Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  But that light also did something else.

  At precisely a breath after dawn, a beam entered the easternmost window of the eight that made a lantern above the Hall of Clans. It struck a mirror there, which bounced that beam to another, then another and another, so that raw light laced the air between Sarnon’s famous dome and the rough, empty weight of the Stone, which was the seat of the High King in council. At the start of the dark half of the year, at Sundeath, the light that filled the chamber was white. This was ruddier. Fit for a kingdom at war.

  And as the sun rose, that light shifted, so that eventually it focused into a single narrow beam, centered on the Stone like a red dagger stabbing the land. And then it was gone.

  So was the King, for the nonce. Gone from Eron Gorge, Tir-Eron, the Citadel, the Council of Chiefs, and the Stone …

  Esshill, who’d turned twenty during the dark half of the year, and was therefore entitled to sit as Witness in Priest-Clan’s official box during this, the first day of Sunbirth, was more than a little disappointed he would not get to see High King Gynn.

  Unfortunately, some things carried even more force than ritual, and His Majesty had felt it his duty to take himself away to defend South Gorge, leaving his kinsman, Eellon, in charge of the Council of Chiefs—for all that Eellon was old, sick, and a powerful ally who would no longer be able to vote in the King’s favor, save in the case of ties. It was a flaw in the government, Esshill had heard voiced more than once: that Eron had no established provision for a second-in-command after the Sovereign. No chancellor, no royal steward. Nothing.

  Eellon had been appointed before the King’s departure, with no one’s approval but Gynn’s own. Then again, Eellon was not a man to be trifled with, even by Esshill’s clan.

  Which didn’t mean his presence on the dais wasn’t an insult. Traditionally these ceremonies were orchestrated by Priest-Clan, most lately by Grivvon of Law. But the die Grivvon had rolled to open the ceremony had conferred that function on World, who was the weakest and least charismatic of the Priests of The Eight. Also the most intelligent, so everyone said, but his was knowledge without sense to back it up—or aggression.

  Which fact Eellon had seized upon in his first official act as de facto regent. He had, in short, co-opted the floor on the assumption that it was easier to get forgiveness than permission.

  “My Lord and Lady Chiefs,” he began, “those of you old enough to understand language—which I believe is most of you present”—he garnered a few chuckles at this—“should know that there is here, as in all things, a fixed form that defines the order in which our business ought to be conducted. Like Sunbirth, certain events and concepts ought properly to be addressed in their own time and season.”

  He paused and coughed into a cloth. From his high vantage point, Esshill thought he saw blood. Certainly there were rumors: headaches that had the old man screaming. A heart that ran fast with no reason. And now this …

  “Still,” Eellon went on hoarsely, “many of those rites can be properly conducted only by the King in his capacity as Voice of The Eight, and those rites neither I nor anyone here dares usurp. Yet King Barrax of Ixti has dared to usurp a portion of this kingdom! Therefore, in riding to our mutual defense, the King performs his primary duty. In short, rites that exist only to function as rites should wait until they can be properly conducted.

  “But that is only a small part of the function of this Council,” he continued. “The greater part, in terms of time invested, lies in debating how affairs in this land shall be conducted to our mutual benefit and good. And that role does not require the King’s presence so much as ours. I therefore ask if any here have business to lay before the Council that does not require attention to rite, writ, or royal seal. Real business, in other words.”

  An uneasy rumble of voices ensued, which Eellon overruled with a loud rap of his staff upon the bronze “silencing tile” between where he stood and the Stone. “If you have business, drop your insignia balls into the tally holes in your seats. Fate will determine the order in which you speak.”

  Esshill strained forward. It was hard to tell who intended business and who didn’t, though he did see two members of his own clan remove red balls from pouches and deposit them into the specified holes. A system of gears, chutes, and shuttles beneath the hall would arrange the balls in random order—or the order demanded by Fate, depending on whom one asked.

  The results were already appearing: rolling from beneath a marble sleeve into the palm of Fate’s statue, which, along with representations of the other Faces, made a semicircle behind the dais. World retrieved the first and handed it solemnly to Eellon.

  Eellon read it calmly. “Lord Law, it is you whom Fate would first have say his piece.”

  Law rose from the ranks of Priest-Clan, adjusting the mask he wore instead of a hood. He stood very straight. “Are you familiar with the Law of this land, Lord Eellon?”

  Eellon regarded him narrowly. “I have read every word of it that is written down, have heard or read the Prophecies for longer than you have been alive, and have watched it played out here for seventy years in one guise or another.”

  Grivvon nodded gravely. “And what is the rite that opens Sundeath?”

  The briefest of pauses, then, “The Proving of the King.”

  “To what end?”

  “To assure that the King is perfect in body and mind, so that he may be a perfect vessel for The Eight when he drinks from the Wells and reveals Their will to us.”

  “And is the King perfect?”

  A rush of silence filled the Hall. The Council had reached this point once before—almost. Before Avall had pulled … whatever it was with that attack.

  And yet that silence lingered. More than one brow was creased in thought. More than one chief was caught, like Eellon, at the balance between the abstractions of Law and the hard, clear fact of the war.

  “He limps!” someone said at last, from the segment of Beast.

  “He commands!” someone retorted.

  More silence, and then Eellon rapped his staff again.

  “Is implies this present moment,” he said. “And since His Majesty is not present, there is no way to determine such a thing. Nor would it serve anyone if he were summoned here for that purpose.” A pause. Grivvon started to speak, but Eellon preempted him. “And now, my Lord Law, I would ask you a question about the Law: a question any child could answer.”

  “And that is?”

  “When is the Proving of the King?”

  “The first eighth of the first day of Sundeath.”

  “Which, I believe, is half a year from now.”

  “Still,” Grivvon gritted, “I raise the question now for a reason.”

  “That being?”

  Grivvon snorted derisively. “One has only to look around this room at the seats left empty because those who should fill them are mustering themselves and their halls and holds for war. At the faces that would not normally sit here at all, but that those who rank them are absent, and someone must take their seats. There are sub-subchiefs here, Lord Eellon. And the witnesses in the galleries—some are mere children.”

  Eellon nodded gravely. “If you like, we can spend the rest of the day inspecting the credentials of those in attendance. I think even you might suggest better ways in which to spend that time.”

  Grivvon stiffened. “I would suggest we spend it debating whether or not there is some connection between what I strongly believe to be an imperfection in the King and the fact that our land has suddenly become afflicted.”

  “Remember the last invasion,” someone from Wood chimed in. “Ventarr had gone blind.”

  “—In High Summer, while Ixti suffered drought,” a woman from Lore shot back. “Who would not invade a rich neighbor then?”

  “And the Queen during the Year of Four Feints was judged perfect four times that same year—by a Council as stupid as this!” Elvrimm, the ranking chief from Warcraft, snapped.

  “Barrax
has wanted war since he took the throne,” Ekalynn of Eemon rasped in turn. “There is no correlation.”

  “Aye,” said Morkeen of Stone. “Whatever Barrax does now, he would have had to lay the foundations eighths ago. The King’s limp has only manifested since the waning of Deep Winter.”

  “And not always then,” someone from Water whom Esshill couldn’t identify put in.

  A second Priest rose from their ranks. Aged Nyllol, who was Rrath’s sometime mentor. Light gleamed on his bald head as he stood there unhooded and unmasked, save for a strip of white sylk across his eyes. “Nevertheless, it is a thing we should consider.”

  “I think we should let Fate consider it,” Lady Vyreen of Wood shot back. “If the King is given victory, then we should decide.”

  “I am amazed,” Eellon broke in quietly, his voice clear in the room’s perfect acoustics, “how we can sit here debating the King’s right to the Throne when that King is the only reason you aren’t this moment watching the hordes of Ixti pillaging your homes.”

  Grivvon cleared his throat. “Does anyone here recall whom our clan serves? Does anyone here recall what any clan or craft serves?”

  “The people!” came a voice from the ranks of Healing—a very young and minor voice, to judge by the uncertain tones.

  “Exactly. We do not exist to serve ourselves, we exist to serve the people. Frankly, I’ve been uncertain for a while whether Gynn does in fact serve the people.”

  Eellon folded his arms. “I would be glad to hear the origin of these doubts.”

  “It is rumored, Lord, that even as the High King rides to war, there are those in his very household—in this very citadel—who seek to espouse what we can only term heresy.”

  “Heresy?” Eellon looked aghast.

  “Heresy.”

  “And what is the nature of this … heresy?”

  Grivvon smiled, visible even behind his mask. “Why, that Gynn has begun to espouse the fact that the soul can exist independent of the body, and that he knows of certain … means by which that separation can be accomplished.”

  “In effect,” Nyllol added. “That anyone can access The Eight.”

  “Instead of merely Priest-Clan—in the interest of the rest of us, of course.” From Eemon, again.

  “We do not,” Grivvon growled, “know what will happen if everyone begins storming the Overworld with their prayers directly. Perhaps The Eight will withdraw themselves from us. Or perhaps they will retaliate. Perhaps they already have.”

  “Perhaps you will shit golden turds,” came another young voice from Lore.

  “Whoever that was is out of line,” Eellon thundered. “Even if you may be right. But, Lord Law,” he went on, “you’re missing a rather important point. You seem to be neglecting the fact that were the rest of us free to petition The Eight on our own, your clan would quickly become … not superfluous, but perhaps less … powerful.”

  “Assuming this is true,” Tyrill said abruptly. “There is another matter we must consider. As best I can tell, the means by which this … access is effected is limited indeed, and only free in theory. In practice, the King controls it; therefore, he controls who can access The Eight. Is this a power he either needs or deserves?”

  Eellon glared at her. “The Wells exist, Tyrill. Nothing save guards, fear, and tradition keeps anyone from drinking from the Wells when they would. This has not happened, and access to the Wells is far easier than access to … what you reference.”

  “What does she reference?” Moole of Wax inquired innocently.

  Eellon looked as though he could have eaten Tyrill alive, and even she looked frightened, as though she’d slipped and said too much. “It would appear that we keep secrets better than I’d thought, or else that Sovereign Oath carries more force than I expected,” Eellon replied, pausing to cough again. “Very well, then: During the season just past, certain members of my clan and two others discovered a number of peculiar gems whose properties may be important in every way imaginable—especially if we recall the Prophecies last fall. These clansmen did not choose to make these discoveries, nor have they profited from them in any way, nor have my clan or theirs profited from them, nor do they plan to do so. But now is not the time to discuss this, not without the King himself to hand. I would beg your indulgence in this.”

  “Priest-Clan knows,” Nyllol challenged. “It knows far more than you think it does.”

  “Good for you,” Eellon shot back. “I trust you also know the meaning of judgment, especially as this information misapplied could lead to civil war.”

  “It already risks that,” Wood replied, “if Smith withholds information that ought to be given to all of us by right.”

  “By the King’s command,” Eellon shot back, coughing again.

  Elvrimm of War rallied to Eellon’s defense. “If you want to speak of civil war when we face a very real war of quite another kind, I suggest you consider what might happen if Common Clan, clanless, and the unclanned learn that we of High Clan have withheld from them direct access to The Eight. They already outnumber us ten to one. And I assure you their blades are very real, and if not their blades, their stones. If I had to choose between fighting Priest-Clan and fighting Common Clan, there would be no choice—if I wanted to retain my position.”

  “Priest-Clan could even be sacrificed,” someone else spoke up boldly. “They have no real existence, in the sense that no one is born to them. Not a man or woman is there among their ranks but could be absorbed back into the other clans.”

  “Fools!”

  Grivvon’s shout silenced them all. Slowly he turned in place, surveying every living thing in the room. “Did I just hear what I thought?” he hissed. “I spoke of heresy earlier, but this indeed is heresy I hear now. Smith, War, and the King deny us all information that is ours by right. They seek to set themselves up in place of the Priesthood; to become Priests, if you will. But they play a dangerous game, for they also control information that could bring us all down.”

  Ilfon of Lore rose for the first time. “Lore stands with the Crown and with Smith and War. Until we have defeated Ixti that is our only choice. This Council must present a united front against this larger threat. I, for one, would rather the lowest unclanned Eronese put me out of my house than the king of Ixti himself. I think most of you would agree. And,” he added in a tone of dead seriousness, “we cannot let word of this potential schism leave this room. Not until we have driven Ixti from our ground.”

  “You expect miracles,” Eellon drawled, “but you’re right. We must—”

  “We must do nothing!” Grivvon roared. “We are a thing made of smaller we’s, and the we that is Priest-Clan will have no part of this until we have addressed the King to our own satisfaction. Until then … we will withdraw. If the people come to us for intercession with The Eight, we will deny them. We will tell them to ask the King and the Smiths, and the Lords of War and Lore. Perhaps they will be patient, perhaps they will not. But we will have no part of this war.”

  “Grivvon, stay where you are!” Eellon roared back, his face alarmingly red.

  Grivvon ignored him. Already he was edging toward the aisle, with the host of Priest-Clan behind him. An elbow in Esshill’s side prompted him, and he, too, rose, joining a swelling tide jostling toward the corridor that encircled the witness level.

  Esshill made it to the hall before he found himself pushed back by a flood of men and women in Warcraft livery. “You are under arrest,” one said. “For treason. Any man or woman of Priest-Clan will be detained here until proof of loyalty to the Crown can be ascertained.”

  Esshill found himself looking down on the floor. Chaos reigned there as well, but already a third of the cloaks swirling above the pavement were Warcraft crimson, under the leadership of Krynneth and Lady Veen. Of the remaining Councilors, a third were congregating around the dais, most notably the Chiefs of Smith, War, Stone, Lore, Glass, and—somewhat reluctantly—Gem. The most powerful ones. The rest looked uncertain
, but most were being apprehended by doughty warriors in royal livery, quartered with War and led to the exits. Only Priest-Clan was surrounded, unable to depart. “Eron cannot risk what you risk,” Eellon called. “Time is critical, and we have no time for political games such as you would play. We will see you cared for here, but here you will remain until Priest-Clan gains some sense. The rest of you … we seek no enemies, though we know we have just made some. But the sorting of that is for later. For now … Eron needs you. If you feel inclined to battle, I would suggest you take yourselves south.”

  “And you, Lord Eellon?” someone dared. “Do you plan to go south?”

  Eellon didn’t answer.

  Esshill caught a final glimpse of him, however, as he slowly crumpled to the floor, only to be swept up by two sturdy Royal Guards and carried from the hall.

  The last thing he saw was Lady Tyrill, hesitating for only a moment before she, too, joined her clan.

  “I’m cold.”

  Vyyk had been dozing, and so it took him a moment to realize that someone had actually spoken, and more than a moment to realize that it was the patient who had uttered those words. Rrath syn Garnill.

  From Half Gorge, he thought, though he tried not to think such things because, as a healer, he was supposed to maintain objectivity. Even here in Priest-Clan’s sacred precincts.

  And then it dawned on him in force. His eyes popped wide open, and he moved in a breath from the chair where he’d started out doing vigil and wound up napping, to the narrow cot in Priest-Clan’s brightly lit infirmary. The patient—Rrath—looked no different than heretofore: a slim, wasted form covered to mid-chest, with his hair grown long, and his body stubbled all over because, with most of the healers gone to the front, there was no one to shave or wax him.

  At that, he’d filled out since they’d brought him here, unconscious from a gash in his head that was reported to have been caused by a horse’s hoof. Unconscious indeed, but not so much that he couldn’t be force-fed nourishing soups and thin gruels.