Summerblood (33 page)

Learning the former was easy, Tyrill discovered, as Lynee steered her east toward Argen-Hall, but also south toward the river. Fires were everywhere, the bonfires having served as breeding grounds for far more dangerous offspring, as building after building was set alight. Rumors ran thick and fast as sparks: the King had done this; no, the King was returning at a gallop. It was Priest-Clan's fault; no, only
part
of Priest-Clan's fault. All eight Priests of The Eight were dead; no, they were
holed up on their island or in their gorge. Every single Chief and subchief was dead. Ferr-Hall-Main was on fire (true); Lore-Hold-Main was on fire (false). Argen-Hall had been set ablaze but it had been extinguished. Yet still fires leapt and roared, and the people on the street suddenly wore masks of fear that rendered disguise redundant. The pavement was littered with paper faces and straw daggers—and some of the more dangerous kind. More than once Tyrill trod on someone dying.

“How can this have happened?” Lynee pleaded.

“By not watching where we should,” Tyrill snapped. “By seeing what we expected instead of what was.

“It wouldn't take many to murder the Chiefs,” she continued, “if their movements and habits were known. It wouldn't even require that every clan be infiltrated. When this is over, you can bet that scores of pages will be found trussed up in corners, alive if they're lucky, but just as likely to have their throats slit. I—Oh, Eight!”

She'd just caught a flash of white to the east, and heard a thunder of hooves on stone. Through billowing clouds of smoke, she could make out scores of mounted riders pounding across the next bridge down, obviously having come from South Bank. They rode in order, too, with swords flashing and white cloaks whipping above surcoats of midnight blue. All wore masks, but all those masks were blank. Their numbers seemed endless as they peeled off in groups of five, going east and west.

“The Ninth Face shows itself,” Tyrill spat.

“Hurry, Lady. They're rounding up people. It's like they're looking for someone.”

“Survivors, probably. High Clan survivors.”

Somehow, in spite of the confusion, they'd reached the river wall. They paused there, panting. The night had gone utterly mad, had become a vision of red and black against which figures dashed and danced, laughed and screamed, all the while white-cloaked men forged order out of chaos.

“I will forge them back,” Tyrill muttered to herself, though Lynee heard.

“Aye, Lady, but not tonight. To forge, one must live. There's a boat below, if you can reach it.”

“My luck isn't that good,” Tyrill sighed.

“It is tonight, but it won't be if you don't take it. Now go! Over the wall. I'll follow.”

“I—”

“Die, High Clan scum!” Lynee roared in Tyrill's face, ramming her fist toward Tyrill's stomach as if to thrust in a nonexistent blade, then throwing her body atop her supposed victim so that they both pitched over the wall and into the river.

For an instant, Tyrill thought she'd been betrayed. But then water came up and hit her, and she was breathing waves, and a soaking-wet Lynee had seized her arm and was heaving her up into what seemed a small rowboat. “Play dead,” the girl hissed. “If we're lucky, our enemies will see what
they
want to see— for a change.”

“Yes,” Tyrill coughed. And then, for a while, all she saw was night sky framed, quite beautifully, by the light of burning buildings.

“There's something to be said for comfort,” Strynn sighed, leaning back in one of several deeply upholstered chairs in the common hall at Three Oaks Station. She and Div had it to themselves, for which they were both grateful. Two nights under the stars were fine, but a nice soft bed was finer. Unfortunately, the last two stations they'd reached had been occupied, and while they themselves were traveling incognito, the colors splashed across the caravans outside had identified the occupants as having come from Warcraft, which meant Strynn was bound to encounter someone she knew, thereby raising questions she had no urge to answer.

“There is indeed,” Div replied happily, rising from where she'd set cider to heat by the fire. Stew already boiled there; while yeastless way-bread baked in the adjoining oven. “Somehow I never thought traveling with the Consort of the King of Eron would be quite so much like—”

“Ordinary trekking?” Strynn finished for her, grinning. “Believe me, this is better. This way we can make our own decisions, never mind that we can make much better progress.”

“Maybe,” Div grumbled sourly. “It would be nice to know we're making
real
progress, though.”

“At least we know what direction,” Strynn murmured through a yawn.
Eight, but she was tired!
Why, she could probably doze off in a dozen breaths, given the opportunity. Her stomach was somewhat uneasy, too—and had been for the last two days, which she'd assumed was because the nights had been cooler than normal, and she was susceptible to that sort of change. Still, it was barely sunset—far too early for sleeping, especially with such good company.

Div raised a brow. “Shall we do it now or after we eat?”

Strynn suppressed another yawn. “Now, I think. I just want to eat, then go to bed.”

“No bath? We may not get another hot one for a while.”

“You have a point. Food, then bath, then bed.”

Div patted her stomach meaningfully. “As hungry as I am, I'd be glad of any distraction from the waiting.”

“Another point,” Strynn agreed, fumbling at the ring on her right hand. It didn't come off as easily as heretofore, which troubled her a little. Maybe her fingers were swollen.

Div's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, though she rose from her stirring to claim the chair opposite. Strynn had the ring off by then. It glittered in her palm. Once it had belonged to King Kraxxi of Ixti, which was an irony if there ever was one. Merryn had another—from Kraxxi's best friend, who'd once used it to follow Kraxxi as they were using it to locate Merryn. There were at least two more—somewhere.

“I only pray this thing knows which one it's supposed to be looking for,” Div muttered, indicating the gold-set red stone. The arms of an Ixtian Landing House gleamed there, which were odd to see in an Eronese hand.

“It seems to,” Strynn assured her. “Merryn said hers took her straight to Kraxxi, even though another one was closer by.”

“It is to be hoped,” Div sighed. “I'm not sure I like all this trafficking with magic.”

“Me neither,” Strynn agreed. “I get around it by not thinking of it as magic. It may not be. It could be some kind of undiscovered science, or an extension of the science we have. It could even be something that's somehow alive. That's what Avall thinks the gems are—sometimes.”

“If we time this right,” Div drawled, “we can finish just as the bread needs to come out.”

Strynn nodded, taking the hint. From her pouch, she retrieved a length of red string which she knotted through the ring. If one ring were close to the other—or sensitive—one didn't need to use the string; the ring alone would tug one in the direction in which its specified fellow lay. But Merryn was still far away, so it appeared, and if the ring ever exerted any tug while on her hand, Strynn had never felt it.

Besides, she felt more comfortable this way.

Holding her breath, she extended the string over the flagstone floor, stilling the ring's gentle undulations with her other hand. Then, closing her eyes, she set it spinning in a circle, all the while trying to picture Merryn's face in her mind's eye. At first she sensed no change, but a quickening in Div's breathing told her that the ring was doing as expected. “Is it—?” she prompted, scarcely daring to breathe lest an idle breath upset the magic.

“I think so,” Div muttered back. Then, “Yes.”

By which time Strynn could likewise feel a difference. She opened her eyes, and saw, sure enough, that the initial circle was narrowing into an oval that was growing more attenuated by the moment, as it quickly decomposed into a curving line. Nor was that arc even; one end tended higher and tugged more strongly.

“Southwest,” Div affirmed. “Just like before. At least Merryn's consistent.”

“I'd be willing to bet she's decided to check by War-Hold,” Strynn said, folding the string away. “It would be just like her.”

“Returning to the scene of what she thinks is a crime?”

Strynn nodded. “That's just like her, too: to take guilt on herself she doesn't owe.”

Div laughed grimly. “You're right there. What is it Rann
says about her? The three things she cares most about are honor, honor, and honor.”

“She'd disagree with that,” Strynn mused. “But only because Avall and I are somewhere up there as well. She's doing this at least as much for us as for the Kingdom.”

“I wish,” Div announced suddenly, “I had a brother.”

Strynn cocked her head. “I'd have given you either of mine until about three years ago, when I finally decided they were human—or they decided I was.”

Div regarded her keenly. “I'd settle for a bond-sister.”

“You didn't have one?”

“I'm Common Clan, remember?”

“That doesn't change anything.”

“It changes your parents' thinking about such things. Taking a bond-mate can be construed as putting on airs.”

“Why? Common Clan has a seat in Council.”

“But we're not High Clan. High Clan
dogs
have been known to come to Council.”

Strynn was frowning. But not at Div's last comment. It wasn't as if they hadn't hashed out the differences between the clans more than once already. But perhaps the fact that Div was in love with a High Clan man made her particularly sensitive about it. It didn't matter to Rann, because he first of all loved Avall. But she couldn't convince Div of that.

But why wouldn't her ring go back on?
Surely her fingers hadn't swollen that much. Maybe it was something to do with her cycle, which had always been erratic. In any event, she'd got it on now. And Div was easing a nice round of bread out of the oven. Strynn busied herself finding bowls from the station's stash and ladling stew into them. It smelled heavenly. Whatever else she was or wasn't, Div was a damned fine cook. Then again, she'd had years in the Wild to make her so. Strynn could cook, too, of course—everyone could—but the only thing for which she'd shown any real aptitude was sweets, and this wasn't the time for them. Maybe for breakfast, however … She'd see what was in the larder.

The bread was delicious, especially spread with butter from the station's horde, and the stew was wonderful as well. Div had seasoned it with something sharp and pungent that wafted up her nose to open her sinuses. There was also ale: local draft in lieu of the darker beverage Brewcraft issued to the stations as part of its tithe to the Kingdom.

She ate a second helping of the bread—but that was a mistake. This time the butter didn't taste right. Perhaps it was rancid. Had it been that way before? she wondered, setting half a wedge aside. Had the stew she'd eaten with it simply overridden the taste of rottenness?

Div scowled. “Something wrong?”

“Maybe the butter. I don't feel right, all of a sudden.”

Div sniffed her own buttered slice, then the crock from which it had come. “Smells fine to me. Maybe—”

Strynn didn't hear the rest because a slight queasiness had suddenly become an all-too-familiar tightening in her throat. She was also sweating, and her face felt flushed. She knew what that meant.

“I'm going to—” she managed before she leapt to her feet and bolted for the garderobe. She made it in time, but only barely. When she rose from disposing of her meal, it was to find Div standing in the door, offering her a chilled mug of water.

Strynn took it hesitantly, wondering why Div was looking at her so strangely.

“I need that bath,” Strynn announced, wiping her brow.

Div seemed to relax at that. “I'll scrub your back if you'll scrub mine.”

“Done,” Strynn agreed, already feeling much better. It really must have been the butter.

Unusual for an Eronese way station, the bathhouse was outside, attached to the main body of the station only by a covered walkway, walled with panels made of strips of interwoven wood. Div shot the bolt, then stood aside for Strynn to enter the chamber
at the end. It was much as she'd expected: a weather gate to keep the worst of winter away, with a layer of straw matting over the cobbles, and more against the walls. A series of glass bricks near the ceiling provided minimal illumination, but they didn't linger there. The vesting room adjoined, and Strynn was glad to see that whoever had sheltered there before them had cleaned and folded the station's store of towels. Div snared one from the shelves by the door before moving right to undress. Strynn followed her example to the left. A moment later they were naked, and this time it was Div who preceded Strynn into the actual bathing room in order to light the candles, though there was also a skylight. Three Oaks was a small station, so cold and hot pools were set up in the same room, along with the shower. Strynn had always preferred the progression from room to room. In any case, what concerned her now was getting off her feet and giving her body a long, hot soak in the steaming pool in the center of the chamber. A moment later, she eased into the tiled pool, finding the soakers' bench by feel, as she watched Div jump bravely into the opposite end, where the water came up to her breasts. She swam there briefly, ducking her head to wet her hair before paddling over to sit beside Strynn. “Feeling better?” Div inquired a little too casually.