The other man, however, stood up and set his fists on his hips. “What?” he demanded. He was not quite as tall as Gereint, but broader all through, and his voice matched his big frame: deep and guttural. That deep voice was especially harsh now, with annoyance and also with an odd kind of disdain. “You object to payment, do you?” he went on, glowering at Gereint. “What, do you find the payment is not sufficient? Is it base coin? What service would you have refused for this coin? Would you wish to specify? Well?”
Taken aback by this unexpected rebuke, Gereint stared at the big man. He had assumed Beguchren Teshrichten was master in this place; now he did not know. This man was heavyset and powerful, but his air of authority went beyond his size. He looked like a soldier: black hair cropped short on his head, thick beard close-trimmed to outline an aggressive jaw. His features were strong, even heavy, but his eyes snapped with energy and outrage.
It was the outrage that finally prompted Gereint’s belated recognition: There was authority in that guttural voice, but the anger was also clearly the ire of an offended friend. Beguchren Teshrichten, as everyone knew, was the king’s mage. This… this was the king. Brechen Glansent Arobern. The Arobern, himself. As soon as the possibility occurred to Gereint, he was sure it was true.
“Well?” repeated the king, still scowling.
Gereint, appalled, took a breath and tried to think what response he could make.
“Forgive him, my king: He is justifiably both angry and frightened,” Beguchren Teshrichten cut in. His light voice was as smooth and unreadable as ever. “Under the circumstances, I would be amazed at equanimity. If I’m not offended, why should you be?” The mage came a step toward Gereint and added to him, “My actions were unpardonable, but may I ask you nevertheless to pardon them?”
Gereint stared at him, still unable to respond.
The king shook his head, looking only slightly mollified. “What Beguchren does not say is that he was following my orders.” He pointed a heavy finger at a chair near Gereint. “Sit down and listen.”
Gereint sank into the indicated chair.
“You were to be returned to Perech Fellesteden’s heirs,” the king told him grimly. “Only Lady Tehre Amnachudran came to me and told me a story that interested me. Beguchren has an urgent need for a strong maker. I told Beguchren he could have you. I said: How useful, the man is already geas bound! But Beguchren said if he could have free loyalty instead of bound obedience, that would suit him better. So I told him to try your loyalty and courage. I said, prove both or be satisfied with the geas. That was my order, do you understand?” He paused.
Evidently satisfied by the quality of Gereint’s silence, the king then went on: “So you are here, free. And I have no use for these, unless I think of another use, do you understand?” He picked up a pair of small silver rings from a side table and threw them down on the polished desk so that they rang like bells.
Gereint had not noticed the rings until the king picked them up, and flinched involuntarily as they rolled and chimed on the desk. He knew what threat the king was making with that gesture—then he realized, belatedly, what threat the king might actually be making and could not stop himself from flinching a second time.
“So,” the king said, giving him a hard stare, “you serve my friend Beguchren as he requires, and I will let you choose how to dispose of those, do you understand me, Gereint Enseichen? You may melt them down or throw them in the river, what you wish. That is the coin I offer—but if you will not serve my mage, I will think of something else to do with them. Do you understand?”
Gereint began to say “yes,” found his mouth too dry to speak, and swallowed. At last he managed to whisper, “I understand.”
“I think you do,” the king said. “Beguchren, tell me later what you decide. But soon. Yes?”
The mage inclined his head a minute degree. “Of course.”
“Hah. Of course you will,” said the king. He gave his mage a short nod, and Gereint one last scowl, and went out.
“He is not so harsh as he pretends,” Beguchren said, wryly apologetic. “Gereint Enseichen, I did not wish to, as you say, play a game of threats and the iron with you, and I ask your pardon.”
Gereint did not answer. He was not sure he could answer. He felt as though he’d battered down a door and stormed through, only to find he had stepped over a cliff. As though he were still falling, even now.
“You’re very angry,” the mage observed. “And—understandably—very frightened.” He turned and went to a sideboard, poured wine from a carafe into a silver cup, topped the cup up with water, came back, and held the cup out to Gereint.
Gereint took it silently and held it, not drinking.
“I have no doubt you’ve swallowed a great deal of anger and fear in your life,” said the mage. He leaned his hip against the edge of the desk, barely tall enough to do so, and tilted his head, meeting Gereint’s eyes. His manner was more assured than many a court noble’s; indeed, his manner was entirely unlike the usual arrogance of an ordinary court noble; the white-haired mage seemed to combine assurance with an unusual, wry matter-of-factness. He added softly, “I’m glad you trust me enough to show your anger to me. The Arobern was wrong to admonish you for it.”
Gereint put his cup down on the arm of his chair hard enough that the watered wine nearly sloshed over the rim and started to get to his feet, then changed his mind and sank back. He demanded harshly, “What do you want from me? What did you do to me?”
“I did nothing, or nearly nothing,” the mage said gently. “Truly, Gereint. I went into your mind, but you know what I saw there. You have a specific sort of gift: not merely strong, but peculiarly, mmm, flexible, and flexible in particular ways. Did you know?” He paused, but when Gereint did not answer, he went on. “Your gift is suitable, I believe, for my need. I needed to know whether that was so. So I went into your mind, into the private memories you hold. That is why you are so angry. But I had no choice. Gereint Enseichen, I ask your pardon.”
For the third time. Gereint was beginning to feel that continued refusal might merely be churlish. He managed a curt nod.
Beguchren bowed his head a little, despite the ill grace of that nod. “Good. Thank you. You say the man who removed your brand did it for kindness; you claimed a man in Dachsichten did it for principle. Will you believe, at least, that if I did not act from kindness, I might have done so from principle?”
“Cold magecraft is what fashions the geas rings!”
“My principles are not entirely consistent, I admit.” The mage paused, then added softly, “But I was glad to free you, Gereint.”
Gereint stared at him wordlessly. If he had spoken, he knew he would say too much, so he said nothing.
“It’s true I act from my need. But what I need from you, you must give willingly. Perhaps time will lay a foundation for trust to grow. There will be at least a little time. I will be going north tomorrow. You will go with me. I will expect you at the Emnerechke Gates at dawn.”
It did not escape Gereint that the mage still had not said what it actually was he needed from him. Clearly, he was not going to. He did not ask again, but said instead, “You’ll expect me, will you?”
The pale-eyed mage tilted his head. “Shall I not? I know you are capable of gratitude. You might belong now to Lord Fellesteden’s heirs; what do you owe me that you are here”—a slight downward gesture with two fingers—“and free?”
Gereint set his jaw.
“And beyond any consideration of debt and gratitude… I need your help,” the mage added softly. “I do not wish to sound overly dramatic, Gereint Enseichen, but as it happens, we have encountered some difficulty in the north. There are no more mages now, you know. Only I. I am in need of a maker with a strong gift, a certain kind of gift; the kind I believe you possess. A man possessed of both courage and integrity; a man”—and this time the slight, wry gesture compared his own height to Gereint’s—“who is physically strong. So… I shall expect y
ou at the Emnerechke Gates at dawn. Shall I?”
Gereint wanted, for no reason he understood, to say “Yes.” He wanted to bow his head dutifully and agree. He set himself hard against any such acquiescence and said nothing.
“Then, though you may wish to take your leave elsewhere in the city, I shall expect you at the gates at dawn,” concluded the mage imperturbably, exactly as though he had agreed.
It was a dismissal as well as a command. Gereint got to his feet, turned his back on the king’s mage, and walked out.
Fareine opened the door of Tehre Amnachudran’s house when Gereint knocked. Her smile held surprise and delight; her glance downward toward Gereint’s feet seemed perfectly involuntary.
Gereint was still wearing the sandals he had been given. He obligingly turned one foot so the woman could see his ankle. “Legally,” he added. As he said it, it came home to him, almost for the first time, that this was true. Legally free, as he had never truly expected to be again in his life. It should have been a realization of powerful joy. Perhaps it would be, eventually. But he remembered the Arobern throwing the silver geas rings down on the desk and declaring, I have no use for these, unless I think of another use. He said, “I need to speak to Tehre.”
“Of course. The honored lady’s in the library. You are most welcome! She has been very worried for you.” Fareine stepped back and swung the door wide.
Tehre Amnachudran was sitting at the library’s largest table, surrounded by heavy books and scrolls, most of them open. A sheaf of blank papers lay at her elbow and she was holding a long quill in one fine-boned hand. Gereint did not expect her to notice any intrusion, but she looked up sharply when the door opened. Then her small face lit with an unconsidered smile and she jumped to her feet. “Gereint!”
Gereint turned his foot to show her, too, his ankle. “They tell me I have you to thank for this,” he said. Not directly, but Tehre had clearly forged the first link of that chain and hammered it into shape. “You went to the king?”
“Well, I had to,” Tehre said simply. “They said you would go to Lord Fellesteden’s heirs; they said I couldn’t even petition to buy you. So I had to go to the Arobern. No one else can overrule a judge, you know.” Then she stood still for a moment, her formidable attention focused on him. “He said he would give you to Beguchren Teshrichten. Did he?” And, deeply suspicious, “Are you all right?”
“He did,” Gereint answered. “And I don’t know. But I’m free of the geas, and that’s not something I ever expected. What did you tell the Arobern? You told him the truth? That was foolish—”
“I had to,” Tehre repeated, surprised. “Not quite all the truth—not the part I’ve only guessed at myself.” She meant she had carefully left out any speculations about just who might have removed Gereint’s brand. “But most of the truth, yes. How else could I persuade him to listen to me? It worked: He believed me about Fellesteden, you know. He said he needed a man who could be loyal. I told him you would do very well.”
“He might have put you under the geas—”
“But he didn’t.”
Gereint didn’t say, He still might. He thought again of the Arobern’s heavy voice declaring, I have no use for these, unless I think of another use. He said harshly, “You should never have gone to him!”
“But I did,” Tehre said reasonably, “and it’s done. And the Arobern freed you, so everything is fine. I didn’t tell him my father interfered with your brand, you know. Only that you didn’t have it when you came to my door.” She gave a little nod, as though to add, So that’s all right, and turned back toward the table. “As you suggested, I’ve been working on synthesizing our current understanding of the philosophy of materials—”
Gereint was sure she had been.
“It’s slow work,” Tehre added, staring down at the piled and scattered books with a dissatisfied expression. “It takes me away from actually working on the mathematics—I think I’m close to formulating a useful equation about the velocity of propagation in a crack once it actually starts to run, and here I am looking up what other makers and philosophers have said about things that are only obliquely related.” The woman began idly sketching parabolas down the margin of a book, fitting tangent lines to them as she went. She added, “I would greatly prefer to have you do this for me,” and turned her head to give Gereint an intent look.
“I am to go north in the morning,” Gereint told her. “With Beguchren Teshrichten.” He was surprised at the regret this statement caused him: He had not realized that he did, in fact, want simply to say “yes,” and take the quill out of Tehre’s hand.
“Oh!” said Tehre. She paused, her eyes narrowing. “How far north? Tashen?”
She meant, Anywhere near my family’s house? Gereint opened a hand in a gesture of uncertainty. “I don’t know. So you had better write your father, if you haven’t already.”
“Oh, I have. I will again. You came to tell me that? Thank you, Gereint. That may be important, if you—and the lord mage—should go so far.” Tehre paused. Then asked, “Why north? What does the king’s mage want with you?”
Gereint shrugged ignorance. “I would tell you if I knew. There’s evidently some trouble in the north. With the new desert, I suppose. I don’t know what or why the lord mage thinks I’d be useful to his hand in dealing with it.”
“Trouble. Huh. In the north, but you don’t know what it comprises.” Tehre glanced down at her sketches, then back up at Gereint. “I wonder what this ‘trouble’ is, and how close it’s come to my parents’ house. Maybe… hmm. Maybe… there are all those refugees, and Fereine says they say the desert pursued them south. I wonder how large the new desert actually is?”
“Larger than one would think necessary to encompass Melentser,” Gereint said, a little too quickly for a man who was supposed to be from some town in Meridanium and not from Melentser at all. He added, “Or so I’ve heard.”
Tehre nodded, looking thoughtful. “I wonder if it’s still growing? Beyond the agreed bounds? It could be very hard on the north if the desert presses too close to the towns. And on the south if any more people have to leave the north. The prices of everything are already high, even with only the people of Melentser forced to leave their homes.” Her eyes were dark with worry. “My family… Well, but Beguchren Teshrichten is very powerful. I suppose he will be able to settle this ‘trouble,’ whatever it is.”
Gereint, remembering the mage’s hooded eyes and inscrutable smile, thought this was probably true. “But in any case, I wished to see you, honored lady, to thank you for interceding for me. And, yes, to ask whether you’d sent a letter to your father, and urge you to send another. And… that is, if you don’t find it an imposition, I find I would rather leave Breidechboden from the house of a friend.”
“Of course.” Tehre sounded faintly surprised, but she looked pleased. “If you’re not leaving until tomorrow morning, you can help me break your catapult. I thought you would miss that; I’m glad you’ll be here for it. I want to see if I can slow the fracturing process enough to let me really study how the materials break. Do you think you can help me with that? You’ve probably tried to slow down something that was in the process of breaking, haven’t you?”
“Carriage wheels, and an axle once.”
“Perfect!” Tehre declared, and headed for the garden, abandoning the books without a backward look.
Gereint gazed after her for a moment, smiling. The woman’s focus on work was… soothing. Comfortable, in a way he couldn’t really put into words. He could feel knots of tension in his neck and back relaxing. He didn’t know what he thought about Beguchren; he barely knew what he thought of his freedom, such as it was—but he knew he was glad to find Tehre Amnachudran absolutely unchanged. He knew that whatever lay to the north, he would be glad to think of her in this house, breaking mechanisms and developing equations to describe how they fractured.
CHAPTER 6
Tehre did not know what she thought of Gereint’s going
north with Beguchren Teshrichten, but she knew she was glad he was going north as a free man. Or, if not free, at least no more bound than anyone subject to circumstance and the ordinary pressure a powerful man could bring to bear. On the other hand, that was surely compulsion enough. But it was much better than being geas bound to whatever brute was the heir of Perech Fellesteden. She was quite sure that, whoever the heir might be, he was a brute. What other sort of heir could a man such as Lord Fellesteden possibly have engendered?
Gereint left her house well before dawn. Fareine woke Tehre, as she had asked, and Tehre flung on the simple dress she’d laid out ready, pinned her hair up, and ran down to the main door to bid him a proper farewell. He had said, I would rather leave Breidechboden from the house of a friend. It had been important to him. So he had come here. To tell her about the king’s mage and urge her to write her father—of course. But also because it had been important to him to have the house of a friend behind him when he left the city. He evidently had no family—or no family to whom he could go. Tehre had found herself shaken by pity at the idea that Gereint had been abandoned by his family. Whatever he had done. No matter what she might do, she knew her family would never close their house to her.
So she met Gereint at her door to bid him farewell, as a friend would do. He was surprised and, she thought, touched. Tehre wished him luck and fair weather, as she might have wished any friend going out on the road from under her roof.
The tall man tilted his head and quirked an eyebrow at her. “I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to build you a whole series of catapults.”
So was Tehre. She nodded wistfully. “I’ll break other things, I suppose,” she said, and he chuckled, though she hadn’t meant to say anything funny. But she didn’t mind. Gereint laughed at her in a way that made it seem that he was inviting her to share the joke.
Land of the Burning Sands: The Griffin Mage Trilogy: Book Two Page 15