Springwar (7 page)

“The rings know each other,” Lynnz said amiably, in Eronese. “From there, it was not a large assumption—even before your actions confirmed as much—that you two know each other. Especially as there are only four rings like that in the world, and I know for a fact that their owners would never part with them, save in extreme duress.”

The young man to his left, who was also his half nephew, didn’t reply, though he desperately wanted to. Well fed and well clothed because he was also a royal prince, he was nevertheless exhausted—because he’d also been in selfimposed exile in the Flat—the vast wasteland between Ixti, which was his homeland, and Eron, where he’d sought sanctuary.

His name was Kraxxi, and a season ago his prime concerns had been boredom and worrying about why King Barrax, his father, favored his half brother, Azzli, over him. It was in response to the former that he’d joined the latter on an illicit hunting trip during which Azzli had been killed—by an accidental swipe of Kraxxi’s sword.

Which was still kinslaying, which was a capital offense in Ixti, even for princes. And since there was reason to suspect the affair had not been entirely accidental, he had two reasons to exile himself. As someone once had said, suicide didn’t have to be rapid. So he and three loyal friends had gone into the Flat and, against all hope, made their way to Eron.

Where he’d met the woman sitting opposite him, whose name was Merryn, and lost his heart to her soon after, even as he’d also found a possible way to regain honor in his homeland. At her expense.

Kraxxi wondered what she’d seen in him. Not much—if he’d looked then like he did now: wiry, almost gaunt; hairy-armed and-legged, where the men of her homeland were waxed sleekly smooth; chin and jaw dark with stubble they’d not let him shave for fear of what he might choose to cut instead.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what she thought of him now, and she, like he, was guarding her expression. He
had
loved her; that much was clear. But he’d had no choice but to … betray her, he supposed, caught between love of land and love of woman.

“Pay attention, boy!” Lynnz thundered.

Kraxxi blinked and, in spite of courtesy, yawned. He couldn’t help it. They’d fed him well when he’d come stumbling out of the Flat three days ago. They’d let him bathe, and had given him fine clothes and a warm place to stay.

And denied him sleep since his arrival.

Even after Merryn had set fire to Lynnz’s tent.

Then again, Lynnz
was
a torturer.

He wondered how they’d try to get at Merryn.

“I will speak only to my father,” Kraxxi heard himself saying. Repeating the litany he’d been uttering anytime his acts or intentions were put to question.

It was the truth, too. What he knew—what he’d learned from Merryn without her knowledge—could make the difference between war and peace—though Kraxxi feared it was too late already. The force arrayed here—officially an intelligence mission—implied the former, but he didn’t want to think about that. He looked at the rings instead, one of which had belonged to him, given to him as a bonding present by a friend who was blessedly far away. And then, surreptitiously, he looked at Merryn.

Even scoured by the wind and cold of the Flat, and covered with mud beneath a film of desert dust, she was impressive. She was tall for an Ixtian woman, though not for an Eronese—nearly as tall as Kraxxi, in fact. She weighed as much as him, too. And, like most Eronese, she had black hair and dark blue eyes, a slender build, and finely wrought
features—fortunate, given how much the folk of that land treasured beautiful things and their making.

But there was more to her than beauty. She possessed a wildness, a rebelliousness—an unwillingness to be restrained by anyone or thing unless
she
willed it—that had called to that same latent impulse in him and wakened it to roaring life. For a while they’d been exotic curiosities to each other. And then they’d become lovers, without her knowing who he was, because he wanted her to love him for himself.

She probably
did
love him, too, else she’d not have come south seeking him. Not after what had happened. Or maybe she’d pursued him for revenge. That would be like her as well. But either way, whatever they did to him, he would not betray her again—ever.

“I’m talking to you, boy!” Lynnz all but yelled, reaching over to cuff Kraxxi, which made him realize he’d fallen into the dreamy lethargy of his thoughts twice in ten breaths. “I know about these rings. I know where you got yours. It would be good to know how the other came into this woman’s keeping.”

Kraxxi didn’t reply.

“Shall I tell you?” Lynnz continued with wicked amiability. “A healer woman from Eron married a soldier from Ixti, who was attached to the royal court. She brought with her an odd red stone she’d found in that land, the parts of which, when broken, pointed to the other parts no matter where they were. In due time she had three children at one birth, who became friends with the king’s son of Ixti. They ran wild, as children will, and she made the stone into four rings so that she could keep up with her brood. One of that brood, in turn, gave his ring to the son of the king as a sign of affection. That ring is yours, Prince Kraxxi.”

He paused for a sip of pungent, resin-scented wine, which he didn’t share.

“I will speak only to my father,” Kraxxi mumbled wearily. Nor did he know, save that
he
hadn’t given it to her. Merryn did not reply, either—or in any other way acknowledge their presence.

Lynnz sighed. “Well, the civilized option having now been exhausted, I suppose I must resort to alternatives.”

Kraxxi felt his blood run cold, but tried not to show it. “I will speak only to my father,” he said again. “I will speak—” He didn’t finish, because, with a force that cut his lips, Lord Lynnz, Warlord of Ixti, slapped him.

Kraxxi slept, then. Or fell unconscious. It didn’t matter.

The manacles were padded, and they hadn’t left her naked after they’d stripped and searched her—which were about the only good parts of her current situation, Merryn had decided during her last lucid interval in the near-stifling darkness of the tent.

She hadn’t revealed who she was, as far as she knew—not verbally, though Kraxxi had blurted out that she was “cousin to the King of Eron.” But her captors had wasted no time in summoning someone well versed in Eronese clan tattoos to inspect the one on her left shoulder—which showed the characteristic insignia of Clan Argen, augmented by the knotwork border of her own sept, Argen-a, which presided over workers in precious metal. They’d know that, too, of course, since every clan controlled a specific craft. But what the tattoos did not reveal was that—though she’d been trained as a smith, she’d displayed an early aptitude for more physical arts, and when she’d come to her official Raising during the eighth after her twentieth birthday, she’d requested a tour at War-Hold. Which was where she’d met Kraxxi—and damn him for it, too.

Not that she wanted any of that known just now, though some of it was implicit by association, since War-Hold-Winter was the closest craft hold to the Flat.

As for the torture … It was odd. It was also subtle. Her captors clearly knew enough of Eronese training to know that she would’ve been conditioned to a high pain threshold indeed. And while there were certainly things they could do
to surpass it, those things generally came with a cost—like a broken mind.

Of course they could always have threatened her beauty—since her countrymen (and herself, she conceded) prized aesthetics above all else. But that would also have been a last resort. Actually, she agreed with their methods: Use the subtle approach at first, the one least likely to do permanent harm—and, quite possibly, the one least likely to be remembered.

She’d resisted so far, but another round was surely about to begin.

They were using imphor wood, which was nothing if not versatile.

Back home in Eron, it was often used, illegally, before sports competitions, since it enhanced reflexes and deadened the pain response. A stick of it in the mouth during minor surgery served as anesthetic. But the fumes could
also
deaden the mind in such a way that a person felt compelled to tell the truth.

Fortunately, the more one took, the more resistance one built up, which was part of the training at War-Hold. But one must be careful for all that. Too much too fast made one reckless and wild—which got one killed. More—especially burned as incense—could make one hallucinate.

Whoever had been entrusted with her knew that very well indeed.

It had been deceptively simple at first. The search, and then the shift they’d given her to put on, and then the manacles, which gave her room to move somewhat, but which effectively pegged her spread-eagled on the carpeted floor of a thick-walled tent.

And then a brazier was introduced, full of smoking sprigs of very fresh imphor indeed—twig and leaf. It had smoked like crazy, and she’d tried not to inhale but ultimately had no choice. And eventually she’d found herself intrigued past endurance by the texture of the pile on which she lay, and how certain colors felt slightly different against her skin, and in trying to read the pattern through the flesh of her calves and thighs.

At some point, someone had removed the brazier, then returned to sit calmly at her feet, face shrouded by a veil of wet sylk. “Who are you?” that one had demanded. “Whence do you come? What is your connection to Prince Kraxxi? What is this secret he would convey?”

That was it. Over and over. She’d started to answer, too, but had become interested in the difference between dark blue and purple, and had begun explaining that instead, which had then prompted an ongoing analysis of how words felt on one’s tongue, and the fact that they likewise had colors.

Eventually, her inquisitor had departed, and the air had slowly cleared. Too much imphor would do lasting damage—and most inquisitors only stayed until they began to feel themselves affected.

Her next dose would be stronger, though, and she dreaded it. The next level, so she’d read, usually involved the inquisitors trying to frighten the truth from one by playing on fears through verbal suggestions.

As if sensing that anxiety, the brazier returned, along with another one. Imphor and something else she didn’t recognize. She closed her eyes, tried to sleep. Or pass out. Or go into trance. Anything that would wall away her mind. Along with that, she tried to take shallow breaths, and them as rarely as possible.

But the fumes, especially the new ones, were pervasive and not unpleasant, and before she knew it, she was inhaling ever more deeply, even as her mind recoiled.

And with those breaths came muttered words in soft female voices.

“Think of who you love, and then think of what you fear.”

Repeated.

Endlessly.

She resisted, but she’d been raised to worship the arts, and one art was that of the storyteller, and so she began to construct images …

… a woman beautiful beyond description, for neither she nor anyone else could explain how Strynn—for so it was: her
bond-sister—could have a face like most other High Clan women and yet surpass them all, to be accounted the most beautiful woman of her time.

They’d become bond-sisters at their first bleeding, and confirmed that bond every year after. Strynn had been gawky then, and Merryn often mistaken for a boy, so physical attraction clearly hadn’t mattered. And though they’d pleasured themselves with each other, as bond-mates usually did, that had never been the basis of their affection.

But to lose Strynn—that was what she feared most. And yet she couldn’t help thinking of that loss, and all the ways it could be accomplished. And so she saw …

Strynn working bare-armed before a forge, hammering out swords and daggers and axes. No, a
particular
sword—and she was leaning far over the forge, and the fire was leaping up and raking that perfectly smooth face, and finding a hold in her hair, so that it, too, blazed up, and Strynn was screaming, and then her robe had also taken fire and she was all aflame, and nobody was helping, though many stood around to point and cheer. And then she glimpsed Strynn’s face with the brow and lashes burned away, and the lips and nose starting to melt—and Strynn said one thing: “This is all your fault.”

And then Merryn screamed and closed her eyes, but what she found inside them was also Strynn …

… lying in an odd sort of bed, her belly as big as the biggest summer melon. She wore a shift, but it was open around that swelling, and movement occurred there, like ripples in still water. Strynn’s legs were spread, and she half lay, half squatted, so that the draw of the earth would help the baby out. But the baby wouldn’t come, though Strynn screamed at it to be born, and cursed the midwives gathered round, and then cursed Merryn’s brother, Avall, who had put this baby in her …

Except that wasn’t right. This was Eddyn’s child, the fruit of his seed. Avall was only the acknowledged father, chosen to circumvent Eddyn’s attempts to woo her
.

And it didn’t matter, because the child was coming out all wrong, and blood was coming, too: first a trickle then a gush that made odd harmony with the sound of Strynn’s screaming, and then the baby’s shoulders were free—but it was pushing out, and

grinning a grin that looked exactly like Eddyn’s, and then it tore at Strynn’s womanhood and ripped her all asunder: a terrible gash from between her legs to halfway up her belly
.

Strynn screamed. The baby laughed. And then Strynn died …

But the screaming never ended, and it took Merryn a while to realize that it was her own.

“Avall!” she shouted. “Save me!”

Merryn!
he gave back, the merest whisper.

“Avall—!”

It
was
him, too: Avall speaking to her mind, through that strange bond born of a gem she had never seen. But though she felt him there, he was no longer responding. Still, wherever he was could only be better than here, and so she went to him—that which was most truly her did. And though it was cold beyond bearing where he was, Merryn found refuge there and rested.