Zandru's Forge

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  And yet ... even without Varzil’s interference, Carolin might not have died back in the Arilinn orchard. Something had caused Eduin to falter at the last instant, had held him frozen as he watched Carolin—Carlo who had befriended him, accepted him, not caring about status—tumble to the ground. By the time Eduin forced himself into action, Varzil was already there, lifting the branch. Under Varzil’s vigilant attention, there had been no chance to finish the job. So Eduin had waited ... and watched ... and sometimes on a night like this, with music and fine food, warm fires and Dyannis with her radiant eyes, he almost forgot.

  But he must never forget. He must always remember why he was here, what he had worked so hard to achieve, how he alone carried the hopes of restoring his family’s honor. The old king would soon pass away, and it was Carolin he must deal with. He had not been able to get close enough to either Rakhal or Lyondri to arrange a believable “accident,” but that was of lesser importance. As for the second child of Queen Taniquel, he had not been able to discover any trace of such a person. He or she must have perished in adolescence like the young Prince Julian, or else disappeared into ignominy.

  Meanwhile, time was running out. Fate and Varzil had foiled his earlier attempts on Carolin. Soon Eduin must return to Arilinn and only Zandru knew when he’d get another chance.

  Out on the floor, Carolin stood talking with Varzil, leading him away. Varzil’s shoulder sagged minutely.

  “He’ll be all right,” a feminine voice beside him said. Jandria looked up at him with that mixture of friendliness and distance which he found so disconcerting. So might a sister treat him, if he’d had one.

  “Varzil? Why does he object to my dancing with Dyannis?”

  “Oh?” One dark eyebrow lifted minutely. “I think rather he objects to her dancing with you. But brothers are like that, as are cousins, as I have had an earful on more than one occasion from my own. Why do men always presume they know better how to manage our lives than we ourselves do?” She smiled, a little ruefully, he thought, and then brightened. “Shall we dance together to console ourselves of the folly of interfering kinsmen? Or would you rather go mope because Varzil has not the sense to keep quiet when he is too ill to behave properly?”

  So Eduin danced with Jandria not once but three times, and by then, the younger men had gotten down their swords for the wilder dances. At this point, Jandria pleaded fatigue and a lack of interest, but Eduin rather thought that, for all her acerbic words, she preferred not to watch her cousin make a spectacle of himself. Orain was already three-quarters drunk, as was Rakhal.

  Carolin was nowhere to be seen, nor had Varzil reappeared. The thought of any more to drink sent Eduin’s stomach into an icy clench. His borrowed clothing, the suit of bronze satin he’d been so delighted with, pinched. He left Jandria with the other ladies, who would arrange a suitable escort back to her chambers, and headed upstairs for his own.

  Eduin swung open the door of the outer room. A fire had been lit some time ago, as evidenced by the glowing coals. He stood before the fire, letting it soothe away the chill from the corridor outside and the coiled tension in his shoulders. After all his years at Arilinn, all the months of maneuvering to get close to Carolin Hastur, close enough to do his work without suspicion, he should be inured to pretense. But sometimes the weight of his secrets was almost too much to bear. They haunted his dreams, those formless poisoned shadows. If only he could go home, where he did not need to dissemble every moment—but then he would have to face his father and admit he had failed—

  He was not alone in the room.

  She had been sitting motionless in the shadows. He had not even heard the whisper of her breath or the rustle of her skirts. Now her mind reached out to his in that silken touch which was like no other—

  Dyannis!

  Without thought, he turned, crossed the room and knelt before her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lay his head on her lap, feel her soft fingers twine through his hair. He did not know whether he heard her murmur aloud, or only felt it in his blood.

  “Caryo. ” My dearest, my heart. Something broke open inside him, and he did not know whether to weep or shout.

  They sat like that for what seemed an eternity, he on his knees, she cradling his head in her lap, stroking his hair, whispering words he had never imagined any woman would ever say to him. The logs on the fire shifted, embers crushing with a soft hush.

  He raised his face to hers. The fire had dwindled, so that he saw her as a patterning of shadows. She lifted one hand to the table beside her, glanced in that direction. Light flared as the wick of the candle there burst into flame.

  So strong a leronis already, he thought.

  She smiled.

  My brother has forbidden me to dance with you. Her thoughts caressed his like tendrils of braided satin, smooth and cool and rich with patterns he longed to explore. And if he had not done so, I might not have realized...

  He held his breath, hardly daring to let his own hopes take shape.

  ... that what began as a pleasantry became much more. She shook her head, so that the tiny white bells in her hair chimed softly, I never meant—I never thought it could happen —not so soon—

  “Hush, my love,” he said aloud. He rose to embrace her properly. Her arms went around his neck, her lips searching for his. Her mind opened to him like rosalys blossoms in the morning sun, each petal un furling its intimate perfume. Her lips were soft, faintly sweet with wine. Her fingertips caressed the base of his neck. He slipped one hand under the coil of her hair, amazed at the warmth of her skin. Like any wellbred, modest woman, she had kept the nape of her neck covered, for only a lover to see. He felt as if he had just been granted the most sacred of privileges.

  The dance of her hands over his skin, the welcoming response of her kiss, the intimacy of touching her neck, all set up a current of excitement, a sweet thrumming through his veins. She was silken heat that set him ablaze. Dimly, he realized that, linked in rapport as they were, their minds and bodies open to each other, his own growing arousal fueled her own. The thought excited him beyond imagining.

  He felt himself drowning in the heady sensation of desire and rising pleasure. One of his last coherent thoughts that evening was that he now understood why he had so few liaisons with women before, why they had been so unsatisfying, and that there would never be any woman for him but Dyannis....

  18

  The weather turned bitterly cold on the morning Maura and Dyannis returned to Hali Tower. Liriel Hastur had gone on ahead, staying only to conclude her negotiations with the King regarding the funding of Tramontana. In the courtyard of Hastur Castle, the ladies’ palfreys and the mounts of their armed escort stamped and blew mist from their nostrils.

  Varzil had come down to see them off, along with Carolin and Jandria, who rarely seemed to let weather interfere with anything she wanted to do. The ice-edged wind, damp with the promise of more snow, cut through the layers of Varzil’s cloak. He shivered, then silently cursed himself for his lingering weakness. His sensitivity to temperature, his lack of stamina, and his fragile sleep, punctuated by nightmares, demonstrated that he had not fully recovered from his ordeal in the Lake. He had determined that his best course was to push himself physically a little farther every day. Jandria fussed over him, saying that he was courting a relapse, and he’d refused to argue with her, only continued as he pleased in a less noticeable way.

  Dyannis sat on her horse, wrapped in her fur-lined cloak, the reins loose in her mittened hands, her hood drawn snugly around her head. Though she nodded politely to Carolin, her gaze shifted to the castle beyond him. Eduin waited there, perhaps hidden behind a window, but as clear in her mind as the dawning sun as they said their private farewells.

  Varzil had known the night she and Eduin became lovers, and he still blamed himself. Perhaps it would have eased his mind to discuss it with Carolin, but he could not bring himself to say the words aloud. He had acted arrogantly, and she had thrown h
erself into Eduin’s arms. Knowing Dyannis, who was every bit as stubborn and willful as he was, with a temper to match her fiery hair, he should have expected no less.

  It was too late to do anything about it now. His only avenue was to let the thing run its course. The enforced physical separation, she returning to Hali and Eduin to Arilinn, plus the demands of their work, would soon dissipate their ardor.

  If not, the matter was in the hands of the gods. He scarcely knew what he ought to do in his own life, or he would never have wandered down into the lake or laid his hand on the fallen rock column, so obviously charged with laran. Who was he, then, to tell Dyannis or anyone else how to lead hers?

  Carolin had finished speaking with Dyannis and now stood at Maura’s side. Smiling, she reached down to take one of his hands in her own.

  “It’s good to have you back at Hali ...” Her words drifted on, to be answered by Carolin’s deeper voice.

  Varzil stepped closer to his sister’s horse. He searched for the words which would ease the friction between them. Briefly, he’d considered apologizing, but that would have been a lie, and he owed her the truth. He might have been crude and thoughtless in his manner, but he did not believe he had been wrong in his opinion.

  To his surprise, she turned to him and smiled. “Dear brother, the way you worry over me, it is a good thing you are not my Keeper!”

  “And it is just as well,” he found himself answering easily, “that you are not mine.”

  “A woman Keeper? Even if such a thing were possible, if there were women with the strength of mind to do it, I assure you it will not ever happen at Hali.”

  Nor, he suspected, at Arilinn. Yet it was not impossible. Liriel Hastur, for example, if she were a man, might well have been chosen for the rigorous training.

  A gust of wind, so cold it burned the skin, reminded him that this was hardly the time or place for such philosophical discussions. He stepped back.

  “I wish you well, chiya, in every path your life leads you. May the blessings of Aldones follow you.”

  “Adelandeyo, my brother. May the grace of the gods lighten your way as well.”

  With a scuffle of hooves on the packed snow, the party was off. Varzil would have watched them go, but Carolin threw an arm around his shoulders.

  “It will not shorten their journey,” Carolin said, “if we insist upon standing out here, getting half frozen.”

  After the shivery dampness of the morning air, the castle felt warm and close. Carolin had little more time to visit that morning. With the conclusion of the holiday merriment, he was taking on more official responsibilities every day. But they stole a few minutes to talk in their usual spot, the sitting room of Carolin’s chambers. Rakhal and Eduin were already there, bent over a game of castles. From the look of the board, they had not gone more than a move or two into the game.

  “In between all this, I must meet with the stone masons from the city,” Carolin said, throwing himself into his favorite chair. “When the weather’s better, I may go out to Tramontana myself to take a look.”

  “Tramontana?” Eduin asked.

  “Yes, we’re definitely going to rebuild the Tower there,” Rakhal said, “one which will be unquestionably loyal to Hastur.”

  “It’s hardly the same thing as rebuilding,” Eduin said, “even if the Tower has the same name.”

  Varzil silently agreed. Felix Hastur clearly intended the new Tower as a tool in warfare. In the days of the late King Rafael II, the Hastur Council had been legendary as a voice of moderation. This project sounded—felt—like Rakhal had something very different in mind: restraint for everyone else except the Hasturs. But, Varzil thought as he glanced at Rakhal’s face and caught the glint of alertness in his eyes, it would not be wise to say so in this company.

  “It’s not the same.” Eduin sat back in his chair, brows drawn together.

  “You said that twice,” Rakhal commented dryly. “It’s putting up a new Tower in place of an old, ruined one. How different can that be?”

  “It’s quite different,” Varzil said, and noticed Eduin’s flicker of surprise, “depending on whether you see it from the point of view of the Tower or the castle. We don’t have enough Towers to do all the work that’s needed. There’s no question of that. But to build a Tower with the sole purpose of serving the Lord who commands it—”

  “And what else should a Tower do? Legitimately, that is?” Rakhal interrupted. His quickness reminded Varzil of a cat pouncing upon a field mouse.

  “Rule itself,” Eduin said. Rakhal’s jaw dropped. Both Carolin and Varzil stared at him. “Don’t you see? Ordinary men, whether they be lordlings or the greatest of kings, play with the laran gifts of the Towers as if they were trifles. Toys! They have no experience—no conception—of the forces we command.. The magnitude, the scope.” He turned to Varzil. “Have you tried to explain something as simple as the Overworld to one of them? Or energon rings or matrix lattices or any of the most basic things we use every day?”

  Varzil heard the passion and the scorn behind Eduin’s words. Without intending it, he dropped into rapport with Eduin.

  All this death and destruction has come about because those who wield the power are not those who create it! The great lords sit in their castles and issue orders for newer and ever more powerful weapons, while we of the Towers, we who are the source of that power, are reduced to pawns!

  The bitterness of Eduin’s thoughts shivered through Varzil’s mind. He remembered what he had seen in the lake—the two Towers, Hali and Aldaran, with no focus but each other’s destruction, and no limits on what they would do to achieve it. By chance or warning, the devastation had been channeled into the lake. He dared not think what might have happened if the confrontation had progressed, with each weapon fully deployed. Darkover might not fare so well the next time.

  Carefully he gathered his words. The Towers must withdraw from armed conflict, be exempt—

  No! Eduin shot back. The Towers must rule! We alone possess the power. We alone should decide how it is to be used!

  What was he talking about? The Comyn with their telepathic gifts were already the ruling caste on Darkover. But only a few were capable, let alone disciplined enough, to perform the demanding work of the Towers. With a renewed shudder, Varzil realized that Eduin was talking about replacing the Comyn with all their traditions of leadership, of Council, of compromise, with a much smaller ruling body—the Keepers of the Towers.

  “I cannot agree with you,” he said aloud. “The fewer men who hold the reins of power, the greater the chance for tyranny. For all the faults of the Hundred Kingdoms, there are limits to the harm done by a single bad king.”

  “And limits to the good which could be accomplished by a single great one,” Rakhal said. “I foresee a day when whoever sits in the throne of the Hasturs will hold sway over half the world. This interminable squabbling over every stray cow or unhappy bridegroom will come to an end.”

  “I share your vision, Cousin,” Carolin said with quiet authority. “But I see in it a cause for caution. Perhaps the answer is not to rely solely upon the goodness of any one man, whether he be king or Keeper. It is often our ideals and the honor upon which they are based, not the whims of our nature, which leads us to wise decisions.”

  “Ideals! Honor!” Eduin said. “Look where they have gotten us!”

  Varzil thought of the King who currently warmed the Hastur throne, old beyond the years of ordinary men, because custom and law gave him the right.

  “Then we need new ones,” Carolin said patiently. “Laws and pacts based upon the best of our nature—upon honor rather than fear.”

  Rakhal laughed. “You always were too optimistic for your own good, Carlo. You may love honor above all earthly things, but that won’t keep you warm at night. Nor will it keep this Kingdom in one piece the next time we go to war. For that, you need clingfire and sharp steel, not empty words.”

  “May the gods grant that such a time not come for m
any years,” Carolin said. “And when it does, would it not be better to have men of honor to stand beside us?”

  Varzil looked at Rakhal, as if seeing him for the first time. He wants the throne. He loves Carlo and wishes him no harm, but in his heart, he believes he is the better king.

  He wondered how long that love would last once Felix Hastur was cold in his grave.

  Varzil saw little of Carolin for the rest of the day. Instead, he took his midday meal with Eduin. They found each other in the kitchen, where one of the under-cooks set out bowls of thick bean soup laced with winter greens and accompanied by chunks of yesterday’s bread, toasted until crisp and then smeared with fragrant soft cheese. It was the sort of hearty food Lunilla might have plied them with if they’d appeared in her kitchen on a blustery winter afternoon. They sat together at a wooden table, its surface satiny with many scrubbings.

  Eduin had set aside his borrowed courtier’s garb for the warm, serviceable clothing he usually wore. He looked simpler, more honest, and Varzil found himself warming to him.

  As they exchanged their comments over the meal, it seemed that Eduin was exerting himself to be friendly, and Varzil wasn’t sure whether it was because he was besotted with Dyannis or wanted Varzil’s support on the issue of Tower dominance. This was a dangerous idea, as they both well knew. A Keeper might be above any law but his own, but a lesser worker, even an under-Keeper, was as subject as any man to the king’s justice. What Eduin had proposed could easily be interpreted as treason ...

  “I’ll be glad when we’re back home,” Varzil said. “Banquets are all very well, but I miss Lunilla’s cooking.”

  “It will be good to have real work to do,” replied Eduin, blowing across a steaming spoonful. “I’ve had my holiday among the great and wealthy. I’ve seen the court in all its grandeur. Frankly, I prefer Arilinn, where I don’t have to worry about how fancy my clothes are. Still,” he gestured with his spoon, “I’m glad to have seen it once.”