Arranha opened his eyes. “You called me back. Why?” Then he seemed to see them clearly and his expression changed. “Both of you! Seri, when did you learn healing?”
She grinned at him. “It’s not like Aris’s; I have to ask Gird what he wants.”
“Gird. But he’s not—”
“He’s not a god; I know that. But he lets us know what he wants done.”
Arranha pushed himself up in the bed. “I might have known. He saved my life outside the walls of Grahlin, and now he’s done it again; I wonder what he expects of me this time.” His gaze fell on Luap. “Don’t look at me like that, Selamis: I’m well now. I’ll be with you in the west; isn’t that what you wanted?”
Raheli watched the Council carefully the morning Aris and Seri were to come in to make their report. Already rumors had spread, as fast as light from a flame: Arranha healed, a mageborn and peasant working healing magery together. She and the Rosemage had already conferred; they sat on opposite sides of the room where they could hear most of the murmuring and see each other. Luap sat in his usual seat, with fresh scrolls around him and his pen full of ink. The scribe he had nominated to take over his position sat behind him at a small desk, he would practice taking the notes.
But the Council concerned her most. In the years since Seri had maneuvered Cob into presenting her own plan for the training of new Marshals, the Council had changed character. Fewer of the rural Marshals bothered to come in to Fin Panir; some sent their concerns, and some ignored the Council until a crisis arose. Most of the Marshals who attended regularly had granges in Fin Panir or Grahlin, or vills within a day’s ride of Fin Panir; they had plenty of yeoman-marshals to do their work while they attended Council. By the accidents of war, most of them had also been latecomers to Gird’s army, gaining command because the earlier Marshals died in battle. Since they had not known Gird as well, they relied on the written Code, the growing volume of Commentaries, and Luap’s version of Gird’s life when considering some new policy. Raheli could still influence them, as Gird’s daughter, as could a few others, but it grew harder every year. She had begun to regret her decision to refuse the Marshal-Generalship.
Aris and Seri appeared in the doorway. Both wore the gray shirts and pants of the training order, and the blue tunic of a Marshal-candidate. Raheli felt herself relaxing. No one could help liking those two; they had the cheerful steadiness that attracted goodwill. Aris looked tougher, his face tanned where it had been pale, his shoulders broader. Seri looked less concerned about him; she seemed full of confidence.
When they were called to account for their journey, they spoke in turns, but without formality; it did not seem rehearsed. Rahi had already heard part of the story the night before, but Aris’s description of the iynisin curse on the grove and spring, and its healing the next day still awed her. When Seri told of the horses appearing, one of the older Marshals said, “Like Gird’s old gray horse!” at once.
“We thought of that,” Aris said. “But we are not Gird—we could never claim that importance.”
“Nor did he,” Luap said. Everyone stared; Luap rarely spoke in Council meetings, maintaining the distinction between the Marshals and himself.
“But go on,” another Marshal said. “We can discuss this later. I want to know what happened next.” So did they all, and questioned Aris and Seri about each last detail of their journey, including much that the two had not had time to tell Raheli. They had healed someone at a farm, they had found a tribe of horse nomads, and spent a few hands of days with them, learning their language and healing their sick. . . .
“Horse nomads? How could you learn so fast? And why heal them? We didn’t train you and send you out to benefit them. Aris was supposed to heal yeomen who needed it.”
Seri answered this time. “We cannot say how we learned so fast—it surprised us, and them, as much as it surprises you. But since the gods directed us there, they must have had some purpose. As for healing, that is the purpose of such power—to withhold its use is as evil as to misuse any magery.”
“I don’t like it,” the Marshal-General said, scowling. “An honest peasant lass fiddling about with magery; that can’t be right. I know you’ll say Gird approved young Aris using his healing magery, under supervision. But that’s not the same as Seri doing such things, calling light and all that.”
Raheli spoke up. “Marshal-General, in the old days there are legends of our people having some great powers—consider the Stone Circles they raised. And Gird would have trusted peasants—especially someone like Seri who has served well in barton and grange—to use magery for the benefit of all.”
“It’s magicks, and magicks are evil,” the Marshal-General said.
Raheli would have said more, but Seri leaned forward, smiling at the Marshal-General. “Sir, that magic by which Gird freed us all from fear and grief at his death; was that evil?”
“No, but—but that was not magicks; that came from the gods. Luap said so.”
“And the gods granted this to me, sir—I did not ask for it; I didn’t even imagine it was possible. It is not my talent. It is their gift. I would be ungracious to refuse it. Now if the Council requires that I not use it here, I will leave—but I will not renounce what the gods have given me.”
That set off a stormy argument. Some said Seri was rebellious, haughty, ruined by spending too much time with a mageborn; others argued that she was right: if she had new powers, they must be the gods’ gift, and she should use them. Through this, Aris and Seri sat patient and quiet, though Rahi felt angry enough to bash some heads. She wished Cob had been there.
Finally, when the argument died of its own weight, the cheerful steadiness of the two young people had its effect, and the vote the Marshal-General demanded, to force Seri to give up healing, failed, in the days that followed, both returned to their former training duties so quietly that it seemed the storm had never occurred. Aris spent more time in the drillfields and barton, and Seri spent more time with him, learning herblore, but otherwise they seemed unchanged.
As the year rolled on, Luap and Arranha together planned for the great move. By word of mouth, the plans travelled the land, and mageborn survivors began to trickle into Fin Panir. The strong and young, those known to have magery, would go first and prepare the land for planting. One by one, Luap showed them what became known as the mageroad. He still worried that they did not know where in real space the stronghold lay, but he felt he could not wait.
Chapter Twenty
Getting the first working groups funneled through the cave was almost as difficult as moving Gird’s army, Luap thought. Aris had agreed to come to the stronghold with Seri “for awhile;” he would not say whether he would settle there permanently. In the wake of Seri’s defiance of the Council, Luap chose not to press the issue. Surely they would find the new land fascinating enough once they had lived there for a time.
“Here we need not hide our abilities.” The Rosemage eyed the canyon walls with a craftsman’s look.
“The stronghold itself is large enough. . . .”
“For now. But it won’t be. And we’ll need tradeways: roads, passes, bridges. Look—” From her fixed stare, a line of light sprang to the nearest rockface a few spans away. A high screech ending in a ping, and burst of rockdust. A cylinder of stone wobbled, and fell out, leaving behind a clean, smooth, perfectly round hole. Luap stared at her, surprised once more. She reddened. “Of course, you could do more; I know that. And this tires me. But it will save our few numbers from spending all their time chipping stone.”