Zandru's Forge (45 page)

I bear their hopes, even as St. Christopher bore the Child of the World.
Though Varzil was no cristoforo, he found the image appealing. As he acknowledged the Council’s endorsement, he prayed for the strength to carry that burden.

At the conclusion of the presentation, Varzil took his seat as representative of Arilinn, knowing that he had earned his place here not by accident of birth but through his own merit.

That evening, Varzil joined the festivities. Wine flowed freely, not all of it well-watered. He drank little, for he’d long since realized he had no head for it, and there was too much important work to do at the Tower to take more than an evening’s break. Rakhal drank a great deal, and Varzil was grateful he did not need to have anything more to do with him beyond a polite greeting, whether he was Carolin’s cousin or not.

Later during the session, Varzil found time to speak privately with his brother. Harald had solidified into a powerful, broad-shouldered man, his yellow hair and beard now darkened into bronze. He would not hear Varzil’s regrets for not being able to return home after the death of their father.

“It would have been suicide,” Harald insisted. “We were fighting catmen on one hand and those
gre‘zuin
from Asturias on the other. What could you have done except present an easy target? Father was already in his grave. You did much better to save your duty for the living.”

“Yes, that’s very much what Father would have said.” Varzil thought that his brother was coming to resemble
Dom
Felix in more ways than one. Under the solid girth lay a core of unbending steel. He had grown into a man not lightly to be crossed.

Harald went on in a softer tone, “He would have been proud to be here, to see what you’ve made of yourself. He would not say so aloud, but he—” Harald stumbled, his voice roughening with emotion, “he regretted standing in your way when you wanted to study at Arilinn. He was wrong to oppose you.”

No,
Dom
Felix would never have admitted such a mistake. His own fierce pride forbade it. Only Harald, who had persuaded him, whose life was saved by those very talents
Dom
Felix had belittled and despised, could do it for him.

Now the mental images, glimpsed from his brother’s memories, shifted from anger and scorn to dawning pride.

“My son is a
laranzu
at Arilinn.”
The words echoed in Varzil’s mind, and he knew his father had indeed said them.

“Look at you, Keeper of Arilinn,” Harald said. “Yes, he would have been proud.”

“I thank you,” Varzil said in the awkward silence which followed. “For a man who never intended any of his children for the Tower, he ended up with two of us.”

“Dyannis, well now, that’s another matter.” Harald looked uncomfortable. “She was to come home after a season or two, when a good marriage was arranged for her. You may remember, the first one came to nothing when the lad perished from a leg wound gone bad. It’s time we made another. We’re not so strong that we can afford to pass up any advantageous alliance.”

Harald clearly expected Varzil to agree with him and perhaps even suggest some wealthy and influential
Comyn
lord of his acquaintance. Varzil, drawing upon his Keeper’s reserve, replied calmly, “I would not take such a step without consulting Dyannis herself. If it is her wish, I will not stand in her way. She has always been strong-willed, and her training will have given her even greater independence.”

“Insolence, you mean? The sooner we get her out of there, the sooner she will accept her duties and settle into becoming a properly biddable wife.”

Varzil laughed. “Obviously, you have not spoken with our little sister in some years, or you would not dare to suggest such a thing! Harald, she has made a place for herself at Hali, even as I have at Arilinn. She is a skilled
leronis,
beholden to no man. I do not think she will lightly surrender the freedom she has worked so hard for.”

“She is still a Ridenow. She has an obligation to her family.”

“But we are no longer beset by enemies at every side,” Varzil pointed out. “We sit in Council here by our own right. Carolin, who will be the next Hastur king, wishes only peace and friendship between our lands.”

“That, too, can change.” Harald looked angry now, his dark brows furrowing. Varzil caught the edge of his thought.
We have been enemies before, and even your Prince Carolin may prove false if it serves his own interest.

Varzil saw no point in arguing over the abiding love and trust he shared with Carolin, or even citing the old proverb,
The word of a Hastur,
as an unbreakable oath. Instead, he said, “Then it is even more important that Dyannis remain at Hali Tower, for there she is a Ridenow among Hasturs, living and working together. No oath or marriage vow could create a deeper bond than that between
leronyn
of the same circle. Those allegiances should not be tossed aside lightly.”

When Harald looked skeptical, Varzil dropped the argument. He had done what he could for Dyannis. If he had failed to dissuade her from an ill-considered affair with Eduin when she was but a girl and new-come to the Tower, then Harald stood no chance of convincing her to leave if that was not her own desire.

How few times in life, he thought, does fortune grant us a truly free choice? He touched the ring on his right hand, and felt an answering pulse of energy. In his mind, Felicia still lay within the circle of his arms, her face glowing, her lips warm with smiles and kisses. Her Gift had demanded that she leave, even as his forced him to stay.

Varzil suppressed a shiver. There was no reason to doubt the wisdom of her choice, only that moment of hesitation. Had it been a flash of prescient warning, or only the natural anxiety of embarking upon something so daring, so new? He wondered if he had done his sister a favor by allowing her to remain where she might some day face a similar fate.

Colder than Zandru’s seventh hell,
went the old saying. Carolin thought, not for the first time, that it ought to have gone,
Colder than Nevarsin in winter. Or spring. Or autumn. Or any other season.
The monastery of Saint Valentine of the Snows had been built among the arms of the glacier ice, carved of the solid rock of the mountain. There were many pleasures that came with being the heir to the Hastur throne, but the temperature of Nevarsin was not one of them.

He had brought his sons to live and study with the monks even as he had planned, and had stayed longer than was strictly necessary. As he had vowed on Alianora’s deathbed, he had placed her rosary with the other tokens of devotion upon the sanctuary altar. Over the course of a month, he had met with his distant Aldaran kin, the Keeper of the Tower, and the Father Master of the monastery, drawing out each session to delay his returning alone to Hali.

Meanwhile, he would not disgrace his house or himself by grumbling. As he lay on his narrow cot under his blanket of thick sheepswool, he reflected that he had the privilege of a blanket and warm food to eat, and he could exercise as he wished and sit by the fire in the guest house. Young boys, novices in the Order of Saint Christopher, even his own sons, had none of these luxuries. He’d heard the whimpers of those newly arrived. Soon, the monks said, they would accustom themselves, learning to regulate their bodies to generate heat and thrive on whatever food was provided.

The bell for arising had already rung and Carolin had delayed long enough. Although as a guest he not bound by the rigid hours of prayer and work, he preferred to observe the rhythms of the community. In this way, he gained a greater sense of the lives and cares of the
cristoforos.
That knowledge had already given him new insights into his own people.

Carolin set his teeth together to keep them from chattering and heaved himself out of bed. Once he’d broken the ice on his basin, the worst would be over. He forced himself to wash properly. If he could not control feeling cold, as the monks could, at least he could master his own actions and not race through his morning ablutions like a cat in a river.

He dressed with care, taking an extra moment to settle the wide leather belt. Like his wool tunic and pants, it was dyed a soft gray. Over it would go the tartan of Hastur blue and silver. He smiled, remembering the red belt he and Orain had fought over as boys.

He had not thought of his foster-brother this last handful of tendays. Orain was back at Hali, in Lyondri’s service.

Carolin went down to the guest house refectory, where one of the
cristoforo
brothers offered him steaming porridge. A cup of wildflower honey and a pitcher of cream, clearly from the same pottery, sat in the middle of the bare wooden table, along with a bowl of fresh apples. Carolin thought that no formal breakfast at Hali, served on gilded porcelain with utensils of precious silver, had ever been as satisfying.

He paused for a moment beside a courtyard to fasten his fur-lined cloak and listen to the choir practicing in the adjacent chapel. The sweet voices of the boys soared above the others, ethereal, almost other worldly. What an uncomplicated life they led, their lives confined, prescribed ... predictable.

Carolin had not gone more than a few paces beyond the guest house into the gray-walled streets of the city itself when a boy rushed up to him.

“Dom
Carolin Hastur.” A statement, not a question.

Carolin recognized the boy as one of the novices from Nevarsin Tower. He was the son of
Dom
Valdrin Castamir of Highgarth. The cold had whipped the blood to his cheeks.

“Young Derrek.” Carolin inclined his head politely and watched the boy beam with pleasure. “What brings you abroad on such a frosty morning?”

“Vai dom,
I am bid to bring you to the Tower. A message has come through the relays this very hour. From Hali.”

The news could mean only one thing, Carolin thought as he followed Derrek Castamir through the tangle of narrow streets. Here, stone buildings clustered so close together, the sun never shone in many a shadowed corner.

Once past the Tower’s outer gate and cloak hall, Carolin stepped into a chamber not unlike the common room at Arilinn. Warmth and light filled the space, from the generous fire and the
laran-
charged globes.

The Keeper of Nevarsin Tower came forward to greet him. He was an Alton by his features, running a little to fat but still in his vigorous prime. Carolin had called on him upon arriving at Nevarsin, but had not seen him since.

The Keeper drew Carolin aside. His face, which seemed formed for merriment, was grave. “Word has reached us along the relays from Hali.”

“My uncle—King Felix—”

“Has joined his illustrious ancestors.”

Bowing his head, Carolin allowed himself a moment of silence.
Chieri
blood had brought the Hasturs many Gifts, but in this case long life had not been one of them. The man, King and uncle, whom Carolin had loved as a child had ceased to exist for many years.

The enormity of what lay before him rose up like a river in flood. The funeral—the coronation—establishing his own court—formalizing relations with neighboring kingdoms—calming dissident voices—reviving the Hastur Council to control abuses of
laran
weaponry—and most of all, the dream so long delayed.

Carolin straightened his shoulders. “I thank you for bringing this news to me so swiftly. Now I must go and prepare my return to Hali. Please send word to my men that I will depart as soon as I may.”

“Your people at Hali say that an aircar will be waiting for you at Caer Donn.”

Carolin nodded. The treacherous mountain winds made flights to Nevarsin all but impossible, even in the mildest weather. The guards who accompanied him as a Prince must serve him as well as King.

The Keeper watched him with that steady, piercing gaze of the Towers. “Then I bid you,
Adelandeyo,
Carolin Hastur-King. Walk in the Light.”

And may the gods smile upon you,
the Keeper added
silently, for you of all men will need their blessing.

“We must make haste while we can,” Carolin told his men. At his heels, they clattered through the city gates and down the well-traveled road. Longlegs, his black Armida-bred mare, pricked her ears, eager to run. Beyond the city, dark-bellied clouds hung like funeral draperies.

They had gone two days into the valley when the storm struck. Whiteness blanketed the mountainside behind them. Ice-edged wind slashed through their traveling cloaks, whipped the horses’ manes, and stole the breath from their lungs. Pellets of hail battered them. The horses flattened their ears against their necks and plunged on.