Summerblood (45 page)

“Burners,” Strynn mused. “I assume that means …”

“
Ixtians
was what the woman I talked to suggested,” Div replied, sitting down on the hearth with a mug of her own. “We've noted ourselves that not all of them headed straight back home after the war—which makes sense, if you think of them as real people. Sure, Kraxxi made peace, but not everyone would've agreed to it. Many were promised booty they didn't get—especially after Kraxxi made them swear to return anything they'd stolen. And there are more poor people in Ixti than in Eron, and a
lot
more of them join the army …”

“So you're saying … ?”

“That this area has had a problem with raiders and renegades.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Maybe,” Div mumbled through a mouthful of tart. “Raiders want something specific; renegades just want to cause trouble— destruction, whatever.”

Strynn stopped in mid-bite as the repercussions struck her—and not for herself. “Merryn,” she choked. “I'll bet you anything those raiders are based in the Spine—and that's exactly where Merryn's heading.”

“Think she can handle them?” Div inquired. Her voice was light, but her face was serious.

Strynn finally managed to swallow. “Depends on the number. A few … yes. But more, I don't know. The problem, Div, is that she's got the regalia. If one of them got hold of it …”

Div's jaw dropped open. “Oh, Eight!”

Strynn nodded grimly. “Another reason we need to find her quickly.”

“And carefully,” Div added. “The regalia's one thing, but the King of Eron's sister would make a damned fine hostage on her own.”

Strynn rolled her eyes. “Oh, Eight, indeed! I hadn't thought of that.”

“Think of it,” Div said seriously. “All the time. And be wary.” Already, though still savoring her breakfast, she was packing.

(
NORTHWESTERN ERON: GEM-HOLD-WINTER— HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXII—EARLY AFTERNOON
)

Zeff stared at the phial in his hand.

Should he, or shouldn't he?
he wondered.

The phial contained water from the Well of Knowledge— one of the septs of Strength, for it represented strength of mind.

But Knowledge never liked being consulted outright. Knowledge preferred that man seek information through his own initiative, simply because more knowing was involved that way, never mind that one often learned things on that journey that were more important than the knowledge initially sought.

But sometimes there wasn't time for such a journey.

Zeff sighed and leaned back in his Chieftain's Chair, closing his eyes, as though to shut out the need for decision. Unfortunately, the phial was still there: a hardness between his fingers, an afterimage beckoning his inner eye.

This was knowledge in the service of the Nine, he told himself. And Time, which the Ninth Face served, truly was at a premium. He could wait—until they wrested the secret of the gems from Avall. Or he could act now, perhaps precipitously, and save them both—and many other people—a wealth of trouble.

After all, even without the three gems that worked the Royal Regalia, he still possessed the master gem, which, from everything he knew, evinced the same powers they did—and perhaps evinced them more strongly. All one had to do was penetrate the veil of madness that cloaked all that power, at once lying over it and within it.

That was the trick, wasn't it?

And that was what the water in this phial
might
reveal.

In any case, he would change nothing by simply sitting there.

A deep breath, and he uncorked the phial.

Another breath, and he raised it to his lips and let one drop fall upon his tongue, then quickly restoppered it.

By which time, the first heady fumes were coiling through his mind.

He immediately felt more alive. And—more importantly— smarter. It was as though he could feel his brain coming awake, like a kennel's worth of hounds, first one rousing, then the next, so that soon the entire pack sat there attentively, waiting to see what he would have them do.

Almost he forgot to confront the problem—which was one of the risks of working with the Waters.

Almost
, but not entirely.

Without him actively seeking it, the question put itself forward. Yet typical of such occasions, the question Knowledge answered was not the one he consciously planned to ask, but the one his deeper self truly wanted to know.

Not “How do I master the master gem?” but “How may I put the master gem to use?”

To the former, he suspected there was no answer. As for the latter—he now thought there might be.

The answer was simple, in fact. The gem was many things at many different times. But one thing it always was was hungry. So if one could feed it at the same time one distracted it from the other things that went with that feeding, not the least of them being—usually—some deep desire to master it …

Well, that was the secret then, wasn't it? Feed it, and then use it
without
trying to master it. Give it its own head, in other words—but point that head away from the wielder's
self
.

It was a frightening notion, Zeff acknowledged, but one he thought he could manage.

Once
—if he used it properly.

And if he was lucky, once might be sufficient.

The only difference between the water pouring down outside the Royal bathing tent, and the water in which Rann, Lykkon, and Kylin were lolling, was the fact that their water had been heated to within a breath of intolerable. Which was how all three liked it. Otherwise, it was the same water that had been falling from the leaden sky for days, collected into barrels, then poured out and collected again, occasionally with a boiling in between. If there was one supply the army had in abundance it was water. It would be the cleanest army in history. Or the most mildewed.

In any case, Rann was grateful for the respite, for a chance to sprawl back in the enormous wooden tub that had taken up one whole wagon, and to lie there in the comfortable, herbscented gloom inhaling potent vapors and sipping now and then on spiced wine. It wasn't decadence as much as practicality. Though they were long since ready to begin the siege, the weather wouldn't permit it. Therefore, anything that rendered Rann or his staff more comfortable or relaxed was to be encouraged. Besides, he was with several members of that staff, in case anyone dared challenge their situation.

That said, Rann was having a hard time keeping his eyes off Lykkon. Not because the youth was handsome, which he was; but because he looked a fair bit like Avall, especially in the gloom, amid the drifting vapors.

Lykkon caught him looking and smiled wanly, as though he'd read Rann's thought. Given the bond they'd shared through the gems on occasion, perhaps he had.

Not that they were there alone in the bathing tent. Besides Kylin—whom they assisted now and then, in spite of his protests—Riff and Myx had just availed themselves of this same luxury, and were sitting, towel-clad, in the shadows by the door. Bingg had recently gone off duty and was stripping on the other side, glad to share that small rite of equality with his elder friends and relatives.

He'd make it a tight squeeze, though—unless someone got out. But that was what this was for: a cultivation of trust and closeness.

Finally, there was Vorinn, undressing beside Bingg. They'd asked him to join them partly from courtesy, and partly because, while popular with the army at large, the people in this tent were the closest he had to friends. But he would never think to ask them to join him in something like this, any more than he'd ask to join them.

By unspoken consensus, all talk was of inconsequential things: the sound the rain made on the canvas, how long they could let themselves stay there until they needed to let someone else have a chance, what might be had for dinner.

Never the important things. Like the siege. Like their lovers—both Myx and Riff were betrothed to women involved in the rebuilding of War-Hold. Like the captive King and the lost regalia and where any of them would be a few days hence.

Not until voices sounded outside, prompting Riff to scamper off, clad only in a towel. A moment later, Tryffon poked his head in, squinting in the gloom, but with a wry smile on his face as though he wouldn't mind joining them.

“Good news,” he told Vorinn. “All signs indicate that this rain may break by tomorrow noon. A day to dry, and—”

Vorinn coughed pointedly and nodded toward Rann.

Tryffon looked puzzled, then cleared his throat and strode over to address Rann. “Lord Regent,” Tryffon began. “Apologies for my—”

“It's fine, Tryffon,” Rann assured him. “I have few illusions about who should be in charge of this escapade, any more than the men have any about who they'd rather follow. Now, as you were saying …”

Tryffon nodded uncomfortably. “I was saying that another day for the land to dry, if the sun comes out and we get the heat we expect, and we can let the siege towers roll. If you feel like risking it, we could even heave a few fireballs at the place tonight.”

Rann shook his head. “I thought we settled that. Too much risk to civilians. That said, if someone wanted to see about torching the lower doors or that Eight-damned palisade, that would both prevent our enemies escaping that way initially and, when they burned through, give us one more means of entrance.”

Vorinn nodded vigorously, utterly in command of the situation for all that he was also stark naked. “Of course our foes will have figured that out as well and planted surprises for us. Which is why, for all the trouble it'll cause, we need the siege towers. They'll give us far better access to the lower porches, which will be much harder to defend. As for the palisade— well, they'll hold us back—for a while—but they'll also give us a chance to drop something down on them!”

Tryffon nodded in return. “That was really all I needed to tell you, and I guess it could've waited.” He eyed the water speculatively. “Though if that's still hot when you lads finish, it'd be a shame to pour it out.”

“Give us half a hand,” Rann chuckled, “and it's yours. The wine as well. And Bingg would probably be glad to—”

“I've my own squires,” Tryffon huffed gruffly. “And now … good evening. Let's hope we get to breakfast in the sunshine.”

“And two days after that in Gem-Hold,” Vorinn chuckled. “We can even invite Zeff—his head, anyway.”

Tryffon chuckled as well, as did Myx and Bingg. Kylin, however, looked very troubled indeed.

Rann tried to ignore him, though something was clearly bothering the harper he wouldn't talk about, and not simply missing Strynn. Which was one reason they'd invited him to join them. He was another misfit, he supposed—as Bingg and Lykkon were too young, himself too inexperienced, and Vorinn too self-contained.

“I'm sorry,” Vorinn murmured unexpectedly, helping himself to a seat on the side of the tub.

Rann peered up at him through a veil of sodden hair. “For what?”

“For the fact that”—he looked down, mouth a thin, grim line—“for the fact that people treat me like the Regent, instead of you.”

“They should,” Rann told him flatly. “I'm doing this for my friend and that's all. I can fake soldiering because I'm reasonably smart, have the same minimal training we all get, understand human nature decently well, and survived actual combat in the recent war. But you love it like I love lying here with my friends. That's all I really care about, Vorinn. I can do my craft, but if I never carved another stone, laid out another wall, or engineered another archway, I wouldn't miss it. My idea of paradise is a bed with me in the middle, Avall on one side, and Div on the other. And good food, good drink, and once in a while a bath.”

“Do
you
want to be King?” Lykkon asked Vorinn, as he climbed out to make room for the other man. “Nobody's ever asked you, to my knowledge.”

Vorinn shot him a piercing look in passing. “I'd be lying if I said I hadn't seen them wishing with their eyes … and the fact
is, I can think of worse things. I doubt it would be a drudgery for me and—forgive me, everyone—I think I could see my way clearer. I think there'd be fewer ways for people to get at me.”

“And the soldiers would still love you,” Lykkon added. “And will love you more after the battle.”

“If I survive.”

“Rann's still Regent, though,” Myx said from the door flap, where he was now donning livery, aided by an open flap that helped disperse the steam.

“Only until I get to Tir-Eron. After that … Tyrill's Regent there—if she still lives. If for some reason we're actually able to restore the old order, I'd promise to rule until Sundeath. Period. After that, it's whatever Div wants to do.”

“And Avall?” Lykkon challenged.

“I'm assuming the worst. I won't
be
Regent if we rescue him.”

“We will,” Bingg said with conviction, easing into the tub beside the man who might be his future King, as Rann stood to leave. Kylin rose as well; Rann passed him a towel.