Warautumn

by Tom Deitz

  Rann’s reply was to follow Avall’s suggestion. A moment later, bare to the waist, they confronted the door. Avall produced a key.

  Rann raised a brow. “More diary records?”

  Avall nodded, then inserted the key in a lock and entered.

  Though he knew what to expect from what lay beyond, he was still not prepared for the amount of hot steam that gushed out at him. His body was soaked in an instant, his hair reduced to a cap of limp black tendrils. “Apparently the heat is somewhat variable,” he told Rann with a nervous chuckle. “Not that it really matters. What does matter is that we’re entering what is effectively a sacred place, so behave with that in mind. As I said, you can watch all you want, but don’t try to stop me unless you feel that my life is in danger. You’ve been around gems enough that you should know the signs.”

  Rann’s eyes went huge. “Gems? Here?”

  Avall shook his head. “No, but their kin, perhaps. Now, come on. And close the door but don’t let it latch.”

  He didn’t wait to see if his orders were executed, merely stepped boldly into the swirling steam. “It’s a cavern,” he murmured to the dark shape in the mist that was Rann. “Happily, there are glow-globes.”

  Even so, it was hard to see through the thick white vapor, though he continued to make his way forward, groping a little when the stuff grew too opaque to reveal distinguishable landmarks. Fortunately, the ground was fairly level, though he stepped in pools of water once or twice before he realized that there was an actual path: a strip of white sand half a span wide that rose a finger above the surrounding terrain. Pillars of natural stone showed all about, rising from the ground or dripping down from the roof, often to meet in the center. Glow-globes had indeed been strewn about at intervals, like nests of brighter white upon the natural dark stone.

  In spite of their illumination, it took considerable time to locate what he sought. He had been in that place before—once—but not from that direction. Still, when he finally reached his goal, there was no mistaking it. A small pool—no more than a span across—showed among the pillars, surrounded by more of the white sand, and facing it, with its back to the side from which Avall had entered, a low seat had been carved from one of the dripstone columns. Avall sank down there, grateful to be off his feet and enjoying the healing heat of the steam, even as it threatened to boil him alive. A finely wrought gold chalice sat on the ground to the right of the seat, precisely placed to be found by feel alone. Avall’s fingers curled around it, and he studied it for a moment, probing the hard knobby gold work with sensitive artist’s fingers. “Behold the Well of the Ninth Face,” he whispered to Rann, who had squatted to his left. Without further word, Avall leaned forward and scooped the chalice full of water from that Well.

  Pausing but briefly, he closed his eyes and drank. His hand was already moving to replace the vessel when the first vision found him.

  The last time he had been here—shortly before his capture—he had been visited by a vision of the island in the lake. He’d had no idea what it meant then, only that it was a thing to be desired. He had come here this time purposely seeking some vision of the future, so that he had some surety that his efforts would outlast the moment.

  What he saw was Strynn—asleep, with Div beside her, and Kylin close by, curled up like a kitten as he typically slept, though not so close that Avall had cause for jealousy. It was a camp in the woods, but not the camp he remembered, which gave credence to Strynn’s comments to Vorinn about returning to the isle in the lake—The Eight knew there had certainly been time to get there. But now that he had seen her, he wanted to talk to her with an intensity he had not experienced since this escapade had begun. And somehow—much as it felt when the gems let him speak across distance—words formed in his mind that he knew were also forming in her head.

  Strynn?

  Avall?

  I am here. I—And then some more primal instinct took over, and he was telling her everything that had transpired since he had departed—but not as words; rather, he spoke with feelings, images, and ideas; as if all his memories were flowing from him into her, much as he had felt when he had earlier shared Vorinn’s memories of the battle. He had no idea how long it lasted, only that it was amazing. More important, his wife now knew that he was safe and sound, that the battle had been a success, and that all their mutual friends—and her brother in particular—were well and relatively happy.

  Yet at the same time, he learned of events on the trek. There was a certain sameness to them that made them hard to dwell on, but he did learn that the party had been attacked by a band of adolescent geens, which had been summarily dispatched, and that the birkit seemed to have taken a mate. They were making slow progress, now that they were down a horse, but no one was in any particular hurry, though they did want to have a permanent shelter in place by winter—in the former geen’s den, if nowhere else. Everyone was prospering, and Krynneth had finally gone hunting with Div and Riff, and had come back with two rabbits—and a grin that could have lit a hold. He looked healthier, too, and Div thought he might soon be declared healed.

  That was all. Love was exchanged, but it was a natural flow of trust and affection that flowed with the other information, like leaves drifting along in water. And then, quite suddenly, that contact dissolved.

  Another image replaced it.

  Another sleeping woman.

  This woman did not lie on a bed pad beneath the stars, however, but on the plainest of cots within a small stone chamber. Avall would have blinked had he possessed actual eyes in that place, for it looked enough like the cell in which Eddyn had been incarcerated to be the same.

  But this was no tall, strapping, dark-haired, High Clan Eronese youth with the broad brawny shoulders of a smith. This was a frail old woman with a cloud of star-white hair fanning around a face that was like fine paper molded across an ivory skull.

  Tyrill! It was less a cry than a gasp.

  And unlike Strynn, who had never truly awakened, Tyrill did rouse enough to realize that actual conversation was possible.

  Avall? So this is what “mind-speech” is like.

  Tyrill? I had not planned this. The Well of the Ninth did this.

  Where are you?

  A third of the way back to Tir-Eron. We have won. Tyrill, take heart, for my army approaches. Then, suddenly, as he recalled her situation. You are in prison!

  A grim, unheard chuckle. Not only that, Avall, I am condemned. If the usurpers here have their way. I will be executed for treason at dawn tomorrow.

  Tomorrow? Avall was aghast.

  Aye. And Ilfon as well—at noon.

  But tomorrow? It is not the time and season, and no one can execute High Clan without direct consent of the King.

  They reckon such … inconveniences no longer to be important. And even delivered thus, Tyrill’s sarcasm was like the crack of a whip.

  It took Avall a moment to think of a response, so completely confounded was he, but then: Tell me the rest, Tyrill: everything you can recall. Do not bother with words. Memories and impressions should be sufficient.

  Sufficient for what?

  To effect a rescue, of course. I do not know how or why yet, but we cannot let this thing happen.

  You are two hundred shots away, Avall.

  Distance does not always matter, Avall replied. Not under some circumstances. I cannot bring an army, but maybe I can bring that which is as strong as one.

  He felt a wash of hope briefly dispel Tyrill’s overwhelming despair. There followed a rush of images, most having to do with clandestine assassinations, but also including Tyrill and Ilfon’s discovery, arrest, and her trial, along with confirmation of where her cell was located. I will not hope for rescue, Tyrill told him when her tale had ended, but I will not be surprised. And I will try my best to be ready.

  And I cannot promise when or how, but it will be as soon as I can manage. Only remember one thing Tyrill: time does not matter to the gems. But, from what I can tell, yo
u apparently do.

  And that was all. Whether he severed the contact in his eagerness to act, or Tyrill did, sensing that any time Avall spent speaking to her wasted time that could be spent effecting her rescue; or whether the power of the Well water had run its course, Avall had no idea. But one thing he did know: There would be at least one more battle. And that battle would come far sooner than he had anticipated.

  CHAPTER XXXIII:

  MASSING IN THE DARK

  (NORTHWESTERN ERON: NINTH HOLD–NEAR-AUTUMN: DAY XVI–JUST PAST MIDNIGHT)

  Maybe this will be the last time, Avall mused, as he waited for the remaining members of his Council to arrive from the various duties, diversions, and errands from which he had hastily summoned them close to a hand gone by. Unfortunately, the enormous honeycombed monolith that was Ninth Hold, though laid out with exemplary logic and precision, was more than large enough to confound the careless to the point of getting them lost entirely, or for even the competent to accidentally elude those dispatched to find them. The upshot was that it had taken most of a hand to get word to the relevant personnel that the King had called an emergency council as soon as could be managed, said meeting to occur in Zeff’s former quarters, which Avall had made his own.

  And that was way too long, Avall reckoned, especially when the fate of two of his staunchest allies in Tir-Eron hung in the balance. Time was flowing away at a fearful rate, the way he saw it, and at a still more fearful rate for Ilfon and Tyrill. And the worst thing was that he wasn’t certain that there was anything that could be done to prevent their impending executions. At least waiting for his Council to arrive gave him time to do some planning, as well as allowing him and Rann an opportunity to change into dry clothes: war gear in his case. Rann had raised a brow at that, but Avall reminded him that not only would it save precious time in the long run, but would underscore the urgency of the still-half-formed plan he hoped, very soon, to be enacting.

  And then—finally—Tryffon came grumbling in, having been located, after much searching, in the armory taking inventory. Which is exactly where he ought to have been, though perhaps not so close to midnight. A moment later, the last two delinquents arrived, armed with a mixture of gasps and apologies, and Avall could finally get down to business.

  He had ordered cordials and cauf, but the only food to hand was leftovers from the feast. Alertness was needed now, and a full stomach was no ally to alertness.

  Once again he tallied them: Rann, Merryn, Vorinn, Tryffon, Preedor, Veen, Lykkon, and Bingg (who had attached himself to the Council, though he was years away from being of age); along with a young woman who had wound up being acting Hold-Warden of Gem (which basically put her in charge of the refugees) and the subchiefs from Ferr and Stone, whom Vorinn had appointed to his Regency Council, and who had never had their warrants revoked. It made for tight quarters around the handsome polished table, and the blue-and-white decor put Avall on edge because of the unpleasant associations it recalled—but there was no time for residual squeamishness now.

  No time for anything except quick, decisive action, and maybe not even for that, if what he was about to propose worked with less than absolute precision.

  “Lords, Ladies, Chiefs, and Councilors,” Avall began. “I apologize for summoning you at so late an hour, especially when I had promised you that, for the first time in a quarter, you could actually sleep in beds tonight. Unfortunately, that may now have to be postponed—for one more night, at least. For what reason? you may ask. And in reply I tell you that I have, a hand ere now, received news that is dire indeed, yet also news, which, if we act on it apace, may save us a great deal more trouble later. Necessity requires that I keep explanations short, but in essence, the situation is this …”

  And with that he recounted the tale of his trip to the Well of the Ninth and what had transpired there.

  “And you believe this … sending to be true?” Veen inquired.

  “I believe it with absolute conviction,” Avall assured her earnestly. “The last time I was gifted with a vision there, it showed me the island in the lake. This time—I’m not certain why I was given a contact with Tyrill, beyond the obvious, but it was clearly for some larger reason.”

  “You think it is The Eight intervening in our lives?” Gem’s new Hold-Warden—Deenah was her name—ventured.

  “I think that’s possible. How else would They intervene save through otherwise random events? Or when our own minds have changed in such a way that we may more easily access Them? But this is not the time to argue theology. No, the question is not even whether to act, but what that action will be and when. I had thought to approach Tir-Eron with an army and perhaps win the day through threat or negotiation, but that choice, it now appears, has been taken from us. Priest-Clan has changed the rules—or chosen to ignore them—therefore, of rules we are likewise free.”

  He paused for a sip of wine, and to try to read the faces of those ranged around the table. Some—the new councilors, mostly—looked confused or uneasy. But there was no time to spare their feelings. “I am not asking for permission or a vote here, comrades,” he continued. “I have a proposition to make, and when I am finished, I will ask for volunteers, though I have some in mind already. But I think what needs to happen is this:

  “You all know by now that we have means in our possession to jump from here to … many places, apparently, though not without risk, and not with certainty. I say this last because the gems do not always take us where we intend to go, or when we want to go there, and that almost all jumping seems to require what might be termed an excess of desire—that is, that for the instant of the actual attempt, whoever would jump desires nothing else in all the world but the goal to which he would have the gems deliver him. Anger is an excellent catalyst—or fear. Maybe even love, though we haven’t tested that much yet. The presence of water also seems to make some aspects simpler, but we’ll need to do a lot of testing to find out how that works, and we don’t have time for that at present. In any case, what I’m proposing is actually fairly simple. A group of us—no more than three, because that’s as many as we have proof can jump the required distance of their own volition—will attempt to jump to Tyrill’s cell and then jump back here with her. There should be no problems, and if there are, we will be armed. I say ‘we,’ because I will be one of those who jump—because I know most about the process and because, though I loathe the notion, I will be wearing the magical regalia, which only I can properly wield. More to the point, I will use it to power the jump. We know it can take three people and a horse, so three people going and four—with Tyrill—coming back should be no problem.”

  “But what about Ilfon?” From Lykkon, who idolized the man.

  “If Tyrill knows where he is, we’ll get her to show us, and try, at minimum, to jump him out of harm’s way. That said, we may have to make two trips—and frankly I don’t know if we can do that. The gems—or our bodies—may not let us. Still, it is incumbent upon us to try.”

  “Why not simply jump to the Citadel, then?” Preedor inquired through a yawn he tried to stifle. “Or to Priest-Hold, and set them all to rout. The sword would surely be adequate for that.”

  Avall shook his head—not that he hadn’t considered precisely what Ferr’s old Chief had suggested. “Because we might wound the body mightily and still not kill the head, and while I think popular support has swung back in our favor, I would be loath to be seen raining lightning bolts down on Priest-Hold. As for the Citadel, it’s unlikely we could catch everyone we would need there if we are truly going to defang them.”

  “But they might be at Tyrill’s execution,” Tryffon countered. “Why not wait until then to attack? Seize her, call down lightning on them, then jump away.”

  “Mostly because that requires cutting the timing too tight,” Avall replied. “And don’t forget, jumping isn’t always precise. Sometimes it takes you to the place or person you desire, sometimes it only drops you close by.”

  Merryn nodded sag
ely. “I agree with Avall, and not because he’s my King and my brother. Spiriting Tyrill and Ilfon away quietly is clearly the way to go, if it can be managed. Imagine the confusion—the excuses and accusations—when they arrive at her cell to take her to execution and discover that she’s vanished from what is presumed to be an escape-proof prison.”

  “It would be worth seeing,” Tryffon agreed. “Not that we’ll get to,” he finished sourly, glancing sideways at Vorinn.

  Avall ignored the rather too obvious hint. “In any case,” he went on, “if we can get Tyrill and Ilfon back here, we’ll have access to their information, which will help tremendously in planning the rest of the campaign.”

  Vorinn stroked his chin, then cleared his throat. Avall acknowledged him. “Vorinn?”

  “I was just thinking, Majesty. You say you will lead this excursion, and I will not contest your right to do so. But it is a risk, especially if you plan—as now seems likely—to dare this endeavor twice, which you must do if you would rescue Ilfon. But I would remind you that we have not one set of magical regalia, but two. Granted, the set Zeff contrived is not perfectly made and may well be wildly unpredictable, but at least one part of it was of sufficient quality and power to jump two grown men on one occasion and three slightly smaller men on another. Would it not therefore behoove us to send two groups, perhaps a finger apart: one to rescue Tyrill, one to seek Ilfon?”