Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  “That’s not what Lore says,” Avall muttered. “Besides, I wasn’t trying to—to—Dammit, Lyk, with things like they are, maybe you should. Maybe we should all abandon caution for once, and live … intensely. Fateing or no, you could be dead in an eighth. Aren’t there things you want to do before you die? Things there’s no reason not to do except that they carry the weight of implicit disapproval—not legal prohibition, mind you—merely traditional assumption of avoidance.”

  Lykkon buried his face in his hands. “It isn’t supposed to be like this, ’Vall. We have this neat, predictable life worked out for us, with everything established by Law and enforced by our elders. It’s safe and secure and a little boring, but it also gives us freedom and life experience we might not get otherwise. More to the point—for now—it renders us much more informed and accomplished than the average Ixtian can ever hope to be. Still, we’re supposed to be able to look ahead ten years or thirty or eighty, and have a clear idea of where we’ll be doing what with whom. And now none of that’s a given. There’re folks in Half Gorge right now who’ll spend the rest of their lives rebuilding what they’ve lost, and trying to superimpose their needs atop a system that isn’t designed to support them. It’s—”

  Avall couldn’t help but laugh. “You think too much, cousin.”

  Lykkon regarded him steadily. “I think about those things to avoid thinking about others—like Eellon.”

  Avall’s face clouded. “Have you seen him today?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “He’s sicker than he admits, but claims he’s pacing himself. He says you can endure anything if you know how long you’ll have to endure it. He says this spring and summer will tell the tale. He says if Gynn doesn’t hold the gap, the only thing that can win this war for us is the weather.”

  Another snort. “Well, it’s sure as bloody cold not helping now! Not with the top two gorges still frozen in. I guess that’s the price we pay for a mild winter.”

  “Which at least saved you. I wouldn’t have wanted to lose you, ’Vall.”

  “Nor I you.” Avall studied the courtyard. “There’s time for another bout—”

  Lykkon shook his head, but then his eyes went very round, and his chin all but clanked against his chest, he was so slack-jawed.

  “Lyk, what—?”

  Lykkon closed his mouth enough to speak. “Avall,” he whispered carefully. “Look … behind … you …”

  A chill trotted down Avall’s spine—precisely as he felt something brush his mind. He recoiled instinctively, already reaching for his sword as he rose.

  But then an impossibly joyful freshness washed across his consciousness like rain across parched earth.

  “Strynn!” he blurted, as a tall figure emerged from the shadows behind him and stepped into the light. Hair like liquid night framed a face of porcelain-white before tumbling across shoulders clad in Argen maroon. He was dumbfounded anew at her beauty, wondering how he could have forgotten it in the eights since he had seen her. Wondering if perhaps she had grown more beautiful because of all that had transpired, that had fortified already incredible fairness with strength.

  “Avall.”

  She smiled with absolute joy, absolute conviction. And that joy reached out to engulf him as he had not been engulfed since leaving Gem-Hold. It was like emotion solidified, and he wrapped himself in it, even as his more physical aspect wrapped himself in her arms and she in his. He was vaguely aware of a sudden silence from the court, and of Lykkon starting to laugh, long and loud and recklessly.

  Other laughter joined in: his own and Strynn’s. No one spoke—yet communication continued unabated. Finally Avall eased away. “I’m not going to kiss you until I can do it without interruption,” he murmured, as he drew her back into the shadows. “But—there should’ve been word of your approach. I didn’t think you’d be with the trek, but I’ve been asking everyone I could find who was on it, anyway; never mind going out of my mind since … Well, I’ll tell you about that later—” He broke off, wishing he hadn’t said even that much, for it was like extinguishing a candle he’d only just ignited.

  “Don’t apologize,” Strynn shot back far more seriously than expected. “I know what you’re going to tell me. The rest—it was Eellon’s decision. As soon as word came of our approach, he sent my cousin Veen to outline the situation, and—”

  Avall stiffened. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because, sweet man that he is, he didn’t want to sully our reunion with politics—which we’re doing anyway. We’d already heard so many terrible things, he … we just wanted something good to happen to you, something you wouldn’t fret about until it happened. He wanted to surprise you!”

  “But you know …”

  “About the war and the attack on War-Hold. And—” She broke off, eyes bright with tears. “Oh, Avall, poor Merryn—”

  Avall reached out to take her hand. “I don’t think she was there—for reasons I’ll explain later. You’ll have to trust me on this—and Merryn.”

  Strynn nodded bravely, glancing around lest she be overheard. “I also know about Eddyn.”

  “And the gem …”

  Another nod. “Eellon met us at Argen-Hall and briefed us there. It—He says it’s affected you.”

  Avall shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t tell.”

  “I can.”

  Avall started to reply, then froze in place. “I … have a son—”

  And then he froze in truth. He did not have a son. Strynn had a son. The boy was no blood of his, nor bone. He was Eddyn’s forever. Anything Avall made of him—he and Strynn—would be a patina on someone else’s casting.

  Yet in spite of what she must have read in his face, Strynn grinned and squeezed his hand, while Lykkon dutifully filled every goblet in sight. People were approaching, Avall noticed, lured to Strynn like moths to flame. “A very handsome son who takes a vast interest in everything he sees.”

  Avall let go her hand. “I have to …”

  “He’s at Argen-Hall, as he should be,” Strynn went on quickly. “You’d have to fight your mother for him. Besides, he’s asleep, and I dare even you to wake him, given how much trouble he was—as Rann, Div, and Kylin can attest.”

  Avall caught at a pillar, as realization rocked him. “Rann, Div, and Kylin …”

  Another grin. “They’re waiting in your suite. We ran into Bingg, and he suggested it, clever lad. Rann said to tell you he loved you dearly, but that he thought you’d love him more if he had a bath first. Kylin’s having one as well—and not with Rann, lest you worry.”

  “And Div?” Avall repeated, both relieved and terrified, given what had passed between them, if only once.

  “We wouldn’t be here without her, that’s for certain. Pacing the spring trek out of Gem, while keeping us safe from them. Being as good a friend to me as I’ve found since Merryn.”

  “And she and Rann?”

  A shrug. “I don’t know. Sometimes they are; sometimes they’re not. This whole thing has blindsided him.”

  “What do you think?”

  “That she knows what she is and isn’t, and that Rann knows as well—but that they don’t always agree on how those things fit together, or which is more important.”

  Once again Lykkon burst out laughing.

  They stared at him. “Lyk …?”

  Tears stained his cheeks. “Do you have any idea how silly all this sounds? You two haven’t been together for even a finger, and you’re already dissecting your friends’ relationships.”

  “They’re safe,” Strynn informed him stiffly. “In any event, I’ve been dying to find out what Avall thinks about our little overland initiative.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I approve,” Avall replied darkly, “given the risks I suspect you ran. But it’s bound to be more pleasant than discussing the infernal war, if only because we know it resolved successfully.”

  Strynn’s face clouded, but she did not reply.

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nbsp; “The baby—” Avall began again. “I should—”

  Strynn’s eyes were sad—and very, very tired. “I—I have to speak frankly,” she whispered, “even if it hurts us both; I’ve no energy for games any longer. I didn’t bring him here to meet you because I didn’t know how you’d react. He’s not your child, and you can’t hide how you feel about that. Argen-Hall was on the way, and your clan will have his fosterage in any case. I wanted—I wanted to let you choose the time.”

  Avall shook his head to clear it. “This is a lot in a small space, Strynn. You, Rann—you’re real to me. The child’s never been real. I’m sorry if I don’t seem happier; and I appreciate your understanding more than you can say. There, I’ve given you truth for truth.”

  Strynn nodded through a failed attempt at a smile.

  “I’ll send for him when he wakes up,” Avall continued. “If no one’s made it clear to you, I’m living in the Citadel now.”

  “Another reason I didn’t bring him,” Strynn confessed. “I didn’t know what I might be interrupting.”

  “Nothing that couldn’t wait,” Avall sighed—in relief, as much as anything.

  “Well,” Lykkon announced decisively, “I say we should reconvene in Avall’s suite at once.”

  Avall raised a brow. “We?”

  Lykkon raised one in turn. “Someone has to be a neutral observer.”

  Fortunately, it wasn’t far from the war court to Avall’s quarters. He and Strynn spent that journey holding hands and trying to make light conversation, but a pall of seriousness haunted even that inconsequential patter. There were still unresolved issues between them, after all—more than either of them realized, it appeared. Too, now that Strynn was here, he had no more reason for inaction. If she’d brought the helm.

  It was as though she’d read his mind. “I did bring it. There was no reason not to, and I thought … maybe you could reconstruct it from what remained—if you had the heart for it.”

  He sagged against her. “I don’t know if I’ve got the heart for anything, Strynn.”

  “Well, don’t tell Rann that,” she cautioned with an edge of anger in her voice that hurt to hear, so soon after their reunion. “Don’t forget what he risked for you. And don’t forget that you owe all four of us an explanation of how you managed what you did.”

  “Everything in due time.”

  “Let’s just hope due time still exists. I’ve heard about the Fateing.”

  “There’ll be time,” Avall repeated. “I promise.” And then they turned down one final corridor, and Avall saw the door to his suite ahead. Guarded, as was always the case these days. He chuckled grimly. “Gynn considers me a national treasure,” he told Strynn. “More precisely, he considers what I know about the gem to be a national treasure. Even though I no longer have it,” he finished bitterly.

  Lykkon, who’d been following a discreet distance behind—though not so far he couldn’t eavesdrop—swerved neatly around them and darted ahead, likely to proclaim their arrival. To no surprise, the guard was Krynneth. Gynn had steadfastly refused to let the young War-Holder join him at the front until he recovered from his mad ride, but had attached him to Avall in compensation. Krynneth bowed slightly and opened the door for his cousin, Strynn, to enter. Avall followed, through the vestibule into his common room.

  No sooner had he crossed the threshold, however, than strong arms enfolded him, and he was lifted off the floor and spun around. Lips brushed his cheeks. Avall caught glimpses of several more people in the room than anticipated. But by then he’d recognized that grasp, the feel and scent of that body …

  “Rann, you fool—”

  “I will not put you down,” Rann laughed, continuing to hold Avall aloft until Avall tickled his ribs. Rann released him so suddenly, he fell to the floor with a thump. Which gave him time to note who else shared the chamber. Strynn, of course, and Lykkon. But Bingg and Eellon were there as well—looking bemused—as were Div and Kylin, the latter still with wet hair, but already having unearthed his harp.

  Avall’s glance danced between the woodswoman and his bond-brother. Rann looked glad to see him as only Rann could. He also seemed happy and content—and far healthier than the last time Avall had seen him, when days in the Wild had led to the gem’s sapping Rann’s vitality.

  “You’re alive,” Rann said simply, as he helped Avall to his feet. “Only now do I believe it—I think.”

  Avall’s gaze slid back to Div. Though well dressed—in women’s clothing, for the first time since he’d known her—she looked ill at ease. Which she probably was. She was Common Clan, after all, those around her very High Clan indeed; she’d naturally be reserved. Never mind what the two of them had shared, along with Rann, one night in a birkits’ cave. As for the other thing that haunted him: the fact that this might be the person with whom he’d forever have to share his closest friend—that was for him and Rann to puzzle through when they had time. If they ever did have time, which to judge by Eellon’s impatient glower, they might not.

  Bingg was playing squire for the nonce, standing solicitously beside Eellon, as Lykkon had done not so long ago. Drinks had been set out, Avall noted—as he likewise noted that he still wore sparring leathers. “I’ll change,” he apologized, then noticed Lykkon’s similar attire. “You, too, Lyk. This could be a long one.”

  Lykkon sniffed an armpit, grimaced, and followed Avall into the bath. The air was still damp, and it took Avall a moment to recall that Rann had just availed himself of that luxury. Rann—who joined him quick as thought, and helped him and Lykkon divest themselves of their padding and mail, not stopping until they’d splashed themselves free of sweat, toweled down, and donned clean house-hose and short-tunics.

  Much refreshed, Avall rejoined his companions, by which time someone had produced a light snack. A covered dish occupied the center of the table, which roused Avall’s curiosity. He sat down wearily, took a sip of wine, and reached for the lid, then hesitated. “Strynn, if you’d like to do the honors?”

  She smiled at him. “Actually, that’s a delicacy we brought specially for you from Gem-Hold. At great peril,” she added, mysteriously.

  Avall regarded her askance, then shrugged and lifted the lid.

  And almost dropped it at what he saw revealed.

  “Four of them!” he gasped. “They … are the same, aren’t they?”

  “So we hope,” Strynn replied, as Avall stared with a mix of hope, horror, and relief at four stones identical to the one he’d lost. And Strynn had a fifth, which meant—He reached forward reflexively, but Rann snared his wrist before he could touch any of the gleaming red objects.

  “None is … activated, as far as we know,” he said. “But we don’t think anyone ought to activate them until we know who’s best to master them. Besides, you’ve already got one, and we don’t know if a person can master two.”

  “But Strynn and you—”

  “Used yours after you’d … bonded to it.”

  “Until we each got our own,” Strynn added, offhand.

  Avall masked his confusion with a deep draught of wine. “Waiting’s probably wise,” he conceded.

  “I’d think so,” Eellon agreed, pausing to cough.

  Avall tried not to think about Eellon’s presence here, when he was so ill. He hoped his Chief knew what he was doing. “Where’d you find these?” he asked, to distract himself.

  Another cough from Eellon. “That would be good to know. If they’re from the clan vein, that’s one thing. But if they were found elsewhere—well, Gem would have a claim over the stones themselves and whatever use they’re put to. And I don’t feel like contending with them right now.”

  Rann exchanged glances with Strynn. “They’re ours,” he assured them. “Though exactly how we acquired them is a longer story than we have time for at the moment. In any case there’s nothing to stop others finding more. What happens then …”

  “… we’ll worry about when it occurs,” Eellon concluded. “For now �
� there are things we must discuss.”

  Once again Rann’s gaze found Strynn’s, but then he looked at Avall. “Strynn and I had an idea,” he began. “It’s really an outgrowth of a notion of yours, but now that we’ve learned about the war—I have an even better idea, though it’s also more … urgent.”

  Strynn nodded. “It’s also something we don’t feel equipped to decide ourselves, and one of those scary points where clan and craft converge. In the absence of the King, and much as I hate to suggest it, I think we’d better summon Tyrill. I’m not sure she can help in this case, but we’re wiser not to exclude her.”

  Eellon shifted uneasily—and coughed again. “Send for her, if you think best.” He motioned to Bingg, who left at a run. “Accept no excuses,” Eellon called after him. “Tell her it’s about power.”

  “Tell her to bring Averryn,” Strynn chimed in. “Maybe that’ll cut the edge off her temper.”

  “Averryn?” Avall wondered.

  Strynn managed a lopsided grin. “We had to call him something until you and I can confirm a name for him—since you’re still his father, under the Law …”

  “Averryn,” Avall repeated thoughtfully. “I think that will do very well indeed.”

  Averryn, in fact, arrived ahead of Tyrill—with Avall’s mother, who’d evidently laid permanent claim to him. And would be in charge of him for the next eight years, in any case—until his parents finished their first term of Service. He was duly admired, poked, and prodded, weathering all with admirable restraint. Avall felt a number of things at first, but it was hard to feel anything but joy when confronted with Strynn’s delight in the tiny, bright-eyed bundle. His own perceptions were mostly objective: more black hair than expected, and impossibly smooth baby skin. Still, he would try to love him, as he loved Strynn. And he did love her, too—though sometimes it took absence to prove it.

  And then Tyrill arrived, and affairs took a darker turn entirely.

  “It’s about power,” Rann echoed Eellon, as the Craft-Chief settled herself among what Avall realized was as impressive an assemblage of clan authority as he’d seen in a while. Especially as most of the subchiefs from clan and craft alike were away in the south with the King.