The Scepter's Return (51 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“You!” The Banished One's bellow was full of rage and desperation and despair. “You thief! You bandit! You brigand! You have taken that which is mine, that to which you have no right. Do you think you can flout me so?”

In Lanius' dream, he looked at the exiled god. As always, the Banished One's countenance seemed perfectly beautiful, perfectly calm … or did it? Wasn't that the faintest trace of a frown line by the side of his mouth? It marred his inhumanly cold magnificence as a broken window might have marred a building.

And, no matter how impassioned the Banished One sounded, he wasn't telling the truth, not as Lanius understood it. “Years ago, you took what belonged to Avornis,” the king replied. “How can you complain when we do what we have to do to get it back?”

“It is not something mortals deserve to have. It is not something mortals should profane with their touch,” the Banished One said furiously.

Lanius shook his head. The motion felt completely real, although, as always when he faced the Banished One, he knew he was dreaming. “You are the one whose touch profanes it,” Lanius said. “If you could use it, if you were meant to use it, you would have been able to hundreds of years ago. It is not yours. It does not belong to you. It is not for you.”

“It is my key to regaining the heavens,” the Banished One said. “It is mine—
mine,
I tell you! With it in my hands, the so-called gods who cast me down cannot hope to stand against me.”

“But it's no good in your hands, is it?” Lanius said. “It's no good at all to you. You can't even pick it up. While a—” He broke off. He did not want to tell the Banished One a moncat could do what the exiled god could not. He didn't know whether Pouncer was still inside Yozgat or had succeeded in escaping the city. No point to saying anything more than he had to, and a great deal of point to telling the Banished One as little as he could.

Luck—or, just possibly, the protection of the gods in the heavens—stayed with him. The Banished One was so agitated, he didn't notice Lanius' hesitation and didn't probe for what might have caused it. “It should be mine. It must be mine. It shall be mine!” the Banished One shouted.

“It belongs to Avornis again,” Lanius said. “It always was ours, even if you'd stolen it. We can use it. We can—and we will.”

Grus will use it,
Lanius thought, there in the middle of his dream. Even then, that irked him.
He'd
realized Pouncer, who stole kitchen spoons, might steal other things, grander things, if properly trained.
He'd
had Tinamus build a segment of Yozgat in the countryside.
He'd
hired Collurio to make sure the moncat learned what it was supposed to do. What had Grus done that compared, that gave
him
the right to wield the Scepter of Mercy?

No sooner did he ask the question than he also answered it. Grus had led the Avornan army from the Stura south to Yozgat. Without him, Pouncer couldn't have gotten within a couple of hundred miles of the Scepter. That might give the other king a certain claim on the talisman, mightn't it?

“You don't know
how
to use it,” the Banished One said. “I could show you.…”

“I'm sure you could,” Lanius said dryly. But the exiled god, so sensitive to tone most of the time, did not seem to notice that dryness now. The Banished One eagerly leaned forward—eagerly, that is, until Lanius added, “I'm sure you could—for your own purposes, but not for ours.”

The Banished One drew back. More small lines appeared on the visage that was usually smooth as polished marble. “Die, then!” he thundered. “Die, and imagine anyone who comes after you will ever know your name.”

Instead of dying, Lanius woke up. As always after facing the Banished One in a dream, he needed a moment to realize he was safe, and the confrontation was over. Sosia muttered something beside him. “It's all right, dear,” he said. This time, he dared hope it really
was
all right.

He'd wondered whether he would know when and if Pouncer stole the Scepter of Mercy. He still had to wait for a courier to come up from the south. That would take a while. This time, though, he had the answer with or without the courier.

He also had something new to wonder about. Grus had always said he cared more about the Scepter of Mercy than he did about capturing Yozgat. He'd said it, yes, but did he mean it?

I suppose that will depend on how well he's able to use the Scepter,
Lanius thought, and shook his head in slow wonder. Use the Scepter? Had he ever really believed he would think such a thing? He'd hoped so, yes. He'd done everything he could to bring this moment about. But had he really, had he truly,
believed
it would come?

For his very life, he couldn't say for certain.

He got out of bed. Sosia muttered again, but kept on breathing deeply and regularly. Gray predawn light leaked through the drawn shutters. Down in Yozgat, he supposed it would still be dark. Summer days were shorter in the south. By contrast, they had more sunshine down there in the wintertime. Things had a way of evening out. Lanius nodded again. Yes, things had a way of evening out, even if it sometimes took centuries.

The king left the royal bedchamber smiling to himself. He was the only one in the whole city of Avornis who knew what had happened down in the south. That almost made him want to thank the Banished One. Almost. The exiled god hadn't let him know to do him a favor.

I could show you
.… Lanius shivered. No, the Banished One hadn't had his good, or Avornis', in mind with a suggestion like that.

A sweeper paused and bowed as Lanius came up the hallway. “You're out and about early, Your Majesty,” the old man said.

“Not as early as you are,” Lanius answered. The sweeper smiled and nodded and went on with his work.

Lanius wandered. When he looked out through the windows, morning twilight brightened minute by minute. Flowers in the gardens went from gray to their proper blues and reds and golds. A few birds began to sing—not as many as would have in the early spring, but enough to sweeten the morning. More sweepers bowed and curtsied as Lanius went by. Distant shouts from the kitchens said the cooks were getting ready for a new day.

Someone came around the corner—Ortalis. “Good morning, Your Highness,” Lanius said, adding, “You're up early.” It was truer for Ortalis than it had been when the sweeper said it to him; Grus' legitimate son was often fond of lying in bed longer than most.

Ortalis made a horrible face. “Nightmare,” he said. “One of the worst I ever had. Everything in ruins.” He shuddered.

“I'm sorry.” Lanius found himself meaning it, which surprised him. “My dreams were … not so bad.” Had he ever imagined he would say such a thing after seeing the Banished One? He knew he hadn't. But was it true? Without a doubt, it was.

Morning's first sunbeam came in through the window. A new day began.

A new day began. Inside Yozgat, chaos still seemed to reign. Grus wondered whether civil war had broken out among the Menteshe. They'd opened a couple of postern gates and crossed the moat on gangplanks to raid the Avornan works around the city, but hadn't staged the all-out attack he'd feared. Maybe they could see such an assault was hopeless no matter how enamored of the Banished One they were.

That—well, that and a certain thieving moncat—left the Scepter of Mercy in Grus' hands.

He stared at the talisman in …
awe
was the only word he could think of, but it struck him as much too mild. The reliefs on the golden staff were so fine, he didn't see how any merely earthly, merely human artisan could have shaped them. They showed the gods in the heavens with a liveliness, an intimacy, that had to speak of personal knowledge—and how could any merely human artisan hope to come by that?

The great blue jewel atop the Scepter shone and sparkled with a life of its own. Grus could not imagine a sapphire that size. Besides, the color was wrong for a sapphire, and no sapphire—indeed, no earthly jewel he knew of—possessed that inner fire. Where could it have come from? Probably from the same place as that intimate knowledge of the gods.

Wherever it came from, the staff was plainly solid gold. And a solid gold staff of that size should have made the Scepter of Mercy much, much heavier than it was. How had the moncat ever carried it out of Yozgat? Without much trouble, evidently. And Grus had no trouble lifting it. When he did, in fact, it hardly seemed to weigh anything at all.

Lanius had said something about that. Grus scratched his head, trying to remember. For those who would use it rightly, the Scepter was light—it
made
itself light. Those who would do otherwise with it couldn't lift it at all. The Banished One himself had never found a way to wield it.

Having it was one thing. Wielding it … But why had it let itself come into his hands, if not for him to wield it?
Do I have the strength?
Grus wondered.
Can I do this? Should I do this?

He hesitated. But if he did not have the strength, why had he—and Lanius, and the Kingdom of Avornis—gone through so much to reach this moment? If these years of effort had any point, it was that he
should
wield the Scepter of Mercy.

He swung the Scepter toward the south, toward the Argolid Mountains, toward the Banished One. It still seemed feather-light in his hands, which encouraged him.
This is what I ought to be doing,
he thought. He turned the jewel this way and that, like a dowser casting about for water.

And, as a dowser felt where to dig a well, so Grus knew the instant he aimed the Scepter of Mercy at the exiled god. Power crackled up his arms, as though lightning had struck nearby. The hair at the back of his neck stood up, also as though he found himself in the middle of a thunderstorm. During dreams, he'd known the Banished One was strong. But he'd never understood
how
strong the Banished One was while he dreamed. Now the king encountered him with all his own faculties intact, and was amazed at what he'd done in those dreams.

Along with that astounding power, he took the measure of the Banished One's hatred—for him, for the material world, for the gods in the heavens who had cast him down to the world. But, under that hatred, the Scepter also showed him the Banished One's fear.

Had he not known of it, he would have had a hard time believing it was there, for his own fear was great as well. But the Scepter's revelation helped him pluck up his courage. “Now we meet while I am awake,” he said.

What if we do?
the Banished One said sullenly. Grus couldn't hear him the way he did in dreams, but had no trouble understanding what he meant.
You are a thief. You will not come to the end you look for, no matter what you do with
that.
I have told you the same thing before, and told you truly.

Grus thought the Scepter of Mercy would let him know if the exiled god were lying. He got no sense of that now. He shrugged. How much did it matter? Not nearly as much as keeping the Banished One within some kind of reasonable limit. “Hear me,” he said, and the Scepter made sure the Banished One
did
hear him.

Rage came back through the Scepter.
Who are you
—
what are you
—
to speak to me so?

“I am the King of Avornis,” Grus said. “You and yours have tormented my kingdom since time out of mind. I am going to call you to account for it. Do you understand?”

By way of answer, he got back another blast of fury, this one strong enough to stagger him. But that fear underneath it remained. The Banished One was sure Grus
could
call him to account. If the Banished One hadn't been sure, Grus wouldn't have been so sure himself.

“Do you understand?” he repeated, and something went out with his words, something that said the Banished One had better understand.

I hear you.
The Banished One might have been a chained dog running out and discovering, suddenly and painfully, the length and strength of the chain.

“Then hear this. From now on, you will not order or encourage the Menteshe to go to war against Avornis. You will not order or encourage the Chernagors to go to war against Avornis. You will not order or encourage the Thervings to go to war against Avornis. You will not aid any of these folk, or any others, in their wars against my kingdom. By the power of the Scepter of Mercy, I order you to obey.”

The Banished One's laugh could still flay.
Very well, little man. I shall do as you require of me here. Just as you command, so shall it be. And it will do you less good than you think.

He was liable to be right. The Menteshe, the Chernagors, and the Thervings could find reasons of their own to war against Avornis. They didn't need the Banished One to spur them on. But Grus said, “I'll take the chance. And, by the power of the Scepter of Mercy, I order you to abandon all spells that make men into thralls, or that sap the will of men so they do not know or fully understand what they are doing, such as the ones you used on the Menteshe when Korkut's men and Sanjar's attacked mine together.”

You dare demand this?
the Banished One said furiously.
Do your worst, for here I shall not hearken to you.

“I mean it,” Grus said. “That is my command. You will make it so.” He exerted his will. He exerted it—and the Scepter of Mercy magnified it. By himself, he couldn't have hoped to prevail. The Banished One would never even have noticed his will, let alone yielded to it. The Banished One hadn't noticed his will, or Lanius', as they mounted the campaign that yielded Avornis the Scepter of Mercy. That the exiled god hadn't was perhaps his greatest failing.

He fought back now with all his formidable strength. Opposing him was like opposing the wind, the sea, the storm. His anger and his power buffeted Grus. The king struck back. Thanks to the Scepter, he could feel the Banished One wincing when his blows landed. It was a contest where the two enemies never touched, where many miles separated them. But it reminded him of nothing so much as two strong men standing toe-to-toe smashing each other in the face until one of them either fell over or, unable to stand the battering anymore, gave up.