Zandru's Forge (18 page)

A strange look passed over Lyondri’s features as he lowered himself to the chair. The significance of being seated at Carolin’s right hand had clearly not escaped him. The taut lines of jaw and mouth eased, granting him a more open, generous expression.

And so they sat, talking of one inconsequential thing or another—the birth of a foal from Orain’s favorite mare, the marriage of a lady visibly pregnant with another man’s child, the cook’s disastrous attempt at a sugar cake in the shape of a dragon in flight—until at last dinner was announced and they went downstairs in amicable relief.

In his season at Arilinn, Carolin had gotten into the habit of waking before dawn. With the night’s work finished, the circles dispersed and those tasks requiring daylight had not yet commenced. In the summer, when Carolin arrived, this was the most pleasant time, but as the days shortened and ice rimed the balcony outside his room, he continued to rise, bundled in layers of plaid, to look out.

His room had faced the Twin Peaks, earth reaching for sky and man humbled before both. He thought it a fitting reminder for a king-in-waiting. The stillness of the morning settled in his bones and as he watched the great Bloody Sun clear the horizon, staining the heavens with its light, it seemed that all the world stretched before him, silently waiting to see what he would do with it.

He had always known he was no ordinary man, he who would one day be a king. Until he had come to Arilinn and bent his mind to its discipline, he had not realized that an even greater destiny might lie before him.

Wrapped in his fur-lined cloak, Carolin looked out over the courtyards of Hastur Castle and beyond to the roofs of Hali and wondered if he would ever know that same stillness in his heart, in his very soul, again. The castle was never truly quiet. There was always someone up and about, some guard or scullery boy, some counselor bent over his papers, someone in the stable fretting over a lame horse or a whelping bitch.

This is my home, my place,
he reminded himself for the hundredth time since he had arrived. Tomorrow would be Midwinter Day and the feasting would continue until the next dawn. A few days after that, Varzil and Eduin would return to their Tower. He would be alone in the midst of a crowd as he had never been, for though he still loved the companions of his childhood, they had not seen what he had seen within his own mind, nor felt what he had felt.

Soon they, too, would go their separate ways. Maura would return to Hali Tower and the difficult, demanding work of the Sight. Orain might remain for a time, for he was Lyondri’s sworn man, but eventually must return to his estate and family. It was a pity the marriage, arranged by King Felix, had turned out so badly. It was not in Orain’s nature to desire any woman, but the two had despised each other from the start. Orain had a fine son who clearly adored him, but Orain was too consumed with antagonism for the boy’s mother to appreciate or even see the love his son had for him.

It was time to leave behind the things of his youth. Soon it would be time to be King. But not quite yet.

Movement caught his eye, a figure slipping out through the kitchen door and into the courtyard, leaving deep footprints in last night’s snowfall. From the height, the form inside the bulky clothing was unrecognizable, but Carolin would have known him anywhere. Who else would pause by the well, as if listening to the heart of the earth? Who else needed a moment of private reflection as a fish needed water or a falcon its wings?

“Varzil!” Carolin yelled.

There was no need. His friend had already turned to look up at him and raise one hand in greeting. Carolin hurried down the stairs, brushing past guards and maidservants carrying piles of linens, brooms and buckets, and ewers of steaming, scented water for the royal suites. He rushed through the kitchen, the rooms hot and aromatic with the day’s first baking.

Varzil was still standing beside the well when Carolin reached him. The ice-edged air caught in his throat. As he drew near his friend, exhilaration tingled through him.

Let’s run away!
he wanted to shout.
Let’s ride to the end of the Hellers and beyond!

“What are you doing out here?” he said.

One corner of Varzil’s mouth quirked upward in that odd half-smile of his, as if he radiated some secret delight. “What are
you?”

“Let’s go down into the city,” Carolin said. “There must be some place we can find
jaco
at this hour.”

“An adventure beyond the gates?” Varzil said. “Risking assassination or kidnapping? Lyondri would turn himself inside out if he knew, like the goat in the ballad, although for very different reasons.”

“Are you defying your prince?”

“Are you my prince?”

“Impudent Ridenow, have you no respect?” Carolin threw his arm around Varzil’s shoulders and started toward the gate. He had been taught at Arilinn to avoid such casual contact, but sensed no recoil from Varzil. The gesture was received as naturally as it was offered.

The guards at the gate looked uncertain whether to let Carolin pass or insist upon accompanying him. Carolin waved them back, saying that only the righteous of heart would be abroad at this hour. Miscreants must surely be in bed, sleeping off their evil deeds. Before the guards could formulate a reply, the two friends swept through the gates and into the city.

Hali, unlike mountain towns like Nevarsin, had been laid out with broad avenues. Snow had been swept from the center of each street and piled alongside the buildings. Here in the lowlands, it was possible to keep the streets clear. Anywhere in the rugged Venza Hills or the Hellers, the drifts would have piled waist-high at this season.

With frost-reddened cheeks, women and a few men went about their business. They called out greetings to one another. Some carried baskets of goods to be delivered, bundles of kindling wood, or yoked buckets of water. One man led a team of pack
chervines,
their harnesses jingling with bells.

Carolin and Varzil headed for the marketplace, where a few hardy souls had already set up booths screened from the wind. Farmers offered winter fare such as apples, cabbages, and redroot, along with barrels of the season’s fresh cider. A baker had set out a table in front of his shop with trays of steaming spice buns and braided honey cakes.

“Young lords! Try my fine cakes!” the baker’s wife cried, wiping her hands on her apron. Her cheeks glowed in the cold.

“Jaco!
Hot
jaco!”
someone else called from the far side of the square, echoing the canto and response of the
cristoforo
ceremonies.

“Apples! Who’ll buy my apples! Fresh as the day they were picked!”

“Ribbons! Fine ribbons for my lady’s hair!”

Carolin ordered two mugs of
jaco
and then realized he’d left the castle without any money. The vendor didn’t recognize him, and was clearly suspicious of a richly dressed youth attempting to use his status for a free drink. When Carolin started to direct the man to the castle for payment, Varzil handed the man four or five small silver coins. The man stared at the unfamiliar design stamped on the metal, tested one against his teeth, and pocketed them with a grin.

“And a fine mornin’ to ye both, m‘lords,” he said.

“I guessed the amount, since I don’t know your currency,” Varzil admitted as they moved away, sipping their hot drinks. “It was probably too much.”

“Too much for the
jaco,
yes, but not for the convenience of the hour and the price of the mugs,” Carolin said.

After a pause, Varzil said, “He didn’t know you.”

“No, though some of the richer merchants do, the ones who’ve been to court. I lived here only a few years before I left for Arilinn. No, I am not a city man, by either birth or choice, though now that must change. I grew up in the country, at my mother’s estate of Blue Lake. Very beautiful in the summer. Peaceful, too, although I didn’t appreciate it at the time. At Arilinn, I missed it far more than the castle here. Still,” he sighed as the pang of homesickness passed, “Hali is a place like no other. There is but one
rhu fead
, where the holy things are kept. There are many lakes, but only one at Hali.”

Varzil looked pensive. “I hoped to see the lake. I’ve heard about it since I was a child, how it contains strange clouds that one can breathe instead of ordinary water, and of the creatures that swim in its depths.” He did not add that there would be no convenient time for such an expedition, not with the arrival of more guests and members of the other branches of the Hastur clan, all eager to use the holiday gathering for political stratagems, matchmaking, and gossip.

And then, came the unspoken thought,
Eduin and I leave you to return to Arilinn.

Carolin had not thought of what it must be like for Varzil, to be here in Hali, a place he’d heard of only in tales and ballads. Even a generation ago, no Ridenow would have dreamed of walking freely in the stronghold of the Hasturs. He himself had been so occupied with his uncle’s health, the news of his impending wedding, and catching up with the affairs of the court that he’d had little time to play host. Eduin had happily danced attendance whenever invited. Varzil stayed quietly in the shadows, never drawing attention to himself or asking any favors.

Varzil, as if catching his thought, said quickly. “It doesn’t matter. Let us enjoy this brief freedom, until some assistant coridom comes to fetch us back.”

Carolin, however, was still infected with the wildness of the morning and longing to escape the intrigue and confinement of court. An idea came to him, like many he’d had as a boy. There was a stable where he was known. Money would not be a problem.

He downed the last of his jaco, leaving his tongue half-scalded. Grabbing Varzil’s mug, he thrust them both at the nearest passerby, a young girl in a threadbare cloak carrying a bolt of cloth. The burden was too big for her, but somehow she managed to keep hold of it and snatch the mugs before they fell. Her eyes shone and Carolin realized that, to her, the crockery represented an unexpected treasure, far better than any her family possessed. There were no beggars in Hali, but not every family was well off.

“Come on!” Grinning, Carolin headed for the stables.

Varzil knew immediately what he intended, for their minds were in light rapport. He did not demur or advance arguments why a prince should not go on such an expedition on the eve of Midwinter Festival. That was one of the things that made Varzil so peaceful to be around. Varzil was always pliant. Carolin had seen his stubborn nature on that morning at the Arilinn gates. Yet Varzil seemed for the most part content to let others run their own lives....

Unlike Lyondri, Carolin thought ruefully, who seemed to know exactly what everyone else’s duties were and never hesitated to remind them at every opportunity. Varzil was right. His cousin would create an enormous fuss. This made the prospect of an adventure even more appealing. They must make the most of the morning’s freedom.

The man in charge at the stable recognized Carolin and produced two saddled horses. They were the best of the stock for hire, which meant they had leather mouths and bone-jarring gaits but no lethal habits like rearing over backward. Shortly, they took off along the road to the lake.

The horses bobbed their heads in rhythm, blowing vapor from their nostrils. Ice crunched beneath their shod hooves. As the city fell behind, banks of untouched snow spread out on either side of the road. Icicles hung from the split-rail fences and ferny patterns of frost sparkled on the low stone walls. Hedgerows lined the fields, stark and leafless beneath their dusting of white.

When they were halfway to their destination, they heard behind them the sound of galloping hooves. Even as he turned in the saddle, Carolin’s hand went automatically to where his sword should hang beside his knee. It was not there. He had no need of one within his own quarters and he had rushed down to the courtyard and then to this morning’s adventure without thought. Even within the fastness of Hastur territory, that was extreme carelessness.

Black against the fields, a rider urged his horse toward them, still far enough away to hide his features. He wore no colors, not the blue and silver of Hastur, nor any other.

Varzil’s laughter cut the thought off. “We have no need to flee
this
rider!”

Carolin’s horse danced under him, infected by his own agitation. “How—?”

Stupid to ask. This was
Varzil,
who sometimes knew what he was thinking before he himself realized it. Varzil who had brought his brother out alive from the clutches of the catmen, despite the fact they never bargained or kept prisoners. Varzil who had first touched his mind—and reset his shoulder—when he’d unaccountably lost his balance in the orchard at Arilinn.

With an odd shiver, the thought came to Carolin that he was safer in Varzil’s presence than anywhere else, even the mightiest fortress.

“Lord Carolin!” the voice ghosted along the road.

“Grain!”

Carolin recognized the horse as one from the very same stables, a flea-bitten gray with stiff hock joints and a nasty temper. Orain had ridden it hard. Its sides heaved like bellows and dark lines of sweat‘streaked its hide. Orain himself looked no better, his angular face set, eyes somber. He was, Carolin noticed, armed.

“What are you doing here?” Carolin asked.

Orain flushed. “What are
you?”

“Obviously, we’re on our way to the lake. Did Lyondri send you to keep an eye on me?”

Varzil flinched at Orain’s reaction. “Carlo, Orain couldn’t have known where you were going, only that you had left the castle without a proper escort. What else was he to do?”