A Flame in Hali

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  The next morning, Eduin wandered down to the kitchen, just as he had in his years at Arilinn. Here he felt more at ease than at any moment since arriving at Kirella. The cook, a pleasant-faced woman with a Dalereuth accent, offered him freshly brewed jaco and the last of the yesterday’s bread with a little honey.

  The cook bustled about, ordering the day’s meals and supervising the scullery maids to be sure they chopped the onions finely enough and sanded the cookpots clean. Eduin sat in a corner, sipping the hot jaco and listening to the scullery maids talk. One girl spoke of her fears for two of her brothers, conscripted for foot-soldiers. Another replied with the story of border raids by Isoldir forces disguised as bandits, yet another of the broken betrothal between Romilla and the Isoldir heir, which the cook insisted had never happened and if it had, it had involved her grandmother, not the girl herself, and therefore could not be the cause of all this trouble, no matter what ignorant gossip said. Eduin returned to his rooms with the added news that Lord Brynon would dine that night with a select few of the court, including the miraculous Sandoval.

  The cook happily set aside a meal for Eduin to take up to Saravio, packets of meat pies and a ramekin of baked custard, still warm and fragrant.

  “For as much as he’s done, saving the young lad’s life as we’ve heard, he deserves a rest. Half the busybodies in Kirella will be after a sight of him. And there’s the young damisela,” the woman’s ruddy features turned somber and she bit down on her lower lip. “There, I’ve said too much already. You just take that pudding up to your friend and see he eats it up.”

  Eduin doubted that Saravio would be awake enough to eat the custard, and he was right. For the moment, Eduin let his friend rest, hoping that a period of quiet would restore him.

  Afternoon wore on, and still Saravio slept. The dinner hour loomed closer with each passing hour. Eduin became increasingly anxious. He dared not appear alone at Lord Brynon’s table.

  In the end, Eduin decided that he must brave Lord Brynon’s displeasure, even appearing without Saravio. Trouble would certainly follow if he did not come at all. This evening, only a small group of courtiers dined with their lord. Eduin was placed at the main table, two seats down from Lord Brynon himself and opposite the court physician, who made little effort at a civil greeting. Romilla sat beside her father. She wore her customary white, the dress of a young noblewoman, funereal rather than spritely against the hollowness of her features. Only when her gaze met Eduin’s did her expression take on a hint of animation. She laid one pale hand on her father’s, and he bent to listen to her whisper.

  “Where is your brother?” Lord Brynon asked, once the roast haunch of beef had been carved and the bread and stewed roots passed around. “I hope he is not taken ill. We had hoped to thank him properly for his services. My daughter, in particular, has a number of questions for him.”

  It could have been worse, Eduin thought. At least, Lord Brynon’s tone was still cordial. He had not yet run out of patience. Best of all, the girl was clearly interested.

  “Sandoval the Blessed would be exceedingly grateful for your concern, were he able to receive it,” Eduin said. He kept his voice low and meek. “He has become aware of a terrible danger that even now draws nigh upon this fair land. He is communing with the gods, for without their intervention, great harm will soon be upon us.”

  Aillard’s brow furrowed, darkening his eyes. He did not look like a man who would ordinarily give credence to communing with the gods. Yet his son would surely have died without Saravio’s intervention. Aillard was enough of a soldier to know that no merely human medicine could have saved anyone with such an injury. Beside him, his advisers exchanged glances.

  “It is just as I told you, is it not, Papa?” Romilla spoke up. “Last night, my dreams . . . The time of fire is coming, and soon it will engulf us all. Then darkness will stretch all across the land. What will happen then, I cannot foresee, but the very thought chills me to the soul.”

  “My dear child,” Lord Brynon responded, placing his hand over hers, “your concern for the welfare of Kirella does you credit. These are desperate times indeed. The world is full of evil, and we have our share of enemies. Do not trouble yourself. War and statecraft are better left to . . . to those older and wiser, skilled in such matters.”

  Eduin noticed that he did not say, left to men, for in Aillard lands, women held full and equal rank. Someday, Romilla would make those decisions, if she lived that long. Aillard trod a delicate line between his responsibilities as Regent and the need to train his daughter to eventually assume them.

  Romilla was clearly aware of this, for she lifted her chin. Her voice dropped in pitch so that she sounded like a mature woman, rather than an impetuous child. “Certainly, Kirella is in need of all the wise counsel that can be gathered. But some day this will be my kingdom. I have the right to hear this counsel and judge for myself.”

  Even as she finished, the court physician broke in. “Damisela, you must not excite your nerves with such worries! Perhaps when you are stronger, or the matters of state less onerous.” He glanced at Lord Brynon. “Lady Romilla’s health cannot withstand such unnecessary burdens. She will make herself even more ill if she continues on in this manner. She must retire without delay. Indeed, the most beneficial thing for her right now is a darkened room, as I have prescribed, and soft music to divert her mind from worrisome thoughts.”

  One of the courtiers sighed in relief and Lord Brynon looked troubled at this reminder of his daughter’s frailty. Romilla herself sat like a statue, a whisper of color rising to her cheeks. Eduin felt a sudden desire to leap up and throttle the physician, or blast him with laran. He knew it was unwise and unreasonable, but his skin prickled and a pounding ache settled over his temples.

  “I think Dom Rodrigo has the right of it, chiya,” Aillard said. “We can manage for a time without you, and the sooner you regain your strength, the sooner you may return.”

  Slowly, the girl rose to her feet. “I will retire to my chambers if you think it best, Papa. But I do not want any more medicines. I do not need them. I—” she forced a smile, “—I will be better in a little while, truly. Especially if—if the Blessed Sandoval could come to me. Under Domna Mhari’s supervision, of course.”

  So the girl was not a complete jelly, Eduin thought. She might be tormented to the brink of insanity, but she had backbone. If she survived to rule this small kingdom, she might become a force to be reckoned with.

  “I will ask Sandoval to do so, as soon as may be,” Lord Brynon replied. He glanced at Eduin with an expression that clearly said, And that had better be soon.

  One of the ladies took Romilla by the arm and guided her from the room.

  The meal concluded, a somberness broken by explosions of tension-laced laughter. Eduin could not eat any more. The food turned to stone in his belly. He felt a slithery tension over his skin, heard the distant, familiar whisper, K-k-kill ...

  He was acutely aware of the empty seat at Aillard’s side and the opportunity that was, moment by moment, slipping away from him. As the assembly broke up, Lord Brynon summoned Eduin to his side.

  “Walk with me apart from the others. I would hear more of this threat to which you alluded, this ‘terrible danger’ that requires your brother to—as you put it—‘commune with the gods’.”

  They stepped into an alcove, well away from the nearest guard. Lord Brynon was tall and powerfully built, his bearing that of a soldier. He grasped Eduin’s shoulder in a demonstration of his physical strength. “Why are you here in Kirella? To warn me—or to worm your way into my council and then betray me?”

  Eduin, spurred by a wordless instinct, dropped to his knees and held up his hands as might a faithful vassal to his sovereign.

  “Vai dom, I swear to you I bring no harm to you or any person beneath your roof. May Zandru strike me dead if I lie!”

  For a long moment, Lord Brynon peered into Eduin’s face. Eduin felt only the normal scrutiny of a man used t
o dealing with uncertain allies in perilous times, no trace of a psychic probe. He felt confident that not even the Keeper of Arilinn Tower could read anything but sincerity in his thoughts.

  “I believe you bear us no ill will,” the Aillard Lord said. “But I also believe that no man acts except in his own best interest. Deal honestly with me and you will have your reward. Play me false and I’ll have your guts for lute strings. Now, what is this danger you spoke of?”

  Eduin clambered to his feet. “Why, he that you spoke of yourself—the Keeper of Neskaya Tower, Varzil Ridenow. For if it is true Varzil means to rebuild Cedestri Tower, it must be in order to bring it under his influence. Why else would he go to such trouble and use so much laran for the benefit of strangers? Isoldir alone is a small kingdom and no match for Kirella’s might, but Isoldir allied with Hastur . . .”

  “I see you have aspirations to become a councillor,” Lord Brynon said, grinning.

  Eduin bowed. “I am Your Lordship’s servant—”

  “You are nothing of the sort!”

  Eduin paled, wondering what had given him away. Before he could sputter a reply, Lord Brynon went on.

  “You are the keeper of the most extraordinary man I have ever met. I will not let either of you slip so easily through my fingers. If he can work a tenth of the miracle of the other night upon my daughter—well, we shall see. Meanwhile, do not trouble yourselves with imagined fears. The walls of Kirella are stout and well-defended. Winter will soon be upon us and that will put a pause to any immediate threat. Go now to your proper work and see that the Blessed Sandoval is ready to attend Lady Romilla as soon as possible.”

  Eduin, hearing the dismissal in Lord Brynon’s words, withdrew. It mattered little that he had been cast off so lightly. He had planted a seed, which was all he wanted.

  Now to create the garden in which that seed would ripen into a towering tree.

  20

  When Eduin dragged himself from sleep the next morning, bleary-eyed from restless awakenings and even more restless dreams, Saravio lay exactly as he had last seen him. Only the slow, shallow movements of his rib cage indicated he still lived.

  Eduin washed, dressed, and sat down for what he prayed would not be a death watch. He did not know what he would say to Lord Brynon, and he suspected that he had run out of time and acceptable excuses. He wondered what he would do if Saravio continued on like this. Even if Saravio did not die in the immediate future, he could not go on for very much longer with any hope of reasonable recovery.

  The time he had appointed to meet with Lord Brynon arrived. He knew he should bestir himself, but he could not summon the energy. He slumped to the floor beside Saravio’s bed. His head dropped upon his folded arms, his face only a few inches from Saravio’s. In that unguarded moment, he had no defense against the insidious despair emanating from Romilla’s powerful but utterly undisciplined laran.

  Thoughts rose unbidden to his mind. What was the use of going on? What was left for either of them but more hiding, futile struggle? More endless tormented dreams, broken by days of increasing exhaustion?

  Why had he imagined a measure of security and purpose here? Misery and despair lurked in every corner. The brightness of the court with all its grandeur and comfort was but a mockery, an illusion. A shadow had fallen over Kirella and its inhabitants. They were doomed, all of them.

  He knew the thoughts were not his, and yet he could not stop them. They rippled through his mind, drawing upon every memory of his own hopelessness.

  Soon the lights would go out. Nothing could stand against the coming darkness. It would spread like a cancer across all the Aillard lands, all the Hundred Kingdoms from the Hellers to the Sea of Dalereuth. Only frozen ashes would remain.

  Even the thought that Varzil, too, would perish brought only the faintest tinge of satisfaction. What did it matter? He himself would not be alive to see it.

  Better, far better to surrender now, to find an end to the unremitting misery.

  Eduin remembered his brief glimpses of the border-land in the Overworld between the living and the dead. Upon rare occasions, he had heard, a traveler might encounter the form of a dead person, usually a loved one, seen at a far distance. It was perilous to have anything to do with them.

  In the Overworld, thought had the power to transport, to build, to destroy. Although he had not consciously willed it, Eduin now found himself standing on that vast, unbroken plain under the familiar sky of endless gray. The air, thick and still, seemed colder than he’d remembered it.

  Turning slowly in a complete circuit, he saw nothing, only the colorless rim of the horizon. He glanced down and saw that, instead of being clothed in the robes of a laranzu of his rank as he had been each time before, he was naked.

  This, then, must be death. Eternal grayness, eternal chill, eternal silence. Eternal solitude. It was neither the oblivion he craved, nor any semblance of peace, but it would do. He had only to wait here until his physical body, like an abandoned husk, perished from thirst and starvation.

  He lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs, placing his hands in an attitude of meditation. Time in the Overworld passed at a different rate than it did in the outer world, but he thought it would take a long while. His body might be discovered and attempts made to revive him. That charlatan physician might well be called in, to ply him with herbal concoctions. In the end, it would be of no avail. Deprived of animating spirit, flesh would fail. His escape would be complete.

  The thought carried an unexpected lightening of despair. He had finally fled beyond pursuit. No one would find him here, or if they did, would not have the power to compel his return. He was, for the first time, safe.

  Safe . . .

  But not alone.

  Eduin heard no footstep, felt no whisper of disturbed air, caught no scent. He felt the slight fall in temperature, a chill of the mind, not the body. It sank into his marrow and with it came a sickening jolt of recognition.

  His father, Rumail Deslucido, appeared as large to him as when he had been a small boy. Eduin could make out only the faintest features, for the form was almost transparent. The face with its deeply incised lines was free of the snowy beard of his later years, and the body, what he could make out of it, appeared straight and strong. This was not the image of his father in death, but in the vigor of his prime.

  Despite himself, Eduin shrank away from the pale fire of those eyes.

  The ghostly mouth opened. No sound issued forth, nor any hint of breath. Lips curved, shaping words Eduin knew intimately as the palm of his own hand.

  The evil of the Hasturs and their Ridenow defender goes unavenged . . . You swore . . . You swore . . .

  Eduin willed himself to deafness. Yet he could not bring himself to turn away or lift an arm to cover his eyes.

  As Rumail continued speaking, his features became sterner, more adamant. Eduin remembered those expressions all too painfully. His father had rarely seemed otherwise. It was not until he came to Arilinn that he knew adult men were capable of gentleness or encouragement. The first time his Keeper had spoken kindly to him, his response had been incredulity. Many seasons had passed before he realized that Auster spoke in that manner to all the young students, that he cared for them and wanted them to succeed.

  Go away, old fool! Eduin thought angrily. I’ve had enough of your criticism! You’re dead now. You have no hold over me.

  No hold but the snare in his own mind . . .

  But not for long!

  Eduin hauled himself to his feet and turned his back on his father’s ghost. The phantasm appeared in front of him. He dodged this way and that, spinning around. No matter which way he looked, the same visage confronted him, the mouth moved in silent phrases that echoed down the corridors of his memory.

  Failed me . . . You swore . . . Revenge . . .

  K-k-kill!

  He felt a tug inside his own thought-body, like a tether at its length. In a moment of terror, he looked down at his hands, expecting
to see pale unbreakable shackles linking him to the specter. It did not matter that they were invisible, even in this eerie realm of the mind.

  I will never be free of him, and when I die, I will spend eternity like this.

  “Curse you!” he screamed. The syllables resonated from one horizon to the other. “Curse you to Zandru’s Seventh Frozen Hell for what you have done to me!”

  Perhaps the mouth paused in its relentless litany, or the fierce light in the ghostly eyes abated. He still had some power, then, if not over the shade of his dead father, then over his own fate.

  He would not die. He would refuse to remain here, chained forever to this specter of mindless vengeance. He would live, and out of that life, carve out his own triumph.

  When Eduin opened his eyes again, the room was very much as he had last seen it. He might have hovered in the twilight of the Overworld for a day, an hour, a heartbeat. Hunger cramped his belly. The smell of freshly baked bread hung in the air. Tracing it, he found that a tray with a simple breakfast, still warm to the touch, had been left in the central sitting room.

  The bread was fine and soft, the cheese creamy, the jaco pleasantly bitter. Eduin ate it all, using bits of bread to mop up the traces of cheese from the plate. Gazing into the jaco dregs, he considered his next step.

  Try as he might, he saw no way of continuing on here at Kirella without Saravio. He had failed to kill Varzil at Hali Lake. This time, he would not depend upon the vagaries of chance and an enraged mob. He needed solid resources—trained soldiers, aircars, laran weaponry. What Kirella lacked, Valeron, the seat of the entire clan, would supply.

  He needed a way to insinuate himself into Lord Brynon’s confidence. For that, he needed control over the heir, Romilla.

  And for that, Saravio.

  There was no help for it. He knew what he must do next, and though the idea repelled him, he steeled himself to it.

  He must enter into Saravio’s sleeping mind, establish control, and drag him back into the waking world.