The Scepter's Return (57 page)

One of his guardsmen pointed east. “Here come the Thervings, Your Majesty,” the man said.

Grus shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand. “You're right,” he said after a moment. “Is that Berto, there in the middle? The one whose beard is going gray?” He wasn't sure just how old Berto was. Older than Lanius and younger than he was himself, but that covered a lot of ground.

“I think so, Your Majesty,” the guardsman replied. “Yes—I'm sure it is. He's wearing a coronet.”

Even as he spoke, the King of Thervingia's gold circlet flashed in the sun. Grus nodded. “Well, so he is. He doesn't have very many men with him, does he?” The troopers who rode with Berto were far fewer than the men accompanying Grus. If he'd wanted to … But he didn't. If Dagipert had given him a chance like this, he would have been sorely tempted. Dagipert, of course, had been far too canny ever to make such a mistake.

Chuckling, Grus remembered his last meeting with Berto's father. They'd each rebuilt part of a bridge over the Tuola River, a bridge that had long been cast down to help keep the Thervings out of the heartland of Avornis. They'd spoken across a gap too wide to let either reach the other with a weapon. And after the parley, Avornans and Thervings wrecked what they'd built.

These days, the bridge over the Tuola stood again. Grus had crossed it on the way to the border. Therving traders and Avornan merchants went over it every day. Soldiers—soldiers in arms, anyhow—didn't seek to cross it. That was why it stood again.

Berto had almost reached the granite pillar that marked the border. Dagipert had knocked that pillar over not long after the start of his reign, but it too stood once more. Grus waved to the approaching King of Thervingia. “Welcome, Your Majesty!” he called, first in Avornan, then in Thervingian. He didn't speak much of the latter, but he'd made sure to learn that phrase.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Berto answered, first in his own tongue, then in almost accentless Avornan. He kept on using Grus' language as he continued, “I am glad to enter your kingdom as a peaceful pilgrim.”

“And we are glad to have you here.” Grus rode up to the pillar, but not an inch beyond. He held out his hand. Berto took it. His clasp was stronger than Grus had expected. He might not be a warrior, but he was no weakling.

Berto rode past Grus and into Avornis. “It's been many years since I've seen your capital,” he said, and smiled. “This time, my people won't have to besiege it to let me get inside.”

Grus smiled back. “You've always been welcome to visit, Your Majesty, as long as you didn't try to bring your whole kingdom along.”

“Here I am,” Berto said. “I think the men I have with me will be plenty. In fact, I think I could have come alone and been as safe as though I'd stayed at home—maybe safer. Any man who could use the Scepter of Mercy, any man who could bring it back from the south, would not betray his trust with a guest.”

And what am I supposed to say to that?
Grus wondered. The first thing that came into his mind and out of his mouth was, “You do me too much credit.”

“I don't think so,” Berto said. “The Scepter of Mercy!” His gray eyes went wide with what Grus slowly recognized as awe. “Real proof that the gods in the heavens care about us and care for us.”

“Well, so it is.” Grus didn't mention that it seemed to him to be proof the gods in the heavens didn't care about the material world very much. If they had, would they have let the Scepter stay lost for so many centuries? Would they have let so many generations of thralls live and die one short step above beast-hood? Grus suspected they worried more about the Banished One and his chances of storming into the heavens again than about Avornis or Thervingia or anything else merely human.

He didn't say any of that to Berto. If the other king wanted to believe in merciful gods who watched over him, why not? Grus wished he could do the same.

“Shall we go on, then, Your Majesty?” Berto said.

“I am at your service, Your Majesty,” Grus replied. He waved to his men. They all swung their horses back toward the east, back toward the city of Avornis. Dust kicked up from the animals' hooves as they began to walk. Grus smiled again. Going places at a walk was a pleasure, a luxury, all by itself. He'd spent a lot of years trying to get from here to there in a tearing hurry. Right this minute, he didn't have to, and he wanted to savor the sensation of slowness.

Cattle and sheep grazed in the meadows. Farmers tended their fields—harvest time wasn't far away. When Dagipert warred against Avornis, this province west of the Tuola had been a ravaged wasteland, fought over and plundered by both sides. Peace had a lot to be said for it.

“I've always wanted to meet you,” Berto said. “My father admired you greatly.”

“Did he?” Grus hoped he didn't sound too surprised. “I always had great respect for him, too.” In less polite language, that meant,
He scared the whey out of me.
“He was a formidable man.”

“He would say, ‘The cursed Avornans found somebody who knew what he was doing, and just in the nick of time.'” Berto's voice was mild, on the border between tenor and baritone. He deepened and roughened it to give a pretty good impression of the way his father had sounded. He went on, “I mean no offense—that was how he talked. And he'd say, ‘If not for that miserable Grus, I'd have Avornis in my belt pouch.'”

Dagipert had come close as things were. Grus said, “Both sides spilled a lot of blood and a lot of treasure. You should always be able to fight at need, but you shouldn't go looking for the need all that often.”

“I agree,” Berto said, and said no more.

Once again, Grus wondered how he would have done if he'd had to worry about Thervingia along with the Chernagors and Menteshe.
Not very well,
he thought. Yes, who would have imagined the ferocious Dagipert could have a peaceable, pious son? Grus sent a sudden, startled glance upward.
Maybe the gods in the heavens did.

“What is it?” Berto asked.

“Nothing,” Grus answered. Then, because he was an honest man (except sometimes when he was talking to his wife), he added, “I don't think it's anything, anyway.” It certainly wasn't anything he or Lanius or Pterocles would be able to prove. The most they would ever be able to do was wonder.

To his relief, King Berto proved incurious. “All right,” he said, and let it go at that. The two sovereigns and their retinues rode deeper into Avornis.

The gates to the city of Avornis stood open. Lanius waited on his horse not far outside the one that faced west. Beside him, looking much more comfortable on horseback, sat Anser. The arch-hallow had other things than horsemanship to worry about today. “I'm not used to riding in these robes,” he muttered. The crimson vestments of his office were indeed a far cry from the hunting clothes he usually chose when he got on a horse.

“Can't be helped,” Lanius said. “King Berto expects you to look like a holy man.”

“I know. I'll do it,” Anser said. “He doesn't know just what he's getting, though, does he?”

“He's getting the arch-hallow,” Lanius told him. “That's all he has to worry about.” He looked down the road that led to Thervingia, the road along which so much trouble for Avornis had come in years gone by. The dust from Berto's followers and Grus' had been visible for some little while. Now he could make out the horses that were kicking it up. “They won't be long.”

“So they won't,” Anser agreed. “I'll show Berto the great cathedral, and then he'll go over to the palace and slobber on the Scepter of Mercy.”

That was inelegant, which didn't make it any less likely to be true. Up rode King Grus and King Berto. Grus bowed in the saddle and nodded to Lanius. “Your Majesty, I am pleased to present to you His Majesty, King Berto of Thervingia.”

Lanius held out his hand to Berto. “We've met before, Your Majesty.”

The Therving had been smiling before. His smile got broader now. “Why, so we have. I was not sure you would remember.”

“Oh, yes,” Lanius said, although in fact he could not recall Berto's face. “Welcome to the city of Avornis.” He waved back toward the open gate. “You are welcome here.”

No Therving, not even the mighty Dagipert, had ever forced his way into the capital. But Berto hadn't tried to force his way in; he came in peace. He was looking from Anser to Grus and back again. More than Ortalis back at the palace, Anser favored his father. Berto didn't remark on it, not out loud. All he said was, “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Most Holy.”

“And I yours, Your Majesty. I hope the gods in the heavens looked over you on your way here and gave you a safe and pleasant journey.” Though not an especially holy man, Anser could sound like one when he had to.

“Yes, thank you,” Berto said. “I so look forward to seeing the great cathedral once more—and then, perhaps, if all of you would be so kind, the Scepter of Mercy itself?”

“Without a doubt, Your Majesty,” Lanius said. Grus nodded. Anser's expression was full of I-told-you-so.

Along with his followers, the two Kings of Avornis, the arch-hallow, and the men who had ridden with Grus, King Berto rode over the drawbridge and entered the capital. Local citizens came out to cheer him. The older ones no doubt had fearful memories of less friendly Therving visits to the neighborhood of their city, but Dagipert had been dead for a good many years now. Palace officials made sure the crowd was friendly, sometimes with small bribes. That had been Grus' idea; Lanius, who wouldn't have thought of it himself, admired it all the more because he wouldn't have.

King Berto pointed toward the great cathedral's spire, a landmark that stood out more than the palace's disorderly sprawl. “It's as splendid as I remember, leaping to the heavens,” Berto said. “Will the arch-hallow lead a service for me?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I would be honored,” Anser said smoothly. And when they got inside the cathedral, he did a perfectly capable job of saying the required prayers and chanting the hymns that went with them. How deeply he felt what he was doing—indeed, whether he felt it at all—was a different question, but, with luck, not one that occurred to the King of Thervingia.

The more obvious question had occurred to Berto. “He looks like you,” he murmured to Grus during a lull in the services.

Lanius wondered how the other king would handle that. “D'you think so?” Grus answered, his voice bland. But then he relented. “He
is
my son, Your Majesty, but on the wrong side of the blanket, if you know what I mean.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” Berto did his best to look worldly-wise. “You seem to have found a good place for him here, for I can tell how much he loves the gods.”

That meant Anser made a better actor than Lanius had suspected. If Berto had spoken of the chase … There, the arch-hallow's enthusiasm was altogether unfeigned. Well, Anser had earned some good hunting with his performance here today.

Berto bowed and knelt and prayed and chanted with unfeigned enthusiasm of his own. Lanius tried his best to match, or at least to appear to match, the King of Thervingia's piety. He noticed Grus doing the same thing. His eye slid to the Thervings who'd accompanied their king to the city of Avornis. They also did not seem to be merely going through the motions. Maybe they were as sincere as Berto, or maybe, like courtiers everywhere, they simply had the sense to follow him in whatever direction he went.

“Coming here does my soul good,” Berto said when the service ended. “This wonderful building reminds me how important the gods are to us all. You Avornans are so lucky, to be able to worship here whenever you please.” He paused. Lanius and Grus both nodded politely. Neither said anything. Berto went on, “Would it be … could it be possible for me to see the Scepter of Mercy now?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Lanius and Grus said together. Lanius added, “The palace is only a short walk away.”

Queen Estrilda waited at the entrance. So did Queen Sosia, with Crex and Pitta. And so did Prince Ortalis and Princess Limosa, with Capella and baby Marinus. King Berto was unfailingly polite to the rest of the Avornan royal family. It was plain, though, that they interested him not in the least. And why should they have? Next to the Scepter of Mercy, they were only … people.

Lanius hoped the servants had gotten all the trophies won in battle against the Thervings out of sight. He didn't want to remind Berto how often their kingdoms had clashed in days gone by.

Guardsmen drew themselves up to stiff attention as the three kings came up to the Scepter of Mercy. “How beautiful it is!” Berto whispered. “That jewel … Yes, you
are
lucky, all of you. You tempt me to go to war to carry it back to Thervingia.” He laughed. “That is a joke, my friends. No one who does not serve the Banished One could want to take the Scepter away from its proper home.”

If it was a joke, Lanius found it far from funny. He thought of a way to test it. He lifted the Scepter of Mercy and handed it to Grus, hoping the other King of Avornis was thinking along with him. And Grus was. Most ceremoniously, he passed the Scepter to Berto.

The King of Thervingia gasped at the honor the Avornans had done him. And it
was
an honor. But it was also a test. If he wanted to steal the Scepter, wouldn't it sense as much and not let him hold it? So Lanius reasoned, anyhow.

But King Berto had no trouble holding the Scepter. An exalted look spread over his face. “In my hands,” he murmured. “In
my
hands …” He bowed deeply to Lanius and to Grus, then returned the Scepter of Mercy to Lanius. “I prove myself worthy of it by giving it back.”

At that, Lanius and Grus both bowed to him. “We realized the same thing, Your Majesty,” Lanius said respectfully. “If the Scepter has a secret, that is it.” And it was a secret the Banished One would never, ever understand.