Gareth must have found himself in desperate circumstances to bring a deeply buried Gift to life.
He has been missing for more than a tenday now, Linnea said, and Silvana sensed a flicker of inner conflict, as if Linnea were struggling with a difficult decision, perhaps whether or not to reveal something told to her in confidence.
As a boy, Linnea went on, he indulged in a lot of romantic daydreams about adventures. Given the chance, he might well have made his way to Carthon. I hoped he had the sense not to venture further, but Gareth is . . . impulsive. We all thought he had outgrown it, but perhaps he only learned to mask it better. Her mental voice sounded disappointed, as if she had just learned the worst about someone she loved and had once believed in.
Silvana found herself in unexpected sympathy with Gareth. She knew nothing of him beyond what Linnea had just told her, and the enormous effort and natural talent it must have taken to communicate without a starstone across such a distance. It was not credible that a leronis of Linnea’s skill would not have detected Gareth’s intentions to seek adventure in the Dry Towns, not when he was her student. Not when she had taught him how to use his starstone—his starstone.
If he has a starstone, Silvana said, why would he be driven to such desperate measures as to activate the Hastur Gift? It could not have been taken from him, or he would not have survived.
Only if another person, other than a Keeper, handled it.
But then it must be insulated—
Very well insulated. In a locket shaped like an amulet of Nebran, the Toad God of the Dry Towns.
It was as much an admission as Silvana was likely to receive. Linnea had known that Gareth would go to the Dry Towns; she had not been able to dissuade him, so she had given him the best protection she could. Something had happened, most likely not in Carthon but in one of the other cities—Shainsa, perhaps, or Daillon—or in the barren lands beyond. The image of the riders armed with off-world weapons now seemed even more likely.
And the ships raining down their nightmare attack from the skies? How had Gareth learned of them?
What is going on in the Dry Towns?
I don’t know. Only when Linnea answered, her emotions once again under impeccable control, did Silvana realize she’d mentally spoken the question in both their thoughts.
“Others . . .” Lian had said, “. . . landing far across the sands.”
Dirav had spoken of all of Darkover’s defenses. “Just because we have withdrawn to the planet of our origin does not mean we have forgotten what we once knew, during those times when we were equally at home in the vast reaches of space.”
Then Dirav had given her the heartstone.
30
Below, in the blackened ruins of Nuriya, a fire was burning.
Gareth braced himself on one arm against the rock face and studied it. His vision was still unreliable, going double or distorting objects at odd, unexpected intervals. Even when he blinked, the yellow-orange flame still shone in the darkness. It must be real, then, and neither memory nor imagining.
Rahelle touched his shoulder gently, so as not to startle him. She’d been unusually solicitous since his attempt to reach his grandmother with his laran. Even now, he wasn’t entirely certain whom he had contacted, whose competent, keen mind he had touched—if it had been anyone at all and not some figment of his disordered consciousness. He did not have the strength to try again. Weakness lapped at him. In the absence of food, his body was consuming its own substance to replenish the energy he’d so recklessly expended. Rahelle must have sensed what it had cost him, what it was still costing him, but there was nothing either of them could do but to press on and hope they’d find a cache of supplies in the village.
As they neared the bottom of the trail, Gareth was better able to judge the size of the fire. It was a small one, well contained. He could not make out any figures around it, but along the perimeter of its radiance he caught the shapes of oudrakhi. That was a hopeful sign, and he managed to find the energy to hurry his steps.
They stumbled through the rubble, heading for the fire. Before they reached it, the man who had been hunkered down beside it rose up. Silhouetted against the blaze, he came toward them, arms outstretched.
“My friends and the delight of my eyes! I weep with gladness to see you again!”
Just at that moment, a shift in the air carried the aroma of roasting meat and the piquant spices of the Dry Towns. Gareth’s senses blurred and his knees gave way. Rahelle caught him under one shoulder and, an instant later, Adahab took the other. They set him down next to the fire. Gareth couldn’t understand what they were saying, what Adahab was doing, only the plate of steaming slivers of meat and the pile of tiny beans that smelled astonishingly good.
“Eat now,” Adahab instructed. “Stories later.”
At first, all Gareth could do was lift one morsel after another to his mouth. The food was intensely, intoxicating flavorful. Warmth, both from the cooking temperature and the seasonings, flowed down his throat and filled his belly. His hands stopped trembling. Adahab filled his plate again, and then a third time. When at last Gareth set down his empty plate, both his vision and his nerves felt steady. The loss of his starstone still hampered him; he could see and hear well enough, but his laran senses had gone numb.
While Gareth ate, Rahelle had sketched out their story for Adahab. The villager made a gesture of disbelief at the folly of it all, and Gareth was struck by the essential decency of the man. Honor had brought Adahab back to ruined Nuriya after seeing the surviving villagers safe in Duruhl-ya, and Adahab had intended to remain until he had scoured all the ridge in fulfillment of his promise. All Adahab wanted was to court the woman he intended to marry, to care for his parents and his flocks, and to live a good life according to his beliefs. He had no interest in invading or conquering anyone.
Such men are not my enemy. Drought and disease and the arrogance of men like Hayat, those were the enemies. If Hayat attacked the Domains, Gareth’s own people would suffer, but so would men like Adahab.
Gareth felt so sleepy, so replete and yet so drained, that he could barely keep his eyes open. He swayed as he sat, but before he could say anything, Adahab guided him to an unrolled blanket. Gareth fell asleep only a moment after curling up on it.
He awoke to sun overhead, the muted grumbling of the oudrakhi, and a pungent, minty aroma. The morning was well advanced, but Rahelle had insisted that Gareth sleep as long as he could.
Gareth ate the food left for him and drank the stimulant tea. As he chewed, he glanced upward, wondering what was happening with the Lamonica and the Castor Sector ship, whether the privateers had arrived or how long before they did. He tried without success to convince himself that if both the smugglers and the rebels had departed, their pursuers would surely follow.
The little burst of strength from last night had faded. He felt half-blind, half-deaf, swaddled in layers of insulation, alone as he had not been alone since his talent woke with puberty, alone except for his own fears.
Adahab had found a couple of the village oudrakhi wandering nearby, so there were mounts for everyone. They finished the food and packed up the animals, giving them a last drink at the well. Rahelle smothered a laugh at Gareth’s expression as the great desert beasts moved off. The oudrakhi were not only taller than horses, but their gait, a lumbering same-sided stride, creating an alarming swaying sensation. Gareth felt a twinge of nausea before Rahelle suggested that he keep his focus on the horizon, not the ground. After that, the movement helped to loosen his muscles.
They set off across the Sands of the Sun, retracing the their previous route. Oudrakhi were not as fast as horses—Gareth did not know if they could run at all—but they maintained a steady pace for hour after hour. Unlike horses, they could go for several days without drinking. The endurance of the riders, not the mounts, limited how far they could travel each day.
Once Gareth adjusted to the oudrakhi’s rocking gait, he had time to think. From Adahab’s village, Kharsalla, the way lay open to Shainsa and from there, Carthon. And from there, home.
Shainsa. Where Hayat had surely returned, triumphant and exulting in his new weapons. Hayat, who had in his possession the Nebran amulet . . .
If Rahelle guessed what he was thinking, she would point out the folly of seeking Hayat out. He could almost hear her say, “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
He could do nothing about the starships. He could do nothing about the blasters. He had already tried to send a warning, and he still was not sure if he had reached anyone or if it had all been a hallucination born of the shock of having his starstone wrenched from him.
There was one thing he could still do. He must discredit Hayat so completely that Dayan would reject the blasters. The only way he could think to accomplish that was to challenge Hayat, to make the issue one of kihar, of honor. He would have to prove the rightness of his own position by being willing to die for it, to be executed for it, because even if—by some absurd stroke of luck—he survived, he could not risk Dayan taking further steps or seeking revenge. Dayan was a cunning and dangerous man, but he was not an impetuous one. If all went well, there would be an end to the Shainsa blasters. In that moment, it did not matter to Gareth that he might not be alive to see it.
He wouldn’t need to persuade Rahelle of his plan, only keep it secret. Cyrillon was still in Shainsa and Rahelle would be safe with him.
Rahelle. Safe.
He felt a pang, a mixture of relief that she would have a measure of protection and of grief for the time they would never spend together, the things he would never say to her.
He could not accost Hayat on the street. The Dry Towns lordling was too well guarded. As one who had already been presented at the Great House, however, Gareth could legitimately request a hearing with Lord Dayan.
What had Adahab said? “Swords and whips, tools of the kifurgh,” the kifurgh that was the ritualized duel of honor among the Dry Towners. Such a challenge, uttered before the High Lord of the city, must be answered.
Gareth was no duelist, even with weapons in which he was trained. There was no possibility he could win. But he did not need to win. He only had to take Hayat down with him.
Adahab went no farther than Kharsalla, where he made a great show of presenting Gareth and Rahelle with their oudrakhi. The generosity of the gift clearly enhanced his prestige, even more than the animals themselves would have. From the little village, Rahelle had no trouble acting as guide to Shainsa.
Dusty and tired, they arrived at the outskirts of Shainsa just as pools of crimson-tinted shadows lengthened across the sand.
With an unexpected pang, Gareth realized that after today, Rahelle would never argue with him or try to rescue him. Yet he could not think of how to frame any sort of farewell without arousing her suspicions.
After spending the last of their coin on gate fees, they approached the broad, unpaved square with its common well, where Cyrillon had set up camp among the other traders. Here they dismounted.
Although daylight was fast fading, the market still abounded in buyers and sellers taking advantage of the relative coolness. Gareth peered through the gathering dusk, but he could not make out Cyrillon’s tent. Using the well as a landmark, they searched the area. Traders looked up from their evening preparations, and a few called out in greeting. Rahelle answered them with a distracted gesture. With each circuit, she grew palpably more frustrated.
“I could have sworn—no, I was right. This is where my father was!” She indicated a spot now occupied by a group of leather traders, who seemed to take her gesture as a signal of her interest in their wares.
“Surely he would not have left Shainsa without—” At her wide-eyed glance, Gareth broke off. He handed the reins of his oudrakhi to Rahelle and approached the leather traders.
“Heya!” one of them exclaimed. “Move those smelly beasts elsewhere! They’re bad for business!”
“A belt, fine sir?” inquired his fellow. “We offer the finest tanned leather in all of Shainsa.”
“Do you know what happened to the man who used to be on this spot? A trader out of Carthon?” Gareth asked, waving away the proffered belt.
The leather trader shrugged with exaggerated indifference. “I might remember, or I might not.”
The game of bargaining irritated Gareth’s already frayed nerves. “I don’t need a belt. I don’t want a belt. I haven’t money to buy a belt—”
“But the man who was here does,” Rahelle cut in smoothly.
Gareth picked up the story. “He’s got our wages, see, and we were to collect them here. There’s nothing we’d like better than a new belt for each of us, once we get paid.”
The trader who’d offered the belt muttered something about penniless riffraff. His comrade, the one who’d made the comment about the smelly oudrakhi, said, “Word is he’s taken lodgings in the city. Street of the Three Goats, I think it was, or somewhere near that.”
The tension lifted from Rahelle’s muscles. Gareth said, “Our thanks, friend.”
The trader made a sucking noise through the gap between his front teeth and squinted at the oudrakhi. “You can’t take ’em into that district. New orders from Lord Dayan.”
“Yar,” said the other, the one who’d tried to sell Gareth the belt. “Want to get rid of ’em? I can’t give you much, not in that condition, but the price of grain’s gone up fierce. It’ll cost you more than they’re worth to feed ’em.”
Rahelle turned to Gareth. “My father must have stabled his own animals on the outskirts.”
“Go to him, then.” Taking the reins of the oudrakhi, he said, “I’ll take care of them.” He almost added, “I’ll join you later,” but the lie stuck in his throat. She was so eager to see her father again, she didn’t notice. Now that the moment of parting had come upon him, there was so much he wanted to say to her, but none of it was possible. He just nodded and watched her hurry off toward the city.
“Well, what about it?” the leather trader asked.
Gareth shook his head. He wasn’t much for bargaining, but he knew he’d not receive a fair price. Selling them here would solve the problem of what to do with them, but the animals were not truly his. They belonged as much to Rahelle as to him, and he dared not trust anyone in Shainsa with the money.
After a few inquiries, Gareth found a livestock yard owner who charged neither too much nor too little and whose animals looked in decent condition. He had very little to offer in payment. His boot knife would have made a generous fee, but he might need it. In the end, he settled for one of the saddles, which the yardsman accepted happily in payment. Gareth gave the name of the owner as Cyrillon Sensar, lodging in the Street of the Three Goats, and asked that word be sent to the apprentice, Rakhal, in two days. If by some chance the duel were postponed until tomorrow, it would still be over by the time Rahelle received the message.
The yard owner, perhaps considering the imbalance in the agreement, included a meal of flatbread spread with a thick, spicy paste of beans and garlic. Gareth ate lightly, just enough to feel renewed strength but not to overfill his belly.
Night had almost blanketed the city when Gareth took his leave. Flickering torchlight softened the walls of sandstone and dried mud brick. Passing along a row of inns, he slowed to watch the light streaming from their open windows and to catch the fragments of song, voices raised in laughter, and the sweet lilt of a flute. He thought of Rahelle—but no, he must not dwell on what was forever lost.
Finally he emerged into the open square bounded on one side by the great square building that was the House of Dayan. The place seemed at once familiar and utterly alien, as if glimpsed in a fever dream. The sparse crowd parted before him. He could not tell if this was some random movement that his mind wove into a sense of
approaching destiny, or whether some aspect of his bearing or expression caused the people to retreat.
Guards stood to either side of the double doors. They watched Gareth approach. Both were large men, garbed in Dayan’s colorful livery, and well armed.
Gareth assumed his most imperious manner. He reminded himself that the guards might think whatever they wished about him, so long as they admitted him.
“I am Garrin of Carthon, with a message for Hayat, son of Dayan of this house.”
The shorter and broader of the two guards lifted one corner of his mouth in a contemptuous expression. “I do not recognize you, gutter-dust. And the Heir to Shainsa does not treat with rabble.”
“The Heir of Shainsa does not take his orders from you,” Gareth replied in much the same tone. “And Lord Dayan has already recognized me on my previous visit. I doubt he would be pleased to have a guest treated in such a disrespectful fashion because of my current unfortunate appearance.”
The guard’s mouth tightened and his gaze flickered to his comrade. Gareth imagined him weighing the relative risk of admitting a man who carried himself like royalty although he was undeniably as filthy and ragged as any beggar, or facing Dayan’s wrath at a violation of hospitality toward a known guest.
“Well?” Gareth demanded. “Are you going to make me wait all night? Are you going to make Lord Dayan wait all night?”
The taller guard broke first, stepping back as he opened one of the double doors. “In with you, then, and upon your head be it if the Great Lord is in any way displeased.” He jerked his chin toward his comrade, who visibly suppressed a sigh before leading the way inside.
The entrance hall and colonnade appeared much as Gareth remembered, bathed in the wavering light of torches. Incense-laden smoke curled from a pair of braziers, each of them of brass and so finely wrought they must be worth the price of an entire village. There were more grim-faced men in livery and fewer ordinary people than on Gareth’s previous visit with Cyrillon, but that had been during the day . . . and Hayat had not yet returned with the blasters.
The Children of Kings Page 35
