Zandru's Forge

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  As Carolin watched, Varzil’s features shifted into those of an older boy, then to a mature man. He was still slender, but held himself with a quiet confidence Carolin had seen in expert swordsmen. Silver glinted in his hair and lines bracketed his eyes and mouth. An expression of compassion touched with sadness lay upon his face. He wore a dark, loosely belted robe, but Carolin could not make out the color, red or brown, as the vision began to fade. Varzil raised one hand in greeting and a gemset ring flashed white.

  The sense of prescience lifted, and Carolin stood with his market basket in hand.

  “Let’s get on with it, Carlo,” Eduin said. He used the familiar nickname, although they didn’t know each other well. Carolin had only been at Arilinn a few months, whereas Eduin had begun his training there four years ago. That had been long enough for Eduin to know his own worth. He had a life in the Towers and would certainly make a skillful matrix mechanic or technician, perhaps even a Keeper if he could accept the discipline.

  Carolin hung back. He had no doubt of what he’d seen. He was no laranzu, but he was of the true Comyn blood. The powers of the mind were every bit as real as what he could lift and handle. And he himself could not go on with the mundane tasks of the morning, as if nothing had happened.

  “Go on,” he said absently. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  “But, Carlo, we’re already late—the best sweet-gourds will be gone—”

  “Not if we get them first!”

  Eduin sauntered off, the kyrri scurrying in his wake. A few minutes later, Carolin strode down the corridor to the Keeper’s chambers. Two of the senior technicians were just about to enter. One was Gavin Elhalyn, second only to Auster in position in the Tower. He was also Carolin’s distant kinsman.

  “I must speak with Auster,” Carolin said. “It’s important.”

  Gavin frowned, clearly torn between his responsibility and his blood relationship to Carolin. He was Comyn and laranzu, but Carolin would someday be King.

  Lerrys moved into the breach. “Whatever it is can wait, lad. Auster himself summoned us.”

  Carolin held back a retort, realizing too late how useless that was. This was, after all, a Tower, where people spoke with their minds as freely as they did with their mouths. He was coming to understand why he had been sent here to Arilinn. It was not just to cultivate his modest laran, but to groom him for the exacting demands of kingship. At home, he had learned to speak with care; here in the Tower, he would learn to guard his very thoughts.

  “It’s all right.” Auster swung the door open. His face looked drained, but not the light in his eyes. “Carlo will only pester us until he has his say. It’s a family trait. The Hasturs have never backed down easily. Come in, all of you, and in a moment I’ll hear the boy out.”

  Auster returned to his usual place, a padded armchair. The two other men took up positions inside the door, as if awaiting orders.

  As long as he’d thought of Auster as the second cousin of his aunt Ramona Castamir, Carolin had no doubts of success. But now, Auster’s formal crimson robes glowed in the reflected firelight, the remains of a small blaze laid in against the autumn night chill. Carolin remembered this was one of the most powerful men on Darkover, and within these walls, his word was absolute.

  There is more than one kind of power, Carolin told himself, just as there is more than one kind of truth.

  A fourth man waited inside the chambers, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Carolin did not recognize him, only the subtle richness of his garb, a padded velvet jacket edged with fur, thick woolen breeches above boots of buttery-soft leather, the fine lace at his cuffs and throat, the chain of gold-and-copper links about his neck. Carolin instantly recognized his air of authority.

  In a blink, the man’s gaze took him in. Something whis-, pered through Carolin’s mind, wordless. The man’s expression did not change, yet Carolin felt the shift in him, could almost catch his thought, So this is Hastur’s cub.

  Carolin, stung by the undercurrent of animosity, took a moment to study the older man’s face. Was this man an enemy? His tutors had always made it a great point to remember both names and appearances. But no, he could not detect even a hint of familiarity.

  In that instant, he picked up a surge of tightly controlled anger.

  How dare they? How dare they question me?

  Neither Auster nor Gavin gave any sign they’d read the man’s thoughts, though the room vibrated with tension.

  “It is just as I told you,” the older man said. “My son came on his own accord, without my knowledge or approval.” And only Aldones knows what trouble will come from this! “Nothing you can say will alter my decision.”

  “You—you are the father of the boy who came to seek admission to the Tower this morning,” Carolin said.

  The man inclined his head and answered politely, “I am Felix Ridenow.”

  “We thank you for the courtesy of your visit,” Auster said. “And we will, of course, consider all the factors involved in this case.”

  “There is nothing to consider, vai tenerézu. My son’s ill-considered adventure is over. He returns home with me as planned. I bid you good day.”

  Gavin and Lerrys escorted Dom Felix from the room with impeccable courtesy and equally unmistakable suspicion.

  What was going on here? With a shiver, Carolin knew.

  No matter how talented this Varzil might be, he is suspect simply because he is a Ridenow! And his own father will not agree to his staying for exactly the same reason. This feud should have been settled long ago!

  Carolin had been brought up on court intrigue, but had always believed the Towers above those petty maneuverings. The unfairness rankled like poison beneath his skin.

  Varzil had been so filled with passion. Even from his perch on the balcony, Carolin had felt it. Varzil had passed the Veil, thus proving his pure Comyn blood, and the kyrri had answered him. They didn’t often do that. And now, for Auster to dismiss his potential, his dedication, to question this dignified man who was his father, all from political motives! It was not just. More than that, it was not honorable.

  Auster shifted, gesturing for Carolin to sit. “You are concerned about the Ridenow boy.”

  Sitting, Carolin nodded. “I know it’s not my place to question your decisions, but it‘s—it’s wrong to send him away.”

  “Wrong?” One eyebrow arched upward, but not in anger.

  Carolin, knowing Auster would pick up the emotion behind his thought, if not the exact meaning, lifted his eyes in a direct gaze. “What I mean is—it isn’t fair to not even give him a chance because of his family.”

  “You, a Hastur, say this?”

  Anger sparked in Carolin. Am I never to forget who I am? Am I to choose my friends by their parentage instead of their character? “I speak of what is right, not necessarily of what is expedient. Is it not better to take a longer perspective on this matter? After all, it is said the only way to truly eliminate an enemy is to turn him into a friend.”

  Auster leaned back in his chair, the slightest transfer of weight. “It is also said that it is better to leave a sleeping banshee alone. In this case, the boy’s own father has forbidden his son to come here, and we dare not take any contrary action.”

  “What about Varzil’s own desires—what about his destiny? Are you, the Keeper of Arilinn Tower, intimidated by a minor Ridenow lord?”

  “Carlo, now it is I who remind you to take the longer view. Going against the father’s expressed wishes could cause incalculable harm to every faction involved. Leave it. Let the hot feelings die down. Practice the discipline of the work. In a few years, the boy will have made his peace with his father’s decision, and no harm will have been done.”

  “A great deal of harm will have been done!” Carolin shook his head. How could Auster and the others riot see it? If Varzil were an ordinary lad, he might well forget his childhood dream, but he was not ordinary. Carolin had sensed the strength of his laran and the passion that
could be so easily turned for good or for ill.

  He is important—to me, to all of Darkover.

  The shift in Auster’s eyes told Carolin he had picked up the thought.

  Some Hasturs have the gift of prescience. Auster spoke mind to mind. It is said that Allart Hastur, who forged the peace between your clan and the Ridenow, could see into the future. There is more at stake here than one undersized boy.

  Yes! Carolin shot back at him. Yes, there is! He took a breath. And I will use all the power of my rank to make sure he gets his chance.

  Auster shook his head again. “I advise you to stay out of it. It is best for everyone to let these things run their natural course.”

  “And allow the grudges of generations long past to dictate everything we do now?” Carolin shot back.

  “You are not a private person, to think only of yourself,” Auster reminded him. “In some things, not even the King of the Hasturs can have his way. The world will go as it wills, and not as you or I—or even this Ridenow boy—will have it.”

  “I understand your meaning plain enough, Auster. I know very well what is at stake here and I have no wish to set the whole countryside aflame in war. But there must be another way!” And I will find it!

  “Consider the consequences. For if you take any action, Carolin Hastur, you will be responsible for whatever comes of it, for good or for ill.”

  “Then that is my choice and my burden.” Carolin lifted his chin. “Is there nothing I can say to convince you?”

  “Oh,” Auster said, a ghost of a smile flitting across his mouth. “You have already done that. If this lad returns to us with his father’s blessing, we will of course welcome him, whether he be Ridenow or not. Rest content with that.”

  Carolin knew when he was dismissed. At least, Auster had given him a germ of hope. If he could not directly change the minds of Auster and Dom Felix, then at least he could seize upon whatever opening chance presented him with. He felt certain there would be one.

  3

  In the Ridenow quarters of Arilinn’s Hidden City, Varzil waited for his father’s return. Each major house had access to private apartments, clean and warm but austere. Despite the banners of green and gold, these were only slightly more luxurious than trail shelters, and maintained under the same conditions of truce.

  Not two hours ago, Dom Felix had been summoned, with a great show of politeness but absolute command, to the Keeper of Arilinn Tower. Then he would learn that Varzil had slipped away from the evening gathering of the Comyn Council, where his presence would have served his family, and stayed out all night without permission or letting anyone know where he was. Dom Felix would never have approved of his plan, so in essence he had done what would surely have been forbidden. Now Varzil had been found out, his act of disobedience made public. If only Arilinn had taken him in—but it had not, and now he would pay doubly, for trying and for failing. The result would not be pleasant.

  Varzil awaited his father’s return with equanimity, for he had always borne the punishments meted out for childhood mischief with patience. No action, whether grand or trivial, was without consequence. At Sweetwater, the family estate, he saw this on a daily basis. A seed planted with care became a vine laden with sweet-gourds in the fall. A hand raised in temper against a half-broken colt gave rise to a sullen, unreliable mount. A cat whose tail was pulled would turn and scratch. A kind word and smile to the cook resulted in a treat at bedtime. A dreamy summer afternoon in the orchards, playing the flute and watching the patterns of clouds, was followed by extra hours with wooden practice swords.

  As he sensed his father’s approach, Varzil prepared himself for the usual litany. He could recite it himself: “When will you get your head out of the clouds and pay attention? I bring you all the way to Arilinn for a most solemn occasion and you go running off on some irresponsible lark! You know how important the Comyn Council is—its influence, its politics. We Ridenow need powerful alliances, whether by treaty or marriage, and it is here they will be forged! You’ve made us a laughing-stock with your reckless prank!”

  Dom Felix threw open the door to the central sitting room. Varzil scrambled to his feet and braced himself. With a rapid glance, he took in his father’s flushed complexion, the dark brows drawn together and bracketed by incised lines. His father’s agitation swept over Varzil in a turbulence of sound and color.

  Dom Felix unclasped his cloak and draped it over the nearest chairs. No servant came forward to put the garment away, for like the Tower itself, only those of pure Comyn blood could enter the Hidden City.

  “You know I don’t approve of what you did, running off to the Tower like that,” Dom Felix began without preamble. Pacing, he pounded one fist into the open palm of his other hand. “But those—nine-fathered sandal-wearers had the effrontery to question me—me!—as if I were a landless nobody! I refused to give them any satisfaction, of course. They can take their suspicions and shove them up Zandru’s icy arse!”

  Dom Felix came to the end of the room and his breath at the same time. He paused, visibly collecting himself, and turned to his son.

  “Ah well, all that no longer matters. We’re well done with them. Come now, we have preparations to make. I mean to be on the road home before first light tomorrow.” Slinging his cloak over one shoulder, he started torward the sleeping chambers.

  Varzil remained where he was. His heart hammered against the cage of his bony chest. Sweat sprang up on his brow. His knees quivered. If he gave in now, he might never have another chance. Even the slim hope he might be able to persuade the Keeper through sheer persistence and endurance was better than nothing.

  “No, Father.”

  Dom Felix paused at the inner doorway. It took him an instant to understand. Dark brows furrowed. “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean—” Varzil rushed on, afraid that if he once faltered in his resolve, his courage would utterly desert him. “—I’m not going home with you. I must stay until they let me in.”

  “Arilinn?” His father paused. “That is a hopeless cause. Even if I had given you my permission, you could not associate with anyone who holds the honor of our family in such contempt. The way they treated me speaks for itself.”

  Varzil took a step backward. “Truly, they should have offered you proper respect, but that is their offense against you alone. For myself, I belong there. If they will not admit me today, then I will sit at their gates until they do.”

  “You’ll have a long wait.”

  Varzil lifted his chin. “Waiting will not change my mind.”

  “There is nothing to change. You are coming home tomorrow.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Whatever were you thinking of, to have any dealings whatsoever with those—those Hali‘imyn? Have they poisoned your mind with their sorcery? I would not have thought it possible in so short a time.”

  “They did nothing to me,” Varzil replied with a touch of temper. He suppressed it and continued, as calmly and reasonably as he could. “Asking for admission there was my own idea. I’m sorry I didn’t discuss it with you first. I know it was wrong to sneak away in the middle of the night and I apologize for the worry I caused you. If I’d seen any other way, I would have much preferred to do this openly, with your blessing. I was afraid you’d disapprove without even listening to me, and that’s exactly what has happened.”

  “Where did you get such ideas? Neither your brother nor your sisters can be a tenth as stubborn as you!” Dom Felix raised his hands in mock exasperation. “Was it a fever of the brain that left you willful as well as puny? Was it something I ate on the night I fathered you? Did the forgefolk leave you in place of a human baby when your nurse wasn’t looking?”

  Varzil almost laughed aloud. “Whatever it was, Father, I am as the gods made me.”

  “And what you are is a laranzu of Arilinn, is that what you mean to say? What a ridiculous notion! Wipe it from your mind. The matter is settled.
There is nothing more to say.”

  “You are right,” Varzil replied, though his belly trembled. “There is nothing more to discuss. I do not expect you to agree with me, only to accept this is what I must do.”

  “Why must?” Dom Felix’s voice roughened. “Who holds a sword to your throat and forces you do this thing? And since when have you earned the right to tell your father what you will and will not do? I assure you, being sealed to the Comyn Council has granted you no such privilege.”

  Fighting the sting of tears, Varzil said, “Father, please. I’ve always tried to be a good son, but I can‘t—I can’t follow your wishes in this. I beg you—try to understand.” He lifted one hand to his heart. “It is in me. I—”

  “This foolish notion will result in nothing but embarrassment for your entire family. If you cannot behave with proper dignity, then at least think of the rest of us. Nothing good will come of this.”

  “I tried—Father, I tried—”

  Varzil’s voice broke as he remembered the nights he’d lain awake, watching the pattern of colored light from Darkover’s four moons slowly shift across the stone walls of his room. He had struggled not to feel, not to hear, not to respond to the surges of inexpressible energy that left him quivering like the strings of a lute. Some mornings he would awaken with blood on his lips where he had bitten them, his hands aching from clenching into fists. Finally, he understood. It was no use. There was nothing he could do to give back his Gift. He could no more escape his laran than he could tear out his own tongue or put out his eyes.

  For a year now, he’d hoped that the training he received from the Ridenow household leronis would be enough. He tried his best to be the son his father wanted, or a close enough counterfeit. It had quickly become obvious this would never work.

  Varzil had lived in two worlds—the ordinary one of daily work as unofficial assistant coridom and unsworn paxman to his older brother, Harald—and the one which became stronger and more vivid every day. He felt as if he were a single droplet in a vast living river, so that each time the Ya-men howled their secret laments, or the scullery maid stirred awake with a nightmare, or a stallion sensed the rising heat in a nearby mare, the hot, raw sensations ripped though him.