by Tom Deitz
Avall could think of no good reply, and so kept his peace, as did Tyrill, for a long yet comfortable time. “History,” he murmured eventually. “It all spins on such small things: a discussion I had with Lykkon that made me angry, that made me place-jump to Eddyn's cell, where he got the gem and jumped away himself, into—eventually—a worse kind of captivity. But if Lyk hadn't asked that one question—”
“Eddyn would've finished the shield sooner and saved some lives. Or he might've refused to work and cost us everything.”
“Which do you think?”
A shrug. “I don't want to think, because I'll have to recall a bad thing about someone I loved. But I do know that if he hadn't had that final forging in the south—if he hadn't fallen in love, then been captured, tortured, and raped—he'd never have valued what he saved enough to make the sacrifice he did.”
Avall shrugged in turn, patted her hand, then drained his cider. “Well,” he said “this has done me some good, whether you know it or not. But now I have to return to being King.”
“And I,” Tyrill echoed, likewise rising, “have to return to something as well.”
“Being chief ?” Avall inquired.
“No,” she sighed. “Being old.”
Merryn wasn't surprised by the summons that Bingg delivered to her suite in the Citadel, only that it hadn't arrived sooner. Bingg's footsteps were still echoing down the corridor, and she caught the flash of the Royal Herald's tabard he wore so proudly just before he disappeared around the corner to the right.
It was an official summons: That much was clear from the paper, the seal, and the fact that Bingg had delivered it. She also knew what it contained before she tore it open. It showed only a place and time—Avall's suite in the Citadel for dinner, at sunset. Its existence implied the rest. Her brother had finally been pushed to the limit on one of the crises that had been simmering all summer. This scrap of paper meant that he'd decided to act, but needed—or thought he did—the input of his counselors. So, she supposed—as a glance out the window showed soggy workmen already removing the soot-stained marble dais that had held Eellon's bier—she had best be there.
Avall surveyed the faces of those arrayed around the table at which they'd just dined on the most sumptuous repast he'd yet had set before them. They'd needed it, too, to put paid to the stresses of the day, but also in payment for what he was about to inflict on them. Problems were presenting themselves faster than he could resolve them, and he had to get some of them off his plate. Not the most important or most troublesome, perhaps, but removing any of them was progress.
Still black-clad from the morning's rite, they were gazing at him expectantly, across that expanse of damascened velvet, expensive gold dinnerware, and the remnants of roast venison, fresh lobster, fried shrimp, wild mushrooms, tame rice, and fruit grown under open sky. Wines had been consumed and cordials sipped and savored. But that was the salve; now came the punishment.
One last time he surveyed them, from left to right around the table: Rann, Merryn, Tryffon, Vorinn, Veen, Lykkon— and Strynn, at his right hand. Those he trusted most, with five of them born outside his clan, and thus, in theory, more objective. Bingg was there as well, but only to make notes. His two favorite guards, Myx and Riff, stood outside. Avall would've liked to have Kylin and Div on hand as well, but that was impossible. He missed both of them most keenly.
A deep breath, a sip of walnut liquor, another breath, and he spoke. “If you were me,” he began, “ruler of a kingdom— any kingdom—and you had in your control weapons so deadly they assured your victory in any battle, but also assured your defeat if they fell into other hands, what would you do with them?”
Merryn gnawed her lip for a moment: she who, as Avall's twin sister, had known him longest and knew him best. “For the sake of clarity, I suppose you should specify exactly what you're talking about, brother.”
“The new regalia,” he retorted through a weary glare. “The sword Strynn made, Eddyn's shield, and my helm.”
“Only one of which is actually a weapon,” Lykkon noted. “For accuracy's sake, I mean.”
“And none of which is dangerous without the gems,” Strynn added quickly. “I'm not even sure you should consider them as one thing—the regalia—or as two—the regalia and the gems.”
Avall exhaled heavily. “I'd like to think they were separate, but the more I use them—and let me stress that I have used them more than anyone else, and am the only person alive and conscious to have used the whole ensemble—the more I think you can't have one without the other.”
“Meaning what?” Veen inquired.
“Meaning that, to state what we're already dancing around, the gems and their receptacles really are, in essence, one thing.”
Veen shook her head, and Avall wondered about the wisdom of including her. Still, she'd been involved in this affair virtually from the beginning and was older than all but Tryffon by a half score years. She was also from Ferr, which was loyal anyway, but was one of those rare people who split generations, being old enough to value tradition and young enough to acknowledge its abuse. Vorinn—who was holding his peace for the nonce—was another.
Tryffon, however, was scowling mightily. “That might make sense if you were a Smith,” he rumbled. “Or if you made these things or saw them made. I didn't. Veen and Vorinn didn't. Lykkon and Rann saw only a little, and Merryn was prisoner most of the time. Only you and Strynn actually worked on the things—of those to hand, I mean.”
Avall steepled his fingers before him, mirroring Merryn's favorite council pose. “That's true,” he acknowledged. “All of you know—or should—that the gems have many powers, among which is the ability to modify the perception of time so that one can do better work than is possible otherwise. I'm the only person here who's actually applied that skewed perception to crafting, but trust me, it's a fact. In any case, you also know that the gems, in a sense, bond with their owners and protect them. They like some people and dislike others— apparently based almost entirely on how those people relate to me, I assume because I found the original gem.”
Everyone was nodding now, which Avall hoped meant they understood what he'd said so far. “So,” he continued, “I have some reason to assume that these gems are themselves sentient beings, working for their own good by ensuring mine. And since my good was—and still is for a while, I'm afraid—bound up with the good of Eron, they seem also to have influenced events in that direction.”
Veen frowned above folded arms. “I'm not following you.”
Avall managed a wry grin. “And I can't really explain, since much of this involves concepts for which we have no words— especially as Gynn implanted a fair bit of it in my mind without speaking at all. But what I'm trying to say is that all the regalia—the helm especially, and the sword—was created under the influence of the gems—”
Merryn shook her head vehemently. “Not the shield. Eddyn had completed most of it before he ever heard of the gems, and Tyrill rebuilt the frame from scratch.”
“But I showed Eddyn how to make the connections between the gems and the shield,” Avall shot back. “And that information came, in part, from the gems.”
“Which isn't getting us anywhere,” Lykkon muttered.
“Briefly, then,” Avall retorted, “the regalia is what it is because of the gems. Assuming we could remove them easily— which I doubt, though they were easy enough to install—and tried to set them in another sword, helm, or shield, I don't think they'd work as well. It would be like wearing clothes made for someone else. Parts might fit, but the whole would bind in odd places and be loose in others.”
“The point of which is?” Rann grumbled through a grimace.
“What you've all been thinking. If the things are so dangerous—and they are, both at a real and symbolic level— why keep them here? Or why not simply disable them and no one the wiser? Remove the gems; substitute others, lock up the components in remote locations and be done.”
“All
of which assumes they're the threat you think they are.” From Merryn.
“But they are a threat, sister,” Avall shot back. “You should know that better than anyone. It was you that leveled half a cloister when the sword got the better of you—and you're as strong-willed as anyone I know.”
“But I wasn't wearing the whole ensemble,” Merryn countered.
“No, but we can't guarantee anyone else who got hold of them would, either. In any case, while they're here they're a terrible temptation to anyone who wants power—unclanned thieves and paroled Priests alike. I'm a fool to keep them anywhere around, and at that I've got them multiply guarded. But if you think there aren't a hundred plots already afoot to steal them, to whatever end, you're fooling yourself. Everyone from North Gorge to Ixtianos knows that the givens of power have changed, and that a boy has changed them and now controls them.”
Strynn reached over to take his hand. “Obviously you're voicing things you've pondered long and hard. And I suspect you've already reached a conclusion you're afraid to reveal. I think you want us to reach the same conclusion, then suggest it. But you—”
“You have to trust us enough to tell us what's on your mind,” Rann finished for her. “We care about you because we're your closest friends, and we care about the Kingdom because of how we were raised. Do I have to say any more?”
Avall buried a grin in another sip of liquor. “Very well,” he said. “What I've been thinking is this. On the positive side, the regalia gave us victory over Ixti. Part of that was due to Rrath, granted. But it was a victory, and, whether I like it or not, it gave me my throne.”
“Which you didn't want,” Lykkon grinned in turn.
“Which I didn't want, but nevertheless have. But to return to where I was. The negatives are in one sense more nebulous, but in another sense more real. The gems have cost us. They cost us Eddyn absolutely; they cost us Rrath, maybe; and they quite possibly cost Eellon his life. They've made Priest-Clan jealous, made Common Clan distrust us, and done who knows what to those between.”
“All of which we knew,” Merryn sighed. “Get to the point.”
“The point is, those who don't control them would, for any number of reasons, like to. And we, who do control them, fear them on the one hand—and rightly—and on the other cherish them as what might be construed as security, but which I consider to be temptation.”
“In other words,” Rann summarized, “if the people riot, you're afraid you'll resort to the regalia instead of more traditional channels.”
Avall nodded. “Eron has never been ruled by fear, and I won't let it start with me. In a very real sense, we've moved too far too fast, and we have to retrench a little.”
“Which means?” Vorinn inquired, speaking for the first time.
“Which means, much as I hate to say it, that we—I—have to remove this massive source of temptation from any possible abuse—or use, either.”
Lykkon's eyes were huge. “You don't mean …”
Another nod. “I do. Part of the regalia's value is symbolic, but that function can as easily be filled by something that looks like the regalia as by the regalia itself.”
Lykkon's eyes went even wider. “Which is why you've been making molds of it. You said it was for ‘archival purposes’—”
“It was, and is. But it also allows easy duplication by anyone skilled in casting and gold leaf—at which, let me remind you, half the people in this room excel.”
“And the real regalia?”
A final deep breath, and he said what could not be recalled. “We hide it. I can't trust myself with it, and I won't live in fear for the rest of my life.”
“And where will you hide it?” Tryffon snapped gruffly.
Avall didn't bother suppressing a smirk, though he sensed that if anyone defied him now it would be Warcraft's Chief. “If I knew that, it wouldn't be hidden.” Then, before anyone else could interrupt: “I'll give it to you, Merry. You take it, and you spirit it away in the night. Put it somewhere none of us knows nor could reach easily. But do it as soon as possible. The important thing is that only one person alive know where it is.”
Silence filled the room. Stunned silence. Then, softly, from Lykkon: “What about your personal gems? They're as much a threat.”
Avall glared at his young kinsman. “That's another debate for another time,” he said eventually, aware even as he said it that it was something he should have considered himself—and a problem that would not be dismissed easily. “For now … I wanted you to know my thinking on this thing, and I wanted to know yours. We can talk as long as you like, but the decision rests with two people: Me—as King, not as your friend, Avall—and Merryn, who has been asked to undertake a preposterous royal commission, but is still free to refuse that request.”
More silence, from everyone, caught, as they were, between their roles as friends of a man and subjects of a King. It was Merryn that finally spoke. “Give me the keys to their keeping place,” she said. “If I return them tomorrow, you'll know how I decided.”
Avall smiled wanly. “Which is all I could ask.”
Merryn looked very, very troubled. “Unfortunately,” she replied heavily, “it's not all I can ask.” She gazed up at him, a grim sadness in her eyes that had not been there a breath before. “If I'm going to do this thing, I want it done once and for all. For that reason, I want to save us all a lot of trouble I can already see starting to fester.” Her gaze slipped sideways to Lykkon. “I want you all to relinquish your personal gems to me as well. Now. Before I leave this table. This means you, Avall, and you, Strynn and Rann.”
A murmur of amazement rumbled around the room. Avall opened his mouth to reply, but Merryn silenced him with a raised palm. “No, hear me out,” she demanded, in a voice like steel in ice. “I have two reasons for asking this, and let me assure you, neither has anything to do with any personal power plays. The first is simply another aspect of temptation. If you're going to remove such dangerous things from reach, you have to do it absolutely. It does no good if, an eighth or a year from now, you decide you want another, more powerful sword or shield, and simply stick your personal gems in new mountings. Additionally, it does no good for me to hide the regalia if you can contact me through the gems. Hidden is as hidden does.”
Avall scowled at her, rubbing his chin. Strynn looked troubled; Rann looked dazed. Even Lykkon looked mildly stunned.
“It makes sense,” Strynn conceded slowly. “My gem certainly helps in some cases. But in the balance …”
“It's hard to fault your logic,” Rann agreed, already fishing inside his tunic.
“Avall?” Merryn prompted, none too gently.
“You can have it,” he rasped at last. “I may regret it, but I'm sick of worrying about the things—and the fact that Lyk's already brought it up means we'll be thrashing it until the Last Winter if we don't address it now. But,” he added, “you can only have my second gem. The master gem stays with me. That's not subject to debate.”
Merryn raised a brow, her face gone tense with anger. “You're undermining your position.”
Avall stared back at her, suddenly incredibly weary. “Perhaps, but I'm fairly certain I'm the only person who can control it, and, I fear, the only person who can cure it.”
“And if you do? Cure it, I mean?” Vorinn challenged.
“Then Merry gets a second royal quest.”
Merryn rolled her eyes, but nodded and extended her hand palm up. “Now,” she snapped. “If I have to ask again, you'll have to find someone else to make your journey. I may refuse anyway. You may have your gems back tomorrow.”
Avall shook his head, but reached into his tunic anyway. Rann's gem already gleamed in his hand. Strynn was fumbling with the clasp on hers. Avall looked at his briefly, then laid it in Merryn's palm. No words passed between them, but tension was palpable in the room. “You're now the most powerful person in the world,” he told his sister softly.
“I know,” she whispered back. “
You won't regret it.”
Avall broke eye contact first, and let his gaze drift slowly around the chamber. “And now,” he murmured, “I think we've all had a very trying day, so I would wish you all … good evening.”
Only Tryffon lingered at the door, face clouded, brow furrowed with concern. “I knew it would do no good to tell you this,” he told Avall finally. “I know a man with a certain mind when I see him. But, forgive me when I say this, lad— but I think you're a fool.”
“I may be,” Avall acknowledged, with a sad smile. “But at least I know what I want to worry about.” And closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER VIII:
WALLS WITH EARS
(NORTHWESTERN ERON: GEM-HOLD-WINTER—
HIGH SUMMER: DAY XLII—EVENING)
It had taken Kylin far longer than expected to reach what had been his nominal goal ever since sufficient smoke had cleared from the ventilation ducts for him to dare moving at all. Indeed, he'd had no goal at first, save to get as far away as possible from the place where he'd entered that maze of narrow shafts and cramped passageways, driven by what he now acknowledged was a largely irrational fear of being caught.
That assumed anyone was looking for him, for one thing, which was far from given. Granted, he'd arrived with a royal escort, but that had been late at night, so the event had gone largely unmarked, except by Crim. And since then, he'd kept to himself, but for a pair of audiences with that formidable lady. As for the few friends he'd managed to make within his own clan, most of the ones he'd once claimed had left with the last trek.
