The Children of Kings

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Cut you a deal, nice young man like you, I will.”

  Gareth’s gorge rose at the unsavory smell arising from the man, but he smoothed his features into the insipid blandness he affected at court. “I’m not sure,” he said with a little careless laugh of the sort that usually resulted in nothing he said being taken seriously. “I might want something suitable for travel.”

  “Up or down?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  The man sighed. “Mountains or Dry Towns? Do you want a beast that can climb like a goat or wade through the sand?”

  Dry Towns . . . I could buy a horse fit for desert travel . . . I could disappear . . .

  Images swept through Gareth’s mind. He saw himself riding along a trail, leaving behind his life in Thendara. Out there, no one would know him. He could be whatever he made of himself.

  He’d never been allowed to travel beyond the borders of the Domains, not even as far as Carthon. The very name hinted of perfume-laden night breezes, veiled women, men with strange accents and curved swords, exotic food and music—the stuff of tales of daring and courage.

  He would need to be careful; like every other Comyn youth, he’d been brought up on stories of how treacherous the Dry Towns lords were. After the political machinations, the schemes and evasions and double-meanings of the Comyn courts, surely he knew how to handle himself.

  It would be a brief visit, just long enough to clear his head and settle his nerves. Who knew what he might find, even in a day or two? He saw himself striding into Danilo’s office, announcing, “I overheard you speaking with the trader from Carthon, so I decided to investigate. I discovered—” a dastardly plot by the Master of Shainsa or something equally spectacular, no doubt. In the next moment, he saw Danilo rising in astonishment and gratitude, and behind him, Mikhail and Domenic, Lady Marguerida and Gareth’s own parents. “Prince Gareth, your bravery and cunning have saved us all!”

  Getting a horse would be the easiest part. He’d need a disguise, a reason for his journey to Carthon. Maybe he could pose as a trader in small lenses or a buyer of whatever the Dry Towns had to sell—copper filigree jewelry? No, that would be too costly. Whatever he pretended to be interested in must not be worth the trouble of robbing him.

  He’d also need a reason to be gone from home, should his absence be noted. Narsin! The old retainer fussed if Gareth was out of his sight for an hour, let alone a tenday!

  The horse dealer was peering at him, perhaps calculating his next sales strategy. Gareth hardened his expression into disinterest. “I’ll just look around a bit.”

  “You don’t want to wait too long, young master,” the dealer wheedled. “The best stock’s already taken, ’cept for a few choice beasts I’ve set aside.”

  I’ll bet.

  “Then I’ll come back another day.” Without waiting for a response, Gareth turned and set off for another part of the horse market.

  3

  Gareth had not gone very far, no more than another row or two, when he recognized the man examining a dun mule. A youth held the lead lines of two sturdy horses the size of mountain ponies. He gestured in animated fashion with the older man, pointing to the mule’s off rear hoof. It was the Dry Towns trader who had met with Danilo and Domenic.

  Gareth froze in his tracks. A man leading a fractious, long-legged chestnut bumped into him, almost sending him spinning, and continued on with a curse at the idiocy of fools who got in the way. Gareth drew breath to demand an apology, but sense quenched his temper. Surely it was a good sign that he had been insulted and almost run down. No one here would dare to speak to him in that way if they’d realized who he was.

  Feeling more confident, Gareth straightened his cloak and approached the Carthon trader. The boy noticed him first, stiffening. The trader straightened up from examining one of the mule’s hooves.

  “A fair day to you, friend.” The trader’s expression was mild but reserved, without any hint of the horse dealer’s false affability.

  “It is indeed,” Gareth replied. “You look like a man who knows his way around horses.”

  “I have some skill with them, it’s true.”

  Gareth was about to protest that anyone who earned his living by trading between Carthon and Thendara must have more than some skill with the animals upon which his livelihood depended. He stopped himself as he realized that the man’s words amounted to reverse bragging.

  “I’m in need of dependable travel advice,” Gareth said. “It seems to be in short supply here.”

  The boy snorted and the trader looked amused. “What sort of advice?”

  “I am to arrange transport to Carthon. The person—my employer’s agent—who usually handles it is unavailable.” Even as the words left his mouth, a story spun itself out in Gareth’s imagination. The lens-seller pretext would work very well. Such articles were small, easily transported, and in demand. The Terrans had done much to improve the technology, especially for devices for detection of forest fires, but the scarcity of metal to construct proper furnaces still made the production of high-quality glass expensive. Growing up in a privileged family, Gareth had handled various kinds of lensed instruments. He owned a few such devices himself and could pretend to be showing them as samples.

  “What would you be transporting to Carthon?” The trader’s expression shifted to guarded interest.

  “Myself and a small pack. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry, being already behind my master’s schedule.” Gareth tried to sound anxious.

  “As it happens, I intend to depart the morning after next and can offer you the protection of my caravan. What’s your name and business?”

  Gareth stopped himself before he blurted out his real name. “Garrin. Garrin MacDanil.” That was close enough to Gareth son of Danilo to make it easy to remember. “I’m to carry trade samples for my master.”

  “Trade samples?” One sand-pale brow lifted.

  “Polished lenses.”

  “You speak with an unusually cultured accent for a merchant’s apprentice.”

  Gareth tried to imagine having to earn his bread, what sort of work he might do. Even though he’d trained with a sword since boyhood, he wasn’t qualified to be a bodyguard. He wasn’t well enough educated to teach or fluent enough to translate. In truth, he wasn’t much good for anything. Without his family’s rank and wealth, he’d be extremely lucky to get a position as a merchant’s apprentice.

  The trader, seeing Gareth’s confusion, dropped the matter and offered his own name with a bow. “Cyrillon Sensar, z’par servu.”

  After discussing the fee for joining the caravan and appointing a meeting place and time, Cyrillon agreed to help Gareth purchase a suitable mount. After sending the boy off with the horses and mule, he wandered through the picket lines of riding horses, pausing now and then to study one of the animals. Gareth knew enough about horses to understand that Cyrillon was evaluating their soundness. A keen eye could quickly discern the more serious faults, even without the precaution of picking up a hoof or estimating the age of the horse by the condition of its teeth.

  After some looking, Cyrillon recommended a mare with a glossy, dark brown coat and one white sock. She was of middling years, “old enough to have sense,” Cyrillon said, and was sturdy enough to carry Gareth easily. Her legs were strong and clean, and her hooves large and unusually hard. In addition, Cyrillon pointed out a second horse, a rusty black, to serve as a pack animal. Gareth thought it the ugliest horse he had ever seen, with its sway back, cow hocks, and ears so large it looked as if it were part rabbit-horn, but Cyrillon assured him that it was trailworthy. The dealer looked surprised that anyone was interested in buying it, so Gareth made a good bargain for the black as well as for its tack and a saddle for the mare.

  Gareth paid for both horses and arranged for them to be stabled in the area. He didn’t dare take them back to the little s
table attached to the town house for fear of arousing too many questions from Narsin.

  Whistling, Gareth strode back toward the town house. His scheme might have arisen in a moment’s impulse and the soul-sick disgust for his life in Thendara, but it was coming together as if Aldones himself had commanded it. If Cyrillon Sensar had any doubts about Gareth’s story, he’d kept them quiet. His apprentice wasn’t exactly friendly, but what did that matter?

  The sun had just passed midday, and the air was sweet and mild. He dropped his hood back over his shoulders and felt the warmth on his hair.

  His hair . . . When he was younger, it had been as fair as a Dry Towner’s. There might be some lady’s product to lighten its color, but he wasn’t sure if that would draw more or less attention to himself. As it was, he’d have enough to do—finding suitable clothing, packing the lenses, and laying a series of misdirections so his absence wouldn’t be noticed. He doubted anyone in the Castle would miss him, at least until his parents arrived. The real problem would be Narsin. By the time Gareth strode up to the town house, he’d worked out a plan.

  Narsin met him at the front entrance. The furrows between the old man’s brows were even deeper than usual. His lips tensed, as if he were about to accuse Gareth of deliberately being late.

  Gareth unclasped his cloak and shoved it at the old servant.

  A grin came easily. “Narsin! I’ve got wonderful news!”

  “Indeed, vai dom. And will you be wanting lunch?”

  Gareth sat down on the bench just inside the door for Narsin to ease off his boots, then shoved his feet into felt house slippers. He gave orders for hot spiced wine along with his meal. Narsin arranged it all with his usual efficiency. The old servant might be a disapproving nuisance, but he never let his opinions interfere with the excellence of his work.

  A fire warmed the smaller of the two parlors, where Gareth sank into the cushioned divan. The room seemed to enfold him with quiet and understated comfort. The furnishings, although beautifully constructed, had become slightly shabby with time and use. They probably dated back to the time of Danvan Hastur, who had been grandfather to Regis. Regis had refused to give up the town house, even when he had taken up quarters in the Castle. Gareth could understand why. Here there were no courtiers, no spying eyes. The house, especially this small parlor, felt lived in, a place where children might play before the fire, where parents might sit and talk after the children were abed. His own father had been born here . . .

  Gareth shoved a cushion behind his shoulders and rested his head against it. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine his father as a toddler sitting on his grandmother’s lap as she sang a ballad, perhaps one of the tales of Durraman’s donkey or the Golden Forest of the chieri. The room might remember, but now there was no laughter, no child’s delighted cries. No song. Just an empty, comfortable chamber. Gareth could not envision bringing any of the young Comynara to live here. Whoever he ended up with would insist on the Elhalyn quarters at the Castle and would doubtless spend the first years of the marriage in redecorating. The thought made him want to run away to Carthon and keep going.

  Narsin returned to stand quietly beside the door. Gareth opened his eyes slowly, as if there were no urgency in anything he had to say. He hated the notion of lying to a man who had served him and his family so well and so long.

  “I’m going away for a while, Narsin. I know it’s sudden, but something unexpected just came up. I should be back in time for Midsummer festivities, but in case my parents arrive early, I want you to carry a note for them. You deserve a chance to go home—I believe you have family at Elhalyn Castle?” He was talking too fast, he knew, half-hoping that if he rushed over the particulars of his absence, he wouldn’t have to explain further.

  Narsin didn’t question him directly. He was too good a servant for that. “When will you depart?”

  “The day after tomorrow. If you leave in the morning, I’ll be able to look after myself until then.”

  “My lord, is this wise?”

  “Oh!” Gareth propelled himself from the divan. “I’ll be in the best care, a man known to both Tío Danilo and Dom Domenic. That should be enough for even your demanding standards.” He strode to the desk in the corner. “Here, I’ll write the note right now. Well, get packing, man!”

  “My lord—”

  “Narsin, stop fretting. I’ll be as safe as if I’d stayed in the Castle.” He’d be safer than with the likes of Dom Octavien, that much was as certain as next winter’s snows.

  To Gareth’s surprise and relief, Narsin withdrew without further argument.

  Gareth scoured the library for every reference he could find on lenses. He learned the preparation of the different qualities of glass, the best types of sand for each purpose, and what minerals could be used to clarify or add color to the final product.

  Confident in his pose as a rich man’s son, Gareth went to interview the city’s few glassmakers. To his delight, an elderly guildsman offered to show him glassblowing, and he spent the rest of the afternoon struggling with one failure after another. At last, he managed to produce a single misshapen flask.

  “’Tis a fair first effort,” the glassmaker said. “If you will pardon my saying so, young sir, but if you had begun your training as early as my apprentices do, you might now have attained at least a journeyman’s skill. I intend no insult in saying so.”

  “No, why should any be taken?” Gareth said. “You are an honest man and a master at your craft. Here in your own workshop, surely you have the right to pass judgment.”

  The guildsman brought out various types of lenses, neatly arranged in padded carrying cases. With his advice, Gareth selected an assortment consistent with what a beginning trader might need. The outlay, modest though it was, would be expensive for anyone without the financial resources of a Comyn lord. Gareth did his best to convey the impression that he was putting his entire inheritance into the venture. He left with the agreement to pick up the merchandise upon payment. As he made his way back to his town house, the walls of Thendara did not press him as closely as they had before.

  Shadows lengthened across the streets and towers of the Old Town as Gareth approached the town house. Light glimmered from the windows. Even in Narsin’s absence, the household staff were efficient. He could expect a hot meal shortly.

  Humming, he stepped through the door held open by another servant, one of the younger maids, and handed her his cloak.

  “Vai dom, you are to go into the parlor,” she said in a breathless voice, “if you please.”

  “Indeed.” Not many people in Thendara had sufficient status to command the presence of an Elhalyn prince in his own home.

  He went into the parlor, the larger one this time. The door had been left ajar, revealing the glow of a well-started fire. His grandmother sat in one of the armchairs drawn up near the hearth. She wore a formal visiting gown, and her hair was braided and coiled around her head like a crown, a subtle reminder of her status as dowager to the former Regent, as well Comynara and Keeper in her own right. She was not smiling, nor was Narsin, standing at a respectful distance behind her, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Well, grandson, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”

  4

  I haven’t done anything yet.

  Gareth was far from blameless, and he knew it. He had followed Danilo and Domenic, which was improper enough without also having eavesdropped on their private conversation. Once he’d made his plan, he’d deceived Narsin, who had served his family with devotion and loyalty. None of these actions was worthy of the man he wished he were. In a wild moment, he wondered if he would have behaved so badly had he not felt so useless and confined. He did not know what was worse, his life in Thendara or the loss of the hope, however fleeting, of escape. Even now, the road to Carthon, bright with adventure, vanished beyond reach.

  “Nars
in, leave us,” Linnea’s voice interrupted his misery. Watching the old servant bow and withdraw, Gareth realized that his emotional state must have leaked through his psychic barriers.

  “Sit.” Linnea indicated the unoccupied chair.

  Gareth lowered himself into the seat and forced himself to meet his grandmother’s gaze.

  “I was concerned when you did not attend our scheduled session. Then Narsin came to me with a tale of how you’d ordered him home on some pretext. He fears for you, you know.” She clasped her hands on her lap, as if to hold them still. “As for myself, I had not realized how unhappy you were.”

  “It is not your fault.”

  “I did not say it was, only that as your teacher, if not your Keeper, I should have been aware.”

  Gareth looked away. How could she have helped, had she known? Could she have silenced the gossip, sorted the plots and schemes . . . given him something meaningful to do?

  After a long moment, she said, “You attempted to send Narsin away. Your thoughts are of escape. Will you not trust me with the reason?”

  Why not? He would never get away now. What little freedom he’d enjoyed would be snatched away. He’d be watched day and night, or else packed off to Elhalyn Castle like an unruly child.

  “Gareth, I cannot help if you will not trust me. You know I will not enter your mind without your free consent. I have taken a oath never to do that.”

  She might not force a confidence, but once he’d confessed, his shame would be public. She and Danilo were still very close. Illona Rider, her under-Keeper, would surely pass along the report to Domenic. Before Midsummer, Mikhail and Marguerida, and his parents as well, would know.

  One way or another, he must live with the humiliation. Perhaps it would be best to get it over with.