Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (69 page)

At times it seemed the design drew itself, but Dorrin saw the tension in the man’s hand, the care with which he worked from the center outward. The center itself he left bare, perhaps a handspan across. He stepped back as the sun reached its zenith.

Wind died; the sun beat down. With a gesture, the Guardian of Guardians halted the chant.

“The One’s seat is there,” said one Guardian to Dorrin. He pointed not to her but to the empty center of the pattern.

Now, O Queen
.

“How can I—I cannot walk on that—” The design would be ruined.

Let me go. Set me free
.

“Be what you are,” Dorrin said. Where the words had come from she could not have said. “Be what you are and where you should be … I set you free.”

Familiar weight lifted from her head; the crown rose and floated above the pattern, then settled on the empty center. Within its brilliant circle, the bare clay showed white.

“Your water there,” the Guardian of Guardians said.

The goblet hung in the air at her heart-hand. She took it, reached far out over the design, and poured. Water fell in a silvery ribbon, sparkling as it fell, into that circle … and rose, contained by the frame of the crown, to reach the jewels.

One by one, they burst, exploding with water, a river from each jewel, it seemed, water rising so fast that Dorrin and the Guardians were knee deep in a moment, the careful design on the sand covered … but still shimmering beneath the water, undisturbed. The jewels she had walked on, sat on, lain on, dissolved into more water; the water rose steadily, thigh-deep, waist-deep, still clear as crystal.

The light dimmed; Dorrin looked up to see clouds gathering overhead, blotting out the sun, dark as the summer rainstorms in the north, and in the next moment rain roared down to join the water rising up.

The water had motion now, tugging at her white robe; she struggled with it and got it off, the better to stand, to try to wade back to the distant wall of rock, but the current strengthened, pulling her into deeper water, and the rain fell so heavily she could not tell which direction to go. It pounded her head, her shoulders; she was soaked to the skin in the first moments; she could scarcely breathe. She would drown if she fell; she might drown standing up.

When the rain ceased to fall on her, she looked up to see a vast dark shape hovering over her like the roof of a house hanging in the air … beyond its protection, rain lashed the water, but here not even a drip fell from the creature above her. Staring at her was one large flame-colored eye; she realized, blinking water out of her eyes, that its sinuous neck had twisted around to watch her even as she sheltered under it.

“Are you wise, Dorrin Verrakai?”

The same question a dragon had asked Kieri, Arian, Mikeli, Arcolin. The same dragon? Who could tell?

“I have tried to learn wisdom,” she said. “But I would not call myself wise.”

“Did you know what you were bringing to this place? What would happen?”

“I knew the jewels were water enchanted into stone, the water that once nourished the land. I thought—the jewels told me, and I believed—that here they could restore the land, make it beautiful.”

“And is dry land always ugly?”

This was ridiculous. The water was up to her chest now, her feet almost lifting off the ground beneath, and she was discussing beauty with a … a dragon? But under the gaze of that eye, half the height of her body at least, she could only go on, ignoring the chill tugging of the water, the sound of the rain beyond.

“It may be beautiful,” Dorrin said, “if it was made by the gods to be dry. And such land may exist. But this land was made dry by error, by stealing its water to make jewels, baubles to decorate a crown or a box or a goblet. To make bracelets and rings and other decorations. That, I believe, was wrong.”

“I have heard of you,” the dragon said. “I have heard of you from those you know: Half-Song and Sorrow-King and two other kings. Have you heard of me?”

“You are the dragon,” Dorrin said.

“Yes, I am Dragon. Do you know what dragons are?”

“Elders,” Dorrin said.

“Transformation,” the dragon said. “A dragon changes what it touches; it is our nature to change … and that nature requires wisdom not to ruin the world. Those jewels were transformed from water to stone by magery—the magery of your ancestors. You say it was wrong. I say it was not wise. But did you think what would happen to this land? Touch my tongue with yours and I will show you.”

The dragon opened a vast maw edged with gleaming teeth longer than swords, and out came a tongue shimmering with heat. It came toward her a few fingerwidths above the water. The heat of it dried the water on her face, her hair. Touch
that
with her tongue? But Kieri had. Arian had. She opened her mouth and touched.

Warmth, no more. The fragrance and flavor of spiced bread. The tongue withdrew an armslength.

“You should see. Come onto my tongue and I will show you.”

Dorrin reached, and the tongue advanced again, this time sliding under her arms, curling around them, and drawing her into the dragon’s
mouth, into that dry warm space like a small cave. The tongue she sat on now felt as firm as a plank, warm as wood in the sun. She looked out the dragon’s mouth, past the teeth, into the maelstrom.

“I will rise,” the dragon said.

Dorrin’s view expanded; her breath caught as the dragon lifted higher and higher, then moved toward one rim of rock. What had been a vast empty bowl—too wide to see more than part of its rim—was now a lake, rising visibly. At the rim, streams of water poured down, brown torrents full of sand and rocks. Muddy water swirled into the clear that had risen from below.

“It is a great transformation,” the dragon said. “This place was once a lake and is a lake again, and this lake had an outlet to the sea, a mighty river … and that river will flow again, and the sea itself may rise higher.”

“That much water?” Dorrin asked. She could not imagine it.

“It might be. If every water stone the magelords made transformed at once … it might be that much water.” The dragon sounded more thoughtful than alarmed. “It has been a long quiet time while the magelords slept and the transformations ceased. Now it is more interesting. It might even be more wise.”

Dorrin stared out at the falling water, the flowing water, for what seemed days long, watching the water rip at the edge of the cliffs and rocks crumble. The dragon moved from time to time, giving her different views of the deluge … the ruins where she had stayed falling, sliding, dragged over the receding cliff to disintegrate in the churning waters of the great bowl. She hoped the people had escaped. Another side of the bowl, where black cliffs did not crumble as the waters climbed higher, so that a sheer black wall rose above the floor. The far side, where the rising water tore at and finally destroyed a natural dam of tumbled rock and went racing along four men high at the front, seeking the sea.

How long it rained and how long she watched, Dorrin could not tell. She slept and woke again; the sound of the water, the sight of it falling and falling, flowing and flowing, numbed her senses. Eventually she became aware that the rain had stopped and that it had been stopped for some time. She was standing on wet ground, with
the dragon’s snout not two strides away and one of its eyes staring at her.

“Did you expect to live through your adventure?” the dragon asked.

“No,” Dorrin said.

“You did not think the waters of life would save you?”

“Not once they were nearly drowning me,” Dorrin said. “But you came.”

“Yes, but I am not a tool for humans to wield,” the dragon said. “Your judgment was wise—no one could live through all your tasks. Wisdom is rewarded with wisdom’s gifts, which are not what the recipient expects.”

“Am I dead, then?” Dorrin asked.

“Not a wise question,” the dragon said. “But no, you are not dead yet.” Then the mouth opened, and Dorrin saw the true dragonfire and knew she would be consumed.

Marshal-General Arianya and her escort rode through the hot, dusty forest, its shade frayed by drought, leaves turning brown instead of yellow or orange. Usually it was cooler this time of year, making the trek to the Hoorlow Fair a pleasant diversion. That, it still was, especially with the good news from the south that the Gnarrinfulk gnomes did not blame her for the mage-hunters’ behavior. Donag’s report of Arvid dealing with the rogue Marshal startled her—the weapon was not standard Girdish issue—but after all, he was what he was, and now he was using his talents for Gird.

As she rode out of the forest, she saw Farfields Grange in the near distance, with the flags marking the “battlefield” already up and shifting in the light breeze. To her surprise, no delegation from the grange appeared to meet her.

Nearer, she saw that grange and barton empty, gates and doors open, despite the pole flying a blue flag that should have indicated its Marshal’s presence. Beyond, in the city itself, streets were also empty. The merchants’ wagons that should have been parked in the field set aside for them during the fair weren’t there, and as she and the others rode toward the bridge, no one came out to see who had arrived.

Her skin prickled. Something was not at all right.

The bridge arched over the Hoor, and as she reached the higher point of the arch, she saw that only a trickle of water ran in it. The
drought. Would rain come again? Nothing in the blank blue sky, dust-colored around the edges, promised rain. Ahead, down the main street that led to the larger market square, a crowd of people blocked her view of Grainmarket Grange, though she could see the roof with its blue banner. More people were pouring into the crowd from side streets, and whatever was going on looked too much like the mobs in Fin Panir.

“Trouble?” asked High Marshal Donag.

“Undoubtedly,” Arianya said. “Let’s hope it’s not children in peril again. Though if it is, I hope Farfields being empty means they’ve gone to help protect them.” She glanced at Sir Piter, who commanded the knights. “What do you think?”

“Trouble, definitely,” he said. “And the most likely thing is someone’s shown mage-powers. Another lynching wouldn’t surprise me. Isn’t this area known for—” He paused, clearly trying to find a polite way to say it.

“Stubborn refusal to admit things may have changed? Age-old superstitions? A firm belief in their own righteousness?” Arianya said. “Yes. I never had acknowledgment from the Marshal of Wetfoot Grange when I sent out my last letter on the topic.” She sighed. “Well, whatever it is, we’re here to deal with it. Let’s go.”

“We could work our way around, come at them from the far side,” one of the other knights suggested.

“The Marshal-General does not sneak into cities or ‘come at’ fellow Girdsmen,” Arianya said. Militarily it might make sense, but experience told her a straightforward approach would appeal to at least some of the crowd ahead.

They rode on, past side streets where those who had been hurrying toward the market square stopped abruptly, staring open-mouthed at the mounted troop, until they neared the rear of the mob. When those at the back of the crowd heard the horses’ hooves, they turned to look. Then, as she’d expected, they moved aside, making a passage. Gird’s banner, the blue surcoats, all the symbols of the Fellowship on the riders and the horses’ tack, had their effect.

“When did you hear?” someone shouted.

Arianya turned toward the voice; a man waved his hand.

“Hear what?” she said. “I came as I come every year for the fair and the battle. Is there more?”

A mutter ran through the crowd in which she heard her name and “magelords” before someone nearby said, “It’s magery, that’s what it is. Them magelords coming back. Want to rule us again. We’re not having that.”

“What’s happened, then? No, wait—I’ll want to speak to Marshal Pelis at Grainmarket—he’s at the grange, I see.”

“He’s turned on Gird!” That angry voice was a woman’s. “He’s not Girdish, not really—he says we have to let ’em bide.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Arianya said, and nudged her horse forward. The crowd opened just enough to let the riders through and closed behind them.

Marshal Pelis, square-built as a block of stone, stood in front of his closed grange door with two of his yeomen, all with hauks in hand. Arianya reined in. “Marshal—Gird’s grace to you and your grange. I came for the fair—what is this?”

“It’s trouble, Marshal-General.”

“It’s magelords!” screamed a woman in the crowd.

“It’s damn fools workin’ themselves up to mischief!” Pelis’s bellow could have been heard at Farfields, Arianya thought.

“You’re a coward, Pelis!” That was a man’s voice, a sneering voice. “You just don’t want to risk your own hide.”

“Come face to face with me and say that,” Pelis said. “I know you, Jenits Forgusson. You’ve not been at drill for a year, you drink too much, and the only time you make a fist is to hit your wife and childer. Man beats childer is the coward, I say. Gird didn’t beat his.”

Some in the crowd laughed; others stood stony-faced, silent. Not a good sign. Arianya smiled at Pelis, who gave her a short nod. “Let’s see if the Marshal-General can straighten this out,” she said, loud enough to be heard though not as loud as Pelis. “You all know me; I’ve been here year after year for the fair and the battle. You know the vill I came from, not two days’ walk from here. Will you hear me?”