Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (45 page)

Dorrin’s gesture quieted the wind. “You are not the ruler here,” she said. “Your day is done.”

He opened his mouth again, but Dorrin saw Kieri coming across the courtyard, glowing in silvery elf-light, his sword already drawn, his Squires and some of the elves behind him.

“What has this fellow done?” Kieri asked.

“He laid silence on all in the stable, holding them in thrall, including your Master of Horse, and would have forced me to speak to him if he had been able. He has abused guest-right; I was bringing him to you for judgment.”

“You dare not harm me,” Matharin said. “I am greater than you know—”

“You are a blood mage,” Kieri said, his voice cold as stone in winter. “You have taken body after body, killing the souls of those born to them. You believe that puts you beyond all law. You are wrong.”

“I am—” Matharin’s face shifted from anger to calm in a moment; his lips quirked in that false smile. “I am no danger to
you
, sir king—you are more powerful. And there is much I could teach you, ancient wisdom lost for centuries.”

Kieri’s answering smile held no mercy. “From my elven mother, I have ancient wisdom of vanyrin, not mere centuries, and from my years as a soldier, I have war’s wisdom, which knows an enemy and the use of a sword.”

Matharin’s expression changed again from calm to exasperation to, finally, fear. “You cannot—you would not—it would be murder to kill an unarmed man—a guest—”

Kieri shook his head. “No mage is unarmed. I have seen and felt your magery, and I know you have used it to harm my people. Your life is forfeit.”

Amrothlin now stood behind Kieri, his sword also drawn. “I am here,” he said.

“Little you know.” Matharin looked calm again, and as they watched, his human semblance darkened, blistered, and peeled away, leaving behind a dark-clothed shape Dorrin had seen—and fought—before. Iynisin … how had she not known that? How had the
elves
not known that?

The iynisin laughed as a sword grew from his hand, flickering with mage-light. With his other hand, he made a gesture and a dagger appeared in an instant. “You call us evil, you tree lovers who claim the name of singers. And you humans … blackcloaks, isn’t it? Or tree haters, which is true in part, or unsingers? The names mean nothing. Your rules mean nothing.”

Dorrin took a step toward him, pushing with all her power, but he did not retreat, and she could not advance. As she watched, his shape wavered, as if to disappear, then solidified again.

“That won’t work now,” Kieri said. He moved. “Dorrin—hold what you have and no more.”

“She can’t—”

From the corner of her eye, Dorrin saw other magelords in the
palace entrance; Matharin’s son, Lethrin, ran down the steps, both hands glowing with mage-light.

“Kieri! ’Ware behind!”

Two King’s Squires turned, intercepted Lethrin, and—when he drew a dagger and lunged—spitted him on their blades. Kieri did not turn; Matharin’s lunge toward him met steel—blade clashing against blade. Matharin’s form wavered again, solidified again, as both Kieri and Amrothlin pressed in. Dorrin dared not look aside. She ignored the noise from the palace entrance—the magelords, Squires, palace staff yelling, struggling—as she would have noise on the battlefield, meaningful only if it suggested a reinforcement or a weakness. Instead, she concentrated on Matharin—now recognizable as iynisin—using her magery to hold him in that one form so that he could not be become invisible or divide into ephemes, as the other iynisin had done.

She did not see the blade wielded by one of the other mages until it was a handbreadth from her face, striking from the left side. She whirled, grabbed for her dagger—but it was in the other’s hand. He lunged again. Dorrin retreated, drawing her sword, frantic to keep her power on what had been Matharin, but she could not ignore the attacker. At least he had no long blade—but the dagger was faster than her sword. Then he had two daggers, one in either hand … and then another danced in the air before her.

They could multiply things; she’d been told that. Including—she jerked her head aside—daggers. But how many could he control at once? And how experienced was he? She snapped her blade back and forth and charged him. One dagger rang against her blade and fell; the man jabbed at her with the daggers in his hands, a beginner’s mistake—and her sword swept his arms aside, almost severing one. He dropped both daggers and screamed, stumbling backward. Dorrin rushed him before he could gather his wits and killed him quickly.

When she turned back to Kieri and Amrothlin, the iynisin was dead, a sprawled mess on the paving stones. Kieri shook the guts from his sword and looked at Dorrin. “Well done, my lord Duke. You gave us time.”

“And you,” she said.

The courtyard now was ringed with elves, the hand of surviving magelords huddled in a tight group at the foot of the stairs, under guard. Five more lay dead, sprawled between that group and Kieri. Dorrin spotted a stealthy movement along the wall behind the others, a hunched figure, almost invisible, heading for the passage between the main palace and the salle. “There!” she said, pointing. The figure tossed something at the nearest elf and then ran for the passage. The elf crumpled. Dorrin ran after the magelord, but he made it into the salle before she could stop him.

Except it was not “he” but a woman, Flannath. Dorrin caught a glimpse of Siger and Carlion turning from the rack of practice blades, then a gesture of Flannath’s hand plunged the salle into darkness.

Dorrin called her own light, but only a dim glow came, just enough to see the blade that flew at her and evade it. Then light filled the salle again as elves came through the door, and the iynisin who had worn Flannath’s skin hissed, then screamed in what Dorrin guessed was elvish. Together, Dorrin and the elves advanced, trapping the iynisin in the far end of the salle. An elf killed it; Dorrin turned to look for the armsmasters. Both were alive, unharmed.

Out in the courtyard, Dorrin found Kieri, looking as grim as she had ever seen him, staring at the bodies. All the magelords there were dead, not just the ones she had seen attacking. “What happened?” she asked. “Did these also join the fight?”

“They ran at us,” one of the elves said. “They threw fire from their hands and dire spells.”

“And they had all stolen the bodies they wore,” Kieri said. “Murderers.”

“What about the others?” Dorrin asked. “The ones in the city?”

“The others,” Kieri said, “await my judgment. And I do not know what is best to do.”

“I know you’ll say the Girdish are unfair,” Seklis said, “but while I’ll agree a child who turns mage may be innocent, these are mages from the days when mages ruled and abused those they ruled. As long as they have mage-powers, they’re a danger.”

“What kind of king invites visitors and then condemns them to
death when they have not yet offended?” Kieri asked. “The others have not stolen bodies, have they?” He looked at Dorrin.

“I know all of these had; I am not sure of the others—most have not. But they may have done other mischief.”

“You can’t trust them,” Seklis said. “Not any of them. Not while they have magery and know how to misuse it.”

“Sir king, what about the Knight-Commander—or the Captain-General of Falk?” Dorrin said. “Remember that my magery was locked for years; I had no use of it or even the knowledge that I had it. Perhaps the magery of those remaining could also be locked.”

“Could you do it, Dorrin?” Kieri asked. “It would be days before either of those could come here.”

“I don’t know,” Dorrin said. “I could try, but I’ve never done it.”

“We will try it,” Kieri said. “Come—before they do something.”

“But magery can be unlocked again,” Seklis said. “Sir king—it is not wise—”

“No paladin is going to unlock
their
magery,” Kieri said. “Dorrin didn’t recover hers by herself.”

At the first inn, where the sick magewomen were staying, they found the innkeeper and several servants staring in consternation at the two dead magewomen on the stairs, blood pooled around them. “I swear, sir king, I did nothing to them. The one who got sick first ran down the stairs and out the door, and then, before I could even shout after her, these two come staggering and falling … they’d been stabbed. Stabbed!”

“Dualian,” Kieri said. “The first to get sick and the one who didn’t die of it.”

“But—she—a woman killed them?”

“I think so,” Kieri said. “And tried to kill others … but she’s dead now.”

“What about the sick woman upstairs—will she kill me?”

“No,” Kieri said. He turned to two of his Squires. “Go up and make sure she’s really sick—and then make sure she stays there.”

Very shortly nearly all the remaining magelords were collected in the common room of one inn. One sat slumped in a corner with a jug of ale before him; the innkeeper said he spent every day drinking.

“I brought you here to save your lives,” Kieri said. “I could have broken your enchantment and let the dragon melt you into the stone itself.”

They stared at him but said nothing. Dorrin sensed nothing but shock and fear.

“I meant you no harm,” Kieri went on. “But some of you meant harm to me and mine and broke the guest-truce. They used magery against me—against me, the rightful king. Against others as well.”

“Who?” one of them asked.

“They died,” Kieri said without answering that question. “They died at my hand and the hands of my people because they broke the guest-truce. These are their names …” He named them one by one. “And these are the women Dualian killed on the way to seeking my death. Mages like you.”

Silence again.

“I welcomed you with an open mind,” Kieri said. “You have eaten from my hand, been housed by my hand, and I had hoped to see you living and prospering. But now … now I know I cannot trust you. Not as you are. Not as mages.”

“But we are—” one of the younger men said.

“Yes. You are mages, mages from old times, and I do not trust you. You have a choice. You can choose to give up your magery. Or you can die.”

“But … but lord King … without magery how can we live?”

“I lived without magery for years,” Dorrin said. “I was in Falk’s Hall as a youth, and my magery was locked away because I was not trusted.”

“But now?”

“Now,” said Dorrin, “I have the same powers as you, and stronger. No harm came to me from learning to live without it. It can be so for you.”

Disbelief on all the faces turned to her. The drunk in the corner giggled, pointed, and a jug on the bar across the room lifted and came to him. He took it, poured the contents down his throat, dropped the jug, and slumped over onto the table, mouth open.

“How can we not be mages?”

“I can lock your magery,” Dorrin said. “But I will not do so unless you agree, each of you individually. Only understand: the king’s command stands. Either you allow it or you will die this day.”

“It would have been better if you had let us die out there!” one of them said.

“Is that your choice?” Kieri asked.

For answer, the man threw fire at Kieri; one of the elves speared the man as Kieri’s gesture dispersed the fire. The others gaped.

“That solves one problem,” Seklis said.

Kieri turned on him. “So might a magelord have said when killing a band of peasants in Gird’s War. So might an iynisin have said, killing me. Are we no better than that, to think only of our convenience?”

Seklis flushed and bit his lip. “I’m sorry, sir king. It is unworthy of me. Unworthy of any follower of Gird, who did, we know, want mages and nonmages to live in peace.”

The remaining mages looked at one another and back at Kieri.

“Fifteen of your number died at the palace,” he said. “And two more of the malice of one of the fifteen. Decide.” He pointed to one in the front. “You. Tell me now.”

The man looked at Dorrin, then back to Kieri. “I … she may block my magery.”

Dorrin felt her way into the core of his magery and found the same formation the Knight-Commander had found in her. She touched it, twisted … and it was done.

Two more agreed before one shook his head. “I don’t care—I don’t like it here, and I see nothing to gain in living longer. I will not resist, but there is no need to make more mess for the landlord. The stableyard will do.”

In the end, fewer than two hands of them agreed to have their magery locked away. The forlorn little group straggled back to their lodgings, alone in a foreign land and foreign time.

“I don’t think they’ll live long,” Dorrin said when she, Kieri, and Seklis had returned to the palace. In the meantime, the bodies had been taken away; no trace remained of the fight except in their memories.

“I hated it,” Kieri said. “It wasn’t fair—”

“You couldn’t have done anything else, sir king,” Seklis said. “Mages of old—”

“Enough,” Kieri said through his teeth. Seklis stepped back. “You don’t understand. You’re Girdish.” He took a long breath. “Good or evil, mage or not, they were guests.
Guests
. They had no choice; I broke the enchantment and brought them here; I was responsible for them—”

“Not for their choices,” Dorrin said. “Falk’s Rules.”

“The king,” Kieri said heavily, “is responsible for everything.” He turned to Caernith. “Did you know all the time they were like this? That it would end like this for even the best of them?”

Caernith bowed. “Lord king, we did not know how it would end, only that without you it would end worse, with more and more iynisin emerging to spread their hatred and evil everywhere. If I may suggest …”

“Go ahead,” Kieri said, still through clenched teeth.

“Honor those who chose death willingly, doing no harm. It will comfort those who chose life to know that both honorable choices are recognized.”

Kieri’s shoulders relaxed. “That is a good thought, Caernith. I will talk to those that remain and ask them to help plan a ceremony.” He sighed. “Well. Not a day I ever wish to see again. But I suppose we must go on.”

“And there is a meal waiting,” Arian said from the foot of the stairs to the royal apartments.

Not even food could lighten the mood, though each of them tried. Exhaustion and disappointment lay over the party like fog. After the second course, Arian excused herself to see to the twins.