by Tom Deitz
Eellon filled a bowl of soup, which he gave to Avall, then opened a bottle of almond liquor and served everyone, followed by hot mulled cider. “Don’t you have studying to do?” he asked Lykkon mildly.
Lykkon nodded. “But this is more important, don’t you think? Besides, do you really think I’d be able to study? Besides, do you want to have to explain all this to me again? Besides, it’s to do with lore, and that’s my craft of choice. Besides …”
“Besides, I’ll have to explain why you were missing to your chief,” Eellon grumbled. “But that’d be easier than keeping you happy, I suppose, so you might as well stay—with your ears open, your mouth closed, and your tongue bound by Clan Oath, where that applies, and Council Oath, where it doesn’t.”
Veen whistled under her breath. “You don’t take chances, do you, Lord Eellon? I’ve heard that pair invoked once in my life.”
“I’m trusting you with a lot,” Eellon acknowledged. “Like I said, I’d rather have you know and be bound than be speculating indiscriminately.”
Veen looked pointedly at a time-candle, which indicated it was two hands shy of midnight. “I think,” she growled, “it’s time we actually did some knowing. Something tells me I’ve just been made to take sides in a clan feud without recourse to full information.”
“Not by choice,” Eellon gave back. “In any case, you can always claim neutrality.”
“Let’s hear Avall’s tale,” Lykkon broke in.
Eellon regarded Avall keenly. “You up for it?”
Avall studied him as carefully, from where he was alternately sipping thick, savory soup and rich-scented cider. He felt unaccountably refreshed, and had an idea why. “You put something in this, didn’t you?” he accused. “To perk me up.”
“Nothing that will do you lasting harm,” Eellon retorted, settling himself onto a low sofa. “This has to be important, and time is of the essence.”
“If it was that important,” Veen inserted, from where she sat flanked by the two guardsmen, “you could’ve started in the sledge. Oaths would’ve been as binding there.”
Eellon rounded on her. “Look at the boy, Veen! He’s worn beyond worn, and not just from … whatever happened that brought him to your tower so precipitously. The Avall I know isn’t supposed to have hollows under his cheekbones like that. Or haunted eyes.”
Veen’s mouth popped open, but she didn’t reply. Avall almost laughed aloud. He’d forgotten the effect Eellon had on people who weren’t used to him.
Avall found eyes looking at him, and cleared his throat, wiping his mouth as an afterthought. “I actually do feel better, but if Eellon’s potion was what I suspect it was, I’ll sleep for a day after this, so I’d best get started. I’ll also warn you that the best way to prove some of my story is by demonstration, and that some of the things I have to demonstrate may be hard to believe.”
Eellon nodded gravely.
“Very well,” Avall began, “I’ll give our … guests the background later. It’s pretty complex intraclan politics,” he added, to Veen. “Suffice to say the situation really began when I happened to be working in the clan vein at Gem-Hold-Winter one day—and found something a bit out of the ordinary.”
Veen started to speak again, but Eellon silenced her with a warning hand. “Do you need privacy for this?”
Avall took a deep breath. “Lyk, Myx, and Riff already know part of what I’m talking about because they helped me dress. So do some folks from-yr, and—I fear—from Priest, so it’s unlikely to be a secret long. I suspect you’ll be off to Ferr before the night’s over, if I know you.”
“I defer to you,” Eellon said carefully, but with a clear note of caution in his voice.
“Well,” Avall sighed, fishing into the neck of his tunic, “as I said, I found something … interesting. Specifically, I found … this.”
And with that he slipped the chain that held the gem over his head. A twist of nimble fingers freed the stone so that it glittered on his palm.
Eellon leaned forward to inspect it. He did not, however, touch it. Lykkon was practically breathing down Avall’s neck, he was craning so far forward, as was Bingg. But Myx was having no part of it, and Veen and Riff seemed to be taking their cues from their fellow guard.
“Not a ruby,” Avall said. “Not a garnet. Not a red variant of any gem we know.”
“Inner fires like an opal, though,” Lykkon noted.
“Touch it—gently,” Avall told him, easing it in his direction. He heard Myx inhale sharply, and recalled that the thing had burned him. But Lykkon didn’t know that, and Myx was none the worse for wear, as far as Avall could tell.
Ever curious, Lykkon eased closer, holding his breath as he cautiously extended a finger toward the softly gleaming gem. A pause, and he touched it, drew it back, then touched it again.
Avall studied his face, raised an eyebrow in query.
“It … likes me. Or something. I—” He paused. “That doesn’t make sense, though, ’cause things can’t feel.”
“I’m not sure if it is just a thing,” Avall replied, closing his fingers around the gem and cradling it in his lap. “Nor am I sure that it so much likes you as knows that you like me. As best I can tell, the only folks besides me that can touch it with impunity are folks I care about.”
Eellon regarded him impassively. “This is interesting,” he murmured. “But I don’t see that it justifies a trip overland in Deep Winter.”
Avall shook his head. “No, but something else might—several somethings, actually. Lyk told you how he found out I was in the tower, didn’t he? Obviously he did, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“He told me he was convinced that you were there and that if I ever did a favor for him, it would be to go there. That’s all. I thought it was The Eight speaking through him. That happens sometimes.”
“And we may now know how or why,” Avall replied. “Or we may know that The Eight really aren’t The Eight at all, but simply someone with a gem like this putting notions in the royal head. Just because they don’t show up in records anywhere, doesn’t mean this is the only one.”
“It … lets you speak mind to mind?” Eellon gasped abruptly.
Avall spared a glance at Veen. “You shouldn’t have said that. But yes. I’m not sure exactly how, when, why, or what the limits are, but that can happen. The other person has to be relaxed—optimally asleep—or very empathetic with the sender. I found out about it accidentally. I was in bed, wishing I had Merryn to talk to—and then suddenly I was somewhere else—someplace that really isn’t—and then I was talking to her. I caught her asleep, and it was odd, and we’ve never managed contact again, really. But it was her.”
“Merryn!” Lykkon blurted. “But she’s at War-Hold, you were at Gem. That’s hundreds of shots.”
“Yes,” Eellon mused. “It is. But if you’ve found a way for people to communicate that far instantaneously …”
“It would upset many balances of power,” Veen put in. “Suddenly I’m glad I’m here. I’m not sure I want to know what I just found out, but if it means what it could … I think I just found myself on the side of power.”
“Maybe,” Avall replied. “But there’s more. It lets you mind-speak to at least some animals. Specifically, to birkits, which are—in some way—intelligent. We denned with a pack on our way here. It’s the only thing that saved us.”
Eellon shook his head. “This is a lot in a hurry, lad. I wish I was writing it down.”
“I am,” Bingg piped up from the corner. “Making a list. Like Lyk told me.”
Eellon snorted loudly, probably sensing another defection to Lore. “So we’ve got mind-to-mind communication between people and between people and animals …”
“Between some people,” Avall corrected. “I think you have to either be kin or share some bond for what happened to me and Lyk to work. But there’s another way, too. Two-father, I think you’re the best one to rule on this—but it’s not without cost.”
“You’ve already cost me a night’s sleep,” Eellon growled.
“Do you have a knife?”
Eellon nodded, and brought out a small, sharp one.
“Cut yourself just enough to bring blood,” Avall instructed. “I’d suggest the hand, then pass the knife to me.”
The scowl deepened, but Eellon made a neat gash in the heel of his left hand. Blood welled forth in a series of beads. “You didn’t need that much,” Avall murmured, as he took the knife and made short work of opening the gash he’d made before. That accomplished, he retrieved the gem, laid it in his palm atop the blood, felt the gentle drawing that entailed, then extended his hand to Eellon. “Put your hand on the stone. And close your eyes.”
Eellon did. Avall felt him start and stiffen. And then he felt himself flowing into the gem and out into Eellon, while Eellon likewise flowed into him. But Avall consciously held himself back, unwilling to plunder Eellon’s secrets, though they were all laid bare for his inspection. Yet Eellon was in his mind, too. Avall steered him this way and that, providing a rambling sample of what could happen when minds were joined.
And then he slowly eased Eellon’s hand away and broke the link. His self retracted, and he saw Eellon sitting across from him, eyes wide, mouth wider, as his chief took breath after breath, half-dazed.
“Not something to share with just anyone,” he whispered. “Thank you … I think.”
“I’ve shared it with Rann, Strynn, and a woman we met on the trek named Div—though that last was an accident.”
Eellon drained his cup of liquor, poured another, and drained half of it. He eyed Lykkon speculatively. “Lyk,” he said. “Go get the King.” He tugged a ring from his right index finger. His Clan-Chief’s signet. “Tell him I need him to administer a Sovereign Oath, and that it would be better done here.”
Avall felt his heart skip a beat, as Lykkon’s face went white. No one had administered a Sovereign Oath in his lifetime. Which meant that Eellon thought his discovery was even more important than Avall imagined.
“Does this toy do any other tricks?” Eellon wondered wearily, when Lykkon had departed.
Avall shrugged, feeling fatigue sneaking up on him again. “It heals wounds. I think it can draw strength from other people. I think maybe, it can make people … jump from place to place instantaneously.”
Myx leapt to his feet, startling them all. “That’s impossible! Except that it’s the only thing that explains—”
“Yes,” Avall broke in. “It is. But I wasn’t conscious, so I don’t know. The last I knew I’d fallen into the Ri-Eron and was drowning. Then everything went dark, and I woke up on your hearth.”
“Why there, I wonder?” Eellon mused. “Forgetting how preposterous that is, I mean.”
“Because it was the closest source of comfort?” Veen suggested. “From what your boy’s said, that thing seems to take care of itself. And to take care of itself, it has to take care of whoever has control of it.”
“That was my thinking, too,” Avall agreed. “Obviously it has many powers—there’s another one, for that matter, but since Lyk’s gone for the King, perhaps that ought to wait until he returns.”
Eellon sank back in his chair, his face lined with thought. “Aye, lad, maybe it should. But tell me again: Does anyone else know of this beyond this room, besides those you’ve mentioned?”
Avall counted on his fingers. “Rann was there when I discovered its power. Strynn helped me test it. And …” He broke off. “I forgot that another effect is that it slows down your senses and muscles relative to time, so that you can, for instance, hold your hand steadier than any normal person could. Which I used to good effect on the helm I’m making.”
“Other people,” Veen prompted.
Avall cleared his throat. “A harper named Kylin. And … Well, evidently Eddyn somehow got into my workshop and saw it. From what I’ve pieced together later, he was so amazed at the enhanced quality of my work that he became suspicious. He also told a Priest named Rrath. Young fellow, still in his service.”
“Each of whom probably drew the same conclusion you did.”
“Which was?” Veen broke in.
“That this was too important to wait when someone else might not, so that whoever first got word of it to their clan-kin would, at minimum, increase the prestige of his sept.”
Avall nodded. “We all know that Eddyn’s Tyrill’s creature, and that she’s determined to bring down the King.”
“As if she didn’t already have more power than anyone reasonably needs,” Eellon grumbled.
“We were attacked,” Avall noted. “And the nature of the attack wasn’t such that it seemed like random banditry.”
“Eddyn,” Eellon spat. “It’d be just like him. If he was desperate or felt cornered …”
“But not alone,” Avall stressed. “If it was him, he had allies.”
“Priest-Clan,” Eellon breathed. “Oh Eight!”
Avall nodded again. “That might be another problem. I’ve got proof that some animals can think. Therefore, by our definition, they have souls. But The Eight say animals don’t have souls. And … no, I won’t say more until the King arrives.”
“Please don’t,” Eellon sighed. “I need to puzzle over this for a while. The rest of you … I’d advise some very strong drink.”
Avall closed his eyes, as weariness came upon him again, and with it an odd new fire that he thought, perhaps, might be the magic stone keeping him alive.
“Wake up, boy!”
Avall started from the drowsy reverie into which he had fallen while he, his kinsmen, and three near strangers awaited the arrival of the King. It took a moment to realize that it wasn’t him being addressed, but his cousin Bingg, who’d evidently nodded off amid his copyist duties, to judge by the smudge of ink pooling across the parchment on which he’d been taking notes.
“Wake up!”
Bingg jerked, yawned, then appeared to doze again. Eellon shook him—then looked at him intently and laid a hand on his brow. “He’s cold as ice!”
Veen joined him beside the boy. “He’s breathing, though,” she observed. “But this is … odd.” Her gaze shifted to Avall. For his part, now that he was awake again, Avall felt alert. He took a deep breath, and then he, too, felt Bingg’s brow. “I think,” he ventured, “this is another function of the gem. As I said, it seems to protect me somewhat. And I noticed when Rann and I were on our way here that it would sometimes steal energy from him to fortify me. It nearly killed him, actually. Myself—now—I don’t know what condition I’m really in, but I suspect that it’s drawing on Bingg, either because he’s sitting closest, or because he’s healthiest among my kin. In any case, he should be fine soon enough. You might want to wrap a cloak around him, though, and get some of that soup in him.” He paused, studying his cousin curiously. “How do you feel, Bingg?”
Bingg blinked sleepily, then yawned. “Cold, tired, and like … I’d had too much to drink and was kind of floating outside myself. And I’ve got a headache all of a sudden.”
“So do I,” Eellon acknowledged.
Avall gave Bingg a rough hug. “I’m sorry, cousin, but it’s not a thing I can control. In a way it’s a compliment that it picked you. And you will be fine, I promise.”
Eellon eyed Avall keenly. “Yes, but are you going to be fine?”
A shrug. “I hope so. As far as I can tell, all I need is lots of food and lots of sleep, which I intend to get as soon as tonight’s over, Eight willing.”
“Speaking of which,” Myx announced from the door, where he’d stationed himself—mostly, it seemed, so he’d have something to do besides sit and wonder—“someone’s coming.”
Eellon was there faster than Avall could have imagined, given his age, edging past the guard to throw the door bolt and peer into the hall. Avall saw the tension leave his shoulders, and by then he’d identified the tread of two pairs of feet.
A moment later, Eellon stepped back, managing a sketchy bow in the
process, which prompted Avall, Bingg, and Veen to rise—followed, a confused moment later, by Riff, who only just found his feet as the King of Eron strode in, trailed by Lykkon, looking very pleased with himself.
The King of Eron did not look pleased. Avall noticed that beneath the dark travel cloak he was already doffing he wore a short version of the Cloak of Colors and carried the Crown of Oak, which meant he was there in official capacity. Eellon had put up the hood of his robe, signifying that he likewise acted officially.
“Sit,” Gynn said offhandedly, motioning them all to their places. His gaze flitted about the room, coming to rest on Avall. A brow shot up. “For some reason, I thought you were elsewhere, cousin,” he continued with somewhat forced courtesy.
Avall couldn’t help but grin. “I was.”
“And the reason you’re here is the reason I’m here?”
Avall nodded, only then realizing that the King had arrived with no more entourage than Lykkon. Which he suspected meant that, irked or not, the King realized that Eellon wouldn’t have summoned him without good reason.
For his part, Eellon took a deep breath. “Well, Your Majesty,” he began, “how do you feel about impossible things?”
Gynn helped himself to some of Eellon’s liquor. “I assume that these impossible things may not be so impossible, else I wouldn’t be here.”
“Some of them remain to be tested,” Eellon admitted. Then, carefully: “I think, however, it would be best if they were revealed only under Sovereign Oath, and that you further swear everyone here to the same retroactively— commencing at”—he paused, looked at Avall—“sunset, I would say.”
“A hand before,” Myx corrected. “If you want to be safe, from my point of view.”
A royal brow quirked upward again. “Very well. I would have you all kneel before me.” With that, he reached for what had heretofore been hidden beneath the Cloak of Colors: a very old and very keen sword. The Sword of Air, in fact, having come, so legend said, with The Ancestors out of the air. Avall had never seen it, though even now his wife labored to complete its descendant.