Zandru's Forge (16 page)

The man’s eyes widened in disbelief. Varzil almost laughed aloud at his discomfiture as he bowed again and retreated.

Varzil donned his best holiday shirt and a vest with the Ridenow colors when a page, young and sweet-faced, came to escort him to the throne room. Varzil heard the throng before he fully descended the stairs. Court had clearly been in session and petitioners as well as courtiers, spectators, castle servants and guards in Hastur colors filled the enormous room.

So many people in one place! Not for the first time, Varzil silently blessed the training that protected him from the psychic onslaught. Every person possessed some small degree of laran, which in ordinary people manifested as intuition or sympathy, sometimes as an aptitude for animal husbandry or languages. At a gathering such as this one, with so many Hastur kin and minor clansmen, the small amount of
laran
of each, taken together, was enough to batter a susceptible mind.

It would be unthinkably rude to read the thoughts that swirled around him, but more than that, Varzil knew all too well that to open himself to the chatter and surge of emotions would quickly make him frantic. He took a deep breath, touched the silk pouch containing his starstone to help him focus, and thought of stone walls. It was a technique Auster had drilled into him, for the more vivid and detailed the visualization, the more solid the buffer. Varzil’s image included the seams between the gray stones, their surfaces worn by season upon season of rain, the flecks of black and reflective mica, the streak of pink granite running through the central block....

The mental turmoil receded to a hum. Varzil breathed more easily, the muscles of his shoulders relaxing. He descended the last two stairs and crossed the wide hallway into the throne room. Before he could be swept up in the throng of courtiers, he spotted Carolin near the front of the room.

Tall and handsome, his flame-red hair impeccably cut, Carolin would have stood out, even in this elegant gathering. He wore a suit of dove-gray suede trimmed with blue bands embroidered with the silver fir tree emblem of the Hasturs. It seemed to glow faintly, creating a subtle aura of power, or perhaps the effect was due to his carriage, graceful and proud, and the contrast with the garish costumes around him.

At some distance, Orain stood beside a short woman in extravagantly layered gilt lace. She looked considerably older than he and would have been pretty, but for the lines etched around her eyes and mouth. She held the hand of a bright-faced lad who kept glancing at Orain. Although the boy could not have been more than nine or ten, the promise of his
laran
surrounded him like an invisible corona.

A herald called out Varzil’s name, along with Eduin’s. He hurried forward. The crowd parted in front of him, as if an invisible shield had pushed them out of the way.

Eduin had been standing near the front of the audience, prepared to take his turn, splendid in a jacket and breeches of shimmering ivory brocade, his shirt of fine Dry Towns linex trimmed with lace at throat and wrist. Even, his boots, of buttery leather, were those of a noble courtier. From this close, Varzil could see the pins tucking in the jacket and the way the tops of the boots pinched the flesh of Eduin’s calves.

Standing at the foot of the dais, Carolin smiled, his gray eyes warm, and beckoned the two of them forward.

Varzil took a deep breath and prepared to meet King Felix Hastur, the most powerful man on Darkover.

An immense, age-darkened throne dominated the dais, looming over the assembled crowd. Strands of silver wire. glinted along the armrests and high back, highlighting the carved fir tree of the Hasturs and contrasting with the thick blue cushions.

The throne dwarfed the figure perched there like a child’s forgotten doll. For a moment, Varzil could hardly believe this old man was truly Felix Hastur, ruler of the most powerful Kingdom on Darkover. He had expected someone more heroic in appearance, but then, what did he know of kings? Like everyone else, he had heard stories that Felix Hastur was
em
masca, neither male nor female. Such folk were often very long lived and Gifted, but sterile. Hence, Felix’s heir must be the oldest son of his next younger brother, since he had no progeny of his own. His two marriages had failed to produce even a single pregnancy. If he’d ever sired a
nedestro
son, no one had ever heard of it.

It was hard to believe that Carolin’s father had been this ancient King’s brother, though Carolin had explained there were nearly two decades between their births. Their own father, he who ruled in Carcosa before Felix, had buried several wives and sired his two surviving sons when his contemporaries were long in their graves.

King Felix may have once been an imposing presence, but now his skin hung over his bones like an oversized garment, powdered and draped to dry. Behind him, their postures respectful, stood an array of attendants. Most were gray-haired and somber in their robes of fur and jewel-toned velvet. They must be counselors, Varzil thought, or kinsmen, especially the two young men with the red hair of the
Comyn
who stood the closest, within easy hearing. Somehow, they reminded Varzil of a pack of dogs circling an old wolf, uncertain of the beast’s strength, unwilling to risk a charge, waiting. Waiting ...

The king straightened on his throne. One hand, skin flecked with age spots, lifted; one bony finger pointed at Eduin and Varzil. The room hushed.

“Where is Gerrel, my brother?” King Felix demanded querulously. “Why is he not here to attend me?”

One of the youths beside the throne bent closer. His elaborately cut velvets could not entirely disguise his stocky build or the flush over his cheeks, the puffiness beneath his restless eyes. Though he spoke in a low, soothing voice, his words meant only for the king, Varzil made out their meaning.

“Your Majesty will recall that Prince Gerrel is dead these past twelve years. These are Prince Carolin’s friends, come with him from Arilinn to celebrate Midwinter Festival with us.”

“Oh?” Something flared in the rheumy eyes, and Varzil sensed the keen alertness, the confidence of a century and more of undisputed rule. “Yes, of course, we must extend the hospitality of the Hasturs and bid them a proper welcome. Carolin, my boy, come here. You have been away too long.”

Carolin paused before the dais to perform an impeccably respectful bow, then stepped up and kissed the old king on the cheek. His natural affection and ease smoothed away the moment of awkwardness.

“I’m home now, Uncle. I’ve finished my time at Arilinn and have learned all they could teach me, all that befits a Prince of Hastur. It was for this you sent me there. I’ve brought my new friends to present to you.” Carolin gestured for Varzil and Eduin to approach the throne.

The old man’s face had brightened at Carolin’s first words. But now he glared at the newcomers. His eyes reflected a pellucid, colorless light, suggesting the fabled
chieri
blood coursed through his veins.

Old and tired though he might be, for the sake of Hastur and hence for all of Darkover, this frail old man must somehow muster the strength to continue until his nephew was properly trained to rule. Younger men than Carolin had been thrust into positions of power, even less well prepared than he, and fallen prey to the machinations of those with ambition far exceeding their station.

Carlo trusts too much,
Varzil thought.
And this court is no place for such a generous heart. He will need loyal friends.
But who among this painted, perfumed crowd could truly be counted as a friend?

King Felix spoke again, drawing Varzil’s attention. It took a few moments for the crowd to become quiet enough to hear his words.

“... royal pleasure to announce that the wedding of Prince Carolin and Lady Alianora Ysabet Ardais has been set for Midsummer festival...:”

Varzil strained for a look at his friend. An elderly courtier turned to his neighbor and said, “What a relief to have that settled at last. It’s a brilliant match, of course. She’s to inherit all the borderlands along the Scaravel River.”

“Aye, that will stabilize the whole region,” his companion nodded.

At that point, a round of cheering erupted spontaneously. Carolin turned to the crowd and bowed his head in acknowledgment. Varzil could read nothing of his friend’s thoughts, or see anything behind the graciousness of his smile.

Carolin, like any young man of his caste, would have been betrothed as soon as it was certain he would survive infancy. His foster-brother, Orain, was not only married, but had a son. The only reason Varzil himself had not already been promised in marriage was his sickly boyhood constitution. Had the catmen rescue not intervened, his father would probably have set about finding a suitable alliance for him shortly after his presentation at the
Comyn
Council. It was the way of the world.

Carolin had never spoken of his betrothal, which suggested he hardly knew the girl. This, too, was the usual custom. Varzil’s own parents had never set eyes upon each other before their wedding day and they had lived amicably enough together, producing six children, four of them living. A man couldn’t ask for more in these uncertain times. An ordinary man, that is.

But Carolin was
not
ordinary. He had
laran
enough to be trained in a Tower and his very nature—passionate, romantic, loving honor and teaming—set him apart. Although Varzil had yet to take a lover at Arilinn, he knew the impossibility of a telepath attempting physical intimacy where there was no sympathy of mind, no direct communion of the heart. It would amount to coupling with a dumb beast. He knew himself incapable of such a thing.

Varzil, watching Carolin receive the congratulations of his royal cousins, felt a pang of loss and of disappointment. Already, his friend had moved beyond the world they’d shared to a place he could not—and had no wish to—fottow.

After the formal reception concluded, the king withdrew to his own quarters, where he would dine with his family and their guests later that evening. Those courtiers and holiday guests staying at the castle would be provided for in the old style, at trestle tables to be set up in this central hall. As soon as King Felix departed, servants began rushing this way and that in preparation. Maura, Jandria, and Orain disappeared in the crush.

Courtiers gathered in swirls and knots, and Varzil noticed how they maneuvered for advantage among themselves. There were subtle distinctions here, of who greeted whom, who was the first to withdraw. He caught snatches of conversation. Two ladies, elegantly dressed in the tartans of Hastur of Carcosa, speculated in shrill voices on the problems of genetic recessive traits in the Scaravel Ardais.

“At least, inbreeding won’t be an issue,” one sniffed.

“Oh, I had thought it a sure thing for Prince Rakhal and Lady Maura, for all she’s an Elhalyn and therefore, kin.”

“Not that close,” the first lady said, tapping her friend’s arm with her folded fan. “Nothing can move forward on that match until she’s released from her Tower and, if you ask me, that’s not likely any time soon. It’s no wonder his attention strays.”

“Dear me! I was sure they were meant for each other, being fostered together since they were children.”

“Mark my words, if she delays long enough, the King will find him another match. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see a whole flurry of weddings. I’ll have to order a dozen new gowns at least. The King’s positively enraptured with the idea—”

The lady’s gaze passed over Varzil as she moved by. She lifted her chin and turned, making her way through the assembly.

The stocky youth who had reminded King Felix of the death of Carolin’s father now pushed his way through the throng to greet Carolin. They embraced as kinsmen.

“These are my friends from Arilinn. My cousin, Rakhal.” Carolin bent toward Rakhal so that he could be heard without shouting. “My uncle—how long has he been like this?”

“He’ll be better now that you’re here,” Rakhal answered in the same private tone. “I must attend him in his quarters now. Today’s excitement has clearly been too much. He’s not strong, you know. He sat for hours all last tenday, hearing cases that should have gone to the cortes. But a little care will see him right.” Rakhal bowed and headed back toward the dais.

The second youth lingered behind. Varzil regarded him curiously, for the initial resemblance to both Carolin and the departed Rakhal was strong, going far beyond their striking red hair. He’d been mistaken, though. These three might be blood kin, but they were nothing alike. Whereas Carolin held himself with an unconscious grace and Rakhal seemed stolid, a man who might run to fat without the habits of exercise and self-restraint, this youth was thin and nervy, unsettled in himself. He would have benefited, Varzil thought, with a season or two of Tower training.