Zandru's Forge by Marion Zimmer Bradley

room. He was too shy to join in, for his singing voice, never very good, would probably come out like the croak of the frog hidden in Fra’ Domenic’s infamous pockets. He hesitated to join the older people’s conversations, not before he’d sorted out the lines of influence, who had opposed his admission and who had taken his part. Then he spotted Carlo and the other youth from the balcony, sitting over a board game. Carlo’s height and fiery hair were unmistakable.
    Carlo gestured him closer. “Do you play castles? We need a fresh challenger.”
    Varzil dipped his head. “Yes, I used to play with my grandfather. But I don’t want to interrupt your game.”
    “Oh, this one’s dead anyway.” Carlo indicated the pieces spread across the board. “We’ve worn the play to exhaustion, just like a bad war. Now there’s nothing left but to thwack away at each other until the bitter end. What’s the fun in that?”
    “That’s the point of the entire game,” said the other boy, “to persevere until victory.”
    Now that he saw the other boy close up, Varzil was struck by how serious, almost grim, he looked. Unlike most of the others, his hair was brown rather than red, his arched brows dark against pale, unblemished skin. His features were thin, the deep blue eyes stark, the mouth small above a pointed chin. Yet there was no delicacy about him, rather a steely strength.
    “I rather thought,” Carlo said dryly, “that the point was to exercise one’s mind. Not to mention an amusing way of passing the hours on long winter nights. Stubborn endurance has nothing to do with it.”
    Endurance —the very word which had sprung to Varzil’s mind as he’d steeled himself for the long wait outside Arilinn Tower on that first frosty morning.
    “I think endurance has everything to do with it,” he said, clearly startling the others. “Sometimes the board is very tidy and full of possibilities. But sometimes,” he copied Carlo’s gesture, encompassing the board with its assortment of lackluster pieces, “it’s like this, and you just have to keep trying. That’s the real challenge, isn’t it? To create something of meaning when all seems lost.”
    Eduin gave him a surprised look, but Carlo laughed. “You remind me of my riding master, who said the true test of a horseman was not what he could do on a spirited horse, for any ham-handed dolt could look good on a beast that’s prancing and eager to go. To take a worn-out stable drudge with a mouth like saddle leather and bring it to life— that requires real skill.”
    “He’s mocking us, Carlo,” Eduin said, glaring at Varzil.
    “You have little grounds to object,” Carlo replied with good humor. “After all, he’s taking your part.”
    Varzil did not know what he had done to provoke Eduin, but clearly the dark-haired boy disliked him. In another circumstance, he would have apologized, but he sensed that nothing he said would appease Eduin. So he pulled the third stool back a little from the table and sat down, murmuring, “Please go on.”
    Eduin turned away, but before Carlo could comment, an older man in formal green robes rose. There was a general bustle as most of the others put away books or musical instruments. One woman tucked away her sewing in a basket and got to her feet.
    “Well, that settles it,” Eduin said with an obvious attempt at better humor. “You two can thwack away at each other all night.” Some of us have work to do.
    Carlo shrugged and turned back to the board. In a few minutes, only the red-haired girl and another younger one, with a mass of strawberry-blonde ringlets pulled back with a ribbon, and the two boys were left in the room.
    The red-haired girl began singing a ballad in a low, sweet voice. Varzil could not make out all the words, but he recognized the melody. The song told the story of the fall of Neskaya and Tramontana, how the folk in one Tower had been forced to rain psychic lightnings upon their kinfolk in the