Then it came to him that he would not be the only one affected. Cyrillon Sensar had broken no faith, and yet his usefulness as Danilo’s agent would end. What consequences that might have for the trader, Gareth did not know. It was one thing to risk his own tarnished reputation and quite another to sacrifice that of an innocent man.
Think what you will of me, but of me alone.
Gareth shook his head. To avoid even a hint of accidental betrayal, he kept his laran barriers as tight as he could.
Linnea, who had been leaning forward slightly, now sat back in her chair. “You feel very strongly about this. No, I have not read your thoughts. In all the years I have known you, since I held you in my arms when you were a babe, I have never seen you so determined.”
“I have disgraced myself again and failed those who believed in me.”
“Do you think anything you feel or did will shock me? By the time I was your age, my Tower training had shown me more of human folly than most people see in a lifetime. I may be sheltered, but I am not naïve. Besides, I suspect I know a great deal more about your character than you do. You are neither mean-spirited nor cowardly. Rash, certainly, and at times thoughtless, but what young man is not? I ask you again, will you not unburden yourself to me? I promise that whatever it is, I will love you none the less, and I will hold everything you say in strict confidence.”
Gareth blinked. “You will tell no one?”
“Not without your leave.” A smile hovered at the corners of her eyes. “Of course, if you tell me you are contemplating some felonious act—assassination, for example, or a violation of the Compact—then I will do my best to dissuade you. But if it is nothing worse than running away to seek your fortune in the Dry Towns, you have nothing to fear.”
“Actually,” he blurted out, “that’s exactly what it is.”
She sobered. “I think you had better tell me the whole story, then.”
Linnea expressed no surprise as Gareth described what his days were like, the schemes to lure him into marriage or to turn him into a puppet king, and the days of idleness and surveillance. She listened, her head tilted slightly to one side, eyes thoughtful as he stumbled through his confession. She nodded, as if many things now became clear to her. At times, her focus blurred, as if she were hearing another voice and seeing another face before her.
Gareth felt a pang of remorse for having considered concealing the truth from her. As he stumbled through an apology, she smiled and said, “You forget that I have lived the better part of my life married to a public person whose every gesture was scrutinized for hidden meanings. We all need a place within our own minds where our thoughts and feelings, and dreams, too, are entirely our own.”
Gareth had not expected such understanding. He had grown up pelted by admonitions regarding duty and honor. “What else is there for me? I cannot find refuge in a Tower.”
“When I was very young, I never dreamed of anything else.” Linnea shook her head. “You are right. You belong too much to the world, and yet . . . Well, we will fly that hawk when his feathers are grown.”
“That’s—that’s not the reason I tried to send Narsin away.”
She sat very straight in her chair, her hands still. The tendons of her neck stood out, the only hint of her agitation. “Running away to the Dry Towns—you were not exaggerating, then? Have you any idea what those savages would do if they discovered you in their midst?”
“I have thought of that,” Gareth said. “As the heir to Elhalyn, I run a particular risk. I am fully aware that I am no ordinary Darkovan. I will not be careless; I know this is no Midsummer Festival romp. Can you not understand? If I might someday be king, I must become worthy.”
“Your sentiments are admirable. Do not, however, let unrealistic if noble motives get you killed while trying to prove yourself.”
Passion hurled him to his feet. Raking his hair back from his forehead with one hand, he began to pace. “I’ve got to do something! If I don’t find a way out of this cage, I’ll truly become what they all think I am—just another useless Elhalyn. I want to be more than that!” He paused, chest heaving, and dropped back into his chair.
She regarded him, her eyes so filled with light that they seemed to glow from within.
He wanted to throw himself down before her and plead, Let me go! Let me find my life! but he could not, for reasons he did not entirely understand. Pride was not among them.
He sensed, in a moment of rapport, that she had let go before, that she saw not only this present moment but another, long past and infinitely more painful.
“I see that you have your heart set on this quest,” she said, “and there is a great hunger in you. Although it frightens me to say so aloud, I think that if you stay here, some part of that heart will die.”
Gareth could not believe what he had just heard. He had expected a certain degree of sympathy, but not such acceptance. He could not bear the intensity of the moment.
“I am not entirely helpless,” he reminded her, trying to sound hopeful. “I’ve trained in swordplay and unarmed fighting since I was ten. I speak the dialect of the Dry Towns well enough to please my tutor. My hair’s almost the right color to avoid attracting notice. I have my starstone and, thanks to you, some skill in using it.”
The moment of overwhelming emotional intensity lifted. Linnea shifted in her seat, her expression once more practical.
“Use it for what? You are not a powerful enough telepath to send your thoughts over so great a distance. Sometimes, under conditions of great desperation, trained leroni have been able to reach one another’s minds. I believe that Marguerida and Mikhail can do so, but their bond is extraordinary even among Comyn. As a piece of practical advice, if you find yourself in a position where you must try, it would be best to focus on me. I do not say this out of grandmotherly feeling but rather because I have been your Keeper. I am no longer as strong as I once was, but I am familiar with your mental signature. If anyone could recognize an attempted telepathic contact from you, I could. Moreover, here in the Tower, I have access to matrix screens capable of focusing and amplifying even very weak laran.”
Gareth swallowed. “I hope it will not come to that.”
“So do I. Gareth, the Dry Towners are a proud and cruel people. I fear that too many of them would consider it an ornament to their honor to unmask an intruder from the Domains. Should they discover who you really are—”
“I would die rather than give them a royal hostage!”
“You are so sure, then, that you can withstand the devices of men who have made an art out of torture?”
Gareth held his ground. “As well as any man, with the help of the gods. Clearly, the best solution is to not get caught.”
“Your speech may not give you away,” Linnea’s gaze went to the silken pouch at his neck, “but that certainly will. Do you know what will happen if anyone but a Keeper handles your starstone?”
Dry-mouthed, Gareth nodded. It was one of the first lessons when he was given an unkeyed stone for his own. He had been ten, his laran only an occasional stirring, as distant as the storms of puberty, and yet he could still recall the words of warning spoken by Istvana of Neskaya, the Keeper who had given him his starstone.
“Once the matrix crystal has been attuned to your mind,” Istvana had said, “you cannot be separated without the gravest risk to your sanity. Even a casual touch by anyone except a trained Keeper can result in shock or even death. You must treat your starstone as if it were alive, an extension of your laran.”
Gareth could not leave the starstone behind in Thendara, not even in his grandmother’s care. Once, as an experiment, he had tried locking it in a strongbox in his bedroom while he went to some official function. He had hoped that without it, he would be less sensitive to the psychic undercurrents of the assembly. That was when he still occupied the Elhalyn family quarters in the Castle. Bef
ore he had passed beyond the first courtyard, he began to feel dizzy. Each step intensified his unease until, retching and trembling, he’d been forced to turn back. The instant he took the matrix in his hands, his illness lifted. Fortunately, he was not expected to make any speeches, and no one paid him any heed beyond the usual insincere courtesies. He did not think he could have framed two coherent sentences in a row. For the next two days, he did little more than sleep.
He pulled the neckline of his shirt tighter. Perhaps he could carry the stone folded in his belt, where it would be less likely to be discovered.
“Belts and boots of leather make poor hiding places in the Dry Towns,” Linnea pointed out. “The people there produce so little of their own, such goods are highly prized. I have a better idea.”
She left the room and returned a short time later with a box about the length of his forearm and half as tall. Cobwebs dangled from one corner and clung to her sleeves. She sat with the box on her lap and brushed away the gossamer strands.
Gareth had no idea such a thing was in the house, but he had never explored the storage lofts. Broken furniture, discarded keepsakes, and chests of outdated clothing had never interested him.
Linnea caught his expression and smiled. “Yes, there’s quite a collection of detritus up there. I never got around to cleaning out what had been left before us, and I’m afraid we were guilty of contributing our share. Regis always had so many more important things on his mind, and your father never cared.”
After wiping her fingers on her skirt, she grasped the lid of the box. It resisted her for a moment, then opened with a creaking of old, warped wood.
“I don’t know why I kept this, except that it was too ugly to inflict on anyone else.” She drew out an amulet on a chain and handed them to Gareth.
Both were of sturdy construction, although the metal was silver of the poorest quality. The amulet looked as if it had withstood hard usage. It bore a stylized representation of Nebran, the toad deity of the Dry Towns. Gareth agreed with Linnea’s opinion of its ugliness.
“Thank you . . . I think,” he said dubiously.
Linnea’s eyes glinted. “Open it.”
Gareth looked closely and saw that the amulet was in fact a locket. The clasp was well hidden. After several tries, Gareth found the release with his fingertips. The locket fell open. Each half was lined with a layer of something that looked like matted cobwebs.
“Place your starstone inside and close it.”
As Gareth did so, the colors in the room went dull, as if all the light in the world had suddenly dimmed. His tongue felt too large for his mouth and his saliva tasted bitter. He recognized the same sickness that had seized him during that disastrous experiment when he attempted to leave his starstone behind, although much less severe. Unpleasant as these current symptoms were, he could tolerate them. He could even function with a degree of normality and perhaps use his laran to some small degree, unamplified by the starstone.
Linnea opened the door and invited Narsin inside. The old servant had been waiting a short distance away.
“Give the amulet to Narsin,” Linnea said.
Puzzled, Gareth did as she bade him, although in the instant before the locket left his grasp, his nerve almost failed him. Narsin was an honorable man, and there was no question of his love for Gareth, yet he was no laranzu. Gareth held his breath and let the locket drop.
He had expected searing pain, but none came. In fact, he felt nothing at all as Narsin’s fingers closed around the silver. Gareth glanced at Linnea for an explanation. She gestured him to wait, took the amulet back, thanked Narsin, and waited until he left the room.
“I don’t understand,” Gareth said. With trembling fingers, he pried the locket open and restored his starstone to its proper place. A wave of relief passed through him. His thoughts sharpened as the room grew brighter and warmer. His stomach no longer threatened rebellion. The muscles of his belly unclenched so that his next breath was deep and full.
“Is it—” he indicated the Nebran amulet, “—a telepathic damper like the ones in the Crystal Chamber? I did not know the Dry Towners made such devices.” He could not imagine any metalsmith of the Domains creating such a piece.
Linnea shook her head. “I think the effect results from some contaminant in the silver. It’s been here for a long while, from the days of Danvan Hastur, if not before. I discovered it on one of my vain attempts to organize the storage areas. I had thought to ask the Terranan scientists to analyze the metal, but one thing led to another, and I never found the occasion.”
Her expression turned pensive. Then she gathered herself and continued, “Whatever the mechanism, the locket is psychically insulated and should protect you from the worst if it is taken from you. You will still face the problem of separation from your starstone, but at least you will not go into convulsions.”
Gareth slipped the chain around his neck. The amulet pressed against his chest, so unlike the barely noticeable silk of the pouch. He assumed he would grow accustomed to the weight, and the more he wore it, the sooner that would happen.
“For now, we must part. I will speak with Narsin on my way out.” Linnea brushed her fingertips over the back of Gareth’s wrist. For a fleeting moment, he felt her mind touching his, her abiding love for him, her past griefs and present concern.
“I’ll be all right,” he assured her.
“There is nothing certain in this world but next winter’s snows,” she murmured. “Gareth, I would share what you have told me,” this burden, this worry, “with another who loves you.”
“My father, you mean?”
She shook her head. “Not unless . . . No, I meant Danilo Syrtis.”
“Tío Danilo?” He’d stop me from going if he knew.
“Your fears wrong him.”
He saw then the impossible position in which he’d placed her, to either go against his desires by forbidding him to go, or to bear in silence the anxiety of keeping such a secret.
“Tell whoever you must,” he said, unable to keep a trace of resentment out of his tone, “but only after I’m gone.”
“I have given my permission as your Keeper for you to go. Who in the Domains has the right to challenge my decision?”
Shame brought a flare of heat to his cheeks. He bowed his head.
“Adelandeyo, chiyu mio,” she murmured, brushing his forehead with a butterfly kiss. “Walk with the gods.”
5
Gareth awoke before the first intimation of rose-pale light seeped across the eastern sky. After a hasty breakfast, he set about checking his clothing, his baggage, even the undistinguished but serviceable sword that replaced his jewel-hilted blade. After Grandmother Linnea had left him last night, he’d raced up to the storage lofts and found trunk after trunk of old clothing, some of it so worn he could not imagine why it had been kept. Besides the clothing, he had discovered a trail kit and the sword. In the end, he decided against attempting to alter the tint of his hair, for fear that the result might be so unnatural-looking as to draw even more attention to himself. He was rapidly becoming accustomed to the insulating effect of the Nebran amulet.
Mounted on the brown mare and leading the rusty black, Gareth passed the Traders Gate. The sky had been growing lighter by gradual degrees since he had left the town house. Night’s chill clung to the earth like a lingering mist. He drew his cloak more tightly around his shoulders and pulled the hood over his head. To his relief, none of the people streaming in or out of the city took any special notice of him.
He was on his own now. He could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone!
A short distance down the broad road from Thendara, he spotted Cyrillon’s caravan, off to one side. There must have been a dozen wagons and half again as many riders, some of them leading strings of laden pack animals. Cyrillon’s apprentice moved among them, speaking with the drovers and checking har
nesses.
Cyrillon waved a greeting to Gareth. “Garrin, you already know Rakhal, my apprentice. There is Korllen, our cook, and Tomas—” he indicated two men, one with a blond beard, who nodded silently in Gareth’s direction “—and Alric there, with the waterskins.” Alric, a shaggy, sun-browned boy, grinned shyly.
The apprentice made a thorough inspection of both the brown mare and the packhorse, paying particular attention to their feet and making sure the saddle pads had no folds or wrinkles and were thick enough to cushion their withers.
“Your gear is well balanced, but your stirrups are too short,” Rakhal said, after adjusting the pack animal’s breast strap. As he looked up, the sun fell full on his face. His cheeks were soft, innocent of any beard, and his eyes were the clear blue of an unkeyed starstone, except for a ring of gold.
“I think I know the length of my own legs.” Gareth had been riding since he could remember and had been trained by the best instructors at Elhalyn Castle.
“For city riding, they are all right, but on the trail your knees will suffer.” Rakhal turned to shout at Tomas, “No, not that way! The poor beast’s spine will be too sore for him to carry a feather cushion after the first day!”
Gareth watched as the older man hurried to obey with the same alacrity as if the orders came from Cyrillon himself. Staring at the stirrup leathers, he admitted to himself that his resistance to changing the length came from his own inexperience in such stableman’s tasks. His saddles had always been adjusted by someone else, not to mention cleaned and mended. Still, he would bring attention to himself by acting like a spoiled aristocrat. He swung down and fumbled with the leathers as Rakhal had suggested.
“On the road, everyone!” Cyrillon called when Gareth had remounted. “Let’s waste no more daylight!”
Grabbing a handful of coarse, close-clipped mane, Rakhal swung up on a speckled roan. “Garrin, come with me. You’re to ride in front.”
The caravan got underway. Cyrillon drove the lead wagon, with the boy Alric sitting beside him. It did not take Gareth long to realize that the best position in the caravan was as far forward as possible. The animals churned up a surprising amount of dust. The drovers covered their mouths and noses with long scarves. One offered Gareth a length of worn, blue-printed cotton and indicated with hand gestures how to wrap it. Gareth did not trust the brown mare’s temper enough to drop the reins, so he tried to do it one-handed. Unfamiliar with handling long strips of cloth, he flopped the scarf this way and that. When he thought he’d finally gotten it arranged correctly, it slipped down over his forehead. Not only could he not see, he could not breathe, for the folded cloth ended up snugged over his nostrils. He jerked it loose. By this time, he was the object of attention not only of the drover who’d gifted him with the scarf, but of everyone not driving a wagon, Rakhal among them.
The Children of Kings Page 5