Summerblood (41 page)

Zeff was all but convinced that the helm was laughing at him. Perhaps it was the way the bronze browridges arched just so, or the way the cheek guards evoked laugh lines, there in the uncertain light of the single candle he'd brought with him here, to this most secure of strong rooms, to which he alone had the key.

Not that he didn't know that such speculation was preposterous—logically—if for no other reason than because, while the helm did, in fact, sport a chin strap, the area where mouth and chin should be was open; therefore, it was not equipped to laugh.

Yet still it called to him, haunting him in the night with dreams of possibilities. Why, with that helm—and the sword and shield that went with it—he could do almost anything. He could be King of Eron in an eighth. He could even be the first man to unite Eron and Ixti, and build a greater kingdom based on their complementary strengths. He could—

No!
That way lay ambition—and power such as he conceived should not be confined to any one person's hands. The
Face needed the regalia for one reason alone: to control it, and—by implicit threat—reinstate the prewar equilibrium.

So why was he here now?

Because he couldn't sleep. Because he knew with absolute conviction that someone from Priest-Clan must eventually don all that fabulous workmanship and wrestle it for its secrets. Avall had said nothing initially—and damn him for it, too! Even under imphor he would say little. “It would be dangerous for you—or anyone not of the blood of him for which it was made.” Or, after three days of imphor-augmented wheedling: “Blood is the trigger. It has to drink blood.”

Which Zeff already knew. What he didn't know was how he would manage the other. Avall had worn it and hadn't gone any madder than most Kings turned out to be. On the other hand, Rrath had worn it and gone utterly insane, though there were extenuating circumstances. More than once Zeff wished he could pierce the shell of the young Priest's catatonia. There had to be
some
reason why Avall had spirited him out of Tir-Eron, then put him under lock and key at least as securely as he had the regalia. Another reason they'd both wound up in the tunnels below the Ninth Face's primary citadel.

Maybe he should act on a latent impulse, summon Ahfinn, and have
him
don the regalia. Except that would violate one of the Face's strongest tenets: All are equal before the Ninth Face. Advancement was based on merit, but conferred only additional duties, not additional indulgences. And no one but no one would ask someone to risk what they would not dare themselves.

Therefore, it had to be him, because he had taken all the other responsibility for this enterprise upon his shoulders. Besides, the fact that he would eventually
have
to confront what he was facing now would haunt him until he
did
confront it, robbing him of the sleep necessary to fulfill his duties properly. Such as preparing for what still looked very much like a siege.

And since he couldn't sleep anyway, there was no time like the present.

It wasn't as if he wasn't prepared. Once he'd reached the decision to confront the regalia tonight, he'd proceeded as he always did before combat. A half day's fasting, save for water and a tiny cup of very sweet wine. A ritual bath. Shaving. Waxing. The donning of one of two sets of never-worn livery he had brought with him, the other to wear when he next led his men to battle. A hand of meditation, and finally exactly at sunset, a cup of water from the Ninth Face's Well.

It should have spoken to him, should have shown him what was to come. In fact, all it had revealed was the same thing it had revealed the last four times he'd tasted it: the sword, shield, and helmet sitting on this selfsame steel-bound tablesafe. Which he'd taken to mean that all futures depended on the fate of these three objects.

Nor could he wait any longer. Taking a deep breath, then another, and a third, which was part of the Rite of Calming, he advanced upon the regalia. Helm, shield, and sword in that order, so he assumed. Head, heart, and hand, if one chose to think in symbols.

A final breath, and he picked up the helm and, with considerable trepidation, set it on his head, careful not to trip the barb in the forehead that would feed his blood to the gem. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted it to an optimum fit—finding it a bit too small. Still, he took time to buckle the chin strap before retrieving the shield and likewise slipping it on. The sword came last, though he'd loosened the peace ties in the first mad moment after entering.

And so he stood there, three drops of blood away from being the most powerful man in two kingdoms. In all the world, so anyone reckoned. For no clear reason, he turned to face the door, though it was closed and locked in case of disaster.

“Eight go with me,” he whispered, “and the Ninth speed our journey.” And with that, he slapped his hand against the front of the helm, then squeezed the sword's hilt exactly as he
squeezed the grip behind the shield.

Pain pricked him, and he could feel a trickle of blood running toward his eyes from the trigger in the helm.

And that was all.

No more power coursed through him than greeted the donning of his everyday war gear.

Which was impossible.

Logic reasserted, as training overruled baser reaction.

Either this was the regalia, or it wasn't. If it was, either he was working it correctly or he wasn't. If he wasn't, the fault either lay with him or the means of activation, namely the gems.

But this
was
the regalia; he was sure of it. There was no way it could be otherwise. He'd seen it with his own eyes, while in the guise of a common Ixtian soldier—first when worn by poor mad Rrath, then by brilliant, brave Avall. And while he was no smith, neither was he a tasteless fool who could not recognize incredible workmanship when he saw it.

So maybe Avall had
lied
. Maybe Zeff had triggered the elements incorrectly. Maybe he'd used the wrong sequence.

With that in mind, he tried again, in all six possible combinations—and only met more pain.

Furious, he slammed the sword back in its scabbard and shrugged out of the shield, then removed the helmet.

And only then—which he now acknowledged had been preposterously foolish of him—did he truly examine the gem that glittered balefully between the empty eyeholes.

It certainly
looked
real.

But real as what?
The color definitely matched the gem he'd seen on the field, but he hadn't been close enough for a thorough inspection. Rumor said it contained inner fires like an opal, which this gem did. And the color and size were correct.

On the other hand, Avall's clan was allied with Stone, who still held some coercive power over Gem. Perhaps a bargain had been struck. He considered that, thinking what he would do himself if in Avall's place. Yes, it made a kind of sense. Helm, sword, and shield were the most dangerous and precious
objects in Eron, but without the gems to wake them, they were only so much exquisitely fashioned metal. Too, the settings seemed to indicate that the stones were made for quick insertion and removal, which also made sense.

Had he therefore made a potentially disastrous mistake and captured the regalia without that which empowered it? If so, where were the proper gems? Avall hadn't mentioned any substitutions. Then again, Zeff might not have asked the right questions, and while one couldn't lie under imphor, one
could
finesse one's answers.

In any case, he still had the crucial elements of the equation: He had Avall, and he had the gem Avall had worn around his neck. And
that
one, he knew without doubt, was magic.

With that in mind, he acted.

Not bothering to store what might very well be useless regalia, Zeff unlocked the door in one rough motion and strode into the corridor beyond. “Open, now!” he yelled, well in advance of his arrival at the gate halfway up. The guard there looked startled, but that didn't keep him from obeying at once.

It was the same with the second gate, though that guard had clearly seen what transpired at the first and acted on his own initiative. Which might earn him a reprimand, when Zeff finished his present errand.

A quick detour by the table-safe in Zeff's private quarters produced what Avall had called in his mumblings the master gem. With it in hand, Zeff started for the dungeons. The few people he met in transit scattered before his gaze—which he found mildly amusing.

But Zeff was not in the least amused when two guards turned two keys in two locks and admitted him at last into Avall's cell.

Avall was exactly as Zeff had last seen him: lying on his back on his cot, with his legs crossed at his ankles and his arms folded across his chest. Overtly asleep, but Zeff knew better. He'd had enough stalling, wondering, and evading. He was going to have answers and he was going to have them now!

Without further deliberation, he covered the space between door and cot in two strides, grabbed Avall by the front of his sturdy woolen robe, and yanked him upright. Caught off guard, Avall struggled and flailed out, even as the fabric tore, tumbling him to the floor.

Zeff snatched him up again, this time with hands on his shoulders, and with the same motion slammed him against the wall. Abruptly they were face-to-face. Avall's eyes were wideopen now, and wavering between fear, anger, and confusion. His breath was strong in Zeff's nostrils. Evidently he'd been drinking wine. “You know what we did to Crim,” Zeff rasped, shifting his grip to Avall's throat, and forcing his whole body against him, pinning him so that what small struggles he managed were ineffectual. Avall's hands clamped down on Zeff's wrists, trying to pull the priest's hands away from his throat, but Zeff knew more about combat than Avall, and only held on tighter. He was Ninth Face. The Ninth Face knew their strength to a fine degree. And Zeff knew with absolute conviction that not only was he older and larger than Avall, he was stronger.

“There are many things we could do and not kill you,” Zeff went on. “Many things that would make you want to die every moment of your life. I could unKing you with a slice of my knife. A finger joint. An ear. Your manhood. Your balls.”

“Do you think I care?” Avall snarled back. “I've done the most important thing I'll ever do. Nothing will ever be better. If I die now I'll always be remembered—and more to the point, remembered as being better than you.”

Zeff wanted to ask what he meant by that, but this was no time for conversation. Instead he pushed himself away exactly long enough and far enough to slap Avall's face—hard.

Blood showed on Avall's lip, while more trickled from his mouth where teeth had cut the lining or his tongue.

“Blood,” Zeff raged. “You said it took blood!”

“It
does
take blood.
My
blood.”

“But there's more to it than that, isn't there?”

“Not for me! You put it on, you trigger the barbs so the gems can feast. And you wait until they feed you power. But the gems may not like you. And if they don't like you, they won't do anything.”

“They worked for Rrath, and he hated you!”

“Did he?”

Zeff hit him again, this time on the other side. “I may be angry, but I'm no fool.”

“What do you want of me? I've told you everything you've asked.”

“Those aren't the right gems, are they?”

“They are for me!”

“Liar!”

“Put me in that regalia and I'll show you a liar.”

Zeff slapped Avall a third time, then, for good measure, flung him to the floor. He lay there panting. Half his face was red with blood. Both cheeks were purpling. His breath was coming in gasps. Zeff was blooded, too, from where his hand had caught a freshly broken tooth.

“Blood,” Zeff growled. “Blood.”

And with that, he withdrew the gem from the pouch where he'd concealed it and thrust it into Avall's face. “Whether those others are real or not, I don't know. But I know this one is!”

Avall's eyes grew huge as he flinched away. Which was all the sign Zeff needed. He dropped down astride Avall's torso, pinning him to the floor while one hand fought off both Avall's arms, and the other drove the gem inexorably toward Avall's bleeding cheek.

Maybe Zeff screamed as it seemed his flesh caught fire. Maybe he screamed when his mind did, or when he felt the ravening of the madness that overlay Barrax's death. Perhaps it was the fascination—what he had wondered about so long made manifest. Or maybe Avall was actually holding him there, forcing him to confront what every instinct known to man shouted at him to flee.

And then he was falling into death. And not only Barrax's
death, it seemed, but also Avall's. His mind was tangled with Avall's mind, the two locked in combat as surely as their bodies had been. And Avall was dragging him farther and farther down a well down which he was already falling.
If I die here, you die, too
, Avall seemed to say. But all Zeff truly heard was
die, die, die, die, die.

He
had
to escape,
had
to get away. But Avall wouldn't let him. Avall was there laughing at him, telling him that however much joy he'd have had cutting off Avall's fingers, Avall would get ten times as much watching Zeff's memories slowly wink out.
Death lives in here
, Avall whispered, in a voice loud as thunder.
Death would like company, and I think he likes you better.

Yet Avall was frightened, too; Zeff could tell. Frightened out of his mind, to be so utterly out of control within that which he most feared. And Zeff turned that fear on Avall and showed him everything he'd considered doing to him the past few days. Everything that could be done to a body and have that body live.

No!
Avall screamed.
No! No! No!

He wanted out. No,
Zeff
wanted out. No, they both did.

And suddenly, somehow, they were elsewhere. And while there was no death there, neither was there anything else. Avall knew that place, and that recognition flashed across Zeff's mind as well.

The Overworld.