The Ages of Chaos

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  There were comfortable stables for all their riding-animals, and an enclosed stone room where Romilly found blocks and perches for her birds.

  "You can go into the city and buy food for them," Orain said, and handed her some copper rings, "But be back in good time for supper in the guest-house; and if you will, you may attend the night prayers - you might like to hear the choir singing."

  Romilly nodded obediently, inwardly delighted; Darren had spoken once of the fine singing of the Nevarsin choir, which he had not, in his days as a student, been musical enough to join; but her father, too, had spoken of one of the high points of his life, when he had attended a solemn service in the monastery and heard the singing of the monks. She hurried out into the city, excited and a little scared by the strange place; but she found a bird-seller, and when she made her wants known to him, he knew at once the proper food for the sentry-birds; she had half expected to have to carry a stinking, half-rotted carcass back through the city, but instead the seller said that he would be pleased to deliver the food to the guest-house stables. "You'll be lodged in the monastery, young man? If it is your will, I can have proper food delivered every day for your birds."

  "I shall ask my master," she said, "I do not know how long they propose to stay." And she thought this was a fine thing, that such services should be provided; but when he told her the price she was a little troubled. Still, there was no way she could go outside the walls and hunt for food for them herself; so she arranged for the day and for tomorrow, and paid the man what he asked.

  Returning through the city streets, grey and old, with ancient houses leaning over the streets and the walls closing around her, she felt a little frightened. She realized that she had lost contact with Preciosa before they entered the gates of Nevarsin; the climate here was too cold for a hawk . . . had Preciosa turned back to a more welcoming climate? The hawk could find no food in the city . . . there was carrion enough in the streets, she supposed from the smell, but no fresh living food for a hawk. She hoped Preciosa was safe....

  But for now her charge was the sentry-birds; she saw to their feeding, and there was a large cobbled court where she could exercise them and let them fly. At the edge of the court while she was flying them in circles on the long lines - they screamed less, now, and she realized they were becoming accustomed to her touch and her voice - she saw, crowded into the edges of the court, an assembly of small boys. They all wore the bulky cowled robes of the monastery. But surely, Romilly thought, they were too young for monks; they must be students, sent as Ruyven, then Darren, had been sent. One day, perhaps, her brother Rael would be among them. How I miss Rael!

  They were watching the birds with excited interest. One, bolder than the rest, called out, "How do you handle the birds without getting hurt?" He came to Romilly, leaving the clustered children, and stretched out his hand to Temperance; Romilly gestured him quickly back.

  "These birds are fierce, and can peck hard; if she went for your eyes, she could hurt you badly!"

  "They don't hurt you," the child protested.

  "That is because I am trained to handle them, and they know me," Romilly said, Obediently, the boy moved out of reach. He was not much older than Rael, she thought; ten or twelve. In the courtyard a bell rang, and the children went, pushing and jostling, down the hallway; but the boy who was watching the birds remained.

  "Should you not answer that bell with your fellows?"

  "I have no lesson at this hour," the boy said, "Not until the bell rings for choir; then I must go and sing, and afterward, I must go to arms-practice."

  "In a monastery?"

  "I am not to be a monk," the boy said, "and so an arms-master from the village comes every other day to give lessons to me and a few of the others. But I have no duties now, and I would like to watch the birds, if you do not mind. Are you a leronis, vai domna, that you know their ways so well?"

  Romilly stared at him in shock. At last she asked, "Why do you call me domna?"

  "But I can see what you are, certainly," the boy answered, "even though you wear boy's clothes." Romilly looked so dismayed that he lowered his voice and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. The Father Master would be very cross, and I do not think you are harming anyone. But why would you want to wear boy's clothes? Don't you like being a girl?"

  Would anyone? Romilly wondered, and then asked herself why the clear eyes of this child had seen what no one else could see. He answered the unspoken thought.

  "I am trained to that as you are trained to handle hawks and other birds: So that, one day, I may serve my people in a Tower as a laranzu."

  "A child like you?" Romilly asked.

  "I am twelve years old," he said with dignity, "and in only three years more I shall be a man. My father is Lyondri Hastur, who is a Councillor to the king; the Gods have given me noble blood and therefore I must be ready to serve the people over whom I shall one day be placed to rule."

  Lyondri Hastur's son! She remembered the story Orain had told her, of Alaric and the deaths of his family. She pretended to be fussing over the bird's line; she had never had to conceal her thoughts before, and knew only one way to do it - with quick random speech.

  "Would you like to hold Prudence for a little while? She is the lightest of the birds and will not be too heavy for your arm. I will keep her quiet for you, if you like." He looked excited and pleased. Carefully hooding Prudence, and sending out soothing thoughts - this little one is a friend, he will not harm you, be still - she slipped the glove over the boy's arm with her free hand, set the bird on it. He held her, struggling to keep his small arm from trembling, and she handed him a feather.

  "Stroke her breast with this. Never touch a bird with your hand; even if your hands are clean, it will damage the set of their feathers," she said, and he stroked the bird's smooth breast with the feather, crooning to it softly.

  "I have never been so close to a sentry-bird before," he murmured, delighted. "I heard they were fierce and not to be tamed - I suppose it is laran which keeps her so calm, domna?"

  "You must not call me domna here" she said, keeping her voice low and calm so as not to disturb the bird, "The name I use is Rumal."

  "Is it laran, then, Rumal? Do you think I could learn to handle a bird like this?"

  "If you were trained to it, certainly," said Romilly, "but you should begin with a small hawk, a ladybird or sparrow hawk so that your arm will not tire and your fatigue trouble the bird. I had better take Prudence now," she added, for the small arm was trembling with tension. She set the bird on a perch. "And laran can do nothing but help you to make your mind in tune with the bird's mind. But the climate here is too cold for ordinary hawks; for that you must wait till you return to the lowlands, I think."

  The boy sighed, looking regretfully at the bird on the perch. "These are hardier than hawks, are they not? Are they akin to kyorebni?"

  "They are not dissimilar in form," Romilly agreed, "though they are more intelligent than kyorebni, or than any hawk." It seemed disloyal to Preciosa to admit it, but after the few days rapport with the sentry-birds, she knew these were superior in intelligence.

  "May I help you, dom-Rumal?"

  "I have mostly finished," Romilly said, "but if you wish, you can mix this green stuff and gravel with their food. But if you touch the carrion, your hands will stink when you go to choir."

  "I can wash my hands at the well before I go to the choir, for Father Cantor is very fat and always late to practice," said the boy solemnly, and Romilly smiled as he began portioning the gamy-smelling meat, sprinkling it with the herbs and gravel. The smile slid off quickly; this child was a telepath and the son of Lyondri Hastur, he could endanger them all.

  "What is your name?" she asked.

  "I am called Caryl," the boy said. "I was named for the man who was king when I was born, only Father says that Carolin is not a good name to have now. Carolin was king, but he abused his power, they said, and was a bad king, so his cousi
n Rakhal had to take the throne. But he was kind to me."

  Romilly told herself; the child was only repeating what he had heard his father say. Caryl finished with the bird-food, and asked if he might give it to one of the birds.

  "Give that dish to Prudence," said Romilly, "She is the gentlest, and already, I can see, you have made friends."

  He carried the dish to the bird, stood watching as she tore greedily into it, while Romilly fed the other two. A bell rang in the outer court of the monastery, muted softly by the intervening walls, and the boy started.

  "I must go to choir," he said, "and then I must have my lesson. May I come tonight and help you feed the birds, Rumal?"

  She hesitated, but he said earnestly, "I'll keep your secret, I promise."

  At last she nodded. "Certainly, come whenever you like," she said, and the boy ran away. She noticed that he wiped his hands on the seat of his breeches, like any active youngster, quite forgetting his promise to wash at the well.

  But when he was out of sight, she sighed and stood motionless, ignoring the birds for the moment.

  Lyondri Hastur's own son, here in the monastery - and it was here that Dom Carlo was to meet with King Carolin, with his gift of valuable sentry-birds, and to raise an army in the city. It was not impossible, she supposed, that he might know the king by sight, so if Carolin was in the city in disguise and came near the monastery, he might recognize him, and then...

  What do I care which rogue keeps the throne? Her father's words echoed in her mind. But Alderic, who seemed quite the best young man she had ever known beside her own brothers, was Carolin's sworn man, perhaps even his son. Carlo and Orain, too, were loyal to the exiled king. And his councillor, Lyondri Hastur, whatever his son might say, seemed to be one of the worst tyrants she had ever heard about - or so the story of what he had done to Alaric's children seemed to indicate.

  And she was Dom Carlo's man, at least while she took money in his service. He should know of the danger to the man he called his rightful king. Perhaps he could warn Carolin not to come near the monastery, while there was a child there who would recognize him and penetrate whatever disguise he might wear. Sharp indeed were the boy's eyes and his laran ... he had seen that Romilly was a woman.

  Though I cannot tell Dom Carlo, nor his friend, how I know the child has laran....

  She went to the stables attached to the monastery, finding the horses in good hands; spoke briefly to the stablemen about care for their horses, and tipped them, as was proper, with the generous amount of silver and copper Orain had given her for their expenses. After the encounter with young Caryl, she was on her guard, but none of the stablefolk paid any attention to her; one and all they accepted her as what she was, just another apprentice in the train of the young nobleman staying in the monastery. Then she went in search of Dom Carlo, to deliver her warning. In the rooms assigned to them in the guest-house, however, she found only Orain, mending his crudely-sewn boots.

  He looked up as she came in.

  "Is anything gone wrong with birds or beasts, then, lad?"

  "No, they are all doing well," Romilly said, "Forgive me for intruding in your leisure, but I must see Dom Carlo."

  "You can't see him now, or for some time," said Orain, "for he's closeted with Father Abbot, and I don't think he's confessin' his sins - he's no cristoforo. Can I do anything for ye', boy? There's no great urgency to work, now the birds are cared for and in good health - take time to see some of the city, and if ye need an excuse, I'll send you out on an errand; you can take these boots to be mended." He held them out to her, saying with a droll grin, "They're beyond my skill."

  "I will do your errand gladly," Romilly said, "but indeed I have an important message for Dom Carlo. He-you-you are Carolin's men, and I have just heard that - that someone who knows the king by sight, and might also know some of his Councillors, is here in the monastery. Lyondri Hastur's son, Caryl."

  Orain's face changed and his lips pursed in a soundless whistle. "Truly? The whelp of that wolf is here, poisoning their minds against my lord?"

  "The boy is but twelve," protested Romilly, "and seems a nice child; he spoke well of the king, and said he had always been kind - but he might know him."

  "Aye," said Orain grimly, "No doubt; a new-hatched serpent can sting like an old snake. Still, I know no evil of the child; but I'll not let Alaric know he is here, or he might let son pay for son - if he saw the Hastur-Lord's son, I doubt he could keep his hands from his throat, and I know well how he feels. My lord must know of this, and quickly."

  "Would Caryl recognize Dom Carlo, too? Was he around the court so much? Dom Carlo is-" she hesitated, "Is he not one of Carolin's kin?"

  "He's of the Hastur-kin," said Orain, nodding. He sighed.

  "Well, I'll keep an eye out for the child, and put a word in Dom Carlo's ear. It was thoughtful of you to warn me, Rumal, lad; I owe you one for that." As if dismissing the thought deliberately, he bent and picked up the much-patched boots. 'Take these into the city - and lest you get lost, I'll come along and show you the way."

  He linked his arm carelessly through Romilly's as they went out of the monastery guest-house and down through the streets of the old town. The mountain air was biting and cold, and Romilly drew her cloak tighter about her, but Orain, though he wore only a light jacket, seemed comfortable and at ease.

  "I like the mountain ah-," he said, "I was born in the shadow of High Kimbi, though I was fostered on the shores of Hali; and still I think myself a mountain man. What of you?"

  "I Was born in the Kilghard Hills, but north of the Kadarin," Romilly said.

  "The country around Storn? Aye, I know it well," Orain said, "No wonder you have hawks in your blood; so have I." He laughed, ruefully. "Though you're my master at that; I had never held a sentry-bird before, nor will I think myself ill-used if I never set hand on one again." They turned into the doorway of a shop, smelling strongly of leather and tan-bark and rosin. The bootmaker raised supercilious eyebrows at the patched old boots in Orain's hand, but quickly changed his tone when Orain took out his pocket and laid down silver and even copper.

  "When would the vai dom be wanting these back?"

  "I think they're past mending," Orain said, "But they fit well; make me a pair to the measure of these, for I may be going high into snow country. Have you boots for the far Hellers, Rumal? Ye'll be riding with us to Tramontana, I doubt not."

  Why not, after all? Romilly thought. I have nowhere else to go, and if Ruyven is there, or I can get news of him there, Tramontana is my best path.

  "Those boots the young sir is wearing, they will never hold up on the paths across the glaciers," said the shoemaker, with an obsequious look at Orain, "I can make your son a stout fine pair for two silver bits."

  Only now did Romilly realize how generously Dom Carlo had arranged to pay her for her care and knowledge of hawks and birds. She said quickly "I have-"

  "Hush, boy, Dom Carlo told me to see you had what you needed for the journey, as I do for all his men," Orain said, "Let you sit there, now, and let him measure your foot. . . son," he added, grinning.

  Romilly did as she was told, thrusting out her slender foot in its shabby too-large stocking. The bootmaker hummed, whistling a little tune, as he measured, scrawling down cryptic notes and numbers with a stump of chalk on the board by his bench. "When do you want these ready?"

  "Yesterday," growled Orain, "We may have to leave the city at a moment's notice."

  The bootmaker protested; Orain haggled a few minutes, then they agreed on a price and the day after tomorrow.

  "Should be tomorrow," Orain said scowling as they left the shop, "but these workmen have no more pride in their craft these days. Humph!" He snorted as Romilly turned. "In a hurry to get back to the monastery, Rumal lad, and dine on cold boiled lentils and smallbeer? After all these days on the road, living on porridge-powder and journey-cake not much better than dogbread, I'm for a roast fowl and some good wine in a cookshop. What reason have
ye to get back? The birds won't fly away, now, will they? The horses are warm in their stable, and the monks will give them some hay if we don't get back. Let's walk through the town, then."

  Romilly shrugged and acquiesced. She had never been in a city the size of Nevarsin before, and she was afraid she would be lost if she explored alone, but with Orain, she might learn her way about the confusing streets. In any case she could hardly fail to find the way back to the monastery, she need only follow any street straight up the mountain - the monastery was high above the town.

  The short winter day brightened, then faded again as they walked through the city, mostly in a companionable silence; Orain did not seem inclined to talk much, but he pointed out various landmarks, the ancient shrine of Saint-Valentine-of-the-Snows, the cave high on the mountain where the saint was said to have lived and died, a forge which, he said, did the best horse-shoeing north of Armida, a sweetshop where, he said with a grin, the students at the monastery chose to spend their pocketmoney on holidays. It was as if she was one of her own brothers, here and free, unconstrained by any of the laws which governed the behavior of women; she felt as easy with Orain as if she had known him all her life. He had quite forgotten the country accent, and talked in a pleasant, well-bred voice, with only the faintest trace, like Alderic's, of a lowland accent.

  She could not guess his age. He was certainly not a young man, but she did not think he was as old as her father. His hands were rough and calloused like a swordsman's, but the nails were clean and well-cared-for, not grimy or broken like the other men who followed Dom Carlo.