Grus thought the Scepter of Mercy would let him know if the exiled god were lying. He got no sense of that now. He shrugged. How much did it matter? Not nearly as much as keeping the Banished One within some kind of reasonable limit. "Hear me," he said, and the Scepter made sure the Banished One did hear him.
Rage came back through the Scepter. Who are you – what are you – to speak to me so?
"I am the King of Avornis," Grus said. "You and yours have tormented my kingdom since time out of mind. I am going to call you to account for it. Do you understand?"
By way of answer, he got back another blast of fury, this one strong enough to stagger him. But that fear underneath it remained. The Banished One was sure Grus could call him to account. If the Banished One hadn't been sure, Grus wouldn't have been so sure himself.
"Do you understand?" he repeated, and something went out with his words, something that said the Banished One had better understand.
I hear you. The Banished One might have been a chained dog running out and discovering, suddenly and painfully, the length and strength of the chain.
"Then hear this. From now on, you will not order or encourage the Menteshe to go to war against Avornis. You will not order or encourage the Chernagors to go to war against Avornis. You will not order or encourage the Thervings to go to war against Avornis. You will not aid any of these folk, or any others, in their wars against my kingdom. By the power of the Scepter of Mercy, I order you to obey."
The Banished One's laugh could still flay. Very well, little man. I shall do as you require of me here. Just as you command, so shall it be. And it will do you less good than you think.
He was liable to be right. The Menteshe, the Chernagors, and the Thervings could find reasons of their own to war against Avornis. They didn't need the Banished One to spur them on. But Grus said, "I'll take the chance. And, by the power of the Scepter of Mercy, I order you to abandon all spells that make men into thralls, or that sap the will of men so they do not know or fully understand what they are doing, such as the ones you used on the Menteshe when Korkut's men and Sanjar's attacked mine together."
You dare demand this? The Banished One said furiously. Do your worst, for here I shall not hearken to you.
"I mean it," Grus said. "That is my command. You will make it so." He exerted his will. He exerted it – and the Scepter of Mercy magnified it. By himself, he couldn't have hoped to prevail. The Banished One would never even have noticed his will, let alone yielded to it. The Banished One hadn't noticed his will, or Lanius', as they mounted the campaign that yielded Avornis the Scepter of Mercy. That the exiled god hadn't was perhaps his greatest failing.
He fought back now with all his formidable strength. Opposing him was like opposing the wind, the sea, the storm. His anger and his power buffeted Grus. The king struck back. Thanks to the Scepter, he could feel the Banished One wincing when his blows landed. It was a contest where the two enemies never touched, where many miles separated them. But it reminded him of nothing so much as two strong men standing toe-to-toe smashing each other in the face until one of them either fell over or, unable to stand the battering anymore, gave up.
A shudder – that was what it felt like, anyhow – from the Banished One made Grus shudder, too, in involuntary sympathy. Enough! the exiled god cried. Enough! I will do as you say. That accursed thing you carry is a torment like a lash of scorpions!
He told the truth. The Scepter of Mercy let Grus be sure of it. The King of Avornis let out a relieved and weary sigh. The Scepter had let him win the contest of wills, but hadn't been able to disguise that it was a contest, and a hard one. He felt as though he'd been pounded from head to foot.
"You could do so much good in the world," he said wearily. "Why do you work evil instead?"
Now only incomprehension greeted him. I do good, the Banished One answered. I do that which is good for me. Of other goodness, I know nothing.
Again, the Scepter told Grus he meant it. No man is a villain in his own eyes, the king thought. Much experience with rebels and brigands had taught him as much. It must be the same for gods. Too bad.
He wondered if he could use the Scepter's power to show the Banished One the error of his ways. He tried – and felt himself failing. Nothing he did made the exiled god see his point of view. It was not a matter of giving orders and enforcing obedience. He would have had to change the Banished One's essential nature. And that seemed beyond even the Scepter of Mercy.
Would he be able to figure out how to make the Scepter do more than he had on this first try? Would Lanius? Who could say? One thing was sure – now they would have the chance. For centuries, Kings of Avornis had had to do without.
Since he couldn't change the exiled god's nature now, he decided to work with it instead. "Remember," he said, "the game is more even now. We have the Scepter, and this time we intend to keep it. If we have to, we'll use it again."
I am not likely to forget, the Banished One said. Strength is strength. Power is power. Who would have thought men could do such a thing? He might have been a man talking about moncats.
Who would have thought Pouncer could do such a thing? Lanius had, and he'd made Grus see the possibility, too. Pouncer was less than a man, much less, but Lanius hadn't underestimated the beast. Grus and Lanius were less than gods, much less, but the Banished One hadn't fully taken into account what they could do. And now the exiled god was paying for it. When had he last had to pay? When his ungrateful children cast him down from the heavens?
Grus had always wondered who had the right of that, whether the one who had been Milvago the god deserved to spend – eternity? – trapped down here in the material world. He still didn't know. He doubted he would ever know. But now he had a stronger opinion than he'd had before.
Be thankful you did not push me further, little man, the Banished One said. Even that accursed Scepter will only go so far.
Maybe he didn't realize Grus had already discovered as much. And maybe that was just as well. A lion tamer could put his beasts through their paces, and they would obey him. Did that mean the man, even backed by his whip, was stronger than a lion? Every so often, a lion forgot its training – or recalled what it was. And when that happened, a lion tamer got eaten.
"Yes, no doubt it will," Grus said, not showing the Banished One the alarm he felt. If a lion tamer showed fear, his beasts would be on him in a heartbeat. Still boldly, the king went on, "You would do well to remember you have limits of your own."
The burst of rage that came through the Scepter of Mercy then made his hair stand on end. That was literally true; it rose from his scalp, as it might have done if lightning struck close by. And he knew that what he felt was only the tiniest fraction of what the Banished One sent his way. The Scepter brought it down to a level a mere man might grasp without being left a mindless idiot afterwards.
With what would have been a petulant shrug from a man, the Banished One in effect turned away, breaking the channel between himself and Grus. Grus let him go. The king had done what he'd set out to do. He looked down at the Scepter, which he still held in his right hand, and shook his head. That he held it… If he'd imagined he ever would when he first took the throne, he'd have been sure he was doing nothing but exercising his imagination.
He walked out of his pavilion into the morning sunlight once more. The guards in front of the tent bowed very low. They didn't usually do that for him – they took him for granted. They gave their respect to the Scepter of Mercy. Pterocles waited out there, too, and Collurio and Crinitus, and Hirundo – and Otus and Fulca.