The Children of Kings

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Got it?” Poulos repeated.

  Gareth nodded.

  “Okay, kid. You’ve probably figured out this next part. I’ve got to get my people out of here. The shuttle won’t handle your added weight, and I can’t come back for you. Besides, I don’t think you want to go where we’re headed.”

  Gareth stared at him, unable to summon a response.

  “Look,” Poulos went on, “we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but you’re a good kid, so I’ll give you this: Get clear of this base but stay away from any place that has a space port. I know there’s one up toward the big mountain range. When the sharks catch up with the Castor Sector ships, they’ll like as not decide the rebels have set up a base there. The way things are going, they’ll bomb first and ask questions later.”

  Gareth rocked back on his heels, stunned. “But Darkover’s a Class D Closed World—”

  Poulos cut him off with a hard-eyed grimace. “All that talk means nothing any more. Nobody’s protecting anyone except themselves. Besides, half the ships with the old Fed ID are sharks.”

  “Sharks?”

  “Privateers. Arms runners like us but with a whole lot more firepower—planet-killing firepower—and no reason not to use it if it’ll get the job done. Most of ’em are just glorified pirates. They know, just like we did, there’s nothing worth looting here. But there is a hefty bonus for wiping out a rebel stronghold.”

  Poulos clapped Gareth on the shoulder. “So here’s to clear skies for both of us, kid. Now tell that dirtsider chief what I said and get yourself out of here.”

  Heart pounding, Gareth stumbled through the translation. Poulos lingered just long enough for Hayat to reach into one of the crates. Then he was gone, loping toward the shuttle.

  The sound of the engines built into the now-familiar roar, but the Dry Towns lord paid no attention. He stuck four or five blasters under his sash and bellowed, “Bring the pack animals! Saddle the horses!”

  Gareth raced back to the camp to deliver Hayat’s orders. He had to shout to make himself heard over the din of the shuttle’s take-off. “Lord Hayat says to hurry! Break camp! Ride for Shainsa!”

  The Dry Towners responded slowly. Clearly, they saw no reason for hurry. Rahelle was struggling to keep control of the horses, which hadn’t gotten accustomed to the noise or the winds, laden with coarse black dust.

  Gareth glanced back at the base, still bathed in alien yellow light. Already, the sound of the shuttle was becoming fainter, more distant. He didn’t know how much time remained or how wide an area Poulos meant to destroy.

  And the Feds, or whoever they were, pirates as Poulos said or proper military, would they bother to determine that the Thendara spaceport hadn’t been used in years? Would they care?

  If only there were a way of getting a message to Mikhail or Domenic—if Jeram could contact the Feds on the radio equipment at Terran Headquarters, explain to them—

  In a fractional moment, Gareth knew he could not simply run away. He’d never reach Thendara in time, but he could warn these men.

  Merach, apparently recovered from the nerve disrupter, was supervising the folding of Hayat’s pavilion.

  “There is no time for delay!” Gareth urged him. “The off-worlders mean to blast their camp from space. Lord Hayat—you know how he desires these weapons. He will linger, taking more and more of them. He will give no heed to the danger.”

  “Why would the off-worlders do such a thing?”

  “They too have enemies. Why else would they have hidden their base out here, so far from any settlement?”

  Merach grunted in agreement, enough to be heard over the fading sound of the shuttle.

  “Please—we have only a little time.”

  “By your kihar, this is true?”

  By my word as a Hastur, or anything else you want me to swear by!

  “Lord Merach, I have no honor, but by yours, it is.”

  “Then we will leave at once.” Merach vaulted on the back of his own horse, took the reins of Hayat’s, and shouted for the men to follow him as if they were in battle. Then he booted his horse into a gallop toward the base.

  Gareth ran to Rahelle. “Get out of here, do you hear me? Even if you have to run away!”

  She did not answer.

  In front of the headquarters building, Hayat’s men were digging through the crates. They’d piled up the blasters, those they hadn’t stashed under their own belts. There was no sign of Hayat or Merach, although the sounds of a heated argument came from inside the building.

  “Take what we have, great lord,” Merach insisted, “and live to fight another time!”

  The sounds of crashing glass and cursing answered him. Gareth rushed to the headquarters door. The lights had been left on, bathing the interior in a cold-edged brilliance. The place looked as if it had been ransacked. Hayat was using a metal bar, most likely from the rack that was lying in pieces nearby, to pry at the lid of another crate.

  “—not be bought off with toys that break when put to use!” Hayat muttered.

  Merach noticed Gareth’s arrival. “The rest of your men are here, lord. You have no further reason to tarry. Let us take what we have. If we use these weapons sparingly, they may yet be of service. And if the charrat has not spoken the truth, you can always return and take what you wish in safety.”

  “Better a small treasure than none at all, you mean? I know my father sent you to keep me in line, so now I suppose I must take the coward’s part.”

  “Your father, great lord, sent me to make sure you came back in glory.”

  With a snort of disgust, Hayat threw down the length of metal. On his way out of the building, he halted in front of Gareth.

  “As for you, I see that your off-world masters have cast you aside. I have no use for you, either. What is there for you to translate now? Who else are you going to deceive?”

  “I didn’t—” Gareth bit off his protest. No simple villager would dare to talk back to a powerful lord. It was too late to call back those words, too late to cringe or hang his head.

  Eyes narrowing, Hayat peered into Gareth’s face. “Who are you? You fight like a noble, not a slave. Where did you learn the tongue of these off-worlders?”

  Hayat grabbed the hair on top of Gareth’s head and twisted, forcing Gareth’s head back at a painful angle. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  Gareth closed his eyes, bracing against what would come next. Hayat would be neither quick nor merciful. Not even the truth would appease him.

  “My lord, we dare not linger,” came Merach’s calm voice. “We already have enough fire-weapons.”

  “My father will be pleased!” Hayat’s voice took on darkly triumphant harmonics. “As for this one, whoever he is, spy or outlaw or madman—” he released Gareth’s hair and seized the Nebran amulet, “—he has no right to wear a token of decent faith.”

  The chain dug into the back of Gareth’s neck for an instant, then snapped. Even through the layers of insulation, Gareth felt a jolt of disorientation as the starstone left his body. He scarcely heard the Shainsa lord’s next words or Merach’s response. His body felt icy and thick, as if he’d been trudging naked through a Hellers storm. His knees folded, and an instant later, he slammed into the hard earth.

  As if across a vast distance, he heard Hayat yelling for the horse boy to bring his mount. Something hard nudged his ribs, but he could not tell if it was his own heart, hurling itself against the cage of his chest, or something from outside.

  Someone was shouting . . . the voice, he should know that voice.

  “He’s hurt! Can’t you see that?”

  “Leave them both!” someone else snarled, a voice like a distant thunderstorm.

  “Garrin . . .” said a woman’s voice, echoing down a tunnel as long and chill as the Kadarin River.

  The world swi
rled away from him in a hurricane of gray and white and silver-blue light.

  “Garrin? Garrin, are you all right?”

  The voice had been pestering him for what seemed his entire life, waxing and waning, threading through the dense fog of his mind.

  “Can you hear me? Garrin! What’s the matter?”

  Someone was cradling his head, looking down into his face, trying to hold his gaze. He thrashed, seeking escape.

  His thoughts blew away like the glittering crystals.

  It’s threshold sickness . . . he tried to say.

  Linnea’s instructions hovered just at the edge of his thoughts. He needed to . . . what was it he needed? To close his eyes and drift . . . to allow the currents to carry him where they would . . .

  . . . to get up and walk . . . to use movement to anchor his mind to his body . . . to stabilize his balance centers . . .

  Dimly he felt his body struggling, his movements weak and uncoordinated. The ground disappeared from under him, and he was falling, falling . . . twisting in the void . . .

  Stars whirled, dissolving, scattering into pinpoint glints of brilliance, a sea of them . . . He was drifting through that endless galaxy . . .

  “Garrin.” The voice was almost too low to make out, a breath against his hair. He felt the softness of a cheek against his. Arms held him . . . warmth . . .

  Rahelle.

  “Garrin, hold on. I’ve got you.”

  Something fell into place, like a latch clicking open, and then he was back in his body, still nauseated but steady. When he swallowed, his throat felt as if it had been scrubbed with sand. He opened his eyes to discover that they now focused normally. He knew who and where he was.

  He was lying on one of the beds in the barracks, curled on his side. Rahelle sat cross-legged by his feet, watching him. She must have dragged him here.

  Rahelle.

  He remembered her arms around him and her voice in his ear, her presence like a fixed star in the midst of a maelstrom.

  He pushed himself up on one elbow. To his relief, no waves of dizziness followed.

  “What happened?” His throat was so dry, he could hardly force out the question.

  “What do you mean, what happened? You fainted!”

  Gareth shook his head, then thought better of it. “Hayat . . .” took the amulet . . . my starstone . . . “How long . . .?”

  Her eyes went flat and grim.

  She’d stayed. Or come back, he couldn’t be sure.

  He pushed himself to his feet. The interior of the barracks swirled in his vision, a moment of disorientation, nothing more. He swayed on his feet, then Rahelle caught him, her body solid against his as she pulled his arm across her shoulders. Outside, the base appeared to be deserted. All the horses were gone as well.

  “The ridge trail!” Gareth gasped. “Hurry!”

  Rahelle darted back into the barracks and emerged a moment later with one of the off-worlders’ hand lamps. Gareth stared at her. He had no idea how she’d learned to use them.

  “Come on!” She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward the ridge.

  The first few steps were the hardest. By the time they reached the perimeter of the base, he no longer needed her support and was able to manage a shambling run.

  They headed into the night.

  Filmy shapes like wisps of vapor hung in the air, blowing away into nothingness as they approached. Rahelle took no notice of them, so Gareth decided they existed only in his own mind. It took all his concentration to keep moving, putting one foot in front of the other.

  The terrain became rougher. Gareth stumbled, catching himself on his hands and knees. Rahelle, who had been a little ahead of him, whirled and raced back.

  “N-no! K-k-keep going!”

  She grabbed his hand and pulled him up.

  After that, Gareth tried to keep his pace even. He dared not fall, dared not slow their headlong flight. If he did, Rahelle wouldn’t leave him.

  Ahead of them, the ridge blocked the lower horizon. The sight of it infused Gareth with a renewed burst of energy. He was breathing hard, and the muscles of his legs were beginning to ache, but his mind was clearing.

  Rahelle played the light beam over the ground ahead of them. She cried out, “There!” as it illuminated the bottom of the trail.

  Side by side, they clambered up the slope. The trail rose gradually at first, then more steeply. Gareth’s breathing turned harsh. His ears filled with the laboring of his heart. He had no idea how much time they had or how far they had to run to be safe, how wide an area Poulos meant to destroy. He was a little surprised they’d made it this far . . . he could not tell how long he’d wandered in psychic shock . . . unless Poulos had lied and it was all an empty threat. No, there had been truth in the smuggler captain’s thoughts.

  This section of trail looked vaguely familiar as it curved into a series of switchbacks, following the contour of the hillside. In places, it slipped between the ridge and massive boulders, rocky shoulders that obscured the view below. If his memory was right, they’d made it at least a third of the way to the crest.

  The light beam wavered as Rahelle faltered. She couldn’t keep up this pace for much longer. Gareth shortened his stride for her to come even. The hand lamp limned the outlines of her features, but he could not read her expression. She must be thinking the same thing, that they needed every morsel of speed they could wring from their bodies. Even a few moments of respite might cost their lives—

  Light flashed behind them, followed an instant later by a roar like a thousand simultaneous claps of thunder. Gareth threw himself between Rahelle and the blast. His weight carried both of them to the ground, narrowly missing a half-buried boulder.

  Heat came boiling up from the crater. Huddled in the lee of the boulder, Gareth felt it on his back and face. The rock shielded them from the worst of it, but even so, it was as if he’d come within a hair’s-breadth of the open door of a furnace. Beneath him, Rahelle whimpered.

  The light faded.

  Gareth realized he’d been holding his breath. His lungs ached. His heart hammered in his chest. His skin was hot and slick, and so was Rahelle’s. He rolled off her, being careful to keep his body between hers and the downward trail.

  She lay on her back, gulping in one breath after another. The hand lamp had rolled a little distance and come to rest at the foot of a smaller rock. By some chance, it hadn’t gone out.

  Gareth managed to get to his hands and knees. He crawled the few feet to the lamp and switched it off. He didn’t know how long it might last or how much they would need it later. Then he eased himself back to their little shelter.

  Rahelle had recovered enough breath to gasp, “We’ve got to—keep going—”

  “The worst—” he forced out between breaths, “—is over.”

  No, some part of his mind prickled. The worst is yet to come. Hayat is on the way to Shainsa, armed with blasters. The privateers will soon aim their weapons at the Thendara spaceport. And he could do nothing about it, not even give a warning!

  Was that any excuse not to try?

  He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. The separation from his starstone had left him disoriented, and he was still drenched in adrenaline from the flight from the smuggler base.

  Yet he had heard stories, pure imaginings he’d thought at the time, but perhaps fiction had at its core the germ of reality . . . Rare though it was, Mikhail and Marguerida were able to reach each other’s minds over long distances. Grandfather Regis was said to possess the Hastur Gift, that of being a living matrix. That meant he didn’t need a starstone to use his laran. The story went that he’d summoned the incarnation of Aldones, Lord of Light, with his unaided mind . . . but the legends about Regis Hastur were many.

  If there was even a morsel of truth to the tale . . . Gareth was not his grandfather, or even
his father. He was not even the least of the novices at Comyn Tower. But he was all there was. If he could not send a warning, it would never be sent.

  “Rahelle . . .” As her name left his lips, he realized what a rare gift it was to be able to call her as she truly was, neither horse boy nor apprentice, but a woman of courage. “We’re safe enough where we are. I’m going to—I may appear to be asleep or as if I’ve fainted again. Don’t try to wake me. If I don’t come out of it, you must go on by yourself. Please.”

  By the rustling of cloth and the faint scuffing sounds, Rahelle was pushing herself to sitting. “What are you saying? What do you mean to do?”

  Gareth’s first impulse was to brush off her questions, to say it would be too complicated to explain. He’d sound like a complete madman, and likely she wouldn’t believe him, anyway. The intimacy of having spoken her name aloud still lingered in his mind, in his heart. He might not survive, still impaired by the loss of his starstone and physically drained as well. If this was the last time he’d ever speak to her, did he want it to be a lie?

  “I’m going to try to reach my friends in Thendara. With my mind. To warn them about Hayat and about the Federation ships.”

  For a long moment, a moment in which his heart beat shifted to an oddly syncopated rhythm, there was no response. Then Rahelle said, “With your mind, you said? How is that possible? You’re not . . . you are, aren’t you?”

  “Comyn. Yes.”

  “That explains how good you are with a sword. Your accent. All the times you acted as if you owned the world.” She paused. “Garrin isn’t your real name, is it?”

  “Gareth.” He could stop there and it would be the truth. But it would still be a lie. “Gareth Marius-Danvan Elhalyn y Hastur.”

  “That Gareth?”

  “That Gareth.” Do you despise me now?

  After another pause, she said, “It doesn’t change who you are, you know. You’re not a congenital incompetent, just the result of everyone else doing things for you. So what do you need me to do while you work your Comyn sorcery?”

  He smiled into the darkness. What he proposed was not sorcery but madness.