The Children of Kings

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Gareth flushed, waiting for the inevitable ridicule. The laughter, when it came, was good-humored, inviting him to share in the joke. He grinned sheepishly at his own clumsiness.

  Rakhal nudged the speckled roan close enough to grab the mare’s reins. “Try it with both hands.”

  Gareth complied, this time achieving a measure of success. The final result might have been comical and not nearly as evenly tucked as the others, but at least it filtered out the worst of the dust. To his surprise, the onlookers called out their approval. Rakhal grinned and booted the roan back along the line, where one of the pack animals—the stripe-legged mule—was threatening to kick another.

  Past the outskirts of the city, the road wound through the small farms that supplied the markets of the city. A few farmers were loading their carts with the day’s harvest—leeks, cabbages, and spring greens. Gareth grinned and lifted his hand in greeting.

  By the time they stopped to water the animals at midday, Gareth was beginning to feel the effects of prolonged time in the saddle. In Thendara, he had occasion to ride for only short periods of time. He shifted in the saddle to ease a twinge in his lower back.

  Rakhal must have noticed, for the young apprentice brought his horse beside Gareth’s. “It will not slow us, should you walk for a time.”

  He thinks me weak, a soft-handed city lout.

  “I can ride.”

  The apprentice shrugged. “Any fool can stay on a horse the first day.” Then he turned the roan, kicked it into a trot, and went about his business.

  The road narrowed at each crossroad until it was little better than a trail. They passed fields of early barley, rippling in the morning breeze. The barley smelled sweet, like new-cut grass. Fields of grain gave way to orchards and then to rocky pasture. The undergrowth rustled with living things. Rabbit-horns flashed white-spotted rumps as they darted for shelter. Overhead, a hunting falcon hovered on the air currents.

  Now well into the hills, they encountered few other travelers beyond a caravan of pannier-laden mules and a metal trader with well-armed bodyguards. Near dusk, Cyrillon chose a spot well off the beaten track, where the grass was still lush. His men set about ordering the camp, digging latrine pits, placing the wagons, and setting picket lines for the horses.

  Gareth watched them, trying to prolong the time before he would have to dismount. The twinge in his back had slowly burgeoned into a creaking stiffness that sent spasms down his legs. The mare shifted, pulling at the bit. She wanted the grass and it was not kind to hold her here without good cause.

  Gritting his teeth, he kicked free of the stirrups, leaned over the pommel, slid his right leg over her back, and dropped to the ground. He caught his balance, leaning against the mare, and congratulated himself. A little stretching and his back would be fine. He slipped the reins over the mare’s head and almost let out a yelp. Some imp from Zandru’s coldest hell poked a dozen sharp needles into his knee joints. The next moment, he became aware of Rakhal smothering a grin. Gareth set his jaw, lifted his chest, and led the mare to the picket line. It was all he could do to take one step after another without wincing, but he managed it. If he had not taken Rakhal’s advice about the length of his stirrups, he might not have been able to walk at all. He did not want to think what tomorrow’s ride would be like. Still, moving about helped loosen his muscles. He managed to strip the mare’s tack, pick out her feet, and hobble her to graze with the others.

  The rest of the caravan was making ready for the night. Fires had been lit, and the smell of cooking food filled the encampment. Cyrillon waved from one of the fires, where his apprentice and his crew had gathered.

  Korllen, the bearded blond man, had prepared a stew of dried meat and fruit over boiled grain, pan bread, and honeyed nuts. Gareth’s belly melted at the sight. He lowered himself to an empty place in the circle. The boy, Alric, smiled shyly.

  Besides the usual jaco, the cook had also brewed a pot of something hot and astringent smelling. He held out a pottery mug and indicated that Gareth was to drink it. The infusion was hot enough to scald, but Gareth managed a sip. It tasted much worse than it smelled. Korllen gave an encouraging nod. Another sip, and a fiery tingle spread across Gareth’s mouth. The taste reminded him of vinegar and ashes. He grimaced and set the mug down.

  “That’s not a wise idea.” Rakhal spoke up from the other side of Alric. “If you think it tastes bad now, it’s ten times worse if you let it cool.”

  Korllen grunted and turned his attention back to the cook pot, as if to say he’d done what he could, and if Gareth was fool enough to refuse the drink, he was not responsible for the consequences.

  You wanted adventure, Gareth told himself. Well, here’s yet another thing you’ve never done before.

  He blew across the steaming surface, as much to gather his nerve as to cool it, and then took as big a mouthful as he could. Warmth shot down his gullet, at first bordering on pain but quickly fading. Heartened, he downed another mouthful. Either his taste buds had gone numb or the stuff wasn’t so bad. A sense of well-being seeped through him. His muscles no longer ached. He hadn’t tasted any alcohol in the drink, but he felt the same sort of relaxation and cordiality as from several goblets of wine. When Korllen served up the stew, he accepted his portion with an emotion that bordered on delight. How delicious it was, how fascinating the texture of each component. He could not recall any meal at the Castle, even at the Regent’s table at the Midwinter Festival banquet, tasting so good. Across the fire, Cyrillon nodded to him and then turned back to his conversation with one of his men, something about the horses that pulled the wagon.

  After the meal, Tomas and Korllen went off by themselves. To gamble, Gareth suspected. Cyrillon called for songs, accompanied by Rakhal’s reed flute. Gareth had never heard some of them before. He suspected they were either very old or came from deep in the deserts beyond Shainsa.

  Midway through the singing, Gareth came back to his normal senses. He still felt relaxed but clearheaded. The warmth had settled in his tendons and joints. He suspected he would sleep well and awaken with far less stiffness than he’d otherwise suffer. The potion, whatever it was, had been kindly bestowed.

  It was now full night. As the earth exhaled the last of the day’s warmth, a chill sifted down from the sky. Of the four moons, only blue-green Kyrrdis shimmered from the swath of milky stars. The fires were dying. An occasional lick of flame rose from the glowing coals, each one smaller and briefer.

  Gareth glanced around the encampment, what he could see of it in the encroaching darkness. Rakhal, Alric, and the others had gone off to bed. Only Gareth and Cyrillon and one of the drovers remained. A feeling rose up in Gareth, one he had never experienced in his life within the walls of Thendara.

  The world was vaster and more vivid than he had ever dreamed. Somewhere out there in the dark, wolves howled in the wild lands beyond the Kadarin River. Banshees haunted the passes of the Hellers. Catmen prowled. Perhaps, in the farthest hidden forests, chieri danced beneath the single moon. Across the arid sands, oudrakhi moved like silent, lumbering behemoths. Men with strangely cut blades fought duels of honor. Veiled women watched from behind screens carved from rare and fragrant woods. He wanted to see it all, taste it all, dance beneath the moon and hear the secrets whispered in the perfumed night.

  6

  Linnea Storn shut the door to her sitting room, leaned her back against the smooth wood, and closed her eyes. Her muscles ached from the hours of forced inactivity during the night’s work, and her spine felt as if it had turned to glass. She rarely felt her age so keenly. The past winter had seemed longer and its dampness more penetrating than she could remember. A thought hovered at the back of her mind, a truth she was not yet ready to face, the first intimations of her limits as a Keeper. Her mind might be as clear and her laran as powerful as ever, but her body would eventually force her to retire or risk the lives and sanity of the leroni of h
er circle. To gather the focused psychic energies of the men and women, to weave them into a unity and then direct it as she chose required not only skill and concentration but physical stamina as well.

  At least, she would leave a capable, experienced Keeper in her place. If the gods were kind, she might have time to begin training another.

  One of the novices had lit a fire, still brightly flickering, and left a tray with a pitcher of jaco and a plate of honeyed nuts and the dry cheese she favored. Linnea had already eaten enough to take the edge off her laran-fueled hunger, and the smell of the food turned her stomach. Even the comforts of the room, the elegant hearth, the mantel with a carved box of her favorite biscuits and one of beeswax candles, the pair of cushioned chairs sized for a woman’s small frame, the footstool and basket of knitting within easy reach, failed to soothe her.

  In truth, she could not blame the weather or the years for her current fatigue. These last two nights, she had overworked deliberately, using the discipline of the matrix circle to keep from thinking about Gareth.

  Had she been foolishly indulgent to let him go? The world held a litany of dangers—bandits and mudslides, falls and scorpion-ants. Carthon lay at the edge of the Dry Towns, and those fierce people had never been on amicable terms with the Domains. The men were said to be fanatic in defense of their kihar, their prestige, and as quick to engage in a duel as to blink an eye. Anything could happen there, especially to a young man accustomed to privilege—

  Don’t think it.

  She pushed herself away from the door and went to the window. Half the sky had turned to light, or so it seemed.

  And half remains in darkness.

  What a maudlin mood! And at my age! She rubbed her arms through the layers of her knitted shawl.

  Gareth was not much different from any other young nobleman of his time. He was a product of the ancient traditions of the Comyn—and the Elhalyn, at that!—and the society that had been changed forever by the starfaring Terranan. He’d said he would travel with a man trusted by Danilo. Was that the way someone truly feckless behaved? Was Gareth any less prepared to venture forth than Domenic had been, running away with the Travelers? Or Regis—

  Ah, beloved! You dreamed of the stars but never left this one planet. Such was the price of your honor.

  She and Danilo had laid to rest the frictions and jealousies born of loving the same person. Once she had resented him because he was the focus of her husband’s heart. Their shared grief had done much to soften the distance between them.

  Linnea roused. She could not admit a man, even her dead husband’s lover, to her quarters while wearing her Keeper’s robes. Rubbing the back of her neck, she dropped the shawl over the arm of a chair and went into her bedchamber. Here she changed into an ordinary gown, the old green wool she’d brought from High Windward so many years ago. Within a few moments, she felt less chilled. She wrapped herself in the shawl again and stood in front of the hearth, soaking up the warmth of the fire.

  Gareth said Danilo knew this man, this guide . . . Then Danilo would be able to set her fears to rest. Some of them, at any rate.

  She straightened at a tap on the door. “Come.”

  The door swung open, but it was not Danilo who entered. It was Illona Rider, Linnea’s under-Keeper. Linnea had not seen her for some days as the younger woman had taken a brief rest from circle work. Illona wore a knee-length tunic over a long-sleeved gown, the sort of warm, comfortable clothing favored by mountain women, for she had originally trained at Nevarsin Tower in the Hellers. A butterfly clasp of copper filigree bound her hair in a coil on the back of her neck. A few silky tendrils framed her face.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, mentally catching Linnea’s quickly masked surprise. A delicate flush suffused her cheeks. She looked younger than her years. “Am I intruding? Were you expecting someone else?”

  “I was, but that does not mean you are unwelcome. Please sit down.”

  Illona glanced at the indicated chair and shook her head. She clasped her hands, then unclasped them. Linnea had never seen her so uncertain. Illona was one of the most self-confident young women she knew.

  Concerned now, Linnea reached out with her mind. Despite Illona’s evident anxiety, nothing of her inner state leaked through her laran barriers. Whatever she had to say, she intended to speak it aloud.

  “Very well.” Linnea drew herself up and composed her features. “Do you come before me now as one woman to another or as a leronis to her Keeper?”

  “Both.” Illona’s voice did not carry the artificial brittleness of an effort to mask inner agitation. “I have just come from Michala,” she went on, referring to the senior of the two monitors, on loan from Dalereuth Tower until Raynelle was experienced enough to work on her own, “and she confirms what I myself suspected.”

  Illona drew in a breath. “I am pregnant.”

  “Oh, my dear!” The words burst from Linnea before she could sort the rush and tangle of her own feelings. Any child was to be treasured—a son or daughter from two powerful telepaths to strengthen the ranks of the Gifted—the risk to the unborn babe from matrix-circle work!—what Illona must now give up, her work, her independence—a flood of memories. . . .

  . . . Regis saying, when they first met and she had, in a moment of compassion, offered to give him children after two of his own had been lost to assassins—“There are so few of you now, who can work the matrix relays. How can I put out more of the lights of our world?” So she had chosen, first the demanding work that only she could perform, then to set it aside to bear and raise his children, and now a second life, one that was hers alone. But Illona still faced those choices.

  Does Domenic know?

  “Not yet. I came to you first.”

  “Oh, my dear!” There seemed to be nothing else she could say. The two women fell into an embrace, laughing and sobbing at once.

  Linnea sighed. “I will miss you greatly.”

  Illona drew back, facing Linnea with her usual practical expression. “I have not yet decided on all the details—I must speak with Domenic first—but I have no intention of going anywhere.”

  Surely Illona understood why she could not continue to do matrix work. Every student learned the principles of monitoring the pathways of psychic energy in the body. The same channels that carried laran also carried sexual energy, flowing through nodes along the spine, the heart, and the reproductive organs. For this reason, puberty was often a dangerous time for a young telepath, as sexual feelings and psychic Gifts awoke, threatening to overload the energon channels. Linnea herself had suffered only a few transient bouts of disorientation and nausea, but Regis had almost died of threshold sickness.

  A pregnant woman risked not only her own health but the life of her child . . .

  “As your Keeper,” Linnea declared, “I cannot allow you to work in the circle.”

  “Of course.” Illona glanced down at her belly, still flat beneath her loose tunic and gown. “But I will not be an invalid. I can still work. We always have more applicants to the Tower than we can accommodate. I thought to use my skills in teaching until the babe is born.”

  “Sit.” Linnea indicated the nearest chair with a flicker of her gaze. Illona responded to the Keeper’s authority in the gesture, seating herself immediately and folding her hands into the posture of a student.

  “I understand your desire to keep working,” Linnea said, schooling a note of kindness into her voice. “Truly I do. I have stood at this same crossroads myself. I was very young when I met Regis, but already I was performing a Keeper’s duties. I was doing what almost no one else could, and the fate of our world depended on that work. It was dangerous, for the World Wreckers had targeted telepaths. Such a risk I was glad—eager, almost—to face. So I recognize, more keenly than you can imagine, the choices that come to all of us in the Towers.”

  Illona, who had been listening
attentively, now stirred. “I’ve grown up with stories of that terrible time, of poisonings and killings arranged to look like accidents, women dying in childbirth and the midwives murdered before they could speak. And—” here her voice faltered “—infants slaughtered in their cradles. However, those times are past. The Federation is gone. Who knows if they’ll ever return? If they do, we’ll be ready for them. That’s why training as many Gifted young people as possible is so important.”

  “Yes, it is,” Linnea agreed. “I was not referring then to any external threat. You are quite right, these are peaceful days. Evanda has blessed us with time to recover our numbers and deepen our knowledge. No, I meant that we as women have always faced difficult choices. The departure of the Federation may have resolved some problems . . . but not all.”

  Illona lifted her chin.

  “A pregnant leronis is responsible not only for her own health but the welfare of her unborn child,” Linnea said.

  “I know that! I’m neither ignorant nor stupid. That’s why I want to teach!”

  She’s off-balance, or she would see the truth for herself, Linnea thought with a rush of compassion. “Teaching carries its own responsibilities. You could teach for an hour, a day, even years without incident. But nothing is certain in this world except birth and next year’s snows. Even the most talented student can lose control, and you as her teacher must be prepared to protect her and everyone else in the Tower. Do you understand me? In a Tower, a teacher does more than lecture. Our strength makes it possible for those in our care to stretch, to fly . . . and, occasionally, to fall, knowing that we are there to catch them. If such a thing were to happen . . .”