Winter of Ice and Iron

by Rachel Neumeier

  The hollow king laughed, a low hissing laugh like the wind raking across snow. He jerked his standard back, tearing the ice-blade free of Quòn’s chest, and slammed the butt of the standard against the ground. Quòn swayed but did not yet fall. His eyes were open but blind.

  Irekaìmaiäd let go of the standard, and it stood upright, thrusting arrogantly out of the ground, its blade red with blood and the long white banner whipping in the sharp wind; the painted jaws of the Dragon seemed to snap, and blood dripped from the standard and fell in drops to the ground. The blood froze as it fell, each drop ringing like a tiny chime against earth frozen hard as iron.

  Innisth strode forward, though he did not carry even so much as a knife. The hollow king put out one hand, and Innisth took it, and for a long, long moment they stood so, wrist to wrist, like friends. One of the king’s eyes was black and empty of anything human. The other, where Innisth’s flung knife had struck, was a ruin, but frost overlay the ruined eye and the Immanent that had taken the place of the man did not even seem aware he had been half-blinded. It was not human eyes he used now to see. It was the other kind of awareness, the savage inhuman awareness of an Immanent Power.

  Innisth knew Irekaìmaiäd, and named it, and flung the soul of Eäneté after it, burning into its blank white silence. Innisth was immediately lost in that great stillness, but something guided him—or not him, but Eänetaìsarè. Something he did not recognize; something so wide it encompassed both silence and sound, both the world and the sky; something beyond time and free of all bonds of place; something so vast it staggered both man and Power. A calm, still voice spoke in all that white silence; it was not a voice, but it was like a voice. It was as though the whole world spoke. What it said was a name. One single name. It said, “Eänetaìsarè.”

  And Eänetaìsarè rose in all its brilliant demanding depths and followed Irekaìmaiäd into the place that had once bound the Great Power of Irekay, the land that had given it birth and, in some slight measure, bound it still. Eänetaìsarè roared up around that name and followed its bonds of place and found a glittering bone-white city high on the cliffs above the eastern sea. Dead, it was; all dead; frozen. Ice sparkled on the towers and flowed in gleaming sheets through the streets and rimed the leafless branches of the dead trees and filled the eyes of the people, frozen where they stood, where an Immanent Power of silence and death and cold strove to become a God. It was still anchored in this place. The province and city of Irekay was no longer the source of the Great Power’s strength. But it was still its foundation.

  Innisth said softly, forcefully, as though it were a lesser Power and he might put his will upon it: “Irekaìmaiäd.”

  But the Great Power of Irekay did not tamely yield. It had anchored itself widely in the world and could not be torn loose so easily. “Eänetaìsarè,” whispered the cold. “Yield to me.”

  In another moment, Eänetaìsarè would have had to. It did not have the strength to resist. But then the Great Power of Irekay staggered suddenly, as a man might who had been unexpectedly struck or pushed. It was not like a physical blow. It was as though an infinite silence opened around them, unfolding like a spring crocus opening through the snow, except the flower was all of spring and the snow only a moment’s chill. The voice spoke a single word. It said again, as it had before, “Eänetaìsarè.” Only it made the name something else, something greater. It spoke the Eänetén Power in its entirety, and Innisth was staggered by it—by its strength and its beauty and its ferocity.

  He shut his human eyes and whispered, “Eänetaìsarè,” and his Power rose from its uttermost depths, and his. Innisth yielded to it. He gave way to Eänetaìsarè for the first time in his life. He allowed it to master him, and the Eänetén Power reached. It reached far below the frozen city and below the cliffs and below the sea that flung up freezing spray, and there it found the always-burning heart of stone. Far beneath stone and sea and earth, so much farther than beneath the sharp-edged mountains of Eäneté, but the fire was there and Eänetaìsarè found it. It took the steady strength Raëhemaiëth offered it, and it took the strength of Coär and of Viär, and of Eilin and all the rest, and it broke the stone and the earth and let out the fire, shattering the chill silence with a roar so loud it went beyond sound. There on the high cliffs above Teilè Bay, the very stone melted and ran burning through the streets. Burning stone flung a thousand feet into the air, and fell still burning to shatter the frozen city and plunge hissing into the sea, and the very cliffs cracked asunder, and the city of Irekay disappeared into a black and smoking mountain that built itself out of burning stone.

  The thunder of Eänetaìsarè rushed down every bond and tie and thread of awareness that the Power of Irekay had ever set into any person or any place, and all those bonds and ties and threads burned too. So the Immanent Power of Irekay died with its city. Eänetaìsarè’s fire roared up in a wild conflagration, its ferocity growing, and Innisth knew at that moment that he would never reclaim the mastery of his Power. The Immanent Power of Eäneté had burned through him and destroyed Irekaìmaiäd with fire and stone, but now it would burn on. It was too strong; it had become too Great; it was becoming a God. Not Irekaìmaiäd but Eänetaìsarè had met apotheosis, and Innisth could not stop it. He could do nothing but bend the shape of his Immanent so that it might become a Fortunate God, so that perhaps its apotheosis would not destroy all of Eäneté as it rose. But more than that he could not do.

  31

  Kehera knew when the Irekaïn Power was destroyed. She knew when Eänetaìsarè roused, and she knew when Raëhemaiëth rose in answer, bringing with it all the lesser Powers to which it was bound. Harivir was a network of light that spread across the land, spinning from town to town along roads and pathways and streams, brightest where many men had lived for a long time but sparkling through all the living lands. And not only in Harivir, for the lacework of light spread out across parts of southern Emmer and perhaps half of Kosir, and western Pohorir all along the mountains glittered with light as well. This she saw with an inner eye, unfolding in the other plane of the world; but she saw as well the shadow of dragon wings fall across all these lands and across the empty lands where there were no Immanences to hold back the darkness. The obsidian winds screamed overhead like the voices of dragons, like the screaming of a dying land, and Kehera was afraid.

  With her mortal eyes, she saw Quòn move to face the hollow creature that had once been Methmeir Irekaì, and she saw him die, making only a vague, token effort to evade the blow that killed him. A great echoing stillness that was like a great echoing sound rose through him and spread out around him, silencing the terrible midwinter winds and turning the monstrous dragons away from the earth, and this, too, Kehera saw or heard or felt.

  Then, though her attention was mostly with Raëhemaiëth, she saw the Wolf Duke take the hollow king’s hand. After that she was mostly aware of the shock of Eänetaìsarè mastering Raëhemaiëth, but when she could see again, she saw Eöté walk forward, picking her way across the frozen mud in her light slippers, carefully avoiding the Dragon banner, circling to stay clear of its spattering blood and its shadow. And she watched, unable to move or speak or think, as the girl stooped close by Quòn’s body and picked up the knife he had dropped.

  Immediately she had to stop Verè Deconniy from hurling himself between Eöté and Methmeir Irekaì. She did not remember moving; she was hardly aware of her own body, of the men surrounding her or of the wider battle that was slowly coming to a halt around them. There was fighting; the dead soldiers still moved and fought, but somehow despite the clamor that still echoed across this field of battle, it seemed to Kehera that a great silence had spread out from Quòn’s body and now encompassed the whole field and all the land beyond. She put her hand up and rested her palm on Captain Deconniy’s chest. He stopped then, though she couldn’t have made him stop.

  In that space of quiet, Eöté reached out with one hand and cut the human throat of the man whose body housed Irekaìmaiä
d. At once the Great Power of Eäneté swept through the emptiness that had been Irekaìmaiäd and mastered Innisth, and at the same time, Raëhemaiëth rose. Kehera staggered. Raëhemaiëth might have mastered her then, too, only it did not want mastery. It did not want to break the bonds that bound it to its place and its people. And Tiro was with her too, not with her in the mortal world, but with her in the tie, so that when Raëhemaiëth reached again for the bonds that tied it to the world, it had somewhere to go.

  Eänetaìsarè had a place to go too. It was bound to the land, to the city and province of Eäneté, to the forest and the wolves and the people, to the granite of the mountains and the fire beneath the stone. It had almost forgotten. It had spread out and come unmoored from the place that had birthed it and nurtured it; it had risen in fury and reached out to anchor itself far to the east, by the white cliffs where the storm waves ran; it had risen there and burned away the deathly Irekaïn winter. But Kehera reminded it of its own land. Or Raëhemaiëth reminded it. They both reminded it: It should be bound. It wished to be bound. To its land and its people, and to the man who held its close tie . . . “Eänetaìsarè! You do not want to be a God,” Kehera whispered to it. Raëhemaiëth reminded it that beyond fire and stone and forest, there was the gentler warmth of the people to whom it was tied. Kehera reminded it that beyond fury and ambition and passion, there was love.

  And the great stillness lay over everything, and Kehera blinked and opened her eyes.

  Kehera sat on the cold ground beside her husband’s unconscious body. Her brother found her there. He didn’t embrace her or try to speak with her, but only touched her hair and then her shoulder and then knelt quietly beside her. He was no longer a boy who would demand comfort, but a young man who tried to give it, and she was grateful.

  Riheir Coärin strode up too. He stared down for a moment at the Eänetén duke. “Does he live? Or did that kill him?” He spoke in a low voice, to Tirovay and not to Kehera. She was grateful for that, too. She felt utterly incapable of forming words. She held her husband’s hand in both of hers, gazing into his still face.

  The fighting was over, or Kehera supposed it was. She was not aware of any clamor of battle. People came and went. She paid very little attention. She was dimly aware that Tageiny stood near her, and was distantly glad because she did not feel equal to guarding herself at all.

  She knew Eöté was gone. The girl had walked away among the fallen dead, for all the dead were fallen now. She had walked away from Verè Deconniy, who had not tried to follow her. He had let her go, turning away with terse, hard-edged efficiency to direct the raising of a shelter for his duke against the wind.

  The brutal cold had broken with the hollow king’s death or with the destruction of the Great Power of Irekay. The dragons had risen away from the earth, back into the heights, and the sky was clear, or nearly clear, with only thin streaks of the obsidian winds rushing high above. The storms had passed over the earth, and though the land still lay within the hinge of the winter, it seemed to Kehera that the year had turned and that the air now carried a hint of spring along with the reek of the battlefield.

  “He still lives,” Tiro answered Riheir Coärin. “Can’t you feel it? But his Power mastered him, there at the end.”

  “He let it,” said Kehera, though she didn’t look up. “He couldn’t do . . . what had to be done. He had to let Eänetaìsarè do it.”

  Riheir nodded. After a while he said, “It almost felt to me like he took the mastery again . . . afterward.”

  “Yes,” said Kehera. “He mastered Eänetaìsarè a long time ago. He’s held it for years and years. It remembered that, at the end. It wanted to be bound. Someday it might want to be a God. But not today.”

  “Yes,” agreed Tiro, because he had been there too and knew this was true. “And there’s this, which we may hope will help bring him back to himself.” Bending, he put a little quartz-streaked pebble of granite into the Wolf Duke’s hand, folding his fingers around it. Then he straightened, his gaze on the Innisth’s face.

  Kehera leaned forward, but . . . nothing. Nothing.

  “Well,” said Tiro. “I also brought this.” He held a chip of stone out to show Kehera—not granite this time. This stone was a pale creamy gold, the chip smooth on one side, sharp enough to cut on the other. He said, “I broke it off the wall. If I . . . I’ve never tried . . . It may hold a tiny involuted tie to Raëhemaiëth. But even if I did it right, I don’t know if it will help.”

  Kehera touched her brother’s hand and tried to smile. “It will help,” she said in a low voice. “They were always allies, I think. From before I ever brought a thin tie to Raëhemaiëth into Eäneté. Besides . . . it helps me just to know you tried to do this. Thank you.” She put the little shard of golden stone into her husband’s other hand and interlaced her fingers with his, so it was held tight between their palms. “Raëhemaiëth,” she said softly. “Raëhemaiëth. I know you don’t need Eänetaìsarè any longer. But I still need Innisth terè Maèr Eänetaì.”

  And this time, her husband drew a breath that might have been in response. He did not wake. But Kehera thought—she thought she saw a different kind of stillness in him. Something more restful and less . . . fraught. She let her own breath out. Maybe . . .

  “Maybe that’s done some good,” Tiro said. He touched her shoulder again. “We’ll move him inside. We’ll take care of him. Maybe he’ll wake.”

  “And if he does?” said Riheir grimly. “He’s not your ally, Tiro—not anymore. This man isn’t anyone’s ally anymore. You saw what he did there at the end. He’s either got all of Pohorir now, or he can just reach out and take it. And how much more would he take after that? He’s dangerous, Tiro: far too powerful and far, far too ambitious. He’s probably as dangerous as Methmeir Irekaì—or he could be.”

  Kehera began a sharp answer, but her brother held up a hand and said to Riheir, “I know. But we owe him, Riheir. Certainly we owe him gentle treatment until we see whether he wakes. After that . . . After that, we’ll see.”

  “You owe him a lot more than that. You owe him everything!” Kehera snapped, though she knew her brother didn’t need reminding. That wasn’t the question. She knew that, too.

  “I know,” Tirovay said again, speaking not like an impatient boy, but like a king. “But that doesn’t mean he’ll be safe to leave loose in the world, Kehy. We’ll have to see.” He paused in case she wanted to argue, but Kehera couldn’t say a word. She had been her father’s heir, and she was still a princess of Harivir, and she understood what he meant.

  Then her brother turned aside and walked over to the fallen white-armored body that lay atop the crumpled white banner, fought briefly with the stiff laces of its helm, and pulled it free. They all looked down at last at the face of their enemy. Even Kehera got to her feet and took the few necessary steps and looked, though she hadn’t thought she was interested.

  In death, it was the face of a man. Only a man. She recognized him, and was distantly surprised. This wasn’t Methmeir Irekaì. This was the Irekaïn lord she had glimpsed in Innisth’s house. Lord Laören. A terrible cut had slashed across one eye, but the other was open, blind, filmed over in death.

  “Methmeir Heriduïn died some time ago, I suppose,” she said in a low voice. “Perhaps that’s when Irekaìmaiäd began to embody itself in the dead . . . and learned to enslave the living.” She almost felt sorry for Laören. But not quite.

  “Eöté cut his throat,” Verè Deconniy said quietly; disbelievingly, but not as though he didn’t believe it. Kehera understood that. He sounded as though he wasn’t quite sure whether this was a comfort to him or not. She understood that, too.

  Another man came up to the little group and stood looking down upon the face of the dead man. It was General Corvallis, which did not surprise Kehera at all. Enmon Corvallis was limping, but he didn’t look like he’d noticed. He said, “So that’s over. About time.” Then he looked at Tirovay. “And seeing as it’s over, Tiro—Tirovay—
Your Majesty—what orders do you have for me? I suggest you command me to go to set our common armies in order and arrange for all our peoples to establish themselves inside Raëh’s walls. It is still midwinter.”

  “I think the storms are over for this year,” Tiro said. “But yes. Please see to that, Enmon.”

  Corvallis nodded shortly. “Also, there are the enemy soldiers. The living ones, I mean; the dead ones seem to be truly dead at last, thank the Fortunate Gods. But the living. They have to be allowed to surrender—it creates all the wrong incentives to kill enemy soldiers once they’ve been defeated. Besides, I think no one has the energy to kill them. If you’ll permit me, I’ll see they’re disarmed them and quartered in reasonable comfort . . . somewhere. But the Eänetén soldiers, they’re a question—”