Echoes of Betrayal (32 page)

“You’re inviting kapristi into the stronghold?”

“For the winter.”

“But they’re … they’re
gnomes
. Did they ask?”

“No, I offered. They finally accepted.” Arcolin shook his head at Cracolnya’s expression. “It’s not for nothing. They’re exchanging service …”

“But if the dragon doesn’t like it—”

“If there is a dragon,” Arcolin said. “I wasn’t going to argue; those gnomes were near the end of their strength.”

T
he gnomes arrived with Cracolnya’s troops three days before Midwinter. Seventy-seven—one had died before the gnomes Arcolin had met reached their home again. He could not judge the age of the elders; the women, huddled in a group in the midst of the men, clearly did not want to be seen. He did not let his gaze linger on them.

To the estvin he gave welcome and then asked, “Would your people be more comfortable under stone? We have cellars here, enough for all.”

“It is not comfort is important,” the estvin said. From the midst of the group—from a gnome female, Arcolin thought—came a shrill rapid chitter of sound. The estvin looked at the ground and then up at Arcolin. “As the master says, cellars.”

Arcolin led the way through the main courtyard, into the smaller private one, and then to the stairs down to the cellars. The gnomes followed. He had a lantern and showed them the storerooms he’d had cleared for them.

“Can bring water?”

“From the well in the courtyard,” Arcolin said.

Faster than he would have believed, the gnomes settled into the cellars of the stronghold. When they insisted they could not wear their clan uniforms, Arcolin gave them furls of the maroon and brown wools the Phelani uniforms used, the cloth he had. Soon the gnome males appeared above stairs every morning, wearing maroon shirts and brown trousers. They began their service without asking, bringing up supplies to the kitchen staff in the officers’ court first and then taking over other menial chores.

T
he brief war ended; the taig, aided by elves, flushed the last Pargunese stragglers—hungry, exhausted, and scared—out of the forest into the hands of Kieri’s forces. Most were alone, a few in small groups. Kieri put them under guard in one of the abandoned steadings and waited for word from Pargun’s king.

Before it came, he, Arian, and Aliam Halveric went north to the ruins of Riverwash to attend a ceremony for those who had died and to reestablish a presence there. Though none had escaped from the town itself, those who lived nearby and were not burnt out came, a small group of farmers and fisherfolk compared to the crowd at his last visit.

Kieri looked out over the Honnorgat. A skim of ice reached almost shore to shore. Across the river, a raw scar in the trees looked to him like scathefire damage. He wondered where Torfinn was. Then he and Aliam and Arian laid the sacred boughs on those bitter ashes. Under a clear sky, the sun cruelly bright on the ice and snow, the little group of farmers, the Halverics in their neat array, and the royal party sang the mourning songs Kieri had so recently learned.

A hail from the river alerted the Halverics; Kieri squinted against the glare and saw a boat being shoved through the ice, men leaning out to break the ice with their oars. One figure stood upright, wrapped in a long cape, with the sun glittering on his head … his crown. Pargun’s king, from whom he had heard nothing.

Torfinn clambered up the bank, limping heavily and bracing himself with a pole in his left hand. He had, Kieri saw, lost his right arm above the elbow. When he reached the level, he bent his knee to Kieri. “Lord king,” he said.

“Rise,” Kieri said. “I am glad to see you alive.”

“Was near thing,” Torfinn said, using the pole to lever himself up. “Is Elis—?”

“She is not here,” Kieri said. “She is safe and well but has duties at Falk’s Hall for Midwinter.” He paused, but when Torfinn said nothing, he asked, “Iolin?”

“He lives,” Torfinn said. “His elder brothers—not.”

“I’m sorry,” Kieri said.

“Was not you starting it,” Torfinn said. “My fault, not seeing Einar for what he was. Not seeing Her, either.”

“Was that the dragon or the dragon kin?” Kieri asked, pointing across the river.

“Dragon,” Torfinn said. “Lord king, can we sit? My leg weakens.”

“Of course,” Kieri said, and led him to the royal tent. He could not help contrasting the tent, its sides bulging and rippling in the wind, with the comfortable inn where they had rested and eaten before. Instead of the sturdy leather-padded chairs, simple folding chairs; instead of a feast laid out by servants in a room with a roaring fire, marching rations on a couple of planks with a basin of cold water for washing at one end. His Squires brought them both hot sib and placed a brazier nearby for warmth.

Torfinn sat awkwardly, almost falling into the chair, grunting with pain. Kieri saw the bulge of bandages under his trousers and caught a whiff of a wound gone bad.

“You should not have spent yourself coming here,” Kieri said. “I hoped for a messenger.”

“I have few to send,” Torfinn said. “And it is your land my people harmed. I must come myself to beg your mercy and save what little I can from this disaster. So the dragon said.”

“Lord king,” Kieri said, “I have no reason to attack you or your people if you do not attack us. We have enough to do trying to repair what has been lost.”

“What is lost …” Torfinn sighed. “My
kingdom
is lost, as you should know. The dragon … demanded back all lands above the
falls and now seeks out its young. Einar’s army, anyone who did not make it across the river to your lands, is dead. I do not know if any of those who invaded you survived.”

“Some,” Kieri said. “They are under guard now; if they swear allegiance to you, I will release them to you.”

Torfinn scowled. “They are traitors. How could I trust them?”

“They are defeated; most were bespelled. And they have no leader to follow but you,” Kieri said. “Would you have me kill them? Have they no families in Pargun?”

“Some do,” Torfinn said. He shifted in his seat, wincing. “I … I do not know how to go on. My sons, all but Iolin, dead. My brother a traitor; his sons dead. So much lost—what kind of man am I that so many would turn against me?” Tears glittered in his eyes.

“You were betrayed,” Kieri said, “but not because you were a bad man. Indeed, had you been bad, you would have been lauded, I believe. Until the dragon came, at least.” He poured himself another mug of sib. He had planned to start back that afternoon, but with Pargun’s king at hand, he might achieve more here. “Let us think what can benefit both our lands.”

“Mine … nothing,” Torfinn said. He was slumped in his chair now, his face sagging. “You saved me once; it would have been better if I had died.”

Kieri reached over and grabbed Torfinn’s left wrist. “It would
not
have been better! It is because of you alive that any of your people live. It must be your wounds talking, because I never thought to see a Pargunese give up like this.”

“My leg doesn’t heal; I have no right arm. How can I rule if I cannot stand up and wield a sword?”

“Is it always sword-right that rules?”

“Yes, although some kings have grown old and retained the crown because of wisdom. But the people decide.”

“And have they rejected you? Are you come here as a beggar?”

“No—not yet. But—”

“Then, Torfinn, show them you are a king indeed, with a king’s wisdom, if not a right arm. And what do your physicians say about your leg?”

Torfinn shrugged with slightly more energy than he had shown. “My palace burned; I have no physicians now.”

“We do,” Kieri said, and turned to the Squires at the tent’s entrance. “Find the Halveric surgeon and bid him come here; the king of Pargun needs assistance.”

T
orfinn’s wound was hugely swollen and leaking stinking pus. “There’s still a chance,” the surgeon said. “But I must work now. Drink this,” he said, pouring from a stone jar into Torfinn’s mug. “It will strengthen your blood.”

Torfinn grimaced at the taste, but swallowed it all. “Tastes like medicine,” he said afterward, nodding. “Should be bitter to work.” He did not make a sound or flinch as the surgeon cleaned the wound and packed it with an herbal poultice, then wrapped it in clean bandages and propped it on a stool.

“You can’t go back tonight or tomorrow,” the surgeon said. “You’ll have to keep that leg up—no standing but to get to the jacks—for two days at least. Who’s expecting you, over there?”

“My son.”

“Well, send your boatman back. I wouldn’t risk you on the river again, and I can’t leave.” He turned to Kieri. “If you have any kind of bedding, he needs to lie flat with his leg propped up.” Kieri beckoned to the Squires, and they found a low camp bed and helped Torfinn move onto it.

After the boatman left, Torfinn slept for a glass or so, which the surgeon said was normal. “Got enough pus out of his leg to relieve the pain—man’s tough, I’ll say that for him.”

“But he’ll live for a certainty?”

“Yes, and he’ll have use of that leg if you give me another few days. If he has an appetite when he wakes up, give him whatever he wants to eat. And another draft of this—or call me.”

“I’ll call you,” Kieri said. Now, watching the Pargunese king sleep, he thought what the man had faced and still faced as a king who had lost control of his kingdom … faced treachery and a civil war, feared enemies to both south and west, and then the dragon. All those people dead … a city destroyed … his sons, his wife, his other daughters … the fires …

“He was not wise,” said a familiar voice from the door of the tent.
Kieri roused from that reverie and stared at the man in dark leathers who now stood inside the tent. The dragon again.

“You,”
Kieri said. “You enjoy startling people, don’t you?”

A flash of teeth and a flare in the yellow eyes. “We have few amusements,” the man said. “That may be one of them.” He came nearer; the tent warmed, and the forge smell emanated from him. “You are caring for him?”

“He is hurt, and though you say he is not wise, I do not think him a bad man.”

“Fools cause as much harm as bad men. Yet your wisdom, Sorrow-King, is correct in pursuing no vengeance. What was done is done. What I have done … is done. That land—”

“Pargun,” Kieri said.

“The land you call Pargun, then … that land is no threat to any and will not be for ages to come. Tell me, what do you think of the new lord of the north, where you once ruled?”

“That is Jandelir Arcolin,” Kieri said. “He was a captain under me.”

“Some land humans may not inhabit,” the man said. “As I told you before, land where dragon eggs are is not safe. He must keep away.”

“You want Arcolin to give up land? To whom?” That wasn’t going to make Tsaia’s king happy.

“To me.”

“He will have to have his king’s permission. Have you met the king of Tsaia?”

“No.” A huff of hot air filled the tent.

“They govern by the Code of Gird in Tsaia,” Kieri said. “You said gnomes guarded your eggs. Gnomes and Gird had a pact. Have gnomes tell him to release the land.”