Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  Avall saw Eellon grin, and imagined his Chief had seen what Avall had: that the King had phrased the challenge in such a way that she’d have to choose which of her agendas she’d present first. Whatever her choice, none would concern the gem directly, because that was Eellon’s prerogative. Besides which, she knew next to nothing about it, and Tyrill always preferred to fight from a position of strength.

  Rising stiffly, she made her way down to the Chair of Demands, which sat on the floor below the dais. She settled into it with a clumsiness that made Avall feel sorry for her. “Majesty,” she began.

  Gynn inclined his head with formal grace. “Chief.”

  “I will be brief, Majesty,” she rasped, the room’s perfect acoustics amplifying her voice. “You know as well as I that the Law states that the King must be perfect—in mind and body—in order to properly reverence The Eight.”

  “In order to serve as the most suitable receptacle for The Eight, when They choose to speak through him,” Gynn corrected. “There is a difference. The King is always the King, but sometimes he is more than the King.”

  Tyrill sniffed. “And sometimes he is less than the King, which brings me to my business. Majesty … you have been limping since shortly past Midwinter. It is time you explained that. And,” she continued, “if the cause be a matter which … compromises your perfection, you had best consider your responsibility under Law to step down from your throne.”

  Half the room gasped in surprise. Even Avall, who’d known what to expect, was shocked by the old woman’s bluntness. Eellon was on his feet in a finely timed instant. “My Lady Chief,” he cried, then waited for the King to acknowledge him. Gynn did, by pointing the dagger of state he’d chosen instead of his usual scepter—another sign he expected heavy wrangling.

  “Lady Chief,” Eellon repeated, when the room had fallen silent. “Did you observe the King limping when he entered?”

  “One can endure—or mask—anything for a dozen paces.”

  “Or The Eight can,” came a voice from Beast. An ally Avall hadn’t expected.

  Tyrill didn’t reply—which was wise. To do so now would risk denigrating The Eight before the Council.

  “Nor does it matter,” rumbled Tryffon of War. “The King has been Proven for this year. Autumn is soon enough to address these claims.”

  “But if I am right,” Tyrill countered, “we will have more time this time to choose a proper successor.”

  “And if you are wrong,” the King broke in casually, “you will have wasted a great deal of this Council’s time, when there are more important matters to consider—including,” he stressed, “yet more charges to be leveled at your two-son.”

  “Who is not present to hear them, which is his right.”

  “Whose absence is the cause of some of those charges,” the King retorted.

  Intrigued as he was by the pace of the events, Avall couldn’t resist letting his gaze drift around the chamber.

  Most councilmen looked utterly dumbfounded, as though this were the first time they’d heard of the Eddyn situation—either his attacks on Avall and Rrath, or his disappearance. Others—notably in War, Lore, Stone, and Priest—seemed carefully neutral. A few—mostly those clans to which Tyrill had applied for aid in opposing Gynn’s raising in the first place—appeared angry at having their coup disrupted before it truly got under way. As eyes turned in Argen’s direction, Avall scratched his head, which coincidentally let his hood slide back. A good third of the faces gazing at him registered shock or amazement.

  Young Meenon of Glass was the first to respond aloud. “What’s he doing here? He’s supposed to be—”

  “Serving his King,” Gynn finished for him. “He was and he is, and he dared the Deep to do it.”

  A mutter of disbelief scampered around the room. “Alone?” someone else called.

  “Not at first. He was accompanied by Rann syn Eemon.”

  “Who is … where?” Eemon’s Chief inquired, though he’d known for almost two eighths.

  “He had to return to Gem-Hold,” Avall replied loudly, forgetting it was not his right to respond without royal recognition.

  “We were speaking,” Gynn broke in, “about Eddyn.”

  “He’s part of this,” Eellon retorted. A pause, to let that sink in, then: “Majesty, I think it’s time we all heard Avall’s story.”

  Tyrill stood abruptly, turning to address the assembly—and blatantly presenting her back to the King. “You are all fools,” she snapped.

  “Tyrill?” The King’s voice was cold, but it stopped her in her tracks.

  “Majesty?” she managed.

  “You will have the answer you desire in due course, but until then … we both know there are more important matters to be laid bare, matters that will be even more difficult to prove than your accusation.”

  Not until Tyrill had found her seat again did any voice rise above a murmur.

  “Avall syn Argen-a,” the King said. “Come here. Your Sovereign would address you.”

  Avall felt a knot of concern rise in his stomach, but tried to mask it with a facade of calm. He rose and started toward the aisle—and had just edged past the last Argen-a subcraft-chief when the pain hit him.

  He froze where he stood, one foot in the aisle. A strangled cry trickled from his lips.

  Another pain, like the first. A griping in his lower gut as though someone had set a knife there and twisted. His first thought was poison; his second to wonder why he was suddenly so dizzy. And then a third pain hit him and forced him to his knees. Another followed. They were coming in waves, he realized blearily, as consciousness ebbed and flowed. But it was like no stomachache he’d ever had, nor was it centered solely in his gut; it was moving … lower.

  “Help me!” he gasped. And sprawled across the floor.

  “Eellon, if this is one of your ploys …” he heard Tyrill shout.

  “No ploy,” Avall choked—and darkness closed about him.

  But not unconsciousness.

  It was the darkness of another place—a not-place, to which part of him had journeyed under the aegis of the gem. But on those occasions, he had done the seeking; this time it … something … was seeking him.

  And then a third darkness took him, and other senses wrested control of his own, and he was, quite simply, no longer himself.

  But this darkness was another room, candlelit though it was day, and dark only by contrast to the brilliance of the Hall of Clans. And there were people looking down on him: two groups, one atop the other, one in hooded clan robes, cloaks, and tabards, and mostly unfamiliar; the other numbering but three: Kylin, Div, and—not Eellon, though he was there, too, looking concerned. But superimposed on the Clan-Chief’s face was … Rann’s!

  He was two places at once, Avall realized dully, as he fought to regain some trace of reason, while pain after pain pulsed through him, setting him writhing on the floor, as someone pinned his limbs, and a healer set a stick of imphor in his teeth, as much to save his tongue as calm him.

  And then thoughts fought their way through the pain and finally reached him: other thoughts—almost alien, it had been so long since he’d felt them.

  “Strynn …”

  Had he said that, or was it merely a thought? Did it matter? It was an acknowledgment of contact, and with that, the bond between them strengthened, and he was one with her across all that unseen distance. She was in agony, too—an agony he felt most keenly. But he now knew its origin. She was in labor, and not a moment too soon. And she had her gem, weaker than his lost one. She grasped it desperately, and cried out with the worst distress she’d ever felt—one that transcended intellect into raw instinct. Rann was with her, too, and Kylin, each holding one hand, and all those hands were bloody.

  Avall relaxed into that contact, come at last after almost two eighths of silence, courtesy of Eddyn’s theft. The Hall was gone, save as a distant clamor of voices. Avall was aware of being moved, but didn’t care. He sensed a disruption in the th
oughts about him, and cared even less. He was more Strynn than himself now, and she was in pain. Pain she was desperate to escape yet could not. It beat at Avall, making him want to scream. Perhaps he did. And at that, a barrier he didn’t know he’d kept raised fell, and Strynn flowed into him. Not to contact him, or be one with him, but to find someplace where the pain was not.

  He welcomed her with love and acceptance, not words. Certainly he made no move to ask the myriad questions that rose in him at that unexpected joining.

  And so they balanced there. Her body in labor at … at Div’s hold, he realized dimly; his intact and in transit to the Citadel. But their minds were another place, in perfect equilibrium. He took part of her pain, and she took part of his calm. And for a long time they barely existed.

  CHAPTER XVIII:

  NEWS

  (ERON: TIR-ERON-NEAR SPRING: DAY XXVII-LATE MORNING)

  Avall barely knew enough to realize he’d been taken back to his suite in the Citadel when pain beyond any he’d felt before wracked him. Hands clamped down on him as he writhed, as others clamped down on Strynn.

  A final pain, a final push.

  And the agony flowed out of him, leaving only a hot, burning throb. He relaxed, then tensed again, for Strynn was moving away—flowing back to herself, not so much to leave him as to welcome another, whom he knew somehow instinctively was her … son.

  But he wanted to see, too! And for a moment he let himself flow back into Strynn. Long enough to gaze with her upon a tiny, bloody, wriggling form that peered at him with calm, dark blue eyes, then squeezed those eyes closed and wailed. Avall made to gather him into his arms, but Strynn’s desires were paramount now, and without meaning to, she thrust him away and withdrew her awareness from his. And without her desire, Avall could not maintain the link.

  He gasped, blinked, opened his eyes, saw Lykkon staring down at him, and slowly sat up. And shivered, as a familiar cold assailed him.

  “What—?”

  “That’s our question,” Eellon said dryly.

  Avall blinked again, and finally got some sense of his situation. He was indeed back in his quarters, and, by the light, it was close to noon. But whether the one immediately after the Council, or another, he had no idea. He’d lost that much time. And he was cold. So cold.

  He reached for the coverlet, noted absently he still wore the clothing he’d worn to Council, minus his hood and clan tabard, and from that divined that no more than two or three hands had passed. Then all at once it hit him:

  “I have a … son,” he chuckled. Then, as realization dawned. “That is, Strynn has a son—”

  “What?” someone inquired.

  Only then did he observe how crowded his chamber was. Not only with Eellon, Lykkon, and the healers from the Citadel and Argen-Hall, but with Tyrill, Tryffon, and a dozen other Clan-and Craft-Chiefs as well, including everyone of note from Argen-a. Even his mother was there, which was unusual. So was the King, still in his robe and crown, therefore serving as an official witness. A very high honor indeed.

  Silence, for an instant. Then, from Eellon: “Congratulations.”

  Tyrill snorted. “This is preposterous. I don’t know what this was, but there’s no way—”

  “Yes there is,” the King snapped. “I felt it, too—somewhat. A gnawing in my stomach that food wouldn’t assuage. A dizziness.”

  “And I,” Eellon confirmed. “And I’ll bet Lykkon did, as well.”

  Lykkon nodded. “I didn’t want to say anything, but … yes.”

  Eellon and Avall exchanged glances with the King. “So this means that—”

  “Those of us who bonded with Avall before … connected again.”

  “With what?” Tyrill all but shouted. “This is—”

  “Something we should be discussing before the full Council,” Tryffon broke in tersely.

  “One thing it is—or should be,” the King observed, “is witnessed proof of a number of things Avall and I have already told you.”

  “Not to me,” Tyrill challenged.

  The King motioned to his healer. “Feel Avall’s brow—and tell me what you find.”

  The healer did so. “He’s cold, Majesty … very, very cold.”

  “Tyrill,” the King continued, “I command you to do the same.”

  She blanched at that, but laid a rough hand on Avall’s brow. He watched her expression carefully. Saw it change, though in a way he couldn’t read.

  “Well, Tyrill?”

  “He does seem … cooler than he ought. But still …”

  “Do you know any way to counterfeit such a thing?” the King asked his healer. “Anything that could be effected in the Hall?”

  The healer shook his head.

  Gynn nodded triumphantly.

  “But—” Tyrill sputtered. “Strynn was due almost two eights ago. This has to be preposterous coincidence.”

  “Children of War-Hold are often late,” Tryffon informed her calmly. “Strynn herself came sixteen days later than expected.”

  Tyrill spared him a haughty glare, but held her tongue.

  Eellon nudged the King. “Majesty, if I may be so bold? I think it would be wisest to continue this discussion with the Council. We’ll need to have everyone here witness what we’ve seen or experienced, including you. The Priests will probably want you to drink from at least one Well to determine what this portends. But I think Fate is dancing with us now, and if we don’t partner him, we may all regret it.”

  The King gnawed his lip, then motioned to a guard who stood outside. Myx, as it turned out.

  “Tell the Hall Steward to send word that Council reconvenes at sunset.” He paused, looked at Avall. “You can rest until then—but I’ll want you there. We’ll do whatever it takes to keep you warm, but we have to have you. I—”

  He paused, listening. Others cocked their heads as well. Myx dashed for the door. Avall sat bolt upright.

  More steps. Boots at a dead run. At least two pairs. Myx glanced outside, then turned. “A guard, Majesty, and a messenger, and someone I don’t know.”

  The King waited. The rest of those in attendance backed away.

  “Message for the King,” he heard someone shout from without. “Urgent.”

  An instant later, three men crowded through the door. The guard, the herald, and a third man Avall didn’t recognize.

  He was maybe five years Avall’s senior, and would normally have been very good-looking indeed, with pale blue eyes that would get him noticed and remembered. Now, however, he looked terrible. His hair was matted, his cheeks stubbled. Scratches showed on a face as gaunt as Avall had ever seen on a living man, while his nose and ears both showed signs of frostbite. His clothing was in tatters, and mail gleamed through rents in a house-tabard that might once have been Warcraft crimson. His boots looked to have been of good quality, as did his sword. He wore no cloak, but had probably been relieved of it.

  He also stank. Whatever word he carried must be urgent beyond belief.

  “Majesty,” he panted from the door, as a dozen hands moved to offer him drink. “My apologies for my unsightly looks and demeanor, but some things will not wait.”

  “Krynneth,” someone murmured. “That’s Krynneth. But he’s supposed to be at …”

  A swallow of cider and the man nodded. “Aye, Krynneth syn Mozz-een, most lately of War-Hold-Winter. Of which I have dire news indeed.”

  The King braced himself. “Not plague!”

  Krynneth shook his head and dared another swallow. “No, Majesty. But maybe worse. Your Majesty, it grieves me to tell you that War-Hold was attacked in the night by the armies of Ixti—and has fallen.”

  “That’s impossible!” Tryffon burst out. “The place can withstand any siege. It’s impregnable. And the season—why, winter’s barely over!”

  Again, Krynneth shook his head, meeting no one’s eyes. “There was no siege. It was … we think it was treachery from within.”

  “We?”

  “Lorvinn. She ordered
me here when I would’ve stayed to fight.”

  “Lorvinn,” Tryffon took up. “What of her? Surely she—”

  Krynneth wavered where he stood. Someone slid a chair toward him, which he claimed gratefully. “The short version of a long tale is that she showed some of us a secret way out, back in the winter. One of that company in all likelihood fled to Ixti with that knowledge. It’s the only way.”

  “Traitor,” someone muttered.

  “Traitor,” Eellon echoed.

  Krynneth looked at him sadly. “Worse than you know,” he sighed. “It was—we think it was Merryn.”

  “Merryn?” Avall cried. “No!”

  Krynneth stared at him, as though seeing him for the first time. “You look—”

  “She’s my twin,” Avall snapped. “There’s no way in the world she’d—”

  “Probably not by choice,” Eellon agreed. “But there are more important things to learn now.” He exchanged glances with the King, as though conceding the floor to him.

  Gynn—almost—glared at him. “First things first then, Krynneth. When did this occur?”

  “Seven nights ago,” Krynneth replied. “I’ve been in the saddle ever since. I … I think they destroyed the hold, or it destroyed itself. But I know it was Barrax. It had been warm. He attacked us at night, when we weren’t looking, from a direction we didn’t expect.”

  Tryffon of War was about to gnaw his lips off. He glanced around the room furiously, then spotted Myx. “Go find everyone from War you can, from subchief rank on up, and have them meet me here. Anyone from Lorvinn’s sept as well, if you can; they’ll want to know. By your leave, Majesty,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  The King snared a chair and sat down beside the weary warrior. “And now? Know you anything since then? Surely we would’ve had word?”