The Fall of Neskaya

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “We are as we have always been, ready to act when the right opportunity opens itself. Daring must prevail when in the service of right.”

  “Yet Hastur is a family with many branches, rich in resources and arms. Need you stand alone against them?”

  “A powerful ally, one pledged to the defense of another, can be a great asset,” Damian said, although without conviction. In the past, Damian had never sought allies in the established Domains, either by treaty or marriage. He conquered, he did not compromise. His was not the sort of personality which easily accepted a subordinate role. And after the defeat of the Ridenow of Serrais some two hundred years ago, no other clan would consider challenging Hastur.

  “That is not exactly what I have in mind,” Rumail said. “Rafael Hastur is formidable, but his might is nothing compared to the combined strength of all the great houses of Darkover. What if we need not resort to force of arms? What if we could appeal to a court of his peers to judge the issue?”

  “A court?” Damian said. “You think Rafael Hastur, who knows no law but his own, would meekly submit himself to an outside judgment? He would listen and smile and do exactly what he pleased.” But the idea clearly intrigued Damian. “And who would these peers be?”

  “The Comyn Council itself. It has not been particularly active in recent years, but it once had great authority throughout the Domains. No heir could take up his father’s place without their inspection and approval, nor any marriage of consequence take place. These are, after all, matters of laran lineage.”

  “Bah! The Council has no real power today. Hastur will never abide a verdict that went against him.”

  Mentally, Rumail waved his brother’s objections aside. True, King Rafael II had no particular strength of laran and only a few seasons at Hali Tower as part of a royal education, but too many of that accursed family were Gifted. The breeding programs of the last few centuries had produced strange, wild talents, including the Deslucido Gift for evading truthspell. Other talents ran throughout the great houses, particularly strong in Hastur.

  Rumail could have sworn the Hastur girl had been the one to break free from his compulsion spell at the gates of Acosta, although later, when he had probed her on several occasions, her mind had either churned with the expected emotions of a new widow or else been as blank as a cow’s. The way she focused on her food, she’d likely be as fat as Durraman in a few years. She had some laran, that was clear, but not enough to be worth training. Belisar still wanted her, Aldones only knew why, probably because she’d refused him. He would keep her pregnant until she died in childbed or was so worn out as to pose no further threat.

  But Hastur was Comyn and made a grand show of his support for the Council. He even had his own group of counselors, whose primary goal, so far as Rumail could tell, was to advocate elimination of the most effective laran weapons. Hastur had considerable military might, but his influence over the other Domains, and even the branches of his own family, depended upon his reputation and his leadership. Having sworn himself to the Council, he dared not back down.

  “Think of it, brother,” Rumail said. “Instead of spilling more blood to establish our rights, we take our case before the Council. Hastur has publically declared his loyalty to them. He will agree to their judgment or reveal himself as a consummate hypocrite. With a little help from me, Belisar can swear under truthspell that the Hastur girl agreed to the marriage. The Council will order her returned to us. Then Hastur must either comply—which he will not—or risk standing alone against us. Then you will be justified before all the world in taking what is rightfully yours.”

  Damian’s eyes widened. Slowly he smiled. “How right you are, brother. The girl herself means nothing to me, only a means to separating Hastur from his allies. And in the time we gain by this wonderful ploy, men and matériel, and most of all, those laran weapons that will ensure our victory will be ours.”

  Rumail settled into a padded chair and folded his hands across the belly which had grown broader and fuller in the year since Neskaya.

  This is your time, brother, Rumail thought with an unexpected feeling of contentment, and I will have mine. Not a couple of spoiled, untrained children and a renegade sadist, but a true Circle of Power.

  For the time would come when diplomacy and maneuvering failed, when ordinary weapons became useless. Stockpiles of clingfire would be exhausted. Then the true might of one Tower would be pitted against another. Peace would eventually come, but a far more glorious peace than any Damian could imagine. As long as ordinary men ruled, commanding the Towers this way and that, there could be no lasting cease-fire. Damian’s objective, a united and harmonious Darkover, was a true one. Limited as he was by his own lack of laran, he could see no farther than military solutions.

  The day will come when the true rulers of Darkover will take our own. We will speak mind to mind, understanding each other in perfect clarity. No man will be able to deceive another.

  23

  For the last three days of the journey to the Hidden City near Arilinn, where the Comyn Council held its gathering, dry lightning ran jagged across the summer sky. Taniquel’s skin prickled with restless, pent-up energy. Even Lady Caitlin, who rode with King Rafael’s entourage as leronis and chaperone, slept badly, ate little, and began sentences which trailed off distractedly.

  Taniquel’s appetite had fallen off as her milk dried up, but even now her empty breasts ached, and at night she found herself reaching for Julian. More than once, she had buried her face in a pillow to keep from crying out. No one had forced her to leave him behind with a wet nurse. She, more than anyone, knew how dangerous it was to bring him anywhere near Deslucido’s reach. When she had first heard of the summons to Comyn Council, she had burst into her uncle’s chambers, where he sat over a light summer dinner.

  Her uncle had fixed her with the same blend of mildness and tolerance as he once used after the worst of her childhood pranks. “We would be obliged to attend in any event,” he pointed out, “or send some suitably important representative. I am, after all, Hastur of Hastur.” He bent to his chilled cherry soup.

  There would be other legitimate Council business, though Taniquel was not sure what that might be. In all her years in Thendara and then Acosta, she’d had nothing to do with the Council, being neither an heir nor possessed of any laran worthy of their attention. Their seasonal gatherings came and went without any special awareness on her part.

  “This may be our best hope for a peaceful resolution,” Rafael said. “Deslucido may think he can use the Council for his own purposes, but in the end it is they who will rule him. Just as the wild dog creeps to the campfire, thinking only of warmth and a full belly, so Deslucido cannot enter into the world of the Comyn without bending to their will.”

  You do not know Deslucido. Taniquel lowered her eyes and kept still.

  Once she would have looked upon an entry into the Council meetings as an adventure, but now, as the towers of Arilinn and the Hidden City drew ever closer, her head ached with the relentless pressure she recognized from the day Acosta was attacked. As a warning, it was useless, for she already knew that danger and, most likely, treachery lay ahead.

  As she rode along, having stubbornly refused to share the carriage with Lady Caitlin, she dropped the reins on her horse’s neck and pressed both hands to her temples, massaging the tight muscles. One of the guards must have seen her for a few minutes afterward, a halt was signaled and she was summoned to her uncle. He asked if she were unwell and she realized how easy it would be to delay their arrival for a few hours’ respite. But she shook her head and said she would rest once they were settled within the city. She accepted a little wine and quickly regretted it, for it lingered, sour and uneasy, on her tongue.

  She had always known how much grander Thendara was than Acosta, for it was the largest city on all Darkover and everything there, from the special cahuenga dialect, to its two Towers, set it apart. Acosta, which had once been all her heart’s desire, seem
ed shabby by comparison. Arilinn, though smaller, was no less magnificent.

  Two mountains lay beyond the city and framed it like a precious gem, multihued and faceted, glittering in the shadow of the Tower of the same name, which was by far the tallest building. Even as a small child, Taniquel had heard stories of its mysterious Veil and guards in crimson and gold. Now she had no heart for viewing either.

  Between the twin peaks, within an easy ride from Arilinn itself, lay the Hidden City, visible only as a swathe of blue-tinted whiteness, its very contours obscured by a permanent cloudlike mist. It was here the Comyn Council would meet, behind gates set with a matrix lock which only a Keeper could open. Her uncle had explained to her that over the centuries, since before the Ages of Chaos, it had been used as a place of refuge by the Comyn.

  Refuge. And perhaps also justice. She lifted her head, straightened her shoulders, and mounted up. But for whom?

  Shortly after their arrival, the Keeper of Arilinn led them to the gates of the Hidden City. Taniquel followed her uncle, his paxman Gerolamo, and Lady Caitlin into the low-lying cloud cover. Only a mixture of pride and training kept her face impassive, her hands quiet.

  Fog closed around them and for a moment, she could see no farther than the length of her arm. Energy currents swirled around her, turning her skin at once hot and cold. The sounds of footsteps echoed, ghostly in the mist.

  Then, as if a sudden breeze had sprung up, the mists parted and they faced a stone wall pierced here and there with mullioned windows which glowed dimly blue by a single pair of gates. There was no visible latch or lock, yet Taniquel knew, with that half-developed laran sense, that she could push with all her might and not budge them by the thickness of a silken thread. She might as well try to shift the twin peaks.

  The Keeper, a stocky man with hair once red but now the color of bleached straw, drew out a starstone from the folds of his red robes. It shimmered with its own inner light. His brows creased with concentration as he bent over it, lips moving soundlessly. Taniquel’s headache, which had subsided into a vague discomfort, now throbbed through her entire skull. The pain eased as the gates swung open.

  Taniquel caught a glimpse of a garden courtyard, a well hung with yellow-flowering ivy, cobbled lanes between buildings which might have been dormitories or warehouses, all leading to a central hall. A pair of cralmacs scurried by, covered baskets in their tiny furred hands, and Taniquel remembered that no human servants were permitted within the walls.

  Their quarters were modest in size, furnished plainly, but fresh and clean. There was a bedroom for Rafael with a smaller adjacent room for Gerolamo, as well as a chamber for the two women, separated by a small sitting room whose sole ornament was a vase of fresh daisies. A pitcher of water and a basket of fruit had been set out on the table beside a window looking out onto the garden. The Keeper arranged for cralmacs to bring them anything they needed before leaving them.

  That night, Rafael attended the opening meeting, with

  Gerolamo a silent shadow. Taniquel might have gone as a visitor, but he cautioned her it would be better for her case if none of the Council members had formed any previous opinion of her. Some, such as the irascible head of the Altons of Lake Posada, were traditional enough to consider the presence of any woman, even the matrilineal Aillards, as incompatible with serious business.

  Lady Caitlin used some laran technique on the oil lamp, causing it to glow brilliantly enough to sew by, and then sat with her work, stitching the flat-felled seams of a man’s shirt. The cloth was fine Dry Towns linex but bore no embroidery. It was, despite its quality, an everyday shirt.

  Taniquel sat for a time, watching the needle flash in the light as it dipped in and out of the fabric. It was lovely to be still, soothed by the steady rhythm. Since Julian’s birth, she had scarcely had two empty minutes in a row. “I never thought to see you making something so—so practical.”

  “Why?” Caitlin looked up, amusement twinkling in her eyes. “Because I am too highly born to be of any use?”

  “No, because you are a leronis. You do important work in a Tower.”

  “Why so I do, but not every waking hour. Minds as well as bodies need to rest. I have always found sewing to be restful. And no matter what else we do, we still need warm, comfortable clothes, and someone has to make them.”

  “You could have a sewing-woman do that.” Taniquel had never voluntarily sewed anything, certainly not her own clothing.

  Caitlin nodded, returning to her work. “And then I would not have the pleasure of creating something beautiful for someone I care about. This,” she held the shirt up, “will give years of good service if I am careful with my stitches.”

  Taniquel leaned forward, interested. “Is it for your father or brother?”

  “It is for a dear friend at Hali.” Caitlin inflected the word to delicately convey a deeper intimacy.

  Taniquel found herself blushing. Did the prim and upright Caitlin have a lover? She had heard that Tower workers did not observe the usual rules of propriety.

  The image of Coryn, standing naked in the blue flames, reaching out for her with such tenderness, flashed behind her eyes.

  “Oh, my dear,” Caitlin said, laying down her work with a smile. “You never told me you were in love.”

  “I never—” Taniquel’s words skidded to a halt. She had not mentioned Coryn except briefly upon her arrival in Thendara, to explain the healing of her frostbite. “Did you read my thoughts?”

  “You fairly blasted me with the image of your young man—the one from Tramontana, was it not?”

  Taniquel blushed a shade deeper. “But he is to be Keeper at Neskaya, just as I am to be Queen and Regent of Acosta, if it is the will of the gods.”

  Caitlin brushed her fingertips across the back of Taniquel’s wrist in a gesture that reminded her poignantly of Coryn. “I cannot read the future, so you may indeed be right. But this much I do know,” and now Taniquel heard the ring of experience in the older woman’s voice, “that a life which has been touched by love, no matter how fleeting, is infinitely better than a life without it.”

  Taniquel went with her uncle and his paxman, chaperoned by Lady Caitlin, to the meeting room the next morning. As they crossed the courtyard, the sun warmed her and the fragrance from the clusters of tiny pink blossoms of the trellised vines washed over her, but she could not respond to the beauty of the day. When she had asked Rafael what happened the night before, he refused to say more than, “Tomorrow, when you testify, answer only what you are asked and no more. Above all, do not challenge Deslucido. All you will gain is certain defeat.”

  They passed through an outer foyer, where in colder seasons, outdoor cloaks and mud-coated boots could be removed and hung on the pegs and racks, frost-stiffened fingers warmed around goblets of steaming jaco, and pleasantries exchanged. Now the room was only a well-proportioned, if slightly empty-feeling space. A bowl of yellow roslys had been set on the side table, their scent so delicate as to be barely a hint.

  Taniquel had hardly a moment to glance around at the inner chamber before taking her seat beside her uncle, with Lady Caitlin behind them. Her first impression remained, the curved walls terraced upward so that each person could see the faces of all the others. Clearly, it had been designed for far more than the dozen and a half who now sat, watching her with calm, serious faces. She had expected only men except for herself and her chaperone, but there was a scattering of women. She looked at them curiously and felt the faint brush of presence as they glanced back.

  Damian Deslucido, on the opposite side of the oval table, met her eyes and in them she thought she read the certainty of victory. The Keeper who had opened the city to them sat a little apart, as witness perhaps, but not an equal participant. She could not tell who was presiding until an elderly man in a clan tartan she did not recognize lifted one hand for silence. Age had bleached his skin like parchment and whitened his hair past any trace of its original color.

  The Keeper now rose,
his crimson robes falling in narrow folds about his spare frame. He took out his starstone, which flared briefly at the touch of his bare fingers. Eyelids half lowered and lips moved in soundless concentration. The assembly waited and Taniquel waited with them, unconsciously holding her breath.

  “In the light of the fire of this jewel, let the truth lighten this room and all which proceeds within.”

  The starstone brightened again, softer and yet stronger. Azure radiance suffused the face of the Keeper and radiated outward until it filled the room. Inanimate objects—the table spread with pitchers and goblets of pewter-dull metal—quickly darkened back to their natural colors. But on each face it remained, as if emanating from within, with no two the exact shade and brightness. Some turned deeper blue, others whiter, but all shimmered with an inner luminescence. Taniquel thought it must be the laran shining out from each person. She felt the cool, sweet touch of the light and knew that, no matter what Lady Caitlin had said so many years ago when she was tested, that she belonged here.

  As comynara. As Queen of Acosta.

  “My lords, you may proceed,” the Keeper said. “If any dare knowingly speak a falsehood, the light of truth will vanish from his—or her,” with a flicker of a glance in Taniquel’s direction, “face.”

  After a few formal comments, the old man in the tartan introduced the morning’s discussion. In the opening session, Damian Deslucido, King of Ambervale and Linn, had appealed to the Comyn Council for the return of his son’s promised bride, whose marriage would heal the scars of Acosta’s turmoil, promote peaceful alliances, and ensure prosperity. The old man spoke in such neutral tones that Taniquel had no idea if he believed any of what he said, only that this was how Deslucido had presented his case.

  Now the old man looked at Rafael and, in exactly the same monotone, went on to describe how the aforementioned bride, one Taniquel Hastur-Acosta, had fled from a forced remarriage to the man who had so recently slain her beloved husband and conquered her kingdom, that she had naturally sought the protection of her own family, who loved her, and had no intention of leaving.