Springwar (40 page)

“There was only one significant item of Council business,” Vallyn began, “which is to inform you that the Priests
of Fate and the Chiefs of Lore have agreed that this spring’s Fateing can be altered as you asked.”

“Exactly
as asked?” Tryffon inserted.

Another nod. “Everyone entering the Fateing for the first time must list War-Hold as his or her first choice. The rest are encouraged to do the same, and those with only one choice remaining, and that not War, will be given four free choices—if we survive this thing. Those with two choices remaining will be given three for free, and so on. The result will be chaos for a while. But if we fail … it won’t matter.”

Gynn grinned his satisfaction. “Exactly as I’d hoped. These new levies should begin arriving soon, then?”

The herald looked uneasy. “That was one thing to which the Council would
not
agree—Priest-Clan, more precisely. The Fateing will fall as the Law demands.”

The grin became a scowl. “Which is still within the eighth, though I’d hoped to have them sooner. And another eight days for the first to arrive …” Gynn turned to Tryffon. “That is how long we have to hold them.”

“It can be done.”

“Are you certain?”

Tryffon gestured at the sky. “Nothing, my King, is certain.”

Gynn rose to go, but the herald once more cleared his throat. “Majesty, there is one final item it was thought you might need to hear, though it will not make you happy.”

“And that is?”

“Lord Eellon syn Argen-a, Clan-Chief of Argen, is ill. His head and heart have troubled him since Avall’s return, though it is said he tried to hide it. Since then—”

“He’s pushed himself relentlessly,” Gynn spat. “And tried to hide
that
. Dammit, why couldn’t he have taken better care of himself? I knew he couldn’t travel down here with the army, but I was relying on him to keep the Council in line—to keep Priest-Clan in line, in any event. If he dies—”

“The next eldest member of that clan is old Fallora, who was in North Gorge, last we heard,” Preedor muttered.

“Which would mean the ranking subchief in Tir-Eron would have to take over—who is, I’m afraid, from Argen-yr.”

“If Tyrill doesn’t try to seize control herself. It would be just like her.”

Gynn shuddered, and not from the wind. “She’s still loyal—to the land. But if we survive this and Eellon doesn’t … I don’t want to think.”

“The trek from Gem-Winter has arrived,” the herald murmured, almost as an afterthought. “Tyrill says to tell you she has the shield.”

“Good for her,” Gynn growled. “I hope it doesn’t adorn my tomb.”

R
emember the eyes …

Eyes reveal all …

Avall was trying desperately to keep those admonitions in mind as another pair of dark blue eyes met his from behind the eyeslots of a plain war helm. Breath hissed loud within his own steel equivalent; sweat ran in torrents down his spine. His arms were numb from throwing blows and deflecting them. His palms throbbed from impacts against his blade. Endlessly.

He saw an opening, and twisted slightly, drawing his opponent out, then feinted beneath his foe’s arm, only to launch a true blow at the helm. Metal clanged satisfyingly loud. An edge scraped down the back of
his
helm as well, sliding off padding worn above mail.

His foe crumpled with a grunt and a jingle of armor.

Avall bent to offer a hand up. “I knew I could take you if I made you wait long enough,” he told Lykkon, as the younger man thrust his practice sword into its scabbard before reaching for his chin strap. “Merryn said you were good for exactly a hand, and then impatience intercedes. She was right, too.”

Lykkon had his helm off by then. His hair—cut short in anticipation of combat—was plastered to his forehead in a fringe of points. “I was distracted,” he panted, with a disarming grin.

Avall glared at him as he removed his own helmet. “That grin won’t save you,” he warned. “And distraction can cost you—”

“If you’re going to lecture, at least do it over wine,” Lykkon chuckled, as he strode past Avall to the darkest part of the arcade that surrounded the Citadel’s war court.

Avall had no choice but to follow, helm in one hand, the other wiping his brow with the tail of his surcoat. Lykkon was already filling goblets when Avall reached the small table. He snared a stool and absently watched a dozen other sets of young men and women honing their combat skills.

Lykkon nodded toward them. “You really think it’ll come to this? Folks that young, I mean?”

“Folks as young as
you
, you mean?” Avall snorted, scowling at his drink, as though it contained something foul. “No one’s going to make you fight but you, Lyk. Not on the front, anyway. But if Barrax and his friends come pounding on your gate, I doubt anyone will ask your age before he runs you through.”

Lykkon wiped his face on a sleeve and sprawled backward, absently fumbling with laces and ties. “I’m not afraid to fight, ’Vall. But you’ve said yourself, some things simply aren’t real until they make themselves real. Like battle—or sex. No amount of simulation can prepare you for the genuine article.”

“Speaking of …” Avall smirked. “Have you …?”

Lykkon turned redder than his surcoat. “What do you
think?
”

“I think you’re like I was at your age: not with a woman since your Manning, and only then with an unclanned courtesan, which really is
not
the same at all.”

Lykkon studied his wine in turn. “Unfortunately, I’m not into casual liaisons. But more unfortunately, there’s no woman I love, and I don’t have a bond-brother. Plus, I’m not important enough politically for what happened to you to be repeated.”

“That’s not what Lore says,” Avall muttered. “Besides, I wasn’t trying to—to—Dammit, Lyk, with things like they are, maybe you should. Maybe we should all abandon
caution for once, and live …
intensely
. Fateing or no, you could be dead in an eighth. Aren’t there things you want to do before you die? Things there’s no reason
not
to do except that they carry the weight of implicit disapproval—not legal prohibition, mind you—merely traditional assumption of avoidance.”

Lykkon buried his face in his hands. “It isn’t supposed to be like this, ’Vall. We have this neat, predictable life worked out for us, with everything established by Law and enforced by our elders. It’s safe and secure and a little boring, but it also gives us freedom and life experience we might not get otherwise. More to the point—for now—it renders us much more informed and accomplished than the average Ixtian can ever hope to be. Still, we’re supposed to be able to look ahead ten years or thirty or eighty, and have a clear idea of where we’ll be doing what with whom. And now none of that’s a given. There’re folks in Half Gorge right now who’ll spend the rest of their lives rebuilding what they’ve lost, and trying to superimpose their needs atop a system that isn’t designed to support them. It’s—”

Avall couldn’t help but laugh. “You think too much, cousin.”

Lykkon regarded him steadily. “I think about those things to avoid thinking about others—like Eellon.”

Avall’s face clouded. “Have you seen him today?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“He’s sicker than he admits, but claims he’s pacing himself. He says you can endure anything if you know how long you’ll have to endure it. He says this spring and summer will tell the tale. He says if Gynn doesn’t hold the gap, the only thing that can win this war for us is the weather.”

Another snort. “Well, it’s sure as bloody cold not helping now! Not with the top two gorges still frozen in. I guess that’s the price we pay for a mild winter.”

“Which at least saved you. I wouldn’t have wanted to lose you, ’Vall.”

“Nor I you.” Avall studied the courtyard. “There’s time for another bout—”

Lykkon shook his head, but then his eyes went very round, and his chin all but clanked against his chest, he was so slack-jawed.

“Lyk, what—?”

Lykkon closed his mouth enough to speak. “Avall,” he whispered carefully. “Look … behind … you …”

A chill trotted down Avall’s spine—precisely as he felt something brush his mind. He recoiled instinctively, already reaching for his sword as he rose.

But then an impossibly joyful freshness washed across his consciousness like rain across parched earth.

“Strynn!” he blurted, as a tall figure emerged from the shadows behind him and stepped into the light. Hair like liquid night framed a face of porcelain-white before tumbling across shoulders clad in Argen maroon. He was dumbfounded anew at her beauty, wondering how he could have forgotten it in the eights since he had seen her. Wondering if perhaps she had grown more beautiful because of all that had transpired, that had fortified already incredible fairness with strength.

“Avall.”

She smiled with absolute joy, absolute conviction. And that joy reached out to engulf him as he had not been engulfed since leaving Gem-Hold. It was like emotion solidified, and he wrapped himself in it, even as his more physical aspect wrapped himself in her arms and she in his. He was vaguely aware of a sudden silence from the court, and of Lykkon starting to laugh, long and loud and recklessly.

Other laughter joined in: his own and Strynn’s. No one spoke—yet communication continued unabated. Finally Avall eased away. “I’m not going to kiss you until I can do it without interruption,” he murmured, as he drew her back into the shadows. “But—there should’ve been word of your approach. I didn’t think you’d be with the trek, but I’ve been asking everyone I could find who was on it, anyway; never mind going out of my mind since … Well, I’ll tell you about
that
later—” He broke off, wishing he hadn’t said even that much, for it was like extinguishing a candle he’d only just ignited.

“Don’t apologize,” Strynn shot back far more seriously than expected. “I know what you’re going to tell me. The rest—it was Eellon’s decision. As soon as word came of our approach, he sent my cousin Veen to outline the situation, and—”

Avall stiffened. “Why would he do
that?
”

“Because, sweet man that he is, he didn’t want to sully our reunion with politics—which we’re doing anyway. We’d already heard so many terrible things, he … we just wanted something good to happen to you, something you wouldn’t fret about until it happened. He wanted to surprise you!”

“But you know …”

“About the war and the attack on War-Hold. And—” She broke off, eyes bright with tears. “Oh, Avall, poor Merryn—”

Avall reached out to take her hand. “I don’t think she was there—for reasons I’ll explain later. You’ll have to trust me on this—and Merryn.”

Strynn nodded bravely, glancing around lest she be overheard. “I also know about Eddyn.”

“And the gem …”

Another nod. “Eellon met us at Argen-Hall and briefed us there. It—He says it’s affected you.”

Avall shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t tell.”

“I can.”

Avall started to reply, then froze in place. “I … have a son—”

And then he froze in truth. He did
not
have a son. Strynn had a son. The boy was no blood of his, nor bone. He was Eddyn’s forever. Anything Avall made of him—he and Strynn—would be a patina on someone else’s casting.

Yet in spite of what she must have read in his face, Strynn grinned and squeezed his hand, while Lykkon dutifully filled every goblet in sight. People were approaching, Avall noticed, lured to Strynn like moths to flame. “A very handsome son who takes a vast interest in everything he sees.”

Avall let go her hand. “I have to …”

“He’s at Argen-Hall, as he should be,” Strynn went on quickly. “You’d have to fight your mother for him. Besides,
he’s asleep, and I dare even
you
to wake him, given how much trouble he was—as Rann, Div, and Kylin can attest.”

Avall caught at a pillar, as realization rocked him. “Rann, Div,
and
Kylin …”

Another grin. “They’re waiting in your suite. We ran into Bingg, and he suggested it, clever lad. Rann said to tell you he loved you dearly, but that he thought you’d love him more if he had a bath first. Kylin’s having one as well—and not with Rann, lest you worry.”

“And Div?” Avall repeated, both relieved and terrified, given what had passed between them, if only once.

“We wouldn’t be here without her, that’s for certain. Pacing the spring trek out of Gem, while keeping us safe from them. Being as good a friend to me as I’ve found since Merryn.”

“And she and Rann?”

A shrug. “I don’t know. Sometimes they are; sometimes they’re not. This whole thing has blindsided him.”

“What do
you
think?”

“That she knows what she is and isn’t, and that Rann knows as well—but that they don’t always agree on how those things fit together, or which is more important.”