Springwar (10 page)

He’d followed it, then, and sure enough, it had led him to the highest crest of the ridge. He still had time, too—enough to locate the largest section of open ground between the skimpy trees, and to sweep that section bare of snow in a circular patch a span in diameter where the current hummed most strongly.

That accomplished, he found a fallen tree trunk and sat down on it, to divest himself of boots, leggings, hose—everything between his bare feet and the natural world. Setting his jaw against cold that jabbed up into his flesh from the frozen earth, he began to pace the circle in a slow clockwise spiral from outside to inside, trying as he did, to get a sense of which way the principal current ran. Fortunately, he didn’t have to complete the whole circuit to tell. It was as he’d expected: near–right angles to the ridgeline, but on an almost perfect alignment between the dome of the fish camp he could just see behind him and a cleft in another ridgeline on the northern horizon. He knelt there, marked that alignment with his dagger, then returned to the log.

A fumbling at his waist produced a waterskin he’d managed to hide from Eddyn by virtue of its appearing to be empty, and he quickly unscrewed the carved ivory cap. Steeling himself, he tipped it to his lips, almost despairing before he felt that final welcome trickle. Just as well, probably, that this was all that remained. The stuff tasted more like leather than water, and had certainly lost potency since last he’d used it (the ghost priests had maintained their own supply), but he felt the effect already: a vague lightheadedness, as though his brain were not quite connected to his body, yet conversely was more attached to his senses.

Then came the dangerous part—and the part most folks didn’t know about. Moving quickly, he stripped off the rest of his clothes, noting as he did that his upper lip was already starting to ice over and his eyes to tear. The cold went beyond pain—and could kill him in less than a finger unless he found what he sought in a hurry.

Almost dancing across the frozen ground, he returned to the power nexus and lay down, arms outstretched along its major axis, heart centered over the crucial point. That accomplished, he closed his eyes, breathed a certain way, and tried to let himself go.

The cold bit at him, gnawing up from the earth, distracting him. Snow crystals pricked across his flesh, muddling his concentration. Anxiety made him sweat, and he could feel
his naked shoulders, buttocks, and limbs being bound by new ice to the earth.

But that was also where the power lay, and he let it seep up into him through all that cold. Abruptly, the cold vanished—seemed to—and he felt himself at once suspended above the land and merged with it.

Now he had to merge with the sky. Another breath, and he sank deeper into trance—or else it took him deeper. And as he drank the air, he tried also to drink the sky, to feel the wind on his body not as coldness but as a play of pressures and moistures, and then to follow those powers, as the currents in the land flowed through him. It was not a matter of observing weather through time, but of seeing where it came from: of knowing how the winds swirled out there above the Oval Sea, or above Angen’s Spine, and noting which were stronger and more like to come sweeping into the plains.

The rest he’d learned already: what a thunderstorm felt like a-borning. Or a long warm spell, or a blizzard. And as best he could tell, though two blizzards were building up their own power-swirls—one to the east, one to the west—neither would manifest for the next two days, which should be still and clear.

Which was what he’d set out to discover.

If only it hadn’t cost him too much warmth. One thing about witching, one never knew how long one stayed out of one’s body.

A breath felt like inhaling fire, and told him that bits of his lungs had frozen, but it also served to wrench him from that too-dangerous trance. Another, and he sat up, feeling the earth tug at him, ripping shreds of frozen skin and hair from his body. He stood shakily, dashed to the tree, and slung his cloak around his shoulders, grateful for the way the sun had warmed the dark fabric. He dressed beneath it, as fast as numb fingers would allow. Patches of skin showed unhealthy reddening. He would itch tonight, but he doubted he’d suffered permanent damage. One thing was clear, however. He would
not
do this in the Wild again for anyone outside his clan, and only then under orders. And no matter
what Eddyn threatened, he would spend an entire hand, once he returned to camp, sitting by the fire.

Eddyn didn’t argue, however, merely watched in silence as Rrath strode into the common room and helped himself to a double portion of soup. Only when he’d finished eating did Rrath mutter a terse “It’s possible.” And go to sleep.

R
rath crouched beside Eddyn behind a snowcapped block of half-carved stone in a small granite quarry atop a low hill—and stared down at Grinding-Hold.

They’d left the Ri-Eron two shots back—as soon as the hold’s lights showed—and veered off overland, the better to support Eddyn’s sketchy plan. Eddyn had been here before, but the place was new to Rrath, and in spite of himself, he couldn’t help being seduced by the vista before him.

The place
was
impressive. Like most winter holds, it was hewn into the land—in this case, the southern spur of a ridge that the river had bisected. Closer to the shore, additional buildings had been added, some of them aboveground, and a section of the flow had been turned aside beneath its icy crust to power a vast assortment of sheltered wheels and cogs. Year in and year out, they ground, reducing everything that needed such attention in Eron: metallic ores, sand for glass, and grains of every kind.

The only true bridge to span the Ri-Eron outside Eron Gorge arched on stone piers to the nearer side, giving, now that the river was frozen, the appearance of a road lifted above a snowfield. Torches showed along its railing, more for appearance than anything, for the span was empty.

The northern bank was their goal; the ridge was lower
there, and the river shallower—too shallow for grinding. Yet that side was also inhabited.

Most holds housed their livestock in vast stables within their bowels; Grinding-Hold didn’t. Atypically, a separate set of stables had been hollowed in the sweep of the northern ridge, presenting a dozen archways to an exercise ground between the stables proper and the river. It was there that Eddyn intended to secure mounts for the next stage of their journey.

It was his risk, more than Rrath’s, but Rrath had already risked more than he was telling. A moment more they waited, then Eddyn muttered something unintelligible and rose. He tugged his tunic approximately straight, secured his skis and pole, then caught Rrath’s eye. “One thing,” he murmured. “If Avall’s body has made it this far, there’s a good chance these folks have found it. Let me do the talking. You look sick—from exposure, if nothing else. Anyone we meet will understand that. They may want to treat you, but I’ll work around that. If we’re lucky, there’ll only be a couple of grooms doubling as guards.”

“And if we’re not?” Rrath challenged.

“Let’s just say we’d better be.”

Rrath smelled the food before he saw it. The odor—hot meat and spices—was wafting through a badly repaired chink beside the cold-door that filled the centermost of the outer archways, and the largest. There’d been no guard—Eron had no raiders, and banditry was all but unknown. Besides, it was Deep Winter, and even rogues and vagabonds had common sense. Eddyn’s plan was to claim they were hunters who’d lost their way and sought a night’s shelter without troubling the folk in the hold. Certainly their appearance could support that: dirty clothes, greasy hair, and fifteen days’ worth of stubble.

Eddyn eased in front of Rrath, co-opting his position, but Rrath had seen enough. The cold-door opened on a winter-lock, with another door opposite—probably leading to an
access corridor that paralleled the whole thirty-span length of the stables.

“Good a time as any,” Eddyn murmured—and rapped the travelers’ cadence on the thick oak.

After a long pause—and two more sets of raps—Rrath heard footsteps approaching. A small panel opened at head height in the main door. A pale face appeared, rounder than was typical of the Eronese, and, not surprisingly, young—winter holds tended to be staffed by those just beginning their years of service. Rrath waited for him to speak. And tried to look suitably ill.

“Travelers …?” the youth blurted, utterly failing to mask his perplexity.

“Hunters,” Eddyn gave back calmly. “Some beasts have winter coats that make even the cold worth the risk.”

“I … see,” the fellow mumbled, sounding as if he didn’t.

“We lost our way, then saw the lights. We don’t want to bother the folks in the hold—too much carrying on, and we stink. But we’d be grateful for a warm place to stay the night, and some of whatever’s cooking. I’m afraid we don’t have much to offer but dried fish. But if that will suffice—”

“Come in,” the man sighed. “Wait while I shift the bar.”

Rrath heard heavy boards being slid aside, and stood back as the door opened—sideways on rails, as it evolved. A brown surcoat barred with gold clothed their would-be host from neck to knees: the livery of horse sept of Beastcraft. It looked to be hastily donned, and Rrath guessed he was a groom, perhaps doing double duty as a guard.

They shook the snow from their clothing in the winter gate, before moving on to the vaulted access corridor, where a range of door-filled archways mirrored more like that by which they’d entered. Rrath smelled horses—their flesh, their droppings, and the dried fodder on which they’d subsist through the season. More importantly, he’d identified that other smell: fresh-fried sausage.

“I’m Den,” Eddyn volunteered. “My friend is ill,” he continued, ushering Rrath in before him as their host steered
them toward a doorway opposite—probably a lip-service version of a guardroom. Eddyn had given his name first, Rrath noted: a sign of trust. That it wasn’t his true name made no difference under the circumstances.

“It’s been a mild few days,” the groom replied. “I guess you knew that, or you wouldn’t be out this far.”

Eddyn didn’t answer, content to let the two of them be shepherded into a stone-walled common room, with a fireplace at one end and a number of tables, benches, and low chairs set about at random, save for one pair close by the fire. Doors to either side likely led to sleeping quarters and the obligatory bath. The whole was surrounded by the invisible concentric ranges of stalls that fanned out from it to either side. It being too late to be cooking dinner, Rrath suspected the sausage was a late-night snack.

Another young man rose when they entered, scooting two more chairs closer to the fire, before motioning them to sit. His eyes spoke eloquently: curiosity, wariness, and mistrust, all masked by the rites of hospitality. He was a small youth, too, and wiry.

“I’m Gorrinn,” said the fellow who had admitted them, his livery rendering announcement of clan redundant.

“Vil,” his companion echoed, sitting back down to attend the sausages, which were starting to smoke.

“Ath,” Rrath replied, through a cough he hoped would mask the lie. They were invoking hospitality here, and that involved certain protocols.

Eddyn shot him a glare their hosts missed, and joined them, scrounging in his backpack as he did. A moment later, he’d produced the brandy. “Donation for whatever meal you’re cooking. We’ve fish, too, though better can surely be had in the hold.”

“We thank you,” Gorrinn replied formally. “We’ve all the sausage you can eat, though you might want to do your own cooking. Vil tends to burn things.”

Eddyn nodded amiably. “I apologize for troubling you, but Ath and I have been out for days without seeing another living person. With him sick—”

“What troubles him?” Gorrinn broke in, sparing a glance at Rrath. Rrath tried not to scowl at being discussed in the third person.

“Fatigue, mostly, and he got a bit of a chill earlier today. Fell in the river, and it had a good go at him before I got him out and thawed.”

Rrath coughed obligingly and tried to shiver.

“He’s lucky, then,” Vil snorted. “Most times it’s so cold he’d have died before he dried. But it’s been amazingly warm of late.”

Eddyn nodded, and for a while the conversation turned, as it always did in Deep Winter, to the weather. It had, in fact, been unseasonably warm—which is to say, most days were only slightly below freezing.

“Thankless duty, isn’t it?” Eddyn ventured eventually. “Exiled over here when there’s so much more going on in the hold itself.”

Vil scowled, shifted, and gnawed on a sausage. “Especially when it’s punishment,” he muttered.

“Which is as much as anyone needs to say,” Gorrinn warned. “Our, uh, youthful high spirits got a little out of hand a few days ago, and they sent us over here to cool off.”