MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY
From DAW Books:
SWORD AND SORCERESS I-XXI
THE NOVELS OF DARKOVER
EXILE’S SONG
THE SHADOW MATRIX
TRAITOR’S SUN
(With Deborah J. Ross)
THE ALTON GIFT
HASTUR LORD
THE CHILDREN OF KINGS
The Clingfire Trilogy
(With Deborah J. Ross)
THE FALL OF NESKAYA
ZANDRU’S FORGE
A FLAME IN HALI
Special omnibus editions:
HERITAGE AND EXILE
The Heritage of Hastur | Sharra’s Exile
THE AGES OF CHAOS
Stormqueen! | Hawkmistress!
THE SAGA OF THE RENUNCIATES
The Shattered Chain | Thendara House
City of Sorcery
THE FORBIDDEN CIRCLE
The Spell Sword | The Forbidden Tower
A WORLD DIVIDED
The Bloody Sun | The Winds of Darkover
Star of Danger
DARKOVER: FIRST CONTACT
Darkover Landfall | The Forbidden Tower
THE CHILDREN
OF KINGS
A DARKOVER® NOVEL
MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY
AND
DEBORAH J. ROSS
DAW BOOKS, INC.
DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM
SHEILA E. GILBERT
PUBLISHERS
www.dawbooks.com
Copyright © 2013 Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust.
DARKOVER® is a Registered Trademark of the Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust.
All Rights Reserved.
Jacket art by Matthew Stawicki.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1615.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
NOTES
Readers have asked me what it’s like to continue the Darkover series, and after talking about working with Marion, I add that it’s like writing historical fiction. I have to do my research, which means studying the previously published novels and as much other material—Marion’s notes and letters. For this tale set mostly in the Dry Towns, I used not only The Shattered Chain but a very early (1961) “proto-Darkover” novel, The Door Through Space. The Door Through Space contained many elements familiar to Darkover readers, from jaco and the Ghost Wind to the names of people and places (Shainsa, Rakhal, Dry-towns). Marion was exploring a world in which Terrans are the visitors and adventure lurks in the shadows of ancient alien cities. She drew upon and further developed this material in The Shattered Chain (1976).
These books reflected the growth of Marion’s vision, but each of them was also part of the times in which it was written. 1960s science fiction novels were often tightly-plotted, fast-paced, and short by today’s standards. Most, although by no means all, protagonists were male, and female characters were often viewed from that perspective, what today we call “the male gaze.” By the middle of the next decade, publishers were interested in longer, more complex works. Not only that, the women’s movement and the issues it raised influenced genre as well as mainstream fiction, opening the way for strong female characters who defined themselves in their own terms. If Marion had written The Shattered Chain a decade and a half earlier, I doubt it would have found the receptive, enthusiastic audience it did. Her timing (as with The Mists of Avalon or The Heritage of Hastur) brilliantly reflected the emerging sensibilities of the times.
Now we live in a different world. This is not to say that the previous struggles have been resolved, but that much has changed in the social consciousness from 1976 to today. In writing The Children of Kings, I considered how Marion’s ideas about the Dry Towns (and any patriarchal desert culture) might have changed over the last three decades. The Shattered Chain, with its examination of the roles of women and the choices (or lack of choices) facing them, focused on only a few aspects of the Dry Towns culture. What if we went deeper, seeing it as complex, with admirable aspects as well as those we find abhorrent? With customs that we cannot truly comprehend but must respect, as well as those that resonate with our own? With men of compassion and women of power?
As the Dry Towns developed in my mind, I turned also to the theme that had characterized the early Darkover novels—the conflict between a space-faring technological race and the marvelously rich and romantic Domains, with their tradition of the Compact and the laran-Gifted Comyn. And now, adding to the mix, the ancient kihar-based Dry Towns.
I hope you enjoy reading this adventure as much as I did writing it.
Deborah J. Ross
DEDICATION
In Memoriam
Cleopatricia Sanda (1962-2012)
Be at peace, dear friend
1
The disk of Darkover’s Bloody Sun had barely risen beyond the walls and towers of Thendara, and icy chill still haunted the shadows. A brisk wind swept the sky clear of clouds. The branches of the trees in the gardens of the Old Town trembled. Lavender and white blossoms unfurled amid the new leaves. The air no longer smelled of old layered ice and sodden wool, but of fresh growing things.
The roads had been open for a tenday, even as far as the Kilghard Hills. Traders reached the city, bringing goods and gossip. The open-air markets offered spring onions and an array of early fruits, a welcome change from boiled roots and porridge.
The rising sun lit the ancient castle of the Comyn where it stood like a city unto itself, with its walls and spires, domes and courtyards, the barracks and training yards of the City Guard, and ballrooms and living quarters for the ruling families when they were in town. A crowd gathered outside the main gates. Their mood was festive, the dark hues of winter garb brightened by garlands of early-blooming ice lilies.
The gates swung open, and a contingent of City Guards came out, clearing an open path. Then came more armed men, mounted on sturdy horses. People waved and someone played a lilting air on a wooden flute. The leader of the Guards smiled and
nodded, although his gaze never stopped moving across the assembly and one hand remained on the hilt of his sword.
Just inside the gates, a second, much smaller group gathered, household servants and a scattering of richly dressed Comyn lords and ladies. In the center of the courtyard, a party of riders mounted up. The horses stamped and snorted, their breath turning into plumes of white vapor. Servants and baggage handlers finished securing the coverings on a laden wagon.
From the shelter of an arched, deep-set Castle doorway, Gareth Marius-Danvan Elhalyn y Hastur watched the preparations for leave-taking. The slanting morning light touched his hair, which had darkened from childhood flaxen to red-gold, and the fine planes of his face, reflecting the compelling masculine beauty of his lineage. His cloak, although of soft lambswool, bore no badge or identifying mark, neither the blue-and-silver fir tree of his Hastur father nor the tree and crown of his royal Elhalyn mother. Neither of his parents was present, having passed the winter at Elhalyn Castle with his younger brother and sister. He was not alone, for he was rarely unattended, either by Castle Guards, personal servants, or the courtiers who lived in Thendara or had journeyed here as soon as the roads were open. Ordinarily, he was so well guarded that he had never yet had occasion to use the sword hanging at his belt except in daily practice. Today, however, no one attempted to draw him into conversation. Perhaps the early hour caused his presence to go unnoticed.
The foremost rider was a man of middle years, the gold of his hair laced lightly with frost. Like the woman beside him, he wore warm, brightly colored travel clothing. His fur-lined cloak draped over the rump of his horse, one of the fabled Armida blacks. He smiled and lifted one hand in greeting to the crowd beyond the gates. They shouted and clapped.
“Dom Mikhail! The Regent!”
The woman colored a little. Her horse, a gray of the same fine breeding as her husband’s, pranced and pulled at the bit. She quieted the horse with a touch and, as she did so, the hood of her cloak slipped from her head, revealing a crown of feather-soft, coppery hair.
A sigh swept the crowd outside. The cheers diminished into whispers of awe.
“Lady Marguerida . . .”
Mikhail Lanart-Hastur gave his wife a crooked smile. “They cheer me, but you they offer greater honor. I don’t know whether to be relieved or proud.”
A trick of the acoustics in the courtyard carried their voices to where Gareth stood. He felt as if he were eavesdropping on a private family conversation and wished he hadn’t come. He pressed his back against the stone doorway.
“I wish they wouldn’t,” Marguerida Alton replied in a low voice. “I’d much rather be respected for what I’ve achieved than for the color of my hair. We can’t take a simple vacation without all this fuss.”
“It’s gratitude, preciosa.”
“Mik, the Trailmen’s Fever was two years ago!”
“Darkovans have long memories. Ah, Nico!” Mikhail smiled broadly as his eldest son and heir approached.
At twenty-two, Domenic Alton-Hastur was just a few years older than Gareth. By Comyn standards, he was simply dressed, a jacket crossed by the Alton tartan, and trousers tucked into swordsman’s boots. He laid one hand on the black’s glossy shoulder, looked up at his father, and said with a perfectly serious expression, “It’s not too late to change your minds and turn back from this insanity.”
“Nico!” Marguerida exclaimed, then laughed. “Not us leaving, but you staying to run this place—that’s the real insanity!”
“The Castle is in good hands.” One corner of Mikhail’s mouth twitched. “I have no concerns on that score. We’re in your debt for making it possible for your mother and me to get away at the same time. It’s been far too long since all of us—most of us, anyway—were together at Armida.”
A peculiar sensation, part ache, part something else, tightened Gareth’s chest. He had never doubted the love his own parents had for him, but neither they nor anyone else in a position of power had ever trusted him as much as Mikhail trusted Domenic. It did no good to reiterate that Domenic was older, that he had been trained since childhood to assume the Regency, in addition to the discipline of his season in a Tower.
He has real work, work that matters. Nobody thinks of him as a useless ceremonial appendage.
Yet Gareth could not summon even a shred of resentment against his cousin. Neither of them could help their birth.
He will be Regent and I, the uncrownable King. As Grandfather Regis used to say, if we had wanted another destiny, we should have chosen different parents.
Meanwhile, Mikhail had nudged his horse forward and addressed the throng outside the gates. Pitching his voice to reach to the edges of the crowd, he thanked them and wished them a joyful spring and a bountiful early crop.
“I leave you in the care of my son and heir, Domenic Lanart-Hastur, and his equally capable advisors. I warn you, however, that he is a far sterner taskmaster than I.” At this, everyone laughed. “I bid you farewell until the summer Festival season!”
Mikhail signaled to the Guard captain to proceed. The crowd pulled back as they approached, heading for the road to the Alton family estate at Armida. Marguerida glanced back toward the castle.
“He’ll be fine,” Mikhail said. “Danilo will send word at the least hint of trouble.”
Lifting her chin, she nudged the gray forward until she was even with her husband. The party clattered over the paved street to renewed cheers, and the gates swung shut behind them. The onlookers began to disperse, servants hurrying back to their duties. The nobles milled around, exchanging comments and making sure they were seen as people of importance.
Gareth’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had not taken more than a cup of water since arising. Perhaps Domenic, now talking with one of the Castle Guards, might be persuaded to breakfast with him.
One of the minor lords brushed against Gareth’s cloak and drew back, clearly startled. “Your pardon, vai dom! How clumsy of me. I did not notice you standing there!”
Gareth schooled his features into a blandly pleasant smile. There was no point in telling the man to think nothing of it. Even though the Castle was echoingly empty, gossip spread like a Hellers wildfire.
“Gareth Elhalyn went to see the Regent and Domna Marguerida off, can you believe it?”
“Oh, yes, I bumped into him. He was looking very pale indeed.”
“Well, what do you expect—he’s an Elhalyn! He’s probably terrified of his own shadow. They’re all feebleminded when they aren’t insane, the whole nest of them. Remember Prince Derik, a generation ago? As simpleminded as they come. And that business with Gareth after Regis died! You don’t suppose he’s losing what little sanity he ever possessed . . .”
No, his best hope was to avoid a conversation entirely. He inclined his head and murmured, “Excuse me.”
Gareth reached Domenic just as the Guardsman bowed and took his leave.
“Good morning, cousin!” Domenic said with a friendly nod.
Gareth’s grandfather, the legendary Regis Hastur, had been brother to Domenic’s Grandmother Javanne. In his youth, Regis had formally adopted her son, Mikhail, as his heir, trained him for leadership, and kept his promise even when his own son, Gareth’s father, was born. Dani Hastur had chosen a private life over one of public display, so the Regency now passed from Mikhail to Domenic.
“A good morning for everyone, I hope.” Then, feeling he ought to explain his presence, Gareth added, “I came to wish your parents a safe and speedy journey.” The words sounded pretentious, as if the difficulties of the road were subject to his amendment. They had no need of my wishes. Half of Thendara came to cheer them. Why would they pay any attention to me, who did not even speak to them?
Before Gareth could untangle his thoughts, they were joined by an older man who carried himself with the unconscious vigilance of a longtime paxman. Danilo Syrtis
-Ardais was the namesake of Gareth’s father and had been his grandfather’s bredu, a term that meant “sworn brother,” but in this case carried more intimate connotations as well, and to this day remained his grandmother’s close friend. Danilo acted as Domenic’s mentor and advisor when he was not traveling about the Domains in search of latent telepaths.
“Tío Danilo!” Gareth came, somewhat shyly, into Danilo’s fatherly embrace. They hadn’t seen each other since the last performance of Marguerida’s opera. Danilo lived in his quarters in the Castle when he wasn’t traveling, while Gareth occupied the townhouse that had belonged to Regis.
Danilo thumped Gareth on the shoulder. “You’ve been regular in your sword practice.”
Gareth never knew how to respond to such comments. Did Danilo really think him such a sluggard? Even the most indolent prince must be seen to uphold the tradition of military training. He sparred, he rode, and he racked his brains trying to master both Darkovan and Federation languages. Danilo had encouraged him, as did Grandmother Linnea.
“Good lad.” Danilo turned to Domenic, and Gareth caught the edge of a telepathic question.
Is there more, Nico . . . you sensed . . . ?
Domenic’s eyes narrowed, the movement so subtle that if Gareth had not sensed Danilo’s inquiry, he would not have noticed it.
. . . earth tremors . . .
Gareth’s surprise almost betrayed him. Until recent times, each Domain had possessed a characteristic psychic Gift. Now the Gifts no longer bred true, and new ones arose unexpectedly. Domenic’s was one such, the ability to sense geological conditions, although not even Domenic knew whether what he felt arose from the crustal layers or deep within the planet. Perhaps the Gift was genetically linked to his dark hair, unusual for the offspring of a blond and a redhead.
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