by Tom Deitz
And then he was kneeling himself, just behind Eellon, who’d taken the lead, with Lykkon supporting him, and Bingg aiding Avall, accented by a wary grin.
“Touch the sword,” the King commanded.
Avall reached out with the rest, stretching past Eellon to rest his fingers lightly on the shimmering metal. He felt an unexpected thrill course through him at that, which he doubted was born of excitement alone. Indeed, it was not unlike that which the gem produced in him under certain circumstances.
Gynn cleared his throat. “I, Gynn syn Argen-el, for this time High King of Eron, and first of that name, do hereby command Sovereign Oath upon you gathered here, that nothing that is seen, witnessed, or referenced here, having occurred since one hand before sunset this day until dawn tomorrow will be discussed beyond those gathered here without my consent, on penalty of death for treason. Excepting those whom I, in my guise as voice of The Eightfold God, do deem it necessary to inform.”
Avall cleared his throat. “Majesty,” he ventured.
“What?” Gynn snapped.
Avall swallowed hard. “There are four who already know much of what has been discussed tonight and of what remains to be revealed. I would have freedom to include them in this as well, as those to whom it may be necessary to speak freely.”
“Who are these four?”
“My wife, Strynn san Ferr; my bond-brother, Rann syn Eemon-arr; Kylin syn Omyrr; and a woman named Div of Common Clan, who saved my life and Rann’s.”
The King scowled, but nodded. “I will have their oaths of them when I see them. For now, your oath for them will suffice.” He cleared his throat. “Each of you will now swear as I have commanded, one at a time so that all may hear and witness, and so that none may say the others nay.”
And so they began, starting with Eellon, who came first in precedence, then continuing through Veen, Myx, Riff, Avall, Lykkon, and Bingg, the last of whom could barely keep his voice from cracking. Avall found himself wondering how it would feel to witness such events from the threshold of adulthood.
“I accept these oaths,” Gynn acknowledged when they had finished—whereupon the sword twitched. A wash of pain coursed across Avall’s fingertips, matched by a pulse of warmth from the gem. He found himself rocked backward, gazing at fingers that bled, though he’d have sworn they’d never touched an edge. A quick check showed the others likewise ensanguined.
So, he decided, there was magic in the world beyond that wrought by the gem and The Eight.
“Now,” Gynn said, settling himself on the sofa Eellon had cleared for him. “What are these impossible things that have brought me from my bed?”
Avall told him.
To Gynn’s credit, he listened without judgment or comment save to request clarifications, and even took Eellon’s word that it was possible to join minds when Avall would have allowed his King to share his own.
In spite of the excitement of the evening, Myx was nodding when Avall finished, which reminded them that the young guardsman had a slight fever and had been promised a healer. “At dawn,” Eellon vowed, though he helped Veen lay the yawning youth on the remaining sofa and covered him with a double portion of furs. Riff helped where he could, then took over Myx’s post as door warden.
“Well,” the King said when they’d finished. “These are all very interesting things, and you did right to call me here, never mind the time and the season. But you spoke, I believe, of one more thing.”
Avall took a deep breath. “Indulge me a moment, Majesty,” he replied. “You sometimes speak with the voice of The Eight in One, who, it is said, dwells in the Overworld. Tell me what you know of that place.”
Gynn took a deep breath in turn, looking distinctly unroyal, though perhaps that was a function of his having started out in a sept of this same clan before being Raised to the Throne by the Council of Chiefs. He was barely more than twice Avall’s age, anyway, so Eellon had probably seen him as a pink, naked babe. Surely had, Avall corrected, Eellon had been stationed at one of the remotest holds when Gynn was born there, which was how he’d survived the plague.
“The Overworld,” Gynn began, rousing Avall from his reverie. “It is the place The Eightfold God dwells when He does not dwell here. It is a place where time and space are as He chooses to make them, so that those things may cease to exist at need.”
“Is it a physical place?” Avall inquired. “I know you’re not a Priest, nor privy to all their mysteries, but you sometimes function as one. Sometimes the God speaks through you.”
Gynn shifted uneasily. “Some of these things are hard to speak of because there’s no vocabulary for them. It’s like trying to describe a color. Red isn’t blue, but how to explain the difference? The Overworld isn’t this world, but how to explain the difference?”
“You’ve seen it, then?”
“I’ve seen a place—visited a place—where I can see all this world at once, as from a great height. But I’ve never been able to move where I would there. Rather, it’s as though I were dust blown before the winds.”
“Are there people?”
“Shadows, maybe. Perhaps those parts of people here that exist there. I think it is as if … as if The Eight live there and are reflected here, and we live here and are reflected there.”
“So The Eight may only be people from that other place?”
“Blasphemy!” Veen cried.
Eellon regarded her mildly. “Not blasphemy if it is only an idea. And tell me that you have not questioned the existence of The Eight every day of your life.”
“I certainly have,” Lykkon dared. “What Avall has said of the gem makes it possible to suppose that someone has another gem of like kind, through which he or she manipulates events by—forgive me, Majesty—manipulating the King. If we have found such a stone, and Priest-Clan knows we have, that would go far in explaining their desire to prevent Avall’s appearance here.”
Gynn stared at him incredulously, then at Eellon. “Are all my kinsmen this accomplished?”
Eellon shrugged and ruffled Lykkon’s black hair. “You merely meet the more accomplished. In any event,” he continued to Avall, “what was it you had to say about the Overworld?”
Avall took a drink, pausing to let the warmth flow through him, wondering how long he’d sleep when this was over. Finally, the pressure of gazes upon him grew too great. “At one point on our journey here, Rann, Div, and I sheltered in a birkit den. It was a bifurcated cave, and the beasts had one fork and we the other. Eventually the three of us found ourselves joined through the linkage of the stone—joined with ourselves and with the beasts as well. We didn’t intend that to happen,” he emphasized. “But it did. In any event, we found ourselves going … somewhere else. Not in our physical bodies, I don’t think, we were more like … shadows of ourselves. It was the place I go when I speak mind to mind—and yet it wasn’t. It was both more material and more abstract. I’ll tell you one thing, though, it was frightening as the Not-World—so much so that I wanted to leave. I think I was the … leader then, that whatever Div and Rann experienced was only a reflection of what I did, perhaps because it was my gem that was taking us there. Anyway, we fled back to our bodies, but before we left, I grabbed a handful of … something—I don’t know why, maybe I was just trying to hang on to anything solid so as to stay sane, or maybe I wanted proof. But when we came back—whatever it was—exploded.”
Lykkon’s eyes went very round, and Bingg’s, if possible, even rounder. “You weren’t hurt?”
“Knocked out,” Avall replied. “Who knows what would’ve happened had we not been linked to the gem and so, presumably, under its protection?”
“We wouldn’t be having this conversation, for one thing,” Veen supplied tartly. “But what you’re saying without saying is that what you’ve found is—or can be—a weapon. It can allow speech across impossible distances, which would certainly aid any army, especially if a means could be found to use it reliably. And now this other thing.”
&
nbsp; “And we know nothing about what it can really do—when, how much, how often, with whom,” Eellon observed.
“And from what Avall said,” Gynn finished, “both Argen-yr and Priest would like to have some say in its use as well.”
“Gem, too—probably,” Eellon sighed. “They’re bound to find out about this eventually; they’d have a claim it would take a score of Law Priests to disentangle.”
“Never mind that for all we know they’ve known about this kind of thing for years, and that it could as easily be them manipulating The Eight—assuming that’s what’s happening—as Priest. Or they could be in league with Priest.”
“The mind reels,” Gynn groaned. “I don’t think The Eight are merely a function of some plot such as you’ve suggested, but it’s definitely something we need to investigate. But one thing this does imply is that ordinary people may have access to what could be the Overworld, which by extension means they might have direct access to The Eight, which Priest has traditionally claimed as their right alone. So Priest is doubly threatened: Animals have souls—some of them—and the rank and file can access the Overworld directly.”
“Assuming,” Avall broke in wearily, “that more gems can be found, or even exist.”
“The boy’s right,” Eellon agreed. “Our problem is to find out if more exist, and if so, how to control and use them. And if not, how to make best use of the one we have.”
Gynn nodded. “I may have to bring Ferr into this, since he’s almost into it anyway. I won’t invoke my sept-chief, because the clan politics of this are complex enough, and a three-way struggle for power in a major clan is more than any of us need.”
“There’s also the small matter,” Avall noted bitterly, “of the fact that if Gem has been withholding information, which we’ve now stumbled upon, my wife, bond-brother, and an important Warcraft heir might all be in danger.”
Eellon nodded. “But you can contact them, right?”
Avall shrugged. “I’ve been too weak to try since I … came to myself.”
“How did you do that?” Gynn wondered.
Another shrug. “I don’t know. I wasn’t conscious at the time. I think … maybe it was something the gem did of its own accord.”
“So maybe the gem is an Avatar of The Eight,” Veen ventured.
Gynn studied her seriously. “Lady Veen,” he said thoughtfully, “you seem to have an interesting take on things. And since you know more than you ought already, it is perhaps wise that I take you into my personal service, and these two lads as well, since one of them needs a healer anyway. Therefore, I would have you return with me to the Citadel. I’ll send someone to replace all three of you at the tower, and to retrieve your gear, if that pleases you.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Veen countered bravely.
“You’ll do it anyway. We’re talking about the fate of the Kingdom.”
“Aye, Lord,” Veen replied meekly. “As you will.”
“Strange bedfellows,” Eellon muttered.
The King yawned. “And it’s time I sought mine, lest I be missed. I took a … secret way here. One”—he gazed fiercely at Lykkon—“you no longer remember.”
Lykkon grinned, but nodded.
“I don’t suppose you have a secret way out of here?” the King continued. “I’d as soon no one know I’ve been here, and there’ll be more of us leaving than arrived.”
Eellon shook his head. “Not from here.” His breath was still fading into the suddenly silent air, when a sharp rap sounded on the door. Riff jerked as if he’d been struck, which meant he’d dozed off. He reached for the bolt, then hesitated, looking at Eellon.
“Who is it?” the Chief of Argen called.
“Tyrill!” a harsh female voice cracked back. “Am I going to have to stand out here all night while you try to hide from me?”
Eellon stiffened, face purpling into a rage only Tyrill could impart in him, but Gynn swiftly edged past him to shoot the bolt and wrench open the door.
Confronted with her sovereign, which was clearly more than she expected, the Craft-Chief of Smith staggered back a pair of steps, and would have fallen had she not had the support of two female squires. Half again her size, though slender for all that, the King whisked the old woman away from them. “Go … now!” he thundered. “Return in a hand. And remember: This hasn’t happened!” And with that, he snatched Tyrill into the room. “Riff,” he added, “stand guard outside. It’ll raise questions, but the main questioner is right here, so maybe Luck will tend to the rest.”
Riff nodded mutely and slipped into the corridor as Lykkon courteously helped Tyrill to a seat—tactfully far from Eellon, who had regained a semblance of calm, but only a semblance. “How much did you hear?” the King demanded.
“I heard nothing,” Tyrill snapped back. “If I’d been spying, I’d not have knocked. As any fool would know.”
“And you often attend Eellon’s apartments late at night?”
“I do when I see sledges leaving at odd times and returning at odder, with gate-wardens ignored; then hear of the sudden use of back passages and food being conscripted by someone who’s supposed to be somewhere else. And—”
She blinked, having just that moment noticed Avall—or perhaps having realized who he was, and the implications thereof.
“Sovereign Oath,” Gynn said simply. “I would have Sovereign Oath of you, as I have had it of these others.”
“To what am I swearing secrecy?” Tyrill growled back. “I don’t like secrets.”
“Unless you contrive them,” Eellon burst out.
“It’s important,” the King told her, “else I wouldn’t be here. I have no intention of involving anyone further, nor of informing you of what has lately transpired until I have time to do some thinking. In the meantime, you will mention this meeting to no one—and yes, I know I’m a fool to deny you information. Then again, I am your King. You can speculate all you want, but you will say nothing. Now—I would have your oath.”
“Suppose I refuse?”
“Refusal to swear Sovereign Oath is treason.”
“So are other things I can name.”
“Name them if you will, but not until I give you cause. I’m warning you, Tyrill, if I have to have you drugged and dragged out like a ceremonial puppet, I will. Some things are beyond your need to know. Now—swear!”
And with that the King drew the Sword of Air again, recited the oath, and heard it back from a white-faced Tyrill. Not until the ritual blood sheened her fingers did the King speak once more. “I know that keeping you ignorant is more dangerous than having you armed with knowledge, but some things are worth that risk. When I feel free to inform you further, I will—probably soon. Now go. Riff will escort you to your quarters. And return here at once with those maids—squires, whatever they are—who henceforth will be in my service.”
Tyrill looked as though she were about to explode, but finally realized she might possibly have met her match in a room full of strong youths and powerful men. “I will know,” she hissed, as she rose to leave. “It would be better if you told me than if I hear otherwise.”
“We would all have been better had you remained asleep,” Gynn retorted. “Now go. Be assured I will follow hard upon your heels.”
Tyrill spared one final, all-encompassing glare, and departed.
“One final thing,” the King called to her back. “There is not now, and never has been here, tonight, anyone who looks like, sounds like, or whom you have cause to think might be, Avall syn Argen-a.”
“I would,” Tyrill gritted back, “there never had been.”
CHAPTER IX:
MAKING CONTACT
(ERON: TIR-ERON: ARGEN-HALL
-DEEP WINTER: DAY XLIII-NEAR MIDNIGHT)
Avall stared blankly at the door through which his King had just departed, along with Myx, Riff, and Veen, all three of whom he suspected he’d see again—in the guise of Royal Guards.
And felt all the false energy that had sustained
him since he’d returned to Tir-Eron start to ebb away. His eyelids seemed made of lead; his limbs had a distant quality, as though they were not quite part of him. A moment only it would take to fall asleep.
He’d welcome it, too, because if he stayed awake he would think, and there were too many things to think about already. Nothing was ended, he realized; he’d just set something larger than he could imagine in motion. Something he prayed would not become his task to bear.
But he was almost alone now, with good food and two people nearby who liked him and, more to the point, cared about him. Three, if you counted Bingg.
Eellon was settling himself wearily into the chair next to Avall’s, and Lykkon was puttering about with the remains of their hasty repast. Not, incidentally, without helping himself to the odd tidbit.
Avall was more tired than sleepy.
So tired …
“Hold on a moment longer, boy,” Eellon urged softly, “and we’ll let you sleep as long as you want. I won’t let even the King disturb you.”
Avall shook his head stubbornly, wondering where the energy for even that had come from. “Whatever you put in the cider, I need more. I have to stay alert for at least another half hand.”
Eellon regarded him sharply, and Lykkon actually gasped.
“On one condition,” the old man conceded finally. “That you take the smallest dose you can get by with—and that you do it in Lykkon’s quarters.”
“Mine,” Avall protested weakly.
“No,” Eellon replied flatly. “First, there’s no fire there, since we didn’t know you were coming and left in haste. Second, your return should not become common knowledge until we’ve had time to confer a bit more about some things—we being, at minimum, you, me, the King, and Ferr.”
“Besides,” Lykkon continued, “Bingg’s been lonely since I started spending most of my time at Lore. And since I have to get back there soon anyway—probably tomorrow—”
“Definitely tomorrow,” Eellon corrected. “I’ll write you a letter, but don’t expect it to do more than spare you a thrashing. Still, I’d as soon someone stayed with Avall tonight. I can’t—I’m tired to the bone. And Bingg’s still too young, even if he wasn’t half-asleep.”