Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  For the rest … tools gleamed everywhere, all in neat rows; along with machines for shaping metal in ways goldsmiths didn’t usually have to assay. And of course one whole wall was lined with books on smithing. Probably every book on the subject ever written, duplicating the libraries at Smith-Hold and Lore-Hold alike. And with a fourth set secreted at a remote location, just in case.

  In case of war, Avall realized with a shudder, as he finally ceased gawking and allowed himself to be seated beside Tyrill. She poured him cauf without comment and motioned toward a plate of scones and honey. Only then did he note that she was dressed for a hard day’s smithing—in thick but supple leather over wool. Her hair was pulled back severely and pinned beneath a cap. She even wore a smith’s apron, which Avall hadn’t seen her sport since his tenure in her tutelage two years back.

  “Chief,” he said eventually, because it was polite. Strynn echoed him somewhat more forcefully.

  “Smiths,” she replied formally, including both. “Whatever your accomplishments, and I know them to be considerable, you are bound to recall with every breath that I alone rule this craft. I will expect no argument as far as matters of design or technique are concerned. In the matter of these gems … I will learn from you, but even there, I expect to be heeded.” She nodded toward three shrouded shapes arrayed along a table between them and the nearest wall. “Now then,” she sighed, “let’s see what’s had my curiosity dancing since I got here—almost a hand before you did, I might add.”

  “We came when we said we would,” Avall grumbled.

  “But with making, one should always want to arrive as soon as one can,” Tyrill snapped back. “You’re supposed to be in love with making, aren’t you, boy?”

  Avall tried to ignore her, as he moved toward the first shrouded shape. “This would seem to be the sword,” he said. “Strynn, would you do the honors?”

  Before Tyrill could protest, Strynn carefully raised the pall of white velvet, then unfolded the wrapping she’d placed around what lay underneath.

  Light literally flashed around the room.

  Avall whistled in amazement at the revelation of that blade, and even Tyrill’s eyes widened, though she tried to hide that fact. A casual observer would’ve considered it complete. But a close inspection, as Strynn grasped the hilt and flourished it aloft, then laid it across her forearm, showed file marks still visible atop the myriad folded layers, and that the incised inscription still needed some minor engraving. As did the hilt, which was a separate bronze casting. Strynn didn’t like casting, and that dislike showed here. Not that it still wasn’t fine work. It simply wasn’t finished. She’d left room for a gem in the hilt, however: positioned just so that a wielder’s hand would close over it. A tiny hole ran inside to the tang.

  “In case we still need blood, that’s a means of making a direct connection between blood, gem, and blade,” Strynn explained. “Like Rann said, it’s a guess, but it’s easier to insert such things now.”

  Avall nodded, and Tyrill stroked her chin thoughtfully. “Nice work,” she conceded, motioning Strynn to put it away. Avall realized he hadn’t complimented it, either. “Better than you’ve ever done,” he acknowledged, and moved down the table to where Tyrill was uncovering the shield.

  Since Avall hadn’t officially seen Eddyn’s aborted master-work, he made a show of active surprise when he finally got a good look at it. In form, it was an ordinary heater shape, subtly curved to embrace the body. A good size for a man of Gynn’s height and build, but the proportions had long since been spelled out in treatise after treatise, so there was no art there. And since Gynn had wanted a functional shield, that had also been taken into consideration, which meant that surfaces most likely to be impacted were made of hardened bronze over iron, in panels that could be removed for replacement. But between those panels, worked in thin sheets of a light alloy whose making Argen-yr would not reveal even to the other septs, a fantasy of interlacing shapes had been wrought. Shapes that started out with complex, if formal, geometrical precision at the heart, then became more amorphous toward their edges, like patterns of frost. Exactly like the frost-flowers Avall had utilized on the helm.

  Still, it was excellent work, and most of what remained involved duplicating extant bits in mirror image. And affixing the gem, of course, which would require some modifications, discussion of which Avall didn’t want to contemplate.

  Nor did he look forward to confronting what lay beneath the rounded lump at the end of the table, and therefore waited patiently for Tyrill to stop grumbling over the shield. A final grunt from her, and he took a deep breath and raised the cover from what should have been his masterwork.

  It was no longer. Eddyn had pounded it into the stone floor of Avall’s workroom back in Gem-Hold—not once, but many times. Joints had cracked open. Panels were dented. A few had popped free. Almost nothing remained unscathed. “Some of the understructure is intact,” Strynn advised. “Still, I think you’ll have to take everything off and straighten about a third of it.”

  “Replace,” Avall countered. “I’d as soon replace outright as try to fix what shouldn’t have been broken.”

  “The rest—”

  He shrugged. “If the cartoons survive, I might be able to duplicate some of it.” He paused, looked at Strynn. “You’re almost done with yours. If you could help with the casting …”

  “Lykkon can help with the casting,” Tyrill broke in sharply. “He’s all tied up in Lore, but he’s as good with lost wax as we’ve got to hand right now.”

  Avall stared at her. Was she actually being helpful? If so, why? What was her real agenda? Or was this her real agenda? With the country under attack, had she finally sublimated her massive arrogance?

  “Well, then,” Avall replied, “if no one objects, I’ll take the table to the left, there. I see no reason not to get started.”

  A pause, and he reached for the shield, remembering how much such things weighed, and that Tyrill was old. She started to protest, then grimaced, and let him carry it to the table to the right, which left Strynn the center.

  “Mostly I’ll be working on parts, not the whole,” Tyrill informed them. “For the rest … I’ll not be afraid to ask for help.”

  Avall—almost—grinned.

  Strynn did grin, and carried the sword with quick dispatch to a place by the light well. She left it there and went rummaging for appropriate tools.

  Avall spent the rest of the morning dismantling the helm to the last twisted rivet.

  It was good to work again, Strynn conceded, as she set down the latest of the myriad very-high-quality files with which she’d been relentlessly honing the sword’s edge. It wouldn’t be long before she switched to stone, polish, and more stone. But not yet—not until she had everything else to her satisfaction. Trouble was, the light wasn’t good for working on the inscription. One really needed daylight for that, which both Tyrill and Avall knew. For now, however, it was enough to be home again—in more ways than one. Home in the literal sense, for she’d been born in Eron Gorge; home in the sense of working at what she most loved; and home in the sense that most of the people she cared about—save Merryn—were once more close at hand.

  As for Merryn … well, she’d address that matter anon. She and Rann had tried to contact her with their gems, of course—as they’d tried to contact Avall repeatedly. But the new stones were either too weak, different in kind, or else they’d consistently done something wrong. Perhaps Avall could do better, once he had a gem again—if she could convince him to bond with another, which he’d said last night he was more than a little afraid to do.

  But if Avall wouldn’t, there was always Rann or Div—or Eellon or Lykkon. Maybe even Tyrill. The Eight knew she had strength of will aplenty.

  A clatter to her left made her look up, to see the Craft-Chief of Smith hefting the shield back onto its stand. Strynn blinked, letting her vision shift from close work to far, wondering if she might not soon need a pair of those lenses the folks
at Glass were always trumpeting.

  Tyrill caught her watching, scowled, and wiped her hands on her thighs, as she slumped back into the special stool that let her stand upright for long periods of time.

  Avall noticed, too, and put down the rivet punch he’d been wielding with ruthless determination. Lykkon, who’d appeared midway through the morning, slammed his book of notes with authority.

  “Time to come up for air,” Tyrill sighed and, without further ado, marched toward the door—only to be all but bowled over by Bingg frisking in, with a breathless, sweaty Rann not far behind, looking like he’d been in pursuit. Bingg’s movements spoke of unbridled excitement, but his face was troubled, as was Rann’s. Bingg, Strynn realized with a start, wore the tabard and hood of a royal herald. He flipped it up as he skidded to a stop.

  “Anytime,” Rann muttered. “It’s not like I haven’t been trying to catch up with you for three levels.”

  Bingg cleared his throat. “First, be it known that by royal appointment this day arrived, I, Bingg syn Argen-a, am appointed royal herald assigned to Lord Eellon syn Argen-a, Clan-Chief of Argen, Steward of the Citadel, and acting head of the Council of Chiefs in royal absentia.

  “Second, in that capacity, be it known that the results of the Fateing for this eighth have been posted, as is custom, in the vestibule of Argen-Hall, and all of that clan are advised to seek them there.”

  And with that, he flipped his hood back and relaxed into his usual boyish demeanor.

  Lykkon obligingly clapped him on the shoulder, then eased aside for Avall to give him a hearty hug. “Nicely done, young one!” Lykkon crowed.

  Which was all well and good, Strynn thought, scowling at Rann uncertainly. “Something wrong?” she inquired, for all it spoiled the mood.

  Lykkon scowled in turn, and even Tyrill looked puzzled. Avall looked stricken indeed. “Oh, Eight, I’d forgotten,” he whispered, aghast.

  Rann nodded grimly, and joined his friend. Together they sat down next to Strynn.

  “What …?” Tyrill snapped, reaching for the inevitable glass of wine from the refreshment table. Bingg obligingly filled it for her.

  Rann stared at the floor. “You don’t recall, Craft-Chief? I’m an eighth older than Avall. I was in the Fateing before the one that sent him to Gem-Hold, and was also assigned to that hold. My service in that place therefore expired an eighth ago. I’d normally have had the eighth just past free, and now be entered in the present Fateing, had I not chosen to extend my stay at Gem, which should put me in the next Fateing. But I wasn’t exactly around to tell anyone of that decision. Therefore my name and choices were entered as a matter of course. I’d already chosen War-Hold as my next service, anyway. But regardless, I must make certain.” He grasped Avall’s hand seriously. “I fear, brother, that the next skill I learn will be that of soldier.”

  It was Bingg’s turn to look sheepish. “It is.”

  All eyes turned to him. Bingg shifted his weight uneasily. “I … cheated,” he confessed. “I delivered the list to Eemon-Hall, and stayed to wait. I couldn’t help it! Rann, you’re called to the front.”

  Rann shrugged listlessly. “No more than I expected. Nor is it something I dread. But the timing—”

  “The price of carelessness,” Tyrill huffed.

  Avall glared at her, and reached over to hug his bond-brother. “Whatever happens, I’ll be there with you. I can do what I do anywhere there’s heat, light, and tools. Besides, something tells me the King would like to have all of us to hand.”

  Strynn felt as though she’d been slapped, but managed—she hoped—not to react. She even understood the reason. But so soon after their return. So very soon. She’d hoped to have a little time without chaos, a little time to work in peace. To spend with her child before he became the child of her husband’s clan.

  Still, this was war, and so she squared her shoulders and stood. “I likewise can do what I do anywhere,” she announced. “So, Craft-Chief, what about you?”

  Tyrill was putting away her tools. “I was born in South Gorge,” she gritted. “If I was ten years younger, I’d be on my way already. As it is … what do you suppose?”

  “I think,” Avall replied, also rising, “that it’s time to test what we’ve always been taught. War is an art, they’ve said. I think it’s time art went to war.”

  (ARGEN-HALL—LATE AFTERNOON)

  Strynn felt Avall’s presence before she heard the soft pad of his boots on carpet, the swish of the loose robe he’d taken to wearing instead of a shorttunic, or the slightly anxious hiss of his breathing. Maybe it was the warmth of his body, felt more keenly now that she had a gem. Maybe it was the warmth of his mind itself—or its force. In any case, she wasn’t surprised when his arms went around her from behind and he drew her against him, resting his chin on her shoulder as he likewise looked down at her child.

  Averryn was sleeping, having been fretful most of the day, so Avall’s mother said. Which was good. She wanted simply to look at him for a while. To wrap him in her mind and memory so that she could then let go. It made sense, she knew, letting a child’s one-parents care for it, which freed its parents for endeavors more suitable for the young and active. Certainly the system had worked for years uncounted. It had even worked for her and Avall—and Merryn and Eddyn and everyone else she knew. That in spite of the plague that had eaten a generation.

  But she wondered if every mother felt the pangs of impending separation she was feeling. Then again, most mothers didn’t share ten days in the Wild with their newborns. Most mothers kept their offspring by them for the ritually prescribed eight days, and then saw them when the Fateings posted them near enough to allow such things.

  But most mothers didn’t have to play a major role in a war.

  “This is bad for you, isn’t it?” Avall whispered into her neck, even as Averryn gave a little twitch and snugged a chubby fist to his mouth.

  She shrugged. “No worse than for any other woman, I suppose. Nor is it a thing I want to avoid—if I think about it rationally. But motherhood isn’t rational, Avall. It’s instinct. It comes from somewhere else. I wonder about this system, sometimes: this clan fosterage we all undergo. It gives us many parents, in a sense, and it allows bonds to form with those with whom we’re most compatible, and it frees us to be ourselves earlier than might otherwise be the case. But I wonder if we don’t miss something, too. I wonder if it doesn’t set a part of us adrift, looking for what we should’ve had from birth.”

  “Maybe that’s why we’re makers,” Avall murmured. “Maybe we look for a special bond with someone early in life, and not finding that, we bond with our crafting. That’s what we’re encouraged to do, anyway.”

  “And maybe it’s cost our country its soul,” Strynn gave back. “Maybe we’re all form and no substance. Maybe we deserve to lose this war because—well, because we need a good shaking up.”

  “We had one a generation ago. It was called the plague.”

  “And maybe we should’ve taken it as a sign.”

  “Like Averryn’s name?”

  She tensed ever so slightly. “You noticed that, then?”

  He nodded. “Avall and Merryn, merged into one. I guess I was a little surprised.”

  “That I tried to link it that closely to you? Maybe it was a mistake, and we can still change it, up until Sundeath. But I thought … maybe. Avall, I know it’s going to be hard for you to love him, even though you won’t see him that often. But I wanted to give him that tie. I want him tied to you, if possible. Certainly now that Eddyn’s gone. I don’t want his father’s disgrace to shadow his whole life. If he grows up like you, I’ll be proud.”

  “Distracted and indecisive and distant? I hope he does better than that.”

  “As long as he knows what he is and isn’t, and gets a chance to be whatever he wants to be, I’ll be happy.”

  Avall heaved a sign. Averryn whimpered at that, as though he knew he was being discussed. Which given all those gem-bondings
while he was in the womb, might even be the case. “You’re still determined to go to the front?” he whispered.

  “Where you go, I go.”

  A deep breath. “What about Kylin? This is one thing he really can’t be a part of.”

  She tensed again. “He wants to stay here and play for Eellon. He says it’s the only thing he can do. Krynneth will look after him. You know Krynneth was in love with Merryn?”

  “Like everyone else, apparently.”

  “Poor Kylin.”

  “He’s happier than we are, in some ways. He’s found his place where he can make a difference without losing who he is. That’s all he wants.”

  Silence, for a while.

  Avall peered down at Averryn. “Well,” he sighed. “I guess we’ve got one more person we have to make proud of us, now.”

  “I guess,” Strynn chuckled sadly, “we do.”

  CHAPTER XXV:

  MACHINATIONS

  (ERON: TIR-ERON-SUNBIRTH: DAY I—DAWN)

  On the first day of The Eight-day festival called Sunbirth that divided the dark half of the year from the light, the sun rose above a particular point on the eastern horizon exactly as it did every year at that time. But this year its beams lanced over a landscape still mostly clad with snow—and rapidly priming for war. Movement was afoot in clan and craft alike, and five times as many treks as usual plied the icy roads, over half of them heading south under various banners, each commanded by a subchief from War-Hold.