Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  Avall nodded absently, not daring to look at his two-father save obliquely, from across the room. Enough to see that he lay on his back with his hands atop the coverlet to either side. But even there, they could hear the rasp of his breathing.

  “Bingg?” Merryn called, as Bingg reached the door.

  “What?”

  “Much as I hate to say it, you’d better also bring Tyrill.”

  “Tyrill …?”

  Avall nodded in turn. “Power has to transfer, just in case. She’s not the next oldest in the clan, but she’s the next oldest we can get hold of right now, with Half Gorge and South Gorge fallen. She’ll have to act the role. And maybe … be Steward, until we can find someone else, probably from Ferr.”

  “Preedor returned five days ago,” Merryn noted.

  “Then we’ll need to contact him, too,” Avall replied. “He’s the only one I’d trust who’s not too close to this thing. We’ll send Veen or Krynneth. I don’t want to leave here.”

  Merryn shook her head, and took his hand, squeezing it hard. “He’s strong. He’ll make it. And we have good news to temper the bad, whatever happens.”

  Avall squeezed back, and then another thought struck him, so strong he gasped.

  “What?”

  “Tyrill,” Avall whispered. “Suppose whatever … I did also hit Tyrill. She’s old, and physically weaker than Eellon.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Merryn said matter-of-factly. “But she’s never linked with a gem, has she? So that should protect her some.”

  Avall shivered. And then shivered again, as an even worse thought struck him. He rose abruptly, starting for the door.

  “Avall—”

  “Averryn!” he retorted. “I’ve linked with him before, through Strynn, when she was pregnant. I—” He crumpled into his sister’s arms. “Oh, Eight, Merry, I may have … killed my son.”

  Merryn slapped him. Not hard, but enough to draw his attention. “You’d have heard by now,” she told him. “Whatever happened, happened at once. Strynn would’ve been racing Mother to the forge …”

  Avall bit his lip, trying to believe what he didn’t dare, because to believe was to hope, and he wasn’t sure he could stand to see hope shattered.

  “I’ll go get them,” Merryn said quietly. “I’ll have them bring Averryn here. You could use both of them and … so could I.” For the first time Avall noticed that his sister’s eyes were misty. He tended to forget that she was as close kin to Eellon as he; that they had as much history, shared as much of what passed in their clan as love.

  “Go,” Avall replied. “I’ll stay here. I … need to look at him.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  He tried to smile at her. “I am. But one thing, Merry. One thing. Tomorrow when Strynn leaves, I want her to take Averryn with her. I can’t risk him otherwise. I just can’t.”

  Merryn looked as though she was about to say something and thought better of it—probably to remind him that Averryn was no blood of his. Mercifully she held her tongue. And departed.

  “I’ll go, too,” said the healer. And Avall was left alone with his two-father.

  He waited until their footsteps receded, until the only sounds in the room were his breathing, and Eellon’s. And then he rose slowly and crossed to Eellon’s bedside. Even so, he didn’t look full upon him, perhaps fearing that the old man’s eyes would pop open to fix Avall with an accusing stare he far too well deserved.

  But they didn’t. And then Avall was beside him, and taking his hand.

  He started to speak, but that was stupid, so he simply sat there, unmoving, feeling the steady pulse of Eellon’s life.

  Without really meaning to, he reached out to him with his mind. Not through the gem itself, but by ways the gem provided. Unfortunately, there was nothing where he looked, no bright thoughts darting just below the surface. Whether they were gone or simply obscured, he had no way of telling. But it filled him with dread beyond reason.

  This was his fault. Through nothing more than rank carelessness he’d worked the doom of the second most important man in the kingdom. Anything that fell out from here would be his fault because any decision made henceforth would lack the considered stamp of Eellon’s massive, passionate intellect. He’d cost the world something precious, and if he’d also given it something of worth in the gem, well, he wasn’t sure that was a fair trade.

  But maybe it was another balance.

  Why couldn’t someone else have found the gem, dammit? The gems, he amended. Someone from Lore, for instance, who would’ve known how to exercise appropriate patience. Whose controlling clan was not so fractured by power politics. A clan that had no Avall and no Eddyn.

  And then, in the solitude of Eellon’s room, with his hand still clasping the old man’s, he wept in truth.

  Fortunately, he heard Tyrill approaching. And more fortunately, the old lady had never been able to manage much of a pace, so that he had time to wash his face and reclaim his original seat before the Spider Chief was ushered in—with what looked like half of Smithcraft, but was in fact merely those members of the clan lodged in the Citadel. And those with claims on Argen folk, like Strynn, Averryn, Evvion, Veen, and Krynneth.

  A moment only it took the Acting Clan-Chief of Argen to assess the situation, before motioning to the healer to resume whatever efforts she could. That accomplished, she fixed everyone else with an all-inclusive stare, and uttered one terse word: “Workroom.” Whereupon they all adjourned there.

  A large table stood to one side, rarely used, but Tyrill had it moved to the center of the chamber, and chairs found to range around it. “The other sept-chiefs should be here soon,” she said, “but some things need to be said beforehand that won’t be appropriate later. Bingg told me the gist of what happened, which I understand without approving. But does anyone else have any questions?”

  To Avall’s surprise, it was Krynneth who responded. “Chief,” he said clearly, “we know the sword is finished, and, so I’ve heard, works. I know that Avall’s spending every free moment working on the helm. But what of the shield? Now that you’re Clan-Chief, will you have time to complete it, among your other duties?”

  Tyrill looked as though she’d like to pluck out his eyes and use them for earbobs, but though she stiffened, she controlled herself.

  “This is no time for anyone to feed their vanity,” she said at last. “Decisions made now cannot be remade, but may be regretted for ages. Most of you here know who I like, who I don’t, and why. That doesn’t change the fact that many of you are kin and all of you have the good of the realm in heart and mind alike. But unless someone else comes forward—yes, I’ll have too much to do to finish the shield as I’d like.”

  “What about the Stewardship?” Merryn and Strynn chorused as one. “I’d think someone from Ferr,” Merryn continued, alone.

  “Tryffon’s at the front,” Tyrill replied. “And while Preedor is back here in Tir-Eron, he has his hands full organizing the flow of men and supplies to the front. Eellon was running everything else, including seeing to the acquisition and manufacture of supplies and armament. I can do that, and function as Acting Clan-Chief, but it will take all the time I have.”

  “So Strynn, then?” Merryn dared. “For the shield, I mean. She’s the next best functioning smith here, besides Avall, who’s already committed.”

  “Someone also needs to take the sword to the King,” Krynneth noted.

  “Not yet,” Avall countered. “The thing works, granted, but it’s … out of balance, which could make it dangerous. The shield and helm have to be finished as well. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. Trust me.”

  “So the sharp edge,” Tyrill said, “is that you can finish the helm or the shield, but not both.”

  “Not in the time we have,” Avall agreed. “And Strynn—”

  “Is under royal command to go downriver at first light, in order to observe.”

  “And take Averryn away from my destructive influen
ces,” Avall added bitterly.

  Tyrill gnawed her lip, scowling furiously. “I don’t like this,” she growled. “I don’t like it at all. There are too many things that need doing, and not enough people to do them.”

  Avall puffed his cheeks. “I know what you mean. Much as I hate to say it, it’s times like this I wish we still had Eddyn.”

  “Don’t mention that name,” Tyrill gritted. “I’ve had enough of him. I tried and tried, but … No, don’t get me started, or I’ll wind up like Eellon.”

  “So the shield …?” Krynneth dared in turn.

  Tyrill closed her eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Veen snapped. “Do we have that much time?”

  “We’ve no choice,” Tyrill replied. “I hear footsteps, which can only be our delinquent folk approaching. Which means other decisions. I’ll let you know at breakfast. In the meantime,” she finished, “you, young man,”—she pointed to Avall—“have, at the very least, a helmet to complete. I’d suggest you be about it.”

  Avall started to reply, then thought better of it. He considered leaving with Strynn and Evvion, when Averryn started fretting, until a warning glare from Tyrill changed his mind. But all through the ensuing meeting, during which Tyrill was confirmed as Acting Clan-Chief of Argen, he was sketching determinedly, trying to figure out where best to route the wires that would tie the King’s blood, bone, and brain to a mass of inert metal.

  CHAPTER XXXII:

  RAIDERS IN THE NIGHT

  (ERON: TIR-ERON-HIGH SPRING: DAY V-NEAR MIDNIGHT)

  Merryn had no idea what time it was—only that she’d been very sound asleep indeed—when she was abruptly awakened. Someone was in her room, the door to which she clearly remembered locking. As would any rational person, given the situation. She rose in one smooth rush, squinting into the scanty moonlight. Her hand found a dagger, but she didn’t bother with clothes. Modesty was no use to the dead.

  By the time her feet hit the floor, she’d determined that the invader was standing unmoving in the doorway.

  “Merryn,” it—she—hissed, “it’s me, Strynn!”

  Merryn’s tension drained out of her so fast she nearly collapsed. Eight, but she was edgy! Still, if anyone was going to catch her with her guard down, better it was Strynn. She sat down on the bed pad with a thump, reaching absently for a night robe she’d left on a nearby chest.

  Strynn had said nothing—probably waiting until she was certain no attack was forthcoming—then strode forward, moving with surprising confidence in the dark.

  Merryn fumbled to light a candle, sensing that it was not yet time for speech, though whatever had called Strynn here in dead of night was bound to be important. Light flared. Strynn found a chair and a bottle of wine—and drank deeply before extending it to Merryn.

  Merryn took it gravely. “Couldn’t sleep?” she ventured, cocking a brow.

  Strynn shook her head. “I need to sleep, but it’s one of those times when you know you won’t until you just go ahead and do what has to be done.”

  Merryn regarded her keenly. “That bad?”

  Strynn nodded.

  “So bad you couldn’t even tell Avall?”

  Another nod.

  “One of those things that you don’t dare mention because you know he’ll forbid it, but you know you have to do it anyway?”

  Strynn chuckled. “You’ve become a mind reader now?”

  Merryn shrugged. “Maybe. I think working with the gems even a little improves one’s abilities that way. But surely, sister, you know by now how very well I know you.”

  Strynn took another swig and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, rough as a man. “We have to do something dangerous,” she said at last. “And we have to do it tonight.”

  “Tonight? Why? What—”

  “Because there’ll be no one to stop us. Avall’s in the forges exorcising his frustration after that damned meeting. Tyrill’s being Tyrill. Eellon’s—better not to speak of him. No one else matters but Averryn. Tomorrow I’m supposed to leave for the coast. I may be able to delay a little—but with time as important as it is—”

  “What is this thing?” Merryn demanded, her voice more forceful than was her wont.

  Strynn swallowed hard, looking at the bottle instead of at her bond-mate, her face as grim and determined as Merryn had ever seen it. “We have to rescue Eddyn.”

  “Eddyn?” Merryn cried, mouth gaping into an O. “Eddyn’s in the south, Strynn. Last I knew, he was imprisoned in the same place I was.”

  “And before that?”

  “I don’t know. Avall says he was here. He says he place-jumped out of prison.”

  “With the gem.”

  “With Avall’s gem.”

  “I have one, too. It’s weaker, but—”

  Merryn snared the wine and filled herself a goblet. “You’re saying you and I should … place-jump down past South Gorge and rescue Eddyn, so that—”

  “He can finish the shield.”

  Merryn shook her head. “But surely it doesn’t have to be that shield, if all you have to do is fit a gem—”

  “No, I think it does, and so does Avall. Sure, on one level all that has to happen is that the gem be wired to the shield and the wielder alike in such a way that the proper connections are made. But there’s more to it than that. Avall can’t explain it—he says there aren’t words for what happens, any more than one can describe an emotion or a color. But he says it’s something to do with … art. The same parts of our mind that make art without thinking about it are the ones that carry the power of the gems—at least the aspect he’s talking about. And somehow that power gets put into the object while it’s being made, and …”

  “So you’re saying,” Merryn broke in, “that though any shield would suffice, one made by a master like Avall or you or Eddyn would be much stronger.”

  “Maybe not so much stronger as more balanced,” Strynn corrected. “Avall thinks the trio of helm, sword, and shield, if activated at the same time, will make whoever wields them very powerful indeed. But if one of those elements doesn’t match—”

  “But Tyrill’s already remade most of the framework.”

  “To Eddyn’s exact design, however. Plus she’s a master in her own right. And she taught him everything he knows. If anyone thinks like him, it’s her.”

  “And how is Eddyn going to learn all this?” Merryn demanded. “If even Avall doesn’t know it until he does it?”

  Strynn shrugged again. “Mind to mind, as best I can tell. If Gynn was able to see it and show it to Avall, then maybe Avall can show it to Eddyn. If not … he can still do the artistic work, and let Avall do the final connecting.”

  “Ha!” Merryn snorted. “That’s assuming he’d do anything at all. He’s no cause to love anyone up here now.”

  “He loves Eron,” Strynn said simply. “I’ve never doubted that.”

  Merryn frowned. “But this is all speculation.”

  “I know. But it’s also the only thing I can think to do, given that I have to leave tomorrow. Otherwise, I’d try to finish the damned thing, and get Avall to show me how to make the wretched connections. But if we could place-jump—”

  “That’s a large ‘if.’ We’ve never done anything like that before. I’ve barely worked with the gems at all.”

  “But assuming—”

  Merryn reached over and took Strynn’s hand. “Sister, what are you thinking? He raped you. He bared your body and stuck his thing in you and took from you what he had no right to take—and with that he took away most of the choices you had left in your life.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” Strynn shot back, eyes bright with tears. “Do you think I don’t think of that every moment of every day? Every time I see Averryn? Every time Avall and I make love? He’s always there, like a shadow on the sun. But it wasn’t entirely him, Merryn. It was also the imphor he’d been chewing and the game he’d just lost, and al
l that pressure Tyrill’s laid on him since he was born. I can see how one wrong thing might break him.”

  “That sounds like you’re excusing him.”

  “Never! But maybe I understand him better. Besides, this isn’t about me, or him. It’s about the survival of the kingdom.”

  Merryn took a deep breath. “So why don’t I do it, then? You can lend me your gem, and—”

  Strynn chuckled grimly. “I figured you’d say that. But we don’t know if it can even take two people that far, never mind bring three back. What we do know is that the two times place-jumping worked were through will and desire. It has to be the only thing one wants for that instant, Merryn, and that’s why I have to go. I’m the only person with enough of a bond to Eddyn. Even then, it may not succeed, but I think I can focus the desire—or the anger, or the hate; whatever it takes—strongly enough to get me there.”

  “But not alone.”

  “I can fight,” Strynn replied, “but I’m no fighter. You’ve been where he is; you know the lay of the land.”

  “Does it have to be tonight?”

  “I don’t have any nights left. Besides, this late, he’s unlikely to be heavily guarded.”

  Merryn felt an urge to laugh. “And of course you’re also a master lockpick.”

  “Well, I certainly intend to take my tools.”

  “So the plan is to jump down there, pick his lock, and jump back?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing.”

  “What?”

  “The energy factor. We’d be drawing enormous amounts of power. It could kill Eellon.”

  “No, actually I considered that,” Strynn chuckled. “If we do it in the stables, we’d have the horses to draw on first—and they’re bigger, warmer, and stronger.”

  Merryn gnawed her lip. “And in the cloister we’ll have the army …”

  “Some of it. The bulk has moved on. But there’d be guards, prisoners. Leftover baggage train—”

  “Maybe.”

  Strynn finished the wine and set the bottle down. “Merryn, it’s the only chance we’ve got. Even if we die—”