Warautumn (50 page)

And then—finally—Tryffon came grumbling in, having been located, after much searching, in the armory taking inventory. Which is exactly where he ought to have been, though perhaps not so close to midnight. A moment later, the last two delinquents arrived, armed with a mixture of gasps and apologies, and Avall could finally get down to business.

He had ordered cordials and cauf, but the only food to hand was leftovers from the feast. Alertness was needed now, and a full stomach was no ally to alertness.

Once again he tallied them: Rann, Merryn, Vorinn, Tryffon, Preedor, Veen, Lykkon, and Bingg (who had attached himself to the Council, though he was years away from being of age); along with a young woman who had wound up being acting Hold-Warden of Gem (which basically put her in charge of the refugees) and the subchiefs from Ferr and Stone, whom Vorinn had appointed to his Regency Council, and who had never had their warrants revoked. It made for tight quarters around the handsome polished table, and the blue-and-white decor put Avall on edge because of the unpleasant associations it recalled—but there was no time for residual squeamishness now.

No time for anything except quick, decisive action, and maybe not even for that, if what he was about to propose worked with less than absolute precision.

“Lords, Ladies, Chiefs, and Councilors,” Avall began. “I apologize for summoning you at so late an hour, especially when I had promised you that, for the first time in a quarter, you could actually sleep in beds tonight. Unfortunately, that may now have to be postponed—for one more night, at least. For what reason? you may ask. And in reply I tell you that I
have, a hand ere now, received news that is dire indeed, yet also news, which, if we act on it apace, may save us a great deal more trouble later. Necessity requires that I keep explanations short, but in essence, the situation is this …”

And with that he recounted the tale of his trip to the Well of the Ninth and what had transpired there.

“And you believe this … sending to be true?” Veen inquired.

“I believe it with absolute conviction,” Avall assured her earnestly. “The last time I was gifted with a vision there, it showed me the island in the lake. This time—I’m not certain why I was given a contact with Tyrill, beyond the obvious, but it was clearly for some larger reason.”

“You think it is The Eight intervening in our lives?” Gem’s new Hold-Warden—Deenah was her name—ventured.

“I think that’s possible. How else would They intervene save through otherwise random events? Or when our own minds have changed in such a way that we may more easily access Them? But this is not the time to argue theology. No, the question is not even whether to act, but what that action will be and when. I had thought to approach Tir-Eron with an army and perhaps win the day through threat or negotiation, but that choice, it now appears, has been taken from us. Priest-Clan has changed the rules—or chosen to ignore them—therefore, of rules we are likewise free.”

He paused for a sip of wine, and to try to read the faces of those ranged around the table. Some—the new councilors, mostly—looked confused or uneasy. But there was no time to spare their feelings. “I am not asking for permission or a vote here, comrades,” he continued. “I have a proposition to make, and when I am finished, I will ask for volunteers, though I have some in mind already. But I think what needs to happen is this:

“You all know by now that we have means in our possession to jump from here to … many places, apparently, though not without risk, and not with certainty. I say this last because the
gems do not always take us where we intend to go, or when we want to go there, and that almost all jumping seems to require what might be termed an excess of desire—that is, that for the instant of the actual attempt, whoever would jump desires nothing else in all the world but the goal to which he would have the gems deliver him. Anger is an excellent catalyst—or fear. Maybe even love, though we haven’t tested that much yet. The presence of water also seems to make some aspects simpler, but we’ll need to do a lot of testing to find out how that works, and we don’t have time for that at present. In any case, what I’m proposing is actually fairly simple. A group of us—no more than three, because that’s as many as we have proof can jump the required distance of their own volition—will attempt to jump to Tyrill’s cell and then jump back here with her. There should be no problems, and if there are, we will be armed. I say ‘we,’ because I will be one of those who jump—because I know most about the process and because, though I loathe the notion, I will be wearing the magical regalia, which only I can properly wield. More to the point, I will use it to power the jump. We know it can take three people and a horse, so three people going and four—with Tyrill—coming back should be no problem.”

“But what about Ilfon?” From Lykkon, who idolized the man.

“If Tyrill knows where he is, we’ll get her to show us, and try, at minimum, to jump him out of harm’s way. That said, we may have to make two trips—and frankly I don’t know if we can do that. The gems—or our bodies—may not let us. Still, it is incumbent upon us to try.”

“Why not simply jump to the Citadel, then?” Preedor inquired through a yawn he tried to stifle. “Or to Priest-Hold, and set them all to rout. The sword would surely be adequate for that.”

Avall shook his head—not that he hadn’t considered precisely what Ferr’s old Chief had suggested. “Because we might wound the body mightily and still not kill the head, and while
I think popular support has swung back in our favor, I would be loath to be seen raining lightning bolts down on Priest-Hold. As for the Citadel, it’s unlikely we could catch everyone we would need there if we are truly going to defang them.”

“But they might be at Tyrill’s execution,” Tryffon countered. “Why not wait until then to attack? Seize her, call down lightning on them, then jump away.”

“Mostly because that requires cutting the timing too tight,” Avall replied. “And don’t forget, jumping isn’t always precise. Sometimes it takes you to the place or person you desire, sometimes it only drops you close by.”

Merryn nodded sagely. “I agree with Avall, and not because he’s my King and my brother. Spiriting Tyrill and Ilfon away quietly
is
clearly the way to go, if it can be managed. Imagine the confusion—the excuses and accusations—when they arrive at her cell to take her to execution and discover that she’s vanished from what is presumed to be an escape-proof prison.”

“It would be worth seeing,” Tryffon agreed. “Not that we’ll get to,” he finished sourly, glancing sideways at Vorinn.

Avall ignored the rather too obvious hint. “In any case,” he went on, “if we can get Tyrill and Ilfon back here, we’ll have access to their information, which will help tremendously in planning the rest of the campaign.”

Vorinn stroked his chin, then cleared his throat. Avall acknowledged him. “Vorinn?”

“I was just thinking, Majesty. You say you will lead this excursion, and I will not contest your right to do so. But it is a risk, especially if you plan—as now seems likely—to dare this endeavor twice, which you must do if you would rescue Ilfon. But I would remind you that we have not one set of magical regalia, but two. Granted, the set Zeff contrived is not perfectly made and may well be wildly unpredictable, but at least one part of it
was
of sufficient quality and power to jump two grown men on one occasion and three slightly smaller men on
another. Would it not therefore behoove us to send two groups, perhaps a finger apart: one to rescue Tyrill, one to seek Ilfon?”

There was a murmur of approval at that, and, though the idea had not occurred to Avall, now that he considered it, it did have considerable merit. “And who would lead this second expedition?” he asked, though he already knew the answer he would receive.

“I would,” Vorinn replied promptly. “I’ve had some experience with Zeff’s regalia—more than anyone else here, at least. And if it comes to actual fighting, I’m as good as anyone hand to hand.”

Avall gnawed his lips. “But if you go and I go, and we take those I suspect the two of us might choose, and then something terrible befalls us, it leaves the army under … whose command?”

Rann cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should hear suggestions as to who will comprise these groups, then decide.”

Avall—almost—glared at him. “Very well. Since time grows short, I had thought to ask Merryn and Lykkon. I wanted you back here to command the army, Vorinn, but I know Merryn’s as good a fighter as we’ve got, if it comes to that, and that Lyk’s as good with the gems, if it comes to
that
plus he simply thinks well on his feet. Though frankly,” he added, “I can’t imagine suffering much injury if I’m wearing the regalia, especially in a closed space like a cell.”

“And now?” Veen prompted.

“I stand by those I have named,” Avall said flatly. “Vorinn, who would you propose accompany you?”

“My uncle, Tryffon,” he replied at once. “He can fight, and he can play the power game if necessary. If anyone can bully down Priest-Clan, it would be him, but that should only be a factor if we get captured.”

“And you would only take one beyond yourself?” Avall challenged, scowling.

“I had thought I might also take Veen,” Vorinn conceded,
“for much the same reason Your Majesty wanted to take Merryn.”

Veen looked startled but flattered. “Which leaves who in charge here?”

Avall vented a heavy sigh. “My bond-brother, Rann, if he will take it. He’s been Regent before, and, from what I hear, was actually quite good at it. He’ll have Preedor to advise him, as well as other good folk. Besides, that’s only a factor if we fail—and I don’t see how that can happen if we act expeditiously.”

Rann checked the time candle in the corner. “If you’re going to give yourself a comfortable pad before dawn, you’d best be at it,” he said. “It’s going to take another half hand to get everyone ready. And you still have to figure out whence you want to depart and what your targets will be. Oh, and I have one more suggestion: I think Vorinn’s right: his group should leave a finger after Your Majesty’s group, in case Your Majesty’s group is in need of aid. Of course he might not be able to help, but I truly do think it would be useful.”

Seeing nothing more to be gained by further discussion of minutiae, Avall rose abruptly. “Well, good Councilors,” he announced, “I thank your for your presence, your advice, and your eagerness to support your King and kinsmen in what may indeed prove to be an ill-conceived endeavor. That said, I think that if we do not act, we will be cursing ourselves for the rest of our lives, and not only that, assuring that our names will be cursed forever. Merry and Lyk, I will meet you on the top of this hold in half a hand if you can be ready by then. Vorinn, Tryffon, Veen, you be there as well if you can manage. Anyone else who wishes to see us off is welcome, but do
not
seek to interfere.”

“As if anyone would,” Rann murmured into Avall’s ear, as Avall went to help Lykkon change.

Avall met his personal target time with almost a finger to spare; then again, the quarters he had chosen were closest of all
to the top of the hold and separated from it only by a private stair, which he, Merryn, Lykkon, and Rann used. Vorinn would be coming by another route, from the quarters Clan Ferr and Warcraft had claimed, and by the “public” stair.

In spite of their haste, they had managed to do well in terms of arraying themselves for what they hoped would be stealth but which might as easily prove to be public display. With the former in mind, they wore hooded black cloaks—but they wore them over surcoats of Argen maroon and the best mail and leather their own, or raided, resources could provide. Merryn and Lykkon had swords, small targe shields, and half helms, the better to see in close quarters; Avall had the regalia, newly freed from the table-safe in which it was kept while traveling, but still in the individual cases to which it had been consigned.

While they awaited their companions, they claimed places on four stone benches that faced inward around a tiny, glass-smooth pool. Shrubs surrounded it, along with a few small trees, and there was even a low, rustic-looking pavilion that faced a larger pool that was obviously meant for swimming. None would be visible from the ground, of course, and Avall felt vaguely guilty just sitting there. It was the soft time between midnight and dawn, and, as Rann had predicted, the sky was ablaze with stars, a situation abetted by the fact that one moon had not yet risen, one was a hand before setting, and the third one was already down. There was no wind, and the air was warm, but a fair bit of that warmth was the last of the previous day’s heat melting from the rocks, the upshot of which was that Avall was sweating. An eighth from now the weather would be markedly different, he supposed. And one beyond that, this outcrop would be capped with snow.

He hoped he was alive to see it. So much could change between now and then. For one thing, Sundeath would be over, and with it the grace period he had granted himself in which to choose whether he would claim the crown in truth or abdicate it. Still, he had more choices now than he’d had two eights ago, while a fair number of people had fewer. Or none.

But what was keeping the others?
Time really was of the essence, and though he had not naysayed them, he had massive misgivings about letting so many of his best strategists and fighters commit themselves to so risky a mission without backup.

Of course Fate would decide, as Fate always did, and Fate did seem to favor him. But what about this supposed Ninth Face? He had drunk from that Face’s well twice, and both times it had seemed to act to his benefit. But, again, he wondered.

And then light showed from the door in the cleverly disguised turret opposite him: the one that anyone from the ground would have seen only as a spire of hard, dark stone twice as tall as a man. An instant later, Vorinn led Veen and Tryffon through it. They had dressed much as Avall’s group had, down to wearing their own colors—Ferr’s colors—beneath black cloaks. And if Warcraft crimson was perhaps too bright to ensure proper stealth, still, it was also a color that most in Eron were conditioned to respect, if not actually fear. Even Priest-Clan, if history prevailed. Even the Ninth Face, if those who opposed that rebellious sect were lucky.