Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Not you, Sir King,” Dorrin said. “Nor any in this room or at the coronation banquet last night. For those I am sure are not taken over.”

  “Are you, indeed? Then it is Gird’s mercy, I say, that so much has been accomplished.” The Marshal-Judicar’s voice held a slight note of mockery.

  “But, Sir King,” Dorrin said, ignoring the Marshal-Judicar for the moment, “I do think those Verrakai in custody awaiting trial or sentenced to prison must be killed unless I can assure you they have not been taken over. Confinement does not lessen their powers, as yesterday’s events prove. Any still alive could attempt a transfer—to a guard, to a servant bringing food—and might be successful. I know you do not want to kill the children—or what seem children.”

  “You’re talking of a summary judgment on the basis of your examination? Without a trial?” the Marshal-Judicar asked. He sounded angry. “That’s against the Code—everyone has a right to a trial.”

  “A speedy trial,” Serrostin said. “We cannot risk anything long enough to allow them to change bodies. And think of the harm to the person whose body they take.”

  “I take your meaning.” The king looked sad. “My brother’s best friend is a Verrakai—was a page here, now in prison—and Camwyn’s sure he’s innocent. He keeps asking to visit him.”

  “He must not,” Dorrin said. “If the Verrakai boy is actually no child, he might take over the prince.”

  “Could you tell if the boy is one of those—or guilty of anything?”

  “If he is someone else, yes. But I’m not sure I could tell if he was part of the conspiracy.”

  Duke Marrakai stirred; the king shot a glance his way. “I know, my lord, what you said about the lad’s attitude toward your son Aris.”

  “It’s not just that,” Marrakai said. “It’s what the prince has told Aris since.”

  The king’s brows raised. “Do we need to call Aris to testify?”

  “If you wish. But haven’t you noticed the difference yourself in the prince’s demeanor and attention since he’s no longer close with Egan Verrakai?”

  “Yes.” The king shook his head as if to clear it. “It’s a bad, bad business. I cannot take chances with the realm, or with my brother’s life. Duke Verrakai, you will visit the prisoners and determine if any are harboring ancients of your family. Do we all agree that such is evidence of treason and punishable by death?” Every hand smacked the table. “Then I will appoint witnesses to go with Duke Verrakai, including at least one Marshal and one judicar. But we must finish the other tasks of this meeting as well.” He cleared his throat. “I have received reports from Lord Arcolin warning that Aarenis continues unsettled. Though he was hired to put down brigands, thought to be vagrants from Siniava’s War, he has found instead organized bands willing to give battle and clearly supported from without, he thinks by the new Duke Alured of Immer. Duke Verrakai, you know of this Alured, do you not?”

  “Our ally against Siniava,” Dorrin said, nodding. “Younger than the other captains, said to be a former pirate, very ambitious. He supplied a company of woods-wise fighters, and we used his network of spies.”

  “Spies! In Aarenis only? Or beyond?”

  “The ones we used were all in Aarenis, but now that he has a title, I expect he will have spies everywhere, including here.”

  “Arcolin says he is ruthless.”

  “Indeed. We were with him during the capture of the Immer ports, after Siniava’s death—that was the price of his earlier aid. Kieri—the king—regretted he ever made that bargain when we saw how cruel Alured could be. Alured wanted to hire him—us—through the winter and another season, but Kieri refused.”

  “Does he pose any present threat to us?”

  “Not unless he gains control of the Guild League,” Dorrin said. “I’m sure he now controls river trade down the Immer to the sea, but taking over the Guild League will not be easy or quick.”

  “That much should be enough for anyone,” Count Halar said.

  “It wasn’t for Siniava,” Dorrin pointed out. “And if he hadn’t been stopped, he might well have cast his eyes northward.”

  “If this Alured heard about what you found,” Duke Mahieran said, “would that influence him?”

  Dorrin felt a cold chill down her back; she had not thought of that. “Alured? Certainly. He would want that crown as proof of his claim that he was descended from the old royal family of Aare. Impossible, of course, but a lost crown rediscovered would, in his mind, be his family’s.”

  “No chance it could be his?” Serrostin asked. “I mean—your family’s had it, and perhaps they were related. Could this fellow be a distant relative of yours?”

  “I suppose,” Dorrin said. She hated the thought, but Alured’s cruelty and even his slight magery fit her family’s pattern. “But our family records are so unreliable, with the transfer of personalities, that I cannot possibly tell. What I do know is that he had a vast network of spies in Aarenis during Siniava’s War, and it would be folly to think he had none here.”

  “And if he had them here,” Duke Marrakai said, “he will have heard the rumors that were going around the markets.”

  “And are now going through the court,” Dorrin said, nodding. “How many people saw me battle my father in the courtyard? How many heard of the gifts I brought the king? Whatever is widely known, he will know, and things we think confined to a few he may also discover.” She turned to the king. “The regalia, Sir King, are not safe: he will seek to have them stolen for his benefit. He will hire the Thieves’ Guild.”

  “It’s in my treasury,” the king said. “He couldn’t possibly get to it, nor could any thief of the Guild.”

  “Sir King,” Duke Mahieran said, “remember the assassinations. We thought we had secured the palace then.”

  “If he has allied with my surviving relatives,” Dorrin said, “he may have powers through them.”

  “True. You had not mentioned Alured before.”

  “No, my lord. I thought his menace confined to Aarenis and his domain large enough to keep him busy longer.”

  “Have you heard from Arcolin?”

  “No, my lord.” She wondered at that, since Arcolin had been writing to the king, but those messages would have been carried from Valdaire to Vérella by royal courier; his to her would be by private messenger and no doubt slower.

  The king nodded as if satisfied. “Is there any way we can interdict the spies’ report?”

  “No, my lord. If they deemed the information important—and I’m sure they would have—they will have sent it ahead already. Those rumors about the crown were circulating before your coronation.”

  Duke Serrostin spoke up. “It’s possible that the Thieves’ Guild could be convinced to cooperate with the Crown, after the scouring we gave them.”

  “For a price,” Count Kostvan said.

  “You would pay thieves not to steal?” asked the Marshal-Judicar, raising his brows.

  “Isn’t there a master thief the Marshal-General has invited to Fin Panir?” Serrostin asked, with a glance her way.

  “Yes,” the Marshal-General said, “Arvid Semminson, to tell what he knows of Paksenarrion.”

  “Well, it’s my understanding he now stands high in the local Guild. I see no harm in asking him to report any offer he gets from this Alured.”

  “Indeed,” the king said with a sidelong glance at the Marshal-Judicar, who had clamped his lips together as if to hold back something he might say later.

  That first Council meeting lasted well into the afternoon, and Dorrin left it feeling even more that she had been caught up in a whirlwind. She knew less of Tsaia as a whole than any of the others; they talked of agriculture, industry, and trade in terms that confused her. But when the topic of defense came up, everyone looked at her.

  “Duke Verrakai, I wish you to assess our readiness,” the king said. “Review our resources and our training methods. If this Alured fellow tries force a few years hence, we must be ready.
”

  Dorrin assented: he was right; she did have the expertise for this. But the looks she got from the other Council members suggested that not all of them would be eager to have her questioning the way they organized their troops.

  A palace servant stopped her on her way out. “The Marshal-General would like to speak with you,” he said. Dorrin followed him to the offices of the Knights of the Bells, the Girdish training order housed in the palace complex.

  The Marshal-General was talking to the new Marshal-Judicar, Oktar, when Dorrin arrived. “Ah, Duke Verrakai. Have you a little time?”

  “Yes, Marshal-General,” Dorrin said.

  “You gave us all a surprise yesterday,” the Marshal-General said. “Like most, I believed all the magelords long dead or frozen in time like those in the far west. Safely distant. What I knew of your family’s treason and the magicks used there, I thought due to blood magic alone. But you—” She shook her head. “Neither I nor any of the Marshals I’ve spoken to here have sensed evil in you. They tell me you asked for help from a local grange.”

  “Yes,” Dorrin said. “And two Marshals came. We have not yet gone into the cellar, though, where I expect the worst.”

  “Now that I’ve heard some of your story,” the Marshal-General said, “I agree the king made the right decision yesterday in sparing your life, but frankly, I find all magicks distasteful and the power you showed—and told us about—terrifying. It is one thing to face obvious evil, as I know Marshals here did in cleaning out Liart’s lairs, but another to see great power and be uncertain of its source.”

  Oktar spoke up. “The Code of Gird, in one revision, allowed for the use of magery for specific reasons, including healing. And the Chronicles of Luap speak of a partnership between a mageborn and a Girdish peasant—”

  “But that was overturned in the Edicts of Barlon—”

  “I know, Marshal-General, but to my mind the discoveries made in the last few years—the scrolls that the paladin Paksenarrion brought from somewhere in the mountains and the discovery of Luap’s Stronghold in Kolobia—bring those Edicts into question.”

  “So you would support removing all strictures on the use of magery?”

  Oktar snorted. “No, Marshal-General, I would not, of course, suggest that a magelord be granted dispensation to use magery for any and all purposes, including evil.”

  “Good,” the Marshal-General said. “Because I’m not going to take that proposal to my Council.” She grinned at him; he chuckled. Dorrin had noticed the Marshal-General’s informality at Kieri’s stronghold but, after her mood the day before, did not expect the almost teasing tone. She turned to Dorrin. “If it’s convenient for you, I’ve got the rest of the day free, and I know Marshal Tamis is at your house now.”

  “Certainly,” Dorrin said.

  When they arrived at the house, windows and front door stood open, with Eddes, one of Dorrin’s escorts, sitting in the entrance hall polishing his boots. He jumped up, sock-footed as he was, and bowed. “Sorry, m’lord—didn’t think you’d be back yet.”

  Dorrin waved a hand. “Go ahead, Eddes. Do you know where Marshal Tamis is?”

  “Upstairs. I think the bedrooms.”

  “Thank you,” Dorrin said. She would have to find someone else to watch the front door and explain to Eddes that boot-cleaning should be done out back. She led the Marshal-General and Oktar into the house. They found Marshal Tamis just coming out of the room Dorrin was sure had been her uncle’s bedroom.

  “If it wouldn’t risk fire in other houses,” he said to Dorrin without preamble, “I’d say burn this place out. Those spells are stubborn—oh! Marshal-General. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I came to help, if I can,” the Marshal-General said. “What’s the problem?”

  “Blood magery, and the blood’s soaked into the fabric of the house—into the wood of the floor in this instance. I think someone or something was killed here, under the bed.”

  The bed had been moved aside; they all looked at the old brown stain on the floor. The room seemed to darken as Dorrin stared, though the window stood open to the afternoon sunlight.

  “What have you tried?” the Marshal-General asked.

  “Prayer, of course, and the Relic of our grange.”

  Sudden nausea gripped Dorrin’s belly; she gagged and grabbed for a basin on a table to one side. As the others watched, she heaved into it, too sick to be embarrassed for the moment.

  “What—?” the Marshal-General said.

  “It’s a body,” Dorrin said. “We have to get the floor up. It’s—under there.”

  “It?”

  “The body—the blood’s coming up, not down.” She saw their faces pale and knew her own must be bloodless as well. “And we must do it now. Quickly.” She stepped to the door of the room and called out. “Bring an ax; there’s one in the stable! Bring it here at once.” Feet thudded in the distance as someone ran through the house.

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Someone was killed to hide a secret. I don’t know how it was done, but the blood survives until a counterspell removes it.”

  “And you know the counterspell,” Arianya said.

  “I hope I do,” Dorrin said. “Something similar guarded the vault in which I found the crown—you heard about that, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think this is another old family secret, and it’s dangerous.”

  Inder appeared at the head of the stairs, a towel tied around his waist, with an ax and a sharpening stone. “It’s not that sharp, m’lord, but you said hurry—”

  “Thank you, Inder. You should go back downstairs—do not be alarmed if you hear wood cracking, but if you see—” She paused. What might he see that would give warning for her servants’ escape? “If you see an odd mist in the house, get everyone out.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Dorrin took the ax into the bedroom. She heard a thin buzzing whine, as if a wasp circled her head. “You should leave the room,” she said to the others. “And risk or no, set fire to the place if I’m not successful.”

  “I do not run from danger,” the Marshal-General said. “I will witness.”

  “I do not know if I can protect you,” Dorrin said.

  “Dorrin, I don’t ask your protection. Perhaps I can even help. Tamis, what Relic do you have?”

  “It’s supposed to be a piece of the Cudgel … of a cudgel, anyway.”

  “Hold it up, then.”

  Dorrin raised the ax; the buzzing grew louder. “Do you hear anything?” she asked, wondering if the sound were perceptible to those without magery.

  “There’s a fly in the room somewhere,” the Marshal-General said.

  “It’s not a fly,” Dorrin said. She brought the ax down full force on the floor. The old wood, hardened by time, rang but did not yield. The bloodstain darkened perceptibly. Again … again … and the wood cracked. Blood spurted up through the crack, the smell of it strong in the room, followed by the stench of decay. Dorrin ignored it, striking again and again, working the head of the ax into the gap and tugging pieces of board free. She had no time to think of the others, not with wave after wave of malice pounding at her. The first board yielded finally with a shriek, and then another and another. The red mist she had seen before formed in the air, but this time others were also praying, and it dissipated more quickly.

  Under the floor a space the size of a small body had been framed in and covered with a blood-soaked cloth. She pulled that back and saw for a few moments a child’s mummified body resting on a bed of shattered bone. Then it collapsed, the skin and flesh vanishing away like the blood-mist, leaving clean bone behind. Every prayer she knew ran through her mind; she felt her eyes burning, the hot tears on her face.

  “Gird’s grace,” the Marshal-General said softly. She was kneeling beside Dorrin now and put out a hand to touch the small skull, stroking it. “Gird’s grace on this child and—I presume—the others whose bones lie he
re. Poor little ones. And their families—they must have thought them run away or fallen into the river.”

  Dorrin blinked her tears away and wished she could erase that momentary glimpse of the body—the obvious marks of pain on those small limbs. “Marshal Tamis is right,” she said. “This house should be destroyed. We burned the old keep, back in Verrakai domain, for the same reason; it was saturated in evil, centuries of it.”

  “I think not,” the Marshal-General said. “This evil is gone—I feel it is gone.”

  “And I,” Oktar said. “Look—the bloodstains are gone from even the broken boards.”

  At that moment something rustled in the cavity, and the bone fragments under the skeleton stirred. “A mouse,” Marshal Tamis said.

  “No mouse would—” Dorrin began, and then a battered, dusty spoon with a loop-shaped handle rose through the bone fragments to the surface.

  “Holy Gird,” the Marshals said together. Then the Marshal-General said, “A spoon? What does a spoon mean?”

  “It’s not a spoon,” Dorrin said. Despite the horror of the whole room, she knew she had to pick it up.

  Yes, the crown said in her head. It belongs with us. With you.

  She reached out; the Marshal-General grabbed her wrist. “Be careful! It might still be—”

  “It’s magical but not evil,” Dorrin said. “I think it will change in my hand—watch—” She plucked the spoon out—heavy silver, it felt like—and her hand and arm tingled as they had before. The spoon squirmed, re-forming into a ring, a sapphire surrounded by diamonds.

  Put it on! Put it on now! The room filled with light that faded after a few moments when Dorrin made no move to slip the ring onto a finger.

  “It looks like more of the regalia,” Dorrin said when none of the others spoke. “I should take it to the king, to be stored with the rest.”