The prince lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “My father defeated yours on the field of battle—a battle for which Kalches itself pressed. Do you then claim a right to vengeance for the fortunes of war?”
“The fortunes of war, do you say? That was a war forced on us—should we not wish to reclaim lands properly ours, wrested from us by unwarranted Seriantes belligerence?” Taudde caught himself and went on more moderately, “But even so, my father’s death was, as you say, a result of his defeat in combat. I was wrong to strike at you in vengeance for his death, and I beg your pardon for the harm I tried to do you.”
A little to Taudde’s surprise, the prince did not cast this apology back in his face, but answered, “I swore in the dragon’s chamber I would forgive the attempt. But I forgive it now because I believe you are sincere in your apology.”
Taudde bowed his head, finding to his surprise that this actually mattered to him. He had known for some time that he wished the prince no ill, but he hadn’t realized until this moment that he actually cared for Tepres’s good opinion.
“I admit, your professed repentance still puzzles me,” observed Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes, recalling Taudde’s attention. At his gesture, one of the black-clad guards brought the king a chair. He sank down into it, making it instantly a throne. Then he steepled his hands and gazed at Taudde over the tips of his fingers. “I do not understand, now less than ever, why you chose, in the dark beneath the mountain, to oppose Ankennes and defend my son.” The king put a faint stress on the my.
Taudde tried to think how to put an answer. He said at last, looking at the prince, “It was not so much a Seriantes I defended, but a man of whom I knew no ill and to whom I owed an act of contrition. Owed it twice over.”
Prince Tepres gave a very small nod.
Taudde turned to the king and went on, “You would say, no doubt, that with the treaty set to run out so soon, any Kalchesene should surely strive to ensure disorder in Lirionne. But… eminence, in that case I should have struck at you. Not at your son. I was a fool to be misled into striking at Prince Tepres by dreams of personal vengeance. When I realized how great a fool I had been, should I have compounded the foolishness?
“Under the mountain, it became clear that Miennes—Lord Miennes—had never been important. That Mage Ankennes had ruled the conspiracy and was far more dangerous. I could not see everything that would follow if the dragon was destroyed. But I believed Ankennes wrong in his intention.”
“I think he was,” agreed the king, quietly. “His treachery was evidently both constant and thorough. I believe now that he was also responsible for… pressing my elder sons toward… the dark paths they chose.” He glanced at Prince Tepres, who returned his look steadily. Then he turned back to Taudde. “I will own that you protected this remaining son of my wife. Even in this year, and this season.” The king lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “I continue to find this remarkable, Kalchesene. Young Lariodde.”
Taudde hesitated, searching for words. At last he said, “I came to Lonne to listen to the music of the sea. And I have listened to it. I have listened to the music of Lonne as well, so entwined with the sea, for the songs of the sea are clearest where the waves come against the shore. The dragon… your dragon was a surprise to me. But I think now that the dragon’s heartbeat lies at the foundation of all the music I have heard here, and what I heard in that cavern is not what Ankennes apparently heard. I heard a balanced rhythm—powerful, yes; dangerous, without doubt—but with nothing of wickedness or corruption about it. I confess I have no love for the Seriantes line. But I said I believed Ankennes wrong, and I did. Do. Wrong in everything.”
“You take a great deal on yourself, to make such a sweeping judgment. Are you swayed merely by enmity?”
Taudde drew a breath and tried to find words. “Ankennes was, I suspect, possibly brilliant. But deeply mistaken. I believe he had developed an edifice of theory. I think that this theory became all he saw. I perceived nothing of the corruption in which he believed so passionately, and for which he was willing to bring down Lonne.” Taudde hesitated, then added, “You may suspect me of arrogance, but if you will permit me to say so, eminence, I am not the least skilled of Kalchesene sorcerers.”
The king lifted an ironic eyebrow. “From what I observed of you in the dragon’s chamber, I do not doubt it. Were all Kalchesene sorcerers so powerful, I should greatly fear Kalches. I suspect you are fortunately exceptional.”
Anything Taudde answered to that would be either presumptuous or insolent. He said nothing.
“You may continue.”
Still off balance, Taudde hesitated. He said at last, “The destruction of Lonne might serve Kalches, but at what cost? But for my country’s sake, I might have supported Ankennes in what he tried to do, except he was too powerful. I believe there was no limit to his desire to force the world into accordance with his theories. And once he had destroyed Lonne… What then? Would he ever have felt himself finished? Or would he have chosen another project, equally misguided and equally destructive?” Taudde concluded carefully, “I struck at him then because there was at that moment so much power loose to grasp, and thus the opportunity existed. Above all, I did not want to face Ankennes later in my own country.”
This time the silence stretched out. The king continued to regard Taudde steadily, his expression still unreadable. Yet Taudde thought he might have recognized truth when he heard it. Not all kings could. But, then, Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes was not an ordinary king. Taudde rather thought that behind the stillness of the room, he could hear the heartbeat of the dragon. He could not tell what the king was thinking.
“Thus your actions were ultimately on your own behalf, and on behalf of your own country,” the king observed at last.
“All my reasons were important to me,” Taudde said steadily. “Why should anything but the result be important to you?”
There was another pause. “I have several remaining questions to ask you, Kalchesene,” the king said eventually. “I will have truthful answers to each. Then I shall decide what to do with you.”
Taudde opened his hands to show that he would yield to the king’s will. He had no idea what questions the king had in mind, or whether he himself would in turn be willing and able to answer them honestly. He wondered, rather desperately, whether any plea of his could prevent the re-imposition of the muting spell. He knew now, to his shame, that he would plead, rather than suffer the silencing of the world around him.
“Do you now wish harm to my son?”
Taudde almost exclaimed in relief. He was able to answer at once, with perfect truth, “I do not!” Then, when the king merely lifted an eyebrow and waited, he went on more slowly, choosing his words with care, “Do you think my apology was not in earnest? I assure you otherwise, eminence. I wish your son no harm.”
The king gave a little nod. He asked softly, “And do you wish me harm? Do you wish Lirionne harm?”
These were more difficult questions. Taudde was not even certain of the answers himself. “I could wish Lirionne had different borders,” he answered at last. “I could wish the treaty you imposed on Kalches had had different terms. But I think… I think I can honestly answer that I do not wish your people ill. You… when I was a boy, I dreamed that someday I would meet you on the field of battle and leave you broken in the mud.”
“A natural dream for a boy,” acknowledged the king. “And now?”
“Now, eminence, I think I have come to prefer that the borders between our countries be redrawn by some more peaceable means.”
The king inclined his head. “I am satisfied with the borders as they are. But peace is my own preference.”
Taudde found that he believed him. Fifteen years ago, the Dragon of Lirionne had been ruthless in his victory. Taudde, in his boyhood, had perceived only the ruthlessness. His grandfather had tried to explain to him the tactical uses of brutality, but Taudde had not been able to understand him. But he saw now that it was that same ruthles
sness of will that had presided over the grim horror of the executions of Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes’s older sons and, more recently, sent the King of Lirionne into the shadowy paths of death to find this younger son. And had then allowed him to force his way out again. Geriodde Seriantes ruled according to his grim view of necessity, and spared himself no more than his enemies. But Taudde thought he truly did not want the war to resume.
Taudde said slowly, “That being so… I think I could bear to give up ill will against you, eminence.”
The king leaned back in his chair, regarding Taudde with no expression Taudde could read. “Could you, indeed.”
Pressed, Taudde said, “How can I know until I see what you will do, eminence? I have hated you all my life, but now I see that this was a boy’s hatred. I think I could give it up… I wish to give it up… but I don’t know yet whether you intend to open your hand, or rather lock me again into silence and… and despair.” He stopped, shaken by his own words. He hadn’t intended to say so much.
“And if I should open my hand? Would you wish to leave Lonne? Have you finished… listening to the sea?”
Taudde doubted one could ever finish listening to the sea’s music. He thought that once one stood on the harsh shore below the Laodd and heard the waves break against the cliffs, that sound would always underlie all others. He answered without thinking, “If I return to Kalches, I will miss the sound of the sea all my life. Learning to listen to it properly would take all my life.” Then, too late, he realized what he’d said. He added hastily, “But of course I would never again dare break your ban, eminence. I would go to Kalches and never return to Lirionne. I would swear any oath you might require of me.”
There was a little silence.
“And break any oath you made, if war comes,” the king said at last. “No, do not protest. You would not be able to keep any such oath, Prince Chontas Taudde ser Omientes ken Lariodde. There is no point in requiring you to swear one. Answer me this: what would you do if I asked you to stay in Lonne?” He paused, and then went on, still quietly. “I think now that my mistrust of Kalchesene sorcery has made Lirionne vulnerable in ways I did not expect. I banned sorcery in Lirionne—and then found that, once Seriantes blood and death had been poured out into the dark, I could not prevent Ankennes from destroying the Dragon of Lonne. Your sorcery prevented that. You have not flung that fact in my face. But you have hardly needed to. You ask me for generosity. Does it surprise you to learn that I am inclined to be generous?”
This did surprise Taudde. It did not seem politic to say so.
“I would not ask you to serve me,” the king added, “but I would ask you to serve my son—though I understand your oath to him would be secondary to the fealty you owe your grandfather and your cousins, his heirs. If I ask you to remain on those terms, and continue your study of the sea, and teach bardic sorcery to those of my people who might be fit for that study, would you do this?”
Taudde realized that he was staring in open amazement. Turning, he went to the window and pressed his hands against the iron bars, trying to think. He looked blindly out over the sea. The sound of it came to him, ceaseless and indifferent in its power. He was cold. His hands were numb where they touched the metal.
At last he turned back, still not knowing himself what he would say.
The king remained patient. He folded his hands across his knee and waited, his cold gray eyes hooded and unreadable. At his side, Prince Tepres rested a hand on the back of his father’s chair and gazed at Taudde with an expression not quite so closed. Taudde could see that the prince hoped he would agree but believed that he would not.
“I think…” said Taudde. “I think I showed you too much power in those caverns. Whatever you suggest now, I don’t believe you could ever allow me to stay in Lonne, save as your close-guarded prisoner, held behind walls of silence.” He stopped and waited for a response.
“It is true that you are a dangerous man,” answered the king, calmly. “Your power concerns me. Your skill concerns me. I would fear what you might find to do, if the solstice should give way to a summer of iron and fire. I would not wish my mages to face you across a bloody field. I will be plain: I do not wish our peoples to face one another upon such a field. I would prefer a quiet summer followed by a calm turning of year into year. I would be pleased if your country and mine could reach a more permanent amicability. And you, Prince Chontas Taudde ser Omientes ken Lariodde? What would you prefer?”
Taudde answered slowly, “Eminence… now that your dragon is roused, I should hardly wish Kalches to face Lirionne across a field of war.”
“Quite so.” The king gave a grim, satisfied little nod. “If I were to permit you to return to Kalches… you would inform your grandfather of your opinion, would you not? Would he hear you?”
Taudde tilted his head, amused despite himself. “Oh, yes. Once he was finished shouting at me. He would certainly wish to know of your dragon.”
“If you will not remain in Lonne, I shall send you back to him,” Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes stated. “But I wish you to remain, on the terms I have outlined. I desire goodwill between us, and likewise between our countries. That you are a prince of Kalches could be useful to me, if your desire runs alongside mine.”
Taudde looked at him for a long moment. At last he said, “Whatever your desire or mine, eminence, I must tell you, my grandfather will not accept the borders as they now lie. He will not and cannot permit Lirionne permanently to own lands so close to the heart of Kalches. However cautious of your dragon he may be, this will remain true. I would not try to persuade him otherwise, nor would he hear me if I did.” He paused.
“Am I to understand that your grandfather desires war and will not be dissuaded?”
“No,” said Taudde. “I hope he would not be displeased if I tell you plainly that he does not desire to resume the war. He will pursue that course only if he must. But which of the lands that you and your father and his father took from Kalches will you yield back, to persuade him to a different course?”
The king tilted his head judiciously. “We can discuss the matter. You may approach your grandfather for me, when the time comes for such an approach. If you will, Prince Chontas.”
Taudde looked at him. He could hear the distant sea and the whisper of the breeze. He said at last, “I confess I don’t understand how you can imagine you may ask any of this of me.”
“I would have to trust you,” the king answered calmly. “Prince Chontas… other than Miennes and Ankennes, who in Lonne knew you were Kalchesene? I will go further and ask: who were your allies? Which of my people aided you?” The king paused and then went on softly, “If you will remain in Lonne as anything other than my prisoner, or if you will approach your grandfather for me, then you and I must trust one another. Fondness is unnecessary. Civility will serve well enough. But trust is essential. And because I have power here and you do not, you must trust me before I may give trust in return. I will do no harm to those you will name. But if you would remain in Lonne, you must name them to me.”
This talk of trust was entirely unexpected. The Dragon of Lirionne, speaking of trust? Yet… there was no deceit in the king’s voice. Taudde heard ruthlessness in it, yes, underlying every quiet tone. But no deliberate deceit. Nor any inclination toward cruelty. But then, sometimes ruthlessness was enough like cruelty to serve… Taudde shut his eyes and asked himself, did he want to stay in Lonne, here where the sea met the shore? Not as a prisoner, after all, but as… some sort of ally?
And could he possibly bring himself to trust this dragon king?
The answer to the first question was uncomfortably clear. The answer to the second… uncomfortably opaque. He said, “Do you know what you are asking?” and then waited, his eyes still closed so that he might listen with all his attention to the king’s answer.
“The first step into trust,” the king said steadily, “must always be blind.”
Taudde opened his eyes and met the king’s
gaze. The gray stare was cold, patient, merciless… but Taudde found no deceit hidden in the king’s eyes, as he had detected none in his voice. Perhaps a man who had all the power in his hand had no need of deceit.
But he knew even as he thought this that it was wrong. That the candor Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes offered him was an unusual and precious gift, and that if he failed to take that gift now it would not likely be offered again.
Speaking at all felt like… a step over a cliff’s edge, when clouds hid what lay below. And yet… and yet… “My servant Benne, who was first Miennes’s servant,” Taudde said quietly. “He is more clever than he appears. He guessed. And…” Taudde nearly said no one else. To his own surprise, and driven by an instinct he prayed was sound, he said instead, “And a woman of Cloisonné House, a woman called Leilis. It was chance I was touching her hand when Ankennes pulled me into the dark, chance she was dragged after me. She was neither my servant nor my employee nor my ally; indeed, her first thought when she realized my true nationality was to warn the Laodd. But… I acknowledge that once she came to believe I posed no threat to Lonne, she then tried to protect me.
“You claim to put a high value on trust, eminence. These people trusted me. I can only hope now that I have not betrayed them to your vengeance. They are simple people and no danger to you or yours. I must hope you will keep your word and do no harm to them.”
The king lifted a hand at one of his guards, who went to the door and opened it. Benne and Leilis came in together. The big man looked strained, but calm. The young woman was white as parchment. Almost as astonishing as the mere fact of her presence, Leilis carried a finger harp in her hand: his own, a harp made of pale mountain birch and strung with delicate silver wires. For one of the few times in his life, Taudde found himself utterly bereft of speech.
“I did not find either of them so simple as you would have me believe,” Geriodde Seriantes said. His tone held something that was not quite amusement, but certainly included irony. “Each of them told me everything he or she knew of you, evidently believing I should be swayed by this to clemency, and begged my pardon on your behalf.
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