Warautumn

by Tom Deitz

  (ERON: TIR-ERON–NEAR-AUTUMN: DAY XVI–MIDDAY)

  If someone had told Avall a day—or an eight—or a quarter—earlier that he would be no more than a passive observer during the fall of the Ninth Face—and probably Priest-Clan along with it—he would have laughed in their face. Fate didn’t work in his life that way. Fate had taken a fancy to him on the day of his conception and had, in retrospect, gifted—or cursed—him with a life that seemed doomed never to be ordinary. Of course he hadn’t thought of it that way at the time. His talents with metal had seemed perfectly normal to him, as had his facility at design. He had been born shortly before the seminal moment of modern Eronese history in the agency of the plague, and had been blessed with two of the most accomplished smiths in generations as teachers and advisers. But, again, he knew no alternative. He’d had a twin sister, so he had never been lonely; and for brotherhood he’d had Rann, who was better than most people’s brothers-by-birth. Finally—

  Where to begin on finally?

  With that preposterous chain of events that had culminated in his assignment to Gem-Hold and all that had precipitated, perhaps? Certainly, any other person confronted with any of those variables would have acted differently. Yet he, a very good goldsmith by his own reckoning, had somehow, through an equally odd set of circumstances, found himself on the throne of Eron—at another seminal moment in its history: two of them, in fact—and had, beyond all hope, survived to see his side ascendant.

  The side that he chose to believe truly was the side favored by The Eight.

  And now, suddenly, Fate seemed to be casting him aside.

  Nor did he object even slightly.

  Still, he had to go through the motions of being King a little longer.

  Which was why he was sitting on a makeshift throne that had been set up in the Court of Rites in anticipation of an execution that had been capriciously relocated at the last possible moment. And that had to be Fate, too; for nothing of what had happened in the Hall of Clans there at the last could have occurred anywhere but where it had happened.

  Even this seat had been Fated, he supposed: set up so that he could witness that in which he could not participate.

  And curse his wounds for that, too; because the last thing he needed to be doing when more things needed to be done quickly and well in Tir-Eron than had ever been done before was sitting.

  The victory was still imperiled, after all, maintained as it was by a few loyal and more-than-competent friends and an army of clanless folk, who had not existed as an army half a day gone by—some of whom had not even held swords that far back.

  But they were at it now: enforcing his will, though it was Vorinn they—rightly—idolized, not him.

  Vorinn, they liked because there was nothing not to like. Avall, they not so much liked as feared.

  All because of the regalia. More precisely, all because of the Lightning Sword. Of course it was gone now: buried beneath the rubble of Sarnon’s dome, and probably smashed past repair in the process. But that fact seemed of minor consequence to those who had seen what it could do, besides which, he still had the helm and the shield, one at his feet, one at his right hand.

  For that matter, he still had a sword that could reasonably well pass for the Lightning Sword to those few who had not seen the two together. Why, it was even set with gems, though Zeff had put them there, not Avall himself, and that made all the difference. That sword was like him, he reckoned: basically well made but now tragically flawed past more than occasional—and risky—using.

  So Avall simply remained where he was, wearing the first crown anyone could find in the Citadel, and robed in a reasonable simulacrum of the Cloak of Colors, watching folk scurry around the Court of Rites securing a Kingdom that was still, until Sundeath, legally his to rule.

  He could wait that long, he supposed, but no longer. And then—

  Better not to think about that now! He was still King and this was his Kingdom, and while he could not do much of anything until the wounds in his thigh and back healed—which he knew they would, and preternaturally rapidly—he could still oversee the swift and proper execution of his orders.

  Actually they were mostly Vorinn’s orders now—Vorinn, who had once again arrived expecting a fight and hadn’t got one, and was even now overseeing what were still occasional, but very real battles, as Priest-Clan’s secondary officers and chiefs mounted sporadic, if futile, resistance.

  Vorinn’s advice had been simple. A quarter of their combined forces had been dispatched to Priest-Hold to deny anyone entrance or exit until that person’s loyalty could be confirmed. A quarter remained here at the Citadel, with one third of that number constituting a personal guard for Avall; another third, under Merryn, searching the Hall of Clans for residual rebels; and the remainder, under Tryffon himself, searching the Citadel for the same.

  As for the rest of the clanless army: They had been dispatched down the Ri-Eron, to search each hold and hall as they came to it and depose any rebels they discovered, while summoning any clansmen with pretensions of being Chief to audience with Avall.

  He wished he had the Sword of Air to ensure the truth of the oaths some of them were already swearing, but that was back at Ninth Hold. In the interim, he found that even the rumor (or threat, more often) of intervention from the Lightning Sword was generally more than sufficient to turn the tide of self-preservation in loyalty’s direction.

  He missed Rann, though—and Strynn, and the rest. But there was no going back to either of them—not yet.

  And so, he sat, waited, hurt a very great deal, and bled less and less frequently from his wounds, while he drank more wine than was good for him, ate everything in sight, and tried to look Kingly while not moving his right hand more than required.

  That had to be Fate, too: making the decision for him he still, in his heart, wasn’t certain he could have made.

  And so time passed, and finally those he had dispatched on various errands began to return with their reports.

  Merryn was first to arrive. Breathless and dusty, yet obviously very pleased with herself, she came striding out of the Hall of Clans with a bounce in her step, a grin on her face, and two dozen Ninth Face archers and half that many Priests neatly chained together behind her, the whole under close escort by her clanless militia. A final word to the fellow she had appointed as her second, and she dashed up the steps to stand before Avall. Her cloak belled out behind her, and it took him a moment to realize that it was not the one she had worn earlier, but one of Warcraft crimson.

  “There’s a dead Priest back there in the Hall who claimed to be War’s Craft-Chief,” she announced airily. “He managed to escape from the Hall about the time the first arrow hit you—opportunistic little bastard, I must say. I, uh, convinced him to tell me where the rest of War-Hold’s elite had got off to, and he said that those who hadn’t died when the hold was torched had gone to rally Vorinn’s brother in North Gorge—though he wasn’t supposed to know that. They should be about two days march north of here—which means they can be here tomorrow night if we give them good reason. If you’ve got a spare herald and a spare horse, I’d suggest you make contacting them your first priority, since your army can’t get here in less than two eights.

  “That was one reason they hurried Tyrill’s execution,” Merryn continued. “She was the last person with any real power in the gorge that they could actually lay hands on. I think their initial intention was to treat her much as the Ninth Face treated some of their hostages—cut off a bit at a time—except that it wouldn’t have worked in her case.”

  Avall scowled. “And you think you can trust this man? It sounds like he was trying to play both sides.”

  Merryn nodded. “He was. But I also think he was trying his best to look out for the clan with which he had been entrusted. He’d been Hold-Priest at War before the coup, and knew a lot of people there. He … wasn’t happy with things as they were. In fact, I suspect the Ninth Face would soon have branded him a trait
or.”

  “But you killed him?”

  Merryn shook her head. “He asked for my knife and killed himself. That’s why I think he was telling the truth. He knew—or thought he did—that he was a dead man regardless. His last words were ‘people trusted me, and I’ve destroyed that trust, and I can’t live without being trusted.’ ”

  Avall gnawed his lips. “Not a bad way to die. Now, what about the Citadel?”

  “I’m on my way there as soon as I finish here.” She indicated the prisoners with her sword. “I thought we’d house these folks in the dungeons beneath the Court, since they’re likely to be the highest-placed folks around, which means they’re the biggest threat. Once things settle down I’d suggest they be put to work searching for bodies in the Hall. That way they’ll be able to see the price of treason up close and stinking before they have their own trials.”

  Avall nodded sagely. “Well thought out, as I would expect. I’ll trust you with it. Leave as many guards in the dungeons as you think you need, then divide the rest between Tryffon and Vorinn, unless some of them want to take a rest and let some of these folks who are guarding me take their place.”

  Merryn sketched a minimal salute and bounded away. Avall followed her with his eyes toward the slot in the Court where the stairs to the dungeons exited. She started down, then halted in place as she met two people coming up—slowly. One person Avall recognized instantly, one he did not. “Lyk,” he said to no one. “And—”

  Merryn and Lykkon spoke briefly, then two of the soldiers split off to support the figure with Lykkon.

  But only when they were a dozen steps from the throne did Avall recognize that other man.

  “Ilfon!” he cried. “Hail to you, Lord Chief of Lore!”

  Ilfon smiled wanly, but looked pained and a little dazed as he let the two men help him to a seat two steps below Avall’s makeshift throne. “Majesty,” he began, “I fear I cannot properly stand and therefore cannot properly bow, but I greet you as well as I can, and thank you for the timeliness of your arrival.”

  “They hamstrung him!” Lykkon broke in furiously. “They were going to kill him at noon!”

  “He’s free now,” Avall replied. “And I’m more grateful than I can say, though what good two cripples can do the Kingdom, I have no idea.”

  “Yours will heal,” Lykkon grumbled. “His won’t. And I have a score to settle on that account—when the time comes.”

  “When the time comes,” Ilfon echoed. “And when the Law allows. For now—”

  “Sit with me, if you will,” Avall told him. “I know you must be eager to resume your duties and reclaim your hold, but I’m not sure that will be possible in the next little while. In the meantime, tell me what you will of what has transpired here—or rest; whichever pleases you.”

  “Both,” Ilfon sighed. “But what would sweeten the telling of what is mostly a grim, sour tale would be a mug of wine—and perhaps a little imphor, to dull the pain …”

  Avall refilled his goblet and passed it down to Ilfon with his own hand, while a self-appointed page bustled off to find another vessel. “I know where is some imphor,” the man who had churgeoned him earlier, and who was still lurking solicitously nearby, offered.

  “Get it,” Avall commanded. “And see if you can locate a sedan chair, for later.”

  “My pleasure, Majesty,” the man murmured, and departed at a run.

  Half a hand passed, which Avall spent listening to Ilfon recount the events that had led to his capture. As the older man spoke, Avall was filled with a new appreciation of Tyrill. All his life he had thought of her simply as a hard old woman, given to arrogant rages and ruling her Hold with a tyranny that was all but legend—but which had also produced the best smiths since Eron was founded. Yet he had always taken her loyalty for granted—until he had actually seen it in action, first in the remaking of the shield that lay against his throne, and now, via Ilfon’s report, in her final days as an underground assassin. It had also been she who had secured and coordinated the few messengers who had managed to get out, not only to the King, but also to the Chiefs of the other gorges. If anyone was responsible for the army now marching from North Gorge under Vorinn’s brother, it was she.

  “We will have to recover her body if we recover no others,” Avall said flatly. “And frankly, I’m thinking we should leave the Hall exactly as it is: in ruins, as a reminder and a memorial. But I want Tyrill exhumed. I want to give her a proper burial.”

  “And you have to recover the Lightning Sword,” Ilfon added with a smile. “No, don’t worry. But it’s true; otherwise, it’s going to be too much temptation, and half a span of mortared stone above it won’t deter anyone who’s really power-hungry.”

  Avall frowned in agreement. “I know. And I hate it, and that’s all going to be to do again. I—” He broke off, for Vorinn was approaching—on horseback, through the ruins of the Citadel’s gates. (And fixing those would keep Smithcraft busy for a while, he reckoned—once they finished supplying enough chains to confine an entire clan.)

  Vorinn rode to the foot of the wall around the seats, then dismounted easily. Like Merryn, he had found a cloak in his clan colors. Avall wondered if the story of its acquisition was as portentous as his sister’s had been.

  “Majesty,” Vorinn began, after a bow even sketchier than Merryn’s. “I am pleased to report that all halls and holds on North Bank as far as Stone are secure—which, I’m sure you will be pleased to know, includes Smith-Hold-Main and Argen-Hall-Prime. I am also—‘honored’ would be a more appropriate word than ‘pleased’—to report that we have found Tyrill’s body, and with it, the Lightning Sword, the latter of which I have with me now.”

  And with that, he reached to his scabbard and withdrew, indeed, that already-fabled weapon and extended it, hilt-first, to Avall.

  Avall took it because he had to, but felt a keen reluctance to touch it.

  “Where …?” he demanded, to distract himself.

  “In her rooms in Argen-Hall,” Vorinn replied. “In her own bed, as a matter of fact—with her bonds still on her and the sword still in her hands.”

  Avall felt his heart double thump, and found himself utterly at a loss for anything to say.

  “I felt exactly the same way,” Vorinn confided with a grim smile. “But I’ve had the whole ride here to compose myself—and to try to figure out what happened, and only one thing makes sense.”

  “That she got her final wish,” Avall finished for him, nodding in realization. “She knew she was dying—from the arrow, if not from the dome—and like anyone would, she wanted to escape, and naturally the image in her head—the thing she wanted most—was to be in the place where she had always felt most secure. And I guess a dying wish is pretty powerful, because the sword jumped her there before the dome could—”

  He broke off, unable to complete the sentence because the images that rode with the words were far too terrible.

  “Just in time for her to arrange herself on her back, in her own bed, with the sword lying along her length and both hands gripping the hilt.”

  “I hope you remember it well, Vorinn,” Avall whispered, “because that’s the image I want to grace her tomb.”

  “It will be done as you have requested, never fear,” Vorinn acknowledged. “When I am King.”

  “When you are King,” Avall echoed. “And let me say again: that phrase has a marvelous sweet sound indeed.”

  EPILOGUE: DREAMS

  (ERON: NINTH HOLD–NEAR-AUTUMN: DAY XXV–SUNSET)

  “Peace,” Rann said softly. “It’s one of those things you never appreciate until you don’t have it, and then it becomes the most precious thing in the world, because without it there isn’t time for any of the other important things in life.”

  “Like enjoying times like this,” Avall murmured in reply. He leaned back in his rough-carved granite chair and allowed himself in a long, slow swallow from the cup of walnut liquor that was one of his true indulgences. And one he w
ould miss … eventually. Which meant he should not take it for granted now—which prompted another lengthy draught.

  Rann did not reply, comfortable as he was in the twilight that was weaving shadows across the water garden secreted atop the former Ninth Face citadel. A few stars glittered bravely in the purple sky behind them, but the sky Avall and his bond-brother faced was the fire-clouded sky of the west. The sun was sinking there, above the Spine, and the rays were painting the whole landscape ruddy gold. The pool a span from their feet looked like an ingot of molten metal. They had swum there earlier, while the air was still warm enough to allow such things. And though the water was warmed by the same hot springs that heated the hold, the autumn wind was too chill to permit lingering once the sun went down. Already night breezes were stirring the fur-trimmed robes Avall and Rann had donned at the end of that most practical of pleasures. Merryn had watched them silently—but she was often silent these days.

  “—Like enjoying making,” Rann continued eventually. “Like enjoying … love. Neither of those things ought ever to be hurried.”

  Merryn rose listlessly from where she had curled in a nest of cushions to the right. She paced the narrow pavement before Rann’s and Avall’s seats, then stopped, gazing east. “Peace,” she mused. “It’s hard to believe that what we’ve got right now doesn’t extend everywhere. But it doesn’t, not in Tir-Eron.”

  “Not like we have it here,” Avall agreed. “But it’s coming there too, merely at a slower pace. Yet every day something is better there than it was. One more stone is laid in the restoration of a building. One more person—one more good person—is confirmed in the Chieftainship of a clan. Someone who’s been thought dead is found alive, or someone who’s been missing is confirmed dead, and even that starts their survivors healing. It will be slow, but it will happen.”

  “And faster, once the Royal Army gets there, which should be any minute now.”

  Avall snorted amiably. “That used to be my army. And I don’t miss it.”