Summerblood (43 page)

Then she could die happy. And if that death occurred in a hovel, with her dressed in a dirty plaincloth gown and cast-off woolen cloak and hood, so be it. The body, so Priest-Clan said and Avall had effectively proven, was only a shell. And while she certainly didn't approve of all the things Avall had done, and could blame her current situation on him if she bothered to try, he'd at least given her comfort in her old age. For it was from him that she'd gained reasonable proof that part of her was immortal.

Now, if she could just achieve her goal …

As for Priest-Clan—they were not as unassailable as they thought, for they could not completely wall themselves away from those who had depended on them for so long. And among the places they could neither deny nor fortify were the shrines of The Eightfold God that still rose, unmolested, on the Isle of The Eight.

So it was that, shortly past sunset, with the rain pouring down and the guard looking tired and miserable across the River Walk, Tyrill set part of a newly hatched plan in motion.

One of the good things about being old, she reckoned, was that one eventually became well connected. And one of the most fruitful connections she'd made in many years had been with the then-new Craft-Chief at Stone, one Firra san Eemon. Firra was some kind of kin to Rann's two-father, who had first brought her to Tyrill's notice. But soon enough, Tyrill and she had struck up a friendship of their own. And since Firra had come close to defecting to Lore in her early days, she'd had a
more eclectic education than most of her rather unimaginative kin.

Tyrill had been wrestling with a casting problem at the time, and had voiced that complaint in an abstract way to Firra. The situation, Tyrill vowed, was that sometimes casting in plaster took too long, and, worse, there was always a problem with bubbles. What she needed was some way to turn the water around an object solid—quickly. If one could immerse an object one wanted to mold to exactly the right depth, then add something that would turn its surroundings solid in a dozen breaths, it would simplify casting immensely.

Unbeknownst to her, Firra had turned her formidable intellect and skills fully to that project, and roughly half a year later— when Tyrill had completely forgotten the conversation—had presented her with a small bag of pinkish powder that did exactly what Tyrill desired. Tyrill had been overjoyed.

She'd also been jealous of her knowledge of the new technique. More to the point, she'd been in the throes of one of her periodic rivalries with Eellon, so she'd kept the existence of the powder to herself. As it was difficult to make, it would never see widespread use in any case. Still, Firra gave her what she could manage, out of friendship.

Then had come the plague. Firra had died. And with her, the secret of the powder had been lost. Tyrill had tried a few times to examine Firra's notebooks, but they were incomplete, and a crucial one had been lost during the contagion.

She'd guarded that small stash of powder ever since. More to the point, she'd guarded it in one of Argen-yr's private holds a dozen shots down the Ri-Eron. Which happened to be where the boat in which she and Lynee had fled Tir-Eron had deposited them.

She had that powder now: half of what remained. And while the use to which she intended to put it was not only wildly unethical, but bordered on vindictive, heretical, and blasphemous—well, she was far past caring.

It was raining damned hard, though. Maybe too hard to
risk showing herself in public. Old women weren't supposed to like being wet. Eight,
Tyrill
didn't like being wet. Worse, she feared she might attract too much attention if she visited the Isle of The Eight in this weather at this hour.

On the other hand, she had her dice insignia, token of devotion. She would simply say that a roll of the die had told her to visit the Isle at that time.

And if that ploy didn't work, there was always tomorrow.

Steeling herself, she flipped her hood as far forward as she could manage, snared the cane she certainly needed, and not for sympathy, and shuffled out into the rain. The cobbles were more a sea than a walkway now, and she headed toward an archipelago of raised stepping-stones set there to ensure dry feet.

And turned east, away from the Citadel and that unfortunate guard, who'd spared her a glance when she'd moved, then gone back to his misery. She was going away, and that was probably enough for him.

A quarter hand later, she'd reached the place where the bridge to the Isle pierced the wall beside the river. Another shivering guard stood there, but this one seemed more concerned with taunts from a trio of Common Clan boys than in one old woman, so he waved her past.

It was almost full dark when Tyrill reached the bridge's other terminus, where she made short work of disappearing into the woods. A short walk took her to the first forking, where the paths to Fate's fane split off. Fortunately, the Isle wasn't large, but the fanes had been placed and landscaped in such a way that each seemed utterly isolated. And if she was lucky, they would all be unoccupied.

Certainly Fate's fane was—and it was the most popular one. The Well looked the same as always, and Tyrill shuffled toward it and looked down. It was forbidden on pain of death for anyone save Priests and the King to drink of those Wells, but anyone could gaze into them for whatever the reflections there might deign to show, which was usually nothing.

Tyrill did exactly that, bending over to stare at what looked to her like a sheet of black glass. Trying to look as pious as she ever had in her life, she fumbled beneath her cloak until she found what she sought: a watertight leather bag. Hesitating but a moment, she reached into it and withdrew a handful of Firra's powder. Maybe this
was
blasphemy, maybe not, but Tyrill suspected she knew more about The Eight's will than Priest-Clan did, so she was only a little contrite when she reached out and— very calmly, but with great care and discretion—emptied the powder into the Well.

What happened next was extraordinary, and would've been more so had there been light enough to properly observe it. As it was, Tyrill saw the powder spread across the water like a slick of oil, and then saw that slick slowly solidify, like ice crystals forming on a window. But only for a moment before it went smooth again. Yet when she touched it, she knew, it would be hard as the glass it resembled—probably for half a span down.

Maybe farther.

She did the same at Craft's fane, and at Law's. Man's, too, she clogged, and Weather's. She was running low on powder by then, and hadn't reckoned on the moisture on her hands causing the stuff to cake upon them so that she felt as though she wore mittens of hot ice. She scraped off the worst of it, and finally, with three Wells to go, gave up, concluding her sabotage by simply dropping the nearly empty pouch in the Well of Strength and trusting the powder to act as it would.

It was near midnight when she left, and a different guard was on duty. She greeted him kindly, offered muttered thanks that Priest-Clan still respected the people's need to petition The Eight at any time, and that she hoped they'd seen the last of those who would deny the common folk the direct access they so desperately desired in these hard times.

The man finally ran her off to silence her.

Two days later, Tyrill, in another guise entirely, saw his head and one other, raised on pikes at the gates of the Citadel.

She didn't laugh, however. She could only feel sorry for those poor, poor boys.

As for her handiwork—Word had it that The Eight were displeased, and had turned the water in most of the Wells to mirrors, which were impossible to break. Some said this was a sign the future was fixed. Others that The Eight were withholding the future until things changed.

No one mentioned sabotage, because no one knew how the plugging of the Wells had been accomplished. Besides, hadn't Eron been rife with magic of late? And hadn't The Eight clearly shown that They had granted the King Their favor? If nothing else, Priest-Clan had some explaining to do.

There
was
rioting, of course—but not as much as might've been expected. Perhaps that was from fear of the Ninth Face guards that now prowled the island and elsewhere in everincreasing numbers. Perhaps it was because it was typically the most powerless portion of the population who most often solicited the Wells, and then mostly for answers to fairly mundane questions, most of which could wait. Or perhaps it was simply because rumor had less force than fact, and most people were sufficiently concerned—as always—with their own lives to ponder greater problems.

In any case, Tyrill was more than pleased. Until she could think of something even more insidious.

(
ERON: NEAR MEGON VALE—HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXVIII—NEAR MIDNIGHT
)

“I can wait,” Riff volunteered through a yawn.

Kylin shook his head. “I've learned it now. It's just a matter of counting steps, turns, and ups and downs. Besides which, I can see a little: anything bright. As long as none of the torches go out—”

Riff stretched hugely. “I'll trust you, then. I'm so tired my toenails are already snoring. So, if you don't mind …”

“Go! It's fine. And thanks, Riff. I appreciate this.”

“Let just hope Esshill appreciates it as well.”

Kylin stood where he was, waiting, listening to Riff's foot steps merge with the pervasive overnoise of the mostly sleeping camp. The latter was always the same, save that weather added things now and then: presently a squish to accompany steps that never lost their essential rhythm; and a steady drip, drip, drip. He felt bad about lying to Riff, too; but if he had any choice, he was unaware of it. Besides, the fewer that knew what he was about, the better. Even Esshill wouldn't know everything—if Kylin chose his words carefully.

He found the tent by feel—his fingertips, and a subtle warming that marked the juncture of warm canvas and cooler air. And the faintest blur of light from whatever lit the interior.

A deep breath, and he called out, “Esshill?”

Silence, save the soft heavy sounds of someone moving in side a camp bag, and the creak of the wooden frame.

“Esshill!”

A groan, then a grunt, then a groggy, “Who is it?”

“Kylin syn Omyrr. I would enter, if you permit.”

“A moment.” Which probably meant Esshill was dressing. People tended to forget that Kylin was blind—which was sometimes amusing.

An instant later Kylin felt a wash of warmth against his face, followed by a hand laid tentatively on his wrist. “Here.”

He let himself be led into the tent, folding himself down close by the door, the better to hear without as well as within.

“What is it?” Esshill asked groggily. “You don't strike me as the sort for late-night visits to people you barely know.”

Kylin shrugged. “Time is all the same to me, as far as night and day. As to knowing you—let us say that I knew your brother better.”

“I have no brother.”

“You did before you joined Priest-Clan. I tutored him when he was at Music, though he was older than I. He spoke of you.”

A deep breath. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I need a favor,” Kylin replied frankly. “But hear me out.”

“I'm listening.” Kylin caught the hard edge in Esshill's voice that hinted of danger or impatience.

Another breath. “He said you were very loyal. That you took a long time to bestow your trust and confidence, but once it was bestowed, you maintained it forever.”

“Your point being?”

“That I'm the same way. And right now I need someone I can trust—so that I can maybe, possibly, achieve a greater good.”

“Which would be?”

A third deep breath and Kylin said it: what, if Esshill failed him, would destroy the trust of many other folk who so far had kept faith with him, good intentions notwithstanding. “I may know a way to rescue the King. But I can't do it alone. I need you to help me.”

“Why me?”

“Because you understand Rann's position, for one thing, and therefore understand why this battle may not fall out as it ought, which would be bad for all of us.”

“I understand having a bond-brother at horrible risk,” Esshill conceded harshly. “I hope you understand my anger at the way Avall used that bond-brother.”

“Everyone's used him,” Kylin retorted. “He's probably being used now—if Zeff can manage to wake him, which I doubt—but I promise you that he'd be better off out here.”

A derisive chuckle. “And you think
you
can rescue him along with Avall?”

“I think there's a chance of that if you'll help me, where there's none if you don't. At worst, I fail; no one knows you're involved; and things stay as they are. At best, I rescue Avall and Rrath, and things are back to how they were eight days ago.”

“You haven't told Rann about this, have you?”

Kylin shook his head. “Nor anybody—though Riff suspects, but he's another one who's careful where he confers his loyalty. In any case, Rann wouldn't let me do what I hope to do, for completely altruistic reasons. He'd be so appalled at the notion he wouldn't be able to look past that to the facts that underlie it. You, on the other hand—”

“You think I'm more reckless.”

“I think you have less to lose and more to gain, and fewer folk expecting anything of you.”

“That may be true.”

“I hope for many people's sake that it is. Now, what I would ask of you is this: Is it true that you've been having trouble sleeping?”

Kylin could hear the distinctive swish of flesh against fabric that almost certainly meant Esshill was nodding.

“And I'm correct in assuming that you're taking a potion for it?”

“I … am.”

“Very well, then. If you would be willing to part with some of that potion, here is how I think it might be used …”

It took Kylin most of a hand to explain his plan to Esshill's satisfaction, but long before then, he knew the Priest's cooperation was assured. And when he made his way back to his own tent, he indeed carried a phial of sleeping draught. Now all he had to do was find the right kind of wine.