by Tom Deitz
The King stared at the chart one final time, stuck a crimson pin into a certain location, then looked up. His eyes were tired, his hair greasier than Avall had ever seen it, but he still managed a smile as he preempted their bows with a sweep of his hand, indicating that they should take seats. Avall found a folded camp stool and claimed it for Strynn, then joined his companions in taking places on the floor.
“Greetings, cousins,” the King intoned formally. “I trust your journey here was productive.” He paused, as though waiting for reply.
Avall swallowed and nodded. “It was as fast a ride as that size trek could make, once we’d decided that the best thing for us to do was join you—not that Rann had any choice,” he added, with a nervous grin. “But if by productive, you mean have we learned more than we knew or finished certain things, then the answer is no.” He broke off, staring intently at the strangers. The King clearly read his meaning. “We need privacy,” he informed them. “All but Tryffon, who knows as much of these matters as I did when last we spoke.”
Avall availed himself of the ensuing confusion of bodies to procure drinks for himself and his companions, and found himself in a somewhat less crowded chamber as he finished. “I forget myself, Majesty,” he began. “Since we know your time is precious, what would you know of us?”
The King munched a morsel of smoked meat. “First of all, how fares Lord Eellon? I’ve had reports, of course, but you know him better than anyone. Did I do right in leaving him in charge of the Council?”
“You did right,” Avall acknowledged. “But, forgive me, Majesty, I fear you did the man himself no good. We all forget how old he is. I”—he paused, swallowed again—“I have never seen him so weak. You know he collapsed on the floor of the Hall?”
“I know. Two questions there, then—no, three. Who is really running the Council? What is the situation with Priest-Clan? And what use is Tyrill making of all this?”
Avall took a deep breath. “Three very large questions, Sire. First … Eellon is still managing to run affairs though, often as not, from his rooms. The sept-chiefs are proving to be much more cooperative than expected, or else they’ve rallied behind the situation for the nonce; it’s hard to tell. Tyrill is … herself. I think she still despises you, but she seems also to have remembered that she’s Eronese first of all. And I think she’s glad to have something to actually make. Something that she can contribute—but that’s suitably showy—to gain her recognition.”
“And Priest-Clan?”
Avall shrugged. “Who knows? One thing I do suggest, however, if I may advise Your Majesty, is that as soon as this war is over, you examine that clan with the finest gaze you have. There are at least two layers of power there, and who knows how many more. My sense is that very few people in that clan know the entire pattern. As far as the prisoners are concerned, they’re well fed—though a few have refused food—and well guarded. The bulk of the clan are keeping good behavior because, as it happens, the chiefs of Common Clan have noted that they don’t seem to actually have much to do besides intercede with The Eight and perform ceremonies—which doesn’t get them much sympathy when loved ones are marching off to battle.”
The King smiled wanly. “That always happens. Religion tends to fade in importance when faced with real life. Until one stares down the dripping blade of death, when one finds religion again.”
“Maybe we can prevent that, Sire,” Avall murmured.
The King took a long swallow. “Maybe we can.”
A pause, then: “You know Merryn is here.”
The King nodded.
“Have you spoken to her?”
“At length and often, but less of her escape than of what she saw there and en route here. I do know, however, that you were able to contact her with a gem.”
“One of them,” Avall corrected. “Your Majesty also knew that Strynn and Rann arrived with more?”
“That’s all I know, though I certainly wouldn’t have minded being better informed.”
Strynn cleared her throat. “Not counting the one Eddyn stole, we now have six, Majesty. I have one which is bonded to me, as does Rann. Avall bonded with another just before we left—which leaves three, which we thought to incorporate into the royal regalia if you would consent to having them bound to you.”
Gynn’s expression was an odd mixture of excitement and wariness. “I would certainly like one bound to me, for very many reasons. But three? Can someone be bound to three?”
Avall shrugged. “I’m bound to two, though not entirely by choice. But as to that, it brings us to the real reason we’re here. We’ve”—he paused for a deep breath—“we’ve been trying to hone our communication skills—Strynn and Rann and I have. Lykkon and Div have helped. Rann’s done some really spectacular theorizing, and—” He broke off again. “You haven’t met Div, have you?”
The King shook his head. “I trusted your judgment in bringing her here.”
“She saved our lives,” Rann supplied simply. “She kept us alive in the Deep.”
“I’ve heard some of that tale,” Gynn informed them. “For now—what I need to know is whether you can communicate well enough to send the kind of word I need back and forth?”
“We can,” Avall affirmed. “Before, when we only had one jewel, one party really needed to be asleep or distracted. With two, we can both be alert. And if we could take you into the bond as well—”
“It would be a risk,” Strynn added carefully. “But I think it would be worth it.”
“It would,” the King agreed. “Provided mastering this skill doesn’t distract from more pressing duties. But tell me, what of that other thing? The power—the real power—you said the thing displayed. Have you mastered that yet?”
“You mean the ability to reach into the Overworld and bring back power from there? We’re working on it, but not to our satisfaction. We hope, however, now that we’re in camp, to give it more attention.”
The King scowled. “What’re the problems?”
Avall shifted to a more comfortable position. “First of all, we haven’t found a way for one person to go there alone. It requires the support of at least two others—Rann thinks one male and one female—but we haven’t tested that yet, because we’ve been on the road since the morning after I activated my stone. There hasn’t even been time to try to reconnect with Merryn, or we’d have known she was here. Second, we haven’t found a way to go there quickly. And if the thing is to be used as a weapon, we must be able to determine when, where, and how it acts. Rann thinks willpower might be able to direct it, but again, he has little to back that up.”
The King regarded him steadily. “Make that your first priority. Loath as I am to use such a wonder as a weapon, I see no choice if we’re to stem Ixti’s advance. The river will start to recede in a few days, so I’m told. We must be ready. Anything you need—most especially privacy in which to work—you may have. I’ll have a tent set up next to mine, so that you may consult me at need, or apprise me of any developments.”
“It could be dangerous,” Avall advised.
“So can war in general, but do what you can. For now, I’d suggest you rest. Get food. Meet with your sister. Get her tale. I’ll join you when I can.”
“For what, Sire?” Rann blurted.
“To be bonded,” Gynn retorted. “We don’t dare wait any longer.”
Avall sensed in his tone a dismissal and rose. “By your leave, then, Sire, we all have work to do.”
“And mine not the greatest,” Gynn replied. “Go, young kinsmen, and be at it.”
A moment later Avall and his companions walked into the twilight.
Merryn met them there. “I begged off,” she chuckled. “Actually, I explained the situation and found someone with more desire for authority than sense, and set him taking the gate toll. Now,” she continued, “you look even more tired than I feel, so if you’ve no other duty—which I suspect you don’t—you can join me in my tent and eat while I tell my tale, and the
n you can tell yours.”
“Your tent,” Strynn said pointedly. “How do you rate that?”
“I’ve become one of the royal intelligence officers, among other things, courtesy of my stay behind enemy lines. The King keeps me close by in case he needs to know something about affairs in Ixti. Not that I know as much as he’d like; still, it’s more than he’d know otherwise.”
Lykkon was fumbling in his pack for his journal as they made their way into the tent Merryn indicated, which was indeed located within a moment’s summons of the royal pavilion. It was also conveniently close to the kitchens, to which Lykkon, as youngest, was summarily dispatched.
Merryn’s tent wasn’t large—one more person would’ve crowded it—but there was room for a camp bed, along with a small table and a stool. Bits of armor and harness lay about, as well as a set of saddlebags. Avall wondered what had become of her faithful horse, Ingot, which she’d ridden off to War-Hold after their first Fateing. Probably nothing either of them wanted to contemplate.
For her part, Merryn wasted no time in stripping down to her undertunic and house-hose, wiggling her toes gratefully as she stretched out on the bed. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she sighed. “I truly can’t. So much has happened since the Sundering. You rode north and I rode south, and somewhere in between the world changed. This spring is nothing like I’d expected.”
“For none of us,” Avall broke in, easing aside to make room for Lykkon, who’d returned in record time, with a large tray in hand. It was simple fare—hot bread, roast meat, and boiled grain. And both wine and ale—from the royal steward, he confided. He set the meal on the table and joined the others. The food could be eaten with fingers.
“I was just telling my sister that the Dark Half was not what any of us expected,” Avall informed his cousin. “I expected to be returning about this time with the helm finished and a fresh new child in tow. I was looking forward to showing what I’d done to the King. But I never had any idea that what I’d actually be showing him would be something of such power no one can imagine—and of which we’d never even heard a year ago.”
“I never thought I’d have dared the Deep,” Rann chimed in, reaching over to clasp Div’s hand. “And I sure as Eight never thought I’d meet anyone out there like Div.”
“We also know that Priest-Clan has darker aspects than we’d ever suspected.”
“But that’s not why we came here,” Lykkon broke in. “We’re here to hear Merryn’s story, first of all.”
Merryn rolled her eyes, as she hastily swallowed a chunk of bread and meat. “The question is, where do I begin? With my arrival at War-Hold? With me happening to be on patrol when we picked up four weather-worn fugitives from Ixti? With having the bad luck to fall in love with one of them at the same time my brother was discovering that gems are sometimes more than gems? Dammit, I want to tell all this blow by blow and breath by breath, and I can’t! There’s no time. Trouble is, this is the first time we’ve all been separated by so much, both in time and distance and—worse—experience.”
“What I want to know,” Strynn said decisively, “is how you escaped from prison. Surely they had you guarded.”
“Heavily,” Merryn affirmed with a wicked smile. “Word got out that I was kin to the King of Eron, which is perfectly true, and that they’d be fools to kill so valuable a hostage. And then”—her face darkened and she wouldn’t look at them outright—“they found out about the gem. I told them—” She pounded the bedding with a fist. “I told them!” she repeated. “They tortured me, and I thought I could stand up to it, but I failed. They found out that I knew about the gem, which maybe saved Kraxxi—”
“Kraxxi?”
“The king of Ixti’s son. He was my … lover. And such a strange mix of naive and wise. So different from the men here. I don’t know what it was about him, but even after he betrayed me, there was something. I guess there still is. Anyway, to make a very long and unpleasant story short, Kraxxi found out about the gem—and no, I didn’t tell him, Avall; all I can think is that he heard me talking in my sleep. In any event he found out about it and fled south, I assume because he’d made the same assumptions about the military applications of the thing that you and the King have. I followed, at first purely to get a full accounting out of him because he’d lied to me. Bad luck caught me out, but I survived winter on the Flat—by virtue of being captured by outriders from Ixti intent on probing our southern border. Turns out they were part of a secretly assembled expeditionary force. I was tortured, but they brought me north with them—me and Kraxxi both.”
“To—?” Lykkon prompted.
“To the Cloister of the Winds, half a hard day’s ride below South Gorge. That’s where Barrax had set up his command, since the valley was already flooding when he got there. In any event, to tell you what you asked, your last contact almost … killed me.”
Strynn’s face went white, and Avall actually gasped. “Killed you?”
Merryn nodded. “You’re aware that using it consumes body heat?”
“I know it draws energy from those around you, and yourself if you’re alone. We haven’t had a chance to fully test and observe the effect—to Lykkon’s chagrin, I might add.”
“Well, it either froze me to death or the next thing to it, but I survived. The important part is that they took me for dead long enough for me to escape. Trouble was, the only escape was into the Ri-Vynn. I was already cold, and nearly drowned, but something about the fact that I had been nearly dead made me more willing to dare things. I gave myself to the river, pretty much. I floated past the camp, and fortunately, there was a hold on an island halfway between the Vynn and its juncture with the Ri-Ormill. Both were in flood, of course, and as cold as the Not-World. Anyway, the holders had gone—probably in fear of Barrax—but they’d left a boat, which I commandeered. It took me to the tower at South Gorge, where I got off. Being an island, too, this time of year, it was mostly deserted—everyone but the garrison had fled to Tir-Vonees down on the coast, or else joined the army. Still, it was no problem getting from there to here. Though I have to say, after this year we do have to propitiate Weather, because only the flooding of the Ormill has bought us enough time to make ready at the only place we could really stem an invasion.”
Silence.
“And that’s all,” she sighed. “I’m sorry, but it really wasn’t much of an adventure. The mechanism of my escape—Now that was less an adventure than a miracle.” She paused again. “Avall, what do you think is going on with those gems? Are they truly magic? Are they some aspect of The Eight, or are The Eight really only an aspect of them, or what?”
“You’ve never even seen one, have you?” Rann blurted. “We’ve become so complacent about them, we forget.”
Strynn was already fumbling at her throat for the chain that held her gem, even as Avall did the same. Both stones appeared simultaneously. They glittered in the half-light. Merryn reached first for one, then the other. “Can I … Is it safe to touch them?”
Avall nodded. “As far as we know, though I’m happier doing it because you’re my sister. Eddyn … got hold of mine and …”
“How?” Merryn asked sharply. “I know he got south with it, but I never knew how—”
“Basically, he just vanished. Place-jumped, evidently, to some place where the king of Ixti found him.”
“Well, that explains a few things,” Merryn said. “I hate to say it, but I wish I could’ve brought him with me.”
“In any event,” Avall went on, “the gems appear to ‘like’ whomever I like. What Eddyn did seems to indicate that someone who doesn’t like me can likewise master them, but only in necessity. They also speed up your perceptions—which is one reason we think they might benefit the King.”
“If he had some set into his regalia,” Div supplied—the first time she’d spoken.
“If,” the King echoed, slipping into the tent to join his kinsmen on the floor. “And don’t worry about being overheard. I ha
ve keen ears, I knew what to listen for—and Myx won’t let anyone within three spans of this place on my orders.”
Avall took a deep breath and regarded his companions. “Does anyone know any reason not to do this now?”
“It takes energy,” Rann cautioned. “Even if the rest of us aren’t in the link, the King may draw on us, depending on what he intends to do. Having said that, I’m no more tired than anyone else present. And if all we’re going to do is bond His Majesty to the gems, there should be no problem.”
Avall nodded solemnly and raised a brow at Gynn. “You should tell your second what we’re about. He needs to know he may have to take charge if anything goes wrong. And … I want him to know absolutely that there’s no foul play afoot. I don’t want to be accused of regicide.”
Gynn smiled grimly. “I’ve already told him. I’ve also told him that any word that comes from anyone in this tent is to be taken as royal command.”
Avall suppressed a chill at that: the realization that he was a breath away from being King in function if not in fact. That more rode on his shoulders—their shoulders, for he was not alone in this—than he could imagine. He wondered if this was how Gynn had felt when he’d first been proposed as Sovereign.
Strynn cleared her throat as she loosened the pouch from her belt. “Majesty, I feel compelled to ask: Have you tasted of the Wells? Have The Eight made Their will known in this?”
The King smiled. “I feared what they might tell me,” he replied. “Ever since the autumn I’ve feared it, and everything they’ve said has been ambiguous. But if this goes as it may … I may soon be in Their realm. Perhaps They’ll grant me an audience face-to-face.”
Avall didn’t know whether to believe Gynn or not. Nor whether the King spoke blasphemy. But he’d certainly been somewhere else—some place he preferred to call the Overworld. “Perhaps you’ll find this altogether a more familiar experience than I,” he said at last.
