Winter of Ice and Iron

by Rachel Neumeier

  Innisth had sent for the lord of nearby Loftè, a town that lay to the west of Viär. It was not a great town, hardly larger than Viär, but he meant to take it into his hand. He had sent for other Harivin lords; some would probably answer his summons and others defy him. He might tolerate defiance, for a while.

  The province he was determined to have was Risaèn, south and west of Viär. He had sent for the Duke of Risaèn: Gheres enin Moran Risaniòn. He expected defiance from His Grace of Risaèn, but he was determined he would take that city for his own. In all southern Harivir, Risaèn was second only to Coär. It was central and important and he would have it yield to Eäneté. Gheres Risaniòn would come, and Innisth would bind Risaèn as he had bound Viär. He hoped to do it without setting foot himself in Risaèn, though he would travel there if he must. It would be a journey of some days, and he did not wish to leave the mountains that divided his new greater Eäneté unguarded if he could avoid it; certainly not during the Iron Hinge of winter when the high country was most imperiled by winter dragons.

  He had sent a message to Gheres enin Moran Risaniòn that should make it clear that the man must come. With a warning that should suffice: an involution containing enough of Eänetaìsarè that a wise man would understand he must yield. If Innisth must go to Risaèn himself to answer the duke’s defiance, he would be angry. Risaèn’s tie need not belong to the Moran line. That, too, he had made clear. If Duke Gheres defied him, Innisth would master Risaèn’s Immanent, tear its tie from Duke Gheres, and set it in someone more compliant. Let Duke Gheres understand this and choose to obey. That would suit them both better, in the end.

  Just as Harivir yielding these southern provinces, passing them from Raëh’s care to Eäneté’s, would in the end best suit both himself and young Tirovay Elin Raëhema. Every province that yielded to Innisth’s hand and came within Eäneté’s protection was one more province that the young Harivin king need not defend himself. Hard-pressed as Kehera’s brother must be from the north, he must give up the south . . . and giving up Harivir’s southern provinces to his sister’s lord could not horrify the young Raëhema king a tenth as much as risking their fall to Methmeir Irekaì and Pohorir.

  Thus all seemed well, and Innisth had every hope and expectation that he and all his lands, new and old, would weather the Iron Hinge and come into the new year well set to withstand any continuing threat from Methmeir Irekaì.

  In the meantime, Innisth was content to linger in Viär until the days of the Iron Hinge had passed. This was an agreeable town. Small, yet larger than it at first appeared, with wide-scattered villages and hamlets and homesteads sheltered within the precincts of its Immanent. The town and all this small province showed every sign of good management. It was prosperous. Comfortable. Lord Toren Viärin’s house offered a pleasing abode, if one wished to spend the few remaining days before the midwinter hinge in quiet amity with one’s wife while preparing to expand and solidify one’s new borders. The midwinter would undoubtedly be difficult. Let them have these few days of rest.

  Lord Toren had shown himself to be a practical man, with the sense not merely to yield his small province and his house and his personal apartment to Innisth, but then also to keep out of his new overlord’s way. This was a not-inconsiderable respite, after Riheir Coärin’s moods and tempers. Innisth was perfectly well aware Coärin had wished to marry Kehera Raëhema. He was quite certain that Coärin would never have suited her. The man was neither sensible enough nor intelligent enough. Nor was the Immanent Power of Coär strong enough to match Raëhemaiëth.

  Though Innisth would have liked to be perhaps a little more confident that his wife agreed on all these points. Still, she was the one who had finally insisted on the marriage. Under difficult circumstances, perhaps, but still, she had insisted. That had been . . . disconcerting. But peculiarly satisfying. Though he could not pretend to himself that she cared for him personally. He would have wished . . . Well, perhaps it was unwise to dwell on what he might have wished. The world was as it was, political exigencies as they were. Personal desires were nothing. Could be nothing. For either of them. He had no intention of asking his wife what she thought or felt or hoped. If he asked, she would certainly tell him, since she feared him not at all. And he did not want to know.

  But she had been correct. He had not quite believed that she could be correct; and yet since their marriage, he had been aware that her Raëhemaiëth had become firmly bound to Eänetaìsarè, and that, unquestionably as a result of the Harivin Power’s influence, Eänetaìsarè no longer pressed him so hard or in quite the same manner as it had.

  His wife, too, must have traded some of her Immanent’s calm and gentleness and warmth for some of Eänetaìsarè’s violence and heat. He was sorry for that. He did not intend to ask her whether she considered the price she had paid to be worth what he had gained.

  Nevertheless, for this one moment, Innisth was fairly well pleased with what had been thus far accomplished. Eäneté was secure; and because the King of Pohorir could not come at Coär save through Roh Pass, so was Coär. Now Viär. The new kingdom he had envisioned was well on its way to becoming a reality. All other concerns were trivial before that one accomplishment.

  Then, two hours before noon, Caèr Reiöft came in, quietly, with that particular manner of his that told Innisth he brought news he expected would displease the duke.

  Innisth had not quite settled in his own mind what Caèr’s position in his household must now be. He had informed his wife, though with some slight trepidation, that he had no intention of setting Caèr aside. He had feared she would be affronted, but she had only seemed surprised he had thought she might protest. He had realized only then that his wife and his servant had somehow contrived to become friends. He had not considered the possibility, and only after he realized it was so had he understood how fortunate a thing it was.

  But neither did he quite know how matters lay between himself and Caèr since his marriage. He would have to find out, of course; he would have to determine with more certainty what Caèr wanted, and expected; and what he himself could give. He did not know how to approach any of these questions. It was a kind of uncertainty he had never previously suffered, and he was already impatient with it.

  Observing Caèr’s manner, he said merely, “You had better tell me.” He allowed a little dryness to enter his tone, a trace of humor, so that Caèr would know he was prepared to hear whatever it was without giving way to anger. Then, another thought occurring to him, he asked with real concern, “Nothing has happened regarding my wife?” But even before Caèr could answer, he realized it could not be so. If his wife wished to inform him of any event that might displease him, she would do it herself, not ask his servant to act as a go-between. She was so fearless. He smiled slightly, involuntarily, thinking of her. Then he became aware of a particular look in Caèr’s eyes and carefully straightened the line of his own mouth.

  Caèr did not laugh. He only said, “No, Your Grace; Her Highness does very well, I’m sure. This is another matter, possibly urgent, if I may have leave to bring it to your attention.”

  And if Innisth refused to give him leave, Caèr would continue anyway, if the matter was urgent. That was one reason the duke valued him. Doubly, since losing Gereth—Innisth still flinched from the emptiness where Gereth should have stood.

  His mood was darkening. But that was not Caèr’s fault. He said, “Tell me.”

  Caèr met his eyes, bowed his head slightly, and answered calmly, “Verè Deconniy has arrived, on a horse he’s ridden half to death and not looking much better than the beast. He insists he bears urgent news for Your Grace and begs leave to come before you, though if Your Grace will permit me to say so, you might do better to go to him, because I’m not sure he’ll make it up the stairs.”

  Innisth had charged Deconniy to protect the heart of Eäneté. Evidently the man had defied that command and deserted his post and come here. Anger rose. So did Eänetaìsarè, answering that surge of temp
er. Innisth did not allow his expression to change, but gripped the arms of his chair with careful force and got to his feet without a word.

  Captain Deconniy was indeed below, in the entry hall of Lord Toren’s house, dripping muddy water on the floor and arguing with one of Toren’s servants, who was trying to make him sit down on a bench. But the argument ceased the moment Innisth appeared. Deconniy shoved away from the servant, staggered, caught his balance with an obvious effort, managed one more step, and dropped heavily to his knees, saluting the duke carefully.

  Unquestionably, Deconniy had abandoned his post to come here. On the other hand, he had clearly used himself hard to do it. If the horse was in worse shape, Innisth was surprised the animal had survived to reach Viär.

  He was aware of the scrambling arrival of others: people of Toren Viärin’s household; one of his own officers who had come into town to make his routine report and now found something considerably more interesting to delay him; his wife’s man Tageiny. Caèr Reiöft had drawn quietly to one side, ready for any errand his duke might have for him . . . reliable Caèr, who plainly believed leniency was in order.

  So when Innisth spoke, it was more gently than he otherwise might, and with no charge—yet—for failure of duty. “Well? Eänetaìsarè does not inform me of any great ill that has befallen my lands or my house or my folk. What, then, is this?”

  “Your Grace.” Deconniy’s voice was hoarse with exhaustion. “Your Grace, Gheroïn Nomoris came himself with Irekaïn troops, but we met them and set them back, as you’ll be aware. Eäneté took up many wolves from among our dead; you’ll have known it.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Innisth, slightly impatient. “This was days ago. You broke the Irekaïn attack. I was most pleased.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, only it wasn’t us. Not really us. Nomoris, he was going to break our defenses—I think he was—only someone killed him first. But the man who killed him wasn’t one of ours, nor one of theirs. He was Harivin, Your Grace, come to Eäneté seeking Her Highness, he said, or that’s what he said first off. He killed Nomoris, and if he hadn’t . . . if he hadn’t, I think . . . I think we might have lost right then, Your Grace, lost everything, maybe. He might have been on our side—he wasn’t working for Irekay. I don’t see how he could’ve been. He killed Nomoris—” The young captain caught himself as he began to lose control of his report. He took a breath and went on more collectedly. “He said he was seeking Her Highness, and I would have questioned him further, but he . . . he escaped, Your Grace, he escaped from your cells below the house, and he was ahead of me through the pass, he got past the men at the gate of the pass. . . . I rode as hard as I could, to get here before him, if this is where he was coming.”

  This was certainly no tale Innisth had expected. He had no idea what he had expected, but assuredly not this. “This man escaped,” he repeated. “From my cells, downstairs?”

  “My fault,” Deconniy said faintly. “I should have left more than one man on guard. Should have questioned him properly that first evening. He said he was seeking Her Highness, then he said he was a servant of the Fortunate Gods, but I didn’t keep at him, don’t know what else he might have said. . . .”

  “A servant of the Fortunate Gods,” repeated Innisth thoughtfully when the young captain faltered. “Is that what he claimed? How very unusual. A servant of the Fortunate Gods, and seeking my wife.”

  Deconniy blinked and nodded. “He wasn’t Irekaïn. I don’t think he was Irekaïn. I don’t see how he could have been. He was Harivin, he said, but I don’t know. He said he was seeking Her Highness, but I thought . . . I thought maybe he was seeking you. The man’s an assassin, whatever else he might be, he killed Gheroïn Nomoris, killed the man on his cell, killed a man at the gate to the pass, who else I don’t know—”

  “No ordinary assassin, to kill a man bound to a Great Power and made into a sorcerer.”

  Deconniy nodded, swayed, caught himself, and determinedly straightened his shoulders. “He said Irekaìmaiäd had mastered Methmeir Irekaì. He said it had filled up the king, embodied itself in him and in Nomoris, maybe others. I don’t know. I don’t know about such things. I don’t know what could be true or what can’t or what it means. But I came . . . I was there when this man killed Nomoris and I questioned him myself, and made a bad job of it, Your Grace, I know that. And—and I’m the one who let him escape. I thought I had better report to Your Grace myself.” He squinted as though this decision now seemed questionable to him, then added, “I beg Your Grace’s pardon for leaving my post.”

  “As well you might. However, it does seem I must grant it. Whom did you leave in command?”

  “Lieutenant Tejef over the soldiers, Your Grace, and of course, Geran Lhiyré over the staff.”

  “Well, that was well done, given that you intended to ride out yourself.” Innisth studied the young captain narrowly. The tale was difficult to credit. Yet he could hardly believe Verè Deconniy would have created such a story out of whole cloth. He tried to imagine the circumstances that might have led the young man to ride here like this bearing a tale of sorcerers and Gods, rising Powers and dark murder, a tale that was a pack of lies . . . no. No, it was impossible to sustain the effort of imagination that supposition required.

  He said, “My captain, if this man indeed intended to come here, you have come before him. You have delivered your warning, and I have heard it. I commend your effort. I shall want your report in a great deal more detail when you are able to deliver it coherently. For this moment, I think you had better rest. Caèr.”

  With a sober little nod, Caèr Reiöft moved quietly away from the wall and went to set a hand under Deconniy’s elbow and help him rise, so Innisth knew his young captain would receive all due care and he might turn his attention to other matters of sudden urgency. He said to the officer, “Send for Senior Captain Etar.” Then he ordered one of Lord Toren’s servants, “Inform His Grace that I wish him to attend me immediately.” Finally, turning to Tageiny, he said with studied formality, “Please inform my lady wife that I request her presence in my apartment, if she has a moment.” He was a little surprised, now that he came to think of it, that she was not yet here herself. But then, none of them could have expected so abrupt an arrival as Deconniy’s, nor so peculiar a tale.

  Kehera Raëhema was the last of the three to arrive, though she had surely been the closest to hand. Lord Toren had answered Innisth’s summons with the strict promptness with which he always received the duke’s commands. No doubt he hated the Eänetén duke. . . . Innisth could in fact perceive the edge of the other man’s detestation through his tie. But since that served neither of them, Lord Toren pretended to a complete absence of feeling in this change of allegiance from Raëh to Eäneté, and Innisth pretended to believe his neutrality. Both of them preferred to keep the width of the house, or better, the width of Viär, between them; and no doubt Lord Toren would be still better pleased when the Eänetén duke and all his men withdrew from Viär’s precincts. But Innisth could work with the man. He was grateful for that.

  Captain Etar had been, fortunately, not all the way down at the camp by Meilin Gap, fifteen miles and more from the town walls. Since the gap had been closed most thoroughly by avalanche and rockfall, and now that the days of the Iron Hinge were nearly upon them, most of the men had been pulled back to bivouac more comfortably within Viär’s walls until the black midwinter storms should pass. Thus Etar, too, had answered the duke’s summons promptly.

  Naturally, Kehera Raëhema attended her own schedule and not his. He didn’t know why he should be surprised. He did not wait for her, but laid out briefly for the other two men the tale Deconniy had brought, briskly acknowledging that he did not know what of it might be true but that he intended to proceed as though it was all true beyond question. Then he permitted Captain Etar to depart upon the urgent business of warning and strengthening the guard set on Viär and on the road and most of all on this house.

  Lord Toren was plainly skep
tical, and plainly very near saying so, probably in terms Innisth would have to answer with regrettable force. Fortunately, Kehera Raëhema came into the room before matters had become quite that dire. Innisth rose at once, gesturing dismissal to Lord Toren. For a moment he thought the man would refuse, but after a slight hesitation, Lord Toren bowed sharply and said, “I’ll inform my people, then, and set a proper guard, and instruct them to work with your people, just as you command. But I assure Your Grace that no one such as you describe will slip Viärinéseir’s notice.”

  “See that no one does,” Innisth said flatly, and turned to greet his wife. Her man Tageiny was at her back, but him Innisth ignored. It had not been the custom for her men to stand such close guard in his house, but now the precaution seemed only wise.

  His wife had become, he thought, a little graver and a little quieter since the marriage. A little more constrained in her manner. He strongly suspected she was seeking her own way to manage her new close awareness of Eänetaìsarè. He had not asked her whether she regretted pressing him to finally act on his intention to wed her. He had not wished to press her on such a private matter, and . . . perhaps it was also somewhat a failure of nerve, little though he liked to admit it. He had tried to be kind to her; he had tried very hard to moderate Eänetaìsarè’s violence while he was with his wife, but even so, he knew she could hardly help but perceive the edge of that ferocity. If that were so, if she must steel herself to endure his touch . . . he knew he should ask. But he truly did not want to know.

  He took a moment to consider her, as he had recently found himself snatching one moment or another merely to look at her whenever he was provided with some excuse. He had thought her pretty enough, in an ordinary way, when he had first seen her in the front hall of his own house, in that ridiculous pretense of servitude. But it had taken him a long time to recognize how her quiet composure contributed to a kind of beauty he had never before been wise enough to recognize.