Springwar (29 page)

“Her identity is her concern,” Nisheen huffed. “And the King’s.”

“‘Royal business’ is not sufficient,” the warden stated flatly.

Tyrill took a deep breath and broke in. “We’ve come to see Rrath syn Garnill, of Weather.”

“For what purpose?”

Tyrill suppressed a scathing retort. This was more than ritual formality. Which likely indicated a hold on some sort of alert.

“To report his condition to the King.”

“One normally sends the Royal Healer for such things.”

“One normally sends the
ill
to Healer-Hold,” Nisheen retorted. “Now do we go, or do you rouse royal ire?”

“You may go until someone else says you nay,” the warden conceded at last. “I … knew Rrath somewhat myself. Promising lad. If you learn anything …”

Tyrill was glad Nisheen didn’t reply. It had taken all she had to defer even this much authority, and wouldn’t have done even that, were it not for her desire to attract as little attention as possible without resorting to actual subterfuge.

It was as though the cliffs had eyes, she thought, with a shudder, as they continued on, angling toward the left-hand face, not far from the hold’s famous hot-pools. She could smell their sulfur already.

Fortunately for Tyrill’s joints, they didn’t have to continue
up the tortuous path to the local sick-hall, for a sweet-faced young man in Weather’s tabard fell into step beside them—from the direction of the pools, in which he’d been indulging, to judge by his damp hair. “I was wondering when someone from your clan would show up,” he blurted, before Tyrill could dispose of him. “Forgive me, Ladies,” he went on awkwardly, “concern has made me rude enough to grasp at any tidbit. I am Esshill syn Vrine. Rrath was my bond-brother.”

“What makes you think we’re looking for Rrath?” Tyrill snapped, unable to restrain her temper any longer. “I thought he was still in service. Gem-Hold-Winter, if I recall.”

Esshill’s features hardened. “The same reason the Craft-Chief from Smith knows where a neophyte from here was posted last Fateing. The same reason folks went storming out of here eight days ago, bound for Eron Tower—and came back with Rrath hurt and maybe dying. That’s got all kinds of people coming and going here, from the Citadel and Healer-Hold, none with explanations. That’s got everyone here looking over their shoulder for no reason anyone can explain.”

“Which still doesn’t explain what
you
think should be our reasons,” Tyrill noted archly. “Or why you’re volunteering so much to total strangers.” She stopped in place and turned to face him squarely. “What, exactly,
do
you know, anyway?”

Esshill regarded her levelly. “You’re from a powerful clan with some connection to this matter. I’m saying what’s necessary to assure a maximum number of allies if things fall out as I fear. And, more to the point, I’m saying what I must in order to look out for my friend.” A deep breath. “I know that Rrath and someone rumored to be Tall Eddyn were found near Eron Tower hard on the heels of Midwinter. Rrath had had an accident and was brought back here to recover. Meanwhile, Eddyn disappeared so fast it’d make your head swim. And then, so says rumor, disappeared again before anyone from here could question him. Not that I believe all that,” he added. “No one from here seems to have
actually seen Eddyn.” He broke off, looking at his feet. Then: “Do you mean that he’s not in Argen-Hall? But we assumed—”

“Not since he left,” Tyrill sighed. “The King wants a report on Rrath,” she went on irritably. “It would be good if you could provide one.”

Another, deeper breath; Eshill was almost crying. Tyrill actually felt sorry for the lad, having been suddenly put in an awkward station. “He’s unconscious but as healthy as he can be, considering that. Now and then he seems on the verge of awakening, but never does.”

Tyrill nodded sagely. “Would they let us in to see him?”

Esshill shook his head. “No one save myself, his healers, the chiefs of this clan, and the King himself can see him.”

“On whose orders?”

“Actually,” the Priest confessed, “no one seems to know. But he’s got guards. That’s enough for most.”

“Guards don’t always help,” Tyrill sighed. “Thank you for your assistance. I suppose we’d best be going.”

She’d already taken a few steps down the path, when Esshill hailed her once again. “I hope,” he murmured carefully, “that royal curiosity can be forged into royal protection.”

“The Eight protect us
all,”
Tyrill replied, and strode away, wondering if she’d actually learned anything useful. And wondering, more to the point, why she was suddenly afraid.

I
still think you should move to your suite here and be done with it,” Lykkon informed Eellon wearily, as he followed his sometime-mentor down one of the Citadel’s least-used corridors. “It would save us all a lot of trouble—and you a lot of pain.”

Eellon halted in a swish of robes. His Clan-Chief cloak swirled around him like a maroon tornado as he turned. “My health is my concern,” he snapped. “Don’t forget that.”

“You’re better company when you don’t hurt,” Lykkon retorted bravely. “Don’t
you
forget that. As much as you’ve got on your mind right now, I think—”

He broke off, having seen the darkness that clouded Eellon’s face. His Chief wasn’t looking at him, however, but some distance behind, the furrows in his brow deepening by the breath. Lykkon twisted round to investigate.

It was the King, going the opposite way down the corridor at whose terminus they stood. He’d entered it, from a corridor farther on, and hadn’t seen them. But Lykkon noticed something odd the same moment Eellon whispered it. “He’s limping.”

“Maybe he stubbed a toe.”

“Perhaps, but right now we can’t afford to take chances.” And with that, Eellon started down the hall in pursuit of his sovereign. Lykkon had to hurry to keep up, and heard the
Chief’s leg and back braces squeaking alarmingly as he strode along at a pace for which they’d not been designed. It had to hurt, nor did Lykkon like the way Eellon’s breath sounded: all cramped and hollow. His face was disturbingly red.

But the King
was
limping, Lykkon confirmed as he grew closer. Or maybe not, for the King suddenly altered his stride to a much more confident gait.

“He’s heard us,” Eellon hissed under his breath. “That’s all the proof we need—dammit.”

Lykkon didn’t ask “proof of what?” He already knew. The King wouldn’t try to hide a temporary injury.

“Majesty,” Eellon called, as with one smooth motion he swept his hood up, signifying that he now acted in Clan-Chief capacity. The King slowed to a casual—and perfectly paced—saunter, then paused by the door to an unused suite and waited, arms folded across his chest. He looked grim and angry, for any number of reasons Lykkon could imagine.

“Majesty,” Eellon panted again, when they arrived. “I would speak with you a moment.”

Gynn’s eyes flicked from Eellon’s hood to Lykkon. “Very well. But he stays here.”

Lykkon tried not to glare as his King ushered his Chief inside.

“May I sit?” Eellon asked bluntly, noting in passing that the room seemed long disused, and recalling vaguely that the previous Sovereign’s brother had lodged there. His sigils were still present, blazoned on dusty swags of drapery. Without waiting for reply, Eellon brushed off a chair and sank down in it. He’d exerted himself too much, he supposed; was breathless, sore, and his head felt funny. Still, there was nothing to gain by postponing the inevitable.

Gynn claimed a chair opposite, his face dark as thunder. “Clan-Chief?”

“Majesty,” Eellon began, “there’s no way to say it but to say it. You were limping just now. Nothing odd in that, of
itself—people hurt themselves and people heal. But you, I noticed, changed your gait when you became aware someone was watching. I don’t like what that makes me think.”

Gynn’s face was immobile. “And what
does
it make you think?”

“That you’ve sustained some injury that renders you unable to remain on the throne.” The words rang like pebbles dropped on ice.

The King did not reply.

Eellon took a deep breath. “I put it to you bluntly, Majesty; on your oath as King.”

No reply.

“Majesty, I warn you, tension among allies is never good. Certainly not at this time.”

“Then why do you provoke tension?” Gynn flared. “Is my word not enough for you?”

“I have
had
no word from you. I have had silence and evasions.”

“A King’s silence is his own. His evasions for the good of the Realm.”

Eellon sprang to his feet, face darkening with a rage he could no longer control. “The good of the Realm?” he gritted. “I wonder if you even know what
is
good for the Realm. If you do not,
I
do: a King who is trusted, a King who does not put himself above the Law.” He paused for breath, relaxed a trifle, if only to still his own racing heart. “If I have noticed it, Gynn, then others of the Council will, and put you to the same question. Your choice is not
if
you reveal your … infirmity, but to whom and when. You have to know that to me and now are the best alternatives you’re likely to have. But I
will
have honesty from you.”

“And if I say no?”

A shrug. “I’ll simply ask you to take off your boots and hose. The Eight know I’ve seen your bare feet often enough. You’ve no reason to deny me unless you
have
reason to deny me. Barring that … Well, you have to sleep sometime.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’ll have War here, and Lore, and Stone. And if you still resist, I’ll call in Tyrill.”

Gynn chuckled grimly. “You must truly be desperate, then.”

“I’m concerned for you, you whelp,” Eellon snapped. “I’m concerned for the Kingdom, and for observing the ancient rites. If you’re injured beyond healing, you have some grace. But Tyrill
will
find out, make no mistake. We need to plan against that eventuality, so the sooner those who made you King know the truth, the sooner we can take appropriate action.”

The King glared at him.

“We will know the truth at Sundeath, in any case. You have that long. Would you rather stand alone or with allies?”

Gynn sighed wearily and slumped back in his chair. “You won’t take no for an answer, will you? And I won’t have an easy minute if I worry about you watching my every move. So …” He was already reaching toward his boot when he paused. “I seem to be doing this twice a day of late, but I would have Sovereign Oath of you on what I am about to reveal.”

“You don’t have the sword,” Eellon replied mildly, sitting again.

“Then I’ll have to trust your word as a man. But I beg you to think before you act.”

“I will keep my own counsel, Majesty. But I would also remind you that my own counsel has rarely been at odds with the good of the Realm or the King.”

“That’s as much as I can expect, I suppose,” Gynn sighed, and eased off his boot. “Forgive me if I don’t remove my hose.”

Eellon merely grunted. He’d seen what he needed to see: a flaccid emptiness where the King’s smallest right toe should have been.

“It’s healing,” Gynn confided. “But not fast enough. I can fake an honest stride, but it costs me.”

Eellon nodded grimly. “But it’s an imperfection we won’t be able to argue away. Which means we have a bit more than half a year in which to lay plans for your succession.”

“I’d thought I might step down at Sunbirth.”

“Not wise,” Eellon countered. “Too many things are at odds right now. We need all the stability we can muster. At best, we can stall. At worst, your condition might render major policy issues subject to question. In any case, we’ve got time in which to agree on a reasonable successor—though I’m damned if I can think of one.”

“I can think of plenty,” Gynn snorted. “Plenty that could do the job. But I can’t think of any that won’t result in civil war. The next generation from Smith, War, and Stone are still young to assume the crown. Anyone else … I wouldn’t enjoy seeing a Weaver or a Woodwright on the throne any more than you would.”

Eellon spared a glance toward the window, noting the westering sun. “Majesty, I thank you for your candor. You have given me much to ponder, and little of it pleasant, but I hadn’t planned to spend this time as I have. I must therefore be on my way. But I fear we must speak of this again, and soon. Have I your permission to tell Avall?”

“If you think it will do any good. But wait a moment,” Gynn continued. “You were blunt with me, to the Kingdom’s good. It is now my obligation to be blunt with you: Are you well? I know about the pain in your joints and back, that you overcome with braces and such. But you have seemed … tired of late. And your face often goes red or pale. Are you aware of this?”

Eellon took a deep breath. “My body is old and is quickly wearing out. My mind is as supple as it ever was, so it seems to me—though I confess to odd blanks in my memory now and then, but we all know that worry can provoke such things even in young men. Still, I do feel light-headed more than I ought. I feel my heart racing sometimes at night. I have more headaches than heretofore.”