Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [150]
“From servant to squire is a long step,” the king said.
“All praise to the Halverics for giving me every chance they could,” Kieri said. “And that is a very long tale to tell. But it is due to the Halverics that, again, I lived—lived through that winter when I would otherwise have died, and lived years with them to relearn what a good home is, and then a good commander. You have spies in Aarenis, you said: they must have told you about Halveric Company.”
“Yes. Good fighters, well-disciplined, and not such as we wanted to meet. Yours the same. But both of you use women badly, and do not protect them.”
“Some women do not want to be protected,” Kieri said.
The king snorted. “Oh, some girls are wild and think they want adventure; they little know what war is. They are brave enough, our women, but their blood should be shed only in the marriage bed, bearing strong sons.”
“And daughters,” Kieri said.
“And daughters, yes. We must have daughters for the people to have children and live on. That is why a brave woman’s death in war is a waste.” He paused, staring at his hands on his knees, a man clearly trying to think of something else. When he looked up, he said, “The tale I heard included a magic sword … made by elves, the spy told my advisor, but you might as well know we think elves are but magelords themselves.”
Kieri nearly choked at that. “Elves magelords? No, they are not so! They are Elders, like the rockfolk, older and wiser than men. But yes, that is my sword now—it always was, but it was lost when my mother was killed and I was taken.”
“I would see this magic sword,” the king said.
“As you will, if you trust me with a blade in your presence.”
The king shrugged. “As you said, if you wanted to kill me, you could already have done it. I think a man bearing your scars is unlikely to kill an unarmed man sitting still and offering no insult.”
“It is hanging just outside,” Kieri said. He called again, and this time Arian answered. “Bring my sword, please, and then withdraw if the king of Pargun wishes it.”
“I am as happy with a witness,” the king said.
Arian brought in the sword and offered it formally to Kieri, laid over both hands. Kieri took it the same way.
“No one can draw it now but me,” he said. “In proof of that, try it—” He held it out to the Pargunese, who stared a moment.
“You know I intend to kill you and you are giving me a magic sword? Are you indeed blind in the mind?”
“No,” Kieri said. “But you are a man who wants proof, not words. You will find proof.”
The king took the sword; Kieri ignored Arian’s indrawn breath, and waited. A hand on the scabbard, a hand on the grip—the great green jewel of the pommel was dark and almost opaque. The king tugged. Nothing happened. He tried again; Kieri could see, under his sleeve, the bulge of his muscles. Again. The king looked up.
“So there is a trick to it?”
“Not a trick. Hold it so, and I will but touch the scabbard.” The king kept his grip and Kieri put his hand on the scabbard, a light touch. The king’s hand flew off the grip as if hit; he yelped. The sword swung toward Kieri, who put his own hand on the grip; the jewel burst into light, and he drew it singing from the scabbard, the blade glowing blue.
The king shrank back in his chair a moment, looking from the sword to his own hands. “I—it threw me off!”
“It did not harm you—”
“No—but I could not hold it when you touched it. And—” He eyed the blade again. “—and it is certainly magic, whoever made it.” He kept looking, as Kieri sheathed the blade and handed it, on its belt, back to Arian, who withdrew with it. “If I had known this—known it, not heard vague tales—it would have suggested