Free The Fall of Neskaya by Marion Zimmer Bradley Page B

Rakhal, had left Ambervale half in ruins, the people starving on lands overfarmed to pay for his gambling, his women, and his search for the Elixir of Eternal Life. Neighboring Linn had already annexed miles of the most productive lands between them.
    Now Linn knelt at Damian’s feet, as farmers worked their land without the threat of clingfire or any of the other devil-try which stalked the war-torn Hundred Kingdoms. All flourished in Damian’s golden sun. Only a few malcontents grumbled at the armed vigilance necessary to maintain this peace.
    “So, brother, what news from Verdanta? Was the old man reasonable?” Damian put one arm around Rumail’s shoulders, not being bound by the etiquette which restricted casual physical contact among telepaths, and started down the hallway toward the private quarters.
    “Verdanta will be yours on your own terms,” Rumail replied, his words inflected with the honorifics due his lord. “And you were right—”
    Rumail broke off as young Belisar came running to meet them, boots clattering on the stone floor between the strips of precious Ardcarran carpet. With his face flushed and his golden hair askew, Belisar looked younger than his sixteen years. His eyes shone bright and blue as starstones, sure to melt the heart of any maid, although Rumail never considered himself much of a judge of such things. His own liaisons at Neskaya and at Dalereuth, where he had trained, had been short-lived and unsatisfying. It was no one’s fault, for like many telepaths, he found physical intimacy disappointing without a deeper sympathy, and no woman had ever stirred him in that way.
    “What is she like? Is she pretty?” Then, remembering his responsibilities as eldest son and heir, Belisar drew himself up. He bowed to Rumail, the precise inclination for one older and respected, but inferior in rank.
    “Greetings, Uncle. How went your mission?”
    “Everyone assumed the best candidate would be the oldest daughter,” Rumail said as they proceeded down the corridor. “But Beltran was obliging enough to sire three of them so that we might continue our other objectives. The youngest one has latent potential of the qualities we are searching for in her progeny. I scanned her right down to the genetic level, despite her considerable resistance. In the end, I believe, she will follow her father’s wishes. She stood obediently enough for the handfasting. The older daughter, a conventionally boring twit of a girl, will see to it that she’s schooled as befits a Queen.”
    “Schooled? How—how old is she?” Belisar asked, struggling not to frown.
    “Eight or nine, I think.”
    Belisar looked horrified. “She’s still a baby!”
    “So, boy!” Laughing heartily, Damian clapped Belisar between the shoulder blades. “You’ll have to wait to bed your bride.”
    “Father—”
    “Oh, but it’s only your bride you must wait for!” Damian said. “She’ll expect a husband this much older to be experienced, won’t she?”
    “Father!”
    “Leave the boy his dignity,” Rumail said. In the Towers, a boy Belisar’s age would have had several lovers, although not when actively working in a circle. Both the sexual bonding and the periods of celibacy due to intense laran work were considered natural and treated with respect, never this coarse teasing.
    “There is more news,” Rumail went on.
    They reached the private quarters of the royal family. “Come, let’s go within,” Damian said. “You, too, Belisar. Since you’re to marry for a political alliance, you must learn statecraft.”
    Once inside, Damian dismissed the young page and ordered the guards a distance from the door, so they could speak without being overheard.
    Unlike the throne chamber, Damian’s sitting room was richly appointed with rugs and tapestries of gemstone hues, cushioned chairs, and footstools. The fireplace mantel, sea marble shipped all the way from Temora, glowed like living pearl in the light of the tiny summer