The Children of Kings

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Head against the porous black rock, Gareth waited until the last sounds of Cuinn’s passage died away. “He’s going to do something.” Gareth slid forward and hazarded a glance at the off-worlders’ camp. “I wish I knew what.”

  “I agree. He will surely exact revenge for the insult to his kihar. Any Dry Towner would, but more so a headman.”

  “Cuinn and his people pose no threat. What could they do? Throw stones at a starship? Go up against blasters with knives? Or does a headman’s kihar render him suicidally stupid?”

  “You Comyn!” Rahelle scoffed. Gareth stiffened before he realized she meant the term loosely, to mean men of the Domains. “You think bashing one another is the only way to settle a matter of honor!”

  “What then? Refuse to trade with them?”

  “For food or other goods? That would be an idle threat. But for water . . .”

  Water was life.

  “I thought the people here observe water-truce, even as the folk of the Hellers set aside their arguments when a fire is to be fought.”

  “Cuinn would not withhold water, not even from his most bitter enemy. But he may well ensure that these strangers wish he had.”

  Gareth shook his head. The spaceship must have its own supplies of water and food, but Cuinn might not know that. It would be far safer for everyone if the off-worlders left Darkover. He wondered if he could convince them. So far, he hadn’t been able to accomplish anything he’d set out to do, except walk like a rabbit-horn from the cookpot into the fire.

  “We can’t stop Cuinn.” Gareth posed it as a statement, not a question, and heard Rahelle’s sigh of agreement. “But I might be able to talk sense into the off-worlders. I speak passable Terran Standard. It’s not exactly a brilliant plan, but I can’t think of a better one.”

  She got to her feet and stepped out on to the trail.

  “Not you.”

  Rahelle set her jaw, her eyes stony, and Gareth remembered how she had fought alongside the men during the ambush on the Carthon road, despite her father’s prohibition. In his memory, she lifted her chin and demanded, “Do you think I wear chains?”

  He had never in his whole life wanted anything so desperately as to keep her by his side.

  “Someone has to bring news. To your father, and he to my people in Thendara. There’s no one else I can trust.”

  She glared at him as if to say that wasn’t a fair argument. He didn’t want to fight with her. It would feel too much like lying about how he truly felt. After a moment, however, she nodded. “I will return to Nuriya and ensure that word of the situation is sent to my father.”

  “My sword—take it with you. If anything happens—” He wanted to say, It’s yours, but no woman, not in the Domains and certainly not in the Dry Towns, could own a sword.

  “I’ll keep it for you.” She wasn’t agreeing to go to Carthon.

  He took her by the shoulders. “Do not come back for me.”

  “What makes you think I—”

  Unable to think of any other way of silencing her, he covered her mouth with his own. Her lips were full and smooth, taut. Something gave way in her, and also in him.

  Laran flared, washing his senses in blue-white fire. He needed no starstone; he was a starstone. Heat chiseled the moment into crystalline perfection, all pretense burned away, leaving two minds and a single heart.

  She pushed him away and skittered backward, trembling like a leaf in a Hellers gale.

  No, please, I didn’t mean—!

  He could have borne it if she were disgusted or bored or simply appalled by him. That she might be frightened paralyzed him with horror.

  She gave him a long look, then whirled and darted up the trail to Nuriya.

  After a long moment, he tore his gaze away and forced himself to focus on the encampment below.

  He went down, stepping cautiously on the patches of wind-blown grit and making sure that those below had ample time to see him. He wanted his arrival to be open and unconcealed.

  They had clearly spotted him, as he intended, for the spindly-legged leader and his bodyguards arranged themselves near the perimeter of the camp. As Gareth reached the bottom of the hill and moved on to the flat basin, a third guard stepped out to block his path. This man would have been impressive in any venue, towering above Gareth’s height by more than a head, and he was armed with a blaster and a braided-leather whip. He kept his hands so that his fingertips brushed both weapons. Slit eyes regarded Gareth from a moon-pale, moon-round face, a face that reflected not a trace of good will.

  Gareth halted and called out in Terran Standard, “I’m a friend!”

  The words produced a visible reaction, although not from the guard, whose demeanor remained as unyielding as before. The others regarded him with surprise and curiosity.

  “I’m not armed, except for a small knife in my boot.” Gareth raised his hands well away from his body.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” the leader asked.

  With the exception of his identity, Gareth had already decided to stick to the truth. “Garrin of Carthon. I’m here with a warning.”

  “Let him come.”

  The guard glided around to Gareth’s back, moving with surprising speed for his size. All Gareth felt was a series of soft nudges that followed no particular pattern, yet he had no doubt that they would have revealed any hidden weapons, even a toothpick. There was a slight tug on his boot as the little knife slipped free and then a pat between his shoulder blades. Taking that to mean he had passed inspection, he approached the leader.

  Had he thought this man comical? Compared to those eyes, so black they seemed all pupil but alight with cunning and suspicion, and that mouth framed by lines of vigilance, the awkwardness of the rest of the leader’s body seemed trivial. Blue tattoos, like blurred hieroglyphs, spread over his bare scalp.

  One corner of the leader’s mouth tightened, infecting his expression with the ghost of a sneer. He seemed to be asking, Why would I heed a warning from someone like you? He would never ask aloud, not this one, would never commit himself. He ruled by keeping his options open, by making only those threats and promises he could keep.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I have given you my name and purpose. Is it not customary to offer yours?”

  The almost-sneer deepened. “For a village man, you learn fast. I didn’t think any of you spoke Standard this well. Too bad, I could have used you,” with a flick of dark eyes toward the man who had acted as translator, “earlier.”

  “I’m no Dry Towner,” Gareth said, shaking his head for emphasis, “and Cuinn, the headman with whom you spoke, does not know I am here.”

  The translator shifted closer. “Local politics?”

  “Have their uses,” the leader replied. He turned his attention back to Gareth. “Carthon, you say?”

  Gareth nodded. “On the border between the Dry Towns and the Domains . . . where the Federation had their base.”

  The gambit provoked a flare of emotion, quickly suppressed, from the leader’s mind. Surprise? Fear? Gareth couldn’t be sure, only that the off-worlder was not at all happy about the possibility of encountering the Terranan authorities.

  They set down here to avoid being noticed. That means whoever they are and whatever they’re doing here, it can’t be legal.

  Were they outlaws? Fugitives? Deserters? A rebel faction?

  “Look,” Gareth said, trying to sound earnest and a little desperate, “I don’t care who you are or what you’re doing here. But you’re the one who gave Cuinn those blasters, and that’s going to cause more trouble than you can imagine, not just for my people, but for yours.”

  The off-worlder did not correct Gareth’s use of the plural, blasters, thereby confirming Gareth’s fear that there was more than one.

  “I’m Poulos of Windhoven, Capella I
X, captain of the Lamonica. Let’s talk.” The leader jerked his head toward the largest of the ground structures, then headed in that direction with a jerky but surprisingly rapid pace. The translator followed, and then Gareth with the guard a quarter pace behind.

  Gareth had spent enough time on the deserted Federation base to recognize the building as a prefab, quickly assembled and taken down. This one, and the row of similar structures beyond, was of sand-colored, slightly translucent material. It looked old and worn, perhaps surplus or a discard. Just inside the door, a cramped chamber functioned as an entryway and holding area. Gareth felt a little thrill as he entered. He sniffed, detecting a faint, unfamiliar smell, a little like the recycled air at the Headquarters Building. There were no windows, although three parallel luminescent strips ran the length of the ceiling to cast a harsh, slightly blue light.

  Rows of stacked crates filled the back of the building, the smaller ones piled several layers high. The crates had seen rough handling, but they bore no insignia or identification markings beyond scrawled, unfamiliar symbols. Gareth didn’t think the spacecraft could have contained all of them, unless it was a shuttle, going between this base and a larger ship in orbit.

  A crude office occupied the center, consisting of a worktable, an assortment of chairs, and a bank of apparatus, perhaps communications devices or computers, Gareth couldn’t be sure. The cups of brown liquid were recognizable, and the smell of stale coffee hung in the air. The guard halted on the perimeter, from where he could observe the entire office area.

  Poulos of Windhoven lowered himself into the largest and most comfortable-looking of the seats with an ease that suggested it was his habitual place. He reached for the nearest cup, took a sip, frowned, and set it down again.

  “Now, Garrin of Carthon, let’s hear more about this trouble. Go ahead, sit.”

  Gareth settled into the nearest chair, a folding contraption that proved as uncomfortable as it looked. The translator perched on a third chair and bent over his device, perhaps making a recording.

  “Darkover isn’t one uniform culture, any more than the Federation is,” Gareth explained. “We have our factions and alliances, even within a single territory. Out here, where there’s nothing but sand, the only people you’ve encountered are poor and powerless. About the only things of value they have are a few goats, their knowledge of the land and its water sources, and their pride.”

  Which, he did not add, you have sorely offended.

  Poulos blew out through loosened lips. Gareth wondered if he was remembering another place and another people for which that was true. “That—” he used an unfamiliar word, most likely from his native tongue rather than Terran Standard “—wasn’t thrilled at having his toy taken away. I’ll give it back after he’s had a chance to cool off. Believe it or not, we’re not interested in antagonizing the locals. Cooperative arrangements are mutually profitable. They get their blasters and we get . . .”

  “Anonymity.”

  Poulos lifted his massive shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. “Let’s say, an absence of hassle, plus a few extras like fresh meat and a water supply. Oh, we’ll get what we want, regardless. We just prefer not to have to fight for it. Too much work, too many things that can go wrong, and for what? To convince a bunch of peasants that their gods can’t hurt us? Or are you here to tell us we should be afraid of their little pig-stickers?”

  “Not them,” Gareth said with such firmness that the translator looked up sharply and the guard took a step closer. “Rumors fly across the desert like sandstorms. Word’s gotten out. There’s an armed party on their way, Lord Dayan’s men from Shainsa. They suspect someone out here has gotten hold of advanced weapons, and they mean to acquire them. They’re ruthless and canny. They’ve been at war with my own people on and off for a century. So listen to me when I say they’re desperate for an advantage, and this would give it to them.”

  “Well now,” Poulos broke in as Gareth paused for breath, “isn’t this nice? You want us to believe these old enemies pose a threat, so we’ll take care of them for you? Is that it?”

  Gareth’s face went hot. “I wasn’t—”

  “Listen, son, I don’t disbelieve you. You want the advantage for your own side. It’s only natural.” The off-worlder captain’s tone did not alter, but his eyes narrowed. “Maybe we can cut a deal, depending on how things go. The old Federation spaceport lies in your territory, I believe. That might interest us—”

  “You think I want blasters for myself?” Gareth blurted.

  Lord of Light, Grandfather Regis would burst into flames at the idea!

  “I didn’t mean—” Gareth stammered, wishing he didn’t flush quite so easily. “I wasn’t expecting—It’s just that we do not use such things. They are dishonorable! For obvious reasons, we cannot permit the Dry Towners to obtain them, either.”

  “Maintain the balance of power, eh? Sounds like an admirable goal.” The captain waved one long-fingered hand in a careless gesture. “I don’t care if you chop each other up for tonight’s dinner, so long as we don’t get drawn into it.” At Gareth’s expression of revulsion, he added, “All I’m saying is you people need to sort out your own affairs. We won’t interfere.”

  “You’ve already endangered the peace and made yourselves a target by arming the Nuriyan villagers with blasters!”

  The translator gave a sound like muffled laughter.

  “Calm down,” Poulos said. “Take a deep breath. Want some cold coffee?”

  “You need to get those blasters back, any that are still out there, and get off this planet!”

  “No, sonny, we don’t need to do any such thing. Look, you’re a decent enough kid, and clearly you’ve had enough exposure to modern technology to recognize a blaster, but give us a little credit here. We gave away a few that are so obsolete, you can’t even get parts for them. The capacitors might hold one more recharge, maybe two at the most. As for these Lord Dayan’s men, our perimeter defense is more than adequate. If they get too pesky, we’ve got a few surprises that make blasters look like party favors. I’d rather not waste the ammo, but as you see, there’s really nothing to worry about.”

  Gareth stared at the off-worlder. Should he tell him about the catastrophe at Caer Donn and what laran weapons could do? No, he’d only sound even less credible. He’d already made a thorough mess of things. The way the present conversation was going, he wouldn’t be able to convince a drowning man of the existence of water. Time, he needed more time to establish trust and try another tactic.

  “I feel like an idiot, running up here to warn you.” He allowed himself to slump a little. “I mean, look at all this! What do you have to worry about? Zandru’s hells, you come from the stars, and we’re just a little backwater planet with nothing anyone wants.”

  “Well, the location does offer a few advantages,” Poulos remarked.

  “If you say so.” Gareth stood up, wiping his palms on the thighs of his pants. It wasn’t difficult to sound eager. “I don’t suppose I could peek inside the ship? It’s probably the only chance I’ll ever have . . . No, I guess not.” He sighed. “Look, I can’t go back to the village. They’ll know I’ve talked to you. I needed a guide to get across the Sands of the Sun, but now he’s gone, and I’m stuck out here. I could work for you—I could translate. Maybe I can help Cuinn calm down, explain things to him. He’ll have to listen to me if he knows I’m with you.”

  The translator said, “He’s seen the camp. And he looks healthy enough. We could use another strong back.”

  Poulos rubbed his tattooed scalp and considered for a long moment. “What the hell, why not? You may regret the offer, kid, once Offenbach’s done with you, but I’ll give you a try. You’ll bunk and eat with the rest of the crew. Deal?”

  Gareth let his features relax into an expression of relief. “Deal.”

  “First thing, though,” Poulos said with a
grimace, “I don’t suppose you know how to make a decent cup of coffee?”

  18

  Kierestelli.

  Trembling, Silvana pushed her stool away from the relay screen. The legs of her stool scraped against the unadorned stone floor. The fire had died down. Outside, winds howled down from the glaciered mountain slopes to batter Nevarsin Tower. She felt the faint vibration, as if through her own bones.

  She shivered, she who was never cold.

  Kierestelli.

  She thought she would never hear that name spoken by human lips. For all these long years, ever since her chieri foster father had bidden her farewell at the borders of the Yellow Forest, she had been Silvana. Silvana, Woman of the Forest. Silvana of no family, no origin, nothing except her extraordinary laran talent. Only later did she become Silvana of Nevarsin Tower, leronis and Keeper.

  Nevarsin had been a refuge but never a home. Yet where else could she have gone? It had been past time for her to leave the Yellow Forest. She had read that truth in the fading of the season, in the grave expression in Diravanariel’s pale eyes, and in the increasingly strong bond between herself and Lianantheren, first-born child of the chieri Keral and the human David Hamilton.

  Even now, so many years later, she remembered Lian, as graceful as a willow, as resilient as the tall, blue-flowered grasses of spring. Lian’s eyes had been the color of rain, of silver, of dawn. But she could not bring to mind the shape of mouth or hands, the color of hair, the blush of cheek, the music of voice.

  Had they been in love? Did they know what passion was, beyond the unsettling and exciting sensations when they were together? Did it matter for two young creatures raised as they were, without others of their age?

  Now that she had lived with humans, she understood such feelings were the natural and healthy accompaniment to the hormonal surges of adolescence. Human children learned of sexuality and love in slow stages. They stumbled and blushed, flirted and sighed, touched with eyes and hands, and then with lips and bodies. They made mistakes, chose poorly, wept as if their hearts had truly been broken, mended with the next fair cheek or bright glance, and began again.