Warautumn (10 page)

“Sounds good,” Lykkon agreed, which prompted Riff to start sorting through a pile of large wet leaves he had brought with him—which in turn produced a handsome fish as long as his forearm. He had already beheaded and gutted it.

“Part of the good news,” Riff offered dryly. “Actually, there’s quite a lot of that. As we said, the top of this place is a large pond or a small lake. More to the point, it’s warm—even steaming in places—so we’ve got a nice place to bathe. Even better, the water precipitates salt there, so we’ve got a source of that as well.”

“And the fish?” Rann inquired.

Bingg looked smug. “Twig spear, and luck. Of course I had to go in after it, which explains me being wet, and then I wound up having to scramble up a muddy bank, which explains the rest.”

“We found another stream not far off,” Avall informed them. “We won’t lack for fresh water.”

“And what else did you fellows learn?” Lykkon inquired, after the fish had been spitted and set to roast above the fire.

“Like you lads,” Avall began, “good news and bad.” And with that, he told them about the long-necked creatures in the lake.

“Don’t think I want to do this,” Avall grumbled a hand and half later when, full of fish and well-watered wine, he wiped his knife on the hem of his shirte and scooted back from the fire pit, around which he and his companions had lunched. It was midday now, and getting remarkably warm—so much so that they’d all shed their tunics and boots, and Myx and Riff had doffed their shirtes as well. Without clan colors to differentiate them, the lot of them looked more like brothers than ever, save for Riff’s fair hair and stockier build.

“What did you do with the fragments?” Avall continued, looking pointedly at Rann.

Rann reached into his pouch and produced a smaller one, made from a scrap of bandage sylk. “I gathered up the obvious bits as soon as I could. When I get time—which should probably be soon—I need to give the rug a thorough going over in case anything got left there that might cause trouble later. What kind of trouble,” he added, “I don’t know. But it strikes me that even small shards of the gem might cause problems if one got in the wrong place.”

And with that, he passed the pouch to Avall.

Avall weighed it in his hand, then scowled and undid the twist of string that was the bag’s only closure. He did not tumble the contents into his hand, however, but set the sylk on a flat stone between his legs and peered down at what he had just revealed.

The gem had been the size of the first joint of his thumb—the size of an eyeball cut in half. Almost a perfect oval, it had
also been red with a bluish cast in certain lights, and its depths had held sparks like frozen flame, somewhat like an opal but more brilliant. The surface had been smooth, like a polished river rock.

Now it had been shattered—yet even the fragments displayed symmetry. Though struck with a jeweler’s hammer almost in the center, the stone had not dispersed into random fragments as glass would do, and certainly not in a way that suggested the impact they had suffered. Rather, it had shattered into a series of smaller ovals as though one had taken the master gem and sliced across its width to produce disks of varying thickness, all of them oval in cross section. There were five major ones, plus three slivers so thin they were almost transparent, one of which had broken.

“The question is: Where do I begin?” Avall mused.

“I’d say start with the smallest that still looks viable,” Lykkon suggested. “The very thin ones might be too thin. The others … we have some evidence that the strength the gems display depends on their size.”

“We also have evidence that some are better at some things, some at others,” Avall gave back. “In any case, I suppose your idea is as good as any. Though with my luck, it probably contains memories of Kylin’s madness now—as well as Barrax’s and Rrath’s.”

“Are you going to blood yourself?” Bingg asked anxiously. “And do you want some of us to … bond with you, just in case?”

Avall shook his head. “Yes, to the former, since so many variables have changed. As for the latter: No. But if anything happens, you know what to do.”

And with that, he took a knife he had borrowed from Lykkon and made a tiny incision in the heel of his left hand. Blood oozed forth, though very little, for Avall was being careful. Nor was he letting anyone know how frightened he was. It did no good—unless one had actually experienced firsthand the madness that dwelt in the gem.

He had. And Zeff had, when he’d tried to force Avall to reveal the gem’s secrets all those days ago. That had been terrible, but at least he’d been able to divert some of his horror to a productive end—if wreaking violence on the body, mind, and soul of another human being was productive. In any case, he’d
thought
even then that the gem might not have been quite so eager to drag him down to death as heretofore. Or maybe it was simply that he had been distracted.

A deep breath, and he selected the smallest viable fragment—it was roughly one quarter the thickness of his little finger—and gingerly picked it up, then dropped it into his other palm and closed his bleeding fist around it.

Reality shifted, as it always did. Time slowed, but not as suddenly as once it would have done. And there was, indeed, the expected eager surge of energy, hard on the heels of which came the expected warning, and the expected awareness of lurking death. That death was reaching for him, too, but it was as though it had lost some of its force.
No!
It was more as though something now lay
between
him and it, like a layer of ice between a skater and deep water. He let his mind touch that layer experimentally. It felt—if that word could properly be used—like Kylin. Or perhaps it sounded like Kylin or looked like him. It was as if a tiny layer of Kylin’s most essential self had been frozen, then shaved off and inserted between. He pushed at it with his mind—and heard on another level entirely, Kylin groan and call out something unintelligible.

That shocked Avall so much he almost withdrew himself from the gem. Instead, he tried to focus on what he was supposed to be doing: seeing if the thing could jump him—them, rather—away from wherever they were and back to the war it was their responsibility to rejoin.

With that in mind, he tried to relax, to center his awareness on two things alone: the lay of the land as he perceived it and the need to return to the war.

And felt nothing unusual whatever.

He tried harder—and achieved no more.

Harder
, trying with all his considerable mental might to picture the camp as he had left it, with the Council Lords gathered in conclave on what must now be noon on the day Zeff’s ultimatum had been supposed to expire.

Nothing.

Nothing
.

Either the gem was not strong enough; he simply did not want to return badly enough; or he was too fearful that he might return and strand his truest friends here. In any case, nothing occurred.

“Give me another,” he demanded, opening his hand but not his eyes, and sensing as much as anything Rann removing one bloody gem and replacing it with the next larger.

As soon as Avall closed his fist around this one, he knew it was different. Oh, it still contained the same “things” and the effects were the same, but the proportions were clearly altered. And it contained less of Kylin’s presence than the previous one had, but more of a new presence he thought might be Rrath.

And so it was with the next larger stone, and the next.

Which only left the largest.

Barrax was waiting in that one—without any protective insulation. Or much warning.

What little remained of Barrax, anyway
. And while death still lurked there with Ixti’s former king, that death was not so all-encompassing. Or maybe it was simply that Avall had now learned what to expect. Or that he, himself, was stronger.

Which was not to say that the invisible combat that ensued was either pleasant or devoid of risk. Far from it. It was only that Avall was able to free himself this time—or
flee
himself. And, for the first time ever, able to break that contact without also breaking contact with the gem.

He was shivering when he opened his eyes, and more when he opened his fist, inverted his hand, and let the fragment fall to the sylk.

“I couldn’t,” he breathed through his shudder. “I didn’t. I can’t—not yet.”

“Barrax?” Rann murmured, his face tense with concern.

Avall nodded, shuddered again, then paused, as he recalled something he hadn’t noted before. “But maybe not as much of him. And below him—or beyond him, or however you want to say it, is—I
think
—still a fair bit of that old familiar power.”

“And the next step?” Bingg asked bravely.

“To try
combining
the fragments,” Avall replied. “But not now. And maybe not tomorrow. Not if I’m going to be able to do anything else useful.”

“And the rest of today?” From Rann.

Avall looked troubled. “I’m—for some reason, that left me more drained than it ought. In fact, much as I hate to suggest it, I think I’d better stay here with Kylin while the rest of you explore mid-level. My advice in that would be to head north along the trails we know and try to maintain a roughly equal distance between the shore and the peak. Proceed until the afternoon’s half-over, bring back anything you find that might be eatable, and try to get back here by dark. I’ll make small forays and try to get through to Kylin.”

“Not with the gems you won’t!” Rann snapped.

“Not unless I have to,” Avall agreed with a yawn. “But he’s still my subject, damaged in my service, and I am—still, by Law—his King.”

“Law,” Rann echoed softly. “I wonder if there
is
any real Law left in Eron at all.”

… the soft, desperate snuffle of thirsty horses, now alarmed …

… the clatter of nervous hooves on dusty stones scoured with steel horseshoes made in an alien land …

… the thud of anxious flanks against unyielding oak …

… the glint of waning sunlight filtered through broken glass to mirror itself in dulling equine eyes …

… the scent of hot tile, hot stone, hot wood, and hot, sweating bodies that could ill afford to render up more moisture …

… and another scent entirely …

… well-fed, reptilian—and free …

… another snuffle …

… another stomp …

And then, like a whip crack in thunder-heavy air, a scream
.

And then another …

Merryn woke to the sound of horses screaming.

Almost, she ignored it. The Eight knew this wasn’t the first time the beasts imprisoned in the adjacent suite of stalls had indulged
themselves in a round of noise. Panic did that—or fear. Or raw animal need—like thirst.

She didn’t blame them, either: penned up like that in expectation of care and feeding that was unlikely to occur unless Merryn herself provided it—and her plight was the same as the horses’, the same as Krynneth’s, with whom she shared what had been built as a tack storage room adjoining a stable, but which had proved as sturdy, and impervious to escape, as any prison cell.

The only difference was that she had known early on that their sole chance of survival depended on husbanding their resources. The horses didn’t. They had drunk all the water their Ixtian masters had given them; there was no more; and now—amidst stifling desert heat—they were dying.

At least they didn’t know that.

At least they continued to live in
now
.

Unlike herself and Krynneth, who had no choice but to lie on the floor (because it was cooler) and try
not
to think about starvation, desperation, and their own mortality.

Merryn therefore ignored the horses—and might have returned to slumber, had Krynneth not chosen that moment to flop over in his sleep and utter a loud and forceful “no!”

It was nightmares again, she assumed—probably about the Ixtian army, which Krynneth chose to call “the burners.” The Eight knew she’d had plenty of bad dreams about them herself during the ten days of captivity by a renegade band of that number that had culminated in their present incarceration. She stared at Krynneth idly. Dirty, smelly, unkempt, and stubbly, he didn’t look like much—like a rangy, dirty scarecrow, if truth were known—but Merryn knew that properly cleaned and dressed, and with his pale blue eyes free of fear, he was one of the handsomest men in Eron.

And one of the tastiest, if they didn’t get out of here soon, and he died before she did.

But she didn’t want to think about that now, and so she
remained as she was: resigned to lying on the flagstone floor, staring at the seam where whitewashed limestone walls a quarter span thick butted against a vaulted roof of that same stone, above which tiles lay athwart oak boards that would have dulled any knife by now, presuming that she’d had one.