by Tom Deitz
All shouting their confusion in a place human voices had never stirred.
And then, from the most coherent of the lot, orders:
“Riff: firewood.”
“Bingg: fire. Then find some wine; we need it.”
“Myx, see to Kylin.”
“Lykkon, check the sky and see if you can find out where we are.”
“But Lord Regent—”
“We’re alive; we’re apparently well, and we all have some idea what’s happened. Anything else can wait a finger. Now, Avall, if you would, come with me.”
And with those commands, chaos sank back to order and seven lives began to progress again—untold shots from where they had been a scant fifty breaths before.
“It’s the place in my visions,” Avall murmured after a pause so protracted Rann feared that his friend and Sovereign had once more lapsed into unconsciousness, though he had walked to the ledge unassisted and now stood with his bare feet on solid stone, staring out at a place neither he nor the others had ever seen—with their physical eyes. Rann stood beside him, one arm around his bond-brother’s shoulders, as much for his own sake as for Avall’s, though chills still wracked both of them from when the gem had sucked life-warmth away during that insane, desperate act that had brought them here.
Wherever here was.
Here was …
It was away from the war, for one thing.
Away from anyone who wanted things from Rann he was not prepared to give.
Away from decisions, duties, and responsibilities.
Away from anything he did not want to do beyond seeing to his friends and himself.
Here was also a sheltered slot in the face of a cliff: a slot ten spans wide, four deep, and two high; set—apparently—halfway up a mountainside, which in turn overlooked a lake that disappeared from view to either hand. Treetops showed below, and vines crept in at intervals, while the far shore—which looked to be two shots away—was a curving file of cliffs, pocked with caves and fissures similar to the one in which they were ensconced.
“My vision,” Avall repeated softly, like a man in a dream. His eyes were dilated, Rann noted. Probably his own were, too—from shock. Night wind ruffled Rann’s hair and flipped the cloak that Avall had wrapped around himself against Rann’s legs. Avall shivered again.
“What vision?” Rann dared finally, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, because anything Avall said was bound to be strange past knowing, and he faced too much strangeness already: six grown men and a well-grown boy jumped from a soldier’s tent near Gem-Hold-Winter to a place none of them had ever seen before, all in the blink of an eye.
Avall took a deep, shuddering breath. “I … saw it in Fate’s Well when I drank from it back in Tir-Eron before we embarked on this escapade. And I’ve seen it a few times since: an island in a clear blue ring of lake. But I didn’t think it was real.” Then, even more softly: “And even if it is … how can we be here, Rann, when none of us have ever seen it—and the gems only take us to places we’ve already been or—apparently—to people we know?”
“But they give us what we want, too, sometimes,” Rann murmured. “And if I had to guess, I’d say someone—probably you—wanted this place very, very badly indeed.”
“A place like this, perhaps,” Avall conceded, clutching the cloak more tightly. “A place where everything is new and we’re free to start all over.”
“Some of us,” Rann muttered. “But we’ll have to go back, you know. Too much depends—”
“I didn’t expect this to happen, Rann,” Avall flared. “I only wanted to destroy the gem so it would never ever hurt anyone I love again. The rest—No, never mind: you’re right: We have to get back. That is I do—if I can.”
“If you can,” Rann echoed. “But can you? With the gem destroyed?”
Avall frowned, which segued into yet another shiver. “I don’t know,” he whispered through his teeth. “We’ve all undergone so much; maybe we need to anchor ourselves in familiarity before we venture away from it again. It’s too late to do more than police our quarters tonight. But tomorrow—Tomorrow—Well, I suspect I’ve taken care of that, right and proper, by smashing the gem. But I have no choice but to try—if there’s anything left—”
Rann regarded him keenly. “That’s a perilously big ‘if’—and I frankly don’t think you’re up for it, brother. Your skin’s as cold as ice, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Avall shook his head, but otherwise didn’t move. Then, slowly, like a man in a dream: “Maybe you’re right, Rann. And maybe my heart’s telling me what my conscience wants to deny.”
“What’s that?”
“That if I did anything else even marginally magical tonight, it might … kill me.”
Rann nodded bleakly—but made no move to rejoin their companions. “Food, fire, and shelter. That’s all we really need—for now.”
Avall reached out to seize his hand. “Food, fire, shelter—and friends,” he corrected fiercely. “Always and forever, friends.”
A cough from behind startled Rann.
“There’s plenty of firewood,” sturdy blond Riff announced, padding up in his hose feet to stand beside them. He had also shed his surcoat and mail hauberk, Rann noted, less by sight than the relative silence when he moved. Which was a good sign, he supposed, for it meant that at least one of their number was already acclimating to what was clearly the heat of more southern climes than they were dressed for. And to suddenly being … somewhere else.
As for the others—young Bingg was building a fire in the wide sweep of stone floor behind them, letting new flames replace the old flames of the fading sun. Slim, narrow-faced Myx was sorting through the odd array of material that had come with them when Avall had jumped them here, and Avall’s look-alike kinsman, Lykkon, was standing on a precipice to the right, staring at the sky and scowling.
Which accounted for the more functional members of their band. The little blind harper, Kylin, was still asleep—or unconscious—though now covered to his chin with Lykkon’s spare cloak. And dreaming who knew what, save that it was surely strange past knowing—for he had lapsed into a kind of babbling madness instants before they had all come here: a madness, Rann suspected, that was a function of contact with the death that had lain hidden within the gem he had used to jump himself and Avall away from the place they had both been captive. Maybe Avall had been right to smash it.
Yet still Rann remained where he was, as emotions warred within him. He ought to be sick with fear, he knew, for he had no idea where they were beyond the obvious. Ought to be, but for some odd reason wasn’t. Eight! He ought to be in shock—they all should be. But—
Heat washed up his back, and with it came ruddy, flickering light, exactly as the sun’s light faded. A few stars already spangled the sky.
“Let’s go face it,” Rann sighed, and steered Avall back to the fire Bingg had lit, using an abandoned raptor’s nest for tinder and lamp oil to get it started. He was already adding larger twigs from the small pile Riff had brought, courtesy of a dead tree that had fallen athwart the overhang’s southwest corner. Myx checked one last time to see that Kylin was comfortable, and scooted over to join them. Avall hugged his cloak closer about his body but made no move to seek more clothing. There were chafed red bands around his wrists and ankles, Rann noted for the first time, legacy of his being manacled to a tabletop for most of the day. He still looked dazed, too. Or more preoccupied than anyone had a right to be. Or both.
By unspoken consent, they ranged themselves around the fire. Bingg had indeed found a bottle of wine, which he opened and extended solemnly to Avall. “Your Majesty …”
“No King, I,” Avall murmured, though he accepted it, “save maybe King of the Mountains, the Lake, and the Woods.”
“And what better to be King of?” Rann challenged, then glanced at Lykkon, who had just rejoined them.
“What happened?” Riff dared at last. “I think I know but … did the gem?”
/> Avall nodded solemnly. “Apparently when I struck it with the hammer, it … jumped us somewhere I’ve never heard of except in visions, never mind visited. Why here … I have no idea.”
“The war? How far are we, do you think?” Myx inquired casually, but his usually merry eyes were hard as stone.
A tired shrug. “Far away, I suspect—and hope, right now. How far depends on what Lyk’s been able to determine about where we are.”
Lykkon took a long draught of wine and passed it on. “If I were to guess,” he said carefully, “I’d say we were west of Gem-Hold, not only because we can’t see the Spine from here, but because the sun wasn’t as close to setting when we awakened as it was back in the camp. Of course some of that depends on how long we were unconscious.”
“If we even were,” Rann countered. “I know I was, but jumping doesn’t usually knock one out. And in any case, it only felt like a hand of breaths.”
Lykkon cleared his throat. “I’d also say we’re farther south, based on where the stars are. You can see several southern stars you shouldn’t be able to see this early back at Gem.”
“Across the Spine and south, then,” Myx summarized. “Where no one lives that we’re aware of.”
“Which is both good and bad,” Avall observed. “At least we have some supplies,” he added, after an expectant pause.
Riff glanced at him in mild confusion. “So we’re not going back?”
“If you mean jumping back, we probably can’t,” Avall told him frankly. “I smashed the gem, remember?”
“And why did you do that?” Myx demanded testily, legacy, perhaps, of earlier intoxication, though jumping seemed to have burned most of it away.
Avall glared at him—not because he disliked him, but because the man was already awakening old angers when he wanted everything new again. “Because, by using it when it was mad, it drove Kylin mad in turn, and I didn’t want that to happen to anyone I care about again—ever.”
“I’ve kept the fragments,” Lykkon confessed, looking a trifle sheepish. “Just in case.”
“As you should,” Avall conceded sourly. “We’ll still need to study the thing.”
“Things,” Rann corrected with unexpected bitterness. “Now that it’s been smashed.”
“Which makes me wonder whether the fragments have the same properties as the whole,” Avall mused. “Not only madness, but the other, more useful things. If we’re stranded here—well, it pains me to say it, but they could very well save our lives.”
“Which brings us back to here,” Myx growled. “Can someone be more specific than ‘southwest of Gem-Hold-Winter’?”
Avall took a deep breath, steeling himself for contention, should it appear. “If this is indeed the place in my visions, then we’re on an island in the middle of a lake with a file of cliffs encircling it.”
“Let’s hope it’s an island with food,” Bingg muttered. “Lyk’s stash of delicacies won’t last long.”
“Fish in the lake, at minimum,” Myx offered matter-of-factly. “Probably small game and birds here. But for anything that would really fill us or support us long-term, we’d need to reach the mainland.”
“Which I assume we will,” Rann gave back, shifting his gaze to Riff, whose clan—Ioray—ruled shipcraft. “In the meantime, we need to look at this logically. Food, we have some of and can eventually get more. Shelter—we seem to have found that as well, though I’d hope for something cozier for cold weather. Ideally, something we can close off.”
“For winter,” Myx echoed darkly.
“Which leaves clothing,” Lykkon finished. “We basically have what we had on, which is fairly sturdy—all but Vall and Kylin, I mean. Fortunately, we’re all much of a size, except Bingg, and my clothes chest was one of the things that made the jump.”
“Point me to it,” Avall sighed. “I’m tired of sitting around in just a cloak.”
Ever dutiful, Bingg hopped to his feet and showed Avall a middle-sized oak chest that had fallen over but otherwise sustained no damage. A quick inspection produced three sets of indoor clothing, all in Argen maroon. Avall claimed the most worn set and started dressing. “It would be helpful,” he observed as he pulled on Lykkon’s third-best pair of house-hose, “if someone briefed me on what’s happened since I was captured. About the war, I mean.”
“And if you briefed us on what happened while you were captured,” Rann countered. “Like what’s going on with Zeff and the master gem.”
Avall shrugged. “I don’t know all of that. I was imprisoned every moment I was in the hold, and they plied me with imphor to get me to talk, but I’ve learned how to talk around the truth somewhat, and I listened carefully to how they phrased their questions. But to answer your question: One night Zeff came storming into my cell with the master gem, demanding to know how to work the regalia. I don’t remember the specifics of the confrontation, but he was as angry as I’ve ever seen him—and he’s not a man who angers easily. Basically, he beat me and when he saw that he’d bloodied my face, forced the gem into the blood, so that we wound up … linking—I won’t say ‘bonding.’ Luckily for me, I was able to draw some force from the Overworld while we were joined and managed to use that to fling him away. He left, but beyond that, I don’t know anything until they came to my room, stripped me, and clamped me to that tabletop. That, and the fact that I was able to contact Kylin while he was harping—probably because the gem was so close—along with the fact that Kyl’s a very strong thinker. The rest you know.”
Lykkon scowled. “So you think Zeff learned how to link the gem to the sword from you?”
Avall shrugged in turn. “He might have, but I have no way to know what he found in my brain while we were … together. Though of course I’d have shown him nothing by choice.”
“What about other gems?” Rann inquired. “Have they reached the mines yet?”
Avall tugged on an overtunic and rejoined them. “If they have, I haven’t heard about it. But that doesn’t mean much; information is hard to come by in there. What I’ve told you really is all I know, honestly. Oh, I could add a few details, but I’d as soon save them for later, since something tells me we’re going to have plenty of time to talk. In any case, we’ve got more important things to discuss right now—like what’s been going on in the camp and elsewhere.”
Rann and Lykkon exchanged troubled glances. “You don’t know about the coup in Tir-Eron, do you?”
Avall looked up sharply. “What coup?”
“Simply stated,” Rann replied, “Priest-Clan staged a coup. It was Mask Day, and they used the chaos that’s so pervasive then as a cover to contrive the assassination of most of the existing chiefs—including some of their own, apparently. They’ve taken over the Citadel, and, as far as I can tell, it’s martial law in Eron George—Priest Law, better say. We’ve been busy with the siege and couldn’t help—either way we’d have had an enemy at our backs and we were closer to Gem when we got the news.”
“And to me,” Avall gritted. “You should’ve gone back to retake the Gorge, not forged ahead to retake me.”
“It’s over and done,” Rann flared. “And I did nothing against the advice of my Council. In any case, Tyrill is alive—or was—but she wasn’t in a position to regain her chieftainship, never mind the stewardship you gave her when you left. We’ve had a few messages from her, however—she’s a survivor, that one. As to whether the problem has spread to the other gorges, we don’t know. It makes a certain amount of sense for the same thing to have happened everywhere, but it makes as much sense for some of the other Gorge-Chiefs to act unilaterally and try to oust Priest themselves. Granted, the cream of your army is at Gem, but there are still able men and women elsewhere. Remember that Vorinn’s as good as you have right now, and he missed the last war entirely. He’s also got a brother who’s martially inclined—and is somewhere in the north.”
“So to cut to the core,” Avall concluded, “the army can do as much good where it is as back in Tir
-Eron, and the heart of the realm is at present a theocracy with two surrogate governments thrown in: one in Tir-Eron under Tyrill, who’s my legal representative there, and one at the front—probably under Vorinn, if I know anything.”
“Vorinn in fact,” Myx confirmed. “It was announced in camp shortly after Rann abdicated.”
Avall rounded on Rann fiercely. “You abdicated?”
Rann looked him straight in the eye. “The choice was how and when I saw you die. That wasn’t a choice I could make.”
“Oh, Rann, Rann,” Avall groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m not worth that. I’m not worth you ruining your life over.”
“It’s done,” Rann whispered. “And you’re still King.”
Myx exhaled listlessly and stood. “Not that this isn’t interesting or important, but … shouldn’t we take better stock of our situation? Avall said he’s seen this place in a vision, but that’s the only proof we have that we really are on an island in the uninhabited west. There could be a twenty-towered palace right above us and we wouldn’t know it from here.”
“True enough,” Rann agreed. “But from what we saw in what little daylight was left, there were no signs of habitation anywhere out there. No lights, no roads. Which is not to say they don’t exist, but any exploration should probably wait until daylight. At that time … we should split up. Someone will have to stay here with Kylin, I suppose, but one group of us should go down to the lake, another group should see what’s above us, and we also need to explore laterally. I’d say we do the first two in the morning—with an eye to finding fresh water that isn’t lake water—and if we have time, check out the other in the afternoon. That should keep us busy. We also need to see what we have in the way of bows, as they’ll probably be our most effective hunting weapons.”
