The Gazels

Chapter 11

The pilot, who had thought of Damion only as a native friend of the Legate’s, regarded him with new respect.

The headman took them inside his own house, a snug cottage with three separate rooms, its stone walls daubed with mortar to keep out the wind. Like many mountain dwellings, it was situated to make use of the light and to present a solid face to the prevailing wind. After accepting offerings of food, hot drink, and the best place by the fire, Damion asked that riding animals and a guide for the journey to High Windward be provided, and also accommodations in the village for the pilot.

They passed an uneventful night. The headman insisted that the Carmen Lord must sleep in his best bed and would not be persuaded otherwise. As a youth, Damion had slept on the ground while working the fire-lines, and the bunks in the cadet barracks had not been much softer. He would have been just as happy curled up in a blanket before the hearth.

The next morning, as daybreak seeped across the cragged eastern horizon and shadows lay thick across the frozen fields, Damion and Dan took their leave. The headman’s grown son brought out two mountain ponies, clearly the best that could be had, one antlered chervine laden with supplies and blankets, and another saddled for riding. The villagers clustered around them, women bundled in layers of woolen shawls, children like round-bellied puppies in their thick jackets, and men with windburned faces and bright eyes.

Damion swung up on his pony. At his height, his feet dangled, and he was already anticipating sore muscles. The beast was unprepossessing in appearance, its rust-black coat so thick and ragged that it looked like a badly shorn sheep. Its long tail brushed the ground, and little could be seen of its eyes through the tangle of its forelock. Dan’s mount could have been its twin, except for a crescent of white on its off-side rump.

They set off, the headman’s son in the lead. The bridle rings and the bells on the harnesses of the chervines chimed brightly. Damion reined his pony beside Dan’s. To his surprise, the animal had easy gaits and a pleasant, willing manner. Truly, it was the best the village had to offer.

Late in the day, they reached the steep trail leading to the gates of High Windward. Set among chasms and crags, the castle had been originally constructed as a fortress. It was said to date back to the Ages of Chaos, and legend had it that the walls had been raised by power in a single day. Centuries had weathered the stone, leaving the castle like an old toothless dragon, melting back into the rock from which it had sprung. Only the great Sunrise Tower, a soaring structure of translucent stone, seemed untouched by time.

Since Damion could remember, the Storns had been peaceful country lords without any pretense of great power, living amicably with their neighbors and content to trade their fine hawks as well as precious metals from the mountain forges.

They were spotted long before they reached the gates, and a welcoming party emerged. The gates stood open, but they looked in excellent repair. The men who came out to greet them wore swords and looked competent in their use. Damion recognized one of them as having served in the City Guards. A murmur spread through the welcome party.

Damion clamped down his power barriers, but not before he caught the edge of the guards’ thoughts. Carmen . . . The Heir himself . . .

Would he never be free of it, free to be simply Damion?

After making sure their guide and animals would be properly cared for, fed and given warm shelter, Damion allowed himself to be conducted inside. Dan followed him like a shadow.

The ancient custom of hospitality still ran strong in the mountains, where life itself depended on the goodwill of strangers against the common enemies of cold and avalanche, wolf and banshee and worse.

The coridom welcomed them in true mountain style, refraining from inquiring about their business until their physical needs had been attended to. He escorted them through the vaulted hall, very old by its design, and into a suite of rooms in a more modern section. Panels of wood as golden as sunlight on honey covered the stone walls. Newly lit fires warmed the sitting room and also the two adjacent bedrooms. A servant brought a basin of water scented with herbs, soap, and towels. A moment later, while Damion was still exchanging courtesies with the steward, a second servant arrived with jaco and hot spiced wine. After they had warmed themselves and washed, the coridom himself returned to conduct them to the solarium, where Lady Linnea waited to receive them.

The coridom led them through a series of back hallways, avoiding the major halls where Damion would be easily recognized and a subject of great curiosity, not to mention extravagant hospitality. Linnea knew how much he hated that kind of ostentatious attention.

The solarium, like those common in mountain castles, was a pleasantly intimate room. Carpets cushioned the center of the worn stone floor, and comfortable chairs and divans had been placed for conversation or family activities. Although it was almost dark outside the thick, mullioned windows, the air inside the room still held the sun’s warmth. A fire, newly lit, danced in the hearth. Linnea sat on one of the stools before it, picking out a melody on a ryll, while a little girl of ten or so accompanied her on a reed flute.

Linnea’s head was bent over her instrument, the light of the fire heightening the red- auburn of her curls. The folds of her woolen gown, a shade of green that made her look like a wood sprite, fell gracefully to the floor. An old dog slept at her feet, and a plump middle-aged woman sat knitting in a corner.

For a long moment, Damion could not speak, could not move. The domesticity of the scene, the love evident between mother and daughter, woke a hunger in him. He had never known his parents, for his father had been killed before he was born, ambushed by outlaws wielding Compact-illegal weapons. His mother had died soon afterward, of a broken heart, it was said. In their place, his grandfather had been a stern and undemonstrative guardian only too glad to send his young grandson to be educated at Nevarsin. The only warmth Damion had known as a child had come from his older sister, Javanne, herself thrust too soon into adult responsibilities and a politically advantageous marriage.

Damion had thought that the love he shared with Dan and the satisfaction of knowing he had done his duty were the best he could expect in life. He had not known, until this moment, that he could want more.

While Damion stood, transfixed by the unfamiliar emotions boiling up within him, Linnea finished the musical phrase and set aside the lap harp. She met his gaze with unaffected directness. Even across the expanse of the room, Damion was struck by the purity of her features, her heart-shaped face, her wide gray eyes, and her air of utter composure. The girl glanced at her mother and g

ot to her feet.

“Lord Damion.” Linnea rose, but did not curtsy. As a Keeper, even one who no longer worked as such, she bowed to no man. “You lend us grace. Stelli, this is your father.”

She did not ask why he had come.

Before Damion could say anything, the child approached him. She had Linnea’s eyes, he saw, but the jawline of his own people. Her hair, the same shade of copper as his had been at her age, fell in two gleaming braids down her back. As she met his gaze, Damion realized that she was younger than he had supposed; she would be eight or nine now. It was her height, her slenderness, and her movement, graceful as a chieri, that made her appear older. Her smile brought radiance to her entire face.

Kierestelli. This must be the daughter conceived during the brief, intense time when the World Wreckers almost destroyed their world. That a creature of such grace and beauty could have come from such a black and desperate time amazed Damion.

“Papa, is it really you?” Flute in hand, she ran to him.

For an instant, Damion had no idea how to respond. Surely, she could not remember him, for he and Linnea had separated when she was very young. Could she? He had no time to answer the question before the child flung herself into his arms. He lifted her up, hugging her in return before he realized what he was doing. Her body was agile as a dancer’s and her hair smelled like a mountain stream. Awkwardly, he set her down.

“I am sorry if I have offended you, Father,” she said. The formal words sounded odd, coming from the mouth of a child. “Mother says I forget myself in gladness.”

“And so you do,” Linnea said gently. “I think your father is not used to the excitement of children. Make your farewells, and go off to the nursery.”

Kierestelli flashed Damion another brilliant smile and skipped cheerfully from the room, accompanied by the middle-aged woman. The room fell silent except for the crackling of the fire.

Linnea gestured to the half-circle of chairs before the hearth. “Damion, will you sit down? And Dan as well? Shall I send for jaco or ale? The ale’s quite good; High Windward has a skillful brewmaster.”

Her homely reference helped to break the tension. Damion and Dan settled themselves, and she took a seat opposite them.

“Had you a pleasant journey?” she asked, when they declined refreshment.

“It was well enough, thank you,” Damion said. “We came by aircar as far as Black Rock village.”

Linnea nodded. “It’s a long day’s ride at this season, but I remember attending the harvest festivals there as a child.” She paused, waiting for him to say more.

“You look well, and so does Kierestelli,” he said.

She gave a little laugh. “As you see, we are both very well. Damion, I cannot believe that you came all this way, and risked taking a piantsan flying-machine into these mountains, simply to inquire after my health. Please tell me why you have come. Has something happened? Is it your grandfather?”

“No, there is nothing wrong with him beyond his years,” Damion hastened to assure her. “I came to ask a favor and also to see you. It has been too long.”

“It has been a long time.” Linnea glanced away, for the first time a trifle unsure; then she gathered herself to face him directly. “What favor?”

He’d forgotten how straightforward she was, how plain and unaffected in her speech. She’d never been rude, having been brought up with all the social niceties of their class, but years as a Keeper, coupled with a natural frankness, had stripped away conventional insincerities.

As simply as he could, Damion told her about Felix Lawt. At the end, he said, “Will you come to Thendara to work with him?”

“Thendara is far away,” she said, her tone guarded. “It’s hard to believe that there is no qualified leronis nearer.”

“There is no one else with your training who is not committed to work in the Towers. The Bridge Society healer can help him through the worst of his threshold sickness, but she cannot teach him how to use his power. She thinks he may have the potential to become a Keeper.”

You more than anyone knows how important it is to nurture such a talent.

Her gray eyes widened, but only for an instant. “It would not be a simple matter to move to Thendara. I have made a life here. High Windward is my home. And there is Kierestelli to consider. You have seen your daughter, Damion. How do you think she would fare in a city?”