Zandru's Forge (62 page)

That afternoon, Varzil was heading down to the kitchen when he heard voices, hushed and tense, below him. The speakers were hidden by the curve of the stairs, their voices echoing in the tall open space.

“With every word, you disprove your own argument,” Loryn whispered.

Varzil turned to go back upstairs. There could be only one person Loryn would speak to in that way.

“Never mind about me! When are you going to do something, instead of sitting here like a pile of laundry. passively deflecting whatever devilry they think of?” Eduin demanded, his words now rising with each phrase. “Can’t you see that only encourages them to escalate the attack?”

“I have said there will be no more discussion of this. Dissension only aids our enemies by setting us against one another. If you cannot accept this, then I will arrange for you to leave Hestral under truce or else confine you to solitary meditation.”

“No!” Eduin’s breath came audibly, bordering on a sob. “I want to fight the Hasturs!”

Some sense in Varzil came alert. Eduin meant more than merely defending the Tower against Rakhal’s arrogant demands. In a moment of unguarded passion, Eduin had phrased it rightly. He passionately wanted to fight Hasturs, but for what reason, Varzil could not guess.

The next morning, a messenger rode up the hill under truce colors and demanded Hestral’s surrender. He returned without an answer. Then the soldiers arrived in their formation and began the day’s attack. That night, the three workers from Hali tried different spells upon the gates, all with as little success as before. Both sides seemed to be settling into a pattern.

The
coridom
had asked Loryn’s permission to return to his family and Loryn agreed, sending the man out under a banner of neutrality. One of the Hastur guards met with him and, after a few words, attacked the old man with the flat of his sword. The
coridom
scrambled back up the hill, panting with terror.

Varzil watched from the tower balcony. He felt the binding upon gate and wall strengthen, even as the
coridom
slipped through. There would be no second time, if the Hastur captain knew his business.

During a brief respite, Loryn organized the Hestral workers into two circles, the second one under Varzil, and a group of watchers. This way, everyone might rest while the Tower maintained a continuous guard. The whispered wisdom was that as long as Hestral stayed on the alert, there was nothing the besiegers could do.

Varzil stretched his aching body on his bed and folded his hands across his chest. The posture, one he had used hundreds of times for deep meditation, triggered relaxation. He tensed every part of his body and then, using his breath and energon control, released it. His heartbeat slowed and each inhalation brought a flood of oxygen to his cells. A tide of cleansing energy rose and fell, from the center of his diaphragm to the tips of his fingers and toes. His thoughts quieted.

With deliberate intent, he extended his consciousness deeper. Originally, he had practiced the technique to drop into rapport with another worker. Now he shaped his focus, keeping his mind receptive. He felt the wood and leather of his bed, still humming with life, and below them the carpet ... the stone floor ... the swirling air beyond the outer walls ... the singing joy of the river ... the fields like cradles of life, teeming with roots and stalks and many-legged creatures ... and finally to the far mountains, reaching like monks in prayer to the arching heavens. With each breath, he gathered them into himself, he felt their strength and stillness fill his energon channels and then recede.

Something pulsed nearby, bright and warm. A strangely familiar perfume suffused him. He thought of an arpeggio played on a
rryl,
of sun dappling spring leaves. Sweetness rose in him, answering, as if his own heart were a bell lightly tapped.

Though his body did not move, his mind shifted toward the ring on his hand. Her wordless presence answered him. One way or another, the siege would be resolved, the realm would pass from one liege to the next, and yet the mountains would endure, spring would come again in its proper time, lovers would find joy in each other’s arms, babies would cry aloud in delight

And this,
he thought as he rose from the depth of his healing trance,
this we will have forever.

Dusk blotted light from the sky. In the preternatural vision of the circle, Varzil, working as its Keeper, saw the fires that sprouted from the main buildings of the village. A group of villagers stood in the marketplace. Their cries rose toward the smoking heavens. Women clutched their young children tightly against their skirts, while their men muttered curses and clenched fists or hidden knives, but made no overt move against the armed and mounted men. One villager, a stout, bearded man with massive shoulders, shouted for a fire brigade. The Hastur captain struck him with a sword and he lay unmoving on the shadowed field.

The next instant, fractured lightning shot through the Hestral circle. Rage surged up in Eduin; the chamber reeled with it. Someone cried out—Marius Rockraven. Varzil, in centripolar position, took the brunt of the energon flare. Oranna smoothed over the shock, her mental touch like balm over his nerves. He felt the circle grow clear and steady once more.

The village burned like a torch against the night. The terror of the villagers rippled through the darkness like invisible smoke.

Varzil stretched out his mind. Up the river, he sensed a buildup of moisture, a tension between earth and sky.

The boy’s awareness unfolded like a fisher’s net.
Yes ... It is not a storm yet, but if the winds shift like this
—a series of images which Varzil felt as layers of color and heat
—it will
be.

The boy’s reflexive shudder rippled through the circle, but the unity held.

—
not without the matrix—I can’t I’ll ruin everything—

Varzil caught bits of frantic thought, and with the same deliberate care he had used to break down the
clingfire
, he separated out each particle of fear.

Under Varzil’s words, Marius grew calmer, The patterns of his mind changed from a gossamer net, barely solid enough to hold the gentlest breeze, to a silken tapestry, supple and light but impenetrable. Varzil anchored him as he spread wider and higher. The clouds had not yet formed completely, moisture-laden air with only the potential to condense. Marius wove his mind through the layers, tapping into the temperature and electrical potentials.

Thunder rumbled beyond any human ears, a shivering in the air, a tinge of ozone. Clouds piled one on the other, growing rapidly in size and speed as they responded to the
laran
forces. Varzil, and the circle with him, rode the currents, felt the gathering power.

Now the burning village came into view. Already, the roofs and upper stories of the headman’s house and the larger craft halls were gone and their beams burned with a deep steady blaze. Adjacent buildings made a smear of brilliance against the night. Brightness answered from deep within the clouds, jagged explosions of lightning. Faces turned upward, ovals of paleness reflecting orange flame.

Anger pulsed once more from Eduin and his thoughts rang out,
Hit them with the lightning! Kill them all!

No ... Smoothly, firmly, Varzil directed the interwoven
laran
forces with his own will. He sent Marius an image of water running free.

The next instant, rain began to fall. Smoke billowed from the burning buildings. Men cried out, in joy and in alarm. In the Hastur camp, the
leronyn
desperately tried to summon a wind to dissipate the storm.

Still the rain came, no longer sweet and gentle, but harder with every passing moment. The storm took on a life of its own, and it seemed that every effort of the Hastur circle to divert the clouds only aroused them to greater fury. The artificially summoned winds lashed the rain, driving it against the smoldering buildings. The soldiers rushed for cover, leaving the villagers to fend for themselves. The swollen river lapped its banks.

Smoke still rose from scattered pinpoint sources as the last remaining fire succumbed to the rain. The square was transformed into a field of beaten mud. The winds subsided, leaving the rain to fall like a misty veil.

Marius freed the storm to go where it would, where the natural forces of air and temperature took it. Eventually, it would run its course, but for the moment, it seemed caught between hill and river.

Only then did Varzil release the circle. His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, an old gesture he used to gather his composure. Across the table, one of the women drew a sobbing breath.

The rain fell, lightening steadily, for three more days, during which the Hasturs made no attempt to attack again. Hestral Tower used the respite to rest. Villagers began moving to outlying farms, their belongings piled on carts or packs. Even the youngest child trudged along under a heavy burden. Serena, following them on the matrix screens, reported the theft of food, horses, and cattle. The Hastur army wasn’t going to give up easily; they were clearly settling in for a long siege.

A tenday later, Varzil was sitting in the common room, lingering over a mug of
jaco
laced with powdered roasted blackroot. Serena, who had taken the last relay shift of the night, crossed to the sideboard and poured herself a mug. Settling herself in a chair beside Varzil, she sniffed and wrinkled her nose.

“Ugh. Blackroot. I hate blackroot.”

Varzil grinned and indicated his own half-full mug. “So do I. In a few more days, it’ll be just blackroot if we want anything hot to drink. Either that, or some herbal concoction which is even worse.” He paused. “Any word from Hali Tower?”

Serena shook her head. She looked younger than her years, with bruise-colored circles beneath her eyes. “They haven’t formally broken off contact, they just say they have no messages, nor will they receive any. I suppose it’s to be expected. How could they remain apart from this—” She gestured toward the window overlooking the fields where the Hastur forces were encamped.
Unless they mean to defy the Hastur King, as Tramontana did.

“Any word on my inquiry?” he asked. “The records?”

“No, but I do not think they would keep that sort of information from you. It may well be that it does not exist, or has been lost over the years.”

Varzil ran the fingers of one hand over Felicia’s ring in what had now become an unconscious habit.

If there is
any
way to restore
her...

Varzil,
there’s movement
down
below,
came the mental voice of Marius, on watch that morning.

Varzil went to the window. The Hastur soldiers had indeed begun to gather at the base of the hill. As yet, there was no sign of impending attack. The men were not even in formation. The rain had barely ceased, and the ground was still muddy. If they charged, it would be uphill and on uncertain footing, highly vulnerable. No wonder the captain was cautious.