Crown of Renewal

by Elizabeth Moon

  “We will try it,” Kieri said. “Come—before they do something.”

  “But magery can be unlocked again,” Seklis said. “Sir king—it is not wise—”

  “No paladin is going to unlock their magery,” Kieri said. “Dorrin didn’t recover hers by herself.”

  At the first inn, where the sick magewomen were staying, they found the innkeeper and several servants staring in consternation at the two dead magewomen on the stairs, blood pooled around them. “I swear, sir king, I did nothing to them. The one who got sick first ran down the stairs and out the door, and then, before I could even shout after her, these two come staggering and falling … they’d been stabbed. Stabbed!”

  “Dualian,” Kieri said. “The first to get sick and the one who didn’t die of it.”

  “But—she—a woman killed them?”

  “I think so,” Kieri said. “And tried to kill others … but she’s dead now.”

  “What about the sick woman upstairs—will she kill me?”

  “No,” Kieri said. He turned to two of his Squires. “Go up and make sure she’s really sick—and then make sure she stays there.”

  Very shortly nearly all the remaining magelords were collected in the common room of one inn. One sat slumped in a corner with a jug of ale before him; the innkeeper said he spent every day drinking.

  “I brought you here to save your lives,” Kieri said. “I could have broken your enchantment and let the dragon melt you into the stone itself.”

  They stared at him but said nothing. Dorrin sensed nothing but shock and fear.

  “I meant you no harm,” Kieri went on. “But some of you meant harm to me and mine and broke the guest-truce. They used magery against me—against me, the rightful king. Against others as well.”

  “Who?” one of them asked.

  “They died,” Kieri said without answering that question. “They died at my hand and the hands of my people because they broke the guest-truce. These are their names …” He named them one by one. “And these are the women Dualian killed on the way to seeking my death. Mages like you.”

  Silence again.

  “I welcomed you with an open mind,” Kieri said. “You have eaten from my hand, been housed by my hand, and I had hoped to see you living and prospering. But now … now I know I cannot trust you. Not as you are. Not as mages.”

  “But we are—” one of the younger men said.

  “Yes. You are mages, mages from old times, and I do not trust you. You have a choice. You can choose to give up your magery. Or you can die.”

  “But … but lord King … without magery how can we live?”

  “I lived without magery for years,” Dorrin said. “I was in Falk’s Hall as a youth, and my magery was locked away because I was not trusted.”

  “But now?”

  “Now,” said Dorrin, “I have the same powers as you, and stronger. No harm came to me from learning to live without it. It can be so for you.”

  Disbelief on all the faces turned to her. The drunk in the corner giggled, pointed, and a jug on the bar across the room lifted and came to him. He took it, poured the contents down his throat, dropped the jug, and slumped over onto the table, mouth open.

  “How can we not be mages?”

  “I can lock your magery,” Dorrin said. “But I will not do so unless you agree, each of you individually. Only understand: the king’s command stands. Either you allow it or you will die this day.”

  “It would have been better if you had let us die out there!” one of them said.

  “Is that your choice?” Kieri asked.

  For answer, the man threw fire at Kieri; one of the elves speared the man as Kieri’s gesture dispersed the fire. The others gaped.

  “That solves one problem,” Seklis said.

  Kieri turned on him. “So might a magelord have said when killing a band of peasants in Gird’s War. So might an iynisin have said, killing me. Are we no better than that, to think only of our convenience?”

  Seklis flushed and bit his lip. “I’m sorry, sir king. It is unworthy of me. Unworthy of any follower of Gird, who did, we know, want mages and nonmages to live in peace.”

  The remaining mages looked at one another and back at Kieri.

  “Fifteen of your number died at the palace,” he said. “And two more of the malice of one of the fifteen. Decide.” He pointed to one in the front. “You. Tell me now.”

  The man looked at Dorrin, then back to Kieri. “I … she may block my magery.”

  Dorrin felt her way into the core of his magery and found the same formation the Knight-Commander had found in her. She touched it, twisted … and it was done.

  Two more agreed before one shook his head. “I don’t care—I don’t like it here, and I see nothing to gain in living longer. I will not resist, but there is no need to make more mess for the landlord. The stableyard will do.”

  In the end, fewer than two hands of them agreed to have their magery locked away. The forlorn little group straggled back to their lodgings, alone in a foreign land and foreign time.

  “I don’t think they’ll live long,” Dorrin said when she, Kieri, and Seklis had returned to the palace. In the meantime, the bodies had been taken away; no trace remained of the fight except in their memories.

  “I hated it,” Kieri said. “It wasn’t fair—”

  “You couldn’t have done anything else, sir king,” Seklis said. “Mages of old—”

  “Enough,” Kieri said through his teeth. Seklis stepped back. “You don’t understand. You’re Girdish.” He took a long breath. “Good or evil, mage or not, they were guests. Guests. They had no choice; I broke the enchantment and brought them here; I was responsible for them—”

  “Not for their choices,” Dorrin said. “Falk’s Rules.”

  “The king,” Kieri said heavily, “is responsible for everything.” He turned to Caernith. “Did you know all the time they were like this? That it would end like this for even the best of them?”

  Caernith bowed. “Lord king, we did not know how it would end, only that without you it would end worse, with more and more iynisin emerging to spread their hatred and evil everywhere. If I may suggest …”

  “Go ahead,” Kieri said, still through clenched teeth.

  “Honor those who chose death willingly, doing no harm. It will comfort those who chose life to know that both honorable choices are recognized.”

  Kieri’s shoulders relaxed. “That is a good thought, Caernith. I will talk to those that remain and ask them to help plan a ceremony.” He sighed. “Well. Not a day I ever wish to see again. But I suppose we must go on.”

  “And there is a meal waiting,” Arian said from the foot of the stairs to the royal apartments.

  Not even food could lighten the mood, though each of them tried. Exhaustion and disappointment lay over the party like fog. After the second course, Arian excused herself to see to the twins.

  She came back a few minutes later with them and to everyone’s surprise set them down on the table. Both could sit up now, though Arian set a rolled cloth behind them just in case. Dorrin and the others looked around and then at the babies.

  “Falki and Tilla,” Arian said. “Two happy, healthy children.” As if on cue, they both grinned at the adults. “The gods granted us these children … and granted them Kieri and me for parents. Shall we make ourselves, and them, miserable for having had to face hard choices?”

  A startled silence in which Falki let out a happy crow that brought a smile to Kieri’s face. Dorrin felt her own face relax. Tilla copied him.

  “We took a chance,” Arian went on, “to save this time from more destruction by iynisin and to save those who had been enchanted into five hundred winters of stillness. It was only ever a chance, not a certainty, that they would live and thrive here. It was only ever a chance, not a certainty, that after losing my firstborn to poison, I would bear more children. And there they are. Look at them.”

  Dorrin looked. Everyone looked. Th
e mood shifted; the babies grinned toothlessly from side to side.

  “Arian,” Kieri said, “you are very wise, and sometimes I am very foolish.”

  “More tired and worried than foolish, but this is a time to consider what was accomplished, not what was lost.”

  “Will you give them a bit of pastry since they’re up so late?”

  “No … or they will be up all night. But let’s have no more gloom.”

  After taking the twins back upstairs, Arian came down again. The talk had strayed to safer topics. Kieri mentioned the Marrakai mare and his breeding plans. One of the King’s Squires brought up the odd-shaped bow one of the magelords had carried and wondered how it was made. Finally Kieri said, “Will you stay another day or so, Dorrin, or will you leave tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. I would leave tonight but that I am too weary to travel far. Mikeli bids me hurry; there are spies who spread the word that I have the regalia and travel east. I must reach Bannerlíth before them.”

  Kieri nodded. “You know I have sent supplies ahead of you. Rest a glass or two, bathe perhaps, while your things are packed, and you can ride a short way tonight with the King’s Squires to guide you. It will be easier to bar the elvenhome forest to others if you are already within it.”

  Before the turn of night, Dorrin retrieved the crown and jewels from the royal ossuary and rode away into the elvenhome forest. She woke the next morning to peace and beauty such as she had never known before. Everything around—every tussock of moss, every leaf on every tree, every glittering dewdrop—glowed with life and beauty. She could have stayed in that one glade forever, she thought, without exhausting its beauty. The taig Arian had taught her to reach for here surrounded her, flowed into her and through her.

  “It is the elvenhome,” said one of the King’s Squires with her. “And yes, it affects everyone like that at first.”

  She had slept late, so the first day they did not travel, but the next day they journeyed on. Dorrin could not keep track of the days they spent crossing Lyonya; the elvenhome’s innate enchantment blurred her sense of time even as it sharpened her awareness of the taig and its beauty. They never rode above a foot pace; Dorrin’s earlier urgency and worry had vanished. She and her escort talked little as they rode, for the elvenhome was a place of quiet and peace. The crown she carried was silent as well. When they came to the dell Kieri had told her about, still carpeted with violets as he had described, she saw the little white shrine to his mother and no other sign that tragedy had touched the place.

  She would not pluck a flower in the elvenhome, but as she approached the shrine and knelt there, violets rose from the ground and lay on the stone, as if she had placed them. “All blessings,” she murmured.

  From there, the journey went on the same, day after day, in a land that seemed untouched by seasons—violets, this late in the year?—or storms. Dorrin began to wonder if they would ever reach Prealíth.

  Vérella, Tsaia

  Camwyn was gone. Lost forever, most likely. Aris Marrakai went about his duties in the palace, determined not to let anyone see how he felt. He stayed out of the king’s way as much as he could: the king looked as grim as rock, and no wonder. Aris knew he could not have been faster. He knew pulling the old bell rope had been the exact right thing to do. But the great dragon had taken Camwyn away and had not said the prince would ever come back.

  Not that Camwyn would want to if he could live with a dragon. If he lived at all.

  “Fold those blankets properly,” he said to the younger boys, startling himself with how harsh his voice sounded. They said nothing but refolded the blankets and then stood waiting for his morning inspection.

  He didn’t really care if their fingernails were clean, if their badges were on straight. The lump in his throat grew, and he swallowed it down again. “Very good,” he said at last. “Remember to wash your hands after eating. And do not run in the Long Hall.”

  “Yes, Aris,” they said in a chorus, and off they went to breakfast.

  He looked around the room. Nothing out of place. His own uniform was as perfect as he could make it. If he skipped breakfast, he would just have time to visit the stable and see if the chestnut mare had foaled.

  The mare was standing in the big corner stall, a spindly-legged foal nursing at her side. Aris caught his breath, forgetting Camwyn for the first time since the attack.

  “Born just a turn ago,” said the Master of Horse. “Skipped your breakfast, didn’t you?”

  “Yes—but everything’s in order.” The foal flipped a little brush of a tail, nursing. “I’m not due back in the palace for a half-glass. May I?”

  “Go ahead. Your da the Duke said you knew how.”

  “Yes …” Aris slipped into the stall. The mare gave him a long look. He crooned to her. She knew him well; she was one of his father’s mares, and he’d seen the foal before this one born. She ran her tongue in and out, and he moved slowly to her side and gave her a slice of the apple he’d saved from the day before. She bumped him with her nose, asking for more, and he gave it.

  The foal pulled back, stumbled, and sat down in the straw, startled at its own clumsiness, then noticed Aris and stared.

  “I help?” Aris asked the mare in the old language his father had taught him. She reached out and blew in his face, then looked at the foal. Aris turned to the foal. “So, little one, brave one,” he said, still in the old language. “I help you.” He leaned near, breathed gently into the foal’s nostrils, breathed in its milk-smelling breath, scratched along the crest and that infant mane. The foal shook its head and lunged forward, trying to stand again. Aris reached quickly, an arm under the rump, and helped it up. The mare spoke to the foal, and it tottered a step forward.

  Aris leaned close to the foal and spoke into its ear the secret name his father had suggested, then gently turned the head and spoke into its other ear. Now it was his and his alone, a naming even Juris would not know. “Must go now,” he said in the old language to both foal and mare. “Will come again.”

  “You’d better run,” the Master of Horse said, smiling. “The house bell’s rung.”

  He’d never heard it. The foal … not a replacement for the horse Verrakai viciousness had killed but the first horse he would train himself, for himself, from the very first day. Sired, his father had said, by one of the Windsteed’s own. He jogged across the stable court, through the gate, in through the scullery entrance, pausing at the well there to speak a word of thanks to the merin.

  Lessons took forever, yet once he was back in the stable, time raced. He was sitting in the corner of the stall with the foal’s head in his lap when Juris showed up, carrying a tray. “You skipped both breakfast and lunch,” Juris said. “Starving yourself won’t help you with the foal.”

  “I wasn’t hungry,” Aris said.

  “You’ve lost weight since …” Juris’s voice trailed away, then strengthened again. “If anyone can heal the prince, the dragon can.”

  “I know that,” Aris said, his voice rising. The foal flicked an ear, opened its eyes, and lifted that heavy little head. “Saaaa …” he said to the foal, and it dropped its head onto his lap like a rock.

  The mare, across the stall, gave them both a look.

  “You know me, lady of grass,” Juris said to the mare in the old language, and she waggled her ears. To Aris he said, “I brought you food, and I’m staying until you eat it.” He uncovered the dishes on the tray.

  The smell went straight to Aris’s stomach. He was hungry all at once. A cheese roll disappeared, then another.

  “You’ve handled it all over,” Juris said, swallowing the last of his own roll as the mare took a step toward them.

  “Of course,” Aris said. “From nose to tail, ears to hooves.”

  “It’s clear there’s no fear,” Juris said. He uncovered the last dish on the tray between them. “Look—apple custard.” He dug a spoon from his pocket and handed it to Aris.

  The mare whuffled. She had come
closer, and her head dipped toward the custard.

  “You can’t have it all,” Aris said. She blew on his hand. Juris laughed softly and reached out to stroke the mare’s head. The foal woke up again and this time lifted its neck all the way up; the mare nuzzled it.

  Aris dipped his finger in the custard and rubbed it on the foal’s muzzle. Out came the pink tongue, licking. The mare made a noise; Aris pulled an apple slice from the clinging custard and offered it; she pulled it in.

  Marrakai had no pastures near the city; their own were to the west. Aris knew the mare and foal must go now that the foal had been bonded … but not until the day before did his father tell him that he could come along.

  “You’ve done very well, the Master of Pages tells me, and kept the younger ones in line without abusing them. If you’ll stay in the palace over the winter rather than take Midwinter leave, you may come home now and only need to be back for Midsummer Court. How say you?”

  Aris barely restrained himself from jumping up and down, something he was too old for. Next morning he mounted the mare, and with the foal ambling along at her heels, they rode west up the River Road, he and his father and five armed guards. They did not hurry, for the foal’s sake, and it was four days before they reached Marrakai’s green pastures. One of the mare bands trotted over to see them, but they rode past, the mares jogging alongside to the end of that field, and turned down the lane that led to the house.

  It seemed forever since he’d seen it. The years in Fin Panir … a quick visit, then the trip to the palace where he was installed as page, almost the youngest. He turned his face away, riding on to the stables, then dismounted, untacked the mare, waited until his father had finished chatting with the senior groom, and then turned the mare and foal into a double stall for the night. He began cleaning the saddle, but his father interrupted him.

  “Come, Aris; let one of the grooms finish that. Your mother will want to see you.”

  He bit his lip, set the bridle down carefully on a shelf, stoppered the bottle of oil, and followed his father up through the kitchen gardens, all the smells of home around him. Herbs, vegetables, the clucking of hens being urged into the coops for the night, and there, at the scullery door, the two old hounds, gray-muzzled now, which flattened their ears and grinned at his father and then at him.