Rory stopped to listen and consider which way the tracks led. If he could hear something, or figure out where Lovely might be going, he could cut off horse and owner rather than simply follow where they had already been.
The tracks led up the slope, away from the house and road. Rory knew where the horse would end up if she kept up in this direction. He could get there first. He turned aside and did his best to ignore the cry of the banshee from farther up the slope. The sound seemed to wrap around every nerve and pull at each one of them, making fear surge through his veins and sending icy tendrils, far colder than any snowfall, into his organs and mind.
But Camilla was out in this. He had to find her. Rory pushed ahead.
“Camilla!”
Rory heard a hue and cry behind him: someone else had found the destroyed fence. He glanced back once, and saw a field of torches and milling men in the pasture. The rest of the denizens of Falconsward, man and beast alike, were safe. Rory turned away from the scene and plunged further into the night.
“Camilla!”
“Here!”
Finally. Rory ran around a large boulder and found Camilla and a trembling Lovely in a shelter formed by several large rocks and overhanging branches. The horse was trying to bolt past Camilla, who kept herself between the beast and freedom.
“Thank the Bearer of Burdens you’re all right,” he said.
Camilla ignored him. “I can’t catch her.”
Rory held out the rope and approached slowly. “I can get her. Just don’t let her get past you.”
Despite her fear, the mare did not strike out with teeth or hooves and Rory was able to get the rope around her neck. Camilla wrapped her arms around the horse and whispered to her and the horse visibly calmed.
“How did you find me?” she asked when she lifted her head from the horse moments later.
“Tracked you in the snow,” he said. “Now, we need to get back before the banshees find us.”
“Get back?” asked Camilla with some heat. “I’m not going back!”
“You want to be eaten by a banshee?”
“No,” she said. She grabbed the rope from him. “I don’t know where we’ll go, but Lovely and I are leaving. There has to be somewhere other than Falconsward and Scathfell in the world, somewhere I can became a ladies maid or...or even a barragana. But not here.”
“Are we so horrible?” he asked, astounded. “What did we do? What did I do to make you hate us so much?”
Camilla stepped back from him and clutched the rope to her chest. “Nothing. I only know that my father wants to get rid of me. I considered jumping from the walls of the manor, or sneaking enough sleeping drugs from the apothecary to make sure I never woke again. I won’t live like a prisoner anymore. I won’t live at all.”
Rory was at a loss. “You’re not a prisoner! You’re the daughter of Lord Scathfell and will one day be Lady of Falconsward.”
“So what?” she said, her anger flaring. “I’ve been kept shut in a house for years while my father did nothing but wait on my mother, who was out of her mind from illness, and who had gone mad after repeated stillbirths and childbirthing injuries. Now my father wants to send me off to suffer the same fate somewhere else, among strangers, and even my Lovely can’t be with me while I endure years of marriage and eventual illness and death.”
“But look at my mother,” said Rory. “She’s alive, and healthy, and happy.”
“And has had borne four dead children. My father told me. She might not be mad yet, but she will be one day.”
Rory was stunned. He had never considered that his intended bride would be so unhappy about the prospect of marriage to him, and for such a reason! But if he’d been raised in Lord Scathfell’s household, perhaps he, too, would think the only fate for a lord’s wife was the dreary and tragic one of Lady Scathfell.
“Our life together does not have to be like that,” he said.
“We won’t have a life together,” she said bitterly.
A banshee’s scream interrupted them. It was close by. Lovely neighed in terror and Camilla nearly went to her knees. Rory turned around and thought he saw movement in the darkness.
“We certainly won’t have a life together if we don’t get back to Falconsward,” he said.
Another movement. At least two banshees stood between the humans and safety. Maybe more.
They were trapped. Rory’s heart beat quickly as he tried to keep his panic at bay. All they needed was for one more banshee to scream and he knew he would, too. And then what? The birds would likely fall on the three of them, their phosphorescent beaks darting into and out of their flesh, ripping muscle from bone, tearing apart organs...
Rory forced his mind away from such morbid thoughts. They weren’t dead yet.
Could laran be used to control banshees the way it was used with horses and hawks? He wasn’t very strong, but he should at least try.
“Lady,” he said. “before we either escape this or die trying, I would pledge to you that I will marry you only if you decide, after living at Falconsward for a year, that you wish to enter that state with me.”
“You are wasting what little time we have left,” she said with a sob. “I’m only sorry Lovely will die with us.”
“There’s a chance we will die,” he said, “but I won’t die a craven and shallow man who thinks of the agreement our parents made as final, and you my property.” He held out his hand. “Take my hand and my pledge. I will not marry you against your will. In return, you agree to live here for one year, and judge at that time whether or not you will remain. If you choose to go, I will not stop you, nor allow my parents to stop you. That is my promise to you.”
Camilla hesitated. Then she stepped forward and held out her hand. “Very well. I pledge to live in Falconsward for one year, and make my decision at that time.”
She took his hand. And suddenly, Rory felt the mind of Lovely more clearly than he had ever felt Champion’s. Other minds surrounded him, too. Hungry, dark minds that had tracked him by scent and were here to kill and eat.
Rory had heard of the gift of telepaths who could increase others’ powers, but he had not known it was found in the Scathfell line. Catalyst telepath.
“What is it?” asked Camilla. Her eyes widened. Whatever this bond felt like from her side, she had clearly felt something.
“I think...you are helping me. Don’t let go of my hand!”
Rory clutched Camilla’s hand and turned toward the banshees. He held out his free hand and thought of himself as a huge predator with giant claws and razor-sharp teeth. You are afraid of me. You are afraid. Fear me!
The minds of the banshees became confused. Where was the easy meal they had just scented?
Rory did not stop. The pressure built up behind his eyes, but he did not relent. The strength he drew from Camilla helped; she was afraid herself, but he could sense she had a deep well of iron will to draw on, afraid or not.
Fear! Fear me! I am going to eat you! Be afraid!
The banshees milled about, butting each other with their beaks as they swung their heads from side to side.
Be afraid! I am coming for you. I am coming. I am Fear! Fear! Fear!
Rory gathered what strength he could from his own mind and Camilla’s and threw it at the birds so hard he thought his skull might burst from the strain. In the background, he felt a cool tendril of support and comfort from Camilla’s mind, and it helped him hold on one moment longer.
Then he was exhausted. His mind could do no more, as untrained as he was. But it had been enough. The birds backed away, then ran. In the distance, Rory heard the shouts of men and glimpsed the flicker of torches. Rescue had arrived. Rory’s knees wobbled in relief.
His connection with Camilla faded, but not before he felt a curious warmth come across the bond, a warmth he would have liked to explore But he knew the time wasn’t right. There was no need to rush, especially now that he had Camilla’s word she would give him, and Falconsward, a year.<
br />
He would have let go of Camilla’s hand, but she held on tightly. “Are they gone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You drove them away.”
Rory ignored his aching head and kissed Camilla’s hand. “We did. And we also have rescuers to thank. I don’t know if it was more us, or them, but at least together, we scared away the banshees.”
“It was you,” said Camilla. For the first time in Rory’s presence, a quirky smile spread across her face. “And me, too.” She dropped his hand.
“My pledge will not change,” said Rory. “You are not a piece of property to be wed to me against your will. If you stay, and choose to be my lady, I will honor you my entire life.”
She said nothing, but her face now showed contemplation and respect rather than anger and despair, or worse, nothing at all.
“Rory!” shouted the MacAran from down the slope. “Camilla!”
“We’re here!” Rory yelled back. “We are safe.”
“Yes,” said Camilla softly. “We are.”
THE KATANA MATRIX
by Lillian Csernica
Many tales of Darkover begin with the arrival of a stranger, an off-worlder, or a Darkovan returning home. The character then provides the vehicle for we the readers to explore this world, so different from yet so unlike our own. In the best of these tales, the protagonist is more than a mere cipher but a person with history and goals of her own. Darkover often challenges the hero to the limit, for good or ill or healing, as in this tale. At the same time, these encounters can also send ripples of change through the hidebound aristocracy of the Domains. Lillian Csernica says, “I knew one way to really upset the men of Darkover would be to make my main character a woman with a sword. I'm fond of Japanese history and culture, so it seemed quite natural to create Nakatomi Madoka, a female mercenary from a long line of samurai. The villain of the story who hires her has no idea he's about to grab a tiger by the tail.”
Lillian Csernica has published over forty short stories in such markets as Weird Tales, Fantastic Stories, and Killing It Softly 1 and 2. Her nonfiction how-to titles include The Writer's Spellbook and The Fright Factory. Born in San Diego, Ms. Csernica is a genuine California native. History is her passion, jewelry making her hobby, and glass blowing the next item on her Bucket List. She currently resides in the Santa Cruz mountains with her husband, two sons, and three cats. Visit her at lillian888.wordpress.com.
Madoka spotted the client as soon as he walked in. He wore grubby work pants, a secondhand shirt in well-washed gray, a battered leather jacket and boots. A few days’ growth of beard stubble matched his dark brown hair. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets and his shoulders hunched in an effort to conceal his height. Not a bad performance. He could have walked out of any of the service bays in the spaceport’s civilian docking area.
Madoka preferred to meet new clients in the Four Moons Cafe. It stayed open at all hours, catering to Trade City and spaceport workers. Terrans and other off-worlders were just common enough to give her some protective camouflage. She wore a sleeveless knee length tunic of green silk figured with clusters of bamboo. Her long black hair she’d braided and bound at the nape of her neck with her mother’s jade hair clasp. The odds of meeting another Japanese, especially on Darkover, were quite low. Not many residents of the Edo Enclave on Samarra traveled off-world. Along with the other ancient traditions of their culture, Madoka’s people preserved their insistence on marrying only those of samurai blood who possessed the required documentation. That was one of the main reasons she’d chosen to leave.
At the counter the client ordered tea and a wedge of fruit pie. As he turned from the counter he scanned the room, taking in the two dozen round tables with their matching chairs in a lovely shade of midnight blue. Madoka sat in the corner farthest from the counter, forcing the client to walk toward her. Round paper lanterns in green, purple, blue-green, and white hung from the ceiling, paying homage to the real moons and lighting the client’s path.
The subtle arrogance in his stride. The auburn highlights shining through the temporary hair dye. The beard color too closely matched to the hair. The prickle along Madoka’s nerves that alerted her to the presence of danger.
The client was Comyn.
He stopped a few feet from her table. “Mestra Nakatomi?”
“Messire Gavin?”
“I am. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.”
With a tilt of her head Madoka offered him the seat across from her. “I was told the matter is urgent.”
“It is.” He set the tea and pie on the table and took his seat. “The deadline is two tendays from receipt of the demand. That gives us fourteen days from now.”
“Delivery, recovery, or acquisition?”
The Comyn’s expression turned stony. “Recovery.”
“Ah.” Madoka’s estimation of her fee doubled. “I sense a scorched-earth policy.”
“We don’t tolerate our people being victimized this way.”
That voice of feudal authority. So much like her father. Madoka gave the Comyn a long, measuring look. “Your people have never been victims.”
“Says the Terran.”
Silence hung between them so cold it should have frozen the Comyn’s tea.
“Messire,” said Madoka, “you asked for this meeting. If your politics are going to be a problem, I have other appointments to keep.”
“My apologies, mestra.”
“May I see the demand?”
“Why?”
“This is Darkover. The paper, ink, and penmanship will tell me important details about who we’re going to meet.”
The Comyn brought an envelope out of his jacket’s inner pocket. Madoka took the envelope between her left thumb and forefinger. Quality paper. She opened the envelope and sniffed. The lack of chemical smell told her the ink had been mixed the old-fashioned way by rubbing a stick of pressed ink on a wet inkstone. She gripped the message itself with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand and slid it out.
We have Anndra Ridenow. Send one man with pack animals bearing Ridenow’s weight in copper to the foot of the Kilghard Hills. You have two ten-days. Deliver the copper or expect Ridenow’s head.
Madoka turned the envelope upside down. The small bulge inside fell out. A scrap of green brocade, gilt-edged and patterned with yellow flowers. At the center of each bloom sat a tiny orange gem.
“Have you confirmed this with the family? Ridenow is definitely missing?”
“Mestra Nakatomi, would I go to the effort of contacting you just for some prank?”
“You might, messire. It’s been my experience that people with wealth and power often have a strange sense of humor.” Madoka laid aside the ransom demand and smoothed out the piece of brocade. “The Kilghard Hills. They’re probably using Sain Scarp as their base camp. They’re old Rumal’s descendants, by heart if not by blood.”
“You seem to know quite a lot of Darkover’s history.”
“I was raised on history, on the lessons it teaches and the patterns it reveals.” She stopped stroking the brocade and looked him in the eye. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Find him. Free him. Bring him to Thendara.”
“So. A round trip from here to the Hellers. Extracting one person. The strong likelihood of armed combat.”
“Correct. I will be joining you.”
Another bad sign. “Are you responsible for your personal safety? Or is that part of my duties?”
“I am quite capable of protecting myself.”
“You don’t plan on bringing an escort, I hope?”
“The fewer we are, the faster we travel.”
“Good to know you’re a practical man.”
“You have no idea.”
His disguise gave Madoka some idea. He was no stranger to traveling incognito. She tucked the ransom demand and the bit of brocade back into the envelope.
“You know Helvetia?”
“I do.”
“Once I receive confirmation of payment, we move out.”
“Not acceptable. I’m authorized to approve payment once my cousin is delivered to me safe and whole.”
Madoka weighed the pros and cons of walking away. This Comyn would want things done his way at every turn. If she didn’t given him exactly what he wanted for his money, he’d badmouth her all over Darkover, possibly the entire Empire.
“Messire Gavin,” she began. “You must know my reputation or you wouldn’t have asked for the meeting. Given the kind of people who can afford to hire me, I wouldn’t survive long if I didn’t honor my commitments.”
“Anndra’s life depends on moving fast and striking hard.” The Comyn let all of his natural arrogance show in his glare. “Surely you can understand my caution.”
“I understand this negotiation is about power, not money. If you hire me, you stand back and let me use the skills you’re paying for.”
“You can’t mean to do this alone. Who will you bring with you?”
“A reliable team I’ve worked with often enough to trust them.”
“I need to know who they are. If I’m paying them, I deserve that much.”
“You’re not paying them. I am. You pay me.”
The Comyn stared into her eyes. If he was trying anything with laran, he’d get nowhere. Growing up under her father’s imperious glare had hardened Madoka to such tricks.
“You pride yourself on your reputation for success,” the Comyn said, “on your amazing record of never getting caught.”
“That’s right.”
“But you did get caught once, didn’t you, Mestra Nakatomi?” The Comyn smiled. “Three years ago you received a dishonorable discharge from the Spaceforce for aiding and abetting smugglers.”
Madoka’s heart stuttered. This Comyn had better connections than she’d realized. “Everybody has a past.”
“You like to work on Darkover. Your last three contracts have been here.”
“What’s your point?”
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