Free Sartor by Sherwood Smith Page B

to leave the Valley. And Merewen
rushed along with the joy one feels at arriving home after a long trip. A
favorite dell, here a mossy stone bridge, the carved patterns on the sides worn
into blurs over the past thousand years, there a path—
    “Just ahead,” she cried at last, when the
filtered greenish-gold light was beginning to slant toward afternoon. “Just
down this hill, past all those great redwoods.”
    Atan forced herself to hurry, though her feet ached and her
neck felt tight. Here, at last, was a glimpse of the real Sartor. Wild
scents assailed her, scents that she had never in her life smelled, or at least
could not identify, except somehow she must have remembered, because it smelled
like home . All of it—the mossy bark, the duff underfoot, the
tangled vines and shrubs and the great forest trees—she breathed in, her
spirit winging between anguish and joy.
    “There,” Merewen cried. “Beyond the trees.
We should see the chimney in just a moment. Come, come!” She ran, and
Lilah stumped after her, thinking of a hot bath and good food.
    In fact, she was thinking so hard about them—trying to
decide which she wanted first—that she did not see Merewen stop, and
consequently she almost ran into her back. She stumbled to a halt beside Merewen,
who gazed, her eyes wide and dark with horror, her mouth open, at a great
stretch of dark soil.
    “It’s not here,” Merewen whispered.
    Atan joined on her other side.
    All three stared at the ground, through which tiny blades of
grass could be seen springing.
    “The house. It’s gone,” Merewen said,
louder, as though testing the truth of it.
    Lilah frowned, staring around. “There wasn’t any
fire. I know what burned houses look like. Ours at home got burned in a riot.
They don’t all just disappear, and no harm to the things growing next to
the walls. What could have happened?”
    “Magic,” Atan said. “I can’t tell
you what kind.”
    Sorrow and grief bent Merewen over, until she sank down onto
the ground. Lilah hunched her shoulders up, her hands sliding into her pockets
to close around her thief tools. Only how would those defend her against magic?
    Atan looked eastward. Do you know, Tsauderei?
    But there was no answer. She was in charge—and here
were two faces turned toward her, one smeared with tears, the other pale and
tense.
    “The house is gone, but that does not necessarily mean
that Savar is gone as well. He might even have bound it in some spell, if he
had something important inside,” she said.
    Merewen drew in a ragged breath. “Yes.” She
gulped. “That’s right! So we will hope to find him anon.”
    Atan nodded, relieved and worried. “Shall we camp,
then find something to eat? We’ll keep watch, as well. And tomorrow we’ll
plan our trip to the tower.”
    Merewen wiped her eyes. “There’s a hot spring
not far, and I can go back and see if any of our kitchen garden is left. I saw
the grove where the cow lived, but I fear she is gone. Perhaps Heron the
wood-gatherer has her.”
    “How about later for that?” Lilah asked. “Did
you say there was a hot spring?” She scratched her head, gritty from
sleeping on dusty ground for so many nights.
    Atan exclaimed. “Oh, that does sound good. I think I’ll
go into it, clothes and all. I’m one giant itch.”
    “Me too!” Lilah laughed.
    With only a few wistful glances back, Merewen led them down
mossy banks to the pool where hot water boiled up in great bubbles. It was fed
by a small stream, tumbling down rocks. Dense ferns grew all around and leafy
trees above, forming a kind of shelter.
    Pausing long enough only to throw off shoes and cloaks (and
for Lilah to bundle her thief tools under her cloak), Atan and Lilah waded in.
The water at first was shockingly cold, but as they swam toward the bubbling
end, eddies and swirls of warm water—sometimes hot—fizzed around
them. It was exhilarating, leeching away their tiredness. Laughing, Lilah sent
a wave of water sloshing