Zandru's Forge Read Free Page B

lighted room beyond it opened onto a broad terrace.
    Surely not even the ballroom of the greatest castle on Darkover could be so grand, Varzil thought. Tapestries covered the walls, glowing with rich colors, depicting scenes of hunting parties, chieri dancing in the forest beneath the four moons, eagles soaring over the Hellers. The floor tiles formed an intricate mosaic pattern that was at once lavish and soothing to the eye. At the far end of the room, a fire filled the air with warmth and a touch of incense.
    Armchairs and a long bench piled with cushions formed a rough half circle around the fireplace. A woman and two men sat there, talking in low tones. The woman met Varzil’s gaze. She was about the age of Varzil’s favorite aunt, short and compact without being fat, the wrinkles around her eyes giving her the appearance of being perpetually on the edge of laughter. She got to her feet and dismissed the men with a gesture, something no woman in Varzil’s family would ever dare to do.
    “Off with you, too, Carlo,” she told the red-haired youth.
    “But—” he protested.
    She folded her arms across her ample, shawl-wrapped chest, silencing him. “What happens now is not your affair.”
    The youth delivered an impeccably polite bow and left the room through the archway at the far end, but not without a quick wink at Varzil.
    Varzil’s breath caught in his throat. After the years of longing, the months of planning, the night’s escape, and the long hours of waiting, things were happening much too fast.
    Once, while climbing the craggy hills near Serrais in search of eagle feathers, Varzil had lost his footing and tumbled down a pebbled slope. Rock and sky had whirled together as stones pelted his body from a dozen different directions at once. He’d slid to a stop and lain there for a long time, panting and bruised, gazing up at the cloudless sky with amazement that he was still alive.
    He felt that way now, although his body was unhurt. Dimly, he heard the woman’s voice talking about a hot breakfast. He felt her hands on his shoulders, guiding him to a chair beside the fire.
    “Sweet Evanda, you’re half frozen!” she exclaimed. “Not to mention—” Varzil could not follow her next words, “—energon channels—just as if you’ve been working two solid nights without a break!”
    The next moment she pressed a cup of steaming jaco into his hands. He felt the heat through the heavy ceramic with its intricate incised pattern, the smoothness of the glaze. The jaco had been sweetened with honey and laced with some herb he did not recognize. He swallowed it obediently, though it burned his tongue. Only then did he realize how badly he was shivering.
    “Here, get this into you,” the woman said, handing him a bowl heaped with some kind of nut porridge and topped with cream. “Can you hold the spoon?”
    Varzil’s fingers curled around the handle. His hand shook, but he managed a mouthful of the stuff. Whatever happened, he was not going to be fed like a baby.
    The porridge turned out to be a mixture of oats, hazelnuts, and dried apples, seasoned with cinnabark. It tasted wonderful, blending the earthiness of the grain, the crunchiness of the nuts, and the chewiness of the fruit.
    Varzil’s vision returned to focus and his hands steadied. He thanked the women, adding, “This is very good.”
    “It should be,” she said, again reminding him of his aunt. “Eat it all up. Lord of Light, boy, you look as if you haven’t had a decent meal in a tenday!”
    Varzil lowered the spoon. “I’m grateful, vai domna, but I didn’t come here to beg a meal.” He handed her back the bowl.
    “I won’t hear such prideful nonsense,” she retorted, shoving it back at him. “I’m house mother to all the novices here and when I say eat, they eat. Even the royal ones. Is that clear?”
    Varzil had not taken more than another two or three spoons ful when the door at the far end swung open and a tall,