discover anything really useful from them.
You are doing fine, caria.
Thank you for the reassurance. I feel lake I am going to explode at any moment.
Well, you do resemble a kettle about to come to the boil-but a fine kettle,
indeed.
I never thought that being likened to a pot would seem so . . . loving!
They rode in companionable silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own
thoughts.
Mother!
Yes, Nico.
I can hear that Vancof now-he's not with the rest, but is in a thicket where he
can see us coming. A lookout, I guess. And he seems a bit surprised at our
numbers, and is starting to worry. He's trying to decade whether to retreat and
tell the main party, or stay where he is. Well, he really wants a drank, and he
is very worried, mostly about his own skin. He's wishing that he had run off
days ago, that he wasn't under orders, that Granfell was dead-a lot of jumbled
thoughts. Hmm . . . I am getting the impression that there is some sort of
division.
Division?
He's remembering some argument last night, between Granfell and the head of the
soldiers from the Hellers, Commander Shen. It is not really clear, but I think
that maybe this Shen was brought down here with orders he doesn't like, or that
maybe he doesn't like the whole situation. Sorry I am not able to be clearer,
but Vancof's mind is not very focused. Part of him wants to be anywhere else but
where he is, but the rest needs to find out what is going to happen. It is as if
he is paralyzed with indecision and curiosity at the same time.
Well, perhaps Shen is more honorable than Granfell and does not think that
attacking civilians is right.
It is something about the nature of the orders they received, I think. Maybe
this Shen fellow just doesn't want to get caught doing something the Federation
would punish him for. I wish I could tell you better.
You have already done a great deal, Nico. Thank you, my little spy.
Marguerida cleared her throat, annoyed by how taut her muscles were, and told
Mikhail and Danilo Syrtis-Ardais, who was riding on her right, what she had just
learned. She felt buttressed by the two men, as well as by the comforting bulks
of the Guardsmen riding around them. "That is useful to know," was Danilo's only
comment.
"I would give a great deal to learn exactly what the nature of the orders was,
if this mess ever gets sorted out."
"What do you mean, Mik?" It was such a relief to speak, to let her tension
express itself, however minimally.
"Who gave these orders? Was it Granfell or Belfontaine?"
"Why does that matter?"
"I think that Mikhail means that if Granfell is in charge, then Belfontaine can
say he knew nothing about this, but if he gave the orders, and it ever becomes
public, the Federation is going to be in a real situation." Danilo spoke very
slowly, as if he were puzzling it out even as he spoke.
"I don't see that it matters, one way or the other, if the Federation is leaving
Darkover anyhow." Marguerida spoke sharply.
"Perhaps. But what if they do not? It is going to be difficult to explain either
way-not to mention our part in things."
Marguerida shrugged, trying to keep herself from being drawn into new worries.
"They have given us the perfect reason-the funeral train was attacked by
bandits, and they were slain."
"I hope so. But we have to consider that the Federation might change its mind,
and decide that we somehow provoked them."
"Stop. We cannot start second guessing now, Mikhail," Danilo said crisply.
"Let's just get through this alive, and worry about the outcome afterward."
Donal, who was riding on Mikhail's left, gave a little bark of unexpected
laughter. "You mean 'Kill them all and let the gods sort it out'?" he asked.
"Something like that," Danilo replied, looking a little embarrassed by this
blunt pronouncement.
The nearest Guardsmen suddenly grinned, as if they rather liked the sentiment
the young paxman had expressed. Faint chuckles rose from tense throats, and the
grim mood lifted for a moment. Everyone seemed to take a breath, as if their
lungs were aching for air, before settling back into vigilance.
Mikhail gave Donal a look of mixed approval and apprehension and shifted in his
saddle. Then he turned his eyes toward his wife. This all feels so unreal, as of
we were . . .
In some old poem, beloved? 'Into the Valley of Death rode the Six Hundred . . .'
That's it! I could not put my finger on at, and it has been driving me frantic.
This is not a poem, and we are not riding into the Valley of Death, my cario.
This is very real. And people will die this day, not the least poetically.
Marguerida could feel the sternness of her thoughts, and the conflict beneath
them.
How . . .?
I had a brief flash and saw bodies, but whose I cannot say, except that neither
yours nor Nico's were amongst them.
And you?
I hardly think I could have seen what little I did without knowing of my own
death, Mikhail. Marguerida refused to let herself think about the possibility
that she might have been dead in her own vision and never have known it. That
was too frightening.
Now they were within a quarter mile of the waiting enemy, although there was
nothing except the silence of the birds to suggest anything unusual. They could
see no figures in the trees ahead, nor any movement. But Marguerida could pick
up the tension of the ambushers, even if she could not sort them out
individually. Here and there were a few focused thoughts-from seasoned veterans,
she suspected. Was this Shen among them, and could she discover him?
And what might she do if she did? She turned over several ideas in her own mind,
wondering if she could use the Alton Gift at this distance on someone she had
never encountered in her life. She rather doubted it would be effective, and it
probably would not stop the attack. There did not seem to be any way out of
their peril, and she knew she should just stop looking for other avenues.
At last she faced herself, and looked fiercely at the real problem with their
plan. It had seemed perfectly fine back in the Crystal Chamber, but her husband
was going to use his incredible powers in a way he never had before-he was a
healer, and now he intended to be a destroyer. She shuddered suddenly. She did
not want to kill anyone, and neither did Mikhail!
Part of her wanted to relieve him of the terrible responsibility, to take it on
her own shoulders. But she knew she must not, that they must share the outcome
together. Mikhail would never be able to forgive her if she tried to protect him
now. She had to let him do this thing which ran against the grain, against
everything he had stood for since he received Varzil's ring. Her own powers
could do a great deal of damage, but it was Mikhail's that would ultimately
decide the day. He was the ruler of Darkover now, and that meant she had to let
him do what was needed, for anything else would unman him.
This was, she thought wryly, a fine time to be having second thoughts.
 
; Marguerida examined her sudden spate of ethical considerations, chided herself
for not thinking of them earlier, and decided that she would just have to live
with the consequences. Donal was right. Let the gods sort it out. The only
problem-there never seemed to be any around when they were needed.
Then, with a flash of insight, she knew that Mikhail was experiencing his own
struggle, too. If it was hard for her, how much more difficult must it be for
him? Neither of them were at all bloodthirsty, and the idea of killing the men
still secreted among the trees, even if they were enemies, was morally
repugnant. But she would do the deed, and suffer the consequences of conscience
another day.
Still, it was hard. Marguerida forced herself to accept things as they were,
rather than as she wished they might be, and finally felt herself let go of her
reluctance. Her doubts remained, gnawing at the back of her mind, but she
shushed them sternly, and turned her attention back to the small wooded draw
where the enemy waited. She sensed alertness, fear, excitement, and after
several moments, something else. What was it?
Hesitation, she decided at last, from one mind among so many. Was this Commander
Shen? In view of the little information Domenic had given her, it seemed a
likely conjecture. Marguerida had the impulse to try to influence that faint but
discernible emotion, to nudge this unknown person into a peaceable direction. It
would have been a delicate thing to manage with someone she knew well, and
nearly impossible with a stranger, but she was tempted. If only she could speak
to this person, she could use the Command Voice. Surely it would be better for
the enemy to withdraw without engaging-lives could be saved.
The opportunity passed. She felt the stranger quell his doubts, harden his
resolve, and determine to give the order. "They are going to attack, Mik," she
said quietly.
"Was there ever any doubt of it?" His voice was thick with tension.
"Yes, for a few moments, there was."
"Damn!"
"I know. But somehow we will come out of it . . ."
"This is going to change everything-I can feel that now!" And the worst part is,
I think Varzil foresaw this. It was more than just getting the ring away from
Ashara when he died-he said that it had to exist now for the future of Darkover!
I wish it were not so. I will not be the same person after today, and I do not
know if I can live with that . . . but I must.
Marguerida glanced at her husband for a moment, wondering what he meant. And
then she knew, had always known, but had concealed it from herself, to protect
herself from the pain this day would bring her husband and herself. This was
their destiny, hers and Mikhail's. It gave her a terrible feeling of
helplessness, as if she had never had a choice. Fate had put a finger on her
life, and the best she could do was try to survive it. Since that day, years
before, when she had returned to Darkover, had set her foot down on the tarmac
of the spaceport and crossed from the Terran Sector into Thendara, she had been
preparing for this moment in time. And Mikhail too. That she could accept,
although it cost her, but there were others involved, and she experienced a
flash of fury that her strange destiny must include them. There was nothing fair
about it, she decided, and then ruthlessly closed her mind to further
rumination.
Dirck Vancof lowered the longviewer and wiped a bead of moisture from his brow.
In spite of the cold breeze blowing across the rise he had chosen to sight from,
he was sweating like a pig. His guts were knotted, and his head pounded. He
shook his head. The train was much better guarded than he had expected, and he
had a sinking sensation, one he knew all too well. He never should have gotten
involved with Granfell's insane plan.
Then, almost magically, everything became completely clear to him. If he stayed
where he was, he was going to get killed. He was torn with indecision for a
moment-should he just take off into the woods and fields beyond? The idea of
spending the rest of his life on this chilly hell of a planet was vile. Worse,
without the Travelers to conceal him, he had few resources. Yes, he could pass
for a native, but he was sick and tired of Darkover, and had been for five years
now.
A slow grin began to grow. He turned and started down the hill, toward the
encampment where the techs had set up their equipment. He knew what he had to do
now, and it was so obvious and so simple that he could hardly believe it had
taken him so long to think of it. To hell with all of them, Granfell and
Belfontaine-he was going to take care of Mother Vancof's little boy.
Halfway down the hill, he saw Miles Granfell climbing toward him, and he smiled
to himself. The fool had no idea that Belfontaine had ordered him to kill
Granfell, and the man was going to make it easy. His miserable luck was changing
at last.
"I was coming to get you," Granfell told him as he drew near. With a nod, Vancof
moved down the hill a few feet more, and then, without a wasted movement, he
plunged a knife into Granfell's throat, using the incline of the slope to
compensate for the other man's greater height. He glimpsed a flicker of surprise
in the gray eyes, and there was a spasm of movement from his hands. A bubbling
gurgle came from the gaping mouth as blood gushed from the wound and spilled
down onto his garment. Then Granfell's knees buckled, and he went down, sliding
down the hill until his body encountered a tree.
Vancof walked over to the corpse, bent down to make certain the bastard was
really dead, and yanked out the knife. He wiped the blade on Granfell's tunic,
and kicked the dead man's torso for good measure. Then he strolled away,
whistling under his breath.
A few minutes later he reached the encampment and looked around casually, as if
he did not have a care in the world. Most of the troops were already in
position, and the only people he saw were a few techs waiting for something to
happen. They paid no attention when he strolled toward the two heavy flyers that
had ferried them down from the Hellers the night before.
He entered the unguarded door of the closest one, pressed the button to close it
behind him, and walked toward the controls. It took no more than a few seconds
to sit down and punch the controls into life-the machine was easy to operate and
he had flown them before. The engine hummed as he set the coordinates for the
spaceport in Thendara.
Vancof heard a dull thump against the closed door of the vehicle, and, very
faintly, a shout. Then the flyer lifted effortlessly off the ground and he was
aloft, soaring over the trees. He had a last glimpse of the encampment, and of
the funeral train stretched along the road. For a second he thought he saw
something explode on the road, and wondered what was happening. He gave a shrug
and sped away into the air.
Marguerida heard Danilo exclaim beside her. She saw he was pointing into the sky
and she saw the shimmering outline of a flyer for a moment, rising above the
trees. Almost before she had time to wonder
if they were going to be assaulted
from above, she heard the howl of voices, and a group of men burst out of the
trees ahead of her. They were dressed in Darkovan clothing, muted brown or green
tunics, their faces concealed under scarves. They charged into the foremost
Guardsmen, swinging thick sticks at the legs of the horses.
But the Guards did not lose control. Instead, they pulled their mounts together,
using them as both a defense and an offense. The horses reared and kicked out at
the attackers, and at the same time their large bodies protected their riders
for a few moments. The Guardsmen began to wield their swords and spears
efficiently, cutting at heads and shoulders. There was the twang of bowstrings,
and a flight of arrows arced into the trees. From the cries, several found their
marks.
Clever, she thought, as she yanked her hand free of her riding glove, then
pulled the silken mitt beneath it away. It was almost exactly what real bandits
would have done, if they were on foot against men on horses. Behind her she
could hear shouting, as the drivers of the wagons and carriages pulled their
vehicles into defensive positions around the horsedrawn hearse which bore the
body of Regis Hastur and the coaches containing the noncombatants. At the rear
of the train, the doors of several carriages opened, and the men who had hidden
within them, waiting for just this moment, bolted out.
A second rush of attackers surged from beneath the trees, and she could hear the
shrieking of frightened horses. Marguerida extended her hand, palm upward,
rejecting the panic that threatened to seize her, and saw Mikhail's ungloved
hand steady above it. As her matrix grounded and supported his, there was no
doubt, no hesitation, nothing but a sureness of purpose that calmed her
instantly and filled her with an almost euphoric bond of unity as they began to
build the wonderful cone of power that only they could create between them.
Light burst from the gleaming jewel on Mikhail's hand, rising up toward the
clouded sky, surrounding her, then widening into a globe of shimmering energy
that would protect them, the body of Regis, and those in the guarded coaches.
Marguerida slipped into the sensation of completeness that was the joining of
her power with that of Mikhail, all the love that they had given one another