Oath of Fealty

8

Back in the dining room, he found Sier Galvary and a younger man with stacks of records, scrolls, and books.

“You’ll want more than this, I’m sure, Sir King,” said Sier Galvary. “I brought the year-roll for last year, the final accounting to the Council upon the former king’s death, and a list of the lands held by human Siers—their extent and their principal products. Most of our trade is in craftwork of one kind or another, but we do export some raw materials.” He turned to the younger man with him. “And this is Egil, who despite his youth has earned his place as senior auditor of accounts.”

“Excellent,” Kieri said. “Let’s get to it, then.”

“The royal treasury is supported by taxes, like most,” Galvary said. “Our arrangement with the elves limits the lands humans can farm or clear; land rights do not come from the Crown, as they do in Tsaia, and elves must approve any transfer of land by purchase.”

“What about inheritance?”

“Firstborn, male or female, inherits the land—the elves have not interfered save when a firstborn was obviously incompetent, and then only to approve the transfer to someone else in the same family. Near as we can tell, them being so long-lived, if not immortal, they make alliances with families and not individuals.”

“And the other children? Or do most people have only one or two children?”

“Usually that, Sir King—well, not just one or two, but not many, because the land grants will not support a multitude and the elves demand that land be well managed. They removed one family for failure to do that … a long time back, that was.”

“So … does the Crown take taxes on the basis of landownership or production? Or do the elves?”

“Elves take no land-rent; their restrictions on land use, they say, are sufficient impediment to short-lived human ambition.”

Kieri glanced up; was Galvary being funny? Or was that serious dislike of elves? “And the Crown?”

“Landholders owe the Crown, in kind or in coin, a portion of their production. Crafters, as well. Our taxes are not high, compared to what I know of Tsaia’s system, but neither do we have the expense of a large standing army. The forest rangers watch the borders and observe the taig.” He opened the first of the rolls on the table. “Here—this is last year’s accounting.”

The script looked different from Tsaia’s, though Kieri could read it after a moment. Wheat, oats, barley, straw, hay, tree-fruit and bush-fruit, staves and timber, each specified by the kind of tree … “We get all this in kind?”

“The Crown does, yes. It does not all come here. The Crown maintains granges—not like Girdish granges of course—stores of food and supplies in each faran, each district or shire I suppose you’d call it, for emergencies. Rangers draw supplies there, but also if there’s a flood, fire, or other disaster, relief supplies are at hand. What comes here supplies the palace, of course, though the Crown also has a large orchard and fields nearby.”

“That makes sense,” Kieri said. “Could the palace needs be met from those resources?”

“Not entirely. There’s a large staff, and their families; as well, the palace share serves as the reserve for Chaya. Eight years ago, we had a very bad winter, much harsher than usual, and the palace stores meant no one in the city went hungry.”

“That’s good,” Kieri said. He stared at the figures, trying to absorb it all. Accounting for the Company, or his own land, he was used to; this must be somewhat the same, but he could not fit his mind around Lyonya yet. He had not seen a map of it since his days in Falk’s Hall, training with the Knights of Falk. “Do you have a map of the land here?”

“Yes, sire, of course.” Another roll opened.

Kieri stared at it. He had forgotten exactly where the border with Prealíth was … how far from Chaya to the mountains. Each human domain had been marked out carefully: Belvarin, Galvary, Hammarrin, Tolmaric, Carvarsin … Halveric. Aliam’s place … he put his finger on it. “This is Aliam Halveric’s?”

“It belongs to the Halveric family—the Sier prefers to live here, in Chaya, and has granted his brother leave to stay at Halveric Steading and manage it for him.”

Kieri felt his brows rise. He’d thought Aliam owned that land, that house, where he himself had found refuge and where he had grown from a terrified, starveling boy into a man. He could not imagine any lady there but Estil.

He traced the border with Tsaia with his finger, then the trade roads marked along the river, along the foot of the Dwarfmounts. He saw no markings that looked like fortified holds. Aliam had a wall, but Chaya itself did not. “How much trouble has there been along the Tsaian border?”

“Not a great deal, except where it borders Verrakai’s land,” Galvary said. “The Duke has not attempted invasion, but people come from there and poach in the forest or raid farms for food. Konhalt, too—”

“Konhalt’s under Verrakai control,” Kieri said. “Not fond of me, either of them, though I think Verrakai will be busy enough explaining to the Council in Vérella why he ordered his people to attack the Tsaian Royal Guard to keep him from causing trouble here.”

“We shall hope so,” Galvary said, in a tone that suggested disbelief. “In Tsaia all you dukes had your own armies, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly,” Kieri said. “We all owed troops to the Crown, in case of need; some maintained them at home, and some contributed money to maintain an equivalent number under Crown control.”

“But you had—”

“I had troops, yes. A condition of my grant of land: as a marcher lord, I had a duty to protect the northern and eastern borders from all enemies—mostly Pargun, but also any invasion of horse nomads from the north. They never bothered us; we had far more trouble with orcs under Achrya’s guidance …”

“And you brought troops with you …” Egil spoke for the first time, sounding nervous.

“Only as an escort,” Kieri said. “If I had not, I’d have died on the way.”

“Ah. Then … they will go back to Tsaia? Or … were you going to keep them here, as your personal troops?” Galvary asked.

“I had not considered that; they will go back, I assume, to join the others, though … it has all been so fast … I do not know what will happen to that land, or those people …”

“Surely Tsaia will let you keep it—”

“I doubt that. And even if they do, how could I govern both there and here? And yet—”

“They are your people,” Galvary said, nodding.

“Yes. As you are my people now, though I do not yet know you.” Kieri smiled at Galvary. “I must make you first in my heart, I know that. But it is—it will be—difficult for a while. For me as well as for them. Some of them I have known for thirty years.”

“Are you sorry?” said Egil.

“Sorry? To find out at last who I am, that I had a loving family, that I belong somewhere? Not at all. I pray that I become such a king as you will not be sorry to have.”

A moment’s silence; Kieri sensed that something had changed between them, but he was not sure what.

“I—I meant having to give up your friends, having to come to a strange place—and not having known all along.” Egil darted a glance at Galvary, who was glaring at him.

Kieri looked at Egil, thinking how young he seemed. “I regret my own mistakes, but to regret the things that made me what I am … that would be ungrateful to those who did so much for me—and to those powers that perhaps knew when it was best for me to come back. Would you quarrel with the gods’ will? I wouldn’t.” He turned back to the map. “Now—what are these lines here?”

“The approximate boundary of the Ladysforest in normal times,” Galvary said briskly. “As you may know, it expands and contracts at the will of the Lady, but this is the boundary fixed on our maps, beyond which humans must ask permission to enter. No human dwelling or clearing may extend past it, though strayed livestock are not harmed and in times of dearth, the elves have granted permission to gather firewood and hunt.”

Kieri estimated the extent as perhaps a third of the kingdom that might otherwise, as in Tsaia, have been populated, but also extending up the foothills of the Dwarfmounts.

After a break for lunch, they finally worked their way to the present financial status of Lyonya.

“I’m used to Tsaian crowns and Guild League nitis and natas,” Kieri said. “What does this—” He pointed to the sums at the bottoms of three columns. “—mean in those terms?”

“About twice as much in Tsaian gold crowns,” Egil said, a little smugly. “Our coins are marked with tree and leaf: those are trees.”

Kieri felt his brows rising. He had heard Lyonya spoken of as a backward, secretive land, poor because “elves won’t let humans get rich,” but he knew the Tsaian treasury had no more than this, and often less.

“We are not bankrupt, at least,” Galvary said. Again that hint of a smile.

“And has the balance changed much, year to year?”

“There has been a slow trend downward, over the past ten years,” Egil said. “Not large, but troubling. The late king’s illness made necessary some expenses here at the palace … unavoidable, of course. There have been crop failures, some difficulties with bands of robbers coming over the Tsaian border, requiring more patrols, more rangers. The Council has not been concerned.” He glanced at Sier Galvary, a look almost rebellious.

“Ten years …” Kieri said. “That’s a long time for a downward trend.”

“But we have quite enough for a coronation celebration,” Galvary said. “If it is not too extravagant.”

Kieri let that stand, ridiculous as it was when he had just seen the figures. Still, more than the total mattered. “Let’s look at the previous years,” Kieri said. “Has the income fallen, or the expense grown?”

“A little of both. Crop yields have dropped a little, and prices for our usual exports are down, too.”

“Hmm. You have a Merchants’ Guild?”

“In Chaya, yes.”

“And their representative to the Council would be—”

“Oh, they’re not on the Council.”

“Not at all?”

“Er … no. Did you … are they … in Tsaia?”

“The Merchants’ Guild has a representative, not much power, but someone there to know what’s going on. In Aarenis, the Merchants’ Guild runs the Guild League cities.”

“The elves don’t think much of merchants …”

Kieri wondered if that was true. He’d already encountered beliefs about elves that didn’t match his knowledge of them.

“Merchants bring change; they make people greedy,” Egil added. “Elves prefer stability.”

“Stagnation,” muttered Galvary.

“I thought people were greedy enough by themselves,” Kieri said. At Egil’s shocked expression, he went on. “Do not your people commonly want more than they have?”

“What could they want that they do not have?” Egil asked.

“You’ve already mentioned that our human subjects wanted more land, more access to forest resources,” Kieri said.

Brows furrowed; clearly they had not made this connection before.

“In my experience,” Kieri said, “most want more than they have, even if they call themselves content. And some resources do not grow of themselves. When I got my grant of land in northern Tsaia and people applied for permission to live there, I soon learned that what had seemed abundant resources for a few were not so abundant when the population grew. I, like the elves, had to institute rules about how much wood could be cut, and so on.”

“Perhaps it was your elven half …” Galvary’s words slowed and stopped as Kieri looked at him.

“Come now,” Kieri said. “You must know—your wives do, if you do not—that if you have only one barrel of meal in the pantry, you cannot feed a hundred with it. And how many teams of plough must you have for that barrel of meal?”

“Well, but … if there were more land …”

“Land does not grow wider because you wish it,” Kieri said. “We have neighbors: would you have us invade them, to get more land? When Tsaia runs short, do you not watch our borders here?”

More furrowed brows. “Yes …”

“Have you never told a son or daughter to trim their desires to the purse you give them?”

“Of course …”

“Well, then. Lyonya is the size it is; our human share of it is the size it is; we must make the best of it. Having merchants on the Council will help—they know foreign markets better than anyone here, I daresay, and can advise us on the most advantageous types of trade—”

“But they make money off us—”

Kieri sighed, but silently. “We make money off of trade and they carry the goods—they must live, just as we do.”

Yet again, the furrowed brows. Finally Egil said, “I have heard—from a wine importer—that one reason we are not exporting so much jewelry is that our craftsmen now live and work in Tsaia and even Aarenis.”

“Exactly the sort of thing I meant,” Kieri said. “If we cannot support them at home, they must move elsewhere, and if they move elsewhere, their work profits us less.”

“Well …” Galvary scrubbed his hands over his face, as if trying to put on a new skin. “I will not oppose including a merchant or two on the Council. If it means restoring the treasury …”

Kieri wondered if they would accept the next step. Might as well try … “It is not so much the size of our treasury as what circulates among our people. Yes, the royal treasury must have reserves for emergencies, but the wealth of a kingdom lies in more than a heap of gold.” At their doubtful expressions, he tried another tack. “The food in your pantry does you no good if you never eat it.”

“The elves said something like that, the last time I spoke to one of them about it,” Galvary said. “It didn’t make sense to me, though.”

“Well, first things first,” Kieri said. “I want to see merchants represented on the Council by midsummer. I’d like a list of those you consider suitable in ten days. I will then meet them and interview them.”

“So soon? I mean—yes, Sir King, but—there is still your coronation to plan.”

“And plenty of help to plan it,” Kieri said. “If you will give the Council a limit to spend, I believe Sier Halveric can take it from there—”

Galvary looked shocked, but nodded. Kieri stretched and glanced around. Outside the light was fading—near time for dinner, surely.

“Thank you, Sier Galvary, and Egil,” he said. “We can go deeper into this tomorrow, but now—I would like to explore more of the palace grounds while there is still light.”

“Of course, Sir King,” they both said, looking relieved.

In the low slanting light of evening, Kieri asked Astil how to find the garden he remembered. “It had roses,” he said.

“Yes, Sir King! I know the one. It’s through here—”

Kieri came out into the evening sky, pale blue with high wisps of gold. In the silence, he could hear the sound of water trickling somewhere. Stone-flagged paths curved among thorny bushes, some pruned low and some as high as his head. A few tiny leaves showed purple-red; most of the leaf buds looked pinkish.

“By your coronation, the early flowers will have opened,” Astil said. “It is not all roses here; you will see. It is said the elf queen planted it.”

“My mother,” Kieri said. He had a moment’s clear memory: the smell of roses and the sound of her laugh.

After dinner that evening, Kieri asked Dorrin and Paks to look at the maps with him.

“What do you see?” he asked.

Dorrin ran her finger around the line of the border. “Where are the defenses? I see no indication of fortresses.”

“Rangers,” Paks said. “I served with them, as you know. They’re effective on the Tsaian side, at least.”

“Effective against brigands and poachers,” Kieri said. “Paks, you’ve seen them—how would they do against a few cohorts of infantry—mine or Halveric’s?”

“In pitched battle—their longbows have more range than you’d think. But they don’t fight in formation at all, as far as I know. On open ground, the cohorts would win, but rangers would hide in the forest and it would be hard to keep a camp safe from them.”

“And if an attacker cut down or burned the forest? How many are there, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Paks said. “They work in small groups—even singly sometimes—moving every few days.”

“Someone will know,” Dorrin said. “Cutting down the forest—that would be a task. I wouldn’t want to try it, not unless I had more than two or three cohorts. Would the elves intervene, do you think?”

“I’m not sure,” Kieri said. “I saw what you saw—the kingdom’s practically unguarded—there may be elven magery I don’t know about, but as it is … with Verrakai and Konhalt on the west, and Pargun and Kostandan on the north, it’s not safe. The palace walls are for privacy, not defense. The Council, though, acts as if having even one cohort of real soldiers here means I want war. And you, Paks, told me the elves feared me because I had been a soldier and might bring war upon them.” He stared at the map. “I swear to you, to the gods themselves, though I have fought in one war after another, I do not want it. And yet the first duty of a king is to protect his realm. And this—” He laid his heart-hand on the map, thumb on the Tsaian border, small finger on Prealíth. “This is not safe. Not yet. But I will make it so.”

Paks cocked her head. “Sir King, I understand you, but consider—these are as sheep who do not yet know you as their shepherd. If you push them too fast toward the sheepfold, they may break and run in panic, as sheep do. Go gently with them.”

He glanced at Dorrin, who nodded. “With respect, I would say the same. You have commanded veteran soldiers before, used to both danger and taking orders; these are not, and will flinch away from roughness.”

“I hear you,” Kieri said. “And yet I worry.”

That night, only his second in Chaya, Garris—oldest of the King’s Squires—and Lieth stood beside his door when he came to his chambers.

“So you pulled night guard, Garris? Don’t they respect your gray hairs?”

Garris grinned. “They think you’re safe enough at night, Kier—Sir King. And Lieth’s young; she stays awake half the night anyway, if I should doze off. What time will you wake? I hear you surprised them this morning … I slept until almost noon.”

“Cock-crow,” Kieri said. “And you slept late back at Aliam’s; don’t blame that on age.”

Garris laughed. “So I did, and many’s the morning you tumbled me out of my bunk in the squires’ room and then shoved my head under a pump. I hope you won’t do that now you’re king.”

Kieri clapped him on the shoulder and Garris opened the door for him. In his chamber, he found the bed already turned back, with the handle of a warming pan sticking out. He pulled it from between the sheets and shook the coals into the fireplace. Sleep came slowly; his mind raced with questions and ideas.

He woke in the dark again, but this time he knew exactly how to find the fire and light his own candles. He felt stiff; he needed the exercise that had always started his day. Surely they had a salle somewhere … or, if not, he could practice in the forecourt. He pulled on trousers he’d left on a chair, and fumbled at the paneling to find the touchlock that would open to reveal his clothes.

The chamber door opened and Garris looked in. “Aha! I thought I heard you stirring. What can I do for you?”

“I need a shirt,” Kieri said. “Something I can get dirty, not one of these elegant kingly ones.”

Garris touched a panel and it slid aside. “It’s that ivy leaf,” he said, pointing it out. “And what are you planning to do, dig in the garden?”

“Loosen my muscles,” Kieri said. “Is there a salle?”

Garris grinned. “Is there a salle? You’ve never seen anything like it, Kier—Sir King.”

“Quit that,” Kieri said, pulling on one of his old shirts. “I know you have to be formal some of the time, but I told you in Vérella—call me Kieri, at least when we’re alone—and where is Lieth, by the way?” He unrolled a pair of socks and put them on, then pulled on his boots.

“I sent her to the kitchen to fetch sib.”

“So—where is this miraculous salle?”

“Kieri—can’t you wait until the sib comes?”

“I could—but I’d rather not.” He went to the bed and lifted down the great sword. As always, the jewel flashed as he touched it.

“Well, then. I’ll take you.”

As they came into the passage, they met Lieth, carrying a tray with a steaming pot and several mugs. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the salle,” Garris said. “Our king is not only awake, he’s ready to poke holes in us.”

“Sir King—?”

“Lieth, it is my habit: swords before breakfast. I would like to do that here, as well. I understand this is a change for you—”

“It is no matter, Sir King,” Lieth said. “Do you want sib before, or should I bring it—?”

“Let’s each have a mug,” Kieri said.

She set the tray on a table in the passage and poured; Kieri noticed she took only a half cup, but Garris drank a full one. Then they walked together down the passage, down stairs to the main level, back the length of the main passage there, right into a narrower passage that turned sharply twice, to an outside door that opened onto a small paved court. Facing them was another wall, with a taller door; Garris opened it wide and gestured Kieri in.

He sensed a large empty space—dark at first, but slowly brightening, the pale pearly glow he associated with elf-light. Nearest the door, a smooth wooden floor covered perhaps a quarter of the length. Beyond was stone—uneven, like an old paved street—and beyond that more stone, even rougher.

“Have you ever seen one like this?” Garris asked.

“No, but it’s what I always wanted,” Kieri said. “A salle for serious fighters.” He looked around. To the heart-hand side of the door stood a weapons-rack, beautifully carved.

“The King’s Stand,” Garris said. “You’re the only one can use that.”

“Practice blades?” Kieri asked, hanging his sword on the stand.

“Here,” Lieth said, opening a chest full of wooden blades. “And bandas.” Kieri put on a banda and took one of the wooden blades.

“So—shall we go a round?” Kieri asked Garris.

“Lieth will stand guard,” Garris said. “One of us always does, when the king practices.” She took up a position in the doorway, sword drawn, while Garris took one of the wooden swords and faced Kieri.

They had scarcely exchanged five blows of a standard training sequence when a clatter of boots and an angry voice brought them to a hold.

“Who do you think you are, coming to the salle without an armsmaster present! It’s not your time to spar, Squires! You’ll wake the king with this racket!”

“No,” Kieri said, coming to the door. “They will not wake the king, for the king was already awake.” He smiled down at the wiry little man who now gaped up at him.

“Sir … King.”

“Yes,” Kieri said. “And you must be an armsmaster.”

“Carlion, my lord king. Senior armsmaster of the Royal Salle. I wasn’t—I didn’t expect—it’s just, Sir King, the young ones come sometimes when they shouldn’t, and there’s been accidents—”

“I’m not angry,” Kieri said. “And I should, in courtesy, have spoken to you first. But I am used to training early in the morning—before affairs of the day take over. I would like to continue that training, under your guidance.”

“My guidance—” Carlion looked sharply at Kieri. “Sir King, you have been a soldier; you are not ignorant of arms, but I do not know what guidance you think I can give.”

“Let us see,” Kieri said. “How would you test anyone who first came into your salle?”

Carlion cocked his head. “Is that waster near the weight you’re used to?”

“Close enough,” Kieri said.

“Then you and Garris spar. Garris’s skills I know. Garris, do you attack, and let the king respond.”

Garris attacked; Kieri fended him off easily, making only parries to see what Carlion would say.

“Sir King, you are slacking and that is a bad habit. Make your attacks as you would—”

Kieri did, and quickly penetrated Garris’s guard, once, twice, three times.

“Hold,” Carlion said. “I see I must test you myself; you are beyond Garris.”

“He always was,” Garris said. “We were squires together at Aliam Halveric’s.”

“Ah,” Carlion said. “And he has fought often, and you have not.”

Carlion, Kieri found, was no easy opponent. Wiry and fast, his shorter stature made low attacks easy for him, but he had the ability to strike high as well. Kieri was soon drenched in sweat, despite the morning chill, as was Carlion. They paused for breath again, and Carlion nodded. “You, Sir King, are ready—and more, I would think—to practice in the middle range. I warn you, some stones there will tip. At the far end, in the roughs—well, come see, while you catch your breath.”

Great blocks of stone, loose rocks here and there—Kieri wanted to try it then and there, but enough light showed in the windows to make it clear he must get to breakfast and the meeting he had called.

“Thank you, Armsmaster,” he said. “I will come again.”

“Come every morning, if you like,” Carlion said. “I rise early myself.”

Back in his own chambers, Kieri found his bath waiting, and went down to breakfast with his mind full of what he needed to accomplish that day: the mourning ceremony for the old king—and he had to find out the man’s name!—making sure Galvary had an estimate for Halveric, so Halveric could begin planning the coronation, finding out who could help him with Lyonyan laws and customs—and at some point he would have to broach the topic he knew they would not want: that of security, the need for a defensive force. Could he wait until his coronation? Would the Pargunese, or the Verrakai?

The Council meeting that morning raised new concerns. His nobles were not stupid or lazy, but under a weak king they had lacked effective guidance, and wasted their energy competing among themselves for power and influence. They had no long-range plan; they expected matters to go on as they had, without requiring any intervention from them.

Only a glass later, they fell to quarreling over something that happened before he arrived, when someone’s cattle had encroached on someone else’s pastureland and heifers had been tupped by the wrong bull.

“Siers!” he said. The room fell silent. “Your quarrel is ill-timed; that happened years ago, and we have immediate matters. I will hear no more of that quarrel, is that clear?”

Three of them reddened, but bowed from their seats, and the murmur of “Yes, Sir King” included their voices.

“Good. We have immediate concerns: first is the mourning ceremony. How soon can it be arranged, Sier Belvarin?”

“Five days, Sir King. All is in readiness except the ritual boughs; they should arrive day after tomorrow, and then a day to trim them.”

“Then on that day, I will ask Council members to attend me, and the day before I will need advice on the ceremony itself, never having seen one.”

“I am at your service,” Sier Belvarin said. “That should take no more than two turns of the glass.”

“Sier Galvary?” Kieri said. “The budget for the coronation?”

“I handed the total in to Sier Halveric this morning,” Sier Galvary said.

“And I have begun,” Sier Halveric said. “Beginning with the invitations to distant personages.”

“What foreign guests should we expect?” Kieri asked.

“At the coronation of your predecessor Prealíth sent a representative; they should certainly be invited. The court of Tsaia sent a member of the royal family; they too should be invited. Kostandan sent a gift by their ambassador; I would expect the same. Pargun sent a member of the royal family; it … did not turn out well.”

“Oh?” Kieri raised his brows.

“His speech at the feast … was belligerent. He pointed out how many troops Pargun maintained, and claimed it was only by his father’s forbearance that we were suffered to exist a separate realm and that might not last. To put it plainly, he got drunk and made a fool of himself, and the Pargunese ambassador chose to believe it was our fault. Led the poor lad astray, he said, or poisoned him with elvish wine.” Halveric grimaced. “It was perfectly good brandy from Aarenis, not elvish.”

“That sounds right for the Pargunese,” Kieri said. “But after they attacked me on the way here, I’d sooner invite a pack of wolves. Surely they won’t expect an invitation.”

“Who knows how they think?” Halveric said. “But no, we need not. I will have more details for you, Sir King, after the mourning service—if you do not object.”

“No,” Kieri said. “But I do have an assignment that will not take long, and will set us on the way of thinking into the future, the unknown, as elves do—though not quite that far.” He allowed himself a chuckle; the two elves said nothing but looked pained. “Let us consider it in manageable numbers. A hand of years hence … then two hands, then four, then ten. As a start, you will each write three things you want to see accomplished for the realm within a hand of years. Only three—there will be more.”

His own list, already prepared, lay before him. In a few minutes they had completed their task. “Now read them,” Kieri said. One by one, they read their lists. All but one started with “The king marries and begets an heir” and none contained what was at the head of his own list, “Peace.” When they had finished, he read his own list, continuing to ten hands of years. They looked stunned.

“Sier Halveric, you are the only one who did not list my marriage and getting an heir at the top of your list. Why?”

“You promised to marry and give us an heir, Sir King. I trust you.” Halveric sounded smug.

“I can understand,” Kieri said, looking at the others, “after what you have been through, your intense interest in this. Indeed, providing you with an heir is my duty, and it is important to the realm. Yet remember, when the king left you no heir, the gods provided. I don’t intend to trouble them again, but you should not fear unduly. Your goals are worthy; what matters to you matters to me. But what matters to me must also matter to you … and assuring peace is more important even than assuring an heir.”

“We are peaceful,” Sier Belvarin said, looking puzzled. “I am glad you want to remain so, but—”

“It is the peace of a lamb who does not see the wolf crouched at the forest edge,” Kieri said. Belvarin stiffened. “It is not the peace I want for this land, and it is not the peace you should want.”

“Peace is peace,” Sier Carvarsin said, glowering. “We have not had a war here for generations; we are no threat to our neighbors, so they have no reason to attack us.”

“And no reason not to,” Kieri said. Now all of them looked shocked. “Think you: If the Pargunese will come to Tsaia to attack me, as they did on my way here, why will they not attack here?”

“They never have,” Sier Belvarin said. One of the elves stirred.

“Amrothlin?” Kieri said to him. “Is that your memory?”

“Long ago in human time,” the elf said, “when first the Seafolk came up the river in their pointed ships, they would have settled on this side. We did not permit it, for we had seen how they dealt with the trees, as if trees existed only to make more ships. They were easily frightened, and kept to the north side of the river after that.”

“How did you frighten them?” Kieri asked.

The other elf looked down his nose for a moment. “The taig, Sir King, has many powers of which you are as yet unaware, but as I am to be your tutor in such things—” Kieri stared; he had not expected that. “—I will show you when it is time. That is many lessons hence.”

“Does that mean elves will defend the land against the Pargunese, if they attack?” Kieri asked.

“We defend the Ladysforest,” Amrothlin said. “Since the Compact, that is all we are bound to do. It is up to the king to protect the people. Though, as you know, we may choose to aid the king.”

“Let us hope the Pargunese do not know that,” Kieri said.