A Flame in Hali (23 page)

They saw Cedestri Tower burning when they were yet an hour’s journey away. It was late in the day, and all through that morning, Dyannis had felt the psychic firmament shift and tremble. Although she reached out with her
laran,
she could get no clear reading, nothing specific from either Cedestri or the folk at the Aillard capital of Valeron. Only the most gifted telepaths could transcend these distances, and then only when making contact with someone they knew intimately, and that was hardly the case with either Tower. She knew only that something terrible was happening, and one glance at Varzil’s whitened face told her that he sensed it, too. Neither could bring themselves to speak their fears aloud. They pushed their horses for more speed, and their guards kept pace.

They had come down over the last row of gently eroded hills where flocks of goats grazed, between orchards of pear and false quince, and farmsteads with barnfowl coops and plots of flowering herbs. The land here was not so barren, the gardens, trees and neatly tended fences indicating a level of prosperity. Clearly, the surrounding lands were well able to support the Tower, and there were no signs of the poverty and grinding despair of Thendara.

Before them stretched a wide valley dominated by an enormous outcropping of rock. From its size and configuration, Dyannis guessed it must be some volcanic formation. She could not make out any means of access to the heights, where a castle, apparently carved out of the same rock, overlooked the surrounding fields. This must be the seat of Isoldir. A short distance away, Cedestri Tower sat in the midst of a sprawling village.

Charcoal smoke billowed upward from both the castle and the Tower, mostly the latter.

The nearest soldier shifted in his saddle, his face grave with concern.

“Captain, let us make haste,” Varzil said. “Our help is needed at Cedestri!”

They clattered through the outskirts of the village, their horses blowing froth from the last frenzied gallop. Townspeople and soldiers in Isoldir colors, gray banded by red and yellow, had formed brigades to carry water from the cluster of wells. The thatched roofs of the village houses had already been thoroughly soaked.

Soot blackened the upper walls of Cedestri Tower, but the lower portions looked intact. It had been a graceful building, three stories of silvery,
laran
-crafted stone soaring above the low-walled gardens that now were little more than churned mud and trampled stalks. The main entrance was a tapered arch with a carved design of interlacing vines. Through it, two workers in charred robes struggled to drag a limp body. Other victims, some of them hideously burned, lay or sat huddled just beyond the garden walls. Those who could, looked up as the party from Hali drew to a halt, and cried out in alarm.

We are friends.
Varzil sent out the telepathic message, so clear and strong that anyone with a scrap of
laran
could not have failed to understand him. He added, in a ringing voice, “We are here to help!”

At Varzil’s signal, the Hastur captain barked out a string of commands to his men, sending them where they were most needed. Dyannis jumped down from her horse and rushed to the Tower doors. The two
laranzu’in
were still garbed for circle work, and the man they had clearly pulled from the wreckage above wore the crimson of a Keeper. Greasy smoke streaked their faces, and the arm of one hung limply, the yoke of his robe torn to reveal a laceration still oozing blood. His face was pasty with shock and he looked on the brink of collapse. Stumbling, they managed to drag their Keeper down the wide, shallow stair to the garden, where one of Carolin’s soldiers picked up the Keeper as if he weighed no more than a child.

The wounded man swayed on his feet. His eyes rolled up in his skull and Dyannis managed to slip her shoulder under his armpit and catch him before he fell. His weight staggered her, but she somehow managed to keep him moving in the direction of the healers’ area. His comrade followed, coughing and retching.

As soon as Dyannis touched the wounded man, she recognized him from the relays. His name was Earnan Gervais, kinsman to Francisco, Keeper of Cedestri Tower.

See to him,
Earnan begged silently.

Dyannis lowered him to the ground and went to see to Francisco. One of Cedestri’s monitors bent over him, her white robe torn and muddy. Blood clotted one temple, matting her coppery hair. She looked up as Dyannis crouched beside her. Freckles dusted cheeks pale as milk. She was very young. Dyannis thought she must have just finished her training as a monitor.

“Those Aillard monsters—they did this!” the girl’s words tumbled out. “Can—can you help him?”

Poor child,
Dyannis thought.
She’s probably never seen a man so badly hurt.
The attack, horrible as it was, could have been much worse. The Valeron Aillards had retaliated with restraint, using only ordinary fire, or the Tower would still be in flames and all its workers dead. But it would do no good to say so aloud.

Dyannis closed her eyes and skimmed her hands over the Keeper’s body. She drew upon her starstone to focus her
laran.
She sensed no broken bones—no internal bleeding—no disruption of spinal cord—

Ah!
Smoke clogged the delicate tissues of the lungs. Starved of oxygen, nerves sputtered and failed. The Keeper’s mind, with all its talent and trained strength, spiraled into darkness, beyond her reach.

You must help me,
Dyannis cried, linking with the girl’s mind.

After an instant of panic at the unexpected rapport, the girl’s discipline held. Their two joined invisible hands through the body of the dying man. The thought-fingers elongated and meshed together, becoming a sieve to catch the particles of carbon and even smaller motes of toxic gases. By the blessing of the gods, the girl’s telekinesis ability was strong, for Dyannis could not have done it alone. Together, they lifted smoke from lungs, bringing in fresh air with every gasping breath. At last, the Keeper’s chest heaved and a fit of coughing racked his body.

Dyannis, breaking the linkage with the young monitor, rolled the Keeper onto his side. The strength of his spasms heartened her. From here, his body would be able to clear out the rest. She was only a little surprised when his eyes opened, gray and clear and focused.

Dyannis of Hali,
rang in her mind, a tenor bell.
Your coming is most timely.

She suppressed a tart reply about people who needed to be rescued from their own folly, making weapons like crystalline bonewater, setting up the mill in the Overworld to tap the Hali Lake energy rift, not to mention launching an attack against an enemy as powerful as Valeron. He was not, after all, her own Keeper, and she didn’t want to risk Varzil’s mission here by antagonizing him. Raimon had warned her often enough about her own imprudent behavior. Instead, she shaped a suitably polite response that she was happy to be of service, and went to see who else needed her help.

By the time the great Bloody Sun sank beneath the horizon, most of the smoke had cleared and the wounded were settled for the night, their most pressing injuries tended as well as might be. Even Lady Helaina had tucked up her skirts and worked as hard as any of them. The night was mild, so many of the Hastur soldiers, including their captain, camped beneath two of the four moons, leaving their tents for the wounded.

A soldier wearing Isoldir colors crossed by a bloodstained officer’s sash approached Varzil as he met with the Hastur captain for their own sleeping arrangements. The Isoldir man bowed to his Hastur counterpart and began speaking of a council the next morning.

“I fear you’ve mistaken me,” the Hastur captain said, his mouth quirking in a half-smile, “for I’m not the one who leads this party. I am under the command of
Dom
Varzil of Neskaya, who speaks for King Carolin.” He gave a short bow in Varzil’s direction.

“
Vai dom,
your pardon,” the Isoldir man said, flushing in confusion, “I did not know—I was sent by my master, Lord Ronal of Isoldir, to find the Hastur lord who has aided us and bid him to council.”

Varzil held his shoulders squarely, but Dyannis read the weariness in every fiber of his body. “I am no great lord, but a Keeper, and have come as emissary for Carolin Hastur. As you can see by the size of our company, we are here to parley and not to fight. This is my sister, Dyannis, a
leronis
of Hali Tower. By the grace of Aldones, we were in time to help the wounded. The day is late and there is still much to be done, but if the need is urgent, we will come.”

We, Varzil?
Dyannis asked silently.

Varzil took her aside and said in a low voice. “Valeron has just put a brutal ending to the dispute. Lord Ronal must be acutely aware of his helplessness, and such desperation breeds suspicion and rash actions. We are strangers, come without warning and just after the attack. What better way to convince him of our peaceful intentions than by your presence?”

“Varzil, don’t tease. I’m hardly presentable at even a minor provincial court!” Dyannis gestured to her clothing, stained with travel dust, smoke, and blood. Her hair and face were equally filthy.

“Exactly.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that you, a well-born
leronis,
have been working side by side with his own people all day and under terrible conditions. Would an enemy do so?”

Dyannis sighed, knowing the futility of further argument, and followed the Isoldir messenger. She decided to leave Lady Helaina to her well-deserved rest and deal with the repercussions tomorrow.

As they approached Isoldir Castle, the last slanting light of the Bloody Sun cast an eerie tint over the cragged stone. The trail twisted along the cliffside to the summit. Dyannis, not daring to look down, let the reins lie slack on her horse’s neck and trusted to the beast’s surefootness and familiarity with the route. It was not one she would want to try under any but the best circumstances.

The last part of the trail had been raised and the sides cut away so that only a narrow causeway remained, leading to the gates of the castle. A few men could easily defend it, for the attackers must come at them singly, with no room to maneuver in combat.

From what little Dyannis could see of the outer walls, the castle had suffered much less damage than had the Tower. Valeron had not meant to conquer them or to leave them defenseless against bandits and scavengers, only to prevent another such attack as the one Cedestri launched. The Tower had been all but destroyed, but Isoldir still retained its Lord and, so far as she could tell, the greater part of its fighting men. She wondered if Isoldir, made even more desperate by humiliation, would try again.

If they do so, they are greater fools than we thought,
Varzil answered her.
They would lose all claim to a righteous cause. Their neighbors, small and great, will see them as the aggressors. If they wish to preserve what remains to them, they will not answer.

They passed through massive double doors and into an entrance hall, where a handful of wary-eyed guards fell into step around them. Soot and dust streaked their clothing, and one had a nasty burn across one beardless cheek. A white-haired man in a courtier’s long robes limped toward them. When the Isoldir messenger bowed and whispered, the old man’s eyes widened.

“You come to Isoldir at a sad and perilous time,
vai tenerézu,
” he said in a hoarse voice. “My lord extends what welcome we can offer.”

“I thank you, for in this, the intent is of greater worth than the deed,” Varzil said, inclining his head in return. “There is too much to be done for those injured below for us to stand about exchanging courtesies. If your master would speak with us, bring us to him speedily.”

A few moments later, Dyannis followed her brother into a smaller room, clearly a council chamber. Maps and lists covered a central table, along with a platter bearing the remains of a hasty meal. Some of the windows, which she guessed looked upon an inner courtyard, had been broken and the shattered glass still lay across the stone floor. Yet the wall tapestries, conventional scenes of battle and hunting, were of good quality if not new. Fresh torches burned steadily from their wall sconces.

At the far end of the table, a man of middle age, his belly just beginning to run to fat, straightened up from bending over the papers. His appearance betrayed little of his character, yet something in the lines of his face reminded Dyannis of Rakhal Hastur, Carolin’s traitor cousin, when she met him so many years ago at Midwinter Festival at Hali. Then Rakhal had been a trusted aide to the ailing king, and no one guessed what treachery lay in his heart. She reminded herself that she must not judge this man on a superficial physical resemblance. She caught no hint of his thoughts, but his desperation battered her, his struggle to find a way to save his kingdom.