Springwar (59 page)

He cut her off with a raised hand. “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

She nodded. “And I’ll be honest with you, Avall. I’m at war with myself over this. Part of me wants it so bad I can taste it, but part of me knows that the best thing for the kingdom is for me not to have it. The sword’s finished; therefore it should be the first to get its gem. You have time and the skill to do that. I—at present—do not. You may be pushing it as is: to do this and complete the helm.”

“It
shouldn’t
take more than a night. Maybe not even that.”

Again Strynn shook her head. “It’s still ultimately my choice. And for this night, I choose Averryn.”

Avall took her hand again. “You’re trusting me with a lot.”

“No, my love,” she whispered back. “I’m trusting you with everything.”

Avall wondered if there’d always been so many steps between his suite and the Citadel’s forges, as he took himself there after a second nap that was far too short to have accomplished anything. Strynn had shared it with him—and Merryn and Kylin: the first time all four of them had partaken of that degree of intimacy. It was a completeness, he’d
realized, for Strynn, who had the company of a bond-mate and a spouse. He and Merryn and Kylin should be so lucky. If only Rann had been there, too, instead of at the front, where the Fateing had placed him. At least Div was there as well, so he’d have someone to look out for him, now that she’d located some of what passed in her life as kin.

But, as Strynn had said, they had important work to finish, though even now it was hard to believe that the fate of the kingdom rested on what they had little choice but to consider magic—and that they were themselves the wielders of that power. It was funny, Avall thought, as he bent his way down yet another level of the tower, how, when one read stories of wizards and magicians, they already had their magic in hand; their spells, their books of potions. He’d never stopped to consider how those potions, spells, and cantrips were contrived. Would that record Lykkon was compiling even now someday be the founding arcana for the magi of some distant time?

If so—why, then, magic was a mix of rank carelessness, ongoing frustration, and blind luck.

Or, as the Priests would say, Fate.

And then he reached the final turning, and strode into the corridor outside the royal forge.

He heard the hammering long before he opened the door. And almost as quickly knew who wielded that most ancient of smithcraft tools, simply by the force and rhythm of the blows. Blows he’d heard since childhood. Blows he’d never stopped hearing—unlike Eellon, who’d been forced to choose Clan over Craft, and rarely got to forge iron anymore.

Tyrill’s blows.

Holding his breath—one never knew what to expect when one encountered the Spider Chief—he pushed through the door.

If she’d moved since the last time he’d seen her here, he had no proof. She sat braced into a high stool patiently applying a hammer to a strip of glowing metal fresh from the forge to her left. Avall frowned. She was supposed to be working on the shield, and the only parts of the shield
left undone, when last he’d seen it, were some of the intricate filigree panels, most of which were purely for decoration. The understructure had been completed long ago. Hadn’t it?

He cleared his throat to announce himself as he approached. Tyrill spared him a half glance, then refused to pay him further heed. He cleared his throat again, as he came within the ritual distance for speech. “Craft-Chief,” he began, “I thought—”

“I thought better,” Tyrill broke in before he could complete his comment. “Eddyn’s design for this thing was magnificent, and followed the King’s specifications to the letter. But the King designed it before he confronted the possibility of taking it to war—and for that, it’s too heavy.”

Avall regarded her warily. “And how do you know the King plans to use it thus?”

“The Clan-Chief told me. He told me everything, in fact. And no, I don’t know what that means, nor do I care to speculate—though I’ve some ideas. More to the point, he told me about your plans for the gems. As functional items, then, the sword is fine—as I’d have expected of Strynn—and the helm will surely be acceptable. But the shield—I don’t have to tell you that gold, bronze, and steel are heavy. If the King would wield this thing, it behooves us to make it as light as possible. Therefore, I’ve started remaking the frame from a lighter alloy, the existence of which I’ve been … saving for some optimum moment which now, alas, seems to have arrived.”

And without further commentary, she assailed the strap-work once more.

Avall didn’t need to squint to see the effort it took her simply to raise her hammer, and the way she set her mouth to a hard grim line to bring it down where she wanted. She managed that, too: Her control was excellent. But at what cost? She was younger than Eellon, but not by much. She couldn’t continue like this indefinitely. Nor, given the elementary nature of the work she was presently about, should she have to. It was work any apprentice could do. Rann could do it, probably, and he wasn’t even a smith. Unless
there was something tricky to this particular alloy, in which case, Avall owed it to himself to master it.

“Craft-Chief,” he heard himself say. “I can’t help but see the effort this is costing you. If you will show me—”

“On my deathbed perhaps, but not before. The making of this metal, and its working, is a secret I will otherwise show but to one person, and that is Eddyn.”

“Who’s Barrax’s prisoner, if he’s still alive,” Avall replied flatly. “I don’t think you can count on him.”

“In the meantime, I’ll do it myself,” Tyrill snapped, raising the hammer again.

But this time she couldn’t disguise the way her wrist and forearm shook. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead that had nothing to do with proximity to the forge. She set it down again. And almost dropped it.

Avall took the wooden handle gently from her fingers and set it aside. “We both know that working when tired rarely makes anything but messes. I’ve heard you say that since—”

“You were about eight years old,” Tyrill snapped. “But you’re right. This time.”

“Go take a nap, Craft-Chief. There are rooms for that purpose near here.”

She scowled at a time-candle. “I’m due to discuss weapon tallies with el anyway. I suppose I could consider that a rest.”

“Do it,” Avall insisted. “But I hope you’re aware of how risky it is for anyone to withhold knowledge right now. We could all be dead tomorrow.”

“You’ve a helm to complete, as I recall,” Tyrill retorted airily, as she started out of the room. Once she’d have made that a grand gesture, an arrogant sweep of movement, which she managed to achieve even when assisted by pages. But now, she moved as haltingly as he’d ever seen. “Do you need help?” he called.

“I’ll manage,” she replied. And did, though once again the effort cost her. Fortunately, a page appeared not long after, navigating the corridor as part of a routine sweep.

Avall watched the girl assist the old woman away and, as
soon as the door had closed behind her, crossed to a certain table and picked up the sword Strynn had, for half a year, been making.

It was finished—though he doubted Strynn was remotely satisfied with the edges. Beyond that, it only required one thing for completion. Insertion of a gem.

That and certain other things he knew yet did not know. Reaching into his tunic, he retrieved his gem and separated it from its clasp and chain. This might be necessary and might not, but he was inclined to err on the side of caution. Better new techniques be tried with the gem’s explicit involvement. A deep breath and he closed his eyes, and squeezed just hard enough for the barb to prick his hand. He held it there, even as the euphoria swept over him. Time slowed. Storing his gem once more, he located the one the King had held in his right hand—since that was the hand that would wield this weapon. It took a moment to insert it—not in the juncture of hilt, blade, and quillons, as Strynn’s original design had specified, but in one of the bulges that spiraled the hilt like rope.

That accomplished, he swung it experimentally, since even that negligible mass could affect balance. He could feel no difference, though Strynn would have final say. Impulsively, he flourished it more vigorously, reveling in how exquisite it felt in his hand, even knowing it had been designed for the King’s stronger wrists. It was a pity to put it down, especially as he could almost see the air parting as it passed, even as the gem showed him the sensual stretch/release of every single muscle he brought into play.

But there were still things to do. Things that had never been done.
Magical
things, perhaps.

The first was to alter the setting Strynn had cast into the grip to accommodate one of those clasps he’d devised that could automatically stab a palm to bring forth the blood the gem evidently craved. After that, things got more complicated, as even thinking about what he was about to assay eased him into uncharted parts of his brain.

Mostly it included the attachment of the thin hollow wires he’d taken to calling bloodwire to the gem’s housing, then running them to points he could sense as much as see
upon the hilt. Places where pressures, inputs, and sensations would register just so.

His hands did the work for him, tucking the hair-fine silver wire into channels he made where there were already indentations, then filling them with molten gold, and shaping the surface so that those channels didn’t show, never mind the wires.

Save at their termini, where he set smaller versions of the trigger barbs. If this worked correctly, whoever wielded the sword—would feed the jewel blood at a certain rate, and receive that power at a certain pace in turn. Maybe.

All he knew was that, early in the process, he’d found himself reaching for certain materials, notably the fabulously expensive bloodwire, and using it a certain way. Reasonably enough, he’d started to analyze his actions, but that only brought on a headache of the fiercest kind. In the end, he was reduced to doing what Merryn had taught him: finding a place where the headache wasn’t, and directing his attention there. And if he worked while he did that, and let his gem involve itself as it would …

Things started happening that he knew were simply … right.

Twice he had to prime his gem with blood, not daring to mingle blood for that purpose with blood required by the sword.

And all the while time, to all intents, stood still.

Suddenly there was nothing left to do. Nothing left to show for half a dozen hands’ work save a pile of metal filings and a few lengths of hollow wire.

And a sword like no other sword had ever been, that lay gleaming on white velvet before him.

As a weapon it probably had one of the keenest edges in history. As more … it had yet to be verified.

But was he qualified to do that? Strynn had made it to suit the subtleties of the King’s hand, but it had been the pattern of the Overworld journey the King had observed in
his
mind that had determined its design. And since it was made for the King, he had no way of knowing how it would react to him. To him wielding it in anger, in any case.

No, much as he wanted to try it out right here, he really needed witnesses—if for no other reason than fear that the thing might turn on him. And the best witness he could think of, of those on hand and not otherwise employed, was Merryn.

It took Avall longer than he liked to find his sister, and at that, he almost missed her. She was sitting guard at Eellon’s door: relieving Bingg, who’d evidently have stayed there until he collapsed entirely—or starved to death. “He’s too young to be useful in the war,” Merryn confided through a yawn. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want a part. And since Veen and Krynneth are taking turns as Guard-Chiefs, no one seems to be attending to the details of who goes where these days.”

“I noticed,” Avall replied wryly. “People seem to be using this as an excuse to do what they want, without regard for process.”

“Nice, isn’t it?” Merryn grinned. “Proof we can function without a ritual to mark every breath.”

In spite of Avall’s haste, she made him sit with her, discussing ordinary things until Bingg returned, clean and fed, and with a pot of cauf as big as he was, just in case.

Then they were back in the forges. Avall noted how eerie the place felt late at night when no one was about. Eerie but not truly empty, for it was as if the vast chamber were haunted by the spirits of everyone who’d wielded a weapon made there, or died by one. He wondered if they were there in protest. What he and his friends were crafting might end war for all time. There’d be no more spirits to join these, then. So perhaps they feared loneliness. Or maybe they thought that with no one else to watch over, they’d finally be free to seek the Overworld. Or perhaps there were no presences at all save the minds of other folk in the keep, linked with Avall through the gem.

Merryn whistled when she saw the completed blade, though she was wise enough not to touch it. “Here, or …?”

Avall wrapped the sword in its velvet shroud. “I was thinking the Royal War Court. It should be empty this time of night.”

Merryn regarded him dubiously, but followed him up the stairs.

A moment later, they strode through a high-arched door, across the enclosing arcade, and entered the courtyard proper.

Typical of such places, it was somewhat austere—until one noted the construction, proportions, and details, whereupon the place became a wonder of subtle design. Stars gleamed down from on high, and only one moon was up, yet the walls and pavement themselves were sufficiently pale to provide enough light to see by, while at the same time imparting a cast of blue to stone and shade alike that made the place seem otherworldly.

The court wasn’t entirely empty, however, nor entirely neat. An assortment of wooden pells had been erected, some bearing replica soldiers, both afoot and on horseback. A group of three stood nearby, backed by a barrier of piled stone whose purpose Avall couldn’t fathom.