Wherever it came from, the staff was plainly solid gold. And a solid gold staff of that size should have made the Scepter of Mercy much, much heavier than it was. How had the moncat ever carried it out of Yozgat? Without much trouble, evidently. And Grus had no trouble lifting it. When he did, in fact, it hardly seemed to weigh anything at all.
Lanius had said something about that. Grus scratched his head, trying to remember. For those who would use it rightly, the Scepter was light — it made itself light. Those who would do otherwise with it couldn't lift it at all. The Banished One himself had never found a way to wield it.
Having it was one thing. Wielding it… But why had it let itself come into his hands, if not for him to wield it? Do I have the strength? Grus wondered. Can I do this? Should I do this?
He hesitated. But if he did not have the strength, why had he — and Lanius, and the Kingdom of Avornis — gone through so much to reach this moment? If these years of effort had any point, it was that he should wield the Scepter of Mercy.
He swung the Scepter toward the south, toward the Argolid Mountains, toward the Banished One. It still seemed feather-light in his hands, which encouraged him. This is what I ought to be doing, he thought. He turned the jewel this way and that, like a dowser casting about for water.
And, as a dowser felt where to dig a well, so Grus knew the instant he aimed the Scepter of Mercy at the exiled god. Power crackled up his arms, as though lightning had struck nearby.
The hair at the back of his neck stood up, also as though he found himself in the middle of a thunderstorm. During dreams, he'd known the Banished One was strong. But he'd never understood how strong the Banished One was while he dreamed. Now the king encountered him with all his own faculties intact, and was amazed at what he'd done in those dreams.
Along with that astounding power, he took the measure of the Banished One's hatred — for him, for the material world, for the gods in the heavens who had cast him down to the world. But, under that hatred, the Scepter also showed him the Banished One's fear.
Had he not known of it, he would have had a hard time believing it was there, for his own fear was great as well. But the Scepter's revelation helped him pluck up his courage. "Now we meet while I am awake," he said.
What if we do? the Banished One said sullenly. Grus couldn't hear him the way he did in dreams, but had no trouble understanding what he meant. You are a thief. You will not come to the end you look for, no matter what you do with that. I have told you the same thing before, and told you truly.
Grus thought the Scepter of Mercy would let him know if the exiled god were lying. He got no sense of that now. He shrugged. How much did it matter? Not nearly as much as keeping the Banished One within some kind of reasonable limit. "Hear me," he said, and the Scepter made sure the Banished One did hear him.
Rage came back through the Scepter. Who are you — what are you — to speak to me so?
"I am the King of Avornis," Grus said. "You and yours have tormented my kingdom since time out of mind. I am going to call you to account for it. Do you understand?"
By way of answer, he got back another blast of fury, this one strong enough to stagger him. But that fear underneath it remained. The Banished One was sure Grus could call him to account. If the Banished One hadn't been sure, Grus wouldn't have been so sure himself.
"Do you understand?" he repeated, and something went out with his words, something that said the Banished One had better understand.
I hear you. The Banished One might have been a chained dog running out and discovering, suddenly and painfully, the length and strength of the chain.
"Then hear this. From now on, you will not order or encourage the Menteshe to go to war against Avornis. You will not order or encourage the Chernagors to go to war against Avornis. You will not order or encourage the Thervings to go to war against Avornis. You will not aid any of these folk, or any others, in their wars against my kingdom. By the power of the Scepter of Mercy, I order you to obey."
The Banished One's laugh could still flay. Very well, little man. I shall do as you require of me here. Just as you command, so shall it be. And it will do you less good than you think.
He was liable to be right. The Menteshe, the Chernagors, and the Thervings could find reasons of their own to war against Avornis. They didn't need the Banished One to spur them on. But Grus said, "I'll take the chance. And, by the power of the Scepter of Mercy, I order you to abandon all spells that make men into thralls, or that sap the will of men so they do not know or fully understand what they are doing, such as the ones you used on the Menteshe when Korkut's men and Sanjar's attacked mine together."
You dare demand this? The Banished One said furiously. Do your worst, for here I shall not hearken to you.
"I mean it," Grus said. "That is my command. You will make it so." He exerted his will. He exerted it — and the Scepter of Mercy magnified it. By himself, he couldn't have hoped to prevail. The Banished One would never even have noticed his will, let alone yielded to it. The Banished One hadn't noticed his will, or Lanius', as they mounted the campaign that yielded Avornis the Scepter of Mercy. That the exiled god hadn't was perhaps his greatest failing.
He fought back now with all his formidable strength. Opposing him was like opposing the wind, the sea, the storm. His anger and his power buffeted Grus. The king struck back. Thanks to the Scepter, he could feel the Banished One wincing when his blows landed. It was a contest where the two enemies never touched, where many miles separated them. But it reminded him of nothing so much as two strong men standing toe-to-toe smashing each other in the face until one of them either fell over or, unable to stand the battering anymore, gave up.
A shudder — that was what it felt like, anyhow — from the Banished One made Grus shudder, too, in involuntary sympathy. Enough! the exiled god cried. Enough! I will do as you say. That accursed thing you carry is a torment like a lash of scorpions!
He told the truth. The Scepter of Mercy let Grus be sure of it. The King of Avornis let out a relieved and weary sigh. The Scepter had let him win the contest of wills, but hadn't been able to disguise that it was a contest, and a hard one. He felt as though he'd been pounded from head to foot.
"You could do so much good in the world," he said wearily. "Why do you work evil instead?"
Now only incomprehension greeted him. I do good, the Banished One answered. I do that which is good for me. Of other goodness, I know nothing.
Again, the Scepter told Grus he meant it. No man is a villain in his own eyes, the king thought. Much experience with rebels and brigands had taught him as much. It must be the same for gods. Too bad.
He wondered if he could use the Scepter's power to show the Banished One the error of his ways. He tried — and felt himself failing. Nothing he did made the exiled god see his point of view. It was not a matter of giving orders and enforcing obedience. He would have had to change the Banished One's essential nature. And that seemed beyond even the Scepter of Mercy.
Would he be able to figure out how to make the Scepter do more than he had on this first try? Would Lanius? Who could say? One thing was sure — now they would have the chance. For centuries, Kings of Avornis had had to do without.
Since he couldn't change the exiled god's nature now, he decided to work with it instead. "Remember," he said, "the game is more even now. We have the Scepter, and this time we intend to keep it. If we have to, we'll use it again."
I am not likely to forget, the Banished One said. Strength is strength. Power is power. Who would have thought men could do such a thing? He might have been a man talking about moncats.