Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “You won’t hear any arguments from me about that,” Rafael said. “I have no love for my Uncle of Ardais. But Dyan used to be a nice lad.”

  Rafe Syrtis shrugged. “Well, I can live without his liking. But I’m sorry for the lad; he has not many friends. He would have more, no one would blame Dyan for the old man’s faults, but he is prickly and over-swift to take offense and slight others before they can snub him. Dom Rafael, shall I go and look at the duty lists and see where and when we are assigned?”

  “Go by all means,” Rafael Hastur said. “Bring me word of where I am assigned, and forget not to take note of when we are off duty, so that we pay our respectful compliments to my sister Alisa and to her companion . . . ha, Rafael, you see, I can feel the wind when it blows from the right quarter and need no weather vane for that!”

  Rafe Syrtis made a gesture of laughing surrender. “You know me, vai dom caryu . . . indeed, I am eager to pay my respects to the damisela Caitlin . . . .”

  “But not too respectfully, I hope,” Rafael Hastur teased, then sobered. “No, I won’t make fun of you, bredu. I am truly glad you have found someone you can love, and she is worthy of you in all ways, my foster sister Caitlin.”

  “But I am not worthy of her . . .” Rate’s voice trembled. “How could I look so high . . . .”

  Rafael Hastur laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He said vehemently, “No, Rafe, don’t speak like that. My father knows, we all know, your worth and quality. My father, too, values your father as one of his most loyal men. To me, Caitlin is only one of my cousins, all eyes and teeth and what you want with that scrawny buck-toothed little thing—”

  “Scrawny! Caitlin scrawny!” Rafe Syrtis cried in indignation, “She is divinely slender, and her eyes . . . those eyes . . . .”

  “When she was a little girl, Alisa and I used to call her Pop-eyes,” Rafael teased, “and I cannot see that she has grown a whit prettier. But, Rafe, don’t trouble yourself. She is my father’s ward, and Alisa loves her well, but she is not wealthy, so in that respect she is not too far above you; and although her family is very good, so is yours. Father will be well content to give her to you. I do not think any other has offered for her, but even if someone had done so, I will speak to Father for you, and if you will, I shall stand for you at your handfasting. Thus Caitlin will remain in our family and close to my sister as she has always been.”

  Rafe Syrtis’ voice trembled. “I don’t know how to thank you . . . .”

  “Thank me?” Rafael said, “Merely by being what you have always been, my most loyal paxman and my sworn brother. I wish I thought, when the time comes to find me a bride, my father could find me one I was half so eager to marry. As yet I have seen no maiden in Thendara who seems better to me than any others; Father has spoken of the daughter of Lord Elhalyn, but she is still a child.” He laid his hand, shyly, on his friend’s arm. “Perhaps some of your good fortune will come to me, too, and I too shall be lucky in love. But promise me, Rafe, that you will never let this new tie part our company.”

  “Never,” Rafe Syrtis pledged, “I swear it.”

  ~o0o~

  For the first tenday or so of the cadet season, the business of honor guards, of escort for Comyn lords and ladies, of assessing the training of new cadets and assigning suitable duties to older ones, kept them all too busy for the renewing of old friendships. On the morning of Festival Night, Kennard and Dyan met in a small office near the Guard Hall, where Kennard was making up duty lists before leaving for the ceremonial duties of the night’s ball.

  “Will you be there, Dyan? But of course you will, there is no other representative of the Ardais Domain here.” He looked at the younger lad with sympathy. Dyan’s father, Dom Kyril, was well known to be subject to recurring periods of derangement when he had little sense of what was fitting and proper. During one of his lucid intervals, he had arranged for Dyan to perform the ceremonial duties of the Domain, so that he might not, in a moment of vagueness or madness, bring disgrace upon them.

  Kennard said, “I am fortunate in that my father and my brother Lewis are both fit to perform the public duties of the Domain; I have no liking for ceremony. I could take pride in the important business of Council, but to stand up in public and be admired like a racehorse because of my pedigree . . . no, I should find that tiresome.”

  Dyan said stiffly, “I hope I shall never fail any duty to Comyn, no matter how tiresome it may be.”

  Kennard put his arm briefly around his friend’s shoulder. He said, “That’s what I love about you, bredu. But truthfully, Dyan, it is a boring business, isn’t it?”

  Dyan chuckled. “I wouldn’t say so in public, but it’s as you say. I wonder if the prize horse gets tired of being dressed in his finest harness and paraded in the streets?”

  “It’s a good thing we don’t know, isn’t it, or we’d never have the heart to hold parades,” Kennard said. “No, actually, I do know, a little. One of the things I like to do, when I have leisure, is to train our saddle horses, and I can sense, just a little, with laran, how they feel about the bit and the saddle. But they come to accept it, just as you and I accepted learning to stand long watches, and to write, and to do all the other things we have to do. And, speaking of tiresome duties, Lewis said that Father had chosen a wife for me, some tiresome daughter of one of the minor Hastur clans . . . have you heard any gossip?”

  Dyan shook his head. “I am not particularly interested in women and I hear very little about marriages.”

  Kennard said with a shrug, “Women, that is one thing. I discovered that, at least. But as for marriage . . . oh, I suppose it would have its merits, an established home, children for the clan . . . I bear the Alton Gift; Lewis does not. So it is more urgent for me to marry and to have sons.”

  “As to that,” Dyan said, “I suppose, as always, I will do whatever my duty is to the Domain, but when I was young I was so sickened at my father’s women—” He did not look at Kennard, and his calm, musical voice did not change its inflection, but Kennard, who had a sizable portion of the Ridenow empath gift, sensed that Dyan was forcing the words through layers of pain and shame.

  “You probably do not know . . . there were times when he brought them to Ardais, flaunting them in my mother’s face, jesting about the old days when wives knew their duty, and if they did not delight in their husband’s bed, choosing some woman to please their husbands . . . He forced her to foster all of Rayna Di Asturien’s bastard sons and even daughters . . . even though the woman was cruelly arrogant to my mother. And he did not stop at—at making advances even to her own serving maids, and worse, before her eyes, and forcing her to witness . . . the idea that I could ever behave so dishonorably, it makes me physically ill! And yet he could not . . . could not help himself; the idea that I could ever be so enslaved to a . . . a concept of manhood, of virility . . . so that I would hurt and humiliate a good woman who had done me no harm, to whom I owed honor . . . Someday, I suppose, I shall marry properly and do my duty to the Domain, but the idea that I could ever be so—so enslaved to my own lusts . . . before I could behave like that, I hope I would be honorable enough to make myself emmasca as the whining cristoforos do!”

  Kennard was appalled at his vehemence; he squeezed Dyan’s arm with silent affection, but there was nothing he could say before the younger boy’s revelation. He had had no idea . . .! At last, after a long time and diffidently, he said, “Your father . . . he is not in his right senses, bredhyu, you must not let his wickedness deform your life.”

  “I will not,” Dyan said, guarded again and defiant, “but I am in no hurry to have a woman’s happiness and honor placed in my hands. It would be a—a terrifying responsibility. And suppose I should find myself so enslaved to the desire for women . . . .”

  Kennard said, half lightly and half seriously, “Oh, I shouldn’t think there is much danger of that. Women are pleasant enough, but I have no wish to limit my attentions to only one. I would rather make them all happy, not g
ive any one of them the right to jealousy and reproaches.”

  “How can you be so cynical!” Dyan said in horror.

  “Dyan, I was joking! But truly, my brother, I am not particularly interested yet in marriage, I have not been home long enough even to renew all my old ties and friendships, and I would rather wait a while before forming new ones. And speaking of old ties and friendships, you and I have hardly seen anything of one another! Shall we plan a hunt? Or—Rafael Hastur spoke of spending a tenday at Syrtis—Dom Felix knows more of hawks than anyone from Dalereuth to the Kadarin, and he has promised me one trained to my own hand. Both of them, I know, would be delighted if you joined us.”

  “I do not care for hawking,” Dyan said stiffly. So Rafael Hastur thought he could force his friend, the hawkmaster’s son, on Kennard Alton by laying him under obligations with this kind of courtesy—this kind of bribe!

  “Well, as you like,” Kennard said. “We’ll ride in the hills, then, just the two of us, if you’d prefer that. I can take three days’ leave, and so can you, a few days after Festival Night.”

  A day or two later the invitation was actually forthcoming from Rafael Hastur to join them at Syrtis—his sister and foster sister were also to make up the party—but Dyan refused, saying that he and Kennard had made other plans. Riding at Kennard’s side along the lower ridges of the Venza Hills, Dyan felt perfectly happy, as if, after all these years, they had returned to a happy boyhood. Kennard, too, seemed happy. He told Dyan something . . . not much . . . of his years on Terra, his struggle against the heavy air and the dragging gravity, the long trip from star to star, the curious offworld customs. And the loneliness, among those mostly ungifted with laran.

  “Only once did I find real friends,” he said. “On Terra, of all places, some kindred of the Montrays, who had lived on Darkover, and knew how that light hurt my eyes . . . . That was the worst, the pain of the light, and even when the sun was not in the sky, I sometimes felt I should go mad under the frightful cold light of that terrible white moon. Do you know that their word for madness is akin to their word for moon-worshiper? There was a girl—her name was Elaine, that is Yllana in our tongue . . . but she was kin to Aldaran, too. I do not suppose I will ever see her again. But she understood, a little . . . how I feared that terrifying moon.”

  Dyan said, “Moon madness is easy enough to understand; we have that proverb, What is done under four moons need never be recalled nor regretted . . . .”

  “True,” Kennard laughed, “and I see there are three in the sky, and later tonight, Idriel will rise too, and then we, too, will perhaps have some adventure of madness!”

  All the moons were indeed high in the sky when they made camp and cooked their meal, roasting a bird Dyan had brought down with his courvee, the curved throwing-stick used for hunting in the Hellers. “I have lost my skill,” Kennard lamented, “it has been so long!”

  They sat long beside the coals of their fire, lighted by the four moons, talking of their own childhoods, the early days in the Cadets.

  “I was so wretched on Terra,” Kennard said, “I wonder, often, if Larry was equally so in my place. His kindred were so kind to me and tried so hard to be understanding. I know my father would have been kind, but what about the others, Dyan? Was he happy in the Cadets? Did any befriend him? I would have commended him to your kindness as my sworn friend.”

  Dyan said stiffly, “Do you think anyone alive could take your place? I think we all made him realize what an interloper he was, to try that!”

  Kennard shook his head in dismay. “But we were friends, Dyan, I would have had you treat him as you would have treated me, as friend and brother . . . well, it is past, I won’t censure you,” he said, “but I wish you could have come to know him as well as I do; believe me, he is worthy of it, Janu.”

  But he used the old pet-name of their childhood, and Dyan knew that Kennard was not angry with him, of course not, Kennard would not quarrel with him over any Terranan!

  The fire had burned low. Kennard yawned, and said, “We should sleep. Look, we have the four moons after all . . . what madness shall we do?”

  Dyan said, with a shyness that surprised him, “Hardly madness . . . but shall we, then, renew our old pledge, bredhyu, after so many years?”

  For a moment Kennard was motionless, startled. Then he said, very gently, “If you will, bredhyu.” He repeated the word with the special inflection Dyan had used, only for sworn brothers between whom there were no barriers. “It would need no renewal to be as strong as ever; I do not forget what I have sworn. And you are old enough, I would not have thought to treat you as a boy too young for women . . . but if you wish for it, my dearest brother, then, as you will.”

  He drew Dyan to him, their lips meeting, barriers going down in the most intimate of touches, until their minds were as exposed to one another as their young bodies . . . and in that moment, something deep within Dyan Ardais cracked asunder, never to be whole again.

  Kennard had not ceased to love him. He would never cease to love him. He welcomed their reunion, and now he had given himself up completely to the warmth and tenderness of this physical reconfirmation too, he was withholding nothing. And yet . . . yet there was a profound difference, a difference heartbreaking to Dyan. What was, to Dyan, the needed, desperately longed-for wellspring of his existence, the core and renewal of his being, was nothing like that to Kennard. Kennard loved him, yes, cherished him as brother, friend, kinsman, with a thousand kindly memories. But the very center of their love, this mutual affirmation which was the whole reason for Dyan’s existence, was to Kennard only a pleasant kindness. He would have been equally content if they had clasped hands and slept apart . . . and before the agony of that knowledge, Dyan Ardais felt that the whole core of his being was cracked, torn, broken into fragments.

  Even while he was held tenderly in Kennard’s arms, wholly absorbed in the mutual sharing, he felt the ice of death surrounding him, like the icy halls of Nevarsin, cold, alone . . . . Even dissolving in the mutual delight was agony; he knew he was sobbing uncontrollably, and through his own despair he sensed Kennard’s bewildered grief and regret. He could not even be angry with Kennard; Kennard’s thoughts were his own. What can I do? He cannot be other than he is, nor can I. I love him, I love him dearly, but love is not enough . . . .

  “Dyan, Dyan . . . Janu, bredhyu, my beloved brother, don’t grieve like this, you are breaking my heart,” Kennard pleaded. “What can I say to you, my brother? You will always be more dear to me than any man living, that I swear to you. I beg of you, don’t grieve so . . . the world will go as it will, and not as you or I would have it . . . there is no one, no one I love more than you, Dyan, it is only that I am no longer a boy . . . Dyan, I swear to you, a time will come when this will not matter to you so terribly . . . all things change . . . .”

  ~o0o~

  Inwardly Dyan raged, I will not change, not ever, all of him was crying out in anguished rebellion, but slowly he managed to bring his weeping under control, withdrawing behind an impenetrable barricade of calm, good manners, almost lightheartedness. He reached for Kennard again, with skillful, seductive touch, just letting Kennard sense his thoughts, at least there is this, and Kennard cannot pretend he does not find pleasure in it . . . .

  Kennard, still troubled, but grateful for Dyan’s calm, reached for him with gentle urgency, saying aloud . . . he could not bear the deeper touch of minds, not now, “I will never try to pretend that, my brother.”

  ~o0o~

  Summer moved on. One day, as Kennard was changing in the small room off the Guard Hall, after giving some younger cadets lessons in swordplay, he said to Dyan, “Well, it’s happened. Father has found me a wife.”

  Dyan lifted an ironical eyebrow. “My congratulations. Am I acquainted with the fortunate young woman?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know the girl at all. Father says she is suitable, of a minor Hastur sept; he said that she is not particularly beautiful, but she is not ugly
either, and she is amiable, and accomplished, and gifted with laran—and that is enormously important to me. He has no doubt whatever that we will like one another and live well together. Beauty may be important in a man’s mistresses, but good temper and friendly disposition are more important for sharing a home and a life, and I have no doubt we will be happy enough. She is foster sister to Rafael and Alisa Hastur; have you met her? Her name is Catriona, Catrine, something like that.”

  “Caitlin?” Dyan asked, and Kennard nodded.

  “I think so. You know her?”

  “No,” Dyan said, “but I know who she is.”

  Inside he was laughing triumphantly. That would teach Rafael Syrtis to lift his eyes to a girl of Hastur kindred! Now that they had a proper husband for the girl, Rafe Syrtis would learn that there were limits to a commoner’s ambition!

  He said formally, “I wish you every happiness, kinsman,” but his own happiness overflowed when Kennard smiled and said, “The girl is nothing to me, dear brother. I have never yet met the woman who can be more to me than a sworn brother, and I heartily pray that I never shall.”

  He was curious to know how the two Rafaels would react to this knowledge; and he was not long in finding out. Actually he was almost out of earshot, doing some small chore in the barracks while Rafael Hastur and Rafe Syrtis were ostensibly playing cards at the other end of the room; but he heard them mention Kennard’s name and felt not the slightest ethical hesitation in extending his senses to listen in, telepathically, to what they were saying.

  I could hardly believe it, Rafael Syrtis said, I knew, of course, that she was gratified and glad to see me when I sought her out, but I had never believed that she would actually send for me, would beg me . . . Rafael, I could not bear it, she had been crying so, her poor little face was swollen with tears, I think the very stones of Nevarsin Peak would have melted with pity! And of course that father of hers thinks only of what it will mean to her, to marry a Comyn heir . . . what shall I do, Rafael? I cannot lose her, not now, not when I know she cares about me as much as I . . . .”