Zandru's Forge (43 page)

When Carolin returned to Alianora’s chambers, the healer had just finished straightening the covers. Buckets overflowing with blood-soaked linens sat just inside the door. Their smell hung in the air. The healer went to the curtains and pulled them open.

She bowed and slipped out the door, leaving Carolin alone with his wife.

For a terrible moment, he feared she had already slipped away, she lay so pale and still. When he lifted one hand, he was surprised at how cool it felt. The copper
catenas
bracelet lay loose around the fragile wrist.

Her eyes fluttered open. Pale, bloodless lips moved, shaped his name, but only a whisper of breath emerged. A film had fallen over the blue eyes, giving her the appearance of blindness.

He pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “Alianora. My good and dutiful wife.”

“My ... husband.”

By the grace of Evanda, there was time for one last gesture, one last farewell. What could he say to her? Nothing, he realized, that had not already been said in those few words. He remembered the first night they had lain together. In a moment of mental intimacy such as they had not shared in all the years together, he saw what was in her mind, the one thing she wished for above all else.

Yes, they were there, hidden in the toe of an old pair of boots. Not in her jewelry case or in any other place where they might be easily discovered.

He placed the
cristoforo
beads into her hands, closed her fingers around them, and felt the answering pulse of relief and joy. Though he did not know more than a phrase or two, he sensed her own thoughts rising and falling in the ancient rhythms of prayer. When the final echoes had grown still, he realized that she was gone.

He leaned over and pressed his lips to her brow. She looked more at peace than she ever had in life. “May Holy St. Christopher, Bearer of the World’s Burdens, sustain your spirit.” Perhaps the words were wrong, for he knew little of her faith, but he spoke them with reverence. Surely, her god would understand. Surely her god would embrace her and their unborn child.

Sounds outside the door returned him to the present moment. He must go inform the King, and Rakhal and Lyondri. Maura would keep the children safe. Sustained by her gentle wisdom, he would find a way to tell them, too.

First, though, Carolin slipped the prayer beads from between Alianora’s limp fingers. He could not leave them here, where her secret would surely be revealed. To bury or destroy them was abhorrent, a negation of her entire life. There was one place, though, where he could take them—the monastery of Saint Valentine of the Snows at Nevarsin. They had planned to send the boys when they were older, as royal children often were, for the superb education and training in self-discipline. When the time was right, he would go with them, on an errand of his own.

As he opened the door to let in the world with all its cares and bustle, Carolin thought Alianora’s departing spirit smiled upon him.

Storms swept the Plains of Arilinn, burying the city in a blizzard. Winds howled and hail battered stone. Behind the Tower walls, the community of Arilinn gathered to celebrate. Warmth and light filled the common room, not only from the immense fire but also the banks of
laran-
charged lights and heaters. Once, the entire city had glowed with the blue-white illumination produced by the circles. Now, there was only enough for special occasions in the Hidden City and the Tower itself.

“Perhaps a time will come when all of Darkover can enjoy such luxury,” Varzil said, sipping the rich Acosta wine Carolin sent as a holiday gift. The vintage was dark and heady, filled with subtle, complex flavors.

The news of Alianora’s death and of her lost child lent a sad poignancy to the gift. Carolin was generous, even in sorrow. Yet wine itself was like life—ordinary grapes transformed into a potion to ease old wounds or open them, a bearer of joy as well as despair.

Felicia, at Varzil’s side, lifted her goblet. “To the new days ahead. To seeing dreams become reality.”

“Let us hope they are dreams of peace and prosperity,” Cerriana said, “and not other dreams.”

Across the table, Fidelis said, “Do not all men wish for an end to strife and want?”

“Of course they do,” she replied. “It’s just that—well, this is a time for hope, for renewal, is it not? Then let us not speak otherwise, least we give power to our own fears.”

Varzil’s mood, which had been effervescent with Felicia’s nearness, the coming Year’s End ritual, and the fellowship of the evening, darkened. Recent relay messages had hinted of unrest in the city of Hali, a proliferation of outlawed weapons, dissension among the Hasturs, and rumors of escalating conflict through the Kilghard Hills.

Despite his personal grief Carolin’s letters had been hopeful, full of confidence in the ability of honorable men to work together. Varzil prayed his friend was not mistaken in his trust.

He put the thought from him. There would be time enough to deal with such worries. For tonight, all who dwelt within the Tower would celebrate the turning of the seasons.

The meal ended, and the table was moved to clear a space for dancing. Barak and Lunilla, as senior members of the community, took up the symbols of the ancient rite. He lifted a sword, not the true Sword of Aldones, but a lightweight imitation, its edges carefully dulled so as not to wound through accident. The metal had been shaped to collect and reflect light, and a starstone chip glittered in its hilt. The effect was a dramatic halo of blue light around the blade and whoever wielded it.

Lunilla had set aside her usual brown and gray for a robe of shimmering white. Though she was old enough to be a grandmother, when she took up the garland of
kireseth
flowers, an aura hung about her, of youth and sweetness and springtime.

Valentina began singing in her clear, light voice. The melody was simple, the words ones they all knew by heart. Together, Barak and Lunilla moved through the dance-like reenactment.

Varzil took Felicia’s hand, even as Barak took Lunilla’s and couples formed throughout the room. The air turned golden and thick, like honeyed wine. His head swam with it, and with her nearness. He felt her warmth even through the layers of their festival clothing.

The men moved apart from the women and came together again.
Apart ... together ...
Each time, the lines drew nearer.

Lunilla went down the line of women, giving each a blue kireseth blossom. Golden particles glittered on the stamens. Normally, the flowers were forbidden in the Towers and only careful distillations of the active components used.
Kirian,
invaluable in the treatment of threshold sickness, was one of these. Anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in a Ghost Wind, when winds blew the raw pollen down from the mountain heights, might suffer hallucinations, the breakdown of all normal mental barriers, even madness.

The circles of men and women had come around so that Varzil now faced Felicia. It seemed to him that glory was indeed mirrored in her face. He saw her with his heart as well as his eyes, saw the shining light within her, the beauty of her features and the silken touch of her
laran.

Even as the Cassilda of legend had offered kireseth the starflower, to Hastur, so now Felicia, along with every other woman in the room, offered it to her partner. Many of the couples would complete only a ritual acceptance. They might remain together for a time, then leave for their own chambers. Every other time at Year’s End, this was what Varzil had done. He’d had no need of anything more.

Varzil bent over the five-petaled blossom. The distinctive scent of the pollen rushed through him. He ran one finger along the waxy petal, then held it for Felicia to inhale. The gold-dusted stamen cast a gentle radiance on her face. When she raised her eyes to his, he could see the Blessed Cassilda smile through her.

The song continued, carried by its own momentum, the force behind the ritual growing even more insistent. Voices blended so that sometimes he heard each distinct word and the next moment, only the rise and fall of the melody. At one point, he became aware of the first effects of the
kireseth;
the singing had stopped and yet the sense of being caught up in something wildly joyous, dangerous and inexorable carried him along. He had been exposed to small amounts of the pollen as part of his training and so, he thought, he knew what to expect.
Kireseth
lowered mental boundaries and acted as a psychic catalyst.

Nothing, he realized, could have prepared him. One moment, he was drowning in the lights reflected in Felicia’s eyes, filled with a growing excitement he could not name. The next, he was the lights, the fire, the translucent blue stone walls, the softness of her lips. He did not know where he was, because he was everywhere at once—in the common room at Arilinn Tower, at the bottom of Hali Lake, soaring above the Twin Peaks, howling with the Ya-men in the hills beyond Sweetwater.

Liquid fire rushed through his body, energy surging through his
laran
channels. Dimly, the thought came to him that the purpose of this ancient rite was just this, to clear out the blockage and stagnation of the year’s work.

The same channels carried sexual energy and
laran,
which was why threshold sickness often came about with the awakening of adolescence. Both men and women became sexually unresponsive while actively working in a circle. Even with the careful attention of the monitors, there were times when the body could not handle the energy flows.
Laran
nodes shut down; energy accumulated.

He bent to Felicia. Her arms went around him, pulling him closer. Her lips on his were at once yielding and demanding.

Varzil was no longer in the common room; he felt Felicia’s hand in his, saw the walls of the corridor to her chambers kaleidoscoping by. The edges of his body were dissolving into particles of brilliance. Each tiny piece vibrated, expanding and overlapping until his entire body became a vessel of light. The light coalesced into a node of heat, centered deep within his belly and reaching—exploding—out through his genitals. His skin flamed with it.

Desire engulfed him, sweeping through every fiber, every cell of organ and nerve and skin, not only his own arousal but Felicia‘s, each catalyzing and feeding upon the other. He felt her passion as his own and it excited him even more.

As he stretched his body on top of hers, she softened and opened herself to him. He felt himself surrender along with her, both of them yielding to something greater. She cried out in pleasure as their bodies began to rock in primal rhythm. His own climax built slowly, in wave upon growing wave of intensity.

All sense of his separate self fell away. Neither body nor mind retained any boundaries. He was man and woman, sun and stars, night and day. Joy swept through him and the world reeled with it. Gradually, he slipped back into himself and darkness took him.

He felt the dawn approach. The
kireseth
had worn off some hours ago, but he had not slept. Neither had Felicia, lying naked in his arms under layers of quilts. The psychedelic-fueled sense of oneness had faded, but the contentment and joy remained. How warm she was, how delicious her scent, her velvety skin, her unbound curls. She stirred, shifting her hips, and traced a spiral pattern on his chest with a fingertip.

“It wouldn’t always be like this,” she murmured aloud. Her breath teased the hairs on his chest. “Even if one of us sacrificed our training so that we could be together, we would be working most of the time. And we would in time come to resent the price we paid.”

A flicker of presence in the corridor brought him alert. Gathering the Tree-of-Life quilt around his shoulders, he tip-toed to the door and opened it. A tray with covered dishes and a pitcher of steaming
jaco
sat on the floor. He caught a hint of Lunilla’s touch.