by Tom Deitz
He’d chosen this place deliberately. Gynn had been the King of Balance, and this was a place of balance. He could look south, and see the battlefield. The snow there was melting quickly, and being trampled to mush more rapidly yet, as the more responsible survivors of Ixti’s army retrieved the bodies of their dead. Weapons on bodies would remain on them. Weapons left on the ground or abandoned were wergild. But no one was keeping records. Pyres were burning, too—beyond the Ixtian embassy. Discreetly out of Eron’s sight—not that it mattered. Both sides burned their dead in season. And both sides had dead to burn.
Balance …
Avall could also look north from there, where his own army remained neatly in place—just in case. Tryffon had suggested it, and he’d approved because it made sense. There could still be trouble. Ixti’s army had lost its former head, and no one much knew—or trusted—the new one. Kraxxi had more friends in Eron than his own land. Eron had best be prepared to support his claim.
But there was movement in Eron’s camp as well: a steady stream of horses, wagons, and people on foot along an avenue that had been cleared between the gates of this citadel and the Gorge. Already that way was lined with folk who had nothing to do with the battle but a great deal to do with welcoming a new King to Tir-Eron.
Avall hoped they couldn’t see him up here. For now, he needed to spend time with his friends.
His advisers, he amended. Those he most loved and trusted.
They sat there looking attentive, smiling some of them, or grinning outright, or looking surprisingly sober. Strynn. Merryn. Div. Rann. Lykkon. Bingg, in whatever capacity he served, which at present seemed to be tending a small double brazier, on one side of which cauf was simmering, on the other side Avall’s favorite hot wine. There were curls of fried fish, too, and oranges fresh from Gem-Hold-Winter.
“So,” he said briskly, as he seated himself between Strynn and Rann, and reached for a goblet already filled for him. “What do we do first?”
“What do you want to do?” Rann, who looked most sober, retorted. “I know better than to think you want this. You’ve already said as much.”
Avall shrugged, and quaffed a long draught. “I just want you to know—because there’s some chance you might actually listen to me—that there’s no reason in the world I should be King.”
“You saved the country,” Div countered.
Avall shook his head. “You saved me once. Should you then be Queen? Rann gave me half the good ideas I had—including the business of incorporating the gems into the regalia. If anyone deserves the Throne he does, just for that. And I could say the same about any of you. Merry, you’d be a magnificent Queen because no one would ever be able to predict you. Strynn, you’d be wonderful as well—and will be, for a while at least—because you never do anything wrong and never will.” He paused for another drink. “Even you, Lyk. You’ve half a year before you’re an adult, but you know more actual information than anyone I’ve ever met. If experience of government as it works behind the scenes is what’s needed, you’d be perfect.”
“He’s got Royal Steward written all over him,” Strynn laughed. “Anyone want to give odds how soon he becomes Craft-Chief of Lore?”
Merryn cleared her throat. “This is interesting, folks, but we all know what’s going on here: small talk to hide from big.”
Avall shifted in his seat. “But there’s so much big talk there’s no way to choose.”
Rann raised a brow. “Maybe we shouldn’t do anything at all, and let the big things find their own place. Their own … balance.”
Bingg rubbed his chin, where the merest trace of boy stubble showed. “I wonder what you’ll be,” he mused. “The King of … what?”
“The gems, probably,” Strynn replied restlessly. “Though that’s rather obvious.”
Avall told them what he and Tyrill had more or less decided. “You have to admit it makes sense,” he said. “Me as Craft-Chief. Something I’d actually be good at,” he added sourly. “If I have to have a title foisted on me.”
“In half a year,” Merryn stressed. “A lot can happen between now and then. You might even discover you like being King.”
Strynn poked him in the ribs. “And since I’ll be consort unless you make me Queen in my own right, who’s to say I won’t decide I want to stay on and rule, with you as my consort? Stranger things have happened.”
Avall rolled his eyes.
A movement from Merryn—or maybe a touch of her mind—drew his attention. Her face was grim and serious, as it had been for most of the day. “Do you think there’ll be peace?” she wondered.
Avall didn’t answer at once. It was a good question, and the right time for the asking, and not at all what he wanted to face just then. Still, she deserved a reply.
“If Kraxxi manages to retain his throne, there could be. We’re different, Ixti and Eron. But we’ve also a lot in common and there are certainly things we can give each other. The Flat makes it unlikely we’ll ever chafe at each other’s borders, but there’ll be people there, and probably some powerful ones, who’ll feel they’ve given up their autonomy and are living on our sufferance.”
“Which,” Strynn added, “assumes we don’t face civil war, which could still occur. Smith and Argen have lost power for all they’ve gained some, too. But Gem and Priest are still going to be furious, and who knows about the others?”
Avall gnawed his lip. “Whatever happens won’t be boring.”
“What about the gems?” Rann asked pointedly. “They’re our bliss right now, but they could well become our bane.”
Merryn looked at him askance. “How so?”
He cleared his throat, obviously preparing to deliver a speech he’d spent some time rehearsing. “Because they’re too powerful. They’ll make everyone afraid of us—and by us, I mean the few of us here, plus maybe a dozen others. But one thing to remember: we don’t control the source of the gems, and we’ve no guarantee there won’t be more, nor who’ll achieve control of them. War with gems is fine—against a common foe. But what if it comes to war of gems against each other?”
“What indeed?” Div agreed. “The very notion chills me.”
“Speaking of which,” Strynn observed, “I wouldn’t mind going inside.”
“Neither would I,” Merryn agreed, rising. “Besides, if I recall correctly, we’ve still got a coronation to plan.”
Avall rose as well. And looked south again. And then north. And then east, where the sea could barely be seen as a glimmer of silver slicing the horizon. “West,” he said, turning to face that way, though a mass of building loomed between. “Maybe we’ve ignored the land beyond the Spine too long.”
“Maybe,” Merryn acknowledged, as she linked her arm with his. “That’s one thing more for you to think about—when you’re King.”
“When I’m King,” Avall echoed, with a wistful grin. “When I’m King.”
The next morning, precisely at sunrise, an untitled Priest chosen by random lot placed the Crown of Oak on his head, and he was.
Avall syn Argen-a, High King of all Eron.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TOM DEITZ grew up in Young Harris, Georgia, a tiny college town in the north Georgia mountains that—by heritage or landscape—have inspired the setting for the majority of his novels. He holds BA and MA degrees in English from the University of Georgia, where he also worked as a library assistant in the Hargrett Rare Books and Manuscript Library until quitting in 1988 to become a fulltime writer. His interest in medieval literature, castles, and Celtic art led him to co-found the Athens, GA, chapter of the Society for Creative Anachronism, of which he is still sort of a member. A “fair-to-middlin” artist, Tom is also a frustrated architect and an automobile enthusiast (he has two non-running ’62 Lincolns, every Road & Track since 1959 but two, and over 900 unbuilt model cars). He also hunts every now and then, dabbles in theater at the local junior college, and plays toli (a Southeastern Indian game related to lacrosse) when his pain thres
hold is especially high.
After twenty-five years in Athens, he has recently moved back to his home town, the wisdom of which move remains to be seen. He has published sixteen novels to date. Summer-blood, the third book in the Chronicles of Eron, will be published by Bantam in April 2001.
This edition contains the complete text of the original trade paperback edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
SPRINGWAR
A Bantam Spectra Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam Spectra trade paperback edition published July 2000
Bantam Spectra mass market paperback edition/January 2001
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of
Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2000 by Tom Deitz
Map by James Sinclair
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 99-047800.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-43461-6
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