middle branch
of the river, Atan asked Lilah questions. “What do you think she meant by...
what do you think they...”

Lilah prefaced almost every remark with “Peitar
says,” or “When Peitar...” Atan found these comforting, as
she respected Peitar, who had become a king only months before. If he could
manage, she could manage.