Warautumn (49 page)

“We should come up here again,” Rann acknowledged,
“after
dinner. It would be wonderful to watch twilight arrive from this aerie.”

“It would,” Avall agreed. “And I hope we can do that very thing. But there’s something else I want to do first—have to do, really—and a lot will depend on how that resolves.”

Rann glared at him. “That thing you wouldn’t tell me?”

Avall schooled his face to calm, which he hoped made him unreadable. “I’ll tell you everything, if it goes as it ought.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Avall laid an arm across Rann’s shoulders and drew him toward the stair that led down to what had been Zeff’s suite, where the evening meal was already in preparation. “Tell Vorinn that I hope he makes a good King, and see if you can convince Strynn to marry either Lykkon or Kylin.”

Rann froze in place. “It can’t be that big a risk. If it is, I won’t let you—”

“You can’t stop me,” Avall shot back fiercely. “Besides, the worst that can happen won’t. I don’t see any way that it can. It’s just worth remembering that no matter how minor a task one undertakes, death is always an option.”

“Yes,” Rann snorted derisively. “Remind me to kill you if you die.”

“I’ve decided that you can come with me,” Avall told Rann four hands later, in Zeff’s formal banquet hall. They had just finished a magnificent dinner that had been contrived simply by raiding Ninth Hold (as they had taken to calling the outcrop citadel) of its very best. Most of it was stored food, granted, so there was a paucity of fresh meat, but Avall barely noticed its absence.

“Something could happen,” he continued, “and I’d prefer there was a witness, but I can’t allow you to try to stop me.”

Rann regarded Avall dubiously, but eased in beside him as he exited the feast, moving casually, as though he sought a garderobe.

Which, in a sense, he did, for the entrance to what he sought was located by moving a pair of tiles in one. This Avall did, standing aside as a section of mosaicked wall slid back, revealing a spiral staircase leading down. Rann raised a brow. “How did you know about this place?”

Avall couldn’t suppress a grin. “I found Zeff’s journal back at Gem-Hold; it had references. Once I knew that much, I made a point of prowling through his private records before dinner. I found a complete set of plans for this suite. Those people were nothing if not thorough about their documentation—to their sorrow, now that we control their documents. Now … shall we?”

“Lead the way.”

With no more reply than another lifted brow, Avall turned and stepped onto the landing, leaving Rann to watch the door slide closed behind him. The stair was steep—not good for legs used to the sprawl of open land—but fortunately, it was also decently lit by glow-globes in another testament to Ninth Face affluence. Still, he was sweating when they reached the corridor at the bottom, at the end of which a single door was set in a
recessed arch. He paused there, breathing hard. Rann was sweating, too, he noticed, but Rann had also possessed the foresight to bring along a flask of wine. He took a long draught and offered the rest to Avall. Avall accepted it gratefully, but only granted himself the smallest sip. “It’s going to be hot,” he told Rann. “I’m going to strip to my hose, I’d suggest you do the same.”

Rann’s reply was to follow Avall’s suggestion. A moment later, bare to the waist, they confronted the door. Avall produced a key.

Rann raised a brow. “More diary records?”

Avall nodded, then inserted the key in a lock and entered.

Though he knew what to expect from what lay beyond, he was still not prepared for the amount of hot steam that gushed out at him. His body was soaked in an instant, his hair reduced to a cap of limp black tendrils. “Apparently the heat is somewhat variable,” he told Rann with a nervous chuckle. “Not that it really matters. What does matter is that we’re entering what is effectively a sacred place, so behave with that in mind. As I said, you can watch all you want, but don’t try to stop me unless you feel that my life is in danger. You’ve been around gems enough that you should know the signs.”

Rann’s eyes went huge. “Gems?
Here?”

Avall shook his head. “No, but their kin, perhaps. Now, come on. And close the door but don’t let it latch.”

He didn’t wait to see if his orders were executed, merely stepped boldly into the swirling steam. “It’s a cavern,” he murmured to the dark shape in the mist that was Rann. “Happily, there are glow-globes.”

Even so, it was hard to see through the thick white vapor, though he continued to make his way forward, groping a little when the stuff grew too opaque to reveal distinguishable landmarks. Fortunately, the ground was fairly level, though he stepped in pools of water once or twice before he realized that there was an actual path: a strip of white sand half a span wide that rose a finger above the surrounding terrain. Pillars of
natural stone showed all about, rising from the ground or dripping down from the roof, often to meet in the center. Glow-globes had indeed been strewn about at intervals, like nests of brighter white upon the natural dark stone.

In spite of their illumination, it took considerable time to locate what he sought. He had been in that place before—once—but not from that direction. Still, when he finally reached his goal, there was no mistaking it. A small pool—no more than a span across—showed among the pillars, surrounded by more of the white sand, and facing it, with its back to the side from which Avall had entered, a low seat had been carved from one of the dripstone columns. Avall sank down there, grateful to be off his feet and enjoying the healing heat of the steam, even as it threatened to boil him alive. A finely wrought gold chalice sat on the ground to the right of the seat, precisely placed to be found by feel alone. Avall’s fingers curled around it, and he studied it for a moment, probing the hard knobby gold work with sensitive artist’s fingers. “Behold the Well of the Ninth Face,” he whispered to Rann, who had squatted to his left. Without further word, Avall leaned forward and scooped the chalice full of water from that Well.

Pausing but briefly, he closed his eyes and drank. His hand was already moving to replace the vessel when the first vision found him.

The last time he had been here—shortly before his capture—he had been visited by a vision of the island in the lake. He’d had no idea what it meant then, only that it was a thing to be desired. He had come here this time purposely seeking some vision of the future, so that he had some surety that his efforts would outlast the moment.

What he saw was Strynn—asleep, with Div beside her, and Kylin close by, curled up like a kitten as he typically slept, though not so close that Avall had cause for jealousy. It was a camp in the woods, but not the camp he remembered, which gave credence to Strynn’s comments to Vorinn about returning to the isle in the lake—The Eight knew there had certainly
been time to get there. But now that he had seen her, he wanted to talk to her with an intensity he had not experienced since this escapade had begun. And somehow—much as it felt when the gems let him speak across distance—words formed in his mind that he knew were also forming in her head.

Strynn?

Avall?

I am here. I
—And then some more primal instinct took over, and he was telling her everything that had transpired since he had departed—but not as words; rather, he spoke with feelings, images, and ideas; as if all his memories were flowing from him into her, much as he had felt when he had earlier shared Vorinn’s memories of the battle. He had no idea how long it lasted, only that it was amazing. More important, his wife now knew that he was safe and sound, that the battle had been a success, and that all their mutual friends—and her brother in particular—were well and relatively happy.

Yet at the same time, he learned of events on the trek. There was a certain sameness to them that made them hard to dwell on, but he did learn that the party had been attacked by a band of adolescent geens, which had been summarily dispatched, and that the birkit seemed to have taken a mate. They were making slow progress, now that they were down a horse, but no one was in any particular hurry, though they did want to have a permanent shelter in place by winter—in the former geen’s den, if nowhere else. Everyone was prospering, and Krynneth had finally gone hunting with Div and Riff, and had come back with two rabbits—and a grin that could have lit a hold. He looked healthier, too, and Div thought he might soon be declared healed.

That was all. Love was exchanged, but it was a natural flow of trust and affection that flowed with the other information, like leaves drifting along in water. And then, quite suddenly, that contact dissolved.

Another image replaced it.

Another sleeping woman.

This
woman did not lie on a bed pad beneath the stars, however, but on the plainest of cots within a small stone chamber. Avall would have blinked had he possessed actual eyes in that place, for it looked enough like the cell in which Eddyn had been incarcerated to be the same.

But this was no tall, strapping, dark-haired, High Clan Eronese youth with the broad brawny shoulders of a smith. This was a frail old woman with a cloud of star-white hair fanning around a face that was like fine paper molded across an ivory skull.

Tyrill!
It was less a cry than a gasp.

And unlike Strynn, who had never truly awakened, Tyrill did rouse enough to realize that actual conversation was possible.

Avall? So this is what “mind-speech” is like
.

Tyrill? I had not planned this. The Well of the Ninth did this
.

Where are you?

A third of the way back to Tir-Eron. We have won. Tyrill, take heart, for my army approaches
. Then, suddenly, as he recalled her situation.
You are in prison!

A grim, unheard chuckle
. Not only that, Avall, I am condemned. If the usurpers here have their way. I will be executed for treason at dawn tomorrow
.

Tomorrow?
Avall was aghast.

Aye. And Ilfon as well—at noon
.

But tomorrow? It is not the time and season, and no one can execute High Clan without direct consent of the King
.

They reckon such … inconveniences no longer to be important
. And even delivered thus, Tyrill’s sarcasm was like the crack of a whip.

It took Avall a moment to think of a response, so completely confounded was he, but then:
Tell me the rest, Tyrill: everything you can recall. Do not bother with words. Memories and impressions should be sufficient
.

Sufficient for what?

To effect a rescue, of course. I do not know how or why yet, but we cannot let this thing happen
.

You are two hundred shots away, Avall
.

Distance does not always matter
, Avall replied.
Not under some circumstances. I cannot bring an army, but maybe I can bring that which is as strong as one
.

He felt a wash of hope briefly dispel Tyrill’s overwhelming despair. There followed a rush of images, most having to do with clandestine assassinations, but also including Tyrill and Ilfon’s discovery, arrest, and her trial, along with confirmation of where her cell was located.
I will not hope for rescue
, Tyrill told him when her tale had ended,
but I will not be surprised. And I will try my best to be ready
.

And I cannot promise when or how, but it will be as soon as I can manage. Only remember one thing Tyrill: time does not matter to the gems. But, from what I can tell, you apparently do
.

And that was all. Whether he severed the contact in his eagerness to act, or Tyrill did, sensing that any time Avall spent speaking to her wasted time that could be spent effecting her rescue; or whether the power of the Well water had run its course, Avall had no idea. But one thing he did know: There would be at least one more battle. And that battle would come far sooner than he had anticipated.

Maybe this will be the last time
, Avall mused, as he waited for the remaining members of his Council to arrive from the various duties, diversions, and errands from which he had hastily summoned them close to a hand gone by. Unfortunately, the enormous honeycombed monolith that was Ninth Hold, though laid out with exemplary logic and precision, was more than large enough to confound the careless to the point of getting them lost entirely, or for even the competent to accidentally elude those dispatched to find them. The upshot was that it had taken most of a hand to get word to the relevant personnel that the King had called an emergency council as soon as could be managed, said meeting to occur in Zeff’s former quarters, which Avall had made his own.

And that was way too long, Avall reckoned, especially when the fate of two of his staunchest allies in Tir-Eron hung in the balance. Time was flowing away at a fearful rate, the way he saw it, and at a still more fearful rate for Ilfon and Tyrill. And the worst thing was that he wasn’t certain that there was anything that could be done to prevent their impending executions. At least waiting for his Council to arrive
gave him time to do some planning, as well as allowing him and Rann an opportunity to change into dry clothes: war gear in his case. Rann had raised a brow at that, but Avall reminded him that not only would it save precious time in the long run, but would underscore the urgency of the still-half-formed plan he hoped, very soon, to be enacting.