Summerblood (9 page)

Through the facing archway, then, and onto the inlaid map in the main chamber, aiming for the entrance to the mines themselves …

A figure appeared on the stairs a quarter way around to the right, and proceeded to dash down them two at a time—a woman in Smithcraft livery, pursued by men in white cloaks.

“Fool,” she growled, as she recognized Liallyn. “That damned fool's led them here.”

Of course they'd have found their way here anyway— eventually. Still, whoever the invaders were, they'd been unable to penetrate this far before their attack. At least that much of her security force was working.

Liallyn had reached the bottom now, and looked more angry than relieved to see Crim moving to intercept her. Crim
wondered vaguely whether those working the present shift in the mines even knew what was happening—until the sounds of more feet approaching from that direction, coupled with cries of “attack” and “invaders” gave answer. Word had spread like fire through the hold, but this place was farthest in, and thereby last to know.

They all met in the stone octagon: Crim and Bayne entering from the east; Liallyn, still ahead of the invaders, from the north; a force of grim-faced miners issuing from the arch that marked the actual entrance to the mines in the west.

But what was Liallyn doing?
Paying no mind to Crim, she was running toward the entrance as fast as her heavy robe allowed—which made no sense.

Unless, Crim realized with a gasp, her agenda was neither Crim's nor her own, but her clan's. Smiths were famous for their loyalty and pride. And if
she
were from Smith …

Crim's heart sank. And sank farther when she realized what Liallyn carried. A leather bag marked with a certain warning sign she could make out even here.

Quick-fire.

“Nooooo!” Crim shrieked, even as the Smith reached the wall nearest the mines and snatched the glow-globe there, only to smash it ruthlessly to the floor, freeing a flood of heat imprisoned by the glass. Light slammed around the room, so that Crim could barely see the woman empty the bag atop the burning fluid.

Then light and heat in truth, as the chamber exploded.

“That fool!” Crim had time to scream, before Bayne snared her from behind and yanked her back into the surrounding corridor. His gesture saved her, but Crim scarcely cared. She heard, rather than saw, the mines' entrance collapsing in a heap of fallen stone, and barely reached the Master's suite intact before the whole ceiling came down atop the inlaid gemstone floor, burying the entire entrance chamber and most of the surrounding corridor beneath a mountain's weight of rubble. Burying Liallyn of Smith, too, and hopefully a good many invaders.

But also trapping who-knew-how-many folk in the mines.

“I assume there's another entrance,” Bayne managed, wideeyed and gasping as he wiped dust and sweat from his face with a corner of his tabard.

Crim shook her head. “No, and damn Liallyn, Smith, and Argen for it, too.”

“You mean—?” Bayne dared breathlessly.

She nodded grimly. “Anyone still in the mines is as good as dead.”

“But that woman …”

“From Smith. She was looking out for their interests, but what she got …”

Bayne nodded sadly, as they squeezed past masses of rubble on their way to what was left of the main stairs. “What she got was one more stick on the fire of civil war.”

Crim didn't even protest when five white-cloaked figures emerged from the third landing up, disarmed her and Bayne, chained their wrists together, and escorted them away.

It wasn't her responsibility any longer. She'd done everything possible, and it hadn't been enough, but those who would judge her were very far away, and to stand before any judgment they might give, she had to survive. She dreaded sleep, however, for already she could hear—in spite of all rationality—the panicked screams of those now trapped below.

A very short time earlier, Kylin had heard screaming, too, but it was screaming born not of fear, but of anger. Crouched as he was where curiosity had placed him after Crim's departure— beneath a wall-table in the corridor outside his quarters—he only hoped the thick folds of black velvet with which the table was draped rendered him invisible to what had proven to be an invading army. Composed of his own countrymen, he assumed from their accents; and definitely soldiers, by the sound of their boots.

These soldiers were evidently looking for the Hold-Warden,
too—and not finding her, to judge by the altercation he'd just overheard between an officer and one of his subordinates, which had resulted in someone being slapped and an angry protest from the recipient. He'd been keeping a close eye out, the soldier said, but the Warden had disappeared from the arcade, so he'd thought she might return here—which explanation was interrupted by the arrival of someone else, who by the sound of her soft indoor shoes and lighter tread must be a woman. Lady Nyss, the local Priest-Clan-Chief, as it turned out. Kylin knew her voice all too well—and also Crim's suspicions regarding the woman's clandestine activities, courtesy of a conversation between Crim and Mystel he'd “accidentally” overheard.

And now Nyss and the invader were engaged in as vehement a contest of authority as Kylin had ever witnessed.

“You were to make sure the Warden was in her quarters,” the invader snapped. “Half this hold sees her daily or waits upon her. You were to have made sure the door was locked when I told you. This one,” he added, evidently referring to the man he'd slapped, “was supposed to have done it.”

“She wasn't supposed to go visiting or have warning,” Nyss retorted. “One of your men must have moved too soon or too carelessly. He was seen.”

“Aye,” came the accused's cautious reply. “I was on my way here when I saw someone from War also approaching. I knew at once what he was about, and I … I suppose I should've challenged him, since I'd lost the initiative of surprise. But that would've made noise, which would've alerted the Warden in any case, and increased the odds of her success.”

“And your death,” Nyss inserted sourly. “But go on.”

“I thought I might find another chance,” the man panted. “So I followed them. I was moving toward her on the porch with my dagger drawn, hoping to kill her in the confusion, since capture no longer seemed viable. But then she reached one of the buttresses that support the arcades, and before I knew it, an opening had appeared there, and she—and that soldier from War—had ducked inside, and she was gone.”

“Eight!” Nyss spat, even as the invader uttered a coarser word.

“I would've followed!” the man protested.

“Silence!” from both others at once. Then, from Nyss: “We both know how riddled with secret corridors and stairs this place is, else you wouldn't be here. But that one—I did not know of it. Still, if it was in a buttress, it can only go up or down, and down would make more sense, since that way lies escape, if that was her goal, or the—”

“The mines,” the invader replied heavily.

But he said no more, for at that moment, the entire hold was shaken by what had to be an explosion in its depths. Even where Kylin crouched, many levels above the ground, he felt the floor jump beneath him. Worse, the table threatened to topple, and would have, had he not braced it. The air filled with the dreadful grating of tortured rock, mingled with distant shouts and much closer curses, and finally by the shriek of splitting stone. A loud rumble followed, and more shouts— one from Nyss, yelling for her companions to get in the doorway, and then, with a deafening roar, a section of ceiling came down. Something struck the tabletop, and Kylin heard wood splinter. He wondered, briefly, what had become of his chiefharp, but that concern lasted only long enough for him to realize that the harp, without him alive to play it, was not a thing that mattered.

More rubble fell as the building settled, but Kylin didn't want to ponder what that signified, save that something or someone had surely wreaked havoc deep in the bowels of the hold.

A final shake-and-shift, and the stone wall split right beside him. He flinched away in horror, expecting some terrible fate, but what he found was merely a rush of cool air. Which meant that however much destruction reigned beyond his hiding place, he probably wouldn't suffocate.

But he didn't want to be taken prisoner, either. Fortunately, the tabletop above him listed to his left, and the force of falling stone had dragged part of the cover down with it and pinned it
to the floor, effectively prisoning him in a fabric cage. Which was just as well, since the last thing he wanted was to be detected. The wall to his right, however … He probed it with his fingers, seeking the source of that fresh air. Nor was he long in finding it. A split ran as far as he could reach up and down, neatly bisecting one of the intricate metal ventilation grills that brought outside air into the hold's inner regions. It had loosened the grill, too, and it was a simple matter to remove it.

Freedom was suddenly the most important thing to him: freedom and survival. With the hold apparently under siege, any free man was valuable. There might still be allies somewhere in this pile, after all; and in any case, Div was due back soon and would surely sense the situation. Hopefully, he could somehow connect with her. In the meantime, he would learn what he could about these invaders. He'd try not to be seen, but if he
was
seen, anyone who didn't know him would only see a harmless blind man. Which meant he had to avoid being seen by anyone who knew him, which was best effected if he availed himself of this gift from The Eight he'd found right here. The vent ducts led everywhere, and they had many openings. Some even opened onto shafts that terminated close to ground level. If he could reach one of
those
—Well, he'd worry about that if he survived to confront it.

At least the building seemed to have settled, though he could smell smoke now, which was a good reason
not
to try the vent ducts yet. The hold was largely impervious to flame, but that didn't mean parts of it couldn't burn. As soon as the air cleared, he'd make good his escape—from this level, at any rate. Just twist his way into the duct beyond the grill and pull it to behind him. And hope there were no more explosions and that the domain behind the walls was not more dangerous than the one beyond them.

Perhaps, Avall reflected, as he strode away from Eellon's death chamber, there
were
advantages to being King. If nothing else, the title gave him an excuse to absent himself from that cold, dry thing that had once been his two-father, mentor, adviser, goad, and friend. As, he reflected, Eellon had also been to Eron—and three generations of Kings, not the least of them the one whom Avall had succeeded.

But he wanted to think about Gynn even less than about Eellon. At least Eellon was dead; therefore, he was at peace. Any decisions concerning him would be determined by rite, tradition, and the Death Priests. Gynn, however, still lived—if sitting wide-awake with half his brain gone constituted life. Avall didn't think so. Better a clean death for his predecessor— a sword through the heart in the heat of battle, or a clean slice across the throat—than a chunk of stone shrapnel flung high by an explosion that, upon falling, crushed the back of the High King's helm and the head beneath it. A finger's difference in distance that fateful moment, and Avall would still be back in Eellon's chamber, free to mourn.

He froze in place, then spun around to face the Guardsmen
following discreetly three paces behind. Strynn was there, too, with Rann and Lykkon. Most of his inner circle, in fact, save Merryn, whom he'd left as his surrogate to guard the corpse until the Death Priests came. Scowling, he motioned them farther back; then, having no other choice, turned again and strode numbly on, his vision increasingly veiled with ill-fought tears, until he came to what had been his own suite before he'd assumed the throne. Abandoning his companions to the sitting room, he slipped into the bedroom, locked the door, and for the next hand lay staring at the ceiling, knowing there was one less good thing in the world, and one less resource on which Fate would let him rely.

By rights he should cut his hair and change into mourning black. But that would acknowledge the reality of what had happened, and he wasn't ready for that. Instead, he flung himself off the bed, unlocked the door, and rejoined his friends. But not to mourn.

Their ranks had swelled, he noted. To Rann, Lykkon, and Strynn had been added his mother, Evvion; Veen; and a redeyed Merryn—now off duty—along with Vorinn and Tryffon of War. Preedor was standing honor watch over his old friend, Merryn murmured through a hug. Avall wondered what those two old men had been like as boys. They'd been bond-mates, he knew, until something had torn a rift between them. It was long since healed, but they'd never renewed that vow. And now they never would. Maybe someday Preedor would tell him the entire tale. In the meantime, there were more pressing things to ponder.

The company had claimed seats around the room, some even on the floor, for all he was about to turn this into a royal council. Bingg appeared a moment later with food and drink, causing Avall to wonder yet again whether the boy and Lykkon might not share some mental bond that was more than ordinary, if not as strong as that wrought by the gems.