The Children of Kings

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  At last they reached the summit, a broad opening between two hummocks of wind-scoured rock. They paused to let the horses breathe. Before them, the hills fell away sharply into an expanse of rutted badlands, marked here and there with darker patches of vegetation.

  “That’s Kharsalla.” Rahelle pointed, and Gareth made out a cluster of buildings, much the same shade of tan as the earth, as well as livestock pens and a few swaths of green that must be irrigated garden plots.

  Before mounting up, Gareth glanced the way they had come, down the wrinkled, sloping hills to the seabed beyond. The slanting afternoon light tinted the land the color of blood-washed chalk.

  He froze, his breath catching in his throat. In the heat-blurred distance, billows of dust shot into the air. The dust obscured what created it, but Gareth did not need to make out the party of fast-moving riders. By his best guess, they were at least a day behind, and that was not nearly far enough. Rahelle, perhaps responding to his silent alarm, stepped to his side.

  “Will we have enough time?” he asked her.

  “At that pace, they’ll kill their horses before they reach the first watering-hole.” She sniffed. “Look at the dust trail. They’re headed south. They will bypass this village.”

  A handful of ragged herd-boys spotted them before they reached the outskirts of Kharsalla and accompanied them, whooping in delight at the arrival of strangers. By the time they passed the livestock pens, a half-dozen men and women had gathered to meet them, all chattering excitedly. Their lilting dialect was so oddly accented that Gareth comprehended only its general sense. The women wore bracelets and belts of brightly colored wool, tied by braided cords instead of the chains of city dwellers.

  The first concern of the villagers, after recognizing “Rakhal Sensar,” was that something might have befallen Korllen. Rahelle reassured them that he was well and prospering. The villager’s relief turned instantly to expressions of hospitality, with no further inquiry as to her business. Rahelle bowed to the headman, Rivoth, and presented Gareth as “a man of Carthon,” as if that explained any eccentricity on his part. The headman himself could not have been more than forty, but his skin was weathered, his hair the color of salt stone, and his eyes so pale as to be almost colorless.

  Within moments, Gareth and Rahelle were ushered through the village and into Rivoth’s hut. The women stayed outside along with the boys, who had taken upon themselves the care of the horses. From their chatter and the way they touched the horses, the animals would become pampered pets within a quarter of an hour.

  They settled on the dirt floor of the hut. The interior was dim and, by some trick of construction, surprisingly cool. Rivoth offered tea and smoke. Gareth did not need the sharp glance from Rahelle to know that it was unacceptable to refuse.

  In silence, the headman prepared the smoking apparatus on an ancient metal frame over a small fire. When the smoke was bubbling through the dingy glass bowl, he passed it to Gareth. Gareth bowed as deeply as his cross-legged position would allow, placed the mouthpiece between his lips, and inhaled as he had seen Cyrillon do. Hot, stinging smoke filled his lungs. An almost overpowering urge to cough seized him. At that moment, however, he remembered the exercises Grandmother Linnea had drilled him in, the repetitive deep breathing, the single-minded focus. He closed his throat around the smoke and counted heartbeats.

  Three . . . four . . .

  The urge to cough receded. The smoke flowed smoothly through him. His vision sharpened, and he felt his pulse reverberating through his skull. He exhaled, nodded, and returned the pipe to his host.

  The headman beamed in approval. He took another long drag and then removed the apparatus from its stand. Gareth gathered that this was a luxury to be enjoyed only upon special occasions and that the headman had honored him by it. He noticed that the headman did not include Rahelle; even as Cyrillon’s agent, Rakhal was a boy, not a privileged guest.

  One of the older women entered the hut and set down a wooden tray with two cups of dark, steaming liquid. She withdrew without a word. Rivoth gestured that Gareth should select a cup and then took the other. The infusion was pleasantly bitter but unexpectedly soothing along Gareth’s throat.

  For the next few minutes, no one said anything. The headman closed his eyes, a beatific expression on his face, clearly savoring the effects of the smoke. In his garbled-sounding dialect, the headman addressed Gareth, obliquely creating an opening for Gareth to state his business. Gareth paused, pondering how to begin. Until that moment, he had expected Rahelle to negotiate for a guide. She, or rather her father, was the one with ties to this small community. But apparently apprentices had insignificant stature compared to exotic strangers.

  “I am a lens merchant from Carthon.” Gareth tried to stick to the truth as much as he could. “I heard a story in Carthon—men seeing bright flashes, out by Black Ridge, you understand? Lens can be used this way?” He gestured using a lens to reflect sunlight.

  “Yes, yes!” The headman nodded vigorously. “Good sand to be found at Black Ridge! Good sand make good lens!”

  “Maybe so. Or it could mean nothing.” Gareth shrugged. “Others had heard this story, so I must find out the truth of it first.”

  “Ah.” Eyes bright as bits of steel glinted in the weathered face. “You need guide and fast road through sands?”

  “Yes, yes exactly!”

  “Fast road. Safe road.”

  The headman clapped his hands twice, and a young man ducked into the hut. Gareth recognized him from the crowd that had greeted them.

  “This Adahab, first son,” the headman said.

  Adahab touched the fingers of his right hand to belly, heart, and forehead. He listened solemnly while his father spoke, asked no questions, and offered no demurral. From his expression, he was being offered the highest honor in being chosen to guide the man of Carthon and Cyrillon’s apprentice wherever they might choose to go. He maintained his composure until Rivoth dismissed him, then he backed out of the hut. A moment later, Gareth heard his uplifted voice crying, “Tajari kihara! Emell-tajari kihara!” and did not need a translator to understand that the prestige of the young man and his entire family had just received an enormous boost.

  15

  At Rivoth’s insistence, they rested until sundown. The headman tried to offer them his own hut, but Gareth, seeing Rahelle shake her head, concocted an explanation that required them to remain with their horses. Within a short time, barely enough for Gareth to finish his excuses, the young people had constructed a shelter of sorts, open on two sides to admit the fitful breezes yet providing a modicum of shade. Their blankets had been unrolled at the other end, the gear stacked neatly at the foot of each. The horses were already tethered at one end and had clearly been watered and groomed. The mare’s coat gleamed, and every mote of sand and dust had been polished from her saddle and bridle, yet not a single article of tack had been misplaced. The saddlebags and blanket roll, even the case containing the lens samples, were exactly as Gareth had left them.

  Although he was sure he would not be able to sleep, Gareth stretched out on his blanket. The horses lipped at the few remaining kernels of the fodder that the children had laid down for them. A fly buzzed, and the mare snapped at her flank.

  Idly, he thought of the riders from Shainsa. Even now they might be pushing on toward Black Ridge. He should not indulge this lassitude. Too much was at stake.

  At his side, Rahelle murmured something and turned over without rousing. She was weary; he would let her sleep just a little longer.

  Beneath the blanket, the earth radiated heat like the bricks of an oven. It seeped, gentle and relentless, into Gareth’s muscles. His eyes closed. One of the horses blew softly through its nostrils, clearing the dust. In the distance, a baby cried until a woman began singing to comfort it.

  “Garrin.”

  He sat up so suddenly that his senses whirled for a s
ickening moment. His skin felt gritty with dust and dried sweat. But it was cooler than when he’d fallen asleep.

  Rahelle squatted, tying her blanket with deft movements. She flashed him a grin before carrying it to her saddled horse. The brown mare was loaded, ready to go except for the blanket on which Gareth lay. And Gareth himself.

  “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.” Grumbling, he got to his feet. A headache pulsed in one temple, and his mouth felt as if he’d been chewing on chalk.

  “Might as well,” she said. “We weren’t going anywhere. And there were appearances to maintain,” meaning that she, as a mere apprentice, would be expected to prepare everything.

  Outside, the crimson orb hung a hand’s width above the line of the western hills. The sky to the east bore a faint indigo cast. A vitality infused the village, the shouts of children at play, the lowing of hungry animals, the air redolent with the smells of onions frying, of grain simmered with garlic and dried meat, and something pungent as wine.

  It seemed the entire village had gathered to see them off. One of the older women held out a dish, pale wood polished to a sheen like an ocean shell, with thin pancakes wrapped around a mixture of shredded meat and eye-wateringly hot peppers. Following Rahelle’s example, Gareth ate his portion and licked his fingers to demonstrate his enjoyment. The woman blushed, bowed, and scurried away.

  Adahab had already saddled his own mount, a gray oudrakhi so gnarled and decrepit in appearance, it looked as if it could not walk from one end of the village to the other. He led a second beast on a rope halter, this one laden with cloth-wrapped bundles and leather sacks that bulged and sloshed.

  Gareth accepted the brown mare’s reins from the small, tousle-haired boy who looked up at him with wondering cerulean eyes. An impulse stirred, the kind of spontaneous urge to action he was beginning to trust. He untied the lens case. As he peered inside, it occurred to him that its contents represented more than the worth of the entire village and all its herds and pastures. He selected two lenses of moderate quality, suitable for simple telescopes, the sort that might be useful in a place as remote as this, and handed the case to Rahelle to secure once more to his saddle. She flashed him a smile.

  When Gareth placed the lenses in Rivoth’s hands, the older man stared at them. The children murmured among themselves. One or two ran to the women, who sent up a ripple of cries like birds penned and then set free all at once.

  Rivoth’s stillness made Gareth feel uneasy. Had he erred in the gift? Were the lenses too costly or too paltry? Had he in his ignorance presumed that these unsophisticated people would have the slightest notion what to do with the bits of polished glass? He had no way to tell.

  Yet Rahelle had smiled.

  At last the headman looked up. His eyes, that washed-out blue, seemed to have too much white in them. He lifted the lenses to his lips, his face once more falling into shadow. Then Gareth understood the magnitude of what he had given. The monetary value of the lenses was nothing compared to what they would bring to the life of the village—a way to see across distances, to receive advance warning of storms and raiders. A way to save precious lives.

  They set off in the twilight, a climb into the darkening hills and then a brief descent as crumbling earth gave way to sand. Adahab took the lead, as confident as if it were full day. The horses followed, stepping in the hollows made by the broad padded feet of the oudrakhi. Here and there, rocks jutted upward, dark jagged prominences against the paler sand. A fanciful notion seized Gareth, that they were treading a thin and treacherous crust over a vast range of mountains, of which only the highest peaks could be seen. At any moment, the crust might give way, and they would plunge to their deaths.

  He looked up, turning his face to the coolness of a stray breeze. A wash of multihued light, shading from mauve to silver, suffused the sky. As he watched, the light dimmed in the fall of night that had given Darkover its name. Piercing bright in the dry desert air, a thousand pinpoint stars flared. For an instant, Gareth saw them as individual stars, yet too numerous to count. Then they blurred into a vast milky veil. He understood intellectually that from Darkover’s position he was seeing the galactic arm side-on, but it seemed to him that the heavens teemed with light. Farther than any human eye could see, a thousand thousand suns filled the night with cold eternal fire. Even the two moons, one a slender crescent, could not outshine the mass of stars. The sight of them left him breathless. The stars glittered, but whether solely with their own light or as seen through his sudden tears, he could not tell. He thought, This will remain when I am dead.

  “Garrin?” came Rahelle’s voice, sweet as starlight.

  He tore his gaze from the glory overhead. “I’m well, just . . .” Where were the words to describe the moment of awe and humility? “. . . astonished.”

  “I, too, never tire of the night sky. In Carthon, there is too much moisture in the air to see it properly.” She was quiet for a moment.

  Around them, the glimmering sands stretched as far as Gareth could see. It muffled the sounds of the horses’ hooves.

  “I suppose that the gods did not want us to weary of such a gift,” Rahelle said, “so they set it out here, where only the most hardy men venture.”

  “Or the most desperate.” It was a facile comment, unworthy of the fading awe. “I might have lived my whole life without seeing it.”

  “Every land has its own beauty. I have seen only a little of yours, just Thendara and the road to Carthon.”

  She sounded wistful, and Gareth wondered what she longed to see: the never-melting glacial ice of the Hellers, the lush country around Lake Mariposa, the rich Plains of Valeron, the Temora sea coast, perhaps his own family’s home at Elhalyn Castle. He thought of all the places he had been and those he had never seen, and an unfamiliar pang shot through his breast.

  Let me take you there! Let us explore those places together! Why would he even think such a thing, let alone offer it to a woman who by her own admission faced no future beyond a marriage in chains? If he survived this adventure, his own destiny was perhaps more luxurious but no less confined.

  They continued at a pace the horses could sustain, more slowly than they had traveled on hard ground. Although Gareth discerned no landmarks, Adahab seemed to know exactly where he was going. Perhaps he used one or another of the constellations as guidance.

  The temperature fell, and Gareth and Rahelle wrapped themselves in their cloaks. In the lead, Adahab and his oudrakhis formed dark, ungainly silhouettes against the star-studded horizon. They trudged on in near silence except for the hiss of dislodged sand and the occasional snort of the horses clearing their nostrils.

  After some hours, Adahab halted in order to water the horses from the leather sacks. Gareth had not realized how thirsty he was until he smelled the water.

  “Drink,” Adahab urged. “We ride through the night. Sleep in the day.”

  Imperceptibly, the dimmer stars faded from the eastern sky until only the brightest remained. One of the smaller moons was setting. They had traveled all night through starlight and sand.

  Adahab brought the oudrakhi to a standstill in a valley formed by dunes to either side. The horses halted, their heads low. Gareth sagged in the saddle. Behind him, Rahelle said nothing. The light was strong enough now that Gareth could make out Adahab’s expression, the lift and tilt of his head, the quick flare of his nostrils as if casting for a scent. Gareth smelled nothing beyond dry air, dust, and the bodies of the animals. Then their guide gestured, pointing off to one side. They kept to the lowest route, and within a short time they emerged from between the wind-heaped dunes into a grove of lace-branched trees.

  Moist air swept through Gareth’s senses. A moment past, he had been surrounded by the rolling dunes, without any clue this little oasis existed. Tucked between the dunes, it would surely be hidden from anyone who did not know its location. A man might ride by and not realiz
e it was there.

  At the heart of the grove, shade pooled around a stone well that was so broken and weathered, Gareth could not guess its age. Off to one side sat a shrine of similar antiquity. Gareth was not surprised to see the eroded emblem of Nebran. On the sand before the altar lay a tattered ribbon, bleached colorless, wrapped around a few withered stalks.

  Adahab tapped the oudrakhi’s shoulder. When the great beast halted, grumbling a protest, he jumped lightly to the sand. He knelt before the shrine, touched his fingertips to his forehead, then to his lips and again to the emblem, leaving behind a smear of moisture. It was, Gareth realized, as much an act of faith as of reverence, faith that the precious water would be restored, that life would continue even through the most desperate times. Without thinking, he curled his fingers around the amulet Grandmother Linnea had given to him, the locket that enclosed the starstone that was like a second heart, the touchstone of his laran. Moved without understanding, he slipped from the mare’s saddle and repeated the ritual. When he straightened up, he saw Rahelle watching him intently.

  Adahab clapped Gareth on the shoulder. “Now we drink. Horses first, then men, then,” with a sniff, “oudrakhi.” By his tone, he implied that the ill-tempered beasts required regular reminders of their place in the world. “Then eat. Then sleep.”

  The water was cool and surprisingly good; the metallic edge added to its refreshing character. Gareth would have traded the finest firi imported from Vainwal for a single goblet from this well.

  The hypnotic peace of the night journey faded with the coming of full sun. After the animals had been tended, Gareth sat hunched over a cup of Rahelle’s foul-smelling brew. He could not shake the feeling that across the expanse of sand, catastrophe loomed ever nearer. He should be doing something . . . planning an ambush for Dayan’s men, figuring out exactly how he would locate the Federation agents and what he would say to them, how he would convince them not to have anything to do with the Dry Towns . . .