When he had watered and fed his horse, he sat in the sun outside the cave, thinking about the stories of Gird he had heard so far, and how best to arrange them. In the old archives, the stories of great kings and mages began with a childhood full of portents. He wondered if all those tales were true. One young prince had been born, so the tale went, with heatless flames around him; another had brought frost-killed flowers to life in a snowstorm.
Gird’s life, as others remembered it, was depressingly free of portents. He had found no one from Gird’s original village, for one thing. Perhaps, he thought, squinting into the late slanting light, Raheli would know some childhood stories about her father. The few things Gird had told Luap weren’t much use. He’d been chosen for the count’s guard because of his size, and left it because of some misunderstanding. He’d never actually said what it was, but Luap assumed it was because he’d gotten drunk. That wouldn’t be impressive in a legendary figure. A mother dead of fever; a brother killed by a wolf. Half a life spent farming, apparently with enjoyment—he certainly retained a fondness for cows and even scythed the meadows a few times at haying time.
Luap shifted on the rock he’d chosen as a seat. None of that made a good story. Who, in a hundred years or so, would believe that a simple peasant lad with no more training than that could lead an army to victory? It had happened, yes: It was true, yes: But it was not reasonable. He had to make it believable to people who had never seen Gird, who had no idea what force of character lay in that lumpish peasant head. At least, he thought, the man was bigger than average, stronger than most. That would help. He might have been handsome when he was younger; that would help, too.
As the sun sank, he rose and stretched, watered his horse again, and made his own tidy campsite well inside the cave. He needed no fire, but he needed an explanation for the tethered horse outside, so he rolled his blanket and set his pack at one end before calling his own light and going back to the inner chamber.
On this, his fourth visit, the bell-shaped chamber with its walls covered in intricate patterned relief seemed almost homey. He did not hesitate to step out onto the central design of the floor; he felt no real apprehension before calling on his power. As smoothly as ever, as swiftly and silently, he was elsewhere, in the grand high hall he remembered. It, too, looked familiar, and the third arch, which had appeared when Gird visited, still opened off the far end. He thought about going out, up the stairs, to the outer world, but decided against it. This much worked as it had; surely the same world would be outside. And now he wanted a witness to share the wonder. He returned as quickly as he had come.
The next morning, he went on as he’d planned. He interviewed a veteran farming newly cleared land, who remembered Gird telling about the first winter in the forest, and two more in the next vill, who wanted to complain about the current edition of the Code rather than talk about Gird himself. Most of them had only secondhand knowledge; he had known Gird as long as they had, but he wanted to be thorough. The details that would make Gird’s life come alive later might come from anyone. By the time he returned to Fin Panir, he had two scrolls full of such tales. He had also decided that he must tell Arranha and the Rosemage, even though he foresaw awkward questions. With that decision made, he wasted no time, and the next day sent word to both asking them to meet him in his office.
The Rosemage, who had been teaching the more advanced yeoman to use a longsword, arrived with a bandage around her left hand. “Clumsiness,” she said, before anyone could ask. “Mine, as well as the yeoman’s. And no, it’s not dangerous, and yes, I would let Aris heal it if necessary.”
Arranha, Luap noticed, gave her the same smile he gave Luap. “Lady, no one doubts your ability.”
She chuckled, pulling one of Luap’s chairs to her, and sat down. “The class I was teaching no longer thinks I’m beyond injury, using magery to protect myself while thumping them. I think the fellow actually expected that his blade would turn aside rather than hit me. Luckily, he’s still using wood. Unluckily for me, it still hurts.” She had placed herself so that the injured hand could rest on a table, Luap noticed. He wondered if she were certain no bones had broken.
“We need to train more healers,” Arranha said. “Surely there are others among us who have, or can learn, that magery. Luap, would the Council of Marshals approve the use of healing magery in someone other than Aris?”
“I’m not sure,” said Luap, well-pleased that Arranha had given him an opening without needing any hints. “Aris had trained himself, in a time before the uses of magery were against the Code; whatever mistakes he made then, when he appeared here he functioned as a successful healer. That certainly influenced Gird’s decision, and the reaction of the other Marshals. The Marshals know, in their minds, that a child with Aris’s talent must learn to use it, just as a child must learn any adult skill, with many mistakes in the process—but in practice, they so distrust all magery that, without Gird, I suspect they would forbid it.”
“Mmm. So the child would have to be trained to be approved, and would have to be approved to be allowed to train—is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. I may be wrong, but this is the impression I get.” Then, before the others could speak, Luap went on. “In fact, I asked to see you because of just this problem and a possible solution.”
The Rosemage looked up sharply. “A solution!”
“Yes. You weren’t with us when I first discovered that I had some magery; Arranha may remember the incident—”
The old priest hid his expression behind folded hands, peering at Luap with bright eyes over his fingertips. “Are you certain you want me to tell all that tale?”
Luap smiled. “Enough know it already, or think they do. But I’ll be brief: we were camped in a cave, lady, and deep within I found a small chamber and had a . . . what I suppose you could call a revelation. A voice spoke, naming the king my father. And my magery woke, so that I had light in my hands. Unfortunately, the shock of that so unhinged my wits that I tried to argue Gird into a command—and sought to use my magery on him to convince him. You tried that yourself; you know its effect.”
“Gird knocked him flat,” Arranha said when Luap paused for breath. “Told everyone—perhaps especially me—that he’d kill him the next time he used his magery. Luckily, by the time you forced that, lady, Gird had changed his mind.”
“Not my most impressive moment,” said Luap wryly. “But some years later, after the war, and after Dorhaniya told me my real parentage, I went back there. I was hoping for another revelation, something to rattle my mind.”
“The study of logic . . .” muttered Arranha. Luap shook his head.
“Such studies settle your mind, Arranha, but don’t help me. At any rate, I returned, while on a journey for Gird, and found something quite different. I found a place—a far place—to which magery can travel.”
“A place.” It was almost the same tone as Gird had used. “What sort of place? Where?”
The same questions, and he had hardly more answers. “It’s a great hall and many chambers, all carved from living rock, and outside is a strange land of red stone, great towers and mountains and narrow steep valleys. Where it is from here I cannot say, but it’s apparently in a colder land than this.”