by Tom Deitz
Eddyn grinned in a way Rrath didn’t like—a way that said he knew Rrath was holding back. “You knew enough to use the basic technique to locate Avall,” he replied, all pretense of amiability vanished. “You were claiming to be one back in the boathouse,” he went on. “Beyond that, I know that weather-witches can only work in private. I know you and one of the ghost priests disappeared every night after we’d made camp. If privacy’s all you need, you can have it.”
“One needs a lot more than privacy,” Rrath retorted. “One needs a high place, a certain kind of high place. Beyond that, I can’t say.”
“Water from the appropriate Well?”
“So you said.”
Eddyn’s face went hard as stone. “If you can witch, I’d thank you to do it.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Rrath conceded at last, with a sick feeling in his stomach.
“Think of it as minimizing our time together,” Eddyn noted slyly. “The quicker we get to Tir-Eron, the quicker we’re rid of each other.”
“What about Avall?”
“What about him?”
“If he went into the river, and we leave the river—”
“I’ve considered that,” Eddyn replied cryptically. “Never doubt that I’ve got a plan. The point is, the more options we have, the better our chance of success.”
“I can’t guarantee a lot.”
“Try.” Eddyn’s tone brooked no argument. “How much time do you need?”
“It’s only possible four times a day,” Rrath informed him. “Dusk, dawn, noon, and midnight. And that assumes I can find an appropriate place, which is not a given.”
“Try,” Eddyn repeated. “If you’re not back by two hands past noon, I’m going on without you—and I’ll have your gear with me. If you take longer than that, you’d better like fish, and you’d better like cold.”
Rrath didn’t say what he was thinking: that he already liked both better than Eddyn syn Argen-yr.
Rrath hadn’t lied in any meaningful way about weather-witching, but that didn’t mean he’d told all the truth, either. Some things about that art were common knowledge; some were not. The time of day, the use of a high place in which to conduct the rite, the need for privacy—if not widely known, neither were those facts suppressed. Nor was the use of water from Weather’s Well. But there were other, more subtle aspects to witching out the weather that were unknown beyond the craft.
Trouble was, even the most blatant of them applied only to witching at its most fundamental: determining major weather patterns before they manifested. As to changing the weather—few indeed could manage that, and even then in only the most limited manner—else why would Eron suffer the tyranny of Deep Winter that forced half the population to hole up in the gorges, and the other half to hide in the fastnesses of the winter holds?
Rrath had no illusions about changing anything. He had few about his facility at the simpler form, for that matter—but had to try. Eddyn, when sober, was good at spotting lies. What Eddyn didn’t know was that Rrath might have to risk his life to realize even the most basic information.
And that depended on whether he could locate a certain something—and if he could utilize it properly if he did.
He was trying, however: trudging on the truest path he could muster due north of the fish camp, across what might, in warm weather, be a pasture or meadow, aiming toward a forested ridge that blocked most of the northern horizon.
East would’ve been better—or west. But the river lay both ways, and there were no high places on either bank that were out of Eddyn’s sightlines.
So he tromped along, trying to ignore everything that wasn’t part of the world itself—afoot, because to witch one had to be in touch with the earth as much as possible, and due north, because that increased the chance of finding what he sought.
The world was laced with lines of power born of the land itself—of the forces that moved in it, and those that moved it about as it tumbled along in space. That power ran everywhere, but certain types of geography focused it into stronger currents that webbed the whole landscape, as far as anyone knew. Certain things followed those currents without anyone knowing they were so doing—mostly because Priest-Clan alone knew they existed. They crossed each other, too, and Rrath had seen a map of all Eron with those crossings marked, and had noted how they corresponded almost exactly with the locations of major winter holds, and the strongest, not coincidentally, with his own clan’s fastnesses.
To witch the weather, one had to locate one of those currents. None of the major ones lay near here, but there might be a minor one up on that ridge ahead—because it appeared to run due east and west, and the rocks hereabout were of a particular kind and configuration.
Which supposed he’d be able to recognize one of those lines if he crossed it. He might, and he might not. He’d practiced—all his clan had. And he’d shown some aptitude. But that was when he’d been able to compare directly: on the line and off it, and that sample line had been a strong one.
Still, he trudged onward, steadily uphill, hoping to reach his goal by noon—and that noon would prove that goal to be worthwhile. For no clear reason, he found himself imagining a scenario wherein he explained the process to Eddyn.
“Remember the theater at Acting-Hold? Remember how, when you stand at the center-front of the stage and walk to the back, speaking all the while, you reach a point where the sound comes back to you more loudly, though you don’t speak louder yourself? A sound you can feel in your chest and your bones? It’s like that, except that you’re breathing a certain way, and walking at a certain pace that exactly balances it, and if you can maintain proper concentration, and if there’s a line to be found, that’s the way you can locate it—if you’re sensitive to such things.”
A hand before noon, he found it—beyond hope, or in spite of it. He’d started the breathing halfway up the hill and the walk shortly thereafter, and one step he’d trod on ordinary, snow-covered earth, and the next, something came thrumming up through his bones into the fluids around his brain, and he knew.
He’d followed it, then, and sure enough, it had led him to the highest crest of the ridge. He still had time, too—enough to locate the largest section of open ground between the skimpy trees, and to sweep that section bare of snow in a circular patch a span in diameter where the current hummed most strongly.
That accomplished, he found a fallen tree trunk and sat down on it, to divest himself of boots, leggings, hose—everything between his bare feet and the natural world. Setting his jaw against cold that jabbed up into his flesh from the frozen earth, he began to pace the circle in a slow clockwise spiral from outside to inside, trying as he did, to get a sense of which way the principal current ran. Fortunately, he didn’t have to complete the whole circuit to tell. It was as he’d expected: near–right angles to the ridgeline, but on an almost perfect alignment between the dome of the fish camp he could just see behind him and a cleft in another ridgeline on the northern horizon. He knelt there, marked that alignment with his dagger, then returned to the log.
A fumbling at his waist produced a waterskin he’d managed to hide from Eddyn by virtue of its appearing to be empty, and he quickly unscrewed the carved ivory cap. Steeling himself, he tipped it to his lips, almost despairing before he felt that final welcome trickle. Just as well, probably, that this was all that remained. The stuff tasted more like leather than water, and had certainly lost potency since last he’d used it (the ghost priests had maintained their own supply), but he felt the effect already: a vague lightheadedness, as though his brain were not quite connected to his body, yet conversely was more attached to his senses.
Then came the dangerous part—and the part most folks didn’t know about. Moving quickly, he stripped off the rest of his clothes, noting as he did that his upper lip was already starting to ice over and his eyes to tear. The cold went beyond pain—and could kill him in less than a finger unless he found what he sought in a hurry.
Al
most dancing across the frozen ground, he returned to the power nexus and lay down, arms outstretched along its major axis, heart centered over the crucial point. That accomplished, he closed his eyes, breathed a certain way, and tried to let himself go.
The cold bit at him, gnawing up from the earth, distracting him. Snow crystals pricked across his flesh, muddling his concentration. Anxiety made him sweat, and he could feel his naked shoulders, buttocks, and limbs being bound by new ice to the earth.
But that was also where the power lay, and he let it seep up into him through all that cold. Abruptly, the cold vanished—seemed to—and he felt himself at once suspended above the land and merged with it.
Now he had to merge with the sky. Another breath, and he sank deeper into trance—or else it took him deeper. And as he drank the air, he tried also to drink the sky, to feel the wind on his body not as coldness but as a play of pressures and moistures, and then to follow those powers, as the currents in the land flowed through him. It was not a matter of observing weather through time, but of seeing where it came from: of knowing how the winds swirled out there above the Oval Sea, or above Angen’s Spine, and noting which were stronger and more like to come sweeping into the plains.
The rest he’d learned already: what a thunderstorm felt like a-borning. Or a long warm spell, or a blizzard. And as best he could tell, though two blizzards were building up their own power-swirls—one to the east, one to the west—neither would manifest for the next two days, which should be still and clear.
Which was what he’d set out to discover.
If only it hadn’t cost him too much warmth. One thing about witching, one never knew how long one stayed out of one’s body.
A breath felt like inhaling fire, and told him that bits of his lungs had frozen, but it also served to wrench him from that too-dangerous trance. Another, and he sat up, feeling the earth tug at him, ripping shreds of frozen skin and hair from his body. He stood shakily, dashed to the tree, and slung his cloak around his shoulders, grateful for the way the sun had warmed the dark fabric. He dressed beneath it, as fast as numb fingers would allow. Patches of skin showed unhealthy reddening. He would itch tonight, but he doubted he’d suffered permanent damage. One thing was clear, however. He would not do this in the Wild again for anyone outside his clan, and only then under orders. And no matter what Eddyn threatened, he would spend an entire hand, once he returned to camp, sitting by the fire.
Eddyn didn’t argue, however, merely watched in silence as Rrath strode into the common room and helped himself to a double portion of soup. Only when he’d finished eating did Rrath mutter a terse “It’s possible.” And go to sleep.
CHAPTER V:
GRINDING-HOLD
(WESTERN ERON-DEEP WINTER: DAY XL-EVENING)
Rrath crouched beside Eddyn behind a snowcapped block of half-carved stone in a small granite quarry atop a low hill—and stared down at Grinding-Hold.
They’d left the Ri-Eron two shots back—as soon as the hold’s lights showed—and veered off overland, the better to support Eddyn’s sketchy plan. Eddyn had been here before, but the place was new to Rrath, and in spite of himself, he couldn’t help being seduced by the vista before him.
The place was impressive. Like most winter holds, it was hewn into the land—in this case, the southern spur of a ridge that the river had bisected. Closer to the shore, additional buildings had been added, some of them aboveground, and a section of the flow had been turned aside beneath its icy crust to power a vast assortment of sheltered wheels and cogs. Year in and year out, they ground, reducing everything that needed such attention in Eron: metallic ores, sand for glass, and grains of every kind.
The only true bridge to span the Ri-Eron outside Eron Gorge arched on stone piers to the nearer side, giving, now that the river was frozen, the appearance of a road lifted above a snowfield. Torches showed along its railing, more for appearance than anything, for the span was empty.
The northern bank was their goal; the ridge was lower there, and the river shallower—too shallow for grinding. Yet that side was also inhabited.
Most holds housed their livestock in vast stables within their bowels; Grinding-Hold didn’t. Atypically, a separate set of stables had been hollowed in the sweep of the northern ridge, presenting a dozen archways to an exercise ground between the stables proper and the river. It was there that Eddyn intended to secure mounts for the next stage of their journey.
It was his risk, more than Rrath’s, but Rrath had already risked more than he was telling. A moment more they waited, then Eddyn muttered something unintelligible and rose. He tugged his tunic approximately straight, secured his skis and pole, then caught Rrath’s eye. “One thing,” he murmured. “If Avall’s body has made it this far, there’s a good chance these folks have found it. Let me do the talking. You look sick—from exposure, if nothing else. Anyone we meet will understand that. They may want to treat you, but I’ll work around that. If we’re lucky, there’ll only be a couple of grooms doubling as guards.”
“And if we’re not?” Rrath challenged.
“Let’s just say we’d better be.”
Rrath smelled the food before he saw it. The odor—hot meat and spices—was wafting through a badly repaired chink beside the cold-door that filled the centermost of the outer archways, and the largest. There’d been no guard—Eron had no raiders, and banditry was all but unknown. Besides, it was Deep Winter, and even rogues and vagabonds had common sense. Eddyn’s plan was to claim they were hunters who’d lost their way and sought a night’s shelter without troubling the folk in the hold. Certainly their appearance could support that: dirty clothes, greasy hair, and fifteen days’ worth of stubble.
Eddyn eased in front of Rrath, co-opting his position, but Rrath had seen enough. The cold-door opened on a winter-lock, with another door opposite—probably leading to an access corridor that paralleled the whole thirty-span length of the stables.
“Good a time as any,” Eddyn murmured—and rapped the travelers’ cadence on the thick oak.
After a long pause—and two more sets of raps—Rrath heard footsteps approaching. A small panel opened at head height in the main door. A pale face appeared, rounder than was typical of the Eronese, and, not surprisingly, young—winter holds tended to be staffed by those just beginning their years of service. Rrath waited for him to speak. And tried to look suitably ill.
“Travelers …?” the youth blurted, utterly failing to mask his perplexity.
“Hunters,” Eddyn gave back calmly. “Some beasts have winter coats that make even the cold worth the risk.”
“I … see,” the fellow mumbled, sounding as if he didn’t.
“We lost our way, then saw the lights. We don’t want to bother the folks in the hold—too much carrying on, and we stink. But we’d be grateful for a warm place to stay the night, and some of whatever’s cooking. I’m afraid we don’t have much to offer but dried fish. But if that will suffice—”
“Come in,” the man sighed. “Wait while I shift the bar.”
Rrath heard heavy boards being slid aside, and stood back as the door opened—sideways on rails, as it evolved. A brown surcoat barred with gold clothed their would-be host from neck to knees: the livery of horse sept of Beastcraft. It looked to be hastily donned, and Rrath guessed he was a groom, perhaps doing double duty as a guard.
They shook the snow from their clothing in the winter gate, before moving on to the vaulted access corridor, where a range of door-filled archways mirrored more like that by which they’d entered. Rrath smelled horses—their flesh, their droppings, and the dried fodder on which they’d subsist through the season. More importantly, he’d identified that other smell: fresh-fried sausage.
“I’m Den,” Eddyn volunteered. “My friend is ill,” he continued, ushering Rrath in before him as their host steered them toward a doorway opposite—probably a lip-service version of a guardroom. Eddyn had given his name first, Rrath noted: a sign of trust. That it wasn’t his tru
e name made no difference under the circumstances.
“It’s been a mild few days,” the groom replied. “I guess you knew that, or you wouldn’t be out this far.”
Eddyn didn’t answer, content to let the two of them be shepherded into a stone-walled common room, with a fireplace at one end and a number of tables, benches, and low chairs set about at random, save for one pair close by the fire. Doors to either side likely led to sleeping quarters and the obligatory bath. The whole was surrounded by the invisible concentric ranges of stalls that fanned out from it to either side. It being too late to be cooking dinner, Rrath suspected the sausage was a late-night snack.
Another young man rose when they entered, scooting two more chairs closer to the fire, before motioning them to sit. His eyes spoke eloquently: curiosity, wariness, and mistrust, all masked by the rites of hospitality. He was a small youth, too, and wiry.
“I’m Gorrinn,” said the fellow who had admitted them, his livery rendering announcement of clan redundant.
“Vil,” his companion echoed, sitting back down to attend the sausages, which were starting to smoke.
“Ath,” Rrath replied, through a cough he hoped would mask the lie. They were invoking hospitality here, and that involved certain protocols.
Eddyn shot him a glare their hosts missed, and joined them, scrounging in his backpack as he did. A moment later, he’d produced the brandy. “Donation for whatever meal you’re cooking. We’ve fish, too, though better can surely be had in the hold.”
“We thank you,” Gorrinn replied formally. “We’ve all the sausage you can eat, though you might want to do your own cooking. Vil tends to burn things.”
Eddyn nodded amiably. “I apologize for troubling you, but Ath and I have been out for days without seeing another living person. With him sick—”
“What troubles him?” Gorrinn broke in, sparing a glance at Rrath. Rrath tried not to scowl at being discussed in the third person.
