The Bronze of Eddarta E-Book

Randall Garrett

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Gandalara Cycle
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 257

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

After a meteor explosion, Rikardon wakes in a new body—and in a strange desert land named Gandalara, where a sacred gem known as the Ra'ira grants its owner the power to rule—or to destroy… Gharlas, the murderous caravan leader who stole the Ra'ira, has left Raithskar and fled across the desert. His destination is Eddarta, a city rife with corruption and slavery. And Rikardon, along with his telepathic warcat, Keeshah, and the beautiful illusionist Tarani, intend to be waiting when he gets there. Tarani soon learns of another reason to journey to the distant city. Her mother, Zefra, is still living and married to Eddarta's High Lord, Pylomel. Despite her rank, Zefra is little more than a prisoner herself—and her revelations about Tarani's heritage put the travelers in mortal danger from the ruthless ruler and his ambitious son. Outnumbered yet determined, Rikardon and Tarani must rescue the gemstone before Gharlas sets his insane plan in motion… and before their luck finally runs out.

Leseprobe

The Bronze of Eddarta

Copyright © 1983 by Randall Garrett and Vicki Ann Heydron.All rights reserved.

Published as an e-book in 2014 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

Cover design by Tara O'SheaImages © Dreamstine

ISBN 978-1-625670-29-8

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Preliminary Proceedings

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

End Proceedings

About the Authors

Also by Randall Garrett & Vicki Ann Heydron

PRELIMINARY PROCEEDINGS:INPUT SESSION THREE

—Ah, it is you. Is it time to begin once more?

—If it suits you, Recorder.

—And your shoulder?

—The pain of the remembered wound has faded, as you said it would. I feel quite well again, and ready to continue.

—Then be comfortable, and we will prepare by reviewing the material you have already given to the All-Mind.

You spoke of the uniting of two lives, one nearly ended, one barely begun. You were Ricardo Carillo, in a world outside the Walls of Gandalara. You saw a fireball, which you call a meteor, and after an undetermined period of unconsciousness, you awoke in Gandalara, sharing the body—and some of the memories—of a young man named Markasset.

—And sharing his telepathic bond with a member of Gandalara’s intelligent feline species, a sha’um.

—Markasset’s father, Thanasset, was implicated in the theft of a political treasure, a jewel called the Ra’ira.

—At first, I wanted only to prove that Thanasset—a man I liked and respected as soon as I met him—was innocent. Later, however, I accepted the task of recovering the gem and returning it to its protected place in Raithskar.

—A duty you shouldered reluctantly.

—That’s a little unfair, Recorder. I had no idea, at first, that the Ra’ira was anything more than an ordinary, if uncommonly valuable, gemstone. In Ricardo’s world, such beautiful jewels had often been surrounded with a mystique of charm or danger. I assumed that the Ra’ira had attracted a connection with the transfer of political power.

—I meant no implication of blame. I Record; I do not judge.

—And I must apologize for my short temper. The fact is, I suppose, that I blame myself. Perhaps if I hadn’t spent so much time trying to avoid responsibility for the Ra’ira …

—Such speculation is useless to the All-Mind.

—Of course it is. Again, my apologies.

—In any case, when you discovered the true nature of the Ra’ira, you didn’t hesitate to commit yourself to its recovery.

—By then, I felt I had no choice. Only a few people knew how dangerous the Ra’ira could be. It was a telepathic tool, a transmitter which could amplify the native mind-talent of a Gandalaran. The ancient Kings had used the Ra’ira to keep absolute control over Gandalara.

—You shiver. Are you cold?

—The image of the old Kingdom makes me shudder. Ricardo had some experience with societies in which expressing an opinion that disagreed with governmental precepts could send an individual into confinement, or worse. The concept of watching every word you say is appalling enough, but under the corrupt Kings, your very thoughts could betray disloyalty or discontent. I hadn’t quite believed Thanasset when he told me that the slaves, sent as tribute to the last Kings, never rebelled against their lot. Once I understood about the Ra’ira, I could see how fearful they must have been … how demoralized … how utterly without hope.

—You said you felt you had no choice but to pursue the Ra’ira. Was it because of your sympathy for the ancient slaves?

—Yes, and because somebody had to do it. Thymas and Tarani and I were convinced that we had been brought together for the purpose of opposing Gharlas’s insane plan to reconstruct the Kingdom. If he tried, we were sure he would succeed only in creating a civil war that would destroy and demoralize Gandalara. We weren’t sure we could stop him—but we knew we had to try to return the Ra’ira to the protective custody of the Council of Supervisors in Raithskar.

—Are you ready to continue the Record?

—I am ready, Recorder.

—Then make your mind one with mine, as I have made mine one with the All-Mind …

WE BEGIN!

1

I was on my way back to Volitar’s old workshop. I had been to the market area of the city to “mail” some letters and buy a map. Both letters were already on their way to Raithskar—one by caravan, the other tied to the leg of a maufa, the fast-flying message bird of Gandalara.

Caravans could move no faster than their vleks, the goat-size pack animals that were only slightly more stupid than stubborn. It would take Illia’s “Dear Jane” letter nearly fifty days to reach her. It was possible—not likely, but possible—that I could be back in Raithskar with the Ra’ira before she got that letter, and I approved of that idea.

Illia had loved Markasset, and his memory of that relationship made Illia very special to me. I felt I owed it to her to tell her, in person, that I couldn’t just settle into the ordinary domestic life she and Markasset might have shared.

It was also possible that I wouldn’t get back to Raithskar alive. That’s why I had written the letter—it was better than letting her believe that I hadn’t thought of her at all after our sweet farewell.

Thanasset would receive his letter in only a few days, the bird-handler had assured me. His maufa wouldn’t take it directly to Raithskar, because he couldn’t direct a bird to a place where he, himself, had never been. His maufa would take the message to another maufel in Chizan, who would send it with one of his own birds.

I had watched, fascinated, while the old man had held the small gray-green bird in front of his face. He had laid his forefinger against its white bill, and stared into one bright eye for a few seconds before flinging it up into the air. I watched the bird fly, the thin strip of leather trailing after it, until it was out of sight.

That’s another kind of mind skill, I realized. Like a Recorder’s conscious link with the collective memory of the All-Mind. Like a Rider’s telepathic bond with his sha’um. Those skills are—well, not common. But accepted, at least.

It’s the “mindpower,” the ability to influence another persons mind, that’s scary. Tarani has it, and it scares her. Gharlas has it, and HE scares ME. I have some resistance to his power because I’m “double-minded,” and it’s non-Gandalaran Ricardo who controls Markasset’s body and memories. But even I’m not immune to it. The sooner we take Gharlas out of action, the better.

The letter to Thanasset told him, in guarded terms, what I was doing. He was one of the Supervisors, and he knew what the Ra’ira was. He had tried to get me appointed to the Council so that I could be told the truth. My message to him was, essentially: “I understand. I’ll bring it back.”

When the bird had finally disappeared, I had gone to several letterers, looking for a map that would tell me where Eddarta was. Markasset had only the vaguest notion, which didn’t surprise me. His interests had been more physical than scholarly—a trait which had saved “our” life more than once.

I was delighted to find a map which showed all of Gandalara, and with that important piece of parchment folded and tucked into my belt, I started the climb back to Tarani and Thymas.

Dyskornis sprawled across the feet of the rising hills which supported three tiers of glassmaking workshops, built out from steep slopes so as to make annual replacement of the breakable firebowls under the glass kilns practical. Further down the hill, a smaller, noisier city catered to the trade of transients. Beyond that lay marked lots planted with the hard-wooded trees that provided glassmakers with heat during one work season, and ash for the glass mix in the next.

Following the road, I walked between open fields with their grasslike ground cover. A writhing shape of tan, bright against the green, caught my eye—Keeshah, rolling in the glossy field.

*Come here, and I’ll scratch that itch for you,* I invited him.

He rolled once more, then stood up from the greenery. He was more than ten yards away from me, but I could see the glint of his tusks as his lips pulled back from a huge yawn. He came toward me slowly, and I left the road to meet him halfway. I was fascinated by the ripple of muscle across his broad chest, which was almost on the same level as my shoulder. When we met, I reached under the massive wedge of his head to scratch his chest first.

*Feels good,* he told me. He laid his bulk on the ground and rolled half over.

*Hey, I thought it was your back that itched,* I thought though I put both hands to work, combing torn plants out of the thick, pale fur on the sha’um’s belly.

*Itch everywhere,* he complained. *Don’t like this place.*

*When we leave, Keeshah, we’ll be on the road for a long time. How are your wounds doing?*

Following the directions of my hands and mind, he rolled over to his stomach and crouched patiently while I searched through his fur for the remnants of the scratches and gouges he had taken during his fight with the other sha’um. They were no more than faint lines in the newly healed skin.

I was surprised, but in the next instant I reminded myself that Tarani’s gift of healing sleep had shortened my own recovery by at least half. I flexed my right shoulder; all that remained of the double stab wound was a twinge, and even that seemed noticeably less sharp than it had yesterday.

A far-off rumbling sound washed down the hillside to us, and Keeshah and I both looked up toward Volitar’s workshop. Standing half in, half out of the downslope shade was Thymas’s sha’um, Ronar. He looked in our direction for a moment, then paced into the light, paused, turned, and paced back into shadow.

*Was that comment directed at us?* I asked Keeshah.

*No.*

His mind closed down around that answer, as it always did when he discussed the other sha’um—or, for that matter, the sha’um’s master. I scratched idly where Keeshah liked it the most, just at the base of his neck, while I watched the other cat pacing.

As far as I had learned in Gandalara, the direct mind-to-mind communication which Keeshah and I shared was a unique bond between a sha’um and his Rider. I had talked with Tarani about her link with the huge white bird who had been with her for four years. It was a limited kind of communication, consisting only of images, and requiring intense concentration. It also seemed hard for the maufel to give his instructions to his bird. Keeshah and I maintained a constant, nearly subconscious link. Intense emotions, especially fear or anger, flowed readily along that link. Conversation required a conscious decision, but not much effort.

Among themselves, sha’um used vocal and physical signals, and except for rare people like Tarani and Gharlas, the Gandalarans had to depend on voice and attitude. But Riders had a special … well, sometimes it might be considered a handicap. No matter what a man pretended, or really wanted to believe, his true feelings were mirrored in the action of his sha’um.

Tarani had been the one to tell me that. Ronar had refused to allow her to ride him, but Keeshah had accepted her as second rider without hesitation. She had pointed out that their behavior reflected our attitudes, and there was no denying the truth of it.

Thymas, entrenched in the male-militarist traditions of the Sharith, had been scandalized by the idea. Both Markasset and Ricardo had grown up free of Sharith tradition, so Rikardon’s decision was based only on consideration of Tarani’s comfort. Her alternative to riding one of the sha’um had been swinging and bouncing between the huge cats in a cargo net.

So I tried, now, to read what Ronar could tell me about Thymas. The boy had told me he was impatient to get going, in spite of the fact that he and Ronar were only partially healed. I had been hearing his words as false bravado, but in watching Ronar, I realized that he really was feeling restless and confined.

And what, I wondered, is Keeshah saying about the way I feel? Am I—

*Bored,* came Keeshah’s complaint, as if in answer. I laughed. He raised up on his forelegs a little, and swung his head suddenly, catching me in the side and knocking me into an ungainly somersault.

“Hey—mmph!” I yelled. I came upright spitting greenery and skidding down the slope. Before I could get good purchase, I felt a whack on my shoulders, and I was tumbling again. I yelped once more when my injured shoulder caught all my weight. I let my body relax; one last roll, and I slid to a halt, facedown.

I lay there, keeping both mind and body as still as I could. I couldn’t hear Keeshah approach, but I could feel his breath on my neck when his anxious thought reached me.

*Rikardon?*

It was as though time had turned back, and I lay upon salty sand, instead of the fragrant grassy stuff in which my face was buried. Keeshah had called me Markasset then …

I had meant to “play dead” as a joke on Keeshah. By the time I realized how cruel that was, I couldn’t give up the ruse because I was caught up in a memory, immobilized by it.

It wasn’t my memory. It was Keeshah’s.

I felt the torrent of his anguish as Markasset died, felt in my own throat Keeshah’s scream of grief, in my own hands and feet the pull of the killer’s flesh against his razor claws. I grieved for the emptiness in his mind. I ached for the touch of hand on fur.

I felt his need to run, to roar, to speak to his own kind, in his own way, of the lost kinship. And I felt the other need, the strange one, the unbidden knowing. The need to wait.

I felt his wonder when he sensed new life within the dead shell of his friend. I felt his caution, his hesitation, his awareness that this new person would perish without his help.

In Keeshah’s persona, I accepted responsibility for myself.

In Keeshah’s memory, I touched the stranger’s mind—my own—and found it strong and clear, but needful.

As Keeshah, I accepted Ricardo.

I was Keeshah, and every muscle thrilled with the joy of the bond with my new friend, with a fierce pride in our partnership …

Suddenly, I was back in the present, nearly overcome by the unexpected sharing of Keeshah’s intimate memory, totally ashamed of having frightened him.

I rolled over, and Keeshah snapped his head back in surprise.

*Keeshah,* I rushed into the apology, *I’m sorry. I’m not really hurt—hey! What the!…*

It never crossed my mind to be afraid of Keeshah, even though my own reaction to that sort of joke would have been anger. But I wasn’t prepared for his surge of gladness. He was so happy that I wasn’t hurt that he forgot I could be. A sha’um’s idea of mischief …

When I dragged myself through the door of the two-story house attached to Volitar’s workshop, Thymas and Tarani both stared at me in amazement. I looked down at my clothes. Blue tunic and tan trousers, even my leather boots, carried ground-in green and brown stains. I felt an itch behind my ear, slapped an unbeautiful insectish creature to the floor, and stepped on it.

“Keeshah was bored,” I said.

2

I wasn’t expecting a roar of laughter, but I had hoped for a smile or two. Tarani tried to oblige, but the shape of humor didn’t rest well in her tense face. I glanced at Thymas, sitting sullenly on his pallet, pretending to mend a cargo net that was perfectly whole, and I understood how she felt. She had been alone with Thymas most of the day, and the boy’s self-loathing was a tangible, oppressive burden to anyone around him.

“I saw Ronar moving around,” I said. “How is he feeling, Thymas?”

“He is nearly healed,” the boy said. He threw down the net and stood up with nearly his old grace. If I hadn’t been watching for it, I never would have seen the flash of pain in his eyes as he stretched the muscles around the still-mending wound in his side. “We are ready to travel.”

Now, everybody in the room knew that was an out-and-out lie. Ronar had lain low for days after his fight with Keeshah, before he came forward to offer my sha’um his undefended throat. That gesture of surrender was partially Thymas’s idea—a reflection of the boy’s guilt feelings—but it could never have happened if Ronar hadn’t been badly injured and demoralized, himself. Tarani had used her hypnotic/psychic skills to help him, but Thymas’s sha’um had slept only one night under her spell. The body healed itself faster in that restful sleep, but it still needed a minimum of time to do the job. Ronar was hardly “ready to travel”—at least, not at the grueling pace we had kept since leaving Thagorn.

But I said: “Good. We’ll leave in the morning, then.”

I walked over to the dining table, unfolded the map which I had, fortunately, lost during Keeshah’s first assault, and later retrieved. I ignored Tarani’s questioning look, and spread the parchment out on the table.

“The Walls of the World.” I had wondered about that term, while I was still only Ricardo. When I had acquired Markasset’s memories, I had also, inevitably, acquired his viewpoints. At every opportunity, I made a conscious effort to step aside from them, but lately there hadn’t been much opportunity. I’d been worrying too hard about staying alive to think much about Markasset’s complacent acceptance of the limits of his world.

Now, in a two-dimensional image of Gandalara, the edges of the “world” were clearly marked.

As in the fragmented maps I had seen, a thick, dark line winding its way across one long edge of the map represented the Great Wall. Gandalaran charting conventions placed the Great Wall at the top of the map. Though I was sure the Wall didn’t run truly east-west, it did mark the northern edge of Gandalara, so Ricardo was fairly comfortable with using such a map.

The southern border was marked off into sections. At the left edge of the map was a feature with the intriguing name of Valley of Mists. From it, the Wall of Mist ran eastward below the Kapiral Desert toward the Morkadahl Mountains, where it merged into the unnamed mountain range which butted up against the Korchis to form the Chizan Passage. East of the Zantro Pass, one of the two high crossings that enclosed Chizan, the southern wall was divided into three sections. The Rising Wall began at Inid, the Refreshment House at the foot of the slope leading down from the Zantro. It approached a plateau isolated from the walls, and became the Desert Wall. Further east, it was known as the River Wall.

I put the index finger of my right hand on a spot marked in the middle of the River Wall. “This is Eddarta,” I explained to Thymas and Tarani, who were looking over my shoulders. I hooked a chair out with my foot, and sat down to give them a clearer view.

“And Dyskornis is here.” Tarani touched the map.

Thymas studied the area between our markings. “Gharlas will take the quickest route,” he said. “Tarani—which way?”

Without hesitation, Tarani said: “South.” She moved her finger as she talked. “The main caravan route to Eddarta follows the line of Refreshment Houses. Inid. Haddat. Kanlyr. Iribos. You have said that Gharlas was a caravan master—that is the way he must have traveled before.”

The shortest way home is the way you know best, I thought. She’s probably right.

Thymas was peering at the map closely, muttering to himself. “Five days to Inid, another five to Haddat. He’s four days ahead, but with the sha’um …” He tilted his head. “We should catch up with him midway between Haddat and Kanlyr.”

“Correction,” I said. “We would catch up with him—if he went that way, which I think is likely, and if we followed him, which we aren’t going to do.”

“Not follow—”

I held up a hand to cut off Thymas’s explosion. “Use your head. There’s nothing in that direction but Refreshment Houses. Tarani, you tell us—what is the southern route like?”

“The way from Inid to Kanlyr lies in a trench between dry hills. I have gone no further, but that far, at least, it is a miserable trip.” She smiled a little wistfully. “That’s why my troupe did so well through there; the caravans were desperate for some distraction from the journey.”

I nodded, thinking that Gharlas had traveled the main caravan route regularly between Eddarta and Raithskar, yet had never seen Tarani, who had entertained caravans with her dancing and illusions. The odds against his missing her had to be enormous.

But there’s no doubting it—he was astonished when he finally put it together that Volitar’s phantom “niece” was the illusionist he had heard so much about.

Call it destiny, I thought. Call it fate. Call it scrambled eggs, if you like. But Gharalas wasn’t meant to know about Tarani until we all met here in Dyskornis.

“Right,” I said. “So we’re going to follow the Great Wall—” I traced the northern route with my finger. “—past all these little towns.

“The reasons we are going to do it this way,” I said, forestalling something else Thymas started to say, “are threefold.

“First, there are towns and rivers north of us, which means that the countryside is more hospitable, and it’s likely the sha’um can hunt for their meals along the way.

“Second, Gharlas is crazy, but not foolish. He’ll expect us to follow him. There’s no telling what sort of traps he’ll leave along the way.

“Third, I hope he won’t expect us to be waiting for him in Eddarta when he gets there.”

“You mean you’re going to let him reach his home territory?” Thymas demanded.

I sighed. Why is it that the only time he sounds like himself, is when he’s arguing with me?

It was Tarani who answered the boy. “You’re forgetting that Gharlas is more than just an Eddartan, Thymas. He’s a caravan master. He probably knows every vlek-handler from here to Eddarta. If they do not already owe him service, he can buy them. And those he cannot buy, he can … command.”

I glanced at Thymas, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

He’s remembering that he nearly killed me, while Gharlas controlled him.

“We’re already in his home territory,” Tarani continued, in the vibrant voice that contained its own kind of command. She sat down and leaned over the map. “I agree with Rikardon’s plan, but that has little weight.” She placed her hands flat on the map and lifted her head to look directly at the pale-haired boy. “It does not matter that you disagree, Thymas. We will both do whatever Rikardon suggests.”

Uh-oh.

I waited for the explosion, but it never came—at least, not from Thymas. He squared his shoulders, stared at his boots, and said: “Yes, I see what you mean. I’ve done enough damage.”

I slammed my hand on the table—Tarani snatched her fingers out of the way just in time—and stood up.

“I’ve had all I can take of your simpering self-importance, Thymas.”

Thymas gasped. “But I—”

“You think you keep apologizing, but you know what you’re really doing? You’re trying to take credit, all by yourself, for letting Gharlas get away. Your mistakes were the serious ones. Your mistakes were the avoidable ones. If you had done things right …

“You want to talk about stupid mistakes? What idiot, who knew there was a price on his head, went into the rogueworld and flashed Serkajon’s sword, so that every thief and assassin in Dykornis knew who he was?” I stabbed my thumb at my chest. “This one, that’s who. You didn’t let Gharlas get away, Thymas. We did. Even Tarani. She could have sent Lonna after Gharlas, but instead she chose to send the bird to help me. If the only important thing is to stop Gharlas, she made the wrong choice.

“She did succeed in saving my life. Maybe you think that was the wrong choice!”

“Rikardon!” Tarani’s shout cut me off in mid-harangue. I was leaning across the corner of the table, forcing Thymas to back away from me. I straightened up.

“You once told me,” she said more gently, “that it is easy for you to say insincere things.”

Ouch, I thought. Touche.

Thymas tried to read the silent message that passed from Tarani to me, and he was beginning to look angry.

Is that what I’m trying to do? I asked myself. Provoke him into being as nasty as he used to be? God forbid.

“Sorry,” I said. I rubbed my hand over the short, dark blond fur on my head, searching for the right words—and sending a small shower of dirt onto the map. “I’m only trying to say that we’re a team, and that none of us can take credit or blame alone, from here on out.

“Tarani is right about this—a team needs a leader. For reasons that mystify me, I’m it.

“You’re right about something else—there is nothing more important than getting the Ra’ira away from Gharlas.

“Trust is the key to teamwork, Thymas. You and Tarani have to trust me to give the right orders, and I have to trust you to follow them. Not because you promised your father to obey me.”

Which is yet to happen, I thought. Wups, “Captain”—could be you need some lessons in trust, yourself.

“Especially not because,” I continued, “you feel you’ve proved yourself unworthy of command.” He flinched a little at that, and I knew I had touched a nerve. “We can’t afford your self-pity.

“I’m the first to admit that you and I aren’t the best of friends, Thymas, but we have fought the same enemy. And we’ve ridden together.”

A muscle along Thymas’s jaw tensed and relaxed.

This “boy” is going to be the next Lieutenant of the Sharith, I thought. He takes that duty very seriously. It’s time I showed him that I take HIM seriously.

“Tarani’s power and your sword, Thymas. If I’d had a choice, I couldn’t have selected two stronger weapons to use against Gharlas. But an unwilling weapon is more hazard than help. Convince me that I’ll have your cooperation—not obedience, mind you, but cooperation—or stay behind.”

I stopped, wondering if I’d said enough, or too much. The boy was thinking about it; that was a good sign. He leaned heavily on the back of the chair in front of him, looking at me, considering. When he spoke, the meek, whining tone was absent from his voice for the first time since the fight with Gharlas. If I’d done nothing else, I’d taken his mind off his guilt.

“ ‘Trust.’ ‘Cooperation.’ ‘Sincerity.’ ” He quoted the words skeptically. “Here’s some sincerity, Rikardon. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. And I still don’t understand why Dharak made you Captain.”

Your resentment is showing, Thymas, I thought, but this isn’t like your usual fit of temper. It is possible—barely possible—that we’re finally beginning to communicate with one another?

“Dharak was worried that you were going to lead the young Riders after Gharlas,” I said. “He thought that if he made me Captain, and I told them to stay put, they’d listen. He does believe that I’m supposed to be the Captain. But what he really wanted was to avoid the split-up of the Sharith.” I let that sink in, then I said: “Dharak still leads the Riders. So will you, when your time arrives.”

Thymas was quiet for a moment. “Convince me of something,” he said at last. “Convince me that you’re the one who is supposed to lead this ‘team.’ And while you’re at it, tell me what the filth you’ve been hiding all this time. Show me the same kind of trust you say you want from me.”

I heard Tarani’s intake of breath, but I didn’t give her a chance to say anything.

“That’s fair, Thymas, and I wish I could give you clear, objective reasons for it. I can’t. It’s just something I feel. There, is something which I have been concealing—not for lack of trust, but because I didn’t think your knowing it would be useful to either one of us. I’m a … Visitor. Markasset was killed by one of Gharlas’s accomplices. I arrived a few hours later.”

I saw a look of revelation cross Thymas’s face, and I was sure that I was about to be accused, once more, of being a reincarnation of Serkajon. Because Markasset was descended from the man who had destroyed the corrupt Kingdom, and because I had been given his unique steel sword, that seemed to be the standard conclusion people jumped to when they found out I was a Gandalaran personality returned from the All-Mind.

Of course, that’s not what I was, but I had let the few who knew about me believe it, because the concept was acceptable to them. No one in Gandalara knew the truth about where this “Visitor” had come from.

Ricardo had been cruising the Mediterranean Ocean—a concept in itself unacceptable to the desert-familiar Gandalarans—in the company of the lovely young Antonia Alderuccio when the fireball had somehow transported Ricardo to the Kapiral Desert, Markasset, and Keeshah. That star-covered night, and Antonia, were secret memories that came often to my dreams.

It turned out that I was wrong about what Thymas was thinking.

“That’s why Gharlas called you ‘double-minded!’ ” he cried. “Is that why you could break—? … Oh.”

I didn’t say anything while he mulled it over, all his thoughts turned inward. When his eyes refocused, he said: “All right. You’ve convinced me. Now, what proof will you accept that I’ll follow orders?”

“All I need is your word, Thymas, freely given.”