Summerblood (6 page)

“The sun rises,” the senior Priest, Grivvon of Law, intoned. And moved toward the door to the Council chamber.

It wouldn't open for Avall, Strynn knew. Only for the Priest of Law. She wondered how Law felt returning to this role after Eellon had taken him and his clan-kin captive. Certainly there was no love lost between Crown and Clan now. But that didn't negate the force of tradition.

Law inclined his head toward her, extending the gesture to include Rann and Lykkon. “Lady, if you are not to accompany His Majesty, Law says you must retire to the Consort's chair in
the hall. If you hurry, you can still get there before court commences.”

She almost protested; almost joined her husband anyway. Sense got the better of her in the end. Besides, as she'd already said, it was more fun to watch.

Sparing Avall a final kiss and a whispered “luck,” Strynn whisked through another door, which in turn led her, via the corridor that encircled the hall, to the entry vestibule. As a member of the Council in her own right, she paused long enough to raise her ceremonial hood of Ferr crimson and to announce herself to the door warden. She needn't have bothered. It was Merryn, looking smug and happy in full armor, but with an Argen-a clan robe, hood, and tabard stored nearby, should she deign to avail herself of her option to sit with her kin. Merryn was taking to the power game a little too well, Strynn suspected.

Still, they exchanged knowing grins, and then Strynn composed herself and walked unaccompanied into the tall, if illproportioned, splendor of the Hall of Clans. She did not seek the wedge assigned to her husband's sept, however, or the Consort's chair, for that matter. Rather, she turned left and followed the spoke that ran beside her own clan and craft. Argen she might be, by marriage; and Consort-apparent by Luck; but she was Ferr by birth and blood, and that took precedence here. That she was probably the youngest woman in the room and was claiming a place with her kinsmen without leave didn't concern her. It was more than time that some of Eron's ironclad rules were tested.

Silently, she joined her father and her other brother, who themselves sat beside Craft-Chief Tryffon, called Kingmaker, and Preedor, the Clan-Chief himself, who was here in spite of his vow never to share the floor with Tyrill unless the King command it—which Avall had. Tryffon nodded acknowledgment; her father winked; Preedor scowled.

Others were scowling as well—but not at her. Rather, their brows were lowering at the sight of the new Ixtian Ambassador,
Tozri min Aroni mar Sheer, occupying a seat in the observers' gallery. In Healing's section, in fact, in token of the fact that his Eronese mother had been from that much-ravaged clan. Which might be wise or might not, depending on how fractious a mood the Council was in today.

And then the light of the rising sun struck the octagon of windows below the dome at a carefully contrived angle, and the Hall of Clans filled with the first strong rays of midsummer's light.

At that precise moment, a gong sounded, the Priest's Door opened behind the dais, and Grivvon of Law strode in. Seven more Priests followed, then Avall himself, then eight members of the Royal Guard—including, by courtesy, Myx, Riff, Lykkon, Rann, and Vorinn. Murmurs promptly filled the hall, for the King usually presided unguarded, though Avall had very publicly stressed to the Priests that he was honoring these people, nothing more. Did he feel threatened by Priest-Clan? Of course not! Did not they both serve The Eight?

Perhaps, Strynn concluded wryly, the same way one cup could serve either fine wine or scorpion poison.

Per ancient precedent, Avall paused briefly before the Stone, which was set in the center of the dais, then settled his cloak about him, laid the Sword of State across his knees, and sat motionless while his guard arranged themselves behind.

Law promptly stepped forward to roll the ritual die that would determine which Priest would officiate. It came up Craft, and that young woman took Law's place in presiding at High King Avall syn Argen-a's first Midsummer court.

Craft's mask was the most complex of all the Priests of The Eight, constructed, as it was, from a vast array of materials, notably inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl. But Avall, behind and to her left, could see little more than the fringe of feathers that surrounded it. What he saw clearly was the long, pure sweep
of her robe, cloak, and hood, which put his own Cloak of Colors to shame, with their intricate embroidery, complex weaving, and the jeweled ornaments carefully placed to accent every fold, shape, and design. It was controlled chaos. It was also the perfect embodiment of the twenty-four crafts that, with the chiefs who ruled those crafts' ruling clans, constituted the elite of scholar-artisans that ruled Eron.

Avall listened attentively through Craft's formal opening speech, noting that her voice was softer than expected, and that it wavered more than it ought. Then again, Craft was young— as was he. But she was also Priest-Clan, and they were never to be underestimated.

With that in mind, Avall tried to appear suitably regal, in spite of being the youngest Sovereign in ten generations. While he had the support of all but one of the most powerful clans, he had few illusions of how tenuous that support might be, resting as it did mostly on marriage alliances and the goodwill of a few old men and women, any of whom could follow Eellon down the road to illness and death before the year was out.

Craft was finishing now, and he steeled himself for what was to come.

“… Know, then,” Craft intoned, “that by ancient right and privilege, the first order of business before the High Sovereign of Eron in this, the first court of Midsummer, is the petitioning of His Majesty by anyone of Common Clan who would claim hearing.”

Avall barely heard the rest. He was more than a little trepidatious, and justifiably so. Common Clan were the great unpredictable factor of Eronese politics. Comprised mostly of lesser artisans, merchants, and landowners, they also comprised over half of Eron's population. Any Sovereign who wanted to keep his crown was therefore wise to keep them happy. Most had. It wasn't as though one were doomed to remain in that clan, anyway. Anyone with scholarly or artistic inclination could petition the relevant Craft-Chief for a hearing, and if accepted, join the
ranks of those High Clan youths studying at the various holds. Conferral of a mastership upon adulthood also conferred legal High Clan status, assuming an appropriate sponsor could be found; and any children born or sired thereafter were deemed High Clan by birth. This had the double effect of placating Common Clan and assuring a steady infusion of new blood into the High Clans, thereby diminishing the dangers of inbreeding.

Still, not all Common Clan were driven or accomplished. Most were merely content—or not. Many were ignorant as well, in spite of easily available education. And the ignorant often took solace in overreaction.

An example of which he'd witnessed yesterday. And which he feared he would face in truth as soon as the Common Door was opened.

“… by His Majesty's command,” he heard Craft announce— and started, jogged from his reverie just in time to see her turn toward him expectantly.

He cleared his throat and spoke, though it almost seemed that another mouth and lips shaped the ritual words. “Let Common Clan come forward, in what guise, number, and order they would, so long as they not equal the number already present in this chamber.”

A door opened at the end of the centermost of the radiating aisles that met around the dais. A man entered, then a woman, then two more men, at which time Avall stopped counting, as they advanced with stiff dignity toward him. All wore hooded tabards of Common Clan beige, signifying, as such things did, that they acted in official capacity. Beyond that, there was little to unite them. Unlike High Clan, the bulk of whom tended to look much alike, those Commoners already ranged before him included everything from women considerably taller than Avall, to men over a head shorter, showing hair of every shade and hue, and a variety of builds, save the very stout. Their leader was a blunt-faced, middle-aged man with a shock of hair almost the same brown as his eyes. The edging
on his tunic indicated that his clan came from near South Gorge and that he was a merchant by trade, with a connection to Weaver-Hold. He looked confident but tense; concerned— almost angry—but polite. Clearly he was used to a leadership position, though probably not to appearing in such before the Council of Chiefs.

In any case, the man had an impressive entourage, and as they gathered around, Avall noticed that most wore pendants bearing the eight-sided die that signified particular devotion to The Eight. He also had a good idea what subject was about to be addressed.

Tradition said the man would not speak until the Sovereign told him to, and Avall was confident the man had been reminded of this at least thrice before being allowed to enter. He did not kneel, however; abasement was only required of unclanned or clanless, besides which, Avall's position on the dais required the man look up to meet his gaze.

“State your name, man of Common Clan,” Avall intoned formally. “Then state what it is that brings you before me.”

“Haggyn syn Masall,” the man replied. “And with me the chiefs of Common Clan from a dozen towns between here and South Gorge, and the Common-Chief of Eron Gorge itself.” He nodded toward a thin old woman who'd come up beside him. Avall recognized her as Kayvvin. She'd have had a seat on the Council in any case, and would have joined this group from among the ranks of those already seated.

“And your business?”

A deep breath. “We have come here in protest, Majesty.”

“And what is it you would protest?” Avall inquired. “I have done nothing by conscious will to in anywise harm your clan, nor will I, for Eron's strength is in its people.”

His sudden eloquence surprised him. Then again, Law had passed him a drink from Law's Well before he entered. Perhaps it was The Eight who spoke through him.

Haggyn frowned ever so slightly. “Eron's strength may well
be its people,” he acknowledged. “But Eron Enthroned would do well to recall that the strength of the people comes from observing the will of The Eight.”

“Which we of High Clan likewise strive to do,” Avall observed.

Haggyn looked uneasy, but did not shift his gaze from his King. “As you say, Majesty. Yet we have heard it rumored even in South Gorge, and heard it rumored more often, with more conviction, and in greater detail the closer to Tir-Eron we came, and rumored most strongly in Tir-Eron itself, that there are those of High Clan—and higher—who have long striven to erect barriers between the common folk of Eron and The Eight, when such barriers need not exist.”

Avall studied him in the ensuing pause. Haggyn was good at this—and probably a decent man in any account. He would volunteer no more than asked, but deny no information should it be demanded. But Haggyn was also playing by High Clan's rules in High Clan's Council. And doing it well, even if this verbal dance clearly irked him.

“Of which barriers do you speak?” Avall asked. “And in what way have we maintained them?”

“We do not know
how
you have maintained them,” Haggyn retorted. “As to the barriers—let me speak plainly, Majesty. We have all been taught since birth that The Eight watch over all and direct our lives by Their plan. But we have also been taught that They speak only through Priest-Clan, and the King Himself at Sunbirth and Sundeath. We have been taught that man's soul is bound to his body until death dissolves that bond. We have been taught that beasts have no true thoughts as we know them; therefore, they have no souls. Yet now we hear that this may not be true: that some beasts—geens are what we have heard named, Majesty—have minds, and therefore souls, and must therefore be allowed the same rights as any man. We have heard—”

Avall cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I acknowledge that you have the right to speak until you are finished,” he said.
“Yet what you have conveyed already could occupy this Council for a day, and that if everyone present had only minimal say. Let me therefore tell you in reply that nothing you have related is new to me. I have heard the rumblings of protest that we— myself, my clan, my advisers, and this Council—and Priest-Clan, of course, who are part of this Council—have conspired to withhold access to The Eight from the people—not only Common Clan, but High Clan, clanless, and unclanned as well. And I say to you this is not so—so far as I am aware. Certainly I have not ordered this thing done. Nor my advisers, nor this Council.”

Avall paused, expecting the murmurings that did indeed fill the Hall, the bulk from Priest-Clan's wedge. At least three of the officiating Priests shot him sharp glances. None voiced protests, however, as they were still smarting from their incarceration during the war, when their talk of the very things these Commoners were addressing had got them accused of treason in the face of impending attack.

Avall knew he walked a fine line. The people needed their religion and they were used to getting it from Priest-Clan, and Priest-Clan was used to giving it to them. That a means
did
exist that
might
allow direct access to The Eight was also a fact— perhaps. But it was also a new discovery, tied up with the larger problem of the gems. And no one knew how large the fire beneath that glimmer of information was. Priest-Clan probably knew more than it was telling. Certainly at least one faction among them did. But even if the gems
did
allow direct access to The Eight—to Their realm, more properly—there was no way that access could be provided to the people, even with Royal and Priestly consent. There simply were not enough gems for everyone in Eron who would want to petition The Eight to do so directly. Never mind that he was King, and had not himself petitioned Them that way. So far as
he
knew, The Eight still made Their will known in Their own time and season, and answered no more to mortal demands than heretofore.

Still, these were matters that must be addressed, and it wasn't as though he hadn't anticipated this very confrontation. So it
was that he set his sword aside, rose, and folded his arms across his chest, trying to look stern and thoughtful, and not twenty years old and scared.