Crown of Renewal

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Bolt in the thigh,” Arvid said. “The children—?”

  “All safe.” The Marshal’s expression was grim. “How many of them?”

  “I’m not sure,” Arvid said. “I killed four—no, more than that, but I never saw them all together.”

  “Perrin—go back and fetch us blankets and ropes. We’ll need that to move Arvid.” To Arvid he said, “I’ll be back. Don’t die yet.”

  The Marshal and the others scrambled up the roof, crouching low near the top, and then rolled over the ridge again and down to the next valley. After a short while, Arvid heard shouts, thuds, more shouts, and finally the sound of men coming back.

  “Now let’s see,” the Marshal said.

  Arvid passed out before the Marshal had done more than cut open his trousers to expose the wound. He roused briefly to hear someone say, “Not that way, you idiot!” and realized he was being carried down something—roof slope? stairs?—bundled up in a blanket like a corpse. On that thought he passed out again.

  He woke slowly, first aware of dull pain and lassitude, then light beyond his closed eyelids, and finally—when he opened his eyes—he realized he was in bed in a room full of people, one of whom was his son, white-faced and tense with worry, at the foot of the bed.

  “The children?” he asked. He thought he’d asked that before, but he couldn’t remember the answer.

  “Well, and with their parents, but for the three who’d been killed,” Marshal Cedlin said. “The child-thieves are all dead—there’s still some unrest, as some of them were locals and their families are upset.” He cleared his throat. “Arvid … are you able to tell us how you got the children out? And did you hear anything while you were in there to help us prevent more such?”

  They could have waited until morning, surely. Arvid blinked and realized that the light in the room came from the window and most resembled afternoon light. He had a vague memory of waking once before.

  He nodded, tried to clear his throat, and coughed instead. Pia put a mug to his lips, cool water with mint in it. When she took the mug away, he began, giving as clear a report as he could.

  “You’re sure the one killing the childer was Goram?” Marshal Cedlin asked.

  “That’s what one of the others said. There were two—one named Bin. I think he’s the one who said Goram enjoyed killing them. It bothered him. The other—um … I think someone mentioned Bin and … Fenis, it was … later. If that was the same man, he’s the one said it didn’t matter if Goram enjoyed it or not, mages were evil.”

  “Bin—that’d be the journeyman woodwright in Emon’s shop,” one of the other Marshals said. “A local … Fenis I don’t know. The other might have been Donag—”

  “No, because they mentioned Donag.” Arvid could not stop looking at his son; the boy’s eyes were glittering now with unshed tears. He lifted his hand. “Come sit with me, lad.” Instead, the boy hurled himself on the bed, burying his face in Arvid’s shirt.

  “Da! Don’t die!”

  “I have no intention of dying,” Arvid said, putting an edge of humor in his voice. He looked around at the others. “But grateful as I am for the rescue, I wouldn’t mind a little time with my son. Would that be possible?”

  “Are you hungry?” Pia asked.

  He was, he realized. “Yes—and I’ll bet this lad is, too.”

  Most of the others left the room, boots loud on the floor, with smiles and murmured good wishes. Pia, Marshal Cedlin, and the Marshal-General stayed.

  They pulled a table Arvid had not seen before out of a corner and set chairs by it. Pia spoke to the boy.

  “Come now, lad; help me bring the food up, won’t you? He’s not going to die if he’s hungry, and the Marshal-General and Marshal Cedlin can help him wash up. You could do with a wash yourself.”

  Slowly, the boy unpeeled himself from Arvid and stood, tear tracks down his face. “Da?”

  “I’ll be fine, Arvi. We can eat together in a bit, all right?”

  The boy nodded and with a last look back followed Pia out of the room. Marshal Cedlin helped Arvid sit up and use the pot, then washed him down with cool water from a jug. “A clean shirt—where?”

  “In the press,” Arvid said. He felt a little dizzy, but his leg didn’t hurt the way he expected. “You—healed me?”

  “Gird did,” Cedlin said, bringing a blue shirt from the press. “Nasty thing—hit the bone, but you won’t have bone fever from it. Now, that hole in your side—that wouldn’t heal. Any idea why?”

  “To teach me to be more careful,” Arvid said. He tried to sit up straighter as Cedlin put the shirt over his head and then wriggled one arm at a time into a sleeve. His left side twinged when he moved that arm. “It was my own bolt. When the fellow hit me with the stock of his crossbow, it hammered the point into me. Right through the leather.”

  “Lucky it didn’t go deeper,” Cedlin said. “Here—lie down again. You lost a lot of blood from the leg.”

  “He has a habit of that,” the Marshal-General said. She shook her head at him. “Remember last year?”

  “Wasn’t my plan,” Arvid said. He felt worse briefly, lying down, but then his stomach settled. He heard feet coming up the inn stairs. Cedlin lifted his shoulders and packed more pillows behind him. “Just in time.”

  “Well, now,” Pia said, coming in with a tray. “That’s more like it.” She put the tray on the table. “I brought enough for everyone, I think. A bowl of beef broth and barley for you, Arvid, and for you Marshals, bread and cheese and a pitcher of ale. Arvi, your da will like what’s in that jug, I expect. Honeyed sib. Pour him a mug.”

  Arvid had not felt particularly hungry, but the honeyed sib woke him enough that the beef broth with barley went down smoothly. Arvi finally relaxed enough to eat a slab of bread spread with soft cheese.

  “We have a problem,” the Marshal-General said when Arvid quit eating. He merely looked at her, then at Marshal Cedlin. “More than one,” she said. She looked at Marshal Cedlin.

  “You’ve done well, Arvid, as you must know,” Cedlin said. “You’ve learned everything and more I ask of new yeomen. You get along with the others; your section leader says you take on every task he asks of you. Gird knows you’re beyond yeoman level in your knowledge of the Code. You’re skilled with weapons, and you’ve been patient and effective teaching longsword to those who want to learn.” He shot a glance at the Marshal-General, who nodded for him to go on. “I hear from up the hill that you’ve almost qualified as a judicar in that regard—and could easily in another half-year of study. And as you told me, and the Marshal-General, and your Marshal in Aarenis, you hear Gird directly.”

  Arvid still said nothing. He began to guess where this might lead, and he was not—absolutely not—ready to hear what was coming.

  “You’ve been loyal to me, Arvid,” the Marshal-General said then. “You gave us warning that night last fall; you fought for me. You are … well, I can’t say exactly … but unexpected is the least of it. You aren’t afraid of those different from you, and you seem—amazing for a man with your background—to have almost an instinct for justice.”

  Arvid tried to laugh, and his side stabbed him. “I—think thieves understand justice, just from the other side.”

  “That may be. But Arvid, I must know: In this matter, did you call on Gird, and did you hear Gird speak?”

  Had he? He thought through the slight haze that blood loss and a good supper had given him. He used the pause to take another sip of honeyed sib before he answered.

  “Yes. I asked Gird’s help for the children—and myself. And he sent a cat—”

  “A cat?”

  “Well … perhaps it was just there, but it helped me find Cedi—the boy—twice, when he had hidden. And yes, Gird spoke to me, in my head … several times.”

  Marshal Cedlin nodded. “I thought so. Arvid, you are just what we need.”

  “Me?” That came out in a squeak that annoyed him. He swallowed and tried again. “Marshal, I was
lucky—”

  “Not lucky. Gods-guided. Lucky to meet Paks, perhaps, in Brewersbridge that time, but even that—I dare not say it wasn’t Gird’s doing, for both of you. Who else here could have done what you did?”

  He wanted to say Anyone who thought of it, but he knew that wasn’t true. Fin Panir was woefully short of thief-assassins trained to climb sheer walls, infiltrate buildings, and carry out such missions as rescuing captives … or killing the Master of a Guildhouse. His breath caught, remembering the Master in Valdaire and the child in his bed. He looked at his son, who looked back at him, eyes wide this time with wonder and hope, not fear.

  “They … might have.”

  No.

  Arvid shook his head. Gird would not let him alone, and … truth be told in his own head … at this time he did not want him to. “No,” he said then. “You’re right. I don’t know everyone in the city, but I doubt there’s another with my training. A retired mercenary specialist, maybe. So … what are you creeping toward here? Surely not that you want me to be Marshal-General?”

  A look passed between them that he could not quite read, but they did not laugh.

  “No,” said the Marshal-General. “Not yet, anyway. But we are short good Marshals now since some have left the Fellowship. They claim I had no authority to prohibit killing children who showed mage power. And few—if any—hear Gird’s voice clear. Or are now being hailed as heroes by those whose children they saved. The children were able to give a good account of what happened from the moment the child-killers came into the grange. You can expect to be showered with gifts—”

  “But—it was only what I should do,” Arvid said.

  “Yes, I thought you’d say that.” She sighed. “Arvid, I know you’re abiding by the Code. Girdish do not accept gifts for doing their duty. And you saw rescuing those children as your duty and talked me into letting you try. Honestly, I thought it was hopeless. One man alone against those child-killers, and no one even knew if there was a way in. But you did it—”

  “It would have been better if I’d taken one other up to the roof, with another crossbow,” Arvid said.

  She shook her head at him. “Quit trying to put me off my topic, Arvid. I want you to be a Marshal—and before you start, no, you’re not quite ready, much as I need more Marshals. But Marshal Hudder needs a yeoman-marshal now—Mador died. Marshal Cedlin and I both think you’re suited for that. I’ll appoint you Marshal as soon as you’re ready, which we all suspect will be sooner than you think.”

  “But—but—I’m not—”

  “Arvid, we need you. If Gird doesn’t care what you were before, why should I? Why should anyone? It’s time you gave over defining yourself by your past.”

  It wasn’t that easy. But even as he thought that, he remembered what else he’d done. It had not been easy to get Paks out of the Thieves’ Hall in Vérella, to protect her from Barranyi’s malice … or anything since.

  “Marshal Arvid,” he said, testing the sound of it. No sillier than Marshal Hudder or Marshal Donag. He looked at his son. “What do you think, Arvi?”

  “It’s … it’s what you are, Da.” The boy’s face held no doubt at all.

  “Well, then, I’d better start living up to it,” he said. “But first—yeoman-marshal. And more study, I assume?”

  “Yes, quite a lot. Marshal Hudder will be glad to tutor you in grange organization and record keeping.”

  “Will I need to move there?”

  “No, because you have a family and I think Arvi will be happier staying with his friends in Marshal Cedlin’s grange for another year or so. My suggestion is that you continue to live here—Marshal Hudder has agreed that you will have night duty only every third night.” She turned to the boy. “Arvi, will you be afraid to stay here the night your da is down the city? If so, we can find you someone to stay with.”

  “He could stay at the grange,” Cedlin said.

  “I won’t be afraid,” Arvi said. “I will do as Sera Pia says, and she will tell me to go up to bed and bar the door, and I will.”

  “Good, then. Is it settled, Arvid? As soon as you’re able.”

  “Yes,” he said. His head was swimming again, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Clear as a painted picture, the broad face and graying yellow hair of Gird looked back at him and nodded.

  You’ll do. Good lad.

  Arvid woke hours later in the first light of dawn. The shutters were open; he heard a rooster crow in the courtyard below and Arvi’s breathing in the room. He looked around. Arvi slept on a pallet near the bed instead of in his own bed at the far end. Arvid was suddenly thirsty, hungry, and restless all at once. He sat up cautiously; his side twinged, but not badly. He put his feet on the floor, fitting them between the bed and Arvi’s pallet, and made his way to the table. Pia had left a pitcher of water there and a clean mug. He drank and walked a little unsteadily to the window.

  Everything that had happened ran through his mind as if written on a strip of ribbon pulled through his hands. He felt all the emotions he had felt—the alarm, the anger, the urgency, the need to convince others, the pity, the anger again … and finally, the acceptance. Marshal. It was ludicrous. It was inevitable. It was … “How did I not know?” he asked the lightening sky, speaking softly not to wake his son. No answer this time. He didn’t really need one. It didn’t matter anymore.

  Across the room Arvi woke with a little snort, sat up, and stared wildly at the empty bed before seeing him. “I’m fine,” Arvid said.

  “Da?”

  “Really. Come, let’s get dressed, see if I can manage the stairs, and then the jacks and the bathhouse. We both have work to do.”

  Arvi leaned into him. Arvid put an arm around those shoulders, not now so thin—or so far down: the child had grown fast once freed from the thieves. “It’s all right, Son. Gird healed the bad wound; the other one’s hardly a wound at all.”

  After Arvi had gone off to class with the other youngsters, Arvid made his way down the city to meet Marshal Hudder. Unusually for this time of day, a dozen adults were there: guards, he realized, to prevent another attack. All had the sullen expressions of deeply angry men. Marshal Hudder, a short square-built man with graying black hair, came out to greet him.

  “I didn’t expect to see you for several more days, but I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have, Arvid. Nobody can replace Mador, o’ course, not really, but everyone in the grange wants to thank you. Marshal-General’s told me what she wants and what you already know. I’d like you to take over the adult sword-side drill groups and the records keeping that Mador did.”

  “Certainly, Marshal,” Arvid said.

  “We think the children would be too likely to spend their lesson time asking you questions until they get used to you—but our yeomen, right now, are eager to work on their fighting skills.” He gestured. “Come on in and I’ll show you the offices.”

  By the end of that day, Arvid had met the parents of the children he’d rescued and seen the children themselves at study in the barton with the other yeoman-marshal, Nadin. Nadin’s arms were still wrapped in bandages—though the Marshals had been able to start the bones healing with the help of a herbwoman, his arms were still painful and not strong enough for drill.

  Arvid took the drill sections, one after another, and trudged back up to the Loaf as tired as he’d ever been. But—he’d done it. He’d remembered all the drill commands; he’d learned all the names. He could do this. The knights going off-duty for the night walked with him, then waved and walked on up to their quarters.

  Arvi woke when he came into the room, quiet as he’d tried to be. “Da?”

  “Here. Tired. Go back to sleep, lad.” He laid his hand on the boy’s head for a moment. His lad. Safe. The three who’d been killed had been buried while he recovered; he’d missed that.

  Chaya, Lyonya

  She had changed again, Kieri thought, watching the tall yellow-haired paladin dismount in the courtyard. He wasn’t certain yet what
the change was and hoped it would not alter the Paks he had known beyond his recognition. Foolish thought, he knew. With a dragon loose in the world again, they were all being changed.

  By the time he reached the palace entrance she was there, chatting with one of the doorwards about—of all things—darning. The doorward had his shoe off, showing a hole in the heel of his left sock, and Paks was explaining, in exactly Stammel’s words, why everyone in any uniform, anywhere, any time, should be able to mend and maintain his or her own uniform.

  “But it’s just a sock,” the doorward said, as Kieri had heard many recruits say. He waited, just in earshot, and sure enough, Paks said it just as Stammel had.

  “It’s not just a sock. It’s a sore heel, a blister, a gods-ratted hole in your skin, and the fever will come into it, and you’ll be lame and someone else dead because of it.” And then, quite unlike Stammel, Paks laughed. “That’s what my sergeant always said. I came into the Company already knowing how to knit, sew a plain seam, and darn socks: it’s not hard if you catch the hole early. I’ll show you later, but now I must see the king.”

  “I’m here,” Kieri said. She looked up at him and grinned; he felt his own smile widen. “Paks—how are you?”

  “Fine,” she said. He could see a few silver strands in amongst the yellow of her hair now, and the silver circle on her brow still made him uneasy, but she looked healthy. “I was sent,” she said. “And I have word.”

  Word. He did not quite shiver. “Arian has had her babes,” he said. “Both healthy. Come and meet them.”

  Inside, he led her first to his office. “How long can you stay?”

  “I don’t know … longer than one day or two, I think.”

  “Sit down,” he said, and nodded to one of his Squires. “Varne, bring refreshments, please.” When the Squire had left, he said, “What word?”

  “My lord—sir king—Sergeant Stammel is dead. He had left the Company—”

  “Stammel?”

  “With a dragon and then asked leave to stay away and live apart, where he was not known, because of his blindness. He made a life there, among villagers on an island, and he died there, defending them.”