After the boatman left, Torfinn slept for a glass or so, which the surgeon said was normal. “Got enough pus out of his leg to relieve the pain—man’s tough, I’ll say that for him.”
“But he’ll live for a certainty?”
“Yes, and he’ll have use of that leg if you give me another few days. If he has an appetite when he wakes up, give him whatever he wants to eat. And another draft of this—or call me.”
“I’ll call you,” Kieri said. Now, watching the Pargunese king sleep, he thought what the man had faced and still faced as a king who had lost control of his kingdom … faced treachery and a civil war, feared enemies to both south and west, and then the dragon. All those people dead … a city destroyed … his sons, his wife, his other daughters … the fires …
“He was not wise,” said a familiar voice from the door of the tent. Kieri roused from that reverie and stared at the man in dark leathers who now stood inside the tent. The dragon again.
“You,” Kieri said. “You enjoy startling people, don’t you?”
A flash of teeth and a flare in the yellow eyes. “We have few amusements,” the man said. “That may be one of them.” He came nearer; the tent warmed, and the forge smell emanated from him. “You are caring for him?”
“He is hurt, and though you say he is not wise, I do not think him a bad man.”
“Fools cause as much harm as bad men. Yet your wisdom, Sorrow-King, is correct in pursuing no vengeance. What was done is done. What I have done … is done. That land—”
“Pargun,” Kieri said.
“The land you call Pargun, then … that land is no threat to any and will not be for ages to come. Tell me, what do you think of the new lord of the north, where you once ruled?”
“That is Jandelir Arcolin,” Kieri said. “He was a captain under me.”
“Some land humans may not inhabit,” the man said. “As I told you before, land where dragon eggs are is not safe. He must keep away.”
“You want Arcolin to give up land? To whom?” That wasn’t going to make Tsaia’s king happy.
“To me.”
“He will have to have his king’s permission. Have you met the king of Tsaia?”
“No.” A huff of hot air filled the tent.
“They govern by the Code of Gird in Tsaia,” Kieri said. “You said gnomes guarded your eggs. Gnomes and Gird had a pact. Have gnomes tell him to release the land.”
“I had a pact with gnomes. Gnomes failed me.”
“Why?”
“It matters not why. It matters that they failed.”
Kieri opened his mouth to say that for a creature supposedly interested in wisdom and justice, this sounded more like haste and vengeance, but it was, after all, a dragon in man’s shape. Instead he said, “Give them a task within their ability—have them tell Arcolin.”
“I have done so already.” The man looked again at Torfinn. “If he were awake, I would offer him my tongue. Do you think he would accept?”
“He is a brave man,” Kieri said. “I think he would.”
“He is wounded?”
“Gravely. He lost his right arm and has a deep wound in his leg. Our surgeon cleaned it.”
“Show me.”
Kieri folded the blanket back; the man touched the bandage on Torfinn’s leg with one hand and laid the other on Torfinn’s forehead. For a long moment, the tent warmed even more, then the man withdrew both hands. “He will live, and his leg will heal in time,” the man said. “By your word and deed, Sorrow-King, you have saved his life. Tell him the dragon has no quarrel with him so long as he does not intrude into the dragon’s land. It will be clearly marked. Will you do so?”
“Yes,” Kieri said. “I will.”
When Torfinn woke, he had better color and an appetite. They ate together, and Kieri told him about the dragon’s visit. Torfinn shuddered at the mention of touching his tongue to the dragon’s but nodded.
“A king must do what a king must do,” he said.
Kieri went on then and laid out what he hoped for—an agreement about the end of the war and the peace to come. “It is not the peace I wanted,” Kieri said, “but it is the peace we have. Both lands wounded, but both lands alive.”
“I do not know how long,” Torfinn said.
“Nor I,” Kieri said. “And I am not wounded, as you are, so it is easier for me. But I swear I mean you no harm, and you have no reason to harm me. Your men who came were many of them bespelled, and all misled. Show them you will govern well, and they will follow you, I truly believe. Are your women safe?”
“More of them than men,” Torfinn said. “But some—my wife among them—died, and so did some children.”
“And some lived, and you are the only king they have or know.” Kieri was not sure why he was so eager to have Torfinn survive and lead … just that it felt right. And he did not want to be Pargun’s king as well as Lyonya’s. Elven blood did not belong there. “Let me have them brought here—you should not travel for days yet, until the surgeon says you may—and let them swear fealty, if they will.”
“As you will,” Torfinn said.
“I will send for them, and I will send a message to Elis that you live.” Kieri went out, sent Arian with another Squire to carry the news back to Chaya, and told Aliam to have his people build shelters rather than fortifications. By nightfall, they had put up a log shelter large enough for the two kings, and Torfinn lay on Kieri’s camp bed, his injured leg carefully padded. Already the surgeon saw improvement; he had cleaned the wound out twice. Kieri did not tell the surgeon about the dragon’s visit.
The Pargunese prisoners, when they arrived, also looked better than they had when captured. Kieri knew that quite a few spoke some Common; some had been to Aarenis, sailing around the East-bight to trade at the Immer River ports and even west to Confaer. He forbade his people to mention the possibility of a Lyonyan port but gathered all he could learn of the sea trade.
After several days of rest and the surgeon’s care, Torfinn’s leg was healing cleanly. “I must meet them on my feet,” he said. “Whatever it costs.”
“Then do so,” the surgeon said. “But do not walk far or stand longer than you must. And you must take a full jar of this medicine back with you when you go and drain a mug of it twice daily. It is too long until the green comes again in spring—you must drink a tea of spruce needles meanwhile.”
Torfinn limped, but he could now walk without the support of a stick. Aliam had suggested he belt a sword so he could draw it left-handed, and Aliam’s captain lent him one.
Torfinn nodded and let the man put it on him. “But alas that I must be armed by my enemies,” he said. “It is bitter indeed—”
“We are not enemies now,” Kieri said. “And it is not so bitter as death.”
Torfinn grimaced. “What you say is true, and I owe you life twice, and thanks, and yet—”
“And yet it is hard,” Kieri said. “But you are a man of courage for whom hard things are only a test, is it not so?”
“It is so,” Torfinn said. He looked down at the sword at his side. “Will you permit me to draw it?”
“Of course.”
“Sometimes I think you are mad, king of Lyonya.” Torfinn drew the sword, a little awkwardly, with his left hand, but his grip was firm. Turning from Kieri, he made a few passes with it; Kieri could tell that he was used to having a dagger in that hand. Resheathing it was difficult without a hand to steady the scabbard, but he managed. “And now I will see my forsworn and perhaps redeem something from this disaster.”
The prisoners waited outside the log shelter; when Torfinn emerged, Kieri saw in their faces the shock they felt at Torfinn’s missing arm. They stared; Torfinn stared back, impassive. Kieri gestured; one of the Halverics ducked into the shelter and brought out two folding camp chairs and set them up. Torfinn glanced at the chairs but did not sit. Instead he limped along the line of prisoners as a farmer might walk along a row of milk cows. At the end of the row, he turned
back to Kieri and came to stand beside him.
“King of Lyonya,” he said. “Are these all you found?”
“Yes,” Kieri said. “And I believe all who remain alive.”
“Then let us sit, and I will hear their pleas.” Torfinn remained standing as Kieri sat and drew his borrowed sword. Some of the Pargunese prisoners gasped loud enough to be heard over the wind. “You swore oaths to me once,” Torfinn said to the prisoners in Pargunese. “And you broke them. A broken pot will always leak. Lyonya’s king tells me you were bespelled. He tells me I should trust you. Think well, before you beg my mercy. You will lay your necks beneath this blade and kiss my boot, and you will abide my whim, whether it be life or death.”
Kieri saw dawning respect on the prisoners’ faces. The front row said nothing; behind them, well back, murmurs he could not quite catch ran through the group. A few shifted their places.
“Who among you are the commanders?” Torfinn said.
Arms went up; each group, as with the ones Kieri had taken to Chaya, had chosen a leader. Now the leaders stood in the front row, along with their seconds.
“You come first.” Torfinn pointed the sword at the sword-side end of the row, then sat down in the other chair. His arm, Kieri noted, had been steady as oak.
The first man knelt and bared his neck to Torfinn, hands and arms spread wide. Torfinn laid the edge of the blade on the man’s neck. Kieri’s stomach tightened.
“My king, I failed you; my life is yours.”
“Your life is mine,” Torfinn said. “What do you swear?”
The oath contained some Pargunese words Kieri did not know, but he understood enough. The man leaned over and kissed Torfinn’s boot. Torfinn lifted the sword.
“You live by my word and by my sword,” Torfinn said. “Use your life well.” The man backed away on his knees, then stood; another came to replace him. Eventually, all had done so but one. Kieri had noticed him shuffling first to the back row and then to the tail of the line. The man stood hunch-shouldered, clearly hesitant. Torfinn glowered. “What of you?”
“I fear, lord king.” The man’s gaze shifted from side to side. “I—I would stay here—” He looked at Kieri then, pleading.
“King of Lyonya, do you want this man?”
After the mercy shown to others, Kieri could think of no good reason for this man to be so afraid. “He is not my subject, but yours,” he said to Torfinn.
“Please, my lord!” the man cried, and rushed toward Kieri. The Halveric commander grabbed for his own sword—but it was in Torfinn’s hand, and Torfinn struck the man down before Kieri could draw his own.
Torfinn grinned at Kieri. “Life for life,” he said, then thrust the sword into the man’s neck and finished him quickly. “Let this be the last Pargunese blood shed here, and the last blood between us.”
“May it be so,” Kieri said.
Torfinn wiped the blood from the blade on the dead man’s clothes and looked at his soldiers. “Now you see your king has strength in his arm, and you have sworn. Make signal over the river for a boat to come.”
They obeyed; Kieri walked about with the Halveric commander, discussing what would be done after he himself returned to Chaya.
“Do you think their king’s speaking truth?” the commander asked.
“Yes. He is not like us, but he is not a liar,” Kieri said. “You may not have heard, but I have spoken with him before.” By the time he came back to the shelter, a boat was halfway across the river, and Torfinn spoke to the captain who had lent the sword.
“By your mercy, would you grant me use of this sword until I come to my own again? I swear not to use it to your hurt and to send it back, but I must not return weaponless.”
Before Kieri answered, the commander bowed. “Certainly, lord king.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Kieri said.
When the boat arrived, the king and four hands of men embarked, the king with the jug of medicine the surgeon insisted on. Then the men laid to the oars, two to each, and the boat moved away.
“Fare well, Torfinn of Pargun,” Kieri called.
“Fare well, Kieri of Lyonya,” Torfinn called back. That was the first time he had used Kieri’s name.
The borrowed sword and belt came back with the third boat trip; Kieri clapped the Halveric commander on the shoulder. “I must go now; I have been longer away than I meant; I must be in Chaya for Midwinter Feast.”
“Yes, sir king. These will not give us trouble and will all be across the river soon enough.”
Kieri’s tent had been sent south already; he and the Halveric and two Squires rode with the wind behind them at a good pace. He was back in Chaya two days before Midwinter.
Chaya, Lyonya
On the night of Midwinter Feast, with all fires extinguished, Kieri went alone into the royal ossuary. Unlike his subjects, who could eat and drink all night to keep themselves awake and share songs and stories, the king must be with his ancestors, alone and fasting.
The Seneschal met him outside shortly before sundown and led him inside with a small candle.
“I will be within call, sir king, but it is our tradition on this night that the door be closed to ensure that the king is not interrupted in his converse with the honored dead.”
“That’s different,” Kieri said. Now that he thought of it, he remembered Aliam, when they were in Lyonya, disappearing into the attic on Midwinter night. It must have been freezing up there with no fire; he had come down at midnight, Kieri remembered, and joined the festivities.
“It is,” the Seneschal said. “It is the night of all nights that the ancestors speak. You have had guidance already; you may expect more.” He handed Kieri the candle as he opened the door for him to go in. Kieri glanced up; to his surprise, no green lay above the door. The Seneschal, following his gaze, nodded. “One night in the year they have no green. Tonight all dies, and all wander the void together. What you learn tonight, sir king, is like to be dark, at the roots of what they know, and it is from roots that sprouts return to the light.”
“I welcome their wisdom,” Kieri said.
“It is well.” The Seneschal took the candle again; Kieri walked in and stood—no stool or chair to sit on this time in the wide central aisle—and the Seneschal shut the door.
The darkness pressed on him. Midwinter enforced no silence, so Kieri spoke to the bones as he usually did.
“I am here. I listen.”
The darkness returned his attention; he felt the hairs rise on his arms. Nothing new in this. Briefly, quietly, he told them of events since Midsummer. As if the chamber had light, he could feel their reactions, as individual as they had been in life. When he was done, he felt that some of them withdrew a little while others pressed nearer.
His father’s presence, stronger than he’d felt it before, warm and steady on his sword-side, conveyed approval of his report. His sister’s, on his heart-side, breathed joy about Arian and a settled distrust still of the Lady and other elves. They seemed to fade, and others made themselves known. He felt the need to move, to walk here and there, hands before him, feeling the edge of the platforms as he moved, touching the bones lightly. Those with a message came clearer in his mind.
One by one, they led him deeper into the ossuary. He had been shown these vaults, but he had not lingered in the other aisles, in the far corners; he had thought those bones too old, those spirits too distant, to have messages for him. He had been wrong.
Without light, without the records that would remind him who lay where, and how far back this bone had been king or queen, he did not know whether what he heard was ancient or merely old—and the bones had no interest in a history lesson. What they wanted him to know—what they pressed into his mind in great urgency—were the secrets of their own realms and the problems they had not solved and had not felt solved since.
His sister had not been the first to have dark suspicions of the elves … not the first to suspect treachery …
The taig was
ours as much as theirs … from a king in the second aisle.
Long ago, before they came … from a skull in the farthest corner from the door—or so Kieri thought, because he was no longer sure where in the ossuary his body moved.
For years—for half my life—they disappeared—and my people prospered … a queen in the third aisle on the women’s side.
Kieri tried not to frame questions, to let them speak all they would first, but he could not help it and finally asked aloud, “Are they evil?”
Silence as thick as the darkness. Then, steadily growing, awareness of their uncertainty and their unwillingness to accuse without evidence. Wrongness, yes. Treachery somewhere, yes. Unfair advantage over humans, misuse of their ability to enchant, yes. But … evil?
Here, below ground, Kieri had no sense of time flowing, whether the night had turned or not, and gave up wondering, attending only to the bones and their revelations. He struggled to make sense of it all, but without sequence—without knowing who said what or how far back—he could not make a coherent pattern, anything to give him what he felt he needed.
Then, feeling along a wall, his hands dipped into a niche rougher-finished than the rest. He ran fingers lightly along the top of it, deeper and deeper—arm-deep—and touched a skull. No other bones, only the skull.
They forbade this.
What? Kieri wondered. His being here, underground, with the bones? And why?
They fear the long memory of bones.
Kieri drew the skull nearer and felt over its surface. Where had its bones been laid? he wondered.
They are not so old, or we so young, as they wish.
“You speak of elves?” Kieri asked softly.
Singers of songs and dreamers who make seeming. Touch my head with yours, child.
Kieri thought of the dragon and touched the skull’s arched forehead to his own. As if from his own imagination, little bright pictures formed—a ring of trees and a ring of little houses, men and women and children in strange clothes all holding hands and dancing around a roofed framework over stacks of bones. It changed: more houses and a line of people coming from outside the ring of trees, following a man and a woman dressed in white.