Fidelis came into the room, touching his fingertips to the back of Varzil’s hand in passing and then proceeding to the first cot. As usual, he wore the loosely belted white robe of a monitor. Deep lines bracketed his mouth and eyes.
The monitor bent over the little girl who lay there, her hair spilling over the pillow. “Come here, Varzil. Look at this.”
Swallowing, Varzil bent over the child, taking in the milk-pale cheeks, the tracery of blue veins beneath the skin, the hollows around the eyes, the frost-chapped lips. The girl stirred and opened her eyes. She looked to be about four years old. Something in the shape of her eyes reminded him of Dyannis, his youngest sister.
On impulse, he knelt beside the cot and took her hand. Fingers, as slender as a fairy‘s, tightened around his. With his mind, he followed the energon channels of her body, by layers going deeper into the tissues, the congested red passages, the ruptured cells. He had not the training to completely understand what he saw, the pattern of damage and reaction as her body struggled to defend itself.
This way ... As gentle and firm as a guiding hand, Fidelis directed his awareness to the core of the girl’s bones, where germ cells lined the cavities, dying. Here and there, however, a tiny mote pulsed with unnatural energy. Varzil felt each pinpoint as a dot of lurid phosphorescence, green like the miasma in the room. The girl might survive for a time, but the deep changes in her marrow would eventually kill her. Even now, he could taste her death. Looking up at Fidelis, he sought to put what he saw into words.
Fidelis nodded in agreement. It is ever so with bonewater dust. Some die within days of exposure, their nerves burned out. Others survive, only to perish a tenday later from vomiting and purging. But these, especially the very young... they seem to heal, they lighten our hearts with hope, but theirs is the longer, more tragic death.
“What must we do? How can we save her?” Varzil forced the words through a throat gone suddenly dry.
Fidelis tilted his head to one side, as if considering. If we are not too late, I believe it is possible, even though no one today has much experience with such early treatment. The techniques from the Ages of Chaos are lost. Those affected are usually considered beyond help, even if they can still walk. I have heard that some men who survived the seeding of Drycreek seemed unharmed, but they all died a decade later from wasting illnesses or tumors. By the time any of them sought healing at a Tower, there was nothing we could do. Perhaps if we had known earlier...
If we had considered it our responsibility to find out, said Auster.
“Who knew?” Auster spoke aloud as he entered the room. His eyes reflected the light of the globes set about the walls as if it were flame. His physical appearance commanded attention, with his heavy shoulders, rust-streaked beard, and intense eyes, but it was his mantle of energy which filled the room.
Auster went to the girl’s cot. “Bonewater dust is a weapon of war. If people have not the wit to avoid the proscribed lands, we must nevertheless try to save them from their own folly.”
Varzil read no expression in the Keeper’s voice. Was Auster saying the use of bonewater was justified and acceptable, that it was the fault of the victims who had deliberately if unknowingly exposed their own families? Varzil had seen the faces of the parents, the tearing guilt behind their eyes. They loved their children no less than his own father loved him. And they were desperate, homeless ...
Together, Fidelis and Auster examined each patient. Most of this was done mentally, but occasionally Auster would ask a question about some medical detail. Cerriana joined them, listening quietly. Meanwhile, Lerrys and two others entered and took seats on the benches.
Last of all came Eduin, who went directly to his place without meeting Varzil’s glance. They had spoken only a few words since the incident in the apple orchard, for they usually worked and studied separately. Now Varzil caught no hint of animosity from the other youth, only an attitude of serious concentration. Perhaps Eduin had thought better of his outburst, and now realized that Varzil posed no threat to his status in the Tower or his friendship with Carolin. Varzil resolved to approach the night’s task with the same impartiality.
Auster did not entirely leave each patient as he went on to the next. Instead, he seemed to carry each one with him, weaving some part of them into a whole, like a fisherman’s net. He did this with such a light, sure touch that Varzil felt his own heartbeat grow steadier, his awareness heighten. Even the lights seemed to glow brighter.
By the time Auster had passed the row of cots and each patient had been discussed, the circle had been assembled. They were already gathered into a unity of mind. Fidelis took his place on his favorite, unpadded stool and Varzil beside him, facing Auster.
Varzil closed his eyes and began the breathing exercises which would attune him to the rhythms of his own body. He began to feel the sensation which, he’d learned, heralded a properly receptive mind.
A melody wove through the back of his mind, a lilting rise and fall like the gentle ripples of a river. Varzil imagined himself lying in a boat, as he had as a child, carried along the stream, watching the leafy branches pass overhead, the hypnotic alternation of shade and eye-searing brightness. Whether it was an hour or a heartbeat later, he became aware of other boats, all gone strangely translucent now, gliding alongside. As skillfully as a master weaver, Auster brought his circle together.
Varzil had never been part of a true circle before. He had touched other minds as part of training exercises, and then only that of his teacher or one or two others. He had never imagined anything like this floating grace. Each mind flowed in the same river, created the same joyous harmony, yet retained its individual uniqueness. There was Cerriana, for all her red hair and fiery temper a jewel of restful green, Fidelis a familiar melody played on a horn so deep and rich it caressed the bones, Lerrys an unfamiliar but heart-stirring beating of wings, gray like a falcon’s ... and the others, each with his own signature.
And finally there was Eduin. Varzil held off turning his attention to him until the end, expecting the opaque barrier he’d glimpsed at the orchard. To his surprise, he did not encounter a blank, mirrored shield. Eduin shone like an intricate net of jewels all strung together by silver wire, the whole twisting and shifting. Despite the beauty and strength flowing through the layered structure, Varzil pulled away after only a moment. He could not see more than a fraction of it at any one time, and something in the movement, the shift of light and power, unsettled him. Perhaps that was because in his limited experience, he told himself, he had never experienced a mind so dissimilar to his.
Yet Auster had, with ease and skill, woven Eduin’s laran signature into a seamless unity with the others. Was this what it meant to be a Keeper—to accept each person’s Gift exactly as it was, creating harmony and purpose without demanding change?
Varzil had little time to spare for such musings as the work began. Under Auster’s steady mental guidance, the group concentrated its energies, giving them freely into his control. Fidelis and Cerriana worked in tandem to identify the areas of greatest pathology in each patient. Varzil marveled at the delicacy of the subcellular manipulations, the surge and ebb of life energies as one or another of the sick children dropped from restless fever into the sleep of true healing.
How long it went on, he could not tell. He lost all sense of time, suspended in the flowing waters of Auster’s circle. Sometimes he floated, drinking it all in, suspended in an ocean of silvery gray shot through with colored light. But more and more, he became part of the web itself, willing energy to flow from him, through Auster’s skillful psychic guidance, and into the damaged bodies of the patients.
From time to time, he would become aware of others in the web. Even Eduin began to feel familiar. Once someone touched him—a ripple through his mental body, which he realized represented actual physical contact. Cerriana’s musical whisper brushed his thoughts.
Breathe more deeply.
In automatic obedience, his chest rose and
his lungs filled. Although he could not see it with his material eyes, he sensed Cerriana’s answering smile. Her voice faded like droplets of colored water in a still pool. The gray light dimmed, not the darkness of physical distress, but a gradual release of the circle.
“Varzil.”
He blinked, surprised to find himself sitting, immobile, on a bench. For a moment, he did not recognize his own name. Fingertips brushed the inside of one wrist.
Fidelis bent over him with a serious expression. Varzil’s shoulders trembled. Around him, the other members of the circle were stretching, yawning, rising to their feet, heading for the door. Several others had come in to tend the patients and carry them to the infirmary.
“Go now and eat,” Fidelis said.
“I’m not hungry—” Varzil began, as his stomach shifted uneasily at the thought of food. Nausea, he remembered, was a common symptom of the energy depletion that accompanied intense laran work. Lunilla had prepared honeyed fruit and nut confections to appeal to uncertain appetites.
“You have surprising strength, and you use it generously,” Auster said. They were alone in the chamber, except for Eduin, lingering inside the door. “After you have rested, I want you to begin regular work in a circle, and take private lessons with me. You have talents we have not yet begun to explore.”
Varzil wasn’t sure how to respond. Not in his wildest imagination had he anticipated such advancement. Some deep part of him craved to return to the circle, to the world he had no words for, to the unity and joy of those hours.
“Good lad,” Auster said, as if this happened every day. “Now, food and rest.”
Varzil trailed after Auster and Fidelis as they left the room. Eduin joined them, speaking a few low words to the Keeper.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” Auster murmured, and then began the descent down the stairs. “I’ll have someone see to it when there’s time.”
Eduin paused as Varzil approached, and Varzil had the fleeting impression that this was the real reason he had stayed behind.
“You did well for your first time,” Eduin said pleasantly. His expression was friendly, despite the pale skin and hollows around his eyes. Varzil guessed that he himself looked no better. “I—” Eduin paused, clearly gathering his thoughts, “I misjudged you when you first arrived. We get them from time to time, brats from minor houses with no talent who try to wheedle their way in here. It’s a waste of everyone’s time. But—” slowing now, as if choosing his words with care, “—you’ve shown your abilities. I...” His voice trailed off, but not before Varzil caught his last thought, I was wrong about you.
For an instant, Varzil wanted to say, And I was wrong about you. Eduin had been rude, yes, but that was easily forgiven. But he had also threatened Varzil, tried to warn him off being friends with Carolin.
Eduin’s overture had been gracious, especially given the awkwardness of the situation. Carolin would have urged that he—or anyone for that matter—be given the benefit of the doubt. So, for Carolin’s sake, Varzil would do his best.
Varzil nodded and murmured, “It’s all right.”
10
A year later, snow was late in falling at Arilinn. Autumn had stretched on, frosty mornings melting into lazy heat. Across the Plains, grasses dried to pale gold. Farmers harvested their crops and then rested, basking in the mild weather. Several weddings, which had been originally planned for the next spring, took place early amid outdoor feasting. Families offered gratitude and prayers for continuing fertility to the goddess Evanda. A few of the gossips down in the city swore that the coming winter would be a bad one, but their warnings met with little credence as Midwinter Festival approached.
On the morning Varzil was to leave for Hali and the Hastur court, the snow shone as if lit from within by its own light. Winter had arrived in earnest only during the last tenday, with falling temperatures and snowfalls overlapping each other. Still, the air of well-being persisted in both city and Tower. Granaries and silos were full, animals fat, tempers sweet.
Varzil stepped through the Veil and made his way along the streets toward the small airstrip. In a little over one short year, he had evolved from awkward newcomer to rising star, the pride of Arilinn. He had made such rapid progress that instead of preparing first as monitor, then rising through the ranks, Auster had decided to take charge of his training directly as under-Keeper Rumor had it that Auster had long resisted choosing a replacement; now he joked he had only been waiting for the proper student to appear.
Carolin, having completed his time at Arilinn, was returning to the court of his uncle, King Felix, in Hali. As part of the festivities of Midwinter and also to postpone the time of their parting, he had chosen Varzil and Eduin to accompany him.
Varzil never dreamed that his friendship with Carolin might lead him to such august surroundings. Some moments, he didn’t know whether he was awake or dreaming—to visit such a fabulous city, as honored guest of its most powerful family, as well as to be chosen as under-Keeper. It had all happened so quickly, Auster’s interview followed within days by Carolin’s excited invitation. So now he had chosen to walk to the outskirts of Arilinn alone, to where Carolin’s aircar waited.
Varzil slung a canvas bag over one shoulder, which contained his best clothing and a few gifts for Carolin’s female relatives. His holiday shirt would surely be considered plain by city standards, but it had been made with loving care by his own sister, Dyannis, embroidered in Ridenow gold and green.
Someday, he told himself, I will wear a Keeper’s crimson, and then it will not matter how costly the fabric or how stylish the cut.
His spirits rose, and not even the thought of a half-day’s journey in close confines with Eduin could dampen them. Since the first circle in which they worked together, the bonewater healing over a year ago, relations between the two had been civil, at times almost cordial. Eduin had no family of any distinction, even one as scandalous as the Ridenows; he had few friends other than Carolin who could help him advance in the world. He had strong laran, yes, but no hope of political influence. And with his insecurity went a kind of ambition, which Varzil could sense but not understand. Being a laranzu of Arilinn, surely the greatest and most prestigious of the modern Towers, must be glory enough. Varzil had the sense to realize that not everyone thought as he did, that one man’s dream was another’s nightmare.
It was still early when Varzil spotted the very same aircar which had carried him and his father to Sweetwater. The strip itself was little more than a leveled field. The men whose job it was to sweep it had just begun their morning’s work. Ice-crusted snow crunched underfoot as Varzil approached the aircar. A man clambered over the arching roof, scraping off snow. Varzil squinted up at the figure silhouetted against the brightness of the eastern sky. Then the man called down to him, greeting him by name, and Varzil recognized the pilot.
“How are you this fine morning?” Varzil cried. “It’s Jeronimo, isn’t it?”
“The very same, and speak for yourself, laddie. It’s not particularly fine to spend one’s morning scraping off snow and ice, but I don’t trust those rabbit-horn-brains from town with my ship.” The pilot dropped lightly to the ground. He held a long horse-bristle brush in one hand and a bone scraper in the other. A towel was tucked through his belt. He grinned broadly. “Ready for another flying lesson? Or is that beneath you now that you’re a high and mighty Arilinn laranzu?”
“Honest work is beneath no man’s dignity.” One corner of Varzil’s mouth quirked upward. “Unless you’re trying to tell me that flying one of these contraptions isn’t honest work?”
Jeronimo laughed, throwing back his head. “True enough. Some days it’s nigh onto stealing, to take m‘lord’s money for something I’d pay to do!”
He took Varzil’s bag, stowed it in the lower compartment, and handed Varzil the brush. “You take the other side and we’ll be ready to fly in no time.”
They were just finishing up with the aircar and a flurry of jokes w
hen Carolin and Eduin arrived, followed by a cart bearing their baggage. Two of the silent kyrri trotted alongside, patting the draft chervine.
“Leave it to you, Varzil, to beat us here,” Carolin grinned.
Varzil ducked his head, about to protest that he needed the extra time just to keep up. Carolin had teased him more than once about false modesty. After Auster’s decision, Varzil could hardly pretend he was only an ordinary student. So he held his tongue while the conversation flowed on.
Jeronimo stowed Carolin’s chests, making sure they were well secured. The day was fair enough, but at this season, storms could come sweeping across the Plains with little warning. By now, the takeoff path had been cleared. The pilot gestured for the three passengers to take their places. There was some jostling, and Varzil realized that Eduin intended to sit beside Carolin.
“If you don’t mind,” Varzil said, “I should like to sit in front, beside the pilot, to study the operation of the aircar.”
Carolin looked a bit surprised, but Eduin gave him a look that said how little he regarded such an interest, how inferior to the work of the Towers. Varzil happily took his place beside Jeronimo.
As soon as Jeronimo activated the laran apparatus of the aircar and set it into motion, Varzil was struck by the difference between this flight and the one he had taken a year ago. Then the whole process had seemed mysterious. Now, after months of intensive training, his talents heightened by contact with so many Gifted minds, he could follow every movement, every shift in power, as if illuminated by the brightest sun.
Jeronimo paused in the middle of a spoken explanation to gaze at Varzil with an expression of astonishment. Varzil had been in direct contact with his thoughts, following without intrusion as the pilot routed the power stored in the laran batteries along the conducting mechanisms. Jeronimo’s eyes widened. His hands, forming the complex gestures that supported and guided his thoughts, fell open on his lap.
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