Crown of Renewal

by Elizabeth Moon

  “I need to get this mud off, and I’ll need another bath later. Doesn’t matter if it’s cold; I’ve bathed in colder.”

  It was more cool than cold, refreshing, and he came out of his bath wide awake and ready for drill. Arian was in his room when he entered, in exercise gear with the glint of mail under it. She grinned at him. “Get any sleep?”

  “No, but I’m fine.” He dressed quickly. “You’re going to the salle? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. They’ve had their first breakfast, and I’m too restless to sit around.”

  “Half speed,” Kieri said, wriggling into his own mail. “No accidents.”

  “Half speed,” she said.

  They went down together and met Caernith in the lower hall. “My lady,” he said to Arian. “Are you quite sure you should—?”

  “Yes,” Arian said. “What you told me about the children—I need to be fit just to keep up with them, and sitting around will not do.”

  “You have servants,” Caernith said.

  “And I am their mother for both body and magery,” Arian said. She glanced at Kieri. “Besides, I have the king’s leave.”

  Kieri chuckled. “As if you needed it. Come now: a short workout for you today and then you can laugh at me for staying up far too late with that research. Carlion will probably leave bruises.”

  They came into a salle already echoing with the sound of steel on steel, but Carlion called a hold as the king entered.

  “My queen,” Carlion said, coming to Arian. “Are you certain—?”

  “Yes!” Kieri and Arian spoke together, and then Arian laughed. “Yes, Carlion, I am certain. I am wearing mail. I have done the preliminary exercises. I know I must not go full speed yet, but I need to get started. Do not treat me like a crystal goblet; I am not so easy to break.”

  “Yes, my queen. I just … we all just …”

  “I know.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I am not angry, just determined. I would like you to closely supervise my exercises the first tenday or so.”

  “Well, then … no banda for you today; you’re not going to touch a blade. Let’s see you stretch. And you, sir king—” He turned to Kieri. “Usual stretches, then go to the middle with any two of your Squires. One to watch, since I’ll be busy with the queen, and one to engage. Take turns.”

  Kieri picked up one of the practice blades and absently, without thinking, ran his thumb down the sharpened edge above the slightly bated tip. A bead of blood smeared the blade.

  “What did you do?” Carlion said sharply.

  The answer came before he could stop it. “Blooded the blade.”

  Caernith looked at him. “Why? That’s—”

  “An Old Human tradition, yes. If I’m to find out about my Old Human heritage, I should be using some of their rituals, don’t you think?”

  Caernith stared, then said, “Blood magery is … wrong.”

  “It’s not the same as taking blood,” Kieri said. “Old Humans blooded the blade to give of their own life.”

  “It’s …”

  Kieri could almost see the words running through the elf’s mind.

  “It’s … primitive.”

  “But not selfish or cruel,” Kieri said. He walked on to the middle section of the salle.

  Kieri sat in the rose garden, as usual once in the day, fingering the selani tiles for the first time since … that night … letting their runes and their arrangement lead his thoughts. Today, tiles and thoughts seemed scattered. The opposites of wound and heal were obvious, but what did they refer to? And how could that fit with seek and find, another pair of opposites, and truth and consent, which were not opposites? Elves, Kieri knew, hated seeing his scars, even faded from what they had been. Unlike his King’s Squires, they avoided seeing him partly dressed, let alone unclothed.

  They had offered to erase the scars, as the Lady had offered to erase Paks’s scars—but not his, he thought suddenly, spun out of a consideration of bodyguards who couldn’t look at his body to another of his grandmother’s oddities. Had she lacked that gift? No, because she had offered healing to Paks. Why not to him? Perhaps she could not do it always? He himself had been able to heal Torfinn’s poisoned wound once but not his injured leg later.

  He fingered the torc he now wore, invisible under his mail and gorget. Thinking of his grandmother led inevitably to his mother and the gifts that had risen from the ground to become his at last. He had shown elves the selani tiles; he now knew all the runes and some of what the tiles were for—not so much foretelling as remembering and connecting memories into patterns that allowed deeper understanding. They knew about his sword and dagger, about the ring he wore on his heart-hand and the belt buckle. But he had not shown them the torc. Every time he’d thought to do so, he had been distracted by something else. That brief glimpse of something inside the golden twist … what was it, and what did it mean?

  He scooped up the tiles, glanced at the angle of the sun, and decided he had time for one more meditation with them. He let a few slide through his fingers, landing on the table as they would. Wound. Heal. Choice. Protect.

  Sun blazed down on him; the scent of roses became overpowering. He felt a pressure, as if someone tried to force his understanding. Whose choice? It must be his. A choice to protect or heal or wound? He would choose to protect and heal whenever he could.

  Whom?

  Whom? Heal whom? Anyone hurt, was his immediate thought. Immediately the patterns he had just learned from the Old Humans rose in his mind.

  For them, healing was the most delicate, intricate of gifts, one requiring full understanding of the situation, not just the injury. Just to lay pain on a stone—a traditional remedy for pains that did not respond to an infusion of feverbane, bruisebane, or goodweed—depended on the pain and its cause, the parrion of the one in pain, and the stone’s own nature and its function. Casting sleep on an adult or waking one out of cast sleep was even more complicated.

  Kieri talked all this over with Arian when they met later that day.

  “My mother had what we called good hands,” Arian said. “I don’t know if that’s the same.”

  “What do you mean? Healed people?”

  Arian shook her head. “Not exactly. But if you were sick or hurt, when she touched you, or laid her hand on it, it felt better. Not just for me, but for others in the household. And I remember as a child, being restless and unable to sleep. Her hand on my forehead would be so gentle, so soothing … I’d wake up the next morning and never have noticed going to sleep.”

  “What about waking you?”

  Arian laughed. “That was a wet cloth dropped on my feet if I didn’t come when called,” she said.

  Kieri tried out the magery on Arian, at her suggestion. At first he followed her mother’s example: a hand on her forehead, along with what he understood of the magery itself. He had to find peace and rest in himself and give that to her … and the second time he tried it, she fell asleep in an instant, a smile on her face. Within days, he could cast sleep on her from a distance. Waking her gently was more difficult; her memories of cold wet feet interfered with his intent and woke her with a jerk. Finally he found a way to do it—and give her sleep again—and do it from the other side of the room.

  “Almost there,” he said, yawning. “But I need to sleep myself. By Midsummer I might have this figured out. Surely nothing will happen between now and then.”

  Vérella, Tsaia

  Unseen, unheard, the shadows entered the palace gate past guards who stood open-eyed, staring at nothing. Unseen, unheard, the shadows moved across the courtyard, up the stairs, where the great doors swung open for them, and the guards posted there stood as motionless as the others, eyes open, seeing nothing.

  Within the palace they moved in a body along corridors dimly lit, past the occasional guard, up stairs, around turns, unerring in their search … and still unseen and unheard. At the last door, the one that guarded the treasury, two guards stood, the whites of their eyes
gleaming a little in the faint light. The shadows paused; the guards saw nothing, heard nothing. The shadows touched the door; it did not open to them at first, but the locks yielded at last to slender wands and wires of steel.

  Prince Camwyn woke with a start and stared at his hands. Both were alight; his room showed clear in every detail. He scowled. This had not happened for a quarter-year; he had finally learned, he thought, how to control this part of his magery. He stood up and padded barefoot across the carpet to the candle holders always ready for such a situation. Candle after candle flared; his hands did not dim.

  Come!

  His hand jerked away from the candle he intended to light. The crown again. He had given up hoping it would not talk to him; it talked to Duke Verrakai and Mikeli as well, and its intrusions had grown more frequent of late. But why did it command him to come now, in the middle of the night?

  Come! Come now! Danger!

  His skin prickled with sudden excitement. Danger? Here in the palace, surrounded by guards? His first thought was for Mikeli, and he took three steps before his mind caught up. Running to face danger in his nightshirt, barefoot and unarmed, was … stupid. He had been stupid before; he was older now.

  His clothes for morning weapons practice lay ready, as always. He put them on, trying to think clearly through the pounding of his heart. Mail? Should he wear mail? What kind of danger?

  Danger. Evil. Come!

  Evil. He should rouse the Marshal-Judicar, the Knight-Commander, any Girdish at all. He wriggled into the mail shirt—it no longer felt so heavy though it struck chill through his arming shirt—fastened the gorget around his neck, and set the helmet on his head. His sword—a gift from Mikeli this last name day—a check to be sure his dagger and saveblade were in place, and he went out the door to the anteroom where his guards should be. And where they stood stiff and still, eyes open, staring at nothing.

  He touched them, spoke to them. No reaction. He shivered, suddenly cold. A spell … an evil spell. It must be another renegade Verrakai. One? More? He should find someone to help him—but if he could not rouse his guards, and if it took too long—

  Light spread down his sword from his sword-hand. “Holy Gird and Camwyn,” he murmured. “Help me now.” It was not a magic sword, not that he knew; Mikeli had said nothing of it … it must be his own magery …

  As if his sword were alive, it tugged him down the passage, turned him away from Mikeli’s quarters—he saw nothing that way but the motionless guards in their places—and up another flight of stairs, another turn. He knew now where they were going, the treasury, and what the attack must be.

  The Verrakaien wanted the crown back. One at least had been in league with that pirate in the south who had the necklace; another must be stealing the rest to take to him. He rounded the corner. In the light of his sword, he saw the guards by the treasury door—the open treasury door—and with belated caution flattened to the wall, rather than charging through.

  He heard voices like no voices he had heard before. Silvery, musical, cold as snowflakes, patterning sound into what was nearly song but … not. He had heard elves speaking elvish once or twice—similar to this but not quite the same.

  Danger!

  Elves? Danger?

  Iynisin! Danger!

  He stood, listening. What were “iynisin”?

  Not elves! Elves no more! Danger!

  Kuaknomi. For a moment his skin crawled with horror. Kuaknomi, blackcloaks, dark cousins … creatures of the Severance … they had cursed Gird and his line; none of Gird’s line survived. And here he was alone—the only one awake to them in the whole palace? His knees weakened; he clenched his teeth and through that fence muttered, “Gird! Camwyn!”

  Warmth returned. He hurtled into the room, light blazing from his sword, to see five dark shapes crouched around the chest, chanting. The chest itself trembled.

  Faster than he had imagined, the iynisin spun to face him; in an instant all held blades, two already slashing at him. He ducked, shifted, blocked one, the other, and felt the tip of his blade caught for an instant as the other’s blade squealed on his, sliding toward him. Disengage and refuse! He remembered the armsmaster’s words barely in time; the iynisin’s blade missed him by a finger’s breadth.

  He yelled, “Gird and Camwyn, Falk and the High Lord!” hoping that someone would wake, break whatever enchantment, and come to aid him. He could not face five alone—but Beclan had, he remembered. Beclan had called on Gird—and indeed, in that instant, as one of the iynisin blades screeched on his mail shirt, his own pierced one of the shadows and he felt the familiar resistance of muscle. The creature hissed, spat, and spun away. That left four, and one … yes … was edging around to get behind him.

  Camwyn retreated toward the door—he could back into a corner there—and continued to fend off his attackers. He heard a yell from the distance—far down the corridor by the sound. Footsteps, running. Help? And for whom? Another near miss—and then a spike of pain in his knee. He’d never seen the blade that stabbed him; he tried to limp back another step—and another blow took him in the side, throwing him off balance. He missed a parry; the thrust at his chest was hard enough to force him back. His injured knee gave way, and he fell, rolling to avoid two more thrusts.

  He caught one of the iynisin in the body when it leaned over him to finish him; another in the thigh; another in the calf. But they were too many, and he was only one; he took wound after wound to his legs, though the mail protected his body. Finally he saw—too late to dodge it—the foot aimed at his head.

  Aris Marrakai woke in the pages’ quarters as if someone had stabbed him with a hot needle—all in one instant, he was out of bed, standing, heart pounding. The room was almost dark, the single tiny lamp burning in its niche, just enough to help the younger boys find their way to the jacks. The flame was steady—it had not been any gust of wind. As a senior now, on duty with the younger boys, he usually slept clothed and needed only to put on the low boots he wore in the palace. He did that and hesitated before pulling a short blade from the rack and hooking it to his belt.

  Outside, all was still. He knew something had wakened him—what? Then he heard a faint cry … from … where? He went toward the sound and came to the guard station where corridors crossed. The guards said nothing. He cleared his throat. Still nothing. He risked touching one on the shoulder. No reaction.

  It was a dream. It had to be a dream. He pinched himself hard, and that hurt. Another faint sound that brought his heart into his throat—the screech of metal on mail.

  He was moving before he thought, running toward the stairs; he was sure the sound had come from above. He passed guards who did not move or speak; he yelled “GIRD!” “HELP!” No one answered. Up the stairs, grunting a cry at each step in the hope that someone would wake. Was it Camwyn the attackers had come for? No, surely the king. And some enchantment held all in thrall. He made it to the floor with the royal apartments—Camwyn that way, the king the other—and now he could tell the yells, the clash of arms, came from higher yet, up where the treasury was.

  And here, nearby, was the bell pull that went, he’d been told, to no bell but summoned—if anyone—immortal aid. Unused for centuries, collector of legends no one could prove. But it was all he could think of, and he pulled it hard, then charged up the last flight of steps.

  Outside, over his head, a great clangor rang out, bells upon bells, louder than he’d ever heard bells while inside the palace. A waterfall of sound it felt like, shimmering and dancing around him as he went up. He reached the top, and sight of the treasury door, where two guards changed from rigid immobility to startled alertness. Dark shadows rushed from the treasury; one guard fell before he could draw a weapon, throat slashed by one of the shadows. The other tried to stab another shadow, but it evaded him. For a moment, the dark figures loomed over Aris, staring at him; his tongue blocked his mouth; he could not make a sound.

  Then, with a single word in a voice cold as Midwinter night,
they turned and ran the other way, the bells’ clangor following them like hounds.

  Now, as the bell sound followed the intruders, Aris could hear noise from below. Booted feet running, voices shouting questions. Help, if they thought to come here. He worked his tongue in his mouth, tried to swallow, and yelled down the stairs: “Up here! The treasury!!”

  Flickering light approached the foot of the stairs.

  “Here!” he yelled again.

  “Gird’s blood—it’s the prince!” the remaining guard called from inside the room. “Get help, lad! Quickly!”

  “The prince is hurt!” Aris called down the stairs; torches lit helmets and drawn swords, the soldiers blurry below the light, and he waved, then turned and ran into the treasury.

  Camwyn lay sprawled in a welter of blood. In the light of the torch the guard held, his face was pale as beeswax, his blood shockingly red. Like horse blood, Aris thought for a moment. Camwyn’s helmet had a deep dent in one side that connected with a purpling bruise on the side of his face. Aris took out his dagger and slashed at his own sleeve.

  “What happened?” the first guard asked. “Did you—” He looked again at Aris and shook his head.

  “Shadows,” Aris said. “I saw them—five in dark cloaks. They made a spell.” He had a length of sleeve off now and tried to stanch the wound in Camwyn’s thigh; blood soaked through almost at once. “Bandages,” he said, ripping at his other sleeve one-handed. “Quick!”

  “Yes …” One of the guards hurried out, calling for a Marshal, bandages, more help.

  Others pushed into the room; more noise outside … the bells had quit, Aris realized. He used his teeth to rip loose part of his heart-hand sleeve, balled it up in his sword-hand, and pushed it down on top of the red sodden lump of the first.

  “Let me through!” That was Master Plostanyi, one of the palace physicians; Aris knew his voice. “Have none of you any sense? Why are you standing around doing nothing, and only this lad trying to keep the prince alive?” He knelt beside Aris, unrolling his case without regard to the blood on the floor. “Lean on that,” he said to Aris. To the guards he said, “Get me sheets; rip them in strips. Now!” That last at a bellow.