other. Torn between love and duty, sworn brothers had chosen to immolate themselves rather than commit such an atrocity. It was a stirring melody, one which sent blood pounding and toes tapping.
Carlo hummed along, his body swaying unself-consciously. Finally, the last refrain came to an end and the girls headed off toward their chambers.
After they had gone, Varzil could not have said what part of the song moved him. He had heard it many times in different versions over the years. Nor was the girl’s performance, while pleasant enough, especially compelling. He only knew that the boy beside him had felt the same stirring of emotion. Perhaps, he told himself, it was being here in Arilinn, a place very much like the Towers of the song, among people very like those same heroes, and knowing himself to be one of them. Would he come to value them as ardently? Auster and Fidelis, even Lunilla, already had his respect and admiration, In time, Carlo would, too—but Eduin?
Varzil took a breath and let it out in a sigh. “I’m afraid I’ve already made an enemy,” he said. “And I don’t know why.”
“You mean Eduin? I’m glad you don’t consider me one.” Carlo said with an engaging grin. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a good enough sort once you get to know him. He is a bit serious, I suppose. He’s been here four years and is already training at the higher levels. He has a right to feel a bit superior to those of us who don’t have work in the circles.”
“You don’t?”
“Oh, sometimes, when the work’s not too technically demanding. I do whatever I’m allowed to, but everyone knows I’m not here to stay. I suppose you could say I’m on sojourn, training for the throne and not the Tower.”
“The—? Who—who are you, Carlo?”
Carlo dipped his head, showing the first hint of diffidence. “I thought you knew.” Eyes filled with gray light met Varzil’s. “I’m Carolin Hastur.”
Carolin Hastur. Hastur of Hastur, nephew and heir to King Felix. The death of Rafael II made Carolin the next ruler of the most powerful branch of the Hastur Kingdom.
It had been over two centuries since the Peace of Allart Hastur, which had brought an end to the long, bloody conflict between Ridenow and Hastur. Yet war still smoldered in the Hundred Kingdoms, breaking out in a dozen smaller conflicts. Hastur and Ridenow had not found themselves on opposing sides... yet.
On impulse, Varzil reached out and placed his fingers between Carolin’s loosely folded hands. It was not quite a gesture of fealty, and it would not have been fitting in any case.
Whatever happens, we two will be as brothers.
We must, came Carolin’s thought. Then, aloud, “I do not know why, but you belong here in this Tower, just as I belong in the world, and that for the sake of our world, we must build a bridge between the two.”
Like the bredini of the song. Embarrassed by his own romantic sentiment, Varzil pulled away. Without the physical contact, they dropped out of rapport. Something remained, as if they had indeed sworn themselves in that brief moment.
Everyone at Arilinn worked, not only at study and the discipline of laran, but the physical labor of maintaining the Tower. Lunilla was a masterful organizer, so within a week of Varzil’s arrival, he was taking his turns at pot scrubbing, floor sweeping, onion peeling, bundling linens into the town for laundry, and other errands.
“The kyrri are useful in their fashion,” she said, forestalling objections she’d heard a hundred times, “but they don’t think the way humans do. We’ve learned never to let them near a dirty plate or a basket of apples.”
One frosty morning about a month after he’d arrived at Arilinn, Varzil went out with Carolin, Eduin, Cerriana, and young Valentina, the girl with the ringlets, to pick apples. A small orchard of tart green fruit, perfect for pies and sauces, had been donated to the Tower by a grateful merchant whose wife and son had
Carlo hummed along, his body swaying unself-consciously. Finally, the last refrain came to an end and the girls headed off toward their chambers.
After they had gone, Varzil could not have said what part of the song moved him. He had heard it many times in different versions over the years. Nor was the girl’s performance, while pleasant enough, especially compelling. He only knew that the boy beside him had felt the same stirring of emotion. Perhaps, he told himself, it was being here in Arilinn, a place very much like the Towers of the song, among people very like those same heroes, and knowing himself to be one of them. Would he come to value them as ardently? Auster and Fidelis, even Lunilla, already had his respect and admiration, In time, Carlo would, too—but Eduin?
Varzil took a breath and let it out in a sigh. “I’m afraid I’ve already made an enemy,” he said. “And I don’t know why.”
“You mean Eduin? I’m glad you don’t consider me one.” Carlo said with an engaging grin. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a good enough sort once you get to know him. He is a bit serious, I suppose. He’s been here four years and is already training at the higher levels. He has a right to feel a bit superior to those of us who don’t have work in the circles.”
“You don’t?”
“Oh, sometimes, when the work’s not too technically demanding. I do whatever I’m allowed to, but everyone knows I’m not here to stay. I suppose you could say I’m on sojourn, training for the throne and not the Tower.”
“The—? Who—who are you, Carlo?”
Carlo dipped his head, showing the first hint of diffidence. “I thought you knew.” Eyes filled with gray light met Varzil’s. “I’m Carolin Hastur.”
Carolin Hastur. Hastur of Hastur, nephew and heir to King Felix. The death of Rafael II made Carolin the next ruler of the most powerful branch of the Hastur Kingdom.
It had been over two centuries since the Peace of Allart Hastur, which had brought an end to the long, bloody conflict between Ridenow and Hastur. Yet war still smoldered in the Hundred Kingdoms, breaking out in a dozen smaller conflicts. Hastur and Ridenow had not found themselves on opposing sides... yet.
On impulse, Varzil reached out and placed his fingers between Carolin’s loosely folded hands. It was not quite a gesture of fealty, and it would not have been fitting in any case.
Whatever happens, we two will be as brothers.
We must, came Carolin’s thought. Then, aloud, “I do not know why, but you belong here in this Tower, just as I belong in the world, and that for the sake of our world, we must build a bridge between the two.”
Like the bredini of the song. Embarrassed by his own romantic sentiment, Varzil pulled away. Without the physical contact, they dropped out of rapport. Something remained, as if they had indeed sworn themselves in that brief moment.
Everyone at Arilinn worked, not only at study and the discipline of laran, but the physical labor of maintaining the Tower. Lunilla was a masterful organizer, so within a week of Varzil’s arrival, he was taking his turns at pot scrubbing, floor sweeping, onion peeling, bundling linens into the town for laundry, and other errands.
“The kyrri are useful in their fashion,” she said, forestalling objections she’d heard a hundred times, “but they don’t think the way humans do. We’ve learned never to let them near a dirty plate or a basket of apples.”
One frosty morning about a month after he’d arrived at Arilinn, Varzil went out with Carolin, Eduin, Cerriana, and young Valentina, the girl with the ringlets, to pick apples. A small orchard of tart green fruit, perfect for pies and sauces, had been donated to the Tower by a grateful merchant whose wife and son had
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