The Legacy of Gird (77 page)

Soon he realized that it must be all under stone somewhere, for in his cautious exploration he found no window, no door, no hint of outside weather or time. Fresh air, in currents so gentle he could not detect a source, lighted corridors and chambers, all carved of seamless red stone, all empty, all silent but for his footfalls echoing from the walls. No sign of living things, not the Elder Races he assumed had built it, or the animals that should be inhabiting any such underground warren. He dared not explore too far; he went cold again at the thought of being trapped here forever, in some vast nameless tomb, if he lost his way back to the main hall.

Then it struck him that he might be trapped anyway. Would the pattern work again, and if it did would it bring him back to the cave he knew? Trembling, he placed himself on the dais, on the pattern, as precisely as he could. With a last look around, he concentrated on the pattern, and his own power. A cold shiver, as if touched by ice, and he was back in a bell-shaped chamber. The same such chamber? He intensified his own light, and went back toward the cave mouth . . . to find there the embers of his fire, his blanket, his damp socks now dry on the hot stones. He felt almost faint with relief.

All that night he sat crosslegged with his back against the rock, hardly aware of the rain outside or the smell of horse. In his head, the puzzle pieces would not merge, made no sense. What kind of place was this? What kind of place was
that?
Twice he found himself on his feet, headed back to the chamber to see if it would work again, and twice he forced himself back to the fire. He shouldn't try it again until he'd thought it out, and thinking
at
it wasn't the same as thinking it out.

Should he tell Arranha? He could imagine the priest's eager questions, his childlike curiosity. Arranha would tell everyone else, hoping to stumble on someone with more lore, if it were but fireside tales. He didn't want others to know yet, not until he knew more himself. The Rosemage would want to come try it for herself; she might keep it a secret from everyone but Gird, but she would not let the knowledge rest idle—she would insist that he
do
something with it. And telling either of them meant that Gird would find out, and Gird would not overlook the use of magery if he found out through someone else. So—should he tell Gird first? That would mean admitting the use of magery, unless he could claim that the pattern acted without his power—and lying to Gird was always, no matter how good the reason, tricky. At best. At worst, Gird would hit him again (he rubbed his scalp, remembering).

The next day, in the rain-wet woods between Soldin and Graymere, he argued with himself and his internal images of Gird, Arranha, the Autumn Rose. Surely the gods would not have given him the power, shown him the inner cave, if they had not meant him to use them. In his head, Arranha agreed, pointing out that using magery where no one could see it, where it could affect no one but himself, was very like using no magery at all. It had not been oathbreaking, because he had not sought power, or influenced anyone, or taken command unbidden. The Autumn Rose also approved; he imagined her striding along that vast hall as if she owned it: she fit that sort of space. She would want to know where it was; she would want to know who had been there before, who built it, who used it now. He had a moment's vision of her confronting a troop of very surprised dwarves somewhere in those warrens, and almost laughed.

Gird, though. Gird stood in his head foursquare and awkward.
You used magery,
that image said, scowling. Only a little, and it didn't hurt anyone, he answered. And look what I found.
Excuses,
said Gird's image in his mind.
Truth's truth, lad: you swore to give up the mage powers, and you used them.
Even in his own mind, Gird had the stubbornness of a great boulder in a field, or a massive oak; he felt that his own arguments scratched around and around, going nowhere and moving that obstruction not even the width of a fingernail.

By Graymere, he'd convinced himself to tell the Autumn Rose and no one else until she'd had a chance to try the pattern herself. She might agree to keep it secret from Gird until she had used it, or tried to; perhaps Gird would accept that if Luap explained he had wanted confirmation from someone else before "bothering" Gird. Between Graymere and Anvil, by way of Whitberry, he changed his mind, and planned to tell only Arranha. Arranha, for all his skewed approach to things, would be more likely to know what those symbols carved in the arches meant, if there had been a time when elves and dwarves worked stone together. Approached carefully, he might be willing to keep this secret, at least for awhile. But on the long, muddy track back to Fin Panir from Anvil, he realized that he would have to tell Gird, and risk the consequences. If Gird found later that others had known, he would not forgive—he would not even listen. His one chance was to tell Gird first, and hope that curiosity had not completely abandoned the Marshal-General.

He wanted to keep it secret. He wanted one place, one small corner of his life, in which Gird had no standing. He rode hunched against the wind, eyes slitted, remembering that vast silence, that sense of absolute privacy. He did not have to decide
now
—for certainly he was the only one to have this knowledge. As long as he did not choose to share it, he could have his secret kingdom. His mind flinched from the words—he was not to seek a kingdom. It was more like the memories he had once held privately: a secret, but nothing so dangerous as a kingdom.

But he would have to tell Gird, he argued to himself. It would not be honest to do otherwise. Although it
would
be important to pick exactly the right time to tell Gird—when the Marshal-General was in the right mood, when he had no pressing worries, when they had ample time to discuss it. From experience, he knew the first few days back in Fin Panir would be a chaotic jumble of work. It might easily be a hand of days, or two, before he could find time to tell Gird about something which, after all, was of no practical importance to the Fellowship.

"Luap . . . sir?" Luap glanced up to see a strange yeoman in the doorway, twisting his conical straw hat in his hand. "It's about Gird. . . ."

Luap realized he had not heard anything from the other end of the corridor for a long time. He had been working steadily through the mass of accounts and correspondence that had, as he expected, kept him at his desk every day since his return. Gird had been out much of the time, busy with court work. Now his heart faltered—had Gird died? But the man was already speaking, concern overcoming nervousness.

"He come in for a meal like he does so often," the man said. "And then he sees this old friend from back at Burry or some-such place. And they gets to talking and taking a bit of ale, you know. . . ." His voice trailed away. He didn't want to say it. Luap sighed.

"You'd like someone to help him home?" he asked.

The man nodded. "This friend, see, he's eggin' him on, like, and Gird won't listen to the innkeeper or even the cook. . . ."

Luap realized that he'd seen the man before after all. He worked in the stables at the largest inn down by the lower market. He groaned inwardly. It was going to be a hard job getting Gird back up the hill. "Do you have a spare room, perhaps?" he asked.

"Well . . . I suppose maybe, but after what he called the innkeeper . . ."

"I'll come now," said Luap, standing. Whom could he call? He'd need more arms than two, if Gird had drunk his fill. He flung his blue cloak around him, and took the stout stick that had become a Marshal's insignia, though all knew he was no Marshal. A glance out the window of the room across the corridor located Marshal Sterin, and a yell brought him in, sweaty and cross from drilling novices.

"Gird?" he said. "What's the Marshal-General want now?"

"A friend's help to come home," said Luap. "He's down at the Rock and Spring."

"Ahh . . ." Sterin cut off whatever he'd almost said, with a glance at the man from the inn. "Met an old friend, did he?"

"From Burry, this man thinks. Got to talking about the war—"

"I see. We'll need another, and it can't be a novice. Too bad Cob's not here. Tamis Redbeard?"

"Good," said Luap. Tamis Redbeard stood a hand taller than he did, and could probably lift Gird in one hand. If he wasn't fighting back.

They could hear Gird and someone else before they came in sight of the inn. Singing, none too melodiously, one of the songs written after Greenfields. A small crowd loitered outside the inn, a few lucky ones close enough to peer in the windows. It parted like butter before a hot knife, then flowed back as seamlessly, as Luap led the others through the door.

 
"There was a man rode out one day
Upon a horse, a horse of gray
And all along the people saaaay
He must be such a king, oh . . ."
 

The man from Burry, or wherever, had one arm around a post, and one around Gird's shoulders. He had reached the green stage; Luap thought he would vomit in a moment or two. Gird had still the flush of early drunkenness, a red rim to each eye and a glitter in them.

"Marshal-General, we've need of you up the hill," Luap began. It wouldn't work, but he could start with respect and good sense.

"No court today," said Gird, head thrust forward. He belched, grinned at his companion. "So we're just taking a bit of ale, like, and singing the old songs. No harm in that. Everybody's got to have some time—"

"No, it's not court," Luap said. "It's something else."

"I know," said the other man, slurring the words. "You think we're drunk and ye've come to nursemaid th' old man." Luap glared at him; that would end any chance of Gird cooperating. Gird glowered, first at his companion and then at Luap.

"Is that what it is, you think I need a keeper?"

"No, sir. We've need of you, that's what I said."

"And you need me so much you brought two Marshals along? Can't you ever tell the truth, Luap? Did you think I wouldn't know Sterin and Tamis, big as they are, with their staves?"

Luap gritted his teeth. It was not
fair
, in front of all these people, and in such a cause. Confront drunks directly and start a brawl—even Gird said that, when he was sober. It wasn't as if he himself hadn't used subterfuge on other drunks, from time to time. Rage scoured his mind, eroding the controls he placed so carefully. He opened his mouth, but Sterin was before him.

"Aye, Father Gird, if you'll have the truth of it, we was told you'd drunk more'n was good for you, and would be the better of friends to bring you home. Yer friend there's had more'n his fill; he's green as springtime berries, and the both of ye smell like ye've emptied a barrel—"

"Lemme alone," began the other man, when Sterin reached to unhook his arm from Gird's shoulder. Then he turned even greener around the mouth, his eyes widened, and he spewed across the floor, then fell headlong in the mess. Sterin had stepped back, not quite in time, and now gave Luap a disgusted glance. He shrugged.

"I'll get this mess clean," he said, meaning man and floor both. "You and Tam get the Marshal-General back before he doubles it." Luap fought down another surge of anger. Sterin was in his rights, as the senior Marshal present, but did he have to make it so obvious that Luap had no right of command?

"Yes, Marshal Sterin," he heard himself saying, the effort at courtesy clearly audible and destroying the effect he had meant to produce. He and Tam moved around the man from Burry, now struggling to sit up, and moved into position beside Gird. He put his arm under Gird's elbow, ready to lift or push or whatever would be necessary.

"Let's go now," he suggested, in the calm quiet tone that worked best with most drunks. Gird glanced from one to the other.

"I am not drunk." As always in this state, his words came slow, the peasant accent distinct. "My father wouldn't put up with it."

"Your father's dead these many years." Luap heaved, as effectively as he might have heaved at a live, deep-rooted oak. "Come on, now, man . . . you've got to get back home."

"No home." His forehead knotted. "Gone. Went away."

The other drunk, still pale from throwing up the first wash, tittered weakly. "I'm not that drunk," he lied. "
My
home didn't go away."

"Shut
up
," Luap muttered at the man from Burry. "Sterin—get him away." He had seen the expression on Gird's face before, the swift change from hilarity to grim sadness. It had something to do with whatever happened the morning of Greenfields, which Gird would not speak of—but he was more dangerous in this mood than any other. The man from Burry vanished, and in a few moments Sterin reappeared. Luap could feel the tension in Gird's shoulders, some mingling of rage and sorrow.

"No home," Gird said again. "Never . . . it will never be. . . ." All around the eyes stared, the ears listened; Luap could almost see the legend growing. In a moment someone would decide it was prophecy, that Gird had the foreseeing gift beside all his others. He caught Tamis's eye, and Sterin's, and gave a minute nod. "It is not finished!" Gird's voice sharpened, and Sterin, who had reached for his other arm, stopped to give Luap a worried glance. Somewhere outside, Luap could just hear pattering hooves of sheep or goats, and a voice calling to them. Everyone in sight was silent, motionless, waiting Gird's next word. And this, too, he would have to explain, somehow, when Gird sobered up the next day, for all that some thought the gods spoke truly to men drowned in wine.

"It is not finished!" Gird said again, louder. "Not until mageborn and nonmage live in peace, not until the same law rules farmer and brewer, crafter and crofter, townsman and countryman. Not until they agree—" He paused, breathing hard, as if from battle, then he shook his head. "And they won't," he said quietly, sadly. For all Luap's recent annoyance, he found himself moved, almost to tears, by that tone. "They want what cannot be—" He turned to face Luap. "You do, whether you know it or not—and they—and maybe I myself wish for what cannot be." He spoke still quietly, but with such intensity that everyone around stood breathless, straining to hear. "It should not be so hard, by the gods! To agree to live in peace: what's so hard about that? Or is it because I didn't die at Greenfields?"