by Tom Deitz
Perhaps, he reflected, he wasn’t cut out to be a Loremaster after all. Not if lore involved much in the way of mathematics. He liked concrete things—or history, which was about concrete things. But this! Abstract numerical theory that connected to not much of anything. That existed only to confound the minds of nineteen-year-olds, as best he could tell.
But he had to finish this treatise tonight. He had an exam on it tomorrow a hand after sunrise—which sunrise he suspected he’d be awake to witness.
Sighing, he rose and snared the wine, quaffing it absently even as he realized that was foolish. It would make him sleepy when he needed to stay awake. Oh well; it was getting dark anyway. Time to raise some light—and put on a pot of cauf. Pausing to stretch his lithe body, and to wipe an inky forelock out of his eyes, he sauntered to the fireplace, lit a splinter from the stash there, and used it to light two candles on the mantel, and two more to either side of his desk. That accomplished, he returned to the hearth, found the small cauf-grill set there, lit it, then filled a pot with water and set it on to boil. Rising again, he started to return to the book, but concluded that a bit of exercise might better set his blood flowing. With that in mind, he doffed the long house-robe that staved off the random chills that found their way inside, leaving him clad in maroon house-hose and short-tunic. A series of bouncing steps brought him to the thick glass door that looked out on his balcony. A glitter of snow showed on the pavement beyond, and more mounded on the rail, while icicles as big as his arm depended from the rafters beyond. The door itself was frosted with rime, and his breath turned it white where he paused to look out on Tir-Eron—what he could see of it, beyond the crenulated roofs of Argen-Hall. Steam rose from the Ri-Eron, for the air above it was warmer than the water, and very dimly he could discern, on the opposite bank, the impertinent spire of Lore’s tower, which was the tallest structure in Eron Gorge, because some nameless Lore Chief years ago had got both a King and a Priest to agree that thought ought to come above all other things.
He wondered if that included infinite numbers.
Shrugging, he turned away and busied himself with a series of knee bends and stretches, wincing as a bruise he’d collected at sword practice twinged along his right hip.
At least he was awake again—he thought.
A pause to check the water—not quite ready—and he settled back into the chair before his desk. He only had a page to go. He’d read that, make cauf, then start over.
He managed two lines, only to find his lids easing closed.
Nor did he fight; the cauf-pot would sing when it was ready, and that would awaken him. Instead, he let himself drift, enjoying the comfort of the chair and the warm light of the room.
His eyes closed in truth. Almost, he slept. But it was an odd sort of sleep, as though sleep—or unconsciousness—had gained sentience and was reaching out to embrace him. It scared him—but it was curious, too, and so he let himself be drawn to it.
And while he floated there, in a place that was not precisely bound to his body, he heard someone call. Not to him, but to Eellon. It sounded like Avall, he realized with a start. Avall, who was his hero and his friend, and would’ve been his choice of bond-brother had he not been kin, just slightly too much older, and already taken by Rann.
It was a dream, of course, but a very odd dream.
Or was it? He tried to follow that call—and found himself swept out of himself, and looking down at the Ri-Eron, then at the snow-covered plain above it, and then at the tower that stood guard at the river-road approach to the gorge. Avall was there, he knew at once. Which was impossible.
“No!” Avall—screamed. Then: “Help me!”
And he was gone.
Lykkon’s eyes popped open, all traces of fatigue replaced with a desperate urgency he wasn’t at all certain was his own. He stood abruptly, upsetting the book, which tumbled to the floor. He barely heard that thump, because he was already halfway to the door.
Before he truly realized how preposterous this all was, he was stumbling into Eellon’s private dining room. A few folk looked up—maybe a dozen: the old man’s healer, and assorted family and clan or craft functionaries, dropping by as part of some complex rotation. Lykkon ignored them. Pulling himself up to his full height, and wishing he had a man’s bearing, he marched up to the Chief of his clan, who was more than four times his age, and looked him straight in the eye. “If you never do me another favor in your life, Clan-Chief,” he burst out, “give me fair hearing now.”
(TIR-ERON—ERON TOWER)
Avall had been awake for a while, but hadn’t let on that he was. It didn’t take much effort—he was tired as a relay runner, weak as a newborn child. A large portion of him still required convincing that he was alive. And he hurt where his body continued to awaken: tiny explosions coursing through him as though his blood itself were aflame. But there was comforting warmth, too, from the room itself and the coverlet over him. And softness: a true mattress beneath him, for which he’d longed since starting out on this ridiculous quest all those days ago. Myx and his bond-brother—Riff—must have returned him to bed as he slumbered.
But there was warmth and softness of another kind, too: of simple companionship when he’d known the loneliness of not being. They were concerned for him, he knew, and he knew also that he ought to pretend to awaken so as to allay that concern. But if he slept—or pretended to—they wouldn’t plague him with questions he couldn’t answer.
So he let them wonder, converse softly among themselves, drink a fair bit of beer, and refuse visitors at the door under the guise of Myx’s very real fever that ought to have him in bed instead of wrapped in fur robes by the fire.
Besides, it gave him time to continue the call. That was all it was now: a simple linkage to someone who registered in his brain only as “familiar person/blood-kin/friend.” There was too much activity there—too much sheer mental energy for him to determine more. But he’d made his call, and reinforced it, and every now and then—when he had the strength to face that brief burst of non-being—sent it forth again.
Still, he was not prepared when voices and booted feet sounded on the stone stairs outside, instants before a sharp knock pounded on the sturdy oak door.
Riff was on his feet at once, and he heard Myx swear, then call out a terse “Who The Eight is it?”
“Let me in, boy!” a gruff voice thundered, for all that it was female. And even Avall recognized those tones. It was Lady Veen of War, who was also master of this tower, as well as a renowned singer—of male-intended roles. Another voice joined it, calmer, but more familiar and blessedly comforting. “I have reason to think you have a guest therein, and Lady Veen has reason to think I’m mad; I’d as soon settle the matter.”
“Eellon!” Avall yipped in spite of himself, as he dropped his masquerade. Myx glared at him, while Riff—a compact blond lad who looked too young to be a guard—shot eye daggers at him as he reached for the bolt.
“Avall!” Another voice burst out, younger and clearer, and by that time the bolt had been thrown and three people crowded into the room.
They could not have been more different. Veen—in full Tower Warden garb, including a raised hood—was short and stocky. Eellon was past ninety and thin as a post; his body all angles, as was his face—save for the sensual curves of lips and eyes. He moved carefully, efficiently, but not at all like most old men. Few knew that beneath all those robes, an intricate strapwork of metal and leather helped him remain upright. At the moment, he was wearing a winter robe and cloak of Argen maroon, with hood raised, again to show that he acted in official capacity.
With him was his page—squire—whatever Lykkon was. A handsome, lightly built, black-haired lad who looked enough like Avall to pass for him when required. He was also cloaked, but not robed, and wore a fur hat as big as his head, with flaps pulled down across his ears. His fair skin was seriously windburned. He was also grinning like a fool. Veen looked angry, puzzled, and put-upon, and Eellon simply looke
d vastly bemused.
“I told you he was here!” Lykkon crowed, sounding like a boy half his age as he bounced over to sit on Avall’s bed, thereby sparing Avall the problem of rising.
Eellon raised a brow. “So it would seem,” he replied, eyeing Avall dubiously before reaching around behind Veen to close the door and shoot the bolt. “At least I didn’t come up here in vain,” he added with a warning look at the eager-faced Lykkon, whom Avall was trying, unsuccessfully, to hug.
Veen settled herself into the chair Myx hastily cleared for her and folded her arms expectantly. “This,” she said loudly, “is very strange.” Her gaze fixed first on Avall, then on Myx. “I take it there is some explanation?”
Myx cleared his throat, not looking at the Warden, his gaze shifting uncomfortably between Avall and his bond-brother. He was sweating, too, but whether from the heat of the room, anxiety, or his own light fever it was impossible to tell.
Eellon’s eyes had never stopped moving, though they’d spent a fair bit of time on Avall’s steaming clothing (now spread out), on Avall himself, and on Myx’s clan tabard. Avall felt a little hurt that his two-father and mentor hadn’t acknowledged him more properly. Then again, Veen was right: This was a very strange situation indeed, and Eellon was playing it close—a fact confirmed when Avall caught a clandestine wink in his direction.
“I could breathe if you’d let go of me, Lyk,” Avall managed finally, trying to force Lykkon away with indifferent success, born in part by his desire to keep the gem hidden, which meant keeping the fur as high as he could.
“Glad you’re back,” Lykkon managed with reasonable formality, and rose, to be replaced by Eellon, who merely uncovered his right shoulder far enough to reveal Avall’s clan tattoo. “You look like you,” he said. “You can tell me if you are you when we get back to Argen-Hall.”
Veen bristled at once. “Not tonight, you’re not! The snow—”
“We’ll do fine,” Eellon assured her. “And so will you.”
“Me?”
Eellon nodded, then indicated his raised hood. “I’m sorry, Lady, but I have to claim Chief-right now, and ask that everyone here accompany me and my escort back to the gorge. I claim this on my authority as Clan-Chief, and am willing to stand by this decision, should any here wish to bring it before the King and the Council of Chiefs. But it is clear that strange matters are afoot, matters that would seem to involve the clan which has been entrusted to me. Until I know what these matters are, I would prefer to control the flow of information.”
“Oaths sworn here mean as much as those sworn in Argen-Hall,” Veen protested.
“Yes,” Eellon agreed, “they do. But if we exchange them before our departure, you would wonder. If you wait until we’re in Argen-Hall, you may have answers to salve your oath. And I will have answers as well, since there are four stories here, at minimum.”
Sparing no pause for protest, he rose and turned to Myx. “You look about his size. Do you have any clothes he could wear?”
Myx nodded nervously. “Aye.”
“Good. You, your brother, and Lykkon get Avall dressed and ready to travel. I’m sorry to do this to you, lad, but I promise we’ll make it worth your while—and have a healer assess that fever. You know our clan is in your debt …”
Myx nodded uncertainly, and Eellon nodded back as he offered his hand to Veen. She shook her head, denying the ritual, as women of Warcraft traditionally did, and rose on her own.
“It would seem, Lady, that we have a few things to discuss as well,” Eellon murmured, as he started toward the door.
Avall couldn’t contain himself. “Lord—Chief—Eellon—Two-father. I probably shouldn’t say this now, but … this really is important.”
Eellon regarded him levelly. “I know.”
CHAPTER VIII:
HOMECOMING
(ERON: TIR-ERON-DEEP WINTER: DAY XLIII-LATE EVENING)
Avall didn’t remember much of the journey from Eron Tower to Argen-Hall. Or perhaps he chose not to recall. That was easier than making decisions, easier than trying to be circumspect about what he said around three near strangers as the close-sledge swept along the snow-covered trace. Rather, he pondered the landscape—wrapped to the chin in fur blankets above Myx’s best fur-lined travel clothing—staring through the thick, rime-patterned glass at a featureless white plain marked only by the tracks the sledge had made in transit to the tower, and by the route poles that showed red at twenty-span intervals to mark the way and show the depth of the snow (almost a span, in places). He didn’t want to study faces—either those of Eellon and Lykkon, who sat beside him, or Veen, Myx, and Riff, who slumped opposite, looking by turns fiercely angry, put-upon, utterly confused, and scared. Lykkon, irrepressible as ever, had made stabs at conversation, but Avall had rebuffed him with terse replies. “I’m fine—as much as I can be. Strynn was fine the last time I saw her. I’m not sure about Rann. We were on our way here and were attacked.”
And that was all. Even at that, he saw Eellon fix his gaze on him sharply, as though to say, Hold your tongue, boy! Your very presence already says too much! He was therefore left to lie in a semistupor and wonder what information he should impart first, and to whom, and how Eellon would handle the presence of these others. With that, he was struck anew at how alert the old man was. As Clan-Chief, he was the eldest mentally competent member of the clan, of either sex, much as Craft-Chief was the most accomplished artisan of any age past twenty.
Eellon also had a mind like a spring lock, tuned to a fine balance by years as Craft-Chief. He’d survived the plague that had taken most of his children and almost all his male descendants, down to Avall’s generation. He’d helped make a King, and kept that King on the throne for two years, in the face of opposition from a sept of his own clan. What Argen would do when he died, Avall had no idea. Descend into chaos, probably, which condition could precipitate Avall into a craft-chieftainship, which would be no reward at all. He was a maker, not an administrator, and chiefs rarely got to make anything but peace.
And the disturbing thing was that a great deal of how all that resolved could well depend on what he himself revealed in the next few hands. He didn’t like having the fate of most of his kinsmen on his shoulders.
Still, Eellon had been nothing but good to him, and hadn’t goaded him as Tyrill had Eddyn—not that he hadn’t been expected to excel past reason. But Avall’s loyalty was unshakable in where it lay. To land, to King, to clan, to sept, to craft, then to his sister, his bond-brother, and his wife, in that order—which he didn’t always feel good about, but couldn’t change.
All in all, he concluded blearily, it was too much to think about. And so he chose to lapse into a drifty languor that only altered when the sledge slowed to begin the slow, tortuous trek down the Winding Stair to the floor of Eron Gorge.
A glance out the window showed the endless white snowfield turned to empty space full of drifting flakes as the plateau broke off at the edge of the gorge. Avall couldn’t see the floor for the driving flurries and the steam that rose from the Ri-Eron and the hot springs around it to render the gorge habitable. Already the air felt warmer, or perhaps that was an illusion, since there was still snow under the runners, and banks of the stuff to either side, in defiance of daily removal crews.
And then they reached the first switchback, and the view shifted to raw rocks glazed with ice, and he dozed again. He didn’t wake until he felt the sledge jolt, and heard the grating of metal runners against stone instead of ice. “Wake up, boy,” Eellon intoned softly, giving Avall a gentle shake. “We have to change transport here. It won’t be long now.”
Avall nodded groggily and let himself be helped out the door, down into slush two fingers deep, then up into a wheeled carriage painted in Argen maroon. The activity helped him regain sufficient alertness to know that they were no more than two shots from home.
A moment later, they’d passed the Citadel: the seat of government for the entire Kingdom, where High King Gynn l
ived. Not long after that they were navigating the mostly deserted promenade called the River Walk, with the Ri-Eron steaming to the right, and the halls, holds, and gardens of the major clans and crafts passing on the left.
And then they were flanking Argen’s compound, and he could see the low, crenulated walls and higher, trapezoidal towers that marked the heart of his reality: the place he’d grown up, the place where the bulk of Clan Argen and its three septs—-a, -el, and-yr—lived, intrigued, and made wonderful things out of metal. Before he knew it, they were passing through the massive gates, startling a gate-warden at his post, then veering left, toward the stables, into whose warmth and shelter they disembarked, only to assay a set of narrow stairs and a dozen corridors and come, at last, to the main apartment level. Avall remembered it clearly—but from an odd angle, as Lykkon and Riff had stuffed him on a litter and carried him, with Eellon himself striding ahead to clear the corridors, most particularly of anyone from Argen-yr, but also of Argen-el, the King’s own clan.
Eventually Avall found himself in a small, comfortable room cut into intimate groupings by the intersecting vaults of the low ceiling. One wall was a parabola of windows, and showed the main audience hall below, while another was mostly fireplace. Lykkon scurried off to secure food at Eellon’s request, and the rest busied themselves stripping down to indoor clothing. All the while Veen gnawed her lip, and Riff and Myx took comfort in staying close to each other, as bond-brothers were meant to do. In due course, Lykkon came trotting back with an enormous tureen on a cart, as well as bowls, bread, and spoons. He also had a companion, his thirteen-year-old half brother, Bingg, whose presence he explained by stating he’d found the lad in the kitchen and couldn’t shake him.