The last of the memory suppression had been lifted, and now Jeram could recall everything that happened to him during the Battle of Old North Road and afterward.
Jeram stared into the flickering embers, silent. Lew knew better than to intrude on Jeram’s thoughts. It was hard to wait, half in fear, half in relief at having finished what he set out to do.
In Lew’s mind, Father Conn stood at his shoulder. “Sit. Breathe. Wait.”
At last, Jeram stirred. “You took a big risk in telling me all this. I don’t think I would have been so brave.”
It was not courage. I had no choice.
Jeram looked down at his folded hands. “You could have walked away. Stayed home, said nothing.”
“I would still have to live with myself. Perhaps if I had been some other man, if I had not been part of Sharra, my own actions would not have tormented me to this degree.”
“And the woman with the golden eyes?”
“My daughter, Marguerida.”
“I’d like to meet her some day,” Jeram said. “Not to point any fingers, mind you, as if I had the right to do that! Just to see her for myself and put the last of this affair to rest. If she can stop blasters with her mind, she must be really something.”
A thought crept across Lew’s mind, staining the moment of brightness. If he had done wrong in using the Alton Gift after the Battle of Old North Road, was Marguerida not guilty as well?
“Let it go,” a voice whispered in his mind. “You are not the keeper of her conscience.”
Jeram’s head lifted. Russet eyes met Lew’s. Lew could not tell how much of his own thoughts Jeram had followed.
“I do not think you are evil, either of you,” Jeram said. “Even knowing…everything.”
Lew heard the faint catch in the other man’s voice, the momentary hesitation.
Jeram is hiding something, too.
“You know that I took part in the ambush,” Jeram said. “And that afterward, I deserted. I stayed here on Darkover and hid my Terran identity. What you do not know, what nobody on this planet knows…Blast, this is harder than I thought!”
Jeram got up, scraping the legs of the stool over the stone floor, and raked his hair back from his face. Flames shone on the beads of sweat on his forehead. Lew sensed his shame, his fear of discovery, but also his desperate need to tell someone…
Lew’s first thought was that he was not worthy to hear Jeram’s confession. What right had he to pass judgment?
If you could admit what you did, Jeram said telepathically, maybe I can do the same…
Have you betrayed your oath, too?
“It’s a long story,” Jeram said.
“We have time.”
Jeram paced a few steps, as far as he could in the cell-like dimensions of his room. He paused, took a deep breath, and burned back to Lew. His mouth twisted in indecision. Then, from one moment to the next, his eyes cleared, his expression altered to determination. He still radiated anxiety. Smoothly, not taking his eyes off Lew, he lowered himself to his seat.
“When I enlisted, there wasn’t much chance of outright war, just peacekeeping and exploration. That’s what I wanted to do, climb mountains on alien worlds. So I joined M and E—that’s Mapping and Exploration.”
“Yes, I know.” Through the light rapport that had sprung up between them, Lew sensed the other man’s enthusiasm.
“One thing led to another. There was a small Xenopathology Unit on Ramos V, focused on protecting our troops against native diseases. Since I’d taken courses in med tech, I interned there before going into the field.”
Jeram had been part of First Contact and Colonization teams on five planets. His words tumbled out, describing the intensive d-corticator training, the arduous wilderness conditions, the training to screen for infectious microbes and design immunization protocols.
“Then…” Jeram paused, his face clouding, “the Expansionists took control of the Lower House. There was that nasty business on Ephebe. But you wouldn’t have heard about that, here on Darkover.”
“Actually, I remember it well,” Lew said. “For many years, I represented Darkover in the Senate, so I am no stranger to Federation politics. I’ve lived on Terra, and Thetis and Vainwal as well. Does that surprise you?”
Jeram gave a wry smile. “Nothing about you can surprise me.”
“As for Ephebe,” Lew said, “the sanitized public version was that Transplanetary Corporation claimed ownership of the planet, and when the locals sabotaged the spaceport, the Federation sent in troops to restore order. At the time, I suspected the story was a cover for a military takeover. In the light of subsequent events, and President Nagy’s grab for power, I am certain of it.”
“I was recalled during the Castor Sector war games.” Nodding, Jeram went on. “Policy changed, and so did orders. They didn’t want protection against naturally occurring infectious agents, not any more. They were developing new biological weapons of their own. They wanted to vaccinate their troops in order to deploy them safely, which is where I came in.”
Lew shuddered. To deliberately create a plague and to turn it loose on an unsuspecting, unprepared population…
“They put it to us that we’d still be protecting our troops.” Barely suppressed outrage simmered beneath Jeram’s words. “The work wasn’t so different from what we’d already been doing. It didn’t take a genius to figure out their real intentions.”
“What did you do?”
“What could I do? I had a friend—we served together on Ramos V—who resigned his commission and met with an unfortunate accident the next week. I knew they’d never let me go, even with the nondisclosure oath. So I went along, I did the work I’d been trained for…and more.”
“You…” Lew paused, swallowing the bile that rose to the back of his throat. “You created a plague?”
Jeram stared into the fire, his eyes dark and bleak. “I designed systems to identify and isolate pathogenic microbes, or to take a harmless organism and mutate it into a virulent form. No, I never turned one of those nasty little bugs loose, but it was only a matter of time before someone else used my work to do just that.” And I would be just as responsible.
“But you don’t know that.” Lew bit off his words. He was trying to justify Jeram’s past because of their friendship. Was he really helping Jeram by excusing his actions? Would he himself have found any resolution to his guilt if he had not faced his own choices honestly?
“When I got reassigned here,” Jeram went on, “I suspected a typical bureaucratic foul-up.”
“Why would a disease-weapon specialist be needed on Darkover?” A terrible inkling shivered up Lew’s spine. What had the Federation been planning in those last days?
“You tell me,” Jeram said, his eyes glinting red in the light of the flames. “This planet has no technology to speak of, a hideous climate, no significant metal resources, and a sparse, largely agrarian population. Why would the Acting Station Chief request a bioweapons development specialist?”
“Belfontaine!” Lew spat the word out like a curse. “The bre’suin would have used any means to bring Darkover to its knees. But he never had a chance, did he? The Federation pulled out too soon, forcing his hand. That’s why he ordered such an ill-planned ambush!”
“Out of desperation,” Jeram nodded. “You actually did me a favor, covering my tracks in the ambush. Sooner or later, some Federation bureaucrat would have stumbled across my records and wondered what I was doing on this forgotten snowball. Now I’m listed as dead or missing in action. I have a chance to start over.”
He drew in his breath. “I’ve spent my professional career in violation of all your rules of ethics, your Compact. If what I’ve done makes me a monster in your eyes, let’s have it out now.”
This time, Jeram met Lew’s gaze fully. Slowly, awkwardly, Jeram lowered his mental shields. Lew reached out, as gently as he could…and for a glowing instant touched Jeram’s mind.
Everything in life can be
manipulated or misused, Lew said silently. Your knowledge, my Gift…The Federation would have used them both for its own purposes.
Understanding flowed between them, giving way to compassion. Compassion for the hurt man who now sat before him. Compassion for his own reflected anguish. Lew felt the ripple of response from Jeram, the sting of tears, the upwelling sob of relief.
You are no monster, any more than I am, Lew thought, and knew for the first time that it was true.
20
Midwinter came to Nevarsin, with celebrations and observances that were modest by Lowland standards, at least so Jeram understood from Lew and the others. Many of the people of the village and the city itself followed cristoforo ways, and did not worship Hastur and Cassilda.
The Tower folk, as usual, kept to themselves, with a Festival dinner and singing. Everyone participated, even the usually aloof Silvana. Accompanying herself on a lap harp, she soon had everyone laughing with a long ballad about a wandering monk and the contents of his many pockets. Jeram was no ethnomusicologist, but he could have sworn the melody was Terran and very old.
Sitting in his corner, fortified with a tankard of hot spiced wine and tapping time to the music with one foot, Jeram felt more relaxed than he could remember. If having laran meant acceptance into such a community, it was indeed a gift.
With the passing of winter, the great Red Sun swung higher in the sky. The days took on a lingering, honey-sweet quality. Wildflowers covered the slopes of the Hellers. Snow still fell almost every evening, but the days were mild.
Jeram took advantage of the fine weather to go home. Morna fell into his arms, tearful with relief. Of course he must return to the Tower, she agreed, if it was needful for his recovery. Such a change the folk there had wrought in him! she’d exclaimed. He looked almost his old self again.
Not my old self, Jeram had thought. Never that self again.
As he parted from her, she gazed into his face for a long moment, as if memorizing his features. She had never promised anything beyond the sharing of a meal, a hearth, and a bed, which in these mountains was all that was necessary for a freemate marriage. Either might dissolve the bond at any time.
Jeram’s threshold sickness passed, even as Silvana promised it would, and the suppressed memories no longer haunted his dreams. Instead, as he gained in mastery of his laran, the events of his life took on a new pattern. He might have stumbled into this world by a combination of luck and instinct, but he was at Nevarsin Tower for a reason, beyond his own personal concerns; perhaps he was on Darkover for a greater purpose, also.
Although the realization came slowly, working with Lew Alton was as restorative for the older man as it was for Jeram himself. Standing at the open window of his chamber in the Tower, gazing southward down the sloping hills toward the Lowlands, Jeram thought, If there is hope for Lew, if there is healing and peace, then there may be hope even for me.
A breeze tugged at his hair, now grown out to shoulder length. He could return to Rock Glen and Morna’s warm arms, to trapping furs in the winter, farming hardy rye and red wheat, root vegetables and cabbages during the summer. It was a good life, a rich life. A simple life. But not his, yet. For all the peace of the Tower, a kernel of restlessness still wound through his guts, a piece of the puzzle that did not yet fit.
Jeram? Illona’s mental voice brushed his mind.
With deliberation, Jeram shaped his answer. He would never be very good at projective telepathy, for he had learned it too late in life. Only someone like Illona, with her powerful Gift, could pick up his thoughts without difficulty.
I am here.
Will you join us in the common room? We have a visitor! Excitement lilted through her thoughts, as if she were singing.
Jeram smiled to himself. If he were ten years younger, he would have been half in love with her. She was a lovely girl, as talented as they came, and anything that gave her such pleasure was to be welcomed.
He took a breath, concentrating on his words. On my way.
Jeram paused in the doorway of his chamber, one hand on the latch, to look back at his chamber. How anonymous it seemed, how few the traces of the personality of its inhabitant. In his years in the Federation forces, he’d accumulated few worldly goods. His assets were his skill and knowledge. Then, as a deserter, he dared not keep anything that would give him away. Now…Until he knew where he was headed, it was best not to tie himself down.
Was he doomed to be a drifter? Or, as Lew suggested, a man who had not yet found his purpose?
Jeram proceeded down the stone stairs to the common room. Half the Tower workers had gathered there, with Silvana noticeably absent. A table had been laid with festive foods, spiral buns redolent with spices, bread studded with toasted nuts and dried berries, bowls of tiny mountain peaches and sweetened cream, pitchers glossy with condensation.
A young man stood in their midst. He could not have been more than twenty, slender and black-haired, yet he held himself with unquestioned command. His clothes, although travel-stained, were beautifully cut, jacket and pants of embroidered, velvet-smooth suede. Fur lined the short cape thrown back over one shoulder.
Lew sat in the most comfortable of the chairs, his scarred features lightened by joy. The newcomer, who had been talking in animated fashion with Illona, bent to say something to the old man and rest a hand upon his shoulder. Jeram had lived among telepaths long enough to recognize the intrusiveness of such a touch. Yet Lew only smiled and patted the boy’s hand.
Illona gestured for Jeram to join them. “Domenic, may I present Jeram, your grandfather’s student? I am glad you had the opportunity to meet him, for I fear he will leave us soon, having exhausted what we can teach him. Jeram, this is Dom Domenic Alton-Hastur.”
A Comyn lordling and Lew’s grandson! That explained the boy’s aristocratic bearing, as well as his affectionate familiarity with the old man.
Jeram felt safe enough, for neither Illona nor anyone else here would give him away as a Terran deserter. Silvana had spoken truly when she said the Towers did not judge a man by his past.
“Vai dom,” Jeram said, bowing awkwardly.
“Titles are unnecessary in a Tower,” Domenic answered in a gracious tone, “but I thank you for your courtesy.”
He regarded Jeram with a steady gaze, his expression composed but open. Jeram had never seen eyes like that—gold-flecked gray haloed in black. In the instant it took Jeram to remember how to secure his own psychic barriers, their minds touched. Domenic’s laran was utterly unlike any at Nevarsin Tower, complex and resonant, like a windstorm sweeping down from the Hellers, like the vast, echoing ocean depths, like the molten heat of a volcano.
“We are all friends here,” Illona said, her eyes sparkling. “Domenic and I met as children and studied together at Neskaya Tower. It has been three years since we’ve seen one another. Come, let’s sit down, and Domenic can earn his bread by telling us the latest gossip from Thendara.”
“I’m afraid my news is some months out of date,” Domenic said as he took a seat beside her on the padded bench. “I’ve been on the road since the passes opened at the end of winter.”
“And what excuse did you concoct to run away this time?” Illona teased. “Don’t tell me you’ve been seized by a desire to join the Travelers! I assure you, that life, for all its romantic reputation, is far from enviable. So much so, you never know when some well-meaning busybody will carry you away to a Tower for your own good!”
“Yes, and look where it has got you,” Domenic replied, clearly refusing to take offense. The banter had taken some of the stiffness out of him.
“You could consider my adventure a last fling before I settle down to my duties as Regent-in-training,” Domenic said with a sigh. “I hoped they’d put it off another year, but who knows? Before I’m tied to Thendara, I wanted to see more of the Domains, especially the Towers.” He had, apparently, visited most of them, and this was to be his last stop before returning home for the annual meeting of the
ruling Council.
“Glad as I am to see you, Nico, do you have other business here?” Lew asked. “Nevarsin Tower is hardly a place one comes for pleasure.”
“The Comyn are still too few and spread too thinly,” Domenic said, his tone now earnest. “The Towers, with their knowledge and insight, must play a greater role in Darkovan affairs. Actually, the idea came from Danilo Syrtis, but Father took it up, and Mother let me indulge my wanderlust to persuade as many Keepers as I can to join us this Council season.”
“Giving the Towers a voice on the Council is a dangerous road to tread.” Sammel, the senior matrix technician, had been listening to the conversation and now spoke up. “Even the most disciplined among us are vulnerable to corruption by power. Would you have us return to the Ages of Chaos, with the tyranny of laran? I assure you, the reasons the Towers withdrew from worldly affairs have not changed.”
Jeram, listening, could not help but agree. If a pair of laran-Gifted Comyn could defeat an elite Federation force and then erase the very memory of that battle from their minds, what could a whole Tower of trained telepaths do?
Domenic shook his head. “I do not mean a return to the days before the Compact, but moving forward to the days to come. To begin with, we propose a Council of Keepers, advisory at first perhaps, a forum for discussing our mutual concerns.”
“Such as?” Illona asked.
“Finding and training telepaths like yourself.”
“Ah!” she said, and clapped her hands.
“It is true,” one of the women said, “that we are isolated here at Nevarsin. We speak but rarely over the relays with the other Towers and never with the Comyn lords. Yet we heal those who come to us—” her gaze flickered to Jeram—“so why should we not also apply our minds and talents to other problems?”
“That would be for Silvana to decide,” Sammel intoned gravely. There the discussion ended, for the Keeper was not among them.