Summerblood (30 page)

Winter …

The thought of it chilled her even in High Summer. Nor was cold an idle threat. She was fully into the Spine now, and
everywhere she looked, she saw snow. Not nearby, granted, but the entire west was mountainous, and all those peaks were crowned with the frigid stuff. Even the fire mountains that were so common thereabouts that she could see the smokes of six from where she stood—one very close indeed, for War-Hold was built on its very knees—sported caps of white. She had no idea how far west they persisted. Report said it took two eights to cross the Spine, but that was farther north. Here—Well, she had maps, but they were old ones. Eronese curiosity stopped dead in its tracks when confronted with the west.

Idly, she reached up to scratch her head where she'd finally yielded to temptation the previous night and cut her hair short, the better to fit beneath a warrior's cap helm. She'd passed the bounds of civilization now, and was free to be herself—which meant serviceable fabrics, supple leathers, and, more to the point, no dresses. A final moment to take in the view and fix every detail in her memory so that she could tell Strynn and Avall about it, and she picked up the reins again, and gave Hammer the heel. The pack animal—Boot was his name— followed gamely as she started down the other side of what was more a high meadow than a pass. Blue sky rose above, and mountains likewise reared up in her wake as the slope increased. Ahead, shot on shot, as far as she could see, more mountains showed, with the one she'd just traversed among the smallest.

Still, big things were made of small things, she reckoned, and it was still a quarter before the snows. If she only made eight shots a day, that should see her past this barrier well before then—if she even had to pass it. After all, her errand was simply to hide the regalia in a place only she would know. There were hundreds of likely prospects just in the landscape visible from where she stood. Why, she could probably hide it tomorrow—tonight even. But even so, she would've only accomplished part of what she'd set out to achieve.

Besides which, the meadow seemed to extend quite a way,
sloping ever so slightly downward to a copse of evergreens, beneath the shade of which it might be wise to camp.

Two hands later, she was seeking a likely place among them—still in sight of the meadow, but not so close that a fire would be visible to any nighttime patrols from War-Hold that chanced to pass that way—not unreasonable, given that she was still only a day's hard ride from the hold. More troubling was the fact that she'd also seen hoof marks bearing the unmistakable central crossbar of Ixtian horseshoes.

That wasn't unreasonable, either. The largest army mustered in five hundred years had passed near there on its way north the previous winter, and the collapsed remnants of it were still making their way south.

But while she was as good at combat as anyone she knew, the idea of fighting for her life against even one irate Ixtian did not appeal to her. Circumspection was therefore in order, so she chose her campsite with care—shielded by a trio of boulders, one of which overhung just far enough to shelter the back of the tent, while the other two fanned out to either side like protective, if heavily lichened, arms. Laurel interspersed with pine trees framed the rocks, while the ground before them was thick with pine straw, so that she had little to remove to find a comfortable place on which to make her bed.

There was even water—a nice freshet a dozen spans away that disappeared downhill to terminate in what she suspected was a waterfall. Which would be a good place to bathe before dinner.

It was while investigating that very option that she saw the crazy man.

She'd found the waterfall, all right—a magnificent example at least twelve spans high, sliding down rocks into a pool three spans across. The land was wilder thereabouts, thick with laurel and pocked with stone outcrops. And sitting atop one, calmly watching her—from the other side of the cataract— was a man.

Eronese, by the look of him, and young—her age, more or
less. Beyond that, well, his clothing—which should've offered some cue to identification, since each clan had a distinctive color Law required they wear somewhere upon their bodies— certainly gave no clue to his identity whatsoever.

Everything
this
man wore seemed to be greasy gray and grimy tan. Which was no one's livery. He wore a cap, too: a tight-fitting item that hid his hair.

How did she know he was crazy? Because he was outdoors, fully clothed, and yet was barefoot, dirty, and sported a short, scruffy beard.

No Eronese man except Tryffon ever let his whiskers grow if he could help it, and certainly not long enough to obscure his cheeks and chin. And no one ever went barefoot outdoors, either, save when swimming; to do otherwise was considered rude, if not actually obscene. The dirt was the clincher. No sane Eronese with access to water—which this man plainly had—would ever let himself get so filthy.

Still, he was here, Eronese, and she was armed and he wasn't. That said, she was well advised to investigate any threat, real or imagined.

“Hail,” she called formally, lest his situation have been born of circumstances she hadn't considered.

“Hail,” he called back cheerfully. “Be careful, Lady, they'll get you.”

A chill ran up her spine, not so much from the words themselves, but because the voice sounded familiar.

“Who are ‘they’?” she called back, seeking more than one set of answers.

“The burners.”

“The burners … You mean the Ixtians?”

“Aye. They burn things.”

“They do, and I've lost many a loved one to them,” Merryn shouted back, nodding vigorously while trying to resist the temptation to reach for her sword, since the man was still five spans away, with the head of a cataract between them. “Do you have a name?” she added, which was rude, but not so much as
demanding that name directly. But then she recalled that she was in this man's territory, or so he would likely perceive it, and so she took a deep breath, and yelled, “I am Merryn san Argen-a, on an errand for His Majesty, the King of Eron, Avall syn Argen-a.”

“Merryn,” the wild man shouted back, standing now, and shading his eyes the better to look at her. “I once knew a woman named Merryn. She was—”

“Krynneth!”
Merryn blurted, having to restrain herself from starting across the precipitous rock. “You're Krynneth syn Mozz-een. What are you doing here? Last time I heard you were—”

“Fine? I was. Long enough to bear word to the King that War-Hold had fallen. Long enough to carry every image from that last siege in my head every waking instant of every day, and live it again every time I slept.”

“But you were there at the end. At the Battle of Storms. And after.”

“And after,” Krynneth echoed. “But so were the memories.”

She started to reply, then changed her mind. “We could talk better if we didn't have to yell. This thing”—she indicated the waterfall—“makes a lot of noise.”

“So do swords and shields,” Krynneth replied amiably.

But he came. Wading through rushing water up to his knees, as though the fact that a misstep could precipitate him to injury or death was of no concern.

Maybe it wasn't. Merryn had met men like Krynneth before—a few. Men who managed incredible feats of endurance in order to execute a duty or fulfill an obligation, and who gave all sign of living normally, until, one day, something inside them broke.

Krynneth had been at the Battle of War-Hold. So had she. But she'd only watched, tied to a chair at Barrax's bidding, so that she had no other choice. Krynneth had been inside. That could do strange things to a man. She'd meant to talk to him
about it, too, for she had her own demons from that time, and Krynneth had lived in the suite next door to hers, and had had the keeping of one of the Ixtian prisoners, the same as she. They had history, they did: ancient, if not so honorable, history.

And frankly, had Kraxxi not appeared, she might well have taken him for a lover. In any case, things had clearly not been as right as she supposed. Last she'd heard—and she regretted not trying to hear more—he'd been among a party going south to survey the damage to War-Hold. He'd evidently abandoned it at some point. Probably the report of that was buried among many of similar kind on Avall's desk.

He'd reached her side by then, and she was at a loss as to what to do. He made that decision for her—by collapsing against her, weeping.

“Krynneth,” she managed, in some alarm. “What—?” Then, as the sobs grew stronger, “Are you all right?”

He didn't answer, just stood there with his face buried against her shoulder and his hand clutching her sides. She stroked his head clumsily, at a loss how to react to a grown man come apart so suddenly. He was still strong, she noted absently, but she could feel more bones than she should beneath his ragged tunic. He also stank, but after spending most of a quarter in one or the other of Barrax's dungeons, she was used to that. Maybe later, she could tend to that. For now …

That was a problem, actually. The man clearly needed help, but she was on a secret mission and couldn't turn aside from it to provide that assistance. The smart thing would be to take him back to War-Hold, but he had to know it was nearby; therefore, if he'd wanted to go there, he could have done so himself.

Still, she had her quest, and that could only be accomplished alone. Well, there was no hurry, regardless. It was getting late, she still needed a bath, and he was a friend in need. Besides, she needed to make a more complete assessment of his situation.

“When was the last time you had a good meal?” she whispered, trying, very gently, to ease him away. “You're thin.”

“I'm sorry,” Krynneth mumbled through his tears, rejecting her efforts to disentangle herself, and, indeed, holding her tighter. “I'm sorry, so sorry, so sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” she murmured numbly. “You did your duty. Lorvinn gave you an order, and you carried it out, and maybe saved many, many lives—maybe the whole kingdom, since we barely got the regalia finished in time as it was.”

“I could've ridden faster,” Krynneth sobbed wretchedly. “I could've waited to visit Lorvinn when the attack came. If I had been—”

“You can't play the ‘if’ game, Kryn,” Merryn whispered, even as she knew her own thoughts and actions gave the lie to that. “It'll drive you—”

She broke off before she said the word she probably should
not
say under the circumstances. Not until she knew more.

“Mad?” Krynneth chuckled. “I may be mad, Merryn. But that's a relative thing, isn't it? Killing people is generally considered the work of a madman—unless you happen to be working on someone's orders.”

Merryn shook her head. “It's only mad when you do it without remorse, and I can't imagine that you don't feel sorry for every single man you killed.” She tried to ease him away again—and to draw him away from the waterfall as well, which was suddenly too close for comfort.

“Kryn? Do you have a place to stay? Surely you're not living in the Wild?”

He motioned to the surrounding woods—a general sweep of what was still a strong and graceful hand. “I have a different house every night. A different tree or rock or cave. That way they can't find me.”

“Who can't?”

“The burners.”

“Kryn, there are no burners anymore.”

He cocked his head. “Part of me believes you. Part of me
isn't so sure.” But he let her thrust him far enough away that she could hook an arm in his and slowly steer him toward her camp.

“We'll have dinner,” she told him. “We'll talk. You'll tell me your adventures, and I'll—”

She broke off again. She couldn't reveal her errand, but she didn't know if she had the energy to lie, besides which, she'd never
been
a good liar, and Krynneth was one of her most trusted friends. Maybe she should simply tell him what she was up to and be done. Given that he seemed scared to death of War-Hold, it might be best for him to accompany her on her quest. She had no illusions about her own ability to heal a damaged mind, but she had no illusions about anyone else's abilities that way, either. It took time, love, and circumstance.

“Dinner?” Krynneth murmured, sounding like a little boy.

“I've some smoked venison I've been saving. We can have that, with some rice and herbs.”

“Ale?”

She tensed, then relaxed again. “Aye—some. I'm not certain you should drink, though.”

“Of course I should drink!” he shot back fiercely, all his former meekness vanished in a breath. “That's the only way I can forget. The only way I can sleep.”

“When
did
you last sleep? Really sleep, I mean. Without fear or worry.”

“Before the burners.”

“How about since you came here?”

“Never for a whole night. I dare not.” He yawned abruptly, as though talk had awakened the impulse.

She gnawed her lip. “Very well, then. It sounds like you need sleep more than anything. You sleep in my camp tonight, Kryn. I'll get you fed and warm, and you can sleep, and I'll watch over you and … and I'll let nothing happen to you, I promise. Not even in your dreams. I'll guard your dreams too, Kryn.”

He gazed at her askance, adoring, yet distrusting. Like a
child or dog. How many Krynneths were there? she wondered. In the world at large and here with her? Was this one madder than she thought? Or did a Krynneth who was totally sane still survive somewhere beneath that greasy hair?

They were approaching camp by then, and the shadows were growing long. It would be dark soon, and she'd wanted to wait until then to build a fire, lest the smoke be seen from War-Hold or any random Ixtians who might happen by. She had to tend the horses, too: get them properly fed, rubbed down, and picketed for the night. Fortunately, she'd already pitched her tent, laid out her bedroll, and found stones for a fire ring.

Releasing Krynneth with some difficulty—he didn't seem to want to let go of her—she unfolded a second set of blankets and pointed to them. “Sit there, Kryn. Or sleep. You need it. I'll cook and look after you.”

“Ale,” he repeated petulantly, more like a child than ever.