Heritage and Exile (47 page)

As soon as I heard the words I knew I had been expecting it. I felt stricken, grieved. Even in such a short time I had come to love my uncle, and beyond my personal grief I was dismayed at what this must mean. Not only for the Domain of Aldaran, but for all Darkover. His reign had been a long one, and a wise one.

“Thyra,” Marjorie whispered, “Evanda pity us, what will she do, how will she live with this?” She clutched my arm. “He's her
father,
Lew! Did you know? My father owned to her, but she was none of his, and it was her doing, her mistake, that has killed him!”

“Not hers,” I said gently. “Sharra.” I had begun to believe, now, that we were all helpless before it. Tomorrow—no, today, the sooner the better—it should go back to the forge-folk. Desideria had been right: it had lain safe in their keeping, should never have left them. I quailed, thinking of what Beltran would say. Yet Kadarin had pledged Desideria to abide my judgment.

First I must visit the death chamber, pay a kinsman's respects. The high wailing of the death-cries went on from inside, fraying my already ragged nerves to shreds. Marjorie clutched desperately at my fingers. As we entered the great chamber I heard Thyra's voice, bursting out, almost screaming:

“Cease that pagan caterwauling! I'll have none of it here!”

One or two of the women stopped in mid-wail; others, half-hearted, stopped and started again. Beltran's voice was a harsh shout:

“You who killed him, Thyra, would you deny him proper respect?”

She was standing at the foot of the bed, her head thrown back, defiant. She sounded at the ragged end of endurance.

“You superstitious idiot, do you really believe his spirit has stayed here to listen to the yowling over his corpse? Is this your idea of a seemly sound of mourning?”

Beltran said, more gently, “More seemly, perhaps, than this kind of brawling, foster-sister.” He looked as you would expect after a long night of watching, and a death. He gestured to the women. “Go, go, finish your wailing elsewhere. The days are long gone when anyone must stand and wail to scare away demons from the dead.”

Kermiac had been decently laid out, his hands laid crosswise on his breast, his eyes closed. Marjorie made the
cristoforo
sign across the old man's brow, then across her own. She bent and pressed her lips for a moment to the cold brow, whispering, “Rest in peace, my lord. Holy Bearer of Burdens, give us strength to bear our loss . . .” Then she turned quietly away and bent over the weeping Thyra.

“He is past all forgiveness or blame, darling. Don't torment yourself this way. It is for us to bear now, for the living. Come away, love, come away.”

Thyra collapsed into terrible sobbing and let Marjorie lead her out of the room. I stood looking down at the calm, composed old face. For a moment it seemed my own father was lying here before me. I bent and kissed the cold brow, as Marjorie had done.

I said to Beltran, “I knew him such a little while. It is my great loss that I did not come here before.” I embraced my kinsman, cheek to cheek, feeling the pain of his grief added to my own. Beltran turned away, pale and composed, as Regis came into the room, Danilo in his wake. Regis spoke a brief formal phrase of condolence, held out his hand. Beltran bowed over it but he did not speak. Had his grief dimmed his awareness of courtesy? He should have bidden Regis welcome as his guest; somehow it made me uneasy that he did not. Danilo made the
cristoforo
sign over the old man's brow, as Marjorie had done, whispering, I suppose, one of their prayers, then made a formal bow to Beltran.

I followed them outside. Regis looked as if he'd had the same nightmare-ridden sleep I had, and he was fully barriered against me—a new thing, and a disquieting one. He said, “He was your kinsman, Lew. I'm sorry for your grief. And I know my grandfather respected him. It's fitting there should be someone here from the Hasturs, to extend our condolences. Things will be different, now, in the mountains.”

I had been thinking that myself. The sight of Regis almost automatically taking his place as the formal representative of Comyn was disquieting. I knew his grandfather would approve, but I was surprised.

“He told me, Regis, shortly before his death, that he hoped for a day when you and Beltran could sit down together and plan a better future for our world.”

Regis smiled bleakly. “That will be for Prince Derik. The Hasturs are not kings now.”

I gave him a skeptical smile. “Yet they stand nearest the throne. I have no doubt Derik will choose you for his nearest counselor, as his kinsmen chose your grandsire.”

“If you love me, Lew, don't wish a crown on me,” Regis said with a shudder of revulsion. “But enough of politics for now. I will remain for the funeral, of course; I owe Beltran no courtesies, but I'll not insult his father's death bed, either.”

If Kermiac's untimely death had delayed Regis' immediate departure, it must also, in all decency, delay my ultimatum to Beltran. I anticipated less trouble now that he had had a bitter taste of the dangers inherent in Sharra. Kadarin might be less tractable. Yet I had faith in his good sense and his affection for all of us.

And so, all those days of mourning for the old lord of Aldaran, none of us spoke of Sharra or Beltran's plans. During the days I could guard myself against the memory and the fear; only in terrifying dreams did it return, claw at me with talons of torment. . . .

The funeral services were over; the mountain lords who had come to pay their respects to the dead, and to give allegiance to Beltran, departed one by one. Beltran made an appearance of grave dignity, solemnly accepting their pledges of amity and support, yet I sensed in all of the mountain men an awareness that an era had irrevocably come to an end. Beltran was aware of it, too, and I knew it hardened his resolve not to run peaceably along the track his father had made—resting on his father's accomplishments and accepting their homage because of their goodwill to Kermiac—but to carve his own place.

We were so much alike, he and I, I have known twins less like. And yet we were so different. I had not known he was personally ambitious, too. I had lost the last traces of personal ambition at Arilinn, had resented Father's attempts to rouse it in me, in the Guards. Now I was deeply disturbed. Would he let his plans slip through his fingers without protest? It would take all my persuasion, all my tact, to convince him to a course less dangerous for all our world. Somehow I must make it clear to him that I still shared his dreams, that I would work for his aims and help him to the utmost, even though I had irrevocably renounced the means he and Kadarin had chosen.

When the mountain lords had departed, Beltran courteously asked Regis and Danilo to remain for a few more days. I had not expected either of them to agree and was ready to try to persuade them, but to my surprise, Regis had accepted the invitation. Maybe it was not so surprising. He looked dreadfully ill. I should have talked to him, tried to find out what ailed him. Yet whenever I tried to speak to him alone he rebuffed me, always turning the conversation to indifferent things. I wondered why. As a child he had loved me; did he think me a traitor, or was it something more personal?

Such was my state when we gathered that morning in the small fireside hall where we had met and worked together so often. Beltran bore the marks of stress and grief and he looked older, too, sobered by the new weight of responsibility. Thyra was pale and composed, but I knew how hard-won that composure had been. Kadarin, too, was haggard, grieved. Rafe, though subdued, had suffered the least; his grief was only that of a child who had lost a kindly guardian. He was too young to see the deeper implications of this.

Marjorie had that heartbreaking remoteness I had begun to see in her lately, the isolation of every Keeper. Through it I sensed a deeper disquiet. Beltran was her guardian now. If he and I were to quarrel, the future for us was not bright.

These were my kinsmen. Together we had built a beautiful dream. My heart ached that I must be the one to shatter it.

But when Danilo and Regis were ceremoniously escorted in, I felt again a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, perhaps, if I could persuade them to help us, there was still a way to salvage that dream!

Beltran began with the utmost courtesy, making formal apologies to Danilo for the way his men had exceeded their orders. If the words had more of diplomacy than real regret, I supposed only the strongest of telepaths could feel the difference. He ended by saying, “Let the end I am striving for outweigh personal considerations. A day is coming for Darkover when mountain men and the Domains must forget their ages-old differences and work together for the good of our world. Can we not agree on that at least, Regis Hastur, that you and I speak together for a world, and that our fathers and grandfathers should have wrought together and not separately for its well-being?”

Regis made a formal bow. I noticed he was wearing his own clothes again. “For your sake, Lord Beltran, I wish I were more skilled in the arts of diplomacy, so that I might more fittingly represent the Hasturs here. As it is, I can speak only for myself as a private individual. I hope the long peace between Comyn and Aldaran may endure for our lifetimes and beyond.”

“And that it may not be a peace under the thumbs of the Terrans,” Beltran added. Regis merely bowed again and said nothing.

Kadarin said with a grim smile, “I see that already you are skilled, Lord Regis, in the greatest of the Comyn arts, that of saying nothing in pleasant words. Enough of this fencing-match! Beltran, tell them what it is you hope to do.”
^»

Beltran began to outline, again, his plans to make Darkover independent, self-sufficient and capable of star-travel. I listened again, falling for the last time under the sway of that dream. I wished—all the gods there ever were
know
how I wished—that his plans might work. And they might. If Danilo could help us uncover enough telepaths, if Beltran's own latent powers could be wakened.
If, if, if!
And, above all, if we had some source of power other than the impossible Sharra. . . .

Beltran concluded, and I knew our thoughts ran for the moment at least along the same track: “We have reached a point where we are dependent on your help, Danilo. You are a catalyst telepath; that is the rarest of all psi powers, and if it is in our service, our chances of success are enormously raised. It goes without saying that you will be rewarded beyond your dreams. You will help us, will you not?”

Danilo met the ingratiating smile with a slight frown of puzzlement. “If what you are doing is so just and righteous, Lord Aldaran, why did you resort to violence? Why not seek me out, explain this to me, ask my aid?”

“Come, come,” said Beltran good-naturedly, “can't you forgive me for that?”

“I forgive you readily, sir. Indeed, I am a little grateful. Otherwise I might have been charmed into doing what you wish without really thinking about it. Now I am not nearly so sure. I've had too much experience with people who speak fine words, but will do whatever they think justified to get what they want. If your cause is as good as you say, I should think any telepath would be glad to help you. If I am made sure of that by someone I can trust, and if my lord gives me leave”—he turned and made Regis a formal bow—“then I am at your service. But I must first be wholly assured that your motives and your methods are as good as you say”—he looked Beltran straight in the eyes, and I gasped aloud at his audacity—“and not just fine words to cover a will to power and personal ambition.”

Beltran turned as red as a turkey-cock. He was not used to being crossed, and for this shabby nobody to read him a lesson in ethics was more than he could face. I thought for a moment that he would strike the boy. Probably he remembered that Danilo was the only catalyst telepath known to be adult and fully functioning, for he controlled himself, although I could see the signs of his inward wrath. He said, “Will you trust Lew Alton's judgment?”

“I have no reason not to trust it, but . . .” And he turned to Regis. I knew he had reached the end of his own defiance.

I knew Regis was as frightened as Danilo, but just as resolute. He said, “I will trust no man's judgment until I have heard what he has to say.”

Kadarin said shortly, “Will you two boys, who know nothing of matrix mechanics, presume to sit in judgment upon a trained Arilinn telepath about matters of his own competence?”

Regis gave me a pleading look. After a long pause, during which I could almost feel him searching for the right words, he said, “To judge his competence—no. To judge whether I can conscientiously support his . . . his means and motives—for that I can trust no man's judgment but my own. I will listen to what he has to say.”

Beltran said, “Tell them, then, Lew, that we must do this if Darkover is to survive as an independent world, not a slave colony of the Empire!”

All their eyes were suddenly on me. This was the moment of truth, and a moment of great temptation. I opened my mouth to speak. Darkover's future was a cause justifying all things, and we needed Dani.

But did I serve Darkover or my own private ends? Before the boy whose career was ruined by a misuse of power, I discovered I could not lie. I could not give Danilo the reassurance it would take to enlist his aid, then frantically try to find some way to make the lie true.

I said, “Beltran, your aims are good and I trust them. But we cannot do it with the matrix we have to work with. Not with Sharra, Beltran. It is impossible, completely impossible.”

Kadarin swung around. I had seen his rage only once before, turned on Beltran. Now it was turned on me, and it struck me like a blow. “What folly is this, Lew? You told me Sharra has all the power we could possibly need!”