Wisdom of the Fox

"I, Gerin, Prince of the North, accept the homage of Adiatu

The Trokmê beamed. "By Taranis, Teutates, and Esus I swear my chieftain Adiatu

Any oath less than the strongest one the Trokmoi used would have made Gerin suspicious of the chieftain. With it, he bowed in return, satisfied. "By Dyaus the father of all, Biton the farseeing one, and Mavrix lord of the sweet grape, I accept his oath and swear in turn to reward his loyalty with my own."

Diviciacus eyed him keenly; Adiatu

"That's my affair," Gerin said. The Trokmê was right and wrong at the same time: Gerin had indeed summoned Mavrix and Biton, but the gods did their own bidding, no one else's. If you were clever enough—and lucky enough—you might make them see that what you wanted was also in their interest. That once, the Fox had been clever and lucky enough. He never wanted to gamble on such bad odds again.

* * *

Aragis' chariot crews returned with word of Ikos miraculously restored and not a sign of monsters anywhere, and seemed miffed when everyone took their report as a matter of course. The day after they got back to Fox Keep, Aragis and his whole host set out for his holding in the south.

"Perhaps we'll find ourselves on the same side again one day," Aragis said.

"May it be so," Gerin agreed. He didn't quite care for the grand duke's tone. Had he been in Aragis' sandals, he would have worried about himself, too: with Adiatu

"There is that." Aragis rubbed his chin. "Well, we'll see how you do with him." With that ambiguous farewell, the Archer turned and went back among his own men. Gerin knew he would bear watching, too, no less than Adiatu

Gerin sighed. If he spent all the time he should watching his neighbors, where would he find time for anything else?

Not long after Aragis and his warriors left for the grand duke's lands, Duren came up to Gerin and asked, "Papa, are you angry at Fand?"

"Angry at Fand?" The Fox frowned. He often thought Fand counted any day where she didn't make someone angry at her a day wasted, but he didn't say that to his son. Duren liked Fand, and she'd never been anything but gentle with him. "No. I'm not angry at her. Why did you think I was?"

"Because you never go to her chamber anymore. It's always Van."

"Oh." Gerin scratched his head. How was he supposed to explain that to his son? Duren awaited a reply with the intense seriousness only a four-year-old can show. Slowly, Gerin said, "Fand has decided she likes Van better than she likes me. You remember how she and I would quarrel sometimes, don't you?"

Duren nodded. "But she quarrels with Van, too."

"That's true," the Fox said, "but it's—usually—a happy sort of quarreling. She doesn't treat you any differently now that she's just with Van instead of with him and me, does she?"

"No," Duren said.

"That's good." Gerin meant it; he would have quarreled with Fand, and in no happy way, had the boy said yes. He went on, "Now that Fand is with Van, Selatre is my special friend. Do you like her, too?" He waited anxiously for Duren's answer.

"Oh, yes," Duren said. "She's nice to me. She doesn't treat me like a baby, the way some people do just because I'm not big yet. And do you know what else?" His voice dropped to the conspiratorial whisper reserved for secrets. "She taught me what some of the letters sound like."

"Did she?" Gerin said. "I'll bet I know which ones, too."

"How can you know that?" Duren demanded in the tone children use when, as frequently, they assume their parents can't possibly know anything.

"Were they the ones that spell your name?" Gerin asked.

Duren stared at him. Every once in a while—not often enough—a parent will redeem himself by proving he does know what he's talking about after all. "How did you know?" the boy said, his eyes enormous. "Did you use magic?" Now that his father had got away with summoning two gods, he assumed Gerin was a mighty mage. The Fox, who knew how lucky he'd been, wished that were so but made a point of bearing firmly in mind that it wasn't.

He said, "No, I didn't need any magic for that. The letters of a person's name are almost always the ones he learns first, because those are the ones that are most important to him. Do you know what else?"

"No, what?" Duren breathed. He liked secrets, too, and was good at keeping them for a boy of his years.

"When Selatre came to Fox Keep—that was just a few days after Tassilo stole you—she didn't know her letters, either," Gerin said. "I taught them to her myself. So she should know how to teach you, because she just learned."

"Really?" Duren said. Then he looked doubtful. "But she reads so well. I can only read the letters in my name, and find them in other words sometimes. But I don't know what the other words say."

"It's all right. It's nothing to worry about," Gerin assured him. "You're still very little to know any letters at all. Even most grown people don't, you know. Selatre learned hers quickly partly because she's smart—just like you—and partly because she's a woman grown, and so when she reads something she understands what it's talking about. You can't always do that, because a lot of things that are in the words on the parchment haven't happened to you yet. Do you understand?"

"No." Duren's face clouded over. "I want to be able to do it now."

Gerin picked him up, tossed him in the air, and caught him as he came down. Duren squealed. Gerin spun him around and around and around. He squealed again. When Gerin set him down, he took a couple of staggering steps and fell on his bottom. Gerin was dizzy, too, but tried not to show it. He said, "Could you throw me up in the air and spin me around and around like that?"

"Don't be silly, Papa." Duren tried to get up, but seemed to have as much trouble walking as Rihwin had the night he broached the wine.

"Why not?" Gerin persisted. "Why can't you do that?"

"You're too big."

"That's right, and you're too little. When you're bigger, you'll be able to do things like that, and you'll be able to read easier, too."

Duren considered that, then said, "Spin me again!" Gerin happily obeyed, and enjoyed listening to the happy sounds his son made. This time, Duren didn't even try to stand up when Gerin put him on the ground. He lay there staring up at the sky; Gerin would have bet he saw it going round and round. Finally he made it back to his feet. "Again!" he demanded.

"No," the Fox said. "If you do too much of that, you can make yourself sick."

"Really?" Gerin watched his son think that over; the process was very visible. Duren obviously decided that was an interesting idea, and one worth exploring further. He spun away, laughing out loud.

Gerin laughed, too, but only for a moment. Duren could afford to live for the present—indeed, at his age, he could hardly do anything else. Gerin did not enjoy that luxury. His son was the only good thing he had left from his shattered marriage with Elise, and he loved the boy without reservation. But what would happen to Duren when he wed Selatre and had children by her? Minstrels sang songs about stepmothers, but how would he blame Selatre for wanting her own blood to advance? Who would end up whose vassal, and after how much hatred and strife?