Free Sasharia En Garde by Sherwood Smith Page B

weak
glowglobe, it clearly had not been disturbed for a long time. She trod
carefully to the end, avoiding leaving footprints on the mold splotches, but
instead of passing down the narrow circular stairs, she turned to the left and
cautiously put out her hand.
    Cold, damp air chilled her fingers. Yes, the illusion was
intact. She held her breath and plunged through. Safely inside, she clapped
once. The glowglobe lit, though it, too, was very dim.
    Thick, rotting cloth hung on an old rod over the illusory
door. She pushed the curtain along the rod, which would block light breaking
the illusion, and turned around.
    The windowless little room appeared to be untouched. There
was the narrow cot on which Sasha had lain her last night in this world, after
Math taught her some spells. Difficult spells—far too complicated, one would
think, for a child. But Math and Glathan had been desperate, and Sasha brave
and determined until she could stay awake no longer.
    Sasha had curled up on the bed, and the mage left to walk
the perimeter as well as to give them privacy.
    Math and Sun had sat shoulder to shoulder, guarding their
daughter’s slumber while they talked and talked, making promises and
contingency plans.
    All in vain.
    Sun turned in a slow circle. There was the old carved chest,
its pattern of running horses so heartbreakingly familiar. She lifted the lid,
sniffing in the scent of cedarwood, and pulled out one of the soft yeath
blankets, and a sturdy tunic of Math’s that she herself had packed away. It was
brown livery, the silver-and-crimson firebird of the Zhavalieshins stitched on
the front.
    No more sorrow. You’ve
wept enough. So you are back at last. Find Sasha. And then find out what
happened to Math instead of wasting the rest of your life wondering.
    She lay on the cot under the blanket, clapped the globe out
and fell asleep, waking suddenly when men’s voices brought her sitting up in
alarm. She pressed her hands over her mouth, then remembered the illusory wall.
She could hear anyone in the passage outside, but if she made noise, they’d
hear her.
    “. . . not much of a secret, if you ask me,”
came an unfamiliar tenor voice.
    “More of a shortcut.” That deep, slightly husky voice was
familiar, a voice from nightmares. It belonged to Dannath Randart, Canary’s
right-hand slimebag. “But the king said, add it to the patrol sites. It and the
main stairway through that old refectory are the only way to the Destination
chamber, and he seems to think someone is using magic to come or go.”
    “All right. But what are we watching for?”
    Two sets of footsteps started down the narrow tower stairs,
and Sun knew the voices would soon fade. She hesitated, then eased the curtain
back and plunged through the icy illusory wall. She tiptoed barefoot to the
stairs, grimacing at the feel of cold slimy moss.
    “Anyone. Anyone at all. But the king mentioned females.”
    “Commander? We were all shifted from badly needed coastal
patrol to watch a castle for . . . women?”
    Sun followed down two, three more steps. Come on, Randart, you know you want to tell
him , she urged mentally.
    “Yes,” War Commander Randart said shortly as he reached the
arched tower door. “And if any appear, bring them straight to the king. To no
one else. No matter who they are. No matter what they say.”
    The creak of the heavy door caused Sun to crouch on her step
and peer around the angled stairs. A shaft of early morning sunlight outlined
Randart’s tall, broad-shouldered form. Except for looking older and even
tougher, he hadn’t changed much. His shaggy dark hair was graying, his hard
face lined. The other man was also tall and broad, as you’d expect from the
king’s own men-at-arms. Younger than Randart, though.
    He thrust the door open and morning light lanced halfway up the
stairs, stopping just short of her toes. The men thumped the door shut behind
them and the poised bar thocked into
place.
    Sun slipped back upstairs