Crown of Renewal Page 11

  Vaskronin disappeared from his mind, leaving Alured, survivor of many desperate times. He called on the magery his advisor had given him, clutching the red jewel on a chain around his neck. His troops roared and held their ground; he cast a dark cloud laden with fear at the enemy. For a moment the massed pikes faltered; the cavalry horses shied, bucked, bolted out of control. His troops advanced again, pushing the enemy back toward the creek while Alured aimed the fear and anguish trapped in the advisor’s jewel.

  Finally the enemy broke and ran. He held his troops back from pursuit and pressed on to the vill. That fortified vill would make an excellent camp, a base from which to advance again.

  He had won. He could conquer Fallo, and next year—next year he would take the rest of Aarenis. The year after that, the north. King. King of all.

  You are strong and brave; you deserve to be king.

  Familiar warmth spread through his body, this time more flame than warmth along his bones. He felt more alive than ever, filled with strength, power, the wild joy of victory. In that moment of exultation, he had no thought of the disfigured child, of Andressat’s curse, of possible treachery. He dropped the reins, raised both hands high—sword and jewel symbols of his power—and spurred his mount toward the vill with the others, yelling in triumph.

  And in that moment, the horse—the thief’s horse—squealed and twisted like a snake, fastening its teeth in his left leg, crushing his boot, grinding, yanking at his leg with all the strength of its powerful jaws and neck, pulling him out of the saddle. He dropped both jewel and sword, grabbing for the saddle, the mane, trying to stay on, but the horse shook his leg like a rag, kicking out behind. His own soldiers, aghast, could do nothing before he finally fell hard on the ground. The horse dropped his leg and bolted back the way they had come. No one pursued it.

  He knew as he fell that he must get up at once and take control; without the jewel-caused terror, the enemy forces would return to the fight. His own forces might break. But the fall stunned him for a moment, and he heard a low moan from those nearest. He struggled up, mouth too dry to yell over the noise, but as soon as he put weight on his left leg, pain lanced through his twisted knee, and his leg gave way. He lurched but managed to hop on one foot. He felt for the red jewel on its chain but found neither chain nor jewel. He saw his sword at a little distance … then one of his men was there with a horse, and another on foot. Together, they boosted him onto that horse; one of them handed up his own sword for Alured to use as the Fallo troops closed in.

  His left leg dangled, painful and useless; he struggled to say atop the horse, let alone use the sword he’d been given. His troops, surprised by the turn of fortune, looked to him, expecting the familiar magery. The enemy, heartened, closed again; arrows flew from their bows. Even as he shouted orders—close up, hold the ground—he wondered where the jewel was. What if the enemy found it?

  The battle now going on had a different feel to it; his troops were giving way—stubborn in their resistance but outnumbered. A fighting retreat was still possible—was necessary; Alured gathered his wits and gave the orders. Movement between the horses caught his eye. The man who had given up his horse and sword looked around—bent down and came up with Alured’s sword … and then, backing up two steps, stooped again, with a handful of chain and the red jewel glowing in the light.

  Kill him!

  His advisor was back, angry as his master had ever been at seeing the jewel in a stranger’s hand. The pressure of that other mind filled Alured’s head, punishing: the pain in his leg was as nothing to the agony in his head.

  Kill him! Take the jewel! Hurry!

  The man had turned toward him, his mouth open, calling something, but Alured could hear nothing over the voice inside. The man held up the jewel even as battle raged around them … he was coming to give it back.

  KILL! He knows too much!

  They were too close to the roiling edge of battle; Alured could see Ganarrion’s troopers only a few horse-lengths away now. The man on the ground ran the last few steps, holding up the necklace. “My lord—I found it! Here it is!” Alured reached out for it, overbalancing as his injured leg could not grip the horse’s side; the man pushed the jewel into his hand and then pushed Alured back upright. “My lord—you’re hurt—you must retreat. I’ll lead your horse.”

  The jewel warmed in Alured’s hand; strength flowed back into him as the pain in his head receded. Even his injured leg obeyed his command; his foot found the stirrup, and the leg snugged against the horse’s side. By then the man had caught hold of the reins and turned the horse, leading it toward the safer interior of his troops. Though his advisor still told him to kill the man, Alured-not-Visli felt relief. The man had saved his life; the man was not a thief but had given back the jewel. He did not want to kill the man; if enemies should be punished, surely those who gave good service should be rewarded.

  Fool! He knows too much; he must die.

  They might all die if he did not concentrate on the battle and drive back the enemy once again. Yet he knew the jewel offered only one power at a time—he could not use it for strength for himself and at the same time send terror to his enemies. Had enough healing already occurred that he could use his leg without the jewel’s help?

  He shifted his concentration, ignoring the pain that gripped his leg, and felt once more his own troops’ renewed confidence and the enemy’s loss of it. But this time the effect was not so powerful, and he could not maintain that concentration—and his balance in the saddle—very long. By worse mischance, an arrow struck his injured leg.

  All that day the battle wavered back and forth, but by nightfall they were farther from the village, with the enemy testing their camp’s defenses.

  The surgeon who attended him insisted he must not ride again until the leg healed—if it did. “The bite of a horse is a crushing wound, my lord. And the fever demons delight in a crushing wound. And your knee, my lord, was wrenched, I suppose when you fell. This is a serious wound, my lord—”

  “From a horse.” That was humiliating, to be felled by a horse bite.

  “And then the arrow, my lord. It struck the bone.” He made himself look at the wound. They had cut off his boot; the horse’s teeth had gone through the leather and into his flesh. His leg was swollen, purple and red, with blood oozing from the teeth-marks and the slice the surgeon had made to extract the arrowhead. His knee was swollen to twice its size. The surgeon laid a poultice of healing herbs on it and bound the leg in splints. “Stay off it or it might never heal.”

  The next day began the miserable retreat; he lay in a wagon, using the jewel as much as he could to hold off the most dangerous attacks, but he was soon exhausted and feverish. Every jolt of the wagon sent waves of pain through his leg and his ribs; the surgeon told him now they were likely broken. Daily his advisor told him to find and kill the man who had saved him, but he had no energy to spare for that.

  By the time the army reached Cortes Immer, his leg was obviously infected, swollen almost to the groin. His surgeon had cut it open again to drain the stinking pus and pack the wound with healing herbs, but Alured—never thinking of himself as Visli now—was sure he would lose his leg or die. How could a one-legged man become king?

  You can still be whole and a king. Do what I tell you.

  Gird’s Hall, Fin Panir

  Her shoulder ached; she could not sleep. Arianya, Marshal-General of Gird, squirmed higher against her pillows, trying not to make a noise. If she couldn’t sleep, at least she could think, and she thought better sitting up. She hoped.

  The past half-year had been the worst of her life as the Fellowship splintered on the matter of magery. She blamed herself for not anticipating the degree of resistance—the resurgence of the same hatred and resentment of magery that had in the end cost Gird’s life even as it gave peace for a time to the Fellowship and allowed Luap to get the surviving magelords to Kolobia.

  Where they had died, most of them, through Luap’s stupidity
. She shifted, clenching her teeth at the pain as she thought of it. Only a few scraps gave clues to exactly what Luap had done … and so he offered her nothing to learn from. She would have to figure this out for herself. The only thing she could think of that might work was having everyone—every single yeoman, from birth to old age—cursed or gifted with mage-powers at once. And even that might not work. And even if it did, she had no way to accomplish it.

  Down the hall she heard footsteps … boots, not soft indoor shoes as most wore at night. Her breath caught; her pulse quickened. Another assassin? Moving openly because he had already killed the guards—or the guards had proved disloyal? A firm tap on her door and a voice she knew: “Marshal-General? Are you awake?”

  “Come in,” she said. Arvid Semminson was an assassin—or had been—but she hoped he was now Gird’s true yeoman, surprising as the transformation had been. He smelled of the outdoors: horse, leather, sweat, and a breath of night’s coolness clung to him. “What news?”

  “How’s that wound?” he asked. He tucked his gloves into his belt, doffed his cloak, and hung it on a peg across the room. “You’re not sleeping, and you look like someone in pain. Should’ve healed by now with all the Marshals around to give it a nudge.”

  She shook her head. “Too many others in the city needed them. I’m not that—”

  “You are,” he said across her words. “You are that important. Who’s going to take over if you die?”

  He had once seemed suave, tactful, but since the troubles started, he had shed his smooth manner for directness.

  “The Marshalate would vote,” she said. “It might be Donag.”

  “Or it might be some idiot,” Arvid said.

  “How’s your boy?” she asked, hoping to divert him.

  “He’s fine. Growing, learning … and not, so far, showing a speck of mage talent, Gird be thanked.” He shook his head at her. “It’s you, Marshal-General, we have to worry about. The Fellowship needs you, and you’re not healing as you should. Was the weapon poisoned?”

  He’d asked that before. So had others. Her memory of the attack was blurred, more than any other memory in her life, and she did not understand it. Several dark figures—she could not say how many—and though she had fought them off until approaching help sent them fleeing into the night, one had pierced her shoulder, the tip grating on bone.

  “Let me see,” he said now. “But I still think—”

  “Oh, very well.” She moved, and the pain wrenched her again.

  “Soon,” he said. This time she did not hear his boots on the floor, but before she could wonder why not, he was back with one of the yeoman-marshals, Lia. To her he said, “I had a report to give the Marshal-General, but she looks no better than when I left—I believe the weapon must have been poisoned. Has no one seen it?”

  Lia frowned. “Marshal-General—who’s been binding it up for you?” She turned to Arvid. “She’s been at her desk half-days; we thought it was fine. But she does look bad tonight.”

  “Others needed help more,” Arianya said. “I could do it—” But the pain worsened as if to mock her, and she sagged back against the pillows. “Sorry …”

  “Let’s get her shirt off,” Arvid said.

  “I can …” she began, but sitting up wrenched a groan from her, and Lia quickly moved to support her back.

  “She’s hot,” Lia said.

  “Fever, most like,” Arvid said. Arianya wanted to protest, but she could scarcely keep from crying out as they lifted the shirt. She heard Lia’s sharp intake of breath at whatever it looked like. “And that’s more than one wound,” Arvid went on. “I would wager you told no one about the others, did you?” He sounded angry.

  Arianya summoned the last of her strength. “They were scarcely more than scratches. I put herbs on them.”

  His hand touched her shoulder lightly; she tensed, expecting the pain again, but instead felt the warmth of his breath. “I’m smelling—some poisons have a strong scent …” His voice trailed away.

  “What?” Arianya said.

  Instead of answering her, he said, “Lia, she needs healing—find any Marshals or paladins; bring them here.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. We do not have much time.”

  The girl’s footsteps clattered away. Arianya opened her eyes; Arvid was beside her, staring down at the wound.

  “What is it?” she asked again. This time he met her gaze.

  “It’s definitely poisoned,” he said. “And by something we in the Guild believed was an elven poison. Could your attackers have been elves?”

  She tried to force her memories to clarity, but the attackers remained shadows. “They were tall,” she said. “They wore dark clothes, like … thieves—”

  “The Guild never contemplated killing a Marshal-General,” Arvid said. “It would cause too much trouble. If elves attacked you, though—you had that visit from elves—”

  “The kuaknomi,” Arianya said. “Those elves were worried about the kuaknomi in the western stronghold, where Luap was. Said he’s let them out—”

  “They’re just elves, aren’t they? Another tribe?”

  “More than that,” she said. All at once she felt strength flowing out of her, as if even mentioning kuaknomi harmed her. She could scarcely keep her eyes open.

  “No!” Arvid’s voice was loud, painfully loud. “Open your eyes—look at this!”

  She struggled and managed to open her eyes enough to see what he held. Her Girdish medallion, with a candle held close so it glittered in that light.

  “Gird does not want you to die now,” Arvid said in a quieter voice.

  She wanted to laugh but lacked the strength. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes. You know Gird … speaks to me.”

  “And he spoke to you about me?” She could not really believe that. Everyone knew the gods and heroes of old spoke to some but not to most.

  “Sometimes people don’t listen,” Arvid said. “Sometimes they’re doing well enough and nothing needs to be said.” A pause, then he added, as if prompted, “He doesn’t want you to die now. I’m sure.”

  She heard voices outside her rooms, echoing in the stairwell. Too many voices—Lia must have roused more than a couple of Marshals. First in the room was High Marshal Donag.

  “You!” he said to Arvid. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to report to the Marshal-General and found her wounds had not been properly treated,” Arvid said.

  “You accuse us—!”

  “Of nothing,” Arvid said. “But it is a fact. There’s poison—possibly even a remnant of the blade that made the wound.”

  “She didn’t say—”

  “Marshal-General—” Camwynya, one of the paladins now resident in Fin Panir, ignored the High Marshal and threaded her way through the others to the bed. “May I see?”

  Arianya nodded. Several were talking now, some arguing with the High Marshal and some agreeing with him. She wished they would all be quiet and go away, but she could not summon the energy to tell them so.

  Camwynya’s face showed her shock when she uncovered the wound. “It’s not healed at all—who looked at it first?”

  Arianya could not remember. Someone, she thought, had helped her stanch the bleeding, laid folded cloth on it, wrapped the bandages around, but all she clearly remembered was struggling to replace them … when? The next morning, surely, but she could not remember that, either. She murmured that. Camwynya’s eyes narrowed.

  “It’s definitely poison, and one I don’t know. Arvid, do you?”

  Arvid moved closer to the bed. “We thought it was elven in the Guild. Marshal-General mentioned kuaknomi.”

  Arianya looked up—the other faces seemed strange—still talking, some looking at her, some at one another, all shadowed, this cheekbone and that brow picked out in yellow candlelight.

  “Kuaknomi.” Camwynya leaned over her. “Marshal-General, we must probe the wound, see if anything’s left i
nside. You know how often their weapons are designed to leave a fragment in the wound. I fear the effect of numbwine, as weak as you are.”

  “Light,” Arianya said. “Need light.”

  Light blazed in the room—Camwynya’s light, Gird’s light. She blinked against it. She felt the bed move as several dragged it out into the room and then hands on her shoulders. Camwynya laid one hand over Arianya’s heart and the other on the wound itself. Pain stabbed deep—deeper than the wound itself, it felt like. Arianya closed her eyes, trying not to struggle against it … and still there was light, shadowless, pure, unending.

  And another face, the one she had imagined so often but never seen, emerged from the light, looking at her … steady gray eyes, endurance and compassion in the lines of his face.

  In the haze of light and pain, Arianya murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  The brows went up, and the mouth quirked. “For others’ misdeeds?”

  “For my mistakes.” She was aware that she was not speaking aloud, that somewhere else others were working on her body, but the pain had eased … had vanished … leaving her here in the light with the old, stoop-shouldered balding man in his faded blue shirt.

  He shrugged. “Everyone makes mistakes. I made mistakes. Are you leaving my service?”

  “Leaving …”

  “You allowed none to care for you. Why?”

  “I did not deserve—”

  He grunted. “What you deserve is not at issue. Others deserve a good Marshal-General.”

  “A good Marshal-General would have found more paladin candidates … would have foreseen this trouble … would have …”

  “Been a god?” A bite of sarcasm in that. “Neither of us, Arianya Girdsdotter, is a god. I was a good-enough leader when I lived in that room; I am a good-enough messenger now. Make up your mind: Will you leave my service, or will you stay?”

  Faced with that face, she had only one answer. “I will stay.”

  “Good. We must talk again another time. You do not always listen well, Arianya. Be well.” She felt the touch of a hand on her forehead—his?—and the brilliant light slowly dimmed. She felt pain again and heard other voices.