Warautumn (28 page)

Perhaps it was his own mind that warned him; perhaps it was Avall’s whisper ringing impossibly loud in both physical and mental ears; in any case he heard it:
Beware, Rann, there is a death in there
.

And death there was, but it was a weak voice crying in a crimson-stained darkness, not the horrendous, loud, impossibly immanent effects Avall had experienced. Rann’s rational part attributed the difference to the fact that Barrax had been in actual blood contact with Avall’s gem when he had died, whereas Inon had only held them in a pouch; thus, the gems had not tasted death so close at hand—and in that he was fortunate.

Yet they
had
tasted death—but of a different kind entirely. It was as if he could hear a kind of keening, as though the gem itself mourned the death of part of its own strength. Or, more accurately, like a person might mourn the loss of vigor in his limbs, or diminution of sight and hearing with old age. It sounded—there was no other word for it—tired.

But it welcomed him, too: like an old friend returned, and it sent that expected surge of power into him, but not with so much force or energy as heretofore. He sensed relief and liking along with it. But he also sensed a new eagerness to be at one with him that he found disconcerting. Without quite knowing how he accomplished it, he erected a balance point whereby
the gem’s power could enter his bloodstream at a certain rate and he could enter the strange place of gem power at the same time—but slowly, carefully, disturbing nothing. And once he had passed into gem’s domain, he began to explore his limits.

The first thing he did was to try to contact Avall. That was reasonable enough, since Avall was close at hand and they had shared so much gem-bonding previously that their thoughts often resonated with each other even without external intercession. He therefore tried to picture Avall’s face in his mind, and then to
think
at that face the one thing he most wanted Avall to know, which was that he was safe, and the gem also seemed to be reasonably intact and sane, except that it was weaker.

And he thought—
thought
—that he sensed Avall acknowledging that contact. Yet without actually bringing Avall into the bond, or Avall bonding with his own gem, there was no sure way of knowing.

But should he try to jump now, in spite of Avall’s prohibition?
He had never done that before, never mind done it with this gem, so he wasn’t certain it would even allow such a thing.

Should he even try?

Actually, he wasn’t sure how to do it, save that it involved absolute desire—and he found that he could not muster sufficient force of will. He wasn’t angry enough, he supposed—or hurt enough, or desirous enough. Not that he didn’t try something simple anyway: nothing more complex than the basic urge to be closer to Div, who was no more than a span away.

But maybe that was
too
easy; his mind too aware of how frivolous such a jump would be. And so it resisted.

Which made him angry. But with that anger came something unexpected.

Pain
. Like fire. And worse, the torment of a man’s last thoughts as he found himself irrevocably consigned to flames. Flames in contrast to which death was blessed relief.

The pain had been there all the time, he realized; he had merely been shielded from it. Now he had unwittingly shattered
that shield, and the full force of the pain had found him: the pain of a man’s body dying and his senses fleeing and his soul giving itself up to despair. And also the pain of the gem itself in danger of being destroyed.

He could not endure it—and so he fled. And as he did, a part of him that had grown more dangerously distant than he had realized took control of his body and opened his hand, dropping the gem into his lap.

Enhanced senses watched that slow, tumbling journey, and heard stone strike tunic wool loud as thunder, then slide down the threads with the roar of an avalanche that quickly subsided into a rush of air he thought was a summer storm, but which proved to be merely himself inhaling.

And then he opened his eyes and saw Avall’s face, tight with concern—but only for a moment before sweat ran into his eyes, blinding him. He was soaked with it, he realized, as though he had stood too near a fire.

“It works,” he told Avall. “But it’s weak. And it does indeed contain a death, but only a little one, and that death is cloaked in fire.”

And with that, he picked up the gem carefully, wrapped it in a scrap of sylk, and stored it in his pouch. Nor did anyone protest, though Merryn frowned as though it had been her own. For Rann’s part, he shifted his gaze to Strynn. “Do you want to try yours now?”

Strynn shook her head. “Not until I’m better—not that I feel bad right now, but I suspect that’s less cure than euphoria—There’ll be plenty of time later.”

“Speaking of which”—Avall sighed, glancing at the sky—“that took longer than I anticipated—though it probably didn’t feel long at all to you.”

Rann studied the sky as well, surprised to see longer shadows than had been present when he had begun the bonding. “What now?”

Avall gnawed his lip, looking by turns tired, eager, and anxious. “As best I can tell, there’s only time for one more round
this evening, tired as we all are. And since the most important thing to learn is also the least risky—in that it’s the only one that involves gems that haven’t obviously been altered—I think that I should try on the regalia. After that—if there’s still time—No, we’d be better off not worrying about that. For now … let’s assemble the regalia.”

Had it only been an eighth?
Avall wondered. An eighth since he had stood atop a tower in the Citadel in Tir-Eron and let Rann and Lykkon fasten the regalia onto him, so that he could embark—then as now—on a test that would properly assess the regalia’s properties?

That had been the last time he had used any of the gems with confidence, he realized—save when he had tried to reach poor Rrath through the second, and lesser, of his personal gems. After that—after Merryn had taken gems and regalia away—he’d only had the mad one. And though he had worked with that one endlessly and had, in fact, noted some improvement in its … demeanor, he had never looked forward to those workings. Which, he supposed, had tainted his attitude toward the gems in general.

Now, however—He supposed he would know soon enough, because Merryn was holding the shield, and Lykkon had the sword, while Rann was raising the helm over his head, then lowering it and buckling the chin strap. “Better you than me,” Lykkon murmured. “And certainly better you than Zeff.”

“Or Orkeen—or a geen.” From a vigilant Merryn.

Avall didn’t move. The world had narrowed abruptly to a slit of woodland glade through which a setting sun sketched long dark shadow among tall trees. The helm blocked the rest—nasal, earpieces, browridge: an archaic design and impractical, but traditional.
As though his countrymen would tolerate anything else!

But this was not Tir-Eron, and the rocks around him no battlements, the trees no invading army. Merry and Rann and Lykkon—Well, he had seen them all in soldier’s gear, but they wore simple tunics now, and well-worn ones at that.

“I’m King of the woods,” he announced, voicing words that had come to him from out of nowhere. “I’m King of the Wild.”

“A greater kingdom than Eron, and older,” Rann muttered back. “Now, stop stalling and do what you have to do.”

“Not here,” Avall retorted. And with that he strode out into the nearby meadow, not halting until he had reached the approximate center. Once there, he faced as close to northeast as he could figure, and only then did he squeeze the hilt and grip, and slap the back of his sword hand into the helm. Pain pricked him, and blood ran more freely than was its wont at any other time, but power also flowed into him like wine into the mouth of a parched traveler. Nor did he sense more than a shadow of the odd pauses, wonderings, and queries that had greeted him the last time he had donned the regalia: the ones that reminded him that the equipage had not been made for him, but for another King entirely: one who was now—in all but the most literal sense—dead.

It was like being himself and himself all over again. Not only that, he could sense other resonances as well: a ghost of misplaced loyalty and resentment that was Rrath; an exhaltation at the use of raw power unleashed that came from the sword in particular, and which he identified as Merryn; and a strange, primal, primitive power that spoke, unmistakably, of geen.

But those
were
powers, he realized, things to be incorporated and used, not impediments.

But what should he do with them?
He had been raised to think that one should never use power frivolously, and this was more power than existed anywhere else in the world.

Perhaps that was enough for now. Without further pause,
he raised the sword on high, moved body, thought, and will in a certain way that pierced the Overworld, then swung the sword down again—and tore the sky asunder.

“Zeff of the Ninth Face,” Avall roared, through the wind and lightning he had summoned and was about to release, “your fate is mine, and it starts for you tomorrow!”

And with that he aimed the sword at the top of a distant mountain. And once more he clove the heavens. Fire blazed up on the horizon, as a tree he could not see, yet knew existed, exploded into flame.

He was on the verge of calling the lightning yet again—until a firm pressure curled around his sword arm, and fingers pried at his palm. “No, brother,” Merryn whispered. “It’s a joy and a temptation. But never forget that first and foremost it’s a weapon.”

Rann reached up to unbuckle the chin strap. “It’s rained for three days,” he chuckled. “I hope that’ll be sufficient to forestall any fires your … impulse may have ignited.”

“Not for Zeff,” Avall retorted. “Not ever.”

“Do you
really
think he’s coming?”

Tryffon leaned back from the Council table and laced his fingers across his belly. “It’s been eleven days, lad; optimism is a fine thing, but like any good thing, it can be indulged to excess.” He took a sip of wine for emphasis, and regarded Vorinn keenly.

Vorinn tried not to flinch beneath that stare, which had not been aimed at him with such intensity since he was a little boy. “Do you think I like this?” he retorted as calmly as he could manage under the circumstances—which wasn’t as calmly as he liked.

“The troops are getting … anxious,” Tryffon continued. “Are you aware of that? Every day they sit out there, a dozen spans from the enemy, wondering when they’re going to have to fight. Every time someone moves on the other side of that palisade, their hearts leap, their guts run cold, and their balls retract if they’ve got any, because they think that this is it: This is when they find out if their training was worthwhile or in vain; whether Fate favors them or someone else. What it’s like to slice into a real live person, and what it’s like to have a person try to slice into you.”

“I know all that,” Vorinn growled, rising and starting to pace. The movement set the stubby candles that illuminated the tent flaring in their stands. “I’ve felt exactly the same thing. But you know as well as I do that I’d have been through that palisade long ago if Zeff hadn’t come up with that hostage ploy—which effectively makes it impossible for us to use any weapons that aren’t absolutely precise. And that’s assuming I can get the army to attack, when every soldier here has close kin on the other side of that picket.”

“You could have fired the fence. That wouldn’t have been hard.”

“Yes I could,” Vorinn snapped, whirling around in place to glare at his older kinsman. The wavering light gave his features a demonic cast. “I could’ve fired it—and when the Face went out to fight it, we could’ve taken them, rushed in, and freed the hostages. But that’s assuming they
would
rush out—which is not a given. They could just as easily have retreated into the hold, killing hostages as they went. And let me remind you: Members of Priest-Clan claim no other clan-kin after they vow to that clan.”

“No, but they take a vow not to kill the innocent.”

“As do we.”

Tryffon rolled his eyes—and filled his mug again.

“ ‘Half of war is patience,’ ” Vorinn grumbled. “Isn’t that the first thing we’re taught in strategy? Not to swing at a foe until we’re ready to swing? Not to shoot at a target until it’s clear? That’s what I’m doing here. The problem is, there’s more than one kind of patience. I
can
wait for Avall to return—which I still think he will do, because his alternative is complete loss of honor forever, and honor’s too important to him to forsake if he can avoid it. But even if he doesn’t come back, Merryn will, because she’s got as much honor as he has, on top of which, she likes to fight. That he hasn’t returned means that he’s either dead—which is possible, but which wouldn’t stop one of the others from finishing what he’s started—or that he hasn’t found a way back here yet. And
since we assume he has the physical ability to jump back here anytime he wants—given that he jumped away with six people and half the contents of a tent—we have to assume that the reason he hasn’t returned is that something has forestalled his efforts—or else he has no reason to. Now let me add that I am
not
happy about having so many ‘ifs’ controlling my actions. And maybe I’m expecting more of human loyalty than I’ve a right to, but I have to think, based on everything I know, that Avall will get back here as soon as he can, but that he won’t bother coming back at all until he knows he can win, and there’s only one way he can do that.”