Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  So it looked, but Rrath knew otherwise.

  Taking a deep breath, in anticipation of he-knew-not-what, Rrath knelt before it, and inserted four fingers. It took a bit of probing before he found the matching depressions, and a bit more to get his fingers properly seated upon them. And then he pressed in a certain order.

  And withdrew his hand.

  The same fingers inserted in a crevice in the opposite wall rewarded him with a click, whereupon, with a slow grating rumble, a series of cracks on the wall he’d first assayed grew darker, eventually forming the outline of an irregularly shaped opening.

  Stale air rushed out, but not as stale as one might have expected. And in the candle’s wavering glare, Rrath saw steps he’d seen but once before. Steps going up.

  When another set of depressions had closed the portal behind him, he followed the stair for what seemed longer than he remembered, until he reached a landing where archways opened to left and right. His goal lay to the right; he could tell by the odor that issued from there. He’d even started that way when something gave him pause.

  Voices. Distant, but voices for all that, coming from the other archway. And along with them, the sound of hammering.

  And since Rrath had no desire to be discovered on his nocturnal ramble, he decided it was best to investigate—especially when he thought he heard someone call out to … Eddyn.

  CHAPTER XXXIV:

  FINISHING TOUCHES

  (ERON: PRIEST-HOLD-SUMMER-HIGH SPRING: DAY XII-NEAR MIDNIGHT)

  Avall’s mouth was set in a thin, grim line. Sweat poured off him, though he worked bare-torsoed, with a sylk sweat-band binding back his hair. It should’ve been easy, this fixing of gold-leafed plates to the steel backing frame of the helm, which he’d only completed the evening before. Four had been salvaged from the version Eddyn had smashed. The rest were new. Probably more complex than need be, too—for the purpose for which they were contrived. Or maybe not. The gems, it seemed, loved complexity, whether that complexity be the bodies of the humans they … co-opted—Avall was never certain if he controlled his gem, or the gem controlled him—or the complexity of the things they made. Somewhere in his brain were theories of how the two interacted; he could feel them in there when he worked. But whatever else they were, they were lazy about manifesting. For what he did now, he had to rely on the fact that he could simply stare at the pattern awhile and know where the bloodwire should be laid.

  Trouble was, the only place to work in private these days was in the forge beneath Priest-Hold-Summer. It was a royal caprice, but Gynn was the King, and when he said he wanted Avall—and Eddyn and Merryn and a Strynn he’d recalled from the coast when he finally got a count of the numbers arrayed against him—absolutely as close to hand as possible … Well, when the King said that, you obeyed.

  And if that meant doing what still had to be secret work in the heat of the forges, while less accomplished weaponwrights beat out more prosaic objects in the open smithy outside the room Avall had claimed. Well, there were still worse places to be.

  If only it weren’t so hot. Not because of the heat itself (and who could complain of heat when yet another blizzard had just finished assailing Eron?), but because the heat made him sweat. And when sweat got in his eyes, it made it hard to do close work—in spite of there being more glow-globes blazing here than in any place he’d ever been.

  Except in the adjoining chamber, where Eddyn likewise labored, similarly driven and similarly constrained.

  More driven, actually. He’d never seen a man work so hard.

  But Avall had no time to ponder Eddyn. He was almost finished, he’d suddenly discovered, after emerging from a haze of work to stare at the pattern, where the bloodwires snaked around the helm like veins in a human body, joining certain parts of the helm to certain triggers, all leading to a cast-gold boss between the eyeslots, where the nasal met the thick steel band that arched across the skull. There was irony there, too, for that was where he’d first considered placing it, back when it was only a curiosity he’d found in Gem-Hold’s mines. He’d rejected that location then, fearing it might look like an enormous carbuncle that had risen between the King’s eyes. A small adjustment in the overall design had altered that, so that it now resembled a third eye, all-seeing, all-knowing, and unblinking.

  Only one thing to go now, but not quite yet. He rose, stretched, and blinked into light that approximated day but wasn’t. A deep breath, then another, to calm himself. Reality shifted, whether because of the gem under whose influence he worked, or for some other, more obscure reason. Certainly he was still obsessed with his senses. Sight, at first, which had occupied him since shortly past the noon meal. But now, his attention shifted abruptly to sound: the continuous clankings of his clan-mates at work in the forges, repairing old armor and weapons and crafting new in equal numbers. If he listened carefully, he could hear the cadence of their breathing as well: gentler echoes of the roar of the bellows that heated the forges. And once his hearing was that finely tuned, he could distinguish one smith’s technique from another. Why, he could almost hear the patter of sweat drops falling, the hiss of evaporation when they hit hot metal.

  But not much talk. His clan worked silently, intent on their work. Too aware of the importance of their art to distract themselves with unnecessary commentary.

  There was music, however: harp music from a small girl named Toree, who was a prodigy from Music. She was good, and her melodies had the desired soothing effect. But she was certainly no better than Kylin.

  Kylin …

  He’d been caught up in this as well, though the flow of time seemed to have swept by him. As a blind man, he wasn’t subject to the Fateing. Kylin went where he would.

  But not the rest of them. Not yet.

  Not when he still had work to do. He was resisting that, he realized, holding off finishing the helm because …

  Why?

  Because it was the best thing he’d ever done and he might never equal it and could spend his whole life trying?

  Because he couldn’t imagine what project could occupy his time after he’d set that final stone?

  Because the King depended on it to save the kingdom, and that was an impossible burden for any man to bear?

  Actually, he conceded, it was all those things and more.

  Yawning, he stepped left, to where an archway in the corner led to a cubicle half a span square. Not bothering to remove the house-hose that were his only garment, he slipped in there, turned a handle, and let cold water pound him for a dozen breaths.

  The cold awakened him—and also drew him back to more typical perception of time. He almost raised his hand to the gem that still hung around his neck, a lump of spiky gold encasing its crimson heart. But no, this last thing he would do himself. As Avall syn Argen-a.

  He flipped the handle. The cold spray ended. He snared a towel from the supply by the arch and dried himself, though the heat brought sweat as fast as he vanquished it.

  A pause, while he listened. No more pounding next door, but a softer, scraping sound. He followed it through another archway and into a workroom identical to his.

  By custom he stood in the entrance and watched silently, waiting to be acknowledged. Art was not to be disrupted save by the artist’s time and inclination. Even this intrusion stretched courtesy.

  But Eddyn must’ve heard something, or noted a shadow or a shift of light. He looked up, showing no expression at all.

  Avall met his gaze, and in his eyes saw anew what the last four eighths had done to the man.

  Eddyn had aged ten years, it seemed. His features were craggier, etched with lines. His cheeks were gaunt, where captivity had ground away their fat in the absence of other food. His eyes were sunken caverns, scored with black in what Avall saw for the first time was almost a single brow. Probably he’d kept it trimmed in the past. But that was the past. There was no time for vanity now.

  Certainly he was smithing with a purpose, apparently at almost the same s
tage Avall had reached. And like Tyrill, Avall noted, he was standing in a brace.

  Because of what had been done to him.

  Barrax’s men had taken their order too seriously. Even now, his nether regions leaked blood. Never mind the finger joint they’d amputated. Which should’ve affected Eddyn’s skill but didn’t, save that it meant he worked in pain.

  Avall swallowed hard, to see his adversary laid so low. But not without his pride, or his skill—and that was what Eddyn really was. Not the other things, which were born of circumstances he’d barely avoided himself.

  The gems heal, he reminded himself. Maybe one will heal Eddyn, when we get time. When Eddyn has time. If there ever is time for anything useful again.

  Eddyn gave something a final stroke with a buffing tool and laid down the implement. Only the back side of the shield was visible. Simple, yet perfectly proportioned.

  The other side …

  “All finished with the bloodwire,” Eddyn said, his voice void of emotion. “I take it you are, too?”

  Avall nodded, not surprised at Eddyn’s perception. And certainly not after what had occurred during the linkage he’d had to make in order to fix the bloodwire’s pattern in Eddyn’s mind.

  He recalled that event, even as he walked forward.

  Eddyn had been sitting up the first time Avall had seen him after his return. After he’d calmed his fury at Strynn and Merryn’s preposterous act sufficiently to confront the result of that endeavor. “I’ve spent the last ten days reclining,” Eddyn had informed him before he could ask. “I can heal as well this way as any.”

  Avall had bit his lip and scowled. “Strynn told me.”

  A grim chuckle. “Balance.”

  “I need to talk to you, Eddyn …”

  And then the explanation of why they’d risked so much to free him, coupled with what, exactly, needed doing with the shield.

  Eddyn’s only reply had been a nod. But he’d held out his hand where blood showed on his wrists, and half of his right little finger wasn’t. “If this will do for the bonding …”

  Avall had steeled himself and done what was necessary: joined minds with Eddyn. But only a little, only enough to show him what could not be shown or explained by any other means: the direct path to the Overworld.

  The next day Eddyn had been in the forges. And when he’d left, they’d found a puddle of blood where he’d stood.

  Now Eddyn was looking at him with the strangest expression Avall had ever seen. They could never be comrades or friends. Would certainly go back to being rivals if they survived the war. But something had changed between them. A link existed where none had been before, and both were stronger for it.

  “I’m finished,” Avall said. “All save one thing.”

  Eddyn nodded. “The last thing.”

  Avall fumbled in the pouch he always kept with him now: the pouch that contained the last two royal gems.

  He touched them carefully when he tumbled them into his palm, noting automatically which was which. Wordlessly he crossed to where Eddyn sat, and laid the gem for the shield beside his rival’s hand. He didn’t look at the shield—completed now. One did not look at another’s masterwork without permission.

  “A hand from now we’ll be finished,” Avall whispered. “We should go together to inform the King.”

  Avall barely heard Eddyn’s reply, perhaps because his rival had turned away. “I’m sorry, Avall. I can’t. I have other plans.”

  “Congratulations,” Avall replied in that same whisper. Then: “Good luck, Eddyn. It’s time.”

  “Luck,” Eddyn replied clearly, and sat up straight. It was as though in that one movement half the age that had lain upon him dissolved. He smiled briefly.

  Avall smiled back, then spun on his heel and departed.

  The helm was looking at him when he returned. Gold and steel in equal parts showed upon it; simple steel strapwork between panels of gilded bronze cast in patterns that evoked frost crystals and fingerprints, yet still incorporated traditional motifs. And gems.

  Once he’d thought to use stones of every color, but he’d settled on red, to match the master gem.

  The one he still held in his hand.

  He studied the helm a moment longer, then set his mouth and reached around behind it, like a man supporting the head of a lover. And then he set the gem in the cavity provided for it, and secured the clips that bound it there.

  It was finished.

  The best thing he’d ever done.

  The best work of smithcraft anyone had ever done, he reckoned—not with pride but practicality.

  He suppressed an urge to don it, and march the halls of Priest-Hold thus arrayed. He’d been willing to test the sword. But this was for the head: the place where thought drove the jewel, and the jewel empowered thought. To wear something this powerful that wasn’t designed for him was simply far too risky.

  A final, thoughtful stare, and he whisked a velvet shroud across it, picked it up, and stepped into the outer forge.

  Heat struck him, but he ignored it as he marched to the stairs that led to what was now being used as the royal armory, where the helm would join the sword already waiting, in a small room two floors and two corridors away from the High King’s quarters.

  Eddyn knew when Avall finished the helm, but how he knew, he had no idea. Nor did he care, when he was likewise on the threshold of completion. Maybe the gem warmed in his hand ever so slightly when its fellow clicked home in its nest of bloodwire. Maybe.

  In any event, no more than ten breaths passed between the time Avall completed his commission and the time Eddyn snapped the gem he’d just been provided into the place prepared. Perhaps it glowed. Perhaps it didn’t.

  Maybe the air pulsed with power. Or perhaps that was simply relief pulsing through his veins. Whatever happened, it was finished.

  Eddyn’s first impulse was to show it to Tyrill. Maybe this would convince her that he could do equal work to Avall’s, and do it quickly as well. She’d worked on the thing herself; she had a right to see it done.

  But it was late, and Tyrill was old—and in Tir-Eron besides. There’d be time for accolades later.

  Still, it would be nice to show it to someone.

  Unbidden, Elvix’s face sprang to mind. So like her sister’s and so different, all because of the conflicting expressions the two habitually wore. It hadn’t lasted long, that thing they’d had—if they’d even had a thing.

  Where was she? he wondered abruptly, heartsick when he recalled how Merryn’s rescue had neglected to locate them.

  All because he’d been too woozy to tell her that all three triplets were probably prisoners in the same cloister that had housed him and Kraxxi.

  She’d opened doors, she said. Maybe they’d escaped then.

  And maybe, one day, he’d see Elvix again. And show her what he was good for.

  In the meantime, the shield had to go to the King.

  There’d be battle tomorrow, rumor said; the King would want it there. Ideally, he’d try it out first, but there might not be time for that. He’d have to take the field with the regalia untested, but possessed of might no human had ever seen.

  If everything worked.

  If.

  Speculation would avail him nothing. And so he eased the shield into the velvet-clad case he’d commissioned when he was still back at Gem. And with it tucked under his arm, he followed Avall’s footsteps, at the best pace he could manage, to the armory.

  Avall was turning the corner at the opposite end of the corridor when Eddyn reached the last landing and entered that same hallway. Avall was empty-handed. Eddyn was therefore the first to see the entire ensemble.

  Helm, sword, and shield. All under velvet shrouds of red, white, and black respectively. The best works of their age.

  Weapons and armor fit for a King.

  Finished.

  And waiting.

  But he had no time to wait, if he would fulfill the task he’d laid upon himself the nig
ht he’d returned to find Eron at war. And so he took himself to the tiny suite that had been set aside for him here in the place where everything he knew might end.

  The rest was ritual: something he’d planned for days, yet utterly instinctive.

  Having locked the door, Eddyn syn Argen-yr bathed, letting heat soak the pain from his body, though the water was soon tinged with blood.

  A hot bath first, then a cold one, and then he rose and dried himself. And shaved, and combed his hair, wishing he’d had time for a haircut and body wax, so as to look his best.

  Still, he had clothes that fit. Not the ornate garb of his station, however, but some he’d bought from a tall soldier he’d happened across on one of his infrequent strolls through the camp.

  The garb fit him well—rusty black hose and tight-shirt, worn under a leather tunic and mail hauberk, with a mail coif for his head, and a plain beige Common Clan surcoat that went over all. Vambraces joined it, and greaves, and a cap helm, and simple leather gauntlets.

  Nor was the sword he girded to his side ornate. Still, it had an edge Strynn had honed for him in happier times, and would cut nearly anything. Better no one saw such a weapon until it was necessary. Scowling, he thrust it into a worn leather scabbard, adjusted the folds of his surcoat, and tightened his belt a notch, so that the mail would hang better. And with his hood pulled far over his face, to shroud it in the late-night shadows, he left his rooms. But he did not go as Eddyn syn Argen-yr, cousin to the King, weaponsmith of legend, thwarted lover, convicted criminal, liar, betrayer, fool. Not as any of those things did he leave the back gate of Priest-Hold-Summer. Rather, he went as a plain man at arms he’d chosen to call Eed. And as Eed, it was no problem to find a corps of Common Clan archer-footmen who’d welcomed a swordsman from “the north” into their midst.

  Dawn awaited.

  CHAPTER XXXV:

  RUDE AWAKENING

  (ERON: PRIEST-HOLD-SUMMER-HIGH SPRING: DAY XIII-BEFORE DAWN)

  Div wondered how she’d wound up among the mighty. A year ago, she’d had her hold, her hunting—a kingdom big as all the Wild, if she’d thought of it as such, if a kingdom was a place one did as one would with impunity. And now she had no place at all in any real sense. Nothing that hadn’t been bestowed on her by courtesy or convenience.