by Tom Deitz
“Friend of yours?” Strynn muttered to Div, between gritted teeth.
“Maybe—in theory,” Div replied. “It could be one of those that shadowed Kylin and me to Tir-Eron. I never saw them after we reached the gorge. If they intended to maintain contact with me, it could easily have taken this long to locate our trail, what with having to cross the Ri, and all.”
Strynn regarded the predator skeptically. “Then it knows about the pact?”
“Let's hope so.”
Strynn eased forward experimentally. “I hunt,” she said aloud, because it was all she could remember to say. That was the bond they shared. That which had kept this beast's kin from killing Avall, Rann, and Div back in the winter.
No reply formed in her mind, but she did feel a sort of … crowding, as though a second set of thoughts sought to lodge there. With it came an odd, unheard buzz, like a fly let loose inside her skull. At which point she had no doubt the beast was trying to communicate.
“Div?” she dared. “Is it … ? Are you … ?”
“Trying. But I'm not getting anything except that I think it's trying to talk to us. It'd be nice if we had a gem right now—or had used one recently. The residue seems to stay in the body for a while. That's what lets us talk to them.”
Strynn indicated the birkit, which was looking at them again, front legs extended, but with its tail curled around its haunches. “Do you suppose it wants something?”
“Besides fresh horse?” Div snorted. “A year ago I'd have said no. Then again, a year ago I'd have an arrow in that nice pelt by now. Today, I'd say we have to consider the possibility. The question is, ‘What does it want?’ ”
“I don't know,” Strynn murmured. “But I'm pretty sure it's hungry. I was picking up that much.”
Div rolled her eyes. “We've got some beef that's a little ripe,” she sighed. “We can get more at the hold.”
“I guess that decides it,” Strynn agreed. “If we don't want to be dinner ourselves.”
The birkit made the next move—which was the best approach with birkits. After seeing to the horses one last time and making sure they were sufficiently well hobbled that they wouldn't panic and bolt, Div and Strynn treated them with mouthfuls of sweets and reassuring pats, then left them where they were and returned to their nominal camp—where they discovered that the birkit had claimed a spot in the waning sunshine, which also happened to be atop Strynn's bed pad. She resisted an urge to tell it to move or prod it with a toe.
Yet to her surprise, she caught what might've been a reply. Certainly something that could've been an affirmation flashed through her consciousness. Coupled with that, the big predator did move. Exactly enough to make room for her.
“Bury me deep,” she told Div, who was staring at her aghast. And with that, she—very slowly—sank down in the space provided.
A huge paw promptly flopped into her lap. And remained there, to all appearances content, while Div finished supper. “I haven't forgotten it was your turn tonight,” Div warned as she sliced up tubers. “Still, I suppose birkits think they're High Clan, so I guess we'd best leave you to entertain.”
Strynn chuckled at that, taking no offense from what had long since become a game.
Div promptly flung a chunk of smoked meat in her direction, which landed perilously near their pack. The odor of ripeness, if not true rottenness filled the air. Strynn wrinkled her nose.
The birkit didn't. A moment later, there was no sign of the meat but a greasy spot on the floor.
“You know,” Strynn yawned, “I'm getting sleepy, and it's way too early for that. I wonder if I'm picking up this lady's desires.”
Div tasted the stew again and puffed her cheeks. “Could be. We know strong desires are easier to pick up than otherwise. And birkits prefer to hunt at night. If this one's been following us—well, think how you'd feel if you'd had to walk all night for as long as we've been on the road.”
Strynn didn't reply, because, quite suddenly, she was asleep.
She was at Weaver-Hold, Strynn discovered: the same room she'd occupied as a girl, facing the same loom, trying to learn the subtleties of tapestry. She had it threaded right, with the large warp threads running up and down. And she'd started to lay in the weft. She'd decided to do a map of the world—a common enough project for beginners, besides which it honed one's knowledge of geography. And she'd already completed the area south of Ixti, as much as was known—forest, mostly, but less every day, as the Ixtians burned their once-countless trees for fuel.
So she set her shuttle there and wove, back and forth, building a mountain of linen thread, following a stream of sylk, raising a city of fine-spun gold. And slowly, oh so slowly, Ixti grew before her. But this was boring work. It needed something, needed life, is what it needed. Perhaps, when it came time to weave the Flat, she would weave a portrait of someone into the sand. She'd be very subtle about it, so that no one would notice it if they weren't looking.
But whose face would she weave?
Merryn's of course. And so she began: chin, mouth, nose, finally eyes. But there was something wrong. She could see Merryn's face woven into the sands of the desert, but it wasn't the face she'd intended: the laughing, happy face of her bondsister. This face was frightened, ridged by the thick warp threads that were almost like prison bars. And then she was looking at Merryn's face through prison bars, and Merryn was screaming—“Help me! Help me! Help me!”
Strynn tried. She pushed at the fiber bars and discovered they were now bars of steel. She ripped at them, first with her fingers, then with her shears, until her fingers bled.
And still Merryn stared at her, no longer screaming, but crying—on and on and on. Endlessly.
And Merryn never cried.
That was what unnerved her, what startled Strynn back to consciousness only to find Div ladling stew into bowls.
“What?” Div asked, offhand.
“N-nothing,” Strynn managed shakily. “I was … only dreaming.”
“And I'm staying here tonight,” Div replied pointedly.
“Nobody's seen her,” Div announced the next morning, in reply to the scowl that Strynn tried to direct at her through a yawn. Strynn didn't know whether to be angry or relieved, since it was obvious that the “her” that her companion had referenced was Merryn. For all her well-considered arguments, she had wanted to go down to War-Hold; That was fact. Why she'd wanted to go, she didn't know. Perhaps because she was simply in need of more companionship than Div could provide— better that than admitting that she was human enough to want to gaze on disaster firsthand.
Well, she could do that anyway—from afar. And to judge by the way Div was staring at her, coupled with the way the birkit was starting to pace, she supposed that wouldn't be as long as she'd like, if rest and a leisurely breakfast were her priorities.
“She's not the only one no one's seen,” Div continued quickly, by her relieved expression assuming she'd been forgiven her journey—though Strynn hadn't yet decided.
“Who?” Strynn asked absently, as she unwound herself from the blankets, which—perhaps at the birkit's urging— seem to have tried to swallow her in the night.
Div was poking through the breakfast supplies—which required she relinquish a small jug she was carrying. Strynn noted it for the first time, just as she caught a familiar aroma. “Is that what I think it is?”
Div nodded. “Fresh cauf, from a vendor in camp. I've got some hot sweet buns as well. Also some smoked fish for tonight. And many other things.”
“All of which I appreciate,” Strynn yawned, finally on her feet and starting to stretch. Her stomach growled and she patted it, remembering the child within. “Down, hellion,” she murmured, stumbling over to where Div was filling her cauf mug without asking. “Who?” she repeated.
“Krynneth,” Div said, passing her the mug without bothering to look up. “He disappeared from here shortly after Merryn left Tir-Eron. No one's seen him since, or had time to look for him, though the consensus is that he's g
one west. He was apparently sane as he could be one day, and the next he was babbling about the ‘burners’ to anyone who would listen. Quite wildeyed, they said. And then one day he simply wasn't there.”
“Burners,” Strynn mused. “I assume that means …”
“Ixtians was what the woman I talked to suggested,” Div replied, sitting down on the hearth with a mug of her own. “We've noted ourselves that not all of them headed straight back home after the war—which makes sense, if you think of them as real people. Sure, Kraxxi made peace, but not everyone would've agreed to it. Many were promised booty they didn't get—especially after Kraxxi made them swear to return anything they'd stolen. And there are more poor people in Ixti than in Eron, and a lot more of them join the army …”
“So you're saying … ?”
“That this area has had a problem with raiders and renegades.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Maybe,” Div mumbled through a mouthful of tart. “Raiders want something specific; renegades just want to cause trouble— destruction, whatever.”
Strynn stopped in mid-bite as the repercussions struck her—and not for herself. “Merryn,” she choked. “I'll bet you anything those raiders are based in the Spine—and that's exactly where Merryn's heading.”
“Think she can handle them?” Div inquired. Her voice was light, but her face was serious.
Strynn finally managed to swallow. “Depends on the number. A few … yes. But more, I don't know. The problem, Div, is that she's got the regalia. If one of them got hold of it …”
Div's jaw dropped open. “Oh, Eight!”
Strynn nodded grimly. “Another reason we need to find her quickly.”
“And carefully,” Div added. “The regalia's one thing, but the King of Eron's sister would make a damned fine hostage on her own.”
Strynn rolled her eyes. “Oh, Eight, indeed! I hadn't thought of that.”
“Think of it,” Div said seriously. “All the time. And be wary.” Already, though still savoring her breakfast, she was packing.
(NORTHWESTERN ERON: GEM-HOLD-WINTER— HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXII—EARLY AFTERNOON)
Zeff stared at the phial in his hand.
Should he, or shouldn't he? he wondered.
The phial contained water from the Well of Knowledge— one of the septs of Strength, for it represented strength of mind.
But Knowledge never liked being consulted outright. Knowledge preferred that man seek information through his own initiative, simply because more knowing was involved that way, never mind that one often learned things on that journey that were more important than the knowledge initially sought.
But sometimes there wasn't time for such a journey.
Zeff sighed and leaned back in his Chieftain's Chair, closing his eyes, as though to shut out the need for decision. Unfortunately, the phial was still there: a hardness between his fingers, an afterimage beckoning his inner eye.
This was knowledge in the service of the Nine, he told himself. And Time, which the Ninth Face served, truly was at a premium. He could wait—until they wrested the secret of the gems from Avall. Or he could act now, perhaps precipitously, and save them both—and many other people—a wealth of trouble.
After all, even without the three gems that worked the Royal Regalia, he still possessed the master gem, which, from everything he knew, evinced the same powers they did—and perhaps evinced them more strongly. All one had to do was penetrate the veil of madness that cloaked all that power, at once lying over it and within it.
That was the trick, wasn't it?
And that was what the water in this phial might reveal.
In any case, he would change nothing by simply sitting there.
A deep breath, and he uncorked the phial.
Another breath, and he raised it to his lips and let one drop fall upon his tongue, then quickly restoppered it.
By which time, the first heady fumes were coiling through his mind.
He immediately felt more alive. And—more importantly— smarter. It was as though he could feel his brain coming awake, like a kennel's worth of hounds, first one rousing, then the next, so that soon the entire pack sat there attentively, waiting to see what he would have them do.
Almost he forgot to confront the problem—which was one of the risks of working with the Waters.
Almost, but not entirely.
Without him actively seeking it, the question put itself forward. Yet typical of such occasions, the question Knowledge answered was not the one he consciously planned to ask, but the one his deeper self truly wanted to know.
Not “How do I master the master gem?” but “How may I put the master gem to use?”
To the former, he suspected there was no answer. As for the latter—he now thought there might be.
The answer was simple, in fact. The gem was many things at many different times. But one thing it always was was hungry. So if one could feed it at the same time one distracted it from the other things that went with that feeding, not the least of them being—usually—some deep desire to master it …
Well, that was the secret then, wasn't it? Feed it, and then use it without trying to master it. Give it its own head, in other words—but point that head away from the wielder's self.
It was a frightening notion, Zeff acknowledged, but one he thought he could manage.
Once—if he used it properly.
And if he was lucky, once might be sufficient.
CHAPTER XXIX:
MUSINGS IN THE RAIN
(NORTHWESTERN ERON: ABOVE MEGON VALE—
HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXII—AFTERNOON)
The only difference between the water pouring down outside the Royal bathing tent, and the water in which Rann, Lykkon, and Kylin were lolling, was the fact that their water had been heated to within a breath of intolerable. Which was how all three liked it. Otherwise, it was the same water that had been falling from the leaden sky for days, collected into barrels, then poured out and collected again, occasionally with a boiling in between. If there was one supply the army had in abundance it was water. It would be the cleanest army in history. Or the most mildewed.
In any case, Rann was grateful for the respite, for a chance to sprawl back in the enormous wooden tub that had taken up one whole wagon, and to lie there in the comfortable, herbscented gloom inhaling potent vapors and sipping now and then on spiced wine. It wasn't decadence as much as practicality. Though they were long since ready to begin the siege, the weather wouldn't permit it. Therefore, anything that rendered Rann or his staff more comfortable or relaxed was to be encouraged. Besides, he was with several members of that staff, in case anyone dared challenge their situation.
That said, Rann was having a hard time keeping his eyes off Lykkon. Not because the youth was handsome, which he was; but because he looked a fair bit like Avall, especially in the gloom, amid the drifting vapors.
Lykkon caught him looking and smiled wanly, as though he'd read Rann's thought. Given the bond they'd shared through the gems on occasion, perhaps he had.
Not that they were there alone in the bathing tent. Besides Kylin—whom they assisted now and then, in spite of his protests—Riff and Myx had just availed themselves of this same luxury, and were sitting, towel-clad, in the shadows by the door. Bingg had recently gone off duty and was stripping on the other side, glad to share that small rite of equality with his elder friends and relatives.
He'd make it a tight squeeze, though—unless someone got out. But that was what this was for: a cultivation of trust and closeness.
Finally, there was Vorinn, undressing beside Bingg. They'd asked him to join them partly from courtesy, and partly because, while popular with the army at large, the people in this tent were the closest he had to friends. But he would never think to ask them to join him in something like this, any more than he'd ask to join them.
By unspoken consensus, all talk was of inconsequential things: the sound the rain made on the canvas, how long t
hey could let themselves stay there until they needed to let someone else have a chance, what might be had for dinner.
Never the important things. Like the siege. Like their lovers—both Myx and Riff were betrothed to women involved in the rebuilding of War-Hold. Like the captive King and the lost regalia and where any of them would be a few days hence.
Not until voices sounded outside, prompting Riff to scamper off, clad only in a towel. A moment later, Tryffon poked his head in, squinting in the gloom, but with a wry smile on his face as though he wouldn't mind joining them.
“Good news,” he told Vorinn. “All signs indicate that this rain may break by tomorrow noon. A day to dry, and—”
Vorinn coughed pointedly and nodded toward Rann.
Tryffon looked puzzled, then cleared his throat and strode over to address Rann. “Lord Regent,” Tryffon began. “Apologies for my—”
“It's fine, Tryffon,” Rann assured him. “I have few illusions about who should be in charge of this escapade, any more than the men have any about who they'd rather follow. Now, as you were saying …”
Tryffon nodded uncomfortably. “I was saying that another day for the land to dry, if the sun comes out and we get the heat we expect, and we can let the siege towers roll. If you feel like risking it, we could even heave a few fireballs at the place tonight.”
Rann shook his head. “I thought we settled that. Too much risk to civilians. That said, if someone wanted to see about torching the lower doors or that Eight-damned palisade, that would both prevent our enemies escaping that way initially and, when they burned through, give us one more means of entrance.”
Vorinn nodded vigorously, utterly in command of the situation for all that he was also stark naked. “Of course our foes will have figured that out as well and planted surprises for us. Which is why, for all the trouble it'll cause, we need the siege towers. They'll give us far better access to the lower porches, which will be much harder to defend. As for the palisade— well, they'll hold us back—for a while—but they'll also give us a chance to drop something down on them!”