by Tom Deitz
“I think so,” Div muttered back. Then, “Yes.”
By which time Strynn could likewise feel a difference. She opened her eyes, and saw, sure enough, that the initial circle was narrowing into an oval that was growing more attenuated by the moment, as it quickly decomposed into a curving line. Nor was that arc even; one end tended higher and tugged more strongly.
“Southwest,” Div affirmed. “Just like before. At least Merryn's consistent.”
“I'd be willing to bet she's decided to check by War-Hold,” Strynn said, folding the string away. “It would be just like her.”
“Returning to the scene of what she thinks is a crime?”
Strynn nodded. “That's just like her, too: to take guilt on herself she doesn't owe.”
Div laughed grimly. “You're right there. What is it Rann says about her? The three things she cares most about are honor, honor, and honor.”
“She'd disagree with that,” Strynn mused. “But only because Avall and I are somewhere up there as well. She's doing this at least as much for us as for the Kingdom.”
“I wish,” Div announced suddenly, “I had a brother.”
Strynn cocked her head. “I'd have given you either of mine until about three years ago, when I finally decided they were human—or they decided I was.”
Div regarded her keenly. “I'd settle for a bond-sister.”
“You didn't have one?”
“I'm Common Clan, remember?”
“That doesn't change anything.”
“It changes your parents' thinking about such things. Taking a bond-mate can be construed as putting on airs.”
“Why? Common Clan has a seat in Council.”
“But we're not High Clan. High Clan dogs have been known to come to Council.”
Strynn was frowning. But not at Div's last comment. It wasn't as if they hadn't hashed out the differences between the clans more than once already. But perhaps the fact that Div was in love with a High Clan man made her particularly sensitive about it. It didn't matter to Rann, because he first of all loved Avall. But she couldn't convince Div of that.
But why wouldn't her ring go back on? Surely her fingers hadn't swollen that much. Maybe it was something to do with her cycle, which had always been erratic. In any event, she'd got it on now. And Div was easing a nice round of bread out of the oven. Strynn busied herself finding bowls from the station's stash and ladling stew into them. It smelled heavenly. Whatever else she was or wasn't, Div was a damned fine cook. Then again, she'd had years in the Wild to make her so. Strynn could cook, too, of course—everyone could—but the only thing for which she'd shown any real aptitude was sweets, and this wasn't the time for them. Maybe for breakfast, however … She'd see what was in the larder.
The bread was delicious, especially spread with butter from the station's horde, and the stew was wonderful as well. Div had seasoned it with something sharp and pungent that wafted up her nose to open her sinuses. There was also ale: local draft in lieu of the darker beverage Brewcraft issued to the stations as part of its tithe to the Kingdom.
She ate a second helping of the bread—but that was a mistake. This time the butter didn't taste right. Perhaps it was rancid. Had it been that way before? she wondered, setting half a wedge aside. Had the stew she'd eaten with it simply overridden the taste of rottenness?
Div scowled. “Something wrong?”
“Maybe the butter. I don't feel right, all of a sudden.”
Div sniffed her own buttered slice, then the crock from which it had come. “Smells fine to me. Maybe—”
Strynn didn't hear the rest because a slight queasiness had suddenly become an all-too-familiar tightening in her throat. She was also sweating, and her face felt flushed. She knew what that meant.
“I'm going to—” she managed before she leapt to her feet and bolted for the garderobe. She made it in time, but only barely. When she rose from disposing of her meal, it was to find Div standing in the door, offering her a chilled mug of water.
Strynn took it hesitantly, wondering why Div was looking at her so strangely.
“I need that bath,” Strynn announced, wiping her brow.
Div seemed to relax at that. “I'll scrub your back if you'll scrub mine.”
“Done,” Strynn agreed, already feeling much better. It really must have been the butter.
Unusual for an Eronese way station, the bathhouse was outside, attached to the main body of the station only by a covered walkway, walled with panels made of strips of interwoven wood. Div shot the bolt, then stood aside for Strynn to enter the chamber at the end. It was much as she'd expected: a weather gate to keep the worst of winter away, with a layer of straw matting over the cobbles, and more against the walls. A series of glass bricks near the ceiling provided minimal illumination, but they didn't linger there. The vesting room adjoined, and Strynn was glad to see that whoever had sheltered there before them had cleaned and folded the station's store of towels. Div snared one from the shelves by the door before moving right to undress. Strynn followed her example to the left. A moment later they were naked, and this time it was Div who preceded Strynn into the actual bathing room in order to light the candles, though there was also a skylight. Three Oaks was a small station, so cold and hot pools were set up in the same room, along with the shower. Strynn had always preferred the progression from room to room. In any case, what concerned her now was getting off her feet and giving her body a long, hot soak in the steaming pool in the center of the chamber. A moment later, she eased into the tiled pool, finding the soakers' bench by feel, as she watched Div jump bravely into the opposite end, where the water came up to her breasts. She swam there briefly, ducking her head to wet her hair before paddling over to sit beside Strynn. “Feeling better?” Div inquired a little too casually.
“Much.”
“I have a theory about that.”
Strynn grimaced sourly. “I'd prefer not to think what you're thinking.”
Div grinned. “Easy enough to prove.”
“Not if you're going to ask me about my bleeding. That's even more erratic than most High Clan Eronese women.”
“As opposed to what? The women of Ixti? I hear they bleed twice an eighth.”
“Which is why their men aren't as fertile as ours.”
“That why Merryn felt safe to take one as a lover?”
“One of the reasons. But she really did love Kraxxi.”
“And Avall?”
“What about him?”
“What kind of lover is he?”
Strynn blushed at first, then felt a flash of anger. “You should know that as well as I!”
Div shook her head. “We were linked by the gem at the time. Rann was there—he and I started it, actually, but Avall looked so sad we had to invite him to join us. That's when the gem really came into play, and we—the two men mostly, if you want the truth—bonded with the birkits as well. So yes, I've seen your husband naked and had him inside me, but I couldn't, at the time, have told you what was him and what was Rann.”
“I've no anger at you for that. Under the circumstances.”
“It had been a long time,” Div confided wistfully. “And they were both so beautiful …”
“They were,” Strynn agreed. “And still are.”
“So why do you fear to name what you think?”
“That I might be pregnant? I'm not afraid.”
“Yes you are!”
Strynn shook her head, but now that her demon had been named, she knew she'd told a lie. “Because if I am, I'm not merely carrying my child, I'm carrying Avall's child. More to the point, I'm carrying the High King's child.”
“Does that matter? The succession doesn't work that way.”
“But it could. He—or she—will be raised as a smith, first of all. But if Avall remains on the throne—which is not a given— then his children will grow up watching a Sovereign at close range. They'd therefore be more qualified than most, which would increase the odds of one o
f them being Sovereign in turn.”
“You're forgetting something.”
“What?”
“That you've already got a son who'll be in exactly the situation you describe. If he's allowed to be.”
Strynn cocked her head. “That's true. But I don't think Avall will discriminate, at least not for a while.”
“Not until Averryn starts to remind him of Eddyn?”
“We've had that exact conversation.”
“Which is sidestepping the issue. Assuming you are pregnant, whatever else you're carrying, you're carrying the heir to two very talented people. That isn't a bloodline that should be risked lightly.”
Strynn gnawed her lip. “If I'm pregnant—well, it's not from the last time we actually tried—it's too soon for that. It's from sometime further back. An eighth or more, at least.”
Div merely looked at her.
Strynn frowned irritably. “If you're getting ready to ask about my breasts, I'll concede that they're a little tender when they really shouldn't be, but that outfit I've been wearing—”
“I think you are,” Div said flatly. “Don't ask me how I know, but I've just got a feeling.”
The frown deepened. “I hope you're wrong, then. Not about the fact of pregnancy in an abstract sense,” she hastened to add, “about that being the case now. See, the problem is, if we abandon this journey and return, there may not be a throne for Avall to sit on, never mind the child.”
Div, too, looked troubled. “And if Avall has no throne, that means things won't have gone well for Rann, either.”
“No.”
“No indeed.”
“Well,” said Strynn, decisively. “The child, at this point, is only a probability. Avall and Rann are facts. And while I'd as soon not bear this child in the Wild, it wouldn't be the first time—as you well know. In any case, it's likely we'll catch up with Merry way before it's a problem.”
Div laughed, long and loud and unself-consciously.
“What's funny?”
“I cannot imagine Merryn delivering a baby, never mind having one.”
“Actually,” Strynn confided with a smirk, “neither can I.”
“Feeling better, aren't you?”
“Yes,” Strynn replied, surprised to discover it was true, “I am.”
CHAPTER XXI:
INSIDE AND OUT
(NORTHWESTERN ERON—HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXII—NEAR SUNSET)
“That has to be it,” Avall acknowledged, shading his face against the glare of the setting sun. The light made his eyes tear, so that he had to look away, which was more comforting, anyway. Better by far to survey the faces of friends, armored or not, and the comforting greenery of the pines that crowned the hilltop where they stood, than to gaze at what lay before them. Or maybe not, for the fading light gave everything a ruddy cast, as if land, trees, and men alike had all been dipped in blood.
Beside him, Rann likewise looked away, meeting his gaze with clear eyes and a troubled brow. “Are you certain it's that one?” he asked dubiously. “It's not like there aren't others.”
“Yes, but this one fits what little description we got out of Eddyn better than any of those,” Avall told him, absently scratching an itch where what he hoped were merely dead pine needles had found their way beneath surcoat, mail, and padded gambeson.
Lykkon rattled the map he'd just unfolded. “More to the point, it's not on here, which is even better evidence.”
“I'd say so,” Avall agreed. “It was Priest-Clan that first surveyed this area. All the maps we have originated with them.”
“Besides which,” Rann took up, “wherever their base is, it has to be between Gem-Hold and Woodstock for them to have attacked us like that last winter. With the weather like it was, there's no way that information about our movements could've reached them in time otherwise.”
“Unless they had gems,” Avall shot back grimly. “They don't act like people who have them, but there's always that possibility.” He shaded his eyes again, and once again looked westward.
He could see more clearly now: what their outriders had been seeking since they'd passed the ruins of Woodstock Station and entered the area where these vast uprisings of rock occurred with regularity.
And what he saw was certainly an imposing sight.
If the landscape thereabouts were a moldering corpse, with the ripples of hills and valleys representing ropes of underlying muscles, and alternating stretches of meadows and forests standing in for remnants of skin and hair upon that body; well, there were bones as well. For here and there for the last two days' travel—and at least two more in every direction—massive escarpments of native basalt poked up from the earth like stubby broken ribs, some so low one could see over them, yet extending for shots in either direction; others rising as high as the walls of Eron Gorge, yet narrow enough for a man to span with his outstretched arms. Most were in between—a shot to half a shot wide and roughly the same high.
Easily big enough to house any number of people if they were hollowed out, which the Eronese certainly knew how to do. True, there were no obvious signs of modification—no glint of windows, no smoke venting from chimneys; and any overt entrances were masked by the luxuriant stand of ancient pines that clustered around the monolith's feet—yet Avall had a feeling about it. And in recent eights he'd learned to trust such feelings.
Besides, glass could be secreted behind shutters, and even in Tir-Eron, many buildings were hollowed in rock formations that, externally, preserved their natural shape, down to placing windows only in the deepest cracks and fissures. Nor did the absence of smoke mean anything, for most of Eron—and a good hunk of the area around this possible Ninth Face citadel—was riddled with geysers, hot springs, and fumeroles, which they'd long since learned to harvest for heat. From what Eddyn had reported about his brief incarceration, there were plenty of amenities—inside. The outside, therefore, didn't matter.
Granted, Eddyn had been drugged and blindhooded when they'd taken him indoors, and again when he departed. In spite of his statements to the contrary, he might also have been drugged while within; he'd admitted to being drugged when he'd met the local Ninth Face Chief and told him everything he knew about Avall's gem.
Not for the first time did Avall wish he'd interrogated his cousin about the whole episode, but it wasn't as if he hadn't been occupied otherwise—recrafting that cursed helm, for one thing. Eellon and Gynn had questioned him, he knew— but one of them was dead in fact, the other in effect. Too, both had been heavily preoccupied at the time, so that neither had caused any details they learned to be set down. What Avall knew came mostly from talking to Eddyn in the forges. And since neither of them were friends, in spite of the common bond they'd shared at the time, those conversations had been minimal.
“Can we take it?” Lykkon murmured eventually.
“We'll have to ask those whose business it is to know such things,” Avall replied.
Rann gnawed his lips thoughtfully before he spoke. “More to the point, I wonder if we should.”
“I don't think so,” said Vorinn syn Ferr-een. His specialty was tactics, and while he had little actual experience, for all he was twenty-seven, he had as much theoretical knowledge of the subject as anyone in Eron. Not for the first time did Avall wish he'd been available during the war. Lately, he'd attached himself to Avall almost like a third squire—after Lykkon and Bingg—when he wasn't serving as Tryffon's principal aid. Avall didn't know him well enough to consider him a true friend—he'd been absent from Tir-Eron most of the time Avall was growing up— but he held him in higher regard daily. And since he was as fond of accepting responsibilities as Avall was of delegating them, it looked as though their acquaintance would be long and profitable. For now—Avall was content to listen while those more knowledgeable than he plotted strategy.
Tryffon prodded the map with a finger and regarded the others in the tent: Avall, Rann, Lykkon, Myx, Veen, Vorinn, Preedor, and three other subchiefs from War. “And wh
y don't you think so?”
“For any number of reasons,” Vorinn replied calmly. “First, if we simply lay siege, they're operating from a position of strength—that's obvious. They command the high ground, and that's always stronger, if for no other reason than because it's easier to throw things down than throw things up. Second, we have no idea how long this place has been here, but it's clearly well-enough staffed and provisioned to put forth a force capable of capturing and securing a major hold. We could wait them out, but we'd still have to deal with Gem-Hold, which would either mean splitting our force or staying here, where we'd risk getting caught between.”
“That's reasonable,” Tryffon acknowledged. “But more cautious than I'd have expected from you.”
“I'm only trying to present all sides of the problem,” Vorinn retorted. “In any case, those weren't the only reasons. We all know that a large part of winning battles is warfare of the mind—play on the foe's ignorance or fears. And we have a problem there. The foe knows a lot about us—they'd have to. We, on the other hand, know almost nothing about them. We have no idea what we might find inside that hold. We've some reason to suspect that the Ninth Face has access to gems at least as strong as Avall's if not stronger. If they bring them to bear against us with anything like the force I understand Avall called down on Ixti, we're all doomed and might as well throw down our swords now. The fact that they haven't brought the battle to us, either here or in Tir-Eron, tells me that they're afraid of what we can bring to bear. They know Avall can call down lightning on their citadel. That we don't do so will imply any number of things and keep them guessing. What we don't need for them to know at any cost is that we don't have the regalia. If we besiege them and fail, they'll know that—or suspect it strongly enough it'll mean the same thing. If, on the other hand, we pass them by, it'll imply that we don't consider their main hold worthy of notice and can clean it out anytime we choose.”