courtyard and stood there silent and empty-eyed, his mind guarded-yet clearly changed in some terrible way, full to the bursting point rather than drained, as might have been expected.
Those who were closest to him, the great heroes Bleyn and Alberonn, prevailed on him to withdraw from the tumult. But he would not go to his own bedchamber (it was not until much later that they knew why), and so Bleyn said, "Let us take you then to my apartments, where my lady Tirone Heartsinger will attempt to help you with her healing power."
The King went with them and did not resist as they removed his dulled glass armour and laid him on a cot in a secluded retiring room. There were no bodily wounds; but even though he maintained his mental shield, they were aware of how swollen his psyche was, how it threatened to overflow and escape from the small body that confined it.
"What has happened?" Tirone asked him, fearful and overawed. But he would not reply. She said, "If I am to help you, High King, you must open to me at least a little, and tell me what manner of strange disability afflicts you."
He only shook his head.
Tirone made a helpless gesture to her husband and Alberonn.
She said to the King, "Would you prefer that we leave you, then? Is there nothing we can do?"
He spoke at last. "Not for me. But take care of our people and oversee the mopping-up operations. I'll rest here. At twenty-one hundred hours, I'll deal with the prisoners. Farspeak the other High Table members and tell them to be ready."
"Surely that can wait," Alberonn protested.
"No," said the King.
The three of them prepared to go. Tirone said, "I will remain outside in case you need me. The best thing you can do now is sleep."
The Nonborn King smiled at her. "It would be best ... but the two of them won't let me."
They did not understand, but only touched him with reassurance and loyal deference and then went away, thinking that he was alone.
The relief column crept along the Great South Road above Sayzorask, twenty wagons loaded with contraband Milieu materiel, 200 Tanu knights, an equal number of humans belonging to the King's Own Elite Golds, and 500 grey-torcs serving in the capacity of men-at-arms, teamsters, lackeys, and logistics personnel. The travellers without farsight (and this included most of the human golds, who had received their torcs as honorariums from the King, irrespective of any metapsychic latency) had their vision limited to a little over two metres, a scant chaliko length. Not that you had much of a chance of seeing the fellows ahead of you, not with the caravan in extended order the way it had been all morning, with each pair of riders or wagon with its escort seeming to clump along in damp isolation.
The column was strung out to minimize problems with the pack of guardian bear-dogs. Ever since they had departed Sayzorask the wilful brutes had been acting up-spooking the stock by getting underfoot, slavering and yowling and rolling their yellow eyes and resisting attempts by the coercers to force them back into their proper stations on the flank.
"Bad ions in the air," the gold-torc Yoshimitsu Watanabe diagnosed. "The fog's made the amphicyons hypersensitive to metapsychic vibes. I can almost feel something myself lurking on the mental fringes ... I had a dog back in Colorado, a fortyfive-kilo Akita who used to go backpacking with me in the Rockies. Acted like this sometimes when really foul weather was moving in. Bezerko, you know? Primitive dogs, Akitas. I learned to listen up good when old Inu told me to get out of the high country."
"Hey-you think we're in for a storm, chief?" Sunny Jim Quigley, driving a huge-wheeled Conestoga with the precious infrared spotter and its power supply and auxiliary robotics, was nothing but a hooded silhouette. Only his voice was clear, amplified telepathically by his grey torc.
"Storm?" Yosh shrugged. "Who can say? My experience with Pliocene climate is limited. You're the native."
"The
Those who were closest to him, the great heroes Bleyn and Alberonn, prevailed on him to withdraw from the tumult. But he would not go to his own bedchamber (it was not until much later that they knew why), and so Bleyn said, "Let us take you then to my apartments, where my lady Tirone Heartsinger will attempt to help you with her healing power."
The King went with them and did not resist as they removed his dulled glass armour and laid him on a cot in a secluded retiring room. There were no bodily wounds; but even though he maintained his mental shield, they were aware of how swollen his psyche was, how it threatened to overflow and escape from the small body that confined it.
"What has happened?" Tirone asked him, fearful and overawed. But he would not reply. She said, "If I am to help you, High King, you must open to me at least a little, and tell me what manner of strange disability afflicts you."
He only shook his head.
Tirone made a helpless gesture to her husband and Alberonn.
She said to the King, "Would you prefer that we leave you, then? Is there nothing we can do?"
He spoke at last. "Not for me. But take care of our people and oversee the mopping-up operations. I'll rest here. At twenty-one hundred hours, I'll deal with the prisoners. Farspeak the other High Table members and tell them to be ready."
"Surely that can wait," Alberonn protested.
"No," said the King.
The three of them prepared to go. Tirone said, "I will remain outside in case you need me. The best thing you can do now is sleep."
The Nonborn King smiled at her. "It would be best ... but the two of them won't let me."
They did not understand, but only touched him with reassurance and loyal deference and then went away, thinking that he was alone.
The relief column crept along the Great South Road above Sayzorask, twenty wagons loaded with contraband Milieu materiel, 200 Tanu knights, an equal number of humans belonging to the King's Own Elite Golds, and 500 grey-torcs serving in the capacity of men-at-arms, teamsters, lackeys, and logistics personnel. The travellers without farsight (and this included most of the human golds, who had received their torcs as honorariums from the King, irrespective of any metapsychic latency) had their vision limited to a little over two metres, a scant chaliko length. Not that you had much of a chance of seeing the fellows ahead of you, not with the caravan in extended order the way it had been all morning, with each pair of riders or wagon with its escort seeming to clump along in damp isolation.
The column was strung out to minimize problems with the pack of guardian bear-dogs. Ever since they had departed Sayzorask the wilful brutes had been acting up-spooking the stock by getting underfoot, slavering and yowling and rolling their yellow eyes and resisting attempts by the coercers to force them back into their proper stations on the flank.
"Bad ions in the air," the gold-torc Yoshimitsu Watanabe diagnosed. "The fog's made the amphicyons hypersensitive to metapsychic vibes. I can almost feel something myself lurking on the mental fringes ... I had a dog back in Colorado, a fortyfive-kilo Akita who used to go backpacking with me in the Rockies. Acted like this sometimes when really foul weather was moving in. Bezerko, you know? Primitive dogs, Akitas. I learned to listen up good when old Inu told me to get out of the high country."
"Hey-you think we're in for a storm, chief?" Sunny Jim Quigley, driving a huge-wheeled Conestoga with the precious infrared spotter and its power supply and auxiliary robotics, was nothing but a hooded silhouette. Only his voice was clear, amplified telepathically by his grey torc.
"Storm?" Yosh shrugged. "Who can say? My experience with Pliocene climate is limited. You're the native."
"The
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