Zandru's Forge (41 page)

Gavin Elhalyn stood up. “As a member of that circle, I believe Varzil’s testimony that when he had finished the immediate care necessary to save Auster’s life, Felicia had already stabilized the circle under her own control. For myself, I am not sure. Things happened so quickly—we were all in deep rapport. If Varzil says this is what happened, then it must be so. When I could perceive things clearly once more, it was Felicia alone who held us in a circle.”

Varzil had not expected such a strong statement from Gavin, who had served loyally under Auster for many years. Such was the man’s integrity that he would not retreat from the truth. He had been there, had felt Felicia’s silken touch spin them into a single unity. He would not deny it.

Felicia kept to herself, chin lifted, back straight. She reminded Varzil of steel, bright in the sun. He wished he could take her hand. That would be an unforgivable breach of Tower etiquette, but more than that, it would compromise the poise, the pride that she wore as a mantle.

“That is as it may be,” one of the other men said. “People—including women—can do extraordinary things in an emergency. This is not at all the same thing as a reliable talent. This is why we insist upon discipline and tradition. From the newest novice to the most revered Keeper, we are all bound by the same standards. We do not make promises we cannot fulfill. No one may work in a circle, with the minds of others dependent upon his skill and competence, unless he is fully trained and fit.”

“A single incident does not make a Keeper,” Gavin conceded.

Heads nodded in agreement.

Varzil got to his feet and the murmurs died. All eyes shifted to him. He was, after all, Auster’s chosen successor, under-Keeper of Arilinn.

“We live in extraordinary times,” he reminded them, “times of both disaster and promise, hope and trial. Our fathers saw the destruction of two great Towers. They lived their lives in a world gone mad, teetering on the brink of conflagration. We have the chance to make a new world, to envision new possibilities. Who is to say that a woman Keeper is not one of them?

“What is really at stake here?” he demanded, pacing now, for the energy coursing through him would not allow him to stand still. “If we are right, if Felicia’s actions in maintaining the circle are an indication of her true talent—why, then, we will be hailed as pioneers, as visionaries. The Towers are too few and too distant as it is. Rebuilding Tramontana stretched our resources even thinner. Can you imagine what a difference it would make if we could draw upon our
laran-
Gifted women as well as men for Keeper training?”

They were far fewer than when Varzil had first come to Arilinn. Barak’s circle was at a bare minimum. Others, including an extremely promising lad from Marenji, had left for the usual reasons, marriage, war, shifts in power in the small kingdoms. It was the same everywhere. Hali’s Second Keeper had gone to the new Tower at Tramontana, taking some of the most experienced workers with him.

Several of the older folk, Lunilla and Richardo, drew back with horrified expressions. Only Auster listened impassively. Varzil feared he had pushed them too far and in doing so, lost his own argument.

He lifted his hands in conciliation. “All I am saying is that we have nothing to lose by giving Felicia a chance. If you are right and what happened was an aberration, a short-lived bridge until I could take over the circle, then we are no worse off than we were before.”

“Let the others break with tradition at their peril,” Barak said. “Arilinn will hold to the ancient truths, the time-honored principles that have made us great. There has never been a woman trained as Keeper here. There never will be.”

The fools!
Varzil thought with a burst of anger. Here was a treasure at their feet and they chose to retreat behind tradition.

Tradition be damned!
Half the room flinched visibly.

Felicia rose to her feet. She regarded Barak, Arilinn’s sole remaining functional Keeper, with calm eyes.
“Vai dom,
do not trouble yourself on my account. I would not be a source of dissension in this Tower. I am, as always, at the service of Arilinn. As long as I remain here, I will do my best in whatever capacity my Keeper deems suitable.”

Liriel Hastur could not have spoken more graciously. Felicia sat down amid a ripple of approval. Auster smiled and nodded to her.

Varzil could find no fault with Felicia’s words. He envied her ability to say what was so clearly expected, to appear less than she was. Perhaps this was because it was a skill he had practiced himself for so many years.

A tapping at the door startled Varzil awake. He’d fallen asleep with Felicia in his arms, the covers thrown over both of them.

The meeting had left everyone overwrought. Felicia had gone with Varzil to his chambers after a brief evening meal, for neither of them were to work that night, not even in the relays. He’d touched her lightly on the back of the wrist, in the manner of telepaths. She’d surprised him with a smile.

“It is no more than what I—you and I—expected,” she had said. “But I think you were right all along, Varzil. We of the Towers are not so many that we can afford to throw away half of those with the talent to become Keepers. Certainly not just because superstition and tradition say women aren’t capable of the work. I know what I did—I was a Keeper.” Her eyes met his, luminous even in the muted light of the
laran-charged
glow-globe. “I
am
a Keeper. And if Arilinn will not give me the training I need to use my talents, I must find another Tower that will.”

He had drawn her close to him, torn between pride and the heart-tearing knowledge that to do so, she would have to leave him. He thought of the brief romance between Dyannis, his sister, and Eduin. In the end, the distance and the demands upon them in their separate lives had worn away their hope, or so it had seemed to Dyannis. He did not want that to happen to him and Felicia. He thought of going with her wherever she went; surely someone with his training could find a place at another Tower.

“Caryo mio,”
she had whispered into the curve of his shoulder. “What we have can only be enriched by time. Distance is no consideration.” Once again, they had slept in each other’s arms, too drained of
laran
energy to have any sexual desire. They bathed in the intimacy of each other’s body heat and breath, the rhythms of each other’s minds.

Now he sat bolt upright at the tapping at the door. Felicia stirred at his side. “Come in.”

Gavin’s head appeared in the opening. “Come quickly, Varzil. And you, too, Felicia. Auster’s had another stroke.”

Varzil reached for his fleece-lined indoor boots. Felicia was already pulling on a shawl over her night dress. “Shouldn’t Fidelis—Cerriana—”

“They have already been summoned,” Gavin replied, holding the door open for them. “This is more than a matter of healing. He’s asking for you by name, Varzil.”

Despite the quiet of the hour, few others were asleep. Varzil quested outward with his mind. The matrix laboratories sat vacant, their telepathic dampers idle. Even the relays had fallen silent. Cerriana stood at the door of the infirmary, explaining to Valentina that her presence would serve no purpose, but only interfere with the work at hand.

“Good, you’re here.” She stepped back for Varzil to enter. He took Felicia’s hand and drew her inside with him.

Auster’s face was almost as pale as the sheets of unbleached
linex.
The lines of his face, once deeply incised, had faded into a webwork of tiny wrinkles. His eyebrows and lashes were likewise colorless, shades of white upon white. But for the hesitant rise and fall of his chest and the faint irregular pulse at his throat, he might have already passed from the living.

Fidelis sat to one side of the bed. He held two fingertips against the inside of Auster’s wrist, eyes downcast, all his concentration inward.

Varzil lowered himself to an empty stool. He knew better than to speak. Auster must have sensed his presence, however. Pale lashes fluttered open. At first, his gaze was unfocused, his once-keen thoughts now hesitant.

“What’s that? Don’t mumble, young man. I can’t hear you.” Auster’s lips twisted around the words, for the left side of his body was clearly paralyzed.

Varzil probed deeper, something he would have never dared to do in the days of Auster’s strength. Any monitor could have assessed the neurological damage. The hurt done to the
laran
centers of Auster’s brain was far more profound. The old man might live on if his body were tough enough, the lungs taking in air, the heart continuing its relentless rhythm. A stroke patient might, with patience and skillful healers, learn to speak or walk again. For this deeper loss, there was no cure. What made the man, what made the Keeper, was already gone.

Varzil swept one hand across his eyes, praying he would not weep. When he had come to Arilinn so many years ago, a rebellious, terrified adolescent, Auster had seemed as a god, Keeper and
laranzu,
surely one of the most powerful men on Darkover. His mental abilities had been legendary.

“Varzil? Varzil lad, is it you?” Auster asked in a voice that was even more potent for its weakness. Every syllable expressed his determination to complete this one last task.

Gently, Varzil brushed his fingertips against the papery skin on Auster’s wrist. “I am here, beloved teacher.”

Auster’s hand fumbled free to catch Varzil’s. The fingers with their bony joints felt like the bars of a decrepit cage, barely able to contain a feather.

“Varzil ...” Slow and thin, the voice continued. “I want ... there must be no question ... as to who ... will take my place.”

Fidelis met Varzil’s eyes. Neither of them spoke of false hope. “Auster, you have trained Varzil yourself for all these years,” Fidelis said. “Surely everyone at Arilinn knows you intended him to be Keeper after you.”

One hand waved. The thin chest shook with the effort of yet another breath. “Everyone here ... yes. But those arrogant—” Auster broke off into coughing, soothed only when Fidelis brought his monitor’s skills to clear his breathing passages. The stroke clearly had compromised his body’s ability to keep his lungs clear. Already Varzil sensed the first intimations of the pneumonia that would surely end his life.

“—those arrogant nine-fathered banshees ... think you’re either too dangerous ... or of no consequence ... want the Towers biddable ... Promise me, you will serve no king’s private ... purposes ... only Arilinn ... only the highest good ...”

“I will be pawn to no king,” Varzil promised, thinking of Carolin and of Felix Hastur, who still occupied the throne at Hali.

Until that moment, Varzil realized, there had always been the possibility that Carolin might ask of him something which ran counter to his own conscience. He had never seriously considered it, for he could not imagine anything which Carolin wanted that he could not agree to. But Carolin was not yet King.

“... answer to your own conscience ...”

Varzil bent over until his cheek brushed the aged hands. His tears wet the clasped fingers. From this time onward, he must look to no other man as the Keeper of his conscience. He would be responsible not only for himself, but for the men and women who served under him.

Auster’s voice was now very low, so that only Varzil could hear his whispered syllables.

“... name you ...
tenerézu
...”

Varzil held his breath, waiting. Listening with his
laran,
with his heart, praying there would be one more word, one more moment of communion. Silence and stillness answered him. Then came a shimmering at the very edges of his senses, both physical and mental. He knew it for the very moment when life extinguished, leaving only a frail husk.

It seemed that the heavens themselves mourned the passing of Auster Syrtis, Keeper of Arilinn Tower. As the year hastened to its end, the weather, which had been unseasonably mild, turned bitterly cold. Auster’s family had sent a message requesting that he be buried in the small plot Arilinn kept for its own. Here, in an unmarked grave just as at the
rhu fead,
he would join generations of nameless Keepers before him.

Almost overnight, however, the ground froze so hard that no wooden tool could scratch its surface. Gavin went out with one of the precious metal spades and came back shaking his head.

“My uncle Aran said this often happens in the Hellers,” Felicia remarked, looking at the dented tip. “The poor pack the bodies in the snow banks, where they stay frozen solid until the spring thaws. At Tramontana, it is said, they had other ways.”

The farewell service for Auster was even simpler than the one Varzil attended for Taniquel Hastur. The Tower community gathered in their own common room, instead of the gravesite, to share their memories and comfort one another. They began just as the brilliance of the day, hard-edged with cold, began to seep from the sky. Sunset colors streamed in through the windows. By the time they were finished, a dense and velvety darkness surrounded them.