“The matrix got out of control. Half of Caer Donn went up in flames. I suppose you know the story. Majorie died. I—” I shrugged, moving the stump of my arm slightly. “Rafe didn’t seem much the worse when I saw him last. But I thought Kadarin, and Thyra, were both dead.”
“I don’t know about the woman,” Lawton said. “I haven’t heard. Wouldn’t know her if she walked into this office. But Kadarin’s alive. He was seen in Thendara, less than a tenday ago.”
“If he’s alive, she’s alive,” I said. “Kadarin would have died before letting her be hurt.” Guilt clawed me again; as I should have died before Marjorie, Marjorie… and then I had a disquieting thought. Thyra was Aldaran as well as chieri. Had she foreseen the return of Sharra to Darkover… and come to Thendara, drawn by that irresistible pull, even before I knew, myself, that I would bring it back?
Were we nothing more than pawns of that damned thing?
Lawton said, “What is Sharra? Just a matrix—”
“It’s that, certainly,” I said. “A very high-level one; ninth or tenth,” and I forestalled his question. “In general, a ninth-level matrix is a matrix which can only be operated or controlled by at least nine qualified telepaths of mechanic level.”
“But I gather it’s more—”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s probably—I’m not sure what it is. The forge-folk thought it was the talisman controlling a Goddess who brought fire to their forges…”
Lawton said, “I was not asking for an account of Darkovan superstitions about Sharra. I’ve heard the stories of the flame-hair—”
“They’re not stories,” I said. “You weren’t there when Caer Donn burned, were you? Sharra appeared—and struck fire down on the ships—”
He said restlessly, “Hypnotism. Hallucination.”
“But the fire was real,” I said, “and believe me, the Form of Fire is real.” I shut my eyes as if I could see it there, as if my matrix was keyed to the burning in that older, larger matrix—
Lawton may have had a touch of laran; I have never been sure. Many Terrans do, not knowing what it is or how to use it. He asked, “Do you suppose he came to Thendara because you were here—to try and recover the Sharra matrix?”
That was what I feared. Above all, that was what I feared; the matrix in the hands of Kadarin again…
and I unwilling slave to the matrix, burning, burning, sealed to the form of fire… “I would kill him before that,” I said. ,
Lawton’s eyes dwelt a moment past courtesy on my one hand. Then he said, “There is a price on his head in the Empire. And you are an Empire citizen. If you like, I will issue you a weapon, to protect yourself against a known criminal under sentence of death, and give you the legal right to execute him.”
To my eternal shame, I considered it; I was afraid of Kadarin. And the ethics of the Compact—my father said it cynically once—crumble in the face of fear or personal advantage. Regis Hastur’s father had died, twenty years ago, leaving the Domains to be ruled by an unborn son, because some band of rebels had accepted contraband weapons with what, I am sure, they thought were reasons important enough to overthrow their allegiance to Compact.
Then I said, with a shudder, “Forget it. I may not be much good with a sword just now, but I doubt if I can shoot well enough to make it worth the trouble. I’ll fight him if I must. He’ll have the Sharra matrix only over my dead body.”
“Your dead body wouldn’t do any of us a damned bit of good if Kadarin had the Sharra matrix,” said Lawton impatiently, “and I’m not concerned at this moment with your honor or the Compact. Would you consider moving the matrix—and yourself—into the Terran Zone so that we could protect you with effective weapons?”
This was a Darkovan affair. Should I hide behind the hem of a Terran’s robe, guarded by their guns and blasters, coward’s weapons?
“Stubborn damned fool,” Lawton said without heat. “I can’t force you, but be careful, damn it, be careful, Lew.” It was the first time he had called me by my name, and even through my anger, I was warmed; I needed friends, even Terran friends. And I respected this man. He said, “If you change your mind, or want a gun, or a bodyguard with a gun, tell me. We need friends in Council, remember.”
I said reluctantly, “I can’t promise to be your friend, Lawton.”
He nodded and said, “I understand. But—” he hesitated and looked me straight in the eye, “I can promise to be yours. Remember that if you need it. And my offer stands.”
I thought about that, as I went out, and down the long elevators and lifts to the ground level. Outside the wind was chilly, and the sky was covered with cloud; later it would snow. I was amazed how quickly my weather skills returned to me. Snow, at high summer! Not unprecedented. Once a summer snow had saved Armida, in a terrifying forest fire when half our buildings had gone up in the backfire. But not common, either, and perhaps an omen of ill-luck. Well, that would be no surprise.
I didn’t tarry to look at the starships. I had seen enough of them. Quickly, drawing my cloak close about my shoulders against the chill, I walked through the streets. I should move as quickly as possible, back into the Alton apartments in Comyn Castle, establish possession; show that I regarded myself as legitimate head of the Alton Domain, Lord Armida. The Sharra matrix too, left alone in the town house, safeguarded only by the fact that no one knew where it was—it too would be safer in Comyn Castle. Better yet, take it to the Comyn Tower and ask my cousin Callina, who was Keeper now for the incredibly ancient keeper there, old Ashara, to put it in the Tower matrix laboratory under a matrix lock. Kadarin could break into the town house, he might even manage to break into the Castle, but I did not believe he could break into a matrix-locked laboratory in Comyn Tower, in the hands and under the wardship of a Keeper. But if he could do that, then we were all dead anyhow and it did not matter.
Having made this resolve, I felt better. It was good to breathe, not the mechanical smells of the Terran Zone, but the clean natural smells of my own part of the city; spices from a cookshop, heat from a forge where someone was shoeing a string of pack animals; a group of Renunciates, their hair cut so short it was hard to tell whether they were men or women, dressed in bulky trail clothing, readying an expedition into the hills; a shrouded and heavily veiled lady in a sedan chair in the midst of them. The clean smell of animals, fresh smells of garden plants. Thendara was a beautiful city, though I would rather have been out in the Kilghard Hills…
I could go. I owned estates that needed me. Armida was mine now… my home. But it was Council season and I was needed here…
Across a square I heard a soft call and challenge; a patrol of young Guardsmen. I looked up, and Dyan Ardais left the patrol and came striding toward me, his military cloak flying briskly behind him.
This encounter was the last thing I wanted. As a boy I had detested Dyan with a consuming hatred; older, I had wondered whether a part of my dislike might not be that he had been my father’s friend, and I, bastard, lonely, friendless, had envied every attention that my father had paid to anyone else. The unhealthy closeness between my father and myself had not all been his doing, and I knew that now. In any case, Kennard was dead and, one way or another, I must free myself of his influence, the real or imagined voice in my mind.
Dyan was my kinsman, he was Comyn, and he had befriended my brother and my father. So I greeted him civilly enough, and he returned the formal greeting, Comyn to Comyn, the first time in my life that he had greeted me as an equal.
Then he dropped formality and said, “I need to talk to you, cousin.” The word, a degree more intimate than “kinsman,” seemed to come as hard to him as to me. I shrugged, though I wasn’t pleased. The talk with Lawton had made me, even more than before, desperately uneasy about the Sharra matrix; I wanted it put into a safe place before anyone—for anyone read Kadarin, who was the only one I knew who could get it—could know its presence on Darkover through the reawakening of his matrix—and if that had happened to my matrix, i
t would certainly have happened to his. And once he knew the matrix was back on Darkover, what would he do? I didn’t have to ask; I knew.
“There’s a tavern; will you drink with me? I need to talk with you, cousin.”
I hesitated; I’m not that much of a drinker at any time. “It’s early for me, thank you. And I am rather in a hurry. Can it wait?”
“I’d rather not,” said Dyan. “But I’ll walk with you, if you like.” Too late I realized: it had been meant as a friendly gesture. I shrugged. “As you like. I don’t know this end of the city so well.”
The tavern was clean enough, and not too dark, though my spine prickled a little as I went into the unlighted room, Dyan behind me. He evidently knew the place, because the potboy brought him a drink without asking. He poured some for me; I put out my hand to stop him.
“Only a little, thanks.” It was more a ritual than anything else; we drank together, and at the back of my mind I thought, if my father knew, he would have been pleased to see me drinking in all amiability with his oldest friend. Well, I could do that much homage to his memory. He caught my eye and I knew he shared the thought; we drank silently to my father’s peace.
“We’ll miss him in Council,” Dyan said. “He knew all the Terran ways and wasn’t seduced by them. I wonder—” and his eyes dwelt on me a moment past courtesy, looking at the scar, the folded sleeve. But I was enough used to that. I said, “I’m not exactly enthralled by the Terran—more strictly, by the Empire ways. Terra itself—” I shrugged. “I suppose it’s a beautiful world, if you can stand living under a yellow sun and having the colors all wrong. There’s a certain—status— in being of old Terran stock, or living there, but I didn’t like it. As for the Empire—”
“You lived on Vainwal a long time,” he said, “and you’re not a decadent like Lerrys, bound on pleasure and—exotic entertainment.”
It was half a question. I said, “I can live without Empire luxuries. Father found the climate good for his health. I—” I broke off, wondering just why I had stayed. Inertia, deadly lassitude, one place no worse than another to me, until I met Dio, and then any place as good as another, as long as she was with me. If Dio had asked me, would I have come back to Darkover? Probably, if the subject had been broached before it became impossible for her to travel. Why had we not come before she became pregnant? At least, here, she could have been monitored, we would have had some forewarning of the tragedy—I stopped myself. Done was done; we had done the best we could, unknowing, and I would not carry that burden of guilt along with all the rest.
“I stayed with Father. After he died, he wanted me to come back; it was his dying wish.” I said it gingerly, afraid the clamor in my mind would begin again, once invoked, but it was only a whisper.
“You could hold Kennard’s place in Council,” he said, “and have the same kind of power he held.”
My face must have flinched, because he said half angrily, “Are you a fool? You are needed in Council, provided you don’t take the part of the Ridenow and try to pull us all into the Empire!”
I shook my head. “I’m no politician, Lord Dyan. And— without offense—I’d like a little time to size it up on my own, before being told what to think by each of the interested parties!”
I had expected him to fly into a rage at the rebuke, but he only grinned, that fierce and wolfish grin which was, in its own way, handsome. “Good enough; at least you’re capable of thinking. While you’re sizing up the situation, try and take the measure of our prince. There’s precedent enough—Council knew my own father was mad as a kyorebni in the Ghost wind, and they took care to draw his fangs.”
They had appointed Dyan his father’s regent, and in one of the old man’s lucid intervals, old Dom Kyril had agreed to it. But I said, “Derik has no near kinsman; isn’t he the only adult Elhalyn?”
“His sisters are married,” Dyan said, “though not, perhaps, as near to nobility as they would have been if we had known one of their husbands might have to be regent of the Elhalyns. Old Hastur wants to set Regis up in Derik’s place, but the boy’s kicking about that, and who can blame him? It’s enough to rule over Hastur, without a crown as well. A crown is nonsense in these days, of course; what we need is a strong Council of equals. And there’s the Guard—not that a few dozen men carrying swords can do much against the Terrans, but they can keep our own people on the right side of the wall.”
“Who’s commanding the Guard now?” I asked, and he shrugged.
“Anybody. Nobody. Gabriel, mostly. I took it myself for the first two years—Gabriel seemed a bit young.” I remembered Dyan had been one of the best officers. “After that it went to him.”
“He’s welcome to it,” I said. “I never had much taste for soldiering.”
“It goes with the Domain,” Dyan said fiercely. “I suppose you would be willing to do your duty and command it?”
“I’ll have to get my bearings first,” I said, and then I was angry. “Which is more important? To get someone who’s competent at commanding the Guards, and likes it, or to get someone who has the right blood in his veins?”
“They’re both important,” he said, and he was deadly serious. “Especially in these times. With the Hasturs gobbling up one Domain after another, Gabriel’s exactly the wrong man to command the Guards; you should force the issue and take them away from him as soon as possible.”
I almost laughed. “Force the issue? Gabriel could tie me up into a bow for his wife’s hair, and do it with one hand tied—” I broke off; that particular figure of speech was, to say the least, unfortunate. “I could hardly fight a duel with him; are you suggesting assassination?”
“I think the Guard would be loyal to you for your father’s sake.”
“Maybe.”
“And if you don’t take over the Guard? What are you intending to do? Go back to Annida and raise horses?” He put all his scorn into the words. Pain flooded through me, remembering how I had wanted to take my son there. “I could probably do worse.”
“Just sit at home and attend to your own affairs while Darkover falls into Empire hands?” he asked scornfully. “You might as well hide behind Tower walls! Why not go back with Jeff to Arilinn—or did they burn that out of you too?”
Rage flooded through me. How dared Dyan, under the pretense of kinship and his friendship for my father, probe old, unhealed wounds this way? “I was taught at Arilinn,” I said deliberately, “to speak of such matters only to those who were concerned in them. Are you monitor, mechanic, or technician, Lord Dyan?”
I had always thought that the phrase black with rage was only a manner of speaking; now I saw it, the blood rising dark and congested in Dyan’s face until I thought he would fall down, stricken by a stroke. Too late, I remembered; Dyan had been briefly in a Tower, and no one, not even my father, knew why he had left it. What I had meant as a freezing rebuke, a way of telling him to keep his distance, had been interpreted as deadly personal insult—an attack on his weakest spot.
“Neither monitor, mechanic nor technician, damn you,” he said at last, his chair going over backward as he rose, “nor power-pole for the forces of Sharra, you damned insolent bastard! Go back to Armida and raise horses, or to a Tower if they’ll have you, or back to the Empire, or to hell if Zandru will take you in, but stay out of Council politics—hear me?”
He turned and strode away, and I stared after him, in shock and dismay, knowing I had made, from a man who had been ready to befriend me, the most dangerous of enemies.
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE
« ^ »
The Comyn Tower rose high above the Castle, part of the great sprawling mass that looked down on Thendara, and yet apart from it, older than any part of it; immeasurably old, built of an ancient reddish sandstone which, otherwise, appeared only in the oldest, ruined houses of the Old Town. Regis had never come here before.
He said to the nonhuman servant, “Will you ask the Domna Callina Lindir-Aillard if she will receive R
egis Hastur?”
It surveyed him for a long moment, the dark eyes alert and responsive; a humanlike form, a humanlike intelligence, but Regis could not dismiss the feeling that he had been speaking to a large and not altogether friendly dog. He had seen the silver-furred kyrri during his brief training session in Neskaya Tower; but he had never grown used to them. The thing stared at him longer, he thought, than a human would have done. Then it gave a brief graceful nod of its sleek silver head and glided noiselessly away.
Regis wondered, remotely and at the edge of awareness, how the kyrri would deliver its message to Callina. The origin of the kyrri was lost in the Ages of Chaos—had they, after all, been part of that monstrous breeding program which the Hastur-kin had carried on for centuries to fix the Comyn gifts in the families of the Seven Domains? Stranger games than the kyrri had been played with genetics modified by laran power and matrix technology.
Or did they go back further yet, part of the prehistory of Cottman’s star before a lost Terran colony came to call it Darkover? He suspected that even in the Towers they were not sure what the kyrri were or how they had come to be traditional servants of the Tower. He took them for granted, had learned to stay out of range of the painful electric shocks they could give when they were excited or threatened, had been tended by their odd thumbless hands when it would have been unendurable to have near him human telepaths who could read his mind or reach it.
But all this was with the surface of his mind and had nothing to do with the underlying unease which had brought him here; and for a moment he wondered if he should have sought out Callina in the Aillard suite, presuming somewhat on his acquaintance with Linnell—who, like himself, had been fostered at Armida and was foster-sister to Lew and Marius. He had never spoken more than a dozen words to Callina, and those formal and ceremonious. He could have talked to Linnell as to a kinswoman, but Callina was something else again… Keeper at Neskaya and then at Arilinn, then sent here to be under-Keeper in the oldest of the Towers, long inactive, but still sheltering the ancient Ashara, who had not been seen outside the Tower in living memory—nor, Danvan Hastur had told him once, in the living memory of anyone he had ever known; and his grandfather was nearing his hundredth year. He supposed Ashara’s own circle, if she had one, and her attendants, must see her sometime—
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