Limits of Power

by Elizabeth Moon

  “They are not of Horngard,” Samdal said. “Not of the mountains.”

  “Perhaps Horngard is of Andressat, far back,” Arcolin said. “You have the genealogies.”

  “Andressat will not do … Has a dragon come to him?”

  “Not that I know of. But I know he swears by Camwyn’s Claw.”

  “He is not a king; I have heard much of him. A fussy old man, a mere count—”

  “A man of honor,” Arcolin said sharply. “A man of courage and resource. But if you will not have him, if you want a prince born—” No. He must not say it. His oath to Mikeli surely forbade telling a stranger about the prince. But he could tell Mikeli about it later—and certainly Camwyn was everything Samdal would admire. Brave, rash, enthusiastic, and crazy about dragons, according to Mikeli. Almost in love with dragons, in fact … with one dragon, who had allowed him to fly, however briefly, in the dragon’s mouth.

  “What? You know of a prince born—someone else of the dragon’s line?”

  “No,” Arcolin said. Samdal squinted at him as if trying to pierce his reticence. “No,” he said again. “But I think Dragon may have touched more tongues than you know.”

  “Your king … has a son?”

  “King Mikeli has no sons yet,” Arcolin said.

  “Then Kieri Phelan, who is now king—”

  “Not yet,” Arcolin said.

  “But you are not telling me all you know.”

  “I am bound to another realm; do you not understand? I cannot tell you all I know, and I do not know all—be reasonable.”

  Samdal twisted the ring on his own finger; with the design upright, Arcolin saw that it was the Chancellor’s ring, set with the flame-jewel, flickering reds and yellows.

  “You’re Chancellor now?”

  “Aye. My father died two years agone.”

  “You could be Regent, then, until you find another to rule.”

  “I’ve been Regent since last fall,” Samdal said. “I’d rather be Chancellor alone. And I beg you: tell me what it is you are hiding from me.”

  “You have no right to demand it,” Arcolin said. “I tell you, I am not the heir, and you and the Council—is there still a Council?” Samdal nodded; Arcolin went on. “You should consult the dragon. Since the direct line has failed, the dragon must approve whomever you choose.”

  “How?” Samdal said. “I said a dragon had been seen, not that I have talked to it. Am I to stand on the mountain and call?”

  Only if he wanted to be scared out of his wits, Arcolin thought. He wondered then why he himself had not been more frightened—startled, yes, but not terrified.

  “No,” he said. “But dragons need not be present to know what you need, I’ve found. They are not like us—well, that is a foolish statement, but … we are used to dealing with beings that look like us, and that we believe think like us in some form. The other Elders—elves, dwarves, gnomes—have each their own laws and customs and languages, but we can understand them, at least mostly. Dragons are so unlike us that—”

  “Excuse me, sir.” That was Burek again. Arcolin scowled; it was unlike Burek to interrupt a conference. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but there is another who claims he must visit you, and immediately.”

  “A darkish man with yellow eyes?” Arcolin asked, as the hairs stood up on his neck.

  “Yes, sir. He would not give a name.”

  Of course. His day needed only another encounter with the dragon … and he doubted the dragon had come to bring word of Stammel. Despite the obvious difficulty, a tickle of amusement rose and quirked the corner of his mouth.

  “Show him in,” Arcolin said. And to Samdal, “I believe this visitor may have some interest for you.” Samdal stared, brows contracted, as well he might; Arcolin could hear in his own voice a tone of grim amusement that must be puzzling at best.

  In the heat of a southern summer, the man who came in still wore what appeared to be dark leather garments more suited to winter in the north. With him came the faint scent of hot iron Arcolin remembered so well. “Count Arcolin,” he said formally, dipping his head, though in a way that conveyed no humility. Arcolin bowed, silently. Samdal’s gaze moved from one to the other; his nostrils flared, and sweat suddenly stood out on his forehead.

  “Lord Samdal, Chancellor of Horngard,” Arcolin said, with a wave of his hand. Samdal rose and bowed.

  “Ah,” the man said. “Of the House of Dragon, then, I believe?”

  Samdal’s eyes widened. He nodded silently.

  “And, Count Arcolin, I see you have in your hand a dragon ring. Where, may one ask, did you come by that? You were not wearing it when I met you in the north.”

  “It was given me by my father,” Arcolin said. “I have not worn it since leaving him, until today, when I was told Samdal awaited me.”

  “And you didn’t show—” Samdal began, but stopped when the dragon turned to look at him.

  “I asked you once if you were wise,” the dragon said to Arcolin. “And you claimed no special wisdom. Yet to be of the House of Dragon and not claim that connection … that was wisdom indeed. As, I perceive, was your choice today to bring that ring from hiding.”

  “Sir … Camwyn,” Arcolin said, using the name the dragon had used in Vérella. His heart pounded. What if the dragon insisted he accept the throne? Could he gainsay a dragon? This dragon? He searched for a distracting topic. “If I may ask—what of the sergeant?”

  “He is well,” the dragon said. “I do not visit often, you understand, but he seems content and is well liked. He would not wish you to know—”

  “I do not ask,” Arcolin said. “Only of his welfare, not his location.”

  The dragon bowed, this time. “Such care is worthy of you, Count. But now—this ring—”

  No help for it, then. “My father was a king, as I believe you know. The Lord Chancellor here tells me other heirs have died, and so he sought me out. But as you know, I am oathsworn to Mikeli of Tsaia and also have responsibilities to…” His voice trailed away; that lay too near what the dragon might wish kept secret. “I told the Lord Chancellor: I cannot accept this honor.”

  “And so the ring is no longer on your finger, and you would give it to this Chancellor to be returned to the treasury of Horngard?”

  “Yes,” Arcolin said. He stared into the flame-golden eyes, hoping the dragon could not see the division in his heart—still that yearning for recognition, still that plea he must not hear, from the boy’s heart eager for a throne for the wrong reasons—and the older, harder determination to do his duty without seeking for what could not be his. That side of him had long given up resentment that he would not be king.

  The dragon nodded. “I see honor and wisdom in that, but not the whole of wisdom. Let me ask this: have you considered the fate of those you disclaim?”

  Arcolin felt his brow furrow. “I am not sure I understand,” he said.

  “If you will not have them, whom will they have?” the dragon asked. He turned to Samdal. “Lord Chancellor, he names you. What is your lineage?”

  Samdal gaped a moment, then said, “My lord, I am the son of Veldan, Chancellor before me, and he the younger brother of Selmar, Chancellor before him. The lineage goes back to Vaskarin, at the founding of Horngard.”

  “A notable heritage,” the dragon said. “Tell me, Samdal Chancellor of Horngard, are you wise?”

  “Wise? I … am accounted wise in Horngard.”

  Arcolin heard that with astonishment; could Samdal really be such a fool? And yet, nothing Samdal had said in their conversation would be considered wise.

  “Are you?” the dragon asked, mildly enough, but his voice sharpened. “And yet you left Horngard, Regent though you be, to wander about in search of the last heir of the Dragon Throne … and I do not see with you couriers who might keep you informed of what happens there, or by whom you could send your counsel back.”

  “The Council—”

  “Of which you are the head. Why did you leave, S
amdal Veldan’s son, instead of sending someone else?”

  Samdal was trembling now; Arcolin could see his hands clenched at his sides. “I—I—they wouldn’t—they didn’t think—and I—I’d known him—”

  “We were friends as boys,” Arcolin said, to spare him.

  “So your Council ignores you?” the dragon said, still looking at Samdal.

  Samdal looked down. The dragon cocked his head on one side, as Arcolin had seen lizards do, focusing on prey. Arcolin watched … and out came that impossible tongue, far too long to fit into the human-shaped head, shimmering from its own heat.

  “See me clearly, Chancellor,” the dragon said, without moving tongue or lips.

  Samdal looked up, panic in every line of his face.

  “What am I, Sssamdal?”

  “I—I—not a—not a—a dragon?”

  “Yesss.” The tongue withdrew. “I am Dragon, Samdal. You claim descent from Horngard’s first Chancellor. What is your duty to dragonkind?”

  Samdal dropped to the carpet and bowed his head to touch it.

  “I … am Dragon’s servant, no more.”

  “No.” The dragon’s voice was low but uncompromising. “Your duty to dragonkind is to keep the faith in Horngard should the king be absent or die. You are not my servant only, but Horngard’s. Your duty lies elsewhere, and yet you are here.”

  “I—I thought—”

  “Wrongly.” The dragon sighed, a long breath of hot air. “Your duty is wisdom, Chancellor, but a fool cannot advise a king. Count Arcolin learned his wisdom in war, and not all war-wisdom is of fighting. What I see is order in his company’s camp, as I saw it in his domain; he governs well what he has, and he shows wisdom in understanding that he no longer belongs to Horngard. He has other oaths to keep. You, on the other hand—you have left your duty, apparently without knowing.” He turned to Arcolin. “Count, I will myself take that ring you hold, for this man should not be in authority. Will you yield it to me?”

  “Certainly,” Arcolin said, his mind whirling. Samdal not fit to be Chancellor? When a boy, he had seemed as apt as any other in the skills they learned and the tasks they were given. But he had been surprised that a Chancellor would come himself rather than send a messenger. He opened his hand with the ring, and the dragon extended his tongue, curled it around the ring, and took it in. “I have a few other things from Horngard—” The torc, bracelet, and earrings, the dagger.

  “They are not necessary,” the dragon said. “The ring, however, should return.” Then it nodded to him. “I also commend your responsibility in the matter of the kapristi. We must talk more of this later, but for now—” He glanced at Samdal, then back at Arcolin. “For now it is clear that dragonkind must once more take note of events in the House of Dragon. This is your personal quarters, I perceive; I cannot in courtesy ask you to leave, but I must speak with this Samdal alone.” Turning to Samdal, the dragon said, “You will accompany me?”

  “I—I—” Samdal looked at Arcolin as if hoping for rescue.

  Arcolin could think of nothing to say. He did not believe the dragon would actually kill Samdal, but he expected the encounter would be unpleasant, and if the dragon said Samdal was unfit to be Chancellor, he would lose that post.

  “Samdal, you have my answer,” he said as the silence lengthened. “I am not the right person for this task. I wish you—and all Horngard—good fortune in finding someone suitable.” To the dragon he said, “Sir, as this man has been my guest and we were friends as boys, I would hope no harm comes to him.”

  The dragon’s stare was daunting, but Arcolin did not drop his gaze. “Those without wisdom often come to harm,” the dragon said at last, “but I would wish harm on no one who does no ill.”

  With that Arcolin had to be content; he bowed, and the dragon gestured. Samdal moved as if he were led by strings like a puppet in a fair stall, and the dragon followed him out. Arcolin sat down again and picked up one of the pastries on the tray, then put it down again. Later. The dragon would talk to him later about … about the kapristi? About Horngard? Both? He put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. Well … the ring was gone, and with it all temptation and also the old ache and resentment.

  He called Burek in and told him the whole story.

  “Horngard! So … that’s why you did not mind that I was a bastard who had left home under a cloud?”

  “Exactly. I’m glad you’ve reconciled with your grandfather, but equally glad you’ve not tried to go back into that … that…”

  “Whirlpool,” Burek said with a grin. “Like the ones in the Chaloquay—suck you in, and you go ’round and ’round, hitting the rocks and never getting anywhere.” He poured more water for them both.

  “It’s odd, now I think of it,” Arcolin said. “I didn’t before. But the three of us, Kieri and Dorrin and I, were all the same in that way. None of us had a happy situation growing up. Kieri’s was the worst, those years of slavery, but Dorrin’s was bad enough. Mine was easiest, until that final split. More like yours in that, I think.” He shook his head to clear it. “The dragon’s coming back to talk to me sometime, he said. You were right to bring him in, and I’ll tell the others that if they see him, he’s to be guided to me. Though I expect he could find me by himself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any new gossip about Vaskronin or Andressat’s missing son?”

  “No, sir. Just the speculation we heard before. Gone over to Vaskronin, or captured by Vaskronin, or dead.”

  Arcolin set himself to write the letter to his king he felt he must write, this time revealing who he really was and what he had been offered and refused. Would the dragon make the connection between Prince Camwyn and Horngard’s need? Almost certainly, but with dragon wisdom, not a human’s. He phrased very carefully his own thoughts about that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Vérella, Tsaia

  When will she give an answer?” Mikeli, king of Tsaia, glared at Marshal-Judicar Oktar. “We’re almost to Autumn Court. I cannot hide this from the peers forever.”

  “Sir king, the Marshal-General is doing her best—she cannot force the Council to come to an answer any faster.”

  “If she were more forceful—”

  “If she were more forceful, she would have a revolt—and there would be blood in the streets. Is that what you want, sir king?”

  “No. But we will have one here, where I would like it even less, if we do not have an answer, a way of reconciling the Girdish—”

  “Do you really think a mere change of the Code would solve the problem?” Oktar asked.

  Mikeli stared at him. “It’s the Code. The law. Why wouldn’t it?”

  “Because the people most opposing a change may not obey a change. If they believe it’s against Gird’s will—” Oktar drew his finger across his throat.

  “Then how do we convince them?” Mikeli asked. “Or do you think we should let matters take their course?”

  “No, sir king, I do not.” Oktar frowned. “In anticipation of a ruling from the Council along the lines of the Marshal-General’s first communication here, I have been telling Marshals in Tsaia to hold all cases for review until we have that ruling. But—as you know—the number is growing. Besides those you yourself heard of on your progresses, I’ve had reports of more than four hands … five hands and three, to be exact. Word has already spread; several Marshals have reported panic in their granges.”

  “And we don’t know why,” Mikeli said. “Something must have happened to start this—”

  “The eldest so far is Kirgan Beclan … so if it was something that happened, it must have been that far back—”

  “Except that all signs of magery have emerged in the past year.”

  “One possibility no one has mentioned,” Oktar said, tenting his fingers, “is that the gods have granted magery again because we will need it.”

  “Need magery? Why?”

  Oktar shook his head. “Sir king, consider beyond this single
problem. Magery was here all along, let us say, like water under the ground. Its one outlet we know of in this kingdom was the Verrakai family. Perhaps they … they drew out so much, for their own use, that little was left for others. They are dead; only one Verrakaien remains, and she—I will say firmly, of my own judgment—has not been seeking others’ power. So whatever magery is, there could be more of it, rising like springs.”

  “I never thought of magery that way,” Mikeli said.

  “Nor did I, sir king, until now. But if this reappearance is not caused by some evil power with some evil intent, then it could be as natural as the return of seasons, or be the deliberate intervention of good powers for our benefit.”

  “Have you suggested that to your fellow Marshals?”

  “No, having just thought of it. But I will, with those here in Vérella, and see if that can ease their minds.” He cocked his head. “How long, sir king, do you plan to keep your brother’s magery secret? How long do you think you can?”

  Mikeli shook his head. “I don’t know. I live in fear that it will out. That haunts my sleep, like the dreams that damned crown forces on me.”

  “Better to come from you than be found out,” Oktar said. He had counseled that before without success.

  Mikeli nodded slowly. “I am coming to that belief myself, Marshal-Judicar. But how, without condemning my brother—without plunging the realm into chaos?”

  “Tell your dukes first. You trust them, do you not? And Duke Verrakai already knows. Duke Marrakai’s holdings border Fintha; he must have heard about the problems there. Tell him. Your uncle—he already knows the problem. And Duke Serrostin has a son who’s had contact with magery.”

  “I suppose we should be grateful we don’t have an outbreak of Kuakkgani,” Mikeli said.

  “Perhaps.” Oktar looked thoughtful. “If we knew what was coming, we would know … but we don’t.”

  “Do you really think it could be within Gird’s will?”

  “Within the High Lord’s will, I would say, sir king, or perhaps Alyanya’s, or both. Gird is my patron; I am trained in Gird’s way, but what we have learned from these explorations in Kolobia suggests what we know of Gird Strongarm is still very far from all the man was or thought.”