Springwar

by Tom Deitz

Back to the twins. He closed his eyes. Touched one, then the other. Then the first again.

  “That one glowed,” Rann murmured. “I saw it, very faintly.”

  Avall opened his eyes. “Knife,” he whispered.

  Rann handed it to him.

  Steeling himself to enact a rite he hadn’t undertaken in far too long, and the repercussions of which he both anticipated and dreaded, he drew the blade along the tip of that same finger. Once, twice, before blood showed. Then, taking yet another deep breath, he rested his wrist on the table and touched the bleeding finger to the gem.

  Fire ran up his arm—not a flame of pain, but of greeting. It was like he felt when he poured himself into Strynn and Rann, except that something in the gem was responding to something in him that was not him. And that conflagration was spreading, racing through him like fire through straw, or dye through water, leaving him forever changed. Forever brighter, forever deeper, forever … stronger.

  He gasped, for his heart had been too startled to beat, and then had been unable to beat as that power wrapped around it. It reached his brain and with it his self, and his soul, and began to flood out there.

  “Rann, Strynn—” he choked.

  And that part of him that could still feel, felt their hands fold over his wrists. Part of him knew, too, that there’d been no time for them to cut themselves, to contribute their own blood. Yet there was still a joining.

  Even better, he felt Strynn and Rann experiencing what he’d just experienced himself, but through their own stones. And once again there was that eerie spark of recognition, as though something in him but not part of him joined in celebration with a part of them that was not of them.

  Somehow Div was there, too, and Avall felt … strength—or power—or energy—or magic—or whatever it was, start to flow in a circle between them, from him to Strynn to Div to Rann and back to him, each time stronger.

  But each circuit forced him farther away from himself as well, and closer to what he called the Overworld. That place where strange things happened he was not yet ready to confront.

  But the energy was there, as well, and he knew he had to use it.

  He never knew whether it was his thought that focused it, or Strynn’s or Rann’s, or maybe even the gem’s itself, but all at once they were out of themselves entirely, and looking down on all the vast length of Eron, with one goal alone in mind.

  Merryn.

  We have to include her in this, came Strynn’s thought. It is too wonderful to restrict to us.

  Whatever pleases you, Rann replied. I’m only here to be.

  Merryn, was all Avall thought. Simply Merryn. Merryn. Merryn.

  For a moment they spiraled through nothingness, and then Avall felt something familiar, that to his companions in nothingness must surely feel passing strange. He felt them all four lodge in another mind. But this time that mind was not asleep. This time their strength was such that they had reached her full awake.

  Avall opened his eyes, but the eyes he gazed through were his twin’s.

  “Brother,” she whispered into the gloom of what looked like some kind of ill-lit cell. “Where are you?”

  Within you, sister, Strynn replied.

  A confusion of startled joy clanged through Avall, so strong he almost withdrew. We must be quick, he said. We have found more gems. We are … I suppose we are seeking the other.

  The one Eddyn stole? from Merryn.

  How did you know that?

  He … told me.

  He is there?

  Yes. But oh, Avall, War-Hold has fallen, and there is war everywhere and I am captive and—

  Slowly, sister, Avall advised. Tell us where you are and how you came there and what of the traitor Eddyn.

  He’s no traitor, Merryn shot back. They seek to use him in every way and he resists. He did not come here of his own free will.

  But he has the gem.

  He could almost feel her shake her head. Barrax has the gem. He wants us to show him how to use it, but we don’t know how.

  But—

  Remember how it was before, Avall, Merryn broke in, her silent impatience like shouting. We did not need to use words to explain what had happened. And it was both clearer and faster.

  The vehemence of that admonition rattled Avall—he was supposed to be the expert on gem lore, after all—but then he thrust his vanity aside and “told” her as much of what had transpired since their last contact as he could manage—not as narrative so much as pure bursts of images and emotions. And then it was her turn. Avall felt memories slide into his brain and lodge there that he knew he’d be able to sort out later. For now it was enough that he’d found Merryn. Enough that she and Strynn were finally able to share some of the closeness he and Rann had shared.

  More and more information she poured into him, and he into her, and they reveled in that contact after so long apart. Yet every moment took more effort, more strength that no longer felt quite so inexhaustible, now that the first flush of joy had faded.

  More effort, and then more yet, and Avall had to work to sustain the link, and then he could not sustain it. He grabbed for it frantically, to no avail.

  And then sudden cold enfolded him and the link was severed, and he blinked back to Eellon’s workroom to see Lykkon standing beside him, clutching a pitcher of water he’d just splashed over the four of them. To his horror, some of it was freezing as it touched his skin.

  Lykkon looked frightened beyond reason. “It was all I knew to do,” he stammered through chattering teeth. “I felt cold, and then colder, and then cold enough to scare myself, and there was ice in the air around you. And …”

  “Eellon!” Avall cried, rushing for the door. Bingg met him there also shivering, but his cheeks were more flushed. “He fainted just now. I was coming to tell you.”

  Avall seized him savagely. “But he lives? Tell me he lives!”

  “He lives, but he’s very, very cold. As were we all. But that means it … worked. Right?”

  “It worked,” Avall agreed dazedly. “Maybe it worked too well. But let’s pray we haven’t paid too high a price for that success.”

  “Aye,” Rann acknowledged. “But at least we know Merryn is alive.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know where,” Strynn added grimly.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Avall replied. “No matter where she is, we’ll have to get her out of there.”

  Rann regarded him strangely. “Well,” he yawned, “I guess one thing at least is … better.”

  Merryn was lost.

  Utterly and completely lost. Not from anything as prosaic as landscape, either; she was lost from her very body. Her senses told her nothing. Sight showed not blackness, but an utter absence of color. She heard nothing. Not wind, not the low drone of voices that had been her constant companion for days uncounted. Not the distant clank of weapons being cleaned or practiced with, or honed. There was nothing to smell because there was no air. Nothing to taste save the fear that welled up in some distant part of her.

  Nothing to feel but cold.

  Yet even that was distant.

  She was nowhere: a thread stretched too tight in the night, then severed, left dangling in winds that didn’t blow, beneath a sky that wasn’t.

  And only a moment before she’d been oh-so-firmly anchored by Avall, by Strynn, by Rann—by someone she didn’t know, but for whom they all held deep regard. She clutched at it desperately. She hadn’t finished what she had to say, dammit, and she wanted that comfort back.

  But something sought to draw her away as well: a second, more substantial anchor, which reached to this not-place to torture her with cold.

  Which, at least, was a feeling.

  Avall? she cried one last time. Strynn, my sister. Rann …

  Silence answered. Silence within a greater void.

  But the cold was stronger and she acquiesced to it, let it reel her in like a fish on a line. Back and back and back, to where sensations slowly returned.

&nb
sp; Where there was a redness behind closed eyelids.

  Where men shouted encouragement in endless weapons drills.

  Where the air smelled of smoke and sweat and horses and drying dung. And spring.

  Where the taste of fear in her mouth was like wine in its intensity.

  Where she was cold beyond reason.

  So cold …

  Too cold to live. A vibration in her bones, a clatter in her ears like thunder, was her own teeth chattering. A pain like twin daggers in her breast was her lungs fighting to breathe ice. Her heart beat wildly, as it tried to pump frozen blood.

  She blinked once at a world where even the most minor stimulus was orders of magnitude too intense.

  And then found a place inside herself to hide.

  In every sense but one, she died.

  Only her will remained alive. Fighting stubbornly to bring warm air to fight the cold in her lungs. Reveling in the warmth of the circle of sunlight into which she’d fallen.

  For fallen she had, in a noisy clatter of wooden crockery.

  Rhyxx min Mykkix stood at nominal attention halfway down the columned arcade that had once been some kind of cloister, but which now fronted twenty make-do prison cells. That was the exact number, too; the Gods knew he’d counted them often enough since being stationed here. As he’d checked the locks and hinges often enough as well—new hardware fixed to thick old wood, with everything on the outside, so as to keep prisoners confined. Ironic, that: The priestly former occupants had bolted the doors on the inside, to protect their contemplation.

  He supposed he should consider this post an honor—these were very important prisoners, after all, including the king’s son himself. Still, maintaining vigilance while doing nothing was more tiring than one thought. Why—

  He froze. He’d heard something. A rattle and a thump, like someone falling, down in the corner cell, the one occupied by the Eronese woman. Probably nothing, besides which, someone else had duty down there. He scratched an itch under his armor, sighed, and tried to stand up straighter. And waited. There was no sign of Keexin moving to investigate. No sign of Keexin at all, in fact. Then again, Keexin had a notoriously strong appetite, which often resulted in fluxes the next day. He’d certainly indulged himself enough the previous evening; probably he’d gone to the garderobe. Still, he should’ve told someone before disappearing.

  But suppose something was wrong? These prisoners were mostly High Clan and therefore well behaved, as well as being important enough—some of them—to be summoned to audience with the king himself. Any atypical noise should therefore be investigated.

  Especially when it came from that cell in particular.

  A deep breath, and he signaled Keexin’s counterpart, Tymm, who was stationed down by Kraxxi’s cell, at the opposite corner from the noise, motioning the younger man to join him.

  Tymm shouted something unintelligible, then shrugged, and started up the arcade. Meanwhile, Rhyxx had gone on ahead, and was fumbling with the suspect cell’s tiny spy hatch. It took longer than expected to open, and longer again for his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside. But then he saw Merryn, sprawled from her stool into the scanty patch of sunlight provided by the cell’s far window.

  Horror filled him. She was—

  She couldn’t be.

  “Tymm,” he hissed. “Keep watch, and if anything is amiss—”

  Tymm peered past his companion, and scowled. “Your call, Rhyxx, but she’s surely too smart to expect that old ruse to succeed.”

  Rhyxx glanced around in search of the missing Keexin, saw neither him nor his own counterpart on this side, and grimaced irritably. With Tymm looking on from outside, he unlocked the door and—with dagger drawn just in case—knelt beside the woman’s body. Her skin looked odd—gray, like a dead person’s, though he could’ve sworn steam rose from her flesh where sunlight struck it. A hand to her throat found … nothing.

  He checked her wrist—and shrank back. She was as cold as any corpse he’d ever buried. Removing his helm, he laid an ear to her chest. Heard nothing. He checked her wrist, then her neck again. No change.

  He paused, staring. She was too cold to have died recently, yet she was certainly dead. But then why the noise? Perhaps she’d had a seizure while eating and had only now slipped to the floor. Perhaps she’d even been poisoned. Lynnz was wise in the way of such things, and he and Barrax had been at odds over the disposal of the prisoners. Perhaps Lynnz had acted unilaterally.

  In any event, he had a duty to perform. Prison space was at a premium—there were those half-blood triplets, for instance, who really should not be housed together. And the dead required no confinement.

  “Tymm,” he called. “She’s dead. I don’t know how or why, though I’ve some idea, but—”

  “What?”

  “Confirm my opinion first, then—I guess we’ll have to tell the king.”

  “He’ll have our heads!”

  “He’ll have Keexin’s first. In any case, he’s free to inspect the body. He’ll find no wounds or trauma. It will be for him to have her checked for poison—not that anyone will be able to tell. If she was poisoned, it was by Lynnz. And if it was by him, he’s too smart to use one that leaves traces.”

  Tymm shook his head. “I’m just a soldier,” he muttered, as he carried out his own cursory inspection. “We’ll need a stretcher,” he continued, rising. “And we’ll need to alert the warden. Let him do the dirty work. You can tell him,” he added. “Since you rank me—and Keexin.”

  “And leave her here?”

  “The king might notice things we wouldn’t. Until I hear otherwise, I’ve no intention of touching her.”

  Rhyxx stared at her curiously. She was quite beautiful. And remarkable in other ways, it was said. It was certainly a waste. “I don’t want to leave her like that.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Without reply, Rhyxx swept off his cloak and swirled it across Merryn’s body, where it lay like a swath of desert sand. The sunlight made the nubby fabric glitter like hot gold.

  Merryn didn’t so much awaken as melt back to life. It was a strange sensation, actually. Not like sleep, where you dreamed, and then felt that dream shatter, and all at once you were awake with everything working but your mind.

  This was the opposite. Her mind worked just fine, there in her innermost recesses. It was everything else that had slowed.

  Yet warmth soaked into her at every shallow breath. And enough heat fought its way through cooling blood to warm her heart, prompting it to pump more vigorously. Her skin prickled, which wakened reflexes. She jerked, and blood raced stronger. Her mind made sense of what her ears had lately told her.

  She was dead.

  Had been dead.

  No … Barrax’s men thought she was dead. They’d left her to rot like a slaughtered pig in the sun.

  Maybe without a guard.

  That awoke her in truth. She made to move, and pain shot through her like ice breaking. But still she strove. It required effort enough to shift a mountain to make a finger twitch—but she managed, and the hand attached to it. Felt the texture of the pavement beneath her. An eye cracked open, and she saw … nothing but the weave of fabric backlit by the sun.

  Someone was breathing, however—close by. And something about the air and the quality of light told her that the door was open and but minimally guarded.

  She knew she was acting from instinct, with no regard for sense. But she’d never have a chance like this again. Not in this lifetime.

  A flurry of movement that was like an earthquake of pain, and she sat up. The cloak slid away, so that she could see part of a soldier’s back, where he stood, half-in the doorway, half-out. Paying little regard to anything in particular.

  She thought fast. She had a corner room, farthest from the gate. One guard had gone to seek the warden, who was quartered by that same entrance. There was typically one guard per side, and one per corner. But one of them had left before Avall’s contact, and another h
ad apparently followed just now, which lowered the odds. …

  Slowly, oh so slowly, she rose to a wary crouch, suppressing a gasp as pain took her, and then again as the act of breathing was like inhaling knives of ice. But what now? She still felt groggy, like coming off a three-day drunk. Every thought was like swimming through ice floes. But she did think, and the act of that cleared her head.

  Only an instant she hesitated. It was barely two strides to the door, and the guard had his back turned …

  More from reflex than thought, she lunged forward, whipping the cloak outward, so that the lower corner snapped around the guard’s head, briefly blinding him, and stifling his startled cry.

  She had him by then: an arm around his neck, another around his head, and a twist, followed by a sickening crack, and a groan that segued into the soft, sad hiss of life escaping. Miraculously he didn’t fall, merely slumped against the wall, looking almost comfortable. Pausing only to relieve him of the sword he’d been fumbling for, she left him there, amazed at her own luck.

  Only an instant she hesitated—then ducked back into her cell. Her clothes were of Ixtian cut, fabric, and color—which was good. But she saw nothing of use save a lone wooden spoon and a pewter mug with a handle. She snared them, then stumbled over something.

  A cup?

  No! A cap helm. The one the guard had removed when he’d examined her.

  And surely a gift from The Eight. Quick as thought, she snared it and crammed it on. Too big—no surprise—but she pushed it back, and returned to the light.

  So how did one escape a guarded cloister? She scanned the arcade, found the two closest sides still unguarded—and dashed across the shaded pavement to brace herself against the back side of one of the stone pillars that supported a pair of arches.

  Well, this was a cloister, and cloisters weren’t meant to serve as prisons, save in the most general way. And if this was the one she thought it was, the dormitory had been built beside a river—a tributary of the Ri-Ormill that watered South Gorge, in fact. They’d stopped by the outer precincts on their way south to War-Hold in the autumn. Which meant …

  She peered down the arcade.