Citadels of Darkover

by Deborah J. Ross

  Citadels of Darkover

  Darkover® Anthology 19

  Edited by

  Deborah J. Ross

  The Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust

  PO Box 193473

  San Francisco, CA 94119

  www.mzbworks.com

  CONTENTS

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  by Deborah J. Ross

  DANCING LESSONS

  by Evey Brett

  SACRIFICE

  by Steven Harper

  BANSHEE CRY

  by Marella Sands

  SIEGE

  by Diana L. Paxson

  SEA-CASTLE

  by Leslie Fish

  FIRE STORM

  by Jane M. H. Bigelow

  THE DRAGON HUNTER

  by Robin Rowland

  FISH NOR FOWL

  by Rebecca Fox

  DARK AS DAWN

  by Robin Wayne Bailey

  THE CITADEL OF FEAR

  by Barb Caffrey

  THE JUDGMENT OF WIDOWS

  by Shariann Lewitt

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  DARKOVER® ANTHOLOGIES

  COPYRIGHT

  INTRODUCTION

  by Deborah J. Ross

  The iconic image of Darkover portrays a castle high in snow-covered mountains, washed red beneath a swollen sun. The combination of elements evokes a place at once romantic and bleak, alien and richly nostalgic. It’s a place that beckons us with tales of great feats of heroism and even greater loves. From the beginning of the series (The Planet Savers, 1958; The Sword of Aldones, 1962; The Bloody Sun, 1964), Darkover provided its readers a plentiful supply of castles and fortresses. More than that, in these early novels the planet itself was besieged by the often uneasy re-contact with Terra and its highly technological culture. So it came as no surprise to me when, as I was mulling over possible titles for the next Darkover anthology, I thought of a castle with turrets and towers. It was not just a pile of stones atop a hill but a place that was both fortress and retreat, a stronghold against enemies within and without.

  “Citadel” derives derived from the Italian cittadella, diminutive of of cittade, city, which in turn arises from the Latin civitas or citizenship. Dictionary definitions include a fortress on a commanding height for the defense of a city, a stronghold within or near a city, and hence, any strongly fortified place offering safety and refuge. Archaeological citadels date back to the Indus Valley civilization (1100 BCE – 1300 BCE). In medieval castles, citadels with their high walls offered the last line of defense before the innermost keep.

  On Darkover, external architectural forms resemble those of its Terran ancestry, but nothing is ever that simple. A Tower for matrix workers may look like a fortification on the surface but is very different in its function as well as its defenses. Citadels can be psychic, emotional, and cultural as well as military. As with the previous Darkover anthologies I’ve edited, the wonderfully imaginative authors took the basic concept and spun out stories in diverse and often unexpected directions. Within these pages you’ll find citadels of the more traditional, physical variety, but also fortresses of the heart and spirit.

  Every anthology I’ve ever edited, whether by open submission or invitation only, broad in topic or narrowly defined, has developed its own internal structure, with stories frequently echoing one another. My editorial debut, Lace and Blade, included two very different stories about Spanish highwaymen (in the second one, two stories featured Chinese generals). I have yet to figure out if this co-incidence is pure chance or the simultaneous emergence of story elements in various creative minds. Putting together “citadel/stronghold/refuge/fortress” and the rich history and landscape of Darkover was bound to result in unexpected and dramatic combinations. I hope you find them as magical as I did.

  Finally, a note of farewell: The Marion Zimmer Literary Works Trust holds the trademark for Darkover and has published these anthologies since the first one I edited, Stars of Darkover (2013). The Trust has decided to stop publishing new anthologies. They announced the decision in their September 2018 newsletter. While I am sad to lay down this amazing adventure from “the other side of the editorial desk,” I am also grateful to the immensely talented, generous authors who have entrusted me with their work and put up with my editorial feedback. Over the years, many have become friends as well as professional colleagues. But most of all, I extend my sincere thanks to you, the readers, who have cherished Darkover over the decades. I hope the stories I’ve put together here give you the rich rewards of visiting the planet of the Bloody Sun once more, and I hope that you will continue to enjoy that experience through the novels I write for DAW Books under the supervision of the Trust (even if their release dates are a bit further apart).

  Adelandeyo, go with the gods.

  It’s been such a marvelous journey.

  Deborah J. Ross

  DANCING LESSONS

  by Evey Brett

  After being persuaded to move to southern Arizona by her Lipizzan mare, Carrma, Evey Brett developed a fondness for the local creepy-crawlies such as snakes, scorpions, tarantulas and Gila monsters, not to mention the coyotes, buzzards and hawks that frequent the area. Evey writes that some of those critters have influenced a number of her stories, including one in Masques of Darkover and several in Lethe Press anthologies. When not feeding carrots to her equine mistress, Evey can be found shuffling papers for the city or reading submission stories for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

  As an editor, I find it no accident that a writer so inspired by one of the “dancing white horses” should pen a story in which hearts also learn to dance.

  Going to the midwinter festival at Comyn Castle wasn’t my idea of a good time. “They’ll have chairs, won’t they?”

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to find you a comfortable seat, but it would be bad form to turn down an invitation from my good friend, Dom Ridenow,” Captain Maeda said as she inspected my dress uniform. “Besides,” she said, giving me a conspiratorial smile, “I want a companion who knows how to keep his mouth shut and isn’t going to embarrass me in front of the Darkovan elite. You don’t drink, do you, Ethan?”

  “Rarely.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.” She brushed a speck of dust from my shoulder. “You look shipshape, Lieutenant. It’ll do you good to get out.” She sighed, and amended it to, “We both need a night to enjoy ourselves.”

  It was her attempt to return to normality—or what passed for it these days, since we no longer had a ship of our own and the Space Service had yet to allow either of us to return to duty. So out we went. Comyn Castle was only a stone’s throw away, visible from the spaceport control tower, but despite weeks of physical therapy I still found it a trial to travel long distances on prosthetic legs. So Captain Maeda ordered a transport for my sake and we sat in the back, silent as we took in the change of scenery from the Spaceport to Old Thendara.

  After a dozen winding, twisted streets, we arrived at Comyn Castle, which was a huge, imposing place—more of a citadel, I thought. Guards stood outside the gate. They accepted our invitation—written in a handsome script on thick, gilt paper—and ushered us inside, where a young page led us to the ballroom.

  I was...disappointed. Ordinarily such a scene would have intrigued me. There were colors of every hue, and the cuts of the clothing would have been fascinating once upon a time. I’d always loved beautiful things, whether it was art or movement or clothing, but tonight, the noise and crowd was stifling. I shook off the impulse to tug at my collar, always itchy no matter the fabric treatment, and swallowed the intense disappointment at realizing how even the idea of joy had fled.

  “See? I knew you’d like it.”

/>   I pasted on my best smile. “Thank you, Captain. I do.”

  Her enjoyment seemed as forced as mine as we threaded our way through the crowd. Servers offered us filled crystal glasses, and with a tactful question I was provided a sparkling non-alcoholic beverage. Captain Maeda helped herself to a glass of wine, though she sipped it slowly as she searched the gathering for her friend.

  The dancing had already begun; men cordially asked the women to dance, although there was one pair of men near the edge who danced together, heedless of anyone watching. This lifted my spirits ever so slightly, although they also reminded me of how alone I now was.

  The locals were quite easily discerned from the Terrans, not only because of the dress but also because of their manner. There was a particular sort of etiquette among the Darkovans, one I’d read a little about but had yet to see live. The Terrans thought little of being loud, boisterous and imbibing, but the Darkovans maintained their courtesy. I envied them such control.

  I was nearly ready to seek out a chair when the entire hall went silent. A man entered and took a place in the center of the floor. I looked to the captain, who just shrugged. This was no ordinary man; he was thin and graceful with long, silvery hair and had such a presence that nearly everyone in the room turned to look.

  The music began, soft and quiet, and the man began to move with an exquisite control I envied. It made me feel all the more clumsy, clomping around on makeshift legs and finding it a trial simply to maintain my balance. Watching this dancer, though, I forgot all that. There was a masculine strength coupled with feminine grace that fascinated me; I’d never seen the two in such fine accord. I’d always loved theater, anything from plays to musicals to opera, but dance always held a special place in my heart. It was the absolute freedom, the way one was entirely at ease with their body and used it to express things words never could.

  The music rose and sped up. The man moved accordingly, spinning and twirling, throwing his arms in the air in what could only be described as pure ecstasy. His costume sparkled in the lamplight, creating a hypnotic effect of its own. I could have watched him for the rest of my life and died happy.

  But end it did, in a round of enthusiastic applause. I could only stand there, dumb with the thrill and magic of it.

  The captain elbowed me, and I clapped, keeping my gaze on the dancer until the last possible moment when the guards escorted him from the floor and through an arched doorway. After that, the Darkovans retook the floor, once again choosing partners and moving in elegant, intricate patterns.

  A redheaded man in a gold-trimmed shirt strode over to us. “Captain Maeda. I’m pleased you accepted my invitation.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it, Dom Ridenow. Lieutenant Alvarez and I appreciate your hospitality.”

  “Not at all.” He gestured, and a page carrying a basket full of greenery came dashing over. Dom Ridenow plucked a modest corsage of evergreen tied with a red ribbon and pinned it to her jacket. “A gift for you at Midwinter Festival, and to honor our blessed Cassilda and the women in our lives.”

  She smiled, seeming girlishly pleased. I noticed then that all the other women had corsages, too. “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

  “Well, we do like to share our culture with those with an eye for the arts, like your officer here seems to have.”

  I inclined my head slightly in acknowledgement, still speechless after the performance.

  Captain Maeda came to my rescue. “Ethan usually has an eye for the stars, which is why he’s my astrogator, but he’s also a fine musician and devotee of the arts. That’s why I asked him to come along.”

  “A wise choice.” Ridenow grinned. “Would you like to dance, messire? I’m sure I can find you a partner who would be happy to show you the steps.”

  “Perhaps later,” I said, trying to think of a gracious way to decline. The artificial legs the Terrans had manufactured for me were not adjusting well. It was an effort to walk; anything more complicated was out of the question.

  His eyes narrowed ever so slightly “Forgive me. I should not have presumed. If there is anything I can do to make your visit more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you.” He and Captain Maeda had been friends for some time; no doubt she’d mentioned my infirmity, although she’d usually been tight-lipped when it came to her crew’s personal lives.“I’ve never seen anything like that. It was beautiful. Stunning. I don’t have the words to describe it.”

  “The look of wonderment on your face says enough. I’m glad you enjoyed it. We delight in featuring our oldest dances. Few know all the steps, and those that do are treasured.”

  I wondered why the dancer had vanished, rather than stay to enjoy his accolades. Perhaps he, too, had a keeper so worried about his comfort and well-being that he couldn’t wander alone.

  But such thoughts were unfair. I’d saved the captain’s life, and in return she felt the need to aid me as much as she could. Honor ran strong among her people, she’d told me once, so she aimed to repay me. Nevertheless, I wondered at the cost. She’d been at my side through the worst of my pain and recuperation, yet she’d shown none of hers. Surely her captain’s façade couldn’t remain in place forever, but it was all she let me see.

  At least here she seemed at ease, freed from her recent grief. I watched the way she interacted with Dom Ridenow, more relaxed than I’d seen her since before the accident.

  I was just about to excuse myself to find a chair when my right foot started to burn—the foot that was long gone, crushed in a twist of metal. I hadn’t brought my painkillers, both because my dress uniform was short on pockets and out of some stupid hope that I wouldn’t need them. I had no wish to attract attention to my infirmity, but I needed out of the crowd, away from the press of people so I could wait for the pain to pass.

  “Ethan?”

  Sharp-eyed as she was, the captain must have suspected my problem. “Forgive me, Captain. I’m finding the room a bit...close.”

  She raised an eyebrow and was about to speak, but Dom Ridenow was already gesturing to me. “May I offer you my assistance in finding a suitable place to retreat? This is not a place I would suggest wandering around alone. It’s possible for even those who live here to become lost.”

  “I would be grateful, sir.”

  “This way, then. And never fear, Captain Maeda. I will return him to you in due time.”

  As soon as we were away from the crowd, Dom Ridenow offered me an arm and I took it, unable to walk without limping. Every step sent a stabbing pain through my non-existent foot and lower leg. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a nuisance.”

  “Think nothing of it. I would be a poor host if I did not accommodate the needs of my guests. Besides, I’m not all that fond of crowds myself and appreciate an excuse to escape.”

  I smiled at that. He did seem eager to leave the gathering.

  “Not much farther.” He led me around a corner and outside to a small, enclosed garden. “Here we are,” he said, and deposited me on one of the benches. “This is where our healers and leroni grow herbs for their medicines. I’ve always found it a soothing place. If you’d like, I could send for a leronis to help with your discomfort.”

  “No need. I just need to meditate for a while, and it will pass.”

  “As you wish. I’ll return in a little while to fetch you.”

  “Thank you, Dom Ridenow.”

  He gave me a nod and departed. At last, I had the peace and quiet I craved, yet I was still distracted. The air was chilly, almost uncomfortably so, and the plants gave off strange, unfamiliar scents.

  I took advantage of the solitude to roll up my trousers and remove my artificial legs, which I propped up against the bench. The intense burning feeling didn’t stop, but there was a marginal relief at releasing the pressure on my stumps.

  Focus on your breathing, the Terran doctors had told me, and given me recordings encouraging me to imagine myself by the sea or some other pretty location to
distract me from my pain. Imagery never worked, so I focused on taking long, deep breaths in and out.

  The pain had just become bearable when the garden door opened. A man spoke in one of the local dialects, too swiftly for me to catch anything other than the word for outside.

  I opened my eyes, surprised to see the dancer hurry into the garden. He wasn’t alone. Two guardsmen, probably those who’d escorted him from the ballroom, flanked him. He took a deep breath of chilly air, then startled when he realized I was there. “Forgive me, mestre,” he said in Terran Standard.“I didn’t think anyone else would be here.”

  If he were Terran, no doubt he would have averted his gaze, or looked only at my face. But, being Darkovan, he was utterly unperturbed by my dislocated limbs. “Please stay, if you’d like. I wouldn’t mind the company.” And not just because looking at him would take my mind off my pain. “I needed a breath of fresh air too.”

  “Thank you.” He sank down onto the bench next to mine. I shivered, even with my thick officer’s coat, but here he was, in shirtsleeves, without even a hint of gooseflesh.

  “You must be from the Hellers to find this night so pleasant.” I’d heard stories of how brutal the weather was in the mountains.

  “Nevarsin, actually. Well, near there.”

  “Ah.” I’d read about the monastery and how the denizens managed to control their response to cold. I found it difficult to believe. “This is balmy weather for you, then?”

  “It doesn’t bother me.”

  Perhaps not, but I wondered if I was, since all my attempts at small talk were failing. Another few minutes passed in silence before I had the courage to say, “I’ve never seen anyone dance like that. I could have watched you for hours.”

  He gave me a shy smile. “You are new to Darkover, are you not? There are likely many things you have not yet seen.”