by Tom Deitz
“All of which supposes they know we're here,” Avall observed. “Not that I have any doubt they aren't aware by now of who we are, where we are, and how many. They'd have this place ringed with spies, just like we would if we didn't want anyone to know we existed. And they've probably got multiple bolt-holes.”
“Which may be their main weakness—if we can locate one.”
“If,” Veen huffed. “A small word with a very big meaning.”
“Well, then,” Tryffon concluded, “this is what I'd suggest we do. Avall's right: They have to have been following our progress for days, but since the place we're camped is a logical place to camp anyway, there's reason for them to suppose we chose it by accident, since we're not supposed to know that's their citadel—if it is. With that in mind, we act like this is any other day—as if we plan to move on tomorrow. But tonight, we send out every good tracker we have to try to spy out entrances to that place. If we find any, we let their nature determine our action. If not—much as it pains me to shirk a fight—we probably should move on. Alternately, we leave a force here to keep these folks in check, just in case.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Avall acknowledged. “And I can't think of anything better, though I don't like leaving an enemy at my back.”
“We can leave watchers,” Vorinn assured him. “They can get word to us if anything changes. Enough folks riding out of there to cause trouble would be impossible to hide.”
“In any case, we should know more tomorrow,” Tryffon sighed. “Not that I don't plan to spend the whole night thinking.”
“Tomorrow,” Avall echoed, as he rose. “Sometimes I think I spend my whole life waiting for tomorrow.”
Rann flung an arm across his shoulders. “Considering some of the ‘nows’ we've had, that might be just as well.”
“Nows?” from Bingg, who'd been serving as page.
Lykkon regarded him tolerantly and ruffed his hair. “You know: Avall and Rann being attacked out of the blue by the Ninth Face, Rann being clubbed in the head, Avall spacejumping to where Eddyn was, which resulted in Eddyn jumping away. That moment of panic at the Battle of Storms where we didn't know who Rrath was or what his intentions were.”
“Speaking of Rrath,” Avall murmured. “I suppose I ought to see how he's doing.”
Riff was standing guard at the tapestry-covered flap that separated Avall's private room in the royal pavilion from the adjoining tent, which enclosed the caravans that ostensibly housed the royal regalia, but in fact housed that and Esshill, Rrath, and his official healer. The latter was Gynn's daughter, Aleeahn, to whom Avall had promised two years' exclusion from the Fateing in exchange for her cooperation on this venture. It was a fair trade, too: less than half a year of rigidly structured life in exchange for two of freedom such as few folk her age ever enjoyed. That she'd probably spend them healing anyway had nothing to do with the bargain. In any case, it was her choice, and she'd chosen. And if that meant feigning invisibility, so be it. If worse came to worst, it would be good to have another healer among their crew. He hoped it wouldn't come to that, but if it did—well, keeping her, Esshill, Rrath, or the regalia secret wouldn't matter.
Acknowledging Riff with a nod, he entered the gloom that surrounded two identical caravans. From the outside, they looked like any others, which fiction Avall had advocated by saying it would confuse anyone who might target them while in transit and single them out for attack. One housed the re-galia—and Rrath. The other provided sleeping quarters for Esshill and Aleeahn, plus additional treasure and armor. The door to Rrath's was always locked, but Avall had one of the three keys, the other two belonging to the guard-of-record, and to Tryffon and Preedor, alternately.
Taking a deep breath, he mounted the three steps before it, rapped a courtesy cadence, waited for the requisite reply, then unlocked the door and entered. Aleeahn met him there, looking tired, but glad of the company—or weary of Esshill's. Her face fell, however, when he informed her he required some time alone with her patient. Almost she started to argue, but then her gaze seemed to catch the warning glint in his eye, and she acceded. What she'd do outside, he had no idea. Probably spend it pacing around the wagons, since she was forbidden to leave the tent that enclosed them.
He was sorry to do this to her, but this was not a casual visit, though even his closest friends didn't know that.
No, he was acting on a notion that had come to him halfway through the strategy session, when someone had mentioned the likelihood of the Ninth Face's citadel having multiple entrances. Rrath had actually been in the place, and locked inside Rrath's mind was more knowledge of its points of access than belonged to anyone else they knew of. More to the point, locked in the gem was, in theory, a way to reach that information. He should've told Rann and Lykkon, he knew, for what he was about to attempt was a mighty risk for a King to take on the eve of possible battle. But his friends would only try to talk him out of it, and he was fearful enough already, without additional nay-saying. Besides, logic said he should try now, while the madness—the passion—was upon him. Didn't the gem respond to strong desire? And if his desire for information was strong enough …
To no surprise, Esshill was sitting at Rrath's side on the narrow sleeping pad at the caravan's farther end, staring at him in the light of a single glow-globe. Two short paces took Avall to the chair beside the bed, where Aleeahn had set aside some embroidery. He claimed her place, noting absently that the seat was still warm.
“Out,” he told Esshill finally, when the lad made no move to leave. “You need the air, and I need the privacy. No harm will come to him if I can prevent it—no harm that won't also come to me, at any rate. Now, scat!”
Esshill—almost—glared at him, then nodded and padded toward the door. Avall shot the bolt from within, then gazed at Rrath in earnest.
Poor Rrath. One more memorial to Eddyn's vanity. Once, in a different life, a thousand years ago, it seemed, but not even one in fact, Avall and Rrath had—almost—been friends. Certainly they'd gotten along well enough when they were roommates during their cycle at Weaver-Hold, though the boy had always been a little too fawning.
And here they were again, this time with the fate of a kingdom riding on what transpired next.
Steeling himself, Avall fished the master gem's pendant from inside his gambeson and quickly freed the stone, letting it roll onto the coverlet beside him. He was already fumbling for the knife he used to blood himself for important workings, when he had an idea. The last time he'd worked with the gem he'd made a small amount of progress at quelling its madness—enough that he thought he might be able to sidestep it sufficiently to interact with the part that was sane. But a great deal of that success had come from wanting something passionately enough to overrule his fears, while at the same time harnessing them to his own devices. Therefore, if he was worrying about Rrath's well-being, he'd be unable to worry about his own. Which, as Veen would say, was an awfully big if.
Yet still he hesitated. How should he go about this? More than once he'd considered blooding himself and Rrath, then setting the gem between, thereby linking the three of them. Maybe he could touch Rrath's mind that way, maybe not. In any case, it put Rrath's life at risk, and Avall owed him too much already. But perhaps there was another way—something he'd never tried. Perhaps he could link with Rrath without Rrath having to himself be linked to the gem. Maybe Avall's own blood could act as a buffer between the gem and Rrath. Maybe—
There was no more maybe. He simply had to do it. A deep breath, and he blooded his right hand, the one he'd use to bond with the gem. But instead of picking it up, he picked up Rrath's right hand and blooded it as well, then went on to blood his own left hand. “Eight go with me,” he muttered, “and Nine, too, if you care.” Whereupon he closed his eyes and grasped Rrath's bleeding hand with his gemless one. Nothing happened; then again, nothing was supposed to. Another, deeper breath to calm himself, and he found the gem by feel with his right.
The gem ravened at
him—as expected—pulling at him as it always did, yet at the same time warning him away. But this time there was a place to which he could flee—into Rrath's mind, with the power of the gem pouring into him, yet dragging at him as well. He'd always had a desire for escape, but now he had somewhere to go that didn't risk his truest friends. He also had someone he wanted to protect, and those feelings proved a barely viable shield against the madness. It was as if he could still see Barrax's death, but through a glass window; as if he could feel the horror of that death, but through a layer of gauze. As if he could hear Barrax's unheard cries, but from underwater. They were present, but he could ignore them. Yet even so, the gem knew what he was doing and sensed another consciousness beyond Avall's, one it was desperate to share.
Already it was prodding the walls around Rrath's mind, the gem's desires lying beside Avall's own, so that he found himself in the odd position of holding them back, helping them forward, and shielding Rrath's mind at the same time he sought to join it.
If nothing else, they had a power Avall could perhaps bring to bear to finally break those walls Rrath had erected around his actual thoughts. And Rrath was weakening.
Harder, he pushed, even as he fought against the power of the gem that still wanted to snare him and drag him down to share its madness.
Harder again—then through. The power came with him like a phantom pack of geens trying to shoulder through a rift in the wall around a sheepfold, yet somehow he held it back.
And found himself in Rrath's mind. The power rumbled without, yet he could ignore it—for the moment. Which might be long enough.
He wanted one thing. That was the key: wanting one thing. The wanting was power itself, and what he wanted was some key to the Ninth Face's citadel.
An image swam before his eyes for the barest instant, clear yet unrecognizable, but with it came a series of impressions— or emotions—or memories. Enough to go on—maybe.
It didn't matter anyway, for the din beyond the barrier of their joining was become like the loudest thunder. And while he could face it, Rrath could not, nor could Avall defend him.
But Rrath had a power of his own, it seemed, or at least some sense of desire that his mind remain unscathed, and that alone propelled Avall past the madness that waited without. For a moment he felt nothing at all—absolutely nothing, as if he had briefly ceased to exist, in truth. And in the instant of panic that followed, he let go the gem—and found himself back in his own mind.
He must have fallen, for something hard smacked into his back, hip, and shoulder, knocking a number of boxes free to spill noisily on the floor amid the sound of splintering wood and clanging metal.
For a long moment he lay there panting, shivering, as chill after chill wracked his body. Still, he'd learned what he came for—he thought. But then he realized that he'd put Rrath through an ordeal he might not have survived. Those weren't his teeth chattering, they were Rrath's. And the gem had probably drawn on Aleeahn, Esshill, and Riff as well.
And—
He blinked, and looked around the gloom. The glow-globe had disappeared, so that the only light came from an unlikely direction: the doorway to his left.
Except, he realized, as every hair on his body stood erect, there was no doorway—any more than there was a caravan to contain one. There was the rug that should've been on the floor, covered with a number of fallen boxes, along with Avall's chair—and a vaulted, stone-paved, rock-walled corridor lit with tiny glow-globes leading off to the left.
He closed his eyes, counted three, and opened them again, saw exactly the same thing, then finally dared to check the right. Rrath still lay there, still atop the sleeping pad that had rested, in turn, atop the strongbox that held the regalia. But where the back wall should've been was only more corridor. Aside from a few bits and pieces, the caravan itself was gone.
No, Avall corrected himself, the caravan wasn't gone, he was. He had somehow space-jumped himself, Rrath, and their immediate environment somewhere else. The question was, where were they?
CHAPTER XXII:
MIDNIGHT EXCURSION
(NORTHWESTERN ERON—HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXII—EARLY EVENING)
Where was he indeed? As another chill shook Avall.
But then it came to him: a memory that was not his own, imposing itself on his consciousness like a veil of sylk on which someone had painted the requisite image. This was the route by which Rrath had left the Ninth Face's citadel. Which meant Avall had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
Except that he was trapped here with an unconscious man, and had no idea which way was out.
Another chill racked him. He was in serious trouble, a situation further complicated by the fact that he also had no idea whether this exit was guarded and when he could expect to be discovered. He'd completely bypassed any actual portal, which made him think that Rrath had not been allowed to see it, either; that this was the last thing the troublesome Priest had actually seen—a supposition reinforced by a feeling that was not quite a memory.
So, what did he do now?
Get out, if he was wise. In any case, he couldn't remain here, yet there wasn't much hope of moving Rrath. Which left one viable option, which was to explore a short distance either way and hope that presented more choices. If he knew Aleeahn and Esshill, they'd already figured out something was amiss and alerted Riff, who'd alert Rann, and so up the chain of command. A rescue attempt was surely in process at that very moment.
Of course they wouldn't know where to go, which put him back where he'd been: sitting in the near dark with an unconscious man and a strongbox full of functional but mundane armor.
Armor …
He was in the enemy's stronghold and that enemy was bound to discover him eventually, so he'd best be armed against that eventuality. And if the enemy also happened to think they faced the Lightning Sword—well, so much the better.
As for Rrath—he'd help him if he could, but if he had to be abandoned, this was as good a place as any, Esshill's probable protests notwithstanding.
And time was wasting.
Moving as quietly as he could, Avall eased Rrath far enough aside to reach the lock that sealed the strongbox. Fortunately, he had the key with him, and inserted it quickly. A panel in front clicked free, and Avall wasted no time reaching inside to retrieve the armor. Fortunately, too, he'd already been clad in a fair bit of war gear, including gambeson and light mail under a surcoat, so that he didn't feel unprotected or out of balance when he'd quickly donned the rest. For though the sword, helm, and shield were not the actual, magical ones, they were nevertheless fully functional in their purposes, and made of quality materials. Only the visible surfaces—cast from the originals, and to a very trained eye not so finely worked—were different, and that only when one had both sets to compare. Avall doubted even the smiths among the Ninth Face could tell this set from the originals. There were even gems fixed where they should be: clever fakes Avall had found among the Citadel's hoard of gems. He wished he'd been in a position to wheedle better ones from Gem or Glass, but that would've meant revealing his duplicity to other parties, and there were too many involved already.
Besides, he still had the real one—the master gem—which he restored to its case before returning it to its accustomed place around his neck. It occurred to him then that he could use it now, to attempt to jump himself back outside. But that might mean leaving Rrath, and—more to the point—he'd come this far; it would be a shame not to learn what he could while he had the opportunity.
A final check showed that Rrath was as safe as circumstances allowed, and Avall uttered a silent “sorry,” followed by a brief prayer to that aspect of Fate known as the Lord of Fools, then set out in the direction that wasn't blocked by Rrath and the heavy iron strongbox.
The corridor was still deserted, which he found both encouraging and disconcerting, given that he was all but certain that the inhabitants of this fastness knew that Eron's army was camped on their doorsteps pretending their foe
was nowhere about. On the other hand, any guard stationed here would have to endure long hours in near darkness or else betray his existence with light—which might also betray the entrance along with it.
Which didn't mean there wouldn't be guards farther on.
No, a memory that was not his own supplied. This way is sacred. The locks are beyond the caverns.
Caverns?
The Caverns of the Well, came that unheard reply. But when he sought more information, it was gone.
In any case, he had to hurry. As quietly as he could manage in war boots on hard stone, he trotted along the corridor, noting absently that it was too narrow to swing a sword in—which would hamper friend and foe alike. It also ran dead level, and the floor and walls were neatly squared, while the ceiling—half a span above his head—was a simple barrel vault.
It was hot, too, and clammy, like the air around a hot-bath. Unfortunately, it made him sweat, and perspiration was soon stinging his eyes in spite of the coif beneath his helm. Still, he moved on, increasingly aware of a subtle roar from somewhere ahead. The sound had a liquid quality, he noted, and he felt a jolt of genuine fear when he recalled how rife the area around the monolith had been with geysers and fumeroles. Being boiled alive by a sudden outrush of scalding water was not his idea of a glorious demise.
He continued for maybe two shots, alert at every moment for other passages or traps. He found none, or else he didn't trip them. And then the corridor turned a corner and the feeble light of the glow-globes revealed an open archway ahead, leading to a place lit by a marginally stronger light. He slowed abruptly, feeling his heart start to pound and his blood to race, letting his steps fall as lightly as possible while still maintaining a reasonable pace. The helm made hearing difficult, but he did catch the sounds of water far more clearly—water running, water rising and falling like fountains, water condensing and dripping from a roof. There was water underfoot, too— a little—courtesy of a trickle that issued from beyond the arch.