The Children of Kings

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  They had long since given up the capability to blast the intruder out of Darkover’s skies. They no longer needed it.

  The heartstone gathered up the minds within it, or so it seemed to Silvana. Its collective sensitivity far exceeded that of any individual, and so did its power. She gave herself, her mind, her laran, completely over to the guidance of something greater than herself.

  The process was not unlike those Silvana had herself used in manufacturing compounds for firefighting or in mining, transporting minerals in extremely small quantities from beneath the surface. She sensed the manipulation of molecular structures, breaking a chemical bond here, detaching an atom from one position and moving it to another there. One aspect was new, and that was taking the energy released from the breaking up of certain compounds and using it to melt some structures and fuse others.

  At times, it felt as if the entire procedure required hours and days, so meticulous was the work. While in a circle, it was very common to lose track of the passage of time. In a Tower, a trained monitor ensured that neither physical harm nor distracting discomfort affected concentration. Even without that safeguard, Silvana had absolute confidence in the heartstone sphere. In all likelihood, the chieri knew her limits better than she herself did.

  In the weapons mechanisms, one connection after another was replaced by a gap, and new bonds were created where they had not existed before. The vibrational pattern of the explosive and radiation-producing materials shifted. Some parts darkened as they went inert. Others became bright, white and yellow instead of denser grays and browns. The motes danced like little flames, flaring before winking out.

  With care, the chieri bypassed the ship’s communications and propulsion equipment, as well as the apparatus that kept the atmosphere breathable.

  Silvana became aware of the taste of adrenaline in the air within the ship, and then a bee-storm of confusion and urgency. The ship’s crew knew something was wrong. Perhaps they’d tried unsuccessfully to discharge their weapons. Someone was shouting orders; she couldn’t understand the words, only wave after wave of frenzied reverberations in the emotional miasma.

  The heartstone sphere wavered, fading with the diminution of the psychic energy feeding it. Here and there, one of the minds winked out, but whether in exhaustion or death, Silvana could not tell. She herself, for all the power of her laran and her training, could not sustain the link for much longer. She was human, her Gift finite. The chieri had greater natural talent, but many were aged, even for their race. The vigor of those remaining in the sphere burned like a flame, hot and brief.

  Is it enough? she wondered as she felt herself drifting toward her separate body.

  Her question went unanswered. She sensed the others straining to hold the unity just a little longer, to complete the last chemical reactions, to sever the remaining crucial circuits. If the weapons could still operate, or if there was a were to repair them, then all their exertions would have been for naught.

  Silvana forced herself to concentrate. She fought to remain in the sphere, alert and active. Over the years, she had grown accustomed to directing her mind effortlessly, but now the exertion tore at her, as if she were being dragged across a field of razor-edged gravel. Instinct urged her to pull back, but she resisted. The connection held, but for how much longer she could not tell.

  Only a little longer, a few moments . . . She told herself that she could accomplish anything, withstand anything, for such a short period of time.

  Searching within herself, she discovered a small reserve of energy. This she poured into the sphere, heedless of the pain. She was a Keeper, and she was Comynara, although she had never claimed it. And Hastur, daughter of kings, although she had never wanted that distinction, either.

  My father did not falter when he faced the wrath of Sharra, when he called upon Aldones, Lord of Light. He never paused to consider the cost. Can I do any less?

  Trembling swept through her, shaking the psychic firmament. They were all near the end of their strength.

  Just a little more . . .

  Dimly she sensed that she could die like this, her mind too drained to return to her physical body. Would she wander the Overworld, endlessly seeking those she loved? Would Regis be waiting for her? She wanted desperately to see him again . . .

  Yet she had chosen to pick up the heartstone, chosen to open her mind to its power. In a sense, it was she and not the chieri who had created the sphere.

  She had no choice but to see it through.

  Enough.

  For a moment, she could not be sure if the thought was hers, formed in fear and hope, or that of another mind.

  Stelli, heart friend . . .

  Lian?

  A pulse of tenderness answered her. You must leave us now or suffer grave injury.

  Can the sphere still function if I break away?

  We have accomplished what is necessary. Some—I do not know the word for these things—remain, but not enough to accomplish anything of significance. Already we sense changes in the ship’s navigational system that indicate preparations to withdraw.

  Relief blanketed her, almost smothering her. Her mind felt thick and numb, unable to form a response.

  Done, she thought. It’s done. The city is safe.

  The rapport faded, slowly at first, like the light from the twilit western sky, before fragmenting into the individual minds of the chieri.

  She felt the confines of her own mind grow solid, a familiar prison. Although she might and undoubtedly would merge into the rapport of a circle again, it would never be the same as what she had just experienced.

  Under her, the bench was hard and smooth. The room had gone chill. She ought to call for someone to stir the fire to life and bring her hot food. In a moment, she would do so.

  For now, however, she would honor what had been given, what had been lost, what had been won, what had been sacrificed.

  What she had become, what she would never be again. What had been taken from her.

  What remained forever.

  36

  Gareth paused at a side entrance to the great ballroom of Comyn Castle. A breath brought him the smells of flowers, the greenery traditional at Midsummer Festival, and pungent balsam incense.

  As he’d ridden through the city, he’d been surrounded by merrymaking, a profusion of decorations and music. It was nearly noontime, and the sun hung clear and bright in a cloudless sky. Already, people were drinking and dancing in the street.

  He’d risen early enough to leave baskets of fruit and flowers for his kinswomen in honor of the Blessed Cassilda. Never had there been so many, besides his mother and his sisters. Since he was not permitted inside the Tower, he’d left gifts for Grandmother Linnea and Aunt Silvana at the door. There had been one more, one made with his own hands, one about which he had not breathed a word: a cup of plaited reeds with a single perfect white rosalys from the town house garden, tied with a garland of silver ribbons.

  Now here he was, dressed in his holiday best, his skin still tanned enough to make him stand out amid the pale faces of the Comyn. He had never felt more out of place or less like he belonged. All his old hopes of making a place for himself in this society, of redeeming himself, had evaporated in the truth of what he was and how much pain he had caused. His dreams of adventure taunted him like ale to a drunkard; he could not think of Special Agent Race Cargill without feeling a mixture of regret and sadness, and so he did not. No such person had ever existed.

  “Gareth?” Danilo Syrtis had come up quietly to stand beside him. A tartan in the colors of Ardais, his adopted Domain, brightened his usual somber attire.

  Gareth squared his shoulders. It was time and past time to go in. Tío Danilo stayed him with a touch.

  “Do not doubt your welcome, lad. We all know what you’ve been through.”

  Gareth suppressed a response, No, you don
’t know half of it. Perhaps they did, Tío Danilo and Grandmother Linnea, and Domna Silvana—he still could not comprehend that she was his father’s sister—who knew him in some ways better than he knew himself, having been inside his mind and having guided his laran when he’d healed Viss, having heard his desperate warning about the attack from space. His family loved him, even if they didn’t understand him.

  For all the reminders of love, his heart still beat with a dull, dispirited ache, as if it belonged to someone else and had been his only on loan. He hadn’t seen Rahelle since their arrival in Thendara, when he’d been whisked away in one direction, and she and her father in another. It was too much to hope he’d have a chance to sneak away to the house Cyrillon had rented. Gareth had no doubt that after his foray into the Dry Towns, he would not easily escape supervision.

  For now, at any rate. But that is about to change.

  Gareth clamped his laran barriers tight. The last thing he wanted was to sense the thoughts of anyone in the hall or for them to read his.

  They went in, Danilo leading. The ballroom blazed with color—the ribbons and flower-graced garlands, the spidersilk gowns of the women, and the finery of the men. The colors of the Domains created a riot of brilliance, enhanced by the tartans of the individual families. Jewels glittered at throats and around wrists; pearls gleamed from their settings in lace or golden earrings.

  To Gareth’s relief, there was a only little flurry when he entered. Domna Marguerida glanced his way, at present occupied in conversation with Hermes and Katherine Aldaran. Grandmother Linnea and Domna Silvana stood in the opposite corner with a group of Tower folk.

  Silvana turned her head to listen to one of the other Keepers, and Gareth noticed she’d pinned his flowers in her hair. Although older than his father, she looked much younger, her hair the same flame-bright hue as a girl’s, her face unlined. She held herself with that almost inhuman stillness he associated with Grandmother Linnea when she was working as a Keeper, and yet a mantle of joy seemed to surround her. He thought he’d never before seen anyone so intensely alive, so thoroughly present. Linnea inclined her head toward Silvana, and their eyes met for an instant. The intensity of that glance was almost overpowering, even from across the room.

  Gareth turned away. The rest of the assembled merrymakers blurred into a sea of finery, of laughter and the sound of the musicians tuning their instruments.

  Ordinarily, Gareth took as much pleasure in dancing as any Darkovan, but now he just wanted this night to be over. The sooner he made his announcement, the sooner he might be able to manage an escape. First, however, he must present himself to Dom Mikhail, who was acting as host of the evening.

  Mikhail was, for once, not at Marguerida’s side but some distance away. He was talking with Domenic, his second son, Rory, and a handful of senior City Guard officers. Gareth took his leave of Danilo and made his way toward them. He bowed in precisely the correct manner of a prince toward his regent and recited the appropriate greetings.

  “We’re all happy you’re here to celebrate this festival with us.” Mikhail responded.

  Touched by sudden warmth for the man who ruled the Domains so ably and who had never taken advantage of his position, Gareth returned Mikhail’s smile.

  “You’ll have to tell us the whole story,” Domenic said without a trace of censure. “We’ve heard only bits and pieces from Cyrillon.”

  “My story’s far less interesting than what’s been happening here in Thendara,” Gareth said. “A Federation-licensed bounty hunter threatens to attack Thendara and then withdraws peacefully? Their quarry—rebels, you say?—then has time to make repairs and escape?” He shook his head. “Whoever accomplished that is the true hero, not me.”

  “Modesty ill becomes an Elhalyn prince!” Rory joked.

  Gareth shrugged. The real heroes were Jeram and Grandmother Linnea, who’d stopped the Star Alliance ship from bombing the city. No one seemed clear on exactly how, not that it mattered.

  “We’re not teasing you, lad,” Mikhail said. “What you’ve done may not furnish material for ballads, but it is no less vital to our future. You have accomplished what no other Comyn has. You have brought us a treaty with a Dry Towns lord. Not since the founding of the Domains have we welcomed a representative of the Great House of Shainsa.”

  A murmur of excitement drew Gareth’s attention to the primary entrance. People surged forward for a closer look, obscuring his view. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, so many were speaking at once, and the musicians had begun playing notes in unison.

  Someone near the door tapped a cymbal, creating a metallic cascade more suited to the Great House of Shainsa than Comyn Castle. Then, by chance, the knot of people between him and the door unraveled and he watched as Merach strode into the room, followed by two flaxen-haired men in the livery of Lord Dayan and a servant carrying a small jewel-crusted casket.

  Gareth had not seen Merach since their party had arrived at the gates of Thendara. Despite Rahelle’s nursing, Gareth had been feverish for much of the return journey. He remembered very little of it until they reached Cyrillon’s compound in Carthon, where Rahelle had argued strenuously and unsuccessfully for him to remain behind.

  Merach carried himself with studied gravity, ignoring the hundred inadvertent offenses that would, in Shainsa, have been cause for a duel to the death. His hair, loose around his shoulders, gleamed like polished gold against the inky blue silk of his shirt cloak. By the way Merach walked, Gareth saw the pride not only of the man himself but of those he represented—his lord, his city. His people.

  Glancing around, Gareth could also see that to most of the assembly, Merach appeared as a savage, enamored of garish dress and boastful speech. They had no notion of the honor and dignity of this man, and they judged him by his lack of laran.

  All this transpired in a moment, a doubled heartbeat and there, following respectfully after Merach, came Cyrillon, also finely dressed but more in the fashion of the Domains. A woman walked at his side, her head high, her flowing robes of gold-shot rose.

  Gareth did not recognize Rahelle at first. He saw the fierce pride of her carriage, the gorgeousness of her dress . . . and then the chains. No, not chains. The belt and bracelets of gold filigree were worth a noble’s ransom. Delicate chains swung freely from the center loop of the belt as she walked, unattached to her wrists.

  I am a woman of the Dry Towns, she proclaimed. And I am as free as any of you.

  The ballroom suddenly seemed too bright. He thought, Freedom is a matter of how we choose our chains. Who is more honest, my love, you who carry yours openly, or I who wear them invisibly?

  As if his thought had whispered in her ear, she turned and looked him full in the face. He was not sure if she smiled.

  Merach halted in the middle of the chamber. Murmurs died as Mikhail came forward and welcomed Merach as the first official ambassador from Shainsa to the Comyn. Merach in turn presented the casket as a token of Lord Dayan’s goodwill and hopes for an amicable and mutually profitable relationship. The audience pressed forward for a look at its contents, but Gareth held back. He did not care about riches, not even exotic Dry Towns metal work and gemstones.

  He wished there were some way to speak to Rahelle. She was standing beside her father, who was talking with Tío Danilo and Domenic. Gareth watched them from a distance while dancers lined up in the center of the room. Mikhail and Marguerida, as hosts of the evening, led the first dance.

  Gareth placed himself in the appropriate place so that the various dignitaries could offer polite greetings. He had no importance to them except as the Heir to Elhalyn, the prince in eternal waiting. His parents tried to draw him into conversation, an attempt at joviality, but he had not the heart for pretense. When he had spoken with everyone that protocol demanded, he escaped before men like Octavien MacEwain, not to mention mothers bent on throwing their marriageable daughte
rs in his path, could corner him.

  He made his way through the crowd to Mikhail and said he had a brief announcement to make. Mikhail gave him a hard look, as if to ask whether Gareth were planning on disgracing himself again, but then said, with some kindliness, “When the musicians take their break.”

  Alone in the midst of the celebrations, Gareth closed his eyes. He could not decide if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders or dropped there.

  A touch, light as butterfly wings, brushed the back of one wrist. He opened his eyes to see Silvana. The physical contact dissolved his laran barriers, bringing them into a rapport. It felt like soaring through a field of stars.

  She waited until the moment of astonishment faded. “You have done well.”

  He shook his head. I have made one mistake after another, endangering the lives of others as well as my own poor existence. After this night, however, my folly will no longer place anyone else at risk.

  A ripple like silvery bells accompanied her next thoughts. Perhaps you are right, and as long as you remain here, beset by the ghosts of your own failures, you will never be able to see how we are all bound together. You are no more to blame for the smugglers or the Star Alliance ship than I am for the World Wreckers or the death of my father. But you had a part in bringing Darkover through that crisis . . . and in reuniting me with my family. With my families. Her gaze flickered to where Linnea was dancing with Hermes Aldaran. For this, if for nothing else, I thank you.

  Gareth did not know what to say. She had given him so much, had guided him when he felt most in need, and now it would be cruel to rebuff her gratitude. He felt a blossom of warmth in his chest, as if her heart had kissed his own. Then she was gone, moving through the crowd as gracefully as a chieri dancing in a forest.