The King of Thervingia gasped at the honor the Avornans had done him. And it was an honor. But it was also a test. If he wanted to steal the Scepter, wouldn't it sense as much and not let him hold it? So Lanius reasoned, anyhow.
But King Berto had no trouble holding the Scepter. An exalted look spread over his face. "In my hands," he murmured. "In my hands.." He bowed deeply to Lanius and to Grus, then returned the Scepter of Mercy to Lanius. "I prove myself worthy of it by giving it back."
At that, Lanius and Grus both bowed to him. "We realized the same thing, Your Majesty," Lanius said respectfully. "If the Scepter has a secret, that is it." And it was a secret the Banished One would never, ever understand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ortalis was convinced that if he'd been any more bored, he would have been dead. His father and Lanius and the visiting barbarian were making such a fuss over the Scepter of Mercy, he more than half wished it would have stayed down in Yozgat. Had his father — had anyone — ever made such a fuss over him? He didn't think so.
Lanius, of course, was crazy for old things, and now he had his hands on something as old as the hills. It all made Ortalis want to yawn. So the Scepter was here. Kings could pick it up and do things with it. When I'm king, I'll pick it up and do things with it, Ortalis thought. Until then, who cares?
"Do you like to go hunting?" Ortalis asked Berto at a feast the evening after the King of Thervingia came to the palace.
Berto paused to gnaw the meat off a roasted duck drumstick before answering, "Not very much, I'm afraid, Your Highness. I find prayer and contemplation more pleasant ways to pass the time."
"Oh," said Ortalis, who found prayer and contemplation even duller than all the unending chatter about the Scepter, if such a thing was possible. He thought for a moment, then tried again, asking, "What do you like in a woman?"
"Well, piety, to begin with," Berto said, and Ortalis gave up. Even if the Therving had no.. special tastes, he could have come up with something more interesting than that. But he made his answer seem the most natural thing in the world.
Once more, Ortalis fought to stifle a yawn. He reached for another chunk of duck himself. The dead bird had to be more interesting than the Therving.
"What of you, Your Highness?" Berto asked. "How did you aid your father and your sister's husband in recovering the Scepter of Mercy?"
"In… recovering it?" Ortalis could hardly believe his ears. He couldn't have cared less about getting the Scepter back. As far as he was concerned, the Banished One was welcome to it. But King Berto would have dropped the leg bone if he'd said that. The only thing he did say was, "Well, any way I could, of course."
That did the job, and with room to spare. The King of Thervingia beamed at him and raised his winecup in salute. "Spoken like the true son of a great father!" He gulped down the sweet red wine.
So did Ortalis, who needed little excuse, or sometimes none at all, for some serious guzzling. A serving girl poured his cup full again after he drained it. He smiled at her. She quickly found something to do somewhere else. He laughed; he'd drunk enough to make even that funny. He wanted to tell Berto that of course he was Grus' true son, that Grus' bastard son was a nice enough fellow but of no real consequence. He wanted to, but he didn't. To Grus, he was of no real consequence himself. He knew that — knew it and hated it.
"I'll show him," he muttered. "I'll show everybody, I will."
"What's that, Your Highness?" King Berto asked. Why wasn't he too drunk to pay attention to someone else's private mutterings?
"Have you ever listened to a voice? A Voice, I mean?" Ortalis said in return. "A Voice that told you — that showed you — the way things were supposed to be?"
Berto frowned, which made his bushy eyebrows almost meet above his long, straight nose. "Are you talking about your conscience? I know I try to listen to mine. I am only a man. I do things I wish I hadn't later on. But I do try."
They both used Avornan, but they didn't speak the same language. Ortalis was no more talking about his conscience than he'd thought of looking for piety in a woman. He almost told Berto so to his face, just to see the barbarian splutter. But something — maybe even the Voice — warned him that wouldn't be a good idea.
He endured the rest of the banquet, then staggered off to bed. After blearily kissing Limosa half on the mouth, half on the cheek, he fell deep into sodden slumber. And then, as he'd hoped he would, he dreamed.
The dream felt and seemed more real than reality. These dreams always did. He looked out on the world the way it should have been. The biggest difference was that it was a world that recognized Ortalis as its rightful lord and master. The Voice said, "They mock you behind your back."
When the Voice said something, there was no room for doubt. "Oh, they do, do they?" Ortalis growled. "Well, I'll show them. I'll show them all. You just see if I don't."
"Time grows short," the Voice warned. "Chances grow few. You would do well to seize the ones you have."
"I will. Oh, I will," Ortalis said. "You don't need to worry about that. I'll take care of everything — just wait and see."
"Are your friends your true friends?" the Voice asked. "Are your enemies lulled and drowsy?"
Ortalis thought of Serinus and Gygis, and of the other young officers he'd cultivated since Marinus was born. "My friends are my true friends," he answered. "They know where their hopes lie."
"Good," the Voice said smoothly. "And your enemies? Are they lulled?"
At that, Ortalis laughed a raucous and bitter laugh, there in the middle of his dream. "Why should they need lulling? They don't think they do, not from the likes of me."
For a dreadful moment, he wondered if the Voice would laugh, too — laugh at him, not with him. But it didn't. Instead, it said, "Well, then, the time is coming, and coming soon, don't you think?"
"What time?" Ortalis asked, and the dream showed him. It was better than he'd imagined, better than he could have imagined before the Voice started speaking to him in the night. The time was coming soon? He could hardly wait.
Grus and Pterocles and Otus stood staring at the Scepter of Mercy. Grus could understand why King Berto had traveled so far to see the great talisman. If it had come to Thervingia, he thought he might have traveled there to see it himself. But it was here in the city of Avornis, and he could look on it, he could use it, whenever he liked. Somehow, that pleased him less than he'd thought it would. Maybe being able to leave it, as Berto had done, was better than keeping it.
Otus didn't think so. A smile on his face, the former thrall said, "It freed my folk." He shook his head and bowed to Grus and Pterocles. "Well, no. You two freed my folk. But the Scepter made sure they will stay free."
"So it did," Grus said. And the Scepter had let him impose his will on the Banished One. With it in his hand, he'd been, for a little while, as great as — greater than — the exiled god. He had been… but now, again, he wasn't. He snapped his fingers.
"What is it, Your Majesty?" Pterocles asked.
"Where do I go from here?" Grus had a question of his own.
The wizard frowned. "I don't understand."
"Where do I go from here?" Grus repeated. At last he did understand at least some of what was troubling him. "Where?" he said yet again. "What's left for me to do, after I've done this!" He pointed to the Scepter.
"Why, live happily ever after." That wasn't Pterocles but Otus. He went on, "By the gods in the heavens, if anyone's ever earned the right, you're the man."
Slowly, Grus shook his head. "This isn't a fairy tale, I'm afraid. I wish it were. I've spent a lot of years matched against the Thervings and the Chernagors and the Menteshe and our own nobles. I've fought and I've schemed and I've plotted. Lanius worked out how to get the Scepter back from Yozgat, and I went and did it. I did it, and I used the Scepter the way you said, Otus — and now what can I possibly do for the rest of my days that will matter even a tenth as much?"