Springwar (45 page)

A second Priest rose from their ranks. Aged Nyllol, who was Rrath’s sometime mentor. Light gleamed on his bald head as he stood there unhooded and unmasked, save for a strip of white sylk across his eyes. “Nevertheless, it is a thing we should consider.”

“I think we should let
Fate
consider it,” Lady Vyreen of Wood shot back. “If the King is given victory,
then
we should decide.”

“I am amazed,” Eellon broke in quietly, his voice clear in the room’s perfect acoustics, “how we can sit here debating the King’s right to the Throne when that King is the only reason you aren’t this moment watching the hordes of Ixti pillaging your homes.”

Grivvon cleared his throat. “Does anyone here recall whom our clan serves? Does anyone here recall what any clan or craft serves?”

“The people!” came a voice from the ranks of Healing—a very young and minor voice, to judge by the uncertain tones.

“Exactly. We do not exist to serve ourselves, we exist to serve the people. Frankly, I’ve been uncertain for a while whether Gynn does in fact serve the people.”

Eellon folded his arms. “I would be glad to hear the origin of these doubts.”

“It is rumored, Lord, that even as the High King rides to war, there are those in his very household—in this very citadel—who seek to espouse what we can only term heresy.”

“Heresy?” Eellon looked aghast.

“Heresy.”

“And what is the nature of this … heresy?”

Grivvon smiled, visible even behind his mask. “Why, that Gynn has begun to espouse the fact that the soul can exist independent of the body, and that he knows of certain … means by which that separation can be accomplished.”

“In effect,” Nyllol added. “That anyone can access The Eight.”

“Instead of merely Priest-Clan—in the interest of the rest of us, of course.” From Eemon, again.

“We do not,” Grivvon growled, “know what will happen if everyone begins storming the Overworld with their prayers directly. Perhaps The Eight will withdraw themselves from us. Or perhaps they will retaliate. Perhaps they already have.”

“Perhaps you will shit golden turds,” came another young voice from Lore.

“Whoever that was is out of line,” Eellon thundered. “Even if you may be right. But, Lord Law,” he went on, “you’re missing a rather important point. You seem to be neglecting the fact that were the rest of us free to petition The Eight on our own, your clan would quickly become … not superfluous, but perhaps less … powerful.”

“Assuming this is true,” Tyrill said abruptly. “There is another matter we must consider. As best I can tell, the means by which this … access is effected is limited indeed, and only free in theory. In practice, the King controls it; therefore, he controls who can access The Eight. Is this a power he either needs or deserves?”

Eellon glared at her. “The Wells exist, Tyrill. Nothing save guards, fear, and tradition keeps anyone from drinking from the Wells when they would. This has not happened, and access to the Wells is far easier than access to … what you reference.”

“What
does
she reference?” Moole of Wax inquired innocently.

Eellon looked as though he could have eaten Tyrill alive, and even she looked frightened, as though she’d slipped and said too much. “It would appear that we keep secrets better than I’d thought, or else that Sovereign Oath carries more force than I expected,” Eellon replied, pausing to cough again. “Very well, then: During the season just past, certain members of my clan and two others discovered a number of peculiar gems whose properties may be important in every way imaginable—especially if we recall the Prophecies last fall. These clansmen did not choose to make these discoveries, nor have they profited from them in any way, nor have my clan or theirs profited from them, nor do they plan to do so. But now is
not
the time to discuss this, not without the King himself to hand. I would beg your indulgence in this.”

“Priest-Clan knows,” Nyllol challenged. “It knows far more than you think it does.”

“Good for you,” Eellon shot back. “I trust you also know the meaning of judgment, especially as this information misapplied could lead to civil war.”

“It already risks that,” Wood replied, “if Smith withholds information that ought to be given to all of us by right.”

“By the King’s command,” Eellon shot back, coughing again.

Elvrimm of War rallied to Eellon’s defense. “If you want to speak of civil war when we face a very real war of quite another kind, I suggest you consider what might happen if Common Clan, clanless, and the unclanned learn that we of High Clan have withheld from them direct access to The Eight. They already outnumber us ten to one. And I assure you their blades are very real, and if not their blades, their stones. If I had to choose between fighting Priest-Clan and fighting Common Clan, there would be no choice—if I wanted to retain my position.”

“Priest-Clan
could
even be sacrificed,” someone else spoke up boldly. “They have no real existence, in the sense that no one is born to them. Not a man or woman is there among their ranks but could be absorbed back into the other clans.”

“Fools!”

Grivvon’s shout silenced them all. Slowly he turned in place, surveying every living thing in the room. “Did I just hear what I thought?” he hissed. “I spoke of heresy earlier, but this indeed is heresy I hear now. Smith, War, and the King deny us all information that is ours by right. They seek to set themselves up in place of the Priesthood; to
become
Priests, if you will. But they play a dangerous game, for they also control information that could bring us all down.”

Ilfon of Lore rose for the first time. “Lore stands with the Crown and with Smith and War. Until we have defeated Ixti that is our only choice. This Council must present a united front against this larger threat. I, for one, would rather the lowest unclanned Eronese put me out of my house than the king of Ixti himself. I think most of you would agree. And,” he added in a tone of dead seriousness, “we cannot let word of this potential schism leave this room. Not until we have driven Ixti from our ground.”

“You expect miracles,” Eellon drawled, “but you’re right. We must—”

“We
must do nothing!” Grivvon roared.
“We are
a thing made of smaller we’s, and the
we
that is Priest-Clan will have no part of this until we have addressed the King to our own satisfaction. Until then … we will withdraw. If the people come to us for intercession with The Eight, we will deny them. We will tell them to ask the King and the Smiths, and the Lords of War and Lore. Perhaps they will be patient, perhaps they will not. But we will have no part of this war.”

“Grivvon, stay where you are!” Eellon roared back, his face alarmingly red.

Grivvon ignored him. Already he was edging toward the aisle, with the host of Priest-Clan behind him. An elbow in Esshill’s side prompted him, and he, too, rose, joining a swelling tide jostling toward the corridor that encircled the witness level.

Esshill made it to the hall before he found himself pushed back by a flood of men and women in Warcraft livery. “You are under arrest,” one said. “For treason. Any man or woman of Priest-Clan will be detained here until proof of loyalty to the Crown can be ascertained.”

Esshill found himself looking down on the floor. Chaos reigned there as well, but already a third of the cloaks swirling above the pavement were Warcraft crimson, under the leadership of Krynneth and Lady Veen. Of the remaining Councilors, a third were congregating around the dais, most notably the Chiefs of Smith, War, Stone, Lore, Glass, and—somewhat reluctantly—Gem. The most powerful ones. The rest looked uncertain, but most were being apprehended by doughty warriors in royal livery, quartered with War and led to the exits. Only Priest-Clan was surrounded, unable to depart. “Eron cannot risk what you risk,” Eellon called. “Time is critical, and we have no time for political games such as you would play. We will see you cared for here, but here you will remain until Priest-Clan gains some sense. The rest of you … we seek no enemies, though we know we have just made some. But the sorting of that is for later. For now … Eron needs you. If you feel inclined to battle, I would suggest you take yourselves south.”

“And you, Lord Eellon?” someone dared. “Do
you
plan to go south?”

Eellon didn’t answer.

Esshill caught a final glimpse of him, however, as he slowly crumpled to the floor, only to be swept up by two sturdy Royal Guards and carried from the hall.

The last thing he saw was Lady Tyrill, hesitating for only a moment before she, too, joined her clan.

“I’m cold.”

Vyyk had been dozing, and so it took him a moment to realize that someone had actually spoken, and more than a moment to realize that it was the patient who had uttered those words. Rrath syn Garnill.

From Half Gorge, he thought, though he tried not to think such things because, as a healer, he was supposed to maintain objectivity. Even here in Priest-Clan’s sacred precincts.

And then it dawned on him in force. His eyes popped wide open, and he moved in a breath from the chair where he’d started out doing vigil and wound up napping, to the narrow cot in Priest-Clan’s brightly lit infirmary. The patient—Rrath—looked no different than heretofore: a slim, wasted form covered to mid-chest, with his hair grown long, and his body stubbled all over because, with most of the healers gone to the front, there was no one to shave or wax him.

At that, he’d filled out since they’d brought him here, unconscious from a gash in his head that was reported to have been caused by a horse’s hoof. Unconscious indeed, but not so much that he couldn’t be force-fed nourishing soups and thin gruels.

Yet now his lips were moving, and his eyelids were fluttering.

And then, suddenly, popping open—to reveal irises of startling blue.

“I’m cold,” Rrath repeated more strongly, clutching the covers. “I’m—”

He broke off, studying Vyyk intensely. “You’re not Eddyn.”

“I’m Vyyk,” Vyyk volunteered. “I’m your healer.”

“You’re too young to be a proper healer.”

“As are you to be a proper Priest, but I’m what they’ve left, what with the war—”

Rrath sat straight up in bed, eyes wild and desperate. “War?” he choked. “What war?”

Vyyk feared he’d excite himself overmuch and lapse into coma again. He reached for a pot of cauf. “Nothing that need concern you now.”

“That’s my decision,” Rrath managed giddily, trying to rise again, to swing his feet out of bed. “Where’s Nyllol? I need to see Nyllol!”

Vyyk scowled. “He’s gone to Council.”

“He’s not
on
the Council.”

“He is now. Most of the senior members from all the clans are away or occupied.”

“But—”

“No,” Vyyk insisted. “You need to rest. You need to eat everything I can get in you, and then, maybe—”

Rrath took his hand desperately. “What about Eddyn? Do you know Eddyn? Eddyn syn Argen-yr?”

“The smith? I heard he was in prison.”

“But—”

Vyyk fumbled for the food tray behind him. “No more questions until you eat. Then we’ll see.”

“Only if you’ll tell me about the war.”

“Very well,” Vyyk sighed. And did.

He’d muddled through the attack on War-Hold and had reached the part where the King had ridden off to defend South Gorge, when he heard alarms of excitement coming from outside, mixed with shouts of protest. “Hold for a moment,” he told Rrath, and rushed to the window. Like the rest of Priest-Hold, the infirmary was hollowed into the rocks of the gorge itself, and its windows were set with careful regard to maintaining the illusion of natural cliffs. Thus, the one he found was high and narrow.

Still, it was enough to show a frantic knot of men in Priest-Clan livery making their way from the entrance toward the main assembly hall. He could hear shouting, too, in anger and confusion.

For an instant he thought war had come to Eron Gorge, but that was preposterous. There would’ve been advance warning. But then he saw that the Priests were followed by a phalanx of men in Warcraft colors, surrounding what was clearly a royal herald.

Desperate to hear, Vyyk acted impulsively and broke the window with a heavy ceramic mug, which let in cold air, but also the herald’s words.

“Hear me! Hear my voice, which is the voice of the King of Eron speaking through the Council of Chiefs this day in session.” And the same repeated twice, until those who’d rushed in slowed, and people began to approach. The herald cleared his throat, safe behind his barricade of soldiers.

“Hear me,” he cried a third time. “This day has the Council of Chiefs in Tir-Eron, acting in lieu of High King Gynn, under the stewardship of Eellon syn Argen-a, declared all those of Priest-Clan in attendance at said Council to be potential traitors to Eron and to the King, for which reason they are to be incarcerated under royal guard until such time as inquiry can reach the King as to their proper disposition. Should any here seek to aid them, or free them from their confinement—which will be made as comfortable as possible—be it known that they shall likewise be styled traitor, and any resistance they dare be treated in like manner. The Council regrets this and asks that those of you who are true citizens of Eron go about your business, or show your loyalty by going south in support of your King.”

And then the whole thing repeated.

Vyyk turned away. A chill ran up his spine, for all Priest-Clan was not his clan. But Rrath apparently had heard everything as well, for he stood shakily at the foot of his bed, naked save for a loin wrap.

“War …” Rrath whispered.

Vyyk nodded. “War. But you should—”

He didn’t finish, for with no warning at all, Rrath slammed the food tray into the top of Vyyk’s head, then followed that blow with another as he crumpled.

Rrath didn’t stop to check for pulse or breathing; he was too busy relieving the healer of his clothes.