by Tom Deitz
They were approaching camp by then, and the shadows were growing long. It would be dark soon, and she'd wanted to wait until then to build a fire, lest the smoke be seen from War-Hold or any random Ixtians who might happen by. She had to tend the horses, too: get them properly fed, rubbed down, and picketed for the night. Fortunately, she'd already pitched her tent, laid out her bedroll, and found stones for a fire ring.
Releasing Krynneth with some difficulty—he didn't seem to want to let go of her—she unfolded a second set of blankets and pointed to them. “Sit there, Kryn. Or sleep. You need it. I'll cook and look after you.”
“Ale,” he repeated petulantly, more like a child than ever.
She sighed, but searched for some. Maybe if he drank enough, it would knock him out—which would give her more time to decide what to do about him.
“I've got brandy,” she announced a moment later. “That might be better for you, but go easy, it's strong.”
He snatched the bottle, uncorked it, and took a hearty swig. He'd started to take another, but she grabbed it back. “Not yet! You'll get sick. You don't want to do that, and I don't want you to.”
“Sick …”
“Get some sleep, Kryn. I'll cook.”
“Sleep.”
She pushed him down on the blankets, smoothed his hair out of his eyes, and gently patted his eyelids closed. As an afterthought, she kissed him on the forehead. Like a mother. Thank The Eight that Strynn couldn't see her now. She'd never hear the end of it.
To her amazement, Krynneth started snoring at once. She took that as a good sign—that he trusted her, if nothing else— and bent herself to preparing the promised meal. He was still snoring when she finished, and she had trouble waking him. When he did, his eyes were clearer, but he was very subdued. He took the proffered food without protest, and ate with gusto and surprisingly good manners.
“What's happened in Tir-Eron since I left?” he asked eventually, sounding perfectly normal. And though Merryn wanted more than anything to learn as much about his situation as possible, she decided that for the moment she'd best let him lead the conversation. Which he did, sounding as sane as when she'd met him, even joking now and then.
It was full dark now, and Merryn was tired and sleepy. She hadn't had her bath, either, but that would have to wait until morning. If Krynneth was still improving then, she'd see if she could get him to take one, too. Or maybe they could—
No! She wouldn't let herself think about that. Her life was too complicated as it was, and Krynneth needed no more stress brought to bear on already fragile emotions. “I'm enjoying this,” she told him finally. “But I've been traveling all day and I need to rest. You need it more, though, so you sleep, I'll keep watch. And don't worry, nothing's going to happen to you.”
“Nothing?” he replied softly, sounding like the boy again.
“Nothing,” she assured him.
He didn't reply, for he was asleep already.
Daylight woke Merryn. Or perhaps it was the anxious whickering of one of the horses, or the soughing of the wind through the pines as the morning breeze began to dispel the night. Possibly, too, it was Krynneth breathing beside her, the sounds soft, even, and unconcerned. She smiled at that. It had been a long time since she'd awakened beside any man but her brother or one of his comrades, and that in soldiers' quarters on a battlefield. Leaning up on her elbow, she studied Krynneth's face, noting lines of worry that shouldn't be there at his age. The beard would have to go if they were to continue together.
Which made her frown. She'd intended to reach a decision about that last night, but sleep had surprised her. In any case, he was sleeping soundly, and she still hadn't got that bath, and was in dire need of one. She thought of making a fire first, and putting water on to boil for cauf that she needed and Kryn would probably appreciate, then decided that the noise might rouse him, and she wasn't prepared to deal with him yet.
Having so decided, she slipped silently from her bedroll, found her spare clothes where she'd laid them out the previous night, and padded, barefoot (scandalous notion!) through the woods back to the pool at the base of the waterfall, where she wasted no time finding a rock shelf and stripping, wincing as she slid into what was amazingly cold water. Not that she couldn't endure it, hadn't expected as much, or was likely to get better for a very long time—unless she found a hot spring, or went to the trouble of boiling a great deal of water indeed.
She therefore made short work of it, paying particular attention to her hair. And was just giving her head a final toweling, enjoying the fact that the new short locks seemed already half-dry, when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Sound went with it, and she was already scrambling to her feet when something hard hit the back of her head just behind the ear. Instinct identified that blow—location, implement, and angle—as one she'd learned as part of the Night Guard. It was supposed to do minimal harm, but ensure instant unconsciousness. In fact, the blow, as much as what she actually saw before darkness swam in her eyes, confirmed her attacker as her fellow Night Guardsman, Krynneth.
She tried to fight him off, but surprise had sufficiently dulled her reflexes that the first blow made another possible. This one connected more surely, and the last thing she remembered before darkness claimed her was that one should always turn one's back to a river if there was a waterfall nearby to dull one's hearing.
When she awoke again, it was to find herself back in camp, clad only in her undertunic, with her hands tied securely before her and her ankles trussed up like a roasting pig.
Krynneth—fully dressed and sleepy-eyed, but intently focused for all that—was sitting across from her, calmly sorting through her gear one pack at a time.
Her heart sank. The shield was where she'd left it, hidden within its nondescript cover. The pouch with the gems was piled with the clothes she'd worn to the pool. But the sword and helm …
He found the former exactly as she thought it, and pulled it from the bundle of which it had been part, staring at it quizzically. “I know this sword,” he gasped, fingers brushing the peace ties that also, fortunately, covered the gem's trigger. “It's the Fire Sword.” He paused, cocked his head. “Fire Sword,” he repeated. “Or Lightning Sword. Doesn't much matter, 'cause they both burn things—and I've had enough of burning.”
“Put that away!” Merryn snapped. “It's more dangerous than you can imagine. It could kill you without you even knowing.”
“Then it's safer if I keep it,” Krynneth replied solemnly. “You think I don't know that it was you who caused the burning?”
“I never—!” Merryn began. But he was right. It was her fault, in a way. But he had the regalia now, and that was the imminent problem.
“You stole this, didn't you?” he accused. “It belonged to the King, and he'd never let anyone take it away. Not even you.”
“I'm his sister.”
“You're also the king of Ixti's lover. And you're going south in disguise. What would that make you think if you were me?”
Merryn blinked in blank amazement. What had gotten into Krynneth, to prompt such accusations? They might not have been so bad had he been angry. But to have him lay them out so calmly, as if they made perfect sense …
“I've never lied to you,” she said slowly.
His eyes flashed fire. “Yes you have! You've tricked me, anyway—which is the same thing!”
“When?” she dared.
“When you and Lorvinn helped Kraxxi escape.”
“We never—!”
“You did!”
Merryn started to reply, then thought better of it. The smart thing to do was watch and wait. Krynneth had already changed personalities several times since yesterday. It was more than possible he might change again. She hoped he did it soon. In any case, he was running on his own momentum now, and she knew better than to interrupt someone as angry as he obviously was.
“You think silence will save you?” he raged “It won't. You've got the Fire Sword
, and there's only one reason you should have it, and that's to take it to Kraxxi, so he can make more fire.”
“And what will you do with it?” she challenged.
“Cut out your tongue, if you say another word!” Krynneth shouted. Something about his tone made her believe him.
“I'm tired of this,” he growled abruptly, whereupon he kicked her onto her side, then knocked her out again with the bone hilt of her cooking knife. When she regained consciousness, he'd struck the entire camp, and very neatly, too. But his eyes, when she saw them, were still mad.
“Krynneth—” she dared again.
“I'll cut your tongue out,” he spat. “Be silent.”
Merryn thought it best not to argue.
CHAPTER XIX:
HIDDEN AGENDAS
(ERON: TIR-ERON: ARGEN-HALL—MASK DAY— EARLY EVENING)
Tyrill hated Mask Day and always had. Even as a girl, she'd hated it. Possibly that was because she'd been obsessed with order even then, and Mask Day was the one day of the year when the ritual-loving, Law-respecting Eronese utterly abandoned any sense of propriety, expectation, or order. Or maybe it was simply the fact that when everyone wore masks—by Law; there was that much order in the celebration—she could no longer distinguish friend from foe, and thus didn't know how to act. As a gawky girl, that had been important.
Now, however, she simply hated it because it was one more thing to complicate a life that was complicated enough already. She watched the preparations from the windows of her suite— her old suite: the traditional Craft-Chief's suite in Argen-Hall. The revelry wouldn't start until a finger after sunset—which was an odd time, just as it was observed in the middle of an eight-day, without reference to cosmic proprieties such as equinoxes or solstices. In fact, the date itself was irregular, being chosen by random lot two years in advance, with allowances made to preclude two Mask Days falling close together.
She'd be glad when it was over. As it was, she'd spent most of the last eight-day finishing things, not the least among them, business with Avall. She'd seen him ride out amid all that panoply. And she'd not even been able to argue with him when he'd told her that, in spite of his best intentions, he wouldn't be able to sit in the conclave that had—finally—Proven a new Clan-Chief. The Kingdom was more important, they both agreed. Lives were at stake, not mere power structures. And, by the way, did she mind sitting as Steward while he was gone?
She hadn't wanted to, but with Tryffon and Preedor both off with the army, she was the person he trusted most—more than the Chiefs of Stone and Lore, even, who were the other two likely candidates. She supposed that was a compliment, but she wondered, sometimes, if it weren't simply a way of riding her to an earlier grave than she'd have succumbed to otherwise.
But that would never have occurred to him, foolish, guileless half-boy that he was. Maybe he even considered it compensation for his absence at the conclave. But that was like spreading jelly on burned bread. In any case, she had no choice but to wear the Steward's circlet tonight, when she was required to put in an appearance at the Masker's Ball in the forecourt of the Citadel.
But that was still more than a hand away, and, to her surprise, she didn't seem to have any productive way of filling the intervening time. She tried pacing, reveling in the fact that the warmth of summer had made the pain in her joints subside. But pacing made her squires anxious, so she substituted walking the corridors of Argen-Hall.
That, in turn, brought her to the doors of the Clan-Chief's Audience Chamber. On impulse, she eased in there. The highvaulted room was one of the most impressive in Argen-Hall, with every surface faced with some kind of cleverly worked metal; but she'd seen it so many times over the years that its splendor barely registered. The Chief's Chair stood on a low dais at the opposite end, and she found herself wandering toward it. When she'd been acting Chief, she'd presided from this chamber more than once, but she'd sat in her traditional Craft-Chief's chair, one step lower than the Clan-Chief's, since her role in the Chieftains Hall was born of courtesy, not right. The seats in her Hall were reversed.
Before she knew it, she'd reached the dais. She ran a hand along an arm of her chair, then along one of the Chieftain's. No one but a Clan-Chief could sit there, by ancient Law, but she'd been Clan-Chief in all but confirmation, at least briefly, and was close to ninety years old, and Death would likely visit her sooner than later—so, she considered, she had little to lose by yielding, just once, to caprice. Besides, wasn't this Mask Day, when rules were supposed to be flaunted?
A deep breath, a pause to listen, as though tradition likewise held its breath in anticipation of her indiscretion, and then, in one quick burst of movement, she sat down in the Clan-Chief's Chair.
“Lady!” her squire—Lynee was her name, and she'd been born to Common Clan—gasped.
“Lady indeed!” someone echoed behind her. Tyrill started to rise, but the speaker was beside her by then, pushing her gently back into the seat. It took a moment to recognize her assailant, and when she did it was by sight, not voice. Mavayn. Lady Mavayn san Argen-el, to give her full name; now Chief-Elect of Clan Argen. Eellon's successor, confirmed the previous night after she'd finally, against numerous challenges, Proven herself more competent than Lord Trymm syn Argen-yr. They'd both been born the same day, and while Law would still have given precedence to the firstborn, they'd also been born precisely at sunset, so there was no way of telling who had preceded whom into the world. It had taken a match of wits to determine. Mavayn had won, after two hands of queries on every imaginable topic.
“It's all right,” Mavayn murmured with a wry smile. “In your place I'd be tempted, too—and what better day to yield to such temptations?”
“Chief, I apologize,” Tyrill protested, trying again to rise. “It was unseemly. I, of all people, should keep my pride in check.”
“You have as much to be proud of as anyone in this kingdom,” Mavayn shot back, though she withdrew her hand. “Perhaps if I sat here after you, we might be equally wicked.” For all her age, she grinned at that, showing yellow teeth. What she proposed was wicked, too—and preposterous. There was no luck worse than to sit in the Chief's Chair before the appointed time of one's Raising to that title—which would not be until tomorrow's sunrise, after all masks were shed.
“So you're saying we would each owe the other a secret?” Tyrill dared. “I think not. What you do when I leave here is your business, of course. And it would be unseemly for me to try to stop you.”
And somehow, in the midst of that rejoinder, which had commenced so casually, Tyrill's old iron-hard adherence to tradition had returned. She started back down the aisle toward the door, but paused halfway there and turned again. “I will expect a reprimand from you tomorrow,” she said quietly, and departed.
Lynee was looking anxious when Tyrill finally reappeared in the corridor. “You must hurry, Chief,” she said. “You've barely enough time to reach the Citadel before the ball begins.”
“Ah,” Tyrill chuckled grimly. “But wouldn't that be appropriate, too?”
Yet two fingers later, she and Lynee had climbed into the transport they had chosen for the evening: the poorest coach they could find in Argen's stables, pulled by the poorest horses. Indeed, had Tyrill not been so infirm, they properly should have walked, but she'd drawn the line at that. Still, they wore motley, as everyone was supposed to do, with no clan insignia anywhere about. And their masks were the standard issue everyone began the evening wearing across their eyes and noses, adding decorations as impulse directed, from piles of feathers, glass gems, furs, and other baubles set up at intervals around the city.
The sun had just vanished below the edge of the gorge, so it appeared, which was the signal for the bonfires to be lit— which they were, in front of every Hall and Hold from the Citadel all the way down to Farewell Island. In spite of herself, Tyrill felt a thrill as the nearest flame flared up, followed at once by the first of the revelers jumping through it, which was supposed to ensure lu
ck.
The River Walk was already thick with people flooding out of the Halls and Holds, as well as from the bridges to South Bank, where most of the lower clans lived and had their businesses. Not that anyone could distinguish High from low now, save perhaps by height or build, since few High Clan men or women were notably thin, stout, tall, or short. True to form, many sported straw daggers and paper shields, and more than one mock combat was already taking place, to the enthusiastic cheers of those less inclined to play the fool.
Before Tyrill knew it, they'd reached the largest fire of all: the one that blazed before the open gates of the Court of Rites. She'd have to traverse the last part of the way on foot, however, so she ordered the coach to stop and let Lynee help her down. With that, she dismissed the coachman, who was clearly eager to begin his own revelry. Nor did it matter, really. The Eight knew there were quarters aplenty she could claim in the Citadel. Squaring her shoulders, but giving Lynee her arm, she made her way through the open gates of the most important public space in all Eron.
A makeshift parody of a palace had been erected there, three stories high, not including the towers, and wrought of every kind of discarded item one could imagine. Once the basic structure had been constructed by apprentices from Wood, anyone else in Eron had been allowed to contribute what he would to that most fanciful of buildings. True to form, however, the front was left open so that everyone could view the Chief of Masks, who even now held court from a hay bale throne.
A table stretched before him, covered with food donated by anyone who wished, with ale from the royal stores by Avall's command. Many were drunk already, and so much noise roared within the place that Tyrill could barely hear. She was supposed to make her way to the Chief of Masks, present herself, remove her own mask, so that all could see that order was indeed being passed, then retreat into obscurity once more.