The king straightened on his throne. One hand, skin flecked with age spots, lifted; one bony finger pointed at Eduin and Varzil. The room hushed.
“Where is Gerrel, my brother?” King Felix demanded querulously. “Why is he not here to attend me?”
One of the youths beside the throne bent closer. His elaborately cut velvets could not entirely disguise his stocky build or the flush over his cheeks, the puffiness beneath his restless eyes. Though he spoke in a low, soothing voice, his words meant only for the king, Varzil made out their meaning.
“Your Majesty will recall that Prince Gerrel is dead these past twelve years. These are Prince Carolin’s friends, come with him from Arilinn to celebrate Midwinter Festival with us.”
“Oh?” Something flared in the rheumy eyes, and Varzil sensed the keen alertness, the confidence of a century and more of undisputed rule. “Yes, of course, we must extend the hospitality of the Hasturs and bid them a proper welcome. Carolin, my boy, come here. You have been away too long.”
Carolin paused before the dais to perform an impeccably respectful bow, then stepped up and kissed the old king on the cheek. His natural affection and ease smoothed away the moment of awkwardness.
“I’m home now, Uncle. I’ve finished my time at Arilinn and have learned all they could teach me, all that befits a Prince of Hastur. It was for this you sent me there. I’ve brought my new friends to present to you.” Carolin gestured for Varzil and Eduin to approach the throne.
The old man’s face had brightened at Carolin’s first words. But now he glared at the newcomers. His eyes reflected a pellucid, colorless light, suggesting the fabled chieri blood coursed through his veins.
He has been king for a long time, Varzil thought. Who am I to judge, if the weight of so many years lies heavy upon him?
Old and tired though he might be, for the sake of Hastur and hence for all of Darkover, this frail old man must somehow muster the strength to continue until his nephew was properly trained to rule. Younger men than Carolin had been thrust into positions of power, even less well prepared than he, and fallen prey to the machinations of those with ambition far exceeding their station.
Carlo trusts too much, Varzil thought. And this court is no place for such a generous heart. He will need loyal friends. But who among this painted, perfumed crowd could truly be counted as a friend?
King Felix spoke again, drawing Varzil’s attention. It took a few moments for the crowd to become quiet enough to hear his words.
“... royal pleasure to announce that the wedding of Prince Carolin and Lady Alianora Ysabet Ardais has been set for Midsummer festival...:”
Varzil strained for a look at his friend. An elderly courtier turned to his neighbor and said, “What a relief to have that settled at last. It’s a brilliant match, of course. She’s to inherit all the borderlands along the Scaravel River.”
“Aye, that will stabilize the whole region,” his companion nodded.
At that point, a round of cheering erupted spontaneously. Carolin turned to the crowd and bowed his head in acknowledgment. Varzil could read nothing of his friend’s thoughts, or see anything behind the graciousness of his smile.
Carolin, like any young man of his caste, would have been betrothed as soon as it was certain he would survive infancy. His foster-brother, Orain, was not only married, but had a son. The only reason Varzil himself had not already been promised in marriage was his sickly boyhood constitution. Had the catmen rescue not intervened, his father would probably have set about finding a suitable alliance for him shortly after his presentation at the Comyn Council. It was the way of the world.
Carolin had never spoken of his betrothal, which suggested he hardly knew the girl. This, too, was the usual custom. Varzil’s own parents had never set eyes upon each other before their wedding day and they had lived amicably enough together, producing six children, four of them living. A man couldn’t ask for more in these uncertain times. An ordinary man, that is.
But Carolin was not ordinary. He had laran enough to be trained in a Tower and his very nature—passionate, romantic, loving honor and teaming—set him apart. Although Varzil had yet to take a lover at Arilinn, he knew the impossibility of a telepath attempting physical intimacy where there was no sympathy of mind, no direct communion of the heart. It would amount to coupling with a dumb beast. He knew himself incapable of such a thing.
Varzil, watching Carolin receive the congratulations of his royal cousins, felt a pang of loss and of disappointment. Already, his friend had moved beyond the world they’d shared to a place he could not—and had no wish to—fottow.
After the formal reception concluded, the king withdrew to his own quarters, where he would dine with his family and their guests later that evening. Those courtiers and holiday guests staying at the castle would be provided for in the old style, at trestle tables to be set up in this central hall. As soon as King Felix departed, servants began rushing this way and that in preparation. Maura, Jandria, and Orain disappeared in the crush.
Courtiers gathered in swirls and knots, and Varzil noticed how they maneuvered for advantage among themselves. There were subtle distinctions here, of who greeted whom, who was the first to withdraw. He caught snatches of conversation. Two ladies, elegantly dressed in the tartans of Hastur of Carcosa, speculated in shrill voices on the problems of genetic recessive traits in the Scaravel Ardais.
“At least, inbreeding won’t be an issue,” one sniffed.
“Oh, I had thought it a sure thing for Prince Rakhal and Lady Maura, for all she’s an Elhalyn and therefore, kin.”
“Not that close,” the first lady said, tapping her friend’s arm with her folded fan. “Nothing can move forward on that match until she’s released from her Tower and, if you ask me, that’s not likely any time soon. It’s no wonder his attention strays.”
“Dear me! I was sure they were meant for each other, being fostered together since they were children.”
“Mark my words, if she delays long enough, the King will find him another match. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see a whole flurry of weddings. I’ll have to order a dozen new gowns at least. The King’s positively enraptured with the idea—”
The lady’s gaze passed over Varzil as she moved by. She lifted her chin and turned, making her way through the assembly.
The stocky youth who had reminded King Felix of the death of Carolin’s father now pushed his way through the throng to greet Carolin. They embraced as kinsmen.
“These are my friends from Arilinn. My cousin, Rakhal.” Carolin bent toward Rakhal so that he could be heard without shouting. “My uncle—how long has he been like this?”
“He’ll be better now that you’re here,” Rakhal answered in the same private tone. “I must attend him in his quarters now. Today’s excitement has clearly been too much. He’s not strong, you know. He sat for hours all last tenday, hearing cases that should have gone to the cortes. But a little care will see him right.” Rakhal bowed and headed back toward the dais.
The second youth lingered behind. Varzil regarded him curiously, for the initial resemblance to both Carolin and the departed Rakhal was strong, going far beyond their striking red hair. He’d been mistaken, though. These three might be blood kin, but they were nothing alike. Whereas Carolin held himself with an unconscious grace and Rakhal seemed stolid, a man who might run to fat without the habits of exercise and self-restraint, this youth was thin and nervy, unsettled in himself. He would have benefited, Varzil thought, with a season or two of Tower training.
Jandria emerged from the crowd, walking arm and arm with Maura like sisters. Her eyes flickered to the empty dais. “We’ll see little of Rakhal tonight, as he’s taken over all the personal duties of the King’s paxman,” she commented to no one in particular.
“You say that as if it is not a good and noble thing,” the second youth said.
“Don’t be so sensitive, Lyondri!” Jandria replied.
“We are all aware of how duti
ful Rakhal is,” Maura said at the same time.
“And if one of us should happen to forget,” Jandria went on without drawing breath, “you will surely remind us. Ay, me! They will be at least an hour setting up here and in the King’s quarters. Let’s find Orain and sneak off.”
“I’m here,” Orain spoke from a pace behind Carolin. He moved so silently and stood so still, Varzil had not noticed him approach. Courtiers edged by them, muttering excuses. “Rakhal sends his compliments and bids us go on without him. ”
“Then let’s get out of here before we’re trampled,” Maura flinched visibly as a courtier brushed against her. “We’re directly in the path of the kitchen traffic.” She turned to Lyondri. “You’ll join us?”
Lyondri nodded and held out his arm for her. Jandria followed by herself and Orain beside Carolin, leaving Varzil and Eduin to follow.
A young servant girl, flushed with exertion, jumped sideways to avoid a lady’s beribboned skirts and stumbled under the weight of her burden, a huge pottery jar. She collided with Eduin and the jar splashed wine in every direction before sliding, miraculously unbroken, to the floor. Dropping to her knees, she tipped it upright, but not before a pool of garnet liquid had escaped. Then she looked up to see the dark splatters across Eduin’s fine linex shirt and jacket.
“Oh, sir!” she cried, her face reddening even more. “I’m so sorry, sir!”
Eduin brushed at his jacket, but it was no use. The droplets had already sunk into the fabric.
“Oh, -sir!” The girl was almost in tears, growing more incoherent by the instant. With her bare hands, she tried to scoop up the spreading puddle. She reached up as if to wipe Eduin’s clothing, but he jumped back.
“You stupid—” Eduin cried. “Don’t you touch me! Haven’t you done enough?”
The girl cringed, bracing herself for a blow.
She has been struck before. No servant at Sweetwater was ever beaten, no matter what the shortcoming. Dismissed, yes, or judged and punished. Dom Felix had once ordered a man hanged for poisoning a well that led to the deaths of two children. But that had been an act of deliberate malice. A beating would scarcely improve bad luck.
“Eduin, you’re flustering the poor child—” Varzil began.
“Look at these stains! How can I dine with the King looking like this?”
Varzil had never seen Eduin so distressed, and over such a trivial matter. Then he remembered how Eduin had strutted his borrowed finery earlier in the evening. Varzil’s own family might live simply, but they had lands and servants, warm clothing, decent food, fine horses to ride. No necessity of life was ever lacking. He had been presented to the Comyn Council in attire as fine as theirs, had been accepted among them as an equal. He had never—and now he looked at Eduin with new insight—been poor.
Other details came back to him, Eduin’s obscure origins, the rumors of his birth being the unwelcome result of a liaison between a well-born lady and a stable hand, even his hair, muddy brown instead of the shades of red so common in those with laran. No wonder Eduin had always seemed so serious, often grim, about his status at Arilinn. No wonder he had reacted with jealousy to any intrusion into his friendship with Carolin, his resentment of Varzil’s more rapid advancement. Varzil could only imagine what scars he hid behind those polished barriers, what fears that the little he had in life might be so easily taken from him.
Varzil crouched beside the girl, focusing his laran through his starstone. It was a simple enough matter to increase the surface tension of the wine. Instead of a sheet of liquid, quickly spreading on the the floor, it assumed a rounded shape. By further tightening the outer layer, Varzil was able to gather it up like a bag of jelly and ease it back into the jar. The girl, who had been watching with fists pressed over her mouth in astonishment, gave a little cry.
Varzil helped her lift the jar and balance it in her arms. With a look of naked adoration, she hurried away.
“Watch where you’re going!” Eduin called after her. “Varzil, I am not the Keeper of your conscience, but you need not have wasted your laran trying to help. The chit was clumsy and should have had to clean up after herself. That’s the only way people like her will ever learn.”
Varzil doubted that being publicly humiliated and beaten would teach the girl anything except that nobles were to be avoided. Remembering Lunilla’s kitchen wisdom, he said, “Those wine stains should lift out easily, especially if we do it before they set.” He lowered his laran barriers in an overture to work together.
“I don’t want your sympathy!” Eduin snapped. “And I certainly don’t need your help!”
Varzil drew back in surprise. Eduin had been courteous, if not overtly friendly, since they’d worked together in the circle this last year. He had no idea what he had done to deserve such a response—maybe nothing. Perhaps he was merely a convenient target.
Ah, Varzil thought, not all the smiths in Zandru’s forge could mend a broken egg or a man’s stubborn nature, or so his father was fond of saying.
“Shall I tell the others you will join us shortly, then?” Varzil said. Under other circumstances, he would have remained behind, so that Eduin would not be left alone in such a bewildering place. Clearly, his own presence was as much an irritant as the splatters on the ivory brocade.
Varzil wandered down the corridor to Carolin’s chambers, past standing guards and closed doors. Maura stuck her head out of the largest door and beckoned to him. “Sean,” she called to the guard at his post outside, “watch out for Eduin.”
Carolin’s sitting room was almost as large as the family gathering hall at Sweetwater. If all the suites were this big, it was no wonder the castle sprawled over so much territory. Varzil glanced around at the richly patterned Ardcarran carpets, the panels of pale blue translucent stone, so smooth and perfectly matched that they could only have been set by matrix work, the deeply cushioned chairs and divan, the low table of blackwood set in a mosaic of ash and mother-of-pearl. Warmth swept across his bare face from the fireplace with its marble mantle carved in a life-sized relief of Aldones, Lord of Light, and his son, the very first Hastur, the one who had become mortal for love of the Blessed Cassilda and thereby founded the clan of his name.
Carolin and Orain had already made themselves comfortable on the divan facing the fireplace, with Jandria in an armchair. Lyondri shifted from one foot to the other as if unable to make up his mind whether to stay.
Maura drew up one of the two remaining chairs at a comfortable distance from the fireplace and gestured for Varzil to do the same. The chair was wooden, although of graceful design and excellent crafting, softened only by a needlepoint cushion. She settled herself, back straight, feet primly tucked beneath her skirts and hands folded in her lap.
Varzil took his own seat. “There isn’t another chair for Eduin.”
“We can send Sean for one,” Carolin said.
“That rather defeats the purpose of posting a guard, if you insist on ordering him about on menial errands,” Lyondri said. “Maybe things are different at Arilinn.”
“I think the three of us can manage to defend the honor of the ladies, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Orain said laconically.
Lyondri scowled and was about to respond when Jandria broke into laughter and said, “Orain, we can take care of our own honor!”
Maura added, lightly, that with two and a half Tower-trained leronyn, the half being Carolin, or three and a half when Eduin showed up—they had nothing to fear. “I rather suspect it is we would end up defending poor Sean and not the other way around.”
But no one made any comment about there being nothing to fear, here in the family seat of the Hasturs. The powerful Kingdom of Hastur might be at peace for the moment, but that did not guarantee personal safety for the King or his heir.
Ariliinn, with its Veil which admitted only those Gifted with laran, was an isolated fortress. In a circle, in the training rooms, even in the evening gatherings, people shared an intimacy of mind. Su
rely no outsider could penetrate that community.
“What is it?” Maura bent toward him.
Varzil shook his head. A little shiver, half premonition, crossed his shoulders. “I was thinking about Arilinn, which is so—so self-contained.”
Lyondri asked where he had come from before Arilinn. Though the question was posed politely enough, it had an edge, like a blade slipping noiselessly from its scabbard.
Varzil took no offense, though he knew one was intended. There were currents within currents here, like a river with hidden rocks and shoals, deepness and unexpected eddies, rapids to slam a boat onto hungry rocks. The sunny moss-laced banks, like the sumptuous furnishings, were a lure and soporific for the unwary. He did not yet know where his allies lay, or which practiced smile masked self-interest and malicious intent.
He replied, pretending the question was nothing more than a courteous inquiry, but before he had said more than a few words, Eduin arrived at the same time as a bevy of servants bearing trays of hot spiced ale, bread, and winter-crisp apples and bowls heaped with honey-glazed nuts and round cookies redolent with spicebark. Varzil recognized them as a special Midwinter treat, with their dusting of sparkling honey crystals. He noticed, too, that Eduin’s jacket had once more been restored to its pristine appearance, Varzil felt the faint residue of the mental power Eduin had used to remove the wine stains.
“Ah, Eduin! You have saved us from starvation!” Carolin cried. Taking the bowl of nuts, he offered them to the others. Maura took a few, as did Orain and Lyondri, but Jandria said she’d wait for a proper dinner.
At the smell of the food, Varzil felt a thrill of nausea. He instantly identified it as a combination of the natural fatigue of a long journey and the expenditure of his laran in gathering up the wine. He bit into a sweet bun and refused the hot wine, knowing how potent it would be, as hungry as he was. He needed to keep all his wits about him.
Eduin, too, helped himself to the energy-replenishing sweets, although he accepted a steaming goblet. For a long, awkward moment after the servants had left, the new friends sat or stood, feigning concentration on their food.