Crown of Renewal

by Elizabeth Moon

  “We will get through this, Mikeli,” Rothlin said.

  “We had better,” Mikeli said. “Because, feeble as I often feel as a king, I can’t think of another family that would do as well.”

  Dorrin Verrakai looked out the entrance of her home—and how strange to feel that it was indeed hers, and a home—down the grassy slope between the house and the river. The cattle had been up by the house overnight, leaving their mark, but now grazed a comfortable distance away. On the front steps, the children clustered around their tutor, who sat on the bottom step with a book in hand. Soon their shrill voices were chanting sums; Dorrin went back inside and then through the kitchen.

  “Morning, my lord.” Farin Cook glanced up with a smile, both hands deep in a bowl, mixing something that smelled delicious. “Your saddlebag’s full. Fresh pastries cooling over there.” She pointed with her elbow. “And this mince will make a nice meal for you this evening.”

  “Thank you,” Dorrin said. “I’ll have a pastry later; it’s too soon after breakfast.” She picked up her saddlebags—enough lunch for two, she was sure—and went on through the kitchen, down into the scullery, and then out into the stableyard. One of the grooms, Hath, was walking her horse around.

  Once mounted, she rode out the gate and turned south. She took no escort for the first time in several years now they were sure they’d scoured all the old Verrakai from nearby vills. On this bright day, it was hard to believe how much evil had stained this land. The guilt that weighted her shoulders—the burden of her family’s crimes—seemed less now as the land and the people recovered from it.

  Where a small creek ran across the track to the river, once a mud-hole, now water ran through a wood conduit wide enough for wagon wheels. Another such culvert kept the track firm near the turn onto the old west trace that would someday—maybe even this year—be a road again, allowing trade to flow through from the Vérella—Valdaire road. She turned onto it, riding west, noting where wagon ruts bit deep to bring rock from a quarry she’d authorized.

  By midday, she had found the working end of the road crew at the top of a ridge: two score men, four ox teams, one heavy horse team, and her kirgan, Beclan. They had been eating, she saw; they all rose as she rode up. By then she was hungry and ready for a rest.

  “Not as far as I’d hoped, my lord,” said Niart, an experienced road builder hired from Serrostin for this job. “Ran into some problems down the west slope. Want to see?”

  “Yes,” said Dorrin, “but I’ll have a bite of lunch first.” Beclan had come to hold her horse and untied the saddlebags, brought them to the rock she chose to sit on, then took her horse to the water barrel and scooped up a bucketful for it to drink. The workmen sat back down as she untied the thongs and opened it. Cheese rolls and meat rolls both and two of the pastries, only slightly squashed from their trip. The other saddlebag held a stone jug of water and another of berry juice. Dorrin looked around as she bit into a cheese roll. Across the hollow between this ridge and the next, the gap for the road was clearly visible, and the road itself climbed up the ridge without a turn.

  “That one’s not as steep,” Niart said. “Different rock—rockfolk’d call it nedross, so it’s weathered different, rounder. This one … we had to build turns into it. You’ll see, if you’ve time.”

  Dorrin nodded. Beclan came and sat beside her; his blue shirt was sweat-stained and smudged, and his boots were mud at the bottom and dirt on top. He said nothing, but Dorrin held out a meat roll and he took it. Then he paused and looked at the workers.

  Niart shook his head. “You’re that age, lad—go on, eat up. We’re not hurtin’.”

  Dorrin certainly hoped not, since she’d sent food to the site. After years with mercenaries, she knew how much hardworking men needed. Beclan finished both the meat roll and one of cheese before she finished hers. Dorrin finished her roll and stood up; Niart stood waiting for her. She patted the saddlebag. “Beclan, there’s a couple of pastries, and I don’t dare let Cook know they weren’t eaten. Best take care of them for me.”

  Niart grinned at her and turned away; she followed him until she could see down the track coming up the ridge.

  “Without them ox teams, we’d have been in a bad way,” he said. “See the way those rocks stick out? Was trees all in there, roots dug in between rocks, under rocks. Not good ground for loggers or horse teams.”

  Dorrin looked at the jumble of logs at the base of the slope; Niart nodded at her when she glanced at him. “Rolled ’em down there—we’ll need a bridge there. Little bit of a creek it looks like, but trash either side shows it gets up a lot, come hard rain. But what I really wanted you to see—that slowed us down most—is the turns. See, got to have room to turn teams and wagons, if you want traders, and the turns do best with flat places.”

  Niart’s crew had carved out a turning space at each of the turns, cutting into the slope and piling rock on the outer edge.

  “Will that hold in a rain?” Dorrin asked.

  “Aye … well, maybe. Should. Old track ran straight, but was a gully down it deep as to here—” He gestured at his chest. “Naught but packhorses could use it, I’d think.” He spat, politely to the side. “Ask me, I’d say it’s been hundreds of winters since wagons made it through. Come you down here a bit.”

  Dorrin followed him a short distance down the new road, skin pricking a warning. She checked her blade; he’d been Serrostin’s road builder for a decade, but still. He glanced back up the road and then said, “This was found, my lord. Lucky by me; the lads is honest for the price of a mug, but this—” He pulled out of his pocket something that gleamed … a gold chain with a mud-crusted lump attached that Niart brushed at with his callused thumb until a gleam of blue showed. “Your land, m’lord, so it’s yours, whatever it is.” He held it out.

  She knew the instant the blue showed what it must be … but she didn’t remember a place for this in the box. Were there more stones scattered about? In her hands it warmed a little.

  “I thank you, Niart. It must have been dropped by someone on the road—”

  “Long ago,” he said. “And maybe hid, not dropped. Was under a rock we moved, right down there.” He pointed. “I’d say it had been there a long time—rock had moss, lichens, fern, all the things you find on a rock’s been just as you find it. I’m thinkin’ some magelady, in Gird’s War maybe, hidin’ her jewels and never made it back.”

  “Could be,” Dorrin said. She brushed away more of the dried mud; the stone gleamed in the noonday light, the same clear blue as the others, just the one stone, held in a plain gold oval hung from the gold chain. “Master Niart, you deserve a reward for this find—and any others—but I have nothing with me of enough value. But surely you will receive a personal bonus to the contract.”

  His face darkened. “M’lord, I’m an honest yeoman and a master of my craft. I don’t ask—”

  “You didn’t ask, but I’m not going to ignore your skill and your caution, either,” Dorrin said. “Shall I then add it to the contract as a whole, and you can do what you like with it?”

  After a moment he nodded. “That’s fair. Share with the crew; that’s the best. And since I don’t want ’em shirking the roadwork to go hunting baubles, I’d ask you to say nothin’ about it. I’ll keep an eye out, and if someone finds somethin’, I’ll see it gets to you.”

  “Thank you,” Dorrin said. Movement caught her eye; she turned in time to see travelers on foot coming down the opposite hill toward the creek. “Early merchants?” she asked.

  “Don’t look like it,” Niart said. “They’s childer with ’em. My duke said you’d been asking about settlin’ newcomers, fillin’ out this land a little. Might be some.”

  Dorrin nodded, watching the travelers, who had now spotted her and straggled to a halt. She’d expected to get a list from the lords who might send her some of their excess families, not have people just walking in … but roads invited travelers. And here it was midday past, and those five—no, nine,
counting the children—four adults, three older children, two younger—would never make it on foot to the next vill.

  “Niart, I’m sorry, but you and your crew will have to let them camp with you tonight. I’ll send another wagon of supplies as soon as I get back to the house.” She looked back up the road; two of the road workers had come nearer and now stared at the travelers. The workers looked enough like brigands in their rough work clothes to scare any families. The men, she noticed, now had their staves held in front of them, and the young children, in the care of the older, were being herded into the woods. She explained that to Niart, then headed back upslope, calling for Beclan to bring her horse. Only a ducal appearance would reassure them.

  Once mounted, she bade Beclan put his kirgan’s cloak over his dirty shirt and ride with her. Together they rode down the new road at a foot pace. By the time they reached the bottom of the slope, the adults and one older boy were in a tight cluster, all armed with staves, doing their best to look impregnable.

  “Ho, travelers,” Dorrin said. “I am Duke Verrakai, and this is my domain. You have come upon my road builders, who are just up there.” She pointed behind and up the slope. “Who are you, and where from? This road is not finished yet, and you are a long way from the nearest steading.”

  The little group lowered their staves and glanced at one another. One of the men stepped forward. “We be from Duke Elorran’s lands … we heared was land here and a new lord.”

  “I have had no word from Duke Elorran,” Dorrin said.

  “We has word,” one of the women said. She pulled from her pocket a message tube, crumpled in the middle, and held it out.

  “Kirgan,” Dorrin said. “Bring me that message.” To the group she said. “This is Kirgan Verrakai, my heir.”

  “My lord,” Beclan said, dismounting. He put his horse’s rein in her hand, then walked across the stones of the little creek. The woman took a step forward to meet him, and he took the message tube.

  Elorran’s man of business had written the message, saying they could well spare two families at once, good workers with nothing against them but the poverty of Elorran’s land. “We can spare more if you have the room, but these two brothers and their wives are ambitious and eager to begin.” He had listed the names, including the children.

  “Which of you is Tamis?” Dorrin asked when she finished.

  “Me, my lord,” one of the men said. He was the shorter of the two, with sandy hair and blue eyes; by Elorran’s account, the elder.

  “And you must be Derstan,” Dorrin said, nodding to the other man. “And your wives—”

  The women announced themselves, Erdin and Medlin.

  “Call your children,” Dorrin said. “For I must see all of you.”

  Another doubtful look, then the boy went into the woods. Dorrin dismounted, and Beclan took the reins of both horses. “I sense nothing evil,” she said softly to Beclan. “But if you do, call a warning.”

  “Yes, my lord. Do you really think—”

  “It never hurts to be wary,” Dorrin said. She walked forward, down to the creek bed where water gurgled softly among the stones the road builders had laid down. From back up the slope, she could now hear the ox teams lowing, the cart and wagon wheels squeaking, and Niart’s voice yelling something blurred by distance. The little group had spread out, staves now held more like walking sticks, and the voices of children came through the trees. When they came out on the road, she saw that three of the children were girls, though dressed in boys’ clothes, a sensible precaution while traveling.

  Three went to one woman, two to the other. Dorrin waited while their mothers named them, then smiled at the group. “I have read your duke’s letter, and he names you good workers who wanted a better chance. I have land to be worked—your duke or his steward may have told you that too many of the people here died, thanks to the previous duke. But did he also tell you that the king allows me and my kirgan to be mages? Will that frighten you?”

  Tamis answered. “No, my lord. I mean, yes, my lord, we knew you’s a magelord; everybody in t’kingdom knows that, I’d say. But if t’king says you’re not evil, then—that’s good enough. But—ye’re not Girdish?”

  “No,” Dorrin said. She touched her ruby. “Falkian. But we do have Girdish granges here and hope to have more when we have enough people.” Now there were smiles and nods from them, but the younger children looked tired and footsore. “There’s no vill nearby,” she said. “You’ll camp with the road builders tonight—they’re at the top of that hill there, and they know you’re coming. Kirgan, let’s give these littles a ride up the hill, shall we? Your mount’s fresher, I think—will he carry three if you lead him?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Beclan said.

  The adults led the children across the creek and helped Dorrin settle them on the horses. The oldest boy refused a ride, so each carried two, one child in the saddle and one behind, holding on tightly. Dorrin set off leading her mount, Tamis coming up alongside the horse in case one of the children grew unsteady.

  “They never been on a horse before,” he said.

  Once they reached the road builders, Tamis and his brother volunteered to help the rest of the day, and the women said they’d cook supper that night for the whole crew.

  “I must take Beclan back with me,” Dorrin told Niart. “I will need him on the way back to let the nearest vill know someone is coming. They have five cottages empty; they can ready two of them.”

  “Very well, my lord,” Niart said.

  As she left, she saw Tamis driving an oxcart with an empty water barrel back down the hill to fetch water from the creek and Derstan cutting brush with two of the road builders halfway down the slope toward home.

  “How many new folk will you accept?” Beclan asked when they were well away.

  “We could use three times what we have now,” Dorrin said. “But I don’t want to bring in that many at once. For one thing, they’ll multiply, and for another, those native here need to know they’re valued, too. If we had time, it would be better to site the newcomers in new vills, but for this group—can’t be done. They can’t build homes, clear fields, plant, and harvest all starting this late in the year.”

  Beclan nodded. “I see that. My father said—I mean, Duke Mahieran said—that Duke Elorran was … was strange. Do you trust the letter?”

  “Very straightforward and signed by his man of business and his steward both. I’ve never met Duke Elorran, but I heard he was unwell.”

  “Crazy, my mother—Lady Mahieran—said.”

  “Beclan, you need not use formal titles for your parents here, you know.”

  “Thank you, my lord, but … if I do not, it will be the old habit. Like a child’s shoe on a man’s foot.”

  “Wisdom indeed, Kirgan. You are right.”

  They picked up the pace where they could, and Dorrin left Beclan explaining to the first vill what they would need to do as she rode on to the house to arrange for more supplies. There she found a very grumpy royal courier stalking back and forth in the stableyard.

  “Duke Verrakai! I have a summons from the king!”

  “Just a moment,” Dorrin said as a groom came forward to take her horse. To the groom, she said, “Squire Beclan will be coming in tonight, probably very late; be sure someone is ready to meet him.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the groom said. She dismounted, ignoring the fuming courier as she untied the strings and lifted off her saddlebags, slinging them over her shoulder. The groom led the horse away; she turned to the courier. “You have a message?”

  “It is of the utmost urgency; I was supposed to give it into your hands as soon as I arrived—”

  “The king knows I am not always in the house,” Dorrin said. She held out her hand. “The message?”

  “It is in the house.”

  “You left a royal courier bag unguarded?” Dorrin aimed her haughtiest look at him and had the wicked satisfaction of seeing his own hauteur dissolve into panic. �
�I’m sure you won’t want the king to hear about that.” She stalked past him toward the scullery, then turned and headed for the front of the house. He scuttled along behind, spouting apologies and excuses. Dorrin ignored them.

  The velvet bag lay—untouched she was sure—on the table in the front hall, and Grekkan, her steward, sat at another with account books open in front of him, busy but within sight of the courier bag.

  “You didn’t—” began the courier, but Dorrin held up her hand, and he stopped short.

  Grekkan looked up and pushed back his chair, bowing slightly. “My lord.”

  “Squire Beclan may be in late tonight with information about our new tenants,” Dorrin said.

  “We have new tenants?”

  “Duke Elorran sent them. Here is the letter from his man of business.” He took the message tube. “Two related families, five children in all. Met them on the new road. They’ll stay the night with the road crew, and Beclan’s arranging housing in the nearest vill. As we discussed, they’ll take the oath when they’ve been here a quarter and we see how they do. But I’m sure these will work out; the men were already at work with the road crew as I left, and the women were taking over the cooking. They’re Girdish; we should send word to the Marshal nearest that vill.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ll add them to the rolls at once. Do you think there’ll be more coming that way?”

  “Almost certainly, and equally certainly, some will be problems. But we knew the risk when we chose to start the road at the other end. I’ll change the militia patrols to give better coverage there.”

  “My lord—the king’s message—” The courier now stood by the table with the bag.

  “Whatever it is,” Dorrin said, “I’m not riding more tonight.” She picked up the bag. “Grekkan, find quarters for tonight for—” She looked at the courier, whose insignia did not indicate any family connection, just that he was a courier.