Dawn Cook - Truth 02 - Hidden Truth

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Alissa never believed in magic. But then she went to the Hold, a legendary fortress where human

Keepers once learned magic from enigmatic Masters. Under the tutelage of the last surviving Master,

Alissa discovered that she had inherited her father’s magical ability.

But the Hold is ruled by Bailic, the renegade Keeper who seized the First Truth, a book of magic he will

use to harness the might of the city of the dead and wreak a war of total devastation. The book has

thwarted Bailic’s every attempt to access it, while it continually calls to Alissa—who must summon all her

will to resist it. For, if she gives in to the First Truth‘s ultimate power and knowledge, she will be utterly

changed—and the man she loves could be lost to her forever...

Praise for Dawn Cook’s First Truth

“In her beguiling debut, Cook has woven together magical threads...a tale of courage and quest...a world

rich with vivid detail...and characters, whether valiant or villainous, impossible to forget.”

—Deborah Chester, author of The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice trilogy

Praise for First Truth

“A beautifully told, simple story that looks unblinkingly at how prejudice unnecessarily reinforces

misconceptions, misunderstandings, and hatred.”

— Booklist

“Dawn Cook’s First Truth is a fun book, sure to appeal to fans (like me) of Tamora Pierce or Robin

McKinley. With characters to cheer for, vicious villains, and attack birds, First Truth has everything I

need in a good read. I look forward to Alissa’s next adventure.”

—Patricia Briggs, author of Dragon Bones

“In her beguiling debut, Cook has woven together magical threads ... a tale of courage and quest... a

world rich with vivid detail... and characters, whether valiant or villainous, impossible to forget.”

—Deborah Chester, author of

The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice trilogy

“A refreshing, humorous take on the coming-of-age quest. The plot tightly builds empathy for the

characters even as it makes fun of their foibles.”

— Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

Ace Books by Dawn Cook

FIRST TRUTH

HIDDEN TRUTH

Hidden Truth

Dawn Cook

ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

Copyright notice

Contents

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

For Tim

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank the core members of my writer’s group, Nat for her above and beyond the call of

duty critiques, my husband Tim for seeing it before I did, and of course, Richard Curtis and Anne

Sowards.

Dawn Cook

Chapter 1

contents - next

Alissa crept up the stairway, her skirts gripped tightly in her fists. Gaze fixed upon the landing, she felt

for the next step, easing herself up in what she hoped looked like casual disinterest. This was not a good

idea, she thought. She had been making Bailic’s meals all winter and knew risking his attention was

asking for trouble. Taking a slow breath, she hesitated, the opposing feelings of curiosity and common

sense teetering in her. Pulse quickening, she resumed her upward motion. Curiosity won. Not that that

was a surprise, she admitted.

She had woken as usual before dawn, pulled from her warm covers by a feeling of discontent. There

was nothing different she could see about today than yesterday. The sparrows still pecked on the

rooftops of the Hold, the ice mist rose as the sky brightened in a false dawn, the fires needed tending,

and the mice ran when she turned corners.

But an unexplained restlessness, an itching to do something, had filled her. Even worse, she was

unable to tell what needed doing. It almost seemed she should have done it already, and the feeling of

having been remiss tugged at her. This morning, as her feet touched the floor, a strange need to find out

what Bailic wanted for breakfast filled her. It pulled her up the tower stairs when a healthy measure of

caution urged her to go the other way, back down to the kitchen. Up until today, she hadn’t cared if the

madman liked what she made for his breakfast or not. And she said mad, for anyone who claimed

ownership of the Hold, when it clearly wasn’t his, had to be mad. The only reason she made Bailic’s

meals was to keep him out of her kitchen. But now it seemed as if knowing what he wanted might end

her discontent.

Alissa drew to a stop as she realized her fingertips were tingling. She dropped her gathered skirts and

stared at her hands, her disquiet growing. “By the Hounds of the Navigator,” she whispered, opening and

closing her hands. Her fingers only tingled when she was near a dangerous ward, and then it was painful,

not this warm sensation. This felt more like ...

“When I held my book of First Truth,” she whispered in dismay, leaning back against the stone of

the stairwell. A sound of self-disgust slipped from her. “Burn it to ash,” she muttered. “Strell is going to

have to pen me up like a nanny goat.”

It was her book that had been filling her with this intolerable restlessness, enticing her to come and

steal it back, not caring that if she were caught, Bailic would kill her. Last fall she had unknowingly

followed its silent pull from her foothills farm across the mountains to the legendary Hold. Never would

she have believed her papa’s stories about the Hold were true and that her papa, Keeper Meson, had

been anything other than the foothills farmer he had pretended to be.

Though she had found the Hold empty but for Bailic, a fallen Keeper, it had once been the home of

the Masters, a race of winged scholars skilled in magic, posing as savage beasts called rakus. In return

for small services and loyalty, the Masters taught a select group of people they called Keepers how to

use their comparatively stunted magical abilities. The book of First Truth held the Masters’ most

powerful secrets. Now that all but one Master had been lured to their deaths by Bailic, the First Truth

was possibly the only way to become a Keeper. And Bailic had taken it the moment she found it in the

Hold’s well, where her papa hid it fourteen years past.

She would sooner die than let Bailic keep it, but she wasn’t going to steal it back today, and not

under the guise of finding out what Bailic wanted for breakfast. That the fallen Keeper was going to use

her book to put the foothills and plains at war seemed far away and distant next to her simple desire to

possess its knowledge for herself. Her book was now resting in Bailic’s chambers, as inaccessible as if it

were at the bottom of the sea. But having touched it once, its pull upon her seemed all the stronger.

Alissa impatiently pushed her hair out of her eyes as she looked up the stairway, torn between being

angry for not realizing why she was restless and being upset that she was so vulnerable to its call.

“Maybe,” she breathed, clenching her hands to try to drown out the tingling, “I’ll ask Bailic what he

wants for breakfast anyway, just to look at my book.” She gathered her skirts and took a step, unable to

help herself. “I won’t go in. Just look at it through the doorway.” The First Truth was rightfully hers.

How dare Bailic, Keeper or not, claim it for himself. He couldn’t even open it.

A muffled twittering came from the stairway below her. Heart pounding, she spun, embarrassed for

having fallen victim to the book’s call again so easily. Her kestrel, Talon, landed against the rough wall,

gripping it awkwardly as the tight turn was too much to make in flight. Alissa’s resolve faltered. Talon

hated Bailic, often hissing and threatening violence when he was within earshot. Carrying on a

conversation with Bailic, however stilted and contrived, would be impossible with her tiny defender near.

Her shoulders shifted, and she resolutely headed back to the kitchen. “Get off that wall,” she said

sourly as she passed the robin-sized bird, still hanging by her claws. “You look silly like that.” The kestrel

twittered and, as if understanding, half jumped to Alissa’s shoulder. Alissa ran a finger over the bird’s

markings, now faded with age. Together they wound their silent way down to the first floor and the

Hold’s great hall. The room stretched high to make a cavernous space overlooked by the open balconies

on the second, third, and fourth floors. Alissa’s steps echoed against the barren walls. Passing through

the empty, unused dining hall, she entered the Hold’s smallest of two kitchens. It was still larger than her

entire home in the foothills.

As she leaned to tend the long-burning fire, Talon jumped from her shoulder to land neatly on the

chandelier. The metal and chain swung slightly, and the bird’s head shifted to keep Alissa in focus. Alissa

went back to the sweet-roll dough she had started earlier. She pushed the dough down with a growing

feeling of discouragement. Knowing her book had lured her into risking her life to try to take it did

nothing for her confidence. Even now, that same jittery feeling had begun to nag at her, urging her to rise

back up the stairs again.

Alissa tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear as she glanced up at the kitchen’s one narrow

window high overhead. Closing her eyes, she took three slow breaths as taught by her papa, willing her

restless emotions away. Her eyes opened. The gray patch of light was noticeably brighter. The sun would

be up soon. She was going to be late to the practice room with Bailic’s breakfast. Even worse, Strell

hadn’t come down for his meal yet and was going to be late as well.

Perhaps, she wondered, she ought to wake him? Flushing, she dusted the counter with flour and

began coaxing the dough into a rectangle. Going to wake Strell wasn’t prudent. The one time she had,

she caught a glimpse of his uncovered feet. Bone and ash, she would have thought a well-bred plainsman

would have the grace to sleep with his feet decently covered. She may as well have caught him naked in

the rain. Perhaps it came from being a wandering piper for the last six years. But if he didn’t come down

soon, he was going to miss breakfast.

Deciding she couldn’t wait any longer for Strell, she cut a slice of bread and set it over the fire to toast

for her own breakfast. Talon shifted her feathers in an almost inaudible swish. “Why don’t you go wake

Strell?” she whispered, half serious, and the bird jumped to the rafters.

Thoughts of Strell pulled Alissa’s eyes to the mirror. There was flour on her nose, and knowing Strell

would tease her if he saw it, she hurriedly brushed it off. He had found the reflection glass weeks ago,

propping it up in the kitchen with the claim it added to the light. She hadn’t noticed any difference, but it

did give her a good view of the dining hall when she was standing by the hearth with her back to the

archway. The tall plainsman seemed to have taken it upon himself to see to her safety, something she

insisted she could see to herself.

Squinting at her reflection, fuzzy in the predawn gloom, she gathered her straight, fair hair and retied

the ribbon holding it back. Her hair was driving her to distraction as Strell refused to cut it, holding a true

lady had hair she could sit on. It was a plains tradition, one she didn’t subscribe to. She preferred it short,

as her foothills papa had liked it. Her mother, though, would be pleased with its length. It was brushing

the tops of her shoulders.

The small pouch hanging about her neck peeped from behind her shut, and she nervously tucked it

back, glancing behind her at the dining hall. She wasn’t sure, but she thought the dust the sack held was

her source, the sphere of power she found in her thoughts somewhere between her reality and

imagination. One day she would use it and the silvery web she saw with her mind’s eye to make wards. If

Bailic knew what the pouch contained, she was sure he would take it, killing her with no more thought

than he had killed her papa.

Alissa took a pained breath and resolutely pushed the memory of her papa to the back of her mind.

He had died when she was five to prevent Bailic from discovering she existed. Bailic still didn’t know

whose daughter she was, and if he ever found out, her life wouldn’t be worth the rolls she was making.

Turning back to her dough, she spread a thin layer of honey across the even rectangle. Living with the

danger for so long seemed to have dulled her fear of it.

A faint scent of char slipped into her musings. But it wasn’t until Talon chittered that Alissa looked up

from her dismal thoughts to find her breakfast burning. “By the Hounds!” she cried as she swung the

toasting fork from the fire and vainly tried to brush the black scorch from the toast with a towel. Talon’s

cluttering sounded like laughter, and Alissa gave up. Plucking the slice from the toasting fork, she tossed

it clattering onto the waiting plate. Ruined. She stared at it, wondering if she ought to eat it anyway. The

last time she refused to eat burnt toast, she was half a mountain away from her home when the sun had

set. Omens were useless if ignored.

“Omens,” she said with a soft scorn, glancing up and away from her bird. She didn’t believe in such

things. Alissa eyed Bailic’s half-prepared breakfast tray, briefly entertaining the idea of giving the toast to

him. Knowing it would result in a series of degrading, half-breed slurs, she rose to throw it away. She

had the plate with its crusted char tipped over the slop bucket when Talon chittered a cheery greeting.

“Don’t throw that out!” came Strell’s voice from the open archway, and she spun around,

embarrassed he had caught her throwing food away. His usual early morning, sleepy countenance was

stirred to life with an indignant accusation.

“I burnt it,” she said, holding out the plate as proof. “We’ve plenty of bread.”

Strell was plains born and looked it, being almost awkwardly tall and thin despite the volumes of food

he ate. His hair was dark and gently curling as was everyone’s from the desert, nearly as long as hers,

and pulled back with a metal clip. Clean shaven, his skin was as brown in the dead of winter as the sun

turned hers at the height of summer. They had met in the mountains: she following the pull from her book,

he running from the tragic demise of his family in an unprecedented desert flood. Their different

backgrounds dictated they were to hate each other, but somewhere, in their joined efforts to remain alive,

she had forgotten how. Occasionally, in the deep stillness of the night, she dared believe he might be

flaunting the wrath of both the foothills and plains and have grown to truly like her.

Strell came forward, his brown eyes failing to hide his amusement for having caught her in an

embarrassing moment. Saying nothing, he plucked the plate from her grasp. Strell never threw out food,

often spending inordinate amounts of time making her toss-outs into something edible. It was probably a

remnant from his chosen profession and never knowing where his next meal was coming from. Settling

himself at his usual breakfast spot, he pulled the jam pot closer. He ladled a huge helping onto the

blackened bread and took a bite. “See? It’s fine,” he said around an ash-ridden mouthful.

Alissa scrunched her eyes as she imagined the acrid taste. “You know, it would be less wasteful to

throw out a single slice of bread than to use half a pot of jam to make it edible.”

He gave her a half smile and arched his eyebrows. “Not nearly as tasty, though,” he said as he caught

a drip of jam with his finger.

Giving him a last, pained look, she cut a second slice of bread and set it close to the fire. Strell

methodically devoured his breakfast, silent but for the obvious crunches. With a rush of air and warning

chitter, Talon dropped from the rafters to Strell’s hastily raised fist.

“Morning, bird,” he said gruffly, not seeming to mind the pinch of her talons as he offered her a

crumb. Alissa watched, amusement pulling up the corners of her mouth, as the kestrel predictably

refused. Seeing no meat forthcoming, the bird worried at his fingers, finally retreating back to the ceiling

with a helpful toss from Strell. He rose to his feet as he finished his toast, clearly looking for something

more to eat. Giving Alissa a sly look, he dipped a spoon in a pot set to warm at the edge of the fire and

pulled out a thick, glistening strand of melted sweet. “M-m-m. What’s this?”

“That’s my candied-apple syrup,” she blurted. It was supposed to have been a surprise for tonight’s

dinner, and her brow pinched in feminine outrage as he stuck the spoon in his mouth. “Stop that!” she

protested, knowing he was teasing her but unable to stop.

Strell grinned as he licked the spoon clean. “You aren’t supposed to know how to make candied

apples. It’s a plains secret. Did your mother teach you her recipe? It’s a good one.”

“Then keep your fingers out of it,” she said tartly but was too pleased he thought it good to be angry.

Going back to her dough, she rolled the rectangle into a squat log shape and began to cut slices. Strell

hovered over her shoulder, trying to snitch a bit of unattended dough. She skillfully thwarted his attempts,

surprised when she was unable to find her usual contentment in their silent, long-running game of thief and

guard.

She was tired of being silent. Tired of the pattern her days had fallen into. Bailic knew one of them

had come in search of the book of First Truth. Thanks to Strell’s skillful acting and distractions, the man

had been deceived into thinking Strell was the latent Keeper, not her. For the last four weeks, Bailic had

been trying to teach Strell enough magic so he could open the book for him. And though she had mended

all her stockings and made a new skirt while eavesdropping on Strell’s lessons, she had learned little

about how to manipulate her hidden source and tracings. The idea had been that Useless, the last Master,

would secretly teach her, and she would perform the magic for Strell without Bailic knowing, buying time

until the Master found a way to kill Bailic. But Useless hadn’t returned to teach her anything, Strell was

running out of excuses, and Bailic was growing impatient.

It was all Useless’s fault, she thought, her lips pressing together in misplaced frustration as she

thunked the knife on the table to warn off Strell’s reaching fingers. The Master had introduced himself to

her last fall with the pseudonym Useless. She would just as soon keep using it, seeing as it seemed to be

more appropriate than his real name, Talo-Toecan. Useless had flitted away on his raku, batlike wings

with only his whispered promise to return. He wasn’t ever coming back. Counting on him was—useless?

She should take things into her own hands. Soon.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said slowly, not sure how Strell would react. His cautious plainsman nature

made him more inclined to follow a wait-and-see approach rather than her try-and-see philosophy. “The

snow isn’t that deep yet. We could make it to the coast. Then we won’t have to stay the winter here. It’s

not too late.”

Strell took the toast off the fire and set it on a plate for her. “There’s snow on the ground. It’s too

late,” he said shortly, stretching to reach the butter tin.

“Still,” she said. “If we get enough blankets from the annexes—”

He looked up from buttering her toast, a wary, knowing look in his eyes. “You’re thinking about

stealing your book back, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and Alissa flushed for Strell having guessed

her plans. He leaned halfway over the table towards her. “Just what are you going to do?” he asked. “Go

up to his rooms under some pretense and snatch it?”

“Useless isn’t coming back,” she protested.

“What about the ward on Bailic’s door?” he asked. “You’d be trapped until he gave you permission

to leave.”

Her breath hissed out in vexation. He wasn’t even listening. Grinding her teeth, she continued to cut

the rolls. “I can break any ward,” she grumbled.

“You cannot,” he said, shooting a glance at the open archway and the dining hall. “You have no idea

what you’re doing with your source and tracings.”

“I’m not going to go into Bailic’s room.” Turning from her almost lie, she settled a roll upon the baking

stone. “Today,” she finished softly.

“And even if you did manage to get out of his room, what’s to stop him from taking it back? It’s

winter, Alissa. There’s nowhere to go! The coast is a three-week trip from here in good weather. The

snow is up to my knees.”

Alissa wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m tired of waiting,” she said plaintively.

“But to risk your Me for it? It’s just a book.”

“It isn’t just a book!” Alissa shouted, unable to fathom herself just what kind of a hold it had on her.

Ever since pulling it from its hiding spot, it seemed as if it contained something she needed. But she

wasn’t missing anything. Confused and wanting to end the argument, she dusted her hands free of the

flour and picked up Bailic’s half-empty tray.

Strell was right behind her. “Where are you going? We aren’t done with this yet.”

“Upstairs to the practice room,” she said with a forced brightness. “You’re late, you know. Why

don’t you take the tray up for me?”

“I will, and stop trying to change the subject.” He pulled the tray from her and set it down. Alissa

slumped where she stood. “Be reasonable, Alissa,” he coaxed, his tone abruptly softening. “There’s

nowhere to run, even if you could get your book. And if he catches you, he’ll kill you for it. He’s killed

for it before.”

Miserable, she caught her breath. Reminding her of her papa’s death wasn’t fair. “I know, Strell,” she

said. “Just stop.” Her eyes flicked to his as he took her chin and gently turned her to him. The soft

concern in his expression surprised her. It almost seemed he understood. Perhaps he did. He knew loss.

It was easy to forget, when he never let it show.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “But you had some plan to take it, didn’t you?”

She lowered her eyes. There was nothing she could say. If she ever found her book unattended, she

didn’t know if she could stop herself.

Strell let go of her and turned, seeming as frustrated as she. “I don’t know what to do anymore,” he

said with a quiet urgency, “except wait. Master Talo-Toecan knows what he’s doing. He will come up

with an idea.”

Talo-Toecan, she thought darkly. He was Useless to her, now and forever.

An aggressive hiss came from the rafters, and she glanced up to see Talon’s feathers raised like the

hackles of a dog. She was glaring beyond them to the open archway to the dining hall. A faint shout

echoed into the kitchen, and Alissa and Strell exchanged a worried look. “That’s Bailic,” she said, putting

her untouched toast on his tray. Her appetite was gone.

“Well, there’s no one else it could be, is there.” Strell had said it as if making a jest, but he

immediately picked up the tray and turned to go.

“I’ll finish my rolls and be up in a moment,” Alissa said, her earlier bluff and bluster evaporating in the

cold shock of reality. Bailic had broken the conditioning that kept Keepers from using their wards to

harm, emptying the Hold of students and Keepers with his self-taught lessons of murder with magic. If

she couldn’t keep her desire for her book hidden, Bailic would realize he was being deceived. Anonymity

was her only defense until Useless tutored her on how to use the maze of tracings that lay in her

unconscious.

“Will you be all right until I get there?” she asked as he went into the dining hall.

“Yes. I’ve got it.” Strell turned and gave her a tired smile. “I won’t forget my lines.”

She returned his smile, but it vanished quickly. She had coached Strell endlessly on what her source

and tracings looked like so he could answer Bailic’s questions properly, but she worried when she

wasn’t up there to catch any possible mistakes.

“I’ll be fine.” Strell gave her a solemn nod, clearly pleased to see her slip into the unaccustomed role

of meek and mild. The slight clattering of the dishes seemed loud as he left.

She turned back to her rolls and blinked. One was missing. He had stolen it right out from under her

nose. It was the second time this week! “Strell!” she called loudly after him. “Burn you to ash!” But a

smile crossed her face as his laugh came echoing back. Next time, she would catch him.

A sharp snap broke the silence, and she pulled her head up, wondering what it was. The kitchen was

empty except for her and Talon. But the small bird was staring at the narrow door leading to the

expansive kitchen garden. It was really more of a walled-in slice of wood and field, but there were a few

herbs that had yet to go wild.

The tap came again. She straightened, not in fear but curiosity. Glancing at Talon, she wiped her

hands free of flour. It had sounded almost like the peck of a bird. She tip-toed to the door and held her

breath as she leaned closer, listening. A third tap echoed thinly. This time she heard a small rattle as

something clattered against the stone sill on the other side of the door.

Someone was throwing stones at the garden door.

Immediately she reached for the handle and pushed. It wasn’t Bailic, and it wasn’t Strell. That only

left one presence: Useless.

A thrill of excitement tinged with relief went through her as she stepped outside into the cold, clasping

her arms around herself. He hadn’t forgotten her. The postdawn chill seemed to catch in her nose, and

puffs of air marked her breathing. The sun was shining on the upper reaches of the Hold, but the ground

was still in shadow. She looked across the silent lumps of snow the dormant vegetation made. Where

was he?

“Here,” a low, deep voice whispered, and her gaze darted to the tall, unclimbable wall surrounding

the garden. The wall stood higher than two man lengths, and perched upon it like an errant goat was

Useless.

The raku was in his human form, dressed in a yellow shirt with overly expansive sleeves and a

matching pair of trousers. He had no coat, but he wore a sleeveless vest so long it went down to cover

his unseen boots. It was bound tightly to his waist with a black scarf, the ends of which reached the top

of the frozen wall. He let a handful of pebbles drop, and Alissa struggled to pull her eyes from his hands.

His fingers were long, looking as if they had four segments rather than three. His eyes, too, couldn’t hide

his raku nature and were a startling gold. Though not seeming old, he clearly was far from youth, his short

cap of white hair and eyebrows making him appear older than his lightly wrinkled face would make him

look otherwise. Even standing atop the wall he possessed a quiet strength that Alissa envied. And he had

promised to teach her.

“Useless!” she exclaimed, knowing he wouldn’t be here if Bailic could see him from the practice

window. She gathered her skirts to step into the snow, but a rough sound stopped her.

“No,” he said, motioning her to stay. His eyes traveled up the Hold’s tower, and his thin lips pressed

together as if in worry. “Tonight,” he whispered. “Wait up for me.”

“Tonight?” she repeated, then caught her breath as the Master dissolved into a gray mist. There was a

tug on her awareness, jolting her. “Useless, wait,” she cried, stepping out into the snow as the mist grew

and solidified into the massive bulk of a raku.

She stopped dead in her tracks with an instinctive fear. He was as large as six horses put together,

with teeth as long as her arm and eyes as big as her head. She swallowed hard as the sinuous beast

turned his head to her and raised an impossibly long finger to his snout, clearly admonishing her to be

quiet. His muscles bunched under his golden hide, and Alissa stepped involuntarily back to the threshold

as, with one downward push of his wings, he became airborne. The Master headed east over the trees

towards the unseen, abandoned city of Ese‘ Nawoer, a morning’s walk away.

Alissa bit back a cry of surprise as Talon darted out over her head with a screech of outrage,

following the huge raku as if driving it away. Tonight? Alissa thought as her toes turned cold and the chill

settled into her. He was coming back tonight?

Chapter 2

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An irregular drumming shifted the air as Bailic waited, his pale fingers tapping the arm of the chair. It

was the only noise in the narrow practice room. “He will be late again,” Bailic said, not caring that he was

talking to himself. He rose to stand before the row of tall windows. Meson had once told him the roofs of

the long-abandoned city, Ese‘ Nawoer, were visible from here. For Bailic, though, the spectacular view

was a blur of blue, brown, and green in the summer, shifting to blue, brown, and white in the winter. Right

now it was gray with the unrisen sun.

His nearly pink eyes were almost useless and abnormally sensitive to light, but it was only in the strong

sun he could see much of anything. Even so, he avoided the sun as his transparent skin burned

frighteningly fast. His hair, too, was the color of faded straw instead of the dark brown all plainsmen had,

and so he kept it cut close to his skull to minimize its tendency to make him look old. As if to make up for

his lack of color, he had taken to wearing black. Reluctant to abandon his stolen Master’s vest, he wore

it open over his traditional Keeper garb of a gray, wide-sleeved tunic and trousers. He had donned the

soft-soled shoes the Masters had insisted on behind the Hold’s walls, not out of respect but for his

occasional need for stealth. A puckered scar ran from behind an ear, across his neck, and under his shirt.

It had been a parting gift from Talo-Toecan more than a decade ago, and it still hurt when the air was

damp. Raku score was long to heal.

The windows here were large even by the Hold’s standards, and if not for the wards on them, it

would be frigid.

Until the wards fell with the first spring rain, the only thing to pass them would be the amber morning

light the Masters of the Hold had delighted in. Beneath the openings was a wooden bench running the

entire length of the room. It lent the chamber the feel of a roofed balcony. This had once been a pleasant

spot in which to study or practice. Now it was empty and hollow looking, all the amenities stripped

away.

Well, almost all, Bailic thought as his eyes slid to the soft chair tucked by a distant window.

Positioned to catch the first ray of sun, the chair was a silent reminder of the girl. It had appeared the

second day of the piper’s instruction amid much consideration and shifting.

Bailic’s eyes narrowed—the only show of disgust he would allow himself—as he recalled the pathetic

display of the piper and girl discussing at great length the chair’s final placement. It was her cursed bird

who finally settled the matter by swooping in to settle on the back of the chair and preen in the morning

sun. So now it sat just beyond the limit where his sight began to blur to inconsequentiality.

His chair was tucked into the darkest corner. A third seat sat alone at the long, black table, scarred

from centuries of students’ abuses. It was the piper’s. Bailic remembered it was as uncomfortable as it

looked, and still the infuriating man kept falling asleep in it.

As he waited for the sun to rise, Bailic sat ramrod straight on the edge of the long bench and fumed.

A short, white thread decorated his sleeve, and he plucked it off, drawing it through his fingertips to

gauge its quality. First rate, of course. There was nothing else the girl could have found in the annexes to

work with.

His ill temper softened as he let the thread fall. The leavings from her stitching had been finding their

way to the hem of his sleeve or sash for weeks now. It wasn’t right for a commoner to listen to the

instruction of a Keeper, but the sight of her bowed head and flashing needle was a bittersweet reminder

of his sisters, a contented gaggle of consummate skill and gossip. He ignored her, as the one time he

commented on her work she hadn’t shown up the next morning. And the sight of her domestic serenity

was a pain that served to temper his resolve further.

Her silent presence in the corner had become an unexpected reminder of all he left behind, all he

escaped, all he couldn’t return to. He was a plainsman, but his pale skin and hair ultimately forced his

expulsion before reaching twelve summers; he looked too much like a foothills grubber to be accepted.

Reviled and shunned by his own parents, he fled to spare them the exorbitant bribe price necessary to

“quietly escort” him from the plains. One of his few regrets was that he had tried to get them to love him,

even as he ran away.

Unwilling to live among the barbarous foothills people—as if they would have let him—he had

wandered into the mountains. It was to have been a noble trek to his death. Instead, he found the Hold,

his maturing abilities drawing him as heavy skies draw rain. Here he met Meson, and after gaining a

broken nose and cracked rib, learned a grudging respect for the smaller but tenacious folk the foothills

produced. His resentment had lingered, hidden even to him until Meson showed his true, traitorous nature

by charming away the only woman Bailic could love: a dark, beautiful woman from the plains who didn’t

care that his skin was paler than the moon and his hair was the color of straw.

Meson, the coward, had abandoned his responsibilities as a Keeper while Bailic stayed and became

more powerful under the tutelage of the Masters. It was then that Bailic’s idle thoughts began to spill from

his fantasy to his reality. He would take what the Masters taught him, bending it to rule the plains and

foothills so as to make a place for himself. But not until he taught them the meaning of pain, giving them

tenfold the hurt they caused him. They were deserving of it.

Dawn Cook - Truth 02 - Hidden Truth

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