The chair had been set beneath a hastily erected pavilion by the bank of the river, with the lowering sun at the king’s back. This was not the harsh sun of the desert. The red desert had engulfed Minas Ford, but it had not quite come down to the river. Thus the pavilion, set out of the sand in the cool evening.
Iaor’s small army had been drawn up to his left; Eles’s guardsmen and the people of Minas Ford had a place of honor before the pavilion. The Casmantian soldiers, those who had been with the Arobern, stood in their ranks, disarmed and under a light guard, to the right. The other Casmantian army, receiving a messenger the Arobern had sent to them, had not come farther into Feierabiand, but rather had held its place on the far side of the desert.
Kairaithin, in griffin form, sat near Iaor’s chair on one side, and Bertaud himself stood on the other.
The king of the griffins was not present, but the savage white griffin, Tastairiane Apailika, sat a little beyond Kairaithin. Bertaud did not know what the attendance of these particular griffins signified. Kes probably knew why Tastairiane Apailika in particular had been sent to watch these proceedings, but she sat on the ground between Opailikiita’s feathered forelegs, her own arms around up-drawn knees, and looked not at all approachable.
The girl’s hair had been brushed out—it was the first time Bertaud had ever seen it free of tangles and knots—and braided with a strand of honey-colored beads. And she had finally changed out of her makeshift Casmantian dress. She wore a plain pale-yellow gown that had no adornment at all. Bertaud suspected that Kairaithin had found, or perhaps made, the clothing for her; it seemed to him a detail that would matter to the griffin mage, though he could not have said why.
Kes looked older and less waiflike, but still not very human. Her feet were bare, her skin nearly transparent; she seemed barely to contain an internal light. She had not shown any desire to put herself in the company of the Minas Ford people. Most of those folk looked at Kes, quick anxious astonished looks, with a great deal more intensity than they spared for the king. She did not look back. She had her head tilted against Opailikiita’s leg, and her own attention seemed reserved for the Arobern.
Brechen Glansent Arobern walked forward between the two armies, past the townsfolk and the griffins, and stopped before Iaor’s chair. He had not been bound—“No,” Iaor had said, undoubtedly thinking how nearly this moment had gone the other way, “let him keep his pride. We will see how little else we can leave him.” So the Arobern was not chained. He had only been disarmed. He looked intent, energetic, not in the least humbled; his focus was not inward, on his own defeat and humiliation, as one might have expected, but outward, on Iaor.
He walked forward quite steadily, a big man with powerful shoulders and a face that was strong, even harsh. His dark beard accentuated the strength of his jaw and made him look stubborn, which he probably was; his eyes were quick and brilliant and utterly redeemed his heavy features from any appearance of dullness. When he got to Iaor, he did not kneel, but bowed, and then studied his conqueror with every appearance of lively curiosity as he straightened. He was tall enough, and arrogant enough, to make it seem by his attitude alone that his was the predominant will in all this company.
Iaor smiled. It was not an amused smile. He had not wanted to humble the Arobern, but, Bertaud thought, he had rather expected the Arobern to show a certain humility of his own accord. That was lacking. Iaor did not demand it. He only said, with a mildness Bertaud recognized as his father’s, signalling dangerous temper, “Brechen Glansent Arobern. Your country and mine were not, I thought, at war. And yet here we are. Why is this?”
The Arobern lifted powerful shoulders in a shrug. “Well. I thought it would work. Yes?” His Terheien was harshly accented, but perfectly understandable. “I thought I would come across the mountains and take your Bered and Terabiand, yes, and all that country to the east of the river, and make a new province for Casmantium. Then the road through the mountains might be made better, and Casmantium could profit from Terabiand’s harbor. You understand, I did not think the malacteir, the griffins, I did not think they would fight for you. I thought the other way: That you would fight them and so be made weak.”
His eyes went to Kes, where she sat at the feet of her griffin friend. She looked back at him with eyes that were filled with fire and the memories of the desert.
“I did not expect the malacteir to find a girl like that one. And then when I caught her, I did not think the little festechanenteir would slip my hand. And then she came into her power. So all I meant to do turned and went another way, yes? The festechanenteir turned the weapon I thought I had set against you so that it came against me instead. So I was wrong,” he finished simply, and turned his attention back to Iaor. “So you have the day, yes? What will you do, Iaor Safiad?”
It might have been a humble question. The Arobern did not ask it humbly.
Iaor tapped the arm of his chair in a gentle rhythm. He said, even more mildly than before, “Naturally, I wish to restore relations between Feierabiand and Casmantium to their former amicability. I am certain you share this desire, Brechen Glansent Arobern. A reasonable indemnity will do. I presume your brother will pay it. Of course, it is one of your brothers you left holding your throne?”
“Yes. He will pay. For me. For them.” The Arobern nodded over his shoulder toward his men.
“You are fortunate in your brothers.”
“Yes,” agreed the Arobern, very simply.
“And when next you conceive a plan to acquire a new province? I wonder whether your brother is perhaps less ambitious than you are, Brechen Glansent Arobern. I wonder if perhaps I would be wiser not to send you back to Casmantium, whatever price your brother offers me for you?”
The Arobern tilted his head back, assured and arrogant. “It would offend Casmantium if Feierabiand held her king beyond the time it takes to gather the indemnity. I do not think you should do that, Iaor Safiad.”
“Don’t you? Well, I will accept an indemnity for the damage you did to my lands and my people, and an indemnity for your men. But I think it only just to give your own person to the griffins, whom you wronged first and more grievously. And your remaining cold mages, of course.”
This was a surprise. Bertaud blinked, wondering whether Iaor had come up with this idea on the instant. It was not, perhaps, a terrible idea. It would be impossible for Casmantium to argue that the griffins did not have a claim. And certainly no one would expect an offense against griffins to be paid off with gold; no, if they were to collect an indemnity, in what other coin would they take it but in blood? And Iaor might very reasonably be thinking of ways to keep the griffins well-disposed to Feierabiand. That would set Casmantium well back. And Linularinum. Both countries respected ruthlessness. They would no doubt be very impressed if Iaor could persuade the griffins to become Feierabiand’s allies. Especially if he purchased this alliance with the blood of a rival king.
The Arobern, taken initially by surprise, quite obviously also concluded that this was a course of action Iaor might reasonably pursue. He glanced at the griffins, then back at Iaor. Iaor merely looked blandly courteous, an expression he did extremely well. The griffins were hard to read, but they certainly did not look courteous. Tastairiane Apailika opened his beak and clicked it shut again, producing a small deadly sound. Kairaithin tilted his head, a gesture that expressed, Bertaud thought, perhaps a kind of humor. Kes, tucked against Opailikiita’s legs, looked very small, very young, and not at all human. She, Bertaud was disturbed to see, was smiling.
The Arobern said slowly, “You will do what you will, Safiad king.” He looked faintly nonplussed, as though he had thought he had known how this interview would go and was taken aback to find his predictions overset. Bertaud might have told him that Iaor, when truly angry, was likely to become both quiet and creative. The King of Casmantium went on, slowly, choosing his words with care, “But I will ask you do it to me and not to my people, yes? My mages only did as I bade them, you unders
tand?”
“The People of Fire and Air spent themselves recklessly this day. Shall I not acknowledge their cost?”
Kes stood up. All eyes went to her, though she did not appear to be trying to draw attention. A woman among the Minas Ford folk edged out toward her and then hesitated—her sister, Bertaud realized, though he could see no resemblance between them whatsoever.
Though she left one hand on Opailikiita’s neck, Kes edged forward a step. She did not glance toward her sister, but said to the kings, in a small voice that was nevertheless surprisingly audible, “They don’t want him. Or even Beguchren.”
Iaor, clearly taken aback, lifted his eyebrows. His hands stilled on the arms of his chair as he tensed, waiting to hear what the girl would say so that he could try to fit it into his own plans. The Casmantian king tilted his head quizzically to the side. Even Bertaud was startled. But he felt Kes was right as soon as she had spoken.
“They don’t want vengeance, you know,” Kes said, glancing from one man to the other. “They don’t… they don’t think that way. They kill things, too, you know. They don’t hold it against the King of Casmantium that he was fierce. Ferocity is something they understand. It’s not vengeance they want.”
Iaor gave her a questioning glance, not wanting to ask out loud what they did want and thus admit that he was as surprised as anyone else at what Kes had said.
Kes looked quickly at the griffins. Neither Kairaithin nor Tastairiane Apailika spoke, but only regarded her from fierce eagle’s eyes. They were both sitting very still. They looked massive and powerful and thoroughly ferocious themselves, although neither of them moved. Kes turned her gaze back to the king, and then to the Arobern. “They want Melentser.”
“They want what?” said the Arobern, in a startled tone.
Kes repeated, “They want Melentser.”
Melentser was not merely a town. It was a small city near the edge of Casmantium’s border with the desert.
“Melentser is ours.” The Arobern now sounded rather blank. “My mother’s mother was from there. It has been part of Casmantium for more than a hundred years.”
“Well, before that, it was part of the desert,” said Kes. She stroked her hand through the feathers on Opailikiita’s shoulder, and the slim griffin bent her head around and brushed Kes’s face with her beak. Kes smiled. She said, “The desert will take it again, King of Casmantium. That is what the People of Fire and Air want.”
“I will not agree, festechanenteir. My brother will not agree. You set your indemnity too high.”
“King of Casmantium,” said Kes, “the desert here is new and it cost the lives of many griffins to make. But sending the great northern desert to take back Melentser will cost less, because no one will be fighting the desert when it comes. And no one will fight it. You will yield it. Or the Lord of Fire and Air will ask the King of Feierabiand to give all your people to the desert, those here and those in the mountains. And the King of Feierabiand will do it.”
Kes paused, giving the Arobern a careful, assessing look. Then she added, deliberately, “Tastairiane Apailika wants to kill you all. He says he could do it by himself, if I am there to keep him whole. I would do that, if I had to. And then the desert will reach out to Melentser all the same, and your brother will find he is not wise to fight against sand and stone. Because I can defend the People of Fire and Air against anything he can do, and Feierabiand will be here at his flank, and Casmantium will be weak after losing all those men.”
The Arobern regarded her with patent astonishment. He took a breath.
“Or you may simply yield Melentser as a proper indemnity,” Iaor interrupted him easily, his tone perfectly matter-of-fact, just as though he had known all along what the girl was going to say. It sounded very smooth. “Casmantium can afford it.”
The Arobern transferred his attention to Iaor.
“Melentser to the desert, a suitable indemnity to Feierabiand, and we may all go on with our lives,” Iaor said to him. “With, of course, some form of reassurance that you will not think again of fashioning new Casmantian provinces out of my country. I believe you have a son, do you not, Brechen Glansent Arobern? Twelve years old, is he not?”
“You want my son as hostage?” The Arobern hesitated, now clearly off his balance. He ran a hand through his black hair, a frustrated gesture that made him look suddenly younger and much less arrogant. “No. I may yield Melentser. But not my son. What else would you take instead?”
“I am not negotiating.” Iaor leaned forward in his chair. “I am telling you what I require. Melentser to the desert. An appropriate indemnity for the trouble to which you have put Feierabiand. And your son, as a guarantee of your future restraint. All this before I will return you to your kingdom, King of Casmantium.”
The Arobern listened to him carefully. He nodded, not in agreement, Bertaud thought, but only to show he understood the terms demanded. Then he came forward a step and sank down to one knee in front of Iaor. His harsh features were not made for humility, but he was now clearly trying. “But I will ask you not to do this, Safiad. I acknowledge you have won everything. You have won, yes? Casmantium will yield everything. As you have said, yes? I know you have made alliance with the malacteir. I know your little festechanenteir gives the malacteir a strength I cannot challenge. Is that not enough assurance?”
“No,” said Iaor. He sat back in his chair, hands relaxing. His chin tipped up in satisfaction. He had wanted the Arobern to humble himself, to ask for mercy. But now, having forced the other king to submit, he was willing to be kind. He said, “I will hold your son only eight years. Then he may return to Casmantium.”
The Arobern did not rise. Evidently perceiving the satisfaction but not the inclination toward generosity, he said harshly, “You will not take vengeance on my son for your offense at me. I will not put him in the way of Safiad anger in a hostile court.”
Iaor, startled, cast a brief involuntary glance at Bertaud, who lifted an eyebrow, trying to keep his face expressionless. Then the king said violently to the Arobern, “Do you think such things of me, Brechen Glansent Arobern? Your son will serve me as is appropriate for a young lord—he will be well-schooled at my court and treated as befits a prince. I assure you. Then he may return to you.”
Some of the Arobern’s tension eased. He nodded, and hesitated. “The years from twelve to twenty are long years. Yes? You will take a boy and teach him to be a man. At your court. If not to fear you, you will teach him to love you. Will you not? To love Feierabiand. That is what you mean.”
“That is exactly what I mean,” Iaor agreed.
“Yes.” The Arobern bent his head, accepting this assurance because he had no choice. “The Safiad kings are clever. I knew this, but I thought I was more clever. Very well. I will take your word and do as you say.”
“I was lucky,” Iaor admitted. He paused, and Bertaud knew that the other king’s submission had again inclined Iaor to generosity. He said slowly, “If Feierabiand was confident of Casmantium’s intentions, there would be no intrinsic reason why mutually beneficial terms might not be worked out regarding the harbor at Terabiand and the eastern road. I find no compelling reason to reconsider the harbor dues. But we might discuss improvements to the road.”
“Hah.” The Arobern stared at Iaor. “Well.” He got to his feet, managing a smile. “Mutually beneficial. Yes. If Casmantium is not beggared by the indemnity you set, Safiad king, we might well wish to make improvements to the mountain road. Our builders would be pleased by the challenge, I think. Maybe it might be widened. Maybe to twice its present width. It might even be paved, yes? And bridges put in, yes? Then the toll ended to compensate Casmantium for the expense. That would be fair, if Casmantium provides the builders.”
“We will discuss these matters,” said Iaor, and lifted his hand a little. General Adries gestured to the Arobern, and the Arobern bowed, rather more profoundly than he had initially, and suffered himself to be led away.
Iaor sighed,
and leaned back in his chair. He glanced at the griffins, who did not now seem very interested. Kairaithin tilted his head, and was gone, with Tastairiane Apailika. Kes, not glancing around, appearing utterly unconcerned about anything creatures of earth might choose to do, put an arm around Opailikiita’s neck and also vanished. She left behind only a breath of stone-scented wind and a scattering of sand. Her sister took a hesitant step toward the empty place where she had been, looking bereft.
Bertaud glanced away, reluctant to intrude on such personal grief. But then he found his eye caught by Iaor. “Well?” asked the king, making a private moment out of the general movement of men all around them scattering about evening duties and business.
Bertaud let his breath out. He shook his head. “What do you mean, well? Are you asking my opinion? I don’t think… I don’t think I would dare offer one.”
“I will stop the toll on the eastern road,” Iaor declared. “And Brechen Glansent Arobern will put an end to Casmantian tariffs on our goods. And he’ll pay the harbor dues, and like it.”
“I’ve no doubt you’ll teach the Arobern not to bite,” Bertaud agreed.
The king gave a satisfied little nod. “I doubt I can make a personal friend of the man, but perhaps I can do something with his son. Perhaps I’ll reduce the dues in eight years, as a going-home gift for the boy.”
“Well,” Bertaud conceded, “I admit, that would be a good thing, if you could make an ally of Casmantium for a generation or two. And… I, of all men, don’t underestimate your ability to make boys into your friends, Iaor.”
Lord of the Changing Winds Page 30