Summerblood (39 page)

Krynneth was—though he wouldn't specify who. The burners, she supposed, which was to say the Ixtian army. But there was no cause to fear them here, and if he was sane enough to survive in the Wild, he ought also to be sane enough to understand that.

In any case, she was still fulfilling her quest—in a way. She'd planned to go west anyway, and that was where they were tending. And if swinging south to Ixti had ever truly been an option, it was becoming less so every hand. Sometimes, she reflected, it was good to have decisions made for one.

Eventually, too, Krynneth would drop his guard and she'd regain the upper hand. What she'd do then, with a crazy man in the Wild, she had no idea. And the trouble was, he was also a friend—someone she could've loved, frankly. Which meant she could neither abandon him nor kill him outright; her conscience wouldn't let her. And The Eight knew she had guilt enough already.

Meanwhile, and much to her chagrin, she was as content as a prisoner could be. But that didn't mean she didn't watch every move intently, or that she ever stopped plotting or waiting.

Still, it never hurt to do a little testing. “Where are we going?” she asked, when Krynneth showed signs of slowing.
That question, she'd discovered, was a good gauge of his sanity at any given moment. Sometimes it provoked fury—once so much he'd actually struck her. And been immediately contrite, like a boy who realized he'd broken something precious. More often he ignored her, which generally meant he was locked away inside himself somewhere—fighting battles, she had no doubt, but battles no one could see. And sometimes, if she was lucky, he talked to her as if they were friends on an all-day hike.

“You wanted to see the sea,” he said finally, not stopping to turn. “The one to the west. I'm taking you there.”

“You don't have to. I … can get there on my own.”

“I owe it to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to do a good thing to make up for the bad thing.”

“What bad thing?”

“I failed in my duty.”

“What duty?”

“My duty to protect the hold.”

“You
were
protecting the hold. That's why you were trying to convince Lorvinn to take back the Wardenship.”

He rounded on her, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Who told you that?”

“You did. Back in Tir-Eron.”

“I was asleep then.”

“You looked awake to me.”

He shook his head. “The other me was riding.”

A chill shook her at that. “Other me?”

“We've all got other selves. I simply know mine better.”

Merryn shook her head in turn. Though not the first time she'd heard this notion propounded—at Lore-Hold, among other places—it was the first time she'd actually faced the reality of it herself. Things that intangible … bothered her. Even the gems bothered her, a little. Like the way Avall could speak to her across distance. Not only did that make reality a little too
large; it was also reasonable proof that the soul was not bound to the body. Or the consciousness. More to the point, it was reasonable proof that consciousness truly was a thing apart from body and therefore worthy of separate consideration.

Maybe Priest-Clan had the right of it. Maybe it was better if people didn't know so much. Knowledge didn't always make one happy.

No! she told herself firmly. She would not think along those lines. Such notions were too close to what she'd heard espoused with distressing frequency among far too many Common Clan and clanless folk in South Bank taverns—which places she sometimes frequented in disguise, the better to gauge the public mind, and thus better advise her brother.

Still, there was a certain truth to it. Knowledge
didn't
always make one happy. The Eight knew she'd be much happier if Krynneth were not so knowledgeable about tying knots, for instance. She yanked at her wrists experimentally—and found exactly the same amount of slack as the last hundred times she'd tried.

She'd just started to ask another question, on the theory that Krynneth might ultimately talk his own way back to the road of sanity, when he stopped abruptly and flung himself forward in the heather. “Down!” he snapped, motioning her to ground.

Merryn did as requested, though the notion made little sense, given that the horse was in plain sight of whatever he was hiding from, and equally plainly laden. She scooted toward him, clumsy on elbows and knees. “What is it?” she hissed.

“Burners, down in the valley. I crested the ridge and saw them.”

“Did they see you?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you sure that's who they are? There are a lot more folks living in the Wild than you think.”

“They had a flag. One I saw in the battle.”

“Mounted?”

“They had horses.”

“Cavalry, then.”

He regarded her solemnly. “Which raises the odds of them being officers, which means they're more likely to be disaffected.”

“Oh, Eight,” Merryn groaned. What he'd said made far too much sense. If only he were that rational all the time. “Still,” she whispered, mostly for his benefit, “that doesn't mean they're enemies. We're not at war, after all.”

“Then why didn't they go straight home?” Krynneth shot back archly, sounding far
too
rational, of a sudden. “Because they respect neither our authority nor Ixti's,” he answered himself.

She nodded back the way they'd come. “We need to retreat.”

He nodded in turn, motioning her that way. She'd barely covered a span, however, when she heard a commotion behind her. Glancing around, she saw that which filled her with despair. Krynneth had not let go of the guide reins when he'd thrown himself to earth, and while Boot was usually placid— so much so Merryn suspected Krynneth of feeding her sugar laced with imphor—she was not that way now.

In fact, she was protesting—loudly. Whinnying and pawing while Krynneth growled curses at her through gritted teeth as he sought to get her subdued. And Merryn could do nothing to aid him, though she did manage to get back on her feet.

“Damned horse,” Krynneth spat.

“She's scented the others,” Merryn rasped, half-stumbling over to where he stood, “Give me the reins, I can hold them as well as you can. You try to get her calmed. Hood her if you can.”

Fortunately, Krynneth saw the sense of her suggestion and thrust the reins into her hands. The ropes around her wrists actually helped strengthen her grip, but the longer one joining her ankles impeded her balance, so that she found herself yanked headlong into the heather, as the horse broke free of Krynneth and trotted down the hill. He followed, yelling,
grabbing at the reins, even as she tried to release them. But the reins had somehow gotten tangled in the complex knot that bound her wrists, so that she could not free herself.

“Eight!” she cried, oblivious to who might hear. “Kryn! Cut me loose!”

To his credit, he grasped her situation in an instant and yanked out his belt knife, with which he slashed at the troublesome leather.

The blade flashed in the sunlight, which Boot evidently saw, which prompted her to run faster.

Still, Krynneth managed to sever the reins—so suddenly the shift in momentum caused Merryn, who'd already been dragged several spans, to flip head over heels, which in turn set her rolling.

She caught a glimpse of the Ixtian camp when she, very briefly, stopped tumbling. Enough to see that it did indeed include five—she thought—men, and as many horses. And, more to the point, to see that the men, who'd been sitting around a fire, were all afoot now, and running toward her.

And then she fetched up against a boulder and was summarily winded. The world spun. Blackness hovered near, alternating with a sky that seemed full of stars, even in the daytime.

And then blackness indeed. Which receded again, only to reveal stars of a different kind: three of them—embroidered in gold on the tattered black-velvet surcoat of a compact, squarefaced Ixtian man who was looking down on her with a long, straight sword bright in his hand.

An Eronese sword, she noted. Which meant it was probably stolen. Which did not bode well.

Reality reeled again, as memories flooded back of her last captivity among Ixtians—memories so strong, she almost passed out again rather than confront them. And chief among them was herself, tied to chair on a mountaintop across from War-Hold, watching Kraxxi, with his father's hand guiding his own, slowly stab War-Hold's former Warden—who was also Strynn's aunt—through the heart, where she lay spread-eagled on the
ground. And then, even worse, feeling the earth rock and heave, and looking up as an explosion lit the night, revealing all of War-Hold in flames, and half its walls blown down.

All her fault.

“Kill me,” she gritted, only distantly aware that she'd spoken. “I don't deserve to live.”

“Not for a while,” the man replied, in accented Eronese, reaching down to haul her firmly, though not roughly, to her feet. She was taller than he, she realized. Not that it mattered. Still, he looked her in the face. “I know you,” he continued. “You were the old king's prisoner.”

Merryn didn't reply. The way she was standing, she could see over the man's shoulder—enough to note that two of his fellows had calmed poor Boot and were leading her to camp, and that two others were even now escorting a stoop-shouldered Krynneth down the hill, with his hands clasped before him in such a way as to imply that he, too, had been bound.

“Who are you?” the man repeated, first in Eronese, then in Ixtian.

Merryn tried to let her face go blank, as though she didn't understand the latter, though she did. They'd be more likely to betray themselves that way.

“Ivk,” her captor called over his shoulder, “Come here.”

The younger wrangler glanced up, then gave the mare a final, warning pat, and left her to the care of his fellow, as he waded across the scrub to where Merryn and her captor stood. He was little more than a boy, Merryn realized. Seventeen at most. And also in tattered, gold-starred livery.

“Inon? What?”

Inon, if that was his name, dipped his head toward Merryn. “Recognize her?”

Ivk studied her for a moment, then reached out to brush her hood off her face with a bravado that wasn't quite convincing— as if he were trying to impress the older men with an expertise he didn't possess. “She was … Barrax's prisoner, for a while.”

Inon nodded. “More than that, too.”

Ivk gnawed his lip, then nodded in turn. “Merryn, was it?” Then, incredulously, “The High King's sister!”

Inon smirked a challenge that yet held some affection, as though he were testing the boy. “And what do you think
she
would be doing here?”

Ivk shrugged in a way that made him seem even younger. “I have no idea.”

“I do,” said the other wrangler, joining them, with Boot still in tow. His eyes looked calm, Merryn thought, which might be good, or not. He, too, wore livery like Inon's.

“You have good ears,” Inon chided him, with a grin.

“I also have good eyes,” the horseman chuckled through a matching grin. “Good enough to recognize that the helmet these folk's packhorse was carrying is not just any helmet.” He flicked his head to the right, where both helm and sword showed in plain view on the nearer side—another of Krynneth's unfathomable caprices.

Inon folded his arms and raised a brow. “I suppose you're going to tell us why?”

“Look at it!”

Inon did, though he didn't relax his grip on Merryn even slightly. “It's Eronese work. Very well made.
Very
well made,” he repeated. “In fact, it's—” He broke off, mouth agape. “Gods forgive us, it's
that
helmet!”

A smug nod. “More to the point, it's
that
sword.”

“How can you be certain?” Ivk dared, looking dubious.

Inon rounded on him, no longer indulgent comrade but imperious commander. “Because, fool of a boy, I was standing a span from the King of Eron when he was wearing it. I saw him call the lightning with it. Lightning that killed my brother— and your uncle.”

“So what's it doing
here
?” Ivk challenged.

Inon looked sharply at Krynneth, then chuckled grimly. “For a moment there, I thought we might have more important prisoners than we know. But that one”—he indicated Krynneth— “has the wrong color eyes to be Eron's King, even in disguise.
Besides which, he's supposed to be this one's twin.” He turned back around to stare at Merryn, and this time there was no gentleness in his gaze. “I would therefore say,” he continued, “that she's either stolen it … or intends to hide it.”

“Hide it?”
Ivk looked incredulous.

“Think why she might, boy,” Inon snapped. “Then, maybe, in a few days, I'll tell you.”

“And what do we do with it—and her?” From the other man.

“Her? We do nothing with her until we know more. The man—maybe he's important, maybe he isn't. The armor— well, let's just say that whoever commands it can do whatever he damned well pleases.”

“You don't know how to work it,” Ivk protested.

“No,” Inon told him calmly. “But if Avall of Eron can wield it, so can I.”

“To attack Eron?”

“Maybe,” Inon retorted. “Eventually. But that would be best done with a kingdom at my back.”

It was all Merryn could do to keep from flinching.