The Forbidden Tower

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  If anyone had been watching. There was a shortage of telepaths for such inessential jobs as monitoring the matrix screens, so probably no one had noticed. But the monitor screens were there, and every matrix on Darkover was legally subject to monitoring and review. Even those like Domenic, who had been tested for laran and given a matrix, but never used it, could be followed.

  That was another reason why Damon felt they should not waste such a telepath as Dezi. Even if his personality did not fit into the intimacy of a circle—and Damon was ready to admit Dezi would be hard to live with—he could be used to monitor a screen.

  He thought wryly that today he was full of heresies. Who was he to question Leonie of Arilinn?

  He finished off the leg of roast fowl, thoughtfully watching the Terran. Andrew was eating an apple, staring off thoughtfully at the far range of hills.

  He is my friend. Yet he came here from a star so far away that I cannot see it in the sky at night. And yet, the very fact that there are other worlds like ours, everywhere in the universe, is going to change our world.

  He looked at the distant hills, and thought, I do not want our world to change, then bleakly laughed at himself. He sat here planning a way to alter the use of matrices on Darkover, thinking of ways to reform the system of ancient Towers which guarded the old matrix sciences of his world, guarded them in safe ways established generations ago.

  He said, “Andrew, why are you here? On Darkover?”

  Andrew shrugged. “I came here almost by accident. It was a job. And then, one day, I saw Callista’s face—and here I am.”

  “I don’t mean that,” Damon said. “Why are your people here? What does Terra want with our world? We are not a rich world to be exploited. I know enough about your Empire to know that most of the worlds they settle have something to give. Why Darkover? We are a world with few heavy metals, an isolated world with a climate your people find, I gather, inhospitable. What do the Terrans want with us?”

  Andrew clasped his hands around his knees. He said, “There is an old story on my world. Someone asked an explorer why he chose to climb a mountain. And all he said was, ‘Because it’s there!’ ”

  “That hardly seems enough reason to build a spaceport,” Damon said.

  “I don’t understand all of it. Hell, Damon, I’m no empire-builder. I’d rather have stayed on Dad’s horse ranch. The way I understand it, it’s location. You do know that the galaxy is in the form of a giant spiral?” He picked up a twig and drew a pattern in the melting snow. “This is the upper spiral of the galaxy, and this is the lower arm, and here is Darkover, making it an ideal place for traffic control, passenger transfers, understand?”

  “But,” Damon argued, “the travel of Empire citizens from one end of the Empire to the other doesn’t mean anything to us.”

  Andrew shrugged. “I know. I’m sure Empire Central would have preferred an uninhabited world at the crossroads, so they needn’t have worried about who lived there. But here you are, and here we are.” He shrank from Damon’s frown. “I don’t make their policy, Damon. I’m not even sure I understand it. That’s just the way it was explained to me.”

  Damon’s laugh was mirthless. “And I was startled by Callista giving us roast meat and fresh apples for journey-food! Change is relative, I suppose.” He saw Andrew’s troubled look and made himself smile. None of this was Andrew’s fault. “Let’s hope the changes are all for the better, like Callie’s roast fowl!” He got off the log and carefully buried the apple core in a small runnel of snow behind it. Pain struck at him. If things had gone otherwise, he might have been planting this apple for his daughter. Andrew, with that uncanny sensitivity which he exhibited now and then, bent beside him, in silence, to bury his own apple core. Not till they were in the saddle again did he say, gently, “Some day, Damon, our children will eat apples from these trees.”

  They were away from Armida more than three tendays. In Serrais, it took time to find ablebodied men who were willing to leave their villages, and perhaps their families, to work on the Armida estate for anywhere up to a year. Yet they could not take too many single men, or it would disrupt the life of the villages. Damon tried to find families who had ties of blood or fosterage with people at Armida lands. There were many of them. Then Damon wished to pay a visit to his brother Kieran, and to his sister Marisela and her children.

  Marisela, a gentle, plump young woman who looked like Damon, but with fair hair where his was red, expressed grief at the news of Ellemir’s miscarriage. She said kindly that if they had no better fortune in a year or two, Damon should have one of their children to foster, an offer which surprised Andrew, but which Damon took for granted.

  “Thank you, Mari. It may be needful, at that, since the children of double cousins seldom thrive. I have no great need for an heir, but Ellemir’s arms are empty and she grieves. And Callista is not likely to have a child very soon.”

  Marisela said, “I do not know Callista well. Even when we were all little maidens, everyone knew she was destined for the Tower, and she did not mingle much with the other girls. People are such gossips,” she added vehemently. “Callie has a perfect right to leave Arilinn and marry if she chooses, but it is true we were all surprised. I know Keepers from the other Towers often leave to marry, but Arilinn? And Leonie has been there since I can remember, since our mother can remember. We all thought she would step directly into Leonie’s shoes. There was a time when the Keepers of Arilinn could not leave their posts if they would…”

  “That day is hundreds of years gone,” Damon said impatiently, but Marisela went on, unruffled. “I was tested for laran in Neskaya when I was thirteen, and one of the girls told me that if she was sent to Arilinn she would refuse, since the Keepers there were neutered. They were not women but emmasca, as the legend says that Robardin’s daughter was emmasca and became woman for the love of Hastur…”

  “Fairy-tales!” said Damon, laughing. “That has not been done for hundreds of years, Marisela!”

  “I am only telling you what they told me,” Marisela said, injured. “And surely Leonie looks near enough to an emmasca, and Callista—Callista is thinner than Ellemir, and she looks younger, so you cannot blame me for thinking she might not be all woman. Even so, that would not mean she could not marry if she wished, although most do not want to.”

  “Marisa, child, I assure you that Andrew’s wife is no emmasca!”

  Marisela turned to Andrew and inquired, “Is Callista pregnant yet?”

  Andrew laughed and shook his head. It was not the slightest use in being cross; standards of reticence differed enormously between cultures, and why should he blame Marisela, who was after all Callista’s cousin, for asking what everyone wanted to know about a bride? He remembered what Damon had said about Ellemir and repeated it.

  “I am content that she should have a year or two to be free of such cares. She is still very young.”

  But later he asked Damon in private, “What in the world is an emmasca?”

  “The word used to mean one of the ancient race of the forests. They never mingle with mankind now, but there is said to be chieri blood in the Comyn, especially in the Hellers; some of the Ardais and Aldaran have six fingers on either hand. I am not sure I believe that tale—any horse-breeder will tell you that a half-breed is sterile—but the story goes that there is chieri blood in the Comyn, that the chieri in days past mingled with mankind and mixed their blood. It was believed that a chieri could appear as a man to a woman, or as a woman to a man, being both, or perhaps neither. So they say that in the old days some of the Comyn too were emmasca, neither man nor woman, but neuter. Well, that was very long ago, but the tradition remains that these were the first Keepers, neither man nor woman. Later, when women took on the burden of being Keeper, they were made emmasca—surgically neutered—because it was thought safer for a woman to work in the screens if she had not the burden of womanhood. But in living memory—and I can say this positively, knowing the laws of Arilinn—no woman ha
s been neutered, even at Arilinn, to work in the Towers. A Keeper’s virginity serves to guard her against the perils of womanhood.”

  “I still don’t understand why that is,” Andrew said, and Damon explained. “It’s a matter of nerve alignment. The same nerves in the body carry both laran and sex. Remember that after we worked with the matrices we were all impotent for days? The same nerve channels can’t carry both sets of impulses at once. A woman doesn’t have that particular safety valve, so the Keepers, who have to handle such tremendous frequencies and coordinate all the other telepaths, have to keep their channels completely clear for laran alone. Otherwise they can overload their nerves and burn out. I’ll show you the channels sometime, if you’re interested. Or you can ask Callista about it.”

  Andrew, didn’t pursue the subject. The thought of the way in which Callista had been conditioned still roused an anger in him so deep that it was better not to think about it at all.

  They rode to Armida after a long trip home, broken three times by bad weather which forced them to stay overnight in different places, sometimes housed in luxurious rooms, sometimes sharing a pallet on the floor with the family’s younger children. Andrew, looking down at the lights of Armida across the valley, thought with a strange awareness, that he was truly coming home. Half a galaxy away from the world where he was born, yet this was home to him, and Callista was there. He wondered if all men, having found a woman to give meaning to life, defined home in that way: the place where their loved one was waiting for them. Damon, at least, seemed to share that feeling; he seemed as glad to return to Armida as he had been, almost thirty days before, to leave it. The great sprawling stone house seemed familiar now, as if he had lived there always.

  Ellemir ran down the steps to meet Damon in the courtyard, letting him catch her up in his arms with an exuberant hug. She looked cheerful and healthy, her cheeks bright with color, her eyes sparkling. But Andrew had no time to spare for Ellemir now, for Callista was waiting for him at the top of the steps, still and grave. When she gave him her little half-smile, it somehow meant more to him than all Ellemir’s overflowing gaiety. She gave him both her hands, letting him raise them to his lips and kiss one after the other, then, her finger-tips still lying lightly in his, she led him inside. Damon bent and greeted Dom Esteban with a filial kiss on the cheek, turned to Dezi with a quick embrace. Andrew, more reserved, bowed to the old man, and Callista came to sit close beside him while he gave Dom Esteban a report on their journey.

  Damon asked after the frostbitten men. The less hurt ones had recovered and been sent to their families’ care; the seriously wounded ones, the ones he had healed with the matrix, were still recovering. Raimon had lost two toes on his right foot; Piedro had never recovered feeling in the outer fingers of his left hand, but they were not wholly crippled, as had been feared.

  “They are still with us,” Ellemir said, “because Ferrika must dress their feet night and morning with healing oils. Did you know Raimon is a splendid musician? Almost every night, we have him up in the hall to play for us to dance, the servant girls and the stewards, and Callista and Dezi and I dance too, but now that you are back with us…” She snuggled against Damon’s side, looking up at him with happy eyes.

  Callista followed Andrew’s gaze and said softly, “I have missed you, Andrew. Perhaps I cannot show it as Elli does. But I am more glad than I can tell you, that you are here with us again.”

  After dinner in the big hall, Dom Esteban said, “Shall we have some music, then?”

  “I shall send for Raimon, shall I?” Ellemir said, and went to summon the men, and Andrew said softly, “Will you sing for me, Callista?”

  Callista glanced at her father for permission. He motioned to her to sing, and she took her small harp and struck a chord or two.

  How came this blood on your right hand,

  Brother, tell me, tell me…

  Dezi made a formless sound of protest. Looking at his troubled face as she returned, Ellemir said, “Callista, sing something else!” At Andrew’s surprised, questioning look, she said, “It is ill luck for a sister to sing that in a brother’s hearing. It tells the tale of a brother who slew all his kinfolk save one sister alone, and she was forced to pronounce the outlaw-word on him.”

  Dom Esteban scowled. He said, “I am not superstitious, and no son of mine sits in this hall. Sing, Callista.”

  Troubled, Callista bent her head over her harp, but she obeyed.

  We sat at feast, we fought in jest,

  Sister, I vow to thee,

  A berserk’s rage came in my hand

  And I slew them shamefully.

  What will become of you now, dear heart,

  Brother, tell me, tell me…

  Andrew, seeing Dezi’s smoldering eyes, felt a wave of sadness for the boy, for the gratuitous insult Dom Esteban had put on him. Callista sought Dezi’s eyes as if in apology, but the youngster rose and went out of the room, slamming the door into the kitchens. Andrew thought he should do something, say something, but what?

  Later Raimon came hobbling into the hall on his canes and began to play a dance tune. The strain vanished as the men and women of the estate crowded into the center of the room, men in the outer ring, women in the inner, dancing a measure which wove into circles and spirals. One of the men brought out a drone-pipe, an unfamiliar instrument which, Andrew thought, made an unholy racket, for a couple of others to dance a sword-dance. Then they began to dance in couples, though Andrew noticed that most of the younger women danced only with one another. Callista was playing for the dancers; Andrew bowed to Ferrika and drew her into the dance.

  Later he saw Ellemir and Damon dancing together, her arms around his neck, her smiling eyes lifted to her husband’s. It reminded him of his attempts to dance with Callista, against custom, at their wedding. Well, nothing forbade it now. He went in search of Callista, who had yielded up her harp to another of the women and was dancing with Dezi. As they drew apart, he came toward them and held out his arms.

  She smiled gaily and moved toward him, but Dezi stepped between them. He spoke in a voice which could not be heard three feet away, but there was no mistaking the sneering malice in his tone: “Oh, we can’t let you two dauce together yet, can we?”

  Callista’s hands dropped to her sides and the color drained from her face. Andrew heard a clatter of broken dishes and the shatter of a wineglass somewhere, under the terrifying impact of her mental cry of pain. Evidently everyone in the room with a scrap of telepathic awareness had picked up her outrage. Andrew didn’t stop to think. His fist smashed, hard, into Dezi’s face, sending the boy reeling.

  Slowly Dezi picked himself up. He wiped the streaming blood from his lip, his eyes blazing fury. Then he flung himself at Andrew, but Damon had grabbed him around the waist, holding him back by force.

  “Zandra’s hells, Dezi,” he breathed, “are you mad? Blood-feud for three generations has been declared for an insult less than you have put on our brother!”

  Andrew looked around the ring of staring, shocked faces until he saw Callista, her eyes staring and lost in her drawn face. Abruptly she put her hands up to her face, turned her back, and hurried out of the room. She did not sob aloud, but Andrew could feel, like tangible vibration, the tears she could not shed.

  Dom Esteban’s angry voice, cut through the lengthening, embarrassed silence.

  “The most charitable explanation of this, Deziderio, is that you have again had more to drink than you can handle! If you cannot hold your drink like a man, you had better limit yourself to shallan with your dinner, as the children do! Apologize to our kinsman, and go sleep it off!”

  That was the best way to pass it off, Andrew thought. Judging by their confusion, most of the people in the room did not even know what Dezi had said. They had simply picked up Callista’s distress.

  Dezi muttered something—Andrew supposed it was an apology. He said quietly, “I don’t care what insults you put on me, Dezi. But what kind of man should I be
if I let you speak offensively to my wife?”

  Dezi glanced over his shoulder at Dom Esteban—to make sure they were out of earshot?—and said in a low, vicious tone, “Your wife? Don’t you even know that freemate marriage is legal only upon consummation? She’s no more your wife than she is mine!” Then he went quickly past Andrew and out of the room.

  All semblance of jollity had gone from the evening. Ellemir hastily thanked Raimon for his music and hurried out of the room. Dom Esteban beckoned Andrew and asked if Dezi had apologized. Andrew, averting his eyes—the old man was a telepath, how could he lie to him?—said uneasily that he had, and to his relief the old man let it pass. What could he do anyway? He could not declare blood-feud on his wife’s half-brother, a drunken adolescent with a taste for insults that hit below the belt.

  But was it true, what Dezi had said? In their own suite he put the question to Damon, who, though he shook his head looked troubled.

  “My dear friend, don’t worry about it. No one would have any reason to question the legality of your marriage. Your intentions are clear, and no one is worrying about the fine points of the law,” he said, but Andrew felt that Damon had not even convinced himself. Inside their room he could hear Callista crying. Damon heard too.

  “I would like to break our Dezi’s neck for him!”

  Andrew felt the same way. With a few vicious words, the boy had taken all the joy out of their reunion.

  Callista had stopped crying when he came in. She stood before her dressing table, slowly unfastening the butterfly-clasp she wore at the nape of her neck, letting her hair fall down about her shoulders. She turned and said, wetting her lips, as if it were a speech she had rehearsed many times, “Andrew, I am sorry… I am sorry you were exposed to that. — It is my fault.”

  She sat down before the table and slowly took up her carved ivory brush, running it slowly along the length of her hair. Andrew knelt beside her, wishing desperately that he could take her in his arms and comfort her. “Your fault, love? How are you to blame for that wretched boy’s malice? I won’t tell you to forget it—I know you can’t—but don’t let it trouble you.”