by Tom Deitz
But there’d been no one in her life, either. No handsome young Rann lying beside her in an enormous bed in the co-opted citadel of one of the most important clans. She had friends for the first time, too: friends who truly were friends. Why, the King himself knew her to sight, where a year ago her own Clan-Chief would’ve been hard put to recognize her. But there was also Avall, who’d made her part of the tale of the changing of the world, and Strynn, who’d become like a sister, for all Div had once shared Strynn’s man. And Merryn, who was even more like her—enough so that she wished one might have two bond-mates.
Even Avall was not so lucky. Avall had Rann, though not so much as heretofore, because he now had to share him. And Strynn was becoming more and more her own woman, as was Merryn, so there was also a distancing there. Maybe he and Lykkon were closer, but Lykkon had his own path to take in Lore, if he survived the war.
If any of them did.
It was strange, she reckoned, to lie here amid all this luxury—all the fine fabrics, thick rugs, and good food no one seemed ever to buy or prepare; the warmth and hot baths, and the books to read and weapons to practice with and skills to hone to perfection—strange to lie among it and know it might all end in less than a day. That they walked on the razor edge of something that could change history forever.
And she was doing nothing to prepare for it.
Well, she amended, she was resting—trying to, for come tomorrow, if there was battle, she’d be out there with the Royal Guard, in the place the High King had found for her when he’d asked if there was a boon she craved for helping his kinsmen survive the Deep.
Trouble was, she couldn’t sleep. Not that anyone could, she reckoned, facing what they did. But she could stand inaction no longer. Moving with a silence and stealth Merryn would have applauded, she left Rann’s side—though she spared one lingering glance at him, where he lay sprawled on his back in the moonlight, naked—utterly exposed, peaceful, and abandoned. Utterly trusting.
As open to her as anyone had ever been.
And beautiful beyond reason, with his flesh like marble, and the accents of black like night incarnate. One could make a shawl of his eyelashes.
How could anyone kill such a thing?
But they could. Barely more than a quarter ago, she’d seen a man smash a cudgel into the back of Rann’s head. He’d survived—the gem had helped. But how little more force might have smashed his skull and leaked all his genius onto the ground?
And all his love.
She shivered where she stood, wanting this moment to last forever. Even the fear that hid four shots behind the window at her back was something she would treasure, for it seasoned all other emotion to a fever pitch.
And then she could look no longer. It was two hands before dawn, and the Royal Guard were meeting the King in a hand. She would be ready. She would make her clan proud. More than that, she would make Merryn proud. And Rann.
Silent on bare feet, she strode to the window that looked south across the valley where the battle would almost certainly be fought.
Another hold stood there. A fortress, really. Lights showed there, too. Sentries, or maybe King Barrax himself, contriving their defeat.
She wondered if another Div also stared out one of those windows.
And then she could wait no longer, for the stars closest to the eastern horizon were fading.
“Your Majesty,” Lykkon said solemnly, “it’s time.”
Gynn syn Argen-el, High King of all Eron, looked up from where he’d spent the latter part of the night: sitting in a comfortable chair in his comfortable quarters, staring out the window at the empty plain to the south. He was remembering the prophecies he’d made last year: that this would be known as the Winter of Blood. Well, winter had passed, and blood had certainly been shed.
Not only the literal blood of men, but also the figurative blood of the land.
When had Barrax taken War-Hold, anyway? He couldn’t recall—or hadn’t bothered to at the time. That was for Loremasters—such as young Lykkon here was like to become—to number and record.
He studied the boy for a moment. Not boy, really, he amended, save only in the passion with which he embraced life and in his tendency to expect forgiveness for indiscretions committed with good intent. Certainly there was much to admire there. A handsome face and lithe body, like all his kin. Intelligence and politeness. Loyalty.
What kind of world would be his? Where would he be at the end of his time?
What he, Gynn, did in the next half day would determine that. He and those half-mad young genius cousins—assuming they hadn’t let him down. The new regalia was all but finished, Avall had said when he’d stopped by the royal suite just past midnight. The sword was done—and had been tested. He’d just completed the helm, and Eddyn, he was certain, would have the shield done in another hand. Would His Majesty care to see them?
His Majesty had chosen not to. The sword, helm, and shield were part of tomorrow, when things would forever change because of them. For then he’d wanted to live a little longer in the Eron he knew.
So he’d eaten a little, and drunk a little, and held late court in his rooms for anyone who still needed advice. He’d had a late report on Eellon—still in a coma—and another from Tyrill—still keeping things running in Tir-Eron—and from Veen and Krynneth, whom he’d stationed at the Hall of Clans to keep tabs on the captive priests (they were considering a hunger strike, but cooperative otherwise—which Gynn considered very strange). And then he’d dozed.
And now it was tomorrow, and all those things were over.
“It is time,” he echoed. And rose.
Lykkon, who seemed to shift roles as capriciously as a prism shifted light, had brought his brother Bingg to assist with the vesting. Which suited Gynn fine. Born a smith, he resisted ceremony, though he could play that game with the best.
Now was such a time.
He dressed in Smithcraft gold and Warcraft crimson—the first because of what he was, the other because of what he’d been forced to become. Hose, shirt, and undertunic of the former, then mail the color of moonlight, followed by a surcoat of the last. His gloves were crimson, too, and his boots—all dyed the same shade, and reinforced with steel. Over all, he threw a short version of his Cloak of Colors, a riot of color depicting every sigil and device in his realm—one for each of the twenty-four clans and the crafts they ruled.
On caprice, he hung a scabbarded geen-claw dagger from his belt: a gift from Barrax himself upon his ascension to the Throne.
And then he had no more call to hesitate. “Well,” he grinned at his squires. “Let’s go see what our kinsmen have wrought.”
Somewhere between his suite and the armory, Gynn acquired an entourage. It was still a while until dawn, but he’d already decided that first light would see him in battle. This was his country, after all, his terrain. He’d let Barrax force him back for any number of reasons that made nominal sense at the time. But he had the advantage now. His soldiers were used to snow. And he had—or soon would have—the weapon to end all weapons.
Barrax had no idea it even existed—unless by some chance he’d heard of its part in that escapade of Strynn and Merryn’s. Indeed, few of his own forces knew about it, and fewer beyond the lords of Smith and War. A few from Stone. A few from Gem, Priest, and Lore. That was it—in theory. Not even all his guard knew, though that number had swelled to include Myx and his bond-brother, Riff, and Rann’s friend, Div.
In any case, there was a fair number trooping down the hall. And not only his Guard, for a smattering of the younger Craft-Chiefs had joined him as well, along with everyone from War-Hold who had a title and could raise a weapon, save Preedor himself. The hallways rang with their tread: an increasing tide of force that alone could subdue many foes. Swords flashed and helms gleamed; cornets and signs of rank were everywhere, as was the complex heraldry of clan and craft.
This was it, everyone seemed to think, without it having actually been voiced.
/> But there was a different feeling in the air. Not only because the weather had turned, but because something had been finished. Avall had said strong feelings could be sent out and received by those sensitive to such things. And the relief Avall had felt might well have infected them all, the same way chill did when they worked with the greater powers, as Lykkon had begun to call them.
So it was with a high eagerness he continued to the armory.
And had just turned the last marble corner into the last marble hall when he heard someone approaching at a run. Avall, as it turned out.
His cousin wore full armor and heraldry, like the rest of them. But in spite of everything he’d endured, Gynn had never seen him look so grim. It was as though something had sucked out his soul, leaving him a hollow man. Gynn’s first impulse was to wonder whether something had happened to Strynn or Rann. But something about Avall’s face and demeanor told him this was worse than that.
“Majesty,” Avall panted, skidding to a stop the requisite span before him. His face was ashen. “Majesty—there’s no way to say it but to say it. The regalia—the new regalia—is gone.”
Gynn heard those words, yet did not hear them—but something went out of him: a long sigh that was like hope dying away on the wind. A low buzz filled the ranks behind him, and some—including Lykkon—swore. Div swore, too, but Gynn barely noticed. Ignoring the stricken Avall, he was rushing past him down the corridor, intent on the armory door, wondering why he’d neglected to post a guard over something so precious, and when he’d ever stop trusting people too much.
“Who …?” someone dared. “What?”
He ignored the latter. As to the former, he had a few too many ideas. “Eddyn—maybe,” he gritted to Avall, who’d managed to catch up.
“I don’t think so, Majesty—I—”
Gynn rounded on him. “Who then? Who is mad enough to do this thing? And even if he’s taken them, to what end has he done so? To weaken me on the edge of battle? Or on some fool heroic quest to redeem himself?”
“He could barely walk, Majesty,” Lykkon dared.
“From midnight until now a man could crawl a long way,” Gynn retorted. By which time they’d reached the armory.
It was true. The table that had been set aside for the new regalia was bare, though the three velvet shrouds lay there, neatly folded.
And then it hit Gynn all over. It really was true. His hope was gone. He would have to meet Barrax purely as a man, with no more advantage than he’d had all those other years when he’d discussed the theory and doctrine of war. He was still stronger—probably—brought up a smith, with arms, shoulders, and endurance to match. And close friends in War-Hold who’d taught him everything.
Yet still he stood there aghast, while a wondering silence spread from him to infect the guard and the others gathering outside.
“Majesty,” Ganeen, subchief of Armor, called, from where he’d been performing a quick inspection. “There’s other armor gone as well. Enough to make a set, but only a piece here and there, as though the thief wanted his theft unnoticed.”
“As any thief would,” Gynn replied dryly, surprised at his own grim humor.
“A small man,” Ganeen continued. “That’s all I can say. We can search.”
“Do so,” Gynn commanded. “In the meantime … I have come here to put on my armor, and armor I shall put on.”
“Do you still intend to attack at dawn?” Tryffon of War inquired.
Gynn fixed him with a steely stare. “I intend to attack when I said. Even without this new magic on my side I am surely the better man, and my army the better as well—and my men and women, and my advisers, and my chiefs.”
And with that, he strode to an armor stand to the right, where someone had arrayed the former royal war regalia. Helm and shield and sword: All looked fabulous. Yet still Gynn hesitated, his hand not quite touching the sword. It was five hundred years old, and only once in that time had any King carried it into battle. Which was maybe why he’d not fared so well, earlier. He’d chosen to use his own weapons and armor before. Perhaps The Eight frowned on that. Perhaps they thought it was pride.
In fact, it was practicality. The official war regalia was old and precious, granted. But it was also far too heavy and clumsy, for it had been made for one of Eron’s largest kings, and no one since then had dared resize it, lest they ruin its wonderful workmanship.
Nevertheless, he reached for the sword. Then paused again, searching those gathered around until he found Myx. “Go, boy,” he said. “Back to Tir-Eron. Bring me the Sword of Air.”
Silence followed, of men too stunned to speak.
“The Sword of Air, Majesty?” Tryffon dared at last. “It wasn’t made for battle. Its function is to compel truth—”
Gynn glared at him. “It nevertheless has power attached to it. I’ve felt it when I’ve used it. It’s not the same power as the gems, but it’s closer than anything I’ve got. And I’ll take any advantage I can get right now.”
“It’s better balanced than that old thing, anyway,” Tryffon conceded, indicating the royal regalia. “Now—”
He broke off, for a rumble of voices was filling the ranks behind him. Someone was running. And panting. Someone even more panicked than Avall.
“Majesty,” the nameless man shouted.
Gynn turned, to see a young man in Warcraft livery, flush-faced and out of breath. “Majesty,” he gasped, “Barrax is moving. The whole ridge around his hold is walled with shields, swords, and helmets.”
“Eight protect us!” Gynn cried, while Lykkon and Riff grabbed frantically for the royal regalia. “Give the order to advance as we’d planned. I want soldiers moving when I do.” He caught Tryffon’s gaze, but said nothing. And then he thrust his arm through that ancient shield, and waited while Lykkon set the crowned helm of his predecessors on his raven hair. And found himself peering out of eyeslots as he said the final words. “I’ve often wondered why Priest-Clan thought they needed all those walls around this place. It’s time we got an answer.”
“Eron!” Tryffon shouted, banging on his shield. “Eron!” Div echoed joyfully. “And High King Gynn!” from Lykkon. And then everyone in the entire room was running. Less than a finger later, every wall of the three that faced Ixti’s armies was crowned with War-Hold crimson.
CHAPTER XXXVI:
ALLIES UNAWARE
ERON: PRIEST-HOLD-SUMMER-HIGH SPRING: DAY XIII-DAWN
Why had he done it?
Rrath had no idea.
All he knew was that it was done. There’d been the urge to watch, of course—innocently at first, but with a delicious thrill of the forbidden, for he did it unobserved from the secret passages Nyllol had shown him. And it had been forbidden, too: not the spying on the forges, so much; but the spying on Avall and Eight-cursed Eddyn, both of whom he’d seen casually enter the common hall, then depart for the locked workrooms nearby. Locked to bodies, anyway, but not to eyes that could see through concealed spy holes.
And so he’d found himself witnessing the creation of masterworks, which was a crime—theft of inspiration, it was called. As though he’d ever aspire to anything like those two young men could do! And curse Eddyn for that, too—to have caused so much pain to so many and still be the master he was. There ought to be a correlation between virtue and accomplishment.
Shouldn’t there?
Rrath paused in the secret corridor to rest, for that which he carried was heavy. How long had he had it, anyway? There was a gap in his memory that could easily embrace several hands.
And why did he have it now?
Once, when he’d been under the healers’ care, back in Priest-Hold, he’d awakened sufficiently to hear without being otherwise aware, and what he’d heard had lodged in his brain. “If he survives—if he revives—there’s a good chance he’ll be mad. No one takes a blow like his and emerges unscathed.” Perhaps part of him had taken that to heart. These were mad times, anyway, so maybe that meant they were times made for
madmen. And so he’d begun to play the role in earnest, there in his hermits’ cave above the geens.
And then one day it had come to him, clearly, like a bell. Geens were the one thing in the whole world he knew more about than anyone else; they were therefore his means to power and prestige, and therefore the things he loved most. And with that realization had come another. Everything that was wrong in his life was due to those cursed gems. And—
That was why he had this bag of secrets! Because of what they contained. What he’d do with them, he had no idea. Destroy them, perhaps? Or was that even possible?
What were Avall and Eddyn doing with them, anyway?
He’d seen them inserted in a certain shield and helm, but only after complex preparations. Which made no sense, unless, with battle imminent, they might be more than mere ornaments—perhaps even weapons. Why, they might even save the land! But in so doing, they would aggrandize one very undeserving man in particular at the expense of Priest-Clan and all they held dear.
By doing what he’d done, he was therefore serving his clan. More than that, he was making up in threes what he’d failed to deliver earlier.
Not only the gems—but the means by which they could be mastered.
Besides, if The Eight hadn’t wanted it this way, they wouldn’t have visited Eron with weather that allowed the regalia’s completion. Or put him where he could spy on Avall and Eddyn at exactly the right moment. Or let him know where the secret door to the armory was, through which he had lately passed.
On his way where?
The Ninth Face ought to have a sanctum here, but he didn’t know where it was, since he’d not been a member when Nyllol had shown him the route to the secret geen pens. Which was why he’d come here in the first place, he recalled, as he paused again to shift the bag he’d made of his cloak, in which sword, helm, and shield clinked and rattled together.
