Summerblood (31 page)

She sighed, but searched for some. Maybe if he drank enough, it would knock him out—which would give her more time to decide what to do about him.

“I've got brandy,” she announced a moment later. “That might be better for you, but go easy, it's strong.”

He snatched the bottle, uncorked it, and took a hearty swig. He'd started to take another, but she grabbed it back. “Not yet! You'll get sick. You don't want to do that, and I don't want you to.”

“Sick …”

“Get some sleep, Kryn. I'll cook.”

“Sleep.”

She pushed him down on the blankets, smoothed his hair out of his eyes, and gently patted his eyelids closed. As an afterthought, she kissed him on the forehead. Like a mother. Thank The Eight that Strynn couldn't see her now. She'd never hear the end of it.

To her amazement, Krynneth started snoring at once. She took that as a good sign—that he trusted her, if nothing else—
and bent herself to preparing the promised meal. He was still snoring when she finished, and she had trouble waking him. When he did, his eyes were clearer, but he was very subdued. He took the proffered food without protest, and ate with gusto and surprisingly good manners.

“What's happened in Tir-Eron since I left?” he asked eventually, sounding perfectly normal. And though Merryn wanted more than anything to learn as much about his situation as possible, she decided that for the moment she'd best let him lead the conversation. Which he did, sounding as sane as when she'd met him, even joking now and then.

It was full dark now, and Merryn was tired and sleepy. She hadn't had her bath, either, but that would have to wait until morning. If Krynneth was still improving then, she'd see if she could get him to take one, too. Or maybe they could—

No! She wouldn't let herself think about that. Her life was too complicated as it was, and Krynneth needed no more stress brought to bear on already fragile emotions. “I'm enjoying this,” she told him finally. “But I've been traveling all day and I need to rest. You need it more, though, so you sleep, I'll keep watch. And don't worry, nothing's going to happen to you.”

“Nothing?” he replied softly, sounding like the boy again.

“Nothing,” she assured him.

He didn't reply, for he was asleep already.

Daylight woke Merryn. Or perhaps it was the anxious whickering of one of the horses, or the soughing of the wind through the pines as the morning breeze began to dispel the night. Possibly, too, it was Krynneth breathing beside her, the sounds soft, even, and unconcerned. She smiled at that. It had been a long time since she'd awakened beside any man but her brother or one of his comrades, and that in soldiers' quarters on a battlefield. Leaning up on her elbow, she studied Krynneth's face, noting lines of worry that shouldn't be there at his age. The beard would have to go if they were to continue together.

Which made her frown. She'd intended to reach a decision about that last night, but sleep had surprised her. In any case, he was sleeping soundly, and she still hadn't got that bath, and was in dire need of one. She thought of making a fire first, and putting water on to boil for cauf that she needed and Kryn would probably appreciate, then decided that the noise might rouse him, and she wasn't prepared to deal with him yet.

Having so decided, she slipped silently from her bedroll, found her spare clothes where she'd laid them out the previous night, and padded, barefoot (scandalous notion!) through the woods back to the pool at the base of the waterfall, where she wasted no time finding a rock shelf and stripping, wincing as she slid into what was amazingly cold water. Not that she couldn't endure it, hadn't expected as much, or was likely to get better for a very long time—unless she found a hot spring, or went to the trouble of boiling a great deal of water indeed.

She therefore made short work of it, paying particular attention to her hair. And was just giving her head a final toweling, enjoying the fact that the new short locks seemed already half-dry, when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Sound went with it, and she was already scrambling to her feet when something hard hit the back of her head just behind the ear. Instinct identified that blow—location, implement, and angle—as one she'd learned as part of the Night Guard. It was supposed to do minimal harm, but ensure instant unconsciousness. In fact, the blow, as much as what she actually saw before darkness swam in her eyes, confirmed her attacker as her fellow Night Guardsman, Krynneth.

She tried to fight him off, but surprise had sufficiently dulled her reflexes that the first blow made another possible. This one connected more surely, and the last thing she remembered before darkness claimed her was that one should always turn one's back to a river if there was a waterfall nearby to dull one's hearing.

When she awoke again, it was to find herself back in camp,
clad only in her undertunic, with her hands tied securely before her and her ankles trussed up like a roasting pig.

Krynneth—fully dressed and sleepy-eyed, but intently focused for all that—was sitting across from her, calmly sorting through her gear one pack at a time.

Her heart sank. The shield was where she'd left it, hidden within its nondescript cover. The pouch with the gems was piled with the clothes she'd worn to the pool. But the sword and helm …

He found the former exactly as she thought it, and pulled it from the bundle of which it had been part, staring at it quizzically. “I know this sword,” he gasped, fingers brushing the peace ties that also, fortunately, covered the gem's trigger. “It's the Fire Sword.” He paused, cocked his head. “Fire Sword,” he repeated. “Or Lightning Sword. Doesn't much matter, 'cause they both burn things—and I've had enough of burning.”

“Put that away!” Merryn snapped. “It's more dangerous than you can imagine. It could kill you without you even knowing.”

“Then it's safer if I keep it,” Krynneth replied solemnly. “You think I don't know that it was you who caused the burning?”

“I never—!” Merryn began. But he was right. It
was
her fault, in a way. But he had the regalia now, and that was the imminent problem.

“You stole this, didn't you?” he accused. “It belonged to the King, and he'd never let anyone take it away. Not even you.”

“I'm his sister.”

“You're also the king of Ixti's lover. And you're going south in disguise. What would that make you think if you were me?”

Merryn blinked in blank amazement. What had gotten into Krynneth, to prompt such accusations? They might not have been so bad had he been angry. But to have him lay them out so calmly, as if they made perfect sense …

“I've never lied to you,” she said slowly.

His eyes flashed fire. “Yes you have! You've tricked me, anyway—which is the same thing!”

“When?” she dared.

“When you and Lorvinn helped Kraxxi escape.”

“We never—!”

“You did!”

Merryn started to reply, then thought better of it. The smart thing to do was watch and wait. Krynneth had already changed personalities several times since yesterday. It was more than possible he might change again. She hoped he did it soon. In any case, he was running on his own momentum now, and she knew better than to interrupt someone as angry as he obviously was.

“You think silence will save you?” he raged “It won't. You've got the Fire Sword, and there's only one reason you should have it, and that's to take it to Kraxxi, so he can make more fire.”

“And what will you do with it?” she challenged.

“Cut out your tongue, if you say another word!” Krynneth shouted. Something about his tone made her believe him.

“I'm tired of this,” he growled abruptly, whereupon he kicked her onto her side, then knocked her out again with the bone hilt of her cooking knife. When she regained consciousness, he'd struck the entire camp, and very neatly, too. But his eyes, when she saw them, were still mad.

“Krynneth—” she dared again.

“I'll cut your tongue out,” he spat. “Be silent.”

Merryn thought it best not to argue.

Tyrill hated Mask Day and always had. Even as a girl, she'd hated it. Possibly that was because she'd been obsessed with order even then, and Mask Day was the one day of the year when the ritual-loving, Law-respecting Eronese utterly abandoned any sense of propriety, expectation, or order. Or maybe it was simply the fact that when everyone wore masks—by Law; there was that much order in the celebration—she could no longer distinguish friend from foe, and thus didn't know how to act. As a gawky girl, that had been important.

Now, however, she simply hated it because it was one more thing to complicate a life that was complicated enough already. She watched the preparations from the windows of her suite— her old suite: the traditional Craft-Chief's suite in Argen-Hall. The revelry wouldn't start until a finger after sunset—which was an odd time, just as it was observed in the middle of an eight-day, without reference to cosmic proprieties such as equinoxes or solstices. In fact, the date itself was irregular, being chosen by random lot two years in advance, with allowances made to preclude two Mask Days falling close together.

She'd be glad when it was over. As it was, she'd spent most
of the last eight-day finishing things, not the least among them, business with Avall. She'd seen him ride out amid all that panoply. And she'd not even been able to argue with him when he'd told her that, in spite of his best intentions, he wouldn't be able to sit in the conclave that had—finally—Proven a new Clan-Chief. The Kingdom was more important, they both agreed. Lives were at stake, not mere power structures. And, by the way, did she mind sitting as Steward while he was gone?

She hadn't wanted to, but with Tryffon and Preedor both off with the army, she was the person he trusted most—more than the Chiefs of Stone and Lore, even, who were the other two likely candidates. She supposed that was a compliment, but she wondered, sometimes, if it weren't simply a way of riding her to an earlier grave than she'd have succumbed to otherwise.

But
that
would never have occurred to him, foolish, guileless half-boy that he was. Maybe he even considered it compensation for his absence at the conclave. But that was like spreading jelly on burned bread. In any case, she had no choice but to wear the Steward's circlet tonight, when she was required to put in an appearance at the Masker's Ball in the forecourt of the Citadel.

But that was still more than a hand away, and, to her surprise, she didn't seem to have any productive way of filling the intervening time. She tried pacing, reveling in the fact that the warmth of summer had made the pain in her joints subside. But pacing made her squires anxious, so she substituted walking the corridors of Argen-Hall.

That, in turn, brought her to the doors of the Clan-Chief's Audience Chamber. On impulse, she eased in there. The highvaulted room was one of the most impressive in Argen-Hall, with every surface faced with some kind of cleverly worked metal; but she'd seen it so many times over the years that its splendor barely registered. The Chief's Chair stood on a low dais at the opposite end, and she found herself wandering toward it. When she'd been acting Chief, she'd presided from
this chamber more than once, but she'd sat in her traditional Craft-Chief's chair, one step lower than the Clan-Chief's, since her role in the Chieftains Hall was born of courtesy, not right. The seats in
her
Hall were reversed.

Before she knew it, she'd reached the dais. She ran a hand along an arm of her chair, then along one of the Chieftain's. No one but a Clan-Chief could sit there, by ancient Law, but she'd
been
Clan-Chief in all but confirmation, at least briefly, and was close to ninety years old, and Death would likely visit her sooner than later—so, she considered, she had little to lose by yielding, just once, to caprice. Besides, wasn't this Mask Day, when rules were supposed to be flaunted?

A deep breath, a pause to listen, as though tradition likewise held its breath in anticipation of her indiscretion, and then, in one quick burst of movement, she sat down in the Clan-Chief's Chair.

“Lady!” her squire—Lynee was her name, and she'd been born to Common Clan—gasped.

“Lady indeed!” someone echoed behind her. Tyrill started to rise, but the speaker was beside her by then, pushing her gently back into the seat. It took a moment to recognize her assailant, and when she did it was by sight, not voice. Mavayn. Lady Mavayn san Argen-el, to give her full name; now Chief-Elect of Clan Argen. Eellon's successor, confirmed the previous night after she'd finally, against numerous challenges, Proven herself more competent than Lord Trymm syn Argen-yr. They'd both been born the same day, and while Law would still have given precedence to the firstborn, they'd also been born precisely at sunset, so there was no way of telling who had preceded whom into the world. It had taken a match of wits to determine. Mavayn had won, after two hands of queries on every imaginable topic.

“It's all right,” Mavayn murmured with a wry smile. “In your place I'd be tempted, too—and what better day to yield to such temptations?”