Springwar (20 page)

Eellon snorted, but Lykkon seemed to have shaken off some of his malaise. He prodded his brother. “Lord Argen,” he intoned formally. “Perhaps Bingg could take word to His Majesty. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else equipped to do that right now, and if Avall’s tally of events is even halfway accurate, Eddyn could be here literally any moment. Waiting a hand could make a difference.”

Eellon nodded wearily. “Can you remember all that, boy? Can you give a clear accounting?”

“I’m Argen-a,” Bingg replied stiffly. “Of course I can.”

Avall couldn’t suppress a smirk as he exchanged glances with Lykkon and Eellon. Eellon was already slipping off his Clan-Chief’s signet ring. “Use this as security,” he said. “They won’t let you in to see the King without it. Don’t let anything stop you, either. If the guards give you grief, remind them of the connection between Argen and Ferr.”

Bingg was already half out the door, pausing only to snare a cloak from Lykkon’s stash. “I’ll report when I return.”

“See that you do.” Eellon shifted his gaze to Lykkon. “Lad, I hate to do this to you, but Avall can’t be moved and I don’t have the energy to get back to my quarters, so I’m going to have to claim the spare bed. Either you two snuggle up there, or you find a place by the fire. I’m sorry, but right now …”

A yawn ambushed him. Then another.

Lykkon yawned as well. Then Avall.

By unspoken consent, each moved to the place Eellon had assigned. And when Bingg returned a hand later, it was to find all three of them snoring.

“Mission accomplished,” he told Eellon, once he got the Clan-Chief awake. And then he curled up by the fire and slept too.

M
erryn had forgotten what clear air was.

Then again, she’d forgotten many things.

Like time. But it was hard to tell time when the gloom that surrounded her was always the same: thick tent walls lit with candles in the corners, just enough to see by—until they’d put a mask across her eyes, so that even that stimulus was denied her. Day … night … had long since ceased to matter. They fed her erratically and let her drink, but that was all.

But since the first day, the air had never been free of imphor smoke. They’d surely burned a tree by now, but whoever was supervising this must know his or her business, because there was a fine line between building a resistance to the stuff, and succumbing to it. Or between either of those and madness from overdose.

She must have
breathed
a tree by now, too. Still, she was glad that she could think at all, even if those thoughts were shrouded deep in that part of her brain that had little to do with her imprisoned body.

Her
body …

Her
thoughts …

Her
memories …

Her
self …

She dragged herself up from the last to the first, trying
to breathe as little as possible as she once again tested her restraints. A slight tug at each limb in turn, focusing on the degree of resistance, hoping that she’d be rewarded with some change that might be the first slow step toward escape.

She had to be careful, though. She was guarded. Not in the imphor-filled room, granted, save once a finger when someone poked a head in to check on her. But she had no doubt the tent was ringed on all four sides by others, full of soldiers.

The questions—there’d been none for a while, which puzzled her. And she seemed finally to have become numb to their suggestions—the ever-more-graphic and disturbing hallucinations they fed her.

It wouldn’t do, she supposed, for them to return the King of Eron’s cousin less than intact in mind or body. Which might be all that was saving her.

Except, she realized, there was a new presence in the tent. She hadn’t heard the sound of canvas moving, either, and people who moved silently worried her. Or maybe this figure wasn’t moving at all.

In any event, it scarcely mattered. Whoever it was wouldn’t stay long. The imphor fumes would prevent him.

She wished she could
see
, dammit. One thing she did note, however, was a scent that had entered with him: smell of the desert that reached her nostrils even through the fumes. Not the odor she’d grown accustomed to.

She focused her hearing—tried to. Whoever it was sat down, close by her shoulders. Something tickled her nostrils. She twisted her head aside, tried not to sneeze, but a hand grasped her jaw firmly, and she hadn’t strength—or will—to fight, as some kind of hollow reed or stem or pipe was set against each naris in turn. She tried to hold her breath as the most pungent imphor reek she’d ever experienced roiled in—but in the end, she failed.

Reality spun away. Merryn floated. Drifted. Experienced every sensation available to her at once. She discovered that she had nerves in her nostrils that could actually
see
the spirals of the imphor smoke as she inhaled. Why, they could even count the individual grains as they passed, and revel in their shapes and subtle colors.

And that was only the smoke. There was the rug beneath her skin, whose vivid hues she could actually feel fading. And there was a whole spectrum in the shades of reddish gray that was all she could see through the mask. Her saliva tasted like wine, and she could taste everything she’d eaten since coming here as shadow tastes upon her tongue.

Wind sighed like the finest music, while the rustle of the tent flap was like timpani and thunder. And then a voice. Soft and soothing, but with an air of absolute command. Each word took an age to enunciate, and each sound and syllable was an epic poem to be savored for itself alone.

“Your name is …?”

She gloried in the elegance of the question. Found the terminal pause exquisite. Appreciated the variations in stress and tone as though they were secrets of ages revealed.

“Merryn,” she said eventually. The movement of her tongue, jaw, and lips was like perfect combat and perfect sex combined: everything moving with absolute precision toward the goal. And the sensation in her throat as her voice box vibrated—Words could not describe it.

“Merryn,” that voice echoed, soothing as waves on a shore.

“Merryn,” she repeated, just to feel that sensation once more. “Merryn san Argen-a.”

“Argen-a,” that voice murmured. “They rule …?”

Again that subtly made a question. Like dessert on the feast that was the sentence. She couldn’t help but answer, so much joy was there in speaking.

“The working of precious metals.”

“Ah!” (Like a sighing of wind in spring foliage.)

“Ah,”—because she’d grown so fond of the sound of speech.

(Do not answer! another part demanded. They have won you—they will ask what you dare not answer. But you
will
answer, and that will destroy you.)

But that inner voice was like a rusty hinge in a hallway of well-oiled doors. She ignored it, eager for other sounds, other questions.

“But the King is Argen-el, which rules …?”

“Tools and machines.”

(No secret in that, she advised her conscience. Everyone in Ixti had access to that information.)

“So you are kin to the King?”

“Aye.”

“And why did you leave Eron?”

“I was pursuing Krax.”

“Kraxxi?”

“Perhaps. I sometimes thought that’s who he might be,” she continued dreamily.

“For what purpose?”

“Because I love him.”

“You do?” The voice sounded startled. Merryn savored that variation.

“Aye.”

“Was that the only reason?”

“Because I hate him.”

“Is that all? Surely there is more.”

“He left without reason. I had to know what that reason was.”

“Did you find out?”

“Only in my imaginings.”

“Ah, and what
did
you imagine?”

“That he came south to tell his father about the gem.”

“What gem?”

“The gem my brother found. The gem that lets one speak mind to mind across great distance.”

Breath hissed, like rain across stone-paved streets in a storm.

“Tell me of this gem,” that voice purred, no longer quite so pleasant. “Reach into your memory and tell me everything you recall. From the beginning.”

Merryn didn’t want to. But then that reed was at her nostrils again, and she was breathing in more imphor, and so she did.

It was a long time before she realized she was no longer speaking. A long time in which to ponder silence.

Then that voice again. Like balm on her ears. Soft and soothing as rest.

“And you say you and the Warden of War-Hold left in secret?”

“Aye.”

“How was this effected?”

“Through a passage that exits in a cliff a shot or so from the hold.”

“And who knows of this passage?”

“I don’t know. Those of us who were with the Warden. Three of whom were from this land.”

“Ah!”

Silence, for a while, and then that silence changed, as Merryn’s visitor rose to leave. She heard the swish of robes and smelled again the scent of deserts.

He paused at the entrance, however, and spoke one last time. “You have done well, little Merryn. And in reward for that, I will let you live. And of course soon enough you will remember everything you have told me. And that will be the best torture of all.”

And he was gone.

Merryn almost wept at that departure. At the absence of cherished sensation. But gradually she became aware of another voice demanding her attention. One that dwelt deep inside her, and that voice that would neither be denied or silenced was yelling louder and louder, “You are a traitor and a weakling and a fool!”

Sleep claimed her, then, but not freedom. Even her dreams consisted of everyone she knew surrounding her in a circle chanting, “Traitor! Weakling! Fool!”

The man thrust the last flap of tent canvas aside and stood blinking in the morning glare. He inhaled deeply. Once. Twice. A third time—to dilute the fumes. He’d have to be careful for a while. The trouble with imphor was that it was impartial as to whom it affected. Fortunately, those exposed the least amount of time usually had the upper hand. Or those who had conditioning.

He straightened his long tan desert robe, and shoved his mouth-mask higher to obscure his face, then felt reflexively
for the serviceable sword that hung at his hip, and for his geen-claw dagger. A soldier, most would’ve seen: one of many on an errand from Lord Lynnz to one of his prisoners.

He chuckled at that, and rubbed the stump of a missing thumb joint.

Even Lynnz didn’t know everything.

And chuckled again, at what he’d just learned where others, apparently, had not.

Chuckled
now
, perhaps. But soon enough would come some very serious thinking indeed.

In the meantime, he had another tent to visit.

There was no part of Kraxxi that didn’t hurt.

Some parts were sunburned, from where they’d left him naked in the sunlight for hands at a time, in spite of the too-chill wind that had made him shiver as he burned. And some of those parts were already blistered or peeling.

They’d exposed both sides of him, too, so that the sand on which he lay abraded tortured skin whenever he moved.

And that wasn’t counting the scorpions.

They danced about him constantly: attracted by the flakes of skin scaling off the worst of his burns, which they apparently considered a delicacy. Never mind that here and there his wounds leaked pus or even blood, which attracted the creatures in droves.

As for stings, in spite of his efforts, he’d garnered a few. One to the side of his neck. One between his fingers where an attempt at flipping one of the creatures away had failed. Two in his groin he was glad he couldn’t see.

And true to his situation, his captors had ignored those wounds until they were almost infected, at which point someone had slapped a minimum of salve atop them—a salve almost certainly chosen for its ability to burn.

The only concession to comfort he’d been granted was a mask across his eyes during the worst part of the day, a single slice of dry bread every morning, and a cup of water every three hands.

And a minimum of sleep he could barely tell from unconsciousness.

But he’d told them nothing, of which fact he was very proud.

And in those moments when there was someone about to question him, he still managed to repeat only that one phrase: “I will speak only to my father.”

And here came another: opening the flap and striding forward (probably in thigh-high scorpion-proof boots) to stand glowering down at him. Kraxxi chose to relish the shade and ignore the rest. By the scent, this seemed to be a common soldier, not Lord Lynnz. Someone come to bring him a drink, perhaps. He dared lick his lips. Dared, because more than once, he’d felt his tongue brush a questing scorpion.

But no drink seemed to be forthcoming, though his visitor hadn’t moved.

“I will speak only to my father,” he began weakly.