Summerblood

by Tom Deitz

  SALVATION-OR MADNESS

  Avall felt a fist of fear clamp around his heart. This wasn't real, simply wasn't happening. These were his friends, yet they were trying to force him to do something he feared beyond all reasonable fear. He was King, too, and they his council. If he said no, his word had the force of Law.

  And if there was civil war in Eron, it would be his fault.

  There was not, he realized dully, any option that didn't result in pain. One way or another, he was doomed. It only remained to work out what form that doom would take. Trouble was, he wanted to be a good King, to be remembered as such.

  He recalled how the last time he'd worked with the master gem it had sucked at him, though not quite as badly as on the previous occasion. And he also remembered what a short while that linkage had lasted. One could endure anything if one knew how long one must endure it.

  “I'll do it,” he announced. “But I'm not responsible for the consequences.”

  “Consequences?”—from Tyrill.

  Avall regarded her levelly. “This could kill me or drive me mad,” he informed her flatly. “I'd suggest you start considering my successor—if you aren't already.”

  For Soren, Leif, Steve, and Janet

  would that I had met you all sooner

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  John Butler

  T. J. Cochran

  Ashley Goodin

  Anne Groell

  Deena McKinney

  Howard Morhaim

  Lindsay Sagnette

  Juliet Ulman

  CHAPTER I:

  TESTS AND TEMPERING

  (ERON: TIR-ERON—HIGH SUMMER: DAY XL—MIDDAY)

  It was the most beautiful weapon in Eron—and the most deadly.

  It was one of the three most beautiful objects in Eron, and had been made, in large part, by Eron's most beautiful woman. Who also happened to be its best bladesmith—and its third best smith of any kind.

  Never mind that she was Avall syn Argen-a's wife, and thereby consort to the High King of all Eron.

  None of which explained Avall's reluctance to touch that weapon now.

  The Lightning Sword, some had begun to style it, though it wasn't lightning that blade brought from the Overworld, but something less easily defined—and more potent.

  Avall's slim, callused hand hovered a finger's length above the gold-leafed ropework casting that comprised the hilt. A ruddy gem gleamed balefully midway along its length—a gem there was good reason to assume was what most of his countrymen would have called magic.

  That was why he hesitated, swallowing apprehensively, as he let his gaze slide around the room.

  It was the topmost chamber of the least-used tower in the lofty, rough-rock pile called the Citadel, which was the seat of Eron's High King—which title, for a quarter year, and much against his will, was now Avall's. The walls slanted slightly inward and were made of beige sandstone, smoothed to an even, grainy finish, but with no ornamentation save a band of interlace relief at waist level. The floor was stone as well, beneath vaults of a different stone, and the sturdy oak table-safe against the wall opposite the single door was likewise hewn from stone. Narrow windows marking three cardinal directions matched the door for height; and the warm light of summer afternoon lanced in through the western one, flooding the chamber with a cheery radiance at odds with Avall's anxious scowl.

  His shadow brushed a pair of stone benches flanking the oak-barred entrance, the nearer of which was occupied by his two closest friends—who appeared by turns frustrated, nervous, and impatient, clutching, as they did, the rest of the royal regalia. The younger, his cousin, Lykkon syn Argen-a, would be twenty the upcoming autumn; the elder, Avall's bondbrother, Rann syn Eemon-arr, would be twenty-one at sum-mer's end. Like Avall himself, they were middle-sized young men, tending toward slim, as did most of their countrymen, and with the near-ubiquitous dark blue eyes and handsome, angular faces of High Clan Eronese. At the moment, all three sported short-cropped black hair growing out from the closeclip they'd affected during the recent war with their southern neighbor, but shoulder length was far more typical.

  They were even dressed alike, in soft indoor slippers, house hose, and short-tunics that favored their slender bodies. Avall and Lykkon were in Argen's maroon; Rann, in Eemon's midnight-blue, quartered with Stone's black and silver. An incredibly beautiful shield spanned the space between the floor and Lykkon's knees. Kite-shaped, it was, though curved; made of alloys the working of which was denied to Avall's sept of Smithcraft; and ornamented with patterns that, while not quite traditional interlace, nevertheless evoked it.

  Rann held the helm in his lap. A gem identical to that in the sword gleamed between the gilded-bronze browridges—a gem Avall had found himself, when the helm had merely been part of a commission for a now-incapacitated King, and he but an ordinary smith, newly raised to manhood. Were it not for the gleaming nasal between the gaping eye sockets, it would strongly resemble a skull; what with its gently domed crown, and the angular cheek guards to either side that mimicked jawbones.

  Lykkon exhaled pointedly, drumming his fingers on the shield's upper rim. “It won't bite,” he chided, when Avall's hand showed no sign of moving.

  A deep breath, and Avall picked up the sword—by the scabbard, yet even so it nudged at him, like a pet demanding notice. Or a serpent poised to strike. Turning, he motioned his companions to their feet and unlocked the door one-handed, before following them out and to the left, up a curving stair that spat them out on the roof one level higher. Inward-curving merlons rose around them like stone fingers—though whether they shielded those within or the world without, Avall wasn't certain. Only two of the Citadel's towers rose higher, visible as shadows against the north face of the gorge in which Tir-Eron lay. Lore's tower was taller, too, but it was farther down the Ri-Eron and blocked from view by the stair turret. Not that height was needed in any case, as much as the privacy it afforded. For, in spite of being utterly exposed, no one else in Tir-Eron could see what transpired there.

  “I'm trying to test some things,” Avall told Rann, who stood nearest. “And while this isn't the best place for what I plan, it's the only one available without traveling for at least a hand.”

  Rann's reply was one of those absent, preoccupied nods that served him as conversation of late.

  A shadow flickered across Avall's face, but he suppressed the urge to confront its cause. There'd be time for that later: time and more time. “Lyk,” he continued pointedly, “I probably don't need to tell you this, but I want you to observe this very closely.”

  Lykkon likewise nodded, and stepped closer to the stone table that Avall had caused to be erected, with great secrecy, in the middle of the tower three days before.

  Atop the polished granite lay a hand-thick slab of the strongest steel Eronese metalsmiths had yet contrived. That, in turn, was covered by a span-wide strip of white velvet, which shrouded an oblong mass raised another hand above the steel.

  Avall whisked the fabric away, revealing a series of identically sized ingots of every major metal known in Eron, ranged from soft gold and tin to alloyed iron, all interspersed with lengths of oak, ash, pine, and maple, and four kinds of glass. The whole row was slightly shorter than the sword blade.

  “ ‘Waiting proves nothing but patience,’ ” Avall informed Lykkon, to preempt his cousin quoting the ancient proverb. And with that, he retrieved the helm from Rann and set it upon his head, twisting his neck to ensure a proper seat, while Rann moved to buckle it beneath his chin. A metallic rustle to his left was Lykkon fitting the shield to his outstretched arm. Avall fumbled for the grip, careful not to trigger what a onetime rival had set there.

  And then there was no more cause for delay. Waving his friends back to the relative safety of
the turret, he slapped his free hand against the helm in a certain way, even as his other squeezed the shield's grip. Hidden studs triggered hidden barbs in helm and shield alike, and metal bit into his flesh, drawing blood, then feeding it by embedded lengths of rare bloodwire to the thumb-sized red stones gleaming between his eyes and within his fist. A deep breath, and he unsheathed the sword, fingers already seeking one final trigger.

  Found—and then that hand, too, fed the gems blood.

  And with that feeding, Avall was fed in turn.

  Power ran up his arm from the sword, and met more rushing toward it from the shield, and the two collided in his brain, which was itself being empowered by the gem in the helm.

  And so he stood there, poised and tense, as his mind sought to wrest those forces into balance.

  A moment it took, while they warred within him, for the regalia had been made for the previous High King and suited the paths of his mind more precisely than Avall's. Then, abruptly, he was ready. Had he wanted to call down lightning to smash the surrounding stones or reduce his companions to chunks of charred meat, he could have done so with a twitch of a finger.

  Yet when he closed his eyes and envisioned the Overworld, and the sword ripping a gateway through to that place, and gathering up matter there like jam scooped onto a knife, he tried to make the smallest rent possible and retrieve the merest mite of Overworldly matter he could manage.

  Even so, the sword tingled in his hand.

  And when he could wait no longer—when the sword was like his impassioned manhood desperate for release in the throes of lust—he slowly lowered it until the blade was a finger above the ingots.

  And let it fall.

  Metal rang, and the sky rang, and power flowed out of him like water from a broken jar. The world turned stark white for half a breath, and smelled of hot ores and scorched wood. Rather like a forge smelled, actually. But if this was a forge, Avall was Lord Craft himself—and it was blasphemy to claim so close an identity with The Eight.

  He was vaguely aware of Lykkon easing nearer, and of Rann hanging back, before his vision cleared enough to witness what he had wrought.

  The sword had sheared through the wood like a scythe through new grain, and the path of its passing showed clear down to the underlying steel, which had also begun to part. The other ingots had likewise been sundered. Which he'd expected. What he'd been curious about was how the damage would manifest beyond the point of impact—to determine whether it was heat or some other energy that accompanied the weapon's use.

  “What do you think, Lyk?” he asked his kinsman.

  Lykkon fanned smoke away and squinted closer. “As best I can tell, there's no correlation between melting points of metal and extent of damage. The steel shows signs of damage farther out than the lead, and the tin's just cut straight through, with no sign of melting at all.”

  Avall blinked within his helm. “And the glass?”

  “Raise the sword.”

  Avall did—and found that the blade did not come away cleanly. Instead, one glass ingot rose with it, as though the sword were a log that had frozen in ice. Lykkon touched the ingot gingerly, then gave it an experimental tug. It resisted briefly, then came free—showing a narrow channel where the blade had been. But no sign of melting.

  “Not the same effect,” he mused. “Beyond that, I'll need to do some measuring. But my guess—” He paused and looked at Avall. “My guess is that some substances either go straight to smoke and vapor—or straight to the Overworld.”

  Avall could wait no longer. Resheathing the sword, he snaked his other arm free of the shield, then reached up to remove the helmet, grateful to taste clear air and see open sky. Setting the regalia aside as though it were any Common Clan soldier's gear, he inspected the ingot more closely. “You're right,” he agreed. “Not much melting.”

  “Which means?”

  A shrug. “You tell me.”

  Lykkon scowled. “I don't know what it means. But if we're right: If that thing draws matter from the Overworld, which manifests here as energy, like the shield sends energy from here to there, where it manifests as—well, we don't know how it manifests—I think what we have here is a case where you've sent matter to the Overworld. Otherwise, there'd be some sign of melting along all the relevant junctures, and there isn't.”

  “You said it could've vaporized,” Rann reminded him.

  Lykkon shrugged. “There's no way to tell at present. I'll have to think of some way to test that notion. For now—”

  “For now,” Avall finished for him, “I've had enough experimenting.” Without waiting either comment or consent—he was, after all, King—he distributed the regalia among his comrades and shooed them back into the tower. A trickle of blood slid into one eye, from where the helm-gem's trigger had pricked him. He rubbed at it absently: the price one paid for knowledge.

  They paused in the holding chamber only long enough to return the regalia to the table-safe and lock the door, before continuing down another level to a room that was far more opulent than the austere one above. These walls were covered with fine tapestries, the floors with luxurious carpet, and the furniture, though sparse, was comfortable. A small table by the door held a carafe of wine, chilling beside three golden goblets—which Lykkon filled without asking. Rann found a sofa and flopped down in it, looking listless. Avall settled beside him, closer than the sofa's size required. He stroked Rann's thigh absently, the familiar flesh hard and sleek beneath the thin sylk of summer hose. “So,” he began, accepting a goblet from Lykkon with his free hand, “what am I going to do with what's upstairs? I've given myself two days to decide, and two days aren't sufficient.”

  “You've had two eights,” Lykkon retorted. “You've also had opinions from everyone from Tyrill and Preedor down to my brother, Bingg. I can't tally the times you and I have hashed this out, or—I imagine—you and Strynn and Merryn. And Rann,” he finished awkwardly, looking flustered.

  Avall didn't know if he likewise looked flustered, but he certainly felt that way, given that Rann was paying them no mind at all. Not from spite or rudeness, he knew, but for another reason. Rann's Common Clan lover, Div, had departed Tir-Eron two eights ago as part of an escort for the royal harper, Kylin, who wanted to retrieve his chief-harp from Gem-Hold-Winter. Which was convenient, since Div also needed to secure a few things from the hold she'd appropriated in the Wild, before closing the place for good—so everyone assumed—and returning to Tir-Eron, where she had an appointment in the Royal Guard. Rann had been listless and distracted ever since, in spite of Avall's efforts to keep him occupied. Not for the first time did he wonder how Rann comported himself when the two of them were apart. Then again, he and Rann had a formal bond, with the security thereby implied. Rann had no guarantee Div would return, beyond her word. Given the difference between their ages and stations, there was reason to think she might not.

  Rann patted Avall's hand. “I'm sorry, Vall,” he murmured. “I just don't have anything to add.”

  Avall stood abruptly. Suddenly furious, he stomped to the window and leaned against its casement, glowering. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!” he spat. “You lads are no help at all. You're supposed to be my friends. More to the point, you're supposed to be royal advisers, you're supposed to—”

  “We're not supposed to make decisions for you,” Lykkon broke in harshly. “That's part of being King.”

  “Which I never wanted to be,” Avall shot back. “Which you know perfectly well.”

  “Because you've told everyone in sight every time you've seen them since it happened,” Rann muttered.

  “And I still say,” Lykkon added, “that if you'd try to like it, you might find you actually do. It can't be that bad, Vall. Anything you really can't manage, you can foist off on someone else. If you're clever, you can foist off nearly everything.”

  “Except the wretched regalia,” Avall growled.

  “Which isn't necessarily bad,” Rann inserted. “It adds fear to the equation
you've already got.”

  “Which would be?”

  A resigned sigh. “Liking and respect—which are not the same. Those of us who know you, by and large like you. Those who don't know you—which includes everyone who was at the Battle of the Storms last spring—still respect you for what you can do.”

  “Story of my life,” Avall snorted. “No one cares who I am, only what I can do, and more to the point these days, what I can do for them. I had no idea there were so many needy people in Eron—not in need of food or material goods, but for someone to think for them. I had no notion how badly the plague had gutted this country. How many whole clans have no one with passion enough to act quickly and accept change, yet who also have sufficient experience to distinguish between risk and foolhardiness.”

  Lykkon chuckled. “You sound like you're a thousand years old.”

  “I feel like it, too—sometimes. But the fact is, we're a nation of old people, who are mostly set in their ways, and those like ourselves, who are barely more than children and who get tired of running into a rule or a rite every time we turn around. We've no folk who are neither tired of making decisions, nor scared to make them. Look at us. None of us has either father or one-father. Lyk, you don't even have a mother.”

  “Which has nothing to do with why you can't decide what to do about the regalia,” Lykkon observed quietly. “You also sounded like you had a second point—before you so conveniently distracted yourself into another whining session.”

  Avall felt another stir of anger, though he wasn't certain if it was his self that felt it, or his uncomfortable royal persona. He fought it down ruthlessly.

  “What I was going to say,” he continued with forced calm, “was that the mere existence of the regalia—especially the sword, which the lower clans seem to think is the key to everything, which it isn't—is a temptation to too many people. It represents too much power in too small a place.”

  Rann chuckled grimly. “I'm not sure about everyone else, but I'd be willing to bet Priest-Clan would give one of The Eight to know where you store it.”