In his bones, he knew that to go on like this would only drive him mad. He sensed, too, that without his conscious control, his Gift might prove to be far deadlier to those he loved than to himself. The only solution was to master it, to swim as a fish in that surging tide. But how?
The leronis who had taught him as a child had clearly reached the limit of her ability. He must go to a Tower. And what better Tower than fabled Arilinn?
If only he could find some way to make father understand!
“You and your hopeless dreams!” Dom Felix brushed aside Varzil’s explanations. “You always were one for mooning around when there was work to be done, or ranting about chieri singing.”
“They weren’t chieri. No man has seen or heard of them since the Ages of Chaos. They were Ya-men. And I really heard them.”
“Ya-men, fairies, demons from Zandru’s seventh hell! It’s all the same. Your whole life has been devoted to one romantic notion after another. This is just the latest one. I’ve indulged you in the past, perhaps more than was good for you. Now I must correct that. It’s one thing to bring shame upon yourself by behaving in such an undignified manner, begging for admission where you’re not wanted. I will not allow you to besmirch the honor of your house, not after the way they treated me. And all for what? Do you really believe you’re worth training? Even if you weren’t a Ridenow, they’d never waste their time on you. Of course you have some degree of laran—the Council placed its seal on you in attestation to that fact. But a laranzu? You’ve been inhaling ghostweed to think such a thing. You never had threshold sickness worth noticing, and everyone knows that’s what indicates strong laran.”
Varzil hung his head. He didn’t know what to say. His father had calmed down, but he knew that tone of voice. It would be easier to move the Kadarin River from its banks than to get his father to change his mind when he was in one of these moods.
“There, I’ve done all I can to reason with you and that’s an end to it. No more discussion. You will do as I say.”
Chest heaving, head still bowed, Varzil said, “I will not give it up. I cannot.”
“Cannot? You are never to say that!” Felix thundered as he jabbed a blunt index finger in Varzil’s direction. “I gave you life, I can take it away again, and you will be and do what I say! Now get on with your packing!”
Varzil had flinched reflexively at his father’s first shouted words, but he held his ground. “I will do no such thing. I am staying here until Arilinn admits me.”
“You will return home on a horse or strapped across it with your rump so sore you can’t sit on it. That would be a fine fate for someone just accepted by the Council as a true Comyn!”
“I don’t mean to defy you, Father. It’s just—just—”
In a single stride, Dom Felix crossed the space between them and struck his son with a roundhouse punch. The blow caught Varzil on the cheek and spun his head around. He reeled, so stunned that for a long moment, he could not even breathe.
The impact ran deeper than knuckles on flesh. It resonated along every nerve and fiber of Varzil’s body. Beneath his skin, fire raced along the network of energy channels, which carried his laran.
Varzil staggered and caught himself on the back of the wooden chair. His vision whirled. Unable to speak, he shook his head.
“No?” Felix raised his fist again. “NO?”
Father, please! I would do anything else you asked, but do not—do not—
Varzil’s eyes swam with tears. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor. One hand clenched the side of the chair, but he was too disoriented to pull himself upright.
The old man’s face loomed over him. White ringed Dom Felix’s eyes. His lips drew back from his teeth. Veins stood out along his temples.
Father, no!
For a terrifying moment, Varzil thought his father had been taken away and one of Zandru’s demons left in his place. There would be no mercy, no respite until the fury had run its course. Varzil knew his father’s explosive temper. Even the family dogs knew when to hide when their master’s voice rose. If Varzil passed out, he would not feel anything after that. It would be far from pleasant to wake up afterward, but he could endure that. He threw up one hand over his face and braced himself for the next blow.
It never came. A heartbeat passed and then another. Varzil lowered his arm. His father stared at the palms of his hands with an expression of confusion and yes, horror.
What have I done?
Tears bleared the old man’s eyes. The loose skin along his jaw quivered, revealing the shape of the mortal skull beneath. Yet the old man’s pride pressed his lips together, holding in his words.
If he must cling to his pride, Varzil thought, then I must be humble. If he will not be the first to speak, then 1 will.
Varzil scrambled to a kneeling position, He reached up to take his father’s hands. Their positions resembled those of vassal and lord when exchanging oaths of fealty, but with a subtle difference. Varzil took his father’s hands between his own. “Please forgive me. I was rude and disrespectful. I would never wish to bring dishonor upon my family.”
When it came to speaking the words that would surrender his dream, however, his throat closed up.
Dom Felix pulled Varzil to his feet and clasped him in a rough embrace. “I’ll hear no more of that. You’re a good son, or as good as you can be. Nothing I can say will get you to see sense on it, even a blind man can see that. The thing will just have to run its course. Things will be better once we’re out of this thrice-cursed city and back at Sweetwater.”
Too heartsick to protest further, Varzil nodded. He had made peace with his father, but at what price?
4
Despite Dom Felix’s intentions of an early departure, the Ridenow party did not pass the outskirts of Arilinn City until the great red sun was well into the sky. The grass along the road had lost its coating of dew hours before. The promise of the autumn day’s fleeting warmth rose from the land. The men were anxious to return, wearied of celebratory evenings that were more political sparring than entertainment. Varzil rode silently in the position in which his father had placed him, second in the procession. He did not speak, even when a casual comment was thrown his way. His inner senses strained backward, toward Arilinn and his fading dreams.
The road before him wavered in his sight. Colors blurred together—the red-brown rump of the horse in front of him, the gold of the sunparched grasses, the gray of the stones, the layered haze of the sky. He let the reins fall loose on the neck of his mount and pressed both hands over the pain in his chest. An invisible rope tethered the very core of him to the Tower which had by now disappeared from sight. He thought he must be bleeding, though his heart beat steadily, and then he realized it was not a physical pain.
“Varzil, lad?” A voice reached him from a distance. It was Gwilliam, the stout young horse handler who had stayed with the animals in the stables on the outskirts of Arilinn.
“Let him be.” That was his father’s voice. “Once we’re home, he’ll be all right.”
I am not all right. I have never been all right.
Is this how a laranzu of Arilinn thinks? Wallowing in self-pity like a spoiled child? The words resounded through his skull.
He knew that mental voice, so clear and powerful. Who else could reach him this far, or speak to him this clearly?
Auster!
The same. You could not have stayed with us against your father’s opposition. But do not doubt your Gift. Never doubt that. If it is the will of the gods, we will meet again. Do not lose heart.
Before Varzil could phrase a response, the telepathic contact vanished. In front of him, beyond the nodding head of his horse, the road stretched away through the Plains of Arilinn. To either side, heavy-headed grasses bent under their own ripe weight. Every line of stalk and sunbronzed leaf shone with crystalline clarity. The pain in his body subsided-to an ache.
Varzil straightened in the saddle and lifted the reins. Th
e horse, sensing new energy in its rider, picked up the pace.
When Dom Felix said, “What did I tell you?” Varzil only nodded.
They rode on through what was left of the morning. To either side, harvesters and haywains traced measured patterns through the fields.
As they rested in the heat of noon, a breeze sprang up, laden with the musty, honeyed scent of Orain. Insects whined and clicked. The horses pulled at their bits to snatch stalks close to the edge of the road.
The heat softened the remaining tension in Varzil’s muscles and he found himself nodding in the saddle. His father no longer sat quite so straight, but there would be no stopping for a nap. So he settled himself, loosened his feet in the stirrups, and let his thoughts wander.
Thin clouds spread across the sky, turning it almost white. Light beat down upon them. A few copses and hedgerows near the road provided dappled shade, nearly as hot as the road. The horses had long ago dropped from a brisk walk to an amble and then to a plod. Sweat streaked their necks and flanks.
Dom Felix called a halt in midafternoon at a little stream that meandered near the road. The horses thrust their muzzles beneath the rippling surface. The men dismounted, drank their fill upstream, and washed their hands and faces. Dom Felix sat stoically on his horse, although he accepted a cup. His face had paled to the color of chalk and the muscles of his jaw bulged from clenching his teeth.
Varzil walked to where his father’s kinsman, Black Eiric, was helping Gwilliam check the saddle blankets for burrs or wrinkles. Eiric Ridenow was not he of the same name who had just been made Lord of Serrais, but of a far lesser branch and called so because he was born with a full head of dark hair. The hair had since turned to a deep russet, but the childhood name stuck. Now he was a sturdy man well into middle age, solidly competent, often acting in the capacity of paxman to Dom Felix.
“My father does not look well,” Varzil said in a low voice. “He will not listen to me, but I think he should rest.”
“Aye, that’s truth,” Eiric replied in his easy country way. “I’ll see to it. If he will not bide here for his own health, then he will for the sake of the horses. I can’t remember an autumn day this hot.”
Varzil nodded his thanks and watched while the other man ambled over to Dom Felix’s horse. As if probing an old wound, he reached out for Arilinn in his thoughts, but felt nothing beyond the faint scintillation—half music, half light—of the Veil. He wondered if it would always be with him in memory.
How long he stood there, listening with that inner sense, he could not have said, before he became aware of a faint thrumming underfoot. At first, he felt it with his mind, like a basso counterpoint to the Veil. After a few moments, though, he realized it was a physical vibration. It grew stronger and louder.
Hoofbeats—
Varzil spotted a line of billowing dust, rapidly approaching. He spied a galloping horse, though he could not make out the rider. A sense of urgency rang in the back of his mind like a bell, an almost-familiar touch—
Carlo. The flame-haired youth from Arilinn.
They waited while the rider drew up. Yellow foam dotted the horse’s neck and flanks and lined the breast-strap, but it moved as strong and fresh as if it had just left the stables. Varzil knew horses. This one must have exceptional stamina. Surely it must be one of the fabled black steeds bred at the Alton estates at Armida.
“Aldones be praised! I’ve found you!” Carlo brought the beast to a halt in front of Dom Felix, The black horse pulled at the bit, sides heaving like bellows. Everyone else crowded around. He wore a light summer-weight shirt open to the neck, and no cloak, but the saddle blankets were blue, stitched with the Hastur emblem of the silver fir tree. Carlo must come from an influential family indeed to be able to borrow such a mount.
Carlo kicked his feet free from the stirrups and jumped lightly to the ground. From his expression, Dom Felix was not pleased to see him.
“Come, sir, let us talk privately,” Carlo said with a brief but impeccably polite bow. “I bring news from Arilinn.”
What could those Hali-imyn have to say of any possible interest to me? was Dom Felix’s surly thought.
“Sir, it is your place and not mine to decide what you will tell your people,” Carlo said. If he’d caught Dom Felix’s angry thought, he gave no sign. His expression continued as respectful as before, his gray eyes steady.
The old man frowned, but he dismounted stiffly and gestured that Carlo should follow him. “And you, too,” he said to Varzil, “for this undoubtedly concerns some trouble you have stirred up.”
Carlo handed the reins of the black horse to Gwilliam, bidding him walk the animal before letting him drink. They went a little way off, upriver. Here, willows arched over the water to trail leafy fingers in the eddies. A cool, sweet scent arose from the banks, mixed with the smell of churned mud and the tang of river-wet stones.
Carlo moved closer to Dom Felix, lowering his voice. Varzil felt as well as heard his perfectly enunciated words. “Word came to Arilinn Tower from the leronis at Serrais after you had already departed.”
“Serrais?” Dom Felix repeated the name of the seat of the Ridenow. “There is trouble at Serrais.”
No, not at Serrais. Varzil knew without asking.
Carlo shook his head. “From your own home—Sweetwater, it is called? Three days ago, catmen raided the sheep pastures. Some were killed and others carried off. A group of men cap tained by your oldest son were near enough to come to the aid of the shepherds. There was a fight. The terrain was very bad—‘
An image flashed through Varzil’s mind, though he could not have named its source. He saw the jagged hillside, the stones dotting the windswept heather as clearly as if he stood there.
Two men in the sheepskin vests and woolen breeches of shepherds crouched near the top of the hill, one holding his upper arm. Wetness seeped through his fingers.
The red light of the lowering sun flashed on drawn swords—straight blades of men even now scrambling for room to use their weapons—curved shorter blades in the hands of the agile furred creatures. The catmen fought to cover their retreat as they herded a double handful of terrified sheep along the crevasse.
A man with a black beard stumbled when the rock beneath his feet gave way. A catman leaped for him, curved sword blurring in motion. The man twisted away an instant before the blade would have slit open his belly.
Even as the catman recovered its own balance, a second man scrambled to the side of the first. His approach took him within reach of the catman’s sword. Reversing its blade with inhuman speed, the feline slashed again. The farthest edge caught the man in an upward sweep along his thigh.
Varzil felt the man’s scream as a shiver across his own skin. With his next breath, he tasted the coppery reek of blood.
In an instant, the catmen came swarming back. They flowed through the shadows with deadly grace. Perhaps they scented an unexpected victory.
Terror now masked the images. Varzil could no longer see the hillside clearly, yet he sensed each slice, each thrust, each gasping breath. The musky reek of the catmen washed over him. Adrenaline hung bitter in the cooling night air.
Varzil gave a shudder, returning to himself. Only an instant had passed, barely a phrase or two of the conversation. Yet the images burned inside him, as vivid as if he stood on that hillside beneath the setting sun as Carlo finished his tale, gazing at Varzil with a curious, penetrating expression.
“And the other two men?” Dom Felix asked in a hoarse voice. Varzil had never heard such fear in his father.
“After the battle was over and the catmen fled, a pair of shepherds brought the bodies of the slain men back to Sweetwater. Your son and the other man were not among them.”
“The catmen carried them away?” Felix asked, incredulous.
“Either that, or they fled and may yet still live, wounded and in hiding,” Carlo said. “Your household leronis could not reach the mind of your son, nor could the folk at Serrais.”<
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“I must return at once!” Felix cried, taking a step back toward the watering horses. Then he paused, as the enormity of the distance impressed itself upon him. No horse alive, not even the magnificent black which Carlo had ridden so hard, could cover the leagues in less than a tenday. By then, Harald could be dead or, at very best, the trail too cold to follow.
Varzil caught a flicker of emotion from Carlo. The red-haired youth bowed again to Dom Felix.
“If you would care to return to Arilinn with me,” Carlo said, “an aircar will be placed at your disposal. With luck and a clear sky, you can arrive at Sweetwater this very evening.”
Varzil drew in his breath at the generosity of the offer. Laran-powered aircars were fabulously expensive to own and operate, a luxury restricted to kings and the very wealthy. Aircars depended upon technology developed in the Ages of Chaos, much of it now lost. Even now, few were used outside of warfare and the most urgent diplomatic missions. The Lord of Serrais had one which he never entrusted to anyone else, lest it be damaged. Had Auster used his influence as Keeper to secure one—and why would he go to such lengths to help someone he hardly knew?
“Who arranged this?” Dom Felix said, scowling. “And what will it cost me?”
“The owner wishes to remain unknown, for reasons you must surely comprehend,” Carlo said. “And there is no price. Only a word of advice. There is room for three passengers. You could do no better than to take your younger son.”
“Varzil?” He is no tracker, nor has he any great skill with a sword. And if a trained leronis cannot reach Harald with her mind, what could this pup do?
Dom Felix made a rumbling sound in his throat. He clearly didn’t want to refuse so magnanimous a gift or to make a powerful enemy by an ungracious reply. Varzil almost heard the thoughts in his father’s mind. The important thing was that he reach Sweetwater as soon as possible, assess the situation, and take swift action. If it meant dragging along his useless younger son, that was a small price to pay.