Cerisia sensed a balance forming, a knife’s edge over which the paladin was walking, but she could not yet see the substance of the threat he was negotiating.
Harlach saw it too, as he snorted and waved a huge hand dismissively. “If you’ve become what the tales say then you’d do as much anyway. Why need we put our names on some treaty on your demand?”
“There is a truth in your words, Baron, yet you do not understand completely. I said I would put myself at your disposal, to lead such men as you will lend me if you compose and sign a treaty that ends, for once and all, the ridiculous wars we have spent our lives fighting. If you do not?” Allystaire shrugged lightly, yet Cerisia felt the weight of the world tilting on his movements. “Then I will raise an army regardless, of all who are willing to flock to the Mother in the name of defending themselves. And when the Braechsworn that threaten us all now are defeated, I will do nothing to stand between them and any Baron whose name is not on a treaty.”
There was a moment of near total silence, broken only by the rustling of grass, the spring stirrings of nearby birds. Cerisia felt a shiver sprint down her back; the danger in what Allystaire proposed was frighteningly real.
And, she quickly understood, very close to the fears the Barons had brought with them to this Congress.
“So that’s your game at last, Coldbourne!” Harlach’s heavy cheeks had gone read beneath the white of his beard. “Threaten us all into laying down arms or you’ll raise the peasants and toss us all off our own walls, I don’t doubt! I notice that Gilrayan Oyrwyn is nowhere to be seen. Curious that the son of the man who held your leash all these years would be exempt from what you propose. No. I’ll not have it, not from Oyrwyn’s running dog!”
Landen and Hamadrian both turned to Harlach, opening their mouths in protest, but the White Bear had rolled right over their words with his own. When, finally, he paused to draw breath, it was Allystaire that addressed him.
“My name,” he quietly insisted, “is Allystaire Stillbright. But I do not disclaim responsibility for the things I did when you knew me as Coldbourne, Baron Harlach. I did not have it in me then to look truly at the cost of what I did, beyond the death of my own men. All the death, the widows and orphans made. The people displaced. The livelihoods destroyed. The carefully tended farms gone to rot and ruin. I count the cost of my sins every day, Baron Harlach—and in what I have done in the service of the Goddess so far is but the merest sliver of the weight of recompense I still owe. I will be paying for them till I die, and even then I would deserve little more than the eternal Cold. If you wish an apology for the pieces of your Barony I sliced off in Gerard Oywyn’s name, I am prepared to make one.”
Unseldt Harlach drew himself up, lifting his chin. He drew his words out slowly. “Is that so? How do you figure to make rep—”
Allystaire’s lip curled in disgust, and Harlach’s softer words were cut off by the sound of the paladin’s gauntleted hand curling into a fist.
It was, Cerisia had to admit, one of the more menacing sounds she had ever heard.
“I never said I was prepared to apologize to you,” the paladin shot back, cracks finally showing in his composure, his voice rising to a shout. “To your people, Unseldt, for it is them I sinned against, not you. Never you. Shrinking the borders of your Barony might have hurt your pride. You can afford to lose some of that. Your people paid with so much more. And I am here, now, offering my recompense to all your people,” Allystaire said, pivoting away from a fuming Harlach to address the rest of the gathered powers. “Whether I have your signatures on a treaty or not, I will save them from Braech’s host. I can do it with your help, lords and ladies. Or I can do it in spite of you. Your people will know which it is. I would say that it is time for all of you to remember what you owe to your people, rather than counting what they owe to you.”
Allystaire turned and looked back to where he’d come; the rest of his party pulled up at the edges of the camp. Cerisia was unsurprised to see Torvul sitting atop the board of his boxy, rune-carved wagon home, pipe dangling from his mouth, leading his ponies with the lightest flicks of the reins, nor Gideon riding competently on a small grey palfrey. Idgen Marte seemed uncomfortable to be out in plain sight atop a brown courser. Though she rode expertly, she seemed on edge, her gaze darting endlessly from side to side. The remainder of the company she found somewhat puzzling, like the village youth with the scar on his face.
Three of them had lances booted next to their right-hand stirrups, within easy reach. All three also had a bundle tossed across the haunches of their mounts, which she quickly realized were bound prisoners. One struggled weakly; the other two barely moved. She blanched, glad of the mask that hid her features.
“I must see to a camp for my companions,” Allystaire said. “I will come to speak to you again in a turn or so, and you can hear what my prisoners have to say.”
“Whatever you tell them to, no doubt!” Harlach seemed to have found his voice again, but this time, the other Barons had had enough, though it was Landen who spoke.
“Enough, Unseldt,” the young Delondeur Baroness spoke, exasperation threading through her voice. “I am tired of your bluster, and I am certain the rest of us are as well. The paladin has come to save us from ourselves, if we will but allow him the chance.” She turned to Hamadrian. “I will sign whatever document Allystaire draws up. He has extended his trust to me once, and I will do the same for him.”
The rest of the Barons began talking over one another in a rush, with Harlach trying to seize the moment again, and Hamadrian all but begging them for silence, but Cerisia’s eyes were locked on the paladin as he walked away, nimbused in light.
CHAPTER 38
Limits
“You’re not as much of a showman as you think, boy,” Torvul said as he and Allystaire were unloading the supplies from one of the pair of pack mules they brought, while Norbert and Harrys worked on the other, and Tibult and Armel set up tents with the bored professionalism of soldiers.
“Well, that is why you are here, Torvul,” Allystaire said as he set down a pack-saddle bag. “I have struck at them with such blunt force as my voice can muster. Later, you can speak to them with silk, or with daggers, or…” Allystaire trailed off and waved a hand. “With the metaphor of your choice.”
“Might be daggers’d be best for the entire lot,” Torvul muttered as he paused to wipe his brow with the sleeve of his jerkin. “Just clear them out and start over.”
“Every one of the Barons gathered here has goodness within them, Torvul. If their people are to have a chance, we must find the ways to bring it forth. Otherwise all is lost.”
“I wonder if you’d say that if the one who exiled you was here,” the dwarf replied as he set down the last bag and unlatched it with a quick flick of his nimble wrist.
“I had left by the time he exiled me,” Allystaire answered with a shrug.
“One of these days, we’re gonna need the tale of just how that happened.” They were both used to Idgen Marte’s unexpected appearances, but this time she hadn’t jumped into a nearby shadow, but had just sauntered up quietly while they were absorbed in work.
“Simple,” Allystaire said with a shrug. “I got on Ardent and rode off to Coldbourne Hall, buried most of the family wealth, packed what I needed, and rode south.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Idgen Marte cut him off sharply, “and you know it. What made you decide to leave?”
“It was an accumulation of things,” Allystaire replied with a shrug. He seized and bent the straps of several packs, carried them to the center of camp, making sure all the flaps were pulled wide with the toe of one boot. Inside were thin loaves of twice-baked biscuits, smoked meat, cheese, dried fruit, all wrapped in waxed cloth and bound with twine.
Torvul looked down at their rations and pulled free a flask from his belt. “Why were you so insistent on a humble camp, again?�
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“It will send a message. I will not be counted among the Barons,” Allystaire said. “I will not be rude to them, but neither will I feast with them.”
“Enough o’that,” Idgen Marte said with a grimace. “And no changin’ the subject. What d’ya mean, an accumulation of things?”
Determined to keep busy, Allystaire walked over to the rough picket line of horses and began unstrapping Ardent’s saddle. The horse looked up from the grass as soon as Allystaire approached, whickered softly, nudged his great head against the paladin’s.
“As I said, an accumulation of things. Too much hunger for conquest. The boy got his Baronial seat when a brother died, and instead of mourning, he saw it as the stamp of grand destiny. He did not mourn for Ghislain; he reveled, with an eye on a throne, or at least a higher seat, and little scruple about how to get it. The common folk, even the soldiers, were grist for the mill. A knight who dared to speak his mind could face exile and divestiture no matter how long and faithfully he had served the Old Baron.” Allystaire shrugged. “The last argument I had with him, I will keep to myself. For now.”
“Why?”
“It will have more impact if I tell the story once Gilrayan is here,” Allystaire muttered.
“And what makes you so sure this bastard is comin’, eh?” Torvul looked speculatively at his flask and held it out to Allystaire, who shook his head, then to Idgen Marte, who took it and swigged.
“He will come,” Allystaire said. “In fact,” he said, turning to the northwest and gesturing towards the hills that rose into the mountains where Oyrwyn, Harlach, Delondeur, and Innadan all came together, “unless I miss my guess, he is probably up there now, where he can watch us and decide how to make his entrance.”
“Didn’t answer my question,” Torvul replied as he took his flask back from Idgen Marte and tucked it back into its case on his belt.
“He will come because to be excluded from such a gathering would wound his pride. He may come because he has heard my name attached to it. And then there is the chance that he may come with an army in the hopes of catching so many other lords with only a token force about them. Or it may be some combination of all three.”
Allystaire looked, as he spoke, to where Gideon was learning how to properly shore up a tent under Harrys’s instruction. “And I mean to find out as soon as camp is made.”
* * *
There were only a few more needful tasks before their camp was indeed made. Allystaire carried his saddle into the tent he was meant to share with Gideon, only to find the boy and Norbert setting up some camp furniture he hadn’t known was to be packed.
A chair and folding desk, a washbasin, a pair of cots, an armor stand and a small rack for weapons had turned what was meant to be a spacious tent into a rather crowded one. Norbert was fussing with the pegs on the folding table when he felt the weight of Allystaire’s glare.
“I know you said you wanted a humble camp,” Norbert muttered as he tested the table’s stability with the flat of his hand. Finding it satisfactory, he stood up, met Allystaire’s gaze straight on.
“Go on,” Allystaire muttered, while reflecting briefly on the changes the months of training had wrought in Norbert. There was no more hesitancy in him, no halting speech, no fidgeting of gangly limbs. Now he was calm, confident, and never leaking nervous energy. None of his movements were wasted; he was simply there, ready, in a way Allystaire had long since known as the mark of a competent man in a fight. The scar on his cheek no longer seemed like something marring his features. His face had grown into it.
“But there’s humble, and then there’s foolish,” Norbert said. “You may’nt need a giant silk pavilion and a bevvy of servants like the Barons, but you need a place to set your arms and to write if you’ve a need.”
“And why can I not stack my arms with the rest of you? Or store my armor in a sack as you will?”
“We’re the Order of the Arm,” Norbert replied. “You are the Arm. It’s different.” He bore up under Allystaire’s hard blue gaze for a moment longer before saying, “N’it was Harrys’s idea. He packed it all.”
Allystaire sighed faintly and clapped Norbert’s shoulder. “Then I absolve you of any blame, if there was any to be given out. If I could have a moment with the Will?”
Gideon sat on his cot, knees drawn up under him, reading a book. Allystaire peered down at it, found it full of unreadable marks that looked as much carved into the paper as printed.
“Dwarven charactery,” Gideon said without looking up. “It is advanced grammar and rhetoric. Torvul says I must understand it before I can begin to comprehend the apprentice books of formulae, magical theory, or metaphysics.”
“How long have you known Dwarfish charactery?”
Gideon looked up from the book, shrugging and closing it around one finger to keep his place. “I started reading the early primer on the ride from Thornhurst. It classifies the characters by their connections to metallic ores or precious stones, both literally in their descriptions and figuratively in their principles. It is quite fascinating.”
Allystaire blinked slowly, lips creasing. “You have moved from beginning the language to advanced grammar and rhetoric in a few days of travel?”
“Since the night back at the holy spring,” Gideon said, “everything has come easier since then. It is like the world is unlocking itself for me. Magic runs through all of it, in ways I never expected. If I close my eyes and visualize you standing before me, I can pick out the glamour Torvul laid upon your armor, and the strong bonds he nearly unknowingly put upon the metals in your hammer. I almost fancy I can see the Goddess’s own writing upon your throat, condemning you to speak the truth. I can hear the soothing music of Healing in your left hand, and the drum-beat of Her strength in your blood.”
“And this facility with language—it is magical, somehow?”
“Language is fundamentally magical,” Gideon quickly replied. “That seems obvious. But Dwarfish moreso than most, for magic was such a part of the culture. I am not sure I am explaining very well.”
“Consider your audience. I understand these things best as practicalities, Gideon. Explain to me what it is that you can do with this newfound power.”
“It is not power. Not in that sense. My Gift is unchanged; I can still take in power and redirect it how I choose. I cannot simply absorb it from the world now that it has leaked out, though at times I swear I see it flowing around me, from the corner of my eye, perhaps. Then I turn to catch it and it vanishes into the air. Even so, I think this change is longer-term than the immediate challenge.”
“Fair enough,” Allystaire replied. “I need you to take a look into the mountains to our north, northwest, for signs of Baron Oyrwyn. I strongly suspect he is lurking there.”
“Where should I look? There is rather a lot of mountain, if you hadn’t noticed,” Gideon said dryly.
“Well, if I can find parchment and ink I can draw you a map.”
“Norbert left a bundle of parchment, a pen, and a pot on his way out, while you weren’t looking.” Gideon pointed, and Allystaire followed his hand.
“So he did.” Carefully, Allystaire eased himself into the camp chair set in front of the table and stripped off his gauntlets, glad, not for the first time, of the cunning adjustments Torvul had made to the straps and buckles of his armor. The gauntlets were off in no time, set aside, and he had soon pulled the cork from the bottle of ink, dipped the pen, and selected a sheet.
Allystaire closed his eyes and visualized Standing Guard Pass. It was a collection of passes, really, where the various mountain ranges let out into the descending hills, then the plains, of Innadan, and the Vale of Kings beyond. So many Baronies jammed together had made it a point of contention during the decades of the Succession Strife, but the narrowness of the mountainous outlets had always made it easy for Innadan to defend it.
W
ith his eyes still closed, his hand started sketching. First an X to mark the camp, then, above it, quick slashes to denote the passes outletting into the mountains north and northwest, then a wider pair for the west. He considered a moment, biting back a feeling of foolishness, as he drew sharp points to denote mountains, filling in the spaces around the slashes. He bit his lower lip, considered them, then put in small circles for watch towers, and drawing lines for trails, three that he knew of that went up into Oyrwyn, two into Harlach.
Gideon came and stood over his shoulder, muttered, “I can see why they have come to call it Standing Guard Pass.”
“It was always a rather obvious joke, lad, but you are hardly wrong.”
“It seems a vulnerability for Innadan. Why has he never built a keep here, on the border of so many potential enemies?”
“Well,” Allystaire said, as he bent low over the parchment as he carefully traced the path of the trails. “It is nearly impossible to get enough men through any one of them fast enough, or in good enough order, to overwhelm any Innadan response. Then there are the watchtowers, and the eyes always watching, ruling out surprise. Innadan usually keeps a strong presence of horse, and fast remounts for messengers to get to the Vineyards, near enough to meet any invader.” Allystaire blew over a spot of still wet ink and let his fingertip hover over the pass that led back into Barony Delondeur.
“The western pass is by far the widest, as you have seen. Yet to come through it, Delondeur has to expose a flank to Oyrwyn animosity or Harlach opportunism. Innadan and Oyrwyn have long worked hand in hand, and Harlach was too often busy fighting us—Oyrwyn, I mean.” Allystaire corrected himself with a frown. “Too busy fighting Oyrwyn, or dealing with runoff of giantkin, raiding elves, or lawless men on the tundra beyond.”
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