Citadels of Darkover

by Deborah J. Ross

  There were few lights behind the hangar. He groped his way along the back of the building, moving with stealthy care as Gant would have done, following guard’s directions, until he came to the mouth of a narrow alley between a pair of hangars.

  Devin Ardais and the giant, Garth, stood over an unconscious John Barron. “Hold him down,” Ardais whispered to his accomplice. “There can’t be any mark. Even the commander can’t know what’s happened.”

  Ardais reached under his cloak and brought forth a slender black box. Opening it, he extracted a syringe. It gleamed suddenly as Idriel broke over a rooftop.

  Garrett stepped into the alley. “Stop, monster. Gant told me everything about your genetic poison and your plan. I won’t let you do it.”

  Ardais looked up. Even in the alley darkness his scowl was plain. “Gant told you?” He sounded incredulous. “You won’t let us what?”

  Kill him! Gant urged.

  Veet Waylon concurred. Kill him.

  Kill him, John Barron agreed.

  Where am I? The groundsman exuded confusion while the guard remained quiet.

  Garrett pressed his hands to his ears.

  “We’ve been paid a fancy coin for this operation,” Ardais hissed, “and you’re not going to interfere. One drop of this into the commander’s veins, and he becomes the unwitting carrier of a synthetic virus to Samarra.”

  “And with a six-month incubation time, he’ll be in the Samarran courts when it activates and begins to infect everyone. It will topple the government and probably start war with the Terran Empire when they trace it back to your boyfriend.”

  The John Barron inside Garrett’s head recoiled. “Boyfriend?”

  Devin Ardais uncapped the syringe and bent over John Barron’s still form. “That’s what I’m being paid for. Now don’t go away, little whore. I’ll deal with you next, as I should have done back in Ardcarran.”

  Voices suddenly spoke behind Garrett. Not the voices in his head, but real, human ones, and the beams of flashlights stabbed into the alley.

  “Don’t touch me!” Garrett shouted as a dozen men rushed into the alley. They were ground crew, pilots, military men, led an Aldaran family member. Most of them stopped as Garrett held up his hands, but the military men pressed forward. Avoiding Garrett, they moved toward Ardais and Garth.

  “Assaulting a starship commander is a capital offense, the Aldaran lord said, “and if what we overheard is true, and that syringe will determine that, you’ve committed a serious breach of the Compact. I think you’ll soon regret your actions.”

  Devin Ardais stood up, still with the syringe in hand. “I am an Ardais,” he proclaimed. “You have no authority over me!”

  You saved me. John Barron’s voice spoke inside Garrett’s head. My hero.

  Garrett pressed his hands to his ears again, but he couldn’t ignore the voices. Nor could he shut out the arguments of the other humans now in the alley, nor the arrogant intonings of Ardais himself.

  The Aldaran lord sidled cautiously up to Garrett. “My family would like to meet you,” he said. “You sorely need training. You don’t need to steal entire personalities. We can help you learn to focus.”

  Garrett looked up. “He’s going to walk away, isn’t he? He’s guilty as hell, and you’ll let him walk away because his name makes him above the law?”

  The Aldaran lord shrugged and looked regretful. “He is an Ardais, from one of the ruling Domains of Darkover.”

  Garrett’s left hand made a subtle move. Gant’s knife flew across the alley space. But the Aldaran lord’s move was quicker. He brushed Garrett’s hand ever so slightly so that the knife missed its intended target. Garth’s head snapped up, and his eyes filled with surprise as he looked at Garrett. Nobody made a move to help him he sank to his knees at Devin Ardais’s feet.

  Well done, Gant said. I never liked him.

  “On the other hand, Ardais,” the Aldaran lord said, “you are in Aldaran territory, and you have undeniably breached the Compact by attempting to use this virus as a weapon. These witnesses will attest.” His face darkened. “I see no need for a court or a trial. You may easily have an accident or just disappear in the High Hellers never to be heard from again.”

  Garrett furrowed his brow as he watched Garth’s slow collapse. “Did I do that?” he asked Gant. “Or did you?”

  You made a decision,” Gant answered. And you acted. You’ve grown. You’ve changed.

  “But it was your skill. I still don’t know who I am,” Garrett said aloud, “or what I am.”

  You’re a scorpion, Gant said. Just like me. It’s your nature. You’ve been used all your life. Now for the first time, you have the power–real power.

  The guard and the groundsman spoke up. You’re not a scorpion, the guard said. You’re a young man with a chance to finally better himself. The groundsman agreed. To change and grow. You never have to go back to your old life.

  Gant, Barron, Waylon, the groundsman and the guard all drew closer inside Garrett’s head to offer comfort. Go with this Aldaran nobleman, they urged. Let his family train you. Remember, you just saved two worlds.

  Go with him, Gant scowled, the lone dissenter. Then kill him for fun.

  The other personalities mentally dog-piled Gant as Garrett clapped his hands to his ears.

  Veet Waylon chuckled. I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.

  THE CITADEL OF FEAR

  by Barb Caffrey

  This story combines a number of elements: a siege, a deadly enemy, a fortified place (for some loosely defined value of “fortified”), and a struggle for survival. Combined with the courage and resourcefulness of the Renunciate protagonist, the results are anything but predictable. This story has much in common with Diana L. Paxson’s “Siege,” but each author has woven together a very different, equally satisfying tapestry.

  Barb Caffrey has written three novels, An Elfy On The Loose (2014), A Little Elfy in Big Trouble (2015), and Changing Faces (2017), and is the co-writer of the Adventures of Joey Maverick series (with late husband Michael B. Caffrey) Previous stories and poems have appeared in Stars of Darkover, First Contact Café, How Beer Saved the World, Bearing North, and Bedlam's Edge (with Michael B. Caffrey).

  Miralys n’ha Camilla had been riding, like any other day. The sky was clear, the mountains were easily seen, and if the snow wasn’t quite up to beauty, it at least seemed clean and fresh. “This is the life!” she called to her client, Jennella, a sensible woman she’d truly enjoyed shepherding into the mountains.

  Jenella smiled, but said nothing. She wasn’t quite used to riding, she’d said the night before at their meal of beans and kava. The lines of pain on her face that Miralys had noticed lately, though, had become far less; this trip had done Jenella a lot of good.

  The pack animals were behind them, including her little chervine, Surefoot...they should be able to reach the City of Sorcery high in the mountains, the place she considered her second home, within a few more days.

  Then disaster struck.

  She saw a flash of white above, heard a rumbling coming from somewhere. She tried to call to Jenella to get clear, to save herself, but Miralys’s voice couldn’t be heard over the tumult. Her horse started to rear as an avalanche of snow, ice, and rocks came down; her mind screamed, but her body couldn’t move due to the sudden pressure. And her laran—weak but usable, her mother Camilla had always told her—tried to reach anyone she could, in the hopes she didn’t need to die here.

  As she passed out, she hoped Jennella was all right. And that Surefoot had somehow managed to escape, too...

  The next thing she knew, she was being dug out from the mountain of snow. Four hard-faced women pulled her out, put her on a pallet, and carried her to safety near the semi-permanent encampment outside the city. A healer exclaimed over her legs (both broken), told her she could set them, but...and then Miralys had passed out again. When she woke next, her legs were weak, but fully healed.

  She knew ther
e would be a price for that. There always was.

  As she recovered, a young woman was always by her side. The woman’s name was Gwennis. Miralys had never seen her before, but accepted Gwennis’s ministrations—as Gwennis was obviously an apprentice healer of some sort—calmly. Best of all, Gwennis was able to tell her that Surefoot had indeed found a way here, though they’d not found a trace of Jennella, nor the horses, nor anything else.

  Gwennis turned her face away whenever Miralys wept, as was proper.

  Finally, the bill became due for her healing. She was summoned to see the city elders two hours after she’d gone to bed. Bleary-eyed, she was guided, without Gwennis, to a fire and a circle of stones. It was cold and clear, the smoke bracing with its piney smell. And as the women chanted, Miralys wondered what they would see.

  Or at least what they’d tell her.

  Finally, the elder closest to her beckoned her close with a finger. Miralys went quietly, as if in a dream, and sat at her feet. She did not ask questions, only listened.

  “You need to take several youngsters down to the Lowlands, including your healer, Gwennis. Two will go to Nevarsin immediately, to the Guildhouse there. The others, we’re not sure where they’ll go, except it’ll be a long journey with many pitfalls...you’re the only guide we trust, and we’ll give you all you need to make the journey.”

  Then they sent her away to get more rest.

  She spent the next two days acquiring provisions. She talked to other trail guides, who warned her of the various robber-bands about and where they were likely to be holed up. She also worked on getting to know the five girls she’d be escorting down.

  They were all so young! Had she ever been that age? (She must’ve, but it seemed like it had been forever.) And only two had professions; Gwennis was a healer, while Betrys was a trained midwife...what was the Guildhouse to do with the rest of them?

  Before she knew it, they were on the trail. A few of the girls didn’t want to listen to her, but after one nearly fell off the mountain taking a piss (the girl had picked a bad spot, way too close to the edge for common sense), they’d listened a bit better.

  The girls ranged in age from fifteen to twenty. The twenty-year-old, Betrys, was the aforementioned midwife; she was the steadiest by far of the lot, besides Gwennis. But three of them, Rakhaila, Elinora, and Margwenn, had no idea what they wanted to do. Worse, they’d never been around men whatsoever as far as Miralys could tell, and had the worst romantic notions about them. (Why they still wanted to become Renunciates, she hadn’t any idea.) But as if that weren’t enough, none of them had any idea how to protect themselves. None had any laran, either; only she had a bit, and it wasn’t reliable except for her one talent...

  So she’d have no true backup, this trip. Thanks to Avarra, I must not need any, she thought sarcastically. She figured the Goddess Avarra must know her well, and would forgive her bad feelings about all of it.

  As she trudged down the mountain—she was taking point, as she was the only one likely to find fissures in the ice, or trail that wasn’t solid enough for the girls’ footing—she thought more about what she could possibly do if they ran into a bad situation. She wasn’t all that tall, and while she was good with a quarterstaff, she knew she couldn’t protect all five girls by herself from any determined opposition. And while she’d tried to show them some basic defense moves, only Gwennis seemed to have any knack for it, while Betrys—so steady otherwise—just shrugged, and said she’d roll into a little ball and hide.

  Children!

  She had snares, which might be useful in a pinch. (Just simple gut, as she didn’t want to leave any precious metal hanging about; besides, that was just plain cruel to the animals at this time of year, dying like that.) She also had an axe to cut firewood, and...but it was pointless to speculate.

  Still, her laran said trouble was ahead. And she listened to herself, even when she didn’t understand why.

  There was something niggling at her. Something about men. The robbers and thieves, she knew how to stay away from, and she thought she could keep them away from the girls. But if they got snowed in somewhere...

  Too many men willing to travel in winter were scoundrels, if not outright reprobates. The only way any of them would go anywhere was if they were displaced, maybe turned off the great estates and had nowhere else to go; either that, or they were hermits who hated women, nine times out of ten. And that tenth one, while a good person, would perhaps turn one of these girl’s heads...they didn’t know yet about how a man could promise the sun, moons, and stars, and then proceed to break every promise he’d ever made.

  Or maybe that was just her experience. But she didn’t want these girls to go through the same things she did...she’d rather they knew their sisters, and valued them, and would become good women capable of taking—and upholding—the vows of a Renunciate down the line.

  Not my call, she reminded herself. Pay attention to the trail.

  The next two days were all right, save for the girls’ intransigence about getting up in the morning. Snow, ice, rocks, etc., but all hazards she expected. No sudden thaws to make footing insecure or set off possible avalanches; no sudden freezes, either. The one pack animal she had followed her without complaint, and as little Surefoot was a bit of a weather chervine, that gave Miralys hope they’d all make it through.

  But her nights, as usual, were plagued with nightmares. She was trapped, again, in a white-out blizzard, much worse than what had occurred at the time. Then, as she found her way to the trail, a huge wall of snow and ice fell upon her. She screamed, in nightmare, and felt her legs break...could barely breathe...felt scared out of her mind that she’d die here, alone, no one ever knowing where she’d fallen...

  Back to the here and now, she reminded herself. Just because the trail looks all right, that does not mean it is all right. Remember your lessons!

  So she tested the trail before she let the girls walk upon it. Surefoot didn’t so much as sniff the wrong way. And they kept going another five days, with the girls either sacking out so completely they didn’t hear her in the night, or courteously leaving her alone despite her nightmares.

  Then the eighth day dawned, bright and sunny. There was a bit of a thaw in the air, which worried her; this was the wrong time of year for such things. Worse, as they continued down the trail, there was sign of a number of other travelers; by their copious litter—including deep foot tracks along with torn branches and once the remnants of a fire she, herself, had to put out—she believed it to be a bunch of ruffians she’d encountered before. Not truly bad, mind you—just careless fools, with none of them worth the least of Surefoot’s hoof parings.

  The girls, of course, chattered so much that they must feel it all a grand adventure. They’d obviously never been anywhere, except for Betrys, and even she had only been to see various women (and their families) with her own mentor. They kept looking down the mountain, wide-eyed, and she hadn’t the heart to say much other than “Watch out, and stay away from men if you see them before I do.”

  She knew they wouldn’t listen, but had to make the attempt.

  Another two days went by. She stayed a reasonable one half-day behind the men by best estimate, allowing the girls to get up an hour later and then giving them more trail chores. She hoped they’d understand why she was hanging back, but couldn’t count on it. All she could do, aside from keeping a weather eye on them, was to pray to Evanda, Avarra, and any other goddesses around that they’d not run into each other. She didn’t even trust the peace of the trail-meet, as such men had violated such sacred compacts before if they felt the risk—in this case, defiling five innocent young women—was justified.

  That was enough for all men’s hands—and women’s, too, no doubt—to be turned against them, if proven. Then again, if these men violated these girls, they deserved to be sent to the coldest of Zandru’s hells.

  But who would believe a Renunciate over a man, even if that man was one of a group of scoundrels?<
br />
  Then, the weather worsened, just after they’d taken a break for the light afternoon meal. The girls looked worried, and rightfully so; this snow was sticking, and on top of the refreezing ice and snow was likely to make their footing too treacherous to continue.

  Quickly she rigged a rope line, and tied it around her waist before going to Gwennis and doing the same there. Gwennis went to Betrys, who went to the next girl, and within a few moments, the six of them were roped together. Normally Miralys would want the pack animal roped with them for comfort, but Surefoot had proven her mettle so many times, she’d rather leave Surefoot alone.

  As it stood, there was shelter under a deep underhang not too far from here, if they could reach it; that was perhaps the best place they were going to find tonight. But with the men ahead of them, on a long, dark trail far away from anyone...this was going to be trouble. She didn’t need her laran to tell her that.

  But first things first. We need to make it to the shelter, and then...may all the goddesses protect us. She normally was not so devout, or so superstitious, but something had her spooked; besides, asking for help was not wrong, even if expecting it was.

  It took subjective hours of work to get there. But as they grew closer, even the sticky snow couldn’t hide the boot prints of at least half a dozen men...the group she’d been trying to avoid was already in the shelter she needed, and now her luck had run out.

  Why me? she thought. Fortunately, the girls weren’t panicking; Surefoot was still pacing at her back; they had provisions to share, which might save them.

  But her laran was pinging mightily, nearly screaming, Don’t go in there! Don’t do it!

  She told herself to ignore this. There was no other choice. The snow was thick, heavy, and the terrain was studded with rocks, dead trees, and other detritus that may as well be considered traps due to the low light remaining.

  She started composing work details in her head as they got closer to shelter. They’d need water, to build a fire (especially if the men hadn’t done it; but even if they had, two fires beat one, and might give her and the girls some sort of dignity away from the uncouth men), start cooking so there would be hot food available in a few hours (or at least before they broke their fast the next day), someone would need to brush down Surefoot and check her hooves...