Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  Yet now his lips were moving, and his eyelids were fluttering.

  And then, suddenly, popping open—to reveal irises of startling blue.

  “I’m cold,” Rrath repeated more strongly, clutching the covers. “I’m—”

  He broke off, studying Vyyk intensely. “You’re not Eddyn.”

  “I’m Vyyk,” Vyyk volunteered. “I’m your healer.”

  “You’re too young to be a proper healer.”

  “As are you to be a proper Priest, but I’m what they’ve left, what with the war—”

  Rrath sat straight up in bed, eyes wild and desperate. “War?” he choked. “What war?”

  Vyyk feared he’d excite himself overmuch and lapse into coma again. He reached for a pot of cauf. “Nothing that need concern you now.”

  “That’s my decision,” Rrath managed giddily, trying to rise again, to swing his feet out of bed. “Where’s Nyllol? I need to see Nyllol!”

  Vyyk scowled. “He’s gone to Council.”

  “He’s not on the Council.”

  “He is now. Most of the senior members from all the clans are away or occupied.”

  “But—”

  “No,” Vyyk insisted. “You need to rest. You need to eat everything I can get in you, and then, maybe—”

  Rrath took his hand desperately. “What about Eddyn? Do you know Eddyn? Eddyn syn Argen-yr?”

  “The smith? I heard he was in prison.”

  “But—”

  Vyyk fumbled for the food tray behind him. “No more questions until you eat. Then we’ll see.”

  “Only if you’ll tell me about the war.”

  “Very well,” Vyyk sighed. And did.

  He’d muddled through the attack on War-Hold and had reached the part where the King had ridden off to defend South Gorge, when he heard alarms of excitement coming from outside, mixed with shouts of protest. “Hold for a moment,” he told Rrath, and rushed to the window. Like the rest of Priest-Hold, the infirmary was hollowed into the rocks of the gorge itself, and its windows were set with careful regard to maintaining the illusion of natural cliffs. Thus, the one he found was high and narrow.

  Still, it was enough to show a frantic knot of men in Priest-Clan livery making their way from the entrance toward the main assembly hall. He could hear shouting, too, in anger and confusion.

  For an instant he thought war had come to Eron Gorge, but that was preposterous. There would’ve been advance warning. But then he saw that the Priests were followed by a phalanx of men in Warcraft colors, surrounding what was clearly a royal herald.

  Desperate to hear, Vyyk acted impulsively and broke the window with a heavy ceramic mug, which let in cold air, but also the herald’s words.

  “Hear me! Hear my voice, which is the voice of the King of Eron speaking through the Council of Chiefs this day in session.” And the same repeated twice, until those who’d rushed in slowed, and people began to approach. The herald cleared his throat, safe behind his barricade of soldiers.

  “Hear me,” he cried a third time. “This day has the Council of Chiefs in Tir-Eron, acting in lieu of High King Gynn, under the stewardship of Eellon syn Argen-a, declared all those of Priest-Clan in attendance at said Council to be potential traitors to Eron and to the King, for which reason they are to be incarcerated under royal guard until such time as inquiry can reach the King as to their proper disposition. Should any here seek to aid them, or free them from their confinement—which will be made as comfortable as possible—be it known that they shall likewise be styled traitor, and any resistance they dare be treated in like manner. The Council regrets this and asks that those of you who are true citizens of Eron go about your business, or show your loyalty by going south in support of your King.”

  And then the whole thing repeated.

  Vyyk turned away. A chill ran up his spine, for all Priest-Clan was not his clan. But Rrath apparently had heard everything as well, for he stood shakily at the foot of his bed, naked save for a loin wrap.

  “War …” Rrath whispered.

  Vyyk nodded. “War. But you should—”

  He didn’t finish, for with no warning at all, Rrath slammed the food tray into the top of Vyyk’s head, then followed that blow with another as he crumpled.

  Rrath didn’t stop to check for pulse or breathing; he was too busy relieving the healer of his clothes.

  CHATTER IIVI:

  WORRIES

  (ERON: TIR-ERON-SUNBIRTH: DAY I-AFTERNOON)

  Avall had never been so frightened in his life. Not at the prospect of going to war, however. That was still remote and unreal, though he heard about it constantly—from everyone he met. And observed its ripples as well, from the increased pace of movement on the streets, to the cloaks of Warcraft crimson that were suddenly everywhere—with those of High Clan War who remained in Tir-Eron given deference formerly reserved for the crown.

  Besides which, he had survived Deep Winter and the icy depths of the Ri-Eron, and had been more than once in what he supposed was the Overworld. Death itself therefore held little sway over him.

  Yet he was still scared of death past reason.

  Not his own.

  Eellon’s.

  That Argen’s Chief was ill was no secret, Avall knew, as he paced the corridors of the Citadel with a confidence he wouldn’t have believed half a year gone by. That Eellon was over ninety and simply could not last much longer was likewise a foregone conclusion, if one regarded the situation with the cold eye of logic. That he had managed to defang Priest-Clan that morning, at the risk of civil war, only to collapse immediately after, was merely typical of the man.

  But he had collapsed, and though his headaches and dizzy spells had been alarmingly frequent of late, he had not recovered so well from this latest occurrence, which was by far the worst. Never mind that both were increasingly complicated by a fever in the lungs that might’ve had its origin in Myx’s long-gone illness.

  Which—war or no war, helm or no helm—meant that Avall had delayed as long as he could in seeking what he dared not think might be his final audience with his lifelong mentor, protector, and … friend.

  And yet he lingered at Eellon’s door. There was still time to imagine things as they were. Once he passed that portal, might-be would become is, and his life would never be the same after. He wondered idly, as he pondered the elaborate strapwork hingeplates, if he was doomed to spend his whole life confronting change at the frantic pace that had typified the last few eighths.

  Then even that decision was taken from him, as the door swung silently open to reveal a tired-eyed Veen in full guard livery, evidently returning to her post from some errand inside. At least it was no stranger. The King—or Eellon—was playing his hand very close indeed, making certain that those who knew the full extent of the unseen factors behind the recent events were kept more or less in one place.

  Which might itself be dangerous, he conceded, as he absently acknowledged Veen’s slight bow and, before he could think more about it, strode into Eellon’s suite.

  It was bigger than his own, but the layout was the same, which meant he had to turn right to enter the bedchamber. A low buzz of voices led him there—too many voices, and too many people, had they been any others than those who congregated there.

  There was the obligatory Royal Healer, of course—Gynn’s daughter, in fact—arranging an array of potions across the whole length of what should’ve been Eellon’s reading table.

  And there were a number of minor subchiefs from all three septs of Argen, looking fretful and concerned—as well they might be, given they could well have a new chief before the eighth was out.

  Beyond them, there were Strynn, Rann, Div, Kylin, Lykkon, and the ever-more-attentive Bingg.

  And that was it. Eellon had survived his brothers, his sisters, his son, his one-and two-sons, and most of their spouses.

  But not for very much longer.

  The Lord of Argen-Hall was not in bed, however, but reclining in a loose house-r
obe of clan maroon on a long sofa, his torso propped up with embroidered pillows. Nor was he asleep—or even resting. Rather, he was plowing methodically through a pile of parchments, dictating occasional notes to Lykkon. And completely ignoring everyone else—most of whom cringed every time he coughed, which was often.

  He looked up, however, when Avall cleared his throat—which he hadn’t meant to do. A smile beyond wonder filled his face, and Avall almost wept, to know he was so important to one such as Eellon. That he dared that smile so openly before witnesses also said more than he wanted to contemplate. Strynn, who’d given up on secrecy and was filing away on the sword by the window, looked up and gave him a smile of her own, while Rann, sitting cross-legged on the floor, raised his gaze from repairing a mail hauberk and shot him a troubled grin as well. Kylin played softly on his harp. Div simply smiled.

  But none compared with Eellon’s. Forgetting everything, Avall stepped forward, to kneel at the old man’s side, taking his hand in a grip he feared might crush the brittle fingers. But words failed him utterly, and he could only stare.

  “It will happen,” Eellon whispered, raising a hand to brush Avall’s hair from his eyes, moving it down to stroke his cheek. “I remember when there was no stubble there. No roughness. I wonder if that’s why men grow beards: to shield the boys they were from the hard things of the world.”

  Avall felt his heart catch, exactly as he realized that even now, Eellon’s cheeks were shaved as smooth as a child’s—as smooth as little Averryn’s, he suspected.

  “It’s good to see you, boy, nor am I the only one here who thinks so,” Eellon murmured. “But I have work to do, and so do you, and Fate casts a dim eye on sentiment.”

  Avall held his hand a moment longer, then nodded. “You’re a great man,” he told his two-father. “Eron will remember you forever.” And with that he stood.

  He found Strynn by the windows, his eyes awash with tears. She took his hand as he approached, and he heard, rather than saw, her slide the sword aside. “Avall,” she said softly. “We have to talk.”

  With that, she rose. Avall wiped his eyes with a sleeve, and saw Rann likewise rising, along with Div, who seemed to have found a place among the local Tanners, and was helping everyone in sight mend leather armor, horse tack, and scabbards. A moment later, they’d passed through the vestibule into Eellon’s workroom.

  Avall flopped down in a deep-cushioned chair. Rann slipped in beside him, with Div at his feet. Bingg took a place by the door; close enough to be paged, but not so close as to overhear.

  A deep breath, and Strynn spoke.

  “Avall, my love … I don’t think we can wait any longer.”

  He blinked at her through burning eyes. “For what?”

  “For you to confront your fears.”

  “Eellon—”

  “I’m not talking about Eellon,” she sighed, “for all that we all love him. No, I’m talking about you and the gem. I know—we all know—that you’ve been through more than any of us can imagine. But it’s time to stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have to be aware that you know more about the gems than anyone else alive. You know that at bare minimum they can aid communication. You know that at least one king thinks that’s sufficient excuse for war. And yes, I know we’re working like crazy to find out if they can be used as weapons. But there’re things we do know about them, things that would benefit the crown. Yet we dare not use three of them because they’re committed to the King. There’s a fourth, however. We—Rann and Div and I—want you to try bonding with it. At minimum, it might give you back some of … what you lost. At best, it might give us a chance to make the crucial difference to the war. Think of it, Avall! One of us rides out with scouts. He sees the lay of Barrax’s army. Fast as thought, he sends word to another, with the King, while a third keeps watch somewhere else. Faster than horses, more coherent and subtle than mirrors.”

  Avall shook his head. “Maybe Rann—”

  Rann grabbed his arm, and not gently. “Look at me, brother,” he snapped. “I agree with Strynn. You’ve lost your fire, somehow, your energy, your … spark of magic. You act like a shell, but I know the man I love more than life is still in there. And I know why you’re hesitating, too, and it doesn’t have anything to do with fear of what might happen if you try to master two gems.”

  Anger flared in Avall. “So tell me what I want!” he challenged. “Tell me how I work, because I sure as Cold don’t know anymore. All I know is that I was … without everything for too long. There’s nothing that can fill me.”

  “Not even making?”

  “Remaking,” Avall snorted. “Trying to repair a ruined thing.”

  “That’s all Strynn and I are trying to do,” Rann murmured, shifting the hard grip to a soft embrace across the shoulders, easing his bond-brother’s head down onto his chest. “You’re not ruined past repair, if only you’d see.”

  “I’m … afraid,” Avall whispered.

  “We know. But you have to name that fear, Avall. There’s nobody here going to judge you. We’ve—all of us—been in your mind. We’ve shared your thoughts. Your loves, your hates. We know your body as well as anyone can. There’s nothing in you to be ashamed of. Nothing in you we haven’t felt as well.”

  “I’ve lost more,” Avall managed, his voice perilously near a sob.

  “What have you lost, brother?”

  “I lost the gem,” Avall said finally. “And with that I may have lost us all … everything. I may have ruined more lives than I can count.”

  “Maybe,” Strynn conceded. “But I know one person who will never think that about you. Because of what you found, Kylin could see again—if only for a finger. If we could repeat that, for those who truly need it, it would mean … everything.”

  A long silence. “I was … saving it,” Avall dared at last.

  “Saving it? For what? For whom?”

  A deep shuddering breath. “For Eellon. I thought if we could get him to bond with it—to master it, as you say—it might do more good.”

  Strynn nodded; a gesture more felt than seen. “Oh Eight, Avall, I … think I see.”

  Avall nodded back. “He’s stronger-willed than I am, Strynn. Who knows what he could do with a gem? He’s lived ninety years and made wonderful things, not the least of them Clans and Kings. He’s raised up Smith above all other clans save maybe Lore and War. He survived the plague. He survived the death of almost everyone in the clan he loved. And he’s suffered with his body of late, though no one knows. With will to endure all that, I thought he was the man to master that one spare stone.”

  “And,” Div said softly, but clearly, “you thought if you could get him to use it, that it might heal him.”

  “It—one of them—healed me. It healed Rann and you and … Strynn.”

  “It did,” Div acknowledged. “But you’re young and strong. Did you ever stop to think that it might sense that Eellon is dying—forgive me for the force of that word—and reject him? It might not work for him at all.”

  Avall reached up to wipe his face. “Let me see the gems,” he said dully. “All I can do is try.”

  “Get Lykkon,” Rann hissed to Bingg. “You take his place with Lord Eellon. And tell Veen to let no one through that door.”

  “I love you,” Strynn murmured into Avall’s hair.

  “So do I,” Rann added.

  Avall took both their hands and kissed them. “Tell me that again when this is over.”

  Avall acted without thinking; it was the only way he could endure what he was about. One thing at a time. He needed a table, and so he found a table—a small round one in a corner, existing only to support a statuette of Fate. He needed chairs—one, he thought, but there were four in the room that matched, and so he set them in a circle around the table. He had his own knife.

  And friends. “Strynn, Rann, sit, please, to either side of my chair, and Div across from me. I’ll do this alone, but you need to be there to manage—whatever you can. Lyk, ask Kyli
n to play for us—I’ll need all the soothing I can get—then watch and record. If one of us tells you to do something, no matter how absurd, do it.”

  Lykkon nodded, wide-eyed, and left to fulfill his instructions. A moment later he returned, settling himself into Avall’s former seat. Kylin found a chair in the corner. A tinkle of minor strings, and he began a slow, subtle melody. Strynn’s favorite: “Winterqueen’s Lament.”

  A deep breath, and Avall sat down, facing the window. Strynn sat to his right, Rann to his left. Div sat opposite, looking very uneasy—with reason. She’d suffered as much for this as anyone. More, perhaps. He’d seen the scar the arrow had left in her back in spite of the first gem’s healing.

  “Strynn, lay out the gems,” Avall murmured. While she fumbled with the pouch that never left her side, he rubbed absently at a water stain on the lustrous wood. The grain fascinated him, as the patterns of ice crystals had fascinated him when he’d begun the helm, as the whorls of Strynn’s fingertips had fascinated him, which he’d never told her about, either. It was something else to explore. When he had time to explore again.

  And then all he saw were Strynn’s hands, laying a strip of fabric atop the stain, and slowly upending the pouch over it. Stones clinked against each other: four smooth ovals of murky red, lit with inner fire. The smallest was the size of the end joint of his little finger, the largest the size of a human eye—bigger, by a bit, than the one he’d lost. Using the tip of his dagger, he arranged them in a line, then passed the dagger to Rann. Another breath, and he slowly touched each gem in turn, seeking any reaction.

  There wasn’t—at first. But he tried again, sweat now dampening his fingertips. The smallest one was dormant. The next two were much of a size, almost twins—like him and Merryn. He hesitated between the two, then moved on to the large stone. It—rejected him. Not with dislike, but with a strange, gentle firmness, like a mother denying the breast to a child that had grown too old.