Zandru's Forge by Marion Zimmer Bradley
Varzil could sense no disturbance in the energy net, no discord in the psychic resonances. Auster had done this work many times. The circle was more than able to manage the matrix. Cerriana had checked them all carefully before they began work, to make sure neither of the women was approaching her cycle, and no one was too tired for the demands of the work.
What, then? he asked. Cerriana?
I can find nothing amiss, only the trouble in your own thoughts. This was a polite way of telling him to attend to the business at hand.
Time lost its meaning, moments or hours passing as the circle continued to pour their focused thoughts toward their Keeper. The first container grew hotter. The more volatile elements began to evaporate and pass through the distillation apparatus.
One mote, one fragment at a time, the process of separation and purification continued. The circle finished one vessel and began the next. Through his closed eyes, Varzil envisioned the corrosive stuff as glowing, molten orange-red particles which possessed their own eerie beauty.
The colors wavered in Varzil’s mental sight, the outlines of the containers vibrating. When he was six, he had fallen from his pony and struck his head against a stone. His eyes had fractured a single image into three, five, a dozen, all jerking erratically. His nurse fussed and his father had forbidden him to ride for a week. But there was nothing wrong with his skull now.
He felt rather than saw the first crack in the thin-walled distillation tube, waited for a horrified second for Auster to reinforce it. The massed laran of the group was more than enough to stabilize a minor flaw and continue working.
Instead, the circle wavered, its unity unraveling. Strands of mental bonds tore free, whipped by invisible winds. At first, only a few, then more and more with each passing heartbeat. The circle faltered.
A worldless scream pierced the circle. It came from Auster.
On pure instinct, Varzil wrenched his focus free from the disintegrating net. His own mind shrilled in protest at the rupture, but he shoved the pain aside. With all his might, he plunged into Auster’s mind.
And found chaos. Darkness ravened through the orderly patterns of the Keeper’s consciousness, leaving howling emptiness in its wake. Thoughts formed, only to shred away into incoherent syllables, fragments of sound and color and taste. The mote that was Auster’s personality flailed against it. The more Auster struggled for control, the weaker and less coherent his efforts. His attempts to make sense of his own thoughts fueled the panic within him.
Varzil recoiled, caught between horror and paralysis. Like everyone else, he had trained first as a monitor. Working in the healing circles, he had treated both fleshly and mental wounds, the nightmarish aftermath of madness or pain too great for sanity, but never these gaping wounds, psychic as well as physical, never this numbing confusion.
Precious moments slipped by. A new pattern emerged in Auster’s mind, a stalemate of sorts. The damage—the gaps of emptiness—ceased to spread, and their movement slowed. Auster’s own thoughts strengthened, although the edge of desperation remained.
Auster!
I... I don’t know what happened ...
Images of searing light flooded Auster’s consciousness, jagged echoes behind his eyes. He looked out upon a circle of blank-eyed people, knowing he should recognize them. To one side, a woman in a white gown jerked upright, loose hair like a veil about her bloodless face.
Varzil! came Cerriana’s anguished mental cry. You must do something! He’ll break the circle—
What’s wrong with him?
Stroke... we must clear the blood vessels to his brain ... there is bleeding inside his skull...
Varzil deepened his rapport with Cerriana and together they shifted to the physical level.
Cerriana traced the network of arteries in Auster’s brain as they branched and narrowed. In many places, the usually smooth linings were thick and roughened. In others, Varzil saw crooked, tortuous paths instead of gentle curves.
There!
Where Cerriana indicated, the overlay of energy pulsed red and congested, involuting upon itself into blackness. Here an artery twisted and broke off into two smaller branches. Caught in the narrowed opening, fragments of shredded tissue tangled with rust-colored clots and fatty plaque. Beyond it, brain cells stuttered. One wall of the larger artery, weakened by pressure and layered scarring, had ruptured. Blood pooled, pressing against the delicate nerve tissues.
In horror, Varzil realized that the hemorrhage was perilously close to the laran centers of Auster’s brain.
Varzil dove into the pattern of cell and membrane. Working as quickly as he dared, he reinforced and stimulated fibrous cells to span the tear in the artery. This natural process was driven at a greatly accelerated rate by Varzil’s mental energy.
As soon as the breach was sealed off to prevent any new bleeding, Varzil began reabsorbing the clotted blood pressing on Auster’s brain tissue. He teased cells free from the matting of fibers, and sent a flood of scavenger cells and fluids to carry away waste and bring in nutrients. The work was not very different from healing tissues damaged by frostbite or gangrene, but here he was working inside a man’s brain.
Not any man‘s, but a Keeper’s. A man could live without a toe or even a foot. For anyone Gifted with laran, the loss would be far more devastating. And for a Keeper ... As a novice, Varzil had heard stories, whispered when their teachers could not hear, of leronyn who had taken their own lives, rather than live on as psychic cripples.
Moments passed with aching slowness, as Varzil rebuilt and cleared, cell by cell. He dared not push too hard or risk starting the bleeding afresh.
The crushing pressure on the brain eased. Like embers springing to life in a freshening wind, the cells recovered. If he had been in his physical body, Varzil would have wept.
Cerriana, meanwhile, had been restoring the blood flow inside the artery. She could not simply break up the clot, lest it be carried farther along and close off even smaller vessels. Instead, she had gone down, below the level of the cells, shifting the energy between elemental particles. Solid material softened, became liquid. She filtered the fragments, passing only those smaller than blood cells. The tiny trickle of blood became stronger with each passing moment.
Varzil soared with relief when he realized Auster would survive. Already the last resonances of the pain faded. Auster had regained enough alertness to remain quiet and cooperate with the healing. He might recover enough to have years more of active work.
Work—the circle! Varzil had been so narrowly, so desperately focused on saving Auster’s life that he had blocked out all everything else.
The clingfire!
27
In a flash, Varzil reached out with his mind to the circle. The psychic bonds resonated with the cracking vessel and the fracture of the melded minds. But, miraculously, the circle held. The clingfire sat on the worktable, safely contained.
The circle was no longer a tapestry of mental energies patterned by Auster’s signature technique. Instead, it had been transformed into a sphere of gossamer iridescence that bore the unmistakable imprint of Felicia’s laran.
It was not possible! From his first days at Arilinn, Varzil had been taught that women simply did not have the strength to do a Keeper’s work, that they lacked the psychic dexterity to produce a coordinated unity from disparate minds, to focus and channel those immense energies to the designated task.
Yet the circle had held. Held under Felicia’s sure control.
Felicia—a woman—had taken over as Keeper, against all the limitations of her sex, contrary to all tradition.
She was at the very limits of her abilities, holding a circle of only five minds linked through a seventh-level matrix. No Keeper in living memory had done such a thing. The slightest distraction might fracture that fragile unity.
He must do something. If he forced his way into the circle, he would increase their number to six. He had sufficient training as Keeper to assume the centripolar role and stabilize th
e new configuration. As soon as the thought arose, he knew it was impossible. The circle now belonged to Felicia as surely as if she had brought it together in the beginning. She had gathered up the unraveling strands of laran and reshaped them in her own way. He could not simply step into her position.
He would have to rebuild the circle entirely. That would take time, if only a few instants, but time he did not have. In the chaotic breach, he would risk damage to the entire circle, not only from the sudden, unprepared psychic dissolution, but from the clingfire itself. In its half-processed state, with the cracked container held intact only by laran forces, it could ignite or explode at the slightest lapse.
Between one heartbeat and the next, he knew what he must do. It would take every mote of skill he possessed. All of his training as under-Keeper was in how to control the collective minds of the circle, not how to submerge himself in another’s personality. Yet this was exactly what he must do.
Fighting his instincts, Varzil opened himself to Felicia’s mind. He could not afford even a hint of imposing his own pattern upon hers.
He felt as if he were gliding through layers of iridescent mist, like passing through the Veil of Arilinn Tower. The cool of a spring evening alternated with the kiss of autumn sun. Perfume swept through him, now the tang of wet earth stirring with green shoots, now the heavy must of grain ready for harvest, now the metallic cold of impending show. Smell, temperature, color—the pattern lay not in any individual factor, but in the rhythm of their change. He sensed the others not as disparate minds, but a blending of congruent elements. Somehow, Felicia evoked a resonant strain in each one and catalyzed a harmony which already existed, so that their energies amplified one another, building naturally in the direction of her guidance.
Let sun be warm and shade be cool, red be red and green be green, the thought came to him. He did not need to force any kind of change, only bend his will toward things being exactly as they were.
Felicia shifted the energies to include Varzil. Her mental control was rough-edged with inexperience, but sure. She knew exactly what she was doing, even if she had never done it before; the patterns of mental energy made deep, intuitive sense to her.
She gathered up their focused laran, intensified by the matrix, and bridged the crack in the clingfire vessel. Her surge of triumph spread through the joined minds of the circle.
Auster moaned, a low wordless sound. Varzil came instantly alert and felt the others in the circle do likewise. Had Auster been a stranger, he could not have affected their concentration, but each of them had, over the years, given his mind into Auster’s keeping, and the roots of that deep synergy remained. One by one, they dropped out of rapport.
One moment ago, Varzil had hardly been aware of his physical surroundings. Now, the air felt still and cold. Nausea swept through him. He took a shuddering breath.
The chamber erupted into movement and sound, the rustle of clothing, a gasp, a murmured exclamation. Gavin and Lorenz rushed to Auster’s side. Valentina jumped to her feet, toppling her bench, then wavered and crumpled into Richardo’s arms.
Beside the door, Cerriana bent over the telepathic damper. The field died.
Fidelis! Varzil called silently. Come quickly! Auster’s had a stroke!
How bad? came the muffled reply.
Cerriana and I stabilized him. He’s weak, but awake. I don’t think he can walk on his own.
The circle?
The rest of us are fine.
Footsteps pounded on the stairway below. Fidelis burst into the chamber, hair awry, still in his casual clothing. Auster protested weakly as Fidelis bent over him.
“Lie still, old friend,” Fidelis murmured. “Let us do our work.”
Cerriana outlined what had been done, using speech rather than communicating with laran to avoid distracting him. “I think we should get him out of here. It’s so cold, he could easily go into shock.”
“I’m all right,” Auster grumbled, slurring his words. “Just tired. What’s all the fuss?”
“You’ve had a stroke,” Fidelis said. “Gavin, Lorenz, make a chair carry to take him down to the infirmary.”
As they moved Auster from the room, Varzil took a quick measure of what else needed to be done. The clingfire was safe enough now and could stay where it was for the time being. The huge matrix still hummed with power. Valentina was recovering from her faint, in need of hot food and rest, but nothing more. Richardo would help her downstairs.
Only Felicia had not moved from her place at the table. Her face was very pale, her chest rising and falling like the fluttering wings of a bird. She stared straight ahead.
Varzil knelt beside her and took one of her hands between his. The slender fingers were stiff, almost icy. She made no response.
Felicia ...
Without thinking, he gathered her into his arms, wrapping her in flesh as well as mind. For a heartbeat, she relaxed against him.
It’s all right ... he told her. I’m here.
She stirred, pushing away. “Please, don’t fuss over me.” The psychic contact faded as she drew away. Barriers, thin and patchy, rose in her mind. She kept her gaze downcast.
“Don’t fuss—after what you did?”
“What I—I don’t know—Auster—he was taken ill—and the circle—the clingfire—Felicia tore away, scrambling to her feet, and backed up almost to the far wall. Shivering visibly, she wrapped her arms around her body. Her breath came in gasps. ”No, I didn‘t—I couldn’t have—“
White-rimmed eyes met his. “It was you—”she stammered. “You’re a trained under-Keeper. You mended the vessel, you kept the circle together. That’s it, that’s the way it happened—it must have!”
“Felicia, stop!” Varzil grabbed her shoulders. The physical contact jolted through both of them. Her words fell away, along with the shreds of her barriers.
They had been so closely linked in the circle, their minds so finely attuned, that now the rapport remained. In some ways, she was as unlike him as he could imagine. Each of them had their own story, private and hidden, that no other could ever fully share. But in other ways, embracing her mind was akin to looking into a mirror.
At last, Varzil became aware of her trembling, that she once more leaned against him. Her fingertips pressed into the muscles of his arms. To his mental question, she murmured, “I am cold ... and hungry. But I do not want to go down and be among the others.”
“I’ll bring you a meal in your room.”
Felicia sighed and nodded. He helped her down the stairs, steadying her when her balance wavered.
By the time they reached Felicia’s chamber in the women’s section, Varzil, too, was shaking with hunger and exhaustion. Felicia could barely talk.
She sank down on her bed. The quilts were thick down, decorated in applique with a Tree-of-Life pattern. Birds spread their satin wings and nestled in the patchwork branches. He took a moment to stir the embers in the grate and add kindling. The temperature in the room was rising noticeably by the time he left.
When Varzil returned, he found Felicia wrapped in the Tree-of-Life quilt. She’d brought out a small folding table and placed it within easy reach. He set down the tray with its beaker of steaming jaco, honeyed nut rolls, and covered dishes of soup and barn fowl stewed with fruit. She lifted the cover of the tureen and sniffed appreciatively.
“Ah, Lunilla’s good bean soup. I feel better already.” She moved over, making room for him on the bed.
With the first spoonful, Varzil’s hunger awoke in force. For a time they ate in companionable silence, each bent on replenishing the energies drained during the last hours. The warm food filled his body. Lassitude filled his muscles. His head seemed to weigh as much as a mountain. Varzil was acutely aware of Felicia’s nearness, both her body sitting beside him and her mind, still in rapport with his. There was much to say, and even more that needed no words. This was a good thing, he thought, because he wasn’t sure he could form a coherent sentence. Getting back to his
own chambers would be a monumental task. He gathered himself, taking a breath to fuel the effort.
Felicia laid one hand upon his shoulder, no more than a feather’s weight. He felt it as a shimmering bolt down the center of his body, through. all the depleted laran channels. She slipped her arms around him and he felt himself sinking slowly, as if moving through honey. The bed seemed to rise up to greet him. She pulled the Tree-of-Life quilt over them both. Warmth surrounded him, seeped into him.
He brushed his lips against hers and she sighed in pleasure. Her breath was sweet against his face. Neither of them could do more, between exhaustion and the lack of sexual desire that accompanied active matrix work. Lying in each other’s arms, still in their working robes, slipping into sleep, Varzil felt an intimacy he had not dreamed possible. They were part of one another, as much as the breath they shared.
When he awoke, she was standing at the window. The night was almost over. Pale light illuminated her features, taut and still. He slid from the bed, using the quilt like a cape, and wrapped them both in it. Her posture softened, but only a little.
“What is it, preciosa?”
I fear what has been set in motion. Oh, Varzil, I greatly fear it.
You have done something amazing. You are amazing.
She pulled away, turning so that her eyes caught the gray light. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not—”
“We must think of what to say.” She began pacing, absently pushing back her coppery curls. “If we convince them you were responsible, that I was only a member of the circle, just a technician doing my own work—”
“Felicia! What are you talking about?” His voice rose in pitch without his intention. “Are you suggesting we should try to hide what happened—that you held the circle—that you acted as Keeper? I will not—I cannot—claim credit for what you accomplished last night ”
Now she faced him full on, her face such a mixture of warring emotions as to wring his heart. In that brief time when she had seized control of the circle, remaking it to the pattern of her mind, some part of her had leaped to life, as hot and eager as any flame. And yet—
What, then? he asked. Cerriana?
I can find nothing amiss, only the trouble in your own thoughts. This was a polite way of telling him to attend to the business at hand.
Time lost its meaning, moments or hours passing as the circle continued to pour their focused thoughts toward their Keeper. The first container grew hotter. The more volatile elements began to evaporate and pass through the distillation apparatus.
One mote, one fragment at a time, the process of separation and purification continued. The circle finished one vessel and began the next. Through his closed eyes, Varzil envisioned the corrosive stuff as glowing, molten orange-red particles which possessed their own eerie beauty.
The colors wavered in Varzil’s mental sight, the outlines of the containers vibrating. When he was six, he had fallen from his pony and struck his head against a stone. His eyes had fractured a single image into three, five, a dozen, all jerking erratically. His nurse fussed and his father had forbidden him to ride for a week. But there was nothing wrong with his skull now.
He felt rather than saw the first crack in the thin-walled distillation tube, waited for a horrified second for Auster to reinforce it. The massed laran of the group was more than enough to stabilize a minor flaw and continue working.
Instead, the circle wavered, its unity unraveling. Strands of mental bonds tore free, whipped by invisible winds. At first, only a few, then more and more with each passing heartbeat. The circle faltered.
A worldless scream pierced the circle. It came from Auster.
On pure instinct, Varzil wrenched his focus free from the disintegrating net. His own mind shrilled in protest at the rupture, but he shoved the pain aside. With all his might, he plunged into Auster’s mind.
And found chaos. Darkness ravened through the orderly patterns of the Keeper’s consciousness, leaving howling emptiness in its wake. Thoughts formed, only to shred away into incoherent syllables, fragments of sound and color and taste. The mote that was Auster’s personality flailed against it. The more Auster struggled for control, the weaker and less coherent his efforts. His attempts to make sense of his own thoughts fueled the panic within him.
Varzil recoiled, caught between horror and paralysis. Like everyone else, he had trained first as a monitor. Working in the healing circles, he had treated both fleshly and mental wounds, the nightmarish aftermath of madness or pain too great for sanity, but never these gaping wounds, psychic as well as physical, never this numbing confusion.
Precious moments slipped by. A new pattern emerged in Auster’s mind, a stalemate of sorts. The damage—the gaps of emptiness—ceased to spread, and their movement slowed. Auster’s own thoughts strengthened, although the edge of desperation remained.
Auster!
I... I don’t know what happened ...
Images of searing light flooded Auster’s consciousness, jagged echoes behind his eyes. He looked out upon a circle of blank-eyed people, knowing he should recognize them. To one side, a woman in a white gown jerked upright, loose hair like a veil about her bloodless face.
Varzil! came Cerriana’s anguished mental cry. You must do something! He’ll break the circle—
What’s wrong with him?
Stroke... we must clear the blood vessels to his brain ... there is bleeding inside his skull...
Varzil deepened his rapport with Cerriana and together they shifted to the physical level.
Cerriana traced the network of arteries in Auster’s brain as they branched and narrowed. In many places, the usually smooth linings were thick and roughened. In others, Varzil saw crooked, tortuous paths instead of gentle curves.
There!
Where Cerriana indicated, the overlay of energy pulsed red and congested, involuting upon itself into blackness. Here an artery twisted and broke off into two smaller branches. Caught in the narrowed opening, fragments of shredded tissue tangled with rust-colored clots and fatty plaque. Beyond it, brain cells stuttered. One wall of the larger artery, weakened by pressure and layered scarring, had ruptured. Blood pooled, pressing against the delicate nerve tissues.
In horror, Varzil realized that the hemorrhage was perilously close to the laran centers of Auster’s brain.
Varzil dove into the pattern of cell and membrane. Working as quickly as he dared, he reinforced and stimulated fibrous cells to span the tear in the artery. This natural process was driven at a greatly accelerated rate by Varzil’s mental energy.
As soon as the breach was sealed off to prevent any new bleeding, Varzil began reabsorbing the clotted blood pressing on Auster’s brain tissue. He teased cells free from the matting of fibers, and sent a flood of scavenger cells and fluids to carry away waste and bring in nutrients. The work was not very different from healing tissues damaged by frostbite or gangrene, but here he was working inside a man’s brain.
Not any man‘s, but a Keeper’s. A man could live without a toe or even a foot. For anyone Gifted with laran, the loss would be far more devastating. And for a Keeper ... As a novice, Varzil had heard stories, whispered when their teachers could not hear, of leronyn who had taken their own lives, rather than live on as psychic cripples.
Moments passed with aching slowness, as Varzil rebuilt and cleared, cell by cell. He dared not push too hard or risk starting the bleeding afresh.
The crushing pressure on the brain eased. Like embers springing to life in a freshening wind, the cells recovered. If he had been in his physical body, Varzil would have wept.
Cerriana, meanwhile, had been restoring the blood flow inside the artery. She could not simply break up the clot, lest it be carried farther along and close off even smaller vessels. Instead, she had gone down, below the level of the cells, shifting the energy between elemental particles. Solid material softened, became liquid. She filtered the fragments, passing only those smaller than blood cells. The tiny trickle of blood became stronger with each passing moment.
Varzil soared with relief when he realized Auster would survive. Already the last resonances of the pain faded. Auster had regained enough alertness to remain quiet and cooperate with the healing. He might recover enough to have years more of active work.
Work—the circle! Varzil had been so narrowly, so desperately focused on saving Auster’s life that he had blocked out all everything else.
The clingfire!
27
In a flash, Varzil reached out with his mind to the circle. The psychic bonds resonated with the cracking vessel and the fracture of the melded minds. But, miraculously, the circle held. The clingfire sat on the worktable, safely contained.
The circle was no longer a tapestry of mental energies patterned by Auster’s signature technique. Instead, it had been transformed into a sphere of gossamer iridescence that bore the unmistakable imprint of Felicia’s laran.
It was not possible! From his first days at Arilinn, Varzil had been taught that women simply did not have the strength to do a Keeper’s work, that they lacked the psychic dexterity to produce a coordinated unity from disparate minds, to focus and channel those immense energies to the designated task.
Yet the circle had held. Held under Felicia’s sure control.
Felicia—a woman—had taken over as Keeper, against all the limitations of her sex, contrary to all tradition.
She was at the very limits of her abilities, holding a circle of only five minds linked through a seventh-level matrix. No Keeper in living memory had done such a thing. The slightest distraction might fracture that fragile unity.
He must do something. If he forced his way into the circle, he would increase their number to six. He had sufficient training as Keeper to assume the centripolar role and stabilize th
He would have to rebuild the circle entirely. That would take time, if only a few instants, but time he did not have. In the chaotic breach, he would risk damage to the entire circle, not only from the sudden, unprepared psychic dissolution, but from the clingfire itself. In its half-processed state, with the cracked container held intact only by laran forces, it could ignite or explode at the slightest lapse.
Between one heartbeat and the next, he knew what he must do. It would take every mote of skill he possessed. All of his training as under-Keeper was in how to control the collective minds of the circle, not how to submerge himself in another’s personality. Yet this was exactly what he must do.
Fighting his instincts, Varzil opened himself to Felicia’s mind. He could not afford even a hint of imposing his own pattern upon hers.
He felt as if he were gliding through layers of iridescent mist, like passing through the Veil of Arilinn Tower. The cool of a spring evening alternated with the kiss of autumn sun. Perfume swept through him, now the tang of wet earth stirring with green shoots, now the heavy must of grain ready for harvest, now the metallic cold of impending show. Smell, temperature, color—the pattern lay not in any individual factor, but in the rhythm of their change. He sensed the others not as disparate minds, but a blending of congruent elements. Somehow, Felicia evoked a resonant strain in each one and catalyzed a harmony which already existed, so that their energies amplified one another, building naturally in the direction of her guidance.
Let sun be warm and shade be cool, red be red and green be green, the thought came to him. He did not need to force any kind of change, only bend his will toward things being exactly as they were.
Felicia shifted the energies to include Varzil. Her mental control was rough-edged with inexperience, but sure. She knew exactly what she was doing, even if she had never done it before; the patterns of mental energy made deep, intuitive sense to her.
She gathered up their focused laran, intensified by the matrix, and bridged the crack in the clingfire vessel. Her surge of triumph spread through the joined minds of the circle.
Auster moaned, a low wordless sound. Varzil came instantly alert and felt the others in the circle do likewise. Had Auster been a stranger, he could not have affected their concentration, but each of them had, over the years, given his mind into Auster’s keeping, and the roots of that deep synergy remained. One by one, they dropped out of rapport.
One moment ago, Varzil had hardly been aware of his physical surroundings. Now, the air felt still and cold. Nausea swept through him. He took a shuddering breath.
The chamber erupted into movement and sound, the rustle of clothing, a gasp, a murmured exclamation. Gavin and Lorenz rushed to Auster’s side. Valentina jumped to her feet, toppling her bench, then wavered and crumpled into Richardo’s arms.
Beside the door, Cerriana bent over the telepathic damper. The field died.
Fidelis! Varzil called silently. Come quickly! Auster’s had a stroke!
How bad? came the muffled reply.
Cerriana and I stabilized him. He’s weak, but awake. I don’t think he can walk on his own.
The circle?
The rest of us are fine.
Footsteps pounded on the stairway below. Fidelis burst into the chamber, hair awry, still in his casual clothing. Auster protested weakly as Fidelis bent over him.
“Lie still, old friend,” Fidelis murmured. “Let us do our work.”
Cerriana outlined what had been done, using speech rather than communicating with laran to avoid distracting him. “I think we should get him out of here. It’s so cold, he could easily go into shock.”
“I’m all right,” Auster grumbled, slurring his words. “Just tired. What’s all the fuss?”
“You’ve had a stroke,” Fidelis said. “Gavin, Lorenz, make a chair carry to take him down to the infirmary.”
As they moved Auster from the room, Varzil took a quick measure of what else needed to be done. The clingfire was safe enough now and could stay where it was for the time being. The huge matrix still hummed with power. Valentina was recovering from her faint, in need of hot food and rest, but nothing more. Richardo would help her downstairs.
Only Felicia had not moved from her place at the table. Her face was very pale, her chest rising and falling like the fluttering wings of a bird. She stared straight ahead.
Varzil knelt beside her and took one of her hands between his. The slender fingers were stiff, almost icy. She made no response.
Felicia ...
Without thinking, he gathered her into his arms, wrapping her in flesh as well as mind. For a heartbeat, she relaxed against him.
It’s all right ... he told her. I’m here.
She stirred, pushing away. “Please, don’t fuss over me.” The psychic contact faded as she drew away. Barriers, thin and patchy, rose in her mind. She kept her gaze downcast.
“Don’t fuss—after what you did?”
“What I—I don’t know—Auster—he was taken ill—and the circle—the clingfire—Felicia tore away, scrambling to her feet, and backed up almost to the far wall. Shivering visibly, she wrapped her arms around her body. Her breath came in gasps. ”No, I didn‘t—I couldn’t have—“
White-rimmed eyes met his. “It was you—”she stammered. “You’re a trained under-Keeper. You mended the vessel, you kept the circle together. That’s it, that’s the way it happened—it must have!”
“Felicia, stop!” Varzil grabbed her shoulders. The physical contact jolted through both of them. Her words fell away, along with the shreds of her barriers.
They had been so closely linked in the circle, their minds so finely attuned, that now the rapport remained. In some ways, she was as unlike him as he could imagine. Each of them had their own story, private and hidden, that no other could ever fully share. But in other ways, embracing her mind was akin to looking into a mirror.
At last, Varzil became aware of her trembling, that she once more leaned against him. Her fingertips pressed into the muscles of his arms. To his mental question, she murmured, “I am cold ... and hungry. But I do not want to go down and be among the others.”
“I’ll bring you a meal in your room.”
Felicia sighed and nodded. He helped her down the stairs, steadying her when her balance wavered.
By the time they reached Felicia’s chamber in the women’s section, Varzil, too, was shaking with hunger and exhaustion. Felicia could barely talk.
She sank down on her bed. The quilts were thick down, decorated in applique with a Tree-of-Life pattern. Birds spread their satin wings and nestled in the patchwork branches. He took a moment to stir the embers in the grate and add kindling. The temperature in the room was rising noticeably by the time he left.
When Varzil returned, he found Felicia wrapped in the Tree-of-Life quilt. She’d brought out a small folding table and placed it within easy reach. He set down the tray with its beaker of steaming jaco, honeyed nut rolls, and covered dishes of soup and barn fowl stewed with fruit. She lifted the cover of the tureen and sniffed appreciatively.
“Ah, Lunilla’s good bean soup. I feel better already.” She moved over, making room for him on the bed.
With the first spoonful, Varzil’s hunger awoke in force. For a time they ate in companionable silence, each bent on replenishing the energies drained during the last hours. The warm food filled his body. Lassitude filled his muscles. His head seemed to weigh as much as a mountain. Varzil was acutely aware of Felicia’s nearness, both her body sitting beside him and her mind, still in rapport with his. There was much to say, and even more that needed no words. This was a good thing, he thought, because he wasn’t sure he could form a coherent sentence. Getting back to his
Felicia laid one hand upon his shoulder, no more than a feather’s weight. He felt it as a shimmering bolt down the center of his body, through. all the depleted laran channels. She slipped her arms around him and he felt himself sinking slowly, as if moving through honey. The bed seemed to rise up to greet him. She pulled the Tree-of-Life quilt over them both. Warmth surrounded him, seeped into him.
He brushed his lips against hers and she sighed in pleasure. Her breath was sweet against his face. Neither of them could do more, between exhaustion and the lack of sexual desire that accompanied active matrix work. Lying in each other’s arms, still in their working robes, slipping into sleep, Varzil felt an intimacy he had not dreamed possible. They were part of one another, as much as the breath they shared.
When he awoke, she was standing at the window. The night was almost over. Pale light illuminated her features, taut and still. He slid from the bed, using the quilt like a cape, and wrapped them both in it. Her posture softened, but only a little.
“What is it, preciosa?”
I fear what has been set in motion. Oh, Varzil, I greatly fear it.
You have done something amazing. You are amazing.
She pulled away, turning so that her eyes caught the gray light. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not—”
“We must think of what to say.” She began pacing, absently pushing back her coppery curls. “If we convince them you were responsible, that I was only a member of the circle, just a technician doing my own work—”
“Felicia! What are you talking about?” His voice rose in pitch without his intention. “Are you suggesting we should try to hide what happened—that you held the circle—that you acted as Keeper? I will not—I cannot—claim credit for what you accomplished last night ”
Now she faced him full on, her face such a mixture of warring emotions as to wring his heart. In that brief time when she had seized control of the circle, remaking it to the pattern of her mind, some part of her had leaped to life, as hot and eager as any flame. And yet—