Winter of Ice and Iron

by Rachel Neumeier

  He doubted very much that she returned his increasing regard. If she did not . . . that, too, he did not want to know.

  But if an assassin who was also some manner of sorcerer sought to do harm to her, or dared seek to use her in some ruthless stratagem of the Gods, he would take that man and destroy him utterly. He was perfectly determined about that.

  He said without preamble, “I presume, given your delay, that you have already heard my captain’s report from his own mouth.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry for making you wait for me, but Tageiny told me what news he’d brought and I thought I’d better talk to Verè myself right away. Poor Verè. He’ll be all right, I think, but he’s worn to bone and nerve. I told Eöté she could look after him until he’s recovered.”

  Her manner was faintly apologetic, but not in the least defiant. She was sorry to make him wait, but it had not occurred to her that he might be angry. Innisth’s temper settled in response. “Sensible,” he agreed. “And your thoughts on this matter, my wife?”

  “It’s all very mysterious and disturbing. I know this man Verè speaks of. Quòn—I don’t know the rest of his name. He was my father’s man. Or my father thought he was. He’d been in Emmer. He brought word . . .” Kehera hesitated, her eyebrows drawing together over her clear gray eyes. She said in her quiet way, “It was this man who brought word when Hallieth Theraön Suriytaiän took the Immanences of Talisè and Cemerè. He seemed a man out of the common way, but then . . .”

  “Such men are, who spy for kings,” agreed Innisth, rather dry.

  “Yes, exactly. I thought that was all it was. My father said he would send him after me. When I . . . when I went to Suriytè. I didn’t see him, I never saw him, not through anything that happened there, not when Gheroïn Nomoris took me . . .” Her voice faltered as memory rose up, but she shook her head when Innisth poured a goblet of spiced wine from the pot over the fire and offered it to her. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m well. I’m quite well. Quòn met us when we came through Anha Pass. He was there before us. I didn’t understand how he came there first. Then he said he was a servant of the Fortunate Gods. He told me so then, but I didn’t . . . it didn’t seem something . . .”

  “That you need pass on to me? I imagine not. But perhaps you will tell me now.”

  Kehera nodded. “He killed Nomoris and freed me. I rode ahead. He was to follow, but he never came. I wonder—I’m sure now that’s when Irekaìmaiäd took Nomoris. Quòn killed him and the Irekaïn Power took him; doesn’t that make sense?” She looked gravely at Innisth. “We know the Power of Irekay had already taken Nomoris up when he came to you in Eäneté, and you killed him there. Killed him again, and again he didn’t die, not all the way. We knew that, but we thought . . . we thought Methmeir Heriduïn Irekaì was still master of the Power. Only now it seems Quòn told Verè that’s not true, that Irekaìmaiäd isn’t only taking up the dead, but has mastered and taken up the king.” She met his eyes. “That’s how Great Powers become Gods.” Kehera knew this because any king or duke’s heir had to know such things. Her father had explained it to her years ago, before she had ever guessed it might matter. She saw that Innisth knew it as well. So that was one duty his father must have kept: teaching his heir the importance of mastery and strength when dealing with his Immanent.

  “And are we astonished that Methmeir Heriduïn Irekaì should be foolish and weak as well as ambitious?” Innisth murmured. “So we must be doubly glad that we have established very strong borders around Eäneté. We will certainly claim as much land as possible and protect it all as strongly as possible, in case the worst should come to pass.”

  “It won’t be enough,” Kehera said in a low voice. “Not if Irekaìmaiäd achieves apotheosis and rises up as an Unfortunate God. We must defeat it, drive it back, weaken it until it can’t rise. Destroy it, if we can, and let a kinder Power rise in Irekay.”

  “Indeed,” Innisth said politely, allowing her to hear his skepticism.

  “No, listen.” Kehera took a folded paper from her skirt and held it out to him. “From Tiro—Tirovay,” she explained. “That’s the other reason I was delayed. The messenger brought it with the letters for Lord Toren’s household, and I was reading it when poor Verè arrived. This is the page that matters.”

  She was blushing faintly, from which Innisth gathered that the letter had included other pages she did not intend to show him. He did not actually want to know what Tirovay Elin Raëhema might have said about him. He merely took the page his wife held out and glanced down the lines of scribe-neat script.

  “He, too, is aware that the Irekaïn Power has mastered the king,” he murmured. “A most timely warning if we had not heard the other.”

  “It’s his suggestion to try to bind all our Immanences together,” Kehera pointed out, which he had already seen. “He—my brother—it sounds like Tiro’s creating new Immanences in the lands your king’s left empty. I know, not your king—the Power of Irekay. But Tiro is making some new kind of ruling tie, not only to those new Immanences, but to the Harivin Powers already bound to Raëhemaiëth. He’s creating Unfortunate bonds, but he’s not using them to feed lesser Immanences to Raëhemaiëth. He’s not using them to force lesser Immanences out of their lands, but he’s binding Raëhemaiëth into their lands through them, or something. I don’t know if I understand exactly what he’s doing. But if Tiro thinks this will work, it probably has a good chance. He knows about things like that.” She held out the letter.

  Innisth took it without comment. He read to the bottom of the page, then read the final lines a second time. The he folded the page with careful, precise motions and handed it back. He said, hearing the thread of violence in his own voice and making an effort to moderate it, “We need another term to describe what your brother has done, it seems. These bonds of which he speaks don’t appear to be precisely Unfortunate, whatever ill fate similar bonds have wreaked on lesser provinces in the past.” He paused and then added coldly, “Plainly one effect of what your brother is doing will be to permanently subordinate lesser Immanences to Raëhemaiëth. That is certainly new and daring. It is, of course, out of the question to permit your brother to involve Eänetaìsarè in such a bond.”

  His wife didn’t argue. She asked instead, “Did you read the part about what Tirovay thinks has happened in northern Emmer and in Kosir? If Irekaìmaiäd has taken all those lands and devoured all those Immanences and set its own hollow sorcerers in all those towns, like Gheroïn Nomoris twenty times over . . . If Irekaìmaiäd has set its ties in so many different people, anchored itself in so many different places, then you must see, if we all work separately, we have no chance of defeating it. We have to find a way to do more than just hold. If we have a single ruling tie over all our Immanent Powers, that might do. If we don’t try something more dramatic, then in the end Irekaìmaiäd will win. And then it will rise up as an Unfortunate God and destroy everything.”

  “Not everything,” Innisth corrected her. “Eäneté will hold regardless.” He was utterly resolved that Eäneté would hold. He would entertain no doubts on that point. Doubt was weakness. No one who would hold Eänetaìsarè dared entertain doubts of its strength.

  His wife paused, perhaps to master her own temper. He knew she was capable of temper, and passion. Probably more so now, under the influence of Eänetaìsarè. But she would never have yielded when she believed she was right. Nor did she now. She said with quiet determination, “It took the Fortunate Gods to raise up the Wall of Storms. But say you’re right. Suppose the Gods set some other barrier to preserve Eäneté. What about everything outside Eäneté? The rest of Harivir, all of Emmer, all of Kosir? That’s too much to give up—far too much. Unless Eänetaìsarè is strong enough to protect all the world as well as its own lands?”

  Innisth snapped, “I will not subordinate myself to Tirovay Raëhema, nor Eänetaìsarè to Raëhemaiëth. Nor do you wish any such thing. Your brother is no doubt a worthy young man. I have no doubt of it. But you
do not want him tied to Eänetaìsarè. He could not hold it. He could not master it.”

  “You were hardly older when you took it—”

  “I was bred to hold it. But even were your brother a man grown, you cannot believe I would willingly trade one king for another.”

  “I know!” Kehera agreed. “But Tirovay isn’t Methmeir Heriduïn Irekaì and never will be! Besides, even if my brother established a ruling tie to Eänetaìsarè, it wouldn’t exactly mean you lost your own mastery—”

  Innisth made a sharp, impatient movement. “No. Enough. I will not subordinate Eänetaìsarè to any other Immanent. I will not subordinate myself to anyone, nor return one inch of land I have taken, nor surrender any of the lesser Powers I have brought under Eänetaìsarè’s dominion.”

  Kehera pressed her hands against her lips, bowing her head as she drew a deep breath. No doubt she feared she was handling this argument poorly. No doubt she thought there were better arguments she might make. Of course no argument would persuade him. She must know that. He was sure she knew Innisth had killed his own father to take the deep tie. It must be obvious to her that Innisth knew that all safety, all well-being, and everything good came from seizing power and keeping it tight in his hand. No doubt an Elin Raëhema of Harivir found it difficult to believe that any yielding, any surrender, must bring death and cascading disaster. But she must know she wasn’t going to be able to persuade him otherwise.

  Nevertheless, she lifted her eyes again to meet his. “Kosir has already been defeated, and most of Emmer has fallen. Tirovay is holding what he can, but if he falls too, what then? Raëhemaiëth is Immanent in Raëh! If Raëh falls, I’ll be a weakness for you, not a strength! What will happen to Eäneté then?”

  Innisth said softly, “You will never be a weakness for me. Though it may be stripped out of Raëh, Raëhemaiëth will anchor itself into our new land through you. Eänetaìsarè will make room for it. You brother should be grateful for that, if he cares for you.”

  “Yes, I’m fairly certain he won’t be grateful that you refuse to help him!”

  Innisth held up a hand sharply, and his wife bit her lip and was silent. She was very pale, but she knew how to argue without losing her temper and how to stop before pressing him beyond his. Because her steadfast courage deserved full answer, he tried to answer her quietly. “And if I did as you suggest and forced Eänetaìsarè to yield a deep tie to your brother, and he were still defeated? I commend his ingenuity and his resolve. But if he fails, if Irekaìmaiäd becomes a God, then we must take our chance to prepare ourselves to hold a smaller land clear of the disaster of its rise. Would it make your brother’s defeat less if we joined him in it?”

  Kehera whispered, “It might.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. But she went on with conviction. “Innisth, sometimes it’s wrong to take the road that seems safest. Sometimes you have to take the road that’s right instead, even if it leads into the dark. Don’t you know that? Don’t you? Innisth, sometimes you have to pick up a sword and join the fight, even when you know you can’t win. Sometimes you just have to.”

  His temper had been pressing him. Now it ebbed. He said, very softly, “I would give you whatever I am able to give. But I cannot give you this.”

  Kehera was silent for a long moment. She said at last, “Gereth also wrote. But not to me.”

  Innisth flinched, and controlled himself. He said distantly, “I shall not read his letter. You may, if you wish. But you should not imagine that anything he writes might change my mind.”

  For a moment he thought she might protest. But in the end, she said nothing.

  26

  Kehera lay alone in her bed, gazing at the whitewashed ceiling without quite seeing it. Until three nights ago, she had slept alone nearly every night of her life. Strange how cold her bed seemed now, without Innisth to share it. She wished he would come to her. At the same time, she was glad he had not, because she wanted to think and it was hard to think when he was with her.

  It was far into the twenty-eighth night of the least fortunate month of the year. In just two days the world would enter the unnumbered Iron Hinge days and the year would begin its dark pivot around midwinter. And she lay alone in her cold bed and wished . . . She didn’t know what she wished. Not to have everything back the way it had been. It was too late for that, too late even to wish for that. Too much had changed. She wished . . . to be safely through the dark turn of the year. She thought she might wish at least for that.

  She wished she believed Raëhemaiëth and Eänetaìsarè together, along with all the lesser Immanences they had bound, would be able to defeat the Immanent Power of Irekay. That she believed that they could prevent Irekaìmaiäd from becoming a God. That she believed these Iron Hinge days would not bring disaster down upon all the northern kingdoms. She wished she believed all those things. Her husband did believe them, or he told himself he did. But she could not.

  It was hard for her to imagine her little brother with the great tie to Raëhemaiëth and the responsibility for protecting northern Harivir in the face of this great threat; hard to believe their father was not still alive. When she was doing other things, she would forget. And then remember, in quiet moments like this, with a brittle stab of grief and anger and fear that never seemed to get less sharp. She had never realized before how impossible it could be, to tell grief from anger and anger from grief; the two emotions bled together and could not be pulled apart.

  Around her, the quiet sounds of the night came to her, demanding no attention. She couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t expected to sleep. Not on this night, so near the Iron Hinge of the year. She wanted to think about what else she might say to Innisth, what other arguments she might make, but there was nothing else and she could not find any way to move him.

  A gentle stir of movement in the antechamber disturbed her. For a moment, she thought Innisth had unexpectedly come to her and her heart jumped, but of course he would have announced himself to her women first, and asked her permission to enter her rooms.

  Any proper visitor would have done that, in fact.

  Kehera gathered herself warily to her feet, reaching for a robe, wondering, if she shouted, how quickly Tageiny and Luad could come. Should she call out? If this was Quòn . . . Could it be? Slipping by the attention of both Eänetaìsarè and Viärinéseir? If it were, did she trust him? He killed easily, from what Verè had told them, and if this was Quòn, he had certainly come like an assassin in the night.

  Maybe the sound had been just her imagination.

  A dim shape moved, sliding cautiously through the door of her bedchamber; came a step closer, then straightened and became a man, slight and dark and familiar. It was Quòn, as she had seen him at the end of Anha Pass, quiet and confident and mysterious. He glanced around, tilted his head back, and said, “Kehera Elin Raëhema,” in a voice low and plain and somehow dark as the night. “I—”

  And Luad hurled himself silently from the dimness of her women’s room, a knife flashing in his hand.

  Quòn twisted like a cat to meet him, and they grappled, staggering back against the wall, falling together with a thud that seemed loud. Luad gave a muffled grunt, and Kehera pressed her hand to her mouth, unable to decide whether she should try to stop them, with no idea how she might.

  Then Tageiny was there, big and brutal and determined, and there was a sudden flurry of movement that Kehera could make nothing of, and then Quòn was pinned on the floor, facedown, with Tageiny’s knee on his back. Her heart began to beat again, and she sat down suddenly on her bed as she found her legs unsteady.

  Tag had one hand locked on the man’s wrist, pulling his arm up hard behind his back, and a knife at his throat. Luad got to his feet, wincing. Eöté hovered in the door of the women’s room, eyes wide.

  “If I may—” Quòn began, his voice muffled against the floor. Tageiny jerked his arm sharply, and he grunted and was still.

  “You had better let him up,” Kehera said, though she couldn’t h
elp wondering if that was a good idea.

  “Not likely! I’d rather cut his throat,” Tageiny snapped. “Fortunate Gods, do you know how quietly this bastard got in here? He’s an assassin for sure. It’s just luck Eöté’s got good ears, and how she heard him I’m sure I don’t know. Boy, you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, honest, Tag.” Luad stooped over their captive, searching him gingerly. “I don’t find shi—anything, Tag. He’s clean.”

  “Yeah?” Tageiny said. “I don’t believe it.” He leaned a little on the knife he held, until Kehera could see a dark trickle of blood start where the blade bit into the prisoner’s neck. “Listen, you. I’m going to go over you myself, and if I find anything unexpected, I’m going to take you apart, you got that? What’re you carrying?”

  Quòn answered, muffled, “A knife in my boot, that’s all.” His tone was surprisingly unconcerned. “I didn’t come to murder the lady in her bed.”

  “Yeah, sure, that’s good to hear.” Tageiny swung his weight off his prisoner and hauled him up, not gently, slamming him face-about against the wall. “Don’t move, you. Luad!”

  “Yeah, Tag.” Luad smoothly took over, pinning the man in place while Tageiny searched him again, much more carefully.

  Kehera’s heartbeat had nearly returned to normal. Eöté took a step forward, and Kehera glanced at her, surprised to find that for all her nervousness, the girl now stood only a pace away, her back straight and her head tilted in apparently unselfconscious fascination. Her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on the stranger, her lips slightly parted, her breathing quick. But she seemed more interested than frightened.

  “He’s not armed,” Tageiny said, recalling Kehera’s attention. His tone was grim, as though he still didn’t believe this. “I didn’t find anything on him, except the knife he admitted to. He’s got one bastard of a whip mark across his back, though, not much more than a couple days old, I make it. I guess that was Verè.” He spun the man roughly around and shoved him to his knees, facing Kehera.