As he touched her flesh, Carolin felt a fleeting instant of laran contact. Many of the Ardais were also Gifted, and she must have gone to great lengths to keep her faith hidden, even from her family. Had she refused this marriage, the reason might have been discovered. If her family had been angry enough, she might even have been killed. So she had agreed, perhaps praying to Holy Saint Christopher, Bearer of the World’s Burdens, to show her a way out.
No way had appeared.
“My dear,” he spoke as he would to a child and reached out his hands. For a moment she resisted, but allowed him to take her fingers from the sheets and hold both hands in his. “My dear, why did you not tell me?”
“Why, indeed?” The words rushed from her throat with unexpected passion. “What purpose could there have been? How could I, being what I am, bind myself to a son of Hastur, you who claim descent from Aldones, Lord of Light? How could I do otherwise? Disgraced beyond my entire family, beyond redemption ? And now that you know, you will have no choice, for my faith is more dear to me than my life. Do your worst. I am prepared.”
What does she expect me to do? Rape her on her wedding night? Kill her? With a sickening shiver, he realized that was exactly what she feared.
“I mean you no harm,” he repeated, too stunned to think of anything else to say. “Whatever you have heard of us—of me, I am no monster to take a woman unwilling.” He referred to the vow of cristoforos forbidding all but consensual sexual relations.
Yet ... the marriage must be consummated. For the future of Hastur, for the welfare of his people, the stability of the Kingdom, he must sire sons.
He began stroking her arm. “If—if this were not a problem, would you wish this marriage?”
“What does that matter? I am sworn to it. My wishes have never meant anything.”
“That is not true, Alianora.” Deliberately, he spoke her name, and watched her involuntary response. “There are many things I cannot change, and the fact of our marriage is one of them.” He ran his fingers over the copper catenas locked around her wrist. “But to the extent of my power, I wish you happiness.”
She stared at him, and when she spoke again, her tone had lost some of its stridency. “I—I would be a good wife to you, a dutiful wife. But I cannot give up my faith.”
“I will not ask that of you.”
Again she stared, this time in frank disbelief. “It is not possible—”
“Am I a Prince of Hastur or not?” He captured her gaze with his, holding her hands immobile.
She swallowed, mute.
“Then I say that this matter concerns only the two of us, and what we do, how we resolve it, is between us alone.” Do you understand me?
Eyes huge, she nodded. He couldn’t be sure if she’d heard his telepathic thought, or was simply assenting to his proposal.
“Then we will hear no more of this,” he continued. “What is secret will continue to be so, within the confines of these rooms.”
The knot of tension in his belly relaxed a fraction. He returned to stroking her arms, forcing himself to concentrate on the texture of her skin. She was all softness and fine bone, with no firm muscle. In a sudden, almost frenzied movement, she sat up, threw her arms around his neck, and burst into tears.
He held her, weaving his fingers through her unbound hair. It was thicker than he’d expected, like heavy satin, a small measure of sensual pleasure. That was something, then. Aldones knew how he was going to make love to her like this, a sobbing, quivering stranger.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Gradually, she grew quieter, her shudders dying away. He freed his hands from her hair and ran them down the length of her back. The fabric of her night dress was so thin he felt every contour of her body. She leaned into him, burying her face against his chest. By slow degrees, so as not to alarm her, he stroked her sides, her hips, occasionally tracing the curve of breast and buttock. Desire stirred in him and as quickly died.
“Are you—have they told you what to expect?” he asked. “Does it frighten you to lie with a man?”
She made no answer, and she would not open her eyes. Holding her, he lowered himself on the bed, so that they lay together, his arms around her. When he drew back to look at her, she kept her eyes tightly shut. He cupped one breast, noticing that she made no response. Neither did she draw away from him as he pulled off his own clothes and covered them both with the comforter. Her skin was cold through the thin gown, but he would warm them both.
He kept stroking her, more intimately now. She was not unattractive, had been well fed and well tended in life. Her skin was smooth, her breasts round, her belly pleasingly soft. After a long while, he noticed the change in her breathing, the slight inhale as he ran his fingers over her nipples.
She was not unwilling, then. It was his own body which now refused to respond. He tried to focus on her breasts, her hips, the warm triangle of her crotch, all the womanly parts which had sparked his adolescent fantasies. His own body felt tepid, his efforts to stimulate himself mechanical.
I might as well be pleasuring myself, or trying to copulate with an enormous poppet-doll!
Doggedly, he kept on, seizing upon any hint of reaction. At one point, she whimpered and her fingers went around his neck. With that, he was able to achieve an erection, although he didn’t know if he could sustain it. He decided that if he were going to finish this business, he had best do it quickly.
She made no protest as he rolled on top and awkwardly slid into her. He felt her flinch as he began thrusting. He tried again to reach her with his mind; she was not barriered, but had simply gone somewhere else, leaving him to do what he pleased with her body.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine a woman taking pleasure in his movements, welcoming him, yearning for him, embracing his mind as well as his body. He thought of the Castamir lady he had met the season he was presented at Comyn Council who had first excited his desire, about Marella, who flirted with him back at Arilinn. His breathing deepened, as his own arousal built. A wave of heat swept over his skin. He thought of Maura dancing, her face glowing, eyes meeting his with that unflinching gaze, the warmth and richness of her trained laran. With a rush that took his breath away, spasms tore through him. He thought he cried out, but perhaps it was only within the darkness of his mind.
He rolled off her, leaving one arm across her breasts. His breathing slowed, and the thunder between his ears fell away into stillness. He opened his eyes.
She was staring at him, her lips slightly parted.
“Did—did I hurt you?” Again, the soul-deep sickness threatened to rise up within him.
To his surprise, she shook her head. “I had been warned what to expect. This was not nearly so bad. I—I know you tried to be kind. I am grateful.”
Grateful. But it would be unspeakably cruel to throw the word back at her.
He stroked her cheek. “Perhaps a child will come of this night. That would please you, I hope. And from everything I have heard, the first time is the worst.”
“Yes, that is what they told me also.” She rolled on to one side to study him. “I did not realize—how fortunate I am. You are a kind man, I think, and an honorable one. That is more than any woman can hope for. I will try to be a good and dutiful wife to you.”
He leaned forward to kiss her forehead and felt her sigh of relief. Sleep came reluctantly, although by the change in her breathing, Alianora had dropped off long ago. He lay as still as he could so as not to disturb her, trying to quiet the uneasy vortex of his thoughts. As the first pale glow of dawn seeped through the heavy curtains, he was left with only two certainties.
This woman was his lawful wife, would someday be his Queen, and was deserving of all courtesy, respect and honor. But he did not, nor could he ever, love her.
BOOK II
21
Spring also came early to the Plains of Arilinn. The earth awoke even before the days grew warm, as if bu
d and seed possessed some secret knowledge of what was to come. Snow-drops and ice daisies in wooden planters burst through the thin shell of frost to unfurl thick petals of yellow and purple in the slanting sun. During the early afternoons, when the great red sun was at its zenith, the drifts of snow in the Tower’s outer courtyards fell in upon themselves, melting from within, and though they crusted over each night, no new snow fell, so that each day, the mass of soggy trodden slush dwindled.
Waking after a short day’s sleep, as he often did when working through the night, Varzil made his way through the Veil and its courtyard. He paused to appreciate the shoots of green with their clusters of heart-shaped blossoms, stark against the patches of snow and bare dark soil. The air, although still chill, carried the faint damp tang of the new season. Beyond, in the fields, a mist arose from the ground, an exhalation. As yet, town and Tower kept to their winter rhythms, but not for long.
He drew his cloak, with its lining of soft marlet fur, closer around him. Gloved fingers brushed the silver pin that was his sole ornament. He traced the familiar pattern of the stag with its backswept antlers and thought of Carolin. News of his friend had arrived from time to time, mostly carried with other messages along the telepathic relays from Hali Tower. Carolin’s first son, named Rafael-Alar, was now a sturdy toddler, and another child was on the way.
As one season followed another, Varzil’s own life had settled into a new pattern, a cycle of work and friendship, the slow progression of lessons that brought him further along his path toward becoming a Keeper. There was no longer any doubt that he would. Pride had long since given way to a healthy appreciation of the strenuous dedication involved. Sometimes it seemed he did nothing but work, sleep, and study. Nights melted into tendays, and every once in a while, like today, Lunilla would order him outside.
“You don’t see enough of the sun!” she’d scold. “Next thing, they’ll be calling you the Hermit of Arilinn, the Keeper no one has ever seen!”
“But there is so much more to do,” he’d offer in explanation. He meant not only the routine tasks of the Tower, which all too often these days included receiving and tending those victims of the latest plague, whether poisoning from bonewater dust or some natural illness. Last summer, they had nursed a dozen children from the Lake District, stricken with muscle fever. Beyond the continuing struggle to improve his skills and deepen his knowledge, there was the search for ways to use laran to promote peace instead of war. Even if he could not speak to Carolin face-to-face, their dream lived on in his own work.
Lunilla, however, would not be dissuaded. “The work will be there whether you are rested or not. The only difference will be your ability to do it! Out with you, into the fresh air! Go for a walk, look upon a strange face, think of something besides matrix lattices and channel balancing for a few hours!”
He walked toward the city, noticing the stiffness in his legs. Lunilla was right; he wasn’t getting enough exercise. His body was young enough to be forgiving, but the long hours of immobility, combined with the intense concentration and energy drain of circle work, would eventually take their toll. He had been putting off attending to such things. There would be time for them later.
At least until the next war breaks out. In a way, it already had. Isoldir and Valeron had clashed, and even Arilinn was now called upon to make clingfire from time to time. At home, Serrais was beset with Dry Towns bandits on one quarter and ambitious neighbors on the other. Kevan and several other men had been killed in a border raid, following the death of old Dom Felix. Varzil had not returned home for the funeral because travel was too dangerous. His brother Harald now ruled as Lord of Sweetwater.
Varzil set a brisk pace into the city, stretching and warming his muscles. He lifted his arms, making circles with his shoulders. The joints in his upper back crackled.
The morning market was almost empty, the winter crops sold. At this season, there remained only hard-shelled squashes and root vegetables, a few hothouse herbs, things that could be stored in cellars over the frozen months. It would be a few tendays still before the first of the spring greens appeared.
Greens and tonic, Varzil thought wryly, that’s exactly what I need.
“Dom Varzil!” came a woman’s voice from one of the shops bordering the square. He recognized the baker’s wife, her hair tied back under a white kerchief, sleeves rolled to the elbow and a dusting of flour on hands and across one cheek. She grinned as he strolled over.
“And a fine afternoon it is to you, too,” he answered in the same lilting tone.
She flushed a shade redder as he stepped inside the shop. The warm air swept over him, laden with the yeasty smell of bread and the sweetness of honey and spicebark. Behind the worn but freshly scrubbed counter, the shelves were three parts bare. A slatted wooden tray bore only a single spiral bun. The sight of the pastry, glistening under a light honey glaze and studded with nuts and candied pear, made his mouth water.
Before Varzil could protest, she snatched up the bun and placed it in his hand. “You’re much too thin,” she said, sounding just like Lunilla. “Don’t they feed you up there?”
Varzil ignored her question and bit into the bun. Though not as heavily sweetened as Lunilla‘s, there was a perfect balance of the light, cheery bread and the concentrated flavors of nut, fruit, and spice. Wishing there were another for him to purchase, he dug into his belt pouch for a coin.
“Put that away!” the baker’s wife snapped. “I’ll none of it! After what you did for my sister’s boy when he was took so bad, you should have a thousand buns and still not be owing!”
She was so vehement, he dared not contradict her. Some of the Tower workers accepted gifts or ordered things specially made without paying for them, as their due, but Varzil didn’t like to do so. His tastes were simple, and between the little money he had of his own and the stipend he received for certain kinds of dangerous work—making clingfire, for instance—he could buy whatever he needed. He wondered irritably why he should be treated like a demigod because he had one talent and not another, laran instead of horsebreaking or metalsmithing or baking like this woman’s husband. But it would have been ungracious to say so or to refuse her gratitude.
He kept his eyes from the racks of bread, lest she press more upon him, and asked about the news of the town.
“Ah, the usual!” she said, clucking her disapproval, but whether it was of the gossip itself or the doings being gossiped about, he could not tell. “Looks to be an early spring, which means late summer storms and half the harvest ruined if it’s left too late.” At his quizzical expression, she added, “My da still farms wheat and oats away south. He’ll keep out extra for us, though, so there’ll be no lack of good bread for you. We take care of our own.”
Just then, another customer came into the shop, a harried-looking woman wrapped in three threadbare shawls, one layered on top of the other. She asked in a low voice if there were any bread left over from yesterday’s baking, and while the two were discussing the price, Varzil slipped out the door.
He spent the next hour contentedly strolling Arilinn’s twisted lanes, watching people scurrying out on errands during the few hours of relative warmth, packs of children darting here and there to shrieks of delight. He took the coin he would have given to the baker’s wife and left it in the hand of a beggar, wondering where the man went at night. Now and again, he picked up snatches of conversation or quickly-masked scowls. While the baker’s wife, whose nephew had been saved during a bout of lung fever, greeted him happily, not all the inhabitants of Arilinn felt that way. Sometimes, he caught phrases like, “damned sorcery” or “mind tricks,” and those not spoken kindly.
Why do they fear us? he had asked Auster after one such disturbing episode.
They do not know us, was the answer.
How can they? With the exception of those sick who are brought to us, all they know of us is superstition and tales of battle! They think we have nothing better to do with our time than make terr
ible weapons or sneak into other men’s minds!
You will get used to it, Auster had said serenely. Our work requires us to live apart; there is no cure for that. The Tower can be a necessary refuge.
A refuge or a prison? Varzil still wondered. Was it possible, or even desirable, for people of talent and power to separate themselves from the rest of humanity?
Varzil was still lost in thought as he turned his steps toward the Tower. He was drawn back to reality by a mounted party approaching the gates. There were four armed men on good horses, bearing a pennant he did not recognize. They surrounded two ladies, one of them a person of some importance by her bearing, the quality of her long cloak and her palfrey’s beautifully ornamented gear. Varzil caught up with them just as the guards were helping the lady to dismount.
As he lifted his eyes to hers, his first impression was one of merriment. She was veiled as befitted a proper Comynara, but lace could not hide the sparkle in her eyes. They were green, slightly tilted, and alight with interest in everything around her. She met his gaze boldly.
“I’m Felicia of Nevarsin.”
“I‘m—Varzil Ridenow.” He stared at her, feeling slow-witted. With a flicker of his gaze back in the direction of the Tower, he added lamely, “Under-Keeper, First Circle, Arilinn.”
Her smile deepened, revealing a small dimple at the left corner of her mouth. She tucked a stray auburn curl behind her ear. “You correct me so tactfully, Varzil of Arilinn. I was and suppose I still am, until matters are arranged otherwise, matrix mechanic of the Second Circle at Nevarsin. We’ll see what use your Keepers can make of me.”
Without waiting for assistance, she kicked her feet free from the stirrups and dropped lightly to the ground. She had, he noticed, been riding astride, and she handled herself in an easy, graceful way. Once on her feet, however, her color paled. She clutched the saddle with one hand, covering her mouth with the other to smother a cascade of coughing.
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