The Forbidden Circle

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “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 dance 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.

  “Zandru’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 i
n 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.”

  “But it is my fault.” Even in the mirror, she would not meet his eyes. “Because of what I am. It is my fault that what he said was . . . true.”

  He thought, poignantly, of the way in which Ellemir had snuggled into Damon’s arms, the way her arms had lain around Damon’s neck while they danced. He said at last, “Well, Callie, I won’t lie to you, it’s not easy. I won’t pretend that I’m enjoying the waiting. But I promised, and I’m not complaining. Leave it now, love.”

  Her small chin set in a stubborn line. “I can’t leave it like that. Can’t you understand that you . . . your need hurts me too, because I want you too, and I cannot, I don’t dare . . . Andrew, listen to me. No, let me finish, do you remember what I asked you, the day we were wedded? That if it were this hard for you, to . . . to take another?”

  He frowned at her in the mirror, displeased. “I thought we’d settled that once and for all, Callista. In God’s name, do you think I care for any of the maids or serving women?” Had it disturbed her, that he danced with Ferrika tonight? Did she think . . .

  She shook her head, saying faintly, “No. But if it would make any difference . . . I have spoken to Ellemir about this. She told me . . . she is willing.”

  Andrew stared at her, dismay and consternation mingling in his emotions. “Are you serious?”

  But she was. Her grave face told him that, and anyway she was not, he knew, capable of making that kind of joke. “Ellemir? She is the last, the very last—your own sister, Callista! How could I do such a thing to you?”

  “Do you believe it makes me happy to see you so miserable, to know that a brat like Dezi can shame you that way? And how could I be jealous of my own sister?” He made a gesture of revulsion, and she put her hand out to him. “No, Andrew, listen to me. This is our custom. If you were one of us, it would be taken for granted that my sister and I should . . . should share in this way. Even if things were . . . as they should be between us, if there was a time when I was ill, or pregnant, or simply not . . . not wanting you . . . it is very old, this custom. You have heard me sing the Ballad of Hastur and Cassilda? Even there, even in the ballad, it speaks of how Camilla took the place of her breda in the arms of the God, and so died when he was set upon. It was so that the Blessed Cassilda survived the treachery of Alar, to bear the child of the God. . . .” Her voice faded.

  Andrew said flatly, “That kind of thing may be all very well in old ballads and fairy-tales. But not in real life.”

  “Even if I wish it, Andrew? I would feel less guilt because every additional day I delayed was adding to . . . to your suffering.”

  “Suppose you let me worry about that? There’s no need for you to feel guilty.” But she turned away, weary and defeated. She stood up, letting her released hair shower down to her waist, slowly took it in handfuls, separating it for braiding. She said, stifled, “I cannot endure this any longer.”

  He said gently, “Then it is for you to end it, Callista.” He picked up a fine strand of her hair, pressing it to his lips, savoring the fine texture, the delicate fragrance. He felt dizzy at the touch. He had promised never to try to hurry her. But how long, how long . . . ?

  “My darling, what can I say to you? Is the thought so frightening to you, even now?”

  She sounded forlorn, wretched. “I know it shouldn’t be. But I am afraid. I don’t think I’m ready—”

  He put his arms around her, very gently. He said, almost in a whisper, “How will you know, Callista, unless you try? Will you come and sleep beside me? No more than that—I swear to you I won’t ask anything you’re not ready to give me.”

  She hesitated, twisting a lock of her hair. She said, “Won’t it . . . won’t it make it worse for you, if I should decide I . . . I can’t, I’m not ready yet?”

  “Must I swear it to you, love? Don’t you trust me?”

  She said, with a heartbreaking smile, “It isn’t you I don’t trust, my husband.” The words made his breath catch in his throat.

  “Then . . . ?” He held her loosely within the circle of his arms. After a long time, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

  He gently picked her up in his arms and carried her to his bed. He said, laying her down on the pillows, “Why, then, if you feel that way, isn’t it proof that it’s time, my darling? I promise you I will be gentle with you—”

  She shook her head, whispering, “Oh, Andrew, if it were only as simple as that!” Her eyes filled and flooded with tears. Suddenly she put her arms up around his neck.

  “Andrew, will you do something for me? Something you may not want to do? Andrew, promise?”

  He said, aching with love, “I can’t think of anything in this world or any other that I wouldn’t do for you, Callie. My darling, my treasure, anything, anything that would make it easier for you.”

  She looked up at him, trembling. “This, then,” she said. “Knock me unconscious. Take me by force, this time, while I cannot resist—”

  Andrew drew back, looking down at her in blank horror. For a moment he literally could not speak his dismay and revulsion. At last he said stammering, “You must be mad, Callista! In God’s name, how could I do such a thing to any woman alive? And least of all to you!”

  She looked up in despair. “You promised.”

  Now he was angry. “What are you, Callista? What kind of mad, perverse—” Words failed him. Cold to his gentleness, did she crave his cruelty, then?

  Her eyes were still flooding quiet tears. She said, picking up the thought, “No, no, I never thought you would want to. It was the only way I could think of—oh, Avarra pity me, I should have died, I should have died—”

  She turned over, burying her head in the pillow, and began to cry so wildly that Andrew was terrified. He lay down beside her, tried to take her in his arms, but she wrenched violently away from him. Dismayed, in an agony almost as great as her own, Andrew picked her up, holding her against him, stroking and soothing her, trying to make contact with her mind, but she had slammed down the barrier
against him. He held her, silent, letting her cry. At last she lay resistless in his arms as she had not done since he carried her out of the caves of Corresanti, and it seemed to him that some inner barrier had dissolved too. She whispered, “You’re so good to me, and I’m so ashamed.”

  “I love you, Callista. But I think you’ve built this thing up in your mind, out of all proportion. I think we were wrong to wait then, and the longer we wait the worse it’s going to be.” He felt the familiar touch on his mind and he knew, now, that she welcomed it, as in that time of loneliness and fear. She said, “I wasn’t afraid then.”

  He said, firmly and surely, “Nothing has changed since then except that I love you more.”

  He didn’t know all that much about sexual inhibitions, but he did know there was such a state as pathological frigidity, and what little he had been told about a Keeper’s training confirmed his suspicion that this must be what had been done to her: a total conditioning against any kind of sexual response. He was not naive enough to believe that a gentle seduction would ease all her fears and turn her into a passionate and responsive wife, but it seemed that was the only place to start. It might, at least, reassure her.