The Ages of Chaos

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Take Dorilys with you to the watchtower,” Allart advised. “She can read the weather even better than you.”

  Donal hesitated and said, “I am reluctant, always, to meet with Dorilys now. Especially now that she can read my thoughts a little, as well. I am not happy that she has become a telepath.”

  “Still, if Dorilys feels she can be of use to you somehow, that you are not altogether avoiding her…” Allart suggested.

  Donal sighed. “You are right, cousin. Besides, I cannot avoid her entirely.” He dispatched a servant to his sister’s rooms, thinking, Would it be altogether bad, then, to give Dorilys what my father wishes of me? Perhaps, if she has what she wants of me, she will not grudge me Renata, and we need not struggle so hard to keep it from her…

  Dorilys looked like the springtime itself, in a tunic embroidered with spring leaves, her shining hair braided low on her neck and caught with a woman’s butterfly-clasp. Allart could see the dissonance in Donal’s mind between his memories of the child, and the tall, graceful young woman she had become. He bowed over her hand, courteously.

  “Now I see that I must call you my lady, Dorilys,” he said lightly, trying to make it a joke. “It seems that my little girl is gone forever. I have need of your talents, carya,” he added, and explained what he wanted of her.

  At the very topmost spire of Castle Aldaran, the watchtower shot up for the height of another floor or two, an astonishing feat of engineering, and one which Allart could not figure out. It would have had to be done by matrix, working with a large circle. This great height commanded all of the country around to a great distance. While they climbed to the Tower, the window-slits showed them it was wrapped in fog, and cloud, but by the time they emerged into the high chamber, the clouds were already thinning and moving away. Donal looked at Dorilys in delighted surprise, and she smiled, almost a smug smile.

  “To dispel fogs of that sort—even as a baby I think I could do that,” she said. “And now it is nothing. It takes only the lightest thought, without effort, and if you wish to see clearly—I remember when I was little you brought me up here, Donal, and let me look through Father’s collection of big spyglasses.”

  Allart could see the roads below them aswarm with movement. He blinked, knowing they were not there, not yet; then shook his head, trying to clarify present from future. It was true! Armies moved on the road, though not yet at the gates of Aldaran.

  “We need not fear,” Donal said, trying to reassure Dorilys. “Aldaran has never been captured by force of arms. We could hold this citadel forever, had we food enough; but they will be at our gates within a tenday. I will put on a glider-harness and go out to spy where they go, and bring back news of how many men move against us.”

  “No,” Allart said. “If you will let me presume to advise you, cousin, you will not go yourself. Now that you are to command, your place is here where any one of your vassals who needs to consult with you can find you at once. You must not risk yourself on a task which any one of your lads could do for you.” Donal made a gesture of repugnance. “It goes against me—to order any man into a danger I will not face myself,” he said, but Allart shook his head.

  “You will face your own dangers,” he said, “but there are dangers for the leaders and dangers for the followers, and they are not interchangeable. From now on, cousin, your flying must be a recreation for times of peace.”

  Dorilys touched Donal’s arm very lightly. She said, “Now that I am a woman—can I still fly, Donal?”

  Donal said, “I do not see why you should not, when there is peace again, but you must ask our father about that, chiya, and Margali.”

  “But I am your wife,” she said, “and it is for you to give me commands.”

  Caught between exasperation and tenderness, Donal sighed. He said, “Then, chiya, I command you to seek Margali’s advice in this, and Renata’s. I cannot advise you.” Her face had clouded ominously at the mention of Renata, and Donal thought, Someday I must tell her, very clearly, how it stands with me and Renata. He said aloud, an arm gently about her shoulders, “Chiya, when I was fourteen and my laran was coming on me, as it is upon you now, I was forbidden to fly for more than half a year, since I was never sure when an attack of disorientation and giddiness would come upon me. For that reason, it would please me better if you did not seek to fly until you are sure you can master it.”

  “I will do exactly as you say, my husband,” she said, looking up at him with a look of such adoration that he quailed.

  When she had gone away, Donal looked at Allart in despair. “She seems not like a child! I cannot think of her as a child,” he said, “and that is my only defense now, to say she is a child and too young.”

  Allart was painfully reminded of his own emotional conflict over the riyachiyas, with this difference—that they were sterile and not altogether human and whatever he did with them could affect only his own self-esteem and not the riyachiyas themselves. But Donal had been placed in the position of playing a god with the life of a real woman. How could he advise Donal? He had consummated his own marriage, against his own better judgment, and for much the same reasons—because the girl wished for it.

  He said soberly, “Perhaps it would be better not to think of Dorilys as a child, cousin. No girl given the training she has had can be altogether a child. Perhaps you must begin to think of her as a woman. Try to come to agreement with her in that way, as a woman old enough to make her own decisions; at least when the threshold sickness has left her free of impulse and sudden brainstorms.”

  “I am sure you are right.” Almost gratefully, Donal recalled himself to duty. “But come—my father must be told that there is movement on the roads, and someone must be sent to spy out where they are!”

  Aldaran greeted the news with a fierce smile.

  “So it has come!” he said, and Allart thought again of the old hawk, mantling, spreading his wings, eager for a last flight.

  As armed men crossed the Kadarin and moved northward into the Hellers, Allart, seeing them with his laran, knew with a sinking heart that some of these men moved northward against him; for among the armed men there were some with the fir-tree badge of the Hasturs of Elhalyn, with the crown that distinguished it from the Hasturs of Carcosa and Castle Hastur.

  Day after day, he and Donal returned to the watchtower, awaiting the first sign of the armies’ imminent approach at the castle.

  But is this real, or does my laran show me what might never come to pass?

  “It is real, for I see it, too,‘” Donal said, reading his thoughts. “My father must be told of this.”

  “He wished to keep from entanglement in Lowland wars,” Allart said. “Now, by sheltering me and my wife, he has made an enemy, and Damon-Rafael has made common cause with Scathfell against him.” As they turned to go down into the castle, he thought, Now, truly, I am brotherless…

  Donal laid a hand on his arm. “I, too, cousin,” he said.

  On an impulse, neither moving first, but simultaneously, they drew their daggers. Allart smiled, laid the hilt of his to the blade of Donal’s; then slid Donal’s into his own sheath. It was a very old pledge; it meant that neither would ever draw steel against the other in any cause whatever. Donal sheathed Allart’s dagger. They embraced briefly, then, arms linked, went down to Dom Mikhail.

  Allart, comforted by the gesture, felt a moment’s hesitation.

  Perhaps I was wrong. I must be careful what alliances I make, do nothing it would embarrass me to retract should I one day sit on the throne. … He broke off the thought impatiently.

  Already, he thought with a flare of self-hatred, I am thinking in terms of what is expedient, like a politician—like my brother!

  As they came into the courtyard and began to cross it, one of the servants suddenly pointed upward.

  “There—there! What is that?”

  “It is only a bird,” someone said, but the man cried out, “No, that is no bird!”

  Shading his eyes, All
art looking up into the sun, seeing something there, wheeling, slowly spiraling down, a slow and ominous descent. Fear and agony clutched at him. This is some work of Damon-Rafael’s, an arrow launched by Damon-Rafael at my heart, he thought, almost paralyzed. In a spasm of dread he realized, Damon-Rafael has the pattern of my matrix, of my soul. He could aim one of Coryn’s fearful weapons at me, without fear it will kill any other.

  In that moment he felt Cassandra’s thoughts entangled in his own; then there was a blaze of lightning in the clear sky, a cry of pain and triumph, and the broken thing that was not a bird fell, like a stone, arrested in midair, splattering fire from which the servants edged back in terror. A woman’s dress had been caught in the terrible stuff. One of the stablemen grabbed her and shoved her bodily into one of the washing-tubs that stood at the end of the court. She screamed with pain and outrage, but the fire sizzled and went out. Allart looked at the fire and the broken bird still squirming with dreadful pseudo-life as he came near.

  “Bring water, and douse it wholly,” he ordered.

  When the contents of two or three laundry-tubs had been flung on it and the fire was wholly out, he looked at the faintly squirming thing with terrible repugnance. The woman who had been pushed into the first laundry-tub had hauled herself out, dripping.

  “You were fortunate,” Donal said before she could protest. “A drop of clingfire splattered on you, my good woman. It would have burned up your dress and burned through your flesh to your bones and gone on burning until the burned flesh was cut away.”

  Allart stamped on the broken thing of metal coils and wheels and pseudo-flesh, again and again, until it lay in shattered fragments which were still, faintly, moving. “Take this,” he directed one of the stablemen. “Pick it up on your shovels. Do not touch it with your bare hands, and bury it deep in the earth.”

  One of the guardsmen came and looked, shaking his head.

  “Gods above! Is that what we must face in this war? What devilry sent that against us?”

  “The lord Elhalyn, who would be king over this land,” said Donal, his face like stone. “If it were not for my sister’s command of the lightning, my friend and my brother would now lie here burning!” He turned, sensing Dorilys running down the inner stairs, Cassandra following more slowly, with all the haste her lamed leg would allow. Dorilys ran to Donal and caught him close in her arms.

  “I felt it! I felt it hovering over us. I have struck it down,” she cried. “It did not strike at you or Allart! I saved you, I saved you both!”

  “Indeed you did,” Donal said, holding the girl in his arms. “We are grateful to you, my child, we are grateful! Truly you are what Kyril called you that day at the fire station—queen of storms!”

  The girl clung to him, her face lighted with such joy that Allart felt sudden fear. It seemed to him that lightnings played all over Castle Aldaran, though the sky was wholly clear again, and that the air was heavy with fire.

  Was this what lay ahead in this war? Cassandra came to him, holding him, and he felt her fear like his own, and remembered that she had known the pain of a clingfire burn.

  “Don’t cry, my love. Dorilys saved me,” he said. “She struck down Damon-Rafael’s evil contrivance before it reached me. I suppose he would not believe I could escape this one, so it is not likely he will send another such thing against me.”

  But even as he comforted her, he was still afraid. This war would not be ordinary mountain warfare, but something quite new and terrible.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  If there had ever been room for doubt in Allart’s mind about the coming war, there was none now. On every road leading to the peak of Aldaran, armies were gathering. Donal, massing the defenses, had stationed armed men ringing the lower slopes, so that for the first time in Donal’s memory Castle Aldaran was actually the armed fortress it had been built to be.

  A messenger had come into the castle under truce-flag. Allart stood in Aldaran’s presence-chamber, looking at Mikhail of Aldaran on his high seat, calm, impassive, menacing. Dorilys sat beside him, with Donal standing at her side. Even Allart knew that Dorilys’s presence was no more than the excuse for Donal’s.

  “My lord,” the messenger said, and bowed, “hear the words of Rakhal of Scathfell, demanding certain observances and concessions from Mikhail of Aldaran.”

  Aldaran’s voice was surprisingly mild. “I am not accustomed to receive demands. My brother of Scathfell may legitimately require of me whatever is customary from overlord to vassal. Say therefore to Lord Scathfell that I am dismayed that he should demand of me anything which he has only to request on the proper terms.”

  “It shall be so spoken,” said the messenger. Allart, knowing that the messenger was a Voice, or trained speaker who would be able to relay up to two or three hours of such speech and counter-speech without the slightest variation in phrasing or emphasis, was certain the message wold be relayed to Scathfell in Aldaran’s very intonation.

  “With that reservation, my lord Aldaran; hear the words of Rakhal of Scathfell to his brother of Aldaran.” The stance and the very vocal timbre of the messenger altered slightly, and although he was a small man, and his voice light in texture, the illusion was eerie; it was as if Scathfell himself stood in the hall. Donal could almost hear the good-humored bullying voice of Lord Rakhal of Scathfell as the messenger spoke.

  “Since you, brother, have made of late certain unlawful and scandalous dispositions regarding the heritage of Aldaran, therefore I, Rakhal of Scathfell, warden and lawful heir to the Domain of Aldaran, and pledged to support and uphold the Domain should your illness, infirmity, or old age make you unfit to do so, declare you senile, infirm, and unfit to make any further decisions regarding the Domain. Therefore I, Rakhal of Scathfell, am prepared to assume wardenship of the Domain in your name. Therefore I demand”— Lord Aldaran’s fists clenched at his side at that repeated word, demand—“that you deliver up to me at once possession of Castle Aldaran, and the person of your nedestro daughter Dorilys of Rockraven, in order that I may suitably bestow her in marriage for the ultimate good of the realm. As for the traitor Donal of Rockraven, called Delleray, who has unlawfully influenced your sick mind to do malice and scandal to this realm, I, warden of Aldaran, am disposed to offer amnesty, provided that he leaves Castle Aldaran before sunrise and goes where he will, never to return or to step within the borders of the realm of Aldaran, or his life shall be forfeit and he shall be slain like an animal by any man’s hand.”

  Donal stiffened, but his mouth took on a hard, determined line.

  He wants Aldaran, Allart thought. Perhaps at first he was willing to step aside for Aldaran’s kinsmen. But now it was obvious that Donal had become accustomed to thinking of himself as his foster-father’s lawful successor and heir.

  The Voice went on, and his voice altered faintly, his very posture changing somewhat. Although Allart had seen the technique before, it was now as if a quite different man stood before him, even the lines of his face changing. But what they had in common was arrogance.

  “Furthermore, I, Damon-Rafael of Elhalyn, rightful king of the Domains, demand of Mikhail of Aldaran that he shall at once deliver to me the person of the traitor Allart Hastur of Elhalyn and his wife Cassandra Aillard, that they may be duly charged with plotting against the crown; and that you, Mikhail of Aldaran, present yourself before me to discuss what tribute shall be paid from Aldaran to Thendara that you may continue during my realm to enjoy your Domain in peace.”

  Still again the messenger’s voice and bearing altered, and again it was as if Rakhal of Scathfell stood before them.

  “And should you, my brother of Aldaran, refuse any of these demands, I shall feel empowered to enforce them upon your stronghold and yourself by force of arms if I must.”

  The messenger bowed a fourth time and remained silent.

  “An insolent message,” Aldaran said at last, “and if justice were done, he who spoke it should be hanged from the highest battlement of
this castle, since in serving my brother you are also pledged to serve his overlord, and I am he. Why, then should I not treat you as a traitor, fellow?”

  The messenger paled, but his face betrayed no twitch of personal reaction, as he said, “The words are not mine, Lord, but those of your brother of Scathfell and His Highness Elhalyn. If the words offend you, sir, I beg of you to punish their originators, not the messenger who repeats them upon command.”

  “Why, you are right,” Aldaran said mildly. “Why beat the puppy when the old dog annoys me with barking? Bear this message, then, to my brother of Scathfell. Say to him that I, Mikhail of Aldaran, am in full enjoyment of my wits, and that I am his overlord by oath and custom. Say to him that if justice were done, I should dispossess him of Scathfell, which he holds by my favor, and proclaim him outlaw in this realm as he has presumed to do with the chosen husband of my daughter. Say further to my brother that as for my daughter Dorilys, she is already wedded by the catenas, and he need not trouble himself to find a husband for her elsewhere. As for the lord Damon-Rafael of Elhalyn, say to him that I neither know nor care who reigns within the Lowlands across the Kadarin, since within this realm I acknowledge no reign save my own, but that if he who would be king in Thendara should invite me as his equal to witness his crowning, we will then discuss the exchange of diplomatic courtesies. As for my kinsman and guest Allart Hastur, he is welcome at my household and he may make to Lord Elhalyn such answer as he chooses, or none at all.”

  Allart wet his lips, too late realizing that even this gesture would be faithfully reproduced by the messenger standing before him, and wished he had not betrayed that small weakness. At last he said, “Say to my brother Damon-Rafael that I came here to Aldaran as his obedient subject and that I have faithfully performed all that he asked of me. My mission completed, I claim the right to domicile myself where I choose without consulting him.” A poor answer, he thought, and cast about for the best way to continue. “Say further that the climate of Hali did not agree with my wife’s health and that I removed her from Hali Tower for her health and safety.” Let Damon-Rafael chew on that!