Free Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) by Elizabeth Moon Page A

felt overwhelmed by all that responsibility. Now it felt natural—a burden entirely bearable. Failure and ruin lurked around the edges of his world—always had—but he had not failed yet.

Back at the stronghold, Arcolin dove into preparations for the coming campaign season. He was happy to give permission for Jamis to go on a series of short outings with Dattur as escort.
    “It will help him to learn gnomish,” he explained to Calla when she asked. “Dattur is a formidable guard, for that matter. He drilled with the Company in Aarenis, and I saw him knock down men twice his size. Jamis will be safe with Dattur.”
    “But that stuff they eat—”
    “Jamis won’t eat it—he takes his own food from the recruit mess.”
    Jamis set off one morning with Dattur when the ground had frozen hard again after the snowmelt and days of mud.
    “To the stone-right?” Arcolin asked as they left.
    “No, my prince,” Dattur said. “North along the hills.”
    “There were orc lairs up there, too,” Arcolin said. “Do you want an escort?”
    “No need,” Dattur said. “I have weapons. Jamis can ride pony. Today for practice, learning to recognize gnome border on different surface.”
    Arcolin watched Jamis, well bundled up, ride out the gate, Dattur walking beside him, and went back to his work. Near midday, he was talking to the quartermaster about supplies for the next season’s recruits—what he, Arcolin, would send back north from Vérella onhis way south—when he heard the light clatter of the pony’s hooves gallop into the forecourt. He frowned. Jamis knew better than to gallop the pony toward the stables.
    A shout brought him to the door of the quartermaster’s office, and an instant later he was running. The pony was alone and scared, sides heaving, curds of sweat on its neck, skittering aside from the groom who tried to catch it. Arcolin felt his heart stutter and then race. Instantly he thought of the day Kieri’s first wife and children had been killed.
    “Close the gate,” he said to the gate watch; to the groom he said, “Don’t chase—he’ll settle in a bit.” The gate creaked shut. The groom went into the stable and came out with a few oats in a bucket. The pony stared, ears pricked, and then took one step toward the groom. Arcolin noted that the reins were not loose but tied up neatly so they could not dangle and trip the pony; the lead rope was looped and wound in the military fashion. So … the boy hadn’t been thrown. Maybe. The saddlebags weren’t on the saddle—had the pony escaped while Dattur and the boy were eating lunch? Why hadn’t they tethered the pony?
    The groom finally got a hand on the bridle and led the pony—its nose in the bucket—into the stable. Arcolin looked at the gate guard. “Signal Assembly,” he said. He went into the stable as the horn blew its long three-note call. The stablemaster had anticipated his orders; he had the chestnut out of the stall, almost ready to go. Arcolin went to the pony, checking the tack for any message that Dattur might have sent. Nothing. He frowned at the knotted reins—neat, but not a knot he recognized.
    He came out of the stable, heading for the officers’ court to get his helmet, when he saw Calla in the archway.
    “Jandelir …?” she began, then paled.
“Jamis?”
    “Dattur’s with him,” he said. “He’ll be all right, I’m sure. But the pony came home. I’m going to find him.” She stared at him, eyes wide, but did not try to stop him as he jogged across the inner court, took his helmet off its hook just inside the door, caught up his heavier cloak, and came back toward the main courtyard. He gave her a quick hug as he passed. “I will find him, Calla.”
I will not let him be killed; not my son
.
    Cracolnya’s cohort was just outside the gate—open now to let Arneson bring the recruits in. Cracolnya’s unit was mounted. Arcolin swung up onto the chestnut and said to Arneson, “Jamis is missing—the pony