Lord of the Changing Winds (42 page)

The Arobern, taken initially by surprise, quite obviously also concluded that this was a course of action Iaor might reasonably pursue. He glanced at the griffins, then back at Iaor. Iaor merely looked blandly courteous, an expression he did extremely well. The griffins were hard to read, but they certainly did not look courteous. Tastairiane Apailika opened his beak and clicked it shut again, producing a small deadly sound. Kairaithin tilted his head, a gesture that expressed, Bertaud thought, perhaps a kind of humor. Kes, tucked against Opailikiita’s legs, looked very small, very young, and not at all human. She, Bertaud was disturbed to see, was smiling.

The Arobern said slowly, “You will do what you will, Safiad king.” He looked faintly nonplussed, as though he had thought he had known how this interview would go and was taken aback to find his predictions overset. Bertaud might have told him that Iaor, when truly angry, was likely to become both quiet and creative. The King of Casmantium went on, slowly, choosing his words with care, “But I will ask you do it to me and not to my people, yes? My mages only did as I bade them, you understand?”

“The People of Fire and Air spent themselves recklessly this day. Shall I not acknowledge their cost?”

Kes stood up. All eyes went to her, though she did not appear to be trying to draw attention. A woman among the Minas Ford folk edged out toward her and then hesitated—her sister, Bertaud realized, though he could see no resemblance between them whatsoever.

Though she left one hand on Opailikiita’s neck, Kes edged forward a step. She did not glance toward her sister, but said to the kings, in a small voice that was nevertheless surprisingly audible, “They don’t want him. Or even Beguchren.”

Iaor, clearly taken aback, lifted his eyebrows. His hands stilled on the arms of his chair as he tensed, waiting to hear what the girl would say so that he could try to fit it into his own plans. The Casmantian king tilted his head quizzically to the side. Even Bertaud was startled. But he felt Kes was right as soon as she had spoken.

“They don’t want vengeance, you know,” Kes said, glancing from one man to the other. “They don’t… they don’t think that way. They kill things, too, you know. They don’t hold it against the King of Casmantium that he was fierce. Ferocity is something they understand. It’s not vengeance they want.”

Iaor gave her a questioning glance, not wanting to ask out loud what they did want and thus admit that he was as surprised as anyone else at what Kes had said.

Kes looked quickly at the griffins. Neither Kairaithin nor Tastairiane Apailika spoke, but only regarded her from fierce eagle’s eyes. They were both sitting very still. They looked massive and powerful and thoroughly ferocious themselves, although neither of them moved. Kes turned her gaze back to the king, and then to the Arobern. “They want Melentser.”

“They want what?” said the Arobern, in a startled tone.

Kes repeated, “They want Melentser.”

Melentser was not merely a town. It was a small city near the edge of Casmantium’s border with the desert.

“Melentser is ours.” The Arobern now sounded rather blank. “My mother’s mother was from there. It has been part of Casmantium for more than a hundred years.”

“Well, before that, it was part of the desert,” said Kes. She stroked her hand through the feathers on Opailikiita’s shoulder, and the slim griffin bent her head around and brushed Kes’s face with her beak. Kes smiled. She said, “The desert will take it again, King of Casmantium. That is what the People of Fire and Air want.”

“I will not agree,
festechanenteir.
My brother will not agree. You set your indemnity too high.”

“King of Casmantium,” said Kes, “the desert here is new and it cost the lives of many griffins to make. But sending the great northern desert to take back Melentser will cost less, because no one will be fighting the desert when it comes. And no one will fight it. You will yield it. Or the Lord of Fire and Air will ask the King of Feierabiand to give all your people to the desert, those here and those in the mountains. And the King of Feierabiand will do it.”

Kes paused, giving the Arobern a careful, assessing look. Then she added, deliberately, “Tastairiane Apailika wants to kill you all. He says he could do it by himself, if I am there to keep him whole. I would do that, if I had to. And then the desert will reach out to Melentser all the same, and your brother will find he is not wise to fight against sand and stone. Because I can defend the People of Fire and Air against anything he can do, and Feierabiand will be here at his flank, and Casmantium will be weak after losing all those men.”

The Arobern regarded her with patent astonishment. He took a breath.

“Or you may simply yield Melentser as a proper indemnity,” Iaor interrupted him easily, his tone perfectly matter-of-fact, just as though he had known all along what the girl was going to say. It sounded very smooth. “Casmantium can afford it.”

The Arobern transferred his attention to Iaor.

“Melentser to the desert, a suitable indemnity to Feierabiand, and we may all go on with our lives,” Iaor said to him. “With, of course, some form of reassurance that you will not think again of fashioning new Casmantian provinces out of my country. I believe you have a son, do you not, Brechen Glansent Arobern? Twelve years old, is he not?”

“You want my son as hostage?” The Arobern hesitated, now clearly off his balance. He ran a hand through his black hair, a frustrated gesture that made him look suddenly younger and much less arrogant. “No. I may yield Melentser. But not my son. What else would you take instead?”

“I am not negotiating.” Iaor leaned forward in his chair. “I am telling you what I require. Melentser to the desert. An appropriate indemnity for the trouble to which you have put Feierabiand. And your son, as a guarantee of your future restraint. All this before I will return you to your kingdom, King of Casmantium.”

The Arobern listened to him carefully. He nodded, not in agreement, Bertaud thought, but only to show he understood the terms demanded. Then he came forward a step and sank down to one knee in front of Iaor. His harsh features were not made for humility, but he was now clearly trying. “But I will ask you not to do this, Safiad. I acknowledge you have won everything. You have won, yes? Casmantium will yield everything. As you have said, yes? I know you have made alliance with the
malacteir
. I know your little
festechanenteir
gives the
malacteir
a strength I cannot challenge. Is that not enough assurance?”

“No,” said Iaor. He sat back in his chair, hands relaxing. His chin tipped up in satisfaction. He had wanted the Arobern to humble himself, to ask for mercy. But now, having forced the other king to submit, he was willing to be kind. He said, “I will hold your son only eight years. Then he may return to Casmantium.”

The Arobern did not rise. Evidently perceiving the satisfaction but not the inclination toward generosity, he said harshly, “You will not take vengeance on my son for your offense at me. I will not put him in the way of Safiad anger in a hostile court.”

Iaor, startled, cast a brief involuntary glance at Bertaud, who lifted an eyebrow, trying to keep his face expressionless. Then the king said violently to the Arobern, “Do you think such things of me, Brechen Glansent Arobern? Your son will serve me as is appropriate for a young lord—he will be well-schooled at my court and treated as befits a prince. I assure you. Then he may return to you.”

Some of the Arobern’s tension eased. He nodded, and hesitated. “The years from twelve to twenty are long years. Yes? You will take a boy and teach him to be a man. At your court. If not to fear you, you will teach him to love you. Will you not? To love Feierabiand. That is what you mean.”

“That is exactly what I mean,” Iaor agreed.

“Yes.” The Arobern bent his head, accepting this assurance because he had no choice. “The Safiad kings are clever. I knew this, but I thought I was more clever. Very well. I will take your word and do as you say.”

“I was lucky,” Iaor admitted. He paused, and Bertaud knew that the other king’s submission had again inclined Iaor to generosity. He said slowly, “If Feierabiand was confident of Casmantium’s intentions, there would be no intrinsic reason why mutually beneficial terms might not be worked out regarding the harbor at Terabiand and the eastern road. I find no compelling reason to reconsider the harbor dues. But we might discuss improvements to the road.”

“Hah.” The Arobern stared at Iaor. “Well.” He got to his feet, managing a smile. “Mutually beneficial. Yes. If Casmantium is not beggared by the indemnity you set, Safiad king, we might well wish to make improvements to the mountain road. Our builders would be pleased by the challenge, I think. Maybe it might be widened. Maybe to twice its present width. It might even be paved, yes? And bridges put in, yes? Then the toll ended to compensate Casmantium for the expense. That would be fair, if Casmantium provides the builders.”

“We will discuss these matters,” said Iaor, and lifted his hand a little. General Adries gestured to the Arobern, and the Arobern bowed, rather more profoundly than he had initially, and suffered himself to be led away.

Iaor sighed, and leaned back in his chair. He glanced at the griffins, who did not now seem very interested. Kairaithin tilted his head, and was gone, with Tastairiane Apailika. Kes, not glancing around, appearing utterly unconcerned about anything creatures of earth might choose to do, put an arm around Opailikiita’s neck and also vanished. She left behind only a breath of stone-scented wind and a scattering of sand. Her sister took a hesitant step toward the empty place where she had been, looking bereft.

Bertaud glanced away, reluctant to intrude on such personal grief. But then he found his eye caught by Iaor. “Well?” asked the king, making a private moment out of the general movement of men all around them scattering about evening duties and business.

Bertaud let his breath out. He shook his head. “What do you mean, well? Are you asking my opinion? I don’t think… I don’t think I would dare offer one.”

“I will stop the toll on the eastern road,” Iaor declared. “And Brechen Glansent Arobern will put an end to Casmantian tariffs on our goods.
And
he’ll pay the harbor dues, and like it.”

“I’ve no doubt you’ll teach the Arobern not to bite,” Bertaud agreed.

The king gave a satisfied little nod. “I doubt I can make a personal friend of the man, but perhaps I can do something with his son. Perhaps I’ll reduce the dues in eight years, as a going-home gift for the boy.”

“Well,” Bertaud conceded, “I admit, that would be a good thing, if you could make an ally of Casmantium for a generation or two. And… I, of all men, don’t underestimate your ability to make boys into your friends, Iaor.”

Their eyes met, and after a moment the king said gently, “This has been hardest on you, perhaps. You seemed to me… You dealt well enough with the desert, this time, did you not, my friend?”

“Yes,” Bertaud agreed without explanation. “I think my… susceptibility to the desert was a temporary problem. It seems to have passed off.”

Satisfied, Iaor clapped him on the shoulder. “And so we have an agreeable end to the day, after all,” he declared. “Earth and stone, I at least am glad for dusk and an end to this particular day, though I suppose we had luck riding our shoulders throughout it.”

Bertaud met his king’s eyes. “You made your own luck, Iaor.”

“The griffins made it for me. Through your good governance, not mine, as I well know.” The king shook his head in wonder. “You will have to tell me someday how you persuaded that terrifying mage of theirs to come in on our side. Well, and yet we have everything we could desire. With the possible exception of being rid of this desert on our doorstep. Though there are compensations, to be sure.” He cast a wry glance over the displaced people of Minas Ford. “Some of the indemnity must go to these folk.”

Then something about the quality of Bertaud’s silence caught at the king’s attention. “And you?”

“My king?”

“I am asking,” Iaor said patiently, “whether you, too, are satisfied, my friend. Or whether there is perhaps something I have missed?”

Bertaud produced a smile that was, unexpectedly, almost genuine. “Iaor. What could I possibly desire, save what you desire?”

Iaor grinned suddenly and clapped Bertaud on the shoulder. “If something occurs to you, you must certainly let me know.”

But what Bertaud wanted, he knew, was nothing Iaor could give him. This was a new thought, for he had always depended on Iaor to give him… everything. But now… the fire in his heart had burned high during the course of that last battle, as the griffins had unmade themselves to defeat the Casmantians. Now, when he longed for its heat, it was all but guttered out to ash. Yet he knew, with an odd, unaccustomed assurance, what he must do. Not to bring the fire back to life, but to… bank it properly.

The camp settled, Feierabiand soldiers and Casmantian prisoners housed alike, with few amenities and far too weary to care. Fires sparked in the twilight, friendly little fires that seemed to have nothing whatsoever in common with the red desert. Some impulse led Bertaud to look for Kes’s sister, but the people of Minas Ford had all gone away somewhere—certainly not back to their lost village. Probably to some outlying farm they knew and strangers to this district did not. Likely they wanted the comfort of familiar walls and of one another’s company, and no blame to them.