Lew Alton paced back and forth in the entry hall of Comyn Castle, his boots ringing on the stonework. For the first time in many years, he wished he had a large glass of firewine, or were already drunk. He still occasionally drank wine, but he had not experienced such a strong desire for it in a long time. He was annoyed at his body for betraying his weakness to him, but pleased with himself for recognizing the signals of his own unease. Later, when it was over, perhaps he would indulge himself. He knew better than to try to work in a circle with his senses muddled by alcohol.
For the first time in centuries, perhaps since it had been constructed, Comyn Castle was nearly empty. It was an eerie feeling, the great pile of white stone no longer crammed with the energy of the nearly thousand people who usually inhabited it. Instead of the familiar minds of his many kinsmen, there was a circle of leroni from Arilinn, plus Rafe Scott, who had chosen to remain there instead of following the funeral procession to the rhu fead. Most of the servants had been given instructions to slip away as the funeral train departed, and the children had left right after the ceremony the previous day. Getting the children to a safe haven was, in his opinion, the most nervewracking part of the plan, and he had not been able to relax until he had received word of their safe arrival.
All he could do now was wait and wonder what would happen—if it did not drive him completely insane first! There were so many variables that no one could possibly anticipate, and Lew hoped they had covered the most important ones. Surely the spies of the Federation in Thendara had noticed something, even though every effort had been made to present the appearance of normality. Or perhaps Lyle Belfontaine was over-confident—it would be consistent with his character. Arrogant little man.
The mental stillness of the place was really getting on his nerves, and Lew made a conscious effort to calm himself. He would need to be in control when he joined the circle, when Belfontaine attacked, if he did. He would not permit himself to think about his daughter, riding into the jaws of danger, where he could not protect her. A bitter laugh rose in his throat. Marguerida had been looking after herself quite well for years now, and she had all the protection she needed in her husband. The Alton Gift, which he possessed, combined with Rafe’s knowledge, was needed to make their part of the plan work, as Marguerida and Mikhail were needed for the attack on the train. It was rather late in the day to start having second thoughts. He sighed and ran the fingers of his remaining hand through his hair. The logic of their plan was perfect, but his mind still gnawed at it, looking for flaws.
The entry was very cold, and he was only going to wear himself out, with his pacing. Lew thought about Marguerida as he had last seen her, mounting her horse. Her skin had been pale in the flickering lights of the torches in the Stable Court, and her fine hair had curled around her brow in the damp morning air. There was nothing he could do for her now, so he might as well stop worrying. It had been blowing up for rain, and she was probably going to get wet. He hoped that was the worst she would suffer.
The castle was spooky, almost tomblike without its usual background noises—the random and inescapable thoughts of maids and servants bustling about at their duties. At that moment, he would even have welcomed the brittle and quarrelsome mental echoes of Javanne Hastur—a thought that brought a smile to his face. She had gone to Arilinn the previous day, too exhausted from the funeral to make more than a feeble protest. He felt his mood shift as he thought of Javanne. During the funeral the reality of her brother’s death had finally hit her, and all of her anger and bravado had collapsed into sorrow. Her strength seemed to desert her like a puff of smoke, and when he had last seen her, she had to lean on her husband’s arm just to walk.
It had been a tumultuous few days, and he found his thoughts going to Cisco Ridenow. He had not often encountered that dour man, with his pale hair and eyes like blue ice, since he had been appointed, against centuries of tradition, as head of the Guards. He found himself remembering how Cisco had entered the Crystal Chamber, taken in the shards of glass scattered around the perimeter of the room, the assorted weapons flung carelessly on the floor. His expression had been unreadable, his mind shuttered, but he had eyed each person seated around the table with caution, as if he were evaluating their military value and was not terribly impressed by what he found. He had listened intently, without surprise of any kind. And when he had spoken at last, the room had gone silent. “If they actually intend to attack the funeral train, then it seems likely that they will also attempt to occupy Comyn Castle—which we must prevent, obviously.” He had glanced around at Lew, Mikhail, and Danilo, daring them to contradict him. When no one raised any objection, Cisco, never one to waste words, had gone on. “I have considered this possibility for some time, and I have a plan.”
Mikhail had nodded, concealing any surprise. “Good. Tell us what you need.” Where a moment before, there had been tension, a mood of calm now seemed to encompass the table. Whatever disagreements had existed in the past were forgotten for the present.
Cisco had spoken in short sentences, chopping off his words, and Lew realized that he had seriously underestimated the deviousness of the commander. The scheme he unfolded was a clever combination of military and laran talents. For someone with no actual experience in the field of combat, Cisco had a grasp of tactics worthy of the strategies of one who had fought a hundred campaigns. It was a daring and innovative scheme, and Lew had felt a deep admiration for the man.
The fact that the entire plan depended on a series of illusions was both pleasing and terrifying. First there was the illusion that all of the Castle Guards had left, and that the castle itself was nearly uninhabited. The City Guards were assigned to stay out of sight, adding to the impression that no attack was expected. And, knowing how easily baited Lyle Belfontaine was, Lew believed he would walk into the trap, that it would be just too tempting to forgo. And if he didn’t, that would be fine as well.
Lew found himself remembering the exchange between Cisco and Marguerida when the man had hesitated at last. “I do not know what we can do against energy weapons, and I confess this has worried me for some days now.”
“Dom Cisco, are you familiar with the original construction of Comyn Castle?”
“I do not quite follow you, Domna.”
She gestured to the ruined telepathic dampers, gleaming in the light from the high windows. “When the castle was constructed, or at least when it was begun, it was very different than it is today.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I still possess the memories of Ashara Alton who was, in many ways, the architect of this building. There are passages that have been closed up for years. Actually, there could almost be said to be two castles, one within the skin of the other. You could hide a thousand men in those corridors, if you had them and knew their locations. And there is more.”
Cisco’s eyes gleamed. “You have my undivided attention, Domna Marguerida.” The others in the Comyn Council were equally interested, and even as weary as they were, they had leaned forward, bristling with curiosity.
Lew remembered the heightened color in Marguerida’s cheeks as she went on. “I know that most of you think that Ashara placed much of her power in the Old Tower. But, she was a wary old bird; she loved control, and most of all, she wanted to keep herself secure. So she constructed this maze of a building, but the most devious and clever thing she did was to hide a number of large matrices at all the entrances.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” That was from Francisco Ridenow, who was observing the interchange between his son and Marguerida with visible unease.
“The matrices are inactive at present, and they are well concealed behind the stonework.” She lifted her left hand from the table. “I can bring them into life quite easily.”
“And why have you never mentioned this remarkable fact until this moment?” Javanne demanded, her voice hoarse and weary.
“There was no need.”
“And why has no one other than yourself been aware of these matrices?” Lady Marilla was not hostile, just curious and rather confused.
“I believe that Valenta Elhalyn is aware of them, and has been since she was a little girl. And I suspect that Regis knew of their existence as well.”
“Nonsense. He would have mentioned it if he had known,” snapped Javanne. “More, what use would they be against off-world weapons?”
“There is more than one way to skin a cat, Javanne,” Marguerida had answered serenely, refusing to be baited. “And none of them are pleasant for the cat. What is the one thing that all humans hold in common?”
“I am too tired for stupid riddles, girl!”
“Of course you are, Javanne. I apologize.” The older woman had looked shocked at this. Marguerida had taken a deep breath and gone on. “We are all of us, regardless of sex or position, possessed of fears, which, at times, can ride our minds like banshees.” She had looked around the table then. “Most of the disagreements we have had in this room come from our fears, our thoughts of the terrible things that might happen. And what is a matrix except a device for amplifying thought? Our foes are just as fearful as we are, and by activating the guarding matrices at the entrances, we can enlarge the fears of our enemies, whatever they might be, can we not?”
“How?” Cisco was rubbing his callused hands together and looking almost gleeful now.
“The leroni will be coming into Thendara from Arilinn for the ceremony tomorrow. If they do not return there, but remain here, they can create a working circle, and wreck havoc on the minds of anyone who is stupid enough or foolish enough to try to attack Comyn Castle. No one is likely to fire a blaster when the ghost of his great grandmother is standing before him.”
Cisco had nodded. “I see what you intend. But it will need someone with the Alton Gift to direct it, will it not?”
“I believe that I can do that,” Lew had heard himself say. Everyone had stared at him for a moment, and a sense of hope had begun to come from the exhausted minds around the table. “In fact, I have been wanting to drive Lyle Belfontaine crazy for years!”
He paused in his pacing for a moment and looked up. He had walked through that entrance hundreds of times in his life, and he had never known or suspected that a large starstone had been hidden above the lintel. Until it had been activated, it had been invisible to him, and to anyone else. Lew suspected that Regis had known about the hidden defenses, at some deep level. As a living matrix, it was difficult to imagine he had not. But, like Marguerida, he had never seen fit to mention it to anyone. With good reason, he decided, since they could be used against some outside enemy, but in the wrong hands, they could have been turned against the inhabitants of the castle itself.
They were as ready as they could be now, with a hundred Guardsmen secreted in a hidden passage that ran from the barracks to an opening in the wall of the castle about fifty feet away from where he now stood, and the circle of leroni from Arilinn. Part of Lew hoped that Belfontaine would not attack the castle, but would stay behind the walls of HQ. His strength was less than it had been a few days before, because the City Guards had arrested a number of his men for brawling and locked them up in the old John Reade Orphanage. But another part of him rather wished that Belfontaine would attack, so he could pay off some old scores.
Enough. He had to calm himself, even if it killed him. Lew stomped out of the entry and into the reception room to one side. There was a fire roaring on the hearth, and a circle of chairs had been placed in front of it. Half were occupied by the men and women who had come from Arilinn, while the rest of them were standing or walking to and fro, as restless as he was himself. He gazed in amazement at one older woman who was placidly knitting by the fire, as if nothing was more important than keeping her stitches uniform.
“Stop fussing, Lew,” Valenta said quietly, appearing beside him without warning, trying to match her short stride to his longer one. He had begun to pace again without noticing it. At twenty-eight the beauty she had possessed as a child had blossomed into its fullness. Her dark hair was braided and coiled around her head, and her skin shone with health. The rosebud mouth was poised as if at the start of a smile, and her dark eyes sparkled with her usual mischief, despite the tension all around them. When she put a hand on his forearm gently with the butterfly touch of the telepath, he could feel the power that radiated from her.
She was young enough to be his grandchild, but Lew found it impossible not to confide in her, as if she were a contemporary. “I can’t help it, Val. I want to be here, but I want to be on the road at the same time, and I keep hoping all this effort will be in vain—that nothing will happen.”
Val shook her head. “Well, of course that would be very nice, but you know as well as I do that something is going to happen. You don’t have to have the Aldaran Gift for that. Why, even those without laran know something is up—the merchants have shuttered their businesses and the streets are nearly empty. More, I sense a clutter of energies advancing toward us, so I suggest you stop fretting and get ready to smash them like bugs.”
“Bloodthirsty wench,” he said fondly, aware now of the movement of minds toward the castle. He felt a flood of relief. The waiting was over, and now all they had to do was find out if their plan would work.
“Nonsense! With a little luck not a drop of blood will be spilled, and if it is, it will not be Darkovan blood.” Valenta grinned, displaying perfect teeth, but sounding almost disappointed.
“Do you think our plan will work? I know it is rather late to be having second thoughts, Val, but can we really frighten a bunch of trained fighters with a few illusions and shadows?”
“They are just men, Lew, and all men and women are afraid of the darkness inside them. All we have to do is wake it up. Oh, they may have superior technology, but they do not know what we have, and that is our advantage.” She gave a brief nod. “And with those trap matrices to increase the power of their imaginations, they will likely surrender without a shot being fired.”
“You are probably right, and I am just being a worrier.”
“Yes, yes, I know. At your age, you should be sitting by the fire, reading a book and smoking your pipe.”
Lew glared at her, horrified at the image she presented. “That is not what I meant.” Then he realized she was teasing him, and made himself smile back at her.
Rafe Scott walked into the room just then, his eyes narrowed with concentration. “Our roof spotters report about seventy Terrans marching toward the castle, dressed in Federation uniform. At least they are not disguising themselves, so we don’t have to pretend we don’t know who is coming to call.”
“Seventy? That is fewer than I assumed. Armaments?”
“Standard issue side arms, battle helmets, combat suits, and two small energy cannon seems to be the extent of their armament.”
“Cannon?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I remember the things being in Ordinance when I was still at HQ, and to the best of my knowledge, they have not been tested in at least a decade. They are probably more for show than for use, since I think that Belfontaine does not expect any real resistance.”
“Is the City Guard in position?”
Rafe nodded. “They are behind the enemy, and out of sight. Belfontaine should have thought to cover his back, but he was always a headstrong fellow. If the troops try to retreat, they can be contained for a time, as long as they don’t start shooting.”
“When do you want to begin our work?” Val asked softly.
“We should probably start preparing now, but I would like them to get almost to the front door before we actually attack them,” Lew answered, beginning to enjoy himself in spite of his persistent fears. At last he would have something concrete to do!
“That close?” She sounded a little doubtful.
“They have brought nothing which can breach these walls, Val, and I think that Belfontaine really expects an immediate surrender. All the cutbacks the Federation has imposed have left them without much in the way of advanced weaponry, and what they have is nearly obsolete, although on Darkover it is still pretty powerful.” Rafe was so calm when he spoke that both of them were comforted.
“I wonder what Belfontaine’s excuse for attacking the castle is going to be,” Lew mused. “Is he with them, or has he stayed behind in the safety of HQ.”
Rafe gave a muffled snort. “I saw him from the roof, strutting like a banty cock, all tarted out in a combat suit adorned with ribbons he never earned.” He gestured to a longviewer hanging around his neck, an instrument he had requisitioned at HQ years before and had not returned when he retired. He often brought it to the castle and took the children up to the roof for the pleasure of being able to see all the way across Thendara. Lew could sense the amusement in Rafe’s mind, and realized that he had his own scores to settle with Belfontaine.
Now Lew could sense the press of minds approaching through the nearly deserted streets, Belfontaine’s among them. He exuded confidence even at this distance, not to mention a certain righteousness of purpose. His men did not entirely share his mood, however, and he noticed doubt here and there, little quivers of unease that he knew the waiting leroni would use to advantage.
This was not a strategy that Lew would ever have conceived, for it was an empath’s plan, and he had never thought of that particular laran as something that could be used offensively. But Val was right—everyone had fears and terrors that could be roused with the right stimulus. His own did not require any help, and he cursed his imagination silently, then forced himself to stop.
“Let us begin.” Val made a small gesture, and everyone took their places in the circle of high-backed chairs except the two women who were to be monitors. The old woman who had been knitting pushed her work into a bag and shoved it beneath her seat, then began to pull her matrix stone from beneath her soft robe. Lew found her movements very peaceful, and felt his own spirits begin to settle down.
Val moved to the chair in the center of the circle, sitting tidily. There was no sound except the crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of silk being removed, as gleaming matrix stones were revealed. One of the monitors tossed something into the hearth, and a pleasant smell started to waft around the room.
After several minutes Lew could sense the atmosphere in the chamber begin to shift, a coalescing of thought and energy, focused on Valenta. He had not worked in a circle in years, except for a couple of practice runs earlier in the day, and it felt unfamiliar yet right at the same time. And, really, he had nothing to do except use the Alton Gift to channel all this wonderful energy into the large matrices above the entrance. His breathing deepened, and he felt himself become enmeshed in the circle, without strain, as if he had been doing it every day for ages. Now they would see if matrix science could outdo the technological “advantage” of the Terranan. He chuckled deep in his chest. It really was an elegant plan, and if they got out of this in one piece, he was going to raise several cups to Cisco Ridenow’s health.
Lyle Belfontaine strode along a narrow street, ignoring the raw day and the faint feeling of unease in the back of his mind. He was not worried about capturing Comyn Castle, for he was sure the servants that were left in the huge building would not try to stop him. It was the other, the assault along the road, that concerned him. He had sent orders for the attack the night before, and he knew that the forces from the Aldaran Domain had left there. He had had a lot of trouble with Commander Shen, who was in charge of the Federation troops in the Hellers. He was old-line military, from some family that had been serving the Federation for generations, and he had protested Lyle’s orders. Some nonsense about attacking civilians without provocation. Belfontaine had insisted that the funeral train was harboring dangerous enemies of the Federation—namely Hermes Aldaran, but others as well—and Shen had finally, if reluctantly, agreed. With any luck at all, Shen and his honor would not survive. It was only a pity he could not reach Vancof and tell the scrawny assassin to make sure of that, but the shortbeam was not responding. How dare Shen question his orders!
It had taken several frustrating hours of transmissions back and forth before Shen had obeyed, and Lyle had wondered if the entire plan would fall apart from the failure of the technology they depended on. Cottman’s star was going through one of its periods of sunspot activity, and that had interfered with the proper functioning of their equipment. And he wasn’t worried about the actual attack on the funeral train—it would either work or it would not. No—it was the trail of transmissions which disturbed him more than a little—the evidence that could hang him if things went awry. But it was worth the risk, to pay back these stupid and stubborn people for refusing to join the Federation. They had brought this on themselves!
And there was always the possibility that the Federation would never know what he was about to do—that they would not come back to remove the personnel from HQ at all. When Granfell had made that suggestion a few days before, he had dismissed it. But now, as the silence from the relay station continued, Belfontaine was not so sure. Perhaps they would be abandoned. Well, if they were, he would have the planet in his own control.
There would be no one to challenge his authority. Granfell would be dead, if Vancof followed his orders, and so would anyone else who might dare to oppose him. Really, he should be more grateful to Miles, for coming up with the idea in the first place. A shame the man was not to be trusted. But he could not have a second-in-command who might be a traitor, could he?
Belfontaine had not been in this section of Thendara very often, for he rarely left the comfortable confines of the base. He looked at the buildings on either side of the street—wide for Cottman IV but narrow by the standards of any civilized city—their high stone walls looming above him. He saw the painted signs that hung out from the shops, and noticed that the shutters were drawn in. It did seem rather quiet for midday—the streets seemed almost empty of the normal traffic, and if anyone was alarmed by the sight of several squads of armed men marching along this avenue, there was no indication of it. Perhaps this was a day of mourning, after yesterday’s funeral. He almost regretted that he had not attacked then, but he had had no idea that there would be such an event, one so public and vulnerable. He had not had time to organize an assault, and it was probably for the best. Less than a hundred men against the populace of Thendara and the Guard units were not odds that appealed to him.
Belfontaine’s few spies had assured him that the funeral train had left that morning with everyone from the castle including the Guardsmen, accompanying it. So why was he increasingly anxious? Could he trust his agents? What if someone had anticipated his attack, and made it appear that the castle was a ripe plum just waiting to be plucked? No, there was no one that clever, was there?
Ahead, he saw the gleaming white walls of Comyn Castle and his worries began to slip away. How he hated the building, which represented his failure to bring Cottman to heel for the Federation! It was payback time, and he felt exultation swell in his chest.
Then his previous anxiety returned. He almost felt as if the building were watching him, observing his march somehow. It was an eerie sensation, and Belfontaine realized his nerves were not as steady as he had previously thought. He almost wished that it were not empty, that he would have the opportunity to slaughter its obstinate, arrogant inhabitants. What victory was there in seizing an empty palace? A sour taste filled his mouth, and he knew that he would never have dared to attack Comyn Castle unless it was unguarded. This honest insight rattled him badly, and he gritted his teeth. He had to get a grip on himself!
He glanced at the readouts on his visor, little specks of light that encoded information, showing him the position of his men. It calmed him to see that, and the momentary self-awareness of fear faded away. He liked the smell of the helm, and the sense of command it gave him. With it, he could direct his men instantly, and also have a view of any opposition. Not that he expected any. The Castle Guards had gone with the funeral train, and he had arranged for trouble in the Horse Market to draw the City Guards to the other side of Thendara. So why did this litany of certainty fail to reassure him?
It was too quiet—that was what was getting on his nerves! There should be people in the streets, even if it was a day of mourning. He swallowed the foul taste in his mouth.
It was actually better this way, Belfontaine told himself almost desperately now. Dead civilians tended to arouse the interest of Boards of Inquiry, and if he could manage a bloodless coup, it would be to his advantage. He wished he knew more about the actual layout of the Castle. He had tried to find out, during the years, and he knew that by repute it was a regular warren of corridors and rooms, large enough to hide a thousand men. Except that even if one combined all the City and Castle Guards, they did not number that many.
There was something uncanny about the white building ahead of him. Was that someone on the roof? No, just a shadow. But he looked at the surrounding buildings, at the rooflines of the nearest ones, trying to see if there were any watchers there. Supposedly, his combat helm should have indicated the presence of anyone, the heat of their bodies making a signal, but the local stone seemed to block that function. Typical—whenever you really needed them, machines let you down. It was some kind of law, wasn’t it?
Quelling his rising anxiety, Lyle Belfontaine advanced, his boots and those of his company making a steady beat against the cobblestones of the avenue. It was a regular, rhythmic sound, and it began to steady his nerves. He knew that men going into combat were often nervous, and decided that he must be experiencing that. It was nothing to be concerned over.
Now he stood at the bottom of two flights of wide stairs, leading up to the main doors of Comyn Castle. For a moment he stood and gazed at the great carved doors, allowing himself the pleasure of anticipating their destruction. He barked a command into his helm, and two squads started to move up the stairs. It was all going just as he had planned, and he let himself grin behind his visor.
He was admiring their efficient progress, the splendid way they moved together as the squads advanced up the first flight of stairs. Then the men seemed to hesitate, and he saw one man bat his helm with a gauntleted hand, as if trying to get the mechanism to function correctly.
Before he could wonder what was happening, he felt an itch begin to crawl across his scalp beneath the helmet. It seemed to have a lot of legs—some sort of insect. How could the damn thing have gotten under his helm? And he could not get at it without taking the accursed thing off! He shook his head to one side, trying to dislodge whatever it was, and felt the itching increase. It seemed like several large crawly things were on his scalp, and his skin began to roughen in the warmth of the combat suit. Visions of centipedes began to rise in his mind, the sort that were common on Lein III. Perhaps the suits had become infested with some local insect, and the heat of his body had roused them. He held back a shudder and tried to concentrate on the readouts again.
Something was wrong! Where a minute before he could place every one of the eighteen soldiers on the steps without actually looking at anything except the dots of colored light in his display, now eight of them were gone! Simply vanished! Stupid machinery! The things were supposed to be foolproof, but of course they would go off-line just when they were most needed. Damn the Federation for giving him old equipment, years out of date! He shook the helm with both hands—there must be a loose connection. His attempt to fix things did not improve matters at all.
A thin, wailing sound came over the comlink, nearly deafening Belfontaine as the scream pierced his eardrums for several seconds before bubbling into silence. Then all the displays in his helm burst into life, leaving dazzling spots dancing before his aching eyes. There were shouts all around him, penetrating the thick insulation of the helm. A sputter of light surged again, and then the helm went dead. The nasty stink of burning insulation rose in his nose, and he tried to pull the thing off without disengaging the toggles that held it to his combat suit. Smoke began to cloud the visor as he scrabbled to release the clasps that held the helm in place.
After what felt like an eternity, but was actually only a few seconds, Belfontaine managed to get his gloved fingers around the toggles and undo them. He pulled his helmet off and gasped for air. The cold wind chilled his skin, but it felt wonderful for a moment. His eyes teared with the combination of smoke and wind, and he blinked to clear them.
A scene of chaos met his burning eyes. He stared in astonishment as the eighteen men who had reached the landing between the two flights of stairs screamed and tore at their helms and protective garments. He watched expensive helmets being smashed against stones, and saw one man ram his fingers into his own eyes. Several others turned and started to run down the stairs toward him.
“Stop!” His command was borne away on the wind, and it had no effect. A trooper dashed past him, discarding his weapons as he ran, screaming lustily. The eyes of the man seemed glazed and vacant, and a line of spittle drooled from the gaping mouth. Belfontaine reached out to restrain him, but the man just pushed him away, knocking him down so hard that all the air left his lungs.
The combat suit protected him, but Belfontaine could feel the impact of the fall. Dazed, he watched the troopers still on the landing dance around, pulling off their suits, screaming and vomiting. Then he turned and looked behind him, to find that the rest of his small force had gone mad as well.
He tottered to his feet, desperately trying to regain his own control. The suit suddenly felt too hot, and remembering how his helm had shorted out, he looked down to see if there were any telltale wisps of smoke. It became hotter and hotter, until it was intolerable, although he could see nothing wrong. Get out of the suit!
Belfontaine pulled at the closures, and felt the suit slip down his body, puddling around his knees and leaving him in his thermal undersuit. The brisk wind cooled his overheated body quickly, and he tried to understand what was happening.
You always were worthless, Lyle. You were a failure from the day you were born! He heard the words and knew the voice, even as his mind rejected them. Then he saw the speaker standing in front of him, his tall and powerful father, sneering at him and making him feel smaller than he was. The vision was transparent at first, but then it solidified and began to move closer. Reflexively, he lifted his arm to deflect the blow he anticipated, now totally unaware of the actions of his troopers around him.
He cowered before the image of his father, trying to make his voice work, to say anything that would keep him safe. But his throat was closed with terror, and he felt his bowels loosen. The smell wafted upward, and Belfontaine trembled with shame.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the vision of his father vanished, and he could see that there were men sitting on the landing, sobbing or screaming. He turned to look at the rest of his troopers, and saw that most of them were in retreat. And worse, riding toward them, was a company of City Guards. Were they insane, to ride against energy weapons? Then he saw that none of his soldiers were even reaching for their blasters—they were too busy jumping around and trying to get out of their suits. This damn planet was driving them crazy!
Before he could quite grasp this new development, he heard another sound, of stone sliding over stone, and turned toward the noise. An opening had appeared in the wall of the castle, to one side of the great doors, and the Castle Guards he had been assured were gone poured out.
Belfontaine reached to his side, where a blaster should have been, and felt his fingers brush against the weave of his thermal undergarment. He leaned down to the discarded combat suit which lay around his ankles, trying to find the weapon.
Hello, little man.
The words boomed in his mind, echoing like cannons, familiar and not at the same time. It was too much, and for the first time in his life, Lyle Belfontaine fainted.
When consciousness returned, Belfontaine found himself lying on a long couch, his battle gear gone. There was a pleasant fire in a huge maw of stone, and the smell of Cottman balsam drifted out from it. He lay in his fouled thermals, dazed and bewildered.
There was a faint rustle of fabric, and he turned his head in the direction of the sound. A dark-haired woman in a jewel-red garment came into view. It fell in soft folds around her slender form as she walked toward him, a soft veil fluttering from the top of her head. “Feeling better?”
He stared at her, for a moment incapable of comprehending the question. Belfontaine’s command of the local language had never been very good, and in his present muddled condition, it abandoned him entirely for a few seconds. Then he understood and nodded, sitting up so quickly that his head swam. She was small, no taller than he was, and young enough to be his daughter, but clad only in his soiled thermals, he felt helpless and vulnerable. And disgusting—he stank of sweat, fear, and worse.
The sound of boots on stone came in from behind the couch, and Belfontaine turned around to see who it was. Lew Alton, grinning like a fiend, appeared. If he had not lost his weapons, he would have blasted the hateful man right then.
“You have always wanted to see the inside of Comyn Castle, haven’t you, Lyle, and now you have achieved your ambition,” Alton said gravely. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”
For a moment this barefaced effrontery robbed Belfontaine of the power of speech. Then he snarled, “What are you doing here? I thought you left with . . . and what did you do to me and my men?”
“I did not do anything to you, little man. All your troubles you have brought on yourself. Now, about the wine. I am going to have some, and I suggest you do the same.” Lew walked to a small table and poured two glasses. Then he looked at the silent woman. “Would you like some, too, Val?”
“Yes, I believe I would,” she answered. Alton poured another, then picked one up and handed it to her. He placed the remaining glasses on a small tray and moved toward Belfontaine.
Little man. That was what he had heard just before he . . . no, he did not want to think about that. Belfontaine was sure he had heard Lew’s voice, but not in the air. There was a different resonance. He must have shouted over some sort of device, some primitive thing, an ancient loudspeaker probably. He had only thought he heard the words in his mind. The whole thing must have been an illusion due to his agitated state.
The smugness of the man was infuriating. There had to be a way to penetrate Lew Alton’s arrogant triumph. But he felt so weak, confused and mortified that it was hard to muster up enough strength to focus his mind. It was as if all his emotions except fear, had faded into shadows. Yes, he was most definitely afraid, but he was damned if he was going to let it show.
He took the offered glass, forcing his sluggish mind to work. There had to be a reasonable explanation for all this. There was no way a bunch of backwater primitives could have defeated trained troops so easily. He sipped a little of the wine and racked his brain.
The combat suits had been sabotaged in some manner—that must be it! Some of the native personnel must have done it, though he could not imagine how. And now he was a prisoner. It had never occurred to him that he might fail, and he remembered how his father had appeared and called him worthless. It was all impossible! The silence in the room weighed on him.
“I thought you were with the funeral train,” he muttered, hating the whine in his own voice, and still trying to find some sense in the whole mess. The train! How much time had passed? He could not tell, and there was no clock that he could see. The train had left at daybreak, and he had waited for several hours before he began his assault. He shuddered at his realization of the failure of it. By now the ambush should have taken place, and no one but he knew that most of the members of the Comyn Council were likely dead. The troops from the Hellers would not be wearing Federation combat suits, so they would be immune to this unexpected treachery. Yes, he could definitely salvage something.
Belfontaine bit his lower hp. He longed to announce what he knew, to wipe the smug expression off Alton’s scarred and wrinkled face, to tell him that his daughter was dead! But he must not waste his advantage so cheaply. Let him think he had the upper hand for a time. The wine was rather good, and it seemed to be clearing his mind slowly.
“I am sure you did, but since I expected you to come calling, I decided to be a good host and await you.”
“You . . . expected . . . me?” The wine turned to vinegar in his mouth.
“Of course. You convinced yourself that Comyn Castle would be an easy target. You have always underestimated us, Lyle. It is your fatal flaw.”
“Fatal? What are you going to do to me?”
“Why, you will be my guest for a time.” Lew Alton’s face was solemn, but there was a light in the Comyn lord’s eyes that made Belfontaine uneasy. “And later, I am going to turn you over to the Federation—always assuming they come back for you—and let them deal with you. Of course, when my son-in-law returns, he may have some other ideas—nothing too terribly barbaric, I assure you.”
That was too much! He could not stand it a second longer. “You will have to wait a long time, then, because he is not coming back! He’s dead, and so is everyone else in that party!”
Alton appeared unmoved, not the least bit afraid. “Now, now, Lyle. It would have been much wiser not to have admitted knowledge of that. Much wiser.”
Belfontaine felt the blood drain from his face. His ears rang, and he felt nauseous. With a great effort he swallowed the saliva that filled his mouth and screamed, “You stupid bastard—your daughter is dead!”
To his fury and amazement, Lew Alton did not react except to appear mildly amused. “No, little man, she most definitely is not!”
The carriage rattled along, and Domenic shifted back and forth on his bench. He was riding with his back to the driver, and the forward movement of the vehicle threatened to unseat him. Across from him, Herm and Katherine were silent, each lost in their own thoughts. It did not take laran to be able to tell they had much to talk about, and Domenic wished he had gone in the carriage with Illona and his grandfather Gabriel, so they could have the privacy they clearly needed.
“Please, it’s clear you have much to discuss,” he finally told them, unable to endure their tense silence any longer. “If you can pretend I’m not here, I’ll try my best not to listen.” Then he turned and looked through the window, watching the thighs of the Guardsman who was riding beside the vehicle.
Herm gave a sort of grunt, a sound Domenic was now very familiar with. “I wish it were that easy, nephew.”
Katherine turned and studied her husband. “It is that easy, except that you don’t want to talk to me—you just want to charm me into forgetting the past few days. Domenic is not the problem, Herm. You are.”
“What has gotten into you, Kate? I said I was sorry!” I go away for a few days and when I see her again, she seems like a different person—one I don’t know at all.
“Sorry is not enough, and you know it!” She paused, seeming to gather her resolve and perhaps her nerve, and then went on. “Why are you such a runaway?”
“What?” Herm turned a deep shade of red, as if her words had hit some mark that shamed him.
“Well, aren’t you? Don’t you try to sidestep getting close to anyone, even me? I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before. No, that’s not true. I did know it, and it was one of the reasons I married you—the more fool I.”
“You are going to have to explain that, Katherine, because I am completely lost.”
“I know it sounds ironic, but it seems that I never understood myself until I came to Darkover—why I am uncomfortable with most people. I married you, Hermes-Gabriel Aldaran, partly because I was so comfortable with you—and now that I’m here I’ve realized that the reason that I was more at ease with you than with other people is that you are remote! Oh, you are sweet and loving and utterly devoted, but there is a part of you that is always held back. That part made me feel unthreatened, but now things are so different! If we are going to mend this marriage, you have to change!”
Domenic wished he could stop his ears—he was trying not to listen—but he was fascinated at the same time. Was this the sort of thing his parents said to each other when they were alone? It must be, since he knew both Mikhail and Marguerida were very strong and stubborn people, and they could not have managed their years of marriage without some sort of argument. It gave him a new and not entirely pleasant insight into the relationship between the two most important people in his life.
“Remote?” Herm sounded peevish, and almost childish now.
“Yes, and withholding, too! Or do you believe that this ‘hale fellow well met’ you pretend to be is the real Hermes?”
The man squirmed and knitted his fingers together. Then he swallowed hard and replied, “I avoid introspection whenever possible.”
“Then you had better stop avoiding it, or else I am going to . . . well, I’m not sure. Perhaps I will join the Painters Guild and leave you. Or let your brother support me for the rest of my years. Even though you have exiled me to this strange world, I am not without options!”
“You are asking me to change who I am. I don’t know if that is realistic. I don’t know if I can.”
“I want you to try. I will not be shut out again, nor abandoned, Herm. You should get that through your thick Aldaran head right now!”
“It isn’t enough that I love you?”
“Not nearly, cario.” The term of endearment did not take the sting out of her demand, and Domenic held back a smile, lowering his head a little so his mouth was concealed. He realized he was learning something important about being an adult, although he could not quite understand it yet.
“What do you want of me, Kate?” He seemed humble now, sincere and a bit afraid.
“I want you to grow up! No more games and schemes, and no more secrets, at least not from me!”
Herm looked downcast for a minute, and Nico tensed, waiting for his response. “I don’t know who I am without my plots and schemes, Katherine.”
“Then it is about time you started finding out.”
The man gave a great sigh. “Do you know how much I hate it when you are right?”
“Yes.” Kate reached over and put her hand on his interlocked fingers. “If I did not love you so much, I would not be bothering, you know.”
“What did I ever do to deserve you?” He bowed his head.
Katherine leaned over and kissed his shiny pate. “You were born under some lucky star, I suppose,” she murmured.
Domenic yawned, not from tiredness, but to release the tension in his jaw. It was amazing—they had both been very angry at each other just a few minutes before, and now it was over, for the moment. He suspected that the matter was not completely settled, that Kate would have to chide her husband again and again. But peace had been restored, and he felt he had learned a lesson. He wished he could ask his mother about it, but that would mean revealing what had passed between his uncle and Katherine, and he would not do that. After chewing over it mentally for several seconds, Domenic let it go and he turned his attention outward. He scanned the minds of the Guardsmen riding beside the carriage, and then reached for those more distant ones he knew waited beyond.
* * * *
At the head of the slow-moving train Mikhail and Marguerida rode side by side. They were both tense and alert, and around them, the mood of the Guards was grim. The sound of hooves, the jingle of bridles, and the occasional snort of mount or bray of mule were the only noises which punctuated an increasingly oppressive silence. Marguerida swallowed in a dry throat, the taste of one of MacHaworth’s excellent fowl pies lingering in her mouth, and hummed a scale. Mikhail glanced at her when he heard the tones, smiling just a little.
The midday meal had been chaotic, noisy and almost fevered, as if everyone realized that it might be their last, and was determined to make the most of it. She was relieved to have Domenic back, and was glad she had persuaded him to ride in one of the carriages instead of on horseback. It was not much protection, but at least he would be out of sight during the actual fighting. She hoped she was right. It was easier to worry about her son than to think about what awaited them up the road.
Rafaella had been able to give them a clear idea of exactly where the ambush would most likely come. She and the rest of her Renunciates had been doing a good deal of quiet spying since the previous evening, and at least they had a fair idea of the number and location of the enemy. What they did not know, and what worried Marguerida and Mikhail most, was what sort of weaponry they would be facing. Rafi said that the men were dressed in Darkovan clothing, and seemed to have cudgels and short swords. But Marguerida was unable to completely convince herself that the Federation forces would not try to use their superior weaponry against the funeral train.
She took a deep breath and drew her mind into a less stressful channel. Marguerida knew she had to conserve her energies for the attack, that she would need all her wits about her, and if she started imagining blaster bolts, she would be exhausted by the time they reached their foes. Instead, she turned her thoughts to Illona Rider, who might or might not be a child of Dyan Ardais.
It was clear from the way Dyan had behaved that he was reluctant to acknowledge the girl. Marguerida had never completely understood him, after all it was no shame to father nedestro children, and all Darkovan children were so very precious! He should have rejoiced to know that another child of his lived! Something would have to be done about Illona, whether or not Dyan acknowledged her. She sighed. Fostering was the obvious answer, but she was not sure she wanted to take on another adolescent herself. Alanna was enough trouble already, and she had the suspicion that her difficult charge would not be pleased to have a rival for the affections of those around her. More, Marguerida was fairly certain that Nico would be caught between the two girls.
She remembered what people had said to her so long ago: “An untrained telepath is a danger to herself and everyone around her.”
The girl needed training, too. And she did not doubt that Domenic was correct in his guess that Illona had the Alton Gift. Marguerida had felt the girl’s nascent laran, and it was enough like her own to make her believe her son. But she did not think that Arilinn would be a very friendly place for a Traveler child, and she suspected that after a few rebuffs from the other students there, Illona would simply run away. No, she must either foster the girl herself or send her someplace like Tramontana. And fretting about it now was not doing her any good at all.
Against her better judgement, Marguerida turned her mind back to the present. Had they thought though all the possibilities? Could they protect enough of their own people with the combined energies of her matrix and Mikhail’s to halt the attack? They had tried to test the limits of their powers, and knew that it could stop an arrow easily. It had been a nerve-racking experience for them, and even more so for the hapless Guardsman who was asked to aim his bow toward them. But whether it would be able to stop a blaster was another matter entirely. It was really a shame that the Command Voice was such a limited resource, that it did not reach beyond a hundred feet with any reliability. They had decided not to risk that, since it would affect friend and foe alike, leaving those outside its influence free to do as they wished.
Marguerida shifted in the saddle, turned, and looked behind her. She found Francisco Ridenow riding a few lengths back, and remembered that Kate had told her to keep an eye on him. Then she turned ahead again, and strained her distance sense to its utmost. She had done this several times already, but this time she was rewarded with the faint glimmer of mental energies about a mile beyond. It was still too far for her to distinguish individual minds, or to discover anything really useful from them.
You are doing fine, caria.
Thank you for the reassurance. I feel lake I am going to explode at any moment.
Well, you do resemble a kettle about to come to the boil—but a fine kettle, indeed.
I never thought that being likened to a pot would seem so . . . loving!
They rode in companionable silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.
Mother!
Yes, Nico.
I can hear that Vancof now—he’s not with the rest, but is in a thicket where he can see us coming. A lookout, I guess. And he seems a bit surprised at our numbers, and is starting to worry. He’s trying to decade whether to retreat and tell the main party, or stay where he is. Well, he really wants a drank, and he is very worried, mostly about his own skin. He’s wishing that he had run off days ago, that he wasn’t under orders, that Granfell was dead—a lot of jumbled thoughts. Hmm . . . I am getting the impression that there is some sort of division.
Division?
He’s remembering some argument last night, between Granfell and the head of the soldiers from the Hellers, Commander Shen. It is not really clear, but I think that maybe this Shen was brought down here with orders he doesn’t like, or that maybe he doesn’t like the whole situation. Sorry I am not able to be clearer, but Vancof’s mind is not very focused. Part of him wants to be anywhere else but where he is, but the rest needs to find out what is going to happen. It is as if he is paralyzed with indecision and curiosity at the same time.
Well, perhaps Shen is more honorable than Granfell and does not think that attacking civilians is right.
It is something about the nature of the orders they received, I think. Maybe this Shen fellow just doesn’t want to get caught doing something the Federation would punish him for. I wish I could tell you better.
You have already done a great deal, Nico. Thank you, my little spy.
Marguerida cleared her throat, annoyed by how taut her muscles were, and told Mikhail and Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, who was riding on her right, what she had just learned. She felt buttressed by the two men, as well as by the comforting bulks of the Guardsmen riding around them. “That is useful to know,” was Danilo’s only comment.
“I would give a great deal to learn exactly what the nature of the orders was, if this mess ever gets sorted out.”
“What do you mean, Mik?” It was such a relief to speak, to let her tension express itself, however minimally.
“Who gave these orders? Was it Granfell or Belfontaine?”
“Why does that matter?”
“I think that Mikhail means that if Granfell is in charge, then Belfontaine can say he knew nothing about this, but if he gave the orders, and it ever becomes public, the Federation is going to be in a real situation.” Danilo spoke very slowly, as if he were puzzling it out even as he spoke.
“I don’t see that it matters, one way or the other, if the Federation is leaving Darkover anyhow.” Marguerida spoke sharply.
“Perhaps. But what if they do not? It is going to be difficult to explain either way—not to mention our part in things.”
Marguerida shrugged, trying to keep herself from being drawn into new worries. “They have given us the perfect reason—the funeral train was attacked by bandits, and they were slain.”
“I hope so. But we have to consider that the Federation might change its mind, and decide that we somehow provoked them.”
“Stop. We cannot start second guessing now, Mikhail,” Danilo said crisply. “Let’s just get through this alive, and worry about the outcome afterward.”
Donal, who was riding on Mikhail’s left, gave a little bark of unexpected laughter. “You mean ‘Kill them all and let the gods sort it out’?” he asked.
“Something like that,” Danilo replied, looking a little embarrassed by this blunt pronouncement.
The nearest Guardsmen suddenly grinned, as if they rather liked the sentiment the young paxman had expressed. Faint chuckles rose from tense throats, and the grim mood lifted for a moment. Everyone seemed to take a breath, as if their lungs were aching for air, before settling back into vigilance.
Mikhail gave Donal a look of mixed approval and apprehension and shifted in his saddle. Then he turned his eyes toward his wife. This all feels so unreal, as of we were . . .
In some old poem, beloved? ‘Into the Valley of Death rode the Six Hundred . . .’
That’s it! I could not put my finger on at, and it has been driving me frantic.
This is not a poem, and we are not riding into the Valley of Death, my cario. This is very real. And people will die this day, not the least poetically. Marguerida could feel the sternness of her thoughts, and the conflict beneath them.
How . . .?
I had a brief flash and saw bodies, but whose I cannot say, except that neither yours nor Nico’s were amongst them.
And you?
I hardly think I could have seen what little I did without knowing of my own death, Mikhail. Marguerida refused to let herself think about the possibility that she might have been dead in her own vision and never have known it. That was too frightening.
Now they were within a quarter mile of the waiting enemy, although there was nothing except the silence of the birds to suggest anything unusual. They could see no figures in the trees ahead, nor any movement. But Marguerida could pick up the tension of the ambushers, even if she could not sort them out individually. Here and there were a few focused thoughts—from seasoned veterans, she suspected. Was this Shen among them, and could she discover him?
And what might she do if she did? She turned over several ideas in her own mind, wondering if she could use the Alton Gift at this distance on someone she had never encountered in her life. She rather doubted it would be effective, and it probably would not stop the attack. There did not seem to be any way out of their peril, and she knew she should just stop looking for other avenues.
At last she faced herself, and looked fiercely at the real problem with their plan. It had seemed perfectly fine back in the Crystal Chamber, but her husband was going to use his incredible powers in a way he never had before—he was a healer, and now he intended to be a destroyer. She shuddered suddenly. She did not want to kill anyone, and neither did Mikhail!
Part of her wanted to relieve him of the terrible responsibility, to take it on her own shoulders. But she knew she must not, that they must share the outcome together. Mikhail would never be able to forgive her if she tried to protect him now. She had to let him do this thing which ran against the grain, against everything he had stood for since he received Varzil’s ring. Her own powers could do a great deal of damage, but it was Mikhail’s that would ultimately decide the day. He was the ruler of Darkover now, and that meant she had to let him do what was needed, for anything else would unman him.
This was, she thought wryly, a fine time to be having second thoughts. Marguerida examined her sudden spate of ethical considerations, chided herself for not thinking of them earlier, and decided that she would just have to live with the consequences. Donal was right. Let the gods sort it out. The only problem—there never seemed to be any around when they were needed.
Then, with a flash of insight, she knew that Mikhail was experiencing his own struggle, too. If it was hard for her, how much more difficult must it be for him? Neither of them were at all bloodthirsty, and the idea of killing the men still secreted among the trees, even if they were enemies, was morally repugnant. But she would do the deed, and suffer the consequences of conscience another day.
Still, it was hard. Marguerida forced herself to accept things as they were, rather than as she wished they might be, and finally felt herself let go of her reluctance. Her doubts remained, gnawing at the back of her mind, but she shushed them sternly, and turned her attention back to the small wooded draw where the enemy waited. She sensed alertness, fear, excitement, and after several moments, something else. What was it?
Hesitation, she decided at last, from one mind among so many. Was this Commander Shen? In view of the little information Domenic had given her, it seemed a likely conjecture. Marguerida had the impulse to try to influence that faint but discernible emotion, to nudge this unknown person into a peaceable direction. It would have been a delicate thing to manage with someone she knew well, and nearly impossible with a stranger, but she was tempted. If only she could speak to this person, she could use the Command Voice. Surely it would be better for the enemy to withdraw without engaging—lives could be saved.
The opportunity passed. She felt the stranger quell his doubts, harden his resolve, and determine to give the order. “They are going to attack, Mik,” she said quietly.
“Was there ever any doubt of it?” His voice was thick with tension.
“Yes, for a few moments, there was.”
“Damn!”
“I know. But somehow we will come out of it . . .”
“This is going to change everything—I can feel that now!” And the worst part is, I think Varzil foresaw this. It was more than just getting the ring away from Ashara when he died—he said that it had to exist now for the future of Darkover! I wish it were not so. I will not be the same person after today, and I do not know if I can live with that . . . but I must.
Marguerida glanced at her husband for a moment, wondering what he meant. And then she knew, had always known, but had concealed it from herself, to protect herself from the pain this day would bring her husband and herself. This was their destiny, hers and Mikhail’s. It gave her a terrible feeling of helplessness, as if she had never had a choice. Fate had put a finger on her life, and the best she could do was try to survive it. Since that day, years before, when she had returned to Darkover, had set her foot down on the tarmac of the spaceport and crossed from the Terran Sector into Thendara, she had been preparing for this moment in time. And Mikhail too. That she could accept, although it cost her, but there were others involved, and she experienced a flash of fury that her strange destiny must include them. There was nothing fair about it, she decided, and then ruthlessly closed her mind to further rumination.
Dirck Vancof lowered the longviewer and wiped a bead of moisture from his brow. In spite of the cold breeze blowing across the rise he had chosen to sight from, he was sweating like a pig. His guts were knotted, and his head pounded. He shook his head. The train was much better guarded than he had expected, and he had a sinking sensation, one he knew all too well. He never should have gotten involved with Granfell’s insane plan.
Then, almost magically, everything became completely clear to him. If he stayed where he was, he was going to get killed. He was torn with indecision for a moment—should he just take off into the woods and fields beyond? The idea of spending the rest of his life on this chilly hell of a planet was vile. Worse, without the Travelers to conceal him, he had few resources. Yes, he could pass for a native, but he was sick and tired of Darkover, and had been for five years now.
A slow grin began to grow. He turned and started down the hill, toward the encampment where the techs had set up their equipment. He knew what he had to do now, and it was so obvious and so simple that he could hardly believe it had taken him so long to think of it. To hell with all of them, Granfell and Belfontaine—he was going to take care of Mother Vancof’s little boy.
Halfway down the hill, he saw Miles Granfell climbing toward him, and he smiled to himself. The fool had no idea that Belfontaine had ordered him to kill Granfell, and the man was going to make it easy. His miserable luck was changing at last.
“I was coming to get you,” Granfell told him as he drew near. With a nod, Vancof moved down the hill a few feet more, and then, without a wasted movement, he plunged a knife into Granfell’s throat, using the incline of the slope to compensate for the other man’s greater height. He glimpsed a flicker of surprise in the gray eyes, and there was a spasm of movement from his hands. A bubbling gurgle came from the gaping mouth as blood gushed from the wound and spilled down onto his garment. Then Granfell’s knees buckled, and he went down, sliding down the hill until his body encountered a tree.
Vancof walked over to the corpse, bent down to make certain the bastard was really dead, and yanked out the knife. He wiped the blade on Granfell’s tunic, and kicked the dead man’s torso for good measure. Then he strolled away, whistling under his breath.
A few minutes later he reached the encampment and looked around casually, as if he did not have a care in the world. Most of the troops were already in position, and the only people he saw were a few techs waiting for something to happen. They paid no attention when he strolled toward the two heavy flyers that had ferried them down from the Hellers the night before.
He entered the unguarded door of the closest one, pressed the button to close it behind him, and walked toward the controls. It took no more than a few seconds to sit down and punch the controls into life—the machine was easy to operate and he had flown them before. The engine hummed as he set the coordinates for the spaceport in Thendara.
Vancof heard a dull thump against the closed door of the vehicle, and, very faintly, a shout. Then the flyer lifted effortlessly off the ground and he was aloft, soaring over the trees. He had a last glimpse of the encampment, and of the funeral train stretched along the road. For a second he thought he saw something explode on the road, and wondered what was happening. He gave a shrug and sped away into the air.
Marguerida heard Danilo exclaim beside her. She saw he was pointing into the sky and she saw the shimmering outline of a flyer for a moment, rising above the trees. Almost before she had time to wonder if they were going to be assaulted from above, she heard the howl of voices, and a group of men burst out of the trees ahead of her. They were dressed in Darkovan clothing, muted brown or green tunics, their faces concealed under scarves. They charged into the foremost Guardsmen, swinging thick sticks at the legs of the horses.
But the Guards did not lose control. Instead, they pulled their mounts together, using them as both a defense and an offense. The horses reared and kicked out at the attackers, and at the same time their large bodies protected their riders for a few moments. The Guardsmen began to wield their swords and spears efficiently, cutting at heads and shoulders. There was the twang of bowstrings, and a flight of arrows arced into the trees. From the cries, several found their marks.
Clever, she thought, as she yanked her hand free of her riding glove, then pulled the silken mitt beneath it away. It was almost exactly what real bandits would have done, if they were on foot against men on horses. Behind her she could hear shouting, as the drivers of the wagons and carriages pulled their vehicles into defensive positions around the horsedrawn hearse which bore the body of Regis Hastur and the coaches containing the noncombatants. At the rear of the train, the doors of several carriages opened, and the men who had hidden within them, waiting for just this moment, bolted out.
A second rush of attackers surged from beneath the trees, and she could hear the shrieking of frightened horses. Marguerida extended her hand, palm upward, rejecting the panic that threatened to seize her, and saw Mikhail’s ungloved hand steady above it. As her matrix grounded and supported his, there was no doubt, no hesitation, nothing but a sureness of purpose that calmed her instantly and filled her with an almost euphoric bond of unity as they began to build the wonderful cone of power that only they could create between them.
Light burst from the gleaming jewel on Mikhail’s hand, rising up toward the clouded sky, surrounding her, then widening into a globe of shimmering energy that would protect them, the body of Regis, and those in the guarded coaches. Marguerida slipped into the sensation of completeness that was the joining of her power with that of Mikhail, all the love that they had given one another over the years poured into a single certainty.
She caught fragments of thought as if from a great distance, but the terror within them barely reached her. It was just a jumble of energy, and Marguerida saw it as a whirl of colors, sickly yellows and greens.
The thick sticks fell to the ground, and swords were cast down. The Guardsmen seized the moment and charged the momentarily paralyzed men, and slew a few before stubby metal objects appeared from beneath the muffling garments. There was a bright flash from one then, and a Guardsman fell back with a large hole in his chest. His horse reared and kicked at the attacker, and there was another blast, catching the mount in the muzzle. It fell on the enemy as it died, its weight pinning the man to the earth, while he screamed with fury.
Mikhail drove his thoughts through his matrix, drawing on Marguerida’s supportive energy. A broad beam of light snapped from the blinding facets, wove out from the protective bubble, and fanned across the oncoming fighters. Guardsmen yanked their horses aside, for Mikhail’s weapon could not distinguish friend from foe, and they had been forewarned. It flickered into the cluster of now firing troopers like lightning, searing the men so quickly they could not think to escape its scorching touch.
Everything seemed to slow to a crawl, and all Marguerida could do was endure the hideous vision that opened before her eyes. The dull metal weapons disintegrated, and then the men who held them seemed to . . . fall to pieces. Mikhail had reversed his healing ability, and now he was undoing the very sinews of the enemy. Blood flowed from every bodily orifice, as torsos collapsed in on themselves, the ground was a river of blood as men turned to ghouls then to corpses in a matter of moments.
There was confusion everywhere now, with the Guardsmen desperately scrambling to get out of the reach of Mikhail’s deadly energy, and those who remained of the first attackers running blindly in every direction. The men who had only started to emerge from the cover of the trees were caught unprepared, and had no time to save themselves. The baleful light from Mikhail’s hand spread across the thicket, blasting everything it touched. The conifers went up like torches, and the smell of burned flesh mingled with the hot tree resin, as the ground turned from red to black with bloody ash. Those few more fortunate foes who were beyond the range of this destruction were being ridden down by the Guardsmen.
Fire began to leap from tree to tree now, the rich sap of the evergreens feeding its hunger, adding to the confusion. Now Marguerida could clearly hear screams of pain and fear, and they made her sick. But she did not waver, and neither did Mikhail. Instead, she sensed him guide his horse to one side, and she turned with him, so that his destruction began to work its way down the side of the road toward the back of the train. She tried not to think of the rear of the caravan, where there was no protection for the fighters and the Renunciates. She knew that there were people back there who were dying in the service of the Hasturs. Swords were little use against blasters, but she felt them bravely fighting on regardless.
The sound of the battle began to change, and, as if from a great distance, Marguerida realized that what remained of the enemy had only one thought in its communal awareness—get away! Neither she nor Mikhail had imagined how terrifying the manifestation of their power would be to the Federation troops. She heard the occasional sizzle of blaster fire, here and there, between the burning trees, but even as she listened, it became less frequent.
The battle at the front of the train was over almost before it began. A few more were caught in the continuing energy of Mikhail’s matrix. Those who escaped it were hacked down by the guardsmen, or were trapped by the fire. She could hear their mental chorus of despair and disbelief as they perished. These men were stunned by the turn of events, humbled even as they died.
From within the smoke and flames Marguerida saw a mounted man, riding toward the fight, his face still concealed. She sensed his mind, his purpose, and worse, his fatality. It was only for a moment, and she wondered if he would turn away. Instead, he rode directly into the glare of Mikhail’s destruction, raising a gloved hand in a kind of salute as he turned to ash. There was a last thought, strong enough to penetrate her senses even in the chaos. At least an honorable death.
Mikhail moved his hand slightly, and the protective shield around them started to diminish. Marguerida felt the withdrawal of energy, the painful loss of the tremendous intimacy that they had shared during the brief battle, and then only her own weariness. She closed her eyes, focused on clearing her channels, and slowly felt the exhaustion drop away, to be replaced by ravenous hunger of a sort she had not experienced in years. Then, before she was prepared for it, the shock and grief struck her. So many good men had died in the short minutes of the battle, and more were going to.
Without a word, she pushed aside the emotion, and saw that Mikhail was dismounting, followed by Donal, who was ghastly pale. Two Guardsmen protested this action, but Mikhail was already walking toward the slumped bodies of those who had been outside the circle of his protection. He bent over a fallen Guard, then knelt on the ground beside him, while Donal hovered at his back, vigilant even in his slowly diminishing terror.
The movement of a horse alongside her as she began to swing out of the saddle to join Mikhail seemed perfectly normal, and Marguerida barely noticed it. Then she realized that Francisco Ridenow was riding toward Mikhail, lifting his sword, a look of hatred on his pale face. Donal started to turn at the sound of hooves behind him, but not quickly enough. In a second he was down on the ground, trying to avoid being trampled.
Before she could move, or even try to use the Command Voice to stop Francisco’s attack, Marguerida saw another movement from the corner of her eye. Rafael Hastur’s horse thundered forward and he brought the hilt of his sword down on the head of the Ridenow lord so hard there was an audible crack. The man swayed in his saddle, clutching at the pommel with his free hand, then swung around to bring the blade of his sword down on the neck of Rafael’s horse, missing the rider’s knee by a few inches. The horse shied and screamed, beginning to fall.
Donal scrambled to his feet, his face dripping blood. She saw the young paxman brush his eyes clean, and then he drove his sword into Francisco’s thigh, screaming, “You traitorous bastard!”
Then a half dozen Guardsmen surrounded Dom Francisco, and one of them knocked him out of the saddle. He lay unconscious, blood spilling from his leg, and Donal, furious and swaying, raised his weapon to finish what he had begun.
“No!” The word sprang from Marguerida’s mouth without thought.
Donal hesitated, and one of the Guardsmen dismounted quickly and bent over the fallen lord. He looked up at her. “You want him alive, domna, or should we let him bleed to death?”
Mikhail pushed between Donal and the Guardsman, his face grim and pale. He studied Francisco for a moment, then knelt down beside him. Without a word, he placed his hand above the wound, the light glittering from the facets of his ring in the red light from the fire behind him. Within the space of a few seconds the bleeding had begun to slow. “I want him alive,” he told the Guard. “Death is too easy an escape.”
“If you say so, vai dom, if you say so.” The Guard seemed disappointed.
Marguerida looked down at Francisco, and the entire scene became surreal, as if she could not really grasp what had just happened. Kate had been right. As she tried to grapple with her inner confusion, she felt an agitation bloom at the edge of her mind. It was faint at first, and then it penetrated the cloudiness within her. She turned and stared toward the back of the funeral train, toward the carriages, and felt her heart tighten terribly. She could see movement, the rush of fighters back and forth, punctuated by the occasional wild flare of blaster fire. A clutch of fear seized her guts, twisting them.
Domenic! Mikhail’s head snapped toward her, and then she started to run through the milling horses and men, past the great flat wagon where the body of Regis Hastur lay in his coffin. A broad chest rose before her eyes, clad in the blue of the Hastur Guards, and she pushed her right hand into it and shoved with all her weight. Despite his greater heft, the man went down on his bottom into the dirt, making a noise as the air was knocked out of him. Behind her, she could sense Mikhail following, and several others trying to make certain he was safe.
Her mouth was dry, and her blood was hammering in her veins so loudly she barely heard the shouts around her. All she could think of was to get to her son as quickly as possible.
By the time she reached the carriage, she was gasping for breath. The door was open, and a pair of legs hung down to the ground. Marguerida moved around the door and peered inside. Domenic looked back at her, his eyes very wide and his face a sickly white. In his hand there was a short dagger, smeared with blood. The torso and head of a man lay sprawled at Nico’s knees, a wound in his thick neck. Katherine was shrunk back into the far corner and Herm was trying to staunch a flow of blood from his left shoulder.
“He didn’t think a boy was any danger,” Nico muttered dazedly, and then vomited up the excellent lunch he had eaten an hour or so before onto the bloody floorboards. The dagger slipped from his fingers and Marguerida swept him into her arms, hugging him fiercely.
Katherine slid across the bench toward her husband. With a sharp movement, she yanked the undersleeve from her chemise, pulling like a madwoman until the stitches gave way. She dragged the torn sleeve out from beneath her tunic and tied it above the wound as fast and tightly as she could, swearing and crying at the same time. Herm was only half conscious, but he kept muttering that he was all right.
Marguerida swallowed hard, assured herself quickly that her son had come to no physical harm, and crawled onto the back of the dead man, her knees pressing against the still warm flesh beneath the clothes. “Here, let me help, Kate.”
“What can you do?” shrilled the other woman, appealing to her with stricken eyes.
“You would be surprised,” she answered, calmness claiming her so suddenly she wondered where her fear had gone. The makeshift tourniquet had slowed the flow of blood, but Herm’s arm was a gory, terrible sight. “Get out of my way!”
Katherine stared at her for a moment, looked as if she would not move, then drew back. Marguerida leaned toward Herm, lifted her still bare left hand, and closed her eyes. By Aldones, she was tired! It felt like an eternity before she could locate the vessels that had been damaged. The cut had missed the artery by no more than a breath, but the wound was bleeding badly.
“What are you doing?” Kate shouted, frightened and furious at the same time.
“Let her be,” Domenic yelled back, then spewed again.
“It is all right, Kate,” came Mikhail’s voice from behind Marguerida. She knew he was standing at the open door of the carriage now, and she felt his weariness as well as her own.
Marguerida tried to close her mind to the sounds around her, the braying of the frenzied mules, the shouts of Guardsmen and Renunciates. That was easier that shutting out Katherine’s panic, Nico’s horror, and her husband’s concern. It seemed to take forever, but at last she managed to focus on nothing but Hermes-Gabriel Aldaran, and for a time, she was isolated with him. She lifted her matrixed palm and moved it across the severed flesh, cauterizing the wound. Momentarily she felt herself falter, and then felt Mikhail support her until she had the strength to complete the task at hand. It would need to be cleansed and sutured, but for now she had stopped the bleeding.
Marguerida finally realized she was kneeling on a corpse, and she drew herself onto the bench beside her son. Her face was covered with sweat, and her hands were trembling. She drew her sleeve across her brow, and caught a whiff of her own fear-charged sweat and the blood on her hands. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Katherine was staring at her, her own hands covered with Herm’s blood, her skin a shade of white Marguerida had never seen before. “He will be all right, Kate, until a healer can clean him up,” she managed to croak.
She was too tired to move, but the noisome atmosphere of the carriage was nearly unbearable. She wanted to get out of the carriage more than anything, but her body refused to move. Then Marguerida saw a pair of strong hands grasp the heels of the dead man still lying on the floorboards, covered with vomit and blood. They yanked hard, and the corpse began to move away. There was a dull, sickening sound as the body hit the earth, and she felt her gorge rise. She swallowed hard, forcing her lunch to stay in her belly, as the door on the opposite side of the carriage was pulled open.
She saw a Guardsman and one of the Renunciates there, eyes anxious. She heard the sound of the dead body being dragged aside, and then Mikhail leaned inside. Herm groaned and opened his eyes slowly. He tried to lean forward and gave a gasp of pain. Katherine leaned forward and put her bloodied hands under his arms, supporting him as much as she could.
“Get him out and bring a stretcher,” Mikhail ordered the Guard on the other side of the vehicle. “Lady Katherine, you might get down now, so it will be easier to reach Herm.” When she did not move, he spoke more sharply. “Ease him back onto the bench and get out!”
She stared at him dumbfounded, and then she slowly moved her husband against the seat and clambered down. “I am never going to get into a carriage again! Never!” Then she started sobbing.
The carriage rocked as the Guardsman climbed in, and the Renunciate reached over and took Herm’s upper body. It took only a few seconds to remove him from the close quarters, but it seemed a very long time to Marguerida, still sitting on the bench, too tired to stir.
“Don’t worry, Mother. That’s Danila, and Aunt Rafi says she is a good healer.” Domenic gave a rather hysterical laugh. “She’s been wanting to get her hands on Uncle Herm for days now. Come on. Let’s get out, too. Here, I’ll help you.”
A hand grasped hers, and then a slender arm encircled her waist. Marguerida smelled her son’s flesh as he pulled her against him, the filthy odor of his breath so near her face nearly oversetting her again. Beneath that the scents of fear and sweat were mingled with woodsmoke and the faintest hint of mountain lavender in the fabric of his clothing. For the first time in her life, she leaned on her firstborn and allowed him to help her to her feet. He was safe, and that was all that really mattered.
Once they were out of the carriage, Domenic did not release his hold on her, but kept his arm around her, as if he knew she would collapse if he let go. Then Mikhail swept both of them into his arms, and she leaned her head against his broad shoulder. The three of them stood there, surrounded by armed men, and the cries of the injured. Something was missing, and after a moment of flogging her tired brain, Marguerida realized that the sound of blaster fire was gone.
Reluctantly, Mikhail released her. “How did that man get into the carriage?” he demanded, his voice angry but sure.
“He broke through our ranks and then fell to the ground, vai dom. We . . . I thought he was dead, and there was so much going on . . .”
“I see,” Mikhail answered, unconsciously mimicking a tone that Regis had used when he was displeased. He glanced around at the bodies of both Terranan and Darkovans that were scattered across the ground. “He was a bit cleverer than his friends. Are you all right now, caria?” There was a curt quality to his voice, one she had never heard him use before, and she gave him a sharp look. Then she realized that he was holding himself together by will alone, and that he needed her to be strong.
“Yes, Mik, I am better now.” She lied, and knew it. He probably knew it as well, but he just nodded and gave her a firm squeeze on the shoulder. Nico was still beside her, his arm around her waist, and she looked into his face. It was the same familiar one she knew so well, but he was not the same person who had greeted her a few hours before in Carcosa. The boy was gone forever. Now he was a man. She felt grief, a stab of loss, for a moment, and wished she could call back the innocent child she loved. But it was too late for that.
The sky overhead went dark, and Marguerida looked up, to find the sun shadowed by great black clouds. The wind quickened, gusting around them, fanning the flames on the hillside. Something darker than the clouds came out of the sky, a jagged mass of movement. Carrion crows, a flock of hundreds of the birds, swooped down from the heavens, drawn by the smell of blood and death from who knew where. One, bolder than the rest, hopped down onto the body of the man that Nico had killed and darted a sharp beak into the soft flesh of the face.
Then the storm hit, and rain began to sweep across the devastation on the road and the hillside beyond it. The wind drove the rain against her skin, and she was drenched almost at once. It moved quickly, the wind pushing the torrent forward in a steady line, a downpour that lasted a mercifully brief time before beginning to slacken off. It soaked the burning trees, the dead and the living, washed the blood from the ground, and then scudded away to the east, leaving behind only a few sporadic showers. The fires were out, and a good thing they were, for the survivors had no stamina left to battle a raging forest fire.
“Father, there are still some people up at the top of the hill.”
Mikhail nodded, rain dripping off his face. He turned around and found his brother Rafael and Donal at his back, soaked and silent as shadows. “Rafael, will you take charge of rounding up the survivors? Your Terran is good enough to manage, I think. Get them sorted out as fast as you can. We’ll send them back to Thendara with the wounded.”
“Why don’t we just leave them to die of lung fever?” Rafael Lanart-Hastur was only half jesting. “No, I suppose that would be barbaric.”
“There is still a flyer up there, and if they gather their wits, they can escape,” Nico told his uncle.
“I saw a flyer leave just before the fighting started,” Marguerida said, her voice almost as rough as the caw of the carrion crows that were trying to get at the bodies of the dead.
“That was Vancof, Mother. I caught his thoughts as he took off—he killed Granfell and left for HQ.” Nico shuddered. “What a horrid mind he has.”
Rafael turned and signaled to some of the Guards, then walked away and started up the ruined hillside. The rain had put out the fires, and there were dozens of bodies visible now. Marguerida watched them, remote and unfeeling for a moment.
Marguerida! The sharp intrusion of Lew Alton was like a slap in the face. Are you all right?
I wish people would stop asking me that! No, but I am alive, and so are Mikhail and Domenic.
That is very good to know, daughter. If anything had happened . . .
A great many things happened, Father, but I am too tired to tell you right now. She tried to order her brain into rational thought. There will be several carriages of captives and wounded coming into Thendara later. Including Francisco—he tried to kill Mikhail, the damn fool!
He what? No, don’t tell me. It will keep. I will see to everything at this end, child. Be safe and come back to me as soon as you can.
I will, Farther. If this nightmare ever ends.
Marguerida felt the contact with her father terminate, and turned to her husband. She reached out and slipped her unmatrixed hand through his arm. They stood, shoulder to shoulder in the drizzling rain, silent and lost in their separate thoughts. At last he turned and looked into her face, and she saw a peculiar light in his eyes that had never been there before.
“I never imagined how terrible battle could be,” he said gruffly, as if he was almost ashamed of his feelings. “And I will never forgive the Federation for this cowardly attack.”
Marguerida shook her head. “It wasn’t the Federation, Mik. It was a few men with more ambition than good sense. And speaking of cowardly attacks, let’s not forget Dom Francisco.”
He groaned softly, and tears began to trickle from the corners of his eyes. “I can’t bear to think about that betrayal right now!” He swallowed several times, trying to bring himself to speak, as if he could not stand to be silent but had no words. At last he managed, “I never thought I would use my powers . . . the way I did. I turned men into dead things, bare of any dignity. And other men, good men I have known for much of my life, died to keep me alive. I don’t know if I can live with what I did, Marguerida.”
“Mik . . .”
Having begun, Mikhail could not stop the anguished words. “I never really understood why Regis feared me, why my own mother and those others . . . now I do. And it is breaking my heart. I never should have brought . . .”
Marguerida understood, but she knew that she could not let her husband continue in this way. Later, they would both sort out the pain within them, but not now! “Stop it! You did what had to be done, Mikhail.”
“Did I? Did I really? Are you sure I was not just trying to prove myself or some other . . .”
“Mikhail Hastur—you are a good man and you will make a fine ruler for Darkover, but not if you tear yourself to pieces over things that it is too late to change.”
“Donal was right in the end.” The tears had stopped slipping down his cheeks and he seemed calmer.
Marguerida stared at her husband, bewildered and trying to make sense of his words, her mind confused by his sudden change of mood. “What?”
“Kill them all and let the gods sort it out,” came the voice of the young paxman, still standing nearby. Domenic cast a look of admiration at his kinsman and the start of a grin played across his face.
Mikhail’s shoulders slumped for a second, and then he straightened his spine and looked almost serene, as if he had passed through some inner conflict. “None of us will ever forget this day,” he whispered. “As long as I am alive, I will remember what I did and why—but it hurts, caria.” I am heartsick and tired, but I must not hesitate. I have a world to protect, and I swear that I will do so, no matter how great the cost. I only pray that I am not taking on more than I can endure.
The following day dawned chill and cheerless. After a silent breakfast of hot porridge and fried cakes, the much diminished funeral train set out from Halstad. The little village about six miles beyond the site of the battle had been stunned at the incursion of almost two hundred people the night before, and it had been almost amusing to watch them scurry around, attempting to provide accommodations for so many. The inn had only three sleeping rooms in it, and lacked many of the other amenities of the Crowing Cock, including the bathing room. Instead, Halstad used a communal facility for the entire village. Far into the night the weary travelers had taken their turns, washing away the stench of sweat, ash and blood from their bodies, while the dazed villagers brought loads of firewood to keep the tubs warm.
It had been a numb evening, punctuated by brief attempts at conversation which trailed off in mid-sentence, as if the speakers could not recall what they intended to say. Dom Gabriel had drawn Domenic to his side, and kept him close, with Illona always near him. The safety of his other grandfather had begun to ease the roil of his emotions, to release the horror of killing a man. Domenic was sure it should not bother him as much as it did—the man had been an enemy and a stranger. But, it did, and after an hour, he had decided that his feelings were probably natural rather than morbid. Slaying another was not a casual act. He thought of Vancof, who had killed the nameless fellow in Carcosa, then Granfell just before the battle, without, it seemed, the least hesitation. It likely did not bother the man’s conscience at all. No, it was better to sorrow over the dead soldier than to pretend it had not mattered.
Domenic was aware that he was not alone in his confused emotions, for everyone around him was experiencing something very similar. His father was the worst, wracking himself with a kind of savage guilt that made the young man cringe each time he caught the edge of his thoughts. He had killed one person, but Mikhail had slain dozens. How much more terrible it must be for him!
Sleep had helped, crowded into a wide bed with Dani, Danilo, Dom Gabriel and Uncle Rafael. Illona had gone with Rafaella, to sleep with the Renunciates in their tents, and he suspected she was glad to be out of doors rather than within the crowded inn. Mercifully, he had not dreamed of the dead soldier, or if he had, he did not remember it.
But Domenic was hardly refreshed as he rode beside his mother, on a better horse than the one Herm had brought him at the start of their sad adventure. He was already missing his new uncle, who had gone back to Thendara with the rest of the wounded, the captured techs and surviving soldiers. He was still unsettled, and although his mood was not as bleak as the previous night, Nico could sense the inner darkness lurking in the corners of his mind, waiting to emerge. It would take a great deal more than food, rest, and dry clothes to ease the impact of a blade thrust into living flesh.
The road curved to the west now, and beside it there were huge stands of trees, hardwoods and conifers. He breathed in the scents of the woodland, and tried to listen to the calls of the birds or the rustling of small animals. Instead, all he could hear was the rough sound of the air in his lungs, and the subtle groan of the world. He wanted to get off his horse, put his feet on the ground, and fall into a trance with the incredible murmur of the earth—to forget everything that had happened to him since he had sneaked out of Comyn Castle.
Part of him was very glad he had discovered the plot against his father, but another portion of his mind sincerely wished he had continued to be a dutiful son and stayed home. Domenic knew he had done well, had kept his head in a tricky situation. He had saved his father’s life, and he was now a man. Still, he felt miserable inside, and it was not just because he had killed a man. The night before he had assumed it was only that, but as he looked at the trees, he realized that there was a great deal more bothering him than murder.
But what? A niggle of thought was trying to force itself up from the depths of his mind, and after a minute, Domenic realized he was trying very hard to avoid it—that he was pushing whatever it was down with as much energy as he could muster. What thought could cause him such anguish?
Then, as if he had surrendered by merely asking himself the question, realization blossomed in his mind. He did not want the future which lay ahead of him—to return to Thendara, to live in Comyn Castle, and prepare to wait out the decades until he assumed his father’s position. As deeply as he loved his parents, the idea of spending every day with them for what felt like an eternity was unbearable. But, he had to do his duty, didn’t he?
It was more than a sudden rebellion. He had been trying for months to find some way out of the prison that Comyn Castle had come to be. Ever since he had begun hearing the voice of the world, he had wanted to be in another place, somewhere very quiet perhaps, without the constant bickering of the only home he had ever known. But Mikhail would never permit him to go away, would he?
His chest ached, and Domenic noticed that he was holding his breath. He released his lungs and drew the sweet, clean air into him, almost gasping. Marguerida gave him an inquiring look but did not speak. Instead she waited for him, as she often did, to tell her what was the matter.
His mind raced, trying to find some starting point, so he would not sound like a whining child. Instead, his thoughts dashed off in what felt like several unrelated directions, leaving him more confused than he had ever been in his life. What was he doing—what was he supposed to do? Duty warred with desire, making the previous day’s battle seem unimportant by comparison. And then he knew, as if the doubts had never existed, that his future was his own to choose. Domenic went from uncertainty to sureness between two breaths, and the oppressive weight that had plagued him vanished as if it had never been.
He had to discover why he could hear the heart of the world burning, why his laran was so different from anyone else’s. It was so simple—why hadn’t he understood sooner? It did not matter that he was the heir, that he had duties and obligations to his father. He was possessed by a greater duty, to the entire planet.
An astonishing bubble of laughter rose in his chest. What vanity! He was only a boy, really, and he had no business even thinking about abandoning his obligations for a hut in the woods. That was ridiculous! And yet . . . and yet . . .
No, not a woodland retreat, not for him. He would not last out the winter on his own, and he knew it. But there must be somewhere he could find to sort out all the muddle in his mind and heart, where he would not always be yearning for his tempestuous cousin Alanna and subject to the fury of his grandmother. But where?
Nico frowned for a second. Then his brow cleared, and once again the answer was obvious. There was a place where he could study and contemplate, and he was annoyed that it had not occurred to him sooner. He would go to Neskaya, for surely, if anyone could help him puzzle out this mystery, it must be Istvana Ridenow. But how was he going to get his mother to agree to such a plan? She was so glad to have him safely back, her first and most beloved child, and she would resist another separation with all the will she possessed. And his father would as well, he suspected.
Domenic glanced at her, and found she was still waiting for him to speak, that her golden eyes were watching him tenderly. He saw the lines along her mouth, her sorrow and tension, her grief at Regis’ passing, and at the deaths of both the Darkovans and the Terranan the previous day. He marked the stubborn line of her jaw, and felt himself hesitate again. She was a loyal ally and a fearsome opponent. But he had to try to convince her, and it must be now. It would not wait for a more convenient moment, or another time. He took a long, deep calming breath.
Mother, I am not going back to Thendara.
What? Don’t be silly, Nico—what are you talking about! Haven’t you had enough excitement for the moment? She seemed a bit surprised by his announcement, and underneath it there was a sense of irritation. He felt dismissed, a child speaking childish things, and it angered him a little. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to restrain his mild anger—he would make her listen and understand!
It is not a matter of excitement, because I think the last few days will last me for a lifetime. But I can’t go back to Comyn Castle and be shut an again.
Nico, no one is going to shut you in. That was Regis’ way, and it is not your father’s. What has gotten into you?
Mother, you just don’t understand!
Of course I don’t—mothers never understand. I remember telling Dio that she didn’t, but I thank now she just knew better than I did what was best for me, Domenic. Things are much too unsettled for now for you to start traipsing around Darkover. The mental tone was patient and indulgent at the same time.
I have no intention of traipsing anywhere. What I want is to go to Neskaya and study with Istvana. Aunt Rafi and some of her sisters can guide me there, right after we bury Uncle Regis. And I will take Illona with me, because she must get some training, and she is not going to cooperate with people she does not know. She trusts me, I think, and will come along with me. That was an idea that popped into his mind without warning, and all he could say about it was that it felt right.
Hold your horses, young man! If you want to study with Istvana, we can have her return . . . but you can just put any idea of gallivanting off out of . . .
Mother, I will not go back to Thendara!
Nico, I am much too tired to have this discussion right now. I don’t know why you are—
This as not a discussion—it is a demand. And of you refuse to let me do what I feel I must, then I will just run away at the first opportunity. He wasn’t certain of this, but it sounded like a good threat.
Yes, I suppose you might try to do that. She turned away and her shoulders slumped a little. And you might even succeed. Why, Nico, why?
I must have some peace and quiet! I cannot endure another day of endless bickering and petty jealousies. Domenic could feel his control slipping away, his fear and anger destroying his discipline. At the same time, the murmur in the heart of the world begin to resound in his mind’s ear, familiar and almost comforting. The volume seemed to increase, and for a brief moment he was aware of nothing but the creaks and groans of the planet. Peace and quiet might be an impossible goal, but he was sure that if he didn’t discover why and how he heard these things, and soon, he would cease to function. He was not even certain that Neskaya was the best place to go, but Istvana was reknowned for her innovative techniques, and he trusted her. It was the only idea he could come up with at the moment.
Why should you be spared what the rest of us have to endure, son? Be reasonable. We have to settle a great many things, and you will be needed at your father’s side. Next spring, perhaps, if you still feel the same way, or the year after. This is not the best time.
Mother, if I wait for a best time, I will be in my dotage! There is never going to be a good tune for me to do what I know I must do, and I am not going to argue about it. If you and Father will not let me do this, then I will take off on my own! And likely break my neck in a mountain pass or something equally fatal!
Marguerida turned and glared at him. Aren’t you being rather dramatic?
Domenic was enraged by this remark, and his heart pounded in his chest. Sweat popped out from his forehead, in spite of the chill of the day, and he had to force himself not to start to shake. He had to make her see! Without considering the consequences, he deepened the rapport with his mother, and allowed the steady roar ringing in his mind to reach her. Unprepared, Marguerida gasped and swayed in her saddle, then clutched her forehead, dropping the reins against the horse’s neck.
He reached out and grasped her arm before she could fall, while he pulled back the surge of energy, a mixture of anger and the noise of the world. It was almost too much for him, trying to master so many diverse things at once, and he was ashamed of himself for losing control. Mikhail turned and reached out to steady his wife from the other side, looking puzzled and concerned.
“What is it, caria?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Just a slight giddiness. I am fine.” She plucked up the reins again, righted herself firmly in the saddle, and gave Domenic a look that would have turned him to stone only a few weeks before. What the hell did you do? What was that . . .?
I am not absolutely sure what at is, Mother. But if I don’t find out, I’ll lose my mind.
Marguerida bent her head and fell into a silent reverie. At last she announced with an air of resignation, I know that sound, although I only heard it once before, and much more distantly.
You know what it is? He was amazed, and vastly relieved at the same time. How could she know?
Yes, I do. It is the heart of the world, seething and roaring. Oh, Nico! I touched it once, long ago, before you were even conceived, and only for a moment, although it felt like much longer. Do you hear it all the time?
Mostly. Sometimes it is fainter than now, but it seems to have been getting louder lately. I was afraid to tell you, that you would think I was insane.
Is this what has been disturbing you? I just thought it was your feelings for Alanna . . . I feel rather foolish, son. Her mind seemed to clear, as if she was discarding everything irrelevant in a rush of concentration, holding back a tendril of fear that tried to claim her.
You mean that you misjudged me? Well, I do have feelings for Alanna, and they do nearly drive me mad, but I am sane enough to understand the difference between a hopeless desire and what is possible. Being near her makes it harder, because I have to commit so much energy to keeping my lusts in order that I have less to use for . . . this heart of the world stuff. I have loved Alanna since I was a child, but I have always known that no matter how I felt, she could never be anything except a beloved sister and cousin. More, I understand that having been raised with her, my feelings might not be exactly what I imagine them to be simply because I haven’t met very many girls who were not my relatives. I need to be away from Alanna, for her sake and mine, and I must be away from Grandmother Javanne and all the rest of them, too!
You are much wiser than I suspected, son, and that makes me feel very old, Nico. And inadequate. I feel as if I have missed several important things, that I was not paying you sufficient attention. Arilinn will not do?
No. I don’t think so. Istvana has known me since I was in diapers, Mother, and there is no one I can imagine who is better equipped to help me learn about this part of myself. Even Valenta Elhalyn does not have the experience to guide me, and there is no one else at Arilinn that I can think of who might be able to understand what this new . . . new Gift is. I might be able to move mountains, although I surely hope that is not the case.
Goodness! That hadn’t even crossed my mind! A new Gift. Yes, I can see now. We can’t have you cracking the foundation stones of Arilinn, can we?
That is not nearly as funny as you think it is, Mother!
Now, Nico, after all these years, you must know that my first response to any crisis is to make jokes. How severe you can be. I think I do not know who you are anymore, which is a terrible admission for a mother to have to make. Very well. We will send you to Neskaya, although I doubt that Istvana will thank me for it, and you can take Illona with you. I was foreseeing trying to foster her, and to be entirely honest, I was not looking forward to it.
Domenic felt her organize her thoughts with an abruptness that was rather startling to observe. Had she always been so ruthless? Probably—he was her child, and he had never really thought about all the decisions she must have made over the decades, the adult choices that he was only now starting to understand, and he knew she must have always possessed this keenness of mind and spirit. And will you explain it to Father?
Hmm . . . I am tempted to make you do that yourself, but Mikhail has so many other things on his mind at present that he would not listen as well as he might. Yes, I will tell him. It is going to break his heart a little, son, for he feels he has lost you already to Hermes, and to lose you again to Istvana will be a hard blow.
Lost me to Uncle Herm?
I’ll explain it to you another time, Nico. Now, let me have some quiet, so I can marshal my arguments.
Yes, Mother—and thank you!
You are a good son, Domenic—the best. I would do anything for you except what . . . you have just asked of me. I would rather give you a moon than let you . . . Marguerida gave a gusty sigh and he saw that she, was blinking tears away fiercely. His father’s was not the only heart that looked to be rent, and for a moment, he wished he had not chosen the course he had. Then the feeling passed, and he rode on, at ease for the first time in months.
The strange pink grass that grew around the rhu fead shimmered with dew, and the large yew trees that stood like sentinals nearby rustled in the wind. Beyond the grass, Domenic could see the shifting coils of Lake Hali, where he had gestated in his mother’s womb, for the first time in his life. It was eerie, and the people standing beneath the solemn trees and on the ever-rosy grass were uncomfortable.
The long wagon which had carried Regis’ bier from Thendara had been rolled close to the building itself, a modest structure of stone on which no moss gathered nor ivy twined. Between the tall yews and the shrine there were a number of mounds, also covered with the remarkable pink grass. Close to the building, they had sunk down into the earth, while those farther away were more prominent. No gravestones stood at the head of the mounds, but these were the graves of the Hasturs, centuries of rulers immured in earthy anonymity.
At the far end of the row of mounds, one stood out, barely sunken yet. Even though no one had told her, Marguerida knew this was the resting place of Danvan Hastur, the grandfather of Regis, dead for nearly half a century. Beside it, the earth had been opened, and there was a deep hole, waiting for the most recent arrival. She had an eerie feeling, looking at the unmarked burial places, knowing that Mikhail would one day be laid there to become part of the mystery that was Hali.
She trembled, remembering how near he had come to joining his uncle beneath the grass. In all the hectic activity on the road, Marguerida had managed to put the traitorous attack of Francisco Ridenow out of her mind, but now it returned, playing in her mind’s eye like a terrible dream. True, not a hair of her husband’s head had been touched, but the nearness of death made her think of what might have happened. And he had spared the man’s life, which was right and merciful, but was going to create a difficult problem in the future. Clearly Dom Francisco could not be allowed to continue as head of the Ridenow Domain—Cisco would take his place—but then what?
Marguerida forced herself to stop trying to find the future—it would manifest itself no matter what she did or thought. Instead, she turned her attention back to her surroundings. Guardsmen stood on the rosy grass arrayed in a long rank on either side of the coffin. The wind rustled the yews, making a pleasant sound, and somewhere a bird sang a haunting melody. Everything seemed very still, as if time itself was waiting.
She watched Mikhail, his eyes red with weeping, grasp the handle on one side of the coffin at the front while Danilo Syrtis-Ardais took the other. Behind them, Donal Alar and Dom Danilo Hastur lifted the back, and together, the four men moved away from the wagon toward the open grave. The wind shifted, and the scent of Lake Hali drifted across the ancient site, cooling her cheeks and bringing back memories of another time.
Marguerida watched the white-clad Servants of Aldones follow them. They were the same men who had officiated at the public ceremony two days before, and she knew they had left Thendara as soon as their duties were done, and had returned to Hali well ahead of the funeral train, without encountering any troubles. She envied them the quiet of their journey.
When the pallbearers reached the freshly dug grave, they shifted their stances slightly. Bracing their feet against the soft ground, they carefully lowered the coffin into the hole. She could see their muscles straining as they hefted their weighty burden. Then they knelt and bowed their heads as the Servants moved forward.
The first Servant advanced, a young man scarcely older than Domenic. He bore a silver basin in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other. Solemnly he dipped the heads of the flowers into the water and flicked glistening drops over the coffin.
“In the name of Evanda I bless you, bright mother who brought you to birth and smiled on your deeds. May they live always in the springtime of our memories.”
The oldest of the remaining Servants followed him, casting handfuls of sand. It made a sweet rattling sound as it struck the wood of the casket. “In the name of Zandru, He who limits life and binds the days, I claim your bones. Earth to earth and dust to dust you shall remain . . .” A shiver passed through the mourners at these words, for few spoke that name lightly except in curses. The crowd shifted from foot to foot, and then the third Servant began his approach. He raised a censer, swinging the open-work copper vessel so that smoke billowed over the grave, mingling with the scent from the lake. The sharpness of the smoke stung her eyes, but she barely noticed.
“In the name of Avarra I receive you, for She is the Harvester. In Her dark womb you shall lie, and be transformed.”
There was a long silence then, as the smoke wafted over the coffin. In the shadow of the yews, it seemed very dark now, as if the sun were hidden in clouds. The color of the vapor issuing from the censer was almost black against the dimness of the light.
Then, suddenly, there was a bright flash, and a lantern was opened. The brightness that shone forth was eye-searing, and the darkness around the grave receded. “In the Name of Aldones I exalt you!” The fourth Servant’s voice rang out triumphantly. “Son of the Son of Light, your spirit shall illuminate the way for those who follow you!”
He stepped back, head bowed. A sigh went through the crowd as everyone realized it was finished, that there were no more words to be spoken. It was so brief and so simple, and yet, what more needed to be said? The emotions expressed were formal and conventional, but deeply meaningful—replete with the history of centuries of tradition. Marguerida felt the release that the words had given, and felt something within her let go at last. She put an arm around Domenic’s shoulders and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“I am going to miss him,” she said very softly.
“Me, too. And nothing is ever going to be the same again, is it?”
She laughed slightly then, and tugged at the locks of his hair gently. “Nothing is ever the same, Domenic, no matter how much we wish it will be.”
EPI LOGUE
Days had passed, then weeks. Autumn had faded and winter had begun to grip Darkover. On an icy morning Marguerida and Mikhail stood on the parapets of Comyn Castle, on a space cleared of the most recent snow. Cold lingered in the swept stones, penetrating into her boots and up under the many flannel petticoats she wore. She barely noticed the discomfort as she drew her heavy cloak more closely around her. Thendara lay beneath them, in a blanket of white, glistening in the sullen light of the sun behind the clouds, but she had no eyes for the city.
Marguerida strained her eyes toward the complex that lay at the limits of her unaided sight. She could just make out the ugly square buildings of HQ, where the Federation had maintained a presence for a hundred years. The large sweeps of tarmac around the structures were covered with snow, and if there were people moving there, they were too far away to be seen except with a farviewer. The only one they had was being quite unfairly hogged by Rory, who was as excited as if this were a glorious occasion, not a difficult complex event. The damn boy was irrepressible.
Nothing was happening yet, and Marguerida let her attention lapse. She thought about what had happened since they returned to Thendara more than forty days before, caught between relief that it was finally over and sorrow at the cost of lives. She was tired to her bones, and depressed as well. Food and rest had restored her body, but her spirit—and Mikhail’s—remained despondent. Marguerida could only hope that with the final departure of the Federation, they could begin to return to their normal selves. She knew in her heart that they would not ever be as they had been; that what they had done together on the Old North Road would always be with them, as inescapable as the deaths they had caused.
It had demanded all the discipline they had acquired to endure the days that had followed their return to the city. Instead of a triumphant celebration of victory, there were a myriad of problems to be faced. Dom Francisco was healing from his injuries, and Comyn Council had yet to decide just how he would pay for his treachery against Mikhail. There was no question in their minds that he must give up his seat on the Council in favor of his son Cisco, but whether he should be executed or allowed to live remained an issue of lively debate for the future.
They had dealt with the few survivors of the battle on the road, ten techs and half a dozen soldiers, as kindly as they could. She shivered with something more than cold at that memory, for it had violated her standards of ethical behavior more than a little. She and her father had used the Alton Gift in a way that repelled them, to tamper with the memories of the techs and soldiers, so that while they remembered the general events of the fight on the Old North Road, they had no recollection of anything remarkable occurring. No memory of the globe of light that had smote their compatriots so mercilessly remained when they were finished with their vile task. Lew had shaken his head and muttered, “The things I have done for Darkover,” and gotten terribly drunk for the first time in years.
The hapless Planetary Administrator, Emmet Grayson, had stepped into the breach left by the capture of Lyle Belfontaine, expressing outrage at the attack on Comyn Castle and exerting himself to make the best of a bad situation. From him they learned that Dirck Vancof had not succeeded in his attempt to escape. When he had put the flyer down on the landing field and stepped out, dressed in native clothing, he had been mistaken for a Darkovan and shot before anyone bothered to ask questions. Marguerida suspected that his well-deserved execution had saved Grayson a great deal of further embarrassment, and wondered to herself if the shooting might not have been more deliberate than accidental.
Then for three weeks after their return, there had been no word from the Federation. The continued silence from the Regional Relay Station had nearly driven Grayson to distraction. When the Administrator had finally received a message, years had dropped from his face. After that, it had only been a matter of helping him organize their departure. Now, all they had to do was wait.
A distant booming sound brought her back to the present with a start, and then there was a bright flare of light. A Big Ship plummeted downward, sending billows of moisture up into the air as the heat of it vaporized the snow on the tarmac. It was a glorious sight, the flare of the landing jets and the smooth black hull of the ship standing out starkly against the whiteness behind it.
When the vapor began to settle, Marguerida could see heavy vehicles start across the field. They rolled over the now snowless tarmac, and she thought she could see ramps being lowered. It was very hard to be sure at this distance. The first carrier reached the ramp and started up, into the belly of the ship, the rest following. It was rather a letdown after all the anticipation. Grayson had organized everything ably, and in half an hour, the last carrier was loaded aboard. Marguerida could not help but wonder what awaited the men and women leaving Darkover. Grayson had let slip a few things about the present state of the Federation that suggested there was a civil war going on in parts of that far-flung comglomeration of planets, that worlds had rebelled against Premier Nagy and the Expansionist forces. She suspected they were lucky that they were being taken away at all, but she knew her information was spotty at best.
The ramps vanished back into the black hull, and for several minutes there was no activity to be seen. The sky was darkening and a few snowflakes began to fall as the little group waited. Then a blaze surrounded the Big Ship for a moment, and it ascended as swiftly as it had come down, lifting away as if it weighed nothing instead of tons and tons. Like a sword of light it rose until it pierced the clouds and was gone from view.
No one spoke for several seconds. “Well, that’s the last of them,” Roderick announced cheerfully.
Marguerida looked at her redheaded younger son, glad to see that even the most momentous events did not disturb his constant enthusiasm for everything. At least she still had him to cluck over, now that Domenic was with Istvana Ridenow in Neskaya.
“I doubt that, Rory,” Mikhail said as sternly as he could, infected by his younger son’s high spirits in spite of himself.
“But didn’t we throw them out?” the boy persisted.
“Not really—there were complex reasons for their leaving; but that does not mean they will stay away forever, son.”
“Father, I think you are being very gloomy. You have been like that ever since you came back. I am sure they are gone for good.”
Mikhail looked at Marguerida over Roderick’s head, quirking his eyebrows a little. She understood the unasked question, and wished she had an answer. She had no sudden vision of the future, nor had she been plagued by any since their return. It did not mean anything—the Federation or some other force might return after she was dead. It was not a comforting thought, that she and Mikhail might have to leave the problem to their children.
Marguerida turned and started back toward the doorway into the warmth of the castle. “I hope you are right, Roderick,” she said.
“Of course I am. Why would they leave if they were only going to turn around and come back?”
“I don’t know—but just remember than the Federation has the ability to return if they choose, and we cannot assume anything.”
“Oh. Well, I hope they don’t, because they are bad people, like that Belfontaine man.”
“Not all of them are bad, Rory,” Mikhail insisted, then shrugged at the impossibility of explaining the complexities of interstellar politics to a thirteen-year-old.
“And if they do, you can just . . .”
“No, Roderick!”
“But, Father! Why not? Or is this one of those things I’ll understand when I am older again? I am so sick of . . .”
“Yes, Rory,” Marguerida interceded. “You are very tired of being told you don’t understand. And I am pretty sick of hearing you complain about it. Now let’s get something to eat.”
She felt Mikhail just behind her, and turned to him, slipping into his arms and feeling the coldness of his cheek against hers. Then, without word or thought, they both looked back, through the open door, at the abandoned buildings on the other side of the city. “What do you really think, caria?”
“That this is not the end, that it is not finished.”
“Why?”
“I think that as long as there is the technology to travel between the stars, there will always be the chance of visitors, Mik. And if the little we learned from Grayson is accurate, and the Federation itself is coming to pieces, it will not remain in bits forever.”
“You sound like your father.”
“I know. Someday, someone will come to Darkover from the stars again—it is as inevitable as snow in winter. But that is for another day, another year.” She leaned against his shoulder and rested her head. Marguerida could sense the dark tone of his thoughts, and wished she knew some way to brighten his mood. But only time, she knew, would cure what ailed her husband and herself.
He reached a hand out and shut the door to the roof. They turned and started for the stairs, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder. At last he said, “And we will meet that day when it comes, and not a second before.”