Luap bent over it. Here he dared not bring his own light, and the shallow grooves hardly showed in the dimness. "It . . . seems . . . the same," he said, tracing part of it with his finger. He dared not trace all of it, and vanish.
"In the old law," the Rosemage said, "
our
law, the man in a house has a better chance of keeping it. But you may be right that we need Arranha." Before he could say anything, she strode away, leaving him with his hand splayed out across the pattern as if to protect it.
Arranha, when he came, was inclined to shake his head. "It is not Luap's place, though he found it untenanted; we knew all along someone else had made it. If they forbid, we dare not object."
"But look at this." The Rosemage pointed to the pattern. "It's
here
, in the most important place of worship our people had in the north. You told us this was the first of Esea's Halls over the mountains. If it is their pattern, then why is it here? If it is here with their consent, then Luap has an heir's right to it . . . to its use, at least."
"I don't know," Arranha said. "If it is the same pattern, then what it might mean is that they made some agreement with our ancestors. That doesn't explain why there were only two arches until Gird came, though."
"We could see if it works," she said.
"And if it didn't?" Arranha said. "I've never known you to be rash, lady, before this?"
"
I'll
try it," Luap said suddenly. "If it doesn't work, then you will have the most excellent excuse to do nothing."
"You can't—" the Rosemage began. Arranha looked thoughtful.
"Perhaps you should. If it works . . . are you prepared to meet the elves in that place, by yourself? We could come along."
"No," Luap said "If all three of us vanished, who would help the mageborn? We all know that I am one of the points of stress. Without me, some of our people would be quicker to forget their heritage and merge with the peasantry. If one of us must risk, I should be that one. You both have the respect of the Council of Marshals; you can do anything I could do for our people here."
"Well said." Arranha nodded. "Go, then, and Esea's light guide you." As he spoke, the pattern glowed in the shadowy hall, just bright enough for Luap to see that it was clearly the same. He stood on it, motioned them away, and thought of that distant hall.
And was there, on the dais.
But not alone. Under the arch crowned with harp and tree stood an elflord, crowned with silver and emeralds and sapphires: Luap could not doubt that this was the King, the Lord of that fabled Forest in the western mountains. Under the arch crowned with anvil and hammer stood a dwarf, his beard and hair braided with gold and silver. His crown was gold, studded with rubies. Luap could not doubt he was the king of some dwarf tribe, though he knew not which one. On one side of the hall stood a company of elves, facing a company of dwarves. All wore mail styled as their folk wore it, and carried weapons. In the center of the hall, a gnome in gray carried a great book bound in leather and slate. Varhiel faced the dais, only a few paces away.
"I told them you would come," he said. "Without invitation, without courtesy . . . see now, mortal, what you dare by intruding here. This is not your place: you did not make it, you do not understand it."
Luap surprised himself with his composure. "Is that your king's word, Varhiel?"
"You may ask him yourself," said Varhiel; his bow mocked Luap, but Luap did not respond. He looked down that long hall at the elvenking, inwardly rejoicing to see the hall filled and alive as he had always imagined it.
But before he could speak, the elvenking spoke; his voice held a richness of music Luap had never imagined. "Mortal, king's son you named yourself: what king claimed you?"
No human words could be courteous enough for speech with this king; Luap felt himself drowning in that power. His magery responded, seemingly of itself, and he did not suppress it, allowing his light to strengthen. "My lord, my father died while I was young; I have been told by those who knew both him and me that he was Garamis, the fourth before the last king."
"You claim the royal magery?"
Luap smiled before he could stop himself. "My lord, the magery claimed
me
, when I had long thought I had none." He felt his mind as full of light as his body; he might have been burning in some magical flame. Was this Esea's light?
"Varhiel said you claimed that when you brought Gird here, a third arch appeared, and on that basis you claimed a right to use this place. Where is that third arch?"
Luap started down the hall. Sure enough, he saw but the two arches he had seen when he first came. He felt the sweat start on his forehead. It had been there; it had appeared with Gird and had been there when he brought the Rosemage and and Arranha. Now he could not see it. Surely it had to be there, between the others, where a blank red wall stood.
"Show us this arch," the dwarf said suddenly. "If you are not
nedross
." He did not know much of the dwarf speech, but no one could talk long to dwarves without learning something of
drossin
and
nedrossin.
He looked again, saw only the bare stone. But, his memory reminded him, the elves are illusionists. At once a rush of exultation flooded him. He walked forward, past the ranks of elves and dwarves, through the very current of their disapproval, their determination to exclude him. He walked past the gnome, who stepped aside without speaking. He thought of Gird, of how Gird had strolled down this hall as if he had the right to walk anywhere. Could he be that certain? Yes. For his people, he could.
He walked to the red stone as if he expected it to part like a curtain. Two paces away, one pace: he could see the fine streaks of paler and darker red, the glitter of polished grains. "Here," he said, laying his hands flat on the cold, smooth stone. "It bears the High Lord's sigil; in Gird's name—" His hands flailed in air; he nearly fell. On either side of him, the columns rose, incised with intricate patterns: over his head the arch curved serenely, with that perfect circle at its height.
He struggled to control his expression; blank astonishment filled him. He heard, inwardly, a rough chuckle that reminded him of Gird.
Did you think I'd let you make a fool of yourself?
Luap shivered; he knew that voice. He wanted to ask it questions, but it was gone, leaving his head empty and echoing. And no time. From their arches, the elvenking and dwarvenking had come to confront him.
"Mortal, I see the arch. I do not see why you should be allowed to use this hall." This near, the elvenking's beauty took his breath away; it was all he had ever imagined a royal visage to be.
"My lord, it was my thought—and Gird's, for that matter—that such a thing meant either the god's direct command to come here, or their approval."
"For what purpose?" The arching eyebrows rose, expressing without words the conviction that no purpose would be justified.
"A haven for the mageborn—"
"You would use magery here?" That was the dwarf, a voice like stone splitting.
"This is magery," Luap said, with a wave that included the entire place. "How could one be here and not be using magery?" That came close to insolence; he felt his stomach clench, as if he'd leaned far out over a precipice.
The elvenking's eyes narrowed dangerously; Luap felt cold down his spine. "Mortal man, this is not human magery, but the work of the Elder Races, far beyond your magery—"
"Yet I came, and this arch appeared—I do not claim by my magery alone but with the gods' aid."
"And what gods do you serve?" Luap blinked; that was one question he had not anticipated.
The gods of my father, or of my mother? The gods of my childhood or my manhood?
"I was reared both mageborn and peasant; I have prayed to both Esea and Alyanya . . ." he began. The elf interrupted.
"I did not ask from whom you sought favors, but whom you
served
."
How could any man say which god he served—truly served? He might think he had rendered service, but the god might have refused it, or not recognized it. Possibilities flitted through his mind, an airy spatter of butterflies. He could think of only one he had served, and that one not a god. "I served Gird, mostly," he said. The elf's brows rose as the dwarf's lowered; he had a moment to wonder if those were two ways of expressing the same reaction, or two different reactions to the same words.
"And it was Gird's visit that brought this arch," the elvenking said.
"Yes."
The elf looked at him so long in silence that Luap felt his knees would collapse. Finally he spoke. "You convince me that you are convinced of what you say. But you do not know what you ask. This stronghold was made for another, not you. It was built to ward against dangers you do not understand and could not face. If you live here, you may rouse ancient evils, and if you do, it would be better for you that you had not been born. Yet . . . if you ask me, knowing that you do not know, and knowing that I say your people would find better sanctuary elsewhere, I will grant you my permission. But whatever harms come of it will rest on your shoulders, Selamis-called-Luap, Garamis's son."
"What dangers?" Luap asked. "What evils? I saw a land of great beauty, breathed air that sang health along my bones—"
The king held up his hand, and Luap could not continue. "I tell you, mortal man, that you would be wise to choose some other boon from me. Yet wisdom comes late or never to mortals; I see in your eyes you will have your desire, despite anything I say. Be it so: but remember my warning."
"And you will not say what that danger is?"
"It is none of your concern." A look passed from the elven to the dwarven king, and returned, which Luap could not read but knew held significance. His anger stirred.
"And why is it not? If the gods led me to this place, as I believe they did; if Gird's coming hallowed it for mortal use, as I believe it did and this arch proves; if then you know of some danger which threatens, why should you not tell me, and let us meet it bravely?"
Another look passed between the kings; this time the dwarf spoke. "You believe the gods intended this: do you think the gods do not know of the danger? Are we to interfere with their plans? No: you have our permission; that is all you need from us, and all we give."
Luap realized suddenly that he was hearing the two kings each in his own language, and understanding perfectly, yet he knew he could not speak or understand more than a few courtesies of his own knowledge. Such power, he thought, longingly; his own magery was but the shadow of theirs. But pride stiffened him; he looked each in the eye, and bowed with courtesy but no shame. "Then I thank you, my lords, for your words. As the gods surpass even the Elder Races, I must obey their commands as I understand them."
The elf looked grim. "May they give you the wisdom to accompany your obedience," he said. Then he turned to the gnome. "Lawmaster, record all that you heard, and let it be as it is written." He strode up the hall, and when he reached the dais, the elves vanished. The dwarf king came nearer and looked up into Luap's face.
"You may be a king's son, mortal, but it will take more than that to rule in this citadel. You are not of the rockblood; you do not know how to smell the drossin and nedrossin stone. The sinyi care for growing things and pure water; we dasksinyi care for the virtues of stone; the isksinyi care for the structure of the law. Now ask yourself, mortal, what the iynisin care for, and what that corruption means. We will not forgive an injury to the daskgeft." He turned, and his dwarves cheered, then burst into a marching song. Luap could no longer understand their speech: he watched as they followed their king to the dais and vanished.
That left the gnome, a dour person who gave Luap a long humorless stare. "Gird should have had more sense," it said. "I am a Lawmaster: this is a book of law. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Lawmaster." Luap struggled with a desire to laugh or shiver. How had Gird endured an entire winter understone with such as this?
"In this book will be recorded the contract between you and the Elder Races. Do you understand that?"
He did not, but he hated to admit it. "If we wake this danger, whatever it is, they will take it ill."
"They will withdraw their permission," the gnome corrected. "You are, for the duration of your stay here, considered as guardian-guests, not as heirs. You have the duty to protect this as if it were your own, but it is not your own, nor may you exchange any part of it for any value whatsoever. Is that clear?"
"I—think so. Yes."
"You have the use-right of the land, the water, the air, the animals that live on the land and the birds that fly over it, but no claim upon dragons—"
"Dragons!" Luap could not suppress that exclamation.
"Dragons . . . yes. There may be dragons from time to time; you have no claim upon them. You are forbidden to interfere with them. You may not, through magery or other means, remove this citadel to another place—" Luap had not even thought of that possibility. "—And you must keep all in good repair and decent cleanliness. You must not represent yourself as the builder or true owner, and you must avoid contamination of this hall with any evil. Now—if these are the terms you understand, and you accept them, you will say so now—"
"I do," said Luap.
"And then the sealing. You were Gird's scribe as well as luap; you know how to sign your name. As you have no royal seal, press your thumb in the wax." Luap signed, pressed, and the gnome laid over the blotch of wax a thin cloth. The gnome bowed, stiffly, and without another word walked to the dais, where he vanished.
Luap could not have told how long he stood bemused before he, too, went back to the dais, as much worried as triumphant. He arrived in darkness—not in the High Lord's Hall, as he'd expected, but in his cave . . . and realized he'd been thinking of it. Could he transfer directly? No. Back to the distant land, then to Fin Panir. The High Lord's Hall was empty; it was near dusk. Where had they gone, and why? Or had the elves wrapped him in such sorcery that years had passed, and they thought him lost forever?