Zandru's Forge

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Carolin quickly discovered he had to forge a new place at court amid subtle shifts of power and influence. Perhaps his time at Arilinn, where he had learned to guard his very thoughts, opened his mind to layers of unspoken meaning, to cross-currents of motivation and loyalty. Either his cousins, Rakhal especially, had altered in character, or else he himself was now sensitive to what had always been there. It was not that he distrusted Rakhal, only that he felt he no longer knew him.

  Carolin told himself it was unjust to judge his cousin. He himself had changed during his season at Arilinn and here at home, with King Felix’s increasing debility, Rakhal had many duties thrust upon him and had borne his burdens nobly. Carolin had no doubt of his cousin’s passionate loyalty to the Hastur Kingdom, Carolin was fiercely loyal himself, but they disagreed on exactly what action those feelings of loyalty might inspire. There was no point in provoking a confrontation over things which would possibly never come to crisis. The day was coming when the most powerful lords would force the naming of Regents to prepare for the transition of power to the next King, and then everything would change again.

  As for Lyondri, he was no longer a slightly hesitant outsider. He had assumed command of the castle guards and was developing a system of informants throughout the city. The shift imbued him with a sense of importance, and it seemed to Carolin that he thrived on it, although sometimes at the price of kindness. Lyondri seemed to take a particular satisfaction in the exercise of his power.

  As the last of the spring showers soaked into the earth, crop plants began to burst forth in abundance. The generous rainfall combined with early warm weather to promise an especially bountiful harvest season. A portrait of Lady Alianora arrived, along with a procession of representatives whose principal responsibility was to oversee preparations for the wedding. King Felix met with them, beaming in approval at their every proposal, and then left them to the coridom to make their arrangements.

  The portrait, a palm-sized miniature framed in costly copper filigree, was presented to him with great fanfare at the King’s court. Later in the evening, in his own quarters, Carolin tried to make out the character and temper of the original. It was skillfully enough executed, showing a young woman in a high-necked white dress. Her straw-colored hair was drawn back in a severe style which did nothing to soften the angular lines of cheek and jaw. Perhaps the artist had intended to render her as a mature, serious lady, worthy of becoming Queen, but instead she looked grim, her mouth a tight line above a stubborn chin. Not a hint of softness or humor showed anywhere in her face.

  Carolin set it aside with a sigh, wondering what she thought of the pompous rendition of his own likeness. He hoped she was as skeptical of its accuracy as he was of this one. At least, she looked young and healthy. She might surprise him, once they had gotten through the formal ceremonies and had time to become acquainted. He assumed she came willingly to the marriage, for she would be rich and as secure as anyone in these unsettled times, with powerful connections to benefit her family and friends. Someday she would be Queen and her sons would rule. But could she love him? Could he love her?

  It was folly to entertain such questions. Love had nothing to do with it. Love was to be given to his people, his friends—even his favorite horse. Love was not for marriage.

  And yet—he had seen couples who were happy with one another, and not all of them were star-crossed lovers sighing after impossible dreams. Varzil had mentioned that his own parents had been devoted to one another until the death of his mother, and they had been joined through family arrangements. It might be possible.

  He sighed again and set the portrait in a suitably ostentatious place. Romantic love came at the whim of the gods, but the duty of a Hastur Prince was as constant as the rising of the Bloody Sun.

  Lady Alianora’s party arrived at Hali a tenday before Midsummer. A festive atmosphere pervaded the entire city. Street vendors cried out their wares, ribbons and ceramic medallions with images of the nuptial couple. The weather had been fine, and the flower wreaths and pennons in the colors of Hastur and Ardais shone brightly in the sun. Within the castle, preparations for the impending ceremony proceeded.

  Carolin watched the bridal cortege enter the courtyard with a mixture of detachment, curiosity, and dread. He had been up half the night, thinking about a case he had heard in the cortes. A metal smith had claimed that some of Lyondri’s men had stolen two valuable daggers. The men, part of the personal guard Lyondri had recently gathered, claimed the daggers had been gifts. It was one man’s word against the other, and in the end Rakhal had intervened, arguing privately with Carolin that if he were to rule in favor of the merchant, the entire Hastur family would lose respect. It would become impossible to enforce any law upon the city. Ordinary men could do what they liked and then lie in the cortes.

  Moreover, Rakhal insisted, Carolin did not properly appreciate the risks he took in rendering these verdicts. Anything Carolin said might be taken as precedent. Was it not wiser to leave decisions to judges?

  How else was he to know what was going on in the city? Carolin had wondered. And how would he know if those judges Rakhal had praised so highly were truly impartial, committed only to justice? In the end, however, he had given way to his cousin’s arguments. He must keep his mind on princely matters, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not be everything to every man. Although it pained him to admit it, he had human limitations.

  As if to demonstrate that very point, here he was, his eyes scratchy with lack of sleep, his nerves frayed, on the very day his bride rode into the city. He straightened his shoulders and went to dress properly to receive her.

  It took most of the rest of the day for the lady’s entourage to settle into their chambers, for her chests of gowns and jewels, her horses and retainers, lapdogs, maids and sewing women, all to be taken care of. She sent a message, pleading the fatigue of travel and begging to be excused from any appearance that day.

  “A bashful bride you’ve got, Cousin,” Rakhal joked.

  “All things come in their own season,” replied Carolin, and then they both spent the evening in his chambers, along with Lyondri and Orain, the four of them getting thoroughly drunk. It seemed by far the best thing to do, a last raucous fling before the catenas bracelet was locked upon his wrist.

  Late the next morning, Lady Alianora was presented to the court of the Hastur and met her future husband for the first time. She walked in measured paces down the length of the presence chamber, trailed by her attendant ladies. Her heavy gown of pearl-studded gray satin, crossed by a tartan in the Ardais colors, rustled as she moved. She held her head high, with stiff, unblinking dignity.

  Carolin watched from the dais beside his uncle. At least, the pounding in his skull had diminished to a tolerable level. Maura had seen to that, and he had rarely been so grateful for her laran skills. He much preferred her gentle teasing than the ministrations of the castle healer. He rose at the appropriate moment and recited his speech, welcoming Alianora to Hali.

  She listened with an impassive expression, curtsied, and replied in the same formal tones. Then Carolin escorted her to the seat which had been prepared for her on the dais.

  One of her courtiers brought forth the chests containing her dowry, coins and bars of precious copper and silver, along with documents transferring control of the Scaravel borderlands to her husband during her lifetime. Actual ownership of the lands would remain with her, passing to any progeny, but according to law and custom, her husband would have full authority to manage the lands as he saw fit.

  The official declarations, couched in the language of legal treaties, went on for some time. Carolin forced himself to pay attention, although he was more interested in studying Alianora herself. She seemed so composed, her features so fixed in profile, that he could not tell what she was feeling. Nor could he catch any hint of her emotions, even with his laran. He told himself it was the combination of his own dissolute state and the tension of the situation.

&nb
sp; The ceremonies extended well into the afternoon. By then, King Felix had sunk into slumber, occasionally snoring audibly. The court adjourned with a palpable sense of relief. Carolin sent a message to Lady Alianora, requesting a private meeting in the gardens. Each of them would of course be accompanied by the appropriate retainers, but he had hoped that in a less formal setting, they might begin their acquaintanceship.

  Alianora replied immediately, using the same messenger, that she was wearied with travel and begged his forgiveness. Her response was perfectly correct. Carolin could find no fault with her desire to rest, to acclimate herself to her new surroundings.

  Unreasonably irritable, he put on a soldier’s padded, leather-strapped vest and went down to the training yards. Orain was already there, whacking away at a wooden post with a practice sword. Orain brushed lank, damp hair back from his forehead and greeted Carolin with an overly formal bow.

  “If you mean to insult me, do it in some other way,” Carolin snapped. “I’m sick to death of being reminded of my princely status.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of running away again,” Orain said, referring to the ill-fated expedition to Hali Lake.

  Carolin, selecting a wooden blade from the rack, shook his head. The days of careless, impulsive adventures were over, but it would be cruel to say so to Orain. At least, Carolin had some possibility of happiness in his own marriage.

  Within a few moments, the two of them had taken up their positions on the marked field, circling and feinting, testing each other’s weaknesses. The anxiety and frustration of the last few days fell away. His concentration narrowed to the dusty circle, Orain’s eyes, and the sword in his own hands. A fey exhilaration rose in him. They clashed, blocked, sprang apart, and circled again.

  Once, when Carolin’s attention faltered, Orain caught him across the side with the flat of his sword. Carolin jumped away, his breath momentarily frozen. The next instant, fire spread from the point of impact and he knew he’d have a line of purple along his ribs by nightfall. The pain sent an odd thrill throughout his body.

  Blood sang in Carolin’s ears. Senses sharpened. The heavy wooden sword grew light. A sheen of sweat dampened his skin and his joints felt oiled. With every breath, he drew in new vigor, clean and uncomplicated. It was as if some god, far less exalted than Aldones, Lord of Light, had shouted in his ear, “Wake up! Pay attention!”

  He gave himself over to the moment, watching the shift in Orain’s stance, flexing his own muscles, throwing his power into each parry and thrust. Their boots raised clouds of dust and it seemed that time itself hung upon the air.

  When at last they halted, lungs heaving, bodies radiating heat, sweat-drenched hair plastered to their skulls, both of them were laughing. Carolin threw his free arm around Orain’s shoulders in a spontaneous gesture and felt his friend’s response, the instant of relaxation that comes with true acceptance. There was nothing either of them needed to say.

  Carolin had rarely felt as drained and yet as wrought up as on the evening of his marriage. The ceremony itself had gone by in a blur, a cavalcade of richly ornamented costumes, flashing jewels, the mingled glare of laran-charged glows and banks of ordinary candles, the suffocating clash of perfume and incense. He had stood in a room filled with the dignitaries of his family and Kingdom, people he had known since childhood and many he had worked with since returning to court, and yet he had never felt so utterly alone.

  King Felix alternated between napping on his throne and giggling in delight like a child. Rakhal had taken over much of the ceremonial direction, always making it seem as if the King were performing those functions. Orain was somewhere in the throng. Maura waited with the other Hastur ladies, including Liriel, who had returned briefly for the wedding. At one point, she caught his eye and smiled encouragement.

  Lady Alianora was resplendent in a gown of silk stiff with embroidered lilies and tiny winking jewels. Under the confection of diadem and veil, her face was unreadable. She walked as if she could hardly breathe. As she took her position, she gave no sign of greeting, no hint that she was aware of any other person.

  Carolin stood beside the woman who would be his wife, whose life would be bound to his as long as they both lived. The ancient words rolled over him, and he felt nothing. He wondered what he had expected of this moment. In a flicker of thought, he remembered a hundred comments by older men, who loved and honored their wives but made no pretense of understanding them.

  He held out his wrist, as Alianora did, to receive the copper-chased catenas. The locks clicked shut. Common folk might take one another as freemates, or follow the country custom of sharing “a bed, a fire and a meal.” Comyn marriages followed the old irrevocable tradition.

  The final phrases completed, Carolin turned to Alianora and lifted her veil. His hands were clumsy, catching in the gauzy stuff, but eventually he got it folded back. Her eyes were pale blue and round, her expression glassy. Her blonde hair had been plaited with care and dressed with tiny jeweled butterflies. Under the faint rouge on cheeks and lips, her skin was very pale.. He could see her trembling, and he wanted to take her into his arms and whisper that everything would be all right. Instead, he bent and brushed his lips against hers. Her lips were cold and she made no response, but neither did she pull away.

  After a suitably decorous procession, they went out onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Under the watchful eyes of Lyondri’s handpicked guards, the people of the city waited there with baskets of petals, ready to hurl them into the air. The herald presented their Prince and his new bride.

  The crowd went wild with cheering. Carolin waved back. Their joy swept over him. He smiled, at first stiffly, then broadly, then with a laugh that seemed to spring from his very center. This was, he thought, the very best part of being a Prince of Hastur, to know that these people were his, to rejoice in their delight, to serve them with honor. If for no other reason, he accepted this marriage because it gave them cause for such celebration, and an assurance of the peaceful continuation of rulership.

  Alianora stood at his side as was her duty, unmoving except for a slight swaying. She allowed the people below to see her, but whether this was torment or pleasure, she gave no sign.

  Carolin was three-quarters drunk by the time the dancing was over and a group of his friends, Orain among them, carried him on their shoulders to the bridal chamber. A little while earlier, a similar group of women, giggling and blushing at the ribald songs of the men, had taken Alianora away. They would sing their own songs of the sorrows and delights of the wedding bed, dress her in a scandalously revealing nightgown, and leave her to anticipate the coming of her husband.

  Carolin remembered this suite of rooms from his visits to Hali when he was a boy. They had been his father’s; his mother had her own. He had thought nothing of it at the time, nor of his mother’s preference for the country estate at Blue Lake. His parents had always been pleasant to one another and affectionate to him. Now, standing in the antechamber which led on one side to a spacious, elegantly proportioned sitting room and on the other to the bedchamber, he realized he knew very little about these two people and how they had shared their lives. The thought struck him with sadness.

  That they had loved him, each in their own way, was beyond doubt. They had left him with images of kindness, honor, loyalty, merriment, duty. But they had not taught him anything of how a man and a woman ceased to be strangers. Perhaps they had been more successful in living their separate lives than in creating a shared one together.

  There was no help for it. He would have to make his way as best he could. He lifted the latch and heard it click open, paused for a moment so that she might not be surprised, and went in.

  The shadowed air smelled of sweet herbs and beeswax. No laran-charged glows lined the walls, only candles, and their light caressed the polished wood, the soft velvet of curtain and drape, and the cheeks of the woman who lay on the wide bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows. She had drawn the covers up to he
r neck. All Carolin could see of her was her face, her eyes rimmed with white, and the fingers of one hand twisted in the sheets. She had been murmuring, too low for him to understand, but broke off as soon as he stepped through the door. She looked, he thought, as if she were anticipating a rape. He felt sick.

  Yet it would have been unthinkable to simply turn around, go back to his old familiar chambers, and forget the whole thing. She had done nothing to deserve such humiliation. Nor could he sleep on the floor or chastely at her side. The marriage had been made for the sake of the Kingdom, and therefore must be consummated.

  Moving slowly, so as not to alarm her, he sat on the bed beside her. The only thing he could think of was to talk to her as if she were a mare frozen with terror, perhaps stroke her hair, if she would permit him.

  He began awkwardly, reassuring her that he meant no harm. It seemed cruel to point out that she had refused their only brief chance at acquaintance, so he went on to say he hoped they would soon enjoy each other’s company and come to care for one another. As he spoke, he felt an easing in the tension of her body.

  “Will you not give me your hand?” he said, and reached for hers.

  Instead of releasing the covers, she fumbled about with her other hand. As she slipped it free, he caught a glimpse of small polished beads, probably river opal, joined by metal links.

  Cristoforo prayer beads. No wonder she was so frightened. The Hasturs worshiped Aldones, Lord of Light. Cristoforos were considered by many to be weak and effeminate, unworthy to rule. The scandal of a Hastur heir marrying one of them would be immense.