by Tom Deitz
Rrath’s eyes blazed with anger. “I can’t tell you.”
“Eight, you can’t, you sneaky little turd. What was that stuff?”
“I can’t tell you,” Rrath repeated. “Remember what I said about conditioning? There are some things I literally can’t reveal. But I can say that what you just destroyed will hurt you as much as it does me. It’s … No, I can’t say—I can’t!”
“Try,” Eddyn growled. “Try to tell me. Maybe then I’ll believe you.”
Rrath grimaced wretchedly. “That phi—”
He broke off, gasping for breath. The cords in his neck stood out like ropes. His jaw went hard. Panic washed his eyes.
“What—?” Eddyn demanded.
“What you saw,” Rrath spat. “Paralysis of the throat and tongue. And pain in my head, like my brain was going to explode. I can’t—”
“Not good enough,” Eddyn retorted, oblivious to Rrath’s discomfort. “What was that stuff? It has to be important, for you to act like this.”
Rrath’s breath was coming harsh and fast. He swallowed hard. “Compass,” he gasped—then gasped again, louder, panting like a bellows. Eddyn could feel his pulse racing beneath his hand.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddyn persisted ruthlessly, increasing the pressure on Rrath’s wrists. “How can a phial of … whatever it was be a compass?”
Rrath swallowed again. “Like calls to … like,” he muttered, eyes going wide as he realized he’d managed the whole phrase. Then, almost recklessly: “I’m … a … weather-witch.”
Eddyn’s eyes narrowed in confusion, then widened in turn as realization dawned. He relaxed his grip minutely. “So you’re saying …?”
“I can’t say,” Rrath cried. “Not directly. Maybe this way, apparently. Obliquely. If it doesn’t kill me with pain—which it could.”
Eddyn gnawed his lip, fighting for patience. “So something in that phial was … like something else?”
Rrath’s head rose once, as though to nod. But then he was gasping again. “I can’t. Even that—”
“Like what, then? Like Avall? Or like the gem?”
Silence. Rrath was crying, almost sobbing. But then he took a deep breath. “Earth calls to earth,” he dared, wincing in anticipation of what could not be feigned agony. His whole body shuddered again. Sweat shimmered on his brow.
Eddyn sat back, using that interval to thrust the remaining pouch down the neck of his tunic. He’d store it more properly later. Or destroy it. “Get up,” he growled.
Rrath mumbled something unintelligible and wriggled out from under him, divesting himself of his bedroll in the process. Like Eddyn, he’d stripped to woolen hose and undertunic. Fortunately, Eddyn’s had been belted; he could feel the pouch against his skin.
“Might want to stoke up the fire,” Eddyn continued, his voice ominously soft. “Oathbreaking goes better in the light.”
“And with something in one’s belly,” Rrath suggested hopefully.
“There’s brandy.”
“Not much but brandy, actually.”
“Fetch it.”
Rrath scooted off to retrieve the jug while Eddyn adjusted the fire, adding a piece of oak bench that would burn a good while. He had no idea how long this blizzard would last, and such resources had best be husbanded.
Red light became gold as Rrath returned. Side-lit, his smooth features looked very young. He was, too—within an eighth of Eddyn’s age, since they’d both been part of the same Fateing. Eddyn doubted he looked much older himself, though he felt as if he were a thousand.
“Ask,” Rrath prompted sullenly, uncorking the jug. “Maybe we can find a way around this, if you ask exactly the right questions. I don’t think I can volunteer much at all.”
Eddyn’s brow wrinkled in thought. “So … something in the phial—some liquid—was like something Avall had, or else like something connected to the gem. And then you said earth calls to earth, and the gem came out of the earth, so that’s probably what you meant. Right?”
Rrath didn’t reply. Or couldn’t. His mouth worked, but no words ensued.
“The phial had liquid in it,” Eddyn stressed. “Which doesn’t make sense—unless that liquid was connected to some liquid where the gem was found, except that I worked that vein myself and it was as dry as any of them are down there. On the other hand, something could be dissolved in that liquid. So …” He broke off, staring at Rrath again. “Weather-witches drink water from Weather’s Well when they want to predict the weather—-find the weather, so folks say. Everyone knows that. So if you drank from a Well that had … earth from the gem’s vein dissolved in it, and then did the witching rite, you might—” He said no more, for he knew from the shock that crossed Rrath’s face that he’d hit close to the mark. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I still can’t tell you. Not that directly.”
Eddyn eyed him carefully, his back to the fire. “It’ll do,” he conceded. “For now. For now” he repeated—and took a draught of brandy, straight from the jug. A deep breath, then: “When this ends—the storm, I mean—what do we do?”
Rrath looked startled. “Try to survive.”
“And where do we do this surviving? Do we go forward, or do we go back?”
“That was … clearer before.”
Eddyn glared at him.
Rrath snared the jug, drank deep, and leaned back, wrapping a fur around his shoulders. He rubbed his neck where finger marks showed red even in the firelight. But wouldn’t meet Eddyn’s gaze.
“The way I see it,” Eddyn went on, “Avall had the gem with him when he fell. But it’s always possible he could’ve given it to Rann or the woman. We haven’t had a chance to search their bodies.”
“If there are bodies,” Rrath countered. “We saw them wounded, but we’ve no proof they’re dead, and the cursed birkits wouldn’t let us close enough to check before this Eight-damned blizzard hit.”
“But they seemed to be protecting the station,” Eddyn noted. “Which would imply that Avall’s friends were alive—if your notion of birkits having intelligence is valid.”
Rrath shrugged. “In any event, I doubt they’ll come calling tonight. If we’re lucky, the storm will finish them—unless they’ve gone to ground in the ruins.”
“Which raises another question. When this thing lets up, what’s to stop them finding us? They’d be as anxious to seek Avall as we are. They know he went into the river; that would lead them here.”
“Supposing they’re alive.”
Eddyn shrugged in turn. “They’re wounded, in any case. That gives us the advantage—assuming their four-footed allies were an aberration, which I’m beginning to doubt, since we know the gem lets people contact other minds. But even if we could best them, we’d still have to decide where to go. Thing is, some of your dead … friends would’ve been expected to report back to their hold. When they don’t, more will be sent. That’s how it works. If we go back, there’s a good chance we’ll run into them. I doubt that would benefit either of us.”
Rrath nodded sagely. “But if we pushed on to Tir-Eron with Rann and the woman, we’d have to watch them every moment, never mind how we’d explain their presence and our conduct if we actually made it there.”
“Besides which, we need to see if we can find Avall’s body. He’s still—he’s still my kin, and I owe it to the clan to try to secure his remains.”
An eyebrow lifted. “And if the gem happens to be among them?”
“Then this whole stupid mess won’t have been in vain.”
Rrath yawned hugely. “Suppose we ponder that tomorrow? I’m sorry, Eddyn, but I’m tired. I can’t think. There’ll be time to puzzle all this out, I promise you; time to consider every iteration until we’re sick of them. But it’s got to be close to midnight. We’ve been going steadily all day. I just lost a fight. I’ve to all intents broken a vow and barely evaded a compulsion, and have the mother of all great headaches to show for it. And of course there’s no chance
of me drugging you now. Or—” He paused, staring at Eddyn savagely. “Or of my murdering you in your sleep, just so you’ll know. I swear on The Eight.”
Eddyn huffed contemptuously. “And I’m supposed to believe that? After everything else you’ve done?”
Anger flashed in Rrath’s eyes. “I didn’t like doing it, if that helps. I’m not saying I had no choice, but in my case, you’d have done the same.”
Eddyn didn’t move. “Would I?” For a moment he thought to end it all here. It wouldn’t take much to wrestle Rrath down again. He would resist, but Eddyn was stronger. Eventually he’d get his hands around Rrath’s throat …
And be guilty of murder.
On top of rape.
And he’d be alone in the Wild in the heart of Deep Winter. There was only so much luck in the world. And so much forgiveness.
He tossed back a final hit of brandy in disgusted silence. Rrath spared him a last challenging glare and burrowed into the furs. Before long, he was snoring. Eddyn sat immobile, gazing at the fire.
Fire changed things. Melted metals or blended them into forms more biddable. It made meat fit to eat. But it rendered wood useless save as fuel.
So what did cold do?
It was like fire, actually. Cold killed and cold preserved.
Both changed things. Eddyn wondered how being here in the maw of Deep Winter was changing him.
PROLOGUE II:
CONFERENCES
(ERON: GEM-HOLD-WINTER-DEEP WINTER: DAY XXXIV-MORNING)
I don’t like secrets,” Crim san Myrk announced without preamble, letting the words fall like pearls into the musty air of Gem-Hold-Winter’s least-used council chamber—the one expressly designed for what the previous Hold-Warden had called “invisible information.” Nothing surrounded it on three sides but thick stone walls and double-paned windows looking on frosty morning air. Nothing rose above it, either, save a pyramidal wooden roof, painted on the inside with spirals and fabulous beasts. Even the stairs that climbed from the empty chamber below to the vestibule behind the single door were hinged to rise and fall by the Hold-Warden’s key alone.
“I don’t like secrets,” Crim repeated, staring down her elegant nose at the other six people seated in an arc of leather-padded benches one step lower than her rail-rimmed dais. She was too old for this. Not in years—she was a fit and healthy forty-six—but in tolerance for exceptions to routine. Twenty years ago she’d have enjoyed the mystery confronting them. But twenty years ago was not now.
She sighed and adjusted her hood—worn up, to show that she acted in her official capacity as Hold-Warden. Her cloak of rank flowed around her, its gold and silver panels scarce less gaudy than the High King’s Cloak of Colors.
The others stirred. Not from guilt—this was no summoning of errant parties to accounting—but from innate awareness that she knew, or suspected enough it was the same as knowing, that everyone present was party to secrets they’d be loath to share in the presence of others. Especially when those others were also rivals. Subchiefs acting without explicit authority from their seniors could be very close-mouthed indeed.
She waited. Fixed her gaze on her next-in-command: the Sub–Craft-Chief of Gemcraft. Mystel held that rank, not for any administrative skill she possessed, but because she was the most accomplished gemsmith on the premises. As such, she was the weakest link, the one most likely to be swayed into betrayal, especially as she was also one in clan and craft with Crim, and thereby distant kin. And—almost—young enough to be Crim’s daughter. She had the same black hair, too, but nine in ten of her countrymen had that—and dark blue eyes, slender builds, and angular faces.
But Mystel also knew Strynn san Ferr-a-Argen well enough that Crim suspected the two of confiding in each other. If she were lucky, Strynn might even have referenced certain … activities to which she alone was privy—and which no one this side of Tir-Eron was authorized to demand of her by threat or force.
So Crim had hoped, at any rate—until Mystel had failed to discover anything Crim didn’t know already.
In any case, Mystel didn’t reply. That fell to old Sipt, Sub–Clan-Chief of Ferr, which meant he was the oldest mentally competent member of that clan in the hold. And since Ferr was Strynn’s birth-clan …
“Secrets,” Sipt snorted with clear contempt. He was over seventy. Gray hair showed beneath his blood-red hood, but his body was lean and hard—as befitted one born to the clan that ruled Warcraft. “Rather we should discuss life and death! Whatever secrets you would have us divulge, if any there may be, the fact is that whether Avall, Eddyn, Rann, and Rrath are alive or dead, Strynn is alive, with another life inside her. We should take care that these … secrets do not also endanger her.”
He paused to eye the two men sitting to his right, robed in identical Argen maroon, but with sleeves cut differently to denote their separate septs: Pannin syn Argen-a and Brayl syn Argen-yr: sub-sept-chiefs of Smithcraft’s ruling clan. Pannin was older than Sipt, though still craggily handsome; Brayl, at fifty-five, was perilously close to pretty.
The remaining woman in the room, Lady Nyss of Priest-Clan, rang the silver attention bell attached to her chair, proof that she, at least, respected protocol. “So you’re saying that whatever drove those others away—or led to their disappearance, since I’m not convinced we won’t find their bodies in a storeroom—might also have reason to target Strynn?”
“Exactly,” Sipt replied. “I—”
“You’re already digressing,” Crim snapped, rising and starting to pace. A window wall rose behind her, and the angle of the sunlight cast her into darkness cut out against light—which was intentional. “We need to lay out the facts in order, and who knows what. Then make some decisions.”
“Fact one, then,” Pannin began sourly. “As best we can tell, ten days ago Avall and Rann failed to appear for duty in the mines. Since both are reliable, Ayll asked after them, and was told they were ill of a flux and that Strynn was nursing them—yet no such authorization had been given her by Healing. A few days later, Eddyn and Rrath likewise went missing without excuse. Further investigation showed Avall and Rann not sick, but absent as well. Yet Strynn hadn’t reported them gone, which was odd—since Avall would’ve had to leave the helmet he was making for the King unfinished—which I know he’d never do.”
Crim’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you know?”
“Because Avall cares about five things in the world: making, his bond-brother, his sister, his two-father, and his wife—in that order.”
Crim lifted a brow at Sipt. “Would you concur with this, syn Ferr? More to the point, would any of your clan take exception to it? As an insult to Strynn, perhaps?”
“No one in Ferr is, or has been, insulted by Avall’s treatment of Strynn,” Sipt replied flatly.
“This may or may not be relevant,” sullen old Ayll, who was Sub–Clan-Chief of Myrk, inserted roughly, “but the Night-Warden in the mines reported to me—belatedly, damn his hide—that when Avall was working there one night, he agreed to tithe everything he had in one very full bag in exchange for the lone item in the other. Since it was from the clan vein, the Warden agreed without inspection. But after that, he began to wonder if Avall might not have found something … special.” He gave the word a particular emphasis, to let its import sink in.
Crim scowled. She, too, had heard rumors.
“Law would’ve let him keep it,” Pannin observed.
“Custom required he report it to me,” Crim retorted.
“Unless he intended it for the crown, which was also his option,” Pannin gave back. “And he was working on a commission for the King.”
“Which we ought then to examine,” Crim told him, with a cryptic smile.
“Which you know we can’t,” Pannin countered. “No one is allowed to see a masterwork in process without the maker’s permission. Even Strynn couldn’t let you see it.”
“But she could tell us if it included anything … special,” Brayl allowed.
> “So Avall may have found something out of the ordinary,” Crim summarized. “He then disappeared, along with his bond-brother.”
“And if he’s gone, it’s for something incredibly important,” Pannin finished. “Nobody hies around in Deep Winter save for the direst of reasons.”
“Which in Avall’s case would be …?” Brayl challenged.
“Something to do with his craft, I’d say. Half the people he cares about are here.”
“Something that wouldn’t wait until spring?”
“Maybe not—if someone else knew.”
“Such as, perhaps … Eddyn?”
“Or that young Priest. What was his name again? Rrath?”
Crim saw Nyss stiffen. She was a territorial old lady. And now her clan was being implicated.
“So Rann and Avall perhaps discovered something in the mines that perhaps made them feel compelled to dare the Deep without telling anyone in authority, even in their own clans?” Ayll mused. “That sounds very foolish, very important, or both.”
“Then Eddyn and Rrath got wind of it and decided to follow?” Mystel continued. “But why would they do that? There’s no love lost between Eddyn and Avall; everyone knows that.”
“To help them—or stop them,” Sipt sighed. “That much is obvious. And given that they’re from rival septs …”
“It implies that Eddyn and Rrath intended to stop them.”
Ayll stroked his bell with a finger. “But why would Rrath go? He’s got no vested interest in Argen’s affairs beyond his friendship with Eddyn—unless they’ve become bond-mates.”