Springwar (41 page)

Once again Lykkon burst out laughing.

They stared at him. “Lyk …?”

Tears stained his cheeks. “Do you have any idea how silly all this sounds? You two haven’t been together for even a finger, and you’re already dissecting your friends’ relationships.”

“They’re safe,” Strynn informed him stiffly. “In any event, I’ve been dying to find out what Avall thinks about our little overland initiative.”

“Well, I’m not sure I
approve,”
Avall replied darkly, “given the risks I suspect you ran. But it’s bound to be more pleasant than discussing the infernal war, if only because we know it resolved successfully.”

Strynn’s face clouded, but she did not reply.

“The baby—” Avall began again. “I should—”

Strynn’s eyes were sad—and very, very tired. “I—I have
to speak frankly,” she whispered, “even if it hurts us both; I’ve no energy for games any longer. I didn’t bring him here to meet you because I didn’t know how you’d react. He’s not your child, and you can’t hide how you feel about that. Argen-Hall was on the way, and your clan will have his fosterage in any case. I wanted—I wanted to let
you
choose the time.”

Avall shook his head to clear it. “This is a lot in a small space, Strynn. You, Rann—you’re
real
to me. The child’s never been real. I’m sorry if I don’t seem happier; and I appreciate your understanding more than you can say. There, I’ve given you truth for truth.”

Strynn nodded through a failed attempt at a smile.

“I’ll send for him when he wakes up,” Avall continued. “If no one’s made it clear to you, I’m living in the Citadel now.”

“Another reason I didn’t bring him,” Strynn confessed. “I didn’t know what I might be interrupting.”

“Nothing that couldn’t wait,” Avall sighed—in relief, as much as anything.

“Well,” Lykkon announced decisively, “I say we should reconvene in Avall’s suite at once.”

Avall raised a brow. “We?”

Lykkon raised one in turn.
“Someone
has to be a neutral observer.”

Fortunately, it wasn’t far from the war court to Avall’s quarters. He and Strynn spent that journey holding hands and trying to make light conversation, but a pall of seriousness haunted even that inconsequential patter. There were still unresolved issues between them, after all—more than either of them realized, it appeared. Too, now that Strynn was here, he had no more reason for inaction. If she’d brought the helm.

It was as though she’d read his mind. “I did bring it. There was no reason not to, and I thought … maybe you could reconstruct it from what remained—if you had the heart for it.”

He sagged against her. “I don’t know if I’ve got the heart for anything, Strynn.”

“Well, don’t tell Rann that,” she cautioned with an edge of anger in her voice that hurt to hear, so soon after their reunion. “Don’t forget what he risked for you. And don’t forget that you owe all four of us an explanation of how you managed what you did.”

“Everything in due time.”

“Let’s just hope due time still exists. I’ve heard about the Fateing.”

“There’ll be time,” Avall repeated. “I promise.” And then they turned down one final corridor, and Avall saw the door to his suite ahead. Guarded, as was always the case these days. He chuckled grimly. “Gynn considers me a national treasure,” he told Strynn. “More precisely, he considers what I know about the gem to be a national treasure. Even though I no longer have it,” he finished bitterly.

Lykkon, who’d been following a discreet distance behind—though not so far he couldn’t eavesdrop—swerved neatly around them and darted ahead, likely to proclaim their arrival. To no surprise, the guard was Krynneth. Gynn had steadfastly refused to let the young War-Holder join him at the front until he recovered from his mad ride, but had attached him to Avall in compensation. Krynneth bowed slightly and opened the door for his cousin, Strynn, to enter. Avall followed, through the vestibule into his common room.

No sooner had he crossed the threshold, however, than strong arms enfolded him, and he was lifted off the floor and spun around. Lips brushed his cheeks. Avall caught glimpses of several more people in the room than anticipated. But by then he’d recognized that grasp, the feel and scent of that body …

“Rann, you fool—”

“I will
not
put you down,” Rann laughed, continuing to hold Avall aloft until Avall tickled his ribs. Rann released him so suddenly, he fell to the floor with a thump. Which gave him time to note who else shared the chamber. Strynn, of course, and Lykkon. But Bingg and Eellon were there as
well—looking bemused—as were Div and Kylin, the latter still with wet hair, but already having unearthed his harp.

Avall’s glance danced between the woodswoman and his bond-brother. Rann looked glad to see him as only Rann could. He also seemed happy and content—and far healthier than the last time Avall had seen him, when days in the Wild had led to the gem’s sapping Rann’s vitality.

“You’re alive,” Rann said simply, as he helped Avall to his feet. “Only now do I believe it—I think.”

Avall’s gaze slid back to Div. Though well dressed—in women’s clothing, for the first time since he’d known her—she looked ill at ease. Which she probably was. She was Common Clan, after all, those around her very High Clan indeed; she’d naturally be reserved. Never mind what the two of them had shared, along with Rann, one night in a birkits’ cave. As for the other thing that haunted him: the fact that this might be the person with whom he’d forever have to share his closest friend—that was for him and Rann to puzzle through when they had time. If they ever
did
have time, which to judge by Eellon’s impatient glower, they might not.

Bingg was playing squire for the nonce, standing solicitously beside Eellon, as Lykkon had done not so long ago. Drinks had been set out, Avall noted—as he likewise noted that he still wore sparring leathers. “I’ll change,” he apologized, then noticed Lykkon’s similar attire. “You, too, Lyk. This could be a long one.”

Lykkon sniffed an armpit, grimaced, and followed Avall into the bath. The air was still damp, and it took Avall a moment to recall that Rann had just availed himself of that luxury. Rann—who joined him quick as thought, and helped him and Lykkon divest themselves of their padding and mail, not stopping until they’d splashed themselves free of sweat, toweled down, and donned clean house-hose and short-tunics.

Much refreshed, Avall rejoined his companions, by which time someone had produced a light snack. A covered dish occupied the center of the table, which roused Avall’s curiosity. He sat down wearily, took a sip of wine, and reached
for the lid, then hesitated. “Strynn, if you’d like to do the honors?”

She smiled at him. “Actually, that’s a delicacy we brought specially for you from Gem-Hold. At great peril,” she added, mysteriously.

Avall regarded her askance, then shrugged and lifted the lid.

And almost dropped it at what he saw revealed.

“Four
of them!” he gasped. “They … are the same, aren’t they?”

“So we hope,” Strynn replied, as Avall stared with a mix of hope, horror, and relief at four stones identical to the one he’d lost. And Strynn had a fifth, which meant—He reached forward reflexively, but Rann snared his wrist before he could touch any of the gleaming red objects.

“None is … activated, as far as we know,” he said. “But we don’t think anyone
ought
to activate them until we know who’s best to master them. Besides, you’ve already got one, and we don’t know if a person
can
master two.”

“But Strynn and you—”

“Used yours after you’d … bonded to it.”

“Until we each got our own,” Strynn added, offhand.

Avall masked his confusion with a deep draught of wine. “Waiting’s probably wise,” he conceded.

“I’d think so,” Eellon agreed, pausing to cough.

Avall tried not to think about Eellon’s presence here, when he was so ill. He hoped his Chief knew what he was doing. “Where’d you find these?” he asked, to distract himself.

Another cough from Eellon. “That
would
be good to know. If they’re from the clan vein, that’s one thing. But if they were found elsewhere—well, Gem would have a claim over the stones themselves
and
whatever use they’re put to. And I don’t feel like contending with them right now.”

Rann exchanged glances with Strynn. “They’re ours,” he assured them. “Though exactly how we acquired them is a longer story than we have time for at the moment. In any case there’s nothing to stop others finding more. What happens then …”

“… we’ll worry about when it occurs,” Eellon concluded. “For now … there are things we must discuss.”

Once again Rann’s gaze found Strynn’s, but then he looked at Avall. “Strynn and I had an idea,” he began. “It’s really an outgrowth of a notion of yours, but now that we’ve learned about the war—I have an even better idea, though it’s also more … urgent.”

Strynn nodded. “It’s also something we don’t feel equipped to decide ourselves, and one of those scary points where clan and craft converge. In the absence of the King, and much as I hate to suggest it, I think we’d better summon Tyrill. I’m not sure she can help in this case, but we’re wiser not to exclude her.”

Eellon shifted uneasily—and coughed again. “Send for her, if you think best.” He motioned to Bingg, who left at a run. “Accept no excuses,” Eellon called after him. “Tell her it’s about power.”

“Tell her to bring Averryn,” Strynn chimed in. “Maybe that’ll cut the edge off her temper.”

“Averryn?” Avall wondered.

Strynn managed a lopsided grin. “We had to call him
something
until you and I can confirm a name for him—since you’re still his father, under the Law …”

“Averryn,” Avall repeated thoughtfully. “I think that will do very well indeed.”

Averryn, in fact, arrived ahead of Tyrill—with Avall’s mother, who’d evidently laid permanent claim to him. And would be in charge of him for the next eight years, in any case—until his parents finished their first term of Service. He was duly admired, poked, and prodded, weathering all with admirable restraint. Avall felt a number of things at first, but it was hard to feel anything but joy when confronted with Strynn’s delight in the tiny, bright-eyed bundle. His own perceptions were mostly objective: more black hair than expected, and impossibly smooth baby skin. Still, he would try to love him, as he loved Strynn. And he
did
love her, too—though sometimes it took absence to prove it.

And then Tyrill arrived, and affairs took a darker turn entirely.

“It’s about power,” Rann echoed Eellon, as the Craft-Chief settled herself among what Avall realized was as impressive an assemblage of clan authority as he’d seen in a while. Especially as most of the subchiefs from clan and craft alike were away in the south with the King.

“What kind of power?” the old woman snapped primly.

Rann glared warning. “I take it you know about Avall’s gem?”

She nodded suspiciously. “I know some things. Not enough. I always said that thing was too precious to trust to one half-grown boy.”

“It apparently makes its own decisions about trust,” Avall shot back. “I don’t know that it would’ve worked for you even if I’d wanted it to.”

“It worked for Strynn and Rann, so you said.”

Avall studied both warily. “I think that’s because it reacts to people who try to use it based on how those people relate to me. If someone I like tries to use it, it cooperates, if not—”

“What about Eddyn?”

Avall shrugged. “We’ve gone over this before, Craft-Chief. All I can think of is that it also runs on emotion and desire, and maybe some other factors we haven’t discovered—like fear for one’s life. It acts to protect itself, I think. When I thought I was drowning out in the Ri-Eron, it protected me, and when it couldn’t—when the only thing my
self
wanted in the whole world was to get away from the cold—it took me to the nearest aid. Eddyn wanted away from … whatever he feared would happen to him for yet another crime, and—”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Eellon inserted. “Rann said he had an idea.”

Rann indicated the gems. “We know they can manifest some kind of physical power, though not much about how that power is activated or directed. But we were thinking—especially now that it appears Barrax may have access to the original—that we might be able to counter him if our King
had power of his own that really was
his
power. Gynn’s already used to working with power to some degree, when he becomes vessel of The Eight. We thought that if we could tune these gems to him, he might be able to use that power Avall and I invoked.”

Tyrill’s eyes narrowed. “Assuming this power exists, how do you propose to go about it?”

Strynn took up the tale. “As we’ve said—and proven, I think, to reasonable satisfaction—the gems work to preserve themselves, which they seem to do by serving those who protect them. They also seem to function as foci of desire. So we thought that if we could bond three of these into the new royal regalia, in such a way that they could access Gynn’s blood, and he could access their powers in turn—”

Avall’s face brightened with excitement. “So you think that if you put a gem in, say, a sword, which one uses for offense, it would … read Gynn’s desire for offense and act accordingly?”

“Something like that,” Strynn agreed. “And yes, I know it’s a stretch, but it’s all we have to go on.”

Rann studied Eellon and Tyrill carefully. “Do you think the King would agree to such a thing?”

Eellon took a deep breath. “I think he’d be a fool not to try. That said, he’s very busy. Will he have time to master a whole new set of skills?”

“We can teach him,” Avall and Lykkon volunteered at once.
“Someone
will have to,” Avall went on, “else he could be at risk. You’re suggesting that he try to master several gems at once, and we’ve no proof that can be done, or that they won’t work at odds with each other.”

Tyrill set down her goblet with a noisy thump. “Power,” she huffed. “I’ve no proof this power of which you spoke exists.”

Avall glared at her, then shifted his gaze toward Rann and Div. “It only happened once,” he admitted. “We were very, very focused—centered on each other to the exclusion of all else. We were just wanting …
more
and it gave us more the only way it could.”