Citadels of Darkover

by Deborah J. Ross

  “Well?” Lawton asked sharply.

  With a final glance at Loret, North said, “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  Loret touched the matrix on the silver chain around her neck with a shaky hand as Lawton’s voice went stiff with formal regret.

  “Very well,” he said. “David North, for disobeying my order, you are hereby ordered to leave Cottman IV on the first available ship. If you ever return, you will be punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

  ~o0o~

  The cell wasn’t bad, as cells went. Clean. Bare white walls on all sides. One wall formed of good old iron bars. North sat on the bed, waiting with a cop’s patience. It was all over but the paperwork.

  Sometime later, Loret stepped into view. She grasped the bars, and North looked up at her. He was surprised at how glad he was to see her, then surprised at his own surprise. Why wouldn’t he be glad to see his own best friend? Especially when this was probably the last time he’d ever see her.

  “New house?” Loret asked.

  “Yeah. Cool digs,” he said grimly. “But I could use a housekeeper.”

  She dropped the pretense of banter. “Why, David? You could have told the Legate. Since Benton Messer wasn’t the killer after all, Lawton would have let your deportation drop. He likes you, even when you make him angry.”

  “You could have said something,” North pointed out.

  “I’m not being exiled over a lie.” She leaned toward him, stopped only by the bars. “Why didn’t you speak?”

  North changed the subject. “What’s happened to Rick?”

  “Not a thing. After the officers took you, I left. As far as I know, nothing’s changed for Rick or his father. Benton Messer will be back in his lab tomorrow morning.”

  “Good,” North said with a nod. “What about your cousins?”

  Loret set her mouth. “They’re being...compensated. On the condition that they drop the Declaration idea and let Jaelle’s death go. For the good of future generations. They’ve agreed.”

  “That’ll have to do,” North said.

  “But why did you keep quiet?” Loret repeated. “You said you wanted justice.”

  “Yeah.” North sighed. “But I figured on balance, we should save the kids.”

  “Even though it means losing—”

  North spread his hands to interrupt her. “Guess so.”

  “You’re making yourself into a sacrifice.”

  He snorted. “Maybe it’s just a garden-variety martyr complex. When I get back to Terra, I’ll see a shrink about it.”

  “And I’ll never see you again.”

  “I know.” He got up and took one of her hands through the bars. “Somewhere, when I wasn’t looking, Darkover turned into home. I don’t want to leave it. I don’t want to leave you. You’re...” He had to force himself to keep speaking. “You’re the best friend a guy could have. And the best sidekick.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she put her hand over his. “I always thought you were the sidekick.”

  Loret’s touch almost crushed him, so he forced a laugh. “Who’s telling this story, lady? You or me?”

  “At this point, I think I’m telling it,” said a new voice.

  Loret snatched her hand back in surprise. Into the holding area strode a tall man in a rich blue tunic with a sword at his belt. His hair was white, but his face was young. North recognized Regis Hastur. Loret bowed.

  “Vai dom,” she said, with North echoing her a moment later.

  “You’re in some trouble, Dom North,” Regis said.

  North gave him a wary look. “Seems so.”

  “And I’ve spoken to the Legate,” Regis added.

  “Have you?” North remained careful, but hope flared. It would be just like Regis Hastur to reckon himself a white knight and ride to North’s rescue.

  Regis leaned toward him, and North noticed the matrix around his neck. “I can’t undo what the Legate has done, and I can’t blame him for doing his duty. He’s under orders from his own superiors.”

  North slumped a little. Well, he could still find work as a private investigator or security consultant on Terra. He could get a shithole apartment somewhere, and live the rest of his shithole life. The life of a sacrifice.

  “So I’m in the shit,” he said, slumping into himself.

  “Indeed.” Regis held up a finger. “But Darkover owes you several debts. You saved our world from destruction, you saved us from Kira Ann, and now you’re involved in the attempt to end threshold sickness. So. I’m here to make you an offer.”

  The last word brought North quietly alert again. “An offer?”

  “You can stay on Darkover,” Regis said, “under one condition.”

  “And that is?” Loret asked before North could do it.

  Regis said, “You have to swear fealty to the Comyn.”

  There was a pause. A breath of air wafted through the room. Loret clutched her own matrix chain.

  “Fealty,” North repeated. “What would that mean, exactly?”

  “You would renounce your Terran heritage and become a citizen of Thendara under my rule,” Regis explained. “You would live as a man of Darkover for the rest of your life and obey the Comyn in all things. And as a convicted criminal, you would never set foot on Empire soil again. Including the spaceport.”

  Law against justice. Fair against unfair. Darkover against Terra.

  “A different kind of sacrifice,” Loret murmured.

  North thought of the cold, bleak Thendara winters. Of the weak red sun. Of the new language and strange customs. He also thought of stubborn people in quirky houses. Of liquid syllables rolling off his tongue. Of Loret.

  “Done,” said David North.

  ~o0o~

  “You can stay here for now,” Loret said.

  North set down the small satchel containing his few belongings. The room was on the top floor of a three-story boardinghouse run by a married couple who were distantly related to Loret, as everyone on Darkover seemed to be. The place was simple and chilly, heated only by the chimney. A bed, a table, and a hard chair were the only furniture, but the sheets were crisp and clean, and the quilt was thick.

  “It’s perfect,” North said. He drew aside the worn curtain at the room’s only window. The thatched rooftops of Thendara stretched into the distance, and near the horizon poked the tower citadel of the spaceport.

  “How do you feel?” Loret asked.

  They were speaking casta, of course, and North wondered if he’d ever speak Terran Standard again. He continued to stare out the window. “You want the truth?”

  “Always.”

  “I feel like I’ve escaped. Like I never have to go back.”

  “You don’t have to because you can’t,” Loret said briskly. “The stipend from Lord Regis should do you until you find another way to earn your bread. In the meantime, we’ll have to look for a proper place for you to live. And a proper woman for you to marry.”

  “Whoa whoa whoa!” North put out his hands. “Slow down! No one said anything about getting married.”

  She cocked her head. “And how will you get along without someone to take care of your house? Do you know how to cook and clean in the proper ways? Sew your clothes? Bear your children?”

  “No one said anything about children, either!”

  “You’re on Darkover now,” she said. “Scandalous for a man of your age to go without a wife and heirs to carry on his line.”

  “Now look—”

  “Come to think of it,” she continued, ignoring him, “my cousin Arlida lost her husband three or four years ago, and she might be ready to marry again. You need an experienced woman.”

  “No! No cousins! Your family is big enough.”

  “It’s getting bigger,” Loret said, and dropped her hands to her sides. “I’m getting married, you know.”

  This caught North like a club upside the head. “You’re...what?”

  “Getting married.” She gave a solemn nod. �
��To Dorn.”

  “Married?” North spluttered. “But...you...”

  “The family has to be compensated, both for the death of their daughter and for their silence. My family has more status with the Comyn. Dorn’s chance to marry up.”

  “He’s a lot younger than you. And your cousin!”

  “He’s a grown man. And my third cousin. It’ll be strange at first, but we’ll get used to it. A small price to pay if it means my children won’t have threshold sickness.”

  “Jesus.” North dropped to the bed. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Loret gave a wan smile. “How about congratulations?”

  “Thank you,” North said quickly.

  “For what?”

  “You went to Lord Regis. Darkover almost never offers sanctuary to Terranan, but you persuaded him.”

  Loret shook a finger at him. “We’re friends. Best friends. And that’s what best friends do.”

  “Well...thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. To celebrate, let’s argue about something over dinner. You pick the topic.”

  With shared smiles, they turned away from the window and the spaceport, ever distant and far away.

  BANSHEE CRY

  by Marella Sands

  Marella Sands writes, “This story grew out of a desire to feature banshees, horses, and arranged marriages in the same tale, partly because I’ve always been intrigued by the banshees of Darkover.” My introduction to her work came through her submission to Gifts of Darkover (2014), “Stonefell Gift.” Who was this writer, I wondered, who could weave a story with such subtlety and finesse that the ending was inevitable, surprising, and deeply moving? Since then I have had the privilege of editing a number of her stories, each one a treasure. “Banshee Cry” continues that tradition.

  Currently Marella is at work rewriting a novel that is straight fiction with no fantastical elements. She is ready to schedule a yellow fever vaccination so that she can travel to Ghana, and is working on developing a moderate command of Twi so that she can talk to the locals in Accra in something besides English. Her new cat is named in Twi: Afia is the name given to females born (or, in this case, adopted) on a Friday. Marella’s Twi name would be Akosua, as she was born on a Sunday.

  Rory MacAran wanted to be in the stable with his horse. That was where he felt most at home. The large beasts were sometimes more like family to him than his parents.

  But today was the day he was to meet his future bride. He took a deep breath of the cool late spring air and let it out slowly to ease his anxiety. Marriage was something Rory had always known was in his future, and had pushed aside as a boring detail that would straighten itself out somehow. Now the future had arrived, and the dreaded first meeting with his intended was upon him. A murky possibility had come starkly into focus, and he did not like the feeling at all.

  His mother had insisted he wear his best clothing, even though the shirt was a bit thin for the spring cold here in the foothills of the Hellers. Still, she was his mother, so he wore it. He had complemented it with the jacket he had received at Midwinter and the new boots his father had had made after his growth spurt a few months ago. All in all, he looked every inch the MacAran: powerful and competent, just as the MacAran heir should be. And yet he was miserable.

  He had never met Camilla of Scathfell before. Though her family had always been invited to the Midsummer festivities at Falconsward, Lady Scathfell had been too ill to travel for years. Her husband and family had become reclusive while the lady had battled her ailment. She had died over the winter, and so, for the first time in years, Lord Scathfell was venturing out of his holding, this time to bring his daughter to live at Falconsward until she was old enough to marry.

  The age of marriage was a bit fuzzy as far as Rory was concerned, but he was glad the fact Camilla was only fourteen meant the date was still at some undetermined time in the future. There was still time to be himself before becoming a husband and, perhaps someday, a father. And then, some day, the Lord of Falconsward.

  Rory’s parents, Lord and Lady MacAran, stood at the top of the steps that led down to the main courtyard. Rory, who had dawdled while deciding whether or not to braid his hair back and had finally decided not to, dashed up just as the gate opened to allow their guests.

  “Stand up straight,” his mother insisted. “Remember your manners.”

  Rory bit his tongue. He was sixteen! He didn’t need his mother to remind him of things like manners. Hadn’t she and his tutors taught him for years how to behave, how to dance, how to converse at dinner? He knew his manners.

  It wasn’t his fault he’d rather be with the horses.

  Lord Scathfell rode in first on his horse, a proud roan that Rory quickly realized was one of Falconsward’s own, followed by his aides, and then, at last, by a young woman and a girl on horses small enough they were dwarfed by the men’s mounts. Rory’s mother always rode a horse the same size as any other; Rory wondered if things were different in Scathfell.

  Lord Scathfell dismounted and turned to help the young woman off her horse, then the girl. The young woman looked much like the lord, but was too old to be Camilla. She must be a cousin or niece who had come after Lady Scathfell’s death to help raise the lord’s daughter.

  As the young woman stepped aside, the lord helped the girl down from her pony-sized mount. The girl held on to the saddle’s pommel as though her life depended on it, and almost sank to her knees as her father placed her on the ground.

  Was she afraid of horses? Rory’s heart lurched as he thought, Maybe she can’t even ride well!

  How could he marry someone who couldn’t ride a horse? Worse, how could someone be Lady of Falconsward and not be a horsewoman, or a hawkmistress? The MacArans were talented around animals, often forming telepathic rapports with them. If this girl were too frightened to be around animals much, her life at Falconsward would be grim indeed.

  Lord Scathfell and his daughter came toward the MacArans.

  “Lord Scathfell, my friend, it has been too long,” said Rory’s father. He walked forward with hands outstretched.

  Lord Scathfell took the MacAran’s hands. “The Scathfells are grateful for your hospitality.” Then the men broke into identical broad smiles. “Darrell, it’s been too long.”

  “It has,” said the MacAran. The two men shared a bear hug.

  “And here is my daughter, Camilla,” said Lord Scathfell with obvious pride.

  The young woman stepped aside and gestured for the girl to step forward. She did, appearing reluctant to do so. Rory peered at her curiously, but a pert nose and a wisp of bright red hair were all that stuck out from the hood the girl wore.

  “Now, child, let them see you,” said her father.

  The girl pushed her hood back. She had bright green eyes and a small chain of freckles across each cheek. Her delicate heart-shaped face was pale and her eyes narrowed slightly in...fear? Anticipation? Anxiety? The girl smiled slightly but the smile did not lift the tension on her face.

  Rory’s mother held out her hand to the girl. “My dear, you are most welcome here. I know you have had a hard winter, and I hope you can find some peace and rest here with us.”

  “Thank you, Lady MacAran,” said Camilla. Her voice was low and sweet and Rory instantly liked it. The horses would, too.

  “And this is my son, Rory,” said his mother. She gestured for Rory to come closer.

  He did and bowed slightly. “Welcome to Falconsward.”

  Camilla smiled slightly again and bowed in return. But her smile still did not reach beyond the corners of her mouth. Rory could judge nothing of her inner thoughts or feelings at all. Camilla kept her hands still and moved no more than necessary; she was almost doll-like in her inexpressiveness and passivity.

  Rory had not expected her to be loud or brash; that would hardly have been tolerated by her parents, no matter how sick her mother had been, but she seemed far too insipid to be worthy to be a future mistress of Falconsward.
<
br />   “Well, let’s get inside where it’s warmer, and a meal has been prepared for us,” said the MacAran. “I have some fine musicians to entertain us while we eat.”

  The families moved inside while servants took the horses and pack animals to the stable. The Scathfells’ gear had already been hauled into the house to the guests’ chambers.

  Rory watched Camilla walk behind her parents, her manner calm and demure. But her downcast eyes seemed to hide a secret, as if she might not be as dull as she seemed. Rory wondered how he was supposed to get to know this girl and learn if they could manage to like each other well enough to marry.

  ~o0o~

  Lunch was, as far as Rory was concerned, a disaster. He had been seated by Camilla, of course, so that they could chat. The MacAran and Lord Scathfell were mindful of no one but themselves and in renewing their old friendship, so long interrupted by Lady Scathfell’s inability to travel, and his mother chatted with the young woman, Camilla’s cousin Tessa, who had been brought along as a chaperone. That left Rory and his intended bride.

  “Tell me about Scathfell,” said Rory while they ate. “I hear it can be lovely at Midsummer with the way it is positioned in the valley overlooking the lower slopes.”

  “Yes, it has quite the view,” said Camilla without emotion. “When the flowers are in bloom, we often eat outside on a veranda near the family’s quarters so that we can enjoy the beauty.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  Camilla said dutifully, “Falconsward is also quite appealing.”

  “Yes,” said Rory. “The snow was especially thick this winter, but it’s melting nicely off the pastures. Soon you’ll be able to see horses wherever you look. And we raise hunting hawks as well. Do you hunt?”

  Camilla gave that same smile, the one that appeared plastered on her face and gave away nothing she was actually thinking. “No, my lord, I do not wish to take part in killing things.”

  “But we must kill to eat.”

  Camilla merely took another bite of her food. “That is true. But I do not wish to be the one to do the killing. I suppose you hunt? And ride?”