Dom Rafael said, “You cannot possibly be serious!” He stared at Varzil in disbelief. “What insanity is this? Are we to march to war with swordsmen alone, while our enemies fall upon us with arrows and clingfire, bombs and sorcery? Dom Varzil, I am reluctant to think you a madman, but do you truly think war is a game of castles, played by women and children with dice for cakes or pennies? Do you truly think that any sane man would listen for a moment to such an idea?”
Varzil’s calm, handsome face was wholly serious. “I give you my word, in all honesty. I mean what I say, and there are many small kingdoms that have already signed the Compact with King Carolin and the Hasturs. Coward’s weapons, and laran warfare, are to be completely outlawed. We cannot prevent war, not in the present state of our world. But we can keep it within bounds, keep war from destroying croplands and forests, prevent such weapons as the evil that ravaged Hali nine years ago, where children swelled and sickened of the disease that turns their blood to water, because they had played in forests where the leaves had been destroyed with bonewater dust.... The lands there are still unlivable, Dom Rafael, and may be so in the times of young Alaric’s grandchildren! War is a contest, Dom Rafael. It could, indeed, be settled by a throw of the dice, or a game of castles. The rules of warfare are not decreed by the gods, that we must go on to greater and greater weapons which will destroy all of us one day, victor and vanquished alike. Before that day comes, why not limit it to such weapons as can be used with honor for all?”
“As to that,” said Dom Rafael, “my people would never agree. I am no tyrant, to take away their weapons, and leave them defenseless against those unscrupulous people who would always refuse to give up their weapons. Perhaps, when I am sure that all our enemies have already done this . . . but I do not think so.”
“Bard di Asturien,” Varzil said, surprisingly turning to him, “you are a soldier; most soldiers are men of reason. You are commander of your father’s armies. Would you not willingly see these atrocious weapons outlawed? Have you not seen a village burned with clingfire, or little children dying of the bonewater sickness?”
Bard felt an inward wrench, remembering just such a village near Scaravel; the endless screaming and crying of children burned by clingfire. It seemed to go on for days, until one by one they had died, all of them, and then the silence seemed even more terrible, as if he could still hear their screams somewhere in his mind. . . . He would not, himself, use clingfire; but why was Varzil asking him? He was only a soldier, his father’s loyal man who must follow orders.
He said, “Dom Varzil, I would gladly fight with swords and shields alone, if others could be brought to do likewise. But I am a soldier, and my business is to win battles. I cannot win battles when I lead men armed with swords against an army who bear clingfire, or set demons of sorcery and fear against my men, to raise wind and water and storms and earthquakes against me.”
“It would not be asked of you,” Varzil said. “But would you agree that if laran is not used against you, you will not be the first to use it, and especially not to use it against noncombatants?”
Bard began to say that it sounded reasonable, but Dom Rafael broke in angrily, “No! War is not a game!”
Varzil said in contempt, “If it is not a game, what is it? Surely it is for those who make war to set the rules as they wish!”
Dom Rafael said with a scornful twist of his mouth, “Why, then, why not carry your policy all the way? Suggest that in future all our wars shall be settled by a game of football—or even leapfrog? Send our old gaffers to settle the war by a game of king’s-man on a squared board, or our little girls for a game of jump rope, to settle our disputes?”
Varzil said, “The subject of most wars is a matter which would be better settled by reasonable debate among reasonable men. When reason cannot bring about a settlement, it could be as well settled by a game of catch-ball among the children, as by these endless campaigns which prove only that the gods seem to love those who have the better trained soldiers!” He sounded immeasurably bitter.
“You speak like a coward,” Dom Rafael said. “War may be disturbing to the squeamish, but you can’t argue with facts, and since men aren’t reasonable—and why should they settle for reason instead of what they want?—all arguments are, in the long run, going to be settled in favor of the one who can enforce settlement with the strongest hand. You cannot change the nature of mankind, and that’s simply the knowledge we have from all the years of man. If a man isn’t satisfied by the answer he gets, no matter how reasonable and right it may seem to others, he is going to go out and fight for what he wants. Otherwise we would all be born without hands or arms or the brains to use weapons. None but a coward would say otherwise; though I would expect it of a sandal-wearer, a laranzu.”
Varzil said, “Hard words break no bones, sir. I am not so much afraid of being called coward that I would fight a war to avoid it, like schoolboys blacking each other’s eyes over the cry of whoreson or sixfathered! Are you telling me that if soldiers come against you armed only with swords, you will burn them with clingfire?”
“Yes, of course, if I have the clingfire. I do not make the evil stuff, but if it is used against me, I must have it, and I must use it before it can be used against me. Do you really think anyone will keep this Compact, unless he is assured of victory already?”
“And you will fight this way, even when you know it means your own lands will be poisoned with bonewater dust, or the new poison which brings out black sores on every man, woman and child who breathes it, so that they now call it the masking sickness? I had thought you a merciful and reasonable man!”
“Why, so I am,” Dom Rafael said, “but not so reasonable that I will lay down my arms and resign myself to surrendering my country, and my people, to live in slavery to some other country! In my mind, anything which gives a quick and decisive victory is a merciful and reasonable weapon. A war fought with swords, like a tournament, may drag on for years—we have been fighting the Serrais for most of my lifetime—while sensible men will think twice before carrying on a war against such weapons as I can bring against them. No, Dom Varzil, your words sound reasonable on the surface, but under them lurks insanity; men would enjoy your kind of war too much, and prolong it like a game, knowing they could play at warfare without being seriously hurt. You may go back to Carolin and tell him that I despise his Compact and I will never honor it. If he comes against me, he will find me prepared with every weapon my leroni can devise, and on his own head be it if he chooses to arm his men with swords and shields alone; for all I care he may arm them with tennis balls, and make my work easier; or tell them to surrender at once. Is this nonsense of Compact all you were sent to tell me, Dom Varzil?”
“No,” said Varzil.
“What more is there? I do not want war with the Hasturs. I would prefer a truce.”
“And so would I,” Varzil said, “and so would King Carolin. I was sent and empowered to take your oath to abstain from war against us. You are a reasonable man, you say; why, then, should this land be torn apart with fighting?”
“I have no wish to fight,” said Dom Rafael, “but I will not surrender to the Hasturs where di Asturiens have reigned since time out of mind.”
“That is not true,” said Varzil. “Written records in Nevarsin and Hali—which are perhaps more reliable than the patriotic legends and folk tales you use to rally your men—would reassure you that less than two hundred years ago this land was all ruled by Hasturs; but after an invasion of catmen, Lord Hastur gave the di Asturiens the task of guarding it, no more. And now all these lands have split up into little kingdoms, each one claiming an immemorial right to be independent and sovereign over its own people. This is chaos. Why not have peace again?”
“Peace? Tyranny, you mean,” Dom Rafael said. “Why should the free people of Asturias bow their heads to the Hasturs?”
“Why, then, should they bow it to the di Asturiens, for that matter? Peace is bought at the cost of giving up
some local autonomy. Suppose each of your farmsteaders insisted that he was a free man, and had a right to absolute individual self-rule, refusing any other man the right to cross his borders without paying tribute, and owing loyalty to nothing but his own whim?”
“That,” said Dom Rafael, “would be foolish.”
“Then why is it not foolish to say that El Haleine and Asturias and Marenji are all kingdoms, each with separate king and government and each cut off from others? Why not make peace under the sons of Hastur, and have freedom to move about, and trade, without armed men everywhere? You will be free in your own realm, you simply pledge not to meddle with any other free and independent realm, but to cooperate with your fellow lords as friends and equals—”
Rafael di Aasturien shook his head. “My ancestors won this land. Ardrin’s son Valentine forfeited his right to it when he fled to King Carolin with his traitor mother. But I shall keep it for my sons, and if Hasturs want it, they will have to come and take it if they can.” He spoke bravely, but Bard knew that his father was remembering their conversation the night of Geremy’s wedding.
Serrais to the east. Aldaran and Scathfell to the north. Hasturs to the west and all their allies, and no doubt, someday people from the Plains of Valeron to the south.
“Then,” said Varzil, “you will not swear allegiance to Hastur, even though all he asks is a pledge that you will not take up arms against Hali or Carcosa or Castle Hastur or Neskaya which is under his protection?”
“The throne of Asturias,” Rafael said, “is not subject to Hastur. And that’s my last word on the subject. I have no intention of attacking Hasturs, but they cannot seek to rule here.”
“Alaric,” Varzil said, “you are lord of Asturias. You are not of an age to make compacts, but I ask you nevertheless, out of kindness to kin, to ask your father to see reason in this matter.”
“My son is not your prisoner now, Dom Varzil,” Rafael said, his chin jutting hard. “I do not know how much treason you may have taught him against his own people, but now—”
“Father, that is unjust,” Alaric protested. “I ask you not to quarrel with my kinsman Varzil!”
“For your sake, my son, I hold my peace. Yet I beg of you, Dom Varzil, set aside this foolish talk of surrendering the throne of Asturias to the Hasturs!”
Varzil said, “Even now you are contemplating war against peaceful neighbors—not invaders! I know what you have done in Marenji. I am informed that in the spring you intend war against Serrais; and you intend to fortify the lands along the Kadarin—”
“And what is that to you?” Bard asked with cold hostility. “The lands along the Kadarin are not Hastur lands!”
“Neither are they the lands belonging to Asturias,” said Varzil, “and Carolin is sworn to make them safe against attack from land-greedy little kingdoms! Do what you will within your own realm; but I warn you, unless you are prepared to fight against all of those who give allegiance to Hastur and to the Compact, do not move outside them!”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I am,” Varzil said, “though I would rather not. I ask as envoy of Hastur, that you and your two sons take oath not to move against the Compact lands who have sworn to one another as equals, or we will have an army in the field within forty days, and we will take the Kingdom of Asturias and put it into the wardenship of someone who will hold it in peace among the com’ii under Hastur.”
Bard heard this with a dreadful sinking. They were not, in fact, prepared to make war against the Hasturs; not with the men rising past the Kadarin, not with Serrais on the east! And if the Hasturs came against them now, Asturias could not stand.
Dom Rafael clenched his fists with rage.
“What oath do you require of us?”
“I ask you to swear,” Varzil said, “not to me, but to Geremy Hastur for his kinsman Carolin, an oath of kinsmen, not to be broken without warning of half a year on either side; which pledges you not to move against any land under Hastur protection; and in return you will be a part of this peace which reigns under the Alliance.” He used the word comyn in a new way. “Will you swear?”
There was a long silence; but the di Asturiens were at the disadvantage and knew it. They had no choice but to swear. They were grateful when Alaric spoke, so that neither of them must lose face.
“Dom Varzil, I will swear the oath of kinsmen, although no oath to your Alliance. Will this suffice? I vow that I will not go to war against Carolin of Thendara unless half a year’s warning is given. But,” he added, and Bard saw the childish jaw clench, “this oath will endure only while my kinsman Carolin of Thendara leaves me in possession of the throne of Asturias; and on the day when he moves against the throne, on that same day I withdraw my oath and consider him my enemy!”
Geremy said, “I accept your oath, cousin. I swear to see it honored by Carolin. But how will you hold your father and your brother to this oath? For you are not yet of legal age, and they are the powers which hold your throne.”
Alaric said, “By the gods and by the honor of my family; Bard, my brother, will you abide my oath?”
Bard said, “In the form the oath was given, my brother, I will.” He gripped his sword. “Zandru seize this sword and this heart if I prove false to your honor.”
“And I,” said Dom Rafael, tight-lipped, closing his fingers on his dagger, “by the honor of Asturien, which no man can gainsay.”
No, Bard thought, as Geremy and Varzil, with endless formalities, took their leave, they had no choice, not with a crippled child on the throne, instead of the strong young warrior they had foreseen. They needed time, and this oath was only a way to give them time. His father maintained the façade of calm until the Hastur embassage had ridden away and Alaric, dreadfully pale from the strain of long ceremonial, was taken away to his rooms, then Dom Rafael broke down.
“My son! He is my son, I love him, I honor him, but in hell’s name, Bard, is he fit to reign in times like these? Would to all the gods that your mother had been my lawful wife!”
“Father,” Bard entreated, “it is only his legs that are crippled; his mind and wit are sound. I am a soldier, not a statesman; Alaric will make a better king than I!”
“But they look up to you, they call you Wolf and Commander, will they ever look up to my poor little lame lad that way?”
“If I stand behind his throne,” Bard said, “they will.”
“Alaric is blessed, then, in his brother! True is the old saying, bare is back without brother.... But you are only one man, and you are sworn to Hastur, which cripples you. If we had time, or if Alaric had been strong and fit—”
“If Queen Lorimel had worn trousers instead of skirts, she’d have been king and Thendara would never have fallen,” said Bard, curtly. “There is no point in talking about if, and would to all the gods, and such rubbish. We must cut our coat as we find the cloth laid! The gods know I love my brother, and I could have bawled like Geremy’s baby son to see him stand before us so bent and twisted, but what has come, has come; the world will go as it will. I am only one brother.”
“It is the good fortune of the Hasturs that you were not born twins,” said Dom Rafael with a despairing laugh, “for with two like you, dear son, I could conquer all the Hundred Kingdoms.”
And then he stopped. His laugh broke off in mid-gasp, and he stared at Bard with such intensity that Bard wondered if the shock of Alaric’s illness had turned the old man’s brain.
“Two of you,” he said, “with two such as you, Wolf, I could conquer all this land from Dalereuth to the Hellers. Bard, suppose that there were two of you,” he said in a whisper, “that I had another son, just like you, with your skill at warfare and your genius for strategy and your fierce loyalty—two of you! And I know how to find another. Not another just like you—another you!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Bard stared at his father in dismay. The gods grant, he thought, that Alaric is mature enough to rule, for our father has suddenly lost his wits!
But Dom Rafael did not look mad, and his voice and manner were so matter-of-fact that another, more rational explanation occurred to Bard.
“You had not confided in me, sir; but do you mean that you have another bastard son, enough like to impersonate me when it should be necessary?”
Dom Rafael shook his head. “No. And I am aware that what I have just said sounds like a madman’s raving, dear son, so you need not bother to humor me; I shall not begin to rave like a breeding woman in the Ghost Wind, nor chase butterflies in the snow. But what I must now suggest to you is very strange, and—” he glanced around the empty throne room—“in any case we cannot talk here.”
In his father’s private apartments, Bard waited while his father sent the servants away, poured them both some wine.
“Not too much,” he said dryly. “I do not want you to think me drunk, as you thought I was mad. I said, Bard, that with two like you, two generals with your sense of war and strategy—and this must have been born with you, since those who fostered you show no sign of it, and it is certainly not due to my teaching—with two of you, Bard, I could conquer all this realm. If the Hundred Kingdoms are to be united into a single realm—and I admit it is a sound idea, for why should all these lands be torn with war spring and fall—why should the Hasturs be overlords? There were men bearing the di Asturien name in these hills long before the Lord of Carthon gave his daughter to the Hastur kin. There is laran in our line, too, but it is the laran of humankind, of true men, not of the chieri-folk; the Hasturs are chieri, or of chieri-kind, as you may see if you care to count their fingers, and too many of them are still born emmasca, neither man nor woman; Felix of Thendara was born so, a few hundred years ago, and so that dynasty came to an end.”
Darkover: First Contact Page 41
