The Legacy of Gird (81 page)

"True enough." Luap let himself smile in a way that had, in his youth, worked its way among girls. "And here I am, poor lone widower, caught between you two briars, like a shorn wether in a thicket."

She laughed. "You? Don't try that with me, king's son; you are no gelding. Far from it."

"By choice. . . ."

"By choice and good sense, you've chosen to father no more children. You know what would come of it; you would not risk the land or the child. But you need not forswear the love of women, especially women who can't bear children. And the two of us—you may feel caught between us, but not in impotence."

"I do wish," Luap said, turning away as he felt his face grow hot, "that you were not my elder in years and experience. It's difficult." He hoped she had not caught his surprise: he had not thought that he might lie safely with barren women. Already his mind ran through the possibilities.

"So it is. So I might intend it to be. D'you think I like having that name tacked to me? Do you not realize that she has seen to it that no man will even ask?"

"Are you suggesting—?"

"Maybe." She eyed him; he wasn't sure she understood what he'd meant. When the boy stirred, choked, and began coughing, he was glad.

"Easy, lad." Luap lifted the boy's shoulders, offered a spoonful of honeyed fruit juice. He felt a constant tremor, as the boy tried not to cough.

"And how are you today, Garin?" the Rasemage asked.

"Better, lady." The boy's lips twitched, attempting a smile, then another cough took him. He curled into Luap's arm; Luap stroked his hair. This boy would say "better" on his deathbed, which, if he didn't really improve, this would soon be.

"You
could
heal that," came the Rosemage's murmur, just within hearing. Luap could feel his teeth grating; he could
not
heal it, not without claiming the king's magic as his own, using it . . . and he had sworn he would not. Sworn to himself as well as to Gird, to the gods he believed in a little more each year. His father had used magery for darker aims, yet Luap believed he had intended better . . . surely as a boy he had not been wholly cruel. He had never asked any who might know, including the Rosemage.

"You know better," he said to her, wishing he dared a slap of power at her and knowing she would laugh at him even if it worked.

"Even the peasants know we had healing powers once," she said conversationally. Garin's coughs slowed; he gasped, his heart racing beneath Luap's hand.

"Little enough lately," Luap said. "Gird says he heard rumors, tales from old granddads, nothing recent. You say
you
lack them."

"Mmm." She didn't pursue it, for which he was less grateful than he felt he should be. By her tone she would pursue it later. Garin lay back, spent and silent, barely able to sip a few spoonsful of broth. He was going to die, and not sing those songs, and although there was no way Luap could blame Gird, he did anyway. Gird cared for this boy no less than any other, but no more. It had seemed to Luap that if he could interest Gird, if he could only get Gird to understand
why
the boy was important, he would then do something and the boy would live. What that something might be, he could not of course define. But Gird's response had been, as always, impersonally compassionate. He hated seeing anyone suffer; he had sat beside the boy while Luap slept, on the worst nights, comforting him as tenderly as a mother; but he had shaken his head at Luap's vehemence, insisting that this boy's death was no more tragic than another's.

Was it because so many of his own children had died or disappeared? Because Raheli would bear him no grandchildren? Or was it the gnomish influence?

"I can't believe Gird would really mind that," the Rosemage said softly. Luap started, and glanced at the boy, who lay dozing now, unaware. "Healing, I mean."

"I can't do it." His hands had fisted; he flattened them with an effort. "Arranha says I'd have to claim all the magery—that it would be like trying to see only green, or only red, to use only the healing. And he's not even sure I've got it. Besides, as you very well know, I promised Gird and the gods that I would not become a magelord. No more magicks: that's what I said, and what he holds me to."

"You've asked him about this?"

"Not specifically, no. He knows, though. He knows what it would take, and my oath binds me." Never mind he had broken it more than once, by intention and later by accident. Never mind that time in the cave; no one would know that until—unless—he told. Where he could, he was loyal to it.

"You should ask him. He's a farmer; they care about living things. For healing, he might let you try—"

"No." His power bled into that; the word ached with power. She looked at him, opened her mouth, and shut it again. He wondered if she knew he was lying. He wondered so many things she might know, and he dared not ask—better that she think he knew already, or didn't care to know, than that he hungered for that knowledge he lacked.

"I hope he's better soon," the Rosemage said, putting out a hand to Garin's hair. Then she left, without saying more, and Luap sat struggling with his unruly desires.

Soon enough he heard, from down the corridor, Rahi's voice raised to Gird, and Gird's gusty bellow in reply. He did not want to know what she said, or what Gird said to her; he could imagine it well enough. Gird's taste for ale had been nearly disastrous once in the war; he'd conquered it then. Now, in peace, why shouldn't an old man have some pleasure? But Rahi would have none of that; he had overheard much the same quarrel before. She would drag up times past, from her childhood; Gird would glower for days.

The silence, abrupt and startling, drew him from his musings. Had the woman murdered him? Had he clouted her? He heard what might have been sobs. Should he investigate, or leave them to settle things?

"You blundering old fool!" Rahi said. She had waited in the corridor, trying not to hear Luap and the Autumn Rose, trying to calm herself, but when she looked in Gird's door, her anger flared again. Gird slouched against his work table, eyes red-rimmed and bleary. He and his clothes were clean enough, but the room still smelled like a hangover. "I come all the way to Fin Panir to—to tell you something important, and you've gone off drinking with some lout who probably wasn't even a veteran—"

"He was!" His voice rasped, as if he had a cold as well as a hangover. "He was from Burry, and I remembered him—"

"Better than you remembered your vow not to drink so much." She bit back the other words she wanted to say; disappointment soured her rage. She had hoped for so much from this meeting. She needed so much from it.

"We're not at war!" Whatever energy he'd summoned to achieve that bellow brought life to his eyes, "It's not the same thing!"

"It's still wrong." Rahi realized she was going to cry an instant before the tears came, but too late to turn away and hide them. Sobs choked her as she fought them down; she could say nothing. Gird's face changed, concern replacing anger.

"Rahi! What is it, lass?" He was still bigger than she, more massive; the hug she had imagined enclosed her before she knew it. He pulled her head to his shoulder and stroked her hair, murmuring soothingly. She gave in to it, and let her tears fall. When they ceased, she felt odd, empty. Gird released her before she actually moved, and waited silently for what she might say. She wished that blowing her nose could take longer; she wasn't sure what that would be.

"I . . . wanted to change my mind," she said at last.

"About marrying again?" he asked. His voice held a note of hope. He had insisted all along that she could remarry, even if she could not bear children. With all the orphans war had made, he'd said, she could have a dozen children.

"No." She took a long breath, swiped at her face with her sleeve, and looked him in the face. "I said once that I was your daughter no longer, only your soldier. But you're right, the war's over."

"Lass—" A tentative smile, that widened when she managed to smile back. He reached out again, and she moved into another embrace. "Rahi, lass, you don't know how I've needed that. . . ." She felt him sigh. "And there I was drunk, as you said. You're right, it was stupid."

"It's all right," said Rahi softly, "but not if you keep doing it." She felt his chest shake with an almost-silent chuckle.

"Eh, that's the daughter I remember. Tell me now, what changed your mind?"

Rahi told him about the dance in her grange, and the way she had felt restored to family connections. "And so I thought you might be feeling the same—not fitted in, with no vill or family—"

"I have, sometimes. I've tried to tell myself they're all my kin, but I know they're not. After Pidi disappeared that winter—" Gird shook his head. Raheli remembered her younger brother, her only surviving sib, riding off into the snow and never arriving at the next grange. She had not known until spring that he had disappeared; she would never know what had happened. That was the spring she had almost hated the grain that sprang green in the furrows.

"Da," she said, feeling that old comfortable word in her mouth again. "Da, I still can't marry—I still can't have children—"

"I know. It's all right, Raheli Mali's child, it's all right." His eyes squeezed shut a moment; she saw the shine of tears when he opened them.

It was not all right, but it would be later. She still felt angry that he had been on another drunken binge; she could see by the color of his face and the change in the texture of his skin that he was not well. But her impulse had been right, to restore the family link she herself had broken—not broken, she told herself now, but set aside.

They sat awhile in silence, one on either side of the work table, then Rahi remembered the other good reasons she had found for coming the long way to Fin Panir. He had set her saddlebags on the floor; she retrieved them, and spread out her grange records and the comments from the past year's courts.

"The soil's different, where I am now, from home—where we lived before. The Code allows for easing the grange-set in a dry year, but where I am the farmers lose grain more often to mold in a wet year. If you allow the local Marshals to adjust the grange-set based on the yield of sound grain—that wouldn't take a complete revision of the Code—"

"Ummph. You're right. It already says at the Marshal's discretion, so if we struck out 'because of drought' that would do. What else?"

"We had an odd case last spring come into the grange-court: a man, not mageborn, claimed to do magicks a new way."

"A new way?"

"As scribes study writing, he said, so he studied magicks and performed them—for a fee. The judicar brought him to me because some of the people wanted him killed as a mageborn using forbidden power, or as a demon. When I investigated, it seemed to me that he performed what he agreed to, although I found the fee unduly high. And he had none of the appearance of a mageborn, and explained his magicks sufficiently that I feel sure he was not."

"So what did you do?" asked Gird.

"Treated it as a matter of commerce. As someone in an unknown profession, of no registered guild, he had to demonstrate that he was honest and gave good weight, so to speak. The Code allows Marshals to impose a good-faith tax on newcomers who have no guild to speak for them, until their honesty is proven. He had not earned that much with his little shows of colored fire and magic crystals. I told him plainly that too many people disliked all magic for me to keep him safe, and if someone broke his head for him, he'd have only himself to blame. He got out of town safely enough, for I told the judicar and those listening that I would not take lightly an injury done him when he had done none yet himself. Since then I've heard nothing; he never came to the next grange west."

"A new kind of magic . . ." said Gird. "I wonder what could be."

"He thought of it as a craft, not some inborn talent, and I believe he was honest in that, at least." Rahi frowned. "But without a guild, without knowledge of what his work is worth—assuming it's honestly done—we have no way of knowing if his price is fair."

Gird leaned back and tucked his fingers in his belt. "I suspect we can't protect the sort of fool who will pay a man to work magicks. You were right, Rahi, to treat it as commerce, as a matter of contracts. Make sure he fulfills what he said; the buyer must decide if the price is fair." He shook his head. "Though where we can fit
that
into the Code, I don't know. I'll talk to other Marshals about it."

"I . . . quarreled with Luap, on the way here," Rahi said. "It's not his fault; I was angry about you." She felt a childish pleasure in confessing that; he had always been more understanding with the child who confessed wrongdoing.

"He's easy to quarrel with, this harvest time," Gird said. "I don't know what's bothering him, unless it's the old lady with her notions about royalty."

"Someone mentioned an old lady. . . ." Rahi said. He looked as if he wanted to tell the tale; she wanted, at this moment, to listen to him talk.

"A good woman," Gird said, lips pursed. "Her servant Eris says so, and so does Arranha. Widowed years ago. Very pious: but for worshipping the Sunlord, she's much like old Tam's mother, back home. She came in asking permission to put altar cloths she'd embroidered in the great Hall; it was clear she meant no mischief, so I said she might talk to Arranha about it."

"But she's mageborn? She knows Luap's the king's son?"

"Aye. She knows more than that—seems he's not the last king's son, but one before that. Garamis, his name was. She saw Luap himself as a child, when he lived in some lord's house. It's that, Arranha says, which upset him, though I can't see why it would. Until we're the oldest, if we live that long, there's always someone who knew us as children. What harm in that?"

Rahi thought about it. It had been years since she had seen anyone from her vill. Would she feel anything strange if she met someone on the street who remembered her as a child? No—she had enjoyed being that child, that young woman. She would like to meet someone who remembered that. Had Luap not enjoyed being that boy? Surely it must have been easier than growing up a peasant child.