Limits of Power

by Elizabeth Moon

  “I will tell you what happened,” Kieri said. When he finished, he asked for news of Chaya. “Are many elves in the city now?”

  “Not many, sir king,” Jostin said. “Though they come and go. Amrothlin is there, staying in that inn they favor, according to Queen Arian. What do you think they will do when they see you with … what you have?”

  “I don’t know,” Kieri said. “Amrothlin told me repeatedly that it was impossible I should have this power … but I am sure he will recognize it. I hope he will help me learn to use it.”

  “With branches falling into your hands and the moss opening at your hand to make a fire-pit, I would think you already know,” Ceilar said.

  Kieri chuckled. “I know a little, true, but the whole … As I understood Amrothlin, an elvenhome binds elves within it to the vision of the one who generates the elvenhome.”

  “And humans?” asked Panin.

  “I don’t know. Do you feel bound by anything other than your oath as Squire?” Kieri looked around the circle. Four Squires looked back, serious, thoughtful.

  “I am not sure,” Linne said after a moment. “I—I feel strange. Like you, sir king, I am half-elven; I feel … something … when I am inside the glow … that I do not feel outside, and it is new. It is as if the two parts of my heritage are more … are aware of each other. As if I had two persons inside me.”

  “Does that trouble you?” Kieri asked.

  “Not … now,” Linne said.

  “I feel nothing different than I did before,” Jostin said. “Aside from the wonder of it. I admired you from the first. That’s what made me want to be a King’s Squire. But I have little elven heritage, if any.”

  “What is your vision for this land?” Panin asked.

  “What it was before,” Kieri said. “For this beautiful land and those who live in it to be healthy, to prosper, to flower into greater beauty as the gods give grace.”

  “It does not take elven magery for me to want the same,” Panin said.

  The next morning, as the Squires packed the horses, Kieri fetched a bucket of water to quench the last coals. As the first drops hissed, water rose from below, faster even than the water pouring from the bucket. The soil opened; the burnt sticks and ash swirled downward with the water. Soil closed back over it all, and moss flowed across the soil as swiftly as a carpet unrolled, leaving no trace. Kieri stared; he had not consciously asked such a thing. “Thank you,” he murmured, but whether to the taig or the gods he did not know.

  On the last day of travel, Kieri discussed with the Squires what might happen when they reached the city. “Though I can contract the elvenhome almost to myself alone or expand it to cover us all—and more—it will be obvious to any elves and, I suspect, to most Lyonyan humans.”

  Jostin nodded. “It will be seen, and it will surprise people. Frighten some but please others.”

  “Questions,” Kieri said. “I’m sure there’ll be many questions, and to some I have no answer. For others I have answers, but I must speak first to Arian, my uncle Amrothlin, and the Seneschal.”

  “The ring and torc will be noticed as well, sir king,” Linne said.

  “It is likely,” Panin said, “that this new power will help you silence questions you are not yet ready to hear.”

  “A dangerous precedent,” Kieri said, shaking his head. “I do not want to evade questions, merely delay answers, and only briefly.”

  “Do you still believe that elf was the only traitor in the Lady’s domain?” Jostin asked.

  “I do,” Kieri said. “But not the only danger. The iynisin—we may have blocked them from entering the palace, but we do not know where all such patterns are.”

  In the long summer afternoon, they rode into Chaya itself. The bubble of light that had been scarcely visible in the sun now brightened and expanded as they neared the inn the elves favored. Even as Kieri glanced at the inn, elves hurried out the door, Amrothlin in the lead, and stared at him. The elvenhome transmitted their reaction—the mix of hope, disbelief, fear, with touches of anger … and more longing.

  “You … I cannot believe it, and yet I must—” Amrothlin had tears in his eyes and took a step forward, one hand out as if to touch something fragile. “It is … real,” he said. “Real. How?”

  “It can’t be!” another elf said. He pushed past Amrothlin, drawing his blade, and the light blazed … He cried out and staggered back. “It’s not the elvenhome—it’s some evil—”

  “Put down your blade,” Kieri said. “And then see. You cannot come within, intending to harm me.” He wasn’t sure that was true, but it made sense. “Amrothlin, come within and tell them.”

  Amrothlin came without hesitation, his eyes shining. The change in his expression once he was within astounded Kieri, for he had not witnessed an elf moving from without to within the elvenhome before. A relaxation, a joy, lit Amrothlin’s face with his own light. “It is,” he said. “It is real.” Two more elves pressed nearer, then another. As they did so, the light expanded again, as if enfolding elves enlarged it without Kieri’s intent.

  The elf who had drawn his blade sheathed it and edged forward, still wary. Kieri smiled at him. “Come,” he said. “I intend you no harm.”

  “If indeed you have done this without harm to the Sinyi, I honor you,” the elf said. “If not—”

  “See for yourself,” Kieri said. As quick as his thought, the elvenhome light engulfed the doubter, and his face, too, relaxed.

  “How did this happen?” Amrothlin asked.

  “I do not know,” Kieri said. “But I have much to tell, and more questions for you, Uncle.”

  “Will you restore the elvenhome and keep it apart, my lord?” asked one.

  “Not the way it was,” Kieri said. “But there will be an elvenhome, do not fear.”

  With a half dozen elves walking beside the riders, and the elvenhome glow shimmering over them all, people in the streets stopped and stared. Some shrank back; some pushed forward. One ran pell-mell toward the palace. Kieri smiled and waved at them, but did not stop to explain, riding on at a foot pace. The elvenhome enlarged his elven senses; he understood the elves around him better than he ever had.

  At the palace he met the same astonishment mixed with concern and joy. Only Arian, who had known the secret of his heritage, showed unalloyed joy, a joy he felt directly when the elvenhome welcomed her in.

  As soon as he could, using the excuse of his travel, he escaped to his own suite to bathe and change.

  “What was the Ladysforest like?” Arian asked.

  “More beautiful than I can say,” Kieri said. “I thought Lyonya’s forest was beautiful the moment I arrived, but this … this was more. You must see it for yourself.”

  “I want to.”

  “I found the place where we—” His voice broke for a moment. “Where my mother was killed and I was taken.”

  “Kieri, how horrible.”

  “It was … but it wasn’t, in the end. Let me tell you.” He told it all—the memories the place brought back, the treasures restored to him, the traitor elf, the revelation of his new powers. “I feel whole in a way I never have before.” He leaned closer to where she lay on the pillows. Her eyes widened.

  “Kieri—where did you get that neck ring?”

  “This is one of the treasures that appeared. It was my mother’s. So was this ring.” He held it up. He was not surprised when the light in it flared and the tiny dragon shape flickered, all fire.

  “That’s … Dragon.”

  “Yes, but I don’t know how or what it means. I remember my mother wearing this ring on her thumb, and this on her neck, and this—” He stood and pointed to the belt clasp he now wore.

  “They’re beautiful, but … I’ve never seen a torc like that.”

  “Nor I. I need to talk to those who knew my mother, see if there’s any record of it. And even more mysterious than that … are these.” He pulled out the enameled box and spilled the tiles onto her bed. “I remember the
name, selani. She told me it was a game, but they have another use. Divination.”

  Arian stirred the tiles, then laid all of one color together. “My father had a set of these. He let me play with them, but did not teach me anything like a game. He would say, ‘Which do you feel calling you?’ and I would hold my hand over them and one would feel right.”

  “Do you know the meanings of the runes?”

  “Not all of them. He would only tell me the ones that I said called me. Do you know them?”

  “Linne knew the runes but not how to use them. I began to learn, I think.”

  “A king to wake the mountains, Amrothlin told me once you might have been. I think waking the taig is enough.” Her smile was luminous.

  “And so do I,” Kieri said. “But how to use it well … I am still uncertain.”

  “You will learn,” Arian said. “Because that is what you do. And now our enemy is dead, our children are safe.”

  “One enemy is dead,” Kieri said. “I would not say all are; we know one iynisin escaped alive.”

  “True,” Arian said. “But for this night, I will feel safe, for you are here and the elvenhome is with us again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Ifoss, Aarenis

  Arvid Semminson found the soldiers far more willing to learn tricks of swordplay from him than the Ifoss Girdish, distrustful as they were of “thief tricks.” For his part, he watched the Company weapons practice with interest. He had not paid attention to soldiers before meeting Paks other than to consider how they might be vulnerable to thieves. Her command of that little group in Brewersbridge impressed him more than he had admitted. Now he saw where she learned the skills—and skills they were. When the weaponsmaster offered to let him drill with them, he did so, taking his lumps without complaint. As Midsummer neared, he felt more and more at home with the soldiers.

  It was different at the grange.

  “We don’t need such,” one of the senior yeomen said. He was a master mason with his own yard, Arvid’s height but more heavily built, his shoulders thick with muscle. “We fight honest, as Girdish should.” Beyond the man, Arvid could see one of the soldiers roll his eyes.

  Arvid said nothing, and when Marshal Porfur asked him to trade blows, he picked up the staff, not a sword. “Are you giving up the sword, then?” the same yeoman asked.

  “Regar,” the Marshal said. “A man’s entitled to choose his weapon.”

  “I just thought—” Regar began, but subsided at the Marshal’s glare.

  Arvid held the staff and stepped up on the platform. As a new yeoman, trading blows was a regular part of his drill night attendance, and the Marshal had begun to assign others to the ceremony with him. Tonight, the Marshal called on Regar. Though the exchange of blows was supposed to be only a test of willingness, Arvid suspected Regar had something else in mind.

  As the Marshal gave the starting signal, Regar lunged forward, aiming a swing at Arvid’s head that would have knocked him flat if he’d been in its way. Arvid sidestepped and rammed the end of his staff into Regar’s gut. Regar turned an unlovely color and collapsed, gasping.

  “You … thief…” he managed.

  “A fair blow,” the Marshal said. “You moved first, Regar.”

  “He’s a thief!” Regar said.

  “He’s a yeoman of Gird now, and that’s that,” the Marshal said. He looked at Arvid next; Arvid was careful not to smirk. “You don’t have to like each other, but you will not start trouble, either of you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Marshal,” Arvid said. Regar was a beat behind him; Arvid figured he had a sore belly.

  After drill, the Marshal called them both to stay behind. Regar glared at Arvid; Arvid looked past him. This could end very badly, he realized, and he hoped the Marshal understood that. Regar was a bully, but a popular bully, and local. Arvid was the stranger—the handsome stranger. Always before he’d used that to his advantage, and this time, trying to be honest …

  “I fault you both,” the Marshal said, looking from one to the other. “Regar, you’re local, and everyone knows you. Knows the quality of wall you build and the strength of your arm. You’ve taken advantage of that, gathering that little gang around you. As a local leader, welcoming visitors is part of your job—”

  “You didn’t appoint me yeoman-marshal,” Regar said.

  “No, and if you want to know why, come ask me and I’ll tell you. But your way with strangers is part of it, I’ll say that. A yeoman-marshal’s job includes recruiting new yeomen.”

  “I could’ve gotten you a dozen—”

  “If I’d asked and promised something in return. That’s not how it goes.”

  “You’ll take a stranger, a thief born and bred—”

  “I’ll take any man who learns and follows the Code, recites the Ten Fingers, and shows respect to every other yeoman in the grange. People change. Gird changed; that’s the heart of the story. He was a farmer who became something else.”

  “A farmer, yes. But a thief? Gird was never a thief!”

  “Regar, your head’s harder than granite—”

  “Excuse me,” Arvid said. “Marshal—Regar’s right. Not that I’m a thief now, but that I was one—as you know—and that he cannot trust a former thief. We all have something impossible to us.”

  Regar turned on him, glowering. “Don’t you play the judicar with me, thief. I don’t want your help.”

  “And yet someday you may need it,” Arvid said. “There’s trouble coming—everyone knows that—and if yeomen cannot stand together, things will be worse.”

  “That was my speech,” the Marshal said. “And you are not a Marshal, Arvid. Yet, and most likely never. Be silent and listen. I have a proposition for you both.” He looked from face to face and then went on. “There’s an old way of breaking in a young ox or dray horse, you know. Hitch it together with an older trained one and give the pair a load to pull. I can’t have the two of you dividing the grange’s loyalties. So if you want to remain here, either of you, you’re going to work together. And it starts tonight.” He turned and took the relic out of its niche.

  Arvid shot a glance at Regar, whose glance was equally brief and alarmed.

  “You will be hitched—under an oath sworn on this relic—as if by a rope to work side by side at your trades—”

  “How can we do that?” Regar said. “I have a commission to build—”

  “One day the two of you will work at your trade, Regar, and then the next at Arvid’s. He is not a mason, and you are not a merchant: you will each serve the other as assistant. You will eat together from the same dish and sleep together—”

  “No!” they both said.

  “—in the same room,” the Marshal went on, unperturbed. “I expect you both snore and neither wants to admit it. You will do this for the next tenday, and after that we will see.”

  “What about my wife?” Regar asked. “My children?”

  “You can stay at the soldiers’ camp with Arvid, or your wife can put up with the two of you. Take your pick. On the night before your day’s work, the one whose work it is will choose where to sleep. Since tomorrow will be Arvid’s day and you will assist him, he will decide where you sleep this night.”

  Regar glared, but Marshal Porfur simply looked at him. Regar’s shoulders finally slumped. Arvid bowed slightly to the Marshal.

  “As you command, Marshal,” he said.

  “I have to tell my wife,” Regar said.

  “Go with him, Arvid,” the Marshal said. And as they turned away, “And don’t make me actually shackle you together—if any sees you more than an armslength apart, I surely will.”

  In silence they left the grange and in silence headed for the main street of Ifoss, trailed at a little distance by the soldiers who had come with Arvid to drill night. He assumed they’d listened at the door.

  “I suppose you’re happy about this,” Regar said. “Seein’ as old Porfur thinks I’m worse than you.”

  �
�I don’t think he does,” Arvid said. “And it’s no joy to me to be linked to you.”

  “It won’t be on my day to choose your work,” Regar said. “You’ll learn what work is, and you’ll be howling for mercy before the noontide.” He walked on a few strides. “Which you won’t get, any more than I did when I was a ’prentice.” A few more strides. “I’m not having you in my house, let alone my bedroom. You’ll have to find me a bed.”

  “Suits me,” Arvid said.

  “Ten days,” Regar said. “Lia will kill me.”

  Regar lived down a twisty lane, a house on the north margin of Ifoss, adjacent to a walled yard. A tall, stout woman stood in the door, watching them come.

  “You’re late,” she said. “Been to the tavern again?”

  “No, Lia,” Regar said. His tone with her was almost pleading. “Marshal bade me stay behind. On account of this fellow.”

  Her gaze went over Arvid like a scrystone. “You’re the thief he talks about, aren’t you?”

  “I’m the new yeoman of Gird, yes,” Arvid said.

  Her lips thinned, and she looked at Regar. “Why did you bring this man here?”

  “Marshal said. There was a quarrel—”

  “Who started it?”

  A long pause during which Regar slowly turned red. The woman nodded before he said anything. “You did, then. And you with a good contract at last, and children who need food on the table, and something tells me the Marshal’s solution is going to leave them hungry. Am I right?”

  Silence from Regar. Arvid said, “He bade us stay no more than an armslength from each other for the next tenday.”

  “Day and night?” Her brows were up, but she sounded more resigned than surprised.

  “Yes. And each day we must work together, alternating days. He assigned tomorrow to my work as a merchant.”

  “Much good you’ll be as a mason’s assistant,” the woman said, lip curling. She looked at Regar again. “If you lose this contract, Regar, I swear I’m going back to my family. It’s the best you’ve had in a hand of years.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “I swear—”

  “And you,” she said to Arvid. “You don’t have a wife or children, I’ll wager.”