“And broke it,” Arcolin said, “if they became Pargun, for Pargun claims this—” He pointed but did not touch the map.
“That is so,” the estvin said. “The Webmistress said to them, Go higher and be safe. The Karginfulk prince said no. Then daskdraudigs—you know this?”
“Rock-serpent,” Arcolin said.
“Yes. Bad. Years it grew under stone, then fell and crushed prince and most Karginfulk. And Webmistress threatened more. Then new prince bade us obey the Law and withdraw to the deeps, and there we lived, but with difficulty. For She sent orcs to harass us and her servants, the little webspinners, as spies and talebringers, liars in the dark to spread fear and mistrust. We dwindled but stayed faithful to our task—”
“Task?” Arcolin asked.
“One such webspinner bit our prince despite our care, and he died,” the estvin said without answering Arcolin’s question. “By then were few with the knowledge of Law that a prince needs, for so we had been pressed by trouble. The new prince knew less. We sent for aid from other princedoms, but none came—perhaps our messengers did not survive the journey. By Law they should have come and helped us.”
The estvin looked down now; Arcolin glanced along the line of gnomes and saw that their black eyes glistened like wet pebbles. “They came not,” the estvin said. “Our new prince—our prince was taken.”
“Taken?”
“By secret treachery; it could not have been his intent.” That had the tone of wish rather than certainty. Arcolin imagined a line of increasingly weaker princes. “And the Pargunese—the Pargunese came to see the hill forbidden to all.”
“A holy hill?” Arcolin hazarded.
“Holy!” The estvin glared at Arcolin. “Not holy. Cursed. More perilous than daskdraudigs. And—” His head lowered again. “Our task. To protect—to warn away—any who might come there.”
A cold tendril of wind blew under the tent wall and chilled Arcolin’s legs; he shivered. “What is the curse, then?”
“Is not to say.” Now the estvin looked squarely at Arcolin again. Then he shook his head. “Yet must. Humans must always know what and why or they do not obey.” He leaned over the bench on his side of the table, putting both hands flat on the map. “Dragonkin.”
“Dragons? They disappeared ages ago—”
“Human fool.” The estvin did not raise his voice. “Not two hands of days agone Drakka—Dragon himself—came to Lyonya and destroyed the scathefire burning the forests. Then to us he came, and sent us into banishment for failing our trust.”
“He blames you for the Pargunese finding the hill? But if you were few in number and hard beset—”
“It is not that. It is that Dragon believes our prince—our prince betrayed the trust.”
“And your prince—”
“Has not returned. May be dead. May not. We that remain … Dragon requires to warn you to leave this land as far as this stream.” He pointed to a line that Arcolin recognized as a third of the way from the recognized border to the stronghold. “It is for the lives of those that still live. Then we must go, by Midwinter, out from under stone to find our way as we can, taking nothing but what we wear.”
Arcolin could not comprehend all this; the concept of a dragon, a live dragon—now, in this time, a dragon giving orders to gnomes—was difficult enough. “It is not fair,” he said, fixing his mind on the dragon’s demands. “It is not your fault.”
“It is not your fault that you must leave this,” the estvin said. “It is by our weakness Dragon came and thus by our weakness you and your king lose land long held. Our debt. We cannot pay; we must go with nothing. We are all kteknik, for with no prince, no guardian of Law, we all fail in Law.”
“Kteknik?”
The estvin nodded. “Banished from our prince, nameless and clanless. We must not wear these clothes after we leave, for these declare we are Karginfulk, and we will not be Karginfulk.”
“It’s winter,” Arcolin said. “You can’t walk away without clothes, without food …”
“It is that we have no choices left,” the estvin said. “The Elder rules. We have obeyed in telling you where you must go. Dragon …” The estvin paused. “Dragon is not safe,” the estvin said then. “But Dragon is just.”
“Where will you go?” Arcolin asked.
The estvin shrugged.
“How many of you? And … and women and children?” He imagined a string of small naked gray figures struggling through the icy wind, the blowing snow, going somewhere they did not know, and shuddered at the thought.
“It is—it was when we left seventy and eight. Fifteen children—” The estvin closed both eyes: Arcolin glanced along the row and saw that they all had closed their eyes. On each face a single tear ran down, then another.
“You must—” No, he could not say “must” to any of the elders. “Come to the stronghold—to my place,” he said instead. “You can shelter there for a time, until spring at least, when it is warmer. There are hills west of us—perhaps they might suit you—”
“You do not understand!” For a moment, Arcolin thought the estvin was angry, then realized the gnome was shaking with grief, not anger. “It is … it is the judgment. We fail. We damage you with our failure. The debt—the debt is already greater than we can survive.”
“It is in Gird’s Code that we shelter fugitives unless they are criminals,” Arcolin said. Fifteen little gnome children in the winter cold? No.
“Kteknik criminals. Elder—Drakka—Dragon said.”
“Not by Gird’s law,” Arcolin said. “Gird’s Code is my law—the law I must obey. Gird laid on us obeying the bounds kapristi set. I will have to tell the king—my king—but he will agree.”
“Exchange,” said one of the other gnomes. “No take without exchange.”
The estvin looked hard at the other. “Dragon—” Arcolin felt the tension between them.
“It is not Drakka said no exchange.”
The estvin looked at Arcolin. “Gird law not Law. For kteknik kapristi, must exchange make. Take service?”
Arcolin blinked. “Your service?”
“Service for debt owed. Kapristi service for shelter. Until balance level, service to Count. Yes?”
Holy Gird and Falk. He was acquiring seventy-eight gnomes as … as whatever they were good for. All the things he suddenly needed to do ran through his head. All eight gnomes stared at him; the map on the table seemed to squirm when he glanced at it.
“Yes,” he said.
“Dragon may not like. Think before bindings.”
A dragon he had never seen and wasn’t entirely sure existed outside a gnome’s round hard skull was nothing to his vision of those tiny gnome children.
“Yes,” he said again. “I would make bargain with you, estvin, and your clan Karginfulk whether you be kteknik or not. I would trade shelter this winter, and food and other necessities, for service.”
The estvin turned to the other gnomes and loosed a brief torrent of gnomish; they all answered one gnomish word Arcolin didn’t know and couldn’t pronounce. Then the entire troop came around the end of the table and prostrated themselves before him, and the estvin said, from his position, “Turn that I may kiss the feet of my master.”
Across the tent, someone dropped a pan; Arcolin looked that way and realized that the cooks had been listening avidly. He turned on the bench; the estvin grasped his boot and kissed it, and behind him, each gnome kissed the boot heels of the gnome in front of him. Then the estvin stood, once more looking Arcolin in the face. “The master orders?”
“Have you eaten lately?” Arcolin asked.
“It is of no matter,” the estvin said.
“It matters to me,” Arcolin said. “Answer.”
“Then, not since leaving Dragon and our home.”
“Have you food there?”
“A little.”
“You will eat here and carry what food you need back to your people and bring them. Understand?”
; “Yes, master.”
“And you will not remove your Karginfulk clothes until you reach the stronghold and are given others, that no harm comes to your people. Understand?”
“Yes, master.”
“Are the Pargunese soldiers harrying you?”
“No, master, not since Dragon came.”
“You will come here—and my men will escort you to the stronghold as we remove ourselves from this place. Will that suit?”
“Yes, master.”
Arcolin looked over to the cooks. “Feed these eight gnomes with as much as they will eat and give them food to carry. They will be coming back with the rest of their clan, and I will give Cracolnya orders about that.”
The gnomes worked their way through two bowls of porridge each, accepted a bag of oats, and left, bowing deeply to Arcolin. He called Cracolnya back in.
“What was that about, and why are you giving them oats?”
“Because that’s all they’d take.” Arcolin repeated what the gnomes had told him and what he’d done. “And you’ll escort them to the stronghold when they come.”
“You’re inviting kapristi into the stronghold?”
“For the winter.”
“But they’re … they’re gnomes. Did they ask?”
“No, I offered. They finally accepted.” Arcolin shook his head at Cracolnya’s expression. “It’s not for nothing. They’re exchanging service …”
“But if the dragon doesn’t like it—”
“If there is a dragon,” Arcolin said. “I wasn’t going to argue; those gnomes were near the end of their strength.”
The gnomes arrived with Cracolnya’s troops three days before Midwinter. Seventy-seven—one had died before the gnomes Arcolin had met reached their home again. He could not judge the age of the elders; the women, huddled in a group in the midst of the men, clearly did not want to be seen. He did not let his gaze linger on them.
To the estvin he gave welcome and then asked, “Would your people be more comfortable under stone? We have cellars here, enough for all.”
“It is not comfort is important,” the estvin said. From the midst of the group—from a gnome female, Arcolin thought—came a shrill rapid chitter of sound. The estvin looked at the ground and then up at Arcolin. “As the master says, cellars.”
Arcolin led the way through the main courtyard, into the smaller private one, and then to the stairs down to the cellars. The gnomes followed. He had a lantern and showed them the storerooms he’d had cleared for them.
“Can bring water?”
“From the well in the courtyard,” Arcolin said.
Faster than he would have believed, the gnomes settled into the cellars of the stronghold. When they insisted they could not wear their clan uniforms, Arcolin gave them furls of the maroon and brown wools the Phelani uniforms used, the cloth he had. Soon the gnome males appeared above stairs every morning, wearing maroon shirts and brown trousers. They began their service without asking, bringing up supplies to the kitchen staff in the officers’ court first and then taking over other menial chores.
Lyonya
The brief war ended; the taig, aided by elves, flushed the last Pargunese stragglers—hungry, exhausted, and scared—out of the forest into the hands of Kieri’s forces. Most were alone, a few in small groups. Kieri put them under guard in one of the abandoned steadings and waited for word from Pargun’s king.
Before it came, he, Arian, and Aliam Halveric went north to the ruins of Riverwash to attend a ceremony for those who had died and to reestablish a presence there. Though none had escaped from the town itself, those who lived nearby and were not burnt out came, a small group of farmers and fisherfolk compared to the crowd at his last visit.
Kieri looked out over the Honnorgat. A skim of ice reached almost shore to shore. Across the river, a raw scar in the trees looked to him like scathefire damage. He wondered where Torfinn was. Then he and Aliam and Arian laid the sacred boughs on those bitter ashes. Under a clear sky, the sun cruelly bright on the ice and snow, the little group of farmers, the Halverics in their neat array, and the royal party sang the mourning songs Kieri had so recently learned.
A hail from the river alerted the Halverics; Kieri squinted against the glare and saw a boat being shoved through the ice, men leaning out to break the ice with their oars. One figure stood upright, wrapped in a long cape, with the sun glittering on his head … his crown. Pargun’s king, from whom he had heard nothing.
Torfinn clambered up the bank, limping heavily and bracing himself with a pole in his left hand. He had, Kieri saw, lost his right arm above the elbow. When he reached the level, he bent his knee to Kieri. “Lord king,” he said.
“Rise,” Kieri said. “I am glad to see you alive.”
“Was near thing,” Torfinn said, using the pole to lever himself up. “Is Elis—?”
“She is not here,” Kieri said. “She is safe and well but has duties at Falk’s Hall for Midwinter.” He paused, but when Torfinn said nothing, he asked, “Iolin?”
“He lives,” Torfinn said. “His elder brothers—not.”
“I’m sorry,” Kieri said.
“Was not you starting it,” Torfinn said. “My fault, not seeing Einar for what he was. Not seeing Her, either.”
“Was that the dragon or the dragon kin?” Kieri asked, pointing across the river.
“Dragon,” Torfinn said. “Lord king, can we sit? My leg weakens.”
“Of course,” Kieri said, and led him to the royal tent. He could not help contrasting the tent, its sides bulging and rippling in the wind, with the comfortable inn where they had rested and eaten before. Instead of the sturdy leather-padded chairs, simple folding chairs; instead of a feast laid out by servants in a room with a roaring fire, marching rations on a couple of planks with a basin of cold water for washing at one end. His Squires brought them both hot sib and placed a brazier nearby for warmth.
Torfinn sat awkwardly, almost falling into the chair, grunting with pain. Kieri saw the bulge of bandages under his trousers and caught a whiff of a wound gone bad.
“You should not have spent yourself coming here,” Kieri said. “I hoped for a messenger.”
“I have few to send,” Torfinn said. “And it is your land my people harmed. I must come myself to beg your mercy and save what little I can from this disaster. So the dragon said.”
“Lord king,” Kieri said, “I have no reason to attack you or your people if you do not attack us. We have enough to do trying to repair what has been lost.”
“What is lost …” Torfinn sighed. “My kingdom is lost, as you should know. The dragon … demanded back all lands above the falls and now seeks out its young. Einar’s army, anyone who did not make it across the river to your lands, is dead. I do not know if any of those who invaded you survived.”
“Some,” Kieri said. “They are under guard now; if they swear allegiance to you, I will release them to you.”
Torfinn scowled. “They are traitors. How could I trust them?”
“They are defeated; most were bespelled. And they have no leader to follow but you,” Kieri said. “Would you have me kill them? Have they no families in Pargun?”
“Some do,” Torfinn said. He shifted in his seat, wincing. “I … I do not know how to go on. My sons, all but Iolin, dead. My brother a traitor; his sons dead. So much lost—what kind of man am I that so many would turn against me?” Tears glittered in his eyes.
“You were betrayed,” Kieri said, “but not because you were a bad man. Indeed, had you been bad, you would have been lauded, I believe. Until the dragon came, at least.” He poured himself another mug of sib. He had planned to start back that afternoon, but with Pargun’s king at hand, he might achieve more here. “Let us think what can benefit both our lands.”
“Mine … nothing,” Torfinn said. He was slumped in his chair now, his face sagging. “You saved me once; it would have been better if I had died.”
Kieri reached over and grabbed Torfinn’s left
wrist. “It would not have been better! It is because of you alive that any of your people live. It must be your wounds talking, because I never thought to see a Pargunese give up like this.”
“My leg doesn’t heal; I have no right arm. How can I rule if I cannot stand up and wield a sword?”
“Is it always sword-right that rules?”
“Yes, although some kings have grown old and retained the crown because of wisdom. But the people decide.”
“And have they rejected you? Are you come here as a beggar?”
“No—not yet. But—”
“Then, Torfinn, show them you are a king indeed, with a king’s wisdom, if not a right arm. And what do your physicians say about your leg?”
Torfinn shrugged with slightly more energy than he had shown. “My palace burned; I have no physicians now.”
“We do,” Kieri said, and turned to the Squires at the tent’s entrance. “Find the Halveric surgeon and bid him come here; the king of Pargun needs assistance.”
Torfinn’s wound was hugely swollen and leaking stinking pus. “There’s still a chance,” the surgeon said. “But I must work now. Drink this,” he said, pouring from a stone jar into Torfinn’s mug. “It will strengthen your blood.”
Torfinn grimaced at the taste, but swallowed it all. “Tastes like medicine,” he said afterward, nodding. “Should be bitter to work.” He did not make a sound or flinch as the surgeon cleaned the wound and packed it with an herbal poultice, then wrapped it in clean bandages and propped it on a stool.
“You can’t go back tonight or tomorrow,” the surgeon said. “You’ll have to keep that leg up—no standing but to get to the jacks—for two days at least. Who’s expecting you, over there?”
“My son.”
“Well, send your boatman back. I wouldn’t risk you on the river again, and I can’t leave.” He turned to Kieri. “If you have any kind of bedding, he needs to lie flat with his leg propped up.” Kieri beckoned to the Squires, and they found a low camp bed and helped Torfinn move onto it.
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