Springwar (33 page)

With them, and two thousand others, went a packtrain filled with Eronese war gear and Warcraft cloaks and armor.

Half a night ahead of them, a bleeding young man named Krynneth had also seen the explosion, but had not gone back to investigate. Rather, he set heel to the horse he’d found running wild outside the secret gate, and raced daylight and the armies of Ixti toward the High King of all Eron.

A
vall was making lackluster sketches for a new royal helm—and doing even that without conviction—when he heard footsteps approaching the suite in the Citadel to which he’d been spirited after the incident in Eddyn’s cell. Officially, it was to protect him from Tyrill’s inquiries, but of course she’d found out anyway—or found out enough. Eellon had told her about the gem sometime back, but not having seen it, she hadn’t believed him until the Craft-Chief had reminded her that Avall’s arrival there in the middle of Deep Winter constituted more than sufficient proof that
something
untoward had occurred. The matter of Eddyn was more difficult, because no one but a handful of guards and the King had seen him. But Avall
had
been beaten. And Rrath was back at Priest-Hold, which couldn’t be denied, either. So Tyrill had been forced to accept that something
had
occurred, to which her Chief and her King were both witness. She’d also had sense enough to agree that the gem’s purported qualities were more important than intraclan rivalry, and was as alarmed as the rest at Eddyn’s sudden—and patently impossible—disappearance, though not necessarily for the same reason.

Not that it mattered now, when someone was approaching—under escort, Avall assumed, which usually wasn’t good. At times like this, he needed Strynn and Rann, separately
or together. Even Lykkon, to whom he’d grown much closer since his return, would do.

But this was almost certainly either the King himself, or—

“Chief,” he heard someone mutter without, and surmised by the rapid steps that it wasn’t Tyrill, who could barely walk since a certain escapade outdoors. Eellon, then, or Tryffon of Ferr.

He rose automatically, dismissing the sketches with a disgusted shrug that was typical of his attitude these days. The first knock sounded as he found his feet. He snugged the ties of his house-robe and made for the door. “Open, boy,” came a voice from without. “It’s me, Eellon.”

Avall breathed a sigh of relief. He shot the bolt and heaved the portal open, to admit his mentor. Alone, save for the inevitable Lykkon, who somehow managed to continue his studies at Lore and play squire all at once. A pair of guards remained outside: Myx and his former commander, Veen—who likewise looked to have attached herself to Eellon permanently.

Eellon took a seat without asking. After giving Lykkon a perfunctory hug, Avall also sat. Lykkon opened a hot jar of cider, filled three mugs, then joined them, note-scroll in hand. He watched everything, Avall knew. Saw everything. Probably knew more than anyone in the hold except Eellon himself.

Eellon looked tired—which was typical of him these days. Still, his eyes roved across the sketches as a cook might sniff odors upon entering a strange kitchen. “Not your best work,” he muttered.

Avall shrugged. “Hard to care about something you’ve already done.”

“Do something else.”

“It was the best work I’ve ever done. But I need the gem—”

“So you think. That only made it faster, so you said.”

“It also gave me finer control. I—”

“That’s for later,” Eellon sighed, accepting a mug from Lykkon. “I’m here now as your Clan-Chief, though without my robe and hood.”

Avall raised a brow.

“I need you to sit in Council tomorrow.”

Avall shook his head. “I can’t. I—”

Eellon slammed his mug down with a thump. “It isn’t a choice, boy. I need you there to support your King and your clan. I need you there to support me! I need you there as proof—as a distraction, if you must know.”

“From what?”

“Tyrill’s making her move, fool that she is. She claims she’s got proof of Gynn’s injury and intends to demand he step down.”

“Even with the gem loose in the world?”

“She’s decided to blame Eddyn’s disappearance on Gynn’s commission.”

“That’s insane!”

“So is she, I sometimes think.”

“That will upset—everything.”

“I see you’ve grasped the implications.”

“But he’s not up for Proving until autumn. Even Tyrill knows that.”

“He shouldn’t be, but Tyrill’s going to try to force the issue. If nothing else, she’ll have groundwork laid for Sundeath.”

“Meanwhile Eddyn—”

“Eddyn is the King’s problem right now. Nor does he need this distraction. Which is why
we
need another one.”

Avall shook his head. “I … don’t know, sir. I’m—Dammit, Two-father, I’m just so—” He broke off and stared at his mug. “You have no idea how I feel, sir. Without the gem—Well, I had no idea how dependent on it I’d become. But it’s like … like losing one of my senses. Like I’m only half-alive.”

Eellon slapped him. Not hard, but it stung. Lykkon looked up with a start. “I’m tired of this self-pity, boy. You made an important discovery and did a brave and very foolish thing that was still, probably, the right thing. And you’ve suffered a loss because of it, but that doesn’t mean you can play hermit for the rest of your life. Eight, lad, I see maybe a third as well as I did in my prime. I can’t half hear, and
everything tastes the same. You’ve seen the braces I use to maintain the illusion that I’m still vigorous, and you know how much
they
hurt. All you have to deal with is the lack of something you didn’t
have
three eighths ago.”

“It’s like being blind, then seeing,” Avall snapped back. “And then losing it again. Wouldn’t you be bitter about that?”

“I’d be grateful it had happened at all,” Eellon retorted coldly. And rose. “I will see you in Council tomorrow, sitting by my side, in full clan regalia. Even if I have to drag you there myself. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but sometimes there’s no time for nicety.”

“And what shall I say if I’m questioned?” “The truth,” Eellon sighed. “The time for lies is over.” And with that, he swept from the room. Lykkon lingered long enough to give Avall’s shoulders a comradely squeeze, then he, too, fled, leaving Avall to stare at indifferent drawings and wonder if he had once again attracted the eye—or ire—of Fate.

“Slide your hood back a bit,” Eellon growled, as he and Avall prepared to enter the Hall of Clans for the latest convocation of the Council of Chiefs, which met every sixteen days throughout the year. “We need you to be recognized. People pondering rumors won’t pay as much attention to other things, if we’re lucky.”

Avall tried not to glare at him. Eellon was right, in his way: Avall had played hermit too long. Meanwhile the world was as full of mysteries as ever, and none would wait on him.

Eellon had timed his arrival carefully—with royal connivance, Avall suspected—so that most of the other Clan-and Craft-Chiefs were already seated when he made his way into the hall. It would be Avall’s first time on the floor; the last time he’d been here was as a first-time observer at the
High King’s Proving, the previous Sundeath. He’d occupied one of the galleries then. But Chiefs were allowed aides, and a certain number of adults rotated in and out of the floor seats regardless.

The main difference Avall observed, as he followed Eellon down the carpeted marble of the particular spoke assigned to their clan and let the vast surge of stonework rise over him, was that the Stone on the dais was caged by a simple wooden throne.

The King himself wasn’t present, nor would be until every Chief had deposited a ball in the counting chute beside his or her seat. Only when a quorum was tallied would he grace them with his presence.

In the meantime, Avall tried to match Eellon’s dignity as he paced in measured steps toward Argen’s wedge. A hush followed him, vanguard of a murmur of surprise that indicated Eellon still had his flare for spectacle. Avall hoped it also meant that some of those present didn’t know he’d returned to Tir-Eron impossibly early. Unfortunately, too many people were accidentally privy to the odd events surrounding him, and even the King had no illusions as to the force of rumor. Or its accuracy.

Tyrill was already seated in her accustomed place on the craft side of the clan’s section, nor did she stand when Eellon steered his way past half a dozen other mostly unoccupied seats to claim his own beside her. Avall took the one to Eellon’s right—officially, as clan scribe—and followed his two-father’s example in pulling his hood as far forward as it would go. “Regrettable,” Eellon muttered. “It’s supposed to symbolize the darkness of the ignorance that exists without debate—until the King comes in.”

Barely had he uttered those words than the King arrived, clad in his cloak of state, and with the Iron Crown of Contention upon his hair, token, Avall supposed, of his mood. Two priests followed: Law and World, who would act as heralds and organizers. The King sat without fanfare. The Council followed his lead. After the usual welcomes, ritual blessings, and avowals of loyalty, truth, and service, he got down to business. Normally, those with matters to be
brought before the Throne entered their requests with the heralds and were summoned forward in the King’s good time. Today, however, Gynn simply cleared his throat and announced, “Lady Tyrill, I understand you have a matter you would like addressed?”

Avall saw Eellon grin, and imagined his Chief had seen what Avall had: that the King had phrased the challenge in such a way that she’d have to choose which of her agendas she’d present first. Whatever her choice, none would concern the gem directly, because that was Eellon’s prerogative. Besides which, she knew next to nothing about it, and Tyrill always preferred to fight from a position of strength.

Rising stiffly, she made her way down to the Chair of Demands, which sat on the floor below the dais. She settled into it with a clumsiness that made Avall feel sorry for her. “Majesty,” she began.

Gynn inclined his head with formal grace. “Chief.”

“I will be brief, Majesty,” she rasped, the room’s perfect acoustics amplifying her voice. “You know as well as I that the Law states that the King must be perfect—in mind and body—in order to properly reverence The Eight.”

“In order to serve as the most suitable receptacle for The Eight, when They choose to speak through him,” Gynn corrected. “There is a difference. The King is always the King, but sometimes he is more than the King.”

Tyrill sniffed. “And sometimes he is less than the King, which brings me to my business. Majesty … you have been limping since shortly past Midwinter. It is time you explained that. And,” she continued, “if the cause be a matter which … compromises your perfection, you had best consider your responsibility under Law to step down from your throne.”

Half the room gasped in surprise. Even Avall, who’d known what to expect, was shocked by the old woman’s bluntness. Eellon was on his feet in a finely timed instant. “My Lady Chief,” he cried, then waited for the King to acknowledge him. Gynn did, by pointing the dagger of state he’d chosen instead of his usual scepter—another sign he expected heavy wrangling.

“Lady Chief,” Eellon repeated, when the room had fallen silent. “Did you observe the King limping when he entered?”

“One can endure—or mask—anything for a dozen paces.”

“Or The Eight can,” came a voice from Beast. An ally Avall hadn’t expected.

Tyrill didn’t reply—which was wise. To do so now would risk denigrating The Eight before the Council.

“Nor does it matter,” rumbled Tryffon of War. “The King has been Proven for this year. Autumn is soon enough to address these claims.”

“But if I am right,” Tyrill countered, “we will have more time
this
time to choose a proper successor.”

“And if you are wrong,” the King broke in casually, “you will have wasted a great deal of this Council’s time, when there are more important matters to consider—including,” he stressed, “yet more charges to be leveled at your two-son.”

“Who is not present to hear them, which is his right.”

“Whose absence is the
cause
of some of those charges,” the King retorted.

Intrigued as he was by the pace of the events, Avall couldn’t resist letting his gaze drift around the chamber.

Most councilmen looked utterly dumbfounded, as though this were the first time they’d heard of the Eddyn situation—either his attacks on Avall and Rrath, or his disappearance. Others—notably in War, Lore, Stone, and Priest—seemed carefully neutral. A few—mostly those clans to which Tyrill had applied for aid in opposing Gynn’s raising in the first place—appeared angry at having their coup disrupted before it truly got under way. As eyes turned in Argen’s direction, Avall scratched his head, which coincidentally let his hood slide back. A good third of the faces gazing at him registered shock or amazement.