Crown of Renewal(21)

Ten pairs of eyes stared at him. He wondered if he would ever learn to interpret that gaze. Finally Dattur said, “There are stones of Law?”

“There should be. Your prince does not know if such stones were set.”

“If no human dwellings are built there … or if stones not set … is that stone-right?”

“Your prince must learn the truth: what is there, what is not there: stones, walls, buildings. Do you have witnesses to that?”

“No, Lord Prince.”

“Then your prince must find out. I am certain no steading was granted within this line …” Arcolin ran his finger along the map. “Until I know truth, let this be the west margin of the stone-right, but if you find an intruder has built a home, do not attack but tell me—or if I am gone, my recruit captain. Since I must fulfill a contract far from here, as you know, I will not have time to see for myself where the stones are. I will tell the king when I go through Vérella, and I will send messages to the barons as well. Now on the north, here is the line that must not be crossed.”

The gnomes nodded. Then one said, “Lord Prince, if wanderers come into the stone-right, what is your command?”

“Bring them to Duke’s Court for judgment. Have any of my people violated your boundary lines?”

“No, Lord Prince. But humans do, and those who do not expect a gnome stone-right here—”

“I will think on this,” Arcolin said. “I will talk with the barons.”

Finally he was done—all but his estvin and his hesktak had returned to other duties. He took off the robe, which would be kept for him to wear whenever he visited, and put on the tunic and cloak of a human instead. It felt a little strange. He bowed to the estvin and to Dattur. “I will return several times before I leave for the south in the spring. You may come to me any time you have need, as well. Law is Law.”

“Law is Law,” they both said.

All the way back to the stronghold he wondered how Gird had endured all that time—seasons long, the tales said—underground, without sunlight. Surely he hadn’t eaten misiljit. The gnomes would have brought him human food—bread and cheese maybe. Probably not ale.

They had changed Gird, made him capable of fighting a real army, capable of inventing a legal code unlike any seen in human lands before. And they were changing him, Arcolin realized.

He had wondered if a bastard from Horngard could possibly take over Duke Phelan’s company and lands—surely, like the taunts he had heard in his youth, he must fail and bring all to ruin. Now he was a duke in his own right, a mercenary commander respected in the south, a married man with a stepson who called him “Da,” and the prince of a gnome tribe, something no human had ever been before. Once he would have felt overwhelmed by all that responsibility. Now it felt natural—a burden entirely bearable. Failure and ruin lurked around the edges of his world—always had—but he had not failed yet.





Chapter Five

Back at the stronghold, Arcolin dove into preparations for the coming campaign season. He was happy to give permission for Jamis to go on a series of short outings with Dattur as escort.

“It will help him to learn gnomish,” he explained to Calla when she asked. “Dattur is a formidable guard, for that matter. He drilled with the Company in Aarenis, and I saw him knock down men twice his size. Jamis will be safe with Dattur.”

“But that stuff they eat—”

“Jamis won’t eat it—he takes his own food from the recruit mess.”

Jamis set off one morning with Dattur when the ground had frozen hard again after the snowmelt and days of mud.

“To the stone-right?” Arcolin asked as they left.

“No, my prince,” Dattur said. “North along the hills.”

“There were orc lairs up there, too,” Arcolin said. “Do you want an escort?”

“No need,” Dattur said. “I have weapons. Jamis can ride pony. Today for practice, learning to recognize gnome border on different surface.”

Arcolin watched Jamis, well bundled up, ride out the gate, Dattur walking beside him, and went back to his work. Near midday, he was talking to the quartermaster about supplies for the next season’s recruits—what he, Arcolin, would send back north from Vérella on his way south—when he heard the light clatter of the pony’s hooves gallop into the forecourt. He frowned. Jamis knew better than to gallop the pony toward the stables.

A shout brought him to the door of the quartermaster’s office, and an instant later he was running. The pony was alone and scared, sides heaving, curds of sweat on its neck, skittering aside from the groom who tried to catch it. Arcolin felt his heart stutter and then race. Instantly he thought of the day Kieri’s first wife and children had been killed.