The Winds of Darkover

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  But now the other things he had explored were coming into their own. His body was guarded against Brynat, and he was free to seek help and revenge—if he could get it.

  The red sun was high and warm, and he had thrown back his riding cloak when they rode through the gates of Carthon. At first glance he could see that it was unlike any of the mountain villages they had ridden through; it felt, sounded and smelled like no Darkovan city he had ever known. The very air was different; it smelled of spice, incense and dust. It was obvious to Storn that in the intervening years more and more Dry-towners had moved into Carthon, possibly in search of the more abundant water from the Kadarin River, or perhaps—the thought crossed his mind—feeling that the lowlands’ and valleys’ peaceful peoples would lie there at their mercy. He dismissed the thought for later worry.

  Nevertheless he felt apprehensive. He was less confident in his ability to win help in a predominantly Dry-town area. Traditionally they had their own concerns and their own culture; he could offend them fatally by a chance word. From what he had heard and what he had seen travelling with these merchants in the last days, their prime motivation was the scoring of points in an elaborate, never-ending game of prestige. No outsider could hope to win anything in this game, and Storn, travelling in their company, had been ignored, as men intent on a gambling game will ignore the cat by the fireplace.

  It was humiliating, but he knew it was safer that way. He had no knowledge and no skill in knife fights, and they lived by an elaborate dueling code under which the man who could not defend himself to the death against enemy or friend was dead.

  It was a forlorn hope that he could find Dry-towner mercenaries here. Still, there might be mountain or valley bands here, even though the predominant culture now seemed Dry-town. And even Dry-towners might be tempted by the thought of sacking Brynat’s riches. He was prepared to offer them all the loot of Brynat and his men. All he wanted was the freedom of Storn Castle and peace to enjoy it.

  They had passed the city gates, giving their names at the outworks to fierce-looking, bearded men; Storn saw with relief that some of them wore familiar mountain garments and heard them speaking a dialect of his own language. Perhaps they were not all Dry-towners here. The city was wide-flung, not like the huddled mountain villages cramped behind protective walls or the forsts, the forest forts behind high stockades. The outworks seemed little manned. Everywhere were the tall, fair-haired Dry-town men, and women walked in the open dusty streets— slender Dry-town women, sun-burnt and swift, carrying their heads proudly and moving in the tiny chiming sound of chains, the jewelled fetters that bound their hands, restricted movement and that proclaimed them chattel to some man of power and wealth.

  At the main square of the city the caravan turned purposely toward the Eastern quarter, and Storn was reminded that their agreement terminated here. Now he was on his own—alone, in a culture and country strange to him, where any moment might bring some fatal blunder. But before he began to rack his brains as to how he could best explore the possibilities, the leader of the caravan turned back and said bluntly, “Stranger; be reminded that in our towns all strangers must first pay respects at the Great House. The Lord Rannath will be better disposed toward you if you come of your free will in courtesy, than if his men must hail you there to give an account of yourself.”

  “For this my thanks.” Storn gave the formal return and thought that these Dry-town newcomers had indeed moved into Carthon in quantity; nothing like this had obtained when he came there as a boy. The bitter thought crossed his mind that this Lord Rannath, whoever he might be, had no doubt moved into Carthon much as Brynat had moved into Storn Castle, and with as much authority.

  It was nothing to him who ruled in Carthon. And in the Great House he might learn what he wanted to know.

  In Carthon all roads led to the central plaza of the city. There was no mistaking the Great House, a vast structure of curiously opalescent stone lying at the center of the main plaza. Low, dusty beds of flowers grew in great profusion in the outer courts, and the Dry-town men and women came and went through the halls as if moving in a formal dance. The women, safe and insolent behind the protection of their chains, cast him sidelong smiles and bright-eyed glances, and murmured phrases he could not well understand. Only the repeated murmur of charrat was familiar; it was another form of chaireth, stranger. Stranger indeed, he thought with a flash of unaccustomed self-pity. Doubly and trebly stranger, and just now without even the time and freedom to answer these bold looks…

  He had expected to be stopped somewhere and asked his business, but evidently formal manners either did not exist here or were so alien that he did not recognize them as such. Following the shifting crowds he finally came into the main hall, and realized that it was evidently the hour for audience.

  Elegance and a bleak luxury there was, but it was barren and alien here; this room was meant for rich hangings and the luxurious furniture of valley nobility. Stripped to the bare Dry-town manner it seemed as if it had been looted; the windows were bare, letting in harsh light, and there were no furnishings apart from low pallets and a great central thronelike chair on which lay a crown and sword, with hieratic formality in their arrangement on the gold cushion. The throne was empty. A young man, his chin just fuzzed with blond beard too sparse for shaving sat on a pallet beside the throne. He wore a fur shirt cloak and high, exquisitely dyed and embroidered leather boots. As Storn approached him, he looked up and said, “I am the voice of the Lord Rannath; I am called Kerstal. My house is the house of Greystone. Have you feud or sworn blood with me or against me?”

  Storn desperately mustered what little he knew of Dry-town customs. He started to answer in the formal and stilted Cahuenga tongue, lingua franca of Darkover between mountain and valley, Dry-town and river folk, then suddenly dropped the pretense. He said, drawing a deep breath and stiffening his backbone, “Not to the best of my knowledge, no; to the best of my knowledge I never heard of your house and, therefore, I have never offended against it, contracted debts to it, nor do they owe me anything. I come here as a stranger, strange to your customs; if I offend against them, it is done unwittingly and seeking peace. On my last visit to Carthon the Great House was vacant; I offer such respects as a stranger should—no more and no less. If other courtesy is required, I request that you tell me.”

  There was a little chiming of chains as the women in the hall turned toward him, and a small breath of surprise ran all around the room. Kerstal seemed very briefly taken aback by the unaccustomed answer. Then he said, with a brief nodding of his head, “Bravely spoken and no offense given or taken. Yet none walk in Carthon without leave of the Lord Rannath and his House. Who is your liege lord and what business brings you here?”

  “As for my liege, I am a free man of the mountains, with fealty sworn to none,” Storn returned proudly. “I am my own man, and in my own place men give me loyalty at their own will, not from constraint.” It flashed over him that pride would serve him better here than any other commodity. Dry-towners seemed to respect arrogance; if he came as a suppliant, they might kick him out without listening. “My house is the house of High Windward, in the Domain of the Aldarans, ancient lords of the Comyn. As for my business here, it is not with you; does your custom require that I must make it known? In my place, a questioner must show that his question is neither idle curiosity nor prying malice; if it is otherwise here, show me reason to respect your customs, and I will do so.”

  Again the little ripple of surprise ran round the room and Kerstal moved to lay his hand on the hilt of the sword which lay on the vacant throne, then paused. He rose to his feet, and now his voice had courtesy rather than negligence. He said, “In the absence of sworn blood feud between us, then, charrat of the house of Storn, be welcome in Carthon. No law requires that you make your affairs known, if they are your own—yet a question locked behind your lips will be forever unanswered. Tell me what you seek in Carthon, and if I can honorably answer, it will be my pleasure to
do so.” A faint smile touched his face, and Storn relaxed, knowing he had won. Dry-towners valued control above all else; if a Dry-towner relaxed enough to smile, you were probably safe with him.

  Storn said, “My ancestral house has been attacked and laid under siege by a bandit known as Brynat Scarface; I seek men and aid to redeem my house’s strength, honor and integrity.” He used the word kihar, that untranslatable idiom for face, personal integrity and honor. “My kinsmen and the women of our people are at their mercy.”

  Kerstal frowned faintly. “And you are here, alive and unwounded?”

  “Dead men have no kihar,” Storn answered swiftly. “Nor can the dead come to the aid of kinsmen.”

  Kerstal paused to consider this. Behind them, in the outer hallways, there was a stir and an outcry, and some vague familiar sound in that cry touched every nerve in Storn to immediate response. He could not identify it, but something was happening out there…

  But Kerstal paid the noises no heed. He said slowly, “There is some justice in that, stranger of Storn, and—your ways are not ours—no ineradicable loss of honor. Nevertheless, our people will not, I warn you, become entangled in mountain feuds. The House of Rannath does not sell their swords in the mountains; there is enough kihar to be found on our own plains.”

  “Nor have I asked it of you,” Storn replied quickly. “When last I visited Carthon there were many who were willing to sell their swords for the chance of reward. I ask only freedom to seek them.”

  “Freedom of that sort cannot be denied you,” Kerstal replied, “and if your tale is true, the House of Rannath will not forbid any free and unsworn man to give you his service. Speak then your name, charrat of Storn.”

  Storn drew himself up to his full height.

  “I bear my father’s name, with pride,” he said, and his voice, although it sounded strange to himself, rang loud and clear—a strong bass voice—through that hall. “I am Loran Rakhal Storn, Lord of Storn, of High Windward.”

  Kerstal looked at him flatly and unreadably and said, “You lie.”

  And all around the hall, another sound ran; Storn had never heard it before, but nevertheless, he could not be mistaken. All around the hall, men were drawing their swords. He cast one quick look around.

  He stood in a ring of naked blades.

  * * *

  X

  « ^ »

  MELITTA had stopped struggling now. She walked between her captors, her head down, thinking bitterly, I’ve failed. It wasn’t enough to fight my way across the passes, hiding from banshee birds at night, getting lost in the snow, the horse freezing to death in the heights… No, I manage to get all the way to Carthon and the first thing that happens is, I’m grabbed up as soon as I walk into the city!

  Think, Melitta, think—there must be a way. What do they want with you, what law have you broken? Storn would never have sent you here if it was impossible for you to find help. But did Storn know?

  She drew herself up to her full height, wrenching herself to a stop between the tall, fair-haired men. “I will not go another step before I am told what is my offense,” she said. “I am a free woman of the mountains, and I know nothing of your laws.”

  One of the men said briefly “Masterless wenches” —the word he used was untranslatable into Melitta’s own language, but she had heard it used as a particularly filthy insult—“do not walk free here in Carthon among decent people, no matter what your custom may be beyond the Kadarin.”

  “Have you no courtesy for the customs of strangers?” she demanded.

  “For customs in common decency,” said one— the dialect so thick and barbarous that she had trouble understanding—“but every woman who comes here must be properly owned and controlled, and her master known. It is for the Lord of Rannath to say what shall be done with you, wench.”

  Melitta relaxed her taut muscles and let herself be drawn along, among staring men and the soft laughter of the women. She saw their chained hands with something like horror, and was shamed for them and astonished that they could hold up their heads and walk with something that looked like pride. Seeing their robes and their fair hair bound with ribbons and jewels she was more than ever conscious of her travel-worn riding cloak, the patched and faded breeches she wore—even the relatively free manners of mountain girls on Darkover did not accept breeches for riding, and only desperation had driven Melitta to wear them—and her hair, damp with sweat and dirty and straggling with the dust of the road. She flushed dull red. It was no miracle indeed if they thought her the lowest of the low. She wanted to cry.

  Lady of Storn, she thought. Yes, damn it, don’t I just look like it!

  They were going through a bare archway now and she saw men and women gathered in a ring around a throne where a standing man, one of the fair-haired Dry-towners but taller and better dressed than most, was questioning a man in mountain clothing. Her captors said, “The Voice of Rannath is not at leisure; wait here, wench.” They relaxed their grip.

  Melitta’s command of Cahuenga was not very fluent, and she stood without listening, trying to recover her own self-possession and glad of the respite. What could she say to convince the lords of this city that she was a free and responsible human being and not a chattel to come under their stupid laws about women? Perhaps she should have sought help in the foothills. The Comyn lords at Armida and at Castle Ardais were no kin to her family but they might have shown her hospitality and then she could have proceeded to Carthon dressed as befitted her rank, and properly escorted. She had heard that the lord Valdir Alton was a wise and enlightened man who had done much to safeguard his own people against the raids of mountain bandits and had led an expedition to root out the forst of the notorious Cyrillon des Trailles. Everyone in the Kilghard hills, Storns included, had slept safer in their beds after that. Certainly he would have been willing to come to our aid against Brynat, she thought.

  She was not trying to follow the conversation between the man her captors had styled the Voice of Rannath and his prisoner, but the prisoner caught her attention. He was unusually tall, with reddish-dark hair and a heavy and sombre face, with something strange about his expression and eyes. She wished she could see him more clearly and understand his words. She could see that he was making some impression on the Voice of Rannath, for the Dry-towner was smiling. Then, before Melitta’s electrified ears, the very voice and accent of her brother rang through the hall, drawing her upright in a frenzy of bewilderment.

  “I am Loran Rakhal Storn, Lord of Storn, of High Windward!”

  Melitta stifled a cry. It had evidently been the wrong thing for him to say; the smile was gone from Kerstal’s face. He rapped out something and suddenly every man in the room had drawn his knife and they were closing in on the unlucky stranger at the center of the circle.

  Kerstal said, “You lie. You lie, stranger. The son of Storn is not personally known to me; but his father is known to mine, and the men of Storn are known to our house. Shall I tell you how you lie? Storn men are fair-haired; the eyes of Storn men are gray. And it is known to me, as it is known to every man from the Hellers to Thendara, that the Lord of Storn has been blind from birth—blind beyond cure! Now state your true name, liar and braggart, or run the gantlet to save your wretched skin!”

  And suddenly, with a gasp of horror, Melitta understood. She understood what Storn had done— and quailed, for a thing that was a crime beyond words—and why he had done it, and what she must do to save them both.

  “Let me through,” she said, her voice clear and high. “He lies not. No Storn of Storn lies, and when my words are heard let any who belies us call challenge on either or both. I am Melitta of Storn, and if the House of Storn is known to you, father and son, then look in my face and read my lineage there.”

  Shaking off the hands of the startled men who held her, she made her way forward. The closed ring of knife-wielding Dry-towners parted before her and closed after her. She heard a rippling whisper of wonder run round the circle. Someon
e said, “Is this some Free Amazon of the lowlands, that she walks shameless and unchained? Women of the Comyn Domains are shamefast and modest; how came this maid here?”

  “I am no Free Amazon but a woman of the mountains,” said Melitta, facing the speaker. “Storn is my name and Storn is my household.”

  Kerstal turned toward her. He stared at her for some minutes; then his hand fell from his knife hilt, and he bent in the formal bow of the Dry-towners, his hands spread briefly.

  “Lady of Storn; your heritage speaks in your face. Your father’s daughter is welcome here. But who is this braggart who calls kin with you? Do you claim him as kin?”

  Melitta walked toward the stranger. Her mind was racing. She said quickly, in the mountain tongue, “Storn, is it you? Loran, why did you do it?”

  “I had no choice,” he replied. “It was the only way to save you all.”

  “Tell me quickly the name of the horse I first learned to ride, and I accept you for who you are.”

  A faint flicker of a smile passed over the stranger’s face. “You did not learn to ride on a horse, but on a stag pony,” he said softly, “and you called him Horny-pig.”

  Deliberately Melitta went to the stranger’s side, laid her hand in his and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Kinsman,” she said slowly, and turned back to Kerstal.