The Scepter's Return (55 page)

Lanius shook his head. “No. I won't tell you it didn't cross my mind, because it did. But you have to be able to give the Scepter of Mercy away to deserve to hold it, don't you?”

“I thought so. That's why I handed it to you,” Grus answered. “I hadn't put it quite that neatly, though, even to myself. You think straight.” He suddenly grinned. “And you think crooked, too. If you didn't, the Scepter would still be sitting down in Yozgat.”

“It took both of us,” Lanius said.

Grus nodded. “Ride with me, Your Majesty, and we'll show the Scepter to the people of the city together.”

“I'll do that.” Lanius had wondered whether Grus would try to shove him into the background while celebrating the Scepter's return to Avornis. Now he realized the other king couldn't very well do that. To deserve the Scepter of Mercy, you had to live up to the ideals it stood for. That would take some getting used to, to put it mildly.

Trumpeters blared out fanfares as the two Kings of Avornis rode into the city of Avornis side by side. Grus held up the Scepter of Mercy with his right hand, Lanius with his left. People lined the streets and cheered. “Hurrah for the Scepter!” they shouted, and, “Hurrah for beating the Menteshe!” and, “Hurrah for beating the Banished One!” and, “The gods in the heavens love us!”

Did the gods in the heavens love the Avornans? Or did they just fear the exiled Milvago? Lanius had no idea. If he were to guess, he would have guessed the latter, but he knew he would only have been guessing. Nobody in the material world—except perhaps the Banished One—really understood the gods in the heavens, and the Banished One was not inclined to be objective about them.

Behind Grus and Lanius, Arch-Hallow Anser sang a hymn of thanksgiving. The two kings smiled at each other. No, Anser wasn't particularly pious; anyone who knew him knew that. But his heart was in the right place. Just now, that seemed to count for more.

Lanius wanted to look back over his shoulder to see what Ortalis was doing. Having Ortalis behind him made him nervous. He told himself he was worrying over nothing. He told himself, yes, but he couldn't make himself believe it.

Then he told himself Ortalis wouldn't try anything outrageous with the whole city of Avornis looking on. That felt more reassuring.

Instead of going on to the palace, Grus led the procession to the great cathedral. “We ought to give the gods in the heavens a prayer of gratitude,” he said. “It's the least we can do.” With a wry grin, he added, “And it's probably the most we can do, too.”

“Yes, it probably is,” Lanius agreed. “You're right, though—we ought to do it. If they don't care, well, we can't help that.”

Most people in the Kingdom of Avornis—including Arch-Hallow Anser—knew less about the gods in the heavens than did the two kings. Knowing less, most people took the gods more seriously than Lanius and Grus did. No throb of reproof stung Lanius after that thought crossed his mind, even though he still had a hand on the Scepter of Mercy.

He glanced over to the Scepter. It was beautiful—perhaps even supernaturally beautiful—but its beauty wasn't what caught his eye. There it was, in his hand and Grus', but he could still believe he didn't take King Olor and Queen Quelea and the rest of the gods seriously.

He nodded to himself. Yes, he could believe that. The gods had given mortals one marvelous talisman and then, by all appearances, forgotten about it and forgotten about mankind. It had been up to the two kings to figure out how to reclaim it after it was lost for so long … hadn't it? If the gods had intervened in that, they'd done it far too subtly for anyone to notice.

“The moncat! The moncat! The gods love the moncat!” some people in front of a saddlery shouted as first the two kings and then Pouncer's cage went by.

Olor and Quelea and the rest had reason to love Pouncer, considering what the beast had done. But had they loved it before? Had they made it love going into the kitchens and stealing spoons? Had they given Lanius the idea that an animal which stole spoons might also steal a Scepter? He didn't think so, but how could he prove he was right to doubt it?

He couldn't, and knew as much. Once the notion occurred to him, he also knew he would spend the rest of his life wondering.

People cheered as Prince Ortalis rode through the streets of the city of Avornis. The only trouble was, they weren't cheering him. All the cheers were for his father, whom he hated and feared, and for his brother-in-law, for whom he'd always felt an amused contempt.

He wasn't amused, not anymore.

As for the Scepter of Mercy, what was the point of making such a fuss over a bauble Avornis plainly didn't need? How many years had it been gone? Lanius had told him, but he'd forgotten. Lots, though—he knew that. Had the kingdom fallen apart because it wasn't there? Of course not.

He'd tried explaining to Lanius what was only plain sense. The king hadn't wanted to listen. He'd babbled all sorts of mystical nonsense instead. Ortalis knew it was nonsense, but he hadn't felt like arguing. Life was too short.

He wondered just how he was so sure Lanius was spouting nonsense. It seemed obvious, but why? Maybe it had something to do with the dreams he'd had lately. Lanius had dreams, too, but he didn't seem to enjoy his. Ortalis wondered what was wrong with Lanius, anyhow.

How could anybody not enjoy dreams that showed him as the most powerful man in the kingdom, able to do whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted? They seemed so real, too, as though they were actually happening. And the voice—the Voice—that guided him through them didn't detract from that realism. Oh, no—just the opposite. It made everything seem sharper, more intense.

He could almost hear the Voice now, even though he was awake. He knew exactly what it would be telling him. There were his father and Lanius, riding out in front of him. They were both hanging on to the Scepter of Mercy.
They
thought it was important, even if he didn't. Since they did, shouldn't they have let him share it with them?

The question answered itself, at least in his mind. Of course they should have. But would they? No. They weren't even letting him get anywhere near it. Was that fair? Was that just? Not likely!

“Moncat! Moncat! Hurrah for the moncat!” people shouted. Ortalis didn't think that was fair, either. A stupid animal got the applause, but what did
he
get? Nothing.

His father probably thought he would be happy riding along here. Hadn't his father kept him from doing anything when it came to running the kingdom? Hadn't his father even tried to keep him from getting married? That was the truth, all right—no use trying to pretend anything different.

And hadn't his father sucked up to Lanius for all he was worth? That was the truth, too—the truth from Ortalis' eyes, anyhow. His father treated Lanius more like a son than he did his own legitimate offspring.

I've got a son of my own now,
Ortalis thought.
Anybody who thinks he won't wear the crown
—
wear it after me, by the gods!
—
had better think again.

The blue jewel that crowned the Scepter of Mercy sparkled in the sun. It drew all eyes to it, including Ortalis'.
I don't care if it's important or not,
he said to himself.
If they think it is, they should give me a share of it. They should, but they won't, because they want to keep it all to themselves.

Was that really his own voice inside his head, or was it
the
Voice? He wasn't sure one way or the other. It didn't really matter. His voice and
the
Voice were saying the same thing.

After what felt like forever and a stop at the cathedral for what seemed no good reason, the procession finally got back to the palace. Ortalis slid down off his horse with a sigh of relief. He was glad to let a groom lead the animal away.

People went right on making much of his father and Lanius. Nobody paid any attention to him. He might as well not have existed. His father probably would have been happier if he didn't.

Well, he still had some friends, anyhow. Times like this showed him who they were. A guard captain named Serinus came up to him and said, “Pretty fancy show—if you like that kind of thing, anyway.”

Ortalis made a face. “Just between you and me, I could live without it.”

“I'll bet you could, Your Highness,” Serinus said sympathetically. “Did they ever give
you
the attention you deserve? Doesn't look that way, not to me. Hardly seems right.”

“Sure doesn't.” Another friend of Ortalis', a lieutenant named Gygis, came up in time to hear Serinus finish.

“Question is, what can we do about it?” Ortalis said. The three of them put their heads together.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

King Grus sat on the Diamond Throne, the Scepter of Mercy in his right hand. When he rested his arm on the arm of the throne, the base of the Scepter fit perfectly into a small depression there. He smiled to himself. He'd noticed that depression before, but he'd never really thought about why the throne had it.

Up the central aisle of the throne room toward him came a big, burly Therving named Grimoald. He had a hard, ruddy face, a thick, graying tawny beard, and graying tawny hair tied back in a braid that was not the least bit effeminate. Coupled with the wolfskin jacket he wore, he looked almost as much like a beast as a man.

The royal guardsmen in front of the throne must have thought the same thing, for they bristled like dogs scenting a wolf. Grimoald, however, affected not to notice that. He bowed low before Grus. In good if gutturally accented Avornan, he said, “Your Majesty, I bring you greetings and congratulations from my master, King Berto of Thervingia.”

“I am always happy to have King Berto's greetings, and I send him my own,” Grus replied. “I am also happy that his kingdom and mine have lived side by side in peace for so long, and I hope they go on living in peace for many years to come.”

He meant every word of that. Berto's father had come much too close to conquering Avornis. King Dagipert had also almost succeeded in marrying Lanius to
his
daughter, which would have left him the dominant influence in the kingdom and his grandson, if he had one, probably King of both Avornis and Thervingia. Berto, however, was peaceable and pious by nature—proof, if proof was needed, that sons often differed greatly from their fathers.

Berto's ambassador bowed again. “You are gracious, Your Majesty. My sovereign sent me here as soon as word reached him that the Scepter of Mercy had come back to the city of Avornis after its, ah, long absence. I see the news was true.” He stared at the Scepter with poorly disguised wonder. His eyes were blue, though not nearly as blue as the gem topping the talisman.

“Yes, it is true,” Grus agreed. “King Lanius and I both did everything we could to bring the Scepter out of Yozgat. Between us, we managed.” He might have bragged of his own accomplishments. He might have, yes, if he hadn't been holding the Scepter of Mercy. It didn't approve of boasting, at least not about matters involving it.

Even his modesty was plenty to impress Grimoald. “His Majesty, King Berto, has a favor to ask of you, if your kindness stretches so far,” the Therving said.

“I would hear it first,” Grus said. He was glad to find the Scepter didn't keep him from being normally cautious.

“Of course,” the envoy said. “My king wonders whether he would be welcome if he made a pilgrimage here to see the Scepter of Mercy with his own eyes.”

“He would be very welcome,” Grus said, not hesitating for even a moment. “Nothing would make me happier than entertaining him here. King Lanius has met him, I believe. I have not had the privilege, though I did meet his father.” They'd tried to kill each other, too, but he didn't mention that.

Grimoald's eyes glinted. He was old enough to remember the days when Thervingia and Avornis fought war after war. Maybe he longed for those days. Grus wouldn't have been surprised if a lot of Thervings did; they had always been a fierce folk, and it would likely take more than the reign of one peaceable king to make them anything else. But they hadn't risen against Berto, not once in all the years since he succeeded Dagipert.

Whatever Grimoald's opinion of days gone by might have been, he made a good, solid diplomat. Bowing to Grus once more, he said, “I shall convey your generous invitation to His Majesty. I am sure he will be eager to make the journey.”

“Good,” Grus said. “And of course there will be gifts for an envoy on such welcome business.”

Grimoald bowed yet again. “You are much too kind, Your Majesty. I expected nothing of the kind.”

“Well, whether you expected it or not, it's my pleasure,” Grus said. Gifts for ambassadors were commonplace—as Grimoald no doubt knew perfectly well. Elaborate custom regulated the ones between the Chernagor city-states and Avornis. Arrangements with Thervingia were less formal, which meant Grus could be more lavish if he chose. Here, he did choose. Grimoald struck him as an able man, one he wanted well disposed toward him and toward his kingdom.

The Therving said, “You can be sure I will do everything I can to make Avornis appear in the best possible light.” He understood why Grus was giving him presents, then. Good.

After Grimoald had made his final bows and left the throne room, Grus descended from the Diamond Throne. “A King of Thervingia visiting here?” said one of his guardsmen, a veteran—the soldier was perhaps forty-five, not far from Grimoald's age. “Not hardly like it was in the old days, and that's the truth. If Dagipert had, ah, visited here, he would've torn the palace down around our ears.”

“Yes, the same thing crossed my mind,” Grus answered. “And do you know what else? I'll bet it crossed Grimoald's, too. He had that look in his eye.”

“D'you think so?” the guardsman said. “Well, I wouldn't be surprised. I wonder if we tried to murder each other, him and me, back when Berto's old man sat on their throne.”