by Tom Deitz
“Very interesting,” Zeff mused, helping himself to a goblet of wine. “But not really useful.” He started for the door of his private chamber. “I am not to be disturbed for the next hand, is that clear?”
Ahfinn nodded and started to sit back down, then seemed to think better of it and remained where he was until Zeff departed. Zeff noted his relieved expression in a well-placed mirror. And shrugged. No matter—not now. Not when he had things to do and was late beginning them.
With that in mind, he wasted no time stripping off his filthy robe and the hose, shirt, and boots beneath it; then, as an afterthought, let his drawers follow. Naked, he snared a towel, wet it at a bowl of water, and managed to clean his hands and scour the worst of the sweat off his body before knotting the towel around his waist and sinking down in his Chieftain's Chair.
A pause to compose himself, and he reached to the panel between his ankles and pressed a hidden stud. A tray slid noiselessly forward, bearing a number of small phials, bowls, and jars. He selected one, peered at it intently, squinting a little to make sure it did indeed bear the sigil of Weather. That confirmed, he set it aside while he located the other two he needed, which bore the sign for Man and Time. These, too, he set aside in order to withdraw the smallest of the bowls. It was a tiny, delicate thing, yet potentially very powerful—and very dangerous. What he was about to assay was not to be ventured lightly, and he was already uneasy about his lack of preparation. Well, the Ninth would either forgive him or not, and if he did nothing, that would require even more forgiveness.
Another deep breath, a brief invocation to Lord Time, and he unstoppered the phials. A dozen drops from each went into the bowl and mixed and mingled there. Maybe the air in the room stirred. Maybe he was sweating more. It didn't matter. What mattered was completing the rite correctly.
He wondered what Avall would think if he saw Zeff now. Avall was newly come to Kingship, and thereby required by rite to drink of the Wells at certain times and seasons. He would know how that felt.
But no one save the Ninth Face itself, and then only its chiefs and wardens, knew what happened when one mixed water from the Wells of The Eight with that from the Well of the Ninth. One of the phials Zeff had just opened contained water from Weather's Well, one from Man's, one from Time's. Even now they were mingling, and with it, mingling their powers.
He let the bowl sit for a moment, observing the way the waters merged with each other, delicate arabesques of texture forming ever more complex designs atop the surface, as only he and two others had training enough to see.
It was time.
Closing his eyes, he sank back in his chair, then found the bowl by touch alone and raised it to his lips and drank.
It had almost no taste, and what it did have was rather sweet than bitter, but the fumes filled his brain like fire flung upon a sheet soaked in naphtha.
He saw light, then darkness, and then saw all of Eron as though from a very great height. He was, he knew, on the threshold of the realm of The so-called Eight, about to call upon the power of the Ninth.
To contact another nine.
The conjuring of their faces in his mind's eye was simple enough, but only because he'd done it many times. The difficulty lay in maintaining contact with all of them while still treating each one separately. It was like thinking nine things at once. Difficult, but not impossible.
He had their faces etched in his mind now: nine men and women of Eron, some of whom would've been easily recognized, some of whom were obscure. Not one was High Clan, however, and only two were Common.
He knew them all, but he called their names anyway, and one by one they looked up from where they were dispersed across the Kingdom and stared into space, no matter what they were about—though they were supposed to be alone this time of day, primed for exactly this kind of contact.
Blessedly all of them answered. Zeff waited a moment to confirm the surety of those nine bonds, then passed on the message he'd hinted for days might be delivered that very night, for which purpose these people had been set in place for three seasons—ever since Gynn had uttered the prophecy predicting a winter—and summer—of blood.
“We will do it,” he told those people, letting the wind carry his voice to all those other minds. “We will do it when and how we planned. I hope your blades are sharp, your arrows keen, your hands strong, and your poisons virulent. If you fail me, you fail the Ninth Face, and if you fail the Ninth Face, you have failed the God who unites your Gods.”
“Aye,” came that silent unison. “That which you have commanded will be done.”
CHAPTER XV:
PLOTS AND PLANS
(ERON: TIR-ERON: NEAR PRIEST-CLAN-MAIN— HIGH SUMMER:
DAY LVIII—MORNING)
“I still say Avall won't like this,” Veen muttered, as she followed Vorinn toward the rough stone trilithon that comprised the gate to Priest-Clan's compound. It was broad daylight, if early. Reason enough to support the fiction that they acted officially, though they didn't.
In the afterglow of his frustration at finding Strynn gone, Avall had told Vorinn what Esshill had told him—in part to explain where he'd been at so odd a time, and why. Vorinn had nodded sagely, and, when opportunity presented itself, passed that information on to Veen, with whom he'd concocted the plan they were presently enacting. They were functioning as private citizens, however—if citizens who also happened to be the brother's-son of Warcraft's Chief on the one hand, and Chief of the Royal Guard on the other could be said to have private lives.
In any case, procuring useful information was preferable to endless rounds of meetings back at the Citadel, in preparation for the army's imminent departure. From that point of view, this little foray was a lark, and indeed Vorinn and Veen were like two children, for all they were twenty-seven and thirty five, respectively.
“Vorinn?”
“Avall doesn't like dithering over situations that have only one resolution, either,” Vorinn retorted finally, almost as an afterthought. Even without royal livery he moved like a soldier, Veen thought. Far more than she did; then again, he'd been born to it. “If we can get him one jot closer to finding the Ninth Face's power base in Tir-Eron, we could forestall civil war. If nothing else, we gain a bargaining tool we don't have at present.”
Veen shrugged, and by then it was too late for further discussion, because they'd reached the gate proper. “Vorinn syn Ferr-een to see Nyllol,” Vorinn informed the gate-warden promptly, not naming Veen, which not so much excluded her as shifted responsibility for the visit full upon his shoulders. Nor was there any reason to refuse Vorinn entry unless Nyllol was ill—which, as of the previous evening's report, he wasn't.
The warden consulted a duty tally, then nodded. “He is teaching at this time, but he should be finished soon. If you would like to wait, I would suggest the forecourt of the Lore hall.” She pointed to his left, along a line of what looked like raw cliffs but weren't—once one got inside them. A series of piled stone walls fronted them, dividing the space at their base into a series of courtyards, interspersed with masses of shrubbery.
“Thank you,” Vorinn acknowledged, and moved on as directed for maybe half a shot before claiming a seat built into the wall that faced the slab of ruddy sandstone masking Priest-Clan's Lore hall.
They waited patiently, speaking little, but observing everything. “Do you suppose this … calm is real?” Veen murmured. “I keep looking for conspiracy and not finding it. It seems to be a hold doing exactly what it's supposed to be doing.”
“Which reinforces what we suspect: that the Ninth Face doesn't have official sanction. I think it mostly uses Priest-Clan as a source of recruits. Think about it, Veen: Few people are born to Priest-Clan, so there are few deep clan loyalties to contend with, never mind that anyone who's left his birth-clan to join Priest is likely to have weak roots in that clan anyway. And if one is going to exist outside authority, one doesn't need things like clan loyalties to complicate affairs. But since Priest al
so has strict entrance requirements, what we've basically got is a clan made up of misfits—and I don't have to tell you that people like that can be dangerous.”
“And Nyllol?”
“He and Rrath were spending a lot of time together before Rrath entered his first Fateing. He was from Beast, but left as a child—rumor has it because he thought no one there was smarter than him. He's got a reputation as a fine scholar and teacher of the ethics of animal husbandry—I sat in on a few of his lectures on that when I rotated through here. And he knows a lot about geens—maybe more than anyone alive, now that Rrath's effectively dead.”
Veen nodded, then started as a bald, brittle-looking man matching Vorinn's description of Nyllol strolled out of what looked like the entrance to a cliffside cave but wasn't. Vorinn rose as she did, trusting her that much. “I see,” he muttered under his breath.
By which time Nyllol had also seen—and apparently identified—Vorinn, and was striding toward him, an easy grin on his face. A grin that faded as he noticed Veen. She could almost hear him working out the connections between former student and present Guard.
Yet the facade never crumbled. “Vorinn!” Nyllol cried at the requisite distance, extending his hand as he cut that span in half.
“Priest,” Vorinn replied formally, dipping his head. He stepped aside, as though to introduce Veen, but the movement let him slip beside the Priest in such a way that he could seize Nyllol's arm in a grip that was at once excruciating and unobtrusive. “This way, Nyllol, and apologies in advance for any pain we must inflict, for it is not pain we seek, but information.”
Fortunately, Vorinn had chosen their location carefully, so it wasn't difficult to steer Nyllol through a hedge-framed archway to the right, and into a small meditation garden. Veen closed the gate one-handed, indicating that the garden was in use.
“Veen,” Vorinn prompted. Whereupon Veen withdrew a length of dark, fibrous wood from her pouch, broke it in half, and thrust the broken ends beneath Nyllol's nostrils. His reaction alone would tell them something. He should possess no more than minimal immunity to what was both a euphoric and an anesthetic. The presence of any sort of conditioning would be hard to hide.
Not surprisingly, he flinched away, but Vorinn shifted his grip, while Veen found the pressure points behind his jaw that made his mouth pop open. She thrust one broken end inside and squeezed so that the juices would run out and thus have maximum effect.
“The Ninth Face,” Vorinn whispered. “If that term means anything to you, you would be wise to tell us now. And if it doesn't, we'll know soon enough, and tender our apologies with appropriate compensation. But we don't think it will come to that, because we think you do know.”
Maybe the fumes had had time to produce the desired effect; maybe they had not. Veen and Vorinn would never know. Because even as they stood there, on the threshold of discovering the truth, Nyllol managed to free one hand long enough to seize the stump of wood from Veen's fingers, ram it into his throat, and swallow. Death came quickly, though whether Nyllol drowned in his own blood from savaged vessels in his throat or suffocated from a plugged windpipe they could not unclog, neither of them ever knew.
They left him where he was, though Veen protested. In any case, while Nyllol himself had told them nothing, his death had told them quite a lot indeed.
(ERON: TIR-ERON: THE CITADEL—LATE MORNING)
“They swear he did it with his own hands,” Avall told Grivvon of Law, two hands later, in Avall's private audience chamber. More properly, he told the Chief of Priest-Clan, who happened to be Grivvon, for Priest-Clan's Chieftainship rotated through the eight chief Priests with the seasons. At least Grivvon was more reasonable than some, for all he'd come storming into the Citadel like a hurricane. They were alone, save for a vigilant Riff.
“Can you prove it?” Grivvon huffed. “Avall, I don't have to tell you that they're a breath away from being charged with murder.”
“They say they'll testify under imphor if I ask them to,” Avall shot back. “And given that they're Warcraft conditioned, you know how much risk that entails. For that matter, I'll testify that I didn't send them, as long as I've got three other Chiefs here to witness that you take no advantage of me. Don't even think I'm happy about this,” he added through his teeth. “Now,” he continued more calmly, “since you're here, I might as well save us all a lot of trouble and ask you: Does the phrase ‘the Ninth Face’ mean anything to you?”
Grivvon didn't reply at once, but Avall didn't particularly want him to. He was watching for more subtle signs: a tensing here, a hesitation there, a tic or twitch somewhere else, or some change in his breathing. He was also alert to any unexpected sensations in his mind that might be the result of strong emotions expressed spontaneously.
“It does not,” Grivvon replied stiffly. A little too stiffly, Avall thought.
Avall studied him keenly. “Let me rephrase that. Have you heard anyone in your clan utter the phrase ‘the Ninth Face’ before today?”
Grivvon smirked mirthlessly. “You're getting good, boy.”
“I'm also good enough to notice a clumsy evasion,” Avall snapped. Then: “Grivvon, I'd like to trust you, but I can't—not yet. I could subject you to imphor, but that would require force, and we already know what happens when that's misapplied. But I have a simpler, though no less binding, solution.”
Grivvon's brows shot up; he regarded Avall suspiciously. “And what might that be?”
In reply, Avall reached behind his throne where he'd casually concealed a certain object and brought it forth: the Sword of Air, used to compel Sovereign Oath. It had been used more recently by poor High King Gynn in his last battle when the sword that had been made for that battle had gone missing. Avall hoped it was none the worse for that. He also hoped Grivvon didn't know how it had been used. It was effectively a sacred object, after all—with all that implied about casual usage. Never mind that it had neither been tempered for use as an actual weapon, nor meant to be used that way. Indeed, it's purpose was solely to affirm the truth of, and then bind vows, through some unknown force not unlike the power of the gems.
“I will have your oath of you,” Avall said simply, tilting the sword so that its light flashed down the hall. “I would prefer to have it privately, but I can produce witnesses besides Riff if you like. I would also prefer to be able to trust you, but that, again, is up to you. You must be aware by now that I am mustering a force to take to Gem-Hold-Winter, which is now in the hands of members of your clan. I find it unlikely that you do not know of such a thing, but I also find it unlikely that you would betray your country in such a way, whatever you may think of my recent discoveries. Therefore, I ask you simply to place your hand on the point of this sword and swear to me that you are not complicit in this thing. Such things are perfectly possible, and I will try very hard to believe you when I hear you say it. I will also expect you to ferret out this cancer that has infected your clan as soon as possible, for it can do none of you any good. Now swear! Place your hand on the sword's naked tip and swear. Choose your words; the sword will know.”
Grivvon swallowed hard, even as anger drew shadows across his face like an approaching summer storm. He glared at Avall, and Avall feared he was about to turn and stalk out of the room—or strike him. Instead, he knelt, as was appropriate, but his eyes never left Avall's as he stretched forth his hand and rested it on the blade.
“I, Grivvon, Priest for this time of the Face of The Eightfold God that rules both the Laws of The Eight, and the Laws of man, do hereby make oath before Avall syn Argen-a, for this time High King by proclamation of all Eron, that I have no knowledge—neither overt, secret, nor clandestine—of any group operating within the confines of my clan under the name of the Ninth Face, or any similar name. Nor do I—”
He didn't finish, for the sword had moved of its own volition, or so it seemed to Avall. But where before, when Avall had sworn the sole Sovereign Oath that Gynn had forced upon him, he'd felt the sword twi
tch and found his hands bloodied; this time the sword had made a stab at Grivvon's wrists, as though it intended to slash them.
Or as though Grivvon so intended. Which could mean any number of things, not the least of them being that Gynn's unorthodox use of the weapon during the war had somehow sullied it past redemption. Or perhaps Grivvon himself had used it to attempt suicide in such a way that Avall would be blamed.
But that didn't explain Grivvon's startled expression as he flung himself away from the sword while blood splattered in an arc across the floor.
Avall dropped the sword as though it had burned him. “I don't know,” he said flatly, rising. “It didn't like what you said, but you act like a man surprised when a pet turns on him. If you would have me believe your innocence, find it and bring it to me. In the meantime, if you won't help me, don't hinder me, but beware your own clan, Grivvon. There's a cancer at work in this land, but cancer can sometimes be cured by amputation. See that you are part of the body if that happens, not part of the infected limb.”
“Majesty,” Grivvon murmured stiffly, which, though technically a reply, said nothing. And then, with one hand still clamped around the more freely bleeding wrist, he rose, bowed slightly, and started for the door.
“My chirurgeons will attend you,” Avall called.
“I have my own,” Grivvon spat. “I can travel two shots without aid.”
And with that he was gone, leaving a trail of glistening red in his wake. And leaving Avall with a slightly clearer conscience—but no answers.
(THE CITADEL—MIDAFTERNOON)
“Avall?”
Avall looked up from where he was rather listlessly packing a selection of half-finished smithing projects from the shelves of his private workroom—which were practically the only things they'd let him pack for himself.
Rann was peering through the doorway, looking harried, with what passed on him for a forelock falling winsomely toward one eye. “You look busy,” Rann teased, easing the rest of the way in. He was in Eemon livery, Avall noted, undifferenced by the crown of royal service—which meant he was here as himself, which was a relief.