Текст книги "Heritage Of Hastur"

Автор книги: Marion Zimmer Bradley

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Chapter EIGHT

(Lew Alton’s narrative)

There are two theories about Festival Night, the great midsummer holiday in the Domains. Some say that it is the birthday of the Blessed Cassilda, foremother of the Comyn. Others say that it commemorates the time of year when she found Hastur, Son of Aldones, Lord of Light, sleeping on the shores of Hali after his journey from the realms of Light. Since I don’t believe that either of them ever existed, I have no emotional preference about either theory.

My father, who in his youth traveled widely in the Empire, told me once that every planet he has ever visited, and most of those he hasn’t, have both a midsummer and midwinter holiday. We’re no exception. In the Domains there are two traditional celebrations for summer Festival; one is a private family celebration in which the women are given gifts, usually fruit or flowers, in the name of Cassilda.

Early this morning I had taken my foster-sister Linnell Aillard some flowers, in honor of the day, and she had reminded me of the other celebration, the great Festival ball, held every year in the Comyn Castle.

I’ve never liked these enormous affairs, even when I was too young for the ball and taken to the children’s party in the afternoon; I’ve disliked them ever since my first one, at the age of seven, when Lerrys Ridenow hit me over the head with a wooden horse.

It would be unthinkable to absent myself, however. My father had made it clear that attending was just one of the unavoidable duties of an heir to Comyn. When I told Linnell that I was thinking of developing some illness just severe enough to keep me away, or changing duty with one of the Guard officers, she pouted. “If you’re not there, who’ll dance with me?” Linnell is too young to dance at these affairs except with kinsmen so, ever since she’s been allowed to attend at all, I’ve been reminded that unless I’m there to dance with her she will find herself watching from the balcony. My father, of course, has the excellent excuse of his lameness.

I resolved to put in an appearance, dance a few dances with Linnell, be polite to a few old ladies and make an unobtrusive exit as early as politeness allowed.

I came late, having been on duty in the Guard hall where I’d heard the cadets gossiping about the affair. I didn’t blame them. All Guardsmen, whatever their rank, and all cadets not actually on duty, have the privilege of attending. To youngsters brought up in the outlands, I suppose it’s an exciting spectacle. I was more disinclined to go than ever because Marius had come in while I was dressing. He’d been taken to the children’s party, had made himself sick with sweets and had skinned knuckles and a black eye from a fight with some supercilious little boy, distantly kin to the Elhalyns, who had called him a Terran bastard. Well, I’d been called worse in my day and told him so, but I really had no comfort for him. I was ready to kick them all in the shins by the time I went down. It was, I reflected, a hell of a good start to the evening.

As was customary, the beginning dances were exhibitions by professionals or gifted amateurs. A troupe of dancers in the costume of the far mountains was doing a traditional dance, with a good deal of skirt-swirling and boot-stamping. I’d seen it danced better, a while since, on my trip into the foothills. Perhaps no professionals can ever give the mountain dances the true gaiety and excitement of the people who dance them for pure pleasure.

I moved slowly around the edges of the room. My father was being polite to elderly dowagers on the sidelines. Old Hastur was doing the same thing with a group of Terrans who had probably been invited for political or ceremonial reasons. The Guardsmen, especially the young cadets, had already discovered the elegant buffet spread out along one wall and kept replenished by a whole troop of servants. So early in the evening, they were almost the only ones there. I grinned reminiscently. I am no longer required to share the men’s mess, but I remembered my cadet years vividly enough to know how good the plentiful delicacies would look after what passes for supper in the barracks.

Danilo was there, in dress uniform. A little self-consciously, he wished me a joyous Festival. I returned the greeting. “Where is Regis? I don’t see him anywhere.”

“He was on duty tonight, sir. I offered to change with him—all his kinsmen are here—but he said he would have years of it, and I should go and enjoy myself.”

I wondered which officer, in malice or by way of emphasizing that a Hastur could expect no favors in the cadets, had made certain that Regis Hastur would draw a tour of duty on Festival Night. I only wished I had so good an excuse.

“Well, enjoy yourself by all means, Dani,” I told him.

The hidden musicians had struck up a sword dance and Danilo turned eagerly to watch as two Guardsmen came with torches to place the swords. The hall lights were lowered to emphasize the ancient and barbaric quality of this oldest of traditional mountain dances. It is usually danced by one of the greatest dancers in Thendara; to my surprise, it was Dyan Ardais who strode forward, wearing the brilliantly barbaric costume whose history was lost before the Ages of Chaos.

There are not many amateurs, even in the Hellers, who still know all the traditional steps and patterns. I’d seen Dyan dance it when I was a child at Armida, in my father’s hall. I thought that it went better there, to the music of a single drone-pipe, by the glare of firelight and a torch or two, than here in the elaborate ballroom, surrounded by ladies in fancy party costumes and bored noblemen and city folk.

Yet even the elaborately garbed ladies and noblemen fell silent, impressed by the strange solemnity of the old dance. And yes—I give him his due—by Dyan’s performance. For once he looked grave, stern, free of the flippant cynicism I detested so, wholly caught up in the tense, treading-on-eggs quality of the weaving steps. The dance displays a fierce, almost tigerish masculinity, and Dyan brought a sort of leashed violence to it. As he snatched up the swords in the final figure and held them poised over his head, there was not a sound anywhere in the ballroom. Because I had been impressed against my will, I tried deliberately to break the spell.

I said aloud to Danilo, “I wonder who he’s showing off to this time? It’s a pity Dyan’s indifferent to women; after this he’d have to beat them off with a pitchfork!”

I found myself pitying any woman—or any man, for that matter—who allowed himself to be charmed by Dyan. I hoped for his own sake that Danilo was not one of them. It’s natural enough for boys that age to be strongly attracted to any strong character, and a cadet-master is a natural object for such romantic identification. If the older man is an honorable and kindly one, it does no harm and wears off in a short time. I long since grew out of any such childish attachments and, although I’ve been on the receiving end a time or two, I made sure it went no further than a few exchanged smiles.

Well, I wasn’t Dani’s guardian, and it had been made clear that Dyan was beyond my reach. Besides, I had enough worries of my own.

Dyan was moving toward the buffet; I saw him stop for a glass of wine, speaking to the Guardsmen there with a show of affability. We came briefly face to face. Resolving that if there was any discourtesy among Comyn I would not be the one to show it, I made some brief polite comment on the dance. He replied with equally meaningless courtesy, his eyes straying past me. I wondered who he was looking for and received in return—my barriers must have been lowered for a moment—a surge of violent anger. Perhaps after tonight this meddlesome bastard will be busy with his own affairs and have less time for interfering in mine!

I made the briefest possible polite bow and moved away for my promised dance with Linnell. The floor was filling quickly with dancers; I took Linnell’s fingertips and led her to the floor.

Linnell is a pretty child, with soft bronze-brown hair and blue eyes framed in lashes so long and dark they looked unreal. She was, I thought, considerably prettier than her kinswoman Callina, who had looked so severe and stern at Council yesterday.

The Aillard Domain is the only one in which laranand Council-right pass not in the male line, but in the female; males are not allowed to hold full Domain rights in Council. The last comynarain the direct line had been Cleindori, the last of the Keepers trained completely in the old, cloistered virginal tradition. While still quite young, she had left the tower, rebelled against the old superstitions surrounding the matrix circles and especially the Keepers and had, in defiance of tradition and belief, taken a consort and borne him a child while continuing to use the powers she had been taught. She had been horribly murdered by fanatics who thought a Keeper’s virginity was more important than her competence or her powers. But she had broken the ancient mold, defied the superstitions and created a new scientific approach to what is now called matrix mechanics. For years her very name had been abhorred as a renegade. Now her memory was revered by every psi technician on Darkover.

But she had left no daughters. The old Aillard line had finally died out and Callina Lindir-Aillard, a distant kinswoman of my father’s and of the male head of the Aillard Domain, had been chosen comynara, as nearest female successor. Linnell had come to Armida for my father to foster and had been brought up as my sister.

Linnell was an expert dancer, and I enjoyed dancing with her. I have little interest in feminine fripperies, but Linnell had taught me the courtesies of such things, so I took polite notice of her gown and ornaments. When the dance came to an end, I led Linnell to the sidelines and asked her if she thought I should ask Callina to dance; Callina, too, by Comyn custom for unwed women, was restricted to dancing with kinsmen except at masked balls.

“I don’t know if Callina cares to dance,” Linnell said, “she’s very shy. But you should ask her. I’m sure she’ll tell you if she’d rather not. Oh, there is Javanne Hastur! Every time I’ve seen her in the last nine years, it seems, she’s been pregnant. But she’s actually pretty, isn’t she?”

Javanne was dancing with Gabriel. She had a high color in her cheeks and looked as if she were enjoying herself. I suppose that any young matron would be happy, after four closely spaced pregnancies, to be in society again. Javanne was very tall and excessively thin, a dark girl in an elaborate green-and-golden gown. I did not think her pretty, but she was undeniably handsome.

I conducted Linnell to Callina, but before I could speak to her, my father approached me.

“Come along, Lew,” he said, in a tone I had learned to regard, however politely phrased, as a command. “You should pay your respects to Javanne.”

I stared. Javanne? She had never liked me, even when we were going to children’s parties. Once we had both been whipped impartially for getting into a kicking-and-scratching fight, at seven or so, and later, when we were about eleven, she rudely refused to dance with me, saying I stepped on her feet. I probably did, but I had already been telepath enough to know that was not her reason. “Father,” I said patiently, “I’m quite sure Lady Javanne can dispense with any compliments from me.” Had he quite lost his wits?

“And Lew promised to dance with me again,” Linnell said sulkily. Father patted her cheek and assured her there would be time enough for that, with a look at me which admitted no further delay unless I wanted to defy him openly and make a scene.

Javanne was standing in a little cluster of younger women, sipping a glass of wine. My father’s voice seemed more deliberate than usual, as he presented me.

“I wish you a joyous Festival, kinsman,” she said with a courteous bow. Kinsman! Well, Gabriel and I were friendly enough; perhaps she had learned, from husband and brother, that I was not such a scandal after all. At least for once she seemed to speak to me as if I were a human being. She beckoned to one of the young girls in the crowd surrounding her. “I wish to present to you a young kinswoman of your own, Lew, Linnea Storn-Lanart.”

Linnea Storn-Lanart was very young, certainly no older than Linnell, with russet hair falling in soft curls around a heart-shaped face. The Storns were old mountain nobility from the region near Aldaran who had intermarried years ago with Lanarts and Leyniers. What was a maiden so young doing alone in Thendara?

Linnea, although she seemed modest enough, raised her eyes with frank curiosity to my face. Mountain girls—I had heard this from my father—did not follow the exaggerated custom of the lowlands, where a direct glance at a strange man is immodest; hence mountain girls are often considered, here in the Domains, to be over-bold. She looked straight at me for a moment, smiling, then caught Javanne’s eyes, flushed crimson and looked quickly at the toes of her slippers. I supposed Javanne had given her a lesson in proper manners for the Domains, and she did not wish to be thought countrified.

I was at a loss what to say to her. She was my kinswoman, or had been so presented to me, although the relationship could not be very close. Perhaps that was it—Javanne wished to spend her time dancing, not looking after a kinswoman too young to dance with strangers. I said, “Will you honor me with a dance, damisela?”

She glanced quickly at Javanne for permission, then nodded. I led her to the floor. She was a good dancer and seemed to enjoy it, but I kept wondering why my father should go out of his way to make life easy for Javanne. And why had he looked at me so meaningfully as we moved on to the dance floor? And why had he introduced her as a kinswoman, when the relationship must surely be far too distant to notice officially? When the music ended, it was still perplexing me.

I bluntly said. “What is this all about?”

Forgetting her careful briefing in manners, she blurted out, “Didn’t they tell you? They told me!” Then her sudden blush flooded her face again. It made her look very pretty, but I was in no mood to appreciate it.

“Tell me what?” I demanded.

Her cheeks were like banners of crimson. She stammered. “I was t-told that—that we should look each other over, get to know one another, and that if we I-liked each other, then a—a marriage would be—” My face must have shown what I was thinking, for she broke off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Damn them! Trying to run my life again!

The girl’s gray eyes were wide, her childish mouth trembling. I quickly fought to control my anger, barrier myself. She was obviously very sensitive, at least an empath, perhaps a telepath. I hoped, helplessly, that she wouldn’t cry. None of this was her fault. I could just guess how her parents had been bribed or threatened, how she herself had been coaxed and flattered with the lure of a fine marriage to the heir of the Domain.

“Just what did they tell you about me, Linnea?”

She looked confused. “Only that you’re Lord Alton’s son, that you’ve served in the Arilinn Tower, that your mother was Terran—”

“And you think you can bear that disgrace?”

“Disgrace?” She looked puzzled. “Many of us in the Hellers have Terran blood; there are Terrans in my family. Do you think it is a disgrace?”

What could anyone her age know of this kind of court intrigue? I felt revolted, remembering Dyan’s gloating look.

Busy with his own affairs … Evidently he had known this was in the wind.

“ Damisela, I have no mind to marry, and if I did I would not let Council choose a wife for me.” I tried to smile, but I suspect it was grim enough. “Don’t look so downcast, chiya, a maiden as pretty as you will soon find a husband you’ll like better.”

“I have no particular wish to marry,” she said with composure. “I had intended to apply for admission at one of the towers; my great-granddame was trained as a Keeper, and it seemed to her I was well fitted for it. But I have always obeyed my family and if they had chosen me a husband, I was not ill-content. I am only sorry that I seem not to please you.”

She was so calm that I felt trapped, almost frantic. “It is not that you displease me, Linnea. But I would not marry at their bidding.” My wrath flared up again; I felt her flinch from its impact. Her hand still rested lightly on my arm, as when we were dancing; she drew it away as if she had been burned. I felt like storming away and actually made a faint move to leave her, when I realized, just in time, that this would be a disgraceful thing to do. To abandon a young girl in the middle of a dance-floor would be a rudeness no man of breeding would ever commit against a gently reared young girl of unquestionable manners and reputation! I couldn’t expose her to such gossip for, inevitably, everyone would be wondering what unspeakable thing she could possibly have done to deserve it. I glanced around. Javanne was dancing at the far end of the ballroom so I led Linnea toward the buffet. I offered her a glass of wine; she refused it with a head-shake. I got her shallaninstead, and stood sipping irritably at the wine myself. I didn’t like it.

When I was a little calmer I said, “Nothing is irrevocable yet. You can tell whoever put you up to this—my father, old Hastur, whoever—you can tell them you don’t like me and that will be the end of it.”

She smiled, a faint amused flicker. “But I do like you, DomLewis,” she said. “I won’t lie about it, even if I thought I could. Lord Kennard would know it at once if I tried to lie to him. You’re angry and unhappy, but I think if you weren’t so angry, you’d be very nice. I would be well content with such a marriage. If you wish to refuse it, Lew, you must do the refusing.”

If she had been less young, less naive, I might have flung at her that she could hardly be expected to give up a marriage into Comyn without protest. Even so, I am sure she caught the thought, for she looked distressed.

I shut out her thoughts and said flatly, “A woman should have the privilege of refusing. I thought to spare you the offense of hearing me say to my father that I did not—” I discovered that I could not simply say that I did not like her. I amended it and said, “That I did not intend to marry at their bidding.”

Her composure was disquieting. “No one marries at his own will. Do you really feel that a marriage between us would be unendurable, Lew? It is obvious that they will arrange some marriage or other for you.”

For a moment I wavered. She was evidently sensitive and intelligent; she had been considered for tower training, which meant laran. My father had evidently gone to some pains to choose a woman who would be maximally acceptable to me, one with Terran blood, one capable of that emotional and mental fusion a telepath must have in any woman he is to know intimately. She was pretty. She was no empty-minded doll, but had wit and poise. For a second I considered. Sooner or later I must marry, I had always known that. A Comyn heir must father children. And, the Gods knew, I was lonely, lonely …

And my father, damn him, had counted on just this reaction!My anger flared anew. “ Damisela, I have told you why I will not be party to any marriage made as this one was made. If you choose to believe that I have rejected you personally, that is your affair.” I drank the last in my wineglass and set it down. “Allow me to conduct you to my kinswomen, since Javanne is much occupied.”

Javanne was dancing again. Well, let her enjoy herself. She had been married off at fifteen and had spent the last nine years doing her duty to her family. They wouldn’t catch me in that trap!

Gabriel had claimed a dance from Linnell—I was glad to see it—but Callina was standing at the edge of the floor. The crimson draperies she was wearing only accentuated the colorlessness of her bland features. I presented Linnea to her and asked Callina to look after her while I had a word with my father. She looked curious, evidently sensing my anger. I must be broadcasting it right and left.

My rage mounted as I circled the floor, looking for my father. Dyan had known and Hastur had known—how many others had been dragged into this? Had they held a Council meeting to discuss the fate of Lord Alton’s bastard heir? How long had it taken them to find a woman who would have me? They’d had to go far afield, I noticed, and get one young enough to obey her father and mother without question! I supposed I ought to feel flattered that they’d picked a nice looking one!

I found myself face to face with the Regent. I gave him a curt greeting and started to pass him by; he laid a hand on my arm to detain me, wishing me the greetings of the season.

“I thank you, my lord. Have you seen my father?”

The old man said mildly, “If you’re storming off to complain, Lew, why not come directly to me? It was I who asked my granddaughter to present the girl to you.” He turned to the buffet. “Have you had supper? The fruits are exceptional this season. We have ice-melons from Nevarsin; they’re not usually obtainable in the market.”

“Thank you but I’m not hungry,” I said. “Is it permitted to ask why you take such an interest in my marriage, my lord? Or am I to feel flattered that you interest yourself, without asking why?”

“I take it the girl was not to your liking, then.”

“What could I possibly have against her? But forgive me, sir, I have a certain distaste for airing my personal affairs before half the city of Thendara.” I moved my hand to indicate the dancing crowds. He smiled genially.

“Do you really think anyone here is intent on anything but his own affairs?” He was calmly filling a plate for himself with assorted delicacies. Sullenly, I followed suit. He moved toward a couple of reasonably isolated chairs and said, “We can sit here and talk, if you like. What’s the matter, Lew? You’re just about the proper age to be married.”

“Just like that,” I said, “and I’m not to be consulted?”

“I thought we were consulting you,” Hastur said, taking a forkful of some kind of shredded seafood mixed with greens. “We did not, after all, summon you to the chapel at a few hours’ notice, to be married on the spot, as was done only a few years ago. I was given no chance even to see my dear wife’s face until a few minutes before the bracelets were locked on our wrists, yet we lived together in harmony for forty years.”

My father, speaking of his first years on Terra and being plunged abruptly into their alien customs, had once used a phrase for the way I felt now: culture shock. “With all deference, Lord Hastur, times have changed too much for that to be a suitable way of making marriages. Why is there such a hurry?”

Hastur’s face suddenly hardened. “Lew, do you really understand that if your father had broken his neck on those damnable stairs, instead of a few ribs and his collarbone, you would now be Lord Alton of Armida, with all that implies? My own son never lived to see his son. With our world in the shape it’s in, none of us can afford to take chances with the heirship of a Domain. What is your specific objection to marriage? Are you a lover of men?” He used the very polite castaphrase and I, used to the much coarser one customary in the Guards, was not for a moment quite certain what he meant. Then I grinned without amusement. “That arrow went wide of the mark, my lord. Even as a boy I had small taste for such games. I may be young, but that young I am not.”

“Then what can it possibly be?” He seemed honestly bewildered. “Is it Linnell you wish to marry? We had other marriage-plans for her, but if both of you really wish—”

I said in honest outrage, “Evanda protect us both! Lord Hastur, Linnell is my sister!”

“Not blood-kin,” he said, “or not so close as to be a grave risk to your children. It might be a suitable match after all.”

I took a spoonful of the food on my plate. It tasted revolting and I swallowed and set the plate down. “Sir, I love Linnell dearly. We were children together. If it were only to share my life, I could think of no happier person to spend it with. But,” I fumbled to explain, a little embarrassed, “after you’ve slapped a girl for breaking your toys, taken her into bed with you when she had a nightmare or was crying with a toothache, pinned up her skirts so she could wade in a brook, or dressed her, or brushed her hair—it’s almost impossible to think of her as a—a bedmate, Lord Hastur. Forgive this plain speaking.”

He waved that away. “No, no. No formalities. I asked you to be honest with me. I can understand that. We married your father very young to a woman the Council thought suitable, and I have been told they lived together in complete harmony and total indifference for many years. But I don’t want to wait until you’ve fixed your desire on someone wholly unsuitable, either. Your father married at the last to please himself and—forgive me, Lew—you and Marius have been suffering for it all your lives. I am sure you would rather spare your own sons that.”

“Can’t you wait until I havesons? Don’t you ever get tired of arranging other people’s lives for them?”

His eyes blazed at me, “I got tired of it thirty years ago but someone has to do it! I’m old enough to sit and think over my past, instead of carrying the burden of the future, but it seems to be left to me! What are youdoing to arrange your life in the proper way and save me the trouble?” He took another forkful of salad and chewed it wrathfully.

“How much do you know of the history of Comyn, Lew? In the far-back days, we were given power and privilege because we servedour people, not because we ruled them. Then we began to believe we had these powers and privileges because of some innate superiority in ourselves, as if having laranmade us so much better than other people that we could do exactly as we pleased. Our privileges are used now, not to compensate us for all the things we have given up to serve the people, but to perpetuate our own powers. You’re complaining that your life isn’t your own, Lew. Well, it isn’t and it shouldn’t be. You have certain privileges—”

“Privileges!” I said bitterly. “Mostly duties I don’t want and responsibilities I can’t handle.”

“Privileges,” he repeated, “which you must earn by serving your people.” He reached out and lightly touched the mark of Comyn, deeply blazed in my flesh just above the wrist. His own arm bore its twin, whitened with age. He said, “One of the obligations which goes with that, a sacred obligation, is to make certain your gift does not die out, by fathering sons and daughters to inherit it from you, to serve the people of Darkover in their turn.”

Against my will, I was moved by his words. I had felt this way during my journey to the outlands, that my position as heir to Comyn was a serious thing, a sacred thing, that I held an important link in an endless chain of Altons, stretching from prehistory to the future. For a moment I felt that the old man followed my thoughts, as he laid his fingertip again on the mark of Comyn on my wrist. He said, “I know what this cost you, Lew. You won that gift at risk of your life. You have begun well by serving at Arilinn. What little remains of our ancient science is preserved there against the day when it may be fully recovered or rediscovered. Do you think I don’t know that you young people there are sacrificing your personal lives, giving up many things a young man, a young woman, holds dear? I never had that option, Lew, I was born with a bare minimum of laran. So I do what I can with secular powers, to lighten that burden for you others who bear the heavier ones. So far as I know, you have never misused your powers. Nor are you one of those frivolous young people who want to enjoy the privilege of rank and spend your life in amusements and folly. Why, then, do you shrink from doing this duty to your clan?”

I suddenly wished that I could unburden my fears and misgivings to him. I could not doubt the old man’s personal integrity. Yet he was so completely entangled in his single-minded plan for political aims on Darkover that I distrusted him, too. I would not let him manipulate me to serve those aims. I felt confused, half convinced, half more defiant than ever. He was waiting for my answer; I shrank from giving it. Telepaths get used to facing things head-on—you have to, in order to stay even reasonably sane—but you don’t learn to put things easily into words. You get used, in a place like Arilinn, to knowing that everyone in your circle can share all your feelings and emotions and desires. There is no reticence there, none of the small evasions and courtesies which outsiders use in speaking of intimate things. But Hastur could not read my thoughts, and I fumbled at putting it into words that would not embarrass either of us too much.

“Mostly I have never met a woman I wished to spend my life with … and, being a telepath, I am not willing to … to gamble on someone else’s choice.” No. I wasn’t being completely honest. I would have gambled on Linnea willingly, if I had not felt I was being manipulated, used as a helpless pawn. My anger flared again. “Hastur, if you wanted me to marry simply for the sake of perpetuating my gift, of fathering a son for the Domain, you should have had me married off before I was full-grown, before I was old enough to have any feelings about any woman, and would have wanted her just because she wasa woman and available. Now it’s different.” I fell silent again.

How could I tell Hastur, who was old enough to be my grandfather, and not even a telepath, that when I took a woman, all her thoughts and feelings were open to me and mine to her, that unless rapport was complete and sympathy almost total, it could quickly unman me? Few women could endure it. And how could I tell him about the paralyzing failures which a lack of sympathy could bring? Did he actually think I could manage to live with a woman whose only interest in me was that I might give her a laranson? I know some men in the Comyn manage it. I suppose that almost any two people with healthy bodies can give each other somethingin bed. But not tower-trained telepaths, accustomed to that full sharing… . I said, and I knew my voice was shaking uncontrollably, “Even a god cannot be constrained to love on command.”