Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (13 page)

Arcolin answered in gnomish and then translated. “That was the proper greeting from a gnome prince to his own gnomes. I have had to learn gnomish, yes. I suspect my accent is very bad, but they understand me, mostly, and I’m much better with gnomish than I ever expected to be.” He pulled out the stole he wore. “I wear this always now, so if I meet a gnome I can identify myself and we are within Law.”

“Girdish law?”

Arcolin shook his head. “According to gnomes, there is but one Law, that handed to them by the High Lord. They taught Gird what they could but say that no human legal system is truly Law. We are, they say, not precise enough. Where there is only the light of Law and the darkness of un-Law, we see shades between, which they do not think are real but only our blindness of mind. As the eyes of the old become clouded, they say, so are the minds of humans.”

“What are they like, really?”

“Much as you see them in the outside world: hardworking, honest, tough, skillful in their crafts.”

“The … uh … gnome women? You mentioned children last time—”

“Very reserved. Seldom seen; some, I’m told, never leave the stone-right. All we see in our travels are males.” He was not going to tell Mikeli more than Mikeli needed to know.

“Don’t they mind?”

“No. For them it is home and perfectly comfortable.”

“Dark inside?”

“No … and I do not know if the light is by gnomish magery or something they grow on the walls. They do cultivate things that glow.”

“I was wondering if they could help protect our western border. How many do you have?”

Arcolin explained how few. “Supposedly all gnomes are trained in basic weapons skills, but these were evicted from their former home. They came without weapons, and I have no idea if they’re able to fight. However—” He paused a moment. He had written Mikeli about the Aldonfulk prince’s communication. “I think all gnomes would be appalled by the mage-hunters, though they were not fond of the old magelords. They value children highly, and child killers of any kind would be considered outside Law. There are other princedoms—”

“How many? Where?”

“I may not know them all,” Arcolin said. “Lord Prince Aldon told me of those he thought I might meet in Aarenis, but I’m sure you’ve heard of Gnarrinfulk, west of the pass to Valdaire.”

“I’m not sure where they are,” Mikeli said. They were at the library now, and he entered. One of the librarians came forward. “We need maps of northern Tsaia,” he said. “Especially from the Finthan border to the North Marches.”

“At once, sir king.” The librarian went to a rack of map sticks, checked labels, and plucked out two. He hung each from a separate frame. “This one’s the most current.”

His neighbors’ boundaries—both with Fintha and with the North Marches—were clearly marked. “When the trouble in Fintha began,” Mikeli said, “I asked all the holders who bordered Fintha to look to their boundaries, make sure the markers—fence or wall or stones, whatever they might be—were clear and firmly set.”

“Thank you,” Arcolin said. “I will send word to my gnomes of their limits of stone-right and to my neighbors, confirming the existing boundaries.”

The ceremony of Jamis’s investment as Arcolin’s kirgan did not take long. Dukes Mahieran, Marrakai, and Serrostin stood as witnesses for the Council; Kolya Ministiera, on the village council in
Duke’s East, and Captain Arneson, as Arcolin’s military liaison, stood as witnesses for Arcolin’s realm. Calla’s parents and Arcolin’s squire Kaim were the only guests.

Jamis, wide-eyed and subdued at his first visit to the palace, wore the lace collar without commenting on the itchiness, along with a new maroon velvet tunic with silver buttons, a snowy white shirt with a frill of lace at the wrists, maroon velvet short trews buckled at the knee, black hose, and new shoes adorned with silver buckles. The shoes, a little too big and stuffed with tags of wool, clumped when he walked.

Calla and her parents stood on one side; Kolya, Captain Arneson, and Kaim stood on the other, forming an aisle. Arcolin and Jamis walked up the middle of the room and bowed to the king.

Mikeli questioned Jamis a little, questions Arcolin had anticipated and explained to Jamis, but then nodded decisively. “Duke Arcolin, I approve your choice of heir. Jamis Arcolin, kneel and place your hands in mine.”

Jamis knelt and held out his hands. Mikeli took them between his own.

“You are too young for the oath of fealty a man gives, Jamis, but here is an oath for a boy. Repeat after me: I promise to obey my lord, my father, and obey the king’s command—”

Jamis repeated this in a voice that shook only a little.

“I promise to tell the truth and to deal honestly and fairly with all. I promise to obey the Code of Gird in Tsaia.”

Jamis’s voice steadied as he repeated that as well.

“I promise that when I come to manhood, I will take a man’s oath of fealty. By Gird’s Cudgel and the High Lord and the grace of Alyanya.”

Jamis repeated all that.

“Then rise, Jamis Kirgan Arcolin, and take from my hand this gift of your king.”

Jamis came to his feet; the king held out a dagger in a sheath with the tooled design of a foxhead, the Mahieran rose, and Gird’s initial on it, already fitted to a belt with “Jamis Arcolin” carved into it. “Take this blade, Jamis, as a sign of my favor, but draw blood with it
only as your duke commands—and I am sure that command will be only to save a life, yours or another’s.”

“Thank you, sir king,” Jamis said. He was struggling not to grin, Arcolin saw.

“Let your father, your duke, put it on you—for a liegeman receives his weapons from his liege.”

Arcolin leaned down and helped Jamis put it on.

“Thank you,” Jamis said again with a jerky bow.

Arcolin also bowed. “Sir king, this was very kind.”

The king chuckled. “A soldier’s son should be recognized with a soldier’s tools,” he said, getting up from his seat. “And now—Lady Calla, I am pleased to see you again, and your parents as well. And you, Captain, and Councilwoman Ministiera. Let us see what the kitchen has prepared to celebrate this occasion and make plans for the kirgan’s future.”

The party lasted longer than the ceremony, but Arcolin left before it was over, riding out of Vérella with Kaim, eager to catch up with his troops.

Alured the Black could not help thinking of himself as Alured, the name he had been called almost all his life. Alured the Black, Terror of the Seas, the pirate other pirates admired and obeyed. Alured the Black, leading his troops through the southern forests, allying with the mercenaries and Guild League cities against Siniava. Strong, brave, visionary Alured, seizing the opportunity at the end of that war to take up the abandoned title of Duke of Immer and control the entire lower Immer River, from the sea to Cortes Immer. The man who had risen from impoverished boyhood to wealthy, powerful maturity … that was Alured.

He had difficulty thinking of himself as Visli Vaskronin, even though his advisor insisted it was a more suitable name for a duke who would soon be king. Insisted that he must force everyone to use it. But in these moments alone, looking out over the ramparts of his stronghold, the name Visli fit him ill, and he was, in his own mind, always Alured. Alured the boy, the boy captive, then the favorite of his master, then his master’s ally and secret weapon, then the pirate, then the brigand. Alured the Duke, yes, he could feel himself a duke; he would feel himself a king: King Alured sounded well, he thought. But that name had been changed
for his own good
, his advisor had said.

It did not suit your station
.

Alured sighed. The advisor, who had once been his master and
thought he was master still, chose his own time to come into consciousness. His advisor did not approve what he called Alured’s nostalgia or his attachment to his own name.

A slave’s name. You are a slave no longer
.

That was true. He had slaves of his own now, and servants who might as well be slaves, and soldiers who accepted him as their commander, and vassals to whom he was unquestioned lord.

There will be more
.

That promise—always more: more wealth, more power, more admiration, more pleasure—drew him on, as it had drawn him in that first time, so long ago.

You give up little to gain so much
.

Indeed. Only his name and the sense that the connection to himself—the connection running back through a life from now to then, to earliest memory—frayed with every passing day. Yet his advisor had explained, and he understood, that to be what he would become—the great ruler of all, the crowned king of all the lands he knew, master of water and fire and blood—to become
that
, what he wanted more than anything, some price must be paid. The boy Alured, the youth Alured, must be banished from the man’s life. What belonged only to the name Alured—even the name—must go. And he had agreed.

“I am Visli Vaskronin,” he murmured, looking out over the lush green of the Immervale. “I am Duke of Immer, and I will be king.” In his mind, he heard the trumpets, saw the cheering crowds, felt the flowers thrown touch his face.

You will be king if you heed my advice. Let me take those memories from you so they will not trouble you again
.

“No,” he said aloud, as if to someone standing beside him and not the being that coinhabited his body. “They fade quickly enough.” The oldest of the memories now … all earlier had faded … was of himself at perhaps eleven or twelve, his defiance of his master. It is not fair, he had yelled … actually yelled, outrage overwhelming fear for the moment. He liked remembering himself as brave. And his master had laughed and patted his shoulder, approving.

You were always brave. That is why I chose you
.

Warmth spread through his body. Praise always did that, and his
advisor’s praise most of all. In time he would feel like a Visli—his advisor insisted the name was appropriate, and after all, he had given Alur—
Visli
—so much.

That is better. You are growing more powerful every day
.

His advisor said that many times; Alur
—Visli
—had the same warm feeling every time. More powerful. That’s what he wanted. Power, strength, long life, never to be cold or hungry or alone or hurt or frightened ever again. It felt so good to be clothed in soft garments, to have a full belly, to have water or wine at his side and never know thirst, to feel the brimming health, the supple strength of body, to see men rush to serve him, obey him.

But Siniava had had powers he still lacked. Siniava had been able to change shapes, to appear like someone else.

You do not need that. Your face brings terror to your enemies and respect to those who serve you
.

Still … it would have been nice to be able to change.

A lesser power. Great powers become greater by being more themselves
.

That made sense. He sighed once more and took a last look to the north, where the height on which Cortes Immer stood trailed away as a descending ridge into the lowlands along the eastern branch of the Immer, the Imefal.

Sunlight glinted on something—something moving. He squinted. No dust rose behind it—rain had fallen the day before. A shout rose from the lookout’s post just below. He heard the clatter of feet, of weapons, from the lower levels and then, leaning over, saw his men running to the walls. A mounted troop was already at the gate.

Fallo. The Duke of Fall, like Andressat, had not been receptive to his demand for obeisance. But the Duke of Fall was old and would die soon, and his son might be more malleable. His son had a taste for luxury, it seemed. He had dealt with those who traded in and out of Slavers’ Bay to the east, bypassing—as he thought—the Duke of Immer’s control of the Immer ports. But in his pirate days, Alured—the right name for that time—had made contacts he’d never lost. So he knew what Fall’s son desired and made sure he got it in more quantity and better quality and at a lower price than before.

True, Fall’s daughter-in-law was the child of Sofi Ganarrion,
whose mercenary company had, despite flamboyant uniforms, fought extremely well against Siniava and now had joined with Fallo’s own troops to guard that dukedom. And Ganarrion was northern—from some northern kingdom—