Citadels of Darkover

by Deborah J. Ross

  “Indeed,” Anndra frowned. “I’m his elder brother. Why, what’s become of him? Is he...dead?”

  “Oh no,” the men hastened to assure him. “He’s well, and lives in the same old house. He has great luck at the fishing. Very good luck. Aye, even in winter. He never comes home with an empty net. Some say...” There was that exchange of looks again. “His luck is catching, that he’s the cause of the town’s flourishing.”

  “Amazing,” Anndra laughed in relief. “I never really thought he could manage the skiff alone.” Indeed, he’d thought that Ian would have to give up and take work in town, at best.

  Again, those looks were traded around the table. “He...does na’ always sail alone,” one man murmured. “He has...a wife.” The other two glared at him.

  “What, Ian married?” Anndra marveled, wondering which of the local girls would have married a boy with such poor prospects. “Is she from hereabouts?”

  More silence, more looks, and finally: “Nay, she’s a...foreigner. She does na’ speak well.” One man ventured, “He brought her back after a whole summer’s voyage,” and then shut up quickly.

  “Ah, well, that makes sense,” Anndra chuckled into his cup. “I suppose I should drop in and congratulate him, then.”

  “Oh, aye,” the other men agreed. “Just... Do na’ be affrighted by the birds.”

  “Birds?”

  “The shorebirds cluster ‘round that house.” The men buried their mouths in their cups, and couldn’t be persuaded to say anything more.

  Puzzled, Anndra finished his drink, made a brief farewell and set out along the old well-known road.

  Eventually he saw the house, and understood what the man in the tavern had meant about the shorebirds. There must have been a dozen of them perched on the roof, and they rose up squalling loudly as they saw him coming. He noticed also that Mother’s old garden, though fallow now, looked well-kept and even enlarged. At least Ian and his family were eating well.

  The birds circled and cawed as he walked up to the door and knocked on it. “’Tis I, Anndra,” he announced, a little doubtful of his welcome.

  “Come in,” called a familiar voice—stronger and deeper than he remembered, but not angry at least. Anndra pulled the latch-cord and pushed the door open.

  The old main room was warmer than he remembered, there was a cheery fire in the old fireplace and a good supply of wood and sea-coal in the basket nearby. There was also a kettle hung over the fire with savory-smelling steam nudging the lid. There was a small forest of herbs and vegetables hanging from the roof-beams, and...yes, that was a small water-box holding live fish by the window.

  Just rising from one of the old chairs by the fire was Ian, true enough, but how changed! He stood taller, and was notably more muscular, and his hair was long and braided. One of the braids was lumpy, and Anndra wondered if Ian had taken up the old family custom of hiding valuable coins in his hair.

  In the other chair sat a woman, wrapped from the waist down in a blanket, though her chair was set further from the fire. She was pale, but not in the fashion of the Dry-Towners: near-white of hair, gray of eye, and with a face that looked as if it had never seen the sun—milk-pale, all over—and with an angled, elfin face. Her hands were tucked under the edge of the blanket, and she looked as shy as any high-born inland lady.

  “What, Anndra! Ye’ve come home then?” Ian strode forward, smiling, hand extended.

  “Nay, I’m only visiting on my way east.” Anndra clasped the proffered hand, noting that it was more calloused than he remembered. “I thought to drop in and see how you fared. You look well, I see.”

  “Aye.” Ian dropped his hand and went to fetch a stool. “Ye’ll not be staying long, then?” Though the words sounded warm, there was something unwelcoming about them.

  “Nay, I’m hastening off to a lord’s service, hoping to be first in line.” Anndra carefully avoided asking if he could stay the night. The house felt...strange, and he could reach the next town well before dusk if he tried. “I see ye’ve done well. And married, I hear?”

  “Aye.” There was something stiff in Ian’s smile. “This is my wife, Sylvie.”

  The woman gave him a slight smile, and a proper nod of greeting, but said nothing.

  “Milady,” Anndra said in his best formal manner, just to take no chances, “In the name of our ancestors, I welcome you to the family of MacRae.”

  The woman smiled wider, looking genuinely...amused. She still said nothing.

  Anndra bowed—formally, formally—and turned to take a seat on the stool. “Congratulations, wee brother. Wherever did you find such a beauty? There were none like her hereabouts when I left.”

  “Oh, away to the south...east,” Ian said airily, not quite meeting his brother’s eyes. He’d never been a good liar. “But what of you, Anndra? Where have you been these last five years? And what have you been a-doing? And what’s become of Stefan? ”

  “Ah, we parted company some twenty kilometers west, and I haven’t heard from him since. I took off to the northwest, and worked at all manner of trades...” Anndra glibly related the story he’d planned to give his next employer, all the while wondering about Ian’s wife. He’d never heard that the folk along the east coast of the Bay of Dalereuth looked so utterly pale: the opposite, if anything. And they spoke a perfectly understandable dialect.

  But there were other people he’d heard of in his travels, folk who weren’t entirely—or even remotely—human. ...Could she be a chieri?!

  “Ah, but where are my manners?” Ian broke in suddenly. “Let me fetch you a bowl; the stew should be done enough. We’ve nothing to drink but water, but I can boil up some herbal tea...”

  “Nay, water will do,” Anndra hastened to say, wondering what herbs Ian might use. “I had enough of that rusty wine down at the tavern, and their hard bread too. I’m full.”

  While Ian fetched a cup, and a dipper of water from a tall jar near the window, Anndra took the opportunity to smile at the wordless Sylvie. “And tell me, milady,” he said quickly, “How grow the forests in your land?”

  For an instant she looked bewildered. “For...ests?” she quavered.

  Not a chieri, Anndra decided. The chieri were always seen in forests. But what did that leave?

  Ian came back with the cup of water, asking: “So, what work are you seeking eastward?”

  “Some lordling wants more foresters,” Anndra said, neatly covering his question to Sylvie. “And there’s never enough of fire-watchers, though the pay varies...”

  Right then came a squall and a thump from the back room. The door swung open and out ran a pair of toddlers. In the lead was a girl of perhaps four, followed by a clumsy-stepping boy of no more than two. They wore nothing but breechclouts, and Anndra saw that they had unusually long feet, very broad across the toes. “Mama!” the girl howled self-righteously, “He bit me!” The boy giggled.

  The woman started up automatically, but Ian hurried ahead of her and caught both children. “Enough, tots!” he snapped. “Don’t bother our guest. You’re supposed to be napping.” He picked them both up and carried them, protesting noisily, off into the back room.

  But Anndra had been watching Sylvie, and saw that the blanket had fallen partly away from her legs, briefly showing her near foot. She twitched it back under cover quickly, but not so fast that Anndra didn’t get to see that her foot was definitely the wrong shape: far too long and broad across the toes. More like half a fish’s tail...

  The hair rose up on the back of his neck as he recalled another of Mother’s old stories. Yes, there was another legendary creature which his brother’s wife might be.

  He covered his shock with a laugh. “Ah, children!” he chortled, “They need such constant watching. If they’re not asleep, they’re constantly toddling about, getting into everything...”

  Sylvie favored him with a smile and a vigorous nod.

  At that point Ian came back, grumbling about “...they never listen,” and giving Ian
a nervous glance.

  “Congratulations again, brother,” Anndra smiled, smiled. “Two healthy children already! Aye, ye’ve done well for yourself indeed. I’m most glad to see it.” He swigged down the water, which was clean and cool, plotting one last proof. “Ah, but I need be off soon if I’m to reach Grassdale before dark. Sorry I can’t stay longer.”

  He set down the cup, stood up and tossed Ian a brief salute—then turned and formally offered his hand to Sylvie. “M’sera, I bid you good fortune, and pray you be always happy with my brother.”

  The woman hesitated a moment, then drew out her near hand—which was wearing a knitted mitten—and reached to touch Anndra’s fingers.

  He took the opportunity to clasp her whole hand firmly, and felt that her fingers were very long—and there were soft ridges between them, like folded skin.

  A Selkie! He let go quickly, bowed and turned away. They’re real! “Farewell, Ian. Perhaps I’ll see you again in less than another five years. Nay bother, I’ll see myself out.”

  He heard Ian’s puzzled farewell following as he slipped out the door and pulled it shut behind him. The shorebirds were back, perched on the roof again, but they were silent now.

  Anndra paced away as fast as he could without actually running. Indeed he’d reach Grassdale before dark, and pay whatever he must for sleeping-room at the inn, or any place where no shorebird could peep in, if indeed they ever came that far from the sea.

  A Selkie-woman! he marveled again, thinking of the old tale of the fisherman and his Selkie wife. That legend hadn’t mentioned her use of shorebirds as guards, or her ability to bring luck at fishing; he had something to add to the story.

  It occurred to him that his luck had changed, too. He now had a tale which would garner him free drinks for the rest of his life.

  FIRE STORM

  by Jane M. H. Bigelow

  This sweet, sad love story weaves together elements that recur in the earlier Darkover novels, particularly the Ages of Chaos tale, Stormqueen. Laran carries the potential for great benefit, but also great harm, and Marion Zimmer Bradley’s stories emphasized over and over again the risks of well-intentioned use resulting in disastrous consequences (for both the user, recipient, and environment itself). Marion pointed out that bringing rain to one region might create a drought in another. Perhaps that dry area might lack the water with which to combat a wildfire, one of the enduring dangers in those areas of the Domains that depended heavily upon their forests. But fire, like laran, and like the yearning of the human heart, is never simple.

  Jane M. H. Bigelow had her first professional publication in Free Amazons of Darkover. Since then, she has published a fantasy novel, Talisman, as well as short stories and short nonfiction on such topics as gardening in Ancient Egypt. Her short story, “The Golden Ruse” appeared in Luxor: Gods, Grit and Glory. She is currently working on a mystery set in 17th century France. Jane is a retired reference librarian, a job which encouraged her to go on being curious about everything and exposed her to a rich variety of people. She lives in Denver, Colorado, with her husband and two spoiled cats.

  Melisendra Delleray sat frowning at the sky, her embroidery neglected in her lap. To the south, clouds piled up against the Hyades mountains, bunched at the ridge line like sheep at a gate. Was it foolish to hope that they’d climb past the ridge and bring rain to Caer Anailh?

  It didn’t feel as if they would, nor did it look that way. There was barely enough wind to lift the dry leaves in the courtyard below. The clouds bunched at the ridge line like sheep at a gate. And so the barley would go on withering in the few fields that were level enough to grow it, and the fire danger would go higher than it already was.

  Every house in the village kept its largest bucket filled with water, ready to douse any errant spark. The guards of Caer Anailh scanned the lands around for any wisp of smoke outside its few streets. The lands just outside the village had been cleared of brush. Nothing was ever allowed to grow within yards of the castle, even in these peaceful times. They had done what they could.

  “Melisendra!” By her tone, Domna Adrianna had spoken to her before. Melisendra looked away from the window to find the old lord’s sister staring at her with one eyebrow raised. Giggles sparked all through the circle of women.

  “I’m sorry, domna,” Melisendra said. “I was thinking about the fire danger.”

  “As are we all! But there’s nothing you can do about it, Melisendra, and you can finish that nightgown yoke in time for Damisela Felicia’s wedding if you apply yourself. You embroider so nicely when you turn your mind to it, my dear.” She came over and lifted the finely woven linex from Melisendra’s lap and examined the clusters of tightly wound knots that made up the flowers. “This is lovely.” Smiling, she handed it back.

  There’s the sweetie to make up for the slap. Melisendra murmured her thanks. It was true, and she knew it, but it was nice to be recognized for it. She lowered her eyes modestly to the delicate sprays of flowers. The work was tediously slow, but the effect was elegant.

  “We’ll stitch for your wedding soon, I expect,” added Domna Adrianna.

  Not likely. Melisendra didn’t think she was ugly, but no one would marry her for her looks. Brown hair with only the faintest hint of red, if the sun struck it just right. Gray eyes. Middling height, and a build that kind persons called “sturdy.” No one was going to marry her for her family connections, either. Her father’s family had been scant help to her widowed mother, and had cast them off completely when Caitlin remarried to a commoner. Melisendra kept her mother’s domain name of Delleray simply to avoid being thought without family.

  It must be marriage someday, she supposed. She had no intention of seeking a position in a Tower, even if any were willing to train her laran. Her sister Janelle had gone to one of the best–only Arilinn itself was more revered–and what had that gained her but an early death?

  It was a good thing, thought Melisendra, that she was clever with her needle. She turned back to her work.

  Caer Anailh was a small castle, and its lands were scarcely more than one narrow valley. This room at the top of the keep was ample for every woman of rank, and two skillful commoners besides. Even young Carla had been set to simple stitching. Her stitches were surprisingly even for a girl of nine years.

  They were needed. Dom Marcus’ daughter Felicia’s wedding was planned in scandalous haste.

  Felicia was well-named, and lucky in her father. His kindness was known all the way to Dalereuth. The castle was full of Dom Marcus’s rescues, orphaned children and orphaned animals alike. How could such a man be harsh to his own daughter? He could not.

  The bride-to-be sat by the northern window, its cool light falling gently onto her work. She smiled as she did the black work on cuffs for a shirt for her betrothed.

  Good for her, thought Melisendra. She’d have the husband she wanted. Melisendra doubted that old Dom Marcus Syrtis-Leynier would have given his only daughter to a third son of a minor family of the MacArans if his hand hadn’t been forced. Ann’dra MacAran was a handsome man and a lovely singer, but he brought neither lands nor influence to the marriage.

  “This is so boring,” Carla complained. She was ignored.

  “Bo-ring.” she added. “Boring boring bore,” she sang softly, “O....bore,” and dropped a fifth on the last word. The child could carry a tune–and make one up.

  “Stop whining,” said Serafina.

  Poor child, thought Melisendra. She’d had nothing but the boring parts, long plain seams, and the gossip couldn’t do much to amuse a child who didn’t even know most of the adults mentioned. “Here,” she said. “Finish that hem, and I’ll show you how to do a counted thread pattern. You can put it on the neck of your dress for the wedding.”

  Carla looked thoughtful. “With the bright green floss?”

  At Domna Adrianna’s nod, Melisendra agreed. Carla stitched away with dedication.

  Melisendra rubbed at her forehead, just above the eyebrows.
It seemed unfair to have the headache that an impending storm always gave without getting any rain. The chatter in the room felt even more annoying than usual, and louder. Also less meaningful, if such a thing were possible. Never mind. Push the needle through, twist the thread around it, finish the knot. The steady rhythm was soothing.

  Someone whispered, “Away with the Fair Folk again, with a storm coming on.”

  Someone else said, “If she’d make the rain come here, I’d never tell how it happened.”

  A very young voice cried out, “That would be dangerous!”

  Yes, it would. Melisendra pretended that she hadn’t heard. Rumor had it that there was Rockraven blood in her family if you went back far enough. Though the stories of the Aldaran disaster had faded to legends, the taint was still there. Better to be thought devoid of laran than to be associated with the talent of moving storms.

  She’d never figured out how the rumor had reached Caer Anailh. They were far enough from everyone except the other lordlings of this hand-shaped cluster of valleys that she’d thought she would be safely anonymous. No such luck. She’d been here for over a year now, but only the wedding scandal had completely displaced her in gossip, and that not always.

  “Stephanie,” said Domna Adrianna.

  “I was only joking!”

  Domna Adrianna frowned. “We don’t joke about some things, Damisela Stephanie. Legends exist to teach us truths, like the legend of Alanna the Gossip. Also, you are frightening young Carla.”

  Melisendra suspected that Domna Adrianna made up some of the legends she mentioned. Few people were willing to challenge her; for one thing, she always came up with something long in response. Stephanie muttered an apology–to Adrianna, not Melisendra.

  ~o0o~

  Melisendra dodged back out of the path of four kitchen staff carrying a long plank table top out into the wellspring courtyard. More kitchen staff hauled trestles and benches into place. As soon as they stepped back from a bench, someone thumped down on it.