A Flame in Hali (44 page)

She was not so sure about her own motivations. At first, she had been desperate to leave Hali. If she had lost the Tower and everyone who belonged to that life, it was better to depart at once, rather than linger on. Having set herself upon a course of action, she could not bear idleness.

As the days and leagues passed, however, the thoughts of what she was leaving behind, with all the pain and joy, the fellowship, the deeply satisfying work, receded. She was left to contemplate what lay before her.

She had not given a great deal of consideration to what she would do when she got there. She had grown up on a country estate, not in a King’s palace. Everyone worked, from the Lord himself to the lowliest pot boy. Even as a child, she had chores. She had only a small measure of the Ridenow Gift, empathy with nonhumans, but as a trained
leronis,
surely there would be some use for her talents.

Did she have the right to use them, after what she had done?

Ah, that was a question Varzil would have asked.

Varzil . . .
Try as she might to keep him from her thoughts, she could not escape the hard truth that she had, in some measure, caused the death of his beloved. She had injured him beyond reparation, beyond hope of forgiveness.

Dyannis nudged her horse with her heels and they started down the hill. The manor house below, the barns and storage sheds, the livestock corrals, the pond with its willow trees, were all very much as she had last seen them. In this world of horses and cattle, of age-weathered wood and tall grass rippling in the wind, the wars of men and Towers seemed very far away.

She reminded herself that, despite the appearance of pastoral tranquillity, Sweetwater was as much a part of the larger world as Hali. When her father had died, some years back, neither she nor Varzil had been able to return home because the roads were too dangerous. Now all the Ridenow lands stood poised on the brink of bloody conflict with their neighbors. The new Asturias general, nicknamed the Kilghard Wolf, was building a reputation for ruthless daring.

At least, Asturias does not have
clingfire
to rain down upon us,
she thought.
At least, not yet.

They were spotted before they had descended very far, and a handful of horsemen rode out to greet them. Dyannis recognized Black Eiric, now more gray than dark. Many of the men she had known as a child, old Raul the horseman and Eiric’s own son Kevan, were gone, some to old age and others killed in raids by outlaws during the unsettled times of King Carolin’s exile. The household
leronis
who had been the source of her first
laran
training had died of the same lung fever that carried off her father.

Black Eiric beamed at her. “Ah, it’s the lass come back to us again. Lord Harald’s out with the horse herd, for we did not look for you for a tenday yet.”

Dyannis found herself smiling and returning his banter. “What, am I now some Lowland lady who cannot travel a league from her door, but that she must stop and rest for three days?”

Black Eiric rolled his eyes and winked.
She has changed but little, our Dyannis.

Dyannis started to reply, then realized that she was not intended to hear his thought. Black Eiric was a Ridenow cousin, with a good measure of the family Gift with animals, but no interest in formal training. He had made his decision long ago, to work here as paxman, first to old
Dom
Felix and now to his son, Harald.

The horses picked up the pace as they neared the stable yards. Black Eiric set about arranging for the care of their animals and lodging for the men.

Dyannis went up to the house. Broad wooden steps led to a wide porch where she remembered playing with dolls and toy soldiers on the long summer evenings. She paused for a moment in the outer chamber. Here, boots and outer gear, drenched or caked with mud, would be exchanged for indoor clothing. This had been at her mother’s insistence, and it looked as if Harald still kept the custom. Dyannis felt the sting of tears, utterly unexpected. She could barely remember her mother, for she was the youngest of the children.

Dyannis took a breath and pushed open the inner door. Harald’s wife, Rohanne, who was now lady of Sweetwater, rushed forward to meet her amid exclamations and kisses. Dyannis, whose nerves were already scoured raw, recoiled against the effusive display of affection. The years spent at Hali among telepaths, for whom even a casual physical touch might feel like a violation, had left her with few defenses against such well-meaning intrusion. It took an act of discipline not to push the woman away. Dyannis resorted to pleading fatigue.

“But of course, my dear, you must be absolutely drained! So many days with no company but those rude men.” Rohanne did not add, although she thought it so loudly that Dyannis could not help but hear,
Your hair! Your complexion! Your attire!
Dyannis had worn a comfortable, loose-fitted jacket, boots, and split skirt suitable for riding astride, instead of a proper lady’s gown.

At last, Dyannis escaped into her old room. It seemed to have shrunk in size since she was a child, for only a few strides took her from one corner to the other. White-flowered ivy had grown up around the window, filtering the light. She sat on the bed and patted the old quilt. The patches had been worn to flannel softness.

Once I could not wait to get away from this place and go to Hali, and then I could not wait to leave there and return home.
Now . . . now she was sure of nothing, except that she no longer belonged in either place.

Sighing, she curled on her side. The bed creaked softly under her weight. Someone had folded a sachet of dried blossoms under the pillow. The scent stirred memories of a tall woman with long blonde hair, strong arms, and soft breasts, of being rocked gently, of the uncomplicated comfort of this very same bed. Something deep within her loosened. Sighing, she closed her eyes. All she needed was a little rest . . .

Dyannis startled awake to the sound of commotion below. Only a dim light came through the ivied window and the wisp of breeze had turned cold. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

I must be careful of this place or I will start reacting like the girl I was.
Given the slightest encouragement, Rohanne would fuss over her like a mother barnfowl over her wayward chick.

Someone had entered the room while she slept. Her baggage had been unpacked, her gowns laid neatly in the chest. Arrayed on the table, her hairbrushes sat in a neat row beside the small carved box that contained her hair clasps and a few pieces of jewelry. A basin, ewer of water, towel, and a small cake of soap had also been laid out.

She straightened her rumpled riding skirt, smoothed her hair, checked the result in the tiny, badly scratched mirror on the table, and went downstairs.

Harald had always been an active man, and the years had solidified him. The golden beard was now silvered bronze, the waist thickened but not slack, the skin of his face weathered. He shouted out commands and questions in a voice more suited to the open fields than the confines of a great house.

They had never been playfellows, for he was the oldest of five siblings, and she the youngest. He was already a stripling youth when she was born, and she could not remember a time when he had been anything but her overbearing older brother. It had been a long time since any man besides her Keeper had the right to command her.

“You are most welcome home,
breda,
” he said with genuine pleasure. “It has been too long since we last saw you.”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” she replied. “I am truly sorry that my duties have prevented an earlier visit.”

“Yes, but now we are together again as one family,” he said. “We will feast tonight in honor of your return. Rohanne!”

The lady had already glided silently to his side. “What is it, my husband?”

“Does my sister have everything she needs?”

“I am quite comfortably settled into my old room,” Dyannis answered for herself.

“That will not do—a child’s chamber for a grown lady. We must find something more suitable for her. And what about—” Harald gestured with his hands, “—gowns and all the things a woman needs.”

Dyannis broke out laughing, quickly smothered at Rohanne’s shocked expression. “I am sorry if my traveling attire offends you, brother. At the Tower, we pay little attention to such things when we are working. As for my room, I would be offended if it were
not
my old familiar quarters. If I wanted a suite of fine chambers and servants everywhere, I would have gone to Thendara and visited Carolin!”

Harald huffed and said that was all very well, but as
Comynara
and Ridenow, she deserved the best.

Dyannis slipped her arm through her sister-in-law’s. “Then I must look especially elegant tonight, or my brother will think we are all savages at Hali. Will you help me to choose a gown for dinner?”

Rohanne looked doubtful, but came along. She regained her composure as Dyannis brought out the single good gown she had brought, simply cut in exquisitely soft gray-green wool. The neckline was perhaps a little low for country manners; she had worn it, crossed by a tartan in the Ridenow colors of gold and green, to informal affairs at Carolin’s court. Rohanne made cooing sounds over the workmanship, the fineness of the weaving, the elegant geometric embroidery along the sleeves, the drape of the skirts.

“I will send my own maid to arrange your hair,” Rohanne told Dyannis, brushing back a stray tendril from her forehead. “And do not say you can do it on your own, for I cannot believe that even sorcery can manage these curls. You have pretty hair, though it is hardly at its best after such a long journey. Once we have settled you with a maid of your own, she will put it to rights.”

“I am not accustomed to needing help with either my clothing or my hair.” Dyannis did not want to offend Rohanne, just when the emotional atmosphere between them was softening. If she had a maidservant hovering about, she might never know a moment’s peace.

Rohanne gave her a look. “Now that you are here, you must take your rightful place as a Ridenow
Comynara,
even as Harald said. I suppose it may be difficult to adjust to the responsibilities as well as the privileges, as you leave behind your life in the Tower.”

“I—I am not sure we understand one another,” Dyannis said. Rohanne had a manner of speaking that, for all its superficial politeness, she found intrusive to the point of rudeness. “You speak as if I am to remain here permanently.”

Rohanne arched her perfectly groomed eyebrows. “That is not for me to decide. You had best speak to
Dom
Harald of such matters, as he is the head of the family.”

Dyannis frowned. If she did not know her own intentions, how could she talk to her brother? How could she begin to explain all the things she had experienced, from the day she first took her place in a working circle, to the dragon she had summoned at Hali Lake, to the rebuilding of Cedestri Tower? The surge of
laran
power, the bliss of submerging her consciousness in a circle, the shock of a dying mind in hers? How could anyone outside a Tower truly understand her dilemma?

As for Harald, he might have only minimal
laran
and no formal training, but surely he would respect whatever decision she came to. He had seen for himself what
laran
could accomplish when Varzil had done the impossible, negotiating psychically with the catmen who held Harald captive.

I will tell him when the time comes,
Dyannis decided. Meanwhile, it was best not to say anything further.

Shortly thereafter, Rohanne excused herself. Dyannis set about washing her face and hands. The soap was as fine as any she had ever seen, and left a faint clean scent on her skin. She wished she could so easily wash away her own indecision. The truth, she grudgingly admitted to herself, was that she had no idea how long she intended to remain. She had fled Hali, giving no thought to anything beyond her own desperate guilt. Was Sweetwater a haven or an exile? Only time would reveal the answer.

She sat on the edge of the bed and freed her hair from the simple wooden clasp. Beginning at the ends, she attacked the tangles that had so offended Rohanne. This was the one part of traveling she did not enjoy. By the time camp was ready or dinner at the inn finished, the last thing she wanted was to spend an hour wrestling with her curls. She winced as the tines of the comb caught on a particularly tight knot.

A quick, light knock sounded on the door. At her invitation, a woman about her own age, wearing a neat apron and cap over a gray dress, entered. She set down her covered basket just inside the door and curtsied.

“Rella!” Dyannis exclaimed. “I had no idea Rohanne meant you!”

“It’s been that long,
Domna
Dyannis,” Rella said, beaming. “I didn’t think you’d remember me after so long, and you off to such fine places as Hali and Thendara.” Her eyes shone and Dyannis caught her eager curiosity.

“Hali is indeed fine, but I’ve seen little of Thendara, beyond the few times Carolin invited us to his court. Mostly, I work hard, and almost entirely at night. Matrix work may sound glamorous, but much of it is tedious.”

Except,
she reflected,
when people are rushing at you with axes and arrows, bent on killing you. Or you find yourself in the middle of a burning Tower.

“You have met King Carolin! Is he handsome?”

“Yes, very, but I do not know him well. He and Varzil—you remember my brother?—became close friends when they were at Arilinn together. Surely you have heard how they rebuilt Neskaya Tower, where Varzil is now Keeper?”