Giles took Ivor’s sword, and Arngrim, that old man, drew his own sword. But then Giles suddenly thought that he should not do this. To fight with the sword was the Gettish way, and he was not a Get. No longer a Get. Even for his grandfather, there was no reason to behave as a Get would behave.
“Libera,” he said within his heart, and cast the sword from him.
Arngrim said, “I had not thought to see this. Must I kill you defenseless?”
Giles said, “Would you do that?”
“I will kill you.” And Arngrim stepped forward.
Giles backed then against the great menhir. “If you strive to kill me with your sword, I will place my hands on the rock and strike you as I struck Romund. This is a place of magic beyond all the wizards of the West.”
The eagle old man put down his sword. “Would you kill me with your magic? I cannot believe that such a thing is possible. If you would employ such a means as this magic, then it is better that I should be dead.”
Giles said, “I would not kill you defenseless.” And he stepped away from the rock.
Arngrim raised his sword then and walked toward Giles, the pig Slut pressing close to his leg. “Take sword or die.”
Giles stood back to the rock a second time. Arngrim put his sword down once more. “Kill me then with your magic.”
Giles stood away again from the stone. Arngrim again raised his sword and advanced. “Fight me, coward, or die.”
Giles stepped back to the menhir a third time, placed his palms against the surging rock and directed the power at Arngrim. There was warmth in his palms, but not heat, and there was no surge of discharge. Giles did not understand.
Arngrim then raised the sword he held and stepped forward. “It is the good Gettish power that you have forsworn that is proof against your magic. Your magic is as nothing. I will show you Gettish power now and kill you.”
Giles called upon Libera in his heart. “Remember My Name,” She had said. “Remember My Name.”
He Remembered. And he stood helpless before the sword.
And even as Arngrim came forward, the black pig Slut, pressing close to the old man, squealed and ran beneath Arngrim’s feet. He tripped and fell to the ground, which he must not have done in battle for thirty years and more, since he was raw. Giles’ heart surged.
Giles said, “Your Gettish magic is all in swords. My power, which is of this land, is proof against your Gettish magic. Seek to slay me as you may, you shall not.”
Arngrim rose and strove to strike Giles down for these words, but again the pig tripped him. The old man turned in anger on the pig, but it ran squealing out of reach.
“If you kill the pig, my protection will be elsewhere,” Giles said. “Your magic cannot harm me.”
“Do not say that my power is magic,” said Arngrim in anger. “My Gettish power is not magic! My Gettish power is the true life-stuff of the Gets, and it is not magic. It is natural! It comes of our nature.”
“No more than my power,” said Giles.
“That cannot be,” said Arngrim, and struggled to rise. Before him on the ground was the sword that Giles had from Ivor, had used, had lost, had recovered, had thrown away. “Where got you this sword?”
Giles said, “From the hand of Ivor Fish-Eye.”
Arngrim said, “How got you this sword from Ivor Fish-Eye?”
“I killed Ivor Fish-Eye with a shattered sword that I snatched from among the bones.”
“Show me this,” said Arngrim. “Such a one as you could not kill Ivor with a sword.”
“And could not kill Romund,” said Giles.
“By magic.”
“Against his Gettish power, his power of Farthing. It was not proof for him as it is for you.”
“Show me Ivor that I may judge you,” said Arngrim. “Nay, do not fear to walk with me through the mist. If you are right, should I seek to do you harm, a rock will fall and crush me.”
“That is so,” said Giles. “But what you cannot imagine—that will be my protection.”
They walked the corridors between the rocks until they came to the place where Ivor and Oliver lay. Giles followed his senses which were in the mist, and brought them straight.
Arngrim looked at Ivor, dead in the cold light of the moon. “I see no wound,” he said. “How is he dead if not by magic?”
Giles said, “My sword of rust broke on his sword of iron and a splinter pierced his heart.”
Arngrim bent to see. “And how is this shard come through his mail if not by magic?”
“It was not magic. It was but my power.”
“I do not understand,” said Arngrim.
“There is no magic,” said Giles, “else all men are magicians. There is only each man’s power. The power of the hunt for Ivor. The power of Farthing for Romund. The power of the Gets that you keep. And the power of . . . I will not say what is in my heart, not the Name I carry. But my power is the power of all this land, Nestor and Palsance. There is power here in this land that no Get may ever know because he is a Get.”
“Do not say that,” Arngrim said. “I know the power of the Gets as no other man. If I had given that power to Morca, he would not now be dead, but he would be the great king he dreamed to be. But Morca was a man who recked not, who ravished, who carelessly killed, a man who kept wizards, a man who walked with witches in the woods—for so it was told to me by one I believe.”
“Who?”
“By Morca. In drink. In boast. I would not give that power to him because he was not the man that Garmund was, from whom the power came to me. That power was too great for Morca.”
“But Get power cannot be all-in-all,” said Giles. “There is the power that I hold, and that is good power which I believe as I believe my heart. If this power be the magic of witches, then the power of witches must be good.” He touched Oliver’s dead body. “And the power of wizards is no all-in-all, but power of its own kind, and that is not Gettish kind. There are many powers, magic only to other men.”
“There is Gettish power,” said Arngrim. “Which I know and keep safe.”
“There is greater power than Gettish power.”
“There is not better power, else why should we rule and other men not?”
“Gets rule where they rule. They do not rule where they do not rule,” said Giles. “They do not rule on Stone Heath.”
“What is your power if it cannot do me harm?”
“What is your power if it cannot do me harm?”
“I will not hear,” said Arngrim. “I will follow after and kill you when your magic does not keep you safe.”
“Nay,” said Giles. “Do not strive to kill me, for you shall not.”
He knew not what to say. He knew something and could not speak it. He knew it was important, but he could not call it to mind.
But it was Giles alone who could not think. Giles alone. Giles called upon Libera to help him.
Then again, in his mind, as though appearing of itself, was what he must say. He could not believe it because he knew nothing like it. But he believed in Libera, so he must speak it.
“Match your power against mine,” he said. “You must prove that you have the right.”
“And how shall that be done?” asked Arngrim. “Shall I use my sword against you and see if the pig dashes out of the darkness?”
He put his hand to the sword. The pig squealed somewhere close by in the mist. Arngrim dropped his hand away.
“No,” said Giles. “Here lying dead is Oliver, who was Morca’s wizard. Bring him to life again.”
“I cannot,” said Arngrim. “I cannot bring a dead Get back to life. I would not bring this wizard back to life.”
“He is no wizard now,” said Giles.
“Nay. He is dead.”
“Not because he is dead. Because he has no book. Join with me and bring him to life again. If our powers, yours and mine, can together do what cannot be done separately, then there must be more and better magic than Gettish magic—”
>
“That cannot be. There is no Gettish magic.”
“—of which Gettish magic is only a part.”
“There is only our good natural power.”
“Place your power together with mine and let us see what is revealed.”
Arngrim said, “I cannot. How can I do this and be a Get? How can I do this and be a Get? It is not possible.”
“What is your power if you refuse? Will the power of the Gets still remain if you refuse, or will it show itself as nothing so that I might kill you then with the touch of a butterfly wing? If you refuse, will the Gets still rule in Nestor?”
Arngrim was caught between two hard surfaces and there was no escape for him.
He said, “Nothing will happen. I cannot bring the dead to life.”
“Then join me and prove that my power is a false magic,” Giles said.
“I will do that,” said Arngrim.
Together, these two, grandfather and grandson, raised Oliver’s body and carried it to the heart of rock, that ring of stones crowning the tumulus, that place within the rock thousands where the greatest power was secretly hidden. Giles knew that place, and did not know how he knew. He led the way through the mists of Stone Heath, through the living mist, until they saw before them the hillock and the stone circle, heart of rock.
There, in the place of power, they set Oliver’s body down. He was a small man, a plump man. He had not yet been old, but his hair was gray. It seemed wrong for this man to be dead as he was dead, with two great wounds in his side like axe cuts. He was not a man of swords.
In death, he seemed small and vulnerable, no great man. No man for Gets to fear. No man for any man to fear.
Giles stood back. All around them were great stones, sentinels of long standing. Not sentinels, but witnesses. Not witnesses, but sources of power. No, not sources of power, but conduits for power that came from elsewhere and was gathered here for this moment.
“Blow your horn for Oliver to rise,” said Giles.
Arngrim raised the horn in his hands and he blew. And it was a sound like none that had come from the horn before.
“Blow!” said Giles. “Blow!”
Arngrim blew, putting into the call all his Gettish power, which was not enough magic by itself to make the dead to rise. But it was great power, for the world seemed to rock at the sound.
Giles lost himself in the sound.
He did not think of Get or Nestorian. He did not think of magic or power. He did not think of mother or father. He did not think of Stone Heath, or great menhirs, of mist, of moonlight. He did not think of Arngrim. He did not think of Haldane. He did not think of Giles.
He did not even think of Oliver. He did not think of Oliver, even as he leaned forward and placed his hands on him. His head rang with the sound of the horn. There was sweat on his forehead. There was a gulf in his stomach. He felt the great pulse of life and power that surged within the great pattern of rock. He tried to focus himself, to become a conduit.
He thought of Libera. And in his heart, he said: “Thy will be done.” And that was all.
But that was enough. He was overwhelmed and lost his grip on the world. He was spun dizzy. He was twirled right out of his mind. When he returned to himself again, he was toppled onto the ground. He shook his head in the ringing silence, not knowing where or when he was.
“No!” Arngrim said. “No!”
Giles remembered himself then, and looked at Oliver. And Oliver moved. He stirred! Giles rose to his knees, and Oliver looked up at him and Arngrim. His face worked.
At last, he said, “Why am I alive?” And a tear welled in his eye and then streaked his cheek.
Arngrim pointed to Giles, as though to say it was he alone who was responsible. But Giles knew better. And so did Arngrim.
Giles said, “It was magic made of our power combined. We were but an instrument of higher will.”
He said this believing that Oliver would not be alive again if Libera had not willed it so.
Arngrim began to cry, too. The old man who had not cried since he had left his cradleboard, he was crying. As though it was too much for him to bear, Arngrim said over and over, “I am not a Get now! I am not a Get now!”
Giles could not help himself. He, too, cried happily and helplessly. Shatterment and undoing were at an end at last, for Oliver, who had been dead, was alive again!
And Oliver joined Arngrim and Giles, crying unabashedly in both mourning and celebration. And the three cried together for what each of them had won and lost.
● Epilogue ●
Arrival
Chapter 23
AFTER LIGHT RAIN THAT FELL LATE IN THE NIGHT, the morning dawned blithesome and cloudless. The sky was blue. The easy countryside of Palsance was green. The sweet breeze darted here and there, carrying the odors of spring about like gossip. It was the best day of the whole new year—as fine a day as you might find in any year.
On this day, two men came walking west from Stone Heath, following the morning roads of Palsance. One was a short old man with a close-cropped white beard. He wore a gray smock, ill fitting, ornamented with rents and with bloodstains. The other was a naked youth bearing a brand on his shoulder. Both were weary. It seemed they had walked far without food and suffered much.
They followed the common roads of ordinary men. Giles’ ability to follow the hidden ways within the land had not survived that great discharge of power on Stone Heath after which Oliver, who had been dead, stirred and spoke and cried, like other mortal men. Giles felt less than he had been, like a man blinded in one eye, like a man unable to think with one side of his mind. But he accepted the fact that one moment is not the same as another, that what is possible at one time and place may not be possible in other circumstances. He knew that last night on Stone Heath was an extraordinary moment. He had been touched by something great and lifted high. After soaring, he had been set back on his own two feet again—but no longer the person he had been. This new person that he was did not fret, but accepted what was.
To Giles, Libera was a river and he had cast himself into it to be carried wherever it pleased Her to carry him. That was free will. It made action possible, when otherwise he would not know what to do or who to be.
At the same time, he did not yet know Her ways. He was like a horse that has been broken to a higher will, but not yet schooled. He was like a pen that has been cut, but not yet set to the alphabet. He was like a young hawk seated on its master’s wrist, waiting for the hood to be removed, waiting for a sign.
So as he walked, Giles concentrated on signs. He devoted himself to thinking on the long riddles the Goddess had set for him: Why had he been born? For what purpose was the land made? And he looked everywhere for answers in hopes of finding answers somewhere.
The first thing that he saw was that even if he lacked insight into the hidden ways today, he had not lost touch with the Goddess. There were reminders of Her presence to be seen around him in Palsance. When Giles and Oliver stopped to rest, it was close by a dolmen, a great flat rock laid across upright stones in ancient days. And here Giles sensed power like a warm hum, like a glow.
While they sat, Oliver, who had been silent all the morning interrupted Giles’ thoughts.
He said, “Haldane . . .”
But that wasn’t his name any longer. He said, “Say, ‘Giles.’ ”
“Giles,” said Oliver. “I have a confession to make to you.”
He looked at his feet. “The night that Morca died, I failed him. I attempted an Ultimate Spell, but my courage gave way and the spell came to nothing. The Pall of Darkness that brought us safe out of the slaughter was not my spell, but yours, spun by you after you had been struck on the head. There, I have said it!”
And Oliver waited for Giles’ reaction. Haldane might have struck at him for these words or denied the truth. Haldane might have hated him for his failure. But Giles’ sense of the necessity of the moment, the flow of the river, ruled his answer.
He
said, “I remember. While on Barrow Hill, I remembered. It seems very long ago.”
“My failure weighs heavily on me,” said Oliver. “If things were otherwise, Morca would still be alive. I should be dead for my failure.”
“No,” said Giles. “Don’t think that, Oliver. Accept what is. If Morca is dead and you are alive, it is not your doing or my doing merely. Other will than ours is involved.”
Oliver said, “I cannot accept that. My failure was my own, and I must stand responsible for it.”
“You cannot be so certain,” said Giles. “As a man of magic you should know that there are other magics than your own, some much more powerful. How can you doubt it after all that has happened? Your magic and mine may not have been the only magic in Morca’s dun that night.”
“Do you think so?” asked Oliver. But then he said, “No, my responsibility is not less. I know my failure. Whether the magic was mine or someone else’s, I have been burnt by magic, and I renounce it. I’ve given up my book. I am not a man of magic anymore. I am nothing but an old man in Palsance. An ordinary old man.”
It seemed to Giles that Oliver was less than he had been, as though he had pulled himself forth from the stream of life and declared he would not swim further. Did he seem shrunken and reduced in power as he sat there? Was this responsibility?
In early afternoon of this beautiful day, they came to a village huddling against the knees of a ruined stone castle that stood on a height and shadow-guarded the eastern marches of Palsance. First they heard great tumult. Then, when they came in view, they saw many people gathered to watch boys in white and boys in green wrestling and surging in a body on the common.
“What is that?” asked Giles.
“It is the War of Winter and Summer,” said Oliver. “See there, Winter is being beaten back. Soon Winter will be slain and buried, and ashes scattered on the grave.”
Giles smiled at that, for it seemed to him that he had lived through a winter that was long and cold. He was ready to greet summer and make it welcome.
“But what does it mean?” he asked. This ceremony was not observed in Nestor, not even by Nestorian peasants.
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