Springwar (75 page)

“Not better,” he finished for her.

A shrug. Merryn didn’t want to follow where that might lead. “One thing I still have to tell you,” she said instead, “and then I’ll leave you to those awful things I know you’ll have to do. But honor compels me, and desire fuels that compulsion.”

A brow lifted. “And …?”

“I owe you a life,” Merryn confessed. “I killed your friend Olrix without meaning to. I didn’t know who she was, and all I saw were Ixtians threatening my bond-sister and a valuable countryman.”

Kraxxi chuckled grimly. “And I—as my country incarnate—don’t owe you lives in return? What about the dead at War-Hold?”

“You’ll have to pay for that,” Merryn acknowledged. “I don’t know what Eron will want in reparations, but I know that repair of War-Hold will be one of them. We’ll probably want hostages until that work is complete.”

Kraxxi scowled, but for all that, looked somewhat relieved. “I’ve no idea where we’ll get the money, but that’s fair. It’s no more than I expected. But we were talking about Olrix.”

Merryn nodded. “I could take her place in service for a time. If Elvix and Tozri will have me. I—we rather liked each other, before all this.”

“But you won’t be my queen?”

“That was choice; this is honor.”

“It might take a while to convince them,” Kraxxi mused. “But you may have a while.”

“Oh?”

“They’re staying here. They came here for personal reasons. I’m making them remain—and not from pure altruism. For the time being, they’re going to be my ambassadors.”

Merryn chuckled in spite of herself.

“What’s funny?”

She grinned at him. “All us twenty-year-olds making these decisions about countries. It’s ritual and the momentum of tradition that’s letting us do it, and that’s all; the fact that we’re
called
kings and princes and ambassadors. But there’re stronger people around who could do more with those titles—if they wake up and realize they can.”

“Lynnz realized.”

“And died for it.”

“But that’s not why you were laughing.”

Merryn shook her head. “Half a day ago you were hungry and dirty in a cell. The triplets were hiding in the woods, spying on Ixti’s army and looking for a way to join it until they could make a break. Avall was smithing like a crazy man, and—”

“Do you know how they found me?” Kraxxi interrupted. “In what state, I mean?”

Merryn shook her head again.

“I was bound behind a window in the topmost tower of this place, so that I had to look out on the battle. On what I’d been promised would be the death of everyone I knew—especially you. They were going to make me watch all that. They were going to capture you, and kill you before my eyes—or make me do it. And that would’ve been it. They’d have killed me then. But Lynnz waited too long—this time.”

A cautious knock sounded on the door. Another, and then one of the guards stuck his head in. “Majesty—I—”

Merryn glanced at the time-candle in the corner. “I’ve got some of what I came for, which will have to do, I guess—
until we can both do more thinking.” Without asking leave, she rose.

“I’ll see you again,” Kraxxi told her.

A third time she shook her head. “Those eyes may see me, when you meet with my brother as I understand is already being planned. But I’ve seen the last of the Krax I knew. Good luck to you,
Prince
Kraxxi.”

And with that, Merryn withdrew.

She held off the tears until she was back on her horse and riding toward Eron’s camp. That way, she could blame them on the weather.

Avall closed the door behind him, and locked it, trying not to grin too much at the look on Morl syn Meneke’s face, whom he’d left gaping on the other side. There’d be time later to discuss the state of Eronese brewing. He turned and joined the others waiting where he’d summoned them: on the high eastern terrace atop Priest-Hold-Summer. The wind was brisk there, but the sun was warm that afternoon. Had it been so few hands since the war had ended?
That
didn’t seem possible.

He’d chosen this place deliberately. Gynn had been the King of Balance, and this was a place of balance. He could look south, and see the battlefield. The snow there was melting quickly, and being trampled to mush more rapidly yet, as the more responsible survivors of Ixti’s army retrieved the bodies of their dead. Weapons on bodies would remain on them. Weapons left on the ground or abandoned were wergild. But no one was keeping records. Pyres were burning, too—beyond the Ixtian embassy. Discreetly out of Eron’s sight—not that it mattered. Both sides burned their dead in season. And both sides had dead to burn.

Balance …

Avall could also look north from there, where his own army remained neatly in place—just in case. Tryffon had
suggested it, and he’d approved because it made sense. There could still be trouble. Ixti’s army had lost its former head, and no one much knew—or trusted—the new one. Kraxxi had more friends in Eron than his own land. Eron had best be prepared to support his claim.

But there was movement in Eron’s camp as well: a steady stream of horses, wagons, and people on foot along an avenue that had been cleared between the gates of this citadel and the Gorge. Already that way was lined with folk who had nothing to do with the battle but a great deal to do with welcoming a new King to Tir-Eron.

Avall hoped they couldn’t see him up here. For now, he needed to spend time with his friends.

His advisers, he amended. Those he most loved and trusted.

They sat there looking attentive, smiling some of them, or grinning outright, or looking surprisingly sober. Strynn. Merryn. Div. Rann. Lykkon. Bingg, in whatever capacity he served, which at present seemed to be tending a small double brazier, on one side of which cauf was simmering, on the other side Avall’s favorite hot wine. There were curls of fried fish, too, and oranges fresh from Gem-Hold-Winter.

“So,” he said briskly, as he seated himself between Strynn and Rann, and reached for a goblet already filled for him. “What do we do first?”

“What do you want to do?” Rann, who looked most sober, retorted. “I know better than to think you want this. You’ve already said as much.”

Avall shrugged, and quaffed a long draught. “I just want you to know—because there’s some chance you might actually listen to me—that there’s no reason in the world I should be King.”

“You saved the country,” Div countered.

Avall shook his head. “You saved me once. Should you then be Queen? Rann gave me half the good ideas I had—including the business of incorporating the gems into the regalia. If anyone deserves the Throne he does, just for that. And I could say the same about any of you. Merry, you’d be a magnificent Queen because no one would ever be able to
predict you. Strynn, you’d be wonderful as well—and will be, for a while at least—because you never do anything wrong and never will.” He paused for another drink. “Even you, Lyk. You’ve half a year before you’re an adult, but you know more actual information than anyone I’ve ever met. If experience of government as it works behind the scenes is what’s needed, you’d be perfect.”

“He’s got Royal Steward written all over him,” Strynn laughed. “Anyone want to give odds how soon he becomes Craft-Chief of Lore?”

Merryn cleared her throat. “This is interesting, folks, but we all know what’s going on here: small talk to hide from big.”

Avall shifted in his seat. “But there’s so much big talk there’s no way to choose.”

Rann raised a brow. “Maybe we shouldn’t do anything at all, and let the big things find their own place. Their own … balance.”

Bingg rubbed his chin, where the merest trace of boy stubble showed. “I wonder what you’ll be,” he mused. “The King of … what?”

“The gems, probably,” Strynn replied restlessly. “Though that’s rather obvious.”

Avall told them what he and Tyrill had more or less decided. “You have to admit it makes sense,” he said. “Me as Craft-Chief. Something I’d actually be good at,” he added sourly. “If I
have
to have a title foisted on me.”

“In half a year,” Merryn stressed. “A lot can happen between now and then. You might even discover you like being King.”

Strynn poked him in the ribs. “And since I’ll be consort unless you make me Queen in my own right, who’s to say I won’t decide
I
want to stay on and rule, with you as my consort? Stranger things have happened.”

Avall rolled his eyes.

A movement from Merryn—or maybe a touch of her mind—drew his attention. Her face was grim and serious, as it had been for most of the day. “Do you think there’ll be peace?” she wondered.

Avall didn’t answer at once. It was a good question, and the right time for the asking, and not at all what he wanted to face just then. Still, she deserved a reply.

“If Kraxxi manages to retain his throne, there could be. We’re different, Ixti and Eron. But we’ve also a lot in common and there are certainly things we can give each other. The Flat makes it unlikely we’ll ever chafe at each other’s borders, but there’ll be people there, and probably some powerful ones, who’ll feel they’ve given up their autonomy and are living on our sufferance.”

“Which,” Strynn added, “assumes
we
don’t face civil war, which could still occur. Smith and Argen have lost power for all they’ve gained some, too. But Gem and Priest are still going to be furious, and who knows about the others?”

Avall gnawed his lip. “Whatever happens won’t be boring.”

“What about the gems?” Rann asked pointedly. “They’re our bliss right now, but they could well become our bane.”

Merryn looked at him askance. “How so?”

He cleared his throat, obviously preparing to deliver a speech he’d spent some time rehearsing. “Because they’re too powerful. They’ll make everyone afraid of us—and by us, I mean the few of us here, plus maybe a dozen others. But one thing to remember: we don’t control the source of the gems, and we’ve no guarantee there won’t be more, nor who’ll achieve control of them. War with gems is fine—against a common foe. But what if it comes to war of gems against each other?”

“What indeed?” Div agreed. “The very notion chills me.”

“Speaking of which,” Strynn observed, “I wouldn’t mind going inside.”

“Neither would I,” Merryn agreed, rising. “Besides, if I recall correctly, we’ve still got a coronation to plan.”

Avall rose as well. And looked south again. And then north. And then east, where the sea could barely be seen as a glimmer of silver slicing the horizon. “West,” he said, turning to face that way, though a mass of building loomed between. “Maybe we’ve ignored the land beyond the Spine too long.”

“Maybe,” Merryn acknowledged, as she linked her arm with his. “That’s one thing more for you to think about—when you’re King.”

“When I’m King,” Avall echoed, with a wistful grin. “When I’m King.”

The next morning, precisely at sunrise, an untitled Priest chosen by random lot placed the Crown of Oak on his head, and he was.

Avall syn Argen-a, High King of all Eron.

T
OM
D
EITZ
grew up in Young Harris, Georgia, a tiny college town in the north Georgia mountains that—by heritage or landscape—have inspired the setting for the majority of his novels. He holds BA and MA degrees in English from the University of Georgia, where he also worked as a library assistant in the Hargrett Rare Books and Manuscript Library until quitting in 1988 to become a fulltime writer. His interest in medieval literature, castles, and Celtic art led him to co-found the Athens, GA, chapter of the Society for Creative Anachronism, of which he is still sort of a member. A “fair-to-middlin” artist, Tom is also a frustrated architect and an automobile enthusiast (he has two non-running ’62 Lincolns, every
Road & Track
since 1959 but two, and over 900 unbuilt model cars). He also hunts every now and then, dabbles in theater at the local junior college, and plays
toli
(a Southeastern Indian game related to lacrosse) when his pain threshold is especially high.

After twenty-five years in Athens, he has recently moved back to his home town, the wisdom of which move remains to be seen. He has published sixteen novels to date.
Summer-blood
, the third book in the Chronicles of Eron, will be published by Bantam in April 2001.