The Legacy of Gird (130 page)

After that, the real work began. The ambassador had maps, and could procure others. Luap tried not to show how fascinated he was by the maps, which used a marking system he had not seen before, dividing the land into squares. He saw at once how useful that could be, and noted the accuracy with which their mapmakers had drawn the cliffs he had seen, the delicate shading that made clear which slopes were steep and which gentle. Here was the technique he had needed so badly back in Fin Panir . . . the Council of Marshals would be glad to see this.

But the ambassador's use of the maps impressed him in other ways as well. The Khartazh traded overland to great distances; they had heard of lands far east, across a vast desert, but regular caravans had ceased some dozen years before.
The war,
Luap thought. Gird's war. They had been declining before that for several decades.
The Fall of Aare,
Luap thought, the hairs standing up on his arms. Could it be? The ambassador recognized the selon beans Luap had given him—yes, they had been part of that trade, and spice and amber had gone the other way. Now—the ambassador shrugged—now the caravans moved mostly north and south. The names he gave meant nothing to Luap—Xhim and Pitzhla and Teth—nor could Seri offer any hint of a translation. He asked again about the eastern trade: water was too scarce on the western end of the former route, the ambassador said, and profits too chancy. His shrewd amber eyes seemed to ask.
What are you planning?

In one moment of vision, Luap saw exactly what he would do. Here he had water, and safe shelter. That upper valley the Rosemage had thought of as horse pasture, with its opening to the high plateau above the plain: that would be the place for caravans to come. They would have to build a trail up from the desert below, and another into the western canyons and out to the town, but with magery they could do it easily in a few hands of days. Someone—Seri, he thought, or the Rosemage—would have to find a good trail from the base of their cliffs to the old caravan route south of them.

And then the caravans would come, bringing horses, cattle, craftsmen, harpers, goods to trade and a market for the Khartazh's spices and silks. Luap could imagine the whole stronghold full of busy, talented workers all enriched by the flow of commerce. He drew a long, happy breath. If only the Rosemage and Arranha would come back with good news of ores . . .

Instead, they returned too soon, for Arranha had collapsed on the journey, and the Rosemage had struggled to bring him to the stronghold alive.

"We had just reached the gray mountain's foot when he clutched his chest and fell," she said to Luap. Aris was busy with Arranha, whose shallow breaths hardly moved the covering upon him. "I knew the climb out of the canyon had been hard on him; he said he found it hard to breathe that night, and didn't sleep well. But I thought he was better, or I'd have turned back."

She seemed to want reassurance; Luap nodded. "Of course you would; you couldn't know."

"He's so old. I didn't realize; he's always been so active, so lively of mind. And now—"

And now he was dying. From Aris's expression, no healing would serve. Luap felt his own throat closing. "I should have let him go with you, and made Aris and Seri wait," he said; he knew that had had nothing to do with it, but it was all he could think of. Now the Rosemage put her arm around him.

"You know that made no difference. Neither of us . . ." She stopped, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, then went on. "Neither of us can stop age when it comes; not even royal magery is proof against time."

Luap felt something shift inside him—not quite protest, but uncertainty. Curiosity. Was that really true? Had anyone ever tried to hold back age with magery? With the
royal
magery? It might not work with the very old, like Arranha (though how had Arranha stayed so vigorous so long?) but perhaps it would work with someone much younger, still strong.

But the immediate problem swept that from his mind. The Rosemage needed care as well as Arranha; she had the hollow-eyed look he remembered seeing in survivors of daylong battles. Luap called for Garin, and someone to help the Rosemage to her chamber; when she protested, he overrode her. "We all love Arranha; Aris is with him, and I will be with him. But I don't want to lose both of you. Bathe, rest, eat—let Garin ease what he can. You'll be needed later."

"But—someone said the ambassador had come early, had been here—" She was trying to keep herself awake, upright, and focused; she would not let herself escape duty for comfort, even now. Luap put his hand on her arm, and let a little of his power seep into it, and into his voice.

"It went well; everything's going to be fine. Go and rest. I will tell you all about it when you wake." In the influence of his power, she staggered a little, and Seri moved quickly to support her and lead her away. "Take care of her," Luap said to Seri; unnecessary, since Seri would never do less, but it let others know he considered Seri in change.

Arranha sank quietly, without a word or change in his expression, all through that night. Before dawn, the Rosemage was back at his side; Luap was glad she had come while he was there. "What did Aris say?" she asked softly.

"That he was dying, that it was from old age, and that he could do nothing. I'm not sure that's true, because Arranha seems so calm—perhaps Aris eased him some way when you arrived. . . ."

"He had been calm since the first day. Then, he seemed anxious. He said things—but I wasn't sure he was aware of them."

"Said what?"

She shrugged, and hugged her robe around her more tightly. "I—I don't know if he meant it. Something about danger, about a darkness in the stone. But since he was dying, it could be that alone."

"Mmm." Luap thought about it. "When I climbed to the top of this mountain, I remember feeling that the light failed—but I thought it was being breathless from the climb."

"Yes, I thought of that. Especially coming back with him, places I had to carry him—my sight went dark more than once. That's why I didn't tell everyone at once and give warning. Even Arranha, who so served the light, might lose it at death for a time. Yet if it was a true warning, what was it about?"

"That mountain, perhaps? The gray one? Perhaps it has the gold you hoped for, but it's claimed by some rockfolk tribe; that would be danger, if we meddled with it."

"I suppose." She did not sound convinced, but neither was he. Most likely, Arranha's approaching death had shadowed his mind, and his words meant nothing to those who were not dying. She stirred beside him. "So—tell me about the ambassador."

He felt strange, sitting beside a dying man and talking of his own triumph—as he could not but see it—but it would pass the time. He kept his voice low, and began with the ambassador's arrival, putting in all the details he could think of. The Rosemage listened attentively, clearly glad to have something to fix her mind besides Arranha. When he described the ambassador's attempt to use the sword on himself, she gasped.

"And
you
caught the sword! What happened?"

Luap held out his hand. "I nearly lost fingers—you can't see a scar at all, for Aris healed it at once, but from here to here—" He pointed, then allowed himself a wry grin. "It hurt a lot more than I would have thought." Before she could ask more, he went on, explaining what the ambassador had thought, and what he himself had inferred from both the man's actions and his gifts. "A powerful ancient kingdom," he said. "More than a kingdom—more like the tales we had of Old Aare. They trade widely; I think they used to trade with Fintha in years past, perhaps before I was born. Powerful allies, if we are their friends, and dangerous enemies."

She looked worried. "I expect they will see us as easy prey."

"No." His power bled into that, and she looked at him with dawning respect. "They fear us now; they will do us no harm. Wait until his next visit; you will see."

She recovered her composure with an effort. "You are confident, suddenly." The warning not to be overconfident came across clearly.

He shook his head. "I saw the man; I dealt with him. Aris's healing power alone might have convinced them, or his use of the pattern to open the mageroad—surely you and Arranha realized that."

"I suppose . . ." Her voice weakened; Luap felt a rush of sympathy.

"You're still tired; let me fetch something to eat."

"No—I'm all right. I suppose—Arranha and I both felt they were hiding something—the ones we met in that town. Perhaps they were trying not to show their fear of the magery."

"That sounds reasonable. The ambassador seemed frightened even before we began, and if they have no magery of their own—if they cannot believe mortals have it—"

"You can't pretend we're elven!" She stared him in the face, shocked.

"Of course not!" Luap put a bite in his voice and she reddened. "We're mortals, not elves, and I could not pretend otherwise. What I was going to say—" He looked at her, and she looked away, still flushed. "Was that if they have no experience of mortals using magery, they may give us more respect for that reason. I went out of my way to say we were
not
those who had built the stronghold. Still, if they are in awe of magery, our few numbers will not be a temptation to them."

"Yes. I can see that." A long breath. "Now that they know we're here, whatever we can in honor do to convince them we're too strong to attack—"

"Exactly," said Luap. "If we must balance magery against numbers to avoid confrontation—"

"But we could not fight them," the Rosemage said.

"Of course not." Luap nodded. "The point is to avoid that—avoid it ever becoming an issue. They seem to think that because we are here, where their legends place demons or monsters, that we must have greater powers than we showed. Of course we must not masquerade as elves, or claim their allegiance. Not only would that be dishonest, it would place us at greater risk. But they found Aris's healing power, and the mageroad, impressive enough. If they think of us as a small but powerful folk, who want only peace and trade, they will have no reason to test our strength."

"I see," the Rosemage said. She looked again at Arranha. Luap thought his death very near; he remembered that slow cessation, breath by breath, from Dorhaniya. "Do you think we should call Aris?"

"Both of them," Luap said. "They will want to be here." He rose and went to the door, where a boy dozed against the corridor wall, and sent the lad for Aris and Seri. Soon they came, sleepy-eyed and solemn. Aris nodded after he looked at Arranha.

"Yes—very soon. I could not heal him—" His shoulders sagged. Luap patted him as he would have a child.

"It's not your fault, Aris; no one heals age." The words felt familiar in his mouth, and he remembered that the Rosemage had said that first, many hours ago.

"I know, but we have no other priest. Who will perform the rites for him, and for the Sunlord?"

"I suppose I will," Luap said slowly. "What he taught me, at least; I am not trained as a priest of Esea."

"He was the last—" the Rosemage said, and then she was crying, her shoulders shaking. It echoed in Luap's mind: the last. The last priest of Esea, the last of his father's generation, the last link to the old world where his kind had ruled. With Arranha would die the knowledge that had comforted Dorhaniya—no one else was likely to know the rituals for making altar linens, or care. With Arranha would die memories of Gird shared by no one else—for neither Gird nor Arranha had told him all of the time they journeyed together to the gnomish lands. With Arranha would die quarrels among priests, theological disputes, conflicts of power, even such unimportant things as the questions he had asked Dorhaniya's sister, that drove her to anger. Arranha had connected him to his own past, had known the boy he had been, had known his father, had known men whose grandfathers came over the southern mountains from Aarenis, had been one of an unbroken priesthood stretching back to Old Aare.

Luap felt acutely aware of that loss. Gird's death had ended what he might learn from Gird, but there were still many peasants living in vills much like his, plowing fields, making tools, tending sheep and cattle. Arranha—what had been Arranha's vision, that died here with him? What had he thought, as a young man, would shape his life? What had really shaped it?

He stared at Arranha's quiet face, already as remote as a stone carving, and wished he could shake it to life and speech again. Now he knew the questions he should have asked—now, when it was too late. Now he knew what he did not know—would never know. Elders died, he thought. Elders died, and with them their personal visions died. If Gird had died at Greenfields, as he had said he should have, Gird's vision would have died there too. It had lived on because Gird lived on, and when he died it began to fray. . . .

Luap shied away from that thought, forced his mind from the thought that different people—himself included—had striven to engrave their own visions on what was left of Gird's. Instead, he thought of himself as an old man for the first time. He would be old soon, the elder on whom the others depended, as he had depended on Arranha. Here, in this stronghold and the land around it, lay his vision. When he died, what would happen to the stronghold? To his people?

I did not seek command,
he cried in his heart.
It is not my fault that it was thrust on me.
In that familiar echoing space, a comfortable warmth rose. He might have come to it by accident, against advice, but he had nonetheless done well. His people prospered, and praised him. Perhaps he had not been fit for command in Gird's day—he would admit that—but now? Who else could have done what he had done? He hugged that to him, comfort for his genuine grief, as they carried Arranha's slight body to its resting place on the mountaintop, where the first sun each day could find it.

He must not die until it was safe, he thought on the way back down. He must shape it now, while he could, with all his strength, and be sure he did not die too soon. He felt the weight of responsibility settle onto him . . . his people had no one else to depend on, now.