“Varhiel said you claimed that when you brought Gird here, a third arch appeared, and on that basis you claimed a right to use this place. Where is that third arch?”
Luap started down the hall. Sure enough, he saw but the two arches he had seen when he first came. He felt the sweat start on his forehead. It had been there; it had appeared with Gird and had been there when he brought the Rosemage and and Arranha. Now he could not see it. Surely it had to be there, between the others, where a blank red wall stood.
“Show us this arch,” the dwarf said suddenly. “If you are not nedross.” He did not know much of the dwarf speech, but no one could talk long to dwarves without learning something of drossin and nedrossin. He looked again, saw only the bare stone. But, his memory reminded him, the elves are illusionists. At once a rush of exultation flooded him. He walked forward, past the ranks of elves and dwarves, through the very current of their disapproval, their determination to exclude him. He walked past the gnome, who stepped aside without speaking. He thought of Gird, of how Gird had strolled down this hall as if he had the right to walk anywhere. Could he be that certain? Yes. For his people, he could.
He walked to the red stone as if he expected it to part like a curtain. Two paces away, one pace: he could see the fine streaks of paler and darker red, the glitter of polished grains. “Here,” he said, laying his hands flat on the cold, smooth stone. “It bears the High Lord’s sigil; in Gird’s name—” His hands flailed in air; he nearly fell. On either side of him, the columns rose, incised with intricate patterns: over his head the arch curved serenely, with that perfect circle at its height.
He struggled to control his expression; blank astonishment filled him. He heard, inwardly, a rough chuckle that reminded him of Gird. Did you think I’d let you make a fool of yourself? Luap shivered; he knew that voice. He wanted to ask it questions, but it was gone, leaving his head empty and echoing. And no time. From their arches, the elvenking and dwarvenking had come to confront him.
“Mortal, I see the arch. I do not see why you should be allowed to use this hall.” This near, the elvenking’s beauty took his breath away; it was all he had ever imagined a royal visage to be.
“My lord, it was my thought—and Gird’s, for that matter—that such a thing meant either the god’s direct command to come here, or their approval.”
“For what purpose?” The arching eyebrows rose, expressing without words the conviction that no purpose would be justified.
“A haven for the mageborn—”
“You would use magery here?” That was the dwarf, a voice like stone splitting.
“This is magery,” Luap said, with a wave that included the entire place. “How could one be here and not be using magery?” That came close to insolence; he felt his stomach clench, as if he’d leaned far out over a precipice.
The elvenking’s eyes narrowed dangerously; Luap felt cold down his spine. “Mortal man, this is not human magery, but the work of the Elder Races, far beyond your magery—”
“Yet I came, and this arch appeared—I do not claim by my magery alone but with the gods’ aid.”
“And what gods do you serve?” Luap blinked; that was one question he had not anticipated. The gods of my father, or of my mother? The gods of my childhood or my manhood?
“I was reared both mageborn and peasant; I have prayed to both Esea and Alyanya…” he began. The elf interrupted.
“I did not ask from whom you sought favors, but whom you served.”
How could any man say which god he served—truly served? He might think he had rendered service, but the god might have refused it, or not recognized it. Possibilities flitted through his mind, an airy spatter of butterflies. He could think of only one he had served, and that one not a god. “I served Gird, mostly,” he said. The elfs brows rose as the dwarfs lowered; he had a moment to wonder if those were two ways of expressing the same reaction, or two different reactions to the same words.
“And it was Gird’s visit that brought this arch,” the elvenking said.
“Yes.”
The elf looked at him so long in silence that Luap felt his knees would collapse. Finally he spoke. “You convince me that you are convinced of what you say. But you do not know what you ask. This stronghold was made for another, not you. It was built to ward against dangers you do not understand and could not face. If you live here, you may rouse ancient evils, and if you do, it would be better for you that you had not been born. Yet… if you ask me, knowing that you do not know, and knowing that I say your people would find better sanctuary elsewhere, I will grant you my permission. But whatever harms come of it will rest on your shoulders, Selamis-called-Luap, Garamis’s son.”
“What dangers?” Luap asked. “What evils? I saw a land of great beauty, breathed air that sang health along my bones—”
The king held up his hand, and Luap could not continue. “I tell you, mortal man, that you would be wise to choose some other boon from me. Yet wisdom comes late or never to mortals; I see in your eyes you will have your desire, despite anything I say. Be it so: but remember my warning.”
“And you will not say what that danger is?”
“It is none of your concern.” A look passed from the elven to the dwarven king, and returned, which Luap could not read but knew held significance. His anger stirred.
“And why is it not? If the gods led me to this place, as I believe they did; if Gird’s coming hallowed it for mortal use, as I believe it did and this arch proves; if then you know of some danger which threatens, why should you not tell me, and let us meet it bravely?”
Another look passed between the kings; this time the dwarf spoke. “You believe the gods intended this: do you think the gods do not know of the danger? Are we to interfere with their plans? No: you have our permission; that is all you need from us, and all we give.”
Luap realized suddenly that he was hearing the two kings each in his own language, and understanding perfectly, yet he knew he could not speak or understand more than a few courtesies of his own knowledge. Such power, he thought, longingly; his own magery was but the shadow of theirs. But pride stiffened him; he looked each in the eye, and bowed with courtesy but no shame. “Then I thank you, my lords, for your words. As the gods surpass even the Elder Races, I must obey their commands as I understand them.”
The elf looked grim. “May they give you the wisdom to accompany your obedience,” he said. Then he turned to the gnome. “Lawmaster, record all that you heard, and let it be as it is written.” He strode up the hall, and when he reached the dais, the elves vanished. The dwarf king came nearer and looked up into Luap’s face.
“You may be a king’s son, mortal, but it will take more than that to rule in this citadel. You are not of the rockblood; you do not know how to smell the drossin and nedrossin stone. The sinyi care for growing things and pure water; we dasksinyi care for the virtues of stone; the isksinyi care for the structure of the law. Now ask yourself, mortal, what the iynisin care for, and what that corruption means. We will not forgive an injury to the daskgeft.” He turned, and his dwarves cheered, then burst into a marching song. Luap could no longer understand their speech: he watched as they followed their king to the dais and vanished.
That left the gnome, a dour person who gave Luap a long humorless stare. “Gird should have had more sense,” it said. “I am a Lawmaster: this is a book of law. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lawmaster.” Luap struggled with a desire to laugh or shiver. How had Gird endured an entire winter understone with such as this?
“In this book will be recorded the contract between you and the Elder Races. Do you understand that?”
He did not, but he hated to admit it. “If we wake this danger, whatever it is, they will take it ill.”
“They will withdraw their permission,” the gnome corrected. “You are, for the duration of your stay here, considered as guardian-guests, not as heirs. You have the duty to protect this as if it were your own, but it is not y
our own, nor may you exchange any part of it for any value whatsoever. Is that clear?”
“I—think so. Yes.”
“You have the use-right of the land, the water, the air, the animals that live on the land and the birds that fly over it, but no claim upon dragons—”
“Dragons!” Luap could not suppress that exclamation.
“Dragons… yes. There may be dragons from time to time; you have no claim upon them. You are forbidden to interfere with them. You may not, through magery or other means, remove this citadel to another place—” Luap had not even thought of that possibility. “—And you must keep all in good repair and decent cleanliness. You must not represent yourself as the builder or true owner, and you must avoid contamination of this hall with any evil. Now—if these are the terms you understand, and you accept them, you will say so now—”
“I do,” said Luap.
“And then the sealing. You were Gird’s scribe as well as luap; you know how to sign your name. As you have no royal seal, press your thumb in the wax.” Luap signed, pressed, and the gnome laid over the blotch of wax a thin cloth. The gnome bowed, stiffly, and without another word walked to the dais, where he vanished.
Luap could not have told how long he stood bemused before he, too, went back to the dais, as much worried as triumphant. He arrived in darkness—not in the High Lord’s Hall, as he’d expected, but in his cave… and realized he’d been thinking of it. Could he transfer directly? No. Back to the distant land, then to Fin Panir. The High Lord’s Hall was empty; it was near dusk. Where had they gone, and why? Or had the elves wrapped him in such sorcery that years had passed, and they thought him lost forever?
“Almost,” said the Rosemage when he found her in his office. “Four days is too long to stand waiting.”
Quickly, Luap told her what he remembered of his meeting with elves and dwarves and the gnomish Lawmaster. He found it hard to believe it had been four days… but he could not remember everything. Something about danger, about drossin and nedrossin, about which of the Elders cared most about which aspect of creation… but none of that mattered, compared to the final agreement. The Rosemage grinned; she looked almost as excited as he felt.
“Well, then—and where is this fabulous place, now that we have permission to use it?”
At that moment, Luap realized he had not asked—that he had not been given a chance to ask. And he doubted very much that the Elders would answer any such question now.
Arranha was the least concerned about that; he was sure, he said, that he could figure it out by means of celestial markers. Luap, annoyed with himself for being so easily enchanted by the elves, grunted and left him to it.
Chapter Fifteen
What happened?” asked Aris, as Seri came out of the Council meeting room. She grinned, stuck up her thumb, and then put a finger before her mouth. They scurried down the stairs like two errant children, across a court, through another passage, and then found an empty stall in the stable.
“It went just as we hoped,” Seri said, when she’d thrown herself down on the straw. “I’m glad you suggested starting with the history, though.”
“Makes you seem older,” Aris said. He sat curled, with his arms around his knees. It had been Seri’s idea, all of it, but she had let him help her shape it.
“They had to agree with that, of course, since they knew it: that all the Marshals now were Marshals or yeoman-marshals under Gird himself, they’d all led soldiers in the war. And they had to agree that weaponsdrill in the barton, and marching in the grange drillfields, isn’t much like battle. Even Gird had to get them out of the bartons and into mock battles before real ones. So they could see where I was going, and some of ‘em—Cob, for instance—were already nodding when I said the granges needed something more. He started in to propose just what I’d planned, so I didn’t have to bother.”
Aris chuckled. “They’ll like it better from Cob, he’s one of them.”
“And it doesn’t matter to me,” Seri said, with a wave of her hand, “as long as we have that kind of training. After all, he was in the war, not just scrubbing pots and carrying water like we were. He’ll know better how to set it up, now he’s thought of it.”
“But about the other—” Aris prompted.
“You won’t believe it.” Her grin lit up the stall. “He had just gotten well started on laying out a training plan when the Rosemage raised her hand and said she thought perhaps I’d had more to say. Cob stopped short, shrugged, and asked if I did. So I told them about our plan—”
“Your plan,” Aris said firmly. “I didn’t think of that.”
“My plan, then. I told them how future Marshals would need more training than just leading a gaggle of farmers around a hay-field, or even fighting in a mock battle once a year or so—that they needed to be real Marshals, well-tested before being given command of a grange—and Aris, they listened to me. I said it all, all we talked about: working up from yeoman-marshal, spending time in two different granges, and then talked about having a place for concentrated training.” She paused so long that Aris had to speak.
“Well? What did they say?”
“Five or six of the older ones all started talking at once, about how they didn’t have to worry as long as they had veterans, and how much it would cost, and that Gird never meant to have armies roaming around stealing from honest farmers—then Raheli stood up and they were all silent.” Seri lay back in the straw and stared at the high roof far overhead. “You know, I never realized how much she’s like him.”
Aris sat up straight. “Like Gird?” He thought about it. They saw her only when she came to Fin Panir, and often enough only from a distance. They had heard stories, of course, but none of them made her seem much like her father.
“I know, it surprised me, too. All we’d seen, after all, was her from a distance, walking around. That great scar on her face, and her dark hair—she doesn’t look anything like him. But when she looked at me, it gave me the same sort of feeling as the first time we met Gird. I don’t know how to say it better than that she’s an opposite of Luap.”
“Warm, not cold,” Aris mused, and looked up to see if Seri agreed. She was nodding vigorously.
“She has Gird’s directness. I liked her at once, but if she was my Marshal I wouldn’t dare try anything.” She didn’t have to elaborate on that; he knew about the tricks she’d played on her Marshal. It had been, she’d explained from time to time, the result of being separated from Aris. He had always kept her out of mischief. Not long after, they’d been reassigned to the same grange.
Now Aris came back to the main subject. “So Rahi stood up, and they were quiet, and then what?”
“She said it was a good plan. She said it should be in Fin Panir, and each grange should have the right to nominate two candidates a year, but not all would become Marshals.”
“But you thought three—”
“Two, three, it doesn’t matter. The point is, she approved. And— what you won’t believe—the Rosemage stood after her, and approved as well. She argued for including the study of law and the archives as well. Said that knowledge of war was only part of a Marshal’s training; that Marshals had to be able to act as judicars and recognize all kinds of things going wrong. The two of them started in, then, and it was almost as if they’d pulled the details of the plan straight out of my head.” She threw her arms out, raising a cloud of dust from the straw, and sneezed. “Of course, I know they didn’t, but it means we were planning in the right way.”
“Huh. If you said something that got the Rosemage and Gird’s daughter working together, it was definitely right.”
“They should be friends,” said Seri soberly. “They would fit together.”
“Luap doesn’t think so.”
Seri wrinkled her nose. “Luap couldn’t do what he does if they did, is what he means. But it’s what Gird would have wanted. Think of it—the Rosemage could lead her people—”
“Not while Luap is the kin
g’s son, and she’s an outlander.”
“He could let her; he could tell them to follow her, and not him. But he won’t.” Seri rolled over on her stomach and propped her chin on her fists, as if she were a child again. “He’s ruining things.”
“He’s not!” Aris scrambled nearer and thumped her shoulder, then bent down to look her in the eye. “He’s Gird’s chosen luap, Seri: he is not ruining things.”
She didn’t budge. “You don’t see everything; you’re thick as bone some ways. I think the healing makes you see people differently. You don’t see what they are; you see their needs.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose for a moment before going on. “I don’t think he knows it, I’ll say that for him. I think he believes he’s doing the right thing, what Gird would have wanted. But he got it into his head a long time ago that the Rosemage and Rahi were natural enemies, like a levet and a wren—”
Aris snorted. “And which of those two is a wren?” Seri smacked him.
“You know what I mean. He thinks that, and he can’t see that they’re made to be allies. Not friends, maybe, but allies. And so he treats them as enemies, and they see each other through his vision, except sometimes like this.”
“Mmm.” It was something to think about. Did the healing magery give him such a different view of people? Or was it the magery itself? Could that be why Luap saw the Rosemage and Rahi as natural enemies? But he had no chance to discuss that with Seri, for someone was calling her. She rolled to her feet; he sighed and scrambled up after her. They had little time together these days, and he treasured the brief encounters.
“Seri!” Now the voice was closer: Rahi, Gird’s daughter. Aris followed Seri out of the stall. The older woman laughed, the first relaxed laugh he had ever heard from her. “I might have known you’d be off somewhere with Aris.”
“Yes, Marshal,” said Seri. Her braid had come half undone again, and she had straw in her springy curls.
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