Summerblood (3 page)

Rann and Lykkon were watching him, too. And those two most cherished friends would show no mercy.

“Maybe it's changed,” Rann murmured, barely audible.

Avall shot him a disgusted glare. “Maybe.”

And closed the hand, still oozing blood from where it had held the sword, around the gleaming stone.

But where once it would have greeted him with something akin to gladness—with a rush of power, liking, and well-being, rather like a friendly dog, now he met a dark, shrieking madness like that same dog cursed with the foaming plague.

He'd expected as much, however; was even used to it, a little. The problem—and danger—came when he ventured deeper into what ravened there.

Barrax had been wearing the gem when he'd died, and his death had imprinted itself within it, so that beneath that surface gloss of madness, Barrax's death lay coiled and waiting,
ever ready to tell its own tale of his horror and despair. Yet even the shell of madness that enclosed it had sense enough to warn him away, like burning guardsmen around a house engulfed in conflagration.

He touched it anyway, in case—

In case, he supposed, the terror within might, even slightly, have abated.

Yet no matter how gentle his mental probe, death felt him, grabbed him, and sucked him down.

It was like falling … forever.

Worse, it was like that first jolt of fear that falling engenders—repeated endlessly.

And with it came endless regret, and endless anger, and a waxing dread that what waited at the end would be more horrible than the journey there. But worst of all was the fact that he could feel his
self
dissolving, like the lights of the city winking out one by one. Except that every light was a memory, and he had no choice but to watch them die.

And that but for one brief moment.

Then it was gone—because someone had set fire to all of reality, and in that fire, his link to that waiting death was consumed.

He blinked, opened his eyes. And, caught up in that characteristic slowing-down of time that accompanied use of the gem, had ample occasion to note Lykkon standing before him, gaze shifting between Avall's face and his open—and empty— hand. A hand that was still stinging from where Lykkon had slapped it to knock the gem away.

Avall was on his feet at once, and on all fours as quickly, desperate to find the gem. For whatever it did, it was his and he would never abandon it again.

“It's here,” Rann offered mildly, kneeling to reach under a chair. His voice sounded coarse and stretched—almost a growl: another residual effect of the gem on Avall's senses. He wore gloves, too, Avall noted. Thick ones he would not have brought by accident.

“Are you—?” Lykkon began hesitantly, concern adding years to his young face.

“I'm fine,” Avall managed, through a series of deep breaths punctuated by the shivers working with the gems provoked. Time had almost shifted back to normal.

“If you're sure …”

He masked a shiver with a shrug. The others were shivering as well, he noted, with smug satisfaction.

Rann rose, pried the gem's locket from Avall's other hand, reinserted the stone, then closed it again and returned it. “Was there any change?”

Another shrug. “
Maybe
it wasn't as bad as the last time— the same way having one finger immersed in ice water while the rest of you is being burned alive wouldn't be as bad as all of you burning.”

Lykkon—true to form—had filled mugs of hot cider, and thrust one into Avall's free hand. “Can you be more specific?”

Recalling the memory was like tearing the scab from a wound. “It was more or less the same,” Avall conceded. “But the bad thing, Lyk, is that I know that beneath the madness and the warning and the memories of Barrax's death, the gem I remember still exists. It's like one of those stories where you have to win through all the traps around the enchanted palace to rescue the princess.”

“Which means?” Rann prompted.

“Which means I'll
have
to try it again. And that I'll put it off as long as I can, and that I'll hate it just as much when I do.”

“I'm sorry,” Rann murmured. “For what it's worth. And I repeat what I've offered before. If you ever want to link with me, I'll go there with you. Strynn probably would as well.”

“So would I,” Lykkon chimed in, “if you'd let me use your other gem—as would Merryn and Bingg and several other folks. They—we—think that maybe sane gems might cure insane ones.”

“It's not really insane,” Avall spat. “It's just full of death. And it's terrible, and I would never, ever inflict that on anyone
I cared about. And when I say that, I'm very glad I
am
King and can forbid it. Which I hereby do.”

Rann grunted and sat back down, looking glum. Lykkon merely looked thoughtful, and jotted something in the journal he always kept with him.

The room lapsed into silence, though troubled looks spoke loudly. Eventually Avall finished his drink and rose. “Well, lads,” he said, with forced ebullience, “Kingship waits on no man—and I have an errand I
must
attend to. If either of you feel like braving a trip to Argen-Hall, I'd be glad of the company.”

It was just as well Avall sought companions for his journey, and not merely Rann and Lykkon, but an eight of Royal Guard under the command of compact, square-faced Lady Veen, who was one of three new Guard-Chiefs he'd appointed after the war.

It was also a mistake to go on foot, even if uncrowned and uncloaked, since they had scarcely traveled half a shot along the wide riverside promenade that began at the Citadel before Avall was recognized by one of those clots of disgruntled Common Clan citizens who'd become much more prevalent since the war.

And while the strength of his reputation rested largely with Common Clan, so did one of his greatest threats.

He knew who they were the moment the first overripe fruit sailed past his face to land liquidly on the cobblestones a span to his left. More followed—and worse. He resisted the urge to hasten his step, even as the Guard moved off to quell that disturbance—with quarterstaves, since Avall had forbidden the use of blades for that purpose, save in self-defense.

Nor was it the offal that concerned him, but the words.

“The Eight belong to everyone,” came the chant, low at first, but swelling in volume, with the odd extra comment thrown in. “The King serves The Eight, not The Eight the King.” And “Heed The Eight or breed more wars.”

The Commoners were backing away, however—but with challenge in their eyes that did not bode well for future altercations. Avall had already started to recall the Guard when the second heckler from the right suddenly broke ranks with his fellows and charged, brandishing what looked like an Ixtian sword—probably loot from the war. “Heretic!” he yelled as he pounded across the paving—so suddenly he pierced the line of Guards before they could recover.

War-Hold-trained reflexes set Avall at alert, while Rann and Lykkon moved to flank him on either side. Even so, the man was barely four spans away before Avall finally found the hilt of the sword ritual required he wear. Yet his blade had scarcely cleared the scabbard before the assailant froze in place then bolted—back to rejoin his fellows, who'd retreated to the wall beside the river. All defiance had vanished from their faces. Indeed, it looked as though they might all jump in if Avall pursued.

Veen looked to Avall for direction, reluctant to forsake her greater charge for a lesser. He motioned her to return, sick at heart at what the man's failure of nerve implied. They feared him; that was certain now. Worse, they feared the sword he did not even carry at his side. Their words remained, too: a legacy of doubt.

“They think we caused the war,” Avall murmured to Lykkon. “They think that because Gynn and I were forced to use powers they assume came from The Eight, we're claiming that power for ourselves.”

Lykkon shook his head. “They
think
, cousin, that you risked cutting them off from The Eight to serve your own ends. Priest-Clan makes a dangerous foe.”

“Eellon risked much when he locked up their Chiefs,” Rann added.

“Because they threatened to rebel in the middle of a war.”

“We know that,” Lykkon retorted. “Those others—”

“
Some
of them call me hero—for reasons for which they've no more proof.”

“Cousin—”

“It's a knife edge,” Avall sighed, and by then the Guard had closed ranks with him. Still, he didn't relax until he reached the rough trilithon gate that marked the entrance to Argen-Hall-Prime, the stronghold of Avall's birth-clan and -craft. Not that he paid much heed to the ancient splendor of truncated towers and round-arched arcades sprawling off to either side; rather, he made straight for the Clan-Chief's suite on the third level.

And almost quelled before the door for fear of what lay inside, whose domain he was suddenly very conscious of invading. Indeed, King or no, he might well have retreated down the hall, had the door warden not been someone he knew: a slight, narrow-faced youth named Myx, who was only a few years older than he. Originally from Stone, and distant kin to Rann, Myx's star had risen with Avall's by virtue of his simply being at the right place at one very crucial time, and swearing an oath so potent it still bound him.

And Myx, at least, would be honest with him concerning what he was about to face.

“Shall I announce—?” Myx asked carefully, a sad half smile of friendship overlying deeper pain.

“I'm not here as the King,” Avall gave back. “But—how is he? Really?”

Myx merely shook his head. “Better you see for yourself, Majesty. Expect the worst, and you won't be disappointed.”

Avall exchanged glances with his companions, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and motioned for Myx to open the door.

The chamber to the right of the entry vestibule was unlit, but someone had left the windows and doors open in the room beyond, so that the sweet air and bright light of summer still entered. The effect was unsettling, too, Avall's own brushes with death having been accompanied by cold. It seemed impossible someone should die on a warm, sunny day.

But Eellon syn Argen-a, who was still officially Chief of Clan Argen, which ruled Smithcraft, was dying.

Very quickly, it appeared.

Avall approached the sickbed with trepidation. In order to accommodate the large number of visitors come to pay their respects to the old Clan-Chief, and to better facilitate what little treatment was attempted anymore, the suite had been stripped almost bare. Eellon's bed lay with its head precisely placed between two archways that led into the sunlit room beyond. Low sofas lined the walls, but they looked uninviting— and probably were, to discourage lingering visitors.

As for the old man himself—Avall was glad he was swathed to the armpits in a sweep of glimmering golden fabric. Unfortunately, the color made Eellon's already sallow complexion look worse. As it was, his face looked like someone had draped wrinkled, yellow-white sylk across a skull on which a nose and lips had been hastily wrought from clay.

Yet he breathed—a reedy, raspy, rattle.

And, in spite of all efforts to the contrary, he stank: a toosweet smell of sweat, rot, and pain that no amount of Ixtian incense could abate. Avall wished he'd brought a stick of imphor to chew—not only because the fumes could overpower most other odors, but for the false strength the drug imparted.

Myx was right. Eellon was worse than ever; indeed, he was only technically alive. It was a sad conclusion to ninety years, Avall reflected, most of them spent strong of mind and body, and more of them strong of mind alone. But then, last winter, a cough had become a fever in the lungs. Headaches and accelerated heartbeat followed, and then one day Eellon had grasped his head in Council and collapsed. Something had ruptured in his brain, his healer said. At least the old Chief wasn't like some men thus afflicted, who lolled half-awake, trying desperately to send words along the dead paths between a living brain and a useless tongue.

Avall didn't touch him or speak to him. That would provoke nothing but frustration for both of them, though he could hear Lykkon stifle a sob, and sense Rann gone tense as a board, through that odd linkage they sometimes shared. Maybe—

He was jerked from reverie by footsteps approaching from the sunlit room beyond. Steps he recognized instantly, by the slow, deliberate tread.

Tyrill. Once Craft-Chief of Smith, now—though she was not the oldest mentally competent member of Clan Argen in Tir-Eron—Acting Clan-Chief as well. Her mouth twitched when she saw him, but Avall was unable to read the implications. Traditionally, she had little use for him, beyond a begrudged respect for his facility at metalwork. But
traditionally
she and Eellon had been bitter rivals, yet she barely left his side now—proof that the line between love and hate was thinner than supposed. Still, the uneasy truce that she and Avall had contrived in the days after his Acclamation as King was a fragile, desperate thing, and Avall always felt as though he were walking on quick-fire around her. King he might be, but he was also a man of her clan, if not her sept. Never mind that she'd taught him a good chunk of what he knew about smithing. It was hard to break that conditioning and be King, not the little boy Tyrill seemed always to expect.

“Avall,” she murmured finally, with an absent nod of steelgray hair, signifying by that a blood-bond of Chief to clansman, not the oath-bond of Chief to Sovereign.

“Tyrill,” he gave back, motioning her to sit, which she did.

“There's only one question,” Tyrill volunteered bluntly. “How long will he live? And the answer is barely more debatable. His healers say three days because they think that's what we want to hear. I say two—if that.”

Avall exhaled a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. “So little? Still, it would be a blessing for all of us. Waiting isn't something I do well, and waiting for this. For the world to change …”

“It already has,” Tyrill rasped. “The world just doesn't know it yet. And with that in mind, I've taken the liberty of summoning those chiefs not already in Tir-Eron—”