“I do not know if he will break his seclusion,” Silvana said, “but I would not make that choice for him. It will do no harm to ask.”
The two leroni stayed with Jeram until the last effects of the kirian had passed, then left him to sleep. As he lay on the bed, his muscles trembled with fatigue, as if he had just run a dozen miles in full battle gear.
He wondered if this Lord Alton had been one of the funeral cortege he had helped to ambush. These natives were primitive by Federation standards, and such people took matters of honor and revenge very seriously.
There was nothing for it but to go along. Jeram was too weak to leave the Tower on his own, and he did not fully understand the nature of his affliction. He could not go back to hiding, to living in disguise. This thing within his mind had roused and must be dealt with. Like a folk-tale genie, it could not be put back into its bottle.
If what Silvana and Illona had told him was true—and he had every reason to believe them—he needed Lord Alton’s help.
Hope and fear and survival instinct roiled together in him. His body exhausted, he drifted through formless dreams punctuated by shadowy figures, faces with burning eyes…a woman of flame…a city of corpses…
Afar, a voice cried out, and he knew it for his own.
18
Lew Alton sat at his accustomed place in the back of the chapel of St.-Valentine-of-the-Snows. The monks had departed after the morning hymns, but Lew remained, savoring the silence. It had become his habit to spend time in quiet contemplation following the chanting of the morning office. Around him, the ancient stone walls still held the final sustained chords.
The voices of the monks, from the reedy tenor of the youngest novice to the rusty quavering of the oldest, never failed to evoke Lew’s wonder, that so many disparate tones could come together in a single soaring harmony. Individually, they were far from beautiful, yet from the indrawn breath before the first syllable to the last sustained note, they formed a transcendent wholeness.
Early in his sojourn here, Father Master had set him to reading the words of the holy saint.
“The truest words are not spoken by the mouth, but by the heart; the deepest silence is not heard by the ears, but by the spirit. Speak then with your heart, and listen with your soul.”
This early in the day, shadows wreathed the chapel. A single lamp burned in the shrine. The monks came and went, threading their way between the rows of benches with their eyes closed, relying on their other senses. Lew supposed he was too old to learn their unerring inner sense of direction, but Father Conn had encouraged him to try, beginning with sitting here, eyes closed.
Breathe in…
Breathe out…
Bits of thought and memory drifted through Lew’s mind, a line of fire sweeping through forested mountains, walking with Marjorie Scott on a frosty morning through Caer Donn, the aching void where his right hand had been…
Breathe in…
Breathe out…
At last, tranquility crept over him. He felt the air whispering through his lungs, the faint pulsation of his heart, the repose of his arms and legs. Even the mild stiffness in his neck, he accepted without complaint. On some days, stillness never arrived, and he would pass an hour or more, wrestling with his thoughts until he gave up or the bells summoned him to some other activity.
Gradually, Lew’s awareness returned to the chapel around him, the pressure of the worn wooden bench, and the chilled flesh of his one hand. He had not learned the technique of warming his body from within. The monks, it was said, could sleep on the glacier ice in perfect comfort, wearing no more than their sandals and robes.
Moving slowly, Lew made his way along the darkened aisle. Once he would have bounded up the stairs to Father Conn’s office, but his knees had endured too many winters. Now it was part of his discipline to be gentle with his limitations. Warm food was provided for him, as well as extra blankets and time to get where he needed to go. Slowly he climbed, letting his muscles and joints work within their capacity.
Father Conn looked up from his desk as Lew entered. Morning sun poured through the leaded glass windows, filling the room with gentle golden light. A beautifully calligraphed prayer book, its illuminated initials spots of bright color, lay open on the desk beside a pile of papers covered with notations.
Pausing just inside the doorway, Lew bowed. The salutation was not required, as Lew had not taken vows, nor was he likely to. He bowed out of genuine respect. From its alcove, the carved statue of the Bearer of Burdens seemed to smile in welcome.
Lew settled himself in his usual place, the cushioned chair set aside for guests. Monks and novices used a backless bench. After exchanging greetings, Lew said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
“Indeed? What in particular struck you as worthy of thought?”
“You said that I knew a great deal about living with guilt and that I’d gotten comfortable with it. I don’t understand. How else should I feel, after everything I’ve done?”
Father Conn folded his hands together. Ink stained the skin of the right forefinger, and a scar ran down the back of one hand like imprinted lightning. “I have never noticed any correspondence between how a man thinks he should feel and how he actually does feel.”
This was, Lew thought, typical of Father Conn’s comments, so different from what he expected from a man who lived bounded by rules, from the first oath of a novice to the final Creed of Chastity. In all the tendays since his arrival at St. Valentine’s, the old man had never once lectured him. Instead, he had offered Lew encouragement, instruction in meditation, and commonsense observations.
“I have told you the part I played in the destruction of Caer Donn,” Lew said, “not to mention everything that happened during my exile on Vainwal and Thetis. Are you saying I ought not to accept responsibility for those things?”
“Are guilt and responsibility the same thing?”
Add to the list, infuriating rhetorical questions.
“No,” Lew said, trying not to feel irritated, “they are not the same. Responsibility is a fact—I made choices, I did things for reasons that seemed good at the time, yet the results will haunt me all my life. Guilt is what I feel when I think of them.”
“Exactly how does your guilt change what you have done? You say you regret your actions. You offer up your own pain in the form of guilt, as if it were holy penance. I ask you again, how does tormenting yourself help those you have wronged?”
It cannot. Neither I nor any man can change the past. I must live with it forever.
A long moment of silence passed. Gently, Father Conn leaned forward and said, “The holy St. Valentine was no stranger to guilt, either. He believed it was a prison of his own making, that as long as he remained wedded to remorse, he could never move beyond it to true healing.”
“I do not deserve healing.”
“Perhaps. But the world does. The people you harmed do. Take your guilt, my son, and turn it into right action. Repair what you have broken.”
“How?” The question burst from the very depths of Lew’s soul. “How can I undo what I have done? Where in this world or the next is there any forgiveness for me?”
Father Conn sat back, once again regarding Lew with quiet compassion. “That I cannot tell you. Each man must discover the path to atonement for himself. I know you are not of our faith, yet the Holy Bearer of Burdens answers prayers regardless of the beliefs of those who offer them. You could do far worse than to ask for guidance.”
With those words, Father Conn rose, signaling an end to the audience. Lew bowed again, a brief, distracted movement, and headed back toward his chamber in the guesthouse. Had he been given such an answer when he first arrived, he would have stormed away from Nevarsin without another thought. The insufferable arrogance of the old man, to suggest that he, Lewis-Kennard Alton of the Comyn, descendent of Hastur, son of Aldones, Lord of Light, would pray to an obscure penitential saint! But in the tendays and months of daily medit
ation, of song and discussion and gradual delving into his own heart, Lew had come to an abiding respect for this place and its people. If Father Conn thought prayer would help, then he would try.
Even as Lew crossed the courtyard, drawing his cloak about his shoulders, words formed in his mind.
I don’t know who You are, or if You even exist, but if You do, have pity on me. Show me what I must do.
Upon entering the guesthouse, Lew found a young man, a stranger, sitting there. From the lad’s ginger hair, aura of trained psychic power, and Tower-style clothing, he must be a laranzu. The young man introduced himself as Anndra MacDiarmid, matrix mechanic of Nevarsin Tower.
“Dom Lewis Alton, I am sent by my Keeper to request your assistance. She believes your particular experience may shed some light on a problem that has newly presented itself.” Anndra had clearly rehearsed the speech.
Particular experience? Lew stiffened. Could there be some lingering trouble from the Sharra disaster, after all this time? Perhaps some poor soul had escaped the flaming ruin of Caer Donn, eventually making his way here.
“If there is any help I can offer,” he said, “I will gladly do so.”
Lew’s horse, a black Armida-bred gelding he had trained himself, with perfect manners and a mouth like silk, was kept in the monastery stables. As Lew could not easily manage, one-handed, Anndra went about saddling the horse. Within a short time the two of them set out toward the village and the Tower beyond it.
As Lew entered the gates of Nevarsin Tower, he sensed the ordered discipline of a working circle, the cool sure touch of its Keeper, the intricate patterns of matrix lattices. He remembered his short time at Arilinn, among the happiest in his life.
Anndra escorted Lew upstairs, where the Keeper awaited him. Although Lew had no memory of having met Silvana before, there was something tantalizingly familiar about her. Perhaps it was some family resemblance to someone he knew, for the Comyn were so inbred that he would not be surprised to learn they were all cousins to one degree or another. She could well be a nedestra daughter of one of the great lords, or she could be from an obscure collateral branch.
After they had exchanged the courtesies usual among matrix workers, Silvana said, “A man has come to us for healing, and there is no one here at Nevarsin Tower with practical knowledge of the use of laran to overpower another man’s will or experience in how a mind so shattered may be mended.”
Lew flinched. Was he never to be free of that terrible time of enslavement to Sharra?
He had prayed for guidance, not knowing what form it might take. Could this plea for help be the answer, a chance to wrest some good out of all the evil that had come before?
Silvana opened a door and stood aside to let Lew enter, carefully drawing back to avoid any inadvertent physical contact. Morning sun touched the unadorned stone walls, revealing an infirmary with two beds, a couple of stools, folding tables and storage cabinets along the walls. The air held the faint, unmistakable residue of laran power. A man lay in the far bed, and a young woman looked up from where she sat beside it. With a start, Lew recognized her as Domenic’s friend, Illona Rider. She and Domenic had begun their studies at Neskaya Tower together. Lew had forgotten that she had transferred to Nevarsin after the first year.
Illona rose and stood back so that Lew might approach. Lew’s first thought was that the patient had none of the characteristic features of the Comyn, and yet he clearly possessed laran. The man’s eyes, a shade of brown unusual on Darkover, widened as he met Lew’s gaze.
“It’s him!” the man shouted in Terran Standard. The words reverberated through Lew’s skull. “It’s him!”
Screaming inarticulately, the man scrambled to his feet. Illona grabbed his nearest arm. Quick as a mountain cat, he twisted free. The movement sent her sprawling.
The man, wearing only an ordinary shirt and loose pants, stood with his legs braced in a fighting stance. There was nothing Lew could do—he could not run, he certainly could not mount any kind of defense. By instinct, he reached for his only weapon, the Alton Gift, and in that instant knew he could never use it again, not even to save his own life.
This is the answer I prayed for, this choice, he thought, and drew himself up to face the attack.
“This is a Tower, not a tavern! Cease this brawling immediately!” Silvana took a step into the room. The air shimmered with the power of her laran. Lew’s vision went white. Warmth suffused him, a rising sense of well-being.
Enough. Lew was not sure whether Silvana had spoken aloud or only in his mind. He heard Illona’s quick indrawn breath, the rustle of a gown and a soft step on the carpeted floor, and then a moan from the other man as he crumpled to the floor.
Vision returned. Illona and Silvana were lifting the nearly unconscious patient back on to the bed. Lew himself was still braced against the wall beside the door. Laran flooded the air, the twisted patterns of an unstable talent. He recognized the distinctive tang, like overheated metal.
With a hoarse cry, the man arched upward, arms and legs flailing.
“Merciful Avarra!” Illona cried. “Threshold convulsions!”
“He’s gone back into crisis,” said Silvana.
The two women pulled up stools beside the bed and quickly established psychic rapport with the sick man. Lew hesitated; it had been decades since he had worked in a circle at Arilinn. He could, however, act as a monitor, making sure that neither woman suffered any physical harm or distraction while they worked.
Lew slipped his starstone free of its wrappings, closed his eyes, and focused his laran. To his inner sight the man on the bed glowed like a furnace, his body a tangle of furious reds and browns, jagged yellow streaks, the throbbing crimson of critically overloaded laran channels.
The two leroni linked their minds, encircling the man with cool blue-white radiance. Lew was a little surprised by the strength of Illona’s laran, clear and supple as liquid diamond.
As he went deeper into rapport with Silvana, searching out the patterns of her body as well as of her mind, Lew felt as if he were seeing double. He recognized the resonant vibration from her starstone but also the brilliance of her laran. She was not only using her starstone as any trained leronis would do, she herself concentrated and focused the mental energy. Only one lineage in all Darkover had ever possessed that ability.
She was Hastur, the living matrix, graced with the full Gift of her Domain.
Lew was so surprised that he almost dropped out of the linkage. Until Regis had used the Hastur Gift in the struggle against Sharra, it was thought to be extinct. Regis was gone, and with him this rare and precious talent. His only son, Dani Hastur, certainly did not have it.
This Keeper, hiding here in an obscure Tower, disguising her heritage, might very well be the lost daughter of Regis Hastur. With her strength of laran and unmistakable natural ability as a Keeper, she must be Linnea’s child as well. Lew had heard of such a daughter, born soon after the World Wreckers withdrew. She had been called by another name, he could not remember what. He had been off-world during the years following the World Wreckers. Since there had been no trace of her when he returned from exile, he assumed that she had perished. He had never had the heart to ask Regis about her.
Why had she remained hidden all these years, using another name? And who was he, with his own dark secrets, to judge a Keeper’s motives?
During the few moments Lew was distracted, Silvana drew upon Illona’s mental energies, weaving them together with her own to buffer the worst of the unstable laran. Lew caught the image of wrapping the man in a soft, thick blanket. Volcanic, the man’s psychic power battered against the restraints. Silvana’s aura turned incandescent in response.
Acting on instinct alone, Lew plunged into rapport with the leroni. His powers were not what they had once been, but he was still Alton and Comyn, trained at Arilinn. With a Keeper’s sure touch, Silvana reached for him, blending his mind into the unity, attuning their linked energies.
Through
the lens of the Keeper’s mind, Lew’s mental vision deepened. He no longer saw the stranger as a pattern of laran channels and nodes but as a maelstrom, images and emotions as vivid as if he himself had experienced them…
…Lew felt the rough-woven cloth of the man’s Darkovan disguise, the ice-edged breeze and dappled shade of the trees overhead, the occasional call of a rainbird. Adrenaline sharpened his vision. He was seeing and feeling everything this stranger had. Behind him, one of the heavy flyers took off from the encampment where the other techs had set up their equipment…
…Along the Old North Road, the funeral train came into view, riders and wagons hung with draperies, black trimmed with blue and silver. They moved with cumbersome grace. Beside him, one of the younger men shifted, Come on, closer…
…Through the stranger’s memories, Lew understood the battle plan. At the right distance, at the right moment, they would attack. Their cudgels would bring down the horses, their arrows take out the Guardsmen, and their knives do the rest. If all went according to plan, no one would ever know the ambush was not by a dissident group of natives…
…The first unit burst from the trees, running hard, swinging their sticks. The Guardsmen, expert riders, drew together, slashing back with swords and spears. The horses pranced, churning dust. At the rear of the train, men spilled from the carriages, swords drawn…
…“Go!” His team leader barked out the command. He surged forward with the rest of his unit, racing toward the knot of riders. The man beside him had already drawn his blaster…
Lord of Light defend us! Silvana’s anguished cry interrupted the flow of images. A Compact-forbidden weapon!
Trapped in the stranger’s nightmare memory, Lew caught flashes of blaster fire, a rearing horse, confusion and explosions, and the reek of death…
…They must have been better prepared than we anticipated. The thought etched itself in his brain. And yet…how could swords and horsemanship stand against blasters?…