Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Dyan felt savage gratification. So this damned commoner was learning he could not force his way into Comyn circles by marrying a foster sister to Rafael Hastur, after all! Well, let him suffer, it would teach him a lesson! Then, in outrage, he heard what Rafael Hastur was saying to his friend. A Hastur, to speak like this? Disgraceful!

  If you and Caitlin both have the courage . . . I will stand by you. Freemate marriage cannot be gainsaid, if it has been consummated; if you spoke to my father, he would say it was only a boyish fancy, but if you have shared a bed, a meal, a fireside . . . I do not know if the girl has the strength of mind to defy the old people’s wishes, but if she does, and you, you will want witnesses, and Alisa has promised that she, too, will stand by you . . . .

  And then they were discussing horses, and directions, and Dyan turned off his listening-in, as Rafe Syrtis turned and looked uneasily at him . . . had that damned commoner some scrap of laran after all? But Dyan did pick up the rendezvous, the traveler’s hut on the road to Callista’s Well . . . .

  You have nothing to fear from Dyan, Rafael Hastur said calmly. He, too, has suffered from the whims of an overstrict father, he would not betray us.

  Would I not! Dyan thought, enraged. Even if he had not been infuriated by Rafe Syrtis’ presumption, daring to raise eyes ambitiously to the ward of a Hastur, he was angered for Kennard’s sake. Who was this girl Caitlin, to prefer some impudent nobody to Kennard Alton? What a slap in the face for Kennard it would be, if it became gossip in Council that his promised bride had run away to marry someone else! And for whom? For a prince, for a nobler marriage? Not even that; for the son of her guardian’s hawkmaster! What an insult to Kennard! Dyan thought, in a fury, that if he had had the offending Caitlin before him, that he would have spit on her!

  Kennard must know at once—that Rafael Hastur and that insolent and presumptuous favorite of his were conspiring to cheat him of his bride!

  ~o0o~

  As he went in search of Kennard, he was rehearsing in his mind what to say, to make Kennard aware of how he was being insulted by the Hastur heir! Those false friends and traitors were conspiring to cheat Kennard, to make him lose face before the Guards and the Council.

  Yet his mind persisted in presenting Kennard to him, not grateful to Dyan for warning him of this humiliation they were planning, but as angry with Dyan for his meddling; it seemed he could almost hear Kennard’s voice, saying, Zandru’s hells, Dyan, do you think I care about the girl? At this time of my life, one girl is very much like another to me, provided she is suitable, I’ve never even seen her. And the more Dyan argued in his mind, trying to convince Kennard that he could not consent to lose his pledged bride to a commoner, the more his mind rehearsed Kennard’s logical reply:

  What pleasure could I possibly have in marrying a girl who is helplessly in love with another man? There are plenty of women who would as soon have me; why not let the Syrtis boy have this one, and welcome, if they want each other; who knows, perhaps someday I might be fortunate enough to find some woman who could care as much for me as this one does for Rafe!”

  Confused by the voices in his mind, Dyan felt grave misgivings. Should he simply hold his peace? If Caitlin Lindir-Hastur and Rafe Syrtis cared so much, why should he rend them asunder to give Caitlin into the hands of a man who did not care whether he had her or another? Then, in a last moment of anguished self-knowledge, still stinging with that unintended rejection from Kennard, he knew he did not want Kennard to marry a woman who would mean to him what Caitlin meant to Rafe . . . what no woman, I know it now, will ever mean to me . . . .

  Firmly he dismissed his compunctions. Loyalty to Comyn demanded that he prevent young Hastur from defying the will of the Council, that Kennard Alton should have Caitlin as a wife. Kennard should not be humiliated by being shown that his pledged bride preferred to be the wife of a commoner, a hanger-on, the hawkmaster’s son!

  Kennard will know that I hold his honor as a Comyn Lord dear to me as my own; he will be grateful to me, I will still mean more to him than any woman . . . .

  His hands were shaking. He realized that he was outside the Hastur apartments, and as he told the grave-faced servant to say that Dyan Gabriel, Regent of Ardais, wished to speak to the Lord Danvan Hastur, or, failing that, to the ancient Lord Lorill, he rehearsed, mentally, his opening words.

  Do you know, my lord, what they are planning, your son and his shameless paxman, the son of your hawkmaster? They are planning that Kennard, Heir to Alton, shall be cheated of the marriage designed in Council . . . .

  ~o0o~

  They were a small party; all of Comyn blood, or long-trusted Guardsmen who could be certain not to spread scandal. Danvan Hastur himself rode with them, and Dyan himself was the youngest of the party riding northward to Callista’s Well. Old Hastur had inquired discreetly; when he heard that the lord Rafael and Alisa, with Rafael’s paxman, young Syrtis, and Alisa’s foster sister, had ridden out before midday, taking hawks as if it were an innocent holiday, he had gathered the party and ridden swiftly forth. Now they sighted the small traveler’s shelter, and outside, they saw four horses, one of them the white stallion which Rafael Hastur rode.

  Danvan Hastur’s voice was low and bitter.

  “Spread out; circle the house. Who knows what they will do, these rash young ones? Disobedience, certainly; perhaps dishonor and disgrace.” With his paxman at his side, he struck a heavy blow with his sword hilt on the door; Dyan could see that the elderly Lord of Council was prepared for anything, even brute defiance.

  But no blow was struck. Dyan could not see, and from his post, never heard what words were exchanged inside, but after a long time, Danvan Hastur came forth. His face was cold and set; he held the weeping Caitlin by the hand. Lord Hastur signaled to two Guardsmen to ride at either side of Rafe Syrtis, who looked as white as his shirt.

  “Guard him lest he do himself some hurt,” Hastur said, not unkindly. “He is distraught. He has been ill-advised by those who should have known better.” His eyes rested on his son Rafael, and his face was like stone.

  “As for you,” he said, “I know where to lay the blame for this disgraceful affair; you are fortunate that your cousin Alton does not challenge you to a duel, since Comyn immunity covers you both. No, not a word—” He raised his hand imperiously. “You have said and done quite enough, but through good fortune and fast horses it came to nothing. I shall deal with you later. Get to your horse and ride, and don’t presume to speak to me tonight.”

  Rafael’s lips moved inaudibly in protest, but his father had already turned away. He himself set Caitlin on her horse, saying, “Come, my child, no harm is done, though your folly was great. I’ll pawn my honor Kennard shall never hear of this, and fortunately he has nothing to forgive you. Alisa!” His voice suddenly cut like a whip. “Get to your saddle, my girl, or I shall have you lifted there! No, not a word!”

  Alisa drew her green cloak around her face; it seemed to Dyan that she was weeping, too. But his eyes were on the slumped back of Rafael Syrtis. Now, indeed, that detestable commoner had learned his lesson!

  In the end nothing came of it; Alisa was sent away in disgrace—to Neskaya, they said; but there was surprisingly little gossip. The Guard Hall was full of it, but Dyan answered no questions; his honor had been engaged to keep silent. A few days later the handfasting was duly held, and Caitlin Lindir-Hastur was pledged to marry Kennard Alton di catenas. Dyan, watching the bride and groom dance together, with courteous indifference, at the ceremony, felt a curious hollow emptiness. Kennard, when he came to speak congratulations, greeted him affectionately.

  “Let me present you to my promised wife, Dyan . . . . Damisela, this is my kinsman and sworn brother, Dyan.”

  For a moment the girl’s dead face came alive with a flicker of wrath and resentment, and Dyan realized she must have seen him in that circle of politely averted faces, at the hut on the road to Callista’s Well . . . then it was gone, and Dyan knew she no longer even cared about that
.

  “I wish you every happiness,” he said formally, and Kennard replied something equally formal and meaningless; only Dyan caught his imperceptible shrug.

  “Here is your foster brother to dance with you, Caitlin,” Kennard said, and delivered her up to Rafael Hastur. “Come back to me soon, my lady.” But he watched them move away together with an almost audible sigh of relief.

  “I do not think Caitlin likes me overmuch,” he said. “I suppose, soon or late, she will resign herself to the idea; I’ll try to be as kind and friendly as I can, and I suppose we will agree together as well as any other married couple. She is certainly no beauty,” he added candidly, looking after the girl, “but she seems to have a sweet disposition, even if she is sulking now; and she is well-spoken and gentle, and she seems to be intelligent enough! I would hate to be married to a fool. I suppose I am not really ill-content,” Kennard finished, without much conviction. “My father could have done worse for me, I suppose. Well, if she gives me a son with laran, I won’t ask much else of her.” Almost visibly, he shrugged. “Oh, well, it is an excuse for a festival and a merry-making, shall we have a drink? Dyan—listen to me. Of all my acquaintances in the Guardsmen, only Rafael Syrtis has not come to congratulate me or wish me well. My brother, what can I possibly have done to injure him that he should dislike me so much?”

  Dyan felt a tight constriction in his throat. It was not too late, even now . . . instead he heard himself saying, “What the devil does it matter to you what he thinks, Kennard? Who is this Rafael Syrtis anyway, that he should snub you? Nobody—the hawkmaster’s son!”

  ~o0o~

  “We married your father to someone we thought suitable,” old Hastur said, “and they dwelt together in perfect harmony, and total indifference, for many years.”

  —The Heritage of Hastur

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  A Man of Impulse

  Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “You keep good company, chiyu,” Marilla Lindir blazed at her brother. “By all accounts you are just what he likes, the Lord Ardais—a boy not yet a man, old enough to be almost a companion, young enough that you will never contest his will, and pretty as a girl—has he yet made you his—”

  Merryl heard the word in her mind, and colored before she spoke it, but he said stubbornly, “You do not know Lord Dyan as I do, Marilla.”

  “No, and I thank all the Gods for it! Is it not enough that all our Aillard kin think you sandal-wearer because you shirked your term in the Cadets—”

  “That is not fair, either,” said Merryl quietly. “What ails you, ’Rilla? Are you angry because for once there is something we do not share? You have woman friends and I do not grudge them to you. You know why I could not go into the Cadets; after our brother Samael died, Mother thought always that I would melt in the winter rains or catch the fever in a summer heat, and truly I did not ask it—to be coddled and made a housepet, tied to her sash even when I was grown to be a man. Now for once there is a man of our kinfolk who accepts me for what I am; a man, a telepath . . . and does not mock me for what I cannot amend, that I grew to manhood without the company of my own kind. He accepts me,” Merryl repeated.

  Marilla, through her anger, felt the pain in her brother’s voice, steadied though it was. She swallowed hard. Perhaps it was true, perhaps her anger was only jealousy . . . she and Merryl, twin-born, had not been separated as most brothers and sisters were when one moved into manhood and the other was confined to the narrow limits of a Comyn lady. Was she jealous that Merryl had moved on where she could not follow, into the larger world? She reached for Merryl, and he hugged her close. She was still almost as tall as he; and though her hair was braided in a flaming rope down her back, while his clung in tendrils around his freckled face, her shoulders were nearly as broad as his own.

  For years, our father said I was more the man of us two; I can ride as fast and as far as Merryl, my hawks are better trained than his, I even practiced with him at such weapons-training as he had . . . because Mother always felt that the rough lads around stable and barracks would contaminate her precious baby boy. But Mother is gone now and there is none to keep Merryl from becoming a man. And I . . . Marilla shrank from the relentless implications of that, must I become no more than a woman? Because I was allowed to share what little Merryl had of manhood have I been spoilt for the only life that must be mine?

  She drew a long breath and said, “True it is that I do not know Lord Dyan as you do. Yet I feel he is using your—” she sought for a word that would not offend him, considered and rejected hero worship, and finally said hesitantly, “using your—your admiration for him. I am not a fool, Merryl. I know that—that young men, boys, care for one another this way, and I would never have grudged you that—”

  “Would you not?” he broke in angrily, but she shook her head and gestured him to silence.

  “Truly, had you had such a friend . . . companionship I have given you and such friendship as you have had—”

  “Marilla, Marilla—” he held her tight again, “Do you think I am censuring you because—”

  “No, no—wait—that is not what I mean; I am your sister, there are some things a friend, man or woman, could give you that I, your sister and twin, could not, and I—I would have tried not to grudge you that,” she said honestly. “The world will go as it will, not as you or I would have it . . . a man is free to explore in this way and a woman is not . . . .”

  “That is not quite true, ’Rilla—”

  She smiled at him a little and said, “Maybe not; I should have said, a boy is something more free than a woman, since they need not fear disgrace—”

  “And I have no wish to disgrace any woman or bring shame on her,” Merryl said quietly, “but I have had no bredini either.”

  “Till now?”

  A flare of anger; the barriers were down between them, but she felt them slam shut. Merryl had never before shut her out of his mind. She said urgently, “Merryl, listen to me! For you, perhaps, this is right, this is the time for such things—but in the name of all the hells, in the name of Avarra the merciful—I can see why you love Dyan, perhaps, but what does he want with you? He is old enough to have outgrown such things before either of us were born, he could be our father’s father—”

  “He is not so old as that,” Merryl interrupted. “If he had been grandsire, then would he have been wed full young—and what of that, anyhow? Would you judge a man by the years he was numbered, rather than by what he is?”

  “Of what he is, I know only that he is a man past his first youth, at least, who seeks lovers among boys not yet grown to manhood,” Marilla blazed. “What kind of a man is that? And I heard, if you did not, of the scandal in the Cadets six years ago, when he seduced a boy so young that he had to be sent home to his family because—”

  “I might have known you would throw Octavien in my face,” Merryl said, with an odd, smug smile. “Dyan told me before any other could rake it up against him. He took Octavien into his own quarters just because he was young and childish and the other lads who were more mature, bullied him—Dyan had been small and frail too, and knew what it was to be bullied, and he thought perhaps he could make a man of the lad by treating him as one . . . . He taught him, supervised him, stood friend to him. But the truth of the matter was only this—Octavien was a whimpering child who should never have been sent into the Guards at all, and under the double strain he broke and his mind snapped . . . . He got it into his head that the other lads were talking about him night and day because of Dyan’s friendship and attention, that they had nothing better to do with their time than to taunt him and call him weakling, sandal-wearer, catamite—and then he began to weep night and day and could not stop himself, and, like all such sicknesses of the mind, he turned on the very one who had most befriended and helped him, and accused Dyan of such unspeakable things . . . and so they hurried him away, poor brain-sick child, before he could grow worse.”

  “That, I suppose,
is Dyan’s version,” said Marilla.

  Merryl said, “I am enough of a telepath to know when I am being lied to. Dyan spoke truth—nor would he have stooped to lie about it. Had he known how frail was Octavien’s hold on reality, he would have sent him home before—but he had grown to love the boy, and Octavien did not want to be parted from him then. He said Dyan was the only one who cared for him and understood him, and Dyan felt that sending him away would have been to hurt him worse.” Merryl was silent, but Marilla could read even what he did not want to say aloud to her, Dyan wept like a child himself when he knew what had befallen Octavien; he did not tell me this, but I saw it in his mind . . . .

  Marilla thought: Dyan could have stood friend to the boy without seducing him first to his bed; and it served him right that he did not observe the proprieties. One of the strongest taboos in the Hellers was that which prohibited such affairs between generations; it came from the days when any kin of the mother’s or father’s generation might have been the true mother or father, since marriages were group affairs and true parentage often unknown. “Could Dyan find no men of his own age for his favorites and friends?”

  “You are prejudiced, Marilla. Like all women, you think a lover of men has insulted all your sex—”

  “Not so,” she said, “but he, too, is prejudiced, then, like to a man who deserts his wife of thirty years who has borne him many children, because of her wrinkles and gray hairs, and takes a younger and prettier maiden. Does he think, if all his lovers are young, that no one will see the lines in his face?”

  Merryl flushed, but said stubbornly, “Nevertheless, he is my friend, and as long as you keep my house, you will be civil to him and receive him with courtesy.”