Varzil did not think this man was one of them. The man had directed the clingfire dart and died before he could be questioned, but he didn’t seem skillful or ruthless enough. Thoughtfully, Varzil touched the dart. It had been made by other hands. Dalereuth, perhaps, or some renegade Tower. This man had enough laran to guide it to a target, but nothing more.
Closing his eyes again, Varzil slipped into the Overworld. He had always found the transition disorienting, though his teachers assured him he did it more smoothly than most. Now he stood on a featureless gray plain, blinking in the diffuse unchanging light.
The Overworld was composed of mental material, not ordinary, familiar earthly components. As such, this mind stuff could be shaped by thought. Now Varzil gathered it up, forming a tall obelisk like a finger pointing to the pallid sky. On each of its four sides, he visualized an incised picture—the manor house here at Blue Lake, a grazing horse, the ancient gnarled willow by the river, Carolin’s sword. These symbols, images of real things, would create an anchor here in this place where time and space lost all meaning.
The form which Varzil took in the Overworld resembled his actual physical body. As usual, he clothed himself in the loose robe he wore for Tower work. He clasped his starstone and used it to call up the pattern from the chip in the clingfire dart. It wasn’t a complicated pattern, nothing like a functional matrix stone. Yet because the dead man had been in some way linked with it, it resonated with his own personality.
Working carefully, Varzil was able to tease out the impression of the dead man’s mind. Some instinct held him back from calling out directly. It was never entirely safe to have dealings with the dead.
Instead, Varzil used the trace as a guide. He slowly turned in each direction, making a complete circle. Searching ...
Toward the end of his circuit, he sensed a ripple of invisible colors. Once, on the edge of the Dry Towns, he had seen distortions caused by heat rising above the wind-smoothed sand. It had looked like water, but Kevan called it a mirage.
Grayness flickered, beckoning. He willed it to come closer, knowing the futility of trying to approach anything so evanescent here in the Overworld. Even things that appeared solid might retreat, tantalizingly just beyond reach. He had heard tales of the unwary, rushing about after departed loved ones, lost and desperate, until their physical bodies withered to lifeless husks.
The twist of colorless light steadied, separating into black and white. Varzil held the images firmly and waited for more detail to emerge ... diamond shapes upon a hanging banner and beyond it, the ghostly lineaments of a wall. A fort or castle, he thought, or the remnants of one. The tracery of stone and wood felt like memory rather than dream.
Something which had once existed?
He raised his starstone to eye level and peered through it at the shadowy form. The castle solidified and seemed larger as well. A man stood before the wooden gate, wearing the battered leather vest of the assassin. He looked very much as Varzil had seen him. As if sensing Varzil’s presence, he turned to glance behind. The door swung open.
The man raised a fist and shook it in Varzil’s direction. “I may have failed, but the cause lives on. Death to the Hasturs! We will be avenged!”
Varzil leaped forward. He was too late, for the man darted into the opening just before the wooden gate slammed shut. The castle vanished instantly.
Panting, sweating, Varzil found himself back in the stone hut at Blue Lake, with no more idea of who had sent the assassin than before.
The coridom took care of disposing of the assassin’s body. Varzil sat up with Carolin long into the evening, talking about what had happened. A fire had been laid in the comfortable sitting room, though the night was mild. The household had gone to great lengths to welcome its master, and it had taken most of the evening to find a moment of quiet. Even so, Carolin had had to kindly ask the coridom’s wife, who remembered him as a lad, to please leave them to their talk.
Carolin was clearly bent on dismissing the attack as the actions of a madman. Varzil fought his rising anxiety, trying not to say, Someone tried to kill you. It is not the first attempt. Next time, they might succeed.
“If you’re thinking about Eduin, I won’t hear of it,” Carolin responded to Varzil’s unvoiced thought. “The incident with the starstone was an accident, a misunderstanding. I said once that the two of you were going to have to work out your grievances, but I didn’t mean using me as the battleground.” He sat back in the huge, upholstered chair that clearly had seen better days, one hand unconsciously tracing the embroidered pattern of castles, sword ivy, and rosalys.
Varzil bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Deliberately, he avoided mentioning the fall in the orchard at Arilinn. It had been a long time ago. Perhaps Carolin was right about Eduin after all....
“What about the black-and-white banner?” he said, unable to give it up entirely. “And the words, We will be avenged? This attack was aimed at you, the next Hastur King. Who feels themselves wronged by your family? Who harbors such bitter hatred?”
“Let go of it, Varzil, before you drive both of us mad!” Carolin straightened in his chair. “Don’t you understand? Even a King who is loved has enemies. It’s one thing to exercise prudent care, and quite another to see evildoers in every shadow. If I insisted on tracing every possible threat to its very end, I’d never do anything else!”
“Carlo, if anything happened to you—”
“Bredu.” In a lightning move, Carolin reached out and captured one of Varzil’s hands between his own. Varzil, who knew only the rudiments of swordsmanship and had spent little time around fighting men, had not realized just how quick or powerful his friend was.
“Would you have me cripple myself trying to prevent every conceivable catastrophe?” Carolin said. “Life must be lived on its own terms, and part of being a Hastur, let alone a king, is the ongoing risk. Not what you face in the circle—” Here he gave a quick grimace that brought an answering smile from Varzil. “—but others. I have been born and trained to those risks.”
Don’t ask me to be less than I am.
Varzil caught the unspoken thought. How would he react if Carolin fretted every time he joined a circle or linked with one of the matrix screens that made possible the complex, sophisticated work of the Towers?
I would say that such risks are mine to take. I would not live my life walled in by imagined terrors. I cannot ask my friend to do what I myself would not.
Relenting, Varzil slid his hand free and placed it on top of Carolin’s. “Once you said there were two kinds of power—that of the world and that of the Tower. I fear I have been guilty of attempting to judge one from the vantage point of the other. Yet we must have both, if we are to succeed with our dream of a new Darkover.”
26
Despite Varzil’s lingering misgivings, the journey from Blue Lake to Hali and then back to Arilinn was one of the most joyous times of his life. Without the urgency of the funeral, he and Felicia enjoyed a leisurely pace. He did not speak of the assassination attempt or his venture into the Overworld, although they weighed heavily upon his thoughts. Felicia had her own burdens; he would not add to them.
“I was glad of the chance to see Lady Bronwyn again,” Felicia said as they let their horses walk on easy reins. “I doubt I’ll get another chance, she’s so frail. In a few years, there will be no one left who remembers my parents.” She sighed lightly, without any trace of self-pity. “She swears I took my first toddling steps into her arms.”
She glanced at him, green eyes dancing. “Do you miss your family?”
“Only Dyannis, and she’s at Hali now, so we speak regularly across the relays,” he answered. “Once my father reconciled himself to my being in a Tower, he started referring to me as my son at Arilinn. I rather think he was as glad to find some place to put me as I was to get away.”
“Yes, there is that,” she said. “Carolin has offered to find me a nice husband, but I think he’s relieved at how adama
ntly I’ve refused.”
Varzil looked out over the sloping pastures. He felt absurdly happy that Felicia should be so firm in her refusal of marriage. She was far too talented to resign herself to a life of babies and fancy embroidery. He supposed her nedestra status added to the difficulty of a suitable match, but posed no problem in the Towers.
Varzil thought of Eduin, who for all his faults and obscure birth had become a skilled laranzu, a valuable asset to any Tower. Eduin had not yet returned to Arilinn from his journey home. Before Varzil and Felicia left for Hali, there had been some speculation that Eduin might wish to transfer to another Tower. Indeed, on the eve of their departure, a message had come over the relays from Hali Tower, requesting Arilinn to release him so that Eduin might join them.
In these unsettled times, few leronyn spent their entire lives at the Tower where they had first trained. Some, like Eduin, found one reason or another to start afresh; others, like Carolin, came for a short time only, whether a single season or a few years.
Carlo ...
The memory of the riverside attack returned. The man in the leather vest had been fanatic in purpose, carefully prepared, armed with a sophisticated weapon attuned to Carolin alone. Whoever had planned it would not be deterred by a single failure. Carolin might not be so lucky next time. Varzil could not help thinking that he had missed some vital clue, had not pursued the matter to its end....
“Varzil, that thought has been nagging at you all morning,” Felicia said with a trace of acerbity. “Whatever is it?”
He realized he had been shielding his thoughts imperfectly and was about to apologize when her mind brushed against his.
If we are to work together, there can be no such secrets. Privacy, certainly, but nothing that might distract us and thus place the entire circle at risk.
So might a Keeper speak, he thought.
Felicia was right. Working in a circle was like living without a skin. Matters normally considered exempt from polite conversation could not be concealed. A thought was as potent as a deed and few topics were taboo. It was the duty of Keeper and monitor to make sure each member was fit to work.
Speaking mind to mind, Varzil told Felicia what had happened on the road to Blue Lake. She kept her eyes downcast, her gaze somewhere in the direction of her horse’s ears, listening intently. Once or twice, she raised her eyes to his and he sensed the turmoil behind her quietness.
“This sad world of ours has more than its share of wickedness,” she said when he had finished. “Yet Carolin is a good man who has done nothing to deserve such a fate.”
“No, these men, whoever they are, hunt him for what he is—a Hastur.”
Felicia sighed. “Imagine them, Varzil, so consumed with the evil of their deeds, the dark malice of their thoughts. To nurture such hatred is to suckle a scorpion-ant at one’s breast.” It is Evanda’s own grace that I am not such a one!
Varzil stared at her. Felicia had always seemed so gentle, so compassionate. Yet who was immune from the call of justice, given sufficient cause? Every man had his weakness, and even the strongest sword its breaking point.
“You are thinking of the great battle of the ballads?” he asked aloud. “The one which destroyed Neskaya and Tramontana Towers?”
She shook her head. “Even before that, King Damian Deslucido conquered Acosta and killed King Padrik, who was father to my brother Julian.”
Varzil heard the bitterness in her voice and knew it was not hers alone. It was something she inherited along with the color of her hair and shape of her hands. Just as he had been fed on suspicion of the Hasturs, from before he knew who they were.
“I had heard the family was extinct,” Varzil said. And therefore you are free of the burden of hating them.
“They are, and I am. But my mother was not. If any had by some chance survived, I believe she would have hunted them down herself. She was adamant that no trace of them remain, It’s understandable, of course. She was very young when Acosta was overrun. And newly pregnant with Julian. It must have been horrible to see her husband cut down, to find herself a prisoner facing a forced remarriage.”
Another reason why Carlo’s pact or something like it is so important.
“It is something Carlo—Carolin Hastur—and I have talked of over the years,” Varzil said. He hesitated to say more, but under her gentle prodding, he found himself pouring out his dreams. He ended with the promise to rebuild Neskaya Tower as a symbol of hope.
“A hope of a new Darkover, one free of these incessant wars,” she murmured. “I pray I might live to see such a time.”
On impulse, he said, You will see it. I promise you. You will be part of its birthing.
She pulled away from his mental touch with a sad little shrug. Do not offer me empty promises, Varzil Ridenow. We may be blessed in our times, or cursed, and nothing we can do will change the will of the gods in this respect.
With a feeling of deep contentment, Varzil entered the matrix laboratory and studied the assembled members of the First Circle at Arilinn. Auster was turning over more responsibility to him as under-Keeper, although the older man would direct this night’s work. Varzil knew and loved every person in the circle, from Valentina Aillard to Gavin Elhalyn. They were his family, a family of the heart in ways that old Dom Felix Ridenow and Lord Harald could never be.
I have found the place where I belong.
Felicia had joined the circle this evening. Since coming to Arilinn and proving to Fidelis’ satisfaction that she had truly recovered from her lung fever, she had been training with the higher-level matrices and had easily mastered the work.
She sat in her place around the low, round table, quietly preparing herself for the task ahead. This night, the laboratory had been set up for one of the most demanding tasks, the refining of raw materials for clingfire. Varzil was not happy about making the incendiary weapon and had urged Auster and the other Keepers to refuse.
“We are not willful children, to pick and choose what lawful work we will do,” Auster had replied. “Arilinn’s strength lies in our adherence to tradition, to those techniques which have proven themselves over the centuries. Dissension and rebellion are the surest way to disaster, and our world has seen more than its share in this last generation. I will not permit another such catastrophe under my authority.”
In the end, Auster’s word as Keeper was law. Just as a circle could not function as a conglomeration of individual talents, so a Tower could not continue with disparate voices. Barak, Keeper of the Second Circle, was even more conservative.
Now Auster would weave together the laran of the circle into a coherent whole, channeled and amplified through the enormous artificial matrix screens. They were working with a seventh-level matrix, which technically required seven qualified workers to control. Other Towers might have used six upon occasion, but Auster insisted upon things being done properly.
Cerriana took her place outside the circle, wearing the white robe of a monitor. The basic elements for the clingfire had already been mined and lay ready in their glass containers. The next step required distillation at high heat. Sometimes the glass vessels exploded, spewing bits of burning material. Even with protective clothing, workers were sometimes horribly injured. Iron or steel containers would have been more stable, but vulnerable to corrosion.
Varzil, in his capacity as under-Keeper, had already ensured that the chamber was shielded. He made one last check, for a distraction at a crucial time could prove disastrous, and then settled himself on his bench.
“Let us begin,” Auster said.
As one, the members of the circle reached out hands and minds to one another. Varzil slipped into the familiar stream of mental energy as each person bent his concentration toward the Keeper. With the confidence born of his decades of experience, Auster attuned the individual psychic signatures into a harmonious unity.
As an ordinary circle worker, Varzil had happily accepted the loss of personal separateness under his Keeper’s contr
ol, one note in a symphony, one color in an ever-changing rainbow, one droplet in a river of dancing light. Since he had begun his Keeper’s training, however, a shift had taken place. The relentless rigor of the exercises had altered his consciousness so that, while part of him floated, serene and blissful, in the energy nets, another part remained aware and separate. Later, as he progressed in skill, he would be able to control and direct the focused laran of the circle while still remaining an integral part of it.
Auster, a magnet of power, glowing like a sun ...
Felicia, bright and shining like sunlight on new steel ...
Gavin, immovable as a rock ...
Valentina ... Richardo
Lorens, who had helped to build this matrix lattice holding the pattern in his mind like a map ...
From outside the circle itself, Varzil felt Cerriana’s subtle presence. Her mind moved constantly around the circle, checking each person, testing breathing, pulse, the rhythmic blinking of eyes, the tension in back and neck muscles, the temperature of extremities. Wherever she found discomfort, no matter how minor, she eased it. Even something as trivial as a toe cramp could mar the perfect concentration necessary for circle work. For this reason, she had not linked in the circle itself, but remained apart so that she could devote her entire attention to the others.
As if from a distance, Varzil felt a gentle warmth through his lower back as Cerriana relaxed the muscles there. He reminded himself to thank her afterward.
Auster had completed the work of weaving the minds of the circle together. The raw elements of the clingfire in their glass vessels stood ready. Using the artificial matrix crystals to amplify their already powerful laran, he began the next phase, raising the temperature to distillation levels.
Varzil felt the shift as Auster tightened his control. This work was doubly dangerous, first because of the power of the matrix lattice, secondly from the physical effects of the clingfire itself.
Something was not right.