by Tom Deitz
“I'm ready,” Veen agreed through a mouthful of roll.
Rann scooted the map down so that she could see it, while Tryffon stood behind her shoulder. “It's basically a D-shape,” the older man explained. “The flat side is the mountain—Tar-Megon. The bottom two-thirds of the hold were actually carved out of a subsidiary peak that thrust out from it, and parts of the hold, including Priest-Clan's precincts, are back in Megon itself. The mines are below ground level, and can't be assailed—besides which, as we've heard, they were sealed with explosives. Maybe Zeff has cleared an access to them, maybe he hasn't, but we have to act on the assumption that he has, and therefore has access to gems beyond the one he presumably will have taken from Avall.”
Vorinn cleared his throat. “You were talking about the layout of the place …”
Tryffon nodded. “The rest of it thrusts out maybe a quarter shot into a vale easily one shot wide and thrice that long, that being north and south. That area is kept open: grass in the summer, snow in winter. The Ri-Megon runs out of the mountains three shots north of it, then flows under the hold before issuing out the southern side. It's cased in rock for most of that distance—too far to hold one's breath, in case anyone was wondering—but part of it surfaces halfway through, which is how we happen to have Kylin. Megon Vale is surrounded by a ridge that's maybe a third as high as the hold. It's covered with trees, though there're signs that Zeff has considered establishing a third line of fortifications there—after the hold itself and that palisade he's built out from it.” He looked at Vorinn, as though expecting him to take up some cue.
“I wouldn't have bothered,” Vorinn responded at once. “Archers on the ridge could hit the hold, but the porches would block most of the arrows, just as the trees would block any arrows fired at them. He's cut some of them,” Vorinn added, “to deny us shelter. But not as many as he ought. In other words, he may not have given himself enough room to play, if it comes to that. On the other hand, he's well sited to withstand a siege. If we come at the hold itself, he's got many levels of porches from which he can throw any number of obnoxious things down on us, and a long way in which to do it. The lower five spans of the hold are solid stone three spans thick, with very, very few apertures, and none of them is of a size to admit even a slender woman, never mind an average-sized man.”
“What about the drains?” Veen ventured, eyeing Kylin, who'd slipped in silently a short time before.
Kylin looked up at that. “They're blocked with piercedstone screens at the bottom, which are still two spans above the ground. The shafts inside are almost vertical part of the way and fully vertical the rest. You could climb them, but it would take forever.”
“Not a viable option,” Vorinn concluded. “At least not during a siege. So the bottom line is that we have to look at our strengths, which are numbers, resources, and maneuverability.”
“Zeff, however, has blackmail on his side,” Lykkon countered. “And hostages.”
“He does,” Vorinn conceded. “Be assured that I know that an actual attack is only one of many, many options.”
Movement by the entrance caught Rann's eye. Bingg, who'd stationed himself there had looked up abruptly, then rose, cocked an ear, and pointed toward the canvas roof, where a steady patter was growing louder by the moment. Not for the first time did he wish they'd brought a weather-witch. But witches were sworn to Priest-Clan, and no one from that clan could, for the nonce, be trusted.
“Rain,” Rann informed the company. “Which will complicate the assembly of the engines as well as their maneuverability, should the rain persist.” He glanced at Tryffon anxiously. “I know some adepts from Weather claim to be able to call the rain, and folks say that's what Rrath did with the storm there at the last. But … can they? Is there any chance this is anything more than a natural occurrence?”
Tryffon shrugged. “I wouldn't put anything past Priest— not anymore.”
Bingg was on his feet again, but this time he left the tent, only to return an instant later with his hair slicked against his skull. In spite of that, his bearing showed the subtle shift that indicated that, even without livery, he was functioning as royal herald. “Riders,” he called clearly but politely. “By their tabards, I'd say they were messengers, but their colors mark them as from Argen.”
Rann felt his blood run cold. “Confirm their business, then show them in,” he called, in spite of the anxiety that, for no clear reason, suddenly washed over him.
The young woman who entered a moment later looked as though a strong breath could knock her over. She was soaked to the skin, for one thing, which added nothing to an already small stature, but her face was gaunt as well, in a way that reminded Rann of how Krynneth had looked when he'd come stumbling into the Citadel with word War-Hold had fallen. But surely her report couldn't be as bad as that.
The girl's words gave the lie to his optimism. “Priest-Clan has seized power in Tir-Eron,” she panted. “And every Clanor Craft-Chief in the city is either dead, missing, or in hiding.”
Silence greeted her. Stunned silence.
Then, slowly, from Tryffon. “Not good news—but is anyone really surprised?”
If anyone was, they didn't affirm it. Nor did they all speak at once—save with eyes grown hard and grim as winter.
“When?” Vorinn asked eventually. “And any other details— but take your time. A hand's haste will make little difference in the long run.”
“Tyrill?” Lykkon inserted cautiously.
“In hiding. It was she who sent me.”
Rann nodded, feeling sick to his stomach. He didn't need this, not now, not with the present crisis about to enter another stage.
As if reading his mind, Vorinn spoke again. “Whatever's happened there,” he said, “our work is here, where we have the smaller but ultimately more powerful force to face. If we go haring back to Tir-Eron, we'll waste time and give both factions a chance to strengthen their positions, to the point that we could get trapped between.”
Rann nodded again, then motioned to the messenger. “Lady, at your leisure.”
She wavered where she stood and would've fallen had Bingg and Vorinn not raced to catch her and lead her to a chair. Bingg stuffed a meat roll into one hand and a mug of hot cider into the other. She stared at them blankly, too tired even to eat or drink. But she told her story, clearly, and with surprising detail—but also with a certain flatness of voice that suggested she was merely repeating what had been long rehearsed.
“As for Tir-Eron itself,” she said in conclusion, “it's theocracy on the one hand, anarchy on the other, and the people, as usual, caught between.”
“They don't support Priest-Clan?”
“They support security over ideology, and tradition over revolution. That generally means Priest-Clan, but only from habit. I—I'm sorry. I can't think anymore. If you'll give me a moment—”
“You've told us enough for now,” Rann assured her. “And Vorinn's right: There's nothing we can do about it anyway, from here. Nothing, that is, but worry.”
“I'm more concerned about the rain,” Vorinn remarked, gazing at the roof. “Anyone who's ever tried to move a siege tower or trebuchet through knee-deep mud can't help but be.”
Rann lifted a brow in query. “And you have done these things?”
Vorinn nodded. “At War-Hold-Summer. The building and the moving were real. What wasn't real—that time—was the dying.”
Rann regarded him solemnly for a long moment. Then: “Whatever legitimate government Eron has at present would seem to be in this tent.”
Nor was there much to be done about it until a very tired girl awakened.
CHAPTER XXVI:
COMING TO A HEAD
(NORTHWESTERN ERON: GEM-HOLD-WINTER—
HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXVII—EVENING)
Zeff was all but convinced that the helm was laughing at him. Perhaps it was the way the bronze browridges arched just so, or the way the cheek guards evoked laugh lines, there in the uncerta
in light of the single candle he'd brought with him here, to this most secure of strong rooms, to which he alone had the key.
Not that he didn't know that such speculation was preposterous—logically—if for no other reason than because, while the helm did, in fact, sport a chin strap, the area where mouth and chin should be was open; therefore, it was not equipped to laugh.
Yet still it called to him, haunting him in the night with dreams of possibilities. Why, with that helm—and the sword and shield that went with it—he could do almost anything. He could be King of Eron in an eighth. He could even be the first man to unite Eron and Ixti, and build a greater kingdom based on their complementary strengths. He could—
No! That way lay ambition—and power such as he conceived should not be confined to any one person's hands. The Face needed the regalia for one reason alone: to control it, and—by implicit threat—reinstate the prewar equilibrium.
So why was he here now?
Because he couldn't sleep. Because he knew with absolute conviction that someone from Priest-Clan must eventually don all that fabulous workmanship and wrestle it for its secrets. Avall had said nothing initially—and damn him for it, too! Even under imphor he would say little. “It would be dangerous for you—or anyone not of the blood of him for which it was made.” Or, after three days of imphor-augmented wheedling: “Blood is the trigger. It has to drink blood.”
Which Zeff already knew. What he didn't know was how he would manage the other. Avall had worn it and hadn't gone any madder than most Kings turned out to be. On the other hand, Rrath had worn it and gone utterly insane, though there were extenuating circumstances. More than once Zeff wished he could pierce the shell of the young Priest's catatonia. There had to be some reason why Avall had spirited him out of Tir-Eron, then put him under lock and key at least as securely as he had the regalia. Another reason they'd both wound up in the tunnels below the Ninth Face's primary citadel.
Maybe he should act on a latent impulse, summon Ahfinn, and have him don the regalia. Except that would violate one of the Face's strongest tenets: All are equal before the Ninth Face. Advancement was based on merit, but conferred only additional duties, not additional indulgences. And no one but no one would ask someone to risk what they would not dare themselves.
Therefore, it had to be him, because he had taken all the other responsibility for this enterprise upon his shoulders. Besides, the fact that he would eventually have to confront what he was facing now would haunt him until he did confront it, robbing him of the sleep necessary to fulfill his duties properly. Such as preparing for what still looked very much like a siege.
And since he couldn't sleep anyway, there was no time like the present.
It wasn't as if he wasn't prepared. Once he'd reached the decision to confront the regalia tonight, he'd proceeded as he always did before combat. A half day's fasting, save for water and a tiny cup of very sweet wine. A ritual bath. Shaving. Waxing. The donning of one of two sets of never-worn livery he had brought with him, the other to wear when he next led his men to battle. A hand of meditation, and finally exactly at sunset, a cup of water from the Ninth Face's Well.
It should have spoken to him, should have shown him what was to come. In fact, all it had revealed was the same thing it had revealed the last four times he'd tasted it: the sword, shield, and helmet sitting on this selfsame steel-bound tablesafe. Which he'd taken to mean that all futures depended on the fate of these three objects.
Nor could he wait any longer. Taking a deep breath, then another, and a third, which was part of the Rite of Calming, he advanced upon the regalia. Helm, shield, and sword in that order, so he assumed. Head, heart, and hand, if one chose to think in symbols.
A final breath, and he picked up the helm and, with considerable trepidation, set it on his head, careful not to trip the barb in the forehead that would feed his blood to the gem. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted it to an optimum fit—finding it a bit too small. Still, he took time to buckle the chin strap before retrieving the shield and likewise slipping it on. The sword came last, though he'd loosened the peace ties in the first mad moment after entering.
And so he stood there, three drops of blood away from being the most powerful man in two kingdoms. In all the world, so anyone reckoned. For no clear reason, he turned to face the door, though it was closed and locked in case of disaster.
“Eight go with me,” he whispered, “and the Ninth speed our journey.” And with that, he slapped his hand against the front of the helm, then squeezed the sword's hilt exactly as he squeezed the grip behind the shield.
Pain pricked him, and he could feel a trickle of blood running toward his eyes from the trigger in the helm.
And that was all.
No more power coursed through him than greeted the donning of his everyday war gear.
Which was impossible.
Logic reasserted, as training overruled baser reaction.
Either this was the regalia, or it wasn't. If it was, either he was working it correctly or he wasn't. If he wasn't, the fault either lay with him or the means of activation, namely the gems.
But this was the regalia; he was sure of it. There was no way it could be otherwise. He'd seen it with his own eyes, while in the guise of a common Ixtian soldier—first when worn by poor mad Rrath, then by brilliant, brave Avall. And while he was no smith, neither was he a tasteless fool who could not recognize incredible workmanship when he saw it.
So maybe Avall had lied. Maybe Zeff had triggered the elements incorrectly. Maybe he'd used the wrong sequence.
With that in mind, he tried again, in all six possible combinations—and only met more pain.
Furious, he slammed the sword back in its scabbard and shrugged out of the shield, then removed the helmet.
And only then—which he now acknowledged had been preposterously foolish of him—did he truly examine the gem that glittered balefully between the empty eyeholes.
It certainly looked real.
But real as what? The color definitely matched the gem he'd seen on the field, but he hadn't been close enough for a thorough inspection. Rumor said it contained inner fires like an opal, which this gem did. And the color and size were correct.
On the other hand, Avall's clan was allied with Stone, who still held some coercive power over Gem. Perhaps a bargain had been struck. He considered that, thinking what he would do himself if in Avall's place. Yes, it made a kind of sense. Helm, sword, and shield were the most dangerous and precious objects in Eron, but without the gems to wake them, they were only so much exquisitely fashioned metal. Too, the settings seemed to indicate that the stones were made for quick insertion and removal, which also made sense.
Had he therefore made a potentially disastrous mistake and captured the regalia without that which empowered it? If so, where were the proper gems? Avall hadn't mentioned any substitutions. Then again, Zeff might not have asked the right questions, and while one couldn't lie under imphor, one could finesse one's answers.
In any case, he still had the crucial elements of the equation: He had Avall, and he had the gem Avall had worn around his neck. And that one, he knew without doubt, was magic.
With that in mind, he acted.
Not bothering to store what might very well be useless regalia, Zeff unlocked the door in one rough motion and strode into the corridor beyond. “Open, now!” he yelled, well in advance of his arrival at the gate halfway up. The guard there looked startled, but that didn't keep him from obeying at once.
It was the same with the second gate, though that guard had clearly seen what transpired at the first and acted on his own initiative. Which might earn him a reprimand, when Zeff finished his present errand.
A quick detour by the table-safe in Zeff's private quarters produced what Avall had called in his mumblings the master gem. With it in hand, Zeff started for the dungeons. The few people he met in transit scattered before his gaze—which he found mildly amusing.
But Zeff was not in
the least amused when two guards turned two keys in two locks and admitted him at last into Avall's cell.
Avall was exactly as Zeff had last seen him: lying on his back on his cot, with his legs crossed at his ankles and his arms folded across his chest. Overtly asleep, but Zeff knew better. He'd had enough stalling, wondering, and evading. He was going to have answers and he was going to have them now!
Without further deliberation, he covered the space between door and cot in two strides, grabbed Avall by the front of his sturdy woolen robe, and yanked him upright. Caught off guard, Avall struggled and flailed out, even as the fabric tore, tumbling him to the floor.
Zeff snatched him up again, this time with hands on his shoulders, and with the same motion slammed him against the wall. Abruptly they were face-to-face. Avall's eyes were wideopen now, and wavering between fear, anger, and confusion. His breath was strong in Zeff's nostrils. Evidently he'd been drinking wine. “You know what we did to Crim,” Zeff rasped, shifting his grip to Avall's throat, and forcing his whole body against him, pinning him so that what small struggles he managed were ineffectual. Avall's hands clamped down on Zeff's wrists, trying to pull the priest's hands away from his throat, but Zeff knew more about combat than Avall, and only held on tighter. He was Ninth Face. The Ninth Face knew their strength to a fine degree. And Zeff knew with absolute conviction that not only was he older and larger than Avall, he was stronger.
“There are many things we could do and not kill you,” Zeff went on. “Many things that would make you want to die every moment of your life. I could unKing you with a slice of my knife. A finger joint. An ear. Your manhood. Your balls.”
“Do you think I care?” Avall snarled back. “I've done the most important thing I'll ever do. Nothing will ever be better. If I die now I'll always be remembered—and more to the point, remembered as being better than you.”