Grus made a point of not seeing Lanius for the next few days. Had he seen him, he still thought he might have punched him in the face—the temptation lingered. Only little by little did he realize Lanius was as irked with him as he was with his son-in-law. Grus didn’t think Lanius had any business being so irked, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t.
Lanius didn’t come seeking him out, either. Maybe that meant the younger king was embarrassed, too. Grus wouldn’t have bet on it. More likely, Lanius was still fuming, too. Eventually, they would need to work together again. As far as Grus was concerned, it could wait.
He didn’t seek out Alca. Things hadn’t gone as he wanted the last time he tried that. They could undoubtedly go worse still if Estrilda found out what he wanted to do with her. But Grus didn’t flee the witch when they met in a corridor, either. Instead, he asked her, “Have you had bad dreams?”
“Oh, yes.” Had she answered any other way, Grus would have been sure she was lying. Her face was pale, skin drawn tight across her bones. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. “I have had dreams. He does take his revenge.”
“Did you know he would?” Grus asked.
“Not that way,” she replied. “I knew I would pay for the spell somehow or other. He might have done worse. He might yet do worse.”
“Do you believe what he tells you in the dreams?” Grus thought for a moment, then decided to change the way he’d said that. “When he tells it to you, you can’t help but believe it. How do you make yourself stop once you wake up?”
“Because I know he lies,” Alca answered. “When we’re face-to-face, so to speak, I must believe him, as you say, because he is so strong. But even then I know I’m going to wake again, and when I wake I’ll know he was trying to befool me.”
“If I had the Scepter of Mercy, what could I do to him?” Grus asked.
Alca raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. The Scepter of Mercy has lain under the Banished One’s hand for a long time. I can’t begin to tell you what it might do. You would be wiser to ask King Lanius. He studies times past and the things of times past, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but he’s no wizard,” Grus replied. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me more than he can.” I was hoping not to have to listen to another one of his lectures, too. “After all, the Scepter of Mercy is a sorcerous tool, and—”
“No, I don’t think so.” Alca shook her head. “I don’t think so at all, Your Majesty, not in the sense you mean. No wizard made it—no human wizard, I mean. It wouldn’t have power against the Banished One if it came from the wit and will of an ordinary wizard.”
“No? I always thought—” He’d never sought to learn where the Scepter came from. Maybe that was a mistake on his part. But he’d always had more important things to worry about. And I probably still do, he thought. He tried a different tack. “If no ordinary wizard made it, where does it come from?”
“I don’t know that, either, Your Majesty. Maybe the gods gave it to us, a long, long time ago. Maybe the power was always in some part of it, and wizards recognized power and made the Scepter around that one potent part. Maybe—” The witch broke off. “I can guess for as long as you like. But I’d only be guessing, for I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows, except perhaps the Banished One.”
Grus’ fingers twisted in a sign of rejection. “I’m not going to ask him.”
He’d meant it for a joke, but Alca nodded seriously. “That’s wise, Your Majesty. That’s very wise. If you plan to have anything to do with the Scepter of Mercy, the less the Banished One knows of whatever you have in mind, the better.”
“Yes.” Grus hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms. He hadn’t thought hard about trying to regain the Scepter of Mercy, either—not till recently. The more he thought about it, though, the better he liked it. If I could somehow bring it off, I’d be the greatest hero Avornis has known for hundreds of years.
And if I fail, I’ll die a thrall, knowing the Banished One is laughing at me.
Not till later did he realize that wasn’t necessarily so. He could order an army—led by Hirundo, say—south across the Stura, while he stayed here safe in the city of Avornis. He could. He didn’t think he ever would, though.
He wondered why not. What could he do that Hirundo couldn’t? He had no answer for that. But he knew what he thought about officers who sent men into danger they feared to face themselves. And something else also applied—or he thought it did. One day not long after that, he asked Hirundo, “Have you ever dreamt of the Banished One?”
“Me?” The general shook his head. “No, and I thank all the gods I haven’t. I can’t imagine a worse omen. Why, Your Majesty? Have you?”
“Now and then,” Grus answered. “Every now and then.”
“May you stay safe,” Hirundo said. “Have you got a wizard or a witch keeping watch over you? You’d better.”
“I do.” Grus didn’t know how much Alca—or anyone else— could do if the Banished One seriously sought his life. No, that wasn’t true. He did know, or at least had a pretty good idea. He preferred not to think about it, though. Instead of asking Hirundo anything more about the Banished One, he said, “What do you think the Thervings are likely to do come spring?”
“They’ll be trouble, I expect. They usually are.” Hirundo accepted the change of subject with obvious relief.
But the answers he’d given left Grus thoughtful. Why hadn’t the Banished One shown himself to Hirundo? He had come to haunt the dreams of Grus himself, of Lanius, and of Alca. Why not Avornis’ best general? Because they offered a real challenge, and Hirundo didn’t? But how? That, Grus did not know.
How could a mere man hope to outguess, hope to outsee, the Banished One, who, if he wasn’t immortal, certainly came closer than any human being? You can’t, he thought. You will always face— Avornis will always face— an enemy wiser than you are.
Then how to win? Logic said he had no chance. Yet Avornis had survived all these centuries despite its great foe’s wisdom and strength. The Banished One makes mistakes, too, Grus realized. No matter how wise he is, he can’t help underestimating mankind. That costs him. Sometimes it costs him dear.
Hope, then. Hope in spite of logic. But Grus was not greatly reassured. He played a dangerous game indeed if he relied on his opponent’s making a mistake to give him any chance of winning.
These days, King Lanius was not only a father but felt like a grandfather. Not only had Bronze presented him with a new litter of moncat kittens, but Snitch, whom he’d helped raise from a tiny thing, had also bred. He worried a little about breeding family members, but his books seemed to think it was acceptable for dogs, so he put it out of his mind. He had no choice, anyhow. Both new litters consisted of a male and a female. Lanius was growing convinced moncats usually did things that way.
“Before too long,” he told Sosia, “they’ll be as common around the palace as ordinary cats are.”
“Is that such a good thing?” his wife asked. “Ordinary cats can be a nuisance. Moncats can be even more trouble, because they’ve got hands.”
Part of Lanius knew she was right. The rest did its best to reject the idea. “They’re wonderfully interesting beasts,” he said. “I could write a book about them.”