Springwar (74 page)

Only to find themselves face-to-face with Chiefs Preedor of Ferr and Tryffon of War, who were presently the most powerful men in the kingdom. Sitting side by side on a bench by the outer door, both men were dressed in full clan regalia, with their hoods up, signifying official purpose. Avall froze in place, with Rann and Lykkon flanking him a short way back. Since none of them had been expecting visitors, all three were bare. In spite of himself, Avall blushed. Especially as he felt the old men’s eyes inspecting him. “Turn around,” Tryffon barked. “Slowly.”

It took Avall a moment to realize what they’d said, and why, even as his body acquiesced. The King of Eron must be physically perfect. Even if Gynn survived—which could still occur, for the Healers had not given up hope on either him or Rrath—he would not have been allowed to retain the Throne, because of his disfigured foot—of which there now was proof. Avall found himself wishing he’d suffered some similar disfigurement. So far as he knew, he hadn’t.

“Looks just like Gynn,” Preedor said roughly. “He’ll do.”

“Good,” Tryffon replied, rising. “I’ll go tell Tyrill.”

“I’ll let you,” Preedor chuckled. “I know another way out of here.”

Only then did Avall recall that Preedor had sworn when Eddyn had first raped Strynn never to be in the same room with Smith’s Craft-Chief, save by the King’s direct command. He raised an eyebrow. Preedor caught the gesture and winked. Avall chuckled. Rann did as well, but Lykkon simply looked confused, abruptly a boy once more. Avall clapped him on the shoulder. And laughed louder.

The next problem was twofold. One was simply dressing. Did he put on the colors of Argen and Smith, which he normally would have done? Or did he don what looked to be royal regalia someone as uncertain as he had also left out, just in case. “I’m not King yet,” he told his companions at last, and chose the former.

The other problem awaited him without, and the trouble was that he knew it awaited him, but not what form that
problem would take—save that there’d certainly be one. That problem’s name was Tyrill.

The Acting Clan-Chief of Argen was sitting primly in a chair in the suite’s common room, placed precisely to be seen upon entering. She, too, wore clan regalia, her hood so far overshadowing her face as to render it unreadable. Still, she’d come of her own volition—crossing twenty shots of snowy, muddy land plowed into worse shape by Eron’s army. Avall tried to remember the last time she’d left the Gorge.

He suppressed an urge to kneel before her, so like a queen had she presented herself. Instead, he gave her the prescribed nod of clansman to chief, and found a chair opposite her, by feel. Rann and Lykkon stood behind him, de facto men-at-arms. Myx and Riff, he assumed, guarded his outer door.

“You might do,” Tyrill conceded. Her words, if not her voice, an eerie echo of what Tryffon and Preedor had just espoused.

“I don’t want it,” Avall replied flatly. “It was the thing to do on the field—Eight, I’d have probably done the same thing those soldiers did, if I’d seen what they saw.”

“A hero King.”

“A King who had no idea what he was doing, who let something bigger than he was control him.”

Tyrill cocked her head.
“Was
it bigger than you, do you think? Was it The Eight interceding in our behalf?” She sounded serious, not confrontational.

Avall shrugged. “I’ve never met The Eight. Not the way the King does. Not when he drinks from the Wells.”

“You may.”

“I don’t want it,” Avall repeated. “You know what I’m good at, Tyrill. I’m good at making things—better than I thought, apparently. But I’m no good at all playing diplomat, and I really do
not
like power. There are maybe half a dozen people who really like me, and I in turn love them beyond reason. I don’t want everyone else to fear me. I don’t want to be Eellon, or, forgive me, you.”

Tyrill chuckled. “A wise choice, that. I haven’t been happy, either, you know.”

“Not even now that you’re Clan-Chief?”

“Acting. Acting Chief, I suppose, and acting in general. There are still those who have a claim before me by virtue of their age and presumed competence. Besides which, now that I’ve got the job, I find I’m too tired to enjoy it. I’m having to learn new things, to start with—administrative things that require a lot of intraclan diplomacy, which I don’t give a cold forge about, nor have the stomach for. I
know
how to run Smith-Hold, Avall. I know how to teach my craft, keep my subchiefs in line, and how to tell good smithwork from bad. I don’t care where the food in the Clan-Hold comes from, or who cooks it.” A pause, then, “I’m like you, Avall; all I
really
care about is making—even if it’s only teachers.”

“What about Eellon?”

Her face darkened. “I’ve effectively outlived him. Our rivalry ends at that. I’ve won. That’s sufficient—and, I find, rather empty.”

Avall stared at her.

“Surely you understand rivalry, boy,” she snapped. More her old self than heretofore. “It ate up my life with jealousy and disliking, but it assured my legacy for future generations. I’m twice the smith I’d have been without Eellon to goad me. I suspect you’ll find it’s the same for you, now that we’ve lost Eddyn. However fine a smith you are in your own right, you’re a better one because you’ve had to keep an eye on him. You’ve raised each other’s standards.”

Avall cleared his throat, uncomfortable with so much revelation from one who normally kept her own council, yet wondering which of the questions he wanted to ask should come first. “Surely somewhere,” he said at last, “there’s a better choice than me for Sovereign. Maybe someone in Ferr.”

“Maybe,” Tyrill echoed. “But for now it’s you. Everyone who saw the battle thinks you’re more god than man. Half of Ixti’s army wants to desert and settle here.”

“There are worse things,” Avall gave back, surprised to find himself stating an opinion so matter-of-factly. “Maybe we should proclaim as much. We need people. If anyone from Ixti will settle here, we’ll grant them citizenship in … five years, if they show good faith.”

Tyrill grimaced.

Avall sighed. “All right, I know it was a bad idea, but it just came into my head.”

“It was
not
a bad idea,” Tyrill countered. “It made very good sense. Which is why you might actually make a viable King. My objection to Gynn was always that there was an equally good choice in Argen-yr, which Eellon blocked when he should’ve been neutral, for no reason beyond his own pride. But you’re as good as either of those two lads already—and you’ve had to make harder decisions. You made the hardest today: to risk everything for your country.”

“So did Gynn.”

“But he didn’t risk as much as you did, because he’s not as accomplished. And much of his life, for all he isn’t that old, is behind him.”

“I don’t want to be King,” Avall repeated.

“If not you, who?”

“Someone from Ferr, like I said. They’re our strongest allies. With what they can do, and what we know …”

Tyrill shook her head. “It’s you until Sundeath, in any case. Maybe then we can make a rational decision. The folks in North Gorge still know nothing of this.”

Avall cleared his throat again. “And what about you—and the clan?”

“By which you mean ‘what about Eellon?’ To answer that … I doubt he’ll recover, because I don’t think he really wants to. He might live a while longer, but he can’t be Clan-Chief. He has to be mentally competent for that, and he isn’t. He’s had a brain seizure since you saw him.”

Avall groaned—and returned to what was for the moment the less stressful option. “So … I’ll act as King for half a year—maybe. And you act as Clan-Chief that long, and then …?”

“You become Craft-Chief,” Tyrill said flatly. “It’s an elected position, and no one would protest if I stepped down in your favor. That’s as far from the public eye as you’re going to be able to manage.”

Another sigh. Avall shifted in his chair. “This has been … interesting, Chief—and not what I expected.”

“I’ve pride enough to fill a river,” Tyrill replied tartly. “But I’m no fool. And I’m eminently practical. You’ll need an adviser. Someone to show you things that wouldn’t have occurred to Eellon.”

Avall took a deep breath. “Speaking of which, what of the Priests?”

“The captives?”

Avall nodded.

“Frankly, I’m not sure
who
has the upper hand there. But I think we have thin justification on which to hold them. We called treason, but half of that was treason to a King who is King no longer. The rest … their credibility with everyone will have suffered, both from their actions and the questions recent events have raised about the nature of the Overworld and The Eight. They’ll have plenty to do without fighting the Council and the Crown.”

“There’s still their secret face.”

“That mask is growing thin as well. But it may still be our greatest threat. That’s what you need to keep your sharpest eye on—when you’re King.”

“When,” Avall echoed. And rose. “Thank you,” he said from the door. “Shall I see you out?”

“I brought my own guard,” Tyrill replied, as she, too rose. “Your Majesty.”

Avall watched her leave by the visitor’s portal. But didn’t smile, even when Rann passed him a cup of walnut liquor.

“I’ve come to see King Kraxxi.”

Said in Ixtian, but the voice was Eronese and sounded impatient and strained alike, there in the corridor outside what for now passed for Ixti’s embassy in Eron. Or their court-inexile.

Merryn shifted her weight on the bare flagstones of what had never been a luxurious hold and waited, staring at the worn oak planks of the door between the two tired-looking
guards in barely cleaned Ixtian dress armor that stood to either side.

“Half the world wants to see him,” the left-hand guard replied.

“As with my King,” Merryn gave back, adjusting the dress surcoat she’d donned over formal armor. “But I think he’ll see me. Tell him it’s … Merryn.”

The guard scowled, but ducked inside. Merryn tried not to stare at the disarray around her. Half of Ixti’s army had gone to chaos. A third had gone entirely: melted into the land. The remainder were trying to maintain some semblance of decorum and honor. Kraxxi had been found, released, and, as predicted, offered the crown. That was all she knew. But he would have a million things demanding his attention, just like Avall. She would take her time, have her say, then leave him to his own affairs.

The door opened.

“He’ll see you,” the guard said in Eronese. “But he has little time. He apologizes in advance.”

“I accept,” Merryn grunted, and strode forward.

Kraxxi rose when she entered the second room of the suite. A quartet of guards—or whatever—stood behind him. He dismissed them with a wave. Merryn’s breath caught. He looked terrible, worse than Eddyn had, perhaps. What had they done to him, anyway? Eighths of sporadic torture had left no visible scars on his body, but what she saw spoke loudly of torture of the mind. A hungry stomach and a hungry heart were two different pains entirely. And fear of death hurt worse than death by sword.

Kraxxi grinned wryly. For a moment Merryn thought he was going to rush forward to embrace her. For a moment she started to rush toward him. In fact, she dared a step, then caught herself and blushed.

“I don’t know,” he said abruptly, in reply to no question she had asked. “I have no idea.”

Merryn looked around helplessly, then finally found a chair and sat down, forgetting with whom she kept company. “About what?”

“About us. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Is
there an us?” Merryn countered, raising a brow.

“Think of me as Krax,” Kraxxi offered, as though he hadn’t heard. “If it will help. I never wanted to be king, and certainly not to take the throne in a foreign land.”

“You’ve no choice, I suppose,” Merryn replied. “No more has my brother.”

“I’d like to meet him. He and I surely have much in common, at least right now. I’d like to end all this hostility and suspicion between our lands. There’s no reason for it. We both have things we could give the other.”

Merryn nodded slowly. “And you and I? Do we have anything to give each other?”

Kraxxi shrugged. “I never lied to you about my feelings. I only lied about the rest because I had to. You’d have done the same.”

“Maybe. But this isn’t my suite in War-Hold.”

“No more than this was my war.”

“It wouldn’t have been
anyone’s
war if Barrax had been willing to talk!” Merryn flared. “It was his Eight-damned pride.”

“A problem for all of us,” Kraxxi conceded. “But that’s not what we were talking about.”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

A deep breath. “In an ideal world? I want you and me together. In this world … that can’t happen. You have a country to rule. You have no choice. But I can’t be your queen and remain who I am, and I won’t be your concubine.”

“Why not my queen?”

She looked him square in the eye. “You know the answer to that, and it has nothing to do with duty or responsibility.”

“You can’t be tied,” Kraxxi replied slowly. “All these Eronese rites chafe at you like the manacles we all wore. My court—probably any court—would be the same.”

A nod. “I could be High Queen in Eron, if I wanted.
If”
she stressed. A pause, then, “But I’m a warrior at heart, Kraxxi, not a courtier—or courtesan. I can get away with that here, with only the odd raised eyebrow. I couldn’t in
your land. I’d have to spend half my time explaining myself, and that would drive me crazy. Never mind that I’ve only just become free of my family and education—legally. I’m still bound to the Fateing, but even that provides tremendously more variety and experience than I’d ever get in Ixti. That’s what I’d lose if I were your queen. Choices—when I’ve only just gained any.”

Kraxxi wouldn’t meet her eye. “You’re welcome in my court anytime, for as long as you like,” he said at last. “That’s as much as I can give you.”

“And as much as I’m wise to accept,” Merryn acknowledged. “But it’s sad, Kraxxi. All those things we did together. Many of them were things we did for the last time and didn’t know it. It would’ve made them—”