by Tom Deitz
Tyrill nodded sagely. “And that other matter?”
“I had to bribe a young guardsman to get this information, but it is also as you suspected. Two nights after Eellon’s visit, a man was apprehended, having come out of the Wild with news of a wounded comrade. He was taken prisoner, and identified as Eddyn syn Argen-yr—before references to his arrival were altered. He—”
“Eddyn!” Tyrill broke in, lunging forward, as though someone had slapped her back. “But that’s impossible! He’d have come straight to me upon leaving the tower. Unless—” She broke off. “Continue,” she managed breathlessly.
“I was only told they were altered, Chief; I didn’t see the earlier version. Later that same night, there was a flurry of comings and goings between the tower and Priest-Hold—messages sent first from the tower notifying them that one of their own had been found injured nearby, and then the arrival of several high functionaries from that clan, and another clandestine departure. Interestingly enough, the references to Priest-Clan comings and goings were not altered, only those to Eddyn.”
Tyrill gnawed her lip. “Would that I could see these records myself, but that would draw too much attention.”
“There is one final thing, Chief,” Lynee said hesitantly. “No one would talk about it directly, but I got the clear impression that the King knew Eddyn was coming and had ordered that he be arrested immediately upon his arrival.”
“He has no authority to do that without informing me!” Tyrill all but raged. “I don’t suppose you heard the reason given?”
“I think it had something to do with destruction of a masterwork.”
“Avall,” Tyrill growled. “Now this makes sense—of a sort. Except that Avall being here at all makes no sense.” She paused, having realized she was not alone. “You heard nothing I said since coming here,” she said flatly. “You may go, with my thanks. Do not be surprised, however, if I don’t find reason to send you away for a time, as soon as such can be arranged.”
“As you will, Chief,” Lynee murmured, and departed.
“Send in Nisheen,” Tyrill called to her back.
Nisheen was most things Lynee wasn’t. Though born to Argen-yr, her mother was Healer-Hold, and her gifts lay in that direction. Which would probably prompt a defection when the time came for her to state her official calling when she turned twenty, a year hence. She was also slim as a reed and intense, almost angry, though Tyrill had never found the source of that ire.
The obligatory greetings and drinks disposed of, Tyrill got right to business. “How fare things in Healer-Hold?”
“There are many things to tell you, Chief. So many I hardly know where to begin, and some of them things I was not dispatched to learn, but which may prove to be of more interest.” At a sign from Tyrill she went on. “Briefly, then, as to the information I was sent to retrieve, I was able to learn no more about Eellon’s condition than you knew heretofore. His body grows frail; that is no secret to anyone in this hold or hall. He hasn’t been sleeping well of late, however, to judge by the increased requests his healer has made for certain ingredients useful in sleeping draughts. And he’s apparently having trouble with headaches, which seem to coincide with periods of irregular heartbeat. He has refused drugs for either, because he says they dull the mind.”
“And how do you know this last?”
“His healer requested the drugs … in case.”
A brow shot up. Tyrill leaned forward in casual interest. “In case of what?”
Nisheen shook her head. “No one would say, though my sense is that they expect something to fail in him … eventually.”
“If only he precedes me in that happening,” Tyrill muttered. Then: “You spoke of other things?”
“Aye, Chief, it would seem that not only is Eellon in need of drugs, so is His Majesty, except that he is seeking painkillers—very strong ones.”
Tyrill leaned back and gnawed her lip again. “I wonder if this is real information, or something planted by His Majesty for whatever reason.”
“I think it is real, Chief. The request for drugs has not come from the Royal Healer, but from the King’s own daughter, who is apprenticed at Healing. I don’t know who the intercessor is between King and daughter, if there is one, but she seemed very concerned, though she wouldn’t say why.”
“I have some ideas,” Tyrill mused. “More than that is not for me to say—to you.”
“As you will. But there is yet one more thing I thought you should know. His Majesty has been sending his own healer to Priest-Hold to check on someone who apparently came out of the Wild several days back. He is unconscious, but His Majesty is keen to know if he raves in his stupor, and has given orders that word be sent as soon as the lad revives.”
“Do you have a name for this boy?”
“Rrath syn Garnill. I know him vaguely.”
Tyrill nodded slowly. “And you’re sure you know nothing of the King’s pain? Are you not bonded to one of his squires?”
Nisheen blushed, but then her face darkened with emotion of another kind. “I thought we agreed we were to keep that out of it. I love Barri; I don’t want him to think I’m using him, and certainly not to someone else’s ends.”
Tyrill’s anger surged in return, but she fought it down. “We did agree,” she acknowledged. “But anything he volunteered without your asking, and to which he has not sworn you to silence, would violate very little.”
Nisheen’s brow furrowed in thought. “He told me out of concern, and I will tell you, but remember what I risk here, Chief.”
“I remember,” Tryill replied coldly.
“It wasn’t much, really. He only said that he’d noticed that the King was not using his squires as much as heretofore, and that he had himself noticed that the King seemed to limp when he thought no one was around.”
She paused. “Chief,” she dared, “do you think there is a connection between the limp and the King going through his daughter to acquire painkillers?”
Tyrill stilled her face to calm. “If I were to answer that, which I will not—officially—I would say that there might very well be.”
Tyrill did not confront Eellon the next morning, however. Nor the King. Rather, she acted on a notion that had been fermenting in her since hearing from her squires, but from which good sense had, so far, dissuaded her. That, and fear of what Eellon and the King might do, should she nose around their secrets too openly. Still, she had Nisheen in tow, and the girl had obligingly passed word of their intended destination to Argen-yr’s sept-chief, so Tyrill doubted she’d find herself disappearing without at least a search, as Eddyn (so discreet inquiries indicated) apparently had.
Therefore, it was with dawnlight still spreading across the sky that Tyrill and Nisheen made their way from one of Argen-Hall’s lesser gates to the promenade beside the river. Tyrill wore full clan regalia minus the too-distinctive tabard, but also a mouth-mask beneath it, the better to obscure her features. She wanted her presence noted for safety’s sake, but not her identity. Nisheen simply wore gown, cloak, and hood in clan colors.
Their breaths showed white in the chill air, but boots, gloves, and layers of thick fabric made it tolerable, as they walked with casual briskness toward the southwest end of the gorge. Crossing the river on its last span before the waterfall, they soon found themselves facing the calculated wildness of Priest-Clan’s precincts.
Unique in all Eron, Priestcraft had no ruling house, and was therefore clan and craft alike, drawing its members from all aspects of society, at, so they said, the Will of The Eight. And though its members were as educated as the other High Clans, and their tastes as urbane, they chose to present an outward face of ascetic austerity. For that reason, they’d hollowed their hold into the cliffs, leaving as much of the natural facade as possible. The interiors were as luxurious as any High Clan hold.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Nisheen murmured as they paused before the rough-stone trilithons that marked the compound’s formal
entrance.
“No,” Tyrill grunted. “But it’s the only way I can find out what I want to know, without a lot of follow-ups and guessing.”
“Nisheen san Argen-yr,” Nisheen informed the gate-warden in the bored tones of ritual formality, “on business for that clan. And the King,” she added—which in a way it was, though not in a manner to win royal approval.
The warden studied her warily, then nodded toward Tyrill. “And your companion?”
“This is royal business,” Nisheen repeated. “Do we need to tell you more?”
The warden studied Tyrill carefully. Happily he squinted, which Tyrill hoped Nisheen would play to their advantage. “She looks familiar,” the warden mumbled.
“Her identity is her concern,” Nisheen huffed. “And the King’s.”
“‘Royal business’ is not sufficient,” the warden stated flatly.
Tyrill took a deep breath and broke in. “We’ve come to see Rrath syn Garnill, of Weather.”
“For what purpose?”
Tyrill suppressed a scathing retort. This was more than ritual formality. Which likely indicated a hold on some sort of alert.
“To report his condition to the King.”
“One normally sends the Royal Healer for such things.”
“One normally sends the ill to Healer-Hold,” Nisheen retorted. “Now do we go, or do you rouse royal ire?”
“You may go until someone else says you nay,” the warden conceded at last. “I … knew Rrath somewhat myself. Promising lad. If you learn anything …”
Tyrill was glad Nisheen didn’t reply. It had taken all she had to defer even this much authority, and wouldn’t have done even that, were it not for her desire to attract as little attention as possible without resorting to actual subterfuge.
It was as though the cliffs had eyes, she thought, with a shudder, as they continued on, angling toward the left-hand face, not far from the hold’s famous hot-pools. She could smell their sulfur already.
Fortunately for Tyrill’s joints, they didn’t have to continue up the tortuous path to the local sick-hall, for a sweet-faced young man in Weather’s tabard fell into step beside them—from the direction of the pools, in which he’d been indulging, to judge by his damp hair. “I was wondering when someone from your clan would show up,” he blurted, before Tyrill could dispose of him. “Forgive me, Ladies,” he went on awkwardly, “concern has made me rude enough to grasp at any tidbit. I am Esshill syn Vrine. Rrath was my bond-brother.”
“What makes you think we’re looking for Rrath?” Tyrill snapped, unable to restrain her temper any longer. “I thought he was still in service. Gem-Hold-Winter, if I recall.”
Esshill’s features hardened. “The same reason the Craft-Chief from Smith knows where a neophyte from here was posted last Fateing. The same reason folks went storming out of here eight days ago, bound for Eron Tower—and came back with Rrath hurt and maybe dying. That’s got all kinds of people coming and going here, from the Citadel and Healer-Hold, none with explanations. That’s got everyone here looking over their shoulder for no reason anyone can explain.”
“Which still doesn’t explain what you think should be our reasons,” Tyrill noted archly. “Or why you’re volunteering so much to total strangers.” She stopped in place and turned to face him squarely. “What, exactly, do you know, anyway?”
Esshill regarded her levelly. “You’re from a powerful clan with some connection to this matter. I’m saying what’s necessary to assure a maximum number of allies if things fall out as I fear. And, more to the point, I’m saying what I must in order to look out for my friend.” A deep breath. “I know that Rrath and someone rumored to be Tall Eddyn were found near Eron Tower hard on the heels of Midwinter. Rrath had had an accident and was brought back here to recover. Meanwhile, Eddyn disappeared so fast it’d make your head swim. And then, so says rumor, disappeared again before anyone from here could question him. Not that I believe all that,” he added. “No one from here seems to have actually seen Eddyn.” He broke off, looking at his feet. Then: “Do you mean that he’s not in Argen-Hall? But we assumed—”
“Not since he left,” Tyrill sighed. “The King wants a report on Rrath,” she went on irritably. “It would be good if you could provide one.”
Another, deeper breath; Eshill was almost crying. Tyrill actually felt sorry for the lad, having been suddenly put in an awkward station. “He’s unconscious but as healthy as he can be, considering that. Now and then he seems on the verge of awakening, but never does.”
Tyrill nodded sagely. “Would they let us in to see him?”
Esshill shook his head. “No one save myself, his healers, the chiefs of this clan, and the King himself can see him.”
“On whose orders?”
“Actually,” the Priest confessed, “no one seems to know. But he’s got guards. That’s enough for most.”
“Guards don’t always help,” Tyrill sighed. “Thank you for your assistance. I suppose we’d best be going.”
She’d already taken a few steps down the path, when Esshill hailed her once again. “I hope,” he murmured carefully, “that royal curiosity can be forged into royal protection.”
“The Eight protect us all,” Tyrill replied, and strode away, wondering if she’d actually learned anything useful. And wondering, more to the point, why she was suddenly afraid.
CHAPTER XV:
SHARP EYES
(TIR-ERON-DEEP WINTER: DAY LVIII-LATE AFTERNOON)
I still think you should move to your suite here and be done with it,” Lykkon informed Eellon wearily, as he followed his sometime-mentor down one of the Citadel’s least-used corridors. “It would save us all a lot of trouble—and you a lot of pain.”
Eellon halted in a swish of robes. His Clan-Chief cloak swirled around him like a maroon tornado as he turned. “My health is my concern,” he snapped. “Don’t forget that.”
“You’re better company when you don’t hurt,” Lykkon retorted bravely. “Don’t you forget that. As much as you’ve got on your mind right now, I think—”
He broke off, having seen the darkness that clouded Eellon’s face. His Chief wasn’t looking at him, however, but some distance behind, the furrows in his brow deepening by the breath. Lykkon twisted round to investigate.
It was the King, going the opposite way down the corridor at whose terminus they stood. He’d entered it, from a corridor farther on, and hadn’t seen them. But Lykkon noticed something odd the same moment Eellon whispered it. “He’s limping.”
“Maybe he stubbed a toe.”
“Perhaps, but right now we can’t afford to take chances.” And with that, Eellon started down the hall in pursuit of his sovereign. Lykkon had to hurry to keep up, and heard the Chief’s leg and back braces squeaking alarmingly as he strode along at a pace for which they’d not been designed. It had to hurt, nor did Lykkon like the way Eellon’s breath sounded: all cramped and hollow. His face was disturbingly red.
But the King was limping, Lykkon confirmed as he grew closer. Or maybe not, for the King suddenly altered his stride to a much more confident gait.
“He’s heard us,” Eellon hissed under his breath. “That’s all the proof we need—dammit.”
Lykkon didn’t ask “proof of what?” He already knew. The King wouldn’t try to hide a temporary injury.
“Majesty,” Eellon called, as with one smooth motion he swept his hood up, signifying that he now acted in Clan-Chief capacity. The King slowed to a casual—and perfectly paced—saunter, then paused by the door to an unused suite and waited, arms folded across his chest. He looked grim and angry, for any number of reasons Lykkon could imagine.
“Majesty,” Eellon panted again, when they arrived. “I would speak with you a moment.”
Gynn’s eyes flicked from Eellon’s hood to Lykkon. “Very well. But he stays here.”
Lykkon tried not to glare as his King ushered his Chief inside.
“May I sit?” Eellon asked bluntly, noting
in passing that the room seemed long disused, and recalling vaguely that the previous Sovereign’s brother had lodged there. His sigils were still present, blazoned on dusty swags of drapery. Without waiting for reply, Eellon brushed off a chair and sank down in it. He’d exerted himself too much, he supposed; was breathless, sore, and his head felt funny. Still, there was nothing to gain by postponing the inevitable.
Gynn claimed a chair opposite, his face dark as thunder. “Clan-Chief?”
“Majesty,” Eellon began, “there’s no way to say it but to say it. You were limping just now. Nothing odd in that, of itself—people hurt themselves and people heal. But you, I noticed, changed your gait when you became aware someone was watching. I don’t like what that makes me think.”
Gynn’s face was immobile. “And what does it make you think?”
“That you’ve sustained some injury that renders you unable to remain on the throne.” The words rang like pebbles dropped on ice.
The King did not reply.
Eellon took a deep breath. “I put it to you bluntly, Majesty; on your oath as King.”
No reply.
“Majesty, I warn you, tension among allies is never good. Certainly not at this time.”
“Then why do you provoke tension?” Gynn flared. “Is my word not enough for you?”
“I have had no word from you. I have had silence and evasions.”
“A King’s silence is his own. His evasions for the good of the Realm.”
Eellon sprang to his feet, face darkening with a rage he could no longer control. “The good of the Realm?” he gritted. “I wonder if you even know what is good for the Realm. If you do not, I do: a King who is trusted, a King who does not put himself above the Law.” He paused for breath, relaxed a trifle, if only to still his own racing heart. “If I have noticed it, Gynn, then others of the Council will, and put you to the same question. Your choice is not if you reveal your … infirmity, but to whom and when. You have to know that to me and now are the best alternatives you’re likely to have. But I will have honesty from you.”
