Crown of Renewal

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Are you wise, Dorrin Verrakai?”

  The same question a dragon had asked Kieri, Arian, Mikeli, Arcolin. The same dragon? Who could tell?

  “I have tried to learn wisdom,” she said. “But I would not call myself wise.”

  “Did you know what you were bringing to this place? What would happen?”

  “I knew the jewels were water enchanted into stone, the water that once nourished the land. I thought—the jewels told me, and I believed—that here they could restore the land, make it beautiful.”

  “And is dry land always ugly?”

  This was ridiculous. The water was up to her chest now, her feet almost lifting off the ground beneath, and she was discussing beauty with a … a dragon? But under the gaze of that eye, half the height of her body at least, she could only go on, ignoring the chill tugging of the water, the sound of the rain beyond.

  “It may be beautiful,” Dorrin said, “if it was made by the gods to be dry. And such land may exist. But this land was made dry by error, by stealing its water to make jewels, baubles to decorate a crown or a box or a goblet. To make bracelets and rings and other decorations. That, I believe, was wrong.”

  “I have heard of you,” the dragon said. “I have heard of you from those you know: Half-Song and Sorrow-King and two other kings. Have you heard of me?”

  “You are the dragon,” Dorrin said.

  “Yes, I am Dragon. Do you know what dragons are?”

  “Elders,” Dorrin said.

  “Transformation,” the dragon said. “A dragon changes what it touches; it is our nature to change … and that nature requires wisdom not to ruin the world. Those jewels were transformed from water to stone by magery—the magery of your ancestors. You say it was wrong. I say it was not wise. But did you think what would happen to this land? Touch my tongue with yours and I will show you.”

  The dragon opened a vast maw edged with gleaming teeth longer than swords, and out came a tongue shimmering with heat. It came toward her a few fingerwidths above the water. The heat of it dried the water on her face, her hair. Touch that with her tongue? But Kieri had. Arian had. She opened her mouth and touched.

  Warmth, no more. The fragrance and flavor of spiced bread. The tongue withdrew an armslength.

  “You should see. Come onto my tongue and I will show you.”

  Dorrin reached, and the tongue advanced again, this time sliding under her arms, curling around them, and drawing her into the dragon’s mouth, into that dry warm space like a small cave. The tongue she sat on now felt as firm as a plank, warm as wood in the sun. She looked out the dragon’s mouth, past the teeth, into the maelstrom.

  “I will rise,” the dragon said.

  Dorrin’s view expanded; her breath caught as the dragon lifted higher and higher, then moved toward one rim of rock. What had been a vast empty bowl—too wide to see more than part of its rim—was now a lake, rising visibly. At the rim, streams of water poured down, brown torrents full of sand and rocks. Muddy water swirled into the clear that had risen from below.

  “It is a great transformation,” the dragon said. “This place was once a lake and is a lake again, and this lake had an outlet to the sea, a mighty river … and that river will flow again, and the sea itself may rise higher.”

  “That much water?” Dorrin asked. She could not imagine it.

  “It might be. If every water stone the magelords made transformed at once … it might be that much water.” The dragon sounded more thoughtful than alarmed. “It has been a long quiet time while the magelords slept and the transformations ceased. Now it is more interesting. It might even be more wise.”

  Dorrin stared out at the falling water, the flowing water, for what seemed days long, watching the water rip at the edge of the cliffs and rocks crumble. The dragon moved from time to time, giving her different views of the deluge … the ruins where she had stayed falling, sliding, dragged over the receding cliff to disintegrate in the churning waters of the great bowl. She hoped the people had escaped. Another side of the bowl, where black cliffs did not crumble as the waters climbed higher, so that a sheer black wall rose above the floor. The far side, where the rising water tore at and finally destroyed a natural dam of tumbled rock and went racing along four men high at the front, seeking the sea.

  How long it rained and how long she watched, Dorrin could not tell. She slept and woke again; the sound of the water, the sight of it falling and falling, flowing and flowing, numbed her senses. Eventually she became aware that the rain had stopped and that it had been stopped for some time. She was standing on wet ground, with the dragon’s snout not two strides away and one of its eyes staring at her.

  “Did you expect to live through your adventure?” the dragon asked.

  “No,” Dorrin said.

  “You did not think the waters of life would save you?”

  “Not once they were nearly drowning me,” Dorrin said. “But you came.”

  “Yes, but I am not a tool for humans to wield,” the dragon said. “Your judgment was wise—no one could live through all your tasks. Wisdom is rewarded with wisdom’s gifts, which are not what the recipient expects.”

  “Am I dead, then?” Dorrin asked.

  “Not a wise question,” the dragon said. “But no, you are not dead yet.” Then the mouth opened, and Dorrin saw the true dragonfire and knew she would be consumed.

  Hoorlow, Fintha

  Marshal-General Arianya and her escort rode through the hot, dusty forest, its shade frayed by drought, leaves turning brown instead of yellow or orange. Usually it was cooler this time of year, making the trek to the Hoorlow Fair a pleasant diversion. That, it still was, especially with the good news from the south that the Gnarrinfulk gnomes did not blame her for the mage-hunters’ behavior. Donag’s report of Arvid dealing with the rogue Marshal startled her—the weapon was not standard Girdish issue—but after all, he was what he was, and now he was using his talents for Gird.

  As she rode out of the forest, she saw Farfields Grange in the near distance, with the flags marking the “battlefield” already up and shifting in the light breeze. To her surprise, no delegation from the grange appeared to meet her.

  Nearer, she saw that grange and barton empty, gates and doors open, despite the pole flying a blue flag that should have indicated its Marshal’s presence. Beyond, in the city itself, streets were also empty. The merchants’ wagons that should have been parked in the field set aside for them during the fair weren’t there, and as she and the others rode toward the bridge, no one came out to see who had arrived.

  Her skin prickled. Something was not at all right.

  The bridge arched over the Hoor, and as she reached the higher point of the arch, she saw that only a trickle of water ran in it. The drought. Would rain come again? Nothing in the blank blue sky, dust-colored around the edges, promised rain. Ahead, down the main street that led to the larger market square, a crowd of people blocked her view of Grainmarket Grange, though she could see the roof with its blue banner. More people were pouring into the crowd from side streets, and whatever was going on looked too much like the mobs in Fin Panir.

  “Trouble?” asked High Marshal Donag.

  “Undoubtedly,” Arianya said. “Let’s hope it’s not children in peril again. Though if it is, I hope Farfields being empty means they’ve gone to help protect them.” She glanced at Sir Piter, who commanded the knights. “What do you think?”

  “Trouble, definitely,” he said. “And the most likely thing is someone’s shown mage-powers. Another lynching wouldn’t surprise me. Isn’t this area known for—” He paused, clearly trying to find a polite way to say it.

  “Stubborn refusal to admit things may have changed? Age-old superstitions? A firm belief in their own righteousness?” Arianya said. “Yes. I never had acknowledgment from the Marshal of Wetfoot Grange when I sent out my last letter on the topic.” She sighed. “Well, whatever it is, we’re here to deal with it. Let’s go.”

  “We could wo
rk our way around, come at them from the far side,” one of the other knights suggested.

  “The Marshal-General does not sneak into cities or ‘come at’ fellow Girdsmen,” Arianya said. Militarily it might make sense, but experience told her a straightforward approach would appeal to at least some of the crowd ahead.

  They rode on, past side streets where those who had been hurrying toward the market square stopped abruptly, staring open-mouthed at the mounted troop, until they neared the rear of the mob. When those at the back of the crowd heard the horses’ hooves, they turned to look. Then, as she’d expected, they moved aside, making a passage. Gird’s banner, the blue surcoats, all the symbols of the Fellowship on the riders and the horses’ tack, had their effect.

  “When did you hear?” someone shouted.

  Arianya turned toward the voice; a man waved his hand.

  “Hear what?” she said. “I came as I come every year for the fair and the battle. Is there more?”

  A mutter ran through the crowd in which she heard her name and “magelords” before someone nearby said, “It’s magery, that’s what it is. Them magelords coming back. Want to rule us again. We’re not having that.”

  “What’s happened, then? No, wait—I’ll want to speak to Marshal Pelis at Grainmarket—he’s at the grange, I see.”

  “He’s turned on Gird!” That angry voice was a woman’s. “He’s not Girdish, not really—he says we have to let ’em bide.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Arianya said, and nudged her horse forward. The crowd opened just enough to let the riders through and closed behind them.

  Marshal Pelis, square-built as a block of stone, stood in front of his closed grange door with two of his yeomen, all with hauks in hand. Arianya reined in. “Marshal—Gird’s grace to you and your grange. I came for the fair—what is this?”

  “It’s trouble, Marshal-General.”

  “It’s magelords!” screamed a woman in the crowd.

  “It’s damn fools workin’ themselves up to mischief!” Pelis’s bellow could have been heard at Farfields, Arianya thought.

  “You’re a coward, Pelis!” That was a man’s voice, a sneering voice. “You just don’t want to risk your own hide.”

  “Come face to face with me and say that,” Pelis said. “I know you, Jenits Forgusson. You’ve not been at drill for a year, you drink too much, and the only time you make a fist is to hit your wife and childer. Man beats childer is the coward, I say. Gird didn’t beat his.”

  Some in the crowd laughed; others stood stony-faced, silent. Not a good sign. Arianya smiled at Pelis, who gave her a short nod. “Let’s see if the Marshal-General can straighten this out,” she said, loud enough to be heard though not as loud as Pelis. “You all know me; I’ve been here year after year for the fair and the battle. You know the vill I came from, not two days’ walk from here. Will you hear me?”

  “Aye,” came from most, though there were mutters as well.

  “Well, then. I will hear what Marshal Pelis has to say, and then I will hear from Hoorlow Council. Then I will tell you what I think. In the meantime—” She glanced at the sun’s angle. “—I think it’s near nooning, isn’t it? Time to have summat to eat. It’ll take me a glass or so to hear everyone out.”

  Across the square, she saw people drifting away from the edge of the crowd. Those nearer, however, stood their ground, obviously intent on waiting it out. She smiled at them; they did not smile back. “It is market day, isn’t it? We’ve traveled far; we’re hungry. Donag, see to everyone’s needs—I’m partial to a bit of old cheese and a garlic sausage.”

  She dismounted and turned to Marshal Pelis. “Let’s go inside, Marshal. My head’s had enough of this sun.”

  “Yes, Marshal-General.” He led the way to the door. Arianya glanced back; the stubborn part of the crowd had taken a step nearer but been blocked by the mounted knights. She hoped everyone would have sense. She was sure someone wouldn’t.

  Grainmarket’s interior held the group of accused mages: men, women, youths, children, one a babe in arms. Arianya ignored them for the moment, following Pelis to the platform, where she bowed to the relic in its niche.

  “Gird’s grace on this grange and all who enter,” she said, turning to look at the group. She recognized a woman she’d seen the previous year selling dyed yarn, evenly spun. “I remember you,” she said, approaching; the woman shrank back a little, pushing a child only hip-high behind her. “You’re a spinner and dyer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” the woman said, looking down. “Please … don’t hurt ’im.”

  “I’m hoping no one will be hurt,” Arianya said. She looked at the others, sure she must have seen some of them at the fair in previous years. Yes—that man—he’d brought a lathe and turned legs for chairs and smooth rounds for other uses. And that one, who’d had furls of cloth. “Are you all from Hoorlow?”

  “Not all of them,” Marshal Pelis said. “Some are from the vills about. Came here for sanctuary, some.” He cleared his throat. “See here, Marshal-General, I know what you’ve wrote—you don’t want childer killed, and I’m with that, but what about adults?”

  “Adults?”

  “Felis over there. Seen using magery to lift a stone.”

  Felis, skinny and tall, hunched his shoulders as Arianya looked at him. “You have the lifting magery?” she asked him. “When did it come?”

  “Just after last year’s fair, Marshal-General. I’d gone down in the back, couldn’t work, and my old mother, she’d gone blind; she couldn’t do much. So one night I said, like anyone might, too bad I’m not a mage, so’s to lift stone another way, and next mornin’ a half loaf of bread come to m’hand. I dropped it, bein’ so startled, but then … I tried it again and it worked. Could move stone up to this size—” He held his hands apart. “And anything else that weight. Went back to work that day, and no trouble to anyone until a mage-hunter spied on our vill.”

  “It was that Haran,” a woman said, and two others nodded. “Said she was on the way to see her sister’s youngest, who’d just had a babe and sprained her ankle. Doby took her in, let her stay a day or so …”

  “Haran?” Arianya said. “Where did she say she was from?” Haran, the Marshal who had been angry with Paks for “weakness” and whose relative had defended killing children with mage-powers and died in the trial of arms he demanded.

  Shrugs, glances back and forth. Finally the first woman said, “Somewhere sunsetting or summerwards, I think, but I don’t recall she gave a name.”

  “She’s here,” another said. “She and the other mage-hunters. It’s them yelling for stoning and burning.”

  Marshal Pelis held up a hand, and the group fell silent.

  “I don’t think Gird wants anyone killed who hasn’t done wrong,” Arianya said. “I don’t see that using magery is any more wrong than using a tool to make work easier. So, Marshal Pelis, you did right to bring these people into the grange and give them sanctuary. But we still have to convince the people outside.”

  “You know this area holds by traditions,” he said. “They don’t like change, and they believe magery is evil.”

  “It’s not as evil as murder,” Arianya said. “Unless it’s used to murder. And I’m sure you’d have told me if any of these had used theirs to murder.”

  “Indeed I would. And they haven’t. But I don’t know how you’re going to convince that mob in the square. They’re convinced it’s magery that’s kept the rain from falling and the river from running. Made the marshes dry enough to walk across dry-shod.”

  “I must hope Gird gives me the words,” Arianya said. “Perhaps he’ll send rain—that might help.”

  “I doubt it,” Pelis said. He sighed. “I reckon this is the day we’ll all get our heads bashed in, but better that than giving up.”

  The people outside probably felt the same way, Arianya thought. “Is there a way out the back?” she asked. “Can these escape while we talk to the crowd out front?”

 
; He shook his head. “They’re already back there with weapons, lookin’ to cut anyone down who comes out. I put yeomen there, but I don’t know how long they can hold out.”

  “Then I must pray for Gird’s aid and face whatever comes if it is not his will to grant it,” Arianya said. She felt heavy and cold even though the day was, like all the days for too long, hot and bright. This might well be—probably was—the day she would die, and she could not argue that she deserved better. It was her leadership that had failed, as she had failed Haran in not noticing how the woman slid into arrogance and hatred. Her prayers as she and Pelis stood there were for the mages and the mage-hunters both, that they would come to find peace with one another. No more hating, she prayed. No more killing. Peace washed over her, and a fragrance of roses. Alyanya, at least, accepted that prayer.

  At the door, High Marshal Donag tried to talk her out of going back outside. “You could let me talk to them—what if they kill you?”

  “Gird died to prevent the killing of one innocent child,” Arianya said. “Should I flinch from dying to prevent the massacre of a dozen?”

  “It’s not necessary—”

  “It is very necessary. Not just that I’m the Marshal-General but that I’m the Marshal-General they’ve decided to hate. I must be the one in front.”

  “In armor, then.”

  “I’m crazy, perhaps,” Arianya said. “But not stupid.”

  She moved toward the door; the others moved away, letting her through this time. She felt very unlike the way she had expected to feel … not heroic, not scared, not much of anything but determined. The children were innocent: that much she knew for sure.

  Jeers from the crowd as she came into view. “You will not kill those children,” she said. She spotted Haran wearing a Marshal’s tabard, to which she was no longer entitled. Haran’s expression mingled contempt and anger.