A Flame in Hali (15 page)

Once, Dyannis overheard a bitter-laced,
“Sorcery! Witch-brood tyrants!”

What in the name of Aldones was going on?

“Raimon—” she began, but the Keeper silenced her with a gesture. Another escort, this time in Hastur blue and silver instead of the colors of the City Guard, had come to meet them. Dyannis had never liked being surrounded by head-blind strangers, but managed to keep silent as they passed into a gated courtyard. Stablemen took their horses, and a dignitary, most likely an assistant to the
coridom
or castle steward, greeted them with a deep, formal bow before ushering them inside.

Varzil and Carolin were waiting for them in the King’s least formal chamber. Varzil rose from his chair as Dyannis entered. She felt his rush of joy at seeing her, his mind as clear as a mountain lake on a windless day. Physically, he looked thinner than she remembered, his face drawn and weather-roughened.

Dyannis slowed her pace, curtsying to Carolin. The years of exile and kingship had worn heavily upon him, the once sprightly youth now a man marked by the cares of his office. He greeted her with warmth and unaffected grace, putting her immediately at ease.

Glancing from Carolin to her brother, Dyannis sensed the harmony between them, the sympathy of mind. They were of a kind, she thought, although very different in appearance and temperament. Shared passion bound them together, each nourishing the other. She felt a little envious, for she had no such bosom friend. Ellimara came the closest, and even then, the difference in their ages made true intimacy difficult.

Raimon and the others from Hali showed Varzil so much deference that for an instant Dyannis wondered if she ought to bow to him also, before she decided that was a ridiculous idea. When he held out a hand to her, she brushed it aside, stepped into the circle of his arms and planted a kiss upon his cheek.

“Have I grown, brother, or have you shrunk?” she asked. “I must be nearly as tall as you!”

“As small, you mean,” Varzil replied with a hint of his usual self-mockery.

“Not so small, I hope, that you cannot unravel this puzzle for us.”

“I am glad to see you, too,” Varzil said, ignoring the other Keeper’s scandalized expression. “Also that size has never been the determining factor in
laran,
or there would be scant hope for either of us.”

She laughed at that, happy to see that however much honor the world heaped upon him, Varzil had kept his sense of humor. With that same easy manner, he turned back to Raimon, and within a short time, everyone settled in their seats.

Carolin listened gravely as Raimon presented the latest information they had gathered. After Dyannis repeated her story, he sat for a long moment, elbow resting on the arm of his chair, chin cupped in his hand. His eyes looked dark and hooded like a hawk’s. A core of strength, bright and hard as steel, shone through. Although Dyannis kept her
laran
shields respectfully raised, she sensed how deeply this news troubled him.

At last, Carolin said, “There is no hope for it. We must send a delegation to Cedestri Tower and convince them by whatever means necessary to sign the Compact. Although they are no longer draining the pool of energy, they have a stockpile of the new bonewater devilry and little reason for restraint.”

Varzil nodded. He had often acted as Carolin’s emissary in such matters, so that now most people thought the Compact solely his idea. “You are right, Carlo, but neither strategy nor diplomacy will solve the problem for the long term. Even if Cedestri agrees, there is nothing to stop another Tower, or an illegal circle for that matter, from doing the same thing.”

“But surely now that Hali is alerted, such a thing is no longer possible,” Carolin said.

Raimon shook his head. “That might be possible if only the
physical
lake were involved. In the Overworld, you cannot set a dog to guard a gate. Time and distance are quite different, and a trained
laranzu
can sculpt either with a thought. Even if we mounted a continuous watch upon the energy pool, it would never be secure, and that assumes we could spare the workers to do it.”

No one disagreed with him, for Hali Tower, like so many others, had barely the numbers to do the work that came to them. Their Hastur King had forsworn the use of
laran
weapons, but could not guarantee a lasting peace. The next armed conflict would stretch their resources for healing and communications even thinner.

“We must act to eliminate the source of that power,” Varzil said. “The longer we delay, I fear, the more psychic energy will drain through the rift into the Overworld and the more unstable it will become.”

Varzil took up residence at Hali Tower while he and Raimon studied the situation, both at the lake shore and from the Overworld. News quickly spread throughout Thendara as well as Hali of Varzil’s presence. Groups of people, both city dwellers and travelers, assembled outside the castle, hoping for a sight of him, before being dispersed by Carolin’s men.

The electrical storms got steadily worse, both in frequency and intensity. Several times, lightning struck buildings in Thendara and Hali.

Varzil’s opinion was that the ruined columns were the remains of a massive
laran
device from the earliest Ages of Chaos. When he’d laid his bare hands on them so many years ago, he had received psychic impressions of its use—the device itself had acted as a magnet, drawing him back to the events that led to the Cataclysm. He’d caught only fragments of that story, two mighty Towers locked in mortal conflict, each drawing on powers far beyond any known today. Perhaps his own actions had created an opening between one time and another, between the ordinary physical world and the Overworld. Somehow, the workers at Cedestri Tower had discovered the pool of raw, unstable energy in the Overworld and had made what use they could of it.

“No one, least of all I, could have foreseen what would come from that one impulsive morning,” he said. His eyes held a curious inward focus, as if he were seeing another time, other people. Dyannis sensed a sadness beyond speaking, but perhaps that was for the boy he once was, filled with hope and moony dreams.

We have all lost that innocence,
she thought. It came to her, a flash of insight as quickly forgotten, that her own impetuousness might be an attempt to remain as she once was, young and brash and talented, with all the world before her and no tragedy as yet to darken her footsteps.

At last, Varzil and Raimon formulated their strategy. To seal off the seepage of power from the lake, they must repair the rift, the portal into the Overworld. In doing so, there was a good chance they might be able to repair the damage to the lake itself, to reverse the Cataclysm. Excitement surged through the Tower at this news. The lake, restored, would become a symbol of hope, of healing, even more potent than the rebuilding of Neskaya Tower had been.

Preparations were soon concluded and a circle assembled. Although
laran
work was usually done at night, to minimize the distraction of stray thoughts and psychic chatter, this circle would meet in daylight on the shore of the lake.

Dyannis rose early that morning, too excited to sleep. Along with Varzil, Rorie, and the others, she made her way along the lake shore. Varzil led the way, searching for a place that was flat enough for a comfortable site and at the same time provided a clear energy conduit through the currents of cloud-water to the lake bottom. At last, he halted them.

Varzil’s plan was to begin the work as one united circle, with Raimon in the centripolar position as Keeper. Once a suitable resonance of mind was created, Varzil would descend into the lake with Alderic as his aide. Here he would establish a physical link with the columns and yet be able to draw upon the power and concentration of the circle.

Dyannis took her position, reaching out to Raimon on one side and Rorie on the other. She faced west, with the sun warm on the back of her jacket. There was only a little breeze, but it carried the scent of the tiny purple flowers that took root in the dunes. A few tendrils of hair had come loose from the butterfly clasp at the nape of her neck, brushing her cheek. Her spirits lifted. On such a day, in such a circle, she would be part of deeds that bards would sing of for an age.

For the past tenday, Thendara had crackled with escalating tension. The air reeked with unspent lightning. Eduin felt fear and suspicion building whenever he went into the streets. Mutterings of “Witch-kings!” and “Damned sorcery!” filled him with elation. For the first time in more years than he could remember, he had hope—hope of justice, hope of revenge, hope of finally laying the ghost of his father to rest.

When Saravio spoke, using words they had carefully rehearsed together, the crowds grew larger and more restive. The numbers of sick people who made their way to the Tower at Hali dwindled, and those who attempted the journey now bore the strained look of desperation mingled with terror.

Day by day, as winter melted into spring, the city simmered. Eduin could feel it like a caged beast, drawing ever closer to the breaking point.

The electrical storms, after a brief respite, continued to increase in severity. Rumor had it that the circle at Hali Tower was working to control them, but Eduin cared nothing for that, beyond encouraging people to blame the Towers. If the strange weather distracted the
Hali’imyn
from the revolt brewing beneath their very noses, so much the better. The longer they kept to their own affairs, the angrier and more unstoppable the uprising. Yet nothing, not even his remarkable success in harnessing the simmering resentments of the populace, could have prepared Eduin for the next news.

One evening, Eduin and Saravio sat working out the next speeches in the back room of The White Feather. The evening was mild and they’d left the narrow window cracked open, admitting a thread of fresh air. The remains of a simple meal—wooden trenchers still damp with stew juices, crumbs of coarse nutbread, and an empty beaker—covered the battered table. A single lantern filled the room with tawny light.

A knock sounded at the door. Eduin’s muscles tightened and he hesitated before calling, “Who is it?”

One of their most devoted followers, the farmer whose arm had been crippled by
clingfire,
stood outside. He bowed as if they were nobility.

Eduin gestured him in. Excitement brought a flush to the man’s face and he stammered a little.

“Masters, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. I’ve been fretting all day since I heard this thing, and I wasn’t sure if it had ought to wait, but then I says to myself, ’tis better to make a fool of myself than let it slip.”

Eduin was about to snap out a reply, when Saravio said in his most soothing voice, “If you have come on Naotalba’s business, friend, then you need have no fear. We are all her servants.”

The man’s eyes flashed white in the lantern light. “Don’t know about Naotalba, but I do know the wickedness of the Towers. It’s on account of
them
I’ve come.”

“Do you have word of some new doings of the Tower?” Eduin asked, his irritation fading into curiosity. “Tell us, man!”

“I just come from Moran’s place—his sister’s cousin knows one of the scullions up at the Tower—and he says the greatest sorcerer of them all—Varzil, him they call the Good—is to come to Hali. The whole Tower’s agog with it. But he can’t be good, can he, if he’s one of them? None of them can be trusted!”

For a heartbeat, Eduin could not believe what he’d heard. Varzil, who he’d thought beyond his reach, coming here!

“Why does Varzil come here?” the words tumbled out of Eduin’s mouth. “What does he mean to do? Is there any word of that?”

“Moran’s sister’s cousin says he’s to meet with the other demon spawn at Hali to work some sorcery at the lake, I know not what. I’ve heard the very waters are bewitched.” The farmer trembled visibly. “No decent folk go that way without cause.”