“I can barely feel the echoes, myself,” Dominic said. “When I first met you, when we bumped heads, I knew at once that you had laran that could help Dom Kieran.”
“You are obsessed with our beast stones,” Felix said. “Why?”
“Sir, I only found why myself this morning. My second sight is not powerful, but I think I can show you in a vision.”
I grasped Dominic’s grasped hand as I put the other on the stone.
“After all the years, it was only when I came to Darkover, did I finally know why I am, as you say, a dragon hunter. Like Kieran, I sense history in stone. The rocks ‘talk’ to me.”
Dominic reached out to the others. We formed a circle. Kieran held my other hand. In that moment I—no, we–were transported back in time...
...A five-year-old boy holding the hand of his long-absent hero-father, back on leave. A three-day excursion to London to see the Natural History Museum, then crossing Cromwell Road to see the Exo-Paleontology Museum. Lights from opal-like giant fossil “clam” shells from Samara singing...
...Student field work. Under the blazing sun of Hawkesbury’s Planet, on the steep uplifted slopes of the Rockies, finding wonders of the Burgess Shale millennia after the first discovery, combining Search and Rescue training in northern British Columbia with a trip to see the fossils of Driftwood Canyon and Tumbler Ridge, on the planet Shinyanga co-discovering a skeleton of a new species of flying raptor...
...Disappointment. We regret to inform you that due to high number of applicants, Empire University is unable to offer you a position as a PhD Candidate in Exo-Paleontology...
Kieran gently pressed my fingers into a groove in that old stone, and I saw...
...One hundred million years ago, a rift on the floor of Darkover’s ocean opened, beginning the tectonic forces that created chain after chain of offshore volcanic islands, islands that, pushed toward the mainland, would later gave birth to the Hellers...
...Sixty million years ago, a super volcano exploded, spreading billions of tons of volcanic ash, falling in layers tens to hundreds of meters thick. Forty-five million years ago, a volcanic island chain emerged from the old caldera. Ancient ash created shallow seas and island wetlands—and superfine layers of ash meant perfectly preserved fossils...
...In those wetlands was a “bog-orchid” with blue flowers, an evolutionary ancestor of kireseth. Over ten million more years, the bog-orchid flourished, growing only on those few islands—what would become the Vale—generation after generation dying into the mud, building up layer upon layer, covered from time to time by volcanic ash...
...When the islands collided with the mainland, rock was compressed, folded, changed. Like coal on Terra, the remains of those reeds metamorphosed into the blue layers in the citadel stones, a mineral that interfered with laran...
I opened my eyes. We were back in the afternoon sun of the Vale of Valiante. As others let go, Dominic continued to grasp my hand. Everyone was quiet for—I felt it was an eternity.
“I had no idea our home was so ancient,” Felix said.
“Amazing,” Dominic said.
“You must come back to our house,” Kieran said. “To tell me about the creatures in my collection.”
Yes. I just had to see and study Kieran’s collection. Then another thought: What do I do? The rulers of this world do not want anything to do with paleontologists.
“Rhodri,” Thyra said. “Centuries ago, in the Ages of Chaos, our ancestors fled the wars. Our scouts discovered this isolated valley. We needed a citadel to overlook the pass. We quarried stone from a mountainside. Only when the citadel was complete, when our families came, did we discover the citadel interfered with even the most powerful laran. Laran does work—though not well—where the roof is open to the air,” she said.
Can I write a peer reviewed paleontology paper when half the research is telepathic?
“In the rest of the Vale, laran works, except close to outcrops of the blue stones. We knew then that in those terrible times such a discovery would be so tempting that all the Domains would seek to conquer the Vale. In the Ages of Chaos, we cut ourselves off from the Domains. The wars lasted for centuries. We only ventured out of the Vale when we had to. It was more than a hundred years after the time of Varzil the Good that we learned about the Compact.”
There is nothing more than I want to do than study the fossils, first Kieran’s, then the sea monster and other treasures I cannot yet imagine. There’s obviously a lifetime’s work here.
Felix said, “From centuries ago, we have felt safe in the Vale. We have our own ways and customs, which we want to preserve. We have chosen not to be part of the Domains. Even today we often play the country bumpkins, so as not to arouse suspicion. We have no desire to be involved in the politics of the Comyn. But now the arrival of the Terranan has changed everything on Darkover—and, I believe, perhaps not for the better.”
Am I welcome?
Kieran, despite his “weak” laran, sensed my thought. “Lad, of course, you’re welcome. You have just shown us that this world is countless ages old. Darkover is always changing. The Vale will have to change. But we will decide how it will change. I have a feeling that you—our dragon hunter—will stay here for many years—and help us decide what to change and what not to.”
Really, I thought. What about Dominic?
Dominic grabbed my face in both hands. “Barleto,” he said. “I didn’t just bring you here because you can sense the beast stones. Of course, I saw you looking for me in the markets. But you’re the first Terranan I’ve met in my life. I could not be sure about you or your strange customs. If you were a born Darkovan, I am sure our journey up the mountains would have been, shall I say, a lot more fun.”
“Dominic, I am going to have to learn a lot more about cultural sensitivity.” He frowned for a second, then realized I had made a joke. We both started to laugh.
FISH NOR FOWL
by Rebecca Fox
Rebecca (Becky) Fox is a Kentuckian by happy accident and an Arizonan by birth. She has sold short stories to a number of anthologies, and someday–if she can stop being distracted by horses, wild birds, Walt Disney World, and the Internet for long enough–she may actually finish a novel. In her “other life”, she’s a field biologist and an associate professor of biology at a private four-year college, and enjoys pointing out to her students that the dinosaurs are in fact alive and well and eating at your bird feeder. Becky shares her life with three parrots, a Jack Russell terrier who makes no secret whatsoever of being an evil genius in a dog suit, and a big goofy gray thoroughbred gelding who was once the world’s worst racehorse. racehorse. She blogs intermittently at bluebird_of_something.dreamwidth.org.
Becky’s story echoes and embellishes the central question of the early Darkover novels: how can the culture of the Domains with its mind-based sciences survive re-integration with a highly technological Empire? With people to whom the Compact, which saved Darkover from cataclysmic psychic weapons, is only a superstition?
I have chosen the worst possible time to come home to Darkover. The thought, and heart-pounding sense of impending disaster that followed hard on its heels, struck Miralys Ridenow so abruptly that she simply stopped short in the middle of the arrivals concourse of the Thendara Spaceport. The Terranan tourist following in her wake plowed into her hard enough to make her stumble. Through the brief contact, Miralys could feel his irritation.
The man, dressed head-to-toe in brand new—and expensive-looking—cold weather gear, didn’t bother to so much as offer to help her up. “Damned rustic,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped around Miralys and her tumbled luggage with an expression of distaste.
Fuming, Miralys scrambled to her feet. But before she could open her mouth to deliver a stinging rebuke, another woman intervened. “You’ll find you’ll get along better in Thendara, sirrah, if you learn to watch where you’re going.” The woman’s voice was friendly enough, but her dark eyes, set under a short-croppe
d cap of curls in a face the color of the drink the Terranan called café au lait, were steely. The man reddened–whether with embarrassment or with fury, it was hard to say—and quickened his steps, and the woman chuckled faintly.
The woman’s expression warmed considerably when she turned to Miralys. “And given that you’re the only Darkovan woman on that shuttle, I’m guessing that you must be my new translator. I’m glad Cultural Reconciliation managed to get you here from Idyllwild before the storms cut us off for the winter, though I hope they left you a few minutes to pack before spiriting you away.” The woman held out a neatly manicured hand tattooed with a pattern of stylized leaves. “Interim Legate Neemah Bell. Do you shake hands?”
Warmed by the Interim Legate’s courtesy, Miralys reinforced her psychic shields and took her hand with a smile. The other woman’s hand was warm and dry, and her grip was firm. “Miralys Ridenow. I didn’t expect you to come to the spaceport personally, Interim Legate.”
“Call me Neemah, please. Look, I’m so desperate for someone with any real fluency in casta that I would have flown the damned ship to Idyllwild to fetch you myself. Coming to meet you in person is the least I can do.” She gave Miralys a weary grin and hefted one of her travel cases. “Let’s get you to your lodging. I’m sure you’re exhausted. Space travel is no one’s idea of a good time.”
Miralys gathered the rest of her luggage and fell into step beside the Interim Legate. She hadn’t remembered Thendara Spaceport as being so small, or as looking so shabby. “There are any number of Darkovans who speak casta, you know. And many of them would be more than willing to lend their services to the Legation.”
“But there aren’t any number of casta-speaking Darkovans with two masters’ degrees from the university on Vainwal and top marks on the Civil Service exam.” There was a wry smile lurking in the corners of Neemah Bell’s eyes. “And given the mess the late, lamented Legate Hamilton left me with, I’m going to need every bit of that at my disposal. Legates are supposed to request a replacement and retire in an orderly fashion, not drop dead while playing cards on a restday afternoon.” She sighed heavily. “The Comyn Council is insisting that their agreements were with Legate Hamilton, not with the Terran Empire. As far as the Council is concerned, they and I are starting on square one.”
Miralys blurted her next words without thinking. “The Council doesn’t know you, Interim Legate. And no doubt they feel like the Terran Empire is insulting them by sending a woman to take Legate Hamilton’s place.” Appalled at what she’d just said, bald-faced, to a woman she hardly knew, however true it happened to be, Miralys bit her lip.
Neemah Bell gave a humorless chuckle. “Do you know, Miralys Ridenow, that you are the first person to be completely straight with me about that? Cultural Reconciliation keeps pussyfooting around it like they’re either afraid they’re going to hurt my feelings by telling me the truth, or else they don’t want me thinking badly of the Comyn Council.” She strode into a waiting lift and held the door for Miralys. “And I thought I told you to call me Neemah. We’re going to be spending entirely too much time together to stand on formality with each other.”
“Neemah,” Miralys agreed hesitantly, and stepped into the lift after the Interim Legate, feeling rather as if she had just put her feet on a fraying tightrope. For a moment, her vision blurred and doubled, and as the lift doors slid shut, the unnerving sense of imminent doom that had never quite left her coiled around her throat like an icy snake.
Miralys told herself firmly it was simple anxiety. It had been twelve standard years since her feet last touched Darkovan soil, after all. A lot could change in all that time.
~o0o~
Miralys had never imagined it was possible to come home and still feel homesick.
The Legation had quartered her at a Darkovan-owned women’s hostel in Thendara Trade City. Miralys was sure whoever had made the arrangement had intended it as a gesture of cultural sensitivity and tried to take it in the spirit in which it was meant. They couldn’t have known how unnerving she found Trade City, with its haphazard, unpredictable patchwork of traditional Darkovan buildings and Terranan technology. At night, neon light from the sign above the entrance of the tavern across the square streamed through her bedroom window, and the building shook from time to time with the roar of shuttles landing and taking off at the spaceport.
On her first restday on Darkover, she bundled up warmly and walked to the open-air market that stood on the invisible, but very real, border between Trade City and Old Thendara, hoping to distract herself. She glanced up at the bulk of Comyn Castle glowering over the city, and beyond it the soaring metal skeleton of the big launch gantry at the spaceport. Once that gantry had seemed impossibly huge to Miralys, a symbol of all the possibilities that waited for her in the stars beyond Darkover. Now she knew that it was hardly large enough to accommodate a medium-sized lander from one of the Big Ships. The spaceport at Vainwal had fifteen gantries twice that size, and it wasn’t even a major transit hub.
A few desultory snowflakes drifted down from a cloud-choked sky. Soon enough, winter would close in on them in earnest. There wouldn’t be many more chances to enjoy the market until spring. Surely buying something pretty would dispel some of her gloom. Miralys squared her shoulders and quickened her step, resolving to spend the afternoon enjoying herself.
~o0o~
Miralys was regarding a bolt of finely woven russet wool when she heard a voice behind her familiar enough to make her start.
“Miralys Ridenow! I thought you said you were never coming home!”
Miralys set the bolt back down on the counter of the clothman’s stall and turned. Sure enough, Amalie Delleray was bearing down on her, a broad smile creasing her wide, homely face.
“I was young,” Miralys said as they embraced, laughing and blinking back tears all at once. “The young say a lot of really stupid things. We were all a lot younger then,” she added softly. Amalie’s eyes were bracketed by lines Miralys didn’t remember, her bright copper hair shot through with iron gray.
“My grandfather used to say that the only thing that never stops marching is time. Oh, breda, it’s so good to see you.” Amalie gave her another hard squeeze before releasing her. “And I can hear you wondering how in the gods’ name I recognized you from behind. Chiya, after all those years we spent at Neskaya Tower, I’d recognize you in a Terranan space suit!”
Miralys couldn’t help but chuckle. “I might have said I’d never come home, but I can’t imagine you ever leaving Neskaya, Amalie. What are you doing here in Thendara?”
Grief and bitterness flashed across the other woman’s face like a brief summer squall. “Keeper Ruanna died two winters ago. Little Viviana is still far too young to take her place.”
“The circle is broken?” Miralys tried not to feel the horror of it.
Amalie closed her eyes for a moment before squaring her shoulders. “Donal and I came here to Thendara. He’s paxman to Garin Ardais now.”
“And Byrna?” Byrna Castamir had been the closest thing to a mother Miralys had ever known.
Amalie hesitated a moment, searching for something in Miralys’s face.
Swallowing back tears, Miralys pressed a hand to her mouth. She couldn’t bear to think—
“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that, little sister. Byrna is alive and well. She insisted on staying right there at Neskaya with the kyrri. Said she was too damned old to pick up her entire life and move.”
“It’s the only home she really remembers.” On her most homesick nights, Miralys had looked up at the stars wherever she was and comforted herself by imaging life at Neskaya, going on just as it always had.
Suddenly Amalie smiled determinedly. “But this is hardly fitting discussion for a celebration, chiya. You’ve come home to us at last, and that deserves some recognition.” She laced her arm through Miralys’s. “For the rest of today, we’ll only think of happy things.”
They were halfway through a steaming bowl of mu
lled wine at a little inn in Old City when Amalie turned to Miralys with a quizzical expression.
“Do the Terranan ever ask you about the Towers?”
Miralys felt muzzy and relaxed. The question took her by surprise. “Sometimes,” she admitted, tipping her head to one side. “They’re curious. I can hardly blame them.”
“What do you tell them? I know you swore that oath to Keeper Ruanna before she let you leave for,” Amalie made a helpless, half-frustrated gesture skyward, “out there.”
Miralys put on her most innocent face. “I tell them we practice meditation, like the cristoforos.”
For some reason, that struck both of them as uproariously funny.
~o0o~
The first day of the new work period started pleasantly enough. Miralys spent the morning giving a language lesson to the newest staffers in Cultural Reconciliation and Security. Teaching was a task she’d enjoyed from her earliest days in graduate school.
When the class decamped to the Legation cafeteria for lunch, one of the security officers, a tall, dark-haired woman with an engaging freckled face, hung back. “Do you mind if I join you for lunch, Ms. Ridenow? I just got here on the Valiant two days ago, and I don’t really know anybody yet.”
“Not at all.” Miralys couldn’t resist smiling at her. “I haven’t been here much longer than you. And you can call me Miralys, really.” It would be nice to have a real friend at the Legation.
“Officer Jennifer Petrie,” the other woman said. “But then you know that already, since you’re teaching our class. I’m sorry. I’m a little... awkward sometimes, you know. It’s why I’m in Security instead of Cultural Reconciliation.”
Miralys laughed and took the proffered hand. As she did, she had a strange instant of doubled vision, and the oddest sense that someone else was looking through her eyes. Before she had a chance to wonder about it, the bizarre sensation had faded. Probably I’m just hungry. It’s been a long morning, after all. “It’s all right. I don’t mind awkward.”
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