… and that man, Bard, I shall never cease to love…
So she loved him still. It would not be easy. He had made Carlina his wife by force; the law stated that a handfasting, once consummated, was lawful marriage. No doubt Carlina would be glad enough to be rid of him, and he could not make a leronis of Neskaya into his barragana; so he had little enough to offer Melora. But perhaps they could find some honorable solution.
Strange. All these years he had dreamed of possessing Carlina, and now that he had her he was trying to work out a way to get rid of her. There was a saying in the hills: Take care how you beseech the gods, they may answer you.
The worst irony of all, he thought, the worst catastrophe he could envision, would be if Carlina should actually have come to love him, as he had always felt she must do if he once possessed her. He could not restore what he had taken from her, no more than he could make real amends to Melisendra, give her back her virginity and the Sight. But what he could do, he must. If Melisendra wanted Paul, she should have him, even though she might find, in the end, that Paul was no better than himself.
Or was he? He knew no more about Paul than… really… he knew about himself. Paul and he were the same man at root. Paul was the man he might have been, no more. Perhaps the differences went deeper than he could guess.
The long detour around the blasted lands took time, and the sun was angling downward past noon when Melora cried out in shock and dismay. Varzil pulled his horse to a stop, his face drawn, and seemed to listen for something out of the range of normal hearing. He reached from his seat in the saddle and took Bard’s hand, with an instinctive gesture, as if to offer comfort.“
“Alaric!” Bard whispered in shock, and somewhere, distant, in his mind, felt and saw his brother’s last sight of the roof buckling to admit the sky, his last frantic clutching at his father for support, the instant and merciful darkness.
Oh, my brother! Merciful gods! My brother, my only brother!
He did not cry the words aloud in agony; he only thought that he did. Varzil held out his arms and Bard let his head fall on the older man’s shoulder, in voiceless grief, shaking with an anguish too deep for tears.
“I am sorry,” Varzil said in his gentle, muted voice. “He was like a fosterling to me, who have no son, and I cared for him long when he was so very ill.”
And Bard knew that Varzil’s grief was like his own. He said, shaking, “He loved you, vai dom, he told me so… it is why I could… could trust you.”
Varzil’s eyes were filled with tears; Melora was weeping. Varzil said, “Do not call me vai dom, Bard, I am your kinsman as I was his…” and Bard, tears stinging his own eyes, realized that he had never known what it was to have a kinsman, a peer, an equal, since Beltran died… he tightened his throat. He could not cry, not now, or he would weep all the tears he had not shed since he saw Beltran lying dead on his own sword, and said farewell to Geremy whom he had maimed for life, and nevertheless had embraced him and wept…
Aldones! Lord of Light! Geremy loved me, too, and I never could believe it, accept it, I drove him away from me, too…
He straightened in his saddle, looking across at the older man, his face tightening into control.
He said, “I must ride on and see what is happening at my home—cousin,” he said, a little hesitantly. “Please—you must not feel obligated to keep to the pace I set; I must get home as quickly as I can, I will be needed. You may follow at a speed that is comfortable to you. Melora is not a good rider, and you—you are not young.”
Varzil’s face was set, too. “We will keep pace with you. We may well be needed, too. I think it is safe to turn directly toward Asturias, now, and to take the high road.” He wheeled his horse. “If we cut across the fields here, we will be back on the high road within the hour—”
Melora said, “My donkey will not keep up with your horses. We will stop at the first inn where they have staging horses, and I shall leave the donkey there and get a horse that can carry me. I can keep up with you if I must.”
Varzil started to protest, looked at the taut mouth and didn’t. Bard wondered what knowledge Melora and Varzil shared from which he was excluded. Varzil only said, “It is your choice, Melora. Do what you feel you must do.” They began to ride across the fields.
Within the hour they had exchanged Melora’s donkey, leaving him in the care of the staging inn, and found her a gentle saddle horse and a lady’s saddle. After that, they made better time, and as they rode toward Asturias, Bard found grim pictures in his mind, whether cast up by his own developing laran or adrift on the rapport with Varzil and Melora he did not know and did not care, of ruin and chaos at Castle Asturias. And all over this land, all over the Hundred Kingdoms…
This laran-warfare must somehow be ended, or there will be no land to conquer and nothing left for the conquerors. Only in the Compact is there hope for all these lands. Bard felt that this came from Varzil, and not from his own mind, then he was not so sure.
He is right. He is right. I could not see it, before, but he is altogether right.
He said once, into the grim silence, “I would that you were king instead of the Hastur lord, sir,” and Varzil shook his head.
“I want nothing to do with kingship. It is too much temptation for me—to feel that I can set all things right with a word. Carolin of Thendara is not a proud man, or an ambitious one, and he does not mind being ruled by his advisers; he was trained to kingcraft, which is just this—to know that you are not king in yourself, but steward for your people. A good king cannot be a good soldier, or a really good statesman—he must be content to know that he can search out the best soldiers and the best statesmen and be advised by them, and be content to be no more than a visible sign of his reign. I would meddle too much in my own reign, if I were a king,” he said with a smile. “As Keeper of Neskaya, I have, perhaps, more power than is good for me. In these times it is useful, perhaps, but maybe it is just as well that I am an old man; times may be coming when a Keeper has not so much power. This, I think, is why I hoped to send Mirella to Arilinn.”
“A woman?” Melora asked, startled. “Has a woman the strength to be Keeper?”
“Certainly, as much so as any emmasca, and after all, we do not need physical strength, or swordcraft, but strength of will and of mind… and women are less inclined to meddle in politics; they know what is real, and what a Tower needs, perhaps, is not a strong man to rule, but a mother, to guide…” Varzil was silent, frowning, and Melora and Bard forbore to disturb his thoughts.
As they rode on, and the day wore toward nightfall, thick clouds began to obscure the horizon. When they paused, near sunset (but the sun was hidden) to eat a little bread and dried meat, they drew their cloaks about them, anticipating rain or even snow, but gradually the weather cleared. Three moons, near full, floated in the dark-purple sky; the green face of Idriel, the blue-green face of Kyrrdis, and the pearl disk of Mormallor; Oriel, a shy crescent, lingered near the horizon. In the bright moonlight they could see the road ahead, and, when they came up to the hill overlooking the valley of Asturias, they could see below them the dark mass that was the castle.
Ruin. Chaos. Deaths….
“It is not so bad as that,” Melora said quietly.
Varzil said, “I see lights, cousin. Lights, moving, and the shapes of buildings undisturbed. It may not be so bad—forgive me, cousin, I know you have suffered a dreadful loss, but you may not find your home in such ruin as you think. And certainly all is not lost.”
But my father. And Alaric. It is not only that I have lost my kinsmen. But certainly the kingdom lies in ruins, with king and regent dead. And what of my men, the army, and I not there to see to them!
I said it to Paul: until I return, you are the Lord General. But what does he know of commanding my men? I taught him how to wield the power. But what does he know of the responsibility, the care for men who look to their leader for direction, for their hope, their comforts and even the necessities of li
fe? Will he know how to make sure that they are well quartered, safe, cared for? Bard realized that in a life where there had been few to love, few to love him, he had loved his men and been loved by them, and he had left them in another man’s hands, at a moment which had turned out to be more crucial than he knew!
His father had raised the army for conquest, and for his own ambition, but now his father was dead, and what would become of the army, how could he settle his men? As they rode downward to the castle, not knowing how much ruin they would find, Bard wondered what was to be done with the army. He would return to his father’s estate—his father had left no legitimate sons, after all, and there was no other to inherit—and Erlend must, of course, be legitimated, at once, in case he should die before he had any other children. But what of his men? Who would reign over Asturias, and what would that ruler do with the chaos he had inherited, the wreck in the wake of one man’s ambition?
He could do nothing until he knew what was left.
It was not so bad as he had feared. One wing of the castle, stark in the moonlight, lay in fallen rubble; lights were still moving in the ruins where workmen sought to dig out any remaining bodies. The main building, and the keep, and the west wing stood intact, enduring and straight against the flooding moonlight. And as they rode to the gates, Bard saw with relief that all was not utter chaos, for the voice of one of his soldiers rang out strong and clear.
“Who rides there? Stand, and declare yourself friend or foe!”
Bard started to call out his name—surely the man would know his voice—but the Keeper of Neskaya was not given to deference to any man alive. His voice was strong and sure.
“Varzil of Neskaya, and a leronis of his Tower, Melora MacAran.”
“And,” Bard added firmly, “Bard mac Fianna, Lord General of Asturias!”
The man’s voice was deferential. “Dom Varzil! Come away in sir, you’ll be welcome, and the leronis, her father is here. But by your leave, sir, that man with you isn’t the Lord General, you’ve been gulled by an imposter.”
“Nonsense,” said Varzil impatiently. “Do you think the Keeper of Neskaya does not know to whom he speaks?”
“I don’t know who he is, Lord Varzil, but he’s not the Lord General and that’s sure. The Lord General is here.”
Bard said sharply, “Hold that lantern here! Come on, Murakh, don’t you know me? The man who’s here is my paxman Harryl!”
The man held up the lantern, beginning to be uncertain. He said, uneasily, “Sir, whoever you are, you sure look like the Lord General, and you sound like him, too… but you can’t be the Lord General. I—he’s not the Lord General now, he’s the king. I was on guard tonight, and I saw him crowned. And married!”
Bard swallowed, unable to do more than stare at the man.
Varzil said quietly, “I assure you, man, this man here beside me is Bard mac Fianna of Asturias, son to Dom Rafael and brother to the late king.”
The soldier looked troubled, staring up from Varzil to Bard, shifting the lantern in a shaking hand.
“I've got my duty, sir. It’s my business to make sure people are who they say they are. Even if you were the king, begging your pardon, my lord.”
Bard said to Varzil, “I’ll never fault a soldier for doing his duty. We can settle who I am tomorrow. Don’t argue. There are people here who know me beyond doubt If I’m supposedly married to Lady Carlina—”
The Guardsman shook his head. “I don’t know anything about any Lady Carlina, sir, I thought she’d left the court years ago and was in a Tower or a house of priestesses or something like that. But the queen’s father, Master Gareth MacAran, he’s in the Great Hall tending the hurt folk they dug out of the ruins, and if you’re a leronis, my lady, they’ll welcome you there…”
Bard smiled with grim humor. So he had arrived at Castle Asturias to find that he was king, and married, and now he was to be shut out of the gates as an imposter. Well, he had told Paul to fill his place till he returned, and it seemed that the other man had done so.
Varzil said in his deep voice, “I’ll vouch for this man; his identity’s something we can settle tomorrow. But I might be needed inside, too.”
“Oh, I’ll admit him as a member of your suite, Lord Varzil,” said Murakh deferentially, and they rode through the gates, giving up their horses in the undamaged stables.
The Great Hall was crowded with wounded men and, divided off by blankets, women; a hospital ward of those who had been injured in the collapse of the east wing, or in the search for bodies. Master Gareth welcomed Varzil, with deference which held no hint of too much humility, as a fellow craftsman.
“It’s good of you to offer your help, sir. We’re short on it and there’s so many men here hurt and dying…”
“What happened here?” Varzil demanded.
“As near as we can tell, it’s the men of Aldaran, taking this time to get into the war. Tomorrow the Lord General— the king, sir—will have to decide what’s to be done, perhaps we can stop ’em at the Kadarin, but right now we’ve put a laran-shield over the castle… they won’t strike at us again with that, but of course we can’t maintain it all that long; it’s taking four men and a boy. They must have known the army was here and wanted to put us about, so we wouldn’t know what they were doing… but right now I have to see to the wounded. And you, Melora, there’s need enough for someone among the women. As usual in any commotion, two or three women, one of the court ladies and one of the kitchen girls, and yes, one of the army’s washerwomen, took just this time to go a-birthing, so there’s more work than one midwife can handle. Avarra be praised, a priestess of Avarra was here, only the Goddess knows why, and she’s caring for them, but there were women hurt on the rockfalls, too, so if you’d go and help the healer-women, Melora—”
“Certainly I will go,” Melora said, turning her steps toward the other part of the hall, and after a moment’s thought, Bard followed. Carlina, here—and as a priestess of Avarra! When, if he had been crowned king of this land, she should be queen…
He found her bending over a woman with a bandaged arm and leg, her eye and skull bandaged. She saw Melora first and said curtly, “Are you a healer, and do you know anything of midwifery? One of the women has borne children before, I can safely leave her to the maids, but this woman is going to die, and there is a woman in labor who is past thirty, and bearing her first child, and another young girl with her first…”
“I am not a midwife, but I am a woman and I have been taught something of healing,” Melora said, and Carlina looked her full in the face by the shaded lamp.
“Melisendra—” she said, and then stopped and blinked. “No, you are not even much like her, are you? You must be her sister, the leronis—there is no time to ask now how you came here, but in the name of Avarra I bless you! Will you come, then, and help me with the wounded?”
“Gladly,” Melora said. “Where are the women in labor?”
“We carried them into that room there, it was the old king’s study once… I will be with you in a moment,” Carlina said. She bent again to the dying woman, put a hand to her forehead, shook her head.
“She will not wake again,” she said, and went toward the room where she had sent Melora; but Bard laid a light hand on her sleeve.
“Carlie,” he said.
She started away in shock; then, perhaps sensing in his voice that he was no threat to her, she let her breath go and said, “Bard. I did not expect to see you here—”
He saw the darkening bruise on her cheekbone. Merciful Avarra, I did that to her… but he had no time even for shame or self-pity. Even abasing himself to Carlina could wait. His land was under attack by Aldaran, and in the hands of an usurper.
“What’s this nonsense about my being crowned tonight, and married to someone else?”
“Crowned, Married? I don’t know, Bard, I have been here all day since the other wing of the castle collapsed, tending the sick and hurt. I’ve had no time for anything else—I have ha
d time for nothing, only to swallow a little bread and cheese…”
“Is there no one else to do this, Carlie? You look so weary—”
“Oh, I am used to it, this is the work of a priestess—” she said with a faint smile. “And, although you may not believe it, Bard, that is what I am. Although perhaps I have been sheltered too long, perhaps we need the priestesses more in the world than on the Holy Isle.”
“Melisendra—is she—”
“She was with me at the time of the attack; she was unhurt. And your son, he is well, I heard. He was with Master Gareth all day,” she said. “But Bard, I have no time for you now, these women are dying. And the men, too… do you know there were over a hundred men hurt, and twelve of them have already died, so tomorrow we will have to have a whole regiment of soldiers to dig graves somewhere, and someone to send word to their families… Bard, can you send someone to the Holy Isle, to beg priestesses to come and help me with the hurt and dying? If you send express riders, they can be there by daylight—”
“Certainly I can do that,” said Bard, sobered, “but will they listen to any man, will they come?”
“Not for the King of Asturias, perhaps. But perhaps for me, if they know it is I who ask it, Sister Liriel—”
“But there is no man can win through even to the shores of the Lake of Silence, Carlie, without incurring their evil sorceries—” he stopped. No, the sorceries were not evil; they were only protecting themselves. He said humbly, “No man can win through the protections they have laid about themselves without dying of terror.”
“But a woman may do so,” said Carlina. “Bard, with your army, have you any of the sworn Sisterhood of the Sword? They too ride under the protection of Avarra.”
“I think they have all left me, Carlina. But I will go and ask my sergeants; some of them will surely know.”