“Well,” said Ellemir, puzzled, but trying to follow his vehemence, “in the Towers they have other things to do. Important things. Communications. And… and mining, and all of those things. They would have no time to look after wounds.”
“That’s true. But listen, Elli, all over Darkover there are men like Dezi, or women like Callista, or like you. Women and men who cannot, do not want to spend their lives in a Tower, away from the ordinary lives of humankind. But they could do any of these things.” He sank down on the bed beside Ellemir, realizing he was more fatigued than after any battle he had fought in the Guards. “One need not be Comyn, or have enormous skill, to do these things. Anyone with a little laran could be trained so, to help, to heal, and no one does!”
“But Damon,” she said reasonably, “I have always heard—Callista has told me—it is dangerous to use these powers outside the Towers.”
“Flummery!” Damon exclaimed. “Are you so superstitious, Elli? You yourself have been in contact with Callista. Did you find it so dangerous?”
“No,” she said uneasily, “but during the Ages of Chaos, so many terrible things were done with the great matrix screens, such terrible weapons—fire-forms, and wind-creatures to tear down castles and whole walls, and creatures from other dimensions walking abroad in the land—that they decreed in those days that all matrix work should be done only in the Towers, and only under safeguards.”
“But that time is past, Ellemir, and most of those enormous, illegal matrix weapons were destroyed during the Ages of Chaos, or in the days of Varzil the Good. Do you really think that because I healed four men’s frozen feet and restored to them the ability to use their limbs, that I am likely to send a fire-form raging in the forest, or raise a cave-thing to blight the crops?”
“No, no, of course not.” She sat up, holding out her arms to him. “Lie down, rest, my dearest, you are so weary.”
He let her help him undress, and lay down at her side, but he went on, staring stubbornly into the darkness.
“Elli, there is something very wrong with the use we are making of telepaths here on Darkover. Either they must live guarded all their lives within the Towers, hardly human—you know that it nearly destroyed me when I was sent from Arilinn—or else they must give up everything they have learned. Like Callista—Evanda pity her,” he added, a flicker of consciousness still in link with Andrew, looking down at the sleeping Callista, traces of tears still on her face. “She has had to give up everything she ever learned, everything she has ever done. She is afraid to do anything else. There ought to be a way, Elli, there ought to be a way!”
“Damon, Damon,” she entreated, holding him close, “it has always been so. The Tower-trained are wiser than we are; they must know what they are about when they ordain it so!”
“I am not so sure.”
“In any case, there is nothing we can do about it now, my dearest. You must rest now, and calm yourself, or you will disturb her,” she said, taking Damon’s hand in her own and laying it against her body. Damon, knowing he was being deliberately diverted, but willing to go along with it—after all, Ellemir was right—smiled, letting himself begin to pick up the formless, random emanations—not yet thoughts—of the unborn child. “Her, you said?”
Ellemir laughed softly in delight. “I am not sure how I know, but I am certain of it. A little Callista, perhaps?”
Damon thought, I hope her life will be happier. I would not wish to see the hand of Arilinn laid on any daughter of mine… Then he suddenly shuddered, in a flick of precognition seeing a slender red-haired woman, in the crimson robes of a Keeper in Arilinn… She tore them from neck to ankle, rending them, casting them aside… He blinked. It was gone. Precognition? Or was it a dramatization, an hallucination, born of his own disquiet? Holding his wife and child in his arms, he tried to put it all aside for the time.
* * *
Chapter Seven
« ^ »
The frostbitten men were recovering, but with so many men disabled, an extra share of the actual physical work fell on Andrew, and even Damon took a hand now and then. The weather had moderated, but Dom Esteban told them this was only a break before the real winter storms would sweep down from the Hellers, layering the foothills deep in snow for months.
Damon had offered to ride to Serrais with Andrew, and bring back some surplus men from the estate there, to work for the estate through the winter, and help with the crops in the early spring. The journey would last more than a tenday. They were making plans in the Great Hall of Armida that morning. Ellemir’s morning sickness had subsided, and, as usual, she was in the kitchens, supervising the women with their work. Callista was seated beside her father when suddenly she sat upright with a look of disquiet. She said, “Oh—Elli, Elli—oh, no—!” But even before she was on her feet Damon’s chair crashed over backward and he ran toward the kitchens. At that moment there were cries of dismay from the other rooms.
Dom Esteban grumbled, “What’s wrong with those women?” but no one was listening. Callista had run toward the kitchen door. After a moment Damon came hurrying back, beckoned to Andrew,
“Ellemir has fainted. I do not want any stranger touching her now. Can you carry her?”
Ellemir lay in a crumpled heap on the kitchen floor, surrounded by staring, crowding women. Damon motioned them away, and Andrew picked up Ellemir. Her pallor was frightening, but Andrew knew nothing about pregnant women, and fainting like this, he supposed, was not so alarming.
“Carry her to her room, Andrew. I will go and call Ferrika.”
By the time Andrew laid Ellemir on her own bed Damon was there with the woman. His hands closed on Ellemir’s as he slipped into rapport with her, searching for the faint, formless contact with the unborn. Even as he felt in his own body the painful spasms racking Ellemir’s, he knew, in anguish, what was happening. He begged, “Can’t you do anything?”
Ferrika said gently, “I will do all I can, Lord Damon,” but over her bent head, Damon met Callista’s eyes. They were full of tears. She said, “Ellemir is not in danger, Damon. But it’s already too late for the baby.”
Ellemir clutched at Damon’s hands. “Don’t leave me,” she begged, and he murmured, “No, love. Never. I’ll stay with you.” This was custom; no telepath Comyn of the Domains left his wife alone while she bore their child, or shrank from sharing her ordeal. And now he must strengthen Ellemir for their loss, not for joy. Fighting back his own anguished grief, he knelt beside her, holding her in his arms, cradling her against him.
Andrew had gone downstairs again to Dom Esteban, with nothing to tell except that Damon was with her, and Callista, and they had sent for Ferrika. He felt the pall that lay over the estate, all that day. Even the maids clustered in frightened huddles. Andrew wanted to reach out for Damon, to try to strengthen him, reassure him, but what could he do or say? Once, looking up the stairs, he saw Dezi coming from the outer hall, and Dezi asked “How is Ellemir?” and Andrew’s resentment against the youngster overflowed.
“Much you care!”
“I don’t wish Elli any harm,” Dezi said, queerly subdued. “She’s the only one here who’s ever been decent to me.” He turned his back on Andrew and went away, and Andrew had the odd sense that Dezi, too, was near to tears.
Damon and Ellemir had been so happy about their baby, and now this! Andrew wondered wildly if his own ill luck had somehow proved contagious, if the trouble of his own marriage had somehow rubbed off on the other couple. Realizing that this was absolute insanity, he went down to the greenhouse and tried to lose himself in giving orders to the gardeners.
Hours later, Damon came out of the room where Ellemir lay, asleep now, pain and grief alike forgotten in one of Ferrika’s sleeping draughts. The midwife, pausing for a moment beside him, said gently, “Lord Damon, better now than for the poor little thing to live to birth and be born deformed. The mercy of Avarra takes strange forms.”
“I know you did what you could, Ferrika.” But Damon tur
ned away, unstrung, not wanting the woman to see him weeping. She understood, and went quietly down the stairs, and Damon went blindly along the hall, shrinking from the need to tell Dom Esteban. By instinct he headed toward the greenhouse, finding Andrew there. Andrew came toward him, asking gently, “How is Ellemir? Is she out of danger?”
“Should I be here if she were not?” Damon asked, then, remembering, dropped down on a crate, covered his face with his hands, and gave way to his grief. Andrew stood beside him, his hand on his friend’s shoulder, trying without words to give Damon some support, the knowledge of his own compassion.
“The worst of it is,” Damon said at last, raising his ravaged face, “Elli thinks she has failed me, that she could not carry our daughter safely to life. If there is fault it is mine, who left her to care for this great house alone. Mine in any case! We are too near akin, doubly cousins, and in such close kinship there is often a heritage of death in the blood. I should never have married her! I should never have married her! I love her, I love her, but I knew she wanted children, and I should have known it was not safe, we were such close kin… I do not know if I will dare to let her try again.” Damon finally quieted a little, and stood up, Saying wearily, “I should go back. When she wakes, she will want me beside her.” For the first time since Andrew had known him, he looked his full age.
And he had envied Damon his happiness! Ellemir was young, they could have other children. But with this weight of guilt?
Later he found Callista in the small stone-floored still-room, her hair tied up in the faded cloth she wore to keep away the herb-smells. She raised her face to him and he saw that it still bore the traces of tears. Had she shared that ordeal with her twin? But her voice had the remote calm he had grown to expect in Callista, and somehow it jarred on him now.
“I am making something which will lessen the bleeding; it must be freshly made or it is not so effective, and she must have it every few hours.” She was pounding some thick grayish leaves in a small mortar. She scraped the mash into a cone-shaped glass and set it to filter through layers of closely woven cloth, carefully measuring and pouring a colorless liquid over it.
“There. That must filter before I can do anymore.” She turned to him, raising her eyes. He asked, “But Elli—she will recover? And she can have other children, in time?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so.”
He wanted to reach out and take her in his arms, comfort the grief she shared with her twin. But he dared not even touch her hand. Aching with frustration, he turned away.
My wife. And I have never even kissed her. Damon and Ellemir have their shared sorrow; what have I shared with Callista?
Gently, pitying the grief in her eyes, he said, “Dear love, is it really such a tragedy? It’s not as if she had lost a real baby. A child ready for birth, yes, but a fetus at this stage? How can it be so serious?”
He was not prepared for the horror and rage with which she turned on him. Her face was white, her eyes blazing like the flame beneath the retort. “How can you say such a thing?” she whispered. “How dare you? Don’t you know that for twice a tenday, both Damon and Ellemir had been in contact with—with her mind, had come to know her as a real presence, their own child?” Andrew flinched at her anger. He had never thought of it, that in a family of telepaths, an unborn child would certainly be a presence. But so soon? So quickly? And what kind of thoughts could a fetus hardly more than a third of the way through pregnancy—But Callista picked up the scorn in that thought. She flung back at him, shaking, “Will you say, then, it is no tragedy if our son—or daughter—should die before he was strong enough to live outside my body?” Her voice trembled. “Is nothing real that you cannot see, Terranan?”
Andrew raised his head for an angry retort: It seems we are never likely to know; you are not very likely to bear me a child as things are now. But her white, anguished face stopped him. He could not return taunt for taunt. That thoughtless Terranan had hurt, but he had pledged her that he would never try to hurry her, never put her under the slightest pressure. He bit the angry words back, then saw, in the dismay that swept across her face, that she had heard them anyway.
Of course. She is a telepath. The taunt I did not speak was as real to her as if I had actually shouted it.
“Callista,” he whispered, “darling, I’m sorry. Forgive me. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” She stumbled against him, clung there, her bright head against him. She stood, shaking, within the circle of his arm. “Oh, Andrew, Andrew, I wish we had even that…” she whispered, and sobbed aloud.
He held her, hardly daring to move. She felt taut, feather-like, like some wild bird which had flown to him and would take flight again at a word or an incautious move. After a moment her sobs quieted, and it was the old, still, resigned face she turned to him. She moved away, so gently that he hardly felt forsaken.
“Look, the liquid has all filtered through. I must finish the medicine I am making for my sister.” She laid her fingertips lightly against his lips, in the old gesture; he kissed them, realizing that in an odd way this quarrel had drawn them closer.
How much longer? In the name of all the Gods at once, how much longer can we go on like this? And even as the thought tore through his mind, he realized he was not sure whether it was his own or Callista’s.
Three days later, Andrew and Damon rode out, as planned, for Serrais. Ellemir was out of danger, and there was nothing more that Damon’s presence could do for her. Nothing, Damon knew, could help Ellemir now but time.
Andrew felt strangely relieved, although he would have been ashamed to say so, to get away. He had not realized how the tension between himself and Callista, the aura of silent grief, had weighed down on him at Armida.
The wide high plains, the mountains in the distance, all this could have been the Arizona horse ranch of Andrew’s childhood. Yet he had only to open his eyes to see the great red sun, gleaming like a bloodshot eye through the morning fogs, to know that he was not on Terra, that he was nowhere on Earth. It was midmorning, but two small shadowy moons, pale violet and dim lime green, swung low beyond the crest of the hill, one nearing the full, another a waning crescent. The very smell of the air was strange, and yet it was his home now, his home for the rest of his life. And Callista. Callista, waiting for him. His mind’s eye retained the memory of her face, pale, smiling from the top of the steps as he rode away. He cherished the smile in memory, that with all the grief their marriage had brought to her, she could still smile at him, give him her fingertips to kiss, bid him ride with the Gods in the soft speech he was beginning to understand: “Adelandeyo.”
Damon, too, brightened perceptibly as the miles lengthened under their horses’ hooves. The last few days had put lines in his face that had never been there before, but he no longer looked old, weighted down with anguish. At midday they dismounted to eat their noon meal, tying their horses to graze on the new grass poking up sturdy leaves through the remnants of the last blizzard’s snow. They found a dry log to sit on, surrounded by flower buds casting their snow-pods and breaking out in riotous bud and leaf as if it were spring. But when Andrew asked about it, Damon said blankly, “Spring? Zandru’s Hells, no, it’s not even full winter yet, not till after Midwinter feast! Oh, the flowers?” He chuckled. “With the weather here, they bloom whenever there’s a day or two of sun and warmth. Your Terran scientists have a phrase for it, evolutionary adaptation. In the Kilghard Hills, there are only a few days in high summer when it doesn’t snow, so the flowers bloom whenever they get a little sun. If you think it looks odd here, you should go into the Hellers, and see the flowers and fruits that grow around Nevarsin. We can’t grow ice-melons here; you know. It’s too warm—they’re a plant of the glaciers.” And indeed, Damon had taken off his fur riding cape, and was riding in shirt-sleeves, though Andrew was still muffled against what seemed a cold, biting day.
Damon unwrapped the bundle of food Callista had given them for their journey, and broke out laug
hing. “Callista says—and is very apologetic—that she knows very little of housekeeping. But we are in luck, since she has not yet learned what is suitable food to give to travelers!” There was a cold roast fowl, which Damon divided with the knife at his belt, and a loaf of bread still faintly warm from the oven, and Andrew could not imagine why Damon was laughing.
He said, “I don’t see what’s funny about it. She asked me what I thought I would like to eat during a long ride, and I told her .”
Damon laughed, handing Andrew a generous portion of the roast meat. It was fragrant with spices which the Terran had not yet learned to identify by name. “For some reason, just custom, I suppose, about all the food one can ever get for the road would be hard journey-bread, dried meat rolls, dried fruits and nuts, that sort of thing.” He watched Andrew slicing up the bread, making a neat sandwich of the roast meat. “That looks good. I think I shall try it. And—will wonders never cease!—she gave us fresh apples too, from the cellar. Well, well!” He was laughing as he bit with gusto into the leg of the roast fowl. “It would never have occurred tof me to question traveler’s food and it would never have occurred to Elli to ask me if it was what I wanted! Maybe we can use some new ideas on our world!”
He sobered, lost in thought as he watched Andrew eating the sliced meat and bread. He himself had had heretical thoughts about matrix work outside the Towers. There ought to be a way. But he knew if he broached that to Leonie, she would be horrified, as horrified as if they were in the days of Regis the Fourth.
She would have known he was using a matrix, of course. Every legitimate matrix keyed to a Comyn telepath was monitored from the great screens in the Arilinn Tower. They could have identified Damon from his matrix, and Dezi, and, perhaps, though Damon was not sure, even Andrew.