The Heirs of Hammerfell (20 page)

Markos led him through a door into an inner room roughly furnished. Conn knew the place well; he had lived there with Markos since he was fourteen years old.

At this point Conn dropped out of the rapport. The faces of Markos and Alastair died out in a blue flare as of the matrix jewel and he stood up, saying aloud, "It is ill done to spy on him without his knowledge; he is safe with Markos, then."

He looked up into Erminie's stricken eyes. "Your son is safe, Mother. No," he added, as she reached out to him, "I understand―he was the one brought up in your lap, not I; it is only natural that you fear for him."

"That seems very sad to me," said Erminie. "My greatest wish all these years was to have you both in my care."

Conn came and gave her a rough hug.

"Oh, I know now what I missed, and I wonder if my brother truly appreciated it. But if there is trouble up north, I should be gone―Markos will need me! Alastair―" he broke off; he could not say to his mother that he did not think her favorite son was fit to take his place at Hammerfell. But his hand, almost without thought, touched the hilt of his father's sword, and he knew Floria, at least, was still reading his thoughts. He reached out to break that rapport and met her eyes. Instantly she lowered her gaze, but the shock of intense emotion was palpable in the room full of telepaths.

Dear Gods, he thought, what shall I do? This is the woman of my dreams; I loved her before ever I set eyes on her, and now I have found her, she is all but my brother's wife; of all women in this world, she is the one forbidden to me.

He could not look at her, and as he raised his eyes, he realized that the Keeper was looking at him. The

emmasca, safely insulated and removed both by high office and sexlessness from this most painful of all human problems, was regarding him with sad, wise eyes.

12

Work on the fire-lines was making Alastair reconsider his mental picture of hell. At the minute, the thought of being in one of Zandru's frozen upper hells was rather appealing.

Sweat drenched his hair and clothes, the skin on his face felt as though it was being slow-roasted, and his mouth and throat were dry and burning. And though he wasn't as much of a dandy as some people might think, all his life he had been encouraged to consider his appearance as an indication of his position and title. Now he was unhappily aware that his clothes were never going to be the same again. Even if the damage being done to them by flying sparks was carefully mended, he would look as disreputable as the old man working to his right.

The peasants here certainly do seem to be tough, though. He must be old enough to be my grandfather, but he's still going strong while I'd like to curl up and die. Of course, peasants aren't, as sensitive as I am.

Jewel was curled up at the end of the fire-line; he sensed the extra call of loyalty it was demanding to keep her there. She was unwilling to take her eyes off him or go out of earshot despite the fear she must be feeling. He should have made the effort to send the old dog away from the fire-line to a place where she would not be so acutely troubled.

A slim figure in an old, shabby tartan dress and a broad-brimmed lilac sunbonnet came up to the old man and handed him a waterskin. He handed her his shovel to hold as he rinsed his mouth and took a quick drink. Then she handed him back the shovel, took back the waterskin, and continued down the line toward Alastair. Her eyes widened as she recognized him; one of her escort had evidently told her who he was.

She kept her voice low. "I am astonished to find you here, my Lord Hammerfell!"

She might well say that, thought Alastair; he was somewhat astonished to find himself here.

"Damisela―" He gave her his most courtly bow. "What can you possibly be doing here?

Of all places in the Domains this is the last for a lady."

"I suppose you think a lady will not burn if the fire gets out of hand? Anyone could tell that you are a foolish lowlander!" she flared angrily. "Everyone here turns out on fire-watch―men and women, commoner and noble!"

"I haven't seen old Lord Storn risking his precious neck," Alastair growled.

"That's because you haven't bothered to look in the right direction―he's standing less than a dozen feet from you!" Lenisa indicated the old man with an outflung arm.

Alastair gaped in shock. That old man, Lord Storn? That stooped old fellow, could he truly be the bogeyman of Alastair's childhood? Why, he looked as if a sudden gust of high wind would blow him away! He didn't seem terrifying at all!

Lenisa's gesture had attracted Storn's attention; he Hung down his shovel and headed toward them with a grim expression on his face.

"This idiotically dressed young dandy annoying you, girl?"

Lenisa hastily shook her head. "No, Grandfather."

"Give the fellow his water, then, and get about your work. Don't hold up the line! You know how important it is to keep water coming regularly to everyone―do you want the men farther down collapsing on the lines?"

"No, sir, of course not," she said meekly, and raising her eyes briefly to Alastair, passed on down the line with her bucket. Alastair stood for a moment watching her, until the man next to him nudged him in the elbow and he resumed his work with the hoe,

scraping at the firebreak in the leaf-strewn forest floor.

Storn's granddaughter. Nothing like the old man that he could see, "idiotically dressed,"

indeed. Yet this woman and he were forever separated, and if only because of that she had the lure of the forbidden. He reminded himself sternly that he was a man promised in marriage . . . promised to Floria, who wailed for him in Thendara, and therefore not to be eyeing other women―especially not a woman with whose family his family had been at blood feud for the last four generations! He tried to put Lenisa firmly out of his mind, to think only of Floria in

Thendara; he wondered how she and his mother fared in his absence, even wondered

what being a telepath was like―able to summon up in his mind an instant

communication with an absent loved one.

The thought troubled him; he was not sure he would want that. If he were now in

communication with Floria, would she watch him flirting with the Storn girl, and think him faithless? Would she read his mind and be troubled by the images of Lenisa? He found himself trying to explain in his mind to her, and broke off, troubled by the knowledge that Conn, his twin brother, was mentally linked to him and would know his innermost thoughts. He would never be able to lie to Conn nor persuade his brother of his good intentions or his worth. . . .

What was it like, to live like that, with all one's innermost thoughts and desires exposed to any number of people?

It frightened him. He had been open to Conn; his brother knew him perhaps better than he knew himself, and that was a frightening thing. But even more terrifying was the realization that his brother knew the worst of which he was capable. . . .

He tried to bring Floria's image before his mind, and failed; he saw only Lenisa's flirtatious little smile.

He turned off his thoughts with an effort and put all his attention to the work he was doing on the firebreak. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the old man, Lord Storn, was keeping pace with the younger men, doing his share and more of the hard manual work. When the girl Lenisa came round again with her water pail―this time, he noticed gratefully that the pail was steaming and decided it must be some sort of herb tea―Lenisa stopped beside her

grandfather, and Alastair could just hear what she said.

"This is foolish, Grandsire; you are not strong enough for this kind of work at your age."

"That's ridiculous, girl; I've been doing this work all my life, and I'm not about to stop now! Get about your own business, and don't presume to try and give orders to me."

At his glare, most girls would have been annihilated, but Lenisa went on, arguing, "What good do you think it will do to anyone if you collapse from the heat and have to be carried away? Will that not be a fine example to all our men?"

"What do you want me to do?" he growled. "I have taken my place on the lines every summer, man and boy, for seventy years."

"Then don't you think you have done a lifetime's share, Grandfather? No one alive would think less of you if you went back to the camp and did lighter work there."

"I'll ask no man to do what I'll not do myself, Granddaughter. Go on and do your own work and let me tend to mine."

Against his will, Alastair felt a grudging admiration for the stubborn old man. When Lenisa came to him and held out the pail, he hoisted it to his lips and drank thirstily; this time it contained, as he had believed, a warm herb tea of some sort with a strong fruity flavor, exceptionally thirst-quenching against the charred taste at the back of his throat.

He returned the pail and thanked her.

"Does your grandfather always work on the lines with his men?"

"He has done so as long as I can remember, and

well before, so our people say," she replied. "But now he is really too old; I wish I could get him to go back to the camp. His heart is not really very strong."

"That may very well be true; but I admire the heart which bids him work beside his men," Alastair said with honest admiration, and she smiled.

"So you do not think my poor old grandfather is really an ogre, then, Lord Hammerfell?"

Her tone was mischievous; Alastair gestured to her to lower her voice. Fire-truce might be the law in the mountains and the noblemen such as Lord Storn might very well keep it, but he did not trust all these strangers; if they knew who he was, he might well be mobbed.

"It would do your grandsire's heart no good to know his oldest enemy was here!"

She said proudly, "Did you believe that my grand-sire would dishonor the fire-truce, our oldest law?"

"Only before I saw him; surely you must know that gossip and hearsay could make a monster of Saint Valentine of the Snows himself," Alastair said, but privately he was sure he wasn't going to give Lord Storn a chance, one way or the other. "And hearsay has had much to say of Lord Storn."

"And most of it good, I must believe," said the girl. "But have you had enough to drink?

I must be about my work or he will scold me again."

Unwillingly he relinquished the bucket, and bent again to his work. He was not used to manual labor; his back ached and there seemed to be a separate toothache in every muscle of his arms and legs. His hands, even protected by heavy leather gauntlets, were beginning to feel as if they were being skinned alive and he wondered if he would be eaten raw or

cooked. He supposed it depended on how near they got to the fire. He cast a glance at the sky and the merciless burning sun. If only some clouds would build up; his shirt was sticking to his aching back. It was only a little after noon and he felt as if it would be forever till supper time.

If the girl had offered Alastair an easier job at the camp he would have jumped at the chance. He glanced wistfully after the girl's lilac sunbonnet, now retreating down the long line of men.

They had plenty of manual workers; was every single strong back so valuable? Of

course, out here among these mountain types it was perhaps some kind of pride or proof of manhood that kept them at it, even old Lord Storn who certainly in any rational society would have been recognized as being long past such work. In Thendara they would have made some kind of distinction between nobles and commoners, but from his brother Conn he knew there were few distinctions of that kind in the Hellers. Well, just let them offer him an alternative, he certainly didn't feel the need to prove his manhood!

He leaned on his hoe, sighing as he straightened his aching back. Why the devil had he come here anyhow? Above him he could hear a strange, almost mechanical whine, an

unexpected sound. A ragged cheer went up from the fire-lines as a small airship

appeared among the trees, maneuvering carefully to keep out of the eddying smoke.

Alastair had heard of matrix-powered gliders in these hills, carrying fire-fighting chemicals; but he had never actually seen a heavier-than-air vehicle. It droned out of sight and the man next to him muttered. "Leroni from the Tower, coming to help us."

"They are bringing fire-fighting chemicals?"

"Thass right. Very good of 'em―if we could ever be sure they han't started the damn'

fire themselves with their clingfire or some such deviltry!"

"More likely it was lightning did it," Alastair said, but the man looked skeptical.

"Oh, sure. But why are there more fires now than in my granfer's time, you tell me that, can ye?"

Alastair hadn't the faintest idea. He could only say, "Since I wasn't alive in your grandfather's time, I don't know that there are more fires now; and what's more, I don't think you do, either," and bent again to his work.

This was no place for the Duke of Hammerfell. If he had known that taking his place as Duke of Hammerfell would mean grubbing away in the dirt, Conn could have come in

his place, and welcome!

Oh, well. Grimly he stared up at the sky, imagining it covered with softening clouds.

Cooling clouds, gray and damp, blotting the scorching sun and bringing rain―blissful rain! There was a cloud to the south, small, fluffy; he imagined it growing, spreading quickly over the sky, swirling and darkening, moving closer. ...

It was growing and spreading, a cool breeze springing up in its wake as it grew darker and heavier. Alastair felt astonished and delighted; did I somehow do that? He

experimented briefly until he was sure he was right, somehow his own thoughts

controlled and built the cloud higher and higher, till its fantastic castles and pinnacles covered more than half the sky!

Was this a new laran for which they had not thought . to test him? He had no way of knowing. The cloud

had cooled him substantially; dutifully he bent again over his hoe before it occurred to him to wonder: Could I "make it rain"? Could I put out this fire and save us all a lot of trouble? The trouble was, though he could visualize the cloud building higher and darker, he really had no knowledge of what made a cloud decide it was full enough to rain. He should have paid more attention to his mother when she had tried to tell him something more about the simpler uses of laran. What a pity I cannot get into Conn's mind as I understand he can get into mine, and learn more of this art from him.