Crown of Renewal

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Of course.”

  Cortes Andres, Andressat

  Ferran, Count Andressat, watched Aesil M’dierra ride across the inner courtyard to the foot of the palace steps. He had met her years before, when his father had contracted Golden Company for assistance during Siniava’s War. She dismounted, handed the reins of her chestnut stallion to her squire, hung her helmet on the saddle hooks, and came up the stairs more light-footed than he expected given her age. There were threads of silver in her dark hair now, and her brows seemed thinner, but the look from under those brows was as penetrating as ever.

  “M’lord Count,” she said.

  “Commander,” he said. “Be welcome.”

  “I am sorry for your losses,” she said. “Your brother, sister, and father, all in one year.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Andressat survives.”

  “As it has done, and we all hope will do, by Esea’s Light.”

  That startled him. He had not realized anyone else maintained the Sunlord’s tradition as well as Camwyn’s worship.

  “Light of the heart,” he said, testing.

  “Light of the mind,” she said, answering. She smiled.

  They walked inside, down the passage, and he led her to his father’s—now his—office. On the desk lay the papers to be signed and the ritual gold coin, though the payment had already been made. Papers signed, coin transferred to her, he offered refreshments in the loggia, and she accepted.

  Over a plate of spiced pastries and goblets of Andressat wine and after they discussed what little she had not already known about Andressat’s military situation, using maps he had placed ready, Ferran changed the subject.

  “You are a follower of Camwyn, aren’t you?” Ferran asked M’dierra, ignoring her earlier mention of Esea.

  She gave him a sharp look, one he hoped he did not deserve, and did not move her finger from the map they’d been discussing. “Yes, as are you. Is this pertinent to the situation around Cortes Cilwan?”

  “Possibly not,” Ferran said. No wonder the woman had never married, with a tongue as sharp as a blade. “I need to ask for your word of secrecy.” Her brows went up; her lips thinned. “For more than the usual; I need to tell you something only my brothers and I know.”

  She folded her hands together and bowed. “My word on it; your secret remains with you alone.”

  “You know how my brother Filis died. I believe my father wrote you of the way Filis had sent us word that our enemy was one of those inhabited by a demon.” She nodded, and Ferran went on. “Well, then. In the letter our enemy sent with the box made of Filis’s scalp and some of his skin, he described what he’d done—did my father tell you all?”

  “No … but rumors came that he had also flayed your sister and her husband.”

  “More than that,” Ferran said, and told her. He could not keep rage from showing in his voice as he said “rugs to walk on.” Her expression hardened, but she said nothing. “My father chose to commit what remains we had to the fire, to Camwyn, I thought. He asked Camwyn to burn with dragonfire any part of Filis left anywhere—”

  M’dierra nodded, this time making the gesture of the Claw. “Did he end with ‘By the Claw and the dragon who bore it, and by the power of Camwyn and the dragon together’ …?”

  “Yes—do you know that chant? He said more—‘I invoke—’ ”

  She held up her hand, and he stopped short. “Never complete it for no reason,” she said. “It’s not a chant; it’s a curse. The Curse of Camwyn’s Claw. What happened then?”

  “The flames shot up higher and higher, and then a streak of fire sped east and disappeared. And my father clutched at his chest and fell dead.”

  “It’s a wonder Alured is still alive, if he is. Camwyn granted your father’s wish—”

  “But Father died.”

  “That is what happens. To invoke Camwyn’s Curse is to use one’s own death to cause another’s woe.” She looked thoughtful. “Or … that’s what I was told and what I once saw done. That it always happens I know only by hearsay and not my own knowledge. So far you have told me nothing unknown to others. If that is your secret, then I fear it is no secret.”

  “There is more,” Ferran said. “And it is … we think … somewhat of Esea as well as Camwyn. On the night before we buried my father, there is a family ritual. We believe the spirit knows where it would go, and we give it a chance to speak that wish. And my father, who I believed had no magery as the northerners speak of … his spirit spoke to me and said he had left me his magery. And I do not know what it is.”

  “You can recite the curse accurately?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That is the magery, Count. With his title, you inherited the right—and the ability—to ask Camwyn one time to curse another. It is a thing passed down in ruling families—the old ruling families—from ruler to heir. If your father had other magery, I would not know, but I know that calling in the Curse of Camwyn’s Claw is a form of magery and not worship. Whether Camwyn accepts or denies the petition, the one who speaks the curse dies. Choose your target with care: the dragon’s breath speeds unerringly but only once.”

  “Does it always kill its target?”

  M’dierra shrugged. “That I do not know. There may be worse things than a quick death by fire, and how the curse is formed—its details—will surely vary. But everything I’ve heard about it says it’s a most efficacious curse, though not always instantaneous.” She smiled, the slightly crooked smile that had turned his knees to jelly the first time he’d met her. “I think we may move boldly against Alured nonetheless and consider Camwyn more on our side than his. Some form of bad fortune will come to Alured, I suspect, before he comes near his aims, and this will be the campaign season to take advantage of it.”

  “I’ve heard nothing yet.”

  “No matter. A dragon flies in his own air but never flies far from Camwyn’s Claw.”

  “They saw a dragon in the north—”

  “So I heard, also. A dragon spoke to Lord Arcolin of Fox Company, who ended up with a tribe of gnomes moving into his land. A dragon—perhaps the same dragon—spoke to Kieri Phelan. It will be interesting to see what comes of that. A cohort of gnomish pikes is not beyond possibility, I suppose.” She paused, then went on. “To seal the bond of secrecy … Jandelir Arcolin and I have been friends a very long time. Since before either of us was a soldier. Did you know he was from Horngard?”

  Ferran thought about asking more, but her expression had hardened again. “Thank you,” he said. “And if in fact our enemy is under such a curse, is this the time to move all our troops forward?”

  She tapped the map. “Not all, I think, not yet. I believe it will be possible to retake Cortes Cilwan. Foss Council is leaning that way, using Fox Company as the core of an allied group. Arcolin and I shared some information in Valdaire before moving out. Kostandan in the north has interested itself in the matter, because a member of its royal house married the Duke of Fall’s heir. That means Count Vladi—I’m sure you remember his company from Siniava’s War—and some other reinforcements, by rumors coming down from Tsaia. I hope to hear more presently, when Foss Council makes up its mind.” She paused long enough that Ferran cocked his head, inviting more. “Arcolin’s junior captain,” she said. “He is your son, I understand.”

  “Yes,” Ferran said. “Acknowledged so by my father and by me.”

  “Is he staying with Fox Company, or will he return to his place here?”

  “Fox Company, he says, where he has made a place for himself, and knowing I have younger sons who—he says—deserve the place they expect. But he says he will come if he’s truly needed.”

  “A very sound young man,” M’dierra said. “When I had him, he was overbold, as young men often are, but settled readily. I thought he had great promise and was delighted that Arcolin took him up for Fox Company. He will do well there. Will he at least take your family name?”

  “I would not wish him to, af
ter what happened to Filis, unless he would bide here, out of danger,” Ferran said. “Let him be free of us all if it saves him that.”

  “Let him be free, always,” M’dierra said. “Then if he comes back, it will be his heart calling and not fear. You will have the best of him then.” She tapped the map, calling his attention back to immediate matters. “My advice is to place one of my cohorts forward in support of Fox Company but not all the way to Cortes Cilwan. If the alliance wants them, they may call on them; I will send a courier to Arcolin to tell him where and how to contact it. I have an experienced captain for that, someone Arcolin knows well.”

  “Do you need to hold your other cohorts here?”

  “I think so, Count. There are two other routes by which Immer could attack you—coming upriver from Cha and coming overland from Pliuni. Immer’s pirate bands are still active and could easily move troops along either route. My advice would be to reinforce Sibili with one of my cohorts, using your own for the western forts, allowing enough extra for swift couriers to be sent at need. That would preserve your own to hold the center, with ample time to move them.”

  “You do not usually disperse your company so,” Ferran said.

  “True … Your father preferred I keep them together, but I’ve seen the advantage, from Fox Company, of flexibility. As long as we maintain regular communication, we can move troops quickly where we need them—and it promises to be a dry summer.”

  “I see the sense of that, too,” Ferran said.

  The rest of their talk was of supplies: food for troops, forage for horses, bolts for crossbows. And when it was done, Commander M’dierra went down the stairs, replaced her helmet, mounted her chestnut stallion without assistance, and rode away.

  Ferran wrote the requisite orders to his brothers, sent the couriers on their way, and then considered his father’s last words and what M’dierra had told him. He certainly understood his father’s use of the curse—but who else in the family had used it, and where else might it have been used? M’dierra knew of it … where? She had mentioned Horngard … but all he knew of Horngard was that it had some connection to Camwyn.

  Foss Council House, Foss, Aarenis

  “I don’t understand why there’s been no further advance,” Master-trader Vanchoch said. He was this year’s Speaker and led all discussions. “Last year, the constant pressure, the sabotage, and this year … Immer hasn’t moved so much as a pace toward the west. What is he up to?”

  “He has other worries.” That was one of the Cold Count’s captains, a Kostandanyan named Piklûsh. “My commander tells you not to worry this year. Immer decided to conquer Fallo to protect his rear, and he has found it harder than he thought. We keep him busy, and you have time to retake Cilwan and run his agents out of Vonja.”

  Glances back and forth across the table.

  “Did the other Kostandanyan cohorts reach you?” Arcolin asked Piklûsh. As Foss Council’s mercenary support for the year, he had a seat at the table any time strategy was under discussion. Also new to the table was an Aldonfulk gnome, there because someone—Arcolin was sure it was Alured’s men—had violated a gnome boundary somewhere along the Dwarfwatch foothills.

  “Yes.” He grinned at Arcolin. “But that is not all the Kostandanyans in Aarenis. We fooled that Alured. We brought in troops to Slavers’ Bay. In winter. Troops from Valdaire now blocking his retreat on north road.”

  “One of my captains is Andressat’s illegitimate son,” Arcolin said. Both Ferran Andressat and Burek no longer hid their relationship. “I have good communications with Andressat, and of course he would like to see Cilwan freed.”

  “To turn over to a boy—how old is the boy now?”

  “Not old enough, I agree,” Arcolin said. “But you should talk to Andressat. He’s not promoting the boy—though the boy’s mother was his sister, after all—but he wants a strong ally there. He thinks it would not take much to dislodge the occupying force; Alured pulled some of them to use in the attack on Fallo. And if we need them, we can have a cohort of Golden Company as a reserve on the flank.”

  “We would need Vonja’s permission to take troops through,” another of the Foss Councilors said.

  “And then we’d have to invite them.” A long silence, as most of those present remembered several incidents from Siniava’s War in which the Vonja militia’s ineptitude—if not outright cowardice—had cost them a battle and many lives.

  “It’s in their interest,” said Master-trader Vanchoch. “We vote.”

  In the end, the plan to retake Cortes Cilwan passed. Arcolin went out into the blinding sun—the sky was clear; it had not rained for two tendays—and rode back to Fox Company’s campsite. There he told his captains to prepare for a march—he did not know yet how many cohorts, but he thought at least two.

  “Good,” Burek said. “We’ve had little to do this season, and the troops are stale.”

  Arcolin told them what he’d learned of the Kostandanyan actions in Fallo. “With luck,” he said at the end, “Alured will fall off his horse and break his neck.”

  “Will that kill the thing inside him?” Burek asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Arcolin said. “Even as they die they can seize another body.”

  “And then we wouldn’t know who had the thing in him,” Burek said.

  Arcolin considered leaving his squire Kaim behind—he could easily find tasks for him to do in Vérella, and he remembered the look on his father’s face and how young Kaim was. But Kaim was fizzing with excitement, and leaving him behind could be as dangerous as taking him into battle.

  Two hands of days later Fox Company packed up and marched down the Guild League road with three cohorts of Foss Council militia and picked up two Vonja militia cohorts as it traveled on toward Cortes Cilwan. Once in Cilwan, they found the road almost deserted, with the few travelers hurrying away from the road as soon as they saw troops coming. Arcolin’s scouts chased down one of them and found he was from Cilwan.

  “They’re fighting in the streets,” he said. “Not so many of Immer’s troops—but they have the palace and many more weapons. No more magic, though, not for tens of days.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I don’t want to die. My brother was killed, and he wasn’t doing anything but going to the well for water. And if they catch you and you’re not dead—you would not believe what they did to the Count and his lady.”

  “We heard,” Arcolin said.

  Recapturing Cilwan was easier than Arcolin expected because someone had poisoned the palace well; most of the occupying troops were sick or dying. Angry citizens milled around in the streets away from the palace, still afraid to come near. The sight of massed troops brought on a short fight with those in the palace, but it was over in less than a day.

  “It’s not always this easy,” Arcolin told Kaim. “But for your first battle, it’s ideal.” Kaim had done well, following orders exactly. Arcolin had known squires who’d done much worse, including the fool who’d decided to prove his courage by galloping straight into the enemy lines by himself and getting killed as soon as he reached them. One fairly easy battle wasn’t seasoning, but if Kaim continued as he’d begun, he would end up a good soldier.

  Few of the Guild League traders who did not escape early had been left alive; they found one still hiding in a second basement. By default, he became the senior member of the Guild League Hall. Propping the broken door open with a table from inside, he declared Guild League trading active once more. Arcolin shook his head in amazement as he rode by. Where did the man think trade was coming from?

  “Should we go on to Lûn?” The Foss Council militia commander bit into one of the early peaches from Cortes Cilwan’s market and grimaced, then tossed it aside.

  “Not without orders,” Arcolin said. “I would, but my orders said to free Cortes Cilwan. Nothing about advancing.”

  “Umm.” The man fished in one of his pockets. “They told me if it went well and if you thought we could,
taking Lûn would give us a forward advantage point.”

  “It would—if we had the troops to hold it and were sure the food and water there were safe,” Arcolin said. “But Cilwan’s militia is mostly dead, though some escaped in disarray.”

  The Foss Council commander nodded his understanding. “So you think we shouldn’t.”

  “Not without more resources. Cilwan’s treasury’s empty—Alured took it all away.” Arcolin did a quick calculation of the cost to march their forces to Lûn and then occupy it. The total startled the other commander. “That much—no, I’m not authorized to spend that. It’s not in your contract?”

  “Nor in Vonja’s, if you were thinking to ask them along. Operations outside Foss Council require more supplies and more risk, and you know how Vonja is about money.” The man nodded. “At least there’s spelt and wheat in the granary and harvest to come in the orchards and fields,” Arcolin said. “No one will starve. But Alured may come back this way whether he wins or loses in Fallo. He will need Cilwan and its grain to feed his armies when he moves west again.”

  But Alured and his forces made no move for a time, and the half-cohort of Fox Company, cohort of Foss Council militia, and cohort of Vonja militia were enough to restore and maintain order. Trade slowly picked up again on the Guild Road between Vonja and Cilwan even as Arcolin marched the rest of Fox Company back to Foss Council, where he set up a new camp closer to the border of Vonja.

  “Send word at once if you see any sign of troops gathering,” he told Burek. “Have your scouts out every day. I expect both Vonja and Foss will recall part or all of their forces here.”

  Messages waited when Arcolin came back to Foss, brought by regular courier, not an Aldonfulk gnome. Calla and Arneson reported all well in his domain—the new recruit cohort had all arrived and were learning the basics, her pregnancy was coming along as it should, and Kolya was back to her usual routine of orchard work. But the letter from the king told of an iynisin attack in the palace itself—Prince Camwyn’s injuries and the arrival of the dragon to take him away, the only hope for his survival.