The Alton Gift (21 page)

"I—I think so." Jeram's mount moved off, following the other animal. "I'm afraid I can't remember how I got here, or who you are, for that matter."

The other woman swiveled in the saddle, and he got a good look at her face, pleasant mouth, wind-roughened cheeks, ginger hair hacked off like a boy's. Something in her eyes reminded him of Morna, a cousin perhaps. She introduced herself as Nerita n'ha Caillean, without any family name.

"I remember being sick. You came to tend me." Jeram tried to sort through the chaos of impressions, some of which were clearly halluci-

nations. Although he did not feel delusional, he knew of half a dozen agents, biological and chemical, that might produce what he had just lived through. So far as he knew, none of them had ever been imported to Darkover.

"You've been through a bout of threshold sickness, pretty bad, too," Nerita said, nudging her horse forward. "I've never heard of someone as old as you getting it. It's usually adolescents, and Comyn at that. Were you ever tested for
laran
?"

Hell, I don't even know what it means!

"The folk at the Tower will sort it out," she said, "or else Morna will take it out of my hide. Here we are."

They had reached a little village nestled in a little depression. Rising in his stirrups, Jeram made out the outlines of the city itself, as gray as the mountainside. Above it, sheets of glacial ice shimmered in the sun. The village was nothing special, houses of wood and stone, pens and sheds for livestock, an inn with its stables, a cookshop or two doing business with travelers to the city. He had a vague recollection of having passed through the village before, stopping for a tankard of steaming, spice-laced cider on a frosty morning before going on to the city, where Morna bargained for salt and sewing needles. He had watched silently as the men of the village sold their furs and ice-melons, buttons carved from chervine antlers and blankets woven from their soft fur.

The familiar wariness settled on him.
Stay quiet, unnoticed, do nothing to attract questions
.

He swayed in the saddle, his stomach unsettled. Perhaps this weakness was due to his recent illness or to simple lack of food. He could not remember having eaten.

Never before had he felt so exposed. The smallest gesture—the movement of his hand to the blaster no longer at his hip, an inadvertent expletive in a language no Darkovan spoke—would betray him. Something else now flowed through his every thought, colored his vision and his breath.

What was this
laran
Nerita had spoken of, which now had sunk its claws into the deepest recesses of his mind
?

Through his wavering vision, Jeram spotted a towerlike structure at the far end of the village, neither fortress nor lookout. Yet, he sensed, it was not undefended. An invisible barrier walled it away from the rest of the world.

"What—what is that place?" he asked.

"The end of our journey—Nevarsin Tower," answered his Re-nunciate guide. "Mayhap you'll not have heard of it, for the folk there do little to draw attention to themselves. They will lend their magic in time of need, for healing beyond what we can give. Otherwise, they are as reclusive and close-mouthed as the
cristoforo
monks."

A man in warm, ordinary clothing, his face grave and lined with care, his hair carrot-red streaked with gray, met them at the base of the Tower. After hearing Jeram's story, he took him inside.

As soon as the heavy wooden door closed behind them, a flood of impressions assaulted Jeram's senses—colors, swirling and melting into one another, music from a dozen different directions, fire flaring and then subsiding into the narrow flame of a candle…

He put out one hand to steady himself and almost fell. The walls

Marion Zimmer Bradley
"
Deborah. Ross

around him, stone partly covered with carved wooden panels, dissolved into sparkling powder.

"You are unwell, but we will care for you," the man said with a kindness that surprised Jeram. "Do not fear, we are not sorcerers, as they call us in the city, nor are we devils or men cursed by the gods. Everything we do here lies within the power of the trained human mind. Come now, lean upon me. I will take you to a place where you can rest, and then our
leronis
will see to you."

Leronis
… That was some kind of seeress, a fortune-teller or herbalist perhaps. Whatever was wrong with him, this
threshold sickness
, the last thing he needed was the ministrations of a native witch-doctor.

Something tugged at Jeram's memory, some detail from the sleep tapes or his field briefings. Something, perhaps, he had heard during his brief time stationed in Aldaran.

Something about extrasensory powers, women and men, cloistered and trained in unimaginable ways to use these talents. Was that what was wrong with him, Jeram wondered, some psychic malady? He had no detectable psi; he'd been tested as part of his Federation placement evaluations. Everyone knew that such talents, assuming they were genuine and not an elaborate hoax, were worthless…

Jeram could not think straight. The world was thinning again, twisting and melding. Somehow, his body managed to keep going, propelled by the gentle pressure on his shoulder.

They passed through a narrow hall, a common room, and up a winding staircase. Here and there, softly glowing globes had been set in brackets on the walls. They looked like solar lights, but that was impossible, Jeram thought dazedly. Darkover was a low-tech world, wasn't it?

Jeram leaned heavily on the railing and kept going. Moving helped the disorientation. After what could have been only a few minutes but seemed much longer, they came to a landing.

Jeram's guide lifted a latch and swung open a door to what was surely a bedroom, one wall curved with the outer shape of the Tower, windows of surprisingly good glass, a bed and chest, and a cabinet with bowl and ewer of beautifully glazed blue pottery. He stumbled to the bed, which seemed to reach out to receive him. As he closed his eyes, the twisting in his stomach enveloped him.

Some time later, he became aware of thirst and the presence of another human being in the room. A woman in a long red robe, her features partly shadowed by a gauzy scarf of the same color, sat on a stool beside his head, leaning over him. She could have been any age from twenty to forty, with smooth, milk-pale skin, peculiar colorless eyes, and copper-bright hair.

She smiled encouragement. "The worst of the threshold sickness has passed. I don't understand why you were not better prepared. Surely, someone must have warned you of the danger when your
laran
awoke."

Jeram sat up, half expecting the world to slip and grow thin, but it remained normal. His body felt sound enough, without injury or undue fatigue. Despite his thirst, he felt unusually well, his vision clear and steady.

How much could he say? The less, the better.

"I didn't know I had it."

She looked at him with a strange intensity. At the back of his mind, he felt a whisper touch, as if she had gotten
inside
his skull.

Memory came roaring up, of terrible crushing pressure in his head, of himself disintegrating under its weight, of fighting back with every last morsel of will and desperation—

—
the face with the burning eyes
—

The next instant, the butterfly touch vanished. The woman sat back, staring at him with an expression he could not read. "I most humbly beg your pardon for the intrusion," she said. "I am Keeper here, and you have been under my care. You were near death when the Renunci-ate brought you to us. I entered your mind only to save your life."

"You…"
saved my life
, Jeram thought, and knew in the pit of his belly that she had.

He struggled for the right words. "I don't understand any of this. What you say
feels
right. I know it's true, and I also know…"
that entering the mind of another against his or her will is a kind of rape
.

How exactly did he know that?

"Among telepaths, it is indeed a grave offense. When we speak one mind to another, however, there can be no pretense, no dissembling. If I may—" she reached out one hand. Her fingers were graceful and slender, and, Jeram noticed with a little shock, there were six of them.

Although every nerve shrieked in denial, he forced himself to hold still. "Go ahead. You saved my life. Do whatever you have to."

He closed his eyes, expecting another assault. What came instead was a cool, featherlight touch on his temple. A sensation like silk slipped across his mind, and he caught the distant arpeggio of an Old Terran Welsh harp. He had not heard such an instrument except in recordings since he was a child. The melody, half remembered, half heard, stung his eyes.

She's in my mind
, he thought, and this time there was no reflexive panic.

I am Silvana, Keeper of Nevarsin Tower. From girlhood, I have been trained to match resonances with another mind in such a way as to do no harm.

Only Jeram's long years of training kept him from jumping to his feet—he had
heard
her thoughts.

"Open your eyes, man who calls himself Jeremiah Reed." Silvana's voice carried neither censure nor surprise. She sat on her stool, watching him with careful eyes. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Jeram's heart pounded in his ears. She had read his mind—-she must know who he was.

"We of the Towers do not judge a man by his origin or pedigree, as if he were a race horse," Silvana said, "only by the quality of his character. I have seen enough of yours to believe you are a good man. While you are here, you are under my protection. Let no more be said." Silvana nodded, clearly accustomed to unquestioned obedience.

"A different matter concerns me," she went on. "Clearly, you were not prepared for the awakening of your
laran
. Here at Nevarsin Tower, we can teach you to control those powers, lest they in turn control you."

He caught, like a whisper from another room, the Keeper's thought,
An untrained telepath is a danger to himself and everyone around him
.

"I don't suppose there's any way of getting rid of it?"

"Why would you wish such a thing?" Silvana frowned, and he wondered how he had offended her. "
Laran
is a rare and precious Gift. So few of us have it, and even fewer yet have the strength to put it to use."

For all he cared, she could keep it. "My threshold sickness—will it come back?"

"I cannot say. In most cases, once the crisis has passed, the symp-

toms subside. However, you may be vulnerable to a relapse simply because you are older." At his quizzical glance, she explained, "The channels that convey
laran
also carry sexual energy. Frequently, both become active at the same time."

"During puberty?"

"Exactly. I've heard of cases in which, for one reason or another,
laran
was shut down or deliberately suppressed. In the old times, Keepers were expected to remain virgins, but nowadays, we know this is cruel and unnecessary. In any event, that cannot be true in your case. You are no
emmasca
, but a functioning, sexually active male."

Silvana said this with such unemotional, almost clinical detachment, she might have been discussing a biochemical reaction. Jeram was accustomed to the earthy candor of the village folk, but he had not expected it from this beautiful, elegant lady. He felt heat rise to his face.

"Your talent seems to have lain dormant, never awakened," Silvana went on without a pause, oblivious to his reaction, "until something happened to overwhelm your natural defenses."

"Like an—a psychic assault upon my mind?" Jeram blurted out before he could consider the full meaning of his words.

"Yes, forced rapport—if that is what you mean—could break through even strong natural barriers." She leaned forward, brushing her fingertips over the back of his wrist. Once again, Jeram felt the silken touch on his mind.

What happened to you
? whispered like a scented breeze.

"I-I don't know."

Nausea rose up in him, and for a terrifying moment, objects at the edges of his vision elongated, plastic melting under heat.

Whats wrong with me? Why can't I remember? Why does this happen to me every time I try?

"I believe that you have answered your own question." Silvana's voice was low and mild, trained to conceal rather than express deep emotion. "Something—or some one—has tampered with your memories and, in the process, broken through to your deeply buried talent."

"Tampered with my memories?" Jeram repeated, stunned.

His first response was to insist that wasn't possible. During his psi

testing, he had been told he was highly resistant to hypnosis. Darko-van pharmacology simply wasn't sophisticated enough to produce drugs that would affect only memory, and only such a small part, a few hours at most. Even if such things existed here, how had it been administered?

And yet
. . .

The Battle of Old North Road—the missing hours—the sense of twisting
wrongness
whenever he tried to think of it—

Quickly, he shut away the thought. The last thing he wanted was to reveal his role in the attempted assassination of the Comyn Council.

A light tap sounded, and the door swung open. A much younger woman, another stunning redhead, entered. She wore a simple belted robe of gray-green and carried herself with the same dignified reserve as the Keeper.

"This is Illona," Silvana said, "my under-Keeper."

Illona carried a small wooden tray with a vial filled with clear liquid, another glass tube marked for measuring, and a cup. She handed the tray to Silvana.

Silvana measured out a portion of liquid from the vial into the cup and offered it to Jeram. "Here, this will help to settle your symptoms. It is honey-water with
kirian
, one of the safer distillations. We keep a supply for youngsters with threshold sickness, and other uses."

Jeram took the cup and sniffed. The liquid had a vaguely citrus aroma. He hesitated, remembering the warnings about native botanicals. The Darkovans might be descended from Terran colonists, but that didn't mean it was safe to eat or drink everything they did. "What does it do?"

"It lowers the telepathic threshold," Silvana said.

"No, thank you. I'll get through this without any drugs." Jeram set the cup aside. He'd had enough of other people inside his head.

Illona exchanged a quick glance with Silvana, then turned back to Jeram. "I am a trained monitor. Will you permit me to examine you?"

Despite Silvana's earlier words of reassurance, Jeram did not want her or anyone else rummaging telepathically around in his memories. "I'm very grateful for all the help you've given me, but this isn't neces-

sary. I'll be fine now." He pulled the bedcovers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

As soon as Jeram's feet touched the floor, dizziness swept through him. His body seemed to divide in two… eight… twenty overlapping images. Thought splintered. The world slipped sideways.

Strong, slender hands lowered him back to the bed. The rim of a cup pressed against his mouth. "Please, let us help you. Drink."

Jeram swallowed. The sweet, aromatic liquid warmed his gullet as it went down.

Breath rushed through his lungs. Blood ebbed and surged behind his eyes to the rippling doubled-beat of his heart. Delicate lines of glowing white light, like skeletons of lightning, shot across his vision.