Sneak peek...
Mar. 4th, 2011 10:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deborahjrossFor those of you anxiously awaiting The Children of Kings, here's a sneak peek below the cut, Chapter 1 of the rough draft. Much of this may change between now and publication. I'm in that odd state where I can't tell if it's too slow or too inundating or just right. Probably won't know until I've finished the whole book and begin to work with it as a whole. Then I can see the overall shape and get an idea of how much tension/action/character arc to put in the opening. I want this to be accessible to readers new to Darkover without boring longtime fans. Comments welcome!
THE CHILDREN OF KINGS (rough draft, not for publication)
A NOVEL OF DARKOVER
by Marion Zimmer Bradley and Deborah J. Ross
Chapter 1: Leavetaking
The great red disk of Darkover's Bloody Sun had barely risen beyond the walls and towers of Thendara. Shadows still retained their icy chill. Here in the Lowlands, snow fell often through the spring and early summer, although the climate was warmer in the Dry Towns. This day, a brisk high wind had swept the sky clear of clouds. The branches of the trees in the gardens of the Old Town trembled. Pale lavender and white blossoms unfurled amid the new leaves. The air no longer smelled of old layered ice and sodden wool, but of fresh growing things.
The roads had been open for a tenday, even as far as the Kilghard Hills. Traders had been arriving in the city, bringing goods and gossip. The open air markets now offered fresh greens, spring onions and an array of early fruits, a welcome change from boiled roots, meat and porridge.
The brightening day touched the ancient castle of the Comyn where it stood like a city unto itself, walls and spires, domes and courtyards, the barracks and training yards of the City Guards, ballrooms and living quarters for the ruling families when they were in town. A crowd had gathered outside the main gates. Their mood was festive, the dark hues of winter garb brightened by garlands of early-blooming ice lilies.
The gates swung open and a contingent of City Guards spread out, clearing an open path. Then came more armed men, mounted on sturdy trail horses, wearing the blue and silver of the Domain of Hastur. People waved and someone played a lilting air on a wooden flute. The leader of the guards smiled and nodded, although his gaze never stopped moving across the assembly and one hand remained on the hilt of his sword.
Just inside the gates, a second, much smaller group had gathered, household servants and a scattering of richly-dressed Comyn lords and ladies. None of the leroni of Comyn Tower were in attendance. At this hour, they were just finishing their work, scheduled when the psychic chatter of everyday life was minimal.
In the center of the courtyard, a party of riders mounted up. Their horses stamped and snorted, breath turning into plumes of white vapor. Servants and baggage-handlers finished securing the coverings on a laden wagon.
From the shelter of an arched, deep-set Castle doorway, Gareth Elhalyn y Hastur watched the preparations for leave-taking. The slanting morning light touched his hair, darkened from childhood flaxen to red-gold, and the fine planes of his face, reflecting the compelling masculine beauty of his lineage. His cloak, although of soft lambswool, bore no badge or identifying mark, neither the blue-and-silver fir tree of his Hastur father nor the tree and crown of his royal Elhalyn mother. Neither of his parents were present, having passed the winter at Castle Elhalyn with his younger brother and sister. He was not alone, for he was rarely unattended, either by Castle Guards, personal servants, or the courtiers who either lived in Thendara or had journeyed here as soon as the roads were open. So well-guarded was he that he had never yet had occasion to use the sword hanging at his belt, except in daily practice. By a trick of psychic laran, however, or perhaps the early hour and the state of sleep-dazed lethargy in the onlookers, his presence this morning had gone largely unnoticed.
The foremost rider was a man of middle years, the gold of his hair laced lightly with frost, yet he carried himself with an air of experience and confidence. Like the woman beside him, he wore warm, brightly colored travel clothing. His fur-lined cloak of Hastur blue draped over the rump of his horse, one of the fabled Armida blacks. He smiled and lifted one hand in greeting to the crowd beyond the gates. They shouted and clapped. A few of those inside the gates, perhaps infected with the enthusiasm of the common folk, applauded as well.
"Dom Mikhail! The Regent!"
The woman colored a little. Her horse, a gray of the same fine breeding as her husband's black, pranced and pulled at the bit. She quieted the horse with a touch and as she did so, the hood of her cloak slipped from her head, revealing a crown of feather-soft coppery hair.
A sigh swept the crowd outside. The cheers diminished into whispers of awe.
"Comynara!"
"Lady Marguerida . . ."
Mikhail Lanart-Hastur gave his wife a crooked smile. "I get cheers, but for you they offer an even greater honor. I don't know whether to be relieved or proud."
By long habit, Gareth kept his psychic barriers tightly raised, but a trick of the acoustics in the courtyard carried their voices. He felt as if he were eavesdropping on a private family conversation. He wished he hadn't come. There was no help for it now. He pressed his back against the stone doorway.
"I wish they wouldn't," Marguerida Alton replied in a low voice. "I'd much rather be respected for what I've achieved than the color of my hair. We can't even take a simple vacation without all this fuss."
"It's gratitude, preciosa."
"Mik, the trailmen's fever was two years ago!"
"Darkovans have long memories. Ah, Nico!" Mikhail smiled broadly as his eldest son and heir approached.
At twenty, Domenic Alton-Hastur was just a few years older than Gareth, and had come gracefully into his growth. By Castle standards, he was simply dressed, a warm, beautifully-made jacket crossed by the Alton tartan, and pants tucked into swordsman's boots. He laid one hand on the black's glossy shoulder, looked up at his father, and said with a perfectly serious expression, "It's not too late to change your minds and turn back from this insanity."
"Nico!" Marguerida exclaimed, then laughed. "Not us leaving, but you staying to run this place -- that's the real insanity!"
"The Castle is in good hands, none finer." One corner of Mikhail's mouth twitched upwards. "I have no concerns on that score. We're in your debt for making it possible for your mother and I to get away at the same time. It's been far too long since all of us -- most of us, anyway -- were together at Armida."
A peculiar sensation, part ache, part something else, tightened Gareth's chest. He had never doubted the love his own parents had for him, but neither they nor anyone else in a position of power had ever trusted him as much as Mikhail trusted Domenic. It did no good to reiterate that Domenic was three years older, that he had been trained since childhood to assume the responsibilities of the Regency, as well as the discipline of his season in a Tower.
He has real work, work that matters. Nobody thinks of him as a useless ceremonial appendage.
Yet Gareth could not summon even a shred of resentment against his cousin. Domenic had never treated him unfairly. Neither of them could help their birth.
He will be Regent and I, the uncrownable King. As Grandfather Regis used to say, if we wanted another destiny, we should have chosen different parents.
Meanwhile, Mikhail had nudged his horse forward and addressed the throng outside the gates. Pitching his voice to reach even the edges of the crowd, he thanked them for their well-wishes and wished them a joyful spring and a bountiful early crop.
"I leave you in the care of my son and heir, Domenic Lanart-Hastur, and his equally capable advisors. I warn you, however, that he is a far sterner taskmaster than I. I bid you farewell until the summer Festival season!"
With that, Mikhail signaled to the Guards captain to proceed. The crowd pulled back as they approached, heading for the city gates that would take them to the road to the Alton family estate at Armida. Marguerida allowed herself a glance back toward the castle.
"He'll be fine," Mikhail murmured. "Danilo will send word at the least hint of trouble."
Lifting her chin, she nudged the gray forward until she rode beside her husband. The rest of the party clattered over the paved street to renewed cheers, and the gates swung shut behind them.
Gareth's stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had not taken more than a cup of water since arising. Perhaps Domenic, who remained in the center of the courtyard, talking with one of the Castle Guards, might be persuaded to breakfast with him.
The onlookers began to disperse, servants hurrying back to their duties. The nobles milled around, exchanging comments and making sure they were seen as people of importance. One of the minor lords brushed against Gareth's cloak and drew back, clearly startled.
"Your pardon, vai dom! How clumsy of me. I did not notice you standing there!"
Gareth schooled his features into a blandly pleasant smile. There was no point in telling the man to think nothing of it. Even though the Castle was echoingly empty, gossip spread like a Hellers wildfire.
"Gareth Elhalyn went to see the Regent and Domna Marguerida off, can you believe it?"
"Oh yes, I bumped into him. He was looking very pale indeed."
"Well, what do you expect -- he's an Elhalyn! He's probably terrified of his own shadow. They're all feeble-minded when they weren't insane, the whole nest of them. Remember Prince Derik, a generation ago? As simple as they come. And that business with Gareth after Regis died! You don't suppose he's losing what little sanity he ever possessed . . ."
No, his best hope was to avoid a conversation entirely. He inclined his head, murmured, "Excuse me."
Gareth reached Domenic just as the Guardsman bowed and took his leave.
"Good morning, cousin!" Domenic said with a friendly nod.
The appellation was not precisely accurate. Gareth's grandfather, the legendary Regis Hastur, had been brother to Domenic's Grandmother Javanne. But in his youth, Regis had formally adopted Mikhail as his heir, trained him for leadership, and kept his promise even when his own son, Gareth's father, was born. Dani Hastur had preferred a private life to one of continuous public display and one crisis after another, so the Regency now passed from Mikhail to his own son.
"A good morning for everyone, I hope." Then, feeling he ought to explain his presence, Gareth added, "I came to wish your parents a safe and speedy journey." The words sounded pretentious, as if he thought the whims of fortune and the difficulties of the road were subject to his amendment. "I see . . ." they had no need of my wishes. Half of Thendara came to cheer them on. Why would they pay any attention to me, who did not even speak to them?
Before Gareth could untangle his thoughts, they were joined by an older man who carried himself with the unconscious vigilance of a longtime paxman. Danilo Syrtis-Ardais was the namesake of Gareth's father and had been his grandfather's bredu, a term that mean not only "sworn brother," but in this case carried more intimate connotations, and to this day remained his grandmother's close friend. Now Danilo acted as Domenic's mentor and advisor, when he was not traveling about the Domains in search of latent telepaths.
"Tío Danilo!" Gareth came, somewhat shyly, into Danilo's fatherly embrace. They hadn't seen each other since the performance of Marguerida's opera. Danilo lived in his quarters in the Castle when he wasn't traveling, while Gareth stayed in the townhouse that had belonged to Regis.
Danilo drew back and thumped Gareth on the shoulder. "You've been regular in your sword practice."
Gareth never knew how to respond to such comments. Did Danilo really think him such a slaggard? Even the most indolent of princes must be seen to uphold the tradition of military training. He sparred, he rode, and he wracked his brains trying to master both Darkovan and Federation languages. Danilo himself had encouraged him and Grandmother Linnea insisted his laran studies benefitted from the mental discipline.
"Good lad." Danilo turned to Domenic, and even through his laran barriers, Gareth caught the edge of his unspoken question.
Is there more . . . you sensed . . . ?
Domenic's eyes narrowed, the merest hint of a gesture and so subtle that if Gareth had not sensed Danilo's inquiry, he would not have noticed it.
. . . earth tremors . . .
Gareth's moment of surprise almost betrayed him. Until recent times, each Domain possessed a characteristic psychic Gift. Now the Gifts no longer bred true and new ones arose unexpectedly. Domenic's was one such, the ability to sense geological conditions, although not even Domenic knew whether what he felt arose from the crustal layers or deep within the planet. Perhaps the Gift was linked to his dark hair, unusual for the child of a blond and a redhead.
Earth tremors . . . Gareth repeated to himself. He had studied only a little planetology and could not remember any references to Darkover being seismically active.
As if in answer to Gareth's thought, Domenic pitched his voice low and bent toward Danilo. Gareth caught only a few phrases, "Superficial . . . impact . . . if I didn't know otherwise . . ."
". . . could not be the Federation . . . no signals . . . Jeram's radio project . . ."
Gareth knew of the Terranan renegade, Jeremiah Reed, who had remained on Darkover when the Federation departed and taken the name Jeram. Their paths had not crossed, except for a few very public events like the Midwinter Festival ball. Jeram had set up a radio listening post, using the abandoned equipment at the old Federation Headquarters.
"Let me know . . . happens again." Danilo turned and nodded to Gareth in much the same way Gareth might dismiss a servant in order to continue an important conversation. The two men headed for the city gate, heads inclined together, voices low.
Gareth schooled his features to reflect nothing of what he felt. By now, he told himself savagely, he should be used to such treatment. If he ever expected to be taken seriously, to be treated with respect, then he himself must behave in a responsible manner. The next instant, the discipline he had learned from his grandmother Linnea, Keeper of Comyn Tower, settled over him like a veil of frost.
"Your Highness? Is anything amiss?"
Gareth's attention snapped to his immediate surroundings. He'd been so focused on gaining inner control, he'd gone unaware, blind. Two courtiers peered at him from a respectful distance, their faces reflecting concern. One of them, a Vistarin of Temora, was newly come to Thendara and had not yet built a reputation. The man had a little money from his family's salt trade and not a trace of laran. His companion, on the other hand, had been a minor fixture in Comyn society for as long as Gareth could remember. Stout and dressed unflatteringly in fur-trimmed satin, Octavien MacEwain was always trying to insinuate himself into Gareth's confidence.
"Ah. Dom Octavien." Gareth assumed an expression of indifference. "I was merely contemplating the vastly reduced evening amusements without Domna Marguerida's musical contributions." Marguerida's compositions blended the best of Darkovan tradition and off-world sophistication; her opera, "Lady Bruna," had been the highlight of the winter season.
"Her absence leaves us all poorer in spirit," the Vistarin said.
"And yet . . ." Octavien cut in smoothly, "within every disappointment lies an equal or greater opportunity."
Octavien's features betrayed nothing of his purpose, but Gareth had grown up in the treacherous and convoluted world of Comyn politics. As an adolescent, he had fallen under the influence of Javanne Hastur and had spent the last six years regretting it.
What Octavien meant was that the absence of Marguerida's husband, the Regent, would be an excellent time for Gareth to assert his claim to the throne. Next, he would suggest that although no one had anything to say against young Domenic, the Council would surely support a legitimate King over a mere Regent's son. The Regency, begun two generations ago by the formidable Danvan Hastur, was never intended as a permanent transfer of power.
He thinks I'm sane enough to be crowned and weak enough to be controlled.
"Oh," Gareth said airily, "I'm sure we can all find something with which to amuse ourselves." With a suitably arrogant lift of his chin, he turned and headed for the nearest exit, which happened to be the gate leading to the city.
Not ten paces beyond the Castle walls, Gareth realized he was shaking. The back of his throat tasted of stomach acid and his temples throbbed. The thought of food nauseated him, but he ought to eat. He had not been aware of using laran, except for that brief contact with Domenic's unguarded thoughts, but psychic work drained the body's energy. Grandmother Linnea would know the moment he walked in for his lesson if he had been neglecting the most basic practices of health.
Gareth paused at a corner food stall where a red-cheeked woman stood over a small copper pot over a portable brazier. The pot gave off the tantalizing aromas of sweet oil and fried dough. The clawing sensation at the back of Gareth's throat eased. His mouth watered and his spirits lifted.
The woman used a long wooden skewer to fish out braided, palm-wide pastries, which she rolled in crystallized honey before placing them, steaming and fragrant, on a cooling rack.
"Apple buns, fine sir?"
Gareth bought two, wrapped in paper. Beneath the crisp shell, the buns were moist with bits of fruit and lightly seasoned with spicebark. The taste reminded him of Midwinter Festival treats. The apples had probably been stored since last fall, and the resourceful baker had carved out every useful bit.
From the dregs comes treasure.
"Vai dom," came a man's voice, heavy with long-suffering forbearance. "If you please, you should not be here alone."
Here meant out in the open, mingling with the populace. Alone meant without his bodyguard.
Nursemaid would be more like it.
Irritation flared, fueled by smoldering resentment. Gareth immediately regretted both. Narsin had served the Elhalhyn family since before Domna Miralys, Gareth's mother, was born. The old man would have given his life for any one of them and did not deserve to be the target of Gareth's foul temper.
"I am sorry if my impulsiveness caused you distress," Gareth said. "As you see, I am in no danger. Truly, it was not necessary for you to leave the house at such an hour simply because I wished to stretch my legs on this fine morning."
Cragged brows tensed in the old man's lined face. He set his lips together, but Gareth understood his meaning.
It is neither safe nor seemly for the heir to the crown of the Seven Domains to be wandering around without an escort. Don't tell me you can defend yourself as well as the next man. Even a swordmaster can be taken unawares, and you are no ordinary man to risk your life in that way.
So Narsin had said, a hundred times. Even as a boy, Gareth understood that an ordinary man had more freedom than a prince. And a prince who had once made a fool of himself in front of the Comyn Council must accept the consequences of his actions, suspicion and constant surveillance.
"Very well, then," Gareth said, more sharply than he intended, "but don't hover at my elbow, glaring at every passer-by. There are no World Wrecker assassins abroad this morning."
Without waiting for a response, Gareth headed back toward Comyn Castle, but slowly enough so that the old man could easily keep pace. It was early for his session with Linnea, but he badly wanted to be off the streets. At the moment, he felt he'd had all he could stand of being watched over and whispered about.
It was true, there were no longer any World Wreckers, or any saboteurs, undercover agents or Federation forces of any sort, for that matter, left on Darkover. Except, of course, the very few who had stayed behind when the Terran Federation withdrew its forces.
Gareth lifted his face to the sky, trying to imagine what it must be like out there, in the vast reaches of space. Darkover was a small and insignificant planet, considered irredeemably primitive by the Federation. Only its strategic location on the galactic arm, and then later its potential for trade and exploitation, had granted it any status. But even that could not justify the Terranan presence once the Federation split apart in a bloody interstellar war.
What was going on up there? Who was winning, who losing? Darkover had had few enough allies in the Senate, even before the war. And will they every come back?
When they do, we will be ready for them. So Gareth had sworn more times than he could count. Now the words sounded hollow to his mind. If the Federation returned, with its powerful weapons, determined to seize whatever it wanted instead of the former, grudging respect for Darkover's autonomy, who could stop them?
Yet to think in this fashion -- we will be ready for them -- was that not sheer arrogance? Since childhood, Gareth had been drilled in the importance of the Compact, the ancient code of honor that forbade the use of any weapons that did not bring the wielder within equal risk. In many ways, the Compact was the soul of Darkover, of the Domains, anyway. The Dry-Towns had never sworn to it, but their inhabitants did not possess laran.
Laran. As the rambling complex of walls and towers of Comyn Castle came into view, Gareth turned the word over in his mind, trying to imagine a world without laran. Darkover was unique in the strength and prevalence of psychic powers, powers that, when amplified by the psycho-resonant starstones, were capable of everything from sensing the emotions of another, to healing mind and body, to charging batteries that could light a castle or power an airship . . . or bring one crashing down.
The Terranan had thought the Compact the superstition of a primitive race. They had not realized it was aimed, not at their own technology, but at the far more devastating weaponry of the mind.
Once, Gareth had been taught, laran warfare had raged unchecked across the face of Darkover. That terrible time was called the Ages of Chaos. Many of the techniques had been lost, and most people thought it better that way.
But if the Federation comes back, our laran may be the best defense we have.
The arrogance lay in thinking he could somehow make a difference. Under it all, he supposed, he was a hopeless romantic, a prince who wanted to save his kingdom. Or, at very least, prove himself worthy of it.
The Castle had resumed a degree of normality after the departure of the Regent. If Gareth had been alone, he would have used one of the side entrances near the Tower. That would only distress Narsin further, for Narsin envisioned ambushes even in the rosalys arbors. It was better to use the main gate, with armed Guards standing at attention. He paused for a few moments to speak to them. His grandfather, the near-legendary Regis Hastur, would have done the same, knowing each man's name and family. Gareth saw the familiar light pass over their eyes, the mask of politeness settle over their features, the flicker of fear. He's a Comyn lord, can he read our minds? Can he tell what we really think of him?
Gareth and Narsin crossed the outer courtyard, a flagstone square lined with benches and trees, their leaves still bright green. Beds of yellowheart and ornamental rosmarin gave off a subtle, spicy perfume. Although the sky had brightened to full morning, it was still chilly in the shadows. Narsin furtively pulled his cloak around his bony shoulders.
"You need not remain with me, old friend," Gareth said. "Go home and get yourself a hot meal. I am safe within these walls."
"But, Dom Gareth --"
"No harm will come to me, I promise. Look, there's another pair of Guards. See how they watch me." Undoubtedly wondering what scandalous thing the mad Elhalyn princeling will do next. "I have only to call out and they will be here to protect me. And I will be in my grandmother's care." What could you defend me against, that a Keeper could not?
Narsin's shoulders sagged minutely. They had been through similar arguments a hundred times before, and he had a finely honed sense of how far he could push Gareth. He nodded, bowed, and departed the way they had come.
Gareth breathed a little more freely as he hurried along the maze of passages leading to the Tower. For a few moments, he need not barricade his thoughts behind a granite shield. He hated having keeping secrets from the old retainer, his parents, Domenic, even his grandmother. While it was true that a person could not lie when speaking mind-to-mind, it was also true that there were certain things so outlandish, so out of ordinary possibility, that not even a Keeper would think to ask about them.
His life was like a puzzle. Grandmother Linnea knew part of it; as his friend and Regent-heir, Domenic knew another; his parents saw him as the boy they loved so dearly; Danilo Syrtis, who had been his grandfather's bredu and paxman, encouraged him to study languages and mathematics to develop self-discipline; the courtiers and Comyn lords saw him as either yet another of those unstable Elhalyns or else a pawn to their own ambitions. Gareth supposed it was like that for everyone, especially those cursed with noble birth. Perhaps his own father had taken the wiser choice in abdicating any claim to the Hastur Domain in favor of a private domestic life. Whenever Gareth thought of living so quietly, so confined, he felt as if he were dying.
Gareth paused outside the door leading to Linnea's private chambers. Carved with an interlacing pattern of branches, it always made him think of an enchanted forest and his grandmother as a chieri queen who lived there. She had been queen in all but name, for no one would have challenged Regis if he had wanted the throne.
Before Gareth's knuckles touched the fine-grained wood, Linnea called for him to enter. He lifted the latch and stepped inside.
Linnea Storn-Lanart sat before the hearth where a tiny fire sent up tendrils of brightness. She had set aside her red Keeper's robes for a gown of softly draped, undyed wool. The room with its graceful furnishings and mantle of opalized river-stone was proportioned for a small, delicate person. It fit her perfectly.
She lifted one hand from her knitting to greet him. The light streamed in from the mullioned windows behind her and touched her silver hair. For a moment, with her face softened by shadow, he saw her as she must have been, a gloriously beautiful young woman with a heart-shaped face and deeply expressive eyes. Then she moved to tuck the needles and ball of wool into a basket at her feet, and became an old woman. Years had pleated her skin like the withering of a flower, revealing the strength of her character.
"How good it is to see you, chiyu. I was beginning to think you weren't coming this morning."
Gareth squirmed, although there was no censure in Linnea's words, only a gentle reminder that she had waited up for him after a night's demanding work in the Tower circle. He decided not to mention the courtiers. She had had enough of such schemes and machinations in her own life.
"Forgive me, Grandmother." Gareth drew up a chair. "Shall we begin?"
With an expression of pleasure, Linnea took out her starstone from its locket lined with insulating spidersilk. Gareth caught a flash of intense blue-white as the psychoactive gem touched her skin. Quickly he averted his gaze. The shifting patterns of energy, manifested as twisting light, could be dangerous to any mind other than the one to which the stone was attuned.
Gareth carried his own matrix stone in the old style, in a silk pouch tucked under his shirt. Simple geometric embroidery decorated the outer layer, a gift from one of his Elhalyn aunts. With a practiced tug, he loosened the cord and the starstone fall into the palm of his hand.
The stone, carried so close to his body, felt warm. Blue-white brilliance lit the facets, dancing through the patterns he knew so well. Sometimes, when he was first learning to use the stone, those patterns had haunted his dreams.
Gareth closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the stone. As he had been taught, he envisioned a single point of light. He imagined it moving through a rainbow-hued prism, gaining in power and clarity yet essentially unchanged. The starstone would amplify his own innate talent, but it could not grant him a Gift he did not already have.
What was his Gift? Each Domain was said to have a unique laran ability, although there had been so much intermarriage in recent generations that those traits no longer bred true. The Ridenow were still celebrated for their empathy, particularly with non-humans. Their skill with horses and hawks was common knowledge. And the Altons . . . forced rapport was not a thing to be taken lightly, and the unchecked anger of an Alton could kill. Other Gifts had been lost through dilution and the passage of time. No one living knew what Gifts the Aillards and Gareth's own family, the Elhalyns, had once possessed.
The Aillards, he reflected, were all but extinct, their Domain represented on the Comyn Council by a distant, collateral branch. As for the Elhalyns . . .
After so many unstable, near-psychotic generations, it is no wonder we have no Gift!
Immediately, Gareth regretted the pettiness of his thought. True, his maternal grandmother had been stricken with one mental illness after another during her lifetime -- depression, delusions, who knew what else. His own mother, Miralys Elhalyn, had never been anything but sweet-natured, constant and loving. It was unworthy to condemn her in the same breath as Old Stefan, or Derik the Insane.
Or me, as I could have been.
As he might still be?
Concentrate on nothing else, only this point of light . . . came Linnea's silent command, cool and smooth as silver. With a startle, Gareth reined his thoughts back under control.
The light . . . nothing but the light . . .
With a sigh, he lowered his barriers and allowed his mind to merge with hers. She took control of their joined mental energy with a Keeper's deft touch and wove it into a circle.
Gareth floated in a sea of misty blue-white. He poured his mental energies through his starstone and into hers, keeping the stream of laran power steady and even. Peace such as he had rarely known suffused him. Here, in this place out of time, there was no deception, no need for disguise, no schemes or plots, no consideration of rank, no past . . .
His next awareness was the touch of his grandmother's mind on his, a gentle warning before she broke rapport. He felt himself falling, as he always did when ending a telepathic session. They had not worked nearly as long as an ordinary circle would, but their goal was not assembling a higher-order matrix, mining rare minerals deep below Darkover's crust, producing fire-fighting chemicals or medicines, or any of the hundred things that could be done accomplished with laran. Some of these, he knew, could be done as well by Terranan science, but Darkover no longer had the luxury of such trade.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he should seek admittance to a Tower. Linnea once commented that he had the ability. Aldones knew the circles always needed more workers. That was why Tio Danilo spent the better part of each year searching out new talent.
To bury himself in such a world, a place of peace and fellowship . . . but where nothing ever changed, where discipline and order were the rule.
No, he could not do that, either.
Linnea rose and stretched. "You did well, little one, once you settled down. I've rarely seen you so distracted."
"I --"
"No, don't tell me. It doesn't matter. We must leave all personal considerations behind when we work in a circle. That discipline is as necessary for you as for any Tower-trained laranzu."
Gareth hung his head, offering no excuse.
"Come now, you did not do badly. Did I not say so?" She brushed her fingertips against the back of his wrist in a telepath's feather-light touch. "We all have days when we are not our best, for are we not human? You are too hard on yourself. Sometimes I think you anticipate criticism by delivering it yourself!"
The session had left Gareth tired and irritable. "If I do not set high standards for myself, who will? Half the city can't wait for me to fail. The bet-makers are likely making odd that I'll do it in some spectacular and unseemly fashion."
Linnea shook her head. "You were very young when Javanne got her claws into you. She no more had your best interest at heart than do those toadies who dog your steps. It is they who are to blame, not you, unless you constantly remind me of it by this wincing."
"It is an old habit," he admitted, smiling.
"And one I should be happy to see you rid yourself of."
"For you, Grandmother, I will try." Gareth leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the cheek. He bowed and stepped back, preparing to take his leave.
A thoughtful expression touched her face. "In some ways, you are very like Regis. He too had an adventurous spirit, although his rank forced him to set aside his own dreams. And he too expected more of himself than anyone else ever could."
"Grandfather Regis?" The legendary Regis, who had stood against the World Wreckers, and, if half the stories were true, became the living incarnation of Hastur Lord of Light when he defeated the Sharra Matrix.
"Yes, he is best known for those things." Linnea responded to Gareth's unspoken thought, for they were still in light rapport. "Before before that, he led the Allison Expedition that found a cure for trailmen's fever the first time. Oh, yes, he was a mountaineer as a young man. Even as a cadet, he went alone into the Hellers at the time of the first Sharra disaster, when Caer Donn was destroyed."
"Are you saying . . ."
Linnea smiled. "I am saying that perhaps you need not hide your own dreams of adventure, at least not from me. It is natural for young people to strike out on their own. We all have private, thoughts and if you had been able to study at a Tower, you would have learned to keep yours close without drawing quite so much attention to them."
"I don't know what to say." His cheeks burned.
"Nothing is required. I only wish you to know that you are not the first young Comyn lord to want something more from his life than Council business, marrying for political advantage, and producing heirs. Go on now, it is time for me to rest. If you will, we will speak more of this."
There was no point in arguing. Besides, Linnea was right. With a Keeper's unerring instinct for the uncomfortable truth, she had put into words the focus of his discontent.
There had to be more to life that being polite to ambitious bootlickers like Octavien MacEwain or Rollin Valdiz, or trying endlessly to live down his own past and escape everyone else's. Much as he sometimes longed to, running away was not the answer. He did have an obligation to Darkover, to his family, to the Comyn. To the memory of his grandfather. Regis had not hidden. But until now, Gareth had never considered what it had cost his grandfather.
THE CHILDREN OF KINGS (rough draft, not for publication)
A NOVEL OF DARKOVER
by Marion Zimmer Bradley and Deborah J. Ross
Chapter 1: Leavetaking
The great red disk of Darkover's Bloody Sun had barely risen beyond the walls and towers of Thendara. Shadows still retained their icy chill. Here in the Lowlands, snow fell often through the spring and early summer, although the climate was warmer in the Dry Towns. This day, a brisk high wind had swept the sky clear of clouds. The branches of the trees in the gardens of the Old Town trembled. Pale lavender and white blossoms unfurled amid the new leaves. The air no longer smelled of old layered ice and sodden wool, but of fresh growing things.
The roads had been open for a tenday, even as far as the Kilghard Hills. Traders had been arriving in the city, bringing goods and gossip. The open air markets now offered fresh greens, spring onions and an array of early fruits, a welcome change from boiled roots, meat and porridge.
The brightening day touched the ancient castle of the Comyn where it stood like a city unto itself, walls and spires, domes and courtyards, the barracks and training yards of the City Guards, ballrooms and living quarters for the ruling families when they were in town. A crowd had gathered outside the main gates. Their mood was festive, the dark hues of winter garb brightened by garlands of early-blooming ice lilies.
The gates swung open and a contingent of City Guards spread out, clearing an open path. Then came more armed men, mounted on sturdy trail horses, wearing the blue and silver of the Domain of Hastur. People waved and someone played a lilting air on a wooden flute. The leader of the guards smiled and nodded, although his gaze never stopped moving across the assembly and one hand remained on the hilt of his sword.
Just inside the gates, a second, much smaller group had gathered, household servants and a scattering of richly-dressed Comyn lords and ladies. None of the leroni of Comyn Tower were in attendance. At this hour, they were just finishing their work, scheduled when the psychic chatter of everyday life was minimal.
In the center of the courtyard, a party of riders mounted up. Their horses stamped and snorted, breath turning into plumes of white vapor. Servants and baggage-handlers finished securing the coverings on a laden wagon.
From the shelter of an arched, deep-set Castle doorway, Gareth Elhalyn y Hastur watched the preparations for leave-taking. The slanting morning light touched his hair, darkened from childhood flaxen to red-gold, and the fine planes of his face, reflecting the compelling masculine beauty of his lineage. His cloak, although of soft lambswool, bore no badge or identifying mark, neither the blue-and-silver fir tree of his Hastur father nor the tree and crown of his royal Elhalyn mother. Neither of his parents were present, having passed the winter at Castle Elhalyn with his younger brother and sister. He was not alone, for he was rarely unattended, either by Castle Guards, personal servants, or the courtiers who either lived in Thendara or had journeyed here as soon as the roads were open. So well-guarded was he that he had never yet had occasion to use the sword hanging at his belt, except in daily practice. By a trick of psychic laran, however, or perhaps the early hour and the state of sleep-dazed lethargy in the onlookers, his presence this morning had gone largely unnoticed.
The foremost rider was a man of middle years, the gold of his hair laced lightly with frost, yet he carried himself with an air of experience and confidence. Like the woman beside him, he wore warm, brightly colored travel clothing. His fur-lined cloak of Hastur blue draped over the rump of his horse, one of the fabled Armida blacks. He smiled and lifted one hand in greeting to the crowd beyond the gates. They shouted and clapped. A few of those inside the gates, perhaps infected with the enthusiasm of the common folk, applauded as well.
"Dom Mikhail! The Regent!"
The woman colored a little. Her horse, a gray of the same fine breeding as her husband's black, pranced and pulled at the bit. She quieted the horse with a touch and as she did so, the hood of her cloak slipped from her head, revealing a crown of feather-soft coppery hair.
A sigh swept the crowd outside. The cheers diminished into whispers of awe.
"Comynara!"
"Lady Marguerida . . ."
Mikhail Lanart-Hastur gave his wife a crooked smile. "I get cheers, but for you they offer an even greater honor. I don't know whether to be relieved or proud."
By long habit, Gareth kept his psychic barriers tightly raised, but a trick of the acoustics in the courtyard carried their voices. He felt as if he were eavesdropping on a private family conversation. He wished he hadn't come. There was no help for it now. He pressed his back against the stone doorway.
"I wish they wouldn't," Marguerida Alton replied in a low voice. "I'd much rather be respected for what I've achieved than the color of my hair. We can't even take a simple vacation without all this fuss."
"It's gratitude, preciosa."
"Mik, the trailmen's fever was two years ago!"
"Darkovans have long memories. Ah, Nico!" Mikhail smiled broadly as his eldest son and heir approached.
At twenty, Domenic Alton-Hastur was just a few years older than Gareth, and had come gracefully into his growth. By Castle standards, he was simply dressed, a warm, beautifully-made jacket crossed by the Alton tartan, and pants tucked into swordsman's boots. He laid one hand on the black's glossy shoulder, looked up at his father, and said with a perfectly serious expression, "It's not too late to change your minds and turn back from this insanity."
"Nico!" Marguerida exclaimed, then laughed. "Not us leaving, but you staying to run this place -- that's the real insanity!"
"The Castle is in good hands, none finer." One corner of Mikhail's mouth twitched upwards. "I have no concerns on that score. We're in your debt for making it possible for your mother and I to get away at the same time. It's been far too long since all of us -- most of us, anyway -- were together at Armida."
A peculiar sensation, part ache, part something else, tightened Gareth's chest. He had never doubted the love his own parents had for him, but neither they nor anyone else in a position of power had ever trusted him as much as Mikhail trusted Domenic. It did no good to reiterate that Domenic was three years older, that he had been trained since childhood to assume the responsibilities of the Regency, as well as the discipline of his season in a Tower.
He has real work, work that matters. Nobody thinks of him as a useless ceremonial appendage.
Yet Gareth could not summon even a shred of resentment against his cousin. Domenic had never treated him unfairly. Neither of them could help their birth.
He will be Regent and I, the uncrownable King. As Grandfather Regis used to say, if we wanted another destiny, we should have chosen different parents.
Meanwhile, Mikhail had nudged his horse forward and addressed the throng outside the gates. Pitching his voice to reach even the edges of the crowd, he thanked them for their well-wishes and wished them a joyful spring and a bountiful early crop.
"I leave you in the care of my son and heir, Domenic Lanart-Hastur, and his equally capable advisors. I warn you, however, that he is a far sterner taskmaster than I. I bid you farewell until the summer Festival season!"
With that, Mikhail signaled to the Guards captain to proceed. The crowd pulled back as they approached, heading for the city gates that would take them to the road to the Alton family estate at Armida. Marguerida allowed herself a glance back toward the castle.
"He'll be fine," Mikhail murmured. "Danilo will send word at the least hint of trouble."
Lifting her chin, she nudged the gray forward until she rode beside her husband. The rest of the party clattered over the paved street to renewed cheers, and the gates swung shut behind them.
Gareth's stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had not taken more than a cup of water since arising. Perhaps Domenic, who remained in the center of the courtyard, talking with one of the Castle Guards, might be persuaded to breakfast with him.
The onlookers began to disperse, servants hurrying back to their duties. The nobles milled around, exchanging comments and making sure they were seen as people of importance. One of the minor lords brushed against Gareth's cloak and drew back, clearly startled.
"Your pardon, vai dom! How clumsy of me. I did not notice you standing there!"
Gareth schooled his features into a blandly pleasant smile. There was no point in telling the man to think nothing of it. Even though the Castle was echoingly empty, gossip spread like a Hellers wildfire.
"Gareth Elhalyn went to see the Regent and Domna Marguerida off, can you believe it?"
"Oh yes, I bumped into him. He was looking very pale indeed."
"Well, what do you expect -- he's an Elhalyn! He's probably terrified of his own shadow. They're all feeble-minded when they weren't insane, the whole nest of them. Remember Prince Derik, a generation ago? As simple as they come. And that business with Gareth after Regis died! You don't suppose he's losing what little sanity he ever possessed . . ."
No, his best hope was to avoid a conversation entirely. He inclined his head, murmured, "Excuse me."
Gareth reached Domenic just as the Guardsman bowed and took his leave.
"Good morning, cousin!" Domenic said with a friendly nod.
The appellation was not precisely accurate. Gareth's grandfather, the legendary Regis Hastur, had been brother to Domenic's Grandmother Javanne. But in his youth, Regis had formally adopted Mikhail as his heir, trained him for leadership, and kept his promise even when his own son, Gareth's father, was born. Dani Hastur had preferred a private life to one of continuous public display and one crisis after another, so the Regency now passed from Mikhail to his own son.
"A good morning for everyone, I hope." Then, feeling he ought to explain his presence, Gareth added, "I came to wish your parents a safe and speedy journey." The words sounded pretentious, as if he thought the whims of fortune and the difficulties of the road were subject to his amendment. "I see . . ." they had no need of my wishes. Half of Thendara came to cheer them on. Why would they pay any attention to me, who did not even speak to them?
Before Gareth could untangle his thoughts, they were joined by an older man who carried himself with the unconscious vigilance of a longtime paxman. Danilo Syrtis-Ardais was the namesake of Gareth's father and had been his grandfather's bredu, a term that mean not only "sworn brother," but in this case carried more intimate connotations, and to this day remained his grandmother's close friend. Now Danilo acted as Domenic's mentor and advisor, when he was not traveling about the Domains in search of latent telepaths.
"Tío Danilo!" Gareth came, somewhat shyly, into Danilo's fatherly embrace. They hadn't seen each other since the performance of Marguerida's opera. Danilo lived in his quarters in the Castle when he wasn't traveling, while Gareth stayed in the townhouse that had belonged to Regis.
Danilo drew back and thumped Gareth on the shoulder. "You've been regular in your sword practice."
Gareth never knew how to respond to such comments. Did Danilo really think him such a slaggard? Even the most indolent of princes must be seen to uphold the tradition of military training. He sparred, he rode, and he wracked his brains trying to master both Darkovan and Federation languages. Danilo himself had encouraged him and Grandmother Linnea insisted his laran studies benefitted from the mental discipline.
"Good lad." Danilo turned to Domenic, and even through his laran barriers, Gareth caught the edge of his unspoken question.
Is there more . . . you sensed . . . ?
Domenic's eyes narrowed, the merest hint of a gesture and so subtle that if Gareth had not sensed Danilo's inquiry, he would not have noticed it.
. . . earth tremors . . .
Gareth's moment of surprise almost betrayed him. Until recent times, each Domain possessed a characteristic psychic Gift. Now the Gifts no longer bred true and new ones arose unexpectedly. Domenic's was one such, the ability to sense geological conditions, although not even Domenic knew whether what he felt arose from the crustal layers or deep within the planet. Perhaps the Gift was linked to his dark hair, unusual for the child of a blond and a redhead.
Earth tremors . . . Gareth repeated to himself. He had studied only a little planetology and could not remember any references to Darkover being seismically active.
As if in answer to Gareth's thought, Domenic pitched his voice low and bent toward Danilo. Gareth caught only a few phrases, "Superficial . . . impact . . . if I didn't know otherwise . . ."
". . . could not be the Federation . . . no signals . . . Jeram's radio project . . ."
Gareth knew of the Terranan renegade, Jeremiah Reed, who had remained on Darkover when the Federation departed and taken the name Jeram. Their paths had not crossed, except for a few very public events like the Midwinter Festival ball. Jeram had set up a radio listening post, using the abandoned equipment at the old Federation Headquarters.
"Let me know . . . happens again." Danilo turned and nodded to Gareth in much the same way Gareth might dismiss a servant in order to continue an important conversation. The two men headed for the city gate, heads inclined together, voices low.
Gareth schooled his features to reflect nothing of what he felt. By now, he told himself savagely, he should be used to such treatment. If he ever expected to be taken seriously, to be treated with respect, then he himself must behave in a responsible manner. The next instant, the discipline he had learned from his grandmother Linnea, Keeper of Comyn Tower, settled over him like a veil of frost.
"Your Highness? Is anything amiss?"
Gareth's attention snapped to his immediate surroundings. He'd been so focused on gaining inner control, he'd gone unaware, blind. Two courtiers peered at him from a respectful distance, their faces reflecting concern. One of them, a Vistarin of Temora, was newly come to Thendara and had not yet built a reputation. The man had a little money from his family's salt trade and not a trace of laran. His companion, on the other hand, had been a minor fixture in Comyn society for as long as Gareth could remember. Stout and dressed unflatteringly in fur-trimmed satin, Octavien MacEwain was always trying to insinuate himself into Gareth's confidence.
"Ah. Dom Octavien." Gareth assumed an expression of indifference. "I was merely contemplating the vastly reduced evening amusements without Domna Marguerida's musical contributions." Marguerida's compositions blended the best of Darkovan tradition and off-world sophistication; her opera, "Lady Bruna," had been the highlight of the winter season.
"Her absence leaves us all poorer in spirit," the Vistarin said.
"And yet . . ." Octavien cut in smoothly, "within every disappointment lies an equal or greater opportunity."
Octavien's features betrayed nothing of his purpose, but Gareth had grown up in the treacherous and convoluted world of Comyn politics. As an adolescent, he had fallen under the influence of Javanne Hastur and had spent the last six years regretting it.
What Octavien meant was that the absence of Marguerida's husband, the Regent, would be an excellent time for Gareth to assert his claim to the throne. Next, he would suggest that although no one had anything to say against young Domenic, the Council would surely support a legitimate King over a mere Regent's son. The Regency, begun two generations ago by the formidable Danvan Hastur, was never intended as a permanent transfer of power.
He thinks I'm sane enough to be crowned and weak enough to be controlled.
"Oh," Gareth said airily, "I'm sure we can all find something with which to amuse ourselves." With a suitably arrogant lift of his chin, he turned and headed for the nearest exit, which happened to be the gate leading to the city.
Not ten paces beyond the Castle walls, Gareth realized he was shaking. The back of his throat tasted of stomach acid and his temples throbbed. The thought of food nauseated him, but he ought to eat. He had not been aware of using laran, except for that brief contact with Domenic's unguarded thoughts, but psychic work drained the body's energy. Grandmother Linnea would know the moment he walked in for his lesson if he had been neglecting the most basic practices of health.
Gareth paused at a corner food stall where a red-cheeked woman stood over a small copper pot over a portable brazier. The pot gave off the tantalizing aromas of sweet oil and fried dough. The clawing sensation at the back of Gareth's throat eased. His mouth watered and his spirits lifted.
The woman used a long wooden skewer to fish out braided, palm-wide pastries, which she rolled in crystallized honey before placing them, steaming and fragrant, on a cooling rack.
"Apple buns, fine sir?"
Gareth bought two, wrapped in paper. Beneath the crisp shell, the buns were moist with bits of fruit and lightly seasoned with spicebark. The taste reminded him of Midwinter Festival treats. The apples had probably been stored since last fall, and the resourceful baker had carved out every useful bit.
From the dregs comes treasure.
"Vai dom," came a man's voice, heavy with long-suffering forbearance. "If you please, you should not be here alone."
Here meant out in the open, mingling with the populace. Alone meant without his bodyguard.
Nursemaid would be more like it.
Irritation flared, fueled by smoldering resentment. Gareth immediately regretted both. Narsin had served the Elhalhyn family since before Domna Miralys, Gareth's mother, was born. The old man would have given his life for any one of them and did not deserve to be the target of Gareth's foul temper.
"I am sorry if my impulsiveness caused you distress," Gareth said. "As you see, I am in no danger. Truly, it was not necessary for you to leave the house at such an hour simply because I wished to stretch my legs on this fine morning."
Cragged brows tensed in the old man's lined face. He set his lips together, but Gareth understood his meaning.
It is neither safe nor seemly for the heir to the crown of the Seven Domains to be wandering around without an escort. Don't tell me you can defend yourself as well as the next man. Even a swordmaster can be taken unawares, and you are no ordinary man to risk your life in that way.
So Narsin had said, a hundred times. Even as a boy, Gareth understood that an ordinary man had more freedom than a prince. And a prince who had once made a fool of himself in front of the Comyn Council must accept the consequences of his actions, suspicion and constant surveillance.
"Very well, then," Gareth said, more sharply than he intended, "but don't hover at my elbow, glaring at every passer-by. There are no World Wrecker assassins abroad this morning."
Without waiting for a response, Gareth headed back toward Comyn Castle, but slowly enough so that the old man could easily keep pace. It was early for his session with Linnea, but he badly wanted to be off the streets. At the moment, he felt he'd had all he could stand of being watched over and whispered about.
It was true, there were no longer any World Wreckers, or any saboteurs, undercover agents or Federation forces of any sort, for that matter, left on Darkover. Except, of course, the very few who had stayed behind when the Terran Federation withdrew its forces.
Gareth lifted his face to the sky, trying to imagine what it must be like out there, in the vast reaches of space. Darkover was a small and insignificant planet, considered irredeemably primitive by the Federation. Only its strategic location on the galactic arm, and then later its potential for trade and exploitation, had granted it any status. But even that could not justify the Terranan presence once the Federation split apart in a bloody interstellar war.
What was going on up there? Who was winning, who losing? Darkover had had few enough allies in the Senate, even before the war. And will they every come back?
When they do, we will be ready for them. So Gareth had sworn more times than he could count. Now the words sounded hollow to his mind. If the Federation returned, with its powerful weapons, determined to seize whatever it wanted instead of the former, grudging respect for Darkover's autonomy, who could stop them?
Yet to think in this fashion -- we will be ready for them -- was that not sheer arrogance? Since childhood, Gareth had been drilled in the importance of the Compact, the ancient code of honor that forbade the use of any weapons that did not bring the wielder within equal risk. In many ways, the Compact was the soul of Darkover, of the Domains, anyway. The Dry-Towns had never sworn to it, but their inhabitants did not possess laran.
Laran. As the rambling complex of walls and towers of Comyn Castle came into view, Gareth turned the word over in his mind, trying to imagine a world without laran. Darkover was unique in the strength and prevalence of psychic powers, powers that, when amplified by the psycho-resonant starstones, were capable of everything from sensing the emotions of another, to healing mind and body, to charging batteries that could light a castle or power an airship . . . or bring one crashing down.
The Terranan had thought the Compact the superstition of a primitive race. They had not realized it was aimed, not at their own technology, but at the far more devastating weaponry of the mind.
Once, Gareth had been taught, laran warfare had raged unchecked across the face of Darkover. That terrible time was called the Ages of Chaos. Many of the techniques had been lost, and most people thought it better that way.
But if the Federation comes back, our laran may be the best defense we have.
The arrogance lay in thinking he could somehow make a difference. Under it all, he supposed, he was a hopeless romantic, a prince who wanted to save his kingdom. Or, at very least, prove himself worthy of it.
The Castle had resumed a degree of normality after the departure of the Regent. If Gareth had been alone, he would have used one of the side entrances near the Tower. That would only distress Narsin further, for Narsin envisioned ambushes even in the rosalys arbors. It was better to use the main gate, with armed Guards standing at attention. He paused for a few moments to speak to them. His grandfather, the near-legendary Regis Hastur, would have done the same, knowing each man's name and family. Gareth saw the familiar light pass over their eyes, the mask of politeness settle over their features, the flicker of fear. He's a Comyn lord, can he read our minds? Can he tell what we really think of him?
Gareth and Narsin crossed the outer courtyard, a flagstone square lined with benches and trees, their leaves still bright green. Beds of yellowheart and ornamental rosmarin gave off a subtle, spicy perfume. Although the sky had brightened to full morning, it was still chilly in the shadows. Narsin furtively pulled his cloak around his bony shoulders.
"You need not remain with me, old friend," Gareth said. "Go home and get yourself a hot meal. I am safe within these walls."
"But, Dom Gareth --"
"No harm will come to me, I promise. Look, there's another pair of Guards. See how they watch me." Undoubtedly wondering what scandalous thing the mad Elhalyn princeling will do next. "I have only to call out and they will be here to protect me. And I will be in my grandmother's care." What could you defend me against, that a Keeper could not?
Narsin's shoulders sagged minutely. They had been through similar arguments a hundred times before, and he had a finely honed sense of how far he could push Gareth. He nodded, bowed, and departed the way they had come.
Gareth breathed a little more freely as he hurried along the maze of passages leading to the Tower. For a few moments, he need not barricade his thoughts behind a granite shield. He hated having keeping secrets from the old retainer, his parents, Domenic, even his grandmother. While it was true that a person could not lie when speaking mind-to-mind, it was also true that there were certain things so outlandish, so out of ordinary possibility, that not even a Keeper would think to ask about them.
His life was like a puzzle. Grandmother Linnea knew part of it; as his friend and Regent-heir, Domenic knew another; his parents saw him as the boy they loved so dearly; Danilo Syrtis, who had been his grandfather's bredu and paxman, encouraged him to study languages and mathematics to develop self-discipline; the courtiers and Comyn lords saw him as either yet another of those unstable Elhalyns or else a pawn to their own ambitions. Gareth supposed it was like that for everyone, especially those cursed with noble birth. Perhaps his own father had taken the wiser choice in abdicating any claim to the Hastur Domain in favor of a private domestic life. Whenever Gareth thought of living so quietly, so confined, he felt as if he were dying.
Gareth paused outside the door leading to Linnea's private chambers. Carved with an interlacing pattern of branches, it always made him think of an enchanted forest and his grandmother as a chieri queen who lived there. She had been queen in all but name, for no one would have challenged Regis if he had wanted the throne.
Before Gareth's knuckles touched the fine-grained wood, Linnea called for him to enter. He lifted the latch and stepped inside.
Linnea Storn-Lanart sat before the hearth where a tiny fire sent up tendrils of brightness. She had set aside her red Keeper's robes for a gown of softly draped, undyed wool. The room with its graceful furnishings and mantle of opalized river-stone was proportioned for a small, delicate person. It fit her perfectly.
She lifted one hand from her knitting to greet him. The light streamed in from the mullioned windows behind her and touched her silver hair. For a moment, with her face softened by shadow, he saw her as she must have been, a gloriously beautiful young woman with a heart-shaped face and deeply expressive eyes. Then she moved to tuck the needles and ball of wool into a basket at her feet, and became an old woman. Years had pleated her skin like the withering of a flower, revealing the strength of her character.
"How good it is to see you, chiyu. I was beginning to think you weren't coming this morning."
Gareth squirmed, although there was no censure in Linnea's words, only a gentle reminder that she had waited up for him after a night's demanding work in the Tower circle. He decided not to mention the courtiers. She had had enough of such schemes and machinations in her own life.
"Forgive me, Grandmother." Gareth drew up a chair. "Shall we begin?"
With an expression of pleasure, Linnea took out her starstone from its locket lined with insulating spidersilk. Gareth caught a flash of intense blue-white as the psychoactive gem touched her skin. Quickly he averted his gaze. The shifting patterns of energy, manifested as twisting light, could be dangerous to any mind other than the one to which the stone was attuned.
Gareth carried his own matrix stone in the old style, in a silk pouch tucked under his shirt. Simple geometric embroidery decorated the outer layer, a gift from one of his Elhalyn aunts. With a practiced tug, he loosened the cord and the starstone fall into the palm of his hand.
The stone, carried so close to his body, felt warm. Blue-white brilliance lit the facets, dancing through the patterns he knew so well. Sometimes, when he was first learning to use the stone, those patterns had haunted his dreams.
Gareth closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the stone. As he had been taught, he envisioned a single point of light. He imagined it moving through a rainbow-hued prism, gaining in power and clarity yet essentially unchanged. The starstone would amplify his own innate talent, but it could not grant him a Gift he did not already have.
What was his Gift? Each Domain was said to have a unique laran ability, although there had been so much intermarriage in recent generations that those traits no longer bred true. The Ridenow were still celebrated for their empathy, particularly with non-humans. Their skill with horses and hawks was common knowledge. And the Altons . . . forced rapport was not a thing to be taken lightly, and the unchecked anger of an Alton could kill. Other Gifts had been lost through dilution and the passage of time. No one living knew what Gifts the Aillards and Gareth's own family, the Elhalyns, had once possessed.
The Aillards, he reflected, were all but extinct, their Domain represented on the Comyn Council by a distant, collateral branch. As for the Elhalyns . . .
After so many unstable, near-psychotic generations, it is no wonder we have no Gift!
Immediately, Gareth regretted the pettiness of his thought. True, his maternal grandmother had been stricken with one mental illness after another during her lifetime -- depression, delusions, who knew what else. His own mother, Miralys Elhalyn, had never been anything but sweet-natured, constant and loving. It was unworthy to condemn her in the same breath as Old Stefan, or Derik the Insane.
Or me, as I could have been.
As he might still be?
Concentrate on nothing else, only this point of light . . . came Linnea's silent command, cool and smooth as silver. With a startle, Gareth reined his thoughts back under control.
The light . . . nothing but the light . . .
With a sigh, he lowered his barriers and allowed his mind to merge with hers. She took control of their joined mental energy with a Keeper's deft touch and wove it into a circle.
Gareth floated in a sea of misty blue-white. He poured his mental energies through his starstone and into hers, keeping the stream of laran power steady and even. Peace such as he had rarely known suffused him. Here, in this place out of time, there was no deception, no need for disguise, no schemes or plots, no consideration of rank, no past . . .
His next awareness was the touch of his grandmother's mind on his, a gentle warning before she broke rapport. He felt himself falling, as he always did when ending a telepathic session. They had not worked nearly as long as an ordinary circle would, but their goal was not assembling a higher-order matrix, mining rare minerals deep below Darkover's crust, producing fire-fighting chemicals or medicines, or any of the hundred things that could be done accomplished with laran. Some of these, he knew, could be done as well by Terranan science, but Darkover no longer had the luxury of such trade.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he should seek admittance to a Tower. Linnea once commented that he had the ability. Aldones knew the circles always needed more workers. That was why Tio Danilo spent the better part of each year searching out new talent.
To bury himself in such a world, a place of peace and fellowship . . . but where nothing ever changed, where discipline and order were the rule.
No, he could not do that, either.
Linnea rose and stretched. "You did well, little one, once you settled down. I've rarely seen you so distracted."
"I --"
"No, don't tell me. It doesn't matter. We must leave all personal considerations behind when we work in a circle. That discipline is as necessary for you as for any Tower-trained laranzu."
Gareth hung his head, offering no excuse.
"Come now, you did not do badly. Did I not say so?" She brushed her fingertips against the back of his wrist in a telepath's feather-light touch. "We all have days when we are not our best, for are we not human? You are too hard on yourself. Sometimes I think you anticipate criticism by delivering it yourself!"
The session had left Gareth tired and irritable. "If I do not set high standards for myself, who will? Half the city can't wait for me to fail. The bet-makers are likely making odd that I'll do it in some spectacular and unseemly fashion."
Linnea shook her head. "You were very young when Javanne got her claws into you. She no more had your best interest at heart than do those toadies who dog your steps. It is they who are to blame, not you, unless you constantly remind me of it by this wincing."
"It is an old habit," he admitted, smiling.
"And one I should be happy to see you rid yourself of."
"For you, Grandmother, I will try." Gareth leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the cheek. He bowed and stepped back, preparing to take his leave.
A thoughtful expression touched her face. "In some ways, you are very like Regis. He too had an adventurous spirit, although his rank forced him to set aside his own dreams. And he too expected more of himself than anyone else ever could."
"Grandfather Regis?" The legendary Regis, who had stood against the World Wreckers, and, if half the stories were true, became the living incarnation of Hastur Lord of Light when he defeated the Sharra Matrix.
"Yes, he is best known for those things." Linnea responded to Gareth's unspoken thought, for they were still in light rapport. "Before before that, he led the Allison Expedition that found a cure for trailmen's fever the first time. Oh, yes, he was a mountaineer as a young man. Even as a cadet, he went alone into the Hellers at the time of the first Sharra disaster, when Caer Donn was destroyed."
"Are you saying . . ."
Linnea smiled. "I am saying that perhaps you need not hide your own dreams of adventure, at least not from me. It is natural for young people to strike out on their own. We all have private, thoughts and if you had been able to study at a Tower, you would have learned to keep yours close without drawing quite so much attention to them."
"I don't know what to say." His cheeks burned.
"Nothing is required. I only wish you to know that you are not the first young Comyn lord to want something more from his life than Council business, marrying for political advantage, and producing heirs. Go on now, it is time for me to rest. If you will, we will speak more of this."
There was no point in arguing. Besides, Linnea was right. With a Keeper's unerring instinct for the uncomfortable truth, she had put into words the focus of his discontent.
There had to be more to life that being polite to ambitious bootlickers like Octavien MacEwain or Rollin Valdiz, or trying endlessly to live down his own past and escape everyone else's. Much as he sometimes longed to, running away was not the answer. He did have an obligation to Darkover, to his family, to the Comyn. To the memory of his grandfather. Regis had not hidden. But until now, Gareth had never considered what it had cost his grandfather.
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Re: Good balance
Date: 2011-03-08 04:28 pm (UTC)