The Heirs of Hammerfell (12 page)

and deserves a husband who can respect her, not to be tumbled by a young lord who has nothing more for her. Your family's always been honorable with women. Your father, may the Gods be good to his memory, was the soul of propriety. You wouldn't want it said that you were just a young lecher, good for nothing but to lure women into dark corners."

Conn hung his head, knowing that everything Markos said was true, but still angry at the interruption and aching with frustration.

"You talk like a cristoforo," he said sullenly.

Markos shrugged. "You could do worse. At least wi' their creed you'd never have anything to regret."

"Or to rejoice," Conn muttered. "You've disgraced me, Markos, hauling me away from a dance like a naughty boy to be sent home to bed."

"No," said Markos. "Ye don't believe me now, boy, but I've kept you from disgrace.

Look here―" he indicated the dancing farmers, who had struck up another tune; Conn's eyes followed Lilla, who had been swept into another dance. "Use your head, lad,"

Markos urged softly. "Every mother in the village knows who you are; don't you suppose any one of them would be glad to lure you into her family, and not be above baiting the trap with her daughter?"

"What a view you have of women!" said Conn in disgust. "Do you really think they are so scheming? You never said this to me before―"

"Nay, I didna' " said Markos, exaggerating the rough country accent. "Till the other night, no one knew you as anyone but my son; now they know who you really are, and you are Duke of Hammerfell―"

"And with that and a silver sekal, I can buy a cup o' cider," Conn said. "I see little benefit in that yet―"

"Gi' yourself time, youngster; once there were armies at Hammerfell, and they haven't all turned in their swords for ploughs," Markos said. "They'll gather when the time comes again, and it won't be all that long now. Just have patience." They were moving gradually along the village street until they reached the small cottage where he lodged with Markos. An old man―a bent veteran with one arm―who had waited on them for

much of his life, came and took Markos's cloak and Conn's and hung them up.

"Will ye sup, masters?"

"Nay, Rufus, we ate and drank at the festival," said Markos. "Get to bed, old friend.

There's naught moving tonight."

"Good thing, too," grunted old Rufus. "We had a watch on the pass, in case Storn had his greedy eye on Hammerfell harvests; but there's not so much as a bush-jumper stirring on the hills."

"Good," Markos said, and went to the water bucket, dipping himself out a drink.

"There'll be rain before dawn, I think; good it held off till the bluegrain harvest was stored." He bent to unlace his boots, saying, without looking at his foster-son, "I was sorry to tear you away so abruptly, but it seemed to me the time to take action. I should perhaps have spoken before; but while you were just a lad, it seemed unnecessary. Even so, honor demanded―"

"I understand," said Conn roughly. "It doesn't matter. Just as well we got home before that―" And as he spoke, outside there was a great rush of wind and a sudden roaring as the heavens opened and violent heavy rain sluiced downward, blotting out all other sound.

"Aye, the poor girls will have their harvest finery

spoiled," said Markos. But Conn was not listening; the stone walls of the cottage had faded away, and a blaze of light drenched his eyes. The rough bench beneath him was a brocaded chair, and before him a small, white-haired man, elegantly dressed, with pierc-ing gray eyes, looked straight at him and demanded, If I should give you men and arms to recover Hammerfell, would you then swear to be faithful vassal to the Hastur kings'?

We need faithful men there beyond the Kadarin . . .

"Conn!"

It was Markos shaking his arm.

"Where were you? Far from here, I could tell― was it your dream-maiden again?"

Conn blinked at the sudden darkness of the crude lantern and firelight after the brilliance dazzling him.

"Not this time," he said, "though I could tell she was near. No, Markos; I spoke with King―" he fumbled for the name, "King Aidan in Thendara, and he pledged me arms and men for Hammerfell―"

"Merciful Avarra," muttered the old man, "what sort of dream―"

"No dream, foster-father; it couldn't have been a dream. I saw him as I see you, but more clearly in the light, and I heard his voice. Oh, Markos, if only I knew if my laran is that of foretelling the future! For if it is so, I should go at once to Thendara, and seek out King Aidan―"

"I know not," said Markos. "I know not what laran was in your mother's line―it might well be that."

Markos watched Conn carefully, puzzled by this recurrence of the "dream." For the first time in many years, it crossed his mind: Was it possible that somehow the Duchess of Hammerfell had survived, and had kept alive the cause of Hammerfell in Thendara?

Or even, perhaps, that Conn's brother had somehow survived that night of fire and disaster1? No, surely not; this could not account for Conn's visions; still Conn, he remembered, had always had an unusually strong link with his twin. . . .

Conn urged, "Should I not go to Thendara and speak with King Aidan Hastur―?"

"It's not so easy as that, to drop onto a king's doorstep," said Markos, "but your mother had Hastur kinsmen and for her sake no doubt they'd speak for you wi' the king."

Should I tell him that I suspect his mother―or even his elder brother―might live"?

Markos wondered. No; it wouldn't be fair to the boy, to let him wonder about that all the way to Thendara―there's enough on his mind―

"Yes," he said with resignation. "It seems you must certainly go to Thendara, and find out what they know there of Hammerfell and what can be done to aid our people. It is also time we tried to approach your mother's kin for possible aid they could offer us themselves." He paused for a moment before continuing. "I must also add, my boy, that it is time you spoke with someone more knowing of the ways of laran―these 'episodes'

are becoming too frequent, and I worry about your welfare."

Conn could not help but agree.

Conn rode southward through the soft rain, which blurred the outlines of the hills. As he passed through the southern reaches of the old realm of Hammerfell, and into the

kingdom of Asturias, it seemed that all the Hundred Kingdoms were at his feet. There had once been a saying that many a smaller king in the Hundred Kingdoms could stand on a hill and see

from border to border of his kingdom; and now as he passed from little kingdom to little kingdom, border after border, Conn could see that it was true. To the south, he had been told, lay the Hastur Domains, where during long wars in the past the brilliant King Regis IV had at last reunited many of these miniature Kingdoms under a single rule.

He crossed the Kadarin River into the foothills, and came to Neskaya, said to be the oldest city in the world. There he spent the night, guesting with a lowland family for whom Markos had written him an introduction. They paid him honor and introduced

him to all their sons and daughters; he was not too young and naive to understand that this homage was paid not to him but to his heritage and title; but it was still a heady drink for a boy of his age. He was given to understand that he would be welcome there almost indefinitely, but he kindly declined―his mission pressed him on.

And on sunset of the third day he passed the cloud lake of Hali with its curious fish and the shining ruins of the great Tower which had once stood there and which would

forever remain unrebuilt as a memorial to the great folly of waging war with laran. Conn was not sure he understood the reasoning behind this; if there was so powerful a weapon surely the most merciful thing to do in a time of war was to use it at once and bring the conflict to a quick end before there could be additional deaths, but he could see that if such a weapon fell into the hands of the wrong side, it would surely be disaster. And when he thought it over a little more, he realized that even the wisest might not be able to tell which cause was the most righteous.

He slept that night in the shadow of the ruins, and if there were ghosts, they did not trouble his sleep.

At a travel shelter that morning he washed, combed his red hair, and changed into the clean suit in his saddlebags. He ate the last of his food, but that did not trouble him; he had always hunted for provender, and now he was well supplied with money by his

modest standards, and knew he would be soon getting into more populated areas where he could buy both food and drink. Like a child looking forward to a treat, he was eager to see the big city.

Soon after midmorning he became aware that he was entering the environs of the city.

The roads were wider and smoother, the buildings older and larger; most of them had a look of having been inhabited for a long time. He had been proud of his fine new suit; but although it was well sewn from sturdy cloth, by taking note of the other youths his age he saw in the streets he soon realized that in it he looked like a country bumpkin, for no one seemed to be wearing such clothing but a few elderly farmers, with mud on their boots.

What do I care? I am not, after all, going to dance at the king's midsummer ball! But to himself he confessed that he did care, after all. He had had no great wish to come to the city, but if the roads of his fate led him there, he would prefer to look like a gentleman.

It was toward noon and the red sun high in the sky when he sighted from afar the walls of the old city of Thendara, and not more than an hour later, he rode into the city proper, dominated by the old castle of the Hastur-lords.

At first he was content to ride through the streets looking around; later he found himself a meal in a

cheap tavern. In the tavern someone came through and waved carelessly to him; Conn had never seen the man before and wondered if it was merely friendliness to a stranger or if the man had mistaken him for someone else.

When he had finished his meal and paid his score, he inquired for the house of Valentine Hastur as Markos had advised, and was directed there. As he rode through the streets, he wondered again if he were being mistaken for someone else, as once or twice a man waved in a friendly fashion as one would to an acquaintance.

He found Valentine Hastur's house easily enough from the instructions he had been given; but hesitated before he approached the door. At this hour of the day the lord might indeed be out and about his business. No, he reassured himself; the man was a great nobleman, not a farmer; he had no fields to plough nor flocks to tend, and anyone who had business with him would probably seek him at his house; he would be as likely to be home as not.

He ascended the steps, and when a servant answered the door, he asked courteously if this were the home of the lord Valentine Hastur.

"It is, if that's any of your business," the man said with a look of ill-concealed scorn at Conn's appearance and the country fashion of his clothing.

"Say to Lord Valentine Hastur," Conn said firmly, "that the Duke of Hammerfell, a relation of his from the far Hellers, asks for audience with him."

The man looked surprised―as well he might, thought Conn―but he ushered Conn into

an anteroom and went to deliver the message, and after a time Conn heard a firm step approaching the room―

obviously, he thought, the step of the master of the house.

A tall, slim man with red hair going sandy in age, Valentine Hastur strode into the room, his hand extended in welcome.

"Alastair, my dear fellow," he said, "I had not expected to see you at this hour. But what is this? I had not thought you would be seen at home, not to mention in the street in such an outfit! And have you and the young lady set the date yet? My cousin told me but yesterday that he was just waiting for you to come and talk to him." At this point Conn frowned; it was all too evident that the Hastur-lord was not speaking to him, but to someone for whom he had mistaken him. Valentine Hastur strode along the hall, and did not notice the look; but rambled on amiably, "And how is the little dog working out? Did your mother like the creature? If she did not, she is hard to please. Well, what can I do for you?" Only then did he turn to look again at Conn.

Then he stopped. "Wait a moment . . . you're not Alastair!" Valentine was dumbfounded.

"But you certainly resemble him! Just who are you, lad?"

Conn said firmly, "I don't understand this. I am grateful for your welcome, sir; but who do you think I am?"

Valentine Hastur said slowly, "1 thought, of course, that you were Alastair of Hammerfell―the young duke. I―well, I thought you a young man I've known since

you―he―was in baby clothes, and your mother my closest friend. But-―"

"That's not possible," Conn said. But this friendliness could not help but make some impression on him. "Sir, 1 beg your pardon. I am Conn of Hammerfell, and I am grateful to you for your welcome, kinsman, but―"

Lord Valentine looked displeased―no, Conn thought, puzzled. Then slowly his face

brightened.

"Conn ... of course . . . the brother, the twin brother―but I was always told you died in the burning of Hammerfell."

"No," Conn said. "It was my twin who died―with my mother, sir. I give you my solemn word I am Duke of Hammerfell and the only man living who can lay claim to that title."

"No, you are mistaken," said Valentine Hastur gently. "I see now that there has been a dreadful mistake; your mother and brother live, my boy, but they believe it was you who perished. I assure you, the Duchess and Duke of Hammerfell are very much alive."

"You are joking, surely," said Conn, feeling lightheaded.

"No; Zandru seize me if I would jest on such a matter," said Lord Valentine fiercely.

"Now I begin to understand. Your mother, my boy, has lived for many years with the sad belief that her son died in the fall of Hammerfell; I gather you are the other twin?"

"I believed that they both died in the burning of Hammerfell," said Conn, shocked. "My brother is known to you, sir?"