“You would not have had them,” Amrothlin said.
“I could have tried,” Kieri said. “And perhaps, if I had—perhaps that might have changed some minds. I didn’t, and that was part defiance. If no one would explain, I scorned to beg; I would make my own way—as I did. But that pride had its cost to more than myself.” He waited; Amrothlin said nothing. “What I’ve learned, Uncle, in a life you despise, is that everything we do has more than one consequence, and half those or more we never anticipate.”
“That is elven thinking,” Amrothlin said. “And one reason why we are wary of acting in haste. It takes time—sometimes time that seems long to humans—to foresee all consequences …”
“Delay also has consequences,” Kieri said. “Haste brings one set of hazards; delay, another. But I am not speaking only to chastise, but to insist that the breach between the peoples harms the taig and risks the entire realm.”
Amrothlin opened his mouth to speak, but Kieri went on.
“It must end, and both peoples must work to end it; healing this cannot be done by elves alone or humans alone. I am asking you, Uncle, to take the lead among elves.”
Amrothlin might have been asked to swallow a bitter fruit, from his expression. Kieri waited, and finally Amrothlin said, “Who is the human to whom you have given the task of persuading humans?”
“I have not decided yet,” Kieri said. “But as you are my uncle, my mother’s own brother, it seemed honorable to ask your help.”
“You remind me of her,” Amrothlin said. “Of the ways in which she annoyed me.” But humor softened his tone. “I suppose I must. But please, do not choose Sier Carvarsin: it is not merely that he is more hasty and more … annoying … than others, but I cannot get past his appearance—that great lump on his nose, and the one on his cheek with those black hairs.”
Kieri managed not to laugh, with some difficulty. “Uncle—”
“It is shallow, you will say. But beauty is, to us, an outward sign of inward health and soundness. Carvarsin may be, for all I know, honorable and kind, but to me—to me he is a caricature of a human. Those lumps are like cankers on the trunk of a tree, signifying damage within.”
“I will not choose Carvarsin,” Kieri said. “It is not my intent to make the task more difficult for you.”
“On my part, I must ask how your work with Orlith is coming,” Amrothlin said. “I have what he tells me, but what does it feel like to you?”
An intrusion into work of more urgency, Kieri thought, but he could not say that, not now. “It feels slow,” Kieri said. “I already feel the taig, so sitting still and trying to let it enter me, as Orlith says, does not—I mean, I cannot understand what it is to accomplish.”
Amrothlin nodded. “I thought perhaps that was it,” he said. “You have taig-sense, but you do not know what can be done with it. Well … do you feel it more now than you did at first?”
“I think so. I am not sure. I don’t think I feel it the way Orlith means. He asks me to feel the taig of individual trees—that is their life-force, is it not?”
“Not exactly. Consider a tree—what do you think of? What do you see in your mind?”
“A tree—the trunk, the branches, the leaves.”
“That is not a tree,” Amrothlin said.
“Well, and roots,” Kieri said.
“Roots, indeed, but—a tree is and is not an individual. And you as well, of course.”
“I’m sorry—?”
“Orlith should have started with simpler explanations,” Amrothlin said. “A tree is not a thing, like this dish or the fruit in it—” He pointed. “A tree is alive, and thus it is always more than you see. Roots to leaves, yes—those you can, in part, see. But it is more—it is the lichens and moss and ferns that grow on its bark, the life too small to see that lives among its roots, a community we know of, but do not think on. It is every fly and bee and beetle that uses it for shelter or food, every bird that nests in its branches. Every one an individual, and yet every one part of the tree, and the tree part of every one.”
“You mean … it’s all connected? I knew that …”
“More than connected—” Amrothlin frowned. “It is hard to say in your speech. Your old humans had more words for it, the weaving of life’s fabric, they called it, but more specifically. You cannot rightly speak of a tree as an individual, apart from the earth in which it grows, the air it breathes, the sunlight that wakes it to life, the living things that surround it. And yet each tree is also an individual—we think of them as having personalities, you know. They have fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, throughout the forest; they have a history going back to the first Singing.”
“I … think I understand.”
“You do not now,” Amrothlin said. “But to grow to full kingship, you must. Orlith wants you to feel that—not know it with the mind—” He touched his head. “But feel it, know it in blood and bone. When you do, then you can not only feel the taig—discern, as you do now, whether it is healthy or not—but heal it and use it.”
“Use?”
“To raise the taig. When called by someone of power, the forest taig can act—can maze human senses, herd men almost as a shepherd herds sheep, even resist some evil forces: health against sickness, you might think of it.”
“So … I go on spending a turn of the glass every day trying to feel more and more of the taig, is that it?”
“Not so much trying … more letting the taig come to you. The taig is easily frightened at times—it is like a shy child. If you are patient, it will come. Orlith cannot teach you much more until you can touch smaller elements than trees.”
“How long will that take?” Kieri thought of all the other tasks awaiting him … and the possible need to have the taig on his side if an invasion came. And how could the taig be both easily frightened and any help against an invading army?
Amrothlin laughed aloud. “Nephew-our-king … that is such a human question. It will take as long as it takes, and longer if you are impatient.”
“I will do my best to be patient,” Kieri said. “But it would be impolite to teach patience to my Council by making them wait longer for our daily meeting.”
“Neatly said,” Amrothlin said, with a warmer smile than usual. “And as courtesy is never haste, let us show them courtesy and begin.”
That Council meeting and those following concerned mainly the coronation, now barely more than two hands of days away. Kieri himself found it hard to concentrate on other matters when the palace staff bustled about preparing guest rooms, taking down the winter hangings and pulling out formal decorations. Day by day the tension grew. A tailor came to measure him for the new clothes the occasion required. In one room, green-draped tables held a rapidly increasing array of gifts.
Dorrin came for a last visit, early the morning she rode away, and eyed the changes with amusement. “Have you ever seen a coronation?” she asked.
“The prince’s father’s,” Kieri said. “But in Tsaia the rituals are very different … as you will see, at Midsummer.” He led her into the room he now used as his study, and shut the door.
“If I can,” she said. “If I can hold things together.”
“What was the training like?”
“It was … a delight,” Dorrin said. “Much easier than I expected, as if I were remembering skills, not learning them. Paks thinks it is the years I spent as your captain; the Knight-Commander thinks it’s my age and experience both, and Falk’s blessing.” She gave a quick precis of the tests she’d passed.
“I agree,” Kieri said. “You learned to use power well; the form of power is not as important as your judgment and discipline.”
“Thank you, my lord. I will do my best.” Then her expression changed. “I can’t help remembering how my family used it,” she said, then after a pause went on. “Some things I could not say—that I can say now.” She stopped.