Orion Shall Rise

by Poul Anderson

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  Orion Shall Rise

  Poul Anderson

  TO KAREN –

  again, and always

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bonus Story: The Sky People

  About the Author

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Those who remember other tales from the world of the Maurai will perhaps notice what appear to be inconsistencies with them in this book. However, consistency is not an either-or matter. New data and insights often cause us to revise our ideas about the past and even the present. Surely the future is not exempt.

  Variations from present-day languages, including orthography, grammar, names, geographical identifications, etc., are due to changes wrought by intervening centuries – not necessarily to ignorance on my part.

  Dr. Ernest Okress of the Franklin Institute very kindly sent me a wealth of material about the Solar Thermal Aerostat Research Station on whose design he and others have worked. (The tensegrity concept is Buckminster Fuller’s.) From a class in wilderness survival given by Tom Brown, Jr., I learned a great deal, a little of which I have attempted to describe here. For good counsel and friendly encouragement I am indebted to Karen Anderson (above all), Mildred Downey Broxon, Victor Fernández-Dávila, Larry J. Friesen, David G. Hartwell, Terry Hayes, Jerry Pournelle, and ‘Vladimir iz Livonii’ of the Society for Creative Anachronism.

  No person named in these acknowledgements is in any way responsible for whatever errors and infelicities I may have perpetrated.

  POUL ANDERSON

  When you stand on the peak of time it is time to perish

  — Robinson Jeffers,

  ‘The Broken Balance’

  PROLOGUE

  There was a man called Mael the Red who dwelt in Ar-Mor. That was the far western end of Brezh, which was itself the far western end of the Domain. Seen from those parts, Skyholm gleamed low in the east, often hidden by trees or hills or clouds, and showed little more than half the width of a full moon. Yet folk looked upon it with an awe that was sometimes lacking in those who saw it high and huge.

  Yonder they had, after all, lived for many generations under its rule. The Clans were daily among them. The Breizheg peninsula had joined the Domain, through treaties, rather than conquest, less than a century before Mael’s birth. Outside its few towns of any size, a man of the Aerogens was still a rare sight, a woman well-nigh unknown. Common speech named such a person a saint, and common belief gave him the power to work miracles.

  The home of the pysan Mael stood by itself on an upland where heather and gorse bloomed purple and gold in their season. Farther down was a forest, and in the valley which the house overlooked were meadows, grainfields, and cottages. Whatever of this earth that he could see from his gate was Mael’s, worked by him, his sons, his tenants, and their sons, with its horses, cattle, sheep, timber, crops, fish, game.

  He was frequently gone from it, because as a man of substance he had public duties. The Mestromor, who reigned over Ar-Mor, had made him his bailli, to keep the peace and judge quarrels throughout this district. On visits to the city Kemper, Mael had then come to know the Coordinator, Talence Donal Ferlay, whom Skyholm kept there to advise the state government and make certain that the advice was followed.

  They got along well, those two. Mael was bluff, Donal reserved; but Mael knew better than to suppose a member of the Thirty Clans, the Aerogens, was a being more mysterious than any other mortal, while Donal knew better than to suppose a family whose roots were ancient in the land when Skyholm went aloft must needs be ignorant of the outside world. They could thus enjoy each other’s company. Besides, each felt himself under a duty to learn as much as might be. So they would talk at length when chance allowed, and now and then get a little drunk together.

  After a few such years, one day a man came on horseback to the pysan’s dwelling, and it was Donal.

  In early spring, snow patched the brown ground, water gurgled and glimmered, an orchard nearby had just begun to bud, cloud shadows scythed from horizon to horizon. Those clouds raced across a pale sky, before a wind that whooped and smelled of the dampness and streamed chillingly across face and hands. Rooks wheeled and cawed through it.

  Such men as were present gathered outside the main gate to meet the visitor. Mael carried a spear. Not too long ago, everyone would have been ready for trouble, grasping their few precious firearms as well as edged metal. Nowadays Skyholm would send its lightnings against any pirates or invaders; thus it had freed the Mestromor, his baillis, and their deputies to put down what banditry remained. Besides, this newcomer rode alone. Mael simply intended to dip his spear in a traditional gesture of welcome. When he saw who reined in, he reversed it instead, and bowed, while his followers crossed themselves.

  They had never met Donal before, but a Clansman was unmistakable. Even his clothes – loose-fitting shirt beneath a cowled jacket, tight-fitting trousers, low boots – were of different cut from their linen and woolen garb, and of finer material. At his ornate belt, next to a knife, hung a pistol; a rifle was sheathed at his saddlebow; and these were modern rapid-fire weapons. His coat bore silver insignia of rank on the shoulders, an emblem of a gold star in a blue field on the left sleeve. Before all else, his body proclaimed what he was. He sat tall and slender, with narrow head and countenance, long straight nose, large gray eyes, thin lips, fair complexion but dark hair that hung barely past his ears and was streaked with white. Though he went clean-shaven in the manner of his people, one could see that his beard would be sparse. He carried himself with pride rather than haughtiness, and smiled as he lifted an arm in greeting.

  ‘A saint,’ muttered the pysans in wonder, ‘a saint from Ileduciel – from there.’ Some pointed toward Skyholm. It showed only a faint crescent, for the sun was in the east and daylight always paled it in men’s vision. Nonetheless, many dwellers hereabouts, who had never been far from their birthplaces, still believed that Deu Himself had placed it in heaven, as an unmoving moon, to watch lest humans bring a new Judgment on the world.

  ‘Yonder is Talence Donal Ferlay,’ Mael explained. His words heightened respect, or outright reverence, for everybody knew that Clan Talence was the one from which the Seniors of the other twenty-nine always chose the Captain of Ileduciel.

  Mael turned back to the rider. ‘Sir,’ he asked, ‘will you honor my home? I hope so, and for more than a single day.’ He was a sturdy man, though age was grizzling away the ruddiness of his mane and beard.

  Donal nodded. ‘Many thanks,’ he said. ‘You have invited me enough times, and promised excellent hunting.’ They spoke in Francey, since the Clansman knew little Brezhoneg and the native less Angley. ‘A week, if that will not burden you overmuch
. No longer. You see, I am on my way to Tournev.’ Mael recognized the name of that city in the Loi Valley which lay straight beneath Skyholm: with its hinterland, the sole part of the Domain that the Aerogens ruled directly. ‘My term of service here has ended, and I shall be taking on new duties elsewhere.’ He smiled. ‘However, first I think I have earned some rest and sport.’

  ‘Indeed you have, sir,’ Mael replied. He was no flatterer. Donal had in fact done considerable to bring outside commerce, and thus prosperity, to Ar-Mor, as well as to strengthen the lately founded Consvatoire in Kemper, where knowledge both ancient and new was preserved and where promising youngsters could study.

  To his men, in their own language, Mael gave orders about Donal’s mount, pack mule, and baggage. The Clansman descended and accompanied his host on foot through the gate.

  Buildings of stone and tile formed a tight, defensible square, with guardian towers at the corners, around a well-flagged courtyard where much of the life of the farm went on. In these peaceful days, livestock sheltered elsewhere; barns had been changed into workshops, storerooms, expanded living quarters. Women and children stood more or less ranked under the walls to offer salutation. They kept an awkward silence, not knowing quite what to do, for manners in this countryside were boisterous but here was a saint come to them.

  ‘At ease, at ease,’ Mael boomed. ‘Get busy, break out our best stuff, make a feast ready for evening.’ That brought a relieved fluttering of curtsies, happy expressions, a few giggles. Dogs barked, cats scampered clear of suddenly fast-moving feet.

  A handsome woman whose braids hung gray over her gown remained in place. Beside her stood a boy of ten and a girl of seventeen. ‘Talence Donal Ferlay,’ Mael said, ‘here is my wife Josse.’ Politely, the newcomer gave her a soft salute. ‘Our older sons and daughters have homes of their own – we’ll send for them – but these are my youngest son, Tadeg, and daughter, Catan.’

  Donal’s glance reached the maiden and stayed. A slow flush spread across her cheeks and down her bosom. She lowered her lashes above dark-blue eyes. Her form was willowy, her features cleanly sculptured; that countenance might have passed for a Clanswoman’s. When her turn came to voice a welcome, the rest could barely hear. She spoke good Francey, though; most children of well-to-do Breizheg families learned it in chapel school, now that their land was part of the Domain.

  Donal smiled in his austere fashion and took her hand. ‘Be not afraid of me,’ he murmured. ‘You must know I am simply a man, a friend of your father’s, your guest for what will be all too short a while.’

  Her youth surged up in her and she blurted: ‘Is that true, sir? I mean, of course you wouldn’t lie, but, aren’t the saints reborn, again and again, in … your race –?’

  Josse drew a sharp, scandalized breath. Donal calmed her by answering, ‘Well, the anims of ancestors do live in us, but this is true of everybody. Or so many people believe. Your father has told me that he – and you – carry blood of Ileduciel. And I, all my kind, we have countless forebears who were not of the first Thirty. Let us be friends, Catan.’

  Between the parents passed a look, knowing and eager.

  After a few days, Donal got a small radio transceiver from his gear and sent word that he would arrive late. Skyholm relayed it line-of-sight back to Kemper, where he had ordered an airplane for a certain date, and down to the Ministry of Coordination in Tournev. There nobody questioned his decision. They knew him for an able and conscientious man, who gave more of himself to the Domain than he did to Clan and family affairs. Shortly afterward, Skyholm passed another communication on, in a private cipher, to his wife. She had left Kemper ahead of him, to oversee their estate in Dordoyn.

  A month went by. The last snow melted, warmth and sunlight breathed a mist of green across the country, blossoming exploded, verdancy strengthened, the migratory birds began returning, plowman and plowhorse labored, rains blew gentle out of the west, larks jubilated while lambs and calves and winter-born infants lurched forth into amazement.

  It was a time of hard work on the farms, but Mael could always arrange companionship for his highborn guest, hunting or fishing or sightseeing. Sometimes there were festivals in a village not too far off, otherwise there were the evenings at home, by lamplight in front of a tile stove.

  Generation by generation, as the need for defense grew less urgent while the soil regained its fertility and trade reached ever farther, landholders here had made their houses more spacious and gracious. Between heavy-beamed ceiling and heavy-carpeted floor, the plaster of the main-room walls was well-nigh hidden by draperies, pictures, bookshelves, finely carved chests and seats, olden relics. Folk sat together drinking wine or beer – on special occasions, the coffee, tea, and chocolate that were lately coming from abroad. Some smoked tobacco. Mostly they talked or played games, but one among them might well read aloud or they might join in song while bagpipe and drum and a wooden flute or two rollicked around their voices.

  Shyness before Donal Ferlay soon vanished. Aloof by nature, he therefore got more deference than any law required. Yet he was amiable in his way, willing both to listen and to tell about the outside world, the territories elsewhere in the Domain that strangeness made magical for the pysans.

  Mael himself found it hard to grasp the vastness of that realm which Skyholm viewed and therefore commanded. The circle swept out the whole of Franceterr, Flandre, the Rhin, the Pryny range, the mountains of Jura, most of Angleylann, a corner of Eria (though the Aerogens had no wish to gain suzerainty over the patchwork countries on those islands), and westward across the entire Gulf of Gascoyn, to the Ocean. It held a score of states, each with its own geography, industries, government, history, laws, customs, dialect or even language. Men muttered earthy words of surprise, women gasped, children shrilled when Donal described what he had seen. And Ileduciel itself – but that was beyond any comprehension, and folk were obscurely afraid to talk very much about it.

  Just the same, they grew to like the Clansman. Whatever the powers that laired within him, whatever knowledge he bore that was forbidden to ordinary folk, what he showed them was his human side; and as a human being he was good, if perhaps a little too earnest. Before everything else, he was giving Mael and Josse great honor, an honor that should bring luck to everybody in the neighborhood.

  For he sought out Catan daily, and soon they two were walking hand in hand amidst the young blossoms, and soon after that she spent her nights in his room.

  Such joinings were common in regions where usage allowed. It certainly did in Brezh. No family would take a wife for a son until she had proved she was not barren, and many weddings waited until the child was born and seen to be healthy. A union with a saint could never lead to that, for the Clans married only among themselves, but it might endure for long years. Whether it did or not, it conferred glory on the woman’s kin, and often valuable connections to the Aerogens. If it ended, it had made her a supremely desirable bride for any unwed man of her own community, and he would welcome into his house the offspring of her earlier mate.

  Mael owed much of his well-being to the fact that a grandfather of his had been Vosmaer Pir Quellwind – and the latter had simply chanced by while looking over this newly acquired land, and had never returned. The daughter who came of it married the heir of the upland farm, though the daughters of far wealthier households would gladly have done so. Liaisons like that were still rare in Brezh.

  And … it seemed as though Talence Donal Ferlay was not merely amusing himself, nor was Catan merely hero-struck or scheming. Women who saw those two together would sigh, chuckle, shake their heads a bit, and gossip about it.

  – Yet the twilight came when he and she stood alone beneath an apple tree whose flowers glimmered wan in cool blue dimness, with an odor of oncoming summer, and he laid his hands about her waist, looked into the reflections of the first star in her eyes, and said: ‘Tomorrow, at last, I go.’

  Her head drooped. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘But why did
you set just that date?’

  ‘Because I must set a date, and abide by it, or I would never leave.’

  Her palm shivered upward and across his cheek. ‘Why must you, ever?’

  He stiffened his back. ‘I have my duty.’ After a moment: Too few of the younger among us understand that. They think the Domain has become almighty, and nothing is left for them but pleasure. It isn’t true. Espayn, Italya, the barbarians beyond the Rhin – the Gaeans, the Maurai, and who knows what else, dissolving every old certainty that was ours – No, I cannot stay idle. My honor would rust away.’

  ‘Then why can’t I go with you?’ she pleaded.

  ‘I have explained that. My duty is also to my wife. And to you. You would be lost, bewildered, sick with longing for this your home.’ Again he paused, until he could wrench the words forth. ‘Besides, I am not a young man. I should not stand in the way of the life you have before you.’

  ‘Oh, beloved! You are my life.’ She cast herself against him and wept.

  He held her close and said into the fragrance of her hair, ‘Well, I’ll come back. As often as may be. As long as may be.’

  2

  At midwinter, Catan brought forth a son. She gave him the name his father had chosen, Iern.

  Many were the suitors for her hand, but she refused them and Mael would not force her. Instead she remained on the estate, taking her share of work, raising her child as best she could, and living for the times when Donal returned.

  To Iern as he began growing, his father was a figure of might and enigma, who brought him gifts and asked how he did but who really arrived in order to claim his mother’s heed. He did not resent this, for her joy spilled over onto him. Besides, his grandfather and his uncles were men enough to steer his world.

  They taught him what a boy should learn and then, because of his heritage, did more. They took him on journeys through all Ar-Mor, its stern sea-cliffs and nestling villages and port of Kemper where ships came from halfway around the globe. This was a land haunted by ancientness. Strongholds from the bad old days scowled on guard, but some of them incorporated remnants of works built before the Judgment – sometimes long before, a medieval city wall, a Stone Age tomb. The menhirs, cromlechs, dolmens, and passage graves of peoples who had died even earlier stood gaunt in sight of hovering Skyholm. Upon a few of them, blurred by weather and lichen, remained signs chiseled by those who lived afterward: a Celtic face, a Roman figure, a cross for believers in Zhesu-Crett. Iern was too small for real understanding, but he got into him a sense of time as an endless storm-wind, on which men and nations and gods were blown like autumn leaves, forever.