A Flame in Hali (57 page)

Lord Brynon flushed. Anger shimmered like an aura around him. Eduin thought that if Julianna had been a man, even an overlord, Aillard would have struck her.

Julianna continued, “I think it best that neither he nor his companion be allowed to attend any further councils, lest they seek to use what they overhear to their own advantage. They are servants; let them keep to their own while they are within the borders of Valeron. As for your charges, you cannot expect me to take such things seriously. There are few things more pathetic than the blame-mongering of a lord who cannot keep his servants in proper order.”

With a visible effort, Aillard mastered his temper and, bowing, made another attempt.

“What you say is true, and would be my own shame, were it not for the testimony given under oath—under truthspell. The traitor
admitted
his reverence for Varzil the Good. That cannot be explained away as mere jealousy.”

For a moment, Julianna looked thoughtful. “The Keeper of Neskaya Tower may be many things, but a fool he is not, and only a simpleton would use such a weak instrument as your physician seems to be. No, I think you had best look to more ordinary causes for the unrest in your household.”

When it looked like Aillard would rouse himself to one more effort, she said, “We will hear no more of this,
kinsman.
”

As Aillard murmured apologies, Eduin pulled Saravio back to their places at the lower table. It was going to be even more difficult than he’d thought to influence Julianna.

The Midsummer festivities continued long into the night. The windows of the great hall had been thrown open, and the multihued pastel light of three of Darkover’s four moons flooded in, to blend with the glow of torches and the cold blue light of a few costly
laran
-charged glows. Professional dancers, minstrels, and jugglers performed, most more enthusiastic than talented. Every woman present received the traditional basket of fruit and flowers, in remembrance of the gifts that Hastur, son of Aldones Lord of Light, presented to his beloved Cassilda. A pile of baskets, many of them elaborately gilded and beribboned, overflowed the foot of Julianna’s throne. Romilla received a number from her father, General Marzan’s son, and several male admirers.

It had been long since Eduin had any woman to whom to present a Midsummer gift. He had no sisters and had never known his mother. The only basket he had prepared with any delight was for Dyannis, and she was better forgotten. He could have, following the older custom, left a small token for Romilla or Callina to discover outside their doors, but he had lost the habit of thinking of such things. It had been too long since he had felt any such bonds of love.

Eduin and Saravio crept away while the dancing, begun sedately with the older couples leading the
promenas,
turned wilder and more licentious. Lord Brynon, after dancing an obligatory round or two with Queen Julianna and his daughter, had retreated to a corner where he proceeded to get thoroughly drunk. The smell of the wine, combined with the heady blossoms and swath of moonlight, felt both intoxicating and nauseating to Eduin. There was too much temptation, too much danger in the swirls of tartan and gown, the bright cheeks of the ladies, the clash of goblets and voices raised in raucous song.

What was the old proverb, that nothing that happened under the four moons need be regretted? Or was it the opposite, that much of what came about in the wild celebration of such times lingered for a lifetime?

There were not four moons in the sky on this Midsummer Festival. The gods had held back that final benediction; whatever happened now became entirely the responsibility of men.

There was no one from whom to beg leave to depart, certainly not Lord Brynon. Romilla was dancing with General Marzan’s hatchet-jawed son. Exercise and wine flushed her cheeks and she giggled as he held her closer than was seemly for someone not her promised husband. The sight disgusted Eduin. He took Saravio by the arm and guided him back to their quarters.

As Eduin led Saravio back to their room, he fumed inwardly. He could not rely on Lord Brynon or anyone else to convince the Queen of Valeron to search out and destroy his enemies. Julianna was too crafty and strong-willed to be subject to any man’s influence. She would never start a war with Carolin, but she might be persuaded to eliminate Varzil if she believed he was the real threat. Now, more than ever, Eduin needed Saravio.

Saravio lay down on one of the narrow beds. His eyes were open and he lay as if in a trance. This present lassitude boded ill. What if Saravio were to fall into a coma, as he had upon their arrival at Kirella? Or, worse yet, suffer a seizure where he might be seen?

“The storm is nearer now,” Saravio whispered. “Can you not feel it?”

Eduin lowered his mental shields to search Saravio’s thoughts. He caught the fleeting image of fire rising against the sky, and the sweep of a shadowy cloak.

Good,
he decided. That feeling of dread, of impending doom, was one he could use.

He went to the cot and sat beside Saravio. By tightening his throat, he made his voice hoarse and rasping. “I have terrible news.”

Eyes widening, Saravio lifted his head.

“I have discovered that our enemy, Varzil Ridenow, is on the move. The Tower at Cedestri—” Eduin paused minutely, caught the flicker of recognition, for it was at this Tower Saravio had first trained, and plunged on, “—sent a vicious attack against our friends here. You remember, we heard as much at Robardin’s Fort. In retaliation, Cedestri was destroyed—”

“As it deserved!”

“Indeed,” Eduin went on. “But what we did not know was that Varzil himself went to rebuild the Tower.”

“Varzil? Rebuild Cedestri?” Shaking his head, Saravio sat up. “Why would he do that? They were not worth saving after they turned away from Naotalba.”

“Why, indeed?” Eduin said. “What profit might Varzil reap for his trouble, except to make alliance with the new Tower? Can you not see? This way, the malefactors will join forces with Varzil against Naotalba’s loyal servants. You know that Varzil seeks to put an end to anyone who follows her. He is creeping up on us, extending his power over one land after another.” Eduin waited for the impact of his argument to sink in.

“Varzil—he brings the fire?” Saravio asked.

“Yes! He brings the fire!” Eduin repeated, and felt the answering leap of anguish in Saravio. He jabbed at Saravio’s mind, intensifying the fear and hatred.

“He must not—” Saravio stumbled over his words, almost babbling in terror. “Must not—”

“Naotalba will not forsake her faithful,” Eduin shifted to a reassuring voice. “We must do our part. We must stand against Varzil and the agents of Cedestri, who turned against Naotalba and cast you, her chosen, out. Here in Valeron, there is the strength to do so, if only there is the will.”

“We must persuade them!” Saravio cried. “But how? What must we do?”

Eduin bowed his head in a gesture of reverence and held it for a long moment. “We must pray for her guidance. Perhaps she will speak to us in dreams or visions, as she has so many times before. Rest now, that you may receive her word.”

“Receive her word,” Saravio echoed. “Rest.”

Eduin lowered the other man to the bed and helped him into a comfortable position. He brushed his fingers over Saravio’s eyelids, closing them. Saravio’s brief spurt of energy faded, leaving him in an even deeper state of lassitude.

“Sleep,” Eduin whispered, reinforcing the command with his mind. “Sleep.”

Within a short time, Saravio fell into a deep slumber. Eduin felt the change as Saravio’s breathing shifted, deeper now and slow. Saravio’s mind lay open and vulnerable. He would not resist. He would surrender willingly.

Eduin got up and began pacing, using the movement to harden his resolve. Bile stung his throat at the thought of what he must do. In desperation, he asked himself if there were any other way, if he could not just let events take their natural course. Sooner or later, Queen Julianna or some other powerful ruler would tire of Varzil’s interference, or perhaps some bandit or outlaw would seize upon him as easy prey.

Why go to the risk and trouble to force matters to a crisis? He could return to Kirella and live quite comfortably there, except for the whisper at the back of his mind.

Eduin had come to the end of the room, facing away from Saravio. His hands curled into fists, so hard and tight that the muscles in his forearms threatened to cramp. His body trembled.

Words rose to his mind, thoughts from another desperate moment but now, it seemed, the very touchstone of his existence. He had not realized how true they were.

The trembling stopped, replaced by determination. He bit down hard, clamping his jaw shut, and turned around.

Saravio lay as if arranged on his own bier, his legs outstretched and hands folded upon his breast. His head had fallen to one side, exposing his throat.

Eduin crossed the room in a few long strides. Barely pausing, he lowered himself to the bed, settling his body as he had learned to do at Arilinn. Breathing deeply, he found a position he could maintain while his mind ranged free. He closed his eyes, and all awareness of his physical body receded. Distantly, he felt the energy fields arising from the other man’s energon channels.

Eduin’s first action was to scan his surroundings. Callina or one of the
laranzu’in
who tended the aircars below might sense what he was doing. There was no hint of a trained mind, not even the presence of the Keeper of the Tower.

He sensed nothing beyond the babble of commonplace minds. They brushed his thoughts like the faint rush of a stream over rocks, and he shut them from his awareness as easily.

Eduin gathered himself, shaping his thoughts into a spear point. It was his favorite image, the tip piercing to the core of the problem, with but a single objective, never wavering or turning aside. Then he hurled himself into the swirl of Saravio’s sleeping mind.

The last time Eduin had forced such a rapport, he had found a place both darkly bizarre and familiar, sky and rock and storm-wracked sky. Now he saw a landscape of tattered ruins, part Overworld, part pallid chaos, a twisting of light and form. Saravio’s mind had disintegrated almost past recognition. No wonder he spent so much time in a trancelike state, barely conscious of his surroundings.

Naotalba!
Eduin called silently. He used the name as a focal point. If anything could bring order to this twisted disorder, it would be that figure, central to Saravio’s delusional passion.

NA—O—TAL—BA ...
Unseen winds tore the word to syllables and sent them whirling, scattering in the shifting currents of light.

Eduin sensed a distant stirring of recognition. There must be an imprint of Naotalba’s image somewhere, one he could evoke and use.

Glancing around, Eduin was struck by the resemblance of this mental place to the Overworld. It was as if Saravio had taken a bit of that strange dimension inside himself, or perhaps this was the residue of his madness.

In his years of Tower training, Eduin had learned to use the primordial thought-stuff that composed the Overworld. A man Gifted with
laran
and disciplined in its use, as he was, could impose shape and form in an imitation of physical reality.

In the Overworld, Eduin had seen Towers raised, reflections of their true shapes, had encountered other
leronyn
as solid and vivid as they were in life. He shuddered inwardly, remembering those times he had encountered men who existed only in this unearthly plane. For a sickening moment, he caught the evanescent form of his father as he had seen him in the Overworld, a ghostly mirror of his living shape.