by Tom Deitz
Which didn’t mean he liked them, or that he wouldn’t be able to feel them doing what Lynnz had said. He was ticklish, too—extremely—and while he doubted they’d actually let him die, he also doubted they’d spare him pain. Nor was this Eron, where kings must be physically perfect in order to reign. Here it wouldn’t matter if he had a nibbled earlobe, or eyelid, or … scrotum.
No! He was doing exactly what Lynnz wanted: thinking about what might happen, when none of it was a surety.
What was a surety was that they wouldn’t let him die until he’d come face-to-face with his father. And if they thought he didn’t know that word had gone out by the fastest messenger to inform Barrax of Ixti that his wayward heir had been found, they were more than fools.
So he had to endure—a while. Two days—four. An eighth at most—and somewhere during that time they’d surely expedite the interrogation by moving him closer to his father. Closer to Ixti.
And Merryn … He dared not think about her. She was strong, and they’d do nothing to her that would provoke a war. For though Ixti wanted war, they wanted it on their terms—and on Eronese soil. Eron come south was not an option Barrax would risk.
Besides, there was one thing Lynnz hadn’t reckoned on before he’d begun this torture session, which was that Kraxxi had been deprived of sleep for days before it had begun. At some point his body would take over. And sleeping men chained to the ground could not be bothered overmuch by anything as minor as tickling.
Which was good, because he could hear something raking across the sand, not far from his left ear.
(THE FLAT—DEEP WINTER: DAY XL—EARLY EVENING)
Zrill’s mount was not one he would have chosen for a wild midnight ride across the desert. As Lynnz’s Master of Horse, he naturally knew more than a little about the suitability of mounts for situations, and would’ve picked something more surefooted, even were it slower, for any less clandestine activity. But since he was Master of Horse, no one dared question his choice of steeds. And since he was known to be a loner, no one questioned him disappearing into the desert, either. The official excuse was that every spare horse, even pack animals, had to be given rigorous regular exercise, and that Zrill himself would take beasts at random for long gallops, so as to assess their care and condition. But since Lynnz’s infernal meetings and intelligence reports seemed to consume most of the day, the only time that could actually be accomplished was after the evening meal, which was traditionally served at sunset.
Taking an unimportant horse on an important mission was therefore a good way to disguise his trail. And thank the Gods for the steady desert wind that would either disperse his tracks entirely or fill them with what little drifting snow still remained on the Flat.
And it was an important mission, of that there was no doubt—though not one that would please Lynnz if he knew. Zrill reined in Obyll, the sturdy black mare, at the top of the long ridge southwest of Lynnz’s camp, such that any observing his progress would see what they expected: him putting her through her paces.
Actually, however, it gave him a chance to note if anyone was marking his departure. The camp had a perimeter guard, though a sketchy one, since the Flat was no-man’s-land, and the main threat that might be brought against it was not from man at all, but from nature. And sure enough, he could see the west guard marching his slow patrol in his gold-sylk winter cloak and high-domed, gold-washed helm. Not that Zrill could see those details, only the cloak as a splotch of light against darker tents, and the occasional gleam of firelight on the helm. A flickering behind the guard was his shadow, splashed by the largest visible moon across the landscape of tents.
It was too big a camp, Zrill thought: too big for mere reconnoiter. But of course everyone else knew that as well.
On the other hand, it was too small for an all-out attack. So what was it? He wasn’t sure, save that it was certainly a monument to Lynnz’s pride.
But he’d tarried long enough. The desert beckoned; the vast, blue-black arch of sky lured him on. Heels to Obyll’s sides, he moved, down the stonier western slope of the ridge and into snow at the bottom. Not much snow—a hand’s depth here and there in the most shadowed places—but enough to remind him that Eron wasn’t impossibly far away, and that snow was a way of life there, though even Eron’s folk had the sense to hide from it in their vast winter holds during what that land called Deep Winter.
The wind was from the south, though—from Ixti—and it carried with it the scents of coming spring. As if sensing that, Obyll snorted with what sounded suspiciously like delight, and of her own will strove to move faster. Zrill let her—cautiously, for stones could lurk beneath that snow. And worse. He’d heard rumors—things babbled by the Eronese woman in one of her torture sessions—that the Prince had lost a mount to a scorpion burrow.
And there were more scorpions here than farther north.
Still, he was young—twenty-five—and strong enough to survive even if he lost a steed. He was also well fed, and had more food in his saddlebags, and weapons, because no one left Lynnz’s camp without them. Finally, he wore more clothing than might be apparent, because he was never certain when he might be marooned out here.
But for the moment, all was well, and so he and Obyll kept going.
He was still riding when midnight rose overhead. Desert still surrounded him, but it was flatter now, and comprised of sand interspersed with stone. One moon had set and two risen to replace it, washing the place with a strange admixture of shadows. But what drew Zrill’s attention was a dark crescent in the landscape straight ahead, as though some vast thing had taken a bite from the earth—a crescent that a finger’s farther riding revealed to be a declivity in the land. It was in fact the rim of the Pit, as the escarpment-edged depression that occupied most of the Flat’s western half was called. And except for a few odd streams below that rim, it made the desolation of the Flat resemble a garden.
It was also Zrill’s goal. He reined Obyll to a walk and nudged her north. He’d missed a minor landmark—the spires of wind-worked sandstone hereabouts looked too much alike in the dark—and had arrived south of his goal. Not that it was a problem. It was simply that he prided himself on not making such fundamental errors.
Mistakes got you killed; they got you found out and distrusted. Trust was very important to Zrill—and not only Lord Lynnz’s.
He’d reached the rim now, and dared to peer over the cliff. It was fairly low here—only a dozen spans—and was marked and fissured with any number of depressions that looked like the start of a way down. Only one was, however, and he found it with little trouble a hand later, though he had to dismount to guide a frightened Obyll part of the way. The trail was narrow, and the moonlight too faint to show a clear way to the bottom. He therefore felt a certain comfort when, halfway down, a black-clad figure melted from the rocks to his right to block his path, face veiled by a black-sylk mouth-mask, but with a sword clearly visible.
“Zrill min Bizz,” Zrill announced. “The scorpion stings its own kind.”
“The sting is the child of the sword,” came the reply.
The figure—he couldn’t guess its sex—merged back into the shadows. Zrill exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and edged past.
A second figure intercepted him where the trail issued into a flat sand field at the foot of the cliff. The Pit swept away to the west, a featureless, dark-sanded abomination as anonymous as a waveless ocean.
“The sting is the child of the sword,” he intoned.
“A child with a sword should be stung,” came the reply.
And once again Zrill moved on.
The cliff to the right was pocked with caves at various levels, all of which he ignored until he rounded a certain head-high outcrop and turned sharp right, which put him face-to-face with one from which issued a furtive light. So little light, in fact, and so precisely located, that only one seeking it would notice.
He followed it into the cliff. Turned left, and relaxed as
that light washed out to meet him, becoming brighter and clearer as he progressed. The cave walls changed, too, becoming smoother, squarer, and straighter, and he could hear voices now, and smell food. The scent of stables reached him as well, and then suddenly a tunnel opened to one side, down which he heard louder talk. A few paces farther on he passed an actual door, and then he was facing a much larger door indeed: gilded bronze twice as high as his head. Tunnels broke off to right and left. A sexless figure appeared from the right-hand one, to relieve him of Obyll, as another made to undo his mouth-mask.
He intercepted the black-gloved hand and drew it down. “Zrill,” he repeated, and stopped where he was, arms folded, staring at the doors.
“A moment,” the left one replied, and strode away.
More quickly than he’d expected, both doors parted down the middle, and as soon as the gap was wide enough to admit him, Zrill stepped boldly through.
Had he not known he was inside a cave, and many shots from civilization, Zrill would’ve sworn he was in some princeling’s pleasure dome. Marble surrounded him. The trickle of water reached his ears from rills hidden beneath bronze screens, exactly as in Barrax’s palace. The ceiling was a sweep of white sylk that continued down the walls to define chambers, all kept carefully away from the myriad beeswax candles and the odd glow-globe imported from Eron.
A few people lolled about, but only a few. In spite of the luxury, the place had an austere feel, like a well-run military camp.
Which it was.
Zrill would’ve been impressed had he not been here before. And at that, there were a few things he’d forgotten, which always impressed him anew.
One of which was the way that Barrax, though he was king of Ixti, could often be found lounging casually about as though he were some particularly well-clad and well-groomed off-duty soldier.
The king saw him before Zrill was aware of his presence, and called the Horse Master by name, motioning him to the cushion opposite, in an alcove defined mostly by walls of sylk. A tray of cold meat sat there, surrounded by a crescent of sauces arranged from sweet to sharp.
Zrill met the king’s eyes briefly, then withdrew his ceremonial geen-claw dagger and, with a formal nod and bow, laid it on the carpet before him.
“Step into my home,” Barrax said, already reaching for a brass wine ewer from which he filled a twin goblet to his own.
“Majesty—”
“You rode shots to meet me and, king or no, it is I who am in your debt.”
Zrill nodded and sat down, cross-legged. Barrax’s face was intense. And though well combed, his black hair was in need of trimming.
A pause for the ritual sip of peace, and for another to slake his thirst, and Zrill set down the goblet. “This news shouldn’t wait,” he began. “In short, Prince Kraxxi has returned.”
Barrax tensed, and his eyes flashed, but he showed no other reaction—which surprised Zrill. “Returned,” he mused. “Was that the word you would choose?”
Zrill nodded. “He came out of the Flat five sunsets back. To my eternal regret, there was no way I could get away until now. Lynnz made me watch.”
“Watch?”
“The … preparation. He treated him well—fed him, bathed him, kept him warm, and gave him fine clothes—but denied him sleep.”
“For no reason?”
“Maybe for a reason. Kraxxi was there by choice, that much was clear. He was seeking you. The only thing he would say, when put to any question, was, ‘I will speak only to my father.’”
Barrax snorted with laughter. “And of course Lynnz sent messengers immediately to the court at Ixtianos, where he presumes I am.”
Zrill dared a chuckle of his own, having had some version of this conversation before. “Where he indeed presumes you are. Where a well-paid actor lives in luxury before he—”
“Not dies,” Barrax finished for him. “Is put to sea and told to sail south and not return.”
“Have any?”
“None of which one might speak.” Barrax laughed again, but something about his expression told Zrill he was treading on dangerous ground. There were limits, he supposed, even to one of the few outside Barrax’s circle to know that the royal court officially functioning in Ixti was a sham, and that Barrax had ordered his most trusted guard and staff, and all his southern levies, to meet him here, in this secret place in the Pit, while he took stock of the lord of his northern levies, Lord Lynnz. And waited.
“Is there more you would tell?” Barrax asked, filling another goblet for Zrill.
Zrill took it gratefully. “Aye, lord king, there is.”
And with that he told all he had seen and witnessed about Prince Kraxxi and the woman whose name neither the prince nor the woman herself would reveal.
When he was finished, Barrax rose. “You have stayed as long as you dare,” he said. “Would that I could reward you with rest as well as gold, but alas, that may not be—though you may certainly take that goblet as token of this meeting. For the rest … I go to ponder what this news might be that my son thinks will buy his life.”
CHAPTER IV:
WITCHING
(WESTERN ERON-DEEP WINTER: DAY XL-MIDMORNING)
Rrath awakened to cold feet, the scent of salt-dried fish stewing to palatability, and Eddyn sitting in the wide-open doorway studying the map. In spite of his bedroll, a layer of furs, and a pile of ratty blankets they’d found at this latest fish camp, he shivered. And would have feigned sleep longer, had Eddyn’s sharp gaze not caught him with his eyes open.
“You have to get up sometime,” Eddyn said mildly—disarmingly. Almost like a friend. “I let you sleep because you needed to. You’ve been pushing hard, for someone your size.”
“I’m fine,” Rrath snapped, finding no energy for politeness this early, even if both things were true. Eddyn was bigger—and stronger—yet they’d covered the same distance; it stood to reason he’d had to work harder to achieve the same results. At least they hadn’t lacked for food the last few days, all of which they’d concluded at fish camps, which were generally well provisioned—if one didn’t mind fish soup, fish stew, and fish chowder.
At least Eddyn was a competent cook.
Rrath wished, however, that he’d witnessed the preparation.
Sighing, he dragged himself out of the covers, found his next layer of clothing—leather leggings, knee boots, and snug undertunic—and began tugging them on. Eddyn put down the map and ambled over to the fireplace to scoop up a cupful of stew and pour it into a bowl for him.
“You having one, too?” Rrath inquired, as he found his top tunic and flipped up the hood, the better to shield his ears from the infernal wind that was also blowing smoke into his face.
Eddyn grinned, white teeth gleaming like the snow beyond the door. “Still don’t trust me? If it’ll make you happy, I’ll have that and you can have another.”
Rrath shrugged, but Eddyn helped himself to the first bowl and let Rrath fill a second. That was the trouble with all this: not trusting Eddyn. Of course Eddyn didn’t trust him, either—with cause. But it really was unfortunate to be at heart a good person, as Rrath certainly considered himself, and yet be driven to do things that violated every ethic he’d ever learned in exchange for access to a dubious, unseen power that seemed increasingly unlikely to be forthcoming.
That wouldn’t be forthcoming if word of how his first assignment had been botched reached the relevant authorities. As it surely had by now.
Of course, he knew certain things, too, but most of those he literally couldn’t talk about. And even if he could, it was as much as his life was worth to reveal them.
All because he’d liked observing animals. Which had attracted the notice of a certain Life Priest named Nyllol, who’d put him in touch with them.
Who liked observing everything.
As much, apparently, as Eddyn liked observing the map, which he’d picked up again.
“I doubt anything has moved since the last time you looked at that,�
�� Rrath drawled, punctuating his remark with a swallow of peppery stew.
“I’m considering an alternate route.”
“Are there any?”
Eddyn laid the map between them. “If we’re lucky, we should reach Grinding-Hold tonight, which is right at the edge of the Wild, where the river drops down in cataracts that power the grinding wheels. Beyond are the plains. We could stay on the river and have easy going, terrain-wise, after we pass the hold—just continue skiing the river. But there’s not much food or shelter through there, and we are in a hurry. So look: The river curves around right here; if we go overland, we could cut off a day or more.”
Rrath studied him carefully. “I assume you have reason to think that might be unwise?”
Eddyn nodded. “First—and this is not a problem—if we stay with the river, we’re guaranteed a modicum of shelter—from the camps, at night, and from the terrain in general—because the river usually flows between banks, which will keep the worst of the wind away.”
Rrath nodded back, uncertainly.
“The problem’s the weather. We’ve been incredibly lucky so far, but I’m not sure how much longer we can count on the weather to cooperate. If we got caught out on the plain with the wind and the cold—we’re coming into the season of the long blows now—we could burrow in and maybe survive awhile. But it could easily blow for more days than we’ve got endurance or supplies. And the landscape’s also more rugged.”
Rrath cleared his throat. “You’re right about the weather. But …” He paused and shook his head. “Never mind.”
Eddyn regarded him sharply. “What?” But then realization awoke in his eyes, and Rrath knew he’d said too much. “You’ve trained as a weather-witch. You could find out what the weather’s going to be for the next few days.”
“Training to be a weather-witch and being one are two different things!” Rrath flared. “Do you think I’d have let us run afoul of that storm if I’d known it was coming? I know a little, but not enough.”
