by Tom Deitz
“I have my own plans,” Vorinn replied cryptically.
“And this errand is … ?” Strynn inquired with a troubled scowl.
Avall shook his head. “I don't feel like defending my actions just now.”
Rann shot him a conspiratory grin. “Count me in,” he murmured. “I have to go to the Citadel anyway.”
“That was odd,” Vorinn announced a moment later, into the sudden silence of what was now an empty room, save for his sister. He stretched his long legs languidly and helped himself to a handful of nuts from a silver dish beside his goblet. His eyes never left Strynn, who'd wandered over to stare out the window.
She felt that gaze, too, yet started when he spoke. “What was?”
Vorinn inclined his head toward the door through which his brother-in-law had just departed. “Avall. Is he always that—”
Strynn turned full around to face him, caught, as she often was these days, between agreeing and disagreeing with the same issue. “Dismissive? No. But there are things that are his, and things that are mine, and we tend to keep them separate.”
A brow lifted. “And, so it seems, things that are the King's that are separate from your husband's.”
Strynn's reply was to claim a seat beside her brother on the low couch he occupied. He was seven years older than she: enough that he'd never been part of her primary reality, a situation compounded by the fact that she'd been little more than a child when he'd first entered the Fateing, at twenty. He was midway through his fourth cycle now, which had seen him posted in a variety of distant holds and halls—for the last three years, as Sub-Craft-Chief of War in North Gorge and environs. Not that it wouldn't have been convenient to have had him around after Eddyn had raped her. The Eight knew he'd have saved Smith a world of diplomacy by the simple expedient of killing Eddyn while Eddyn was still open to challenge by her next of kin. Of course he'd have had to fight Merryn for that privilege, but even Merryn would've deferred to Vorinn's cool, considered wrath. As it was, he'd arrived just too late—as he'd arrived too late for her wedding, but not for her Raising to adulthood—or another Fateing, which had posted him to Brewing, up past North Gorge, where he'd promptly fallen from a horse, broken both arms, then taken a winter's worth of chill. This was, she realized, the first time they'd been alone together since he'd come striding into Avall's coronation in full armor, regalia, and road sweat; beside himself that he'd missed the war—then promptly disappeared again, to assess the damage at War-Hold.
“You've missed a lot,” she acknowledged. “I can hardly believe it myself: the things that have changed in the last year.”
“Less than that,” he corrected, with a dry chuckle. “Last time I saw you, you were getting on the barge to head downstream to meet the trek that took you to Gem-Hold.”
She chuckled back, but her laughter held an edge of regret. “Where the world changed. It must be worse for you: to leave here with the kingdom running as it always has, then return to find that a war has come and gone in your absence; that magic—or something—is suddenly a reality, and has turned interclan politics topsy-turvy; and that someone you remember as a serious, dreamy boy is now your King.”
Vorinn eyed her soberly. “It still doesn't seem real, any more than it seems real that he's your husband.”
“He needs people like you, though,” Strynn murmured. “People who are loyal and reliable, but don't want anything out of him.”
Vorinn scowled. “How do you know I'm either of those things? I am—as it happens—but it's also an absolute fact that I'm more qualified to be King than Avall is.”
“Perhaps,” Strynn agreed, helping herself to some of the nuts. “But when you're this close to the duty that goes with the title, you soon see that it's nothing for anyone to desire. You're a subchief, Vor; you know what that entails, and that's with you working with people who are either conditioned by birth to work with you, or who are so hungry to learn what you have to impart they'd give up their birth-clans to acquire that knowledge. Avall has very few truly stable pillars on which to lean. So much rests on tradition and conditioning, yet he—we, I should say—must challenge that foundation every day.”
“He could abdicate.”
“He might.”
“And you? I still don't like the way he dismissed you. The sister I remember wouldn't have allowed that.”
Strynn regarded him levelly. “I didn't allow it. I have my own agenda, Vor, and it's very complicated. There was no reason for me to go with him just now, except to be with him. I don't really like working with magic, and that's what Avall's about. Rann's much better equipped to protect him in that context than I am, because Rann's had more experience with such things.”
“You always were trusting—too much so.”
Strynn's gaze never wavered. “Maybe. But I trust Rann because he loves Avall more than anything in the world, and he knows that by protecting Avall, he's protecting me, which in turn protects Avall. It's hard to understand unless you live it.”
“But still—”
Strynn silenced him with a hand on his wrist. “Don't assume anything, brother, except one thing: I'm free to do anything I want right now. If I don't do something, it's because I choose not to do it.”
Vorinn patted the hand in turn, then grasped it fiercely. “If you say so, sister. And because you've said it, I'll be Avall's man absolutely—but only because he's your man.”
“You don't like him?”
“I don't know him. I intend to get to know him. I'd like to respect him, but he hasn't earned that yet—him, not his title. For now, I'll play Tryffon's game: watch, wait, and be a power behind the throne without the headaches that throne entails.”
She smiled a challenge. “For now?”
“Things change,” Vorinn replied. “But remember one thing, too: I will never, ever hurt you.”
Strynn started to reply, but a knock sounded on the door: Riff's cadence. “Yes?” she called.
The stocky blond Guardsman stuck his head inside. “Lady,” he began formally, “the Ixtian Ambassador requests an audience.”
“Admit him,” Strynn called back, shooting her brother a regretful look. “One day we'll get to catch up,” she assured him sadly.
He started to rise. “Should I go?”
“Not unless you want to. If Tozri's here, it's in search of Avall, not me, and probably for a nondiplomatic reason.”
By which time the door had opened, to admit Tozri min Aroni, Ambassador from Ixti.
Like Eron, Ixti had suddenly found itself ruled by a sovereign who was young for the position and had not sought the title—though Kraxxi had been groomed for a throne since birth. And like Avall, Kraxxi had surrounded himself with retainers roughly his own age—one of whom had just entered.
Originally one of Kraxxi's personal guard, along with being his closest friend, Tozri—with his sisters-of-one-birth, Elvix and Olrix—had come north with Kraxxi when he'd gone into exile. Already half-Eronese and loyal to Kraxxi as only childhood friends could be, they'd had a colorful, if stressful tenure in Eron—first as prisoners in War-Hold, where Tozri and Kraxxi had shared the room next to Merryn's; then as fugitives, which adventure had ended when they'd chanced upon Eddyn during his own winter exile; next, as prisoners of their former king; and finally as fugitives again, this time seeking to free Kraxxi from his father's plots. They'd defected to Eron during the Battle of Storms, but only because Eron's side seemed more likely to aid their lifelong friend. Olrix had been killed in that battle, which was still a point of tension between certain parties, even if logic forced forgiveness. Which was why Tozri's coambassador was plying the road between Eron and Ixti, rather than standing here in Avall's room. Some injuries took a while to scab over, never mind flake away.
In any case, Tozri was here now, in the formal black-and-gold ambassadorial robe that so nicely complemented his dusky skin, brown eyes, and short-cropped black hair.
“Lady,” he began solemnly, with a slight bow. “Is His Maje
sty—?”
“You just missed him,” Strynn replied curtly, hoping to salvage the conversation she'd been having with her brother.
“As I did at the Citadel.”
“Is it important?”
“Only if condolences are important,” Tozri answered. “I heard of Eellon's death when everyone else heard, but thought it inappropriate to intrude too precipitously on family sorrow. I also thought it inappropriate to neglect paying my respects too long.”
“Politics is balance,” Vorinn inserted, rising to join Strynn.
“As is everything, I'm beginning to think,” Tozri conceded. “I don't believe I've had the honor.”
Strynn cleared her throat. “Since you're here in official regalia, I suppose I'll have to introduce you first, Tozri. Tozri min Aroni mar Sheer, Ambassador from Ixti, allow me to present my elder brother, Vorinn syn Ferr-een.”
Tozri grinned, as he took Vorinn's hand. “Ah, yes, the man who would've turned the tide at South Gorge, if he'd only been at South Gorge.”
Vorinn's face clouded.
“Not an insult,” Strynn assured him quickly. “Tozri was seeking sanctuary in Eron at the time. Remember?”
“I was prisoner of my own king at the time,” Tozri corrected. He looked around casually. “But now that my errand is dispatched, I find myself with time on my hands and good folk with whom to spend it.” He studied Vorinn speculatively. “I've heard you're quite the strategist. I'd be interested in hearing what you'd have done differently had you commanded either side at South Gorge.”
Vorinn smiled wickedly. “Is that something I should be discussing with the Ixtian Ambassador?”
Tozri blushed in spite of his dark skin. “I concede the error of my query. Very well, then; what do you say to a game of toriss? That way we can include your sister, and I can still see if the rumors about you are true.”
“I'll get the board,” Strynn volunteered, rising.
Vorinn laughed aloud. “I can see you haven't been around my sister nearly long enough.”
“Why?”
“Because, if you're talking toriss, the one you need to fear is her, not me.”
And, until Bingg reminded them it was time to prepare for the mourning dinner, they forgot about politics of any kind entirely.
Until he'd become Sovereign, Avall would never in his wildest dreams have guessed how many secret passages, chambers— even levels, in some sections—honeycombed the Citadel. Even now, after consulting the plans in the archives and setting the ever-alert Lykkon to studying them as well, he wasn't convinced he'd located all of them. In any case, having them about was nothing if not helpful—and might be more so, if, for instance, the oft-discussed rebellion actually occurred.
At the moment, he'd found one particularly useful for keeping certain things hidden far from the public eye. Especially when that particular arm of the public was very powerful—and sneaky—indeed.
Priest-Clan had—reasonably enough—demanded Rrath's return after the Battle of Storms. But fortunately for Avall and his partisans, Priest's most powerful advocates had been incarcerated in the Hall of Clans at the time, so that, though the battle had raged at the very door of Priest-Clan's summer hold, there'd been no one about with sufficient authority to claim what all but a very few assumed was a lifeless corpse. And while nearly every bone in Rrath's body had indeed been broken by his fall from the heights, and his chest laid open to the ribs by a geen claw, he had nevertheless survived. And since Avall knew more than most how much the priest had suffered and to what end, he'd felt honor-bound to see that Rrath got the finest care available. And if he also nursed some guilt about that occasion last autumn when he'd failed to protect Rrath from a potential birkit attack, that was more cause to see to Rrath's good, not less.
And, of course, there was what Rrath knew.
Avall halted halfway down a dead-end corridor not far from his own suite, and pressed three blocks in the wall before him in a certain order while standing on a fourth. A grinding sound to his right marked a bas-relief panel sliding back in such a way that the resulting opening was obscured by a pilaster from the rest of the hall unless one stood very nearby indeed. “Hmm,” Rann murmured, not having been there before, though he knew Rrath was secreted somewhere in the Citadel.
“I know about it,” Avall confided. “Strynn knows; Veen, two other Guards, and three healers know, one of whom is Gynn's daughter.” He motioned Rann through before him, then followed, pausing to close the portal behind.
“One wonders what else you're not telling me,” Rann grumbled good-naturedly. “Remind me to do more prowling next time you and I share minds.”
“I offered to show you when we brought him here,” Avall shot back. “You were busy with Div. Oh, and someone else knows he's here, as of yesterday.”
“Anyone I know?”
“His bond-brother. A lad named Esshill. He first thought Rrath was dead, then wasn't sure what happened to him. He got no satisfaction from Priest, and finally petitioned me—in private. I had to tell him, Rann. I know what it would be like if it was you and me.”
“It was you and me,” Rann replied soberly. “Remember? Four eights ago I thought you were dead. The only thing I could do was try to preserve your work and your memory.”
“Except that Esshill didn't know about Rrath's real work. In any case, I granted him sanctuary on the condition that he wouldn't return to Priest-Hold, and would agree to remain locked in the suite next to Rrath's when he wasn't visiting him.”
“The one where the healer from War-Hold used to stay?”
“Still stays,” Avall corrected. “I'm not so stupid as to leave him unguarded.”
“But—”
“Later,” Avall broke in. “We're there.”
Two keys inserted in three locks in a certain order opened a plain oak door, which revealed a bright, sunlit chamber that looked out on the wall of the gorge fifty spans away. They were fairly high up, as testified to by their sore legs and Rann's panting, but that, again, was a security measure. They were also about as far as one could get from the secret armory. Just in case.
A woman rose as they entered: slim and dark-haired, dressed in healer white and looking far younger than Avall knew her to be, given that she'd attended his arrival in the world. Beejinn was her name, and her movement merely made room for him beside the bed on which Rrath lay, beyond which a large window stood open to admit the fresh summer air.
Rrath was exactly as Avall had last seen him: flat on his back, shrouded to mid-chest with white sheets, beneath which his body was no longer bound in casts, wrapped in bandages, or discolored by extravagant bruises. His eyes were closed, his hair neatly combed, his face shaved, and his body waxed. But the cheeks that Avall remembered as smooth were sunken, and his eyes had fallen back in his head.
All at once it reminded him far too much of Eellon—so much so that he had to look away—even as he wondered what secrets the old Clan-Chief had taken with him to the Overworld.
“Any change?” Avall asked without looking up.
Beejinn eyed him frankly. “Not really. He eats, he breathes. He functions as he ought, but doesn't awaken: doesn't groan, doesn't respond—you know how he is. We've asked him over and over to give some sign that he could hear us: move a finger once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’—that sort of thing. Nothing. Something's driven him so far into himself he won't return. And he's now been there so long he might not be able to, even if he wanted.”
Avall nodded grimly. “If you'll give us a moment alone with him, we'll call when we're finished. No harm will come to him,” he added, unnecessarily.
“No, it won't,” she assured him. And eased through the nearer of two adjoining doors, which she shut behind her. No lock clicked in her wake.
Avall claimed Beejinn's chair beside Rrath's head. He reached over and touched the Priest's brow gently. “What's in here? I wonder,” he whispered.
“The secrets of the ghost priests, for one thing,” Rann mu
ttered, as he folded himself down on the floor at Avall's feet. “I assume that's why you came.”
Avall nodded, already fishing in his tunic for his gem. Not the master gem—the death gem, as he sometimes called it— but the other, lesser one that Rann had found and given him. “I've tried this once before, when you weren't around to stop me—and accomplished nothing. I don't know if this time will be any better, but I have more reason to pierce the shell of his coma than I had before, and I know desire affects how these things work.”
He'd secured his gem by then. It gleamed in his palm like frozen fire. “I also—” he began, then broke off, scowling, before soldiering on again. “I also thought it might help if we both tried to get through to him. You and I would be stronger together, plus you might also be able to go somewhere I can't.”
Rann shrugged amiably. “I'm game.”
“Fine.” Avall glanced at the door. “We'll need to hurry. I don't want to have to explain this to Beejinn.”
Rann had anticipated him. His own gem already glittered in his hand. He'd also snared a paring knife from a bowl of apples on the small bedside table. Mashed apples were one of the few things Beejinn had been able to get Rrath to eat, but she preferred to do her own preparation in his rooms. Avall saw no reason to argue.
“Will we need to cut him?” Rann wondered, surveying Rrath's limp form. “Or—”
Avall traced the angle of Rrath's jaw and shook his head. “Someone nicked him when they shaved him and there's still a scab.” He picked at it with a nail, and was rewarded with a thin line of brighter red. An exchange of nods, and Rann made a small incision in the palm of his left hand. Avall wouldn't have needed to follow suit, had it merely been he and Rann who were bonding, but including Rrath required more direct contact among all three bloodstreams. Fortunately, he still had small scabs in his palm from when he'd tested the ingots, which should prove sufficient. A deep breath, and he and Rann clasped hands, with Rann's gem between.