Thunderlord

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “My dear, are you quite well?” Cassandra asked. At her gesture, the other ladies rose, curtsied, and left them. A moment later, one of them returned with a goblet of fruit drink for Alayna.

  “It is nothing, vai domna.” Then, because she must explain or be thought rude, Alayna added, “It is the excitement of being here in Thendara, among so many strange people—and very fine folk at that. I never traveled before I came to Scathfell.”

  “Perhaps you will join me and my ladies while the menfolk are about their business, during your visit here. We will be your family away from home.”

  “I would like that very much.”

  “I was once very much as you are now, young and bewildered. I remember a ball in this very chamber, right after King Stephen Hastur died, quite unexpectedly, I might add, from an attack on the air-car in which he and Allart were traveling. Folk today take for granted the peace we now enjoy, but it was not always so.” Cassandra’s chest lifted in a barely perceptible sigh. “My family was determined to see me married. Allart and I, you see, had been handfasted at an early age, but we hardly knew one another.” She gave a little laugh. “He was so somber in those days, like the monk he had been. I could barely get him to look at me, and I could not decide if he were emmasca like Prince Felix, or did not care for women in that way, or was still bound by his oath of celibacy.”

  Alayna ventured to say, “But you resolved your differences.”

  “Indeed we did, although it was not easy. Yet the experience has left me with an abiding faith in the ability of two people to find happiness together, no matter what the difficulties. Do not fret because your husband has other things on his mind besides dancing.”

  Alayna looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap, and wondered that she had been so obvious.

  Cassandra signaled to one of the servants and sent him off with a request to the musicians. “Come, let us amuse ourselves. Our husbands may think they are all-important, but we do not need their participation in order to dance.”

  The orchestra played several chords, at which the central area cleared of men, leaving the women to form two concentric circles, facing one another. Cassandra directed Alayna to stand beside her in the inner circle.

  “I don’t know this dance,” Alayna whispered.

  “Don’t worry, most of it is slow and easy to follow. The music speeds up toward the end, so that the damiselas who wish to attract husbands can display how prettily they whirl about. My days of such antics are long over, so I shall slip away, and you can follow me if you wish.”

  Cassandra proved to be right, the dance was easy to follow. Several of the older ladies missed a beat here or a step there and no one took any notice.

  Step, step, dip, sway, step . . . The dance flowed on, gradually increasing in tempo. A young lady skipped into the center, whirling so that her skirts flared out about her like the petals of an opening blossom. She held a garland of ribbons and brandished them aloft. Alayna, who had never seen any dancing like this, and certainly not from a woman, stared.

  “That’s our cue,” Cassandra said. As if pre-arranged, the outer circle opened to allow her and Alayna passage. They had not gone more than a few steps when Dom Nevin emerged from the crowd, directly in Alayna’s path. She froze.

  “Vai domna.” Nevin executed a courtly bow. His mouth twitched in a barely concealed smirk as he held out one hand. “The pleasure of the secain?”

  Blood drained from Alayna’s face. She was so appalled, her throat closed up, and she could not make a sound. The effrontery of the man, to suggest she—his lord’s wife—join him in the notoriously licentious dance. It was her responsibility, hers alone, to refuse the invitation.

  “Come now,” Nevin said in that oily tone of his. He had clearly noticed her hesitation and said, “It is not improper for you to accept. We have been introduced, you know, and I am your husband’s kinsman and therefore yours.”

  I’ll challenge him to a duel myself, rather than say yes.

  “You must excuse my young charge.” Cassandra put a motherly arm around Alayna’s shoulders. “I have given her strict instructions to not overexert herself at her first Thendara ball. You, sir, will simply have to wait for another chance. I suggest you apply to her husband.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Cassandra hurried Alayna away. Within a few moments, they were seated again. The queen’s ladies appeared as if magically summoned, surrounding them with a wall of fluttering fans and bird-like chatter. To Alayna’s relief, Cassandra did not press for an explanation. The queen summoned more fruit drink for her, fortunately not fortified with wine, and let Alayna sit quietly.

  “Thank you,” Alayna said. And although she wasn’t sure if she should offer a more detailed explanation, that much she wanted to express.

  “Think nothing of it.” Although Cassandra’s tone was light, almost dismissive, her face hardened as her gaze fixed in the direction where Nevin had disappeared into the crowd. “Court life, as one might expect, attracts certain personalities, much the way a rich larder attracts insect pests. One learns to recognize both.”

  Alayna stared, then realized she was doing it and lowered her gaze. The queen’s expression was perfectly composed, yet . . . was she laughing? Comparing Nevin to a cockroach? Gwynn had used the word vermin.

  “Of course, politeness demands courtesy toward kinsmen, even if they do not return it.” Then, as if she were musing aloud, the queen added, “Men think the province of war belongs solely to them. They have no idea of the battles fought, for good or ill, on the dance floor.”

  She turned to Alayna with a dazzling smile. “But we will have our revenge. We get to sit here, at our ease, while they make fools of themselves by cavorting about with their swords. Look, the Castle Guardsmen are bringing the blades out now. Let us hope your, ah, persistent but unwelcome gentleman has the wit to depart before he must perform or be thought a coward.”

  Alayna tried not to giggle at the notion of Nevin leaping and whirling in the patterns of the Sword Dance. She had heard that different places had their own styles, and now found herself curious what these Thendara performances would be like. At home, as was customary, only her brothers had taken part, as a sort of contest to see how fast they could execute the various steps. Once, in the privacy of her own room, Kyria had arranged a pair of sticks on the floor so she could practice. Alayna remembered the two of them collapsing in giggles and then smothering their merriment for fear of discovery. At the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor, both had dived under the covers, leaving the incriminating sticks on the carpet.

  Delightful memories, yet her mind kept returning to Cassandra’s comment about powerful men who lacked honor. “Dom Nevin wanted to marry me,” Alayna said, “but Gwynn came to my rescue, if a most welcome proposal could be considered in that light.”

  “Then you are fortunate in your husband, as I am in mine.”

  Whatever more the queen might have said was forestalled as the music resolved into a single drone-pipe, skirling out a challenge. The entire assembly fell quiet, and a space opened up so that Alayna, seated beside the queen, had an unobstructed view of the circular area where the dance was to take place. The glow globes dimmed, and shadows pooled along the walls and over the faces of the onlookers to either side. Torches flared from their sconces along the periphery, adding to the primeval atmosphere.

  Four dancers took their positions on the far side of the circle. Two of them were men Alayna did not know, although one might have been one of the aristocrats she’d seen in audience with the king. The third was Gwynn, looking fierce in the wavering light. Fierce, and strong, and proud. Behind her, ladies murmured in appreciation.

  A fourth dancer appeared to be the youngest, lean and fit. Alayna could not make out his features in the dimmed light, yet there was something familiar about him. She’d been introduced to so many people since arriving in Thendara, they
had doubtless met, though she’d forgotten.

  Behind her, one of the ladies said to another, “Ah, Elisa, this will be a rare sight. Do you remember two Midsummers ago, we had only one halfway decent sword dancer, and he was too hung over to pay attention to what his feet were doing? I swear I feared for his life and bodily integrity, but perhaps the sword master had made sure to provide him with suitably blunted blades. Can you imagine the scandal if he’d slit his own throat on the dance floor!”

  The other lady giggled, hushing as the queen glanced her way.

  Now the drone-pipe music began in earnest, and one of the men—not Gwynn, nor the youngest—moved, rising slightly on his toes and pivoting. Alayna’s breath caught in her throat, for she had never seen anything like the gliding steps with which he circled the swords. None of her brothers had stretched their arms over their heads in this manner, elongating the entire body. The next moment, she thought, he might change into an eagle and take flight. He wound through the steps once, and then again in precise repetition.

  “Not very original, I’ll warrant, but a pretty enough sight,” the lady behind said to her companion.

  “Even if we have seen it a dozen times before,” came the reply.

  “What do they mean?” Alayna asked the queen, keeping her voice low.

  “Some dancers follow a memorized set of movements,” Cassandra replied, “but the finest improvise within the prescribed steps. The true artistry of the dance requires not only physical prowess but imagination. And, I suppose, passion.”

  Keeping the queen’s words in mind, Alayna now saw that although the dancer executed the opening steps very well, he repeated them with no detectable variation. What she was seeing was not an inspired performance but one that had been carefully rehearsed, using a limited number of gestures. The music swelled as he bent, picked up the pair of swords, and lifted them over his head, blades crossed. The audience responded with a burst of applause that seemed to Alayna polite recognition of a modest but well-executed performance.

  After bowing to the audience, the first dancer quitted the floor and handed the swords to the Guardsmen, who replaced them in their proper position. The drone-pipe quieted for a few moments and then resumed with the now familiar challenge melody. This time it was Gwynn who stepped forward. Of course, Alayna thought. It would have been rude to ask him to go first; the dance was part ceremony, part competition, and courteous diplomacy for a visiting dignitary must be observed. The opening dancer had clearly been chosen because he was competent but not extraordinary. It would not be difficult for Gwynn to outshine him.

  The king is courting my husband.

  Instead of repeating the opening moves of the first dancer, Gwynn turned his back on the swords and faced the audience—not just the general assembly, but the exact place where the king stood. Sweeping his arms out, he stepped wide and deep, then spun to face the swords. Again outward, this time in the direction where Cassandra sat, and again that smooth step. He circled the swords and with each stride he bent his knees deeper and deeper. Then, when it seemed he could not go any lower and still move, he leapt into the air and came down into a swordsman’s stance. Although Alayna had not seen him reach for the swords, there they were in his hands.

  The ladies behind Alayna burst out in cries of appreciation. Alayna gathered that this particular step had not been seen in the Thendara court before.

  Blades flashed as Gwynn lunged this way and that, slashing through air so fast that they blurred in her sight. The maneuvers looked more like sword fighting than dancing, but perhaps in the end they were the same.

  Shivers brushed her spine at the power—the dangerousness—of this man. What did she really know about him? She shared his bed, his home, his name, but this fierce, almost animalistic whirling, this making love to steel, she knew nothing about.

  Gwynn’s movements embodied barely contained ferocity, a cloud leopard stalking its prey, as he began a series of slow, graceful spirals, using the swords as if they were extensions of his arms. The piper responded to the vigor of the dance, quickening the tempo. The drone-pipe took on a dark, untamed quality. Gwynn landed in a lunge, one sword extended in front and the other straight out behind him. For a moment, he held the pose. Not a muscle quivered, and even the very tips of the swords did not waver.

  For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed. Then the audience burst into cheers. Still Gwynn held the final pose. He seemed to be saying that their approval meant nothing to him, that the dance had been its own reward.

  The word that sprang to Alayna’s mind was magnificent. Gwynn was magnificent, and now all of Thendara—all the lands of the Domains—knew it.

  24

  The third dancer waited while the swords were replaced. Of the performers, he was clearly the oldest, for gray streaked his hair, long enough to be knotted at the base of his skull. He stood looking down at the swords as if pondering a philosophical question as the pipes repeated the overture. His movements, as he bent to pick up the swords, were unremarkable; he might have been a servant picking up after his master and not a dancer at all. For a moment, he held them upright as if testing their weight and balance. Then he shifted his grip, fingers on the hilts, blades in perfect alignment. His footwork looked simple; certainly, he did not leap or pirouette, and his strides were restrained.

  Watching him, Alayna had the sense that every stylized movement, every shift of weight, every minute change in the angle of the swords was carefully controlled. Nothing about his performance was showy, but neither was it easy. This understated display could only be executed after decades of dedicated study. His focus never wavered. This dance was not for the audience, but whether it was for the man himself, in honor of his teachers, or as a tribute to the gods, she could not tell.

  Behind her, ladies whispered to one another, but not about the dancer. She overheard one ask, somewhat querulously, why they were wasting everyone’s time with that old man. She wanted to see real dancing. Her friend hissed back that any time Lord DiAsturien wanted to perform, the king would accommodate him, and if she were wise, she would keep her opinions to herself.

  The applause was as reserved as the performance itself. Alayna, clapping, caught a glint in the old man’s eye. He did not care about those who had not seen the artistry in his dance, only those who had. As he left the floor, the drone-pipe fell silent.

  The last performer stepped from the shadows and waited until the piper signaled readiness, standing with his feet slightly apart, balanced on the balls of his feet, hands loose at his sides. When he began, it was with a simplicity of movement that Alayna found strangely affecting. Here was no master of fighting arts but a man who had learned these forms as a boy and executed them now with an elegance arising from coordination and balance, skills clearly learned elsewhere. Even when he picked up the swords, he did not display any prowess in their handling. By comparison to Gwynn’s virtuoso brilliance or the precise subtlety of Lord DiAsturien, this dance was modest.

  Behind Alayna, ladies fluttered their fans, clearly bored, although they had the good manners not to begin talking until the performance had come to an end. It did so all too soon. Alayna kept waiting for some flash of dazzling skill, but there was none. The ensuing applause was muted, more out of politeness than any real appreciation. The cheering that had greeted Gwynn’s finale had been overwhelming. If this had been a contest—and now she realized that in a very significant way, it had—Gwynn would be the clear victor.

  The ending of the fourth dance released the audience. As the ladies rose, their gowns rustled like the wings of small birds taking flight. Alayna wanted to rush to Gwynn’s side, but she did not know the protocol for taking leave of the queen, who had shown her such particular attention.

  Cassandra solved the problem, turning to Alayna as she got to her feet. “Come, my dear. We must thank the performers—all of them, but especially your husband. He has made a stunning debut in cour
t, you know. He’s certainly carried away the hearts of my ladies. You shall have to look lively, since they will be making moon eyes at him all evening.”

  King Allart was talking with the performers, shaking each one’s hand in turn. Perhaps by chance, Gwynn was the last.

  “Wait.” Cassandra reached out a hand, and Alayna halted in mid-stride. “We must not interrupt the diplomatic proceedings.”

  And yes, the king was introducing Gwynn and the other dancer. Each bowed to the other, and they exchanged a few words just as the lights brightened. Alayna had a clear view of their faces.

  Lord of Light! Edric? Whatever is he doing here?

  Too stunned to speak, Alayna followed in the queen’s wake. She heard Cassandra say, “It seems you have made quite the conquest with your dancing, Lord Scathfell.”

  “Your pleasure is all the acclaim that I seek, Your Majesty,” Gwynn murmured with a courtly bow.

  “No false modesty, now. Your lovely wife and I watched your entire virtuoso demonstration. Such skill, fiery but perfectly controlled, is exceptional and deserves all the praise it has inspired. And you, Lord Aldaran, gave a very tidy performance. No hurling the swords into the air and giving us all a fright.”

  Edric? Alayna repeated numbly to herself. Edric is Lord Aldaran? And here he was, standing beside Gwynn. The merrymakers’ chatter faded into a blur of sound. Her skin felt like ice. Her lower belly twisted, as if someone had grabbed the muscles there and wrung them hard.

  Edric’s voice: “Lord Scathfell, look to your wife!”

  She was caught as the room slipped sideways. She felt the floor beneath her, although she had no memory of having fallen. Ruyven shouted for aid.

  “Give her some air!”

  “Send for a healer!”

  Blue light flared at the corner of her eyes. The queen’s face appeared above her own, turned to speak to someone Alayna could not see. “ . . . beyond my skill . . . send for Lady Arielle. . . . Tower monitors . . .”