Jeram had found Liam waiting for him outside the Administrative building. Liam had given a short, sympathetic nod when he saw Jeram’s face and fallen into step with him.
“If you will tell my lord your story, you will find a far better reception,” Liam had said.
Before Jeram could reply, Liam’s fingers had closed around his arm, impelling him forward. “Quickly now. You’re being followed.”
A Guard left the steps of the Administrative building and hurried in their direction. Jeram quickened his pace, following Liam through the thickest swirl of traffic. Liam seemed to know where he was going, cutting through a series of alleys with a sureness that suggested he’d evaded pursuit many times.
They had gone to ground in a cheap tavern, one where Jeram would be surprised if any Guard got a straight answer. The owner, who clearly knew Liam, showed them to a private room upstairs.
“You’ll be safe enough for a few hours,” Liam had said. “I’ve got a few arrangements to make. I’ll take you to Dom Francisco once it’s dark.”
Now Jeram heard footsteps, heeled boots most likely, behind the wall. The gate cracked open. A man peered out, his torch hissing in the rain. Liam spoke a few words in a low, urgent voice, and they were ushered inside, through a garden, and into the house beyond.
“Is this the Ridenow mansion?” Jeram asked.
“No, only a meeting place where we cannot be spied upon,” Liam said.
The man with the torch led them down a corridor and into a small, beautifully furnished room. Thick wax candles set in wall sconces gave off a honey-warm light and a fire blazed brightly in the hearth. Jeram had never been inside the house of a Darkovan aristocrat, had had no idea of the richness of texture and color, from the intricate, jewel-toned carpets underfoot to the embroidered hangings and sumptuously carved, age-darkened furniture.
Jeram had little time to examine his surroundings. The man he had come to see sat in a heavy thronelike chair, lean and saturnine, dressed in what looked like green velvet, cut away to reveal satin brocade like flashes of gold. Red glinted in his dark hair. An aura of power hung about him, power and hunger. He was by far the most dangerous-feeling man Jeram had yet encountered on Darkover.
Liam bowed. “Vai dom, this is the man I told you about.”
“I did not think any of the Terranan had stayed behind,” Dom Francisco said, using the word without a hint of insult.
“Should it surprise you that I have come to love this world and want to make my home here?” Jeram said cautiously.
“Some might question why a man would leave the Federation, with all its culture and diversity, to deliberately imprison himself on such a backward world.” The Ridenow lord’s eyes flickered. “But I am not such a man. Come, sit down, dry yourself by the fire. It is not a good night to be abroad.”
A moment later a servant in green and gold livery brought in a folding table, placed on it a tray of food and drink, then departed. Liam took up a position just inside the door while Francisco poured out hot spiced wine for himself and Jeram. The drink was warm on Jeram’s tongue, smooth all the way down.
“Liam has told me a little of your tale,” Francisco said, settling back in his chair. “If I have understood correctly, I may be able to help you.”
“I’m not sure where else to turn,” Jeram said. “There doesn’t seem to be any way to get a hearing before the Council without inside connections. I should warn you that one of the Guards followed me from the City Administrative offices. I don’t know what he wanted.”
“Wisely, you did not linger to find out. Yes, Liam told me that part, too. I can appreciate how frustrating this must be to you. As a Terran, you are accustomed to having certain rights and privileges. Your democracy, I believe. We Darkovans have a different way of doing things. Yet in the end, justice prevails.” Francisco poured more wine for Jeram. “If you would, let me hear your story from your own mouth. You were stationed with the Terran forces at Aldaran…”
Jeram hesitated, but only for a moment. Francisco already knew that he was Terran military and, undoubtedly, his part in the Battle of Old North Road. Francisco seemed like a reasonable man, willing to help him, and deserved to hear the full story.
Francisco listened gravely, without interruption. When Jeram finished, he said, “I want to be sure I have understood you correctly. You yourself witnessed Mikhail Lanart-Hastur and Marguerida Alton-Hastur use laran as a weapon against ordinary soldiers?”
“Yes,” Jeram said, “that was what I could not remember.”
“But now those memories have been restored? There is no doubt in your mind of what happened? You could not possibly be confused from a blow to the head or the aftermath of a defeat?”
“I am as certain of it as I am of my own name,” Jeram said.
Francisco sat back in his immense chair, looking thoughtful. “And afterward, you say, Domna Marguerida and her father used the Alton Gift of forced rapport in order to erase the memory of that use of laran from all the surviving Terran soldiers? You are sure of this part, as well? If it comes to public testimony, is there anyone who can corroborate your story?”
“The Keeper who restored my memory knows the truth,” Jeram said. He did not add that Silvana would in all likelihood refuse to leave Nevarsin Tower.
Jeram paused, not entirely comfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. “My own actions, not theirs, are the issue here. I don’t intend to bring charges against anyone else, but to clear up any that remain against me personally.”
Francisco frowned and made a dismissive gesture. “Whatever you have done, you are a witness to two crimes committed by members of the Comyn. Using laran as a weapon is a direct violation of the Compact. Everyone in the funeral train saw what happened. Since the Regent and his wife have not been charged, I can only assume that the Council was so abjectly grateful for their lives, that they have abandoned their ethical responsibilities. But the second, the suppression of your memories…”
Jeram shrugged. He had thought Lew overly fastidious on that point, before he came to understand Lew’s horror of involuntary mental contact.
“You are not Darkovan,” Francisco said, “but surely in the time you studied at Nevarsin, you must have become aware that the invasion of one mind by another is considered a grave offense.”
“Lew and I have already discussed the matter at length. I have fully forgiven him. In the end, he did me no lasting harm.”
When Francisco shook his head, Jeram went on, “I did not come to Thendara to press charges against Lew or anyone else. The poor man has suffered enough!”
“I have no intention of calling Dom Lewis to account,” Francisco said. “He is respected and honored throughout the Domains. No one questions his service to Darkover or the terrible sacrifices he made. But Domna Marguerida…”
Francisco picked up his goblet and stared into its depths. “If I know any true thing about power,” he said slowly, “it is that unless people are held accountable, they will repeat whatever brings them success. The first time is always the hardest, whether it is killing a man face-to-face or blasting his mind with laran. Marguerida has already used her Gift to invade the minds of the defeated Terran force. Given another good cause, she will do it again. Who then will be responsible? The perpetrator herself, or those who could have stopped her and chose not to?”
Jeram shifted in his chair, growing more disquieted by the direction of the discussion with every passing moment. The fire, which had seemed so cozy at first, was now too hot. The richness of the wall hangings and carpets, the soporific, honey-sweet smoke of the wax candles, now turned nauseating. He realized he was sweating.
“I came here for only one reason only, to clear up my own status,” he said. “I’m tired of hiding, and if the Council holds me criminally liable for the ambush, I want to face those charges and be done with it.”
Francisco’s eyes glittered in the mingled light of candle and fire. “I do not believe the Council has any right to sit in judgme
nt of you. Indeed, they are indebted to you, or will be…once they hear what you have to say.”
“Do I understand you rightly,” Jeram said, “that you will get me an audience with the Council if I agree to tell them about how my memories were tampered with?”
“Come now,” Francisco protested good humoredly, “you make it sound like extortion. We are friends, are we not? And friends help one another.”
“I don’t see why you should care. The offense was not against you.”
Francisco’s smile did not touch his eyes. “Some crimes injure us all.”
The room grew still except for the crackle of the fire and the clink as Francisco set down his goblet.
“I said before,” Jeram said tightly, breaking the silence, “that’s not why I’m here. As far as I’m concerned, the Battle of Old North Road is over, history. The only thing I want cleared is my own conscience. You say I’m a victim of a crime? I say it’s forgiven.”
Francisco chuckled, a dry humorless sound. “I have heard an old saying of your people, ’All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for enough good men to do nothing.’”
Jeram cringed inwardly and braced himself for another round of persuasion. Just sit there and look reasonable, he told himself. Make friendly noises and then get out of there as soon as possible!
“At the risk of becoming tedious, let me explain further,” Francisco said. “Mikhail and Marguerida, together and separately, have violated our most fundamental ethical laws regarding the use of laran. If they are not stopped, the situation can only degenerate into tyranny. We fought that battle during our Ages of Chaos, when the king with the mightiest laranzu’in defined justice according to his own will. My ancestor, Varzil the Good, the greatest of us all, brought an end to that era of despotism through the Compact.”
Francisco got up, gesturing as he paced. “Once more, Darkover stands on the brink of dark times. We need a leader, someone with both the vision and the moral authority to forge a new alliance.”
“You mean yourself?” Jeram prickled at Francisco’s unabashed egotism, but at the same time, the Ridenow lord exuded an almost hypnotic charisma.
“I will not abuse your ears with protestations of false modesty.” Pausing before the fireplace, Francisco turned back, so that his form was silhouetted against the flames and his features cast into shadow. “I’ve known for a long time that I was destined to lead my people.”
Jeram sat back in his chair, aware that Liam was listening carefully, with that focused attention. The blond man stood easily, weight balanced on both feet. His body blocked the door.
“—but I lacked the trappings of legitimacy. We are a culture bound by tradition, by honor codes, by symbols. Some years ago, in an act of unbridled greed, Mikhail seized the ring of Varzil Ridenow, a token of moral and political authority. You may not know how the Domains have deteriorated in the last few years. His shadow touches everyone, and with each passing season, fewer dare to stand against him. But with that ring, I could step into my ancestor’s shoes. I could lead Darkover back to its greatest age!”
Seating himself once more, Francisco leaned forward. “Until now, the usurper has blinded the Council against all reason. They cannot see what he and his sorceress wife have been doing. She has bewitched them all, bent them to her will, even as she once tried to enslave me.”
Francisco’s passionate words filled the room. His eyes glowed with dark fire. Jeram found himself drawn in by the man’s single-minded zeal, his ardor, his certainty.
“Now, at last, I have the key to open their eyes! You are my key! You will stand beside me in the Crystal Chamber. They cannot ignore your testimony. Don’t you see, you have been sent to me so that I may fulfill my destiny!”
With an effort, Jeram pulled free of the magnetic lure of Francisco’s words. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to fight your own battles. I don’t have anything against you, but all I want is to clear my name and go home to Rock Glen. I don’t want to hurt Lew or his family.”
I’ve done enough harm for one lifetime.
“Surely you must see the importance of my cause! I am not talking about petty politics but the future of all the Domains! You are Darkovan by choice—what happens concerns you, too!”
It was too late to back down now. “No, it’s not my fight.”
“Do you think yourself immune? I tell you, if this evil is not stopped now, chaos will rampage from Dalereuth to the Hellers, as it did millennia ago!”
“I know Lew Alton,” Jeram said stubbornly. “I cannot believe that anyone he trusts the way he trusts his daughter could be so vile. I think we’ve said all we have to say to one another.”
Jeram got to his feet and glanced at Liam, still on guard in front of the door. He drew a deep breath and his pulse sped up, his muscles preparing for action. Now, he would find out just what lengths Francisco would go to to hold him here.
For a moment Francisco looked as if he were going to continue the argument. Then his face relaxed and he raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I see that I cannot persuade you. At least, I have done my utmost. Clearly, you are a man who answers to his own conscience, as do I. Surely, we can respect each other even when we differ. I would not have us part with any lingering animosity from our little discussion tonight. Liam, bring us more wine. The special reserve, if you please.”
“I believe that you are sincere, Dom Francisco,” Jeram said, a little surprised at how easily Francisco had given in. Perhaps Jeram had misjudged him. Regretfully, he added, “I am sorry I cannot help you.”
A moment later, Liam slipped back into the room with a decanter of garnet-bright wine.
“Come, let us drink once more, as friends,” said Francisco.
Since it would have been ungracious to refuse, Jeram nodded. Francisco filled his goblet. The wine, unspiced, was just below room temperature, richly complex, mingling the tastes of fruit, sunshine, and wild mountain spring water. Jeram had no idea that Darkover could produce such a sophisticated vintage.
Sipping their wine, they talked for a little while longer. Francisco offered Jeram housing for the night, since the rain was still coming down hard. Jeram refused, having spent enough time under Francisco’s roof.
When Jeram rose to leave, his legs felt strangely unsteady beneath him. The room had come unhinged from its moorings. He could no longer follow what Francisco was saying.
Jeram’s stomach twisted and dizziness shivered over him, disturbingly reminiscent of his threshold sickness. He tried to stand. The floor seemed to heave up under him. Distantly, he felt his knees buckle and his body fold up like a child’s paper fan.
The last thing he remembered was Liam standing beside him, a galaxy away, and Francisco’s voice…something about kireseth fractions…acting only on those with laran…
“He’ll speak the truth, all right…” Francisco’s voice echoed weirdly. “…when and where I command…Marguerida’s days of glory are over, and she will drag Mikhail down with her…”
BOOK III
25
“Look! There’s Thendara at last!” Illona, who had ridden a little ahead of the others, stood up in her stirrups for a better view. Her mount, one of the sturdy, shaggy-maned mountain horses from Nevarsin, shook its head, sending the bridle rings jingling in the crisp air. “I can see Comyn Castle and the Terran Headquarters!”
They had taken advantage of the lengthening days to press on, climbing the pass, and now looked down the long slopes to the valley where the old city sat like a faded jewel. Spires and towers of pale stone, set with the translucent blue panels so loved by Darkovans, glimmered in the sun. Over the centuries since the spaceport was first built, the Federation edifices had lost their hard lines and pristine whiteness, softening in the accumulation of seasons. At the same time, a sprinkling of newer Darkovan mansions had been modeled on the stark architecture of the Terran Zone, so that the differences between the two cultures blurred. Even so, the ancient stone Castle rema
ined defiantly untouched by the passage of time.
While they were on the road, Illona’s exuberance, as if she were on some wondrous adventure, had infected Domenic. They had made love with the fevered, fragile urgency of a candle burning to its very end. Every glance, every touch, every moment together became infinitely precious, because it might be their last.
He regretted, too, the end of the special joy of traveling through mountains, ragged hills, and sloping pastures, where the ever-changing textures of rock and soil, water and sky, sang through his laran.
Now, as they neared the end of their journey together, Domenic dreaded their arrival. Illona would leave him to take her place with the other Keepers for the historic first meeting of their Council, and he…he would return to his own life, the politics of the Comyn, and the Regency.
And Alanna.
Domenic’s heart plummeted. Never again would he be free to laugh simply because Illona did, or to look at her with his heart in his eyes. Aldones only knew how he was going to hide his true feelings from his mother. He couldn’t very well go through his days with a telepathic damper strapped to his belt. He would simply have to rely upon the politeness of a telepathic society and his own meticulously honorable behavior.
Alanna would guess. Oh, gods, what could he tell her? That he had given his heart to another woman? Yet how could he lie? How could he hurt her in that way?
She was his promised bride. They had been friends since she had first arrived at Castle. He had loved her as a playfellow, a cousin, and yes, for a time, as a desirable young woman.
Was there any hope, any way through this tangle? Would Alanna agree to return to Arilinn in the hope of someday being able to enjoy normal sexual intimacy? No, that was only half the problem. Would he ever be able to think of her in that way, after what he had shared with Illona?
He could not dishonor his pledge to Alanna, and he did care for her. He would not willingly cause her pain.
It was said that in the ages before memory, group marriages were not uncommon among the Comyn, and in the openness of shared love, jealousy was rare. Even today, many men of his class kept barraganas, uncensured as long as they were discreet. Nedestro children were often legitimated. Domenic had even heard of friendships between wives and mistresses, but Alanna, he knew, would never consent. She was too insecure, too tempestuous, to tolerate a rival. And his mother—he could not imagine her accepting such a thing.