by Tom Deitz
And with that touch, Avall felt power flow out of himself, yet without feeling in anywise diminished. Along with that flow, he felt the barriers that walled away his self dissolve, as Rann's consciousness surged into him. He resisted the urge to merge with Rann, for this was about power, not emotion, and Rann would need to work through him if they hoped to accomplish anything.
It was difficult not to bond with him, however, for that closeness was a wonderful thing, and something they'd allowed themselves far too rarely of late, lest it become—as they both feared—addictive or prosaic.
Fortunately, Rrath chose that moment to groan softly, which was enough to stir Avall from reverie. Another breath, and Avall curved his other hand along the smooth line of Rrath's jaw, with his personal gem touching both the Priest's blood and his own.
Closing his eyes, he steered his awareness toward Rrath, then into him—and met resistance that was more than physical. Rann, who rode with him, thrust his strength against that barrier as well, and together they explored what language would've described as a wall around Rrath's mind. Had the Priest been conscious, or even asleep and dreaming, there would've been a twitch of recognition, followed by a bonding— if they were friends—or rejection—if they were not. Here, there was nothing.
Avall pushed harder, seeking to insinuate his consciousness into Rrath's. And succeeded—but only to the degree that his awareness reached a place where Rrath's awareness had been. It was like walking through an empty house: One could tell that those rooms had once held things—memories, feelings, emotions—yet he had no idea what those items might have been.
In a way, too, it was like using the master gem, in that he sensed the presence of some other self waiting deep within. But where using the master gem was like falling, this was like roaming an endless maze. And though he knew life awaited at the end, he also knew it would take more time than he had— and maybe more time than he could ever spare—to reach whatever essence of Rrath remained. Even with Rann to aid him, it would take a very long time indeed to search each wallless room of vanished memory for the touchstone that might reawaken Rrath, who was the only one who could refill them.
Hopeless—for now, came Rann's silent whisper.
For now, Avall agreed. But that doesn't mean I won't try again—eventually.
Eventually, Rann echoed, and withdrew. Avall went with him. As one they opened their eyes; as one they unclasped hands. Avall left his other one on Rrath's jaw a moment longer before returning his gem to its mount.
Wordlessly they rose. Rann continued gazing down at Rrath while Avall stepped to the door through which Beejinn had passed. “We're finished,” he called softly. “We neither helped nor hurt him. Beyond that … just keep him clean-shaven. It might help more than you think.”
She stared at him quizzically—almost angrily, but nodded.
“You're doing a fine job,” Avall informed her from the door. “Thank you. Oh, and tell Esshill we were here. He might appreciate it.”
And then Avall followed Rann into a chamber that was far more physical but no less empty than those he'd found in Rann's mind. And shivered. Rann was shivering too, and for a long time they simply stood there, embracing, still lightly bonded. And passionately glad to be alive.
CHAPTER VI:
IN THE WILD
(NORTHWESTERN ERON—HIGH SUMMER: DAY XLII—EARLY MORNING)
Div gave the lock one final tug and turned away—from door, wall, and hold, all three.
And from her past. The lock would hold—or not. It was largely symbolic, anyway: a means of informing whoever happened by that what had once been a summer hunting hold belonging to her late husband's clan was not, however it might appear, abandoned, but under active claim, which ought to be respected. Of course if someone really needed it for shelter overnight, it would be simple enough to enter the place. The shutters were rotting, after all, and there was always that hole in the west wing where a pine tree had smashed through the roof.
In any case, she had what she'd come for: a good supply of furs she'd been forced to abandon last winter when what had begun as a simple hunting expedition had changed her life forever. She'd met Rann and Avall then, and through them a whole host of interesting and—she had to admit—powerful folk, and had found herself subsumed, without conscious volition, into the ranks of the mighty.
It was because she was smart, strong, and reliable, they said. Which one had to be in order to survive here in the Wild, as she'd done for half a dozen winters. It was also because Rann loved her—or said he did—and Rann was bond-brother with the new High King, whose body she had likewise known.
And how many other Common Clan women could say they'd lain with a King? Still, she sometimes felt she was allowed among them on sufferance—not that either of her closest female friends, Merryn and Strynn, ever put on airs. High Clan women were not so spoiled as that, since every one of them did a share of menial labor in the halls and holds. Not for High Clan Eronese was privilege without responsibility or effort.
But she wondered if her clan, as a whole, knew that. She'd seen many things firsthand that few, if any, Commoners had witnessed. Far too many of them, she reckoned, remembered mostly that it was their ranks that had swelled the army and taken the brunt of a series of bloody defeats before that final victory. Worse, it was those same ranks that were most threatened by Priest-Clan's rumored interdict, which would, in effect, deny them access to The Eight unless the King made concessions she knew he'd never make.
But that was in the future, and whatever decisions Avall made, she'd sworn to follow him, and had a Royal Guardsman's tabard to prove it. That the future also meant returning to Rann was no bad thing, either; but she was no closer now than when she set out to achieving another goal, which was to determine, once and for all, how she truly felt about her relationship with Rann syn Eemon-arr.
She loved him. That was a fact.
Her womb was damaged, so she could never give him the children Law required he sire. That was also true.
She would therefore need to share him with at least one other woman.
And she already had to share him with Avall.
Would enough remain to keep her satisfied?
She didn't know.
For now, however …
Now she had to cross the worn wood of her porch and take a dozen strides across the forecourt to where White Star, the fine new stallion the King had given her, waited, along with a pack animal he'd likewise provided. She could've had an escort as well—Avall had advised one, given that the woods thereabouts were not as safe as had long been assumed. But she'd pointed out that she knew them as well as anyone, and one person and two horses were less likely to be noted than the same plus a dozen Royal Guards.
Whom she'd summarily dismissed to escort Kylin to Gem-Hold.
Kylin …
She wondered again about the wisdom of his returning to a place where he had so many conflicting memories. A friendship with Rann, for instance, that had led to a stronger one with Strynn, which had led, in turn, to her gifting him, however fleetingly, with the power of sight through the newfound gem. Trouble was, word of that had leaked out, and Eddyn had tried to force information about the gem from him, which had prompted Kylin to move in with Strynn, who was by then the only person in the hold he trusted, save perhaps Hold-Warden Crim. But Crim, whom Div had met exactly once, treated Kylin more like a pet than a human being. So he said.
He might be right, too. Kylin was blind, granted, but that didn't mean he was stupid, though the ignorant often assumed as much. In any case, there were things he needed to retrieve from the hold, and High Summer was far and away the best time to attend such things.
Besides, it gave her a reason to visit Gem-Hold. It was, after all, accounted one of the most beautiful outside, and the most splendid within. It was also two days' steady ride from her hold, and she'd be returning to Tir-Eron by a different route, which was another reason she'd locked the door. She would not, she suspected, be comin
g back.
Sighing, she paused one last time, sweeping her gaze around the tiny clearing that she had, for so long, called home. And then she looked northwest, toward Angen's Spine, where lay her destination.
It was a fair long way to those mountains, yet the air was clear today, where yesterday had been rainy. Even so, she wasn't certain, but it seemed that a line of smoke rose up from among those ragged peaks. And for smoke to be visible at such a distance, it must mark a very great burning indeed.
Still, she'd gain no answers here, and she had to meet Kylin regardless. But it was with more concern than heretofore that she set her heels to White Star's sides and pointed his nose toward that tiny, thin line of troublesome darkness.
CHAPTER VII:
MEMORIALS
(ERON: TIR-ERON—HIGH SUMMER: DAY XLII—NOON)
Avall stared at the whipping flame of the torch before him, grasped so firmly in his right hand he feared the brass band that bound the pitch-soaked reeds might buckle beneath his fingers.
Yet he had no choice but to hold it that tight, lest his occasional tremors become too obvious. Beyond the flame, wavy in the haze of heat, he could see the packed seats that framed the enormous, stone-paved lozenge that comprised the Court of Rites, which filled the space between the River Walk and the Citadel proper. The sky glowered, dark clouds matching the black cloaks and tabards that every single person present wore, by Law.
He could force himself to look at those folks—barely. More often he looked left or right, where Rann and Strynn flanked him, black-clad like everyone else, and with their hoods drawn far forward above their faces. He alone went bareheaded, the better to display the crown that was mark of Sovereignty, for it was in that role he now officiated at the funeral of Eellon syn Argen-a.
Eellon's bier stood six strides before him, raised on a portable marble dais that lifted the old man's body just far enough above the level of Avall's head that he could not see the corpse's face above the fabulously embroidered corpse-cloth of Argen maroon and Smithcraft gold. The wind twitched what little of Eellon's white hair still showed beneath the hood of his Clan-Chief's tabard and the circlet that marked him as High Clan. If there was rain, four young kinsmen stood ready to raise a canvas awning above him—until the fire ignited. And once the flame caught hold, there were substances within the bier to assure continued burning even in a downpour.
Avall had endured the formal eulogizing in the Hall of Clans, which had occupied most of the morning. Indeed, he'd managed to sit stone-faced while chief after chief of clan after clan spoke of the man who lay dead before them. Nor did anyone speak ill, which didn't surprise him, given that Eellon, though he could be as hard, petty, and manipulative as any other person gifted with his talents, charisma, and power, was much loved by High Clan and low clan alike. Even Tyrill, speaking on behalf of Clan Argen, which had not yet chosen a successor, had waxed eloquent on how love and hate were such close kin one could not always distinguish them, but how she was a better woman and a better craftsman for having had Eellon to set a standard for her to emulate.
Avall had suffered her comments stoically, for all he'd heard them voiced before, in private. But what had brought tears to his eyes that he hadn't bothered to hide before all those assembled chiefs was Preedor syn Ferr's eulogy. He'd spoken of Eellon as a boy, and of their childhood together, and how Eellon had once thought of challenging for a seat in War instead of Smith, when Tyrill had bested him in a competition. Tyrill had started at that, and Avall had guessed she'd never heard the tale. And then Preedor spoke of their bonding and the dispute over the woman who'd become Eellon's wife that had sundered that bond, and that woman's death from plague that had reunited them.
And through it all, Avall had sat the Stone unmoving, resplendent in the Cloak of Colors, over which he wore a mourner's tabard, hood, and—briefly—mask. And when the eulogies were done, it was time for Priest-Clan to take over, each Priest in turn addressing his or her aspect of The Eight, and espousing Eellon's virtues in terms of it.
And still Avall had said nothing. But when he'd marched out to the Court of Rites at the head of the mourning file, he'd carried the new helm with him, as Merryn had carried the shield and Lykkon the Lightning Sword. And when the time had come for him to speak as King—which was his prerogative, though he had none within his clan—they'd simply raised those three wondrous things on high and he'd shouted for all to hear, “Without him who lies there, none of these would exist, and most of you who sit witness to this rite would be dead.”
They'd then relinquished those items to trusted kinsmen, and he'd taken the torch the Death Priest offered. He'd considered using the Lightning Sword, but that would both irritate Priest-Clan and remind Common Clan—and others—of issues still far from resolution.
Besides which, Eellon despised such display, and were it not for massive arguments to the contrary from everyone Avall respected, he'd have followed custom and made this a private affair in Argen-Hall's own small court of rites, with only the clan and a few close friends to witness.
Yet somehow Eellon had become a national hero. And in that, the clans and the common folk alike must be mollified.
So it was, that with a strange separation from himself that was almost like being drunk or high on imphor wood, Avall slowly stepped forward, gaze focused intently on the torch in lieu of the bier that rose ever higher before him. And then someone—it truly did not feel like him—was lowering that torch to the basin of volatile oil at the bier's base, which would feed the flame where needed to ensure rapid and complete combustion.
The world went yellow-red, then white. Thunder boomed that was not of Avall's summoning. Heat washed his face, and he felt the skin stretch taut across his cheekbones as necessity forced him back. Yet even then, he could only stare fixedly as the Death Priest pried the torch from his still-locked fingers, while Rann and Merryn gently led him back to where Strynn and Lykkon—and others of his clan he'd asked to join the royal party—waited, and there watched with tear-stained faces as the most powerful man in Eron not to wear a crown surrendered his mortal shape to ashes.
Only when the smoke of that burning was a thin spiral damascening the heavens did Avall finally turn away. And only then came the rain, dripping from his crown to wash his tears away.
It was still raining when Avall found Tyrill. The old Craft-Chief was sitting, as she often did these days, in the water court behind Smith-Hold-Main. A high-arched dome stood there, sheltering a life-size bronze statue of Eddyn that stared down at a slab of rustless metal that had been mingled, when molten, with a portion of his ashes, which was all he would ever have for a tomb. Even so, she'd had to fight most of the clan to have that edifice erected. Oddly enough, however, she hadn't had to fight Avall. “He was flawed, but still a hero,” Avall had told her. “Without him, Ixti would have had the victory.”
Avall came upon her quietly, where she sat unmoving, a cup of brandied cider cooling between hands still gloved in the thin black sylk of mourning. Save a sash of Argen maroon twined with Smithcraft gold, she wore only black these days— for Eddyn had been of her immediate line, and it was for him, as much as Eellon, that she mourned.
Why Avall sought her out, he had no idea. Perhaps it was simply that she was one of the few ties remaining to the life that had vanished like the smoke of Eellon's burning all in a season. A time when the old Chiefs' rivalry—and the surrogate continuation they propagated among their two-sons—was one of the fixed points in the universe, along with winter snow.
Silently, he mounted the marble steps that put him beneath the dome. A stroke of his hand wiped water from his face and swept his hood back with it, as he took a seat close enough beside Tyrill to be heard without raising his voice. She acknowledged him with a murmured “Avall” and filled a cup for him without asking. It was High Summer, but the rain had brought a chill that reminded him far too much of the colder seasons to come.
“You've lost a lot,” Avall whispered finally, wincing at the ina
nity of the words, though he knew there were no words that could comfort Tyrill now.
“I've lost nothing,” the old woman retorted without rancor. “Everything has lost me. It's all gone—all of it. My husband, my children, my one-children, and most of my two-. My friends, my lovers, my foes, and my rivals. People tell you they want to live to old age. Some are even so stupid as to crave immortality, but I tell you, it's not worth it. I've watched the world grow and seen civilization advance. I've seen the plague come and go and take half the people I cared about with it. And then I watched people grow to adulthood to whom the plague is only words in books, images in paintings, and lines in plays. You're seeing that now, but you don't know it. History starts out as a thing remote from you, and then, all at once, it surrounds you. You're the center of the world—for a while. Take that book Lykkon's writing—the chronicle of the war and the documentation of the power of the gems. Have you ever stopped to think what that book will represent a thousand years from now? It'll be like Allegri's Treatise on Falconry or Calayn's book on honing edges. It'll be something that's as much a part of those future lives as breathing. Yet it will have no connection with us at all. We'll be names, but not flesh, blood, and bone, love, hate, and jealousy. We'll—”
Avall silenced her by edging closer and easing his arm around her. “Eddyn's the past, and Eellon's the past, and—”
“I'm soon to be the past,” she broke in. “I don't know when, but soon. But the funny thing is that history will mention you and me on the same page, if it mentions us at all. I'll get a line, and you'll get a paragraph, but no one will get any sense of how we're from different generations. I was born when adherence to rite was uncontested. Then came the plague, and necessity forced flexibility, and with that came questioning and dissent. You're from a more liberal age, though it doesn't seem that way to you—it never does. But those who read about us a thousand years from now won't know the gulf between us, or the bond. They won't be aware of the distance between our ages, because history books don't emphasize such things. I'll simply be your mentor's rival; you'll be the man who wielded the sword that won the war with Ixti. And maybe they'll mention Eddyn and Strynn, and how you were all barely more than children, and you were the youngest King Raised in tenscore years. If you learn nothing from this, Avall, learn that nobody is ever apart from history, but always a part of it.”