Limits of Power

by Elizabeth Moon

  “You,” the voice said. Tegar shivered as if in cold, but sweat poured from him. “You took—”

  Tegar threw the ring; he heard it clink on the stone.

  “—his life,” the voice said. “That was not wise.” And before Tegar could beg for his life or cry out, the flame wrapped him round. He never saw the dark man with the oddly patterned skin and the yellow eyes pick up the ring and one particular unburned crossbow and swallow them.

  Already the carrion eaters’ wings made a column over the place of death, and some were feeding below; three strutted boldly toward Stammel’s body, but they scattered with alarm cries as the shadow of much larger wings moved over the rocks and settled on the end of the ridge above the trail down to the sea. The dragon shape ignored the bodies below, those beside the trail, and those in the cleft of the rock. One only interested the dragon, who put out a long questing tongue and tasted.

  “It was a chance,” the dragon said aloud, as if the corpse were still a live man. “I did not know they would come, and your commander will rightly blame me that you had no help. You hid your thought from me until too late; I was too far away. But you were faithful, and they will know.” The long tongue wrapped around the corpse and drew it slowly in.

  The next morning, the wizard appeared at the entrance to the cave where the villagers were hiding. “He is gone, and so are the pirates,” the wizard said. “Come down.”

  “He is dead,” Cadlin said. “I wish—”

  “He saved you,” the wizard said. “And as a reward, he was taken away.”

  “Away?”

  “I found blood. I found bloodied weapons. I think the gods took his body.”

  “He knew,” Cadlin said.

  “Possibly,” the wizard said. “But it was his choice.” They were near the village now. “I cleaned up a bit for you. There were bodies in the street; there are others below. These here I burned.”

  The scorch marks and a faint smell of burned meat were obvious. “Where do you think he was killed?” Cadlin asked. The other villagers were moving in and out of their houses.

  “I know,” a boy said. “I know where he was; he played a game with us, and he said up on those rocks—”

  “That’s where I found the other bodies,” the wizard said. “Below those rocks. And on top, a dead man who wasn’t Matthis and … his blood.”

  “I wish he’d come with us,” Cadlin said. “I’d rather we lost every house in the village than him. He was a good man.”

  “Yes,” the wizard said. “He was. But you are safe now, for a while at least, and I must go again. Fare well.” He turned and walked up the trail away from the village, past those still streaming in with their bundles and jugs and children.

  Tsaia, North Marches Stronghold

  The dark-skinned man with flame-colored eyes waited outside the stronghold gates—the sentries being wary of strangers—and Arcolin knew without a doubt who it was and why he had come. He bowed.

  Impossibly, the man extended a hot red tongue and plucked from his throat first a crossbow, which he laid on the ground, then a ring, and then—with a curious sort of gulp, spat forth a shape that expanded and became a corpse; he held it in his arms like a beloved friend.

  “Stammel,” Arcolin said.

  “Yes. It was his choice. He died saving those among whom he lived.”

  Rage as hot as the dragon’s tongue rose in Arcolin’s heart.

  Before he could say anything, the dragon said, “Your anger is just. I did not know in time; I did not protect him.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know, other than he chose to act alone; he did not call on me. He sent away those who might have aided him. I saw once, from a distance, that he was training them … I thought for war, but they told me after it was to run and hide.”

  “He chose death, you mean.”

  “He chose not to risk the others,” the dragon said. “If he had chosen death, he could have died before.” He held out his arms. “Will you take him?”

  Arcolin felt tears running down his face. “Yes,” he said. Stammel seemed heavier without life in him; Arcolin almost staggered under the weight. The dragon picked up the crossbow and the ring and put out an arm, just under his own, and together they walked back to the gates.

  They cleaned the body and dressed it in uniform once more—the uniform Stammel had sent back over a year before. Arcolin fitted the foxhead ring on Stammel’s heart-hand, and they laid his body on a plank to carry it out to the Company burial ground. Arcolin sent word to the villages, where veterans who had fought alongside Stammel now lived. Solemn-faced recruits who had known Stammel only from veterans’ tales stood at attention in the courtyard when his body was carried past.

  As they came through the gates, Arcolin saw in the distance a shining helm glinting in the sun and a red horse galloping toward them beside a road already crowded with people from Duke’s East. Arcolin held up his hand, and they all halted until she rode up.

  “I hoped you would come,” Arcolin said.

  “How—?” she began, and then shook her head. “Afterward,” she said.

  With the veterans, she sang the “Ard hi Tammarion,” so long the traditional death song of the company that Arcolin had never considered changing it. The dragon-man came forward and looked Paks in the face but did not ask if she was wise.

  “Sister and daughter,” he said. “Blessings.” Out came the tongue. “Honor me, if you will.”

  “Blessings,” Paks said, and touched her tongue to the line of fire with no hesitation at all. Arcolin heard gasps from the others.

  The dragon did not stay after the funeral rites but changed, there in broad daylight, in the sight of all. Then he rose into the air and glided away on dark wings.

  “Dragon wants everyone to know dragons are back in the world,” Paks said.

  “It is not the first time you met,” Arcolin said.

  “No—but how did you know?”

  “It did not ask if you were wise,” Arcolin said. “As far as I know, that is what it asks everyone on first meeting.”

  “It called me, summer before this last,” Paks said. “I thought it was the gods’ call at first. I left the Marshal-General staring after me when I rode away. Maybe it was … but what I met was Dragon.”

  “You don’t know its name?”

  Paks shook her head, still looking into the bright sky where the dragon had been. “If it has a name, as we know names, it is not a name we can say. And I do not know why it called me, what that meeting was for. Nor do I know why Dragon calls me sister and daughter, though … it feels almost like family to me. And yet I know—” She scratched her head. “I know my father is a sheepfarmer up above Three Firs and my mother is the daughter of another sheepfarmer. My brothers and sisters are their children, as I am.”

  “Um. Perhaps Dragon considers all paladins as family?”

  “Perhaps. But please, Captain, tell me what happened to Stammel.”

  “I know only what Dragon told me,” Arcolin said. “I should never have let him go—and yet I could not refuse him what he wanted.” He told her of the dragon’s earlier visit, the offer of a job, and Stammel’s decision to be the dragon’s archer. “I thought he would come back at the end of it, truly.”

  “I did not even know he was blinded,” Paks said. “I wish … perhaps I could have…”

  “I hoped you would come,” Arcolin said. “We thought—I thought—after the Marshals could not heal him, that perhaps a paladin could. But…”

  “But Gird had other plans for me,” Paks said. “Nothing so important as Stammel, to me. If I had known, I would have come.” She sighed. Arcolin looked at her closely. Were those silver hairs among the yellow? It had not been that long. “And perhaps that is why I was not given to know,” she said.

  “You will stay for a night at least, will you not? I would have you meet my wife and son.”

  “As the gods allow,” Paks said. “I would like that. It was none of my busi
ness, but I never thought you would marry—and you have a son—a babe?”

  “Her first husband died; Jamis is this tall—” Arcolin held his hand out. He led her into the inner courtyard and up the stairs. Calla was supervising Jamis’s daily stint of study—the boy was just beginning to read—and Arcolin made the introductions. Jamis’s eyes widened. “You’re a … a paladin!” he said. “And your mail really is shiny!”

  “Jamis!” Calla said. “Be polite.”

  Paks shook her head. “I was a big sister long before I was a paladin, milady. Jamis, would you like to see my horse?”

  Jamis bounced off the chair, then looked at his mother. “Go along,” she said. “But come back quickly; I’m sure Paksenarrion has other things to do today than play big sister to you.”

  Arcolin went back downstairs, watching Paks chatting with the boy—listening, rather, as he shed his shyness and began telling her everything about his life as fast as he could. Her horse stood quietly in the courtyard, bare now of saddle or bridle, with a worried groom standing nearby.

  “He won’t move, milady,” the groom said.

  “He’s waiting to give this lad a ride,” Paks said. Jamis, looking up at the tall horse, clutched her hand harder.

  “No saddle?” he said. He sounded worried. Though he rode his pony more confidently now, he had never ridden bareback.

  “You don’t need one,” Paks said. She scooped him up and deposited him on the horse’s back. “Sit up straight now, like your father. And you don’t need reins, because the horse knows where you need to go.” She nodded to the horse. It took one careful step and paused. Jamis looked scared, but stayed upright. Another. Another. Jamis’s mouth relaxed, Arcolin saw, and the horse gradually lengthened its stride, circling the forecourt.

  “It’s—it’s fun!” Jamis said, turning to look at Arcolin. “Even on a big horse.”

  “A very special horse,” Arcolin said.

  “And now my horse wants his dinner,” Paks said, as the horse came to her and stopped. “Sorry, Jamis, but you must come down. Another ride later, maybe.”

  Arcolin took the boy into his arms and set him on his feet. “Back to your books, lad; your mother’s waiting.”

  The rest of that day, Arcolin was aware of Paks moving about the stronghold. Most of her comrades were in the South; few up here had been Stammel’s recruits, and most had not known him, or only briefly. He wondered if that was worse for her. He wished he had old comrades with whom to reminisce about Stammel.

  She came in to supper with Captain Arneson; the two of them seemed already friends, chatting easily about the recruits’ progress. During supper, Arcolin asked her when she had last been in Fin Panir.

  “I came from there, on my way to Lyonya; the Marshal-General gave me messages for both the kings. I had just delivered the first to King Mikeli when I felt a call to come here. I cannot stay long; I must get to Chaya soon after King Kieri’s children are born, and quickly.”

  “Is there trouble?”

  “Not to concern you or this domain, my lord,” Paks said. She shook her head then. “But who knows what may flow from any occasion? You know about the reappearance of magery in both Tsaia and Fintha?”

  “I heard, on my way through Vérella. Is it all the same, or is some blood magery?” Arcolin asked. “Or a gift of some god, as you paladins have?”

  “No, my lord. As far as we can discern, it is all natural magery, what the magelords had. Born magery, showing in children as young as five or six winters, though more often in those at the change, twelve to fifteen—sometimes in those older. Your Marshal will hear, if he has not already, of the Marshal-General’s concerns in this matter.”

  “He knows,” Arcolin said. “But no one seems to know why it came.” He paused, fiddling with a napkin ring, then went on. “Some of us thought it might have come from Gird through you, Paks—the first magery anyone remembers seeing was Kieri with the sword when you gave it to him. And you helped Dorrin regain her magery. After that it was Beclan, her squire—”

  Paks frowned. “I don’t think so … though who knows how the gods work? I had no part in saving Kieri Phelan or Dorrin Verrakai from the perils of their early lives, but I am sure Gird and the High Lord did. A paladin is but the tool the gods use. The eldest of Elders might know, but Dragon does not explain.”

  “Dragon’s essence, he tells me, is transformation,” Arcolin said, remembering that conversation.

  Paks tipped her head to one side. “But who wakened or sent or released Dragon?” she asked. “He did not tell me.”

  Arcolin felt a shudder down his backbone at the casual way she spoke of the dragon. “Perhaps … perhaps he just is, and none of our words—sleeping, waking, sending—mean anything to him.”

  “Perhaps.” Paks yawned. “Excuse me, my lord, but eating and sleeping both mean something to me.”

  A few days later, she said she must leave the next dawn; Jamis began to cry, throwing his arms around her. Paks hugged him then set him down. “When a god calls, Jamis, a paladin must answer. If the gods will, I will return—and meanwhile, you are fortunate in your mother and father and in having your own pony. Think of those things, and spring coming. You will make friends and learn as much as you can. Will you do that?”

  He nodded, solemn-faced now, and took his mother’s hand.

  Arcolin was up before dawn to bid her farewell. As he’d promised, he woke Jamis, and with Jamis and Calla stood in the courtyard to see her come lightly down the steps and across the inner court, her mail glittering under her surcoat, saddlebags over her shoulder. They followed her through to the forecourt, where her mount waited, saddled and bridled, red coat gleaming as if in summer sun though no sun yet lit the place.

  Paks greeted the horse; the horse nudged her with its nose, and then she tossed the saddlebags up; they clung without tying. She turned to Arcolin. “You were the best captain I could have had,” she said. “And Matthis Stammel was the best sergeant. Gird’s grace rest on you and yours. Milady Calla, I am so glad to see my captain wed to someone who loves him … and you, young Jamis, are like to grow into a fine man.”

  Jamis nodded silently. She mounted and rode away, out through the stronghold’s gates, down the road to Duke’s East, out of sight. “Will she come back?” Jamis asked.

  “I don’t know,” Arcolin said. He put out his hand; Jamis took it, and Calla took his other hand. They walked back inside to the smell of breakfast cooking.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The queen lay propped against pillows in her bed, eyes bright and a smile as wide as the kingdom on her face. The king came and sat on the stool a Squire placed for him beside the bed. Tucked into Arian’s arms were the two most beautiful babies Kieri had ever seen. The room smelled fresh with the good-luck herbs the midwives had strewn.

  “Our children,” she said to the babes. “Here is your father.”

  Beyond expectation, they looked at him, eyes appearing to focus. One—the girl—had wisps of pale reddish hair; the other—the boy—had light brown. Their arms moved, tiny hands opened. He offered each a forefinger; the hands clenched around his fingers. It was only the infant grip … but he felt more than that, more than he had felt with his other children. Surely no babes just born could recognize anyone but their mother.

  “They are our hope,” he said. “And you, my queen?” He wiggled his fingers loose from those grips and stroked Arian’s hair.

  “I am well. More than well, rejoicing in them and in you.” She grinned. “And I suspect you feel in them what I do. Both of them. My grandfather was right.”

  Kieri nodded. “I was not sure it would survive their birth. Though it survived mine. And they have it from both parents.” He sighed. “Which makes it all the more important to see that they have guidance in its use from earliest childhood. I suspect some elves will not be pleased if they do have that ability. Your grandfather is resigned, I think, but others—and certainly the iynisin—will see them as enemies.”

&n
bsp; “My grandfather will aid us,” Arian said. When he did not answer, she put out her hand to touch his. “I know you do not want to be his vassal, Kieri, but he is our best ally for now. The guards he sent have not sought to usurp your authority over the Ladysforest elves, have they?”

  “No…” Kieri shook his head. “But—you know why I distrust even honest elves.”

  “And you have reason to do so, but—are you not more able with your elven magery now, thanks to their instruction?”

  He nodded. “So I am, and I have exercised it out of their presence, as far as I dared go away from you in this critical time.” He grinned. “I have even used it in ways they would not approve—so I must admit my instructors do not control me.”

  “What did you do?” Arian asked.

  “Nothing evil, I promise,” he said. “But if a king may not wake and put back to sleep a rosebush in thanks for his queen’s safe birthing—” He reached down and picked up the roses he’d laid there. “Aliam told me the Lady did much the same in his steading, and it is too early for roses.” As he held them, their fragrance poured out, filling the room for an instant as if they stood in the rose garden in summer, then faded, no more than three roses usually produced.

  Arian smiled. “Thank you. I am glad our children will have that scent at the root of their lives.” She frowned a little. “Kieri … if you can wake and put to sleep the roses, do you think you now know how to wake those sleeping magelords?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “They sleep by someone else’s spell, and how to unweave another’s spell is still beyond my understanding. At least a trifold weaving, your grandfather said. And yes, I may have some elements of mageborn talent, but I know nothing of its use. Dorrin has no idea what would set magelords asleep for hundreds of years. I wish Paks would come from wherever she is and tell me more about what she saw.”