With blood upon her breast . . .”
A wave of laran energy swept across Eduin’s mental barriers. He sensed its power, dark and intoxicating. All he had to do was open himself and let the flood of orgasmic pleasure take him. The schemes of great lords would no longer matter to him, or the bitterness of unfulfilled revenge and blighted dreams. He would walk among the silver trees and hear the song of the chieri, eternal and unchanging.
Necessity held him back. He must stay vigilant, or the opportunity would slip by him. Romilla’s mouth had fallen open and her hands were draped loosely over the arm rests of her chair, fingers twitching. Her attendant was for the moment oblivious of everything else except her own inner bliss.
Eduin gestured to Saravio to stop singing. “Naotalba has spoken to me, has given me a message to deliver to the damisela. She is well pleased with you.”
Saravio bent his head, accepting the praise as if he had just emerged from the Dry Towns and had been offered a cup of spring water. As often happened after Saravio had used his psychic abilities, Eduin sensed the languor seeping through him, weighing his limbs, dulling his awareness. In a short time, Saravio would slip into a lassitude as mind and body recovered from the expenditure of energy.
Eduin reached out with his laran into the sleeping mind of Romilla. Her dreams were more brightly colored than before, and the shadows, while still present, had retreated to a distance. He saw the glances of the young men who had placed baskets of flowers at her feet, had bowed before her at the dance; he felt the heady thrill of sitting beside Julianna at council.
More, show me more . . .
He thrust against the barriers surrounding her memories. Pain flared, the instinctive protection against psychic invasion, but he drew upon his own power to overcome it. He needed more than fragmented dreams and the emotional reactions of a young girl, untried in matters of war and statecraft. If the Isoldir party had spoken the name of Varzil Ridenow, or had been tainted by his influence, Eduin must know.
The scorpion of his father’s command roused. Find ... K-k-kill ...
Tatters of thought and color fell away. Gradually, as if emerging from a ground-hugging mist, Eduin became aware of his surroundings as Romilla had seen them. The memories were hazy, bearing little sense of distance or solidity. He could see and hear, although in a distorted fashion. The room around him was narrow and dark, without outside windows. Cold white radiance diffused from four laran-charged glows, casting blurred shadows on the faces of the people who took their places in a circle. Romilla’s gaze shifted from Queen Julianna to the man opposite her. Eduin could see little else, but he supposed Lord Brynon must be present, as well as General Marzan and the other senior councillors.
The meeting began by fits and starts, as if Romilla could not bring herself to pay proper attention. Her emotions, anxiety and exhilaration predominating, overwhelmed everything else. In moments, Eduin caught snatches of speech, enough to recognize opening formalities. Abruptly, both words and vision came clear.
Dom Ronal made as if to approach Julianna, but a pair of Aillard guards stepped forward. He halted and bowed deeply.
“Your Majesty, gracious Queen, the time has come to put an end to the hostilities between our two kingdoms. From before the time of our fathers, we have distrusted and sought to injure one another. Suspicion and fear have driven us to seek ever more terrible methods of destruction. Instead of increasing the security of our lands, the result has been the opposite.”
“As you have learned to your sorrow,” Julianna commented dryly.
The Isoldir lord inclined his head. “I have no justification for my actions, except to ask in all respect if you would not have done the same, had our situations been reversed.”
“You dare to say such a thing, when it is by the Lady’s own mercy that your castle still stands?” Lord Brynon’s voice came from the side.
Julianna waved him to silence. “Let the man speak. I would hear what has brought him here. I assume,” she now directed her words to the Isoldir lord, “you are come to sue for peace.”
“If that is what I must do to bring an end to the enmity between us, then yes,” Dom Ronal replied. “Only a fool clings to his enemy’s throat when his own house is burning. Lord Brynon speaks the truth; you have been merciful to us, more so than we would have been to you. Yet if our attack had been carried out as we had planned, it is you who would now be on your knees in Isoldir.”
One of the councillors shouted in outrage and a guard moved forward, hand upon sword hilt. Romilla’s vision faded in a wash of emotions, but only for a moment.
“. . . three airships set out from Cedestri Tower that day,” Ronal was saying, “but only one continued upon its course, only one for you to defend against. The other pilots turned back of their own accord because they had become convinced of the folly of laran weapons.”
“Three aircars, carrying that hideous new form of bonewater?” General Marzan said. “We saw two at Cedestri Tower, but did not know they had participated in the attack. Had we known, we would not have left a single stone upright or laranzu able to draw breath. Your Majesty, if even one of them had succeeded, all our own lands and castles would have been laid waste until the time of your children’s children.”
“So,” Lord Brynon said in a voice that only Romilla could hear, “Dom Ronal would have an empty victory, land he could not use and those few souls left alive now sealed to vengeance—aye, they and their sons and their son’s sons.”
“Why, what could they then do to Valeron, except to wish us ill?” Romilla muttered in return.
In her dreaming memory, her father’s features loomed, brows drawn together, mouth tight. “Do not underestimate hatred, my child, or dismiss the consequences of such a terrible injury. Fallen men do not always remain powerless, and injustice has a way of turning back upon itself.”
“Father, how can it be wrong to defend oneself against an unprovoked attack? Would that not put an end to the quarrel?”
Before Lord Brynon could answer, Julianna resumed the questioning. “Have you come all these leagues to tell us that you meant to harm us even more than you did? Why should I not have your head struck from your shoulders at this very instant, rather than leave such an enemy alive to strike again?”
Even through the blurred images of Romilla’s dream-memory, Eduin saw the Isoldir lord’s face pale and his hands tremble.
“Because,” Dom Ronal said in a voice edged with emotion, “I would no longer be your enemy. I would see peace between us and all through these lands.”
Julianna’s eyes narrowed. “The only way that will happen is your immediate surrender.”
Silence, like a velvet hush, enveloped the room. Slowly, as if the movement were deeply painful, Dom Ronal lowered himself to one knee and then the other.
“Then I surrender, not only myself and Isoldir, but our one remaining aircar, for the other was demolished during your retaliation. I ask—I beg you to use it more wisely than I have.”
“What is he playing at?” Lord Brynon said under his breath to Romilla. “This must be some ruse to catch us off our guard, lull us into complacency, and then attack. No one surrenders unconditionally unless the only other choice is destruction.”
Dom Ronal, still on his knees, turned his head to face Lord Brynon. Eduin, watching through Romilla’s eyes, saw the Isoldir ruler’s expression. It was not that of a defeated man, but of one who has gathered all his courage into his two hands. The surrender was not an act of desperation, but of faith.
If only I had been there! Eduin stormed. I might have been able to read his true motives! Instead, he must content himself with Romilla’s patchy memories.
“I would of course prefer an alliance by marriage or exchange of fosterage,” Dom Ronal said, “for such ties often lead to deeper understanding and mutual respect. I am here to do whatever I can to put old resentments to rest. If I must give up my kingdom—” and here his voice faltered, “—and turn over the lands and people
that have been the care of my family since the Ages of Chaos, then I must.”
“What conditions do you put on this surrender?” General Marzan asked.
“None save that Your Majesty will swear to be a good and just queen to my people as well, accept our fealty, and not to demand that we forswear our other oaths.”
Even through Romilla’s eyes, Eduin saw the leap in tension in Julianna’s body. “Exactly what might those other oaths be?”
“Vai domna, we have sworn to abide by the Compact of Honor, as presented to us by Varzil the Good. It is at his urging that I present myself here.”
Varzil! I knew it! Varzil sent him here! Eduin raged inwardly.
Had Varzil discovered their location and did he now seek to extend his power over the court at Valeron? Or was he simply doing what he had always done, meddling in affairs that were no business of his own?
“You ask a great deal, Ronal of Isoldir,” Julianna said.
“Why, when he presents no threat whatsoever?” the General asked. “He has surrendered, and is in no position to demand anything.”
The lady sighed, almost imperceptibly. Eduin would not have noticed, except for Romilla’s own sigh. The girl had enough statecraft to see what the General had yet to realize. To accept Isoldir’s surrender would be tantamount to agreeing to the Compact. If Valeron tried to use either Isoldir’s men or the leronyn of Cedestri Tower in any aggressive enterprise, they might well face rebellion throughout their own lands as well.
General Marzan cursed softly under his breath. “Better the sandal-wearer had stayed home.”
Julianna silenced him with a raised hand. “I accept, but under these conditions. Valeron and Isoldir will make no more war upon one another. You and whatever is left of your armies will swear allegiance to me. In exchange, Valeron will extend its protection to you. Any threat to Isoldir will be defended by Valeron, and all Isoldir soldiers will fight under my command. Isoldir itself may continue to manage its own local affairs, and I will appoint you governor under personal fealty to me. Whatever arrangements you have previously made may continue, so long as they do not nullify your primary oath to me. This shall be sworn by each of us, under truthspell, binding both ourselves and our descendants. Do you agree?”
“Lady, I had not expected such a fair and generous response. Summon your leronis and I will so swear.”
With a sidelong, humorless smile, Julianna gestured to an attendant. “Whether my offer is fair and generous remains to be seen. You will get no better one from me.”
A few minutes later, Callina stepped into the room. Instead of her usual gray gown, she wore a loosely-belted, cowled robe. In it, she looked older, more grim. She halted in the center of the room and drew out her starstone from a silken cord around her neck. Eduin noted that the stone had already been freed from its usual locket, as if she were expecting this summons.
“Cast the truthspell,” Julianna said, “and we will prove who is in earnest and who dares come before us with thoughts of treachery in his heart.”
“In the light of this jewel . . .” Callina began speaking the ritual formula in her light, girlish voice. Even though he heard the words through Romilla’s dreaming memory, Eduin felt a shiver of resonance. He himself had cast this very spell, under which no man could tell aught but the truth, or the light of the gemstone would vanish from his face. But he had also stood in that very light, shielded by the psychic manipulation his father had called the Deslucido Gift.
Callina’s starstone gave off a pale blue light, spreading from one face to the next as it encompassed the entire chamber. It glinted on the unshed tears in Dom Ronal’s eyes and washed the color from the Queen’s cheeks, so that she resembled a marble sculpture, cast General Marzan’s cragged features into the aspect of a giant raptor.
The room hushed, expectant, as Ronal of Isoldir clambered to his feet and began the recitation of his intentions and oath to Julianna. He lifted his face, though at one point his tears spilled over his pallid, blue-washed cheeks, so that everyone could see. There was not the slightest flicker in the truthspell.
As he spoke, an almost palpable ripple of relief spread across the room. Even Julianna softened. Impossible as it seemed, the man had come in earnest.
Ask about Varzil! Eduin urged silently. Then he reminded himself that these events were not actually taking place, they were memories only, seen imperfectly through Romilla’s dreaming mind.
You are such a fool, Julianna, for all your oaths and treaties. If you only knew how easy it is to lie under truthspell, to say one thing while holding another truth in your heart ... The only sure way to end this is to slit the throat of every man who might stand against you.
But she did not know, and he dared not tell her. The secret must die with him.
The dream images tore like fine gauze in a wind as Romilla stirred, restless. Eduin caught fragments of Julianna’s face as she promised in turn to treat Isoldir with honor.
Success was slipping through Eduin’s grasp. Even as the tatters of Romilla’s memory fell away, he saw Julianna turning a gracious eye toward Varzil, the man who had brought about an end to the conflict with Isoldir. Perhaps she might even consider an alliance with Hastur. He, Eduin, would be surrounded by his enemies. Desperately, he wondered if he could convince General Marzan to act on his own, to take a preemptive strike against Varzil in Asturias. Perhaps through the General’s lady wife—no, Marzan would never defy Julianna.
Eduin could not rely on anyone else. Somehow he must find a way to convince the Queen that Varzil was not only dangerous, but treacherous, that he could not be reasoned with but must be destroyed before his insidious poison could spread.
Thrusting himself deep into Romilla’s waking consciousness, Eduin drew on all his trained laran. He wakened the place within his own mind where his father’s voice still whispered its compulsion.
Julianna must know the truth and only Sandoval the Blessed, speaking through his interpreter, can tell her.
I hear you, came the faint trace of Romilla’s thought, I hear and obey.
Then tell the Queen this; that you believe Varzil hides his true purpose behind a veil of lies and appearances. That even now, he stretches out his hand to a terrible laran weapon. Worse by far than clingfire or even bonewater dust. It was for this that he helped to rebuild Cedestri Tower. It is for this he journeys to Asturias, to make alliance between them and King Carolin. Tell her you fear Carolin Hastur plans to strike at Valeron, the very heart of Aillard territory. Tell her that Sandoval the Blessed comes to testify of the potency of Varzil’s new weapon. We saw proof at the riot at Hali Lake. She must hear us so that she can judge for herself!
Yes, she must judge . . .
39
“My lords! My lords!” The page stood on the threshold of Eduin and Saravio’s chamber. He was one of the youngest, not more than six or seven. Exertion flushed his round face. He must have run all the way from the far side of the castle.
“Why, whatever is the matter?” Eduin lowered his laran shields slightly, but could make no sense of the boy’s agitation.
“Her Majesty—she has sent—for you—to come—immediately—”
“And you are to bring us now?” Eduin frowned. He would have preferred to let Saravio sleep, for the periods of recovery were growing longer as each “healing” session seemed to drain more and more energy from the singer.
“We’ll be but a moment,” Eduin said, waving in a reassuring manner. “Wait out here.”
Saravio roused slowly from his near-stupor. Eduin could sense how low his vital energies had dipped. He touched the other man’s mind and found Naotalba’s tattered image wrapped in storm clouds. Spiderweb lightning enveloped her like an aureole. Ashen smoke tinged the psychic atmosphere. Eduin could superimpose some approximation of order upon Saravio’s mind once more, but that would disintegrate just like his last efforts. He feared Saravio was near the point where no one could reach him, and the thought filled Eduin with both sadness an
d anger. For a moment, he contemplated appearing alone before Julianna, rather than risk greater harm to Saravio.
Fortunately, Saravio was able to get to his feet. His eyes focused, although there was no way to tell what he really saw. He made no response when Eduin spoke to him, although at the mention of Naotalba, he put forth a wave of pleasure. His awareness might be impaired, but the mental commands Eduin had placed still held him in their grip.
Stronger than flesh, perhaps stronger than life itself . . .
Eduin paused before opening the door, caught for a moment in a sense of kinship with this poor, unfortunate man. He wondered if, when he himself was at last dead, his father’s voice would remain, whispering its tortured commands to nothingness.
They went down the corridor, following the page. As they passed through the servants’ quarters, Eduin searched mentally for any hint as to what was so urgent. He found nothing more than the ordinary, daily concerns. Perhaps they did not know.
Shortly, he found himself in Queen Julianna’s private presence chamber. General Marzan flanked her, his face deeply furrowed. Marelie sat at Julianna’s other side, coolly enigmatic, and beside her, Romilla, her hands folded on the table before her so tightly that her knuckles shone like marbles, her cheeks like ice. Lord Brynon was not in attendance.
Eduin bowed, schooling his features to reflect the proper deference. As usual, Saravio seemed oblivious of what was expected of him.
The Queen leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. Her eyes gleamed like onyx, unreadable. She drew the moment out, watching Eduin and Saravio like a falcon hovering over a rabbithorn den.
No, Eduin thought. Not a falcon, but a starving wolf circling fresh meat, wary of a trap. He saw the pattern of her thoughts, a dozen tiny pieces at last come together.
Varzil rebuilding Cedestri Tower, where terrible weapons had been created ... Varzil scheming from afar, influencing lesser men to act . . . Varzil hiding behind a mask of goodness and King Carolin’s favor . . . Varzil now at Asturias, ostensibly negotiating peace on behalf of Hastur, but perhaps on some other, far more deadly mission . . .
A Flame in Hali Page 42