Heritage and Exile

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  He was alone, the firelight burned down to coals. Across the foot of the enormous bed, like a dark shadow, Danilo slept, wrapped in a blanket, his back turned away. Regis stared at the sleeping boy, unable to shake off the horror of the dream, the shock of knowing what he had tried to do.

  No. Not tried to do. Wanted to do. Dreamed of doing. There was a difference.

  Or was there, for a telepath?

  Once, one of the few times Kennard had spoken of his own years in the tower, Kennard had said, very seriously: “I am an Alton; my anger can kill. A murderous thought is, for me, almost a murder. A lustful thought is the psychological equivalent of a rape.”

  Regis wondered if he was responsible even for his dreams. Would he ever dare sleep again?

  Danilo stirred with a moan. Abruptly he began to gasp and cry out and struggle in his sleep. He muttered aloud,

  “No—no, please!” and began to cry. Regis stared in horror. Did his own dream disturb Dani! Dyan had reached him, even in sleep. . . . He could not leave him crying. He leaned forward, saying gently, “Dani, it’s all right, you were asleep.”

  Half asleep, Danilo made the safeguarding sign of cristoforo prayers. It must be comforting to have their faith, Regis thought. Danilo’s smothered sobbing tore at Regis like claws. He had no way of knowing that far away in the castle Lew Alton had also started out of nightmare, shaking with the guilt of the most dreadful crime he could imagine, but Regis did find himself wondering what form Danilo’s nightmare had taken. He dared not ask, dared not risk the intimacy of midnight confidences.

  Danilo had his crying under control now. He asked, “It’s not . . . not threshold sickness again?”

  “No. No, only a nightmare. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “This damned place is full of nightmares . . .” Danilo muttered. Regis felt him reach out for reassurance, for contact. He held himself aloof from the touch. After a long time he knew Danilo slept again. He lay awake, watching the dying remnants of the fire on the hearth. The fire that had been a raging forest fire from his troubled childhood, that had become the great form of fire. Sharra, of the legends. What, in the name of all the Gods, were they doing here at Aldaran? Something here was out of control, dangerous.

  Fire was the key, he knew, not only because the memory of the forest fire had brought back the memory he’d buried, but it was worse than that. Lew looked as if he’d been doing something dangerous. And all this . . . this dislocation of memory, these nightmares of cruelty and lust . . . something terrible was going on here.

  And Regis had Danilo to protect. He came here for that, and he vowed again to fulfill it.

  Weighed down under the unendurable burden of laran, knowing guilt even for his dreams, shouldering the heavy knowledge of what he had forgotten, Regis dared not sleep again. He thought instead. The mistake was in sending him to Nevarsin, he knew. Anywhere else he could have come to terms with it. He knew, rationally, that what had happened to him, what was happening to him now, was nothing to bring such catastrophic guilt and self-hatred. He had not even minded when the cadets thought him Dyan’s minon.

  But that was before he knew what Dyan had done. . . .

  Dyan’s shadow lay heavy on Regis. And heavier on Danilo. Regis knew he could not bear it if Dani were to think of him as he thought of Dyan . . . even if Regis thought of him that way. . . .

  His mind reeling under it, Regis knew suddenly that he had a choice. Faced by this unendurable self-knowledge, he could do again what he had done when he was twelve years old, and this time there would be no lifting of the barrier. He could forget again. He could cut off the unwelcome, unwanted self-knowledge, cut off, with it, the undesired, unendurable laran.

  He could be free of it all, and this time no one would ever be able to break through it again. Be free of it all: heritage, and responsibility. If he had no laran, it would not matter if he left the Comyn, went out into the Empire never to return. He even left an heir to take his place. He had done it once. He could do it again. He could meet Danilo in the morning with no guilty knowledge and no fear, meet him innocently, as a friend. He need never again fear that Danilo could reach his mind and learn what Regis now felt he would rather die than reveal.

  He had done it once. Even Lew could not break that barrier.

  The temptation was almost unendurable. Dry-mouthed, Regis looked at the sleeping boy lying heavily across his feet. To be free again, he thought, free of it all.

  He had accepted Dani’s oath, though, as a Hastur. Had accepted his service, and his love.

  He was no longer free. He’d said it to Danilo, and it was true for him, too. They had no choice, it had come to them, and they had only the choice to misuse it or meet it with honor.

  Regis did not know if he could meet it with honor, but he knew he’d have to try. Chickens couldn’t go back into eggs.

  Either way, there was nothing but hell ahead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  (Lew Alton’s narrative)

  Shortly after sunrise I let myself fall into a fitful drowse. Some time later I was awakened by a strange outcry, women screaming—no, wailing, a sound I had heard only once before . . . on my trip into the backwoods, in a house where there was a death.

  I threw on some clothes and ran out into the corridor. It was crowded, servants rushing to and fro, no one ready to stop and answer my questions. I met Marjorie at the foot of the little stair from her tower. She was as white as her chamber robe.

  “Darling, what is it?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s the death-wail!” She put out a hand and forcibly stopped one of the women rushing by. “What is it, what’s that wailing, what’s happened?”

  The woman gasped. “It’s the old lord, domna Marguerida, your guardian, he died in the night—”

  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.”