Another look passed between the kings; this time the dwarf spoke. “You believe the gods intended this: do you think the gods do not know of the danger? Are we to interfere with their plans? No: you have our permission; that is all you need from us, and all we give.”
Luap realized suddenly that he was hearing the two kings each in his own language, and understanding perfectly, yet he knew he could not speak or understand more than a few courtesies of his own knowledge. Such power, he thought, longingly; his own magery was but the shadow of theirs. But pride stiffened him; he looked each in the eye, and bowed with courtesy but no shame. “Then I thank you, my lords, for your words. As the gods surpass even the Elder Races, I must obey their commands as I understand them.”
The elf looked grim. “May they give you the wisdom to accompany your obedience,” he said. Then he turned to the gnome. “Lawmaster, record all that you heard, and let it be as it is written.” He strode up the hall, and when he reached the dais, the elves vanished. The dwarf king came nearer and looked up into Luap’s face.
“You may be a king’s son, mortal, but it will take more than that to rule in this citadel. You are not of the rockblood; you do not know how to smell the drossin and nedrossin stone. The sinyi care for growing things and pure water; we dasksinyi care for the virtues of stone; the isksinyi care for the structure of the law. Now ask yourself, mortal, what the iynisin care for, and what that corruption means. We will not forgive an injury to the daskgeft.” He turned, and his dwarves cheered, then burst into a marching song. Luap could no longer understand their speech: he watched as they followed their king to the dais and vanished.
That left the gnome, a dour person who gave Luap a long humorless stare. “Gird should have had more sense,” it said. “I am a Lawmaster: this is a book of law. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lawmaster.” Luap struggled with a desire to laugh or shiver. How had Gird endured an entire winter understone with such as this?
“In this book will be recorded the contract between you and the Elder Races. Do you understand that?”
He did not, but he hated to admit it. “If we wake this danger, whatever it is, they will take it ill.”
“They will withdraw their permission,” the gnome corrected. “You are, for the duration of your stay here, considered as guardian-guests, not as heirs. You have the duty to protect this as if it were your own, but it is not your own, nor may you exchange any part of it for any value whatsoever. Is that clear?”
“I—think so. Yes.”
“You have the use-right of the land, the water, the air, the animals that live on the land and the birds that fly over it, but no claim upon dragons—”
“Dragons!” Luap could not suppress that exclamation.
“Dragons . . . yes. There may be dragons from time to time; you have no claim upon them. You are forbidden to interfere with them. You may not, through magery or other means, remove this citadel to another place—” Luap had not even thought of that possibility. “—And you must keep all in good repair and decent cleanliness. You must not represent yourself as the builder or true owner, and you must avoid contamination of this hall with any evil. Now—if these are the terms you understand, and you accept them, you will say so now—”
“I do,” said Luap.
“And then the sealing. You were Gird’s scribe as well as luap; you know how to sign your name. As you have no royal seal, press your thumb in the wax.” Luap signed, pressed, and the gnome laid over the blotch of wax a thin cloth. The gnome bowed, stiffly, and without another word walked to the dais, where he vanished.
Luap could not have told how long he stood bemused before he, too, went back to the dais, as much worried as triumphant. He arrived in darkness—not in the High Lord’s Hall, as he’d expected, but in his cave . . . and realized he’d been thinking of it. Could he transfer directly? No. Back to the distant land, then to Fin Panir. The High Lord’s Hall was empty; it was near dusk. Where had they gone, and why? Or had the elves wrapped him in such sorcery that years had passed, and they thought him lost forever?
“Almost,” said the Rosemage when he found her in his office. “Four days is too long to stand waiting.”
Quickly, Luap told her what he remembered of his meeting with elves and dwarves and the gnomish Lawmaster. He found it hard to believe it had been four days . . . but he could not remember everything. Something about danger, about drossin and nedrossin, about which of the Elders cared most about which aspect of creation . . . but none of that mattered, compared to the final agreement. The Rosemage grinned; she looked almost as excited as he felt.
“Well, then—and where is this fabulous place, now that we have permission to use it?”
At that moment, Luap realized he had not asked—that he had not been given a chance to ask. And he doubted very much that the Elders would answer any such question now.
Arranha was the least concerned about that; he was sure, he said, that he could figure it out by means of celestial markers. Luap, annoyed with himself for being so easily enchanted by the elves, grunted and left him to it.
Chapter Fifteen
“What happened?” asked Aris, as Seri came out of the Council meeting room. She grinned, stuck up her thumb, and then put a finger before her mouth. They scurried down the stairs like two errant children, across a court, through another passage, and then found an empty stall in the stable.
“It went just as we hoped,” Seri said, when she’d thrown herself down on the straw. “I’m glad you suggested starting with the history, though.”
“Makes you seem older,” Aris said. He sat curled, with his arms around his knees. It had been Seri’s idea, all of it, but she had let him help her shape it.
“They had to agree with that, of course, since they knew it: that all the Marshals now were Marshals or yeoman-marshals under Gird himself, they’d all led soldiers in the war. And they had to agree that weaponsdrill in the barton, and marching in the grange drillfields, isn’t much like battle. Even Gird had to get them out of the bartons and into mock battles before real ones. So they could see where I was going, and some of ’em—Cob, for instance—were already nodding when I said the granges needed something more. He started in to propose just what I’d planned, so I didn’t have to bother.”
Aris chuckled. “They’ll like it better from Cob; he’s one of them.”
“And it doesn’t matter to me,” Seri said, with a wave of her hand, “as long as we have that kind of training. After all, he was in the war, not just scrubbing pots and carrying water like we were. He’ll know better how to set it up, now he’s thought of it.”
“But about the other—” Aris prompted.
“You won’t believe it.” Her grin lit up the stall. “He had just gotten well started on laying out a training plan when the Rosemage raised her hand and said she thought perhaps I’d had more to say. Cob stopped short, shrugged, and asked if I did. So I told them about our plan—”
“Your plan,” Aris said firmly. “I didn’t think of that.”
“My plan, then. I told them how future Marshals would need more training than just leading a gaggle of farmers around a hayfield, or even fighting in a mock battle once a year or so—that they needed to be real Marshals, well-tested before being given command of a grange—and Aris, they listened to me. I said it all, all we talked about: working up from yeoman-marshal, spending time in two different granges, and then talked about having a place for concentrated training.” She paused so long that Aris had to speak.
“Well? What did they say?”
“Five or six of the older ones all started talking at once, about how they didn’t have to worry as long as they had veterans, and how much it would cost, and that Gird never meant to have armies roaming around stealing from honest farmers—then Raheli stood up and they were all silent.” Seri lay back in the straw and stared at the high roof far overhead. “You know, I never realized how much she’s like him.”