Crown of Renewal

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Lord Prince, it is that I return to my prince now.”

  “I offer welcome to Lord Prince Aldon’s envoy, Faksutterk,” Arcolin said. “Guesting as long as desired, and no exchange.”

  “It is that I return quickly, my prince says, when I know. Now I know. Now I go.”

  “It is that supplies for journey—”

  The merest hint of a smile lit Faksutterk’s face. “It is not need, Lord Prince Arcolin. It is good offer. It is that this one excused?”

  Arcolin nodded. “It is so. Travel in Law, arrive in Law, be held in Law.”

  “It is Law,” Faksutterk said. Arcolin rose and went with Dattur to the inner courtyard gate while Faksutterk fetched whatever he had left in his guest quarters. When he came out, they all bowed, one to another, and Faksutterk headed back down the road to Duke’s East.

  “You had things to tell me when you came,” Arcolin said to Dattur. “You wanted me to visit the stone-right, but it is too late in the day. Will you stay here overnight and we will go in the morning?”

  Dattur bowed. “That is well, my prince.”

  “Under stone, you may choose your chamber,” Arcolin said. “But for now, tell me more details of my kapristin.”

  “My prince has names and ages—what more to know?”

  He would have known how to ask another military commander whose company had been near-destroyed—indeed, people had asked him about his cohort’s recovery after Dwarfwatch. But he still had no idea how gnome society was organized and thus could not find the words for the questions. He tried to explain that to Dattur.

  “I would understand more … more how you live, what tasks are appointed, and to whom. Not because I want to interfere but to find out so if the prince needs to aid, aid will be given in Law.”

  Dattur nodded. “My prince asks about the paths of power. It is … like your army. For each task, one in command and those who obey commands.”

  Arcolin opened his mouth to explain that the Company wasn’t organized like that but then listened instead.

  “When a princedom is large enough, tasks change with seasons above: on the year turnings, the tasks change. When yet small, a princedom must assign several tasks to each. The kapristinya delve—”

  “But—they have childer—” Surely working rock was not compatible with bearing children.

  “Kapristinya strong in rock … All have rock-power, but kapristinya have most. Though now no elder kapristin, so work goes more slowly.” Dattur paused; Arcolin said nothing, his mind stuck on the image of a grandmother gnome cutting rock. “Estvin as you say is local … captain. Those he tells do or tell others to do. Most spend time seeding new delvings with misiljit and making cloth. All now but childer have proper cloth. Until child speaks Law, no matter. And my prince named me hesktak, teacher of Law to prince.”

  Dattur ate dinner that night with Arcolin, his family, and the resident captains before retiring to the cellar guest room. In the morning, he walked on top of the snow while Arcolin rode, and they reached the gnomes’ new home by midmorning.

  Arcolin already knew gnomes worked hard and tirelessly—but the change to the hall entrance amazed him. Now the entire entrance bore an elaborate interlacing design of gnomish writing; he paused to read it, and Dattur murmured a translation he now scarcely needed:

  Here Arcolinfulk dwell. Law is Law. Lord gives Law.

  Enter in Law, Dwell in Law, Depart in Law.

  His estvin and four other gnomes came into the light to greet him. The four carried a roll of cloth. The estvin bowed, then came forward to kiss Arcolin’s boots. “Lord Prince, welcome to your hall. We bring at last a prince’s robe for our prince, grown here for you. Will you accept it?”

  “I will accept it,” he said. “It is in Law.”

  Unrolled, the robe resembled in style, though not in size, the one worn by Lord Prince Aldon. The tribal name, Arcolinfulk, ran around the neck and down the front; on the back, the weavers had worked in his blazon, a foxhead, in a lighter, more silvery gray. Arcolin put off his winter cloak and thick tunic, then put on the robe. It felt more comfortable than he expected, cutting the chill wind better than his heavy cloak, though much lighter.

  “It is very good,” he said, bowing to the estvin. He pulled his stole out from under the robe and laid it around his shoulders. “Your prince is pleased and honored by this gift.”

  The estvin led the way into the entrance hall and then to what would be, Arcolin learned, the hall of judgment, where the prince might receive visitors and give judgment on cases of Law. Arcolin could see that it had the same shape and style as that in the Aldonfulk hall: a carved screen, a dais with a throne in front of it, a broad floor on which visitors could wait and chairs might (or might not) be placed.

  “Beyond the screen?” he asked.

  The estvin bowed and led him onward through an entrance invisible until he was only a few paces away. Behind the screen was a shape like the inside of a shell, curved and arched, and facing it was a dais matching that on the other side, with another seat.

  “So prince’s voice is heard,” the estvin said. “The prince would hear?”

  “Yes,” Arcolin said.

  “My prince will sit in his seat and speak Law. Any true Law.”

  Arcolin climbed up and sat in the stone seat; it fit him perfectly. “The Lord spoke Law,” he said in gnomish, no louder than he would have said it to one beside him at a meal in a quiet place. His voice rang out, much louder, it seemed to him.

  “Good work,” the estvin said. He did not smile in the human sense, but Arcolin could tell he was pleased. “We were not sure of height of human mouth.”

  “Why this way?”

  “Always this way. Prince speaks Law, not seen, as High Lord not seen speaks Law to prince.”

  By the time Arcolin returned to the stronghold, he knew a lot more about gnome society, enough to know he was the most ignorant prince a gnome tribe ever had. He had met the gnome women—only they weren’t like any women he’d ever known, even leaving aside the gray skin and black beady eyes. They came to be introduced, to kiss not his boots, like the male gnomes, but his forehead. The ritual kiss was dry, almost like the touch of a stick or, more likely, a rock.

  They brought their children, from the tiny ones wrapped in a gray cocoon of the gnomish fabric to the ones able to walk, now for a time clothed in the maroon and brown of Fox Company wool. Those little faces, a gray so pale it almost looked white, filled Arcolin’s heart with gratitude for Gird’s guidance in saving them.

  Then the women and children withdrew deeper into the stone-right, and the others showed him what was finished enough to show: halls and passages and rooms whose purpose he could not yet guess, though some were lined with misiljit. To Arcolin it looked like gray-blue moss, and it scented the air with a peculiar smell that made his nose itch. Certainly there was a lot of it.

  One chamber had rows of narrow shelves packed on every wall with little round bundles and what looked like very complicated looms in the center. He looked up. Long threads hung from the ceiling. “Make clothing here,” Dattur said. He touched Arcolin’s robe. “This … grows. And see here—”

  He led Arcolin across the room to a passage that glowed brighter than the rest. All over the walls and ceiling, moving lights edged along, a peculiar greenish yellow. Arcolin leaned closer to see what they were. Dattur pulled him back. “Stone-moth lights,” he said. “First egg, no use. Then lights, no use. But then … sleepers make thread for bed. We use thread from some, leave others to free stone-moth. Stone-moth lays eggs. Then we eat. Only us. Not kapristinya.”

  After that, they led Arcolin back to the main reception area. Ten of the senior gnomes stayed as the others vanished into the corridors.

  “Have questions for Prince Arcolin,” the estvin said. “Please to sit there.” He gestured to the dais with its seat.

  Arcolin climbed up and sat. All ten gnomes bowed. He nodded back. In his formal robe and stole, sitting on an elevated thron
e, he knew he was indeed a gnome prince and had best speak like one.

  “Your prince awaits to answer questions with words of Law,” he said.

  “The stone-right pleases, Lord Prince. The stone-right is generous. It is only … the near boundary is set and that to the south toward the running water, but no boundary set for north or west. If it please the Lord Prince, boundaries are Law.”

  “Boundaries are Law,” Arcolin said. “When all questions asked, we will look at maps and define boundaries.”

  Another bow, another nod.

  “Westward are humans, Lord Prince. A long way westward, but … the hills go beyond. Houses and walls mean humans claim—is that within the Lord Prince’s gift?”

  “No,” Arcolin said. The hills ran into the westernmost baronies in Tsaia on another tributary of the Honnorgat. Neither Kieri nor he had ever ridden that far to see if proper boundary stones had been set. That would be unthinkable to gnomes, for whom everything had a thick black line between categories: mine, yours, gnome, human, Law, and Lawlessness. “It is matter for king in Vérella,” he said. “Land grants of long ago. And beyond the king’s realm is Fintha, all Girdish.”

  “This stone-right.” It was the estvin this time, eyes cast down. “Lord Prince, forgive, but perhaps the Lord Prince being human does not know how large a stone-right … usually … is …?”

  “The estvin is correct. Is the stone-right too small?”

  “We will look at maps.”

  Maps were in the chamber set up as a library. He had not realized that the gnomes had saved and brought with them most of the records in their home. He had seen only that one map, showing only the area of their former stone-right and the land the dragon had said must be ceded. Now, on a stone table, they spread out another, larger, covering the whole table. As before, when he looked closely at any one area of the map, it enlarged, showing more detail. None of that detail to the west included human names or boundaries; the gnomes had not known them.

  Arcolin quickly found the tributaries he knew, following them upstream to the area in question.

  “A prince may give only that land he holds,” Arcolin said.

  “That is Law,” the gnomes agreed in a chorus.

  “This is mine,” Arcolin said, drawing the border line of south, east, north. “From this, I granted stone-right here.”

  He defined the eastern boundary again and then the northern and southern. “I have not yet visited my western land to see that the boundary stones are properly set. When I gained this land-right from the king, after its former lord, the former lord had told me he had no vassals from here—” He pointed to the map at the edge of the stone-right. “—to the western border. He told me the border ran along a high place, not quite a ridge, from here to here.” Once again he pointed to the map. “Duke Phelan was in peace with his neighbors there and did not patrol.”

  Ten pairs of eyes stared at him. He wondered if he would ever learn to interpret that gaze. Finally Dattur said, “There are stones of Law?”

  “There should be. Your prince does not know if such stones were set.”

  “If no human dwellings are built there … or if stones not set … is that stone-right?”

  “Your prince must learn the truth: what is there, what is not there—stones, walls, buildings. Do you have witnesses to that?”

  “No, Lord Prince.”

  “Then your prince must find out. I am certain no steading was granted within this line …” Arcolin ran his finger along the map. “Until I know truth, let this be the west margin of the stone-right, but if you find an intruder has built a home, do not attack but tell me—or if I am gone, my recruit captain. Since I must fulfill a contract far from here, as you know, I will not have time to see for myself where the stones are. I will tell the king when I go through Vérella, and I will send messages to the barons as well. Now on the north, here is the line that must not be crossed.”

  The gnomes nodded. Then one said, “Lord Prince, if wanderers come into the stone-right, what is your command?”

  “Bring them to Duke’s Court for judgment. Have any of my people violated your boundary lines?”

  “No, Lord Prince. But humans do, and those who do not expect a gnome stone-right here—”

  “I will think on this,” Arcolin said. “I will talk with the barons.”

  Finally he was done—all but his estvin and his hesktak had returned to other duties. He took off the robe, which would be kept for him to wear whenever he visited, and put on the tunic and cloak of a human instead. It felt a little strange. He bowed to the estvin and to Dattur. “I will return several times before I leave for the south in the spring. You may come to me anytime you have need, as well. Law is Law.”

  “Law is Law,” they both said.

  All the way back to the stronghold he wondered how Gird had endured all that time—seasons long, the tales said—underground, without sunlight. Surely he hadn’t eaten misiljit. The gnomes would have brought him human food—bread and cheese maybe. Probably not ale.

  They had changed Gird, made him capable of fighting a real army, capable of inventing a legal code unlike any seen in human lands before. And they were changing him, Arcolin realized.

  He had wondered if a bastard from Horngard could possibly take over Duke Phelan’s company and lands—surely, like the taunts he had heard in his youth, he must fail and bring all to ruin. Now he was a duke in his own right, a mercenary commander respected in the south, a married man with a stepson who called him “Da,” and the prince of a gnome tribe, something no human had ever been before. Once he would have felt overwhelmed by all that responsibility. Now it felt natural—a burden entirely bearable. Failure and ruin lurked around the edges of his world—always had—but he had not failed yet.

  Back at the stronghold, Arcolin dove into preparations for the coming campaign season. He was happy to give permission for Jamis to go on a series of short outings with Dattur as escort.

  “It will help him to learn gnomish,” he explained to Calla when she asked. “Dattur is a formidable guard, for that matter. He drilled with the Company in Aarenis, and I saw him knock down men twice his size. Jamis will be safe with Dattur.”

  “But that stuff they eat—”

  “Jamis won’t eat it—he takes his own food from the recruit mess.”

  Jamis set off one morning with Dattur when the ground had frozen hard again after the snowmelt and days of mud.

  “To the stone-right?” Arcolin asked as they left.

  “No, my prince,” Dattur said. “North along the hills.”

  “There were orc lairs up there, too,” Arcolin said. “Do you want an escort?”

  “No need,” Dattur said. “I have weapons. Jamis can ride pony. Today for practice, learning to recognize gnome border on different surface.”

  Arcolin watched Jamis, well bundled up, ride out the gate, Dattur walking beside him, and went back to his work. Near midday, he was talking to the quartermaster about supplies for the next season’s recruits—what he, Arcolin, would send back north from Vérella on his way south—when he heard the light clatter of the pony’s hooves gallop into the forecourt. He frowned. Jamis knew better than to gallop the pony toward the stables.

  A shout brought him to the door of the quartermaster’s office, and an instant later he was running. The pony was alone and scared, sides heaving, curds of sweat on its neck, skittering aside from the groom who tried to catch it. Arcolin felt his heart stutter and then race. Instantly he thought of the day Kieri’s first wife and children had been killed.

  “Close the gate,” he said to the gate watch; to the groom he said, “Don’t chase—he’ll settle in a bit.” The gate creaked shut. The groom went into the stable and came out with a few oats in a bucket. The pony stared, ears pricked, and then took one step toward the groom. Arcolin noted that the reins were not loose but tied up neatly so they could not dangle and trip the pony; the lead rope was looped and wound in the military fashion. So … the boy hadn’t
been thrown. Maybe. The saddlebags weren’t on the saddle—had the pony escaped while Dattur and the boy were eating lunch? Why hadn’t they tethered the pony?

  The groom finally got a hand on the bridle and led the pony—its nose in the bucket—into the stable. Arcolin looked at the gate guard. “Signal Assembly,” he said. He went into the stable as the horn blew its long three-note call. The stablemaster had anticipated his orders; he had the chestnut out of the stall, almost ready to go. Arcolin went to the pony, checking the tack for any message that Dattur might have sent. Nothing. He frowned at the knotted reins—neat, but not a knot he recognized.

  He came out of the stable, heading for the officers’ court to get his helmet, when he saw Calla in the archway.

  “Jandelir …?” she began, then paled. “Jamis?”

  “Dattur’s with him,” he said. “He’ll be all right, I’m sure. But the pony came home. I’m going to find him.” She stared at him, eyes wide, but did not try to stop him as he jogged across the inner court, took his helmet off its hook just inside the door, caught up his heavier cloak, and came back toward the main courtyard. He gave her a quick hug as he passed. “I will find him, Calla.” I will not let him be killed; not my son.

  Cracolnya’s cohort was just outside the gate—open now to let Arneson bring the recruits in. Cracolnya’s unit was mounted. Arcolin swung up onto the chestnut and said to Arneson, “Jamis is missing—the pony came in without him. I’ll take a tensquad from Cracolnya; you organize things here.”

  “We’ll all come,” Cracolnya said. “We don’t know what the problem is.”

  They rode north into a biting north breeze, veering westerly to pick up the line of the gnome boundary. Cracolnya’s face showed nothing but a tightness around the eyes that might have been from the sharp wind. Arcolin knew he would be thinking about the same thing: Kieri’s wife and children, killed on an outing into the hills. Arcolin held the chestnut to a strong trot, trying to figure out how far the pony would have gone at Dattur’s pace … and had it galloped all the way back or only partway?