The Legacy of Gird (83 page)

Darkness retreated slowly, grudgingly, from his light; he could feel, in his hands, the slow withdrawal of something dire from the youth's body. He had no name for it, and it didn't matter. The light either worked, or it didn't; when it worked, it healed old wounds as well as new ones, fevers as well as wounds. If he could hold his focus until all the damage had been repaired, the youth would wake whole and free from pain, healthy as if he had never been sick.

But that was the limit: his own strength, his own concentration. He could feel the sweat trickling down his face; he knew his sight narrowed to a single core of light, and he dared no attention to interpret what his eyes could see. Only with the vision of power, which perceived each strand of disease or injury, which knew when the light had worn or driven it away, dared he perceive. Hearing had gone, and most of eyes' sight, and even the sense of where he was, when the last dark shadow fled. At once, his power snapped back into him, and with it, all his strength. He fell, knowing he was falling, trusting Seri to be there, to catch him, as she had been from the first time he'd used this power.

Hearing returned while he was still crumpled untidily on the floor. Seri's voice, sharp, and a deeper rumble somewhere overhead.

"—because
I
told him to, sir! He would not break your law, but—"

"Will you just stand back, child, and let me see the lad. I'm not going to hurt him. He's fallen."

"He always does," said Seri, somewhat more calmly.

Another voice—the man they had first met. "You mean he's done this
before?
Healing?"

"Yes, of course. He's always done it, until the new Code came out, and the Marshal said he couldn't. That's why we came."

Aris managed to open his eyes. His vision had not cleared: would not, for some little time. But he could see Seri, standing stiffly, ready to fight if she had to, and the man whose office this was, and a great lump of a man who must be the Marshal-General. Aris swallowed, with difficulty, and smiled. "Please don't worry," he said to the Marshal-General. "I'm all right."

The man grunted, and came nearer; Seri moved out of his way, scowling. "You're the color of cheese-whey, lad, and your eyes no more focus on me than a newborn's. If this is 'all right,' I would hate to see you sick or wounded."

"Is
he
all right?" Aris asked. The Marshal-General, so close, looked even bigger, heavier, almost as if a great oak had chosen to move and lean over him. He glanced down, half-expecting roots instead of worn boots.

The other man answered, in a lighter, clipped voice that carried some emotion Aris could not read. "He's got the color you had before; he's sleeping peacefully and breathing normally, and I could swear he's gained a half-stone. . . . I suppose we'll know when he wakes."

The Marshal-General's hand, hard and warm, cupped Aris's chin. He felt no fear; here was nothing uncanny, but strength and gentleness allied. Less frightening than his father's steward had been, less frightening than his father, for that matter.

"Lad—from what your friend says, you knew you broke the Code, to use such magic."

"Yes, sir." He didn't try to explain.

"Your friend says you did it because she told you to—was it then her fault you broke the Code?"

He could feel himself turning red, hot to the ears. "No, sir, of course not!" He quoted carefully: " 'Let each yeoman take heed for his own deed, for if one counsels wrongly, yet the ears which listen and the hands which act belong to the doer.' "

"Mmm. You have learned to recite, but yet you do not obey. What then should the judicar say, in such a case?"

Behind the Marshal-General, Seri opened her mouth; Aris shook his head at her. "It is my deed, and my fault, sir. I know that. But . . . but the boy was so sick, and if I waited he might not live. That's why we came, to ask you to amend the Code to allow healing. The judicar should say I was wrong, and punish me—but you, sir, can amend the Code."

"To save you punishment?" The Marshal-General's face gave nothing away to his still blurred vision. Aris shook his head. "No, sir. Even if you amend the Code, I broke your rule before you changed it. But others who heal won't have to be punished later."

"Alyanya's flowers!" Strong arms gathered him into a rough embrace. "D'you really think I'd punish a boy who healed another, who gave his power until he looked near death? If you need punishment, the way your power wounds you is punishment enough. I had thought the healing magery all destroyed, and all rumors of it lies, with the sick charmed perhaps into thinking themselves well. But I saw this myself, saw you heal—"

"It's not really me, sir; it's the power," said Aris. He was too old to let himself be comforted like this, but he wished he weren't. He had never had that much of it. "It's the light—"

"I don't doubt it's some god's power," said the Marshal-General. "But you're the one they gave it to, and you're the one must decide how to use it. Now: the two of you will come with me, and have more to eat than you've had lately, by the look of you."

Aris found himself standing, but with the Marshal-General's arm half-supporting him. His vision reddened, then cleared; he looked at the youth on the bed, who had slept through all this undisturbed.
He's tired
, Aris thought. Seri gave him one of her looks; he was not sure what it meant, but he would find out. She always told him. The other man, the Marshal-General's luap, had another look, or series of them, that flickered across his face like cloudshadow over a meadow. In the aftermath of using his power, when he felt unusually sensitive, he felt the man's own magery as something cold and hard, and wondered that he could have missed it before.

"Food," said the Marshal-General, and urged him forward. Then, to his luap, "I'll take care of these two for now, but find them a place to sleep. Wherever they've come from, they aren't going back today."

Out in the passage, with its scuffed patterned wood, and along it to the right. The Marshal-General said, as they passed a door, "That's my room, if you need me later, but I think you should eat and rest now. The kitchen's down this stair." Aris stumbled in the change from lighter passage to darker stair, and the Marshal-General's arm steadied him. Seri padded behind, silent for once.

The kitchen, warm, smelling of rising bread dough, some kind of stew, lit by both fire and windows open to an enclosed courtyard, promised safety and comfort. Aris sank down on a bench beneath a window and let himself relax. Seri sat beside him; the Marshal-General murmured to someone working at a long table, and fetched a cut loaf of bread. The other person vanished into a dark door, then reappeared with a jug and brought over jug and several mugs. A tall woman, that was, wearing an apron over trousers and tunic. "Milk," said the Marshal-General, pouring it into the mugs. He handed one to each of them, and then lifted his own. Aris sipped, cautiously. Sometimes his belly objected to milk or meat after a healing; this time it lay quiescent. The milk slid down, cool and sweet. The Marshal-General sliced the loaf, and offered it. Seri fished a dirty lump of salt from her pocket and offered that on an open palm. The Marshal-General pinched off a bit without speaking, sprinkled it on the bread, and waited until she took a slice to bite into his own. Aris swallowed the last of his milk, and filled his mouth with bread and salt.

They had eaten bread and stew, and drunk more milk than Aris had had in several years, before Gird let them talk more about it. Aris felt sleepy with all the food; Seri looked ready to leap at some task, her braid already more than half loosened, the tendrils curling around her face, her eyes sparkling. In the kitchenyard, in the shade of an old apple tree, the Marshal-General looked like an old farmer, not a judicar—and certainly not like what he was. But food had not dulled his wits, Aris found.

"—and your father was a mageborn noble?" he asked. "Did he have the power of healing?"

"No, sir." Aris numbered his father's magery, what he knew of it, on his fingers: light, fire, sending arrows where he would. "He died when I was very young—" In the Marshal-General's war against the magelords, though it would be rude to say so. "—but no one ever said he could heal. Nor my mother either." Seri made a small noise; Aris hoped that would be enough for her. She had never liked his mother.

"And both are dead now?"

"No, sir." He said no more, even when Gird's eyebrows rose in a clear demand for more information. Seri took over.

"She went off with another 'un, sir, after the old lord was killed. He didn't want Aris, her new man didn't."

Gird looked at Aris; Aris said nothing. Whatever Seri thought, his mother was his mother, and he would not speak ill of her. Gird turned to Seri. "So, then—how long ago was this, and how long have you known him?"

Seri grinned, glad to take over "I've known him always; we grew up in the household together. Aris was youngest, and they were always busy—"

"And I was small for my age," Aris added. "Easy to misplace in a crowd."

"
And
you had none of your father's magery," said Seri. "He didn't know what you did have." She turned back to Gird. "My mother's sister was Aris's nurse; 'twas not her fault he grew no larger. But she was blamed for it, and then his mother wouldn't have him by because he fretted so about sickness. They thought he was afraid of it."

"I am," Aris said. "I didn't know what to do, then."

"And now you do?" asked Gird.

"Not . . . completely. There's too much—Seri's people have ways of healing with herbs I don't know, and she's told me of hearth-witches who can draw pain and lay it on stone or iron. But I know some of what I can do with magery." He yawned, fighting the sleep that tried to overwhelm him. He felt he'd been running for hours, or heaving stones. Why was healing, that required only concentration, such hard work?

"He needs to sleep," he heard Seri say. A chuckle shook the shoulder he leaned against.

"I can see that for myself, child. Let the lad rest, then, and you tell me your tale. You're not mageborn-bred, are you?"

A snort from, Seri. "No, sir. Not a drop of magic in me, just peasant common sense."
You have magery, Seri, but it's not my kind
, Aris thought, then drifted into sleep.

He woke on a pallet on the floor, a clean soft pallet. The room was almost dark; the window above him glowed deep blue: late evening. He heard no one near, and stretched at leisure, his spine crackling. He loved to think of the little spine-bones clicking against each other in some language he didn't know. Cats stretched, but he never heard their spines crack. He blinked at the window; one star had pricked dusk's curtain. As he watched, another, and two more. He felt safe, and happy, and thought of going back to sleep. He would wake early, if he did, but no matter. Then he heard voices in the distance, coming nearer. Seri and the Marshal-General, still talking. He grinned in the dark. Seri could talk all night and half the day; now that she'd decided she liked the Marshal-General, he'd have a time getting rid of her. She had missed her grandfather after he died.

"He should be awake," Seri was saying. "And if he goes back to sleep now, he'll wake with a headache before dawn. He always does."

The Marshal-General's voice carried a hint of humor. "So what should we do, lass, to keep the lad healthy?"

"Feed him. He won't think he's hungry, but he needs it."

The light they carried warmed the passage outside, began to gleam on the edges of the furniture. Aris grabbed his wandering mind by its scruff. This was not the time to fall into a trance and let the light play in his mind. So far the Marshal-General had been understanding, but he mustn't push his luck too far. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, as they came in. With the candlelight, the window looked darker, more true night.

"Aris—" An edge to Seri's voice, a warning. Did she think he'd let himself be caught by light-trance in front of the Marshal-General?

"I'm awake," he said, yawning hugely. "Just woke." He looked for the Marshal-General; in candlelight, his broad lined face looked entirely different. "I'm sorry, sir, I fell asleep and keep yawning."

"Seri explained." A long pause during which Aris wondered if Seri had explained too much, then, "Come, lad—there's soup and bread left for you."

He stood without assistance, and didn't argue about the meal; Seri was right, as usual. By the time he'd eaten two bowls of soup, and three slices of bread, he felt solid to himself, firm on his feet. The Marshal-General, he saw, recognized the difference.

"So, lad—are you able to tell me your side of it, or would a night's rest improve your tale?"

"I'm fine now, sir." He felt Seri stir, beside him, but she said nothing.

"Good. You'll need the jacks, I expect, and then come up to my office; Seri can guide you." The Marshal-General pushed himself up and left the kitchen. Seri gathered the bowls and the end of bread.

"I'll help," said Aris, but she shook her head.

"You go clear your mind, Ari. The jacks are across the court, through the gate: there's torches. And the washstand's by the well. I'll do this." When he came back in, all traces of his late supper had vanished; the kitchen looked vast and bare in the candlelight, warmth radiating from the banked fire on the hearth. The cooks had put beans to soak; the faint earthy smell made him think of cellars and small-gardens. Seri took his hand, one quick clasp, then led him back upstairs. He thought he could find Gird's office on his own, but he was glad of her company.

She left him in the passage outside the lighted room, with a single hug. Inside the room, the Marshal-General sat with another man, the luap, and when Aris tapped at the doorpost, they both looked up to stare at him. "Come on in, lad," said the Marshal-General. "Come and tell me your story, and Luap here will write it down."

Aris felt a mild reluctance to talk in front of the luap—Luap, he must be called—but with the Marshal-General's eye on him, he could not argue. He took the stool the Marshal-General pointed out, and wondered where to start. What had Seri already said? He didn't want to bore them. Luap, he noticed, had what looked like an old, rewritten scroll on the board in his lap. Luap smiled at him.