Heritage and Exile (34 page)

There was certainly some truth in what he said. Now that my father was so lame, Dyan was certainly the best swordsman in the Domains. Did that mean if Dyan fought a duel, and won, that his cause was therefore just? If the horse-thieves had been better swordsmen than ours at Armida, would they have had a right to our horses? Yet there was a flaw in his logic too. Perhaps there was no flawless logic anywhere.

“What you say is true, Uncle, as far as it goes. Yet ever since the Ages of Chaos, it's been known that if an unjust man gets a weapon he can do great damage. With the Compact, and such a weapon as he can get under the Compact, he can do only one man's worth of damage.”

Kermiac nodded, acknowledging the truth of what I said. “True. Yet if weapons are outlawed, soon only outlaws can get them—and they always do. Old Hastur's heir so died. The Compact is only workable as long as everybody is willing to keep it. In today's world, with Darkover on the very edge of becoming part of the Empire, it's unenforceable. Completely unenforceable. And if you try to make an unworkable law work and fail, it encourages other men to break laws. I have no love for futile gestures, so I enforce only such laws as I can. I suspect the only answer is the one that Hastur, even though he pays lip service to Compact, is trying to spread in the Domains: make the land so safe that no man seriously needs to defend himself, and let weapons become toys of honor and tokens of manhood.”

Uneasily I touched the hilt of the sword I had worn every day of my adult life.

Kermiac patted my wrist affectionately. “Don't trouble yourself, nephew. The world will go as it will, not as you or I would have it. Leave tomorrow's troubles for tomorrow's men to solve. I'll leave Beltran the best world I can, but if he wants a better one he can always build it himself. I'd like to think that some day Beltran and the heir to Hastur could sit down together and build a better world, instead of spitting venom at one another between Thendara and Caer Donn. And I'd like to think that when that day comes you'll be there to help, whether you're standing behind Beltran or young Hastur. Just that you'll be
there
.”

He picked up a nut and cracked it with his strong old teeth. I wondered what he knew of Beltran's plans, wondered too how much of what he said was straightforward, how much meant to reach Hastur's ears. I was beginning to love the old man, yet unease nagged at my mind. Most of the crowd at dinner had dispersed; Thyra and Marjorie were gathered with Beltran and Rafe near one of the windows. Kermiac saw the direction of my eyes and laughed.

“Don't sit here among the old men, nephew, take yourself along to the young folk.”

“A moment,” I said. “Beltran calls them foster-sisters; are they your kinswomen too?”

“Thyra and Marguerida? That's an odd story,” Kermiac said. “Some years ago I had a bodyguard in my house, a Terran named Zeb Scott, while I still indulged in such foolishness, and I gave him Felicia Darriell to wife—Does this long tale weary you, Lew?”

“By no means.” I was eager to know all I could about Marjorie's parentage.

“Well, then. The Darriells are an old, old family in these hills, and the last of them, old Rakhal—Rafe's true name is Rakhal, you know, but my Terrans find that hard to say—old Rakhal Darriell dwelt as a hermit, half mad and all drunk, in his family mansion, which was falling to ruins even then. And now and then, when he was maddened with wine or when the Ghost Wind blew—the
kireseth
still grows in some of the far valleys—he would wander crazed in the forests. He'd tell strange tales, afterward, of women astray in the forests, dancing naked in the winds and taking him to their arms—such a tale as any madman might tell. But a long time ago, a very long time now, old Rakhal, they say, came to Storn Castle bearing a girl-child in his arms, saying he had found her like this, naked in the snow at his doorway. He told them the babe was his child by one of the forest-folk, cast out to die by her kin. So the lady of Storn took her in for, whatever the babe was, human or of the forest-folk, old Rakhal could not rear her. She fostered her with her own daughters. And many years after, when I was married to Lauretta Storn-Lanart, Felicia Darriell, as she was called, came with Lauretta among her ladies and companions. Felicia's oldest child—Thyra there—may well be my daughter. When Lauretta was heavy with child it was Felicia, by her wish, that I took to my bed. Lauretta's first child was stillborn and she took Thyra as a fosterling. I have always treated her as Beltran's sister, although nothing is certain. Later, Felicia married Zeb Scott, and these two, Rafe and Marguerida, are half-Terran and none of your kin. But Thyra may well be your cousin.”

He added, musing, “Old Rakhal's tale may well have been true. Felicia was a strange woman; her eyes were very strange. I always thought such tales mere drunken babble. Yet, having known Felicia . . .” He was silent, lost in memories of time long past. I looked at Marjorie, wondering. I had never believed such tales, either. Yet those eyes . . .

Kermiac laughed and dismissed me. “Nephew, since your eyes and heart are over there with Marguerida, take the rest of yourself along over there too!”

Thyra was gazing intently out into the storm; I could feel the questing tendrils of her thought and knew she was searching, through the gathering darkness, for her lover. Now Thyra, I could well believe, was not all human.

But Marjorie? She reached her hands to me and I caught them in one of mine, circled her waist with my free arm. Beltran said, joining us, “He'll be here soon. What then, Lew?”

“It's your plan,” I said, “and Kadarin is certainly enough of a telepath to fit into a circle. You know what we want to do, though there are limits to what can be done with a group this size. There are certainly technologies we can demonstrate. Road-building and surfacing, for instance. It should convince the Terrans we are worth watching. Powered aircraft may be more difficult. There may be records of that at Arilinn. But it won't be fast or easy.”

“You still feel I'm not fit to take a place in the matrix circle.”

“There's no question of fitness, you're not
able
. I'm sorry, Beltran. Some powers may develop. But without a catalyst . . .”

He set his mouth and for a moment he looked ugly. Then he laughed. “Maybe some day we can persuade the young one at Syrtis to join us, since you say he does not love the Comyn.”

There had been no sound I could hear, but Thyra turned from the window and went out of the hall. A few moments later she came back with Kadarin. He held in his arms a long, heavily wrapped bundle, waving away the servants who would have taken it.

Kermiac had risen to leave the table; he waited for Kadarin at the edge of the dais while the other people in the hall were leaving. Kadarin said, “I have it, kinsman, and a fine struggle I had with the old lady, too. Desideria sends you her compliments.” He made a wry face. Kermiac said, with a bleak smile, “Aye, Desideria ever had a mind of her own. You didn't have to use strong persuasion?”

There was sarcasm in Kadarin's grin. “You know Lady Storn better than I. Do you really think it would have availed much? Fortunately, it was not needed. I have small talent for bullying womenfolk.”

Kermiac held out his hand to take it, but Kadarin shook his head. “No, I made her a pledge and I must keep it, kinsman, to place it only in the hands of the Arilinn telepath and be guided by his judgment.”

Kermiac nodded and said, “Her judgment is good; honor your pledge, then, Bob.”

Kadarin laid the long bundle on the bench while he began removing his snow-crusted outer wear. I said, “You look as if you'd been out in the worst weather in the Hellers, Bob. Was it as bad as that?”

He nodded. “I didn't want to linger or be stormbound on the way, carrying
this
.” He nodded at the bundle, accepted the hot drink Marjorie brought him and gulped it thirstily. “Season's coming in early; another bad storm on the way. What have you done while I was away?”

Thyra met his eyes and I felt, like a small palpable shock, the quick touch and link as he came into the circle. It was easier than long explanations. He set down the empty cup and said, “Well done, children.”

“Nothing's done,” I said, “only begun.”

Thyra knelt and began to unfasten the knots in the long bundle. Kadarin caught her wrist. “No,” he said, “I made a pledge. Take it, Lew.”

“We know,” said Thyra, “we heard you.” She sounded impatient.

“Then will you set my word at nothing, wild-bird?” His hand holding hers motionless was large, brown, heavy-knuckled. Like the Ardais and the Aillards, he had six fingers on his hand. I could easily believe nonhuman blood there, too. Thyra smiled at him and he drew her against him, saying, “Lew, it's for you to take this.”

I knelt beside the bundle and began to unfasten the heavy wrappings. It was longer than my arm and narrow, and had been bundled into layer on layer of heavy canvas cloth, the layers bound and knotted with embroidered straps. Marjorie and Beltran came to look over my shoulder as I struggled with the knots. Inside the last layer of heavy canvas was a layer of raw colorless silk, like the insulation of a matrix. When I finally got it unrolled, I saw that it was a ceremonial or ornamental sword, forged of pure silver. An atavistic little prickle went down to the ends of my spine. I had never set eyes on this before. But I knew what it was.

My hands almost refused to take it, despite the thing of beauty the forge-folk had made to cover and guard it. Then I forced myself back to sanity. Was I as superstitious as Thyra thought me? I took the hilt in my hand, sensing the pulsing life within. I seized the sword in both hands and gave the hilt a hard twist.

It came off in my hand. Inside lay the matrix itself, a great blue stone, with an inner glimmer of curling fires which, trained as I was, made my head reel and my vision blur.

I heard Thyra gasp aloud. Beltran had quickly turned away. If it made me, after three seasons in Arilinn, fight for control, I could imagine what it had done to him. I quickly wadded it up in the silk, then took it gingerly between my fingers. I was immensely reluctant to look, even for a moment, into those endlessly
live
depths. Finally I bent my eyes to it. Space wrenched, tore at me. For a moment I felt myself falling, saw the face of a young girl shrouded in flame, crimson and orange and scarlet. It was a face I
knew
somehow—
Desideria
! The old woman I had seen in Kadarin's mind! Then the face shifted, shrouded, was no more a woman but a looming, towering form of fire, a woman's form, chained in gold, rising, flaming, striking, walls crumbling like dust. . . .

I wrapped it in the silk again and said, “Do you know what this is?”

Kadarin said, “It was used of old by the forge-folk to bring metals from the deeps of the ground to their fires.”

“I'm not so sure,” I said. “Some of the Sharra matrices were used that way. Others were . . . less innocent. I'm not sure this is a monitored matrix.”

“All the better. We want no Comyn eyes spying on what we do.”

“But that means it's essentially uncontrollable,” I said. “A monitored matrix has a safety factor: if it gets out of hand the monitor takes over and breaks the circle. Which is why I still have a right hand.” I held out the ugly scar. He flinched slightly and said, “Are you afraid?”

“Of this happening again? No. I know what precautions to take. But of this matrix? Yes, I am.”

“You Comyn are superstitious cowards! All my life I've heard about the powers of the Arilinn-trained telepaths and mechanics. Now you are afraid—”

Anger surged through me. Comyn, was I? And cowardly? It seemed that the anger pulsed, beat within me, surging up my arm from the matrix in my fist. I thrust it back into the sword, sealing it there. Thyra said, “Nothing's gained by calling names. Lew,
can
this be used for what Beltran has in mind?”

I found I had an incomprehensible desire to take the sword in my hand again. The matrix seemed to call me, demanding that I take it out, master it. . . . It was almost a sensual hunger. Could it really be dangerous, then? I put the canvas wrappings around it and gave Thyra's question some thought.

Finally I said, “Given a fully trained circle, one I can trust, yes, probably. A tower circle is usually seven or eight mechanics and a Keeper, and we seldom handle more than fourth- or fifth-level matrices. I know this one is stronger than that. And we have no trained Keeper.”

“Thyra can do that work,” Kadarin said.

I considered it for a moment. She had, after all, drawn us all around her, taking the central position with swift precision. But finally I shook my head.

“I won't risk it. She's worked wild too long. She's self-taught and her training could come apart under stress.” I thought of the prowling beast I had sensed when the circle formed. I felt Thyra's eyes on me and was painfully embarrassed, but I had been disciplined to rigid honesty within a circle. You can't hide from one another, it's disaster to try.

“I can control her,” Kadarin said.

“I'm sorry, Bob. That's no answer. She herself must be in control or she'll be killed, and it's not a nice way to die. I could control her myself, but the essence of a Keeper is that she does the controlling. I trust her powers, Bob, but not her judgment under stress. If I'm to work with her, I must trust her implicitly. And I can't. Not as Keeper. I think Marjorie can do it—if she will.”

Kadarin was regarding Marjorie with a curious wry smile. He said, “You're rationalizing. Do you think I don't know you're in love with her, and want her to have this post of honor?”