Heritage and Exile

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “What does it say?” Kathie asked, and I bent to read the words, but they were in so ancient a dialect of casta that I could not make them out, either. Callina glanced at them, and after a moment translated.

  This sword shall be drawn only when all else is ended for the children of Hastur, and then the unchained shall be bound.

  Well, one way or the other, the world we had known was at an end; and Sharra unchained. But I would not venture to draw forth the sword from the scabbard. I remembered what had happened to Linnell when she was confronted with her duplicate, and I—I had been sealed to the Sharra matrix; even now I did not think I was free, not entirely.

  So we had the Sword of Aldones; but I still did not know how it could be used. The unchained shall be bound. But how?

  A tingle of power flowed, not unpleasantly, up my arm; as if the sword wished to be drawn, to leap from its scabbard . . .

  “No,” Callina warned, and I relaxed, letting my breath go, shoving the sword back into the leather; I had drawn it only a few inches.

  “I’ll take it,” she said, and I sighed with relief. Callina was a Keeper; she knew how to handle strange matrixes. And while the Sharra sword was a concealment for a great and powerful matrix, the Sword of Aldones was—I sensed this without knowing how I knew—itself a matrix, and dangerous to handle. If Callina felt capable of that risk, I was not going to dispute with her about it.

  “That’s that,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The last light of the sun was setting as we came out of the rhu fead. The women went ahead of me; there was no need, now, for me to safeguard Kathie. The Veil was only to screen against those not of Comyn blood getting into the chapel; it had never occurred to my forefathers in the Ages of Chaos to guard against anyone getting out. I lingered, half wanting to explore the strange things here.

  Then Kathie cried out; and I saw the dying sunlight glint on steel. Two figures, dark shapes against the light, blurred before my eyes; then, I recognized Kadarin, sword in hand, and at his side a woman, slender and vital as a dark flame.

  She did not, now, look much like Marjorie; but even so, I knew Thyra. Kathie started back against me; I put her gently aside to face my sworn enemy.

  “What do you want?”

  I was playing for time. There was only one thing Kadarin could want from me now, and my blood turned to ice with the horror of that memory, and around my neck my matrix began to blaze and to pulse with fire . . .

  Come to me, return to me in fire . . . and I will sweep away all your hatred and lust, all your fears and anguish in my own flame, raging unchained, burning, burning forever. . . .

  “Hiding behind women again?” Kadarin taunted. “Well, give me what the Keeper carries, and perhaps I shall let you go . . . if you can!” He flung back his head and laughed, that strange laugh that carried echoes of a falcon’s cry. He did not look like a man now, or anything human; his eyes were cold and colorless, almost metallic, and his colorless hair had grown long, flying about his head; his hands on his sword were long and thin, almost more like talons than fingers. And yet there was a strange beauty to him as he stood with his head flung back, laughing that crazy laughter. “Why don’t you make it easy for yourself, Lew? You know you’ll do what we want in the end. Give me that—” he pointed to the Sword of Aldones, “and I’ll let the women go free, and you won’t have that to torment yourself with . . .”

  “I’ll see you frozen solid in Zandru’s coldest hell before that, you—” I cried out, and whipped out my dagger; I stood confronting him. There had been a time when I could probably have beaten him in swordplay; now, with one hand, and a head wound and a slash in my good arm, I didn’t think I had a chance. But I might, at least, force him to kill me cleanly first.

  “No, wait, Lew,” said Callina quietly. “This is—Kadarin?” There was nothing in her voice but fastidious distaste, not a trace of fear. I saw a shadow of dismay on Kadarin’s face, but he was not human enough, now, to react to the words. He said, in a ghastly parody on his old, urbane manner, “Robert Raymon Kadarin, para servirti, vai domna.”

  She raised the Sword of Aldones slightly in her hand.

  “Come and take it—if you can,” she said, and held it out invitingly to him. I cried out, “Callina, no—” and even Thyra cried out something wordless, but Kadarin snarled, “Bluffing won’t help,” and lunged at her, wresting the sword from her hand. . . .

  Her hand exploded in blue fire, and Kadarin went reeling back, in the blue glow; the Sword of Aldones flared with brilliance, the brightness of copper filings in flame, and flared there, lying on the ground between us, while Kadarin, stunned and half senseless, slowly dragged himself to his feet, snarling a gutter obscenity of which I understood only its foulness.

  Callina said quietly, “I cannot take it now that it has touched Sharra, either. Kathie—?”

  Slowly, hesitating, her hand reluctant, she knelt and stretched out her hand; slowly, frightened, as if she feared that the same blue blaze of power would knock her senseless. But her hand closed over the hilt without incident. Perhaps, to her, it was only a sword. She drew a long breath.

  Thyra cried out, “Let me—”

  “No, wild-bird.” For an instant, I saw through the monstrous thing he had become, a hint of the man I had, once, loved as a sworn brother; the old tenderness as he drew Thyra back, holding her quiet. “You cannot touch it either—but neither can the Alton whelp, so it’s a draw. Let them go; there will be a time and place—” he glared out at me again, the moment of gentleness and humanity gone. “And nothing will protect you then; who has been touched by the flamehair, she will claim again for her own. And then the hells themselves will burn in Sharra’s flame. . . .”

  Gods above! Once this had been a man, and my friend! I could not even hate him now; he was not human enough for that.

  He was Sharra, clothed in the body of a man who had once been human . . . and he willed it so, he had surrendered of his own will to the monstrous thing he had become! I could hardly see Thyra at his side, through the illusion of tossing flames which raged between us . . .

  “No,” Thyra cried out, “not now! Not now!” and the flames receded. I could see her clearly now; there had never been any fire. She came toward me, hands outstretched; only a woman, small and frail with little bones like a bird’s. She was dressed like a man for riding, and her hair was the same rich copper as Marjorie’s, and her eyes, clear golden-amber like Marjorie’s, looked up to me in the old sweet half-mocking way; and I remembered that I had loved her, desired her . . .

  She said, reaching out for a half-forgotten rapport between us, “What have you done with my daughter? Our daughter?”

  Marja! For a moment it seemed I could feel the touch of sweet memory, Marjorie merging into Thyra in my arms, a living flame, the touch of the child-mind . . .

  Thyra was in rapport and her face changed.

  “You have her, then?”

  I said quietly, “You did not want her, Thyra. It was a cruel trick played on a drugged man, and you deserve all the misery you have had from it. . . .”

  But for a moment I had forgotten to watch her, forgotten that she was nothing, now, but Kadarin’s pawn . . . and in that moment a stab of agony went through my shoulder and my heart felt the agony of death and I knew that Thyra’s dagger had wounded me. . . .

  I reeled back with the shock of it. Callina caught me in her arms; even through pain and sudden despair . . . this was the end, and Sharra still raged, I had died too quickly, I had died . . . I was startled at the strength with which she held me upright. Kadarin made a lunge forward, hauled Thyra bodily off me.

  “No! That’s not the way—we still need him—ah, what have you done, Thyra—you’ve killed him—”

  I felt myself fainting, darkness sinking down and covering my eyes, a horrid noise battering at my eardrums—was death like this, pain and noise and blinding light? No, it was a Terran helicopter, hovering, sinking, and loud shouts, and one voice sudd
enly coming clear.

  “Robert Raymon Kadarin, I arrest you in the name of the Empire, on charges of . . . lady, drop that knife; this is a nerve-blaster and I can drop you in your tracks. You too—put that sword down.”

  Through the wavering darkness before my eyes I made out the dark-uniformed forms of Spaceforce men. I should have known they would find Kadarin, one way or the other, and with Terran weapons prohibited here in the Domains. I could bring charges against them, I thought weakly, they have no right to be here. Not like this. Not with blasters outside the Trade City. I should arrest them instead of them arresting us.

  Then I sank into a darkness that was like death indeed, and all I could feel was an immense regret for all I had left undone. Then even that was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dio watched the horses out of sight, and as they turned out of the Street of Coppersmiths, it seemed to Regis that the woman was weeping; but she shook her head, and one or two bright drops went flying. She looked at him, almost defiantly, and said, “Well, Lord Hastur?”

  “I promised I would see you safely back to the Castle, Domna,” he said, offering his arm.

  She laughed; it was like a rainbow coming out through the cloud. “I thank you, my lord. Not necessary. I’ve walked unguarded in worse places than this!”

  “That’s right, you’ve been offworld,” Regis said, feeling again the old longing, the old envy; for all his suffering, Lew was freer than he was himself, with all the worlds of an interstellar Empire at his command. Oh, to go beyond the narrow skies of his own world, to see the stars . . . he knew now that he would never go. For better or for worse, his fate lay here, whatever it might be; an unwanted crown, the new laran which so weighed on him that he felt he would split asunder like a butterfly from its constricting cocoon. He was Hastur; the rest he should put aside, all his old dreams, like the brightly colored tops and balls of his childhood. He walked at Dio’s side, along the Street of Coppersmiths, turning at the corner to take the road to the Comyn Castle, and heard the whispers, saw the crowd draw before him in awe and astonishment.

  “Comyn . . .”

  “It’s the Lord Hastur himself . . . the prince . . .”

  “No, for sure not, what would the likes o’ he be doing here on the street and unguarded . . .”

  “It’s the Hastur prince, yes, I saw him on Festival Night . . .”

  He could not walk down a fairly narrow and unimportant street without collecting a crowd. Lew, a marked man and disfigured, one hand sacrificed to the fires of Sharra, was still more free than himself. . . . If any man stared at Lew it was only with pity or curiosity, not this entire trust, that sense that whatever might come to Darkover, the Hastur-kin would protect them and shield them.

  Like my own laran, it is too much for me . . . too much for any mortal man less than a God!

  He drew a fold of his cloak over the concealment of his red hair, all unshielded to the mental leakage of the crowd, wonder, astonishment, curiosity. . . . I cannot dance with a woman or walk with one down the street but my name is linked to hers . . .

  “I’m sorry, Dio,” he said, trying for lightness, “but I’m afraid they have you marked out for my Queen already; it is a pity that we must disappoint them. Now, I suppose, I will have to explain to my grandfather that I do not intend to marry you, either!”

  She gave him a small wry smile. “I have no wish to be a Queen,” she said, “and I fear, even if you wished to marry me, Lord Danvan would be scandalized. . . .”

  I have cheapened myself with other men on Vainwal; and now I am sister to the traitor who has fled from Darkover into the Empire. . . .

  He said, gently, “I did not know Lerrys was gone. But I do not blame him for running away, Dio. I wish I could.” After a moment he added, “And if you are a traitor’s sister, that does not make you traitor; but the more credit to you that you have remained when others have fled.”

  They were standing now before the gates of the Comyn Castle; he saw one of the Guardsmen stare at him, alone and unattended and with Lady Dio Ridenow, and although he was trying not to read the man’s mind, he could sense the man’s shock and amazement; Lord Regis, here and without even a bodyguard, and with a woman . . . and a secret pleasure at this morsel of gossip he could spread among his fellows. Well, everything Regis did created gossip, but he was heartily sick of it.

  He crossed the courtyard, wanting to say a polite word or two to Dio and dismiss her. He had too many troubles to share them with any woman, even if there was a woman alive with whom he could share anything except a brief moment of passion or pleasure. And, abruptly, looking at Dio, he was torn by her despair.

  “What is it, Dio?” he asked gently, and felt it flood through him.

  He was so sure he was going to die! All he sees is his own death . . . I would have gone to death, even that, beside him, but he can only see Callina . . .

  He was struck numb by the quality of her pain. No woman had ever loved him like that, none ever shown him that kind of loyalty and staunchness. . . .

  He has gone to die, to hurl himself against death in finding the weapon against Sharra. . . .

  Regis realized that he should have gone with Lew himself; or he should have taken his matrix, cleansed it as he had done to Rafe’s. What gave him this strange power, not over Sharra, but over the Form of Fire? Kadarin was somewhere, with the Sharra matrix, and Lew might fall into his hands. . . .

  He should have gone with Lew, or cleansed Lew’s matrix. Or at least demanded that Callina take him to Ashara, so that the ancient Keeper of the Comyn could explain this new and monstrous Hastur Gift. Lew at least is Tower-trained, he knows what strengths he has . . . and what weaknesses; he faces death with full knowledge, not blinded as I am by ignorance! What was the good of being Hastur, and Lord of Comyn, if he could not even know what this new laran might bring him?

  Dio was trying to conceal her tears. Part of him wanted to reassure her, but he had no comfort for her and in any case Dio did not want facile lies; she was one of the sensitive Ridenow and she would see through them at once. He said quietly, “It may be that we are all going to die, Dio. But if I have a chance I would rather die to keep Sharra from destroying Darkover—Terran and Comyn alike. And so would Lew, I think; and he has the right to choose his own death . . . and to make amends . . .”

  “I suppose so.” Beneath the understanding, she turned to him, no longer trying to conceal her tears, and somehow he realized that this was a kind of acceptance. “It’s strange; I have seen so much of his—his weakness, his gentler side, I forget how strong he is. He would never run away to the Terrans because he was afraid; not even if they burned off his other hand first . . .”

  “No,” said Regis, suddenly feeling closer to her than to his own sister, “he wouldn’t.”

  “You wouldn’t either, would you?” she asked, smiling at him through the tears in her eyes.

  He is Hastur . . . and he will stand by Comyn . . . and then, even in Dio, the curious and inevitable question: I wonder why he has never married? Surely he could have any woman he wanted . . . surely it is not true that he is, like Lerrys, like Dyan, only a lover of men, he has had women, he has nedestro children. . . .

  And then, Regis felt it, a return of her own despair and pain, our son, Lew’s and mine, that frightful thing, and I rebuffed him . . . it was only because I was so sick and weak, I did not hate him or blame him, and then Lerrys took me away, before I could tell him . . . Merciful Avarra, he has suffered so much, and I hurt him again, all that horror, when I had promised that he would never have to hide himself from me . . .

  . . . and he will die still thinking I had rebuffed him because of that horror. . . .

  And suddenly Regis found himself envying Lew.

  How he has been loved! I have never known what it was to love a woman like that or to be loved . . . and I shall die never knowing if I am capable of that kind of love . . .

  Oh, yes, there had been women. He was capable of sudden fla
ring passion, of taking them with pleasure, given and received; but once the flare of mutual lust had burned out, sometimes even before the woman knew herself pregnant with his child, he had been all too aware of what it was they felt for him; pleasure at his physical beauty, pride that they had attracted the attention of a Hastur, greed for the status and privilege that would be theirs if they bore a Hastur child. Any one of the five or six would gladly have married him for that status; but he had never felt for any of them anything more than that brief flaring of passion and lust; the vague distaste and even revulsion, knowing that their feeling for him was based on greed or pride.

  But never this kind of disinterested love . . . will I die without ever knowing if I am capable of attracting that kind of love from a woman? No one has ever loved me thus unselfishly but Danilo, and that is different, the love of comrades, a shared companionship . . . and even that, all men seem to despise . . . a thing to be put aside with boyhood . . . is there no more than this? Why can Lew attract this kind of love, and not I?

  But with what was hanging over them, there was no time for this either. He turned to speak some word of recollection to Dio, when suddenly a shriek of wild terror surged through their minds, a wordless cry of despair and fright and utter panic, pain and fear. A child, a child is crying in terror . . . Regis was not sure whether it was his thought or Dio’s, but all at once he knew what child it was who shrieked out in such agonized fright, and he pushed Dio before him and ran, ran like a possessed thing toward the Alton apartments.

  Marja! But who would so terrify a child?

  The great double doors to the Alton suite were standing ajar, swinging on one hinge. Old Andres was lying in a pool of his own blood, half over the threshold where he had been struck down.

  He guarded her with his life, as he had sworn . . . Regis felt dismay; he too had been befriended and fathered by the old coridom. Then he realized that Andres was still moving feebly, though he was long past speech. He knelt, tears swelling up in his own eyes for the faithful old man, and Andres, with his last strength, whispered, “Dom Regis . . . lad . . .”