Springwar (2 page)

Back in Eron, Avall and Rann had encountered a hardy woodswoman named Div. But scarcely had that association begun when the party was attacked by birkits. During the ensuing struggle, Avall’s blood primed the gem, and he found he could speak to the beasts mind to mind—and that they were, as Rrath suspected, semi-intelligent. Recognizing fellow hunters, the birkits called off their attack and offered Avall, Rann, and Div shelter from a blizzard in their den. During that enforced incarceration, Div and Rann became lovers, while Avall discovered that under certain circumstances it was possible to use the gem to draw energy from what he assumed was the Overworld—the realm of The Eight—thus confirming its use as a potential weapon.

Desperate to reach Tir-Eron at any cost, Avall, Rann, and Div continued on when the blizzard lifted, and soon reached the ruins of an abandoned way station. While preparing to camp there, they were attacked by mysterious, white-cloaked figures bent on acquiring Avall’s gem. Div was shot
with an arrow, and Rann clubbed to near unconsciousness, but not before he saw Avall also take an arrow in the back and fall from an escarpment into the icy waters of the river below.

Filled with despair at the loss of his best friend—and the gem, which Avall wore on a chain inside his clothes—Rann barely cared when their attackers were suddenly set upon by birkits, presumably those they had befriended earlier. All their enemies fled or were killed, but Rann scarcely had strength to drag Div to shelter in the ruins’ basement and tend their wounds before yet another massive blizzard closed in.

Not all the attackers were dead, however. Though the ambush had been mounted by members of Priest-Clan’s secret cabal, Rrath and Eddyn had also been present. Fleeing the carnage—and allies whose agendas seemed increasingly alarming—Rrath and Eddyn took shelter in a small boathouse near the ruined station, where the same blizzard that had driven Rann and Div to ground forced them to hold up for several days.

Eventually the storm passed, with Rann and Div being the first to emerge. Faced with a difficult decision, they finally agreed to return to Gem-Hold to inform Strynn that Avall was almost certainly dead—any hope otherwise being due to the fact that the gem conferred remarkable healing properties upon those who wielded it. Nor did Strynn accept Avall’s death as given. Linking with Rann through another gem she had uncovered, Strynn was able to determine that Avall was alive but very, very cold.

As for Avall himself, he was indeed very cold—and very wet—and then, when both seemed certain to claim his life, he found himself suddenly warm again.

T
he lowest log in the wide stone fireplace collapsed to blocky coals, bringing down the sturdier wood atop it in a rush of sparks. A stretch of unseared bark reached well-banked embers and flamed up. Red glare danced around waist-high stone walls four spans long, above which more stone alternated with rotting shutters as tall as a man. Rough-hewn corner posts leered with the eyes and mouths of demons. More stared down from the rafters of the steep-pitched roof.

The sudden light roused the nearer of two young men huddled in furs beside the hearth. He blinked long-lashed lids, grunted, almost slept again—then recalled the plan he’d been formulating when the day’s fatigue had claimed him.

He tensed, caught himself, and relaxed—slowly, lest his companion sense that aberration and awaken. A breath, and he opened his eyes, as alert as he’d been lethargic.

This was his chance. Maybe. If he were careful. If he didn’t lose his nerve. If he didn’t change his mind and choose escape over stealth or confrontation.

Escape …

He listened warily. One would be mad to dare what lay beyond these walls; what he could hear even above the crackling fire. The winds waged war out there, this latest
sally winging in from the east, bearing new, seaborn snow to heap atop the days-old drifts that shrouded this wretched, abandoned place that had
not
been built as long-term shelter.

Not that he begrudged it. Still, their stony sanctum had been intended as
temporary
refuge in which riverside revelers could change clothes, eat light meals, and store boats.

In High Summer.

This was Deep Winter—and the direst part of that season howled without: a blizzard that had caught him and his companion unprepared. And for all that, they were luckier than some, whose corpses cluttered a sprawl of ruins a quarter shot upriver, victims of a birkit attack that might not be coincidental.

If
the beasts were intelligent, as his floor-mate, more than once, had vowed …

No!
He dared not think about that now, though those beasts—and those dead—were in large part why he was here. Him, Eddyn syn Argen-yr, protégé of the most powerful woman in Eron. The second-best goldsmith of his generation, by the ranking of his craft. And a proclaimed rapist, who’d only escaped unclanning and exile through that same kinswoman’s machinations—and the fact that throughout his whole cold-blasted homeland there was a shortage of healthy young men, courtesy of a plague eighteen years gone by.

Eddyn syn Argen-yr.

The fool.

Holding his breath, he rolled onto his left side, giving that movement the casual crude grace of sleep. That faced him full toward the fire, perfectly poised to observe what he’d noted as he and Rrath settled in for a long, cold, and far too indefinite term of waiting.

Rrath’s travel pack.

Not remarkable of itself, but inside the well-oiled leather were secreted certain herbs and potions with which Rrath and his dubious accomplices had kept Eddyn sedated into mindless pliancy, content to plod numbly through the
silent empty woods between Gem-Hold-Winter and Tir-Eron.

Those accomplices were all dead now—the so-called ghost priests. And Eddyn had managed to shake off the soporific. He would
not
succumb again.

Slowly he eased his arm beyond his bedroll, grateful for proximity to the fire that kept the worst of the cold at bay. A wave of black hair slid into his eyes. He brushed it back, the better to assess his goal. A little farther, and …

Not quite.

Gritting his teeth, he rolled onto his belly, gaining a handspan’s reach. Fingers stretched, and …

Success!
Not the pack itself, but the flap above the side-bag in which the drugs were cached. The clasp was snug and took forever to free one-handed, yet he managed.

A pause to flex his fingers, and he eased them inside, feeling for a certain velvet pouch that wrapped a number of small glass phials.
Found it …

But there was also a second pouch—which he hadn’t expected. He snared both, wincing when glass clicked against glass as he withdrew them. Rich blue nap showed. Good: He’d found the right one. But this other—the red sylk—he’d never seen it before.

The fire popped. A coal spun toward him. He flinched—and lost his grip on the more slippery cloth, barely retaining the velvet. Glass shattered on the flagstones; liquid stained stones and sylk alike. “Eight,” he swore silently. But maybe he could still cover—

“What?” a groggy voice mumbled at his back, issuing from a thatch of tousled mouse-colored hair shorter than his but thicker.

“What?”
Again. More sharply.

“Fire,” Eddyn grunted, as though he’d just awakened.

A squirm of movement became a panicked flurry. A hand clamped down on his forearm as Rrath flung his whole torso atop him in a desperate scramble to snare the scarlet bag.
“No!”
the Priest blurted, in something between a wail, a shout, and a yawn. Then: “Oh, Eight, not
that
one!”

But Eddyn was a third again Rrath’s size and commensurately stronger, and in one smooth, practiced twist, he bucked his assailant aside then rolled atop him. Additionally blessed by a head start on alertness, it was a simple matter for Eddyn to pin the smaller youth beneath him: straddling his hips and forcing both arms against the floor. The surviving pouch was a hardness between his palm and Rrath’s left wrist. By the resigned grimace contorting the Priest’s bland features, Eddyn knew he’d won. “And why
not
that one?” he snapped. “Have I found
another
secret, Rrath?”

Rrath’s eyes blazed with anger. “I can’t tell you.”

“Eight, you can’t, you sneaky little turd. What was that stuff?”

“I
can’t
tell you,” Rrath repeated. “Remember what I said about conditioning? There are some things I literally can’t reveal. But I can say that what you just destroyed will hurt you as much as it does me. It’s … No, I can’t say—I
can’t!”

“Try,” Eddyn growled.
“Try
to tell me. Maybe then I’ll believe you.”

Rrath grimaced wretchedly. “That phi—”

He broke off, gasping for breath. The cords in his neck stood out like ropes. His jaw went hard. Panic washed his eyes.

“What—?” Eddyn demanded.

“What you saw,” Rrath spat. “Paralysis of the throat and tongue. And pain in my head, like my
brain
was going to explode. I can’t—”

“Not good enough,” Eddyn retorted, oblivious to Rrath’s discomfort. “What
was
that stuff? It has to be important, for you to act like this.”

Rrath’s breath was coming harsh and fast. He swallowed hard. “Compass,” he gasped—then gasped again, louder, panting like a bellows. Eddyn could feel his pulse racing beneath his hand.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddyn persisted ruthlessly, increasing the pressure on Rrath’s wrists. “How can a phial of … whatever it was be a compass?”

Rrath swallowed again. “Like calls to … like,” he
muttered, eyes going wide as he realized he’d managed the whole phrase. Then, almost recklessly: “I’m … a … weather-witch.”

Eddyn’s eyes narrowed in confusion, then widened in turn as realization dawned. He relaxed his grip minutely. “So you’re saying …?”

“I
can’t
say,” Rrath cried. “Not directly. Maybe this way, apparently. Obliquely. If it doesn’t kill me with pain—which it could.”

Eddyn gnawed his lip, fighting for patience. “So something in that phial was … like something else?”

Rrath’s head rose once, as though to nod. But then he was gasping again. “I can’t. Even that—”

“Like what, then? Like Avall? Or like the gem?”

Silence. Rrath was crying, almost sobbing. But then he took a deep breath. “Earth calls to earth,” he dared, wincing in anticipation of what could not be feigned agony. His whole body shuddered again. Sweat shimmered on his brow.

Eddyn sat back, using that interval to thrust the remaining pouch down the neck of his tunic. He’d store it more properly later. Or destroy it. “Get up,” he growled.

Rrath mumbled something unintelligible and wriggled out from under him, divesting himself of his bedroll in the process. Like Eddyn, he’d stripped to woolen hose and undertunic. Fortunately, Eddyn’s had been belted; he could feel the pouch against his skin.

“Might want to stoke up the fire,” Eddyn continued, his voice ominously soft. “Oathbreaking goes better in the light.”

“And with something in one’s belly,” Rrath suggested hopefully.

“There’s brandy.”

“Not much
but
brandy, actually.”

“Fetch it.”

Rrath scooted off to retrieve the jug while Eddyn adjusted the fire, adding a piece of oak bench that would burn a good while. He had no idea how long this blizzard would last, and such resources had best be husbanded.

Red light became gold as Rrath returned. Side-lit, his smooth features looked very young. He was, too—within an eighth of Eddyn’s age, since they’d both been part of the same Fateing. Eddyn doubted he looked much older himself, though he felt as if he were a thousand.

“Ask,” Rrath prompted sullenly, uncorking the jug.
“Maybe
we can find a way around this, if you ask exactly the right questions. I don’t think I can volunteer much at all.”

Eddyn’s brow wrinkled in thought. “So … something in the phial—some liquid—was like something Avall had, or else like something connected to the gem. And then you said earth calls to earth, and the gem came
out
of the earth, so that’s probably what you meant. Right?”

Rrath didn’t reply. Or couldn’t. His mouth worked, but no words ensued.

“The phial had
liquid
in it,” Eddyn stressed. “Which doesn’t make sense—unless that liquid was connected to some liquid where the gem was found, except that I worked that vein myself and it was as dry as any of them are down there. On the other hand, something could be dissolved
in
that liquid. So …” He broke off, staring at Rrath again. “Weather-witches drink water from Weather’s Well when they want to predict the weather—
-find
the weather, so folks say. Everyone knows that. So if you drank from a Well that had … earth from the gem’s vein dissolved in it, and then did the witching rite, you might—” He said no more, for he knew from the shock that crossed Rrath’s face that he’d hit close to the mark. “That’s it, isn’t it?”