The Bronze of Eddarta (3 page)

“I’m the first to admit that you and I aren’t the best of friends, Thymas, but we
have
fought the same enemy. And we’ve ridden together.”

A muscle along Thymas’s jaw tensed and relaxed.

This “boy” is going to be the next Lieutenant of the Sharith
, I thought.
He takes that duty very seriously. It’s time I showed him that I take HIM seriously.

“Tarani’s power and your sword, Thymas. If I’d had a choice, I couldn’t have selected two stronger weapons to use against Gharlas. But an unwilling weapon is more hazard than help. Convince me that I’ll have your cooperation—not obedience, mind you, but
cooperation
—or stay behind.”

I stopped, wondering if I’d said enough, or too much. The boy was thinking about it; that was a good sign. He leaned heavily on the back of the chair in front of him, looking at me, considering. When he spoke, the meek, whining tone was absent from his voice for the first time since the fight with Gharlas. If I’d done nothing else, I’d taken his mind off his guilt.

“ ‘Trust.’ ‘Cooperation.’ ‘Sincerity.’ ” He quoted the words skeptically. “Here’s some sincerity, Rikardon. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. And I
still
don’t understand why Dharak made you Captain.”

Your resentment is showing, Thymas
, I thought,
but this isn’t like your usual fit of temper. It is possible—barely possible—that we’re finally beginning to communicate with one another?

“Dharak was worried that you were going to lead the young Riders after Gharlas,” I said. “He thought that if he made me Captain, and
I
told them to stay put, they’d listen. He does believe that I’m
supposed
to be the Captain. But what he really wanted was to avoid the split-up of the Sharith.” I let that sink in, then I said: “Dharak still leads the Riders. So will you, when your time arrives.”

Thymas was quiet for a moment. “Convince
me
of something,” he said at last. “Convince me that you’re the one who is supposed to lead this ‘team.’ And while you’re at it, tell me what the filth you’ve been hiding all this time. Show me the same kind of trust you say you want from me.”

I heard Tarani’s intake of breath, but I didn’t give her a chance to say anything.

“That’s fair, Thymas, and I wish I could give you clear, objective reasons for it. I can’t. It’s just something I feel. There, is something which I
have
been concealing—not for lack of trust, but because I didn’t think your knowing it would be useful to either one of us. I’m a … Visitor. Markasset was killed by one of Gharlas’s accomplices. I arrived a few hours later.”

I saw a look of revelation cross Thymas’s face, and I was sure that I was about to be accused, once more, of being a reincarnation of Serkajon. Because Markasset was descended from the man who had destroyed the corrupt Kingdom, and because I had been given his unique steel sword, that seemed to be the standard conclusion people jumped to when they found out I was a Gandalaran personality returned from the All-Mind.

Of course, that’s not what I was, but I had let the few who knew about me believe it, because the concept was acceptable to them. No one in Gandalara knew the truth about where this “Visitor” had come from.

Ricardo had been cruising the Mediterranean Ocean—a concept in itself unacceptable to the desert-familiar Gandalarans—in the company of the lovely young Antonia Alderuccio when the fireball had somehow transported Ricardo to the Kapiral Desert, Markasset, and Keeshah. That star-covered night, and Antonia, were secret memories that came often to my dreams.

It turned out that I was wrong about what Thymas was thinking.

“That’s why Gharlas called you ‘double-minded!’ ” he cried. “Is that why you could break—? … Oh.”

I didn’t say anything while he mulled it over, all his thoughts turned inward. When his eyes refocused, he said: “All right. You’ve convinced me. Now, what proof will you accept that I’ll follow orders?”

“All I need is your word, Thymas, freely given.”

I was on the slope below the workshop, walking back from the bath-house, when the sudden Gandalaran night overtook me. Although no starlight could penetrate the cloud cover, the diffused moonlight gave a ghostly glow to the large features around me—the road, the fields, the outlines of the workshops. A brighter patch of light marked the upstairs window of Volitar’s old living quarters, and I aimed my steps in that direction.

As I neared the downhill entrance of the house, I heard the sound of Tarani’s humming, and I was able to separate her from the other dark shapes. Ronar was stretched out on the ground, lying on his side. Tarani was kneeling behind him, touching the ugly, infected gash on the back of his neck with one hand. Her other hand was stroking his head slowly, smoothing the fur between his tapered ears.

While I stood there watching, the cat’s labored breathing slowed and softened; his limbs moved slightly as the muscles relaxed into Tarani’s hypnotic sleep.

I could resist or accept Tarani’s powers. This one I had accepted, benefited from, and enjoyed. It had become harder to resist, and right then I had to shake my head to keep from falling under the spell of her rich, compelling voice.

When Tarani had finished, she stood up and came over to me. She touched my arm and led me away from the house so our voices wouldn’t disturb the sleeping cat.

“It would be hypocritical of me, now,” she said, “to question your decision, Rikardon. But I am concerned for Ronar and Thymas. You must know that they really aren’t ready to travel.”

“Tell me something,” I said. “Was it easier to put Thymas and Ronar to sleep tonight?”

“Yes,” she answered, after thinking about it for a minute. “Yes, it was.”

“Staying here was tearing Thymas apart inside, Tarani. He wanted us to get going, but didn’t want to be left behind. His sense of duty was in conflict with his desires. And that was another source of guilt for him.

“Sitting still is hard for a man like Thymas. That inner turmoil had to be interfering with your healing. Now that he knows we’re all going to
do
something—and now that he and I know where we stand—I’m hoping he’ll mend faster.”

She laughed and shook her head as she took two quick steps forward. The window’s light cast a golden sheen on her fine-boned, pale face as she turned toward me.

“Why is it, Rikardon,” she said, “that I have the mind-gift, yet you read people more clearly than I?”

She was not speaking of telepathy. She meant what Ricardo would call intuition, or empathy, and what Markasset would define as a strong link with the All-Mind: an ability to compare an individual’s actions and attitudes to a wide spectrum of experiences, and to define his motivation.

If Markasset had such a link, it was entirely subconscious in Rikardon. But Ricardo hadn’t lived for sixty years without learning something about people. Gandalarans weren’t human, physically—their body and facial construction differed slightly from
Homo sapiens
—but their mental and emotional patterns were very human.

“Perhaps it’s because I’m older, Tarani.”

“You’re referring to your … other lifetime?”

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

I shrugged. “Ordinary.” I felt the usual twinge at the deception; I let her assume that we shared the same heritage. “I was something of a scholar, something of a fighter.”

I was grateful that she didn’t pursue her curiosity. She merely nodded. “I expect it was the second one that lets you see what Thymas is feeling.”

“I … can appreciate something else he feels,” I said.
What the hell am I doing?
I asked myself.

“The sha’um,” I stammered lamely, and too late.

“Don’t back away from it, Rikardon,” she said quietly. “You and I—we need to ‘know where we stand’, too.”

She was right, of course. And in the lamplight—in any light—she was beautiful. Even Ricardo would have appreciated Tarani’s slim, dancer’s body, the high-cheekboned face. She shared the patrician looks of the Lords of Eddarta, which were closer to human facial features. The wide tusks that took the place of canine teeth were there, still, but the supraorbital ridge was less pronounced, the face more narrow. Her unusual dark head fur and the glow of power in her eyes set off her striking appearance—even now, with refracted candlelight wavering across her face.

“Before I walked into Thymas’s life, he had everything, Tarani. The respect of the Riders, a guarantee of the future he had aimed for all his life, a woman he hoped to marry. I’m not responsible for the upheaval he has lived through in these past weeks, but I am associated with it.

“He and I made a start, this afternoon, toward—well, not friendship. Call it noncompetition. If I were to … say certain things to you right now, that balance would be destroyed.”

Her back stiffened. “You seem to know so well what Thymas feels,” she said. “Assuming that I am no more than a prize for a footrace, does he think he can still compete for me?”

“You know I didn’t mean it that way. Thymas has an abundance of pride. I think he’s accepted the fact that the woman he loved was only one dimension of the complex Tarani he’s getting to know now. But he knows—more importantly, you and I know—that, within the limits of the personality you showed him, you really did love Thymas.

“Maybe you still do.”

“Yes,” she admitted, and her stiff posture relaxed. “At least, I still care for him insofar that I would not wish him any further hurt. I do see your point. It is one thing that I have turned away from him. It would be quite another if I turned to you. It would disturb him and disrupt the healing process.”

“And we need Thymas healthy when we meet Gharlas,” I agreed.

She shook her head. “Your concern goes deeper than that,” she said. “I can read that much, at least. In spite of all the trouble he has been to you, in your own way, you care for Thymas, too.”

“I said we have ridden together. You know Thymas, and the Sharith.”

“A bond of loyalty,” she said. Abruptly, she took a couple of paces, then came back.

“I confess that I feel drawn to you, Rikardon. It may be no more than curiosity. It may be a kinship created by what we are trying to do. It may be gratitude for your compassion toward Thymas, and Volitar. Whatever is causing it, the attraction is there, and it is better that we recognize and control it.

“I think you and I must ‘stand’ apart, for now.”

She walked away, leaving me feeling uncertain as to whether something had been settled … or begun.

The next morning, Tarani and I walked downhill to the market area of the city, and bought the few supplies we thought we would need. We were still Molik’s guests, though the coins Tarani had grabbed out of his lockbox after Thymas had killed the roguelord were dwindling fast. I had been wishing that we could buy some extra clothes to take along, but it looked as though we couldn’t quite afford it.

Tarani was holding the parcels which contained bread and dried meat. When she saw me counting, she said: “You are welcome to use Volitar’s money.”

I pulled the drawstrings of the pouch and tucked it into my belt. Then I picked up my parcels—fruit and the roast fowl we would eat on the first night—and led her away from the market stall.

“Thank you, Tarani,” I said, “but I don’t think that’s wise. Why didn’t your uncle—”

“My
father
,” she corrected me, with sudden sharpness.

“Why didn’t Volitar spend them?” I asked, after a second or two. “You said yourself, he never lived more than comfortably.”

“They are Eddartan coins,” she said. “Perhaps they were a memento of …”

Her voice trailed off, and I knew she was thinking about the mother she had never met. It was a romantic notion, that Volitar had kept that wealth secret, in memory of Zefra. It seemed to be a romantic story, what we knew of it. I knew Tarani believed she would meet her mother in Eddarta. I hoped, for Tarani’s sake, that such a meeting would live up to her expectations.

“Volitar showed his love for Zefra in much more concrete ways, Tarani. I think he held on to those coins because spending them would be dangerous.”

“But I have seen many Eddartan coins in Dyskornis, Rikardon.”

“Gold twenty-
dozak
pieces? Bearing Pylomel’s likeness?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen many of the gold pieces, but … no, now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen coins like the ones we found with Zefra’s letter. Do you think Volitar was afraid he could be traced here, if he spent the coins?”

I nodded.

“Then what shall
we
do with them?”

“Take them with us.”

We were still in the marketplace, and just then I spotted a stall with leather goods and tanned, uncut skins.

“Here, hold these a minute,” I said, and walked over to the leather dealer, who was seated under an awning supported by thin poles. On the ground around him were his wares. The worked goods—boots, belts, baldrics, vlek harnesses—were displayed on colored cloths. The skins—taken from
glith
, the deer-size food animal—were laid out in long lines, overlapped slightly so that a portion of each skin was visible. I walked around, bending over to look at the skins. When I found what I wanted, I sat down.

The dealer, who hadn’t said a word (although he’d kept a wary eye on me), suddenly came to life.

“Yes, sir, how may I serve you this morning?”

I touched the glith skin I’d selected, asked him the price, and we started haggling.

“Sorry I took so long,” I said, when I got back to Tarani with my new purchase. I took some of the bundles back, and we started walking northward, heading back to Volitar’s shop. Tarani took the skin, which the dealer had rolled and tied, and looked it over skeptically.

“This is ugly,” she said finally. “Thin and discolored—surely you could have afforded a better one. What are you going to do with it?”

At that moment, we were moving through the shopping crowd. “That’s going to give me something to do along the way,” I said. “Let’s hurry, shall we? If we don’t get back soon, Thymas is liable to leave without us.”