Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  Finding any protest likely to fall on deaf ears, Avall merely shrugged and let Lykkon help him to his feet. Eellon, for all his age, took the lead, and stood guard at every intersection as they made their way to Lykkon’s suite. Since the youth often served as Eellon’s squire, it was only one level away. Mercifully, they saw no one save a distant cousin out to raid the kitchens, and she was easily evaded.

  Eellon held the door while Lykkon steered Avall into the vestibule, then right, into the bedroom itself. The place was a near twin to Avall’s apartment except that there were two beds, each smaller than the single one in Avall’s quarters. One was made up, the other looked hastily abandoned.

  Avall let himself be led to the fresher one, and Lykkon got him undressed down to his shirt and house-hose. While a somewhat revived Bingg poked up the fire, Eellon emptied something from a phial into the last of the cider, which he’d brought with him, sending Bingg back to the meeting room to retrieve the soup.

  Avall had almost fallen asleep again when Eellon sat down on the bed beside him and held out the doctored mug. “I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what this is for,” the old chief grumbled.

  Avall’s reply was to drain the drink to the dregs, then extend the mug for more as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I have to contact Strynn—or try. She must be mad with worry. I have to let her know I’m alive, and I have to tell her about Rann.”

  “What about him?”

  “That he may be dead.”

  And with that Avall fell silent. He’d been avoiding that topic since he’d returned to himself, but now he’d voiced it, and that had made the notion real. Rann had been with him during the attack. Rann had yelled at him to look out. Rann had been injured even then.

  Which meant there was a good chance he was dead.

  Maybe when he finished with Strynn he’d have strength enough to try and contact Rann, anyway. He’d certainly try, he amended. No one needed to know. There was no way anyone could know, unless he told them.

  “Mind if we watch?” Eellon inquired from the candlelit gloom, as he retrieved Avall’s second mug of cider—which Eellon didn’t remember drinking.

  “Nothing much to see,” Avall replied—then paused, staring at Lykkon. “Lyk, if you’re up for it, I could use you for this. If you’re willing to endure a little pain, and something that could scare you to death but won’t actually hurt you.”

  “You don’t even have to ask,” Lykkon gave back instantly. “Where would you rather I cut?”

  “If you’ve got a scab, that’d be fine. All that seems to be necessary is that the gem have access to your blood. After the first time … not even that is always required.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” Eellon cautioned.

  “No, but I’ll rest better if I make the attempt. Just this one thing, and I’m going to forget the world exists for a while.”

  Lykkon, meanwhile, had been busy stripping down to the house-hose and shirt that were typical garb for a young man in his own quarters. He untied a sleeve and pushed it up, searching for a likely wound, but found none. Shrugging, he snared a dagger from a rack by the bed, set his mouth, and made a short incision in the heel of his palm. Avall was impressed with the determined ease with which he accomplished that—in one sure slice, with no false starts. Thus prepared, he settled himself onto the bed beside Avall. Avall couldn’t avoid a twinge of sorrow at that, for the boy looked—and acted—remarkably like Rann. A lump rose in his throat.

  No! He couldn’t think about that now, not with another, more pressing obligation at the fore.

  Closing his eyes, he removed the gem from its holder and clutched it in his palm. The cut was still open from his earlier bonding with Eellon, and he felt the gem start to draw at once. “Lyk,” he whispered. “Give me your hand—put it atop the gem so that the blood touches, and then … just try not to be afraid. I don’t know what you’ll see or feel, but try to give me control. If you want to help, wish as hard as you can to see Strynn.”

  “Won’t she be asleep?”

  “I hope so—which is why I wanted to do this now. It only seems to work when the other party is asleep—or when they’re actually with you. Or if they know to expect it.”

  “Lots of ‘ifs’ there, cousin,” Lykkon chuckled.

  Avall’s eyes slitted open to see Eellon still watching from his chair, and the newly returned Bingg sitting attentively at the foot of the bed, like a pet, resilient, if nothing else.

  “If anything goes wrong,” Avall began, “break off contact. I don’t know what kind of damage that would do, if any, but it’s probably the safest thing.” Without waiting for reply, he sank back on his pillow and, with Lykkon beside him, murmured, very softly, “Now.”

  He felt the warmth of Lykkon’s hand clasp his own, with the gem between, and then …

  He was Lykkon—briefly—but didn’t dare linger there. This was still much a catch-as-may process, but he was beginning to know his way around his own brain in a way he’d never imagined possible. As such, he was able to resist the temptation to prowl through Lykkon’s mind, save to note that it was amazingly ordered, passionate, and loyal. Instead, he neatly installed part of Lykkon’s self in that part of his own being that drove his own strength of will. That accomplished, he tried to picture Strynn as she should be at this hour: asleep, of course—pale-skinned, her face beautiful beyond beauty, with dark lashes and dark brows precisely complementing the angles of cheekbones and chin. She’d be visibly and heavily pregnant, too, and probably sleeping on her back in a light night shift, with a warmer robe around her in one of those jewel tones she preferred.

  There’d be candlelight in the room, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Kylin was present, as de facto guard, if not actually Strynn’s lover—which made him jealous, though he had no right to be.

  But with that thought, his desire for her began to quicken, and then he was out of himself and looking down on all the cold sweep of Eron—and then on Gem-Hold; and then on his and Strynn’s suite; and then on Strynn herself.

  She was exactly as he’d imagined, save that she lay on one side, an arm curved protectively around her belly.

  Strynn, he called: Strynn!

  She didn’t stir—though her brow furrowed, and Avall felt a brush of consciousness as the patterns of her mind began to alter.

  Strynn!

  Again.

  Strynn!

  She awoke at that, blinked wide eyes the color of sapphires, then sank back to her pillow, brow furrowed with thought. Avall!

  And with so much passion Avall gasped aloud—for she had seized his thought with her own, fiercely, protectively. As though she would never let him go.

  Strynn!

  You’re alive? I knew you were—yet I didn’t! I knew …

  He plucked the thought from her mind before she could think it. You knew I was injured?

  I thought you were dead! Rann said you’d fallen during an attack!

  Rann! He’s alive, then? He’s unhurt?

  He made it back here, with the help of a woman named Div. Oh, but Avall, where are you? What’s happened?

  I … died and then I came back, and I … somehow I floated down almost to Tir-Eron. I only came back to myself tonight. I still don’t understand most of it.

  The important thing is that you’re alive!

  And that the King knows what I intended, as does Eellon.

  How are you?

  Tired beyond belief—I’m going to sleep until I wake up—Lykkon’s helping now, and I don’t know what kind of effect this will have on him, weak as I am.

  Best be safe.

  But tell me about you. How are you? How’s the child?

  I’ve been wild with worry, but I’m doing as well as can be. The child’s fine, but far too frisky. Rann will be happier than you can imagine that you’ve survived.

  So, you know about the attack?

  Oh yes. There’s been a bit of an investigation, too, and I’ve had to answer hard ques
tions, as has Kylin. Eddyn’s gone, as is Rrath.

  Which confirms what I suspected—that they were behind the attack.

  There’s more. And with that Strynn told him about the ghost priests.

  But the weather—Maybe, if we’re lucky they’re—

  Strynn shook her head, which Avall felt as much as saw. I don’t think so. It’s been mild, for the Deep. They could’ve survived if they were careful.

  And might be almost here, if they moved quickly.

  But if they do show up, there’s something you should know: something that may give you an advantage if this gets as political as it could. She paused, but he caught the thought as she “voiced” it. It’s your masterwork, Avall: the helm. Eddyn had a fit before he left and—damaged it. Badly. Maybe you can fix it; I’m not sure. We think that’s one reason he left.

  Avall reeled—felt the contact waver and stretch, as a sickness he’d never experienced before made his gut twitch. His masterwork: the helm he’d been commissioned to make as part of the royal regalia. The finest piece of smithwork he’d ever attempted by far—ruined. He could make another, maybe, but the passion would be gone—

  Yet along with that despair came a surge of anger at Eddyn, a fierceness he’d not felt even when Eddyn had raped Strynn. Because Eddyn had now, in effect, raped him.

  And then the enormity truly did register. Destruction of art was a crime. A capital crime, in fact, depending on how great the slight. Eddyn was already on prickly ground over the Strynn affair, and had only narrowly escaped exile then. This was too much for the Law to ignore. It wanted only proof, which Strynn could provide. So Eddyn would be returning to …

  Prison, Avall supposed. At least an investigation he doubted even Tyrill would be able to spare him. Yet he was coming anyway—apparently.

  Avall had to respect him for that.

  Unless his rival was dead, which would solve a great many problems.

  Maybe as soon as he was strong enough, he’d seek Eddyn with the gem and try to make sure.

  We’ll try, too, Strynn inserted unexpectedly. Rann, Kylin, and I—but we’re none of us as strong as you, or else our gems are weaker.

  Gems? What—?

  We’ve found more gems, Avall. We—

  Avall felt something stir at that—a sense of discomfort coming from Lykkon.

  I have to go! he broke in. I’ll try to contact you again soon—or you can. We’ve succeeded, in part, but now I have to rest.

  Yes, Strynn agreed, you do. But oh, Avall, I’m so glad you’re with us again!

  Me, too, Avall agreed. Tell Rann I love him—but no more than you!

  Never doubt that I shall!

  Farewell.

  Until the next time. I’ll rest tonight as I haven’t since you left.

  And I.

  Love.

  Love.

  Avall broke the contact—or had it broken for him, by Eellon slapping him smartly on the cheek.

  Avall blinked into the light, disoriented, as one room replaced another. Eellon looked tired but concerned. Lykkon also looked tired—and was shivering besides. Bingg’s eyes were big as saucers, but he also had sense enough to pour three mugs of cider—one of which he thrust into Avall’s hand, one into Lykkon’s, and one into Eellon’s. He drank the dregs himself straight from the pot, and put on more to heat, along with the soup.

  “Well, lad?” Eellon urged through a shiver of his own. “Did you succeed? Those of us who don’t know how this works need to be told these things.”

  Avall sank back wearily, wondering if the whole night was going to consist of “one more things.” Still, the cider helped. He took a long draught, and noted that Lykkon was still shivering. “Cover him,” he said, likewise shivering. “It’s the same thing that happened to Bingg earlier. Something to do with the gem … eats your body heat, or something. Talking distances does that, for one—and can also give you a headache.”

  “I know,” Lykkon muttered, rubbing his temples as Bingg snugged a fur coverlet around him and stayed there, one arm around his brother. The boy was shivering, too, but trying not to show it.

  “I’m sorry,” Avall told him, feeling his head start to pound in earnest, though the sensation seemed oddly distanced.

  “You contacted her,” Eellon persisted. “I hate to push, lad, and we all need to rest, but there’s too much at stake here to delay, and we both know what time does to memory.”

  Avall nodded. “The major things I learned are that Rann made it back to Gem-Hold and told Strynn everything. And that Eddyn and Rrath did indeed leave, apparently because they also know about the gem, and that—”

  “Eddyn,” Eellon broke in. “It always comes back to him, doesn’t it? Somehow he winds up in the middle of all the confusion. But Rrath—he’s Priest, you said? Quiet little fellow, smooth-faced? Was your roommate for a cycle somewhere or other?”

  Avall nodded. “Too quiet, evidently. One of those who misses nothing but reveals nothing, either, though I think he really did admire me for a while—probably because he’s attracted to power, especially if what Strynn just told me about certain allies of his is true.”

  Eellon regarded him sharply. “Allies?”

  “Rann says he somehow hooked up with some secret cabal within Priest-Clan, and they’re the ones who attacked us.”

  Eellon slapped his chair arm so hard the cider pot rattled by the fire. “Why am I not surprised? I knew there was more to that group than rumors, and I’ve tried to tell Gynn as much. But what I don’t understand is the risk they’re taking now—effectively revealing themselves.”

  Lykkon leaned forward attentively. Eellon noticed the movement and rolled his eyes. “I’m a fool,” he muttered. “Here I sit discussing state secrets in front of a pair of boys.”

  “Very loyal boys,” Avall countered. “And you can always have another Sovereign Oath put on them if you think the other doesn’t apply.”

  Eellon glared at his two kinsmen. “You will not speak of this,” he said flatly. “You only think Tyrill is awful in her wrath.”

  “But if I may ask—” Lykkon began.

  “What?” Eellon snapped.

  Lykkon cleared his throat. “If they’re revealing themselves now, whoever they are, it implies that they have no choice—that something’s forced their hand.”

  Eellon nodded. “Which therefore implies that they see a bigger threat in this than we’ve suspected. That there may be factors at work about which we know nothing.”

  Avall nodded in turn. “There’s more, too, something that once again gives us a hold over Eddyn: He destroyed the helm I was making for the King.”

  Lykkon set down his mug with a thunk; Bingg’s mouth dropped open. “That’s—a capital offense,” they gasped as one.

  Avall almost laughed. “I could almost feel sorry for him—if it weren’t my work he damaged. Not that I can’t fix it,” he added stiffly.

  “No doubt,” Eellon agreed. “And I intend to alert the King to that very fact—and to the fact that Eddyn may be on his way here. In fact, I intend to ask His Majesty to arrest him on sight—that’s my prerogative as Clan-Chief.”

  “What about Tyrill?”

  “She has a right to know—but that’s not to say she needs to know immediately. Never mind that I’m sure she’ll want to know where we came up with such a preposterous notion.”

  Avall studied his mug. “You’ll have to tell her sometime, Two-father. This rivalry of yours—this may be the thing that finishes it. I think we’re fast approaching a time when the two of you will have to work together. In case you haven’t noticed, we may have just made a major enemy out of Priest-Clan.”

  “Time to see who’s most powerful,” Lykkon agreed. “Priest or the Smith-War-Lore coalition.”

  Eellon leaned back and closed his eyes. “I think, lads, that I’d just declare myself incompetent if it weren’t for the fact that there’s no successor I’d halfway trust. But dammit, I’m too old for this!”

  “And I�
�m too young,” Avall yawned, feeling his strength starting to fade again.

  Eellon snorted, but Lykkon seemed to have shaken off some of his malaise. He prodded his brother. “Lord Argen,” he intoned formally. “Perhaps Bingg could take word to His Majesty. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else equipped to do that right now, and if Avall’s tally of events is even halfway accurate, Eddyn could be here literally any moment. Waiting a hand could make a difference.”

  Eellon nodded wearily. “Can you remember all that, boy? Can you give a clear accounting?”

  “I’m Argen-a,” Bingg replied stiffly. “Of course I can.”

  Avall couldn’t suppress a smirk as he exchanged glances with Lykkon and Eellon. Eellon was already slipping off his Clan-Chief’s signet ring. “Use this as security,” he said. “They won’t let you in to see the King without it. Don’t let anything stop you, either. If the guards give you grief, remind them of the connection between Argen and Ferr.”

  Bingg was already half out the door, pausing only to snare a cloak from Lykkon’s stash. “I’ll report when I return.”

  “See that you do.” Eellon shifted his gaze to Lykkon. “Lad, I hate to do this to you, but Avall can’t be moved and I don’t have the energy to get back to my quarters, so I’m going to have to claim the spare bed. Either you two snuggle up there, or you find a place by the fire. I’m sorry, but right now …”

  A yawn ambushed him. Then another.

  Lykkon yawned as well. Then Avall.

  By unspoken consent, each moved to the place Eellon had assigned. And when Bingg returned a hand later, it was to find all three of them snoring.

  “Mission accomplished,” he told Eellon, once he got the Clan-Chief awake. And then he curled up by the fire and slept too.

  CHAPTER X:

  SUN AND SUBTERFUGE

  (THE FLAT-DEEP WINTER: DAY XLIV-MORNING)

  Merryn had forgotten what clear air was.

  Then again, she’d forgotten many things.