Elizabeth Moon: Liar's Oath

“We must find out if those in the narrow canyons are safe, and warn everyone,” she said. “Belthis, you go—tell Tam what we’ve found, and rouse the stronghold. Then check the first of the side canyons. Those two oldest lads of Seriath’s were planning to live there this summer; they’d started a rock shelter last year. Get them out of there, if they’re alive, then make sure the next side-canyon’s safe.”

“Should those people leave?” asked Belthis.

“No. Remember—the west wall of that’s the east wall of the canyon outside the stronghold, and there’s the tunnel.” The next side-canyon east had seemed a good place to expand the settlement’s living quarters, but it had proven inconvenient to have to go around the spine of rock between them. The Rosemage wondered just how far along that tunnel had come . . . she had not kept up with such things lately. But if they lost the upper canyon, if an enemy attacked, that tunnel could be dangerous.

They must not lose the upper canyon—they could not, if they only knew what they faced. And she must find that out, before worse came upon them. “Go on,” she said to Belthis. “Have Tam talk to Seri, as well as Luap, about defenses. Messengers must go today to the lower canyon, to the western valleys.”

He gulped. “And what shall I say about you, lady?”

“That I am trying to find out what manner of enemy we face.” She followed him out from under the ledge, into the cleaner air that still smelled of smoke, and wished she need not stay.

Aris had chosen his room, and had his healers at work making it orderly and handy, when Seri came to find him. She was wearing the mail she had ordered from the Khartazh, and it jingled slightly as she moved. The expression on her face combined decent concern with pure glee.

“I had the word out before he said anything.” Her eyes sparkled; though she was trying to stay solemn, she looked very much the mischievous child she had been.

“How many?”

“Not as many as I’d like.” She scowled a moment, thinking, then went on. “We’ve lots more who could fight—who may have to fight—but of the ones trained solidly, either Girdish or magery, we’ve fewer than twenty hands—a bare cohort.” She didn’t say why; she didn’t have to. Luap had decided, when the Khartazh proved true to its treaties, that they did not need a large armed force. Training took time from more important things. “Of course I don’t suppose there’s ever been a commander who didn’t want more soldiers,” she added. Then, looking at him closely, “And how are you?”

Aris shrugged. What bothered him most was Seri going out to fight; they both knew that, and there wasn’t any use saying it. “I’m following our plan.” The one he and Seri had worked out together, in case Luap’s assumptions about the safety of the region were wrong. The Rosemage might be Luap’s ranking military commander, on the strength of her background, but Seri had trained the young men and women, mapped each canyon, and planned the details of defense. She had also, in the early years, led more than one expedition against the brigands.

“Good. If nothing interferes with her, she should have a messenger back here by midafternoon, at least. Then we’ll know something—” She paced the small room, her hair springing free with every stride. “I’ve got the old guardposts all manned, messengers on the way west—”

“To the Khartazh?” Aris asked. That had been a decision point in their plan, one they had argued over, taking opposite sides in alternation. Seri shook her head.

“Not just yet. I want to hear the Rosemage’s report.” Then she flushed, aware what that sounded like. “I mean—”

“I know what you meant.” Aris grinned. “You are , you know. You might as well admit it.”

“Luap hasn’t said anything,” she muttered, still red.

He could think of several reasons for that, none of them good. He felt once more the emptiness, the coldness, he had felt when he realized that Luap was using magery to extend his own life. Images raced through his mind, all ugly: an empty skull, rolled along the stone by a high wind; a headless man staggering, falling, dying. If Luap had lost—whatever made him a leader, whatever made him care—then they were all lost. And what kind of leader would choose to live long, and watch his people age and die?

Not Seri. He had another clear vision of her, from one of the early raids against brigands, leading the way up a narrow ledge. She might have stayed back, knowing her value to them as a trainer, or even commander, but she always led—she never pushed. She would have been, he knew, a better leader than Luap; in her own land, in distant Fintha, she would have made a good Marshal, and probably come close to Marshal-General, for everyone liked and trusted her. But here, Luap’s refusals constrained her, like a plant grown in too small a pot.

Luap, when he came down, looked both calm and elegant. “The Rosemage can easily handle any little raiding party of brigands,” he said. Aris looked at him, thinking what one of the cooks said aloud.

“And if it’s not just a little raiding party?”

Luap smiled, “Then we can gather everyone in here, and defend it; once those doors are closed, no brigands can open them.”

“But the crops—” someone said.

“We can replant; we can trade to Khartazh if we need to. We have reserves of both food and money. And if it’s some invading force, horse nomads gone crazy or something, we can call on the Khartazh for aid.” That smile again, confident and calm. “As you know, we have close trading ties there; the king has promised to be our brother.”

Seri poked Aris in the back. When he didn’t move, she poked him harder, then hissed in his ear. “Ask him to—” But Luap was already talking again.

“I know there are some of you who would like to see me call out our guard. Seri, I know you’ve been training them for years—” Aris dropped his hand and grabbed Seri’s wrist even before she moved. He knew how that tone would affect her. “—But we don’t yet know what we face,” Luap said, reasonably. “Better to give an early warning and let families pack up their goods on the chance they might have to come here.”

As if a heavy iron trapdoor fell on stone with a great clang, Aris felt something shift in his head: something final. From the expression on Luap’s face, he had felt something too, and all the mageborn crowding around had the same startled, wide-eyed look.

“What was that—?” began someone. Aris felt an icy certainty, and again saw it mirrored in the other faces. He knew what it was; he knew . . . and by the time they had reached the great hall, others knew it too.

There, each beneath the appropriate arch, stood two figures that Aris knew at once were rulers of their folk. More than their rich clothing, or their crowns, their bearing proclaimed their sovereignty. The elven king carried a naked sword in his hands; the blade glowed blue as flame. The dwarf king bore an axe with the same light. Both looked grim and angry. Between them, but not in Gird’s arch, stood a gnome all in gray, holding what seemed to be a book bound in slate and leather.

Luap went forward to meet them, as an aisle opened through his own people. Aris followed close behind him.

“Selamis Garamis’s son, you have broken your word with us; you have loosed that which we bound long ago, in spite of our warnings.”

Aris felt a cold wave wash him from head to foot. He had not known Luap had made a contract with elves and dwarves—what contract? The elven king continued.

“We revoke our permission; we lay a ban upon you. The patterns of power you enjoyed will no longer suffer your use. You must scour the evil from this land, or be forever mired in this hall.”