The Legacy of Gird (106 page)

"We can't let him ruin it," Seri said. For a moment he didn't know what she meant. She nudged him with her elbow. "Luap, that is. We can't let him ruin what Gird wanted."

"How can we stop him, if the Council of Marshals can't? And it's not
all
his fault. Remember what Rahi and the Autumn Rose were like before you worked on them?"

Seri ducked her head. "They should be friends; they should have been friends all along. You know that."

"Yes, and I know they weren't. That started before we came, a long time back, from all the tales. What I meant is that it's not only Luap who has strayed from Gird's dream. It's a lot of them, even Rahi. They never saw it clearly, maybe." Aris wondered again why not, when it seemed so obvious to him. They were older; they had known Gird in the war. Why couldn't they all have seen that what he wanted was good? A swirl of night wind brought flames snapping higher from their fire, and a gout of sparks lifted into the dark. Aris tried to keep his mind from following them, from the trance of light, but remembered that only Seri was here. He need not worry. He lifted his hand, in one of their childhood signals, copied badly from the huntsman, and let himself go.

Sparks flying on a dark wind . . . he felt the glittering heat, the potential fire, in each spark, and its frightening vulnerability. So small against the cold, the dark, and yet so bright, so hot. Were there sparks of darkness as potent? Could darkness spread, as fire spread, from its sparks? He let that thought go, and rose instead with another gout of sparks, high above the starlit land. Most sparks lit no fires; most died to ash in the cold wind, and most that fell found no fuel.

He came back to himself slowly, slipping from trance to the ordinary musing of any mortal around a fire. The ideas that had seemed so definite against the dark slipped out of his mind. The fire crackled, hissed, murmured. Behind him, one of the horses stamped and blew. He felt his skin tighten all over, fitting itself to him again. Where had he been? Only a thin blue flame danced above the coals; he could not at first remember why he saw the fire from below, why he was curled on the ground instead of a bed. Then he felt Seri's hand on his shoulder, solid and warm, as if she were the hearth in which a great fire burned. He took a long breath in, smelling the leather of her boots, the wool of his own shirt, the firesmoke, the horses nearby, even the wet herbs near the tiny creek. When he looked up, the stars seemed like a scattering of sparks . . . but sparks that would not die, that would never go out.

"And what did you bring back this time, Ari?" Seri's voice was almost wistful. He had never told her a story she liked better than one from his earliest childhood, and he had never been able to tell that story again. Like all the visions that came with light, it existed only in the moments of the trance itself, and his memory faded more quickly than a meadow flower.

"The sparks," he began, letting his tongue wander free. "If Gird's wisdom brought light, then the sparks flew out . . . but not all minds held the fuel to kindle them. Some would burn bright, but quickly die. Some would catch no spark at all. Many would come to the fire for warmth, but fear the sparks flying, lighting in themselves. . . ."

"But I feel it," Seri said. He turned over to look at her. He could see it in her, as he could feel it in her touch.

Aris pushed himself up. "You're right. You do."

"And so do you!" She sounded almost angry.

"I hope so. I used to think so, but—"

"But you've been listening to them. To
him
."

Aris shook his head. "No—it's not that. I think—I think Father Gird saw things from his own side—as a peasant—and so for peasant-born it's a little easier to catch his vision. It all fits. When I try to think like you, I see it clearly, but when I try to see it like Lady Dorhaniya, or Luap, I see other possibilities. Gird didn't have any reason to trust magery; even with me, he wished my healing would work some other way. He had no place for magery in his mind, no place it would serve the dream and not harm it. He agreed my healing was good, but he would not have agreed that being able to lift stones by magery was good. He would think how they could be used to hurt people. What I know is how much the magery hurts if you don't use it. Again, he understood that about my healing power, but I don't think he realized that it's true of
any
magery. It's like—suppose someone said to you, 'Don't lead. Don't learn. Don't question anything.' "

Seri had been scowling, but at the last her face changed expression. "No one could tell me that! I have to, it's the way the gods made me—"

"Yes, and the mageborn who have magery
are
that way, just as you are eager to learn, curious about everything, quick to lead. Remember our childhood? You got whacked with a spoon often enough for being—what did the old cook say?—nosy, bossy, always asking questions. You couldn't help it, but what do you think it would've felt like if you'd tried to change?"

"I suppose . . . I'd have felt trapped, like a wild animal tied in a barn. Ugh!" She shivered. "Why did you have to say that? I don't like to think about it."

"But when I tried not to heal, you said you understood. . . ."

"I knew you were unhappy, and I knew you would never do anything wicked, Aris, but I didn't imagine—gods forgive me, but I didn't really think what it might be like. I was thinking of the people who needed you, that you could heal." She leaned against him, as she had in childhood. "I'm sorry, Ari. It just never occurred to me."

"It's all right." He leaned back, comforted by her presence, by the familiar warmth and smell of her. "But can you try to understand, now, why it's so hard for the mageborn who have those talents to leave them unused?"

"I suppose." The doubt in her voice had no real solidity; he knew he had won his argument. He waited. In a few moments, she spoke again, slowly, thinking it out aloud. "And I suppose it's as bad—or worse—for Luap. Is that what you're saying? He's a king's son by birth, but he never got to
be
a king's son. They didn't know he had the magery; he never had training in its use. Yet he has it, and it's as restless in him as your healing is in you, or my curiosity is in me. I wonder if the royal magery would be stronger?"

"Arranha says it is, that when it comes it either comes in full or not at all—and that Luap has it. I don't think Gird ever knew how hard it was for Luap, or recognized how determined Luap was to be loyal to Gird." He felt Seri shift against his side, and then relax again.

"I suppose," she said again. "I would think that for Gird—but then, Gird never asked me to do anything but be what I am."

Aris snorted. "Except the time you were playing those tricks on your Marshal." He could feel her suppressed chuckle; it finally erupted into a gurgle of laughter.

"Yes . . . well . . . even then he didn't ask me to be different, just reminded me that I was too young to know all the background, and too old to get away with it."

"I've always wondered—what
did
Father Gird do to you?"

Seri laughed again. "What do you think? Gave me a couple of smacks and told me to be glad he hadn't used his full strength. Told me to behave myself. If I wanted to be a leader, I'd have to set a better example to the junior yeomen—and that was true. It took me longer than I like to remember to straighten them out. They were a
lot
wilder than I was. 'Think you're clever now, lass,' he said to me, 'but what's to come of them if there's a real danger, and you're not there, and they won't trust the Marshal, eh?' Made me think, it did. He left me there another half-year, then put me in that grange down near yours."

"Good for both of us," Aris said.

"He thought so. You'd be a steadying influence on me, he said, and I'd be sure you didn't walk off a roof in a trance." Aris felt the twitch of her shoulder. "Come to think of it, he never did believe you could take care of yourself, any more than I do." As if on cue, Aris yawned, a great gaping yawn he could not smother before she turned and saw it. "And you can't," she said. "You were off there wherever you were, and you're half asleep now. Go on. I'll wake you to watch later."

Aris wrapped himself in his blanket, and slid into sleep as comforting as a hot bath, just wondering if Seri would wake him, or sit up all night thinking. The grip of her hand on his shoulder woke him to dark stillness; her other hand came across his mouth, warning. Before he moved, he felt some dire magery nearby. He slid a hand free of the blanket, and touched hers, tapping a message. Her hands left him, and he reached down and slid his own knife free. Where had he left the sword? Where was the danger? And from whom?

It felt like nothing he knew, no mageborn he had ever been near, not even his mother's last lover. Cold, ancient malice, a bitterness no love of life could touch . . .
iynisin
. Of the timbre of the elves who had so delighted him in Fin Panir, but of opposite flavor, this magery mocked all he had admired.

"Here's your sword . . ." Seri breathed, barely audible above the pounding of his heart. Aris flung the blanket aside and stood, staring into the darkness. He could just feel the warmth of the banked fire on one leg, but no gleam of coals lit the dark, and the stars' light seemed feebler than it had. The wind had died; he could hear nothing but felt one cheek colder than the other, proving the air moved. He felt Seri's movement at his back, a shifting from leg to leg more menacing than nervous. Then her quiet mutter of explanation: "I felt it first, then something dimmed the starlight. The horses aren't moving. Nothing is. I woke you—"

"I feel it," Aris said. "iynisin." Saying the name aloud took great effort, but when it was out he felt less frozen. He bent and folded his blanket, felt around until he located the rest of his pack, and put it all well aside, in case they had to fight.

"The elves said that was a legend." Seri's voice wavered; he realized that she was really afraid. Seri? it was absurd; Seri had never been afraid.

"Doesn't mean it's not true." Aris moved to her voice, and leaned against her. His hands prickled; he laid one on her arm, and felt the demand of his healing lessen. She could not be sick—was he supposed to heal her
fear?
He let the power free, and felt it move from his palm to her arm, driving away whatever hindered her light.

Her
light
. Even as he withdrew his magery, knowing it had been enough, Seri burst into a glow as different from magelight as sun from starlight. Shadows fled away from them; Aris saw his own, black and dire, stretch to the edge of their hollow before he too caught light. His, though he had never seen it before, he knew to be magelight, the same as Arranha's. It had the quality of lamplight or firelight; he knew without trying that he could kindle wet wood with it at need. But Seri's . . . Seri's was light only, the essence of vision, of knowledge, of inward seeing and outward seeing. Aris pulled his mind back from its favorite pastime, and had a moment to think how they must look, two glowing figures on a dark wilderness.

Then he saw the iynisin. All around the hollow, everywhere he looked, the blackcloaks, the beautiful faces eroded by hatred to shapes of horror. He could not tell how many, but he felt the weight of their malice as if each glance were a stone piled on his flesh. As if they knew the very moment of being seen, they spoke—two of them, voices clashing slightly as if they read from a script.

"Foolish mortals . . . you have chosen an unlucky place and time to indulge your lust." Aris said nothing; Seri muttered, but not aloud. The iynisin went on. "You stink of Girdish lands, mortals; you trespass on ours. As we cursed your dead leader, so we may curse you, if we do not kill you and feed on your flesh."

This time Seri answered them. "If you think you cursed Gird, you haters of trees, you erred; he died beloved of the gods."

"And his line died with him." One of the iynisin came closer; Aris could not see that the others moved. "Only sunlight spared him the full power of the curse, but that much held. And he ventured out only near dawn . . . it is long until dawn, mortals, and no sunlight will save you."

Aris felt a burst of gaiety, unexpected and irrational. "Then we shall have to save ourselves," he said. "With the gods' help, if they find us worthy of aid."

"You cannot stand against
us
," the iynisin said. "See—" He pointed to the cluster of trees around the spring, where the horses were tied. Beyond, on the brow of the hollow, all the iynisin pointed downward. Aris stared: in the light he and Seri made, the trees shriveled, twisting in on themselves; their wood groaned and split. The new green leaves blackened, as if scorched. Under the trees, all the little green things that sheltered there shriveled as well. In the trees, one of the horses made a noise Aris had never heard. He felt Seri's back shiver against his; his sword felt loose in his grip as sweat ran cold down his sides.

"You call yourself a healer," another iynisin called. "Heal
that
, boy." They all laughed, a sound so close to beautiful that it hurt the ears worse than simple noise. Aris's hands itched, then burned; his healing magery demanded that he do something. But he could not go to the trees or the horses without leaving Seri, and he would not leave her. Could he do anything at a distance? He flung his power outward, toward the trees, but if it worked at all, it was the flurry of wind that whirled dead leaves from dead stems.

Not that way.
The voice in his mind sounded impatient, like a master whose prentice had just done something wrong for the fifth time. I've never done this before, he thought back at it.
Think!
it bellowed. "Father Gird!" Aris said, almost squeaking in surprise.

"He can't help you," the iynisin said. The others laughed and sang. "He's dead . . . dead . . . dead . . ." And on that refrain they came forward, their black shadows streaming away behind them. Aris had just time to think what a ridiculous way this was to die, when he felt Seri lunge away from his back, and he nearly fell backwards into her. That stagger saved him; the blade aimed at his throat missed, and he had his own back up by then. He had not had as much training in weapon skills as Seri, but she had insisted that he go beyond the basics required of all yeomen.