The Sword of Aldones
( Darkover - 2 )
Marion Zimmer Bradley
After Lew Alton unwittingly roused the fire demon Sharra, the Sword of Aldones was the only weapon that could lay her to rest again. But only one man could wield the sword, and getting it was an even bigger problem.
Nominated for Hugo Award for Best Novel in 1963.
Later the novel was revised and rewritten by author and published as Sharra’s Exile in 1981.
The Sword of Aldones
by Marion Zimmer Bradley
CHAPTER ONE
We were outstripping the night.
The Southern Cross had made planetfall on Darkover at midnight. There I had embarked on the Terran skyliner that was to take me halfway around a planet; only an hour had passed, but already the thin air was beginning to flush red with a hint of dawn. Under my feet the floor of the big plane tilted slightly as it began to fly aslant down the western ridge of the Hellers. Peak after peak fell away astern, cutting the sparse clouds that capped the snowline; and already my memory was looking for landmarks, although I knew we were too high.
After six years of knocking around half a dozen star-systems, I was going home again; but I felt nothing. Not homesick. Not excited. Not even resentful. I hadn’t wanted to return’ to Darkover, but I hadn’t even cared enough to refuse.
Six years ago I had left Darkover, intending never to return. The Regent’s desperate message had followed me from Terra, to Samarra, to Vainwal. It costs plenty to send a personal message interspace, even over the Terran relay system, and Old Hastur — Regent of the Comyn, Lord of the Seven Domains — hadn’t wasted words in explaining. It had simply been a command. But I couldn’t imagine why they wanted me back. They’d all been glad to see the last of me, when I went.
I turned from the paling light at the window, closing my eyes and pressing my good hand to my temple. The inter-stellar passage, as always, had been made under heavy sedation. Now the dope that the ship’s medic had given me was beginning to wear off; fatigue cut down my barriers; letting in a teasing telepathic trickle of thought.
I could feel the covert stares of the other passengers; at my scarred face; at the arm that ended at the wrist in a folded sleeve; but mostly at what, and who I was. A telepath. A freak. An Alton — one of the Seven Families of the Comyn — that hereditary autarchy which has ruled Darkover since long before our sun faded to red.
And yet, not quite one of them. My father, Kennard Alton — every child on Darkover could repeat the story — had done a shocking, almost a shameful thing. He had married, taken in honorable laran marriage, a Terran woman, kin to the hated Empire people who have overrun the civilized Galaxy.
He had been powerful enough to brazen it out. They had needed my father in Comyn Council. After Old Hastur, he had been the most powerful man in the Comyn. He’d even managed to cram me down their troats. But they’d all been glad when I left Darkover. And now I had come home.
In the seat in front of me, two professorish-looking Earth-men, probably research workers on holiday from mapping and exploring, were debating the old chestnut of origins. One was stubbornly defending the theory of parallel evolutions; the other, the theory that some ancient planet — preferably Earth itself — colonized the whole Galaxy a million years ago. I concentrated on their conversation, trying to shut out awareness of the stares around me. Telepaths are never at ease in crowds.
The Dispersionist brought out all the old arguments for a lost age of star-travel, and the other man was arguing about the nonhuman races and the differing levels of culture on any single planet.
“Darkover, for instance,” he argued. “A planet still in early feudal culture, trying to reconcile itself to the impact of the Terran empire—”
I lost interest. It was amazing, how many Terrans still thought of Darkover as a feudal or barbarian planet. Simply because we retain, not resistance, but indifference to Terran imports of machinery and weapons; because we prefer to ride horses and mules, as an ordinary thing, rather than spend our time in building roads. And because Darkover, bound by the ancient Compact, wants to take no chance of a return to the days of war and mass murder with coward’s weapons. That is the law on all planets of the Darkovan League, and all civilized worlds outside. Who would kill, must come within reach of death. They could talk disparagingly of the code duello, and the feudal system. I’d heard it all, on Terra. But isn’t it more civilized to kill your personal enemy at hand-grips, with sword or knife, than to slay a thousand strangers at a safe distance?
The people of Darkover have held out, better than most, against the glamor of the Terran Empire. I’ve been on other planets, and I’ve seen what happened to most worlds when the Earthmen come in with the lure of a civilization that spans the stars. They don’t subdue new worlds by force of arms. The Earthman can afford to sit back and wait until the native culture simply collapses under their impact. They wait till the planet begs to be taken into the Empire. And sooner or later the planet does — and becomes one more link in the vast, overcentralized monstrosity swallowing world after world.
It hadn’t happened here, not yet.
A man near the front of the cabin rose and made his way toward me; without permission, he swung himself into the empty seat at my side.
“Comyn?” But it wasn’t a question.
The man was tall and sparely built; mountain Darkovan, Cahuenga from the Hellers. His stare dwelt, an instant past politeness, on the scars and the empty sleeve; then he nodded.
“I thought so,” he said. “You were the boy who was mixed up in that Sharra business.”
I felt the blood rise in my face. I had spent six years forgetting the Sharra rebellion — and Marjorie Scott. I would bear the scars forever. Who the hell was this man, to remind me?
“Whatever I was,” I said curtly, “I am not, now. And I don’t remember you.”
“And you an Alton!” he mocked lightly.
“In spite of all scare stories,” I said, “Altons don’t go around casually reading minds. In the first place, it’s hard work. In the second place, most people’s minds are too full of muck. And in the third place,” I added, “we just don’t give a damn.”
He laughed. “I didn’t expect you to recognize me,” he said. “You were drugged and delirious when I saw you last. I told your father that hand would have to come off eventually. I’m sorry I was right about it.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. “I’m Dyan Ardais.”
Now I remembered him, after a fashion, a mountain lord from the far fastnesses of the Hellers. There had never been any love lost, even in the Comyn, between the Altons and the men of the Ardais.
“You travel alone? Where is your father, young Alton?”
“My father died on Vainwal,” I said shortly.
His voice was a purr. “Then welcome, Comyn Alton!” The ceremonial title was a shock as he spoke it. He glanced at the square of paling window.
“We’re coining in to Thendara. Will you travel with me?”
“I expect to be met.” I didn’t, but I had no wish to prolong this chance acquaintance. Dyan bowed, unruffled. “We shall meet in Council,” he said, and added, with lazy elegance, “Oh, and guard your belongings well, Comyn Alton. There are doubtless, some who would like to recover the Sharra matrix.”
He spun round and walked away and I sat slack, in shock. Damn! Had he picked my mind as I sat there? How else had he known? The dirty Cahuenga! Still doped with procalamin as I was, he could have gotten inside my telepathic barriers and out again before I knew it. But would one of the Comyn stoop so far?
I stared after him, furiously; started to rise, and fell back with a jolt; we were losing altitude rapidly. The s
ign flashed to fasten seat belts; I fumbled at mine, my mind in turmoil.
He had forced memory on me — forced me to remember why I had left Darkover six years ago, scarred and broken and maimed for life. Wounds that had begun to heal, with time and silence, tore at me again. And he had spoken the name of Sharra.
A half-caste boy, a bastard, Comyn by special grace only because my father had no Darkovan sons, I had been easy prey for the rebels and malcontents swarming under the rallying cry of Sharra. Sharra — the legend called her a goddess turned daemon, bound in golden chains, called forth by fire. I had stood at those fires, using my telepath gifts to summon forth the powers of Sharra.
The Aldarans, the Comyn family exiled for dealing with the Terrans, had been at the center of the rebellion. I was a kinsman of Beltran, Lord of Aldaran.
Faces I had tried to forget, marched relentlessly out to torment me. The man called Kadarin, rebel extraordinary, who had persuaded me to join the rebels of Sharra. The Scotts; drunken Zeb Scott who had found the talisman matrix of Sharra, and his children. Little Rafe, who had followed me about, his hero; Thyra, with the face of a girl and the eyes of a wild beast. And Marjorie…
Marjorie! Time slid away. A frightened girl with soft brown hair and gold-flecked amber eyes stole to my side through the strange firelight. Laughing, she walked the streets of a city that was now smashed rubble, a garland of golden flowers in her hand…
I slammed the memory shut. That wouldn’t help. The thrum of the braking jets hurt my ears; out the window I could see the stubby towers of Thendara, rosy in the pink sunlight; a bright spot on the dark plains, patched with forests and low hills. We dipped lower and lower, and I saw lakes flash like silver mirrors; then the skyscraper peak of the Terran HQ building flashed past the window, the glare and whiteness of the spaceport struck my eyes, there was a jar, and a bump, and we were down. I tore at my straps. Now for Dyan—
But I missed him. The airfield was a scrabble of humans from thirty planets, jabbering in a hundred languages, and as I pushed my way through the crowd, I ran with smashing force into a thin girl dressed in white.
She stumbled and fell, and I bent to help her to her feet. “Please forgive me,” I said in Standard, “I should have been looking where I was going—” and then I got a good look at her.
“Linnell!” I cried out joyfully, “by all that’s wonderful!” I caught her up clumsily, hugging her. “Did you come to meet me? But, little cousin, how you’ve grown!”
“I beg your pardon!” The girl’s voice was dripping with ice. Suddenly aghast, I set her on her feet. She was speaking Darkovan now, but no Darkovan girl ever had such an accent. I stared at her, appalled.
“I’m sorry,” I said at last, dumbfounded. “I thought—” but I kept on staring. She was a tall girl, very fair, with a soft heart-shaped face and soft dark brown hair and gentle gray eyes — but they were not gentle now; they were blazing with anger.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated numbly, “I thought you were one of my cousins.”
She gave a cool shrug, murmured something and moved away. I followed her with my eyes, still staring. The resemblance was fantastic. It wasn’t just a superficial similarity of coloring and height; the girl was a mirror image of my cousin, Linnell Aillard. Even her voice sounded like Linnell’s. A light hand touched my shoulder and a gay girlish voice said, “Shame, Lew! How you must have embarrassed poor Linnell! She brushed past me without even speaking! Have you been away so long that you have forgotten all your manners?”
“Dio Ridenow!” I said, startled.
The girl beside me was small and pert, with flaxen-gold hair fluttering about her shoulders, and her green-gray eyes were aslant with mischief. “I thought you were on Vainwall!” I said.
“And when you said good-bye to me there, you thought I would stay alone to cry my eyes out,” she said saucily. “Not I! The space lanes are free to women as well as men, Lew Alton, and I, too, have a place in Comyn Council, when I choose to take it. Why should I stay there and sleep alone?” She giggled. “Oh, Lew, you should see your face! What’s the matter?”
“It wasn’t Linnell,” I said, and Dio stared. “Who, then?” She looked around, but the girl who looked like Linnell had vanished into the crowds. “And where is my uncle? Have you quarreled with your father again, Lew?”
“No!” I said roughly. “He died on Vainwal!” Didn’t anyone on Darkover know it yet? “Do you think anything less would bring me back here?”
I saw the mirth go out of Dio’s face. “Oh, Lew! I’m sorry! I didn’t know!”
She touched my arm again, but I shied away from her sympathy. Dio Ridenow was high explosive where I was concerned. On Vainwal, that had all been very well. But I knew, if she didn’t, how quickly that old affair could flare up into passion again. I had troubles enough without woman trouble, too.
Once again I had failed to barricade my thoughts. Dio’s fair face etched itself with crimson; and abruptly, catching her teeth in her lip, she turned and almost ran toward the spaceport barriers.
“Dio!” I called after her, but at that moment someone shouted my name.
And right there, I made my first mistake. I didn’t go after her — don’t ask me why. But someone called my name again.
“Lew! Lew Alton!”
And the next moment a slender, dark-haired boy in Terran clothing was smiling up at me.
“Lew! Welcome home!”
And I couldn’t remember his name to save my life.
He looked familiar. He knew me, and I knew him. But I stood warily back, remembering how I had recognized Linnell. The youngster laughed.
“Don’t you know me?”
“I’ve been away too long to be sure about anybody,” I said. I reached for telepathic contact, but the drug was still fuzzing my brain; I sensed only the fringes of familiarity. I shook my head at the kid. He’d have been only a child when I left Darkover; he was still so young that I don’t think he’d started shaving yet.
“Zandru’s hells,” I said, “you couldn’t be Marius, could you?”
“Couldn’t I?”
I still couldn’t believe it. My brother Marius, the younger brother who had cost our Terran mother her life — could I possibly fail to recognize my own brother?
He was grinning up at me shyly, ,and I relaxed. “I’m sorry, Marius,” I said. “You were so young, and you’ve changed so much. Well—”
“We can talk later,” he said quickly. “You have to go through customs, and all, but I wanted to get to you first. What’s the matter, Lew, you look funny. Sick?”
I leaned hard for a minute on his suddenly-steadying arm, until the vertigo passed. “Procalamin,” I said ruefully, and at his blank look elucidated. “They shoot us full of it, on starships, so we can take the hyperdrive stresses without coming apart at the seams. It takes a while to wear off, and I’m allergic to the stuff anyhow.”
I caught his sidewise glance and my face grew grimmer. “Do I look that bad?That’s right, you haven’t seen me, have you, since I lost my hand and got my face cut up. Well, get a good look.”
His eyes slid away, and I tightened my arm around his shoulders.
“I don’t mind you staring,” I said more gently, “but damned if I want you sneaking a look at me when you think I won’t notice, because I always do. See?”
He relaxed and studied me frankly for a minute, then grinned. “Not pretty, but you never were much of a beauty, as I remember. Let’s go.”
I looked past the skyscraper of the HQ, and the tall buildings of the Trade City. Beyond them rose the vast, splintered teeth of the mountains; and poised, “far above the plain, the loom of the Comyn Castle, topped by the tall spire of the Keeper’s Tower.
“Are the Comyn already assembled in Thendara?”
Marius shook his head. I still couldn’t get used to the notion that this was my brother. He didn’t feel right. “No,” he said, “They — we’re meeting out in the Hidden City. Lew
, did you bring any guns from Terra?”
“Hell, no. What would I want with guns? And they’re contraband anyhow.”
“Then you’re not armed at all?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s not allowed to carry side arms on most Empire planets and I’ve lost the habit. Why?”
He scowled. “I managed to get one last year,” he said. “I paid four times what it was worth, and it has the contraband mark on it. I thought — wait, that’s your name they’re calling.”
It was. I went slowly toward the low white customs building, Marius trailing after me. He shook his head at the officer on duty, and went on through. My luggage had been laid on the conveyer belt and the clerk glanced at me without much interest.
“Lewis Alton-Kennard-Montray-Alton? Landed at Port Chicago on the Southern Cross? Matrix technician?”
I admitted all of it, and shoved the plastic chip which held my certification as a licensed matrix mechanic.
“We’ll have to check this on the main banks,” the Terran clerk said. “It will take an hour or two. We’ll get in touch with you.”
The clerk flicked his eyes over a printed form. “Do — you — solemnly — affirm — that — to — the — best — of -your — knowledge — and — belief — you — have — not — in -your — possession — any — power — or — propulsion — weapons -guns — disintegrators — or — blasters — atomic — isotopes — narcotic — drugs — intoxicants — or — incendiaries?”
I signed. He hefted my luggage under the clarifier; the screen stayed blank, as I’d known it would. The items named were all items of Terran manufacture; by solemn compact with the Hasturs, the Empire is committed not to, let them be brought into the Darkovan Zone, or anywhere outside the Trade Cities. Such items, contraband on our planet, were treated before they were brought here with a small speck of radioactive substance, harmless but unremovable. “Anything else to declare?”
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