A Flame in Hali (24 page)

The elderly counselor performed the introductions. Ronal of Isoldir acknowledged Varzil with a slight bow, and then bid his servants bring chairs for his guests. Varzil refused food, but accepted
jaco
for both of them.

Dyannis settled into her seat as a mug of the steaming brew was brought to her. The kitchen must be functioning well enough to supply hot drinks. The
coridom
must be a marvel of efficiency.

After a brief exchange of courtesies, Ronal spoke. “Varzil of Neskaya, you say you came here as emissary of King Carolin Hastur. What is his interest here?”

“I cannot speak for him with regard to Aillard’s attack upon you,” Varzil replied with the same forthright-ness, “nor of yours upon them. My mission concerns quite another matter, one which has been overtaken by these dreadful circumstances. I was sent to persuade Cedestri Tower and you, its Lord, to join us in a Compact of Honor, abandoning the use of
laran
in warfare. We know that Cedestri Tower developed a new variant of bonewater dust—”

Lord Ronal’s mouth tightened, but he did not flinch.

“—and we sought to prevent its use, as well as the escalation of hostilities that must surely follow.”

Most men spoken to in such a manner would respond with anger, Dyannis thought, but Ronal of Isoldir only nodded. Varzil had read him correctly.

“You came too late,” Ronal said, his voice edged with weariness. “I doubt we would have listened then, when we were full of arrogance and pride. You may return to your master and say that our own folly has accomplished more than your words ever could. Here we sit, as you see, disarmed by those very events that we set into motion.”

He knows that Aillard could have destroyed him utterly, and did not,
Varzil spoke mentally to Dyannis.
For the moment, shock has humbled his pride, but it will return, and with it, a thirst for revenge. We must offer him something better.

“By your leave,” Varzil said, “my sister and I will remain here for a time. There are many injured folk both here and below at the Tower who need our skills. Cedestri must be rebuilt, at least until her relay screens and healing circles can function once more. No—” He broke off Ronal’s interruption, “we ask no recompense for this. I offer it freely, without condition, for I am bound by my Keeper’s oath to help my fellow
leronyn,
and by my conscience to sow healing instead of grief, so that hope and friendship may eventually replace enmity.”

“By the gods,” one of the counselors muttered under his breath, “have the Towers formed an alliance against us?”

“Hold your tongue,” his fellow whispered, “the man is offering to help us. Without him, we have no chance of rebuilding Cedestri, not within our generation.”

“Silence!” Lord Ronal snapped. “I most humbly beg your pardon for this ill conduct,
Dom
Varzil.”

“That is not necessary,” Varzil replied easily. “You have my pardon and anything else I can give that will allay your suspicion. I came to sue for an end to the most terrible weapons of war and that is still my mission, if not by prevention, then through reconstruction afterward. Often we cannot choose how we may fulfill our purpose; we can only seize those chances the gods present to us.”

A hint of color passed over the Isoldir lord’s face, a lessening of the ashen gray of exhaustion. Again he welcomed Varzil and Dyannis, this time with genuine warmth. He offered them shelter for the night in more comfortable quarters than could be found below, but Varzil declined, saying there were still wounded who must not be left unattended.

Slowly, they made their way back down the trail. Dyannis, for all her adventurous spirit, would have quailed to attempt it by the uncertain light of moon and torches, but her little Isoldiran mare lowered her head and moved along surefootedly, never stumbling. She must, Dyannis thought, know the trail by heart.

Below them, fires still burned, marking the ruined Tower. She wondered if it would ever be functional again. The repair of the physical structure was easy enough, but the circle, if one survived, would be greatly reduced. She was not sure Francisco would live, even with their concentrated efforts.

“If I were Isoldir’s Lord,” she said so that only Varzil could hear, “I would fear being left bare to Valeron’s sword.”

“Ronal might seek protection from a more powerful king, but I cannot see him bending his knee as a vassal,” he said. “Yet if he is the one to offer an alliance, he will retain his dignity. He need not accept whatever terms are offered, like stale leavings from last season’s banquet.”

“Why did Valeron leave him this much, then? Why not destroy him utterly and put a final end to the conflict?”

For a moment, Varzil did not answer. “Perhaps the Aillards understand, as others do not, how precarious is the balance between the powers of our world. Isoldir has never been mighty, yet her absence would leave a gaping wound, an opening for lawlessness that could spread like an unchecked forest fire.”

“That’s true enough,” Dyannis agreed. “Better the adversary we know, whose temper is tried, than some outlaw king who understands neither honor nor restraint.”

She felt his smile, although she could not see it in the darkness. “Best be careful,
chiya,
or you will become a formidable diplomat.”

“The gods forbid!” she laughed.

In the next few days, several of the more seriously injured workers died, despite the best efforts of Dyannis and Varzil. By happenstance, the part of the Tower first struck had housed most of Cedestri’s monitors. The young girl who had worked with Dyannis was their only surviving healer. The people of the village did what they could for the rest with herbs and soothing poultices.

Francisco mended slowly. It would be many tendays before he was well enough to resume any duties. The headman of the village insisted upon giving him his own bed, where the Keeper sat, propped up on pillows to ease his breathing, and discussed the Compact with Varzil.

Varzil’s energy astonished Dyannis. During the day, they worked together, using their linked
laran
for healing, supervising the village folk and Carolin’s men. Normally,
laran
work would have taken place after ordinary people were asleep, to minimize the psychic distractions, but with the loss or incapacity of so many of the Cedestri
leronyn,
they were heavily dependent upon the help of commoners.

When her day’s work was done, an evening meal eaten and personal chores finished, Dyannis wanted nothing more than to crawl off to her own tent, one shared with several of the Cedestri women. Sometimes, she saw candles burning in the house where Francisco stayed and knew that Varzil was sitting with him. Other times, she sensed his mental signature from afar and found him sitting alone on the small rise beyond the barley field.

She went out to him during these times, fearing that something troubled his mind. He was the rock upon which they all rested. If he should fail, there was no hope for any of them. She knew he carried some secret grief; she saw it in the shadows of his eyes when he turned away into solitude. She felt it in the way he cupped the ring he wore on his right hand, one she did not recognize, one he never spoke of.

T
he town of Robardin’s Fort lay on the edge of the vast Plains of Valeron. Here the Greenstone River crossed two major trade roads, linking the kingdom of the Aillards with Isoldir, as well as the Hastur Lowlands. It was an independent township, fiercely neutral, owing allegiance to neither realm.

The central part of the Fort lay behind stout palisades that had been buttressed and repaired over the years, some portions weathered into ghostly whiteness, others newly cut or glistening with oil.

On the day of their arrival, Eduin and Saravio shuffled along with a convoy of wool traders they had followed for the last part of the journey.

Eduin recognized the river with its bustling wharves, the bright pennons in the town’s colors. When he had passed through Robardin’s Fort many years earlier, he had been a privileged traveler, a
laranzu
trained at Arilinn. His belly had been full, his clothes rich and warm, and aside from a little trail dust, he had been as clean and well-groomed as any
Comyn
lord.

Now he wore tatters, stiff with grime, and he had not eaten in days. He carried a ragged pack, patched together from homespun and scraps of leather, to which he’d tied a water pouch and the blanket that had been his only warmth along the road. Their food was long gone and the last of their meager supply of coins spent. The pack was empty except for a shirt in even worse condition than the one he wore and a few oddments, a wooden cup and spoon of the cheapest sort, a stick for cleaning his teeth.

Saravio’s health had deteriorated during their flight, although he made no complaint. With his
laran,
Eduin sensed the other man’s withdrawal into himself, despair turning into mute endurance. Saravio did not suffer any fits along the road, at least none Eduin recognized, but he seemed to be slipping into a dream world. He ate when Eduin gave him food and lay down when it was time to rest, although he rarely slept in a normal way. Instead, he curled upon himself, eyes open, lips moving soundlessly.

Despite the added burden of caring for Saravio, Eduin refused to abandon him. If Saravio had exhausted himself in controlling the mob at Hali, it was at Eduin’s instigation. Eduin was not unaccustomed to feeling responsible for another human being. He rationalized that Saravio was still useful to him. Even at times when Saravio seemed barely conscious of his surroundings, he would rouse at Eduin’s urging and hum his special song. The relief was enough to keep Eduin’s inner demons at bay. Although Eduin hated being dependent on Saravio, he also felt a strange pity for this poor addled soul, so racked with his own private torment. Perhaps when they found a place to live and work, perhaps Robardin’s Fort, Saravio might recover some measure of sanity. Until then, Eduin determined to remain with him, caring for him as best he could.

Along the road, Eduin had listened for news from Hali, especially any hint that he might be hunted. He learned nothing of any significance. Because he and Saravio had left Thendara so quickly, never lingering in one place, they had outstripped the usual network of rumor. Occasionally, there would be some hint of a disturbance at Hali, but Eduin said nothing to his fellow travelers, pretending ignorance rather than risk betraying greater knowledge than an innocent man ought to have.

At the entrance to Robardin’s Fort, Dry Towns
oudrakhi
lumbered amidst horses, mules and
chervines,
wagons and carts. Liveried footmen ran ahead of sedan chairs, crying for pedestrians to make way. A small company of soldiers, mercenaries by their battered armor and lack of any lord’s colors, shoved their way through the crowd.

This late in the day, the great red sun cast long shadows across the dusty road and softened the worn, splintered palisade. They approached the gate. There was an inspection point, armed guards and a clerk of some kind, a weedy man who squinted down at his book as he inscribed the name and business of each man. He waved the wool traders through with a warning to unload their pack animals and have them out of the town before curfew.

He peered at Eduin and Saravio. “Names? Business?”

Eduin fabricated a couple of names. “We seek work.”

“You and half the countryside,” the clerk sniffed and rubbed his long, blade-thin nose. “I don’t suppose you have the money for an inn either.” He pointed with the end of his quill in the general direction of the motley sprawl outside the gates. “See those striped poles? You can offer yourselves as day labor tomorrow, starting an hour before dawn. If your employer requires you to enter the city, he’ll give you a day token.”

They headed for the livestock pens, since Eduin had often found work in Thendara at livery stables. He knew horses well enough and could manage
chervines.
It didn’t take much skill to muck out stalls, just a strong back. This late in the day, however, the drovers had long since hired whatever casual labor they needed. By their sharp looks, Eduin knew that he and Saravio were not welcome to linger.

The light was fading fast, and with it, any hope of entrance to the town. Small cook fires dotted the clusters of hovels and marked where traders camped out with their wagons. By this time, Eduin was trembling with weariness and hunger, and Saravio had lapsed into silence. He moved only when Eduin pulled him along.

They approached several of the campfires, and each time they were turned away, sometimes with scowls, sometimes with an apology that there was nothing extra to share. When Eduin feared he might fall to his knees and beg, two grizzled men hunkered around a cook fire beside a shambling hovel offered them soup and bread. Eduin had seen their like a hundred times in Thendara. He knew the color of their skin, prematurely aged from exposure and hunger, knew the calculating look in their eyes. These were men he could bargain with.