The Fall of Neskaya (20 page)

“As long as you remain a technician, regarded by the outer world as dispensable, you remain a political threat to King Damian. Should an opening arise, such as your brother’s death, you could return to the outside world and claim Verdanta. Or so Damian might think. That he has not sent for you so far and made sure of you, speaks for your brother’s good behavior.”

Bronwyn paused to stare at the fire before going on in a more pensive tone. “Verdanta is not a land he intends to occupy, I think. To hold, but not to rule. A stepping stone, but to what?” She shook herself, a little gesture like a shiver. “Ah, that hardly matters now. Idle speculation is a habit I’ve never been able to break. But for you, young Coryn, if you would seal yourself to a Tower, and I think this is indeed where you belong, you must convince even the most ambitious king that you have resigned the outer world.”

Coryn shrugged. The only workers who were untouchable by outer concerns were the Keepers themselves. He had never hoped to be trained as one. Tramontana already had three Keepers and could not support a fourth. Although Kieran was old, he was still in full command of his powers. Now Coryn said as much to Bronwyn.

“I am glad to hear you thinking in that way,” she said, smiling. “Kieran and I have had this very discussion. You are right, there is no place for another under-Keeper here. However, such is not the case everywhere. We telepaths are not so strong or so many that we can afford to waste even one potential Keeper. And the hard truth is that you would be safer almost anywhere else. You must leave Tramontana.”

Leave Tramontana?
Coryn’s first rush of refusal quickly gave way to logic. Bronwyn was right. As long as he remained here, he and everyone in the Tower was at risk from Deslucido. It was only a matter of time before a demand would be made to turn him over. Kieran might hold the Tower neutral, but as time went by, the situation might change. Tomas’ search of the ancient records had turned up positive proof that once Ambervale, as part of a greater Aldaran alliance, had some legitimate claim of sovereignty over the Tower.
If Kieran died—
No, that was not to be thought of!

“I will be sorry to leave you,” he said, meeting Bronwyn’s warm gaze.

“As we will you, but not so sorry as to lose you under less happy circumstances.”

“Yes, that’s true enough. If there is a place for me, I will go.”

“Then since you are willing, we have already received a request for someone to train as under-Keeper. From Neskaya Tower. They have just lost the best of their candidates in a rock fall.”

Neskaya?
Coryn blinked, astonished. His first thought was of Rumail, but Rumail was no longer there. Neskaya had dismissed him. And Neskaya was bound historically to Ridenow and now, after Allart Hastur’s peace, to Hastur, and so would be free from the Deslucido wars. He would never be asked to choose sides in any dispute that involved Verdanta . . . or High Kinnally. With a sense of relief, he said he would go.

Bronwyn nodded in satisfaction and sipped her wine. After a brief, awkward pause, the conversation resumed but on a lighter tone, of the sort of everyday things two companionable friends might find to talk about on a long wintry evening.

The morning of Coryn’s leavetaking from Tramontana, although officially in the spring, started off as blustery as any winter day. Gareth, sitting at breakfast with Coryn and Aran, joked that the mountains themselves wanted to keep him behind the Tower’s walls.

Coryn rose from the table, Aran a shadow at his side, determined to be on the road before noon. He had known the rough, unpredictable weather of the Hellers all his life. Should a little rain now keep him from his new life? It couldn’t be worse than the
laran
-fueled storms which had overtaken him and Rafe on his way here. Not even a trained matrix worker was immune to such elemental forces, but his starstone would give him warning.

Aran helped him check his horse’s gear and baggage, then stood stroking the black mare’s nose. She swished her tail, eager to be off. Coryn, standing on the other side of the horse, closed his eyes and touched his forehead against the hard-muscled neck. For a moment he thought of leaving the mare with Aran, if only for the joy the two of them had shared. But the mare was his last gift from his father, and he couldn’t relinquish her.

“You’ll need her where you’re going,” Aran said quietly.

The mare took a step forward, so that the two men faced each other over the polished leather saddle. “Aran—” Coryn began. But now, looking directly into his friend’s dark eyes, he realized that he truly did not need to say anything. It was only his physical presence he was taking away. The two of them had spoken mind to mind, had shared in a different sort of passion, the joy of Aran’s
donas.
Coryn’s love for his friend would remain, even as Aran’s would go with him. He found himself smiling as he slipped his foot into the stirrup and swung on top of the mare’s back.

“Ride her well!” Aran called as Coryn clattered down the rocky trail. Or perhaps the words, distorted by the noise of shod hoof on stone, were
Fare-thee-well.

T
aniquel Hastur-Acosta,
comynara
and niece to King Rafael Hastur, second of that name, stood at the balcony of the tallest tower and scanned the horizon to the northwest. It had been raining steadily for a tenday, the soft spring drizzle that brought such intense green to the rich Acosta farmland. The river, frothy gray, wound through the hills, past orchards of flowering plum and cherry trees, and through the vineyards which produced the heady dark wine for which Acosta was famous.

Now she stole a moment from her vigil to close her eyes and lift her bare face to the mist. From the time she was a little girl, fostered here at Acosta along with the boy who would later become her husband, she always found ways to escape the supervision of her nurse or tutors and go running in the rain. Jumping over puddles, or rather
in
them, had been her chief delight. “Wicked child,” her nurse had scolded. “Water maiden,” her foster father called her.

Sometimes she thought that although she was fond enough of Padrik, he who was now Lord Acosta, she would never have married him if it meant leaving this place.

Sighing, she raked her fingers through her thick, crimpy hair, pulling more blue-black strands free from the butterfly clasp of costly copper filigree.

Nor, she thought wryly, was she behaving like one. Instead of sitting demurely over her embroidery or chatting with her ladies about the latest handfasting or how many honey cakes her junior lady-in-waiting, Piadora, who was three months along with child, ought to eat, she was up here, standing guard as if she were a trained soldier and not a lady.

This day she could not force herself to sit still. Something had been building for the last few days, an invisible pressure behind her eyes like a headache about to break. She had done her best to ignore it, to argue herself into dismissing it as mere womanish vapors, to dissipate her restlessness in games of chance or dancing lessons, activities deemed proper for a lady of her rank. The one thing she had not done was to speak of it to Padrik. An odd emotion held her back, one she reluctantly identified as shame.

Shame that she had not the
laran
of a Hastur, or at least not enough to be worth training, or so the
leronis
from Thendara Tower had said when she examined Taniquel on her fourteenth birthday. Any talent she might have would have shown itself by then. She might have a little empathy, the Keeper thought, enough to make her a sympathetic listener for her husband. There would be no place in the Tower for her, not that she’d ever wanted to be shut up in one. But . . .

But it was
not
empathy, this pressure in the center of her skull. That much she knew. She began pacing. The nearest guard tried hard to look impassive, all the while watching her with his mouth half open.

She muttered beneath her breath to keep from shrieking out the words. That sort of outburst certainly would alarm the guard. Everyone from the castle midwife to the household
leronis
to Padrik himself would come rushing to cosset her, put her to bed, dose her with herb-laced goatsmilk and speculate endlessly over whether she were at last breeding.

She hadn’t told Padrik yet, for reasons that she herself did not completely understand. Her woman’s cycles had not yet ceased, yet she knew the night, the very hour, she had conceived. It had been the night this rain had begun, a mere tenday ago. She knew, too, that she carried a boy, the son and heir Padrik longed for. Ah well, there would be time enough for rejoicing. And for endless chatter over whether honey cakes or plum syrup gave a mother more milk. With her full breasts, she didn’t think she needed any help in that matter.

Lost in thought, Taniquel slowed her steps. A smile rose to her face, softening the tension between her brows. She turned back toward the balcony, facing away from the guard so that he would not see her hand low down on her belly. Beneath the finely woven amber wool, she touched muscle, flat and strong from hours on horseback.

How pleased Padrik would be. She would tell him when he returned tonight. He had taken the day to inspect the border defenses and renew his ties with the outlying vassal lords.

A noise crackled across the sky above the clouds, high and sharp-pitched. For an instant, Taniquel wasn’t sure if she’d heard thunder or felt it through her bones. She threw her head back just in time to see an elongated teardrop of some glassy material plummet through the layers of rain-swollen gray.

Taniquel had seen aircars as a child, at Hastur Castle. Her clan was one of those few rich enough to afford the fabulous devices and with telepaths strong enough to pilot them. The craft were powered by
laran
stored in batteries. They required huge expenditures of energy to charge them and highly skilled matrix technicians to guide their flight. As this one dipped, she got a better sense of its size and silhouette. It looked to be one of the smaller models, seating perhaps two passengers. And it was headed straight for the front of the castle, still descending sharply.

Without thinking, Taniquel hitched up her skirts and sprinted for the nearest alarm bell. She caught a glimpse of the guard’s face, confused and open-mouthed at the sight of her stocking-clad legs.

“Attack!” Screaming, she raced past him, not daring to slow an instant.

She skidded right into the bell, wrapped her hands around the rope, and yanked as hard as she could. After the first impact, the clapper swung of its own weight, faster and louder with each stroke. Her ears stung with the clamor as she pulled again and again. Behind her, men scrambled for the stairs.

Light flashed from the main gates below. Even through the vibration of the bell, Taniquel felt the stones beneath her feet shudder. Though the clapper continued in its momentum, she paused to look down.

Yellow tongues of fire laced the thick gray smoke, obscuring the entrance to the castle. A few soldiers and house servants darted here and there. One horseman was down, his mount knocked from its feet. It struggled up, flailing wildly and rolling over his lower body. One of the servants, a woman, dropped the yoked buckets she had been carrying and rushed to him.

The aircar turned to swoop down again, like a dragon from an ancient ballad returning to its prey. Its outer surface, like a curved mirror, reflected sky and stone, but for an instant, Taniquel caught sight of a figure in the cockpit, bent intently over its mechanism. As the aircar passed, a rain of arrows burst from the castle wall, but if any hit the mark, there was no sign. The smooth side of the aircar parted and out fell a handful of small glittering spheres, each no bigger than a child’s ball. They scattered as they fell, as if guided by an unseen hand. Where each one touched earth or castle wall, it exploded in a ball of light and clap of sound.

Clingfire?
By all the gods, did Damian Deslucido, who had menaced their northwest borders for the last two or three years, did he have
clingfire
at his command?

Taniquel’s blood ran like ice. Her body shook and her fingers gripped the unyielding stone of the parapet, tearing nail and skin, but she took no notice. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the conflagration below, struggling to make sense of what she saw. Each detail engraved itself upon her memory.

The second round of bombs spread out in a line, rather than being concentrated at the gates. The first attack must have involved a number of them, a cluster, judging by the amount of smoke.

The aircar circled once more before disappearing back into the clouds. On the muddy ground, the woman was still kneeling over the fallen horseman, but another of the servants and one of the soldiers had taken up her buckets, passing them in a line between the outside well and the wall.