Luap rode in morose silence all that morning, inquiring of all the gods he could think of—and Gird—what else he could have done. The explanations and excuses looked shabby, spread out in his mind; he knew that Gird would have swept them away. Yes, the woman was stupid, smug, and difficult: that was her problem. He had not made things better with his flare of temper. He found himself arguing that Gird, too, had lost his temper with a difficult woman named Binis, but it would not work, and he knew it. All at once he was plunged into internal darkness, a wave of despair. How could he think of leading his people to any good purpose? Everything he’d ever done wrong came back to him in vivid pictures; he hunched over the horse’s neck, wishing he could spew it all out and die, have it all over. The Rosemage would lead his people better. Or Aris and Seri, in partnership.
He had no thought of food, and Binis finally said, plaintively, “Aren’t we going to stop and eat?” Another stab of guilt—had he compounded anger and rudeness with cruelty?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I—lost track of time.” He reined in and looked around. At least he wasn’t lost; he still recognized the shapes of hill and field. Beneath him, his horse sighed and tugged the reins, wanting to graze the fresh spring grass. “Yes. We can stop here, or go on a bit to that creek.” He pointed.
“You look sick,” Binis said with her usual tact.
Luap shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he said again. He thought of apologizing for yesterday’s anger, but Binis was not one to inspire selflessness; she absorbed it as her due. He dismounted, and let his horse graze. Binis found a convenient rock and settled to her food; he had no appetite for his, but realized he should eat anyway. He choked down some mouthfuls of bread and cheese. This would not do; they had several more days of travel together, and he had to find some way to get along with this woman.
He tried asking questions about life in Fin Panir; Binis gave short answers, and made it clear that he should know the answers already. He tried telling her about the war, how it had been to march these very hills and river valleys with Gird’s army. She listened to that, but her questions revealed no grasp of tactics—he became very tired of her “Why didn’t Gird just—?” She seemed to think all battles were great set pieces, with armies lined up on either side; she was sure that any villagers who didn’t support Gird’s army must have been part mageborn.
“They were hungry and frightened,” Luap tried to explain. “Someone had to stay and plant the fields, but if the magelords caught them sharing food with us, they’d be killed—worse than killed.” He remembered the thin faces, the desperation, the bodies displayed on hillsides. “Look there,” he said, pointing to an ox-team busy with spring ploughing. The farmer had made a grisly decoration of skulls turned up by the plough. Binis shuddered; Luap thought he might have pierced her determination to simplify the past. He hoped so.
By the time they reached the cave, in a misting rain, Luap felt her presence as a great weight on his neck. He made a last try. “We had several cohorts in here,” he said. “Worse weather than this, but also early spring. Gird had a bad cold. Lots of us did.”
“Which spring?” she asked. This time she took the shovel to dig the trench; he thought that was a good sign.
“The spring before Greenfields,” he said. While she built a small fire in the familiar ring of stones, he dragged first one sack of soil, then another, back to the chamber. She did not offer to help. The feeling grew on him that this was the most significant of his visits to the cave: the season, the weather, and the sullen peasant were all the same. Binis could easily stand for some hundreds of her fellows.
He felt this even more when he discovered that she expected him to take the soil to his stronghold by the mageroad, then return and go back with her to Fin Panir to report to the Marshal-General. “That way I can be sure you don’t return and steal more,” she said. Luap wondered briefly if she had anything between her ears but malice and stubbornness.
“Binis, if I had wanted to disobey the Marshal-General and steal more earth, I could have come here in the first place and never travelled with you at all.”
“You wouldn’t have dared,” she said. “You can’t disobey the Marshal-General.” She said it in the way she would have said that stones fall or water is wet, someone stating a natural law.
“I could,” Luap said flippantly, and instantly wished he hadn’t. He already knew Binis had no sense of humor. She was scowling now, as if he had insulted her. “Listen to me: I did what your Marshal-General asked because I swore an oath to Gird. Not an oath to obey his successor, an oath to support him, and do no harm with my magery to his people. I saw no reason to quarrel with the Marshal-General; I have fulfilled his requirements, and I am going back to my land.” To stay, he almost said. But he would return, to continue his work with the archives, and he did not mean to cause more trouble than he had.
“I won’t let you,” Binis said. “You have to take the sacks there and return.”
The sheer stupidity of it, her inability to see that she had no way to compel him, almost made him laugh. He thought of agreeing, and then not coming back, which might at least teach her something about the limits of her power, but in this place he could not lie to one of Gird’s people, not even one he was sure Gird himself would have knocked in the head. Gently, as if speaking to a dull child, he said “Binis, I am going and I am not coming back. You have food, two horses and a pony, and a clear trail. You’re a yeoman-marshal and it’s peacetime. You will be perfectly safe travelling alone, and there’s a grange not a day’s ride away. Now sit down and eat your supper.”
“You’re not going to do it,” she said. She moved over to block his way to the chamber. Luap felt again the anger he had felt at Gird—and she was no Gird; he lifted his fist, and she blinked but stood her ground. He could not hit her. He had sworn not to use magery in this land… but it was gentler. His power flowed out and around her like honey around an ant; she struggled, but could not move.
“Farewell, Binis,” he said, stepping past her. He moved quickly past her, into the chamber, and laid a hand on either sack as he called on his power.
Chapter Twenty-three
What does the prince fear?” the black-cloaked lord asked his spy. “What does he love? These are the knots in which to bind him.” He had sent many spies, over the years, and learned many things he expected to use in the future. But he had not yet decided on the exact way to approach the prince and use him to destroy the others.
“He is a king’s bastard—not ever acknowledged,” the spy said. “And like all such he doubts both his father’s goodwill and the reality of his parentage. He fears ridicule—he fears disrespect— and he fears that he is not deserving of respect. He is beginning to fear age, as he sees those he respects dying or approaching death. He has a vision for his people, for this place, and he fears that as he ages he will lose control of them. That his vision will not survive.”
“And he loves?” The tone was contemptuous; they did not believe that “love” existed, but they knew others claimed to be moved so.
The spy shrugged. “Insofar as he can, he thinks he loves his people. He believes they need his protection and wisdom; he takes pride in serving them. He is sure he knows best, and wants them to agree that he does. He loves his own will, but no more than many. He has a vision of himself as a great leader.”
“Anything else?”
The spy smiled; he had been saving the best for last. “He was warned never to seek command, or take it; he was told he was unfit for it. Although he did not understand why he was considered unfit, he submitted to others. Now, having accepted the leadership here, he has broken an old oath. That is no consequence to us, but it bothers him: he will not let himself think of it, or admit that is what he has done.” Others laughed; such self-blindness offered easy access for their enchantments.
The leader’s brows rose. “Unfit for command? Not to our purpose… I can scarcely imagine one I would rather see in his place. A bastard prince, a
prince afraid of his own weakness, a prince afraid that age will erode his power, an oathbreaker… apt for our purposes, indeed! He should welcome our aid as eagerly as an overworked shepherd welcomes a well-trained sheepdog. So long as he does not see the wolf beneath the dog’s fur, we shall prosper as he does. Let him think on his losses, and fear more: let him grasp— and we shall have something for him to hold.”
Climbing up to the forested top of the mountain took longer than Luap would have expected. He was winded and sweaty when he finally made it over the rim and into the cool shade of the trees. It had been too long, he told himself, since he had climbed even as high as the terrace now below. The Rosemage looked almost as tired, but Seri and Aris were bubbling with energy.
“It’s easy walking from here,” Seri said. “And we marked our trail, the first time.”
Luap nodded, still out of breath, and turned to look behind him, out over the rim. Now he could see much that had been hidden from the level below, while whole clefts and canyons had disappeared—they might have been only surface cracks in the rock. Others showed more clearly; he thought he could see a narrow green valley up the main canyon and then southward. Gird should have seen this, he thought. Northward a great gray angular mountain loomed, very unlike the red rock around them. Eastward, the higher mountains were white; he could not tell if it was rock or snow.
“We haven’t explored all of this yet,” Aris said. “Only toward the west, and only part of that. But we’ve found so many things… trees like this in places, and in others low round trees hardly larger than bushes. Grassy meadows, even a little creek right up here on top of the mountain.”
“And game,” Seri said. “Tame enough to touch, some of these animals.”
“All right,” he said, smiling at the Rosemage. “Let’s see your marvels.”
The two led them along the southern edge of the trees, where Luap could see between the trunks a plateau with similar trees across the canyon. It was, as they’d promised, much easier walking than the canyon itself; they reached the low end before the sun had moved three handspans on its way.
On this end of the mountain, no intermediate terrace broke its sheer cliffs. Luap crept cautiously to the dropoff and found himself staring down into a well of blue air, still shadowed by the cliff. Perhaps a bowshot away, a stone tower rose to a lesser height, partly eroded from the cliff behind. Below the steepest slopes, the hollow was filled with trees.
When he looked west, he saw across a lower cliff a vast low plain, with mountains rising from it in the distance. “Is that where you thought you saw a caravan?” he asked.
“Not from here,” Aris said. “Come along this edge, now.” He led the way around a cove or bay of stone, toward another outlying point; it occurred to Luap that this end of the mountain had a shape rather like an outflung hand, fingers of stone defining angled coves between them.
“That’s what we thought.” Aris pointed back to the tower. “We called that one the Thumb.” The next prominence was farther away than it looked—everything in this country, Luap thought, was farther away than it looked—but from it he could look through a break in the western cliffs. “There’s a stream in there,” Aris said. “But it’s not the same one that’s in our canyon. It comes from the north, and cuts through to the west.”
Through the break, he could see a pale line, like a scratch, in the even tan of the distant plain. “That could be a trail, I suppose,” he said. “You saw something moving along it?”
“Yes. And if you look south—there—you can see what might be a town.”
Luap could see nothing but a jumble of shadows that might come from a pile of rocks or low buildings the color of the plain. Certainly it looked like no town he had ever seen—but nothing out here looked like anything he’d ever seen.
“There’s nothing green until the next mountains,” the Rosemage said. “What could they live on? Is it just bare rock?”
“I don’t know.” Seri flung out her hands. “But I think we could find a way out of here… look.” She leaned out and pointed. “If you come down the canyon to that lower fall, and then angle around the Thumb—that tower—and then up the slope that sticks out from this… then you’re close to the stream that goes out through that cliff. It’s rugged, but we could build a trail—”
“After we’ve made sure our cropland bears,” Luap said firmly. “We aren’t here to explore; we’re here to settle.”
Seri looked a little disgruntled; Aris spoke up. “But, sir—if we can get out, then others—those we saw—could get in. It’s only good planning to know if there’s a back door in your house, and how to secure it.”
“Why would anyone come into such rugged country?” the Rosemage asked. “As level as that plain is—”
“What you said before: here it’s green, and there’s water. Or perhaps they hunt up here; surely we have more game than the plain.”
“Hmm. Well, I don’t see that we’ll have people to spare for that this growing season. Perhaps next year. Although if trade is possible, there are many things we could use.” Luap looked around. “Just as I see things up here that we can use. More timber, for one, and game.”
“And we found pine-nuts very different from those on the taller pines,” Seri said, her enthusiasm rekindled. “And other plants to eat.”
Luap glanced at the sun, now well past midday. “Show us what you can on the way back; I don’t want to be benighted up here.” Seri nodded; she and Aris led away from the western cliffs back over the mountaintop. In some places, the ground was broken; scrubby bushes and small trees struggled among the tumbled stones. In others, the groves of tall pines rose straight from level rock; little undergrowth impeded movement or sight between them. They came upon small meadows in little hollows; in one of these a gray stag in velvet looked at them a long moment before stalking away. And by the time they had reached the eastern rim and the trail down, the mountain threw its shadow over all below, so that dusky rose rock melted into dusky blue shades, layer after layer. Far to the east the white cliffs of the higher mountains still caught the light.
The Rosemage climbed down the trail first, then Luap; he thought his legs would give out before he stood at last on the level stone of the terrace. And he still had to climb down the stairs to the main level of the stronghold. Behind him, he was aware of Seri and Aris, both still full of energy. He rarely felt his age—he had been younger than many of Gird’s companions in the war—but now he felt the years that lay between him and the two younglings. Even between him and his own youth. That war, he reflected, had been years ago: they had been children, and he had had children. No wonder they were excited with each new hill and valley they found. He wished he had as many years left to enjoy this land.
He pushed that worry away. He was younger than Arranha, younger than the Rosemage. He would live to see his dream fulfilled. And these two would be part of it. In this mood, he was willing to grant Seri and Aris leave to explore father, so long as they took their turn at the necessary fieldwork. Perhaps it would make them decide to stay; surely they would come to love this country as he did.
Arranha, at dinner that night, had his doubts about exploring the lands beyond the canyon. “Would it anger the elves or dwarves?” he asked. “Did they place any limits on your dealings with those folk?”
“They didn’t mention them,” Luap said. “They said I was not to claim ownership of this hall—or that I had built it. Of course I would do neither.”
“That gray mountain we saw,” the Rosemage said, changing the subject with less than her usual grace. “It looked to me as if it might have ores: did the dwarves say aught about that?”
“Not a word.” Luap shook his head. “Why?”
“If there’s silver, or gold,” she said. “Even iron, for us to make our own tools and pots; you’ll have no trouble getting a smith if we have metal. Or if we have gold to pay.”
“That’s much more sense than frolicking off to follow desert caravans around,” sa
id Arranha. “You brought the mageborn here to learn the use of magery in privacy, in safety. Involve us in someone else’s business, and you’re asking for trouble. But using the land’s own wealth to trade back to Fin Panir, that’s another matter.”
“It’s not far,” the Rosemage said. “Even allowing for the way things seem close… I’m sure we could find a way to it.
Luap felt a vague discomfort; he had a vision of his folk flitting away in all directions like a flight of small birds when a cat pounces. “You’re eager to leave, then?” he found himself saying.
“No—I don’t think it’s leaving,” the Rosemage said, and gave him a steady look. “I think Arranha’s right: our safety here depends in part on being unknown. We are few; surely whatever land lies there has more people in it. But if we can find materials we need, be they trees or metals, something to trade back to Fin Panir or hire artisans here, that makes more sense to me.”
Luap raised his brows and looked at Aris and Seri, whose expressions wavered between wistfulness and chagrin. “And you two? You wanted to find out who lives out there, did you not?”
Seri gave the Rosemage a look. “It’s—it’s practical. In the military sense. Surely you see that we need to know who’s at the back door, and how easily they could find us. Suppose someone’s living in those western canyons—suppose they get a taste for the fish in our stream?”
“How far away do you think the gray mountain is?” Luap asked Aris. “Do you think it’s as near as the western cliffs?”
“No—but I’m not sure how far.” Aris looked worried, as he did sometimes when asked about things outside his competence.
“If it’s just a matter of distance,” the Rosemage said, “then the western cliffs—even that town Aris thinks he saw—are closer. I won’t argue that. But there’s nothing to the caravans and towns but danger—and the mountain might offer something better.”
Seri looked stubborn. “It’s dangerous not to find out what’s out in the plain.”