A Flame in Hali by Marion Zimmer Bradley
Then came the work of rebuilding the matrix screens, particularly the relays. Few travelers had visited Cedestri since the fire-bombing, so the Tower was cut off from news. The main road seemed to be blocked, but it was not until Varzil, working with a partly-constructed screen and his own starstone, was able to reach Hali Tower, that they learned why. The single aircar that had continued on, refusing to be dissuaded by Varzil’s argument, had been attacked by forces from Valeron and its deadly contents scattered. The road and the surrounding countryside were contaminated, and no one knew how long the poison would persist. If it behaved like the bonewater dust it resembled, that might be a generation or more. Varzil sent out word for any who traveled there to seek help at a Tower.
“I do not have much hope that we will be able to reach all of them,” he told Dyannis, “for with war between Aillard and Isoldir brewing yet again, people flee, seeking safety wherever they imagine it lies. The pity of it all is that in such a conflict, there is no safety.”
When he said this, they had been standing together at the window of the largest house in the village, the headman’s own dwelling, given over to their use until the Tower could be rebuilt. From its balcony, a simple wooden railing, they could see the tumbled walls of a once-graceful Tower. The rising sun cast a rusty glow over the scene as if it, too, bled.
Dyannis thought of the lives that had slipped through her grasp, broken in body or spirit.
How many of those deaths are my fault? How many would still be alive if I had chosen differently?
“Chiya.” Varzil touched her gently with his fingertips across the back of one wrist. “You must not take that burden upon yourself. In the past, you have acted rashly, but your instincts have always been sound.”
“Perhaps, but not my discipline. If only—”
“How long are you going to carry that single lapse like a stone-filled sack upon your back? You have been judged by your own Keeper, and he is satisfied.”
“You make light of my crime, calling it a ‘single lapse.’ Yet I almost repeated it along the road.”
She left the brightness of the window and retreated into the room. This early in the day, the only light came naturally through the opened shutters. Candle wax and laran were in far too short supply to be wasted in illuminating rooms for people who were not working.
Varzil was trying to hearten her, she thought, to assuage the guilt that rumbled like distant thunder in her mind. He was so good, so true and loving, that he could not see the shortcomings in others. Nothing he said erased the memory of those dying minds, the hearts and souls that her own impetuousness had destroyed.
I will never be free from what I have done.
“Now you are being willful and self-indulgent,” he said in a sterner voice.
Stung, Dyannis turned back. Something in Varzil’s voice, or perhaps a trick of lighting or glimmer of laran power, made him seem taller. He was no longer merely her big brother, but the most powerful Keeper on Darkover.
“If you truly wish to make restitution,” he went on, “consider your present actions. The past is behind us, and nothing you can do will change it; the future cannot be known. If you truly feel indentured to those you injured, you have no right to cripple yourself with idle self-recrimination. Your talents do not belong to you alone, but to the people you serve. You say you accept responsibility, yet when it comes to honoring that obligation, you behave no better than a spoiled child!”
Heat rose to her cheeks; the last time she felt like this was when they had clashed over her first love affair. Then she had thought Varzil was opinionated, domineering, and interfering. He had no right to command her against her own desires. She had done as she pleased, as her heart bade her. Now, he was not only her brother, but the Keeper of Cedestri Tower, and for the time being, her Keeper. He had every right to upbraid her.
Dyannis wanted to lash out at him, to shout back that he should mind his own business, but in doing so, she would only prove the rightness of his accusation. A spoiled child, indeed! Part of her atonement must therefore be acceptance of whatever censure he saw fit to inflict upon her. She gathered the shreds of her dignity around her. “I will do so no more.”
“That is a fair reply,” he said.
Working together with the townspeople, Dyannis and Varzil, along with those Cedestri leronyn who were able, cleared away the worst of the rubble. Large sections of the walls, both outside and interior, remained, although some of the stones had been cracked by the intense heat and must be replaced. Francisco was not yet able to do this energy-draining work.
Standing in the shadow of the Tower one afternoon, Dyannis gazed upward, her eyes following the broken outline, the streaks of black still marring the beautiful stone. Her first impression of the physical structure had been one of grace, shattered, and she had never lost that feeling. Cedestri Tower reflected the world in all its imperfect grandeur.
The other members of their improvised circle assembled, two men and a woman from the original Tower. Two other women, including the young monitor Dyannis met when they first arrived, stayed in the town for the continued healing of the most severely wounded.
“A fair day to you,” Earnan said, nodding. He was the youngest of the three Cedestri workers, sweet-faced and eager to try new things.
She smiled at him, and also at Niall and Bianca, although she didn’t like either of them personally. Niall hated authority and had to be flattered into his best efforts, and Bianca, although sobered by the Aillard attack, was no better, being fonder of resentment than patience. They nodded back at Dyannis, reserved but impeccably polite.
Today they were going to raise the largest stones to complete a chamber suitable for a matrix laboratory. It would be a long, exhausting session, with little energy to spare for petty irritations.
Cedestri Tower had long had a tradition of joining hands when forming a circle. Dyannis found the physical contact a little distracting at first, but accommodated herself to it. These people had been traumatized enough; it was a simple enough thing for the comfort of familiarity. Varzil, as the circle’s Keeper, didn’t seem to mind, one way or another.
Dyannis closed her eyes, focusing inwardly upon an image of an open sky. She knew from long experience that this was the best way to set aside petty irritations that might form a barrier to the circle. Instead, she imaged herself a falcon, wings spread wide to catch the faintest air currents.
The wind caught her, sustained her, carried her upward . . .
Her heart leaped in her throat at the sheer pleasure of soaring. From one pulse beat to the next, she felt herself drop into rapport with the rest of the circle under Varzil’s infallible mental control.
A sense of rightness and order suffused her. If she became a Keeper, this is how it would be.
If.
She felt Varzil gather the combined laran power of the circle, shaping it subtly, deftly, felt the rough granularity of the first stone, the lingering hum and chisel of its fashioning, the intrinsic taste and weight.
Air . . . stone . . . breathe . . . in and out and up . . . It was as natural as the rhythm of her own body. She poured her strength into the psychic linkage.
Slowly, the stone rose. Her mind sensed it as a series of overlapping images, of tiny motes of substance spinning through emptiness, of spheres of shimmering power forming and reforming within the larger field of laran. She held the stone and guided it to rest in its precise position. It took no effort at all. Weight and size no longer mattered, only the power streaming through her mind. In that moment, she felt as strong as a Hellers peak, her touch as steady, and yet as fluid as clear water.
Air . . . stone . . . fire . . . water . . . Each element complemented and balanced the rest, parts of a perfect whole. Air and stone might change places, like dancers moving through a complex figure, but it was all the same. Nothing was added or taken away, nothing burdened or strained. Everything was as it should be.
The next stone rose at her unvoiced command. She
There came a time, however, when she felt the final stone slip into place. The entire building hummed like a rryl coming to life in the hands of an expert musician. The Tower had originally been built by laran, and its energy imprint remained. The physical and the psychic resonated in harmony.
Enough. Break now.
The words echoed through her mind in a voice not her own. She shivered, suddenly aware of her individual separateness, the shell of fragile, human flesh. Around her, the unity of the circle dissolved.
Dyannis caught her breath, blinking her eyes open. Her fingers felt stiff from holding Varzil’s hand on one side and Earnan’s on the other. When she lifted her gaze, she saw the completed roof of the Tower, the soaring arch of her vision.
Earnan let out a whoop of joy. Varzil turned to Dyannis, a smile lighting his gray eyes. The world blurred around the edges. She bent over, fearing she might disgrace herself by fainting. Someone hurried up with a plate of food, a confection of nuts, dried peaches, and honey. She stuffed a piece into her mouth and let the concentrated sweetness dissolve on her tongue. Her vision steadied and nausea receded.
“We all need food and rest,” Varzil said, “for today we have accomplished a great feat. Soon we will begin moving the Cedestri folk back into their home.”
Dyannis emerged from sleep to a sound like pebbles cascading over the roof. She shared the second-story room in the headman’s village house with two of the Cedestri leroni, the three sleeping together in the master’s own bed, for there was little room to bring in even a pallet; the house was roofed with fired-clay tiles instead of thatch. Pale light sifted in through the single window across the room. She shivered, drawing the bedcovers around her shoulders as she sat up.
Bianca pushed the door open with one elbow and sidled in, carrying a tray. She wore a thick shawl crossed over her chest and then tucked under her belt. She set the tray down on the bed, rummaged in the pile of clothing on the single straight-backed chair, and handed another shawl to Dyannis.
“It’s hailing outside, can you believe? The storm came out of nowhere last night.” From her tone, she thought some vengeful Tower had sent it expressly to annoy her.
“It’s late in the season for hail,” Dyannis said. She looked at the tray, a little puzzled that it seemed to be intended for her. Bianca had always acted as if her laran Gifts placed her above the work of a servant.
“That is as it may be,” the other woman replied. “If you don’t eat your breakfast, it’ll get cold, that much is certain.”
Dyannis took a piece of honey-smeared nutbread and wished laran work did not require so many sweet foods. Just yesterday she’d eaten more than she would in a month. One bite led to another, as if her body still craved the concentrated energy. She finished off three pieces before she turned to the pots of cheese curds and preserved fruit.
Dyannis had never been one to lie abed once she was awake, although for a fleeting second, she understood the allure of indolence. As soon as her appetite was satisfied, she pulled on a thick wool underdress and began her stretching exercises. Her body felt as stiff as if she’d slept for a tenday. Eventually, the rhythmic movements loosened her muscles. She finished dressing and went out to see what the day had to bring.
She found Varzil in conference with Francisco, sitting together in the single chamber of the Tower that had been largely untouched by the fire-bombing. It was on the ground floor, a small snug room once used for teaching but now the heart of the Tower community. Maps and diagrams covered the central table.
Varzil smiled as she entered. “You have anticipated our summoning you.”
“Good morning to you, brother,” she answered, feeling a bit impish. “Dom Francisco, I am glad to see you well.”
“It is some hours into the afternoon, and you have slept for two days,” Varzil said. “We have already inspected the repairs and laid out plans for the interior restoration.”
“Two days! No wonder I was so hungry.” Dyannis sat down. “I will have to step merrily to catch up with you. What’s the work for today?”
Francisco paused for a moment before replying. The sunlight streaming through the windows accentuated the deep lines in his face, the jutting projection of jaw and cheekbone. The near destruction of his Tower and his own injuries had weathered him beyond his years. When he spoke, however, his voice was firm.
“It is said that what the gods grant, they also take away,” he said, “and I believe the reverse must be true. Before this catastrophe, we at Cedestri and our masters in Isoldir lived in a constant state of desperation. How could we defend ourselves against the might of Valeron, which seemed to threaten our very existence? Not by force of ordinary arms, that much was sure.
“As you know,” he went on with a slight inclination of his head toward Varzil, “we have never accepted the imposition of any outside restrictions upon our actions. In recent years, we were approached by disaffected workers from other Towers, who could not in conscience abide by King Carolin’s Compact. They saw us as an honorable and legitimate alternative and we welcomed their skills, although perhaps we were overhasty in several cases. Sometimes there were other reasons why a laranzu found himself unwelcome in his former community.
“Be that as it may,” Francisco continued, “when we discovered a previously unknown, untapped power source of immense magnitude, we rejoiced. By ourselves, we had insufficient laran to produce the kinds of weapons Isoldir needed to balance its lesser force against Valeron. By harnessing this power stream, our single circle became the equivalent of three or four.”
Dyannis sensed his memory of that discovery, the surge of triumph. It frightened her as much as the idea of a novice loose in a laboratory of twelfth-order matrices. Given Isoldir’s desperation, all considerations of safety, all fear of consequences would be swept aside in the passion of hope. She knew where it had led. She had seen the mill Cedestri had constructed in the Overworld, had stood beneath the Isoldir aircars on their way to rain poison upon Aillard lands. She had watched Cedestri burn.
Beside Francisco, Varzil sat quietly, letting the other man find his way through the story.
“When Aillard retaliated, I saw how vain our pride had been.” Francisco’s voice dropped a tone. “I cursed them, and I cursed you, too, Varzil, for having interfered with our attack. I thought—” and here he gave a bark of laughter, “—that if only we had succeeded, there would have been an end to it. There would have been no retaliation, no fire raining from the Aillard aircars. Valeron would have been a wasteland until our children’s children’s time. Instead, we would have achieved enduring security for Isoldir, for who else would dare to menace us, when we were thus armed?
“How wrong I was! I think I must have had a brain fever to make me think that way. Now I see there could have been only one result of our actions. Even if by some miracle we had triumphed, it would have brought us only a temporary peace. Sooner or later, some other kingdom, driven by that same desperate fear, would have launched an attack against us, or we would have found a new enemy. This time, our enemy might not be as merciful as Valeron. Yes, I call this merciful.”
He gestured to the partly-restored Tower around them. “Merciful because they used ordinary fire instead of clingfire; we had something left to rebuild, and some few precious lives spared. And . . .” his voice cracked, “. . . and we had help beyond any right or expectation.”
“We did only what any people of good will would have done,” Varzil said mildly.
Now who is being overly modest? Dyannis shot at him.
“If you had come to us earlier with fine speeches and asked us to sign your Compact, I would have sent you away and then laughed at you behind your back,” Francisco said. “I would have thought you fools and cowards.”
Varzil gave a wry smile. “It has happened before, and wil
“Ah, but in this case, your deeds preceded your words and gave them substance. You put into practice your doctrine of fellowship and compassion. I know perfectly well that King Carolin Hastur has nothing to gain from my gratitude. I, on the other hand, have seen the price of continuing as we are. My masters of Isoldir agree, though it can be said they have little choice, without a single functioning Tower to defend them. They would not even have what little we can offer, were it not for your assistance.” His gaze took in Dyannis as well as Varzil.
She started to say that there had been no question of refusing aid. What did allegiances matter, when her fellow leronyn were suffering? The loss of one Tower diminished them all. The words that sprang to her mind seemed but pale echoes of her brother’s. She held her tongue.
“Therefore, at our urging, Isoldir has agreed to abide by the Compact. A messenger brought formal word this morning, and Varzil is to carry the signed oath back to Thendara.” Francisco’s joy radiated like an aureole of light around his weary features.
Caught up in Varzil’s own jubilation, Dyannis felt her heart give a little lurch. So you see, she could almost hear Varzil say, what seemed like a disaster has in the end brought good not only to this poor land but to all Darkover.
“This is all very well,” Dyannis said, her thoughts spinning in a more practical direction, “but if you are to return to Thendara, Varzil, how will we continue our work here?”
“The physical rebuilding of the Tower is largely complete,” Francisco answered her. “Isoldir will send masons and carpenters to help with the interior. Thanks to your efforts, I am strong enough now to resume limited duties.”
Dyannis restrained herself from pointing out that Varzil’s departure would deprive the Cedestri circle not only of its temporary Keeper, but of his extraordinary laran.