Summerblood (28 page)

Then again, Lorvinn had found out anyway, and almost as quickly as if Merryn had approached her first, so maybe that much wouldn't have changed.

Maybe Lorvinn, acting, in all honesty, to repair an indiscretion of her own, wouldn't have asked her along on that fateful final mission in search of Kraxxi, so she wouldn't have known the secret exit. And if she hadn't known it, she couldn't have revealed it to Barrax's spymaster. Granted, they'd broken her with imphor, but she should've been able to endure that. If she'd stayed in the hold, she'd have built up a stronger resistance by now. If she'd stayed in the hold—well, the attack would probably still have come, but it would've been much more direct. She could've fought an enemy she could see, and maybe she'd have died, but she'd still have had her honor.

She'd been forgiven, of course—by everyone from Preedor and Tryffon on down. Avall had forgiven her, as had Strynn and Vorinn. But she still hadn't forgiven herself. Maybe she never would.

In any case, she'd seen enough for now—more than enough to drive the dagger of guilt satisfactorily deep into her heart and let it twist and turn there. She was ready to move on, to begin her quest in earnest.

West, into these mountains—and beyond—just as Avall and Strynn had predicted, the only uncertainty being where she would begin that turning.

After that, who knew? The only direction she'd ruled out was farther south. This was close enough to Ixti, thank you very much. And not only from the real, if unlikely, fear that
the regalia might somehow fall into Ixti's hands, which could be very bad indeed, but also because that way lay Kraxxi, and he was another source of guilt in her life.

After all, had one conversation gone differently, she could now be Ixti's Queen. Kraxxi would love her like a man possessed, and give her everything she could reasonably desire.

And guilt would gnaw her heart raw.

No, this was the right thing, she had no doubt of that.

And when morning came, she would, indeed, turn west.

She found the cairn by accident.

Unable to sleep so close to the source of so much distilled pain, she'd crawled out of her tent at midnight, intending simply to stare up at the sky, which always seemed to calm her. It was a cloudless night, if somewhat humid. Mist hid the land around War-Hold, though the hold itself reared above it: stark, angular black above the glowing white. Her campsite was clear, as well. For while the idea of companionship after eight days on the road appealed to her, the need for solitude was stronger. She'd therefore camped in the lee of an outthrust scrap of mountain two shots from the hold.

And for the last half hand, had been walking.

She hadn't really been thinking about it, had simply been striding along the ridgetop, letting her feet take her where they would, which was mostly east and south, for the brighter sky there beckoned.

Still, she carried a sword, though not
that
sword, and followed the ridgeline but a little below, so as to paint no silhouette upon the sky. The ground was rocky underfoot, more stone than grass, but that was typical of the area. Now and then, however, she caught a glimmer of rusting steel or had to sidestep a helm or—once—a sprawl of bones, all of which served to remind her that not all deaths at War-Hold had occurred indoors.

And then she made her way around one of the random
rocks that thrust up here and there, and saw, not five spans ahead, at the crest of a low hill, a carefully laid pile of stones. A stick had been set at one end, and upon that stick sat a helm; while below it a swath of fabric flapped in a rising wind: a tabard of Warcraft crimson, differenced with two arrows
in saltire.

Which could only belong to one person.

She looked on the grave of the former Hold-Warden. Lorvinn, who was Strynn's aunt and almost Merryn's friend. A woman in the prime of her life who'd trusted her enough to entrust her with the secrets of her hold—to her doom.

For Merryn had built this cairn as surely as if she'd set each stone with her own hands. Another heart-wound stabbed with guilt's dagger.

For a long time she sat there, silent at first, but eventually she began to talk, in a low voice that yet was not a whisper. She didn't apologize—it was too late for that—nor did she make excuses. Rather she spoke of what Lorvinn had meant to her, and what she'd learned under her tutelage, and how being asked to join the Night Guard had been the biggest thrill and greatest honor of her life, and how much she regretted the fact that Lorvinn would never be able to see the new Eron that her brother, in spite of himself, was building. She spoke, too, of her friend Krynneth, and how he'd ridden north like a madman to discharge his last promise to Lorvinn, and how he'd served so well in the war, for all he'd gone strange afterward. And finally she spoke of how the greatest regret in her life was that any children she might bear would not get to meet War-Hold's greatest Warden and how—for one could speak frankly to the dead without risking offense—they would only know Lorvinn as the person who'd cost War-Hold its one defeat, and never grasp the complexity of the woman.

“I'm going on a quest now,” she concluded, rising to her feet and feeling automatically for the hilt of her sword. “I've decided to head west—but I might change my mind in the morning. You've met Kraxxi; you know how charming he can
be. And maybe the light of day will make me remember that charm, and I'll go south just to see him one more time, in spite of the risks that entails. I need you to send me a sign, if you can, while I'm close enough to be tempted. I need you to use whatever influence you have with the dead and The Eight and any other powers to which you have access, to keep me from going south. This is my chance to redeem myself, and already I find myself tempted, and I can't let that happen. I have to do right for Eron.”

A pause, then, as she found herself walking away. “They haven't found you yet, have they? They've been too busy looking to the future to seek the past, and I guess that's good. I think you'd like this place, too—for your cairn. But you deserve better than a pile of rocks, for all they probably consigned your body to ashes. So this will be my last gift to you. Tomorrow when those folk arise, one of them will find a message in a stranger's hand directing them to this place. It's as much as I can risk for now. I'm sure you understand. But risk is what makes life worth living—and I'm sure you understand that, too.”

And with that, Merryn marched into the night.

The next morning a young man from Wood named Baylyn syn Mozz found a sealed scroll addressed to the acting Hold-Warden outside his tent door. Footprints were found where expected. But she who had left them was gone.

“What're you
doing
?”

Rann's voice made Avall start violently, coming as it did without warning from the silent shadows of the darkened room. He twisted around where he sat cross-legged on the floor with a chest full of secrets open before him. For a moment he debated closing it, but he'd already been found out, and if Rann knew this much, he wouldn't stop until he knew everything. There'd be a row, he supposed, but then there'd be peace between them. In any case, it was too late to worry about that now, for Rann was already standing in the only exit, with a lantern in one hand and a gaping darkness behind.

“How'd you find me?” Avall growled.

Rann swept his free hand around to indicate the room. “This is the only real privacy for shots; it wasn't hard to figure out.”

Avall quirked a brow upward. “You saw me leave?”

Rann took a step into the room, then paused and relaxed against the rough log wall beside the door. The lantern made his features look pale, but did nothing to disguise the irritation that rode on them. He started to speak, but a noise sounded
from the darkness beyond the door. He scowled in that direction, as did Avall.

“Tell Lyk to come in, too,” Avall grumbled, rising only far enough to claim a seat on what remained of a desktop in this, the warden's quarters of an abandoned way station he'd found half a shot from the nice, clean new one around which the army was bivouacked.

Rann chuckled wryly, then stepped to the door and called out, “Lyk, it's okay, we've been found out.”

Avall chuckled in turn—in spite of himself. He'd come here for secrecy, but part of him acknowledged that he did not want to face what he was about to undertake alone.

Rann rounded on him, a little angrily. “What's funny?”

“That a moment ago you were claiming you caught me, and now I've caught you instead.”

At which point Lykkon appeared in the corridor beyond the door. “Close that,” Avall told them. “Extinguish that thing, and sit down.”

They did as commanded, blowing out the lantern before setting it by the door. They didn't need it anyway; the moons were all but full and shed a fair bit of light through a considerable rent in the roof of the room's southern corner. The shutters were sound, however, which was what really concerned Avall.

Rann exhaled explosively. “You can't hide from me, Vall. After all that linking we've done—all that prowling about in your brain one time and another—if I don't actually sense where you've gone, it's easy enough to second-guess you.”

“Then you don't have to ask what I'm doing.”

“I'm not
that
good,” Rann shot back. “But logic says the only reasons for you to sneak off would be to commune with Rrath, work with the gem, or both. And since Rrath's nowhere near here …”

“Veen's on guard,” Lykkon supplied, before Avall could ask.

“Which brings us back to the original question: What are you doing here?”

Avall shook his head. “I suppose you'd consider it an evasion if I said I was trying to ensure my survival?”

“I'd ask for specifics,” Rann retorted through a yawn. “I'm tired, Vall. Whatever you were doing, do it and let's all go to bed for the night. I'd still like a hot bath, if that can be arranged.”

“I'm not stopping you.”

“No, but if whatever you're up to got you killed, I'd lose many a night's sleep. It's worth the trade.”

Avall rolled his eyes. “All right, then, I'll come clean. You were right, dammit—I've come here to work with the gem.”

“That's still a rather large topic,” Lykkon muttered.

Avall glared at him. “I had a reason for wanting to work alone, beyond not having to explain everything to you two.”

“We're listening.”

Avall squatted before the small wooden chest he'd brought with him and withdrew a ceramic jar no larger than his hand. “You won't have seen this before.”

Rann shook his head, as did Lykkon.

Avall passed it to Rann, who accepted it with the care with which it had been bestowed. “Open it and sniff.”

Rann did, grimacing when he caught the odor issuing from inside. Avall caught it, too, or maybe his memory did. “Blood,” Rann spat, passing the jar to Lykkon.

“
My
blood,” Avall corrected. “A few drops a day since we set out, diluted with water.”

Lykkon stared at him. “For what possible purpose?”

Avall retrieved the jar but didn't reseal it. “Because I had an idea I wanted to try, and since it involved no threat to me, there was no reason to tell you until I had results.”

“Which you were hoping to have tonight?” From Rann.

“Maybe. I intended to add another dose of blood, then decide.”

“Decide what?”

“I bet I know!” Lykkon broke in excitedly. “You've been feeding the gem blood.”

“Smart lad,” Avall acknowledged sourly. “The presence of blood clearly has some effect on the way the gems work. Something from the user's bloodstream activates something in them, and they, in turn, activate something in the user, generally to his or her benefit—which is also, I might add, generally to the benefit of the gem.”

Lykkon puffed his cheeks. “You mean like we protect food animals?”

“More like animals we use for wool and other renewable resources. It's to our advantage to keep our sheep well and happy—and to their advantage, if they only knew it, to keep
us
happy, since we're the ones who stave off predators and so on.”

Rann shook his head, scowling. “So you think the gems are … animals?”

A shrug. “I think they display properties that are consistent with that idea. In any case, I knew that when I've fed that one blood, it's always been blood that was in direct contact with my bloodstream. Trouble was, anytime I did that, I was subject to those horrible memories of Barrax's death. I thought if I fed it blood that wasn't in contact with my
self
, it might … heal itself.”

“And has it?” Rann inquired archly.

Another shrug. “I don't know. All I know is that when I touch it with my bare skin—being careful that I don't allow it access to my blood—it seems to feel … better.”

“And tonight?”

“If it still felt better tonight, I was going to try bonding with it again. If I could cure it—if I could use it like I once did—it would solve a number of problems, not the least being allowing me to contact Merry, optimally to bring her here, along with the regalia.”