The Children of Kings

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “That is a question parents have been asking since the beginning of time,” Linnea said. “We want to keep our children safe, and yet we want them to become men and women of conviction.”

  “I wanted to raise my children to think for themselves,” Marguerida had once said, “and now it is too late to change my mind.”

  “I wish it were as simple as a youthful escapade,” Dani said. “There is more at stake here than a youngster’s adventure.”

  Linnea frowned. Her work as a Keeper kept her isolated from the daily politics of the court. Usually she preferred it that way. “What’s going on?”

  “I have reason to believe the Council is going to force the issue of Gareth’s regency. I’d hoped to put it off for a season or two.”

  “Gareth’s regency? Must anything be done? Surely, Mikhail is more than competent.”

  “Aye, that he is.” Dani’s eyes glinted very much like his father’s, and Linnea reminded herself that he had grown up surrounded by schemes and alliances. “Half the Council would like his position to be permanent, and the other half want him replaced with someone they can manipulate.”

  “Gareth,” Linnea said, unnecessarily.

  “If not him,” Dani said grimly, “then Derek.”

  “Derek? Surely not, he’s too young.” That was, Linnea corrected herself, the point. Derek had all the makings of a strong Warden of Elhalyn, but he had never trained for kingship. Did he even want the throne?

  Mikhail was not Regis, or even Danvan Hastur, but in his own way, he was a true statesman, steady and yet imaginative. His judgment had always been sound, and he had been ably advised by his off-world wife. It would be a criminal act to reject his skills.

  Gareth . . . Gareth was still unproven. In the time they had worked together in intimate telepathic contact, Linnea had detected in him flashes of passion, of vision and courage, of the same sense of responsibility and self-sacrifice that had driven Regis. What Gareth lacked was time to fully develop those qualities.

  If Gareth were declared permanently incompetent, then the Council risked deadlock between Mikhail’s partisans and those determined to have a puppet under their collective thumbs. In the end, Darkover might lose not only Mikhail and both Gareth and Derek, but Mikhail’s very promising son, Domenic, as well.

  The struggle could go on for years, draining precious resources and leaving the Comyn divided and vulnerable.

  “When kinsmen quarrel, enemies step in.”

  Linnea was not without influence, as Keeper of Comyn Tower and a member of the Keepers’ Council. She would not allow her grandsons to be sacrificed to any man’s lust for power.

  “I thank you, both of you, for coming to me with this,” she said. “We still have time to make plans before the season begins. I will speak with the other Keepers, with Danilo Syrtis, and a few of the others. There is no pressing reason to abandon a Regency that is working so well. We are not so many that we can afford to exclude any member of our caste.”

  Dani and Miralys took their leave after agreeing to arrange a family breakfast in two days’ time. After they had gone, Linnea returned to her private quarters. She intended to meditate, quieting her mind and gathering her energy for the arduous work ahead. Like a sleepwalker, she went through the motions of preparation. Miralys’s words, “There are so few of us,” haunted her.

  She drifted through her chambers, touching those few possessions she had brought with her from her life with Regis: a carved box with hinged lid in which she kept the butterfly clasp for her hair, a pottery cup, an old shawl. Each carried the distant imprint of his hand, offering her the box as a Midsummer gift, unclasping her hair and burying his face in it, sharing hot spiced wine on a blustery winter evening, wrapping both of them in the shawl.

  Gareth was her student, her grandson, full of promise and tumult. But he was especially precious because the blood in his veins had come from Regis as well as herself.

  “There are so few of us.”

  Linnea thought of the other children Regis had fathered, especially the daughter they had created together on a night of wild celebration. For too long, she had left those memories undisturbed. She had waited long enough.

  Linnea’s only lead to the fate of her daughter was Danilo’s suggestion that Regis might have confided in Lew Alton. Lew had retreated to the monastery at Nevarsin, where he had found a measure of peace after a lifetime of torment. No one, least of all Linnea, expected that he would ever leave his sanctuary. He had survived two seizures of the heart, each one leaving him more frail. Linnea doubted he was strong enough to endure the mountainous roads to Thendara. Nor could she make the journey to Nevarsin, now that Illona was unable to perform an under-Keeper’s work.

  When Comyn Tower was reestablished several years ago, the relay chamber had been put to use again, making it possible to send telepathic messages to the other Towers. The relays, great matrix screens that were far more powerful than any individual starstone, amplified the laran transmissions over the leagues. Linnea still took her turn at the relays when her duties permitted, partly because Comyn Tower was still under-strength, but also for the sheer joy of speaking mind to mind.

  The young worker serving this night looked up in surprise as Linnea entered the chamber. Brunina Alazar was fairly new to Thendara, having been discovered by Danilo Syrtis on one of his trips through the Venza Hills. Linnea had thought she might be one of Kennard Dyan’s many illegitimate children, and hence kinswoman to Illona Rider, but Illona said not.

  Brunina scrambled to her feet, almost oversetting the padded bench, and curtsied. “Vai leronis! I’m sorry—I wasn’t expecting you!”

  “Be at your ease, child. I’m not here to interrogate you. Illona says your work is excellent, and so I believe. What’s the news this evening?”

  Brunina handed her the logbook, with the most recent messages written out in her careful script. Most of them had to do with the upcoming session, matters to be discussed in the Keepers’ Council, plus a few personal notes for the Tower staff. Linnea nodded. “This is very good. Do you enjoy this work?”

  “Oh, yes!” Brunina’s eyes shone. “It’s like magic—to hear the voices of people I’ve never seen, from so far away, just as if they were in the same room!”

  “I’ve always felt that way, too. Now I have some private business to conduct, and you have earned a rest. Go down to the kitchen and get yourself something to eat.”

  With a smile and another curtsy, the girl scooped up her shawl and fairly danced out the door.

  Was I ever that young? Linnea settled herself on the bench, assuming a posture that would allow her to work, undistracted by tension, for hours. With her mind, she made a few small adjustments to the relay screens; they had been attuned in a general way, so that any Tower worker could use them, but Linnea wanted the relay as responsive to her own thoughts as possible.

  She focused her mind, setting aside all other thoughts except the lattice of linked matrix stones before her. When she closed her eyes, the pattern of brightness remained, a constellation she could feel as well as see. With practiced ease, she lifted her consciousness into that firmament. It was, as always, like immersing herself in an ocean of living light, connected to it from the depths of her being.

  When she had reached the moment of perfect balance, she began to shape the laran energies, to hold in her mind a target.

  Nevarsin . . . she called.

  Linnea had visited Nevarsin with Regis, for he had studied at the monastery school, and the cristoforos there kept priceless records of many things. Now she pictured it in her mind, an ancient city built into the side of the mountain as if drawing its substance from the bones of the earth. Above it, set like a rough-edged gem at the edge of the never-melting glacier, rose the gray walls of the monastery itself. It was a hard place, a lonely place, a place to strip a man’s soul bare. Why would anyone, let alone a tortur
ed old man, choose such a refuge?

  And yet, when Lew had returned to Thendara to help deal with the Trailmen’s Fever, she had sensed a peace in him that she had no words for, not even in the wordless ecstasy of the circle.

  Nevarsin . . .

  Who calls? The mental voice had a distinctly masculine flavor. Linnea did not know him, but that was not surprising. Nevarsin was the most isolated of all the Towers. When the Keepers’ Council had been only an idea in discussion, Nevarsin had sent but a sole delegate, Illona Rider. Illona had remained in Thendara, as under-Keeper to the newly reopened Comyn Tower and as Domenic Alton’s consort. No other representative from Nevarsin had ever attended the Council meetings. The Keepers of other Towers attended one or another of the gatherings, but not Nevarsin. Even relay contact had been infrequent.

  Who calls?

  Comyn Tower, Linnea replied.

  From Thendara, so far? Is aught amiss? The contact faltered as the Nevarsin worker recognized the characteristic mental signature of a Keeper. Your pardon, vai leronis. I am Anndra MacDiarmid, matrix mechanic. How may I serve you?

  I wish to speak with Dom Lewis-Kennard Alton, at the monastery. Please arrange for him to have access to the relay screens.

  Confusion tinged the pause that followed. Linnea sensed Anndra searching for a polite way to refuse. That in itself was odd. Her request was not beyond the customary courtesy extended between Towers. Lew might not be a member of the Nevarsin circle, but he was no stranger to matrix science, having trained at Arilinn. Even if he were out of practice, he should have no difficulty in understanding her question and sending a simple yes-or-no answer. If he did not know where Regis had hidden Kierestelli, then that would be the end of the conversation. If he did but could not explain, then she must find a way to travel the long miles to Nevarsin.

  Had something happened to Lew? She drew in her breath, dreading the answer. He was old, worn beyond his years, and the climate of Nevarsin was harsh even in the mildest seasons.

  Dom Lewis is still alive, and as far as I know, in as good health as any man of his age, Anndra hastened to say. Linked as they were, her instant of fear had been clear to him. But he is in contemplative seclusion at this time, and we cannot ask the Father Master to make an exception.

  No, of course not. The balance of power between monastery and Tower must be as delicately nuanced as that between the various parts of the Darkover Council. Nevarsin’s own Keeper was in a far better position to negotiate.

  Then I would speak with your Keeper. Linnea searched her memory for the woman’s name and realized how little she knew about the Nevarsin Keeper.

  What was her name—Solana? Silvana? Silvestra?

  Vai leronis, I wish I could help you. The poor man sounded frantic with apology. Is there no one else who will serve or any information I myself might supply?

  It was not, after all, Anndra’s fault that he could not help her, and he was clearly doing the best he could.

  I fear that is not possible. I’m sorry to put you in a difficult position by asking you to carry my request to your Keeper—Silvestra?

  Silvana. But she does not communicate with anyone outside.

  Anyone? Ever? Even in the larger Towers, the society was confined. The intensity of the work necessitated both mental and physical recreation. Who could work in such demanding intimacy with the same small circle, tenday after tenday, year after year? Surely even the most reclusive Keeper must long to visit her family or those friends who had gone to serve at other Towers.

  Linnea sent a pulse of mental pressure through the relays. Nevarsin’s Keeper might well refuse her cooperation, but she would have to do it herself, not through a subordinate.

  As the vai leronis wishes, Anndra relented.

  Linnea sensed a shifting in the energetic patterns of the far end of the relay as Anndra withdrew. She settled in to wait, sustained by the currents in the psychic firmament. Now, as always, she felt as if she were dissolving, not a loss of self but a softening of the boundaries between her separate personality and the universe. Of all the miraculous gifts of her laran, this was the most profound, and the one for which she had the fewest words.

  Time passed, and there came a stirring on the far end of the relay, a condensation of mental power. A trained mind now joined with hers, and not that of any ordinary leronis but a Keeper like herself.

  Silvana of Nevarsin Tower? Linnea of Comyn Tower greets you.

  For an excruciating moment, silence answered her. Through the intricate facets of the matrix screen, she sensed the Nevarsin Keeper’s mind, the structured discipline, the barriers of self-imposed isolation . . . old fear . . .

  Then came a blast of incredulity and fury.

  Mother?!

  Amazement swept through Linnea. Kierestelli?

  She felt the recoil covering the long-distant echoes of familiarity, of yearning.

  I am Silvana, Keeper of Nevarsin. I do not grant you or anyone else permission to call me by any other name.

  Stelli, I had no idea—I looked for you for so long! I’d almost given up hope. That’s why I wanted to speak with Lew Alton. I thought—I hoped—Regis might have confided in him where he’d hidden you. And here you are, after all these years!

  Linnea forced herself to slow the torrent of her thoughts. She had been battering her daughter with her overwhelming joy. Her heart was so full, she could not have spoken aloud.

  My sweet daughter, forgive my outburst. I am overjoyed to find you. When can we meet? Shall I travel to Nevarsin—or will you come to Thendara?

  Silvana’s reply came slowly, edged like steel. I have no intention of leaving my Tower, nor are you welcome here.

  Not welcome? Linnea reeled. Surely she must have misunderstood. How could that happen when one mind spoke to another, when no deception was possible?

  She tried to deepen the rapport below the level of deliberate thought, plumbing for the truth that underlay those harsh words. She found anger . . . bitterness . . . abandonment . . . grief. In the far dim past, she sensed a child’s disconsolate tears.

  He said he would come back for me, but he never did. He left me . . . he left me . . . You never wanted me, you never cared . . . so why should I care now?

  Oh, my darling!

  Never call me that!

  Linnea flinched as if she had been physically struck. With a Keeper’s discipline, she calmed the rush of sorrow and guilt, the reflexive denial, the bone-grinding fury at those who had created the need to rip a child from her family in order to safeguard her life.

  Cautiously she formed a response, opening her own heartache first at the separation, then at the realization that no matter how many times Regis searched, he never found her.

  The situation was so dangerous . . . your father’s enemies had already kidnapped your cousin Ariel. If they’d taken you . . . if they’d harmed you . . . We had to make sure you were safe!

  He left me there.

  Ah, such bleakness in those few words.

  He tried to find you, once it was over. Blessed Cassilda, how he tried!

  Linnea felt a wavering in her daughter’s animosity. Perhaps she, too, had faced difficult choices, impossible decisions. Almost, she could sense acknowledgment in the ripples of Kierestelli’s anger.

  Had it been so terrible, the place Regis had taken her? Linnea could not believe he would entrust his own child to anyone who would not cherish her as he had.

  Linnea’s chest ached. She could not feel her heart, only the throbbing emptiness where it had dissolved. She wanted to plead, Come back to me! but could not bring herself to break the gossamer moment.

  Something lay between them, besides distance and outrage. Kierestelli—no, Silvana, as her daughter had renamed herself—had revealed her loneliness, her longing. It was a gift too precious to presume upon.

  More might come, the slow acc
retion of such moments of honesty, of confiding, of guarded revelation. Linnea had rebuilt her life with Regis in such a fashion, minutes and tendays and then years of intimacy. Once she and her daughter had been so close, they might have mirrored one another’s souls. Perhaps they might find their way back to one another, for she must be as strange to Silvana as this distant, angry woman was to her. Linnea realized that she could not, must not force the natural course of healing. This bridge must be rebuilt from both shores, and she was old enough to have learned patience.

  Still, a feeling akin to grief passed through her. Regis was years dead, and Gareth gone off to the Dry Towns, risking things she could not acknowledge, and now Kierestelli—no! Silvana!—whose memory she had tucked into the farthest crevices of memory and dream, was now both found and lost again. How could one human heart endure so much loss?

  I have made a life for myself, Silvana was saying, restless now and clearly eager to bring the interview to a close. I have no desire to trade on my father’s name or station in life. You have no claim on me, for you sent me away and did not care to find me after the danger had passed.

  You were always in my heart.

  That is as it may be, but it buys no bread. I warn you, Mother, do not attempt to force yourself upon me again. Now that you know where I am, I cannot unmake that knowledge. But we have nothing further to say to one another.

  14

  Gareth reeled back into the shadows, heart racing. He racked his brain for anything he could do to prevent Lord Dayan from learning the truth of the rumors. He certainly could not storm into the Great House, demanding to see the man who had just been brought in. If he tried, he’d be lucky to survive five minutes, let alone to conduct his informant to safety.

  Behind him, something moved in the shadows. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Before he could draw it, slim fingers closed around his arm. A voice hissed for him to hold still.