by Tom Deitz
He hadn't counted on becoming Zeff's pet.
Of course, he'd taken what advantage of that situation he could, but had mostly learned that Zeff knew the armor he'd captured was not the armor he'd expected. More to the point, he knew that Zeff had had some kind of bad experience with the insane master gem—but that he had, perhaps recklessly, decided to mount it in the sword anyway, using information (so Ahfinn had let slip) that had come to him when he'd drunk from a Well.
In any case, what mattered now was keeping his feet as he was hustled along by two burly Ninth Face guards, neither of whom seemed to recall that he was blind and couldn't maintain the pace they set without an occasional foray into clumsiness. A third person had his harp, but what their destination was, he had no idea. Something had changed—he knew that much from the scraps of conversation he'd picked up since awakening. But it was impossible to tell more than that Eron had finally made some sort of move.
He wasn't even certain where they were, save that they had gone down several levels and might've been tending outward. Fortunately, that situation clarified when Kylin heard one guard jog ahead, followed by the distinctive squeak that characterized the hinges of the arcade doors. He smelled wood polish, too, which no one else would even have noticed. A moment later, his location was confirmed when he felt a breath of wind that could only have originated outside. The footing changed as well, from solid stone to pebble-stone.
It was an arcade, then.
But not—to his surprise, if Eron was about to attack—a full one.
Indeed, as best he could tell, the place was almost deserted, though he wasn't in a position to assess the minutiae of his situation until they'd steered him to a seat. By comparing paces they'd covered to the known width of the arcade, he suspected he was within a span of the balustrade—a supposition borne out by the increased strength of the breezes thereabouts, which he'd felt more than once in happier times.
Someone set his harp down close by his side and backed away. He waited for a request to play, but no such request was forthcoming. Which freed him to do what he'd become very good at of late: assessing his surroundings. So it was that he determined several things fairly quickly. One was that the men who'd brought him there, along with what he thought were three others already present, were all dressed in war gear. It was their boots that revealed as much: Ninth Face soldiers had studs in their boot soles that gave their tread a distinctive metallic quality, especially when they trod on stone. And of course there was also the rustly jingle of mail and the occasional clink of metal on metal that marked heavier armor, all softened by thick, ribbed fabric. More telling was the breathing: short, impatient bursts that hinted of haste and worry.
But there were more subtle sounds as well, for by tuning his hearing toward the Vale at large, he caught the creak of siege machines and the susurration of voices from the battlefield: impossible to hear singly, but a gentle rush of language when multiplied several thousandfold.
Finally, there was a sound that simply didn't fit, though it most resembled a large tavern sign blowing against the wall of a stone building. More to the point, it came from very close by, to the right, and carried with it the raspy, gritty growl of iron grinding against granite. Even more puzzling was the fact that every time it impacted, Kylin caught a soft grunt or groan, which he didn't understand at all.
He glanced that way reflexively, but saw nothing through his mask but a slight brightening that represented all the vast, intricate detail of the world beyond the railing.
By the quality of the air and light, he reckoned it was late afternoon. From far off, he caught the scent of woodsmoke. Closer in came the sharper tang of metal oil and leather. Soldier smells.
His fingers sought his harp for comfort, flailing a little before someone moved it into range. “Should I play … ?” he asked carefully.
“Wait,” someone replied. Young. Female. That was all he knew.
“Zeff will be back anon,” someone else added. “He would not like it if you anticipated him.”
Kylin sat. And waited.
Before long, he caught the slap of Ninth Face boots approaching. Zeff, by the stride and heaviness of the step. He wondered, suddenly, what Zeff looked like. If he had the gem—if someone sighted had the gem, rather, and would share it with him—he would know. As he would know many things. But with sight such a rare and precious thing, why waste it on the face of an enemy when he'd not even seen the faces of all those he considered friends?
By the sound of leather sliding onto cloth, displacing mail in transit, Kylin determined that Zeff had sat down across from him and crossed his legs. Someone poured wine. He caught the splash and the heady odor, and heard leather gloves touch metal as Zeff accepted a gobletful.
“Play for me,” Zeff murmured. “I need—” He broke off. “It doesn't matter what I need. Play something soft to help me wait.”
Wait for what? Kylin wondered. Battle, probably, he answered himself. Except that didn't make sense, given that Kylin was all but certain that the day was waning. An ultimatum, then? Or an answer? But given by whom to whom?
“Play!” Zeff snapped. “Now! Or I'll pitch you over the rail.”
Kylin did. Or rather his fingers did. They found strings where they expected, touched them just so, and brought forth melody—soft music, as requested, and traditional tunes at first, since there was comfort in familiarity: “Sunrise Song,” and “All the Leaves,” and “Dancer Fast Asleep.” He paused after the latter, awaiting some indication he should continue, then shrugged and began “Stone of Shadows.”
“That's too morbid,” Zeff growled. “Play ‘Winterqueen's Lament.’ ”
“It's morbid, too,” Kylin replied, before he could stop himself.
“Play it anyway.”
“I'd rather not. It has … sentimental value.”
“Play it!”
“No.”
“No,” came another voice, weak and tentative, from Kylin's right. He started at that. It had sounded like—
“Avall,” Kylin whispered, before he could stop himself.
“Silence!” Zeff spat. “Or Eron will watch both of you die.”
Kylin almost cried out, not so much from the threat and what it implied, as for what he'd just learned about Avall. Suddenly he felt better. Stronger. As though his life were moving again, if only because he was no longer alone among hostile strangers.
As for Avall—He wasn't sure what had befallen his friend, but it didn't sound encouraging. He hoped there was no connection between those tavern-sign sounds and Avall, but his heart told him otherwise. The sounds were one with each other.
To mask his confusion, Kylin played. And in spite of himself, he played “Winterqueen's Lament”—but only because it was something he could play without thinking, while his mind worked furiously.
What he wanted more than anything was to talk to Avall. To find out how he was and what he knew, and to assure him that—
What?
There was nothing he could do! And certainly not now. Not with Zeff sitting half a span away, waiting …
But suppose there was something?
He and Avall had never bonded formally, but both of them had engaged in mental traffic through the master gem. And longer and more frequent bondings had certainly left a link between Avall and Rann that was sufficiently strong for the two of them sometimes to feel what the other was feeling, or think what the other was thinking, without gems being actively involved. Too, if the gems indeed left residue, both he and Avall should still contain some of whatever it was that allowed that linkage to occur.
Not daring to ponder his impulse further, lest contemplation lead to dangerous doubts, Kylin tried to extend his thought toward Avall. The gems worked on desire, so perhaps whatever was in them that empowered human will would awaken to desire as well.
And by wishing that at all, it made the wishing stronger.
Reality shifted ever so slightly—and he was suddenly aware of other wishing reachin
g toward him from somewhere else. A wishing that seemed familiar. A wishing he dared not hope was—
He was out of himself, he realized with a start, even as his fingers went right on playing. It was scary, too, for before he'd always had the comfort of human touch when in that situation.
Fear—or shock—dragged him back to himself, where he found wonder and determination to try again. It wasn't much of a chance, but it might be all the chance he was given. And that other wishing was still there, but weak, oh so very weak. He sought for it desperately.
—And was out of himself again, but this time he remained there long enough to determine three things. One was that Avall was clamped spread-eagled against a round tabletop, with one hand less than a span from Kylin's right shoulder. Another was that Zeff sat roughly the same distance from Kylin's feet, more or less behind the tabletop, forming an equilateral triangle with Kylin and Avall.
More importantly, however, Zeff had the replica sword into which he had indeed inserted the very real, if presumably mad, master gem.
It is real, came a voice in his head. Faintly, as though heard at a great distance, the voice of that other wishing: You think loudly, it added. It takes little effort to hear you, but much to speak.
Avall?
The sword. The gem. A wish.
And that was all.
That and the image he'd had before: Zeff sitting across from him, eyes half-closed. Listening. Waiting. With the sword loose in its sheath beside him, where he'd unbelted it upon sitting down.
Maybe it was the image itself, maybe it was the fact that Kylin suddenly realized that part of him was still discorporate and that the nonphysical part of him could see.
In any case, it was sufficiently alarming that he snapped back into himself.
And missed a note.
Kylin heard Zeff's breath catch.
“I don't blame you,” Zeff yawned, which surprised him even more. “This isn't a good situation for any of us.”
“No,” Kylin agreed, daring candor.
“Wine?”
It took Kylin a moment to realize that had been an offer, not a request. “If you would,” he agreed. A brush of fingers stilled the harp. He leaned back, letting his back and shoulders relax in what was a deep-seated harper's reflex.
“Here.” Zeff's voice—close by, as though he were reaching. Kylin smelled thick wine and soldier's soap. He reached for the cup he was imagining between the two of them.
Then, fast as he'd ever moved, reached past the cup and seized the hilt of Zeff's sword. And with it, triggered the gem.
Madness raged there, but with it came a welcoming that fought down that more aggressive sensation. Along with both came that slowing of time that had been the first gem magic Avall had ever observed.
Time enough to move, to act, to think. Time enough for relief and joy to briefly overpower fear, hate, and madness. Time enough for him to yank that sword free and move with all possible speed toward the table on the other side of which Avall was fixed.
Time enough to reach around and grab Avall's hand.
Strength roared into him with the first touch. And with it came an enormous tide of relief that was yet tinged with a dreadful fear that this was all too quickly and rashly done and would ultimately come to naught. Certainly Zeff was moving, as were the other guards. But they moved like men in dreams. Slowly, oh so slowly.
Which proved too much distraction and let the madness come ravening into Kylin's brain from the gem in the sword hilt. Worse, it flowed through him into Avall, so that he felt like thread coated with quick-fire, to which someone had set a spark.
Which was too much. He had to escape. Had to. Had to get away from all this: from Zeff and his own fear and Avall's impossible situation.
With that he wished, and found another wishing in turn.
Reality jerked and spun.
Kylin wasn't.
And then he was on fire, with that fire spreading outward from his hand.
While his other hand held Avall's.
And still Kylin wasn't.
And then, very suddenly, he was.
And with him, like a pack of hounds that had finally caught the quarry, came the madness.
And this time he had no strength left for anything but running.
CHAPTER XXXV:
(NORTHWESTERN ERON: MEGON VALE—
HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXIV—NEAR SUNSET)
Rann took another long draught from the bottle he'd not released for the last half hand and slammed the thick green glass down on the table before him so hard, Lykkon had to snare his own bottle lest it topple. Bingg yipped, and grabbed for his brother's drink as well. Riff looked startled. Myx merely looked drunkenly grim.
But not as grim as Rann felt.
It was sunset, with all that implied. Light fading into darkness, but a darkness from which Rann knew he would never emerge, because it marked what was effectively a sentence of death for Avall. It only remained to determine what form that death would take. Zeff might be merciful, he might not. It would depend on how he wanted to manipulate affairs. If he was smart, he wouldn't do anything at all, merely let Avall's own army work his doom. Which they wouldn't do deliberately, but which would inevitably occur, if the siege continued long enough.
“They won't kill him outright,” Lykkon murmured, staring at the bottle he now gripped between his two hands. “He's the only thing that's holding us back, and they know that. If they kill him—”
“The blood will be on their head,” Bingg finished for him.
But all Rann heard was “blood.” It was as if time spoke of blood, too, for the day was dying outside, spilling its life force in ruddy light that lanced like crimson spears through the door slit of Lykkon's tent.
Too much red, he thought: maroon canvas, crimson carpet, and the maroon and crimson surcoats and tabards he and his comrades wore—now wakened to glowing brightness by the day's last rays. It washed their faces with red, too: red for blood, revenge, and anger and the shame he also felt, which emotions he suspected his companions in rebellion shared.
He spoke that word without knowing.
“Rebel.”
“Depends,” Lykkon murmured.
Rann glared at him, drink having made him surly, even as part of him tried to keep a clear head, to remind himself that Lykkon was as rational a mind as they had to hand at the moment, for all he'd been drinking, too.
“On what?” Rann managed at last.
“On whether you count Kingdom and King as one thing or separate. If one takes the traditional tack: that what's good for the King is good for the Kingdom—”
“Then we're on th' right side 'cause we're acting for the good of the King,” Myx slurred.
“But if the good of the Kingdom supersedes that of the King—” Riff broke in, scowling.
“We're not rebels while Avall's alive,” Lykkon snapped. “That's a legal fact. While he lives, they don't dare touch us, because we're sworn to him. And while we live, Vorinn has tacit support for anything he does, in that we're not actually trying to stop him.”
Rann glared at him—again. “Do you ever stop being logical? Do you ever do anything from just your gut?”
Lykkon regarded him levelly. “I'm here, aren't I?”
Riff shook his head and rose, starting to pace. “At least no one's saying that other word—yet.”
“What other word?” from Myx.
“Traitor,” Bingg hissed at him.
Lykkon shook his head. “I don't think anyone will say that word. They know the circumstances too well. If worse comes to worst, they'll simply assume whatever authority they have to and act from that position. There's no advantage to them calling members of their own clans traitor, besides which, we've done nothing to stop them. All we've done is abdicate responsibility.”
Rann glared at him. “That's easy for you to say. You're from Avall's clan. Mine's just seen their best chance at true power in a century slip through their fingers.”
He fell
silent at that. They all did. Against his will Rann's thoughts moved past the trauma of the present to the time when, for good or ill, this would all be over, he would still be alive, and Avall wouldn't.
Which would leave him only Div.
If she could fill that vacuum.
If anyone could.
If she survived this herself.
All at once the awfulness of it all crashed down upon him. He'd known Avall all his life, along with Merryn and Lykkon. Even Eddyn. He'd always felt more a part of their clan than his own. But his life had always been one of adding things— mostly good things—to an established base. Even last winter when he'd thought Avall was dead he'd had the comfort of his growing attachment to Div and the wonder of the gems. But now …
Life was contracting, it seemed, with things falling out of it everywhere he looked. And for the first time in his life he found himself confronting that most awful of words.
Loneliness.
Even if Lyk and Bingg and Riff and Myx and the others kept him company for as long as he lived, there would still be a void in him that neither they—nor Div—could ever fill.
Ever.
Riff rose to look outside. “Sun's sitting on the mountain.”
“Close that, and come back in,” Rann growled. “Dark thoughts thrive best in darkness.” He took another draught— which emptied the bottle. Purely for dramatic effect, he extended his arm straight out and let the bottle fall. It thumped to the floor but did not shatter. A pity, that: One could do so much with broken glass. “Another,” he snapped to his companions in general.
Bingg exchanged glances with Lykkon, even as Myx and Riff—more accustomed to obeying orders unquestioned— obligingly began searching for more wine—or beer—or ale. Anything that would quell the pain they all felt.