The Fall of Neskaya

  Now Linn knelt at Damian’s feet, as farmers worked their land without the threat of clingfire or any of the other devil-try which stalked the war-torn Hundred Kingdoms. All flourished in Damian’s golden sun. Only a few malcontents grumbled at the armed vigilance necessary to maintain this peace.

  “So, brother, what news from Verdanta? Was the old man reasonable?” Damian put one arm around Rumail’s shoulders, not being bound by the etiquette which restricted casual physical contact among telepaths, and started down the hallway toward the private quarters.

  “Verdanta will be yours on your own terms,” Rumail replied, his words inflected with the honorifics due his lord. “And you were right—”

  Rumail broke off as young Belisar came running to meet them, boots clattering on the stone floor between the strips of precious Ardcarran carpet. With his face flushed and his golden hair askew, Belisar looked younger than his sixteen years. His eyes shone bright and blue as starstones, sure to melt the heart of any maid, although Rumail never considered himself much of a judge of such things. His own liaisons at Neskaya and at Dalereuth, where he had trained, had been short-lived and unsatisfying. It was no one’s fault, for like many telepaths, he found physical intimacy disappointing without a deeper sympathy, and no woman had ever stirred him in that way.

  “What is she like? Is she pretty?” Then, remembering his responsibilities as eldest son and heir, Belisar drew himself up. He bowed to Rumail, the precise inclination for one older and respected, but inferior in rank.

  “Greetings, Uncle. How went your mission?”

  “Everyone assumed the best candidate would be the oldest daughter,” Rumail said as they proceeded down the corridor. “But Beltran was obliging enough to sire three of them so that we might continue our other objectives. The youngest one has latent potential of the qualities we are searching for in her progeny. I scanned her right down to the genetic level, despite her considerable resistance. In the end, I believe, she will follow her father’s wishes. She stood obediently enough for the handfasting. The older daughter, a conventionally boring twit of a girl, will see to it that she’s schooled as befits a Queen.”

  “Schooled? How—how old is she?” Belisar asked, struggling not to frown.

  “Eight or nine, I think.”

  Belisar looked horrified. “She’s still a baby!”

  “So, boy!” Laughing heartily, Damian clapped Belisar between the shoulder blades. “You’ll have to wait to bed your bride.”

  “Father—”

  “Oh, but it’s only your bride you must wait for!” Damian said. “She’ll expect a husband this much older to be experienced, won’t she?”

  “Father!”

  “Leave the boy his dignity,” Rumail said. In the Towers, a boy Belisar’s age would have had several lovers, although not when actively working in a circle. Both the sexual bonding and the periods of celibacy due to intense laran work were considered natural and treated with respect, never this coarse teasing.

  “There is more news,” Rumail went on.

  They reached the private quarters of the royal family. “Come, let’s go within,” Damian said. “You, too, Belisar. Since you’re to marry for a political alliance, you must learn statecraft.”

  Once inside, Damian dismissed the young page and ordered the guards a distance from the door, so they could speak without being overheard.

  Unlike the throne chamber, Damian’s sitting room was richly appointed with rugs and tapestries of gemstone hues, cushioned chairs, and footstools. The fireplace mantel, sea marble shipped all the way from Temora, glowed like living pearl in the light of the tiny summer fire. On the low table of ancient wood, so polished with age as to look black, a bowl of blown glass held freshly shelled nuts and candied sugarplums.

  Damian lounged in the largest of the chairs and reached for a handful of nuts. Belisar also sat, but on the edge of his seat.

  “I went to Verdanta for a marriage contract, as you know, but there I found an even greater treasure. One of the boys has extraordinary laran, only now developing. I convinced the father to let me test him, using the excuse of threshold sickness, which indeed he has, and severely enough to indicate the magnitude of his awakening talent. While I was testing him, while his mind was open to mine . . . do you remember our discussion of . . . other uses of the family Gift?”

  Damian sat up. Nuts fell unheeded to the carpet in the moment of silence that followed. His eyes flickered to his son’s face, to the questions there.

  “You have not told him, then?” Rumail asked. They had agreed the boy must not be kept in ignorance. But Damian had his own ideas of the proper timing.

  “But I shall.” Damian turned to his son. “What your uncle means is the very special type of laran which only we Deslucidos possess. Some of us, anyway. I have only a trace of it, and Rumail by far the greater portion. The gods certainly made up for our unequal births.”

  At Damian’s laughter, Belisar smiled politely. Rumail, who was years beyond allowing himself to react to such casual barbs, noticed how the boy’s eyes remained alert, probing.

  Belisar said, with unexpected formality, “You have told me, Uncle, that my own laran is recessive, that my sons may have the use of theirs, but not me. And everyone knows you are a powerful laranzu. The Deslucido family Gift is . . .” he hesitated, “. . . something different from that. Am I to know in what way and how it can serve the cause of unifying Darkover?”

  “Ordinary laran is useful within its limits,” Damian said temperately. “Good for making clingfire to wage wars or healing the wounds those wars inevitably produce. The minds of weak, ordinary men can be made to see things which live only in their nightmares. Or their nightmares can be coaxed into sweeter dreams. But never before in the history of the world have we been able to free men’s minds from misinformation and prejudice.”

  “Free them? How?”

  Rumail stirred, uneasy. Damian tended to get carried away with his own idealistic speeches, forgetting that power needed no justification except itself. Men did not need to understand in order to believe. In fact, talk too often delayed the actions necessary for the common good. It was time to take control of the conversation. “You have seen truthspell?”

  Belisar had been present at the surrender of Linn, when a leronis, Linn’s own, was brought to invoke the blue light which glowed steadily on the face of each speaker only in the presence of truth. In its aura, the Lord of Linn and his vassals swore fealty to Ambervale, and King Damian in his turn promised they would never be forced to wage war against their kin in Acosta. There was no surer bond than an oath made under truthspell.

  “Yes,” Belisar said slowly, “it is the reason one man can trust another’s sworn word and the only sure way of ascertaining the facts in a dispute. Otherwise, a man could hold hidden loyalties, secretly change allegiances, say one thing and mean another.”

  “What if . . .” Rumail said, “what if a vassal truly believed whatever served his lord, believed it so fervently that not even truthspell could tell the difference? What if a king need not be bound by other men’s literal truths, but only the necessities of a higher calling?”

  Belisar’s eyes widened as he glanced from father to uncle and back again. Damian watched his heir work through Rumail’s puzzle. “You have found some way to defeat truthspell?”

  “Not defeat it,” Rumail said, “for truth is hardly an enemy to be defeated. We expand the definition to include a greater truth, a deeper loyalty. This is the special Deslucido Gift.”

  “And I, do I have this ability also?” The boy frowned, clearly searching his memory for a time when he had lied over some childish prank and not been found out.

  “No, son,” Damian said. “And neither do I. You and I are like a lock, useless in itself, but Rumail there, he holds the key. He can reach into our minds and release that Gift. And he has done so to me upon a number of occasions. The effect is specific and limited in time.”

  “You . . . lied under truthspell
?”

  Anger flashed across Damian’s eyes, but he continued patiently, taking no insult. “You must understand that the result is not falsehood, not in the sense most men believe it, any more than truth is the mere sterile recitation of facts. Consider this: Is it a truly good thing to reveal a truth which will break apart a kingdom or send a decent man to his death?”

  Belisar looked to Rumail. Blood drained from his face, leaving only the reflected color of the summer fire washing over ashen cheeks. “But if men cannot believe what is spoken in truthspell, what will they believe? Will not all treaties be at risk if this is ever known?”

  Damian raised one eyebrow. “Then we must make certain that no foolish rumors are ever spread. Gossip can destroy the noblest cause and ordinary men are easily led astray by their own fears. They require the guidance of their betters.”

  Belisar nodded. The normal color quickly returned to his face; he recovered fast. The lad was sharp, Rumail thought, if a trace arrogant.

  “Sometimes,” Rumail added, “it is necessary to lance a wound in order for it to heal cleanly, or, to use gardening terms, to cut out the rotten growth and plant anew.”

  “I understand why you waited until now to tell me,” Belisar told Damian. “And I will never betray your trust. The gods have truly blessed us with this Gift. We can remake the face of Darkover! Of course, we must follow different laws than other people, for we serve a more noble cause. But what are the other uses Uncle Rumail referred to?”

  “Rumail and I have studied the special Gifts which run in our family,” Damian went on. “We have often discussed whether this same technique—the strengthening of belief in a man’s mind so that it becomes, for all purposes, literal truth—might not be applied in some other way.”

  Rumail had often wished this were possible, but other than his immediate family—Damian and now his son—the only one he’d come across who possessed the necessary susceptibility was the Leynier boy.

  When Belisar looked puzzled, Rumail said, “Think of it as a window to this Leynier boy’s mind, to the very core of his laran. He will take training in a Tower, as he should. I have seen to that. With his talent, he should go far, perhaps even become a Keeper.”

  Rumail could not keep a trace of bitterness from his voice, for that had been his own aspiration, had those fools at Neskaya been able to see his worth. But there was no profit in pursuing such thoughts. One of the unspoken purposes of this journey was to let the last fracas die down, some silliness about him having “unduly influenced” a young student. It was all ridiculous. No one argued he had done anything except for the boy’s benefit, yet he’d been censured for his methods, simple and direct though they were. If a Keeper had done the same thing, his actions would have been praised. In a few months, they would realize how badly they needed him in the higher-level matrix circles and would welcome him back. Next time, he’d be more discreet.

  He guided his thoughts back to the present and went on, “When the time is right, when we most need such an ally, I have but to open the window in young Leynier’s mind and speak our truth. He must listen.”

  “Must?” Belisar raised one eyebrow.

  “Must. As to the voice of his own conscience or the whispers of his beloved. He will listen and he will obey because he will believe with all his heart and might. We will have a Keeper, perhaps the most powerful on Darkover, as our most loyal ally.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “No matter which Tower he serves in, no matter what the allegiance there.”

  Damian closed his eyes, as if deeply considering. A smile spread slowly across his face. “Brother, you are right! You have brought us a far greater treasure than a single petty kingdom! Belisar, what do you think of your uncle’s genius?”

  Belisar grinned. “I think it would be jolly fun to have a pet Keeper to do our bidding!”

  “Never say that!” Rumail stormed. “Never even think it! A Keeper can channel unimaginably powerful forces and direct them at his will. Do you think clingfire raining from the skies or rootblight withering a forest are the worst horrors of war? Why do you think the Aldarans are so feared, up there on their mountain?”

  “Be at ease,” Damian cut in. “This is no child’s toy or dalliance, but neither is the vision of a future we are all sworn to. We must have the power to bring our dreams into reality for the welfare of all peoples. Rest assured, we will use it wisely.

  “Come,” Damian said, rising, “let us hear some music to soothe away the night. Tomorrow will be a new day, one we face armed better than ever, thanks to your fine work.”

  7

  Coryn awoke from dreams of swaying, jolting, rocking, and more jolting. Alertness came slowly as he drifted in and out of uneasy sleep. Finally, insistent pangs from stomach and bladder forced him toward consciousness.

  He lay in a bed, not his bed, not his room, with no idea of where he was or how he had gotten here. The weakness in his body when he tried to sit up reminded him unpleasantly of that morning after Dom Rumail had examined him for laran. This room was unfamiliar, far smaller than his own and curtained by panels of open-weave white linex.

  The other furnishings included a backless stool, a small chest at the foot of the bed, an empty bookcase in the headboard . . . and a chamber pot in the far corner. He staggered toward it on unsteady legs. A few minutes later, he made it back to bed, where he lay, breathing hard and sweating.

  A gentle tap sounded from beyond the white curtain. He lay still, covers pulled up to his chin, waiting for his heart to stop hammering. He didn’t have the strength to get back to his feet and the last thing he wanted was to be lying here helplessly while some stranger approached his bed. Perhaps whoever it was had made a mistake and would go away. The tap came again.

  After a long moment he heard—no, he sensed footsteps, quick and light, receding down the corridor outside. Coryn drifted back to sleep.

  And sprang awake as a door swung open. The curtain was pulled aside to reveal an older man in a long, loosely belted white robe and a girl about his own age carrying a tray of covered dishes.

  “I’m Gareth, monitor of the Second Circle.” The man sounded kindly enough, though he did not offer to shake hands. “And your serving-maid here is your fellow student, Liane. Now then, young Coryn. Are you hungry enough for breakfast?”

  Coryn’s stomach rumbled at the smell of the food—some kind of honeyed fruit, he thought, and fresh-baked bread touched with cardamom. He thought wryly that this scene was becoming all too familiar.

  “No, please don’t sit up. This will be brief.” The man sat on the bed beside him, but did not touch him. Instead, he ran his hands over Coryn’s body, following the contours but never touching. Above his closed eyes, lines of concentration furrowed his brow. His hair was clipped even with the back of his skull as no Comyn lord or warrior would wear it. He shook his head slightly.

  “Eat now, as much as you can, and you can join the others later today or tomorrow.” With those words, Gareth rose and departed, leaving the girl standing awkwardly, still holding the tray.

  As she looked around for a place to set it down, Coryn, propping himself up on one elbow, got a good look at her. Straw-pale hair tinged with red hung in neat braids to her waist. Thick, colorless eyelashes fringed eyes of startling green. Freckles dusted her cheeks. She wore a simple robe of spring-green wool, belted with a sash of the same fabric around her slender waist. When she smiled, her eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “Here,” Coryn said, moving to make room on the bed. She set the tray down and sat behind it, tucking her legs under her. He lifted the domed covers to discover a small feast—honey-stewed fruit, as he had suspected, sliced bread, white and yellow cheeses, turnovers with some kind of spiced meat filling, a flagon of water and one of apple cider.

  “I can’t eat all this!” He made a face. “Do you want some?”

  “I’m always hungry. Auster—he’s one of my teachers—says it’s because I’m growing so fast. The food here is really good. Lots o
f meat pastries and no bean porridge for breakfast!” Her chatter reminded him of Kristlin.

  Coryn spread a thick slice of nutbread with soft yellow cheese and ate it with a mug of the cider. At his urging, the girl took one of the turnovers. She ate quickly and neatly, leaving no crumbs.

  “You’re being awfully nice to me,” she said, “considering how mean I was to you.”

  Coryn swallowed a mouthful of the honeyed fruit and blinked at her. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember having met you before. I’ve been—ill, I guess.”

  “I’ll say you’ve been sick. Threshold sick. Auster says he’s never seen such a bad case, not in anyone who lived. Oh!” One hand flew to her mouth. “That wasn’t very nice to say, was it? I’m always saying whatever pops into my mind, whether I mean it or not. I mean, you really were very sick, you had convulsions and everything. You nearly scared the wits out of me. I’m glad you’re not going to die, ’cause then I’d feel awful. Marisela—she’s the housemistress—says I must learn tact and something else, I’m not sure what.”

  Now the girl sounded so exactly like Kristlin that Coryn burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, too,” he managed to say. “But I truly don’t remember who you are. Should I?”

  Bright color shot across the girl’s cheeks. She looked down at her hands, fingers laced together. “Yes, the night you—we—Lady Bronwyn was escorting me here, and our guards found your camp.” She met his gaze, her green eyes somber. “You were sick, and you wouldn’t hold still when Lady Bronwyn tried to help you. I’m afraid I behaved very badly.”

  The voice, the petulant child’s voice in the darkness. “Oh. I didn’t exactly—I mean, I had other things on my mind.”

  A smile flashed across her face, quickly disappearing. “You’re nice, do you know that? But I had no right to be so rude just because you’re a Leynier and were on our lands. Alain—the guards captain—thought you and your man were spies. You can never tell with Verdanta folk.”

  “Liane—Liane Storn?”

  “Yes, but we’re not supposed to use our family names here. Every day since we arrived, I’ve been given a lecture on how none of that matters, only ourselves—‘our laran, our character, our discipline, our work’. On and on like that.” She wrinkled her nose so that the freckles stood out. “Doesn’t sound like much fun, does it? But the lessons are interesting. You’ll see when you can get up.”