Earth tremors, Gareth repeated to himself. He had studied a little planetology but could not remember any references to seismic activity in the Domains.
As if in answer to Gareth’s thought, Domenic pitched his voice low and bent toward Danilo. Gareth caught a few phrases: “Superficial . . . could be impact . . . if I didn’t know otherwise . . .”
“. . . not the Federation . . . no signals . . . Jeram’s radio project . . .”
Gareth knew of the Terranan renegade, Jeremiah Reed, who had remained on Darkover when the Federation departed and had taken the name Jeram. Their paths had not crossed, except for public events like the Midsummer Festival ball. Jeram had set up a radio listening post, using the abandoned equipment at the old Federation Headquarters.
“Let me know . . . happens again.” Danilo turned and nodded to Gareth in much the same way Gareth might dismiss a child. The two men headed for the city gate, heads inclined together, voices low.
Gareth schooled his features to reflect nothing of what he felt. He should be used to such treatment. If he ever expected to be taken seriously, to be treated with respect, then he himself must behave in a responsible manner.
“Your Highness? Is anything amiss?”
Gareth’s attention snapped to his immediate surroundings. Two courtiers peered at him from a respectful distance. One of them, a Vistarin of Temora, was newly arrived in Thendara and had not yet built a reputation. The man had a little money from his family’s salt trade and not a trace of laran. His companion, on the other hand, had been a minor fixture in Comyn society for as long as Gareth could remember. Stout and dressed unflatteringly in fur-trimmed yellow satin, Octavien MacEwain was always trying to insinuate himself into Gareth’s confidence.
“I was merely contemplating the vastly reduced evening amusements without Domna Marguerida’s musical compositions,” Gareth said with deliberately affected blandness. “Lady Bruna was the jewel of the season.”
“Her absence leaves us all poorer,” the Vistarin lord said.
“And yet . . .” Octavien cut in smoothly, “within every disappointment lies opportunity.”
Octavien’s features betrayed nothing of his purpose, but Gareth had grown up in the treacherous and convoluted world of Comyn politics. What Octavien meant was that the absence of the Regent would be an excellent time for Gareth to assert his claim to the throne. Next, he would suggest that although no one had anything to say against young Domenic, the Council would surely support a legitimate king over a mere Regent’s son. The Regency, begun two generations ago by Danvan Hastur, was never intended as a permanent transfer of power.
He thinks I’m sane enough to be crowned and weak enough to be controlled.
“Oh,” Gareth said airily, “I’m sure we can all find something with which to amuse ourselves.” With a suitably arrogant lift of his chin, he turned and headed for the nearest exit, which happened to be the gate leading to the city.
Not ten paces beyond the Castle walls, Gareth realized he was shaking. The back of his throat tasted of stomach acid, and his temples throbbed. The thought of food nauseated him, but he ought to eat something. Grandmother Linnea would know the moment he arrived for his lesson if he neglected the most basic self-care.
Gareth paused at a corner food stall where a red-cheeked woman stood over a small copper pot set on a portable brazier. The pot gave off the tantalizing aromas of sweet oil and fried dough. The clawing sensation at the back of Gareth’s throat eased. His mouth watered, and his spirits lifted.
The woman used a long wooden skewer to fish out braided, palm-wide pastries, which she rolled in crystallized honey before placing them, steaming and fragrant, on a cooling rack.
“Apple buns, fine sir?”
Gareth bought two, wrapped in paper. Beneath the crisp shell, the buns were moist with bits of fruit and lightly seasoned with spicebark. The taste reminded him of Midwinter Festival treats. The apples had probably been stored since last fall, and the resourceful baker had carved out every useful bit.
From the dregs comes treasure.
“Vai dom,” came a man’s voice, heavy with long-suffering forbearance. “If you please, you should not be here alone.”
Here meant out in the open, mingling with the populace. Alone meant without his bodyguard.
Nursemaid would be more like it.
Irritation flared, fueled by smoldering resentment. Gareth immediately regretted both. Narsin had served the Elhalyn family since before Domna Miralys, Gareth’s mother, was born. The old man would have given his life for any one of them and did not deserve to be the target of Gareth’s foul temper.
“I am sorry if my impulsiveness caused you distress,” Gareth said. “As you see, I am in no danger. Truly, it was not necessary for you to leave the house at such an hour simply because I wished to stretch my legs on this fine morning.”
Cragged brows tensed. The old man set his lips together, but Gareth understood his meaning.
It is neither safe nor seemly for the heir to the crown of the Seven Domains to be wandering around without an escort. Don’t tell me you can defend yourself as well as the next man. Even a swordmaster can be taken unawares.
So Narsin had said a hundred times. Even as a boy, Gareth understood that an ordinary man had more freedom than a prince. And a prince who had once made a fool of himself in front of the Comyn Council must accept the consequences of his actions: suspicion and constant surveillance.
“Very well, then,” Gareth said, “but don’t hover at my elbow, glaring at every passer-by. There are no World Wreckers abroad this morning.”
Without waiting for a response, Gareth headed back toward Comyn Castle, but slowly enough so that the old man could easily keep pace. It was early for his lesson with Grandmother Linnea, but he badly wanted to be off the streets. At the moment, he felt he’d had all he could tolerate of being watched over and whispered about.
There were no longer any World Wreckers, or any saboteurs, undercover agents, or Federation forces of any sort remaining on Darkover. Except, of course, the very few, like Jeram, who had stayed behind out of loyalty to Darkover when the Terrans withdrew their forces.
Gareth lifted his face to the sky, trying to imagine what it must be like out there, in the vast reaches of space. Darkover was an insignificant planet, considered irredeemably primitive by the Federation. Only its strategic location on the galactic arm, and then later its potential for exploitation, had granted it any status. Even that could not justify the Terranan presence once the Federation erupted into interstellar war.
What was going on up there? Who was winning, who losing? Darkover had had few enough allies in the Senate, even before the war. And will they ever come back?
When they do, we will be ready for them. So Gareth had sworn more times than he could count. Now the words sounded hollow. If the Federation returned, with its advanced technological weapons, determined to seize whatever it wanted, who could stop them? And how?
Since childhood, Gareth had been drilled in the importance of the Compact, the ancient code of honor that forbade the use of any weapon that did not bring the wielder within equal risk. In many ways, the Compact was the soul of Darkover, of the Domains, anyway. The Dry Towns had never sworn to it, but their inhabitants did not possess laran.
Laran. As the rambling complex of walls and towers of Comyn Castle came into view, Gareth tried to imagine a world without laran. Darkover was unique in the strength and prevalence of psychic powers, powers that, when amplified by the psychoactive matrices called starstones, were capable of everything from sensing the emotions of another, to healing mind and body, to charging batteries that could light a castle or power an airship . . . or bring one crashing down.
The Terranan had thought the Compact the superstition of a primitive race. They had not realized it was aimed not at their own technology but at the far more devastating weaponry
of the mind.
Once, Gareth had been taught, laran warfare had raged unchecked across the face of Darkover. Many of the techniques had been lost, and most people thought it better that way.
But if the Federation comes back, our laran may be the best defense we have.
Was it arrogant to think that he could somehow make a difference? Under it all, he supposed, he was a hopeless romantic, a prince who wanted to save his kingdom. Or to prove himself worthy of it.
If Gareth had been alone, he would have used one of the side entrances near Comyn Tower. That would only distress Narsin further, though, for the old man envisioned ambushes in the rosalys arbor. It was better to use the main gate, where armed Guards stood at attention. Gareth paused for a few moments to speak to them.
Gareth and Narsin crossed the outer courtyard, a flagstone square lined with benches and trees, their leaves still bright green. Beds of yellowheart gave off a subtle, spicy perfume. Although the sky had brightened to full morning, it was still chilly in the shadows. Narsin furtively pulled his cloak around his bony shoulders.
“You need not remain with me, old friend,” Gareth said. “Go home and get yourself a hot meal. I am safe within these walls.”
“But, Dom Gareth—”
“No harm will come to me, I promise. Look, see how the Guards watch over me.” They are undoubtedly wondering what scandalous thing the mad Elhalyn princeling will do next. “I have only to call out and they will be here to protect me. And I will be in my grandmother’s care.” What could you defend me against, that a Keeper could not?
Narsin’s shoulders sagged minutely. They had been through similar arguments a hundred times before, and he knew how far he could push Gareth. He nodded, bowed, and departed the way they had come.
Gareth breathed a little more freely as he hurried along the maze of passages leading to the Tower. For a few moments, he need not barricade his thoughts behind a granite shield. His life was like a puzzle. Grandmother Linnea knew part of it; as his friend and Regent-heir, Domenic knew another; his parents saw him as the boy they loved so dearly; the courtiers and Comyn lords regarded him as either yet another of those unstable Elhalyns or else a pawn to their own ambitions. Gareth supposed it was like that for everyone, especially those cursed with noble birth. Perhaps his own father had taken the wiser choice in abdicating his claim to the Hastur Domain in favor of a private domestic life.
Gareth paused outside the door leading to Linnea’s private chambers. Carved with an interlacing pattern of branches, the door always made him think of an enchanted forest and his grandmother as a chieri queen who lived there. She had been queen in all but name, for no one would have challenged Regis if he had wanted the throne.
Before Gareth’s knuckles touched the fine-grained wood, Linnea called for him to enter. He lifted the latch and stepped inside.
Linnea Storn-Lanart sat before the hearth where a fire sent up flickers of brightness. She had set aside her red Keeper’s robes for a gown of undyed wool. The room with its mantle of opalized river-stone was proportioned for a small, delicate person. It fit her perfectly.
She lifted one hand from her knitting to greet him. The light streamed in from the mullioned windows and touched her silver hair. For a moment, with her face softened by shadow, he envisioned her as she must have been, a young woman with a heart-shaped face and deeply expressive eyes. Then she tucked the needles and ball of wool into a basket at her feet, and he saw her as she was. Years had pleated her skin like the withering of a flower, revealing the strength of her character.
“How good it is to see you, chiyu. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming this morning.”
Gareth squirmed, although there was no censure in Linnea’s words, only a gentle reminder that she had waited up for him after a night’s work in the Tower circle. He decided not to mention the courtiers. She’d had enough of such machinations in her own life.
“Forgive me, Grandmother.” Gareth drew up a chair. “Shall we begin?”
With an expression of pleasure, Linnea took out her starstone from its locket lined with insulating spidersilk. Gareth caught a flash of blue-white as the gem touched her skin. Quickly he averted his gaze. The shifting patterns of energy, manifested as twisting light, could be dangerous to any mind other than the one to which the stone was attuned.
Gareth carried his own matrix stone in the old style, in a silk pouch tucked under his shirt. Simple geometric embroidery decorated the outer layer, a gift from one of his Elhalyn aunts. With a practiced tug, he loosened the cord, and the starstone fell into the palm of his hand.
The stone, carried so close to his body, felt warm. Blue-white brilliance lit the facets, dancing through the patterns he knew so well. Sometimes, when he was first learning to use the stone, those patterns had haunted his dreams.
Gareth closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the stone. As he had been taught, he envisioned a single point of light. He imagined it moving through a prism, gaining in power and clarity. The starstone would amplify his own innate talent, but it could not grant him a Gift he did not already have.
What was his Gift? The Ridenow were celebrated for their empathy, particularly with nonhumans. Their skill with horses and hawks was common knowledge. And the Altons . . . forced rapport was not a thing to be taken lightly, and the unchecked anger of an Alton could kill. Other Gifts had been lost through dilution and the passage of time. No one living knew what Gifts the Aillards and Gareth’s own family, the Elhalyns, had once possessed.
The Aillards, he reflected, were all but extinct, their Domain represented on the Comyn Council by a distant, collateral branch. As for the Elhalyns . . .
After so many near-psychotic generations, it is no wonder we have no Gift!
Immediately, Gareth regretted the pettiness of his thought. True, his maternal grandmother had been stricken with depression, delusions, and who knew what else. His own mother, Miralys Elhalyn, had never been anything but sweet natured, constant, and loving. It was unworthy to condemn her in the same breath as Old Stefan or Derik the Insane.
Or me, as I could have been.
As he might still be?
Concentrate on nothing else, only this point of light . . . came Linnea’s silent command, cool as silver. With a start, Gareth reined his thoughts back under control.
The light . . . think of nothing but the light . . .
With a sigh, he lowered his barriers and allowed his mind to merge with hers. She took control with a Keeper’s deft touch.
Gareth floated in a sea of misty blue-white. He poured his mental energies through his starstone and into hers, keeping the stream of laran power steady and even. Peace such as he had rarely known suffused him. Here, in this place out of time, there was no deception, no need for disguise, no schemes or plots, no consideration of rank, no past . . .
His next awareness was the touch of his grandmother’s mind on his, a gentle warning before she broke their rapport. He felt himself falling, as he always felt when ending a telepathic session. They had not worked nearly as long as an ordinary circle would, but their goal was not assembling a higher-order matrix, mining rare minerals deep below Darkover’s crust, producing fire-fighting chemicals or medicines, or any of the hundred things that could be accomplished with laran.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he should seek admittance to a Tower. Linnea believed he had the ability. Aldones knew the circles always needed more workers. That was why Tío Danilo spent the better part of each year searching out new talent.
To bury myself in such a world, a place of peace and fellowship . . . but one where nothing ever changed, where discipline and order were the rule.
No, he could not do that, either.
Linnea rose and stretched. “You did well, little one, once you settled down. I’ve rarely seen you so distracted.”
“I—”
“No, don?
??t tell me. It doesn’t matter. We must leave all personal considerations behind when we work in a circle. That discipline is as necessary for you as for any Tower-trained laranzu.”
Gareth hung his head, offering no excuse.
“Come now, you did not do badly. Did I not say so?” She brushed her fingertips against the back of his wrist in a telepath’s feather-light touch. “We all have days when we are not our best, for are we not human? You are too hard on yourself. Sometimes I think you anticipate criticism by heaping it upon yourself first!”
“If I do not set high standards for myself, who will? Half the city can’t wait for me to fail. The bet-makers are likely making odds that I’ll do it in some spectacular and unseemly fashion.”
Linnea shook her head. “You were very young when Javanne got her claws into you. She no more had your best interest at heart than do those toadies who dog your steps. It is they who are to blame, not you, unless you constantly remind me of it by this wincing.”
“It is an old habit,” he admitted, smiling.
“And one I should be happy to see you rid yourself of.”
“For you, Grandmother, I will try.” Gareth leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. He bowed and stepped back, preparing to take his leave.
A thoughtful expression touched her face. “In some ways, you are very like Regis. He too had an adventurous spirit, although his rank forced him to set aside his own dreams. And he too expected more of himself than anyone else ever could.”
“Grandfather Regis?” The legendary Regis had stood against the World Wreckers and, if half the stories were true, became the living incarnation of Hastur Lord of Light when he destroyed the Sharra matrix.
“Yes, he is best known for those things.” Linnea responded to Gareth’s unspoken thought, for they were still in light telepathic contact. “Before that, he led the Allison Expedition. Oh, yes, he was a mountaineer as a young man. Even as a cadet, he went alone into the Hellers at the time of the first Sharra disaster, when Caer Donn was destroyed.”