For a moment, Luap saw Gird in some cottage, surrounded by children and grandchildren—but it would not happen, and they all knew it. He suspected that Gird would make a less than perfect grandfather anyway.
The Kirgan said, "I have thought long on what you told me before, sir. I have been learning the skills of farming myself." He opened his hand to show Gird the calluses on his palm as if they were battle scars. Perhaps they were, Luap thought. Gird clearly approved, and his nod seemed to mean as much to the boy as any praise. What kind of duke would he make, with the attitudes he learned from Gird? As difficult as the blend of mageborn and peasant in Fintha. Luap could not imagine how it would work in Tsaia, with the mageborn retaining their right to rule. His envy ebbed, thinking on the difficult task the Kirgan would face as time went on.
When Arranha invited him to one of the courtyard discussions, Luap went hoping to hear something which would help him deal with his own confusion. Instead, Arranha spent the whole afternoon propounding the idea that common daylight and inspiration were analogous: that the gods gave light to see with eye and mind both, that the mere exposure of evil by such light somehow ensured its defeat, that all good men would naturally choose to be flooded with that light, so that any errors could be seen and corrected.
Luap could not explain what bothered him about that doctrine. Gird, somewhat impatient after a day spent settling quarrels between granges, had no sympathy with his imprecision.
"He's a priest, and a Sunlord priest at that. Why should you understand what he says?"
"He thinks we all should." Luap rolled the quill in his hand. "He thinks we should all understand the gods . . . that the Sunlord's light enlightens everyone. . . ."
Gird snorted. "There's some as stumble into holes in broad daylight. Granted, we all stumble more in the dark, but—"
"That's what I mean. If . . . if you're thinking about something
else
, if you're not using the light, you can run square into something . . . and if you're trying to see, you can see better in dim light sometimes than midday glare. I think the mind's light is the same, but Arranha doesn't."
"Mind's light, or god's light?"
"They're the same, aren't they?" At Gird's expression, Luap tried again. "I mean, once inside your head—how can you tell? Light is light."
Gird's expression might have been pity, or contempt, or some combination. "I think if you ever have a god in your head, Luap, you will discover the difference. Now—about those grange rolls—" And he refused, with a glower and another question about the grange records, to enter into that discussion again.
Luap puzzled over it himself, day after day. Somewhere in that concept of Arranha's something didn't fit his own experience, his own knowledge of himself. Was refusing knowledge the same thing as choosing evil? Was his desire for the privacy of his childhood memories, his instinctive distaste for Dorhaniya's reminisences, the same as turning away from the light? He could not tell, and he could not tell if that failure meant something.
Luap did not, after all, have to decide when and how to tell Gird about that distant land. Gird himself suggested they travel together, when it became obvious that the Marshal-General's presence would settle some festering disputes in outlying granges. The cave lay on the obvious shortcut from one problem to another, and Luap took that as a favorable omen.
"I don't know that I like this any better than I did the first time." Gird's voice rang off the stone walls.
"You don't have a cold." Luap grinned over his shoulder. Gird had one hand on the wall, feeling his way. He wouldn't fall over the ledge this time.
"And you don't have that tone of voice you had." Gird's look was friendly enough, but unsmiling.
"Yes." Luap remembered the previous occasion entirely too well; he had been almost hysterical with fear and elation, Now his mouth went dry. He had sworn and been forsworn, all in less time than heating a kettle of water. This place was the very focus of Gird's distrust of him, however he'd proven himself since. How could he expect Gird to believe him now?
"Yes," he said again, flattening his tone to avoid the least taint of charm. "But I will tell you what I can. You remember that you, too, felt an influence here?"
"I felt the god's presence, not an
influence
like your magery." Gird had decided to be difficult; Luap smothered a sigh. Gird's expression, in the gloom, looked one with the rock walls. Luap felt as bruised by that as by his memories.
"I felt both." Luap paused, and thanked the gods' mercy that Gird did not comment. He drew another long breath and plunged on. "That inner chamber, floored and ringed with strange designs . . . ?"
"Umph" More grunt than word, it meant
Go on, I'm listening.
"It can take you to a place."
That should have been clear enough, but Gird stared, eyes suddenly brighter in dimness. "Take you? How?"
"I don't know how. And—" forestalling another question, "I don't know where the place is, or why, or anything else. I don't know if it will take you, or only me. But I thought you should know."
Gird had that crafty look Luap most disliked. He would complain. He did. "Gods' teeth, lad, you keep thinking I should know things that don't help at all."
Damned mulish peasant, thought Luap, an indulgence he allowed himself only in the dark. Gird read his face too well.
"You told me to assess all magical dangers. This may be one. If I can go somewhere and return, so may others."
"Your kind."
"Or others. I think the Elder Races have used this."
"Gnomes?" Gird sounded almost cheerful about that; unlike Luap, he still got on well with his former advisors.
"I don't know. You might know the symbols I found in that other place."
"So—have you asked them?"
"Not without talking to you. I wondered if you'd try it with me."
"Try—you mean go
somewhere?
"
Luap nodded. Gird heaved one of those sighs Luap had learned were as dramatic as necessary. "Has the place gone to your head, then, as it did last time? Will you try another of your tricks?"
"No." Surely he knew that already.
"Well, then. Yes. I will. But—" a blunt finger hard against Luap's chest. "—But I still own a hard fist and strength to use it."
"I know." He let his own light come, in this hidden place, until it shone as bright as was needful, looking away from Gird's face in conscious courtesy. . . . Gird still hated to see magelight, even Arranha's. Then he led the way to the chamber for which he had no proper name, the bell-shaped space with its carved decorations, its inlaid design on the floor. "We'll stand here," he said, stepping boldly out onto it.
"You're sure?" Gird edged his boot forward as if he thought the smooth stone might be glass, and break. In here his voice echoed, waking a resonance more metallic than stony. He spoke more softly then. "I don't like this—the gods—"
"Will sense no impiety." Luap waited until Gird moved close to him, the broad shoulders slightly hunched, apprehensive. He stretched his own chest, wondering, in the last possible moment, if this was wise. But he had to try; the need for that squeezed his mind painfully. He felt inside for the power he had inherited, that the Rosemage was so determined he would learn to use. As if his feet were moving in a dance, he could feel the interlacing patterns below him in the stone, and his mind sang a response. . . .
And they stood in the great hall with its arches at the far end. He felt Gird's sudden shift of weight, heard the indrawn ragged breath, that came back out as a shaky whisper.
"
Somewhere
. . . you said . . ."
"This is . . . it. Wherever it is. Whatever it is." However it works and we got here, he went on silently, hoping Gird wouldn't ask about that. At least not yet. "We can walk around," he went on, taking a step off the pattern's center. He could damp his own magelight; the place lay under the cool silvery glow of deeper magic. Would Gird notice the difference? Gird did.
"More magicks than yours," he said. "And how big is this place?"
"I'm not entirely sure. I didn't go far." He watched Gird move around, and finally leave the pattern that here centered a raised area of the floor. The man could still surprise him . . . an old man, a peasant born, distrustful of any magicks . . . and here after being snatched from a cave to a hall, he was looking around with alert interest and no apparent fear. He could still taste the fear that had choked his own throat the first time he'd come—but of course he'd had no warning. No . . . Gird was simply the braver man. He followed him down the hall, noticing without analyzing the odd ring of their boots on the stone floor, the way the walls threw the sound back less harshly than he'd expected.
"Harp and tree . . ." Gird muttered, looking up at the carving. "The treelords, the oldsingers, that would be. I wonder if the blackhearts ever had a place here."
"Blackhearts?"
"I may not have told you." A long pause, in which Luap tried to remember if he'd ever heard of blackhearts. "And I'm not sure this is the place for it. There's a feel . . . a good feeling here." Gird looked around. "Anvil and hammer . . . Sertig's folk, then."
"Gnomes?"
"Nay. Dwarven; the gnomes follow the High Lord as judge. But I heard the lore of Sertig there, and from the first smith I knew, back in the woods. 'Tis said all smiths learned metalcraft of dwarves, and the dwarves say Sertig hammered out the world on his anvil. Gnomes themselves think the High Lord ordered chaos as we might sort seed or stones for building—at least I think that's what they meant."
"And elvenkind?"
Gird's face wrinkled. He had never said much about the elves, receiving the first elven ambassador with evident embarrassment and awe. "Think that their god made the world like a harper makes a song, if I understood what I was told—and I doubt I do. A song's not a thing, like a stone you can count, or a lump of iron you can shape . . . it's . . . it's just a thought in the mind, until someone sings it again. It's not really there, between singings. So how can the world be a song?"
"Maybe it's not finished." But even as he said it, Luap felt a shiver go down his spine . . . the world
was
, as Gird said: you could touch it, smell it, taste it. He could not imagine it as something becoming, not in its essence. Humans might move across the world, even change it, as the Aarean lords had laid waste some tracts of forest, but its basic reality didn't change. He hoped.
Gird had grunted; now he prowled near the arches. "Dwarfkind, elvenkind, and this . . . I suppose . . . is for the gnomes?"
"What—lords of light and shadow!" That was a magelord's oath, and earned him a sharp glance from Gird, but he could not help it. Luap swallowed an angular lump of confusion, and wondered if he should tell Gird that the arch he stood under had not been there before. Not there the previous trips, and not there a few—minutes?—ago when they'd first arrived.
"I don't remember seeing this at first," Gird said. His voice was husky; was he finally afraid of something? Luap swallowed again and forced the truth past his teeth, which wanted to grip it.
"It wasn't here." Gird gave him a long level stare. "I swear, Marshal-General—" in this context the title came easily, more easily than his name. "It was not here when I came before, and it was not here when we arrived."
Over his head the arch bore the single unflawed circle of the High Lord, glowing with its own light, as the harp and tree, and the anvil and hammer. Up either column ran the same intricate interlacing patterns as on all other columns in that place, patterns he had seen in weaving or pottery all his life, now graved deep in polished stone. Gird's hand reached out, drew back, went out again, thumbfirst, to follow one of the lines a short way.
"It must . . . must mean something. . . ." All the resonance had left his voice; his brow wrinkled. Of course it meant something; what else? But Gird stared up, mouth gaping as he leaned back. Luap wanted to say something, do something, but couldn't think of anything effective. He wanted to think Gird was disrespectful, but couldn't manage that, either. Gird reserved disrespect for humans. Now he gave Luap another one of his looks. "Did you go through, before?"
"Through one of these?" At Gird's nod, he shook his head. "I would not chance it, marked as they were. And it felt wrong."
"Humph." Gird shook his head, to what question Luap could not guess, and turned away from the middle arch to Luap's great relief. Back up the long, silent, echoing, empty hall, around the dais. "Back there?" Gird's broad thumb indicated the openings hewn in the wall. Luap felt himself flushing, though why he couldn't imagine.
"Yes . . . I did. Not far; I wasn't sure of the light, of the directions—"
"Show me." That was plain enough; Luap shrugged and led the way through the left-hand door. Heartwise, the peasant lore had it. Sunwise, to Arranha and the magelords. The passage ran as he remembered, with no surprising additions, level and dry, wide enough for three men to walk comfortably together. Gird crowded him, nonetheless. "Find any stairs to the outside?"
"No." That had worried him; he knew there must be ways out, for the air to be so fresh. But in his limited explorations, all he'd found were empty chambers and these passages. Around a corner, then another. Ahead the passage forked. "I stopped here, and went back."
"Wise, I would think." Gird licked his finger and held it up. "Ah . . . we'll try the left again."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
"What?" Then he grinned, mischievous; Luap could have smacked him. "You mean being understone like this? That's right—you came later. You knew I was with the gnomes, but not how long. All the winter that was, and never a day's clean light, or living air. An hour or so of this won't bother me."
He wanted to believe that negated the courage, but he knew better. Gird had earned the right to be casual here, in those months with the gnomes. He followed Gird left away from the junction of passages, hoping his trailsense would hold here. Empty corridor followed empty corridor. Rooms opened here and there, blank and empty, floors gritty under his boots. Gird seemed to know where he was going, and Luap followed, stubbornly forcing his fear under control. Finally Gird stopped, and leaned on the wall.