Warautumn

by Tom Deitz

  “Which is a polite way of dismissing us,” Lykkon chuckled, as he, too, rose to his feet, giving Bingg, who had dozed off, a wickedly effective yank in the process. “Come, cub,” Lykkon muttered. “Let’s find you some proper squire’s livery. You’re way too small to be a soldier.”

  Suddenly Avall was alone with Rann. Rann moved up two chairs to claim the one beside Avall: his former Regent’s Chair. “I know what you’re thinking about,” he said, “or rather, who.”

  Avall raised a brow but did not reply. Instead, he slid the bottle toward his friend. Rann took a sip obligingly, then stared at it dubiously and drained the bottle. “Actually, what I’m thinking,” Avall murmured, “is that, now that the ‘problem of Gem-Hold’ does seem to be over, we’ll be moving farther away from them than ever. I don’t like being that far away. Especially when I don’t even know how far away ‘far away’ is.”

  “It’s hard, isn’t it?” Rann agreed. “When they’re with you, sometimes you wish you had your own space again—your own distance. But when they’re gone …”

  Avall patted his hand, then grasped it fiercely. “Only a little longer, Rann. I keep telling myself that. Only a little longer. But I keep waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “Waiting,” Avall sighed, “to be happy. No, let me change that—I’m relatively happy now. Let me say … waiting to be content.”

  Rann regarded him levelly. “Something tells me that’s never going to happen to either of us—at least not in Eron.”

  “At least not in Eron,” Avall repeated sleepily, and said no more. And then fatigue ambushed him indeed and gave him contentment of another kind: in soft and dreamless slumber.

  CHAPTER XXXI:

  BENEATH THE CITADEL

  (ERON: TIR-ERON–NEAR-AUTUMN: DAY XI–MORNING)

  Of the myriad possible ways Tyrill had thought to end her days, none had involved incarceration in a prison cell. And certainly not in the ones beneath the Citadel, where the only light came from a rationed one candle per day and what could be coaxed down a dozen levels from outside by a system of shafts and mirrors. Unfortunately, today was gloomy, cold, and rainy, and the outside light was dim—which was probably just as well. Her spirits were dim, too: the dimmest they had been since she had begun her back-street rebellion. How that was going now, she had no idea. Elvix hadn’t told her whether she had distributed more blowguns to would-be partisans, and in that Elvix was probably wise. As for Ilfon: she had heard absolutely nothing—not since her own imprisonment began. Priest-Clan could be gathering evidence against both of them, she supposed, but a more likely supposition was that the Kingdom was in such disarray there wasn’t time to see her properly disposed. Which could be good—if they managed to forget about her long enough for someone (she had no idea who) to effect a rescue—or bad, if that chaos resulted in summary execution without trial.

  In any case, it was good to be indoors and relatively warm, for the weather had changed abruptly and the wind and rain were cold—the kind of cold that made her bones ache at the best of times, which these were not. She doubted, frankly, that she would have been able to maintain her previous level of activity much longer anyway.

  But the waiting was getting to her. Pacing hurt too much, and the light was too uncertain to read by; she was therefore reduced to sleeping and remembering. Inevitably, too, many of those memories centered around her two-son, Eddyn: dead now, and a hero and a traitor all at once—which seemed to be the lot of her sept of the clan. He had even been imprisoned, for destruction of a masterwork—for which offense, oddly enough, he had never stood trial. She wondered suddenly if he might not have been housed in this selfsame cell. It was certainly possible.

  In any case, she waited, and then she dozed, and when she awoke again, it was to the sound of booted feet approaching in the corridor beyond the thick oak door. She sat up where she had lain, swung her legs off the bed, and composed herself, wishing she had a comb and a mirror, but grateful that her captors had given her a warmer and more serviceable dress than the one she had been wearing when she and Ilfon had been taken. Sooner than she had really expected, the tread stopped, a loud knock sounded, and a woman called, “Lady Tyrill, your trial will begin in one hand; I have come to see that you arrive in the Hall of Clans in a manner befitting your station.”

  A key promptly rattled in the lock, and an instant later the door opened to admit a hard-faced, middle-aged woman in Ninth Face livery: a woman bearing a pile of neatly folded clothing. Two men stood guard in the hallway behind her, but withdrew when the woman closed the door, though Tyrill did not hear them depart.

  “I appreciate your consideration,” Tyrill acknowledged tightly. And calmly began sorting through the garments. They were her garments, which surprised her—a full set of ceremonial kit in Argen-yr’s colors and heraldry, in fact, but only in the colors of a rank and file member of that clan. There was no Craft-Chief’s tabard, for instance, nor any other sign of special status, the omission of which had to be deliberate. Not for the first time did she wonder who, exactly, now exercised sovereignty over her former domain. Someone from the sept of Priest-Clan devoted to Craft, she had heard, which made sense, even if it was not encouraging. But which someone, she had no idea.

  Far too soon the last laces were tied, the last buckle set, the last sash cinched and Tyrill found that she was ready. Her attendant—she never knew the woman’s name—reached for the cane in the corner, but Tyrill shook her head. “Today,” she said stiffly, “I will do without it.”

  The woman scowled as though she were about to protest but had thought better of it, and nodded instead. Crossing to the door, she rapped twice, then called out, “Servants of the Ninth Face, we are ready.”

  The lock rattled again and the door opened. Tyrill took a deep breath and, without looking back, stepped into the corridor beyond, where she fell in line between the two guards. Her legs pained her dreadfully, but she persevered. Literal pain of the body was nothing to the pain in her heart. Yet when two more guards joined them at the top of the stairs, she could not resist leaning close to her female attendant’s ear. “Four guards for one old woman?” she rasped. “What do they think I am? Or, a better question: What do you think they fear?”

  “You are the most feared woman in the Kingdom,” the woman replied flatly. “That is a fact, and always has been.”

  Tyrill could only ponder that comment as she continued on. And wonder how she could turn that knowledge to her advantage.

  Unfortunately, she had reached no useful conclusion when she found her party ascending stairs again. Soon enough, they were entering one of the various holding chambers that encircled the Hall of Clans, where the Council of Chiefs, in the presence of the King, conducted the affairs of Eron’s legal government.

  They tarried there barely long enough for her to note a flurry of conversations taking place beside the outer door—and then her guards closed in upon her and ushered her down yet another corridor and through another door. It opened soundlessly when she arrived, and at a whispered, “Lady, if you will, go forward,” from he who seemed to be chief of that small band, she found herself walking through a door she had never expected to pass through—and certainly not from that direction.

  Called the Door of Law, that ornate bronze portal was one of eight that opened onto the dais in the Hall of Clans, in this case, between the statues of Law and Fate. The Throne showed ahead and to the left, with the Stone invisible beneath it. No one sat the Throne, Tyrill noted, which was a small blessing in that it implied that Priest-Clan had not yet usurped the Sovereign’s role along with everything else, though with Sundeath approaching, it was certainly no given that they would not. It would be interesting to see, she supposed—if she lived long enough to see any such thing at all.

  She did not get to tarry on the dais longer than it took to march, under escort, to a chair carved from solid marble that had been set up at the point where the Hall’s radiating aisles met before the Stone. The Chair of
the Accused, it was: the chair only erected for and occupied by those under trial for treason. Which she should have known, since treason was the only crime that could be tried before the Council per se.

  But it would require the Council to ratify a conviction, and she saw no Council here. Not that she had time for a sure accounting—the soldiers blocked too much of the view for that, never mind the fact that she had to look down to be certain where to set what were suddenly very unsteady feet. Even so, it was easy enough to observe that close to three-quarters of the seats on the floor of that vast, domed, and faceted chamber were vacant, and that even the observers’ galleries, where in the past a selection of clanless chosen by lot could observe government in progress, were not as crammed with the curious as they, by rights, should have been.

  There was a limit, it seemed, to Priest-Clan charisma—or coercion.

  Not that she didn’t recognize a few faces out there: mostly former sub-subchiefs from minor septs of less powerful—and therefore hungrier—clans and crafts, like Itakk of Wax and Afai of Paper.

  Condemned she might soon be, but that condemnation, it appeared, would not be rendered, as Law required, by anyone who was in any true sense her peer.

  She would find out soon enough, she supposed, though without the King to sign a death writ, no execution of High Clan man or woman was even remotely legal, and would constitute murder in its own right.

  Not that such niceties seemed likely to stop Priest-Clan now.

  And it would be Priest-Clan conducting this travesty of a trial, she saw, as their traditional door opened and all eight of the Chief Priests filed in. No, all nine, she amended with a start; there was a new robe, mask and color at the end of the familiar file, this one dressed in white and midnight blue. She found herself straining forward, gazing at those figures that now ranged themselves across the dais in a semicircle behind the Throne and Stone, seeking to recognize even one from her countless appearances before them in her capacity as Craft-Chief. She could not be certain—masks, robes, and cloaks deliberately obscured most of the bodies that wore them—but she would have bet everything she had ever owned that not one person before her had worn those masks and robes before the coup. Which effectively confirmed the widespread rumor that Priest-Clan’s former chiefs had either been killed, exiled, imprisoned, or forced to abdicate. She would find no allies now, she feared. And felt more alone than ever.

  Yet custom had not been abandoned entirely. One of those who entered—it should have been whichever Priest had presided over court most recently—carried one of the Royal Crowns, which she (as the Priest’s voice later revealed) summarily deposited on the seat of the Royal Throne, signifying the King’s implicit sanction, if not presence. That accomplished, the same Priest produced a large, eight-sided die from a pouch at her side, which she proceeded to roll upon the top of a small table that stood at one side of the dais solely for that purpose.

  Tyrill could not resist a smirk. No one had found time to contrive a nine-sided die.

  “I remove myself from consideration,” the Priest intoned, as if to answer Tyrill’s concern. “And Fate has ordained that Man will oversee these proceedings.” With that she melted back to her place among her fellows.

  Another stepped forward immediately, this one wearing a mask of finely carved and painted wood, of which one side was subtly different from the other so as to represent male and female. As also did the cut of the Priest’s loose-woven robe of natural wool, for Man—as Man existed within The Eight—was androgynous. The Priest likewise carried a leather-bound staff—the leather being, it was said, human skin taken from some previous Priest of Man upon his or her demise.

  The Priest had reached the prescribed position now: to the right of the Throne, facing Tyrill. A pause, and Man rapped the staff smartly on a tile of a particular type of stone known for its resonance. “Chiefs, Clansmen, and clanless, all!” he (by his voice and shoulders) began. “This session of the Council of Chiefs is now open, for ancient rite ordains that it be open this day, with or without the presence of the Sovereign, who has not deigned to grace us with his presence in nearly a quarter of a year.”

  A pause, then: “We are nevertheless charged to conduct the Kingdom’s business, and are come here today to assure that so important and ancient a charge is obeyed. Alas, foremost among those items we must address today is the matter of the Kingdom’s security as manifested in those entrusted with that security, in the persons of this Council and—in the absence of royal security—in the security provided by my comrades here and elsewhere in Priest-Clan.

  “With that in mind, it is therefore my sad duty to pronounce a charge of treason against the person you see before you, who once was a member in good standing of the fellowship hereabout. And in light of that, and in light of my selection as Priest and Officer of the Day, it falls to me to read those charges.”

  Another pause, while a scroll was brought forward by one of the guards who flanked the assembled Priests at either end.

  Man took it without looking, and let it unroll, feeding it slowly through his hands.

  “Be it known to all within hearing that upon this day, the Eleventh of Near-Autumn in the first year of the reign of Avall I (incipient), and in his name in absentia, that a charge of high treason is herewith proclaimed against Tyrill san Argenyr, of late Craft-Chief of Smith, acting Clan-Chief of Clan Argen, and Regent in Tir-Eron in the absence of His Sovereign Majesty until her abdication of all these duties in defiance of proper rite and procedure.”

  It was all Tyrill could do to sit still, and the tally of charges not truly begun. How dare they accuse her of abdication, when it had been these very Priests who had orchestrated that—well it certainly had not been an abdication! Never mind that she had indeed presided over the selection of a new Clan-Chief—who had barely taken office before she was assassinated. As for the Craft-Chieftainship—that was a matter for election within the clan, and none of Priest-Clan’s concern.

  In any case, Man was continuing.

  “Be it known that a charge of treason shall be leveled for any act that by effect or intent seeks to undermine the duly consecrated power and authority of either the Kingdom of Eron or its Sovereign, especially in such wise that these actions cause unwanted death or destruction of the property of the Kingdom and Crown or those charged with the protection of this property or the execution of the Kingdom’s Laws.”

  Which was not the text Tyrill recalled. Then again, Law was one of The Eight, so perhaps His Priest had been granted a revelation.

  But not by drinking from Law’s Well. That was still sealed, she was pleased to have heard reported.

  “In light of these names and conditions,” Man continued, “be it therefore known that Tyrill san Argen-yr did at diverse times hereinafter listed contrive the unlawful death by assassination of those charged with enforcing the security of this City, Gorge, and Kingdom while said City, Gorge, and Kingdom were in a state of crisis and under Council Law in the absence of either the Regent or the King, and by so doing did, by all intents, threaten the security of this Council itself, its officers, and through them, the State. Be it known that these assassinations numbered at least thirteen, with others being suspected. And know that not only did Tyrill san Argen-yr contrive these assassinations, but that she coerced others into equivalent acts of civil disobedience, in which we see even more clearly her true intent to undermine the lawful government.

  “And know that His Majesty having been given more than ample time in which to address this matter, in which time he has done and said nothing to contravene it, this Council therefore has no recourse but to claim that authority unto itself, for which there is ancient precedent, and set forth this trial in a fit and timely way.”

  Another pause for breath, and to let the words sink in, then the Priest of Man spoke one last time.

  “Evidence to support these charges having been given to this Council in writing in advance of this assembly, does anyone have anything to say in defe
nse of the accused?”

  Tyrill’s heart leapt, though she knew it was hope in vain. Yet surely, somewhere in this assembly there was someone with a fragment of nerve, guts, or backbone. Someone who would remember Tyrill-who-was. Tyrill who had given all she had to give in support of her Clan and Kingdom.

  But there was only silence.

  Nervous silence, perhaps, punctuated by coughs, clearings of throats, and the scraping of uneasy feet.

  But not one word in her defense.

  “Cowards,” she said clearly.

  The word broke the silence like a scream in the depths of night.

  “Cowards,” she repeated, as she strove to stand—which took more effort than she ever displayed.

  “Cowards,” she said a third time, and this time she faced them fully. “And no, I do not speak out of line,” she snapped, glaring at the Priest of Man. “I know the Law to a finer degree than you will ever know it, and I know that I am entitled to make a statement now. I have merely spared you the trouble of formalizing that request. I hope you appreciate the concern I feel for the well-being of those who have entrusted themselves with the keeping of this Kingdom.

  “And now that I have freedom to speak,” she continued, “I will do so, fearing nothing, for pain I can endure, as I endure it now, and I have nothing to fear from death. How is this? you may ask. Listen, and I will tell you how this is so.

  “Whether you convict me now—which I have no doubt you will do—or convict me later, makes small difference. I am old. Old people die. If I die now, I die in command of my faculties, but full of pain, and in both regards death would be a blessing. If I am cleared of charges and yet remain incarcerated, my life becomes my own to take when I find the means. If I am returned to the freedom that is indeed mine by right—for I am innocent of these charges, since all these acts of which I am accused were perpetrated out of self-defense—I will return to precisely the same means and methods that sustained me before my arrest.