Warautumn

by Tom Deitz

  The page was a boy, she saw—her favorite, in fact: young Talisso—and he looked by turns excited and concerned as he cleared his throat again, then stated plainly: “Lady, you have visitors—from outside.”

  “Show them in,” Evvion replied with more calm than she felt, even as she moved toward Averryn’s cradle. Visitors from outside indeed! Surely the boy knew the stronghold was besieged, with no one going in or out. Still, it was not in her heart to chastise the lad.

  “They” arrived sooner than expected—exactly as Evvion was snugging the blanket beneath her adopted-one-son’s chin.

  At first she did not recognize any of the three people Talisso escorted into the room, clad as they were in nondescript browns and grays of no particular cut, besides being cloaked and hooded. Indeed, it was not until the tallest—and the only male—spoke that she recognized even one of them. “That is the most important child in Eron right now,” that man said softly, in tones Evvion knew.

  “Lord Ilfon,” she cried, astonished. And then the shorter woman with Lore’s deposed Chief swept back the hood that had overshadowed her features, and more important, her cloud of snow-white hair, and she recognized Lady Tyrill as well. And felt a flood of relief more potent than winter wine surge through her soul.

  As for the third—that woman had darker skin than the other two and foreign features—Ixtian features, in fact—and it took Evvion a moment to put a name to her, for all she knew that name very well indeed, though mostly by reputation.

  “Lady Tyrill,” she said automatically. “And … Elvix, is it? Sister to the Ixtian Ambassador?”

  “More his mistress of assassins,” Tyrill shot back in something between a bark and a laugh. “I imagine you’re more than a little surprised to find us here,” she continued, with her characteristic brusqueness.

  “Surprise is … an understatement,” Evvion stammered, as the page busied himself dragging four chairs into the defiant circle of candlelight before the chamber’s solitary window, positioning them so that none faced the outer world—and the besieging army with its brighter and more threatening fires.

  “You wonder how we got here,” Ilfon inserted smoothly, helping Tyrill to a seat before claiming one himself. Elvix sank down in another, leaving Evvion the last. She was gaping like a fool, she realized—and shut her mouth abruptly.

  Tyrill—almost—grinned. “Suffice to say that not without reason is the Chief of Lore considered the third most powerful man in the Kingdom after the Sovereign himself and the Chief of War.”

  “ ‘Authority, might, and knowledge,’ ” Evvion quoted the old proverb. “ ‘On these rocks is a Kingdom built.’ ”

  “Knowledge,” Ilfon echoed. “And the most potent knowledge, wouldn’t you say, is secret knowledge? And among the most potent secrets a man might carry in his mind alone and never commit to writing is where the secret entrances to most of the older holds lie—this one included. Unfortunately, this hold is a fair way downriver from Tir-Eron, and we three have had pressing and ongoing business in the city, so that only tonight were we able to make our way here and move a certain tile in a certain riverside shrine two shots upstream, and thereby access the tunnel by which we passed under the river and so came where the Ninth Face, so far, cannot.”

  “And by which you can escape, should you so choose,” Elvix added, speaking for the first time. “Ixti stands ready to give you and the High King’s heir sanctuary, should you feel inclined to dare the journey.”

  “I—This is much to digest in a short time,” Evvion choked, refilling her wineglass and motioning for the page to bring more. The chamber was now guarded, she saw when he opened the door: Zolan and Ilb stood in the corridor flanking the entrance, solid as the stone of the mountains. Then, finally: “Why did I not know of this secret?”

  “Because only Clan-Chiefs and the Chief of Lore know of such things,” Ilfon replied. “And your Clan-Chief is dead.”

  “Which is only one of many secrets we must discuss tonight,” Tyrill added impatiently. “And only one of many grave tidings we must convey. And the gravest of those, I fear, is that the former High King, Gynn syn Argen-el, is dead as well.”

  Evvion felt her heart skip at that: the death of a King reported so matter-of-factly, though why the death itself should surprise her, she had no idea. Gynn had been effectively dead since that unfortunate moment last spring when a rock hurled by an explosion during the Battle of Storms had shattered his helm and, along with it, most of the back of his skull. He could breathe, moan, and eat with difficulty, but that was all.

  “We know little,” Tyrill continued, studying Evvion’s face intently. “Those who had been nursing him were all loyal to the King—and we know what has befallen those with that loyalty.” She paused, cocked her head. “Or do you? How much of what transpires beyond these walls do you know, anyway?”

  “A few messengers arrived before Priest-Clan’s soldiers did,” Evvion replied. “And a few message birds have come since then. From them we have gained some sense of what transpires in Tir-Eron, but mostly we are left to imagine.”

  “Which can often be worse than reality,” Ilfon put in. “Though I doubt that is true in this case.”

  “Gynn,” Evvion prompted.

  Ilfon shrugged. “It is as Tyrill said: Those who had him in their care … passed from that position, though whether through death or imprisonment, we do not know. With them absent—or simply less vigilant—it is easy to see how a man who teeters on the brink of death could tumble from that precipice.”

  “This was … announced?” Evvion asked.

  “It was. Which in itself is unusual for the Gorge’s new masters. But I suppose they thought it better to be aboveboard about such things, so as to preserve the illusion that they rule honestly and openly, if not by right.”

  Evvion gnawed her lip. “So it would seem. But tell me, then: Why are you here? You spoke of other business—”

  Elvix grinned like a fox, but it was Tyrill who answered. “It appears, Lady,” she began with a wry chuckle, “that I have become a warrior in my old age.” She motioned toward Elvix. “And to give credit where credit is due, I have had aid and inspiration from an unlikely source—a source with whom, two quarters ago, we were at war.”

  Elvix nodded acknowledgment of the compliment but did not speak, though her sharp bright eyes obviously missed nothing.

  “The fact is,” Tyrill went on, “our primary allies seem to be outlanders. We have made some contact with the northern gorges, and may have aid there—possibly even the aid of Strynn and Vorinn’s brother, who, for all his youth, is both a leader of men and a man of action. Report is that he is gathering an army to march south before winter. But we cannot rely on that, and it is out of our hands in any case. No, what we—Ilfon, myself, Elvix, and a few others—have done is to mount our own small secret war against the Ninth Face. Elvix gave us the means—outland blowguns—which, I must say, work passing well if one would commit murder quickly, clandestinely, and with minimal fuss. So far we have confined our efforts to guards, since they are the most visible and the most vulnerable—”

  “And the most susceptible to having their fears played upon.”

  “Which we have done,” Elvix chuckled. “We have played them like a harp. Sounds that have no source. Two of three guards dead and the other left to wonder. Or simply men vanishing—especially those posted farthest from the Citadel. But we have killed soldiers closer to it, too—though not many, for the risk of discovery is high, what with none of us being what one would call inconspicuous.”

  “And what of Ixti?” Evvion demanded. “I know King Kraxxi swore eternal friendship with Avall. But can we count on him?”

  “Kraxxi will come if he is asked,” Elvix replied carefully, “but Avall, or someone whom Kraxxi knows represents Avall without shadow of doubt, must do the asking. His own position is not strong enough for him to set what remains of what I have to admit is a worn and dispirited army marching across the Flat again on persona
l caprice alone. No, much as he hates it, Kraxxi knows he would be better served to remain where he is until his throne is more secure. All that said, he might still come north himself—with his personal guard, who are all utterly loyal to him.”

  “And who would rule the Kingdom, since Kraxxi has no son?”

  “My brother, Tozri, most likely,” Elvix replied.

  “But,” Ilfon stressed, “if an army left Ixti tomorrow, it could not reach here for almost a quarter—almost until Sundeath. And Sundeath, we fear, is the time the Ninth Face have targeted to set one of their own on the throne. And that assumes that army is unopposed.”

  “But what about Avall? Avall is King. Surely he—”

  Ilfon and Tyrill exchanged troubled glances. “Lady, you do not know—?”

  “Know what?”

  “Your son was taken prisoner by the Ninth Face before he could reach Gem-Hold. His army continued on with Rann, Vorinn, and Tryffon effectively in charge. And then something very strange occurred: Avall escaped—by what the one report that has reached us indicates must have been gem-born magic. Yet he did not return to camp—or if he did, it was only for an instant.”

  “And now?”

  “And now,”—Ilfon sighed heavily—“no one knows where he is or what he is about.” Evvion did not reply. Rather, she calmly refilled her glass yet again, drank half of its contents, then stared at the blood-dark vintage for a long moment. “If my son were dead,” she said at last, “I would know.”

  And then, in a stronger voice: “And until I know for certain, I will remain where I am, in case he needs me.”

  Ilfon nodded. “I thought you would. But now, Lady, let us address another matter, and perhaps the most important of the several that brought us here.”

  “Let us,” Tyrill put in, “address the matter of sanctuary.”

  “Sanctuary?”

  “You are not the Hold Warden,” Tyrill continued, “but your voice carries more sway than your rank. And I am here to say that we have means to bring others here for safety—and supplies along with them, if the hold is willing to accept those who bear them. And then, perhaps, someday, we can retake Tir-Eron—or if not, at least preserve the best of what was—and will be again.”

  “Sanctuary,” Evvion repeated slowly. “I must say that word has a marvelous sweet sound. Very well,” she continued. “Let me hear what you propose.”

  And, until shortly before dawn, she heard them.

  The fires were still there the next night, though Evvion’s visitors were not.

  But Clan Eemon’s strongest citadel also had more men to defend it than heretofore, and more supplies with which to defy what was no longer quite so perilous a siege.

  But Evvion still loathed the night, if only because that was the time she had most cause to wonder what strange stars watched over her son and daughter.

  CHAPTER XXIII:

  TO THE NORTH

  (SOUTHWEST OF ERON–HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXXVI–MORNING)

  Avall woke—for the second time that morning—to the sounds of camp being struck and the smell of cauf a-brewing. And to Strynn sitting beside him, tickling his nose with a feather.

  He grinned up at her, even as he batted the instrument of torture away. “I take it you’re better?” he yawned.

  She grinned back. “Much. I—” She paused, looking contrite but too happy to feel much of it. “I did something I probably shouldn’t have, Vall. Once I knew Rann had survived contact with his gem—well, I changed my mind about trying mine and asked Merry for it. And while you four were out starting forest fires, I contrived to cut myself, and … bonded with the gem.”

  “Strynn! Do you have any idea of the risk—?”

  “As much as you,” she replied gravely, setting the feather aside. “But I also remembered that the gems have healing powers, or that mine eased my first pregnancy, at any rate. And I was so sick of—of being sick that I thought it was worth it. And guess what? I learned two things. I learned that my gem doesn’t contain either as much fire or as much death as Rann’s evidently does, and I learned that you’re right: Not only can they heal us, we can also heal them—at least I think we can. You know how we can tell who they like and who they don’t? Well, this time I also felt something like … gratitude. It was very weak, kind of like an old person when they’re sick. But I’m sure I felt it. And I think you’re right about something else, too, Vall; I think they really are alive.” She paused again. “In fact, let me put forth a radical notion that only this moment occurred to me. Suppose it’s not so much that they’re alive, as that they’re actually life itself. Life frozen into a crystal, or something.”

  Her eyes went huge, even as Avall’s did. “That’s way too much to think about this early in the morning,” he groaned. “But I suppose it is worth considering.”

  “That’s all I ask,” she murmured lightly—and with that, she yanked the cover off him and pushed him out of bed.

  Except that “bed” had been a sleeping pad at the edge of a sloping shelf of rock, so that “out of bed” was also off the rock. Avall “oofed” as his bottom struck the ground. Fortunately, the earth on that side of the stone sported a healthy growth of moss, so that nothing was injured save his pride.

  Of course Rann and Lykkon picked that precise moment to glance up from where they had been coiling the rope that had defined the camp’s perimeter. Both burst out laughing, forcing Avall—clad only in his shirte and drawers—to retaliate by rushing toward them. Lykkon sidestepped neatly, but Rann was a breath too late in assessing the situation, with the result that Avall was able to snare him around the waist and wrestle him to the ground. A moment later, they were rolling through the leaves like the boys they still almost were, with Avall laughing so hard he could barely breathe. And then Lykkon chanced to offer one comment too many about style, which prompted both combatants to turn on him. One moment Lykkon was on his feet, the next Avall and Rann were sitting atop him, one pinning his arms, the other his legs.

  “Tickle his belly,” Bingg advised, sauntering up to regard the proceedings with interest—from just beyond easy access range.

  “They do and you die!” Lykkon choked, through an ill-suppressed giggle.

  The commotion had attracted Myx and Riff by then, as well as Krynneth, the former two of whom moved casually to flank Bingg. “You know,” Myx drawled, taking the boy by the arm, “if I’m not mistaken, being ticklish is inherited—and since young Bingg here is Lykkon’s brother—”

  “Half brother!” Bingg corrected, as he tried to bolt.

  Too late.

  Riff’s hand shot out like a whip—and suddenly the boy was prisoned upright between them. And though strong for thirteen, Bingg had not yet had his adolescent growth spurt, while Myx and Riff were full-grown, well-trained soldiers ten years his senior. It was therefore no real contest.

  “Pull his shirte up.” Myx laughed, yanking at the garment’s thigh-length tail with his free hand. Riff added his own efforts, deftly avoiding any number of failed shin-kicks and foot-stomps, so that barely a breath later they had Bingg’s torso exposed from waistband to armpits. “I think a … comparison of sensitivity is in order,” Myx continued. “Who wants to do the honors? Strynn, do you still have that feather?”

  Strynn flourished the object in question fiendishly. “On whom should I begin—and where?”

  Div came charging up, flush-faced, with a sweaty Merryn in tow. “What The Eight? We thought someone was being murdered!”

  “Someone will be,” Lykkon growled. “Probably several someones.”

  Strynn advanced with the feather. “Ah, but you’re a gentleman, Lyk; and I know you’d never hurt an expectant mother.”

  “Not while she’s expecting,” Lykkon gritted back, risking an experimental twist, which failed utterly. “But pregnancy is a temporary condition—and I have an excellent memory.”

  “I do, too,” Bingg added indignantly, daring a twist of his own.

  Div regarded Merryn smugly. “I wo
nder,” she asked Merryn casually, “if they’ve noticed that the groundcover on their wrestling yard is mostly itching ivy.”

  Five sets of gazes immediately sought the earth—six, if one counted Lykkon, who was still pinned by the shoulders with a face full of hair.

  “Oh Eight!” Myx spat, disgusted. And thrust Bingg playfully away.

  Avall likewise noted that the hands pinning Lykkon’s shoulders were knuckle deep in a patch of the irritating herb, and released his grip at once, scrambling awkwardly aside to avoid the rest of the patch, while Rann gave Lykkon an arm up.

  Lykkon—who did tend to take himself too seriously—scowled at them in triumph. “I do keep score,” he huffed. “And I know where everyone sleeps.”

  “So do I,” Avall chuckled. “No hard feelings?”

  Lykkon shot him a dirty look, but shrugged and stalked away, yanking his shirtetail down from where it had become wadded in his armpits.

  Avall couldn’t resist one final prank. Shooting Rann a conspiratory wink, he ran up behind Lykkon, yanked the waistband of his cousin’s hose out far enough to show cleavage, and emptied the handful of itching ivy leaves he was for some inane reason still clutching down the garment, then let the waistband go and ducked for cover.

  Lykkon continued on, airily unconcerned, though he was certainly walking funny. Bingg, behind them, burst out laughing like a crazy man.

  “Evil!” Rann chided, as he jogged up to join Avall.

  Avall reached over to wipe his hand along the angle of Rann’s jaw. “Could be worse,” He smirked. “I could have dropped ’em down the front.”

  The three women—who had all been observing the proceedings with tolerant restraint—rolled their eyes at one another. “And now they’ll have to bathe,” Merryn snorted. “And wash clothes, probably, which means—”

  “There’s no way we’re going to get away before noon,” Div finished for her.

  Strynn sniffed in cheerful disgust and regarded the chaotic camp. “And you know what? If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they contrived that just to get out of working.”