Sharra's Exile d-21

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “What about the others? You were a whole matrix circle, linked to the Sharra matrix—weren’t you? Why didn’t they die?”

  “Maybe they did,” I said. “Marjorie did. She was our— you’d have to say, our Keeper. And I took it from her when she—when she burned out.” I could talk about it, now, almost dispassionately, as if I were talking of something that had happened a long time ago to someone else. “The others were not linked quite so tight to Sharra. Rafe was only a child. Beltran of Aldaran—my cousin—he was outside the circle. I don’t think they would die when they lost contact with the matrix, or even when it went offworld. The link was made through me.” In a matrix circle, where there is a high-level matrix, it is the Keeper who links with the matrix, and then with the individual matrix stones of the telepaths in her circle. I was a high-level matrix mechanic; I had taught Marjorie to make that link, so that in a very real sense, I had been Keeper to the Keeper…

  “And the others?” Dio persisted. I resented her dragging it out of me this way, but I supposed I would have to think of this sooner or later, or she would never believe I had really explored all avenues to be free. And I owed her this; Sharra had touched her too, now, although at a safe remove, and even touched our child.

  I said, “The others? Kadarin and Thyra? I don’t know; I don’t know what happened to them, or where they were when—when everything went up.”

  She persisted. “If you couldn’t leave the matrix behind, wouldn’t they have died when the matrix went offworld?”

  Again I grimaced when I tried to smile. I said, “I hope so,” and even as I spoke, knew it was not true. Kadarin. We had been friends, brothers, kinsmen, united in a shared dream which would bring Darkover and Terra close together, heal our shattered heritage… at least, that had been what we shared at first. Without knowing I was doing it, I fingered the scars on my face. He had given me those scars. And Thyra. Marjorie’s half-sister; Kadarin’s woman. I had loved her, hated her, desired her… I could not think that she was dead. Somewhere, somehow, I knew she lived, and that Kadarin lived. I could not explain it; but I knew.

  Reason beyond all reasons, the thousandth reason I could never return to Darkover…

  After Dio was asleep I sat long in the outer room of the apartment, looking down at the lights of the city below me, the lights which were never extinguished, far into the night. On Vainwal the pursuit of pleasure goes on, deepening and growing more frantic as the day’s rhythms subside, when other people are sleeping. Down there, perhaps, I could find some kind of forgetfulness. Wasn’t that, after all, why I had come to Vainwal, to forget duty and responsibility? But now I had a wife and a child, and I owed them something. Die’s little finger meant more to me than all the unexplored pleasures of Vainwal.

  And my son…I had been angry when my father said it.

  But it was true. He should be born at Armida; when he was five years old I would take him out, as my father had taken me riding on his shoulder, to see the great river of wild horses flowing down through the valley…

  No; that was gone, renounced. There would be other worlds for my son. Dozens, hundreds of them, an Empire of them, and beyond. I went and laid myself down beside my sleeping wife and slept. But even through my sleep, uneasy dreams moved, I saw my hand again, the horror that had grown there… and it reached out, reached into Dio’s body, clawing at the child, pulling it forth bloody, dripping, dying… I woke with my own shriek in my ears, and Dio staring at me in shock. I covered her carefully, kissed her and went to sleep in the other room where my nightmares would not disturb her dreams.

  This time I slept peacefully without nightmares; it was Dio who woke me in the graying dawn, saying hesitantly “Lew, I feel so strange—I think the baby’s coming. It’s early—but I think I should go and be certain.”

  It was far too early; but the Terrans have made something of a specialty of this, artificial wombs for babes cast from their mothers too young, and most of them, in that artificial life-support, do quite well, though they are beyond the thoughts and tenderness of their mothers; I have wondered, sometimes, if this is why so many Terrans are headblind, without any traceable laran, the distance from that most intimate of contacts, where the mother teaches the little heart to beat, and all things in the unborn body to function as they should… the body can grow, artificially supported and nourished, but what of the mind and laran?

  Well, if this should damage the unborn child’s laran, so be it, if it saved his life… my own laran had done me little good. And surely it would not hurt this child to be away from our troubled thoughts and fears, and such torment as it had certainly overheard during my ill-fated attempt to monitor. That attempt had certainly brought on this premature labor, and Dio must have known it, but she did not reproach me, and once, when I spoke of it, she hushed me, saying, “I wanted it, too.”

  So I was cheerful as we made our way through the streets, from which all but a hardy few pleasure-seekers had vanished in these last gray hours before sunrise. The Terran hospital was pale and austere in the growing light, and Dio flinched as fast elevators swooped us upward to the highest floors, where they kept maternity cases; high above the sound and clamor of the noisy pleasure-world. I told them who I was and what was happening, and some functionary assured Dio that a technician would be there in a few moments to take her to a room.

  We sat on characterless, comfortless furniture, waiting. After a time, a young woman entered the room. She was wearing Medic clothing, bearing the curious staff-and-serpents of Terran medical services; I had been told that it was an antique religious symbol, but the medics seemed to know no more than I about what it meant. But there was something in the voice that made me look up and cry out with pleasure.

  “Linnell!”

  For the girl in uniform was my own foster-sister. Avarra alone knew what she was doing on Darkover, or in that curious uniform, but I hurried to her, took her hands, repeating her name. I could have kissed her, and I nearly did, but the young nurse drew back in outrage.

  “What—I don’t understand!” she exclaimed, indignant, and I blinked, realizing I had made an insane blunder. But even now, staring, I could only shake my head and say, “It’s amazing—it’s more than just a resemblance! You are Linnell!”

  “But I’m not, of course,” she said, with a puzzled, chilly smile. Dio laughed. She said, “It’s true, of course, you are very like my husband’s foster-sister. Very, very like. And how strange to meet a double of a close relative, here on Vainwal, of all places! But of course Linnell would never have come here, Lew; she’s too conventional. Can you imagine Linnell wearing that kind of outfit?”

  And of course I couldn’t; I thought of Linnell, in her heavy tartan skirt and embroidered over-tunic, her hair hanging in shining brown braids down her neck. This woman was wearing a white tunic and close-fitting trousers… a Darkovan in such costume would have feared incipient lung-fever, and Linnell would have died of outraged modesty. There was a little patch with a name written on it. I could read the Terran letters now, after a fashion, not well, but better than Dio. I spelled them out, slowly.

  “K-a-t-h—”

  “Kathie Marshall,” she said, with a friendly smile. She even had the little dimple near the right corner of her mouth, and the small scar on her chin which she’d gotten when we’d gone riding in a forbidden canyon on Armida land and our horses had stumbled and fallen under us. I asked her, “If you don’t mind, could you tell me where you got that scar?”

  “Why, I’ve had it since I was ten,” she said. “I think it was an accident with an air-sled; I had four stitches.”

  I shook my head, baffled. “My foster-sister has one just like it, in the same place.” But Dio made a sharp movement, as of pain, and instantly the woman, familiar-strange, Linnell-Kathie, was all professional solicitude.

  “Have you timed the contractions? Good. Here, I’ll take you and get you into bed—” and as Dio turned to me, grabbing at my hand in sudden panic, she reassured, “Don
’t worry about it; your husband can come and stay with you, as soon as the doctor’s had a look at you and seen what’s going on. Don’t worry,” she said to me, and the expression on her face was exactly like Linnell’s, sober and sweet and gentle. “She’s very healthy, and we can do a lot, even if the baby is born too soon. Don’t worry about your wife, or the baby either.”

  And within the hour they called me into her room. Dio was lying in bed in a sterile hospital gown, but the surroundings were pleasant enough in the Vainwal fashion, green plants everywhere, patterns of shimmering rainbows beyond the windows; laser holograms, I supposed, but pleasant to watch, distracting the mind of the prospective mother from what was going on.

  “Our coridom behaves like this when a prize mare is about to foal,” Dio said wryly. “Petting her and fussing over her and whispering reassuring words into her ears, instead of leaving her alone to get on with it. They’re all over me with machines supposed to tell them everything about the baby including the color of his eyes, but they won’t tell me anything.”

  They let me stay with her in the early stages, rubbing her back, giving her sips of water, reminding her of the proper breathing; but we all knew it was too soon, and I was afraid. And I sensed Dio’s fear too, the tensing of fright, even through her careful attempts to relax, to cooperate with the inexorable process that was thrusting our child, unready, too soon into the world. We watched the rainbows, played a game or two with cards, but even I noticed one omission; neither of us discussed the future, or spoke of a name for the coming child. I told myself we were waiting until we knew whether we were really naming a son or daughter, that was all. Every hour or so they would send me out into the hall, while they came and examined her; and as the day moved on toward nightfall, after one of these intervals, the young nurse, Kathie, said, “You’ll have to stay down here, Mr. Montray; they’re taking her up to surgery. Things aren’t going quite as they should, and this baby will be very premature, so we need all kinds of support for him, or her, right at hand the minute he’s born.”

  “But I want Lew with me—” Dio cried, almost in tears, and clung, hard, to my good hand.

  Kathie said gently, “I know. I’m sure it would comfort both of you. But, you see, we have to think first of the baby. As soon as the baby’s born we’ll let your husband come up and stay with you again. But now now, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.”

  I held Dio close, trying to reassure her with my touch. I knew how she felt, let myself sink into her body, into her pain—on Darkover, no telepath, no Comyn, would have considered being apart from the woman who bore his child, sharing her ordeal, so that he too should know the price of a child… but we were not on our home world, and there was nothing to be done.

  “He is frightened,” Dio whispered, her voice shaken, and it frightened me too, to see her cry; I had grown so accustomed to her courage, her unflinching strength which had so often supported my own fears. Well, it was my turn to be strong.

  “They’ll do the best for you that they can, preciosa.” I tried to send forth all kinds of soothing, calming thoughts, to enfold Dio and the child in a wash of calm and comfort; under it I saw the pain go out of her face, and she sighed and smiled up at me.

  “Don’t worry about me, Lew; we’ll be all right,” she said, and I kissed her again, and Kathie motioned to the other nurse to stand aside so that I could lift Dio onto the rolling bed they would use to take her away into their inner sanctuaries. Her arms tightened around me, but I knew I had to let her go.

  I paced the halls, smelling the sharp hospital smells that reminded me of my own ordeal, sharply aware of the phantom pain in my missing hand. I would rather live in Zandru’s ninth and coldest hell than within the reach of those damnable smells. Blurred by distance, and my own growing weariness, I could feel Dio’s fear, and hear her crying out for me— I would have tried to fight my way to her side, but it would have done no good, not here on this alien world. At home, beneath our own red sun, I would have been sharing her ordeal, in close mental rapport with her… no man could allow his wife to go through childbirth alone. How, now, could we share our child, when I, his father, had been isolated from the birth? Even in the distance, I could feel her fright, bravely concealed, her pain, and then it all went into the blurring of drugs. Why had they done that? She was healthy and strong, well prepared for childbirth, she should not have needed nor wanted this unconsciousness, and I knew she had not asked for it. Had they drugged her against her will? I berated myself, that my own distaste for the hospital surrounding, my own revived horror at the memory of the Terran hospital where they had tried, and failed, to save my hand, had prevented me from what I should have done. I should have stayed in rapport with her mind, been present with her in every moment, telepathically, even if I was prevented from being physically present. I had failed her, and I was full of dread.

  I tried to quiet my growing dismay. In a few hours, we would have our son. I should have called my father, at some time during this endless day. He would have come to the hospital, kept me company here. Well, I would send him word as soon as our son was born.

  Could I be to my son such a father as Kennard had been to me, fighting endlessly to have me accepted, trying to protect me from any insult or slight, fighting to have me given every privilege and duty of a Comyn son? I hoped I would not have to be as hard on my son as my father had been on me; would have less reason. Yet I could understand now, a little, why he had been so harsh.

  What would we call the boy? Would Dio object if I wanted to name him Kennard? My own name was Lewis-Kennard; my father’s older brother had been named Lewis. Kennard-Marius, perhaps, for my brother and my father. Or would Dio want, perhaps, to name him for one of her own brothers, her favorite, Lerrys, perhaps? Lerrys had quarreled with me, perhaps he would not want his name given to my son… I played with these thoughts to hide my own desperate unease, my growing concern at the delay—why was I told nothing?

  Perhaps I should go now—there was a communicator screen in the lower lobby of the hospital—and call Kennard, telling him where I was, and what was happening. He would want to know, and I realized that at this moment I would welcome his company. What would he think, I wondered, when he saw the young nurse Kathie, who was so much like Linnell? Maybe he would not even see the resemblance, perhaps I was simply in a hypernormal state which had exaggerated a slight likeness into a near-identity. After all, most young girls have a dimple somewhere and a small scar somewhere else. Nor is it unusual for a young woman of Terran ancestry—and whether we liked it or not, Darkover had been colonized from a single homogeneous stock, which accounted for our strong ethnic similarity—to be brown-haired, blue-eyed, with a heart-shaped face and a sweet husky voice. My own agitation had done the rest, and exaggerated. She was probably not at all like Linnell, and I would certainly see it, in the unlikely event that I could see them standing side by side…

  Perhaps it was my own growing exhaustion, the effort I was making to hold sleep at bay; it seemed for a minute that I could see them standing side by side, Linnell in her Festival gown, and somehow Linnell looked older, worn, and Kathie, by her side, somehow was wearing Darkovan clothing too… and behind them, it seemed, there was a wavering darkness—

  There was a soft sound and I turned to see the young nurse who looked so much like Linnell… yes, she did look like her, the resemblance was not an illusion; calling up Linnell’s picture in my mind had made me surer than ever.

  Ah, to be at home, in the hills near Armida, riding with Marius and Linnell over those hills, with the old Terran coridom Andres threatening to beat us for racing and riding at so breakneck a pace that Marius and I tore our breeches and Linnell’s hair tangled in the wind too much for her governess to brush it properly…by now Linnell was probably married to Prince Derik, and Derik crowned, so that my foster-sister was a Queen—

  “Mr. Montray?”

  I whirled. “What is it? Dio? The baby? Is everything all right?” I thought she looked subdued, deep
ly troubled; and she would not meet my eyes.

  “Your wife is perfectly all right,” she said gently, “but Doctor DiVario wants to see you, about the baby.”

  The young doctor was a woman; I was grateful for that, glad Dio had been spared the indignity of male attendance. Sometimes a strong telepath or empath can transcend the difference of gender, but here among the head-blind, I knew Dio would prefer a doctor of her own sex. The woman looked tired and strained, and I knew that, if she had not empathy, not in the strong sense of the Ridenow gift, she at least had that rudimentary awareness that differentiates the indifferent doctor from the good one.

  “Mr. Montray-Lanart? Your wife is well; you can see her in a few minutes,” she said, and I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Mother Avarra, a prayer I had not known I remembered. Then I said, “Our child?”

  She bent her head and already I knew—I thought, the worst. “Dead?”

  “It was simply too soon,” she said, “and we could do nothing.”

  “But,” I protested, like a fool, “the life-support, the artificial wombs—babies born even more prematurely than this have lived…”

  She waved that aside. She looked strained. She said, “We did not let your wife see. The minute we knew, we—drugged her. I am sorry, but I felt it the safest way; she was very agitated. She should be coming out of the anesthetic any moment, now, and you should be with her. But first—” she said, and looked at me with what I recognized, uncomfortably, as pity, “you must see. It is the law, so that you cannot accuse us of making away with a healthy child—” and I remembered there was a thriving market in adoptive children, for women who did not want to be bothered bearing their own. I sensed the young doctor’s distress, and somehow it made me remember a dream—I could not remember the details, something about the doctor who had said to me here, a few days ago, that I should be prepared for some degree of deformity… something dreadful, blood, horror…