The moment he had recognized her at the lake, he had withdrawn in near-panic, submerging himself in the roiling storm of ordinary emotions, desperately hoping that she would not notice him. If it were known, or even suspected, that the mob was led by a renegade laranzu—
No. Even to think such a thing was to court disaster. Far better to let them believe that years of poverty, the detritus of so much civil conflict, had driven ordinary men to riot. Meanwhile, he and Saravio must find a way out of the city. Soon, before the noose of searchers drew even tighter.
Once more, he is beyond my reach.
Gathering himself, Eduin made his way down the alley, across a narrow street, angling along a circuitous route. There were no wide avenues here, no direct passage from one end of the warrens to the other. This part of the city, even shabbier than that in which Saravio had once rented his room, had grown up like a diseased tumor, layer upon despondent layer.
Eduin found Saravio huddled around a garbage fire, along with a handful of strangers. Instead of his usual hooded cloak, Saravio wore a much-patched jacket and a knitted cap that covered his bright hair. He rocked back and forth, arms wrapped around himself, muttering beneath his breath. Since the day of the riot, he had spent hours each day like this, rousing only when Eduin forced him to some action. At least, his words made so little sense, being more babble than true speech, that there was little chance of betrayal.
The night air was dank and chilly. Men and women alike wore rags dark with filth, their faces reddened from exposure and drink. The smell, sweet and rank, stirred desires, but Eduin shoved them aside. He could hide, but he could not disappear. His newly reawakened laran senses caught the flare of pleasure in their minds, the tang of Saravio’s manipulations.
He does it without thinking, like a reflex, just because they are in pain, Eduin thought. Just as I was. He doesn’t consider the consequences.
Saravio, holding his hands above the greasy flames, looked up. He moved aside from the fire’s light and bent his head close to Eduin’s.
“We must leave the city at dawn,” Eduin said in a low voice. “The Traders’ Gate is so thickly traveled at that time, few are questioned.”
Saravio nodded and Eduin thought he understood. Their friends had given them what they could spare—a little money, food, a blanket or two. They’d go on foot, indistinguishable from any other refugees, limping back to wherever they’d come from after finding no hope in Thendara.
“Come,” Eduin said. “We must be ready before dawn if we’re to place ourselves in the midst of the throng.”
He caught the edge of Saravio’s half-formed thought. Thendara was lost, a barrenlands. Naotalba had forsaken her servants. Only the bond between the two prevented Saravio from surrendering utterly to despair. Eduin’s own instinct for survival spurred him on, thinking to run and hide, wait for the hunt to die down, and most of all, to endure even when there was no hope.
But there was hope. Eduin could smell it in the air, even through the greasy smoke, the reek of garbage, and withered, ale-soaked flesh. It moved in the shadows beneath the moon in a half-remembered dream, the lift of his heart when he heard Varzil had come down from his Neskaya fortress.
He was almost within my grasp. And what has happened once may come again.
The scorpion in his mind rattled its pincers, K-k-kill ... and Eduin shuddered.
An idea stirred. Eduin turned to Saravio, trudging by his side. “We did not prevail this time, but we have learned something vitally important to Naotalba’s cause. Do you not want to know what it is?”
Saravio’s chin lifted. “That men cannot be trusted.”
“Nothing of the sort. These men would have died for her. Some did die, if the reports from Hali are truthful. No, we now know the identity of the chief of her enemies. The only one with the power to stand against her.”
“Who is this man?” Saravio blinked, his expression blank. “I saw no one in that circle capable of such a thing.” He seemed to have forgotten their previous discussion of Varzil.
Eduin wanted to shake Saravio. “Don’t you remember?” he said through gritted teeth. “He was within the lake, using its arcane powers against us, drawing upon the power of Zandru himself, Naotalba’s tormenter, to defy her.”
Saravio gave a lurch, quickly catching his balance. He flattened himself against a shadowed niche between two dilapidated buildings and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Varzil the Good? It is true that some unholy force was raised against us. Does he serve the Lord of the Frozen Hells? I had thought him arrayed with Aldones.”
Eduin now regretted bringing the gods into the conversation. “Appearances can lead all of us astray. Perhaps as we learn how to overcome this Varzil, we will learn more. For today, we must hold fast to our cause—victory for Naotalba and death to Varzil.”
“Victory for Naotalba.”
“And death to Varzil,” Eduin pressed.
“As Naotalba wishes.”
Eduin had to be content with that, for he got no more sense from Saravio that night.
The next morning, Eduin and Saravio slipped through the Traders’ Gate, surrounded by laden pack animals, families in carts pulled by teams of antlered chervines, peddlers on foot, bent under the weight of their packs of trinkets and ribbons for country buyers, a dray wagon of empty ale barrels, a troupe of musicians in their gaily-painted caravan, and a scattering of children, some of them likely runaways.
The first few days, there was much company on the road. They traveled without a clear destination, their only object being to place themselves beyond Hastur’s reach.
In talking with their fellow travelers, Eduin realized he had little need to disguise his interest in Varzil. The traders, who carried news as well as sale goods, had much to tell. Not all of it was accurate. Varzil had gone down to the lake at Hali, but not, Eduin thought, to wrestle with monsters from the depths. Nor had he summoned any, although the illusory dragon had indeed seemed to issue from Zandru’s Seventh Hell. With a few retellings, the lake riot would be transformed into some other entirely different event. Varzil’s mission now seemed to be to restore the lake and herald in a new age.
As they went on, the children began clustering around Saravio. Something in his gentle simplicity attracted them. The younger ones, in particular, were fascinated by his cap and teased him about what lay beneath.
After that, Eduin shaved Saravio’s scalp and buried the hair. It was only a temporary measure, but bought them less chance of discovery.
A company of mounted soldiers in Hastur blue and silver clattered by on the road. The travelers scrambled to make way for them. Eduin, in a moment of panic, dove into a hedgerow. He huddled there, shaking, until the hoofbeats died down. Only then did he notice the scratches over his arms and face, the rents in his already shabby clothing.
As he joined the others, Saravio stared at him, but said nothing. From the looks of his fellow travelers, they thought him a fugitive. His own instinct to hide had betrayed him. Fortunately, they turned back to their own business and asked no questions. They might well remember his behavior in the days to come, however, should there be any profit in it.
I have been in the city too long, Eduin thought. For the most part of his life, he had been cloistered in one Tower or another, or else scuttling through the back alleys of Thendara, keeping out of the light. I must find a place to hide, at least until I can plan what comes next.
It would not be safe to return to Thendara for a long time, and Hali was even chancier. Varzil would now be on guard and surrounded by leronyn dedicated to his protection.
Eduin had spent his childhood in a rough little village, little more than a few hovels along a mud road, near the Kadarin River, where his father had found safety and anonymity. Although he had been sent away to Arilinn Tower at a young age, he remembered enough of rural life to know how difficult it would be for two men to disappear in the countryside. They had no farming or herding skills; even their clothing would stand out besid
e the homespun garb of the country folk. After a few days on the road in the thinning traffic, it was all too plain that they could not reach any large city on their own.
They met a party of salt merchants coming in the opposite direction on the road, who had come through Robardin’s Fort. Eduin remembered passing through it on his way to Hali Tower. It was a medium-sized town, little more than an overgrown market village with a headman but no Comyn lord or Tower, spacious open places, pens for livestock trading and fields for the wagons and tents of travelers. Two important roads crossed over the Greenstone River in a series of bridges, bringing a constant flow of people, their beasts, and goods. The two of them would surely find some kind of work, hauling water for horses, sweeping out taverns, scouring boat hulls. Best of all, in a place like that, no one would ask questions.
12
Carolin would not permit Varzil to travel outside the bounds of Hastur lands undefended, even on a diplomatic mission. Their party, therefore, was heavily armed. Varzil seemed to know all of the men within a few hours, quickly putting them at their ease. Clearly, he was no stranger to armies, adapting himself to their routine without complaint.
Dyannis, for her part, had traveled very little beyond the family estate of Sweetwater and Hali, so the journey to Cedestri offered an unexpected adventure. Despite her lingering moments of doubt, her spirits rose along with her curiosity once they were on the road. Even the necessity of a proper chaperone, a lady of unimpeachable rectitude from Carolin’s own court, could not diminish her pleasure at seeing new territory. Everything, from the fields and hills to the tents and picket lines, presented a novelty. Barley and wheat rippled in the breeze. Dyannis passed orchards of nut trees and crabbed apple, spied rabbithorns scurrying for shelter in the hedgerows. She passed low walls of tumbled stone, fish ponds, and streams. Here, under the protection of King Carolin, the land seemed to dream of its own riches. She caught Varzil’s prayer that some day all of Darkover might know such peace.
From the first night on the road, she and Varzil dined together, sitting within the comfort of his tent and talking through the evening. In slow steps, they resumed the easy intimacy of their childhood. Watching him pause with his spoon in midair, eyes blank with some inner fancy, she recognized the odd, dreamy boy he had been, still hidden within the legendary Keeper. In his company, the guilt that had gnawed at her eased, and she found herself laughing at her own jokes. Lady Helaina looked up from where she sat, a proper distance removed, on her backless stool, her body as straight and poised as if a wooden rod had been placed through her spine, and smiled.
They went on in this manner for a tenday, as farms grew scarcer and pastures gave way to rocky slopes. Dyannis realized that Varzil was waiting for the right moment to bring up some serious topic. She sat with him in his tent, the flaps lifted to admit the evening breeze while, in the camp beyond them, men and horses settled down for the night.
Twilight still hung upon the air, a milky swath across the western horizon. Beyond the camp, hills rose like jagged teeth; tomorrow would bring a hard climb, but for this hour, they sat at ease, sipping the last of their measured wine. Lady Helaina had set aside her embroidery and clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed upon the horizon.
In the camp outside, horses nickered on the picket line, men joked with one another and someone began singing a ballad in a rumbly bass voice, accompanied by a reed flute.
Varzil had been wise to wait, Dyannis thought, and keep his thoughts from her. Any earlier, and she would have seized upon any hint of a serious conversation with a renewed spasm of self-recrimination. Now she sat back, feeling the leather straps of her camp chair flex under the movement, and gently asked what was troubling him.
Varzil smiled. “It is no trouble to me, little sister, although there are many who would find it exceedingly vexing.”
“Oh, my!” She laughed despite herself at the image from his mind, a covey of old men and women, trying to hide their scandalized expressions and maintain their dignity.
Lady Helaina took the occasion to excuse herself. Picking up her stool, she withdrew to the edge of light cast from the tent lanterns.
“It is no secret,” Varzil said, leaning toward Dyannis, “though many would like to keep it so. For the past five years, I have been quietly looking for a way to begin training women as Keepers.”
“Oh, surely that’s not possible!” burst from her lips.
“Yes, that’s what I was taught, as were you. But why should it be so? With a little care to her cycles, a leronis may do any work as well as a laranzu. Is Ellimara not as competent a monitor as any man? Are you not as strong a telepath as Alderic or Lewis-Mikhail?”
“Certainly she is, and so am I,” Dyannis protested in a furious whisper, “but Varzil, you’re talking about becoming a Keeper!”
“How is that different from any other work if one is qualified for it?” he demanded. “I did not take on the mantle of godhood when I completed my training, nor did Raimon, nor any of us! It is a skill that any Comyn, man or woman, can learn if they have the aptitude and the dedication. For that matter, any one with the talent, regardless of lineage.”
Dyannis downed the rest of her wine in a single gulp. “Now that is something that really will stir up the guardians of propriety—training commoners? Varzil, you will turn the entire world upon its head!”
“I mean to,” he replied with the impish grin she remembered so well, “but not all at once. The time for new ideas is fast approaching—our Towers are at a fraction of their former strength and in another generation, many will stand empty if we cannot overcome our prejudices. You know as well as I that many a nedestro carries a full measure of talent. How can we afford to let that go to waste just because its bearer is never legitimated, or the bloodline forgotten for a generation? Never mind, let it go. The more pressing issue is one of replacing those Keepers who are aging or lost for other reasons.”
She nodded, thinking of the empty Keepers’ quarters at Hali. Only a generation ago, there had been three Keepers, with apprentices in training. After the death of Dougal DiAsturian, only Raimon remained. He was from a long-lived family and was relatively young. He might serve Hali for decades to come. But he was human, of mortal flesh and bone. He could have been killed in the riot like any other man. If the stone had struck his head just a fraction lower—
Varzil had caught her thought. “There is no under-Keeper to follow Raimon at Hali. And why is that?”
“Because—” she frowned, “because there is no one he deems suitable to teach.”
“No man who is suitable.”
Dyannis stared open-mouthed at her brother. The noises of the camp muted, suddenly distant. A chill wind whispered through the tent. When she found her voice, she said, “Are you saying that there is some woman at Hali whom he would train?”
“Not exactly.” Varzil swirled the remains of his wine in his cup. “One of my reasons for coming to Hali was to discuss this very matter with him. While Raimon is sympathetic to the general concept, he is not yet ready to undertake the training himself. He will not, however, oppose my offer to bring a suitable woman candidate to Neskaya.”
Lord of Light, does he mean me?
“You. Or Ellimara.”
“Ellimara?”
“She is a powerful telepath, and young enough to endure the rigors of discipline. That is a factor against you, though you not only have the strength but the initiative and the self-reliance, as you so ably demonstrated at the lake shore riot—”
“Ellimara cannot possibly be a Keeper! She has hysterics—she’s far too emotional, she—”
“She has never been given the chance to use her passions instead of being at their mercy,” Varzil said, now darkly serious. “And you are evading the issue. Both Raimon and I believe you have the ability to become a Keeper. The work is not easy, but I do not believe anyone with the talent can be truly content with anything less. It would allow you to use all your abilities to their fullest,
as well as serving Darkover in a way few others can. You would have to leave Hali and come to Neskaya. Will you consider it?”
“Varzil, you must be joking!” Dyannis scrambled to her feet, shaking with emotions she could not name. At the periphery of the tent lights, Lady Helaina looked up.
“All I ask at this time is that you consider it,” Varzil said quietly. “Nothing need be decided quickly, certainly not at the end of a long day of travel. I ask only that you think about it in the privacy of your own conscience.”
“You are completely demented!” Dyannis cried. Then she continued in a quieter voice, “Out of respect, I will think about what we have discussed before I tell you so again. My answer must remain the same. Meanwhile, I wish you good night, and dreams of sanity.”
With that, Dyannis swept off to her own tent, Lady Helaina following with a puzzled expression and tightly closed lips.
“Go away,” Dyannis cried. She could not bear the company of the other woman, so calm and sure of herself.
Helaina murmured that she would wait outside for a time, for the night was still mild, but would remain within hearing, should Dyannis need her.
Dyannis raged across the narrow space of the tent. Nameless emotions boiled up inside her, a tumult of jumbled thoughts.
Varzil was insane—the experience on the lake bed, contact with the laran-charged pillars, the turbulence of the day—must have warped his judgment. There was no other explanation. Training nedestro commoners was one thing—there had been a number of brilliant leronyn without proper family names in the past—and maybe—maybe some day, there might be a woman with the temper and strength to do a Keeper’s work—
But herself? After what she had done?
She was exactly as worthy to direct a circle, holding the minds and sanity of its workers in her grasp, as she was to sit on Carolin’s throne! She had no doubt of her own ability—the talent was there, she knew herself to be a powerful telepath, or she could never have controlled the minds of so many. Above all things, a Keeper needed self-restraint, judgment, discipline. She had never had those things in abundance—whenever she thought she had finally mastered herself, some wild impulse would seize her—she would go hawking, or run off to the lake—or in a moment of fury, heedless of the consequences, create the illusion of a dragon. . . .