Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  “That is not the point,” Kieri said. “I cannot marry someone the age of my mother. Or someone who will outlive me so long.”

  “Your father did.”

  “My father had need to do so,” Kieri said. “And did he even know how old my mother was? He did his duty—” He realized too late that phrasing could seem an insult to both his mother and elvenkind in general. Orlith looked angry now. “And his mother was not an elf. It may be different with you Elders, but for us, to marry someone the age of our mothers is—”

  “Even if the maid truly loves you?”

  Kieri sensed withdrawal as well as anger and chose his words carefully. “I do not think she loves, or even thinks she loves, the man I am. I think she loves the idea of repeating—perhaps completing—the pattern of elf-maid marrying a human king. It is something she would do for the memory of her friend, my mother, and for closing a circle … but not the real desire of her heart.”

  Orlith’s arms relaxed. “So you are not rejecting her for any flaw?”

  “Flaw! No, in my eyes she is flawless. I meant her no discourtesy. You are right: I did not recognize what she said and did as an offer of marriage, but as permission to court her, if I wished to do so. I do not wish—not because of any flaws in her but because—” He could not tell this ancient person the exact truth; what he had said already must serve. “I will know, when I find the right woman, who it is. I felt nothing from within or from the taig.”

  “The taig seems not upset, true,” Orlith said. He spoke more slowly than usual. “The Lady assured me it had agreed to your union with the maid if it so happened, but I sense no real regret from the taig that it did not.” He paused, then shook his head. “Well. If that is so, and you have said it is, then so be it. But I warn you, the Lady is not pleased, and you may find her less understanding than I am. She is not wont to let human custom stand in the way of her plans.”

  Kieri opened his mouth to ask if she thought the king’s will had any part in her plans but felt something sharp as a pinch in his mind that warned him not to open that topic yet. “Would she ask an oak to grow like an ash?” Kieri asked instead, hoping that metaphor would make sense to Orlith—and, through him, to the Lady. “It is the nature of humans to follow human custom as it is the nature of elves to follow elven.”

  “You are half-elven,” Orlith said. “You should be able to follow either.”

  “I am but one person,” Kieri said, “and for fifty years knew nothing of my elven heritage. Do not bend hardened wood until it breaks.” He took a breath and dared more. “I am, after all, the king the Lady chose to rule with. She and I together, I thought: making decisions, taking actions. You know I have asked her, more than once, to talk with me, help me bring our people closer. Yet she does not come, and I do not believe she spent a full quarter of the year searching out a mate for me.”

  “You criticize the Lady?” Orlith looked furious again.

  “I ask why,” Kieri said. “Does she want me to fail? This realm to fail?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then she should do her duty.”

  “You have no right to speak of her duty!”

  “I am the king,” Kieri said. “That gives me the right. This realm is my responsibility, and I am not going to let it fail because the Lady will not stir herself to tend it. She can spare the time for this, out of her immortality, or she can give up her claim to sovereignty.”

  “You dare! This land was ours; we share it with lateborn out of generosity.”

  “I dare because I must,” Kieri said. “This land survived so long because—so the tales say, at least—elves and humans worked together. Now, as you well know, they do not—and she is not helping. Was she like this when my mother was queen? Did she help my sister when she came so young to the throne? Or did she withdraw to her elvenhome whenever my sister asked for her help?” That, after all, might explain his sister’s sense of betrayal, if after losing mother and brother, her grandmother refused to have anything to do with her.

  Orlith’s expression was suddenly guarded. “Your sister did not ask.”

  “Why not, do you think?”

  Orlith shrugged. “How would I know? She never spoke to me.”

  “Perhaps the Lady never offered,” Kieri said. “I wonder if she even cares that my sister and I were her grandchildren.”

  “The Lady saved you,” Orlith pointed out. “If she did not care, do you think she would have come?”

  It made no sense. “I’m grateful for that,” Kieri said. “But I don’t understand why she is so … so changeable.”

  “She is the Lady,” Orlith said, as if that explained and excused everything.

  “And I am the king,” Kieri said, “but that does not mean I can do whatever I please from moment to moment.”

  Orlith glared but said, “Then perhaps the king’s majesty will condescend to have the lesson which I came to give. We shall go to the garden.”

  Kieri sighed inwardly, but he might as well comply. Though he felt—he was sure—that he was gaining taig-sense even when not around elves, he knew he needed more instruction.

  In the garden, surrounded by the roses in full bloom and the other flowers, birds, insects, he tried to do as Orlith wanted, and use only his taig-sense to identify the components of the garden, but he could not keep his nose from telling him where the roses were, his ears from noticing the wasp that zipped past his ear.

  Yet Orlith was pleased when he was able to sense beyond the rose-garden wall that in the kitchen garden a row of carrots had been pulled … there was a gap where five days before there had been a row of living plants.

  “You have indeed made progress, Sir King. Now try to reach the King’s Grove trees … do you feel them?”

  “Yes,” Kieri said without hesitation. “All I have to do now is reach out.”

  “Good. Then let us see if you can distinguish them.” He handed over a polished stick. “Only one of the King’s Grove trees is kin to this … can you tell which one?”

  Kieri held the stick, admiring the gold and dark grain. “What is it?”

  “Later. For now I want you to feel your way to the parent tree.”

  Kieri had no idea how to match the wood in his hands to his taig-sense connection to the trees … but the taig itself, he thought, might help. He imagined the stick as a tiny child looking for its parent … and as if that were true, one of the trees reached out. His hand tingled, and then he knew.

  “Sunrising side of the circle,” Kieri said.

  “Could you put your hand on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent! Try this one.”

  Dark wood, the grain barely visible. Kieri was sure it was blackwood, but he said nothing and let the taig lead him. This time it was faster; he opened his eyes and said, “Summerwards, two trees into the grove from the circle.”

  Orlith blinked. “Amazing. That is, indeed, the location of the tree. We will try one more—it is the traditional test—but I expect you will have no problems with it.” He handed over a stick of wood with red and black grain that glittered a little in the sunlight.

  “Fireoak,” Kieri said. He had no need to ask the taig; it wrapped itself around and through him, and he and the tree both regarded the wood that had once been part of a particular limb on its sunsetting side with pleasure. He told Orlith; the elf nodded, smiling now.

  “Well done indeed, Sir King!” Orlith stood and bowed. “It is enough for one day.” Then he was gone in an instant, and Kieri realized that he had never answered why the Lady had not come, nor if she would.

  Another chance gone. He wondered when Orlith would come back or if he even would.

  Even as he stood up, one of his Squires appeared in the garden door.

  “Pardon, Sir King—”

  “Yes?”

  “Master-trader Geraint Chalvers to see you—you had asked him for a quarterly report.”

  “Yes, of course.” Master-trader Chalvers, the first merchant a
ppointed to his Council, bowed low as Kieri came into the room. He had a cluster of wood and leather tubes under his arm.

  “Sir King, I have the reports you asked for.”

  “Thank you, Master-trader Chalvers. Perhaps you would like some sib. I was just about to have another cup.”

  “Er … thank you, Sir King.” Chalvers bowed again.

  “We should go to a larger room,” Kieri said, looking at the size of the rolls Chalvers had brought. “Are those maps?”

  “Yes, sire. These were made for trade.”

  “Then we need the big table.” Kieri led Chalvers to the smaller dining room.

  Chalvers spread the maps out on the table. “You asked what impeded trade here. I know you’ve lived most of your life in Tsaia and the south—you’re used to a trade network that runs at least from Fin Panir to the Immerhoft Sea. Here our largest problem is that we’re at the far end of anything … we don’t have an easy pass across the Dwarfmounts, we don’t have a really good river port, and for overland transport our roads are inferior to many in Tsaia and the Guild League roads of the south.”

  “Have you yourself traveled to Aarenis?”

  “Oh, yes, Sir King. When I was young, my father bade me follow the trail of Lyonyan goods all the way to the last buyer. I went as far east as the Immervale and as far south as Cha and Sibili, where I found them making tiles more cheaply than we could. I even came back with the secret of a blue glaze we did not have then. I was gone almost three years.”

  “Well, then, let’s see what you’re showing me.” Kieri bent over the first map.

  “Lyonya has many trails but only two real roads—” Chalvers pointed. “—along the foothills, where every spring the snowmelt and rain flood across the road and no one much cares to fix it. Wagons make it only as far as Halveric Steading, and some years not that far. There was a road, or so the tales run, all the way across Prealíth once, right through the Ladysforest, or what the Ladysforest is now.”

  Kieri nodded, thinking of his own journey the other way, from Bannerlíth to Halveric Steading: forest tracks and trails, dry leaves underfoot and more falling from the trees as day by day it had grown colder. Had he gone through the Ladysforest? He must have, and yet he had never seen an elf. A dim memory came of someone tall and shadowy, asking him questions and then walking into a silvery mist.

  Chalvers was waiting for his attention, he noticed, and nodded again. “Go ahead.”

  “The other road is here, Sir King, along the Honnorgat. At thaw every spring, the river floods some stretches and makes it impassable for tendays at a time. That connects with an even less passable track in Prealíth but intersects one that cuts across here—” He pointed. “—from the river to Bannerlíth. Most of our traffic goes up to the river road, then into Tsaia at Harway. From Harway to Vérella, the Tsaian road is two wagons wide and passable in most weather. We do have wagon access here and here.” He pointed to the southwest corner and partway up—opposite Verrakai land, Kieri thought. “But that middle way was never satisfactory with both Verrakai and Konhalt jealous of traffic. Mud holes and brigandage. We traders think the Verrakai supported both.”

  “So we don’t get as much trade coming in or out, and it’s hard for people to get their wares to a Tsaian or Finthan or southern market.” Kieri looked the map over again; this one did not have all the steadings marked on it, only the few towns and the trade routes.

  “Yes, my lord. T’elves don’t mind; they don’t depend on trade, anyway, not our kind at least. And there are Siers, you know, who are happy to live out in the woods on what they can gather and grow. And I say nothing against that—each to his own. Only if we need an army, my lord, we need a way to feed and clothe it. I know you know that; I’m not meaning any disrespect.”

  “No offense taken,” Kieri said. “You’re quite right. Armies must be fed, clothed, and paid—they don’t come cheap. Some changes we must make, and I agree that better roads is a good place to start. Where would you put the roads?”

  “We can’t do a thing about the southern trade road once it’s in the Ladysforest,” Chalvers said. “We’ll likely never have a trade route by land to Bannerlíth. But up to the last steading before the Ladysforest, it could be improved—bridges over the runoff streams instead of fords, for instance. And the river road or that middle road, supposing the new Verrakai duke allows, could be laid out like the Guild League roads, all-weather roads for heavy traffic.”

  “Those cost a great deal,” Kieri said, thinking of what he’d been told in Aarenis. “Where would the stone come from? And the labor?”

  “That’s this map, my lord,” Chalvers said, unrolling another and spreading it on top of the first. Kieri stared. Chalvers had marked the resources needed for road building: where they were, what ways led to them, and his estimate of costs. “The roads alone will pay for themselves in five years—increased trade. It’s true we don’t have the population of Tsaia or Fintha, but perhaps we could hire rockfolk—dwarves or gnomes—to cut and move the stone.” Kieri had doubts about that; he suspected the elves would not favor such a plan.

  “But the real improvement—and we need the roads to make it work—is this,” Chalvers went on. He put his finger back on the first map, on the Honnorgat northeast of Chaya. “The river towns have landing places and some crude wharves, but they’re not adequate as trading ports. That’s what we need. Water travel—down the Honnorgat to the eastern sea, to Bannerlíth at least and maybe around to Aarenis—would open new markets and be cheaper transport than overland.”

  “It’s a long way,” Kieri said, tracing the route with his finger. “Over the mountains, even going through Tsaia, is shorter.”

  “Yes, but Tsaians take toll of everything that passes through. Downriver, no problem. Harbor fees and cargo taxes at Bannerlíth, but I know the Pargunese and Kostandanyans trade to Aarenis without stopping there.” He tapped the map again. “Look here. There’s a marshy area, a double handful of little mucky streams, not good for anything: dig it out, make it a harbor off the river. What comes out to make the harbor can build up around it to support buildings.” He looked up, grinning. “Our very own river port. Tsaian ports are all above the falls. They’d use our road to reach this port, and they’d pay us tolls. It would still be cheaper, even for them, than going overland—at least for some goods.”

  “You talk to the Pargunese?” Kieri asked; that had trapped his attention.

  Chalvers shrugged. “Well … yes. There’s some trade across the river—not much—but traders will talk to traders whether their rulers are friends or not. We’ve seen their seagoing ships heading downriver, loaded with furs and timber and whatnot. Salt fish, I expect. Woolen goods: their women are fine weavers.”

  Another problem Kieri hadn’t anticipated. Tsaian traders, as far as he knew, had nothing to do with Pargun … but was that true? “So … you found out their routes,” he said to cover his unease.

  “Yes, Sir King. Right now, merchant vessels coming north have nowhere to go but Bannerlíth and one port each for Kostandan and Pargun. Pargun doesn’t have a road from its port up above the falls, and they don’t trade much with Tsaia anyway. Southern merchants would come to us to reach markets in Tsaia and Fintha if we had a safe port and a good road up past the falls. We might even attract the Pargunese. Better to trade than fight, eh?”

  Kieri just managed not to shake his head. He had hoped for a new viewpoint when he insisted on having a merchant representative on his Council, but he had not expected such immediate results. Chalvers had the imagination his Siers seemed to lack and solid practical experience as well.

  “I’m very pleased,” he said. “I agree the roads must be improved. I have hopes that the new Duke Verrakai and Count Konhalt will prove able to reopen that middle road to safe travel within a year or two, but in the meantime we must see what we can do about our own roads. The river port … that had never occurred to me.”

  “It’s an advantage we have over Tsaia,” Chalvers s
aid. “Theirs over us have been a few good roads and a short route to Aarenis, but they have only the one pass over the mountains. If there’s war—well, I’m sure they’d go by sea if they could … and we would profit.” He grinned at Kieri, who could not help grinning back; the man’s enthusiasm was contagious.

  “You are definitely the right man for this task,” Kieri said. “Convincing the rest may be difficult. Though I am king, I prefer to work with my people rather than force them. Still, if we make a start with one road …”

  Chalvers nodded. “Understood, sire. I am the newest on Council; I know that. But even a small start should begin to show its value.” He bowed and withdrew. Kieri smiled after him. What a relief to deal with a sensible, practical human after Orlith! And he hadn’t mentioned marriage.

  Vérella, Midsummer, Coronation Day

  Dorrin, Duke Verrakai, sat her borrowed horse in the coronation procession, very much aware that more than Duke Marrakai’s red chestnut stallion objected to her presence. The horse she understood—a spirited charger would resent her unfamiliar hand and seat. Her tact and skill should settle him quickly. But she felt the gazes of lesser peers behind her as if they were spears tickling her shoulder blades. How could she reassure them? Or would they always fear and distrust her?

  Beside her, Kirgan Marrakai nodded, no hostility now in those green eyes. “You ride very well, my lord,” he said, as they turned the first corner of the palace wall. Then he flushed, having revealed he hadn’t expected her expertise.

  “A fine horse,” Dorrin said. “Kieri always preferred Marrakaibred horses. What’s his name?” She smiled and nodded at the crowd lining the street, held back by Royal Guard troops.

  “Firebrand, my lord,” he said. “Stable name’s Cherry.”

  Ahead of them, the king touched spurs to his horse, and the gray curvetted; Duke Mahieran, just behind him, did the same. The red stallion jigged; Dorrin lifted her hand slightly, shifted her weight, and the stallion lowered his haunches, bent to the right, and began the half-parade. Beside her, Kirgan Marrakai did the same to the left, and the two of them formed a V behind the king and his uncle for a dozen steps before shifting to haunches out. As long as she kept him busy, Dorrin found, the red stallion steadied: supple, obedient to the lightest aid. She doubted anything similar would work with the peers.