Limits of Power

  “Paksenarrion!” The Marshal-General’s call carried no hint of tension or relief. “Welcome back.”

  “Marshal-General. My thanks. I met Marshal Cedlin on the way, and he has brought his grange; he had heard of some trouble here.”

  “I will speak with him.” The Marshal-General walked toward the gates, trailed by the Knights of Gird. Arvid lagged behind, hoping Paks would ignore him.

  Instead, she rode on into the forecourt, toward Arvid, and the red horse stopped in front of him, its head a scant armslength away. Arvid found himself pinned by its gaze while Paks dismounted. He had the distinct feeling that if he tried to turn and run, the horse would grab his cloak and hold him captive.

  “Arvid,” she said. He had to look at her. She was smiling as if he were her dearest friend, that open grin he had mocked for its naivete.

  He bowed, with none of the grace he had once owned, and hated himself for noticing that. “Lady Paksenarrion.”

  “You saved my life,” she said. “There is no lord or lady between us.” She tilted her head, looking him up and down. “And now, I see, you are a yeoman of Gird. Will you tell me that tale someday?”

  His heart skipped a beat, then raced. “I … cannot tell it easily.”

  Her expression changed. “No. Such tales are not lightly told. I will not ask … but I will ask what has gone forth this night. Blood on your cloak, your blade, your hands—”

  “And none of it mine,” Arvid said. His pulse had steadied. “Nor the Marshal-General’s, which is Gird’s mercy. Lady—Paksenarrion, pardon—I must ask: do you hear Gird’s voice plain?”

  Her eyes widened, then her expression changed again: understanding and compassion. “Yes,” she said. “And that is not an easy thing to hear, is it?”

  “No,” he said. His throat closed for a moment. “It is not. I don’t know … I don’t know how to … what to…”

  “Peace,” she said.

  Whatever that was, it spread through his mind, a serenity he had never felt. A glamour? A spell? Perhaps, but one he could not resist.

  “You will know,” she said, “when you need to know.” Then she grinned again. “Or that is how it is with me, and with the other paladins I know. You, Arvid, may be given a different path.”

  “Paks!” Across the forecourt, another paladin, Camwynya, hurried toward them. Arvid looked around and noticed that the forecourt was almost empty now. “Where have you been?”

  “I am not sure I can explain,” Paks said to Camwynya. “A long way from here, in mountains I never knew about.”

  Camwynya laughed. “Don’t tell me—you found the valley of the paladins’ mounts?”

  “Among other things,” Paks said. “Do you know Arvid?”

  Camwynya nodded to Arvid. “Indeed—he is the new scribe, making a name for himself by arguing, I’ve heard.” She looked more closely at him. “And, I see, by fighting.”

  Arvid winced dramatically. “Indeed … for I found the Marshal-General beset. If—if I may be excused, I must go now and find my son. He will be worried.”

  “Your son?” Paks said. “I didn’t know—”

  “No. Nor I, the last time we met. He—his mother is dead.”

  At the gate, Arvid met Marshal Cedlin, who sent him back down to his lodgings. “You’ve fought well this night, Arvid, but enough: we will need you tomorrow, I’m sure, and beyond that.” He turned to the yeomen. “Jori … Tam … go with Arvid back to the Loaf, see him safe home. He’s had more than one fight tonight.”

  The others asked no questions on the way to the Loaf, for which Arvid was grateful. Once there, they said farewell and trudged back up the street. Arvid went in; the common room was empty but for Pia, wiping down tables. She stared at his bloody cloak. “You’ll need to clean that before it’s all dry,” she said. “And before you show yourself to the lad. I’ve buckets of cold water in the kitchen. Come through.”

  He had never been in the kitchen. Like the rest of the Loaf, it was clean and workmanlike, and smelled now of soap and metal polish, with a hint of rising dough … a row of lumps under a cloth was on the worktable.

  “Take off that and anything else with blood,” Pia said, in the tone of a commander. Soon Arvid was sitting shirtless on a bench, the contents of his cloak pockets arrayed on the table. She had not seemed surprised or alarmed by any of them, but handed him cloths, a bowl of water, and a greasy lump of wool to clean them with. While he worked on the blades, she rinsed the blood out of his shirt and sponged his cloak. “I’ll dry this before the fire,” she said. “It’ll have stains, but nothing so obvious.”

  Upstairs, he found young Arvid in bed, a candle burning in its stand on the table. The boy woke at the movement of the door, staring at Arvid’s bare chest. “My shirt is dirty,” Arvid said. “Pia’s washing it for me.”

  “I heard yelling,” the boy said. “And marching, and more yelling—”

  “A disturbance,” Arvid said. He put on another shirt, sat down, and pulled off his boots. He wanted his bed more than anything.

  “Were you hurt?”

  “No. But I … I had to hurt others.” The floor was cold under his feet as he walked over to the boy’s bed. “It’s all right, lad.” He ruffled the boy’s dark hair. “I’m here now.”

  The boy smiled at him, a smile that broke his heart. “Da—you won’t die, will you?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Arvid said. He blew out the candle. “And so far, you know, I’ve been good at that.”

  Young Arvid chuckled.

  Arvid lay in bed, remembering how Paksenarrion had looked at him. How she had seen—as he believed she had seen—right down inside him and had not flinched at what lay there.

  Nor do I. You are not so bad as you think.

  Arvid stared into the darkness, wide awake again.

  Nor as good as you will be.

  Now that was a terrifying thought. Did he really want to be … however good that was? A chuckle was his only answer. He fell into sleep without realizing it.

  The next day the city felt quieter, but up on the hill, Arvid found that the Marshal-General was in no way complacent about the situation. She sent word that he was to attend a meeting with her, and he found himself with Paks, Camwynya, three High Marshals, the Marshal-Judicar of Gird, and the Knight-Commander of Gird. He told what he knew, including the incident in the alley.

  “We cannot hope to get through this without conflict,” High Marshal Darton said. “It’s too late for that, when whole granges are declaring that you are not really Girdish.”

  “Do you know who started it?” the Marshal-General asked.

  “To be blunt, Marshal-General,” the Marshal-Judicar said, “you did. Not the appearance of magery—I know that, though it’s one of their accusations. But you told them something so different from what they believed that they could not take it in.”

  “But they killed a child,” she said. “Gird would not do that.”

  “No, I agree. And we know from the records that he did not demand death for all mages. Those provisions were added to the Code later, after Luap took the remaining mages away. But we have not taught that history for generations, so people did not know.”

  “And they aren’t listening now,” Darton said. “The ones who opposed you, anyway—who questioned that first expedition west, for instance—see this as a way to get rid of you. I’m afraid we face armed rebellion.”

  “And Tsaia?”

  “Tsaia is different. I’ve always thought they were ridiculous to hold on to that notion of nobles and kings, but right now, their structure is working better than ours. The king and their Marshal-Judicar told them what to do, and they’re doing it.”

  “Well, then.” The Marshal-General looked around the table. “If we cannot avoid conflict, how can we cause the least harm while still coming out on top?”

  No one said anything for a moment.

  “Find the ringleaders and—” Arvid stopped as they all stared at him. Then he went on. “Y
ou know in any mob there are ringleaders. If you kill them—”

  “Others will arise to avenge them,” High Marshal Feder said.

  “Not necessarily,” Arvid said. “They claim to be more Girdish than the Marshal-General. What about challenging them one by one—any Marshal who incites his people to rebel?”

  “That will take … a long time,” the Marshal-Judicar said. “But it might work if the others don’t take their granges to war at once.”

  “The Marshal-General can’t do it all alone,” the Knight-Commander said. “We can’t risk her—”

  “You can,” the Marshal-General said. “And we must—”

  “No,” Paks said. “You met one challenger already and defeated him. Now it’s the duty of others. Besides, if you tried to challenge and fight them all yourself, it would take too long.”

  “Arvid, what do you think?” the Marshal-General asked.

  “Not you,” he said. “Or, only for those who come here one by one, according to the rules for trial by combat. The others—I do not know enough. How many, who, where to send them: that is up to you.” Then, feeling Gird’s push, he added, “I might help. Though I’ll be known here as one of your supporters, I would not in other places, and I have experience in gaining information.”

  “It is nearly winter,” the Knight-Commander said. “That will slow them down, perhaps enough, if we act quickly.”

  As they talked, Arvid found himself watching Paks. She was the same … and yet not the same. Were those strands of gray in her yellow hair? She was so young … had it been the ordeal? But he had seen her afterward; he had seen no gray then. How did paladins age? How long did they live? Then she turned, caught his gaze, and grinned at him; those thoughts vanished.

  That afternoon, she came down the hill with him, ostensibly to visit several granges. The meeting had ended after midday; young Arvid was waiting in the Loaf’s entrance. The boy ran toward them, then hesitated, looking at Paks.

  “This is my son,” Arvid said. He beckoned; the boy came nearer, shy until Paks squatted down and held out her hand.

  “I’m Paks,” she said. “Your name is Arvid also, I’m told.”

  “Yes…” Now he flushed. “And you’re—you’re a—a paladin!”

  “Yes,” Paks said. “And a friend of your father’s. Did you know he saved my life years ago?”

  “Da! You never told me!”

  Paks stood up and gave Arvid a look he could not interpret. “He will tell you when it’s time,” she said to the boy. “I must go talk to your Marshal now; we will meet again.” That had the ring of prophecy. Arvid watched her cross the street to the grange, then led his son inside the inn.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Vérella, Tsaia

  So this is one of your gnomes,” King Mikeli said. Dattur bowed; the king inclined his head. “I thought they were all in the north, in that land you granted them.”

  “Dattur was separated from them some time ago, sir king,” Arcolin said. “But he is of the same tribe, and has helped me in learning gnomish language, customs, and their Law.”

  “It seems to me,” the king said, “that you are holding more responsibility now than even Kieri did when he was duke. A prince of gnomes. A commander of the same size force Kieri had. Lord of one of my largest domains. And—last winter—a wise advisor in the matter of Duke Verrakai and my cousin Beclan. It has pleased me, Jandelir Arcolin, to find you as able as Kieri in the roles he held and now in this new one.”

  Arcolin was sure the king was leading up to something, but what?

  “And,” the king said, “you are both Girdish and widely experienced; you know the south as well as Tsaia; you know people of other beliefs.” He leaned forward and spoke to Dattur. “Dattur, does this man please you as your prince?”

  Dattur bowed again. “Lord king of men, it pleases me.”

  “And does it please the Aldonfulk?”

  “It does, lord king of men.”

  Mikeli looked back at Arcolin, a spark of mischief in his eye. “It is in my mind and heart, Jandelir, that it would more suit your responsibilities if you were a duke instead of a count. At Midsummer Court, two of the other dukes told me so, and the others agreed when I asked them.”

  Arcolin bowed but said nothing.

  “I took the liberty of contacting your steward in the north, asking for ducal court dress to be prepared for you. They said Kieri had left you his … so those were sent. But it is up to you … because I warn you, there will be even more work for a duke. As you have reported—as Duke Verrakai has warned, there is more trouble coming, and I will need you.”

  “Sir king,” Arcolin said, “I am yours to command. If this is your will, it is my will.”

  “And so, at Autumn Court, you will be elevated to duke,” the king said. “The ceremony is different—rare, in fact, for usually a duke’s heir is confirmed in the duke’s place, and not since Kieri’s own elevation from count to duke have we had a count elevated.” He grinned. “I was a mere babe then, not allowed to witness, so we shall hope I carry it through properly.” Then he sobered. “We have much to talk about when you have your new rank, but I will not burden you with that now. You will want to confer with my master of ceremonies and prepare.”

  Arcolin bowed again. “Thank you, sir king—for the honor and for the courtesy of giving me time to prepare.”

  Later, he stared at himself in the mirror. Kieri’s court clothes fit near enough, he thought, though the royal tailor was busy with pins and needles, picking out a seam here and resewing it there. Dorrin had told him of her own reaction to seeing herself in ducal finery in a palace mirror. Now he saw himself transformed from the sunburnt mercenary captain fresh from the South into a … the word “fop” rose to mind, and he pushed it down. A court gentleman. The short bloused pants, the stockings, the ribbons and buckled shoes with their ornaments.

  “You’ll need a new plume, m’lord,” the tailor said through the pins held in his teeth. “That one’s beyond repair.” He spat the pins into his hand at last. “Now let’s see how that robe drapes.”

  The robe—not Kieri’s robe now but his—lay on his shoulders as if made for them. In that dimension, he and Kieri had always been alike. The deep burgundy, Kieri’s—his—arms in silver on the back, the fur edging to neck and sleeves. Deep inside, a moment of recognition followed by laughter. As a boy, he had looked in the mirrors at Horngard more than once, imagining himself in the formal robes of nobles—though there it would have been a surcoat over long trousers tucked into tall shiny boots, not this. But here he was, where he had once longed to be—and then given up any such notion. Change. Transformation, as Dragon would have said.

  “It will do well enough,” the tailor said. “To remove the fur at the bottom and raise the hem a finger might be wise, but not necessary. It will be ready, m’lord, on the day.”

  At the ceremony itself, when he knelt to pledge a duke’s fealty to his king, the last remnant of desire for Horngard vanished. He had no regrets for having given Dragon the ring he’d held secret all these years. Fox Company, the North Marches, the gnome tribe that now looked to him … that was enough for any man.

  The dukes settled themselves in one corner of the reception: Mahieran, Marrakai, Serrostin, Verrakai, and now himself, Arcolin. “A full hand of us once more,” Mahieran said, clapping Arcolin on the shoulder. “And I hope, Jandelir, you’re soon to wed and provide yourself an heir. Unless you have one hid somewhere.”

  “Alas, no,” Arcolin said. “But I take your point.”

  “Duke Verrakai’s got a Marrakai squire—” Mahieran began, but Marrakai put up his hand.

  “You do not want that one,” he said. “And it’s not because I mislike your character, Jandelir.” He turned to Dorrin. “From what you’ve said this visit, she’s bound for the Bells or Gird’s Hall in Fin Panir; isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” Dorrin said. She looked more at ease this visit. “She’s not ready to settle down; she’s got a
touch of Paks-fever.”

  Arcolin laughed. “I’m not looking for a wild girl,” he said. “Nor yet a soldier. Someone steady enough to manage an estate while I’m gone, who won’t mind being up there in the north with a military training camp, yet young enough…”

  “We do have a list,” Serrostin said. “Though perhaps we should apologize for making one without asking you, but after … events … everyone’s been concerned about pedigrees this year, and we want you to be safe.”

  “Safe?”

  “You haven’t told him?” Mahieran said, turning to Dorrin. “Even after the king made the proclamation?”

  She shook her head. “My lord, you know it would have been unwise: what if the message were intercepted in Aarenis before it reached the duke?”

  “True. Well, then—”

  The story he told chilled Arcolin’s blood. Beclan proved to have active magery, stricken from Mahieran and now Dorrin’s heir? His mother still confined to the Mahieran city house? If a Mahieran could have active magery, who else? Surely not the king—no, but the king’s brother, and many more in families humble and high both.

  “Even though it now seems it is not a matter of mageborn blood—or anything to do with Verrakai,” Serrostin said as the tale ended, “we sought to find potential wives for you who were not related within five generations to Verrakai or Konhalt. My children qualify, but all the girls are married or already pledged. Please do not be insulted that our list is taken from lower nobility.”

  “I’m not insulted at all,” Arcolin said. “I had not thought to seek a high marriage in any case.”

  “Well, then. There are two barons west of you who have daughters you might consider; they don’t come to court, but their fathers declare them sensible young women. And a niece of Duke Gerstad Elorran, a widow. Of course, you may have your eye on someone else, but—”