The Ages of Chaos

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “You must not judge by that, Dorilys; we were children when we knew one another, and we fought as boys do; but he is older now, and so am I. Yes, he is good-looking enough, I suppose, as women judge such things.”

  “It seems hardly fair, to me,” Dorilys said. “You have been more than a son to my father. Yes, he said so himself! Why can you not inherit his estate, since he has no son of his own?”

  Donal forced himself to laugh. “You will understand these things better when you are older, Dorilys. I am no blood kin to Lord Aldaran, though he has been a kind foster-father to me, and I can expect no more than a fosterling’s part in his estate; and that only because he pledged my mother—and yours—that I should be well provided for. I look for no more inheritance than this.”

  “That is a foolish law,” Dorilys said vehemently, and Donal, seeing the signs of angry emotion in her eyes, said quickly, “Look down there, Dorilys! See, between the fold in the hills, you can see the riders and the banners. That will be Lord Rakhal and his entourage riding up toward the castle, come for your handfasting. So you must run down to your nurse and let her make you beautiful for the ceremony.”

  “Very well,” Dorilys said, diverted, but she scowled as she started down the stairway. “If I do not like him, I will not marry him. Do you hear me, Donal?”

  “I hear you,” he said, “but that is a little girl speaking, chiya. When you are a woman you will be more sensible. Your father has chosen carefully to make a marriage which will be suitable; he would not give you in marriage unless he were sure this would be the best for you.”

  “Oh, I have heard that again and again, from Father, from Margali. They all say the same, that I must do as I am told and when I am older I will understand why! But if I do not like my cousin Darren I will not marry him, and you know there is no one who can make me do anything I do not want to do!” She stamped her foot, her rosy face flushed with pettish anger, and ran toward the stairway leading down into the castle. As if in echo to her words, there was a faint, faraway roll of thunder.

  Donal remained looking over the railing, lost in somber thought. Dorilys had spoken with the unconscious arrogance of a princess, of the pampered only daughter of Lord Aldaran. But it was more than that, and even Donal felt a qualm of dread when Dorilys spoke so positively.

  There is no one who can make me do anything I do not want to do. It was all too true. Willful since birth, no one had ever dared to cross her too seriously, because of the strange laran with which she had been born. No one quite knew the extent of this strange power; no one had ever dared to provoke it knowingly. Even while she was still unweaned, anyone who touched her against her will had felt the power she could fling—expressed, then, only as a painful shock— but the gossip of servants and nurses had exaggerated it and spread frightening tales. When, even as a baby, she screamed in rage, or hunger, or pain, lightnings and thunder had rolled and crashed about the heights of the castle; not only the servants, but the children fostered in the castle, had learned to fear her anger. Once, in her fifth year, when a fever had laid her low, delirious for days, raving and unconscious, not recognizing even Donal or her father, lightning bolts had crashed wildly all those nights and days, striking dangerously near the towers of the castle, random, terrifying. Donal, who could control the lightnings a little himself (though nothing like this), had wondered what phantoms and nightmares pursued her in delirium, that she struck so violently against them.

  Fortunately as she grew older she longed for approval and affection, and Lady Deonara, who had loved Dorilys as her own, had been able to teach her some things. The child had Aliciane’s beauty and her pretty ways, and in the last year or two, she had been less feared and better liked. But still the servants and children feared her, calling her witch and sorceress when she could not hear; not even the boldest of the children dared offend her to her face. She had never turned on Donal, nor on her father, nor on her foster-mother Margali, the leronis who had brought her into the world; nor, during Lady Deonara’s lifetime, had she ever gone against Deonara’s will.

  But since Deonara’s death, Donal thought (sadly, for he, too, had loved the gentle Lady Aldaran), no one has ever gainsaid Dorilys. Mikhail of Aldaran adored his pretty daughter, and denied her nothing, in or out of reason, so that the eleven-year-old Dorilys had the jewels and playthings of a princess. The servants would not, because they feared her anger and the power which gossip had exaggerated so enormously. The other children would not, partly because she was highest in rank among them, and partly because she was a willful little tyrant who never shrank from enforcing her domination with slaps, pinches, and blows.

  It is not too bad for a little girl—a pretty, pampered little girl—to be willful beyond all reason, and for everyone to fear her, and give her everything she wants. But what will happen when she grows to womanhood, if she does not learn that she cannot have all things as she will? And who, fearing her power, will dare to teach her this?

  Troubled, Donal turned down the stairs and went inside, for he, too, must be present at the hahdfasting, and at the ceremonies beforehand.

  In his enormous presence-chamber, Mikhail, Lord Aldaran, awaited his guests. The Aldaran lord had aged since the birth of his daughter; a huge, heavy man, stooped now and graying, he had something still of the look of an ancient, molting hawk; and when he raised his head it was not unlike the stirring of some such ancient bird on its block—a ruffle of feathers, a hint of concealed power, in abeyance and still there, dormant.

  “Donal? Is it you? It is hard to see in this light,” Lord Aldaran said, and Donal, knowing that his foster-father did not like to admit that his eyes were not as sharp as they had been, came toward him.

  “It is I, my lord.”

  “Come here, dear lad. Is Dorilys ready for the ceremony tonight? Do you think she is content with the idea of this marriage?”

  “I think she is too young to know what it means,” Donal said. He had dressed in an ornate dyed-leather suit, high indoor boots fringed at the top and carved, his hair confined in a jeweled band; about his neck a firestone flashed crimson. “Yet she is curious. She asked me if Darren were handsome and well-spoken, if I liked him. I gave her small answer to that, I fear, but I told her she must not judge a man on a boy’s quarrels.”

  “Nor must you, my boy,” Aldaran said, but he said it gently.

  “Foster-father—I have a boon to ask of you,” Donal said.

  Aldaran smiled and said, “You have long known, Donal, any gift within reason that I can give is yours for the asking.”

  “This will cost you nothing, my lord, except some thought. When the Lord Rakhal and Lord Darren come before you tonight to discuss the matter of Dorilys’s marriage gifts, will you introduce me to the company by my father’s name, and not as Donal of Rockraven as you are used to do?”

  Lord Aldaran’s nearsighted eyes blinked, giving him more than ever the air of some gigantic bird of prey blinded by the light. “How is this, foster-son? Would you disown your mother, or her place here? Or yours?”

  “All gods forbid.” Donal said.

  He came and knelt at Lord Aldaran’s side. The old man laid a hand on his shoulder, and at the touch the unspoken words were clear to both of them: But only a bastard wears his mother’s name. I am orphaned, but no bastard.

  “Forgive me, Donal,” the old man said at last. “I am to blame. I wished—I wished not to remember that Aliciane had ever belonged to any other man. Even when she had—had left me, I could not bear to remind myself that you were not, in sober truth, my own son.” It was like a cry of pain. “I have so often wished that you were!”

  “I, too,” said Donal. He could remember no other father, wished for no other. Yet Darren’s bullying voice seemed as fresh in his ears as it had been ten years ago:

  “Donal of Rockraven; yes, I know, the barragana’s brat. Do you even know who fathered you, or are you a son of the river? Did your mother lie in the forest during a Ghost-wind and come home with no-ma
n’s son in her belly?” Donal had flown at him, then, like a banshee, clawing and kicking, and they had been dragged apart, still howling threats at each other. Even now, it was not pleasant to think of young Darren’s scornful gaze, the taunts he had made.

  There was tardy apology in Lord Aldaran’s voice. “If I have wronged you out of my own hunger to call you my son, believe I never meant to throw doubt on the honor of your own lineage, nor to conceal it. I think in what I mean to do tonight you will find how truly I value you, dear son.”

  “I need nothing but that,” Donal said, and sat beside him on a low footstool.

  Aldaran reached for his hand and they sat like that until a servant, bringing lights, proclaimed: “Lord Rakhal Aldaran of Scathfell, and Lord Darren.”

  Rakhal of Scathfell was like his brother had been ten years ago, a big hearty man in the prime of life, his face open and jovial, with that good-fellowship devious men often assume as a way of proclaiming that they are concealing nothing, when the truth is often quite the reverse. Darren was like him, tall and broad, no more than a year or two older than Donal, sandy-red hair swept back from a high forehead, a straightforward look which made Donal think, at first glance, Yes, he is handsome, as girls reckon such things. Dorilys will like him. … He told himself that his faint sense of foreboding was no more than a distaste for seeing his sister taken from his own exclusive protection and charge and given to another.

  I cannot look that Dorilys should remain with me always. She is heir to a great Domain; I am her half-brother, no more, and her well-being must lie in other hands than mine.

  The lord Aldaran rose from his seat and advanced a few steps toward his brother, taking his hands warmly.

  “Greetings, Rakhal. It is too long since you have come to me here at Aldaran. How goes all at Scathfell? And Darren?” He embraced his kinsmen, one after the other, leading them to sit near him. “And you know my foster-son, half-brother to your bride, Darren. Donal Delleray, Aliciane’s son.”

  Darren lifted his eyebrows in recognition and said, “We were taught arms-practice together, and other things. Somehow I had thought his name was Rockraven.”

  “Children are given to such misconceptions,” Lord Aldaran said firmly. “You must have been very young then, nephew, and lineage means little to young lads. Donal’s grandparents were Rafael Delleray and his wife di catenas Mirella Lindir. Donal’s father died young, and his widowed mother came here as singing-woman. She bore me my only living child. Your bride, Darren.”

  “Indeed?” Rakhal of Scathfell looked on Donal with a courteous interest, which Donal suspected of being as spurious as the rest of his good humor.

  Donal wondered why it should matter to him what the Scathfell clan thought of him.

  Darren and I are to be brothers-by-marriage. It is not a relationship I would have sought. He, Donal, was honorably born, honorably fostered in a Great House; that should have been enough. Looking at Darren, he knew it would never be enough, and wondered why. Why should Darren Aldaran, heir to Scathfell, bother to hate and resent the half-brother of his promised wife, the fosterling of her father?

  Then, looking at Darren’s falsely hearty smile, suddenly he knew the answer. He was not much of a telepath, but Darren might as well have shouted it at him.

  Zandni’s hells, he fears my influence over Lord Aldaran! The laws of inheritance by blood are not yet so firm, in these mountains, that he is certain of what may happen. It would not be the first time a nobleman had sought to disinherit his lawful heir for one he considered more suitable; and he knows my foster-father thinks of me as a son, not a fosterling.

  To do Donal credit, the thought had never crossed his mind before. He had known his place—bound to Lord Aldaran by affection, but not by blood—and accepted it. Now, the thought awakened because the men of Scathfell had provoked it, he wondered why it could not be so; why could the man he called “Father,” to whom he had been a dutiful son, not name his heir as he chose? The Aldarans of Scathfell had that inheritance; why should they swell their holdings almost to the size of a kingdom by adding Aldaran itself to their estate?

  But Lord Rakhal had turned away from Donal, saying heartily, “And now we are brought together over the matter of this marriage, so that when we are gone, our young people may hold our joined lands for their doubled portion. Are we to see the girl, Mikhal?”

  Lord Aldaran said, “She will come to greet the guests, but I felt it more suitable to settle the business part of our meeting without her presence. She is a child, not suited to listen while gray beards settle matters of dowries and marriage gifts and inheritance. She will come to pledge herself, Darren, and to dance with you at the festivities. But I beg of you to remember that she is still very young and there can be no thought of actual marriage for four years at least, perhaps more.”

  Rakhal chuckled. “Fathers seldom think their daughters ripe to marry, Mikhail!”

  “But in this case,” Aldaran said firmly, “Dorilys is no more than eleven; the marriage di catenas must take place no sooner than four years from now.”

  “Come, come. My son is already a man; how long must he wait for a bride?”

  “He must wait those years,” Aldaran said firmly, “or seek one elsewhere.”

  Darren shrugged. “If I must wait for a little girl to grow up, then I suppose I must wait. A barbarous custom this, to pledge a grown man to a girl who has not yet put aside her dolls!”

  “No doubt,” Rakhal of Scathfell said, in his hearty and jovial manner, “but I have felt this marriage was important ever since Dorilys was born, and have spoken often of it to my brother in the past ten years.”

  Darren said, “If my uncle was so opposed before this, why has he given way now?”

  Lord Aldaran’s shoulders went up and down in a heavy shrug. “I suppose because I am growing old and am at last resigned to the knowledge that I should have no son; and I would rather see the estate of Aldaran pass into the hands of kinfolk, than into the hands of a stranger.”

  Why, at this moment, after ten years, Aldaran wondered, should he think of a curse flung by a sorceress many years dead? From this day your loins shall be empty. It was true that he had never thought seriously, from Aliciane’s death, of taking another woman to his bed.

  “Of course it could be argued,” Rakhal of Scathfell said, “that my son is lawful heir to Aldaran, anyway. The lawgivers might well argue that Dorilys deserves no more than a marriage portion, and that a lawfully born nephew is nearer in inheritance than a barragana’s daughter.”

  “I do not grant the right of those so-called lawgivers to offer any judgment in that matter!”

  Scathfell shrugged. “In any case this marriage will settle it without appeal to the law, with the two claimants to marry. The estates shall be joined; I am willing to settle Scathfell on Dorilys’s eldest son, and Darren shall hold Castle Aldaran as warden for Dorilys.” Aldaran shook his head.

  “No. In the marriage contract it is provided; Donal shall be his sister’s warden till she is five-and-twenty.”

  “Unreasonable,” protested Scathfell. “Have you none other way to feather your fosterling’s nest? If he has no property from father or mother, can you not settle some on him by gift?”

  “I have done so,” Aldaran said. “When he came of age, I gave him the small holding of High Crags. It is derelict, since those who held it last spent their time in making war on their neighbors, and not in farming; but Donal, I think, can bring it back to fruitfulness. It only remains to find him a suitable wife, and that shall be done. But he shall be warden for Dorilys.”

  “This looks not as if you trusted us, Uncle,” protested Darren. “Think you, truly, we would deprive Dorilys of her rightful heritage?”

  “Of course not,” said Aldaran, “and since you have no such thoughts, how can it matter to you who is warden for her fortune? Of course, if you had indeed some such notion, you would have to protest Donal’s choice. A paid hireling as warden could be bribed, but certainly
not her brother.”

  Donal heard all this in amazement He had not known, when his foster-father sent him to report on the estate of High Crags, that Aldaran designed it for him; he had reported fairly on the work it would take to put it in order, and on its fine possibilities, without believing his foster-father would give him such an estate. Nor did he have any idea that Aldaran would use this marriage-contract to make him Dorilys’s guardian.

  On second thought, this was reasonable. Dorilys was nothing to the Aldarans of Scathfell except an obstacle in their way to Darren’s inheriting. If Lord Aldaran should die tomorrow, only he, as warden, could prevent Darren from taking Dorilys immediately in marriage despite her extreme youth, after which Darren could make use of her estate as he chose. It would not be the first time a woman had been quietly made away with, once her inheritance was safely in her husband’s hands. They might wait till she had borne a child, to make it look legal; but everyone knew that young wives were prone to die in childbirth, and the younger they were, the more likely to die so. Tragic, of course, but not uncommon.

  With Donal as her warden, and the wardenship extended until Dorilys was a full five-and-twenty, not just old enough to marry legally and bear children, then even if she should die, Donal would be there as her warden and guardian of any child she might bear; and her estate could not fall undisputed into Darren’s hands.

  He thought, My foster-father spoke truly when he said I should know tonight how much he valued me. It may be that he trusts me because he has no one else to trust. But at least he knows that I will protect Dorilys’s interests even before my own.

  Aldaran of Scathfell had not accepted this peacefully; he was still arguing the point and did not cede it until Lord Aldaran reminded his brother that three other mountain lords had all made suit for Dorilys, and that she might have been handfasted at any time to anyone her father chose, even to one of the Lowlands Hasturs or Altons.

  “Indeed she was pledged once before, since Deonara’s Ardais kinfolk were eager to handfast her to one of their sons. They felt they had the best claim, since Deonara never bore me a living son. But the boy died shortly afterward.”