Springwar (24 page)

T
hree days of being pampered in bed was long enough, Avall decided—not that he objected in principle. He was still camping with Lykkon, to minimize knowledge of his presence in Argen-Hall, and certainly had no complaint about the quarters—which were always warm, and less drafty than his own. Nor with the company—Lykkon was his closest male friend after Rann, if kinsmen could also be friends. Nor the food, nor the clothes they’d spirited to him from his suite, nor … a lot of things.

But the fact was, he’d grown accustomed to taking an active part in his life, to making decisions without the knowledge, never mind approval, of anyone besides Rann and Strynn. And to having important things to consume his time—like working in the mines or on the High King’s helm; like studying the gem; and like cementing his friendships with Rann, Strynn, and maybe Kylin. Two of these were no longer active options, and he was still debating whether to try to re-create the helm Eddyn had presumably ruined, or attempt to repair the remnants when Strynn returned it in the spring. The High King said either was fine, but he’d also said it in a distracted way that made Avall think he had more important things on his mind.

Which he probably did, now that Eddyn had returned. Avall didn’t know what to think about that, frankly. It was
bad form to wish anyone dead, never mind a kinsman, but it would certainly have simplified several people’s lives if Weather had chosen to claim his cousin as a sacrifice, perhaps in exchange for the power of the gem.

As for that, he’d decided not to try distance contact again for at least another day, for a number of reasons—paramount among them that he wasn’t yet strong enough to do it himself, and Eellon didn’t want knowledge of the thing to spread wider than it already had. Which left Lykkon and Bingg as the main sources of energy to tap—which both would’ve eagerly provided had Eellon not warned them against it.

Lykkon had protested, but Eellon had been firm—except that he’d written the Chief of Lore to inform him that he would need Lykkon’s services on royal business the next half eighth. Which was irregular, and would raise some brows, but not unheard of. What that business would entail was unclear—besides keeping Avall fed and entertained, and taking exhaustive notes while Avall tried various experiments with the gem. Lykkon was also surreptitiously scouring the Lore halls in Argen-Hall, Smith-Hold, Lore-Hold, and Gem-Hold for information on aberrant gems of any kind. So far he’d turned up nothing. Not even a reference to another strange red gem with properties of attraction Rann had heard about at Gem-Hold-Winter. Which had apparently gone south to Ixti, in any case.

Lykkon was nothing if not conscientious. The piles of parchment on his cousin’s desk proved that, one labeled “history,” one “temporal anomalies/concentration,” one “communication: human,” one “communication: beasts,” one “physical aberrations/healing,” one “power manifestations,” one “priming-activation,” and one “place-jumping.” Set out that way, it looked like a lot—and was. The problem was that almost every bit of it was also a mystery. And since Eellon and Gynn were keeping quiet about it for the nonce, even those experts outside the clan who might know something weren’t available for consultation.

At the moment, Lykkon was trying to determine precisely how Eddyn had become involved, and what that involvement
entailed. As a function of that, they’d decided that Avall would answer all pertinent questions with the gem in his hand. Not primed—he barely needed that these days, as best he could tell—but so that any response it might have independent of him could be more easily noted. It
did
like and dislike certain people; that was a fact. But that seemed to be tied to how that person related to Avall.

Lykkon dipped his pen into the inkwell. “So the first you began to suspect was when you overheard Eddyn and Rrath in the fruit garden at Gem, correct?”

Avall nodded. “Eddyn was as drunk as I’ve ever seen him, and gushing all kinds of nonsense. But I learned two things: that he’d seen the helm—and seen the gem. And somehow, I don’t quite know how, he’d made a connection.”

Lykkon scowled. “Between—?”

“Between the fact that I was able to work much better and faster, and the fact that the improvement only began after I found the gem. It was a leap, and a fairly major one.”

“How did he see the helm?”

“I assume he either picked a supposedly unpickable lock or somehow got hold of a key. It doesn’t really matter.”

Lykkon nodded sagely. “In any event, it was illegal. But I can just imagine what he was thinking. He already felt guilty over the Strynn affair. He’d had his self-worth crushed over and over by Tyrill. He had a commission from the High King, but that put him, once again, into a competitive position with you, yet it was also something he might actually best you at. And then you showed signs of bettering him—again. If you”—he paused, looked at Avall sadly—“don’t take me wrong on this, cousin, you know which side I’m on, but facts have no side—If you hadn’t been born, Eddyn would’ve had quite a different life. From his point of view, you’re the source of all his problems. I think he wants to be … good. But things go against his expectations, and he just has to react.”

Avall closed his eyes. It was all true—objectively. And if he’d had a less sympathetic mentor than Eellon, it could well be Eddyn sitting here discussing what a flawed casting Avall
was. Still, it hurt to hear Lykkon rationalizing Eddyn’s behavior, even in an objective context.

Lykkon hadn’t
been
there, not for all of it. Maybe for the first ripples from the rape, since Avall had been out of the gorge then. But afterward … Lyk hadn’t had to endure Eddyn’s presence on the trek to Gem-Hold, or that strange little power game with Rrath, which seemed to have reflected back on him. Or the attack.

All at once
that
hit him. Eddyn had been at the station, Strynn had said. He’d probably led their attackers there. Quite possibly he’d pointed out who was who. Eddyn had conspired to
kill
him, and not only that, his bond-brother and Div, whom he held in ever-higher regard. Eddyn had wanted to take his
life!
Not in theory, but as an active, real event—like his rape of Strynn. And he’d hurt Kylin, and he’d hurt Rann—and even—now—Rrath.

Eddyn did
not
deserve to live. And if Avall had him here now, he wouldn’t.

Without realizing it, he’d clamped his hand tight around the gem—letting the vision build: his hands around Eddyn’s neck. Letting the anger he’d fought down for days flare hot as forge-fire, untempered.

“Avall—!” he heard Lykkon shout. “Avall—Wha—”

The word was cut off, because Avall was
not
for a moment, then came back into being feeling significantly colder. He also felt something warm and textured beneath his fingers, with something more solid under that.

And opened his eyes to find himself face-to-face with an equally startled Eddyn.

One moment Eddyn was calmly sitting in the single chair they allowed him in his cell, sipping soup from the single wooden bowl on the single table. The next he felt a curious disturbance in the air of the candlelit chamber, saw something appear between himself and the bed, like a sheet of advancing rain—and then felt something solid clamp down on his shoulders.

“Avail!”
he shrieked—flinging the hands aside as he recoiled. The movement overbalanced him, and the chair toppled, sprawling him into the space between bed, fireplace, and table. His shin caught a corner, sending a burst of agony up his leg. Soup splashed across him.

“Eddyn?” a voice gasped in turn, and by then Eddyn had righted himself sufficiently to see that, in spite of what logic told him, it really was Avall standing at his feet, gaping stupidly in surprise.

Which was impossible. “What—?” he heard himself begin, but broke off. Something had fallen from Avall’s right hand. Something red that flashed in the firelight. Something he recognized. Reflex sent him diving for it, as Luck—or Fate—set it bouncing his way across the floor. He snatched for it. Avall lunged after him—clumsily—clearly as shocked as Eddyn had been. “No!” he shrieked.

But Eddyn was closer and reached it first. He felt its smooth warmth pulse in his hands like a small animal resisting capture. He felt it disliking him, too, but held on grimly. Whatever else it might be, it was a bargaining tool, if he only knew how to work the negotiation.

“That’s mine!” Avall yelped, as he finally got sufficient bearings to assess the situation. He’d frozen in place, as though torn between attacking Eddyn and his usual, civilized demeanor. Clearly this was no intentional visit. And the presence of the gem in his hand implied that the troublesome stone was, yet again, a factor.

“Mine, now,” Eddyn spat, grasping the gem more securely as he rose to a wary crouch.

Avall’s eyes were blazing. “Mine by any Law you name, Eddyn. The King knows—”

“This is how you got here!” Eddyn blurted. “Out of the river.”

“Give it to me, Eddyn! You’re already in so deep you’ll never get out. Strynn. Kylin. The helm. The attack on me and Rann and Div.”

“Then one more won’t matter!” Eddyn raged—and snatched the wooden ale mug from the table. The room was small, and Avall was even more off-balance than Eddyn.
Nor was there anywhere to dodge. Reflexively, he stepped back—and stumbled into Eddyn’s bed. By which time Eddyn was on him. Avall raised his hands in defense, but Eddyn was stronger—and had anger on his side. A swipe with the mug raked Avall’s knuckles, laying them open. Blood flashed in the uneven light. A backhand impacted a wrist. Avall tried to rise, but Eddyn had leapt full atop him, battering Avall’s hands aside, before grabbing his right hand and holding it as Avall continued to struggle. A blow caught his rival’s head—another.

A third, and Avall grunted, cursed, then finally screamed for help—by which time Eddyn was pummeling his skull with the mug, almost unopposed. Blood showed in Avall’s black hair.

But someone was coming. He could hear footsteps and shouts, and the words “Keys” and “Eddyn” and “What’s happening?”

And then Avall suddenly stopped moving, and Eddyn found himself staring down at the limp body of his rival.

He thought of ending it there—if he’d had a proper implement—but once again he stopped short of actual murder.

But they were still coming for him. And they’d find what he’d done, and take the gem away, and—

The gem
. It had brought Avall here. Was there therefore any reason that power couldn’t be accessed equally well by him? The gem didn’t like him, but did that matter?

Only … how did it work? How
had
it brought Avall here?

He didn’t know. But one thing he did know was that that door would open any moment and his choices would be gone. He wanted out. Away from this cell and the dreadful anticipation it wove constantly through his brain. Away from even the sight of his cursed rival. He wanted—he realized—to start over.

The gem pulsed in his hand, hating him. If it had been a mouse, it would’ve bit him, but he grasped it more tightly. Avall’s it might be, but Eddyn had it now. It was his. He was the master—and he wanted out.

Reality jolted. The room grew dim, then clarified. Something rattled the lock. More shouts echoed, and the floor outside rang with approaching feet.

Eddyn couldn’t face it. Not anymore. He closed his eyes, and …
wished
.

And for a long moment nothing existed save a burning pain in his hand, as though he held a hot coal. It protested, but he beat it back: overruling its desire with his own. He opened his eyes—saw
nothing
—which scared him ten times worse than he’d ever been scared before. Once again he wanted out—gone—over.

Nothing …

And then cold, and more cold. And something solid against his feet that unbalanced him.

Eddyn tumbled backward, opened his eyes, and saw darkness above and gray/blue/white rising around him. And had just time to think “outside” and “snowbank” before consciousness forsook him.