Heritage and Exile

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Nonsense!” Dyan rapped out. “Dead men don’t bleed like that.” He knelt, quickly ran his fingertips over the boy’s head and motioned to two third-year cadets. “Take him back to the staff offices and ask master Raimon to have a look at him.”

  As Julian was carried out, Gabriel Vyandal muttered across the table, “It’s not fair to pick on us at this hour of the morning when we’re all half asleep.” It was so quiet in the mess room that his voice carried; Dyan strode across the room and said, looking down at him with a curl of his lip, “Times like this are when you should be most on guard, cadet. Do you think that footpads in the city, or catmen or bandits on the border, will pick an hour of your convenience to attack? This part of your training is to teach you to be on your guard literally every moment, cadets.” He turned his back on them and walked out of the room.

  Gareth muttered, “He’s going to kill one of us some day. I wonder what he’ll say then?”

  Damon came back to his seat, looking very white. “He wouldn’t even let me go with them and hold his head.”

  Gabriel laid a comforting hand on his arm. He said, “Don’t worry, Master Raimon will take good care of him.”

  Regis had been shocked at the sight of blood, but a sense of scrupulous fairness made him say, “Lord Dyan is right, you know. When we’re really in the field, a moment of being off guard can get us killed, not just hurt.”

  Damon glared at Regis. “It’s all right for you to talk, Hastur. I notice he never picks on you.”

  Regis, whose ribs were chronically black and blue from Dyan’s battering at sword practice, said, “I suppose he thinks I get enough lumps working out with him in armed-combat training.” It occurred to him that there was an element of cruelty in this too. Kennard Alton had taught him to handle a sword when he was believed to be the best swordsman in the Domains. Yet in daily practice with either Kennard or Lew for two years, he had collected fewer bruises then he had had from Dyan in a few weeks.

  A second-year man said audibly, “What do you expect of the Comyn? They all hang together.”

  Regis bent his head to the cold porridge. What’s the use? he thought. He couldn’t show everybody his bruises—he shouldn’t have opened his mouth. Danilo was trying to eat with trembling hands. The sight filled Regis with distress but he did not know what he could say that would not be an intrusion.

  In the barracks room, Regis quickly made up his bed, helped Damon fix up Julian’s cot and arrange his possessions; when Julian returned, at least he would not have to face demerits for leaving his bed and shelf in disorder. After the other cadets had gone off for arms-drill, he and Danilo remained. It was their turn to sweep the room and clean the fireplace. Regis went meticulously about the work of scraping ashes from the fireplace and cleaning the hearth. You never knew which officer would make inspection and some were stricter than others. He did the work with all the more thoroughness because he detested it, but his thoughts were busy. Had Julian really been hurt? Dyan had been too rough.

  He was aware that Danilo, shoving the heavy push-broom with scowling determination at the far end of the room, was filled with a kind of sullen misery that overlaid everything else. Regis wondered if there was any way to block out other people’s emotions, for he was far too sensitive to Danilo’s moods. If he knew what Dani was thinking, or why he was so angry and miserable all the time, it might not be so bad, but all Regis got were the raw emotions.

  He sensed Lew Alton’s presence and looked up to see him coming along the room. “Not finished? Take your time, cadet, I’m a little early.”

  Regis relaxed. Lew could be strict enough, but he did not go out of his way to look for hidden fragments of dust. He continued his work with the hearth-broom, but after a minute felt Lew bend and touch his arm. “I want a word with you.”

  Regis rose and followed him to the door of the barracks room, turning to say over his shoulder, “I’ll be with you in a minute, Dani, don’t try to shift that table until I can help you.” Just outside, aware of the touch of Lew’s thoughts, he looked up to face his smiling eyes.

  “Yes, I knew the other day, in Council,” Lew said, “but I had no chance to speak to you then. When did this happen, Regis? And how?”

  “I’m not sure,” Regis said, “but somehow, I—touched—Danilo, or he touched me, I’m not really sure which it was, and some kind of—of barrier seemed to go down. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  Lew nodded. “I know,” he said, “there aren’t any words for most of these experiences, and the ones there are, aren’t very enlightening. But Danilo? I sensed he had laran the other day, but if he could do that, then—” He stopped, his brow furrowed, and Regis followed the thought, that would mean he’s a catalyst telepath! They’re rare, I thought there were no functioning ones left.

  “I’ll speak to my father before I leave for Aldaran.”

  “You’re going instead of Uncle Kennard? When?”

  “A few days before Council season is over, not long now. The trip into the mountains is hard at any season, and impossible after the snows really begin in earnest.”

  Danilo was standing in the doorway of the barracks room and Regis, recalled abruptly to his work, said, “I’d better get back; Dani will think I’m shirking my share.”

  Lew took a perfunctory glance inside the room. “Go ahead. It looks all right; I’ll sign the inspection report. Finish up at your leisure.” He came to Danilo and said, “I’m leaving for Aldaran in a day or two, Dani. I shall be passing Syrtis on my road. Have you any message for Dom Felix?”

  “Only that I strive to do my duty among my betters, Captain.” His voice was sullen.

  “I’ll tell him you do us credit, Danilo.” The boy did not answer, going off toward the fireplace, dragging the broom. Lew looked after him with curiosity. “What do you think is bothering him?”

  Regis was worried about Danilo’s moods. His silent weeping had wakened Regis twice more, and again he had been torn between the desire to console his friend and the wish to respect his privacy. He wished he could ask Lew what to do, but they were both on duty and there was no time for personal problems. Anyway, Lew might be required by Guard regulations—he didn’t really know—to tell him he should ask his cadet-master about any personal problem. Regis said at last, “I don’t know. Homesick, maybe,” and left it at that. “How is Julian? Not dead?”

  Lew looked at him, startled. ‘No, no. He’ll be all right. Just a bit of a knock on the head.” He smiled again and went out of the barracks.

  Danilo leaned the broom against the wall and began to shift the heavy wooden table to get at the littler under it. Regis jumped to catch the other end.

  “Here, I told you I’d give you a hand; you could hurt your insides trying to lift a heavy thing like that.” Danilo looked up, glowering, and Regis said, “I wasn’t shirking, I only wanted to say goodbye to my kinsman. You were rude to him, Dani.”

  “Well, are we going to work or gossip?”

  “Work by all means,” said Regis, giving his end of the table a heave. “I’ve nothing to say to you when you’re in this mood.” He went to fetch the broom. Danilo muttered something under his breath and Regis swung around, demanding, “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” Danilo turned his back. It had sounded suspiciously like, “Don’t get your hands dirty,” and Regis stared.

  “What’s the matter? Do you think I ought to finish up? I will if you want me to, but I don’t think I was away talking that long, was I?”

  “Oh, I’d never think of imposing on you, Lord Regis! Allow me to serve you!” The sneer was openly apparent in Danilo’s voice now and Regis stared in bewilderment.

  “Danilo, are you trying to fight with me?”

  Danilo looked Regis up and down slowly. “No, I thank you, my lord. Fight, with an heir to Comyn? I may be a fool, but not such a fool as all that.” He squared his shoulders and thrust his lip out belligerently. “Run along to your fencing lesson with Lord Ardais and leave the dirt
y work to me.”

  Regis’ bewilderment gave way to rage. “When did I ever leave any dirty work for you or anyone else around here?” Danilo stared at the floor and did not answer. Regis advanced on him menacingly. “Come on, you started this, answer me! You say I haven’t been doing my fair share?” No other accusation could have made him so furious. “And take that look off your face or I’ll knock it off!”

  “Must I watch the very look on my face, Lord Hastur?” The title, as he spoke it, was an open insult, and Regis hit him. Danilo staggered back, sprang up raging and started for him, then stopped short.

  “Oh no. You can’t get me in trouble that way. I told you I’m not going to fight, Lord Hastur.”

  “Yes you will, damn you. You started this! Now put up your fists, damn you, or I’ll use you for a floor-mop!”

  “That would be fun, wouldn’t it,” Danilo muttered, “force me to fight and get me in trouble for fighting? Oh no, Lord Regis, I’ve had too much of that!”

  Regis stepped back. He was now more troubled than angry, wondering what he could possibly have done to upset Dani this way. He reached out to try to touch his friend’s mind, met nothing but surging rage that covered everything else. He moved toward Danilo; Dani sprang defensively alert.

  “Zandru’s hells, what are you two about?” Hjalmar stepped inside the door, took it all in at a glance and collared Regis, not gently. “I heard you shouting halfway across the court! Cadet Syrtis, your lip is bleeding.”

  He let Regis go, came and took Danilo by the chin, turning his face gently up to look at the wound. Danilo exploded into violence, pushing his hand away, his hand dropping to knife-hilt. Hjalmar grabbed his wrist.

  “Zandru’s hells! Lad, don’t do that! Drawing a knife in barracks will break you, and I’d have to report it! What the hell’s the matter, boy, I only wanted to see if you were hurt!” He sounded genuinely concerned. Danilo lowered his head and stood trembling.

  “What’s between you two? You’ve been close as brothers!”

  “It was my fault,” said Regis quietly. “I struck him first.”

  Hjalmar gave Danilo a shove. It looked rude but was, in truth, rather gentle. “Go and put some cold water on your lip, cadet. Hastur can finish doing the barracks alone. It will teach him to keep his big mouth shut.” When Danilo had vanished into the washroom he scowled angrily at Regis. “This is a fine example to set for the lads of lower rank!”

  Regis did not argue or excuse himself. He stood and accepted the tongue-lashing Hjalmar gave him, and the three days of punishment detail. He felt almost grateful to the young officer for interrupting a nasty situation. Why, why, had Danilo exploded that way?

  He finished sweeping the barracks, thinking that it was not like Dani to pick a fight.

  And he had picked it, Regis thought soberly, throwing the last of the trash, without realizing it, into the newly cleaned fireplace. But why? Had they been tormenting him again about trying to curry favor with a Hastur?

  All that day he went about his duties preoccupied and wretched, wondering what had brought his friend to such a point of desperation. He had halfway decided to seek Danilo out in their free time, brave his anger and ask him outright what was wrong. But he was reminded that he was on punishment detail, which turned out to be the distasteful duty of working with the orderlies sweeping the stables. Afterward it took him a long time to get himself clean and free of the stable stink and he had to hurry to be in time for his new assignment, which he found boring beyond words. Mostly it consisted of standing guard at the city gates, checking permits and safe-conducts, questioning travelers who had neither, reminding incoming merchants of the rules covering their trade. After that he and a junior officer were assigned supervision of night guard at the city gates, his first use of authority over any of the Guardsmen. He had known, in theory, that the cadets were in training for officers, but until now he had felt like a menial, a flunky, junior to everyone. Now, after a scant half season, he had a responsible duty of his own. For a time he forgot his preoccupation with his friend’s trouble.

  He came back to the barracks near midnight, wondering what duty Danilo had been assigned at mid-year rotation. It was strange to walk in and see the night officer simply marking off his name as being on late duty, rather than scolding him for being tardy. He paused to ask the man,

  “Do you know anything about Julian—cadet MacAran, sir?”

  “MacAran? Yes, he has a concussion, they took him to the infirmary, but he’ll be all right in a few days. They sent for his friend to come and stay with him there. His wits were wandering, and they were afraid he’d climb out of bed and hurt himself. But he recognized Damon’s voice. He didn’t seem to hear anyone else but when MacAnndra told him to keep quiet and stay put, they say he went to sleep quiet as a baby. Concussion’s like that sometimes.”

  Regis said he was glad to hear Julian was no worse, and went in to his bed. His end of the dormitory was almost empty, with Damon and Julian in the infirmary. Danilo’s bed, too, was empty. He must be on night duty. He felt regretful, having hoped for a word with him, a chance, perhaps, to find out what was troubling him, make friends again.

  He was awaked, an hour or two later, by the sounds of heavy rain on the roof and raised voices at the doorway. The night officer was saying, “I’ll have you put on report for this,” and Danilo answering roughly, “I don’t give a damn, what do you think it matters to me now?” A few minutes later he came into the room with blundering steps.

  What is the matter with him? Regis wondered. Was he drunk? He decided not to speak to him. If Danilo was drunk enough, or agitated enough, to be rude to the night officer, he might make another scene and find himself in worse trouble yet.

  Danilo bumped into Regis’ cot, and Regis could feel that Danilo’s clothing was soaked through, as if he had been wandering around in the rain. By the dim light left in the washroom at night Regis could see him blundering around, flinging his clothes off every which way, heard the bump as he threw his sword down on his clothing chest instead of hanging it on the wall. He stood under the window for a moment, naked, hesitating, and Regis almost said something. He could have spoken in a low voice without attracting attention; with Damon and Julian both out of the barracks, they were a considerable distance from the other cadets. But the old agonizing fear of a rebuff seized him. He could not face the thought of another quarrel. So he remained silent, and after a time Danilo turned away and got into his own bed.

  Regis slept lightly, fitfully, and after a long time woke with a start, hearing again the sound of weeping. This time, although the vibration of misery was there, direct to his senses, Danilo was awake and he was really crying, softly, hopelessly, miserably. Regis listened to the sound for some time, wretchedly torn, unwilling to intrude, unable to endure such grief. Finally his sense of friendship drew him out of bed.

  He knelt beside Danilo’s cot and whispered, “Dani, what’s the matter? Are you sick? Have you had bad news from home? Is there anything I can do?”

  Danilo muttered drearily, his head still turned away. “No, no, there’s nothing anyone can do, it’s too late for that. And for that, for that—Holy Bearer of Burdens, what will my father say?”

  Regis said, in a whisper that could not be heard three feet away, “Don’t talk like that. Nothing’s so bad it can’t be helped somehow. Would you feel better to tell me about it? Please, Dani.”

  Danilo turned over, his face only a white blob in the darkness. He said, “I don’t know what to do. I think I must be going mad—” Suddenly he drew a long, gasping sob. He said, “I can’t see—who—Damon, is that you?”

  Regis whispered, “No. Damon’s in the infirmary with Julian. And everyone else is asleep. I don’t think anyone heard you coming in. I wasn’t going to say anything, but you sounded so unhappy . . .” Forgetting their quarrel, forgetting everything except this was his friend in some desperate trouble, he leaned forward and laid his hand on Danilo’s bare shoulder, a shy, tentative tou
ch. “Isn’t there anything I can—”

  He felt the explosion of rage and something else—fear? shame?—running up his arm through his fingers, like an electric shock. He drew his hand away sharply as if it had been burned. With a violent, tigerish movement, Danilo thrust Regis angrily away with both hands. He spoke in a strained whisper.

  “Damnable—filthy—Comyn, get the hell away from me, get your stinking hands off me, you—” He used a word which made Regis, used as he was to Guard Hall coarseness, gasp aloud and draw away, shaking and almost physically sick

  “Dani, you’re wrong,” he protested, dismayed. “I only thought you were sick or in trouble. Look, whatever’s gone wrong with you, I haven’t done anything to you, have I? You’ll really make yourself ill if you go on like this, Dani. Can’t you tell me what’s happened?”

  “Tell you? Sharra’s chains, I’d soon whisper it to a wolf with his teeth in my throat!” He gave Regis a furious push and said, half aloud, “You come near me again, you filthy ombredin, and I’ll break your stinking neck!”

  Regis rose from his side and silently went back to his own bed. His heart was still pounding with the physical shock of that burst of violent rage which he had felt when he touched Danilo, and he was trembling with the assault on his mind. He lay listening to Danilo’s strained breathing, quite simply aghast and almost physically sick under that burst of hatred and his own failure to get through to him. Somehow he had thought that between two people, both with laran, this kind of misunderstanding could not possibly arise! He lay listening to Danilo’s gasping, heard it finally subside into soft sobbing and at last into a restless, tossing sleep. But Regis himself hardly closed his eyes that night.

  CHAPTER TEN

  (Lew Alton’s narrative)