A Flame in Hali (20 page)

It had all come to naught, as it must. There was no room in his heart or life for anything beyond vengeance. In despair, he had prayed to have this love, this sweet, deadly, treacherous love, taken from him.

They had come together again, briefly, during his term at Hali, when he covertly searched the Hastur genealogies for any trace of the offspring of Queen Taniquel. Their encounter had been an uneasy mixture of old longing and new concealments. She had let him go his own way and he had not inquired into her own affairs. Clearly, in the interval, she had become a powerful
leronis,
the equal of any he had known, capable of blasting such a horrific image into the minds of so many.

The moment he had recognized her at the lake, he had withdrawn in near-panic, submerging himself in the roiling storm of ordinary emotions, desperately hoping that she would not notice him. If it were known, or even suspected, that the mob was led by a renegade
laranzu
—

No. Even to think such a thing was to court disaster. Far better to let them believe that years of poverty, the detritus of so much civil conflict, had driven ordinary men to riot. Meanwhile, he and Saravio must find a way out of the city. Soon, before the noose of searchers drew even tighter.

Gathering himself, Eduin made his way down the alley, across a narrow street, angling along a circuitous route. There were no wide avenues here, no direct passage from one end of the warrens to the other. This part of the city, even shabbier than that in which Saravio had once rented his room, had grown up like a diseased tumor, layer upon despondent layer.

Eduin found Saravio huddled around a garbage fire, along with a handful of strangers. Instead of his usual hooded cloak, Saravio wore a much-patched jacket and a knitted cap that covered his bright hair. He rocked back and forth, arms wrapped around himself, muttering beneath his breath. Since the day of the riot, he had spent hours each day like this, rousing only when Eduin forced him to some action. At least, his words made so little sense, being more babble than true speech, that there was little chance of betrayal.

The night air was dank and chilly. Men and women alike wore rags dark with filth, their faces reddened from exposure and drink. The smell, sweet and rank, stirred desires, but Eduin shoved them aside. He could hide, but he could not disappear. His newly reawakened
laran
senses caught the flare of pleasure in their minds, the tang of Saravio’s manipulations.

He does it without thinking, like a reflex, just because they are in pain,
Eduin thought.
Just as I was. He doesn’t consider the consequences.

Saravio, holding his hands above the greasy flames, looked up. He moved aside from the fire’s light and bent his head close to Eduin’s.

“We must leave the city at dawn,” Eduin said in a low voice. “The Traders’ Gate is so thickly traveled at that time, few are questioned.”

Saravio nodded and Eduin thought he understood. Their friends had given them what they could spare—a little money, food, a blanket or two. They’d go on foot, indistinguishable from any other refugees, limping back to wherever they’d come from after finding no hope in Thendara.

“Come,” Eduin said. “We must be ready before dawn if we’re to place ourselves in the midst of the throng.”

He caught the edge of Saravio’s half-formed thought. Thendara was lost, a barrenlands. Naotalba had forsaken her servants. Only the bond between the two prevented Saravio from surrendering utterly to despair. Eduin’s own instinct for survival spurred him on, thinking to run and hide, wait for the hunt to die down, and most of all, to endure even when there was no hope.

But there was hope. Eduin could smell it in the air, even through the greasy smoke, the reek of garbage, and withered, ale-soaked flesh. It moved in the shadows beneath the moon in a half-remembered dream, the lift of his heart when he heard Varzil had come down from his Neskaya fortress.

The scorpion in his mind rattled its pincers,
K-k-kill ...
and Eduin shuddered.

An idea stirred. Eduin turned to Saravio, trudging by his side. “We did not prevail this time, but we have learned something vitally important to Naotalba’s cause. Do you not want to know what it is?”

Saravio’s chin lifted. “That men cannot be trusted.”

“Nothing of the sort. These men would have died for her. Some did die, if the reports from Hali are truthful. No, we now know the identity of the chief of her enemies. The only one with the power to stand against her.”

“Who is this man?” Saravio blinked, his expression blank. “I saw no one in that circle capable of such a thing.” He seemed to have forgotten their previous discussion of Varzil.

Eduin wanted to shake Saravio. “Don’t you remember?” he said through gritted teeth. “He was within the lake, using its arcane powers against us, drawing upon the power of Zandru himself, Naotalba’s tormenter, to defy her.”

Saravio gave a lurch, quickly catching his balance. He flattened himself against a shadowed niche between two dilapidated buildings and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Varzil the Good? It is true that some unholy force was raised against us. Does he serve the Lord of the Frozen Hells? I had thought him arrayed with Aldones.”

Eduin now regretted bringing the gods into the conversation. “Appearances can lead all of us astray. Perhaps as we learn how to overcome this Varzil, we will learn more. For today, we must hold fast to our cause—victory for Naotalba and death to Varzil.”

“Victory for Naotalba.”

“And death to Varzil,” Eduin pressed.

“As Naotalba wishes.”

Eduin had to be content with that, for he got no more sense from Saravio that night.

The next morning, Eduin and Saravio slipped through the Traders’ Gate, surrounded by laden pack animals, families in carts pulled by teams of antlered
chervines,
peddlers on foot, bent under the weight of their packs of trinkets and ribbons for country buyers, a dray wagon of empty ale barrels, a troupe of musicians in their gaily-painted caravan, and a scattering of children, some of them likely runaways.

The first few days, there was much company on the road. They traveled without a clear destination, their only object being to place themselves beyond Hastur’s reach.

In talking with their fellow travelers, Eduin realized he had little need to disguise his interest in Varzil. The traders, who carried news as well as sale goods, had much to tell. Not all of it was accurate. Varzil had gone down to the lake at Hali, but not, Eduin thought, to wrestle with monsters from the depths. Nor had he summoned any, although the illusory dragon had indeed seemed to issue from Zandru’s Seventh Hell. With a few retellings, the lake riot would be transformed into some other entirely different event. Varzil’s mission now seemed to be to restore the lake and herald in a new age.

As they went on, the children began clustering around Saravio. Something in his gentle simplicity attracted them. The younger ones, in particular, were fascinated by his cap and teased him about what lay beneath.

After that, Eduin shaved Saravio’s scalp and buried the hair. It was only a temporary measure, but bought them less chance of discovery.

A company of mounted soldiers in Hastur blue and silver clattered by on the road. The travelers scrambled to make way for them. Eduin, in a moment of panic, dove into a hedgerow. He huddled there, shaking, until the hoofbeats died down. Only then did he notice the scratches over his arms and face, the rents in his already shabby clothing.

As he joined the others, Saravio stared at him, but said nothing. From the looks of his fellow travelers, they thought him a fugitive. His own instinct to hide had betrayed him. Fortunately, they turned back to their own business and asked no questions. They might well remember his behavior in the days to come, however, should there be any profit in it.

I have been in the city too long,
Eduin thought. For the most part of his life, he had been cloistered in one Tower or another, or else scuttling through the back alleys of Thendara, keeping out of the light.
I must find a place to hide, at least until I can plan what comes next.

It would not be safe to return to Thendara for a long time, and Hali was even chancier. Varzil would now be on guard and surrounded by
leronyn
dedicated to his protection.

Eduin had spent his childhood in a rough little village, little more than a few hovels along a mud road, near the Kadarin River, where his father had found safety and anonymity. Although he had been sent away to Arilinn Tower at a young age, he remembered enough of rural life to know how difficult it would be for two men to disappear in the countryside. They had no farming or herding skills; even their clothing would stand out beside the homespun garb of the country folk. After a few days on the road in the thinning traffic, it was all too plain that they could not reach any large city on their own.

They met a party of salt merchants coming in the opposite direction on the road, who had come through Robardin’s Fort. Eduin remembered passing through it on his way to Hali Tower. It was a medium-sized town, little more than an overgrown market village with a headman but no
Comyn
lord or Tower, spacious open places, pens for livestock trading and fields for the wagons and tents of travelers. Two important roads crossed over the Greenstone River in a series of bridges, bringing a constant flow of people, their beasts, and goods. The two of them would surely find some kind of work, hauling water for horses, sweeping out taverns, scouring boat hulls. Best of all, in a place like that, no one would ask questions.

C
arolin would not permit Varzil to travel outside the bounds of Hastur lands undefended, even on a diplomatic mission. Their party, therefore, was heavily armed. Varzil seemed to know all of the men within a few hours, quickly putting them at their ease. Clearly, he was no stranger to armies, adapting himself to their routine without complaint.

Dyannis, for her part, had traveled very little beyond the family estate of Sweetwater and Hali, so the journey to Cedestri offered an unexpected adventure. Despite her lingering moments of doubt, her spirits rose along with her curiosity once they were on the road. Even the necessity of a proper chaperone, a lady of unimpeachable rectitude from Carolin’s own court, could not diminish her pleasure at seeing new territory. Everything, from the fields and hills to the tents and picket lines, presented a novelty. Barley and wheat rippled in the breeze. Dyannis passed orchards of nut trees and crabbed apple, spied rabbithorns scurrying for shelter in the hedgerows. She passed low walls of tumbled stone, fish ponds, and streams. Here, under the protection of King Carolin, the land seemed to dream of its own riches. She caught Varzil’s prayer that some day all of Darkover might know such peace.

From the first night on the road, she and Varzil dined together, sitting within the comfort of his tent and talking through the evening. In slow steps, they resumed the easy intimacy of their childhood. Watching him pause with his spoon in midair, eyes blank with some inner fancy, she recognized the odd, dreamy boy he had been, still hidden within the legendary Keeper. In his company, the guilt that had gnawed at her eased, and she found herself laughing at her own jokes. Lady Helaina looked up from where she sat, a proper distance removed, on her backless stool, her body as straight and poised as if a wooden rod had been placed through her spine, and smiled.

They went on in this manner for a tenday, as farms grew scarcer and pastures gave way to rocky slopes. Dyannis realized that Varzil was waiting for the right moment to bring up some serious topic. She sat with him in his tent, the flaps lifted to admit the evening breeze while, in the camp beyond them, men and horses settled down for the night.

Twilight still hung upon the air, a milky swath across the western horizon. Beyond the camp, hills rose like jagged teeth; tomorrow would bring a hard climb, but for this hour, they sat at ease, sipping the last of their measured wine. Lady Helaina had set aside her embroidery and clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed upon the horizon.

In the camp outside, horses nickered on the picket line, men joked with one another and someone began singing a ballad in a rumbly bass voice, accompanied by a reed flute.

Varzil had been wise to wait, Dyannis thought, and keep his thoughts from her. Any earlier, and she would have seized upon any hint of a serious conversation with a renewed spasm of self-recrimination. Now she sat back, feeling the leather straps of her camp chair flex under the movement, and gently asked what was troubling him.

Varzil smiled. “It is no trouble to me, little sister, although there are many who would find it exceedingly vexing.”

“Oh, my!” She laughed despite herself at the image from his mind, a covey of old men and women, trying to hide their scandalized expressions and maintain their dignity.